Upon A Starlit Tide

16. Barnacles and Shadows

16

Barnacles and Shadows

Luce found herself walking behind her father and the other gentlemen as she made her way to the quay. The men moved at a leisurely pace through the lantern-lit streets, their ranks swelling with every elegant town house they passed.

The de Chatelaine brothers, Morgan among them, fell in with them at the Place du Pilori. Luce could not help but envy their easy confidence. Not for them the confines of the salon. They were free to move as they pleased, to walk without fear through the unruly streets and celebrate late into the night. And why shouldn’t they? Weren’t they gentlemen of Saint-Malo? Most of the ships in the quay, newly blessed, belonged to their families. The ocean and its horizons lay open to them in a way that Luce had only ever dreamed of. The familiar ache, the wanting—the endless blue horizon, the lure of distant ports, awoke in her, stronger than ever.

Be brave.

Be free.

She walked on.

They soon left the wealthier part of the city behind, turning toward its older, darker interior. The cathedral spire appeared above the rooftops, its storm-stone stonework gleaming softly in the moonlight.

The tide had retreated now, and the Malouin ships lay on their sides on the wet sand of the harbour like beached leviathans. Bonfires had sprung up around them, and the crowds ebbed and flowed between, drinking and dancing, talking and laughing. Music rose from at least five different places, the tunes clashing and melding in turn. Jean-Baptiste and the older men seemed content to wander the quay, watching a group of dancers twirl fire and throw it high in the air, but the younger men flowed down the sea-steps and onto the bustling sands. It would be safer, Luce knew, to stay near her father, or even Morgan. Saint-Malo at night was rough, and dangerous, at the best of times. Yet it was not her father or Morgan she had come to find.

Be brave.

Hunching deep into her overcoat, her tricorn pulled low, she descended the sea-stairs.

The celebrations on the harbour-floor were always wildest, as though the revelers were worshipping the sea itself. Luce half expected to see the groac’h moving slowly through the dancers, her tusks glinting with wild magic, or the jetins dancing merrily around the fires.

She pushed through the crowds, boots sinking in the watery sand, until she came to the place where she, Samuel and Bones had enjoyed the festivities during the last Blessing. There had been a crepe-seller set up beneath one of the ships, and they had gorged themselves on the thin pancakes, sipping cider and watching the dancing.

A knot of men—sailors, from their weather-beaten faces— came toward her, loud and drunken. She swerved to avoid them, her boot catching on a half-submerged rock. Pain shot through her foot. She stumbled, threw out a hand.

‘Easy there, lad.’ A gnarly old tar caught her shoulder, righting her. ‘Can’t hold your liquor, eh?’ He laughed toothlessly and slapped her on the back, so hard she lurched straight into a crowd of people gathered around a large bonfire. Annoyed shouts, and spilled cider. Someone caught her arm, steadied her.

‘ Luce? ’

It was Samuel.

‘What in Christ’s name are you doing out here?’ He pulled her into the shadows beneath a stranded frigate, then looked her over, incredulous. ‘Are you alone ?’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Luce snapped, wrenching her elbow out of his grasp.

Bones and a handful of Samuel’s smuggler friends lounged on crates and casks around a smaller fire. Their voices bounced off the frigate’s barnacled hull, mingled with the music rising from a fiddle, a bombarde, a veuse, and a drum. Someone was frying fish over a flame; the scent of it, of smoke and the unmistakable tang of the exposed seafloor, was heavy on the air.

‘I never said you couldn’t,’ Samuel said quietly.

They had not seen each other since their argument at the cove. The memory of it lingered between them, tainting the very air with its awkwardness. Luce stole a look at him. He was slightly disheveled, as always, his hair escaping its tail at the back of his neck, the collar and top buttons of his shirt laid open. There was a drink in his hand, and salt in the creases of his overcoat. He looked like nothing so much as a smuggler; good-for-nothing, and utterly dishonourable.

Then why did her heart quicken so?

‘Can I walk you back to Rue Saint-Philippe?’ Samuel asked. ‘You just said...’

‘I know what I said. But Luce, you shouldn’t be out here. This particular gathering is not...’

