Chapter Text
Chapter Six – Bonds Forged
09 November 1707 The Walrus, One Day northeast from the Ragged Islands
The hammocks swayed with the roll of the sea. Sarah hadn’t slept well, even though she was bone tired after her first day aboard. When she’d reached Muldoon and Joji last night, the former had been fast asleep, and the silent man had simply pointed to the hammock strung between his and another empty berth.
She’d made herself comfortable facing Joji. She couldn’t cope with seeing Logan again—the rejection, the disgust. She’d heard him come down to their sleeping quarters not long after she’d clambered into her own. Heard him kick off his boots, then the soft squeak of the hammock ropes threading through the iron cleats as he lay down. A gruff sigh escaped him.
In the pale light of dawn breaking through the grates above, she’d seen her seabag tucked into the bulkhead atop a sea chest. She pulled herself quietly from the hammock, her bare feet silent as she padded across the deck.
From the small bundle of possessions she’d brought aboard, she took the lavender soap wrapped in canvas and a clean shirt, then making her way up to the main deck.
The ship was still hushed, just a short time past the second bell of the morning watch. A few of the sparse crew moved about the deck, shadows in the dim light. None acknowledged her. She spotted Mr. Gates at the helm—Randall must have taken first watch, and Gates had relieved him.
She crossed to him, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the watch or any sleeping crew.
“Good morning, Mr. Gates,” she said. “I wondered if there was a pail I might use to heft up some water—to bathe.”
He held the helm steady with one hand and pointed to the larboard side, where a bucket hung from the railing. “Use that one there, lass—the one the captain uses.”
She smiled her thanks and made her way over, unhooking the pail. She lowered it gently into the sea, careful not to let it scrape the hull and rouse any light sleepers who might think someone was scaling the ship.
She set the bucket on the deck and knelt beside it. Her clean shirt she laid neatly at her side. With quiet hands, she untucked the white linen one she wore. Unwrapping the lavender soap, she dunked it into the bucket, then washed her face and hands first, the salt stinging the cut on her palm where she must have nicked herself yesterday.
Returning to the bucket, she brought it beneath her shirt to clean her body—quickly, silently.
A glance around the deck showed only Mr. Gates at the helm. He seemed to be giving her privacy, eyes fixed straight ahead.
She unfolded the clean shirt and laid it across her lap. In one swift motion, she pulled the worn shirt over her head, patted her damp skin dry, and held the old shirt across her chest as she slipped into the fresh one.
The dirty shirt went into the pail. She gave it a brisk scrub, wrung it out, then stood and tipped the bucket over the side. She tucked the clean shirt into her breeches, gave the wet one a final shake over the rail, then wrapped the soap back in its canvas and padded below to stow her things.
Still barefoot when she reached the berth deck, she saw some of the crew beginning to stir. In the aft corner where she’d been tucked the night before, Joji was already up, reattaching his curved blade to his waistband with practiced ease. Muldoon was still snoring; one arm flung over his face.
Logan was awake, though. He sat on the edge of his hammock, legs dangling, rubbing his face with a large, calloused hand.
Both he and Joji looked up as she approached. The latter gave her a small bow, just as he had the day before. When he straightened, he passed her without a word, heading up to the deck.
Logan hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
“Wondered where you’d gone off to so early,” he said, voice thick with sleep. His gaze dropped to the wet shirt in her hands. “You can hang that in the armoury with me today, if you like. Heat’ll dry it out.”
She looked down at the dripping linen. “Please. That would be helpful.”
He nodded and rose from the hammock, stretching with a yawn. His shirt lifted as he did, revealing the taut lines of his stomach and a dusting of hair that disappeared below his waistband.
Thankfully, his eyes were still closed—and missed the pink that bloomed across her cheeks.
She bustled over to her seabag, tucking the wrapped soap back into its place. Then, leaning on the sea chest for balance, she pulled her boots on over bare feet, the leather stiff from salt and wear.
Logan followed suit, tugging on his own boots before stepping toward her. He stopped just in front of her, and her eyes widened, unsure what he meant to say. But his gaze flicked past her.
“You mind? Need into that chest you’re leanin’ on.”
“Oh—yes, of course,” she said, flustered. She stepped aside, watching as he lifted her seabag off the lid and opened the chest.
He pulled out a leather waistcoat and apron, shrugging the former on over his long-sleeved cotton shirt. Then he fastened a wide leather belt around his waist, the buckle catching the light. The apron followed, tied snug at his hips—ready for a day at the forge.
Before closing the lid, he glanced down at her seabag resting on the floor.
“Want me to put your seabag in my chest?” he asked. “Safer than leavin’ it out. No one’d have the balls to go rakin’ through my things.”
She glanced at the bag. “If it wouldn’t be much trouble? I don’t want to bother you every time I need something from it.”
He sighed but lifted the bag all the same. “Not trouble. It’ll fit, and you can get in whenever you need. Just ask and I’ll give you the key. I leave it open when we’re down here—easier if we get in a fray while in our kip. Only lock it in the day, when you don’t know who’s slinkin’ about.”
She tugged at the wet shirt in her hands. “Thank you. Aren’t you worried I’ll go through your belongings?”
He shut the lid—not quietly. “No. Trust you.”
He didn’t look at her as he said it. Didn’t look at her at all after that. He simply took the linen from her hands and turned, heading up to the gun deck—leaving her alone with her thoughts, and the quiet confusion they stirred.
She was shaded from the mid-morning November sun as she sat on her sail bench. Earlier, she’d spoken with Mr. Gates before he went to rest after the morning watch. She was confident they had all the canvas cut from the bolts of sailcloth for the mains’l, but there wasn’t one sewn and reinforced in the hold—not if the one currently rigged were to be torn in a blow or shredded in battle.
Gates had agreed with her: that should be her priority.
They could manage without the tops’ls or t’gallants for a time, even without the sails on the foremast or mizzen. She could patch or replace those quicker. But if the mains’l on the mainmast gave out, they’d be well and truly fucked.
She’d had a couple of the rigging crew bring up two bolts of canvas—enough to work with, but not so much that she’d be underfoot. It meant she could stow it quickly if the deck needed clearing.
