Silk & Shadow

Day 1

The sun had long since vanished from the horizon, superseded by a bronze moon that hovered over the tranquil waters, tipping the waves’ crests in tones of copper. The ship’s worn sails billowed and undulated in the vagrant breeze. Days had passed since a single storm cloud was seen tarrying on the horizon; the weather lately had been more than agreeable.

But Lucien knew the peace was not to last.

A shadowed sky loomed overhead, endless as time itself. Night pressed close around them, thick and smothering, and the ship swayed as waves lapped at the bow.

Coattails flapping behind him, he strode purposefully across his cabin, which overlooked the main deck and drew the lace-trimmed curtains shut, shielding himself from the prying eyes of his crewmen. He valued his privacy and took care to make sure everyone aboard the Wraithlore knew it.

Against his better judgment, the captain spared himself a glance at the bedraggled young woman occupying his bed. She lay wrapped in the luxurious silk of his sheets—the woman whose name he had yet to learn. A candle burned on the bedside table to her left. Even unconscious, her features were set in a scowl, and a jagged scar ran in a diagonal arc down her left temple, though the blemish really only added to her allure.

He raked a hand through russet hair and stood, pacing the room. The scent of sea salt clung to her skin and lingered in his nostrils. Gods—he had thought she was dead. But then her chest rose. A gasp. A cough. Life returning to her in a violent shudder.

Lucien had saved her, fished her out of the water, had Alva, his shipmate, provide her with a fresh change of clothing and bring her to his cabin. He figured she’d prefer this to the musty brig belowdecks, but, as night wore on, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

He returned to his desk in the far corner of the room. With a grim shake of his head, he dipped his quill in the inkwell, smoothed out the crisp sheet of parchment before him and brought the ink to paper, dreading the woman’s reaction when she woke to find herself sprawled over a stranger’s bed. There’s a good explanation for all this. She’ll see.

He had scarcely scrawled out his first sentence in loopy cursive when behind him, she groaned, the sound grating in her throat.

He turned to face her, heart leaping into his mouth. Speech eluded him.

She rolled over, her scowl intensifying, and her eyes swung open, latching onto his. Eyes of steel—eyes that had learned to hold back tears as though they were trained for battle.

For a moment, he sat there and watched mutely as she glanced, disoriented, around the room, her calloused hands fisting around the fabric of the surrounding sheets. Her sleek, coal-blue tresses gleamed gold in the candlelight.

Finally, his speech returned, and he nodded, offering a feigned smile. “Ah,” he said with perfect civility, and a confidence that belied his inner turmoil. “Good. You’re awake.”

Those stormy eyes zeroed in on him in bewilderment. Her breaths were rapid, her movements convulsive as she tried to make sense of the situation. It was then her ever-shifting gaze landed on the rusted cutlass that hung over the bed frame behind her.

Lucien leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Did you have a nice nap, love? You’re looking a little green around the gills there. Shall I fetch you a bucket—”

In the blink of an eye, the woman had bolted upright and stood barefoot on the rickety mattress. She reached toward the headboard, fingers curling around the handle of the cutlass.

Lucien blanched, his broad features slackening as the woman hurled the weapon across the room at him, and he couldn’t help but take note of her exceptional aim.

The breath seized in his throat. He barely ducked in time. The blade whizzed past him, embedding itself in the wall behind him with a shrill thwack.

He swiveled back around to gawp at his attacker, mystified. “Good gods,” he swore. “What was that for?”

The woman slid off the bed and snatched the candle on his bedside table, pointing it at him. The flame writhed and danced, smoke leaching into the stale air. “You,” she snarled, on the brink of hysteria as she circled him. “Who are you? Why have you brought me here? What have you done to me?”

His spine stiffened and he raised a defensive eyebrow.

Again, the woman brandished her weapon, seething. “You deaf, lad? Come on—answer me!”

Jaw tensing, Lucien set down his quill and drew the sword from the scabbard at his thigh, trying to regain some control over the situation. “Now hold on just a minute,” he ordered, pointing the silver blade in her direction. “Come now. Is that any way to treat your rescuer?”

Her brows knit together, and she lowered her weapon, bemused. Wax dripped from the candlewick and onto the wood floors.

“Why, I reckon you’d be halfway to the bottom of the ocean by now, dueling with Davy Jones were it not for my timely intervention,” Lucien went on, edging closer. “What you really ought to be doing here is thanking me.”

“By all means, keep talking, Captain,” the woman shrieked, her uncertainty evaporating. “It only adds to my fury.”

He guffawed at her, amused with her histrionics. “You’re not much of a charmer, are you?”

“Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you, Captain,” she volleyed back.

Lucien saw an opening. He sheathed his weapon and pounced at her, his fingers like manacles around her wrist as he wrested the candlestick from her grasp. “I’ll take that, thank you very much.”

She resisted, trying to free herself, but his grip never wavered.

“Pluck,” chuckled the captain, low in his throat as he blew out the candle and tossed the stubby wick onto his desk. “That’s what you’ve got.”

She growled at him in response, the sound shrill and primal.

“Have you a name, little pearl?” Lucien queried, stifling a laugh.

