by Clare Sager
“She” – his voice rasped – “the woman –”
“Lady Vice?”
He nodded. “You’ve heard the stories – you know how cunning she is. I had to use unorthodox methods to ensure her safe delivery back here.” They were formal terms, safe terms – this was almost like delivering a report. “I joined her ship for over three months, ostensibly to ensure they obeyed the terms of their letter of marque. In fact, it was to keep an eye on her and bring her to Albion for justice.”
Is nodded, gaze passing between him and the shell.
“She was always going to ha – be ex – be dealt with in this way.” He exhaled. Hanged. Executed. They were impossible words to get over his tongue, bristling in his throat like fish bones. How on earth could they apply to someone so full of life as her?
He shook his head. “But she wasn’t what I expected. Or, rather, she hid her monstrous nature very well indeed …” He told Is about Barnacle and the shopkeepers of Nassau. About Perry’s love of her and the way she spent hours shopping for the crew. About how she’d saved his life more than once. About how she brokered surrenders whenever she could and had eased his anger when tensions ran high. Those terms were suitably vague, protecting Is from the full knowledge of what he was capable of and hiding the true extent of his relationship with her.
“… Vee even makes chasing slavers a priority – not long before I joined the crew, they captured one. She persuaded her captain to give the proceeds of the ship’s sale to the people who’d been enslaved, setting them all free.”
“Vee.” Isabel’s eyebrows rose gently. “You keep calling her that.”
He froze, heart skipping a beat. Gods, he had said that, hadn’t he? Damn it, he was meant to be reciting all her crimes, reminding himself that she deserved her fate.
“You and she” – Is tilted her head, eyes wide with no hint of judgement – “there was more going on between you, wasn’t there? She was your lover.”
His throat closed, and he stared at her. But her look didn’t waver. She gave an encouraging smile.
Exhaling through his nose, he nodded once.
“And this is why it’s bothering you.” She slipped her arms around his waist and stroked his back. “No wonder you’ve spent the whole time you’ve been home brooding.”
One arm around her shoulders, he covered his eyes, squeezing them shut. What a bloody fool he was. “I was trying to remind myself of all the reasons it’s good that she’s been caught, and yet I still find myself lingering on the good things.” He shook his head. He couldn’t trust his judgment, especially when it was so effortlessly swayed by Vee’s easy smile and warm flesh. He had to regain control.
Taking a deep breath, he disentangled himself from his sister. “Thank you,” he murmured then drew himself to his full height. Shoulders back, chin high, stance at attention.
Still with that soft smile, which had now turned sad, Is looked up at him. “You say all the reasons it’s good that she’s been caught – I don’t think you’ve told me a single thing she’s done wrong. Could it be that the stories are exaggerated or even untrue? Perhaps she’s the victim of a terrible –”
“She killed Lady Avice Ferrers.” There. He’d almost forgotten.
Is flinched, eyes wide. “As in …”
He heaved a long breath and nodded. “As in my former betrothed. Is, she murdered a defenceless 18-year-old girl.”
“How? When did you …” She shook her head, fingers pressed into her lips until they went white.
“After … after things had gone further than they should have. But as soon as I found out, I ended it.” Another deep breath dragged through him like an anchor trailing through sand. “I don’t owe her anything. I didn’t betray her.” He shook his head.
“No, you don’t.” Is pursed her lips and smoothed his hair. “But I don’t think every part of you understands that. You – it sounds like things ended abruptly and now she’s in Portsmouth awaiting execution following a trial you didn’t attend. Maybe you need to speak to her, tell her why Lady Avice’s death affected you directly.”
Heat unfurled in his muscles and his cheeks. “But I don’t owe her –”
“Again,” she said, raising a hand, “no, you don’t owe her an explanation. But I think you need to do it for yourself. Perhaps when you know you’ve told her everything, when you tell her she’ll be paying for all her crimes, including the murder of Lady Avice Ferrers ... Perhaps then your mind will be quiet, and you’ll stop clutching at that shell when you think no one’s looking.” The corner of her mouth lifted.
