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O’Callahan poked his head in as Morgan flipped a blanket over her rump, concealing the finely laced undergarment.
    “Cap’n. I heard my services were needed here.” His sharp gaze took in the woman’s back and his eyes rounded as he stepped inside. “The men said you’d had a woman flogged but I didn’t believe them.”
    “I didn’t know she was a woman,” Morgan snapped and pulled the blanket higher, covering the sides of her breasts. “And I’ll tend to her.”
    “You?”
    “Yes, me.”
    “Sir. Captain. Your job is to guide the ship and the sailors on the ship. My job, what I’m trained for, is to heal.”
    Morgan’s anger at the surgeon’s condescending tone spiked. “No.”
    “Sir. If I could—”
    “I said no, O’Callahan. Now leave us.”
    O’Callahan’s eyes widened and his lips thinned. “I know we disagree on treatments from time to time—”
    Morgan snorted.
    “—but you must admit I am her best chance. Infection will set in and then—”
    Morgan rose, his height towering over O’Callahan’s and making the surgeon look up. “Out.”
    “But, sir, you must think of the woman and her delicate sensibilities.”
    Instead Morgan thought of the scrap of lace covering her rear end and wondered what covered the front of her. He thought of her clothes shoved under the bed and knew he couldn’t let O’Callahan see any of that.
    “Infection,” O’Callahan sputtered.
    “You cure infection by putting seawater on it.”  
    “The salt in the water cures it.”
    “The water itself causes more infection.”
    O’Callahan straightened and cleared his throat. “There is no proof—”
    “I don’t need proof. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Your so-called cures can damn a man to a watery grave.” Let alone a woman.
    “Well…” O’Callahan huffed. “Well.”
    Morgan pointed to the door. “Out,” he said softly. He was damn tired of everyone arguing with him. First Isabelle, then Thomas, and now O’Callahan. He was the captain and everyone else would damn well do as he said. “I said out, O’Callahan, unless you’d like to see the inside of the hold as well.”
    The surgeon glanced at the woman one last time then left.
    Morgan remained standing, flexing his fingers in an attempt to control his building anger. She moaned and he turned back to her.
    She was a mess. Her fingers, the palms of her hands and the pads of her bare feet were torn and bloody. She’d been flogged twice Thomas said, so the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. And Thomas admitted he’d felt sorry for the lad and held back. But still, the woman would be scarred for life.
    He washed her back with vinegar—a far better deterrent to infection than ocean water. Vinegar stung like a son of a bitch and he sent up a small prayer of thanks that she didn’t awaken. Next he smeared a salve mixed with comfrey over the lash marks, then wrapped her torso in clean strips of linen. Another point the surgeon and he disagreed on. Morgan understood the benefits of clean bandages, the surgeon said it didn’t matter.
    Morgan put more salve on her hands and feet.
    When he was finished, he leaned back and blew out a breath, not realizing until now how tense he’d been.
    She’d want a bath to wash away the dirt and filth of the fire and the blood caked on her. He wished he could bathe her now, but they had to wait until the next rainfall brought fresh water. He prayed infection wouldn’t settle in. A ship was not the best place to take sick. Their supplies were limited and clean water nearly non-existent. He’d done the best he could.
    He pulled a chair close, sat and dug beneath the bed for the woman’s clothes. He ran his fingers across the stitching on the tag. Victoria’s Secret.
    His gaze strayed to her. She slept with her arms bent at the elbows, her hands up by her head. It was hard to tell what color her hair was through the dirt ground into it, but if he had to guess, he’d say blonde rather than