“I am Minerva Battleborn, daughter of Captain Draigus Battleborn. And I don’t recall giving you permission to fondle me.”

“A thousand pardons,” Lucien purred, releasing her.

She retreated a little, dusting herself off with leathery hands. “I take it this is your ship?”

“Aye. The Wraithlore.” He gave a tiny smile. “Welcome aboard, lass—can I offer you anything? Refreshments? Perhaps a piping cup of tea to suit your fancy? If you’ve need of the loo, it’s down the ladder, out in the hall, and to the left. You can’t miss it.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Now you choose to be civil,” she huffed. “Very well. I will humor you. What’s your name, sailor?”

“Lass, if you don’t already know it, either you’ve been living under a rock your whole life, or you’re pulling my leg.” He tilted his head, eyes expressionless. “My guess is the former.”

Her mouth twitched and she stared vacantly. “Your deductive reasoning is rudimentary at best, Captain.”

His eyes twinkled. “Name’s Lucien,” he said, bowing with a dramatic flourish. “Lucien Greylore. Amateur scholar, decent swordsman, loot-monger, and lover of the sea.”

Recognition lit her features. “Lucien Greylore? Disgraced nobleman of the Greylore dynasty? That Lucien Greylore?”

“Ah. My reputation doth precede me.” He grinned up at her from beneath heavy brows before rising to his full height. “And you,” he said, sheathing his weapon and weaving his hands together in front of him. “You are Captain Draigus’s daughter, you say?”

“That is correct. We Battleborns are not to be trifled with, lest you should forget.”

“I gathered that the moment you tried to skewer me with my brother’s cutlass.”

“Ah. So that’s what this is about. Your brother, Casimir. You mean to avenge him, and you mean to use me as leverage against my father. Is that it?”

Oh, Casimir.

Hearing the name spoken out loud rattled Lucien to his core.

He swallowed the acid ascending in his throat, forcing sound from his lips. “’Tis a fascinating theory, inaccurate as it may be.”

“Now you mock me,” Minerva hissed. “This is not a joke, Captain. My father will come for me. Vengeance will be ours.” She pressed a finger to his chest, regarding him with cold disdain. “You laugh at me now, but mark my words, you will be singing a different shanty come my father’s arrival.”

“Well, far be it from me to discourage you, but you should know your father is not the only sea captain who has it out for me, little minx. Should he wish to cross swords with the dreaded Captain Lucien Greylore, he shall have to take a number and get in line.”

“You had better pray to the gods someone else reaches you first. My father will show no mercy. He will beat you to a bloody pulp and feed your grisly remains to the gulls.”

“What a lovely image. I thank you for that, truly.”

Minerva gave him a brief once-over, her expression sharp. “You know him, my father?” she said after a beat.

“Our paths have crossed, yes. Suffice it to say, we were never what one might call a match made in heaven.”

She hid a smile, and he felt some of the tension lift between them.

“Look,” said he. “I believe you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“I’ll say.”

“Your anger is not unfounded. But do you truly believe I would stoop so low as to take advantage of an innocent young woman—and in her sleep, no less?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Minerva said softly. Shame billowed inside when Lucien remembered how close he had come to proving her right. “Anyone in my situation would’ve made similar assumptions. Which you have yet to deny, if I may point out.”

“Allow me to ease your mind.” Lucien extended his hand to brush featherlight fingertips across the marred flesh of her temple. “Tempted though I was, I never laid hands on you. Not in the way you fear, at least. Alas, there are some lines that should never be crossed.”

“I see.” Her features softened a little. “Whose clothes am I wearing, if I may ask?”

“Those would be my shipmate and former governess, Alva’s. She is the one who dressed you, and would not let me within an inch of you during the process, I should add.”

Minerva’s eyes flicked to the floor and she stood in quiet consideration. “Name one reason why I ought to trust you, Lucien Greylore.”

“Trust me?” he chortled, filling the gap between them with his bulk. “Let me make one thing clear, madam Minerva—I am a pirate, through and through. Seawater runs through my veins. You’d be a fool to place your trust in a man of my caliber.” He plucked a loose thread from the neckline of her shirt, twisting the rough fiber between his thumb and forefinger. “And you’re no fool, are you, Miss Battleborn?”

She cringed back as if in revulsion.

“Today, however, I am a man of my word,” Lucien proclaimed. “I swear on my brother’s grave I never touched you. Not that it’s any consolation, but I’d sooner throw myself overboard than take such liberties. I’m not a monster.”

“That has yet to be determined,” Minerva spat, slapping his hand away.

The blow stung more than he cared to admit. He let his hand fall limp at his side, suddenly aware of just how cold the room had become.

“I could have left you to drown, you know. But I didn’t. Surely that must account for something.” He paused, his eyes calculating as he studied her. “How did you end up in the water, anyway? Have you any memory of the incident?”

“We hit rough waters just off the coast near Blaikshore. I fell overboard. My crew mates were otherwise preoccupied. Then you found me and brought me here to your frilly bedchamber.”

“Would you rather I assigned you to the brig below deck? Because that can most certainly be arranged.”

“I just may take you up on that, Captain.”

