The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)

Another day passed, with more logs and messages and unsuccessful visits to the sickroom. Teasdale and Phillips healed enough to return to the ship. Cordova’s arm became worrisome, so they sent him back to New London, accompanied by the physick, for care by the Crown’s own medical staff. Hetta sent a message about Louisa, indicating she’d be pleased to meet the girl upon her return to New London and requesting they stay safe in the meantime.

Kit had paced her way through Grant Hall, walked every corridor in each wing three or four times over, waiting for the Diana’s completion. She’d even considered going back to New London with them, but couldn’t—and wouldn’t—leave her crew to fend for themselves when the Diana was repaired, especially if the gun brig was waiting for them offshore.

And she didn’t think the physick would let her in the carriage.

On the morning of her third day in Queenscliffe, the message arrived from the village. The repairs were complete, and it was time for the Diana to sail.

Her relief was as physical as it was emotional, a weight lifted from her shoulders. She could return to New London, to her family, put Dunwood’s death behind her, and prepare for what came next. She was ready for her next mission.

Still.

There’d been memorable moments in Grant Hall, with the whiskey and the cliffs and the little dog, the conversations she’d shared with Grant. She could admit he’d surprised her; he wasn’t the type of titled gentleman she was used to meeting. That wasn’t to say that she liked him, or that she needed more adventures with the Beau Monde. But she’d almost become accustomed to his being a member of her crew, and she could admit to a bit of sadness that she was leaving this place and what she’d found here. It had been, she thought, a kind of interlude. A lifestyle she hadn’t experienced before in the bustle of New London. And one she wasn’t likely to soon forget.

She traversed the foyer, found Grant in his study, standing before a lectern with a ledger propped upon it. He scanned the contents, Sprout cradled in the crook of one arm like a baby, utterly content now that its master was home.

Grant didn’t look back. “Over here, if you would, Mrs. Spivey.”

“I’m not Mrs. Spivey, but if you’re having tea, I’d love some.”

He showed no measure of surprise, cool as he was. But smiled at Kit as Sprout eyed her narrowly. “Brightling.”

“Grant. I’ve come to let you know the Diana is ready. I’ll be leaving to the village as soon as the carriage is ready.”

“Horses?” he asked, setting the dog on a chair. It turned once, returned promptly to sleep.

“Trunk,” Kit explained. “I’ve no interest in dragging it four miles back to town.”

Grant nodded, frowned, seemed to be adjusting his thoughts. “To be honest, I thought the repairs would take a bit longer.” He looked up at her. “I suppose this would be goodbye.”

Something about that tightened her belly, and Kit refused to think overmuch about it. That was Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 3: Plan for the future, but live in the present.

“It is,” she said, and stepped forward, hand extended, all courtesy and proper etiquette. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done.”

Grant watched her for a moment, then offered his hand. “You’re quite welcome.” They shook, and all but jumped apart when Mr. Spivey stepped into the doorway, paper in hand.

“Er, pardon me, sir, ma’am,” Mr. Spivey said, looking between them. “There’s a message for the captain. A sailor brought it; he’s waiting outside. He says his name is Sampson.”

“Yes, thank you,” Grant said, and stepped back, put space between them.

Kit took the paper. It was heavy and thick and sealed with maroon wax stamped with the outline of a sea dragon. Probably her new orders from the queen, and more excellent timing.

“Thank you, Mr. Spivey,” Kit said. “Please ask him to wait.”

She slipped a fingertip beneath the wax, walked to the window as she opened the folded pages, scanned them.

The queen first acknowledged the intelligence they’d gotten from Dunwood, expressed her regret over his death, and offered her condolences to Grant.

“The Guild denies any aggression against the Diana,” Kit read. “They say the gun brig was not an authorized vessel of the Guild or its constituent merchants or countries. That’s nonsense, but not unexpected given the care they took to make it unidentifiable.

“They also decoded the dispatch from Gerard,” she continued, then lifted her gaze, looked at Grant. “The one we delivered just before you came into the throne room.”

