It scarcely mattered, he told himself. He’d grow old alone now, underground most of the time, digging for dragons. How he looked would not matter to anyone. Tintaglia had kept her end of the bargain. He would keep his. The irony did not escape him. He’d wagered the rest of his life against the hope that he could rescue Malta. He would not deny his wild fancies now. He’d dreamed that he would rescue her, unscathed despite the horrible dangers she’d endured, and that she would collapse into his arms and promise to always be at his side. He’d dreamed that when he unveiled before her, she would smile and touch his face and tell him it did not matter, that it was him she loved, not his face.

But the reality was crueler. Tintaglia had dropped him and departed with her precious serpents. After days of battering flight and sleeping cold on isolated beaches, he’d nearly drowned. Malta’s kin had had to rescue him. They must think him an utter fool. His entire quest had been to no purpose, for Malta was safe already. He had no idea why the Vivacia was flying the Jamaillian flag, but obviously Althea Vestrit had managed to regain her ship and rescue her niece. They not only hadn’t needed his pathetic efforts, they’d had to rescue him.

He took one of Wintrow’s shirts from a peg and held it up. With a sigh, he hung it up again. He picked up his own shirt from the floor and watched the water run from it. His veil was tangled with it. For a time, he stared at it. Then he tugged it loose and wrung it out. It was the first thing he put on.

MALTA STOOD UNSEEING IN THE PELTING RAIN. THE FINE SCALING OF REYN’S face had been like silken mail, the warm gleam of his copper eyes like a beacon. Once, she had kissed those lips through the fine mesh of a veil. She felt her scrub-maid’s fingers on her chapped lips and snatched her hand away. Unattainable, now. She lifted her face to the cold rain and welcomed its icy touch. Numb me, she begged of it. Take away this pain.

“I’m cold,” the Satrap whimpered beside her. “And I’m tired of standing here.”

Kennit shot him a warning glance.

The Satrap had his arms wrapped tightly around himself but he still shook with the cold. “I don’t think they’re coming. Why must I stand here in the wind and rain?”

“Because it pleases me,” Kennit snapped at him.

Wintrow thought to intervene. “You can have my cloak, if you like,” he offered.

The Satrap scowled. “It’s dripping wet! What good would that do me?”

“You could be wetter,” Kennit snarled.

Malta took a long breath. The pirate and the Satrap did not seem much different from one another. If she could manage one, she could manage the other. It was not courage that motivated her to march across the deck and stand before Kennit with her arms crossed, but profound despair. He was a dangerous, violent man, but she didn’t fear him. What could he do to her? Ruin her life? The thought almost made her smile.

Her low, even words were meant only for Kennit but the tall woman who stood behind his shoulder listened, too.

“Please, King Kennit, let me fetch him a heavier cloak and a chair, if you will not allow him to go inside to shelter.”

She felt his gaze on her head, searching for signs of her scar. He answered her callously. “He’s being foolish. He takes no harm from a little rain. I do not see where it is your concern.”

“You, sir, are being more foolish than he.” She spoke boldly, no longer caring if she gave offense. “Forget my concern. Consider your own. Whatever pleasure you take from making him miserable is not worth what you will lose. If you wish the captains of that fleet to see him as valuable, then you should treat him as the Lord High Magnadon, Satrap of all Jamaillia. If you think to bargain him for riches, that is who you must be holding. Not a wet, cranky, miserable boy.”

Her eyes flickered once from Kennit’s pale blue ones to those of his woman. To her surprise, she looked faintly amused, almost approving. Did Kennit sense that? He looked at Malta but spoke to his woman. “Etta. See what you can manage for him. I wish him to be very visible.”

“I can arrange that.” The woman had a soft contralto voice, more refined than Malta had expected from a pirate’s woman. There was intelligence in her glance.

Malta met her gaze frankly, and dropped her a curtsey as she said, “My gratitude to you, lady.”

She followed Etta from the foredeck and kept up with her. The wind had stirred a nasty little chop and the wet deck was unsteady, but in her days aboard the Motley, she had finally found her sea legs. She amazed herself. Despite all that was wrong in her life, she took pride in being able to move well on her father’s ship. Her father. Resolutely, she banished all thoughts of him. Nor would she dwell on Reyn, so close that she could feel his presence. Eventually, she must stand before him, ruined and scarred, and face the disappointment in those extraordinary copper eyes. She shook her head and clenched her teeth against the sting of tears in her eyes. Not now. She would not feel anything for herself just now. All her thoughts and efforts must go into restoring the Satrap to his throne. She tried to think clearly as she followed Etta into her father’s stateroom.