Once Upon a Pirate
Author: Merry Farmer; Amy Rose Bennett; Ellie St. Clair; Caroline Lee; Linda Rae Sande; Anna Markland; Alyssa Drake; Sky Purington; Ashe Barker; Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Date: 2019-12-26 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Anthologies; Romance; Adventure; Historical; Adult
Description: As perilous battles, treachery and revenge give way to sinful kisses, no heart is safe. Set sail to the lush heat of the Tropics, the storm-tossed Northern realms, the wild Barbary Coast, and the hazardous waters of the South Seas, for tales of scandalous adventure and smouldering desire. Masterful pirate lords. Courageous heroines. Defying danger in pursuit of all-consuming love. Matching wits to claim the greatest treasure of all. Sixteen all-new swashbuckling historical romances. THE CAPTIVE VIXEN by Merry Farmer Just as Lady Lettuce Marlowe has resigned herself to her miserable fate as the

Copyright

All sixteen books within this anthology are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of well-known historical figures and places, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, now known or hereafter invented, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the applicable author, except for the use of brief quotations in a critical article or book review.

The license granted herein is to read this ebook for entertainment or literary criticism purposes only. Without limiting the generality of the forgoing, any use of this work for machine learning or artificial intelligence training purposes is not included under the license and is expressly prohibited.

Copyright © 2019 - applicable to all authors listed within this boxed set.

Full copyright remains with each author.

Stock Photography by Period Images

Cover Design by Victoria Cooper

The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

The scanning, uploading, or distribution of this book without explicit written permission is theft of intellectual property. Thank you for your support of our authorial rights.

Our authors, hailing from all over the world, are thrilled to have come together to create this dazzling set of historical romances.

Being an international collection, you’ll find both American and British conventions for spelling and punctuation in this edition. No error is intended. Each author has written according to their preferred (and usual) style.

This copyright applies to the following authors’ stories.

Merry Farmer, Amy Rose Bennett, Ellie St. Clair, Linda Rae Sande, Anna Markland, Caroline Lee, Mariah Stone, Celeste Barclay, Mia Pride, Alyssa Drake, Sky Purington, Ashe Barker, Harmony Williams, S. Cinders, Simone Leigh, and Emmanuelle de Maupassant

Contents

Title Page

Your Invitation

Foreword

Sixteen Gorgeous Novellas

The Captive Vixen

The Lady and the Privateer

The Stormswept Stowaway

The Bruce’s Angel

Marooned

The Pleasure of a Pirate

The Lady’s Guide to Escaping Cannibals

Falcon

The Dark Heart of the Sea

Jilted and Kilted

Runaway Duke

Rescued by Passion

An Imperfect Scoundrel

The Spinster's Guide to Piracy and Plunder

Pirate’s Treasure

Shieldmaiden

More Pirate Shenanigans

Reviews

Your Invitation

Your Invitation

FROM THE HISTORICAL HARLOTS

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Dear Reader

Welcome to our swashbuckling anthology. Here, you'll find masterful pirate lords and courageous heroines, adventure and grand passion—spanning many centuries on the wild, windswept seas.

Once the scourge of the oceans, pirates plundered more than two thousand vessels on the Atlantic trade routes between 1718 and 1722 alone; yet, one look at Errol Flynn's Captain Blood (1935), Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean) or the cast of the marvellous mini-series Black Sails is proof enough that we have a secret admiration for their rebellious lifestyle.

In fact, captains held their position more through respect than fear, and along surprisingly democratic lines. Their mini-kingdoms on the High Seas tended to be more egalitarian (and multi-cultural) than anywhere on terra firma.

They may represent cut-throated ruthlessness, but also some romantic notion of freedom, self-determination, and escape.

Pirates make their own rules.

We hope these romances provide welcome entertainment, that they inspire you and transport you.

Our characters battle many of the same challenges we do today—striving for independence, while yearning for true love.

While you’re cheering for our heroes and heroines, we want you to cheer for yourself. Like the women and men in these tales, you’re stronger than you may realize, more resourceful and more determined.

You too can defy convention and break the rules.

You too can embrace adventure.

As for happy endings, we all need to believe in those...

Set sail to the lush heat of the Tropics, the storm-tossed Northern realms, the wild Barbary Coast, and the hazardous waters of the South Seas, for tales of scandalous adventure and smouldering desire.

As perilous battles, treachery and revenge give way to sinful kisses, no heart is safe.

You’ll find at least one smoulderingly steamy scene in every story, because we believe our desire for physical connection goes hand in hand with our desire for love, and deserves to be explored on the page.

Browse the teasers below, to choose where to begin.

THE CAPTIVE VIXEN
by Merry Farmer

Just as Lady Lettuce Marlowe has resigned herself to her miserable fate as the wife of a cruel man, the ship she is traveling on is attacked by pirates. Captain Martin Neville is days away from retiring from a life of piracy when he accidentally rescues Letty. But can they band together to fight Martin’s mutinous crewman, or will the passion between them be their downfall?

THE LADY AND THE PRIVATEER
by Amy Rose Bennett

Hapless spinster, Lady Calliope Banks, is on a hunting expedition for dodo bones on the Isle of Mauritius. Roguish privateer, Captain Jonathon Townsend, is on the hunt for a notorious pirate. Even though they’ve both charted entirely different courses in life, it seems Fate might have other ideas… Thrown together unexpectedly, neither Lady Calliope nor Captain Townsend can resist the irresistible pull of a growing magnetic attraction. But can this unlikely pair find love?

THE STORMSWEPT STOWAWAY
by Ellie St.Clair

Desperate to escape, Penelope Carstairs stows away on what she believes to be a merchant ship… only to be discovered by the feared pirate Captain Ramsay. Afraid of losing her life on their journey across the ocean, she soon finds its her heart that’s at risk.

THE BRUCE’S ANGEL
by Caroline Lee

Charlotte MacLeod is desperate for the Scottish crown to acknowledge her betrothed's treason, as it'll save her from a marriage made in hell. Out of ideas, she turns pirate to kidnap the queen…little realizing the queen’s bodyguard is the warrior who broke her heart! Liam Bruce has to convince his wee warrior he’s still worthy of her love, and save her from a charge of royal treason!

MAROONED
by Anna Markland

An intrepid Caribbean pirate hunted by international navies is marooned on a deserted island with the resentful Danish widow he has taken captive.

Maximiliano and Heidi seemingly have nothing in common, except the long-held desire to start life afresh. Is their fate a blessing in disguise?

THE PLEASURE OF A PIRATE
by Linda Rae Sande

When the dastardly Baron Dorchester kidnaps Little Bo Peep from a costume ball and carries her onto a ship bound for France, the captain of the Molly, Blake Russell, must take on the guise of a pirate to rescue his booty, in this delightful tale of a chase on the Channel. Can a tumble on the Thames be far behind?

THE LADY’S GUIDE TO ESCAPING CANNIBALS
by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

Under the protection of darkly handsome Captain Jorge de Silva, Lady Bathsheba Asquith lands on the mysterious island of Vanuaka with only three days to find her missing brother.

The trials of the jungle strip away any pretense of propriety and passion flares, but de Silva is not all he seems, and Bathsheba is in more danger than she can imagine.

Vanuaka’s volcano is awakening—and only a human sacrifice can appease its fire.

FALCON
by Ashe Barker

Betrayed by her abusive husband, sold as a slave, battered and beaten senseless, Elisabeth Chirac is destined for a life of unimaginable horror. Rescued from her fate by a ferocious pirate captain, will she fare any better in his care?

Wil Falconer is a ruthless buccaneer with an aversion to slavery. He attacks the slave vessel intending to seize and free the unfortunate souls imprisoned within its bowels. He does not expect to find the near lifeless body of a beautiful Southern lady, especially not one who cannot even remember her own name.

THE DARK HEART OF THE SEA
by Celeste Barclay

What happens when a ruthless pirate meets the woman who warms his dark heart?

Rauirí MacNeill is one of the most feared pirates sailing the British Isles, but when he rescues a woman from attack, can he resist when she matches wits without fear?

Senga MacLeod Sorley didn’t expect a chance encounter to lead to a kiss and an adventure on the high seas.

JILTED AND KILTED
by Mia Pride

Descended from a long line of English privateers, the need for adventure flows through Ruby Berry’s veins. Betrothed to a stodgy Vice-Admiral of the Queen’s Navy, Ruby is desperate to escape, and Callum Campbell could be the answer to her prayers.

Laird of his clan by day and devilish pirate by night, he’s never short of schemes, but will Captain Campbell be able to give Ruby her freedom once their adventure ends?

RUNAWAY DUKE

By S. Cinders

Known as the American Duke, Oliver and his five equally as devastatingly handsome younger brothers, have taken the ton by storm.  As the unmarried ladies of society, and even a few married ones, have thrown in their caps for the Stanford brothers.

There is none more sought after than the Duke of Bilkshore himself. However, there has only been one to quicken his pulse and capture his heart. So when she flees to America aboard one of his family's ships. Oliver has no choice but to runaway with her.

RESCUED BY PASSION
by Sky Purington

Captured by pirates and auctioned off by Blackbeard, Rose is rescued by the man who abandoned her. Aware she possesses a priceless family heirloom, privateer turned pirate, Thomas saves the woman who betrayed him. Will they be able to navigate their turbulent past and stay one step ahead of the enemy? Find out on their high-seas, passionate adventure.

AN IMPERFECT SCOUNDREL
by Alyssa Drake

When marauders ambush her ship, a widow dons her dead husband’s clothing, giving his name as hers, but her treachery places her in unforeseen peril. Abducted and assigned to the captain’s quarters as a manservant, Alana carries out her duties under the guise of Sebastian Dubois, discovering the man behind the pirate captain’s cold façade is quite opposite from his ruthless moniker.

THE SPINSTER’S GUIDE TO PIRACY AND PLUNDER
by Harmony Williams

Lady Jeanne Quickblade will marry the man who can best her in a sword fight—and claim the ship of any man who cannot.

After amassing a fleet, a reputation for a tongue that cuts as deep as her sword, and a fortune from plundering Napoleon's ships, Jeanne finally meets her match...in the betrothed she fled to the high seas to avoid.

PIRATE’S TREASURE
by Mariah Stone

An 18th century pirate desperate to lead an honest life. An executive who falls through time. If she helps him find the hidden treasure, he’ll allow her to put on the jade necklace to go back to the twenty-first century. But with the enemy in pursuit and time running out, both could very well lose the thing they desire most: each other.

SHIELDMAIDEN
by Simone Leigh

Is Freedom What You Think?

You were free.

You were taken and enslaved.

If you earn back your freedom, is that enough?

A Viking Romance

The Captive Vixen

by Merry Farmer

Chapter 1

The Atlantic Ocean, near the Leeward Islands

Autumn, 1816

Lady Lettuce Marlowe—or Mrs. Pigge, as she preferred not to be called—was awakened suddenly, not by the incessant rocking of the ship that had been her home for most of the miserable five weeks of her married life thus far, but by the boom of cannon-fire and the bloodthirsty shouts of unfamiliar male voices.

She rolled over on the thin pallet on the floor and pushed herself groggily to a sitting position. Countless bruises all over her body ached with the effort—some of them new, but most of them inflicted by the hands of her new husband—and misery hung heavily on her shoulders and penetrated into her bones. She blinked, unable to fully steady herself with the constant motion of the ship and the pervasive sense of the surreal that her life had descended into. Had she truly heard cannon-fire? Were the shouts that seemed to be growing closer merely a manifestation of the nightmares that plagued her? They couldn’t be any worse than her waking hours.

As if to underscore the point, Pigge shifted in the relatively large and cozy bed their small cabin contained, grumbled something indistinguishable, and snorted. A moment later, another blast of cannon-fire sounded.

“Wha—?” Pigge exclaimed, pushing aside layers of warm blankets and soft pillows as he sat in the bed. “What’s going on?” He twisted, straightening his nightcap, which had gone askew, and squinted into the darkness of the cabin. “Where are you, you worthless whore?” he growled.

Letty sucked in a breath that sounded like a sob and scrambled into the corner, pressing herself as far into the shadows as she could. If the past few weeks had taught her anything, it was that nothing good came of her husband waking up in the middle of the night. At best, she’d been treated to bitter blows and insults. At worst…she didn’t want to think about the worst. All she knew was that she’d wept with joy when her monthly courses had started just under a week ago. Miracles happened after all.

Another blast sounded, illuminating the tiny cabin long enough for Pigge to spot her, cowering in the corner.

“Get over here, whore,” he snapped. “This is all your doing, and I know just how to make you pay.” His voice took on the lascivious tone it did whenever he was about to force himself on her.

But instead of the inevitable pain and humiliation she’d come to expect from him, the ship pitched suddenly with a sickening thump. The snarling cries and shouts grew louder as the thunder of dozens of pairs of boots drumming across the deck above them sounded.

“Pirates,” someone shouted from the hallway outside of the cabin. “We’ve been boarded by pirates! Arm yourselves and beware.”

A shiver shot down Letty’s spine, but it wasn’t the sort of fear she would have expected while under attack. Instead of terror and dread, hope throbbed through her.

“Don’t just stand there, bitch,” Pigge shouted, throwing his legs over the raised side of the bed. “Light a lantern. Find me a weapon. Make yourself useful.”

Letty jumped into action, not because Pigge had ordered her, but because lighting a lantern and searching for a weapon was the wise thing to do. Her hands shook as she felt her way to the table where the lantern had been left the night before, and when she struck a match to light it. The cannons had stopped firing, but a new, softer light of dawn peeked through the cabin’s single porthole.

By the time she lit the lantern, Pigge was out of bed, scrambling through his trunk to find clothes. Letty rushed to the trunk as well to find something more suitable than her thin shift to wear, but Pigge pushed her aside, sending her sprawling to her backside. Bitter resignation twisted her stomach, but she ignored it as she crawled to her feet once more. The contents of the trunk weren’t much better than what she had on anyhow. Pigge had sold most of the fine gowns she’d brought into the marriage with her, claiming that she wouldn’t need clothes for the role he had in mind for her. There was only one thing she’d managed to smuggle aboard that she cared about.

She darted toward the small cabinet that she’d discovered built into one of the cabin’s walls, wrenching open the door. Inside lay a book, or rather, a third of a book. Its pages were already battered and dog-eared, but Letty considered it her most prized possession. It was a third of the book The Secrets of Love, and her last remaining connection to her dear sisters, Imogen and Alice, who each owned the other thirds of the book. Whatever happened, she would rather die than be without her last, tenuous connection to the only two people who had really loved her.

Before she could so much as touch the book, the cabin door banged open.

“In here,” a rough voice growled. “There’s to more of ’em in here.”

“No, no!” Pigge whined, cowering before the grubby man in an instant. “Spare my life. I can pay you. I’ve got more money than—”

He wasn’t given a chance to finish his groveling. The pirate grabbed him by the front of his nightshirt and yanked him into the hall. Letty had no time to react before a second, equally rough man marched into the room, thrust a shoulder into her gut, and hefted her over his back.

She shrieked before she could stop herself, then burst into shaking so violent that she could hardly move as the man carried her out into the tiny hall, then up to the deck. That was when the full impact of everything going on around her hit. The bloodthirsty shouts had stopped, only to be replaced by the wailing of her fellow female passengers…and some of the male ones as well. The deck swarmed with unfamiliar men. Her mind conjured up the word “pirates” to describe them. They had the male passengers corralled at one end of the ship and the women at the other end. Men raced up and down the narrow stairs leading below at both ends of the ship, calling out their discoveries in terms of cargo, valuables belonging to passengers, and passengers themselves. It was utter pandemonium.

The man carrying Letty put her down at the edge of the weeping, shaking, wailing cluster of women near the fore deck. “Stay put,” he ordered before marching back into the chaos.

Letty hugged herself as the humid, night air swirled around her bare legs. In spite of the heat, her shift felt feeble. The other women didn’t seem to look much better. More than half of them were in their nightclothes. A few were fully dressed, including Lady Malvis. The horrible woman looked just as terrified as the rest of them. Her usually pale complexion was so white she seemed to glow in the faint light of dawn. Her eyes were round and her lips pressed tightly together.

Lady Malvis only held Letty’s attention for a moment, though. Behind the cluster of frightened women, a different sort of drama was unfolding.

“I didn’t order this,” a man said in a frustrated voice.

“Whether you ordered it or not, the ship was right there for the taking,” a second man argued back. “How could I simply let it sail on by? It’s clearly a merchant ship.”

“What kind of ship it is doesn’t matter,” the first man said. “I did not order the attack. I haven’t handed the ship over to you yet, Dick.”

The second man, Dick, made a derisive sound. “If that’s the way you feel, you should have retired years ago, Captain.” He spoke the title with a sneer.

The captain pulled himself to his full, considerable height. “It’s not too late for me to have you keel-hauled.”

“I’ve handed you a prize,” Dick argued.

The captain didn’t reply. In the growing light of dawn, Letty could make out his features. He was easily over six feet with a full head of blond hair and fierce eyes. His frame was broad, and firm muscles bulged in the sleeves of his simple linen shirt. He wore a waistcoat but no jacket and boots that came up to his knees, showing off thick thighs. If Letty had to guess, she would have said he was in his forties, which didn’t seem at all the age at which one would retire from piracy. Not that she knew anything about piracy. Either way, the captain looked more like the aristocratic men she’d known her whole life, though perhaps fitter and tanner, as though he was used to hard work.

The man named Dick was younger and swarthier, with dark hair and a thick beard. He looked far more like the pirates that had lived in her imagination. She instantly distrusted him.

“Insubordination will not be tolerated,” the captain told him. “Whether The Growler will be your ship by next week or not.”

“But Martin,” Dick tried to argue.

“But nothing,” the captain said. He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his face. “All right. We’ve taken the ship, we might as well get on with it.”

Letty sucked in a breath as the two men broke apart. The captain looked in her direction. Their eyes met. Letty was ready to shrink from him the way she’d shrunk from Pigge every time he raised a hand to her, but to her surprise, the captain sent her a sheepish look. Sheepish. A pirate captain. Almost as though he were apologizing for the inconvenience.

A moment later, he marched away, heading on to whatever tasks pirate captains had when they had just captured a ship. Letty blinked, watching him for a moment in confusion. He passed one of the stairways leading below deck. The stairway was unguarded. She peeked around her. The women were unguarded as well. Though, to be honest, it hardly seemed necessary to set a guard over a cluster of terrified women. Oddly enough, Letty’s terror had dissolved. The captain’s strange apology had given her strength. She saw her opportunity and she grabbed it.

Moving as fast while drawing as little attention to herself as she could, she darted toward the stairs and scrambled below. She breathed a sigh of relief when the relative darkness of the narrow corridor that ran the length of the ship enveloped her. The darkness meant she could make her way back to the passenger cabins at the back of the ship without drawing notice.

The deck immediately below the upper deck held what passed for living quarters for the crew and a few passengers. The aft portion of the deck was made up of a handful of small cabins leading to the captain’s cabin, which stretched along the back of the ship. The center of the deck was more open, with swinging hammocks that had been abandoned and left hanging during the attack. Pirates scrambled back and forth, searching through personal belongings and the few trunks and crates that were stored against the walls. They were too occupied to stop Letty as she crept back toward her cabin. If she was about to be carted away by rapacious, pillaging pirates, or if they planned to throw her overboard, she didn’t want to go without her portion of The Secrets of Love.

The lantern she’d lit was still burning on the table when she slipped back into the cabin. With its light, she could see her way across the room to the cabinet where the book was stored. She pulled her book out, clutching it to her chest.

“How I miss you,” she whispered into the empty cabin surrounded by muffled noises and activity. “If this is the end for me, then goodbye, my dear sisters.”

On impulse, she opened the book, leafing tenderly through its pages. The words that she’d come to know as well as Bible verses through the arduous weeks of her marriage stared back at her like old friends.

“Love is worth fighting for. Indeed, love is the only battle worth fighting. When you find love, you must fight for it against all odds, even if it means ruination.”

Letty laughed. She doubted she would ever find love, especially as the wife of a vicious toad like Pigge. But the words stirred something within her all the same. Against reason, they gave her hope. They made her feel as though—

The door to her cabin banged open, and Letty nearly jumped out of her skin as the captain walked in. He jolted in surprise the moment he saw her, as though he were just as startled as she was.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, looking as though he would back out of the room to give her privacy. A split-second later, a scowl creased his brow. “Hang on. Aren’t you the one I saw up on deck just now?”

Letty’s mouth dropped open but no words came out. How could she defend herself against a man twice her size when she was clearly somewhere she shouldn’t be? Her gaze fell from his questioning eyes to his broad chest—the top few buttons of his shirt were undone and his waistcoat wasn’t fastened properly, which exposed a tantalizing amount of skin and manly chest hair—to his narrow waist. She should have noticed the pistol strapped to his belt, ready for use, but instead her eyes were drawn to the bulge in his breeches. It wasn’t pronounced and vulgar, like Pigge’s usually was when he was entertaining ideas about humiliating her, but it was enough to hint that the pistol wasn’t the only weapon the captain carried.

“It really isn’t safe for you to be down here,” the captain said, forcing Letty to drag her eyes up to his face. “My men are overexcited at the moment. It’s been weeks since we’ve taken a ship. I’ve given them orders not to harm anyone yet, but it has been a while since any of them have had a woman.” His words slowed and his tone warmed, and his eyes lowered to Letty’s poorly concealed body.

A thousand sensations hit Letty all at once. She knew full well what a man looked like when he wanted a woman. Lust was easy to interpret. But the way the captain looked at her was worlds away from the way Pigge feasted on the sight of her when he wanted her. Letty’s pulse quickened at the captain’s roving gaze. Heat infused her, leaving her wondering what it might be like to be shoved forward across the bed and taken without mercy. More disturbing still, she had the thrilling sensation that she might actually like it if the captain did it to her.

The captain cleared his throat and shook his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Momentary lapse of reason. As I was saying, it’s safer for you to be above deck with the other women. I’ll decide what to do with you all once….”

His voice faded as his gaze fixed on her once more. This time, he didn’t stay where he was. He stepped forward, reaching for Letty. In a heartbeat, his arms were around her, his hands sliding down her sides and around her hips to her backside. She tipped her head back and his mouth slanted over hers, stealing a kiss that was as deep as the night. His lips caressed hers, and when she gave in to him—far too quickly—he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue before thrusting into her mouth.

A need as paradoxical as it was intense racked Letty. It was all she could do to hold onto her portion of the book as he plundered her mouth in true piratical fashion. She’d never been kissed with such command before. It ignited every part of her, causing her breasts to feel heavy and her nipples to tighten. Her core seemed to turn molten as he squeezed her backside. It was as though she’d stepped straight from her nightmare into a wild, erotic dream. She’d always imagined pirates to be dirty and foul, but her pirate captain smelled of salt air and musk. Everything about him enveloped her.

Until he jerked back abruptly.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, blushing like a schoolboy, not quite able to meet her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me.” He paused, his blush growing more pronounced as a more intimate version of the sheepish look he’d given her above deck lit his blue eyes. “No, that’s a lie,” he went on. “I know exactly what came over me. It’s been so long since….” He stood straighter, clearing his throat. “Never mind. As I said, it could be dangerous down here. Let’s get you above with the rest of the women so that we can sort this mess out.”

He stepped toward the door, gesturing for her to follow. Letty swayed forward, tingling from head to toe, still clutching the book to her chest. She had the disturbing feeling that she would follow the pirate captain wherever he asked her to go.

Chapter 2

Five days. The Growler was less than five days from the quiet, reasonable, uneventful port of St. John’s in Antigua. Martin had been looking forward to enjoying a smooth sail south from the coast of America, where he and his crew had men who weren’t too fussed about purchasing goods of questionable origin for a tidy sum. He had all the fortune he would need to start a legitimate mercantile business in St. John’s tucked away in his cabin aboard The Growler. At last, he would be able to hang up his cutlass and throw his pistol in the back of a drawer in a wardrobe somewhere. All he had to do was slip across the waves and avoid storms.

But no. Dick had to bloody go and attack a harmless merchant vessel that had the bad luck of getting in The Growler’s way.

Martin stepped aside, gesturing for the doe-eyed woman he’d cornered in the cabin to go up the ladder ahead of him. She sent him a furtive glance, clutching something that looked like a destroyed book to her chest, and scrambled out into the early morning light. As she passed him, the scent of faded flowers filled his nose, causing his breeches to pull tight. Damn him, but he had to pull himself together. Immediately. Though climbing the ladder directly behind her when all she wore was a shift did nothing to help that effort. The angle of his ascent did nothing to hide her deliciously long legs and the…. He blinked. The bruised flesh of her thighs?

A flash of fury hit him like a lightning bolt as he reached the deck, but he barely had time to breathe, let alone ponder how such a lovely creature had ended up with such clear signs of abuse.

“Captain, Captain!” Jolly, the gangly ten-year-old who had stowed away on The Growler five years earlier and who had refused to leave the ship since then, shouted, skittering across the deck toward him. “Captain, Mr. Killian wants to talk to you at once.”

Martin stopped short, shaking his head. “Mister who?”

“One of the prisoners, Captain. A posh one at that.” Jolly practically jumped up and down, his eyes alight with excitement.

“It’s Lord Killian, actually,” the woman said in a voice that was as soothing as a siren.

Martin felt himself flush with long-ignored lust and turned his attention to the woman. She hadn’t run over to join the rest of the women—who were whimpering and weeping in each other’s arms near the fo’c’sle. She stood just a few feet to the side, her shift blowing around her shapely calves, watching with a slight frown.

For a moment, Martin forgot what Jolly was saying to him. “Is this Lord Killian a friend of yours?” he asked, unaccountably jealous.

She shook her head. “A fellow passenger.”

The way she lowered her head sadly made Martin want to question her further. He wanted to ask her name and her purpose for being on the ship, whether she was attached, whether she wanted to settle down on a remote island in the middle of nowhere and bear him nine strong sons. He wanted to kick himself in his own arse too. He’d definitely been on the high seas without a woman in sight for far too long.

Instead, he nodded to the woman, then marched off, following Jolly’s increasingly urgent beckoning.

Five steps later, he realized the woman was following them.

“Go join the rest of the women,” Martin ordered her over his shoulder with a scowl. The scowl was more for the fact that his heart had begun to dance a joyful jig at the idea she wanted to stay close to him, even after he’d behaved like a…well, like a pirate, and kissed her. Or perhaps that wasn’t his heart.

“You may need help speaking with Lord Killian,” she said in a quiet voice.

The men from the merchant ship had been moved to the quarterdeck. Martin stopped at the base of the ladder and turned to the woman. “I’ve never needed help speaking to another man before,” he said.

She didn’t talk back. She didn’t have to. The look she gave him—shy and humble, but as firm as iron and clearly communicating that he didn’t know what he was talking about—said it all.

He blew out a breath. “What is your name?”

“Lettuce,” she answered.

Martin blinked and shook his head. “That is a vegetable, not a name.”

“Lady Lettuce Marlowe,” she said.

“How dare you, you little whore?” a man snarled from the railing at the edge of the quarterdeck. “Your name is Mrs. Lettuce Pigge, and you will not forget it.”

The woman, Lettuce, shrank into herself, shoulders hunched, like a dog who had been kicked too many times. Martin raised his scowl to the man named Pigge, fury hotter than Hades burning in his gut. Now he knew where the bruises came from. He grabbed hold of the rail and pulled himself up the ladder to the quarterdeck. A few more steps brought him face to face with Pigge. Or rather, face to collar. Pigge was nearly a foot shorter than him. As soon as the wretch realized Martin had observed everything he’d said to Lettuce, he let out a sound like the animal that had given him his name and staggered backward.

That was all Martin had time for. A man in what appeared to be a silk dressing gown with gray hair and a haughty frown broke away from the cluster of male passengers grouped on one side of the deck.

“This is an outrage,” the man bellowed, puffed up as though he thought he were the Prince of Wales himself. “I demand that you and your scurrilous band of miscreants release us at once.”

“Father.” A younger but equally hoity-toity man stepped forward. He held back when one of Martin’s men drew a sword and blocked his path. “Now is not the time,” he hissed to his father all the same.

“This is precisely the time,” Lord Killian—or so Martin assumed the gray-haired man was—blustered on. “I refuse to be waylaid by someone as low and pathetic as a pirate.”

“He must be a gentleman of some sort,” Lettuce said, clutching her book as though it were a shield. “He’s well-spoken.”

Martin lifted his eyebrows as he stared at her. Was that why she had allowed him to kiss her instead of screaming in terror? If so, he figured he’d better start talking to see if his refined accent eased the situation at all.

“Who are you, sir, and why are you irritating me and my crew with your complaints?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“How dare you, you brigand, you scurvy coward, you—”

“Silence!”

The shout came from Dick, who charged across the deck from where he’d been overseeing the disarming and restraint of the merchant ship’s crew. Dick held a cocked pistol in front of him and pointed it straight at Lord Killian. He didn’t stop his progress across the deck until he’d grabbed the annoying lord by the arm and held the barrel of his pistol to his head.

Lord Killian turned white as a sheet, his mouth flapping like the sails above them. “I…how dare you…you cannot do this to me,” he managed to say in spite of his obvious fright. “I am an earl.”

Martin opened his mouth to censure both men, but before he could, Dick fired. Blood and brains splattered over the deck. Lord Killian’s lifeless body dropped to the floor.

“Now you’re a corpse,” Dick sneered.

All hell broke loose. The crew of the merchant ship erupted into furious protest. The male passengers either joined them in shocked protest or bent double, hurling up their stomachs. One man fainted dead away. The younger Lord Killian merely gaped at his father’s body, going as pale as the old man had been. Behind Martin, screams echoed up from the female prisoners that were followed by more screams and wailing.

Lettuce had frozen completely, her eyes wide with horror, her knuckles white where she gripped her book.

“Dick,” Martin bellowed, glaring daggers at his first mate. “What the devil was that for?”

“The man was a threat,” Dick shouted right back.

“He was an old man in a dressing gown,” Martin roared.

“He had a knife in his hand,” Dick shouted louder, pointing the smoking pistol at the corpse.

Sure enough, the dead lord had a long, wicked-looking blade, half concealed in his hand. Still, Martin didn’t think he could have done any real damage. It would have taken two seconds to disarm the old fool.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “He wasn’t—”

A cry rose up from the merchant ship’s crewmen. They hadn't been as well-secured as Martin thought they were. They leapt away from the corner where a few of his men had been guarding them and lunged at whoever they could. There was a short, devastating flash of activity. Shots were fired, both by the crewmen and by Martin’s own men. The majority of the crewmen and two of Martin’s men fell in bloody piles on the deck. More screams from the women split the air. The majority of the male passengers ducked or scrambled to get out of the way.

Pigge leapt toward Lettuce. “Now, woman,” he shouted, grabbing her arm.

Martin didn’t know if Pigge meant to use Lettuce as a shield or whether he thought the two of them could make some sort of escape, or even whether he thought Lettuce would fight the pirates to save him. There wasn’t time to know any of it. Before Pigge do more than clamp Lettuce’s arm, Martin drew his pistol and fired, hitting the blackguard square between the eyes. Pigge fell to the deck, instantly dead.

“Dammit,” Martin hissed, lowering his weapon. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, leaning toward Lettuce. “God, I’m so, so sorry. It was reflex. The fight. I didn’t mean to—”

“Thank God,” she wailed. “Thank God Almighty.” She dropped to her knees, then curled in on herself and her book, weeping like Martin had never seen a woman weep before. And it wasn’t the kind of terrified weeping that the rest of the female passengers were currently engaged in either. Lettuce’s tears were so obviously tears of joy that Martin felt both proud and miserable at the same time.

Whatever the drama was that he’d just ended for Lettuce, he had a far more serious problem on his hands.

“Cease this nonsense at once,” he boomed, holding his arms out to his men. “Every one of you, stand down!”

His command was, arguably, useless. The fight had ended as soon as it began. The result was that the majority of the merchant ship’s crew lay dead on the quarterdeck, along with Lord Killian and Pigge. Two of his men writhed in pain, one cradling his arm and one his leg where they had been shot. Already, they were being helped by their fellows.

“Dick,” Martin snapped, turning to face the clear instigator of the whole mess. “This was supposed to be a quiet journey home, but now I’ve got eight dead men to dispose of, a passel of terrified prisoners to deal with, and two of our best men injured.”

“And a merchant ship containing who knows what booty that is all ours now,” Dick argued. He took a step forward, coming to stand in direct opposition to Martin. “We’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams now.”

“We were already rich after the capture of The Mercury,” Martin argued. “And we don’t know what’s in the merchant ship’s hold.”

“Silk,” Lettuce said, rising from her crouch, still clutching her book. Her face was red and puffy and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Silk,” she repeated. “And linen. And good English wool. Brocade. And French wine as well.” She was almost laughing as she rattled off the list. So much so that Martin feared for her sanity. “Pigge was determined to make a fortune in Charleston, but now it’s yours. Now it’s yours.” She heaved a sigh of relief and squeezed her eyes shut, as if saying a prayer of thanks.

Martin was too stunned by her incomprehensible reaction to reply.

Dick was not. “Did you hear that?” he asked, his eyes glowing with avarice, like a true pirate. “I told you it was a good idea to capture this ship. A fortune. We’ve captured a fortune.”

“We’ve captured a colossal problem,” Martin sighed. He held his pistol to the side, knowing that Jolly would rush up to take it, which he did. Then he rubbed his face with both hands. The sun was barely up, and already his head was throbbing. He pivoted to stare out over the center of his ship, to the dozen or so women huddled together. He glanced back to the horrified and outraged male passengers and the handful of remaining crewmen.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. It was time to take the situation in hand. “Which one of you is, or was, the captain?” he asked the crewmen.

“That’s Captain Moone,” one of them said, pointing at one of the corpses that held a long knife.

“Excellent,” Dick said with a vicious smile. “Then the ship is ours.”

He was right, of course, but Martin was in no mood to encourage the man. All he did was nod.

“Clean this up,” he ordered his crew, gesturing to the carnage on the deck. “Secure the prisoners,” he continued to issue orders. “Move the women to The Growler. Dick, choose a dozen men to take the merchant ship. I want an inventory of the cargo by nightfall.”

As his men launched into motion around him, Martin began to move as well, he turned away from the dead men and strode to the railing at the edge of the deck. As he suspected, some of his less disciplined men were already pestering the female passengers.

“Keep your hands off of the women,” he shouted loud enough for everyone on the ship to hear. “No one touches them until we sort things out unless it’s to help them across from one ship to the other.”

A few moans of disappointment rang from the deck, just audible over the weeping of the women. He trusted his crew enough to hold off on the raping part of raping and pillaging, but only for so long. He turned back to Dick.

“Keep the male passengers secure here. The women will be held on The Growler. That should discourage anyone from attempting another revolt.” He spoke loud enough for the men of the merchant ship to hear him.

“What about me, Captain? What can I do?” Jolly asked, all wide eyes and eagerness.

Martin didn’t have the heart to order the boy to help dispose of the bodies. “I want you to help guard the women,” he said, starting toward the ladder and making his way down to the main deck, to where the women were already being helped across the tenuous bridge that had been made between the two ships when the merchant vessel was boarded. Jolly followed him, and to his surprise, Lettuce did as well. Though that very well could have been because she wanted to join the rest of the women at last.

The three of them crossed over to The Growler. It took a bit more work to coax, drag, or carry the rest of the women over. Once the task was done, the women clustered together near the mainmast, a tearful, terrified bundle of skirts and nightgowns. Lettuce calmly stepped into the group. Her head was lowered and her face hidden, but Martin could have sworn she wore a smile.

“You’re our prisoners now,” he told them all in a firm voice. “I would like to tell you that you’re safe, that no harm will come to you, and that you will be dropped at the nearest port.”

A grumble rose up from those of his men who were close enough to hear his pronouncement as they worked.

“I’d like to tell you that,” Martin went on, “but we’ve been at sea for months now without women and only one short stop in port. So if any of you have ever secretly fantasized about being ravished by a pirate, well, now is the time to have that fantasy fulfilled.”

The women’s wailing took on an entirely different tone. One or two of the poor things had gone pale and looked as though they’d been sentenced to the gallows. One or two had suddenly gone suspiciously quiet and were casting guilty looks at their fellow captives and curious ones at the pirates. Martin stole a peek at Lettuce, praying that she was one of those. Because he intended to have his way with her by nightfall, and he hoped to God she would be up for it. Most of the women were too stunned by his statement to react at all. And one….

“Good Lord, you’re not a woman.” Martin scowled, nudging the ladies at the front of the group aside, making his way to a stooped figure near the back. He gripped the person’s arm, knowing instantly the muscle was far too thick to be that of a woman. With a yank, he pulled whoever it was to the deck in front of the women.

Whoever it was turned out to be a man of decent height and slender build who just happened to be wearing a flowery gown and a frilly cap. He broke into a fool’s grin as soon as Martin dragged him out of hiding.

“It seems you’ve figured out my disguise,” the man said with a self-effacing grin. He held his arms to the sides and glanced down at his gown. “I was so certain I could get away with it. It seemed like the perfect way to go unnoticed, what with all the men being rounded up by you ravening pirates and all. I knew I shouldn’t have traveled away from home. I rarely travel these days, not even to London. But fortune favors the bold and all that, and my bride insisted. I never thought I could fit into a dress, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. It’s not all the way done up in the back, as you can see.” He turned to show Martin that, in fact, the dress’s ties barely reached behind the fool’s back. “It’s one of my bride’s gowns, you know. That’s her.” He turned to point to one of the wide-eyed women in the group of prisoners. “That’s Malvis. Strange name, I know, but she’s a terribly wonderful woman. We were just married days before setting sail on this journey, and what a journey it’s turned into. It reminds me of the trip I made when I was just a boy when my father took me to—”

“For the love of God, man. Quiet,” Martin shouted. The man in the dress snapped his mouth shut. Martin gawked at him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ainsley,” the man said, extending his hand as though they were in a ballroom. “Lord Hugh Ainsley, Marquess of Biddlesford. I hardly ever bother with the title, though. It’s never done me any good anyhow. Never helped me to make friends and all that, though they say everyone falls all over themselves to make friends with marquesses and dukes and the like. People tend to keep their distance from me, though I’ve no idea why. That is why I am so in love with my darling Malvis. She’s quite the—”

“Enough.” Martin silenced him again, raising both hands as if warding off an attack. “Very well, Lord Ainsley. If you wish to disguise yourself as a woman, then you shall be treated like a woman.” He raised his voice loud enough for any of his men who worked nearby to hear. They would likely devise better ways to deal with the man than he ever could. “Get back with the others,” he ordered the fool.

“Yes, Captain. Whatever you say, Captain,” Ainsley answered with a broad smile and a cheery nod, bowing and curtsying his way back into the cluster of women—who were now all stunned to a stupefied silence.

Martin sighed and turned back to the merchant ship. Clean-up was well underway on the quarterdeck. He regretted every life that had been lost. His surgeon had come up from below to treat the two men with gunshot wounds who had been moved back to The Growler. The Growler was still lashed to the merchant ship as it had been for the attack, which meant they wouldn’t be sailing any farther that day. His men were already up in the rigging, securing the sails to stop any disasters from befalling. All that he had left to do was supervise the proceedings and marvel over how badly his morning had started.

Chapter 3

Letty had never been a captive of pirates before. She’d only ever been a captive of her husband. But Pigge was dead now. As wrong as it was, given the circumstances, she couldn’t help but to tilt her head back and smile up at the morning sun, a weight she thought would never leave her lifted from her shoulders.

“What in God’s name do you have to smile about?” Lady Malvis grumbled, catching Letty’s expression.

Hours had passed since the capture and the women had all been moved to a corner of the fo’c’sle that was shaded by the sails above. They’d been given food and water, though not a change of clothes, and had had nothing to do but sit idly by, watching the pirates work to inventory the merchant ship and transfer some of its goods to The Growler, and to contemplate their fates.

Letty lowered her head and shifted against the boards, sitting straighter. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

Lady Malvis snorted. “I understand the cries for mercy that we could all hear through the cabin walls these last few weeks.”

A chill shot down Letty’s back and her face heated. She risked a covert glance at Lady Malvis and was surprised to find a hint of sympathy behind the sour expression the horrible woman wore. When Letty peeked at some of the other women who had nothing better to do than eavesdrop, she saw similar expressions of sympathy and some empathy.

“Did everyone know about…about Pigge?” she asked quietly.

Several of the others nodded or made knowing sounds.

Letty’s embarrassment tripled. She turned back to Lady Malvis and whispered, “Then why ask me what I have to smile about?”

Lady Malvis crossed her arms and sniffed. “Because we’re all likely to get the same treatment and then some by the pirates before nightfall.”

Letty’s first reaction was doubt. No one, not even a bloodthirsty pirate, could abuse her the way Pigge had. Certainly not the captain...whom she’d caught staring at her at least five times in the last few hours. There was something about Captain Martin Foster—as she’d learned his full name was—that intrigued her, something that drew her to him. It had much to do with the way he’d kissed her so unexpectedly during the capture, to be sure, but there was something else about him as well.

“Do not worry, ladies,” Lord Ainsley blurted before the conversation could continue. “I shall protect you.”

Lady Malvis laughed. “Really, Ainsley,” she said, shaking her head. “You have many fine qualities, but rugged masculinity is not one of them.”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Ainsley said with a shrug—a shrug made more comical by the gown he was wearing. “I shall negotiate our way out of this muddle.”

“It’s more than a muddle, dearest,” Lady Malvis said, patting Lord Ainsley’s leg and sighing.

Letty tilted her head to the side and studied the couple. They were as unalike as chalk and cheese, and yet during the entire voyage, she had never seen anything but affection between the two of them. Which struck her as bitterly unfair. A woman as witchy as Lady Malvis had no right to find marital bliss while Letty was shackled to a devil.

The morning wore on into afternoon. They were all fed and watered again, but still given nothing to do but observe the activity of the ship. Observation, however, taught Letty a few vital things about the intelligence of Captain Foster. It didn’t take much to see that he did not approve of the actions of his second in command, Dick LaRue. But even though Dick had apparently disobeyed orders in attacking the merchant ship and in killing the men who tried to fight back, the vast majority of the pirates, including Dick, obeyed Captain Foster’s orders without hesitation. It was true that he had a commanding presence, but Letty sensed there was more to it than appearances. Most of the pirates seemed to adore their captain.

With good reason, as she discovered throughout the day. Instead of barking orders and abusing his crew, Captain Foster simply kept them busy. He did not chastise the men who returned from the merchant ship with armfuls of stolen goods. He didn’t precisely keep them away from the women either, but Letty quickly noticed that any of the pirates who cast particularly lustful glances at the captive ladies suddenly found themselves ordered to man the merchant ship as evening drew near and the two ships separated.

“Dick is in command of The Vixen,” he announced as the evening meal was being served. It took Letty a moment to realize they’d renamed the merchant ship The Vixen when they hoisted the Jolly Roger in its rigging. “He’s been charged with the task of keeping the male prisoners quiet and staying within shouting distance as we make our way to St. John’s.”

“But Cap’n,” one of the rougher pirates who had been salivating over the ladies all day said. “What about them lot?” He pointed to where Letty and the others sat.

“You’ll get your turn,” Captain Foster said. “Now go, man your ship.”

That was the end of things. The pirate crew split, a few of the merchant ship’s crew who had agreed to join the pirates mingled between the ships, the worst of the men who had threatened both Captain Foster’s order and the women were removed, and something along the lines of a sigh of relief went up from the ladies.

Although it was somewhat short-lived.

“You,” Captain Foster said, climbing up to the fo’c’sle and pointing straight at Letty. “Come with me.”

The look in his eyes was unmistakably lusty. After the kiss below deck, she had no doubt what his intentions were. She rose all the same, perhaps a little too eagerly, clutching her book as she had all day, and went to him. The entire exchange raised a few worried whimpers from the other ladies as the illusion of their safety cracked. A few of the pirates approached the group, albeit hesitantly and with glances to Captain Foster, as if they were waiting for permission or denial. Captain Foster gave them neither, though, and Letty didn’t get a chance to see what happened before the captain took her across the ship and through the door into a wide, well-decorated cabin at the back of the ship.

The opulence of the small room surprised Letty. An oriental carpet lay on the floor and the massive window that looked out at the ship’s wake was hung with expensive brocade curtains. The table off to one side appeared to be some sort of rich, polished wood. A wardrobe of the same wood was built into one of the walls. There were other chairs and cabinets, but what caught Letty’s attention more than any of it was the bed that rested under the window. It was wider than the bed in Pigge’s cabin, though still not as wide as anything she’d seen on land, and laid with a fine coverlet and several pillows.

Captain Foster glanced from Letty to the bed and back again, then let out a breath, his shoulders sagging. “I suppose I should play the role of rapacious pirate and throw you across the bed to take what I want.”

Letty blinked, clutching her book tighter in an effort to still the excited beat of her heart. Her knees felt suspiciously like jelly.

But instead of charging her, Captain Foster shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over one of the chairs. “I never did have the stomach for undue force with the ladies, though,” he said. “Nor for murder either,” he added with a wry twist to his words as he unbuttoned his waistcoat.

Letty wasn’t sure what to give her attention to. He was undressing, and in spite of what he’d said, she knew full well he intended to have her. But the way he spoke—both the words themselves and his refined accent—and the casual, almost exhausted manner in which he undressed filled her with a thousand questions.

“If you do not care for murder or rape, why did you become a pirate?” she asked.

He answered with a short, tired laugh and a shake of his head. “It was piracy or wasting away my life behind a desk somewhere, never quite earning enough money to start the business I truly wish to start.” He finished with his waistcoat buttons and shrugged out of the fine garment.

Prickles of desire that should have filled Letty with surprise and shame, and yet didn’t, raced through her, particularly as he tugged the tails of his shirt out of his breeches. Her mind scrambled for something to say or do that would…that would what? She wanted to see just how the captain intended to have his way with her without force.

“So you simply found yourself a ship and declared yourself a pirate?” she asked, her voice pitched higher as she watched him.

He laughed again, moving to the edge of the bed and leaning against it to remove his boots. “No. As you may have guessed, I’m the son of a nobleman. Not a peer, mind you, but Father did well enough. I’ve a brother swanning about England somewhere with the title, but I’ve several brothers. One of them, John, announced his intentions to leave England for Antigua and to start a sugar plantation, and I decided to go with him. But believe me, plantation life is not for me.”

All at once, a thousand random details crashed together in Letty’s ming. “Foster?” she asked. “Sugar plantation in Antigua?” She blinked. “You are not, by chance, related to a Mr. Jonathan Foster, confectioner and chef?”

Captain Foster’s brow rose in surprise. “He’s my nephew, my brother’s son by his mistress.”

It was Letty’s turn to laugh. “I attended one of his confectionary exhibitions last year. It was quite a scandal. The centerpiece of the exhibit was a naked woman covered in sugar and decorated with icing.”

“Good Lord,” Captain Foster said, dropping the boot he’d just removed. “I bet that ruffled some feathers.”

“It did,” Letty said. “But it was also extraordinarily popular.” She relaxed, stepping to the side and setting her book on the table.

“Jonathan always was a rabble rouser,” the captain went on, tugging off his stockings and tossing them aside before standing. “His brothers and sisters are exactly the same way. They adore their Uncle Martin, of course,” he added with an indulgent grin. “I suppose I could blame them as much as anything for my life of crime.”

“Oh?” Letty’s heart sped up. For a pirate intent on seducing her, talking about his nieces and nephews was an odd—yet surprisingly effective—technique. “How so?”

“If you know Jonathan, then you know he is half black. His mother, Anita, is a wonderful woman. How my brother can love her while owning and destroying so many of her kind is beyond me.” His face darkened to a scowl. “The whole point of the mutiny that gave me my first ship was to foil the slave trader bringing so many innocent souls to this side of the Atlantic. I returned those pitiable people back to Africa, then began harassing other slaving vessels.”

