Chapter 2: Betrayal's Edge: A Pirate's Reckoning
The grey light of dawn had bled into the amber of late afternoon by the time the door unlocked again. Isolde had dozed in fitful, trapped increments, her body aching from the awkward position, her mind churning with scenarios of escape and retribution. The single severed lace at her throat felt like a brand.
Rhys entered without ceremony. He carried the scent of the sea and open air with him, a stark contrast to the closed, perfumed stillness of the cabin. He also carried a coiled tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He dropped a folded piece of rough paper onto the desk beside her hip.
“Your father,” he said, the words clipped. “He’s an ambitious man.”
Isolde’s heart leapt, a foolish, hopeful thing. “He’s coming for you.”
“Oh, he’s coming.” Rhys leaned over the desk, bracing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. His blue eyes were chips of frost. “With two naval frigates tucked in behind the merchant schooner that’s supposed to be carrying my gold. A clever little trap. Or it would have been, if I didn’t have eyes in every port from here to Cadiz.”
The hope curdled, cold and sick, in her stomach. She said nothing.
“So, the plan’s changed.” He straightened up, his gaze drifting over her, taking in the blanket, the ruined lace, the defiant set of her mouth. “I’ll be asking him for double. But the bright side?” He picked up his dagger from where it lay on a chart. “That means we get to spend a little more time together.”
The blade caught the light. Isolde’s breath hitched. “You said the dress stays.”
“I said ‘for now’. Now is over.” He moved behind her. She heard the whisper of steel against fabric, not the delicate tracing of before, but a purposeful, rasping slice. The tension across her back suddenly eased as the dagger severed the laces of her corset in one long, brutal pull.
She cried out, more in shock than pain, as the rigid structure gave way. A strange, vulnerable feeling of exposure washed over her, even though the gown and chemise remained. The support was gone. She felt unsprung, her body suddenly her own in a way that was terrifying.
Rhys tossed the dagger onto the desk with a clatter. His hands, warm and rough, settled on her waist, over the layers of fabric. He squeezed, feeling the new pliancy beneath. “Better.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, but it lacked its previous fire. A treacherous part of her, a part buried deep beneath the fear and anger, acknowledged a shocking, unwelcome sensation: relief. The damnable thing had been crushing her for hours.
“Don’t what?” His voice was close to her ear. His hands slid up her sides, his thumbs skimming the outer curves of her breasts through the cloth. Isolde jerked against the silk ropes, a useless, frantic movement. A hot shame flooded her as she felt her body react, a traitorous flush warming her skin, her nipples tightening against the chemise. She hated him. She had to hate him.
He felt it. His breath stuttered, just slightly. His touch grew more deliberate, mapping the shape of her, his palms curving to fit her ribs, the flare of her hips. It was not the clinical assessment of the day before. This was slower. Possessive. He was learning her.
“You’re not what I expected,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She stiffened. “All that pride. All that fight. I thought you’d be broken by now. Sobbing. Begging.”
“I will never beg from you.”
“Never is a long time.” One hand left her side and came around front, his fingers splaying low on her belly. The intimacy of it stole the air from her lungs. He held her there, pinned between his hand and the desk, a low hum vibrating in his chest. She could feel the hard line of his body behind her, not quite touching, but close enough that his heat seared through her clothes.
Her mind screamed at her to fight, to spit, to curse. But her body was a confused, humming wire of sensation. The ache in her shoulders, the rough silk on her wrists, the shocking warmth of his hand through the layers of fabric—it all coalesced into a dizzying, unbearable focus. She was panting, small, shallow breaths that made his hand rise and fall.
“See?” His voice was thick. “You’re not fighting. Not really.”
“I am tied to a desk,” she managed, the words strangled.
“That’s not why.” He finally pressed himself against her, just for a second. She felt the hard, unmistakable proof of his arousal against the small of her back. A jolt of pure, undiluted fear—and something else, dark and curious—shot through her. He pulled back almost immediately, as if scalded by his own action.
He stepped away. The sudden absence of his touch was a shock. Isolde sagged against the ropes, trembling violently, her eyes screwed shut. She heard him pacing, the floorboards creaking under his weight.
When he spoke again, the casual cruelty was back, but it was frayed at the edges. “Double the ransom means double the time. Weeks, maybe. You can’t live in a corset. And I can’t have you fainting from lack of air. It’s practical.”
She opened her eyes. He was staring out the stern windows at the churning wake, his profile sharp against the light. The tension in his jaw was visible.
