Beneath Black Sails

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Beneath Black Sails Page 13

by Clare Sager


  The deck shook as her crewmates returned fire with the chase cannons. Knigh bellowed some command about the sails.

  She squeezed his hand. “Ready starboard cannons – double shot – tell them.” Then she plunged back into the water, pushing them hard at the second ship. To strike their side would be suicide – it was the strongest part of the hull – but it just might make the other crew panic, and the speed would help her next manoeuvre.

  At the last second, she veered to port, the warship passing just feet away to starboard, its hull towering 30 feet above The Morrigan’s deck.

  Its gunports flashed, spurted white smoke, and cannonballs skimmed the waves. But again, they hit the water harmlessly.

  Vice nodded to herself and wiped her brow with her cuff.

  The warships that had drawn up either side couldn’t afford to fire too high unless they were positive they’d hit their prey. A stray shot could fly past The Morrigan and strike their companion.

  The Morrigan ran parallel with the second ship now – this would be the perfect moment to –

  The deck below her feet trembled as The Morrigan returned fire. This close, every double shot hit, splintering against the warship’s hull close to the waterline.

  Her legs trembled as if she’d climbed up and down the shrouds a dozen times in a storm. But the fae and the gods really must be on their side, because The Morrigan still hadn’t taken a single hit. Catching her breath, she looked up at Knigh.

  He was smiling.

  Not that twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a sardonic smirk. Not the cool smile he levelled at FitzRoy when he was trying to be civil. A real smile – mouth, eyes, cheeks all lifted and bright, transformed. He watched the waters ahead, so he must not have realised she was looking. Maybe he’d have been more guarded if he had.

  Maybe he thought they’d make it to the shoals and escape.

  She huffed a quick laugh and squeezed his hand again before dipping back into the deep.

  A few more turns, more abrupt and twisting than any ship could usually manage, and they were still untouched except for a tear to their flying jib. Vice slowed them to fall behind the sweep of the first ship’s broadside.

  The Morrigan shuddered, and Vice stumbled. Splinters burst into the air. Someone screamed.

  A hit to starboard.

  Knigh twitched, smile gone. Wincing, Vice swallowed. But a team was already running towards their injured mates, and she had to concentrate.

  And slowing had placed them closer to the third ship, still running a central course. The Morrigan’s vulnerable stern was directly in the path of their chase cannons.

  “Bollocks.” She stared up at the three gun decks looming behind them.

  In the periphery of her vision, something long and thin moved in the water, serpent-like, just below the surface. But when she looked, there was nothing there. Must’ve been a trick of the light on their wake.

  “What is” – Knigh looked over his shoulder – “gods, they’re … Wait … That’s the Sovereign … Mercia?” His tanned skin turned ashen, and his hold slackened on the wheel.

  “Mercia?” Vice steadied his hand. What was Mercia?

  A shout went up from the Sovereign – she couldn’t tell what they said, but it seemed to come from a tall man at the bow who looked down upon them. Whatever it was, the order rippled across the deck and flags rose. One was a pennant with a blue octopus. The Navy signalled with flags, but she’d never bothered to learn what they meant. “What are they saying?”

  Knigh still stared, chest heaving. “Cease fire.”

  She gasped and whipped her head towards the Sovereign. Were they giving up? But they weren’t slowing or peeling off from pursuit. Had they somehow –

  “Crew of The Morrigan,” the tall man at the bow called through a speaking-trumpet, his accent crisp as fresh canvas, “set anchor and prepare to be boarded for a visit by His Royal Highness the Duke of Mercia, Prince of Albion.”

  “What?” Vice’s weakened legs buckled, and she only stayed upright thanks to her grip on the wheel. “Knigh, do you –”

  He spun on his heel. His jaw was solid, his eyes bulged, every muscle and sinew of his neck stood out, rigid. Without sparing a glance for her, he strode fore.

  “Anchor,” bellowed FitzRoy, approaching the helm. He gave Knigh a look as he passed, one eyebrow raised, then arrived at Vice’s side. “I suppose we’d better prepare for a royal visit.”

  Half an hour later, all four ships sat at anchor, and a longboat from the Sovereign approached The Morrigan.

