Work Text:
Killian stumbles across her late at night in a secluded glade. This is the place he escapes to on occasion when his ship is in port—when the past digs its claws too deeply in his thoughts. She’s like a specter, her pale, slender fingers hiking her skirts up to her knees as she picks her way through the damp grass on bare feet. Her long flaxen hair is wild, glowing in the moonlight, and he thinks she might have been out in the downpour that passed an hour ago.
When she settles on a large worn boulder in the center of the clearing, when her face tips up toward the glittering sky, recognition makes an uncomfortable knot in his throat. He remembers the day his brother received his naval commission years ago—and the adolescent girl who had made faces at him behind her father’s back during the stuffy ceremony. A teenage Killian got an elbow in the gut when he snorted at her crossed eyes and wagging tongue. Her triumphant grin, more teeth than lip, was endearing, and for a moment, he forgot the asperity that seemed to have been inked into his bones from birth.
Her delicate features, once rounder with youth, have been honed with time, but they’re no less familiar. No less beautiful. She lets out a forlorn sigh, and he wonders what woes could beset a princess who has everything. He’s heard the tales, of course, of her impetuous nature, of the wild antics that gave her parents their graying hair. A sailor regaled the crew with the story of her stowing away on another vessel, playing a cabin boy for half the voyage before she was discovered. Another swore that he’d once been served by her under the guise of common wench in a seedy seaside tavern. Each account was more outlandish than the last.
But the rumors stopped some months ago. He supposes she’s finally grown into her royal obligations.
He spares another breath as a voyeur before deciding to leave her to her ruminations. He’s hardly in the mood for company himself when he’s in such a state. Unfortunately, his quiet retreat is stymied by the crack of a twig under his boot, and he curses under his breath.
She jumps to her feet, dagger in hand. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”
Her mettle draws a smile from him. He rather likes that his sovereign isn’t easily cowed, unlike the simpering political figureheads he’s had the disagreeable opportunity to bow before during his quests for crown and country.
Schooling his face to proper deference, he steps into the glade and offers her the expected obeisance. “I apologize, your highness,” he says. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Her lips purse briefly at the title, but she lowers her blade. “Yes, well…” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “I know you. Captain Jones’s brother.”
He swallows down the turmoil this familiar honor-by-association drums up. Sometimes he dreams of breaking free of the oppressive weight of his brother’s shadow. But he loves Liam fiercely; he’s desperate to make him proud. Particularly when it was his own flaws that nearly cost them this life of military glory before it could begin.
“Aye,” he replies. “Killian Jones, at your service.” Another bow seems to be in order, so he ducks his head.
The princess studies him for a beat, then nods as if she’s made a decision. She squares her shoulders and, despite her unkempt appearance, seems to become the very image of regal heir as she returns her dagger to its hiding place. “You may stay.”
Stay? He raises his brows, but doesn’t voice his bewilderment. “Of course, your highness.”
She rolls her eyes, nose scrunching in a way that is reminiscent of the impish child he remembers. “If you’re going to keep that up, you might as well leave.” She climbs back onto the rock and crosses her legs beneath her skirts. When he stands in place, she gives him a pointed look. “Well? Are you staying or not?”
He ought to go if he wants to keep his head—the king is notoriously protective of his daughter—but curiosity is a siren song he can never deny. “If it pleases you, your—” He cuts off at her glower. “I mean to say, as you wish…Emma.”
“I do.” She pats the space next to her, flashes him a small smile, and it’s the sun peeking over the horizon after a stormy night.
Odd that. He’s never short of comely lasses tossing him a wink and grin. Yet it’s never been like this, though he can’t name what this is. He joins her, leaning against the stone rather than sitting lest he has to make a hasty getaway. No doubt a servant or guard will notice her absence and come searching for her.
Silence stretches between them, marred only by the distant crash of the tide against the pebbled shore. He’s not keen to broach the quiet with frivolous conversation, but he feels he ought to do something. So he pulls the flask out from inside his coat, unscrews the cap, and offers it to her.
She eyes the bottle with suspicion, but accepts it anyway. It only takes a sip before she’s coughing and sputtering, shoving the drink back toward him. “That’s foul,” she says, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
He makes a noise of agreement as he takes a pull from the flask. The sweet, smokey liquor is an old friend, though as a naval lieutenant, decorum keeps him from becoming a lush. “It does the job of drowning your cares well enough.”
“Oh?” She turns to face him. “And what kind of troubles does a hero of the Nine Seas have that need drowning?”
Plenty, he lets his wry look say for him. “A mite more than a princess, I imagine.” The words are out before he can think better of them.
