Edward swallowed. He was ready to accept whatever fate they’d choose for him. He was one of the enemies, after all—hell, the pirates were his enemies. Captain O’Shea was his enemy. He wasn’t supposed to forget that.
James turned to look at him, inquisitive, holding the door open. “Well? Are you coming or what?”
It was pleasant to be wrong at times. Edward went.
THE canteen was packed. The whole crew had gathered there, in turmoil. The men argued and shouted at each other, banged their fists on the tables.
“Well, let them bloody come!” a man growled. His face and arms were crisscrossed by scars. “I seen my fair share o’ battles. Sure as hell ain’t gonna back down this time!”
A chorus of approving whistles and hoots welcomed his words. Someone waved a cutlass, its blade gleaming in the lantern light. “We’re gonna show the navy scum what we’re made of.”
Edward observed in silence, his arms folded. James sat at the table, staring down at it with hard eyes. It looked like he’d already made a decision. Edward wasn’t sure he wanted to guess what it might be.
An old pirate, sitting in a corner, laughed bitterly. “They got better cannons and more men. And we’re stuck here like a goddamn beached whale, just waiting to be harpooned. If we fight, we don’t stand a chance.”
“What difference does it make?” a young ship boy interjected. His eyes were wild under his blond curls. “We’ll be all dancing the Marshal’s dance soon enough. We might as well go with honor.”
“Right you are, kiddo,” someone shouted. “I ain’t gonna die like a dog. Better to go down fighting.”
Roars of “Yeah” and “Right” followed. “Better to die a free man at sea with a sword in hand, than swing from their noose!”
“We will fight them until our last breath!”
“No.” James’s voice sliced through the noise like a silver blade. The men fell silent, turned to stare at their captain. James leaned forward, resting his fists on the tabletop. “We will not fight. It’s not the Cassandra they want.”
Edward understood at once. “No,” he murmured. James ignored him. His eyes were like ice.
“I will surrender myself to the navy officials. I reckon that will be enough to quench their thirst. And you will set sail and get as far away from here as possible.”
The crew exploded in indignant cries. Fergus grasped James’s arm. “No, Captain!”
“Please, my friends.” James raised his voice. He looked stricken. “If I’m your captain, you’ll do what I ask. We have no other choice.”
“We do have a choice!” someone exclaimed. “We can fight them. We can—”
“I said no,” James snapped, suddenly harsh. “I won’t let you throw away your lives. That’s an order, and you will obey me!”
The men were shocked into silence. Edward swallowed hard. He could glimpse now what a fierce leader James O’Shea was. No one would dare disobey a direct order from him.
James took a deep breath. The sudden hardness seemed to evaporate from his posture, and he was left looking very tired. “Fergus, you are the captain now. I trust you will do what’s right.” He placed his hand on the man’s arm and whispered, “Take them away, my friend.”
The pirates were too stunned to speak, the emotions battling on their faces too excruciating to watch. Edward took one step forward, his gaze steady on James.
“I’ll negotiate with them,” he said, low. It was all he could offer. “Maybe they will listen to me.”
James nodded, giving him a tired smile. Edward wanted to touch him, to grasp his hand, but he didn’t dare.
They waited as the man-o’-war grew steadily closer.
The crew paced all over the deck, torn between anger and frustration. Fergus lowered the Jolly Roger, a funereal expression on his face. A white rag was hoisted up in its place. Their maneuver didn’t go unnoticed: the man-o’-war halted at a safe distance from the Cassandra, keeping carefully out of its line of fire.
Edward was lowered in a small, rickety rowing boat and slowly made his way toward the warship. Even from a distance, he could see the harsh sun’s reflection on the array of gleaming rifles aimed at him. As soon as he was within earshot, he stood up, spreading his arms, showing his uniform.
“I’m Edward Moon, Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” he called. “I was sent to negotiate.”
