My Pirate Prince: Book 1

By Edy Turner

Eloise Covington never imagined she’d end up in the arms of the devilishly handsome and notorious pirate, Captain Hawk. But when dire family circumstances force her to disguise herself as a boy and stow away on his ship, Eloise finds herself drawn to the pirate life and even more so, the pirate himself. Maintaining her disguise won’t be easy. Especially since she’s also trying to hide her growing attraction to the sexy captain and his wicked ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Radish
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956969078

Edy Turner

Edy Turner’s love for royals goes back to when she was a little girl and watched her mother’s videotape of Charles and Di’s wedding. Now she spends her time writing about them. And drinking lots of coffee

Book preview

Chapter One

The breeze coming off the sea would have stirred her skirts, had Eloise been wearing any. The boys’ trousers she had put on instead were a not-yet-comfortable second skin, a constant reminder of all she was leaving behind.

Eloise didn’t know much about ships, but even she could see that The Serpent was beautiful. She boasted a golden figurehead in the shape of a mermaid, with long flowing hair and an expression of fiery determination. Built out of a rich, dark wood, her railings shone under the sunlight.

The ship was quite nearly as handsome as her captain.

Eloise stood on the docks and watched as said captain began to pace the length of the deck. His was a figure built to command and inspire. He moved with an almost vicious confidence, striding up and down the wooden boards of the deck, flaunting a backside that was so well-defined as to be almost scandalous, even through his breeches. The wind tousled his dark curls against his cheekbones as the sea crashed against the ship’s bow, and his face drew her gaze like an incoming tide. Sculpted, as though out of marble—but what stone could capture the movement of his lips as they shifted into a half-smile, his eyes bright with mysterious intent? Eloise could feel her pulse thrumming in her throat.

He peered over the side of the ship. His hands, resting on the railing, were long-fingered and gloved: artful hands, Eloise thought. Hands that she imagined would feel absolutely perfect against her neck where they would then trail ever so slowly down to her breasts and—heaven’s Eloise get a grip! A moment of fear sang like lightning in her veins as his bright eyes glanced her way, excitement setting her pulse racing, and the heat at her core rising ever higher; but then his gaze passed over her without so much as a pause.

Of course, she didn’t exactly look like a lady just now. She was out of her element on the docks of Wayfort, waves colliding with the wooden pier and threatening to slosh right over her feet. She cursed herself silently. Of all the moments to look like a boy!

With some effort, she turned her thoughts back to the situation at hand. What mattered was that this gentleman could keep her safe. But her disguise itself was no small risk, and even if she were to successfully pass as a boy for the length of the journey, wouldn’t she earn his wrath as a stowaway if she were to be caught? Then, she would have to prove herself a capable sailor, an even trickier act of deception. Or else, offer him some other incentive to offset the inconvenience of her presence... but, of course, he’d be too much of a gentleman to take her up on an offer like that. And Eloise was too much of a lady. Wasn’t she?

Not for the first time, the scope of her plan seemed fated for catastrophe—ill-planned, ill resourced, and on the verge of unravelling like an improperly stored skein of yarn. But she was trapped. Her hand had been forced.

The very livelihood of her family was at stake.

How had she come to be here in the first place? Her thoughts swirled like ocean water in a storm, and she sank into the depths of her memory…

Three Weeks Earlier

The voice of the old priest was reedy and thin in the openness of the cemetery. At first, Eloise kept her eyes fixed on the coffin, mahogany and heaped with white lilies. Lord Covington, her father, was dead. She had had days to process the news and still found she could not. The priest continued to expounded on the virtues of the family as she allowed her gaze to wander to her mother and her two younger sisters.

Lady Covington was outfitted in a dress that would likely be considered ostentatious if it hadn’t been tastefully black. A smile threatened to break through Eloise’s tears. Her mother meant no disrespect, though few would have guessed it to be so. No, it was quite the opposite, really. Her father had always encouraged his wife’s more decorative tendencies, even when they verged on the ridiculous. It was a marker of affection between them, just one of many signs of how deeply the two loved one another, how intimately they knew each other.

Currently, Eloise’s mother and her youngest sister, Phoebe, were crying openly, tears flowing down their cheeks. Middle child Rosabella looked determined not to weep, mouth set in a firm line, but when Phoebe grasped her hand, her face crumpled.

