The salty wind. Veins on fire with pure white rage. Hacking and hacking, more animal than trained warrior. Copper and sweat and gun smoke in his nose. His shirt more red than white. Blinking and looking down at his blade coated in thick blood. Only then seeing the men with weapons at their feet, staring at him wide-eyed, open-mouthed. The white flag of surrender. The spray of blood from—

“Poor Hopper,” Mercia murmured. “Tell me, how does he manage with just one hand?”

Bile bit the back of Knigh’s throat as his stomach spasmed. The deck that day faded from his mind, leaving only the sounds that had finally hit him through the haze of battle lust—Billy’s screams and Mercia goading him on.

Knigh’s throat clenched. He couldn’t show a response. He couldn’t. Not in front of Mercia.

But Knigh had almost killed men who’d surrendered, and when his friend Billy had stepped in, he’d cut the poor man’s hand clean off.

And Mercia, their commanding officer, had urged him on. Go on, Villiers—show them some Albionic spirit. We’ll feed them to my beast. The laugh echoed in his ears.

Mercia had actually laughed.

Now he wore a cruel smile, dark eyes glinting. “Well, I’m sure he’s muddling along with his disability and the generous pension. No harm, no foul, eh?” He waved a hand, and his smile brightened. “Good show, though, Villiers. Thanks ever so much for the reminder. Now, I must give my compliments to our host. Your brother’s here somewhere—I’m sure he has so much to tell you.”

With that, he breezed away, leaving Knigh frozen to the spot.

If he moved, he would vomit.

Lords and Ladies, if he moved, he might break—every part of him vibrated with such tension, like a glass humming under a high note.

What he’d done … And that Mercia had laughed and still found it so damn amusing …

His eyes misted, and he shut them, sucking in long breaths. The air was hot and stuffy, thick with perfume, more choking than soothing.

And the fact George was trailing Mercia around like a puppy …

Gods, he had to find his brother and tell him what kind of man he was mixing with.

Another long breath in, then out. Better. He clenched his hands, swallowed back the threat of nausea and strode into the crowd.

Stolen Time

Down the corridor from the ballroom, Vice circled an empty drawing room. FitzRoy was still impressed by rich people and fancy clothes. She’d grown up surrounded by all that, and it had lost its sheen a long time ago, so she’d snuck away, leaving him to rub shoulders with the so-called great and the good.

In here, silver boxes, porcelain sabrecats, a gold carriage clock—expensive trinkets covered every available surface. If something were to mysteriously disappear, they wouldn’t miss it.