Men did not climb trees or swim for hours, and certainly they didn’t run for the sheer pleasure of it the way he had at Hollington. If only the ability to run and jump and swim was worth anything at all in his world instead of being childish folly he was supposed to have outgrown. Hardly any distance at all, but trapped on the ship, that much clear land would be a marvel. He gripped the railing, longing for dirt beneath his nails, scratches on his palms from tree bark as he climbed and explored, wonderfully aching muscles from hours in the lake. If only he could move, he would keep boredom at bay. Not that he actually wanted pirates to attack their ship and massacre them. Nathaniel shook his head at his foolishness. People spoke as if the ocean teemed with the brigands, but the voyage had been mile after mile of… nothing. In England, he’d heard countless tales of villainous pirates and their dastardly deeds. Instead he was confined by an endless, restless sea taunting him with its wildness. What he wouldn’t give for the freedom to run across the fields of Hollington Estate, wind rushing in his ears over the steady thump of his heart, the world falling away in his wake. The windswept deck was damp beneath his bare feet, prompting thoughts of the dewy grass of home. If pirates were to be the bloody, savage end of Nathaniel Bainbridge, he wished they’d get on with it.
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