Steve Harrington was falling. Quite literally, but it served as a solid metaphor as well.
This day was meant to mark the pinnacle of his career, of his entire life, really. Not that his life consisted solely of climbing the ranks of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Well, not completely anyway. But his promotion ceremony that morning was only the start of what he hoped would be the happiest day he'd ever know.
Not only was he officially named a commodore, the youngest man to achieve such a high naval rank in three decades, but he intended to propose marriage to Nancy Wheeler, daughter of the Governor of Hawkins.
But after cresting such an ambitious peak, he should have known there was nowhere to go but down.
In actuality, he wasn't looking forward to his new position. Steve joined the navy because he loved the sea. Its constant motion, the salty tang it brought to the air, its vast and changing temper. It sang to him, its cadence echoing deep in his bones.
Where many of his seamen breathed relief when their ships reached shore, Steve felt a hum of disappointment and found his mind focused on the date when they'd next weigh anchor and set sail, surrendering to the mercy of the sea once more. The commodore stationed at Hawkins – which would presently be Steve – would remain behind in a supervisory office, monitoring His Majesty's ships coming and going from the decidedly land-based fort. But the promotion was an honor he could hardly decline. So Steve resigned himself to a life gazing longingly at the horizon where the long stretch of the sea outside his window met the sky.
But he didn't have to do it alone. He was of an age and position now where he'd be expected to take a wife. Sure, many a seaman considered themselves wedded to their office and didn't bother with marriage.
But Steve, as mentioned, was falling. Had been for some time now. He plummeted ass over tea kettle in love with Nancy Wheeler.
Fate herself seemed to plant Nancy in his path three years ago. Steve captained the ship that brought her and her family from England to the Caribbean, to Hawkins, to Steve. The Tigress was a small but mighty sixth-rate frigate, one of the first he'd ever held the helm of on his own.
He was green in his office then, eager to prove himself. He didn't hesitate to volunteer to transfer to the Caribbean and escort the Wheeler family to govern the new colony of Hawkins as he did. His own family would hardly notice his absence.
Steve was never one to dwell on the past, especially the ambivalence that clouded most of his childhood. As soon as he was old enough, he chased the ocean that he'd always idolized, always drank in greedily with his eyes like the teasing, lapping water might bring him the affection he'd craved but never tasted himself. His family's good name earned him a naval officer's position with no hesitation. And Steve left the stuffy halls of the Harrington manor for the open sea.
He found camaraderie he'd never known before with his fellow military men, though their obsession with ambitious career moves was a coat that Steve found stranger to slip his arms into than his starchy deep blue and gold-trimmed naval uniform.
But with adjustment to life at sea coming so easily, he had time to learn the right way to charm his superiors and his underlings alike. By the time Steve rose through the ranks to captain the Tigress, he could schmooze with the best of them, and Governor Theodore Wheeler was taken with him straight away, finding great pleasure in Steve's easy audience to yammer on about politics with a macho joviality that Steve was half-jealous of and half-repulsed by. Because while Steve felt in tune with the rhythms of the sea and the winds and waves she wrought, the mind games of the elite never sat well with him. He was a fool for thinking he could leave that behind when he escaped his family's estate.
After making excuses to Governor Wheeler one morning, Steve had relished the opportunity to appreciate the dawn air aboard the Tigress. The sun was new, low and blinking itself awake at their backs. It cast a gorgeous array of colors as Steve made his way to the bow of the ship. The dark blue of the ocean met the sky in a similarly deep shade that blended to an alluring cerulean and then a crisper, lighter hue that seemed to eat its way nearer to the horizon as the sun crept upward.
And there, alone on the deck, gazing out at the sea and sky, was the most beautiful creature Steve had ever seen. Dark curls of hair tangled in the breeze, and a simple cobalt dress tapered at a slim waist and billowed at her feet. And that was just the back of her. Steve found his legs drawing him nearer without his awareness as if the two of them were magnets, opposites with no other option but to collide.
He stopped beside her at the ship's edge, drinking in her profile. A small nose, a sharp chin, flushed cheeks, and a long pale neck. Then she turned, noticing his presence, and Steve met her wide, blue eyes – that same blue that swallowed the last of the night in the sky now.
