by Clare Sager
Vice took a long breath and shook her head. Those were Avice’s concerns – Vice had treasure to deliver to her new Queen.
Raising an eyebrow, she pushed her hair from her face. “If there are problems on the road, it’d make more sense to take it around the coast and sail directly into Lunden – keep it on the water.” She snorted and tossed her head. “But what do I know? I’m not bloody captain.”
Bricus gave a bark of a laugh. “No,” he said, eyes mirthless, “you’re not.”
She frowned as he strode away. What had knotted his breeches? Maybe he was pissed off he hadn’t been chosen to captain the Covadonga. She’d wager he’d been expecting it after he’d been invited into FitzRoy’s discussions with Blackwood back when he’d first offered their letter of marque. Well, he wasn’t as good a sailor as Perry and nowhere near as well-liked – she was the far better choice.
Blackwood stayed quiet, and she gave him a sidelong look. Still fixated on their course. Maybe he was looking forward to getting home – back into the bosom of his beloved Navy.
Laughing, she removed herself from his presence and found more work to while away the last hours of the journey. It wasn’t difficult, a ship was a piece of machinery in constant flux, responding to its course, the sea’s movements, the weather, and crew.
At last, they circled the white cliffs of the Isle of Wights, their ghostly presence making her shiver. That brought them into the Solent, the strip of sea between Portsmouth and the haunted island. The Solent was busy with fishing boats and so many naval ships it prickled the back of her neck. They were almost as bad as the island. She leant her gift to their course, slipping them between the wakes of larger vessels and slowing as they approached the Royal Dockyard.
She narrowed her eyes. Seemed they warranted a welcome party – dozens of men waited on the jetty they’d been directed to, clothing proclaiming them as Navy. At the centre stood a middle-aged man, his uniform far fancier than Blackwood’s, like the one the Duke of Mercia had worn. An admiral, then?
Frowning, she wandered aft from the bow. Could they be here for Blackwood? Ha, maybe he was in trouble for going against his orders and fighting with them. Maybe they’d come to arrest him as soon as he came off the ship.
Her stomach turned, and she sighed. Much as she was irritated at him, by him, he didn’t deserve to walk into such an unpleasant surprise. He’d been an arse, but it wouldn’t hurt to warn him.
But he wasn’t at the wheel.
Half her mind on the sea, channelling them into a berth between two frigates, she glanced around for him.
The Morrigan glided into place, gently bumping against the jetty as the crew threw mooring lines to waiting workers. Helping slide the gangway in place, the dockers were so quiet, it set her teeth on edge. Perhaps that’s how they worked in naval dockyards. She shuddered. Damn the Royal Navy and their stiff restraint.
Speaking of which …
Still no sign of Blackwood. Maybe he was packing his belongings from her cabin. She pursed her lips. If this Admiral really was here for –
“Help!” The door to FitzRoy’s cabin burst open. “Help,” he cried, stumbling out clothed in –
Rags?
Vice gaped. FitzRoy never wore anything short of –
“Help me!” He staggered to the gangway, eyes wide and wild on the men gathered on the dock.
Heart leaping to life, her hand fastened on her sabre, and she searched fore and aft for danger, but …
Wait, were his wrists bound?
She started towards him. “FitzRoy, what –”
“Save me from her.” His finger rose to point unerringly at Vice.
Arresting Weather
Vice blinked, squeezing her sabre’s hilt. What had he just –
Marines and sailors poured across the gangway. Unarmed, The Morrigan’s crew withdrew, sharing wary looks.
What the hells was going on?
Backing away, she drew her sword. No sign of Blackwood. Typical – the Navy was confused and attacking them again and –
“My name is FitzRoy,” he said in the voice he used for orders that carried without any need to shout. He fell to his knees. “I’m the rightful captain of this ship, and I’ve been captured – arrest that woman.”
“What?” she spluttered, raising her sword defensively.
