“You know, Jack, it’s a pity, really. You put up a far better fight than your father.”
A surge of red-hot fury gave Jonathan a burst of strength, and he dove across the deck, fingers scrabbling at the hilt of his sword as a boot landed hard on his back. He screamed in pain . . . again, as the boot shoved him over onto his back, then kicked the sword away.
Jonathan couldn’t move. He lay unable to blink against the raindrops, his blood draining and pain numbing his entire body. He could just make out the pair of boots coming to a stop by his head and turned enough to meet his enemy’s black gaze.
He would not look away from his death.
“Really, Jack, you’re only postponing the inevitable.” The sword returned to his throat. “Where is the journal?”
Jonathan glared in response. The man shrugged.
“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Make no mistake. I will find it, Jonathan. It’s only a matter of time, something I have plenty of.” He lifted a boot and settled it on Jonathan’s chest as he lifted his sword for a final blow. “Unfortunately, you do not.”
A flash of lightning lit the blade as it slashed through the air, a sight Jonathan was certain would be his last. He tightened his muscles for the killing blow, but it did no good. The sword sliced through him cleanly across his chest, blood spurting his life force onto the deck, a wickedly grinning face mocking him as he felt his death approach.
With a pained scream, Jonathan awoke in a cold sweat, damp sheets tangled between his legs. He sat up abruptly, his hands flying to his chest as his fingers explored the flesh.
No blood. No wounds. No pain. Nothing but the thick scar running up his ribs, and the other up his cheek, disappearing under his patch. He normally didn’t wear it to sleep, but with his new bunkmate, he thought it best.
“Captain?” A soft voice called out, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “Are you all right?”
He started to reply, but the words caught. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Bad dream?” She sounded closer, and Jonathan panicked slightly at the idea that she might come to him, see him at his weakest.
“I said it’s nothing,” he spat. Jonathan felt a twinge of regret for snapping at the woman when she’d only expressed concern. He still felt flayed by the dream, exposed in a way he let no one see. Usually, he was alone with his nightmares, able to turn on all the lamps and examine himself closely in the mirror. Only then could he truly believe that it had been nothing but a dream.
He hadn’t died. Max had stepped in and diverted the blow, and instead of losing his life, he’d simply lost an eye. Well, even Jonathan had to admit it was a bit more serious than that. His recovery had taken months, and more than once he’d nearly succumbed to fever and infection. By the time he’d returned to the Arrow, the worst of his wounds were on their way to healing, but the worst of the scars were not physical.
The nightmares haunted him. Eventually, he learned to control his reactions and harness the pain and fear and hatred into a single-minded focus, a focus that eventually led to him becoming first mate of the Arrow, and finally the captain.
A focus that kept him going, even when shadows from the past threatened to cut him off at the knees.
“Fine,” Sarina said quietly, and Jonathan could make out the quiet rustle of sheets as she returned to her bed. “I was only attempting to be considerate.”
Jonathan settled back, kicking off his blankets and folding his arms behind his head. He knew why the dreams had returned so vividly as of late. He was getting closer to his goal, and his mind—even in sleep—knew he needed to be prepared for what lay ahead.
Or rather who.
He rolled onto one side, then the other, unable to get comfortable due to the unyielding hollowness in his stomach. He couldn’t understand why he felt so empty. He’d had a fine supper, as well as a few biscuits before bed.
Then it hit him. It wasn’t hunger.
It was guilt.
Which was all the more irritating. Why should he feel guilty? He was Jonathan Tremayne, Scourge of the High Seas. He didn’t feel guilt or regret. He had a will of iron, a black heart incapable of such emotions.
Yet . . .
He flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he pulled it away, staring unseeingly up into the darkness above him.
He cleared his throat. “Smith?”
No response.
“I . . . uh . . .” He took a deep breath. This should not have been so difficult. “I appreciate your concern,” he said finally, waiting for her to laugh, or perhaps chastise him for apologizing without actually saying he was sorry.
Instead, Sarina Talbot surprised him yet again.
“I know nightmares can be frighteningly real,” she said. “Would you . . . would you like to tell me about it?”
Jonathan swallowed thickly, overcome with a sudden desire to do just that. He fought back the urge, however. He was not one to rely on anyone, let alone a female.
Still, he managed to force a note of politeness into his voice as he spoke into the darkness. “Not at the moment. But thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Jonathan felt a weight lift, and he couldn’t keep a slight smile off his lips. He rolled onto his side, and within a few moments he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Rina stood on deck, the wind whipping her hair loose from the knot at the back of her head. The ocean spread before them, wide and blue and tipped with frothy white. She kept her knees loose under her skirts, absorbing the sway of the ship without much trouble, and gazed out over the horizon, her mind whirling with thoughts as she worried her pendant between her thumb and forefinger.
When she’d come aboard the Arrow—on a bit of a whim, she had to admit now—everything had seemed so clear. She had a single goal in mind, to kill Tremayne, and everything she did was with that aim.