"Captain Harrington," she greeted him, averting her gaze and dropping into a stiff curtsy. Someone must have pointed him out on the deck at some point for her to recognize him. He bit back the urge to invite her to call him by his first name. When she straightened, her lips were downturned, and Steve wished that small frown away with every fiber of his being.
"Miss Wheeler," Steve responded, inclining his head. Because he knew all who were aboard his ship, and this could be no other than the eldest child of the governor, the daughter only a year younger than Steve. He was already smiling, an automatic reaction that she was not returning.
"A beautiful view," he remarked with a casualness he didn't quite feel as he waited for those eyes to meet his own. When they did, he held her gaze for a pointed moment and then his attention drift back to the ocean, his first love, his comfort. He let the suggestion hang for a beat before continuing. "The sea at dawn. Is it not?"
It was a tense half-minute before Nancy responded. "It is."
Steve sneaked a glance at her and was pleased to see a deeper blush in her cheeks and a wry upward twist in her lips as she also looked out at the water. "Is this your first time at sea, Miss Wheeler?"
"It is," she said again. "Though I admit I've been looking forward to embarking on an ocean voyage since I was a girl."
"Does it live up to your expectations thus far?" Steve hoped for her sake it did. They were only on day two out of 30 until they made landfall in Hawkins.
"Thus far," she confirmed. "We move much more than I expected. Or I mean that the ship jostles even this far out where the waves no longer crest. It's smoother than a carriage ride, mind you. None of the bumps. But the constant rolling. It takes some getting used to." Steve watched her unabashedly as she rambled. And then with sudden awareness, she flushed and sent him a sheepish look. "I expect you're well used to it yourself and, in fact, tire of hearing the inane observations of naïve girls."
"I'm never used to it," Steve admitted with a smile. "And I never tire of hearing about it, especially from those with the same quickening appreciation for the splendor of the sea as I have."
It was lame, as a line, but Nancy appeared satisfied with it all the same, not looking away from Steve's rapt attention. "So do you often spend your time ferrying the enthusiastically ignorant across the ocean, Captain?"
"My first opportunity to do so, and likely my last for some time."
"Oh?"
"I'll be stationed in Hawkins for the foreseeable future. Defending the port with the might of His Majesty's finest."
"Defending from what?"
"Whatever threatens the coast. Raiders, foreign armadas, pirates…"
"Pirates?" Nancy's eyes brightened, and Steve winced. A large part of his job description went toward tracking pirates, capturing them, and bringing them to justice. The ones he'd met were often despicable, greedy, and even bloodthirsty. But he knew as he threw them in the brig that he was carting them toward certain death – sentencing them to hang. That was the law, and they were criminals, to be sure, but it never sat well in Steve's gut. He often had to remind himself that stopping these immoral characters was necessary in order to keep innocent people safe.
"Nothing you need worry about, Miss Wheeler," he told her.
"Of course," she agreed hastily, and it was as if a shutter slammed shut on her expression. She looked out to the ocean again, jaw tight, and Steve knew he said the wrong thing, although he didn't quite know why.
He dug through his mind, searching for something to bring that smile back to her lips, but his thoughts were interrupted by a high voice shouting toward the port side of the ship.
Steve frowned, exchanging a curious glance with Nancy. He touched her arm reassuringly as he moved toward the growing commotion. The easy contact and warmth of her would only strike him later.
Now, he pushed his way through his men gathering around a pre-teen boy dressed in fine linens. He had a mop of dark hair the same shade as Nancy's and was gesturing frantically over the railing at the side of the boat, brown eyes sharp and urgent. This was Michael Wheeler, the governor's only son.
"A girl!" he shouted. "There's a girl in the water!"
Steve looked where Michael pointed, and there was, in fact, a small limp body sprawled on a floating piece of driftwood. Steve assumed it was a young girl, as she wore a thin slip of a dress, but her hair was shorn so short that it revealed her pale scalp, as a boy would wear it.
Steve sprang into action. "Man overboard! Bring her around!"
He moved with his men who all hurried to turn the ship and get a pinnace ready. Steve hopped into the light boat himself, and his men rowed the little vessel close to the driftwood. When they were close enough, Steve scooped up the girl, who looked to be just shy of her teenage years. She was still damp, so she couldn't have been out of the water for long. Her eyes stayed shut, but she was breathing lightly.