Sarah spread the sailcloth along the planks, the stiff fabric catching the breeze as she anchored it with her knees and a pair of sandbags. With her yardstick in hand, she marked the concave and convex curves of each broadcloth panel, careful to keep the lines true. Once stitched, the shape would give the sail its belly—enough to catch the wind without straining the spars.
She forced a basting stitch through the heavy canvas to hold the panels together, working steadily until the lengths were aligned. Then she shifted to her sail bench, settling in with the cloth draped across her lap. Her sail hook kept tension in the seam as she began the double-stitch that would turn raw canvas into sail.
No one bothered her while she worked—the crew too busy with their own tasks to take notice. She kept her focus on the sail, only glancing up once when she heard the door to the captain’s cabin creak open.
Flint stepped out, his gaze sweeping the deck in a slow, measured arc. He lingered a moment, unreadable as ever, then turned and disappeared back into his quarters without a word.
Engrossed in her work, Sarah jumped when the call rang out from the watch.
“Sail ho! Off the starboard bow!”
For a heartbeat, the deck held its breath. Then came the sudden clatter of boots hammering up the ladders and across the planks—men rushing to starboard, jostling for a glimpse of the distant sails.
“Out the way, you lot,” barked Randall, elbowing through the crowd as he raised his spyglass.
“Aye, sails alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Looks like a merchantman.”
The captain emerged at the announcement, his boots silent on the deck. Randall handed him the spyglass without a word as Flint stepped up to the rail, lifting it to his eye. His shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with care but not vanity—still neater than most aboard, but far from the polished officer he once was.
Flint lowered the spyglass, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried across the deck with quiet certainty.
“She’s heavy in the water—laden, likely sugar or tobacco. Wind’s with her, but she’s wallowing. No escort in sight.”
He turned to Randall, his tone sharpening.
“She’s ours if we’re quick. Bring us around to intercept—broad reach, keep her windward. We’ll run her down before she sights us proper.”
Then, almost to himself, he added, “No need to chase if you can herd.”
At those words, the crew sprang into motion. Randall barked orders to the rigging crew, sending them aloft to unfurl the t’gallants. The Sail Master, De Groot, relayed instructions to the bosun—keep the canvas safe, but trim it to their advantage.
Sarah began folding the canvas into her lap, careful not to be underfoot as the deck came alive around her. Lines were cast off, blocks creaked, and the ship leaned slightly as the sails caught the wind. She tucked her needle into her tool roll, eyes flicking toward the rail where Flint stood, still watching the horizon like a man reading a map only he could see.
As she rose to heave the canvas below and stow it away, a sudden gust caught the sails, tugging at the rigging and throwing her off balance. She stumbled, catching herself against the foremast beneath which her bench was set. As she steadied, she noticed a young crewman approaching—broad-shouldered, with strange markings on his skin. Healed brands, by the look of them, faded now and blending into his dark shoulders.
“Let me help you, ma’am. We’ll be battening down the orlop hatch as we ready the guns. We’ll get it below before it’s sealed.”
He didn’t wait for an answer—just hoisted the folded canvas onto his shoulder with practiced ease. She fell in step behind him.
“Thank you—ah?”
“Joshua, ma’am. Part of the vanguard. Help the gun crews when needed.”
“Well, thank you, Joshua. I appreciate it.”
“All one crew, ma’am. Gotta keep you safe. Or Mr. Gates’ll have my head.”
She laughed, surprised by his warmth. He was easy to talk to.
“Call me Sarah, Joshua. As you said—we’re all one crew.”
“Right ma—Sarah. Mr. Logan said to me when he sent me up that once we’ve got your canvas away, you’ve to go see him. Once we reach speed, Randall will go over our battle plan.”
She smiled, warmed by his easy manner—then blinked as his words pulled her back to the moment.
The thought of taking the prize didn’t frighten her the way it ought to. The idea that any one of them could die today—cut down by cannon or blade—would have left most women in hysterics. But Sarah had seen the cruelty of men. She had witnessed death. Been its hand.
No, what unsettled her now wasn’t the coming fight.
It was that Logan wanted to see her.
She swallowed down her fear and moved ahead, descending to the orlop deck as Joshua followed with the canvas slung over his shoulder. The air below was thick with salt and damp, the creak of the hull louder here, more intimate. She’d already cleared the small built-in workbench, once piled high with torn and sea-rotted sails, making space for urgent repairs or to keep her current work close at hand for when time allowed.
They laid the canvas on the bench. Joshua didn’t linger, already heading back up to the gun deck. Sarah checked the leather pouch buckled at her waist. Her sail palm was still strapped to her hand—worn smooth in places, but firm enough to drive a needle through canvas.
Inside the pouch, she kept the tools she trusted: a roll of waxed twine, a few heavy sail needles wrapped in oilcloth, beeswax, her shears and a small marlinspike. Tucked beside them were finer tailoring needles and a coil of linen thread—too delicate for sailcloth, but perfect for stitching clothes or, in a pinch, skin.
From the bundle of canvas piled beside the bench, she pulled a narrow roll of lighter cloth—closer to linen than duck—and tucked it under her arm. It was the kind of material that could be sewn quickly, used to patch a sail or bind a wound if need be.
She wasn’t a surgeon. But she knew her craft, and she could mend what she could.
Satisfied she was prepared, she made her way back up to the gun deck. As she rose out of the hatch, one of the gunner’s mates approached.
“We’ll be putting down the grate, but you’ll be able to get below once we’ve boarded the prize—get any duck you need for repairs.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. He and another young crewman hauled the grate into place over the hatch, securing it so no one would fall below during the fray.
With the lighter canvas still tucked under her arm, she turned toward the armoury, head held high, jaw taut.
When she stepped down into Logan’s workspace, his back was to her—just as it had been the day before while he worked the forge. But unlike yesterday, when he’d been mending a cutlass, today he was spreading out the embers and dousing them with sand to cool them. They couldn’t risk live flame now—not with powder charges being ferried back and forth between the armoury and the guns.
