by Clare Sager
Disturb us, Ladies, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wilder seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.
And Vice had murdered someone that full of life. An 18-year-old girl. An innocent.
But wasn’t that precisely the kind of behaviour he should’ve expected from the notorious Lady Vice?
Wild Hunt, he’d forgotten who she was.
His blood ran cold as Midwinter snow.
What a fool. A complete and utter fool, taken in by a beautiful face and that relaxed charm of hers.
As his stomach spasmed, threatening bile at the back of his throat, he fought to keep his face still. He’d been sleeping with not just a criminal and pirate, but a murderer. He’d disobeyed orders. He’d developed feelings for her. Troublesome feelings.
His traitorous body had led him on this course. He should have listened to his head, to the Navy and their black and white reports. Lords, even Mercia had warned him. Don’t let her charms distract you from your duty.
It was a wretched day when the Duke of Mercia proved to have better insight than he’d displayed.
He should have known.
But, no, he’d caved to his feelings, believing it safe, and this is what it had brought him. He’d let emotion cloud his already poor judgement. His damn gut had led him so very wrong.
Hadn’t he known he was broken? Of course, the woman he’d developed feelings for would turn out to be the one who’d murdered his former betrothed! It was as if the gods conspired to prove to him just how little he could trust himself.
He shook his head. Nothing could feel so right and actually be right. He always trusted the wrong people – Father, Mercia, Vice.
And most of all, himself.
He should have known.
Fingers twitching against the wrapped book and earring, making the brown paper scrunch, he drew a long, ragged breath. “I need to …”
“Yes,” she said, voice colder than a January wind in Albion.
But his feet didn’t carry him to the door. Surely, she had to feel something. His eyebrows rose, asking her. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he’d misunderstood. Maybe there was an explanation.
Her jaw knotted, and she swallowed, throat constricting a long while as if the action were difficult. She drew a quick breath.
Here it was – the explanation. The justification. Maybe it had been an accident, or she’d had no choice or –
“What’s that?” Eyes narrow, she nodded at the brown paper parcel in his hand.
“Don’t you –”
Her eyebrows rose, the look almost bored.
His heart roared in his ears, pulse heavy. “You killed her.”
She exhaled through her nose, a parent losing patience with an irritating child. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
He stared at her, waiting, waiting, waiting.
But she gave no explanation, no defence, no side of the story that showed why she was Vee, the heroic Pirate Queen, and not the villain the Navy had sent him to hunt.
Throat so tight he could have choked, he swallowed and straightened his back. Every inch of steel clapped back into place, cladding against feeling, against acting on it, against her.
Face smooth as a death mask, he lifted his chin. “Just something I picked up in Nassau.”
Her shoulders squared, and she cocked her head. “For yourself?”
“Yes.”
She nodded once, the gesture so final it snapped shut the padlock upon his steel hull. “Good.”
“Excuse me,” he muttered and strode from the room, steps far calmer than the stuttering pace of his heart.
Lords and Ladies, gods, Wild Hunt – all of them take him because he’d been a damned fool.
His hands shook, fire licking through his veins as he approached the companionway, the world a blur of doors and timber and the dark of belowdecks. He threw open the hatch, ran upstairs, and gasped air that seared his lungs with its freshness and salt tang.
The sun slanted through him, tipping the world, sending his stomach roiling and bile burning the back of his throat. He ran for the side and vomited, belly spasming, knuckles cracking on the rail.
She’d deceived him. With that easy smile, that sharp tongue, that seductive body, she’d made him believe …
He heaved again, sweat chilling his brow, his back, his arms.
It had been a trick at the Governor’s ball and at Kayracou Port when she’d sabotaged his sails and again when she’d hidden on the Veritas and caught him by surprise.
It had all been a trick. Their sordid relationship included.
And he’d been so ready to believe that maybe he could trust himself, that he could trust anyone, that he wasn’t broken. That maybe giving into feeling, just once, wouldn’t be so bad. That relaxing might be better than the constant vigilance, the rigidity, the control he’d lived by these past two years.