Grant nodded, crossed his arms, brow furrowed as he listened.

“They’ve not provided the details but for one reference that didn’t make sense, even with decoding. It discussed a university on Forstadt.” Forstadt was an island just off the Frisian coast.

“There is no university on Forstadt,” Grant said, “or much of anything else. The island is held by the Frisian throne in trust so kings can hunt there in peace. Other than a lodge, there’s nothing but trees and game animals.”

“So we are led to believe,” she said. “But there’d hardly be a point in coding the discussion of an island if it’s not being used for some secret and nefarious purpose.” She thought of the conversation she’d had with Grant her first night in the manor house, about Gerard and war and ships . . . and shipbuilding.

“You said Forstadt had trees,” Kit said. “It’s close to Frisia, but separate from it. Secluded. Gerard knows of its existence, and found it important enough to discuss—coded—in a dispatch to a foreign ally.”

She watched understanding dawn in Grant’s eyes. “Shipyard?”

“Possibly,” Kit agreed. “Entirely speculation—but the queen appears to be of a similar mind.” She held up the message. “We’re to sail to Norgate, where we’ll be met by a trio of frigates.” Norgate was a village on the tip of the peninsula that jutted into the Narrow Sea below New London. “Once we’ve rendezvoused, we’re to sail to Forstadt, with the Diana using whatever magic will aid us to arriving swiftly, and investigate activity on the island.”

Grant went very still. “Did you say ‘we’?”

She inclined her head. “You’re to sail with us.”

“With you,” he said, and held out his hand for the papers. She wouldn’t normally have handed over an assignment from the queen, but given he was part of the mission, there seemed little point in hiding it from him.

She offered it, and he read in silence in front of the window, his fingers clenched around the letter so tightly she thought he might simply rip it up. “I can’t leave again. Every time I leave, something falls apart. My home, my family.”

Kit stayed quiet, as she could think of nothing comforting to say.

“I’ll tell her now,” he said, half to himself. “I’ll pen a response, tell her events are too important here, and I cannot go.”

“And she’d have you at the palace to answer for your refusal,” Kit said. “Which won’t help your estate.”

Grant cursed, tossed the letter onto a side table, strode to the fireplace. He rested an elbow on the mantel, ran fingers through his hair, put the other hand at his waist. “We aren’t supposed to be at war, and I’m not supposed to be a soldier. Men aren’t supposed to die in my arms. Not any longer.”

She’d seen death before Dunwood, as had he. And she knew how wrenching it was. How each death seemed to rip away a bit of the soul. But there was a reason that price was paid. Duty, obligation. And she’d learned enough about Grant in the last few days to understand those qualities were as important to him as they were to her.

“If we succeed in this mission,” she said quietly, “we may stop a war. We’ll save lives.”

“A direct strike,” Grant said quietly. “Right across the heart. You have excellent aim, Captain.”

“And as much as it pains me to say it, you make a relatively credible soldier.”

He shifted his gaze to her, brows lifted. “That pained you?”

“I don’t care to compliment members of the Beau Monde,” she muttered.

“I’m aware.” Grant closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “How long to Forstadt?”

She considered. “From Norgate, give or take two days. About as far as Finistère, and again depending on the wind and weather. I expect we’d go back to New London, so if your brother hasn’t returned in your absence, you could look for him there.”

“Damned convenient, that,” Grant muttered, then sighed. “Mrs. Spivey,” he called out, and given she darted right into the room, Kit guessed she’d been listening outside the door.

“My lord?”

“I’ll be accompanying Captain Brightling to the Diana. It appears the queen has more use of me yet.”

Her smile fell away. “Oh, again, my lord? We were going to make a treacle tart this evening. One of your favorites.”

That managed to pull a smile from him. “As I doubt the queen would care overmuch for the excuse of my staying to eat it, you’ll have to enjoy it on my behalf. I presume Captain Brightling would like to leave as soon as possible.”

