Beneath Black Sails

by Clare Sager

  Vee arched an eyebrow, an icy smile inching into place. “Her Majesty is a wise ruler. I’m sure she made her decision with a mind towards Your Highness’s strengths and those of your royal sister.”

  Mercia stiffened, eyebrows rising slowly.

  Bloody hells.

  Vee’s defence of the Queen was admirable, if surprising, but didn’t she know not to contradict royalty? From the rest of her behaviour, he’d say that had to be something she did know but was choosing to ignore.

  Mercia was not a man to be questioned – not only as royalty but also as an admiral and human being. Loyalty and obedience, unwavering.

  The look in Vee’s eyes, sharp and bold, said nothing good could come of her thoughts. Not here, not with Mercia. He was so much more dangerous than his manners and charm suggested.

  “In fact,” she went on, raising her glass, pointing at Mercia, “I’d say –”

  “Madam!” Knigh lurched forward. “I see your captain’s glass is empty” – he smiled at FitzRoy then at her, unblinking – “perhaps you can show him the best way to pour punch without spilling it.”

  She’d joked about the woman at Governor deLacy’s ball right before she’d been surrounded by Naval officers and forced to run – please, gods, let her take the hint.

  Danger. Flee.

  She cocked her head at him, a momentary frown drawing her eyebrows together.

  He fought to keep his breaths even, but he allowed his eyes to widen at her.

  She inhaled sharply, eyes narrow. She wasn’t going to take the hint – or, rather, she was choosing to ignore it.

  No, don’t. He touched her elbow. Please.

  Her brows rose, and she sighed. “So it is. Come along, Captain.” She nodded at FitzRoy and excused them before stalking away through the crowd.

  Watching them leave, Knigh kept his body taut, so Mercia didn’t see his relief at getting her away from his menace.

  Mercia cleared his throat, eyes narrow on Vee’s back. “Well done for getting rid of them.” Despite the praise, he didn’t smile. “Alone at last.”

  Knigh swallowed. At least this was the better of two evils. Who knew what Vee might say in front of the Duke?

  Mercia lifted his chin and lowered his voice. “My uncle told me you had an unusual assignment but didn’t explain anything more than that in his letter. I can understand him not wanting to commit anything to writing, but now you’re here in person, you can tell me about your mission. Report.”

  With a deep breath, Knigh rebalanced his weight between his feet, straightened his back, lifted his chin.

  This was just an officer reporting to his senior – he could do that calmly. There didn’t need to be any reminders of that day.

  He cleared his throat. “The Admiralty received an offer some months ago from a member of The Morrigan’s crew,” he said softly enough that only Mercia would hear. “The man was working with FitzRoy and said that in exchange for a pardon, land, and a sum of money, they would help deliver Lady Vice to the authorities.”

  Mercia chuckled, a cruel light in his eyes as they turned back towards Vee. “So, he’s betraying her, and she doesn’t even know? Oh, that’s simply delicious.” He sipped his wine. “And your involvement?”

  Knigh swallowed the lump in his throat. That Mercia loved this idea only added to the doubts that had needled the back of his mind since he’d joined The Morrigan. “I worked with the Admiral of the Fleet to draw up a plan to secure her capture and ensure she’d stand trial in Albion without any chance of escape.”

  Mercia nodded slowly, thumb resting in the dimple on his chin. “Indeed, I’ve heard she’s a cunning one.”

  “Your Highness heard correctly.” On that front, anyway. The rest of the reports on Vee …

  Well, the way the Navy had described her, he’d expected Lady Vice to be a monster like l’Olonnais or Ned Low. They delighted in torture and cruelty and employed those strategies liberally to fill their victims with fear and their own holds with riches.

  Vee, though? The battle on the Veritas, the way the ordinary folk of Nassau loved her, even the way she’d helped him in the town and with FitzRoy … None of it sounded like the work of the notorious Lady Vice. Certainly not the work of a senseless killer.

  Hells, taking that slaver ship, freeing the people, and marooning the surviving crew was more the sort of thing the heroic Pirate Queen of the song would do.