Wrong on all counts.
So very wrong.
He swallowed the bitterness.
Well, she wasn’t the only one with a trick up her sleeve.
Once he’d discovered the kind of person Mercia really was, he’d had no power to bring him to justice – a queen’s son was untouchable, it seemed.
But she wasn’t.
And hadn’t it always been the plan?
Fool that he was, he’d stopped carrying her warrant weeks ago, but he still had it. Arresting her was the right thing to do. The warrant said so in black and white. True, the law might not be perfect, but it was made by better men than him.
Hands running over his face, he nodded. He would go to FitzRoy and Bricus, confirm their scheme, then send a message back to Albion. That swift ship was leaving on the morning’s tide. Instead of the report asking them to grant Vice a genuine letter of marque and a vessel, he’d write a new report alerting the Admiralty to their departure date and to expect their arrival in Portsmouth approximately five to six weeks’ later.
He drew a long breath, fingers running through his hair, pushing it off his face. Yes, they’d be ready to capture her as soon as The Morrigan docked.
No chance to escape.
No more tricks.
Justice had come for Lady Vice at last, and he’d be the one to deliver it.
Albion Bound
Almost a week later, The Morrigan and the Covadonga were loaded with supplies, ready to set sail for Albion. Vice paced the deck, excitement buzzing through her veins.
Knigh had left her the hells alone after their talk in Perry’s cabin. Vice had spent the past few days carousing with her team, and Fitz was about to announce who’d take the Covadonga back to Albion under her captaincy. Life was pretty damn fantastic.
Even better, once she had the Covadonga’s helm, she’d be far away from Knigh. She wouldn’t have to see his mask-blank face and rigid shoulders on her deck or suffer his judgemental stares whenever they found themselves on the same part of the ship.
Then things would be just perfect.
Cheeks stiff, she smiled and pulled her crossed arms tighter across herself.
Just perfect.
She glanced over at the Covadonga where hands checked the sails and lines but with no direction. Soon it would be hers. And once she’d delivered the silver in its hold, the new Queen would undoubtedly grant her its captaincy on a permanent basis. That’s what they’d done for Cress Newport when he’d taken in the Jackdaw and gifted its contents to the Crown.
The door to FitzRoy’s cabin crept open.
Here we go. He was going to call her in, brief her on what crew she could take, and –
Perry walked out, scanning the deck. Her face creased when she spotted Vice.
Ah, Fitz had asked Perry to keep an eye on her. Not exactly surprising and she wanted Perry on her crew, so that had worked out well.
Grinning, Vice sidled up to Perry and caught her arm. “So, is he going to make a big announcement,
or does he just want me to go in there and –”
“Vice,” Perry said softly, gaze slipping away, “maybe we should go to –”
Fitz appeared at the door, mouth flat. “Peregrina,” he barked, “you forgot your crew list.” He thrust a piece of paper at her.
Vice blinked. “Your crew …” He was looking at Perry, not at her. Her stomach tightened into a ball of hopelessly knotted line.
No, he was just giving Perry the list, as she’d be Vice’s quartermaster. He’d come out here to tell everyone that Vice was the Covadonga’s new captain. She swallowed and smiled, cheeks burning.
His gaze paused on her for a second before he returned to his cabin, slamming the door after.
“Vice,” Perry murmured, clutching her sleeve, “I’m sorry, I – that’s what I was trying to tell you. I tried to argue with him, but you know it’s useless. When he’s made up his mind, it’s made.”
Vice tore her gaze from FitzRoy’s cabin door. Tried to argue … made up his mind … This didn’t make sense.
Perry was staring up at her, a wince wrinkling around her eyes. “It’s only temporary until we get to Albion. I’m not a proper captain.”