They found a shady spot near the mast once they got back aboard the Tigress to let the girl lay down. Steve barked orders to get her blankets and fresh water. He pushed his curious crew members back to allow her breathing room. Michael remained close to the girl's side, eyes wide and worried, and Steve let him stay.
"Jesus H. Christ," one of the sailors muttered under his breath beside Steve. He was a short man with sandy, curly hair that brushed his shoulders and a soft-looking face. The man stood stock still, staring ahead of them with wide eyes.
Steve followed his gaze and bit back a curse. He pulled his spyglass out of his pocket and held it to his eye as the rest of the crew crowded toward the railing for a better view.
It was a shipwreck – the burnt, hollowed remains of a merchant's ship. Cannon fire had splintered the hull to smithereens, and fire still flickered cheerfully on many of the blasted driftwood shards that hadn't yet sunk to the depths of the sea.
"Check for survivors," Steve ordered gravely. There was a beat where no one moved, only staring grimly at the horror before them. "Now!"
The sailors got to work, readying the pinnace again as the Tigress sailed near enough to the wreckage for acrid smoke blow their way.
Steve sighed, the hot, sharp air licking its way in and out of his lungs. His crew knew what to do, and Steve found himself hovering within sight of the girl they'd rescued. She was still unconscious, though the crew had left rations at her side before scrambling to handle this new crisis.
Michael remained crouched beside her, watching her fervently, devotedly, and Steve didn't disrupt it. Then there was a loud gasp followed by a long bout of coughing. Steve spun and started to move to assist the awakened girl, but he stopped. Michael was way ahead of him, one hand smoothing over her shoulder.
"It's all right," Michael said gently. "You're safe now."
The girl's breathing evened out, and Michael kept a steady hand on her shoulder. She leaned into it, and Michael smiled. "You're safe with us," he told her again. "I'm Mike."
The girl blinked a few times before she responded. "Jane."
"Jane," Michael – Mike, Steve supposed he must prefer – breathed out her name like a prayer.
Steve decided he'd make himself known now that the initial shock wore off. He took a few cautious steps forward, and Jane's brown eyes snapped to him. She threw a hand up in his direction, palm out and held steady, and Steve found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move his legs. Or any body part, apparently.
Mike followed her glare, eyes darting from Jane's stormy face, her outstretched hand, and Steve's stock-still position.
"Are you doing that?" Mike asked her carefully. Jane didn't respond, but blood dripped worryingly from her nostril. Mike's eyes went wide at the sight of it. "Whoa, don't hurt yourself! Not over the likes of him!" Steve wanted to roll his eyes at the dismissive tone, but he wasn't actually capable of movement at that moment.
"He's the captain of our ship, one of the good guys," Mike continued. "He's not going to hurt you. You're safe with him too."
For good measure, Mike glowered over his shoulder as if threatening Steve to ensure that was the truth. Steve couldn't do anything to agree or disagree. But after a moment, Jane lowered her hand, and Steve almost collapsed when his muscles all unclenched at once. Steve heaved out a sigh, trying not to look as alarmed as he felt.
He swallowed and approached them with slow steps. Both Mike and Jane watched him, Jane absently wiping at the blood at her nose. Not the first time that's happened then, Steve thought, clocking her easy movement. He crouched so that he was at their level.
"I'm Steve," he said quietly. "Mike's right. I'm in charge around here. You're safe on my ship, okay? Are you feeling all right? With your… nose?"
Jane stared at him and then nodded. Steve felt his shoulders slump with relief. Then his eyes fell on the gold medallion around her neck. There was an eerily grinning skull etched into its flat surface and a harsher carving that read XI. Eleven. Steve had run into his fair share of pirates to know a Jolly Roger emblem when he saw it. He swallowed. If this girl got caught with piracy paraphernalia, a judge wouldn't blink at her age or gender. She'd get the same short drop and a sudden stop that all pirates earned.
But this was a kid. And he'd promised her she'd be safe.
"This," Steve said slowly, trying to find the best way to not scare the girl. "This medallion. Is it yours?"
"Don't answer that," Mike cut in angrily, shooting a dark look at Steve.
