They left her alone, which was insulting. Did they see her as so little a threat? Better than being tied to the mast, she supposed, but still, they underestimated her. There had to be something in the cabin she could use to her advantage.
Isla went straight to the large stern windows. She could open one easily enough, but they’d already passed through the harbor mouth, her town receding with each passing minute. The ship was already out to sea, the waves turbulent, and she knew she’d never make that swim. It would be an unpleasant way to die.
But damn them all if they thought she didn’t have any fight left. She wasn’t going to give in quietly.
The captain’s cabin was large. The thick rug carpeted much of the floor. There was a sturdy table, bolted to the floor, surrounded by six robust, cushioned chairs. Two large, detailed charts were unfurled and pinned at three corners with a heavy sextant, an hourglass, and a half-empty bowl of fruit.
She took an apple and a silver place knife, hiding the latter reassuringly in her sleeve. It was blunt compared to the dagger she was forced to drop on the floor of the hold, but it was better than nothing.
A cabinet held plates, goblets, and some books. Between sconces with dormant brass lanterns, a pair of cutlasses hung on the wall, but she didn’t have the strength to use them effectively. She left them where they were—the knife was more her style.
A gold-gilded mirror hung above a chest, which she tried to open. But it was locked, and she scowled at her reflection. A second, larger chest sat on the floor, also locked. It hurt her spirit to know they likely contained jewels and coins that she would never have the chance to steal.
In a side room lit by two small portholes, a large cot sat against the wall with a chest at its foot. This chest was unlocked, but only clothes filled its interior. A bowl, jug, and pewter goblet sat beside a washbasin, while a chamber pot and an empty bucket for wastewater rested on the floor below.
And that was all. A comfortable prison was still a prison.
Isla pulled out one of the hefty chairs and flopped into it with a sigh. There was nothing she could use save for the knife she’d stolen, and even that would require a lucky blow. But then what? Even if she managed to stab one man, she was on a frigate with two hundred sailors.
He kept her waiting for two hours, most likely to give her imagination time to conjure the worst possible outcomes. But damn him, she refused to be cowed.
At last, the door opened, and Henrik entered. Standing a little over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders beneath a long brocade coat worn over a waistcoat and shirt. His black beard was plaited into two prongs, fastened with gold rings, and his equally black hair cascaded loosely down to his shoulders.
Isla watched him warily as he pulled his jacket off, hanging it on a hook behind the door. His sleeveless shirt revealed a tattoo winding around his right arm, a disturbing blend of an octopus and a snake. Isla frowned. Something about it had the hairs at the back of her neck prickling.
He crossed the cabin, folding his arms over his chest as he studied her for several long breaths, taking in her long, loose shirt, breeches, and boots. His lips twitched. She glared back at him.
“Who are you?” he asked in his cultured tone, his voice mellow and smooth. He was likely a minor son of some noble family, pursuing a prestigious career path after purchasing a commission. She couldn’t place his accent.
She pressed her lips together.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your name, lass. Let’s pick our battles.”
“Isla.”
He nodded, but didn’t offer his. “Where’s the pouch you stole?”
“No answer?”
“Fine. I’ll whip the answer out of you, then.”
Isla glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was bluffing. He hadn’t moved, his expression carefully masked. He looked capable of carrying out his threat.
“I hid it,” she said.
“You did, did you?” He smiled, as if finding her entertaining. “Care to tell me where?”
“You won’t find it. If you let me go, I’ll tell you where it is.” It was worth a try.
“Let you go?” Henrik laughed. Then he opened his arms wide, as if gesturing to the sea that surrounded them beyond the walls of his cabin. “You can leave whenever you want. Do you swim that well?”
“My freedom and a rowboat, and I’ll tell you where your jewel is hidden.”
He took a step toward her, almost invading her space, and looked down at her. “You don’t know what you’ve stolen, do you?” His voice was soft, barely more than a murmur. “You’re just an opportunistic cutpurse, aren’t you? By the gods, how did you even know it was there?”
Isla wasn’t just an opportunistic cutpurse; she was the best gods-damned cutpurse. His question was strange, and she met his gaze with disdain. “It was dangling off your belt. Difficult to miss.”
“You could see it?” he asked, surprise tingeing his tone.
“Of course I could see it.” What sort of question was that?
He stared at her for a long moment, something in his expression that she couldn’t place. Curiosity? Interest? She couldn’t tell. But his eyes were intense, and it was she who looked away first.
There was nothing she could say, so she said nothing, clenching her jaw instead.
His grin widened, as though even her recalcitrance entertained him. “We tie them naked to the mast, give them a dozen lashes, make them swab the decks for the rest of the journey, and sell them at the next port.”
“I’m no gentleman, and a woman like you would carry a good price as a slave.”
There was no trace of compassion in his expression, and Isla swallowed nervously. “You wouldn’t risk defying the law, sir. I demand to be handed over to the authorities to state my case.”
“Maritime law applies to this ship as much as any other, Captain Henrik. I demand—”
“Why do you think I care about maritime law, girl?” His hand shot out, seizing her throat before she could react. “You are in no position to demand anything.”
She clutched his wrist in reflex, but she had as much chance of prizing him off as she did of swimming back to land. “You’re a naval officer, sir,” she gasped. “Have you no honor?”
His grin was cold. “I’ve made no such claims.”
She let her other hand drop, the knife slipping from her sleeve and into her palm.
But he noticed. He glanced at it pointedly, then raised an eyebrow. “Would you like some butter with that?”
She gripped the knife handle tightly. He didn’t see it as a threat; she’d show him how wrong he was.
“Let go of me.” Speaking was a struggle, his grip forcing her chin up and constricting her airway.
Henrik’s hand tightened further, squeezing until she could barely breathe. “Are you going to stab me?”
Perhaps he thought she’d go for his face, but that would be too easy for him to block. Instead, she aimed the knife toward his groin, more a feint than an attempt to injure. Distract him, then sink the blade somewhere more vital.
Isla knew she was fast, but she hadn’t anticipated he’d be faster.
He twisted, taking the blow on his thigh. The blade wasn’t sharp enough to penetrate deeply, but it stabbed through his leather breeches and into his leg, and the force of it jerked the knife in her hand.
Then he grasped her wrist and squeezed, forcing her, for the second time that day, to drop her only weapon. It clattered to the floor.
His eyes were cold. “For that, we’ll make it two dozen lashes.”
“No,” she gasped out, staring up at him as tears welled in her eyes. Two dozen lashes would strip the skin from her back. It would cripple her, maybe even kill her. A man might survive two dozen, but she knew she never could.
She was weaponless, helpless, entirely at his mercy.
And she’d just stabbed him.
“Please.” The word was torn from her.
“Please, no,” she choked out, his grip so tight it was a struggle to get the air she needed.
“Do you at last accept I can do what I say?”
She tried to nod, but he was forcing her chin up. “Y-yes.”
“That you are my captive?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, dammit, yes!”
He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell forward, gasping in a lungful of air as she rubbed her sore throat.
“I’ll have this back,” he said, pulling down her shirt with one hand while the other reached inside.
She was still trying to catch her breath, momentarily stunned by his manhandling and sheer audacity. It took her a moment to react. Only then did she grab for her shirt, her other hand trying to block him. But he brushed aside her attempt with ease.
His hand stroked across the straps of her breast bindings, fingers delving unerringly between her breasts, lightly skimming her skin. Then he had the pouch and tugged it free.
“You… How?” She gaped at him. He’d known it was there.
All along, he’d known.
