by Amber Lin
“I’m not a thief,” she said more quietly. Less sure.
“Then again, you did feed me some fake information. Julian, you said your name was. Unusual for a girl, don’t you think?”
She had no answer.
He plucked a thin stack of clothing from the table beside him. They unfolded to reveal a tattered shirt and pants. A blackened cap. “These have spent a lot of time going in and out of chimneys. And I highly doubt you were satisfied with the two pence earned as a sweep. Besides, no apprentice would employ a young woman, not when he could get a boy from the orphanage at half the cost and half the size.”
She stared at the clothes, her mouth dry. Why would she have worn pants? And climbed through chimneys? It didn’t make sense.
Unless he was telling the truth. And she was a thief.
“I don’t know,” she said. Then repeated, bearing the grief of her confusion, “I don’t know.”
“This will go easier if you tell me who you work for. I know you didn’t hatch the plot to steal from the company yourself. No, if you were on your own, I wager you would have chosen a private home, one with jewels and money you could grab. Not shipping schedules and invoices.”
A surge of terror ran through her. It had been disconcerting to wake up without knowing who she was. But the fear was worse, more real, to find she might not like who she was. God, what would she do? Continue stealing? Starve?
Turn herself in?
Her hand went to her chest, right beneath her throat. Her fingers toyed there, grasping at nothing. She realized for the first time that she was wearing a nightgown, a thin one. It wasn’t hers, though it fit her well enough. Still, the neck dipped low to her breasts, revealing her bare skin to him. No more than an evening gown would do, but far more than she was comfortable with.
His gaze snapped to her hand. Those midnight eyes grew darker, deeper. The heat in them felt entirely male. Inappropriate, that was what it was. Insulting even. Except… had she drawn his attention on purpose? What had her hand been doing at her neckline? It was disconcerting to realize she couldn’t even trust her own body. Maybe she’d been teasing him, drawing his gaze where it shouldn’t be, as a distraction. If she was a liar and a thief, if she regularly dressed in a boy’s clothes, if she consorted with pirates enough to find them familiar—and appealing—then it wasn’t a far stretch to imagine she had relations with them, as well.
No.
But the facts were irrefutable and closing in. She glanced wildly around the room, seeing it in a different light. A small room. The window, barred. He sat between the bed and the door.
A jail cell. A very comfortable, very warm prison.
“How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Two days. I wasn’t sure you—” His voice sounded unaccountably hoarse as he amended, “We didn’t know if you would recover.”
She repeated those words in her head, trying to focus on them. Instead, she heard what he hadn’t said. I wasn’t sure you would wake up. I wasn’t sure you would live. He wasn’t sure, which meant he had thought about it, worried over her.
It warmed her inside to have someone who cared. All she’d felt in the moments since waking had been confusion and lingering exhaustion.
“I’ll send a tray,” he said.
And hunger. She felt a vast hunger.
“Why would you help me?” she asked with suspicion. If she had stolen from him, he shouldn’t be inclined to feed her. He shouldn’t have cared if she recovered.
“Are you suggesting I starve you, Julian?” A sardonic edge sharpened his voice.
“No, I just…” What was she suggesting? That he turn her onto the street? In her current state, weakened and missing her memory, it would mean certain death. And yet, she was uncomfortable accepting his charity without understanding his motives. Like spotting a prime bite of cheese when you needed it most, the trap pulled out of sight.
“Just tell me what your plans are,” she begged.
His expression softened for a fraction of a second. “I’m not in the habit of starving women in my charge. For the time being, you’ll rest here until you’ve healed.”
“And then?”
His eyes glinted. Like diamonds, fractious and unyielding. “And then you will tell me who sent you to the warehouse. Or I’ll turn you over to my boss. You won’t like that option. Trust me.”
Her chest felt tight. “Thank you.”
He stared for a full minute before opening the door. An older boy stood outside. “Stay here. Don’t let her leave,” the pirate told the boy before shutting the bedroom door behind him. Metal scraped as the lock turned.
And then he was gone.
She closed her eyes as exhaustion swept over her. The conversation had been more taxing than she would have expected. Either that, or she’d started with little energy.
With a surge of effort, she managed to sit up. It was just that important, figuring out her present state. Despite the screaming agony in her limbs. Her arms were fine except for a few scratches. One of her ankles had indeed been sprained. It was swollen twice the size of the other.
But the worst injury was in her side where a gash had been bandaged. Who had done the bandaging? Her captor? She didn’t want to imagine him undressing her. Washing her. Caring for her.
Surely there were servants. Female servants.
But so far she’d only seen him and the young man outside. Mortified heat spread through her cheeks. Somehow, she knew that the pirate had seen her without clothes. The knowledge was in his eyes, deep down beneath the surface. In the casual way he’d looked at her, at the parts above the covers and beneath them—without curiosity. With something else, instead.
With carefully banked desire.
…
Nate stomped down the stairs, startling a maid in his path. Well, she shouldn’t be surprised. He was in a foul mood. He was always in a foul mood on land.
His house was comfortable—he made sure of that. Always warm and dry. But it couldn’t compete with the steady sway of the sea. His temper didn’t have anything to do with the girl or how lost she looked.
