Beneath Black Sails

by Clare Sager

  It was like a window had been opened in an unbearably hot room, and she gasped down the pleasant shock of untainted air.

  “How?” She blinked at the impossibility of the open door.

  But, no it wasn’t real. This was one of her imaginings or a dream. She hugged herself and waited for it to pass.

  “Vee, come on.” The hands on her arms felt real enough – strong, firm, familiar.

  And warm, so warm – the comforting kind, rather than the iron’s scorching heat.

  When she clung to those hands – yes, they still felt real. He helped her across the gap, slid an arm around her waist, gripping the castle wall with the other.

  Still real.

  Even if it wasn’t, she could pretend. Closing her eyes, she buried her face against his chest. Yes, that smell was right – cinnamon, worn leather, fresh soap.

  “Is this real?” His coat’s braid brushed her lips when she spoke. That was an odd detail to imagine.

  He squeezed her and pulled away, gaze finding hers. “This is real. I am here. You are free, and we’re going to get away from this place.”

  Someone came for her. He came for her. He’d put her here, but now he was …

  She shook her head as it began to throb. Too much. This was … And she was so tired. This was no time to focus on how she’d got here, what he’d done. He said she was free, but if they didn’t get away, that freedom would be only temporary.

  Lines of worry creased between his eyebrows. “Do you think you can climb down if I help?”

  Clenching her jaw, she nodded. If it would get her out of here, she’d dance her way down the bloody wall.

  One hand always on her, he helped her descend, steadying her when her legs trembled, lifting over one tricky spot until, at last, her feet were on the ground.

  She’d never been so damn grateful for dry land, and a small moan burst from her lips at the feel. No iron. No burning, sucking, weakening iron. She sank against the alley wall and caught her breath.

  Her legs trembled, but she managed to undress and quickly wash in a trough at the mouth of the alleyway, while Knigh kept watch. The frigid water barely registered on her already-cold skin. They returned to the alley’s shadows, and he retrieved a duffle bag hidden in a doorway. Teeth chattering, she changed into the clothes he pulled out.

  Chemise, stays, stockings, dainty shoes, and a plain gown in dark blue wool. A lady’s clothes. Not an outfit anyone would associate with Lady Vice or any other prisoner.

  He also passed her cheese and an apple, which she gobbled up as he laced the stays. The food, oh Lords, nothing had ever tasted so good as that salty cheese and the sweet, sweet apple. The sugar stopped the trembling and gave final confirmation: this was real.

  She rubbed her eyes as if she’d just woken. “Wait” – she combed her hair with her fingers and started pinning it up – “you said we are going to get away.”

  Jaw knotted, he stuffed her coat and breeches into the duffle, gaze far too intent on such simple work – he didn’t want to meet her eye. “I did.”

  “But if you leave with me now, you’ll be –”

  “I know.” His chest rose and fell in a long breath. He tucked a shawl around her shoulders, then a thick winter cloak. It took him much longer than necessary to tie the cloak’s cord before he finally made eye contact. “I’ll be absent without leave. I’ll –”

  “Your career will be over. You’ll be a fugitive from –”

  “Vee.” His nostrils flared, and a moment’s anguish wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “I know. That’s the decision I’ve made.”

  She swallowed, a chill settling even through all the layers. “But your family –”

  “They’re taken care of.” But the flat line of his mouth said he wasn’t happy about it. He swung the bag over his shoulder and turned to the alley entrance, offering his arm.

  There was his sister’s dowry and his mother and brother to take care of, too. From what he’d said about their financial position, it wasn’t something to be solved as quickly and easily as a click of the fingers.

  “How?”

  “Mercia,” he growled.

  She winced and took his arm, leaning heavily on him. Not ideal. Maybe not permanent. There was one way his family’s finances could be taken care of permanently, though. And her own. “Is FitzRoy still here?” she asked as they left the alley, pace slow to allow for her aching legs.

