Chapter Twenty-Six Before #2
“It is not mine,” she managed to whisper, as if it were some kind of apology. “Nothing really is.”
An odd light gleamed in the shadows of his eyes.
“Would that were the way of things. When nothing belongs to anyone, nothing is ever taken, and no one is ever swept aside.” His lips curled, forming a sneer. “But that isn’t the world we live in, is it? That isn’t the world they made.”
Cat shook her head, fighting the urge to trace the inked shape that was Rosby.
“It is not,” she muttered, her anger swirling in her chest. “Everyone takes.”
Between them, Valerian’s fist curled, the tendons in his arm flexing.
“All we can do is take back.”
Cat kept staring, eager to avoid the judgment of his gaze. And perhaps memorize the ink on his skin. Not for his sake, but her own. To know a little bit more of the Lyrian. Only one diamond stood unnamed, the smallest of the collection, nestled below the crease of his elbow.
“What of that one?” she said. This time she couldn’t help herself. She pressed a finger against the tattoo.
Valerian didn’t flinch, but his skin blazed. “That is—and remains—Azual.” He lingered on the last black diamond, squinting at it. “In Meridian, it translates to a great storm. A tempest.”
“A tempest,” Cat echoed, and something stirred in her. Suddenly she felt very aware of the sweat at the nape of her neck and between her breasts, pressed together by the tight cut of the borrowed dress. Her throat jumped and she swallowed hard, turning to busy herself with whatever she could find.
One by one, she cleaned out cracked glasses with the folds of her dress, wiping them for patrons who did not exist.
“Would you like to return to cards?” Valerian said roughly. He moved without sound, inching back along the bar to give her some space.
Cat could not help her sharp reply, uncomfortable as she felt. “Would you like to keep losing?”
He barked a laugh and she felt the sun again, his warmth enveloping. Whatever shadow hung over him seemed to clear away.
“Shall we trade questions instead?”
Her hands slowed, avoiding a chip in the rim of a green cup. “On one condition.”
A dark-gold eyebrow curved in question.
“We can choose not to answer.”
“I like those terms,” he said, nodding. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, settling in. “Since it was my idea, I’ll go first.”
“Well—”
“Why did you marry Lord Rose?”
The glass in her hand dropped, cracking neatly in two. The tavern spun again, but not from the taquil or the heat or the smoke. It was Ryman who made her stomach twist, though he was far away, locked up in the belly of an enemy ship.
“I’m not sure what you know of noble society,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully.
A low breath hissed between his teeth. “Enough to hate it.”
I suppose I share the feeling, Cat thought ruefully.
“I was not born into a great house, or much wealth. My family is hardly known in the high circles of Brycam City. But we were of good standing, my sisters and I raised properly.” Her lips pursed. “Raised for our purpose.”
Valerian frowned, two lines forming between his eyebrows. “Purpose?”
Cat took solace in the burn of taquil, savoring another mouthful. She could hardly believe the life she was describing, what once felt normal or acceptable. Expected even. Six months on a stolen island with nothing but a bitter man and a blazing sun had burned all that out of her.
“To marry as well as we could. That is, after all, the great hope of all Meridian women. Their only hope,” she explained.
“So when I met Lord Rose at a ball, with his title, with his lineage. A country estate to his name, a townhome in Brycam City. Vaults of money made on the spice trade. Grand promises, grander ambition. I never thought I could aim so high.” How she wished she could go back to that country house, to the first dance, to the moment Ryman’s gloved hand closed over hers.
For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes closed over stinging tears. “I thought he was my hope made flesh.”
“It was a lie,” Valerian breathed.
Her eyes snapped open again.
“All of it,” Cat murmured, musing over the pieces of broken glass on the bar.
“Everything but the title. His family lost their wealth a generation ago, when the Meridian gave up the Spice Islands and their trade to the Rijkstad. He was deep in debt, the whispers of society already swirling. A society I knew nothing of until I entered it, just to be kicked back out the door.” She turned a green shard of glass over in her hand and imagined plunging it into Ryman’s neck.
“He had no chance of finding a wife in his own circles. I thought he was my hope. But I suppose I was his, and he hates me for it.”
She stabbed the glass into the wood of the bar top, carving a deep line. It was not flesh, but close enough. Valerian did not stop her, only watched.
“Why drag an innocent woman down with him?” he said, his expression tight.
Cat shrugged, tracing a finger against the edge of the glass, enough to feel the sharpness but not break skin.