The hatch down to the stores was open again, and on his workbench lay a pair of flintlock pistols and a scatter of other weapons—half-cleaned, half-loaded, all ready to be hauled topside.
Biting her lip, she spoke. “Logan?”
He turned at her voice, brow low, jaw tight. He looked like a man with too many thoughts and not enough time.
“Good. You’re here.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it aside. “Stick close when it kicks off. Neither of us’ll be going over the top, but we’re to support the guns and drag the wounded out the way. You see someone bleeding out, don’t wait for orders—just move.”
He gave her a once-over, eyes flicking to the canvas under her arm.
“That for patchin’ sails or people?”
She glanced down at the duck, suddenly self-conscious. It felt foolish now—like she’d made the wrong call, like she’d overstepped by deciding on her own. The kind of choice she still wasn’t sure she was allowed to make.
“Either,” she said, voice low. “Thought best to bring it, in case it goes sideways.”
Logan placed his hands on his hips, nodding as she spoke.
“No, that’s good. Dr. Howell’ll be with whoever needs the most help. If you can patch ’em up while they wait, might save a good few men.”
She felt childish for the smile that spread across her face. Logan didn’t return it, but the tension in his brow eased, his jaw unclenching just slightly. He shook his head—more at himself than her—and turned back to the workbench.
With a flick of his fingers, he waved her over.
Standing beside him, she set the canvas down beside a sealed barrel near the bench. His hands hovered over the weapons laid out before him, fingers twitching as he weighed his options. He spoke while he made his decision, her eyes drawn from the calloused strength of his hands to the hard line of his jaw.
“Right—I said you won’t be boarding, but that’s not to say some of the prize crew won’t find their way onto the Walrus. You need to be ready.”
He paused, picking up a short knife still sheathed in worn leather.
Turning to face her, he stood close—close enough that if she’d been taller, they might’ve been nose to nose. But Logan towered over her by a full ten inches compared to her five-foot frame. She had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes.
Without asking, he reached for the buckle of her pouch belt.
Her eyes widened in surprise, arms lifting instinctively to catch his upper arms. He didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—his voice steady as he continued.
“You don’t need a long-range weapon. Just something for when some cunt from the other ship gets too close. You’re a woman—they’ll see that as an easy mark. Use it. Let ’em think you’re soft—then gut ’em.”
The sheath had a loop for threading onto a belt, which he handled with practiced ease. He tightened the buckle, securing it back around her waist. His hand slipped between the leather and her hip, tucking the knife into place.
Her cheeks warmed at the contact—unexpected, uninvited, but not unwelcome. It wasn’t the touch itself that flustered her, but the quiet certainty behind it. He wasn’t marking her. He wasn’t claiming her. He was arming her.
He wasn’t stepping in to protect her.
He was trusting her to protect herself.
And that, somehow, was more intimate than any touch.
More than anyone else had ever offered her.
Her father had protected her once—spirited her away from Hamburg after her mother’s death, only to marry her off to a man who did not protect her, but harmed her. A man who taught her, brutally, that no one else would keep her safe.
So she had learned to protect herself.
But this—this was different. Logan wasn’t shielding her. He wasn’t demanding her story or her silence. He was giving her space. A blade. A choice.
And in that, something long buried began to stir.
When he withdrew, the blade came with him—drawn in one smooth motion, as if to show her how easily it could be done.
And in a twisted sort of way, she felt it—relief. Shame curled in behind it, quick and sharp. She ought not feel grateful. Not for this. Not for being told to do the very thing she'd once been punished for.
But she was.
Logan didn’t know. He couldn’t. And yet here he was, pressing a blade into her hand and telling her to use it. Not to flee. Not to plead. But to stand her ground. To strike, if need be.
He wasn’t offering pity. He wasn’t asking questions. He was giving her leave to fight.
And that—that—was what unsettled her most. That it felt like something being returned to her. Something she hadn’t known she’d lost.
Logan, unaware of the storm behind her eyes, reached for her left hand—the sail palm still hooked over her thumb and strapped tight against her skin—and gently closed her fingers around the dagger’s hilt. His own hand settled over hers, broad and steady, guiding her grip.
He moved her arm with care, showing her the angle, the motion, the weight behind the strike.
“It’s a dagger,” he said. “Short, but sharp. Can do a hell of a lot of damage if you use it right.”
He pulled her arm—not harshly—until the blade touched his belly.
“Aim for here.” Using the tip as his guide, he dragged it lightly across his gut. “Then slice. And twist before you pull back.” He turned their joined hands a quarter turn.
She watched the motion, their hands moving as one. He watched her face, searching for disgust, for fear.
He found none.
When he made the pull-back motion, her gaze lifted to meet his. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, maybe—and it caught him off guard. A flash of surprise crossed his face before he cleared his throat, the air between them suddenly too thick.
“Do that, ’n’ you’ll survive.”
He let go of her slowly but didn’t step back.
She stood with the dagger between them for a moment, then looked down at the blade. Taking it in both hands, she turned it over, studying the edge.
“Just sharpened it this morning,” he said. “Won’t dull right away.”
She nodded and slid it back into its sheath with care.
A quiet, “Thank you,” followed.
“Yes, well—can’t have you dying on us.”
He finally stepped back, the space between them settling like a drawn breath. With a practiced motion, he unfastened his leather apron and set it aside—he had no need for it now.
Turning to the bench, he picked up a wide leather crossbelt and pulled it over his head, letting it fall diagonally across his chest. He slid his cutlass into the loop at his side, then reached for a pistol and tucked it into the belt at his waist—no holster, just the snug grip of worn leather and habit.
The noise from the crew swelled—boots on timber, shouted orders, the scrape of cannon wheels—and both turned toward the opening onto the gun deck. Muldoon peeked his head in.
“Randall’s starting you two.”
Logan gave a short nod. Sarah’s fingers brushed the hilt at her side, the weight of it suddenly very real.
They exchanged a glance before climbing the short steps and stepping out onto the deck.
