by Clare Sager
It wasn’t possible. He was so careful, his crew well-disciplined. Sails didn’t just come untied from the yardarm.
Unless …
When he turned to The Morrigan, Vice was grinning, eyes glinting, unsurprised. She passed just yards away and gave a little mocking bow, hair tangling in the breeze that carried her ship unerringly out of port. The same breeze blew his own sails across the deck as the crew ran to gather them together.
She had done this. Somehow. She must have snuck on board after they arrived yesterday, sabotaged the sails, and then left, all without raising the alarm. What kind of lunatic pirate boarded a naval vessel?
She winked, lifted her hand to her lips and blew him a slow kiss.
His skin burned. He’d only wanted to catch her for the handsome bounty but now …
Barking hoarse orders, he gripped the rail, knuckles aching and white.
Now, she’d made it personal.
The Clue
Lifting her chin, Vice held out the scroll case. She smiled at Fitz and the way his hand shook as he reached for the clue. His eyes shone with greed, desire, excitement – who knew? Maybe all three.
Much as she hated to admit it, breezing past Knigh Blackwood had been mildly disappointing. Not the execution – watching the sails flop to the deck … Lords, that was a moment she’d carry to the grave. No, that wasn’t the disappointment – it was his face. He’d watched the sails fall, he’d stared at her, and his brows had lowered in what was almost a frown, but …
But there hadn’t been that profound look of shock and horror and the realisation she’d got one over on him that she’d been hoping for. He schooled his expressions far too well for that. Prick.
So, yes, that had been a disappointment. But this, Fitz’s gaze roving between her and the case, the lick of his lips in anticipation before he took it – this almost made up for it.
They stood in his cabin, on either side of the dining table that occupied the centre of the room. Morning light streamed through the stern windows, glinting off, well a lot of gilt work. The carved moulding around the windows. A small chest on a side table. The lion feet of the side table. The frame of the large mirror over his bed. Even the finials of the bedposts. Then there were the gilded candlesticks, the huge oval platter in the middle of the table, and the chandelier twinkling above.
Despite the excesses, the golden light, thick patterned rug under her feet, and red velvet drapes around the bed made the space almost cosy. She knew from experience that bed was a soft and warm place on a cold night.
Things between them had been tense for a while now – the stories and songs about her didn’t help. A member of crew wasn’t meant to outshine her captain in the tales of victory and adventure. No doubt that was why he’d stopped having her in that cosy bed of his. It was probably also why he’d delayed offering the captaincy he’d promised.
Well, she wasn’t going to try and rekindle their relationship, but he was on the hook for her captaincy now. If this didn’t win his favour, nothing would, short of handing over Drake’s treasure on a platter.
“What is it?” He examined the case, fingers caressing the embossed drake.
She shrugged, lifting her hands. “I don’t know – I thought you’d want to be the first to see it.” More ingratiation – not that she needed it. She could have shed her clothes and offered herself on a plate to do anything he wished, and he wouldn’t have looked up from that cracked old leather.
Even her fae charm was nothing compared to a clue to Drake’s treasure.
“Open it, then.” She nodded at the case, clenching and unclenching her hands. The hairs of her arms stood on end. Her skin tingled.
Fine, so he wasn’t the only one excited. Not opening it had almost killed her, but the look on his face made it worth it – lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed. She’d seen it before, but they’d been wearing a lot less clothing at the time.
His throat bobbed in a slow swallow, and he twisted open the case, his thick, long fingers surprisingly gentle – reverent, almost.
There was a whisper of paper as he pulled out a scroll. So, she’d guessed right. Light, creamy paper, thick and smooth – good quality. She held her breath as he unrolled it. Although it was tatty at the edges, it was in surprisingly good condition.
He bent over the desk, holding it flat, brows lowering as he scanned it. “I don’t – it’s nonsense.”
