The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Five

Margrete

Death was notat all how Margrete pictured it.

Billowing amber curtains played with shards of moonlight, and briny sea air blustered through a rounded window. The wind made a whooshing sound as it passed through—the sea exhaling nice and deep. It was soothing, much like a thick wool blanket on a frosty winter morning. Margrete’s body also rocked back and forth as if she were in a giant cradle, the motion both calming and nauseating.

Death wasn’t meant to be nauseating.

With a groan, she shifted onto her elbows and the room swirled. Everything morphed into a blur of wood, linen, and night.

“Easy there, princess.”

She jerked to attention and scanned the poorly lit room—or what she now realized was a ship cabin—searching for the source of that deep, full voice. Her sight sharpened as it landed on a dark figure standing in the far corner. Only the flickering light of a single oil lamp illuminated his rugged face, one that, while handsome, held the tension of a man twice his age.

He was dressed in different clothing than what he’d worn during the attack. During her wedding.Still, he was unmistakable.

The pirate.

She shot up, her back ramrod straight against the narrow headboard. The swift movement didn’t bode well with her dizziness, and her stomach churned.

The pirate held up placating hands. “Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.” He pushed off from the wall, straightening his spine as he stood to his full height—well over six-and-a-half feet.

Instead of leather and armor and weapons clinging to his body like a second skin, he sported a simple white tunic, a loose-fitting jacket, and dark trousers. His unassuming attire did nothing to disguise the predator lurking within.

This close, Margrete could make out the swirling tattoos of onyx strands weaving across his tanned skin. Deep gashes and whirls of crashing waves, anchors, and sea stars. A dolphin—frozen in midair—decorated his right forearm, while the left featured a shark with jagged teeth. More tattoos poked out from beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves, and she wondered what other creatures painted his flesh.

“You,” she grumbled, the remnants of sleep coating her voice. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “What am I doing here?”

The rogue took another step into the light, the lamp’s meager flames highlighting the strands of russet mingling with the deep red of his hair. That ray of light flickered briefly, as if winking, and illuminated an old scar running through his right eyebrow.

“What happened?” Margrete asked, her memory foggy.

“Ah,” he scoffed, the corners of his mouth rising into a shrewd grin. “You kneed me, quite hard I might add, right before nearly tumbling off the cliff and to your death. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Welcome?” she snarled. “You kidnapped me!”

There was no way she would’ve gone anywhere with him willingly.

Margrete flinched when the pirate sauntered to the chair situated before a decrepit vanity and dragged it across the planks to the bed. Taking a seat, he kicked up both legs on the thin mattress, his scuffed boots speckled with dried blood.

“See, I don’t really like that word. Kidnapped is rather…harsh. From the looks of things, I saved you, princess. Hell, if anything, you should thank me for rescuing you from a life with that pompous ass from Cartus.” He shrugged, full lips drawn into a thin line.

Margrete couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Her nostrils flared in response.

“Thank you? You slaughtered my people. Cut down innocent lives to further whatever agenda you have, one likely driven by your own barbaric greed. The day I’ll thank you is the day you’re buried ten leagues under the sea.” Each word was lined with tangible disgust, and Margrete was proud her voice held firm. She raised her chin defiantly.

The pirate cocked his head and reached into his jacket to pull out a simple dagger. He laid it on his lap, his eyes never leaving hers. “Someone has a sharp tongue.” He tsked. “I’d be careful if I were you, in case I have the sudden urge to cut it out.”

A vicious shiver raced down her spine. Something told her that he would never—could never—do such a thing. Then again, he’d killed her fellow men, hadn’t he?

As if sensing her discomfort, he smirked and reached into his pocket, this time to retrieve a shiny red apple. “Care for a bite? Or have you quelled your hunger by imagining my death?”

“What I’d care for is an explanation.” Venom sharpened her tongue, though she surmised coming close enough to kiss death aided in her daring.

His smirk fell. “If you deserved an explanation, I’d readily give you one, but you’re entitled to nothing from me.”

