Page 171 of Tempest

She startled again at another sound, worse than the anchor.

“Ryman,” she muttered.

Both captain and lady took a rocking step back, leaving a gap between them, as Lord Rose and Lieutenant Fell were shuffled up on deck. Three sailors frog-marched the shackled Fell, while one kept a loose hand on Ryman’s shoulder. The latter blinked fiercely around at the deck, eyes adjusting to the light. He balked at the sight of Rosby, then the gathered strength of the Covenant, her crew armed for a skirmish, the danger of them on full display. Cavallid, Garedo, Brimley. Even little Ratter held a knife.

But it was the sight of Valerian that washed his face of color. Unlike Morovant and his many flourishes, Valerian elected to let his weapons speak for themselves. His flintlock pistol was back at his side, along with the second belt of knives, the threat of them plain as day.

They had been cleaned since the battle, but Cat still imagined the blood on them, clinging like a scarlet ghost.

“Lord Rose, Lady Rose, we are to escort you ashore,” he barked, his voice ringing out over the ship. “You best make it worth our while.”

As a roar of laughter went through the crew, Cat thought of Moseley back at the house. Is she watching from the veranda, puzzling after the unfamiliar ship in the harbor?

The ship did not fly the black, nor any other color.

Will she still suspect pirates?

Certainly, Cat guessed, knowing Moseley’s keen mind. And her long years in the Lyrian. Cat hoped the old maid had the wherewithal to stay out of the way.

The laughter seemed to snap something in Ryman, and he ceased his sniveling, drawing himself up to his unimpressive height. In his borrowed clothes, he looked like a sickly pauper. But his eyes, pale and watery as they were, went to flint.

“I shall make it worth your while, Captain,” he replied, taking a step towards Valerian. But it was Cat he glared at, an easier target for his anger and impotence. “Infinitely so. Or for however long she interests you.”

Despite her best efforts, Cat flinched, her cheeks flushing red and warm. Over Ryman’s shoulder, Ana recoiled in disgust, along with a few other members of the crew. Cat dared not look at anyone else, unable to stomach the sight of her shame reflected back at her. Or worse, abject pity. And there was no imagining Valerian at all.

She kept her eyes on Ryman, willing him to shut his mouth. But his foul lips kept moving, his words somehow crueler than his hands.

“I suppose you will discard her after a month or two,” he pressed on, laughing darkly. He even waved his hands, motioning for the crew to join in. To turn their ridicule on someone other than Ryman Rose. “Gods know I should have,” he added, his grin corrosive and hateful.

Cat felt it eat through her, punching a hole through her chest, leaving her empty and numb.

“Ryman. We shall go ashore,” she said stiffly, trying to keep her voice even. But it shook horribly, her eyes stinging. With sadness, frustration, rage—and shame too.

He took another step, and Cat flinched again, fearing a blow even from yards away. Her husband was nothing compared to the screams of sailors and thunderous cannons, but she feared him just the same.

He raised a hand, pointing at her furiously. For a brief moment, Cat saw not the drowned rat her husband had become, but the man he was in Meridia. Bewigged and powdered in a silk suit, done up in his trappings of wealth and society. A poor lord was a lord still, the world at his feet if he dared to grasp it.

But he is not that man anymore.

And this is not his world to take.

His pale face reddened and he shook his finger at her, as if she were a child to scold. Behind him, Fell looked just as stricken as Cat felt, his silver eyes too wide. If not for the men holding his arms, she suspected he would be on Ryman in an instant.

“Quiet, my lord—” he snarled, just to be waved off with an aristocratic flap.

“I shall go ashore. And you, as my wife, as my property, will stay right here,” Ryman shouted, his voice echoing over the wind and waves. Then he sneered, locking eyes with the man still standing behind her. “You are welcome to her, Captain. If you haven’t sampled already.”

Despite the feet between them, Cat heard the slow, steady exhale of breath. Not a sigh of frustration or weariness, but a low growl. And beneath it, a metallic click. The same one Cat had heard echoing across the deck a few days before.

It was unmistakable.

“You should listen to your wife, Rose,” Valerian murmured, his voice dangerously soft. Somehow it still carried as forcefully as any shout. “This ship does not deal in flesh.”

Cat could not look back at the captain, loath to see the disdain on his face. Her eyes landed on Ana instead. The first mate was already staring back at her, her black eyes lit like coals in a fire. Her lips were pursed, but Cat thought of her silver teeth, and wished for a weapon of her own.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, her mouth filling with an iron tang, growing in time with the rising thud of a drumming heart.

“Ha!” Ryman howled over the deck, stamping his foot. “Not flesh, but you certainly deal in blood. How many men of the Victorious and the Venerable went to the depths because of you? What a hypocrite you are, Kane!”