There was no point in wiping at tears that continued to come. Eloise let them fall, every spadeful of dirt on the coffin weighing heavily on her heart.

As the service came to a close, she noticed a strange figure lurking at the edges of the small gathering—a man she had never seen before. She frowned in his direction, wondering who he was. There was a look about him she was not certain she liked.

No, Rosabella told her, on their walk back to Hartstone Manor, I didn’t recognize him, either.

Neither did I, said Phoebe, still sniffling.

That’s strange, mused Lady Covington, as Sir Alistair Tate escorted her down the path towards the estate, the girls right behind them.

Probably an old friend of Lord Covington’s, Sir Alistair said with a reassuring smile.

If that were the case, Eloise replied, he ought to have introduced himself.

Sir Alistair opened his mouth to respond, but Lady Covington began speaking with renewed fervor. If only Sir Covington had never set foot in that carriage, she said, Haven’t I always said that those contraptions are wildly dangerous death-traps?

You never let that stop you from going into town, Phoebe jested, and Rosabella nudged her gently in the ribs.

Well, it hardly matters now, cried Lady Covington, not when we have no one left to take care of us!

It was not the first time that Eloise had considered the bleakness of their situation, but her mother’s raw concern lent it a certain starkness. Don’t worry, Mother, said Eloise, hoping that her words would imbue her with confidence as much as reassurance for the others. Things will turn out alright. I’ll make sure we’re financially secure.

Lady Covington smiled then, eyes watery yet proud. Oh, my girls. How did you all end up being so wonderful?

Once they had all stepped into the foyer of the manor, a butler divesting them of their outerwear, Sir Alistair tipped his hat. My dear ladies, he said, please let me know if I can be of any assistance. No matter is too small or too large.

You are too kind, sir, said Lady Covington, handing off her hat and fan to the overloaded butler. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.

He bowed and took his leave. The two youngest girls ran to the kitchen to bother the cook for something to eat. Lady Covington collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room, burying her face in her hands. Truthfully, I don’t think we’ll be able to hold onto the estate unless you marry someone with means, my dear Eloise.

Eloise, who had been mentally running through calculations to determine whether they could afford a cut of beef, coffee, and some sugar for the next few days, felt like she had been struck on the back of the head with a stone. That can’t be the only solution, she said.

As though she hadn’t responded, Lady Covington sat up, struck by a sudden thought. Why not Sir Alistair? He’s the perfect candidate.

Eloise nearly laughed in shock. Mother! He’s a wonderful man, I know, but he must be at least forty, and I’d rather not have a husband whose time already spent on this earth more than doubles mine.

It’s only just more than double, her mother told her, stubbornly, and nineteen is a perfectly marriageable age.

Eloise sighed. If you’re so interested, maybe you should marry him.

Lady Covington gasped. Eloise, that would be highly inappropriate. I don’t know how you can even suggest, given the circumstances—

We’ll manage without that, Eloise interrupted, needing the reassurance as much as her mother. Here, let’s have no further talk of the matter. Why don’t we all sit together in the parlor for a bit?

But Lady Covington shook her head. I’m going to retire early, my dear. I’m entirely worn out.

The late afternoon light was beginning to fade as evening crept in. Rosabella and Phoebe were already at the little table in the parlor, outfitted with snacks from the kitchen. Eloise grabbed a handful of grapes and a slice of cheese from Phoebe, heedless of her protests, and sat next to Rosabella, dropping her chin into her palm as she popped some of the fruit into her mouth.

Father should be here, Phoebe said, gazing plaintively out the window.

Father, said Rosabella, would have stolen even more of your grapes.

That startled a giggle out of Eloise, and soon, all three of them were laughing—a moment of merriment tinged with deep grief. When they settled down again, Eloise found that she was no longer hungry.

He used to say that he’d always find his way home, no matter what happened, she said. Years ago now. Do you remember?

Phoebe shook her head blankly, but Rosabella nodded. He said that whether by land or by sea, anyone could chart a path through the stars.

Eloise looked out the window and sighed, her heart aching. Perhaps he’ll use them to find a way back to us now, she said wistfully.

