A shiver rippled down my spine as his entire demeanor took on that coldness. Rigid shoulders, white-knuckled fists, uncompromising scowl—he no longer stood before me as my father, but rather as the infamous captain of an eighteen-gun warship.

His blade-sharp eyes cut to the tree line behind me. “That’s his horse?”

“Yes.”

“You stole it?”

“I was in a hurry.”

He glanced at Charles, and a hint of pride softened the edge of his anger. “Already pirating, this one.”

“And thrusting blades at devilishly good-looking rogues.” Charles arched a brow at me.

I winged up mine in return. “Careful, Mr. Vane. One might think you enjoyed it.”

“She makes a point, Charles.” My father’s voice grew quiet. A deep, bone-chilling kind of quiet. “Around my daughter, your eyes are for decoration only. If you use them on her, I’ll carve them out and feed them to the gulls.”

Charles looked away with a grimace. “I’ll head back to the ship and give you some privacy.”

“Good plan. Return for me at dusk.”

The bothersome yet curiously droll quartermaster ambled toward the south side of the inlet. When he vanished beyond the outcrop, presumably where the jolly boat waited, I turned back to my father.

He stared out at the sea, his eyes a turbulent aqua green. The line of his jaw was so unyielding I could’ve sharpened a blade on it.

“You’re angry with the countess,” I said.

“Rightfully so.” He scraped a hand through the thick tousle of his red hair. “She’s stubbornly ambitious, stubbornly independent, stubbornly beautiful…” He blew out a breath. “Just flat-out stubborn.”

“If I stay here, her stubbornness will send me to England.”

“Don’t concern yourself with that.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll deal with her.” He paced toward the woods and picked up a fallen branch from the ground. “Your skill with the cutlass needs work.”

He tested the weight of the stick and tossed it away to grab another.

With my thoughts still whirling around his plan with the countess, I wasn’t prepared for his attack.

He lunged, wielding the stick like a sword, and swept my feet out from under me. I landed on my backside and rolled, all flailing limbs, tangled skirts, and curse words. He swung again, and I dodged, flinging myself toward the cutlass.

With the hilt in my grip, I rose into a strike. He blocked. I slashed, and for the next hour, his training distracted me from stolen horses and betrothed marriages.

As the fire-orange sun hauled itself across the sky, sweat pooled beneath my stays, and the wind blew knots of curls across my face. I clawed the wild tresses out of my eyes until my tangles had tangles.

My father went through multiple sticks, each one hacked away by the blade of the cutlass.

“You’ve been practicing.” He dropped another broken branch and wiped the sweat from his brow.