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

As the other sailors eased back, Donal strode toward her, eyes bright as emeralds. “How did you do it?”

“I touched the current.”

“ ‘Touched’?” he asked, shaking his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t manipulate the power. I only . . . step into it, and bring the ship with me.” And use your precious barquentine like an arrow, Kit thought, but was wise enough to keep that to herself.

“This is how the Diana moves so quickly.”

“The Diana is a solid ship with an excellent crew. That’s why she’s fast.”

“Mm-hmm,” Donal said noncommittally. “And my goals have now changed. You need to become a privateer.”

Grant’s snort was neither delicate nor subtle. “Good luck with that.”

“Meaning?” Kit asked.

“Meaning she isn’t one to break rules.” Grant looked at her through slitted eyes. “Even the ridiculous ones.”

“I’m a sailor,” she protested. “I’ve broken my share of rules. But becoming a privateer won’t be one of them.”

The storm eventually fell to rain, then to mist, and the seas fell with it. Donal kept insisting she should change her livelihood, so Kit disappeared below, moving through the hold for a few moments of dark and quiet—although the scurry of rats told her she wasn’t entirely alone.

She considered, for just a moment, trying to “borrow her rest,” as the Portsea physick had suggested. Taking just a bit of the current to buoy her own strength. But it was a dangerous enough idea at the best of times, much less when she was on a strange ship and . . . emotionally compromised seemed the best way to put it.

By the time the bell was rung for dinner, Kit was famished. A sailor passed along that Donal had invited them to join him in his personal dining room, the same place they’d eaten the night of their arrival.

Two cooks came into the room and distributed the meals, beginning with Donal, of course. A silver dish was placed in front of her, loaded with small round potatoes and an enormous wedge of roasted bird with crackling brown skin. It wasn’t the same meat they’d had last night, but it smelled better. Rather amazing, actually.

Kit sighed lustily and felt Grant’s gaze on her.

“How has an Islish woman never had a roasted bird?”

“I’ve had roasted bird,” Kit said. “Cook makes a fine one, but there’s been none on this trip. And at home, we have Mrs. Eaves. The only fowl served at Brightling House is slightly gray and a bit rubbery. I think she boils it.”

“I suppose she also refused you sugar? Little wonder you’re obsessed with pistachio nougats.”

Obsession, she thought, was a strong word. But she didn’t think it worth the argument given the amazing smells rising from her platter. When all were served and Donal had given a nod, Kit plucked fork and knife and carefully split through the bird, took a bite. And closed her eyes.

“It appears,” she said after a moment, “that Mrs. Eaves tosses the good bits to the cats.”

When their plates were clean, Donal offered port. While she was no friend of Donal’s, she wouldn’t say no to wine. Grant’s expression said he felt similarly. Donal selected a bottle from a stash in a cupboard, brought it to the table. The room was warm, Kit’s belly full, and the sea gently rolling following its earlier tantrum.

“Your woman has great moxie,” Donal said, handing a glass to Kit.

The look Grant gave Kit was heavy with meaning, and she had to force herself not to look away. “She’s not my woman,” he said mildly.

“And she doesn’t enjoy being spoken about as if she’s not in the room,” Kit said, and sipped. The port was delicious, probably smuggled from some wee Gallic village. “Why don’t you go home?” she asked him.

Donal took a seat, looked at her as he swirled the liquid in his glass. “Because there’s nothing that awaits me there.”

“No estate?” Kit asked, and gestured at Grant. “This one has three.”

“Money was never the issue,” Donal said. “Responsibility was.”

“Do you know the Duke of Raleigh?” They were two of a pair; and based on the current census, the Isles had a significant problem with recalcitrant aristocrats.

“The gambler?” Donal asked. “Only by reputation.”

Kit snorted. “He’s not nearly as much of a reprobate as you might imagine.”

“Oh? You and the duke are friends, aye?” He was looking at Grant, but Kit knew the question was intended for her—and the irritation for both of them.

