Chapter 1
The ballroom blazed with a thousand candles, their light reflecting off crystal chandeliers and the polished medals adorning every naval officer’s chest. Faron Mordon watched from the shadows of the harbor-facing balcony, his dark eyes tracking movement through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a shark circling prey.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of blood, salt, and patient hunger. Fifteen years of building a name so fearsome that naval captains whispered it like a curse. Voodoo. The man who left no survivors. The devil who sailed The Devil’s Rambler through waters that should have been impossible to navigate, appearing from fog and darkness to tear apart convoy after convoy.
And tonight, fifteen years of waiting would finally bear fruit.
He adjusted his position against the stone balustrade, the fine stolen clothes he wore feeling foreign against skin more accustomed to canvas and leather. The uniform of a merchant captain—boring, respectable, invisible. No one looked twice at merchants at these affairs. They were furniture, necessary but beneath notice.
Inside, Admiral Victor LaBeau held court like the king he imagined himself to be. Tall, silver-haired, decorated with honors that should have choked him with their weight. Faron’s jaw clenched as he watched the man laugh, one hand gesturing grandly with a crystal glass of champagne, the other resting possessively on the shoulder of the young woman beside him.
Miss Beatrix LaBeau.
Faron had studied her from a distance for months, learning her routines, her guards, her father’s suffocating control over every aspect of her existence. But seeing her up close—even through glass—still struck him with an unexpected observation.
She was tiny. Delicate in a way that spoke of careful cultivation rather than natural fragility. Her gown was an elaborate confection of ivory silk and lace, the bodice so tightly corseted that Faron could see the rigid line of the boning even from his vantage point. It forced her posture into unnatural straightness, her breathing shallow and careful. Her dark hair was swept up in an intricate arrangement studded with pearls, not a single strand daring to escape. Everything about her spoke of control, of a life lived within invisible chains more binding than any iron shackles Faron had ever forged.
She smiled when her father spoke. Nodded when addressed. Kept her gloved hands folded demurely. The perfect naval daughter. The perfect trophy.
The perfect bait.
A man approached her—tall, decorated, perhaps forty years old with graying temples and the bearing of someone accustomed to command. Commodore James Rothwell, if Faron’s intelligence was correct. The man to whom Beatrix had been promised like a particularly valuable ship being transferred between fleets.
Rothwell took her hand and kissed it, holding it longer than necessary. Even from the balcony, Faron could see the way Beatrix’s smile remained fixed, painted on like the elaborate cosmetics that paled her already light complexion. Could see the way her father beamed with satisfaction, already counting whatever political capital this union would bring him.
Faron’s hand moved unconsciously to his side, where his blade usually hung. Found only expensive fabric and had to force his fingers to relax.
Not yet. Not here.
Soon.
He’d planned this for months with the cold precision that had kept him alive and free when every naval fleet in three oceans wanted his head. Tonight was reconnaissance. Final observation before the strike. He needed to see the security, the routines, the vulnerabilities. Needed to confirm that the girl would be where his informants promised she would be in three days’ time.
The Admiral’s daughter took weekly carriage rides through the harbor district—always the same route, always with the same small guard detail. Her father considered the route safe, the guards sufficient. After all, who would be foolish enough to attack the Admiral’s daughter in broad daylight in the heart of the naval stronghold?
Someone who had nothing left to lose. Someone who’d spent fifteen years building a reputation so terrifying that the mere mention of his name made hardened sailors cross themselves. Someone who’d watched his mother burn, his father hang, his sister—
Faron’s knuckles cracked as his fist tightened against the stone. He forced the memories down, back into the dark place where he kept them locked and chained. Rage was useful. Rage had fueled him through impossible odds, driven him to master the seas, made him into the nightmare that haunted the Admiral’s fleet. But undisciplined rage made mistakes, and he could afford none.
The ballroom doors opened, and Beatrix emerged onto a different balcony with Commodore Rothwell. Her father remained inside, deep in conversation with other officers. Faron shifted position, moving along the shadows to get a better vantage point.
“The breeze is lovely,” Beatrix said, her voice carrying across the warm night air. Soft, cultured, with the careful diction of someone who’d been trained from birth to speak properly. “Thank you for suggesting we step outside, Commodore.”
“James, please.” Rothwell moved closer, backing her subtly against the balustrade. “We are to be married, after all. Surely we can dispense with formalities.”
“Of course.” Another of those fixed smiles. “Though my father prefers—”
“Your father wants you to be happy.” Rothwell’s hand came to rest on the stone beside her, caging her in. “And I intend to make you very happy, my dear.”
