Wentworth’s luck may be changing as a new ship’s ‘cat’ come into his life.

July, 1809

Wentworth paused to adjust the canvas bag slung over his shoulder.  The torch within made it an annoying, awkward bundle, bouncing along his back. A crisp breeze smelling of salt air forced its way through the trees, rustling branches and leaves as if to remind him that he should take care, he was just a visitor in this place. It was true, being landside never felt quite right these days, not since those heady days spent near Kellynch. The sea was home to him now, and, if he had his way, would be for the rest of his life.

He dragged his sleeve across his forehead, leaving a dark stain across the drab fabric. Hot, but not bloody hot. Just past its zenith, the sun’s kiss left him sweating and decidedly inelegant. But what did that matter out here, on the side of a mountain in Gibraltar? There was little elegant company to be found. Some that pretended to elegance to be sure, but little of the real stuff.

It was not as though he had any want for elegant company, though. Sampling it once was quite enough. Miss Anne Elliot had left him with sufficient heartache for a lifetime.

Inconstant, weak-willed, mild-mannered, spineless…

No, giving into those thoughts would do him no good, now, nor probably ever. Enough hours, days, weeks had been lost in those resentments and it was high time to leave those behind. Just like he had left England behind.

Damn, there were days he still managed to miss them both.

He tamped his walking stick down hard on the rocky path and continued his trudge up the mountainside. Another salty breeze rattled the pine and olive trees that surrounded him, carrying away some of the heat from the back of his neck. Quiet, the woods were so very quiet. How long had it been since he had been genuinely alone?

Months, easily months. There was no solitude aboard ship.

The Laconia was safely tucked away in the port, enjoying some needed repairs as his men partook in leave. The opportunity to be away should have been restorative, a welcome bit of relaxation from the pressures of a ship’s captain.

It should have been. But it left him far too much opportunity to think, to be alone with his thoughts and worse, his feelings. Everyone was better off when that could be avoided, especially himself. No, he needed something to do, some occupation to capture his attention away from those thoughts.

Thus, once again, he found himself on his way to St. Michael’s cave. Exploring it with only the light of his torch, fighting the obstacles, alone; one mistake, one fall, one doused torch from death in the chill, dank, darkness. That made for a welcome distraction. Such an amazing, glorious place it was. In the flicker of the torch light, astounding, unearthly structures towered all around him, glistening water droplets like gems, twinkling, beckoning him in farther. Perhaps one day he would attempt to explore further into the caverns—but there were already rumors of men lost forever in the bottomless recesses. His heart might have been ill-used, but not so much as to occasion losing himself in the darkness. At least not on most days.

He was getting close. The scent of damp limestone rode the edge of the wind now, replacing the saltiness. Cool and earthy, it had an appeal all its own, rather like the cave itself. He shaded his eyes and peered down the trail, the craggy, overhung cave entrance just visible.

A piercing scream, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on ricocheted against the rocks, echoing and amplifying before it faded into the stony landscape. The raucous chittering of the local apes followed.

Blast and bloody botheration!

A screaming cat he could have ignored, no matter how fond he was of the creatures, but not those frightful apes. Irrational though it was, those dreadful beasts with their mocking laughs and their not-quite-human faces—he shuddered at the thought and quickened his step. Nothing should be left to the mercies of those little monsters.

The mouth of the cave rose up before him, and just beside it a pack of the stinking, tawny-furred little apes mobbed around something, shrieking and fussing. Another feline scream pierced the air from the midst of them.

Wentworth brandished his walking stick, swinging it in the middle of the pack. “Get away! Out, out the lot of you! Go now and good riddance.”

The apes, cowards that they were, screamed and feinted, but finally ran from him and his stick.

“Good riddance! Now stay away!” He shook his stick in the air.

From the trees an ape laughed.

He strode toward the trees, but a pathetic moan drew him back to the rockface.

Leathery egg shards lay scattered on the rocky ground. In the center, huddled against the rocks, a slimy black ball of fur, the size of a small cat.

“Mrrow! Mrrrow!”  

Wentworth crossed the distance in three brisk strides. “Poor thing—weren’t you beat all hollow? That won’t fadge at all!” He knelt beside the creature.

“Meeerow!” Great gold eyes stared up at him as the creature hissed.

“You can’t be blamed for drawing in your horns, but you have nothing more to fear, little fellow. Those apes are gone.” He extended his left hand.

It reached out to sniff his fingers. A long, forked tongue licked his fingertips.

“What an excellent little fellow.” He nudged it toward his hand.

With only a moment’s hesitation, it crawled into the palm of his hand and wrapped its long, black, serpentine tail around his wrist. Tiny claws on its front paws grabbed his sleeve for purchase. He lifted the creature to look eye to eye with him.

