Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,49

not sure we’ll ever manage to find our way back.”

“I don’t have a problem with that if you don’t,” she said hopefully. If this got back to Sophia, what were the chances she’d be locked in her cabin and fed only scraps of salted beef slipped beneath the door?

Nicholas’s interest only seemed to sharpen. “And what would your sister say about that?”

Oh—damn. She scrambled for an explanation, feeling the heat wash up her throat the longer it took. “I wasn’t raised the way Sophia was.…I’m still learning what’s expected of me. And clearly not doing the best job.”

He seemed confused by this. “Not raised the way…you mean to say…”

What could she possibly that would make sense here, worked through an eighteenth-century filter? “This family…I didn’t know that Sophia even existed, that any of them did, until they came and took me. They interrupted my life, and now I have to play by their rules and do whatever they ask, and it doesn’t matter what I want or how I feel. It’s not my choice.”

Nicholas turned again, resting his arms against the railing; he had locked his thoughts away so deeply inside of his mind that Etta couldn’t begin to guess at them. His expression gave nothing away as he said, “So you would rather return to Nassau than continue to New York?”

Nassau! That was the second time it had been mentioned. So not Nassau County in New York, which meant…the Bahamas. “Is that an option? Can you bring me back?”

“No,” he said flatly, extinguishing that tiny flare of hope. “My payment depends on delivering you to New York.”

Of course.

“Unless you’re in fear for your life—”

“What if I am?” she interrupted. “If it were up to me, I’d take one of those small boats and row myself back to shore.”

“Don’t be a fool.” His whole body went rigid beside hers. “Aside from the fact that it would take you days before you spotted land, you wouldn’t know the first thing about navigation, nor would you have enough water or food to sustain you.”

“So you’d keep me here against my will—”

“Know this, pirate,” he said, his hands gripping the railing, “you are my passenger, and I will be damned before I let any harm come to you.”

She was unsure how to respond to the fervor of those words. “Another rule?” she managed finally.

“A promise. If I see that you’re in danger from Ironwood, I will help you escape myself. But should you try to leave on your own, know that I will go to the ends of the earth to bring you back.”

She felt color begin to creep up her throat, her cheeks, at the intensity of his words. “You’d risk not getting your payment?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll escape after I get my payment.” He shook his head, but Etta caught the hint of teasing in his tone. “Really, Miss Spencer. You ought to surrender your colors for that.”

“Do pirates ever surrender?” she asked. “I thought they only went down in blazes of glory.”

“Only the bad ones,” he said, one corner of his mouth kicked up. “The rest live long enough for another war and go legitimate.”

She managed a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re right,” he said, studying the small scars scattered over the back of his hand. “About the rules—they go largely unspoken and without explanation.”

At first, watching the men at their game had been almost funny—it was so ridiculous to hear such devastatingly polite words delivered with such obvious hatred. And then, with Wren, it had suddenly become sinister—a way to do serious harm while still fitting inside that mold of acceptability.

Sophia had described it as a game, but Etta disagreed. In that first hour, the ceremonial flow of introductions, conversation, seating, had made her feel like they were part of a small orchestra. Written into every piece of music were strict rules on how to deliver the notes, how to keep the pacing, and a hundred other aspects that added up to the sound and movement that the composer had intended. There wasn’t much room to be playful, to reinterpret pieces; that’s why Etta always tried to flood her performances with some kind of emotion, to set them apart from what was expected. The most critical judges always seemed to be looking for perfect execution over inspiration, or even passion.

But both the game and orchestra metaphors were flawed. They implied that everyone was a willing participant, but the truth was, she doubted that anyone was really eager