Uncharted, p.1
Uncharted, page 1
UNCHARTED
THE PIRATE & HER PRINCESS
BOOK ONE
ALLI TEMPLE
Copyright © 2021 by Alli Temple
Uncharted
All rights reserved.
eBook ISBN 978-1-7772451-1-5
Paperback ISBN 978-1-7772451-3-9
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Cate Ashwood Designs
Editing: Manuela Velasco & Adam Mongoya, Tessera Editorial
Proofreading: D. Ann Williams, Tessera Editorial & Anastasia Voll, Voll Content Marketing & Editing
Content warnings
This book contains violence, largely of a piratical nature. For more details, visit the content warning page for Uncharted.
For Ana.
You believe in the magic in me, this book, and everywhere in between.
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CONTENTS
I. The Prince
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. The Pirate
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
III. The Princess
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Contemporary Romances By Allison Temple
LGBTQ+ Fantasy By Alli Temple
PART I
THE PRINCE
1
I met the chaperone three blocks from the first checkpoint. She seemed familiar, but chaperones were all meant to be similar, so it could have been my imagination. They were shadows to protect—or to give the appearance of protecting—their lady as she went about business in the city. Never heard and barely seen. They were all older ladies with upright bearings and gray hair barely visible under a black veil, which melded seamlessly with the strict black cloaks and dresses they always wore, regardless of the time of year.
I’d heard that it was a position many women of a certain age and standing sought. The positions weren’t paid, so protecting a young woman from the moral quagmires she would inevitably face when she left the house was considered a suitable way for women—even those further up the social classes—to give back to society.
My new companion was unsmiling as she dipped into her curtsy and said, “My lady.”
I nodded but didn’t reply, not even offering an introduction. If she’d been my personal chaperone, she would already know my name—and anyway, a decent servant would never use their mistress’s name in public, or so I’d heard. Once we were underway, she trailed after me at the required two-and-a-half paces.
If the soldiers at the checkpoints located between Redmere City districts ever noticed that I had a different chaperone every time we passed through their station, they never mentioned it. More likely they were even poorer at their jobs than city gossip said, but it was to be expected, as most of them hadn’t had a decent meal since the turn of the year.
“What’s your destination?” a guard at the second checkpoint asked. He was young, younger than me. His face was too thin, his eyes too big. He’d be dead by winter.
“I’m going to the dressmaker’s on Ruby Street.”
He sneered. “Shouldn’t she be coming to you? A grand lady like you shouldn’t be alone in this type of neighborhood.”
Firstly, I wasn’t a grand lady. A grand lady’s boots wouldn’t swallow mud in Redmere’s dismal streets the way mine did. Secondly, I’d been in worse neighborhoods. And thirdly, “I’m not alone. My brother has sent a chaperone with me.” I didn’t gesture toward her. Grand ladies didn’t acknowledge servants, and despite my boots, I had a role to play.
The soldier narrowed his eyes as he glanced over my shoulder. “You were here earlier.”
My breath fluttered in the tight cage of my corset, but I suppressed any signs of nervousness. If he recognized the chaperone as having been through with someone else that day, there would be additional questions that neither of us could answer.
“Oh for mercy’s sake, Fin,” an older soldier growled. “They all look the same. Let the lady pass.”
The young man stiffened and, for a moment, looked like he might refuse, but the older guard took a step forward with a creak of leather. My interrogator stepped to one side, eyes dropping to the ground as he bowed.
“My lady.”
I didn’t reply. I could have reported them both to the City Guard for questioning my morality when I clearly had a chaperone present, and they would have been flogged for their impertinence. But a flogging was inhumane and would weaken them so they’d be dead by the end of summer instead of winter. I didn’t know if things in the city would have changed by winter, but this small mercy would give us both a chance to find out.
We continued through the third checkpoint and made two turns on dark, stinking roads to Ruby Street. This part of the city was quiet. Tall, narrow buildings lined both sides of the muddy road. Smudged, hungry faces peeked out the windows at me. The prince’s taxes on farms had become so severe that it had driven people into the city, searching for respite and other ways to earn a living. But there was only so much work to be had, particularly with a population so poor they couldn’t afford to buy anything but the food we no longer had enough farmers to grow. People got poorer and hungrier in a continuous cycle, and the prince did nothing to stop it. The streets grew more dangerous. People disappeared if they were unwise enough to venture out after the sun went down. Sometimes their bodies were found, stripped of what few possessions they had. Others were never seen again.