Throat closing, Vice jerked away a step. Not a proper captain. Well, she wasn’t any kind of captain at all – proper or not. He’d made Perry captain of the Covadonga. She shook her head, skin on fire. He’d promised.
She’d spent the past three years learning everything there was to know. She’d done everything he’d asked. Risked her life how many times? Saved this ship from storms, from hidden rocks, from larger, better-armed vessels – from ships of the line, damn it. She’d even given him his first and only real clue to Drake’s treasure.
“Vice, I’m sorry, I didn’t –”
“Congratulations,” she bit out and stomped to FitzRoy’s door. She would remind him of all that, make him –
The door opened, and Bricus strutted out, a twist to his usual smile. He raised his hands. “Oh! Vice!” He chuckled. “Didn’t see you there.” The twist vanished, and a different light entered his look as he smiled up at her.
Pity?
She gritted her teeth and backed away.
No. She wasn’t going to debase herself by begging FitzRoy for the captaincy – for anything.
Chest heaving, she turned as Perry finished unfolding the sheet of paper. “Aedan,” she called, “Lizzy, Saba, Wynn, Effie …”
The names went on, and Vice listened for hers.
It didn’t come.
Her whole team was going with Perry, leaving her on The Morrigan with –
Urgh, and there he bloody was.
Knigh, above on the quarterdeck, face unreadable as he watched Perry gathering her new crew to take on the Covadonga. Barnacle sat on the rail beside him. Traitor.
Starting with Saba, Vice’s boarding team came over, touching Vice’s shoulder or grabbing her for a brief hug, muttering how unfair it was, that they were sorry to leave her, that they’d see her soon. At least those were the parts that reached through the blood rushing in her ears.
“Try not to get in too much trouble,” Aedan said as he hugged her, but when he pulled away, his grin lacked its usual glint.
“Ha!” She nodded to them, hands landing heavily on her hips. “You lot try not to get killed without me, more like.” Joints knotted, she waved them off, achingly conscious of Knigh’s gaze on her from the quarterdeck.
Bastard. He had to be loving this.
And below him, Fitz emerged from his cabin, arms crossed, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.
Yes. Excellent. She was left here with two men she wanted to murder.
Bloody brilliant.
If she made it to Albion without wringing both their necks, it would be a miracle.
The Welcome Party
“Albion, ho!” The cry broke out across The Morrigan as Land’s End drifted into view, rocky and green, greeted with cheers.
Vice barely glanced up from her work checking the main shrouds. Without Perry, Saba, or the rest of her boarding team, there wasn’t anyone to swap smiles with. Even Barnacle was off somewhere. Probably with him.
It was certainly bloody cold enough to be Albion. She hunched into her frock coat, breath misting in the wintry air.
Yes, Albion was beautiful and green. Nothing she’d found in Arawaké was quite a match for the scent of freshly picked hyacinth, dew still beading its waxy petals. But that was a spring flower.
Winter? She did not miss that and its damp coldness that seeped into bones and frosted windows.
The Covadonga trailed in their wake. No doubt they’d be shouting, too, slapping each other on the shoulders, grinning at surviving another swift crossing of the great ocean.
Perry or Saba would have written letters on behalf of those who couldn’t write, ready to send to family and loved ones once they were in port. That was usually Vice’s job, but with the crew split across the two ships, she couldn’t do it for everyone. Few left on The Morrigan had come to her and asked for the favour.
Wrist flicking as she coiled a line, twisting with the rope’s lay, she sighed and scanned the rolling green landscape passing to the north as they skirted the coast.
Nearly there. Once they were settled in port, Knigh – no, Blackwood would leave, and she’d never have to see him again.
Somehow, she’d made it all this way without murdering him or Fitz, but that was mainly because she’d taken on extra watches, working long, hard hours.
Lashing, tightening, splicing, coiling, and knotting lines. Checking water barrels. Mending sails. Keeping watch until late into the night. Taking Barnacle down into the hold to hunt rats. Any job that had come up, she’d taken on, pushing her body harder and harder until she could collapse into Perry’s bunk and sleep the long and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.