Muldoon stood at the base of the ladder to the main deck, arms crossed, one foot resting on the bottom rail. Beside him, crates had been stacked tight against the bulkhead, out of the way of the guns. Some of the crew had begun to settle there, boots braced, eyes sharp.
Her sail bench had been brought down and now sat in front of them.
Logan used the bench to clamber up onto the crates, settling with his knees spread, elbows braced on them, the weight of unease etched back across his face.
Sarah drifted toward them, uncertain where to stand. She glanced over her shoulder at Randall, then at the rest of the crew filtering up from the berth deck.
A hand touched her elbow—light, but firm. She turned to find Logan, his fingers curling gently to guide her.
He gave a small tug, wordless but clear, drawing her toward the space between his knees. Toward her bench, where his boots now rested.
She sat down, her back straight, shoulders drawn in, arms tight to her sides. Her fingers curled around the edge of the bench, clutching the scuffed wood that was already becoming familiar. It was warm beneath her, but she was too tense to let the warmth settle in. Too aware of the eyes behind her. Too aware of the man above her, silent and still, his boots bracketing her hips like a promise—or a warning.
Muldoon murmured something to Logan, his voice low but audible over the rising chatter of the crew. Logan leaned in to reply, shifting forward—his arms, still braced between his knees, skimmed lightly across her back.
She turned to look at them. Muldoon was watching her as he listened, his expression unreadable. Her stomach tightened. Was Logan telling him what she’d confessed the night before?
She didn’t look away, even as Logan turned back around. The flicker of surprise on his face again said he hadn’t expected to find her watching.
Her pulse thudded in her throat. She didn’t know what Logan had said. She only knew the way Muldoon’s eyes lingered, and the way Logan’s didn’t.
“Right, you lot—fuckin’ listen up.”
Randall’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. She didn’t turn right away.
Logan’s hand slid over her shoulder—light, steady, grounding. The touch sent a shiver down her spine; one she tried to suppress.
Only then did she turn to face Randall.
“Sails’ve got good wind in ’em now,” he said. “We’ll likely catch up with the ship in about four hours, if we hold our seven and a half knots and the wind doesn’t shift. Don’t expect any trouble—hopefully they’ll strike colours when we show ours.”
His eyes swept across the crew, weighing them.
“If they don’t surrender, vanguard goes over the top first—then any other able-bodied man. Gunners stay on the cannons in case they try anything clever. Sarah, I need you watching the sails. Help the gunners with Logan, and Howell if there are any casualties.”
She gave a short nod.
“We’ll be able to catch up with her and avoid any awkward boardings. With how low she’s ridin’, we reckon they’ve traded gun space for cargo. All the more reason we want her to surrender.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crew.
“That’s it. Make sure you’re prepared—I don’t want to lose anyone today.”
Randall headed back up onto the main deck, and the crew began to disperse.
She turned to look at Logan and Muldoon, curiosity from Randall’s orders overtaking her earlier concerns.
Muldoon gave her a single nod—gruff, but not unkind. Logan was already watching her, his expression unreadable.
Around them, the crew began to move. Some with purpose. Some with glances.
One man—broad-shouldered, with a scar splitting his brow—lingered longer than the rest. His gaze slid from Sarah to Logan, then back again. Not hostile. Not quite. But measuring.
He spat on the deck and turned away.
Another muttered something under his breath as he passed. She didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable.
She kept her chin up; hands still curled around the edge of the bench. If they wanted to watch her, let them.
She’d been watched before.
But the heat in her cheeks lingered, and her pulse hadn’t quite settled. She needed something else to focus on—something solid, something useful.
She turned to Logan and Muldoon, her voice quieter than before. “What did he mean about awkward boarding?”
Logan didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on the man with the scar, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let it go.
Muldoon stepped in instead. “Aye—if you try boardin’ bow to midship, for example, it’s a bloody nightmare.”
“More like fuckin’ suicide,” Logan muttered, still watching the man’s retreating back.
“Exactly,” Muldoon said. “You’ve got to persuade her—the prize ship—to tack off course, give us a better angle. Bow chasers help with that, but if she’s got a heavy arsenal, they don’t do shit.”
“Hm. I see.” Sarah nodded slowly. The explanation made sense—brutal, but sound.
“Aye, now if you two excuse me,” Muldoon added, pushing off the crate, “got to go to the head before all the pussies start shittin’ themselves.”
His crudeness shouldn’t have shocked her, but she still felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.
Logan’s gaze lingered a moment longer. Then he exhaled through his nose and turned back to her. The tension hadn’t left him entirely, but it had shifted—tightened into something quieter, more focused.
“Ignore him,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Too open for his own good.”
She looked at him, her earlier nerves thundering back now that there were no more distractions.
Sarah shifted, turning so she could see him more clearly, her back resting against his booted calf.
“Before, when we sat down—you and Muldoon were talking.” She hesitated, then pushed the words out. “You didn’t tell him what I told you last night?”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “No,” he said, low and firm. “’Course not.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, searching for any flicker of doubt. There was none. Just the same steady presence he’d offered her in the dark, when the wind had been softer and the world quieter.
“I told you I’d listen,” he added, voice gentler now. “Not repeat.”
Sarah nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing by degrees. She looked away, blinking hard.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Logan shifted, his boot brushing lightly against her back. “You’re safe here, Sarah. Whatever’s behind you—that’s yours to carry how you choose.”
She didn’t answer, but the way her fingers loosened on the bench said enough.
Sarah stood in the entryway to the armoury as the vanguard readied themselves. Many had stripped off their shirts, streaking their skin with ash from the forge or smearing on white lime wash. Joshua, ever the spectacle, bared his sharpened false teeth—filed to points, grotesque and gleaming.
They looked fearsome now, but in the chaos of a boarding, she imagined they’d be something else entirely. Terrifying. Inhuman.
“Sarah?”
Logan’s voice, calling from behind, pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see his head poking out of the hatch below.
“You give me a hand?” he asked, already disappearing back into the armoury storage.
She followed, climbing down the ladder to find him waiting at the bottom. One hand rested on the hilt of his cutlass, the other scratched absently at his beard.
