A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

She cleaned beets and powder from her face and hands and changed back into her uniform, transferring the bit of ribbon from one lapel to the other. And she gave herself a moment to run the woven fabric through her fingers, wondering at its apparently Gallic origins.

Later, she thought, and smoothed the jacket down again. As was nearly always the case, she’d have to save the personal for later, when she had time and attention for it.

She sat down at her small desk, then began the process of preparing to prepare the report: She sharpened a quill, arranged paper and blotter, opened her bottle of ink, dipped.

“To Her Right and Honorable Majesty, Queen Charlotte,” she began, and filled the page with her straight, tidy handwriting, well practiced from the hundreds of log entries and reports she’d penned over the years.

She told the story of their trip into Auevilla, what they’d found at the docks, and whom they’d seen there. Then their following of Doucette, his meeting, their arrest, the horror that had come after, and their rescue by the duke. She referred to him only as Fouché, expecting the queen either knew who he was or could obtain that information from William Chandler, her spymaster. While she intended to get the packet into the queen’s hands, theft happened, and she wasn’t going to reveal Raleigh’s identity in a missive.

When she was done, she sat back, reread. Then penned a near duplicate for the admirals at Portsea; she didn’t report to them, but they needed to know what she’d seen, minus the details she preferred to give to the queen.

It took a solid hour before she could blot the pages, fold and seal them, and place them into the portfolio she’d been given for official missives, not entirely unlike the one Doucette had used.

“Finished?”

She nearly jumped at the voice, found Grant standing in her doorway, tailcoat abandoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms crossed. His forearms were rather admirably muscled, she mused, then lifted her brows.

“How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough,” he said, and pushed off, walked into her cabin. He left the door open, which was probably for the best.

Although she didn’t especially want it to be for the best. She put the portfolio away, then rose.

“Did you need something?” she asked calmly, although her heart skittered like a frightened rabbit. She didn’t care for that, for the wresting of her control. But neither had she liked the weeks that had stretched since she’d seen him. Even if their reunion was awkward and strange. Both of them, she thought, standing at the precipice.

“Jin asked me to relay the anchor is up and the ship is away.”

Since Jin would be aware that she’d have felt the ship get underway as the sails were raised, he’d clearly sent Grant down to her for other reasons. On the other hand, Grant rarely did anything other than exactly what he wanted.

“Thank you,” she said.

He took another step into the room, then another, until he was so close he needed to look down to see her. He was a tall man, was Rian Grant.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “It appears we’re sailing together again.”

“So it does.” She felt so damned clumsy, like a sailor new to the mast. But she was no new sailor, and hadn’t the weeks they’d been apart been wasted time? So she went with her strength: honesty.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

His grin was wide and beautiful and might have had a lesser woman’s knees wobbling. “You could say that you missed me, Kit.”

She was brave enough, at least, to give him that.

“I missed you,” she said, and watched the fire of joy, of pride, come into his eyes. “Entirely too much for my own comfort.”

“Good,” he said, and looked a bit relieved. “I was beginning to think I was the only one who felt that way. I’ve been like a boy in knee pants these last weeks.”

She cocked her head at him. “Shorter?”

“Minx,” he said, and tugged at a lock of her dark hair, then traced its descent to the edge of her chin, where it curled up just a bit at the end. “I’ve spent nights in abandoned warehouses, in the corners of cathedrals. And one very interesting evening in Pointe Grise in the bed of a beautiful demimondaine.”

Her smile fell away. “I beg your—”

“She was away at the time,” he explained, grin widening. “And is an informant for the Crown who loaned me the use of her abode while she was traveling. I was quite alone.” He inched closer. “And you’re beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” she said primly.

He made a vague noise, tipped up her chin with a finger. “Prepare yourself, Captain. I’m going to kiss you now.”

Bells began to peal, and Kit instinctively glanced at the clock bolted to the wall. It wasn’t time for change of shift.

“All hands!” someone called down, and footsteps began to echo through the passageway as sailors ran to their assigned positions on deck.

