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

The smell of woodsmoke, the sound of soft whispers. More retching, then a cool cloth on her forehead. Then she was laid in something blissfully soft, and drifted into total darkness.

She slept for a long time. And when her awareness rose again, it was to the call of jackgulls around her.

“Sleeping,” she said, and batted them away with a hand. When they continued to sing, she realized they were somewhere beyond her.

“Good to know you’re not dead then.”

Kit’s eyes flashed open, and she turned her head to stare into the face of a woman she’d never seen before.

“Good afternoon, dearie. Glad to see you’re awake. The viscount down there asked that I bring you some tea.”

She was slightly awake, and very confused. Kit sat up, head pounding like she’d taken a hammer to it, and looked around. She was on a small iron bed beneath an embroidered coverlet, in a small room with a sloped ceiling and lace-covered window.

The woman who’d spoken to her—petite and curvy, with pale skin and pink cheeks—put a tea tray atop a bureau.

“Afternoon?” Kit asked, squinting against the light.

“Aye, just after. You’ve been asleep since you came into port, poor thing.”

“Port,” Kit repeated. “Where am I?”

“Well, in the Pig & Pheasant, of course. Best inn in Portsea, if I may be so bold.”

Portsea, Kit thought with no little relief. They’d made it. “My ship? My crew?”

The woman put her hands on her hips. “Well, I can’t say for certain, but I believe your ship’s in the Crown Command’s docks there”—she gestured absently toward the window—“and some of your crew are downstairs enjoying a bite and bit of the tipple. We also have the finest tipple in Portsea. If I may be so bold.”

She’d plainly already decided to be bold, Kit thought. And if her crew was enjoying food and drink, Jin was out of danger. Kit nodded. “Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like a bit of a cold lunch to go with it? We’ve some good wurst, or perhaps some cold pork? Milly has a fine hand with turnips.”

Nausea was a wave that threatened to overcome her, and Kit held up a hand. “No. No food. I’ll just . . . collect myself.”

“Of course. Oh!” she said, and pulled a bit of folded paper from her apron pocket. “And this was left for you by the viscount. Tall and nice-looking, if I may be so bold.”

“Thank you,” Kit said, as the woman offered her the note.

“There’s water in the pitcher, and you can ring if you need anything else.” The woman made a little curtsy and left Kit alone again.

Kit unfolded the paper, found a confident and tidy scrawl.

Jin is in the sailors’ ward and resting. If I may be so bold. — Grant

Relief filled her, followed quickly by amusement—he’d also spoken with the innkeeper—and frustration. She was still angry at him.

Kit put aside the note, took an inventory of her body to determine what physical consequences she might have suffered yesterday. She clearly remembered the retching. She was still dizzy, although at least part of that was due to the shift from water to solid land. Her head still pounded, and she ached like she’d been bruised from head to toe. So how to account for Doucette’s apparent ability to manipulate the current with impunity? Was he made of sterner stuff than she, or had he figured out some trick to shield him from the misery?

She looked at her hands, expecting to see a new constellation of scars across her palms. If there were more, they weren’t enough to blacken her palms completely. She didn’t know why—and knew no one to ask.

Carefully, she rose, head still spinning. Watson would have seen to the delivery of her report on Auevilla as soon as they’d docked. She needed to speak to the admirals, update them respecting the chase by the man-of-war.

After she checked on Jin, of course. She appreciated that Grant had taken the time to give her an update—that was one mark in his favor, at least—but she needed to see Jin with her own eyes and assure herself that he was safe. And that Nanae wouldn’t be hunting her down.

She found herself in yesterday’s pantaloons and shirt, but her trunk was neatly stowed at the end of the bed. She poured water from a pitcher into a white porcelain basin, dunked her head into it until the headache abated slightly. She came up gasping for breath some untold minutes later, hair dripping. The mirror above said her face was paler than usual, the shadows beneath her gray eyes larger. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week, and had been ill for most of that.

She finished her ablutions, changed into a clean uniform.

When she was tidy, she poured a cup of tea, dumped in enough sugar and milk to make it a pale approximation of the original, and drank it standing until her teeth ached from the sweetness. Then she drank another as sweet as the first.

The sugar seemed to help, at least. After a minute, her hands no longer shook, and the ache in her head was slightly reduced. Never underestimate the power of a good cup of tea, she thought, and doubted the Crown Command could operate without it.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, expecting to see Watson or Simon. And instead found Grant, hands linked behind his back.