‘Not what?’

‘It’s not for you, that’s all.’

Luce gestured to the crowd around the largest fire. ‘There are lots of women here.’

‘Ye-es, but...’

She looked closer. Some of the women were dancing, their skirts hitched high, their feet bare as they skipped across the sand. Others lingered with the men, perched on a knee or an upturned cask, stockings peeping from beneath grimy petticoats as they drank and flirted brazenly.

‘Oh.’ She blushed.

‘As I said.’ Samuel refrained from looking at her. ‘Not for you.’

Luce watched the dancing. There were no courtly bows and curtseys, no rules and patterns to adhere to. The men grasped the women around their waists, their bodies scandalously close. They messed up the steps, laughed, spilled their drinks, and crashed into each other.

She stifled a giggle.

Nearby, a sailor thumped his drink upon a rickety crate and burst into song:

‘ So up the stairs and into bed I took that maiden fair. I fired off my cannon into her thatch of hair— ’

‘Christ,’ Samuel muttered.

‘He has impressive diction,’ Luce said solemnly.

Samuel snorted.

More sailors joined the first, loud and bold and drunk.

‘ I fired off a broadside until my shot was spent, then rammed that fire ship’s waterline until my ram was bent. ’

Shouts, close by, loud and rageful. Two men were brawling, punching and swinging and cursing. Everyone stopped what they were doing to shout encouragement.

‘Right,’ Samuel said firmly, tossing back what remained of his drink. ‘That’s more than enough for one night. I’m taking you home.’

Charlotte’s voice whispered in Luce’s mind. Don’t be afraid to fight for what you really want.

‘You didn’t seem to mind me being here last year, or the one before,’ she said. ‘What’s changed?’

He considered her. ‘I suppose I figured you’d still be angry with me for what I said to you at the cove. Couldn’t imagine you wanting to spend the Blessing with me, after that.’ He swept a hand over the fires, the ships. ‘And I can’t just let you wander off on your own. Christ knows what might happen to you.’

‘So home it is.’

‘That’s the conclusion I’ve come to, yes.’

‘There’s another option, Samuel.’

He sighed. ‘Of course there is.’

‘You could apologise to me.’

‘For what?’

‘For how you treated me at the cove. And for all the awful things you said about Morgan.’

He leaned against the ship’s hull, arms crossed. ‘Very well. I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, Lucinde. You didn’t deserve it. But I’ll be damned before I apologise for what I said about de Chatelaine.’

‘You still believe it’s true?’

‘I know it’s true.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why does it matter so much to you?’

‘It doesn’t matter to me.’

It was true; it didn’t. She had decided already that she would not, could not, marry Morgan. Not when she felt the way she did about Samuel. She had come here, to the Blessing, to discover if her feelings for him were returned. To be brave. The stubborn set of his jaw, however, told her that achieving her aims might require some added... encouragement. She shrugged weakly, as though his opinion of Morgan was the most important thing in the world to her—and she was trying to hide it.

Samuel took the bait at once. ‘Why does it matter, Luce?’

‘Because Morgan asked me to marry him.’ There, she thought. Let’s see what you make of that.

‘He what ?’ Samuel drew back as though she had bitten him. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I’ve said nothing, yet.’ She looked back at the dancing. A woman swirled by, her partner holding her close. ‘I told him I needed time to think.’

‘Time to think?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So you’re considering it.’

‘Of course I am. If I married Morgan, I could go to sea with him on the Lucinde. ’

‘The Lucinde ? Isn’t that your father’s new ship?’

‘She’s my ship. Papa is giving her to me.’

‘I see.’ Samuel nodded grimly to himself. ‘Now it all makes sense.’

He pushed off the ship and strode away from her, into the shadows of a second frigate looming in the darkness.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Luce followed him.

‘Word in Saint-Malo is that Castro blames his son for the loss of the Dauphin, ’ Samuel said over his shoulder. ‘Morgan wants to captain a corsair, go raiding, but Castro refuses to give him another ship. Seems as though he means to take yours.’

‘He would not be taking it,’ Luce said. She did not want to marry Morgan, it was true. Even so, she did not like the thought of him using her for his own ends. He cared for her. Didn’t he? ‘We would sail it together.’

