A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

Kit woke slowly and drowsily from sleep, roused from a dream of dark water by a tickle against her leg.

She opened her eyes, squinted against the light, brilliant compared to the darkness they’d been in, and used a hand to shield her face. It took her two attempts to sit up, to push past the dizziness that wanted to bring her low again.

She found a beach of rock and sand. The ocean and a clear horizon. More tickling.

She blinked, looked down, and squealed at the crab scurrying across her thigh.

“Absolutely not,” she said, and swatted it away. It jumped into the sand, then scurried into the sea beyond.

Memories returned, ephemeral as clouds. Dragons and deep water, a hand tightly gripped. And in this reality, both of her hands clenched.

In one, she held a shimmering scale of brilliant turquoise.

She turned her head. In the other, fingers still linked, was Grant’s hand. He lay beside her in the sand, eyes closed. Relief nearly had tears rising, but she pushed them mercilessly down. He was breathing, but he’d lost his tailcoat to the water or the monsters in it, and a stripe of red marred the chest of his linen shirt.

Kit cursed, loosed his hand (for the first time in hours?), and pulled at the laces at the top of the shirt to bare the skin beneath. A long, angry welt marred the tan skin. But it wasn’t deep, she realized with relief.

“Do you plan to disrobe me here in the sand, Captain?”

She looked down at him, doubly relieved to see the curve at the corners of his lips. His eyes were still closed, but he was awake, alive, and facetious.

“You’ve a scratch on your chest.”

“A weak excuse,” he said, and blinked against the watery sunlight. “I hear nothing of town, so I presume we are not back in Auevilla with fine whiskey and a slice of mille-feuille?”

“Island,” she said. “No whiskey, no mille-feuille, no sight of the Continent.”

“But of course,” Grant said dryly.

“How’s your leg?”

He wiggled one, then the other. “Fine.” He blinked, looked at her. “Did we ride a sea dragon?”

In response, she picked up the scale she’d dropped in the sand, offered it to him. “So it appears.”

“Well,” he said, taking it and smoothing a thumb over the slick surface. “I thought that had been a fever dream.” He squinted up into the sunlight. “Where, precisely?”

“My lord, I have precisely the same amount of information you do.” When he handed her the scale again, she tucked it into her pocket and stood up, feeling a bit waterlogged, and took a good look at their surroundings. They were on a long, thin line of dun-colored sand, probably two hundred yards of it, with tall tufts of dark stone and scrubby vegetation at each end. The end closest to them bore a cliff of stone easily fifty feet tall, molded by water and wind into strange columns that made the island seem as much chessboard as terrestrial accident.

She walked to the shore, looked out. There were rocky outcroppings in surf, and it was clear enough to see down to more sand and obtrusions of rock. But there was no solid land in sight. She crouched, put a hand in the water. Cold, but the current was vibrantly strong, which gave her comfort, even if it was little help.

She rose, wiped her hand on her trousers.

“I can’t say for certain. But given the water, the temperature, and the sand, I’d wager one of the channel islands.” They were a set of islands, islets, and rocks just off the shore of Gallia within the Narrow Sea. They were owned by the Isles, which was some comfort. But they’d apparently landed on a completely uninhabited one, and not within sight of any habituated others.

“Well,” Grant said, climbing to his feet. “We’re alive, so I suppose that’s something.”

But how much of something, and for how long? They had no food, no obvious source of water. The sun would be setting soon, and there was a chill in the air. Kit didn’t care to be stuck, to be isolated, without some manner of moving. She looked back at Grant.

“I believe,” Kit said, “you’ve got your uninterrupted time.”

Grant made a sound. “Not precisely the variety I’d had in mind. What should we do?”

She lifted her brows. “Don’t you want to lead this particular mission? We’re on land, after all.”

Grant snorted. “This is hardly land. This is . . . a bare interruption.”

“So you assent to my command?”

“Your epaulets are damp.”

“So’s your hair,” Kit said, and tugged at the lock that fell over his forehead. When Grant captured her hand, squeezed it, something warm burned in her chest. And something kindled between them.

“That was stupidly dangerous,” he said quietly. “Reckless. Confoundingly stubborn, to dive into a swarm of sea dragons . . .”

“I did what any captain would do.”

“No, Kit. I won’t let you off quite so easily.” His hand still in hers, he watched her for a moment, then brushed hair from her face. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you for rescuing me from the gaol in Auevilla. My debt is now cleared.”

He snorted, and his stomach rumbled.

“Food,” Kit said.

“Yes.” He looked about. “Should I just call for the servant then?”

“You’re a soldier. Can’t you hunt?”

“You’re a sailor. Can’t you fish?”

