“But they aren’t Fae as well as gentry. And they aren’t married to the Hunter. You’re respected for your own strengths, Baron Padrick, but there’s not a baron in this part of Sylvalan—or a Fae Lord or Lady, for that matter—who doesn’t realize you have more influence than any other man in the west.”

Morag wasn’t listening to the men. A cold fist settled in her belly. Seahaven. Ships fleeing from Seahaven. “Mihail,” she whispered.

Murtagh studied her a moment before nodding. “If you’re meaning the captain of Sweet Selkie, he doesn’t need your gift. He was wounded, but he’s healing well. His ship needs to be fitted with new sails, which I promised to bring back to Selkie Island once my business here is done.”

“You said the prisoners are survivors,” Padrick said. “What happened to the rest?”

“Mihail’s sister is a witch who commands the sea,” Murtagh replied. “She was staying with us to watch for her brother’s ship. When she saw the attack…Let’s just say she let the sea speak for her.” He waited until Padrick nodded. “Among the prisoners are barons’ sons, minor gentry, sailors, warriors—and two Inquisitors.”

“I want to see them,” Morag said tightly.

Murtagh gave her another quick, assessing look. “They’re in the warehouse right over there. The Fae are guarding them. We aren’t influenced by the Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion, as they call it, but humans can be manipulated by it in the same way they can be influenced by the Fae’s gift of persuasion. So we’ve kept the humans away from them. To put it bluntly, you look like a gentry lady the Black Coats could twist around their little fingers.”

Morag smiled. “That’s perfect.”

Ubel watched that bastard Fae Lord walk into the warehouse…with two humans. His heart sped up when he recognized the man, so he turned away, pretending disinterest.

“You there!” the Fae Lord snapped. “Baron Padrick wants to speak to you.”

Moving with feigned reluctance until he stood close to the barrier of crates, Ubel studied the man these fools thought worthy of judging him. An active man, not gone soft and fat like some of the other barons he’d seen when he’d observed the barons’ council in Durham. This baron’s grim expression made him look hard and ruthless, but that might have been nothing more than the contrast between him and the woman he stood beside, her arm linked through his. She was too tall and thin to be appealing for sex, but the coiled black hair looked soft and enticing, and her dark eyes held nothing but vulnerability and dependence.