She crossed her arms over her chest, but the damage had already been done.
Bash grinned, though his smile was anything but warm. “What happens tomorrow is that we sail to my home. A place very, very far from here.” He opened the door and stepped into the shadows beyond, but with one last look said, “If I were you, I’d get some rest, Miss Wood. “You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Six
Bash
Bash had been sitting at his desk for the past two hours, patiently listening while Adrian, his commander and oldest friend, argued with one of his top soldiers. Atlas, young and stubborn, refused to back down, even before her superior.
“All I’m saying is we should’ve tried to hunt him down.” She sat back in her chair and swung her golden, braided hair over her shoulder. Blood from the attack still speckled her face, though she wore it proudly. “His daughter was never our mission. We only chose this day because we assumed his guard would be down, but the bastard got away.”
“I’ve told you, Atlas,” Adrian began, “it was a last-second call.” He glanced at Bash. “Even with all our men, we lost sight of Wood. We were lucky enough to get his daughter.”
“I still don’t understand how he got away,” she grumbled. “We had all eyes on him, and then he was just...gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”
The two began to argue, but Bash was silently thinking of everything they had done wrong. All of his warriors had been directed to capture Captain Wood, and they were familiar with the exit points of the keep. The few spies he’d smuggled into the city weeks ago managed to create blueprints so that nothing was left to chance. Even still, the bastard had slipped between his fingers. When he’d seen Margrete fleeing with her groom, she became an opportunity.
One he hoped he didn’t regret taking.
“We stick to the new plan,” Bash said, interrupting their squabbling. Atlas instantly shut her mouth. “We use his daughter. Trade her. It was decided the second she was taken aboard this ship.”
Atlas muttered something under her breath. Adrian shot her a look of warning.
“If that’s all, then we’re finished here.” Bash pushed off from his desk, the top of which was covered with maps of Prias and the surrounding islands. “You should both get some rest.” It was well past the time for sleep, and he could see the exhaustion weighing their eyes.
Adrian nodded in agreement. He was a man of few words, but his loyalty and devotion to their cause surpassed any other.
“Goodnight.” Atlas bowed her head before retreating, leaving Adrian and Bash alone.
“Everything all right?” Adrian asked, taking a step closer to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Yes,” Bash lied. “Though I’m not a fan of this change of plans.” He sidled away from his friend’s affection, choosing instead the solitude that often cleared his mind. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by foolish emotions. People relied on him, and if he unraveled, then he wouldn’t be of any use to them.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Adrian murmured after a moment’s hesitation. “Goodnight, old friend.” He shut the door softly on his way out.
Bash sighed and turned to the porthole, where the moon’s light glinted on the waves. He prayed to all the gods that his plan would work. That he was right to take Wood’s daughter.
Knowing he should attempt to sleep, he settled on the thin cot in the corner of the office and rested his head on his folded arms. The ship rocked and swayed; the waves crashing against the hull should’ve been enough to calm his thoughts.
But they weren’t.
His mind was restless with all the things that could go wrong. With the consequences that would ensue should they fail. If Captain Wood didn’t make the trade, then he would all but condemn the world to needless bloodshed. Bash suspected that even if he did know of the danger, the man would hardly care. That was why the bastard deserved to be gutted. By Bash’s hand, preferably. If anyone had earned the honor of ending Captain Wood, it was Bash.
But images of slicing the captain’s throat weren’t lulling him to sleep tonight. Bash itched to move, to do anything but lay there and wait.
He sat up with a groan, resting his elbows on his knees. Today wasn’t a complete loss. He should be happy enough for now, but there was a sense of dread that wouldn’t leave him, like something dire was transpiring right under his nose.
Instantly, he thought of her—the woman currently aboard his ship, the daughter of his greatest enemy. She certainly wasn’t what he expected. Not that he’d spent all that much time thinking about her in the first place.
Now, he couldn’t stop.
Before he could think better of it, Bash was on his feet, opening his door, and striding down the narrow corridor. He didn’t knock before he unlocked her door and slid inside, his feet silent as he took in her slumbering form lying in the dim moonlight.
Margrete Wood. Age twenty-three. Oldest daughter of Captain Wood. Known to spend her days within the keep doing gods knew what.
He dared another step, his pulse racing.
She appeared so soft in her sleep, so unlike the fiery woman who challenged him hours before. He almost laughed at the memory of her kneeing him in the groin, her small hands encircling his sword as if she’d drive it through him.
Maybe she would have.
Seeming to sense the eyes upon her, Margrete shifted, a faint sigh escaping her full lips. Lips he’d washed blood from when he first brought her to this room. He let his gaze travel down her petite body to where the coverlet lay bunched around her narrow waist, her fingers fisted in the fabric as though she were fighting something even now.
She’d changed out of the red gown into his day tunic, a garment of thin, white linen. He imagined that if she knew it belonged to him, she’d throw the shirt overboard. The neck remained untied. Spread wide, the opening revealed the delicate lines of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast. She was beautiful. Alluring.
That was without question.
