Blackwater

The two men shoved me into the cell.

Seawater leaked from the ceiling in slow, cold drips. The hull reeked of fish, salt, and things I didn’t want to name. Little light reached down here—only darkness and the constant roll of the ship fighting rising swells. Outside, a storm was building.

When they’d pulled me from my jolly boat the sky had already been dark and bruised. I could row. I could endure the burn in my arms and core. But I hadn’t been prepared for a storm this size, or for weeks at sea.

My chestnut hair clung wet to my forehead. Brown eyes searched the shadows for any way out. Even if I broke free I wouldn’t get far—not with the deck pitching under my boots. I barely kept my feet as the cell locked with a heavy click.

I whirled.

A man stepped forward. I stumbled back until my shoulders hit the wall.

He looked weathered by decades of cruelty and saltwater. Somewhere in his fifties, broad and powerful, every inch a predator. Long dark hair streaked with gray spilled beneath a battered tricorn, framing a scarred face and grizzled beard. A black coat embroidered with faded gold hung from his shoulders, worn thin by sea spray and bloodshed.

“Vane,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

Sebastian Vane. The Devil of Blackwater. He looked exactly as the legends described.

No, no, no, my mind screamed. The ship that had approached me had looked Dutch—full rounded hull, high stern, even flying the horizontal red, white, and blue.

Then my gaze caught the tattoo around his wrist: three ocean waves filled in with black ink.

That was confirmation enough. I swallowed hard. “I’m… on the Blackwater.”

The most feared ship on the Atlantic. Crewed by the most feared man alive.

Vane stared back, save for the slightest smirk. He must have read my fear. He must have enjoyed it.

Behind him a taller man shifted in the shadows—younger, standing a respectful distance behind the captain, posture relaxed yet ready.

One of the pirates who’d escorted me shoved his hawk-like nose between the bars. The stench of rotten fish clung to his breath.

“Now what’s such a fine upright lady doing on our waters, eh?”

“Your waters?” I shot back.

Fine upright lady gave me pause. I glanced down. My broad-brimmed black hat—once worth one of Mr. Kingsley’s finest perfumes—was sun-bleached and fraying. My ivory blouse was stained and torn, hanging loose over trousers I’d stolen from a kitchen boy on my father’s estate. I’d never even known his name. Stealing them while he swam in the river had seemed harmless. Now it felt cruel.

Vane yanked the hawk-nosed man backward so hard his hat flew off, then turned those black-pit eyes on me.

“Tell the men to stay out of my brig,” he barked in a thick Spanish accent.

The rumors had never said the Devil of Blackwater was Spanish.

“Let me go,” I said through clenched teeth.

“No.” He spat the word and I wanted to spit in his face for every prisoner he’d taken, every life he’d stolen. I didn’t dare. The Devil of Blackwater would kill me, then hunt my family for sport.

Vane turned and walked away, the others trailing after him. Only the taller, younger man remained.

He looked to be in his twenties, windswept dark hair falling across a striking face—high cheekbones, strong jaw dusted with stubble, a faint scar tracing one cheek. His weathered black shirt hung open over layered necklaces and a crimson sash. He smelled better than the rest of the crew, yet one look into his storm-gray eyes said he belonged to the sea far more than the shore.

My gaze drifted to his forearm. A faded tattoo: a Grim Reaper holding a scythe. Beneath it, three waves in black ink.

My breath caught. “You’re the Blackwater Reaper.”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. A small smirk curved his lips. “Am I?”

Then he turned without another word and climbed the stairs—unhurried, utterly unbothered—leaving me alone with the groaning timbers and the sinking realization that I had just met the most dangerous man on the ship.

---

Hours slipped from day into night. I marked them only by the deepening ache in my stomach. I sat in the corner, knees drawn up, trying to warm myself with my own breath. The storm grew fiercer. The ship pitched so hard I had to brace against the wall to keep from sliding across the wet planks.

