Chapter Sixteen
Lucien glanced up at the sails with brows drawn together. No schooner he’d ever been on had traveled so fast, so effortlessly. Especially not one loaded with so many cannons.
Captain Thompson stood at the helm, a dreamy smile on her face, lids half closed.
He might have questioned it once, the breeches, the blade, the crew obeying a woman captain without pause.
Hell, most men would have refused to step aboard, would call her mad, but he’d long since stopped caring what the world deemed proper.
She’d saved him earlier, and the ship answered to her as if it knew no other master.
That was enough. With a loose roll of his shoulders, he climbed up to the quarterdeck.
She hummed a soft tune, oblivious to his arrival, and made minute adjustments to the wheel, her fingers stroking the polished spokes as if they were sacred.
He cleared his throat, and she snapped to attention, blue eyes locking on him. “Mr. Moreau, how can I help you?”
“Tell me about this ship.” He nodded toward the sails. “I’ve never seen a schooner rigged this way.”
She smiled. “You’ve a good eye. Most don’t notice. I had the foretopsail cut longer and the stays adjusted to bear higher winds.”
He studied how the canvas curved against the wind, lines taut as bowstrings. “It’s genius.”
“Aye. Most captains would have torn their rigging by now, but the Siren was built for speed. She can dance with the wind instead of fighting it.”
His gaze traveled along the sweep of sheets and spars. “I hope she can fight as well as she dances.”
“No need to hope, she won’t disappoint.”
He nodded toward the lines. “I’ll help trim the main. You keep her running true.”
Her voice stopped him as he turned toward the rigging. “Thank you, for going after Abigail. For keeping her safe. She’s my closest friend.”
Lucien inclined his head. “I’ll not let anything happen to her.”
A copper brow arched. “Bold words from a man chasing the most dangerous man on the seas.”
“I’m not afraid of him.” His gaze turned toward the starboard deck, where Miss Ross and Josephine sat coiling ropes.
Though her face was still pale, she kept her hands steady.
Unbidden, the image of her face, inches from his, lips parted, flashed through him.
His chest tightened at the memory, pulse thrumming like the lines above them.
He’d nearly kissed her. Would have had they not been interrupted.
A long-dormant part of him flickered to life, quietly daring him to hope for…
For more.
“She’s changed since leaving Savannah. I expected her to be overcome and inconsolable at her situation. Yet she faces it with resolve.” Captain Thompson’s soft words brought him back to the present.
Across the deck, Miss Ross’s lashes lifted, and for a brief moment, her blue eyes met his. After a quiet beat, she dropped her gaze, the flush on her cheeks visible all the way across the deck. He couldn’t help his grin. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
“Captain?” A younger sailor approached them. “I believe Thorne’s spotted us. The Vengeance has turned toward open sea.”
Far ahead, through the spray and haze, a smudge of sails marred the horizon. Captain Thompson’s hand tightened on the wheel, and she turned them to the wind. “We’ll close in on him from the side.”
Lucien calculated the distance. If the Siren held her speed, they would overtake Thorne in several hours. “Keep her balanced on the swells. If we ease the mainsail at each crest, she’ll run safely without straining the rigging.”
She gave a brief nod, eyes fixed ahead. “Then make it so.”
Lucien moved down to the main deck, checking lines and adjusting rigging as the crew worked with determined precision. Every pull, every knot, every brace tightened or eased, nudged the ship into the teeth of the chase.
The next hour passed in a blur of motion.
His muscles ached from stretching lines and hauling braces.
Ropes hummed above him, the planks beneath his feet vibrating with the Siren’s power as she cut through the waves.
The Vengeance loomed less than a half mile ahead.
Her sails had been sheeted full, yet the schooner gained steadily, defying every advantage the frigate carried.
With each passing wave, the distance melted away, leaving nothing but white wake and the thrum of the wind in his ears.
He paused at the rail after fastening a sheet and studied the sea.
The swells had grown longer, rolling beneath them with steady insistence.
His eyes flicked southward. A line of low and ragged clouds moved steadily across the horizon.
Their edges carried an unnatural greenish tint, casting an uneasy light over the water.
He frowned at the sudden heaviness in the air.
A storm was brewing.
