Sea Change by Darlene Marshall

I have never had relations with a goat," Charley said. "Now, I suggest you look away and try to think of something else. Is that a British ship you are fighting?"
    "Naw, some Spaniard. He must have a good cargo for him to be firing back at us. Usually they just surrender. Easier that way."
    Charley's attention was all on the gaping gash in Reynolds's leg, but much as she deplored the idea of robbing some innocent Spaniard, part of her was glad it wasn't a British ship engaged with the Americans. She removed the shards of wood from Reynolds's bloody thigh, and when she was satisfied she'd gotten them all, cleaned and bandaged the battered leg.
    "Do your best to keep the bandage clean, Mr. Reynolds, and I will check on you tomorrow. For now you should stay off that leg."
    Reynolds's grin split his smoke-blackened face.
    "Naw, a little scratch like this can't keep me out of the fray, Doctor. I've got to get above so I can get my share!"
    And with that he hobbled out, one trouser leg flapping after him like a crimson flag.
    Charley shook her head but had no time to mull over Reynolds's folly as more men came in, presenting a variety of wounds, none of them overly serious. One man had a burned hand from mishandling the match (he came in for some ribbing for that), another had a gash on his head from a bad fall, and she set a sailor's broken arm.
    The din above had been a constant noise, and she still jumped at the sound of the guns from both ships. She could also smell a great deal of smoke, and the sick bay was hazy with it, but the injured men assured her the Fancy was sound and had not taken any serious damage.
    Finally the wounded ceased trickling in, and Charley realized how exhausted she was, and how stiff and sore. She was straightening up and wincing when the door opened again, but this time it was Captain Fletcher who stood framed there. His face was blackened from soot and he had a thread of blood oozing down his arm from beneath the sleeve rolled up to his bicep, but his grin was white and wide beneath the grime.
    "It was a rout, Doctor! The damned Spanish thought they could outfight my men, but we showed them right and proper!"
    "Let me tend to that wound on your arm, Captain."
    He looked down and seemed to notice for the first time he that he was wounded. "Huh. I don't even remember getting that."
    "Sit," Charley directed him, and Captain Fletcher took the chair, holding out his arm. "Are there wounded aboard the Spanish ship?"
    "If there are, that's their problem. Do not look at me that way, Doctor, you are the Fancy 's medical man, and I'm not about to risk you by putting you aboard their tub."
    Charley didn't want to get into an argument. "Was it a good haul for you?"
    That amazing smile split his face again, and Charley paused from where she was cleaning the dirt and blood off of his arm. When he smiled like that, something twisted inside her and it almost hurt.
    Who was she fooling? It did hurt. It hurt because she could not respond to that smile as a woman would, and it hurt because she suspected that even if she could respond, she wouldn't be the woman he wanted.
    And now she'd learned he was to be married.
    She needed to get over this...this obsession she was developing regarding this man. For her own health and safety, he must never suspect that she was hoodwinking him. She lowered her gaze back down to his arm. He was talking animatedly and hadn't noticed her pause.
    "...and while I would vastly have preferred a specie ship outbound for Spain, there's nothing wrong with a ship carrying fine Madeira and silks and linens for the markets of Havana! The ladies in New York and Baltimore and Boston will like them just as well, and Yankees will toast the war efforts over the wine in our hold."
    He frowned. "Almost too good a haul. I need to get some of this to market myself before there's not room to turn around in the hold. Oh, and that reminds me. Are you finished there?"
    "In a moment," she said, tying the