“Oh,” Kit said, and pulled the folded waxed fabric from the pocket of her tailcoat. The biscuits Cook had given her were broken, but they were blissfully dry.

“We can break our fast, at least,” she said, and took a piece, then extended it to Grant.

He held up a hand. “You eat them. I suspect you need the energy more.”

“We share,” Kit said. “I don’t plan to drag you around when you drop from hunger.”

“I’d hardly drop,” he murmured, but took a piece of biscuit, closed his eyes as he savored it. “Oh, that’s the best biscuit that’s ever existed in the history of mankind.”

“And that’s why we tolerate Cook,” she said. They ate until they reached the last two fragments.

“Now, or save them for later?” Grant asked.

Kit glanced around, considered the likelihood they’d find something edible before they found a ship. Did not find those odds especially comforting.

“Now,” she said. “Before they disintegrate completely.”

They ate contemplatively, both dampening fingers to pluck the rest of the crumbs from the canvas.

“I’ll not lick it clean,” Kit said, “as even here on this spit of land I’ve no doubt Hetta and Mrs. Eaves both would find out about it.” Her gaze narrowed as she stared blankly into the distance. “They’d read it in my eyes somehow.”

“Or I’d use the information to blackmail you.”

“For what?”

“For whatever,” he said, with one of those promising smiles that made her knees a bit wobbly.

“Let’s take an inventory,” he said. “What else do we have that might be useful? I’ve a knife,” Grant said, pulling out a small folded knife from his trouser pocket. “And that’s all.”

She tapped her jacket, her pockets, found nothing but her ribbon, the dragon scale, and a few coppers. “I’ve only the biscuits.” She looked up at the sky, calculated. “We’ve a good two hours before sunset, so food may have to wait until tomorrow. We’ve bigger problems.”

“What bigger problems?”

Kit glanced down at the narrow line of sand. “All but the middle strip of sand is wet.”

“Yes. Because we’re on the ocean.”

She rolled her eyes. He employed that sarcastic tone quite a bit more on stranded islands, she decided. “Because the tide is presently low. There’s seaweed all the way across the sandbar. And when the tide comes back in, this part of the island will be completely covered.”

“So we’ll be sleeping in the rocks.”

She nodded. “Plus, the sun will be setting soon, and it’s only going to get colder. We need to build a fire for ourselves and, tomorrow morning, a signal fire for passing ships. You take the fire,” Kit said. “Perhaps there’s driftwood or dried seaweed or other bits lying around.” She pointed at the higher cliffs, which could be more easily seen offshore. “Up there. And look for water while you’re at it. I’ll see if there’s a dry spot we can make a shelter.”

“All right,” he said with a nod, and with a final brush of his fingers across her palm, he released her hand. “I’ll go up.”

Grant nodded, began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Kit was torn between propriety and practicality.

“Fire,” she muttered again. “Survival.”

“Be careful,” Grant said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

She walked toward the stone wall, then into its dark shadow, the temperature dropping as the sun was hidden. There were notches in the stone here and there where water had worn it down over time, or heat had twisted it as it had grown from the earth. She found a promising nook that wasn’t especially deep, but was high and wide enough for the two of them to lie flat. It was situated in a part of the rock that curved gently, which would provide a break from the wind. And it was behind the seaweed-marked high-water line. She knelt down, scooped up a handful of sand, found it cold but dry.

“Not an island paradise,” she muttered, thinking of the balmy and breezy oases described in her favorite penny novels. But it was better than freezing.

She began gathering rocks for a fire, arranged them in a circle a few feet from the crevice, and then went exploring. She found a couple of driftwood logs and a tangle of abandoned rope and one side of a wooden crate, dark stenciled letters fading across one board.

She reached down to pick it up, nearly jumped when a lizard skittered away. And wondered how Grant would feel about reptile stew. It probably tasted like most fowl. Most things, come to that, tasted like fowl, which was a strange characteristic, to her mind.

She walked back to their shelter. Grant was already on his knees in front of it, stacking driftwood in the circle she’d made. She added the pieces she’d found, put aside the crate for some later use, and took a seat on a larger rock while he used bits of chipped stone and dry leaves.

“Water in that—well, what used to be a pot.”

Nestled into the sand beside her was a crescent of terra-cotta. It held a small amount of liquid that looked surprisingly clean. She carefully picked it up, sniffed it, smelled nothing off-putting.

“It’s clean,” he said with a smile. The fire caught quickly, and he sat beside her, their bodies just touching. Kit was grateful for the additional warmth—and the physical connection.

“Or as clean as we’re likely to get at the moment.” He gestured to the ridge behind them. “I found the pottery there, and the water atop the rocks. There are depressions where the rain collected. Rather a miracle the gulls or rooks haven’t colonized the rocks and spoiled it.”

