Beneath Black Sails

by Clare Sager

  After that pleasant surprise, the crew finished tidying and repairing The Morrigan, and disentangled the three ships. As part of the deal, new weapons were brought over from the Venatrix – extra pistols and rifles, which Vice helped stow. They weren’t fae-worked, but they were in good working order. Maybe that was what had sweetened the deal.

  By the time the sun was just a thin orange sliver on the horizon, everyone was back on their own ships, and The Morrigan set sail.

  Vice stood at the stern rail, watching the Venatrix silhouetted against the dying sunset. She sighed, heart dropping. Being a privateer made taking that ship strictly off-limits, probably forever. It was a pretty dream while it lasted.

  They could take a Hesperian vessel instead, though it’d be hard to find something as swift and sleek. She bit her lip.

  Still, she’d got her wish to ally The Morrigan with the Queen. Plus, leaving the Venatrix in their wake meant she’d got the insufferably disciplined Captain Blackwood off her back.

  Silver linings and all that.

  She watched the shrinking shape of the Venatrix, munching roasted cocoplum seeds from the pouch Perry had pressed into her hands with an order to “Bloody eat something, woman.”

  Vice chuckled to herself. Fine, so maybe she was feeling a little better now she’d eaten.

  “Madam.” The voice came from behind, setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end. “I understand you can show me to my new cabin.”

  Blackwood?

  Space

  Blood burning its way through her body, Vice clenched her hands into useless fists.

  The Captain had given her cabin to Blackwood. He’d actually gone and done it.

  She’d argued – Wild Hunt, she’d bloody argued, but he was adamant. The deal to turn legit privateer not quite of the Queen’s Navy meant bringing aboard a representative.

  Standing in the same spot as when she’d given him the fake clue, FitzRoy lifted his open hands. “As such, he requires an appropriate cabin, and if it wasn’t yours, it would be mine.”

  And that wasn’t going to happen.

  She clenched her jaw, then huffed. “You didn’t even kick me out when …” She stopped short, nostrils flaring and threw a quick look at Blackwood who stood impassively beside her.

  She didn’t talk about then, and she certainly wasn’t going to mention Evered in front of him.

  A flicker of a frown that looked worrying like genuine concern crossed FitzRoy’s face. “Vice, I’m not kicking you out now. Perry’s already agreed to share her berth with you, and I’m sure Mr Blackwood will allow you to access his cabin to fetch your belongings.”

  His cabin. Just like that, decision made. Vice ground her teeth.

  Blackwood folded his arms, fingers resting on the biceps she now knew the feel of. Was that a deliberate flex or – but, no, the overly-smooth smile he gave was fixed on FitzRoy rather than her. “Captain Blackwood is only too happy to allow Miss – madam to enter and gather any belongings she may need.”

  FitzRoy stared at the other man, unblinking, then smiled coolly. “Indeed.”

  Ha, maybe he was regretting letting Blackwood on the ship after all. Well, he had no one to blame but himself – she’d tried to warn him.

  “Vice,” he said, dark gaze sliding to her before finally blinking, “is there anything else?”

  Dismissed. She had no say in this.

  “Fine, but you owe me. What we spoke about –”

  Nodding, he raised a hand. “Of course. Some fine Hesperian galleon or – no, a frigate for you, I think, yes?”

  She cocked her head. That was easy. Too easy. She threw a sidelong look at Blackwood, but he gave no response. No surprise there. Cold fish.

  Still, part of their remit as privateers would include the license to take cargo from Albion’s enemies, destroy their ships … or take them. And any vessel they took would need a captain.

  It might not be the Venatrix, but it would be hers.

  “A frigate. A fast one.” She nodded, flashed him a smile, and swept out. “Come on, Blackwood,” she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll show you my cabin.”

  Striding back into the night air, Vice scowled at the handful of crewmates nearby who met her gaze, all frozen in place, eyebrows raised. News of her being evicted from her cabin must have burned through the ship like wildfire. Pursing her lips, she lifted one shoulder, confirming the gossip.

