Chapter Twenty-Two
Abigail pressed her hands to her mouth as Thorne’s face drained of color, his eyes wide and unblinking. His sword clattered to the ground, coming to rest next to Mr. Moreau’s feet as he stumbled to his knees, the weight of disbelief written into every line of his body.
“You—you’re dead.” His voice came out in a rough whisper.
Eloise stood on the porch, hands on her hips, though her entire body trembled. “I could say the same of you.”
The words struck the pirate like a physical blow and his shoulders jerked.
He lifted a shaky hand toward Eloise, his breaths uneven, each one echoing through the sudden hush of the yard.
Abigail’s stomach lurched, and her chest grew impossibly tight as her mind struggled to come to sense with what was happening.
Her gaze flicked from him to the figure on the porch.
Eloise had gone utterly still. The lantern cast an unsteady glow across her face, throwing shadows beneath her cheekbones, making her eyes shine too brightly. The air shifted, thickened, as the truth settled over the yard like a gathering storm.
Eloise was Thorne’s wife.
And Thorne? He was the love she’d spoken of.
Abigail’s breath stalled as the realization crashed into her, reshaping the space around her, amplifying every sound, every heartbeat, every flicker of lantern light.
Thorne’s eyes never left Eloise, but danger radiated from him in a suffocating wave. Abigail felt it lodge deep in her spine. This was a man carved by loss, honed by vengeance. And now, the very woman whose death had shaped him stood before him. Alive.
Abigail’s lungs tightened. The moment pulsed with devastation. It was as though the world had twisted upon itself to bring life and death together in the same breath, forcing a reckoning no one was prepared to face.
The pirate swayed as though the ground had tilted beneath him. “No. You… This can’t—”
“James.” Eloise’s voice broke on a sob, and she stumbled down the stairs toward him.
A strangled sound tore from his chest, and he bowed his head, bracing his hands on the ground. His shoulders heaved. Once. Twice.
Mr. Moreau exhaled from next to Abigail, barely audible. His arm shifted, brushing lightly against her back, a silent, grounding presence—one ready to pull her behind him should things go poorly.
With a guttural growl, Thorne raised a hand, a command not of authority but of desperation. “How? How are you here?”
Eloise faltered, her eyes bright with tears. “I—” The word snagged, and she tried again. “I was meant to die, James. The men who took me wanted no witnesses. The Warstein brothers found me before they could finish it.”
A low, almost silent snarl escaped him. “Warstein told me you were dead. Told me you threw yourself into the sea because you could not bear to face me after what had been done to you.” The words scraped out between clenched teeth as if the very memory scorched its way up his throat.
Eloise’s eyes pressed shut. “It wasn’t true.
My captors, they spoke openly in front of me about how my death would distract you, how important it was to keep you out of their way.
They said you had gotten too close.” Her voice quivered with something raw and unhealed.
“He was selling intelligence to the British. When you began asking questions, they panicked. They needed you blinded. And they knew nothing would stop you but grief.”
“Traitor.” The word tore from him, a curse dragged from the depths of his chest. His fingers clawed into the mud, knuckles bleaching white beneath the strain. A single, violent shudder tore through him, broad shoulders folding inward until his forehead nearly touched the ground.
“And all this time, you…you were alive.” His entire frame shook, as if he had lost the ability to hold himself upright. “Ross…you—he…how could you?” His voice splintered on the last word, conspicuous wet tracks trailing through the grime on his face and dripping to the dirt he clutched.
Abigail’s chest ached as Eloise pressed her eyes shut and shook her head in silent, trembling apology. “If I had returned, they would have come after all of us. I couldn’t bear to let them hurt you or Christian. So we faked my death.”
His gaze lifted, slow, lethal, burning with fury. “We?”
“The younger Warstein brother, and one of his shipmates, Mr. Moreau.” Her voice broke.
“I came here with him, pretended to be his sister. It was never meant to be more than a few months. Just enough time for those terrible men to finish their wretched business with the enemy without turning their sights on you.” She swallowed hard, tears streaking down her cheeks.
“I didn’t know you would go after them yourself… that you’d vanish without a word.”
A strangled breath escaped Thorne, as if he were being torn from the inside, and Abigail leaned into Mr. Moreau’s steady form, her fingers clutching at his sleeve.
“And then,” Eloise whispered, wringing her hands, “the news came that you were lost at sea. Presumed dead.”
“I mourned you.” Each of the pirate’s words came as a ragged, aching confession.