Steve held up his hands placatingly. "You don't have to answer, Jane. But you could get in trouble with that thing. I don't want that to happen. You need to hide it."
Jane aimed a glance at Mike who didn't dispute it, and then she studied Steve for a long moment. Carefully, she lifted the chain over her head and held the medallion out to Steve.
"Hide it, Steve," Jane said solemnly. And Steve didn't look away from those eyes as he dropped the medallion around his own neck and tucked it under the ruffly layers of his fancy tunic.
With that done, Jane laid back and shut her eyes, lost to the world once more.
"I'll take her below," Steve said after there was a long beat of him and Mike just watching her slow, even breaths.
"You're really not going to tell anyone," Mike said. It wasn't a question, more like a surprised observation.
"I'm really not," Steve agreed. He didn't explain further, but he scooped Jane into his arms and took her below deck where a storage room could easily convert to passable living quarters for a small girl in a pinch.
Steve still wore the medallion three years later. Not every day, but on special occasions. It felt like a good luck charm. One he ought to have turned in to the proper naval authorities. Or one he ought to have returned to Jane once she was safe and adopted into the Byers family, the owners of the general store in Hawkins. Joyce, a tiny yet fierce woman, had lost her merchant husband and youngest son Will at sea. She and her son – Jonathan, who was about Steve's age and apprenticed to the blacksmith in town – welcomed Jane with open arms.
The morning of his promotion, Steve tucked the medallion almost unthinkingly, as if it were a given, into his tunic so that the gold, chilled from where he stored it in the desk in his bedroom at the fort, sat cool against his chest. Then he donned his dress uniform, his powdered wig, his tricorn hat, and his thick, fancy coat – the heavy cotton one that was completely unsuitable for the hot Caribbean climate – and met his brothers in arms in the fort's courtyard to receive the promotion of a lifetime he didn't actually desire.
But he welcomed the comfortable weight of the medallion around his neck, grounding him, at the end of the ceremony as he sought out Nancy Wheeler. A more solemn piece of jewelry weighed solidly in his coat pocket for her – round and simple and grave. But Steve focused on the gold, warmed to match the skin it rested upon now, as he searched the battlements for her.
Then there she was, as breath-takingly stunning as when he'd first encountered her on the deck of the Tigress.
She stood in a flowery gown, cinched tight around her middle. Her dark curls were tied in a complicated updo, but wisps escaped and blew untidily at her neck from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. She faced away from him, gazing over the low stone parapet off of the fort's courtyard, overlooking the Hawkins harbor.
Just as he had three years ago, Steve found his feet moving toward her of their own accord, like she trilled a siren's song that beckoned his very soul to her. When he reached her side, he leaned his hip coolly against the low barrier that separated them from a steep drop down a cliffside and the choppy water below. He turned to admire the lovely line of her profile and then had to frown.
Nancy's brow was furrowed, and rather than rapt with her usual studious awe, her blue, blue eyes glared out at the horizon as if punishing it. Her breaths came in and out tightly, and she fanned at her face at a feverish pace. Though he'd hardly sneaked up on her, Steve wondered if she hadn't noticed he was there.
"Miss Wheeler," he greeted her with a hint of teasing formality.
Nancy's eyes darted to his, and she gave him that wry smile he craved, the one that felt as if they were sharing a secret. "Commodore Harrington."
Steve grinned at that, worries evaporating in regard to the proposal he intended to make. There was a strange ashen tone about her cheeks, and her smile fell into something forced as she kept working her fan.
"Congratulations are in order," Nancy continued. "I expect I'll be seeing more of you now that you'll be fixed here in Hawkins."
Steve tried not to grimace at that. "Would you like that? To see more of me?"
"Certainly," Nancy responded, sounding surprised at the question. She didn't comment further though, instead coughing delicately into her hand.
"I suppose with this promotion comes… stability," Steve started slowly, nerves returning. He twisted so that he faced the harbor, finding solace in the churning of the water. He ignored the overwhelming heat that collected under his massive coat and his wig, roasting him like a pig. He was certainly sweating like one anyway. "An attractive quality for someone looking to… build a family."
He didn't dare look at Nancy, and she didn't respond. So Steve soldiered on. "A family is something I've looked forward to making since, well, always."
