Page 2 of Valour

Septimus sat on the rumpled quilt of the bed with an ankle crossed over his knee, all bristling muscle and sapphire-blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow. His black hair was tied back, a short beard framing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the skin of which bore a deep golden tan. He stood, the bed groaning, and pushed up his shirt sleeves to reveal tattooed forearms.

Hester leant against the doorframe. How had she doubted he’d come after her? Of course he would. She was especially impressed that he’d broken into her cabin. “Septimus!” She feigned surprise. “How did you manage to⁠—"

“Get here before you? I know some shortcuts. And I’m not three sheets to the wind. Now. You owe me…” Quick as a hurricane, he took a bar tab from his trouser pocket and stabbed it to the wall next to her dressing table with a knife, “seventy-five gold coins.”

Hester narrowed her eyes, shoving her hands into her belt. She had expected a verbal back and forth, not for him to stab her pride and joy. Through her teeth she said, “It’s a funny old thing, Septimus, but I don’t have that amount of coin just lying around. I’m sure you understand.” She was certain he did not.

Septimus took a step forwards, his muscular frame dwarfing her. “I want my money back. By Friday.”

Hester stood her ground, pushing away from the doorframe. “Friday,” she repeated. If he wanted to play the game this way, she would retaliate in kind. At a moment he least expected. A coy smile crept over her features as she imagined ways to pay him back for the knife in the wall. Oh, so many options.

“You are insufferable, Hester.” He stepped closer, face like thunder.

She scoffed and folded her arms. “Just because you’re used to everyone cowering in your presence, Pirate Lord.” It was true, he ruled over the captains with an iron fist. One missed Guild payment and you were out, no second chances. Little did he know they all collaborated in secret to ensure that never happened.

“You might live longer if you had the sense to fear me.”

That old chestnut. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Is that a threat? I fear nothing and no one. Not even you.” No, she was not afraid of this man. Not after all she’d been through in her twenty-three years. What could he do that was worse than she had already faced? He was only five years her senior, yet acted like she was a child.

Septimus closed the small gap between them, a lock of dark hair falling from its tie. “Some say you’re a witch. Surely you’re afraid of the stake? One word from me, and you would be burning.”

She laughed. He was pulling out all the stops today. His threats were as empty as her coin purse. “A witch! I’d have turned you into a toad long ago if that were true, my lord. You do realise witches aren’t real? Oh—to be a witch, wouldn’t that be fine?” Hester fixed an insolent grin to her face. Who had said she was a witch? She wasn’t aware of any such rumours. He was trying to scare her, to anger her, and she couldn’t let that happen. It was now especially important that she remained even-keeled.

Septimus paused, his eyes darkening. “I wonder then, what would make you afraid?”

“I told you, nothing. Perhaps you need your ears cleaning out?”

“Perhaps you need to stop kidding yourself.”

Hester barked a laugh. It was time to end this. The exchange wasn’t going as she had expected. He was clearly in a bad mood about something and taking it out on her. “Surely you have someplace to be, my lord? Important matters to attend to?” She eyed his shining leather boots, raking her gaze up his black breeches, embroidered waistcoat and the fine jacket that lay on the bed—her bed—, gold buttons flaunting themselves at her.

“I have my respects to pay at Amery House.”

“Amery House?” What on Earth was he talking about? What respects would he be paying to Ernest Bailey?

He stilled, his frown softening. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

A lump rose in Hester’s throat, and she clutched the edge of the dressing table. She did not want to hear what he had to say next.

Respects.

Ernest.

Septimus lifted a hand, as if to touch her, to offer comfort, and she shifted back out of reach. “No.” It couldn’t be true. She swallowed against the tightening of her throat. “No.” She shook her head, backing out of the cabin until her back hit the wall of the corridor.

“Hester.”

He swam in her vision, eyes burning.

Ernest. Two weeks ago he had taken her aside in The Ship’s Cat. Had clasped her shoulder, his eyes bright, and told her how she reminded him of himself as a young man. Such an honour from him, the most prestigious explorer of the century. He had offered to mentor her, and to sponsor her upcoming expedition to Antarctica. His words had changed everything. And the nights spent in his study going over her plans, her deepest desires coming to life before her very eyes as they talked excitedly of the Weddell Sea, of Vahsel Bay, of the first Trans-Antarctic crossing ever to be made. Hester Orn, the hero of the Frozen South—no, heroine—planting the British flag, icy wind blowing back her hair, imaginary trumpets blaring her triumph.

The image shattered.

Ernest was dead.

There would be no more late-night whiskey drinking and poring over charts and maps in his study. No promise of a father figure, the only one she’d ever known.

No money.