“His father’s will. If Ryman married, he would be given the last of his inherited fortune.
” Then it was her blood she imagined spilling over the shard, with Ryman holding the green blade.
“It did not last long. He sold the townhome first, then the estate. Paid the debt collectors and took what little was left across the ocean.”
She pressed a little harder, enough to feel the looming sting of cut skin. Until warm fingers met her own, gently prying the glass from her hand. Steadily, Valerian put the shard down, his eyes fixed on the jagged edge. Somehow, his fingers seemed to carve deeper marks than any blade could.
“He fled to the Lyrian Sea,” she finished, flexing away the lingering burn of his touch. “And the island now called Rosby.”
Valerian only stared at the glass, arms still crossed. When he finally opened his mouth, Cat saw pity in him. And she hated it.
“And what brought you to the Lyrian Sea, Captain Kane?” she said forcefully, hoping to cut off some weak apology for wounds already carved.
He blinked in surprise. Valerian Kane did not strike her as a man easily taken off guard, and Cat felt some pride in having done so. He cleared his throat, gathering a response.
“My story is the same as most,” he finally said, lifting the bottle. The taquil flowed again, spicing the air with its sweet-burn scent. This time, Cat took it gratefully and drank deep.
Until Valerian’s hand strayed to the open collar of his shirt, and she nearly choked, sputtering against the bite of liquor.
Amused, the pirate grinned and pulled aside the fabric to show the left side of his chest. Candlelight gleamed on the knotted scar over his heart, or rather the tattoo beneath the wounded flesh. Before, it seemed inscrutable, but up close—
Valerian tapped each mangled letter in time. The black script was ruined, almost scraped away. Almost.
H–M–I–N
“His Majesty’s Imperial Navy,” Cat murmured, incredulous. “You were one of the defectors. You chose the black.”
She could hardly square the pirate captain in front of her now with a clean-cut sailor of the imperial navy, subject to rules and regulations and the whims of sneering officers. Loyal to the Crown, and nothing else.
“Why?” she breathed, studying his long hair and bearded jaw, his tattoos, his jewelry, trying and failing to picture Valerian in naval uniform.
He let her look, silent, a shadow creeping across his face. His throat bobbed over his collar as he swallowed, pushing something down.
“I served a year in the Lyrian Sea, and in that year I saw enough,” he forced out, the words heavy and final. It was not difficult to see the pain in his eyes, the green flickering with the candlelight as he knocked back another sip of taquil.
Cat did the same, wincing at the good burn, wondering what spurred the darkness now stealing over Valerian like an oncoming storm.
“Was it Morovant who gave you the choice?”
At that, Valerian grinned, the clouds clearing from his face.
“It’s my turn, Lady Rose,” he said, shaking a finger at her. But his eyes darted, finding the captain of the Seadragon across the room. Morovant had returned to his corner, another glass of wine in hand and a smile on his lips.
It was, Cat thought, reading the fond look on Valerian’s face. His features smoothed and it was not difficult to imagine the boy he was, on the deck of another ship, facing the skull on Morovant’s flag. Finding not fear or death but freedom.
“Ask your question,” she prodded.
His grin turned sharkish, and Cat suddenly wished to be back at the table with Morovant.
“What do you think of the lieutenant?”
She almost broke a second glass. Her mind spun, pulled by equal parts surprise and indignance. Blinking quickly, she tried to recover, her tone turning sharp and prim, as if addressing him over a pot of tea.
“Do you mean Lieutenant Fell?”
“No, the other navy officer locked in my brig. Yes, him,” Valerian teased, leaning closer. The heat of him felt all-encompassing, until the air seemed to sizzle on Cat’s exposed skin. “What do you think of him?”
“I do not know him well,” Cat replied, withdrawing a little. But Valerian only pressed forwards, filling the space between them.
“He seems to know you well enough to call you Cat,” the pirate drawled. “Lady Rose.”
Her cheeks burned and Cat knew her face was turning scarlet.
“I cannot control what men call me, Captain. Nor what they assume. But he is an officer of the fleet, and he has been kind to me,” she added, somewhat begrudgingly.
Again, she felt the shame of it, knowing Fell was chained in the belly of a ship, with the worst man alive for company.
“He is one of the only people to be kind to me in this whole wretched sea.”
At that, Valerian tipped his head like a curious beast, locks of hair falling with the motion.
“Have I been kind to you, Cat?” he said in a low voice that made her toes curl.
“It’s my turn,” she replied, her tone dropping to match his.