Chapter Thirteen
The ship moved differently.
All night, it had pitched and groaned like a creature sent to torment Abigail. But somewhere in the endless dark between one heartbeat and the next, the motion had changed. The timbers creaked a quieter rhythm, and the boards beneath her barely moved.
She leaned her head against iron bars, letting the cool metal press against her temples. The nausea that had held her captive since the night before had eased to a dull ache. Her mouth still tasted of acid, but her stomach no longer threatened mutiny with every shift of the hull.
A faint brightness crept through the cracks above, the thin shafts of color lending the air a fragile sort of hope. Her gaze flicked to the lantern, long since died out. How many hours had passed?
And more importantly, where were they? The ship seemed so still. Perhaps anchored. Perhaps near land.
If so—
Her gaze lifted to the narrow ladder rising toward the hatch.
She crossed over and lifted her foot to the first rung. The wood creaked beneath her weight. She froze, listening. Only the low hum of men’s voices somewhere above, too distant to make out words.
At the top, she pressed her fingers to the hatch and eased it upward a fraction. Light spilled in—blinding after so long in the dark. She blinked against it, eyes watering. Fresh sea air rushed in, cool and clean and almost painful in its sweetness.
A voice barked an order. She ducked instinctively, heart leaping into her throat.
The hatch cover slipped from her fingers and thudded closed.
For a long moment, she stood motionless, one hand pressed to her chest, forcing herself to breathe.
She could do this. Go out there. Find Christian. Ask about her friends.
With a swallow, she lifted it again and climbed out. She found herself on a narrow stretch of planking, light filtering through the gunports in long, golden bars. Cannons loomed on either side, black and gleaming, their mouths yawning toward the sea.
She turned, too quickly, and nearly tripped over a coil of rope. A pirate glanced up from where he crouched beside a cannon, sharpening a knife along a whetstone. His gaze dragged over her, slow and insolent.
“Morning, dove,” he drawled, teeth flashing beneath a tangle of beard.
Abigail’s pulse spiked. She forced herself to walk, chin high though her knees trembled. Another man paused his work on a flintlock to watch her pass, lips curling in a grin that said far too much.
Everywhere she looked, weapons—cutlasses, daggers, polished cannonballs—glinted in the half-light like teeth.
The deck above creaked with movement, voices calling clipped commands she couldn’t make out.
A ladder rose ahead, leading toward open air.
Bright light spilled through the open hatch, flooding the space like promise itself.
Her hand caught the rail. Her breath shuddered out. If she could only make it above to see, to breathe, to know where they were…
She climbed.
The glare blinded her at first. Cool wind struck her face, tangling her hair.
The sea stretched out, glittering beneath the morning sun.
Men moved about their work—hauling lines, coiling rope, shouting to one another across the deck.
A few turned at her movement, some narrowing their eyes with curiosity, others smirking with quiet amusement.
Danger thrummed beneath it all, cold and deliberate.
Her pulse quickened, every step heavier under their watchful gaze.
She forced herself to focus on the deck, the rails, anything but the men themselves.
Now what?
The question had barely formed when a gust of wind caught her skirts, snapping them against her legs. She turned to steady herself—then stilled.
Land.
It lay just beyond the ship’s shadow in a long, low line rising from the sea.
Pale sand glittered beneath the morning sun.
A scatter of trees jutted up from farther inland, their tops stirring gently in the breeze.
Her steps carried her across the deck until she leaned against the railing.
She gripped polished wood, her palms slick with sweat.
Freedom shimmered there like a mirage—close enough to taste.
Abigail stared down into the murky water.
If only she could swim.
Her gaze darted around the deck, weighing every item that might keep her afloat. A barrel, a crate, anything. Knowing her, she’d pick something that sank, the one thing destined to drag her under.
“I hope you’re not thinking about escaping.”
She spun with a start as Christian approached.
“Would you stop me if I tried?”
“Of course. Escape is impossible. Don’t think for a second you don’t have eyes on you.” He nodded toward several different men, and she shivered as each one returned the gesture.
“Thorne’s patience wears thin. Our men are spreading word of your capture around New Orleans. Your father will surface when he hears—and it won’t matter if you’re alive or not.”
She stiffened. “Are you trying to scare me into giving you information?”
“No. I’m trying to help you see what a dire situation you are in.”