He looked—unexpectedly—bashful.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, keeping her tone casual. She glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place, and as far as she could tell, most of the crew was already armed.
Logan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to hers, then away again.
“Needed to speak to you without the others listenin’.” He looked back at her. “You didn’t give me a chance to say last night, and I’m not askin’ you to tell me everything. But you bein’ from Hamburg—and Jewish—that doesn’t matter to me. It’s just part of you.”
He shifted his weight, hand still resting on the hilt of his cutlass.
“Like I said earlier—I’ll listen. And I won’t tell. That still stands.”
“I…” She started, then stopped. Her gaze dropped as she picked at the seam of her belt.
“I want to tell you. I do. I just cannot—not yet. That does not mean I will not, only that I will, when I am ready.”
Logan gave a small nod, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he stepped forward, just enough to close the space between them without crowding her.
“I’ll be here,” he said simply. “When you are.”
He looked down at her hand where she had removed her sail palm. She shifted, and the cuff of her sleeve slipped just enough to reveal the edge of a scar—raised, puckered, unmistakably deliberate. A single letter, half-hidden.
Logan’s eyes caught on it. His brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
She froze.
He stepped even closer before he could stop himself, reaching for her wrist.
“Is that—?”
She jerked her hand back; sleeve yanked down in one swift motion. “Don’t.”
The word wasn’t loud, but it landed like a slap.
Logan blinked. His jaw tightened—but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stepped back, hands open at his sides.
“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she said, voice low. “But please don’t.”
He didn’t press. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t demand an answer or twist her words into something else.
He just stepped back.
And for a moment, Sarah could only stare—because no man ever had.
Then Logan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Okay.”
He nodded toward the iron runners stacked behind her. “Help me get enough charges up there before Muldoon starts shoutin’.”
Sarah and Logan had worked side by side in silence, assisting the gunners as they prepared. The last task had been to arm the rest of the crew for going over the top. Logan handled that. Sarah climbed above deck to inspect the sails for faults or weak points, Randall walking beside her.
She didn’t speak—just moved with purpose, eyes sharp, fingers brushing canvas and rope. The workmanship displeased her. Sloppy stitching. Uneven tension. But they would hold. They had to.
Later, when time allowed, she would see to it that every sail aboard the Walrus—rigged or spare— was made of the toughest cloth in the Bahamas.
Randall barked orders to the riggers as they moved together along the lines, his voice sharp and sure. Sarah said nothing. She didn’t need to.
In the four hours since Randall had rallied the crew—his voice pitched to stir courage more than command—they’d closed steadily on the merchant vessel. The wind had held, the sea had stayed kind, and now the prize loomed on the horizon: fat, slow, and blissfully unaware.
The Walrus creaked with tension. Lines were coiled, blades checked, pistols loaded. The gunners had their charges stacked and ready, and the boarding party waited like hounds on a leash.
Sarah moved among the rigging with practiced ease, her eyes scanning for frays, her hands testing knots. She barely heard Randall beside her, still commanding the crew to his will. They couldn’t afford to lose the wind now—not with the prize within reach. Her mind was elsewhere—half in the sails, half in the armoury, four hours ago.
She hadn’t meant to show him the brand. Hadn’t meant to say please.
But he’d stopped. Just stopped.
And that, she thought, was harder to forget than anything else.
Mr. Gates hollered something from the quarterdeck—words she didn’t catch. Randall tapped her arm.
“Go below now lass, be mindful of the guns and stick with Logan. He’ll keep you straight and true. Prize has caught sight of us now, if we need you to mend, we’ll call on ye.”
Sarah blinked, pulled from her thoughts by the tap on her arm. She nodded once, sharp and silent, and turned toward the hatch.
The deck beneath her boots thrummed with tension. Voices rose and fell—orders, curses, prayers. Somewhere aft, the gunners were already shifting into position, the scent of powder thickening in the air.
She walked past Muldoon, crouched beside one of the guns. The vanguard waited, half-hidden behind the gunwale on the main deck, others ready to mount the ladder the moment Gates gave the order.
Logan was just inside the door of the armoury.
When she reached him, they stood face to face for a beat. Then he shifted sideways, cupped her shoulder, and gently guided her inside behind him.
Neither spoke. Logan checked the flint on his pistol. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Above, the crew had fallen into a deadly hush, waiting for orders.
Logan turned slightly toward her.
“Gates says they haven’t surrendered. Be on your guard. Wouldn’t be the first—or the last—time we’ve misjudged a merchant crew and what they’re capable of.”
“Okay,” she said, swallowing.
“The vanguard’ll throw over firepots—enough to cause distraction and confusion while they hook on the grapplin’ lines. Keeps her from sailing off without us. They’ll open the gunports—get some of our crew below deck to strike from underneath while the rest come in from above.”
Randall’s voice rang out from above. Sarah and Logan looked up toward the deckhead.
Moments later, the firepots hit—clay shattering against the prize ship with dull, echoing thuds.
The crew held their breath, listening.
Then came the pop of muskets—sharp, close. The merchant crew would not go down without a fight.
It didn’t stop the grappling lines. Hooks flew, biting into the prize’s bulwark.
As the lines pulled taut, the Walrus shuddered. Hull met hull with a groan of timber and iron.
Another command rang out. The vanguard surged over the gunwale—and the clash of cutlasses followed at once.
The moment the main deck was cleared, the next wave went up the ladders. Below, the gun crews swung open the ports. Some clambered through the merchant ship’s gunports, others scaling the netting hooked on for them.
With the last of the boarding crew gone, the gunners stood ready—waiting for the call of “Two, six, heave!” if it came to that.
Logan drew his cutlass. His grip tightened around the leather hilt, shoulders squaring. Every part of him radiated menace—calculated, deliberate, and ready.
He stepped forward just enough to watch the gunports—and the deck above—for any deserters or overzealous merchant crew.
Sarah followed his steps, staying just behind him, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger.
She could hear the screams and grunts from the other ship. Metal rang against metal, slicing through the steady slap of waves against the hulls.
She didn’t know how the fight was faring, but took it as a good sign the captain and quartermaster hadn’t ordered the ship sunk.