A bit more luck, she thought, and sipped.

“Drink all of it,” he said. “There’s more, and I don’t much care to drag you around, either.”

She did, handed him the empty pottery. “Thank you. It’s been quite a day.”

He must have heard the worry in her voice. Grant put an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t waste the invitation, but curled into him. “I won’t promise they’re all safe,” he said. “No one can do that. But you’ve a remarkably capable crew, and the Isles’ ships had a number of cannons.”

She nodded. Hoped he was right. Knew that obsessing would change nothing. But still . . . they were her people.

“Why was he there? Doucette, I mean.”

“To wreak havoc?”

“Certainly. But why on a ship? His power must be stronger on land.”

“Because Gerard needs him for the attack on the Isles,” Grant said. “And his magic is strong enough along the coast, even if he’s on a boat, that he can be useful for at least some of the passage.”

“All true,” Kit said. “But he’s a very important man to Gerard—the highest-ranking Aligned soldier that we know of. Gerard puts him on a boat and sends him into what is apparently the first major naval attack by Gallia since the middle of the Continental War. That seems exceptionally risky.”

Grant was quiet for a moment. “You’re thinking Gerard wants him on the ground in the Isles. You think he has some sort of—what? Magical plan to undertake if he’s able to land?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Kit said. “Otherwise, you keep your generals on the ground. We needed that damn map.”

“It might have been merely plans for Gerard’s new town house.”

Kit almost objected, then recalled whom they were referring to. It was absolutely within the realm of possibility that the marshal of his army would be responsible for transmitting plans for some château of Gerard’s in a fine leather satchel to a waiting compatriot.

“Gold coin says there will be stone lions on the exterior.”

Grant snorted. “I’m not naïve enough to take that bet.”

“The woman in the cloak—do you know who she was?”

Grant shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before, at Contra Costa or otherwise. One of Gerard’s Resurrectionists, I imagine. Or perhaps one of Doucette’s acolytes. She wasn’t Aligned, was she?”

“I wasn’t close enough to say. She showed no use of magic, at any rate.” Silence fell, and she found herself touching her ribbon. Perhaps this was the time to discuss the personal.

“Have you ever been to Saint-Étienne?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Sunderland had us scout the area before a march. We ended up sleeping in a cathedral crypt.”

“No,” she said, drawing out the word in horror.

“On my honor,” he said. “Fortunately, the inhabitants were not recently deceased, but the bones were still plentiful. One entire wall of them.” He looked down at her. “Why do you ask about Saint-Étienne?”

Kit paused, then sat up. She pulled back her lapel, pulled away the fraying ribbon and its small glass-headed pin from her coat, and passed them to Grant.

He looked it over, ran a thumb down the golden embroidery. “It’s lovely. Looks old.”

“At least as old as me,” she said. “It was tied to the basket I was left in. There was a teller of fortunes in Auevilla. She said this was from there.”

“And you’ve no other idea where it came from? Perhaps you’re actually a lovely Gallic girl, and not an Islesian after all. You do have a good hand at the language.”

Kit snorted. “Hetta Brightling refused to bring up girls who didn’t have at least one foreign tongue. And a bit of ribbon available from any decent modiste hardly proves my origin. But that’s the only clue I’ve gotten.”

“You were left in the Isles.”

She looked up at him, realized he was gazing at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, even if the ribbon and its owner came from Gallia, they made it to the Isles.” He paused. “I wonder if it is better to not know your origins at all, or to know them and find them foul.”

“Your father?” Kit asked, and Grant nodded.

“In fairness, he was tolerable before my mother passed. It was only after she was gone that he . . . wasn’t.”

“They were a love match?”

“No, actually. They had love, but their marriage was arranged by her parents, what with he a viscount and in possession of an income and several estates.”

She goggled. “Several estates? There’s more than Grant Hall? And the London town house?”

“Only a small manor in the north now,” Grant said.

“So only the three estates then,” Kit said smartly. “It must be a terrible burden to you and your family.”

He looked up at her, a gleam in his eyes. “You’re saucy for a woman who’s no ship or sabre at present.”

“Or three estates,” she snickered. “And to your question, perhaps you’re asking the wrong one. Maybe the worse thing is to have love, and lose it, and become a broken and bitter man.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and watched her carefully. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t speak it. But then he shook off the concern. “Perhaps the war will end soon, and you can go to Saint-Étienne.”

“Right now, I’d prefer New London. I miss Jane,” she said. “And good books and hot baths. And pistachio nougats.”

“Pistachio nougats. What sort of sugared abomination is that?”

Even in the darkness, the ire in her expression ought to have been clear. “Do not speak ill of things you do not understand.”

