Chapter 9 - Crew's Concerns (Flynn's POV)

(Flynn's POV)

The sun baked my neck, but the sea breeze cut sharp. I paced the quarterdeck, watching the crew below in that restless stir that always comes with a fresh breeze and open water—long before any routine sets in. The smell of the docks still clung to some of them. Cleaner shirts, damp hair, and the sharp, sour tang of port-side perfume from the women they’d promised things to before disappearing.

I was halfway to snapping at a deckhand for miscoiling a line when Owen appeared, making his way toward me with that look on his face—the one that usually meant he was about to piss in my rum.

“I take it this is about the girl,” I said before he could open his mouth.

He gave a slow nod. “Figured ye’d want to know what the lads are saying.”

“I can guess what the lads are saying,” I muttered, already scowling.

He stepped up beside me and leaned against the rail like he was just enjoying the view, then cast a glance back toward the main deck. I didn’t need to follow it. I already knew where it landed—On the girl. Still draped over the side of the ship like a half-dead jellyfish, heaving her guts into the sea.

“She looks like death,” Owen remarked.

“Well, she’s not here to take in the bloody sea air.”

“She’s got the men rattled,” he went on. “Declan says Mouse damn near pissed himself when she came stumbling out the hold.”

I snorted. “Mouse damn near pisses himself when the wind changes.”

That earned me a grin, but it didn’t last.

“Ye really think she’s working with someone?” Owen asked with a frown of concern.

I exhaled slowly. “No clue. But the way she showed herself… it smells of more than chance.”

“And if it is?”

“Then she’s the unluckiest lass in the world,” I said flatly. “But I don’t buy it. What lass goes for a stroll in a cave in the middle of the night?”

He shrugged without a word, eyes still fixed on her.

“Then who do ye think sent her?” he asked.

“Could be the Spanish. Could be the navy. Could be someone in our own bloody crew.” I paused. “Until I know who she is and what she saw, she’s not setting foot off this ship.”

Owen grunted. “And the ransom?”

I glanced at him. “Couldn’t exactly tell the crew I tricked some girl into boarding my ship in the dead of night after stashing a chest of questionable goods, now could I?”

He huffed a laugh. “Aye, fair. But what if she’s no one? What if she’s just... mad?”

"Ye believe that?"

Owen sighed, shoulders drooping. “I’m not certain. But I’ll grant ye, finding her in a cave at dead of night is suspicious enough.”

I nodded, glad that we were on the same page.

“Where do ye think she's from? I've never heard anyone speak like that before. I’ve never seen clothes like those. Not even in the colonies. And did ye see her teeth?”

I raised a brow. “What about ‘em?”

“They’re too straight, too clean—apart from that blood. Her hands… too soft. She’s no noblewoman, but she’s not some dockside kitchen wench either.”

“She doesn’t fit,” I said, nodding. “Not noble. Not common. Definitely not crew.”

Owen tilted his head. “And what does she claim to be?”

“She claims nothing,” I replied, shaking my head. "Just mumblings of weddings and exploring caves. Sounded half-drunk and half-mad."

He was quiet for a moment. “And Morgan...” he went on, testing the name on his tongue. “That’s a lad’s name.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “Aye. Thought the same. But there’s tits on that chest. Clearly a woman.”

“Maybe she meant it as her surname.”

“That’s what I figured.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Ye don’t think…”

“I already thought it,” I cut in. “Henry Morgan.”

The silence between us stretched for a moment.

“Think she’s his kin?”

I scoffed. “Nay—more like she’s draggin’ his name about to spook us off,” I said, voice sharp.

We both glanced toward her again. Still retching. Still pathetic.

A shadow flickered nearby and I turned to see Oliver, my cabin boy, pausing on the steps with a coil of rope in his arms.

“Captain?”

I gave him a nod. “Take that below and see that the powder kegs are sound.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He hurried off without question. Good lad. Smarter than most.

Owen exhaled slowly, arms folded.

“She’s not acting like a spy,” he muttered. “Or a prisoner, for that matter.”

“She’s not acting like anything,” I said. “She’s too busy hurling over my rail to be putting on airs.”

We both watched in silence, trying to puzzle her out.

“Whatever she is, I’ll find out,” I stated firmly.

“Ye’d best do it soon,” Owen said. “The crew’s on edge.”

“Then tell ’em what I told ye. She’s a prisoner—worth coin. Hands off her, or they’ll be scraping barnacles with their teeth.”

He grinned, but his eyes didn’t smile.

“Aye, Captain.”

We stood in silence a moment longer, both watching the girl who didn’t belong, trying to figure out how the hell she’d ended up in the middle of our mess... and what, exactly, we were going to do with her.