Bash hovered over her bed, feeling both intrigued and furious with himself. He didn’t know why her room was the first place he’d gone. Maybe the need to check on his prisoner drove him to such madness. She was invaluable, after all. Yes, that was why he was looming over her like death’s shadow.
He was about to turn around and leave—go back to tossing and turning in his own bed—when her voice pierced the silence.
“No,” she murmured, eyes still closed tight. Her brow furrowed, and her lips grew pinched as her head lolled from side to side. “Not again.”
Bash flinched. She was having a nightmare; her breathing came out in anguished gasps. He was familiar with the affliction, and often spent his nights pacing instead of sleeping, avoiding the demons that haunted his dreams.
Bash muttered a curse before he sat on the bed next to her, his hand trembling as he brought it to her brow. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to soothe her or why the pain twisting her features upset him, but he cupped her cheek, using his thumb to rub soothing circles on skin that felt like pure silk.
“Shhh,” he whispered, watching as his touch instantly calmed her thrashing. Bash preferred the anger in her eyes to…this. He would recognize fear anywhere, and for some reason, he decided he despised the look of it on her face.
Bash’s hand lingered even after she relaxed, her chest rising and falling evenly. It was then that he realized his own pulse had settled, his mind beautifully blank.
He snatched his hand back as though she’d burned him.
Rising from the bed, careful not to disturb her, he slipped through her door and locked it behind him.
“Shit,” he hissed, his back pressed against the thin wood.
He had to squash whatever this was churning inside him every time he looked at her. He didn’t know her, and he couldn’t try to change that. What kind of king would he be if he trusted the enemy’s spawn? If he were so easily blinded by a stunning face?
&nbs
p; Bash spent the rest of the night in bed, thinking of all the ways he would end the captain’s life.
His dreams were ones of blood.
Chapter Seven
Margrete
Margrete jolted awake, clutching the tangled sheets in her fists. They were still slightly damp from her nightmare. As she often did, Margrete dreamt of her father, of the box, of screaming for air, but this time, trapped within the box, she heard a voice, one that whispered a single word over and over again.
Soon.
But it was only a dream.
Margrete glanced around the cabin. While the visions of her father and the box were not real, she was still in another prison. She surmised it was better to be trapped in the cage she knew—one controlled by a master she’d encountered before—than here, where she didn’t know what to expect. The unknowns were what terrified her most.
With a curse, she flung aside the coverlet and yanked on the boots she’d discovered the night before, a wool sock rolled into the head of each tip. Thankfully, she’d been able to rid herself of the bloodied gown after Bash left her cabin, and the loose linen shirt and too-large trousers she found in the trunk were mercifully clean.
Margrete brought the flowing sleeve to her nose, inhaling the scent of salt and dried ocean water. The fabric held another smell she couldn’t name, something dark and earthy that reminded her of clear skies and summer nights.
Dropping her hand, she turned to the porthole. As if mocking her fear, the sun painted the morning clouds in shades of orange and blush, a beautiful sunrise after a wretched day.
Sunrise.
The ship swayed as it crested waves, though Margrete’s feet were steady as she went to the porthole for a better look, expecting to see nothing but open waters and sinking hope. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes and took in the island ahead. The exquisite city that rose up from beyond the coast stole her breath.
She stumbled until the backs of her thighs hitting the cot. They were no longer anywhere near Prias. She wasn’t certain they were even in the right world.
Majestic ambers, mighty blues, vibrant emeralds, and dreamy silvers filled her sight, captivating colors from a foreign land of magic. Swaying palms and distant mountains rose high into the sky, a city of sea glass buildings nestled below. Surrounding the vast island were golden sands, each grain a glittering gem in the early light. Margrete had never seen anything like it, and its beauty struck a chord deep inside her chest, a note that the sea had never sung before. She’d imagined ending up on some sinful island of pirates and brutes, a place of petty savagery, rotting ships, and rusted iron.
Instead, she was in paradise.
“Where am I?”
As if answering her question, the door to her cabin unlocked and opened, swinging on its hinges. Bash stood there, his presence making the room seem even smaller.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He rested against the frame, arms crossed and eyes glinting with admiration for what must be his homeland.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Azantian.” He spoke almost reverently.
Margrete’s heart skipped several beats. “Azantian? But that’s not—”
“A real place?” Bash shoved off the threshold and closed the gap between them. He eyed her borrowed clothing as he approached, lingering where her curves tugged at the fabric.
Margrete’s breathing sped up as he neared. The scent of feral sea winds and masculinity clung to him like perfume. It smelled like the clothes she was wearing, and she wondered if they were his.
“Azantian has always been real. Your people simply haven’t been welcome. That’s why it stays hidden. The savages from your world would surely destroy something they couldn’t control. Humans and their weak greed.”
Margrete let out an indignant scoff. “You speak as though you’re not flesh and blood yourself.”
His lips twisted into a mischievous grin. One she was beginning to associate with him.
“I’m flesh and blood, princess. Prick me, and I bleed. Kiss me, and my skin grows hot.” He leaned close, his voice a dangerous whisper. “But just because something bleeds and wants doesn’t mean it’s human.”
