When a maid of honor to the Queen is rescued by a handsome and contentious pirate, she has to spend three days aboard his ship before returning to court. But is three days time long enough to truly get to know someone? And is English court as diffic...
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Suddenly, the music ended and Celia found herself dipping into another curtsey as the man bowed low. She had planned on spinning on her heel and disappearing to the side of Elizabeth again, but she felt a warm hand on her elbow as soon as she began to turn around, pulling her body backward. She froze. Her back was to the man as he lowered his head, his hot breath tickling her ear as he exhaled against her goosebump-ridden skin.
"You look beautiful," the familiar voice said, low and raspy.
Celia's heart felt like a trapped bird, flapping its wings to escape, booming in her chest as the realization sunk in. His grip on her arm loosened and she spun around to meet his gaze once more. She immediately kicked herself for not recognizing him sooner.
"Harry," she breathed.
"Celia."
He raised his slender, tanned fingers to brush her temple, trailing from her cheek to her chin. Celia felt her heart soar, goosebumps rapidly spreading like a wild fire across her body. She wanted to fall into his chest and attach their lips in a never-ending kiss, but Greenwich Palace was not as casual as the Golden Tide, and to openly kiss Harry in public, and in front of Elizabeth, would result in an outrage. Instead, she bit her lip and pressed her forehead to his chin.
"You didn't recognize me," he said, his lips grazing her forehead as he spoke.
She pulled back to meet his eyes, putting some distance between them. "The light is dim," she said.
"Mistress Celia," a small voice said from behind her. She turned around to face Luke, who wore a black mask that covered only his eyes. "May I have the next dance?"
"I'd love nothing more, Doctor," she said, reaching for his hand.
Luke whisked Celia away from Harry, leaving him awkwardly alone in the midst of the drunk dancing courtiers. He slowly walked backward as his eyes trained on Celia and Luke, their bodies moving with such ease and lightness across the floor to the melodic hum of a violin. Like a scene out of a Shakespearean play, Celia and Luke spilled with laughter as they spun in circles. Harry narrowed his eyes at the scene before him, watching Celia's every move ever so carefully. She practically threw herself at him with no shame or conscience, causing Harry to wonder her angle. Was it to spark jealousy within him? Did she want Luke's affection over his own? Or was it all just a continuation of their game?
Luke took Celia's hand and twirled her to the rhythm, as if the song was made for her. The blue pools that Harry delved deep inside of every time his eyes landed on her grazed his own emeralds with every turn of her body, her neck craning for her gaze to land on him each time.
As the music slowed to a stop, her body did, too. She rested her palm atop Luke's as she curtseyed and he bowed, her eyes never leaving Harry's once. Luke then whispered into her ear, causing a smirk to settle on her pink lips as she led him over to the throne where Beatrice and Margaret stood beside Elizabeth. The two lowered their heads in the presence of the Queen, receiving a small smile from her Majesty.
Celia returned to her position between Elizabeth and Beatrice, and watched at Luke flashed a bright smile to Beatrice before walking away into the crowd. Beatrice immediately gasped with excitement, earning giggles from Celia and Margaret. She clutched Celia's forearm tightly, turning to her.
"Who was that?" she asked frantically.
"My dear, that is the whole point of a masquerade!" Margaret said, leaning in.
Celia gave her friend a cheeky smile. "You'll have to go find out."
"Me? Go up to him?" Beatrice asked in shock, as if Celia had just suggested to jump off of a bridge. Celia simply nodded. "Absolutely not! If Lord Byron can approach me for a dance, he can, too," she huffed.
Celia shrugged. "Suit yourself."
The next dance came and went, and Beatrice was incessantly tapping her heel and fidgeting for the entirety of the song. Her eyes wandered the crowd, searching for Luke with desperate eyes, until she had finally had enough. She stamped her foot in fury.
"Fine," she said. "Have it your way." Beatrice rolled her eyes at Celia before walking to the center of the room.
As if on cue, Luke appeared in front of her with a larger than life smile on his face. Beatrice curtseyed to her mystery man just as the music began to play, and their fairytale commenced.
Elizabeth and Celia watched the young couple as they gazed into each other's eyes, romance swirling in the air around them. However, in the background of the scene, the doors were heaved open to reveal a large man and a hidden woman following closely behind him. Elizabeth strained her eyes to focus on the man while Celia's narrowed at the woman. The dimly lit room made it difficult to make out their identities until they stood only a couple feet away.
Celia felt her heart lurch as the woman raised her head slightly, her unruly blonde curls glimmering as the candlelight reflected off of them and her sparkling blue eyes similar to Celia's.
"Izzy," she said, her voice croaking with confusion and excitement.
Isabel Wright's eyes twitched over to her sister, her features morphing from sorrow to being ecstatic in a heartbeat. Her eyes widened and a smile appeared on her face as she ran over to Celia, throwing her arms around her neck and crying into her shoulder. Celia squeezed Isabel tight, feeling tears welling up in her eyes, too.
As they pulled away from each other, they noticed the room had fallen silent; all eyes were directed to them. Elizabeth stood from her throne and cleared her throat, demanding the name of the dirt-covered man before her.
"Your Majesty, it is I, Sir Francis Drake," he said, kneeling on the floor. Another pirate.
"Sir," Elizabeth said with concern, "I barely recognized you. What happened?"
"I was sailing from the New World when the Spanish attacked." Gasps erupted around the room, echoing in the stark silence. "Thankfully, my crew is strong and we seized the ship." Cheers followed. "On board, I found only one English survivor. Mistress Isabel Wright, your Grace." The Captain gestured to Isabel, who held onto Celia's hand for dear life.
Isabel, like the Captain, was covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime. Her blonde curls were tangled, and her body shook with nerves. It was not until Isabel broke out into a fit of tears that Celia realized what the Captain had said; only one English survivor.
