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

His given name was Donal, last name unknown, at least to Kit.

And she had, in fact, thrown a bomb at him. But only because, despite the pretty looks, he was a pirate king. One of the pirate kings known as the Five who’d captured an Isles spy and held him in the dank island fortress he and his compatriots called home.

He was a handsome man, with golden skin and dark hair, and brown eyes beneath dark brows. A divoted chin and wide mouth, and a musical lilt in his voice that Kit pegged to the Western Isle.

“Better than starvation,” Grant murmured. “Is it, really?”

“I should have left you on the island.”

“The queen would be most displeased. And you’d be overwrought with grief.”

That he’d made a quip eased her heart, even considering the circumstances. That she couldn’t imagine marriage didn’t mean she couldn’t imagine Grant.

“Well, well, well,” Donal said. “Look who’s darkened my door again. Captain Brightling,” he said, then shifted his gaze to Grant. “And Viscount Queenscliffe.” He linked his fingers together across his chest, watched them with obvious amusement. “Welcome aboard the Phoenix.”

That explained the figurehead, Kit thought.

“Soldier and sailor,” Donal continued, “together again, just as at Finistère. And the repairs are coming along quite well, thank you for asking.”

“It’s a pirate fortress,” Kit said dryly. “Where you were holding an Isles citizen captive. A citizen who later succumbed to his injuries.”

Donal’s expression darkened then, and Kit saw what looked like regret in his eyes. For a moment he actually looked crestfallen, as if he’d cared about Dunwood or his disposition. But that sentiment was wiped away quickly enough.

“Fools who get caught,” he said, “deserve what comes to them.”

Grant bolted forward—or tried to—but the pirates held him firm. “Bastard,” he spat out.

“I am many things, but not that. My old man was certain of it. And now that I have you here together, what should I do with you?”

“We are officers of the Isles,” Kit said. “We’ll thank you for the rescue but demand our freedom, as is proper. If you’ll deposit us at the nearest village or allied ship, we’ll request the queen compensate you accordingly.”

He watched her with faint amusement. “No, I don’t believe I will, Captain. You see, I had a very interesting conversation with the crew of the Frisian brig we rescued from the rocks off Finistère.”

The brig that had fired on the Diana after their escape from Finistère, which the Diana—with Kit and the current at the helm—had managed to lead into rocky shoals. The Guild had officially denied the brig had been one of its ships; Kit knew that was nonsense.

Donal kicked his legs off the table. “The crew was rescued, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear.”

“They fired on my ship.”

“They say they merely wanted a conversation. Would sailors exaggerate?” The pirates around him chortled in amusement. “The crew suggested the Diana’s captain had a very . . . potent Alignment. You’ve some aptitude, it appears.”

Kit didn’t respond to that; she wasn’t going to antagonize him, but nor was she going to give him any more personal information than necessary.

“And as you’re now in my custody, I plan to take advantage of your skills.”

“Piracy and impressment are banned by Isles law.”

His smile was thin. “We aren’t in the Isles. And I’m not a pirate at present.” He pulled a folded bit of foolscap from his jacket. “Letter of marque,” he said, but didn’t offer it for her examination. “I’ve a right, particularly in a time of war, to do what’s necessary to capture enemy resources.”

“How did a pirate king obtain a letter of marque?” Grant asked.

“In his actual name,” Kit guessed. “Something of the Western Isle. And given the speed with which he obtained it, I’d guess his wealth and title helped.”

Donal looked none too pleased with Kit’s deduction.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t know your position. But I know a member of the Beau Monde when I see one. The sense of entitlement that most of your lot tend to carry.”

That she’d added the most, Kit thought, was the only reason Grant hadn’t actually growled.

Donal, careful man that he was, shook off the insult. “How did you end up in the drink? Or on the island.”

“We fought in the Battle of Auevilla,” Kit said.

“That was a very nasty business. The Isles lost two ships, I hear.”

Kit’s heart thudded wildly against her chest, driven by fear. “The Diana?”

He glanced back. “That was your pretty little schooner?”

She objected to little, but nodded.

“Survived, I’m told, due to a bit of clever sailing. No hands lost. Other than you.”

She allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, to say the Dastes for Jin and the others. The sea dragon, the island, and whatever happened here were worth it.

“They believe we’re lost,” Grant said, as if the realization had just struck him. “Of course they would.”

