“Oh, I’m sure. Twenty pounds gulden a month. Why, in eighty years, you’d barely be able to afford a noble title! If you forget to spend it on food in the meantime.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” The man looked a little uncomfortable. “The captain must have kept you secret for a reason.”

  Lucia shrugged. “My name isn’t important.”

  “Still, I’d like to know it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ginger. And don’t you have anything important to do right now?”

  “Well, Ginger,” he said, sitting himself against the wall, “I’m Marchon, first mate to our Captain Forteza.”

  He let that hang in the air. Lucia stared at him, then snorted. This was too easy. “First mate? You think you’re a pirate, then?”

  “We’re better than pirates! We work above the law and are paid handsomely for it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Suck on the teats of the rich nobs who use you for their dirty work. Such courage,” and she flared his grandiosity then. It had reached the ‘stare into the middle distance while swearing dangerous oaths’ level.

  “The captain—”

  “The captain,” said Lucia, “thinks you are weak. Little better than lapdogs for her to play dress up with. But before she hired you, I’d be willing to bet you were real pirates. You rode that horizon and answered to no one but yourself. Or have you forgotten?”

  “How so? The life of a pirate is the life of the hunted,” he said, but Lucia knew she almost had him. “Never welcome save in the free ports, and with those you get what you pay for—”

  “You’re even mimicking her words,” Lucia said, putting a little incredulity into her tone. “She really has trained you well, dog.”

  “Where the hell do you get off?” The first mate Marchon stood up and began to pace. “You’re the one tied up! You think I’d be freeing you if I took her down?” He laughed nervously.

  Lucia fired his courage—though perhaps nervous energy characterized it better at the moment. “No one said anything about taking her place, Marchon. That was all you.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” he said. “So what if I take her down—if I talk to the crew and we pull her ship out from under her feet. What then?”

  “Well, supposing that,” Lucia said, and she saw the man’s courage swell under her careful touch, “you’d have the freedom of the sea. And you’d have me,” she threw in, though the thought of her belonging to anyone caused her to shudder. Well, any save one.

  She saw the gleam in the man’s eye. She had won.

  XXII

  It wasn’t long before the Marchesa returned. Luckily, Lucia’s view of the emotional state of her ship—her flagship? It had to be—kept her occupied in the short interval. The thought of mutiny, once stoked, spread like a fire on an oil-slicked sea.

  So, when Forteza entered with another man into her cabin a bare hour later, saying in a singsong voice “Well, pet, today is your lucky day,” she couldn’t know how right she was. The man beside her—a real beast of a figure—stepped forward and expertly undid her bindings. Lucia came to her feet unsteadily, but with a new fire racing over her skin.

  Talia was here, or would be soon. And Forteza’s entire world was tilting away from her.

  Lucia rubbed where the rope had cut into her forearms, feeling the blood return painfully to her limbs. Blinking, she recognized the other man with Forteza as a witness to the duel. The Commander General of the Commonwealth, Gregor Hawthorne.

  “Follow me,” Forteza said shortly. Perhaps she was sensing the changing of the tide herself. Lucia did so, not immediately seeing any other way to kick against her captor.

  The deck of the ship featured a number of crewmen milling about, doing their diligent best at avoiding even the appearance of keeping busy. Forteza snapped her fingers and a few of them slouched to attention. “Lower the gangway,” she said. “We have guests.”

  The distant sounds of Black Harbor crowded in, now. The ship had never left port.

  The gangway lowered, Lucia’s heart leapt to see the Duke ascend, Richmond only a half-step behind her. She was dressed in her full military regalia, even putting the Butcher to shame—at least in Lucia’s view. Still, there was a ghost around her eyes, a haunted look that made her seem decades older.

  “Welcome to the Bloody Halifax, my fair Duke of Fallmire,” the Marchesa said smoothly.

  “I thank you for so cheery a welcome,” Talia began, her eyes immediately finding Lucia, going to the marks of the bindings still present on her bare skin, assessing, calculating. “Is it common in your country to hold the wives of those you negotiate with as collateral?”

