Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) (2 page)

“Care for a wee bit of fun, there, matey?”

Rancid breath fanned over my cheek and a groping hand slapped my ass—

“Not my type, you ugly buffoon,” I said with a quick grin.

I got two steps before something hard and blunt hit the back of my head. The wharf blurred, and a kick to my knees sent me crashing against damp planks.

“Buffoon?” someone slurred. “Who’s the fool now?”

A deep, steady,
familiar
voice answered, “Why, Gus, I believe that’s you.”

Boots scuffled as pirates fled, and the surrounding planks buckled as the buffoon gave a sharp cry and fell inches from my face. “
Oof!
”

“There’s no valor in a low blow,” that deep voice said, “but . . . what goes around, comes around.”

Buffoon spat blood and cursed, scrabbling to his feet.

Behind me, my rescuer drawled, “Another round? This time like the gentlemen we’re not?”

“N-no,” Buffoon said and clip-clopped after his fleeing mates.

I pushed to my knees, sucking in a breath at a stab of pain. The gash on my head seeped blood. “Indignant fellow.”

A hand braced my shoulder, warmth leaching into my bones. “Can you stand?”

Something about that voice, calm and competent . . . my skin prickled, and I jerked toward him. Too fast—light spots stained my vision.

Dark hair, darker eyes, a shadow of a beard on a stern jaw . . .

I coughed up a grin, gripped his arm and got to my feet. “We meet again.”

The man I’d cheated let go and inclined his head, no whiff of amusement in any of the lines around his mouth or eyes. “Can’t say I’ve liked either introduction.”

I dabbed at my stinging lip. Split. “I’m rather more partial to the former.”

A flask came out of the man’s pocket; he pulled out the stopper, eyes roaming over me as if cataloguing any injuries. “Whiskey.” He pressed the flask against my chest. “Drink.”

The smoky liquid was hot in my throat and warm in my belly. Another nip soothed some of the pain. And another had me grinning and reluctantly handing it back. “Perhaps this introduction is growing on me yet. I’m Aaron.”

“I know.” He grasped the flask, and I jerked back.

“You do?”

“I learn the names of all those who steal from me. You might want to apologize.”

The ruffian’s words chimed again.
Never play a
—“Pirate. You’re a pirate.”

A twitch of a smile hovered at one edge of his lips. “I prefer Bjorn.”

I stepped back, a firm hand on my sword. “Why help me, then?”

“I’m a pirate, not beyond pity.” Bjorn looked me up and down. “You looked like you needed the help. Both times.”

“If gratitude is what you want, then, thank you. Now excuse me.” Head throbbing but held high, I turned and strode away.

“Be careful,” Bjorn said, long gait catching up. “The man you played tonight is not a man to toy with. Serrin is powerful—and worse, clever.”

“Clever,” I murmured. “And I am not, for I do not understand why you’d care to warn me.”

Bjorn laid a hand on my wrist. A soft shiver scuttled up my arm. “Let me enlighten you then. You are cocky, quick to judge, and frustratingly stupid. You remind me of my brother Jack. And how easily Serrin took him.”

* * *

In the woods, moonlight filtered through a fishnet of branches. Breezes whipped through my hair, the cold not numbing my head enough.

Bjorn had left me on the wharf but damn him if his words didn’t linger.
Prudent
would be to focus on his warning about Serrin.
Compassionate
to dwell on the man’s brother. But those other words rankled most.

I kicked a stray twig off the fir-carpeted trail.

What did that even mean,
frustratingly
stupid?

One more bend in the path and home beckoned me, pods of golden light seeping from the windows and onto the rosebushes.

By way of the rear entrance, I crept inside to the bedchamber I shared with Marc. I dabbed fresh water from the bowl on the washstand over the gash on my head, sucking in the sting.

“Aaron!”

In the mirror, I caught Marc’s startled look. He moved over to the dresser, frowning.

“Give me that,” he said, prying free the wet cloth. He dipped it in the water and took over, hissing at the sight.

A sheepish grin nudged at my lips. “Just a wee cut. Nothing to worry about.”

Marc’s jaw clenched—no optimism colored him now. “Never mind how many times you hit the ground, you keep jumping out of the tree.”

“What else is there to do? Food won’t fly to us.”

Marc sighed. “You do it for more than food. You love the wind rushing through your hair, the pumping of your heart, the thrill of adventure. And I fear . . . I fear one day you’ll jump and not come back.”

We stared at each other until the rattling window begged my audience. “I wish I were like you,” I said. “Wish I were content with books.”

Marc combed the cloth against my hair and let slide a small grin. “Content with drivel?”

“With all the drivel in the world.”

His chuckle fell soft, tucking itself under my sharp bouts of laughter. The moment ebbed away, the last of my laughter wrenching into a curse.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Father’s coat.” I swallowed. “I lost it.”

Marc froze, breath hitching, and then he lowered the cloth to the bowl, dunking it in and wringing out pinkish water. His voice came out more gravelly than usual. “What happened?”

Head angled, I leaned back against his middle, stared up at his patient, forgiving face, and told him. “I was frustratingly stupid.”

* * *

In bed, I tossed and turned, unable to find sleep. Whenever I shut my eyes, I was back on the wharf. Back with Bjorn and his firm hold.

Then with Serrin wrapped in father’s coat, that snake-capped staff pressed against my lips.

Then with old maid Miller slouched in the gutter, head leaning against my shoulder as she cried, tears dripping onto her bloodied skirts.

Bastard!