But now . . .
Now it had all become so complicated. She still wouldn’t mind bringing Tremayne low, but she also had to work with him to make sure she discovered the absolute truth about who killed her father. What that would entail, Rina wasn’t quite certain, and until then she found herself in the distasteful position of having to rely on the captain.
To trust him.
Her shoulders shifted at the uncomfortable thought, and she looked up, distracted for a moment by a shrieking gull overhead. She envied it a little, its freedom and single-mindedness.
Rina sighed. She still didn’t know what she would do when she found out once and for all who was responsible for her father’s death. She knew she couldn’t kill him, whether it indeed be Tremayne or some other unsavory character. She would most likely need to work within the bounds of the law.
Which meant she would need evidence. Or a confession of guilt. Neither of which she was optimistic she would be able to procure.
Still, Tremayne seemed to want him dead as well. Perhaps the captain would accomplish the deed in her stead. A coward’s way out perhaps, but in the end she would get what she wanted.
As for Tremayne? Well, that was yet another unanswered question. If he aided in her quest for vengeance, could she betray him by turning him over to Stanton, even if he was a criminal? Rina shook her head. It was just too much to consider at the moment. She needed to take things one step at a time. It was the only way.
A movement captured her attention, and she spotted the captain emerging from belowdecks to cross to the wheel and address Baines. The two men spoke, heads bent together, then Tremayne glanced her way.
She looked away hurriedly.
She’d been avoiding him since his nightmare, slipping out of his cabin before dawn and hiding out in the galley under the guise of helping the cook, Victor, bake the day’s ration of bread. She’d learned from chatter among the crew that they were on their way to South Carolina, although she didn’t know why, and had yet to work up the courage to ask Tremayne directly. Their middl
e-of-the-night conversation felt oddly intimate to Rina, leaving her unsure of what to say in the light of day and feeling a bit awkward about the encounter. It wasn’t that she judged him for his moment of weakness. She didn’t even see it as that, although she was insightful enough to know that he did. Rina had her own bouts with bad dreams after her father’s death, and she hadn’t been indulging Tremayne when she’d told him she understood.
It wasn’t the nightmare, or even the conversation afterward, that left her uncomfortable, exactly.
It was that Jonathan Tremayne finally seemed . . . human.
Seeing him as a ruthless barbarian made it much easier to steel herself for what she had to do. But hearing his fearful whimpers as he battled his dream demons reminded her so much of herself. It wasn’t pity so much as compassion, really.
But compassion was a dangerous thing. It distracted her. It made her weak.
The ship plunged over a large wave, salty spray washing over Rina’s face. She shivered slightly and drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
“Sarina?”
She turned at the low voice, and smiled at the tall form of James Ceron. He grinned back at her, white teeth flashing in his dark skin, the details of his facial tattoo more visible in the daylight—a stylized dragon, head curving around his eye and body sweeping sinuously from temple to chin. A dimple in his cheek made the dragon’s tail curve in on itself slightly, and lessened the intimidation factor considerably.
“James,” she said. “How are you?”
“Well, thank you.” He rolled his shoulders slightly. “The sleeping accommodations are much more comfortable on this ship, I have to admit.”
She laughed. “Really? And I would have thought a tiny cage would be so cozy.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he said, feigning confusion. “Sadly, it is not the case.”
His smile faded as he asked cautiously, “And you? Are you well?”
“Oh yes, I’m fine.”
“The captain treats you decently?”
Rina flushed when she realized that of course James was under the same impression as the rest of the crew—that she was sharing a bed with the captain.
She leaned toward him, speaking quietly. “Things are not exactly as they appear.”
“Oh?”
“The captain thought it best, for my own protection, that the crew be under the impression we are . . . romantically entangled.”
“For your own protection.”
“Yes.”
James considered this for a moment, brow knit in concentration. “You know, Rina, you could have asked me for help. I would protect you. You needn’t compromise yourself out of fear.”
“I’m not compromising myself,” she said quickly, glancing around and lowering her voice to ensure their conversation wasn’t overheard. “That is the point. The crew believes it, but it isn’t true.”
“But your reputation . . .”
“My reputation was destroyed the moment I set foot on this ship,” she said, resigned to a truth she had only just come to accept. “I can’t concern myself with that. I have a higher purpose at hand.”
“Ah, yes,” James replied. “This mission you spoke of.”
“Yes.”
“And you must pose as Tremayne’s harlot in order to succeed? It is that important?” He couldn’t keep the bite of distaste out of his voice.
Rina stiffened, looking him in the eyes. “It is,” she said. “And I’ll thank you not to speak to me in that tone.”
James drew a deep breath. “I apologize. I just . . .” He glanced back at where Tremayne stood at the wheel, steering with two fingers. “I don’t entirely trust Tremayne.”