  Mercia raised his eyebrows.

  Damnation, Knigh had been quiet too long. He cleared his throat. “Although FitzRoy and one other are in on the plan, the rest of the crew, Vice included, believe they are privateers working for Her Majesty. I’m travelling with them to ensure compliance on their end as well as to take her in to Portsmouth myself and ensure all proceeds according to plan once there.”

  At least that was the current plan. And although her guilt was printed in black and white on the arrest warrant folded in his breast pocket, black and white didn’t feel so certain as it had a couple of weeks ago.

  “Portsmouth?” Mercia raised an eyebrow.

  “Once they’ve taken a decent prize, they’ll return to Albion – ostensibly to present it to the Queen. However, upon arrival in Portsmouth, Vice will be arrested to stand trial immediately.”

  Unless … What if he were to put in a request to the Admiralty to issue a pardon for Vee’s crimes? Would they make her a privateer with all sincerity, rather than as part of his ploy?

  “And the noose will be ready for her.” The narrow smile returned to Mercia’s mouth as he nodded. “Most cunning, Villiers. That woman has been a thorn in the side of civilised society too long – the songs and stories swell with each month that passes. She’s in danger of becoming a folk hero – you can’t walk through Lunden now without hearing The Song of the Pirate Queen, you know.” His jaw tightened and the corner of his eye twitched. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the crown is expecting a great deal from this mission.”

  Wincing, Knigh inclined his head. Perhaps turning his plan in a new direction wouldn’t be as easy as he hoped. But at least it sounded like they were edging towards the end of this conversation.

  “However” – Mercia leant in, eyebrow raised – “don’t let her charms distract you from your duty.”

  Knigh froze, blinked, took a shallow breath. How had Mercia picked up on his troublesome feelings for Vee? They’d barely been in front of him for ten minutes across the whole day, and Knigh had maintained excellent control, even when Mercia hadn’t been there.

  But Vee had called him ‘Knigh’ back on The Morrigan. And he’d touched her elbow just now. Lifting one shoulder, Knigh scoffed. “She’s a pretty chit, but it takes more than that to tempt me.”

  “Ah, yes” – Mercia’s eyes narrowed – “Knighton Villiers, the Un-Temptable. Such a crying shame you weren’t always so in possession of your self-control, isn’t it?”

  Knigh’s heart stuttered in his chest, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

  The salty wind. Veins on fire with pure white rage. Hacking and hacking, more animal than trained warrior. Copper and sweat and gun smoke in his nose. His shirt more red than white. Blinking and looking down at his blade coated in thick blood. Only then seeing the men with weapons at their feet, staring at him wide-eyed, open-mouthed. The white flag of surrender. The spray of blood from –

  “Poor Hopper,” Mercia murmured. “Tell me, how does he manage with just one hand?”

  Bile bit the back of Knigh’s throat as his stomach spasmed. The deck that day faded from his mind, leaving only the sounds that had finally hit him through the haze of battle lust – Billy’s screams and Mercia goading him on.

  Knigh’s throat clenched. He couldn’t show a response. He couldn’t. Not in front of Mercia.

  But Knigh had almost killed men who’d surrendered, and when his friend Billy had stepped in, he’d cut the poor man’s hand clean off.

  And Mercia, their commanding officer, had urged him on. Go on, Villiers �
�� show them some Albionic spirit. We’ll feed them to my beast. The laugh echoed in his ears.

  Mercia had actually laughed.

  Now he wore a cruel smile, dark eyes glinting. “Well, I’m sure he’s muddling along with his disability and the generous pension. No harm, no foul, eh?” He waved a hand, and his smile brightened. “Good show, though, Villiers. Thanks ever so much for the reminder. Now, I must give my compliments to our host. Your brother’s here somewhere – I’m sure he has so much to tell you.”

  With that, he breezed away, leaving Knigh frozen to the spot.

  If he moved, he would vomit.

  Lords and Ladies, if he moved, he might break – every part of him vibrated with such tension, like a glass humming under a high note.

