Tying herself to a man she didn’t know would all be worth it if she could save her sister from her father’s wrath.
“Ready?” Birdie clutched Margrete’s hand with a fierce grip, her tiny fingers warm and reassuring. She nodded, fearing that any more words might come out shaky or trembling, exposing her mounting anxiety. She fought this fear, though, for the sight of her sister gave her strength.
“Well.” Captain Wood interrupted the moment. “Let’s not keep Count Casbian waiting.” The corners of his eyes lifted as if this was the happiest of days. He took her arm, aiming her toward the double doors leading to the courtyard.
As though summoned, two uniformed guards stalked down the main hall. After a curt nod from her father, the men pushed open the doors, revealing Margrete’s inevitable future in the near distance.
Ignoring the pounding within her chest, she lifted her eyes as her father walked her into the sunlight. Overlooking the bay and bustling docks, the spacious courtyard had been transformed into a seaside spectacle of flowing green vines and blooming violet buds. The aisle parted a sea of wooden chairs, each tied with satin bows of shimmering cherry red. Seated were the nobility and those of importance from Prias and the island of Cartus—men and women with whom her father consorted. They all twisted to catch a first glimpse of the bride, their calculating eyes squinting through the golden rays.
Margrete looked beyond the guests, finding the towering figure of her soon-to-be husband across a sweeping courtyard of wildflowers and seashells. Count Casbian stood beside a holy man at the end of the aisle, the bright swirls of pink and tangerine clouds framing him like a pretty picture. And he was pretty. She could see his handsome face now as her steps brought her closer to the man to whom she was to vow forever.
He lifted his square jaw, a thin coating of stubble shadowing his features in the dwindling afternoon light. He rolled his broad shoulders, and his muscular arms flexed beneath the fitted fabric of his tunic—arms any girl would swoon over.
And if his impressive stature wasn’t enough to sway a hesitant bride, his face completed the masterpiece—cerulean eyes sparkling with mischief, a dazzling, flawless smile of sincerity, and deftly combed blue-black hair that resembled raven’s feathers.
He was a dream.
He should have been Margrete’s dream.
Yet even though he was painfully attractive and all of his letters indicated that he was kind, dense dread settled in her stomach like an iron anchor. It grew heavier the closer she came to her betrothed, her feet dragging.
The captain played the part of the proud and fawning parent, ever the gentleman and loving father. Only those in attendance couldn’t see how his grip bruised her, his hold more punishing than affectionate. He led her with grace and poise down the aisle, past those scorching gazes, precisely to where her groom awaited.
“You look stunning, Margrete.” Casbian bowed and reached for her hand, placing a chaste kiss upon her knuckles. His lips looked as soft as pillows, and Margrete wondered what it would be like to kiss them. She supposed she would find out soon enough.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she steeled her gaze on the man bowed low before her. “A-as do you,” she sputtered, her voice ragged and breathless.
The count smiled wide, his teeth blinding her with their pearly brilliance. Everything about him was too perfect. He was beautifully unsettling, much like a red-ringed moon on a cloudless night.
The holy man cleared his throat, drawing Margrete’s gaze. He was young given his station, and his eyes were the purest shade of turquoise she’d ever seen. Although he assessed her with a note of pity, he was likely another of her father’s sycophants planted in the church. She’d lost track of how many “righteous” were under his thumb.
He opened his book to the proper place. “Let us begin.”
Margrete turned from the holy man and his unusual eyes, daring to meet those of her intended.
Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. It was happening. Margrete Wood was about to be married. Destined to follow the whims of this stranger and bear his children.
Little black dots flashed across her vision, her hands instinctively going to her neck, fingers digging at the fabric around her throat. It was so hot, the thick air lacking its typical salty breeze.
Was everyone else hot?
She stole a quick peek to her right, eyeing the nobles in all of their finery. They appeared content. Why wouldn’t they be? They were at the wedding of the year, their smug faces morphing into one sea of ugly superiority.