“Well, that’s good. Neither do I,” Sarina admitted.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Rina drew a deep breath and turned to look out over the choppy sea. “I was actually standing here considering that very question,” she said. “Tremayne says he knows the truth about who murdered my father.”
James was silent for a long moment. Rina tilted her head to find him watching her closely.
“That’s it?” he asked. “You’re out for vengeance?”
“Justice,” she corrected.
“Regardless of the word, it is a dangerous proposition, Rina.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“And you think Tremayne is going to aid you in this quest?” he asked, shaking his head. “That man is only out for treasure and power. He only thinks of himself.”
“He claims his own quarrel with this man.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Well, who is this man?” James asked.
“I don’t know. Not yet.” Rina looked away.
James ran a hand through his thick black hair, fisting it between his fingers. “You are playing a dangerous game, Sarina, and you don’t even know who all the players are.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
“James, listen,” she said, turning to face him again. “I understand your concern. I do. And I appreciate it. But I am working with Tremayne, at least for the moment. I need to find out the truth about what happened. I have to know.”
“And then what?”
“Then . . .” She sighed, pulling her shawl tight and hugging herself around the middle. “I’m not sure. I want him to pay, but to be completely honest, I’m not certain how just yet.
“I don’t have all the answers,” she said. “But I must find out the truth. Right now, that is all that I care about.”
They stood, side by side, looking over the water. A fish jumped and a gull swept down just a moment too late to catch a meal.
“I understand . . .” James said finally. “I understand what it’s like to lose a father.”
Rina felt a wave of compassion. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I, for you.” He cleared his throat. “I will help you. If I can.”
“Thank you, James.”
He shrugged. “It is the least I could do for a fellow prison escapee,” he joked, and the two shared a quiet laugh.
“I need to get back below,” he said finally. “I have duties to attend to. But Rina, if you need me . . . please . . .”
She looked into his imploring eyes. “I’ll ask. I promise.”
He nodded, then turned to walk away. Rina caught sight of Tremayne across the deck, watching her, his gaze dark and unreadable.
She arched a brow, drew her shawl tighter about her, and returned to perusing the swelling waves.
Jonathan stood at the wheel, steering idly as the wind whipped about him, spray stinging his face. He’d finally dismissed Max to other duties, needing the salt air to clear his head and focus his thoughts.
He hated going to Charlotte for help.
It wasn’t that he disliked his sister. Far from it. He loved her deeply and counted her as one of his closest friends, as well.
But Charlotte saw too much and never feared or resisted sharing her opinion. And, Jonathan had to admit, there were times he’d prefer not to hear it. She also worried about him, about his life and his choices, and fussed over him like a mother hen. It was equal parts endearing and irritating, but not something he would ever want his crew to witness.
Except Baines, of course. The man wouldn’t stay back on the ship, even if he ordered him to. Max was disgustingly besotted with Jonathan’s sister and had been since the day he had first laid eyes on her. When Jonathan had given the order to set sail for Charles Towne, he couldn’t miss the stiffening of Max’s spine, the slight flush of his cheeks.
It was pathetic, really. Jonathan preferred not to dwell on it though, not particularly enthusiastic about a train of thought that could potentially lead to mental images of his best friend with his sister.
He could hardly be blamed.
Again, his gaze drifted to where Sarina stood at the starboard gunwale, looking over the water. She was alone now, and Jona
than was glad Jamie Ceron had finally returned to his duties. Several times he’d almost stalked over to where the two stood laughing and talking—rather intimately and inappropriately, he might add, given Sarina’s status as his woman—to order the man to get back to work. It wasn’t that it bothered him, of course, but he would not have his crew viewing him as a cuckold, even if his relationship with Sarina was a fabrication in the first place.
It was the principle of the thing.
He watched her as she stood quietly—the quietest he’d ever seen her, except for sleeping—and wondered what might be going through her mind.
She was insane, thinking she could seek vengeance for her father’s death. Jonathan knew who was responsible, and Sarina, as annoying and hardheaded as she was, was no match for him. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a bit of satisfaction at the fact that when he exacted his revenge, he would be acting for her as well.
It was the least he could do if Sarina helped him find what he sought.
His mind whirled as he considered the contents of the journal and the items listed which he’d already procured: the cutlass and the locket. But the cup . . . the cup was out there somewhere, and he had no idea where to begin searching for it. The last he’d heard, it was in the custody of Mellick’s grandnephew, but the man had died three years earlier, his estate sold off to pay debts and the cup vanishing without a trace.
Which led him to Charlotte.
She’d know he was coming, of course, and she’d know why. She always did. Which made it all the more irritating when she refused to acknowledge it. Charlotte would make Jonathan ask, even though she knew what he was going to ask before he asked it.
He frowned. Sometimes his sister drove him absolutely insane. Jonathan was relatively certain she was aware of that fact and actually reveled in it.
But she kept his secrets, even from his father, and for that, Jonathan had to be grateful.
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