Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) by Anyta Sunday, Dru Wellington Page B

laughed. “Something like that. Should I collect my winnings and be gone . . .?” He lifted the staff to sweep in the pile of gold and paper, and I snatched the end, prying it back.
    Standing, I unbuttoned the soft coat with clumsy fingers. Make the ruffian think I hadn’t the skill to cheat. Make him think he’d win this game.
    Another burst of sea breeze flooded the tavern. I shivered at its cold licks, glaring toward the door.
    The man I’d played the night before stepped over the threshold and paused, his wide shoulders propping the door open. The deep brown coat matched his dark hair, but not the dark gaze that swung around the tavern. He looked toward my corner and a scowl bracketed his mouth.
    Our gazes hooked for a moment, and I sent him a somewhat apologetic grin. Sorry ’bout cheating you. Better luck next time, eh?
    He straightened, and I slipped out of my coat, draped it on the table, and focused on winning a happily ever after. Breezes billowed my shirt as I sat.
    “Reveal,” I said, tapping the backs of my cards.
    The ruffian’s smile darkened as he stabbed his cards with the staff’s forked tongue and lifted them—
    I gasped. “No. That’s . . .”
    The ruffian raised a sharp brow, and I swallowed back the accusation. No way he had those cards. They were perfect.
    They were mine .
    How had . . .? Surely I’d have noticed . . .
    I flipped my cards. Two worthless spades blinked back.
    “A valiant effort,” the ruffian said, standing. “And not without some skill.” He plucked up the coat, shook it, and slipped it on, rubbing the top button—Father’s lucky star. “Nice fit.”
    The mound of winnings disappeared into his velvet pouch.
    My stool tipped back and clattered to the floor as I stood and braced the table. “You—”
    The head of his staff rapped my knuckles, cards still speared on the forked tongue. “I believe these belong to you.”
    The cards were wedged under my fingers. Staff freed, he used the cuff of my father’s coat to buff the silver snakehead. “Word of advice,” he said, pivoting and striding through the rambunctious crowds. “Never play a pirate.”
    The table glared at me, emptied save for my king and queen, hearts pierced. Poisoned.
    The money. Our happily ever after.
    Father’s coat.
    Out of the tavern I shot, pushing through a bunch of hollering pirates. At least these fellows looked the part: skin stained with ink and ears flashing with gold.
    Fast fingers pinched my pouch and sought to free my sword, but I gripped the hilt and shoved harder. The pouch they could have, empty as it was.
    Thieving dastards the lot of them.
    Salty air slammed into me as I lurched onto the groaning wharf. Lamps threw pockets of light down its length and water slapped against tens of docked ships, masts like looming black skeletons.
    The ruffian sauntered toward the end of the wharf with a confident clicking of his staff.
    “Perhaps we could negotiate?” I called. Seawater sprayed up through the gaps in the planks, and a few drops hit my shirt, the icy touch nothing to the cruel bite of the wind. “My coat, sir,” I headed after him. “I want it back.”
    He paused, turning; brass buttons flashed under burned orange light, and his lips twitched in suppressed amusement
    “In return for something else, of course.” I slowed to a stop a half-yard before him. “A cheat I may be, but I know when I’m bested.”
    “What else have you to offer?”
    Breath hitching, I glanced at my sword and sturdy boots. There was nothing else for it. I opened my belt—
    Pain bloomed over my hand as the pirate rapped my the knuckles. The offending staff lingered in triumph. “I don’t fancy your dented blade or your scuffed boots.”
    After one languid gaze, he dragged the staff up my shirt, over my throat, to my chin. The forked snake tongue danced at my lips. “Your mouth.”
    “My . . . mouth?”
    The ruffian’s eyes glinted with amusement. “So delicate. I should like