No one came down. Overhead I heard shouts, curses, bursts of laughter, the sharp bark of Vane’s commands nearly drowned by waves against the hull. We were bound for the Canary Islands—or so I thought, until a toothless, nearly unintelligible voice mentioned Barbados “on account of the new cargo.”

My head snapped up. New cargo. Did that mean me?

Boots sounded on the stairs. I scrambled to my feet, fists clenched. I would be no one’s slave.

Reaper emerged in his usual black attire, carrying a heavy wooden box. He glanced at me, set it among the barrels, then walked slowly to my cell and rested his forearms against the bars. “You look like you’re burning with questions.”

“A good way to keep warm.” My fists stayed tight. If he opened that door I could shove past him, take the stairs at a run—and then what? I didn’t know. But I would do something.

His mouth twitched. He hung from the top of the bars, leaning in. “Then ask.”

“As if you’d tell me the truth.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I gave him a flat stare. “Your reputation precedes you, Reaper.”

“A reputation as a liar?”

“Guilty by association. Being a pirate and all.”

Reaper huffed a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t know who I am, girl.”

Girl. That made me step closer. I grabbed the bars. “I know exactly who—and what—you are, Reaper of Blackwater.”

His eyebrows lifted. He laughed and pushed off, wagging a finger. “For one—nobody here calls me that.”

I hesitated, not fully understanding what he meant. Pirates—according to every story I’d ever heard—used their sea names as marks of status, as a way of announcing a preeminent threat. I collected myself and lifted my chin. “Fine. Give me one reason.”

Reaper shook his head, brow furrowing. “Reason for what?”

“One reason to trust a single word that comes out of your mouth.”

He watched me a long moment. Something flickered in his thundercloud eyes—surprise, maybe admiration. He said nothing.

“You can’t,” I said smugly, satisfaction curling through me.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Reaper then began pacing, taking infuriatingly long, leisurely strides as though he had nowhere else to be. “I’ll give you the answers. Seeing as you’ve nowhere else to be, you can spend the next few hours deciding how dishonest they are.”

I scowled at him, hating him more than I had a minute ago. But I had questions. I sighed and let my shoulders drop. “Is it true you carry a two-headed scythe?”

He stopped midstride. “Out of every question you could ask—that’s the one? Not when can I eat? or can’t I have your coat? or where are you taking me?”

“I already know where,” I shot back. “Barbados, to sell me as a slave.” His surprise was brief but real. “Pirates are as loud as they are foul.”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head. “Strange. You don’t sound very grateful we pulled you out of that sinking boat.”

“I was grateful—for the Dutch ship I thought I was boarding—until I became prisoner to a bunch of pirates!”

“It’s for your own good. You’re weeks from any shore, and this storm ain’t easing. Even if we gave you the jolly you’d still end up dead.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Rumor said the Blackwater carried dusky blue sails and a black hull. I never heard anything about her being Dutch.”

“Because she isn’t. Next week she might be French. Or Spanish. Blackwater isn’t the ship. It’s the crew.”

I stared. “That’s how you evade capture. Everyone thinks you’re allies.”

He gave a half-shrug. I leaned closer. “What else isn’t true?”

Reaper pushed his waistcoat aside and drew out a short wooden shaft. He pressed a raised catch. A soft click, and a small curved scythe-blade sprang free. “Only one scythe.” The corner of his mouth lifted.

I leaned in, eyes wide. “Fascinating. How does it work?”

“High-carbon steel and tension. I was a blacksmith once.”

For a heartbeat I forgot I was speaking to a pirate. Then I forced my expression to harden. “Before you became this? Ship or crew, Blackwater has murdered my friends, my servants—my cousins in Plymouth!”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t us. That was—”

“Don’t play me for a fool!” I gripped the bars harder. “No rumor has to tell me what you all are: filthy rats scurrying across these ships—disgusting, vile, and bound for hell.”