  Vice squinted against the sun glistening on the sea. As Avice Ferrers, she’d met the queen many times, but never her son. Like the rest of the royal family, and like her, he was fae-blooded, making him tall. Ah, his gift.

  Perhaps his gift was for the sea, too, and that had been the blankness she’d felt in the ocean – an area he controlled or his awareness stopping her own. She’d never met another sea witch – maybe they experienced it as she did and maybe one sea witch’s power blocked another’s?

  She sighed softly – there was so much she didn’t know. But aside from the fact Avice Ferrers was dead, if she ever did return to Albion to seek answers to her magic, she’d be pressed into service for the Royal Navy. They’d force her to serve on a ship or at one of their coastal forts. A dull life of orders and obedience. She wouldn’t last ten minutes.

  As long as she wasn’t caught setting foot on Albionic soil, she was safe.

  Knigh stood to attention beside her, face a near-perfect mask. But his jaw was knotted, and tension flowed off him, as tangible as a gale.

  Aedan and a handful of crew hauled the longboat up on the davits, and a dozen uniforms rose into view. The nape of Vice’s neck prickled, and a chill trickled down her back.

  The biggest plume in his hat, the tallest man there with the smuggest smile – even without the crimson hair, Vice would have known he was the Duke. His brown eyes, so like his mother’s, sparked, settling on Knigh and staying there.

  With a smooth stride, he set foot on The Morrigan and approached. His fae blood showed not only in that unnatural hair colour – instead of nails, pointed claws tipped each finger.

  “Well, well, well,” he murmured, paying no heed to his entourage forming a human wall on either side. “Knighton Villiers, as I live and breathe.”

  She blinked. Did he just say …

  Knighton Villiers?

  Her ears roared. Her chest tightened. She turned, the movement feeling sluggish, breaths loud in her ears.

  The grey eyes, the nondescript brown hair – the boy she’d last seen a decade ago had that colouring, true. But … he’d been an arrogant coward. Too self-important to speak to her, but too fearful to swim to the island in her family’s lake. That boy couldn’t command a crew or take all those pirate ships. And his pasty, plain face hadn’t held any hint of one day looking like that.

  She swallowed and shook her head.

  It couldn’t be. The Duke had to be mistaken.

  Although, hadn’t Mama said he’d passed his Lieutenant’s exam with ‘full numbers’ not long before she and Father had struck the deal? Knigh was the sort of man who’d get full marks in an exam.

  But – no, Knigh couldn’t be Knighton Villiers.

  Not possible.

  She stared at him. He had to correct the Duke, tell him he was Captain Knigh Blackwood. Go on, tell him.

  “Your Highness,” Knigh bowed, stiff and curt, “I don’t go by that name anymore.”

  “Ah, yes” – the Duke’s eyes glittered – “of course. Not since the incident. Blackwood, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t a mistake, he was …

  A disbelieving snort burst from her.

  Knigh was Knighton Villiers, the fiancé she’d fled three years ago.

  A Royal Visit

  Knigh’s body was so rigid, it was a wonder he could bow. He was more a puppet being bent by habit than a man choosing the action himself.

  “Dear Captai
n Villiers,” Mercia drawled, “you must allow me to apologise.” The way the corner of his mouth rose looked anything but sorry. “When we saw your flag of marque, I believed it some pirate trick. It was only when I saw you at the helm with – with …” His dark eyes went to Vee, and his eyebrows rose slowly. “My, a dark-haired beauty aboard The Morrigan – could this be the infamous Lady Vice?”

  “Guilty on that count, Your Highness,” Vee said, her address and the bow that followed, near-perfect. Whoever she’d been in her previous life, she could summon that aristocratic manner when needed.

  “And here I thought it would be my day to finally capture the notorious pirate.”

  “Alas, I hate to disappoint Your Highness, but I’m a privateer now, pardoned by the Queen herself – isn’t that right, Knigh?”

  “Knigh, is it?” Mercia raised his eyebrows.

  Damn it, Vee. Did she not understand that would lead to questions?

  “Indeed, madam, your charm more than makes up for any disappointment.”

  She flashed a bold grin. “So good of you to notice.”

