Page 97 of Immortal Rose

I held up the folded foolscap to him, feeling the first burst of giggles well in me as he plucked it from my fingertips. Plucked was a rather silly word, wasn’t it? Then again, so was rum—yes, more rum. To drown the giggles, and because it was so lovely and warm.

The pub took on a glossy sheen, its edges relaxing with my body. The air was suffused with drink, sweat, smoke from the hearth, the innumerable candles scattered over the tables. My mouth watered with the lingering scent of a roast. The walls were laden with an odd assortment of pastoral art and defaced portraits of strangers, a wall of men’s gloves tacked up like hunting trophies, a rusted suit of armor.

The whole of the pub was tidy and comfortable, and its occupants a pleasing mix of sailors and pink-cheeked tradesmen. Many were in quality attire—Fleetmill jackets and Corby boots, even—and everyone seemed to know everyone else, as if the pub were a beloved little secret between them.

The man with the fiddle finally realized that his melancholy fairy ballads of stolen love and curses weren’t having the desired effect. Struck with sudden inspiration, he worked his bow over the strings as if to set them aflame, and as the merry tune filled the air, cheers erupted.

I grinned as a deep baritone at a nearby table thundered out the first verses of the flash ballad.

In a time of war when all seemed lost,

And Old Albion had paid the cost,

God sent his shadow to change the tide:

A bonny lad with a long black needle at his side.

God, I adored “The Black Needle.”

By the land and by the sea,

No man, no soldier, no general could flee

The God-touched one so braw and lethal

As the one we call the Black Needle.

The ballad had been a mainstay of pubs and gatherings since before the war’s end and, conveniently, was structured in such a way that more verses could be added as the Black Needle increased his deadly tally. It was a rare day you didn’t hear at least one person humming it on the street.

I closed my eyes and swayed to the music, pressing the warm rim of my glass to my lips. I was enjoying myself immensely now.

The ballad had an oddly cheerful melody, given each successive verse cataloged the most noteworthy murders and, more specifically, when and where said needles were applied—in the heart while driving a cart, in the head while asleep in bed, in the belly while eating mint jelly. It had a way of worming into one’s mind and overstaying its welcome.

I grinned as he reached my favorite verse.

Upon the roof no soul saw him creep,

To stick the admiral in his sleep,

And while old Proulx snored in bed,

The needle did lance his haughty head.

It was hard to say what, exactly, it was. A shift in the air like the first hint of a storm. The now familiar weight of his gaze as it fell over me, surely. And there, as if my mind had conjured him from the languid shadows of my heart, was Foxcourt.

He occupied the seat across from me. The rum brought another pleasant rush of heat as my heart fluttered. It made his unbearably handsome face glimmer in the low light, as if it had been kissed by fairy dust.

A small smile, almost boyish, touched Foxcourt’s decidedly unboyish lips as he arched a questioning brow at me.

I finished the last of my rum and set my glass down. He had removed his cowl and allowed his shirt to gape open at the neck, revealing a tantalizing hint of dark hair and muscle. The night had unraveled him, it seemed, from gentleman to pirate.

My brow furrowed as I turned to look for Reddy.

“He took himself home,” Foxcourt explained. “I do believe you have done the impossible and shocked him—I would expect him to come up to scratch and offer marriage by morning.”

I sobered in an instant. If anything was going to roughen the silky contours of my mood, it was the threat of matrimony.

Foxcourt chuckled at the sour face I made, reaching for the captain’s abandoned glass and giving it a sniff. “Rum?”