A splash to her right—someone or something overboard. It didn’t draw Logan’s attention as he moved further along the gun deck.
Movement near the splash caught her eye. The gunport just ahead of her—but behind him—wasn’t as heavily manned as the others. A weak link the enemy had clearly noticed.
A man rushed through the port, heading straight for the armourer.
“Christopher!” she shouted—but her body moved before her voice.
The dagger beneath her hand was already in motion. In a blink, it was unsheathed—and buried beneath the man’s ribs, stopping him cold.
The sound of a name so rarely used made Logan whirl around, eyes wide with alarm.
But he had nothing to fear—the only woman aboard had just saved his life. The only one to shout, to act, while the rest stood frozen.
The man staggered back off her blade. He made as if to lunge again—took one step, then another—but dropped to his knees before the third.
She stared at Logan. He saw no remorse in her eyes—only relief—as she stood, still poised, the sailor’s blood dripping thick and red from her dagger.
Sarah had killed for him. Without hesitation. But he knew now wasn’t the time to ponder it.
“Right, you bunch of bastards—you’re meant to be manning those gunports, not standing lookin’ pretty. Good job Sarah’s got some gumption, or I’d be dead,” he roared, whipping back around.
The fury of almost—literally—being stabbed in the back drove him. And it clearly lit a fire under the gun crews.
The men meant to guard the port the attacker had slipped through scrambled back into position, shame-faced as whipped pigs.
Sarah bent to wipe the blood from her dagger on the downed man’s shirt. She didn’t sheath it—just kept it tight in her fist, eyes scanning the gunports for any who dared try again.
Logan paced the gun deck, ready for a fight—or the order to blow the bitch up.
It felt like forever. Then, at last, the call came from Mr. Gates: stand down.
She heard the gangways being dragged onto the bulwark, laid across to let the crew haul their spoils back to the Walrus.
Voices followed. Footsteps. She saw some of the crew return, stomping down to the gun deck—soaked in sweat, blood, and fuck knew what else.
Randall appeared in her line of sight on the main deck.
“Sarah, got some canvas that could use your expertise on.”
He didn’t need to say more. She was already moving toward him.
She slid her dagger back into its sheath at her waist. Randall stood at the gangway, hand extended.
Sarah grabbed it without a thought and hauled herself up, then made the shuddering passage across to the prize ship. Joji stood guard on the other side; he offered a steadying arm as she jumped down.
She waited for no further instructions. Instead, she headed below—down through the hatches to the hold, where the canvas was likely kept.
She passed the surviving crew of the merchant ship—those who had surrendered—now watched over by her own crewmates. Silent, bruised, bloodied. The air was thick with sweat, salt, and the sour tang of fear.
Toward the aft, a door stood open where goods were being hauled out. She stepped through into the dim, crowded space beyond, where the crew were already tearing into crates, chests, and canvas bags.
Gates stood ahead.
“Mr. Gates,” she called. “Randall says there’s canvas that requires my eye.”
“That there is. This way.”
He led her deeper into the hold, weaving between crates and barrels until he stopped beside a stack of bundled cloth.
“No sail room,” he said, nudging one with his boot. “But this lot comes close enough.”
Sarah crouched, fingers brushing the edge of the bundle. The weave was tight, the fibres dense and clean. She tugged at a corner and let the fabric run through her hands—stiff, unweathered, untouched by salt or sun.
“Duck canvas,” she murmured. “Raw.”
That word alone made her pause. Most canvas they came across had to be stripped from rigging—patched, sun-bleached, half-rotted. This was different. Virgin sailcloth. The kind you rarely saw unless you were outfitting a ship fresh from the yard.
She looked up at Gates. “Where’d they get this?”
He shrugged. “Manifest says Havana. Bound for Bristol.”
Sarah exhaled slowly, already calculating how many sails she could cut from the stack. Enough to replace the worst of the Walrus’s mainsail, maybe even a spare tops’l.
“Randall’ll be pleased,” she said, but her voice was low, reverent. This was a find.
“Can we take it all?” she asked. “It’d outfit near the whole mainmast. Would see us through a good few squalls come storm season.”
“’S why I had Randall fetch you, lass. You’re the sailmaker. You take what you need. If you think the ship needs all of it, we’ll take the lot.”
She nodded, eyes on the canvas. She still wasn’t used to a man taking her word as it came—relying on her expertise instead of second-guessing it or claiming they knew better.
Mr. Gates watched her a moment as she thought. Then he spotted one of the crew passing by with a sack slung over his shoulder.
“Froom,” he called, “go find Randall. Tell him to come below—and bring a few hefty lads with him. Sailmaker needs all this canvas moved to the orlop on the Walrus.”
The young pirate nodded and disappeared up the ladder, boots thudding against the rungs as he climbed.
Sarah remained where she was, fingers still brushing the edge of the canvas bundle. The hold was thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and old wood. Around her, the crew continued their work—grunting, cursing, prying open crates with the reverence of treasure hunters and the urgency of thieves.
It wasn’t long before the sound of heavy steps echoed down the hatchway.
Randall appeared first, ducking through the low beam with a grunt, followed by three broad-shouldered crewmen who looked like they could carry the Walrus herself if asked.
“Hal,” he said in greeting to the quartermaster. “Sarah happy with what we found then?”
“Aye, that she is. Wants the lot of it. Should be able to nearly get all new sails for the mainmast out of it.”
“Fuckin’ hell, that’d do us a good service then.” The gruff man nodded, glancing at Sarah. “Right, lads—you heard ‘em. We’re taking the lot. Sarah’ll show you where she wants it stowed.”
No complaints came from the three men. She walked ahead of them once they had a good few bolts of canvas slung over their shoulders.
Joji helped her back onto the gangway, steadying her as she crossed—but no one waited to greet her on the other side.
She made her way down to the gun deck, where the hatch to the orlop was still closed. Two of the men set down their loads to haul it open. She descended the steep steps, the third man following close behind with his bundle.
She showed him where to set it, then turned to help as he reached up, taking the duck being passed down from above. One of the others had already returned to the prize ship to fetch the remaining bolts.
