Falling for the Pirate (Entangled Scandalous)

by Amber Lin

  Maybe he’d drunk more than half the bottle.

  A strange melancholy overtook him. He wished he’d never seen the boy stealing into his warehouse. Then he wouldn’t have to get up while his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He could wake up in the morning, already relieved of whatever coins or gold was in the upstairs rooms. And what would it matter?

  It wouldn’t.

  Every time he drank, the liquor made him admit that the money wouldn’t give him what he truly craved.

  He really should stop drinking.

  On the deck, he found himself checking the ship’s ropes. Old habits. The men on watch saluted him, silhouettes framed by moonlight, and Nate whistled a quick greeting before heading to the fore. He paused, then took two steps backward. A scrawny foot was barely visible behind a coil of rope.

  “The quartermaster will take your breakfast away if he finds you abovedecks at this hour.”

  The foot slid further into shadow. “He’s always taking it away for something,” came the voice from behind the ropes. “Mightn’t as well not count on it.”

  Nate decided he would check with the quartermaster about how many meals could be taken away at most. Then he forced himself to scratch off the reminder. He trusted his quartermaster to provide necessities to the children, to keep them obedient and safe. The boy, Bennett, already looked to Nate too often.

  The last thing he needed was to become more involved.

  “Get below,” he said gruffly. “Now.”

  Bennett scrambled out from his hiding place, mumbling, “Yes, Cap’n.”

  Nate waited while the nine-year-old climbed down the ladder and shut the hatch. It would be just like Bennett to follow him to land, defying a direct order. Nate frowned. He wasn’t sure he could mold the boy into an obedient seaman. And the boy wouldn’t fare much better in a trade on land, not with the way he constantly talked back and fought his superiors.

  The problem was inside Bennett, eating him from within, struggling to break free. Nate understood, because he’d been there once—an angry, rebellious youth. Grown into an angry, rebellious man. He shook off the thought.

  There was still a thief inside the Hargate Shipping offices.

  The offices belonged to Nate now. As did the thief.

  Whether or not he brought the ruffian in front of a magistrate, he must put a stop to the robbery. Any number of things could go wrong: important papers misplaced, people hurt during the escape, a fire.

  Of course, the men in the main hall were clueless to the invader and drunker than Nate, besides. Some celebration or other that he didn’t partake in but wouldn’t forbid his employees. He didn’t bother to explain himself as he strode past. He often patrolled the shipyard late at night before settling in to sleep on the Nightingale. Which meant he was accustomed to moving quietly and swiftly in the dark. Up the stairs, far easier than scaling the sails.

  The thief didn’t notice his arrival, and Nate had a chance to examine him. Thin. Limping? Overall, a rather pathetic creature—who had still managed to sneak around five hardened sailors below.

  The thief was searching through the file cabinets. That was odd. Did he think valuables or coin would be stored there? Or was this an attempt at financial espionage? The boy could have been sent from any number of competitors. Nate’s sudden acquisition of Hargate Shipping had certainly inspired interest among the smaller companies.

  What if Hargate himself had sent the boy?

  Nate abandoned that thought almost immediately. The sly investor had huge resources behind him. He could hire someone more skilled at stealth than a street urchin. One who wouldn’t leave telltale smudges of soot all over the floor.

  Besides, what would be the point? Hargate knew he had lost. He had gone to ground, taking with him whatever wealth he’d managed to hide. And there was a chance—a good chance—that he was dead. And wouldn’t that make Nate’s life easier?

  “What could you be looking for?” he mused aloud, breaking the silence.

  The boy gasped and whirled, clutching a handful of papers to his chest as if to hide behind them. Well, he would have to do better than that. Nate didn’t consider himself a cruel man—except when the situation called for it. But the boy had been trespassing on his property. He clearly had some nefarious purpose in mind. And Nate wanted to know what it was.

  “Who— Who are you?” The voice shook so hard it came out as a whisper.