“How admirable,” Letty said.

“Yes, right up until we accidentally captured a merchant vessel with several tens of thousands of pounds worth of goods.” He cleared his throat, looking downright sheepish again. “Money corrupts even the best of intentions,” he went on. “I’ve found that I rather like the stuff. Though I have more than enough now to do what I intended all along, to start my own mercantile shipping business. This was my final run as a pirate. As soon as we reach St. John’s, I’m done with the whole business.”

Letty didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, Pigge had been what most would consider an honest merchant, even though he was the very worst of men. Captain Foster, on the other hand, seemed to be a gem of a man, even if he was on the wrong side of the law.

“And you?” he asked as her thoughts continued to swirl. “Lady Lettuce Marlowe, recently widowed. What of you?”

Letty shrugged, not bothering to adjust her shift when the gesture exposed more of her shoulder. “I was sold into matrimony with a demon by a greedy father. I dearly wish my story were more interesting than that, but it is not. Unlike gentlemen, we women do not have the privilege of choosing our own life or our own fate.”

Captain Foster hummed, though it was difficult for Letty to tell if the sound was disapproval, sympathy, or hunger. “When we reach St. John’s, I’ll give you sufficient cash to return to England, or to go wherever else you care to go to start a new life.”

“That is very generous of you,” she said, brightening.

“Yes, well, before you cast me in the role of hero, I should let you know that I am going to fuck you now.”

Letty blinked in surprise at the bluntness of his statement, her insides buzzing with excitement.

“Not because I am a rake who prides himself on female conquest, mind you,” he said, holding up his hands. “Only because it’s been so long since I’ve had a woman that I’m afraid my prick is about to fall off.”

Letty sucked in a breath, not out of fear, but because the moment she’d been secretly aching for all day was upon her. She stepped forward, coming to stand so close to the captain that she could feel the heat rippling off of him. Then she lifted the hem of his shirt and slipped her hand into his breeches. His cock tightened against her palm, growing hard and deliciously large.

“It seems well-attached to me,” she said, glancing up at him in invitation.

He made a guttural sound, then bunched his hands in the fabric of her shift, yanking it up. Letty had never been so glad to be wearing nothing but a thin layer of linen in her life. With one sweeping movement, she was naked. As soon as he threw her shift away, his hands closed over her breasts, kneading them.

“Good God,” he growled, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, which were well on their way to being tight nubs already. “You’re beautiful.”

Letty was too overwhelmed by the sensation of a strange man’s large hands gently fondling her breasts to reply. Or to feel shame, for that matter. Pigge had groped and squeezed her plenty of times, but it was nothing to the almost reverent way Captain Foster played with her, bringing her as much pleasure as he was clearly taking for himself. And she could tell just how much pleasure he felt with her hand still down his breeches, caressing his cock as it grew impossibly hard.

She gave him just the slightest stroke and he moaned with joy...right before tugging her hand out of his breeches.

“I refuse to spend within thirty seconds,” he panted. “And with you touching me, that was exactly what would have happened.”

He followed his statement by taking a step away from her and wrenching his shirt off over his head. As soon as that was gone, he unbuttoned and shucked his breeches. That brought the glorious, thick length of his prick to full attention. It was magnificent enough to leave Letty short of breath and aching to feel him lodged deep within her. Which was a wild paradox, as far as she was concerned. Pigge was the only man who had ever been between her legs before, and every one of those experiences had been miserable. And yet, it was as though her body had learned what it wanted by experiencing everything that it didn’t want. She knew the mechanics of love-making, and now she wanted the real thing, if only to expunge every memory of Pigge that had been forced on her.

She moved to the bed, sliding onto the edge and parting her legs. He responded with a growl, stalking toward her. But instead of throwing her back and pounding into her with the force of a storm, he dropped to his knees at the side of the bed. From there, he gripped her thighs, shoving them farther apart, then parted the lips of her sex and leaned in, closing his mouth over her.

Letty gasped, gripping the expensive bedcovers tightly in her fists as the captain raked his tongue across the slit of her sex. The sensations his mouth raised in her were like nothing she’d ever known. It seemed shockingly wicked for him to delve his tongue inside of her, but it also turned her whole body to liquid heat.

That feeling of being nothing but want intensified as he jerked her hips forward, tipping her back to rest on her elbows, giving him even deeper access to her sex. She let out a wildly wanton sigh as his tongue circled her clitoris, then gasped as he moved a hand from her thigh to thrust two fingers inside of her. He stroked her inner walls, adding a third finger and stretching her in a way that left her wet and shaking.

It was too much, too glorious. She was naked and spread on a pirate’s bed, her breasts heavy with need, her nipples tight and sensitive. He was doing miraculous things to her with his mouth and hands. She peeked down at the sight of his head between her legs, his expression one of pure bliss as he tasted and teased her. A needy, tight, coiling sensation began to spread through her core. She bore down on his fingers working their magic within her, moving with him and chasing after what felt like joy itself.

“Yes, my little captive,” he said in a rumbling bass. “Come for me. Show me how much you want it.”

She was too far gone with pleasure—pleasure she’d had no idea existed—to do anything other than obey. His fingers worked in her, and with a rolling rush, like a wave cresting, her body thundered into throbbing pleasure. She cried out with it, reveling in the way her inner muscles squeezed around his fingers. It was pure magic, and he’d made it happen.

She almost wept in protest when he removed his hand, then gasped when he stood, nudged her fully to her back, gripped her hips, and guided his cock to her still-throbbing entrance. She cried out in pleasure again as he thrust into her, stretching her to her limit. He was far larger than Pigge, which should have caused her twice as much pain, but she felt only pleasure. Shattering, bone-deep pleasure as he lifted her hips to meet his thrusts.

“Oh, God,” he panted as he worked himself inside of her. “Fuck, fuck.” He was clearly as transported by their mating as she was. Tension and pleasure pinched his expression and hardened his body. He was standing, which only added power to his thrusts. His grip on her hips grew tighter and tighter, his rocking faster and faster, until he gasped and let out a cry, thrusting hard a few more times. Whether it was her imagination or reality, Letty felt warmth spread through her insides, knowing he’d spilled his seed inside of her. The way he’d been going, he probably shot pieces of his soul deep into her womb. He’d fucked her every bit as hard as any pirate would have, and she was near to weeping with the bliss of it.

At last, he sagged forward, covering her body with his hot, heavy one. They were at an odd angle, half on the bed and half out, with Letty’s head wedged up against the wall under the window. Somehow, she didn’t care about any of it. She loved the feeling of such a big man covering her, loved how disconnected and spent she felt beneath him. He was all but a perfect stranger to her, and yet he’d made her feel things that she never could have imagined Pigge even knowing about, let alone sharing with her. Worst—or perhaps best—of all, she wanted more of him. She wanted him to do every vile thing that Pigge had done to her and that he had made her do to him. She wanted it as if every moment of surrender to Captain Foster would swallow up the memories of Pigge in her mind.

“I’m sorry,” Captain Foster groaned at last, rolling fully onto the bed and dragging Letty to lie the right way around on it. “That was even more beastly than I planned to be.”

“I’ve never felt so alive in my life,” she panted in return. “No one has ever done that to me.”

He paused halfway through adjusting the pillows and burrowing under the covers. “What?” He blinked. “You don’t mean that no one has ever made you come before?”

She shook her head.

He hissed an oath that would have had Letty’s hair standing on end if she hadn’t felt so loose and sated. “That right there is a sin,” he said, stroking his hands over her body as he found the most comfortable way to settle with her in the narrow bed. “Give me a few minutes to rest and I’ll make you come again,” he said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure after the day we’ve both had than to make you come at least a dozen times before morning.”

Letty’s heart beat a mad rhythm in her chest. Her sex was already beginning to pulse with promise again. But all she could think of to say was, “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Chapter 4

Letty hadn’t slept so well since the shackles of marriage to Pigge had been clamped around her soul. Captain Foster’s bed was too narrow for two people, but they shared it all the same. Letty awoke with her naked limbs wrapped around his powerful body and her head sharing a pillow with him. Everything was quiet. The sound of the waves lapping against The Growler’s hull and a few distant cries of sea birds attempted to lull her back into sleep. Soft, morning sunlight poured in through the windows beside the bed, which had been opened during the night to let in the cool breeze.

It was more than just peaceful and comfortable, it was idyllic. And Letty was wicked for enjoying it so much. Her husband had been killed in front of her, and less than a day later, she’d spread her legs and moaned in ecstasy as a virtual stranger, the man who had murdered him, made her come. Several times through the night. Without hesitation or remorse. Every time, she’d felt that blissful rush of pleasure that she’d never dreamed she could feel. The memories filled her with sensual joy and devastating guilt simultaneously.

“Love, desire, passion,” she remembered the quote from The Secrets of Love as she stared at the cabin’s ceiling. “They are all worthy prizes, regardless of the value society places on them. Pursue them with single-minded focus and without regret.”

Letty huffed slightly. That was easy for the author to say. She wondered if the sections of the book that her sisters now had contained better advice on how to reconcile wicked actions.

Captain Foster must have felt her tense as difficult thoughts replaced sleep. He drew in a breath and shifted to get a better look at her.

“Oh, hello,” he said, as though he hadn’t realized she was in bed with him. He quickly burst into a teasing smile.

Letty pushed herself to sit, her legs still tangled with his. The bedcovers dropped to her waist, exposing her breasts to him—a sight it was clear he appreciated. She didn’t know whether she deserved to cover herself like a lady of modesty or whether she was the whore Pigge had always accused her of being and should be ogled as such.

“I’m sorry, Captain Foster. I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said. She met his eyes and his smile briefly before glancing down in shame.

“First of all,” he said, his tone censorious, “I think you can call me Martin at this point.”

She peeked uncertainly at him. His contented smile had vanished, replaced by a gentle frown of concern.

“Second,” he continued, “whatever paroxysms of guilt you’re feeling, stop right now.”

She lowered her head once more, embarrassed that her feelings were so plain for him to see. “What we did—” she began.

“—was lovely,” he finished for her. “And long overdue for me. For you as well, I surmise. Have you truly, in all your life, married or otherwise, never experienced an orgasm?”

Heat flooded Lettuce’s face. “My husband was not a kind man.”

“I can see that by the bruises you carry,” he said, suddenly ferocious. A moment later, he puffed out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have used you the way I did, knowing how you got those bruises.”

“You didn’t use me,” Letty insisted, feeling guiltier than ever. “I was willing. More than willing. And I enjoyed every minute. Far more than I should have.” Tears stung at her eyes. “I’m a wicked whore, just like he always said I was.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle. He pulled her into a surprisingly tender embrace and rested a hand on the side of her head. “None of that. No tears. Every man and woman deserves to give themselves over to pleasure. There’s nothing at all wrong with feeling and enjoying all the amazing things our bodies are capable of with whomever you choose to bed. Anyone that tells you differently or calls you a whore is trying to enslave you. And I am bitterly opposed to slavery.”

Letty blinked, studying him to see if he was teasing her or being insincere. But no, he stared steadily back at her, franker than any man had ever been with her. Not just frank, human. He looked at her and spoke to her as if she were a fellow human, not some subspecies called “female” that deserved to be treated as something lesser. The whole thing, his arms around her and the intensity of his gaze, sent a pulsing warmth through her that focused in her sex and in her heart.

“I’m glad you killed him,” she whispered, knowing he wouldn’t need her to spell out who. “I hated him. I hate my father for forcing me to marry him and for blocking the door on my wedding night when I tried to escape.”

“He what?” Martin snapped, thunderclouds forming in his expression. “I’ll kill him too, if given the chance.” His hands stroked her sides and hips, pulling her flush against his naked body. “I’ll kill any man who so much as thinks of laying a hand on you again. You’re mine now, and I refuse to let you go.”

Letty’s eyes went wide. “I’m yours?” she squeaked, not entirely opposed to the idea.

“Yes, of course,” he said, his teasing smile returning. “I’ve a rule that anything my men can carry off the ships we capture becomes their own. I’m fairly certain I can carry you, therefore, you are my prize for this particular expedition.”

Letty didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or if she was horrified. A pirate captain had just announced that she belonged to him. She wondered what the author of The Secrets of Love would say to that. Letty should have screamed and struggled to get away from him. Instead, she suddenly became aware that she was straddling his hips and his cock was growing harder and hotter by the second.

“What does one do as the prize of a pirate captain?” she asked in a throaty voice, resting her arms over his shoulders and threading her fingers through his hair.

His smile turned carnal. “Generally, it means being fucked senseless.” He jerked his hips against hers, bringing his cock into heady contact with her sex.

Guilt flared once more within Letty, but it was easier to push aside. She was a captive, after all. Martin had claimed her. Perhaps he might keep her with him once they reached St. John’s instead of giving her the money he promised and sending her on her way. Perhaps she could build a whole new life with him. She was certain down to the marrow of her bones that Martin would treat her with more kindness and affection than Pigge had ever been capable of.

He leaned into her, bringing his mouth close to hers, his eyes glassing over with lust, but a knock at the cabin door stopped him before their lips touched.

“Captain,” a tenor voice called out. “You’re needed on deck.”

“Blast,” Martin hissed, letting go of Letty and untangling from her so that he could leap out of bed.

Letty was left reeling with the shock of him transforming from an ardent lover to a responsible ship’s captain so quickly. She was much slower to force her limbs to move enough to climb out of bed and search for her shift.

“Never mind about that,” he said as he crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. “You need to wear something more adequate than a shift anyhow. I’ve loads of bits and pieces of things that have been collected in raids over the years. You’re more than welcome to any of it.” He pulled a few articles of clothing from the overstuffed wardrobe, then crossed the cabin again to a washstand built into the opposite wall. “I’d stay and help you clean up and find something, but I’ve already spent more time in bed than any captain should.”

He sent her a sheepish look that she was beginning to feel was his signature. It was ludicrous that a pirate captain would be known for his blush, but then, nothing about Martin was even remotely what she thought a pirate would or should be like.

He washed and dressed in record time. Letty had only begun to search through the clothes in the wardrobe by the time he was fully clothed and striding for the cabin door. Before he reached it, though, he switched direction and came over to her. He stole a kiss that took her completely by surprise, then was gone before she could breathe again. And as mad as it was, she found herself smiling over the whole thing, her heart as light as the sunlight dancing off the waves.

As it turned out, the bits and pieces of clothing Martin had in his wardrobe did not contain a single dress or skirt. He had no women’s clothing at all, which she supposed shouldn’t surprise her. She managed to find a shirt small enough so that she didn’t feel as though she were swimming in a sail, a waistcoat tight enough to make going without stays slightly more comfortable, and a pair of breeches that must have belonged to Jolly. Nothing in her ensemble matched, but at least she was clothed by the time she tip-toed out to the deck.

What she found was as far from what she expected as possible. The pirates were as busy as they’d been the day before, but several of them were singing in harmony as they swung from the rigging, mopped the decks, or sat about repairing various pieces of rope or parts of the ship Letty had no name for. The newly rechristened Vixen floated about a hundred yards off to the left, but a pair of small boats were in the process of rowing between them, one heading to The Vixen and one toward The Growler, both laden with supplies.

Strangest of all, most of the ladies who had been Letty’s fellow passengers roamed freely on the deck. Some were dressed in the same gowns they’d been wearing the day before. Others had found new, masculine clothing, as she had. Some were helping the pirates with their repairs and others appeared to be sewing up holes in clothing that could only belong to the pirates. A few were huddled in the shade of the aft deck looking miserable, but only a handful.

“What is going on here?” Letty asked Lord Ainsley as she approached the spot where he sat against the mainmast.

He still wore a dress and he was busy sewing what looked like a sail. Lady Malvis stood leaning against the mast with her arms crossed, a scowl on her face. She now wore male garb, but she didn’t seem particularly happy about it. Then again, she’d never seemed happy about anything.

“We’ve been put to work,” Lord Ainsley announced with a broad grin. “That is to say, those of us who were willing to lend a hand have taken up work. I’ve never sewn a sail before, but I think I’m quite good at it, see?” He held up the corner of rough fabric to show a painfully uneven row of stitches. “If we never return to England again, I think I would make a fine sailmaker. I feel as though I have a natural talent for it.”

“Do shut up, darling,” Lady Malvis growled.

“Yes, dear heart,” Lord Ainsley said, and to Letty’s surprise, obeyed her order and went back to work.

Letty wasn’t sure what to say. She glanced around at the other women, searching for signs of misery and fear. No one seemed to share the same sense of relief and elation that continued to pulse deep within her—along with the guilt, which wouldn’t go away—but things seemed far less woeful than she imagined they would be.

That assessment seemed even more accurate when one of the pirates—a handsome, black-haired man with deeply tanned skin and dark eyes—walked past Lady Malvis, grinned at her, and winked. Letty held her breath, bracing herself for Lady Malvis’s inevitable furor of indignation. Instead, Lady Malvis’s face went bright pink, she lowered her head, and the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

Letty’s jaw dropped. The moment Lady Malvis caught her staring, she sniffed and tilted her nose up.

“It’s not as though you were any less intimately occupied last night,” she said, blushing harder than ever.

Letty didn’t know whether to laugh or gasp. She peeked at Lord Ainsley.

“They had a devilishly good time of it,” he said, still smiling, as though he hadn’t minded at all. “Plenty of us did.”

Letty blinked at the word “us”.

“We broke open Captain Moone’s special store of French wine,” Lord Ainsley went on. “I’ve never had such fun in my life. It was a jolly old scene. Everyone enjoyed themselves in the most shocking ways, even me.” His smile grew to comical proportions. “Big, swarthy bloke buggered me senseless. Said he liked my dress. I thanked him for the compliment, and next thing you know, we were down in the hold and I was stretched over a barrel with his cock up my arse.”

“Ainsley,” Lady Malvis hissed in warning.

“Bloody amazing, it was,” Lord Ainsley went on. “Who knew there’s a spot up there that feels so glorious? I swear I’ve never come so hard in my life.”

“Ainsley!” Lady Malvis barked, balling her hands into fists at her sides.

“I’ve half a mind to try it again,” Lord Ainsley continued, even as Letty clapped a hand over her mouth. “The things you learn when boarded by pirates.”

Letty burst into laughter, clutching her stomach, unable to stop herself. The whole situation was surreal.

“Really, Ainsley,” Lady Malvis shouted. “Must you speak of these things in public?”

“Oh, don’t worry, pet,” he said, smiling up at her. “I’ll still service you and get you to make those delicious sounds I like so much. Unless you’d prefer that swarthy fellow to do it.”

Tears streamed down Letty’s face as her laughter continued. She had to lean against the mast by Lady Malvis’s side to keep from falling over. The whole situation, everything about it, from the sudden deaths after the capture to the night she’d spent with Martin to the things she was learning about her fellow passengers, was so ludicrous that she was beginning to think she’d drowned in a storm and everything that was happening to her now was just a dream. But the pain in her arm when Lady Malvis elbowed her hard was proof that she was awake and alive, as mad as the world had gone around her.

“You’re no better than the rest of us,” Lady Malvis hissed. “And what were we all supposed to do? These are pirates. They killed men right in front of us. It was drink the wine and go with them willingly or put up a fight and suffer.”

Letty’s laughter stopped with a gulp. Lady Malvis might very well have been right. She glanced to the three women huddled on the aft deck. “Were they—” She couldn’t finish the question.

“No,” Malvis said, her scowl growing. “They refused, but no one touched them. Of course, if that lot had been on the ship last night I believe it would have been a different story.” She nodded to a pair of men whom Letty had seen Martin order to the other ship the night before.

Once again, Letty marveled at how wise Martin was and how well he knew his crew. “What are they doing here now?” she asked.

“How should I know?” Malvis snapped, tilting her chin up as though she were the woman of superior breeding once more.

Letty sighed and stepped away from her, but with a new understanding of the woman she’d hated so much on the journey so far. The high and mighty Lady Malvis Cunningham had spread her legs for a pirate as quickly as Letty had, and if what Lord Ainsley had hinted at was right, she’d done it willingly. Knowing that actually made Letty feel better.

She wandered farther down the deck, smiling and saying hello to some of the other women and looking for Martin. When she didn’t immediately find him, she decided to go below to see what the lower decks of a pirate ship held.

She didn’t go far before she found the galley. Two of the women from the merchant ship—wives of the merchants themselves and not of Letty’s class—were hard at work, helping the ship’s cook chop vegetables and stir pots over a pair of stoves.

“Have you seen Captain Foster?” Letty asked.

The cook and the two women barely looked up from what they were doing. “Thought I heard him down by the capstan,” the cook said.

“Oh, right.” Letty nodded, then backed away, not wanting to interfere with their work. She turned and headed back through the dim deck, wondering what a capstan was and where it might be located.

Her search took her down to a lower, darker deck and through what looked to be a combination of storage and crew hammocks. Within seconds, she was as lost as she was certain Martin was nowhere near. She turned to head back toward the ladder, figuring it was safest to stay above deck until Martin made an appearance to tell her what she should do for the rest of the day. But before she reached the narrow stairs, a pair of deep, suspicious male voices stopped her in her tracks. She darted into the shadows just as the two men came close.

“This whole thing is a farce, if you ask me.” Letty instantly recognized the voice of Dick, the pirate who had shot Lord Killian. She retreated farther into the dark, until she backed up against the cold, solid metal of a canon. “Racing for what he thinks is a safe, secluded life. Failing to pluck a juicy morsel when it sails right at him. Leniency with the prisoners. It’s a disgrace.”

“Foster always has been weak,” the second man, whose voice Letty didn’t recognize, said. “He’s no pirate.”

“I’ll say,” Dick snorted. “He won’t be much of anything soon.”

“Things are all in place?” the second man asked.

“As much as they can be. That sniveling whelp of a lord, Killian’s son, thinks he can start an insurrection and win his ship back and save the ladies.”

The second man laughed derisively.

“Our men still on The Growler are on the alert,” Dick went on. “Give me twenty-four hours and Foster will be dead and both ships will be mine.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” the second man said.

The two laughed together, then continued up the ladder and out of Letty’s sight. Letty held her breath, keeping perfectly still, until she was certain they were long gone. Once she was sure, she jumped into motion, scurrying up the ladder as swiftly as she could with her heart pounding in her throat. She had to do something. She had to tell Martin that his life was in danger before anything happened to him.

Chapter 5

“Corcoran, what are you doing, man?” Martin shouted, charging from the rail at the edge of the quarterdeck, down to the main deck, and dodging a few of the female prisoners—if they could even be called prisoners, the way they were roaming free—to approach his crewman. “Now is not the time to pay social calls.”

He grabbed Corcoran’s arm and pulled him away from a Miss Porter, who was smiling entirely too openly at the man.

“But…but, Captain,” Corcoran protested, glancing longingly over his shoulder at the saucy young woman. When Martin marched him to the far end of the deck and let go, Corcoran continued his protest with, “Didn’t you say we should entertain the ladies to keep their minds off of their situation?”

Martin pressed his lips together and huffed through his nose. “I meant that you should show them how to repair a sail or clean a rifle or—”

A gunshot fired exactly on cue with his statement about cleaning rifles. Corcoran jumped, and he and Martin both whipped around to the fo’c’sle, where the shot had been fired. Lady Malvis Cunningham was just lowering a rifle from where she’d had it aimed at nothing out over the sea. One of his officers, Rayburn, stood beside her.

“Sorry,” she announced as several sets of curses echoed across the decks. “I didn’t mean to pull the trigger.”

The woman didn’t look half as sorry as her words. Martin could have sworn that she’d been idling away her time by the main mast with her buffoon of a husband just moments before. When she’d followed Rayburn up onto the fo’c’sle and gotten herself a weapon was a mystery. As much of a mystery as why his entire crew seemed to have collectively lost their heads.

“The women are our prisoners,” he told Corcoran in a firm voice, wishing he could shout it to the rest of his crew. “They should be treated with respect, not giddiness.”

“Aw, Captain.” Corcoran dropped his shoulders. “It’s just that it’s been months since any of us have seen a woman, let alone entertained one. And what with this voyage being almost over and all.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I, for one, ain’t stayin’ on with Dick when he takes over The Growler, and more than a few of the others don’t want to either. It ain’t just you as what’s retirin’ in a matter of days, Captain.”

Martin blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. Corcoran had a point. This was the end of a month’s-long journey for everyone. And they were pirates, not a trained naval crew. He should be grateful that the men had enough discipline left to steer the ship to St. John’s instead of jumping overboard and trying to swim to shore.

“Very well,” he grumbled. “Do what you will. But we must maintain enough order to make it to shore or else none of us is retiring anywhere but the bottom of the sea.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Corcoran said with a smile, then jogged back over to Miss Porter.

Martin gritted his teeth and surveyed his ship. He’d never been the sort of disciplinarian that commanded a naval vessel. Or a merchant vessel, for that matter. He’d had enough of a strong hand to keep his men in order, but a good part of him was convinced that was because the men liked him. Most of them, at least. He still wasn’t certain about Dick and his lot.

Dick was the last person he wanted to think about though, especially knowing he and a handful of the men he’d sent to man The Vixen were crawling around The Growler’s hold with the excuse of transferring goods and supplies between ships. He should have been dogging Dick’s every move instead of having to mind his own crew as though they were children.

Another gunshot sounded, followed by the squawk of a dying seagull, then a splash several yards to the ship’s starboard.

“Sorry,” Lady Malvis called out again, then said something unmistakably smug to Rayburn that Martin couldn’t make out.

Martin rolled his eyes and marched across the deck, mounting the ladder to the fo’c’sle.

“Are you planning to pay for the shot she’s wasting, Rayburn?” he demanded, approaching the pair.

“If you’d like, Captain,” Rayburn said with a rakish grin for Lady Malvis. Rayburn was young and handsome, with black hair and tanned skin. His charms were clearly not lost on the aristocratic Lady Malvis. What sort of a name was Malvis anyhow?

Martin shook the stray thought aside. “Rayburn, why are you arming the prisoners?” he asked in a flat voice.

Rayburn’s expression went suddenly serious. “Figured we could use every gun we can get,” he said, glancing down to the main deck.

Martin turned to see Dick and one of the men who had come over from The Vixen with him emerging from the hold. They smiled and seemed relaxed as they headed to the side of the ship and crossed the railing to descend to the rowboat that had brought them over. Martin breathed a sigh of relief that they were leaving, but it didn’t untangle the tense knot of foreboding in his gut.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he mumbled to Rayburn, then added, “I keep hoping he’ll just take The Vixen and sail off without causing any more trouble.”

“That why you gave him command of the prize?” Rayburn asked, a knowing spark in his eyes.

Martin replied with an affirmative look instead of words. Rayburn was one of the sharpest men he had on The Growler. He would have turned the ship over to him if he thought Dick wouldn’t have mutinied the second he so much as hinted at it.

“A ship full of undisciplined men who would rather fuck than sail and a passel of unruly females,” he sighed. When Lady Malvis’s brow rose, he muttered, “Sorry, my lady.”

He turned to walk away, heading down to the main deck, when he spotted Lettuce emerging from below deck. Instantly, a smile lit his face and his breeches went tight. Memories of the way she’d sighed so sweetly as they’d made love the night before and the way she’d slowly pulled herself out of guilt over the whole thing flooded back over him. He admired her for feeling guilty, as strange as that seemed, and for overcoming those feelings. It meant she wasn’t the sort of loose woman he was used to bedding. The fact that she would come so deliciously for him was an astounding compliment. He wondered how she would feel about setting up house with him in St. John’s.

“Get a grip on yourself, Foster,” he muttered as he approached her. He was as bad as his randy crewmen.

His smile vanished as soon as Lettuce turned toward him. Her expression was pinched with fear, and her body was tight with tension. Martin picked up his pace, balling his hands into fists, ready to murder whoever had put that expression on her face.

“Did one of my crew assault you?” he asked, reaching her and resting both hands protectively on her arms.

She shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Martin, I must speak with you in private. I’ve…I’ve just heard something horrible.” She glanced furtively around, as though searching for something or someone.

Dread clenched Martin’s stomach. Dick and his man had emerged from below just a few minutes before Lettuce. There had to be a connection.

“In my cabin,” he said, sliding a hand behind Lettuce’s back and leading her on. “Dick has just left The Growler, by the way,” he added in case his theory was correct. He nodded to the port of the ship where Dick’s rowboat was just coming into view as it made its way back to The Vixen.

Lettuce spotted the boat, gasped, and leapt to Martin’s other side so that he shielded her from the boat’s view. Her actions confirmed his suspicions.

“Dick is planning to kill you and take both ships,” Lettuce burst as soon as they were secluded in his cabin. “I heard him and the other man plotting below.”

Martin released a breath, letting his shoulders drop. It was good to know that his suspicions were founded. He walked deeper into the cabin, leaning against the edge of the bed and crossing his arms. “What did you hear?”

Lettuce blinked at him, drawing slowly closer to him. “You’re not alarmed?” she asked.

Martin shrugged. “I am alarmed, but I’m not surprised.” He crossed his arms. “Dick has always had ambitions that require my absence.”

Lettuce frowned, coming to stand in front of him. “So, this doesn’t worry you at all?”

“Of course it worries me,” he said. “It’s worried me for months, for years. But he hasn’t killed me yet. If we can just make it to St. John’s, he won’t have any need to.”

“Do you think he’ll leave you alone once you hand the ship over to him?”

Her question echoed the ones he’d asked himself a hundred times before. Would Dick truly be content to let him walk away once they reached port? The man had no reason to wreak any sort of revenge on him. But was that enough?

“Tell me exactly what you heard Dick say,” he said, reaching for Lettuce and pulling her to stand between his legs while he circled his arms around her.

The fetching blush that came to her cheeks and the way she looked down, then up at him through her lashes, was a sharp contrast to her words. “He said that you were a disgrace and that you were weak,” she said. “Which I do not agree with, by the way. The strongest of men are the most lenient when it matters. But Dick and his man feel the opposite.”

“I’m not surprised,” Martin grumbled.

“They said that you will be dead within twenty-four hours.”

“So soon?” Martin raised one eyebrow. The threat Dick presented had always been vague. It was disconcerting to hear it now had a timeframe.

“He said that Lord Benedict and some of the other male prisoners are planning an insurrection, and that they would strike then.”

Martin tensed at the thought. “That’s bad news.”

Lettuce blinked. “An insurrection?”

“Yes.” He focused his gaze on her, and on the way her anxious expression made his chest feel tight and his blood pump harder. He had to keep her safe. “I would wager that none of the men from your merchant ship know the first thing about fighting pirates who have no respect for life.”

“No, I don’t think they do,” she said, even more alarm in her eyes.

“An insurrection would mean more men would die,” Martin went on. “Which is the last thing I want.”

“It is?” When he nodded, she asked, “What is it you want?”

“For everyone to make it home safely,” he sighed. “To be rid of Dick and his sort forever. To use my prize money to buy a cozy villa in St. John’s and to be the merchant I always wanted to be.” He paused, then added, “To find myself a wife and beget a small army of happy children.” He reached up to cradle her face and to brush his thumb across her cheek.

Her eyes went wide and she whispered, “We hardly know each other. We’re virtual strangers.”

“So?” he shrugged. “Did you know Mr. Pigge well before you married him?”

It was a low blow, and he regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Especially when Lettuce lowered her head and pinched her eyes shut. However, she also leaned her face into his hand.

“I knew enough to know he was an evil man,” she said in a quiet voice. “And I know enough to know you are a good man.” She glanced up at him.

Martin smiled in spite of himself. He should have been focused on the plot to murder him, but instead he said, “Do you think I’m a good man? I’m a vicious pirate. I shot your husband.”

“In self-defense,” she said, then shrugged slightly. “For the most part. But you are a good man. I can tell by the way you handle your crew.”

“Oh?” He swept his hands down her sides and around her hips to cup her backside. “Are you certain? I’ve handled you as well, in a variety of piratical ways.”

Her lips twitched into a grin and lust glittered in her eyes. “I am beginning to think that somehow you and my deceased husband were switched. Pigge was more like a rapacious pirate, while you….” She let her words fade as her gaze fixed on his lips.

“I am so a rapacious pirate,” Martin protested, his heart feeling lighter than air. It was one thing to go without pussy for months on end, but it had been years since he’d bantered with a woman so easily—a woman he liked and admired and desired.

She smirked. “Dick said you were no pirate, and I am inclined to agree with him.”

A sentence which included mention of Dick should not have aroused Martin so much, but the growing tightness of his breeches proved just how much it did. “What am I if not a pirate?” he asked.

“You’re a gentleman’s son,” she said slipping her hands under the front of his jacket, which he’d been wearing unbuttoned because of the heat. “You’re a merchant-to-be,” she went on, stroking her hands up until she could push his jacket off his shoulders. “There is nothing rapacious about you.”

“My dear, you are sadly mistaken on that account,” he said, his voice a low grumble, freeing his arms from his jacket and tugging his shirt out of his breeches. “I can assure you, I am as rapacious as any pirate. More so, in fact.”

“No,” she said, leaning back slightly and biting her lip. “I refuse to believe it. You are kind and generous and self-effacing.”

“Self-effacing?” he repeated, his hands moving to the buttons of his breeches. “I’ll give you self-effacing.”

With a few quick movements, he had his breeches undone and his cock free. It was such a relief that he groaned. But before he could get to work on Lettuce’s odd assortment of clothes and throw her across the bed, she dropped to her knees. The movement took him so much by surprise that he gasped when she took hold of his prick and leaned forward.

“Good God,” he rumbled as she kissed the tip of his cock, parted her lips around the head, and stroked the underside with her tongue. He had to grab the edge of the bed for support as she hummed with pleasure and then slowly bore down on him.

A wordless cry sailed up from his lungs as she drew him in deep. Scandalously deep. Every nerve in his cock came alive with pleasure as her hot, wet mouth encompassed him. The pleasure blossomed behind his balls, sending shoots of beauty and triumph through him. He didn’t want to think about how she knew exactly how to move on him, with increasing speed and depth, until he was so close to the edge that his brain began to fog. The only thing that kept him from spilling in her throat was the thought that if Pigge wasn’t already dead and at the bottom of the sea, he would have flayed the man alive and ripped him into pieces.

Even that couldn’t stop the inevitable.

“Enough,” he panted, gripping Lettuce’s shoulders and pushing her away.

“You don’t like it?” she asked, all innocent surprise.

“Darling, I love it too much,” he said, standing and drawing her with him. “But I’m the rapacious pirate here.”

To prove his point, he shifted their positions, bending her forward over the bed and standing behind her. His breeches sagged around his knees as he reached in front of her to unfasten the breeches that she wore, rather well at that. He entertained the passing thought that he would have her wear breeches more often as he tugged the ones she wore down her thighs.

She made a delicious sound of excitement as he grabbed her hips and jerked them up. With breeches around her knees she couldn’t spread her legs very far, but it didn’t matter. He slipped his hand along her slit, finding her hot and wet and ready. That was all the signal he needed.

He thrust into her with a deep growl, nearly losing his mind at the tightness her closed legs added to the whole thing. It must have felt glorious to her as well, if the heady sound of pleasure she made was any indication. He jerked his hips against her, bliss radiating through him and priming him for more. She arched her body to receive him deeper, which nearly made him lose his mind. He reached around, delving his fingers into her curls until he found her clitoris, and began to stroke her. If he was going to come, she would too.

It didn’t take long for either of them. He was astounded by her abandon, and when her panting grew pitched and then became plaintive cries as her inner muscles squeezed him, he let go. White-hot pleasure shot through him, from his groin to his cock and the rest of him. He spilled into her, not caring if it would make her pregnant and rather hoping it would. Every bit of it was so damned good that even as his tension and energy drained away, he still wanted more.

“There,” he panted, his body sagging over hers as they sought to catch their breaths. “I told you I was rapacious.”

“It doesn’t count,” she insisted, moving her hips against him so enticingly that he swore he would be hard again before he summoned the energy to remove himself from her. “It doesn’t count because I wanted it. Badly.”

Her words brought a smile to his face. She may have insisted that they were strangers, but she wanted him and she came when she had him. As far as he was concerned, that was the perfect start to what he could feel in his soul would be a much deeper relationship.

But since they were still only skin deep….

“Well then, my little pirate lass. Give me a few minutes and you can take me balls deep again.”

Mad as it was with everything in danger of exploding around them, he could have sworn he heard her laugh.

Chapter 6

Letty hoped something could be done immediately about Dick and his murderous friends, but by nightfall, little had changed. The Vixen still sailed within calling distance of The Growler. From time to time, after she and Martin emerged, red-faced and breathless, from his cabin, Letty spotted Dick pacing The Vixen’s deck, watching the activity on The Growler with an expression she would have wagered was calculating, if she’d been able to see it more clearly.

“Stop worrying,” Martin told her as the evening meal was passed around while the sun set over the water in bright shades of orange and gold. “I’ve had loads of time to consider this possibility before now, and I swear to you, I have a plan.”

She wanted to believe him, but uncertainty and dread had been her closest companions for the past several weeks, and she wasn’t able to shake them so easily.

What she was able to do as easily as unbuttoning the waistcoat and shirt she wore was to go to Martin’s bed. She never would have dreamed that it was possible for her to enjoy having a man between her legs after everything she’d undergone with Pigge, but making love with Martin was entirely different. It was wild and sweaty. They were desperate for each other and eager to do whatever possible to please the other. Letty found herself making sounds that would have scandalized her just weeks before as he brought her to climax, then spent himself within her. Part of her mind rebelled at the vigor with which she threw herself into satisfying lusts she hadn’t known she had, but a deeper part of her understood it was a much needed, blissful release after too long a bout of hopeless misery.

But nothing had changed before the sun rose the next day.

“Damn,” Martin muttered as he paced the quarterdeck as the sun rose higher in the breezy morning. “He still hasn’t taken The Vixen and run.”

Letty glanced up at him from where she’d been sitting on a crate in the shade of the sails, oiling a razor-sharp sword. The clang and clash of men practicing swordplay on the main deck formed an odd chorus as it mingled with the cries of sea birds and the lap of the waves. The whole thing was split by occasional gunfire from those shooting at birds as target practice. The activities weren’t limited to the pirates either. Nearly all of the female prisoners were practicing as well, or at least being taught the bare rudiments of swordplay and guns.

“He wants both ships,” Letty said, standing, the sword still in her hands. “At least, that’s what Dick and his friend said.”

Martin hummed grimly, as if in reluctant agreement. He then let out a breath and stepped away from the railing, striding to stand in front of Letty. “If what I think might happen is about to happen, I should teach you how to use that thing properly.”

Letty blinked and swallowed hard. “I don’t think I could ever fight off a man face to face with a sword,” she said in a strangled voice.

Martin studied her with a frown. “Fair point. Ladies of your worth should be able to defend themselves from a distance.”

Of all things, his words sent warmth and joy blossoming through her. Did he truly believe she had worth? No man had ever felt that way about her. She suddenly felt as though she could fend off Dick and all his minions single-handedly with a hat pin.

“Come,” Martin said, gesturing for her to follow him to the main deck.

One of the pirates stepped forward to take the sword from her as she followed Martin, climbed down the ladder, then crossed the main deck with him. The practicing pirates paused their battles to let them pass, each man nodding respectfully to Martin. The light-hearted attitude they’d had the day before was gone, lustiness replaced by seriousness after Martin had informed his most loyal men of the situation. The mock battles resumed as soon as they’d passed. Farther along the deck, those of the female passengers who had taken to the pirate life were busy handling pistols and muskets while select pirates instructed them. Lord Ainsley—who was back to wearing men’s clothes, though he’d given up his aristocratic threads for the rough outfit of a pirate—was among them.

“I used to shoot all the time at our country estate,” he bragged to a particularly burly pirate, who seemed to be laughing at him, whether Lord Ainsley knew it or not. “I was always good with the grouse. And not bad at fox hunting either. I never did go in for the army, though. Too fussy, if you ask me. But I’m confident that I’ll be able to take out more than a few of those blighters, if they choose to board us. Though I didn’t mind much the last time I was boarded, if you know what I mean.” He winked at the burly man, elbowing his massive arm.

A shot went off, whizzing right past Lord Ainsley’s ear and hitting an empty jar sitting on the far railing. Lord Ainsley flinched and ducked, whipping around to find Lady Malvis standing on the fo’c’sle not far behind him, a smoking pistol in her hand.

“Sorry, my love,” she said with a wicked grin.

“Not at all, poppet,” Lord Ainsley replied shakily.

Letty exchanged a glance with Martin, who arched a suspicious brow back at her.

“We can’t make port soon enough,” he muttered as they reached the ladder to the fo’c’sle.

Letty didn’t know whether to laugh or shiver in fear. She followed him to a chest that lay open at the far end of the deck. It contained a variety of guns and pistols, some of which looked as though they would have been obsolete during her grandfather’s time and some that appeared shiny and new. Martin selected one of the newer pistols.

“The most important thing to learn, other than how to aim straight, is how to load your weapon swiftly and efficiently,” he said, holding up the weapon for her. “Pull the cock to half-cock, then load the powder, like so.”

Letty watched, her anxiety growing, as Martin demonstrated how to load the powder, the ball and patch, how to tamp it down with a ramrod, and how to prime the flash pan. The whole process seemed complicated and finicky. When he saw how confused she was, he fired the weapon, then had her repeat the entire process while he issued instructions.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever master it,” she said as she jammed the ramrod into the barrel.

Before Martin could respond, Lady Malvis stepped up to the chest full of supplies, took a horn of powder and a ball, and proceeded to load, cock, and fire her pistol, bringing down a swooping seagull, all within what felt to Letty like the blink of an eye.

“It’s easy,” Lady Malvis told Letty with a smug look. “I was loading pistols before I was out of the nursery.”

Letty gaped at her. “You were?”

Malvis answered by half-cocking her pistol and repeating the process of loading it.

Letty refused to be outdone. Not by Malvis, at least. She rushed to load her own pistol, alternately watching Malvis’s actions and focusing on what she was doing. Malvis finished first, of course, and raised her pistol to fire up at the rigging. A rope high above split evenly in two, and part of one of the small sails on the fore mast flagged.

“Oy,” Martin shouted. “We need those sails.”

“Don’t you shout at me,” Malvis snapped, pivoting to point her pistol at him.

“Don’t you threaten him,” Letty yelled. “He’s been nothing but kind since the moment we were brought to this ship.”

Malvis snorted. “Yes, kind,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’ve all heard just how kind he’s been to you.”

Heat flooded Letty’s face, but she wasn’t willing to back down. Not to Malvis. “You’re one to talk,” she said. “You and Mr. Rayburn. And who else?”

“How dare you?” Malvis rounded on her. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Nor do you know what I’ve been through.” Letty thrust her pistol aside to Martin and planted her fists on her hips. “You’re such a hypocrite.”

“And you’re not?” Malvis glared right back at her.

“Ladies, please,” Martin said in what he must have intended to be a soothing voice.

Malvis glanced sideways at him, then tilted up her chin. “Fine. If you are concerned about your precious sail, I’ll fix it.”

She marched toward the foremast, or rather, the rigging and nets connected to it. She reached high above her, grasping the rope, and to Letty’s surprise, pulled herself up.

Letty’s moment of utter shock at the sight of the peevish yet ladylike Malvis, with all her airs and graces, hoisting herself into a pirate ship’s rigging while wearing breeches and boots was quickly overcome by the desperation not to be bested by the witch. She lunged toward the mast herself, found a foothold in the rigging, and pulled herself up as well.

Climbing a ship’s rigging was far more challenging than Letty thought it would be. There was plenty of rope to offer hand and footholds, but it required more strength than she thought she had. Malvis kept going, though, so Letty was determined to go after her.

By a stroke of luck alone, she managed to catch up to Malvis as they reached the first spar. Malvis had paused to study the mast and rigging above her, but when she saw Letty had caught up, she launched upward once more.

Letty followed, struggling to catch her breath. “Where did you learn to climb like this?” she huffed and puffed, falling behind again. “They don’t teach climbing the rigging on a ship in finishing school.”

“I climbed trees as a girl,” Malvis answered without pausing or looking down, though Letty could have sworn she slowed her pace a bit.

“You climbed trees, you loaded pistols. What sort of childhood did you have?” Letty asked, putting everything she had into climbing.

“Be careful up there,” Martin’s shout sounded below them.

Both Letty and Malvis paused to glance down. A small audience of pirates and prisoners had formed as everyone stopped what they were doing to watch.

“I had a happy childhood, if you must know,” Malvis went on, anger in her voice as she continued to climb. “A free childhood. A childhood of blissful neglect.”

Letty was close enough to the woman to see the snarl on her face and the pain in her eyes. A strange feeling, as if she didn’t know Lady Malvis Cunningham at all, formed in her gut.

“A childhood that was cut short when my parents woke up one day and realized they had a daughter nearing marriageable age who could be an asset to their ambitions,” Malvis went on.

Letty said nothing. She put more effort into climbing, wanting to be closer to Malvis.

“My happiest years were put to a swift and bitter end when I was dragged away from my childhood companions, forced to play piano and paint and sit quietly while being ogled like a fish in a market,” Malvis hissed on, pulling herself over another spar and continuing upward. “And when I failed to live up to the delicate feminine standards I barely understood, I was beaten until I could barely sit.” She paused. “My father beat me so severely once he broke my wrist.”

Letty’s mouth dropped open and she nearly lost her footing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know,” Malvis spat. “How could you? A lady of refinement never complains and never speaks ill of her parents.” She grunted, teeth bared in a snarl, as she pulled herself higher, nearing the sail that was flapping because of her marksmanship. “God, I hate him,” she went on.

“Your father?” Letty asked in a small voice.

“Yes, my father. He is disgusting and boorish and cruel. He beat me for sport and berated me for failing to snag a husband.”

Letty’s heart sank to her feet. It was a shock to discover that she and Malvis had more in common than she’d suspected. “You couldn’t fight back?” she asked, though it was more of a statement. She knew full well that young ladies couldn’t fight back against their fathers’ whims.

Malvis laughed bitterly. “Why do you think I’ve been trying to marry away from him for so long?” For the first time, she glanced down at Letty, pain and misery pinching her face. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to have engagement after engagement called off?”

“But, weren’t you the one who called it off with Lord Lichfield?” Letty asked.

“Because I heard rumors that his appetites were cruel, that he disciplined women for sport.” She paused. “I wasn’t about to leap from one cruel man to another.”

“And Lord Herrington?”

Malvis snorted. “There was no formal agreement there. My parents couldn’t convince any man to take me at that point.” Her voice caught with emotion as she reached the very top of the mast. Letty continued to climb until they stood together on the top spar, clinging to the mast and each other. “I was damned lucky to find Ainsley when I did,” she said, blinking back tears. “He was like an angel that rescued me from hell. I know that he’s foolish and simple, but I don’t care. I don’t care that he likes men as much as women. He loves me. He’s the only man who has ever loved me. And I would rather die than give him up.”

Letty blinked back tears at the passion with which Malvis spoke of Ainsley. It mirrored her own feelings for Martin, as new as they were. “I know,” she said, closing one of her hands over Malvis’s on the mast.

“Just because I’ve found satisfaction in another man’s arms does not mean I love him any less,” Malvis insisted. “My body and my heart are two separate things, and so are his. He does not hold me at fault for Rayburn, and I do not hold him to blame for Henshaw. I will never forsake him, even if it appears to others as though that is what I am doing. I am not. I am the one who begged him to dress in my clothes and to pretend to be a woman in order to save him. And bless him, he obeyed without question. He is peculiar, but I love him. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Letty smiled, blinking back her tears and nodding. She shivered in the stiff breeze that blew all around them, and with the sudden realization that they were very high up indeed. But it was worth it. It was worth every blister she knew her hands would bear and every sore muscle from charging up into the rigging so foolishly to understand Malvis at last. She even understood why the woman had behaved like such a witch for so long. Cruelty and abuse would turn any woman into a demon. She wondered how sharp and peevish she would have eventually become if Martin had never captured her and killed Pigge.