“They know I’m a good swimmer,” Kit said. “They might have held out hope.” But that hope would be thin and brittle and might have broken completely in the days that had passed without their return.

“Good?” Donal asked. “You, somehow, survived the first conflict of the new war and a swarm of sea dragons, or so I’m told? It would take more than ‘good’ to clear that.”

She didn’t answer.

“Have you eaten?”

Kit opened her mouth, instinctively ready to bite back, but saw there was actual concern in his eyes. “Not recently.”

He looked at the blond woman, who nodded, then left the room. Donal said nothing but watched them over the rim of a glass half filled with amber liquid. No, Kit thought. He studied them, as if he might uncover their weaknesses by careful review alone.

Kit just met his gaze coolly, found it interesting that a pirate king took the trouble to evaluate anyone, rather than relying on force and will. Donal was a careful man, and she’d be careful of that.

Moments later, the woman came back with a tray. Two tin plates and two tin cups, which were put in front of them on the table without ceremony.

Kit’s stomach growled audibly.

“You’re welcome,” Donal said, then looked at the woman again. “Untie them, please.”

She did, and Kit’s shoulders sang with the release. She rolled them, checked her wrists. Chafed and raw, but she’d manage. Grant’s looked worse; his bonds had apparently been tighter. But if they pained him, he didn’t show it.

The food—potatoes, a bit of roasted meat, and thick slices of tropical fruits Kit had only seen in Continental markets—smelled delicious. But they were both experienced enough to look at the food with longing, but make no move toward actually ingesting it.

Rolling his eyes, Donal leaned forward and plucked a slice of fruit—white with black dots—from the table and bit in.

“Eat,” Donal said. “I need you focused.”

“For what?” Grant asked.

Donal chewed, swallowed. “For the negotiation, of course.”

They ate the meal, which was surprisingly tasty for a glorified pirate ship, letter of marque or no. When a sailor obligingly removed the plates, Kit looked at Donal.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say.

“You’re welcome. Claude makes a decent horse stew.”

Kit felt her gorge rise.

“But that was only a bit of old goat,” Donal said, amusement in his eyes.

It always was, Kit thought, and reminded herself that her belly was full and she was someone else’s guest—even if he was a damned pirate. She’d add the threat of horse stew to the pile of emotional turmoil that would need dealing with later.

“And now that you’ve been rescued and resuscitated, we can move to matters of business.”

“What do you want?” Kit asked.

“You,” Donal said, leaning an elbow on the table and propping his head on his spread fingers. “Or, rather, your very unique talents.”

“Careful,” Grant muttered, the word a dangerous growl. Kit forced herself to not look at him.

Donal’s brows lifted, but he ignored the warning. “Your Alignment,” he told Kit.

Her brows lifted. “What Alignment?”

“Come now,” he said, and sat up, linked his hands on the tabletop. “The gun brig you managed to ground in the archipelago. The Frisians watched your ship dart to and fro, Captain, and believed it not entirely natural.”

Damn Frisians, Kit thought. “And if I am Aligned?”

“I have a hold full of wine that needs to make its way to Frisia.”

“There’s a blockade.”

“Exactly,” Donal said. “I need to go around the blockade. In addition to your magic, you are a captain in the Queen’s Own, if my information is correct—and that position rarely comes without knowledge and skill. You assist me in avoiding the blockade and reaching Frisia, and you can walk away in Hofstad or we’ll transport you to the nearest allied port.”

“And if I decline those options?” Kit prompted. Given the aggression of the man-of-war, she had little interest in being dropped into the Frisian capital and home of its all-powerful Guild.

The remaining wryness in his smile faded away, leaving behind the mercenary. “We’ll drop your viscount in the water right now. Could he survive without you?”

Kit cursed silently, swallowed hard, but kept the emotions off her face—the fear that he wouldn’t survive alone this far from shore, and satisfaction at the possibility he’d get the dunking he needed. And she refused to look at Grant.

Both options were poor. One slightly less so than the other. But she knew how to negotiate.

She put her foot on Grant’s under the table, pressed, willing him to understand that she needed to take the lead. “You think we’ll help you after what you did to Dunwood?”

Donal stiffened. “This is neither the time nor the place for that discussion.”

