Chapter Three
Briar woke up in the garden.
Naturally, it was raining.
Her hip ached and her eyes were sandy as she struggled to keep them open.
Part of her wanted to lay her head in the nearest puddle and sink back into sleep.
The swan inside her chest made a sound of pure fury.
Witchcraft prickled through her, just out of reach.
It was urgent, uncomfortable. The garden trembled but did not answer with a helpful spike of nettle or roots strong as iron chains.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, the lady who wore violence like a bonnet was pointing a pistol at her.
Briar would have been a lot more terrified if everything wasn’t so hazy and syrupy.
She tried to move without casting up her accounts.
Although it would serve them all right if she ruined their boots.
“That teapot was expensive,” she said, once more.
It was ridiculous to focus on that triviality when she was quite literally stuck between a pistol and a lightning storm.
Although, at second glance, the rain fell oddly.
It was slow, barely touching her while pouring into the rosebushes as though from a pitcher.
The sleep spell had packed more of a punch than she’d thought.
“What?” the lady asked, confused. She was tiny, delicate, but clearly strong as a whip. There was a beauty mark near the corner of her lip. Her hair moved ever so slightly, swaying as though underwater.
“You broke my teapot,” Briar repeated, just this side of sulking.
“Why are you stealing from a tearoom?” That was odd, even for an Iron Crow.
Even during the crowded chaos of Midsummer.
Pickpockets could make a year’s worth of bounty on Midsummer night alone, so she could only imagine what an Iron Crow could do, especially ones like these, who did not work alone.
They sought out magic and charms others might be hesitant to touch. Or wield.
Luckily, she kept her poisonous plants locked in a chest in the cleaning cupboard. If that was what they were after, she’d swallow the key before giving it to them.
“We’re not here for the teapot,” the not-quite-a-pirate said mildly. His voice was a contradiction, calm and also full of storms. His dark hair was salted with silver and his eyes were black and hard to read. He leaned against the garden wall as though he were bored.
Infuriating.
She was being robbed and he was bored.
He finally looked her way. The rain ran in rivulets under his boots, but all that thick, dark hair was dry. “Tell us where it is, Petal. There’s only one way this ends.”
The haziness crystallized at the sound of her sister’s name.
It was such a sudden shock to her drowsy system that she flinched. The lady Crow may as well have shot her. She tried to cover the reaction, to blend it into the natural anxiety of waking up surrounded by magic thieves and housebreakers.
She was not entirely successful.
The Iron Crow pushed away from the wall, suddenly interested.
She inched back but there was nowhere to go.
He thought she was Petal.
As long as she did not disabuse him of the notion, her sister was safe. Briar might still be in a bit of a pickle, but Petal was safe. That was what mattered. She’d make that trade any day.
He crouched in front of her as the storm descended in earnest. His shoulders blocked out the garden. He was rather large. Why did his muscles need muscles? “Tell me.”
Briar shivered. “No.”
Never mind that she had no idea what he was talking about—she needed to get them all away from the cottage before Petal returned.
He blinked, genuinely surprised. “No?”
Clearly, he did not hear the word very often. And just as clearly, someone ought to say it to him on a more regular basis. Getting your way all the time was bad for the digestion. There wasn’t enough mint tea in all the gardens of the world.
The woman flashed a grin, and Briar wasn’t sure if it was for her or for him. “Oh, I like this one, Dragon.”
Briar froze. She knew that name. It woke a shiver inside her, as it was meant to. Witches everywhere knew that name.
The Dragon.
Ethan Swansea.
Not just any Iron Crow, but the leader of the notorious Sea Dragons. More of a pirate than she’d realized.
Oh, Petal, what have you done?
“I won’t talk,” Briar said.
Lightning flashed over them. Ethan’s eyes gleamed silver in response, like water.
Her mother would have ensnared him by now, convinced him he was desperately in love.
Her sister might have done the same without saying a single word, she was that beautiful.
In fact, this was not the first abduction attempt.
Petal’s beauty came with a heavy price to pay.
One that was unjust and uncompromising. She’d said it more than once—being a rabbit girl would be better. One could hide, disappear.
And Briar might not be a rabbit girl, but she knew about blending in. And she was resourceful, with more than her share of the Foxglove stubbornness. She would save her sister.
Even if she had to kidnap herself to do it.
“We’re likely to drown out here,” she added, crisply. “So you may as well take me away.”
“Take you away?” Ethan repeated.
She lifted her wrists, pressing them together.
He stared at her blankly.
“I imagine this is how one ties someone’s hands?” she asked. “I’ve never had occasion to try it before.”
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, sternly, “do you have any idea what you’re asking me?”
She swallowed, refusing to take the bait. She might be sprawled on the ground in a damp dress in a most suggestive way, but she was Miss Briar Foxglove. She could be naked and no one would notice.
Although someone might want to inform Ethan Swansea of that little fact.
Because he looked interested. Which was absurd. Moreover, he didn’t look interested in a way that raised her hackles or made her want to kick him solidly in the kneecaps.
That was some trick.
She cleared her throat. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
His eyes narrowed. His accent thickened. “Beg pardon?”
“Kidnapping a woman.” She reached out to pat his arm. Mistake. He was warm and strong under her fingers. “It’s all right—that speaks to your character, I suppose.”
She wasn’t entirely certain the woman with the pistol wasn’t going to make herself sick choking on all that laughter.
Ethan scowled. “Just get her on the horse, Anais.”
“Aye, Captain,” she chortled.
In the end, it was the giant with the tattooed face who helped her into the saddle.
He was very gentle and polite. “Thank you, sir,” Briar said.
He had an angel’s smile, utterly at odds with his cache of weapons and scars.
His teeth were very white against his light-brown skin.
He didn’t tie her wrists together either.
She was barely seated when Ethan swung up behind her. Tension thrummed through her. “Stop flirting with Maleko,” Ethan said drily. “He won’t help you.”
As if flirting was a weapon that she was likely to use with any degree of success. She might be a Foxglove, but she wasn’t Petal. She wasn’t her mother, Rose. Even her name said it all: Briar. A sharp, nettlesome thorn in the garden.
She lifted her chin. She could feel him watching her, his cheek grazing her ear, his breath touching her hair. He was warm and solid and sinewy for all of his bulk. The rain was cold and she barely resisted the urge to snuggle back into his warmth.
Snuggling your captor was probably frowned upon.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Meanwhile, every moment they wasted here in the shadow of the cottage put Petal in danger. “Have you ever abducted anyone before?” she asked.
He half smiled. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Well, this was the Dragon, after all. She ought to have known better.
“Why? Are you faltering, little flower?”
“No, you just seem to be taking an awful lot of time,” she pointed out, trying to ignore the very interesting things his voice in her ear did to her thighs.
If she had to needle him into action, she would.
So she nudged the horse with her heels, quick and demanding.
She’d never really ridden a horse before.
The horse took off, nearly unseating Ethan in the process.
His arms tightened around her, his breath rasping in her ear. “What the bloody hell?”
She had flummoxed the infamous Captain Ethan Swansea, Dragon of Dragons.
That was something, at least.
Even if it might well be the very last thing she ever did.