  Interesting. So, if the boy had been sent, his master hadn’t prepared him very well. That much was obvious by his soot-stained clothing and method of entry. A chimney sweep. They’d sent a chimney sweep to steal trade secrets from him. He was insulted more by the choice of thief than the theft itself.

  “Unlike you, I am supposed to be here.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone I was here,” the boy whispered.

  Nate blinked, taken aback by the request. They really had sent a lamb to the slaughter with this one. “Why would I not? It’s obvious you’re here to steal something. I’m sure the constable will have something to say about that.”

  The boy made a small sound, like a squeak. “No, sir.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m not trying to steal anything that— I’m not stealing anything that isn’t mine. I swear it.”

  Nate raised an eyebrow. “That’s a convenient distinction. Something that isn’t yours. Are you telling me you lost something in that cabinet? Left a chimney brush there, have you?”

  The boy shook his head, eyes wide and reflective. Up close, the boy still appeared thin and weak, but was taller than Nate had first imagined. Too tall to be a regular climbing boy. But he could have been apprenticed as one as a child. And these chimneys in the warehouse were designed to heat larger rooms, with channels large enough for an older boy such as this. Had he once been employed here? Was that how he’d hatched this idea to steal?

  Nate softened his voice. “Were you looking for coin? Or for valuables? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but not much is kept on hand in a shipping firm. Most of the money passes through with pen and paper, like it’s not really there. You won’t be finding a shilling in those files.”

  “I don’t want your money,” the boy said, and somehow, Nate knew he meant it. The fervor in his voice was strange, but undeniable.

  “If you don’t want my money, then you must be after something else.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” the boy cried. “Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I only wish to— I wish to—”

  “Who sent you?”

  The boy’s eyes darted to the door. He must have known he’d never slip by Nate, who stood only two feet away. But just to be sure, Nate added, “Do not think about running. Whether I call the constable or not depends on you telling me the truth, right now. That’s your best chance of getting out of this without shackles, understand?”

  Those eyes widened. What color were they? Something pale and dark at the same time. It confounded him, briefly, trying to figure out the color, then wondering why he should care. They were grey, he decided. And translucent enough that he could see the boy’s fear and indecision.

  He was getting soft. Bennett was making him soft.

  Nate let out a soft curse. “Let’s try this again. It’s midnight. You are in offices that you don’t belong in. Now, who sent you?”

  “No one, I swear it.”

  This was getting him nowhere. The boy was lying. “What’s your name?”

  “Ju-Julian,” the boy mumbled.

  “All right, Julian. You came up with the idea to rob the office all by yourself, did you?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “And did you give a thought to what would happen if you were caught?”

  “Yes.” The voice had dropped to a whisper again. Honest, at least. When the boy whispered, he told the truth.

  Nate had definitely drunk the full bottle before throwing it out the porthole. It was catching up to him now, making him sway slightly. He hoped the boy didn’t notice. It wouldn’t projec
t the level of intimidation and severity Nate hoped to achieve.

  “Then why the hell did you climb up all those crates, almost breaking your neck? And climb down a chimney that could have been lit, into a room that might have been filled with violent sailors? Can you explain that to me, Julian?”

  “Because…I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispered.

  And Nate knew that was the truth. Not only because the boy had whispered it, and because he’d looked down in shame as he spoke, but because Nate himself felt the desperation hit him in the center of his gut, an unwelcome reflection of times past.

  Nate knew what it was like to be tired and desperate and hungry. So hungry.

  He must really be getting soft even to consider his next thought. Boys were carefully screened before entering the Nightingale’s program. This one was too old anyway; the program worked best when they were younger, more malleable. More teachable. Less like Bennett.

  Besides, there was a waiting list at the orphanage and the workhouse of boys who would gladly fill a spot—boys who had never stolen from him. They’d certainly never sneaked into his office and begged with disconcerting urgency for Nate to pretend he’d never seen them, pleaded with an earnestness that made his chest feel tight.