Her chest jumped. “What?” No, surely –
She rounded the desk, crowding next to him to see the scroll clearly. A string of letters, no spaces, all upper case, no U’s. She clutched her stomach and exhaled, shoulder rubbing his. “Not nonsense – Latium, written the old way.” Thank the gods for that. “They didn’t always use spaces between words in inscriptions, sometimes they’d put dots, but not normally spaces.” With a reassuring smile, she patted his hand – his skin was hot as if he burned to read it for himself.
“Then what does it say?”
“Let’s see …” She weighted the top of the scroll. “I, Admiral Drake” – she frowned, he’d only ever been a Vice Admiral, but maybe he’d been looking to exaggerate his position – “have no treasure – what? And only a fool would still be looking for it after two centuries.” Her mouth dried, but she kept reading, voice rasping on the words. “Silver. Gold. Rubies. None of it for you, madam Lyons.” Her breaths came hard and quick, flame burning up her back, her neck, and over her cheeks.
“No. It can’t be …” Blackwood had written this. She’d climbed all over his ship, risked entering his cabin for an insulting letter. “That bastard,” she breathed.
At her side, FitzRoy shook, a strangled noise coming from his throat. Slowly, he turned to her, face contorting until it didn’t even look like him anymore.
Without meaning to, she backed away a step.
“Only a fool,” he growled, grabbing her arm and yanking her close. “Your hunter’s calling me a fool.” His breath blew across her face as he bared his teeth. His fingers bit into her flesh, and he tried to give her a shake, but she tensed her arm against it.
“Get your damn hands off me, Fitz,” she growled back. “He’s not my –”
“He’s here for you. And you were the one stupid enough to fall for his trick. I should leave you to him.”
“How dare you? The number of times I’ve saved this ship.” She shook, body thrumming like the energy in storm clouds right before a lightning strike. If he didn’t – “I said, get your hands off me.” She wrenched herself from his grip.
He showed his teeth again, more sneer than smile. “Perry said it was too convenient the ship sent after us had a clue to Drake’s treasure – she was right. And you’d have known it if you had her sense. How could you let yourself be tricked by a Jack tar?” He shook his head, nostrils flaring.
Blackwood had got one over on her, and now FitzRoy wanted to give her up to him? Prick. She thrust her face into his. “In case you’d forgotten, I’m the only reason we slipped past him out of Kayracou – I tricked him. Without any help from you or Perry.”
“He was only there because of you.”
“Yes,” she spat, “because without me, you’re not worth chasing.”
Oh, gods.
She’d said it.
Her mouth fell open as if she could suck the words back in, but all that passed her lips was air, bursting in harsh breaths.
He froze. He wasn’t even breathing. Dark eyes bright, he glared at her, every visible inch of him rigid. A vein throbbed in his throat beside corded muscle.
Silence hummed between them.
Slowly, his chest rose, and he lifted himself to his full height. His shoulders squared like he was a sailor readying himself for inspection, but it was she who came under scrutiny as his gaze trailed her from head to toe. “You think you’ll be a great captain,” he said, voice soft as distant cannon fire, “but you are a child. A rash child, with power she shouldn’t have, who needs someone to direct her before she drops herself into hot wate
rs.”
His stillness made her bite her tongue. That quiet voice was far worse than any time he’d shouted. She’d certainly never seen him this angry.
He shook his head. “No one will follow you because you’ll only lead them to death.”
Her face burned as his words settled in her mind. A child? She gritted her teeth. What a bastard. And lead them to death – what the hells did that mean?
“Avice Ferrers.”
Her nostrils flared at the name, but she held her tongue – it had already run away with her enough.
His eyes narrowed. “You are not fit to lead. You will never be captain.”
The words struck her, pushing her half a step back. Was he – no, he couldn’t be taking back his promise. He was just pissed off. Royally pissed off. That was all.
And maybe it was her fault – his being pissed off, not this business with the clue.
She shouldn’t have said what she did – it irked him enough that she was the one they sang about back in Albion, but to say it? To acknowledge it out loud?
