Beneath Black Sails

by Clare Sager

  As she picked at the food, movements slow, clumsy, he took the sponge and the sweet-smelling soap he’d bought and set to work cleaning away the grime of imprisonment, so she’d pass as his wife.

  Cruel Iron

  An hour later, she was dry and dressed in a new chemise, a little colour in her cheeks.

  Biting his lip, keeping his fingers from curving around her too much, he set her on the bed. He propped her against the stacked pillows. “Do you think you –”

  “I feel a lot better already.” She nodded, blinking slowly. “I’m just – I can already feel the warmth leeching away.” She smiled tightly and tugged on his hand. “Come on, heal me – maybe it’ll warm me up.”

  Chest aching, he sat on the bed and sandwiched her raw, blistered hands between his. They weren’t as cold and rough as they’d been earlier. That was progress.

  With a wriggle, she brought herself closer, legs and body against him. She eyed him sidelong with a sardonic smirk. “Still warm, Blackwood. Still warm.”

  He couldn’t help but snort at that echo of her usual self. Releasing her hands, he pulled the blankets over their laps, tucking her in.

  She, of all things, rolled her eyes, which were deepest, darkest grey-blue tonight. “Thank you, Nurse Blackwood.”

  It stung, but perhaps it was a sign she really was feeling better. If she’d made this much improvement already in just a few hours, maybe she’d make a full recovery at the same rate. That’s assuming she’d ever make a full recovery …

  The thought jolted through him, forceful as a rifle shot.

  Because the truth was, he didn’t know. There were stories about fae dying in iron but none about those who escaped and recovered. Who knew if they could recover or how long it might take? It was possible she’d be permanently weakened by this.

  He scrubbed his face to dash away the dampness in his eyes before she saw it.

  If – if that happened, then he’d serve her forever. Simple as that. Or as long as she could bear to look at him, at least. He could be the strength she’d lost.

  Wild Hunt damn it, he’d willingly work himself to death for this.

  He drew a long breath and took her hands again. “Tell me the instant you feel faint. I’ll try to keep as much energy expenditure on my end as possible, but it will still drain you. There’s nothing I can do to prevent that.” He frowned and ducked, forcing her to meet his eye. “Vee, this is important. Do you understand?”

  She raised her eyebrows, mouth opening, then closing with a long exhale through her nose. Swallowing, she nodded. “I understand. Try not to kill me.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and she flexed her hands in his grip.

  “Keep your eyes open, then I can see if you pass out.”

  “Just get on with it.”

  Gaze fixed on hers, he delved within, to that core of golden light that kept him warm, that had fled in the presence of the iron gibbet cage, that he brought out to heal.

  The back of his neck tickled – he always closed his eyes when he healed, seeing her as he did this private thing felt intimate, vulnerable.

  A flicker of a frown crossed her face, but she kept her eyes on him and gave the smallest nod as if willing him on.

  He slowed his breaths and dived to the centre of that light, where it blazed brightest. Where distant voices sang in a language he didn’t understand but felt like he’d once known. When he went this deep, that soft song called to him, alluring, welcoming, promising a warm home and hearth and sincere, loving acceptance.

  But he’d been told to follow it was to die.

  So, instead, he scooped up handfuls of the light and brought it from that wellspring, carrying it here into reality. His hands shone in that familiar warm glow, and at once Vee let out a soft sound that was part-pleasure, part-relief. He knew from experience on the receiving end how wonderful it felt at this point.

  But then came the next part.

  Every muscle tense, he raised his eyebrows. Was she ready?

  Her jaw knotted, and she nodded, hands trembling in his loose hold.

  When he pushed the light into her, he gasped. The deficit – the lack in her … it was a yawning pit, cold, empty, dark.

  The last time he’d healed her, when he’d closed his eyes and touched his magic to hers, she’d shone with crackling energy, incandescent, brilliant, powerful. Now, he could barely pick out a dim light in her, like one of their cave’s glow-worms at a great distance.

