CHAPTER SIXTEEN
––––––––
Oh, better far to live and die
Under the brave black flag I fly. . . .
—Ibid, Act I
“You can’t be serious about leaving.”
Corbin pulled on his pants and boots, pausing to look around for the black shirt he’d worn in order to avoid being seen. “You can’t be serious about staying,” he countered, having found the shirt.
I watched him don it, giving myself a moment or two to admire the play of muscles in his shoulders and back as he did so. He might not be a blond bodybuilder, he might not be handsome enough to drop a woman at twenty paces, but he sent my blood boiling every time I saw him. “Me staying does not entail a four-hour sail in the wee small hours of the morning. Aren’t you tired?”
“Yes.” He stood and looked down at where I lay on the bed, crumpled an