  “In the city?” He frowned down at her before going back to scanning the road ahead. “Yes, why?”

  “Where’s he staying? I owe him a visit.”

  He squeezed her hand. “If you go after him, sword drawn, we’ll –”

  She scoffed and shook her head, though the motion sent dizziness spiralling through her. “Not revenge … at least not physical revenge. He has something I need.”

  “If it’s your pin” – he reached into his breast pocket – “I have it already.” He held out the red enamelled drake, rubies dark in the night. Only the pearl crown gleamed, pale and ghostly.

  “Huh.” The rush of familiarity made her head spin again as she took it – the shape her fingers knew so well.

  “I took it from FitzRoy. I – I’d planned to take it to Av – to your parents so they could place it with whatever memorial they have for you.”

  “Thank you.” She slipped it in her pocket – best if she wasn’t seen wearing it here in Portsmouth, not while she was trying to parade as an anonymous lady. “But that wasn’t what I had in mind. Where is he?”

  “Vee, you –”

  “If you’re about to try and tell me I can’t do something, I’m walking away right now.” Pursing her lips, she gave him a sidelong look. They both knew it would be a painfully slow stumble away, but she’d damn well do it. “I’m going to find him whether you help me or not. And it’s in your interests to help me because if I get caught, they’ll wonder how I got out.”

  With a deep sigh, Knigh changed course and took her to an upmarket inn a couple of streets away.

  “We shouldn’t stay on the road too long.” He glanced left and right, a frown shadowing his eyes. “The longer we’re out here, the more likely it is you’ll be spotted and recognised.”

  “Warning noted and ignored.” With a tight smile, she nodded and removed the cloak and shawl, thrusting them into his hands. “Wait here. I won’t be long. And I won’t kill him, but I need to borrow this.” She slid his dagger from his belt and dropped it into her pocket, hilt-first so it wouldn’t tear the fabric.

  His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, only sank into a dark doorway to wait.

  A Visit

  Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed her hair, arranged a lock of it over her shoulder, and adjusted her stays, making her cleavage heave at the neckline of her gown.

  It was late, but the inn was bright with candlelight and felt full, even though only half a dozen officers sat at one end, bent over a game of cards. Swallowing, she angled away from them. On the way, Knigh had said her description had been in every newspaper along with reports on the trial. Back to the officers, she approached the bar. Behind it stood the innkeeper, watching Vice with a raised eyebrow, smoothing hands down a scarlet gown.

  Biting the inside of her cheek to avoid wincing, Vice bowed to the lady. Every muscle and tendon groaned at the movement, but she held in the grunt that threatened in her chest. “Madam, I’ve been sent by Mrs Pettigrew to provide entertainment to a Captain FitzRoy.”

  “Ah, one of Mrs Pettigrew’s” – the innkeeper’s pale eyes surveyed her – “you’re a bit skinny, aren’t you?”

  Charming. Smile fixed in place, Vice tilted her head. “I’ve been ill.”

  “Hmm. I suppose some like them skinny.” Lips pursed, the woman nodded to a back door, presumably leading to the staircase. “Room 3. Though you might have made a wasted journey – the state he was in when he went up, I’d wager he’s already asleep.”

  Perfect. “I’m sure I’ll be able to rouse him.”


  “I could use entertainment, if this FitzRoy’s indisposed,” one of the men called, his friends laughing and slamming their drinks on the table.

  Not perfect. If they saw her face …

  She laughed and called over her shoulder, “I’ll get to you later.” Hopefully, that would be enough. She raised her eyebrows at the innkeeper and sidled towards the door, scratching her forehead to hide her face from the rowdy officers.

  Her heart pounded. Never had eight feet felt like such a distance to cross.

  But then she was through the door and in a small hallway. Her knees shook, and her chest heaved as though she’d climbed a mountain, not just walked through an inn.

  But she carried on, pausing for a break halfway up the stairs.