  She flinched, eyes screwing shut, hands pulling away and forcing him to tighten his grip. “Bastarding hells. Wild Hunt bloody” – jaw clenched, she threw her head back and exhaled.

  And just as wonderful as the glow of his gift had been a few seconds ago, he also knew how agonising this part was. He could withdraw and end the healing having only taken away the worst pain of the burns. He could slow, which would lessen the pain but make it last longer. Or he could push all the harder, making the pain far worse but only for an instant.

  Wincing, he slowed – she was too weak. She’d already endured enough. He’d end it for now, finish the rest another day.

  Chest rising and falling rapidly, Vee opened her eyes and met his gaze again. “Don’t stop.” Her mouth set in a line and she nodded once, eyes blazing.

  Of course she’d say that.

  But if she was strong enough to urge him, maybe she was strong enough to take it.

  Sighing a harsh breath, he gathered the golden light into a tight ball. This moment – this was the worst, but it would be over in an instant. Gritting his teeth, he channelled the energy, and it pulsed in ferocious white heat.

  Her cry ripped through the night and then she fell limp.

  Lords. Ladies. Bloody hells.

  Damnation, he’d pushed too hard. “Vee?” He touched her cheek – it was warmer than it had been earlier. And her colour was better. Perhaps …

  Brow beaded with sweat, she panted, then flexed her hand in his. “Don’t panic.” She gave a white-lipped smile. “I’m alive.”

  He sagged and snatched his fingers from her skin. No taking comfort in her touch, remember?

  “Hopefully they’ll think that was just us shagging.” Swallowing, she shook her head and opened her eyes. “Wild Hunt take you, Knigh Blackwood, but you have the most painful bloody gift I’ve ever encountered.” She examined her hands, turning them over. “Though it’s effective – I’ll give you that.”

  No more gnarled joints and dry skin. The burns had vanished, except for the old one on her palm. It made sense now – she must have touched an iron padlock, hard and for several seconds for it to leave such a detailed and lasting scar.

  “Very effective,” she breathed, clenching and unclenching her fists. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she stared at the smooth, firm movement. “Almost good as new.” She huffed a short laugh. “Thank you. I – I thought they might never work properly again.”

  A lump in his throat tightened his smile and prevented speech, but he nodded.

  Perhaps he could heal her from all the iron’s damage. Sickness was more complex to treat than an injury. Although, maybe the metal was technically a poison to her, rather than a disease. He’d never healed someone from poisoning. It wouldn’t be easy, and it would take a great deal of energy from both of them, but it could be worth a try.

  If they escaped on Billy’s ship.

  Theorising about healing iron-sickness for a fae-blooded fugitive was a task for another day.

  He took a long breath, loosening the tightness of his throat. “I fear the pain isn’t done for tonight.” His gaze flicked to the angry red burn above her temple.

  “Let’s get it over and done with.”

  By the time he’d healed that burn, Vee could barely keep her eyes open and lay against the pillows. He managed to encourage her to eat a little more to help replace the energy spent before she burrowed down in the blankets, back to him.

  Still sitting up in the bed, he craned over to peer at her face, check she didn’t look i
n pain. Eyes closed, expression soft like this, it was a wonder he’d ever believed she could be a villain. He shook his head and sighed, snuffing out the candle on the bedside table, leaving just the light from the fireplace and a lamp on the mantlepiece.

  He checked his pocket watch – three o’clock in the morning. They had maybe five hours before they’d set sail. The bed creaked as he sat up and swung his legs over the side. He should keep watch out the window, then he’d spot if –

  “Knigh?”

  It was so soft, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it. He held his breath.

  “Don’t leave me, will you? To – tonight, I mean.” Her shoulders heaved with a heavy breath, and she rolled over, one hand landing in the empty spot where he’d been sitting. She opened her eyes, and for a while, just looked at him.

  He couldn’t move. He couldn’t go to the window, but he also couldn’t slide back in place next to her. He wanted to pull her into his lap, keep her warm and close, and just let her sleep in his protection. But what damn protection was he to her when she had an entire country’s Navy after her? When he’d been the one to hand her to them?

