Beneath Black Sails

by Clare Sager

  The Morrigan eased into place, and Vice helped Perry and Saba with the gangway, with Barrels securing the other end. She was first up there, striding across to the jetty, Perry not far behind.

  “Here, Barrels” – she sidled next to him as he coiled the spare line with an expert twist, tattooed knuckles flexing – “what do you know about that small frigate over there, the Venatrix?”

  He straightened from his work, rubbing his brow. “Ah, well.” He glanced left and right, then ushered her and Perry away from his colleagues. “That’s something I was going to warn you about.”

  Perry’s eyebrows dropped into a frown, and she leant towards him.

  Vice scoffed. “Warn? Too late for that, I’m afraid – I’m already in love.”

  “Not with that ship, I hope – she’s a pirate hunter.”

  “Huh.” A pirate hunter’s vessel. Low profile, swift, well-armed. Made sense. And would make taking her all the sweeter. She raised an eyebrow. “Well, that just makes things more interesting.”

  “Not interesting, Vice, dangerous,” Barrels murmured. “The hunter’s here for you.”

  “Who’s here for my sea witch?” the Captain’s low voice behind her cut through their hush.

  She turned and smiled up at him.

  Despite the pallor from too many days shut in his cabin, FitzRoy cut a fine figure in the sleek black coat he saved for visiting shore. The gold braid and brass buttons gleamed in the sun. His hazel eyes narrowed at her, red around the edges but just as intense as always. A flicker of a smirk pulled at the corner of his shapely mouth. “Vice” – one eyebrow raised – “what have you been up to?” There was a tease in his tone, like someone telling off a wayward lover.

  She licked her lips and swallowed, heartbeat speeding. She might not have rolled with him recently, but he was still a damned handsome man. And that tone …

  “There’s a pirate hunter in dock, captain,” Perry muttered, arms folded, turning to Vice with a low-key version of her withering look. “And he’s here for her.”

  Vice lifted her chin, hands on hips. A pirate hunter here for her. That would make Fitz see – she was enough for the Navy to send someone after her, surely, she was enough to be a captain.

  “Come all the way from Albion. He’s meeting with the governor after her ball tonight,” Barrels chimed in, raising his eyebrows at Fitz.

  Fitz glowered, mouth flat, brow creasing. “And he’s come for Vice specifically, not her captain?”

  She raised her hands and shrugged, helpless. It wasn’t her fault people liked telling tales of a woman pirate, who was also a sea witch, more than they did of her captain.

  And it wasn’t his fault, either. It was the fae blood. Even those only blessed by the fair folk – the fae-touched – possessed a charm that was difficult to resist.

  For FitzRoy, the last straw had been the songs about her when they’d last returned to Albion six months ago. The Song of the Pirate Queen, especially. They’d argued, and he hadn’t touched her since. Even with her fae charm.

  Those folk singing and telling tales weren’t her fault, but hopefully she could steer it to her advantage. The more stories they told, the more likely she’d win her own captaincy. He couldn’t keep her cooped up under his command forever, and the sooner he set her free, the sooner she’d stop overshadowing him.

  At least that was the theory. She was starting to have doubts …

  She cocked her head and gave him an apologetic smile before looking sidelong at Barrels. “The governor’s ball tonight – I take it that’ll be up at her mansion.” If she could sneak in, she might be able to find out something about this pirate hunter. And if she knew something of him, of his weaknesses, then she’d have the upper hand in stealing his pretty ship.

  Barrels nodded.

  “And the hunter’s going?”

  “Aye, she’s invited him – reckon she wants to dangle her daughter in front of him like some prize.”

  Perry narrowed her eyes. “What are you plotting, Vice?”

  “Reconnaissance.” For her eventual capture of the Venatrix, yes, but also for her own curiosity. Who was this man who’d sailed all the way from Albion for the chance to catch her? He had to be an optimistic fool to believe he’d succeed. But, Lords and Ladies, he’d chosen a tempting lure to dangle in front of her.