When the moon rose that night over the gardens, Eloise wondered if, somehow, somewhere, her father was watching it, too. Watching her.

* * *

The clock had only just struck midnight when a loud banging at the front door echoed through the manor. Eloise, who had finally succumbed to her dreams, blinked confusedly before leaping out of bed as the pounding noise continued.

Bedroom doors slammed as the family made their way to the foyer, Lady Covington gesturing to the butler that she herself would answer the door. Eloise walked with her, the two younger girls following in their wake. Her heart pounded in her throat as they approached the door, terror in her veins. After everything that had happened, could something else possibly have gone wrong—another loss, another death, another grief for her heart to bear?

The door opened to reveal a haughty-looking man, flanked on either side by armed guards. You have twenty minutes to gather your things, dress, and get out, he barked. Hartstone Manor is mine!

Chapter Two

Eloise’s vision narrowed to a thin tunnel: the view of a handful of men upon her front steps narrowing to only one. The cruel stranger was puffed up in his arrogance, his demand echoing in her ears. Leave? Leave the only home we’ve ever known? How can we? Why must we?

She shook her head, trying to clear it, wishing that this was a nightmare dredged up by her subconscious from the grief of losing her father. That could happen, couldn’t it—anxiety-ridden visions that felt real as they unfolded, reflecting her darkest fears?

Her gaze now took in her mother and sisters, beside her, their faces apt mirrors for her inner turmoil. Fear spread through the family like a silent fire. Lady Covington was paler than Eloise had ever seen her, frail and helpless in her nightclothes, and Eloise felt a derisive, furious laugh curling up in her chest. She had to stay very still to keep from screaming it out. The pleading look Rosabella gave her made ice settle in Eloise’s stomach. Her sister had never looked so terrified.

Phoebe, small as she was at fifteen, drew herself to her full height. We don’t know what you’re talking about, she spat at the man, indignant.

The stranger rolled his eyes, sighing in annoyance. With a flourish, he shoved an overstuffed envelope in Lady Covington’s direction; but as the girls’ mother could do no more than look past the motion of his hands, Eloise snatched it from his grasp.

She broke the red wax seal and nicked her finger on the edge of the paper as she tore it open, letting out a little gasp of surprise as a pinprick of blood welled up on her fingertip. Biting her lip, she pulled out a smart stack of papers, adorned in elegant legal script.

A light smear of her blood then, next to the name on the first page—

Lucius Covington?

The man gave a mocking little half-bow. At your service.

Only son and sole heir of Lord Covington, continued Eloise, her voice sounding distant in her own ears. How is this possible?

Lady Covington swayed in place, hand over her heart. Your dear late father was married once before me, his first having passed on, she told them, her voice shaking. It never occurred to me that any of that might matter. It was so long ago, and he never said anything about it...

Eloise couldn’t picture her father married to anyone else. He’d been so in love with her mother, so happy… Why hadn’t she heard about this before?

"And now you have fifteen minutes to pack up and leave, said the so-called Lucius Covington, her half-brother and their doom. He arched a brow, fussing with a glove. I wouldn’t test my good graces, were I you. Run along now, ladies."

Eloise stared at him. Now that she was looking more closely, it was obvious that he had inherited her—their—father’s lips and grey eyes. Her father’s mouth would never have curved into that cutting smirk, though—nor would his grey eyes ever have been so cold and cruel.

Lucius glared back. Well?

Eloise set her jaw, crumpling the paper in her hand. It was legal and binding, and there was nothing she could do. Girls, she said quietly. Come on. We need to pack.

Back in her bedroom, Eloise moved wildly, throwing her things into a set of trunks without pausing to evaluate their suitability for her future life, whatever that might look like. She stopped in front of her jewelry chest and caught herself in the mirror, taking in her ever-tangled cloud of russet brown curls and the ruddy flush of her cheeks. She had been sure she would look as pale and fragile as she felt, but the woman who stared back at her looked healthy and stable, if panicked. How had she managed that?

Her eye caught upon a small brooch, shaped like a sword, a fine chain connecting the hilt to the scabbard. Father had given it to her after one of his trips abroad. For protection, he had said, winking. Not that you’ll need it, my capable girl.