  Without checking whether Blackwood followed, she threw the door to her cabin open and swept her hand towards it theatrically. “Your cabin awaits, ser.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, ducking past her with a nod.

  “A pirate hunter thanking a pirate.” She scoffed and followed him inside, slamming the door. “Wonders will truly never cease.”

  He strode to the stern windows, looking out into the night. Maybe he was saying goodbye to the Venatrix himself. “Thanking a privateer, you mean.” Taking a deep breath, he threw all the windows open.

  Was he trying to say she smelled? Cheeky bastard. “You don’t smell so sweet yourself,” she muttered and lit the lamp that hung from the ceiling.

  Stomping about the room, she grabbed the duffle bag from her sea chest and threw it on her bunk.

  The space had always been plenty big enough, but with him here, it felt suddenly crowded. He had to duck to walk under the lamp, and his shoulders blotted out her view of the darkening violet sky through the stern windows.

  “So,” he said, back still to her, “if not Miss Vice, what am I to call you?”

  “Vice. Or Lady Vice, if you’re feeling formal.”

  He scoffed, a faint misting of breath hitting the window. “I refuse to call you such a ridiculous name as Vice.”

  She shot upright. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Clearly you have a real name.” He leant on the window frame, long fingers tanned dark against the white-painted wood. “No one in the world would call a child Vice.”

  That was true, but she wasn’t Avice Ferrers anymore. That girl was gone, and so were Papa’s claims over her, including betrothal to that boy he’d chosen. Papa, Knighton Villiers – she was dead to them and good riddance. Being parted from Mama, Nanny Alder, and her sister gave the thought a sour note, but if that was the price she had to pay for freedom, so be it. Besides, one day she’d return and keep her promise to Mama.

  One day.

  Frowning, she stripped her blankets and sheets from the bed, rolling them up and packing them. “I call myself Vice, that’s all that matters.”

  “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

  Lords, was he flirting? She paused, reaching into her sea chest.

  “I” – he turned from the window and let out a quick breath. “Well, that’s a lot of books.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen more” – she shoved a handful of clothes in the duffle – “you officer types all come from the nobility, don’t you?” The home of hypocrisy.

  “You didn’t seem entirely out of place in a ballroom yourself. Say, are these all yours or –”

  “Yes, they’re mine.” When she turned, he stood at the shelves that lined the partition between her cabin and the Captain’s, a book in his hands. “I may be a pirate – privateer, but I can read, you know.” She snatched the book and returned it to the shelf.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Rubbing his fingertips, he turned slowly. His grey eyes glinted as he took in every detail of her cabin.

  It made her itch. This was all hers. No one came in here, it was her space. She clenched her hands then shook them out.

  The sooner she was packed, the sooner she’d be out of here and away from him.

  Trying her best to ignore him, even when she had to inch past his too-big form, she gathered the essentials. Hand mirror and a little bottle of perfume Perry had gifted her for her birthday. More clothes from the drawers, including her few nice chemises – all sheer silk and fine lace. Who knew what this lonely naval officer would do with a woman’s underwear if
left unattended?

  That made her chuckle to herself.

  “Barnacle?” He stood by the bunk, holding up the red broadcloth cushion she’d made from fabric left over from her coat. “I’ve never seen a lady take to embroidering the names of sea creatures before.” He stared from the cushion to her, one eyebrow raised, one corner of his mouth lifted.

  Oh, yes, very bloody amusing. Somehow this was enough to make him wear an actual facial expression?

  She threw him a withering look. “Don’t touch my things.” She rescued the cushion from his grasp and placed it back on the bed. “Barnacle is obviously the ship’s cat.”

  “Oh, obviously. So, what’s this? A tribute to him in all his feline glory?”

  “Her feline glory, actually. She likes to sleep in here, and if you don’t let her in, she’ll just scratch at the door all night until you do. So, good luck with that.”

  Enough of him. This would do – if she needed anything else, she’d come back for it another time. She grabbed the duffle, and when she straightened, throwing it over one shoulder, he hadn’t backed away, leaving their bodies much too close for comfort.