I slipped out of bed and dressed, careful not to wake Marc. I snuck outside and toward the first slither of dawn, trekking through the woods to the cliffs overlooking the harbor.

A distant shout made me swing around and sneak back to the edge of the woods. Who was out there? A quick circuit revealed nothing but birds and squirrels foraging for nuts under fallen leaves.

Perhaps I’d imagined it. Not a hard feat after a measly sleep.

I returned to the cliffs and sat at the precipice, feet dangling, air stirring around me with a tingle that zipped to my middle. Below, docked ships swayed, brass fittings glinting in the rising sun.

Pirates. Best thieves in all four kingdoms.

Who knew what treasures lay inside the bowels of those ships?

My coat.

I fell back and shut my eyes, breathing in the languid kiss of morning sunshine.

A yawn escaped. “I’ll get it back. I’ll get mother and Marc their happily ever after.”

* * *

“Aaron?” The voice sounded rough, made rougher by the warmth tickling against my arm. “Aaron.”

That voice . . .

“Mmm?”

“Wake up.”

That voice!
I lurched up, throwing my weight forward. Grass, dirt, masts, and cascades of sea blurred and tipped.

“Whoa—” My shirt tightened against my chest, and breath burst out in a cloud as I was hauled back from the cliff edge.

I scrambled onto my knees, turning to a crouching Bjorn. Dirt covered my breeches, and I stood, dusting it off. “If you wanted to kill me, you had plenty of chances last night.”

Bjorn raised a brow and stood. “I believe I just saved you from a rather undignified death.”

“I’d have been fine if it weren’t for your voice.”

“If you jerked like that from my voice, heaven forbid what the rest of me could do to you.”

I stopped dusting and looked at him. Tousled hair. Brown shirt and matching breeches. Black belt and boots. Not a spark of color on him. Matched his personality nicely. “Why are you here?”

“I was following someone.” He waved in the general direction of the woods. “Lost him and stumbled over you.”

“Not so sure-footed on land, are you?”

“Sure-footed where it counts. Why are
you
here?”

“Other than I live here . . . the cliffs are more comfortable than the bed.” I brushed past him and headed for the dirt path slicing through fallen leaves. “And I like the view.”

“The view,” Bjorn said with a huff. “It is rather better than I expected.”

“You sound annoyed by that.”

“I am.”

Bjorn prowled to my side and kept pace beside me.

“Why are you pirates docked here, anyway?” I asked. “Very little to loot in this village.”

His lips pursed; he kept quiet for a stretch, and then: “Serrin. The pirate prince.”

“Prince?”

“The elder of three. In charge of a fleet of ships in the East, including my own.”

A
captain
pirate? “Your superior then.”

A grunted affirmation. “In every way, he believes.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I believe he’s here searching for his youngest brother Andor.” A branch extended over the path, and Bjorn bent it, beckoning me ahead with a nod.

“Brothers,” I said, passing with a grin. “Always getting themselves into trouble.”

“I take it you have a brother who tests your patience?”

I winked. “
I
test
his
.” A rumbling laugh bounded out of him, startling my step. “Why, he
laughs
.”

Bjorn stopped, an inch away. “And sings and dances, would you believe?”

Fractured sunshine dappled this stretch of the path, warming the hand at my side and the tender spot at the back of my head. A diamond of light fell on Bjorn’s face.

I pivoted away, darting over the trodden, dewy path. “What trouble is Andor in?”

Bjorn kept pace behind me. “The King of the North captured him, and when the Heart of the Needle shattered . . .”

My steps lagged. Sunshine dimmed, and the woods thickened with morose shadows. “Oh. He sleeps.”

In a quiet voice, Bjorn said, “So it is rumored. The boy is nowhere to be found.”

I struggled to keep my voice even. Tried to grin, but it felt more like a grimace. “And you travel from town to town and search the sleeping? Not an easy job. More than half of this village succumbed to that curse.”

I closed my eyes briefly on the memory of the earl’s gallery, but I couldn’t shake the image. One hundred and seventy two cellars lined it, villagers sleeping behind glass.

“Are you trying to beat Serrin to Andor?” I said through a tight throat. “Never mind, of course you are. He took your brother Jack. You’re a pirate. An eye for an eye. Brother for a brother. Your own words: what goes around, comes around.”

Bjorn gripped my arm and spun me around. Anger flared over his shaven cheeks and in his darkening glower. His pinching hold almost made me gasp, and I pulled away.

“What bothers you more?” I said. “That I call you callous? Or that you agree with me?”

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

I took another step back.

“Dwharfs,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

A breeze rushed between us. “I have nothing to stake.”

His eyes narrowed. “You do.”

“What?”

“An apology. And I’ll win it.”

* * *

At home, in the chair before the fire, I sat staring at the folds of red draped over mother. Staring, but not seeing.

Marc perched on the arm of the chair and read out a story of his own creation. “What do you think, Aaron?”

I blinked up. “Nothing drivel about it.”

“Say it with conviction.”

Mother laughed. “Something holds our dear Aaron captive.”

“Hmm,” I said, and then patted Marc’s knee. “Isn’t Laurie meant to be coming by soon? She’ll love the story.”

“Really think so?”

“Absolutely.”

Mother huffed under her breath, a lock of red hair falling from behind her ear. “Here any minute, and I still haven’t finished her hem. I need . . . Aaron, get over here a moment.”

I pushed out of the chair and crossed to her sewing corner.

She eyed me and nodded, then raveled up the skirts of the dress. “Put this on,” she said, lifting the garment.

“Not my usual taste in attire, Mother.” But I carefully stuffed my arms into the right places.