The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School

“That’s harsh,” Izard muttered.

Each time Ryan moved the windlass, it pulled at her hair. Frustrated, he called for Journey, who came running, his broad bare feet slapping on the deck.

“Good job, honey,” he said, clearly impressed. “We haven’t ever had someone get tangled up in the windlass before.”

“I should like to get up now,” Isadora said.

The sailors who were off watch came to see what was the matter. So did Luigi and Chips. William arrived shortly as well, and everyone gathered around the capstan to witness the woman with a yard of hair tangled in the gears and rope.

Isadora Peabody’s cheeks turned red. “If you don’t mind, I should like to get up,” she said again.

“Any ideas?” Ryan asked the men.

“We could cut the line.”

“It’s as thick as a man’s wrist. That would take all day, and we’d be billed for destroying the line.”

“Dismantle the knight-heads of the windlass and slide the hair and the rope off the side?”

“I just repaired that,” Chips objected. “Took me half a day. The man who touches it dies.”

“Unwind it the opposite way.”

“I tried that. It pulls. She’ll lose her whole scalp.”

Ryan and Journey looked at one another. Journey’s gaze flicked to the sheathed midshipman’s dirk Ryan wore in his belt. They had the same thought at the same time.

“Miss Peabody.” Ryan went down on one knee. “Close your eyes.”

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Her voice rose, quavering with distrust.

“Getting you out of this fix. Now, close your eyes.”

Isadora knew she was disobeying a direct order, but she didn’t care. The men began to murmur among themselves, and so she opened her eyes.

Just in time to see Ryan unsheath a thin-bladed knife. She screamed, scrambling back as far as the entanglement would permit, her hair pulling viciously at her scalp. The blade flashed in the sunlight, then came down with a thunk. She waited to feel a rush of blood, but instead she sprang free of the coil.

She sprawled on the deck, her face inches from the skipper’s booted foot. “You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” she said in a shaky voice. “I’ve heard of this—men gone too long at sea lose their grasp on sanity, and—eek!” She put her hand to her head, where her hair should have been. Then she looked at the windlass. Her hair. Still caught in the coils of rope. But it was no longer attached to her head.

“My hair!” she cried. “You’ve cut off my hair.”

The crewmen slunk away, clearly loath to interfere.

Ryan Calhoun squatted down. Without looking at her, he lifted the hem of her skirt. “Christ, no wonder you bumble about the decks. You’ve got on at least five petticoats.”

“How dare you?”

“I’m the skipper, that’s how.” He grasped her by the ankle and began to unlace her high-heeled boot. “This,” he said through his teeth as he tugged it off, “is the cause of your troubles.” He cast her shoe overboard and grabbed the other foot.

“Stop that,” Isadora cried, trying to wrench away from him. “Stop that, I say!”

He held her ankle in a ruthless grip as he removed the other shoe. She flinched, for he pressed his thumb hard where she’d injured herself the first day at sea.

“I’ve watched you stumble around the ship until I was sure you’d topple overboard. No more.” He pitched the shoe over the rail.

She put both hands to her head, feeling the barren place where he’d hacked off her hair. “Dear heaven,” she whispered, “what have you done?”

He met her shocked gaze with a steely stare. “It’s only hair,” he said. “It’ll grow back.”

She sat immobile, too stunned to do anything but gape like a codfish. It was some dreadful Samson-and-Delilah scenario in reverse. What sin had she committed, what god had she angered, that Ryan Calhoun would visit this calamity upon her? To think she had left behind her home, her family and all she held dear for this terrible misadventure.

She dropped her hands into her lap. A fresh wind blew tendrils of her newly cropped locks against her cheeks and neck. She shivered from the light, cool breath of the breeze on her neck. Her feet, covered by only thin black stockings, felt shockingly bare.

“What—” She stopped and swallowed, feeling the awful press of tears in her eyes. No. She would not cry. She took a deep breath and tried again. “What have I ever done to make you hate me so?”

He shook his head. “Miss Peabody, I don’t hate you. Whatever gave you that impression?”

“To begin with, you threw my spectacles overboard.”

“Do you miss them?”

She hesitated. In truth, she barely noticed the lack. “That is beside the point,” she said. “They belonged to me, as did my shoes. As did my hair. You had no right.”

“On the contrary, Miss Peabody. I have every right.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget? You are master of this ship. Your word is law. I wouldn’t be surprised if you appointed yourself lord high executioner.”

He caught her in his angry stare. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You have robbed me of my spectacles, my shoes and my hair.”

“You’re better off barefoot. Those heeled things you wore made you as useless as tits on a fish.”

The image made her shudder. “Why does cruelty come so easily to you?” she asked softly. “Doesn’t that scare you sometimes? It would scare me.”

“Everything scares you, Miss Peabody.” With that, he straightened up and walked away, casually slipping his knife back into its hip sheath.

She drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head onto them. She would not cry. She would not cry.

“B-begging your p-pardon, miss,” someone said.

She lifted her head. “Timothy.”

“I have some sk-skill at barbering,” he said in an explosive rush. He showed her a slender pair of scissors. “If you like, I’ll make a straighter job of the skipper’s handiwork.”

“Very well.” She surprised herself by agreeing and following him into the deserted galley. The deck felt hard and alien beneath her stockinged feet. “Do what you can.”

He moved behind her and gently lifted the hacked off strands away from the nape of her neck. She heard a deft snip-snipping sound as he set to work.