She swallowed hard, her mind racing with thoughts—no, myths—of Azantian and the race of beings rumored to rule over its shores. Stories, that’s all they were. But as she studied Bash, truly gazed upon the sharp planes of his face, her conviction began to falter. She couldn’t deny the island she’d seen. How it beamed from within. Just as she couldn’t deny how different Bash was from every other person she’d ever known. If it wasn’t for the scar running across his brow, he’d be almost unnervingly perfect.
Still, her pride was not something she was eager to sacrifice. “Not all humans are alike.” Her mind drifted to her father. “You can’t condemn an entire species simply because evil men live amongst them. There’s beauty out there. People who deserve all the good the world has to offer.” She thought of her sister. “Those who carry love in their hearts rather than greed.”
The sneer vanished from his face. “Maybe you’re right.” He dipped his chin, catching her gaze, so close she could taste the mint lingering on his breath. “Or maybe you’ve been safe in your gilded prison and haven’t seen what your kind is capable of. Because if you knew, princess, I doubt you would defend them so easily.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “I’ve walked beside evil all my life. Endured when others have perished. Yet I still see the good in the deserving and believe that the sins of some do not eclipse the decency in others. And that, pirate, is a skill I don’t think you possess.”
Bash stilled, his retort seemingly trapped in his throat. When he finally summoned the words, they were not what she expected. “I find that I’m rarely wrong.” His voice softened, full of reluctant amusement. “Although I do enjoy it when someone is brave enough to question me.”
He was so close. She should push him away, shove the bastard off his feet, do anything to rid herself of the unwanted sensations fluttering through her chest thanks to his nearness.
She began to take a step back—
A crashing wave rolled under the ship and the vessel lurched, sending Margrete careening forward into Bash’s solid frame. His arms surrounded her like a vise. Gasping, she looked up to find his haughty mouth and self-righteous eyes mere inches away.
He tightened his hold as another wave struck the hull. With her breasts pressed firmly against his body, Margrete’s thoughts grew muddled. She could only smell the salt and wildness of the open seas upon Bash’s skin, could only think of how his hands were strong yet gentle around her. How…secure she felt.
Which was entirely absurd.
Before she succumbed to whatever madness had befallen her, Margrete placed her hands on his torso and pushed, stumbling away from his heat. She stabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”
The corners of Bash’s mouth turned up wickedly. He was enjoying this.
“What?” She refused to lower her accusatory finger. Not that she was at all threatening, but she was making a stand.
“Nothing,” he mocked, eyes sinking to where she prodded his chest. “You’re just not what I expected.”
Margrete returned his penetrating stare and poked him again. “You shouldn’t have expected anything from me. You’re nothing but a low-life, despicable scoundrel, dirty pirate, bastard—” She searched for another wounding slur, her lids fluttering wildly as she wracked her brain for anything that might cause him offense.
“You done?” he asked, grinning.
Margrete flustered and snapped, “No, I most certainly am not!” Then, she added, “And a vile rogue!”
“Oh, Miss Wood, you disappoint me. I know you can do better than that,” he said, winking. “But while I’d love to stay and hear what other insults you conjure up, we really should be on our way.” He dipped his chin and his eyes sparkled, seeming to look forward to her ill-conceived taunts.
Margrete sealed he
r lips, not giving him the satisfaction. Bash looked almost disappointed as he wrapped a firm but gentle hand around her elbow and guided her from the cabin and down a narrow hall, one barely wide enough to accommodate his broad frame. He paused only when she bumped her shoulder as she came upon a slight bend, but his attention remained ahead, the muscles in his neck impossibly taut.
Margrete kept quiet and took in her surroundings, noting the smallest of details, if only to glean information that might assist in an escape. She wanted nothing more than to raise her knee between Bash’s legs again and run, but she was on a ship and had to bide her time.
Gods knew patience was a lesson she’d well learned.
Bronze starfish and polished shells decorated the rails leading to the deck, and Margrete trailed her fingers over the intricate designs as they ascended. Whatever else could be said about Bash, the vessel he sailed was still one of beauty.
Margrete knew a beautiful ship when she saw one. With a chamber overlooking Prias’s bay, she’d spent her short lifetime staring longingly at more fine vessels than she could count. Though being onboard a ship when she didn’t know how to swim was an entirely different thing.
Bash’s grip tightened as he led her quietly up the stairs and into the sun. A few sailors on deck stopped their work to stare, but most ignored her completely, carrying on about their duties.
Unlike Bash, they all wore the same deep blue tunic, the one she recognized from the attack, a moon and sun symbol brushed in gold on every chest. Booming demands rang out as men and a few women bustled to fulfill orders.
The presence of women was new for Margrete, as most captains were superstitious about having them onboard, as if the lack of manhood somehow attracted unfortunate weather. Margrete studied each face, noticing similar features in many of those she passed—the same sharp angles, luminescent skin, and haunting eyes of varying hues.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 5