“Bloody damnable hell,” Grant said, and stepped back, putting between them the space he’d have known she needed. His hands were on his hips, and a spark was in his eyes. “It’s proving very difficult to seduce you, what with the constant interruptions.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Is that what you’re doing? Trying to seduce me?”

“Among other things. Do you object?”

“No,” she decided, and they headed for the companionway.

She stepped on deck, Grant behind her, to find the wind had risen further. She looked instinctively across the water, found the waves around them now whitecapped. But there was no other ship in sight. Auevilla was located in a deep crescent of coastal land; it was a slip of shadow behind them. The northern edge of the crescent stood higher and reached farther into the Narrow Sea, and the cliffs rose high off the starboard stern. But she saw nothing of concern.

“If Cook’s already made it through the wine,” she said, approaching the helm, “that’s none of my concern.”

“Ship,” Jin said, his expression quite serious, and lifted his gaze to Tamlin. She stood in the mainmast top, hair streaming behind her like a pennant, gaze on the cliffs behind.

“Gallic?”

“I don’t know. She just spotted her, asked you to come up. We rang the bells to have the crew in place.”

Kit nodded, checked the weight of the sail, considered the wind. It was steady but blowing toward them. Because ships couldn’t sail directly into the wind, they’d be forced to tack—sail at an angle—until it shifted. They’d move forward on a diagonal slightly away from their destination, and then tack, or turn, the yards and adjust the sails to move diagonally in the other direction in a zigzagging course. It was the best way to make use of unfriendly winds, but it added miles, and miles added time.

“I’ll go up,” she said. “Prepare to tack if necessary.”

“Aye,” Jin said, as she strode toward the mainmast. And heard him ask Grant behind her, “You want to go up, too? The view is beautiful.”

“The view,” Grant said blandly, “will be water. I can see plenty of that here.”

Soldiers, she thought with a grin, and was absurdly glad to have this one on board.

Sailors gave way as she made to the mast, looked up at the ratlines—the grid of netting that kept the mast upright and was used by sailors to go aloft. The mainmast towered nearly 120 feet over the Diana’s deck, and the fighting top where Tamlin kept her watch was two-thirds of the way up, just below the spot where the square topsail would be unfurled.

“Tiva koss,” someone threw out, wishing her luck as she put a boot into the ratlines and began to climb. Shimmying up the mast wasn’t an easy job in the best of conditions. The top of the mast moved in a wider arc than the deck of the ship when the waves were high, and climbing in choppy seas could be a mental and physical challenge.

But when she reached the top, she remembered why Tamlin loved it. This was as close to flying as Kit assumed she’d ever be, with the wind in her face and the world streaming beneath and behind them. If ever a woman felt like a god, it was here alone on the mast, surveying creation.

Tamlin, who was shoeless, stood on tiptoe on the narrow platform, where the seas could be watched and enemies could be fired on from above. She waited until Kit stood beside her, then pointed to a spot behind the ship. There, still hidden from the deck by the high cliffs, were the tips of two masts. Tamlin offered the glass she kept tucked in a clever bit of netting. Kit peered through it, which revealed a great deal of sail and Gerard’s white and gold flag waving in the wind.

“She won’t be able to see us yet,” Tamlin said. “There’s no one on the mast.”

“No,” Kit said, lowering the glass. “She won’t. But the ship appears to be at full sail. Neither of us has the weather gauge, which is a bit of luck, at least. How long until they do see us?”

“Minutes,” Tamlin said.

“Keep an eye,” Kit said, gripping the mast hard as a swell had it tipping nearly thirty degrees to starboard. Moments like that always brought her a little closer to the water than she preferred. When she’d recovered her balance, she climbed down again, straightened her jacket when she reached the deck.

“Gallian vessel off the starboard stern,” she called out, and strode back to the helm. “Two masts under full sail. Minutes until they confirm our position.”

“You think they’ll give chase?”

“That, or they hope to run the blockade.”