It was just a little charm, but upon getting dressed, she pinned it to her bodice. She desperately needed something lucky to cling to now. That it had come from her father only added to its comfort.

When they left the manor, dragging their trunks behind them, Lucius didn’t give them a second glance. He flipped his cloak over his shoulder and disappeared into their house, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

We will be the talk of the countryside, said Lady Covington as they stepped over the threshold of Sir Alistair’s estate, the rise of the eastern sun backlighting their harried move into their temporary new quarters.

We’ve got bigger problems than gossip, Mother, said Eloise. She began taking in Sir Alistair’s home from the novel perspective of the beggar.

What will become of us? sniffled Rosabella.

Sir Alistair smiled kindly, patting Rosabella on the shoulder. You’re welcome to stay as long as necessary, he said. This midnight turning-out is the truly scandalous occurrence here. It’s appalling by any standard!

Again, said Lady Covington, voice trembling, you’re too kind, but I can’t bear the thought of our becoming charity cases.

What else can we do? said Phoebe glumly, twisting the ends of her braid.

They began the process of settling into the guest wing, moving with the soft solemnity of ghosts. Eloise sat on the bed in the room that was to be hers for the time being, chin in hand. The quietness of her surroundings was a balm compared to the chaos of the early morning hours, and she felt a grim determination rising within her.

They would find a way to regain their dignity. As her father’s eldest and favorite, it was her responsibility that they manage to overcome their circumstances. What would Father want? She was sure he would not wish them to rely on the kindness of strangers for the rest of their lives. How would they even begin to pay Sir Alistair back? And how had fate conspired to shift their fortunes so severely?

Not fate, she reminded herself. Lucius. His taunts echoed in her head. How could he be so vile, when Father was always fair and kind? A picture arose unbidden in her mind—her father, standing beside a faceless, nameless woman and a frowning young boy. What had happened to them?

And, for that matter, why didn’t Father prepare them for this? What other secrets had he been keeping?

Getting to the bottom of things would have to wait. She knew what she had to do.

* * *

Sir Alistair, she said, stepping into the library, where he was reading a newspaper. Could I have a moment of your time? There’s something I need to discuss with you.

Of course, he replied, gentle as ever. He folded up the newspaper and rose to shut the door, leaving them alone.

Eloise took a breath. She felt like she hadn’t breathed in days. You’re not married, she said, and immediately blushed at the inanity and forthrightness of the statement.

But he just tilted his head, a curious look in his eyes. Indeed, I am not, he said.

Eloise swallowed, cheeks flushing, before she went on. I could...that is, I wonder if you might be able to use some help. I could help take care of the estate. If I were your wife, that is. I mean. If you were to take me to be your wife.

He raised both eyebrows, surprise and then sadness crossing his face. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but seemed to think better of it. You don’t have to do this, Eloise, he said softly. You and your family are welcome here without a marriage to bind you.

You might not think of me as a wife right now, said Eloise insistently, reaching out to grasp at the hand he had nearly proffered, but I could... become one when you so desire. I would do my best to be good to you.

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, blinked in what she hoped was an attractive manner, and tried to smile.

Alistair shook his head. My dear girl, he said, and later she would give him credit for not looking away. I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I am not married, and I do not plan to take a wife, at any point. It’s... well, it’s not in my nature.

I… oh. I see, Eloise said faintly. The relief she felt at not being forced into a marriage with a much older, if altogether kind, man was quickly supplanted by an array of new fears and worries.

You needn’t worry so about caring for your family, he said. "You are welcome in my home as long as you need to be here. Even if that is always. Now, let’s have no more of this marriage talk. Go, be with your family. You need each other now more than ever."

Moving to join her family in the other wing of the house, she shoved the negative thoughts back under a curtain of optimism.

What were you talking about with Sir Alistair? asked her mother, sounding very tired.

Eloise paused. What the man had shared with her was private, and while she was sure her mother wouldn’t think ill of him for it, she didn’t want him to accidentally become the target of gossip further down the line. Her mother wasn’t exactly known for her discretion. Nothing of interest.

Her sisters stared at her from their place on the sofa, their eyes dull and sad. Her heart broke to see them so despondent. I know everything feels impossible right now, she told them, but we won’t be charity cases forever. I’ll find a way out of this.

