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Chapter Seven

Briar waited for horror to choke her.

Regret, shame, nausea. Something.

Not a giggle.

But there it was, sticking in her throat like honey.

A giggle.

Surely she ought to be weeping. Swooning. Ladies did not stab people in the back. Ladies from Haven did not stab people, ever. For any reason. It was simply too déclassé. A pointed remark, a discreet hex, a cut direct—these were acceptable reactions. Civilized reactions.

Briar did not feel particularly civilized.

It was kind of nice.

The strange out-of-real-life feeling intensified when Ethan froze and then glanced calmly over his shoulder as though being skewered like crudité for a fancy nuncheon was perfectly reasonable. “I can’t say I didn’t deserve that.” He raised an eyebrow. “But in the back, sweetheart? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Why did he sound mildly affectionate? It slid over her like sweetened cream, like those whiskey rose custards her mother had said were too risqué to sell at the shop counter. Fear and something much sweeter coursed through her. He was touching her everywhere and he had not moved from where he stood, except to pluck the gold fork from his shoulder.

She felt a tiny bit bad when blood seeped into his shirt.

Just a bit.

“It’s a clean fork,” she offered. She’d made too many comfrey and honey tonics for cuts that had festered. Needless to say, festering wounds were not quite the tone Haven wished to convey. Even farmers and fishermen could not escape expectations. Vinegar rinses were handed out, ointments donated by earl’s daughters and duchesses. The smell of lavender hung over the fish docks, and fishing boats were often garlanded with flowers when they came close to the village.

Why was she thinking about flower garlands?

Oh, right. Because she had just stabbed a man and she had no idea what the next step was.

It hadn’t brought her any closer to freedom. In fact, she was fairly certain there was a musket trained on her. Maybe three. “Stand down, Anais,” Ethan said wearily, confirming her speculation.

She couldn’t run, even if there was somewhere to run to. Her hip had had quite enough excitement for one day, thank you very much. If she tried to jump overboard, she was trading drowning for whatever other fate awaited her on board.

She eyed the waves anyway.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ethan growled, suddenly right there beside her. “You’ve caused quite enough trouble already.”

“I have?” she shot back incredulously. “You abducted me.”

He smiled slowly. “You practically begged me to.” His smile died and he leaned down closer, invading her space. He smelled like salt and wood smoke. “Why is that, I wonder?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” As a statement, it would have sounded so much more convincing if she hadn’t squeaked it.

His eyes kept her pressed to the mast just as effectively as the ropes had. “Hmm.”

She didn’t know how to interpret that sound. Not a growl, not a grunt, but somewhere between the two. Did it mean he believed her? Why would he, when she’d just stabbed him? With a fork.

“You do look proud of yourself,” he said, wryly.

She tried not to. It probably wouldn’t help matters.

“Come on,” he added. He paused when she did not immediately move, then pressed a hand to his wound. A shot of darkness ran through his voice. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

She followed him because there was an entire ship’s crew between her and the sea, between her and the docks. Between her and home.

Her hip snagged, freezing the way it sometimes did. She should have asked to be abducted with her driftwood cane. She limped, gritting her teeth. Please let me stay upright. For some reason the idea of falling into a heap was worse than everything else. She knew the looks she’d get in Haven; she could only imagine how much worse it would be on a ship packed with Iron Crows who already did not think particularly well of her. They’d see it as a weakness, and she could not afford that.