As for her thoughts, well, she’d kept them occupied, too.
Twist, turn, loop, and pass the end through – she tied off the line, nodding to herself.
Perry would have called it stewing, but she called it planning.
She continued it as she blew warmth into her stiff fingers, then went on to the next line and the next.
Fitz had promised her a captaincy. He’d failed to deliver.
Was it any surprise? He’d been jealous of her for almost a year. It was clear he was never going to make good on his promise.
What a fool she’d been. She’d forgotten she didn’t need him – or anyone – to give her anything. She didn’t need him to make her captain. She was going to take it.
As soon as they returned to Arawaké, she would find the Venatrix, take her, and declare herself captain. She’d already crept aboard once to sabotage and steal – it had been easy. She could do it again.
Damn waiting for Fitz to choose her – she chose herself.
She finished the hitch on another line and straightened, stretching her back. “Huh.” She frowned astern, rolling her shoulders. The Covadonga was peeling off to the north, but The Morrigan continued her course east.
Pulling her coat tighter, Vice peered along the coastline they’d been following. Low, grassland with bare trees gave way to a wide, natural harbour. To starboard, they passed Eddystone Lighthouse. Plymouth? Why was Perry docking there? And where were they going on to? Southampton, maybe?
No sign of Fitz to ask. He’d spent most of the voyage avoiding her as much as she avoided him, and he’d locked himself in his cabin all this morning. Whoever was on the helm would know.
Still watching Perry’s ship sailing towards the harbour, she trotted down the steps. “Where are we –”
Knigh gripped the wheel, back stiff, knuckles white. He stared fore as if their course took them between jagged rocks that required all his attention.
She clenched her jaw and drew a quick breath. Damn it. She’d so nearly made it all the way back to Albion without speaking to him. But what did she care? He’d be gone soon and other than a pleasant distraction back in Arawaké, he meant no
thing to her.
Lifting her chin, she cleared her throat. “Where are we going? And why isn’t the Covadonga joining us?”
He didn’t lift his gaze from the easy course over clear waters. His throat bobbed slowly. “We’re docking in Portsmouth.”
She frowned, glancing east where Southampton, then Portsmouth lay. The nape of her neck tickled. “A naval dockyard?”
“Do I need to remind you once more that you’re privateers and” – he coughed softly – “and you have nothing to fear from the Royal Navy?”
It wasn’t fear. She scratched the back of her head, smoothing the hairs. Idiot.
Bricus approached from fore, smile cheerful. “We’re keeping the two parts of the treasure separate.” He stopped a pace in front of her, staring up at her. Lords, when had his smile grown so infuriating?
She rubbed her face. No, that was unfair, she was just irritable being stuck here with Blackwood and FitzRoy. Bricus was simply a cheerful first mate – a good counterpoint to his captain, which was what a first mate was meant to be. She gave him a strained smile.
“Er, yes,” Blackwood said, nodding abruptly, “yes. The silver’s safer that way – it can’t all be stolen in one go.”
“And,” Bricus added, folding his arms, eyes still glinting up at her, “they’ll refit the Covadonga at Plymouth.”
Vice chuckled, glancing out to sea, but Perry’s ship was out of sight now. “Who’d be stupid enough to steal the Queen’s silver in her own country?”
“The criminal element will do anything,” Knigh said softly. “There’s been a spate of attacks by highwaymen.”
Like her sister, Kat. Her heart clenched, and her gaze drifted over the limestone cliffs and green hills of Albion. Once upon a time, it had been home. Something in it still called to her blood, to the gift that sang in her veins and told her each movement of the sea beneath her feet. The fae lived here and here alone, including her unknown father if he still lived.
So too did her real family. Mama, gentle and downtrodden beneath Papa’s stomping feet. Kat, who’d had to turn highwaywoman because of her useless husband. Nanny Alder – not blood, but a bond far deeper.