  Again, that heat radiated from him, more appealing now night had fallen, and the air had grown chilly after the heat of battle.

  No, not appealing. Nothing about him was appealing. He was Navy to the core – no doubt he’d start arranging things in her cabin the moment she was gone, aligning it all, setting things at perfect right angles.

  And yet her breath sped along with her heart rate. He stared at her lips where they’d parted entirely without her intention.

  She clamped her mouth shut.

  Wild Hunt damn him, this had truly backfired. She would never have pulled that stunt with the weapons check if she’d known he’d be staying on board. It had been too long since she’d felt a lover’s arms, lips – or anything else for that matter – and touching him had sent her spinning off course, dizzy as a teenage girl.

  Worse, FitzRoy was so possessive, even though they’d stopped bunking together, that there was no way she could satisfy her need with someone else in the crew. Not without winning them a tough time from him – Aedan had learned that lesson the hard way.

  “Well, anyway,” she said, voice coming out strangled, “Barnacle doesn’t like anyone but me, so I’m sure she won’t bother you, Navy boy.” She backed away, calves slamming into the low edge of her sea chest, making her wince. “She’s far smarter than FitzRoy – whatever you did to persuade him to trust you won’t work on her. And I don’t trust you, either.”

  His back and shoulders straightened, squared, just like the ridiculous desk in his cabin on the Venatrix, all hint of flirtation and informality snuffed out. “An excellent position, madam. I suggest you maintain it.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I will.” She shoved the door open and gave him a sardonic smile. “Enjoy sleeping with the cat – she likes having her belly rubbed.”

  Barnacle hated having her belly rubbed by anyone other than Vice. She’d scratch the man’s hands to ribbons.

  Vice bit back a laugh and left, slamming the door in her wake.

  It was a wonder her skin didn’t sizzle in the night air, it was so hot. She sank against the door and huffed out a long breath.

  Gods, please say Captain Knigh Blackwood’s presence on The Morrigan was only temporary while they gained the Navy’s trust. If it went on too long, there was a good chance either she or he wouldn’t survive.

  Adjustment

  It was worse than Vice had feared.

  Far, far worse.

  Scratching Barnacle’s chin, she watched Blackwood doing –

  “What is he doing?” she whispered to the cat.

  Wynn and Effie stood at his side, heads bowed, looking at a short length of rope in his hands.

  Knots? A bloody Navy officer thought he could waltz on deck and show the pirate sisters how to tie knots? She laughed, the sound somewhere between amused and frustrated.

  This was the third time in a week she’d spotted him changing things. Yesterday, he’d raised a query with Perry about the efficient stowing of hammocks. His second day aboard, she’d watched as he’d checked and adjusted every single spare line on the ship. He’d coiled it afresh, tying a new hitch, and hanging it up, perfectly neat.

  FitzRoy had let him on the ship and given him her cabin, but interfering with the crew was taking liberties. He might still have the title Captain, but he wasn’t The Morrigan’s captain. He wasn’t even really part of the crew – Perry had told her that part of the deal meant he wasn’t to take part in any attacks since this wasn’t officially a Navy ship. He was only here to observe.

  He crossed his hands and twisted the rope, then lifted it for Wynn and Effie to see.

  Well, that wasn’t only observing.

  Folding her arms, she sidled over behind Blackwood. She’d tell him and –

  Even better – FitzRoy was approaching, a small frown in place as he watched.

  She wouldn’t have to tell him anything.

  Barnacle leapt off her shoulder and trotted over to Blackwood.

  Vice glared after her. “What the –”

  The little beast flopped over and stared up at him, green eyes wide.

  Oh, he was in for a nasty surprise. Clever kitty.

  Sure enough, he crouched and reached for Barnacle’s fluffy white tummy – a trap.

  Hook line and sinker. She’d tear him to –

  Except she didn’t. Vice blinked as Blackwood rubbed the little cat’s belly.

  And the little minx purred.

  Traitor.

