Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Every nautical mile I put between us was a widening rift I’d never be able to fix.
I couldn’t let myself look back, though.
Looking back would have been the first step toward turning the ship.
If I turned to her, I would not stop. I would climb that slope, put my hands on her again and never let her go.
The woman who had sat with me under the stars and told me I was a man worth fighting for would pay for my weakness with her life.
Finch stared at me from the bottom of the stairs with a gleam of betrayal darkening his eyes. I had no time for his bullshit, though. Her life was worth more than theirs to me. I would sacrifice a thousand more men for her happiness.
I decided to sail around the island and leave from the backside so she couldn’t see me break my promise.
Her voice kept cutting through the wind no matter how hard I focused on the compass and the set of the sails.
Promise me you won’t leave. I love you, Silas.
The truth had been right there on the tip of my tongue, I love you too, across every lifetime, across every sky, and I had swallowed it because saying it would have undone the only decent thing I had managed to do.
Each crest of the waves pulled me further from the life I’d chosen, one of solitude and consequence. I wanted to forget the memory of her. I wanted this dull ache settling in my chest to wash away like the receding tide.
We cleared the last curve of the island. Endless, dark open waters stretched ahead. This was the moment to turn the Mourning Star’s nose away, put the wind fully in the black sails, and let the sea carry me far enough that the curse could finish its work.
An ominous feeling bubbled inside, refusing to leave. The scars on my back itched and burned. Something was wrong. Something more than leaving her behind.
Lightning webbed through the clouds and turned the water silver for a single heartbeat. My stomach dropped when I saw them.
Two ships rode at anchor on the far side of the island, half-hidden by the curve of the cliffs and the driving rain.
Even at this distance the silhouette of the nearer one was unmistakable: the cutter that had once carried her as a prisoner.
Behind it sat a heavier brigantine, dark against the storm.
Both flew the same compass rose sail, the crown perched above it like a claim of ownership over everything it touched.
Crown and Compass.
August Quincy had followed us.
“Hard about!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Bring her around, now!”
The ship heeled sharply, sails luffing as the helmsman fought the sudden shift in wind.
Dark waves, moments before a pathway to freedom, now crashed against the hull with renewed ferocity.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the menacing shapes of the Crown and Compass vessels, their sails taut and ready.
My gut twisted, the unease hardening into a cold dread that seeped into my bones. This was not a pursuit. This was a trap.