“I’m sorry that I assumed the worst about you,” she told Malvis. “I’m sorry that I didn’t see how badly you were hurting earlier. We could have been friends sooner. We could have—”

Her words were cut off by the crack of a gun being fired. Letty couldn’t get her bearings enough to see where the shot came from, but the sudden roar from below told her where it had ended up. She and Malvis twisted and shifted their grips so that they could look straight down to the deck, a sickening distance below.

But even more sickening was the sight that met them—Martin clutching his chest and keeling over.

Chapter 7

“Martin!” Letty screamed, her heart instantly pounding in her chest.

Below, several of Martin’s men rushed toward him, crouching over him in a way that blocked him from view.

“No, oh, no,” Letty wailed, suddenly shaking so hard her knees threatened to give out. She squatted on the spar, hugging the mast, unable to draw breath properly. If Martin had been killed, she didn’t know what she would do with herself.

“Steady,” Malvis said in a remarkably calm voice, lowering herself to Letty’s level. “We have to climb back down. You can do this.”

Letty raised her tear-blurred, stinging eyes to Malvis’s. Malvis stared right at her with a look of iron. That was enough to thrust some sense back into Letty. She nodded, swallowed, then looked down. A moan rose from her lungs as she realized how high they had climbed and how far they had to go to get to the ground. She still couldn’t see what had become of Martin.

“Move your legs down first,” Malvis said. “Like this.”

Malvis demonstrated how to cling to the proper handholds while reaching for a lower foothold, thus reversing the path they’d taken up the rigging. Letty gritted her teeth and drew her focus in, pushing everything else out of her mind but getting down from the rigging for the moment. It was hard work—strangely harder than climbing up had been. Her hands and muscles ached, but not half so much as her heart. It was impossible not to think about what was going on with Martin on the deck, but every time thoughts of him dead or dying came to her, she started to lose her nerve. She had to stop thinking about him in order to get to him.

Instead, she recited quotes that she’d memorized from The Secrets of Love to herself. “In order for Love to conquer all, a woman must have a strong heart and a strong mind, particularly if her lover is one whom society disapproves of. But Love makes warriors of us all and gives us the courage to fight even the most impossible battles.”

The words steadied her, as did Malvis’s surprisingly encouraging help.

“You can do this,” Malvis kept saying to her. “It’s not far now. We’re almost there.”

The moment Letty’s feet touched the deck, she let out a cry of relief and despair. The cluster of men still shielded Martin from her view. She could see his boots sticking out from between two of them, but it was impossible to tell if he was moving. She rushed to him, shoving one of the pirates aside and dropping to her knees to grasp his hand.

“Martin,” she said, half wailing, half demanding. “Oh, Martin.”

When he moved, lifting his head slightly to look at her, Letty could have died with joy. “Yes,” he said in a quiet voice. “Weep and fuss over me. It will make the spy think things are worse than they are.”

Letty blinked, her breath freezing in her lungs. She took another, assessing look at him. There was very little blood for a man who had just been murdered by gunshot. Someone had removed Martin’s coat, revealing just a small stain of red on the inside of his arm and in a corresponding spot on his chest. Only the fabric of his sleeve was ripped, however. The stain on his chest must have come from that wound and not a bullet that had struck his heart.

“They missed,” he continued to whisper, squeezing Letty’s hand.

“Thank God,” she said in a shaky voice, clutching his hand in both of hers.

“The shot came from somewhere on this ship,” Rayburn told her. Letty hadn’t noticed that the handsome man knelt by Martin’s head, but now it dawned on her that he was in control of the situation.

“A traitor?” Letty gasped.

The other men surrounding Martin exchanged looks.

“It’s Dick,” Martin said. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“You almost did, Captain,” Rayburn said.

“I must not have rooted out all of his men the way I thought I did. He must still have agents on this ship,” Martin went on.

“Let’s take you down to the surgeon’s cabin,” Rayburn said. “Even if it is just a flesh wound, you need it to be dressed.”

Martin nodded. “Carry me, though,” he said. “If Dick thinks his plot has succeeded, he might let his guard down and give me an opportunity to wring his neck.”

The men hummed in agreement and positioned themselves so that they could hoist Martin into their arms. Letty stepped back and let them do their work. She found herself huddled against Malvis’s side, the angry woman’s arm around her shoulders.

“I despise foul play,” Malvis seethed. “Anyone who would plot such a deceptive attack should be strung up by their balls.” When Letty glanced to her in surprise, she went on with, “Of course it was a man. Only a man would be so underhanded.”

Letty was certain she was right, she just didn’t know what to make of the assessment or of Malvis.

She put the whole thing out of her mind as the two of them followed the men carrying Martin below to the surgeon’s cabin. The surgeon, a young, nervous man with spectacles named Rackstraw, immediately started fussing over Martin, but once the cabin door was closed, sealing their group into the too-small space, Martin struggled out of his men’s arms and stood on his own.

“Separating the two ships and putting Dick and his men on The Vixen wasn’t enough,” he said, ripping his shirt-sleeve so that Rackstraw could have access to the flesh the bullet had grazed. “This problem isn’t going to go away unless we deal with it head-on.”

“We should attack,” Malvis blurted with surprising vigor. “Why wait for them to try something else? You have a ship and a crew. Attack them, kill the bastards, and control both ships.”

The men in the room went dead silent, staring at her with wide eyes. Rackstraw stopped his ministrations on Martin’s arm, and even Martin gaped at Malvis.

“That’s certainly an option,” Martin said diplomatically.

“But you said the shot was fired by someone on this ship,” Letty said. “Did anyone see who?”

“No,” Rayburn and a few of the others said in unison. “Everyone was busy watching the two of you climb the mast.”

A wave of guilt struck Letty, but she thrust it aside. “What do we do next?”

The men were silent for another moment. At last, Martin said to Rackstraw, “When you’re finished with my arm, bandage my chest as well. We’ll make it look like that was where I was struck.”

“But what good will it do to appear weak?” Malvis demanded.

“If the captain appears weak, Dick will attack him,” Rayburn said, the light of inspiration making his fetching eyes even handsomer. “And when Dick is overconfident, he makes mistakes.”

“And if he makes mistakes, we can take him out more easily,” Malvis continued his thought, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

Letty shifted to Martin’s side, sending him a look that hinted at everything she and Malvis had talked about in the rigging and more. Martin returned her look with one that said he wanted to hear the whole story. But there wasn’t time.

A knock sounded on the door, followed by, “Captain, The Vixen is approaching. They’ll be alongside us within minutes.”

“Are they attacking?” Malvis asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

Rayburn shook his head. “If they were, they’d be firing by now.”

“Unless they think they can take The Growler without damage,” one of the other men said.

Rackstraw had Martin’s arm bandaged by that point and was busy lifting his shirt so he could wrap a bandage around his chest. Martin looked like some sort of marionette with his arms raised as he said, “Let Dick think his plot has succeeded and that I’m badly injured. I’ll do my best to act the part. We need to keep him aboard The Growler until he lets his guard down. With any luck, we’ll be able to end this thing without any loss of life.”

“But—” Malvis began to protest.

Rayburn silenced her with a hand to her arm. “Follow the captain’s lead for now. We may still get a fight even if we do things his way.”

Malvis let out a breath, her shoulders dropping, but she smiled at Rayburn with a hungry look all the same.

Letty finally relaxed as Rackstraw finished bandaging Martin’s chest. Everything that happened since she was captured had felt like an odd dream to begin with, so adding intrigue and the potential of a bloody conflict only barely made everything feel more surreal than it already did. One of Martin’s men dashed back to his cabin to fetch a new shirt, which was promptly torn in the area of Martin’s chest and splattered with blood donated by one of the loyal pirates who volunteered to be cut in order to help the ruse.

By the time they returned above deck, Martin being supported by Rayburn in order to make him appear badly wounded, The Vixen was so close to The Growler that even Letty could have thrown a stone and hit the main mast.

“What ho?” Dick called from where he stood against the railing on The Vixen’s quarterdeck. “We heard a shot and saw the captain fall. What seems to be the matter?”

“Just a bit of mischief on the part of the ladies,” Martin answered with feigned weakness.

Letty stood back from him, certain the heat that flooded her face would give away that the whole thing was an act. She was convinced that if Dick looked too closely at her, he would see her heart thumping in her chest.

“The ladies?” Dick asked, looking surprised.

“It was me,” Miss Porter said, stepping forward and looking genuinely contrite. “We were practicing with the pistols and I…I missed my target but hit the captain.” She lowered her head.

Letty gaped at the young woman, wondering if she truly believed it was her fault or if someone had whispered the plan to her.

She wasn’t the only one who gaped. As The Vixen came within boarding distance of The Growler, Dick gaped as well. More telling still, his gaze flickered to one side, landing squarely on one of the pirates aboard Martin’s ship before he could check himself. The pirate in question gave the tiniest shrug before stepping back and forcing his expression to go blank.

Sudden fury filled Letty’s heart. That must have been the man who actually fired the shot. She understood the sort of thirst for blood Malvis had shown earlier. She wanted to run the man through with one of the pirate cutlasses herself.

“Not to worry,” Martin went on with a weak smile, gesturing with his uninjured arm for his men to prepare to connect the ships. “The bullet only tore a chunk out of my ribs. It missed the most vital parts.” He sounded breathless, as though he were underestimating the wound he’d supposedly suffered. “The ladies have kindly offered to cook us a feast tonight to make amends.”

“We have?” one of the ladies murmured.

“A feast?” Dick called, climbing down from the quarterdeck on The Vixen and looking as though he would leap across the narrowing gap between the ships.

“You’re not invited,” Malvis said as the two ships bumped together with a nerve-rattling crunch.

Dick searched for a moment to see who had spoken, and when he spotted Malvis glaring at him, he glared right back. “Shouldn’t you be tied up in the hold somewhere?”

“That’s what I keep telling the captain,” Rayburn said with a frown for Malvis that seemed surprisingly real.

“They’re just women,” Martin said, wincing as he touched his pretend wound. “They’ve been a diversion, no harm at all.”

“I see,” Dick grumbled as he crossed a plank that had been hastily put into place between the two ships. “Didn’t one of them just shoot you?” he asked Martin. He strode to stand in front of Martin, standing with his back straight and his arms crossed, as though he were the captain and Martin was little more than a deck-swabber, or whatever the lowliest position on a ship was.

Letty held her breath, watching the confrontation unfold and wishing she had the pistol she’d loaded earlier. Martin was doing a little too good of a job of shrinking before Dick. “We’re barely more than a day out of St. John’s,” he said. “We’ve more food supplies on board than we need. It seems like a fitting way to end this journey and my tenure as captain by having a feast. We’ll even break open some of that wine The Vixen was carrying. There’s still plenty to sell.”

Dick’s eyes lit and he wiped a hand over his mouth in a way that made Letty wonder if the man had a weakness for drink. If he did, it made perfect sense for Martin to exploit that.

“Besides,” Martin went on, shrugging, then feigning a sharp wince of pain. “Rackstraw mentioned he wanted to play his fiddle for all of us while he was patching up my side. He joked that sewing all those stitches was warming up his fingers for fiddling.”

“And what with the ladies aboard,” Rayburn continued with the idea, “we could have a right nice dance.”

“I’m not dancing with that lot,” Malvis said with a huff, tilting up her nose the way she had at the house party earlier in the summer whenever someone she thought was below her attempted to ask her to dance.

“You’ll dance if I say you’ll dance,” Dick growled.

“Will I?” Malvis arched an eyebrow at him.

Letty’s gut was just beginning to churn with dread when she caught the flash of challenge in Malvis’s eyes. Was it possible that the daft woman was being difficult as a way to help Martin’s ruse along or to distract Dick?

Whatever her intention, it worked.

“Fine,” Dick said, stepping over to Malvis and standing toe to toe with her, glaring lasciviously at her. “We’ll stay. We’ll feast. We’ll dance. And then the fun will truly start.”

A blind child could have interpreted what kind of wickedness Dick meant by his comment. The ferocity in his eyes made Letty want to run and hide or clutch Martin for protection. But Malvis merely glared back at Dick as though telling him there was nothing the man could do to her that hadn’t already been done. It was as disconcerting for Letty to realize how impressed she was with Malvis as it was to have the truly bloodthirsty pirates flooding onto The Growler.

“Very well, then,” Martin said with a sigh, gesturing for his men to get back to work. “We’ll feast tonight, we’ll have music and dancing, and if the winds continue in our favor, we’ll reach Antigua sometime tomorrow.”

That statement seemed to please everyone. Even Dick left Malvis to return to his own men, murmuring quietly to them. Letty caught him sending a look to the man she was now convinced had shot Martin. She couldn’t do anything about it, though. Especially not when Martin shuffled his way over to her as though he were weak and in pain. He took her arm as if he needed her to escort him toward his cabin. As soon as Dick and his men had their backs turned, however, he straightened and appeared as strong as ever.

“This feast will work,” he whispered to her. “We’ll get them all so drunk that they pass out. And when they do, God help me, I’ll order the men to toss Dick and his conspirators overboard.”

Chapter 8

It wasn’t just Martin’s arm that hurt from where the traitor’s bullet had grazed him. His entire body ached from hunching over all day and pretending to be worse off than he was. He’d grimaced like an actor and made a show of pausing to catch his breath and lean against the railing of one deck or another all day as his crew went about their duties, as tense as cats before a storm. He’d felt like a fool. There was no way to tell if Dick believed his ruse or if he was plotting further action.

“How should we go about setting up for the feast and the entertainment?” Lettuce asked as the morning wore into afternoon. She had barely left his side for a moment since Dick and his men had boarded The Growler, and he didn’t think she was going to, in spite of how dangerous it was to be in proximity to him.

“They’ll stage the play from the quarterdeck while we all watch from the main deck,” he explained, hating how weak he had to make himself sound in front of her to keep the illusion going.

Not that he believed for a second Lettuce would shun him if he were weak. There was something about the beautiful noblewoman that transcended her class and situation. While a small handful of the female passengers they’d captured continued to shrink into corners and cling to each other out of fear, Lettuce had taken to the life he had to offer her like a fish to pirate waters. She seemed comfortable in the breeches and boots she wore and she’d scurried up the rigging with surprising agility. It was enough to make Martin think that if he did continue on as a pirate captain, she would find a way to fit into that life.

Although he still had every intention of handing over The Growler to someone else and making a life on land. Lettuce would be essential to that life, he could see it now.

“Are you certain you’re quite all right?” she asked, stepping closer to him and resting a hand on his injured arm.

Her movements made him realize he’d been standing there staring at her like a lovesick fool. In fact, he rather thought he was a lovesick fool.

“I’m quite well,” he said, smiling at her, then glancing around to make certain Dick wasn’t watching him. When he was certain he and Lettuce weren’t being observed by the wrong people, he squared his shoulders, stood a little taller, and let his smile widen. “As soon as we make it through this evening and then sail into port tomorrow, I can put all this behind me and begin the life I’ve truly wanted.”

When she smiled in answer to his sentimental speech, Martin leaned in to steal a kiss.

“Captain.” Their lovely moment was interrupted by Rayburn and Lady Malvis marching toward them.

Martin stepped away from Lettuce, resuming his weak and weary posture. “Yes?” he asked, trying to make himself sound breathless. “What is it?”

“The wine is ready,” Rayburn said in a low voice as the four of them huddled into a group. “Malvis here was right about the stash of opium Captain Moone kept aboard The Vixen.”

“It should knock those bastards right out,” Lady Malvis continued with surprising venom. “And then we can give them all what they deserve.”

Uneasiness rippled down Martin’s back. He’d been having doubts about murdering men who had willingly joined his crew in cold blood, even if they were traitors bent on murder. “Once they’re out, we’ll put them in the hold.”

“But, Captain—” Lady Malvis protested.

“Even pirates have a sense of justice, Lady Malvis,” he said. “We’ll deal with them fairly and punish them accordingly for their crimes.”

Lady Malvis looked ready to mutiny, but Rayburn put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Lady Malvis’s fury subsided a bit. It softened even more when Lord Ainsley skipped across the deck toward them, back to wearing a dress.

“My love, are you ready for rehearsal?” the buffoon asked, eyes bright, as though the man were still having the time of his life.

Lady Malvis let out a sigh and turned to Ainsley with the sort of smile one would give a favorite child. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m ready.”

The two of them walked off toward the quarterdeck together. Martin sent a questioning look to Rayburn, who merely shrugged and followed the odd pair.

“I don’t believe I will ever truly understand people,” Lettuce said with a sigh. “But at least they seem happy.”

Martin hummed in reluctant agreement. He, too, would be happy, if only they could carry off their plot that evening.

It was torture to wait for the sun to make its way toward the horizon while pretending to be an invalid in serious danger of dropping dead at any time. The torture was made worse by watching his crew bustling with activity, setting up tables and benches on the main deck. Delicious scents wafted up from the galley below, and even the timid ladies helped set the tables for the feast.

By the time the ladies started bringing trays laden with stew and bread, roasted meat and the few, paltry vegetables they had left, moods were beginning to improve.

“We should do this more often, Captain,” Dick said with a leering smile, taking a seat at the same table as Martin and Lettuce.

“We should,” Martin agreed with a sneer that was supposed to be a smile. “Or rather, you can host whatever shipboard events you’d like once you’re captain.”

“And I shall, I shall,” Dick answered. He grabbed the cup that one of the ladies had just filled with wine and saluted Martin before taking a drink.

Lettuce audibly sucked in a breath as she watched him. Martin placed his hand over hers, and when she glanced his way, he shook his head slightly. The last thing they needed was to have their trick revealed too early. Lettuce nodded, bit her lip, and focused on the bowl of stew that had just been set in front of her.

“This is delicious,” Rayburn spoke from Martin’s other side as he dug into his stew. “Those ladies have a thing or two to show old Cookie.”

“We have a thing or two to show all of you,” Lady Malvis answered him, raising her spoon as though she were dining at court instead of a pirate ship.

Rayburn was seated between him and Lady Malvis, but Martin noticed a dull glint of metal at her side. When he looked closer, he realized the fine society lady was wearing a pistol in her belt and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a dagger rested across her lap.

In fact, the more he looked around, the more weapons he spotted. Most were well-concealed, but the butt of a pistol poked out from one of his crewmen’s shirts here and the top of a dagger peeked above one of Dick’s men’s boots there.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled, subtly testing his arm to make sure he would be able to use it as soon as he needed to.

“Is there a problem?” Lettuce whispered, leaning closer to him.

“Only the full-scale battle that’s about to break out at any moment,” he muttered back to her.

He glanced as covertly as he could to Dick, relieved to find the man and his fellows drinking heartily. The more they drank, the faster the wine and opium would do its work, and the sooner they could get the whole mess out of the way.

The meal was nearing its end when Ainsley and a few of Martin’s men rose from their seats and proceeded to the quarterdeck.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ainsley announced in a surprisingly loud voice, as if he had experience on the stage already. “We would now like to present you with a jolly pantomime set to music.” The crewmen who had taken up the fiddle and flute and a drum played a quick flourish. Ainsley turned to tell them, “That’s very good,” then faced his audience once more. “We present you with our interpretation of The Rape of the Sabine Women.”

The pirates burst into a raucous roar of approval, accompanied by banging on the table. Martin was much more inclined to bury his face his hands and groan over what was sure to be ribald entertainment, especially since “the Sabine women” appeared to be Ainsley himself. The fool started off on an overly dramatic speech about how sweet and innocent he was and how cruel and lusty the Romans that were on their way to claim him were.

And yet, as embarrassing as Ainsley’s antics were and as ominous as it looked when Bernard, one of his men, started loosening his belt, Dick and his conspirators seemed riveted by the whole thing. Their laughter was freer than usual, and they, above all the others, were pounding on the table and demanding to see a right good buggering more than Martin’s own men.

“It’s working,” Martin whispered to Lettuce, although he was loud enough for Rayburn and Lady Malvis to hear and to take a look as well.

“Looks like my blessed fool of a husband is worth his weight in gold after all,” Lady Malvis said with a surprisingly pleased smile.

Martin was ready to doubt her statement when Dick looked their way. His laughter stopped and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion for a moment. But with one sharp, comically feminine cry from Ainsley—who was miming rejection of Bernard’s advances—Dick’s attention was back on the quarterdeck stage. And when Ainsley flipped up the back of his ridiculous skirt to reveal he was wearing nothing at all underneath, Dick burst into laughter once more.

“I’ll be damned,” Martin muttered as Ainsley began to dash about the stage, his lily-white buttocks on display for all to see.

“Catch him,” Dick shouted, laughing drunkenly and gulping down more wine. “Give him a right good buggering.”

Martin exchanged a look with Lettuce, who stared back, wide-eyed. They peeked at Dick and his men, who seemed to have lost all inhibition as they watched Ainsley skittering about the quarterdeck, begging for mercy in falsetto tones.

When, at last, Bernard caught up with Ainsley and bent him over the railing, Dick and his men went wild. Martin’s face heated with embarrassment, particularly as it suddenly became difficult to tell whether Ainsley and Bernard were acting or whether they were actually engaging in a lewd act in front of all of them.

Lady Malvis cleared her throat, her face beet red, all traces of humor gone from her expression.

“I’m so sorry you have to witness this, my lady,” Martin said to her in sympathy.

But Lady Malvis shook her head and nodded to the other end of the table. Martin turned to look. While Dick and one or two of his men continued to laugh and clap and drink, the rest of the traitors had slumped in their chairs and sagged against each other. One of them had even fallen to the floor.

Dick and the others weren’t far behind. As Ainsley continued to make downright ungodly sounds on the quarterdeck rail, Dick’s shoulders began to droop and his eyelids grew heavy. Martin gestured to his men to keep up the ribald cries and table-pounding so as not to raise suspicion, but before long it became clear that even Ainsley was watching Dick with a sharp eye. The moment Dick dropped his mug and fell off his bench, Ainsley ended his pantomime buggering with a cry of victory instead of an acted orgasm and stood straight. Martin was relieved when Bernard straightened as well, revealing he hadn’t even unbuttoned his trousers, though they did bear a distinct bulge. Both men had acted their part better than any West End performer.

“Quickly.” Martin stood, pushing back his bench and gesturing for his men to close in on the traitors. “Get them down in the hold as fast as possible. Lock it up tight.”

“We should slit their throats now,” Lady Malvis said, standing and wielding her dagger.

“I don’t want more blood on my hands,” Martin said honestly.

“It’s not wise,” Lady Malvis insisted.

“I think it’s perfect and merciful,” Lettuce argued, taking Martin’s hands. She glanced up at him with pure admiration, making Martin feel like the hero he never was. “Well done.”

There was something else in her eyes, something that made him want to rush the whole process of locking up the conspirators so that they could retire to his cabin. He ordered his men to take the prisoners below with more command than he had felt in ages. Once Dick and all of his men—which included the man whom Martin suspected of firing the shot that wounded him—were taken below deck and the rest of the crew set about cleaning up the deck, Martin grabbed Lettuce’s hand and led her through the hive of activity to his cabin.

“I think we’re in the clear,” he said once they were alone.

“Is the lock on the hold sufficient?” she asked, her eyes alight with excitement.

“I believe so,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it aside. “I’ve set guards to watch it as well.”

“Then we’ve won,” Lettuce said, beaming and working loose the buttons of her waistcoat.

“We have,” Martin agreed. “And now, what did you think of tonight’s entertainment?” He leaned against his bed to tug off his boots.

“I thought it was salacious and inappropriate,” she said breathlessly, stepping back to the chair so that she could remove her own boots.

“As did I,” Martin went on. “Which is why I think we need to reenact the whole thing in a way that is far more palatable.”

“Quite right,” she said, kicking her boots aside then standing and shimmying out of her waistcoat and shirt.

Martin couldn’t wait. As soon as she was bared from the waist up, he abandoned his own undressing to surge toward her, sweeping her into his arms. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” he murmured against her ear, closing a hand around her breast and working her nipple to a bud between his thumb and forefinger. “I will never get tired of feasting on the sight of you.”

“Even if I grow old and wrinkly and fat with age?” she asked, her hands moving to undo his breeches.

“Even then,” he said.

He closed his mouth over hers in a kiss that was designed to sear their souls together forever. It was madness to him that he could have fallen so completely in love with her in such a short span of time, but he had. He couldn’t imagine his life without her softness in it, couldn’t imagine his bed without her splayed across it, her legs parted invitingly. Everything about his life on the high seas was about to end, but she was everything that waited for him on the sunny shores of the future.

Her hands had resumed their work as he kissed her and dreamed of their life together, so it was a delicious surprise when she opened the front of his breeches and slid her fingers along his hardening length. He let out a wordless cry of need and thrust his hips against her touch.

“I plan to have my way with you tonight,” she murmured against his lips, then added, “You unfortunate Sabine.”

Martin’s brow shot up. “I thought the Sabines were women.”

“I’m the one wearing the breeches here,” she answered in a commanding tone, pushing his breeches down over his hips.

They sagged to his knees as she continued to stroke him until he thought he would go mad. He had rocketed to the edge of completion so fast that he feared he was in danger of embarrassing himself, but in the nick of time, she pulled back. She finished with the buttons of his waistcoat, then tore that and his shirt up over his head while he kicked off his breeches. The result was that he stood before her, fully naked, while she took in the sight of his body with hungry eyes.

“On your knees,” she ordered, pointing to the floorboards.

A ripple of sharp desire shot through Martin at the role reversal. He obeyed her in an instant, ignoring the discomfort in his knees and the ache in his arm as he knelt before her.

“Now, pleasure me,” she demanded, placing her hands on her waist above the top of her breeches.

“Yes, mistress,” Martin answered with false submission and a grin. Or perhaps it wasn’t false submission at all.

He reached for the fastenings of her breeches, mesmerized by what he would find there. They both sucked in breaths as he worked them loose enough to tug down to her thighs, exposing the dark patch of curls between her legs. He traced his hands over her hips and backside, drawing his fingertips forward over her thighs to tease between her legs. She let out a sound of approval, but it wasn’t until he pulled her breeches all the way off and she was able to stand with her legs farther apart that he was really able to give her what she wanted.

Once she had moved to lean against the side of his bed, legs parted farther, he swept his hands up her thighs, teasing her sex with feather-light touches. She gasped and gripped the edge of the bed, her breath coming in shorter gasps that did miraculous things to her breasts. He was aching with the need to plunder her, but he had work to do first.

With one hand still stroking her glorious wetness, he leaned into her, burrowing between her legs until his tongue found the inner sweetness of her sex. She grasped handfuls of his hair and held on tight, pulling in a way he found erotic, as he circled her clitoris with his tongue.

“Yes,” she sighed, her thighs shaking slightly. “Like that.”

He hummed in acquiescence, flickering his tongue and sliding two of his fingers into her sweet, hot depth. She gripped his hair harder and began to move subtly against him.

A rush of triumph flooded him. She wanted this. She was working to come. It made his cock throb with the need to be inside of her, balls-deep. Every sound of enjoyment she made, every jerking movement designed to bring them closer, sent mad desire rushing through him.

“Stop,” she squeaked suddenly, panting.

“Stop?” He glanced questioningly up at her.

“Get on the bed,” she ordered. “Lie on your back. I want to come with you inside me.”

Martin’s mouth dropped open, though he didn’t know whether it was in reflexive protest or agreement. He pushed himself to his feet, then practically tumbled onto the bed, spreading his arms and legs in invitation. His prick stood straight up against his abdomen, hot and already slick with pre-cum.

She scrambled onto the bed with him, straddling his thighs and licking her lips as she took hold of his cock. “I like this,” she said, breathless, her eyes hazy with lust. “You’re big and hot and delicious.” She emphasized her words by leaning forward and taking his tip into her mouth.

Martin let out a string of curses at how good it felt and gripped the bedclothes. It took all he had not to come in her mouth. She seemed to sense his desperation, or perhaps she was close enough herself to give up teasing for serious fucking. She held him upright and moved to position him just right, and then she bore down.

They both groaned with exquisite pleasure as she bore down on him, taking his full length into her tight pussy. Her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a perfect “O”, as though she’d surprised herself by how hungrily she’d taken him. That was arousing as hell in its own right, but then she began to move.

She was slow at first, uncertain enough to hint to Martin that she’d never been on top before. She was a fast learner, though, and within no time she had set a steady rhythm that had him growling with lust. He grabbed her hips and thrust into her as she moved, steadying her. Her cries of pleasure grew faster and higher-pitched. She straightened, shifting his angle of penetration, and grasped her breasts, pinching her nipples. The whole show was glorious, and when she let out a fierce cry, her face contorted in orgasm, her inner muscles throbbing around him, he couldn’t stop himself from spilling hard into her.

It was heavenly, the best he’d ever experienced. His orgasm was so strong that it left him as weak as he’d been pretending to be all day. Weak in the best possible way. As she sagged over him, adjusting so that their hot, sweaty bodies twined together inextricably, Martin was certain he’d never been happier. His enemies had been captured, his days as a pirate were over, and the woman he was certain he would love for the rest of his life was in his arms.

Chapter 9

Letty slept like a dream, in spite of the threats pressing down on her and the uncertainty of her future. Except, the more she snuggled against Martin and the more she let her dreams drift off to new island homes festooned with tropical flowers and ringing with the sound of children’s laughter, the less uncertain she believed her future was. Martin wanted her. He was a good man with solid plans for the future, and she could build a whole new life with him.

No one ever had to know. She smiled as that thought greeted her when she was jostled awake in the small hours of the morning. Someone was moving below deck, but the overall peace that pervaded the ship kept her relaxed and loose. No one from her former life ever had to know that she had survived the pirate attack and pledged herself to the captain. She would have to find a way to contact her sisters, of course, but if her father went on believing she had been lost at sea along with Pigge she wouldn’t set him straight.

The bumping below continued. Letty drew in a breath and stretched along Martin’s large, naked body.

“Are you awake?” he asked in soft tones, moving a hand to brush her hair back from her face.

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, snuggling closer to him. “Though it’s a shame. I was having the most beautiful dream. How do you feel about the name Victor for a son?”

She felt his intake of breath in the darkness and the way his body warmed slightly. She even thought she could hear his mouth curve up in a smile as he continued to stroke her.

“I think that’s just fine,” he said, radiating contentment. “As long as you like Josephine as a daughter’s name.”

“I knew someone named Josephine,” Letty said. “She was lovely. We were not bosom friends, but I always liked her.”

“Josephine and Victor,” Martin said, lightness in his voice. “We need to think of at least half a dozen other names too.”

“Do we?” Letty giggled.

Martin was prevented from answering as the noise below suddenly grew louder. More than that, the bumping and thumping was joined by sudden shouts and curses. Even more cries suddenly arose from well to the side of the ship, from The Vixen.

Letty and Martin sat abruptly together. Martin instantly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stooping to grab his clothes from the floor.

“What’s going on?” Letty asked following his lead and scrambling for her own clothes.

“I can only imagine one thing,” Martin said in a grim voice.

A moment later, his unspoken answer was confirmed by a furious knock on the door.

“Captain,” Rayburn’s voice shouted from the other side. “Dick and the others have escaped. Seems they weren’t drunk and drugged after all. The ship is under attack.”

“Hold them below if at all possible,” Martin ordered, dressing with record speed.

“Aye, aye,” Rayburn called. His footsteps retreated.

Letty had gone from peaceful contentment to stark fear so fast that her head spun and her hands shook as she thrust her legs into her breeches and searched for her shirt. “Can we hold them off?” she asked, feeling as though she were making a mess of dressing.

Martin was far quicker than she was, but he didn’t bother to don all of his clothes. “We can if we act fast and if my men fight valiantly,” he said before dashing to a cabinet at the side of the cabin and taking out a pistol and a sword.

A small moan escaped from Letty before she could stop it. The sight of Martin arming himself should have been exciting and invigorating, but all she saw was the possibility that her dreams from mere minutes before could be ended before they’d begun.

Martin must have seen her expression of fear. He finished tucking weapons into his belt and strode across the cabin to her, kissing her soundly. “I’ve fought in dozens of battles like this and barely earned a scratch. I won’t let one mutineer stop me from having the life I dream of, a life with you.”

Instead of encouraging her, his words brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so afraid for you.”

“Don’t be,” he said. He stepped back, taking a long knife from his belt and handing it to her. “Stay here and keep yourself safe. Don’t let anyone into the cabin. Protect yourself if you must. If they set the ship on fire….”

“If they what?” Letty gulped.

Martin shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. They won’t. Dick wants this ship as a prize. Stay here. The battle will be over soon.”

He kissed her again, then lunged toward the door and out into the rest of the ship.

Letty pressed a hand to her stomach, indulging in one, brief moment of panic as the sounds of shouting, gunfire, and even the clash of swords sounded from the rest of the ship. Her hand tightened around the handle of the dagger and she struggled to take deep breaths.

Gradually, her initial panic calmed and she set herself simple tasks, like finishing dressing, to keep her imagination from running away from her. Martin was strong. He’d survived a gunshot just that morning. He knew Dick and his men, which would give him an advantage in fighting them. And he had something far more precious than just a ship to fight for.

Those thoughts braced her a bit, but they weren’t enough. She paced the cabin a few times before her eyes settled on her portion of The Secrets of Love. As soon as she saw the book, she ran toward it and threw open the pages, desperate for a distraction. Her gaze narrowed on a passage she’d already memorized.

“Love and Courage are intertwined, for Love may be torn from us at any time. The only way to face the fear of losing our beloved is to fight for every moment we have with them and to give all we have to keeping our beloved safe.”

“It is,” Letty said aloud, half battle-cry, half mournful wail.

She shut the book, turning away from the table.

“What am I doing here?” she asked, tightening her grip on her dagger. She needed to be by Martin’s side, fighting for him and keeping him from harm.

With new determination, she strode toward the door. But before she reached it, the door burst open.

Her flash of relief at the idea Martin had come back for her was instantly replaced by stark horror. It wasn’t Martin who barged into the room, it was Dick.

“Thought I’d leave without you?” he said, a deadly look in his eyes. He rushed up to Letty, clamping an arm around her waist so suddenly and with such force that she dropped her dagger. “Think again, my lady.”

Letty’s fear was so overwhelming that she lost all of her strength and started to swoon. The rough way Dick handled her and his sinister laugh reminded her far too much of Pigge. She’d been helpless to stop him from hurting her then, and her mind froze in horror as she realized she would be helpless to defend herself against Dick.

But no, she could defend herself. She could fight for herself as well as for Martin. She wasn’t powerless.

Her thoughts came too late. Dick took advantage of her momentary terror to scoop her over his shoulder and carry her out of Martin’s cabin.

“Keep moving,” he called to someone Letty couldn’t see. “Clear the way.”

“No! Put me down!” she shouted, pummeling his back as best she could.

It was too late. He had her in an iron grip that made it impossible for her to effectively fight him. She made the mistake of lifting her head just as he passed through the doorway to the main deck as well. The back of her head hit the lintel hard, rendering her momentarily senseless. Pain and nausea swirled around her, and the sound of clashing and yelling on the deck blended into a hollow, distant ringing.

She didn’t recover from the blow until she’d been jostled so much that she was afraid she would be sick. When, at last, the ringing began to subside into painful throbbing and the world around her came into focus once more as Dick threw her off his shoulder, she realized she wasn’t on The Growler anymore.

Rather than setting her on her feet, Dick tossed her to the deck like a sack of potatoes. She landed hard on her backside and yelped in pain.

“Cast off,” Dick ordered. “Full sail. We’ll take advantage of the wind and get away as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” several men shouted in reply.

Letty gripped her head with both hands, willing her world to stop spinning. The deck of The Vixen was as busy as she’d ever seen The Growler. She wasn’t the only lady that had been snatched either. Four other women sat wide-eyed and huddled together just a few feet away, looking stunned and frightened but unable to fight back.

Fight back. A voice in her head that sounded a lot like the author of The Secrets of Love urged her on. Her head was still throbbing and her stomach threatened to rebel at any moment, but a new sort of energy surged through Letty. She had to fight back.

As covertly as she could, she glanced around, assessing Dick’s crew and searching for the man himself. Dick had made his way up to the quarterdeck and was issuing orders to his men on the deck and in the ship’s rigging. It disturbed Letty to discover that a good many of Dick’s men were sailors from the merchant ship. Her mind rebelled at the idea that they could join their captors to fight against good men.

She put that thought aside. There was no time to think about it now. She had to act.

With as sudden a movement as she could, she pushed to her feet and dashed toward the side of the ship that still faced The Growler. The gap between the two ships was growing wider by the second, but she could still make out the faces of The Growler’s crew in the darkness.

“Martin!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, clutching the railing. “Help! Martin! Save me!”

At first, she couldn’t tell whether anyone aboard The Growler heard her, let alone knew who she was and what she was calling for. “Martin! Help!” she called again, cupping her hands around her mouth to make her voice carry.

At last, a few figures near the edge of the ship turned to her, then began calling deeper into The Growler. Moments later, as the gap between the ships began to widen faster, Martin rushed to the railing.

“Lettuce!” he shouted.

“Martin, help!” Letty waved her arms furiously.

She was taken completely by surprise when Dick clamped an arm around her from behind and lifted her off her feet.

“She’s mine now,” he called out, adding a sinister laugh.

“Lettuce!” Martin’s furious cry was far too distant for Letty’s liking. The night closed in around him with the swiftness of death, putting more and more distance between them.

“I meant it,” Dick said, dragging her away from the railing kicking and screaming. “You’re mine now, and I intend to have you in every way.”

“No, no!” Letty screamed and flailed, but his grip was too strong.

He carted her back to the center of the main deck, throwing her over a huge coil of rope so hard the air was knocked from her lungs. Before she could get her bearings, he was tearing at the fastening of her breeches, tugging and jerking to get them down over her hips.

The edges of Letty’s vision went black with panic as he worked. She was reminded too keenly of her wedding night and the way Pigge had forced himself on her, laughing the whole time and telling her to take it like the whore she was. The memories were so strong and the panic of the present moment so sharp that she almost lost her mind and her will to fight.

It was only the sudden shout of, “Good God, man. What in hell are you doing?” in a refined accent that dragged her back to her senses.

Dick backed away from her suddenly, and as Letty jerked straight she saw it was because none other than Lord Benedict Killian had grabbed hold of him and wrenched him away from her.

“Stay away from me or you’ll get what’s coming to you,” Dick growled at the nobleman.

Lord Killian gaped at him. “You said this was a rescue. You said you were returning the ship to us so that we could retrieve the ladies and continue on.”

“I lied,” Dick growled, drawing a long knife from his belt.

He lunged at Lord Killian, but the nobleman was fast enough to get out of the way.

“Benedict!” one of the other merchant passengers called out, then threw a sword to Lord Killian.

Lord Killian caught it and rounded on Dick. “You’ll rue the day you tried to lay a hand on a noblewoman,” he said with aristocratic bravado.

Letty didn’t care how dramatic he sounded. He was defending her. Better still, he was distracting Dick. That gave her all the time she needed to adjust her breeches and refasten them, and to search the area for a weapon of her own.

“Is it true that noblemen bleed blue?” Dick said, stepping around Lord Killian menacingly, as though looking for a weak area to attack.

“You’ll never find out,” Lord Killian said. He lunged toward Dick, sword pointed.

All around the deck, similar battles broke out. The male passengers from the merchant ship that had been freed—presumably to help Dick’s pirates in their wicked endeavor—took up arms and fought back against their captors. Shouts of rage and betrayal echoed throughout The Vixen. The ladies who had been stolen from The Growler wept and screamed. Letty found herself wishing that Malvis were with her. Malvis would fight back without a doubt, and if she would, Letty could too.

She found a pistol discarded on the deck near the coil of rope, but it had already been discharged. She snatched it up all the same, frantically looking for the materials she needed to reload it. The battles raged on around her, and she dodged swords, daggers, and gunfire as she searched. At last, she made it to a small trunk tucked under one of the ladders leading up to the quarterdeck that contained powder, shot, and patches. With shaking hands, she went to work, desperately trying to remember all the steps Martin had taught her to load the gun.

She was just in the process of ramming the bullet down when a far greater boom than any pistol could make sounded. A shriek followed, then an enormous crack from above. A splash far off to the port ended the series of sounds just as another boom rent the air.

“We’re under attack,” someone screamed from above. “They’re shooting at our rigging.”

“The Growler is coming,” another voice hollered from the aft deck. “They’ve caught the wind and they’re making right for us.”

Chapter 10

“Forward!” Martin shouted, cutlass held aloft as though he were some figure from mythology. “Ram them if you have to. Prepare for boarding.”

From the moment he’d heard Lettuce’s cry across the night-black sea, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let Dick sail away to whatever fate had in store for him. He’d been so busy fighting the mutineers that had freed themselves from the hold and forcing them back to The Vixen that he hadn’t seen Dick carry Lettuce and some of the other women off. It was only when the tide of the battle turned quickly and the mutineers fled to The Vixen and sailed off that he comprehended what had happened. That was when he gave the order to fire into the other ship’s rigging to stop it in the water.

“Another volley, Captain?” Rayburn asked, rushing up to Martin’s side at the railing facing The Vixen.

Martin squinted into the darkness, judging how long it would take for The Growler to catch up to the other ship. His heart pounded in fear and a voice in the back of his mind screamed in panic, seeing nothing but the loss of the beautiful life he’d been so certain would be his by sunrise. He was a captain, though, and even though his command was a mere pirate vessel, he had to be a leader.

“No,” he said at last, dragging his eyes away from the other ship to assess the readiness of his men. They all stood at the ready on The Growler’s decks, grappling hooks and planks in their hands, weapons in their belts. Lady Malvis stood right in the thick of them, armed to the teeth and looking ready for blood. “They’ve given up fleeing.” He turned back to The Vixen. “Look. They’re spoiling for a fight.”

He was right. Dick charged around the other ship’s quarterdeck, hollering orders to his crew to lower the sails and turn about. The men who had been under Martin’s command so recently lined up along The Vixen’s rail, shouting vows and curses, ready to do battle with their old mates. It was a sorry state of affairs for a man who valued life and comfort, who had become a pirate for the booty, not the blood. One way or another, it would all end before dawn broke over the eastern horizon.

He held his breath as the ships drifted closer and closer together, thanking God that Dick was greedy enough not to damage either vessel, likely in the hopes he could take both prizes in the end. Martin searched for Lettuce, prayed she was safe. She’d disappeared behind the gathering mass of the enemy, but he couldn’t see whether she’d moved out of the way voluntarily or if she’d been forced. As long as Dick still issued his bloodthirsty orders from The Vixen’s quarterdeck, there was a chance Lettuce was safe.

And then the moment came. With a crunch that set Martin’s teeth on edge, the two ships met, and men from both vessels threw hooks, set planks, and swung from the rigging. Ferocious roars sounded all around as the two crews charged each other. A burst of opening gunfire rent the air as pistols were discharged and then tossed back to those who had been charged with reloading.

“This one is ready, my love,” Lord Ainsley shouted to Lady Malvis, throwing her a loaded pistol as she charged toward the side of the ship. He wore a powder horn around his neck, like a necklace to compliment his tattered gown, and a pouch of bullets hung from a belt cinching his waist.

“Keep them coming, sweetheart,” she called back, making the endearment sound like its own war cry.

Martin didn’t have time to stop and marvel at the odd pair or how perfectly they worked together, in spite of their bizarreness. He had to find Lettuce and rescue her before any harm came to her.

With swift, light feet, he leapt to one of the planks connecting the two ships and ran across. The moment he landed on The Vixen’s deck, he was beset by the man he’d been certain shot him the day before. Lingering fury at that betrayal made it easy to fight with the man, and yet, he was loath to kill him outright. He was still responsible for the bastard, even if he was a traitor.

The shooter didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. He yelled wordlessly at Martin, thrusting and slashing with his dagger. Martin held him off easily and wielded his cutlass with ruthless efficiency, cutting the man’s forearm and forcing him to drop his weapon and reel backwards. The blow was enough to keep the man out of the rest of the melee, so Martin moved on.

“Lettuce!” he shouted, shoving his way through a pair of men locked in battle. “Lettuce!”

“Martin!” He heard her answering call, but still couldn’t see where she was. All he could do was follow the sound of her voice deeper into the swarm of battle.

At last, he caught a flash of her pale face in the light of the lamps that had been lit for the battle. She continued to search for him over the writhing hoard of fighting men. He dodged a blood-drenched dagger that had gone flying out of the hand of whoever had been using it, pushing on.

“Stop right there!”

Before he could reach Lettuce, Martin was faced with a wild-eyed nobleman from the merchant vessel—Lord Benedict Killian, whose father Dick had killed on the first day. The man held a sword as though he’d been trained to use it. Martin fell into a battle-ready crouch, his cutlass held in front of him, but he couldn’t decide whether to attack.

“Get out of my way,” he said at last. “I’m rescuing Lettuce.”

Lord Killian blinked. “No, I’m rescuing the ladies from our ship from you villainous pirates.”

Martin eased up his stance. “Look around you, man,” he shouted over another volley of gunfire. “Who is the enemy?”

Lord Killian’s shoulders dropped and he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I can’t tell anymore,” he said.

Martin pivoted toward the quarterdeck, where Dick was fighting off Rayburn. He pointed his cutlass to the fight. “There’s your enemy,” he said. “Mutineers. I had no intention to attack you in the first place, let alone harm you now.”

It was all the explanation he had time for, and it was woefully inaccurate. But by some miracle, Lord Killian studied Martin long and hard, then nodded and shifted until he stood by Martin’s side instead of opposing him.

“I still can’t tell which are your men and which are his,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter.” Martin shook his head and pushed forward toward the quarterdeck. “Capture Dick and the rest of them will give up.”

Lord Killian nodded, and together the two of them stormed up the ladder to the quarterdeck.

As soon as they reached the top of the ladder, Martin was nearly pushed back by Lady Malvis.

“Stay out of my way,” she hollered, passing the ladder, Lord Ainsley in her wake, and rushing toward where Dick and Rayburn battled, pistol raised. She fired, but her bullet didn’t seem to hit anything. Lord Ainsley was quick to exchange her empty pistol for a full one.

“I didn’t know she had it in her,” the nobleman panted as he and Martin rushed the deck.

Martin would have replied, but at that moment he spied Lettuce mounting the quarterdeck from the ladder on the starboard side. She had a pistol as well, but it was the wideness of her eyes and the stark expression of fear she wore that arrested Martin. And yet, she continued forward.

“Martin!” she shouted when she spotted him.

In the midst of the battle, shouts and gunfire and the clang of steal blades all around them, Martin forgot everything to run to Lettuce. They met midway across the deck, Martin opened his arms, and Lettuce threw herself against him.

“You’re safe,” he promised her, indulging in one, mad moment simply to hold her and reassure himself that she was whole and unharmed. “I’ll never let you go again.”

“I know you—”

Her reply was cut off by a shot and a cry of pain. A second later, another shot was fired, which was followed by a thump. All activity on the quarterdeck stopped, though the battle continued on the main deck.

Martin and Lettuce turned together to see Dick lying on the deck in a pool of blood. Standing only a few feet away from him, pistol still smoking, was Lady Malvis. Her color was high and her eyes were wide with frenzy. Her chest heaved as she panted, then slowly broke into a laugh. Rayburn stood on one side of her and Lord Ainsley on the other, both staring at Dick’s dead body at Lady Malvis’s feet.

“It serves him right,” she said, her voice slightly hysterical. “After all the women he hurt and all the chaos he caused, it served him right. He’ll never hurt me again.”

Unease spilled down Martin’s back. He hadn’t realized Dick had interfered with Lady Malvis. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how impossible it was that he could have.

“Her father,” Lettuce whispered by his side, somehow sensing his confusion.

