Chapter Eleven #2
The warnings should have shaken Lucien, and part of him acknowledged that they did, somewhere in the back of his mind. But the image of Miss Ross on the dock, the sound of her laugh still echoing in his memory, sent a surge of determination through him.
“Where’s he going to take her?”
Warstein spat a curse into the water, eyes gone hard. “He won’t go far. He’ll hold her close, use her to draw her spineless father out of hiding.”
Lucien frowned. He knew very little of her father, but something about the way Warstein said it set his teeth on edge. “What did he do to draw the pirate’s attention?”
Something dark glimmered behind the merchant’s gaze.
“Her father served alongside him in the Navy. I believe Ross betrayed him and had a role in the death of his wife. Thorne doesn’t forget.
He doesn’t forgive.” Warstein’s voice dropped, sharp as a knife.
“He uses people. He uses pain. Miss Ross is nothing more than bait to him. Once she’s served her purpose… ”
Lucien’s stomach tightened. Warstein didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Thorne would kill her.
“Then I’ll move fast. I’ll find them before he makes his move.”
Warstein gave a humorless laugh and turned away. “Aye. And good luck. You’ll need it.”
Lucien’s gaze lingered on the man’s retreating back. “Why me? Of all the places you could have hidden her away, why did you bring her to my house?” The soft question stopped the merchant in his tracks.
After a beat, Warstein swiveled. “I knew your father well. Trusted him. I’ve got a sense for the sort who can hold fast when a storm hits, and you… you’re not untested.” A dry chuckle echoed between them. “You’re here, aren’t you? Looks like I wasn’t wrong.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened, the compliment sitting uneasily on his shoulders. “What kind of ship am I looking for?”
The merchant’s lips pressed together in a hard line, his eyes scanning the river.
“My men reported a heavily armed frigate anchored in Lake Borgne. She flew no flags and has been there for over two weeks. The Vengeance. Not many outside the Navy command a frigate these days, and fewer still would name her so brazenly if they weren’t trying to make a statement. ”
The knot in Lucien’s gut hardened. A frigate. One of the most formidable vessels on the seas. Warstein was right. There would be no fighting her head-on.
Lucien gave a stiff nod. He turned, strides long and purposeful, heading for the schooner moored just beyond the dock.
The afternoon sun glinted off her polished wood, and the once familiar scent of salt and tar hit him like a long-forgotten memory.
He stopped at the gangplank, chest tightening as he took in the deck and the river stretching ahead.
A slow breath shuddered out. He’d sworn off the sea.
And now, here he was. Could he risk everything, go back out there, and still bring Miss Ross home safe?
His throat tightened, and he pressed his eyes closed. Her lips, warm and trembling against his, flared in his mind and in that instant, his doubts melted into certainty. For her, he could. He would.
Squaring his shoulders, he boarded the ship, boots clicking against the deck with authority.
A pulse of something raw and electric surged through him.
The thrill of command, the precise choreography of lines and sails, the wind tugging at the edges of his coat—it had been his life once.
For a fleeting heartbeat, the past three years vanished, and he was that man again. Focused, capable, unstoppable.
He scanned the deck and bit back a curse. Only four cannons. A token defense at best. He took a steadying breath. If what Warstein had said was true, even if he had a hundred cannons, he stood no chance against Thorne.
A group of men boarded behind him, sea bags slung over their shoulders, swords strapped to their belts. Lucien couldn’t help a chuckle at the merchant’s efficiency—almost as if he had conjured the sailors out of thin air. The men moved with crisp precision that spoke of experience and discipline.
He let his gaze sweep the rigging and sails. “Check the lines, double the lashings, and make sure any powder and shot are stowed safely.” His voice carried across the deck, the old rhythm of command sliding back into place as if it had never left.
Ropes snaked across the deck, pulleys creaked, and the schooner stirred as if waking from a long sleep, the faint hum of readiness threading through her timbers. He moved among the men, his hands brushing over coiled lines, testing knots—instinctive touches born of habit.
Satisfied the work was in hand, he turned aft and descended the narrow companionway.
The cabin waited below, close and shadowed.
He set his bag down, the sound soft against the boards, and straightened slowly, his gaze tracing the familiar confines.
It shouldn’t have felt like coming home. But it did.
He crossed the cabin and lowered himself into the worn chair at the chart table.
A nautical map spread before him, edges curling from years of use, inked lines showing coastlines, currents, and hidden inlets.
He flipped through them until he found the one he needed.
If Thorne’s men had used a small skiff, they could have reached his house through the marshes from Lake Borgne, moving unseen by using the shallow channels to his house.
He clenched his jaw. The pirates had a significant advantage over him.
By the time he could sail his schooner from the city, weaving through channels to open water, the pirate would already have a considerable lead on him.
He blew out his breath between his teeth. It didn’t matter. If the captain was trying to flush out her father, he would not go far.
Flipping to another map, he studied the coastlines and inlets.
If he were a pirate, where would he hide with a hostage?
His finger traced potential routes, lingering over islands and hidden coves, weighing every harbor a man like Thorne might favor.
He tapped the edge of the table. The captain could be anywhere.
But his frigate, if cornered, would find the bayous treacherous.
The schooner, smaller and more agile, could thread through the shallows with ease, turning the maze of waterways into an advantage.
Which meant the captain would head for open water, or a port on the coast.
A knock came from behind him, and he spun. “Pierre.”
His friend leaned against the door frame, a lopsided grin tugging his lips. “What’s this I hear about you needing a crew?”
Lucien blinked. “How did you find out?”
“Let’s just say I was in the right place at the right time.
Just arrived back from a merchant run and stopped into the tavern for a pint.
Word travels fast when a strike crew is needed.
They pay the best, and who can resist the thrill of adventure?
” He hefted a bag. “I’ve got all my things so figured I’d check it out.
Imagine my surprise when they named who would be our captain. ”
“Well, damn.” Lucien’s jaw tightened as the weight of what lay ahead pressed in. “This isn’t a routine trip. It’ll be dangerous. Hell, from the sound of it, we’ll be lucky to make it back in one piece.”
Pierre’s grin widened. “Sounds like my kind of voyage.”