Though her heart thumped against her chest, she glared at him. “The fact you think I don’t understand my situation is laughable, Mr. Thompson. I’ve been kidnapped, locked on a ship, and threatened with my life. I’m not sure it could be any more dire than that.”
“It could always be more dire.”
The voice came from behind her, smooth as silk yet carrying an edge that made her skin prickle. She spun, heart in her throat.
Captain Thorne waved a hand toward the waves. “Feel free to jump if you’d like.”
She eyed the dark waves. “That would hardly serve your purpose, I think.”
“You’re right. I want to see your father suffer. I can’t wait to see his face when his darling daughter begs…” His cold gaze slid over her. “Begs for mercy, for pardon, for some scrap that will buy the lives of those she cares for.”
The words landed like a stone in Abigail’s chest. Beg. Mercy. The syllables rearranged themselves into a dozen horrors, each one sending her pulse into an erratic rhythm.
“You’ll be waiting a long while, Captain.” She ground the words out.
Thorne’s mouth curved, though the expression held no warmth. “We’ll see.” He stepped closer until his shadow fell over her. “Your father walks the world as though it cannot touch him. But fate humbles all men eventually. Strips them of their pride, then lays their guilt bare for all to see.”
She lifted her chin. “And what about you, Captain? Has it humbled you?”
He laughed—a low, humorless sound that scraped the air between them. “Humbled? No, Miss Ross. Fate and I came to an understanding long ago. It bends to my will, gives me what I demand.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, unwilling to bow beneath such arrogance.
His head dipped, the faintest gleam in his eyes. “Do you doubt me? You’re welcome to prove me wrong.” After a pause, he nodded toward the water. “I’ll even give you a head start.”
She blinked. “I-I don’t understand.”
“Jump.” A soft, coaxing cadence wrapped his voice. “Take your chance at freedom.”
“Are you mad?”
His smirk sharpened. “Perhaps.”
Abigail glanced at the water, its surface glittering deceptively in the morning light. She set her jaw and stared out at the horizon. “I can’t swim.”
Captain Thorne’s lips twisted into a wolfish smile. “There’s always time to learn. What do you think? If I threw you over right now, whose side do you think fate would choose? Yours… or mine?”
Her breath hitched. “You wouldn’t.”
He closed the last breath of space between them, his shadow swallowing her. “Wouldn’t I?” The question cut through the air like a blade. “You’ll find I have a problem, Miss Ross, with people who presume to know what I will and won’t do.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re a monster.”
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh and glanced at Christian, who stood silent behind her. “Monsters don’t lose, Miss Ross. We endure. And the world learned long ago to step aside when we come through.”
The hatred radiating from him was a living thing—so complete, so absolute—it made her stomach turn anew. How could one man carry so much fury? And what had her father done to have earned it?
“What did he do?” The question left her lips as barely more than a breath, lost at once to the wind.
His eyes caught the light, sharp as cut glass. “Your father is responsible for my wife’s death.”
The stillness that followed seemed to swallow the sound of the sea. Her mind stuttered over the words, trying to fit them into sense. Failing.
“No.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder. “I don’t believe you.”
He stepped forward with a snarl. “I have proof—Orders to abduct her. Orders to silence her forever. Written in his own hand, sealed with his signet.”
“You’re lying.” The denial scraped her throat raw.
Captain Thorne’s gaze narrowed on her. His eyes were steady, immovable, and the truth in them burned brighter than the morning sun on the waves. “For once, I wish I were.”
The calm words sent a fracture splintering deep inside her, shattering her defenses more than any rebuttal could have, and all she could do was continue to shake her head.
“Sometimes, the deepest wounds come from those you trust the most. We were friends, your father and I. Closer than brothers. We bled together, smuggled intelligence past British patrols so the Revolution could breathe another day. I placed my faith in him. And he betrayed me in the worst way by selling that very information to the enemy.”
He let the words settle, his eyes cold and unflinching. “Whatever you believe about your father, Miss Ross, you’re mistaken.”
No.
It could not be true.
Could it?
She shook her head, desperate to banish the thought.
Her father would never do such a thing. An honorable man, he had served decades in the Navy, had faced storms and battle alike with unshakable steadiness.
Her mind refused to accept the claim, clutching at every memory of his steadiness and courage.