by Clare Sager
She narrowed them. “That’s close enough.”
He kept his arms wide, lowered, non-threatening. Still, the tension thrumming through her lean arms, her muscular legs, and her glowering expression said she would cut him down.
Wild Hunt, surely even the notorious Lady Vice wouldn’t kill a man asking for parley.
She wouldn’t if her captain ordered her to stand down.
Knigh lifted his chin. “FitzRoy.”
FitzRoy went still and turned, a frown etched between his eyebrows, dark gaze cool upon Knigh. That stillness radiated until the pirates and marines closest backed away from each other. Their blades were still raised, but they shared confused looks rather than blows.
Swallowing, Knigh took a deep breath. Gods, please let this work. “Elizabeth sends her regards.”
FitzRoy’s brows shot up, and his eyes widened. He recognised the phrase and a squat man at his side reacted in the same way – that had to be his contact.
Vice gave a pert smile. “And Davy Jones sends his, Blackwood.” Gaze still on him, she lifted her chin to one side. “Captain, shall I send him to the seafloor with the other bottom feeders?”
Raising an eyebrow, FitzRoy cocked his head, calculation unmistakable on his face.
Knigh’s stomach plummeted, but he kept his expression impassive. Lords, he’d miscalculated.
Was FitzRoy actually considering letting Vice kill him?
Miscalculation
The back of Vice’s neck prickled. Jaw clenched, she stared at Blackwood, but he ignored her and watched the Captain, expression unreadable.
Arrogant bastard.
What was taking FitzRoy so long? He just needed to give her the go-ahead, and she’d rid them of this troublesome pirate hunter. It would be a shame to damage such a fine specimen, but he’d tried to trick them – to trick her. That flare from the Veritas must have been a signal for the Venatrix, bringing them circling out from behind the island.
Her lip twitched. Nice try, but she was the one who tricked people around here, as proved by the success of her idea to hide The Morrigan’s crew on the Veritas.
If only she’d been able to see his expression when the supposedly friendly ship opened fire! But his eyebrows had risen a little when she’d led the charge – when it came to Knigh Blackwood, that would have to do.
Her gaze drifted over to the Venatrix. They’d aimed well – just a damaged mast and sails, things that could be repaired quickly, then she could be on her way with her ship.
Her ship. Captaincy, at last.
After she’d executed this plan, FitzRoy would have to admit she’d make a good captain, his earlier anger forgotten.
And not captain of just any ship – captain of the Venatrix. Her chest swelled, warm and full.
“Vice,” FitzRoy called.
Smiling sweetly at Blackwood, she stood a little taller. Lords and Ladies, she was ready for this.
“Stand down.”
She blinked.
Blackwood’s grey eyes flicked to her, and his eyebrows rose fractionally in expectation.
“Captain” – sword still pointed at Blackwood, she turned to FitzRoy – “what –”
“I said, stand down, my dear.”
“My dear?” she spluttered. Like she was some meddlesome wife who needed pacifying. She stared at him, but he just nodded. He actually wanted her to stand down.
Blackwood cleared his throat, and she spun upon him.
He held his sword wide, unthreatening. “If I may?” He lifted his other hand slowly. “I’m just reaching into my pocket.”
“Vice.” The low warning in FitzRoy’s voice was unmistakable.
What the hells was going on? Had Fitz gone soft? Shaking her head, she lowered her blade without sheathing it and watched Blackwood pull sealed papers from his pocket.
“Captain FitzRoy,” he said in a voice that carried, “I’ve come to offer a letter of marque signed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth IV.”
Oh, that was brilliant. Even better than a pirate hunter calling for parley. She’d been trying for three years to persuade FitzRoy to turn privateer, and for three years he’d refused. This would be no different.
She snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“What an interesting proposal, Captain Blackwood,” FitzRoy said. “I assume you’ll have your men stand down if I ask mine to do the same, then we can go and discuss this in my cabin.”