  The question hung in the air for half a moment too long. The Butcher himself snorted.

  It seemed Marchon took this as his cue. Lucia heard his cry from across the deck of the ship. The first mate raised his pistol and leveled it against the Marchesa.

  For her part, Forteza did not blink, but eyed the man cooly.

  “You’ve ruled as a tyrant over this ship too long, bitch,” he snarled, and fired—or rather, misfired—the pistol. The shot went wide, tearing splinters through the mainmast.

  Forteza did not answer him directly, though she had jumped a fraction when he had actually pulled the trigger. Instead, she nodded to her companion. “Commander Hawthorne, dear?”

  The Butcher—Commander General of the Commonwealth—rolled his eyes and pulled out his own pistol. He shot the first mate dead on the spot. No hesitation.

  And there crumpled to the deck any hope of mutiny under the Marchesa, all witnessed by the Duke, her wide-eyed wife, and her manservant.

  The Marchesa turned back to Talia as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Marchon slowly bled upon the planks of the ship, with none even to take him away.

  “Collateral?” Forteza asked Talia, turning back to her question smoothly. “Oh, we’ve just been having a little fun.”

  Talia sighed, closing her eyes for half a moment. She really was a taut wire strung over a weathered lute, waiting for just the right pluck before snapping. Lucia’s eyes softened.

  “What do you want?” Talia asked in a flat tone.

  “Let’s call it … a guarantee. I know what you’ve been doing, raising the rabble with tales of a Sable Prince, a hero of the people come in their direst need. I admire you for it, to tell the truth. But, really, Duke,” and the Marchesa simpered. “I can sense the tides of history shifting. I am not so proud to not know my place.”

  “Get to the point,” Talia said. “You wish me to keep the Prince’s activities far from your own operations?”

  “See, you are a smart woman.” And Forteza pushed Lucia forward, causing her to stumble before Talia caught her.

  The Duke steadied the demon before saying, “Very well. Consider yourself an ally of the people, I suppose. Or whatever else you fancy. But be forewarned, as I will not be so amenable to such agreements in the future.”

  In other words, keep your dirty claws off of my wife, bitch.

  The thin wire of Talia’s righteous fury was ready to snap. But it held. For now.

  XXIII

  There was no consolation to be had from Talia. Lucia lounged in the carriage, noticing that the Duke had even hired an additional carriage so she would not even need to ride with her wife back to the Fallmire estate. She dodged a number of awkward silences that way, Lucia surmised. Still, it was rather cold, even for Talia.

  She had, however, arranged for a doctor to examine Lucia before they departed Black Harbor. The thin woman had looked over every inch of Lucia’s body, prodded the various blisters that had formed on her limbs, and pronounced her essentially healthy but in need of a full dinner and a good night’s rest. But, of course, wouldn’t the kind Duke wish to purchase an ointment for her Lady’s skin, to see that the blisters healed with all speed?

  The kind Duke indeed paid the doctor, both for her services and a small box of the smelly ointment which she gave to Lucia reverentially.

  In all, Talia was treating her ‘wife’ like a broken doll. And it was absolutely maddening.

  ***

  After a few days of such treatment, Lucia was pretty much ready to rip out her hair.

  “Oh, don’t rip out your hair, darling,” said Walter, looking over his cup of tea from his seat in the gazebo. “You have such darling locks.”

  Lucia growled, then flounced down on the stone bench, letting her hair fall where it may. She wasn’t yet decided on the question, but Walter was probably right. She wanted to rip out something, at any rate.

  It was a beautiful spring morning, easily the most beautiful that had yet graced the Fallmire estate, and the succubus was of a mood to lance the sky with storms. Her heart. Her fucking heart. Ugh. Such a traitorous thing.

  That was what she wanted to rip out. Now that she thought on it.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Walter said in a singsong voice, then he adopted a more conspiratorial tone. “Listen. I specifically came here so you could dish. I’m not going back to dear old Raleigh empty-handed.”

