The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)

Kit slept fitfully in the stationary bed in the immobile house in the unmoving corner of New London. She was used to sleeping in the bosom of the sea, with the boat’s gentle motion around her. Her feather bed was more than comfortable, but it still felt stiff after sleeping atop rolling waves for two months.

She woke to the sound of the cock crowing in the garden below, found the sky still dark, the wind blowing east. It would be a fine day for sailing.

Her trunk had been repacked, her boots polished, and her uniform brushed and hung. Mrs. Eaves could be a difficult master, but she was efficient beyond reproach, and handled her duties the same way Kit handled hers: with vigor and ferocity.

She smelled ham when she opened her bedroom door, and found the dining room empty but the sideboard full. Because time was short, she helped herself to breakfast, left notes for Jane and Hetta, and called a curricle for the trip back to the quay.

The Crown Quay was always busiest in the morning, when the light was pale and the shadows long, and ships were prepared for sailing, tide and weather permitting. The Diana gleamed in the morning light, sitting slightly lower in the water than she had the day before. The queen had been generous with the provisions, Kit thought, and she had no complaints there.

Jin and the crew were already on board, giving instructions to the sailors who washed down the deck, ensured the provisions were secured, and made the final preparations to sail.

Kit loved this part of every voyage. The stores were full, the crew was energetic, and anticipation seemed to charge the air. And since she’d gotten no return message from Jin the night before, she assumed most of the provisioning had gone smoothly.

“Good morning,” Jin said, when Kit stepped onto the deck. “Fine breeze today.”

“Very fine,” she agreed, her body settling into the rhythm of the water. She slowed her breath, then reached down through wood and tar to the water below. The waves were softer in the quay, the river gentled by the harbor, and her connection was with the sea, not the river. But she could still feel the slither of the Saint James speeding toward the ocean, and the hot line of energy running beneath.

“If the wind holds,” she said, coming to awareness of the deck again, “we’ll have good sailing.”

She glanced up at the bare masts, like trees above the deck, and found Tamlin already situated in the foremast top. Her eyes were closed as she faced the wind, the breeze blowing her red hair into a streaming pennant. As captain of the watch, and a woman who preferred the elements to conversation, she spent most of her time aloft.

“Had she any particular wisdom to bestow?” Kit asked.

“She doesn’t like the taste of the wind.”

That was a new one. “What does the wind taste like?”

“According to her, like ‘green’ and ‘hot iron.’ According to me, ill omens.”

Tamlin had been born in the north of the Isles, a place of rocks and wind, and while she refused to call herself “Aligned,” she understood the wind, could hear it, better than most. That was Aligned enough for Kit.

Kit frowned, glanced at the water. “Better to be safe than sorry. Has an offering been made?”

“Aye, when I came on board. I made the Dastes.”

“Good.” Her voice softened. “Did you get to see Nanae? The girls?”

“I did,” Jin said, “if not for nearly long enough. Nanae sends her love. Saori won’t stop asking questions, and Emi is crawling.”

“I’m sorry your leave was curtailed. Perhaps we’ll be exceedingly fortunate and this will be a fast and effective mission.”

“It’s difficult to be angry when a man’s life is on the line.”

Kit nodded, squeezed his arm supportively, and then scanned the deck. “I presume his lordship hasn’t yet appeared?”

“Not yet.” Jin smiled. “Is that what we’re calling him?”

“We’ll see what he prefers.” Which would tell her a lot about Grant and his values.

“First impression?”

“Unenthused, to the point of growling at the queen.”

“Unenthused?” Jin asked. “He doesn’t want to help in securing Dunwood’s release?”

“He served with Dunwood. Both Sutherland’s observing officers. He told the queen our ship was insufficient and was led by a mere courier, so I suspect we’re the objectionable bit.”

“Beau Monde prig,” Jin muttered, the words a curse.

“Beau Monde prig,” Kit agreed. “I’m not any more enthused than Grant about sharing command—but the goal is finding Dunwood, getting him home.”

“And not causing an international incident.”

“If at all avoidable,” Kit agreed. “Is his cabin ready?”

Jin’s smile was thin. “Such as it is. Cook hung rosemary and lavender in the beams. So now it smells like rosemary and lavender and only a touch of wet goat.”

“There was nowhere else to keep the damnable thing,” Kit said. “I imagine we’ll see if he’s got his sea legs fast enough.”

“While we’re awaiting that, would you like to review the receipts?”

