by Clare Sager
The iron made his skin prickle. The warmth of his gift shrank at its presence. How bad was it to be encased in the stuff?
It was cold up here, but the brazier below gave off a little heat. Of course – he shuddered – they didn’t want her dying from the cold before her execution.
Biting his lip, he forced his eyes to her.
Coat pulled around herself, she was crumpled inside the gibbet cage – back braced against the far side, knees against this side, hands tucked up in her sleeves. Her eyes were closed below a deep frown. Her breaths weren’t slow and deep as he’d seen them in proper sleep. She was only dozing. Even in this scant light, he could see her cheeks were hollow, and shadows ringed her eyes. Her usually tanned skin was pale and sallow.
She looked ill.
His stomach twisted so tight it stole his breath. Crouching on the wall, he rubbed his face. This had to be unbearable for someone fae-touched, tantamount to torture. Being executed was one thing, but this …
“Vee,” he murmured. “Vee?”
With a sharp breath, her eyes opened, darting side to side. When they landed on him, they widened, and her mouth fell open. For a few seconds, she only stared.
Eventually, she shook her head, exhaling through her nose. “You’ve got a bloody nerve showing your face here.” She pulled herself upright, face contorting in a wince. “If these bars didn’t burn, I’d reach through and drag you off that damn wall.”
He blinked, shook his head. “What?” If these bars didn’t burn …
Oh Lords, Ladies, Wild Hunt. He had to catch himself against the cold stone of the castle wall as the world tipped. The iron didn’t just block her gift. She wasn’t fae-touched.
If it burned her, it meant …
Gods. She was fae-blooded. Part-fae. Not wholly human.
No wonder her gift was so strong. No wonder she looked ill.
Iron could kill a fae … Was that how it started? Sickness and burns, then a slow, painful decline, and finally death.
His stomach spasmed.
Wrong. This was wrong. His bones creaked with it, cold in the shadow of the iron cage.
He drew a long breath, gripped the stone wall.
No. He only thought it wrong because he’d allowed himself to be compromised by emotion. He’d been confused by her charm, her physicality, their connection.
Shoulders hunched, every angle of her turned inward to avoid touching the metal even through her clothes. She folded her arms and glared at him. “What do you want?”
Clenching his jaw, he steeled himself. “You hang the day after tomorrow. I needed to speak to you first.”
Her nostrils flared. “Did you now? Well, I’m so glad I can be of help to you.” Her body shook; her neck corded. In the dim light, her eyes glistened. “You traitorous bloody bastard.”
He swallowed, braced like a man climbing the shrouds in a storm, waves lashing his face and trying to stop him from his work. Necessary work. If that man didn’t get to the yards, he couldn’t trim the sails, and the ship might lose a mast: they would all be doomed.
Traitorous. He’d told himself that word, had heard it in her tone when he’d arrested her, but that did nothing to soften the sound of it from her mouth.
But this was necessary, just like that desperate climb up the shrouds.
Isabel had told him. He had to face this woman before she died, and this was his last chance. He had to get out all the words clogging up his throat, wrapped around his heart, blocking his lungs.
Lifting his chin, he met her gaze levelly. “I told you not to trust me. It was always the plan to –”
“Oh, I know all about your plan.” A tight smile paled her lips. “FitzRoy told me everything. Him” – her finger stabbed towards the city, the knuckles standing out against her bony hand – “I should have expected it from him, but you.” Her throat rose and fell as she swallowed, shaking her head. “I thought we had an understanding. Damn fool that I was, I trusted you – almost trusted you. We worked well together, I thought we were …” Her words dissolved into heaving breaths.
He stared at her skinny fingers. They’d always been strong. It was as though her body was wasting away locked in this iron.
“We made a good team,” she growled and crossed her arms, tucking her hands away. “Or at least I thought we did. All the bloody while, you were just after what you could get before you arrested me. Did you laugh? Did you have a good time swapping notes with FitzRoy?” She chuckled bitterly, eyes bright.
Each word was a sabre driving through him. “I’d never –”
“You’d never what?” Her mouth twisted. “Never betray me?”
No. Damn her. He wasn’t going to apologise – she was the traitor. She’d started this by fooling him into believing she was anything other than a monster. Heat flared in his veins, pumped through his heart.
He was right. She was wrong.
“Oh yes,” she went on, “noble bloody Navy boy, he’d never screw a woman and then royally screw her over, would he? He’d never –”
“You’re a murderer.” He raised his eyebrows at her – let her dare to deny it. She’d said it herself.
She blinked. “What?”
Shaking his head, he scoffed. “Listening to you, anyone would think you’re some poor, innocent victim in all this. But you’re not.” Let her hear the damn truth. “You like to pretend you’re some noble pirate who frees the enslaved, maroons slavers, and only kills in battle when it’s life or death. But you’re a murderer. You killed my betrothed. She was 18 years old, and I don’t believe for a second she was a threat to your life. You killed Lady Avice Ferrers.”
She blinked again. The corners of her lips twitched. She covered her mouth, and a breath burst out of her – almost a chuckle. She guffawed and shook her head.