That was all the explanation Martin needed, particularly as Lady Malvis proceeded to drop her pistol and burst into tears. She turned to Lord Ainsley, who closed her in a hug and stroked her hair, murmuring something to her that the rest of them couldn’t hear.

On the main deck below, the fighting stopped. Word spread fast that Dick was dead, and with him any chance the mutineers had of succeeding in their plan. Martin glanced out over the deck. His men were already subduing Dick’s men and marching them back to the aft deck as prisoners.

“Tie those men up,” Martin called, not sure the order was necessary. “Make sure they don’t escape this time. Secure both ships. Get the wounded over to Rackstraw.” He turned back to the sickening sight of Dick’s corpse. “Throw the dead traitors overboard.”

It might have been a heartless order. Some of the men who had died had families on shore. But bodies in the tropical sun were a liability. If any of his loyal men had died, he would give them a proper burial at sea at first light. For the moment, though his first responsibility was to the men who had fought for him and survived, as well as Lettuce.

“Are you well?” he asked, tossing his cutlass aside and turning to face her. He held her arms to reassure himself and to steady her. Lettuce nodded, but she looked overwhelmed and trembled.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Truly, I am. Though I do not think I am cut out for the life of a pirate.”

“I’m not either,” he confessed, pulling her into his arms once more. “I am most definitely not either.”

The rest of the night contained a flurry of activity. Martin took Lettuce back to The Growler, but she refused to go to bed. Instead, she helped Rackstraw treat the wounded while Martin strode the decks of both ships, making certain everyone was doing their part to clean up all traces of the battle and secure the prisoners. He thanked God that his men were loyal, that those who followed Dick had been neutralized, and, which surprised him, that the remaining prisoners from the merchant vessel helped him instead of standing in his way.

“We were beset by pirates several days ago,” Lord Killian told the authorities in St. John’s when they made port the next morning. Several law officers had boarded The Growler before allowing anyone to disembark, but they didn’t find what they expected to find. “This man, Captain Foster, aided our efforts to throw them off and brought us safely here.”

“He did?” the baffled head officer said.

“Absolutely,” Lord Killian went on. “I owe him my life.”

Martin fought to keep his expression neutral as he watched the exchange, Lettuce by his side. It wasn’t unusual for an island like Antigua to look the other way where piracy was concerned, as long as the right officials received the right bribes, but it was still a risk to bring The Growler and The Vixen so boldly into port. With Lord Killian’s good word, however, all the port authorities could do was narrow their eyes and grumble instead of taking Martin into custody or causing a scene.

“All right, then,” the officer said. “You’re cleared to dock and unload.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Martin told him later, once the ships were docked, the journey was officially over, and the last of the mutineers handed over to the authorities. “But I’m grateful you did.”

“Perhaps someday you’ll be able to repay me,” Lord Killian said with a wink, slapping Martin’s back. He walked off, climbing down into the boat that would take him to shore, before Martin could reply.

“Why in God’s name was the man so lenient with me?” he asked Lettuce as they headed across the deck, making toward the door to his cabin.

“I believe Lord Killian is a good and noble man,” Lettuce answered, though she sounded as surprised as he was. “I didn’t think those existed until this voyage, but now I’ve met several.” She turned to him with a smile.

Martin didn’t just return her smile, he swept her into his arms for a long kiss. She responded openly, sliding her arms around him and lifting to her toes, in spite of the dozens of crew members scurrying about the deck watching them. One or two let out whistles of approval.

“I knew you were little more than a slut with a fine title,” Lady Malvis said, interrupting him. Her words weren’t cruel or pointed, though.

Martin let Lettuce go, and they both faced her. Lady Malvis still wore breeches and a belt with a pistol at her side. Thankfully, Lord Ainsley had changed into men’s clothing once more, though with the beard he’d begun to grow in the last few days he looked anything but respectable.

“Mr. Foster,” Lord Ainsley said with an incongruously cheerful smile. “My darling wife and I would like to make an offer for these ships.”

Martin’s heart stopped in his chest and his jaw dropped. “You want to buy the ships?”

“Yes, well, I’m not certain that The Vixen truly belongs to you,” Lord Ainsley said apologetically. “Or does it as a spoil of war? I don’t know how these things are done. Perhaps someone has written a book about it that I could consult? I am rather fond of a good book, you know. In fact, my estate back home has quite a library, collected over generations by—”

“Stick to the point, sweetheart,” Lady Malvis said.

“Yes. Quite.” Lord Ainsley beamed at her as though the two of them had been on a pleasurable honeymoon cruise instead of a dangerous pirate mission. He cleared his throat and turned back to Martin. “That is to say, my wife and I find that we are rather fond of the high seas and marauding and all that. We should like to continue on as pirates, and to do so, we require your ships. But don’t worry, we will pay handsomely for them.”

Martin was still baffled. Lettuce stared at the couple with equal perplexity. “But what about your title?” she asked. “What about your lands and holdings in England? What about your family?”

“I have no family,” Lady Malvis said, a sudden, deep sadness hanging over her.

“And what do I care for English landholdings when so much adventure awaits?” Lord Ainsley answered, much more cheerfully.

“I’ve told Lord Killian to put about the report that we were lost at sea,” Lady Malvis went on. “I don’t want anything to do with my former life anymore.”

“And I only want what my angel wants,” Lord Ainsley said, sliding his arm around Lady Malvis’s waist. “And Bernard, of course. He can have his way with me anytime he’d like.”

Martin’s brow flew up and he exchanged a baffled look with Lettuce.

“Well, if that’s what you want,” Lettuce said with a mystified shrug.

Rayburn marched up to join their group and said, “I’ll keep an eye on them, Captain.” He winked.

Martin shrugged. “Then the ships are yours.” He could use the profits from their sale to further establish his new lift. And he felt marginally better knowing that an experienced sailor like Rayburn would be there to help Lady Malvis and Lord Ainsley in their endeavor. He had the feeling that if Rayburn stayed aboard, most of the rest of the crew would as well.

With that settled, all that remained was to pack his and Lettuce’s things and to be rowed to shore. It felt strangely exciting to step foot on land, knowing he would be there for a while.

“Are you certain this is what you want?” he asked, gazing around at the busy port, people of all descriptions running here and there, causing a din that underscored all the differences of the life he was about to start from the life he had been living.

“Yes,” she said, taking his arm and beaming up at him. She hadn’t found women’s clothing to change into, but with the motley group of people on the dock, few seemed to care. “I am absolutely certain.”

“Then we should start by finding a priest,” he said, hugging her arm tight and walking on. “And then a home.”

“My home is wherever you are,” she said, smiling up at him. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said, walking on into the life he’d always wanted.

Epilogue

The best part of living in the tropics, as far as Letty was concerned, was winter. She smiled broadly, leaned back in the settee that had been set up on the porch of her and Martin’s townhouse, rubbing a hand over her round belly.

“I think I will be perfectly happy never to endure winter again,” she said with a contented sigh, glancing across the low tea table to her sisters.

“So will I,” Imogen hummed, patting her own stomach. “Thaddeus and I will be forever grateful to you for opening your home to us.”

“You’re our family now,” Martin said from the far end of the porch, where he, Imogen’s husband, Thaddeus, and Alice’s husband, Count Fabian Camoni, sat against the railing, glancing out over the sea and discussing whatever adventures men liked to talk about when they were together. “All of you are welcome to stay with us for as long as possible.”

“Cheers,” Thaddeus said, raising his glass of rum in salute. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer. Now, tell me more about this shipping empire you’ve begun.”

“It’s designed to strictly trade in goods not produced with slave labor,” Martin told him, returning to their conversation.

“Do you think his endeavor will work?” Alice asked as she worked diligently with glue and bookbinder’s linen to fasten all three parts of The Secrets of Love back together on one side of the tea table. She glanced up at Letty. “It seems as though everything in this part of the world is dependent on slave labor.”

Letty frowned for a moment, resting her hand on her belly as her babe kicked. “Slavery cannot last forever. Not when there is such condemnation of it. I believe men like Martin will lead the way into a new, better world.”

“I pray that it will be so,” Imogen said. Her smile returned and she shifted in her seat, finding a more comfortable position. “Have any of you heard anything from Father?”

“Not a word,” Letty laughed. “I am quite certain he believes me dead.”

“He does,” Alice said, sharing her laugh. “And to him, Imogen might as well be.”

“So he’s written to you?” Imogen asked, blinking.

Alice shook her head and blew on the spine of the book to dry the glue. “He wrote to Fabian shortly after we returned to Aegiria.”

“The bastard wanted money, no doubt,” Letty said, delighting in the fact that she could curse like a pirate in front of her sisters and they wouldn’t mind.

“Of course, he wanted money,” Alice said with a smirk. “And he was immediately informed that he wouldn’t get any.”

“Good for you,” Imogen said. “Now, let’s speak of more interesting things. What is this I hear of the new scourge of the Caribbean Sea? The dread pirate Malvis?”

Letty laughed so loud the men glanced over from their conversation. “By all reports, Lady Malvis and Lord Ainsley have proven quite a success on the high seas.”

“They’re a menace,” Martin added, coming to stand behind Letty’s settee and resting his hands on her shoulders. “Rayburn sends me regular reports. They harry any ship they come across and take far too many risks.”

“But they’ve become rich several times over,” Letty reminded him.

Martin hummed, his expression showing that he didn’t entirely approve.

“Come now,” Letty scolded him with a look. “You were a pirate once yourself. And the last I heard, Malvis and Ainsley had convinced Rayburn to make an attempt to circumnavigate the world.”

“Really?” Imogen blinked in surprise. “Will they do it?”

“I’m certain they will,” Letty said.

“They truly are believed to be dead,” Fabian said, sliding onto the sofa with Alice. “Ainsley’s title and lands have already been bestowed on a cousin.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Letty said.

“How do people know they’re dead?” Imogen asked with a frown.

“Lord Killian testified before a committee,” Fabian said, then frowned. “Though if you ask me, something strange is going on with him as well.”

“Strange?” Letty shook her head slightly. “What do you mean? I found Lord Killian to be honorable and sensible and not at all strange.”

“He returned to England after the ill-fated journey with an infant, a baby boy,” Fabian said. “He claimed to have been married on the ship and that his wife died giving birth.”

Letty’s brow shot up. “He was not married when I knew him.”

“It’s been a year,” Alice argued. “He could have married and sired a child within that time.”

“He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to marry or attached to any woman in particular at all, though,” Letty said, then bit her lip. Something must have happened. There had to have been some story attached to Lord Benedict Killian that she had yet to learn of. But there would be time for that later.

Martin came around to sit beside her on the settee, shifting Letty into his arms. “Enough about that time and those people,” he said, resting his hands on Letty’s belly. “I only want to think about the future now.”

“Yes,” Alice agreed, setting the repaired book down with a sigh. “Now that the two of you are well on your way to building your families, I suppose I should announce that Fabian and I are about to start ours.”

Sounds of delight rose up from all present.

“Alice, that’s wonderful,” Letty said, reaching across to squeeze her sister’s hand.

“I rather think so,” Alice said, beaming.

“It looks as though The Secrets of Love has steered us all in the right direction after all,” Imogen said.

“Many thanks to Caroline Herrington for planting the book at the house party and to Rani Ophelia Khan—I still can’t believe our dear friend is an Indian princess now—for giving us the key,” Alice said.

“Everything has turned out exactly as it should,” Letty said, smiling up at Martin.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, underscoring his words with a kiss.

* * *

I hope you’ve enjoyed Letty & Martin’s story! Huzzah for all three of the Marlowe sisters being saved!

If you’ve missed Imogen or Alice’s story, don’t worry, you can go back and read them. Just look for The Faithful Siren and The Holiday Hussy, which is currently part of the Once Upon a Christmas Wedding box set.

They’ll all be available individually soon. And what about Lord Benedict Killian? Are you wondering what happened to him? You’ll be able to find out this spring in The Substitute Lover.

To find out when The Substitute Lover and other books by Merry Farmer are released, please come join Merry Farmer’s Readers Group, on Facebook.

About Merry Farmer

Merry Farmer lives in suburban Philadelphia with her two cats, Torpedo, her grumpy old man, and Justine, the bouncy new baby. She has been writing since she was ten years old and realized she didn't have to wait for the teacher to assign a creative writing project to write something. It was the best day of her life.

Her books have reached the top of Amazon's charts, and have been named finalists for several prestigious awards, including the RONE Award for indie romance.

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The Lady and the Privateer

by Amy Rose Bennett

Chapter 1

Somewhere off the coast of Mauritius…

June, 1816

At the age of seven-and-twenty, Lady Calliope Banks had never quite worked out why she, out of all the members of her vast, extended family, should be the current bearer of the ‘Winthrop Family Curse’. Whether it was real or imagined, her dearly departed papa, the Earl of Winthrop, had apparently been burdened with it, and had supposedly died because of it, nearly a decade ago when he’d walked into the path of a runaway carriage outside a London gaming hell one dark and rainy night. So surely logic would dictate that the new Lord Winthrop—a distant cousin—who’d inherited the title and the estate, should be the recipient of the curse too.

But no, the entire Banks family had decided around the time of Calliope’s disastrous London debut, that she—or Lady Calamity Banks as many of the ton had subsequently dubbed her—was now the ill-fated one. The family’s albatross. Indeed, Calliope had owned for some time that bad luck did appear to dog her heels, but she’d always reasoned that being a trifle unlucky was not the same as being ‘cursed’. However, right at this particular moment—clinging to the railing of a sinking ship in the midst of a storm as a pirate vessel befittingly named the Orpheus loomed ominously close by—Calliope was grudgingly willing to concede at long last that perhaps her family might be right after all.

Blinking against the lashing rain and pummeling wind, she managed to cast a sideways glance in the direction of her silver-haired uncle, Dr. Theophilus Bell, Oxford scholar and renowned ornithologist and zoologist. He was also currently clutching the railing of the listing merchant vessel, the Vestal, with a white-knuckled grip.

“We’ll be all right, Peewee,” he called over the roar of the tempest and crashing waves. Although the violent snapping of torn sails overhead and the terrible creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers beneath their feet suggested otherwise. “Just you wait and see.”

Peewee. Uncle Theo’s pet name for her was a poignant reminder that he was the only person in the entire world who truly cared about her well-being. Even though icy terror careened through her veins, Calliope was touched by his attempt to reassure her. Indeed, his certainty was a welcome balm in the face of such danger. Swallowing past a boulder-sized lump in her throat, she merely nodded in acknowledgment; summoning a sufficiently loud voice suddenly seemed quite beyond her.

When the Vestal had been thrown off course in an attempt to out maneuver the Orpheus—and had subsequently run aground on a coral reef at the south-eastern corner of Mauritius—the Vestal’s captain had called for some of the crew to offload the paying passengers, of which there were half-a-dozen. At present, one of the Vestal’s jolly boats was being readied for them.

Thankfully, on the other side of the reef, the sea was less wild. And apparently it wasn’t too far to the shore. The thick swathes of scudding, stinging rain hampered visibility and Calliope assumed that the dark, hazy mass in the far distance must be Mauritius, home of the mythical dodo bird. Indeed, it was her uncle’s obsession with the long-lost, pigeon-like creature that had brought them to a place an entire world away from London and the quiet, studied elegance of Oxford.

Well, we’re not quite on Mauritius yet, Calliope mentally amended as she gazed longingly toward the rain-shrouded island. She trusted Captain Pickering—a master mariner according to Uncle Theo—knew exactly where they were, even though the Vestal’s hull was badly damaged, and she was no doubt taking on water at an alarming rate.

Lost at sea at the age of seven-and-twenty.

Lady Calliope Banks’s life over before it had really begun.

Would that be her epitaph?

No, better not to think about it, decided Calliope as she hoisted up her sodden, white muslin skirts and began to clamber inelegantly into the wildly swaying jolly boat with the assistance of Uncle Theo and the first mate, Mr. Holloway.

But as she unceremoniously plopped herself onto the slick wooden bench-seat of the boat, she was startled by a resounding boom, far louder than any of the thunder claps overhead.

“Thank God,” cried Mr. Holloway. “It’s the Andromeda. Captain Townsend will give the Orpheus the old heave-ho.”

The Andromeda?

Calliope’s gaze whipped to the Vestal’s starboard bow. Despite the appalling sea state, another vessel appeared to be bearing down upon the Orpheus, faster than a swooping eagle on a deadly mission to seize a fish. A second bone-rattling report shook the air around them as the Andromeda, a two-masted brigantine, fired another cannonball at the pirate vessel which had already changed tack.

Thank God indeed.

Calliope was momentarily prevented from observing any more of the nautical drama taking place before her as her uncle’s research assistant and fellow zoologist, Mr. Barnaby Lucas, tumbled onto the seat beside her, nearly upsetting the entire jolly boat. His elbow connected with her rib, winding her.

She scowled at the back of Mr. Lucas’s head and its plastered down cap of dripping dark hair as she tried to catch her breath. Trust him to barge on in ahead of her poor uncle. The man’s rudeness really was beyond the pale and Calliope really had no idea why her uncle tolerated his moodiness and ill manners.

Uncle Theo soon joined them, and within a matter of minutes, the sturdy row boat was full, and the crew were lowering them into the seething, turbulent sea with Mr. Holloway at the helm.

“See, I told you we’d be fine, Peewee,” declared Uncle Theo as their wildly pitching vessel bobbed toward the Andromeda rather than the shore. Once the Orpheus had taken flight, the brigantine had drawn closer, but not too close lest it also get tossed onto the reef. Mr. Holloway determined it would be safer to board the other ship than row to the island.

When Calliope offered her uncle a tight smile in reply to his effort to reassure her yet again, he grinned back and lifted a battered leather satchel strapped across his rotund belly. “Although I didn’t have time to save your art folio, I did manage to grab a few of my papers, our money, and your mother’s jewels.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Calliope. She wasn’t sure if the rain or salt spray or tears were responsible for blurring her vision right at that particular moment, but in any case, her heart was flooded with relief and bittersweet happiness. By some miracle, if the jolly boat didn’t capsize and they did reach safety, she would be sure to give her uncle the biggest hug. Since her mother, Cassandra, Lady Winthrop—who’d also been Uncle Theo’s younger sister—had passed away nearly six years ago, her mother’s diamond and sapphire necklace and matching earrings were precious keepsakes indeed. Thanks to her uncle’s thoughtfulness and quick-thinking, Calliope suddenly felt blessed.

And thanks to the timely intervention of the Andromeda, it seemed the Winthrop Family Curse had been chased off just as swiftly and as effectively as the Orpheus.

At least for today…

If it were the least bit socially acceptable, Calliope would quite happily hug the brig’s captain too.

Chapter 2

On meeting Jonathon Townsend, the captain of the Andromeda, Calliope just as swiftly changed her mind about wanting to embrace him.

Some, she supposed, might consider his rugged features handsome, but he certainly didn’t possess handsome manners to match. When the dark-haired Englishman’s insolent gaze raked over her disheveled form as she stood shivering and dripping on his ship’s deck, she felt a fiery blush engulf her entire face. Indeed, she rather suspected she’d turned as red as a lobster that had just been plunged into a cauldron of boiling water. Ever since the day of her ‘disastrous debut’, she was prone to blush hotly and it only served to make her embarrassment worse.

She could live with the inelegant scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and her garish coppery mop of hair. But these horrid attacks of blushing… Oh how, she hated them.

And she was irritated by the fact Captain Townsend had triggered one just by looking at her like he wanted to toss her overboard. Or maybe strip her naked considering his cobalt blue eyes lingered on her bosom and then her legs far too long.

Odious man.

His words didn’t lessen her instant dislike of him when he said to one of his crew as he turned away without so much as a greeting, “Show the woman to my cabin. She’s distracting the men and will just get in the way.”

The woman? He’d called her, the woman? And as though she were some stray cat who would get underfoot. Calliope’s mouth dropped open. Of all the insufferable…

In all the months she’d been at sea on the Vestal, she’d never been ‘in the way’. And after her maid had quit her post when they’d docked in Madeira—claiming she was tired of being sea sick and terrified she would drown at sea—Calliope had been the only female on the merchant ship. If she was ‘a distraction’, she certainly wasn’t aware of it.

“Oh, I say, Captain Townsend,” called Uncle Theo after the man’s broad-shouldered form. His voice bristled with affronted anger on her behalf. “That’s my niece you’re talking about in such a crude fashion. And she’s Lady Calliope Banks, to you, sir. The daughter of George Banks, the late Earl of Winthrop.”

Captain Townsend immediately swung back and affected a mocking bow which was no mean feat on the rain-slick, rolling deck. “Please forgive me then, Lady Calliope. I am but a coarse mariner. But what I said is quite true. You need to go below. It’s been months and months since my men have seen a comely woman and given your current state of…” he cocked a black eyebrow, “dishabille, it would be better for everyone if you made yourself scarce until we dock in Mahébourg in Grand Port Bay. Once the rest of the Vestal’s crew is on board, which will be in under an hour, we’ll be on our way. All going well.”

He turned his direct gaze on Uncle Theo. “You, sir, may accompany your niece, or retire to the officer’s quarters. Or take your chances and stay out here in the wind and rain. It’s entirely up to you.”

Uncle Theo caught Calliope’s eye and leaned in close. “I suspect you’d like some privacy, Peewee,” he murmured. “And as much as it pains me to say such a thing, it’s probably best if you try to dry off a little.” His weathered cheeks grew ruddy as he made that last pronouncement.

Good Lord, if Uncle Theo is blushing… Calliope simply nodded. “Yes. You’re right.” And she was whole-heartedly sick of being drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone. Even though she’d wrapped her arms about herself, her teeth had begun to chatter. “But you m-must go below t-too. If you g-get swept overboard by a rogue wave when we are so close to our d-destination…” She shuddered.

“I will,” he replied with a gentle smile. “Mr. Lucas and I will do as the captain suggests and repair to the officer’s quarters. I won’t be far.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “We’re almost there, my dear girl. All will be fine.”

A sandy-haired cabin boy who couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen, escorted Calliope down the narrow stairs that led to Captain Townsend’s cabin. His quarters were sumptuously-appointed. Appraising it with her artist’s eye, it was a study in gleaming rosewood paneling, polished brass, and fine furnishings—and Calliope was grudgingly impressed. For a ‘coarse mariner’ he certainly didn’t possess coarse tastes.

Wine-colored velvet curtains framed the lead-paned windows, a thick oriental carpet graced the polished wood floor, and aside from an ornate desk with carved lion’s paws for feet and a large oval dining table with matching Hepplewhite chairs, there was one other piece of furniture that caught one’s attention: the captain’s wide tester bed. Built into an alcove, the heavy silk damask curtains were tied back to reveal a burgundy-hued counterpane and fine snowy sheets and plump pillows.

The cabin boy—Tom—procured a bundle of clean linen towels from a drawer cleverly secreted in the wood paneling then deposited them on the end of the bed.

He shifted nervously on his thin legs, bare feet shuffling on the plush rug as he regarded her with wary eyes. “Milady…” he began. “If you’d like to change into somefink dry…” His voice trailed off and he turned beet red. “I happen to know Cap’n Townsend has a few lady’s gowns stashed away. Unmentionables too…”

Calliope blushed as well. She didn’t want to know how the captain had come by such attire. If female passengers were few and far between on the Andromeda, no doubt they were cast-offs from old paramours. Or perhaps they were intended to be gifts for a current mistress. In any case, beggars couldn’t be choosers and wet, transparent white muslin was probably not the best attire for a young lady in her position to be wearing. So she agreed to take a look.

Tom dug several gowns out from a carved rosewood chest at the base of the bed followed by an armful of flimsy chemises, stockings, and elaborately embroidered stays. “Take your pick, milady,” he said, laying them carefully beside the towels.

Calliope stepped forward to examine the garments and a rich exotic perfume—sandalwood and some other heavy floral scent she couldn’t quite place—wafted around her as she picked up the topmost dress. It was a deep turquoise silk, with a low-cut bodice. The neckline, hem, and sleeves were decorated with an abundance of tiny jet beads sewn into an intricate swirling pattern. It really was quite lovely. The second gown was a fine Indian sprigged muslin, not dissimilar to the dress she currently wore. The third gown was fashioned from crimson velvet and gold tissue and lace. She couldn’t possibly wear that as the rain and saltwater would ruin it within ten seconds.

“I’ll leave you to it, milady,” offered Tom as he retreated to the door. “I’ll be wanted above decks. There’s fresh water in the pitcher in the washstand if you need it. And don’t mind Nelson. He’s harmless really.”

Nelson? But there was no one else in the cabin. Before Calliope could ask the boy what he meant by that peculiar remark, he’d disappeared.

With a shrug, Calliope pulled a towel from the pile and wiped her face and squeezed as much water as she could from her matted, dripping hair. In the corner of the cabin near the desk was a brazier but the coals weren’t alight. She permitted herself a small wistful sigh. Of course, it made sense given the wild weather. However, considering how cold and wet she was, she would give a great deal to feel warm. It was a shame that most of her own clothes would now sink into the depths of the Indian Ocean along with her treasured folio of water colors, paints and brushes. But at least Uncle Theo had rescued her mama’s precious jewelry. That was the one thing that couldn’t be replaced.

Yes, all things considered, she should count her blessings. And changing into one of the borrowed gowns would be better than nothing.

Calliope felt a bit odd donning another woman’s ‘unmentionables’ but unless she decided to keep her own wet stockings, stays, and chemise on, or went without undergarments altogether… As it was, she’d have to forgo wearing petticoats.

Calliope’s cheeks burned just thinking about meeting Captain Townsend again if she wore nothing at all but a thin silk dress. Enduring the knowing sweep of his gaze had been unsettling enough the first time.

The worst part was, she knew deep down that a tiny part of her had liked the way he looked at her. As though she was an attractive woman worthy of male admiration.

And hadn’t she always dreamed that a handsome man would notice her in that way one day?

Calliope gave an unladylike snort and inwardly admonished herself for being so naive. She was certain she resembled a drowned rat and Captain Townsend hadn’t been admiring her figure even though he’d said she was ‘comely’. Ha!

He’d simply been ogling her person because she was the first female he’d seen in an age and her wet clothes had clung to her body in a most indecent way.

Yes, her first assessment had been correct. Captain Townsend was an arrogant, ill-mannered, odious ass. And she’d do well to remember that.

Calliope bent down to untie the laces of her water-logged kid half-boots. But as she fought with one of the knots, a loud screech split the air followed by a raucous call. “Aaargh! Booty ahoy! Booty ahoy! Aaargh!”

Good Lord above! She wasn’t alone. Her heart hammering, Calliope whipped around to discover who’d spoken.

And then she saw who the culprit was. Sitting on an ornate wooden perch on the far side of the cabin by the window was a large African gray parrot. She swore it hadn’t been there when Tom had first shown her into the room. The bird’s beady golden and black eyes seemed to regard her with impish amusement as it bobbed up and down.

She narrowed her gaze in suspicion. She’d been bending over. Had that impudent bird just likened her derriere to ‘booty’? A prize to be plundered?

Considering the bird’s owner, Calliope rather suspected the parrot had.

She cautiously approached the perch and the parrot—Nelson she assumed—stopped bobbing and cocked its head. “Aargh! Come blow me hornpipe, lassie,” it squawked.

What. On. Earth?

Calliope’s mouth dropped open for the second time that day. She was absolutely certain that the parrot had just uttered something exceedingly lewd even though she didn’t quite understand the sexual connotation.

She summoned a quelling scowl. “Nelson, you are a very rude bird. Have you no manners?”

But Nelson was not put off in the least by her scolding tone. He rocked from side to side as if amused by her discomfiture. “Blow it out yer bunghole. Blow it out yer bunghole,” he chanted, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

Calliope raised an admonitory finger. “Enough. Not another word.”

Nelson flapped his wide gray wings and fanned his scarlet tail feathers out. “Come ‘ere, me buxom beauty. Give us a kiss. Give us a kiss.”

“Well, you can jolly well blow that idea out your own bunghole,” muttered Calliope as she retreated to the bed and tugged one of its damask curtains free. It would serve nicely as a makeshift screen. Because there was no way in Hades that she was going to undress in front of the foul-mouthed parrot. Lord knew what else he might come out with.

Thank goodness they’d be docking in Grand Port Bay very soon.

* * *

Thank Poseidon himself that we’ll be docking in Grant Port Bay soon.

That was the thought that crossed Jonathon’s mind when he first noticed that the red-haired chit with the enormous blue eyes had decided to defy his orders and venture onto the deck again.

If she gets washed overboard it will be her own bloody fault, he decided as he lounged near the helm. Or gets leered at by the crew. He did try to warn her.

On the other hand, the weather had calmed considerably in the last half hour. The worst of the storm had passed, and a heaving swell and brisk wind were the only lingering remnants. He supposed Lady Calliope thought she’d take her chances out here rather than endure Nelson’s ribald company.

He inwardly chuckled at the idea of his parrot making the young woman blush with his salty language.

Dressed in a fine turquoise blue gown—a gift once intended for another young woman he’d rather not think about—Lady Calliope Banks currently stood on the foredeck with her uncle, Dr. Bell. No doubt she was longing to set foot on dry land again. Although, from what Jonathon could see, she seemed to possess a decent pair of sea legs.

Actually, she had more than decent legs. Or should he say, indecent legs?

Jonathon’s gaze couldn’t help but appreciate the sight of how the strong wind molded her silk skirts to the shapely length of her long, slender thighs. And of course, the delightful curve of her hips and peach-shaped arse.

While she wasn’t pretty in a conventional sense given her freckles and unruly mass of copper-red hair, the lass certainly possessed the kind of figure that provoked all sorts of libidinous and inappropriate thoughts. Especially in a man who hadn’t swived a woman in months.

Thank God his helmsman knew the waters around Mauritius like the back of his hand, because the way the man’s gaze kept straying to the chit’s backside, the Andromeda would surely have suffered the same fate as the Vestal if he didn’t.

As the Andromeda’s first mate, Mr. Keats, approached the helm with the Vestal’s captain, Jonathon, at last, dragged his attention away from Lady Calliope.

“Captain Townsend, I wanted to thank you again for your timely intervention,” began Captain Pickering. “I really thought we were done for.”

“Think nothing of it,” Jonathon replied with an inclination of his head. Truth be told, he was more than a little rankled with the situation, but he hid his irritation behind a smooth smile. It wasn’t entirely Pickering’s fault that his ship had run aground while trying to outrun the Orpheus.

Indeed, for the past two years—both for personal reasons and at the behest of the Crown—Jonathon had been chasing the Orpheus and its perfidious captain, Michael Flint, back and forth across the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. But the evil bastard always managed to give him the slip.

If it weren’t for the fact that the Vestal had been in distress and that Jonathon had been obliged to rescue its crew and passengers, he’d still be in hot pursuit of the notorious pirate and slave trader. A man who was also a deserter from the British navy and a ruthless murderer.

And Jonathon would like nothing more than to see the dog clapped in irons before being summarily executed for his many crimes.

“Of course, I’ll quite happily share half of anything that can be salvaged from the Vestal,” continued Captain Pickering. His expression grew somber. “If the sea doesn’t claim her that is.”

Jonathon clapped him on the shoulder. “Believe me, if it weren’t for the foul weather, I would have stayed to recover your cargo. However, the risk to my crew and others,” he glanced meaningfully toward the young noblewoman and her uncle, “was too great. But tomorrow is a new day. With any luck, the Vestal will stay intact for a little while longer.”

“Yes. Of course. I understand completely,” replied Pickering. “And when I arrive in Port Louis and see Governor Farquhar, he will hear of your valiant actions and the considerable trouble you went to in order to save everyone on my ship. Such an act of heroism should not go unrewarded.”

Jonathon tilted his head again in acknowledgment of the compliment. “It was no trouble at all.”

No, the only truly troublesome thing he’d encountered today was Lady Calliope Banks. Because if he were being completely honest with himself, her presence on his ship was the only reason he hadn’t gone after Flint.

His mouth quirked into a wry grin. Despite his decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts, it seemed he still possessed a trace of chivalry after all.

Chapter 3

Captain Pickering recommended that they seek lodgings at a well-appointed tavern in Mahébourg, close to the main port, and Calliope was quite relieved that Uncle Theo readily agreed. After a twelve-week sea journey that had nearly ended in disaster, Calliope couldn’t wait to spend the night on terra firma in an ordinary bedchamber in a comfortable bed with fresh linen. The overland journey to the capital of Mauritius in the north-west, Port Louis, could definitely wait until tomorrow or even the day after.

“Until the British took Mauritius from the French in the Battle of Grand Bay in 1810, Mahébourg was hitherto named Port Imperial in honor of Napoleon Bonaparte himself,” Pickering explained as a hired dog-cart ferried the Vestal’s captain, Calliope, Uncle Theo, and her uncle’s assistant, Mr. Lucas, to the Anchor and Crown Inn. A white-washed brick building of two-stories with a pale gray slate roof and matching shutters, the tavern had once been named L’Empereur after the deposed French dictator.

Once installed in her room, which had a picturesque view of the bay and the nearby sphinxlike peak, Lion Mountain, Calliope ordered a bath and wallowed in the scented water until it was practically cold and her fingers and toes looked like wrinkled prunes. Uncle Theo had organized a private parlor for dinner and apparently Captain Pickering and his first mate would be joining them—her, Uncle Theo, and Mr. Lucas—at seven o’clock; that meant she needed to make herself look presentable again.

As Calliope combed out her damp locks with her fingers—a brush was just one of the many things she had to replace over the coming days—her stomach growled. It seemed like forever since her last meal aboard the Vestal and even though she was exhausted, she was very much looking forward to a decent dinner. After she’d arranged her coppery curls into a loose chignon at the back of her head using a handful of hairpins that she’d managed to procure from one of the inn’s chambermaids (in exchange for a sixpence that Uncle Theo had provided), she dressed in her borrowed clothes again. Captain Townsend hadn’t even given her a second glance when she’d disembarked from the Andromeda so she assumed he didn’t really care that she’d taken them.

Nevertheless, as soon as her own garments were laundered, she’d somehow return the turquoise gown and delicate underthings to him. She couldn’t bear the idea of being beholden to such an arrogant creature. In the meantime, she had to grudgingly concede, yet again, that she was grateful she had something respectable to wear. As she examined herself in her chamber’s looking glass, she also conceded that the blue-green silk and the elegant cut of the dress suited her.

And then she recalled the way Nelson had whistled at her approvingly, called out ‘cor blimey’, and then flapped his wings when she’d emerged from behind the bedcurtains in Captain Townsend’s cabin. Not that she should pay heed to the raucous catcalls of an obnoxious parrot, she reminded herself when Uncle Theo knocked on her door just before seven o’clock to escort her to the private parlor.

All thoughts of Nelson and his equally irritating owner were banished as soon as her uncle began to prattle off a long list of things they needed to get sorted out on the morrow. Aside from replacing all their clothes and personal items, Uncle Theo was hoping there might be a bank in Mahébourg, otherwise he would need to wait until they reached Port Louis to exchange a bank note for more cash. They’d need to hire horses and a conveyance. Purchase art and writing paraphernalia and new tools for conducting an excavation. Rent a house so Uncle Theo and Mr. Lucas could conduct interviews with Mauritius’s inhabitants about the local lore associated with the dodo bird. And then of course, begin preliminary investigations into the creature’s last known habitats. Uncle Theo had a research paper to write and he would not be deterred in his quest to find evidence that the dodo wasn’t just a legend. Even though the dodo bones at the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford University might have deteriorated to such an extent that many doubted their authenticity, Dr. Theophilus Bell was convinced that they were real.

“You know, Peewee,” began Uncle Theo as they negotiated the stairs side-by-side, “I’m so grateful that I also managed to save my letter of introduction to Governor Farquhar from Dr. Boyer—”

“Peewee?” A deep male chuckle at her back made Calliope freeze on the landing.

Oh no. She knew that voice and mocking tone. Turning her head, she aimed a frosty glare at Captain Townsend over her shoulder. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, sir,” she said in the haughtiest tone she could muster. How dare he laugh at her uncle’s pet name for her! It was none of his business.

“My apologies, Lady Calliope.” The captain inclined his head but the roguish twinkle in his eye put paid to the idea that he was the least bit contrite. “However in my defense, voices do carry in the confines of a stairwell.”

“Yes, the acoustic properties of a space such as this do make one’s voice resonate quite loudly,” agreed ever practical Uncle Theo. “Especially when the walls are constructed of bare stone.”

“Quite,” Captain Townsend agreed and they all began to descend the steps again. “I take it you are both joining Captain Pickering for dinner as well?”

As well? Calliope closed her eyes momentarily. Could this day get any worse? Apparently, it could because at that particular moment, the toe of her half-boot got caught under the edge of the Turkish runner at the bottom of the staircase. As she stumbled and plummeted toward the floor, Uncle Theo cried, “Egads,” but then an arm as strong as a steel bar shot out and caught her about the waist.

As Captain Townsend righted her, Calliope found herself pressed against his rock-hard, lean frame. “Are you all right, my lady?” he murmured, his warmth breath coasting along her ear.

Calliope drew a shaky breath. “I… I think so, Captain Townsend,” she replied huskily. Her heart was racing and she knew the reason wasn’t entirely related to the fact she’d almost hit the floor. Indeed, the captain’s distinctive masculine scent enveloped her and Calliope was hard pressed not to swoon again. What was it about a man’s spicy cologne, the smell of his freshly starched cravat, and something else that could only be described as ‘warm, vigorous male’ that was so delicious?

Delicious? Captain Townsend was not delicious. Mentally berating herself for being such a henwit, Calliope cleared her throat and added, “Thank you for catching me.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said. Was it Calliope’s imagination or did his large hand and muscular forearm linger at her waist a little too long before sliding away, as if he were reluctant to relinquish his hold? How odd. Although, perhaps not for a rakish sea captain…

Uncle Theo cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you, Captain Townsend.” He offered Calliope his own arm. “My word, Peewee. You’ve had more than your fair share of near misses today, haven’t you, my dear gel?” He patted her hand. “That fall would have been almost as spectacular as the one you had at court that time in front of Queen Charlotte and the who’s who of the ton.”

Calliope nodded as a tidal wave of scalding heat flooded her face. As if she needed reminding of that awful incident? She loved her uncle, but because he was a tad eccentric, he was sometimes quite socially oblivious. “Yes. Well,” she said tightly, noting that Captain Townsend was regarding her with more than a little curiosity. Pasting a bright smile on her face in an attempt to try and hide her embarrassment, she tucked a dislodged curl behind her ear and added, “But thankfully it wasn’t, thanks to the good captain here.”

Calliope blushed again. She couldn’t believe she’d just described Captain Townsend as ‘good’, especially now that she could detect an entirely wicked gleam of amusement in his eye.

“It’s a pity he wasn’t at your debut then, eh what?” chortled Uncle Theo as they all crossed the vestibule toward a wood paneled hallway. “Then you wouldn’t have earned that dreadful name?”

“Do you mean, Peewee?” asked Captain Townsend as he opened a polished oak door for them at the end of the corridor.

Calliope bristled at his words, but before she could summon breath to warn Uncle Theo not to divulge the name the ton had given her, he emitted a huff of laughter and said, “No, no. She likes Peewee—it’s a type of lapwing also called a peewit. It’s the moniker Lady Calamity that she dislikes.”

“Of course. Totally understandable.” Captain Townsend nodded gravely but as Calliope passed by him to enter the dining room, she detected an even brighter glimmer of mirth in the man’s deep blue eyes as their gazes met briefly.

If he dared to call her Peewee or Lady Calamity, just once during dinner, he’d be the one meeting with an unfortunate accident tonight, she decided as she swept past. She’d like nothing more than to dump a tureen of soup, or at the very least, a gravy boat, over his head to wipe that smug smile off his face.

Captain Pickering and his first mate, Mr. Holloway rose and greeted Calliope as she entered. A surly looking Mr. Lucas also stood as a manservant stepped forward to pull out a chair for her. Mr. Lucas’s head dipped slightly in lieu of a greeting or bow, but she wasn’t offended. There was no love lost between her and the reserved Oxford scholar. As long as he did the work required of him for Uncle Theo, she really didn’t have a cause for complaint.

Over an expanse of pristine linen set with fine china and cutlery, Calliope snuck a glance at Captain Townsend as he flicked out the coattails of his black superfine jacket and claimed a seat on the opposite side of the dining room table. He’d shaved away the dark stubble he’d been sporting, revealing the smooth, bronze planes of his cheeks and the strong line of his square jaw. The shape of his perfectly chiseled mouth. Her fingers twitched with the desire to sketch such a fine countenance. And then he winked at her and Calliope hastily looked away.

Goodness, was the captain actually flirting with her?

But then again, why would he? Calliope reminded herself sternly as she busied herself with arranging her skirts and her napkin across her lap. He was probably just trying to make her blush bright red again for his own perverse entertainment. Or it might just be that he couldn’t help himself. Flirting was probably as natural and inconsequential as drawing breath for a worldly man like him. Even though she was not the sort of woman that men generally flirted with given her diffident nature and altogether unfashionable complexion and red hair, she’d observed—albeit from afar—the antics of rakish gentlemen like Captain Townsend during her one and only London Season. And she was not impressed.

When she eventually looked up, Captain Townsend was conversing with Captain Pickering about the weather forecast and the logistics of organizing a salvage attempt tomorrow. A small sigh of relief escaped her at the realization she was no longer the object of the impudent man’s interest.

Mr. Lucas, who was taciturn at the best of times, was addressing Captain Townsend. “But what if the captain of the Orpheus returns to finish what he started?” he asked in a tone that clearly indicated he was skeptical of the whole enterprise.

“That’s a fair point, Mr. Lucas,” conceded Captain Townsend. “But what you don’t know is that I’ve asked the Intrepid, a British frigate, to patrol that particular area for the time being. The captain of the Orpheus would be foolhardy indeed if he decided to show up again.”

When Captain Townsend turned his attention back to Pickering, he missed the sour look Mr. Lucas sent his way. Calliope frowned, confused as to why her uncle’s assistant had a bugbear with the captain too. Had Townsend also slighted him in some way? Or was Mr. Lucas simply irritated by the captain’s cocksure manner just like she was? She really had no idea and considering she and Mr. Lucas never spoke about anything beyond the most mundane of matters, she was unlikely to find out.

By the end of Captain Townsend’s discussion with Pickering, it had been decided that the Andromeda would set sail again on the earliest high tide with the crew of the Vestal in attendance. After retrieving as much as they could from the stranded East Indiaman, the Andromeda would continue on to Port Louis. Fortunately for Captain Pickering, his ship had been insured with The Society of Lloyd’s in London, so he wouldn’t lose his entire livelihood.

During the first course—a delightful cream of oyster soup—conversation turned to Uncle Theo’s reason for visiting Mauritius: to definitively prove that the dodo bird had once existed given there was a decided division amongst academic scholars. Some suspected the bird was extinct because it had been so long since anyone had reported seeing one—in fact, the last known account of one was from the late seventeenth century—whilst others believed the creature was nothing but a myth.

“I’m hoping that Governor Farquhar will be able to assist me with my inquiries,” explained Uncle Theo. “Dr. Boyer—he’s a botanist who worked on the gardens at the governor’s residence, Le Réduit—well, he informed me that a Mauritian Scientific Society has lately been established, and that Governor Farquhar would be most amenable to hearing about my proposed Oxford University study.”

Captain Townsend put down his glass of claret. “And how do you plan on getting to Port Louis, Dr. Bell?” he asked. “Le Réduit is very close to the town.”

“Well, I supposed I’d hire a few horses and a cart,” replied Uncle Theo. “And a local guide. I understand the roads are quite rough in places but the journey is only twenty-five miles, give or take a few.”

Captain Townsend quirked a brow. “Or you could dispense with all that fuss and bother and I could sail you, your lovely niece,” he flashed a smile at Calliope, “and your assistant, Mr. Lucas, there in a fraction of the time.”

“Oh, that would be most generous of you, Captain. I… I mean we would be much obliged to you.” A bright smile split Uncle Theo’s weathered cheeks. “Especially considering you’ve already rescued us once today. Or twice,” he winked at Calliope, “in some cases.”

Why on earth was Uncle Theo drawing attention to her mishap on the stairs again? Was he trying to matchmake in his own clumsy way by casting Captain Townsend in the role of ‘hero’? Calliope was suddenly tempted to upend the soup tureen on her uncle.

The captain might have rescued her, but he wasn’t a hero in her eyes. He was a too-handsome scoundrel. No doubt he had a woman in every port. Ha, a well-dressed woman in every port, she mentally amended. Why else would he have armfuls of fine gowns and flimsy unmentionables in his possession? She wanted nothing to do with a philanderer, no matter how heroic his endeavors.

Or how delicious he smelled.

“I am more than happy to do it,” replied Captain Townsend. “And if we’re able to recover some of your belongings from the Vestal, you shall have them restored to you straightaway.”

His gaze drifted over Calliope as he took another sip of his claret.

Was that deceptively casual look implying he wanted the turquoise gown back sooner rather than later? Calliope’s cheeks heated with indignation rather than mortification this time.

When conversation around them resumed, Calliope caught Captain Townsend’s eye. “I’ve been remiss in not thanking you for loaning me this,” she said in a low voice as she gestured at the bodice of the gown. “I’d assumed that you’d given your cabin boy permission to share it with me. In any case, I’ll have it back to you by tomorrow morning. The inn’s laundress should have returned my own garments to me by then.”

But Captain Townsend shook his head. “Keep it,” he murmured in a low, smooth voice. His eyes were dark with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. “The style and color suit you.”

“I…” Calliope frowned. “Thank you… But I…” Drat it. Another red-hot blush was blazing a path along her cheekbones. “Forgive me, but such a gift…” She swallowed and started again. “The gown is lovely, but I suspect it was intended as a gift for someone else. Under the circumstances—and at the risk of sounding ungracious and altogether indelicate—I’d rather not keep it.”

The captain shrugged a wide shoulder. “Your assumption is correct. The gown—and all the other garments Tom probably showed you—were originally intended for someone else. And at the risk of sounding ‘indelicate’ as well, that particular woman exited my sphere of existence some time ago. In actual fact, I never wish to see her again. So if you do not take the gown, it is highly likely that one of my crew will end up using it to swab the decks of my ship.”

“Oh… Goodness. I had no idea.” Calliope’s gaze dipped to the table. Captain Townsend hadn’t been able to disguise the bitter note in his voice or the hard light in his gaze.

“Forgive me, Lady Calliope. I should not have spoken so harshly or so frankly about such a sensitive subject,” he murmured, pulling her attention back to him. “I’ve made you feel uncomfortable and that was inconsiderate.”

Calliope blinked, confused by the man’s apparent change in demeanor. She’d expected another ungentlemanly comment, not an apology. “It’s all right. I… I was the one who brought up a personal topic which is undoubtedly a source of discomfort for you too. I should not have.”

He gave a tight smile. “I’ve been at sea for many years, my lady, and I would be a fool to believe that long periods of absence would heighten affection. Such is the life of a mariner.”

“I must confess, I have never considered what it would be like to be at sea for so long. Why, our particular voyage aboard the Vestal has only taken three months and I’ve been dying to set foot on dry land for weeks and weeks.” As Captain Townsend continued to regard her with interest, she ventured a smile and added, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been roaming the high seas?”

The captain’s wide, full mouth twitched with a half-smile. “Since I was a lad of sixteen. So fifteen years altogether. Eleven years with the British navy before I resigned my commission after the War of 1812 with the United States of America. And over the last few years, I have worked for the Crown in a more—shall we say ?— ‘informal’ capacity.”

Calliope frowned. “Informal capacity?” She was starting to feel like a henwit again.

Captain Townsend flashed a wolfish grin as he leaned forward. Amusement flickered in his cobalt blue eyes. “I’m a privateer, my lady.”