  “There’s a place,” he said haltingly, unsure of whether he’d even finish the sentence. “A kind of training school…where young boys, such as yourself, have a chance to work aboard a functioning ship, to learn its operations and become skilled at ropework.”

  The boy stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Well, the idea was fairly unique. Startlingly unique and, Nate sometimes thought, brilliant. He especially had that thought when he’d drunk an entire bottle of spirits. However, he suspected the boy’s bewilderment was not due to being impressed.

  “There are classes,” he said. “In navigation. In accounting. I’m not explaining this well because I’m mildly…well, partially, soused. But you understand the general idea—”

  The boy bolted. Nate had been expecting that, but his reflexes were slow to kick in. Especially because he hadn’t anticipated the direction the boy would go. Not toward the door—where Nate would have been waiting. Not the window, either, where a twenty foot drop would have been fatal. Instead, the boy ran to the chimney.

  He was going up the chimney.

  Hell. Jolted into action—by surprise more than anything—Nate dove to the chimney and reached up blindly. He grasped an ankle and heard a cry of pain. In that split second, with his brain too slow to counteract the impulse, he loosened his hold. Another foot swung and kicked his wrist, reverberating pain he would no doubt feel tomorrow.

  “Damnation.”

  He ducked his head to look up, and saw only blackness. Soot fell into his eyes, and he swore again.

  Nate was somewhat impressed. It had been a long time since anyone had gotten the advantage with him, even if he was drunk and half asleep.

  At the window, he looked out. First, he heard nothing. And strangely, relief coursed through him. The boy had gotten away. He hadn’t stolen anything, and he’d gotten away, so it was really the best outcome. Although it wouldn’t fix whatever desperation had driven the boy to break in.

  Then a huge crash came from the back of the building. The crates. The crates the boy had probably used to climb down, were tumbling over like a wooden avalanche. Christ.

  Nate flew down the back stairs, ignoring the shouts of confusion from the men who weren’t passed out.

  In the wreckage of splintered wood, he searched mindlessly, helplessly, for the broken body underneath. An image flashed through his mind—pale grey eyes. Frightened eyes. Pleading eyes. Jesus. He tossed aside a crate that had managed to land whole, dreading what he might find beneath.

  Nothing but pieces of wood scattered over the brick pavers. No bones. No bodies.

  Then he saw the boy a few yards away, running—or trying to. The limp was worse now. He’d been injured in the fall. How badly? There was no way to know.

  “Wait. Stop!”

  The boy ran faster. Of course he did. Of all the disobedient, pigheaded, foolhardy—

  Nate took off after him. “Stop! Julian!”

  The boy swerved suddenly left, trying to evade capture. Except there wasn’t anything there. No cobbles, no wood. No ground at all, but the boy clearly didn’t know that.

  “Julian!”

  Too late. The boy fell over the wall head first, disappearing from view, and landed with a small splash that Nate both heard and felt in his gut. He shed his shoes and shirt as he ran to the edge and dove in to the murky depths beyond the pier.

  The water blasted him, icy cold. Lack of air burned his lungs as he swam further down, down, to the unconscious body sinking below. And all the while he thought, I’ve killed him.

  A lifetime of bastardy, and Nate had managed never to kill another human being. Hargate was going to be the first man he killed. That was the plan. But now, a boy lay limp in his arms.

  Except—

  When his men pulled him up, he saw long chestnut hair, soaking wet and shimmering with the moon. When he laid the body gently on the dock, he also saw two small but unmistakable swells beneath the wet shirt. When he saw her eyelids flicker with faint consciousness. Nate felt a surge of relief and gratitude…and wondered how he ever could have missed it.

  The thief wasn’t a boy at all.

  Chapter Three

  It was warm in the room. Too warm. The bedclothes were suffocating, and someone had built a strong fire. She could smell the coal.