Why was she –
Head tilting back, she laughed.
And laughed. And laughed.
On Wilder Seas
She sounded half-mad.
Stomach turning, Knigh clung to the castle wall to force himself to stay in place and not climb back down to the ground and leave her to her madness. She was as bad as FitzRoy, laughing at someone else’s misfortune, laughing at her own terrible deed. But he had to stay here and face her. It was the only way to put an end to this.
Finally, it faded to a chuckle as she wiped her eyes. “Well, at least you’ve given me a good laugh before I go.”
Every muscle thrumming with rage, he snarled. “You’re disgusting. How can you murder someone and –”
“I didn’t murder her, you idiot.”
Denying it. Were all criminals the same? He scoffed, shaking his head, but when he met her eye, something about the flat look gave him pause. A thin thread of cold needled through him. “But you said –”
With an impatient sigh, she rolled her eyes. “I was speaking metaphorically – really, I thought you were an educated gentleman.” Cocking her head, she smiled, but it only made her eyes glitter hard and cold like the stars overhead. “I no more murdered her than you murdered the arrogant little boy you once were. Remember?
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.”
The cold thread became twine, then thick footropes, then an anchor cable, grating on his bones, leaching away all the hot rage, all the warmth until he shivered. “That poem … How do you” – he shook his head.
Had Lady Avice told Vice the poem before she’d killed her?
But then the other things she said … That she hadn’t killed her. That …
The ‘arrogant boy’ she spoke of wasn’t dead, he’d just grown into someone very different, thanks to the Royal Navy. So, was Lady Avice Ferrers also alive and … just … someone very different?
His chest tightened. No. Not possible. He shook his head.
But she was still smirking
back at him, amusement in her eyes, laced with bitterness.
“That poem,” he breathed, voice feeling far away. “The pin … But she’s –”
“Dead?” She said it too brightly, and her eyebrows rose like it was a joke he was too stupid to fathom. “Do you still not understand? Avice Ferrers is just as dead as Knighton Villiers.”
Ba-DUM – his heart gave a hard, heavy squeeze. His fingers tingled and cold sweat beaded on his brow.
He’d changed his name, hadn’t he? After what he’d done to Billy, he’d needed to put distance between himself and Knighton Villiers, and he’d wanted to escape the constant reminder of his father. So Knigh Blackwood had served the purpose.
And could she have done the same? No, when said out loud Ay-viss didn’t sound like Vice, but when written down … Take off the A and Avice became Vice.
Lady Avice Ferrers had become Lady Vice.
Oh gods.
Hands shaking, they raked through his hair.
Oh gods. What had he done?
“You didn’t kill her … you are her.” He blinked. The voice didn’t sound like his, but it came from his raw throat.
“Oh, well done.” She clapped, then winced and gripped her hands together. Blisters and red burns covered her knuckles and fingers. The sight of each one made him crumble just a little more, like the old wall he stood on.
Wild Hunt take him, this was his fault.
“What happened? How did you –” He shook his head, throat closing.
She snorted. “You don’t get to have that story.”
No, of course not. Not after … Damnation. What have I done?
All this. Her trial. Her punishment. And what had he ever, really, seen her do wrong? She’d been a pirate for years, but she’d wanted to become a privateer, she’d told him that in their night-time talks. Even before the letter of marque, there were startlingly few reports of The Morrigan attacking Albionic ships.
He had no guilt about employing underhand tactics against pirates. To catch them, he had to think like them. His unorthodox methods were one thing when used to right a wrong, but to execute a wrong …
“Vee – Avice, I –”
“Don’t call me that.” All hint of amusement had vanished, leaving her face cold, tired, and so sickly it made his stomach spasm.
He swallowed down the nausea, but every part of him roiled, churned, like an angry sea upon a shingle beach. He’d continuously fought his feelings for her, not trusting his emotions or gut instinct, and that was what led to this mistake. This gross mistake. He’d been far too eager to believe himself wrong, to believe the worst about her.
“Vee, I” – he shook his head – “I’ve been an idiot. I’m so sorry – and I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I’m going to get you out of here.”
He was. Gods knew how, but he’d said it, and he might not have thought it through first, and he might not have the slightest idea how, but he would do this thing. Somehow.
“Go away, Knighton.” Her voice was flat, her eyes dark.
She had to believe in him. He would do whatever it took to right his wrong. “You won’t be hanged. I promise you.”
Snorting, she waved him off. “I’ll believe it when I see it. It’s not as if I’m going anywhere, is it?”
With a last look at her, he climbed down from the terrible iron cage without a single misstep. Stone cold sober.
Was it any wonder? This was …
Lords, it was beyond imagining. Beyond his worst nightmares or wildest dreams. The woman he’d travelled halfway across the globe to hunt was the girl his parents had arranged for him to marry. The woman he’d made love to, laughed with, held close as she’d slept was the young woman who’d eloped with another man. Vee was the same woman he and everyone else had thought dead for the past three years.
Once his feet were back on the ground, he rested his forehead against the wall’s rough brick. Blessedly solid.