Grant’s smile was wide. “Lover of sweets, but afraid of horses.”

“You’ve no evidence I fear horses.”

He snorted, leaned back on his elbows. “No, only the terror in your eyes when you see them. I recall you walked the entire four miles between Queenscliffe and Grant Hall just to avoid them.”

“A mere stroll,” she said. And over truly beautiful country. High and green, with sharp gray cliffs where land and sea met and did battle. Whatever horrors the Beau Monde held, the land near Grant Hall was not one of them.

“Pistachio nougats,” he said again.

“Don’t you have a weakness? A pleasure you can’t seem to do without? I recall you have very fine whiskey at Grant Hall.”

He turned his face to hers, watched her in the darkness as waves broke along the shore, rhythmic and unceasing. Something comforting in that, Kit thought.

“I didn’t particularly enjoy being a continent away from you.” He leaned forward and tilted his head, and she swallowed hard.

“What are you doing?” she asked, the words a mere whisper between them.

“I’m going to kiss you again,” he said, and his fingers were at her jaw, and her skin felt alive. He leaned toward her, touched his lips to hers—the barest whisper of sensation. She knew he meant to tease, to incite . . . and she didn’t mind it. He nipped at her bottom lip, and her eyes flew open. She wasn’t inexperienced, but that fleeting bit of pain was new. And she didn’t mind that, either. She put a hand on his chest, felt muscle flex beneath his linen shirt, could feel his heart pounding, marveled at the effect she had on him, because it mirrored the effect he had on her.

It shouldn’t have been. It shouldn’t have worked, the viscount and the sailor, much less alone on an island with no one to see, no one to judge. And no chaperone.

He deepened the kiss, tongue darting against hers. One of his hands dropped to her thigh, then rose to her waist, to just below her breast. He paused there, waited, a silent request for permission, for assent.

“Yes,” she said against his mouth, and met his tongue with hers, nearly gasping as his fingers found her breast, and he groaned with pleasure.

“Would that I had a bed,” he murmured. “Carved and strong, with pillows of lace and down to lay you down upon.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, ran a thumb across his lips, and looked at his eyes, so brilliantly blue.

Then she pushed him down into the sand, straddled his hips as he laughed beneath her. “Sailors don’t need fancy beds, Grant.”

“So I see,” he said, and put his hands on her hips now, adjusted her against his nearly intimidating arousal. He gripped the hem of her linen shirt, drew it over her head, arched an eyebrow at the half stays.

“Very clever.”

“Necessary when you’ve no maid,” she said, and untied the ribbon, revealing herself.

He stared at her for a moment before his hands rose, so slowly, to claim her. And when he did, his fingers soft but firm, teasing but worshipping, her head dropped back.

“Aye,” he said, rolling his hips. “That’s my beauty.”

And when he leaned up, suckled, she nearly saw stars.

“Your pleasure first,” he said, and rolled her beneath him. He pulled his shirt over his head, and she saw for the first time the scars that crossed that long, lean torso, and traced a finger across one.

“Sensitive,” he said with a smile, and lifted her hand, kissed her palm. Then he released her, levered himself over her, and kissed her thoroughly. There was hunger in the kiss now, bated desire, anticipation for what would come.

He made his way down her body, then stripped away her pantaloons and found her core with deft fingers, with palm. She rocked against his hand, called his name.

“Take your pleasure,” he said, the words a growl, and she moved until the fever built, until she fell into the stars.

“Kit,” he said, and kissed her forehead, her mouth, as he unbuttoned the placket of his trousers. She managed only to glance down—and she swallowed hard. Now she was actually intimidated.

“Stay strong, Captain,” he said with pride and amusement. “All will be well.” He lowered himself onto her, then into her, his body shaking with need, with the desire to move.

He dropped his forehead against hers, breathing heavily now. “Are you . . . protected?”

“I take herbs,” she said, body thrumming with need. “I won’t become . . . with child.”

Grant nodded, slowly began to move. She wrapped a leg around him, and he slipped his hand between her thighs and began to give her pleasure again.

She could feel it build again, as if it were a wave breaking close to shore, and began to move with him, to match her rhythm to his.

“Grant.”

“My name,” he whispered, voice hoarse with desire. “Say my name.”

“Rian,” she said on a sob, pleasure breaking again. “Rian. Rian.”

He moved again, hand on the ground for balance, corded with effort, and, after a moment, groaned his own satisfaction.

He kissed her forehead again and lay in the sand beside her, their breaths equally unsteady. He turned his head to look at her, a lock of hair across his forehead. “No fancy beds.”

“Entirely unnecessary,” she said with a grin, and rolled onto him again.