The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Thirty

Margrete

Margrete woke to an empty bed.

The sheets were cool beneath her palm, and Bash’s warmth no longer enveloped her body as it had throughout the night. Despite the trauma she endured the day before, she found she’d slept well, and without a doubt, it was a credit to the man who held her in his arms, never once loosening his comforting hold. It was the first time she hadn’t dreamt of her father.

“Morning, Margrete.”

Margrete. Not princess.

She lifted her heavy eyes to where Bash stood across the cabin, his golden torso on full display. Her gaze dropped to where his trousers hugged his hips, a fine dusting of hair leading the way down.

She was tempted to call him back to bed, if only to feel the hardness of him against her one more time, but he grabbed his shirt from where it draped across the chair and slipped his muscled arms through the sleeves.

“Morning,” she replied, silently observing as he finished buttoning his shirt. His movements were mesmerizing, and, for a moment, she imagined herself watching him dress every day.

“We’ll be there shortly,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze darted to the side, the way it always did when he couldn’t face her.

“I’ll get dressed,” she said. The air was rife with tension.

Bash released a heavy sigh and took one step closer to her, then paused. “Before we left, we sent scouts to make sure he’s coming alone. That he didn’t bring an entire fleet with him. We’ve no word yet, but Wood knows how to find us. But if I somehow can’t get my hands on him today—”

“Bash, I know what needs to be done. We can worry about the rest once you have what you need.”

Her words did nothing to soothe the creases in his brow. She couldn’t stand seeing him look at her like that, but she knew by the time they journeyed above deck, he would once again be the ruthless king his people needed. That was the Bash she could handle today, if only to get through this ordeal.

“I’ll meet you on deck, Bash.” She wanted to be alone, to collect her thoughts before she met with her father. Her mind was already made up. Once she sailed home, she would get her sister and find her own way to freedom—without anyone’s help.

It was time for her head to return from the clouds. If the fates were kind, they would find their way back to one another, but Margrete couldn’t afford to think in what ifs. If she allowed herself to hope, to dream, then it might very well destroy her if they failed.

Bash gave her a jerky nod, exhaling sharply. He dug into his pockets and tossed something on the vanity that she couldn’t make out from her position on the bed.

“I’ll see you above,” he added. The door closed behind him with a resounding bang that rattled her chest.

She slipped from the bed and walked to the desk. The compact mirror Bash had brought the day before was left atop the small vanity. Only now, a violet-blue gem strung on a silver chain rested beside it.

She knew before she picked it up where it came from, recognized the way the gem captured the light of the sun beyond the porthole, its smooth facets glimmering with stars. Bash had given her a piece of the Adiria cavern. A piece of Azantian’s soul.

Her fingers trembled as she fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. The pear-shaped stone settled against her chest, its smooth facets icy on her skin. It was beyond beautiful, for it represented far more than the magic of the cavern. Of Azantian itself.

It represented them.

And wherever today led her, Margrete would forever carry a piece of that night in the Adiria Cavern with her.

Her hands kept drifting to her neck as she dressed and left her cabin. The weight of the gem comforted her even as she willed one foot in front of the other up the steps.

On deck, her lungs immediately swelled with fresh sea air, and a savage gust of wind played with the strands of her hair. Her chest was still sore from nearly drowning, her limbs aching and weak, but she would heal, and as the ocean breeze kissed her skin, her steps grew steady.

The crew avoided her entirely as she walked to the stern where she found Bash gazing upon the horizon with an unreadable expression marring his handsome features.

Bash nodded as she approached. “We’re almost ready,” he murmured, once more looking just beyond Margrete instead of at her. “Our scouts returned. Your father has kept his word, and only one vessel sails to meet us.”

A seagull screeched overhead, indicating they were closer to land than she’d thought.

“Thank you,” she said, ignoring his words as her hand lingered on his gift. “It’s beautiful.”

A muscle in his jaw flickered, and when he spoke, his voice sounded strained. “It was the first time in years I felt alive again. Like I wasn’t a king or the damned protector of the seas. I was just a man.” He turned to face her, green eyes fierce. “And that night, the only magic I saw was you.”

Heat rose to her cheeks and blossomed across the expanse of her neck. His penetrating stare relayed so many things—all the words they’d spoken and the truths they’d yet to confess. She wrapped her fingers around the gem.

“I was never pretending, Bash.”

It felt as though they were saying goodbye. And in truth, they were.

“Oh, princess.” Bash smiled, though it was grim. “Being with you is the only time I don’t have to pretend.”

She wanted to grab his hand and pull him close, to rid herself of the walls surrounding her heart, but she would crumble if she did. She couldn’t afford to fall apart when she needed her shields up, if only to survive what was coming.