Discuss this? “FitzRoy” – she whirled on her heel – “what the devil do –”
“I assume you meant to say Captain.” He gave her a flat look, mouth a straight line.
Urgh, he wanted to make an impression in front of these Navy men, in front of Captain Blackwood. Nostrils flaring, she forced a smile in place. “Apologies, Captain.”
“Quite forgiven, Vice.” He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “I imagine the heat of battle made you forget yourself.”
She gritted her teeth, cheeks tense – her smile probably looked more like a grimace.
“Now, Captain Blackwood,” FitzRoy stepped to one side and gestured for the pirate hunter to join him, “let us retire.”
“But – Captain” – she fell in beside Blackwood, trying to outpace him but his long legs let him keep up without effort.
“Yes, Miss Vice?” He raised his eyebrows at her.
“Not you,” she hissed. “Captain FitzRoy, with all respect” – inwardly she cringed, but he couldn’t say she wasn’t playing along with his wishes, however stupid they were – “I don’t like this. This man’s Navy through and through and, even worse, he’s a pirate hunter. What if this is just a ploy to get you alone?”
FitzRoy scoffed and shook his head. “Ah, my dear, what an imagination you have.”
She ground her teeth. If he called her my dear one more time …
One corner of FitzRoy’s mouth rose in an odd smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Despite the insult you do him, I’m sure Captain Blackwood will be happy to surrender his weapons to you. As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll do the same.” He unbuckled his sword belt and bandolier and passed both to the nearest marine.
The rest of The Morrigan’s crew and the Venatrix’s men sheathed their weapons.
“Only too glad to oblige,” Blackwood said, flashing her a showy smile that seemed so out of place on him it irritated her almost as much as Fitz calling her my dear. “Miss Vice.”
His grey eyes stayed on her while he flicked his belt buckle open.
Something about the way he did that, maybe the slowness, maybe the eye contact, made her face heat. It was far too much like a lover beginning to undress.
She swallowed and clenched her jaw. Bastard. He had to be doing that deliberately. After all, she’d flirted with him at that ball before she’d known who he was. She’d made her attraction to him clear.
Unblinking, she stared back, trying to look bored, and held out her hands to accept the polished sabre and matching dagger.
Still at that maddening speed, he removed a bandolier with a pair of Navy issue flintlock pistols. He handed those over, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he did so.
That was unnecessary.
So, he wanted to play games. Fine.
She thrust his guns and blades into Aedan’s tattooed hands. “Just a second, Captain,” she said, raising her hands and blocking Blackwood’s path. “In the interest of maintaining goodwill, allow me to demonstrate to the crew you’re not hiding any further weapons.”
Smiling sweetly, she stepped into his space. Although the air was cooling as the sun touched the horizon, heat radiated from him. It warmed her skin as though they were already touching.
Despite his usual mask of neutrality and controlled, subtle expressions, his eyes widened, and he sucked in a quick breath. He didn’t step away, but he swayed backwards as if he longed to escape.
Good, he was bothered. Taste of his own medicine and all that.
At such close quarters, her nose filled with the smell of so
ap, worn leather, and – was that cinnamon? She fought the near-irresistible urge to breathe deeply and check. There was also something masculine, raw in the scent – the tang of sweat, the hard work of battle.
With a quick exhale, she tried to blow his smell from her nose. She had work to do.
Her hands landed on his shoulders first – firm, broad, warm. Just as she’d imagined. Not that she’d imagined how he’d feel. Definitely not. She cleared her throat and frowned at him.
His chest stilled at her touch – he had to be holding his breath. So, the disciplined Navy man could feel something, he just fought to control, to hide it all.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
She ran her hands down his arms. No sign of straps holding further weapons, even when she patted his forearms – she’d seen people hide daggers up their sleeves. Deliberately, she paused once she’d withdrawn her hands and he sagged, the movement so minute she’d never have noticed it from a respectable distance. However, this was not a respectable distance.
He was relieved, thinking she was done with him.
