“Not like you to let someone get that close,” Nicholas said, nodding at the cut on his forehead. “Need the surgeon?”
“And be forced to admit that one of this ship’s cabin boys caught me unawares with a spoon as I went below? Wicked little bugger. I’d rather be boiled in oil.”
Nicholas snorted. “Did you find the women?”
“Aye, they’re in one of the officers’ cabins in the stern. Safe and sound, the little doves,” he said.
Relief bloomed through Nicholas, replacing his fury at the dying man’s last words. Good.
“This job…” the captain began, for the fifth time that day. “I have to tell you, Nick, I’m grateful for the prize and its cargo, but I feel uneasy. I would rather you have nothing to do with the family. It seems like there’s more to this than simply transport to New York.”
Of course there was more to it; with this family, there always was. Ironwood’s note had arrived a few days after the much-awaited Letter of Marque and Reprisal had come to Nicholas’s employer, Lowe & Lowe Shipping, authorizing Hall’s ship to act as a privateer and legally—at least in the colonies’ view—hunt British ships. He’d had less than a week to consider the man’s offer, to bring it to Hall and ask for his compliance in searching for this particular vessel and her passengers. They’d agreed to secrecy over the truth of their focused hunt, rather than draw any of the crew into Ironwood business. He’d been slow to send his acceptance of Ironwood’s terms for this job, all the while turning over the chances of it being a ploy to lure him back into Ironwood’s nets for one last act of revenge.
But—it had been three years. They’d known precisely where to find him, having stranded him here themselves. Surely they would have come sooner if they’d wanted blood for blood?
He could live with a fair bit of uncertainty, and he could fight to protect himself if it came to that. But the simple facts were these: the job Ironwood offered was a good one, and the reward for its completion would help him achieve his life’s aim far faster than simple privateering.
The neat, meticulously formed words had leapt off the page. Bring the two women into New York City by the 21st of September. Do what you will with the ship and its cargo.
He’d spent these three years in the employ of Lowe & Lowe, toiling on merchant vessels, overseeing shipments from the West Indies to the colonies until the outbreak of the war, all the while forcing himself to close off the part of his heart that stung deeply at any thought of Julian, of traveling. Nicholas had been hoping that Messieurs Lowe would reward him with his own privateer ship to captain, but he’d seen the uneasy way the old man and his son had surveyed him when Captain Hall first suggested it. He delivered results for them; he knew their hesitation couldn’t be due to that. So then, it was merely him—the reality of the color of his skin—that made him unworthy. Their hesitation only renewed his interest in purchasing his own ship, one not beholden to any company.
As it was now, the Lowes would get the bulk of whatever payment the ship’s cargo brought in, and the rest would be divided among the crew of the Challenger. It could be months before they found another prize. The ocean was wide and vast and the shipping companies were growing cleverer about avoiding privateers—perhaps this would be it for them, and Nicholas would be left to scrape together coins, scrimp and save, until he was dead in the heart and old in his bones. He hated the Ironwoods with the fury of a hurricane, but they owed him a debt for the time they’d stolen from him. And he intended to collect it.
“Did you survey the cargo?” Nicholas asked.
Hall sighed, recognizing the diversionary tactic. “A glance here and there.”
A sailor exploded through the cloud of smoke in front of them, hollering and whooping, a cutlass brandished over his head. Nicholas whirled, his hand on his knife, but by the time he had it out, the captain had whipped out his pistol and fired.
“Sugar, rum, cotton, munitions for the ballast,” Hall continued blissfully. The dead man slid away in a smear of blood. “I’m almost frightened of how well this has played out—you have your ladies, and we have a fair share of wealth coming to each of us. They’ve even got a bulkhead for us in the hold to detain the crew. Speaking of which, I’ve yet to see anyone I could reasonably believe would be the captain. Why don’t you go find him so we can get the business of lowering their colors done with—” Hall broke off, distracted by something.
Nicholas had not seen such a look of unwelcome surprise on his captain’s face since the time their former cook announced he had served the crew stewed rat instead of salted beef.