There were worse tasks aboard ship than paperwork, but Kit couldn’t think of any at the moment. “Sarcasm is not an attractive quality in a commander.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jin said cheerily.

“Captain Brightling!”

The summons came from the dock. Kit and Jin exchanged a glance, then walked to the gunwale. Kingsley stood on the dock below, smiling up at her.

“Kingsley,” Kit said, when she’d climbed down the rope ladder to the dock. “Come to see us off?”

“A voyage of my own,” he said, and gestured to the packet anchored on the other end of the dock. It was the Julianna, a strong and sturdy vessel with eight guns to protect its passengers and crew.

Curious, she looked back at him. “Delivering information, or retrieving it?”

“One or the other,” he said, confirming Kit’s suspicion that he wouldn’t answer directly. “I’m glad I caught you before you sailed. I wanted to apologize again for Stanton’s boorish behavior yesterday.”

“You aren’t responsible for Stanton,” she said. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Kingsley smiled at the response, but then the cheer fell away, replaced by wariness and concern.

Kit looked back, found Grant striding toward them in buff trousers, dark boots, and a gray jacket over broad shoulders. He moved with purpose—and with the swagger of a confident man. But his expression was blank. If he had as little eagerness to sail today as he had yesterday, he hid it well.

Kit’s guard went up. “Colonel.” She didn’t quite manage to hide the disdain in her voice. But she saw little point in concealing that.

“Captain,” Grant said, then glanced at Kingsley from his several inches of additional height. “Kingsley.”

“Grant,” Kingsley said stiffly.

“You know each other?” Kit asked, looking between them, and seeing nothing of friendship, but animosity aplenty.

“We were acquainted during the war,” Grant said, without elaboration.

Kingsley nodded, smile tight and obviously forced. “What’s your business at the quay?”

“Just that,” Grant said. “Business.”

Kingsley waited for more, and Grant refused to oblige him. Kit wasn’t certain whether the silence was motivated by his general obstinacy or because of some grudge between them.

A bell rang on the Julianna, signaling any remaining crew and passengers to board.

“I must leave you,” Kingsley said, and made a short bow. “My lord,” he said to Grant, then nodded at Kit. And as he walked past Kit toward the boat, whispered, “Be careful.”

Surprised by the warning, Kit watched Kingsley walk to the Julianna and greet several soldiers who stood near the passenger gangway. And as he climbed the boarding ramp, he gave her a final nod.

What in the world, she wondered, was that about?

When Kit looked back at Grant, his brow was furrowed. “You and Kingsley are friends.”

“Yes, we’ve known each other for several years,” she said. “Do you object to the friendship, to me, or to Kingsley?”

His eyes flashed. “None of those are any of my concern.”

“Absolutely correct,” she said, and turned on her heel for the Diana.

“Captain aboard!” was called when she stepped onto the deck. Sailors came to attention, saluted.

“At ease,” she said. “Continue readying the ship.”

Grant climbed over the gunwale, straightened his coat, looked around, and then followed Kit as she walked astern toward the helm. She introduced him to Jin and Simon, and then to Tamlin, who’d come down to meet the baggage.

Tamlin looked him over, nodded, and then turned her attention to Kit. “She’s soft, but steady. She’ll get us downriver, but slowly, and she’ll open up when we reach open water.”

“She?” Grant asked.

“The wind, of course,” Tamlin said. “But there’s something odd there, too.”

“A storm?” Kit asked.

“Nay, not a storm. I don’t entirely know what it is.” She opened her eyes, looked back at Kit. “Can the water not feel it?”

“I didn’t feel anything odd,” Kit said. “But we aren’t to the sea yet. I don’t hear the magic as strongly here. Let us know if it becomes . . . more odd,” she decided on.

Tamlin nodded at Jin, then made a little curtsy to Grant before climbing barefoot into the rigging again.

Kit turned to Grant. “Do you need a nautical education?”

“I know this is the boat, and that’s the water. Is there much else that matters?”

She refused the obvious bait. “We’re a two-masted schooner. Foremast,” she said, pointing to the mast in front, “and mainmast.” She pointed to the second. “There are square sails atop the foremast; they hang from the vertical beams—the yards. The biggest sails on each mast are gaff rigged.” She pointed up. “The gaff is the spar at the top, from which the sail hangs. The boom is the one on the bottom.

“Port,” she said, pointing to the boat’s left side. “Starboard,” she said, pointing to the right. “Forward is front, aft is rear. While aboard, you’re safest in your quarters,” she continued. “If you’re on deck, stay aft—in the back of the ship—behind the mainmast. You’re least likely to be in the way.”