‘How romantic.’ Samuel stopped, turned. ‘I thought the plan was to join a crew. Go to sea on your own terms.’

‘And I thought you said that was madness!’

They were at the center of the ship. The broadest part of the hull, thick with barnacles, towered over them, its masts and rigging sweeping the night sky.

Luce looked into Samuel’s face, searching for a sign that he cared. That she had not imagined what had passed between them on the Dove and in the woods. He glanced away, unwilling to meet her gaze, and the rejection of it, the stubborn set of his mouth, filled her with sudden anger.

‘What would you have me do?’ she demanded, balling her fists. ‘You and I both know that dressing in breeches and joining a crew was never really an option for me. No, let me speak. You’ve seen my feet. And you’ve worked on enough ships to know that I would never manage. I would never be fast enough. Never be able to go aloft or keep my feet on a pitching deck.’ She had never admitted this before, not even to herself. Her heart clenched with grief and regret. ‘Going to sea with you was a childish dream, nothing more. And as for Morgan... well, at least he was brave enough to tell me how he felt, and what he wanted. I would be a fool not to consider him. Even if—’

‘Even if what?’

Even if I don’t love him. There were limits to one’s courage, it seemed, and Luce had reached hers. The words stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to budge.

‘He’s brave, is he?’ Samuel asked, low and angry. ‘And what about...’ He shook his head, swallowed.

Luce shifted her weight. ‘What about...?’

‘Nothing. It is nothing.’

But it was something. Luce could feel it in the darkness between them. ‘Samuel?’

‘You are right,’ he said at last, stepping away from her. ‘It was a dream, nothing more. Foolish.’ The light of the fire was the barest glow on the side of his face. The music, the sounds of the Blessing, seemed very far away.

‘I never said that,’ Luce said.

‘You never had to. I’ve always known it.’

I’ve always known it.

He was no longer speaking about Morgan, or going to sea. He was speaking about what lay between them. The unvoiced, unacknowledged awareness that had begun when Luce had tripped over her feet on the Dove and he had steadied her.

‘Just as I’ve always known that... that someone like de Chatelaine would come along, and...’

‘What are you saying, Samuel?’

‘I’m saying it should have been me, Luce. I should have been the one to kiss you on that beach.’

Luce’s heart trilled, three notes quavering, both at his words, and the look upon his face, all hunger and beauty. Then... ‘You saw that?’

‘Of course I saw it. In truth I cannot unsee it. It is there every time I close my eyes.’ The careful distance Samuel had been maintaining between them crumbled. He reached for Luce, pulled her hard against him, pushed away her hat, his own. His breath was warm against her lips. ‘I should have kissed you, so many times.’

The fire, the dancing, the sparks flying into the dark sky, the looming ships, the drums and the fiddle and the pipes disappeared. There was nothing, no one, but Samuel.

‘On the Dove, ’ he murmured. ‘In the woods that night.’ He smelled of the sea; of salt and wind. His heartbeat was rapid as the drums. ‘I’ve regretted it every day. Every hour.’

The tide was coming back in. Luce could feel it in the air, in the sand beneath her boots. Even now it snaked along the sand, reaching, eager to reclaim what it had lost. In a few hours the fires, the dancing, the music would be nothing more than memory, lost beneath dark water.

There was only this moment.

There was only now.

‘You definitely should have kissed me, Samuel,’ she whispered. ‘Every day. Every hour.’

He did kiss her then; his mouth, his body, crushing hungrily against hers. Luce, for her part, was already raising her mouth to his, arching her body to welcome him. She wound her arms about his neck, drew him close. Closer. She had dreamed of this moment so many times. He flicked his tongue lightly against her own, deepening the kiss, and her legs, her body—the deepest, hidden parts of her— melted with desire.

It was too much. It was not enough.

How easy it was, to push the coat back from those broad shoulders and slip her hands inside his shirt, against his bare skin. To run her fingers through his sea-gold hair and taste the salt on his neck, his chest. To guide his hands along her thighs and wrap her legs around him as he hauled her off her feet, bracing her against the hull.