He followed the man’s line of sight. There, between the sailors snarling at each other, a towheaded figure was emerging from below decks, rising through the curling smoke like Persephone returning from the underworld.
Nicholas winced as she slammed into the bare, scarred back of the master gunner, but she didn’t scream, not even when Davies swung around, axe in hand, and made as if to gut her. It was his startled yelp that drew the attention of every man around them, damn his eyes—
It wasn’t Sophia—he knew to expect another woman aside from her, but who was this…?
“Poor darling has her feathers all ruffled,” Captain Hall said at his back. Despite the wash of blood at his feet and the bodies strewn around him, his features went as soft as a kitten’s. The old bastard couldn’t help himself in the presence of young ladies, especially those in need of rescue. And this one was. Her white gown was torn at the hip—and bloodstained?
“She’s hurt,” Nicholas said sharply. “What the bloody hell is she doing?”
She spun in Nicholas’s direction as if she had heard his words. He should have barreled forward and plucked her out of the mess of gore and violence, but it felt as though the whole deck, the whole ocean, gave a rolling shudder. Captain Hall knocked into him with a surprised grunt.
The girl backed away steadily as they advanced toward her, until finally she bumped into the bulwark lining the edge of the deck and had nowhere left to go. Her eyes darted around her before fixing on a nearby spear. Without a second thought, she swept it up from the deck, shouting, “Stay away from me!”
There was a sudden, almost painful tightening of his body as he caught sight of her face, her fierce expression as she swung the weapon back and forth in desperation. Hair thick and white-gold, generous brows, eyes with an almost feline tilt to them. A long nose, balancing out the generous curve of her lips. Awareness of her moved through him like slow, warm honey. She was, in a word—
No. None of that, now. Dangerous thoughts. But he could appreciate that she was, apparently, a fighter—though she seemed surprised herself at the fact, looking uneasily between the weapon in her hands and the two dozen men gaping at her. The last half-hearted scuffles had been abandoned in favor of dumb shock at her unexpected appearance. That was reasonable, he supposed. And now the effect of seeing her bloodied and fierce, like a queen on a battlefield, was rather singular. It spoke to his own blood, made it sing its secrets. She was…
A job. Nicholas shook his head, stomping out the blaze of heat that cut across his chest. Payment owed for services rendered.
A sharp, deafening crack broke through the faint hum in his ears; Nicholas swung his attention up, toward the aft of the ship. A section of the mizzenmast, the third mast of three, had finally snapped under its own weight, just as he’d feared it might.
And it slowed, time did. He let out a sound that was less a warning and more a terrified shout as the wood splintered and the sails collapsed in on themselves with a thwack and flutter. The lines supporting the mast snapped as if God himself had cut them, and the whole of it—the topgallant, the topmast, the rigging, the metal hardware—came crashing down over them.
Nicholas ran.
The sailors who dove to escape the mast’s crushing weight weren’t able to move far or fast enough to avoid the tangle of sails and rigging. Captain Hall roared out, “The girl! Find the girl!”
The men from bot
h crews fell on the wreckage with their axes and swords, cutting it away, searching beneath it. Nicholas knew better. She’d been standing near where the mast smashed through the bulwark, but not in its path. The impact wouldn’t have struck her directly, but knocked her back—
He leaned over the rail, searching the dark water between the hulls of the two ships, and—yes, there—a ring of white where something had fallen, struck the surface, and promptly sunk.
“Nick!” he heard the captain call, but he’d already shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat and vaulted himself over the rail and into the sea.
THE ICY WATER DRANK HIM DEEP, ROBBING HIM OF THE BREATH he’d taken before the descent. Sunlight broke through the surface of the water, casting a warm glow about the wreckage and bodies sinking slowly to the ocean floor. He suspected the presence of sharks.
Still, there was plenty for the creatures to gorge on before they tasted his flavor. With that less-than-comforting thought, he dove deeper, his muscles afire from the stinging assault of cold water. Just before he sent up a small prayer for assistance, he saw her.
