The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)
The Bright and Breaking Sea: Chapter 20

The water was frigid. Kit’s muscles tightened in response, fighting back against the onslaught of cold. But in the bosom of the sea, the pain was easy to ignore.

She was surrounded by darkness, but for the faint and shifting lines of milky light at the surface. She turned in a circle, squinting into shadows, and saw nothing. Watson might have been directly in front of her, and Kit wouldn’t have seen her. So she reached out for what current remained.

It was there, that bare and sickly whisper, but her reach was broader, more refined, underwater. She could feel the crackling now, tingles against her palm and beating at the back of her skull, and tried to ignore the sensations, to focus on what the current told her . . . the dark shadow of the Diana, bobbing above them, wrinkling the blanket of the sea’s surface. And beyond it, a dozen yards away now, the smaller shadow, body still, but not yet buoyant.

Watson.

There might still be time. Hope flared, mirrored by the lightning flash above her that turned the dark water turquoise, sparkling like a precious gem.

Kit was close enough to the surface that the water was still rough, still thick with wind and friction, still frigid with cold. Each kick increased the pressure in her lungs, but she ignored it, made herself focus on Watson. If Kit didn’t manage this, Watson wouldn’t have a chance.

Kit reached her, eyes closed and hair floating, the need for air a tightening band around Kit’s chest. Kit shook her, got no response. Kit grabbed her hand, prepared to make the upward push. And for a moment, felt the lure of the sea calling her back. It was a trick of her Alignment, she knew, made stronger by the lethargy that cold and air deprivation was bringing.

She could stay down here, was her absent thought, where the song was constant, and where she would be surrounded by magic, buoyed by it.

But she knew that was folly, that she didn’t belong to the sea, no matter her connection. Her body longed for the surface, and she had to bite down on her tongue to stanch the instinctive demand that she open her mouth underwater, breathe in.

She squeezed her fingers around Watson’s wrist, nails digging in to ensure she’d keep her hold, and she made her silent Dastes. And she reached out once more toward the power, this time looking for the quiet spot—the least turbulent water—or the updraft that would help push her to the surface, show her the way toward wind and sky. She found it, another shadow against the slightly brighter current, and used her last energy, the hand that pulled Watson clenched and shaking.

She broke the water like a sea dragon, sucking in air, managed rain and seawater with it, and pulled Watson’s head above water, thumped her back.

“Watson!” Kit shouted, feet scrambling to stay above the cacophonous waves. “Breathe!” Two hard taps to the face, then one more thump on the back, and Watson was coughing.

Kit hardly had time to cry out in relief before arms pulled Watson up and away, and more arms grabbed Kit’s and pulled her out of the water. Wood scraped her ribs before she landed hard in the swaying jolly boat, soaked to the bone.

Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating Grant’s face. He still held her arms, his eyes the same color as the jeweled water. The rain still fell, and he was soaked, water streaming through his hair, down his face.

Maybe it was because of the cold, or she’d been below too long. But all she could think was that he looked like a god of the sea, furious and strong and silhouetted against the swells.

“Kanos’s balls,” he said. “Are you insane?”

That wasn’t a very godlike question, Kit thought, and coughed up seawater, pushed wet hair from her eyes, and gave herself a moment to retrieve her senses.

“I’m captain of my ship,” she managed between great and glorious lungfuls of salty air. “I don’t lose my sailors to the sea.”

To other men, to cannon, to blades, perhaps.

But not to the sea.

The seas were so high, the troughs so deep, that it took half an hour to get everyone back into the boat; all considered it a miracle they survived the trip. By the time they reached the Diana’s deck, bodies steaming in the cold and wet, the rain had begun to diminish, the thunder sounding more sporadically. They’d passed the edge of the storm—or it had passed them.

Jin stayed at the helm while Watson was taken to her berth, and the rest of the damp sailors were shuffled into the officers’ mess, wet coats and boots pulled away, bodies wrapped in blankets, hot tea offered around. All the sailors but Grant, at any rate; Kit wasn’t sure where he’d gone.

She warmed her hands around her teacup, and when she finally found the energy to lift it, wept at the taste. It was the good tea, the queen’s tea, and Cook had added so much sugar it nearly made Kit’s teeth ache with joy.

She took another heartening sip, then turned an eye to Cook, who watched with concern from the doorway. “I knew you’d held some back,” she said.

Cook simply lifted a shoulder. “Emergency rations. This was an emergency. I’m glad you are alive.”

“I’m also glad I’m alive,” she said.

Grant appeared in the doorway when she’d just finished her cup of tea, wet shirt replaced with a dry one, untucked and sans coats, his hair tousled and damp. Not the state of dishabille a viscount typically adopted on land, she guessed. But there were different rules at sea. Which is how she justified not looking away. There was just . . . so much of him.

“We need to speak.”

