The Raven's Wing creaked beneath Eleanor's feet, a living beast swaying with the Thames's restless tide. The cabin door thudded shut behind Silas Crowe's retreating figure, leaving her alone with Captain Grey in a space that felt too small for the weight of her choice. "I'm staying." The words still hung in the air, bold and irrevocable, and she felt their echo in the quickening of her pulse. Grey stood mere inches away, his presence a storm contained—dark hair tousled, blue eyes sharp with something between disbelief and resolve. The lantern's sway cast shadows across his scarred jaw, and for a moment, neither of them spoke."You're sure?" he asked at last, his voice low, roughened by the edge of the moment. "This isn't a game, Eleanor. Once you're in, there's no easy way out."She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "I've been trapped my whole life, Captain. If I'm to risk anything, it'll be for something I choose—not something chosen for me."His lips twitched, a flicker of a smile that didn't soften the tension in his frame. "Fair enough. But don't call me Captain—not here. It's Nathaniel.""Nathaniel," she repeated, testing the name. It felt intimate, a key to a door she hadn't known she'd unlocked. "Then you'd best call me Eleanor. No titles. Not between us."He nodded, a silent pact sealed, and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "We've got work to do. Crowe's right—the Admiralty's closing in. If they search the Wing before we move those letters, we're done."She glanced at the chart she'd examined earlier, its cryptic marks now a map to their survival. "Where are they now? The letters?""Hidden," he said, moving to the desk. He slid open a drawer, revealing a false bottom, and lifted out a small, locked box—iron-bound, unassuming. "Coded dispatches from a contact in Calais. Names, dates, plans. Enough to prove a faction in France wants the war back on—and enough to hang us if we're caught."Her stomach tightened, but she kept her voice steady. "And your plan?""Get them to Harrow's man in the Admiralty—an earl who'll listen. But Harrow's arrest complicates things. We need to move tonight, before they trace him to me.""Tonight?" She frowned, the weight of it sinking in. "I can't just vanish—my father will notice. He's already on edge after James's mess."Nathaniel's eyes darkened. "Then you'll need a story. Something to buy you time."She paced the cabin, her mind racing. The shopping excuse wouldn't hold past dusk—Hannah could only stall so long. "I'll say I'm visiting a friend—Lady Beatrice Marwood. She's sharp enough to cover for me if Father checks, and she owes me a favor.""Will she?" he asked, leaning against the desk. "She's got a tongue like a whip, that one.""She does," Eleanor said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "But she likes me. And she hates boredom—helping me dodge a duke might amuse her."He chuckled, a low sound that eased the knot in her chest. "You're a strategist, then. Good. We'll need that."A shout from the deck broke the moment—Crowe's voice, barking orders. Nathaniel straightened, his demeanor shifting to command. "Stay here. I'll see what's what. We'll leave at dusk—less eyes then."He slipped out, and Eleanor sank onto the bunk, the coarse blanket rough against her palms. The reality of her decision settled over her like a cloak—dangerous, exhilarating, mad. She was no spy, no sailor, yet here she was, tethered to a man she barely knew, chasing a cause she barely understood. But it was hers, this choice, and that alone made it worth the risk.The cabin door creaked open minutes later, and Nathaniel returned, his expression grim. "Crowe's spooked—says a customs cutter's been spotted upriver. We can't wait for dusk. We move now.""Now?" Her heart lurched. "But I haven't—""No time," he cut in, grabbing the box and a satchel from a hook. "I'll get you back after. For now, you're with me."She stood, smoothing her cloak, and followed him onto the deck. The crew sprang into action—ropes uncoiled, sails unfurled, the Raven's Wing groaning as it prepared to slip its moorings. Crowe shot her a glare but said nothing, his focus on the men. Nathaniel led her to the helm, where a grizzled sailor with a missing ear handed him the wheel."Hold on," he said, his hands steady on the spokes. "She's fast, but the river's tricky."The ship lurched forward, cutting through the murky water, and Eleanor gripped the rail as the docks receded. The wind whipped her hood back, tangling her hair, and she tasted