Kit watched him for a moment. “I want confirmation you’re being earnest about the cargo.” She understood the necessity of compromise, but not if it might harm the Isles or Crown Command in the long term.

His expression went dark. “We aren’t running weapons.”

“Then you’ll have no problem proving it.”

His jaw worked, but he nodded. A woman came into the room. And she looked familiar.

No scarves or cards, but Kit had no doubt she was the fortune-teller from Auevilla. And apparently a pirate. Why was she on Donal’s ship?

The woman’s stride hitched as she recognized Kit, but her eyes stayed cool. And she gave Kit the tiniest shake of the head—as if a warning not to reveal her identity.

All right, Kit thought. She could play along for now. There were plenty of nooks on a ship this size to allow for a private conversation. And plenty of time to change course if it came to that.

“Bonjour,” the woman said with a nod.

“Captain Brightling,” Donal said, gesturing to them, “and Rian Grant, Viscount Queenscliffe. This is Jean-Baptiste.”

“Jean-Baptiste?” Grant asked.

“My father wished for a son,” she said. “I was a disappointment from the first.”

“Jean, show the soldier into the hold. He wishes to inspect our stowage.”

“And he comes back in the same condition as he goes down,” Kit added.

“Another insult,” Donal said. “Given I’ve been nothing but hospitable in the meantime.”

Kit glanced at Grant, nodded.

“Stay alert,” he whispered, and followed a sailor toward a companionway.

They stood in tense silence for the ten minutes it took Grant to make it back to the room.

Donal spent the time sipping from his wineglass, watching Kit over the rim. She spent the time surveying the room, looking for clues to his identity. His past was no business of hers, but if it provided leverage to help her and Grant off the ship, she’d happily use it. But she found nothing personal on the table, on the walls. It was amply provisioned with gold and weapons and mirrors and statuettes, all probably treasure pillaged by his crew.

“Wine,” Grant confirmed, looking at Kit. “Silk. Cinnamon.”

She saw no lie in his eyes, nor any particular concern. Other than the general concern that they’d been taken captive by pirates. Which was entirely logical.

Donal spread his hands. “Are you satisfied, Captain?”

“No,” she said. “But I don’t see that we have much of a choice. So I’ll help you slip past the blockade, and you’ll release us. I have one more demand.”

Donal’s lips twitched. “Which is?”

“We’ll want baths.”

She was fairly certain she heard Grant snort.

Donal just stared at her. “Baths.”

“We’ve spent a lot of time in the sea over the last few days. I feel a bit . . . brined.”

With a considering smile, he nodded. “Then baths you shall have. Our bearing?”

“Toward Frisia,” she said. “It’s not information that will get you past the fleet, but me.”

Donal watched her for a moment, then stepped closer, flipped a dagger into his hand, held it in front of her. “I may have been someone else once upon a time. But I am now one of the Five, and if you lie to me, I’ll lose no sleep over tossing you both into the deep.”

To his credit, Donal upheld his end of the bargain. Kettle after kettle of steaming water was poured into the narrow copper tub in a corner of Donal’s rather grand cabin. There was a wall of gilt windows across the stern, half of them filled with colored glass, an enormous wooden bed against one wall, and half a dozen additional pieces of furniture, all of it elaborately carved, bedecked with heavy velvets, or covered in gleaming gold. It was . . . a bit much.

Donal appeared in the doorway, glanced at Kit and Grant, who were being watched by guards.

“I suppose even pirates can bathe,” Kit said, and gestured at the tub. “But you couldn’t move this out of your quarters?”

“Privateer,” he said, as if it mattered much to her. “As I know you’re well acquainted with the limitations of space on sailing ships, I won’t respond to the other.”

“So respond to this,” Kit said, turning toward him and crossing her arms. The bath could wait a bit. “Dunwood. I want the truth. All of it, or our deal is off.”

Donal snorted. “Or, what? You’ll go willingly into the drink?”

Kit just watched him. “I believe I’ve proven my prowess at that.” She stepped toward him. “You and I both know how ships operate, Donal. The dark times. The quiet times. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve escaped a hold. But barring that, if you’re not honest, instead of keeping you from the blockade, I’ll lead you toward it.”

“Then you’ll die.”

“We are sailor and soldier,” Kit said, gaze steady on his. “We are made to die for the Isles. And you appear to be missing the larger picture.”

“Which is?”