He huffed out a long breath, shoulders sagging. She had a point. “When did you get so wise?” He ruffled her hair, and she ducked away, swatting him off before patting her coiffure back into place.
“I am 19, you know. Old enough to be married with a child of my own – I’m not a little girl anymore.”
He sighed. “No, you’re not, are you? You’ve grown up a lot since Father died.”
“Well, that and I’ve spent far too much time around Aunt Tilda.” She grinned and tugged on his waistcoat, starting for the door. “Come along, to Portsmouth with you.”
Groaning, he raked his fingers through his hair, but he followed. “I have a horrible feeling you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” She took his hand and patted it. “We’ll soon have you mended, big brother. And then you can come to Lunden with me to help fight off all the rakes vying for my hand.”
He snorted. “You’re clever enough to run rings around them. I fear they might be the ones who need protecting from you.”
Chatting about her plans for Lunden, Is led the way upstairs to help pack his bag. Although his tread on the stairs was heavy, his heart and limbs were far lighter than they’d been in weeks.
He’d return to Portsmouth, get the Admiralty to grant him a meeting with Vee – Vice. Then he’d get the closure some traitorous part of himself so badly needed.
Yes, he had a plan to rid his thoughts of the notorious Lady Vice. Soon he would be free of her once and for all.
Interference
Scowling, Knigh stomped down the stairs of the Admiralty Offices. There was no reason for them to deny him a meeting with Vee unless someone had interfered.
And there was only one person likely to have done that.
FitzRoy was staying in an upmarket inn closer to the edge of town, and within a few minutes, Knigh was on the right road. Despite the chilly air misting his breaths, his cheeks burned. What had that bastard said to the Admiralty? Did he not understand he could ruin his career? No, this was FitzRoy – he knew exactly what he was doing.
Knigh paused at the inn’s door and drew a long breath of chilly air. He’d quite happily wring FitzRoy’s neck, but he was an officer of the Royal Navy and as such represented Queen and country. He would not enter an inn and start a brawl. He wasn’t an animal.
Nodding, he clenched his jaw. That was far more the sort of behaviour he’d expect from a pirate like FitzRoy.
There was no sign of the man within, but after eyeing his uniform, the innkeeper pointed him towards a private dining room. Even better – he’d catch him alone.
When he threw the door open, FitzRoy’s dark eyebrows shot up over the rim of his wine glass. “Knighton Blackwood!”
Knigh stilled in the doorway, veins throbbing with an intense need to punch him in the nose. He swallowed and took a long breath, forcing his arms to his sides.
FitzRoy grinned and swept his glass to the side in an expansive gesture. “My old friend. I didn’t expect to see you back here – I thought you’d be off enjoying your reward like I am.”
His glass passed over the table covered in a dozen plates. Roast pheasant. Baked cod. Oysters covered in flecks of parsley. A golden pie oozing gravy where a quarter had been cut out. Crusty bread and a pat of golden butter. Cheeses from pale yellow cheddar to a veined green-blue Stilton. An array of vegetables, steam rising from their bowls.
Knigh stared at it
all, the savoury smell turning his stomach. He shook his head.
FitzRoy gulped his wine, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, but, don’t tell me, you’ve come back to watch her hang? It’s the first time I’ll watch a woman I’ve bedded die, and while I must admit I’m curious what that will feel like, I wouldn’t have ridden halfway across the country to see it.” Laughing, he raised his glass. “I didn’t have you down as such a sick bastard, Blackwood.”
His words stole Knigh’s breath, and it took a moment before he could gather the air to speak. “You – how can you talk about her like that?” He’d betrayed a member of his crew and clearly felt not even the slightest shadow of guilt. He was the monster.
“You’re not going to join me, then?” He gestured at the chair opposite.
“Of course I’m not going to bloody join you.”
Chuckling, FitzRoy put his glass on the table. “You’re upset about the harlot’s fate.”