“What does that even mean? Has my father cheated you in some way?” Gods, it wouldn’t surprise her that this nightmare had been birthed from a deal gone wrong. Perhaps this rogue sought to ransom her. What other reason could there be?

A light dimmed inside the pirate’s eyes, the fire within settling to smoke.

Just as quickly as the shadows formed, they dispersed, replaced with a mocking gleam that was somehow even more unsettling. At least the virulent glare had been real.

This was simply a mask.

“So it is my father.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me what he’s done. Why did you take me? On my wedding day of all days? How did you manage to get through to the docks? To evade the guards?” She was breathless by the time the final word fell from her lips.

Across from her, his hand curled around the apple, bruising the fruit. “It was simple, really. We walked right through the front doors. It didn’t take much to bribe the dockmaster, and the soldiers less than loyal to your father were smart enough to accept our gold. The rest, we…”

The rest he slaughtered.

Margrete gripped the thin sheets. She didn’t share much love for her father’s men, but needless death set her blood on fire.

“It wasn’t as if the guests at your little ceremony were all that innocent,” he continued. “According to my spies, most were despicable enough to partner with your father in his lucrative slave trade. The women were spared, but they were likely implicit.”

Her fists unfurled, rage morphing into horror. She hadn’t known her father dealt with slaves. Or perhaps she’d chosen to ignore the signs. The knowledge might’ve broken her entirely.

“I didn’t know,” she uttered, not as convincingly as she hoped.

“Of course, you didn’t,” he sneered. “Are you that ignorant? Or are you merely content to turn a blind eye to the atrocities committed beneath your own roof?”

She swallowed hard. How dare he make assumptions about her? He knew nothing.

“Perhaps there were more atrocities under that roof than you can fathom,” she replied. This man had no idea what she’d been through in that keep. What horrors she’d suffered. If he knew, then she doubted he’d speak to her as if she were some spoiled princess.

He stared at her, long and hard, almost as if trying to see a lie, but then his gaze softened, just slightly, and he looked away.

“The sirens,” she said, needing to break the awkward silence. “Those were yours?”

He looked at her again, eyes narrowing in a way that wasn’t cruel or malicious. He took her in as if attempting to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

That curiosity shifted to something else, something that made her feel weighed and measured. It wasn’t how the men of Prias stared at her during chaperoned visits through the market. Those men were always mindful of who she was and only glanced her way from the corners of their eyes. They were careful. This man was not, but then again, he had no reason to be.

“You heard the sirens?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve never heard anything quite like it, and I’ve lived by the sea my entire life.” Gods, at the altar she’d doubled over from the sound.

“Hmmm.” He sat back, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

He ignored her question, swallowing a bite of his apple and licking his lips, instantly drawing her attention to his mouth. It was viciously sly, a devastating weapon all its own. His lips twitched, smugly aware of where she stared.

“Eyes up here, Margrete.” His tongue flicked the tops of his teeth mockingly, and she hated that she blushed.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you know my name.”

“Oh, I know a lot about you,” he said cryptically, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

He crossed his arms over his muscled chest, the only tell that he might have been uncomfortable, out of his element. The rest of him didn’t betray uncertainty or anything but a heavy dose of cockiness.

“As much as I love you dancing around my questions, I’ve had an eventful day. How about we get to the point. If only so I don’t have to hear the grating sound of your voice.” The last words were meant to harm, but they had the opposite effect. The bastard’s grin grew, and this time, it appeared genuine.

“You’re here because you’re useful to me,” he replied. “Because your father is a clever man. But more importantly, because he is a thief.”

So it was about money. Utterly predictable. But...

“A thief? My father doesn’t have to steal anything. He’s the wealthiest man in Prias besides the king.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Tossing his apple core to the floor, he abruptly stood, nearly knocking the chair to the ground.

Margrete eyed him up and down as if he were an opponent she’d fight. Maybe she would have to fight him at some point, if she was ever going to get away from him.

But then he turned and aimed for the door. He was going to leave her alone—which wasn’t a bad thing.

“And what do I call the man who may or may not be extorting my thief of a father?” she called, unable to help herself.