With one last glance at the sky, he tightened the next line. Once secure, he turned from the rail, his gaze settling on the cabin door. A vision of Miss Ross’s face, inches from his, lips parted, flickered unbidden through his mind.
He shouldn’t be thinking of that. Not now at least. Yet, he couldn’t turn away.
She’d been inside for a while. Seasickness was always worse below deck, especially the way the ship currently pitched with the swells.
He took an involuntary step toward the cabin, then paused.
Her friend, Josephine, had disappeared from the deck not long ago, no doubt tending to her. No reason for him to intrude.
Another image flashed; this time the jagged blade pressed against her neck.
His stomach tightened. The memory of the threat, of the way that pirate had held her, surged back with a mix of fury and adrenaline.
His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides.
He’d never enjoyed taking a life. Until today.
He’d take a hundred more if it meant keeping her safe.
With a frown, he glanced at the sky once more. At the very least, it wouldn’t hurt to warn her and her friend about the coming storm.
Lucien crossed the deck, each step measured against the Siren’s sway. He knocked lightly. “Miss Ross?”
“Come in.”
He opened the door. Abigail sat at the desk, cheeks flushed but eyes steady. The faint pall of exhaustion lingered in her expression, yet she held herself with surprising poise. Josephine rose quickly. “I’ll… fetch some water,” she said, slipping past him.
Silence settled in her wake, broken only by the low groan of the timbers. The ship rolled, and he braced a hand against the door frame. “How are you faring down here?”
Miss Ross gave him a tight smile. “Not as bad as earlier. Maybe you were right, perhaps time is all I needed.”
He couldn’t help a small grin of his own. “You doubted me?”
Her smile widened a fraction. “I’m learning not to take people at their word so easily.”
“Prudent.” He stepped farther into the cabin as the deck tilted beneath them. “Though I’d like to think I’ve earned some measure of trust.”
She stilled, her eyes meeting his. The lantern swung, spilling its light across her face, catching the faint tremble at her throat as she swallowed. “Of course.”
For a moment, he simply watched her, noting the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers clenched the edge of the table with each pitch of the ship.
She pulled her lip between her teeth, a faint, hesitant gesture that made his chest tighten.
Then, as quickly as it came, the moment broke.
A flush crossed her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to her lap, hands twisting the fabric of her blouse.
He hadn’t meant to linger, yet he found himself reluctant to leave, fighting the urge to cross over to her.
To… to what? It had been years since he’d allowed himself such closeness, since he’d thought of soothing a woman with more than words.
What would he do? Rub her shoulders? Brush her hair?
He cleared his throat and tried to summon a memory of how he had comforted Isabelle when she was unsettled—some familiar gesture, some small way to steady her.
But the image that came wasn’t Isabelle. It was Abigail. Every thought, every movement he imagined belonged to her.
The thought sobered him.
He stepped back, let his hand find the doorknob. “The weather’s turning. The swells will worsen quite a bit as we get farther out to sea. I want you to stay below, no matter what you hear on deck.”
She pressed her lips together. “Is it very bad?”
“Not yet.” He met her eyes, held them a moment longer than he meant to. “But it will be.”
*
The Siren shuddered as she hit the trough between swells. They had only grown larger as the wind picked up, dark lines cutting across the horizon where sea and sky blurred into one. Every roll, every dip tested the ship’s limits, nudging her toward the edge of control.
And he would bet it was the reason Thorne had drawn them out to open sea.
His towering frigate would withstand the large waves with ease while the schooner, though nimble, would flounder.
A steady rain had started, slicking the deck and hurling drops horizontally as the rigging wailed overhead.
He steadied himself against the rail as another gust tore across the deck, snapping the lines and driving spray into his face.
Pulling up his nose, he spat out a mouthful of salt.
He made his way up to the quarterdeck, pausing as the Siren plunged down the next swell.
For a heartbeat, the horizon disappeared altogether.
His knuckles whitened around the rail, not from fear but from the deep, instinctive awareness that they were nearing the point where seamanship ended—and luck began.
He found Captain Thompson at the helm, soaked to the bone but steady, her hair plastered against her cheeks. She spared him a brief glance, rain streaking down her face, before turning her eyes back to the horizon.
He steadied himself beside her. “This weather is not boding well for us.”
She gave a tight nod and adjusted the wheel. “She’s a strong ship, built to withstand much worse.”