“I’ve been captured by the infamous pirate harlot, Lady Vice.” He levelled shaking hands at her again, turning his wide eyes upon the Admiral. “She kept me in chains – forced me to be her sex slave –”
“Sex slave? What?”
“– while she captained my ship.”
A ringing began in her ears, and she shook her head. “Sex slave?” Her laugh came out shaky as she backed away. “In your bloody dreams, FitzRoy.”
What was he doing? What was this?
Marines hurried to him, cut away the rope around his wrists, helped him to his feet, all as if he were a victim.
Her crewmates exchanged looks, their uncertainty clear in their slow movement, the way they hedged between action and surrender. Most of the weapons were stowed – what need had they for guns and blades as they readied the ship for docking in a friendly port, after all?
She laughed, the sound bitter on her tongue.
Still, they had belaying pins close by, and she had her sword.
What Fitz was playing at, she couldn’t fathom, but the rest of this had to be some strange misunderstanding. Maybe he’d lost his mind – too much time alone in that cabin, obsessing over Drake’s treasure.
Sabre levelled between her and the marines edging their way across the deck, she lifted her chin. “Infamous, I may be,” she called, gaze flicking between the uniformed men, “and harlot, perhaps, but I’m no pirate. The Queen herself …”
The Queen. That was it. Their pardons and letter of marque had been signed by Elizabeth IV. Now her daughter sat on the throne. There must have been a mix-up, some document that had been misplaced or misunderstood in the handover between one monarch and the next.
She cleared her throat. “We have pardons and a letter of marque from Queen Elizabeth IV.” She gestured to FitzRoy’s cabin. “You’ll find it with the Captain’s log.”
At the Admiral’s nod, a marine with fancy epaulettes waved two men into the cabin.
“Take this gentleman somewhere warm to recover from his ordeal,” the Admiral said, at last, his voice cool and resonant.
“Gentleman? He’s …”
But the men obeyed him and whisked FitzRoy away.
Placing her feet carefully, she backed away further, putting the rail at her back to prevent the marines from slipping behind her.
Wild Hunt, something was wrong. So very, very wrong.
Her pulse jumped in her temples and throat, so hard that her arm shook with it. Ice crept over her shoulders and up her neck. It balled in her stomach, solid and heavy. It set her teeth on edge and only clenching her jaw stopped them chattering.
The men emerged from FitzRoy’s cabin and brought the letter of marque to the Admiral.
Tilting his head back, he peered at it. “A forgery.”
A forgery.
Breaths burning in her lungs, she shook her head. “No, we – we …” Her chest crushed, a moment’s sharp pain. But Knigh … “No. He gave us – he said –”
“Arrest them all,” the Admiral said with a wave of his hand, before turning and marching onto the dock.
“No, wait!” Her sabre flashed as she kept it between herself and the marines closing in. “We’re privateers,” she yelled. “The Queen’s privateers!”
This wasn’t happening. Lords, she wanted to believe that. But just as sure as the air was thick with the taste of salt and seaweed, the deck thudded with the heavy footsteps of dozens of marines.
They levelled their rifles.
Unarmed, her crewmates had no choice. They raised their hands in surrender and knelt as they were ordered.
Only she remained standing.
Her chest
heaved as she shifted her stance, ready to fight. One of the frigates was hard against the rail, leaving no space, and – bollocks, there were riflemen taking aim from its deck. Maybe she could hold them off long enough to get to the stern, jump overboard, and let the sea carry her away. They’d probably get off a few shots, but …
“It’s over, Vice.”
Knighton Blackwood. Close to her left shoulder, voice soft, pitched only for her.
She stared at him, breaths ragged.
His mask was in full force, no sign of even those little tells of his that she’d learned. No sign of humanity. No sign of anything.
“Surrender your weapon, and no one need die today.” His voice, though – it wasn’t as cold as the mask. A softness. A plea.
He really wanted her to give in.
And he wasn’t surprised by any of this.
“You bastard.” Her stomach clenched, and bile coated the back of her throat. “You knew … You planned this … All along …” A manic laugh burst from her. Had he been thinking about this all those times he’d taken her?