He fought back the onslaught of memories that sentence triggered. Flashbacks of distasteful looks that were all that his parents deigned to spare him. Young Steve had swallowed them down quickly, desperately, like a coughing tonic. "Nancy, you must know how much I admire you. We make a fine pair, you and me. We could walk side by side in this life and be happy. I think so, anyway, and I hope you feel the same. I ask you then, officially: Nancy Wheeler, will you—"
"I can't breathe," Nancy said in a choked voice.
Steve almost laughed because he felt the same – overwhelmed with emotion to the point his lungs seemed to malfunction. They were always the same, weren't they? Steve and Nancy – eyes trained on the same spot of the horizon.
But when Steve turned to observe as much to Nancy, she'd gone from ashen to a deep grey, and there was a disturbing blue tint to her lips. Then her eyes rolled back, and her body tilted forward, toward the edge of the cliff.
"Nancy!" Steve shouted – she was halfway over the parapet.
He moved without thinking, throwing himself forward to shove her back to safety. But the momentum pitched his own weight over the wall. And Steve tipped over the ledge.
Steve was falling.
But Nancy wasn't. He was alone in his plummet. His heart dropped as he found himself in the open air, wind roaring in his ears. And the dark water and rocks – rocks, of course, this near to the shoreline – grew closer. But at least it was just him. Nancy was safe on the balcony. Steve was meeting the water he'd only just found comfort in watching a moment before.
Steve didn't have time to align himself properly to reduce the impact. So it was with relief that he felt the wall of water smack into the thick heels of his boots first, rather than anything more delicate on his person, before the rest of him was swallowed by cold, cold water.
The blow startled the air from his lungs, so Steve kicked and swiped toward what he hoped was the surface. He didn't have much oxygen to hold him over. And the thick cotton of his fancy coat was fighting him, sucking greedily at the seawater, and tugging him down toward bottom of the harbor.
Steve tried to shrug out of the damn thing, but his thrashing had him hit his head against a rock behind him. He groaned out the last of the air he'd retained. Involuntarily, he inhaled through his nose, and the sting of the salty water was sharp enough to wink the dazed stars out of his eyes and let him know he fucked up.
Now, Steve coughed, trying to expel water with only the sea to draw in afterward. This was it then. Steve felt his mind grow fuzzy and dark at its edges and as cold as the water pooling in his chest.
And then there were arms around him. Steve wasn't aware of much, but there was pressure around his middle, water rushing past, and brightening in his vision. Then a cool breeze grazed his face. Steve attempted a gulping breath on instinct and choked on the water still in his lungs. He coughed hard until the water belched out of him. And then he was sucking in the air like he starved for it.
"Fuck," came a strangled voice right beside his ear. Steve had forgotten about the arms tight around his chest. The arms that fumbled now. Steve panicked because, for a moment, he was sinking again. They both were, he and his rescuer. Something was dragging them down.
His fucking coat.
"Come here, big boy," the voice said, and sure hands spun Steve around so that he was face to face with big brown eyes. Those hands – covered with large silver rings, Steve now saw – shoved at the thick fabric on Steve's shoulders, and Steve took his cue. He helped shrug off the imposing coat, and the brown-eyed man hummed in satisfaction as it disappeared down into the deep without them.
Steve's limbs were weaker than usual, arms and legs aching and as heavy as lead, and his head started to sink beneath the water again.
"Ah, ah, ah," the man chided, drifting close to Steve's side. He looped an arm around Steve's middle, pulling Steve's back flush against his chest. "Don't make me chase you down again. Stay with me."
Steve shivered as the man's breath tickled his ear. He didn't resist when the man swam with one-armed strokes toward the nearest dock. Steve relaxed in his grip despite himself. This was a stranger, but Steve found himself trusting him far easier than he normally would. Perhaps it was adrenaline rushing out of his bloodstream, but the sure pressure around his ribs and the panting breaths against his temple calmed him.
He was distantly aware of the clamor of heated voices, and then several arms grabbed him and yanked him out of the water so that he lay sprawled on his back on the slatted wood of a dock.
The man climbed out on his own, largely ignored by the crowd of naval officers that fussed among themselves, tense but idle with the confusion of who was in charge with Steve flat on his back. The man crouched close to Steve, sopping wet, and they stared at each other, breathing hard.