“If they can’t see us now,” Grant said, studying the sea with furrowed brow, “how could they be giving chase?”

“Someone in town may have signaled it from the bluff,” Simon said. “It’s possible they’ve a shutter telegraph.”

“Which is?” Grant asked.

“Mounted boards that can be flipped to show symbols in a certain order,” Jin said. “There are typically six shutters in a sign, and the symbols are coded, so they can be used to relay messages to ships at sea.”

“That’s rather ingenious,” Grant said.

“It is when it’s not being used against us,” Kit muttered. “We are terribly good at spotting boats that ought to be somewhere else. It’s a shame they keep showing up.”

“Orders, Captain?” Jin asked.

“Gallic brig!” shouted one of the sailors. “Off the starboard stern.”

“There she is,” Kit murmured. She’d wanted to see what it might do when it spotted them, as that would guide her answer to Jin’s question. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Glass,” she said, and Jin offered one. She raised it. Two masts, as they’d seen above, both square-rigged like the Diana’s.

“Cannons?” Grant asked.

“Gallic brigs of that size typically have eighteen guns,” Jin said grimly, and Kit nodded.

“Confirmed,” she said. “And a damned lot of canvas.” If there was a sail missing from the ship’s complement, she couldn’t tell. She lowered the glass to the deck, could see the Gallic captain—a woman in Gerard’s uniform—surveying the seas through her own glass. The other officers around her wore the same colors.

“Bold,” Kit said, offering Jin the glass again. “They bear Gerard’s flag and Gerard’s uniform on a ship that, at least for now, belongs to the navy of the Gallic monarchy. And given they’ve apparently little concern for precedent, we need to move out of its path and its range.”

They’d been on an easterly heading toward the crescent of land—and now the brig. It was time to turn the ship—which meant turning the wheel and shifting the direction of the horizontal beams that held the sails.

“Bring her to port,” Kit said.

Jin stepped forward. “Man the fore-topsail!” he called out, and sailors rushed forward to the foremast to begin the process of shifting sails and steering the Diana into the wind and through to the opposite angle.

It took time to turn a hundred-foot ship with thousands of square feet of sails. While Simon made his calculations and Jin issued orders about loosening, shifting, and retightening lines and sails that were relayed by shouts toward the bow, Kit kept an eye on the Gallic ship, watching to see what it would do. The Diana had cannons now, but they were useful only if you were in range of the enemy’s cannons as well.

Just as the Diana finished her tack, the brig began to change its course—and mimic the Diana’s.

“Damn,” Kit said. “They’re following.”

She didn’t want to engage a damned Gallic ship; they didn’t have time for it. They’d have to take the offensive.

She looked at Jin. “Come around hard to starboard, as if we’re tacking early. But keep swinging her around, and have the cannons on the starboard side ready to fire.”

Some of the sailors nearby had heard the order, and hurrahs followed it. They’d been waiting for an opportunity to use the cannons.

“We’ll have to move fast,” Jin said, “or we’ll expose our flank to their cannons.”

“We’ll move fast,” Kit said. “Have the cannoneers ready.” She closed her eyes. That was the signal, not just for Jin, but for the entire crew. They knew what she intended to do.

“Hard to starboard!” Jin called. “On the mainsail! Starboard cannoneers into position!”

She waited until she could feel the hull shift and lines loosen, which allowed the boom to turn, then tighten into position again.

The direction was set, so she’d supply the speed. The current beneath them was steady as a heartbeat. She reached for it, touched it gently as a lover, and could feel the energy flow around her, clean and bright. That was such a change from the darkness of Doucette’s magic that she nearly wept from relief. But that must be for later. She waited until the Diana nearly quivered with pent-up energy, and for the signal from her crew.

“Ready,” Jin said quietly, steadily.

Kit let the current loose. The banked power pushed the ship forward like a spear through the water, the shifted sails first flapping, then filling with wind. Kit opened her eyes, put a hand on the cabinet as the ship heeled into the turn, tilting at an angle that put the starboard side closer to the water.

