Catherine laughed. “You could do that, yes. However, I don’t think you would like the repercussions.”
“Come now. You really think I fear your sellswords?”
Moira took a step forward, waggling the tip of her shortsword. It danced inches from Catherine’s neck, and it took all her composure not to back away or flinch at the sight of the sharp steel.
“You won’t touch me, Moira,” she said. Amazingly, her voice didn’t so much as quaver.
“Why shouldn’t I? You’ll die before you make a sound.”
“Because the moment I’m discovered murdered, or even harmed in any way, fifty similar letters will be sent by bird to the Isles of Gold.”
At last Moira flinched, the tip of her sword dipping ever so slightly.
“Saying what?” she asked, doing well to hide the worry in her voice.
Catherine smiled. At last she was back in control. At last this wild woman knew who was in charge. She took her time telling her, enjoying every moment, every syllable.
“Saying how close you and my maidservant Penetta were while you lived beneath my roof. How very close. . and how Penetta knows things about you that I dare say only a lover should know.” She smiled as she plunged her fingers into her bodice and removed the first of the two rolled-up bits of parchment. “Each letter is addressed to Rachida Gemcroft.”
The sword dropped, clanking on the floor. Moira grew even paler than normal as she took the offered bit of paper, unrolled it, and read the words. The woman seemed to deflate. Her eyes were bloodshot when she tore them away from the letter’s contents.
“Every one. . ”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “I wonder, just how would the love of your life react to hearing of such infidelity?”
The silver-haired woman said nothing as she backed up a few steps and plopped back down on the featherbed. The letter fluttered from her hand to the floor. Her face was drawn out and dejected, her shoulders slumped. Catherine felt her confidence rise, confidence that left her once she gazed at the window on the other side of the room. She had to finish this business quickly if she was to make her next meeting, the most important one, in time.
Taking out the second parchment, already sealed with wax, she stepped forward and placed it in Moira’s limp hand.
“I know you hate me, but I do what I must to protect myself and my family. Don’t blame me for your own failures. Besides, you won’t have to look at my face any longer. Tomorrow you leave Port Lancaster.”
“Where will I go?” asked Moira without looking up.
“You are to take five sellswords of your choice and head for Omnmount. The letter I handed you is for Cornwall Lawrence, and it is for his eyes only. Make sure he reads; make sure he understands. Afterward, make your way to the docks outside the settlement and sabotage as many barges and skiffs as you can. Even if they are my own, destroy them. We will build more. If Karak wishes for food and supplies while he’s traipsing about Paradise, he can raise them with his own godly hands. Once that is done, consider yourself free from my service. So long as you don’t act against me, you will have nothing to fear.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” asked Moira softly.
Catherine swept toward the door.
“You don’t,” she said. “Good travels, Moira Elren. I hope I never see you again.”
Once in the hall, she exhaled deeply. It was a shame to send the woman away. Moira was more capable than anyone, better than even Bren and the sellswords at keeping her safe in a dangerous, unpredictable world. Yet Moira’s fear of what Catherine held over her head meant she was the only one she could trust to complete the tasks she had given. Had she assigned one of her sellswords, he might abandon her and sell his services to a different bidder.
“Sacrifices are necessary,” Catherine whispered. Just as her sacrificing Matthew had united the women of Port Lancaster to her cause.
She lifted her skirts and hastened down the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time on her way to the estate’s front entrance. Her excitement grew each time her slippered foot touched ground, and soon all her worries-Matthew’s legacy, Karak, the dead girls, Moira-dropped away. They were replaced by a face, one of exquisite, exotic beauty, covered with skin of the deepest brown.
A plain covered wagon awaited her outside the estate. She climbed in and ordered the driver, a girl of no more than twelve, to take her to the docks. Catherine dropped the curtains on either side of her as the horses began to clomp along Port Lancaster’s cobbled streets. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounded in her chest. She nervously fiddled with the bottom of her skirts, fraying the hem along the way. She didn’t care.
The ride seemed to take forever, and by the time the wagon stopped moving, she was so overcome with anticipation that she felt close to vomiting. She pressed her lips shut, lifted the curtain, and stepped out of the carriage. The dockhouse and the pier loomed before her, a long, sleek skiff tethered to the dock, gently rocking in the undulating waters of the Thulon Ocean. It was the only ship in the harbor. His boat. The young cart driver turned in her seat, facing away from her as she’d been told to do. Catherine took a deep breath, placed a hand over her breast, and slowly made her way toward the dockhouse.
The gravel street gave way to the dock’s slatted struts. The soft slippers on Catherine’s feet swooshed against the wood, kicking up bits of dust. The dockhouse itself was a sturdy but harsh-looking square construction of wood gone gray from the constant assault of sea salt. The door was propped open, and she stepped through, breathless.
“Hello?” she said.
“My love?” replied a strong, soulful voice.
Catherine followed the voice down the dockhouse’s long hallway and around the corner into the main storeroom. He was there, sitting at a small table in the middle of the room, eating a blood-red orange. Fish netting, anchors, spare timber, spears, harpoons, and oaken lockboxes surrounded him. He looked up at her, his complexion nearly black in the sparse lighting the dockhouse offered, just as handsome as the first time she’d seen him. When he smiled at her, his teeth shone like polished pearls.
“Catherine,” the man said, bowing slightly.
Her hands moved to her belly, rubbing it, feeling the gentle rise four months in the making. She smiled in return and took a step into the storeroom. “Reginald,” she purred. “It has been too long.”
“It has. It truly has. But please, my dear, call me by my true name.”
Catherine smiled coyly. “Very well, Ki-Nan.”
He stood from his seat and approached her, dressed in a pair of short leather breeches and a sienna vest with no tunic beneath, revealing the black hairs on his chest. She nearly ran at him, colliding with his strong body and wrapping her arms around his back. Their lips met, their tongues probing. Catherine savored the salty taste of his mouth, thrusting her pelvis against him each time their tongues intertwined. Their lips then parted, and Ki-Nan made his way down her neck, planting tiny kisses, before stopping at the swell of breast above her bodice, taking in a mouthful of flesh and sucking. Catherine felt like she would explode.
“Do you wish for me to stop?” asked Ki-Nan, breathless.
Instead of answering, Catherine leaned back, grinned, and grabbed his crotch.
“We haven’t much time,” he gasped. “I must be on the open water before dusk.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
They made love, first atop the table after swiping the basket of oranges aside, then in a pile of netting, then beside a rack of fishing poles, her breasts pressed against the wall while he took her from behind. Ki-Nan was rough yet measured, never thrusting so hard as to actually hurt her, his brown skin slick with sweat. Catherine’s insides were on fire, her nipples sore from being bitten, and goose pimples covered her every inch. She had to grind her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from screaming, lest anyone who might be lingering outside the dockhouse hear.