“They’re approaching!” The cry pierced the air, putting an end to their somber goodbye.

The crew reacted to the warning from the crow’s nest, scurrying about to ready for the captain’s arrival. Every member of the Phaedra moved with grace and poise, as if they’d been born on the decks of such a ship and knew nothing of land. They were Azantians, and the sea sang to them as it did Bash. As it seemed to do with her.

But Margrete was unwilling to face the harsh truths of her own encounters—at least at this moment—for a heart brimming with sorrow tends to drown out the logic of the mind.

A grand vessel with bright silver sails appeared on the horizon. It was a fast ship, slicing through the waters with ease. Bash shot her one final look, one filled with unspoken words, before he strode away to deliver orders to his men.

The ship carrying her father grew close. The time had come.

Margrete watched from the railing, gazing at the vessel that would bring her back home.

The captain’sship sat secured and parallel to the Phaedra. The waters were calm on their advance, as if the ocean quieted in order to watch it all unfold. Men lowered a thick wooden board across the decks. It dropped to the planks of the Azantian ship, a bridge between the world of men and that of the gods.

Margrete didn’t recognize any of the sailors on the opposing vessel. It wasn’t one in her father’s fleet. She’d wrongfully assumed that he would command the Iron Mast, his fastest boat. It was odd, but she didn’t have long to question why, because the man who strode across the wooden plank was not her father.

He didn’t wear a cruel smile or possess steel eyes that scorched her spirit. He had a square jaw with dark stubble and wind-blown hair that resembled raven’s feathers.

Count Casbian.

His blue eyes found her almost immediately, the facade of calm he wore faltering. Even from far away, the man was striking.

Margrete’s breath caught, and a lump took up residence in her throat.

Why was he here?

When Bash told her the captain was willing to make the trade, she’d been rightfully skeptical, but here instead was the man she’d almost married, a man she’d almost entirely forgotten about.

Bash’s brows pinched together as he sought her out, holding onto her wide-eyed gaze like a lifeline. Neither had expected this, and the Azantian king clenched his teeth as he returned his attention to the count.

Was the count here to do Wood’s dirty work? Or simply collect his bride? Margrete scowled.

Bash righted himself, steeling his spine as he assessed his new foe. “Only you.”

He loomed before the plank, guarding access to the Phaedra. A couple of the count’s men started forward, chests puffing and biceps bulging. Sailors such as these craved the fight, chased the high of a brawl.

“It’s fine,” Casbian said, ordering them down by holding up his hand held in warning. While he wasn’t as seasoned as the men he employed, he was nevertheless well-built and commanding. “Just me.”

Bash nodded, scanning the sailors for a threat. No one spoke up in disagreement. Margrete was thankful.

Bash cut an imposing figure—all broad shoulders and sculpted arms. The way his men surrounded him, their hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes gleaming with respect, told Margrete more about him as a leader than anything else. His crew would follow him beyond the shores of death.

Casbian stumbled on the wooden board. He stiffened, though his wounded pride shone clear, even as he raised his chin and tugged the cuffs of his finely embroidered tunic in a sophisticated manner. He was trying to present himself as formidable, but it was more than apparent that he wasn’t accustomed to life on the seas, unlike the weathered men at his back. He also wasn’t used to dealing with anyone like Bash of Azantian.

He continued marching confidently across and hopped nimbly onto the main deck, his eyes on Margrete. The intensity of his icy blue stare seared her flesh, but she held his gaze.

Something was off.

Margrete’s fingers reached for the stone resting against her chest, a flurry of anticipation heightening her senses.

“You have it?” Bash kept his distance from Casbian, his arms crossed and chin defiantly raised.

“No. I have something else,” the count offered, his voice wavering. “I have gold, lots of gold.” He fumbled into his pockets to retrieve a scrap of paper. He handed it over to Bash, who snatched it up quickly, and Casbian fell back into place. His gaze flickered to Margrete warily.

Bash glanced at the scrap of paper for only a moment. Laughing, he crumpled the note and tossed it overboard without a second thought.

“I don’t want your petty mortal riches. I want what Captain Wood stole from my people.” Bash’s voice rose above the whooshing wind and the natural hum of the sea. “Where is the Heart?”

To his immense credit, Casbian didn’t flinch. “I—I came alone,” he said, now avoiding Margrete’s gaze entirely. “The…Captain Wood wasn’t—”

“He was never going to come,” she said. How many times had she told Bash the very same thing?

The count sadly shook his head. “No, Margrete. He wasn’t.”

Bash turned to her for a heartbeat, but she caught the shock flashing across his eyes. The king truly believed her father would come for her, if not for love, then for his own pride.