“Aren’t you?” Knigh’s nostrils flared. The man was unbelievable. What did Vee ever see in him? “And don’t call her a harlot. You know she’s more than that even to you.”
FitzRoy snorted and broke off a morsel of cheese. “She wasn’t my wife. I owed her nothing.” He threw it in his mouth and chewed, unruffled.
But he did owe her. As a member of his crew, she’d placed her safety in his hands.
And as a lover, she’d placed herself in Knigh’s hands, too.
Gritting his teeth, he shut out the thought. He pressed his hands into the varnished table, glaring at FitzRoy. He was the one in the wrong here. “At least I always told her not to trust me, but she trusted you, she was part of your crew for how many years?”
FitzRoy’s amusement faded as he drew a long breath. He took his time wiping his hands on a napkin, then stood, lifting his chin. “Don’t lecture me, Blackwood,” he said, voice gravelly, “you were as much a part of this as I was.”
“But you owed her, I didn’t.”
FitzRoy raised an eyebrow, mouth set in a straight line. “So you don’t believe you owe a lady you let in your bed anything?”
Legs tense, Knigh almost took a step back, but years of practice kept the reaction in check.
FitzRoy couldn’t know that – he was just digging for information. It was a guess. If he knew, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his possessiveness in check. He wouldn’t have attacked Knigh as he had Aedan, but he’d have said something or betrayed his envy. He was not a man who had mastery over his emotions.
Shaking his head, FitzRoy scoffed. “Of course I knew. Did you think the pair of you were subtle? Ha! Did you think you could even be subtle about that on a ship? Why do you think the Admiralty won’t let you see her?”
Straightening, Knigh turned and strode to the fireplace, blood seething in his veins, forcing movement. He leant on the mantlepiece, back to FitzRoy so he wouldn’t see the frown so tight on his brow it ached. The bastard knew the whole time.
And he’d told the Admiralty. They hadn’t summoned Knigh yet, so his career might not be ruined, but this would be a mark against him. If he was lucky, they’d put it down to a man’s loneliness at sea – just the needs of the flesh, nothing involving feeling.
“Poor boy,” FitzRoy went on, “only now realising he’s come here to push his own guilt on me.” His laugh rang through the room, through Knigh’s chest.
“Don’t you” – but he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Heat sparked in his veins, and he turned, covering the distance between him and FitzRoy in a few paces. Chest heaving, he managed to stop toe-to-toe with him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Keep control.
Deep breaths.
FitzRoy didn’t back off. A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, and his eyes glinted. “Don’t I? You see, you’ve come here and made these accusations about how I should feel. About what I owed her. About how she trusted me. But I think you’re really talking about yourself.”
Fists balled so tightly they popped, Knigh’s body burned with tension, with the threat of white rage. “No.”
A cruel smile took over FitzRoy’s face. “Oh yes. You’ve just come here to make yourself feel better, to soothe the guilt keeping you awake at night. To tell yourself you owed her nothing. To reassure yourself that she didn’t trust you.” His eyes narrowed. “What I can’t work out is why you went through with it in the end.”
Knigh tore his gaze away from FitzRoy’s. The bastard. How had he managed to turn this back on him?
Something red glinted on the front of his shirt, below the gleam of pearls. The scoundrel was wearing Lady Avice’s pin. He must have taken it from Vice. Well, he didn’t deserve it any more than she did. It had been a sign of loyalty for Lady Avice, and FitzRoy wasn’t capable of that. It belonged with her family.
Maybe the gods had put it here to remind him.
He took a deep breath and met FitzRoy’s gaze, veins cooling, calming. Whatever the twisting in his stomach said, he was right in this. He tore the pin from FitzRoy’s shirt and held it up, the ruby eyes glinting. “She killed Avice Ferrers. I will not feel guilty about her facing the justice she deserves.”
FitzRoy blinked once, twice, then he burst into laughter, taking a step back and doubling over.
Slipping the pin in his breast pocket, Knigh frowned, backing away. The man was addled – he’d be no help. Knigh threw open the door.