Her father pulled her wandering hand to her side, his eyes reproachful.
“On this fateful day, we bind two souls—” The holy man continued, but Margrete ignored the rest of his memorized speech. She was too distracted by something else she’d heard.
Again.
That shrill noise returned, the one that had followed her all day. Yet this time, it came in short blasts of three.
Scanning the crowd, Margrete found not one person reacting to the jarring sirens, their eyes trained dutifully on the bride. Oblivious, all of them.
Something’s wrong.
Sweat dripped down her back, making the lace itchy. Her fingers longed to scratch, yank, and pull at her skin, but the lace wasn’t the only thing making her skin prickle.
Ignoring the pointed glare from her father, Margrete’s hand went to her neck again, tugging the tight fabric from her throat. She was suffocating, sheer panic igniting in her core.
The holy man kept talking, clearly unaware of her growing discomfort, and her intended smiled, as if the world were being gifted to him on a silver platter.
Internally, Margrete cursed them both.
But again came the screeching, same as before—three sharp pangs of warning.
Why is no one else hearing that?
Margrete looked over Casbian’s shoulder, gazing at the waves, searching for the source of the sound.
“…it is important for a wife to abide by her husband…”
Nothing was out of the ordinary. The same colossal ships filled the aquamarine cove below the keep. Many of them bore her father’s sigil of a gilded hawk, its wings outstretched across shades of red and onyx.
“…to carry out his wishes and wants…”
Margrete scanned the ships for anything out of place until her eyes finally landed on a brilliant blue vessel that hadn’t been there an hour before.
“…she mustn’t raise her voice or question…”
Captivated by the unfamiliar craft, Margrete stared at its lustrous sails, noting how the early evening light cast eerie shadows on the canvases. Amber flecks glistened like tiny starbursts against the cobalt hull, a polished silverhead reaching into the sky like a sharpened spear in flight. Fixed to the bow, a spindly octopus figurehead kept watch, two black gems vigilant in the light of the dying sun.
Margrete had never seen a ship like it.
It was magnificent in the way a gale could be devastating.
“…this will ensure a happy union, one that will last the test of time…”
There. A glint of silver caught her eye. Painted on one of the sails was a shining crescent moon, a golden star pinned to its center. Freckles of gold dotted the cloth, framing a sigil that looked so very familiar. It reminded her of a mystical symbol she’d only seen drawn in books—in childhood fairy tales, to be exact. It was a symbol of death. Rebirth.
One of myth.
“Margrete!” Her father’s hushed voice shook her out of her daze. “The man asked you a question,” he hissed between his teeth.
The count shifted, avoiding his bride’s eyes. She was meant to say I do, or yes, or whatever words would tie her forever to a man she did not love.
“I—”
The sun had nearly set, her dreams for a future all her own setting with it. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong—
“Margrete!” Her father hissed again, louder. “Say it,” he ordered, no longer hiding his irritation.
And then another set of shrill sirens split the air. Margrete covered her ears and cried out.
Count Casbian, to his credit, embraced her as the stinging of the alarm wormed its way into the deepest recesses of her spirit.
On the third and concluding ring, the sirens ceased, leaving the air still and haunting. Nothing. Not even a wayward bird sang or a breeze dared bluster.
Casbian’s soft hands helped her rise. The guests sat stunned, mouths agape in speechless disdain. Her father would surely punish her for—
The sound returned. Louder than before and wholly penetrating.
This time, everyone noticed.
Chapter Four
Margrete
In half of a timid heartbeat, the world as Margrete knew it twisted and tore like fragile silk. A surge of strange men in leather tunics stormed the courtyard walls, a dozen more raiders in matching leathers advancing from inside the keep, their weapons slick with fresh blood. They aimed for her father’s guards, raising their shining swords high in the air as bloodlust shadowed their eyes.