What the hell was he doing with her?
He already knew. He was going to feed her. That was the first thing.
And then he was going to interrogate her.
Yes, that made sense. He liked the order of it, a plan of attack. It turned him into a warrior, in this battle of wits. It turned her into a ship—one he could raid and plunder and pillage. One he could own.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the necklace, the one she’d been reaching for but hadn’t found. He’d taken it off her while she slept.
The locket was plain with shallow floral engraving and a cheap rusted hinge. The pictures inside were too blurry to really make out. They must have become wet when she fell in. But he could tell there was a woman on one side and a man on the other. A married couple?
Did she have a husband out there looking for her?
For reasons he didn’t want to examine, he decided no. She was not married. What kind of husband would let his wife go off on a foolhardy mission? These were other people. Perhaps her and a brother. Or her parents. Or perhaps she had stolen the necklace and its portraits meant nothing to her.
He squinted at the pictures, trying to make out the features, and almost ran into the housekeeper on his way into the kitchen.
Mrs. Wheaton had been his first hire, as either servant or employee. In the five years since, she had been efficient, loyal, and only spoken a handful of words to him.
She was silent now, expectant.
He shoved the locket back into his pocket. “Have the cook prepare a supper tray for the guest upstairs.” He added, “Please.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Something fortifying, I should think, for someone recovering. But easy on the stomach. What would that be?”
She paused, and he got the sense she was stretching herself, reluctant to add another word to their limited exchange.
<
br /> “Broth, sir?”
“Yes. Right.” Would she like a broth? Would she prefer a particular kind of broth?
He was being ridiculous. He shouldn’t care what kind of broth a thief preferred. He didn’t care.
Julian. He scoffed. It would serve her right if he continued to call her that. In fact— “Make it porridge,” he ordered. “And no sugar.”
Porridge was both fortifying and easy on the stomach. And tasteless. Problem solved.
“Of course, sir.”
He thought he heard something almost sardonic in her voice that time, but when he narrowed his gaze, she stared back as placid as ever. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing she’d worked here so long. She knew him too well.
Nate was unsurprised to find a visitor in his study. “Sinclair,” he said in greeting.
“Nate.” Adrian already had a cup of tea. He had managed to charm the stoic Mrs. Wheaton into sending him a tray and keeping his presence a secret. Hardly surprising. Adrian Mallory, Duke of Sinclair, could charm anyone into anything.
“I invoked your name as a threat,” Nate said, taking a seat behind his desk. “Said I’d hand her over to you.”
“Did you?” Adrian asked mildly, stirring his tea. Damn his patience.
“The thief isn’t talking.”
“The female thief.”
Apparently, Mrs. Wheaton had told him everything.
“What does it matter what gender she is? She broke into the Hargate offices. She was looking for something.” He had sent Adrian the note yesterday, which meant it had only been a matter of time until he appeared. Sinclair never called at the door like a regular person. But then, he wasn’t a regular person.
Adrian studied him with unnerving acuity. “Would you like me to?”
“To what?”
“To have a go at the female thief? Torture, persuasion. That sort of thing.”
“Of course not,” Nate snapped. Then paused. Wasn’t that what he had wanted? To get information from the thief, then to be rid of her? Still, not through Adrian. Nate wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. “I can handle a girl.”
“I’m sure you can,” Adrian said.
Nate sent him a cross look. “Did you come because you were worried, or do you just enjoy insulting me?”
“A little of both, to be certain.”
“You think Hargate sent her.”
“I haven’t spoken to her. But you think Hargate sent her, which means the stakes are raised. I agreed to let you take over his company. I agreed that you could ruin him. But I won’t let that quest ruin you, as well.”
Nate barked a laugh. “Do I look close to ruin?”
Adrian said nothing. Irritating.
“I’ll have her figured out in a day, at most. Then we’ll know who sent her, we’ll find out what they’re after. And we’ll destroy him, whether it’s Hargate or anyone else.”
“And what about the girl?”
“What about her?”
“Will you let her go?”
Would he? He wasn’t sure. The answer seemed obvious. He would release her, because he couldn’t keep her prisoner forever. Could he? No, probably not. And yet the thought of releasing her, of letting her walk away, of never seeing her again felt…wrong. As though he was missing something. There was another piece to the puzzle, that was all. A clue left unturned.
She had reached for the locket.
When she was scared, she had put her fingers to her chest, exactly where the locket would go. Which meant it probably was hers, and not some stolen trinket. An automatic gesture like that would come from years of wearing the same necklace every day. It had to be meaningful. But what did it mean?
Guilt assailed him for keeping it from her. Who’s the thief now?
Adrian was still watching him with those too-knowing eyes.
“Stop that,” Nate ordered.
“Stop what?”
“Examining me. I feel like a frog under one of your damned microscopes. Should I hand you a scalpel next, so you can cut me open?”
“No, I think you’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”
“Save your theorizing for your laboratory.”
Adrian looked amused. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”
“As always.”
He had lied to the girl. Adrian wasn’t his boss, strictly speaking. But Nate still treated him as such.