“Please,” Kit said.

“I’ll need my trunk again, and I’ve some messages that will need to be sent.”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, and they heard quick footsteps as she rushed down the hallway.

“She’s going to hold this against me,” Kit said. “Your leaving again.”

“Probably,” Grant agreed. “You can make it up to her by sailing quickly.”

Fortunately for Grant, that was always Kit’s goal.

Kit quickly penned a message for Jin, advising him what she could of their next mission, and gave it to Sampson so the crew could be readied for what came next. When the trunks were packed and loaded, Kit and Grant bounced in the carriage for the return to Queenscliffe.

“You jump every time the carriage does.”

“The sea is smoother,” Kit said.

“Hardly,” Grant said, long legs spread across the carriage, and offered a wry smile. “It’s not because you’ve a fear of horses?”

“I don’t fear them.” She absolutely feared them. “I know my place, and theirs. And my place is where they are not.”

“Mm-hmm,” Grant said noncommittally, then glanced out the window. “Do you know why it’s called Queenscliffe?”

“I can surmise the reason for the ‘cliff’ bit,” Kit said.

“I’ve heard sarcasm isn’t an attractive quality in a single young woman.”

Kit snorted, both at the sentiment and because she’d said nearly the same thing to Jin. “That would be incorrect. It’s a very attractive quality, as it enlivens long walks and lonely days at sea.”

Grant rolled his eyes.

“Queenscliffe?” she prompted.

“Queen Morgaine, before she became queen, toured this place.”

“I know her story,” Kit said. “There aren’t many queens who led warships.”

He smiled. “No, I imagine not. Morgaine disembarked at the village, where she was to tour the surrounding towns and meet her subjects. But the weather changed, so she and her ladies were forced to take shelter at a castle on the cliff. It’s gone now,” he added. “Has been for nearly a century, after storms battered the cliffs, dropped the stone right into the sea. But it stood while Morgaine visited. It was a cold, lonely place, with the wind whipping through the hallways.

“One day, Morgaine was hungry, so she walked through the castle to the kitchens below, looking for an apple. And nearly screamed when she ran into a young man with dark hair and green eyes and a strong and honorable way about him.”

Kit snorted.

“‘Hello,’ said Morgaine. ‘Hello,’ said the young man. And the storm roared for six more days, and they spent that time together and grew to love each other. Morgaine dreaded the clearing of the weather, for she would be forced to leave the young man and continue her travels as queen. One morning, the sky dawned clear, and Morgaine, lovesick and sad, went to find her beau and wish him goodbye. But she found he’d already traveled on, knowing he had to let her go. They say we have mists and fog now because she cried copious tears for her beloved.”

Kit lifted a brow. “Queen Morgaine married a Gallic duke and had four children.”

“So she did,” Grant said with a grin. “Afterward. And she was a good and steady queen. But they say her heart lies still at Queenscliffe, and she never forgot the boy she met here, whom she loved till the end of her life.”

None of that had appeared in Kit’s history books. She narrowed her gaze. “Is any of that actually true?”

“It’s true to the tale my governess told me. Although I recall she was trying to encourage me to eat porridge at the time. Horrid stuff.”

“For once,” Kit said, “we agree.”

They reached the village proper, children playing in front of stone cottages, and linens flapped in the breeze, probably refusing to dry in the damp mist. They reached the street above the dock, and Kit was relieved to see the Diana below, albeit with a new stripe of honey-colored wood where the ball had struck her side.

Kit boarded to the waves of the villagers while Grant conducted a bit of estate business in preparation of his leaving. On the deck, Kit found energy and anticipation. Her sailors had enjoyed a few nights ashore, and were ready now to return to wind and water.

“Captain,” Jin said.

“Commander.” She nodded at Simon, checked the mast, and found Tamlin’s hair streaming in the wind. “I take it she’s comfortable with the new topmast.”

“She is.”

“The patch looks well.”