  “I always said you were warm” – she scoffed– “and right now I need that warmth.”

  His heart twisted. He’d promised himself he’d give her whatever she needed tonight. If she needed this, then so be it.

  Nodding, he returned to his spot.

  She pursed her lips and tugged at his arm. “No. Here.”

  He almost laughed. It was so like her to ask for exactly what she wanted. He shuffled down in the bed until she nodded in approval and pulled his arm around her. She wriggled into place, head and one hand on his chest, body pressed against his. Then she sighed and closed her eyes.

  Almost at once, her breaths slowed into the rhythm of sleep, and all tension slid from her.

  Stomach a knot of guilt and longing, he pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, careful all the while to keep his other hand on her back, exactly where she’d placed it. He stared up at the bed’s canopy and settled in for the wait until dawn.

  He would listen for the castle’s alarm bells. He would get her to that ship. And until then, he would keep her safe.

  Limpet & Barnacle

  Waking was like swimming to the surface from a great, great depth. Her arms and legs were heavy, but the pain had faded to a dull ache rather than the sharp agony of that damn iron cage.

  Oh, but she was warm. So warm.

  She stretched gingerly, experimenting with her weakened muscles. Everything still worked, just more slowly. She certainly wouldn’t be able to lift anything heavy and climbing the shrouds wouldn’t be possible for a while.

  But she’d survived the night.

  She took a long breath of cinnamon, leather, and sweet soap.

  Oh Lords. That warm shape she’d limpeted onto was him, wasn’t it?

  As she’d drifted off, she’d asked him to stay in bed. She’d said it was for warmth.

  A lie. It was for comfort. Familiarity. Reassurance that she was, in fact, alive.

  Weak woman.

  Oh, but he was warm, and the air on her face was cold and couldn’t she stay here just a little longer? If she pretended she was still –

  “Vee?” He shifted and brushed her face, maybe pushing the hair away.

  She made a low grumble and buried her face between the blankets and his chest. “I’m asleep.”

  “We need to get going.”

  Sighing, she pulled herself out from the covers and forced her eyes open. “I know.”

  They still needed to get to the ship. There was a chance the Navy would blockade the entire Solent if they discovered her missing and thought she might try to flee on a boat. Considering she was a pirate and a sea witch, that would be a safe assumption.

  She pursed her lips and dragged herself from bed, staggering when she first reached her feet. Holding the bedpost, she paused, legs trembling.

  Weak muscles. Right. She had to remember that.

  If they blockaded the port, she’d usually just sweep their ships away, but in this state? A little mist had made her pass out last night.

  Scowling, she splashed herself clean and started dressing. Barnacle watched through one eye from her spot on the bed. Vice’s heart melted just a touch at the sight of the little cat.

  Knigh lurked by the window, peering out through a crack in the curtains. He still wore the same shirt and breeches that he’d worn all night, thoroughly rumpled.

  But he didn’t seem to care, attention fixed outside where it was still dark. When he turned to help lace her stays, his brows were knotted.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked as he tightened the cord far more gently than Perry ever did.

  Her stomach twisted. Perry. Where was she? Had they been captured at Plymouth or had the plan only ever been for her?

  Urgh, and she hadn’t even asked Knigh. She rubbed her face. Once they were safely on his friend’s ship, there’d be plenty of time to talk. “Knigh?”

  “Those patrols we saw last night …”

  “Right. What about them?”

  He made a noisy exhalation, and she could picture his mouth in a straight line. “That’s not normal. Not so many of them, anyway. I just saw another group pass – they checked the alley over the road.”

  “Just like that group last night did.”

  “Exactly. I’m – I have a theory, and I hope it isn’t correct.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Because they hadn’t sounded an alarm, I thought your escape had gone unnoticed.”

  Cold seeped through her, almost as bad as the chill that iron cage had set deep in her bones. “You thought?”