They all knew time was tight. Stripping the prize and getting underway wasn’t just routine—it was survival.
The rest of the canvas came quickly. Once it was stowed, they headed topside.
Sarah returned to the main deck, eyes already scanning the rigging. She moved with purpose, checking the sails—looking for any sabotage that might’ve slipped through during the fight. A frayed line, a loosened cleat, a knife nick in the canvas—any one of them could spell disaster once they were underway.
Randall joined her by the time she was inspecting the mizzenmast, having seen nothing amiss with the fore and main.
“Riggin’ crew say they see no fault with the cables nor line. What say you, Sarah?”
“Can’t say I’ve found aught—yet. But it pays to be cautious.”
He gave a dry chuckle. He’d always favoured crew who took charge of their trade. Sailmakers they’d had before would’ve taken the riggers at their word. Wasn’t uncommon to find themselves in a mad scramble to patch a sail before a blow—all for a nick in the canvas gone unnoticed.
She finished her inspection of the mizzen with Randall at her side. As the rigging crew had claimed, there were no issues; their word held true.
Before they parted, Randall stopped her.
“Hear we’ve you to thank for still havin’ an armourer.”
Sarah paused. She hadn’t thought much on the matter since it happened. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought at all—she’d simply acted. And she did not regret it.
“No thanks needed. Wasn’t about to let a man be stabbed in the back. I’d’ve done the same for any of them.”
“I believe you, lass,” the Bosun said, though a grin tugged at his face. “All the same—thank you for standin’ by Logan, when it seems no one else did.”
She didn’t know what to do with the gratitude. So, she nodded and slipped away before more could be said.
Sarah passed the gangway as more crew returned with their spoils. One man balanced a pair of casks atop a crate. She stepped in and took them from him without a word.
“Thanks,” the man grunted, relieved of the load.
She glanced at him, brow raised.
“’S powder,” he added, answering the question in her eyes. “Needs to go to Logan.”
She turned on her heel and made for the armoury. The casks were heavy, and she was grateful when Joshua—just about to head up to the deck—paused at the bottom of the steps and took one from her.
She masked her relief as best she could when the burden eased.
“It’s for Logan,” was all she said, then continued aft along the gun deck.
Logan wasn’t in the room when they entered, though the hatch stood open. Joshua set his cask down and returned to the prize ship.
Sarah, still carrying hers, hefted it up onto her shoulder to free one hand as she descended to store the powder.
The cask blocked her view. It wasn’t until she lowered it to the floor and straightened that she realised Logan was standing right in front of her.
She jumped and let out a sharp yelp, startled by his sudden appearance.
“Forgive me,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I reckoned you’d heard me below.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “No harm done. I ought’ve known you were about."
“What’ve you brought me then?”
“Powder. There’s another keg up top—I couldn’t carry both.”
He nodded, the dim light making it hard for her to see much beyond the outline of his face. Logan stepped closer, resting a hand on the ladder. The light through the open hatch caught his features just enough for her to make them out.
He was close. Too close.
She stepped back instinctively, her shoulders brushing the very ladder she’d just descended.
Logan looked at her—his expression unreadable—as his gaze drifted downward. To the hand that bore the brand he’d nearly seen, to the breeches her sister had salvaged, and at last to her well-worn boots.
He cleared his throat, though his gaze stayed low.
“You stood for me earlier. I’d not be breathin’ now, had you not.”
His voice was rough, but there were no sharp edges to it.
She dropped her gaze, scuffing the toe of her boot against a knot in the deck where the wood had risen. Said nothing.
A beat passed. Then—
“You called me Christopher.”
Her head lifted, eyes meeting his.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.
“Don’t reckon I’ve heard that name from anyone’s lips in years. Least of all like that.”
There was something in his voice—quiet, low, not quite steady. Not accusation. Not gratitude. Something else.
He looked at her then, properly. And for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the powder she’d carried.
“Had to get your attention. Couldn’t let him kill you, not when—” She closed her mouth. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew she couldn’t say it.
He watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
“Not when what?” he asked, voice low.
She shook her head, a breath catching in her throat. “It doesn't matter.”
He stepped in—not close enough to touch, but close enough she could feel the weight of him.
“Yes, it does,” he said, softer now. “You said my name like it meant somethin’. Like it weren’t just a word to shout across a fight.”
She swallowed, but said nothing.
“I’d near forgot how it sounded,” he added, gaze dropping to the floor between them. “Didn’t think I missed it. ’Til you said it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything neither of them dared speak.
“I can’t, Logan.”
Her voice cracked on the words. Guilt twisted in her gut, sharp as a blade. She couldn’t name what gnawed at her—couldn’t even look it full in the face. And she sure as hell couldn’t hand it to the man who’d stirred it loose.
He didn’t move. Didn’t press.
But his voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
“I never asked you to.”
She looked up, startled by the softness in it.
“I know what this is,” he said. “And I know what it ain’t.”
He stepped back then, just enough to give her breath.
“But you said my name like it meant somethin’. That’s enough for now.”
Then, with a nod that was more farewell than dismissal, he turned and climbed the ladder, boots thudding softly against the rungs, until the light swallowed him whole.
She stood motionless, heart thudding in her chest. Her eyes stung.
She was too overwhelmed—for what was being dragged to the surface, and for his understanding. Far too understanding. He hadn’t pushed. Not once. Hadn’t taken her voice, hadn’t demanded her truth. He’d left it in her hands, where it belonged.
But with the relief came something darker, hauled up from the depths like wreckage from a storm.
The man before—he would’ve demanded her thoughts, pried them loose with threats or silence, twisted her words until they were no longer hers. Every choice, every breath, had belonged to him. She’d lived in the shadow of his will, her own voice buried so deep she’d near forgotten its shape.
And now here was Logan, standing in that same shadowed space—and doing none of it.
He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t reached. Hadn’t tried to take what she wasn’t ready to give.
He’d left it in her hands.
