Black Ghost

Georgia, 1718

The morning heat arrived before the sun.

It crept through the white curtains of the Stirling plantation house and wrapped itself around Avangalee Stirling like damp velvet. By the time the first streaks of dawn spilled over the cotton fields, the entire estate already breathed with labor.

Boots in dirt.

Wagons creaking.

Distant shouted orders.

The plantation never truly slept.

Avangalee stood barefoot beside her bedroom window, fingers curled against the wooden frame as she watched mist drift low over the endless rows of cotton. The fields stretched toward the riverbanks like patches of snow beneath the bruised blue sky. Beautiful from a distance.

Cruel up close.

The scent of magnolia drifted through the open window, sweet enough to hide rot beneath it.

She hated that smell now.

Behind her, the enormous bedroom glowed softly in the fading candlelight. Imported French furniture. Silk curtains. Gold-trimmed mirrors. Dresses hanging like ghosts from carved wardrobes.

A princess’s room.

A prisoner’s cage.

A knock sounded sharply at the door.

“Miss Stirling,” called her maid quietly. “Your mother requests you downstairs.”

Avangalee closed her eyes.

Requests.

No one in this house ever requested anything.

They commanded.

Controlled.

Expected.

She turned slowly from the window and crossed the room. Her pale nightgown whispered against polished floors while her long dark curls spilled loose over her shoulders. She paused before the mirror only long enough to stare at herself.

Twenty years old.

Pretty enough to be bartered.

Educated enough to entertain wealthy guests.

Obedient enough, according to her mother, to become an excellent wife.

Her reflection looked exhausted.

Like a bird dying inside a gilded lantern.

“Coming,” she answered softly.

The staircase curved grandly through the center of the mansion like something built to impress kings. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watched from the walls as Avangalee descended toward the dining room.

Her father sat at the head of the long table already dressed for the day, his silver cufflinks gleaming in the morning light. Edward Stirling possessed the kind of handsome authority that made strangers trust him immediately.

Until they looked into his eyes.

There was no warmth there.

Only calculation.

Beside him sat her mother, Eleanor Stirling, immaculate in pale blue silk despite the suffocating heat. Not a strand of hair dared move out of place.

And beside her mother sat Horace Bellamy.

Avangalee nearly stopped walking.

Horace rose when he saw her, smiling with all the charm of spoiled cream.

“Miss Stirling,” he said. “You grow lovelier every morning.”

His gaze lingered too long on her mouth.

Avangalee swallowed her disgust.

“Mr. Bellamy.”

“Sit,” her father instructed.

She obeyed automatically, though every instinct screamed not to.

Servants moved quietly around the table pouring coffee and arranging breakfast plates. No one spoke at first. Silverware clinked delicately against china while the ceiling fans turned lazily overhead.

Then her father folded his napkin.

“The wedding date has been finalized.”

The words struck like stones dropped into still water.

Avangalee kept her expression carefully neutral.

“When?”

“September.”

Three months.

Only three months before the cage door locked forever.

Her mother smiled approvingly. “The Bellamys are hosting a grand celebration in Savannah. Half the colony will attend.”

“How fortunate,” Avangalee murmured.

Horace chuckled as though she’d made a joke.

“You shall adore Savannah society once you are my wife.”

My wife.

The phrase tightened around her throat like rope.

She forced herself to sip coffee even though her stomach churned violently.

Across the table, Horace leaned closer.

“I have already spoken with a dressmaker in Charleston. French lace. Imported pearls. You will be magnificent beside me.”

Beside me.

Displayed like property.

Owned.

Avangalee set down her cup carefully before it shattered in her hands.

“I would prefer simplicity.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said immediately. “A Stirling daughter does not marry in simplicity.”

Her father nodded once. “This union strengthens both families. Bellamy banking routes combined with our shipping operations will secure generations of wealth.”

There it was.

Not love.

Not happiness.

Business.

Avangalee stared down at her untouched breakfast while anger burned low in her chest. Sometimes she wondered if her parents had ever truly seen her at all. Or if she had simply existed as another beautiful possession within the house.

Like silverware.

Like paintings.

Like land.

Horace reached across the table suddenly and touched her wrist.

“I promise you,” he said softly, “you shall want for nothing.”

Avangalee looked at his hand resting against her skin.

Cold fingers.

Soft palms untouched by labor.

A man who smelled of perfume and cigars and entitlement.

She imagined spending the rest of her life trapped beside him.

Bearing his children.

Smiling through parties.

Dying slowly in silk dresses.

Something sharp twisted inside her chest.

“I need air,” she said abruptly.

Without waiting for permission, she rose from the table.

“Avangalee,” her mother snapped.

But she kept walking.

The doors opened onto the rear veranda where humid air wrapped around her instantly. She breathed deeply, gripping the railing as her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

Beyond the gardens, the Savannah River glimmered beneath the rising sun.

Ships drifted slowly along the water.

Merchant vessels.

Fishing boats.

Freedom.

A distant gull cried overhead.

Avangalee closed her eyes and imagined stepping aboard one of those ships and never returning.

No corsets.

No expectations.

No Horace Bellamy.

Only wind and endless horizons.

“Dreaming again?”

The voice startled her.

She turned to find her younger brother Thomas lounging against the doorway, grinning lazily. At sixteen, he still possessed enough boyhood charm to escape most consequences within the household.

“Someone in this family should,” she muttered.

Thomas stepped beside her at the railing.

“You truly hate him that much?”

“Yes.”

“That obvious?”

“I hope so.”

He snorted softly.

Thomas had always understood her better than anyone else in the house. Perhaps because he, too, hated their father’s endless obsession with wealth and reputation.

“He’s cruel,” Avangalee whispered. “Can you not see it?”

Thomas shrugged uneasily. “Father sees money. Mother sees status. They stop looking after that.”

Avangalee watched the river silently.

Then something caught her attention.

Far downriver, nearly swallowed by morning fog, moved a ship unlike the others.

Dark sails.

Black hull.

Silent as death itself.

A chill crawled slowly along her arms.

Even from this distance, the vessel felt wrong somehow. Predatory.

Thomas noticed it too.

“Well,” he muttered. “That’s unsettling.”

Servants along the docks had stopped working to stare.

One man crossed himself.

Another hurried inside.

The black ship continued drifting through the mist before vanishing again behind the fog banks.

Avangalee frowned faintly.

“What ship is that?”

Thomas lowered his voice dramatically.

“Rumours from Savannah say a pirate has been raiding wealthy merchant vessels along the coast.”

Her mother would faint if she heard this conversation.

“A pirate?”

“They call him the Black Ghost.”

Avangalee almost laughed.

“What kind of ridiculous name is that?”

“The kind sailors whisper when they’re terrified.”

Thomas grinned crookedly.

“They say he appears from fog without warning. No one knows where he came from. No one knows who he is.”

The river wind stirred Avangalee’s curls gently around her face.

For reasons she could not explain, her heartbeat quickened.

Far out in the fading mist, the black ship disappeared completely.

Gone like a phantom.

Thomas stretched lazily. “Personally, I think half the stories are exaggerated.”

But Avangalee kept staring at the empty river.

Something deep inside her stirred.

Not fear.

Something far more dangerous.

Longing.

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