Chapter Eleven
He’d told Miss Ross he was sorry for the kiss. Truth was, he wasn’t. Lucien sank to his knees in front of Isabelle’s grave, the damp earth soaking through his trousers. His fingers tightened around the bunch of roses he grasped, and he flinched as a thorn pricked him.
“I have a confession.” He dropped his gaze to the grass. “I kissed someone last night.”
Not just anyone. Miss Ross. The words hung in the air between him and the headstone, then he breathed out slowly. For some reason, admitting it didn’t feel like the betrayal he’d thought it would.
“She’s bringing your flowers back to life.” He brushed his thumb over a drooping petal. “I think you’d like her.”
A bird trilled over his shoulder, and he took a deep breath. “I couldn’t stand her at first. And now… I think I like her more than I should.”
Each time he blinked, he saw Miss Ross’s eyes, wide with wonder as his lips claimed hers.
“Aunt Eloise keeps telling me you’d want me to be happy.” He let his gaze drift to the roses in his hand. “I know she’s right.”
“I’ve been stubborn, Isabelle. Buried myself in my grief and called it sacrifice.” The confession lingered in the heavy air, carried off by the hum of insects and the soft lap of water in the distance.
“I just wish you could tell me it’s alright to feel again.” He swallowed the heavy words. Last night—the dance, the kiss—he’d felt more alive than he had in years. And today?
Today he had laughed.
For the first time since her death, he’d allowed himself to enjoy something fully. And the most amazing thing had happened. He didn’t feel guilty about it. In fact, he wanted more.
His fingers trembled as he arranged the roses at the base of the headstone. Before he stood, a tiny blue dragonfly settled on one pink petal, its delicate wings catching the sunlight. Lucien held his breath, marveling at how something so small could be so graceful.
“The world gives its treasures to those who notice.”
Isabelle used to tell him that when she sat in the garden painting what seemed like the same scene over and over. He’d rolled his eyes at her then, teasing, maybe even arguing that it was a waste of time. He hadn’t understood then, not really.
“I’ve been so busy letting my pain run me, I forgot to look for treasures.” Head bowed, he stood, the movement feeling like a promise. “I think…I think I might try to enjoy life again. If that’s alright with you.”
Silence bathed the gravesite, yet a small weight had lifted from his shoulders, the usual pull absent. Something had shifted, small but undeniable. The hint of a smile curved one side of his mouth. “Wish me luck.”
His walk back to the house was easy, almost brisk.
Sunlight hit the moss in cheery patches, and the swamp hummed quietly around him.
A strange lightness filled his chest along with a spark of…
anticipation. Abigail’s laugh from earlier slid into his mind, and he couldn’t help his grin. Maybe later, he’d make her laugh again.
He jogged back into the yard, a faint whistle on his lips.
The afternoon sun clung to his shoulders, the warmth sending a satisfied elation through him.
Halfway to the house, he slowed, the tune cut off as a frown creased his face.
The door hung ajar. Aunt Eloise never left the door open.
Senses heightened, his eyes swept the clearing, the empty flower beds.
Too quiet.
Unease curled in his gut, twisting tighter with each step.
He moved toward the porch, boots soft against the wooden boards, each creak echoing in the stillness. His fingers trembled as he reached for the door. He paused, taking a slow breath, then pushed it the rest of the way open.
His stomach dropped. A vase lay shattered on the floor, its flowers trampled into a murky puddle.
He stepped inside, ears straining for the faintest sound.
Every detail seemed wrong—shadows too deep in corners, the air too still.
His chest tightened as he registered the subtle disarray: a chair out of place, pages from a book scattered across the floor.
“Eloise?” His voice cracked.
A thump answered from the kitchen.
He leapt over the shards of glass, heart slamming against his ribs, and skidded to a stop in the doorway. His aunt lay on the floor, hands bound behind her back, a cloth cinched across her mouth. Wild eyes met his, brimming with terror as she tried to speak through the gag.
“Hold on.” He flipped a dagger from his boot and slid to his knees beside her, the point flashing as he slid it beneath the cloth and jerked it back.
The gag fell loose. Eloise dragged in a ragged breath that broke into a sob. Her face was pale, a smear of dirt along her cheek, gray hair sticking to her damp temples.
Damnation.
Lucien set a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”
She shook her head, still trembling, eyes glassy with shock.
He leaned closer, voice low and steady. “What happened?”