The rifles were lowered; murmurs were exchanged. Edward waited as a rope ladder was thrown down, and he climbed slowly, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. He needed to be lucid, efficient. The responsibility of too many lives rested on his shoulders. He mustn’t think of what would happen should he fail—the cannonballs, the stink of gunpowder, the shouts and sickening smell of blood….
“Why, Moon, it’s sure a pleasure to see you’re still among the living,” Commodore Orwell said, staring at him coldly from under his immaculate white wig.
Edward wished he could punch him.
“You’re too kind, Commodore.” He forced out a smile. And it’s certainly not thanks to you, bastard.
“I hear you are here to… negotiate on behalf of these pirates. Although why you would do such a thing is quite frankly beyond me.”
“They have spared my life,” Edward replied stiffly. “And they have behaved commendably toward me. I have to honor my debt.”
Orwell shook his head, a sardonic smile on his lips. “Why, indeed. And what do these criminals have to offer?”
“Captain O’Shea has offered to peacefully surrender himself to His Majesty’s Navy,” Edward said. He was clenching his fists so hard it hurt. “In exchange, he asks for your word that his men will be allowed to leave, unharmed, and that you will desist from chasing them any further.”
“Now, why would I ever agree to that?” Orwell snorted. “Their ship is falling apart. If they have resorted to such a pathetic stratagem, it’s clear they are in desperate conditions. It’s the perfect opportunity to seize this rascal and all his followers.”
“Commodore, with all due respect, I don’t think that would be the advisable course of action. While they cannot make a swift escape, they are strong and well-armed. They would fight with the strength of those who have nothing left to lose,” Edward argued. He was burning, urgency and fear making him bold. “Casualties among our men would be unavoidable. Our ship could be damaged, maybe even beyond repair. I assure you, Commodore, that you shouldn’t underestimate what these men are capable of.”
The commodore rubbed at his chin, a shadow passing over his eyes as he considered Edward’s words. Edward waited, holding his breath. A flash of pale blond hair flickered in his mind, bright blue eyes, an infuriating smile…. He clenched his jaw against an unbidden surge of pain. James would be lost to him even if he succeeded. Edward knew that. But he could make sure James’s wish was fulfilled. He could save his men at the very least.
“Fine,” Orwell conceded. His eyes were fixed on the Cassandra, which swayed gently in the waves under the grey sky. “You will go collect O’Shea and bring him to me. They are not to attempt anything suspicious, or we will open fire. And mark my words,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d like better than that.”
Edward swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Yes, Commodore.”
THE crew watched in dark, heavy silence as James climbed down to the boat.
Edward rested his hand for the briefest moment on the small of James’s back, trying to offer some measure of comfort. His hand was shaking. He hoped James wouldn’t notice.
The captain offered him a small, tight smile. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Edward wanted to scream. I’m leading you to a death sentence, God damn it. He swallowed it down. “Don’t say that. I have done nothing worth thanking for.”
James’s eyes were gentle. They seemed to have absorbed the grey of the clouds, their faraway quality. “You saved my men. And you have all my gratitude for that.”
His fingers brushed Edward’s cheek. Then his touch was gone.
He turned his back on Edward, on the too-silent Cassandra, and sat stiffly, eyes on the man-o’-war and the fate that awaited there.
“Hoist the mizzen! Ready to set sail!” Edward recognized Fergus’s voice, shouting bitter orders.
Edward rowed slowly. Low despair curled in his stomach as he saw the Cassandra’s anchor lifted. The impressive mole of the ship shifted as the sails filled with a southwest wind. Several men stood at the banisters in solemn silence, watching their captain go.
Edward glanced over his shoulder. All he could see was pale blond hair whipped by the damp wind. “James,” he murmured.
James didn’t reply. He kept very still and didn’t look back once.
EDWARD followed James up the rope ladder. The captain climbed slowly, his left arm still immobilized in the sling. Edward’s heart sank lower at every step.