Here I was, pretending I had nothing on my mind other than the fit of a new dress. By the time we reached the shop, my boots were truly soaked through.
As I reached for the door, it swung open. I nearly collided with a young woman with bright red hair that slipped out from a poorly fastened veil.
“Oh, my lady!” She bobbed a curtsy as she gripped my sleeve to steady herself. “I’m so sorry.”
“Step back from Her Grace.” The chaperone was very good at her job. It was a shame I couldn’t ask for her again. Not everyone I’d met on these missions was as good at the charade as she was.
“Of course.” The redheaded girl was still bobbing. “Of course. I’m sorry. My lady. I mean, Your Grace.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the shop door. When the street was quiet again, the chaperone stepped past me to open it.
“Lady Georgina!” The dressmaker was ready for me.
I’d heard it said this dressmaker was the best in Redmere City. She was from somewhere else, though I’d never worked up the courage to ask where. Her skin was a tawny gold, noticeably darker than nearly anyone else’s in Redmere. Living and economic conditions being what they were, the city wasn’t exactly a draw for craftsmen and tradespeople from abroad, but the dressmaker’s creations were so fine and in demand that I had no doubt she could make a life for herself here. And she’d found other ways to keep herself busy, though I wasn’t supposed to know about that.
Under normal circumstances, I would have never had an opportunity to find out about the quality of her work. Dresses like hers were meant for private parties held behind closed doors, where the color and the cut couldn’t be seen by the general public. We never held parties like that at home because none of Jeremy’s friends were the sort to venture so far into our neighborhood. Even if I knew anyone who held parties like that, we couldn’t afford a dress like the ones made in this shop.
Still, she greeted me like an old friend. “Lady Georgina, so good to see you again. Your last dress was acceptable?”
As if anyone needed more than one dress. I heard that, among the prince’s inner circle, most of Redmere’s morality laws were either flouted or ignored altogether. But despite Jeremy’s best efforts at social climbing, we would never rise that high.
I gave her the indulgent smile that would have been expected. “Oh, yes. Perfectly lovely. I received so many compliments.”
In fact, the dress had been disassembled and no doubt given to families who might sell the fabric and use the money to keep themselves alive for a few weeks longer, but we were all playing our parts.
“Excellent. I’m so pleased you’ve come back. This way. You will be delighted with our newest creation.”
We played this charade every time I came, even though the shop was always empty. The chaperone stayed by the door and would alert us quietly if anyone entered while I was being fitted.
“I see you have a new assistant,” I said as the dressmaker led me into a small room with mirrors mounted on each of the walls. A young woman waited inside. She held a dress made of so many yards of heavy fabric that s he, herself so small and so thin, nearly disappeared behind it.
“Oh, yes. The last one got married, poor girl. But Celia here, her family is too poor to worry about finding her a husband, aren’t they, dear? Now let’s get you undressed and see if this new gown fits.”
The dressmaker and her assistant helped me out of my layers of clothing. The restrictions on what a lady—especially a noble lady, even a relatively obscure one like myself—could wear in public were as effective in limiting our freedom as the rest of Redmere’s laws combined. The heavy overcloak. The buttons that reached from my wrist to my elbow. The collar that ensured a lady remained graceful and modest at all times, but with the heavy gray veil meant we couldn’t turn our heads farther than an inch or two in any direction. Then, the undergarments. I dreaded the stiff restriction of the corset every morning.
By comparison, the dressmaker and her assistant were relatively unencumbered. No overcloak since they were inside. The dressmaker had pinned her veil back so it would stay out of her face while she worked, while her assistant only had her hair tied up in a black scarf. No doubt she had a veil to wear when she was outside, but they were too heavy for someone who spent their day hunched over their work.
“Oh, dear,” the dressmaker clucked. “You’ve torn the hem of this underskirt. Celia will repair it for you while we finish this fitting.”
The underskirt was more than torn. It was stained from the black mud in the streets and was more patches than original fabric, but the assistant gathered it up and carried it off without a word.
Those that stayed in the country and worked the land were given a certain amount of freedom. In the city, the most women could hope for would be to quietly work for their husband, mending fishing nets or mixing healing powders. A dressmaker’s apprentice—even if the dressmaker wasn’t Redmerian by birth—must have seemed like a dream. Had she known what this dressmaker’s true business was though, Celia might have reconsidered.