  “No, you can’t be –”

  “I can. If this man’s after me, then by extension he’s after The Morrigan, so it’s best we know about him, isn’t it, Captain?” She looked up at him from lowered lashes.

  “Something, at least,” he conceded with a tilt of his shoulders.

  “And I’m the best person for the job, considering …” She swallowed, and her smile grew tight for a second.

  That girl was long dead, her past a distant memory, but she still knew how to summon her manners when necessary. Etiquette couldn’t have changed in three years. A nagging discomfort tickled the back of her throat.

  She took a quick breath. “Considering my background.”

  There, that was the closest she’d venture towards saying it. No way would she mention that foolish girl Lady Avice Ferrers. As far as the world was concerned, she was dead. Only Perry, Fitz, and those who’d served on The Morrigan three years ago knew she’d become Lady Vice – and they all knew to keep quiet about it.

  Urgh, enough wincing at the embarrassment of Avice Ferrers. She was a pirate now, tough and free of a little girl’s stupid ideas.

  She lifted her chin, pulling back her shoulders.

  Fitz tilted his head, mouth pouting as it did when he was thoughtful.

  Perry’s lips pursed. As quartermaster, she had no say in this decision unless the Captain asked, but Vice knew what she’d say if asked. No. Too reckless.

  Sweet fae Lords and Ladies, she loved Perry dearly – she was her closest friend, practically family – but that woman did love to say the word reckless a lot. Everything was reckless in her book. Or at least everything Vice wanted to do.

  Vice eyed Fitz – still thinking. If she could persuade him before he asked for Perry’s input …

  With a light brush of her fingers, she flicked away an imagined spot of dust from his shoulder. That would push his sartorial buttons. “Besides, we took that chest of fancy ladies’ clothes from the brig last week. Would be a shame to let it all go to waste.”

  His brows flashed up, and his gaze flowed down her. He had to be picturing her in full stays and gown, hair brushed and curled and dressed. Gods, when had been the last time she’d done that? Surely not since they’d snuck into that masked ball together. And all night he’d strutted like a duke who owned a particularly beautiful sabrecat and showed it off on a diamond-studded leash.

  Her captain wasn’t easily led by his loins, but he did enjoy possessing the finer things in life. And, as he’d once told her, a true lady in a fine gown is one of the finest things a man may possess.

  “Very well, Vice.” He rubbed a lock of her hair between thumb and fingertips. “Just try not to get in trouble.”

  Oh, she intended to.

  Hunting the Huntsman

  There was something about a man in uniform. Especially one who wore it so well.

  Vice watched his profile sidelong as she poured a glass of punch. He was perhaps a couple of years older than her with mid-brown hair that was short at the sides and long and thick on top, swept back as if he’d run his fingers through it. It was nothing special, except that it framed a remarkably handsome face, all angled jaw accentuated by trimmed sideburns and high cheekbones.

  Tall and broad in shoulder and chest, he stood imposing by the ballroom’s high windows, peering out, apparently more interested in the world outside.

  She couldn’t blame him. Just like back in Albion, the people here were hypocrites more interested in gowns and etiquette than anything real.

  “Oh, won’t you look at those spills on the tablecloth,” a grey-haired lady said at her shoulder. “What are they teaching girls these days?�
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  Maybe something more interesting than how to pour punch without spilling it? Vice raised an eyebrow and flashed the woman a brief smile. “Quite.” To avoid having to say any more, she sipped her drink.

  He was still there, still absorbed by something outside.

  Vice had been here an hour and heard no word of the pirate hunter. But maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted trip. Men on shore leave could be persuaded to take a tumble before returning to weeks and weeks at sea without sight of a woman.

  His fingers curved around a little punch glass, making his hands look almost comically large in comparison.

  Large hands, powerful shoulders that didn’t need epaulettes to exaggerate them, and long, lean legs. He would make an excellent candidate, now the Captain was off the boil.

  The lady at her shoulder was saying something about a gentlewoman’s education and now paused, expecting an answer.