“Dunwood was an important man. A beloved and loyal man, and a colleague of the viscount.”

Donal slid him a glance and couldn’t have missed the loathing in Grant’s eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“Would you like it to be?”

Kit held out a hand to stop Grant’s advance. “I remember our discussion on Finistère,” she said. “You said Dunwood had been delivered to you, and you had plans for him.”

Donal’s expression went sour again. “Damn, but you’re stubborn.”

Grant murmured his agreement.

Donal huffed, turned for the door. After shooing the guards out, he closed it, muttering about troublesome women. And then he walked to a sideboard, poured liquid into a short glass, downed it. And offered none to his guests.

“A privateer brought him to the island. One of my colleagues believed it was too dangerous to let Dunwood live. I paid to keep him alive.”

That, at least, was consistent with what Dunwood had told them.

Kit surmised the colleague was one of the Five but, given the vagaries under which they operated, wondered if the Five were solely a thing of myth. Perhaps pirate kings came and went; “the Five” certainly bore more cachet than “a Few Pirate Kings” or “Five Pirate Kings, More or Less.”

“And what had you planned to do with him?” Grant asked.

“Give him to the Frisians,” Donal said. “They planned to ransom him back to the Isles, which was fine by me. My interest is in goods and gold. I wanted no part of murder or kidnapping.”

“If that’s true,” Grant said, and his tone made it clear he doubted it, “why did you fight us for his release?”

“You invaded and blew up my home.” He had a point. But then his smile went sly. “I don’t suppose you’ve any more of those beautiful explosives?”

“Not on my person, no,” Kit said.

“A disappointment.”

“You didn’t sail after us,” Grant continued.

“The gun brig had already given chase, and I didn’t feel especially moved to chase down an Isles ship. I may not be Aligned, Captain, but I can read the signs as well as anyone. Gerard does the world no favors, and the Isles stands against him.”

They watched him in silence for a moment.

“You’d already gotten the money,” Kit surmised.

Donal nodded. “And that.”

“He was a good man,” Grant said finally, voice heavy and low. “And he is dead because of your greed and the greed of your colleagues.”

For a very long time, Donal and Grant looked at each other. And Kit saw, just for an instant, guilt and regret flash in Donal’s eyes. “I don’t disagree,” Donal said. His accent was a bit softer in those words, as if he’d pulled back a corner of the cloak that usually draped him. “But what’s done is done.”

A pity, Kit thought, that he’d chosen this course. A man with power and wealth could do better than running silks for the rich.

Kit cleared her throat. “Now that we’ve finished our business, perhaps a bit of privacy for the bath?”

Donal gestured toward the door. “Mr. Viscount Colonel, after you.”

“Actually, I’d like to speak with Mr. Viscount Colonel before he goes.”

Donal watched them for a moment. “Five minutes,” Donal said, gesturing for the others to leave. They did, but kept the door open.

He’d wandered to the bed, ran fingers along the ornately carved wood. “Now I wonder if he stole the ship from woodcarving gnomes. Or maybe Alemanians. They enjoy woodcarving.”

“There is a lot of . . . everything,” Kit agreed.

He came back to her, stepping so close she could feel the warmth of him. His voice was lower now, quieter, and she knew the conversation was turning to Donal. “Do you believe him?”

“That he paid to keep Dunwood alive? I do. And I fancy you’ve seen enough pirates in your time to recognize, as I do, that this ship runs differently than most. Little good it did Dunwood in the end.” Many a pirate wouldn’t have bothered with food or baths or making deals. They’d have demanded, and violence would have been the only other option.

Grant nodded. “Whether he’s mannerly doesn’t excuse him, nor does the possibility that he’s nicer than his colleagues. He still bears responsibility for what became of Marcus.”

“I agree,” Kit said. “He positions himself as one of the Five for the benefits it accords him. Some of the blame weighs with him, too.”

“And you’re sure about the deal?” he asked.

“For the bath? Yes. They’re delightful,” Kit said. “You’ll enjoy yours, I suspect.” Since she’d done him the service of demanding baths for both of them.

He growled, and she looked at him, saw concern joining the anger in his eyes. “Negotiating with the pirate, knowing what we know of him?”

Yes, she’d made a deal with the metaphorical devil, but she was captive on his ship in enemy territory, and she had others to think about. “Was Donal wrong? Could you make it to land? Survive in the water on your own?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looked like a dangerous Beau Monde rake while doing it, and made her a little more angry. “Probably not,” he admitted. “You said you’d escaped from worse.”