It had always been a silent spectre in the room. If they didn’t talk about it, it couldn’t hurt them.
But now she’d said the words.
He’d driven her to it, though. Lords, she could wring his bloody neck.
She clenched her hands until the knuckles ached and the nails threatened to split her palms. She needed to get out of here before she said anything to piss him off even more.
And he needed to cool off. Once he did, he’d come around, and they’d pretend this whole conversation never happened.
He’d promised her a captaincy with witnesses – Perry and Saba and at least a dozen others. Eventually, he’d grant it to her. In the meantime, it’d be best if she gave him some space.
Still, she couldn’t let him think he was right.
Lifting her chin, she gave him a withering look Perry would’ve been proud of and stalked out, slamming the door.
A Prize
Arm looped through the shrouds, Vice closed her eyes, letting the breeze, the spray, the sun rush through her hair. Beneath her, beneath The Morrigan, the sea breathed its rhythm, pushing them onwards under her direction.
Opening her eyes, she smiled at the prize she’d spotted half an hour ago. It had been a week since her fight with the Captain, and they’d continued in a cool, professional manner. She’d spent more time than necessary on watch from the main top. That’s how she’d spotted this merchantman with its fat belly. It was positioned perfectly to allow The Morrigan to approach with the lowering sun at her back, covering their approach with its dazzling glare.
Rather than go to FitzRoy directly, she’d reported it to Perry – a schooner, just eight guns, and more full of cargo than crew. Vice let her propose the rich, easy target.
Vice urged the currents, the winds behind their sails, eager to be in battle or on the receiving end of a surrender. Either way, once they took the prize, Perry would be honest and reveal her involvement – she’d be loath to take credit that wasn’t due. It would go some way to repairing the Captain’s opinion.
Call it a peace offering.
They swiftly closed in on the schooner, her gift holding the merchant ship dead in the water near a hilly island as surely as it pushed The Morrigan onwards.
Below, on the main deck that stretched from bow to quarterdeck, her crewmates armed themselves. Bricus doled out pistols, rifles, pikes, and sabres, his dark beard split in a jolly grin. The gunner teams readied the port cannons.
Vice touched the grips of her sabre and dagger, then each of her three mismatched fae-worked pistols – all there, all solid, all prepared. Her body sparked with anticipation. Better for everyone if they surrendered, but she was ready if they didn’t.
As The Morrigan shifted to starboard, she scurried down the shrouds, one eye on their new course, adding a touch here and there to help them turn to the best angle as they prepared to unleash a full broadside.
On deck, the atmosphere buzzed – they’d raised the black, and the merchants hadn’t answered by striking their own flag or raising the white, either of which would give their surrender.
There would be cannon fire.
After the first round, they’d get another chance to give in – most took that offer, suddenly keen to avoid a further barrage.
Orders sounded from the deck as the gunning teams made final preparations.
Her heart pounded as she nodded to Saba, Lizzy, Wynn, Effie, and Aedan – her usual team. They gathered around her by the foremast, nostrils flaring, some grinning fiercely, others grim-faced.
“They’re damn fools for not giving in,” Saba muttered, handing Vice her rifle from the rack.
Vice shrugged, running her fingertips over the breechloader. Fae-worked, like her pistols, it could be stored ready to fire and resisted damp conditions better than the flintlocks. Naturally, they were hideously expensive. And of course, Vice hadn’t paid a penny for it.
Loaded, ready to fire, and the leather case at her waist carried more of the reusable cartridges, charged and prepared to swap in at speed.
She nodded and snorted. “Some think they can escape, others think we’re more bluster than blow. Maybe these think they can beat us. Whatever the reason, let’s show them they’re wrong.” She grinned at each member of her team before fixing her attention on the schooner – from here she could read its name painted in white, Veritas.
Its deck crawled with activity, though from here the people were just figures, their faces indistinguishable.