“I could hardly be in the way when the queen has ordered me here, and to share in command of this mission.”

“Unless you’ve become an experienced sailor overnight,” she murmured, “you won’t be directing the sailing of this ship.” She gestured up to the stays, the shrouds, the masts, the sails, still furled like ivory cocoons dozens of feet above the deck. “But feel free to go up if you’re so eager to assist.”

The look he gave her was fulminating. “I don’t need to prove my bravery.”

“And I don’t need to prove my skill. I’ll show you your room,” she said, not waiting for his response. “Jin, let me know when we’re ready to weigh anchor.”

“Aye, Captain.”

She moved toward the companionway, heard Grant’s footsteps behind her. The lower deck was darker, lit by lanterns and the sunlights that rose through the upper deck.

“My cabin,” she said, pointing to the door at the end of the short passageway. “Officers’ quarters here. And this is yours.”

The room was narrow, with a bunk, a small desk and leather chair, and a gleaming porthole. The walls were whitewashed wood, a luxury given only to the guest and officers’ quarters, including her own. His trunk had already been delivered and sat beside the desk.

Jin had been right. The herbs had nearly done away with the smell; the goaty reek was only barely discernable.

Grant’s gaze traveled the room, the slender bed. He made no comment.

“Follow me,” she said, and walked toward the bow. “Officers’ mess,” she said, pointing to her left, and then to her right. “And the galley.”

A man with tan skin, black hair in a long queue, and a tiny mustache crouched in front of an enormous cast-iron stove. A long wooden counter took up the other side of the narrow space, with barrels as bookends. Ropes of garlic, bags of onions, and pans hung from the beams. A light breeze blew through an open porthole.

“This is Cook,” Kit said.

The man grunted.

Grant nodded. “Mr. Cook.”

“Not Mr. Cook,” he said flatly, as if repeating a phrase he’d said too many times to bother enunciating. “Just Cook. If we’re to be the mindless tools of a monarchy, we might as well give ourselves the names of those tools, aye? Might as well pretend to be the instruments of power and control.”

“Cook is of a political bent,” Kit said.

Cook snorted. “We’d all be political if we had the sense the gods gave a turnip. But not all of us are so gifted.” He shoved wood into the stove from a small basket, then tossed in shavings and flicked in a spark from the tip of a flint. When the fire was lit, he closed the door again and rose, dusted off his hands. “Nothing wrong with a day’s work, is there? With being a common man, a plebian man, working with his fingers and his muscles and his brains?”

“We’re all workers here,” Kit said.

Cook snorted, gave Grant a look. “Who’re you?”

“Grant.”

“Position?”

“Colonel,” Grant said.

“Viscount,” Kit corrected, and actually saw Grant’s jaw clench.

Cook clucked his tongue. “Beau Monde, eh? More’s the pity, as you won’t be finding any aspics here. No towers of candied partridges or fricasseed whale, or whatever your kind eat.”

“Not candied partridges or fricasseed whale,” Grant said.

“Well, good then.” Cook narrowed his eyes, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Get out of my light.”

They reached the sailors’ mess in further silence, the room empty given everyone was on the deck or in the hold.

“This is the mess for the crew. Used for meals and hammocks for those who don’t fit in the forecastle. Every inch of space must be used. We have to carry everything we need—provisions, personnel, canvas, and rigging—with us. We may go days or weeks without seeing another vessel.”

“Difficult to have a war, isn’t it, when you’re alone in the middle of the ocean?”

Kit stopped. “Are you intimating naval battles are imaginary, or that naval service is less arduous than that of the army?”

“I was making an observation.”

“An insulting one.” She pointed down at a closed hatch in the floor. “That leads into the hold.” Then she gestured to the next bulwark, the narrow passageway through it. “That’s the forecastle, where the rest of the crew sleep.” She turned around to face him, found him standing nearly toe-to-toe, and managed her most imperious look.

“Perhaps,” she said, when he declined to step back, “we should discuss our . . . joint command.”

“Perhaps we should.”

“My cabin,” she said, then squeezed past him in the corridor, catching the faint scent of bay rum cologne. She liked bay rum, and was irritated that she’d now associate it with him.

She walked inside her cabin, holding open the door, and when he’d followed her in, closed it. He looked around, taking in the wall of windows, the desk, the built-in bunk, the round table and chairs.