  Lucia growled. If only he could help …

  Well, maybe he could. In a way.

  “It’s Talia,” she said, dragging her name out from the muddy depths of her heart. No, she pulled her name from even deeper within her. It hung in the air, and Walter simpered.

  “Well of course it’s Talia, dear. You’ve been lovesick for weeks.”

  “Weeks? You’ve been here exactly once since the duel, how do you—”

  “Oh, a noble man such as I would never dream of giving up his source of information.”

  Lucia gave him a flat stare. “It’s Maid Hiram, isn’t it?”

  Walter cursed. “Fine, yes, but he’s worried about you. All the maids are, really, if one can believe everything he writes in his delightful letters.”

  She made a mental note to have the Mistress change the maid rotation, to keep Hiram away from her for the time being. Make her know he’d displeased her … no, the woman would take that sort of comment entirely too far. Hm.

  “What we and dearest Hiram cannot figure out,” Walter continued, “is why Talia. What has she done?”

  She couldn’t speak of the kidnapping, but the thought of the duel was enough to send Lucia in a—what did Walter call it?—a tizzy. “You saw—”

  “Well, yes, of course, of course! But after that, you know. One would think, with a show of love and loyalty so daring, so commanding, you’d be in her arms—in her pants, for the dead god’s sake!—within a heartbeat!”

  Lucia closed her eyes, wondering how much she should say.

  “No,” she said finally. “Nothing like that. I’ve had exactly nothing from her since that day.”

  There was a pause as Walter realized the full impact of her words.

  “Oh.” Walter’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. No words of comfort in the night? No steady arms to surround you in your moment of turmoil?”

  Lucia shook her head. It was true, though the man could not know the full reason. She closed her eyes, and she once again saw her eyes—the fire, the devotion, the … like the damned fop had said. The command. She shivered, in love and in pain. And she cursed her weakness.

  “Oh, my dearest girl,” he said. “Well, this shall have to be remedied at once!”

  “Wait!” Lucia said, but Walter had set down his tea and was marching directly to the manor house, ending the conversation there.

  ***

  It had been Lucia’s ploy, to be fair. Seek outside help. She hardly knew that Walter Royce would take it directly to Talia, but if he succeeded … well, she didn’t know how to resolve her heartsickness, so she couldn’t say what would ‘count’ as a success.

  But she was desperate.

  She hadn’t lied to him, after all—Talia had barely spoken three consecutive sentences to her in the days after the kidnapping. And that was fine, perfectly fine, except Lucia had developed a very strong attachment to talking with Talia, being with Talia, sinking into Talia’s …

  Ugh! Her fucking heart! Why?

  She paced the length of her bedchamber, terrified that Walter would actually make things worse—his demand to see the Duke at once, his appearance all a huff. After all, she’d not dared to make the same demand to Talia’s face, or even to her through Richmond.

  No. She amended her thoughts. She’d had the courage to make such a demand once. Why was she using Walter this time?

  And she knew why, spinning around and facing herself in the mirror resting on her knee-high dresser, sunbeam falling across it. She took the frame in both her hands, forcing her eyes to look at herself.

  She was using Walter, not because Talia had withdrawn from her. That certainly hadn’t helped matters, true. But the real reason was, since the kidnapping, Lucia hadn’t been able to string three words together in the Duke’s presence, much less three sentences.

  The rift between them had grown from both ends.

  So now she’d sent Walter crashing through that rift, somehow hoping he would clear a path for her. If you’re brave—or foolish—enough to walk it, she told herself strictly.

  So much angst for a stupid human woman. A stupid, pig-headed, infuriating, unbelievable, soft, strong, beautiful wo—

  Ugh! Why?

  She considered banging her head against the glass, but that would hurt, and the glass certainly hadn’t done her a wrong turn—unlike the traitorous organ beating within her chest. Instead, she let her head fall against it with a thunk, exhausted tears running down her cheeks. What the hell was happening to her?

  A knock at her chamber door. She jumped, her hands overtipped the mirror, then in a scramble she managed to get a grip on it with one hand. The thing was heavy. It turned against her fingers, sliding off the dresser and swinging to the floor.