Reaper took the words without flinching. He smiled slightly, and I hated him all the more. “A little harsh on the rats, don’t you think?” He clicked the blade away, walked to the barrels, twisted a lid off, and scooped up a handful of white crystals that spilled through his fingers.

“Sugar. We trade sugar and medicine. Not people.”

A crooked look of amusement crossed his face before he closed the lid and left me still clinging to the bars.

---

I woke with a start as the ship lurched hard. I’d been slumped against the bulkhead; now I was rolling across the wet planks. Shouts and curses carried down from the deck, mixed with the frantic slap of boots and the relentless pelting of rain. The storm had only grown stronger.

My eyes burned, though not as badly as my empty stomach. Then I saw it—something draped through the bars. I pushed myself up and took two unsteady steps.

It was a dark-blue, tattered, sun-weathered coat. I swung it around my shoulders. It was damp from ocean spray, yet still warm. I pulled it tight.

Heavy boots sounded on the stairs. Reaper appeared balancing two plates against the pitch of the ship. “Ah. Looks better on you than me.” He held one plate against the bars. “Freshly butchered.” My eyes fell on a chicken leg, hardtack, and a few spoonfuls of rice. “Vane let’s ‘em roam the captain’s quarters. Says they’re his friends—even names ’em—till he eats ’em.”

“That’s barbaric,” I said softly, but I still took the chicken leg.

I retreated to the far side while he carried the plates to a stack of barrels, hopped up, and began eating with open relish. The ship rolled, timbers groaning under the crash of waves.

I dug in—tearing meat from the bone, swallowing too-large mouthfuls, barely remembering to breathe.

Reaper chuckled. I paused, wiping grease from my mouth. “So, what do they call you, then?”

“Elias Quinn,” he said through mouthfuls. “And you?”

“Arabella—or just Ara.”

“Does Ara have a surname?”

“If I tell you, you’ll have me walk the plank.”

He chuckled, sinking his teeth into his own chicken leg. He chewed, then looked up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sighing. “Why do you think you’re here in the brig? Vane wants to keep you safe from the men and the swells. At least until the storm passes.”

I sat with that. Protecting me? No, surely, I was a prisoner. This was the Blackwater. I waited for him to laugh but he only returned to his food.

“Ashcombe,” I said at last.

Reaper paused mid-bite. Something like fear flashed in his eyes. “Ashcombe? Like Alistair Ashcombe?”

I nodded.

“The Earl of Sussex?”

I nodded again.

He blew out a heavy breath. “He’ll have us all hanged just for bringing you on board.” He set the chicken leg down. “What’s the Earl’s daughter doing weeks out in the open sea?”

I looked away, staring at the puddle spreading at my boots. “I was to be married. To a man forty years my senior—and one who hit harder than my father ever did.” I took another bite. “So I borrowed a boat and sailed from Dorset.”

“Borrowed?” Reaper cocked a brow. “Sounds like you’ve got some pirate in you after all, my lady.” He gave a theatrical little bow from the barrel.

I leveled a glare on him. Silence fell between us while I finished the chicken. I tossed the bone through the bars and it landed with a dull clank.

“How did you get the name Reaper?”

“From my scythe,” he said, biting into a piece of hardtack. “Some villagers in Hampshire saw me use it. Said I looked like the Grim Reaper, dressed in black and all. The name stuck.”

“Pillaging and murdering doesn’t count for much?”

“I’ve told you—we’re simple traders.”

“Of stolen goods.”

He shrugged. “Likely from your neighbors at Ashcombe Estate. The sort who profit from starving children and slaves.” He nodded toward the wooden boxes. “Those hold medicine. Quinine. Bandages. Clean cloth for the poorer villages.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “So, you’re not pirates. You’re benevolent smugglers?”

Reaper nodded slowly, eyebrows raised, and waved a hand for me to continue, as though I were finally catching on.

“But the Blackwater mark,” I pressed. “Three black waves. They’re painted on church doors. Along with the Grim Reaper.”

