The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn
Chapter Four
Margrete
In half of a timid heartbeat,the world as Margrete knew it twisted and tore like fragile silk. A surge of strange men in leather tunics stormed the courtyard walls, a dozen more raiders in matching leathers advancing from inside the keep, their weapons slick with fresh blood. They aimed for her father’s guards, raising their shining swords high in the air as bloodlust shadowed their eyes.
The guests screamed, shoving one another as they pushed their way to safety, sending satin-wrapped chairs and decorative vases crashing onto the courtyard’s ivory stones. It was madness, and it all happened in the space of a single breath.
At her side, Margrete’s father roared, commanding his men to action, spittle flying from his lips. He clenched his jaw and freed his sword from its scabbard.
“Push them back! Form a perimeter around the guests! Move!” His enraged cries drifted seamlessly into the howling chorus of answering soldiers, those sworn to protect the captain and his family at the cost of their own lives.
Margrete glanced behind her, expecting to see the holy man cowering in fear, but he was gone, missing somewhere amongst the screeching guests.
Her heart thrummed. Her sister.
A cold sweat trickled down Margrete’s back as she remained rooted in place, scouring the crowd for a familiar head of blonde curls. From far away, muffled as though the world had been dipped underwater, a voice she’d recognize anywhere wafted to her ears. Her gaze followed the sound.
Birdie stood across the courtyard, a mess of curls and tear-stained cheeks. She let out an ear-piercing wail as her governess flung her over a shoulder, and a pair of guards ushered them inside the keep. Margrete prayed that her sister was well on her way to safety in the cellars where she’d be protected by guards and steel walls.
She couldn’t let herself believe otherwise.
A muscular body slammed into Margrete, causing her to lurch forward into the bustling crowd of flailing limbs. A sharp elbow struck her in the ribs just as a boot connected with her calf, pain lancing up and down her leg. Her knees gave out, but two strong arms wrapped around her midsection, yanking her back from the fray.
“Careful, darling.”
The voice whispered into her hair, the sound sending a bolt of electricity shooting down her arms. For the briefest moment, she saw crashing waves and lightning racing across open skies, tumultuous winds laced with salt and fury. Felt the sway of the sea beneath her feet.
She blinked.
The arms around her waist tightened, and the stranger’s breath warmed her cheek.
A flash caught her eye, a golden sigil ring on the man’s long pointer finger with two intertwined circles etched into the gleaming metal. It looked old. Valuable.
Before she could turn her head, a rush of air replaced the hands that had gripped her so reverently. She spun around—
Only to come face to face with a bewildered Casbian.
“There you are!” His eyes were wild, searching her for injuries.
Her hands flew to his chest as she caught herself, fists gripping his wrinkled shirt now stained with blood. Thoughts of the strange man and his peculiar ring were forgotten.
“My sister—” She spoke in a rushed panic, but Casbian cut her off.
“Your sister is safe, but we’re not. We need to find another route. They’re overrunning the courtyard!”
More attackers dove into the mayhem, descending upon guards and fleeing guests, blocking all exits, and crushing any hope of escaping through the main keep. The only option for getting out alive was to make it to the courtyard’s edge, where a hidden stairway led to the shore below.
“The stairs,” she blurted, the words coming out in short pants. “There are stairs hidden at the far side. Concealed behind a trellis.”
“Then we must go. Now!” The count snatched Margrete’s hand and held it tight, dragging her into the melee and toward the stairs.
Margrete and the count narrowly avoided the pointed end of a blade as they pushed toward the courtyard’s perimeter. The sword, belonging to a bronzed giant, sliced a guard’s skull clean open.
The guard didn’t even have the chance to scream.
With a yank on her hand, Casbian pulled Margrete beneath the cover of an overturned reception table. The pair caught their breath as they assessed the distance they had to travel to avoid a similar fate as the guard.
When an opening presented itself, Casbian yelled, “Now!”
Once again, he yanked Margrete to her feet, and then they were jumping over fallen bodies. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t stop, not even when a leather-clad woman, strapped with daggers, appeared from within the sea of men.
Her thick blonde hair was intricately braided into her scalp, blood and dirt streaking her face as she raised her sword, effortlessly parrying with those who were brave enough to meet her rapid blows. Blood spattered Margrete’s dress, her hair, her cheeks.
Still, they ran, Casbian’s fingers gripping hers painfully. They sprinted along the curvature of the courtyard’s stone walls, the keep and the ruined altar at their backs. Another twenty feet would bring them to the stairs, where an overflowing trellis hid the entrance.
Margrete glanced over the stone edge down to the beach and caught sight of a dozen metal grappling hooks digging into the courtyard’s high walls. Thick coils of rope dangled down the sides of the keep, leading to unadorned rafts tied with rough-spun twine rocking against the perilous bluffs. The intruders must have paid the patrol to access such an advantageous position, and she couldn’t fathom how much blood they had spilled to ensure the alarm bells weren’t sounded.
She didn’t see much more before the count hauled her toward the trellis, and then down the steep flight of steps camouflaged by the rocks, an escape route invisible to the naked eye unless one knew where to look.
At the bottom, a small fishing boat sat tied to a single wooden post, a modest vessel that hardly looked big enough for two. Safety was so close, but every time Margrete blinked, she saw empty, lifeless eyes and the red-painted stones of the courtyard.
They were halfway down the stairs when instinct urged Margrete to pause and glance over her shoulder once more. Maybe it was her friend, the sea, whispering a secret in her ear, or perhaps it was sheer intuition that had her taking in the most roguish pirate she’d ever glimpsed.
He stood atop the steps, hands clutching a thick rope with an iron hook on the end, his deep auburn hair dancing across his forehead. He squinted at the light of the setting sun, and while the distance between him and Margrete was great, the disdain he wore on his sharp features was unmistakable.