She laughs, though there is a brittle edge to it. “You’d be surprised.”
“Indeed?”
He notices her gaze follow him as he takes another swig of rum. She nearly snatches the flask when he offers it again. This time she only coughs once after a generous gulp.
“I didn’t ask to be born a princess, you know,” she says.
That’s true enough, he supposes. He didn’t ask to be born a pauper. And yet, “You have more than a poor sod like me could ever dream of.”
She makes a derisive noise. “More rules. More expectations. More responsibilities.” She waves a hand in the direction of the capital. “All that luxury comes with a price. My life has never been my own and it never will be.”
The defeat in her tone is a prickly bur behind his sternum, and he frowns. “What would you do with it if you were free to choose?”
Her eyes gleam with fervor. “I’d burn every damnable gown I own and only wear trousers.”
“Trousers?” He grins at the image it conjures. She’d look fetching in them.
“Yes,” she says. “And I’d sail away to find adventure. I’d command my own crew, and we wouldn’t be beholden to any crown.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “A mercenary, then? Or pirate?”
“An explorer,” she counters, gesturing wildly. “One who also comes to the aid of others.”
He gently pries the flask from her hands before she can pour out the rest of his rum. “Worthy aspirations, princess. But pray tell, how will you feed your crew?”
Her enthusiasm dips as she seems to consider his question. “I suppose we can take on cargo and passengers or the occasional job—so long as it breaks no laws.”
“Of course,” he agrees with feigned somberness. Truthfully, there’s a certain appeal to her fantasy. Perhaps when he finally grows weary of his regimented existence in the navy, he might chase the vision she painted. The thought has a tang of betrayal to it, though, as if he hasn’t the right to savor that freedom if she can’t.
“I’d…” she begins, gaze dropping to her skirts as she picks at the fabric. “I’d marry for love. I’d choose who gets my first kiss and who…” Her cheeks color over what she leaves unspoken.
The bur in his chest becomes a spiky vine twisting through his ribs. “Would your parents truly deny you a love match?” After all, King David and Queen Snow were famous for their own enduring devotion to one another.
“Maybe not,” Emma says, resignation bowing her shoulders. “But if there is a man with an acceptable pedigree that I don’t find revolting, I haven’t met him—and I’m pretty sure I’ve met them all.”
Killian can’t hold back a soft laugh at her candor, but he quickly sobers at the melancholy in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says helplessly.
“Why?” she asks. “You’re not the cause of my suffering.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t save you from it,” he says with all sincerity. For a foolish moment, he entertains the idea of helping her run off. But they’d be chased until the end of time, his own brother likely leading the charge.
“No one can.” She stares out into the shadowed forest.
He wants to turn away from the ache drawn in her features, but he finds he can’t. Why had the fates seen fit to lock such a fierce, vibrant soul in a gilded prison? Will all that passion be smothered one day by the weight of her birthright? If so, it would be a travesty.
She glances at him with a guarded expression. “There is something I would ask of you.”
He can’t begin to guess what it might be. “Anything, lass.”
Without a word, she grasps the lapels of his coat and drags him to her. Her lips are suddenly on his, and he’s frozen from the shock of it. As quickly as she ambushed him, she pulls back with an embarrassed apology. No, no. That won’t do at all. This can’t be what she remembers as her first kiss.
He brushes back the veil of hair that had fallen across her brow, hooks it behind her ear and traces a line to the hollow of her neck. Her breath quivers to match the erratic cadence of his pulse. Slowly, so that she can refuse him if she wishes, he leans forward, pressing his mouth over hers in a tender caress. Her skin is soft beneath his palms where he cups her jaw, her lips supple against his. That indefinable something swells in his chest as she slides her fingers through his hair, as she relaxes into the kiss. He’s never had an interlude so full of desire and yet so innocent before, and he wishes they could dwell here indefinitely.
But the need for air eventually overcomes them. The need for reality too.
She rests her forehead against his. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Words tangle on his tongue. There are promises he wants to give her—of the independence and recklessness she craves. But he can’t give them any substance. “Aye,” is all he has left to say.
She doesn’t speak as she slides down from the rock. He doesn’t chase after her when she disappears among the trees, though he’s certain she’s taken something precious from him all the same.
The Jewel of the Realm takes to the sea once more, and he ignores Liam’s concern each time his gaze drifts in the direction of Misthaven. Because it isn’t gloom that darkens his thoughts when he recalls the scent of loamy earth mingled with the scent of her beneath the stars. No, it’s the seed of a treasonous story that’s taken root in his heart.
The tale of a navy deserter who steals away with a princess.