How? said Rosabella, with a little laugh of disbelief.

I don’t know, yet, Eloise admitted, but it’ll be alright. I promise.

While no one smiled, the tension abated somewhat. That evening, they even found it within themselves to play cards, and when they went to bed, it was with the softness of newly lifted spirits.

Eloise didn’t sleep that night, a host of plots running through her head: woven together as though on a massive loom. By candlelight, she sat at the guest room desk and composed a letter to her mother.

Do not fear for me, she wrote. I promise to return and redeem our rightful heritage.

She left the house as quietly as she had entered it that morning, and with a deep breath of courage, Eloise Covington disappeared into the night.

Chapter Three

Eloise nearly twisted her ankle disembarking from the public carriage, landing unsteadily on the crooked cobblestones of Esterwell, one of Wayfort’s larger port cities. The porter tossed her luggage unceremoniously after her, and the carriage drove away with a lurch, wheels splashing mud along the length of her skirts.

Her purse was achingly empty, her last coins spent on the fortnight-long journey from Brinovia. Muddy and unkempt, she dragged her trunk over to the side of the street and sat down to steady herself.

She hadn’t initially planned on making the trip over the border. She had hoped to win sympathy from old friends in Brinovia, having spent nearly a week calling on acquaintances, outfitted head to toe in black. But everyone from her formerly closest compatriots to the most distant acquaintances received her with the bare minimum of niceties, many taking the earliest opportunity to slander her family with accusations of the basest sort. It quickly became apparent that Lucius had carefully planted awful rumors about her and her family, utterly ruining their standing in good society. Taking their home had clearly not been enough for him. Even her attempts to find work in her home country had proved impossible.

But, no one would give two figs about a minor noble’s daughter in Wayfort. She wouldn’t be able to capitalize on her name, but nor would she need to bear its being sullied repeatedly. Besides, she was here to make money by any means necessary.

Not for herself, of course. She may be ruined, but there was still time and opportunity for Rosabella and Phoebe to have dowries and marry well. As such, she would take any job that would have her.

Determined, she turned to begin the arduous process of hauling her trunk down the street—and found it gone. Her heart sank, but she was too numb now to let even this latest disaster cause her to break down. Only a cold, empty anger filled her. She cursed, loudly and ineffectually, and kicked at the wall, which accomplished nothing but a throbbing pain in her toes. Now limping slightly, she went down the main street in search of employment.

The first few places at which she inquired said they weren’t looking to hire anyone, but the looks they gave Eloise suggested their reticence was due more to her unkempt state than to any real lack of need. Walking into the wealthier section of town, she spotted a pump on the edge of one of the grander households. Creeping up to it as stealthily as she could, she began to wash up, hoping no one would spot her.

What are you doing?

An older woman in a maid’s outfit was staring at her inquisitively. I… well… she stuttered. That is—

Just because the young miss sees fit to give away her hand-me-downs to the likes of us, doesn’t mean you can just run out and get dirt all over everything! The maid folded her arms, arching a brow in disapproval.

Eloise could do nothing but stare for a moment, puzzled. Did this woman think she was one of the household servants? She started to offer a protest before realizing that she could twist this woman’s assumption to her advantage. Of course, she said apologetically. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.

The woman huffed and nodded towards the house. Hurry up and get back to work, she said.

Right, right, said Eloise. Would you be so kind as to remind me what I’m meant to be doing?

Lord, said the woman. "You don’t have to talk like them, too. Best remember your place, girl. And it’s in the kitchen, helping Cook, as you well know. Anyone would think you just got here. Now, get on with you, and change back into something more fitting for service."

Once Eloise got dressed in a clean uniform she found in the laundry, she located the kitchen, where she was instructed to chop some onions. She appraised the group of vegetables before her, squat and reddish-purple. How hard could this be, really?

She thought she was doing a half-decent job of it, cutting the globes of onion into long, curved strips, but the cook looked over and frowned. Christ’s sake, don’t use the butcher knife! You’ll lose a finger. And what’s this? Why haven’t you peeled it?

Thus chastised, she tried to remove the dried skin from the strips, but soon felt a strange stinging sensation in her eyes. How odd, she thought, and began to rub at them with her hands.