She must have exhausted all of her fight on deck; now the girl was as limp as seaweed caught in a current as she was dragged steadily down. He saw the problem immediately. Her legs and the gown were caught in netting, which in turn had wrapped itself around a heavy piece of the hull. Her arms floated up, as if still straining toward the surface.
Nicholas removed his knife and went to work sawing the net, her gown, anything but her skin. His chest felt tight enough to snap, burning with its need for air. The moment he had her free, he drew his arms around her and propelled them both up, kicking furiously with the last of his strength and sense.
They exploded up through the surface of the water, and he greedily sucked in the first few gulps of briny air. He choked up some of the water he’d swallowed, stomach flipping with an unfamiliar panic. He brought a hand to one of her cheeks, still scissoring his legs to keep them afloat. A frisson of horror went down his spine when he felt the icy quality of her skin.
Hall’s voice boomed above the others, calling down to him, “Nick! Grab the line!”
He caught the rope handily and went to work securing it around them. Despite the slither of dread in his guts, he spoke sternly to the girl.
“You will not die,” he ordered her. “I expressly forbid it. Not on my ship, do you hear me?”
If he lost this girl, he’d lose everything.
“Heave ho, heave ho,” he heard Hall order. “Almost there!”
Nicholas spread his hand out across her back to steady her as they came up level to the bulwark, and he turned to brace his feet against it. None of this made the least bit of sense to him—why had she run out? And this blood…was it even hers?
His shoulders were gripped by the solid force of half a dozen hands, and he and the girl were hauled onto the ship’s deck.
Nicholas rolled just in time to avoid landing on top of her. The back of his skull bounced against the coarse wood with a sharp crack, blacking out his vision for one terrible instant.
“The surgeon’s mate will look after her.” Captain Hall’s face swam in front of his.
“—is the lass dead?” someone asked.
Nicholas was trembling like a flag in a gale. He focused on the steady pattern of drawing in breaths and releasing them. Around him were the anxious, bedraggled faces of the sailors from both crews, all hovering about the girl with morbid interest. The men had forgotten their fighting with this spectacle, true, but his crew had also forgotten they were meant to be securing the other men in the ship’s hold.
A movement distracted him from that thought. His eyes shifted to where a small figure in a navy coat was kneeling beside the girl, hands pressed firmly on her belly. Plain, crisp clothes; dark hair perfectly pulled back and collected at the base of his skull in a queue; a face like a child’s—Nicholas mistrusted anyone who could stay so pristine on a ship, never mind in the midst of battle. It spoke of cowards.
“Easy, Nick,” Hall said, helping him sit up, “it’s only this ship’s surgeon’s mate.”
“Where’s Philips?” he demanded. “Or this ship’s surgeon?”
“Philips went below to tend to the men there. Their surgeon is no longer in possession of the lower half of his body. I believe he is presently indisposed with the business of dying.”
Nicholas shook his head, unwilling to accept that a child would be caring for her. “How long has he been out of strings? A year?”
Captain Hall raised a brow. “About as long as you, I’d wager.”
He didn’t like the liberty with which the surgeon’s mate was cutting her gown and stays open—
“Couldn’t be bothered to take off your shoes and stockings, I see,” the captain continued, storm-gray eyes flashing with amusement. “You took off like the devil’s hounds were on your heels.”
Nicholas glowered at Hall, well aware of his sagging wet stockings and the ruined leather. “I didn’t realize we are now in the habit of letting ladies drown.”
His words were forgotten when Nicholas caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned in time to see the surgeon’s mate raise a fist and bring it down, hard, against her stomach.
“Sir!” Nicholas surged up off the deck, swaying on his feet. “You dare—?”
The girl coughed violently, her back twisting off the deck as she spat out the water in her lungs. Long, pale fingers curled against the deck and she took several panting breaths, eyes squeezed shut. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed at where the surgeon’s mate had placed a steadying hand on her bare shoulder.
