Chapter Thirteen #2
“Thing is, Miss Ross, truth is like the tide.” His quiet words fell like a verdict. “You can curse it, turn your back to it, but it’ll drag you under all the same. The truth will come for you. And when it does, I’ll be waiting.”
He turned away, the coat at his shoulders stirring in the wind as he started toward the quarterdeck.
The world tilted—not from the ship’s sway, but from the slow, terrible shift of something inside her.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, to count the rise and fall of the waves slapping the hull.
Her fingers tightened around the rail as Christian stepped forward.
“Stay out here as long as you’d like. The men know not to bother you. If you need anything, come to me.” He gave her a curt bow before following the captain.
Somehow, through the haze of shock, she remembered the reason she’d come up in the first place. “Mr. Thompson?”
He paused, turning with one dark brow lifted, sunlight glinting off the brass buttons of his coat.
She hesitated, the urge to ask warring with the fear of what his answer might be. But she had to know. “Josephine. Lieutenant Caldwell…” Her voice cracked, fragile as spun glass. “Are they alright?”
His gaze shifted, a shadow crossing his features before he steadied. “They are.”
The words about took her to her knees. She swayed on the deck, gripping the rail for support. Christian gave her a steady look, one that seemed to promise that for the moment, some pieces were still safe, some battles had not yet been lost.
“Thank you.”
*
Abigail paced her cell, her footsteps echoing against the wood planks.
For the umpteenth time, she took hold of the iron bars and tested them.
Christian had locked her cell door after her meager dinner.
For your safety, he’d said. Though it made sense, she hated the confinement.
Besides, the very notion of safety felt almost comical, surrounded as she was by pirates under the command of a man who seemed eager to see her suffer.
A quiet creak interrupted her rambling thoughts. She froze. The hatch cover.
Two scuffed boots lowered into view, and she shrank back into the shadows.
A rough-looking sailor dropped down, hat tugged low over his brow, his coat frayed and salt stained.
Even in the dim light from the single lantern, she caught the flash of a knife at his belt and the menace in the way he moved.
Not Thorne. Not Christian.
Her heart stuttered at the thought of being alone with one of the pirates.
He shuffled toward her, the boards creaking under his boots.
“What do you want?” She tried to inject courage into her tone, but the tremor in her voice gave her away, a scream building in the back of her throat.
His face lifted, still cloaked in shadow. Dark eyes gleamed in the lantern light. “To rescue you.”
Her pulse leapt painfully in her throat, and she took a hesitant step forward. No. It couldn’t be. That voice didn’t belong here, not in this nightmare.
“Mr. Moreau?” she whispered, hardly trusting her own senses.
He swept his hat off and bowed. “At your service.”
This couldn’t be real. It was a trick, a cruel jest of some fevered nightmare. She blinked, expecting the shadows to twist, expecting Thorne’s cruel grin to emerge from the darkness instead.
Her gaze flicked over the figure emerging from the shadows, impossibly solid, impossibly real. All she could do was stare, caught somewhere between terror and hope, unsure which was more dangerous. And yet, when he came to stop at her cell door, her disbelief faltered.
Somehow, it was truly him.
How?
She must have said it out loud because he raised a brow. “If you must know, I killed one of the pirates while they were ashore getting supplies and took his clothing as a disguise.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. Not a flicker of remorse.
As if taking a life was an everyday occurrence.
“But, Thorne… This ship… You shouldn’t be here.”
“I am here.” Mr. Moreau’s expression remained calm, though a muscle twitched along his jaw. “I came for you.”
The words reverberated through her, sinking all the way to her soul. I came for you. Every nerve in her body seemed to awaken, every fear momentarily held at bay by the sheer weight of his presence and the words he’d just spoken.
He reached into his coat and drew a slender pick from his pocket, the metal catching the lantern light.
Bending over the lock, his fingers moved with fluid certainty, a quiet dance of skill and patience.
The soft click of the tumblers rang deafeningly in the quiet of the brig.
Mr. Moreau’s lips pressed into a thin line, brows drawn in concentration, every muscle tuned to the delicate work before him.
Lantern light danced across his features, highlighting his quiet strength.