He’d shaved, changed into the somber colors he usually preferred—a dark waistcoat and pantaloons, gleaming boots, and a tailcoat of dark gray. He looked frustratingly handsome, and she was angry with herself that she was relieved to see him—she was still angry!—and concerned she didn’t look as handsome as he did—she looked fine enough!

With those motivations, she gave him the hard stare she usually reserved for sailors who’d utterly failed at their duties—and who rarely stayed long on her ship. Secretly, she hoped she could get in a good rail at Grant, then fall into him. But railing first, perhaps.

“My lord,” she said crisply.

He ignored the statement, strode into the room with the confidence of a man who expected to be obeyed. She shut it and turned to face him, preparing for battle.

He stood in silence, tall enough that his head nearly skimmed the rafters, and seemed a giant as he looked down at her. “You look pale.”

“Why, thank you,” she said flatly. “I feel as if I’ve been trampled by horses.”

He glanced back at the rumpled bed. “It appears you got some sleep, at least. But that’s not enough to counter the . . . aftereffects?”

She just shook her head. Then stopped, as that made the nausea rise again. “I assume you helped get me here, so thank you for that.” Her tone was still grudging, and she didn’t bother tempering it.

“You’re welcome.” There was concern in his eyes as he peered down at her, but she was still too angry to pity him for that.

She crossed her arms defiantly.

“I can see you need a good steam,” Grant said. “You might as well let it out now while we’re alone.”

She still didn’t feel herself, but intended to speak her piece. “You attempted to usurp my authority in front of my crew. And I say attempted because—regardless of the title you bear—you have no authority over my ship. Do you have any idea how absolutely infuriating that is?”

“I’m certain it was bloody infuriating,” he said. “Perhaps nearly as infuriating as watching you stare at Jin like you’re the one who put him there.”

The truth in that had her anger flaring. “I did no such thing.”

“Liar.”

She could barely get out words through clenched teeth. “I should call you out.”

“For seeing the truth of it? I don’t think so. I know what that pain looks like, Kit, as well as you.” He took a step forward, which felt entirely too close in this small room. “Have I told you that I was holding Dunwood’s hand when he died?”

She was struck by the change of topic, and it took her a moment to meet him there. “No. You haven’t.” Her voice was quieter now, as was his.

“His death felt like a failure. It felt personal, even though I was bloody well not the man who put him in the prison. And you told me to stuff it.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever told anyone to ‘stuff it.’ ”

“ ‘Just stuff it,’ ” Grant said, in a high-pitched voice apparently intended to mimic hers. “ ‘And walk right into the sea.’ ”

She did say the latter, and often. But neither the accurate portrait nor the tone made her smile.

“It’s my fault Jin was shot.”

Grant’s brows lifted. “You fired the rifle? I had no idea you were quite so adept as to shoot a man from sixty yards away and on a ship other than the one you captained.”

She walked back to the bed, sat heavily. And because she knew he would understand, she let go of the fear and guilt she’d been holding. “It was my decision to go into Auevilla instead of alerting the fleet. My decision to confront the men at the dock that drew attention to us.”

“Or,” Grant said, “you did what was necessary to confirm the identity of the ship you believed was the Fidelity, rather than wasting the Crown Command’s resources chasing a ghost. You confirmed Doucette is alive and, apparently, that Gerard’s desire to use magic as a weapon hasn’t diminished. You provided necessary information to a key informant of the Crown.”

“You or Raleigh?”

Grant’s smile was wide and genuine. “Yes. And you got your crew—and one of those informants—safely back on the ship.”

“We know war is dangerous. You and I better than most. But it’s different when it’s a friend.”

“Like Dunwood was to me.”

She just looked at him, then sighed. “Jin has a wife and children. Two beautiful little girls.”

“And the lives of your sailors who don’t have immediate family are less valuable?”

“No. Of course not.” She paused. “It’s my responsibility to direct my crew. It’s my responsibility to bear the weight of those decisions, the consequences, whether fair or foul. And that’s the bloody worst part of being a captain.”

Grant snorted. “To hear Jin talk of it, it’s the paperwork you hate the most.”

She growled a bit. But she could admit some of the weight had lifted.

“As you’ve been honest, I will be, too. I know you care for Jin, and I suspected—correctly, I might add—that temper would be the fastest method for pulling you back. I apologize for challenging your decision in front of your sailors.”

Kit wasn’t sure she was prepared for anyone to believe they knew her so well. Or to be so damnably correct about it. But her anger drained away.