Oh. Calliope blinked in astonishment. “You’re a pirate?” she whispered.

“No. A privateer.” He cocked a dark eyebrow. “There is a difference, you know. For the most part, I hunt pirates. Unscrupulous men like the captain of the Orpheus, Michael Flint. Indeed, he’s one of the worst offenders I’ve ever come across. Aside from regularly plundering British East Indiamen just like the Vestal, he also continues to illegally transport and sell slaves. Indeed, Lord Liverpool the Prime Minister, the Colonial Secretary, and Prinny himself have tasked me with the job of capturing him and other curs like him. Hence my ‘privateer’ status.”

“Why didn’t you go after him today then?” Calliope asked. “After you rescued us?”

Captain Townsend held her gaze. “Because that would have put you, your uncle, and the other paying passengers of the Vestal in harm’s way again. Believe me, there will be other opportunities to snare the blackguard.”

“So, how long have you been chasing this Michael Flint?”

The captain grimaced. “Too long,” he said with a sigh and sipped his claret. His gaze grew hard. “But in reality, it’s been two years.”

“Two years. Heavens. This Captain Flint certainly sounds like a wily fox if he’s been able to evade you for that long.”

Captain Townsend huffed out a mirthless laugh. “You don’t know the half of it, my lady.” He beckoned a servant over to refill his glass then said, “And while he was once an officer in the Royal navy, I don’t think he deserves the title of ‘captain’. Scurvy dog is a more apt description.” His mouth twisted. “Or turncoat and cur.”

“He’s a traitor then?” asked Calliope. A shiver raised the hairs at the back of her neck. To think the Orpheus and a ruthless man like Captain Flint had been so close. What would have become of her and Uncle Theo if Captain Townsend hadn’t arrived? “Goodness, I never thought an Englishman would stoop so low.” She reached for her own glass of claret.

“Yes, he certainly is a traitor,” replied Captain Townsend in a voice as hard as steel. “And mark my words, one day, he shall pay for his crimes.”

Captain Pickering directed a question at Captain Townsend, claiming his attention and Calliope picked at her plate of food—her roast chicken and palmito dauphinoise had gone cold while she’d been conversing. Captain Townsend might be a privateer, but before that he’d been a naval officer. The fact that he’d put her safety and that of others including her uncle’s above his desire to apprehend Captain Flint, spoke volumes about his character. Perhaps her initial assessment of the man had been too harsh and too hasty.

Time would tell she supposed.

Uncle Theo gave her a little nudge with his elbow. “He’s a viscount, you know,” he whispered.

“Who? Captain Townsend?”

“Yes, indeed.” Excitement glimmered in her uncle’s light blue eyes. “Captain Pickering mentioned it just now while you and Captain Townsend—or should I say, Jonathon, Lord Sandford?—were talking. Although he’s a privateer—yes Captain Pickering disclosed that too—and his manners might be a bit rusty, I believe that we can trust him to take us safely to Port Louis, Peewee. Just in case you were concerned. I noticed you didn’t look overly pleased when I accepted Townsend’s offer of assistance earlier.”

Calliope pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. Yes, her uncle was definitely trying to matchmake. But a gentleman privateer would not be in the market for a wife, of that much she was certain. And besides, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted a man like Jonathon Townsend—viscount or not—for a husband. He’d always be at sea. And he’d always be in danger.

No, Lady Calliope Banks. You’d best remain on the spinster’s shelf, she told herself firmly, even as she stole another gaze at the ruggedly handsome man sitting opposite her.

It’s far safer there.

Chapter 4

Good God, I’m three sheets to the wind. What the hell was I thinking?

Jonathon frowned in concentration as he ascended the staircase of the Anchor and Crown Inn with heavy, deliberate footsteps. He hadn’t intended to get drunk. But after dinner had concluded, he’d ended up in the inn’s main taproom, quaffing ale and rum with Pickering and Holloway, and his own first mate, Mr. Keats, rather than paying a visit to Mahébourg’s finest bawdy house as he’d originally planned. It looked like he wouldn’t be using the French letters in his coat pocket any time soon.

All because of Lady Calliope Banks and her pretty blue eyes, plump pink mouth, and perfect peach of a derriere, he grudgingly acknowledged. Never mind her buttoned-up, ladylike demeanor that the cad in him was just itching to undo. How damnably frustrating that he couldn’t seem to get the chit out of his mind. Although he badly needed to tup a woman, he rather suspected that the company of a prostitute just wouldn’t do tonight.

What the bloody, blazing hell is wrong with me?

The world tilted momentarily before righting itself and Jonathon paused on the landing, gripping the balustrade. It seemed the rum they’d all been drinking had been rather rougher and stronger than he’d realized.

No matter. At least I’ll sleep well, he decided as he shook his head in an attempt to clear the alcoholic fog blurring his senses, then resumed his climb to the first floor where his hired bedchamber lay.

He was halfway down the dimly lit hallway—the candles in the wall-sconces had burned low—when a door to his right swung open and someone barreled straight into his chest.

A slight, soft, sweet-smelling female who uttered a breathy ‘oof’ then a gasp.

Lady Calliope Banks.

Lady Calamity.

He caught her gently about the shoulders. “Are you all right, my lady?” he asked, peering down into her fair countenance. In the soft glow of the candlelight—and despite the fact his vision was a little blurry—he noted that thick tendrils of her bright, coppery hair were tumbling about her pale face and slender shoulders and she was still wearing the turquoise gown that fit her so perfectly. He was acutely aware of the feel of her palms resting against his pectoral muscles.

The intimacy of the moment.

Perhaps she was too because a fiery blush marched across her face and she took a step back. Her hands fell away and he relinquished his light hold. “Y-yes. Quite fine,” she murmured. “I apologize for bumping into you.” Her pretty mouth lifted into a smile. “Despite my reputation for courting disaster, I assure you, I’m usually not this clumsy.”

All evidence to the contrary. He bit back the teasing comment as no doubt it would spike her ire and instead asked, “Why are you out here at such a late hour? Can I be of assistance?”

Lady Calliope pushed a stray curl away from her cheek. “I’m having trouble sleeping and wanted to order some hot chocolate. But the bell-pull in my room doesn’t work.”

“I see. I noticed you don’t have a maid...” He trailed off, wondering if she’d elaborate.

“No… Well, I did when we set out from England. But the journey didn’t agree with her.” She waved a dismissive hand. “When all’s said and done, it’s really by-the-by.”

“Hmmm.” Jonathon frowned. He was certain there was more to that story—just as he supposed there must be some intriguing reason that a titled young woman like her had chosen to accompany her eccentric uncle on a wild goose chase for a long-dead bird at the ends of the earth—but he supposed it really wasn’t any of his business. Aloud he said, “You shouldn’t be wandering about by yourself though. You don’t know who you might run into.”

The young woman lifted her chin and looked down her pert little nose at him, at least in a figurative sense. “You’re not my guardian, Captain. Or should I call you Lord Sandford?”

“Captain Townsend will do. Where’s your uncle?”

“Asleep. And I do not wish to disturb him. He’s exhausted.”

“Tsk tsk, Lady Calliope. Do you really think your uncle would want you to risk your own safety in the hunt for something as prosaic as hot chocolate? Allow me to escort you downstairs, then back to your room. There are some nefarious, rough types about who are well into their cups and would think nothing of molesting an attractive young lady like you.”

“I… I’m sure I’ll be quite fine,” she stated firmly. “I don’t intend to linger in the taproom.”

Jonathon raised an eyebrow. “You can trust me, you know. As I mentioned at dinner, I was once an officer in the Royal Navy. And it seems you’ve already learned I’m a peer of the realm. I know I proclaimed myself to be a rough mariner when we were first introduced, but I promise to play the part of the perfect gentleman.”

“Really?” Lady Calliope arched a delicate brow back at him and crossed her arms. “You mean a perfectly foxed gentleman.”

What a delightfully stubborn minx. Jonathon’s lips quirked with a smile. “I’m only a little foxed,” he lied.

“Only a little?” she scoffed. Her gaze was suddenly hard and Jonathon frowned as a novel thought occurred to him.

“You don’t like me,” he murmured, taken aback. How bizarre. Women always liked him. Well, that hadn’t been the case with his faithless fiancée in the end…

“Considering how overbearing you were this afternoon, I’m not sure that I do. Besides, I could say the same thing about you. Why do you dislike me so much, Captain Townsend?”

He couldn’t suppress a wry chuckle. How wrong she was. “While I’ll confess that you can be a little vexing on occasion, I don’t dislike you.” Leaning forward he said in a low, velveteen voice that he knew would put her to the blush, “In fact, I find you quite intriguing.”

Even though Lady Calliope did indeed blush, quite spectacularly, she held her ground. “Yet you ordered me to get below as soon as I set foot on your ship,” she rejoined, her face aflame. “And you are telling me what to do yet again. I’m not one of your crew to be ordered about. Captain.”

Jonathon smirked. “Well, given your propensity for getting yourself into trouble, it seems someone needs to take you in hand.”

Anger and some other emotion Jonathon couldn’t quite identify sparked in Lady Calliope’s fine blue eyes. “Take me in hand?”

“Yes.” Jonathon reached out and gently grasped Lady Calliope’s arm, drawing her closer. To his surprise and delight, she didn’t resist. Indeed, if anything, she swayed toward him. Beneath his calloused palm, her skin was warm and smooth as satin. When he grazed his thumb over the tender flesh on the inside of her forearm, her breath hitched and he had the distinct impression she wasn’t averse to his nearness or his touch at all… especially when her eyes drifted to his mouth. “Let me remind you that you’re staying at an inn full of brutish sailors who’ve been deprived of female companionship for a long, long time, Lady Calliope. This isn’t Gunter’s Tea Shop in Berkley Square or Almack’s.”

Lady Calliope raised her chin as her gaze returned to his. Her voice was noticeably husky as she murmured, “Yet I was perfectly safe aboard the Vestal.”

“Captain Pickering runs a tight ship and his crew are used to being around paying passengers, both male and female. Not all the men downstairs at this present moment are so… civilized.”

“And are you civilized, Captain Townsend?” Lady Calliope’s tongue darted out to moisten the plump pink flesh of her delectable lower lip.

Christ. Jonathon swallowed. “Yes,” he said. Although devil take him, he was finding it difficult to remain so. Lady Calliope’s feminine scent drifted around him, tempting him to do something unthinkable. To taste that enticing mouth and find out if the ginger freckles scattered across her countenance could also be found in other places currently concealed by her clothes. To behave like the men he was trying to protect her from…

With an effort, he ignored the animal stirring of lust in his blood, dropped his hand, and stepped away. “I’ll go downstairs and organize one of the barmaids or chambermaids to bring you whatever you desire, my lady. Hot chocolate, was it? Or tea at a pinch if hot chocolate isn’t available?”

Instead of arguing with him again for being high-handed or boorish as he’d half-expected, Lady Calliope simply nodded. “That would be lovely,” she replied. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Excellent.” Jonathon bowed over her hand. “Goodnight then, my lady.”

“Yes, goodnight, Captain.”

As soon as Lady Calliope Banks’s door shut, Jonathon shook his head for the second time that evening in an attempt to knock sense back into his alcohol addled brain. He’d never lusted after spinsterish bluestockings before. Even his former fiancée had fallen into the category of accomplished debutante.

Turning on his booted heel, he headed for stairs. What disturbed him even more than his inexplicable desire for a young woman who clearly wasn’t his usual cup of tea, was the fact he was now fetching her a cup of tea. Or hot chocolate.

An earlier thought returned to his troubled mind: what the bloody, blazing hell is wrong with me?

Hopefully he’d come to his senses by morning.

Chapter 5

The next day dawned bright and fair. As the Andromeda departed Grand Port, its ivory sails billowed in the wind like the wings of great bird taking flight. Calliope, standing on the deck beside her uncle, had to narrow her eyes against the sparkling glints of sunlight dancing across the clear turquoise waters of the bay. All around her, she could hear a host of familiar sounds—the shouts of the crew in the rigging, the snap of the sails, the creak of the deck’s timbers, the cry of gulls, and the rush of waves beneath the ship’s keel as it cut through the gentle swell and ploughed its way out to the open sea.

She was relieved that she’d been able to don her own freshly laundered clothes before they’d departed The Anchor and Crown. Although her stays and half-boots were still slightly damp and she didn’t have a bonnet to protect her hair. Indeed, the stiff sea breeze had already teased a good deal of unruly strands out from her poorly pinned chignon and she was conscious of the fact her white muslin skirts were plastered to the outline of her legs. Again.

She sighed. If any of the crew aboard the Andromeda—or Captain Townsend himself—were sneaking ungentlemanly glances at her figure, well so be it. There wasn’t much she could do about it.

On boarding, she’d immediately sought out the Andromeda’s cabin boy, Tom, and returned the borrowed clothes to him. With any luck, her own lack of wardrobe would soon be rectified if her belongings could be retrieved from the Vestal. Or failing that, she would purchase new things in Port Louis upon their arrival.

“At last, our real adventure is truly beginning, Peewee,” said Uncle Theo. The cheer in his voice resembled the bright peal of the ship’s bell calling the first watch. “I cannot wait to speak with Governor Farquhar and the Mauritian Scientific Society about our quest.”

Mr. Lucas gave a disgruntled harrumph. “Let’s just hope they have some useful intelligence to share,” he said dolefully. “I, for one, do not wish to return to England empty-handed.” Calliope was aware his advancement at Oxford University was dependent upon him making a significant academic contribution. He currently possessed a master’s degree in zoology but had hopes of achieving a doctorate.

“I’m sure we’ll find dodo remains somewhere on the island, Mr. Lucas,” replied Uncle Theo. “The thing is, I firmly believe no one has hitherto really invested much time and energy into the search. Granted it was well-nigh impossible while Mauritius was under French rule. As I’ve oft said, that also means we are probably the first British researchers to actually conduct a proper, scientific investigation. I’m truly excited.”

Calliope could see he spoke the truth. She’d never seen Uncle Theo so invigorated. There was a renewed energy about him—a brightness in both his gaze and smile—that hadn’t been present in England, and it warmed her heart immeasurably to see him thus. And she was pleased for herself too. While the long sea journey to Mauritius had been arduous at times—and yesterday, it had proved perilous—Calliope was happy that she was doing something stimulating for once. That was not to say she hadn’t derived some measure of satisfaction from helping Uncle Theo in whatever way she could in the role of ‘personal secretary’ over the last few years—from organizing his appointments, to keeping track of his expenses, to transcribing his research notes into something legible. But to be on a treasure hunt of sorts—albeit for the bones of a legendary bird—was thrilling indeed.

For Uncle Theo’s sake, she truly hoped he was able to discover something. If he could add to the depleted collection of dodo remains in Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum—only a crumbling head and a foot survived—then his reputation at the university would reach legendary status too.

The cabin boy, Tom, joined their small group at the railing. “Pardon me, Lady Calliope, Dr. Bell, and Mr. Lucas,” he said with a small bow, “but Cap’n Townsend wondered if you might like to join ‘im for a spot o’ tea in his quarters.”

Calliope blinked in surprise. “Oh, how lovely.” And unexpected. It was almost as if Captain Townsend was going out of his way to prove he was indeed, civilized, just as he’d professed last night. Heat bloomed in Calliope’s cheeks as she recalled the feel of his large, warm hand on her arm. The arrested look in his eyes as he’d studied her face and the warmth in his voice as he’d teased her. She should have been affronted, considering how foxed he’d been—he rather smelled like he’d been swimming in a vat of rum. But the disconcerting thing was, she hadn’t been offended. Not at all.

“We’d be delighted,” said Uncle Theo. “And I hope Nelson will be joining us too.” Calliope had told her uncle about the garrulous parrot and she knew he was very keen to observe the bird’s antics for himself.

“Aye, of course, sir,” replied Tom as he ferried them toward the door leading below decks. “But as I tell everyone before they meet ‘im, you mustn’t mind what ‘e says. While ‘e is a real ‘ave-a-chat, ‘e doesn’t ‘ave the best manners.”

On entering the captain’s cabin, Captain Townsend pushed away the chart he was studying and rounded his desk to greet his visitors. Nelson, who sat upon his master’s wide shoulder, regarded Calliope, her uncle, and Mr. Lucas with keen, beady eyes. “Aaargh! Avast, ye landlubbers,” the bird proclaimed, fluttering his wings. “Batten down the hatches! Get below. Get below!”

“I’m sure you would have made Nelson’s acquaintance yesterday, Lady Calliope,” said Captain Townsend as he returned Nelson to his perch by one of the wide mullioned windows.

“Yes,” she replied as they all took seats at the large dining table where an elegant tea service had been set out on silver trays with raised edges; Spode china cups and saucers, a matching china jug and teapot, a silver urn, teaspoons, sugar bowl, and tea caddy. There was even a plate of ginger biscuits. “I did indeed.”

When she dared to cast a glance at the gray parrot, she noticed he was bobbing up and down in that cheeky way of his.

“Thar she blows! Booty ahoy, booty ahoy,” Nelson called across the cabin, his impudent gaze pinned on her. “Come ‘ere and give us a kiss, my pretty.”

Despite her best efforts not to blush, Calliope felt warmth suffusing her cheeks. Captain Townsend must have noticed her discomfort as he said, “I do hope he wasn’t too impertinent yesterday. He doesn’t encounter lovely young ladies all that often.”

The flare of heat spread across Calliope’s face—not only at the memory of the parrot describing her bottom as booty, but the fact Captain Townsend had yet again suggested she was attractive… although, like all inveterate flirts, she was certain he didn’t mean it.

“He does have a most unique way of speaking,” she conceded as she began to busy herself with the tea things; it was a lady’s duty to pour after all. “It’s not every day one gets told to blow something out one’s bunghole.”

As she opened the tea caddy and dispensed fragrant leaves into the pot, she sensed Captain Townsend was smirking, which meant he’d been feigning contrition and didn’t mean a word he’d just said. Urgh! And to think she’d briefly entertained the idea the man was actually a gentleman after he’d arranged hot chocolate to be delivered to her room last night. Arching an eyebrow, she caught the man’s amused gaze again. “It makes me wonder who taught him so many singular turns of phrase…”

“Well, I think he’s a most fascinating bird,” declared Uncle Theo. “How long have you had him, Captain Townsend? Did you teach him all he knows?”

Captain Townsend accepted a cup of tea from Calliope before responding, “I inherited him, so to speak, a few years ago,” he said gravely. “After a close friend—a naval colleague of mine actually—died unexpectedly. Nelson belonged to him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear your friend passed away,” murmured Calliope. Her heart cramped with genuine sympathy at witnessing the change in the captain’s demeanor. A shadow of sadness and another emotion she couldn’t quite place flickered in his eyes, replacing the spark of insolent mischief she’d become accustomed to seeing there.

“Yes indeed,” agreed Uncle Theo. “I’m sorry to hear that too. And I apologize for inadvertently raising a painful subject.”

“That’s quite all right. You were not to know,” replied Captain Townsend. “But to answer your other questions, Dr. Bell, it was my friend who taught Nelson so many singular turns of phrase,” he turned a smile on Calliope, “as you so eloquently put it, my lady. Although, I have also observed that Nelson has an uncanny knack for imitation. He only has to hear something once and he will repeat it. I do believe he’s even capable of generating new expressions all by himself. He really is very clever.”

“Clever Nelson. Clever Nelson,” crowed the parrot, flapping his wings and puffing out his chest. “Where’s my ginger biscuit?”

Captain Townsend smiled. “Don’t be greedy, Nelson. Tom gave you one earlier.”

“Aargh! Don’t be greedy. Don’t be greedy,” echoed the parrot. “Dead men tell no tales.”

“Remarkable,” repeated Uncle Theo with wonder in his voice. “Truly remarkable. He’s quite the conversationalist. Don’t you think so, Mr. Lucas?”

But Mr. Lucas, whose mouth was crammed with ginger biscuit, merely mumbled something that might have been yes.

“You know, if we were on board the Andromeda for any length of time, I would love to document Nelson’s vocabulary and the variety of phrases he uses,” continued Uncle Theo. “He would make a wonderful case study for a research paper, wouldn’t he, Peewee?”

Calliope made herself smile. Thank goodness the Andromeda was a privateer vessel and did not take paying passengers because being around Nelson and his master was ruffling her feathers and for a host of reasons she’d rather not think about. But not wishing to disappoint her uncle, she replied brightly, hoping her insincerity didn’t show. “Yes. Most definitely. It’s such a shame we’ll be in Port Louis soon.”

“Bollocks and balderdash,” said Nelson and Captain Townsend laughed.

“I apologize yet again for Nelson’s lack of manners, my lady, but even he knows you’re telling fibs,” he said. “Then again, I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to disembark sooner rather than later. The Andromeda’s crew—whether man or parrot—are an uncouth bunch after all. I did warn you.”

Calliope reached for her tea cup to hide her irritation. Ha! How dare Captain Townsend call her out for dissembling, even though that’s exactly what she’d been doing? The cheek of him.

So much for his assertion that he was civilized. What a pile of stuff and nonsense.

It seemed this so-called ‘gentleman privateer’ was not only an inveterate flirt but an inveterate liar. She should have trusted her initial instincts. Yes, the sooner she saw the back of Captain Townsend and his rude parrot, the better.

Chapter 6

Port Louis, Mauritius

Two days later…

“Are you ready, Peewee?” called Uncle Theo through the door of Calliope’s bedchamber at Hôtel Desforges, a lodging house close to the harbor with a sound reputation. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Almost,” she returned as she tied the blue satin ribbon of her straw poke bonnet beneath her chin then tugged on a pair of white silk gloves.

Fortune must have been smiling on Calliope for once—and indeed Captain Pickering as well—because the Vestal had remained relatively intact and hadn’t sunk beneath the waves. Even though the ship couldn’t be rescued—the damage to the hull was too great—a good deal of the cargo had been salvaged: wheat, wool, Madeira wine, ale, copper, iron, and canvas, along with most of the crew’s and passengers’ belongings.

Thanks to Captain Townsend.

Calliope gave a sigh. Her opinion about the man was as variable as the wind. Not that it really mattered anymore considering she’d probably never see him again. She and Uncle Theo were about to embark on a hunt for dodo bones and heaven only knew where their search might take them. Mauritius might be a relatively small island but there were endless beaches, mountains, jungles, and mangrove swamps to explore.

And the captain… well Calliope supposed he would return to hunting down Captain Michael Flint.

Glancing at herself in the large oval looking-glass above the carved wooden mantelpiece, Calliope gave her reflection a nod of approval. One of the maids at Hôtel Desforges had done an admirable job of laundering all of her clothes so they were no longer stiff with brine or smelled like seaweed. Even her pale blue silk muslin, the gown she’d chosen to wear today, looked as though she’d just purchased it from a modiste on Bond Street. Which was just as well as they were about to visit the Governor’s residence, Le Réduit, and she wished to make a good impression.

Snatching up her white silk parasol and reticule, she joined her uncle in the hallway outside.

“Mr. Lucas is waiting for us in the landau out the front,” explained Uncle Theo as they descended the stairs to the hotel’s vestibule together.

“You managed to hire a landau? My goodness,” exclaimed Calliope. “We will certainly be arriving at Le Réduit in style then, won’t we?”

“Yes… About that… ” Uncle Theo frowned. “When Captain Townsend offered—”

Calliope stopped dead in the middle of the entry hall, bristling with irritation. “When did you speak to Captain Townsend? We bid him farewell at the docks two days ago.” Doesn’t he have pirates to catch? A parrot in dire need of etiquette lessons to look after? Decks to swab with discarded silk gowns?

“If you let me finish, my dear gel… I saw him this morning when I was making a few purchases in the main street. As luck would have it, he rents a house not far from here. So when the good captain offered us the use of his carriage, well, I couldn’t say no. His conveyance will be far superior to anything I could have arranged. And generous fellow that he is, he’s also offered to drive us. So rest assured, we’re not inconveniencing him in the slightest. It seems he has business with the governor too.”

Calliope closed her eyes momentarily and prayed for patience. It seemed Uncle Theo was determined to play matchmaker again. Why else would he keep describing the privateer in glowing terms or engineering opportunities for them to meet? It’s not far to Le Réduit, Calliope reminded herself. Just smile politely. Hopefully Captain Townsend will be on his best behavior.

And hopefully he won’t put me to the blush.

Of course, Calliope knew he simply had to throw her a wolfish smile, or wink, and she’d turn into a puddle of reluctant longing at his feet.

Blast him.

She was only just beginning to realize she was more annoyed with herself than with the captain and that her waspish behavior was but a frail armor. She wasn’t usually affected by a man’s attentions—not that she received all that much masculine attention anyway given her unfashionable copper-red hair, ‘cursed’ reputation, and unconventional bluestocking ways. But there was something about Captain Townsend that unsettled her equilibrium in a most disconcerting way. She didn’t want to like him, but she feared that she just might.

When they emerged onto the front steps of Hôtel Desforges, Captain Townsend got down from the driver’s seat of the landau with a fluid leap and gave a gentlemanly bow.

“Good afternoon, Lady Calliope,” he said with a charming smile. Beneath his marked black brows, his eyes gleamed with warmth for once rather than amusement. “You look well today.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a polite incline of her head. She refused to say he looked well too even though he did. In fact, he looked utterly breath-taking in a beautifully tailored navy-blue tailcoat, artfully messy cravat and ash-gray silk waistcoat. Form-fitting ivory pantaloons, shiny black Hessians, a black beaver hat and kid riding gloves completed his ensemble. Indeed, Captain Townsend wouldn’t be out of place in Hyde Park or one of London’s exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

Holding out one large, gloved hand, he handed Calliope into the elegant open carriage. She took a seat opposite Mr. Lucas, Uncle Theo joined her, and once Captain Townsend vaulted back into the driver’s seat with an athleticism that had Calliope quietly swooning, they were on their way.

Captain Townsend drove the landau at a spanking pace through the relatively wide, palm tree lined streets of Port Louis with their white-washed stone buildings. Indeed, it wasn’t long before they were on the open road, heading for the hills where Le Réduit lay.

It was another fine day with nary a cloud in the azure blue sky and Calliope’s spirits began to soar like a bird winging its way toward the sun. How ironic that the winter weather here in Mauritius felt more like a Mediterranean summer. It certainly made a change from the perpetually dismal weather in England, and in actual fact, the northern hemisphere in general.

As the landau began to wind its way upward, Calliope was delighted by the wonderful view. If she’d had her sketch book, easel, and water colors with her—and they could afford the time—she’d be tempted to paint it. Through the trunks of exotic looking trees, so different from anything she’d ever seen in England, she caught glimpses of Port Louis’s bustling harbor and causeway, and the deep blue waters beyond. Inland and to their left, rising above Port Louis and dominating the horizon lay a jagged mountain range.

“If we weren’t otherwise engaged this afternoon, I would suggest a visit to the botanical gardens and nearby Church of Pamplemousses,” called Captain Townsend over one wide shoulder. “But alas, it is in the opposite direction to the Governor’s residence.”

“That’s quite all right,” returned Uncle Theo. “I understand Le Réduit has excellent gardens.”

“Yes, indeed.” Captain Townsend slowed the matched grays pulling the landau as he negotiated a particularly tight turn in the road. The trees on the hillside were now beginning to thin out and Calliope had a glorious uninterrupted view of the verdant countryside, the coastline and the vast Indian Ocean. The vista was truly breathtaking.

In a little under an hour, they were pulling into the gravel drive leading to the mansion. Captain Townsend explained that the present residence had been built by the French governor Antoine de Guiran in 1778 and that the extensive grounds extended over two hundred and forty acres.

“It’s lovely,” remarked Calliope as the landau approached the elegant two-story building of white-washed stone with its long verandahs supported by slender columns. “And you’re right, Uncle Theo. The gardens are indeed excellent.” Emerald green lawns were interspersed with well-tended garden beds. Everywhere her gaze landed there was an abundance of vibrant flowers, shrubs, and copses of lush trees.

“All thanks to Governor Farquhar and the botanists Boyer and Helsenberg.” Uncle Theo patted his coat pocket. “And I have Dr. Boyer’s letter of introduction right here.”

As soon as the landau drew to a halt, several African footmen decked out in fine livery appeared and approached the carriage to assist. Captain Townsend tossed the reins to a boy who’d emerged from round the side of the house—presumably from the stables—before alighting and offering to help Calliope down himself. His attentiveness confounded her, but she decided to accept his assistance with good grace for once. After all, it wasn’t every day that a handsome man offered her his hand and then his arm to escort her anywhere.

Over the years, Calliope had discovered that for the most part, she was invisible to the opposite sex. A part of the wallpaper or the furniture. A shadow at the back of the room. As inconsequential and unremarkable as the forgotten, dusty tomes on her uncle’s crowded bookshelves in Oxford. It was nice to be in the sun for once, warmed by the flash of a handsome smile. She just had to remind herself that’s all she could ever expect from a man like Captain Townsend.

On reaching the covered portico festooned with a fuchsia-hued bougainvillea, a footman swung the glossy front door wide open revealing a cool, shadowy hallway. Once they’d handed over their hats and gloves to another footman, Captain Townsend introduced Calliope, Uncle Theo, and Mr. Lucas to the silver-haired English butler who appeared. Then they were all ushered into a roomy parlor with high ceilings, white wood-paneling, and finely carved ebon and mahogany furniture.

Calliope was surprised to see a well-rendered oil painting of a stout looking dodo bird hanging above one of the silk upholstered sofas. As she studied it, Captain Townsend joined her.

“Do you like art, Lady Calliope?” he asked, regarding her rather than the painting, with focused interest.

“Why, yes. I do,” she replied. “Although I could never render something as fine as this,” she gestured at the painting, “I do love to dabble with water colors.” Casting a shy glance the captain’s way, she added, “So I must thank you again for retrieving my belongings from the Vestal. Amongst my things were my paints, brushes, and my folio of art. My pictures might not have great artistic merit, but I’m fond of them all the same.”

“I should like to see them some time, Lady Calliope. I’m sure they’re very good.”

“And I’m sure you are just being kind.”

Captain Townsend laughed. “Kind? Now that’s a quality not generally ascribed to someone like me.”

Before Calliope could think of some way to respond to the captain’s unexpected self-effacing comment, His Excellency, The Honorable Robert Farquhar, Governor of Mauritius, entered the room. A lean, attractive looking gentleman of middling age, he greeted Captain Townsend warmly before turning his attention to the rest of the group.

“Dr. Bell, I’ve just read your letter of introduction from the marvellous Dr. Boyer,” said Governor Farquhar. His dark brown eyes regarded Uncle Theo with keen interest. “And I must say, I’m thoroughly intrigued by your proposed expedition. I do believe our fledgling scientific society will be as well. I can’t wait to hear more.”

Uncle Theo beamed. “I’m most heartened to hear that, your excellency. And I sincerely appreciate that you are able to spare the time to listen to our plans,” he gestured toward Mr. Lucas. “And of course, any support the scientific society can offer will be most welcome too.”

“Capital,” rejoined Governor Farquhar. Turning to Calliope he added, “My lady, I’m afraid my dear wife, Maria Francis, is seeing her modiste in Port Louis this afternoon. But a tour around the gardens followed by tea on the veranda can be arranged if you would like. I’m sure that it will be a far more pleasant enterprise than listening to us gentlemen drone away in my stuffy study.”

“Of course,” replied Calliope with a smile. She was only Uncle Theo’s assistant. A personal secretary of sorts. And it was his research expedition.

“And I would be happy to escort you about the gardens, my lady,” said Captain Townsend.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out—” she began but the captain waved a dismissive hand.

“You won’t be doing anything of the sort,” he said. “Besides, it will give His Excellency, Dr. Bell, and Mr. Lucas the opportunity to meet privately.” He caught the governor’s eye. “I trust that I may speak with you afterwards, sir.”

“Most certainly,” Governor Farquhar replied. “And then we can all join Lady Calliope for tea on the veranda later.”

After retrieving Calliope’s parasol and their hats and gloves, Captain Townsend offered his arm and led Calliope down a neat gravel path, past parterres of brightly hued blooms where butterflies hovered.

A gardener doffed his cap and smiled at them, his teeth a flash of white in his darkly handsome face and Calliope tilted her head in acknowledgment and smiled back.

When they were out of earshot, she remarked quietly. “It both surprises and saddens me that the British Parliament has abolished the abhorrent practice of slave trading but hasn’t emancipated all slaves at the same time. It doesn’t sit well with me. No one should own another person. Everything within me believes that it’s wrong.”

“Ah, you’re an abolitionist then, Lady Calliope?”

She sensed Captain Townsend was regarding her intently. “Yes, I would say that I am,” she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Uncle Theo holds similar views.”

“As do I. While I do believe Governor Townsend is not a supporter of slavery personally, he has disclosed to me he treads a difficult path here in Mauritius. The French settlers, of whom there are many, would certainly rise up in protest should he attempt to change the status quo too quickly. In the meantime, I hope to lead by example.”

Calliope stopped by a pond beneath the canopy of a large, willow-like tree and closed her parasol. A flash of orange below the lily pads suggested the presence of goldfish. “How so?” she asked, surprised that Captain Townsend was more progressive in his thinking than she’d hitherto believed.

“I own a sugar plantation just outside of Mahébourg. Belle Mer,” he said, following her into the shadows cast by the tree’s graceful drooping branches. “But after I purchased it, I emancipated each and every slave. The workers on the estate and at the house are all free men and women and earn a wage. It has made me unpopular with quite a few folk in some quarters—some even think that I am mad—but I don’t give a jot. Doing what is morally right is the only thing that matters.”

“It seems I have misjudged you, Captain. When we first met, I believed you to be a thoroughly dishonorable, unprincipled character. Clearly, you are not.”

He laughed then, a deep rich sound. In the dappled shade, his eyes darkened to indigo reminding her of the wide blue ocean. “You give me too much credit, my lady. Don’t ever forget I’m a ruthless privateer at heart.”

“Yet only a few nights ago, you declared you were civilized, Captain Townsend,” she challenged, turning to face him directly. For some unfathomable reason, she felt inexplicably bold.

“I am when it suits me. But right at this moment, I’m not sure that it does.” The amusement in his eyes was suddenly replaced with shimmering heat and he drew closer. So close she could see the steady beat of his pulse just above his cravat. Smell his delicious, spicy cologne.

Without conscious thought, her gaze fluttered to the captain’s wide mouth. For the first time, she noticed a small scar on his top lip, right at the very corner. An unfamiliar but not altogether unpleasant warmth began to gather in secret, feminine places. Her nipples hardened and her stays felt far too tight.

Was Captain Townsend going to be uncivilized and kiss her?

A searing blush spread across Calliope’s cheeks. Desire fought with common sense and an unwelcome flicker of self-doubt. The captain was probably just teasing her again. A worldly, roguish man like him couldn’t really want her, a freckle-faced, red-headed spinster.

Could he?

“I… We… we should…” Calliope stammered, unable to formulate anything more than an incoherent and utterly feeble protest. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but she was essentially taking an unchaperoned tour of the gardens with a charming wolf dressed up in gentleman’s clothing. They shouldn’t linger here in this secluded spot for too long.

Perhaps recognizing she was all at sea and clearly out of her depth, Captain Townsend took pity on her. “Come,” he said, squeezing her hand and breaking the strange spell he’d effortlessly cast over her. “I’m sure there’s an excellent afternoon tea waiting for us back at the house.”

“Yes…” she agreed and busied herself with putting up her parasol again. “Yes, I’m sure there is too. And we wouldn’t want the tea to get cold.”

“Just so.”

They moved on, heading toward a grove of exotic looking fruit trees. Golden, teardrop-shaped globes peeked out from beneath dark glossy leaves. “Actually, my lady, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a little personal though, so do feel free to tell me it’s none of my business.”

Calliope frowned. “Goodness. It sounds like a rather serious question.”

“I suppose it is in a way. It’s just that I’m curious. Someone like you—the daughter of an earl no less—why did you decide to accompany your uncle on such an arduous journey? I’ll grant you, Dr. Bell’s quest is interesting enough, but for the life of me, I’m baffled as to why you would want to join him in a search for the bones of a long dead, perhaps even non-existent bird.”

Calliope turned her head, thankful that the brim of her bonnet would shield her hurt expression. “You think that I’m odd.” She hoped that she sounded matter-of-fact rather than put out. “Not that I blame you. Most people do.”

“No.” Captain Townsend stopped in the middle of the lawn. “As I said once before, I think you’re intriguing.”

If only that were true. Calliope didn’t trust his silver tongue. Such pronouncements felt too glib. With a sigh, she looked back at him. “Have you heard of the Winthrop family curse, Captain? It’s well-known throughout the ranks of the ton.”

Beneath his beaver hat, Captain Townsend’s dark brows lowered into a frown. “I’m afraid I haven’t. But then I’m not often in England. And when I am, I don’t have time or the inclination to pay attention to scurrilous talk.”

“Well, I happen to be the current bearer of it,” she said and they resumed their walk. “At least according to my family and a good portion of polite society. And because that is the case, it seems that my uncle is the only one who is willing to take on the risk of having the accursed Lady Calamity Banks live within his household. Until we embarked on this expedition three months ago, I resided with him and my elderly maiden aunt, Hestia Bell, at his house in Oxford, right near the university.”

“You didn’t wish to stay in Oxford with your aunt?”

Calliope couldn’t suppress a huff. “I’m afraid the answer to that is no. Aunt Hestia was more than happy to see the back of me after her canary passed away. Apparently, it was my fault it somehow escaped from its cage and became her cat’s supper.”

“Why that’s utterly ridiculous.”

Calliope shrugged. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t matter whether the curse is real or not. It’s what others believe to be true that does. I don’t know if you came across the news nine years ago, but my dear father, the former bearer of the curse, died in a dreadful accident when I was eighteen. By all accounts, he was knocked down by a carriage in London one night. And then following my one and only ill-fated Season when I was twenty, my poor mama passed away from a terrible ague. From that time on, the Banks family shunted me from pillar to post because whenever anything unfortunate happened—if there was another death in the family or a financial loss of some kind, or if someone developed something as mundane as a simple toothache—it was attributed to me and the curse. I’ve had five homes within six years. Indeed, some even blamed me for my own mother’s death. The family physician maintained she died of pleurisy, a complication of the ague she’d contracted. But because I had been the one who’d suffered from a head cold to begin with, I must have made her sick. Ergo, it was my fault. And perhaps it was—” her voice faltered “—at least in this particular instance.” She bent her head and dashed away a tear as a wave of old guilt and doubt resurfaced.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, my lady.” Captain Townsend’s tone was grave, the light in his eyes sincere. “And of course it wasn’t your fault. But I feel compelled to ask… Didn’t you have a guardian? Someone who had your best interests at heart and could have intervened to put an end to this silly superstition?”

“That would be my cousin, Eustace, the new Lord Winthrop.” She attempted a smile. She appreciated that all of the captain’s usually flippancy had disappeared and he seemed genuinely concerned for her. “Unfortunately, he’s easily swayed and whenever anyone complained about my noxious presence, he simply capitulated and endeavored to find another situation for me. His wife couldn’t stand me. She thought I was responsible for the twenty pounds she gained in the first year I stayed with them following my mama’s passing. Though I rather suspect it was all the cakes and sweets she ate that did it. I expect the bills from Fortnum and Mason, and Gunter’s were enormous.”

They’d arrived back at the house. Beneath the covered veranda which rather resembled a greenhouse considering the number of lush potted plants filling the space, Calliope could see a lovely silver tea service and an array of delicate petit fours and sandwiches had been laid out upon a wrought-iron table. Two more liveried footmen and a maid stood in the cool shadows, waiting to attend them.

“So there you have it, Captain Townsend,” Calliope concluded as she handed her parasol, bonnet, and gloves to one of the footmen. “I am the family scapegoat. At least Uncle Theo is happy to have me in his life. And I am more than happy to be his personal secretary and support his academic endeavors, wherever they may take him.”

“And is that enough for you?” Keen interest glimmered in Captain Townsend’s dark blue gaze. “Are you fulfilled, Lady Calliope?”

“I—” Before Calliope could respond, her uncle and Mr. Lucas emerged from a nearby set of French doors.

“Calliope,” Uncle Theo exclaimed as he approached the afternoon tea table. “Such wonderful news. In a week’s time, Governor Farquhar has offered to host a banquet dinner here at Le Réduit. It will afford us the opportunity to meet with members of the Mauritian Scientific Society as well as some of the island’s oldest residents who may recall tales about the dodo. With any luck, we’ll discover some new intelligence that will aid us in our search.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “I cannot wait.”

“That is indeed wonderful.” Calliope returned her uncle’s smile.

“It certainly is,” agreed Captain Townsend. “I’m very happy for you all.”

When Le Réduit’s butler appeared and announced the governor was ready to receive Captain Townsend in his study, the privateer bowed politely. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Calliope, Dr. Bell, and Mr. Lucas.”

“Of course,” said Uncle Theo. “Don’t let us keep you.”

As Calliope watched the captain go, and then all through afternoon tea, she couldn’t help but dwell on his question, rubbing at it like a bruise that had never quite healed.

Am I fulfilled?

Since she’d begun living with Uncle Theo and had voluntarily taken on the role of his personal secretary, she’d always thought so. But science was his passion, not hers, and in a secret place in her heart, she knew that she still yearned for everything she’d dreamed about all those years ago when she was a young, starry-eyed debutante about to be introduced to Society. She wanted a husband who loved her just as much as she loved him. She wanted children. Lots of them.

She wanted a place that was truly home.

A place where she belonged.

She didn’t want to be viewed as an object of pity, or derision, a nuisance, or even worse, a burden.

Not that her uncle ever made her feel that way. But no, if Calliope were truly honest with herself, she knew the life she lived wasn’t enough and perhaps never would be. And in some ways, that was even more lowering than the idea that she was cursed.

* * *

“So, how goes the hunt for Flint?” asked Robert Farquhar as he settled into the leather chair behind his ornately carved teak desk, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Jonathon grimaced. “Not well. Although I did manage to prevent him from plundering a merchant vessel in distress. The Vestal. It was thrown off course and ran aground on a reef south of Pointe D’Esny. Lady Calliope, Dr. Bell, and his academic colleague, Mr. Lucas, were on board.”

“Yes, Captain Pickering visited yesterday and informed me of your role in the rescue.” Farquhar smiled. “And thanks to you, the crew, passengers and much of the cargo were saved. You have my congratulations on a job well done.”

Jonathon inclined his head. “Thank you. Although I would have been happier if I’d managed to capture the Orpheus as well.”

“I have no doubt that you will.”

“Hmph. I wish I had your confidence.” Jonathon took a sip of his own coffee. “The annoying thing is, I suspect Flint has a lair close by that he scarpers off to. Perhaps on the Isle of Bourbon, or even Madagascar. But for the life of me, I can’t flush him out.”

“And the navy hasn’t been able to track him either.” Farquhar’s tone was as grim as Jonathon’s mood.

“No…” Jonathon sighed heavily. “It’s beyond frustrating. It also makes me wonder if there’s someone here on Mauritius that Flint is paying to turn a blind eye to his illicit activities. An accomplice. Because he must have a base somewhere along the Mauritian coastline so that slaves can be smuggled onto the island to sell to the French plantation owners. Or perhaps he has a base on Île de Bourbon.”

“Yes. I suspect you’re right,” agreed the governor gravely. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground and make sure the naval vessels stationed here continue their regular patrols. Flint has to run out of luck one day. Now, on another subject entirely,” Farquhar leaned forward, his elbows on the leather blotter, “would you care to attend the dinner banquet I’m holding here next week? If you’re available of course. It might be a rather dry affair considering it will essentially be a meeting of the scientific society, but I’m sure you’ll liven up proceedings. And Maria would love to see you as always.”

“Of course,” said Jonathon. “I should be able to manage it. Tomorrow, I intend to sail south again and scout along the coast for any suspicious activity before I spend a few days at Belle Mer. While my plantation manager is competent, it’s been some months since my last visit and I do like to keep an eye on things myself. So, all going well, I will be back in time.”

“Excellent.” Farquhar rose to his feet indicating their meeting was at an end. “Maria and I will look forward to seeing you then. I’m sure Dr. Bell and his niece will too.” The governor grinned. “Lady Calliope seems like a delightful young woman, doesn’t she? I’m certain she’ll have more than a few admirers at the banquet next week. The bucks of Port Louis, are always keen to make the acquaintance of any new, eligible females who’ve arrived on the island. Especially young women with a title.”

“Yes. No doubt.” Even as Jonathon said the words, an unfamiliar feeling began to niggle at him. He was loath to call it jealousy.

Although deep down, he feared it might be exactly that.

Chapter 7

Le Réduit, Mauritius

A week later…

“Ouch!” Calliope crashed into Mr. Lucas and they both came to a grinding halt in the middle of Le Réduit’s dance floor. After the first blast of white-hot pain had passed, Calliope’s abused appendage began to throb ominously inside her thin satin slipper. “I think you’ve broken my little toe.”

Mr. Lucas didn’t look the least bit mollified though. “My apologies, my lady,” he said without meeting her gaze. Around them, the waltz continued, couples swirling by. The string quartet didn’t falter. “But you did stumble.”

Calliope’s mouth flattened. What rot. If there weren’t other people in close proximity, she’d be tempted to employ one of Nelson’s favorite phrases and tell the lying sod to blow it out his bunghole. The man was a terrible dancer and he was the one who’d tripped and planted his over-sized hoof on top of hers. But there was no point in arguing so she said, “I think I should like to sit down, Mr. Lucas.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Calliope reluctantly took his proffered arm and she hobbled over to a vacant damask upholstered sofa located at the edge of the crowded room. Mr. Lucas offered to fetch her a glass of punch but she declined. She could tell by his expression that he didn’t really want to and she’d had enough of his company for the moment. Why he’d asked her to waltz to begin with, she had no idea considering he’d spent most of the dance staring at her décolletage—which was decidedly odd as she was certain the man did not fancy her in the slightest.

After Mr. Lucas mumbled something about seeking out her uncle and took his leave, Calliope subsided with a weary huff into the chair’s plush cushions; she rather suspected she looked a lot like the wilting gardenias, roses, and daylilies in the floral arrangements decorating Le Réduit’s ballroom.

It had been a long evening.

When she’d arrived at Le Réduit tonight in the company of Uncle Theo and Mr. Lucas, there was both eagerness and anticipation in Calliope’s heart. Not only was there the possibility that her uncle and Mr. Lucas would make some headway with their investigation at long last, but she was also looking forward to seeing Captain Townsend. He’d announced he intended on attending the banquet during the return trip to Port Louis following their first visit to the governor’s residence.

However, as the evening progressed, it became evident to Calliope that the affair would be a disappointment in more ways than one, despite the fact Governor Farquhar and his lovely wife, Maria Francis, had spared no expense and provided a lavish banquet along with a string quartet to entertain them all. At least fifty guests were in attendance—including five members of the Mauritian Scientific Society and nineteen of the island’s oldest residents—but sadly, not one of the guests they spoke to, had any information to impart about the dodo. There were no family stories or local legends beyond the most superficial of tales. Some had never even heard of the bird. Certainly, no one had ever come across any dodo remains.

It was most disheartening to say the least.

And then of course, Captain Townsend hadn’t put in an appearance.

Naturally, he might have legitimate, pressing reasons not to attend the banquet; he was tasked with hunting down a notorious pirate after all. So, it was beyond foolish of Calliope to think he might be able to spare the time to further their acquaintance.

However, it seemed her common sense had flown right out the window. Whenever she thought about seeing Captain Townsend again—which was often—she was as giddy as a girl about to embark on her first Season. It was a complete turnabout on her part considering how much his alternately rude, provoking, and high-handed behavior had put her in a state of high dudgeon during their first few encounters. But then, during their stroll in Le Reduit’s gardens, he’d revealed a softer, perceptive side. One that had totally disarmed her. No wonder she was at sixes and sevens.