She sank to the floor, sliding down the bulkhead just beside the ladder, her shoulder brushing the rung as she went. Knees drawn tight to her chest. Her cheeks were wet—she couldn’t say when the tears had started. Her breath came shallow, caught between the thrum of her heart and the war in her mind: instinct clawing to retreat, to hide, to obey; something newer, rawer, refusing to yield.
She didn’t hear the boots on the ladder. Not until a rough hand closed gently around hers—still clenched white against her knees.
Her eyes snapped up, wide with shock.
Muldoon.
He crouched beside her, brow furrowed, his grip firm but not unkind.
“Easy now,” he said, voice low. “You’re all right, Sarah.”
She tried to pull a breath, but it caught in her throat, and a sob broke loose before she could stop it.
“Shh, shh—you’re okay.”
He didn’t hush her like a man afraid of noise. He said it like a promise. Like he’d sit there all night if that’s what it took.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to will herself still, but the tremble in her shoulders betrayed her. Muldoon didn’t let go. Just shifted to sit beside her, back against the bulkhead, his hand still wrapped around hers.
They stayed like that for a long while. No questions. No demands. Just the creak of the ship and the quiet rhythm of breath slowly finding its way back.
When her sobs eased to hiccups, he spoke—quiet, restrained.
“Knew I was different from when I was a lad.”
Sarah didn’t lift her head, but she stilled. He leaned back against the wall, letting the moment settle.
“Didn’t have a name for it then. Just knew I looked at boys the way I was told I ought to look at girls. Knew it weren’t safe to say so.”
He let the silence stretch—not to fill it, but to give it space.
“Joined the navy thinkin’ I could outrun it. Thought maybe the sea’d wash it out of me. But it don’t work like that. You can’t scrub off what’s stitched into your bones.”
She turned her face slightly, just enough to glance at him.
“They found out,” he said simply. “Didn’t matter how. Just that they did. I ran. Been runnin’ ever since.”
His voice didn’t tremble, but it was soft with memory. Not shame—just the weight of it.
“I don’t tell you this for pity. And I’m not sayin’ it’s the same as what you’ve carried. But I know what it is to live with a thing you didn’t ask for. To be hurt by someone who thought they had the right.”
He looked at her then, eyes steady.
“And I know Logan. He’s rough, sure. But he’s not cruel. Not to you. I see the way he looks at you, Sarah. Like you’re the first thing that’s made him want to stay.”
Her breath caught.
Muldoon gave a small, crooked smile. “He knows my truth. Knew it before we ever set foot on this ship. I told him straight—told him I liked cock, told him what I’d done, what I’d run from. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his back. Just said, ‘Well, now I know not to bunk next to you.’ Then handed me a bottle and asked if I snored.”
He gave a soft chuckle, more breath than sound.
“That’s the kind of man he is. He don’t scare easy. And he don’t run.”
He let that settle, then added, quieter, “So if you’re carryin’ somethin’ you think’ll make him turn cruel, it won’t.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“You don’t owe him anything. Or me. But if you ever need someone to talk to—someone who knows what it is to carry a secret like a stone in your gut—I’m here. No judgment. No questions.”
He leaned back again, letting the moment breathe.
“’Sides,” he added, voice lightening just a touch, “I’m not much for ladders anyway. Gives me an excuse to sit a spell.”
She leaned into him slightly, resting her head on his shoulder. Her tears were finally at bay, just the occasional stutter of her breath.
“My husband. He was a bastard,” she said at last.
“Then,” her throat clenched around the word, as if her body itself resisted letting it out, “then he took the last thing that would’ve been any light in my life.”
She stopped there. But she knew it was enough. One day, she might tell him the full story. But for now, this was all she could manage.
Muldoon didn’t speak right away. Just gave her hand another small squeeze, steady and sure.
“You’ve said enough,” he murmured. “More than enough.”
He let the words settle, then added, softer still, “And if ever you want to say more—well, I’ll be here. You’ve got my ear, no matter the hour.”
Sarah nodded, her head still resting on his shoulder. The silence between them was no longer heavy. Just full.
But after a moment, Muldoon shifted, casting a glance toward the ladder.
“Hate to break the spell,” he said, voice low, “but we are still in the middle of takin’ a prize. And if the crew starts wonderin’ where we’ve gone, we might find ourselves in a different kind of trouble.”
He looked down at her, one brow raised. “You up for a bit of pretending we were just checkin’ the powder stores?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. It didn’t quite reach her eyes—but it was there. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, breath steadier now. The tears had dried, but the ache lingered—dull and deep.
“Come on then,” he said, rising with a grunt and offering her his hand. “Let’s not give the crew reason to think we’ve eloped.”
She managed the faintest huff of a laugh, then followed him up.
The armoury was quiet when they emerged—dimly lit, the scent of oil and powder thick in the air. Logan stood at his workbench checking a flintlock, but his hands were still. He wasn’t working. Just staring at the weapon like it might offer answers.
He looked up at the sound of boots on the deck.
His eyes went straight to Sarah.
And froze.
She saw the shift in him—first concern, then something darker. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. Fury flickered behind his eyes, sharp and sudden.
Muldoon stepped in, calm as ever. Placing an arm around his shoulders and patting his chest.
“She’s all right,” he said, voice even. “No one needs the shit kicked out of them.”
Logan didn’t speak, but his gaze stayed locked on Sarah’s face, reading every trace of what had passed.
Muldoon looked back at her, “she just needed a moment. That’s all.”
A long pause.
“’m okay,” Sarah managed to croak out.
But the words felt thin, brittle. Seeing Logan like that—tense, jaw clenched, eyes burning with the kind of rage that only came from care—it rattled her more than anything she’d just relived in the hold.
That someone might hurt her, and he’d look like that?
She couldn’t bear it.
Not because she feared him. But because the thought of him hurting—because of her—twisted something deep in her chest. Something she didn’t have a name for. Not yet.
She’d spent so long learning to survive indifference, cruelty, control. But this—this fierce, wordless care—was something else entirely. And it scared her more than anything.
Then Logan gave a single, stiff nod. The tension didn’t leave him, but it settled—coiled now, instead of flaring.
And she met his eyes. For the first time, didn’t look away.