A burning chill chased the length of her spine. This man was violence and promised ruin all wrapped into one wicked present.
Margrete’s breath caught in her throat. Surely he wouldn’t follow them down these treacherous stairs, not unless the count was his target. Casbian was just as much a prize as her father.
She shook her head at the man, praying he would turn away and abandon them to their flight, but no, the bastard set his eyes on Margrete and Count Casbian as if they were all that he sought, as if everything in his life depended on cornering them.
“Margrete!” Casbian grabbed her hand. “Come!”
She let him guide her, but two steps later she lost her footing on a worn step. A pebble scattered from beneath her heel, plunging to the spiked rocks below.
That would be her if she weren’t careful.
Gripping the count’s hand tighter, she didn’t look back until a thundering roar demanded her to turn. She almost wished she hadn’t.
The man flashed a nefarious smile before raising his arm, swinging the hooked end of his rope round and round.
Margrete froze. “Casbian. Look!”
The count stumbled at her abrupt stop, but he too turned to stare.
The rogue slung the rope into the air, the metal hook catching purchase on a jagged ledge. He tugged it twice, and then, without a trace of hesitation, stepped off the side of the keep, his rope unfurling until it went slack.
“Gods!” Casbian peered along the side of the cliff. “We need to hurry!”
He jerked Margrete down the steps, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the pirate and how he arced through the air with the grace of a hawk, his coppery hair catching the gold of the dying sunset. He flew toward them on a furious breeze until his shiny black boots collided with effortless ease on solid rock mere steps away.
He closed the gap between himself and Margrete and her count, who clutched her arm hard enough to bruise. She shuffled down one step, but the pirate only followed, his muscular frame eclipsing the sun, casting her in his conquering shadow.
The rogue leaned close, close enough that Margrete could make out the glint of emerald shining in his shrewd eyes, the hint of gold flecking his irises. She could practically taste the brine clinging to his clothes, his hair, his lips.
And here she’d wished for a miracle from the God of the Sea, a savior—something this man most certainly was not.
Fumbling behind her, Casbian grabbed at a jeweled dagger in his belt, a weapon more for show than a fair fight.
“Stay back!” Holding out the gilded blade, the count protectively shoved Margrete against the cliff wall. He made a few feeble jabbing motions at their attacker, but the pirate blocked Casbian’s every attempt. Finally, he smirked and twisted the dagger from the count’s grasp with such ease that Margrete almost missed it.
On a shaky breath, she said, “Who are you?”
The pirate’s grin widened, indicating that he’d indeed heard her query, but he didn’t speak. Instead, with a single motion—one that was too quick and precise for the count to anticipate—the man kicked her betrothed in the gut.
Casbian let out a choked cry as his limp frame tumbled down the steep flight of stairs. He landed in a messy heap of silk sleeves and raven hair on the stone banks.
“Casbian!” She prayed for a sign that he was still breathing. Thankfully, she glimpsed the rise and fall of his chest even as he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Stationed between her helpless groom and a man with murder in his eyes, the weight of the moment struck her. It was such an abhorrent and selfish thought given the carnage above her, but...
This was it. Her chance to escape not only the count and an unwanted marriage, but also her father. This was Margrete’s moment to risk it all and taste the elusiveness of freedom.
Unfortunately, she had to deal with this damned pirate first.
It was with this scrap of daring that she turned toward her attacker and lunged up the steps, wrapping her hands around the silver hilt of the sword dangling from the rogue’s hip.
He was taken aback by her unexpected move, and that wolfish grin fell from his face for the ticking of a second as she tightened her grip on his weapon. His large, calloused hands covered hers around the hilt, warm and firm.
She yanked, a growl vibrating in her throat, but the pirate—nor his sword—budged an inch. This man was solid, his hold unyielding, a giant in the land of mortals. Margrete might as well have been fighting a stone wall.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, princess.” Amusement brightened his severe features, his eyes drinking in her struggle. One that was shamefully futile.
“Then leave,” she ground out between her teeth, sweat coating her brow. “I don’t take too kindly to armed men who wish to kill me. And, believe me, I’m no princess.”
The pirate cocked his head, the glint in his eyes almost admiring. “I’m afraid I cannot leave. Not without you, anyway.”
“Me?” She refused to give up just yet, not that she had much remaining hope of robbing him of his weapon. “I’m nobody.” She wasn’t, not in the grand scheme of things. “Just let me go, and I won’t be in your way.”
The stranger’s lips twitched, but he didn’t respond, only smiled that coy grin of his, one that dripped of wicked promises.
She wouldn’t make it to that boat, not if he had anything to do with it.
Margrete loosened her grasp, her palms slick with sweat and nerves. She itched to run, but the pirate held fast to her hands.
She thought of all the times she’d asked her father to let her train with his men. To learn how to defend herself should the need arise. Of course, he would never allow such a scandalous thing. After today, she supposed he might live to regret not conceding to her request.
Before the sun and its light abandoned this wretched day of ruin, Margrete made one final attempt. With the last of her strength, she jerked her knee up and landed a blow.
Directly between her attacker’s legs.
He doubled over, a crude curse flying from his full lips. The hands that had enfolded hers dropped to clutch at himself, causing Margrete to stumble backward at the sudden release, the heavy sword coming with her.
Margrete’s balance was all but lost as she grappled for the safety of the cliffside. She hoped to steady herself, to regain some scrap of control, but her head collided into a crag jutting from the rocks, and her vision swam.
With her world tilting on its axis and black dots prickling her sight, she teetered forward on unsteady feet, darkness blooming behind her eyes and blotting out the setting sun. The weapon slid from her grasp and clattered to the stones.
And then, she fell.