Faron watched, fascinated despite himself, as Beatrix’s expression never wavered. The smile remained. The posture stayed demure. But her hands, pressed against her elaborately laced bodice, had gone rigid in a way that she was white-knuckled beneath the gloves.
“You’re very kind,” she murmured.
“I’m many things.” Rothwell leaned closer. “You’ll learn them all soon enough.”
There was a quality to the words that made Faron’s lip curl. He’d heard that tone before—from men who thought power gave them ownership of everything around them. Who saw people as things to possess and use.
Men like Admiral LaBeau.
The Admiral who’d decided that a small merchant family trading in charts and navigation supplies was concealing information from the Crown. Who’d sent his men to extract that information by any means necessary. Who’d watched with cold satisfaction as Faron’s father was executed for treason he didn’t commit, as his mother was burned for witchcraft she didn’t practice, as his sister—
No. Focus.
Rothwell was speaking again, his hand moving from the balustrade to Beatrix’s waist. “Your father tells me you have an interest in maps. A peculiar hobby for a woman, but I suppose I can indulge it. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your other duties.”
“You’re very generous.” Her voice remained perfectly level, but Faron, who’d spent years reading the subtle signs of fear in prey and predator alike, caught the slight tremor beneath the words.
“I expect you to show appropriate gratitude.” Rothwell’s thumb traced a pattern against the rigid boning of her corset. “Your father has trained you well, I trust. You understand a wife’s obligations?”
“I understand my duty.”
“Good girl.”
Faron felt something cold settle in his chest as he watched the exchange. This was the man Beatrix LaBeau would marry in three months’ time. This was the cage she would trade for when her father finally released his grip—or rather, transferred his ownership. It was almost sad, she hadn't had a taste of freedom. Her mother had died when she wash and her father had raised her with iron clad authority.
Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t make it to the wedding.
In three days, she would disappear. The Admiral’s perfect daughter would vanish like smoke, and the great Victor LaBeau would know the helplessness of having something precious ripped away. Would know what it meant to be powerless. To search desperately and find nothing. To wonder every day whether she was alive or dead, suffering or already gone.
And when the Admiral had been properly tormented, when he’d torn apart every lead and exhausted every resource, when hope had been bled dry—then Faron would send him proof. Would let him know exactly who had taken his daughter. Would make sure he understood that this was payment for old debts.
Then she would serve her final purpose.
The ballroom doors opened again, and Admiral LaBeau emerged, his expression darkening at the sight of Rothwell standing so close to his daughter.
“Commodore. I believe the dancing is about to resume.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Rothwell stepped back smoothly, offering Beatrix his arm. She took it with that same practiced smile, allowing herself to be led back inside like a prize mare being returned to her stall.
Faron watched them disappear into the golden light and music. Watched the Admiral follow, one hand already reaching to adjust his daughter’s posture, to correct some invisible imperfection in her appearance.
Three days.
He pushed away from the balustrade and melted back into the shadows, making his way down the servant’s stairs and through the garden paths that led to the harbor. The stolen merchant captain’s coat came off, revealing the dark canvas shirt beneath. His stride changed, the careful civility dropping away like a mask.
By the time he reached the docks, he was himself again.
The Devil’s Rambler waited in the deeper water beyond the naval vessels, her black sails furled, her crew silent and watchful. A longboat waited at the private pier Faron had paid dearly to access. His first mate, Silas, sat at the oars, scarred face expressionless.
“Well?” Silas asked as Faron dropped into the boat.
“Three days. Dawn run through the harbor district, just like the informant said.” Faron settled into the stern as Silas began rowing. “Four guards, one driver, light carriage. She’ll be easy to take.”
“And the girl?”
Faron thought of that fixed smile, the white-knuckled hands, the tiny frame held rigid by steel and silk. Thought of the way she’d said “I understand my duty” with the resignation of someone who’d long since stopped fighting her chains.
“She’s perfect,” he said coldly. “The Admiral’s going to suffer beautifully.”
The longboat cut through dark water, carrying him back toward his ship. Behind them, the lights of the naval ball blazed on, music and laughter drifting across the harbor. Celebrating. Oblivious.
In three days, Admiral Victor LaBeau’s world would shatter. And Faron Mordon would finally have his revenge.
The Devil’s Rambler waited, patient and hungry as her captain, ready to swallow the Admiral’s daughter whole and disappear into the endless sea.