‘Are you all right?’ he muttered against her mouth. ‘The fouling—’

‘I can’t feel anything but you.’

It was true. The roughness of the timber against her back, the pain in her feet, were as nothing compared to the feel of him against her. Chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth to mouth. He slid a hand beneath the soft cotton of her nightgown, touched her bare waist... And stilled.

‘You’re not wearing stays?’

She shook her head. ‘I left in a rush.’ She rolled his bottom lip between her teeth, guided his hand higher. He groaned softly, and desire coiled itself low in Luce’s belly, rippling through her as Samuel’s lips grazed her neck, her collarbone, his hand sliding over the swelling softness of her breasts.

‘Christ, Luce,’ he said, ragged. ‘This is madness.’

‘Do you want to stop?’ A moment of real fear; would he draw away, leave her again?

‘God, no.’ He laughed against her neck, tickling her in a way that was so wicked, so delicious that her fears were forgotten. ‘Never again, Luce,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll never stop again. I swear it.’ He was the one thieving kisses now, taking Luce’s heart, her soul, along with them. ‘I’m yours, Luce. Yours.’

I’m yours.

She was burning for him. Burning. And, by the way he was moving his hips against her, so was he. Some wildness, some instinct, took hold of her. She reached between them, for the laces of his breeches, and clawed them free. Felt the sudden, silky hardness of him against her fingertips.

‘Christ.’ Samuel groaned against her mouth.

He was working at her laces, too, one large hand bracing her hip. She gasped as the laces loosened, as he—

‘Samuel, you grumpy bugger!’ Bones’s voice, cider-loose, cut abruptly through the cocoon of warmth and want; Luce tensed in Samuel’s arms. ‘Where have you slunk off to? Oh. Is that—? Oh! Jesus-fucking-Christ-I’m-sorry!’

‘I’ll kill him,’ Samuel muttered against Luce’s shoulder. ‘I will fucking kill him.’

Luce giggled.

A nervous-sounding cough from the stern. ‘Er, Samuel?’

‘Still here, cousin,’ Samuel said, with the air of one who has suffered long and well. ‘The only remaining question is, why are you?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘ Now? ’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘No,’ Luce whispered, clinging to him. ‘No, no...’

Samuel sighed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He kissed her once more, long and full of promise, before setting her gently on her feet. ‘Mind the fouling.’

He left her to rearrange her clothing, reaching down to scoop both their tricorns from the damp sand before joining Bones. Luce, pushing her tricorn firmly onto her head and arranging her kerchief, watched Bones grin and nod toward Luce, then raise his hands defensively as Samuel no doubt repeated his earlier threat. Sobering, Bones leaned in, muttering something in Samuel’s ear. Luce saw Samuel frown, throw a quick glance around the crowded sands, and clasp his cousin’s shoulder in thanks before hurrying back.

‘As fun as it’s been,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We need to go.’

‘Is everything well?’ she asked, as they wended through the knots of dancing and fires crowding the expanse of sand before the quay.

‘Of course.’ He brushed her fingertips with his. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘You look worried. What did Bones say?’

‘No more than his usual ramblings.’

He stepped around a drunken man sprawled and snoring on the sand, then returned to her side.

‘Do you remember the last thing you said to me when we argued at the cove?’ Luce asked. ‘“I would never lie to you.” That’s what you said, Samuel.’

‘Fine.’ He stopped in the middle of the crowds to face her. ‘Bones told me that while you and I were... talking’—his mouth twisted a little, barely containing his grin—‘a certain someone came poking around the gathering, looking for me.’

‘Looking for you? Or looking for the Dauphin ’s ballast?’

‘Both.’

‘Was it the City Guard?’

‘No. Bones suspects it was someone looking to claim the reward de Chatelaine has offered for information leading to...’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it goes.’

A knot of worry coiled in Luce’s belly. ‘I should have told you earlier,’ she said. ‘Morgan is determined to get the ballast back. He told me that...’ She frowned, remembering. ‘“The trap has been set.” He believes it is only a matter of time before he finds the one who stole the stone and ensures they regret what they’ve done.’