“And I . . . thank you for it.”

Grant didn’t manage to hide his grin very well. “I can see that admission cost you, so I won’t gloat.”

“You’re gloating right now.”

“I won’t gloat other than this very small indulgence.”

It was her turn to smile, just a little.

“In my years of service,” Grant said, “I’ve found there are two types of officers. Those who command without emotion, who believe casualties are of little concern. And there are those who care deeply for their crews, who acknowledge the miseries of battle.”

“And which are more successful?”

“That depends on how you measure success. Those who are emotionless never lose crew they care about, because they care about no crew. Those who have emotions can be overwhelmed by it. The success is finding your way between those paths, because neither leads to happiness, and probably not success in battle.”

“That’s remarkably wise for a soldier.” She knew she was baiting him, and from the glint in his blue eyes as he strode toward her, he knew it, too. Kit swallowed hard, not entirely sure whether she wanted to keep him at arm’s length—or pull him against her.

Just as in the duke’s town house, desire felt a tangible thing between them, like fog across the Saint James of a morning. He moved like a soldier and viscount, like strength and power united together, and there was no missing the interest in his eyes.

He crouched in front of her. “A mere soldier, am I?”

“Perhaps . . . not so mere,” she said quietly, and let herself lift fingers to his face, touch the hard line of his jaw. So much strength, she thought, and didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until his grin spread.

“Indeed,” he said, then took her hand, pressed his lips to the beating pulse in her wrist. “And you are no mere sailor, Kit Brightling. And if we are interrupted again, I’m going to simply ignore it.”

“Interrupted at wh—”

She didn’t have time to finish the words before his mouth found hers. He kissed her hungrily, like a man long denied, but matched against softness, like a man focused solely on her pleasure. She might not have been at her strongest, but there was no battle here. Only joy and comfort.

She met his implicit challenge. Her hands were around his neck, and then in his hair. With a victorious groan, he moved closer, his free hand sliding to her nape, leaving goose bumps in the wake of his fingertips. She had barely a moment to whimper before the kiss became all-consuming, and then—

A brisk knock sounded at the door.

“Do not answer it,” Grant murmured, and nipped her bottom lip.

She pulled back, but her smile was as warm as the rest of her. “I believe we discussed your lack of authority over my decision-making, my lord.”

With an impressively haggard sigh, Grant rose and moved away, put one hand on his hip while the other rubbed his face.

Kit bit back a smile. “You might just . . .” she began, and pointed toward his hair.

She grinned as she watched him furrow fingers through his brown hair, carefully repairing the swoop she’d mussed while kissing him.

When he was ready, she strode to the door, pulled it open. Watson stood on the other side, hat in hand—and her eyes lit with curiosity as they moved from Kit to Grant and back again.

“Lieutenant,” Kit said. “Good afternoon.”

“Captain,” Watson said. “Colonel. How are you feeling, sir?”

“I’ll stand, Watson.”

“Good. The physick asked me to tell you—Jin is awake.”

“His fever?”

“Lower, thank the gods.”

Kit said a silent Dastes to the old gods and a thank-you to the people who’d contributed their luck and prayers. “Thank you, Lieutenant. And for seeing us safely to Portsea.”

Much to Kit’s surprise, a flush actually pinked Watson’s cheeks. “Thank you, Captain. He’s at the injured ward if you’d like to visit him.”

“I would,” Kit said with a nod. Before long, she’d receive orders, but until they came, she’d have time to see to the necessities.

“Then I’ll just go . . . downstairs,” Watson decided, flicking her gaze to Grant again, and biting back a smile as she left them.

“How long until every sailor in the inn is aware you and I were in this room together, alone and unchaperoned?”

“As long as it takes her to return downstairs,” Kit said, and looked back at him. “Are you concerned for your reputation, my lord?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, then shut the door and kissed her again.

The Portsea offices of the Crown Command were located in a former customshouse near the dock. There were soldiers and sailors aplenty in the streets, and Kit could see the Diana’s mast between buildings, one of the many ships in Portsea for repair, for instructions, for shore leave. The coming weeks would no doubt see many of them, including the Diana, depart again, with no certain possibility of return.

They walked to the ward for injured sailors, were directed to a long room with dozens of iron beds. In contrast to many sick rooms she’d seen, the floors were clean, the windows clear and gleaming, the walls and linens crisply white. The room was nearly empty of sailors. Only three in the entire ward, but Kit knew that would change soon enough, too. They saw Jin in the left row of beds and walked toward him.

