Chapter 6: Sails on the Horizon
The silence in Isolde’s cabin was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. She could still taste him—salt and something darker, like spice—on her lips. Her fingers trembled as she attempted to re-plait her hair, the auburn strands slipping through her grasp like accusations. Every creak of the ship, every shout from above, felt like a judgment. He had kissed her, and she had… permitted it. Worse, a treacherous part of her had awakened to it, a humiliating flare of heat that had nothing to do with fear.
A heavy fist pounding on her door made her jump.
“Captain wants you on deck.” It was a gruff voice she didn’t recognize.
Her heart clenched. Was this it? Another game? A public display of his conquest? Pride stiffened her spine. She would not let him see her unraveled. She smoothed her torn dress as best she could, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
The sun on the deck was a brutal assault after the gloom below. It gleamed off the wet planks and the drawn cutlasses of the crew, who were no longer lounging but stationed at the rails, their faces tight. The usual cacophony had been replaced by a focused, anxious energy. And at the center of it, near the helm, stood Rhys and Finn, their heads close together over a stretched parchment.
Rhys looked different. All trace of the drowsy, provocative man from the bed was gone. This was the Raven, shoulders tense under his leather jerkin, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. His eyes, when they flicked up to her, were chips of cold blue flint.
“Get over here,” he commanded, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet deck.
She walked, feeling every crewman’s gaze like a burr on her skin. As she approached, she heard Finn’s low, urgent tone.
“…three ships, Rhys. Heavy frigates. They’re flying the von Stein colors. That’s not a search party; it’s a fucking armada.”
The words hit her like a bucket of sea water. Her father’s colors. Hope, wild and terrifying, exploded in her chest. She stopped a few feet from them, her green eyes wide.
Rhys didn’t look at her. He stared at the horizon, his jaw working. “How far?”
“An hour, maybe less. They’ve got the wind.” Finn’s gaze slid to Isolde, his expression a mix of awe and severe annoyance. “Told you she’d be trouble. The ransom note hasn’t even had time to reach port. He didn’t wait for negotiations. He came for blood.”
“He came for me,” Isolde said, the words leaving her in a breathless rush.
Now Rhys looked at her. The intensity in his eyes pinned her where she stood. “He came to sink us to the seabed, Baroness. You’re just the excuse.” He turned back to Finn, dismissing her. “Options?”
“Run. We’re lighter. We can outpace them into the deeper channel, maybe lose them in the evening fog.”
“They’ll chase. They’ve got more sail and more shot. They’ll run us down by nightfall.”
“Then we fight,” Finn said, his hand dropping to his own sword hilt. “Take one of the frigates as a prize. It’s a hell of a gamble, but—”
“It’s a suicide pact,” Rhys finished, his voice flat. He finally turned fully to Isolde, studying her as if she were a tactical puzzle. The early morning intimacy was a universe away. “What’s your father’s commander like? Is he a glory hound, or a pragmatist?”
Isolde lifted her chin. “Admiral von Hertz is a pragmatist. And he does not miss.” The hope was curdling into something sharper, more desperate. They were discussing the destruction of this ship, of everyone on it. Including her. “Your only option is to surrender me.”
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped Rhys. “Surrender you, and then what? A quick court-martial and a shorter rope from my own yardarm? No thank you.”
“So you’ll die for your pride? And take all your men with you?” She swept a hand toward the crew, who were listening openly now.
“We don’t die easy,” Finn growled.
“You die just the same,” she shot back, her fear making her voice bold. She locked eyes with Rhys. “Let me go. Put me in a longboat under a flag of parley. They’ll retrieve me. It will slow them down, give you time to run.”
“And why would I do that?” he asked, stepping closer. The air between them crackled with the shared memory of his touch, now at violent odds with the present danger. “You’re my prize. My leverage. My…” He didn’t finish, but the heat in his gaze was unmistakable.
“Your what?” she challenged, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. “Your plaything? Is your… reward worth all their lives?” She gestured again at the waiting crew.
He flinched, almost imperceptibly. Finn saw it. The first mate’s eyes narrowed.
“Captain,” Finn said, the word heavy with meaning. “The girl’s a lump of lead around our necks. Pretty lead, but lead all the same. We cut it loose, or we sink.”
Rhys’s hand shot out, gripping Isolde’s arm. It wasn’t the possessive hold from the bed; it was hard, frantic. “You think it’s that simple? I put you in that boat, and I never see you again.” His voice was raw, meant only for her.
The confession, stripped of all guile, stunned her. For a second, the shouting men, the approaching ships, the very sun seemed to dim. He wasn’t just holding onto ransom. He was holding onto her.
“Rhys!” Finn barked, pointing east.
On the horizon, three distinct shapes had resolved from the haze. Tiny specks of sail, growing larger.
Time was up.
Rhys’s gaze raked over her face, as if memorizing it. The defiance, the fear, the lingering softness from his kiss. A war raged behind his eyes. Then, with a savage curse, he let her go.
“Finn! Prepare the longboat. One cask of water, no weapons.” His voice was a whip-crack of command, all indecision burned away.
“Aye, Captain!” Finn moved, relief evident in his stride.
Isolde’s breath caught. This was what she wanted. Freedom. Rescue. Why did it feel like a hollow victory?
Rhys leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. The scent of him, leather and sea, enveloped her. “This isn’t a surrender,” he whispered, the vow low and fierce. “This is a delay. You belong to me. You kissed me back. Remember that when you’re in your father’s fancy cabin. I’m coming for you.”
Before she could respond, he turned away, barking orders. The crew sprang into a frenzied dance of preparation. The longboat was lowered over the side, clattering against the hull.
Finn escorted her to the rail. He handed her down into the rocking boat with surprising care. His eyes met hers, complex. “For what it’s worth,” he muttered, “I hope you make it home safe, lady.”
The boat hit the water with a slap. Two crewmen rowed hard, putting twenty yards of churning green sea between her and the Raven’s shadow. Then they shipped their oars, gave her a curt nod, and dove overboard, swimming back to their ship.
Alone, Isolde sat in the small boat, adrift. She watched as the pirate ship came alive with motion, canvas unfurling, snapping taut as it caught the wind. It began to turn, a sleek predator fleeing the hunt.
She looked the other way. The three frigates were now clear, their sails great white clouds, their hulls dark and menacing. Her father’s fleet. Salvation.
A cold realization seeped through her, deeper than the ocean spray.
Rhys had chosen his crew. He had let her go. But his words echoed, a hook buried in her soul. I’m coming for you.
The Raven heeled over, picking up speed, cutting a path away from the frigates and away from her. One of the warships broke pursuit, altering course toward her lonely boat. The other two gave chase, their gun ports opening like black, hungry eyes.
Isolde wrapped her arms around herself, the vast emptiness of the sea suddenly overwhelming. She was no longer a captive. But as the distance grew between her and the fleeing pirate ship, she felt, for the first time, truly lost.