  At Mercia’s urging, she made the introductions to FitzRoy, Perry, and Bricus.

  Watching it all in impotent silence, Knigh bit the inside of his cheek. His hands clenched against the desire to warn Vee, to step between her and Mercia.

  Did she not understand who she was dealing with?

  Yes, her manner was just about acceptable for a prince of the realm. While rather casual, she wasn’t breaching too many rules of etiquette with the way she addressed him. Her introductions were flawless, in fact.

  But Mercia wasn’t just the Prince of Albion. He was so much more dangerous than that. The man was …

  The breaths in Knigh’s chest sped. Just seeing Mercia’s face dragged him back to that day.

  The air cold. A low mist over the sea. The rushing wall of water Mercia had used to divide their enemy’s ships. The tang of copper and sulphur in the air. Their enemies’ weapons on the deck. Blood on Knigh’s blade. Mercia’s wild laugh.

  “Captain,” Mercia said, “it’s such a marvellous coincidence that I should run into you of all people – look who I have with me.”

  Knigh shook away the spectres and raised his eyebrows at Mercia. Gods, please not someone else from that day. Another face to send him back. Another set of eyes that had seen what he’d done. Someone else who knew what atrocity he’d been so close to.

  A thin smile on his lips, Mercia stepped to one side and indicated a well-dressed young man behind him.

  For a moment, all Knigh saw were the diamond shoe buckles, peacock-coloured coat, the emerald oak-leaf cravat pin twinkling. But when he looked past that to the man beneath, his world tilted. It was all he could do to stay upright.

  Hair the same colour as his own. Hazel eyes that had looked up at him for the past twenty years watched him now above a broad smile. His brother.

  “George?”

  “Knigh,” George said, shaking his head as he approached, “what the hells are you doing on a pirate boat?” He laughed and wrapped his arms around Knigh, clapping him on the back.

  Heart pounding, Knigh stiffened before returning the embrace. His eyes stayed on Mercia, who watched with that cool, calculating smile.

  What the hells was his brother doing on a ship of the line with that man? He wasn’t in uniform, so he hadn’t joined the Royal Navy in Knigh’s absence. No, he’d have been too old to join now, anyway – Knigh had been 12 when he’d begun his studies.

  That left only one answer. Knigh’s stomach dropped. George had to be part of Mercia’s entourage. The hangers-on who followed him everywhere into whatever depravities, whatever cruelties he indulged in or encouraged. Mercia’s fae charm could push a man past his own conscience and certainly past the law.

  Mercia’s smile. That glint in his eyes. Wild Hunt take Mercia, George was no coincidence. Mercia had chosen him precisely because they were brothers.

  Knigh’s heart twisted like it was going to burst, but he controlled his face and muscles. He must maintain a façade of indifference. If Mercia knew his friendship with George had him ruffled, he’d only dig his claws in deeper.

  Smiling, Knigh patted his brother on the back and pulled away. There had to be some way he could catch him alone and warn him, tell him to put in at the next port and get home on the quickest ship he could find.

  “Oh, Knigh” – George’s eyes shone – “I’ve so much to tell you – such adventures we’ve had.” He looked at Mercia with wide eyes, an unguarded smile.

  It was a look Knigh recognised only too well. Adoration. Gods, how long had Mercia been working on him?

  Even FitzRoy stared at him, a ghost of that look in his eye. Fae charm was heady magic on its own, and men like FitzRoy were drawn to gold and riches like moths to bonfires.

  “What a touching reunion.” Mercia’s eyes glittered as he watched them, head cocked. He snapped his fingers. “And – oh, yes! It can continue this evening. You’ll accompany us to a ball at Cubanakan.”

  “Oh yes, Knigh, say you can come!” George clapped, smile even brighter.

  As if he had a choice. Such an invitation from the Duke of Mercia was not a request.

  “Of course he’ll come,” Mercia said with a decisive nod. “Mr FitzRoy, the charming Lady Vice, you too. We were on our way there when we spotted your sails. We mustn’t tarry any longer, in fact. Follow closely, and we’ll see you safely into port – no more misunderstandings.”