“Mr. Oglejack is confident she’ll hold to Forstadt. He’s less confident about the return. But we’ve extra lumber and ample pitch, should we need them.”

That would have to do. “Were we able to resupply?”

“Yes, although Cook was not enthused about the meat selection, so prepare for a week of mutton.”

Cook would, at least, spice the mutton, so they’d manage.

“Other than that,” Jin said, “we’re ready. Oh, and the receipts for the repair have been delivered to your quarters and await your review and signature.”

“How dare you,” Kit said, but without enthusiasm.

Grant came over the gunwale like an old salt, on his arm a basket of something that smelled incredibly tempting.

“So that’s how it is, aye?”

Kit looked back at Jin, found amusement in his eyes. “That’s how what is?”

“The very friendly look you gave the colonel there.”

“I gave no one a look.” And even if she had, it was perfectly reasonable to appreciate the fine cut of a tailcoat.

“Mm-hmm,” Jin said noncommittally, and glanced at the basket when Grant joined them. “What have you got there?”

“Meat pies,” he said, and pulled back the gingham cloth, revealing crescent-shaped rounds of golden pastry, steam rising from a small hole in the top shaped like a bird.

“Those are lovely,” Kit said. “And very kind of them.”

“They are, and they are,” Grant agreed. “And I know from experience they taste as good as they look.”

“I can take those to Cook.”

They looked down, found Louisa standing in front of them, arms outstretched and little eyes narrowed with purpose. Kit had considered—again—sending her back to New London by carriage, but since the Diana was ultimately bound for New London and Louisa had followed instructions during their last round, she decided to give the girl another opportunity.

“Thank you,” Grant said, and offered her the basket.

“Those aren’t to go into Cook’s personal supply,” Kit said, and Louisa batted innocent eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean.” And before it could be explained, she’d disappeared into the companionway.

“Are we going to regret giving those to her?” Grant asked.

“Probably,” Kit said. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get to sea.”

She walked to the gunwale, looked out at the water. The harbor seemed smaller now than it had been when they’d arrived with the wind at their back, and they had no such luck today. And it was far too narrow for her to risk touching the current; she could get the boat moving, but she didn’t have enough control over where it ended up to risk it here.

“We’ll have to winch our way out.” Winching was so anticlimactic, and not the heroes’ exit she’d prefer to give to the villagers who watched avidly, waiting for canvas to fill with wind. But not even Tamlin had that power, so it would be a slow crawl out of the harbor.

Kit and Grant joined the work at the capstan as lines were thrown to one cleat at a time, the ship winched to that spot, and then the line was thrown again. It was hard and slow and painstaking work. But while less glamorous than leaving the village under full, crisp sail, it was a necessity.

They were able to make sail when they reached the bay, the jibs set to the cheering of the villagers as the Diana and her crew streamed toward open water.

They briefed the crew on this second mission, found significantly less enthusiasm about sailing to a tree-laden Frisian island than a treasure-laden pirate fortress. Although she’d walked away from Finistère with none of that loot, she understood the sentiment.

Kit found the sea as calm as she’d left it several days ago, and was soothed by the connection, which was a balm to conflicting emotions she’d rather not consider. The course was charted, the receipts reviewed—the villagers valued their work very highly, she found—and the sails unfurled for the voyage to Norgate. Maps were hardly necessary given that the crew were intimately familiar with the Isles’ coastline, but Simon reviewed them for form. They were forced to tack against a hard wind that refused to turn in their favor, which slowed their progress, even when Kit steered them toward favorable currents. The wasted hours added frustration, as Kit had wanted to arrive before the trio of ships. It set a certain tone, she thought, to be in position and waiting for the others.

While the sailing wasn’t easy, it was no more eventful than usual. They watched a school of dolphins in the surf, more than a few jackgulls, and the faraway spouts of whales savvy enough not to go near a naval ship.

Not eventful . . . except for the crawling unease that Kit began to feel the farther east they sailed. The sky was white as if the color had been leached away. And beneath them, chaos.

