Chapter Twenty-One
Lucien stilled as Samantha called after her retreating husband.
Christian.
The name echoed through him, each syllable thrumming through his chest like a far away warning bell.
Pieces began to fall together in a jumbled mess, each one flashing sharp in his mind before locking into place, and the shape they formed made his chest tighten until he could scarcely draw breath. Thompson. Christian. Thorne.
Abigail squeezed his hand. “What’s wrong?”
A chill crawled up the back of his neck, though the fire of his revelation burned hot within him. He stared at nothing, at everything—the possible truth settling heavy as lead.
“Samantha?” His voice came out rough.
She turned, gaze still blazing from her confrontation. “What is it?”
“Your husband. His father. Thorne…” He sucked in a breath, his chest constricting as his mind came to terms with the impossibility of what he was about to suggest. “He’s former naval Captain James Thompson?”
The fierceness in her eyes faltered, replaced by a wary, guarded stillness. “How do you know that name?” Her hand slipped to the empty scabbard at her hip, and she took a measured step back, studying him as though deciding whether he were friend or foe.
“Christ.” He tilted his head back, squinting against the merciless sun blazing above them. Truth warred with reason as he dragged a hand through his hair. After a long moment, he dropped his gaze to hers. “We need to go back to New Orleans.”
Her expression hardened. “Are you mad? I just promised him I wouldn’t.”
Lucien took a step closer, the heat rising from the stones creeping up his back. “Then you stay here. Let me take the Siren.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
“You don’t understand what’s at stake—”
“I understand perfectly.” Her eyes flashed. “I gave him my word, and I’ll not break it for a stranger who’s decided he knows better.”
The courtyard seemed to narrow around them, the sun glaring off the white walls, too bright, too close. A bead of sweat traced down Lucien’s temple. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was no explanation he could give—not without unraveling everything. “If we delay—”
“I said no.” She moved before he could finish, snatching up her fallen rapier from the ground. The steel hissed through the air as she leveled it at his chest.
Lucien’s hand went instinctively to his sword. “Don’t do this.”
“Then stop giving orders as though you’ve any authority over me.” Her grip tightened as she settled into an offensive stance.
He drew his blade in one swift motion, the sound slicing through the heavy stillness of the courtyard. Sunlight flashed along the edge, glancing off the walls and setting the air between them alight. They began to circle, the scrape of their boots on stone the only sound.
“Stand down,” he warned, voice low.
“Make me.”
He angled his sword, not to strike but to guard. “You don’t want this fight.”
She squared her shoulders, her rapier steady as a drawn line between them. “Maybe I do.”
“Enough!” Abigail burst between them, skirts whipping around her ankles, her hands thrown wide.
“Stop it, both of you!” Tears glimmered in her eyes, her breath catching as she looked from one to the other. “Please!”
Lucien lowered his blade at once, the steel glinting once last time in the sun before dropping to his side. Across from him, Samantha still stood taut with her rapier poised, but her grip had relaxed. Neither moved, caught in the sudden stillness Abigail had forced between them.
Her clear blue eyes raised to meet his, voice trembling yet firm. “Could going back save my father?”
Lucien gave a slow nod. “Yes, I believe so.”
She turned to Samantha, her gaze imploring. “If you won’t do it for him, do it for me.”
Her friend’s eyes flicked between them, the rapier still pointed at him. A long moment passed, the only sound their own uneven breaths. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she lowered her blade. “For you.”
Lucien’s shoulders eased fractionally, the tight coil of readiness in his chest loosening as the tip of her rapier touched the stones at her feet. “Then we must go, at once. There’s no time to waste.”
Samantha glanced toward the gate, a shadow of unease crossing her face, but she nodded. “Lead the way.”
They left the courtyard in brittle silence, the heat of what had nearly happened still lingering between them like the hollow ring of a shout.
Their footsteps fell fast on the uneven stones, echoing from the whitewashed walls of the alleyways.
Every shadow seemed to twitch, each scrap of movement at the corners of their vision threatening to twist into the shape of an adversary.