“No,” Kit said. “I hardly know him. But I’m told his reputation is at least moderately exaggerated. And while we’re discussing notorious men, what do you know of Alain Doucette?”

He went still at the name, as if the words themselves were a curse that might damn all of them.

“I know he’s alive,” Donal said, “because he somehow crawled out of the hell he created in Hispania.”

Kit recognized the conviction in his voice, because she and Grant had shared it. “You fought in the Continental War,” she guessed.

There was another hint of his identity. Not that it mattered; she wouldn’t use his name against him. But the more she knew, the better she could predict his behaviors. And the sooner she could get herself and Grant off this damned ship.

Donal’s expression shuttered, as if his eyes alone might give away his secrets.

“I was at Contra Costa.” They looked at Grant. He stood against the wall, arms crossed and glass in one hand, gazing through the window toward the moon-tipped sea. Candlelight shifted beautifully across his face, as if sketching a poem there. “And I’ve faced him on the sea.”

Donal made the connection. “Doucette was at Auevilla.”

Kit nodded. “His magic called the dragon swarm.”

“So he was the reason you were in the drink.”

“One of the reasons,” Kit said. She swallowed hard against the lurching fear, and the desire to look at Grant, to have that comfort. She didn’t want to share that intimacy here, or that vulnerability. Their linked fingers . . .

“I’ve fought him before” was all Donal would admit.

“At sea?” Kit asked.

“On the peninsula. Why do you ask about him?”

Kit took a moment to consider what information she could trust Donal with. And went with her instinct, which said Doucette was their common enemy. “Because he is, excepting Gerard, the most dangerous man to the Isles right now. His Alignment is stronger than anything I’ve seen, and he’ll use his gift to Gerard’s benefit, regardless of the cost.” She told him what they’d seen at Auevilla, in and out of the water. “Every allied sailor and soldier is in danger until he’s dead or captured.”

“He was near Sarnia.”

Sarnia was a small island just off the Gallic peninsula near Octeville.

“Was?” Kit asked. “How long ago?”

“Two days ago? Three?”

While we were on the island, Kit thought, damning the time already wasted.

“We didn’t see him directly,” Donal said. “We stopped to visit with some old and beloved friends.” Smuggling, she presumed, from the smile on his face. “Our . . . friends had been onshore and had seen him in town. He made a show of demonstrating his skills against a prisoner being held there.”

Just as in Auevilla, Kit thought. Small bites to satisfy bloodlust, or a useful way to frighten coastal villages into supporting Gerard?

“Were there troops in Sarnia?” Grant asked. “Ships? Fortifications?”

“None that were mentioned to me. And I think they would have been. We may not be uniformed, but we care when cannons might be hurled in our direction from a coastal fort. I’ve another crew member who may have more information.” He looked at the footman who waited by the door, nodded. Apparently understanding the cue, he slipped into the corridor.

Barely a minute had passed before a young man joined them. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen and still bore the awkwardness of a boy. He pulled off his hat, nodded at Donal.

“Sir,” he said, with a slight Gallic accent.

“Mr. Ernault,” Donal introduced him. “Captain Brightling here would like to know about La Boucher.”

The boy’s eyes went hard as obsidian, and all sense of young innocence dropped away. She’d seen similar transformations before—usually in children forced into adult responsibilities before their time. Her youngest sister, Louisa, was one of them. She’d joined the family only a few months ago after stowing away on the Diana. While still a child, there was gravity in her eyes.

“He is a son of a bitch,” the boy said. Much to Kit’s surprise, Donal reached out, put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezed.

“Correct,” Donal said. “Captain Brightling is attempting to locate him,” he added, apparently having guessed Kit’s motivation. “Tell us what you know.”

“I know he is a son of a bitch,” the boy said again. “I was born near there, watched the village burn. Lost four members of my family in the fire.”

“I’m very sorry,” Kit said.

The boy nodded, worked to firm up his chin.

“I’ve been told he healed from his injuries somewhere else.”

“In Tolosa,” he said. “A village perhaps a day’s walk away.”

Kit frowned. “Did he have friends there? Family?”