‘Much luck to him, then,’ Samuel said wryly. ‘He isn’t the first to say such things, and he certainly won’t be the last.’ He tilted his head, considering. ‘Although, he may be the most dramatic.’

‘That man just now knew your name,’ Luce warned, ‘which means that Morgan probably knows it, too.’ The knowledge, and the memory of Morgan’s face when he had spoken of seeing the thief punished, set an icy chill around her heart. She could not help but glance toward the city, where the long wooden stakes where storm-stone smugglers were punished sat exposed on the sand. ‘I think... I think you were right about him, Samuel. I think he’s been interested in nothing but his own ambitions, and the Lucinde, from the start.’ And she, fool that she was, had been too enchanted to see it. ‘I should have listened when you warned me about him.’

‘You’re not the only one who should have done things differently.’ Beneath the cover of their wide sleeves, he took her hand. ‘If I hadn’t been pushing you away, he might not have turned your head.’

Luce frowned up at him. ‘Why were you pushing me away?’

He glanced around them. ‘Is now the best time for this conversation?’

‘No, it’s not,’ she conceded. ‘Every moment we linger here we risk being seen by whoever is looking for you.’

‘Off we go, then.’

He led her through the crowds, ducking and weaving, cutting a crooked path toward the quay. At one point a pair of seamen burst at them, rolling and fighting and swearing, and Samuel gripped Luce’s waist, swinging her smoothly out of the way. At another, a woman in grubby velvet stepped into Luce’s path, latching on to her arm. ‘How’s about you and me go somewhere more private?’ she slurred in Luce’s ear. ‘I’ll make you a man, my boy, just see if I don’t.’ She winked at Samuel. ‘Your fine tall friend can watch us for free, and then—’

Samuel cleared his throat, pulled Luce away. ‘You’re very generous, madame,’ he called back. ‘But we have business elsewhere.’

The woman raised one painted brow. ‘Like that, is it?’

Luce was still giggling when they reached Our Lady’s Gate, which was no less chaotic than the quay. Crowds of people flowed between the gates, spilling into and out of the seething pothouses and cabarets, or loitering at tables sticky with drink.

‘Keep moving,’ Samuel said quietly, leading Luce through the melee. ‘And watch your pockets.’

Luce should have been nervous. The streets around the docks were notorious at night, rife with drunks, thieves, and cut-throats. She should have been wary, too. Morgan knew Samuel’s name, had sent men out to search for him. Every moment they spent in Saint-Malo increased the risk of his being caught. And yet, joy walked at her side, obscuring the filthy roughness of the cobbled streets, the stench of bodily fluids and rotting fish from the nearby market. Even her feet hurt less than they should. She grabbed Samuel’s hand, pulled him into a narrow side street where the shadows were good and dark. He came with her eagerly, pressing them both into the dimness as though he had been wanting Luce’s mouth as much as she had been wanting his. The unexpected strains of Vivaldi wafted from an establishment farther along the street, winding around them.

‘Look at you,’ Luce panted between kisses, ‘allowing me to throw myself into a life of debauchery.’

‘At this point, I think it’s safe to say I’m throwing you in myself.’ His mouth was on her neck, his hands loosening her kerchief, the ties of her nightgown. ‘And myself right behind you.’

He cupped her breast, trailed kisses, and then his tongue, over her skin. It was unbearable, the want. Luce arched against him. ‘I’m yours, Samuel,’ she murmured. ‘Yours.’

He raised his head, to speak, or kiss her, Luce could not say. Before he could do either, Vivaldi’s music grew louder. Light spilled through an open door, illuminating a swarm of glossy, well-dressed young men tumbling out onto the cobbles.

Samuel pulled Luce’s coat gently closed before leaning casually on the wall beside her, hands deep in his pockets. She mimicked him as best she could.

‘That right there is the Convent,’ he whispered. ‘One of Saint-Malo’s more refined pleasure houses. Hence the fine music and discreet entrance.’

‘Debauchery indeed,’ Luce muttered, and caught the pale flash of his smile in the dark.