She turned The Morrigan’s course a degree to starboard, each adjustment a tiny drain on her energy. Still, they were now perfectly aligned, and the shout rippled across the gunnery teams.
With the down-pitch of the wave, she held her breath, then the up-pitch and –
Cannons boomed, the sound filling her, vibrating through the ship’s hull.
Chinking, chain-shot spun towards the Veritas’s masts.
Sails split and rigging tore apart, the ropes’ frayed ends whipping away in the wind. One mast threw out a burst of splinters as it took a glancing blow. Around Vice, her people cheered.
Thick white smoke rose between The Morrigan and the Veritas, the taste of it like charcoal and sulphur.
Vice squinted through, watching the flag.
Even if they’d thought the way their ship sat dead in the water, becalmed was just a strange quirk of the weather, surely now they had to see they were no match for The Morrigan. They certainly wouldn’t outrun her with damaged sails.
But instead of lifting a white a flag of surrender, an orange flare rose from the Veritas’s deck.
Blue eyes on the bright spark of light, Aedan’s straw-blond eyebrows lowered. “What the –”
Then as the Veritas pitched, angling upwards, light flashed along its hull, followed by smoke and the thunder of cannon.
Vice’s eyes widened, and her fingers splayed as she reached her awareness back into the waves. Bracing against the foremast, she turned The Morrigan as swiftly as she dared. The ship groaned alarmingly, and she eased off a touch. Each foot of movement strained against her muscles and nibbled at her strength.
Shouts and oaths rose as the crew stumbled with the sudden movement. Crewmates had to catch each other. Some fell, skinning their knees on the deck.
But they presented a smaller target to the Veritas, so when the chain shot whistled overhead, it only tore holes in two sails and missed their masts entirely.
Vice huffed out a breath, muscles sagging after the exertion.
“You’ll tear the bloody ship apart,” Perry shouted, eyes wide as she pushed herself up from the rail several feet away.
Frowning, Vice shook her head. “I’d never!” She wasn’t stupid. Perry knew that.
“Perry,” FitzRoy bellowed from aft, clinging to the mainmast shrouds to stay upright from Vice’s mad spin of the ship, “I thought you said eight guns.” His brows were fixed in a fierce line, low over his dark eyes. “I make 16.”<
br />
Bollocks.
“Sorry, Captain,” Perry said, expression contrite and drawn as she lowered her gaze, “my mistake.”
It was only once he’d looked away that she shot Vice a look, brows contracting, head angling in query.
Wincing, Vice lifted her hands and mouthed sorry. She must have missed some of their ports in her hurry. But she’d stopped most of them hitting, so no harm done.
“Wild Hunt damn it,” FitzRoy bellowed, “slow us down.”
They were hurtling right at the Veritas, far too fast to just butt into him to board. At this speed, they’d damage both ships.
Bugger. Vice gritted her teeth and yanked on the current and stilled the wind. The Morrigan’s sails fell slack at once. Sweat broke on her brow as she fought to slow them enough to just knock the Veritas ready for boarding.
With much swearing, the crew again had to brace against her rough treatment of the ship.
“Bloody hells, Vice,” Aedan grunted as he grabbed the foremast. The tattoos across his knuckles read HOLD. His other arm looped around her, keeping her tight to his muscular body, so she didn’t fall.
The ship held steady, speed corrected, and Vice’s shoulders eased as she huffed out a breath, sinking against him. “Thanks, Aedan,” she muttered, patting his hand as he released her. “All steady, Captain,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Catching her breath, she nodded to her team. “Rifles, ladies and gent.”
Bracing one shoulder against the mast, she raised her fae-worked rifle, pulled back the cock, and peered along the barrel. Movement in her periphery told her others did the same, but the rest of the world faded. She even retreated from the sea surging beneath.
On the Veritas, men lifted their own weapons, but their wide eyes and gaping mouths said they weren’t used to battle, maybe weren’t even used to firing a gun.
