Against Dark Tides (Beneath Black Sails, #2)

by Clare Sager

In the case of Viscount and Viscountess Villiers, it was less young love, more fake marriage of convenience between mortal enemies.

“Let me help you, my love.”

Well, sorry wouldn’t cut it. Not when he’d betrayed her, arrested her, and left her at the mercy of a naval court.

The sea. Her beloved sea. Immense. Ancient. Ever-moving. It whispered to her gift, called her, sang to her. It would never let her down.

Their cries would have put the Pevenseys to shame.

But you’re not at full strength, and I can’t help sail if I’m worrying about you.”

“At first, I assumed you were trying to smuggle someone out of the country who was merely posing as your wife. But seeing the two of you together—you’re clearly mad about each other.”

“Come along, husband, let us satisfy these voyeurs!”

“If you insist, wife.”

He wanted to add another method to those he’d used to show her how truly sorry he was. He wanted to hold her close, to whisper against her skin how wrong he’d been, how he’d do whatever it took to make it right. He would worship her with his body, prove how much he cared, how much she meant to him. Her willing servant.

“I think, perhaps,” Vee murmured, bending close, “it’s time to retire.” That low, private voice—did she mean…? He raised his eyebrows at her, but she just smiled at Lady Pevensey.

“A promise of summer, even on the darkest day of winter.”

“Whatever will we do with ourselves?” She tried to say it lightly, but it came out husky and low.

The distance vanished and their lips met, melting together, warm and soft and delicious and right. She sighed against his mouth as he pressed her against the door.

Pulling away the barest inch from his lips, she met his gaze. His eyes were hooded, sparking with dark intensity. Hands on his shoulders, she slid onto him, not breaking eye contact. Their gasps mingled as he filled her.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured and kissed her again, driving the waves higher. “Bewitching.” And again. “Beguiling.” Again. Higher still. “All the best B-words.”

Why did he have to go and ruin it like that? Saying sweet words, looking at her like that? Why did he have to ruin good sex with feelings?

“You bloody betrayed me. You almost got me killed.”

“I don’t know what else to say. If you would just let me—” “I nearly lost my gift.”

“How the hells do you think I feel about you after that?”

“Like perhaps you’d forgiven me.”

“That’s all. It addled my brain, and I thought it was special. So when you betrayed me, it hurt more than it should have.”

Disturb us, Lords, when We are too well pleased with ourselves, When our dreams have come true Because we have dreamed too little, When we arrived safely Because we sailed too close to the shore.

She stopped mid-word, staring at him. That look—just like on the Covadonga when he’d returned from his berserker rage, desperate and afraid.

The way Aedan had held her, looked at her—he’d missed her. He cared, that much was obvious, though to what extent? Perhaps he’d been carrying a torch for her since they’d slept together. Was that why he was so eager to kill Knigh? Lords, this was worse than she realised. And messy.

“He gave all that up in order to make it right and save your life. He gave it up for you.”

Barnacle lifted her head and chirruped at the sight of him. Vee must’ve made her a new cushion—this one was black, embroidered with white thread. Around Barnacle’s curled up form, he could make out the edges of letters, but not enough to read what they said. “Hello, little lady,” he said, crouching and rubbing the top of her head, right between her ears. Her eyes half-closed as a purr rumbled through her.

“No, I suppose a plan that involved shagging me must’ve been quite complicated.”

“That was never part of the plan.”

“You told me you’d murdered an innocent eighteen-year-old girl!”

“She is you, Vee. Wild Hunt, what’s so wrong with Avice Ferrers that you have to talk about her as if she’s someone else?”

“She was foolish, and she was weak. She broke when he died. I am not that pathetic creature.”

“I don’t need him or you or anyone, and I refuse to ever again be that powerless.”

Vee… Vice… Avice… Whoever she was—all of them, maybe—she’d loved her husband. And when he died, she’d broken. If she didn’t ne...

“Of course I did,” he murmured. “Because it was never just the job. Wanting you and”—a shiver lifted the hairs on his forearms—“and letting myself have you—Vee, it wasn’t whatever it takes to get the job done.”

This was what they could have had. Lords, this was what he wanted. Many, many moments with her. Some with laughter and music and, hells, even dancing. Others with quiet, like this, where it was only them and their privacy.

“I—I know I warned you that I was untrustworthy. And I’ve clearly proven that I am.”

“But I want to be worthy of trust—I want to be worthy of your trust.”

“But I don’t even trust myself—how can I expect anyone else to trust me?”

“Knigh,” she breathed. And then there was no air between them. He wasn’t sure if he’d bent to her or if she’d tiptoed to him or if they’d both moved in one moment; all he knew was that her mouth was against his.

“Gods, I was stupid. For a second, I actually forgot. I got wrapped up in all those moments—in you. Walking through Nassau together. Diving that bloody reef…” Emotion crackled through her voice. “Every time I see you, I think of it all—the good and the bad. “And the very worst. That night in Portsmouth, in the cage. I thought I was going to die.”

“I planned it. Once I was on the beach, facing the gallows, I was going to use whatever strength I had left to bring in a storm. Maybe I could have washed it and them all away. I figured at least then my body would go back to the sea.” She hadn’t believed he would go back for her.

“A lot of people say a lot of things.”

Disappointing fathers. That was a wound they shared.

“You should have thrown it overboard. But you can’t let go of the stupid thing. And I can’t let go of what you did.”

“Non obsequiorum,” he muttered. We do not yield. Or perhaps, We do not serve was a better translation.

But non obsequiorum? That was new. Perhaps she’d chosen it for herself.

Or was it We do not submit?

“Our captain will be Berit Peregrina.”

“Absolutely bloody fine. I don’t need your help or you, thanks. Now piss off.” He flinched and a small, hurt frown flashed in place for an instant before he smoothed it away as if it had never been there.