  What he’d done … And that Mercia had laughed and still found it so damn amusing …

  His eyes misted, and he shut them, sucking in long breaths. The air was hot and stuffy, thick with perfume, more choking than soothing.

  And the fact George was trailing Mercia around like a puppy …

  Gods, he had to find his brother and tell him what kind of man he was mixing with.

  Another long breath in, then out. Better. He clenched his hands, swallowed back the threat of nausea and strode into the crowd.

  Stolen Time

  Down the corridor from the ballroom, Vice circled an empty drawing room. FitzRoy was still impressed by rich people and fancy clothes. She’d grown up surrounded by all that, and it had lost its sheen a long time ago, so she’d snuck away, leaving him to rub shoulders with the so-called great and the good.

  In here, silver boxes, porcelain sabrecats, a gold carriage clock – expensive trinkets covered every available surface. If something were to mysteriously disappear, they wouldn’t miss it.

  For a change, she’d been invited, rather than having to sneak into such a ball, and, really, it would be a shame not to grab something small and valuable while she was here.

  The question was, what?

  She rubbed her fingertips together. Maybe something Perry would like? She circled back to the bookcase by the door – there had been a little silver model of a fiddle on one of the shelves, and Perry played hers so joyously …

  Then again, if she were to sneak upstairs, she might find something more expensive, like a sapphire necklace.

  “You don’t know what he’s like, George.”

  Vice froze. Was that Knigh? And his voice raised? Mr Control only ever raised his voice to shout orders across deck.

  Swallowing, she crept to the door.

  “As if you really know what he’s like, Knigh,” a higher voice said, his brother’s. “If he’s that bad, tell me one thing he’s done.”

  Who were they talking about? Vice narrowed her eyes, straining to listen.

  There was a long pause.

  “Just trust me on this,” Knigh growled. “You must get off his ship – gods, stay here, I’m sure the Grays will be pleased to have you for a few weeks while you wait for the next ship home.”

  His ship? The Duke’s?

  “Oh, must I? You’re not Father, you know. You can’t –”

  “No, I’m not – I didn’t gamble and drink away our fortune. I didn’t get myself a mistress and a bastard son in Portsmouth. I didn’t die, leaving us destitute.” Knigh’s voice shook, and there was a soft sound of footsteps. “I had to clear all that up, and I risk my life every damn day to provide for you, so yes, I can tell you what to do. You are going home.”

  “Poor Knigh. It looks like you have ever such a tough life with that pirate whore of yours.”

  In the gaping silence, Vice pursed her lips. Funny how Knigh wasn’t the whore if George really thought they were sleeping together. The hypocritical little –

  A smash echoed through the corridor. She gasped.

  Eyes wide, she covered her mouth, heart pounding. Hopefully, they hadn’t heard. If Knigh realised she was listening to this, he’d be mortified. Much as she enjoyed mocking him, he didn’t deserve that – he’d helped her today.

  “What’s the matter, Knigh?” His brother gave a short laugh. “Is she not spreading –”

  “You dare complete that sentence, George.” Knigh’s voice was such a low growl, she barely heard it. Even through the door, she could feel the tension thickening the air.

  “How about I leave you and your lover alone, and you leave me be?”

  No response.

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure speaking to you, brother,” George went on. “When I write to Isabel and Mama, I’ll be sure to pass on your warmest regards. Good evening, Knigh.”

  One pair of clipped footsteps faded away. There was no other sound – Knigh had to still be outside the door.

  Poor thing, he’d been tense ever since the moment he’d seen the Duke of Mercia. She’d put it down to the presence of such a high-ranking officer, but there was clearly so much more to it. What had the Duke done to make Knigh hate him so much? And why couldn’t he tell his brother? Surely that would make him leave the man if he was really that bad.

  Frowning, she rubbed her jaw. Poor Knigh. Ha – she never thought she’d put those two words together.

  The way he’d raised his voice and broken something in the hall and had utterly shattered his usual restraint – the Duke must have done something awful. There was no way Knigh could face him again tonight. Lords, he might not even have the self-control to make it through the rest of this ball.