The Duke of Sinclair had organized Fortune Investments using his own small bit of capital, and had brought Nate in, along with two other men. All of them had been young, poor, and damned ambitious.
They were no longer young, and no longer poor, but they were still ambitious. However much money the company had made, it would make more. With the takeover of Hargate Shipping, partially.
Nate braced himself. “Have you gotten a chance to look at the books?”
“A mess, as we expected. But the holdings are substantial, and with our influx of cash, we should be able to keep the schedule of shipments for the year. It should begin turning a profit for us next fiscal year.”
“Excellent,” Nate said, though he didn’t feel pleased.
He felt grim.
“Something the matter?” Adrian drawled, casual as you please.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Everything about this deal concerns me. For that matter, everything about you concerns me.”
“You may have forgotten this, what with being a duke, but you can’t actually own people. We have a business partnership, nothing more.”
“Friends, too,” Adrian murmured.
Nate disguised his reaction to the word—the hitch in his breath, the thump of his heart. Friends. And here, he’d always thought joining Fortune Investments had been an alternative to friendship. To companionship. He preferred to be alone, with no one to disappoint and no one to disappoint him.
“The important thing,” Nate said carefully, “is I would never endanger the company with my personal business. I’d never endanger you personally, either. If that makes us friends, so be it.”
“That’s the problem. As your friend, I want to be involved.”
Then you’ll be waiting a long time. “I can handle her.”
Adrian smiled sadly. “I’m sure you can. But have a care.”
“And what’s that?”
“Before you break her, make sure that’s what you want to do.”
Nate stared at the door after Sinclair left. Break her, break her. Yes, that was the plan. It sounded barbaric when spelled out that way, but then, Nate was a barbarian of sorts.
Crude and uncouth. And wholly out of place in Fortune Investments.
Sinclair, the refined son of a duke. And Hale Martin, who was a bastard—but the bastard of a viscount still ranked head-and-shoulders above Nate.
He had the most in common with Jordan Bradshaw, who had been raised in Barbados. But even Jordan attempted to emulate the manners of his betters. Unlike Nate.
After Sinclair left, Nate found Mrs. Wheaton in the kitchen.
“Did you send up the tray?” He knew his voice came out surly and unkind. He just didn’t know how to change it.
“Not yet, sir. Cook’s finishing the porridge shortly.”
It made something lurch inside, imagining the girl hungry upstairs. Imagining her eating plain porridge. Imagining the look on her face when she’d said, “Thank you.” Christ. He had literally chased her off a twenty-foot ledge. He was now holding her prisoner. And she had thanked him.
“Forget the porridge. Make hot cocoa instead.” Warm. Sweet. That was what she needed to rest, to heal. “And make a broth,” he added. “Quickly.”
“It’s already made, sir.”
Indeed, almost as if she knew what he’d ask before he did. He made a mental note to raise her salary. Either that, or dismiss her. It was never a good thing to be known well. It led to questions. It led to expectations.
It led to friends.
He
snorted. Shaking his head at Adrian’s show of sentimentality, he carried the supper tray upstairs. Mrs. Wheaton watched him go, her expression faintly astonished. But he wasn’t being kind, after all. He was doing reconnaissance.
The boy he had stationed at the door still stood there, looking bored and half asleep. He straightened as soon as Nate rounded the corner.
“Any trouble?” Nate asked.
“Not a peep, Cap’n.”
“Go and grab some rest. I’ll take this shift.”
The boy hesitated, and Nate wondered for a moment if he was worried about the girl. Or maybe he was just curious. He’d know that Nate had carried her home two nights ago, both of them drenched. It would be all the talk below stairs and belowdecks.
He raised an eyebrow, and the boy scurried along. It was an unusual situation, certainly. On his ship, in the middle of the ocean, the captain’s word was law. Though he ran a tight ship, a quiet ship, there had occasionally been run-ins with other vessels. There had been disorderly crewmen.
His firm hand had earned him a reputation. It had earned him respect.
After a light knock, he opened the door and stepped inside.
She was sleeping. He saw that immediately. Heard it, too, in the hum of her breath as he shut the door behind him. No, he didn’t imagine she’d caused any trouble here. She looked weak as a kitten, her hands curled up under her chin. He set the tray down on the table and walked closer. Closer. Right up to the edge of the bed. And sat down.
He’d had plenty of time to study her in the thirty-six hours she was unconscious. But he hadn’t been able to enjoy it. He’d been too worried that she might not wake up.
Now he took his time with his perusal, starting with the silky dark hair that cascaded around her on the pillow, a rich mahogany that went from curly to straight as it dried. She looked incredibly vulnerable, more revealing in sleep than waking. Her eyelids seemed almost translucent, so pale he could see the veins beneath. Her skin was milky white, her features delicate.
Resentment rose up in his throat. Why did she fascinate him? It was the clothes, he decided. Something primitive and perverse in him had liked seeing her in shirtsleeves and pants, her lovely hair tucked beneath a grimy cap. If it weren’t for the clothes, she wouldn’t have captured his interest this way, even if she was pretty.