She kept her head down as the men drew near. There was every chance some of them knew her father, had supped at the town house or Le Bleu Sauvage. She watched, curious, from beneath the edge of her tricorn as they passed, then caught a sharp breath as she spied Morgan and three of his brothers.

‘Is that...?’ Samuel winced as Morgan tripped on the uneven cobbles. Two of his brothers caught him, scrubbing at his hair, squeezing his cheeks.

‘Had a pleasant voyage, did we?’ one of them teased.

Morgan pushed them off. ‘No more than you, you pair of fucking ferrets.’

‘A pair of fucking ferrets or a fucking pair of ferrets?’ They crowed with laughter.

‘Did you get your trophy, then?’ another of Morgan’s companions asked.

Morgan grinned. ‘Do you doubt me?’ He fished in his pocket, and a tangle of garter ribbons spilled to the cobbles, blue, pink, and green. The young men wasted no time, pouncing upon them greedily.

‘What’s this, then?’

‘A veritable treasure trove!’

‘Saints preserve us! How many did you tumble, Morgan?’

‘Only one tonight.’ He pointed to a band of vibrant red. ‘The others were already in my pocket.’

‘This one’s got words embroidered on it,’ one of the men was saying. He held the ribbon toward the Convent’s lanterns. ‘“I die where I cling,”’ he read.

Someone guffawed. ‘This one says “Rubicon”.’

More laughter.

There was a low whistle, and someone held up a ribbon that caused Luce to gasp in recognition. Samuel glanced at her.

‘Look at this one,’ the whistler said. ‘This one’s not like the others!’

The ribbon was made of blue silk so dark it seemed black. It glimmered in the lantern light like a sky full of stars. A row of fine, black pearls were stitched about each edge.

‘Fancy,’ someone commented. ‘No message?’

‘Not this one, no. She’s mysterious. ’

Luce could barely breathe. She remembered Morgan’s touch on her knee when he took off her shoes, the way her stocking had slipped down again and again as she had run to the dock.

Samuel touched her hand, a silent question.

‘He stole it from me at the ball,’ Luce whispered, a bare breath of sound. ‘I—I never even knew.’

Samuel, his gaze fixed squarely on Morgan, said nothing.

‘Who’s this fancy stargazer, then?’ one of the men asked, waving the ribbon under Morgan’s nose.

‘She’s no stargazer,’ he said roughly, snatching the ribbon back. ‘And I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’ He held out his hand, and the ribbons were dutifully returned.

‘Let’s get another drink,’ someone suggested, and the men set off once more, passing so close to Luce and Samuel that they could have reached out and touched them.

And then, to her horror, Samuel did reach out and touch them. Luce could only gape as he lurched drunkenly into the midst of the group, hands pressed to his mouth, his belly as though he were battling violent nausea. He crashed headfirst into Morgan, gripped him like a man drowning. There was a scuffle, and much swearing and clamoring before the men shoved Samuel away. He fell to his knees, pretending to retch.

Luce watched from beneath her hat, doing her best to look manly, drunk, and benign as the men debated whether or not to kick Samuel to death. In the end it was only Morgan who acted, striding to Samuel and slamming his boot so hard into his belly that Samuel keeled over on the cobbles, gasping and retching in earnest.

‘You drunken shit,’ Morgan spat, seizing Samuel’s collar and jerking his face toward him. ‘Keep your filthy fucking hands off your betters.’

Luce froze, stunned by the rage, the hatred, in Morgan’s face.

‘Temper, temper, Morgan,’ one of the older de Chatelaines said soothingly, tugging Morgan away. ‘Save it for the English if they ever arrive, eh? Come on. Let’s get that drink.’

Morgan glared at Samuel as his brothers pulled him away, only turning from him when the group rounded the corner and disappeared.

Luce crashed to her knees beside Samuel.

‘What in God’s name was that ?’ she demanded.

He groaned as he rolled over. Held up a fist full of ribbons, one of them a sliver of glimmering night across his knuckles.

‘You already risked your soul to save that arrogant bastard,’ he rasped. ‘Now he wants the Dauphin ’s ballast, the Lucinde, and Lucinde.’ A pained, though triumphant grin. ‘May the Fae take me if I let him have your garter ribbon, too.’