She stood near the helm, hair blowing across her face in the hard wind, trying to pick out the magic’s song. But there were intervals—pauses—when it felt as if the current had stuttered. Not unlike she’d felt on the way to Finistère. And the sensation was so strange, so unusual, that she wondered if she was the only one feeling it.

She opened her eyes, found Grant’s and Simon’s gazes upon her. “I’m going aloft,” she decided.

“Aloft?” Simon asked, head cocked.

“I want to talk to Tamlin, and I want to talk to her in her . . . territory,” she said for lack of a better word. She glanced at Grant. “Would you like to go?”

“No. I’m fine on the ground,” he said. “Or what stands in for it.”

Kit nodded, began to make her way across the boat, rising and dipping in the water, toward the foremast. Sailors jumped out of her way as she moved, and watched—she thought with pride—as she began to climb the shroud that angled toward the mast, and then swung over to the mast itself. The sea’s motion was more pronounced aloft, the mast swaying back and forth as the ship rolled, and she had to close her eyes only once to keep her bearings. Then it was hand over hand until she reached the plank just below the topmast that served as the fighting top. Tamlin sat facing the bow, one leg curled around a rope for stability.

Kit narrowed her gaze. “Are you eating a meat pie?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said, and took another bite. “You want?” she asked, holding out the remainder.

“No,” Kit said. “Why did you get one? They were supposed to go to Cook.”

“Ah,” Tamlin said with a wag of her finger. “That’s your problem there. Never let Cook get his hands on the good stuff. He’s stingy.”

“Louisa gave it to you,” Kit realized.

Tamlin grinned, mouth full, and swallowed hard. “We’re friends.”

“I’m glad of it. And I’m coming up,” Kit said, and Tamlin slid to the edge of the plank. Kit slid in beside her, and grabbed a line with white knuckles as the top rolled a good thirty degrees. But the view—so much sky, so much water—was well worth it.

“Sometimes hard to remember why we do this,” Tamlin said quietly. “I never forget when I’m up here.”

“No, I bet not.” Kit glanced at her, looked her over. “Your head?”

“Fine as ever,” Tamlin said, then ate the last of the meat pie, dusted her hands. “Yours?”

“Fine,” Kit said with a smile, and hoped that was accurate. “The wind. Is it off?”

“Can you feel it?” Tamlin’s voice held both surprise and relief.

“Not in the wind. But in the sea, yes.”

“There’s a strain in the magic.”

“That’s it exactly,” Kit said, and understood well that mix of surprise and relief. And worry. “The current stutters, as if it’s . . .”

“Broken,” Tamlin finished. “Aye.”

“Have you felt this before?”

Tamlin looked at her. “Not since we left the Isles for Finistère.”

Kit nodded at the confirmation. So it was geographic. Some phenomenon that existed nearer the Isles’ southeastern coast than the southwestern. “I’ve not felt it before that,” she said. “And how many times have we sailed the Narrow Sea?”

“Many, and aye, never before. Are we going to investigate it?”

“Not now,” Kit said. “Not while we’ve a mission to complete.” Unless their mission had some relation to it, but Kit couldn’t see how. Forstadt was hundreds of miles away, and the current between wasn’t a straight line, but a network of them, a lace of magic woven into the water itself.

“We’ll be meeting the squadron soon,” Tamlin said. “Other captains are usually much less fun.”

Kit opened her mouth, closed it again. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment to my demeanor or an insult to my leadership.”

Tamlin lifted a brow, closed her eyes in the sparkling sunlight. “It’s an insult to them, that’s for sure.”

“In that case, thank you.” She made ready to climb down the mast again, glanced at Tamlin. “If anything changes, let me know.”

Tamlin opened her eyes, and her gaze on Kit was direct. Tamlin saw the world, Kit knew, in a unique way. But she took her position very seriously. “Aye, Captain. I will.” Then she looked back toward the sea, eyes closed again. “Perhaps it’s a small thing, and this is the end of it.”

But it was only the beginning.