“I daresay you would be doing both of us a favor.”

“I reckon I’d be the one benefiting most from the arrangement.”

She lifted an eyebrow, the grey of her eyes skimming his muscle-bound form. Heat surged through him, and he straightened a little, all too aware of her proximity.

“Minerva,” Lucien said, sobering. “The reason I brought you here was because it was the safest place aboard the ship. My intentions are pure, but I cannot speak for the rest of my men. And I did not so much like the notion of you spending the night inside some grimy cell, either.”

She relaxed a little, her shoulders dropping a few inches. “Well then, in the unlikely event you’re telling the truth, I suppose thanks are in order.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucien returned cordially. “There. See? Was that so hard?”

With the speed of a panther, Minerva seized his sword and freed it from his scabbard, positioning the tip of the blade beneath his jawbone. She could see where his pulse throbbed steadily at the base of his throat. Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “Mind how you speak to me, Captain. To a Battleborn, first impressions are everything, and you’ve already botched yours.”

“I’d wager as much.” Lucien displayed his palms in surrender. “That scar. On your temple. How did you get it?”

“It’s not a scar. It’s a birthmark.” She lowered his sword and twirled it in her hand, admiring the gold shaft. A scaly sea serpent coiled around the hilt, fangs bared, claws splayed—the Leviathan. A creature of legend, worshiped and feared by pirates and seafarers alike. Her thumb drifted over the textured surface. Slow. Methodical.

Lucien’s eyes followed her as she did an abrupt about-face and proceeded to roam about the cabin, still clutching his weapon. She admired the intricately woven wool carpet at their feet, fringed with bristly scarlet tassels, and paused by his desk, leaning over to examine the yellowed piece of parchment that lay there. “Ah. What have we here?” she taunted. “This a love letter, Captain?” She turned, flashing him a coquettish smile.

“At the moment, it’s nothing but a crinkled sheet of parchment.” Lucien’s heels clacked across the wood floors as he moved to stand beside her, his gaze bold. Minerva’s stance stiffened. Her pupils constricted, and she returned his gaze as if trying to ascertain whether or not he was still a threat.

“Well,” she piped up at last. “This has been fun, but since you’ve made it clear you are not holding me hostage, I don’t see any reason for me to stay. I thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Captain. It will not be forgotten. Now, if you would kindly point me in the direction of your dinghies, I will show myself—”

She jumped, and he grew rigid when someone rapped at the door behind them. “Captain! Captain!” The knocks grew more urgent. “Open up! We’ve got a situation out here!”

Lucien took advantage of Minerva’s momentary distraction to retrieve his sword, prying her fingers from the hilt. Her cheeks blazed as she glowered up at him.

“You stay put,” he ground out, jabbing a finger in her direction.

He strode to the other end of the room and threw open the door with explosive force. Scallop, his first mate stood on the threshold, lantern in hand, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that tipped a tad too far to the left for symmetry. Lucien reached out, seizing a fistful of his grubby shirt. “This had better be good.”

Scallop gulped, his dark eyes alight with terror.

“What’s the matter?” Lucien snapped. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, sir, Lucien, sir.”

“Then what seems to be the issue?”

“Captain Draigus Battleborn, sir,” stammered the scrawny pirate.

“What about him?”

“He’s come aboard, sir. He’s here now and he’s requesting an audience with you.”

“Battleborn?” Lucien hissed, his voice low and venomous. “On my ship?”

Scallop nodded vigorously, looking like he might faint. “Yes, sir. He’s got a few of his men with him. He says it’s urgent, sir.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. He glanced over at Minerva, who was still standing by his desk. Her eyes hardened when they met his, and she lifted a questioning eyebrow.

He released Scallop with a shove, sending him stumbling back a step. “Take me to him.”

“Wait.” Minerva pushed past him, having retrieved his brother’s cutlass. “I’m coming with you.”

Deftly, Lucien knocked the weapon from her grasp and seized her wrist, dragging her towards him. “Oh, you’re coming, alright,” he purred in her ear, flashing her a feral smile. “Just not on your terms.”

“You mangy mongrel,” Minerva shrilled. “Unhand me.”

“Quiet,” Lucien barked, guilt weighing heavy in his gut as he negated her protests. “Where is he?” he asked Scallop. “Where is Draigus?”

“This way, sir.”

Minerva’s bare feet scraped against the wooden planks below as Scallop led them to the main deck. Lucien’s fingers dug into her, his grip unyielding, and his face retained its stony expression.

Wind buffeted his sun-streaked hair, thick with the briny stench of the sea. The ship, swathed in salt and shadow, listed and swayed along with the ocean’s ever-shifting current, their flag flying high atop the mainmast. The banner itself was frayed along the edges, with the Wraithlore sigil at its center, stitched into the weatherworn fabric.

Draigus and his men had dropped anchor beside them so his ship was parallel with theirs, black lateen sails rustling in the breeze, a wooden gangplank bridging the gap that loomed between them. The nerve of him, Lucien thought, livid. Boarding another pirate’s ship, uninvited? That was a death sentence—a crime against crimes.

And Lucien would see to it that Draigus lived to regret it.