Free Unclaimed Heart by Kim Wilkins

move.
    â€œI’m fine!” she called shrilly. “Don’t come in, I’m . . .” She couldn’t think quickly enough. “I’m dressing,” she said.
    â€œYou’re already dressed. I saw you this morning. What’s going on?” Then he stopped talking and started shoving, and the trunk slipped in short jumps across the floorboards. She pushed Alexandre’s head down, and he crouched behind the dresser while she ran to the door.
    With her foot, she pushed the trunk out of the way. The door fell open. Father glared at her. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”
    â€œAll the noise. It frightened me.” Her mind was scrambling for lies, but not quickly enough. Father’s eyes caught on something behind her. She turned. Alexandre was standing up, in clear sight. What on earth was he thinking?
    Father pulled out his pistol, thumbed back the striker and aimed it at Alexandre. It was too similar to her nightmare. Reality grew sharp edges. Her heart seemed to catch on her ribs. “No! Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him, you scoundrel!” she shouted, kicking her father in the shin.
    Father turned to her, an expression of anger and shock in his eyes. Alexandre put his hand to his lips, then held it out. On his palm was a gleaming pearl.
    â€œCaptain, I am Alexandre Sans-Nom, and I require only a passage home to France,” he said, clearly now. “This is everything I have.”
    â€œWhat the blazes are you doing in my daughter’s cabin?”
    Constance rushed in. “It’s my fault, Father! I let him in. I thought you were going to kill him.”
    Father shook his head incredulously, returning the pistol’s striker to the safe position and tucking it at his waistband. “I might have killed him, Constance. But only because he’s in your cabin. How did he get on board?”
    Constance indicated the rope tied to the leg of her bed.
    â€œAre you mad? You know nothing about him. He might be a scurvy knave. He might have—”
    All her feelings welled up into her throat, demanding to be released. “He’s an innocent man! Like the other men on that ship you just took by force. I know you’re a pirate, but are you a murderer too?”
    â€œPlease, sir,” Alexandre continued, calmly. Constance could hear he had a French accent. “I am done with de Locke. I want only to return to my homeland. Don’t send me back to him.”
    â€œBack to France? We’re at war with France!” Father looked from one of them to the other, his palms up as though he didn’t know whether to slap their faces or block his ears. “Listen to the both of you. Not an ounce of sense between you. Young man, keep your jewelry. You will be incarcerated in the hold until I can decide what to do with you. Don’t worry, I won’t send you back to de Locke because I know too well what kind of a man he is. And Constance, I need to speak with you, for you have formed an opinion of me that . . .” He trailed off into red-faced frustration. “I need to speak with you,” he repeated quietly. “Wait here.”
    He took Alexandre by the elbow.
    â€œDon’t hurt him!” she called.
    â€œOf course I won’t hurt him,” he replied hotly.
    Alexandre went with Father willingly, falling once again to silence. Constance sat on her bed, heart thundering and face hot. Should she try to escape? Surely Father wouldn’t harm her, would he?

    Hours later, he came back. She had spent the intervening time calming herself, reminding herself that a man who loaned his daughter his only pillow would not also want to shoot her. But in the process, she made herself sad. She had lost her mother, and her father terrified her. All she had was Violet and Daphne, and they were so far away. She felt mournful, homesick, sorry for herself. Waiting and waiting for Father’s return.
    â€œCome on,