Its front half, though matted and wet with egg slime, appeared to be a large black kitten with huge glittering eyes and a very pathetic expression. Extra-large front paws bore noticeable thumb toes. The rear half, covered in glistening black scales, should have been attached to a huge black snake. But it was firmly attached to the front half of a newly-hatched tatzelwurm.

Wentworth’s hand trembled just a bit and his breath caught in his throat.

The little dragon pushed its cold, gooey head into his face and rubbed it along Wentworth’s stubbled cheek. “Hungry!”

Of course! How could he have not thought! With his right hand, he reached into his bag. Just a little farther—yes! Brown wrapping paper crinkled under his fingers. He pulled a small parcel from his bag. Thank goodness he had planned ahead.

The tatzelwurm began rumbling—the characteristic loud purr of a happy tatzelwurm. Purring and he had not yet been fed? What a splendid little creature!

He wrestled the parcel open one-handed and pulled off a piece of ham. Not the ideal first meal for a newly hatched dragon, but it was all he had. He held up the tidbit.

The creature squeaked happily and gobbled the morsel down so fast it almost caught Wentworth’s fingertip in his teeth. Hatching hunger should not be underestimated.

“Mooore?” The tip of its tail flicked against Wentworth’s arm.

“Of course.” Wentworth offered another bite. And another and another, until the little creature’s belly was quite distended and its eyes blinked lazily. “Now I should think it is time to clean you up. Would that be acceptable?” When no protest registered, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed egg slime from the rich black fir until a big-eyed ball of black fluff stood in his hand. “What a handsome little fellow you are.”

It licked its shoulder, then stretched his neck for a scratch under the chin.

Wentworth obliged. “Do you know how you came to be here? Did you hatch in a nest?”

“I just broke shell. Awful things dropped me here.”

“I see.” Wentworth scratched behind the furry ears. “I am sorry, that is a bloody difficult way to make a start.”

It—he, the creature was male—rubbed his cheek, against Wentworth’s hand, standing on tiptoes to reach, purring so loudly, Wentworth’s chest rumbled in time. “What would you like to do now?”

He blinked up at Wentworth. “No like things.”

“I do not either.”

“You keep things away?”

“Most of the time I live on a ship where there are no things.” Wentworth sat back against the rock of the hillside, drawing the tatzelwurm close.

“No things? Like that.” He purred and licked Wentworth’s palm with a rough, forked tongue. “What ship?”

How did one explain a ship to a newborn dragon? “Like a nest that floats on the water. I go many places.”

The wurmling cocked his head to and fro. “To places with things?”

Wentworth shuddered. “No. This is the only place I have ever been with things.”

“Go with you?” The little chirrup at the end of his question sounded so hopeful. He nestled in closer to Wentworth’s chest.

“Ship’s cats are very welcome. Black ones are considered particularly lucky and ones with many toes like you are especially welcome.” He stroked the top of the tatzelwurm’s head. “I should think you would be well liked there. You would of course have to tell my shipmates you are a large cat, though.”

“Can do that.” A cool serpentine tail slipped under the edge of Wentworth’s coat and fluffy paws folded against his chest.

“What do you think of the name Laconia? It is the name of my ship. Landed dragons share the name of their estate. It seems a ship’s dragon should share the name of the ship.”

“Yes. Good.” Laconia purred and rested his chin on his paws. “Sleep now. Stay you.” A moment later, he drew in the deep breaths of sleep.

Wentworth cradled Laconia to his chest and stared up into the clear sky, eyes prickling. There was a baby dragon asleep in his arms. A dragon—one that called him Friend! He dragged his free arm across his eyes. He was a true Dragon Mate now. Who would have thought?

Laconia snored softly in time with his breathing and half opened one eye to stare adoringly at Wentworth.

Both he and Sofie heard dragons and were known to the Blue Order. How long had he envied Sofie and Croft for their Dragon Friend, White? Not that he would ever have admitted it aloud, but he had been jealous. It was hard to hear dragons and not have a dragon Friend.

No more though, not with this fine fellow as his companion. He stroked Laconia’s silky fur, right behind his ears; Laconia closed his eye again and purred in his sleep.

His crew would welcome the little creature—truly a sign of good fortune for their next voyage—especially when he told them he had rescued it from the hands of those horrid apes. Most of his men detested the creatures as much as he did. Moreover, though they had been enjoying good fortune, a lucky “cat” to reinforce that sense would not hurt.

Wentworth chuckled. No doubt they would spoil the little creature when his back was turned. Laconia would like that. What dragon would object—especially after making such a start in the world? He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, warm contentment surging over him in waves, carried on Laconia’s purrs. Years, it had been years since he had felt this way. And it was good to feel it again.

What do you think? Tell me in the comments.

Watch this space … More dragons coming soon!