“Let’s be clear,” she said, when she’d closed the door. “I don’t much care who you are, or what you did before. I don’t care about your title, or your connection to the queen. I do care about the safety of my crew, and the man I’m to rescue.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

Kit’s irritation flashed. “I’m captain of this ship, and that’s my obligation to the crew. To evaluate, decide, order, and be sure. If I’m not confident in my decisions, I ought not be in a position to make them.”

He cocked his head at her. “What, exactly, are you concerned I might do?”

“I couldn’t possibly know what you might do, as I don’t know you.” And that, Kit thought, was what rankled her most. “But you’ve been deposited onto my ship, which makes you my responsibility.”

She saw the flare of heat in his eyes.

“I am no one’s responsibility but my own,” he said. “And the Diana is the queen’s ship, not yours. The queen requested I undertake this mission, and I agreed.”

“Why you?”

“That’s a question for the queen, isn’t it?”

His tone was hard, a dare. If he’d been other than a colonel, a viscount, a man put here by the queen, she’d have knocked him down for insubordination. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.

“It’s a question for you, given you obviously loathe the idea of being on this ship with a mere courier.” That she’d said the phrase again made her realize how personally she’d taken it. And she didn’t know why. He was hardly the only person to think it; the story had been purposefully spread.

Grant’s jaw clenched again. “I served my country dutifully. I have other obligations now.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“My reasons are my own,” Grant said. “I will neither explain nor apologize for them.”

Silence fell, brittle as glass. They stared at each other, commanders preparing for a battle they hadn’t expected to fight.

She walked to the windows—it seemed important that she put space between them—and looked at the water. She knew there was more to pick at here, information Grant wasn’t telling her that informed his reasons for being on her ship. Her ship. But she plainly wasn’t going to learn them here and now, and there was no point in petty bickering with a viscount; Dunwood’s life was more important than her own ego. Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 5: Ego is less important than results. And right now, that one stung. Duty, she reminded herself, and brushed her fingers against the ribbon.

When she looked back at him, he was watching her carefully. That put heat at the back of her neck. That made her angry for reasons she didn’t want to contemplate. So she ignored it.

“We don’t know each other,” she said. “And I suspect we wouldn’t like each other even if we did. But that hardly matters, as the queen has put us together. So we find Dunwood and we bring him home. You can return to your estate, and I can return to my service, and we’ll forget this entire irritation.”

Grant looked at her, and hard, for a long moment. “Agreed,” he said, then walked away.

For an entire minute, she stared at the ceiling, prayed for patience. “Gods save me from viscounts,” she muttered, then followed him out.

“Status?” she asked Jin, when they reached the deck again.

“Ready,” Jin said. “The door was closed, and I didn’t want to interrupt your—”

“It’s fine,” Kit said, cutting him off. “Call the crew for the instructions, please. Battle stations aren’t necessary.” She wanted them close by so she could speak without the wind carrying her voice—and their mission—across the quay. Word would travel soon enough. This was the time for discretion.

“All hands!” Jin yelled, then whistled so sharply August dug a finger into his ear as if to dislodge the sound. The order was carried down the deck and through the hatchways, until footsteps began to pound and officers and sailors and gathered. Those already on board moved toward the stern to hear their instructions, learn what this sudden mission was about.

Cook was, as always, the last one on deck. When they filled the ship’s waist, when hats were pulled off and crumpled into hands, she looked them over.

“Your leave was cut short,” she said. “It was your duty to respond to the Crown’s call, and here you are. It is believed a man loyal to the Crown, a man who has put himself in danger to protect her interests, has been taken by hostile forces. It is our job to find him, to rescue him, and to see him home safely. And that we will do.”

“What’s our destination, Captain?” August, as always, was the voice of the crew.

“We set sail for Finistère.”

Eyes widened, voices murmuring excitement and approval. They were experienced sailors and understood very well the risk of a viper pit like Finistère . . . and the appeal.

“It will be dangerous,” she said. “Our man is likely being held against his will, likely for the information he’s gathered. Those who have detained him will not let him go easily. We may incur injuries—and worse—in the process of this mission.”

She took a step forward, moving closer to her crew, and met each of their gazes in turn. Let them see the gravity of what they’d been asked to do, the importance of it. And the risk. She owed that to them, too.

“We will be quick,” she said. “Fleet as foxes. Silent as doves on the wing. We will not fail.”

“Hear, hear!” someone shouted, and the cheer spread across the deck.

“Weigh anchor!” Kit called out. And the work began.