“I’ve escaped,” she said. “Whether it was worse is debatable.”

“Then you’re a very good actress,” he said, and she didn’t think that was a compliment.

“My job is to protect the Isles, protect my sailors. At present, that includes you, and tossing you to another horde of sea dragons would not be an especially good show of leadership.

“We survived Auevilla,” she continued. “We survived the Narrow Sea. We were rescued, if by nominal villains, and the Diana survived with no hands lost. We’re going to keep doing what we can, and perhaps our luck will hold.”

“And the blockade?”

“We’ve learned my skills with the current are . . . broader . . . than I thought. Speed is the best way to get him past Isles ships without loss of life. And I’ll lose no sleep over Frisians having a bit more cinnamon and silk, little though they need them.” She cleared her throat. “If we’re to survive this, we need to be able to work together.”

His eyes fired. “Do we?”

“You’re angry I won’t agree to give up my ship to play hostess in Queenscliffe.”

“No, Captain, I’m angry that the best you can think of me—the most you can think of me—is that I’d want you to give up anything.”

She looked at the ceiling, prayed for patience. “A woman cannot be a viscountess if—”

“No,” he said, turning on her. “Cannot does not matter here. A viscountess—my viscountess—will follow her mind and her heart.”

She held out her palms, dotted with the small dark scars. And there was pleading in her eyes. “What viscountess has these?”

“Need I show you my own scars?” he asked, voice heavy with challenge. “Need I prove to you my unworthiness of my own title?” His anger and frustration seemed to sharpen the air as if it was something tangible.

“You aren’t unworthy. You were born into it. I’m a sailor, Grant.”

“You could be whatever you wished, Kit, were your stubbornness not interfering with your eyesight.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.”

She hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t known she wanted to say it. And maybe because of that, the words came out in a rush, like water through a sieve.

He stared at her. “What?”

“I have no roots,” she said, “or don’t know what they are. I don’t know who my parents are. I assume I’ve got two of them, considering the biology. But I don’t know them—that part of my life is missing.” She swallowed hard. “That part of me is missing. And viscounts don’t just marry foundlings. It isn’t done.”

She’d expected sympathy but instead saw anger in his eyes. “Did you not just stand in a room of privateers—one of few women in the room, I might add—and negotiate for a hot bath?”

“That’s different. I know my way among privateers. The Beau Monde is different. Don’t viscounts deserve more? Aren’t they to marry gentlemen’s daughters?”

“You fight for our country. How can that be worth less than a gentleman’s daughter?” He looked at her for a moment, narrowed his gaze. “If it was anyone but you, would you begrudge me?”

“What?”

“If I’d asked for Astrid’s hand, would you begrudge her the union because she is a foundling? Reject her entrée into polite society? Give her the cut direct?”

Oh, Kit would begrudge it. But not for the reasons he’d identified. “No. Of course not.”

“Then you’re a coward. Because if it’s not principle, it’s cowardice.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare call me a coward because I’m concerned about your reputation. Do you want to receive the cut direct? Do you know what it’s like to be judged by your . . .” She trailed off, realizing he did know.

“My family?” he finished, voice quieter now. “Yes. Of course I do.”

Kit sighed. As if a jouster spotting a weakness in the armor, he moved closer.

“Who might your parents be that you think I would turn you away—or would allow anyone else to do so? Tradespeople? Cobblers? Larks? Or, gods forbid, soldiers?”

Arranged just so, it sounded quite inane.

“You’re a snob,” he concluded.

That had her ire up. “Excuse me?”

“Thinking you’re too special and mysterious to join our ranks.”

“I’m neither mysterious nor special. I’m—”

“You are Kit Brightling of the Queen’s Own,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t ever forget that.” He was quiet for a moment, and they both watched steam rising from the surface of the tub. Grant gestured to the tub. “Of all the things you might have asked for, and you opted for a bath.”

She swallowed hard. “I doubt he has pistachio nougats or penny novels on board, so it seemed like the best substitute.” They stood quietly for a moment, and she realized Donal had given them more than five minutes. “I feel like there’s something I ought to say.”

Grant looked at her expectantly. “Do let me know if you figure it out.” Then slammed the door.