They’d barely set foot on deck when three guards descended on James like vultures. They manhandled him rudely, stripping him of his cutlass and knives, ripping the sling off. His arms were rudely yanked back—Edward nearly growled when the Captain grimaced in pain as his left shoulder was jarred. His hands were tied securely behind his back.
Orwell surveyed the operation without a word. As soon as the captain was shackled, he flicked his hand toward the Cassandra, which was slowly moving toward the east. “Sink them.”
James’s reaction was immediate. He made to launch himself at the commodore, teeth bared in a snarl. The three guards surrounding him barely managed to restrain him.
“You bastard,” he growled, struggling wildly. “You promised you’d spare their lives!”
“There’s always a chance they’ll survive… if they know how to swim,” Orwell chuckled, apparently very amused at his own cleverness. He gestured to the guards. “Toss him in the brig. I can’t stand the sight of him.”
James struggled until another two men joined in. They grasped his wrists, his arms. They had to hit him in the stomach to subdue him, and James folded over, snarling. “Son of a bitch,” he rasped, fighting to catch his breath, still resisting even as they dragged him bodily away. He tried to escape from their grasp, and they hit him again, and again, on his kidneys, his face. “Son of a bitch—”
“Enough!” Edward commanded, his voice strained with anger. He turned to the commodore, who was looking at him, somewhere between surprised and outraged. “Commodore, you gave your word you’d let the pirates leave unharmed.”
Orwell sneered at him. “They’re pirates, Moon. They’re worth less than dogs.”
“It’s still your word,” Edward insisted. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see James looking at him with near-frightening intensity. “Or will you step down to their level? Will you behave like a dog too?”
Silence spread like ice.
The guards were staring in sheer disbelief. Edward swallowed. Had he dared too much? He didn’t care. Orwell wouldn’t be able to back out now, not after being called out in front of his men. His honor was at stake, and they both knew it. Orwell stared at him for one long moment, anger simmering in his eyes.
“Fine. Let them go,” he gritted out finally. He turned to look at James, a predatory smile on his lips. “We got what we wanted, after all—the infamous Captain O’Shea. It’s the gallows for you, scum.”
James didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him. As he was dragged away, Edward could see the faintest smile hovering on his lips.
HEAVY rain pelted the portholes, resounding loudly on the wooden decks.
Edward paced back and forth across the cramped cabin like an angry animal caught in a cage. Which wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been trapped in there for days, on orders from that bastard Orwell.
“You’re clearly upset about this unfortunate misadventure of yours,” the commodore had said. “You need time to… recover.” And with that excuse he’d all but locked Edward up, forbidding him any contact with the crew, treating him like a goddamn leper.
He’d tried to reason with the guard outside; he’d officially requested a meeting with the commodore. Then he’d banged on the door, had sworn and cursed. Eventually he’d stopped.
It was clear: the commodore was suspicious of him and endeavored to keep him away from James until they reached their destination. The thought of being considered capable of treason drove Edward furious. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the commodore might not be entirely wrong.
He grew more restless every day. The uniform was too tight, the cabin was crushing him. At times, Edward felt like he would suffocate. What of James? How was he being treated? If only he could see him, Edward thought wildly. Only for a moment. Talk to him, just hear his voice again….
The door creaked open, and a slim, cloaked figure snuck in, carrying a tray with two bowls. When he pulled down his dark hood, he revealed a mass of brown curls and large, concerned, dark eyes.
“Marcus!” Edward exclaimed. He rushed to greet the young man, grasping his hands. Finally, a friendly face. “Thank God. What news do you bring? What’s happening? I know nothing—the commodore treats me like I’m a prisoner myself.”
“Please, Edward, keep your voice down,” Marcus whispered urgently, sneaking a glance toward the door. “I’ve had to bribe the cook to be the one to bring you food tonight. The commodore won’t let me anywhere near your cabin. If they find me here….”
Edward swallowed. “Then you better leave quickly. Why did you come at all?”