It took nearly as long to get me into the new dress as it had to get me out of my traveling clothes. I never understood why we insisted with this part of the performance since we had no spectators. It wasn’t as though I would ever wear the new dress, but the dressmaker always insisted. She said the City Guard had never inspected her shop, so it was only a matter of time before they raided the entire place.
As she slipped layers of skirts over my hips and cinched and pulled the corset to her liking, I pictured a different dress.
“What are you wearing?” The little girl—if she is a little girl under all that mud—glares at me suspiciously. Her hair is long and probably brown, although it is hard to say, and she wears pants, even though my last tutor said that girls could be flogged for wearing pants now.
“It’s my new dress,” I say, spinning in a circle so she can see the way the skirt puffs out when I move. The sleeves are too tight, and I cannot get my arms over my head the way I would like to, but the new tutor said that little girls who want to be elegant ladies when they grow up never have any need to lift their hands over their heads.
The muddy girl sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. We are standing in the stable yard at my father’s house. It is summer and has been hot for days. I do not know where she has found so much mud, but I hope she will show me.
“You can’t climb trees in a dress like that,” she says.
I stop spinning, enjoying how the world keeps going round and round for a little longer. “I’ve never climbed a tree before.”
Her eyes go wide. “You haven’t?”
I shake my head. She goes back to eyeing me like I am from another world. “What’s your name?”
I straighten and recite the names as the tutor has taught me. “Georgina Elizabeth Millicent Cressida Wright.”
She giggles. “That’s a funny name. I’ll call you George. My name is Lou. My brother and I were catching frogs. Do you want to see them?”
After that, we are inseparable. Climbing trees, catching frogs, terrorizing the household staff with our made-up games, and reading stories smuggled from a trunk of my mother’s old things. Lou loves the tales of pirates and sea monsters. I love the ones about dragons and lost princesses. When we are together, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.
“Your brother is so kind to buy you something like this,” the dressmaker said.
I coughed on a laugh. Jeremy’s “kindness” was present in the wet squish of my toes inside my boots.
“There.” The dressmaker smoothed down the skirt and stepped back. “What do you think?”
This was always my least favorite part; the dresses were beautiful, but they made me intensely uncomfortable. My day-to-day dresses were as restrictive and shapeless as possible. Plain colors, black or gray, with no embellishments. But the dress I’d been fitted with today was the kind worn in private. They were meant for when you wanted someone to look at you, particularly a man—and I had no desire for a man to look at me in that way.
This dress was dark, but metallic threads in the seams showed off tiny flashes of color against the material. The bodice was more fitted, revealing curves that a woman—regardless of whether she was a queen or a beggar—wasn’t supposed to show in public, even if every inch of my skin was still covered from my throat to my toes. The exceptions were the sleeves, which fluttered away from my elbows. I’d heard they were meant to show off an elegant lady’s wrists as she ate or took a drink from a crystal glass, but I found them drafty as cool air brushed over my bare arms—and, anyway, Jeremy had sold off our crystal years ago.
“You look like a queen,” the dressmaker said.
I looked ridiculous. The fine fabric, so light it felt like it floated over my skin, would never survive the walk home. It clashed terribly with the drab heaviness of my veil. Even a dressmaker who could see my naked limbs would not be allowed to see my hair.
I glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her brows were pinched in the center.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then her teeth clacked shut again, and she ran her hands over the flowing length of the sleeves. “It suits you. That’s all.”
The assistant returned. “I’ve finished.” She held out the underskirt for the dressmaker’s inspection. She took it, running her fingers over the seams and shaking her head.
“You’ll need a new one of these. We can only repair it so many more times.”
Her warning was perhaps the only true thing she said to me that day.
They helped me dress again. Underskirts. Overskirts. Collar. Buttons. So many buttons.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a boy to carry the dress home for you,” the dressmaker said as we emerged into the shop.
“My chaperone will carry it,” I said carelessly, because that was what Lady Georgina would say.
She wrapped up her creation in paper, securing it tightly with rough hemp string. She used more of both than was strictly necessary, but we all knew that these materials were hard to come by among the poor and would be put to good use.
“Thank you, Lady Georgina. I’ve always appreciated your business,” the dressmaker said as she passed the package to the chaperone.
“You’ll send the bill to my brother,” I said.
“Of course.” Her tiny frown was back, the faintest tremor in her brows, but it wasn’t my place to ask what was bothering her. She’d be paid, though not by Jeremy. If he ever knew how much money was spent on me in dresses here, his face would turn purple with rage, but this was just another secret to keep from him. I followed the chaperone out the door.