Oh gods, she’d thought herself the sly one, the one who deceived her way to victory.
What a fool she’d been.
“Wild Hunt take you, Knighton Villiers,” she whispered. Hanging her head, she flung her sabre to the deck. It clanged as loud as any ship’s bell, the sound heavy, rocking through her with such finality she thought she might die there and then.
But she didn’t. Her lungs kept moving, her heart kept hammering against her ribs, and her eyes followed Blackwood as he stepped in close and wrapped rope around her wrists.
There was no dock, no sky, no ship. No marines or crew. No sun or wind. Only this caving feeling in her chest and the increasing pressure on her flesh, the hemp chafing her skin. And him.
His gaze stayed on the rope as he worked. “I did warn you not to trust me,” he said softly, yanking the knot tight.
She stared at the twisted rope, unable to do anything but breathe and blink. He had warned her. The first time they’d stood together in her cabin, in fact.
And fool that she was, she’d thought she knew better.
She hadn’t meant to trust him. Hells, if anyone had asked, she’d have told them she didn’t. But somewhere along the way, in that walk around Nassau when he’d spun her such a fine tale about his disappointing father, in battles fighting side-by-side, in the quiet times when they’d talked in the dark, in those moments when he’d held her close ... Somewhere in all that, she must have come to trust him in some small, stupid way.
Because if she hadn’t trusted him, he would never have been able to do this.
And if she hadn’t trusted him, her chest wouldn’t feel like it had just taken a full broadside from the Sovereign.
“Well played, Blackwood,” she said, voice ringing hollowly, “well played.”
Home & Hearth
The fleeting shadows beneath the archway leading into Aunt Tilda’s estate gave a welcome respite from the bright day. With a long sigh, Knigh paused there. It wasn’t hot, it was downright cold compared to Arawaké, but today the sunlight stung his eyes.
He’d spent the days since Vice’s arrest either in naval offices giving his debrief report and answering endless questions, or in the small set of rooms he’d been assigned. The apartment was comfortable. Hells, it was luxury compared to cramped life aboard The Morrigan – but the windows overlooked the dock, and he knew that ship’s sail plan too well to keep his gaze from it.
And every time he saw it, he heard, Well played, Blackwood, well played.
He shook his head. He’d thought himself prepared.
What an idiot. Nothing could have prepared him for that.
It had been bad enough when she’d looked like she was going to fight. Some lingering protective instinct remained in him because the thought of her being gunned down by marines had turned his stomach. Instead of standing back as he’d planned, he’d stepped forward to force her surrender.
But then somehow what came after had been so much worse. It was as if the moment he’d bound her wrists, all her fight had gone. Quiet, almost meek.
And although Vice had murdered Avice Ferrers, when she’d said well played it had been a dagger to his kidneys.
Traitor. That’s what her tone had said. Between the words, that grotesque accusation – she must have wondered it – when you made love to me, did you mean it? Or was it part of this?
His stomach turned. Skin burning, he gripped his sabrecat’s reins until they creaked against his leather gloves.
He had meant it. At the time. But he’d thought she was someone different.
Wild Hunt damn her. She’d betrayed him first. Made out that she was the noble Pirate Queen, that she wasn’t a monster. She’d made him believe she was a decent human being.
He’d done nothing wrong. He was only bringing a criminal to justice, making the world a better place, earning another bounty.
But it turned out being right didn’t ease the heavy blanket of guilt that had engulfed him. So when the Admiralty’s questions had ended, he’d petitioned for leave and had ridden for his aunt’s as quickly as possible.
He hadn’t seen his family in far too long, as evidenced by George’s terrible decision to befriend Mercia, and they’d give him some comfort.
Mother would be as quiet as she’d always been since Father’s death. His sister would probably ask too many questions that he’d have to evade. And Aunt Tilda would smile and occupy him with descriptions of all the single ladies she just happened to know. So, the visit wouldn’t be without its own difficulties.