A dry laugh escaped him as he hopped down from the barrel. “Aye. They never can seem to get that right. Always making his skull look more monster than human.”

“They? Who’s they?”

He strode toward me and rested against the bars, his expression suddenly devoid of humor. “They put villages to the torch. Send merchants to the depths. Leave children orphaned.” His eyes held mine. “Then they paint three black waves across the ruins, and the tale spreads faster than the tide.”

“You’re telling me someone is impersonating your crew?”

“I’m telling you someone is being paid to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please. What kind of aristocrat would command pirates?”

“A clever one.” His face darkened. “Lord Edmund Pike.” My face went pale. He watched me closely. “A friend of your father’s, I take it?”

Edmund Pike wasn’t merely a friend—he was a long-time political ally. He’d sat at my father’s table as though he were family. I wouldn’t tell Reaper htat.

“Why would he do this?” I asked softly.

Reaper sighed. “Pike owns plantations, merchant companies, and half the judges who profit from them. We intercept one sugar convoy, he loses a fortune. So he pays another crew to burn a village under our mark. Parliament demands more ships. The Navy hunts us instead of the men he owns.”

I dropped my gaze, turning his words over.

He huffed a small laugh. “You know, rumors say the maids of Dorset’ve got their noses so high, they’d drown if it rained like this.”

I looked up. We were close through the bars.

“Maybe we should stop believing in rumors,” I whispered.

His eyes flicked to my lips for all of a heartbeat.

“Maybe.”

---

The next morning, I woke to the clang of iron.

Vane stood outside the open cell, a ring of keys dangling from one hand. I scrambled to my feet. Even after everything Reaper had told me, all I could see was the man from the stories—the Devil of Blackwater. The butcher. The monster who left grieving families in his wake.

He watched me a long moment. Something softened behind his weathered eyes.

“Come on, lass,” he said quietly. “Storm’s passed.”

I frowned, still half-expecting a trick. “What’s that mean?”

He sighed, turned, and climbed the stairs with that slight limp. “It means you can go.”

He left the door unlocked behind him.

I stepped into the empty brig and almost kept walking. Halfway to the stairs I stopped, turned back, and pried open the nearest barrel.

Sugar. Another. More sugar. Then the crates: neatly stacked rolls of gauze, clean bandages, glass bottles nestled in straw. Quinine, Sulphur, ipecac.

Medicine. Not weapons. Not contraband. Not a pirate’s fortune.

Everything Reaper had told me had been true.

I climbed the steps into sunlight so bright I had to shield my eyes. The storm was gone. The sea rolled gently under a sky washed brilliant blue, the last gray clouds drifting toward the horizon.

The crew worked as though nothing unusual had happened. A few glanced my way. One tipped his hat. Another murmured, “My lady.” No one reached for me. No one laughed. No one threatened.

“Ara.”

Reaper stood near the stern beside the davits, one hand resting on the ropes that held the jolly boat suspended over the water. I crossed the deck to him.

Without a word he pressed a compass into my palm and folded my fingers around it.

“Bear southwest. You’ll reach St. Lucia. You’ll like it there.”

He reached for the ropes. The boat began its slow descent.

I stared down at the compass.

Freedom. Exactly what I’d wanted. Exactly what I’d fought for.

So why did it suddenly feel so much like loss?

“Give me one reason,” I said.

He didn’t turn but I heard the chuckle in his voice. “Reason for what?”

“Elias.”

The ropes went still at his name—the true name of the man I’d feared. The man I’d judged. The man who had spent the last day dismantling every story I’d ever believed. He turned to face me, eyebrows drawn tight.

“Reason to stay,” I said.

Silence settled between us. The sea lapped gently against the hull. The sails creaked overhead.

Elias suddenly crossed the distance in three long strides. He cupped my face with a weathered hand. His storm-gray eyes searched mine, asking the question neither of us had the courage to speak.

Neither of us looked away. Then he kissed me.