“I came instead.” Casbian squared his shoulders, determination settling in. “I came for Margrete.” He jerked his head her way. “I want to pay what is owed.”

It was a noble attempt on behalf of a clueless count, but Bash didn’t take kindly to the offer.

“What are you to Captain Wood?” he asked, evenly and without inflection.

Margrete wasn’t sure where he was going with his questioning, but something told her to stay alert.

Casbian scrunched his brow. “I’m his daughter’s fiancé,” he replied, as if it were obvious.

“What else are you?” Bash shot back, cocking his head to the side, features shrewd.

Margrete could feel him forming a plan—one she wasn’t sure she’d approve of.

“I—I’m soon to be in business with him.” Casbian faltered, shifting on his feet.

Ah. That was what Bash desired to know—Casbian’s worth to her father. It was so subtle that Margrete hardly took notice, but Bash’s chin dipped ever so slightly, a quick nod directed at the quartermaster.

Something passed between them—

And the quartermaster gave the signal.

Men in cobalt blue leapt into position, tossing the wooden plank overboard and leaving the count stranded. Casbian’s men shouted in protest, scrambling to retrieve their weapons.

They had no idea what they were up against. The Phaedra was no mere vessel. If what Bash had told her about the Soliana Forest was true, then its very wood carried traces of divinity.

If the count’s men ignited their cannons, they risked killing their master along with the enemy. A few foolish soldiers attempted to swing from one deck to the other instead, swords at the ready, but the Phaedra had already begun to move.

Margrete stumbled as they lurched forward, moving impossibly fast across the waters. She steadied herself against the railing, watching the count’s vessel grow smaller and smaller. They would attempt to follow, but they didn’t stand a chance.

Not against a vessel crafted by sacred wood.

A shout rang in Margrete’s ears. It was Casbian, calling her name as Bash’s men yanked his arms behind his back. Stunned, she watched them drag the count below deck until his pleas for help became a haunting echo.

He’d braved the sea to come for her, to rescue her, and now he was a captive. The day of her wedding, she’d assumed he wanted to use her like her father, but perhaps there was more to the man than she gave him credit for.

And now, his capture was all her fault.

Guilt washed through her chest and squeezed painfully.

She turned her sights on Bash, and strode over to where he was conversing with a woman she recognized from the attack on her wedding. The muscled blonde was a warrior, not merely a sailor. There were daggers strapped to her hips, thighs, and ankles.

Margrete paused a few feet back, listening in on what appeared to be a heated debate.

“Why on earth would we take him?” the blonde snapped, uncaring that she spoke to her king with such a cutting tone. “What if we missed a tail on the way here, and Wood is following us now? What if that was all part of the captain’s plan? For us to take the spineless bastard? He could very well be bait.”

Bash’s nostrils flared. “Atlas. No mortal-crafted ship can match our speed.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Besides, this was always the plan, remember? We figured there was a small chance the correspondence didn’t come from him. That it might be some sort of ruse. But we do know one thing...” He took a step closer to the seething warrior, his voice lowering into something dangerous. “Casbian, if he is indeed bait, will know something. We can get that information out of him. In any way necessary.”

At that, Margrete found her voice. “The hell you will.”

Bash turned on a heel, his eyes widening. She wasn’t meant to hear that last part.

“Princess.” He abandoned the woman—Atlas—who eyed Margrete with keen interest, a spark of surprise flashing across her deep blue irises. “We’ll talk about this when we’re safely out of range. I promise.” He reached for Margrete’s hand, but she stepped away.

She knew very well what he planned for the count, and it made her stomach roil. The man she’d gotten to know, to trust, wouldn’t harm an innocent person, and Margrete wouldn’t allow him to touch the count until she knew with certainty that he was working with her father.

“Yes, we will talk later,” she vowed, holding his gaze.

One side of Atlas’s lips twitched before she slunk off into the frenzy of workers, but the look of respect she directed at Margrete wasn’t missed.

Bash’s handsome features twisted. He opened his mouth to say something, but Gius approached, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir. Your presence is requested on the quarter deck.”

Margrete glanced around at Bash’s crew. Now was not the time to argue. Not with his men looking on.

Bash spoke in hushed tones to his quartermaster before directing his attention back to her.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Remember when I asked you to trust me? Now I truly need you to try. You know me.”

It was those final words that weakened her rising anger, the desperate tone of them that had her nodding her head in agreement. She watched as he struggled to turn away from her, though his steps faltered as he trailed after Gius.

Margrete wanted to trust him. After everything they’d been through, he deserved the chance to explain his actions.

She only hoped she hadn’t signed Casbian’s death warrant in the process.