  Frankly, she couldn’t blame him. The stiff rules and even stiffer shoulders. The false smiles and the cruel whispers that came after. The pretence of civilisation when any one of them would sell out their daughter for wealth or an alliance with the right family like they were cattle to be sold or sent to slaughter.

  Drawing a long breath, she shook her head.

  Still no sound from outside. He’d probably had enough time to pull together some degree of calm.

  She crept further into the room, then turned and stomped towards the door – he’d hear her approach and be warned. Pausing, she grabbed the silver violin and shoved it into her pocket for Perry. Then she threw open the door, eyebrows already rising to pretend surprise at the sight of him.

  She didn’t need to pretend.

  His face was red, his hair a ragged mess as if he’d raked his hands through it a dozen times. His jaw, neck, shoulders, arms all stood as taut as lines straining against sails too full.

  Wild Hunt, he looked a state.

  “Knigh,” she said in a high-pitched attempt to sound surprised but casual.

  He stiffened, blinked, and turned to her slowly. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm.

  “What an insufferably dull evening,” she went on, rolling her eyes. “The crew will have a bonfire down on the beach – drinking, dancing, singing crude songs. Much more fun than” – she waved her hand towards the ballroom and the staid music drifting out – “this. I was just about to get out of here and join them if you’d like to accompany me?”

  Clenching his hands, he watched the ballroom, eyes hard. Another long breath heaved through him, and his shoulders sagged. Without saying anything, he nodded.

  “Excellent.” She put her arm through his and started forward as if this were a jolly stroll rather than a rescue mission. Her shoe crunched on shards of porcelain. “Really, some people are so careless.” She shrugged and smiled at him, then led the way out.

  It took half an hour to walk down to the cove neighbouring the docks. The further they got from the mansion, the more Knigh’s arm relaxed beneath her hand. A large bonfire pinpointed the location of The Morrigan’s crew. Their songs and shouts reached across the beach, calling to her.

  That was more like it. The sound of people – raucous, fun, unrestrained. Real. She tugged Knigh along.

  His breathing was steady again, his expression calm, controlled as usual.

  Once they left the cobbled street, her dainty heels sank into the white sand, forcing her to pause and slip them off. Perry was pl
aying her fiddle, the high sound snaking towards them on the breeze. Excellent – she knew the best tunes to dance to, and Saba’s beat on the drum was the perfect complement.

  Knigh watched her dusting off her shoes and shoving them into a pocket. He huffed out a long breath and nodded. “Thank you.” His first words since they’d left the ball.

  Hitching up her skirts to free her legs, she looked at him with raised eyebrows. “For?”

  “I think” – his eyebrow twitched in a way that made her want to smooth her thumbs over the troubled expression – “I think you realise I was somewhat … agitated earlier. Mercia …” His chest heaved as if summoning the words was a battle.

  What had the Duke done to cause the most unflappable man in Albion such torment?

  “You don’t have to explain.” She gave him a half-smile. Gods, she itched to know, but … “I’m not so cruel that I’d – look, just come and dance with me and I’ll call it even.”

  His eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

  “Oh, well.” She shrugged. His tension had faded, so she’d take that as a victory. “You can watch me, then. Just keep Rogers away – he gets a bit handsy, and I’d rather not spoil the fun by breaking his nose again.”

  He cocked his head, eyes narrowed as if he were trying to work out whether or not she was joking. Scoffing, he offered his arm. “Very well, madam, I’ll be your escort. Not that I think your modesty needs protecting – you clearly have that covered.”

  She grinned and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as they set off across the sand. “You already know me so well.” Her heart faltered as the words came out. He was Navy. A pirate hunter. And yet …

  She swallowed. And yet he was warm and handsome and actually wasn’t as much of an arse as she’d expected. Even with his military stiffness, he managed to make her laugh at times. True, some of those times were at him, but not all of them.

  He’d even helped her at the wheel this morning. And, not that she’d ever admit it if asked, she had enjoyed herself when they’d walked through Nassau together. Plus, he’d been kind to Barnacle – she’d spotted him giving the cat scraps from his plate.