Calliope adjusted her position on the sofa and winced as her injured toe protested. At least the throbbing had begun to subside. She suspected it was only bruised rather than broken. Looking down, she could see her white satin slipper was horribly scuffed and there was a dirty mark on the fine ruffle along the hem.

A despondent sigh slipped out. In another uncharacteristic flight of fancy—she wasn’t one to follow the latest fashions by any means—she’d purchased her lovely new gown from a French modiste in Port Louis, in the hope of catching Captain Townsend’s eye. The ‘cerulean blue’ silk muslin with delicate vandyke lace trim was the perfect foil for her red hair—at least that’s what the modiste had told Calliope. And the low-cut neckline was apparently tasteful, not scandalous. Calliope was pleased her mother’s exquisite sapphire and diamond jewelry—the necklace and earrings—matched beautifully too.

But in the end, her attempt to impress Captain Townsend had all been for naught.

Calliope sighed despondently as she watched the other guests dance a quadrille. Maria Farquhar was busy conversing with several Mauritian matrons in an elegant reception room where a post-prandial supper had been laid out. And Uncle Theo was still ensconced with the members of the scientific society in the dining room; Calliope imagined he and Mr. Lucas would be busy chatting for some time yet. She wasn’t sure where Governor Farquhar had disappeared to.

In contrast to the balls she’d attended during her first Season, she hadn’t been a wallflower at all tonight, so she really couldn’t complain too much. It had been years since she’d last danced and she’d quite enjoyed it… until her toe was stomped on. Aside from partnering Mr. Lucas, she’d already danced several lively country dances with various gentlemen: a dark-haired French merchant with a curling moustache whose English was so heavily accented, he was difficult to understand; a spotty-faced but pleasant young man who couldn’t have been older than nineteen; and a middle-aged Scotsmen with a rather florid complexion and a paunch who smelled like pipe tobacco. But now the soles of her feet were sore, her little toe ached, and she was hot and tired and just generally out of sorts. She wouldn’t be dancing anymore.

Perhaps she just needed some fresh air to revive her flagging spirits and dispel her self-indulgent pique about Captain Townsend’s absence.

There’s no point in pining for the moon, she told herself as she rose and then limped across the room. Passing though the French doors, she emerged onto the veranda. Several other guests had decided to take the night air as well and lingered in secluded corners. Lamps glowed softly from their hidey-holes amidst the lush curtain of flowering vines hanging from the veranda’s roof. The laughter, chatter, and music emanating from the ballroom along with the heady perfume of fragrant blooms drifted around her. Somewhere in the dark garden, a night bird called.

Calliope found her own quiet, shadowy spot beside one of the veranda’s slender white pillars. Leaning against it, she folded her arms against her waist and closed her eyes. A balmy breeze flirted with the curls framing her face and her skirts. Despite her best efforts not to think about that dizzying moment in Le Reduit’s gardens a week ago when Captain Townsend had almost kissed her, her mind strayed to it once more. Tonight, if the opportunity had arisen, she’d hoped he might even be tempted to try and kiss her again. And this time, she wouldn’t baulk like a skittish girl.

Of course, a simple kiss would mean nothing to a man like him. Calliope wasn’t that naïve. But damn it, she was twenty-seven years old and she wanted a man to kiss her, even if she couldn’t have all the other things her heart truly desired.

But clearly her wish would always be nothing more than a silly fantasy. Because Captain Townsend wasn’t here. And it was altogether likely she’d never see him again. In some ways, expecting nothing was far easier because then she couldn’t be disappointed.

A tear slipped onto her cheek and she dashed it away with an impatient flick of her fingers. It seemed her moment in the sunshine had come and gone in the blink of an eye, and yet again, the ordinary gray days of spinsterhood stretched out before her without even the memory of a handsome man’s kiss to sustain her.

“Lady Calliope?”

Her foolish heart leaped at the sound of that deep familiar voice, gruff yet somehow soft at the same time.

She turned to face Captain Townsend. “You came.” The words emerged in a breathless rush and her hands fluttered to her sides. Good Lord, she was acting like a ninnyhammer.

“I’m so sorry I’m late and have missed most of the evening.” The light cast by a nearby lantern illuminated the strong planes on one side of the captain’s handsome face. “But both the tide and fate conspired against me. Someone who I was supposed to meet in Mahébourg didn’t arrive. And then I had to wait for the next favorable tide to sail.”

“It’s no matter,” she lied.

“Of course it matters,” Captain Townsend moved closer. His eyes were as soft and dark as black velvet. “I loathe being late. Not only that, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week so this delay has been… frustrating.” His wide mouth hitched in a smile and Calliope’s insides trembled.

“Oh…” She wanted to believe him. She really did. But she didn’t want to raise her hopes again so she said, “I’m… I mean, I do believe supper is still available. And the dancing is still in progress.”

“I’m not interested in any of that.” His expression grew serious. “Actually, it might surprise you to know that I am keen to learn how the meeting with the scientific society went. Did you learn anything useful about the dodo?”

Calliope grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. My uncle has nothing at all to go on. At the moment I’m afraid his search for dodo bones will be like looking for hen’s teeth. It’s been a most discouraging evening. Unless we find something more to go on, I imagine we’ll return to England sooner rather than later. Which would be a shame. To come all this way only to return home empty handed.” She studied Captain Townsend’s reaction to her remark. She was clearly fishing to see what he thought about the prospect of never seeing her again.

But he simply nodded and said, “Yes. I was worried your uncle’s venture would be a difficult one.” His gaze flitted to the French doors leading to the ballroom before returning to her face. “Would you care to take another turn about the gardens with me? I’d like to speak with you privately.”

“Oh… All right. Yes. Thank you. I would.” Calliope’s pulse began to flutter with nervous excitement. His request could mean only one thing. And she certainly wasn’t going to say no even though walking was still a bit uncomfortable.

She accepted his arm and they began to meander down one of the paved paths, away from the house in companionable silence. Lanterns secreted in the low hedges and shrubs bordering the pathway’s edges, lit their way. The air was cool, with a touch of humidity to it and Calliope wondered if it might rain.

A small gazebo perched atop a low rise came into view. A softly glowing lamp from within illuminated the curtains of fragrant jasmine that cascaded from the domed roof and twined around the fluted, white wooden pillars. Calliope suddenly felt like she was within a fairytale and Captain Townsend was the handsome prince, spiriting her away.

Once inside the gazebo, she took a seat upon a silk cushioned bench and Captain Townsend joined her. She was excruciatingly aware of the smallest things: the spicy, delicious scent of Captain Townsend’s cologne and the heat of his pantaloon clad leg, so very close to her own. That tiny scar on his upper lip…

She licked her own lips nervously. “I imagine the view from here would be glorious during the day,” she remarked, suddenly feeling the need to fill the silence around them. Out here, the sounds of merrymaking inside Le Reduit had faded away and the gentle rustle of leaves in the surrounding trees was the only thing she could hear aside from the pounding of her rapidly beating heart.

“Yes, it’s quite beautiful.” Captain Townsend’s eyes wandered over her face, putting her to the blush. But this time she didn’t mind. Holding her gaze steadily, he continued, “So I mentioned I wished to discuss something with you in private.”

“Oh… Yes.” Calliope’s heart sank a little. Had she completely misread the situation? Before she had time to think on it further, the captain was speaking again.

“During the week, I paid a visit to my plantation, Belle Mer. It’s only about five miles from Grand Port Bay. Anyway, I asked all my staff who work on the grounds and in the sugar cane fields if they had ever come across any unusual remains such as overly large bird bones. And as luck would have it, one of the workers—Benoit is his name—came forward and told me his father once found an odd, beak-shaped bone in a marsh called Mare aux Songes on the edge of the fields. Benoit said he used to play with it when he was a boy. He described it as being quite long, about eight inches in length, with a bulbous tip, ending in a sharp point. The bone has been misplaced, but he drew me a picture from memory. And I wanted to show it to you.”

Captain Townsend reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Calliope took it from him with shaking fingers, and when she opened it up and saw the sketch inside, she gasped. The picture, although roughly rendered in charcoal, looked exactly like the long, hooked beak she’d seen in the Ashmolean museum.

“My goodness. This is remarkable,” she whispered in awe. “I’m certain it’s from a dodo.”

“That’s what I thought too,” said Captain Townsend, “after I examined the dodo painting in Le Reduit’s parlor last week.”

Her heart bursting with delight, Calliope threw her arms about Captain Townsend and kissed his tanned cheek. “Thank you, thank you so much. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me. How much hope you’ve given me.” She sat back and stared at the sketch again. “We must go and tell my uncle.”

“Your uncle can wait.”

“But…” All thoughts of returning to the house immediately fled when Calliope looked up. She swallowed. Oh, my. Captain Townsend’s eyes had grown heavy-lidded. Intent. He seemed to be solely focused on her mouth. Then his smoldering gaze met hers and she knew what he wanted. She wanted it to. More than anything.

His hard, muscular thigh pressed against hers, and he raised one of his large hands to gently tuck one of her curls behind her ear. The night itself seemed to be holding its breath…

And then Captain Townsend leaned forward and kissed her. The moment his firm, warm lips met hers, Calliope melted against his chest.

Yes, oh yes, please, her heart sang. At last, at last, at last.

Her hands curled about Captain Townsend’s large, superfine clad biceps at the same time he cradled her jaw with gentle fingers. His mouth retreated then returned. The smooth, supple slide of his lips across hers was delicious. Irresistible.

When he applied firmer pressure, she moved beneath him in a shy attempt to kiss him back. Even though she had no idea what she was doing, she seemed to please him as he made a satisfied groan. He licked at the seam of her lips, tracing along it with the tip of his tongue and Calliope gasped with both shock and pleasure. The sensation was decadent. Wicked.

And she loved it. Perhaps taking advantage of her surprise, Captain Townsend slipped his tongue between her parted lips, tasting her mouth, caressing her tongue with long, languorous strokes. When Calliope tasted him back, another growl of appreciation vibrated in his throat.

Who knew the act of kissing could be so glorious? So thrilling? Calliope felt hot and dizzy and completely overwhelmed. Desire thrummed deep inside her. It was as though she’d been drinking champagne all night, not harmless punch.

She would never forget this kiss. These moments. Not ever.

When they at last broke apart, breathless, Captain Townsend began to nuzzle her neck. The beginnings of his night beard abraded the tender flesh but his lips were like hot silk, making her shiver with arousal. “By God you’re lovely,” he moaned between kisses. “So sweet…” A sigh gusted against her ear as he raised his head. “But we should stop before we do anything we’ll both regret.”

“Yes…” Frowning, she placed a hand against Captain Townsend’s wide chest and reluctantly eased herself away from his embrace. He was right of course. They shouldn’t go too far even though her body yearned for more of his caresses. But his choice of words stung a little. Was he ruing this intimate encounter already? “Yes,” she repeated. “Besides, I… I should seek out my uncle. Share the good news.”

“Of course.” Captain Townsend drew a deep breath as if he was about to say something she might not like. “However, before we return to the house, I thought we should perhaps clarify this situation. Between you and me. Obviously I’m going to offer you, your uncle and his assistant the full run of my estate, Belle Mer, and the use of my staff to aid your search. In light of what has just happened though, I would hate for things to be awkward between us in the coming days, perhaps weeks. Not that I will be at Belle Mer all that often, given my own hunt so to speak.”

Calliope frowned. “That’s wonderfully generous of you, Captain, but I’m not going to set my cap at you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. We shared a kiss. Nothing more. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old spinster, not a silly young debutante with entirely foolish, romantic notions. I’m fully aware that you and I are charting entirely different courses in life. Neither of us are really the marrying kind, are we?”

Captain Townsend released a sigh as though he was relieved. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other then,” he said. His expression grew graver. “I also want to reassure you that what we just did—this kiss—it won’t affect your time at Belle Mer. I wouldn’t want you to misconstrue things, thinking I’ll expect any further favors from you.”

What? Calliope stiffened. Part of her realized Captain Townsend was trying to reassure her. But at the same time he was also making this interlude seem grubby, not glorious at all. And why had he used the expression ‘further favors’? Was it a slip of the tongue or did he really mean it? Was the kiss a form of quid pro quo?

Self-doubt whispered in her ear: why else would a man like Captain Townsend want to kiss you, Calliope Banks? Despite his passionate words, do you actually think he wants you? Or was he merely dallying with you, teasing you, for his own amusement yet again? It’s not as though he hasn’t done exactly that before.

She had to know. Summoning her voice, she demanded shakily, “So, the kiss we just shared, Captain Townsend was it in fact, a favor? Were you simply collecting a… a form of payment… for showing me this?” She snatched up the discarded sketch of the dodo beak. Indignation and hurt swirled around inside her, coalescing into a black bitter canker. “Because you knew I’d be grateful, didn’t you? Easy to manipulate. Or did you simply want to twist the hapless, gormless, freckle-faced Lady Calamity Banks around your little finger, just for the fun of it? So you could have a quiet chuckle about how gullible I am later?”

His dark brows crashed into a scowl. “No, of course not. What sort of man do you take me for? As I said before, I acted on impulse, nothing more. And now I can see it was a terrible mistake. A decided momentary lapse of reason on both our parts, I dare say.” Clearly exasperated, he dragged a hand through his thick black hair, ruffling it into wild spikes. “Look, perhaps both of us should just forget this kiss ever happened.”

How quick he was to dismiss what they’d just shared. Like it meant nothing. But Calliope didn’t want him to see how much he’d wounded her so she snapped back, “Well, that’s one thing we can agree on, Captain.” She got to her feet, the sketch still in hand. “And just for the record, neither you, nor anyone else for that matter, could pay me enough to trade favors, let alone form any sort of romantic attachment with a man like you.” As soon as the cruel words were out, Calliope regretted them. She’d never thought of herself as a harpy, but it seemed disappointment, embarrassment, and anger at being used so cavalierly had sharpened her tongue.

Captain Townsend rose. His expression was as hard as stone as he looked down his long blade of a nose at her. “Well, madam, it seems you are not the only female who has held that view. I do believe my former fiancée said something quite similar almost a year ago when we parted ways.”

“Oh…” Horrified guilt churned uncomfortably inside Calliope’s belly. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t meant to be so tactless. That was unforgivably rude of me.” She took a deep breath. “What I mean to say is, I don’t think we’d suit. You’re a privateer. You’d always be at sea. And I… well I don’t belong anywh—” She swallowed the last word, hating how pathetic and lost it made her sound. “I belong in England,” she amended with a lift of her chin. “With my uncle.”

Captain Townsend’s dark blue gaze was shuttered. “Yes,” he said coolly. “Quite. That’s also essentially what she said. Now, at the risk of being accused of ungentlemanly behavior again, might I suggest we return to the house separately? For the sake of appearances, you understand.”

“I think that would be wise,” agreed Calliope dully, suddenly feeling heartsore. She’d clearly been lying to herself and Captain Townsend when she’d professed she didn’t harbor foolish, romantic notions. “We wouldn’t anyone to misconstrue the situation.”

“Just so.” Captain Townsend tilted his head toward the garden. “You go on ahead, my lady, and I will follow after a minute or two to make sure you arrive unmolested.”

“Thank you.”

As Calliope began to follow the path back to Le Réduit, it started to rain; great, fat heavy drops plopped onto her head and shoulders and the flagged path. She tucked the dodo sketch beneath her bodice and stays, but she didn’t hurry.

If she was a little wet when she arrived back at the house, it would be easier to disguise the fact she’d been crying.

Chapter 8

Belle Mer, Mauritius

Two weeks later…

“How are you this fine day, my lady?”

“I’m very well thank you, Nelson,” replied Calliope in her most amiable voice. “And you?”

The parrot squawked and bobbed up and down on the wooden railing of Belle Mer’s wide veranda. “Blow me down, matey! Blow me down.”

Even though it was a windy day—so the bird’s comment was actually quite pertinent—Calliope crossed her arms and frowned. “No, Nelson. That’s not what we practiced. You’re supposed to say, ‘Capital, my lady, just capital’. So let us try again—”

But Nelson had clearly had quite enough of today’s etiquette lesson as he drew himself up proudly, puffed out his chest and cried, “Get below, ye scurvy dog,” before fluttering over her shoulder and through the open French doors into Belle Mer’s elegant drawing room.

Calliope blew out a sigh and subsided onto one of the white wicker chairs gracing the veranda. The stiff sea breeze not only tossed the palm trees surrounding Belle Mer to-and-fro, it caught at her hair and the pages of her leather-bound notebook as she opened it.

“At least we’ve made some progress,” she reminded herself as she jotted down the new phrases the parrot had learned today followed by anything she believed he’d generated all by himself. He really was quite an intelligent bird. She’d even go so far to say that she was growing fond of him.

Just as I’m growing far too fond of his mercurial owner.

Calliope scowled.

The unsettled weather matched Calliope’s mood perfectly. Since they’d arrived at Belle Mer a fortnight ago, she’d seen little of Captain Townsend. Which was all for the best really. However, try as she might, Calliope couldn’t forget their kiss or anything about their fraught private exchange afterwards.

She had been surprised to learn that Captain Townsend had been engaged before and she wished more than anything that she could take back the cruel words of rejection she’d flung at him following their kiss. Although, part of her was naturally curious to know if he’d loved the woman who’d broken things off with him. She hadn’t thought a man like Captain Townsend could be capable of love, let alone want to marry. Maybe she’d misjudged him. She suddenly recalled the captain’s bitter words during dinner at The Anchor and Crown: I would be a fool to believe that long periods of absence would heighten affection. Such is the life of a mariner.

Yes, it would be a lonely life. A difficult life. It made Calliope’s heart ache to think he’d once had his heart broken.

And upon reflection, Calliope also knew—because of her own lack of confidence—that she’d probably misjudged his motives for kissing her. Whether she was attractive or not was beside the point. She also didn’t have any sound reason to believe he’d been intentionally cruel and kissed her so he could then laugh at her behind her back. No doubt, devil-may-care men like Captain Townsend often did act on impulse, especially where women were concerned. They took what they wanted from the world and damn the consequences.

Yes, she believed him now: their kiss was merely a momentary lapse of reason. The problem was—and despite her best efforts not to—Calliope yearned for more of those lapses.

Because when she’d been in Captain Townsend’s strong arms, when his mouth had commanded hers, she hadn’t felt like an afterthought or a shadow anymore. She’d felt fully formed.

Alive.

She might want another amorous encounter, but reason told her it would be foolhardy in the extreme to seek one. She certainly should never, ever entertain the idea that she and Captain Townsend could have something more.

Why, it would never work, she told herself sternly for the thousandth time. And Captain Townsend’s past history all but confirms it too. So stop mooning after him. Because before you know it, you’ll fall in love with him. And then you’ll be in more strife than you’ve ever been in before.

The problem was, Calliope suspected that she was already in deep trouble.

Why else did she suddenly miss Captain Townsend, even his teasing? Why did she worry about him when he wasn’t near?

Dear Lord above, she was turning into an absolute peagoose over a man.

Calliope closed her notebook with a disgruntled sigh and gazed out over the ruffled waters of the lagoon and its beach of pale white sand. On the opposite shore, she could see dense thickets of verdant jungle and in the far distance, Lion Mountain rose like a slumbering, ancient beast. Dark gray clouds gathered on the horizon. She suspected a shower of rain was headed Belle Mer’s way.

One thing she couldn’t fault Captain Townsend on, was his generosity. The day following the banquet at Le Reduit, the captain had sailed Uncle Theo, Mr. Lucas and her back to Mahébourg, and once they were comfortably installed at Belle Mer, he’d promptly departed the very next day ‘to conduct patrols in the area’.

Of course, Uncle Theo was beyond excited to hear there may be fossilized dodo remains somewhere on, or at least very near, the Belle Mer plantation. He was also suitably grateful to Captain Townsend for offering them all a place to stay as well as a small team of men to help with the search.

Indeed, since they’d arrived, Uncle Theo, Mr. Lucas, and Belle Mer’s workers had spent each and every day at the north-west end of the plantation, carefully dredging through the thick mud of Mare aux Songes, the shallow swamp where Benoit’s father had found a dodo beak all those years ago. But so far, nothing significant had been unearthed.

Calliope had spent long hours at the excavation site too, either helping to catalogue any finds—there were a good deal of bat, tortoise, and other sorts of bird remains—or sketching and painting the unique scenery. However, yesterday she’d got a touch too much sun. She’d found a lovely cove to paint and she’d stayed on the beach far too long, so now her arms were tinged pink and the tip of her nose was quite red. As a result, Uncle Theo had suggested that she should stay at the house today and continue to document Nelson’s vocabulary instead.

“Excusez-moi, my lady. Here is your afternoon tea. Would you like to take it out here on the veranda?”

Calliope smiled at the young Mauritian housemaid bearing a large wooden try loaded with a silver coffee pot, fine china, and a whole cinnamon cake. “Thank you, Didi. That would be lovely.”

After the maid placed everything out on the linen draped wicker table, she straightened and bit her lip uncertainly. “My lady, I hope you can forgive me for being so forward, but I also wondered if you might like to try this ointment”—she pulled out a small earthenware pot from the pocket of her white cotton pinafore—“to help with your sunburn. My grandmère swore by it.”

“Oh… Why thank you, Didi. And you’re not being forward at all. I appreciate your assistance.” Since arriving at Belle Mer, Didi had also become Calliope’s unofficial lady’s maid. She took the pot from the young woman and removed the lid. Inside was a thick, colorless, jelly-like substance. She sniffed at it but couldn’t detect any particular scent. “What is it?”

Didi gave a shy smile. “I believe it’s called aloe. It comes from the aloe vera plant which grows here on Isle de France… I mean Mauritius, my lady. It will soothe any type of burn.”

Calliope smiled back. “As soon as I’ve finished my coffee and cake, Didi, I shall apply it straightaway. Thank you again.”

Didi bobbed a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to serve you, my lady.”

Calliope was just pouring her second cup of coffee when a heavy shower scudded across the lagoon. Beneath the veranda’s wide roof, she was nicely protected. However, she suspected Uncle Theo, Mr. Lucas and anyone else outside would be soaked to the skin.

She imagined Uncle Theo would return to the house soon. So, when she heard heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards of the veranda, she didn’t think anything of it.

Until she heard a rich baritone voice calling her name. And it didn’t belong to her uncle or Mr. Lucas.

Captain Townsend.

Her pulse fluttering like a trapped hummingbird, she rose from her seat and curtsied. “Captain. You’re back,” she said then winced for stating something so obvious.

He removed his sodden hat and flicked water from his brow. “Yes, I am,” he said, with a wide smile. “The Andromeda’s docked in Grand Port Bay. The crew need rest and my ship needs some routine repairs and maintenance.”

“Oh… I see.” Alarm spiked through Calliope. Captain Townsend’s return was affecting her in ways that she didn’t like at all. Good heavens, the man had only been gone for two weeks and she had to quell the absurd urge to throw her arms about his neck. To kiss his bronzed cheek and bury her face in his neck so she could inhale his intoxicating masculine scent.

This wouldn’t do at all. Lifting her chin, she made herself don a polite smile, hoping it would hide her unease. “Welcome home then.”

But it seemed Captain Townsend was not the sort of man who was easily fooled. “So sorry to disappoint you, my lady,” he said with an arch of one black brow. “But not to worry. I’ll be gone again in a few days.”

“No. I… I didn’t mean to imply...” Heavens she sounded flustered. She inhaled a calming breath and tried again. “I’m glad you’re back safe and sound. I’ll tell Cook to lay another place for dinner.”

His mouth lifted into a sardonic smile as he tossed his hat onto a nearby chair. “It’s nice to see you’ve made yourself at home at Belle Mer.”

“My apologies, Captain. I’m coming across as one of those horrid managing females, aren’t I? And I shouldn’t have assumed that you would wish to dine with me. And Uncle Theo and Mr. Lucas as well. We can take trays in our rooms if you would prefer to be alone. Or vice versa. Whatever suits…” She clamped her lips shut to stop her nervous babbling.

He gave a snort. “Don’t be silly, Lady Calliope. Of course I’d like to dine with you.” He shrugged off his soaked coat and then raked a hand through his dripping hair. The wet, sheer fabric of his cambric shirt clung to the taut, well-defined muscles of his upper arm and wide chest—he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat—and Calliope was helplessly transfixed by the awe-inspiring sight.

“Is dinner still at seven?” he asked.

Calliope started and her gaze collided with Captain Townsend’s. He was regarding her with a knowing smile and she promptly blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Good.” He stepped closer and sliced off a large hunk of cinnamon cake. Then with damp fingers, he popped the whole thing in his mouth and chewed ferociously. Picking up her coffee, he asked, “Do you mind?’ and when Calliope shook her head, he drained the cup. “As you can see, I’m quite famished,” he said.

“Can I have Cook prepare something else for you, Captain? A fresh pot of coffee perhaps?”

“No. This should do me until dinner. But thank you all the same.” His gaze traced over her and he frowned. “Tsk, tsk, Lady Calliope. You’ve had too much sun.”

Heat scalded her face again and her sunburnt nose grew even hotter. “Yes. I suppose that’s one of the hazards associated with zoological excavations. But I also sat painting on the beach for far too long yesterday. So that’s entirely my fault.”

“Hmph. How goes the search?”

At that moment, Nelson flew out to the veranda and landed on his master’s shoulder. “How do you do? How do you do?” he crowed then nipped at the captain’s ear.

“How do you do? What the deuce?” Captain Townsend turned his incredulous gaze on Calliope. “Have you been trying to teach Nelson some manners?”

Calliope lifted her chin. “Yes, I have. There are only so many times a young woman can tolerate the flirtatious remarks of an overly familiar parrot. Or his colorful seaman’s jibes.”

At that, Captain Townsend let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll give you that, Lady Calliope.”

“And to answer your earlier question,” she continued, “the search is not going particularly well I’m afraid. There hasn’t been any noteworthy find yet. But Uncle Theo should be back soon.” She nodded at the rain beyond the veranda, “and he can tell you all about it himself.”

“Then I should change.” Captain Townsend bowed. “I shall see you anon, my fair lady. And do try Didi’s aloe ointment.” He winked. “It works.”

How did he—? Calliope’s gaze fell to the small pot right between her notebook and the coffee pot.

One thing was certain, nothing really escaped the notice of Captain Jonathon Townsend, Viscount Sandford.

Calliope prayed he hadn’t noticed that she actually did like him, or worse, had begun to care for him. But she feared that he just might.

Chapter 9

With a post-prandial glass of cognac in hand, Jonathon sat back in his favorite wingchair in Belle Mer’s library-cum-study and stretched out his booted feet toward the dancing flames of the fire. Outside, a strong south-westerly raged about the house, rattling the windows and French doors. In the distance, the surf hurling itself against the coral reef at the mouth of the lagoon, sounded just like rolling thunder.

All was still and quiet inside though. Lady Calliope, Dr. Bell, and Mr. Lucas had all retired for the evening some time ago. Belle Mer’s staff too. Even Nelson was asleep on his perch in the corner of the room by a potted palm.

Jonathon took a long pull of his drink, hoping it would soothe his unsettled state of mind and Lady Calliope Banks was to blame. Despite the fact he kept telling himself that she must be the most troublesome chit in Christendom, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his. Or out of his head.

It was true that he’d invited her, her bird-obsessed eccentric uncle, and his assistant to stay at Belle Mer while they scoured the property for those damnably elusive dodo bones. And it certainly wasn’t Calliope’s fault that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Or that surprisingly passionate kiss they’d shared.

God help him, he so wanted to kiss her again. And more…

He’d told Calliope that he’d kissed her on impulse, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been thinking about kissing her since the very first time he’d laid eyes on her. When she’d stood dripping and shivering on the deck of the Andromeda with a defiant glare in her enormous blue eyes. When he’d bumped into her in the dimly lit hallway of The Crown and Anchor Inn. When he’d almost kissed her beneath the willow tree at Le Reduit.

Yes, he wanted her in a physical sense. But he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that his fascination with her went beyond that. Not only did he enjoy her company, he admired her compassion and intelligence and wit. Her abolitionist views that aligned with his own. Her strength and resilience in the face of all the rubbish she’d put up with back in England. To think she’d not only been snubbed by Society, but most of her family because of a ridiculous curse made his blood boil.

Try as he might, he also couldn’t account for his reaction when he arrived back at Belle Mer this afternoon and discovered her on his veranda. His heart had given an excited jolt at the nonsensical thought that she’d been waiting there, just for him. He’d liked it when her clearly admiring gaze had fixated on his upper body, clad as it was in near transparent linen. He liked the fact that she’d organized dinner. He even liked it that she’d been teaching Nelson some manners.

He liked her too much.

Which could only mean one thing: he was beginning to care for her. And hence the source of his unease. Because after his duplicitous fiancée, Miss Marianne Seymour, Baron Trowbridge’s fair-weather daughter left him for another man, he swore he would never, ever care for another woman again.

But somehow, Lady Calliope Banks had hooked his interest and he couldn’t seem to escape her thrall.

The creak of the library door opening and a soft footfall on the teak floorboards behind him had Jonathon turning in his seat.

“Lady Calliope,” he said in surprise and rose to his feet. “Is everything all right?”

She stopped in the middle of the Persian rug and nervously tucked a loose coppery curl behind one of her ears. Even in the low light he could easily see that a deep flush had begun to wash over her face. She was so easy to read, this young woman. Unlike Marianne.

He supposed that was one of the other things he genuinely liked about Calliope.

Despite the fact she was clearly uneasy about being alone with him while the rest of the house slept, Calliope stood her ground. “My apologies for disturbing you, but I couldn’t sleep. The wind…” She gestured toward the French doors. “I wanted to find something to read. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No need to apologize, my lady.” Glass still in hand, Jonathon gestured at the well-stocked bookshelves of carved ebony. “Help yourself. Take whatever you’d like. Forget I’m even here.”

She tilted her head and offered a shy smile. “Thank you.”

There was no way on earth Jonathon could ignore Calliope’s presence though. Because he couldn’t help himself, he tracked her progress across the room. Perhaps because she’d expected the library to be deserted at this hour, she’d dressed somewhat carelessly in a simple gown of white muslin and a pale blue shawl. Her glorious hair was unbound and tumbled down her back like a cascading fiery waterfall. To Jonathon’s astonishment and delight, it also seemed that Calliope had foregone donning any undergarments whatsoever. The light of the fire shone straight through the thin fabric of her skirts as she passed by and he could clearly see the outline of her long shapely legs and delicious derriere.

The sight of her thus, heated his blood and he sat down again, hoping to hide the fact his cock had begun to stir. How many months had he now been without a woman?

He’d lost count. The problem was, it seemed he didn’t wish to lie with any other woman but Calliope Banks. But as she’d said at Le Reduit, they were chartering entirely different courses in life. And she was right.

Frustration burned in his belly and his fingers tightened around his tumbler of cognac. If only he could catch bloody Michael Flint. Then his mission would be over and he could return to England and start to properly manage his long-neglected estate in Dorset. At long last, he could happily take up the reins of his viscountcy.

He could finally stop wandering the globe and establish a true home. Marry. Have children…

Is that what Calliope wanted too? Did she really wish to remain a spinster with nothing better to do than follow her uncle about? She’d been a debutante seven years ago and had probably harbored hopes of making a match with an eligible ton bachelor back then.

He watched Calliope select one book after another but she couldn’t seem to settle on anything.

“Do you have any particular reading preferences, my lady?” he asked. He’d briefly thought about offering to assist with her search, but then he’d be standing too close to her. He didn’t trust himself not to reach out and seek another sweetly passionate kiss.

She wrinkled her sunburnt, freckled nose. “You’ll no doubt laugh at me when I tell you I enjoy novels that have no literary or intellectual value at all. I’m afraid I’m one of those awful females who likes to read for pleasure.”

“There’s nothing awful about that. I enjoy reading for pleasure too. Actually, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with doing something for the sheer pleasure of it. Life’s far too short to deny oneself, don’t you think?” Christ, he was a total cad to tease her with his flirtatious words and make her blush a third time. But he couldn’t resist the temptation, God help him.

“Not everyone can afford to subscribe to the Cyrenaic school of philosophy and be a hedonist like you, Captain Townsend,” she replied stiffly as she selected a book without even looking at it and wrapped it in her arms.

Casting aside his glass, he climbed to his feet and at last approached her. “You think I’m a devotee of hedonism?” he said, leaning a shoulder against the bookcase.

She shrugged. “You yourself admitted you tend to act on impulse. Taking what you want from life without thinking of the consequences strikes me as a trifle hedonic, yes. But forgive me, I shouldn’t judge you. Given how demanding and dangerous your life must be a good deal of the time, I can understand your need to enjoy the peaceful, quieter moments to the fullest.”

“I could say the same about you and your life Lady Calamity.”

She laughed then and he was pleased she hadn’t taken offence. “I hardly think the handful of mishaps that have befallen me could compare to the constant danger you face every day in your quest to catch ruthless pirates.”

“Yet when we first met, I virtually saved you from the clutches of a ruthless pirate. I’d hardly call that incident a mishap.”

A fine line appeared between her delicate brows. “Yes… You mentioned at dinner that you’ve not had much luck tracking down Captain Flint, despite the fact there’s been several sightings of the Orpheus by the navy of late. That must be terribly frustrating for you.”

Jonathon sighed heavily. “You have no idea, my lady. Unfortunately, the Orpheus, because it’s a schooner, is able to outrun the navy’s much bigger and slower frigates. Governor Farquhar and I both suspect Flint has a secret base of operations somewhere hereabouts. Perhaps on the nearby Isle of Bourbon or even along the south-western coastline of Mauritius, not far from here. Part of the reason I was late for the banquet at Le Reduit was that I was hoping to meet with a French merchant by the name of Alain Dupont at The Anchor and Crown. Word about the docks is he might have some useful intelligence. Apparently, he’s a nefarious sort himself and has been rumored to sell slaves to some of the local plantation owners. But as you know, he didn’t arrive.”

Calliope’s eyes were shadowed with concern. “He sounds dangerous too.”

Jonathon shrugged. “If the rumors are to be believed, I suspect Dupont is the sort of man who’d do anything for the right price.” His mouth flattened. “Just like Flint. I believe there’s nothing the cur wouldn’t do in the pursuit of riches. He’s a soulless mercenary.”

“You mentioned he was once in the Royal Navy so I gather there’s more to Flint’s story than you originally told me at The Anchor and Crown. Your dislike of him seems rather… personal.”

Jonathon’s mouth twisted with a wry smile. “You could say that. During the War of 1812 when we were at war with America, a very good friend of mine, another British naval captain—Charles Redgrave was his name—discovered that Flint, his first mate, had been selling information to the other side.”

Calliope’s blue eyes widened. “Flint was a spy?”

“A traitor. But it’s much worse than that. When Captain Redgrave confronted him about his duplicity, Flint murdered him. Stabbed him in a dockside tavern in London late one night and then fled.” Jonathon’s gaze drifted over to where Nelson roosted upon his perch in the corner of the room. “That’s why Nelson is now mine. Charles Redgrave was his owner.”

Calliope’s eyes shimmered with tears. “I’m so sorry, you lost a friend in that way. Michael Flint is a truly evil man.” Sympathy colored her voice as she added softly, “No wonder you want to catch him so badly. I pray that you do.”

“God willing, I will very soon.” Jonathon captured her gaze. Moved a step closer. “Because when this is all over, when Flint has been brought to justice, I intend to return to England for good so I can find a bride. My very own viscountess.”

Calliope’s breath quickened but she didn’t look away. “You do?” she whispered huskily. Her gaze dipped to his mouth.

“Yes. I think I’d rather like to find someone with a sweet disposition and a good heart. Perhaps even red hair…”

He raised a hand to brush one of her unruly curls away from her delicate pink cheek and then Nelson let out an ear-piercing squawk from his corner of the room. “Avast ye! Batten down the hatches!”

Jonathon whipped around in time to see the parrot darting like an arrow across the library before disappearing into the hall outside. The next moment there was another shriek, but this one was human.

“Ouch! Get off me for God’s sake! Get off!”

Calliope dropped the book she’d chosen and started toward the door. “That’s Mr. Lucas.”

Jonathon followed at a slower pace. There’s was something about Mr. Barnaby Lucas that he didn’t like. He was sullen and shifty-eyed and from what he’d seen, didn’t treat Dr. Bell or Calliope with the respect they deserved. And if the sly bastard had been eavesdropping on him and Calliope just now, well he deserved everything Nelson meted out to him.

Nelson had indeed meted out swift justice. From what Jonathon could see, given the hallway was dimly lit, Mr. Lucas was sporting a scratch across one cheekbone and a bleeding ear.

Nelson fluttered onto Jonathon’s shoulder. “Walk the plank, ye scurvy dog,” he cried. “How do you do?”

Mr. Lucas shot the bird a murderous look. “How do I do? Just look at me! I’ve almost lost an ear and an eye.”

Calliope was clutching her shawl to her mouth and Jonathon wasn’t sure if she was trying to suppress a gasp of horror or a fit of the giggles.

“Now, now, Lucas,” said Jonathon, pulling a kerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and handing it to the glowering man. “I’m sure it’s not as dramatic as all that.”

“Like bloody hell it’s not.” Mr. Lucas snatched the square of linen from Jonathon and sent another fulminating glare at Nelson. “If that bird ever comes near me again, I’ll… I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Jonathon crossed his arms over his chest.

Mr. Lucas’s jaw worked as though he was grinding his back teeth together. “Never mind,” he grumbled as he dabbed at his ear.

“Is there anything you need, Mr. Lucas?” asked Calliope.

The insolent man barely glanced at her. “It can wait until morning,” he muttered then turned on his heel and stomped down the hall, heading for the main stairs leading up to the first floor where the bedchambers lay.

“Goodness gracious,” murmured Calliope turning her wide-eyed gaze back to Jonathon. “I wonder why Nelson attacked Mr. Lucas.”

Jonathon ruffled the soft feathers on the bird’s chest. “It’s rare behavior on Nelson’s part, I’ll give you that.” He returned to the library and set the parrot on his perch again while Calliope went to retrieve the book she’d dropped. “Is Mr. Lucas one to eavesdrop, do you think?” he asked. “If Nelson saw him lurking suspiciously just outside the door, he might have perceived him as a threat. Like a predator lying in wait.”

Calliope frowned. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure, Captain. Oh no.” Her eyes widened. “Do you think he was spying on us? I really hope he didn’t misinterpret our exchange. You and I, we were only talking after all. If he tells my uncle…”

Jonathon arched a brow. “Are you sure that’s all that was going on here, Calliope? That we were just talking?”

Calliope blushed and clutched the book to her chest. “Yes. I’m perfectly sure, Captain Townsend. And now I have something to read, I’m going to bid you goodnight.”

Jonathon bowed and mustered a polite smile. He was confused and even a little hurt that she didn’t wish to acknowledge the intimate nature of their encounter. The significance of the discussion they’d shared. That they’d almost kissed again.

That he’d not-so-subtly hinted that in the future, he would like to court her with a view to marrying her.

But it was growing late so aloud he simply said, “And goodnight to you, my lady. I trust you’ll enjoy the book.”

As the door to the library shut and Jonathon reclaimed his cognac, he had to smile to himself. Calliope had chosen a particularly erotic French text for her reading pleasure—L'Escole des Filles ou la Philosophie des Dames by Michel Millot, also known as The School of Venus or; the Ladies Delight Reduced into Rules of Practice in the English translation. As Lady Calliope Bank’s French was excellent—he’d heard her speak it on a number of occasions—there was no doubt in Jonathon’s mind that she’d soon be blushing from head to toe.

Chapter 10

Two days later…

As soon as the inclement weather passed, Calliope decided that she would like to visit the quiet cove she’d discovered on the western edge of Belle Mer and spend a quiet morning indulging in one of her favorite pastimes, painting.

Even though the heavy rain and strong winds had ceased, the excavations at Mare aux Songes had been halted for the time being; the water levels had risen, making it difficult for Belle Mer’s workers to wade safely into the deeper parts of the swamp to sift through the mud. As a result, Uncle Theo had declared the night before that Calliope wouldn’t be needed today; he and Mr. Lucas had numerous fossils they wished to study and classify, so she could spend the day doing as she pleased.

Since her close encounter with Captain Townsend in Belle Mer’s library, Calliope had hardly seen him. He seemed inordinately busy with managing the estate and overseeing the Andromeda’s repair and maintenance work. He hadn’t taken dinner with her, Uncle Theo, or Mr. Lucas again either. It made her wonder if he was still trying to track down the informant, Alain Dupont in Mahébourg’s dockside taverns.

If Captain Townsend was able to capture Michael Flint at last, would he really return to England and begin to look for a wife as he’d hinted two nights ago in Belle Mer’s library?

Someone like me?

Her heart did an excited little jig at the thought as she made her way to the cove. She really was a hopeless case when really, the sensible thing to do was put the man out of her mind. If Captain Townsend’s desire to woo her hinged entirely on whether or not he caught Flint, she might be waiting forever and a day. She shouldn’t get her hopes up.

Better to focus on the here and now, she told herself as she wandered down the shaded, muddy path between knots of palm trees and thickets of wild, jungle-like undergrowth. Enjoy this perfect morning. Lose yourself in the scenery. Focus on the beauty of nature, nothing else.

Once Calliope reached the tiny cove, she removed her grubby half-boots and stockings and paddled barefoot in the cool seawater lapping at the white sand of the pristine beach. It felt wonderfully pleasurable to be doing something that was simple yet slightly illicit. The hem of her primrose muslin gown quickly became soaked, but she didn’t mind. It would dry quickly in the sun.

When she was ready to paint, she set herself up on a lush patch of grass, about twenty yards from the water’s edge. After setting her boots and stockings on a nearby rock, she then unpacked her sketchbook, paintbox, brushes, and a small jar of water from the old leather satchel she’d brought along. From her vantage point, she had a clear view of the cove, the coral reef at the mouth of the lagoon, and the wide blue ocean beyond. A knot of towering palms at her back and her leghorn bonnet would hopefully provide her with sufficient shade as the sun rose higher in the sky and its heat intensified. Although Didi’s aloe ointment had worked wonders on her skin, Calliope wasn’t keen to get sunburnt again.

As she made a rough outline of the far shoreline and Lion Mountain, she hummed quietly to herself. It was a pity she wasn’t adept with oil paints as the pastel shades of her water colors couldn’t possibly capture the brilliant azure blue of the cloudless sky, the variety or depth of the verdant shades of green in the jungle foliage, or the clear turquoise of the lagoon’s almost mirror-like waters. The cobalt blue of the Indian Ocean that reminded her so much of Jonathon Townsend’s eyes.

Jonathon. Dare she address him by his Christian name, even in her thoughts? She hadn’t missed that he’d dared to call her Calliope during their library encounter.

Ugh! Calliope rolled her eyes in frustration. So much for her resolution not to think about Captain Townsend. It probably didn’t help that she’d begun reading the naughtiest, most shocking book she’d ever come across. What on earth had she been thinking when she’d plucked it from the library shelf? Reading for ‘pleasure’ had taken on a whole new meaning. L'Escole des Filles could only be described as an erotic text and she sincerely hoped Captain Townsend hadn’t noticed what she’d unwittingly chosen. She’d been so worried that Didi or one of the other French speaking housemaids would discover what she’d been reading, she’d taken to hiding the book and only ever read it when she was alone. In fact, she’d slipped the book into her satchel before she’d set out for the beach.

While the sedate, ladylike part of her urged her to return the book to the library, another wicked side of her had discovered it was compelling reading for a young woman who knew practically nothing about sexual intercourse. Although there were some French words and phrases Calliope couldn’t quite translate, she had certainly learned an eye-opening amount of detail about the anatomy of a male and the sexual act itself. She’d also discovered that reading such salacious material made her body ache with desire. It was very similar to the feeling Captain Townsend had aroused inside her when he’d kissed her, or when she thought of the sculpted male body she’d glimpsed beneath his wet linen shirt. When she snuck peeks at his muscular thighs and buttocks encased in figure-hugging breeches and pantaloons…

Calliope squeezed her own thighs together in an attempt to ease the sweet ache in her most secret feminine place. But it did little to relieve the sensation. Last night in bed after she’d put aside her naughty tome and snuffed out her candle, she’d almost been tempted to touch herself ‘down there’.

What a wanton woman she was becoming. She’d never experienced such overwhelming feelings of lust until she’d met Jonathon Townsend.

The unexpected sound of rhythmic splashing made her look up from her painting. And then she sucked in a startled breath. A dark-haired, shirtless man was swimming straight toward the beach, his muscular arms cutting through the water with long, sure strokes.

It could only be Captain Townsend.

Calliope froze. Good Lord, what if he was entirely naked? She only had seconds to decide what to do. To stay or flee? To brazenly stare or avert her gaze or hide? Those were the options careening around inside her head like a swarm of trapped butterflies. In the end, it was her indecision which kept her rooted to the spot. Of course he would notice her. In her bright yellow gown, she looked like a buttercup at the beach.

At the very least, she could feign disinterest and that she barely regarded him.

To that end, she dipped her head and pretended to be engrossed in her painting. The brim of her bonnet shielded her face, but she could still sneak glances at him.

And how could she not? When he stood, she released a tiny sigh that was half relief and half disappointment. Even though he was only half-naked, his snug buckskin breeches were molded to his lean hips and powerful thighs. And of course, the sight of his bare upper body had her gaping like a landed fish.

My goodness. He was utterly magnificent and even better than the picture her imagination had painted. A chiseled Adonis. All impossibly wide shoulders and sleek hard muscle gleaming like bronze in the morning sun.

He sluiced water out of his hair with the drag of one hand as he waded out of the water with sure strides. But instead of acknowledging her presence and heading in her direction as she’d feared, he crossed to a tumble of large boulders on the other side of the cove.

Was he going to sit on the rocks and sun himself?

If his back was turned, or he closed his eyes, Calliope could pack up her things and steal away. Because heaven knew what she would do if he approached her in his current jaw-dropping state of dishabille.

However, it seemed he wasn’t going to laze about on the beach as he reached between the boulders and retrieved a pair of top boots and a white linen shirt. And then to Calliope’s utter horror, he didn’t get dressed but began to pad across the sand straight toward her.

He raised a hand in greeting but Calliope ducked her head again and tucked her bare sandy feet beneath the hem of her gown.

“Well met, Lady Calliope,” he said as he deposited himself on the grass right beside her and leaned back on his elbows. His long legs and bare feet stretched out before him. “It’s a glorious morning, don’t you think?”

The audacity of the man confounded her. He was acting as though it was perfectly natural and proper to lounge around in her company—a single young woman—in a barely dressed state. It was uncivilized.

It was also profoundly arousing

“I… Yes, I suppose so,” she stammered, refusing to look at him directly even though she desperately wanted to.

“You’re painting,” he remarked.

“Just the scenery,” she rejoined and risked a glance his way at last. Then blushed.

He sat up, resting his forearms on his drawn-up knees. Droplets of water dripped from his tousled black hair and slid down his broad back. “I don’t mind if you look at me, my lady,” he said with a wolfish grin. “And I’d be more than happy to pose for you. As long as you promise to capture my best side.” Lifting his chin, he turned his head this way, then that. “Which is it? Right or left?”

Calliope couldn’t suppress a snort. “You are such an arrogant peacock, Captain. But I don’t paint portraits. I’m a landscape artist.”

“I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job.”

“You haven’t even seen my work.”

“I’d very much like to. You mentioned once before you had a folio. During you first visit to Le Reduit.”

He remembered that? The captain’s eyes were filled with such genuine warmth and interest, Calliope was momentarily disarmed. “My folio is back at the house,” she said. “I could show you later this afternoon...”

“I take it you have a few examples in here?” Before she knew what he was about, Captain Townsend picked up her satchel and fished out L'Escole des Filles. “Hey ho. What do we have here, my lady?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Are you enjoying the story?”