Her face twisted in panic, her breaths coming too fast. She tried to speak, but only a strangled sound came out. He gave her shoulder a steadying squeeze, his gaze sweeping the room for any sign of movement.
“Pirates.” She choked the word out and a fresh wave of tears broke free, her whole body shaking with them.
The hard knot in his stomach doubled, cold and heavy.
“Miss Ross?”
Another sob wracked her. “They took her.”
Lucien sawed through the cords at her wrists with a swift motion. “How long ago?”
“Just after you left. Maybe an hour.”
He clenched his jaw as he rose, the dagger still tight in his fist. An hour. Too long. He’d never catch up to them with that kind of head start.
“Stay here,” he said, already moving for the stairs.
Each step thudded beneath his boots. The old floorboards groaned, the house seeming to hold its breath with him.
In his room, he dropped to one knee and dragged a trunk from beneath the bed.
Dust rose in a cloud, and for a heartbeat, he stared at it—the remnants of another life he’d sworn he was done with.
The latch snapped open beneath shaking fingers.
Inside lay the relics of the man he’d once been: weathered charts, a compass, a coil of rope, and the gleam of polished steel.
His hands found the weapons first. He buckled on his belt, slid a sword into place, and shoved the dagger back into his boot.
Every motion steadied him, tightened his focus.
Grief, fear, hesitation—all of it fell away, replaced by something harder.
He rose and shoved the trunk back beneath the bed with his boot as the room around him blurred into insignificance.
Downstairs, Eloise was on the floor, gathering broken pieces of glass together, tears streaking her face. “Where are you going?”
“To rescue Miss Ross, of course.”
Her hands stilled. “Lucien, you can’t go after—”
“I can, and I will.” He crouched beside her long enough to take the shards from her trembling fingers and set them aside. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Understand?”
She nodded, eyes wide with fear, but he was already on his feet, moving outside.
The door banged shut behind him, and moments later the swamp swallowed him whole.
*
“You’ve no hope of rescuing her.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed at Mr. Warstein’s blunt words. The sun glinted off the water as he straightened his shoulders. “I’ve spent nearly half my life at sea, fought my share of battles. I can handle some pirates.”
Warstein lifted a gray brow. “Some pirates? You don’t know who you’re dealing with, boy. He’ll kill you before you even know what’s happened.”
“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t get the chance.” Lucien’s voice came out flat, the promise in it quiet and dangerous.
“You think your schooner can take on a heavily-armed ship?”
Lucien ground his teeth, his gaze fixed on the two-masted vessel moored at the far slip—the only ship he hadn’t sold after Isabelle’s death. He sent up a silent prayer it wasn’t currently leased. “All I need is a crew.”
Warstein laughed, but it had no humor. “Few of my men would willingly go up against Thorne. It’s a death wish.”
“I’m not asking for willing,” Lucien said, voice hard. “I’m asking for capable and skilled. Men who know what they’re doing and won’t back down when it counts.”
Warstein’s eyes narrowed, scanning him as if measuring the depth of his foolishness. “And you think I’ve got men like that just lying around?”
Lucien leveled his gaze at the merchant. “I know you do.”
A long silence stretched between them. Warstein’s jaw worked, and for a moment, Lucien thought he might refuse outright. Then the older man let out a long sigh, shaking his head.
“Fine. I’ll lend a few who can handle themselves.” He gestured toward the schooner. “If you’re smart, and careful, maybe you’ll make it out alive. But don’t think for a moment you’ll beat him in battle.”
Lucien’s lips tightened in a grim line, the faintest flicker of relief tugging at the edge of his focus as Warstein motioned a dockhand forward and gave him instructions. The man scurried away, feet slapping the boards, and the merchant turned back to Lucien.
“What am I up against?” Lucien shifted on his feet, his palm grazing the hilt of his sword.
“Captain Thorne? A man who kills as easily as he breathes, with a crew that follows him without question. You’ll find no quarter. No mercy. And he’s smart—twice as smart as you hope you are.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this pirate?”
Warstein shrugged. “Until recently, Thorne has kept to the Atlantic and the Caribbean. He’s been careful, precise—most sailors whisper his name only after it’s too late.
” He let the words sink in before adding, low and grim, “He doesn’t just command a ship in battle, he dominates.
And if you’re unfortunate enough to go hand to hand with him, he’s the best swordsman I’ve ever met. I’m not sure anyone can best him.”