The guests screamed, shoving one another as they pushed their way to safety, sending satin-wrapped chairs and decorative vases crashing onto the courtyard’s ivory stones. It was madness, and it all happened in the space of a single breath.
At her side, Margrete’s father roared, commanding his men to action, spittle flying from his lips. He clenched his jaw and freed his sword from its scabbard.
“Push them back! Form a perimeter around the guests! Move!” His enraged cries drifted seamlessly into the howling chorus of answering soldiers, those sworn to protect the captain and his family at the cost of their own lives.
Margrete glanced behind her, expecting to see the holy man cowering in fear, but he was gone, missing somewhere amongst the screeching guests.
Her heart thrummed. Her sister.
A cold sweat trickled down Margrete’s back as she remained rooted in place, scouring the crowd for a familiar head of blonde curls. From far away, muffled as though the world had been dipped underwater, a voice she’d recognize anywhere wafted to her ears. Her gaze followed the sound.
Birdie stood across the courtyard, a mess of curls and tear-stained cheeks. She let out an ear-piercing wail as her governess flung her over a shoulder, and a pair of guards ushered them inside the keep. Margrete prayed that her sister was well on her way to safety in the cellars where she’d be protected by guards and steel walls.
She couldn’t let herself believe otherwise.
A muscular body slammed into Margrete, causing her to lurch forward into the bustling crowd of flailing limbs. A sharp elbow struck her in the ribs just as a boot connected with her calf, pain lancing up and down her leg. Her knees gave out, but two strong arms wrapped around her midsection, yanking her back from the fray.
“Careful, darling.”
The voice whispered into her hair, the sound sending a bolt of electricity shooting down her arms. For the briefest moment, she saw crashing waves and lightning racing across open skies, tumultuous winds laced with salt and fury. Felt the sway of the sea beneath her feet.
She blinked.
The arms around her waist tightened, and the stranger’s breath warmed her cheek.
A flash caught her eye, a golden sigil ring on the man’s long pointer finger with two intertwined circles etched into the gleaming metal. It looked old. Valuable.
Before she could turn her head, a rush of air replaced the hands that had gripped her so reverently. She spun around—
Only to come face to face with a bewildered Casbian.
“There you are!” His eyes were wild, searching her for injuries.
Her hands flew to his chest as she caught herself, fists gripping his wrinkled shirt now stained with blood. Thoughts of the strange man and his peculiar ring were forgotten.
“My sister—” She spoke in a rushed panic, but Casbian cut her off.
“Your sister is safe, but we’re not. We need to find another route. They’re overrunning the courtyard!”
More attackers dove into the mayhem, descending upon guards and fleeing guests, blocking all exits, and crushing any hope of escaping through the main keep. The only option for getting out alive was to make it to the courtyard’s edge, where a hidden stairway led to the shore below.
“The stairs,” she blurted, the words coming out in short pants. “There are stairs hidden at the far side. Concealed behind a trellis.”
“Then we must go. Now!” The count snatched Margrete’s hand and held it tight, dragging her into the melee and toward the stairs.
Margrete and the count narrowly avoided the pointed end of a blade as they pushed toward the courtyard’s perimeter. The sword, belonging to a bronzed giant, sliced a guard’s skull clean open.
The guard didn’t even have the chance to scream.
With a yank on her hand, Casbian pulled Margrete beneath the cover of an overturned reception table. The pair caught their breath as they assessed the distance they had to travel to avoid a similar fate as the guard.
When an opening presented itself, Casbian yelled, “Now!”
Once again, he yanked Margrete to her feet, and then they were jumping over fallen bodies. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t stop, not even when a leather-clad woman, strapped with daggers, appeared from within the sea of men.
Her thick blonde hair was intricately braided into her scalp, blood and dirt streaking her face as she raised her sword, effortlessly parrying with those who were brave enough to meet her rapid blows. Blood spattered Margrete’s dress, her hair, her cheeks.