A woman in gray with a blue apron and short, tidy curls held up a hand. “You may visit with Commander Takamura, but stay behind the line, please.” She had an accent of the Western Isle and pointed to the floor, where a line of pretty blue had been painted down the middle of the aisle between the lines of beds.

“Excuse me?” Kit asked.

The woman looked around, then leaned in. “The physick believes illnesses can be spread”—she cleared her throat nervously—“by creatures.”

She let that statement fall like a felled oak.

“Creatures,” Grant repeated. He looked at himself, then Kit. “I see no creatures other than us.”

“Beings so small they cannot be seen,” the woman said, then touched the amulet at her neck. “They lurk all about us, and if you get too close to the commander, yours may jump right onto him like wee bugs, and then . . .”

“And then?” Grant prompted.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. But it would befoul him, so stay yourselves behind the line.”

“Small creatures,” Kit said again, when she’d left the room, and suddenly felt the need for a shower.

They walked to Jin’s bed, staying carefully behind the painted line. He was still paler than usual, but his skin had lost the gray cast. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling, and she might have thought him enjoying a nap if it wasn’t for the location.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” he said, and opened one eye. “Captain. Grant.”

“Jin,” Kit said with a smile, and had to fight back hard against the urge to cross the line and embrace him. “Damn, but it’s good to hear your voice.”

“And good to see you,” he said, “if from a strange distance. Did she tell you about the small creatures?”

Kit glanced around to ensure they were alone. “She did. Is the physick a bit . . . touched?”

That had Jin’s smile widening. “It makes sense when you hear it from him, at least as far as these things go. Makes me itchy, though.”

“Same.”

“You look horrible.”

She could feel her lip curling. “So I’ve been told. We had a bit of an adventure yesterday while you were lazing belowdecks. If you ever frighten me like that again—”

“You’ll dismiss me from the crew? I doubt it.”

“Impertinent to the last.”

“Not the last,” he said. “Thanks to you. Watson was here earlier and told me what you’d done. I presume that’s why you’re pale.”

She nodded. And a bit achy, and tired, and nauseated, but he didn’t need to bear that burden. “It was an experiment for the Isles. And Nanae, as she’d have had my hide if we’d lost you.”

“Possibly,” he said, and they looked at each other for a moment, refusing to say—in true Islish and Crown Command form—the hundred things they might have said. She opened her mouth to speak, to let go the words she’d been holding in for hours, but his brows knit into an angry furrow.

“If you so much as begin to mutter ‘I’m sorry,’ I will demand satisfaction.”

Since he was right—that’s exactly what she’d been planning to say—she simply cleared her throat.

“Life is deadly,” he continued, “and our choices all inevitably lead from one to the other.”

“That’s terribly philosophical. But mostly just terrible.”

“Our positions are dangerous,” Jin continued, undeterred and dramatic, “and yet we chose them. I’m worth no more or less than any other sailor on the ship—even if you’d be devastated if I was gone.”

Kit snorted, the tension relieved again. Was it any wonder she adored him? She didn’t have a biological brother, at least as far as she was aware, and Hetta had only adopted girls. But Jin felt like a brother, or what she imagined one to be.

Still. There were limits. “I would be devastated,” she said, “because replacing senior officers requires an obscene amount of paperwork.”

“Which we know you loathe.”

“Which.”

Jin dropped his gaze to her hands. “Scars?” he asked quietly.

“No more than usual,” she said, and showed him. “I think maintaining the connection doesn’t create new scars; it’s the first contact that matters. But that’s speculation.”

“An interesting and useful one.” He cocked his head at her. “Although you really do look a bit peaky.”

“He’s right.”

They turned to see a man—tall and thin as a rail—striding briskly toward them. He had a shock of dark hair that rose from a pale face, his eyes inquisitive behind round spectacles.

“The physick,” Jin explained. “Bookish.”

Kit wasn’t certain if that was a warning or a compliment.

“Eston Nelson,” the man said when he reached them, and offered each of them a hand.

“Kit Brightling,” she said. “And Viscount Rian Grant. Thank you for caring for Commander Takamura. He’s well loved by his captain and crew.”

“Of course,” the man said, stepping across the line to examine his patient. He wore an amulet, and it shifted rather hypnotically as he moved. He put fingers on Jin’s wrist, looked absent for a moment, then nodded. Then came the hand to the forehead again, much as Kit had seen March do.