  FitzRoy blinked as if coming to himself, then nodded and waved the crew to their tasks to get The Morrigan ready to set sail south-west.

  Mercia leant close to Knigh, smile not reaching his eyes. “You can give me your report then – I’m most curious to hear how you ended up on a pirate ship with her.”

  Then the Admiral of the Fleet hadn’t judged Mercia’s knowledge of Knigh’s mission necessary. That would put the Duke in an excellent mood.

  Knigh inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Very good, Captain.” With a brisk nod, Mercia took his leave.

  A knot in his belly, Knigh watched the Duke and his entourage return to their longboat, lower into the water, and row back to HMS Sovereign.

  Poor Etiquette

  Chandeliers glittered, couples danced, and Knigh’s blood simmered. He nodded and smiled stiffly, picking his way through the crowd, Vee and FitzRoy close behind.

  Vee passed through with ease, glaring people out of the way when necessary. The wealth on display – those crystal chandeliers, the diamond jewellery, the gem-encrusted walking sticks – none of it seemed to impress her or make her stare after it with longing.

  Knigh frowned. Again, not what he’d have expected from a pirate.

  FitzRoy’s reaction was more like it. His lifted chin, shoulders back, pride written across his features – it all added to his swagger as if he wanted to proclaim I belong.

  But his eyes gave him away. They lingered on the riches, bright and covetous. Knigh had already warned the lieutenants he’d met to keep an eye on Vee and FitzRoy at the ball to ensure they didn’t overstep any bounds.

  Knigh had enough to worry about keeping himself in check. Long, deep breaths had helped so far. And he’d pushed his shoulders down and back – walking at attention was still tense, but it felt more controlled than having them hunched around his ears. Just knowing Mercia was here was bad enough, but if he could avoid the man, then –

  “Captain Villiers,” Mercia said, voice carrying from the centre of his crowd of hangers-on, “here.” He dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. There was no sign of George.

  Well, that had been a foolish hope. Knigh bit back a sigh as his pulse jumped and he angled their course towards the Duke.

  They exchanged niceties. Again, Vee acquitted herself with an admirable nod to etiquette, despite her dips into humour that were perhaps a little too casual for a prince of the realm.

  At least until the subject of the Queen arose. With far more
enthusiasm than Knigh would have expected from an outlaw, Vee explained to FitzRoy. Thanks to the change in law some years ago, the Duke didn’t stand to inherit the throne over his elder sister simply by virtue of being male.

  “… if Your Highness will forgive me pointing out,” she added, flashing him a disarming smile. “But it is quite a momentous shift for Albionic law – women having equal inheritance rights with men. I believe Queen Elizabeth I tried to pass a similar bill, but parliament blocked her.” She raised her glass. “It’s a law centuries in the making.”

  “Indeed,” Mercia said, mouth rising in what might have been a smile except that his eyes glittered as bright and hard as the chandeliers overhead. “Madam appears to know a great deal more about Albionic law than one would expect from a pirate.”

  Knigh gripped his glass, white-knuckled, torn between pleasure at seeing Mercia’s irritation and horror at Vee for causing it. No doubt she thought it didn’t matter, that this was just casual talk at a ball, but Mercia was not a casual man. Not when it came to his pride.

  She cocked her head, teasing. “Former pirate, remember, Your Highness. Please, you must allow me this small celebration for the benefit of my sex.”

  Mercia’s nostrils flared. “I suppose I must, though I cannot honestly say I can put much heart behind it, madam. I’ve heard the arguments for equality between the sexes. And my mother has indeed ruled a very long while, during which Albion has indeed prospered. However, on this occasion, I believe her vanity has clouded her judgment.”

  Vee’s jaw knotted, every inch of her bristling as if he’d paid her a personal insult. “Vanity, Your Highness?”

  “Of course” – he waved his hand dismissively – “you won’t have seen my sister or Her Majesty the Queen. However, rest assured my sister is the very image of our mother. Choosing her to succeed is choosing to see herself upon the throne once again, even in death.”

  A chill coursed down Knigh’s back and the silence in their group yawned on. Even FitzRoy stared from Vee to Mercia and back again. He shook his head and gulped the last of his drink.

 

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