Poor boy. But he’d brought this on himself.
Eyes locked with his, she placed her hands on his chest. A low sound like far, far distant thunder rumbled through him, so soft no one else could have heard it.
But she did hear it and felt it vibrate under her hands, and she saw his pupils blow wide, darkening his gaze.
The uncomfortable feeling they were lovers hit her again. That’s where she’d seen that look before, and this was precisely where she’d place her hands as she mounted a man and claimed him as her own. Her heart pounded, and her throat, her belly, her core throbbed in response.
She was meant to be searching him, not seducing him.
Wild Hunt take her, she had misjudged. Badly.
Fighting to keep her expression flat like his so often was, she lightened her touch – that made it safer. Her fingertips lowered over the planes of his chest. No sign of weapons, but damn it, he filled his clothes well – there was no padding to give him that fine shape.
Again, with such a subtle movement she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t felt it, he pressed into her touch, forcing the hard lines of his muscles against her palms.
Heat flooded her, and she snatched her hands away.
The corner of his mouth rose, eyes flashing in triumph.
What a prick.
Bloody hells, why had she thought that word? That was precisely the problem right now. It had been far, far too long, that was all this meant. Her body and its needs were betraying her mind and its dislike of this arrogant, up-tight Navy automaton.
Gritting her teeth, she made herself touch him again, hands sliding quickly down his sides, his hips, the outsides of his well-muscled thighs, and into the tops of his boots.
No weapons. Fine.
Straightening, she raised an eyebrow at him. She could check his inner thighs, a blade could be hidden there, and it was damn tempting to try and get a rise out of him as it were – from the speed of his breaths and the heat in his gaze, he couldn’t be far off hardness.
But – but, no. She shook her head; that was enough torture for both of them.
There was one more thing, though.
Leaning close, she ran her hands up and down his back. Her breasts brushed his chest, sending unwelcome sensation streaking through her body and forcing her to bite her lip.
It was a small victory to hear his breath hitch.
She smiled and turned her mouth to his ear. “If you call me ’Miss Vice’ ever again, I’ll cut out your tongue with your own dagger. Got it?”
She released him and swayed back but didn’t leave his space, eyebrows raised in question.
He moistened his lips and swallowed slowly. “Yes, madam,” he murmured.
Nodding, she backed off. “He’s clear,” she announced, voice hoarse.
“Glad to see you doing such a thorough job, Vice,” FitzRoy said with a rictus smile before whirling and striding to his cabin.
Blackwood gave her a heavy look, just a second too long for comfort before he followed FitzRoy.
“Will you please stop pacing and give me a hand?”
Arms folded, Vice blinked and looked up at Perry untangling The Morrigan’s lines from the Veritas. She shook her head and rubbed her face. “Sorry,” she muttered and climbed up. “I just” – she checked none of the crew was too close – “I don’t like it.” Sitting astride the bowsprit, she pulled herself along, closing in on the points where it was tangled with the Veritas.
“See, I wasn’t so sure.” Perry’s voice was full of arched eyebrow.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You look pissed as all hells about the Captain agreeing to speak to this Blackwood but …”
Vice paused, wrapping her legs around and turning to narrow her eyes at Perry. “But what?”
Perry cleared her throat and refused to meet her gaze, seemingly absorbed in separating the lines in her hands. “Well, you took your time patting down the man. When I said it sounded like he was good-looking, you could have told me that was an understatement. If I’d known, I’d have rouged my lips before meeting him.” She glanced up with a smirk, fingers still working the lines by touch. “I can’t blame you for enjoying it so much. Find him packing anything interesting?”
Vice scoffed and rolled her eyes before sliding along to the first of the snags. She wasn’t that affected by the whole thing. The rough hemp under her fingers was familiar and categorically non-sexual. Lips pursed, she let it consume her physical attention. “While you’re distracted by a pretty face, I’m far more concerned about the fact those two are holed up in FitzRoy’s cabin deciding all our fates.”