“Improvement, I think,” he said, then stepped back and pulled a watch from the pocket of his dark gray waistcoat. He wore no tailcoat, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled nearly to the elbows. Work wear, Kit thought, in his particular profession.

“How do you feel?” he asked Jin.

“Better.”

Nelson nodded, put the pocket watch away, and pulled out a small writing book and pencil. “More broth, more tea,” he said, apparently making notes. When that was done, he put the notebook away and turned to Kit again, studied her.

“You’re Aligned.”

“I am.”

He nodded. “As am I. Born at the seashore, and Aligned to that liminal space, or so I believe. Why are you pale?”

“I touched the current nearly all the way across the Narrow Sea.” She wasn’t sure if he’d know what she meant. There was no common lexicon among those who were Aligned, both because the Alignment was location dependent and so a bit different for everyone, and because the ban on manipulation made the Aligned hesitant to share their experiences. But he nodded sagely.

“You should borrow your rest. You’ll feel much better.”

Kit blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Borrow your rest from the current. You’ve not done that before?”

She just shook her head.

“Well,” he said. “It’s not often I get to discuss my theories. Assuming you’re interested?”

Kit nodded, would have begged him to tell her more. She was that thirsty for knowledge.

“When you touch the current, as you say, you connect yourself to the power. And I presume you redirect that energy to the ship, so you act as the conduit?”

Kit nodded. “Close enough.”

“The trick then is to hold back some of the magic for yourself. Not to funnel all to the ship, but to allow just a bit to remain within your body to refresh the blood and organs.”

He made it sound so easy, Kit thought ruefully—no harder than sipping a bit of tea for energy.

“Without blowing yourself up, of course.”

There we are, she thought. That was the wee problem. There was little incentive to try something new when the costs were so high.

“You’ve done this yourself?” she asked.

“No,” he said carefully, “but I’ve seen it done twice. A young man and woman—twins, you see—born and Aligned to the hill country. They’d learned to use the current to light fires in the family hearth, and kept a bit back for their own comfort. I watched them, and it was very impressive.”

Or they’d been warmed by the effort of using the current, Kit thought. Perhaps that was the cost they bore from the activity—much like her scars.

And speaking of which, “Have you ever seen a use of the magic without consequence?” she asked.

He frowned. “Not that I’m aware of. Magic isn’t innate to humans, so our bodies aren’t naturally inclined to accept it. There’s always a scar, a burn, some resulting injury.”

Kit understood all three. But what of Doucette? she thought, but didn’t ask. That development wasn’t hers to share. At least not yet.

“It’s a damned shame that we’re only just now having these discussions,” Nelson said. “The Aligned, I mean. I’ve always said there should be coordinated instruction, not just teaching a bit here, a bit there.”

“I tried to teach sailors how to touch the current.” That had been before her promotion to captain, not long after she’d learned the technique herself. “They weren’t very receptive. There’s a certain . . . commitment that’s necessary to put yourself in the hands of such power. Most weren’t keen to try it.”

He nodded. “Current is a powerful thing, and the ban increases the risk.”

“The ban exists for a reason,” Grant pointed out.

Nelson nodded. “No argument there, my lord. I think the most important thing is to take the time to listen. To hear what it is, what it would have us do. I’d bet you those at Contra Costa paid little attention to what it asked of us.”

“I listen,” Kit said dryly. “It doesn’t speak Islish.”

He chuckled. “No, not in words. But in . . . desire. When you use your technique, does it refuse? Does it fight you? No. It sends you on your way.”

That seemed too easy—to presume that because Kit could use the magic, the magic was fine with being used. She’d been at Forstadt, and she’d felt the burned shards of magic that had remained after Gerard’s warship experiment. There’d been no acceptance there. Only . . . a hollowness, edged with fury. They said the inferno at Contra Costa occurred because the magic didn’t want to be released. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe Doucette had given it freedom, and they’d all seen its true nature.

“You should visit Mathilda,” the physick said. “She has a deft hand with amulets and may be able to assist you. She has a small shop on West Street,” he explained. “Hardly a cupboard, really, but she knows what she’s about.”

Kit was one of the rare sailors who didn’t wear a trinket on a chain for protection or health or success on a voyage. The closest she’d come was her ribbon, and that was less a charm against some future injury than a reminder of her past.

“She created yours?” Grant asked, gaze shifting to the man’s pendant.

“She did. Magic is a complex web,” he said. “Perhaps, with enough time and study, we’ll understand it all.”