“Sailing, torn down to its essence, is standing at an angle,” Grant called out over the rushing wind and water. “And then standing at a different angle. Yes?”

Simon snorted but covered his mouth at Kit’s arch look. “He’s not entirely wrong, Captain.”

“And there’s a reason we don’t usually allow soldiers on board.”

“Ready the cannons!” Jin shouted, and Sampson and Fahri, a young but bright sailor, rammed in the gunpowder, added the wadding and pricked the powder, then pushed the cannons forward through the gunwale.

“You hit the mast,” Kit said, “and there’s a gold coin in it.”

“I’ll take it!” Fahri shouted, and adjusted the cannon’s angle.

“Brig preparing to fire!” Tamlin called out, and Kit looked across the water, watched the enemy touch flame to cannon as they sailed toward each other.

“Get down!” Kit said, and sailors ducked as the air concussed, the explosion ringing across the water. The shot was early, struck the Diana’s bowsprit. Wood cracked and rigging splintered and flew, dropping down into the water.

“Cut those lines!” Watson said, already running toward the bow. “Dragging the yard will slow us down!”

Trusting her lieutenant to handle that, Kit looked back at Jin, Grant. “You’re witnesses. That was no warning shot, and we’ve been fired on by a Gallic brig in the course of our duties.”

Sampson took the slow match offered by Mr. Wells.

“Fire when ready,” Kit told him. He and Fahri watched their target, and he set the fire to the touch hole.

The cannon flew backward as the shot flew forward, arcing high above the water and toward the brig. It struck middeck, sending wood and at least one sailor flying.

“Tiva koss,” Kit murmured for the injured man, but she didn’t have the luxury of pity. Not when her people were at risk and the brig was still running. It had been a clean hit, but not a disabling one.

“One more shot, Captain?” Fahri asked, looking back at Kit as Mr. Wells swabbed the interior of the cannon with water to douse any remaining embers.

Firing a cannon wasn’t the easiest of tasks in harbor, much less at sea on a sharp heel. But they’d done it safely and with some success. And damned if the brig would follow them all the way to Portsea.

“All right,” Kit said. “But if you miss, you owe me a gold coin.”

Eyes bright, Fahri looked at Sampson, who nodded. “Agreed.”

“Bring her around again, Jin,” Kit said, and the sails were adjusted, the current touched, the Diana making a near circle to move behind the brig, which was slower to maneuver as it dealt with the new hole in the deck. Fahri and Sampson moved to the cannon on the port side, and the preparations were repeated.

“Fire at will,” Kit said.

Boom, smoke, shot flying across the water. It hit the brig’s foremast halfway up, tearing through canvas and rigging. With a crack, the top half of the mast toppled, the tangle of sail and wood and rope striking the mainmast as they fell and ripping through the brig’s mainsail.

The Diana erupted with cheers and applause.

“Your crew is exceptional,” Grant said. “And they’re going to run you out of coin.”

“It is the best problem to have,” Kit said. She pulled a coin from her pocket and strode to Fahri, who was presently being embraced and jostled by a very large Sampson.

“Well done,” she said, and offered the coin to Fahri. “You’ll share it.”

“We will,” Fahri said, and turned back to her fellow sailors, bit into the coin to prove it was real. More cheers, more applause.

“Straighten her out,” Kit told Jin, returning to the helm. “Let’s get to Portsea.” But she happened to look up, saw the flash of red in the brig’s mainmast.

“Sniper!” she called out, ducking as sailors hit the deck. The sniper wasted no time; the crack of the rifle filled the air, followed by the bitter scent of gunpowder. Kit waited a heartbeat, then looked up, around. “Report!” she called out.

“No visible damage,” Watson called out.

“I believe I need . . . to sit.”

Kit looked back. Jin was on his knees, hand clutched at his side, and blood seeping through his fingers, pinging onto the wood planks below.

His eyes closed and he slumped to the deck.