  Coal. There was something about coal, but she couldn’t remember what. Her head felt foggy, as if filled with water, her thoughts adrift in the murky dark. There was something important she had to remember. Floating just beyond her grasp.

  Cuts and bruises all over her body made themselves known as she came awake, as if they awoke too, one by one. Her palms burned, as though she’d fallen and scraped them. Her ankle throbbed—possibly she’d twisted it. Her side ached. What had happened to her?

  If she held herself very still, the pain dulled to a muffled roar, just quiet enough that she could focus on other things.

  Such as where she was.

  And who she was.

  Her eyes felt glued shut. She opened them by force of will and stared at a plain drapery striped with light and dark blue. Pretty, serviceable. She was almost sure she’d never seen it before. Almost, because she couldn’t remember what she had seen before. She could only feel certain she hadn’t.

  The furniture looked heavy. Good quality. Not ornate.

  That detail seemed meaningful to her. Not ornate. As if she had once lived somewhere that was ornate—with fancy tapestries and delicately carved furnishings. Somewhere much colder than here.

  A faint memory of freezing water and sinewy shadows came to her, tickling her memory. Sinking, drowning. But nothing moved beneath her now, and her throat felt utterly dry. If she’d been in the water at some point, she was most definitely on land now.

  She looked around, letting her gaze sweep the cozy room before landing on a large wooden chair. More to the point, the man sleeping in the chair.

  His legs were spread wide—bracing himself, even in sleep. His shoulders were well above the back of the chair, his head leaning against the wall behind. He seemed too large for the furniture, like a grown man sitting on a child’s rocker in a nursery. Only, this chair was average-sized.

  She had a sense of familiarity, of having seen him before. Which was strange, because she didn’t feel like the sort of woman acquainted with pirates.

  And this man was most definitely a pirate.

  He wore no jacket. She felt faintly scandalized, except he was also alone in the room with her. He was alone in the room with her, which was far worse than being in shirtsleeves. And if that weren’t shocking enough, the ties at his collar hung loose, baring a portion of his chest. Tanned. Sprinkled with dark hair. And wholly inappropriate for her to see.

  She looked away—a
nd right into his eyes. He was awake now. He’d been watching her examine him.

  “Who are you?” Her voice came out low and rough. What had she been doing last night to make her voice so raw?

  And had she been doing it with him?

  The pirate stretched slowly, wincing as his body straightened into order. She had the sense he was rolling himself back up, as if he were a tree he had to trim just to stand upright.

  “You asked me the same question last night,” he remarked.

  His voice vibrated with sarcasm. He didn’t sound happy to greet her this morning. And, in fact, her sense of familiarity was completely misplaced if she’d asked for his name only last night.

  “What did you answer?” she asked.

  A glimmer of humor shone from his eyes before they went black again. Black like his hair. Black like the sea. He smiled, and the smile was black, too—with irony and annoyance. “I didn’t,” he said. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to thieves.”

  His hair was distracting her, the way it fell into his face. And the way he didn’t make a move to tie it back. Not completely black either, she realized. Ebony and coffee and auburn strands formed a single shining surface, like water in the dark, silky and mysterious, and the creamy firelight did nothing to dispel the illusion. Which was why several seconds passed before she registered his words. His accusation.

  “I’m not a thief,” she said, affronted.

  “No? Then what were you doing at Hargate Shipping?”

  She opened her mouth to answer him…before realizing she had no answer. She had no idea what she’d been doing at such a place. All she knew was that she did not steal. She had no desire to take what wasn’t hers, no immoral greed driving her.

  But then memories surfaced…of fine things, luxurious things. Expensive things. Unease settled in her gut. What if she was a thief?

  He smiled grimly at her silence. “Can’t remember? Or you have a good excuse, I’m sure. I’ve heard them all before. Every thief has a line at the ready, so where is yours?”

  She’d forgotten it. Along with everything else, it seemed, including her amoral life.