His hands closed into loose fists. She was sure he wasn’t going to reply at all, but then he looked over his shoulder. “Bash,” he said, his steps frozen on the planks.

Bash. She inadvertently mouthed the name, her lips tingling.

As though battling some inner demon, he reluctantly turned around. The lantern light casting ghoulish shadows beneath his striking eyes. “There’s a change of clothing in that trunk.” He jerked his head toward the corner of the cabin where a faded green chest beckoned. “Your current…attire”—his gaze fell to the delicate lace of her gown—“is hardly appropriate for a ship.”

Margrete was still in her wedding dress, the pristine crimson now stained and streaked with mud and speckled with blood. She could smell it, the blood, the subtle tang of copper wafting to her nostrils. And yet, when she reached to touch her cheeks—which had been painted in red and sweat back at the keep—she felt nothing but smoothness, the scent of fresh soap nearly masked by the fragrance of death.

Briefly, she noticed Bash’s eyes drifting to another corner of the cabin, the one nearest her bed, before he hastily glanced away. Something akin to guilt flashed across his proud features. She traced back to where he’d looked. A bowl of water had been shoved into the shadows, a stained cloth draped over its rim.

He’d cleaned her face. Wiped away the grit and blood. She didn’t know what to make of the thoughtful act.

She returned her gaze to the man who held her fate in his hands, refusing to believe he possessed an ounce of decency. How could he when the blood in that bowl contained the remnants of men he slaughtered?

Her thoughts raced as he watched her intently. He seemed to stare right through her, past the skin and bone, beyond the forced bravado and cutting words. She cursed how her heart thundered in reply.

“You looked relieved on the rocks. Still do,” he observed, breaking the peculiar moment. “You didn’t want to wed him.”

“Relieved?Far from it.”

“Well, you hardly seemed concerned when your soon-to-be husband was left unconscious and bleeding on the dock. You called his name, but barely gave him a second glance.”

Of course, she’d been concerned, worried for the count’s wellbeing. At least, she thought she had been...or maybe it was only the type of concern one expressed for a stranger, which, truthfully, he was.

“I hardly knew him.” The words stunned her as they fell from her lips.

No. She knew him from his letters. He was kind, considerate, and thoughtful. Yes, Count Casbian was going to deliver her from her father and…

And what? Offer her the freedom she so craved? Doubtful.

Margrete hurried to correct herself, her slip filling the space with a weighted silence. “What I meant was that—”

“I believe I understood you the first time.” Bash cocked his head to the side, appraising her, almost as if seeing her for the first time. “Your eyes tell me the truth all by themselves.”

“And what do they say, pray tell?” She meant to sound derisive and scornful, but her words were soft and uncertain instead. No one had ever cared to read her before, to look into her eyes and wonder what secrets she kept close to her heart. That had to be the reason she held her breath and awaited the pirate’s response. This man, whose burning gaze lingered in a way that should’ve been uncomfortable.

Gods, she was being an idiot. Why should she care what a—

“My people believe the eyes carry the truths of the soul. And yours, princess, are the saddest eyes I have ever beheld.”

Margrete’s breath caught, a steel band wrapping around her chest. Before she could deny the claim, Bash spoke.

“Sleep,” he said, his deep voice turning gravelly and rough. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Again, he turned to leave.

Anxiety gripped Margrete. She shot to her feet, knees wobbling as she adjusted to the sway of the vessel. “What’s happening tomorrow? Where are you taking me?”

He stopped and turned to face her. She suspected he wouldn’t divulge their destination, but she had to try. To do or say something now that reality was setting in.

The corner of his mouth curved, and his gaze slowly washed over her body, lingering until he met her eyes again. His slow perusal caused heat to flood her cheeks, and at the sight of her reaction, his eyes turned a shade darker.

She crossed her arms over her chest, but the damage had already been done.

Bash grinned, though his smile was anything but warm. “What happens tomorrow is that we sail to my home. A place very, very far from here.” He opened the door and stepped into the shadows beyond, but with one last look said, “If I were you, I’d get some rest, Miss Wood. “You’re going to need it.”