  Unsurprisingly, the door to room 3 was locked. No light spilled through the crack underneath. No light was good – it meant he’d drunk himself into a stupor. But the lock …

  Chewing her lip, she peered through the hole – the key blocked her view. That was a good start if she could just …

  She glanced around and soon found an etching in a frame – perfect. In a moment, she had the frame open and the etching’s thick paper in her hands.

  With another check that no light came from his room, she slid the paper under the door below the handle.

  Now to get the key out. If Knigh’s dagger was slender enough … She drew it – yes, perfect. It just about slid into the keyhole, albeit with a scrape of metal on metal.

  She winced at the thunk as the key dropped to the floor. Frozen, she listened.

  Just the distant voices and laughter of the men downstairs and the tall clock ticking at the end of the landing.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, she put the dagger away and slid the paper from under the door. The key dragged, rasping on the floor, but it was a quieter sound than when it had landed – if that hadn’t woken him or anyone else, this wouldn’t.

  And there it was – dark metal. Urgh, iron.

  The back of her neck crawled, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the gagging.

  “It’s fine,” she whispered. “It’s just a little key.” It wasn’t that cage.

  Inhaling slowly, she used the hem of her skirts to protect her fingers and lifted the key. Through the fabric, it felt too hot, like sitting near a roaring fire. She shoved it into the lock and turned, sighing once she was finally able to let it go.

  Shaking her hand, she paused and listened again.

  Still no sound.

  She crept inside and closed the door before the light could disturb him.

  It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but her fae-blooded sight soon revealed the whole room. It was like a hundred other inn rooms – cabinet, fireplace, chair, dressing table, large four-poster bed.

  Except that on this bed lay FitzRoy.

  She clenched her jaw at the sight of him, sprawled on his back, head turned away, snoring softly.

  The bloody bastard. While she’d been locked in an iron cage, he’d been here sleeping on a feather bed, enjoying his freedom, enjoying his life.

  A few steps took her to him. He looked peaceful – dark eyelashes against his cheeks, chest rising and falling slowly and –

  There. The pouch.

  She smiled, baring her teeth. Well, if he’d given up on Drake’s treasure, he didn’t need it. And he certainly didn’t deserve it.

  There was no sign of the knot that held the cord in place and trying to pull it over his head could wake him. She drew the dagger.

  Lords, Ladies, gods, and Wild Hunt, it was so tempting to put it to his chest, just below that pouch, slide it between his ribs and drive it through his stinking heart.

  But he was asleep. This wasn’t a fight. He wasn’t even armed – his sabre sat on the dressing table. However much her fingers itched for revenge, it wouldn’t be right.

  And finding Drake’s treasure without him – that would be an even better revenge, one he’d have to live through.

  Nodding, she lifted the pouch and sliced through its cord. “I’ll have that,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

  Eyes narrowed, she watched him for a moment. There was something distinctly unsatisfying about leaving him here. For one thing, he wouldn’t know what had happened to his precious clue.

  Unless she left a calling card.

  Oh yes, he’d wake up tomorrow, no pouch, then see … She squinted from the bed to the wall opposite – there hung a painting of the sea. Ha, perfect.

  It took a minute to dip her fingers in the ash from the fire and smear a large V across the painting.

  There. He’d know.

  Smiling, she wiped off her hands on the curtain. She twitched it aside and peered out the window to check Knigh was still there. No sign of him but four figures in red coats strode through the street, stopping at an alley a few buildings away. The gold braid of their uniforms glinted in the lamplight.

  Marines. Bollocks.

  Had Knigh spotted them and hidden? Although without her, he was safe – they wouldn’t yet know what he’d done.

  Wincing, she crept from the room, limbs complaining, begging her to just sink into the chair by FitzRoy’s fireplace … just for a while …

  But she resisted.

  The landing was quiet. She had to pause halfway down the stairs, when a wave of dizziness swept over her, almost pitching her over.

  Eyes closed, she clung to the wall, just breathing.

  The world tipped and tilted beneath her feet, as wild as a deck in a storm.