With a shrug, Perry’s gaze returned to her work. “And Bricus.”
First rope untangled, Vice dropped it and turned to Perry, open-mouthed. “What?”
“Bricus is in there, too. Captain summoned him not long after they shut themselves away.”
“What the hells? And you’re fine with this?” Prickling irritation shot down her neck and across her shoulders. “You’re the quartermaster – you should be in there.” What was FitzRoy thinking? Did he not give a damn what Perry thought? Much as Bricus was a cheery first mate, Perry was more important to the ship’s running than him.
“His ship, his choice.”
“That’s the problem.” Arms straining after two battles and all that use of her gift, Vice heaved herself to her feet. “And he needs telling.” She balanced her way back along the bowsprit and hopped down next to her friend.
Perry jumped, eyes wide when she looked up. “Wait, what are you doing? Leave him be, Vice.” A line formed between her brows. “Have you eaten since the fight, since your …” She wriggled her fingers.
“I’m going to tell him since it looks like no one else will.” She strode aft, Perry dropping her work and hurrying after. “And as for whether I’ve eaten, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“Because your gift burns through energy, leaving you tired and hungry, and when you’re hungry, you’re tetchy as a sabrecat with a toothache.”
“That’s patently untrue.”
“See, and you use longer words, a lady’s words when you get like that.”
Vice grunted and strode along the deck. Her crewmates were already mopping up the blood and hauling fresh canvas to repair the holes from the Veritas’s chain shot, chatting as they worked. A handful of men and women on all sides had died, and six bodies lay, already wrapped in their hammocks waiting for their burial at sea.
Vice shuddered at the sight of stiff canvas shrouding the unmistakable shapes, and she rubbed her opal ring.
Lizzy, who was sewing shut one of the hammocks, glanced up. Her brows lifted, and she gave a sad smile, pitying.
Clenching her hands, Vice forced her pace steady and lifted her chin. She was fine. That sight didn’t affect her at all. Everyone died. Some sooner, some later, but everyone ended up wrapp
ed in canvas or wood and chucked in the sea or shovelled under mud. Everyone.
All the more reason not to rely on them.
Eyes forward, she took a deep breath that shook in her throat.
She was five paces from FitzRoy’s cabin door when it swung open, and the man himself emerged, a feline smile in place. He stepped to one side, letting Blackwood stand alongside him, face neutral.
So neither of them had murdered each other. Surprising.
“Gents, ladies, good folk of The Morrigan,” FitzRoy bellowed, gaze skimming the crew as they paused in their work. Despite her proximity, his eyes skipped over Vice. “It gives me almost the very greatest pleasure” – he paused and grinned, winking at Saba nearby – “to tell you I’ve accepted Captain Blackwood’s offer. As of today, we’re all pardoned by the Queen herself and are her very own privateers.”
“Huh.” The sound fell from her a split second before the crew cheered and clapped for the second time today. Privateers? And all thanks to this pirate-hunting stranger, rather than her own attempts for the past three years.
FitzRoy finally looked at her and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Well?
Nodding, she clapped and smiled. With a half-laugh of confusion, she glanced at Blackwood. How on earth had he persuaded FitzRoy?
Shrugging, she threw her head back and cheered with the last of her crewmates. Whatever he’d done to secure FitzRoy’s agreement, she should just be glad about the result, since it was what she’d wanted for so long. The Queen had been good to her, and although it was years since she’d seen her, years since she’d even been alive as far as the Queen knew, it hadn’t faded.
Vice clapped Perry on the shoulder and grinned. Her other hand went to the small pin hidden under the collar of her shirt, its shape familiar from long years of wear. She didn’t have to look at it to see the crowned drake – the red enamel was bright in her mind, the ruby eyes sparkled, the tiny pearls in the crown glistened, as vivid as the day the Queen had given it to her.
No more danger of attacking the Queen’s ships. Now they’d help resist her enemies.
Vice snorted again. Never thought she’d see the day.