  “If I were Vice Admiral Yorke, I wouldn’t want to publicise the fact my prized prisoner had got away. Especially not after crowing about such a great victory. I’d try to recapture you quickly and quietly, say with patrols of marines searching alleys, stables … maybe even houses and inns.”

  “Wild Hunt, you’re a sneaky bastard, Knigh.” She shook her head as he tied off the laces. “No wonder you caught Jack.” And me. A shiver crept through her.

  “I’m hoping Yorke isn’t as sneaky. But I fear I’m right.” He twitched the edge of the curtain and peered out again, shoulders squared, body tensed, as ready as a sabrecat on a hunt.

  She clenched her jaw, gaze tracing over the muscles of his back, visible where his skirt skimmed them. He was still whole, still strong. Her body had failed her, her muscles stripped away. She hadn’t been able to look at herself naked as she’d bathed last night – that was the main reason she hadn’t even tried to resist when he’d brought out the sponge and soap. His reaction when he’d undressed her had told her enough.

  Horror. Disappointment. Pity.

  She spun on her heel, ignoring the wave of dizziness that blanketed her, and snatched the petticoats he’d bought.

  “We need to go.” He abandoned the window and yanked on his coat. “Now.”

  His tone stilled the joke on her tongue.

  Bollocks. He was serious. And worried.

  And, the way he strode around the room, stuffing belongings into his duffle bag, he was on full alert.

  She tugged on the petticoats, tied their ribbons all together in one bulky bow that would make a lady’s maid faint, then pulled on the gown and buttoned the front. The cat twisted around her legs, eyes flashing with agitation.

  Knigh swept the cloak and shawl over her shoulders while she pulled on the silly pointed shoes. Running a hand through her hair, she patted her shoulder and called for Barnacle.

  With a chirrup, the little cat jumped up and draped herself across the back of Vice’s neck.

  Sword and pistols at his side, Knigh already had the door open. He glanced up and down the landing, then with a nod, he signalled for her to come.

  “No time for arguments, I’m afraid,” he muttered.

  Before she could ask what he meant, he’d picked her up. She gritted her teeth, both against t
he indignity and at Barnacle’s claws digging into her shoulder. She wouldn’t have admitted it if asked, but he did make short work of the stairs compared to how slowly she’d walked down the staircase at FitzRoy’s inn last night.

  “Fine,” she growled when he set her down by the back door. She scratched Barnacle’s head, and the claws retracted from her flesh, just gripping the thick woollen cloak. “What did you see out there?”

  “A dozen marines on the front road. Whether they just happen to be in this part of town or they’ve connected me to your escape and then to this place – well, I suppose we’ll find out when I open this door.”

  He pressed into her hand something hard, wooden, familiar.

  She blinked, eyebrows raised. She didn’t have to look at it to know a stag decorated the handle. Avice Ferrers’ pistol, just like Kat’s. She squeezed the perfectly shaped grip and nodded. Just the feel of it steadied her hand.

  “Primed and loaded,” he murmured.

  “Thank you.” Quite how he’d got hold of it would have to wait. As would a great many things. Like his betrayal. Her gratefulness soured, and she frowned as he opened the door, blocking the way with his broad shoulders.

  Damn him, betraying her and then acting like this.

  He was deliberately shielding her, in case marines waited outside. And he’d been so gentle last night, like a mother cat lifting kittens by the scruffs of their necks. It had always amazed her how they did that without injuring the little things with their sharp canines. Now here he was, the fearsome warrior, the berserker who’d bathed her and scrubbed behind her ears. Who’d massaged shampoo into her scalp. Who’d even combed her hair so carefully it had almost made her weep with gratitude.

  She swallowed, trembling, but no shots rang out, and there was no clang of steel on steel.

  His shoulders lowered an inch, and he slipped into the alley, offering his hand.

  She looked at it. She could refuse. After what he’d done, did she really want to touch him?

  But, damn it, yes, she did. At least for now. The sky was lightening, approaching dawn, but it was still dark, still cold. And although she’d never been afraid of the dark before, this night was different.