With one last twist, the lock gave way. Mr. Moreau straightened, his hand extended. “Come.”
When the door swung open, something inside her shattered.
She stumbled forward, a sob catching in her throat.
His hands found her, steadying her trembling frame, and before she could gather herself, he pulled her into a rough, urgent embrace.
The warmth of his body pressed against hers, grounding her, her ragged breaths easing into a shaky rhythm as he held her close.
She pressed her eyes shut against the tears blurring her vision.
His breath came against her cheek and a moment later the soft weight of his lips pressed against hers.
With a gasp, she leaned into the kiss, opened her mouth when his tongue swept across her bottom lip.
Her hands rose to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his coat as though she could anchor herself in the certainty of him.
Groaning, he pulled his head back, breaking contact. A storm swirled in the gray depths of his eyes as his gaze burned into hers. She set one trembling palm over his heart, the frantic beat there echoing her own racing pulse.
“It’s really you.”
“Yes.” He nuzzled into her hair, and for a heartbeat, she could imagine they were back in the safety of the swamp. One more soft kiss at the crown of her head and he stepped back. “We don’t have much time. We need to get off this ship.”
Her throat went thick as all the danger and uncertainty returned in a rush. “How?”
His gaze swept over her. “We leave through the lower deck. There’s a small service hatch near the storage hold. We’ll travel through the bilge. It’s tight, but it’ll get us outside without being seen.”
She swallowed, still trying to make sense of the impossibility of it all. “And if someone does see us?”
“They won’t.” He said it simply, with a calm certainty that made her heart ache with hope. “Follow me. Don’t make a noise.”
They climbed the ladder, and he eased the hatch cover open. “Clear.”
The gun deck swallowed them in gloom, shadows clinging to the walls.
Crates jutted at odd angles, coils of rope hunched like sleeping beasts.
Mr. Moreau slid between them with practiced ease, and she followed, scraping her palms over rough wood, breath shallow.
He pointed to a tiny hatch in the floor, barely wide enough for a person to crawl through.
With a subtle nod, he urged her forward.
They dropped into the bilge, swallowed by the ship’s underbelly.
Darkness closed around them—damp wood looming overhead, the keel curving away like a dark cathedral.
The air pressed heavy against her face, and cold, black water pooled underfoot.
She had to hunch over, shoulders scraping against the ribs of the hull as they crawled.
The air reeked of iron and old storms, burning her nostrils and setting her teeth on edge.
Rats scurried somewhere ahead, and the ship creaked and sighed around them as if it were alive.
Mr. Moreau drew to a stop, and she bumped into him.
A faint light bled through a narrow side scuttle, the promise of open air just out of reach, the deck’s hard line outlined against the moon.
He worked the cover aside, sliding the iron plate with careful precision until it rattled open, revealing dark water just beyond.
After a quick glance outside, he shrugged from his dirty coat, throwing it to the side.
Her eyes widened as he unbuttoned his shirt.
With one efficient motion, he stripped it away.
Moonlight glinted off the lean cut of his shoulders, the smooth play of muscles as he bent and unlaced his boots.
Even in the urgency and danger, her heart skipped, her gaze drawn to the raw grace in his movements.
He lowered a rope ladder over the side. “It’s a tight fit. You first.”
Abigail’s stomach lurched as she eyed the waves below. She took a deep breath and squeezed through the narrow opening. The air caught in her lungs as she tested the first rung and he set a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be right behind you.” His voice tethered her to him, a lifeline stronger than the rope beneath her hands.
She climbed out, willing her hands and feet to cling to the narrow strands. When her feet dipped into the water, she gave a frantic glance around, heart catching in her throat. “Mr. Moreau?”
He stilled at her trembling whisper.
“What?” His reply came so soft it nearly dissolved into the quiet hiss of water against the hull.
“There seems to be a problem.” She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the glistening swells lapping at her ankles. “There’s no boat. There’s nothing.”
“I know. We’ll need to swim.”
“Oh.” The word croaked out as panic coiled in her chest.
“What’s wrong?” This time his whisper came out in a hiss.
The rope dug into her fingers. “I-I can’t swim.”