“I had to come and tell you. We’re less than a day’s travel from Port Royal. We’ll reach it at dawn.” He paused, wringing his hands. Something in his silence made Edward’s blood turn to ice. “I heard… I heard the commodore dictate a letter. The… the pirate is to hang tomorrow, before sunset.”
Edward’s heart sank. He swallowed, quite unable to speak. He’d known this was going to happen all along, and yet….
“I… I have to go now,” Marcus excused himself. Edward shook his head and thanked him with a surprisingly steady voice. He watched as the man pulled up his hood and pushed the door open to check that no one was around before swiftly disappearing out into the rain.
Edward leaned against the door, fists closed, his forehead pressed to the cold wood. He breathed deep. He was grateful to Marcus, loyal Marcus, for warning him. He found it oddly hard to think straight. James would die before the next sunfall. Edward knew that it was right, that it was the punishment pirates deserved. That was what he’d been taught, what he’d strenuously believed. And yet, the memory of James’s defiant smirk stirred in his mind. The way his hair shone with the color of pale gold, how soft it had felt between Edward’s fingers. How wild and strong and beautiful he’d looked as they embraced, lost in the throes of passion. The way he’d sighed as he rested in Edward’s arms afterward….
The rain drummed on the wooden deck outside. Edward listened, eyes closed, and tried to let the sound drown his thoughts out.
WHEN the cabin door was yanked open, Edward was sprawled on an armchair. He didn’t bother straightening, and merely cast a glance up to his visitor.
“Why, Commodore, I wasn’t expecting your visit,” he said. The commodore looked at him with distaste.
“Good Lord, Moon, look at you. You look like a pirate yourself.”
Edward didn’t flinch. He knew what he looked like. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his shirt was rumpled and half-unbuttoned. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his chin and cheeks were dusted in coarse stubble. He felt feverish, and he wondered whether that showed, whether his eyes looked like those of a madman. He certainly felt like one.
“Perhaps it’s because you’ve been treating me as such,” he retorted, a sour smile on his lips.
“Do not provoke me, Moon,” the commodore snapped. “I’m not here to discuss you, nor do I wish to endure your company for much longer. I’m here because the prisoner has the right to receive one visitor, and he made his request.”
Edward snorted. “What’s that to me?”
“He asked to see you.”
<
br /> Edward stiffened, his eyes gone wide in surprise. Orwell eyed him with suspicion.
“There will be three armed guards right outside the door. So you’d better not try anything funny,” he said. Edward swallowed hard, trying his best to calm the wild pounding of his heart.
“Fine,” he replied coldly. He got up, feigning indifference, taking the time to straighten his shirt and do its buttons up before preceding Orwell to the door. His head was spinning. James had asked for him. Of course, he was the only friendly person on the goddamn ship, he tried to reason. But still….
James had asked for him.
It was all Edward could do not to break into a run.
EDWARD swallowed as the heavy door slammed behind him.
He stepped along the narrow passage that stretched in front of the cell. The bars were thick, carved in dark wood. The flickering light of a lone lantern gleamed on the heavy padlock on the door.
Edward could make out James’s shape. He sat with his back against the far wall of the cell, arms resting on his knees. He kept his head down. His features, the golden sheen of his hair, were drowned in the shadows.
“They say you wanted to see me,” Edward said. Silence stretched for a long moment before James replied.
“Yeah.”
Edward shifted. “You could have called a priest.”
A sad laugh rose from the dark cell. “I have no use for a priest.”
And what use do you have for me? Edward wanted to ask. He couldn’t bring himself to. “Let me see you,” he whispered instead.
Edward watched in silence as James pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. His movements were slow, too careful; his steps faltered. It was clear he was in pain. When James stood in front of the bars, the pale light falling on his features, Edward sucked in a sharp breath. The captain’s face was bruised, a trail of dried blood smeared from his temple down to his chin. His left arm hung stiffly at his side.
He lifted blue eyes dark like bruises to Edward’s face. Edward thought his chest would crack open.
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