“Untie me,” she said. It wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge.
He laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Not a chance.” He turned, his eyes raking over her disheveled form, the dress now loose and gaping at the back. “But I’ll make you a deal. You eat the food that’s brought. You drink the water. You don’t try to stab me with a dinner fork. And I won’t cut anything else off you.” He paused, letting the alternative hang. “For now.”
It was a negotiation. In the world of her father’s courts, it would have been sealed with a handshake and a signature. Here, it was sealed with a look and a shared, pulsing understanding of the line they were both dancing along.
He walked to the door. “Someone will bring you a meal. And a bucket.” He said it with a bluntness that burned her cheeks. “The ropes stay. Try anything, and our next conversation will involve considerably less clothing.”
The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the echo of his threat. Hours bled together, marked only by the sway of the ship and the gradual dimming of the light through the windows. Her arms screamed from being pinned behind her, a deep, throbbing ache that drowned out the earlier, more confusing sensations. When a grizzled sailor finally entered with a wooden tray, the smell of salted pork and hardtack made her stomach clench.
He set it on the desk near her head, avoiding her eyes, and left without a word. Isolde stared at the food, then at her bound hands. A helpless, furious laugh bubbled in her throat. She turned her face toward the door he’d just exited. “Morgan!” Her voice was raw. Silence. She shouted again, putting all her frayed dignity into it. “Captain!”
The door opened a moment later. Rhys looked irritated, a fresh cut on his knuckle. “What?”
She gestured with her chin toward the tray, then her bound wrists. “How, precisely, am I supposed to eat this? Or must I lap at it like a dog?” The absurdity of it all sharpened her words. “Your practical arrangements seem to have a flaw.”
He stared at her, then at the tray, as if the problem had never occurred to him. He sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Right.” He moved behind her. The touch of his fingers on the silk at her wrists sent an involuntary shiver through her. He worked quickly, the knots loosening, the blood rushing back into her hands with a painful, prickling surge. Before she could react, he pulled her arms around to the front and retied them, his movements efficient. The new bindings were loose, a simple loop connecting her wrists with enough slack for limited movement.
“There,” he said, his voice low. He didn’t step back. His hands, now free of their task, came to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into the tense muscles there. Isolde froze, the relief in her arms instantly replaced by a new alertness. His touch migrated downward, skimming over the loose fabric of her dress, palming the curves of her breasts through the cloth. His calloused thumbs found her nipples, tracing their hardened outlines with a deliberate, shocking precision.
A gasp escaped her. It wasn’t pain. It was a jolt of pure, unwelcome pleasure, bright and electric, arcing straight to her core. Her body arched of its own accord, pressing into his hands for a fraction of a second before her mind caught up. “Stop,” she breathed, but it was a whisper. She brought her bound hands up and pushed weakly against his chest. “Don’t. This is… improper.”
He caught her wrists easily, holding them against him. A faint, dark smile touched his lips. “Improper,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “We’re far past proper, Baroness.” He enjoyed the push, the little show of spirit amidst her trembling. He studied her face, the conflict raging in her green eyes, the blush staining her cheeks. “But you still pushed. You can’t help it, can you?”
He released her hands. “I like that. I do.” His smile vanished. “But a captain can’t let defiance go unanswered. Not even pretty, improper defiance.” In one fluid motion, he snatched the dagger from his belt. The blade flashed. Isolde cried out, bracing for the cut. It wasn’t her skin. The steel slid between her bodice and chemise, and with a rough, ripping sound, he carved the front of her dress open from collar to waist.
The heavy fabric fell away. The cool air of the cabin hit her damp skin, raising gooseflesh. Her chemise, thin and meant for modesty, did little to conceal her. The pale linen clung, and the cut of the dress left her breasts spilling over the remaining confines of the garment, the peaks hard and visible against the cloth. She was exposed, utterly and crudely. Humiliation burned hotter than any desire.
Rhys’s gaze was like a physical weight. He didn’t touch her again. He just looked, his own breathing slightly uneven. “Punishment,” he said, the word rough. He stepped back, sheathing the dagger. “Eat your food. The bonds stay. And remember,” he added, his eyes lingering on the exposed swell of her breast, “you asked for this.” He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Isolde sat there, half-naked and bound, the tray of food growing cold. The phantom feel of his hands warred with the chill of the air on her skin. She was trembling, but not from the cold. A single, traitorous thought echoed in the silence: he had untied her hands.