“No,” Ernault said. “Those who remained alive in Contra Costa refused to help him. Ignored his demands for help. They knew what he had done, had heard the screams. They had pulled their own children and sisters and brothers from the fire.”

Kit glanced at Grant, just to assure herself that he was managing in the face of such details. He looked a bit pale, but his eyes were sharp. He glanced at her, inclined his head slightly, confirming he was managing. She felt a wave of relief. At least he hadn’t shut her out there.

She looked back at Ernault. “When did he leave Tolosa?” She didn’t know what tracing his movements would do, what that might tell her. But it seemed important to ask.

“He did not leave. He was taken.”

“Taken,” Grant said. “By whom?”

“Officers,” Ernault said. “All in fine dress, or so the story goes. A year ago, perhaps?”

“A year ago,” Kit murmured, eyes downcast as she considered. “After Gerard was imprisoned.”

“Perhaps when plans were being made,” Donal said.

“He’s been back to Contra Costa.”

Kit looked back at Ernault. “What?”

“I have received letters from my family; he has been seen in Contra Costa within the last several months.” His tone was fury bridled by leather gone thin and worn. “At least twice, both near the—the spot where the fire occurred.”

“Why?” Kit finally asked.

“I do not know. I would say he has perhaps offered his regrets to those killed. But I do not think he is that kind of man.”

“No,” Kit said. “I don’t, either.” She thought of the prisoners at Auevilla, what they’d heard of Doucette’s exploits. “They say he has been searching for something related to his magic. Do you know what that might be?”

The boy shook his head.

Donal looked at Kit, who nodded. They’d done what they could here.

“Thank you, Ernault,” she said, and offered her hand. “Your information is greatly appreciated.”

The boy stared at her for a moment, then her hand, before finally gripping hers, shaking. Then looked at his captain for orders.

“You’re dismissed,” Donal said. “Thank you.”

She needed to think. And to think, she needed to move. “I’m going to get some air,” she said, rising, and held up a hand to keep them in their seats. Then she left them before either could volunteer to accompany her.

She made her way to the deck, nodding at the sailors she passed. The wind was cold and bracing, and steady enough that the sails were reefed. The sailors on watch talked quietly at their stations as they waited for conditions to change, a ship to be spotted, or an order to loose the sails or take them in.

A brilliant crimson sunset gave way to indigo and stars, a billion pinpricks in the dark blanket of the sky. Shooting stars pulsed overhead with glittering trails, which looked, Kit thought, like castoffs from the current—bright and powerful, if only temporary.

She crossed to a quiet bit of gunwale near the mainmast, looked out toward the Northern Sea. The sky was clear, the moon nearly full, only a sliver gone from its silvered edge. Its light rode upon the inky water like it had been painted there, and each wave sent it scattering again.

“Return to the sea,” Hetta had once told her. “Always return to the water.”

And so she had, time and again, until the tightness in her chest was gone and she could breathe again. Not as good as simply tossing her troubles overboard like so many notes in bottles, but at least it might help her deal with them. She hoped it would help clear her mind. Or, as silly as it sounded, her heart.

This time, it didn’t work. She was still conflicted, still frustrated, wanting so badly to be off this damned ship. Sailing, she understood well, wasn’t made for an impatient soul, and sailors didn’t always have a chance to fly across the water.

So she paced from one end of the ship and back again. And when she returned to the gunwale, she found Grant smiling at her, eyes bright and dark hair falling over his forehead. Kit had no doubt he knew exactly how attractive he was, exactly how good he looked.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re pacing again. You appear to be . . . frustrated.”

“I’m not frustrated,” she threw back, and could hear the petulance in her voice. “I’m perturbed about being on this ship and wondering where Doucette is and worrying about my crew.”

“Perhaps perturbed,” he said, unfazed, “but it’s got nothing to do with this ship, love.” With an arrogant smile, he turned, walked toward the companionway.

“Into the sea, Grant,” she muttered. “You can walk right into the sea.”

“I could,” she heard him say. “But you’d swim after me.”