No one spoke, not even Captain Hall, who seemed as startled as the rest of them to have her so suddenly returned to them from the land of the dead. Persephone, indeed.
“Ma’am,” Nicholas managed to scratch out, with a curt bow. “Good afternoon.”
Her eyelids fluttered as she collapsed onto her back again. Her hair, darker now that it was wet, clung to the curve of her skull. The sailors seemed to step in as one, leaning forward to peer down at her, and were rewarded with a wide-eyed gaze as pale blue as the sky above them.
“Um,” she said hoarsely. “Hi?”
THERE WASN’T A PART OF Etta that didn’t feel raw and battered; the aching inside her skull did nothing to dampen the rank smell of blood and body odor, and something else that almost smelled like fireworks.
Looking from face to face—the knit caps, a crooked and fraying wig, a few wet eyes discreetly wiped against shoulders—her mind began the work of piecing it all together as if she were sight-reading a new piece of music. The notes became measures, and the measures phrases, until finally the whole melody drifted through her.
She was not in the museum. So, obviously, the rescue workers must have carried her out into the street, away from that strange explosion of noise and light. Her skin, hair, and dress were drenched through and through, because—because of the building’s sprinklers, right?
And the costumes…maybe there had been some kind of play going on in a nearby building and they’d rushed out to help? Etta wasn’t sure—what did firemen actually wear under their uniforms? No, Etta, she thought, they don’t wear loose white shirts, or buckle shoes, or hats straight out of Masterpiece Theatre. So…a play. Theatrical production. They’d either been caught in the explosion…attack, whatever it had been, or had some very authentic makeup.
Mom? She tried to get her mouth around the word, but her throat felt like it had been scraped with a razor. Alice. Alice had been shot—Alice was—she was—
Dead.
That couldn’t be right. That made no sense.
She brought a trembling hand up to rub the crustiness from her eyes, soothe the burn building behind her lashes. The sky was spread so wide over her, without a single building to block the view. Were they in the park? The smoke was still so overpowering, she couldn’t pick up the familiar blend of the city’s exhaust and the rancid-sweet smell of its festering garbage. No siren, no
alarms, just…the creak of wood. The slap of water.
The bob and roll of the ground beneath her.
You’re not in the Met.
Etta shook her head, trying to clear the thought, fight the panic.
You’re not in New York.
She was confused by scenes she had imagined—the cramped room, the body, all the blood, the ear-splitting crack, falling—
“Ma’am,” said a gravelly voice. “Good afternoon.”
Etta craned her neck around, eyes watering against the harsh glare of sunlight. She couldn’t see anything beyond a ring of bedraggled faces until two tall figures pushed to the front of the group. One, the older, middle-aged man, wore an olive-colored coat. His red hair, streaked with threads of white, was tied back at the base of his neck. He smiled, revealing mostly yellow teeth. Something glinted in his eyes as he turned to look at the younger man next to him.
He was tall, even next to the giant beside him, his stance strong against the slight heave of the deck. He gave a little bow, his face disappearing—but Etta had seen it, and just that once was enough to lock it into her memory. The red-haired man’s skin was pink across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, clearly sunburned and chapped, and the younger one’s skin was a deep, sun-kissed brown. The overall effect was like he’d been lit inside by the warm glow of firelight.
From farther away, his face had struck Etta as being hard, impassive, cut from stone. In the instant before he straightened, though, the full weight of his gaze settled on her and she had a moment to study him, too—to see the small scars on the high planes of his cheekbones, the nicks and stubble on his square jaw, the evidence of a well-worn life. A ghost of a smile.
Etta realized, an awkward two seconds too late, that they were all waiting for some kind of response.
“Um,” she managed to get out. “Hi?”
Some of the men shuffled, looking pleased. More looked confused.
“High?” one of them repeated, casting his gaze toward the sky.
Etta worked herself up onto her elbows, returning their startled looks with one of her own. Did all of them have this accent—vaguely British? The flow and curl of their words made her own sound harsh and grating.