Steve took in the man's long black hair that curled at the ends below his shoulders even when heavy with seawater. He wore a sun-darkened tunic nearly translucent from the water, a loud scarf and chain around his waist, and easy-to-move-in trousers. The weight of the water tugged the neckline of his shirt low to expose a long collarbone and the edge of black lining, the suggestion of a tattoo. Steve blinked away the desire to see more of that tattoo, that pale skin, and ended up looking instead into those dark eyes.
The man raked his gaze over Steve's body, and then his eyes widened somewhere around his chest. He reached one ringed hand forward, and Steve's heart lurched, realizing what was likely exposed to the open air. With a flash, Steve tucked Jane's medallion back under his shirt and pushed himself to his feet.
The man rose as well, though much more smoothly, and he watched Steve with intense curiosity. Steve ran a hand through his hair – his dark, natural hair. He'd lost his hat and wig to the harbor, and he felt all the more at ease, despite the impropriety of his uncovered head. With Steve standing, his men quieted and stood at attention.
"This man," one of the guards said, stepping forward and taking the brown-eyed man by the arm roughly. "This man was snooping around the docks. Said he intended to commandeer a ship. We was going to inquire further but then we heard the splash. 'Spect he saw the fall – he had the angle for it. And you… didn't resurface, sir. And he hopped right into the water."
Intent isn't a crime, Steve told himself in regard to the first bit of the guard's report. He had trouble pinning down his sentiments about the latter half. But Steve had a foreboding sense about this man's chosen career path. Though with an audience, Steve didn't want to inquire about it aloud. Not if he didn't want to condemn the man that just rescued him to the gallows immediately.
Instead, he raised an eyebrow at the guard. "This man saved my life." Steve stepped toward the man in question and offered a hand to shake. "Thank you. I owe you a debt."
The man blinked, and after a beat of hesitation, as if he thought Steve might bite his fingers, he held out his hand. Steve clasped him by the forearm rather than his hand. The man sucked in a sharp breath of surprise, which swiftly morphed into resignation as Steve felt the raised skin beneath the man's thin tunic. The branded P that burned through the fabric to Steve's palm. The man's face was drawn, carefully expressionless – he knew that Steve knew he was a pirate.
"I'm Commodore Steven Harrington," Steve said in what he hoped was a normal voice. "What shall I call you?"
The man swallowed, his fingers wrapping lightly around Steve's arm to belatedly return his gesture. "Edward."
"Edward," Steve echoed, tasting the name, though it very likely was a false moniker. He released him, and Edward took a step backward, stiff and waiting for a blow. "Thank you, my friend. If it's a ship you seek, you'll want to consult the harbor master. He'll know if anyone in town intends to sell. Otherwise, your best bet is to hitch a ride with a merchant vessel to Kingston and speak to the shipwright there."
"Much obliged, Commodore," Edward said, something curious flashing in his dark eyes.
Steve stepped aside to let him leave, and his officers, though grumbling their distaste, didn't stop Edward as he moved forward, collecting his leather tricorn, which he promptly set over his long hair, and his affects – a long coat and a belt with a pistol in its holster – that he must have discarded at the foot of the dock before diving after Steve. Steve chanced a glance up at the cliffs, where there was a clear view of the balcony he'd been enjoying with Nancy. There was no sign of her or anyone there now.
"Edward," came a snide voice, and Steve winced. A well-dressed lieutenant made his way through the crowd with a thick smile stretching his freckled face. Thomas Hagan was a capable second in command and one of the officers Steve had served with the longest. They were friendly with each other, but when it came to pirates, Tommy had a keen nose and a mean streak.
"I want to offer my sincere gratitude to you for rescuing the life of not only my commanding officer but my closest friend," Tommy continued. He thrust his hand forward to shake, and Edward frowned at it. His eyes darted to Steve, who tried to convey with a tightening of his lips that his jig was up. But what could Edward do but accept Tommy's hand with his chin jutted out determinedly?
Tommy moved quickly, clamping Edward's hand tight in his own and shoving up his shirt sleeve to reveal the pale skin of his forearm marred with the infamous brand.
