Page 50 of Tempest

Cat could hardly distinguish officer from enlisted sailor. Against the storm, against death, they all looked the same.

The rain still fell, but less furious, almost gentle in its touch. The predawn sky coiled overhead, the clouds a swirl of black, gray, and blue. And in the distance, strangely green, the storm moved low over the water. Cat stared for a long second, enraptured by the sight. Half a mile away, the lightning crackled through the green clouds, the waves white-capped and vengeful.

“May the sea always sing for you,” she muttered to herself one more time, willing the storm to keep moving.

Then a voice bellowed from the quarterdeck, clear across the ship.

“Lady Rose, you should be below!” Quine glared at her, his eyes burning through the rain. He stood tall next to his helmsman, the exhausted sailor still clutching the ship’s wheel.

Cat wanted to obey, but something would not let her move. She lingered, still staring at the green clouds and the dawn breaking somewhere in the darkness.

“Lady Rose!” Quine shouted again.

There was a flurry of motion, and Lieutenant Fell descended the quarterdeck ahead of the captain, cutting him off. He was not as Cat had pictured, a hat still stubbornly on his head. Instead his black hair was loose and wet, clinging to his face. A red flush tinged his cheeks, and she surmised it was not only rain soaking his body but sweat. His cobalt coat was gone entirely, his white sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fabric so wet it was near translucent. She glimpsed his pale chest at his open collar, the muscles of his neck and shoulders carved by a harder life than she had assumed.

Cat jolted, realizing her nightshift would be soaked through in a similar way soon enough. She crossed her arms, hugging herself instinctively, trying to cover what she could. Heat bloomed over her skin despite the cold, damp air and the spray of the iron sea.

“Below, Lady Rose,” Fell growled, closing the distance between them. He even took her by the shoulder, forcing her away from the rail.

She gave an indignant gasp, and all thoughts of wet clothes disappeared.

“I thought officers were supposed to be gentlemen, Lieutenant,” she snapped, trying to break his hold.

It was like fighting with a steel trap.

“There are no gentlemen in a hurricane,” he shot back, marching her towards the stairs. “Now get below. Stop pressing your luck.”

Cat glanced back to the green clouds, her face incredulous. “You call that storm luck?”

“We are alive.” Fell lowered his head to her eye level, his silver gaze a knife. “That is luck enough.”

Though her stomach still rolled, Cat nodded. She would go below and be grateful. We are alive, she thought, sighing. It reminded her of another dangerous moment on another deck, on another ship.

Welcome to the Lyrian Sea.

“Lady Rose?” Fell prodded, still standing over her. He dropped her arm, letting his hands dangle at his sides. Like the rest of the crew, his fingers were striped red and white, the angry testament of straining rope.

Cat almost laughed. Fell would drag her across the deck but not below it. The lines of propriety here are so strange. And always shifting.

“Very well—”

Her mouth clapped shut as she pitched sideways, shoved away from the staircase by cold, familiar hands. Cat caught herself on the rail, the waves churning black beneath the ship. For a terrifying moment, she thought she might tumble overboard into the wet abyss. But the rail held, sturdy and solid. She braced herself and turned in time to see Lord Ryman Rose clambering across the rocking deck, his arms flung wide.

“I have need of a man to clean my hammock, our maid is in hysterics!” he called to no one, as if Quine’s crew were servants to be ordered.

Cat bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Part of her wanted to wrap an arm around her husband’s throat and silence him for good. The rest was too worn to do anything but slump against the rail. Somehow pissing himself in front of pirates wasn’t mortifying enough. Ryman had to embarrass himself in front of half the navy too, screaming about the vomit in his blankets.

Fell shot a glare in Ryman’s direction but did not stop him. He offered a hand to Cat instead. Real concern shone in his eyes, if only for a blistering second.

“No gentlemen in a hurricane,” Cat muttered, leveraging herself up to stand unaided.

The lieutenant darkened. “Something tells me his behavior is not the hurricane’s fault.”

“These infernal Roses,” Quine growled from the helm, louder than the distant thunder.

Cat could not blame the captain for his frustration. She was shamed enough by her husband’s behavior, in fair or foul weather.

“Ryman, let me tend to you,” she called, grimacing as the words left her mouth. But it was the only way she knew to get him belowdecks and out of the way. “Come, you can take my bunk, if need be—”