Oh no. Calliope felt as though she were drowning in embarrassment. “I… I haven’t read it,” she lied, her face aflame. “The French is quite beyond me.”

He laughed. “Ha. We both know that’s not true. In fact, your conversational French is flawless.” He shot her a knowing grin. “And didn’t you tell me you enjoy books with no literary or intellectual merit whatsoever? I’d be most interested to hear your views on the subject matter of this particular book when you’ve finished it. Perhaps we could compare notes?”

Calliope snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it back into the satchel. “Well, you won’t because I’m not going to finish it. And I don’t take kindly to being laughed at or being accused of lying. Or… or having my privacy invaded.” She tossed the dirty water from her painting jar onto the grass then snapped her paintbox closed. “I think it’s time for me to return to the house.”

“Calliope, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you so. Don’t let me ruin your morning.”

“Well it’s too late for that, Captain Townsend.” She gathered up the rest of her painting paraphernalia, pushed it into the satchel along with her stockings, then jammed her sandy feet into her boots. “Good day to you, sir.”

“Calliope, wait!”

Ha! As if she would. Calliope flew along the winding trail leading back to Belle Mer. At one point where the path curved around a small marsh, the mud sucked at one of her unlaced boots and she nearly tripped over as her foot slid out.

Damn and blast. Glancing behind her, she couldn’t see if Captain Townsend was following. The vegetation was too thick. She imagined he might pause to pull on his own shirt and boots before giving chase. Then again, perhaps he’d change his mind and wouldn’t bother coming after her. Which would be a relief. She was still far too mortified to speak with him.

Putting down her satchel, she perched upon a mossy, moldering log at the edge of the marsh and took a moment to slide her boot on and tie the laces. Knowing her luck, she’d fall over and break her neck if she didn’t. Not only was the path uneven, there were a lot of exposed tree roots and trailing vines in this particular area just waiting to trip her up again.

“Calliope!”

She jumped like a startled rabbit. And then all at once, there was a loud crack, the log disintegrated, and then she was tumbling backwards into the murky, brackish water behind her.

* * *

“Calliope!” Jonathon cried again. Alarm as sharp as shrapnel spiked through him as Calliope tumbled into the marsh with a loud splash. “I’m coming.”

He picked up his pace and sprinted down the trail. The marsh wasn’t deep by any means, but the mud below the water tended to be the thick, sucking kind, rather like the mudflats of a mangrove swamp. One could get stuck quite easily.

And if Calliope had bumped her head on the way down and got knocked out… the water might be shallow, but one could drown in only several inches of water if lying face down.

“Sweet Jesus, Calliope.” Jonathon halted at the marsh’s edge. “Are you all right?”

She was sitting upright, supporting her weight on her extended arms with her pretty arse submerged in the sludge, only a few feet from the slippery bank. Her bonnet had come off and some sort of slimy green weed clung to her bedraggled copper curls. “Well, relatively all right,” she said. “All things considered. Nothing’s really bruised except my pride. Oh, and I think my right ankle’s stuck. I can’t seem to move it.”

“I’ll help you out.” Jonathon stepped over the splintered log and waded carefully into the quagmire. As he’d suspected, it wasn’t deep, but the mud pulled at his booted ankles and he began to sink a little further. Leaning forward as far as he dared, he offered his hand and Calliope gripped it firmly. Half a second too late, he registered a mutinous gleam in her big blue eyes. And then she gave a short, sharp tug.

What the deuce? Jonathon immediately overbalanced and toppled straight into the marsh, landing right on top of Calliope. One of his legs was wedged between hers and his arms bracketed her shoulders. Beneath him, Calliope’s body shook with mirth.

“Why you little minx.” Jonathon pushed himself back to stare down at her. Astonishment, irritation, and a good dose of admiration blazed inside him.

Her gaze danced with unabashed glee. “It’s not as though you don’t deserve it, Jonathon Townsend,” she said, once her fit of wicked giggles had subsided. “Considering all the times you’ve taunted me for your own amusement. In fact, I think you also deserve this.”

Quicker than a lightning flash, Calliope’s arm came up and she deposited a great handful of mud right on top of his head with a resounding splat.

This time, Jonathon couldn’t contain his own laughter. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, wiping a trickle of mud from his brow. “But do you know what you deserve, Lady Calliope Banks?”

His gaze locked with hers and Calliope’s breath hitched. Her pupils dilated and her tongue darted out to moisten her petal-pink bottom lip. “No,” she whispered. “Why don’t you show me, Captain?”

“With relish.” His grubby hand rose and gently cradled her delicate jaw. And then he did what he’d been fantasizing about doing for days and days. Two weeks in fact.

His mouth claimed hers in a deep, deliberately languorous, thoroughly delicious kiss. Calliope yielded to the press of his thumb on her chin, opening on a sigh of welcome. His tongue boldly explored and tasted every inch of that warm, sweet cavern and when her tongue caressed him back, he couldn’t suppress a low groan. Desire flared and lit every nerve ending. Heated his blood.

He skated his hand down her shoulder and found one full breast. Covered it. Gently squeezed it, testing its shape, its plumpness. She arched and moaned, pushing herself into his palm and it wasn’t long before his manhood was straining against the fall of his breeches. He gently rocked his hips, pressing himself against her sex so she could feel how much he wanted her, his sweet, precious, passionate Calliope.

If they were anywhere but a filthy swamp, he’d lay her bare and show her the pleasures of lovemaking. For hours and hours—

Calliope stiffened and gasped.

Jonathon immediately drew back, concern coursing through his veins. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? If I’ve gone too far. If I’ve shocked you—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” She twisted to the side a little, resting her weight on one arm. “It’s just… Something hard is poking into me.”

He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “I think that might be me.”

But she shook her head. “No. Into my hip. Just wait a moment.” Below the surface of the murky water, Jonathon could see she was tugging at something buried in the mud. And then she gave one more yank and the swamp released the offending object from its grasp.

“Oh my, God.” Calliope held aloft something hard and long and bony with a hooked end. Although it was encased in a thick coating of sludge, even Jonathon could see what it was.

“It looks like a dodo beak,” he said, his voiced laced with awe.

“Yes.” Calliope’s gaze connected with his. “I think it is too.” She sat up straighter and pushed a slime-streaked curl away from her flushed cheek. “Of course, we’ll have to clean it up and Uncle Theo will have to examine it. But yes.” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “I have a good deal of confidence that this might be a moment to declare, eureka.”

Chapter 11

Calliope couldn’t contain her excitement. Not bothering to change out of her soiled clothes, she burst into Belle Mer’s library and presented the fossilized beak to her incredulous uncle. After he placed it carefully on the blotter of Captain Townsend’s desk, she waited with bated breath as he gently cleaned it off with a soft cloth and fresh water. Then after a close inspection, he also declared eureka.

There were tears of joy in Calliope’s eyes as she threw her arms around Uncle Theo’s neck and hugged him tightly. Nelson jigged up and down on his perch calling, “Eureka! Eureka!” and when she glanced over her uncle’s shoulder to where a disheveled and filthy Captain Townsend stood by the open French doors, he was openly smiling at her, his deep blue eyes shining with the warmth of a cloudless summer sky and maybe a tear or two as well.

Mr. Lucas even looked excited for once.

Needless to say, Uncle Theo, Mr. Lucas and Belle Mer’s small team of searchers descended on the marsh, and by evening, a few more dodo bones were recovered: a skull, a thigh bone, and a partial fossil of a foot.

Captain Townsend—or Jonathon as Calliope had begun to think of him after their heated bout of kissing in the dodo marsh—retrieved several bottles of French champagne from Belle Mer’s wine cellar to celebrate the momentous occasion.

Hours later when they were all gathered in the drawing room before dinner, Jonathon made a toast. “To you, Dr. Bell, Mr. Lucas, and of course, the redoubtable Lady Calliope, I offer you my heartfelt congratulations at making such a wonderful discovery.” His eyes glowing with admiration, he raised his champagne flute. “The history books will forever show that you—all of you,” his gaze caught Calliope’s, “were the ones to definitively prove the dodo existed. And I salute you.”

A flush of pleasure washed over Calliope as she tilted her head in acknowledgement then sipped her champagne. The bubbles dancing on her tongue mirrored the capering of her heart. She couldn’t wait until she could be alone with Jonathon after dinner. After their kiss in the marsh this morning, there was no doubt in her mind that he truly wanted her. And dare she hope it, care for her too? But first she needed to hear that he wasn’t jesting when he’d hinted he wished to return to England and marry. And she also wanted to tell him she would wait for him, no matter how long it took for him to catch Michael Flint.

Because she loved him.

She couldn’t deny this vibrant feeling fizzing around inside her, just waiting to burst forth, any longer. Not only that, she knew that at long last, she was brave enough to say the words, ‘I love you’.

Dinner was well underway—the cook had created a veritable feast fit for Prinny himself—when Belle Mer’s butler approached Jonathon with a note upon a silver salver and an apologetic expression on his face. “Please forgive the interruption, Captain Townsend, but this message is from Mr. Keats. Apparently, the matter’s quite urgent.”

Mr. Keats, the Andromeda’s first mate. Calliope put down her fork and knife and watched anxiously as Jonathon cracked open the wax seal on the parchment and scanned its contents. His brows descended into a frown. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut dinner short, my friends,” he said with a deep sigh. His gaze sought Calliope’s. “I have business down at the docks that can’t wait.”

“It sounds serious,” she said, unable to disguise the worried note in her voice.

“Keats believes Dupont, the French merchant who might have some intelligence on Flint, will be in Mahébourg tonight. If there’s any chance I can convince him to become an informant and give up Flint’s hideaway, I must take it.”

“Of course, you must,” declared Uncle Theo. “Don’t worry about us, Captain. Godspeed and good luck to you.”

Jonathon rose and again caught Calliope’s eye. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Take care, Captain,” she said. She didn’t care if Uncle Theo or Mr. Lucas noticed how heartfelt her words were.

His mouth curved into one of the knowing, lop-sided smiles that never failed to make her blush or her pulse flutter. “Always,” he said, and then he was gone.

* * *

Calliope stayed awake for as long as she could, waiting for Jonathon to return to Belle Mer. But when the longcase clock in the library struck midnight, and her eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead, she at last conceded defeat and retired to her bedchamber. She trusted Jonathon would be all right. He’d been a naval officer for years. As a privateer, he probably faced even greater danger on a regular basis. He would know how to handle himself and hold his ground in difficult situations. She would need to grow accustomed to this gnawing feeling of worry and accept there was nothing she could do to help Jonathon except to pray for his safety.

However, when Calliope awoke the next morning, it was to discover her visibly distressed lady’s maid pacing about her room.

“Didi?” Calliope pushed herself up against the pillows and frowned in confusion. “What is it?”

“My lady...” The maid was wringing her hands at her waist. Beneath her white cotton cap, her brow was furrowed, and her bottom lip trembled. “I am so sorry…”

Panic sluiced over Calliope like a bucket of cold water. “What is it?” she repeated. What’s wrong?” She slipped from her bed and crossed the floor to grasp Didi’s hands. “Is Captain Townsend all right? My uncle? Has someone been hurt?”

Oh God, if something terrible has befallen Jonathon after all… Or if Uncle Theo has taken sick…

But Didi was shaking her head. “Non, non, my lady. No one is hurt. Your uncle has just rung for tea. And Captain Townsend is très bien too. I served him coffee on the veranda this morning before he went to the stables. I believe he’s gone riding.”

The utter feeling of relief washing through Calliope made her knees wobble like they were made of blancmange. “Then… then what’s the matter, Didi? You can tell me.”

Tears brimmed in the maid’s large brown eyes. “I do not know… I do not know how it’s possible, my lady. But your beautiful jewels… your sapphires and diamonds… All of them are gone.”

“Gone?”

“Oui, my lady. Gone. Taken from their box. See…” She rushed over to the dressing table on the other side of the room and flipped it open. The bed of dark blue satin was bare. “Gone. Disappeared. I do not know how it happened.”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Fear pricked its way along Calliope’s skin. Turned her blood to an ice-cold slurry. She made herself swallow. Take a deep breath. Her mother’s precious necklace and earrings couldn’t have been stolen. Could they?

Didi began to twist her hands again. A tear slipped down her smooth as caramel cheek. “It was not me, my lady. I did not take them. I promise you, I would never, ever steal…”

Calliope tried to ignore the panic churning about in her belly and attempted a reassuring smile. “Do not worry, Didi. I trust you.” She crossed to the dressing table and picked up the slim satinwood jewelry box with shaking fingers. Made herself think back to last night…

She’d worn her jewels at dinner because they went well with her pale blue silk gown. And of course she wanted to look as attractive as she could for Jonathon. When dinner had concluded, she’d returned to her room and Didi had helped her to undress. And Calliope had carefully placed each piece of jewelry back in its case. She’d closed the lid, latched it, but hadn’t locked it. And then she’d donned her nightgown, slipped on a shawl and slippers, and had gone back to the library to wait for Jonathon’s return.

She hadn’t noticed anything untoward when she’d eventually retired to her room shortly after midnight. She’d been so exhausted after all the excitement of the day, nothing had disturbed her sleep. She lifted her gaze to the quivering maid.

“Did you notice anything odd at all last night, Didi? Anything out of place in my room? Or anyone that shouldn’t be up here, lurking about? Whatever the hour?”

The maid shook her head. “Non, my lady. After you changed into your night things and dismissed me, I retired to the servants’ quarters. The only person I passed along the way was Monsieur Lucas.”

Barnaby Lucas. Calliope frowned. She recalled their dance at Le Réduit and how his gaze kept straying to her décolletage and how peculiar she’d thought his behavior at the time. But what if wasn’t her cleavage he’d been interested in?

But why would Mr. Lucas steal her mother’s jewelry? They’d been traveling together for months. He’d been working for Uncle Theo for years. And if he had taken the jewels, why now? To what end?

Calliope shook her head in despair. It didn’t make sense. But she would question him, and she was certain Jonathon and Uncle Theo would assist questioning the rest of Belle Mer’s occupants too. But before she raised the alarm, she would get Didi to make a thorough search of her bedroom, just to make sure the jewels weren’t here.

“After you help me get dressed, I’d like you to—”

A sudden wild pounding on her bedchamber door made Calliope jump.

“Peewee. Peewee. Are you awake?”

Uncle Theo? Another burst of panic carried Calliope across the room in a heartbeat and she flung open the door.

Her uncle’s face was white as a sheet, but the crests of his weathered cheekbones were flagged with crimson. And it was then Calliope realized that he wasn’t terrified. He was angry. “What’s wrong?” she breathed, dread stealing the air from her lungs.

“The dodo bones. They’re gone along with all my money.” Uncle Theo’s voice shook with emotion. “And so is that turncoat, Barnaby Lucas.”

* * *

Jonathon confirmed Barnaby Lucas had indeed absconded from Belle Mer. Not only was his valise missing, it appeared that some time during the very early hours of the morning, the scoundrel had helped himself to a horse from Jonathon’s stables too.

“As soon as I set foot in the stable yard, the head groom reported a gelding and tack had been taken,” said Jonathon grimly. Still dressed in his riding attire of buckskin breeches, Hessian boots and riding coat, he leaned against the edge of his desk in the library and crossed his arms. “And then we discovered a fresh set of hoof marks in the mud on the drive. I suspect the thieving dog is heading to Mahébourg.”

Uncle Theo slammed his fist on the side of one of the glass-fronted bookcases, making the panes rattle. “We must give chase.”

“I have several men already out on the road, Dr. Bell. And I will follow shortly. Unfortunately, I suspect a number of vessels have already sailed out of Grand Port Bay on this morning’s high tide. But I plan to question the harbor master. There should be a passenger manifest for each ship. If he’s on one, we’ll find him.”

Uncle Theo dragged a shaking hand down his face. “I still can’t believe Barnaby Lucas would do something like this. After all the support and guidance I’ve given him over the years. It’s unforgiveable.”

“Do you think he plans to return to England and somehow pass the discovery of the dodo bones off as his own?” asked Jonathon.

Uncle Theo shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Although, he must be mad to think he can get away with stealing your jewels, Peewee. He must have taken them and my money in order to pay for his passage back home.”

Calliope agreed. “We should all go to Mahébourg,” she said. “I think it will be exceedingly difficult to sit about here waiting for Jon—I mean Captain Townsend—to return with further news.”

Jonathon gave her a single nod and considering look. “Very well, my lady,” he said. “I’ll send word to the stables to saddle two more horses. Do you think you can be ready in fifteen minutes?”

Calliope couldn’t suppress a blush. She was still in her night rail with only a shawl and slippers to protect her modesty. “I’ll be back in ten,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed to the library door. Somewhere in the bottom of her traveling trunk was a peacock blue riding habit. Didi would protest about its abysmal state, but what did creases matter when so much was at stake?

* * *

They found the missing horse tethered to a fence post outside The Anchor and Crown. But Barnaby Lucas was nowhere to be found. Calliope and Uncle Theo waited in the virtually empty taproom of the inn while Jonathon spoke to the harbor master. He returned within half an hour with the news that a Mr. Barnaby Lucas had departed on the schooner, the Delphine, at six o’clock that morning.

And the ship’s owner was none other than the merchant, Alain Dupont.

Calliope blinked in surprise. “Alain Dupont? The man you wanted to speak with last night?”

Jonathon stacked his arms on the back of the chair he was straddling. “Yes,” he said, his expression grim. “And I did talk to him in this very taproom just after midnight. Only he denied knowing Flint or anything about his illicit activities, despite the whispered rumors. But I don’t believe him.” A muscle flickered in his lean jaw. “According to the harbor master, Dupont was on the Delphine too. Apparently, it’s bound for Saint-Denis on the Isle of Bourbon. One of the naval patrols also sighted the Orpheus at a distance late yesterday, heading in the direction of Bourbon too. They gave chase but yet again, Flint outran them. My crew is preparing the Andromeda as we speak.”

Calliope stood. “When do we sail?”

Jonathon’s brows plunged into a scowl as he leaped to his feet, towering over her. “What do you mean, when do we sail? You’re not going anywhere.”

But Calliope wouldn’t be cowed. She narrowed her gaze and lifted her chin. “Of course, I am. Uncle Theo too. Mr. Lucas stole our most precious things. We have to come.”

The muscle in Jonathon’s jaw was pulsing again. Calliope was certain he was grinding his teeth. “And I want to protect that which is most precious to me,” he all but growled. “And that’s you, you infuriating, wilful, thoroughly gorgeous chit. What if we do end up crossing paths with the Orpheus? I won’t risk your safety.”

“I’m… I’m precious to you?” Had Calliope really just heard Jonathon correctly? He’d also called her infuriating and wilful and a chit. And gorgeous. But ‘precious’ was the most precious word of all. ‘Precious’ meant he cared…

“Of course, you are,” he said, his gaze softening. “You’re immeasurably precious to me, Lady Calliope Banks… because I love you.”

“By Jupiter! I knew it!” Uncle Theo jumped to his feet too. “I knew you were falling in love with my niece, Captain Townsend.”

Jonathon turned his gaze on her uncle. “If you wouldn’t mind making yourself scarce for a moment, old chap, I’d appreciate a minute or two alone with her.”

“Of course. Of course. I’ll wait outside with the horses.” Uncle Theo gave Calliope’s arm a quick squeeze. “I’m so happy for you, Peewee.”

As soon as the door to the taproom shut, Jonathon pushed his chair out of the way with his booted foot and gathered Calliope into his arms.

“Do you really mean it, Jonathon?” she whispered, searching his gaze. “Because if you don’t love me, if you’re just teasing me again, I don’t think I could bear it.”

“Of course, I mean it.” He lifted a hand and brushed a heavy lock of hair away from her flushed cheek. “I would never joke about something so profoundly important. And if we had all the time in the world right now, I would show you exactly how much you mean to me by making slow sweet love to you. But unfortunately, we don’t, so I’ll simply say what I need to, in the hope my words alone will convince you.” His wide chest expanded as he drew a deep breath and he clasped her hands in his. “I love you, Calliope Banks, with my entire, imperfect, yet thoroughly earnest heart. But…” The expression in his eyes grew solemn. “I’m not going to propose to you just yet. Not until this business with Flint is resolved. It’s not fair to ask you to wait. As you know, I asked the same of someone before and I’ll not do it again.”

“I… I understand, Jonathon. I do. But I will wait for you.” She reached up and touched his strong jaw. Her mouth curved in a smile. “Not because you’ve asked me to but because I want to. I love you, too.”

“You do?” His eyes gleamed with an emotion Calliope thought might be joy.

“Yes, my stubborn, arrogant, ruggedly handsome, gentleman privateer, I do.” Her vision misted with tears of happiness. “Lord knows why, but I do.” And then she stood on her tiptoes, slid her hands about Jonathon’s neck, and kissed him.

His strong arms immediately lashed her body to his and he kissed her back with an ardent ferocity that made her head spin and her body thrum with deep desire. But most of all, her elated heart sang over and over again… he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

When they both came up for air, breathless and smiling, Calliope dared to venture another question. “So, do you honestly think I’m gorgeous, Captain Townsend?”

Jonathon’s chest vibrated with a deep chuckle. “From the top of your unruly red head, to the tips of your pretty pink toes.” He kissed her freckled nose. “Don’t think I didn’t notice them at the beach yesterday.” He slid a hand into the curls at her nape and dropped another kiss on her forehead. “But I’m afraid it’s time for me to go now, my love. There’s much to do before the Andromeda gets underway in a few hours.”

He began to step back but Calliope clutched at his arms. “Jonathon, please take me with you. Uncle Theo too. At least to Bourbon. It’s not so very far. I promise you, I’m not… I’m not a curse.”

Jonathon lifted her chin with gentle fingers and looked deeply into her eyes. “No, you’re not at all, my sweet Calliope. You’re a blessing.” Then a deep sigh escaped him. “All right, my lovely. I concede defeat. I can’t resist your beseeching blue eyes. You can sail with me as far as Bourbon. But,” his expression grew stern, “you must promise to do exactly as I say. At all times.”

She grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Cheeky wench. I should punish such insubordination with another kiss.”

And he did. Needless to say, Calliope didn’t mind at all.

Chapter 12

Saint Denis, Bourbon

The winds were strong and the current on their side. Indeed, the Andromeda made such good time, she dropped anchor in Saint-Denis’s harbor close to midnight. As soon as they docked, Jonathon went below to his cabin where Calliope was ensconced with Nelson. Apparently, Uncle Theo had fallen asleep in Mr. Keats’s quarters.

“Where are you going?” she asked, trepidation tripping through her veins as she watched Jonathon don a greatcoat, beaver hat, and then withdraw a gleaming pistol from the drawer of his enormous desk. “Is the Delphine here?” She dared not ask if the Orpheus was.

Jonathon’s expression was grim as he checked the pistol then pushed it into a pocket inside his coat. “Yes, she is. I’m going to leave Mr. Keats in charge while I go on a scouting expedition.”

“On your own?”

He offered her a smile then. “I can look after myself, sweetheart. Do not fret.”

She nodded and pleated her fingers into the skirts of her riding habit to stop herself from reaching for him. He had a job to do and she wouldn’t get in his way. “I’ll try not to,” she said, with a weak smile.

“And you, my lady, must promise me that you will stay right here the whole time. It’s late and there’ll be nothing but drunk sailors and cutpurses wandering about the docks and local back alleys.”

“And you told me not to fret.”

He crossed the cabin in a handful of strides and gave her a swift kiss. “I’ll be back here before you know it. Hopefully with news of Barnaby Lucas’s whereabouts. Try to get some rest.”

She nodded obediently. Jonathon had offered to do the gentlemanly thing and would bunk in with the other officers tonight. “I will,” she said. But that was a lie.

After he departed, Calliope finished unpacking the few clothes she’d been able to collect from Belle Mer before they’d set sail. Then, unable to relax enough to read or even render a sketch or two, she summoned Tom the cabin boy and requested some supper; she wasn’t hungry at all, but she needed something to occupy her time while Jonathon was away. As she poured herself a steaming cup of coffee and then selected a ginger biscuit, Nelson woke. He yawned widely, ruffled his feathers, then fluttered across the room to perch on the back of a chair at the mahogany dining table where Calliope sat. “I don’t mind if I do, my lady,” he said, cocking his head. “Give us a kiss.”

Calliope laughed. “The only one who will get a kiss from me is your master. But I’m sure some ginger biscuit will be adequate compensation.” She broke off a piece and Nelson gently took it from her with one of his claws.

“What about me? Would you give me a kiss? My lady…?”

Calliope jumped so hard, she knocked her coffee cup over; the hot liquid spread across the table and scalded her hand. But she hardly noticed because all her attention was fixed on the man who’d just spoken. A tall, attractive, well-dressed man she didn’t recognize at all. He lounged in the doorway of the cabin—one wide shoulder propped against the doorframe, the folds of his great coat flowing about his long legs—as though he belonged there. But the most terrifying thing of all was, he held a pistol in his gloved hand. And the weapon was trained on her.

Even though her throat was suddenly tight with terror, Calliope forced her voice to work. “Who… who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want?”

He removed his hat, revealing a head of thick tawny hair. “So many questions, love,” he said, his mouth quirking with an insolent smirk. “But I’ll answer the one that’s of most interest to me.” The expression in his dark brown eyes hardened. “I’m looking for Jonathon Townsend.”

“He’s… he’s not here.” Oh God, why did she just say that? She’d just admitted she was all alone in the captain’s quarters. And where was Tom? He’d only just departed a few minutes ago. She prayed he was all right. “The Andromeda is swarming with crew,” she said, somehow summoning a voice that only quavered a little. “You should leave before you get caught.” Every fiber of her being was telling her to scream or to run or to throw something at the stranger—the silver coffee pot would do—but she dared not, not while a pistol was pointed straight at her.

The man laughed, tucked his hat beneath one arm and sauntered closer. The pistol’s muzzle didn’t waver at all.

Snagging a biscuit from the plate on the dining table, he took a large bite. “They’re good aren’t they, Nelson?”

The parrot bobbed up and down. “Shiver me timbers. Dead men tell no tales.”

Calliope’s jaw dropped open. “You know Nelson?”

That horrible smirk again. “You might say we’re old shipmates.”

And then it dawned on Calliope who this man was. “You’re Michael Flint,” she breathed. Ice cold terror gripped her heart. Squeezed her lungs. She clutched the raised edge of the table lest she faint.

The pirate affected a mocking bow. “The very same.”

“You should go.”

He took another biscuit. “Yes, I suppose I should. But before I do, I don’t suppose you have any more jewels lying about, do you? The ones your friend Mr. Lucas bartered off to secure a place on my ship are pretty enough, but I was rather hoping you had more.”

So Barnaby Lucas had stolen her parure to purchase his passage home. The thieving, sniveling…

Anger lent Calliope the strength she needed to look Michael Flint in the eye. “No. That’s all I have… Had.” She lifted her chin. “They belonged to my mother and mean a great deal to me.”

But Michael Flint clearly didn’t care. He brushed a few biscuit crumbs off his lapels then sniffed. “You’re boring me, Lady Calliope. And if I had enough time and the inclination, I might be tempted to kidnap you and hold you to ransom. Or sell you to the highest bidder at an African slave market. I’m sure your pretty arse would fetch me a pretty penny.” He flashed a grin then. “But it’s your lucky day that I don’t. Just tell Townsend that he should back off. Let bygones be bygones. I’ve had enough of this cat and mouse chase across the seven seas. It’s bad for business.” Leaning forward he added, “This is my first and final warning.”

And with that, he quit the cabin.

Calliope was glad she was sitting down as her whole body was shaking. Her knees felt as insubstantial as water.

But she needed to raise an alarm. Check that Tom was indeed all right.

Nelson jumped onto the table and strutted over to the biscuit plate. He looked up at her with his beady eyes and blinked. “How do you do, my lady?”

Calliope dashed several tears away from her cheeks with trembling fingers. “I’m still here and still alive, my feathered friend, so I suppose that’s all that matters,” she whispered.

Nelson gave a quick bob. “Aye, aye, my lady. Tally ho and stay the course.”

* * *

Somewhere in the Indian Ocean…

One day later…

Dark, bruise-like clouds were gathering on the horizon above the choppy, gun-metal gray sea when the lookout in the Andromeda’s crow’s nest cried out, “Sail ho! Unidentified vessel port side!”

Mr. Keats handed Jonathon his spyglass. “There is indeed, sir. From what I can make out, it’s a schooner and it bears no colors. I do believe it’s the Orpheus.”

About bloody time. Jonathon’s jaw clenched as he confirmed the ship in his sights was indeed the one captained by his nemesis. After he’d learned Flint had somehow snuck onto the Andromeda in Saint-Denis last night and had mercilessly tormented Calliope with obscene threats, Jonathon had vowed he’d bring the filthy dog to justice if it was the last thing he did.

And if keelhauling was involved before he clapped him in irons, all the better.

Fortunately, Alain Dupont had been most accommodating when Jonathon had at last caught up with the sewer rat in an alleyway behind a dockside tavern. A few short sharp punches to certain areas had provided him with the information he sought. Unable to secure passage on any other vessel leaving Bourbon, Barnaby Lucas—apparently in a fit of panic—had bribed his way onto Flint’s ship using Calliope’s jewels as payment. The Orpheus, containing a hold full of the explosive saltpeter, as well as sugar and coffee rather than slaves for once, was reportedly headed for Morocco and then France.

The chase was on.

“Let’s get this bastard,” Jonathon ground out. “After we’ve caught the wind and picked up speed, summon the bosun and the gunner. The sea’s rough and I don’t know if we can catch up to Flint, but we’re sure as hell going to give it our damnedest shot.”

Keats grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain.” Then he turned and shouted directions to the crew from the quarterdeck. “All hands on deck! Turn about port side! Make all sail!

The well-trained crew sprang into action. Within minutes, an additional sail had been set, the helmsman had set a new course, the gunner was heading below to make sure the guns—all eighteen cannon—were ready to be run out when the time came, and the Andromeda was ploughing through the heavy swell in hot pursuit of the Orpheus.

Jonathon handed over to Keats before he headed to his quarters to arm himself and make sure Calliope and her uncle stayed below decks during the fray. If there was hand-to-hand fighting, no doubt things would get particularly nasty.

While there was still breath in Jonathon’s body, and fire in his soul, he’d keep Calliope from harm.

She rose to her feet as soon as he entered. “What’s happening, Jonathon?” Her blue eyes were wide with worry. “I felt the ship change course. And I can hear shouting. You’ve spotted the Orpheus, haven’t you?”

Jonathon gave a swift nod and headed straight to his desk to retrieve his pistols. “I have. The ship is some distance away, but we’ve managed to catch the wind and are making good time despite the less than ideal sea state.”

Calliope gripped the edge of the dining room table as the Andromeda pitched and rolled. “I suspect you’d like us to stay down here,” she said.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “You guessed correctly, my sweet. It would ease my mind greatly. I want you as far away from the fighting as possible.”

Her face blanched, her freckles standing out starkly against her pale-as-milk skin. “Fighting?” she said faintly. “This suddenly seems all too real, Jonathon. If something should happen to you. If you get hurt…”

Jonathon pushed one pistol into his coat pocket and the other into the waistband of his breeches. He’d take his saber and a knife too. “Trust me, I know how to fight, Calliope. And I’ll be able to concentrate that much better if I know you are safe. But it’s my hope that hand-to-hand combat can be avoided altogether.”

Dr. Bell got to his feet also, swaying a little with the movement of the ship. “I say, you don’t plan to sink the Orpheus do you, Captain? Barnaby Lucas can go hang for all I care, but those dodo remains and Peewee’s jewels are on that ship.”

Jonathon met the man’s gaze directly. “It’s not my preferred plan. But in the end, if it means less risk to everyone on board the Andromeda, I might just have to. Bird bones and jewels can be replaced.” His eyes sought Calliope’s. “But friends and loved ones can’t.”

“We understand,” she said softly. “And you’re right, Jonathon. We’ll do as you ask.” She reached out and touched her uncle’s arm. “Won’t we, Uncle Theo?”

The older man frowned but then nodded. “Yes. We will.”

Jonathon tilted his head. “Thank you.”

When he was as armed as he could be, Jonathon crossed the cabin and pulled Calliope into his arms. Ignoring the presence of her uncle, he gave her a brief but fervent kiss that he hoped would convey not only his ardor, but his determination to succeed. He refused to give her a tender, goodbye kiss.

Losing this fight wasn’t an option.

* * *

“Uncle Theo, please sit down. You’re making me nervous,” said Calliope. “I’m worried you’ll injure yourself.”

Since Jonathon had gone above decks, her uncle had been pacing the cabin, which was no mean feat considering the vessel was constantly pitching and rolling. Or perhaps tottering back and forth with an occasional lurch would be a more apt description of what he was doing.

“I can’t sit still, Peewee,” he protested, grasping the edge of Jonathon’s substantial desk for support. “Lord knows what’s going on up there. And I don’t quite trust Captain Townsend. I think he’s going to sink the Orpheus. My life’s work will end up at the bottom of the ocean. I’ll have to return to Oxford empty-handed. I’ll be the laughingstock of academia.”

“Of course you won’t,” Calliope said. “And even if the dodo bones are lost at sea, we can always return to Mauritius and continue our search. Who knows what we’ll fi—”

At that moment, there was a muffled boom like distant thunder.

Nelson gave an almighty squawk and flapped his wings “Avast, ye! Batten down the hatches!”

Uncle Theo’s face had turned ashen. “It’s begun, Peewee. I pray we don’t die.”

Calliope staggered over to the desk and enveloped him in a hug. “Everything will be fine,” she said, patting him on the shoulders before drawing back to give him a smile. “I’m the only one in the family who’s cursed, remember?”

Her uncle’s grizzled gray brows snapped together. “Peewee, you mustn’t joke about it. Not at a time like this.”

“I’m sorry. I was only trying to—” Another explosion, this one ear-splitting shook the very air around them and one of the window panes on the starboard side of the cabin shattered. Tiny shards of glass sprayed across the carpeted floor.

“It’s all my fault.” Uncle Theo wailed, wringing his hands. “Oh God forgive me. I feel so guilty.”

Calliope frowned in confusion. “Guilty? Why should you feel guilty?”

“Your jewelry. It’s not on the Orpheus. I’ve… I’ve been perpetuating a terrible lie.”

“What on earth do you mean, Uncle? Mr. Lucas stole it. Michael Flint, when he broke on board last night and spoke to me, confirmed it.”

Uncle Theo inhaled a deep breath and took her hand. “Yes, it’s true Mr. Lucas stole your parure of jewels but they’re not your mother’s jewels.”

Exasperation rose, hardening Calliope’s voice. “Please speak plainly, Uncle. I still don’t understand.”

“The gem stones Mr. Lucas took are paste. I had an exact copy made of your mother’s necklace and earrings before we left England. The real jewels are back in Oxford, locked up in the safe in my study.”

Calliope felt as though all the wind had been knocked out of her. “You’re joking,” she whispered.

“No. I’m not. I’m so sorry for lying to you, Peewee. But… given the arduous nature of our journey, I didn’t think it wise to bring the authentic set with us. I feared something might happen to them. And I know how much they mean to you.”

“But why did you lie to Captain Townsend?” she demanded hotly. “He’s up there risking life and limb to help save my jewelry. Jewelry that’s worth practically nothing.”

“I know, I know,” said Uncle Theo. “And that’s why I feel so terrible. Obviously, I don’t want the Orpheus to go down because the dodo bones are on board. But if Captain Townsend knew the truth about your jewels, he’d probably blow Flint and his ship to smithereens without a thought and then I’d lose—”

A third deafening boom rocked the whole ship and this time, Calliope couldn’t contain a yelp of surprise.

Uncle Theo’s expression was stricken. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid and selfish, Peewee. Because if Michael Flint and his cutthroat crew boards the Andromeda, we could all be killed. I have to make this right. I have to tell Townsend.”

“Uncle Theo. No. It’s too dangerous.”

Before she could stop him, Uncle Theo careened across the cabin and bolted out of the door into the corridor. Calliope followed and her fear increased ten-fold. The air was hazy with smoke and the smell of burning filled her nostrils. She held a hand to her mouth and coughed. Her eyes stung.

“Wait… Uncle Theo… Come back,” she gasped but he ignored her. Within seconds he’d disappeared up the narrow, ladder-like stairs leading to the deck above.

Urgent shouts and another alarming noises—the cracking and splintering of wood, the reverberating boom of canon fire, and distant screams—reached Calliope’s ears as she hovered by the cabin door.

Oh God, the two people she loved most in the world were up there, where chaos currently reigned. She waited, heart pounding, struggling for breath, clutching the door frame with one hand—the Andromeda’s violent pitching had grown worse—while she used her other hand to cover her mouth and nose.

Finally, she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She didn’t want to disobey Jonathon—she’d promised him she’d stay put—but she had to find Uncle Theo. Drag him back to safety.

And like her uncle, she wanted Jonathon to know the truth. He shouldn’t risk an onboard skirmish if he didn’t have to.

When she gained the top of the stairs and pushed open the door, she was momentarily overwhelmed by the scene before her. White smoke billowed across the rolling deck, obscuring her view. Men ran to-and-fro shouting. Barking harsh orders. Waves crashed against the hull, sending plumes of spray into the air and churning water spewed from the scuppers. Above her head, shredded rigging and a torn sail cracked and snapped in the wind.

She couldn’t see Jonathon anywhere. But there was Uncle Theo, standing amidships by the mainmast, his gaze transfixed on the port bow.

Calliope gasped. Oh, dear God. The Orpheus was looming closer and closer. It wouldn’t be long before both ships were within grappling distance of each other. Summoning her courage, she lurched a few steps forward across the slick timbers of the deck toward her uncle. Behind her on the quarterdeck, someone shouted, “Ready… fire!”

And then it seemed as though the whole ocean exploded. A terrible, thunderous roar filled her head and she had to shield her eyes against an intense wave of heat.

“Calliope!” The very next moment, someone tackled her from behind, knocking her onto the deck. Covering her body. Shielding her from the flaming debris raining down around them.

Jonathon.

“You’re safe, my love, you’re safe,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “It’s all right. It’s over. The Orpheus is no more.”

Sweet relief flooded through Calliope, but then she squirmed beneath Jonathon’s weight. “Uncle Theo?”

Jonathon shifted and let her up. “He’s fine. See?” Calliope glanced in the direction he pointed and sure enough, Uncle Theo was hale and hearty. He sat with his back against the mainmast, swatting a few glowing embers from the sleeves of his coat. When he caught sight of her through the remnants of swirling ash and smoke, he raised a hand in greeting and grinned.

Calliope threw her arms about Jonathon’s neck hugging him fiercely, never wanting to let him go. Around them, the crew splashed about, sluicing water over chunks of burning timber on the deck and beating out embers in the sails above. A shower of icy rain began to fall from the heavens, soaking them to the skin, but Calliope didn’t care about any of it.

“I’m sorry I came up on deck, but I was trying to save Uncle Theo,” she said. And then she explained about her jewels and her uncle’s guilt over his deception.

Jonathon brushed a thumb across her wet cheek. “I have a confession to make too. Real or not, I never gave a damn about those jewels. Or those cursed bones. When I heard the Orpheus was carrying a cargo of saltpeter, and not slaves, I was always going to blow it out of the water. It was the safest course of action to take… because you, Calliope Banks”—his chest swelled as he drew a deep breath—”you are the only thing that matters to me. I love you. I’d do anything for you. And to that end…” He rose to his knees and clasped her hands between his. A warm smile broke across his soot-streaked yet undeniably handsome face. “My beautiful sweet, darling Calliope,” he continued in a voice rough with emotion, “would you do me, undeserving rogue that I am, the inestimable honor of consenting to become my wife?”

Happiness bloomed inside Calliope’s breast and tears mingled with the raindrops sliding down her face. She couldn’t quite believe this was happening. The man she adored, the man she knew she could trust with both her heart and her life, was proposing to her in the middle of a burning deck of a wounded privateer vessel, in the rain.

And she’d never felt more fortunate. Or blessed.

Rising to her knees too, she looked deep into his ocean-blue eyes. A smile trembled about her lips. “Yes, Jonathon Townsend. With my entire heart, I say yes.”

As Jonathon swept Calliope into his arms and claimed her mouth in a passionate kiss, the entire crew erupted with cheers and whistles and thunderous applause. Undoubtedly it was indecorous, if not outright uncivilized, but for once Calliope didn’t mind at all.

Epilogue

Later that night…

Calliope was relieved to hear that overall, the Andromeda only sustained superficial damage to some of the rigging, the top mainsail, the bowsprit and its flying jib. The hull and all the masts were intact. Even though there was some minor damage to the rudder—one of the Orpheus’s cannonballs had managed to strike part of the stern—it was still functional.

During a celebratory dinner in Jonathon’s quarters, Mr. Keats also reported that the injuries to the crew were few and relatively minor. A handful of survivors from the Orpheus—including Mr. Lucas—had been plucked from the ocean. All were currently chained in the hold in the vicinity of the bilge. Calliope and Uncle Theo were quite happy for the magistrate in Mauritius to decide Barnaby Lucas’s fate.

Once Tom cleared the last of the plates, silver cutlery, and empty glasses away, and Uncle Theo retired to the officer’s quarters with Mr. Keats, Calliope found herself alone with Jonathon at the dining table.

Completely alone.

A spark of alarm flared inside her. “Where’s Nelson?”

Her gaze wandered around the cabin, lit softly by the golden glow of lanterns. He wasn’t roosting on his perch near the patched mullioned window and he wasn’t beneath the table trying to pilfer any missed crumbs. Neither was he lurking about the desk or the damask silk curtains bracketing Jonathon’s bed.

Jonathon sipped the last of his claret then sent her a measured look across the table. “He’s bunking in with Mr. Keats tonight.”

“Oh…” Calliope blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because my sweet fiancée, I rather hoped that you and I might bunk in together. And I’d much prefer it if Nelson wasn’t here to offer a running commentary throughout the night.”

A deep thrill skittered through Calliope and her pulse began to race. She swore her face was as pink as the fuchsia muslin of her gown. “You said you rather hoped.”

“Well…” Jonathon said, putting down his glass carefully. “I shouldn’t assume anything. But as I’d like to marry you as soon as possible—it won’t take long at all to arrange a marriage license in Port Louis,” his mouth curved into a lazy, sensual smile, “I rather hoped you would like to share a bed with me tonight.”

“Oh… I see… Well then…” Desire and nervous excitement made Calliope as inarticulate as a henwit.

Jonathon rose to his feet and approached her end of the dining table with slow, deliberate steps. Dressed casually in boots, tight buckskin breeches, and a loose cambric shirt sans cravat, he literally took Calliope’s breath away. “Of course, that decision rests entirely with you, my love. But I want you to know”—his smoldering gaze locked with hers—“that I want you quite desperately.” Bending low, he kissed her neck. And then his warm breath fanned against her ear, making her shiver. “I burn for you, Calliope.”

Rising to her feet, her hands slid to Jonathon’s chest and she could feel the solid thud of his heart beneath her palm. Feel the heat emanating from his hard, muscular body. The delicious scent of him wrapped around her, beckoning her to bury her face in his neck. “You do?” she whispered. She believed him, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Yes.” Jonathon’s hands came up to rest lightly about her waist. “Let me show you.”

Calliope longed to relent immediately but a silly, altogether too cautious part of her made her say, “What about your crew? I know we’re in the middle of the Indian Ocean with no one to naysay us—and of course, I shouldn’t worry about what others think so much—but you have warned me about how uncouth they can be.”

Jonathon caught her chin with gentle fingers. “You’re engaged to the Andromeda’s captain, and in a matter of days, you will be Lady Sandford. If any man onboard shows you the slightest disrespect, he’ll have me to answer to. Does that help ease your concerns, my love?”

She nodded. “Yes, it does. But I also wanted to ask you…” She drew a deep breath. She had so many questions for Jonathon, she barely knew where to begin. “I know we are returning to Mauritius—and I adore Belle Mer. And of course, Uncle Theo is also very happy to be going back there to hunt down more dodo fossils. But you’ve mentioned before your intention to settle in England. That you have an estate. But I barely know anything about it.”

Jonathon grimaced. “God I’m an ass, Calliope. Of course you have questions. And here I am, acting like a randy youth who hasn’t a lick of patience.” He turned and leaned against the table, drawing her in close so her hips were bracketed by his muscular thighs. “Ask away. I’ll tell you anything.”

“Well… Your estate is in Dorset. Is that right?”

He smiled. “Yes. It’s called Highcliffe. And Highcliffe Hall is right by the sea. Because I only inherited the viscountcy two years ago—an elderly but distant uncle passed away and apparently, I was the next in line for the title—I’ve visited it but once. The thing is, while I have a competent estate manager, I have lately developed an intense yearning to return home to England. To live a quieter life. To put down roots. To share my days with the woman I adore. To start a family. I have no other ties to speak of—no siblings and my parents passed long ago—and I’m truly tired of wandering the globe on my own.” He raised a hand and caressed Calliope’s cheek with the back of his fingers. His eyes were filled with so much love, her breath caught. “I want to turn Highcliffe into a home, Calliope. With you.”

Calliope’s heart did an odd little flip-flop and she fiddled with one of the buttons at the neck of his shirt. “Won’t you grow bored?” she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.

Jonathon’s hands slid to her back and he pulled her flush against him. “Never,” he murmured huskily. And then he kissed her.

* * *

When Calliope immediately responded with unabashed enthusiasm to his kiss, Jonathon’s heart swelled.

When he’d spotted her on the main deck—right at the precise moment the Orpheus had blown part—his heart had stopped. And then he’d bolted from the quarterdeck and thrown himself over her, shielding her body with his. He knew right then that what he felt for this woman was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. The need to protect, the need to cherish, it thrummed inside his veins. Resonated through him, right to his very bones.

On a groan, he deepened the kiss, gently plundering Calliope’s sweet-as-honey mouth with long strokes of his tongue. But she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she relished it. A soft moan fluttered in her throat as she tangled her tongue with his. Buried her hands in his hair. Pressed her soft belly against his rapidly hardening length.

God, yes. He had to have this woman. No, he wanted to pleasure this woman, more than anything. More than he needed air. To show her how much she meant to him.

Breaking the kiss, he took her hand and drew her toward the bed. The burgundy silk counterpane had been pulled down, revealing the pristine white sheets and plump pillows. But it was up to Calliope to decide how far they went tonight. Not him.

He turned to her, a question in his eyes and she inhaled a shaky breath. Her gaze was steady, her expression solemn as she said, “Jonathon, so many things could have gone wrong today… One, or both of us, could have died. But we didn’t,” a shy smile peeked out, “and here we are.”

“Yes, here we are.” He brushed a shining lock of coppery hair behind her shell-like ear.

Her smile widened and her eyes were the clear blue of the sea on a summer’s day. “Given all that, I’m absolutely certain that I want to live life to the fullest with you. To take pleasure in each and every precious moment we share. Everything within me—my heart, my mind, my body—yearns to lie with you.” She reached for him, skating her hands up his arms to rest upon his shoulders. A soft pink blush suffused her cheeks. “Let us consummate our love tonight, my darling Jonathon.”

He couldn’t suppress a wolfish grin. “With pleasure.”

Even though lust throbbed in his groin, Jonathon was aware a modicum of restraint was required as Calliope had never done this before. Despite her bold request, he could see she was nervous by the way she bit her lip when he began to let down her glorious hair. Tonight, he wanted to please her. Take her on a sensual journey. She deserved to be simultaneously spoiled and worshipped. There was no need to hurry.

So, he undressed her slowly, taking his time. Releasing buttons, and gently pulling loose ribbons and ties. Stroking and caressing and teasing her bared silken flesh with kisses and whisper-soft words of praise as he went.