"A pirate," Tommy sneered, and the other officers hissed their disapproval. "Had a run-in with the East India Trading Company, eh? Tough luck, mate. And what's this?" Tommy pushed the fabric up higher so that a black tattoo glared highly visible against Edward's white skin. A trio of skeletal bats with wide wings that skirted up to the crease of his elbow.
Steve swallowed. They'd all heard of a pirate with such a tattoo. One who'd angered the East India Trading Company, plundered the high seas, garnered a notorious reputation for unscrupulous greed, and then disappeared in the wind for the last three years. The officers would all jeer at one another, all sure they would be the one to capture the infamous—
"Eddie Munson," Tommy crowed. "You're under arrest for crimes of piracy, smuggling, and more charges against the crown that I'm sure we'll discover once we file our report. Isn't that right, Commodore?"
Before Steve could respond, Eddie rolled his eyes. "Captain."
His entire demeanor had changed. He was still locked in Tommy's iron grip, but his posture relaxed as if he were bored, rather than on the brink of certain death.
Tommy frowned like Eddie was an imbecile. "No, Munson, that's Commodore Harrington right there."
Eddie grinned hard, a manic thing that still managed to light up his face. "I don't give a shit. I'm Captain Eddie Munson."
Tommy scowled. "Bring forth the irons," he demanded.
And Eddie slammed his knee up into Tommy's groin. The lieutenant yowled, releasing his harsh grip, and Eddie took off like a bat out of hell. The guards blinked at the sudden action, and that half a second of hesitation had Eddie well past their ranks and barrelling down the dock.
"Shoot him!" Tommy snarled, getting himself upright and revealing a twisted, puce sneer.
"Bring him to me alive!" Steve added, finally speaking. His command outranked Tommy's, so as his soldiers thundered after the pirate, he knew they'd do what they could to take Eddie without bloodshed.
Meanwhile, Eddie had done a wild leap onto a crane, which swung dangerously with his weight before depositing him, teetering but maintaining his balance, onto the thatched roof of the harbor pub. He skittered deeper into town, hopping easily from rooftop to rooftop. The naval officers were hot on his heels. Steve watched until the speck of him faded into the distance.
Something felt incomplete, unsettled, leaving an uncertain twist in his gut. Yet it churned pleasantly within his core, like the pitch of a ship at sea. Who was this man – this wily, electric, brazen thing – so ready to plot to steal a ship in broad daylight yet belay that to dive after a stranger who fell into a harbor and failed to resurface? What went on behind those dark eyes that compelled him to take such jarring actions? The questions simmered within him like a pleasant hum, and somehow Steve knew he would see Eddie again.
"What the hell was that?" Tommy demanded once they were alone on the dock. His wig was askew, and his face was still flushed a deep red.
Steve on the other hand felt relaxed. His throat burned, as did his weary muscles, and his head ached something fierce, but he felt lighter in spirit. Maybe it was the missing weight of his wig, hat, and coat.
So his response came out just as easily as he felt. "What the hell was what?"
Tommy's voice was low and angry. "You're a soft hand, Steve, but you're not this soft in the head. You nearly allowed a pirate to go free."
"My instincts were compromised," Steve admitted. "I've still got seawater between the ears, I'm afraid. I'm fortunate you were here to sniff him out, Tommy. I thank you."
Tommy let out a frustrated sigh, seeing through Steve's flimsy reasoning. "One good deed does not redeem a lifetime of crime. You'll get yourself killed one day."
"But not today," Steve mused, though he felt a pang of guilt at the grievous look Tommy aimed at him before shaking his head and wandering back toward the fort. Tommy did care about Steve, after all, in his own way.
There was a swell of cheery music from the direction of the fort, and Steve remembered there was a celebration he was meant to attend in his name. And then with a jolt, he realized he hadn't thought to check on Nancy after her fainting spell. She hadn't fallen from the battlements, but she'd collapsed all the same.
He hurried toward the fort on sore legs, since they took the brunt of his impact in the water, but then stopped, an odd black humor choking a laugh out of him. The ring he intended to give Nancy had sunk to the bottom of the harbor in the pocket of his horrid coat. He made haste once again, swiping a hand at his hair, which he was sure had dried with an unappealing swoop thanks to the salty water. But none of it mattered – his hair, a ring – so long as the one he loved was safe.