Kit lifted her brows at the tone, hard and angry, presumed he had thoughts about the frigate captains or Forstadt. She was ready for dry clothes, so she nodded and rose, unwrapped the blanket she’d been bound in, and left it across her chair to dry. Then she walked to her quarters, looked longingly at the bed. Fatigue was dragging at her now, and she nearly jumped when Grant slammed the door.

Slowly, she looked back at him. “Problem, Colonel?”

His eyes flashed at her use of his title. “That was ridiculously dangerous.”

“Going into the water?” Kit asked, running a hand through her still-damp hair. “It was dangerous, but not ridiculously so. You saw me swim at Finistère. I’m a better swimmer than Watson. Better to take the risk to save a life.”

“Is it?”

She looked up at him. There was something different in his eyes now, and she wasn’t sure what it was. “If it’s my life I’m risking, absolutely.”

He stared at her for a moment, then stalked to the other end of the room, turned his angry gaze on the windows.

“The storm isn’t going to stop just because you give it one of your glares.”

He looked back at her, brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“Your glares,” she repeated. “You have a way of looking at people as if you’d like to march them right into the sea. And right now, you’re giving the sea the same look.”

“There are many people who need to be marched right into the sea,” he said, then added, “Seven minutes.”

Kit blinked. “Seven minutes?”

He stalked back to her, looked down from his height. There was no bay rum now, just salt and linen and something she could only describe as male.

“You were in the water for seven minutes,” he said. “I counted. I’d taken my jacket off. Didn’t have my watch, so I counted. Seven minutes is a very long time.”

It was a long time, Kit thought, and didn’t know how she’d managed to hold her breath that long. Maybe the cold, maybe the adrenaline, maybe the effects of the magic. Probably the effects of the magic, but not his concern.

“I’m sorry that you had to wait—that everyone had to wait. I’ve been the one waiting before, and I know it’s difficult. But I’d do the same thing again. It’s my job.”

“Hardly. I know plenty of officers who’d define their roles much more narrowly.”

“I’m not one of those people.” She glared at him. “And given you walked into a pirate fortress to save Marcus Dunwood, I know you aren’t, either.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because it is!” Grant’s voice, heavy with concern, boomed against wood and glass, and before she could comment, his hands were on her arms, the contact shocking.

And then his mouth was on hers, and he was pulling her closer, and her body snapped against his like a sail pulled taut, every one of her nerves singing with the contact.

For a moment, she heard nothing but the ocean, the roar of the sea in her ears, and felt equally as comforted and breathless as she had beneath the waves. That familiarity eased her way. Kit moved closer, kissed him back. His groan was primal, victorious, his body a hard line of temptation.

His kisses were skillful—teasing and passionate. She’d been kissed before, if not often, and understood expertise. And she’d read enough penny novels to understand what could come next, and was as confident he’d be as skilled a lover as he was a kisser. So it took entirely too long for her mind to return to reality; he’d fogged her brain just as the sea had done. She stepped back, breaking the contact, putting space between them, and leaving a cold chill across her skin that she didn’t like. So she moved backward again.

“We can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “You cannot kiss me. And I certainly can’t kiss you.”

Gods, but she wanted to. She wanted to grab that hair and push him back against the wall and have her very particular way with him. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

Grant glared at her, frustration obvious. “Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because you’re a—” Brain fogged, she simply waved her arm in his direction.

“A viscount?” he asked dryly.

“Yes. That. A soldier, and a member of the Beau Monde, and the future husband to a viscountess. And I am certainly not a viscountess,” she said, with all the vehemence she could muster.

“No argument there,” Grant muttered.

“You’ve an estate and horses and Spiveys and a village. I have a ship and a crew and a million miles yet to sail. And even if all of that weren’t true, we’re attempting to stop a global effort to put a dictator back on the throne.”

“But that’s your only objection?” His voice was exceedingly dry, and the sound she made was mostly a growl.

Grant looked at her for a moment, jaw clenched. And then he gave a stiff nod. “Very well.” He walked toward the door, just close enough that their arms brushed.

She knew he’d done it intentionally. And that her knees actually felt weak at the contact made her furious at both of them.

“I’ve a dagger and sword,” she murmured, a reminder.

He slammed out of the room.

“Viscounts,” she muttered, meaning to make it a curse, and sat down at the table. She ran her fingertips across her lips, which still tingled from the abrasion of his unshaven skin, and indulged in a very dramatic sigh.

She was tired enough to sleep while standing, or on the deck, or on the forecastle floor. But even after the storm had shifted, the rain more akin to an Isles afternoon shower, she refused to leave the helm.

“We’re on a mission,” Kit said again, wondering if she was the only one who recalled that particular fact, and nearly pulled her dagger when Grant grunted nearby.

“You can sleep now,” Jin said, expression mild, “or you can sleep when we get to Forstadt. Which do you prefer?”

Because she couldn’t argue with that logic, she agreed to go below in exchange for his promise to wake her if the storm changed direction, or the frigates broke rank, or the island was sighted.

And when she reached her quarters again, and closed her door, she nearly fell into her berth.