Lucien’s hand brushed along the wall as they passed, steadying himself, though his heart hammered a fierce rhythm in his chest. He kept his gaze forward, scanning every crossing street, every doorway, for the slightest sign of pursuit. At last, the narrow streets opened to the quay.
A longboat waited just beyond the low jetty, men already at the oars.
Lucien descended into the vessel first, steadying the plank for Abigail.
She stepped down with determined grace, her skirts hitched up at the hem.
Samantha swung aboard after her, boots finding the gunwale with the ease of a sailor who had spent more hours at sea than on firm ground.
The men bent to the oars at her order, and the longboat slid from the bustle of the harbor.
When they reached the Siren, the sailors aboard let down a rope ladder.
Lucien rose and braced one hand on the ladder, the other outstretched toward Abigail.
The boat shifted under her weight, and he steadied her, one hand briefly at her waist to guide her to the first rung.
Her eyes met his, a spark of something unspoken flickering there before she tore her gaze away and began to climb.
The hem of her gown brushed his sleeve as she ascended toward the waiting deckhands above and he forced down the urge to reach after her before turning to Samantha.
She ignored his offered hand and climbed with sure-footed confidence, not sparing him a glance. By the time he reached the deck, she’d already climbed to the helm. “Set the topsails!”
Her shouted command sent her crew into action.
Lines snapped taut, canvas filled, and the Siren answered with a deep groan from her timbers as she swung into the wind.
The harbor fell away behind them, replaced by the endless shimmer of water and a taut tension that refused to ease.
Lucien threw himself into the work, tightening braces and helping wherever the ship needed strength.
The wind tugged at sails, the Siren groaning under the sudden pressure, catching the gusts that would carry them to New Orleans.
A low, rocky island passed to starboard, silhouetted against the shimmering water. Lucien’s eyes caught a flash of white sails in a sheltered cove. The Vengeance. He caught Samantha’s attention and nodded toward it.
She whipped her spyglass out and studied the ship. “If we’re lucky, they’re still ashore and unaware we’re gone. I’ll be glad for the head start.”
They worked faster, adding sail, tightening lines, and shifting weight.
Every knot he tied, every rope he hauled, was a small step toward safety.
Lucien’s muscles ached, his breath came hard, but he didn’t allow himself to relax until the dark shape of the frigate was well behind them, lost to the curve of the horizon.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he allowed himself a moment’s reprieve.
He let himself absorb the ship’s rhythm: the coordinated clatter of boots on planks, the slap of canvas in the wind, the muted thrum of water along the hull.
For a single breath, the chaos of the last hours seemed to fall away, leaving only the pulse of the sea beneath him.
Lucien stole a glance back toward Mobile, a knot of unease coiling in his stomach.
He shook his head, attempting to shrug off the sensation.
Thompson was a common enough name. So was James.
His muscles ached, and the exertion of the flight, the rowing, and working the sails had his mind craving simple, believable truths.
But Samantha’s reaction to the title Captain unraveled the corners of his doubt. His body thrummed with the certainty he could no longer ignore. The truth pulsed through him, undeniable and consuming—if they could make it to New Orleans, he could put a stop to all this madness.
A soft sound, almost lost in the wind, broke through his thoughts.
A sob.
Abigail stood at the rail, staring out at the horizon, her hands clutching the wood, breaths coming in small, uneven bursts. The wind caught her hair, sending the strands catching the afternoon sun like molten gold.
Lucien moved to her side, careful not to break the fragile bubble of concentration around her. “Are you sick again?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, still staring outward.
“No. I was thinking of Savannah… home. My favorite chair in the drawing room. The scent of rosewater, the lemon oil. I’ll never smell it again.
At least not the way I remember it.” Her chin trembled, and she gave a shaky laugh.
“Silly, isn’t it? That after all that’s happened, I’m thinking of my drawing room. ”
“I heard what happened. The fire.” He lowered his voice, stepping closer. “I’m sorry.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath. “I thought… I truly believed I would return and start back where I left off. Now, even if I make it back, everything will be so different.”
He lifted a hand so that his fingertip hovered just above her heart. “Home is not always a place. Sometimes…” His pulse quickened as he pressed down, the warmth of her chest beneath his fingertip spreading up his arm. “Sometimes it’s here.”
*