The sharp pain in her eyes increased tenfold, and she gasped as tears started to fall, clouding her vision. But she was told to chop onions, and chop onions she would. Determined, she picked up the knife again, just as another surge of prickling tears forced her eyes shut.

She took a few steps forward, back towards the cutting board, and sighed with relief when she felt the wooden whirls of the board under her fingers—

A cacophonous crash, and she screamed in surprise, eyes fluttering open.

Flour was settling gently on every surface of the kitchen like falling snow, from the pots and pans, to the stove, to the cook, who was now glaring at Eloise in frozen fury. The knife, which had clattered to the floor after piercing the bag of flour, spun wildly in a threatening circle until finally coming to rest, pointed straight at the cook.

Eloise winced.

I’m back, called a cheerful voice. A girl resembling Eloise poked her head into the kitchen, mouth falling open at the disaster that greeted her. What in the blazes happened here? Who’s this?

Eloise was well on her way out the door before the girl could finish her sentence, trailed by a litany of curses and a threat to call the guard on her if she showed her face again.

So, she couldn’t cook. She crossed that possibility off the list of potential fields she could work in. As she walked on, she saw a sign advertising a pub called The Ivory Otter. Perhaps, if she couldn’t cook food, she could at least serve it.

The pub was happy to hire her, and though she was not particularly good at the work, her first few evenings as a barmaid passed uneventfully. The other barmaids mostly kept to themselves, so she did the same, whiling away the hours listening to the local gossip as she came and went from the kitchen, carrying beers and platters of food that inevitably slopped onto the laps of her customers when she wasn’t paying attention.

The evenings were especially ripe for storytelling, and her fourth evening there was no different.

"You think you have a story? Bet you haven’t heard the latest about the Bloody Hawk!"

The voice, beer-laden and excited, came from the streetwalkers’ corner of the tavern; the favorite spot of the women of the night. When Eloise glanced towards them, pausing before a table of raucous men, she saw that a man was seated among their number, gesticulating broadly as the women hung onto his every word.

I heard, said another man, that he single-handedly captured a passenger ship, and burned the works with everyone onboard still alive.

Rubbish, said the first man. He looted it beforehand. They had livestock aboard. Hawk and his crew roasted some hogs in the flames. He leaned in with a devilish grin. And if they feasted on meat other than just pork… well, who was there to stop them?

The corner exploded in delighted gasps of horror.

Well, I heard that he’s on the run from the law in five separate countries, said a third man, Killed some duke in England, didn’t he? And ravished his wife to boot!

So, who is he really, this Hawk? piped up one of the women, a buxom redhead. Doesn’t anyone know?

The conversation stalled for a moment as the men tried to look anywhere but each other. Well, no one knows, is the thing, the first man finally admitted. But whenever the law comes down on him, he always manages to escape its clutches, sure as a wolf from a hunter.

Eloise was just as entranced as the women of the night, heart in her throat. Who could this mysterious and vicious man be? This was a port city; would he ever come here? She’d not thought of encountering pirates on her journey.

As she watched the group of gossips start arguing among themselves, the sudden pressure of a hand on the back of her skirt brought her back to herself. A sick feeling twisted in her gut. An accident, surely, she thought. Someone must have been moving past and brushed too closely against her. The tavern was crowded, after all.

Then the hand grabbed her backside and squeezed, hard and deliberate, as though she were a fruit at market.

Rage rose within her like a growing flame. Turning swiftly, she upended the beer she was supposed to be taking to table four onto the man’s smirking face.

The man who owned the Ivory Otter was apoplectic with rage when he learned what she’d done. The nerve of you, mistreating a customer that way! he shouted.

He pinched me, protested Eloise. "What of my mistreatment?"

He threw up his hands, exasperated with her. That’s part of the job, missy!

Then I don’t want it! she shouted. She threw her apron at the owner and stormed out into the night.

She stomped past the docks, slowly beginning to calm, before she realized she was being followed. She kept walking, hoping she was wrong, hoping that he would go away, but when she turned into a dark street, she felt hands on her waist, spinning her around. Come on, then, said the same man, face still damp with the beer she’d poured onto him. How much do y’want? I’ll pay you, whatever the cost.

