He gave her a long look. The notorious Lady Vice ran errands for her crewmates because it was a nice thing to do. And she let the ship’s cat sleep on her bed, despite the fact the creature liked to tuck herself behind his knees or under his chin, taking up far more space than her small size warranted. From how affectionate Barnacle was, frequently demanding chin scratches and treats, it was obvious Vee doted on the little thing.

It was months ago that he’d received the offer from a member of The Morrigan’s crew to hand over Vice in exchange for pardons, land, and an eye-watering amount of money. The Admiralty had chosen Knigh to negotiate and carry out the arrest. But he’d come up with the plan to stop her sneaking or charming her way out of custody: make her believe herself a privateer, then she’d openly sail for Albion, ready for arrest.

He’d known she was cunning enough to evade capture or to escape if he’d tried to take her in the usual way, and the stories painted her as charismatic enough to talk her way out of chains.

He’d accounted for all that, but this …

“Well”—she squinted up at the sky—“we have one more stop, then I’d say we still have plenty of time for drinking.”

She set off at a brisk pace, and he had no choice but to shove down his confusion about her, about this plan, and follow.

When they stopped, his eyebrows shot up. “A book shop?” He looked from the packed display window to her. “What happened to ‘let’s get this over and done with’?”

“This stop’s for me, and I’m not going to miss my chance, just because I’m playing nanny to you.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Of course, if you’d rather get back to The Morrigan …”

Back with FitzRoy’s resentment and the vague threat of any crew left on board. He lifted his hands. “Oh, no. I’m not in any rush.” He opened the door and inclined his head. “Madam.”

As she strode in, her chuckle blended with the chiming bell overhead.

The elderly shopkeeper gave her the same warm greeting the others had. His blue eyes twinkled, lively even though he had to be in his seventies. “Still driving a hard bargain, Vice?”

She picked up a book from one of the many shelves and flicked through it. “That depends, Waters—are you still trying to rip me off?”

He blinked slowly. “Would I?”

“Well, you try”—she returned the book to the shelf—“but luckily I lift something every five visits, so I figure that evens things out.”

He scoffed. “And you wonder why I have to charge so much.”

She chuckled and rounded the shelves out of sight.