  Vice rolled her eyes. “Excuse me.” She didn’t spare the lady a look before sauntering towards the uniformed man.

  To be invited here, he was some sort of officer. She hadn’t bothered to learn all the silly little details that marked a man as lieutenant, commodore, or captain. Whatever his rank, he might let slip some useful information about ships in the area, naval movements, this pirate hunter …

  Men could be very talkative between the sheets.

  Just what was he looking at? She circled behind, peering past him through the window. Ah, the harbour.

  “Keeping an eye on your ship?” she murmured, not quite in his ear.

  He didn’t jump, but he straightened slowly and turned towards her, brows raised in controlled lines.

  Damn, even better face-on. His grey eyes surveyed her and what had looked like such unremarkable hair gleamed in the last rays of sunlight slanting through the window. This angle also revealed a pure white shock at the parting above his left eye. Below that, just crossing into the edge of his eyebrow, a scar traced a silvery line. What was that from?

  And double-damn, a lady wasn’t supposed to approach a man like this. She could deal with that, but she also wasn’t meant to just address him out of nowhere without so much as a title. She was out of practice.

  She added, far too late, “Ser.”

  Her naval gent cleared his throat, gaze falling to the floor. “I’m afraid so, madam.” His eyes wrinkled in a charming wince. “I apologise, I’m afraid it’s been some time since I’ve been in polite society and it’s left me more at home on board a vessel than in a ballroom.”

  She couldn’t blame him. The place was so stuffy, not helped by all the layers of clothing polite society demanded. Three petticoats, an overskirt, a chemise, stays, and then an open-fronted gown pulled on over the top of all that and buttoned down the front from bust to waist.

  The soft voices of ladies and gentlemen drifted around the huge room – Lords and Ladies, they spoke so quietly, it was eerie. Glasses clinked occasionally, and a pianoforte sat unplayed. But there was no other sound. Not the groaning of timber or the shushing of waves or the whip of sails. Even her legs felt uncertain without the rolling deck beneath her feet.

  Down in the bay, it was all movement. The gentle bob of ships at anchor, flags flapping, and the hive of activity – men and a few women at work, all with purpose. The people in here just milled about doing … nothing.

  She sighed. “Ballrooms are so still, aren’t they?”

  His head cocked, and those steel-grey eyes narrowed for an instant as if he were confused by her comment.

  Shrugging, she drank a cool mouthful of sweet punch. At least they had cold drinks here, though gods knew where they got the ice from.

  He was still giving her that odd look as if she were something puzzling he’d found wrapped around an anchor. She swept her glass to indicate the room. “No creaking planks, no snap and furl of sail, no touch of salty breeze or spray, no sun on your skin.”

  The faintest of controlled smiles touched his lips.

  What would they feel like if she touched them with hers? He wore no wedding ring, not that that always stopped sailors far from home, but with a little luck, it would make him more susceptible to her advances.

  “Have you sailed much, madam?”

  She laughed. What a question to ask a pirate. But she wasn’t meant to be a pirate in here. She was a lady. “Only here from Albion. My family was terribly seasick the whole time.” Just like he’d been all those years ago. He’d complained, and even when he’d stopped throwing up, he’d moaned and groaned in their bunk.

  Lords and Ladies, how had she ever imagined they were a good match? The poor man dragged halfway across the world by her foolishness.

  Blinking, she shook off his spectre. “But I found it most … exhilarating.”

  “Exhilarating?” The officer raised an eyebrow, the rest of his face still. Gods, did the Navy teach men to drill their facial expressions as well as everything else? “There aren’t many young ladies who’d think that of cramped life on a boat for weeks and weeks.” He glanced out towards the bay, but those steel eyes quickly returned to her. “Your family? So, your husband or parents or …?”

  Checking if she was married or under the protection of a wealthy father. Ah, so he was interested. Excellent.