  Come on … She bit her lip, pressing her forehead to the wall. She didn’t have time for this. If those marines did know she’d escaped and that Knigh had been the one to free her …

  Sucking in a deep breath, she pulled herself upright and dragged herself downstairs.

  She couldn’t go out the front – the marines might recognise her, even in this outfit.

  Maybe splitting up had been a bad idea.

  Still, it was done now.

  Biting her lip, she tried the other door at the bottom of the stairs. It led to a narrow corridor with a door on either side and an exit. Thank the gods for that.

  When she took the exit, the cold night air hit her, staggering compared to the cosiness of the inn. Gods, she could use that shawl and cloak right now. Hugging herself, she started along the alley, away from the marines at the front of the inn.

  Movement in the dark. She gasped, body too sluggish to respond before a warm hand clamped over her mouth.

  They’d caught her. Wild Hunt. Gods. Lords. Ladies. This was it.

  Her heart reared, clamouring against her chest, and she grunted against the palm, muscles screaming as they stiffened and ached. An arm wrapped around her waist, but she couldn’t fight him off. She could barely summon a wriggle from her broken body.

  “It’s me.” Knigh’s voice, barely above a breath in her ear.

  Thank the gods. She sagged, and he released her, hand staying at her waist as she wobbled. “Wild Hunt bloody take you, Knigh, I thought they –”

  Her throat closed, and she shook her head. That they had her again, that she’d go back in that cage and hang tomorrow.

  “I know,” he said, handing her back the shawl and cloak. “There were marines –”

  “Out the front” – she nodded and pulled it around her shoulders – “I saw them, that’s why I came out this way.”

  “There’s half a dozen more on that road, too.” He nodded at the other end of the alley, away from the front of the inn. “We’re going to have to wait.”

  She shivered, tucking her hands under the cloak, blinking slowly. Lords, the wool was so soft, she could wrap it around herself and sleep.

  “Vee?” He cupped her cheek, tilted her face up.

  With a sharp breath, she flinched, eyes wide. They’d drifted shut. “I – I can’t stay out here. I need …” Food, rest, sleep, warmth. Gods, she almost groaned at the thought.

  Brow creased, Knigh bit his lip, gaze slipping a
way. “We could … I can …” He glanced up and down the alley, jaw clenched. “I don’t know how we can slip past them. I’m – I’m sorry.”

  There was one way. The marines would never see them if she could gather the energy …

  Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “I know.” She took his hand and crept towards the back road. “Come on.”

  “Vee –”

  “Shh.” She paused several feet from the alley mouth, where the marines wouldn’t see them in the shadows. “Never tell me that I can’t. Just be ready to get us to this inn of yours.” If she keeled over and he had to carry her, so be it.

  Closing her eyes, she slowed her breaths.

  It was hard – gods, it was so hard to forget her body and slip away when it ached and trembled. When the cold nipped at her fingers and cheeks. When the cloak, soft as it was, chafed the blisters on her hands, threatening to split them open.

  Out there, in the moist air … In the dark, cold night … On the open sky …

  She drew in a damp wind, blowing it up from the sea, over the shingle beach and through the streets.

  Her body complained at the cold and somewhere warm hands fastened on her arms, keeping her upright.

  The wind brought in fog, shrouding the city, drifting through lanes and up alleyways, blocking –

  Then there was darkness.

  Fog

  “Wild Hunt take you, woman,” Knigh muttered when her body went limp. He caught her, swearing again at how cold she was.

  But the road was choked with fog – the marines wouldn’t see them pass.

  Clenching his jaw, he surveyed her still face. Warm breath touched his cheek. She was alive then. Thank the gods.

  Though this holding her close was a kind of torture. His hands ached for the contact, to comfort her, to touch her. But he was the one responsible for her suffering.

  He’d betrayed her. There it was – as bare and raw and horribly simple as that. He’d betrayed her. He didn’t deserve to hold her, to touch her, to have what he wanted.