Still, they ran, Casbian’s fingers gripping hers painfully. They sprinted along the curvature of the courtyard’s stone walls, the keep and the ruined altar at their backs. Another twenty feet would bring them to the stairs, where an overflowing trellis hid the entrance.
Margrete glanced over the stone edge down to the beach and caught sight of a dozen metal grappling hooks digging into the courtyard’s high walls. Thick coils of rope dangled down the sides of the keep, leading to unadorned rafts tied with rough-spun twine rocking against the perilous bluffs. The intruders must have paid the patrol to access such an advantageous position, and she couldn’t fathom how much blood they had spilled to ensure the alarm bells weren’t sounded.
She didn’t see much more before the count hauled her toward the trellis, and then down the steep flight of steps camouflaged by the rocks, an escape route invisible to the naked eye unless one knew where to look.
At the bottom, a small fishing boat sat tied to a single wooden post, a modest vessel that hardly looked big enough for two. Safety was so close, but every time Margrete blinked, she saw empty, lifeless eyes and the red-painted stones of the courtyard.
They were halfway down the stairs when instinct urged Margrete to pause and glance over her shoulder once more. Maybe it was her friend, the sea, whispering a secret in her ear, or perhaps it was sheer intuition that had her taking in the most roguish pirate she’d ever glimpsed.
He stood atop the steps, hands clutching a thick rope with an iron hook on the end, his deep auburn hair dancing across his forehead. He squinted at the light of the setting sun, and while the distance between him and Margrete was great, the disdain he wore on his sharp features was unmistakable.
A burning chill chased the length of her spine. This man was violence and promised ruin all wrapped into one wicked present.
Margrete’s breath caught in her throat. Surely he wouldn’t follow them down these treacherous stairs, not unless the count was his target. Casbian was just as much a prize as her father.
She shook her head at the man, praying he would turn away and abandon them to their flight, but no, the bastard set his eyes on Margrete and Count Casbian as if they were all that he sought, as if everything in his life depended on cornering them.
“Margrete!” Casbian grabbed her hand. “Come!”
She let him guide her, but two steps later she lost her footing on a worn step. A pebble scattered f
rom beneath her heel, plunging to the spiked rocks below.
That would be her if she weren’t careful.
Gripping the count’s hand tighter, she didn’t look back until a thundering roar demanded her to turn. She almost wished she hadn’t.
The man flashed a nefarious smile before raising his arm, swinging the hooked end of his rope round and round.
Margrete froze. “Casbian. Look!”
The count stumbled at her abrupt stop, but he too turned to stare.
The rogue slung the rope into the air, the metal hook catching purchase on a jagged ledge. He tugged it twice, and then, without a trace of hesitation, stepped off the side of the keep, his rope unfurling until it went slack.
“Gods!” Casbian peered along the side of the cliff. “We need to hurry!”
He jerked Margrete down the steps, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the pirate and how he arced through the air with the grace of a hawk, his coppery hair catching the gold of the dying sunset. He flew toward them on a furious breeze until his shiny black boots collided with effortless ease on solid rock mere steps away.
He closed the gap between himself and Margrete and her count, who clutched her arm hard enough to bruise. She shuffled down one step, but the pirate only followed, his muscular frame eclipsing the sun, casting her in his conquering shadow.
The rogue leaned close, close enough that Margrete could make out the glint of emerald shining in his shrewd eyes, the hint of gold flecking his irises. She could practically taste the brine clinging to his clothes, his hair, his lips.
And here she’d wished for a miracle from the God of the Sea, a savior—something this man most certainly was not.
Fumbling behind her, Casbian grabbed at a jeweled dagger in his belt, a weapon more for show than a fair fight.
“Stay back!” Holding out the gilded blade, the count protectively shoved Margrete against the cliff wall. He made a few feeble jabbing motions at their attacker, but the pirate blocked Casbian’s every attempt. Finally, he smirked and twisted the dagger from the count’s grasp with such ease that Margrete almost missed it.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 3