salt and coal smoke on the air. London sprawled around them, its spires and slums a fading tapestry, and for the first time in years, she felt untethered—free, if only for a moment.They sailed downriver, the Wing weaving past barges and fishing boats, Nathaniel's focus absolute. She watched him, the way his shoulders tensed, his eyes scanned the horizon. This was his element, not the ballrooms or drawing rooms she knew. A man forged by sea and steel, not silk and silver."Where are we going?" she asked, raising her voice over the wind."Greenwich," he replied, not looking at her. "A safe house. Harrow's contact will meet us there—if he's still alive."The if hung heavy, but she didn't press. The river widened, the city thinning to warehouses and marshland, and the cutter Crowe feared never appeared. By late afternoon, they dropped anchor near a crumbling jetty, the safe house a squat, unlit building half-hidden by reeds. Nathaniel handed the wheel to the grizzled sailor and turned to her."Come with me," he said, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. "The crew stays here."She nodded, following him down a rope ladder to a dinghy. He rowed them ashore, the oars slicing through the water with a rhythm that matched his breathing. The silence between them was thick, charged, and when they reached the muddy bank, he offered a hand to steady her. His grip was warm, firm, and she held it a beat longer than necessary.The safe house smelled of damp and neglect, its single room bare save for a table, two chairs, and a cold hearth. Nathaniel set the box down, lighting a lantern that cast a feeble glow. "We wait," he said, sinking into a chair. "He'll come—or he won't."She sat across from him, the stillness pressing in. "What happens if he doesn't?""Then we're on our own," he said, his voice flat. "And the letters stay a noose around our necks."She shivered, not from the cold, and he noticed. "You're scared," he said, not a question."Aren't you?" she countered.He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes locking with hers. "Every day since Trafalgar. Fear keeps you sharp. But it doesn't rule me—not anymore."She studied him, the lines of his face, the weight he carried. "What was it like? The war?"His gaze drifted to the lantern, shadows flickering in his eyes. "Hell. Fire, blood, men screaming for mothers they'd never see again. I pulled twelve out of that inferno—lost twice as many. After, I thought I'd escaped it. I was wrong."The rawness of it struck her, and she reached across the table, her hand brushing his. "You're not alone in this now."He looked at her hand, then at her, something shifting in his expression—surprise, gratitude, desire, all tangled together. "You're a hell of a woman, Eleanor Ashwood."She smiled, faint but real. "And you're a hell of a man, Nathaniel Grey."A knock rattled the door, sharp and sudden, and they sprang apart. Nathaniel drew a pistol from his coat, motioning her behind him. "Who's there?" he called."Harrow sent me," came a muffled reply. "Open up."Nathaniel lowered the gun but kept it ready, cracking the door. A man slipped in—tall, thin, with a scholar's stoop and nervous eyes. "You've got the letters?" he asked, glancing at Eleanor."Here," Nathaniel said, sliding the box forward. "You're the earl's man?""Aye," the stranger said, unlocking the box with a key from his pocket. He rifled through the papers, nodding. "This'll do. But you've got trouble—Harrow talked. They're coming for you."Nathaniel cursed, holstering the pistol. "How long?""Hours, maybe less," the man said, pocketing the letters. "Get out of London. I'll handle this."He left as quickly as he'd come, and Nathaniel turned to Eleanor, his face set. "We're not safe here. The Wing can't stay—I'll send her upriver with Crowe. You need to get home.""Home?" she echoed, incredulous. "After this?""You've got no choice," he said, his voice hard. "Your father's wrath is one thing—the Admiralty's is another. I'll find you when it's clear."She wanted to argue, but the urgency in his eyes stopped her. They rowed back to the ship, the crew scrambling at his orders, and he arranged a boat to take her upriver to a safer dock. As she stepped into it, he caught her wrist, his grip tight."Be careful," he said, his voice low. "And trust no one.""You too," she replied, her throat tight. The boat pulled away, the Raven's Wing fading into the dusk, and she clutched her cloak, the day's weight crashing down. She'd leapt into the storm—and there was no turning back.