Still laughing, FitzRoy shook his head and wiped the corner of his eye. “If only you knew the truth about Avice Ferrers.”
And now he was trying to twist her memory, too.
Teeth clenched, Knigh slammed the door and stormed away.
Iron & Irony
The drink did no good.
He’d tried whisky. He’d tried rum. He’d tried stout. He’d even tried gin – good old mother’s ruin.
And none of it made a damn bit of difference.
You’ve just come here to make yourself feel better, to soothe the guilt keeping you awake at night.
FitzRoy’s words kept coming to him again and again.
She killed – murdered Lady Avice.
But … You’ve just come here to make yourself feel better, to soothe the guilt keeping you awake at night.
Growling, Knigh shoved his hands in his pockets. The sharp edge of the shell bit into his fingertips.
Wild Hunt take the damn thing. He snatched his hands out and fisted them at his sides. He’d been walking through the streets so long, the fuzziness of the alcohol had started to wear off. Even the sparse lamplight was too bright, lining the city streets with far too much clarity.
The drink was supposed to help him forget. That’s what Vice had recommended before, and it had helped back in Arawaké.
But here, now, it just left him hollow. Aching. Tired.
So damn tired.
Along the street, a lady sat in a window lit by a lamp, her gown cut scandalously low, a little too much rouge on her mouth. The sign above the door confirmed it: Mrs Pettigrew’s Parlour for Entertainments. A brothel.
Being in Vice’s arms had helped him forget before, had soothed his churning emotions, had even helped quieten the anger he carried for Father. Perhaps …
But looking at the lady as she caught his eye, cocked her head, smiled, beckoned, he couldn’t summon the slightest wish to join her inside, even though it would have been warmer than out here in the cold night air.
He clenched his jaw and strode past. His damn body still only wanted her.
And maybe in a way it was right.
Isabel had said Vice might be the only one who could bring him closure. And although the Admiralty had denied him a visit, perhaps he didn’t need their permission.
Every step feeling like doom, he let his feet carry him to the castle.
Its low grey hulk was mostly shadows punctuated by lamps, torches, and braziers. Still, he knew its battlements and square keep from his years studying at the naval college. He approached from the west, where one of its broad g
un platforms loomed, covered in cannons, ready to fight off enemy ships that broke through Albion’s sea witch defences. No one had done that in centuries but not for want of trying.
On the road ahead, before the castle walls, a small, grey shape sat beside a brazier, furry back to him, looking up, pointed ears alert. He blinked. “Barnacle?”
The little cat turned, revealing her white belly, almost glowing in the firelight. She gave a chirruping meow of greeting.
“What are you doing here?” He crouched and petted her, winning enthusiastic purrs.
Her muddy paws said she’d been away from the ship for a while. What had so drawn her attention?
His gaze trailed up the castle wall – up, up and …
“Oh gods.”
A black cage hung from the walls, fifteen feet above the street. Inside, a dark shape huddled, nearby torches hinting at a deep red coat.
His stomach knotted. He’d come to find her but …
Even from this distance, that posture was wrong, so wrong for her. She didn’t huddle. She wasn’t small. She was …
A murderer. Remember that, you idiot.
Drawing a deep breath, he scratched Barnacle behind the ears, then stood. On the castle walls, flickering shadows and torchlight revealed the circuits of guards. But down here, he was alone.
The castle was meant to defend the coast from attack by sea, so as the city had grown, they’d filled in the moat on the landward side to create more space and allowed houses and shops to butt right up to the castle walls. That’s what he’d spent too much of his early teens climbing and sneaking over with friends, escaping lessons, finding mischief.
If that boy had only known what was to come …
Still, that childhood play would make this easy. With a quick glance, he confirmed he was alone and clambered up a crumbled stretch of wall, across a low roof, and up its pitch. There was one tricky moment where his head spun, just the hint of alcohol’s effects, but he caught a crumbling chimney and righted himself.
Edging across the remaining bricks of another long-abandoned building brought him to the castle walls and within arm’s reach of the cage.