Did her family have the faintest idea? Her parents? Her sister? Had she ever written to them? Maybe they knew and kept the secret?
If they didn’t know, should he tell them? No – that was her decision, but what if she did …
No. She wasn’t going to be hanged. That was non-negotiable. Nothing else was important right now.
The problem – one of so very many – was that the Admiralty had refused him a meeting with her. There was no way they were going to free her on his say-so or even agree to a re-trial. As far as they were concerned, thanks to FitzRoy’s sudden love of the truth, Knigh was just another young man who’d let his loins lead him on a merry dance to a beautiful woman’s tune. Captain Knigh Blackwood had been hopelessly compromised by Lady Vice as far as the Admiralty was concerned.
And, to them, she was the villain they’d always claimed. It didn’t matter a bit whether she was Lady Avice Ferrers or whether she’d killed the girl three years ago. She was the notorious Lady Vice and they had her in chains to be hanged the day after tomorrow.
That meant the only way was to break her out. To break the law.
He took a heavy breath. In this, the law was wrong. A wrong that he’d helped cause with schemes and lies. He’d used those things against her, and now he would have to use them for her.
It would cost him … He winced – Wild Hunt it would cost him – his career, his family, his chance to set foot on Albion as a free, law-abiding man ever again …
His family would be safe, though. He’d just never be able to see them again. At least he’d made Isabel’s dowry, and George was bringing home money – albeit from a questionable source.
Even if their future didn’t have that security, he might still make this same decision.
Because if he didn’t, she would die and that would be on his head.
Forever.
It wouldn’t be an almost wrong, like when he’d almost killed those men who’d surrendered. It would be a thing he’d done and had to live with, like Billy’s hand. But this time it wouldn’t only be a limb he was responsible for the loss of – it would be a life.
Eyes shut, he pressed his forehead into the wall until the brick almost broke the skin, a rough, low-level pain. It would be nothing compared to the pain of allowing this to happen to Vee.
“Focus,” he whispered to himself. This is what’s at stake.
Somehow, he needed to orchestrate a breakout from a public gibbet for the Navy’s most prized captive. From the side of a castle. In the middle of a city that had built up around their biggest dockyard. And then he had to get her out of that city. Hells, out of Albion would be preferable.
A shape weaved around his ankles, rumbling in a low purr. He crouched and picked Barnacle up, holding her close, scratching under her chin.
In the east, the sky lightened, hazed with the golden threat of dawn.
And he had a day to do it all.
The Plan
The fresh morning air, the waves’ lulling song, and the sight of ships soothed Knigh’s churning stomach and mind a little. The gulls screaming overhead, though – he winced. They weren’t helping the headache throbbing across his brow.
His palms were slick with sweat. This next task …
He grimaced. It was one he’d been putting off far too long and somehow, amid all this mess, it had found him. Shoulders squared, he brushed his hands down the front of his coat – civilian, not uniform – and strode along the wharves.
After speaking to Vee, he’d spent the remaining hour or so of darkness in his rooms. With his thoughts turning over and over, sleep was a distant impossibility. Instead, he brewed a strong pot of coffee and went through his belongings and made a mental audit of all resources available to him.
There weren’t many.
FitzRoy wouldn’t help and neither would Bricus – the way he’d spoken about Vee, it was clear that behind his cheery smiles, he’d harboured resentment towards her for three long years.
No one in the Navy would help break the law and even if they would, he couldn’t as
k it of them. Besides, it would be too difficult to sneak a woman on a Naval vessel to escape.
He had weapons, but he’d prefer to do this without injuring anyone. Any guards at the castle were only doing their jobs. This mess wasn’t their fault – it was well and truly his.
To break open the gibbet cage, he’d managed to gather a few basic tools. It wouldn’t be an elegant job, but the poker from his rooms looked slender and robust enough that it would fit in the keyhole. Add his strength to one end and, Lords and Ladies willing, it would break. Surely the fae would give favour to his attempt to free one of their own.
As for getting to the cage – that would be the same as this morning. No one had seen him there under cover of darkness. With a bit of luck, no one would see him there tonight, either. Now he knew the lay of the land, he could even smother the brazier and any torches he came across. It would be harder for the guards to spot his work or Vee’s escape.
By the time he’d finished all that, the Admiralty’s offices had opened, and he was in full uniform. He was reasonably sure of the result, but he had to try this the legitimate way.
Vice Admiral Yorke, the man who’d helped arrest Vee, had agreed to see him, despite the lack of appointment. That was a positive start.
Unfortunately, it was the only positive note. As soon as he began outlining his argument, the grey-haired man smiled and steepled his fingers. He thought this a lover’s regret or a heartsick young man. Maybe that was why he allowed Knigh to retrieve some of Vice’s belongings from her sea chest in the Admiralty basement – keepsakes of a tragic romance.
Yorke even added a further stab of guilt as he saw Knigh from his offices.
“Now, continue your leave and return once this business is all taken care of and your mind is rested. You don’t want to end up like your friend Billy Hopper, retired from the Navy far too soon, do you?”
The name twitched through him – the night’s revelations had left him too exhausted to smother the reaction.