“Every night. Every damnable day. I drowned myself in the only thing I had left—vengeance. And now you stand there, alive, while I—” His voice faltered, cracking under the strain, and familiar hard lines returned to his face. “I am nothing of the man you knew.”
Eloise stood frozen, shoulders stiff and hands hanging limp.
“All these years. Every life I took in your name…” His gaze flicked to Samantha. “It was all for naught.”
“I’m so sorry. It was a foolish plan.” Eloise’s shoulders shook as a quiet sob escaped her.
“I damned myself over a lie.”
“No. Don’t say such a thing.” She took a tentative step toward him.
A harsh laugh escaped him. “You have no idea the things I’ve done, the pain I’ve caused.” His gaze found her again. “Who else knew?”
She frowned. Shook her head. “Only the one Warstein brother. Mr. Moreau, and his son after he passed No one else.”
He pressed his eyes shut. “Why? Why didn’t Warstein tell me? I killed him. He recognized me, knew who I was. Knew why I was after him. If he had told me…” He gave a feeble wave of his hand.
Samantha surged forward, pushing past the blades of the pirates surrounding her. “Because you killed my mother in front of him, you bastard.” Her voice shook with fury. “What choice did you leave him? You left him with nothing.”
Eloise’s face went pale as the moon. “Yo-You killed Warstein?”
Thorne’s expression hardened into something carved from stone. He didn’t look at Eloise. He didn’t look at Samantha. “I killed them all. Every one I could get my hands on.”
Her lip trembled. “James. How?”
“I told you, I’m not—”
The crash of boots came from the underbrush, and Christian burst from the swamp. “Father!” His commanding bellow echoed through the fragile silence. “It’s over. I won’t let you—”
He skidded to a stop when his gaze fell on Thorne, still kneeling in the center of the yard. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “What’s—”
Eloise let out a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. “My boy.”
The words hung there, fragile and trembling. Christian’s eyes flicked toward the sound, uncertainty etching his features.
“Who…?” His whisper cracked, fading into the evening.
“Christian.” She stepped past Thorne, her eyes shimmering, and crossed to him. “It’s me.”
“Mother? No.” He blinked rapidly, his head shaking slowly from side to side. Abigail’s chest tightened anew as he staggered back a step. He looked as though someone had reached into his chest and torn something loose.
She extended a hand toward him, fingers brushing his jaw. He flinched, voice tight with disbelief. “I don’t understand. You’re… alive?”
Eloise nodded, her shoulders trembling.
His face hardened, his gaze sweeping the yard, settling on Mr. Moreau. “You were held captive? All these years?”
She dropped her head. “No.”
“What do you mean? Then why didn’t you come back?”
Tears streamed down her face. “At first, I was afraid to face you, to tell you your father died because of my deception, was still afraid the men who took me would finish the job to keep me silent. Then, after years had passed, I was afraid instead that you would never forgive me for not coming back sooner.”
He drew his shoulders straight and spun away from her. “You were right.”
Abigail’s throat went thick as Eloise pressed her eyes closed. The air went impossibly still, every rustle of leaves and distant croak of frogs amplified in the silence.
Mr. Moreau cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the gathering tension like a knife. “Enough.”
Everyone’s gaze snapped to him, and he took a deep breath before continuing.
“I think it would be best for everyone to take a step back. There’s a lot to process right now.
Why don’t we all reconvene in New Orleans?
It will give everyone time to collect their thoughts and decide on the path they want to take forward. ”
He cleared his throat. “Samantha, take the Siren. Thorne…” His eyes narrowed for a moment, but he clenched his jaw and continued. “You and Christian return to your ship, and Eloise, you’ll come with—”
“I’m not leaving her.” Thorne lunged for his blade, but Mr. Moreau’s boot settled on it.
“There will be plenty of time to speak in New Orleans. She’s not the only one who needs to process this shock.”
The pirate shook his head, voice rough. “I’ve spent over two decades without her—”
“And one more night will give you clarity on how you want to move forward, how you face your past.” Mr. Moreau’s words came soft. “For both your sakes.”
Eloise stood with her head bowed, arms wrapped around her middle. “I prayed for this. Every night for years, I prayed you would come back to me. But not like this.” She lifted her gaze to meet her husband’s. “I—I think he’s right. I need a moment to come to terms with all of this.”
“I’m going with Samantha.” Christian hadn’t moved, his gaze still fixed warily on his mother as if she might vanish at any moment.