But at least it was far away from The Morrigan and Vice’s trial, which would be the talk of Portsmouth.
Nodding, he urged his borrowed sabrecat back into the sun and sped to the sand-coloured house atop the hill.
Isabel’s blonde head appeared at a window as he turned onto the sweeping drive, her eyes wide before she disappeared inside.
Despite himself, he smiled. She’d always been alert and … yes, her warmth would be welcome, even if he couldn’t confide in her all his terrible truths.
By the time he started up the steps to the front door, she was throwing it open with a laugh. “Captain Knighton Villiers, you didn’t need to sneak up on us – you’re not hunting pirates now.” Blue eyes bright, she grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.
“Sorry,” he muttered with a wince.
“Still can’t take a joke, then?” She chuckled and flung her arms around his waist.
His body jolted. This was the first time anyone had touched him since …
“I’ve missed you, big brother.” Smiling, she leant her head on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze.
His chest filled, bright as the day outside. She meant it.
“Oh, Isabel.” He sighed out a long breath, tension inching away as he wrapped his arms around her and patted her shoulder.
With a shout from Is, Mother and Aunt Tilda emerged from the house, shortly followed by the butler with a tray of tea and cakes that he deposited in the drawing room.
As Mother poured tea, Isabel and Aunt Tilda bubbled with all the news. So-and-so had received an offer from an earl. Is had a new pianoforte. She and Mother planned to go to Lunden and take a townhouse for her first season.
Knigh raised his eyebrow at that and at the cakes, which were flavoured with vanilla and saffron. The vanilla tickled his nose, far too close to her scent, and he declined Isabel’s offer of one.
But it wasn’t just the reminiscent smell that caught his attention. Vanilla and saffron were expensive.
The hem of Isabel’s gown wasn’t tatty and bore no signs of being let down as she’d grown over the years. Ruffles of fine lace ran along the neckline and cuffs. He had no reason to buy the stuff himself, but he knew it didn’t come cheap.
Even Mother’s gown in sedate, plain black was smooth and cleanly tailored, with no pulls in the fabric or signs of being adjusted as she’d lost weight after Father’s d
eath.
The pianoforte couldn’t have come cheap and the way she spoke about it, it sounded like it was hers rather than their aunt’s. Then there was this talk of a townhouse in Lunden …
His brow twitched. He hadn’t been able to send that much money back from his wages, and Aunt Tilda’s accounts were enough to keep her modest estate and a roof over their heads. They weren’t going to starve and lived comfortably, but new clothes and an additional house and all the staff that entailed?
“What a pleasant surprise this is,” Mother said, smile gentle as she handed Aunt Tilda her tea, “both my boys here at the same time.”
Knigh froze, cup halfway to his lips. “George is here?”
“Oh yes, he arrived a week ago with gifts for everyone.” Is smoothed her hand over her sky-blue skirts. “Didn’t he choose well?” She blinked at him, smiling. Yes, the colour matched her eyes.
So, he’d got away from Mercia. And at least that explained the clothes.
Knigh let out a soft breath and nodded. “And did he give you the pianoforte, too?”
Is cocked her head. “Not exactly …”
Mother placed her cup and saucer on the table. “Your brother has been sending us an allowance for some months now,” she murmured.
“A very generous allowance at that,” Aunt Tilda said with a nod and raised eyebrows. “Wish I knew where he was magicking it all from – I wouldn’t mind finding that pot of gold myself.” Her eyes glinted above a narrow smile before she sipped her tea.
The back of his neck prickled, and a chill traced his veins. Where was George getting money from? He didn’t have a career or land, and Father hadn’t left any sum for them to invest.
The rest of the afternoon passed in polite chit-chat, with Knigh pointedly avoiding any detail of his recent work in Arawaké. Thankfully, he had the excuse of ‘naval secrets’.
Just as the ladies were about to go and dress for dinner, boots stomped into the hallway.
Isabel’s eyes widened. “George,” she called, springing to her feet with a smile.