  “Aah,” she said in momentary pain, her arm twisting with the mirror’s weight.

  The knocking came again.

  “I’m here,” she called out, hoarse. “Come in!” She let one end of the mirror rest on the floor, and slowly lowered it flat to the soft carpet. At least she hadn’t dropped the silly thing.

  The door swung open gently, though its squeak made her eardrums bleed. She wasn’t doing well with loud noises, lately. Probably something to do with her not getting any sleep worth a damn. She looked up, adjusted her terribly unkempt hair, and smoothed out her skirt as Richmond peeked in.

  “The Duke wishes to speak with you,” he said. “If it is at all convenient.”

  “No!” Lucia said, then gasped in another breath to counter, “Yes! I mean—”

  Richmond blinked at her as she steadied her breathing.

  “I mean,” Lucia said. “Give me a moment to make myself presentable, and, uh, yes. I’ll head to her study. Yes. Right away. Yeah.”

  “At your convenience, my Lady. I’ll inform her not to expect you immediately.”

  And he was gone as soon as he arrived, showing off that ineffable ability every great servingman has—to be precisely where and when they are needed, and nothing more.

  “Yes,” she said, breathing in deeply. “Presentable, right . . .”

  ***

  Walter was leaning on the wall beside the Duke’s study door. He smirked as Lucia ascended the stair. She was still in a bit of a fluster, but she was hiding it a little better.

  “The Duke will see you now, my Lady,” Walter said, bowing in mock servitude.

  “Oh, shut up,” she replied, not unkindly. Well, a little unkindly, but with the unkindness often found between fast friends. In mock consternation, Walter departed with a huff—though not before squeezing Lucia’s arm in parting.

  The gesture did help. A little.

  Lucia pushed open the door and found Talia deep in study, making notes in one of her endless folders. She looked up as she entered, made a final scribble, and snapped it shut.

  “You may have a seat, of course,” the Duke said, after Lucia had stood there for half a minute. “This House is as much yours as mine.”

  “Your study is your solitude,” Lucia said, a little bitterly, though she did not fail to take the offered chair. “It is yours to invite, and yours to bar the door—as you see fit.”

  Talia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she often did when facing any social friction—at least, in sight of those who would not judge. Well, judge overmuch.

  Lucia’s heart fluttered a little, the damnable thing.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Talia said finally. “For what must have been a very … for both of us, a very difficult few days without mutual support. I apologize.”

  “Difficult, yes,” Lucia found herself saying. She really tried to purge the bitterness from her tone, but it was not easy. “You judge it was difficult for me to comprehend the near-death of my wife at her own hand. What an eye for social graces you have! And that isn’t to mention the affair with the Marchesa!”

  Well, okay. She didn’t try that hard. Anger was easier to manage, so she leaned into it. Though she hadn’t realized how much her anger was actually about Talia’s behavior in the duel.

  “The Marchesa, yes,” Talia said, and Lucia glimpsed through her fury the first hint of pain in Talia’s eyes. “She always makes things more difficult. She is a dangerous opponent. And you should know—well, she stands above the other two in my hatred. It was she, and she alone, who first forced me to take another life.”

  Lucia didn’t have anything to say to that. Instead, she stood up and began to pace, anger welling up with her tears.

  “Do you not trust me?” Talia’s voice was innocent—dangerously so.

  “Trust? Yes, I trust you,” Lucia said, calming just a fraction as she turned to face the Duke. “As far as I’ve received trust in return,” and then she sighed. “But what should I think? By your own design, you faced down the barrel of a gun. A goddamn barrel of a goddamn gun!” This last exclamation reached hysterical pitch, so she took in a deep breath. Then, voice low and nearly unwavering, “You. Nearly. Died!”

  “I suppose I can’t assure you otherwise,” Talia said. She closed her eyes—and yes, again, pinched the bridge of her nose. That move was too cute for this conversation. She wasn’t playing fair!

 

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