  Fine. Well, Fitz wouldn’t be so easily won over. She huffed and raised her eyebrows at him, indicating Navy Boy’s little knot-tying lesson.

  “Blackwood,” FitzRoy said, tone clipped, “if you’d oblige me.” He gestured towards his cabin and turned, not checking whether Blackwood followed. “And you, Vice,” he called over his shoulder.

  What? Her, too? What had she done? Unless it was to report on all his interference.

  She entered FitzRoy’s cabin a pace behind Blackwood and nodded. “Captain.” If Blackwood was about to get a dressing down, she didn’t want to put herself in the line of fire, too. Even if that did mean playing along with FitzRoy’s ridiculous desire to seem important in front of Navy Boy.

  FitzRoy lifted his chin, level gaze falling on Blackwood in a way that made up for the fact he was a few inches shorter. “What were you doing with my crew members, Blackwood?”

  “Demonstrating the correct method for making a gasket coil hitch. They’re more secure than bight coil hitches, which I noticed were employed throughout The Morrigan.”

  So it wasn’t just to look neat. At least as far as Blackwood was concerned, the hitch he’d used was more fit for purpose. She raised her eyebrows.

  FitzRoy’s jaw ratcheted a notch tighter.

  Knigh tilted his head, lifting one shoulder. “Regardless of which is more effective, the bights had been started incorrectly, FitzRoy.”

  Vice’s eyes widened, and she shot him a look. His face was impassive as always – wait, no, there was a slight narrowing of his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing, dropping Fitz’s title just as Fitz had dropped his. Two captains on a ship, of course it was bound to lead to a power play.

  Good, maybe that would work in her favour – let Fitz direct his irritation at Blackwood, and she’d look great in comparison.

  Fitz’s nostrils flared. “And yesterday you spoke to my quartermaster about a matter of ship management, also, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  Vice cleared her throat. “And you asked about the powder storage the other day.”

  Tension knotted in Fitz’s jaw. “And why are you making these alterations to my ship?”

  “Because they were incorrect.”

  Vice snorted. “It can’t be that wrong – The Morrigan’s still afloat and thriving, and this is how we’ve always done things.”

  He raised an eyebr
ow at her, grey eyes coolly amused. “That’s the problem.”

  She bristled, and Fitz mirrored her, back erect, hands clenching.

  Blackwood appeared unmoved. He went on, “Your methods were less effective, and, in the case of the black powder, I had concerns they might be dangerous.”

  “Then you take it to the Captain,” she bit out. It couldn’t have been that dangerous, the ship hadn’t exactly exploded. “Chain of command and all that. Isn’t that what you have – what you bloody worship in the Navy?”

  “You mean you have some sense of order on this –”

  “On this what?” Fitz’s voice was low, sending a chill down Vice’s back.

  Great, that was all she needed, Fitz in a rage. Irritated was one thing, but if he lost his temper …

  Blackwood swallowed and cleared his throat softly. He must have realised he’d stepped close to the line. “I’d heard pirate crews prided themselves on having no hierarchy, on living in a kind of” – he waved his hand through the air in a gesture far too loose for him – “anarchic chaos.”

  “Does my ship look like an example of chaos to you?”

  For long seconds, Blackwood looked back at Fitz. His chest rose and fell as if he were about to reply, but no words came.

  Dear gods, answer him, man.

  Fitz worked his jaw, a sure sign of building fury. If Blackwood didn’t speak soon, he’d blow, just as dangerous as gunpowder. Gods only knew what Fitz would do then.

  She coughed softly and patted her chest, calling the attention of both men to her – anything to break the painful tension hanging between them. Eyes wide, she stared at Blackwood, willing him to speak.

  “The Morrigan is a sound vessel.”

  Marginally better than nothing. She exhaled.

  With an audible pop, Fitz pulled his teeth apart. “Quite.”

  This could still go badly. “Blackwood,” she said – gods, where was she going with this? “Didn’t I hear you telling Perry yesterday what a good state of repair the sails were in?” It was almost true – Perry told her he’d said something positive about their canvas when he’d made the suggestion about the hammocks.