She tried to shake him off. Let go of me. I’m not interested.

He pushed her against the alley wall and reached for the neckline of her dress, tearing a strip of cloth from her bodice down to her waist. Eloise clenched her hands into fists as her breast was exposed, panic surging through her. She tried to scream, to squirm, to do anything to escape him, but he was too strong. If this was the end…

The grip on her arms slackened when a man dressed in a deep red greatcoat pulled the man off her, and Eloise sagged forward, her body hurtling towards the ground. Catching her effortlessly in his arms, the gentleman in red steadied her back against the wall before whipping out his sword and laying the blade against her attacker’s throat.

Make another move on the lady, and you’ll regret it, he warned.

Chapter Four

Eyes wide, the drunk took off running, and Eloise let out a breath of relief. Her savior cast his gaze aside so as not to look directly at her exposed chest. Even in the low light, it was apparent that he had a fine profile, with an aquiline nose and sharply cut cheekbones, over which his dark hair fell in loose waves. Are you alright, miss? he said. When she nodded, he offered a small smile, eyes still downcast. You ought to cover yourself, if you can get your shirt to stay.

Eloise grabbed at her fallen bodice utterly distracted by this statuesque figure before her. Heat rushed to her face and…lower parts. Parts a lady and certainly not one in her position should be thinking about it. She pinned the bodice back into place with a straight pin from between her corset stays, furiously trying to quell the blush rising in her cheeks. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would do for the moment. Thank you, sir, she stuttered quietly.

And get off the streets, her rescuer added. This is no place for a woman alone. Even his voice was like pure molten steel. His eyes were impossible to look away from, as deep and as blue as the ocean itself.

He turned, his greatcoat swishing with his movement, and walked away. She made to call out her gratitude once more, but he had already disappeared into the bustle of the street. A handsome, chivalrous man, she thought to herself, and naturally, she was sure never to see him again.

* * *

Thanks to her employment at the Ivory Otter, Eloise had amassed enough coins to buy a new dress. Though, she thought, grimacing, it was also thanks to her employment at the pub that she needed a new dress in the first place.

The next morning, she made her way to the main street of the city, searching through the wares of the charity shop there. To her regret, she found only frocks she could barely fit an arm into and dresses big enough to wear simultaneously with both her sisters. Of course, there were plenty of men’s clothes in all sizes, and wasn’t that always the way—

She froze, hands brushing the weave of a man’s jacket. There was plenty of work available for men—more difficult work, certainly, but work where she would not need to fear assault. Perhaps she could turn the abundance of male clothes to her advantage…

In order to walk through the world without hassle, she needed to be invisible. Those who wielded the most power went about their business unseen, and she wanted an honest day’s wages without worrying that she might be attacked again.

If women were to be seen and not heard, she would have to become a man.

She rummaged through the piles of men’s clothes, found trousers and a shirt that looked like they would be a good fit, and took them to the front of the shop. The woman working at the counter smiled at her kindly, and Eloise asked, Have you got a pair of scissors?

The woman seemed puzzled for a moment, until she saw the clothes Eloise had chosen. Ah, you’re wanting to cut your hair?

Startled and caught-out, Eloise almost considered running. But the woman hadn’t been asking with ill intent. How’d you know?

The shopkeeper chuckled. You’re not the first clever girl who’s been through here looking for a better life. I can cut it for you, if you like. No charge, if I get to keep what you don’t want. It’ll make some lovely wigs.

Eloise had always navigated a complicated relationship with her hair. Long, thick, and unruly, it was both an utter pain to care for and the jewel of her beauty when properly attended to. She wanted to cling to it, yet she couldn’t wait to see it go.

Sitting in front of a mirror in the back of the shop, she watched as the first of her waist-length ringlets was sliced away, the remainder bouncing lightly against the tip of her chin. The shopkeeper worked quickly, and the transformation was substantial. Eloise was left with a short crop of reddish-brown curls nestled along her forehead and peeking out from behind her ears.

It was a shock to see herself like this—and a weight off her shoulders, both literally and figuratively.

Why don’t you go in the back room and get changed? said the woman, and Eloise agreed.

Once she was dressed, she turned