Page 43 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo

“Before what?” Sebastian queried alertly.

“Before everything. So many of the crew at that point were Oriental. We struck a bargain to cross the Pacific,because I couldn’t turn the boat around, myself. We were to dock at a central point from which most of the crew could disseminate to their respective nations with their share of the gold.”

His hands curled, clawing through his hair in a shockingly affected gesture. “All we wanted was to gohome,” he repeated. “And someone always tried to stop us, to delay us, to capture or to kill us. The Japanese, the Chinese, Russians, Indians, Algerians, Spanish. The French, of course, as we had one of their ships. AndGod,the Prussians. What a brutal lot they are. It’s why I fought so hard in the beginning, so fiercely, because the entireworldstood between me and… and a promise I made very long ago.

“I could scarce believe how fucking crowded the oceans are. We were all of us so angry. So tired of being treated like animals, of having everything taken from us, that we began to take back. It seemed we were at war with every ship we came across, and I decided early on that I’d never start a war I didn’t win.”

“And so you haven’t.”

“But at what cost?”

Now there was a heavy question.

“They all asked for my name. Every man I recruited, assisted, or executed. They wanted someone to follow, or to curse, or to brag about capturing or killing. And so… I gave them one. And before I ever made it back to my own country, I’d become the Rook.” He made a caustic sound. “No one even knows why.”

“I always assumed it was because ravens are rather ghastly creatures. Harbingers of death and all that.” Knowing his captain’s affinity for chess, Sebastian posited, “I suppose it could be because rooks are considered more powerful than bishops or knights, let alone pawns. They can exert control in every square along his charted course.”

A dark gaze darted at him, and then away. “I value your unique perspective, Moncrieff, I always have.”

Grimacing, the first mate shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Don’t compliment me, I don’t like it.”

“Good, because I was about to tell you how incredibly wrong you are.”

“I don’t like that, either.” He didn’t like any of this. It unsettled him, made him believe thatthisstorm was blowing in a transformation, one to be wary of. “The men are restless, Captain. They don’t like women on the ship.”

“They won’t remain so for long.”

To which “they” did he refer? The restless crew? Or the women on the ship? Figuring he’d exhausted the Rook’s stores of good nature, along with the bottle of Scotch, he stood.

“We’re sailing north, I see. Are we to resume our search of the rivers?”

The Rook gestured in the negative. “We’re headed for the Isle of Mull.”

Moncrieff’s tongue froze on its quest for the last drop of butter-gold liquid from the bottle. “But… We’ve been there already. We’ve searched the western coast. None of the rivers—”

The Rook stood, the look in his eyes subtracting several years from Moncrieff’s life span. “Are you questioning me, Bastian?”

Much like a chiding parent, the captain only used his name when displeased.

“I just… need something to tell the men.”

“You tell them I gave them an order. That is all that ever needs telling.”

Though the Rook’s words irked him, he was not so drunk yet as to be suicidal. “Aye, Captain,” he muttered as he turned toward the narrow hall to his cabin.

He left the Rook staring at his forearm, running nonsensical patterns on the half-ruined tattoo.

A ground-shaking revelation followed Moncrieff all the way back to his bunk, where no amount of Scotch could settle him.

The Rook was no god. No monster. No legend. He was… just a man. And a man had vices. Feelings.

Weaknesses.

All this time, had Lorelai Weatherstoke been the Rook’s one weakness? Did she have in her small, elegant hand the one thing the whole world feared didn’t exist?

The Rook’s fabled heart.

If so, she’d just become the most dangerous woman in the world.