Beneath Black Sails (Beneath Black Sails, #1)

by Clare Sager

“That poem,” he breathed, voice feeling far away. “The pin… But she’s—” “Dead?” She said it too brightly, and her eyebrows rose like it was a joke he was too stupid to fathom. “Do you still not understand? Avice Ferrers is just as dead as Knighton Villiers.”

Lady Avice Ferrers had become Lady Vice. Oh gods. Hands shaking, they raked through his hair. Oh gods. What had he done?

“Vee, I”—he shook his head—“I’ve been an idiot. I’m so sorry—and I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I’m going to get you out of here.”

Barnacle was in his rooms, ready to come on their trip, but maybe his budget would stretch to some little extras. He could make sure the undergarments were the softest he could find—they’d be gentle on her tender skin. Medicinal salts for her bath would help, too. Fruit, nuts, cake to help her regain energy. He also had the book—the dragon one he’d bought in Nassau. Yes, that was the kind of thing Vee would appreciate. Sweet-smelling oils would be a kindness—a pointless luxury, but one that, hopefully, would say… would say he cared.

That’s what her cavalier attitude was and always had been. A safety net. A shield. A lifeline.

“You’re really here,” she whispered into Barnacle’s fur as the cat nuzzled her way under her chin. “You’re safe. My little love. My little goblin-beast.”

He was the monster. To do this to her. To condemn someone fae-blooded to an iron cage. To betray someone he’d…

“Thank you, Nurse Blackwood.”

They could make this work. A long breath. A nod. “Kiss me,” she whispered. His gaze snapped back from the road. “What?” “When they come close, you’d better bloody kiss me.”

It was only meant to be a way of hiding in plain sight, a way to explain their presence in the alley. But somehow the tentativeness of his mouth, the gentle touch of his hands circling her waist, holding her upright… Wild Hunt damn it, it was far more devastating than all the hungry, passionate kisses they’d shared. Her fingers threaded through his hair, so thick, so luxurious. His scent of cinnamon and soap mingled with her beloved sea air and crowded away thoughts of marines and escape until they were the mere distant concerns of mortals. He stroked her cheek, smearing something wet up into her temple as his hand slid into her hair, and he angled her face for better access. Still slow, still gentle, their tongues brushed, the touch almost reverent.

“Your family needs money. Hells, you need money. I need revenge. And I wouldn’t say no to the money either. So, no, I’m not going after Drake’s treasure.” Head cocked, she flashed him a smile, all brash confidence. “We are.”