  She smirked. “My aunt and cousins. My husband died some years ago.” That bit was true – the best lies came from a seed of truth, after all. And being a widow said she was available and had no virginity to fret over losing. “Oh, I am sorry, here I am having leapt upon you in your moment of solitude without so much as an introduction.” With a little luck, she’d be leaping on him later, literally. “Lady Lyons.”

  His name. Technically it was hers since she’d ceased being a Ferrers when they’d married, but it had never felt like her own.

  Maybe that had been her subconscious trying to warn her childish self. Their little game of romance was doomed from the start. She should have listened, rather than playing the idealist.

  Ah well, that was an age ago. At least he’d been a better choice than the pathetic Villiers boy Papa had betrothed her to.

  “Captain Knigh Blackwood,” the officer said with a stiff bow. “My condolences for your loss.”

  “A pleasure, ser.” She bowed in return. “And it was long ago, but thank you.”

  As she straightened, a beautiful blonde lady in a lilac gown stopped in her tracks at the edge of the ballroom. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open, just for a second before she clamped it shut again, almost the picture of ladylike restraint.

  Oh dear, with that hair and the delicate features, she had to be Governor deLacy’s daughter. Hadn’t Barrels said deLacy would be dangling her as a carrot before the officers?

  The woman stiffened, glared at Vice, and spun on her heel, stalking away into the crowd.

  Bad luck, Miss deLacy – this officer was taken.

  With a feline smile, Vice slid her gaze back to said officer. “So, Captain Blackwood, what brings you to the shores of Xaymaca?”

  “A woman.”

  Blast. She raised her eyebrows in question, and his cheeks flushed.

  “Not in the way you might imagine. She’s a pirate – perhaps you’ve heard of her. Even back in Albion, she’s rather notorious.”

  Her throat constricted with the threat of a laugh. Oh, this was just too –

  “They call her Lady Vice.”

  Of course they did. She chuckled, shaking her head.

  He cleared his throat. “Though I’d wager that isn’t her real name.”

  She scoffed and drained the rest of her punch. “You’re the pirate hunter.” She’d come to find him, hadn’t she?

  Damn the gods and the Lords and Ladies, they had sent her a truly tempting huntsman.

  Blackwood

  Knigh Blackwood eyed Lady Lyons as she finished her drink, gulping the last mouthfuls in a most unladylike way.

  An odd woman. Alluring with her wide eyes and easy smile. And yet she was far more forward than society allowed. Perha
ps she was from Lunden. He’d heard the ladies there enjoyed a different lifestyle to those in the country – and as a widow, albeit a young one, she had the independence unmarried ladies didn’t. Maybe that was it.

  She’d said other strange things, though. She knew ships, she knew the sea. Her bright turquoise eyes, the colour of the clear, shallow waters around the island, had lit up when she’d spoken about the movement on a ship compared to the dull, deathly existence inside ballrooms. Life on board didn’t agree with many ladies.

  Something about the pink gown was incongruous. Her hair had been pinned up in a style that showed off her high cheekbones, pointed chin, and the bare skin of her neck. The deep aquamarine of her teardrop-shaped earrings and necklace set off her tanned complexion. With that dark hair and bright eyes, she’d suit vibrant colours. So why choose a pale pink when she’d made every other choice about her appearance so expertly?

  She raised her eyebrows at him, their arch impish.

  Damn, he was staring. He dragged his gaze away and lifted the glass to his lips. Empty.

  Get a grip, Knigh.

  He cleared his throat. What had she said? There’d been something strange about that, too. “The pirate hunter?”

  “Oh!” She stiffened, mouth open for a second as if he’d forced her on the back foot. “I – I’d heard that a dashing young man was going to save us all from the clutches of that wicked Lady Vice.” Again, with that effortless smile – how could someone be so easy with their expressions? “I’d just assumed the dashing part was an exaggeration.”

  Definitely flirting with him. Even he wasn’t fool enough to miss that. Well, she’d have better luck with his colleagues.

  And yet he didn’t want to send her in their direction. They could relax and frequently did so in the arms of women in this port or that. But that was for men who could afford to give in to the whims of a moment.