“You have such beautiful skin. It’s like cream sprinkled with cinnamon,” he murmured as he slid her lawn chemise down one slender arm and then feathered a trail of light kisses along her naked shoulder.

Her kiss-swollen lips curved in a shy smile. “You don’t mind my freckles?”

“I adore them,” he said, then brushed a finger over the tip of one taut nipple that pressed against the gossamer-thin fabric covering it. “And I’ve often thought about how delightful it would to be find all the secret places they might be hiding.”

He smiled when her cheeks pinkened. “And I’ve also wondered”—with gentle fingers, he slowly pulled her loosened chemise down so that her entire breast and its tightly furled coral-pink nipple was bared—“if I could make your body blush from head to toe.”

“I’ve always disliked my horrid red blushes,” she murmured huskily, “even more than I dislike my freckles or my red hair. But when you say things like that, I rather think they’re not so horrid after all.”

He held her gaze as he exposed her other delightfully plump breast and covered it with his hand. “I love everything about you, Calliope. To me, you are perfect.” And then because he could no longer resist temptation, he lowered his head and claimed her nipple.

* * *

Calliope gasped with pleasure as Jonathon encircled her aching nipple with his lips and suckled. Desire gathered and pulsed in all her secret, feminine places and she was suddenly so weak in the knees, she had to grip Jonathon’s wide shoulders to keep herself from falling.

When he transferred his attention to her other nipple, a moan spilled from her throat. She’d never known wanting such as this. It was exquisite and overwhelming. All her nerve-endings were alight, her senses heightened. Jonathon’s silky hair brushed the back of her fingers as she clutched at him. The rasp of his tongue against her tender flesh felt like hot velvet. As he ruthlessly suckled at one breast and pinched and played with her other nipple, her whole body became engulfed in shivers of delight. But soon she sensed she needed something else from him. She might be a novice in the bedroom, but she’d read enough of that naughty tome The School of Venus to have an idea of what would come next.

“Jonathon…” Calliope tugged at his hair and he raised his head.

His eyes were heavy-lidded and glazed with passion as they met hers. “I want you naked, my love,” he whispered, and she smiled.

“Only if you grant me a similar favor.”

He grinned. “Gladly.”

Calliope sat upon the edge of the bed and watched Jonathon with avid interest as he stripped off his cambric shirt and tossed it aside.

She licked her lips and whispered, “You’re beautiful.” His lean, rigid torso and the hard swell of biceps and pectoral muscles gleamed in the golden lamplight. She curled her fingers into the counterpane; they itched with the need to trace all of those sleek planes and contours. Explore the bronzed nubs of his small nipples and the scattering of black hairs covering his chest. The dark trail arrowing down into his leather breeches…

Oh my. His swollen manhood strained against the placket.

When she looked up, his eyes were as dark as the midnight sky. “Your sweet words and the way you look at me enflames my desire for you all the more, Calliope. I can’t hide how much I want you.”

With that, he tugged off his boots and hose and then he was unfastening his breeches. His engorged penis jutted proudly above a tight thatch of black curls and Calliope gasped. “Oh, my goodness, you’re positively massive.” An embarrassed blush scorched her cheeks. “I mean… you’re magnificent.”

He chuckled. “Either word will do, my love.” Then he stripped off completely and eyed her chemise. “It’s time for you to return the favor.”

Why not? she said to herself. Her breasts were already bared. And it was only fair. It was time to be bold. Drawing in a deep breath, Calliope rose to her feet, then wiggled out of her shift. It fell to the floor with a soft whisper.

“Well…” Jonathon’s voice was soft and low as his gaze unabashedly roamed over her body. “If I had to pick a word to describe you, my lady, it would be spectacular.”

“Really?” she whispered.

He stepped forward and grasped her shoulders. The look in his eyes was so tender and adoring, it made her breath hitch. “Really.”

He gently pushed her down onto the bed but instead of following her there, he dropped to his knees on the floor. Confused, she raised herself up onto her elbows. “What are you doing?” she asked.

His mouth tilted into a rakish grin. “I’m looking for freckles.”

She frowned. “Well you won’t find any down there.”

He cocked a brow. “Are you certain?” His large hands slid from her ankles up to her knees, raising gooseflesh, and then he was gently coaxing her legs apart.

“Jonathon?” she whispered nervously.

“Oh look, there’s a scattering just here.” He lowered his head and placed a kiss on the inside of her left knee. “And more here.” His tongue licked a wicked path up her thigh, making her squirm and gasp with the unexpected pleasure of it.

He wedged his entire body between her thighs and caught her gaze. “I think I’ve found another freckle or two, right here,” he murmured as he brushed his fingertips through the coppery curls covering her mound. “But I think a closer, more intimate inspection is required. Perhaps even a taste…” He arched a brow. “If you’ll let me…”

Oh… Calliope licked her lips. While his wicked, perhaps even indecent suggestion was shocking, she couldn’t deny she was curious. And the pulsating ache in her sex was more intense than ever. In fact, she was desperate with need. Still, she felt compelled to say, “You want to taste me down there? Are you sure?”

His thumb rubbed against an exquisitely sensitive part of her—the hard little nub that was throbbing the most—and he smiled when she shivered in response. “Most assuredly yes. I’m dying to make you come with my mouth alone.”

“Oh… very well then.” How could she possibly say no to a request like that?

Her heart galloping, Calliope lay back down upon the bed and closed her eyes. Jonathon shifted; his wide shoulders spread her legs even farther apart. His wicked fingers slid through the moisture that had gathered between her feminine folds… and then he touched his tongue to her core and Calliope cried out. “Oh… Oh, sweet heaven… Oh.”

The extraordinary sensations coursing through her body were indescribable. Incredible. As Jonathon suckled and licked and lapped with enthusiastic abandon, Calliope writhed and panted and moaned, shamelessly arching her hips and pressing herself against his clever mouth. She couldn’t help herself. She’d never imagined, never dreamed that love-making could be like this.

The exquisite tension steadily building inside her grew stronger. Tighter. Her body trembled. Pleasure rippled. Called to her. And then all at once she found the ecstasy she’d been seeking. It broke over her in a great, devastating wave and she cried out Jonathon’s name. Clutched as his head.

And then she collapsed onto the mattress, a quivering, wholly satisfied woman.

All thanks to the man she loved. Jonathon.

He joined her on the bed and gathered her close. “My beautiful, Calliope, what joy you bring me,” he murmured against her hair.

She nuzzled his chest then raised her head to kiss him. “I want to bring you joy too.”

“You will, my love. But let’s find it again, together.” He pushed her onto her back then reared over her, like a beautiful, powerful beast. Holding his weight on one forearm, he then spread her legs with a nudge of one knee. The length of his manhood lay hot and heavy against the tender, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. “I’ll be as gentle as I can when I first enter you, sweetheart. But despite my best efforts, it might hurt.”

Calliope caressed his strong back, reveling in the feel of his muscles rippling and shifting beneath her palms. “I won’t mind at all. I want this, Jonathon. I love you and I want you inside me. For us to become one.” She offered him a smile, hoping he could see how much she trusted and adored him.

The light in Jonathon’s gaze was infinitely tender as he brushed an errant curl away from her face. “I love you too, Calliope.” And then he parted her slick, virgin flesh, and pushed forward, claiming her body in the most fundamental and profoundly intimate way.

His entry burned at first and Calliope squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip to suppress her whimpers of pain. Yes, it hurt, but she could bear it. Because for Jonathon, the man that she loved, she would do anything.

Gradually, by degrees, the discomfort subsided. Indeed, the way Jonathon’s length stretched and filled her was satisfying in and of itself, and as he began to rock his hips, gently sliding in and out of her wet heat, Calliope started to relax. Pleasure sparked and very soon, Jonathon’s bolder, more forceful thrusts were driving her toward bliss yet again.

“Calliope. Oh, God you feel so damn good.” Jonathon buried his face in her neck and groaned as his plunging grew faster. Wilder. And Calliope’s heart soared. The heady knowledge that she was bringing Jonathon pleasure too, was sublime.

He raised himself up, hovering over her. One hand speared through her hair as his lust-filled gaze seared into hers. “I want us to come together, my love,” he panted. “Tell me when you’re there.”

“I will.” Calliope wrapped her legs about him, welcoming his increasingly frantic thrusts, matching his rhythm, and it wasn’t long before she felt as though she was being swept away, carried higher and higher. So high. Any moment Jonathon would push her over the edge.

“Yes! Oh, God.” Calliope’s body spasmed and arched as thought-robbing pleasure claimed her a second time. But a heartbeat later, Jonathon reached the point of climax too. He pumped into her, once, then twice more before collapsing on top of her with a great shudder, groaning her name as his member jerked and pulsed, filling her with his hot seed.

Some time later, when they lay happy and sated in each other’s arms, Calliope was roused by her husband-to-be’s tender kiss.

“Don’t tell me you want to make love again, Jonathon Townsend,” she murmured sleepily. “Of course it was wonderful, but I’m afraid you’ve worn me out.”

He chuckled softly and cradled her jaw with one hand, tilting her face upward so their gazes met. “Not quite yet, my sweet. It’s just that I can’t quite believe you’re here with me like this. I’m the happiest, luckiest man in the world. And I want you to know that no matter where we are—whether that’s in the middle of the Indian Ocean, or on Mauritius, or back in England—my home will always be with you.”

As Calliope brought her lips to Jonathon’s, there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that this was the very best day—and night—of her life.

And the most wonderful thing of all… she knew that with Jonathon by her side, there’d be countless more to come.

About Amy Rose Bennett

Amy Rose Bennett has always wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember. An avid reader with a particular love for historical romance, it seemed only natural to write stories in her favorite genre.

She has a passion for creating emotion-packed—and sometimes a little racy—stories set in the Georgian and Regency periods. Of course, her strong-willed heroines and rakish heroes always find their happily ever after.

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The Stormswept Stowaway

by Ellie St. Clair

Chapter 1

Liverpool, England

1730

Silence was currently her ally.

Penny bit her lip hard to keep from making a sound as boots struck the planks of the deck above her. She pulled her legs even tighter into her chest, as though if she made herself small enough, she would entirely disappear from sight.

If only she could. That would solve many of her problems.

She simply had to remain unnoticed, however, until the ship was out to sea, far enough from land so that there would be no impetus to turn around and deposit her back on shore.

Although, if she did manage to stay hidden for the entire journey, it would be far preferable, though quite unlikely.

She took the deepest breath that she could manage down in the stifling hold. She was wedged between two barrels, the contents of which were unidentifiable, though around her was an interesting mix of scents that reminded her of ale, charcoal, and spice. She had no idea where this merchant ship was sailing, but at the moment, she didn’t much care — as long as it was far from here.

Penny realized that the boots above her had stopped moving, and she breathed a sigh of relief, hopeful that this particular vessel would not carry a great many sailors. Part of the reason she had even selected this frigate was because of the lack of activity surrounding it.

She was to be disappointed.

Suddenly what had sounded like a solo tapping erupted into an entire chorus of footsteps above, so much so that if she didn’t know better, she would have thought the entire deck overhead was about to cave in on top of her. They seemed to be taking part in some strange dance up there — then she realized exactly what they were doing. She fell backward when the ship gave a huge lurch, clearly pushing away from the dock. She scrambled back up onto her hands and knees, bracing herself between the two kegs and the bulkhead as the ship began to sway from side to side.

At last.

They were setting out to sea.

Despite the fact that she was currently trapped in this hold, a wide smile broke out on her face as her spirit seemed to soar free with the movement of the ship.

Penny had been yearning to leave land for years now, ever since she had been forced off her uncle’s ship where she had felt so at home.

She was prisoner no more.

* * *

There was nothing in front of him but the crystal clear blue expanse of water stretching as far as the eye could see.

This was why he sailed.

Well, in addition to the gold that lined his pockets.

Perhaps, also, the pleasure that filled him knowing that Captain Ramsay was a name feared by all who heard it.

For was one truly even a pirate if his name didn’t evoke terror?

Ramsay grinned broadly as he stood atop the forecastle and surveyed the main deck below, where his men scurried to and fro as they converted his ship back to the feared Raven’s Wing instead of the costume of a merchant ship it had worn at port.

It was astonishing how the change of sails and clothing of his men could allow them to hide in plain sight.

Now he was on a new course — one to track down Hernandes Ortego, captain of The Crusader — the man who had been thwarting him for far too long.

How much simpler his life would be with Ortego removed from it.

How much richer as well.

He smiled grimly as he took the steps down from the forecastle to the deck below, his men parting as he walked through them. He had taken a prisoner while at port in Liverpool, and the man was currently awaiting him down in the hold.

Well, that was, if he had as of yet awoken. His boatswain, Aloysius, had perhaps hit him slightly too hard. Ramsay was somewhat concerned that the man might not have survived, but he was breathing well enough when they had first placed him in the barrel and rolled him onto the ship. Now they would just have to check that they hadn’t addled his mind.

“Captain, would you like me to go rouse Ortego’s man?” Aloysius asked, but Ramsay shook his head.

“Best I do it,” he said darkly.

“’Twas an accident—” Aloysius began to defend himself, but at Ramsay’s sharp look, he desisted.

“Can I kill ’im afterward?” Aloysius asked hopefully as Ramsay began striding away, but Ramsay had no care to respond. Incompetence cost him and he had no time for it. Unfortunately, he had to place loyalty above competency, and there was none more loyal than Aloysius — except, perhaps, his quartermaster, Bastian.

The prevalent sound over the waves crashing against the side of the boat was his boots hitting the boards of the deck as Ramsay took the stairs down to the crew’s quarters and then finally the hold below. It had been quite some time since he had found himself so far below deck. It was one of the benefits to being captain — he could delegate all of the tasks he had no intent in completing himself.

It was dank and dark in here, though organized. Ramsay was clear that all aspects of his ship were to be as orderly as that of a naval vessel. It was much more efficient, whether at sea, port, or even during the chaos that reigned during a raid or an attack.

Ah, here must be the barrel Aloysius rolled in — the one marked with the red X on top, right by the entrance. Ramsay unsheathed his cutlass to pry off the lid when he heard something from the corner of the hold.

Must be a rat, he thought with a swear. Damn things got into the provisions and not only ate what was for his men but brought diseases onboard. He would have none of that. He picked up the cutlass and stealthily inched across the room to find the thing. He heard the noise again — almost akin to a whimper, he thought, but never mind that, the rodents made all sorts of noises.

There it was, coming from between the two barrels in the corner. Enough light shone through the porthole that he should be able to see it, and he prided himself on being faster than even the wiliest of creatures. Ramsay lifted the cutlass, stepped forward, and began to swing the sword down with all of his might.

Chapter 2

Penny raised her hands above her as a shield, though she knew her pathetic attempt to protect herself would have little effect upon the weapon that would end her life. When she’d caught sight of the man as he had entered the storeroom, she had been unable to breathe.

She had known then, that this was no merchant ship.

She knew that face. Highlighted by the sun that filtered through the doorway when he entered was the face that covered every wanted poster on the streets of Liverpool. He was Captain Ramsay — a pirate known for never taking a prisoner he did not kill, who was merciless when it came to exacting revenge and taking what he determined should be his.

Not a man who was likely to forgive a stowaway on his vessel, nor leave her untouched. And heaven only knew where their next stop would be. While she hadn’t been opposed to sailing across the sea to the Caribbean when she had thought this to be a merchant’s ship, she certainly had no wish to spend weeks onboard with pirates.

She thought she had found freedom, but instead, she simply found herself an even worse prison.

Penny had tried to sink deeper into the wall, to keep herself completely hidden, but apparently, her efforts had been futile as he had found her in seconds.

She hadn’t been prepared for him to attack so quickly, however.

All she saw were eyes so dark they seemed nearly lifeless, haunted, his lips twisted in a scowl, his hair as long as his beard. He was the devil. And he was about to kill her.

She squeezed her eyes tight now, cowardly hiding from her impending doom.

But the blow never came.

Instead, a bellow of a curse the likes of which Penny had never heard before flew from the man, his cutlass whizzing through the air to find home in the wood just two inches from her left ear.

Penny shrieked when she felt rather than saw it fly by her head, taking deep gulps of air as she attempted to slow her racing heart.

Perhaps if she simply sat like this with her eyes covered, she wouldn’t have to come to terms with the fact that an infamous pirate captain stood in front of her, one who seemed none too pleased that she had stowed away on his ship.

At least he hadn’t killed her. Although that likely meant—

“Have you a death wish, wench?”

Penny gasped at his words as she instantly dropped her hands from her face. Then she wished she hadn’t.

The pirate’s face was inches in front of hers, his eyes narrowed, a long, deep scar over his left eye somehow not detracting from his beauty. The wanted posters hadn’t been fair, for they had failed to capture his prominent cheekbones, his deep-set dark eyes, nor the golden highlights that shone within his hair which was so dark a chestnut it could nearly be considered black.

His linen shirt was open at the collar, and Penny couldn’t help but allow her eyes to follow his throat down to his chest, darkened by days in the sun, where lines of sculpted muscle showcased his strength.

Penny swallowed hard.

He radiated an aura that caused a tremble to begin deep within her and vibrate to the very tips of her fingers and toes. At first, she thought it was fear, but then she realized it was an indescribable attraction. She had an unnatural urge to reach out and run her fingers down his beard, to see if it was as silky as it looked.

But he acted first.

He reached out and captured her wrists within his strong fingers, hauling Penny to her feet with a gasp. Then he leaned in so close that she wondered if he was going to kiss her, and her pulse quickened as her eyes fixed themselves on his lips. She should be pushing him away, telling him to leave her be, but—

With his lips twisted into a silent snarl, he yanked his cutlass out of the wall, pushing away from her to cross his arms over his chest and stare down at her, the sword hanging in front of him quite a fitting accessory. Penny wasn’t a small woman — she considered herself of fairly average size — but this beast of a man dwarfed her.

“I asked you a question,” he said, reaching behind her to capture her hair in his hand. He slowly twisted it around his fingers before ever-so-slowly and gently tugging on it so that she had no choice but to look up into his eyes. “What are you doing aboard my ship?”

A slight whimper escaped her lips before she could keep it in, and she clamped her mouth shut to keep from making another such sound.

“I, ah,” she finally managed, “I didn’t quite realize that this was your ship.”

His grin was rather wicked and had her worried once more for her virtue. She may be attracted to him but that didn’t mean she would allow any liberties.

He let her go and began to play with the sword once more, twirling the edge of it on the index finger of his left hand, until he drew a drop of blood that began to drip down his finger. He didn’t seem to notice, but Penny couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Well, now that you are here,” he drawled, looking her up and down, “whatever are we to do with you?”

“If you would be so kind as to leave me at your next port, I would most appreciate it,” she said with as much courage as she could muster. She was pleased that her tone came across as though she was asking for him to call upon her another day.

He began to chuckle long and low, his teeth surprisingly white and even. She would have expected a pirate to be missing most of them. Oh, blast her wandering thoughts. She had much more to be concerned with at the moment than how the man kept up his teeth.

“Surely you have heard of Captain Ramsay and The Raven’s Wing?”

“Perhaps.”

“We are not a passenger ship.”

“I hadn’t thought so.”

“We do not allow women aboard. Nor do we allow stowaways to simply leave our ship unpunished.”

Penny couldn’t tear her eyes away from the cutlass he was driving further into his own finger.

“What ah… what did you have in mind?” she asked, but then immediately wished she hadn’t. She was behaving an idiot, but she was in such a state of shock she seemed to have lost all of her senses.

When she had escaped this morning, it had been with the intention to stow away on a merchant ship until its next port of call. She had chosen this particular one as it seemed to be clean and not particularly crowded. But, of course, she had made a mess of things, as she always did.

He threw his cutlass in the air, catching it in his other hand. He brought the index finger of his non-bloodied hand to her face, stroking her cheek and causing her breath to catch in her throat, every nerve in her body now on edge at his touch.

“Are you worried, wench?” he asked darkly. “You needn’t be concerned that I will take you against your will, if that’s what you fear. I do not need to bed the unwilling, for there are far too many women who are eager to join me.”

Penny’s eyes widened at his words. She had no idea how to respond to that, for the thought of bedding a pirate — or anyone at all, but a pirate most especially—

Suddenly a thump and a muffled curse came from near the entrance to the hold, and Ramsay sighed at the sound.

“I have much greater concerns at the moment than you,” he said, looking down at her. “Follow me.”

“No, thank you.”

“I said,” his eyes darkened and his lips tightened, “follow me, or I will send another down here who has the time to make certain that you do.”

She considered his words, realizing that now was not the time to make a stand, for she lacked any sense of power at the moment.

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “Lead on.”

He turned from her and weaved through the casks around them, pausing when he came to one that was marked with a giant red X. He crouched, and with a grunt heaved the barrel onto his shoulder. He still had the cutlass in the other hand, and he turned to her, slapping her on the backside with the flat side of it. Penny yelped indignantly.

“Move,” he commanded, pointing the way with the cutlass.

Penny sent him what she hoped was a dark look before begrudgingly walking before him.

She had woken this morning with the intention of escape. Now she would likely be fighting for her life — or her virtue.

She had made many mistakes in her life. But never one like this.

This was a catastrophe.

Chapter 3

Ramsay would never admit it to anyone, but the lass in front of him was providing the most entertainment he had in some time.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had attempted to defy him. The girl had seemed to understand soon enough that it was not in her favor to do so, but he appreciated the effort.

Until, that is, her game went on too long. He had things to do.

There was banging on the cask next to his head, and Ramsay was glad that it was not a far climb up the stairs to the main deck. There, he would interrogate the man before sending him to his watery grave.

When they finally reached the top, he heaved the cask from over his shoulder, sending it crashing to the deck below so that it splintered and broke apart, allowing the man inside to emerge.

“My God!” he heard the woman beside him exclaim, and he rolled his eyes. This was why he preferred to never have any women aboard his ship — far too many theatrics. “He’s injured!” she continued, tugging at his sleeve, but he shook her off, ignoring her.

“Captain!” his boatswain said, as much of the crew gathered around them. “Where did the woman come from?”

Ramsay looked behind him as though just remembering her. “She stowed away in the hold,” he said, and Aloysius was already shaking his head.

“We can’t have a woman aboard, Cap’n,” he said. “’Tis bad luck, it is.”

She began to reply, but Ramsay held up a hand to silence her.

“We’ll deal with her later,” he said. “She means nothing. First, we speak with our new friend.”

He fixed his gaze upon the man now lying on the deck before them, his face mottled in anger.

“Talk,” Ramsay said. “Where is Ortego?”

“I know nothing!” the man spat out.

“You were a member of his crew. Do not deny it, for we know the truth. You were only in Liverpool because you became too ill to serve him at sea any longer. Well, how do you feel after four hours on the water once more?”

“I’m not— that is, I—”

“He’s frightened!” came a female voice, and Ramsay turned to the woman, holding up a finger to quiet her.

“He is one of Ortego’s crew. It’s an act.”

“But—”

“Silence!” he roared. He would have no one questioning his actions, man or woman. He whirled around now, bringing his cutlass down and swiftly removing one of the man’s fingers. Ortego’s man began to howl in pain, and he heard the woman slightly whimper, though she remained on her feet, for which Ramsay gave her some credit.

“Talk,” he commanded once more through his teeth as he crouched down, “or that will not be the last digit you are separated from.”

That shut the man up for a moment, and he nodded hurriedly before managing to speak through the pain.

“He—he was going to Jamaica last I heard, then on to store his plunder.”

“Very well. And now more importantly, where is his hideout?”

“I-I d-don’t know. I was never allowed there.”

“Bullshit.”

“I-it’s the t-truth. But I h-heard a rumor.”

“Very well.”

“There’s an i-island off the c-coast of San Juan. Isla de Tarifa. It is said there, beneath a rocky outcropping, is where h-he takes his treasure.”

“Jack!” Ramsay bellowed. “Bring a map.”

His sailing master did as bidden, delivery the map to the deck, careful to dodge the blood that was now pooling upon it. Ramsay gestured for one of the younger men to come clean it while the quartermaster joined them to review the map.

“Here?” Ramsay asked, pointing to the north coast of Puerto Rico. The prisoner nodded.

Ramsay summoned him to his feet.

“Time to walk.”

“Please, no!”

“How about a compromise? I won’t bind your hands. But with your finger bleeding like it is, you best swim fast before the sharks start circling.”

Ortego’s man stared him in the eye as an understanding passed between them. He didn’t like it, but this was not an unlikely end for him.

“Go ahead, Bastian,” Ramsay said with a nod. “Keelhaul him.”

“What does that mean?” came the sudden cry, and Ramsay tilted his head backward as he muttered a curse. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, the woman would be gone. He was sadly disappointed. She was now standing between him and Ortego’s man.

“He’s going for a swim!” one of the crew called, and Ramsay grimly smiled. That was one way of describing dragging a man under the ship and across the keel.

Ramsay was momentarily distracted, however, by the woman.

She was something to look at, though she wasn’t the traditional beauty he typically encountered. Her cocoa-brown hair floated in waves around her shoulders, her dress a muted red, draping over her frame that was not particularly slim nor particularly buxom. The one discerning quality to her looks was her piercing blue eyes that were currently intent upon him. If she could throw knives from them at him, he was sure she would.

He pulled his hat low over his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to summon every ounce of patience he possessed — which wasn’t much but would hopefully be enough to keep him from killing this woman.

“Move, wench,” he said, motioning to the side with his sword, “or you will be swimming under the boat with him.”

She gasped as her eyes widened.

“You would not kill a woman!”

“I would if she continued to challenge me so. And this man you are so ardently defending is hardly anything but a poor man. He’s likely killed more men than you have ever been acquainted with.”

She turned around to look at the pirate, and he shrugged as he held up a hand, confirming that Ramsay’s words were true.

She returned to him with a pleading look in her eyes, and Ramsay was appalled when he felt the smallest of urges deep within him to do as she asked. What the devil was the matter with him? A pirate such as he didn’t show mercy. Merely justice, which was exactly what this was.

“If you do not wish to watch this, then turn around,” he said, training a hard look on her as he tamped down that most unwelcome feeling. “Otherwise, you will have to stand aside as witness. Bastian, move the woman.”

The quartermaster stepped forward to follow the order.

“After it’s done, bring her to my cabin,” Ramsay commanded, and then before anyone could issue a word of protest, he was marching down the deck, the only sounds upon his departure a shout, a scream, and a splash.

* * *

Had she eaten anything in the past twelve hours, Penelope thought she likely would have been sick. As it was, her stomach was empty, so all that rose in the back of her throat was bile at all she had just witnessed. She averted her eyes from the remaining bloodstains on the deck as one of the pirates marched her down the planks toward the stern, where she assumed the captain’s cabin was located. It had been on her uncle’s ship, anyway, though he was far from a pirate. He was a true merchant.

And it was her mission to find him again.

But first, to escape this pirate ship before she ended up like the unfortunate soul who was currently swimming with the sharks.

“Where is our destination?” she asked her escort, but he simply snorted.

“D’you take me for a fool?” he asked, though Penny wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that truthfully. His head was shaved, and he even had a gold tooth — he was exactly the man she would picture were someone to ever ask her what she thought a pirate might look like.

But he had survived thus far, so he must have some sense about him.

“I suppose not,” she finally decided, “but that doesn’t mean we cannot make conversation. What difference does it make if I know where we are going? It is not as though I have any power here.”

“’Tis for the captain to determine,” he said, eyeing her shrewdly. “You’re a lively one, aren’t you?’

“I am unsure whether or not you are meaning to insult me,” she said, rising as tall as she could, which nearly put her in line with this pirate, for he wasn’t an overly large man, “but I have decided to take that as a compliment.”

“Women,” he said, rolling his eyes, and she eyed him with what she hoped he understood was disdain.

He walked her down the stairs until they were underneath where, she thought, the helm would be, and the pirate knocked on the door.

“Come in, Bastian,” came the voice from beyond, and Bastian gave her one more reproachful look before opening the door to reveal the captain’s quarters.

Penny couldn’t help her curiosity despite the circumstances as she surveyed the room to see just how a feared pirate such as Ramsay lived.

The only light in the room was from the row of windows across from her that looked out at the blue expanse beyond. Sunlight streaming through them left a pattern upon the thick red carpet that lined the middle of the room, upon which were two chairs around a table that was covered by a piece of parchment. Beyond it were thick crimson draperies, which hid what she assumed was the bed. The rest of the room was taken up with bookshelves, filled with not only books, which surprised her, but a variety of collected treasures.

Overall, it was quite comfortable, and not at all what she would have expected from a man like Ramsay.

“What is your name?” she heard from a dark corner and turned to find Captain Ramsay leaning against the wall in the corner.

“My name?”

“Is that a difficult question?”

She swallowed as he pushed off the wall and walked out of the shadows, though he didn’t quite step into the sun streaming in from the windows.

“Penelope Carstairs,” she said, noticing as she did that Bastian left the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving her alone with Ramsay. A shiver crept down her spine as the room suddenly became very small.

“Well, Penelope Carstairs,” he said, placing his hands on the back of one of the chairs and spinning it around toward her. “Sit down and tell me what you are doing aboard my ship.”

“I’d rather stand.”

His hard stare changed her mind and she took the few steps forward and sat. He picked up the other chair and twisted it around, straddling it as he faced her.

“Talk.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

Her throat went dry, but she forced herself to continue.

“Killing a man like that in cold blood. Forcing him to suffer so, when he was going to die in moments anyway.”

He leaned toward her, his long, silken hair falling around his face as he did so.

“If you do not like the ways of pirates, wench, then I would suggest you should not stow away on a pirate ship.”

“Do you not think I have realized my mistake?” she cried out, catching his dark look. “Well, I think you are despicable.”

“So I have been told. Now speak, or I will loosen your tongue for you.”

Penny swallowed hard as she twisted her hands in the folds of her simple crimson and cream dress, which already needed a good launder.

“I am looking for my uncle.”

“And you thought to do so from my ship?”

“Would you like me to speak or not?”

He said nothing but stared at her with a look she expected intimidated many. She, however, was becoming rather annoyed.

“Right, then,” she said. “Please stop interrupting me.”

He began to rise from the chair, but she continued to speak, which seemed to appease him momentarily.

“My uncle is a merchant. I spent two years on his ship when I was a girl of twelve and thirteen, following my mother’s death. It was the best time of my life.”

Penny did all she could to tell the story dispassionately, but saying it aloud brought tears to her eyes.

“Then my father found me. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he seemed to think it was his duty to bring me to live with him. He is a baronet, and my mother had escaped him years ago. He didn’t care until he found out she had passed. My uncle agreed that perhaps life at sea was not the best situation for raising a young girl.”

“I imagine this was some time ago?” Ramsay asked with a raised eyebrow, his scar moving with it. Penny wondered how he came by such a scar. Was it during battle? Was it caused by a cutlass, perhaps, or a pistol? Or maybe it was from shards of a cannon. She had heard of such things before. Although—

“Continue,” he growled.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. What was it you asked?”

He placed his hands over his face for a moment, muttering to himself.

“Is there something the matter, Captain Ramsay?”

“By God, wench, you are the most exasperating creature I have ever met.”

Penny sat back, stunned by the force of his words, but he didn’t seem to care.

“I asked,” he bit out, his eyes dark as they bore into her, “how long ago this was.”

“Oh! Nearly nine years ago. I am two-and-twenty now.”

“Two-and-twenty,” he repeated, tilting his head as though by studying her he could determine if she was being truthful. “You still have not answered the question of how you are going to search out your uncle from my ship.”

“I was escaping. I have no money. I thought to stow away on a merchant ship, attempting to make my way to Boston, where he makes his home when he is not at sea. I wish to join him there.”

“I see,” Ramsay said, standing now, swirling the chair back around and placing it where it belonged. “Well, you will be sorely disappointed, for we have another, much more urgent stop.”

“And where is that?”

“Puerto Rico.”

Chapter 4

Damn, but this she-devil tempted him. Ramsay had originally thought her rather plain, but it was difficult to continue to picture her as such when she repeatedly defied him so. It had been some time since anyone had refused to obey his every command.

Like most pirate crews, they voted on major decisions, but his crew knew well enough that if they wanted to continue to sail with Captain Ramsay, they would vote with him instead of against.

“Come,” he said, crooking a finger at her, and when she opened her mouth, he knew what she was going to say, and so he halted her words before they could come forth. “Do not argue. I will not do anything to you. I am going to show you something.”

She nodded jerkily, and then rose, nibbling her pink lips as she did so, her pert nose held high in the air.

“Not to worry,” he said, with a wicked grin, “I promise not to touch you.”

And he wouldn’t. He was a man of his word. He would, however, perhaps convince her to want to touch him. He had been some time without a woman and wouldn’t mind having a saucy little thing like this one in his bed.

“Stand here,” he said, gesturing to the table, and she did as he commanded for what seemed to be the first time. He came around behind her, tilting his head to peer down at the map before them. He was tall enough that he could see it over her head, but he leaned in, his chin just above her shoulder, his hands holding open the map before them. His arms spread wide around her body, which was now trapped between him and the table. He leaned in so that when he spoke, his lips would be just next to her ear.

“Do you see where we are right now?”

She nodded, wisps of her hair tickling his nose and cheek when she did so. An intoxicating citrus scent rose from her, and he leaned in closer so that he could inhale more of it.

“If your friend there wasn’t lying, then we now know where Ortego has been hoarding his treasure. If we can capture it as well as the man himself,” he chuckled lowly, “it would be the haul of my life.”

She turned her head ever so slightly back toward him.

“Is it because you want his treasure, or because you want to best him?”

“Both,” he said, not ashamed to admit it.

“We have just left England and are sailing down the coast,” he continued. “We will stop in Lisbon for supplies before crossing the Atlantic to Puerto Rico, where his hideaway is said to be.”

“Perhaps in Lisbon I could find another ship.”

“None that would be going to Boston. And then there is the matter that you know who we are and where we are going. One doesn’t know who you could tell about us and our destination.”

He leaned in closer so that he was as near as could be to touching her without actually doing so. The temptation to pull her toward him and press her soft curves against him, however, was far too great, and he had to push himself away to rein in his urges.

He rounded the table, leaning over it so they were eye to eye.

“I have quite the conundrum, Penelope,” he drawled out her name, liking the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. “I do not want you on my ship, nor can I set you free for a time. And it would be a waste to kill you, for you are far too pretty.”

He saw her suck in a breath, and he had to admit that he admired her courage. She hid her fear well, though he sensed it all the same.

“I won’t tell anyone—”

“That’s what they all say.” He leaned back now and studied her. Her blue eyes flitted from one side to the other before she finally met his gaze. “I would say, Penelope, that you will be one of us for quite some time.”

* * *

Did he mean to keep her for the entire crossing? Penny’s throat went dry at his words. There must be a hundred men on this ship, and she was to believe that none of them would touch her in what would be weeks, if not months? It was ludicrous. But she had something now. Information. When they stopped in Lisbon, she would be ready. Surely from there she could find another ship that would prove a much better choice on which to stow away.

She would simply need to make an escape plan.

But at the moment, Captain Ramsay was expecting her to comment.

“And then in Puerto Rico you will allow me off the ship?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she squeaked.

“Maybe I will like having you around,” he said, rounding the table and lifting strands of her hair, this time rubbing it between his fingers rather than pulling it roughly as he had before. Somehow watching him do so stirred something deep within her, something she didn’t want to name.

“Stop that.”

“Excuse me, wench?”

“Do not call me wench,” she said, exasperated. “My name is Penelope. Or Penny.”

“Of the two, I prefer Penelope. But I still favor wench.”

“Penelope. Better than wench.”

“Are you not a woman?”

He dropped her hair when she eyed him with a look of derision.

“Clearly.”

His grin now could be called nothing but wicked.

“I must go speak with Bastian and my crew.”

“Do you not make the decisions?”

“Most of them, yes. My crew follows my lead. But on a pirate ship, Penelope, I do not simply make orders. Bastian also makes some of the decisions, and at other times, the crew decides among themselves.”

He brusquely turned from her and she made to follow, but he whirled around with a hand up.

“You will stay here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I must have a word with my crew about you first. They will not like having you aboard.”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because you are a woman. And one that they cannot touch. Women are bad luck.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. This is the way of it. Do keep yourself from any trouble until I return.”

And with his scarred eyebrow drawn inward in a silent warning that he would brook no argument, he was gone.

* * *

“What do you think, Bastian?”

Ramsay first consulted his quartermaster. The two of them split many of the duties on the ship — Bastian organized the crew, while Ramsay determined their missions and which ships they would overtake.

But they had no precedent for this.

Bastian rubbed a hand over his shaved head.

“We could maroon her on an island.”

“We could. But that would take valuable time away from us. We don’t know how long Ortego will stay in this hideout on the coast of Puerto Rico. If we take too long, we could miss him entirely.”

“True.” Bastian was silent for a moment as he gazed out over the rail at the rolling seas in front of them. “I don’t like it, Captain. A woman on the ship, and for the entire crossing? That’s some bad luck. And then there are the men.”

“I know.”

“She’ll have to stay locked in your cabin.”

Ramsay cursed. When Bastian mentioned that she might be the object of lust for the men on the ship, what he hadn’t considered was that Ramsay would be one of them.

To be locked in the cabin alone with her night after night…

It would be torture at its highest, but Ramsay lived by his own rules. Rules that ensured order, and that, in the end, worked to his advantage. It was how he had survived fifteen years on a pirate ship thus far, many of them as captain. This woman wouldn’t change any of that. He would make sure of it.

And so it was four hours later that he reluctantly made his way to his bed. He had considered sleeping on a hammock with the crew, but that would leave the woman — Penelope, he reminded himself — vulnerable to any man who decided she was worth breaking their rules. Most of his men were loyal, but there were enough newcomers that he couldn’t entirely trust them all. One never could, with a pirate crew.

No woman aboard was one of the ship’s articles. Unless, the article read, there was a circumstance that required an exception.

The crew had voted, agreeing that, for now, she could stay.

But then there was the addendum on the article. If a woman should find herself aboard, no man could touch her.

Including the captain.

He opened the door just in time to see her gasp from her position on the third shelf of one of his bookshelves, begin to teeter, and then topple to the floor. He raised an eyebrow as he walked over toward her, pleased to see that, at the very least, she hadn’t dropped the pearls she had been rolling over her hand. He plucked the necklace from her fingers and returned it on the shelf.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” he asked, and she turned crimson.

“I was bored.”

“Bored?”

“Well, yes,” she said, indignant now as she rose to her feet. “You left me here all day — alone! Unless you count the man who gave me dinner, if you can call it dinner. And he would barely speak to me.”

“He was under strict orders not to.”

“So, what, you are going to leave me to die of ennui?”

“I can think of worse ways to perish.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You chose this ship.”

She stood there staring at him, hands on her hips as her bosom rose and fell, drawing his gaze with the way it stretched the fabric of her gown. It was impossible for him to look away.

He knew the moment she realized it as her hue deepened, and she dropped her hands, crossing them over her chest. That only served to push her breasts up further, much to Ramsay’s satisfaction as well as his chagrin.

“Where am I to sleep?”

“The bed,” he said, walking past her to take a seat in one of the chairs before removing his boots.

“Wh-where are you going to sleep?” she asked, unable to mask her alarm. When Ramsay looked up at her, she was feigning nonchalance, but from the way she was staring at her interlocked fingers, twirling her thumbs around one another, she was obviously quite concerned.

He slowly strode toward her, and her chin rose ever so slightly with each step he took.

“Does it matter?” he asked once he had finally stopped in front of her.

“I’ve been told that I’m a terrible sleeper. I move around something awful. In fact,” she looked up at him now, clearly pleased with an idea, “I even snore.”

Ramsay tamped down the wild jealousy in his stomach at the thought of just how someone else might have gathered this information. He didn’t care, he told himself. He certainly shouldn’t care.

“I will be sure to inform you in the morning if that is all true,” he said, and her eyes widened as large as dinner plates. “For I will be sleeping just across the room.”

At that, there was a knock at the door, and Ramsay crossed the cabin to open it to a pair of the crew who held a hammock between them. They strung it up in one corner of the room before they were on their way once more.

When Ramsay returned his attention to Penelope, relief was evident on her face.

“Where did you think I was going to sleep?” he asked, advancing toward her, but she began to take a step backward for each one of his until she was flush against the wall. He leaned over her, bracing his arm beside her head.

Her eyes gleamed, though with what he wasn’t entirely sure. Fear? Uncertainty? Or even…disappointment?

“Th-thank you for your bed,” she said, stepping out from under his arm and making her way toward it. It was high, and he enjoyed watching her struggle to climb up the mattress, her bottom waving in the air until she finally deposited herself with an “oof.”

She tried to tug the curtains closed around her, but he wagged a finger at her.

“They stay open.”

“But— what about my privacy?”

“I told you I wouldn’t touch you,” he said sincerely, though the words pained him as much as they likely did her, albeit for different reasons. “At least, not until you are begging me to do so.”

“I would never beg you—”

“But I didn’t say I wouldn’t look.”

Chapter 5

The nerve of the man! Penelope had decided to sleep in her gown after his wicked laughter had chased her under the quilt. Only now she was wrapped in his scent, and it was driving her mad with distraction, especially knowing that he lay just across the room.

Now the material of her dress was wrapped around her legs most maddeningly and she had no choice but to attempt to undress beneath the blanket, for she certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her do so overtop.

“We will bring you new garments on board when we dock in Lisbon,” he called from across the room. “Now once that gown is off, cease your movement.”

She said nothing, for she had no desire to argue with him any longer. He was exasperating. He was the most despicable man she had ever laid eyes on, which was saying something, for she had known some terrible men.

And yet she couldn’t help that he made her practically tingle with desire. Never before had she met anyone like him. The sailors on her uncle’s ship had acted nothing like this — likely because of who she was, but she had never encountered any trouble from them.

Of course, there were the men who were the very reason she was here on this ship, but that was beside the point.

This man, this pirate known all over the world, was positively virile. She was drawn to him like a barnacle to a ship’s belly, and nothing could currently be worse.

When she finally fell into a fitful sleep, it was upon a prayer for favorable winds to Lisbon, so that she could be off this ship and away from this man as soon as humanly possible.

* * *

It was six days to Lisbon.

Six days of agony.

Penny thought she might lose her mind, and this would only be the beginning of the journey if she didn’t manage to escape. She had inspected every curiosity on the shelves within the cabin. She had read a book a day, despite how boring she had found them, for they were mostly histories of various nations or biographies of men she had no interest in. And she slept.

The only time she had been allowed out of the cabin was to use the latrine — fortunately, there was a private one near the captain’s cabin at the stern of the ship in the quarter galley — as her food was brought to her.

On those odd excursions out of the cabin, she observed all she could. There was a guard posted to her door at all times, and to reach the deck, she would have to find her way to the stairs.

She never saw Captain Ramsay during the day and she had hardly seen the man sleep. When the sun set each night, she had no choice but to close her eyes for there was little light. At those times he was usually bent over the table in his cabin, using a sole candle to pour over maps or books or drawing what she assumed was a battle strategy.

When he was in the room, he primarily ignored her. At first, she was content with it, but as the days dragged on she became annoyed with it all.

At least she had begun to convince her guard to speak with her. He was young, about the same age as herself, she figured. He was often the one who brought in her food, and he turned a bright pink when she spoke with him. He had introduced himself as Joey the first time he had served her, and one night not long afterward she had begun to question him.

“How, Joey, did a nice boy like you come to find himself on a pirate ship?”

“I sailed on a merchant ship and our ship was taken,” he said as he slid the plate in front of her.

“Captain Ramsay captured you?” she exclaimed. “He forced you to serve him?”

“No,” he said, quickly shaking his head. “The Captain took our ship but allowed those of us who survived the option to serve under him. I took it.”

He lowered his voice and looked around furtively, though it was only the two of them in the cabin.

“It wasn’t only that I didn’t want to die — for I certainly didn’t — but I also didn’t care what master I served. At the time, anyway. Now,” he looked up at her, his gaze insistent. “I wouldn’t serve under any other.”

“Why?” she asked, intrigued. Captain Ramsay was known as the worst on the seas. Why would a man want to serve him?

“We plunder often, ’tis true,” he said, “but we are rewarded handsomely for it. We never lose a fight, not with Captain Ramsay leading us. If you cross him, you’re as good as dead, but as long as you keep to his rules, he treats you well. Something you best remember. And he and Bastian are more fair with the loot than any other I’ve ever encountered. It’s why all the men are so loyal to him. “

“I see,” she murmured, wondering if this new pirate’s loyalty stretched far enough to keeping a young woman captive. “Thank you, Joey.”

“Of course,” he said, bobbing his head, his cheeks still pink. “I should be waiting outside now.”

His words worried her some. She had hoped that throughout the sail to Portugal she could tempt him into turning against Captain Ramsay and helping her escape, but now she was unsure if that would be an option.

It was a conundrum. And one that she had very little time to figure out, for they would find themselves in port in no time at all.

* * *

Ramsay joined the helmsman, Needlenose Finley, where he stood with Bastian as the shoreline came into view. Red peaks on white buildings stretched along the shoreline, with an expanse of green behind as backdrop. Lisbon.

The three of them watched in silence as it came ever closer. This was always rather tense, pulling into port on this side of the Atlantic, for it put them in danger of being captured. So far, their ruse of disguising themselves and the ship as merchants had worked, but one never knew when the ploy might be discovered.

Bastian had already inspected the crew in their merchant clothing — not so different from their pirate wear, but the one piece of clothing they kept neat and respectable for visits such as these. They could raid a town and steal most of their supplies, true, but Ramsay preferred to steal directly from Portuguese ships, not from the people on shore who had no means of defense. He would take the stolen coin from his hold to buy what they needed. He had already distributed it among the select members of his crew who would go ashore.

“You sure you don’t want to conduct a raid?” Bastian asked, eyeing Ramsay.

“Then we would be on the run,” Ramsay said, cross that Bastian didn’t fully agree with him. “We would lose our cover. I don’t mind the odd raid, but I’d like to remain inconspicuous. We want the names of Ramsay and The Raven’s Wing to be feared, but I’d prefer it is not known who to look for.”

“Fair enough,” said Bastian with a sigh.

“Not to worry,” Ramsay said, slapping him on the shoulder. “There will be time soon enough for a good battle. Save it for Ortego.”

“That will be weeks away,” Bastian said, looking through the spyglass, eyeing the shore. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

“It’s a long voyage,” Ramsay said with a shrug. “One never knows what — or who — we might come across.”

“True,” Bastian replied, slightly more optimistically.

They docked at the far end of the port, their flag, of course, down, replaced with Red Ensign of Britain.

“You best be going into your cabin, Captain,” Finley said wisely. “Your face is the one known around here, and we wouldn’t be wanting anyone to recognize you.”

Into the cabin. With the woman he had been trying to avoid for the past week. But his helmsman was right. By staying out in the open, he could put them all in jeopardy. Ramsay was a proud man, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Be quick about it,” he said to Bastian, who nodded before continuing to the main deck, hollering at the men to prepare to go ashore.

Ramsay hadn’t touched foot on the shores of Europe in years now. In many of the pirate strongholds in the Caribbean, he was celebrated upon his return, though he had to be careful, for there were some who were beginning to look rather poorly upon men such as he.

He had found, however, that with certain bribes he could be fairly sure of a positive reception in most places he went.

Over here, everything was different. It was a necessary evil to stop to prepare for the weeks at sea. Healthy men worked much harder than those too ill and weak to work.

Now, for the lass. He enjoyed teasing her, but truth be told he was the one who came out worse for it. The more time he spent around her, the more he wanted to break his own rules and take the woman to his bed, no matter the consequences.

While she continually told him how despicable he was, somehow, he had the feeling that she might be more agreeable to his touch than she let on. Sometimes one couldn’t help what — or who — they wanted. But he had to hear her say it. And until then, he would leave her be. It was hard enough to spend a few hours a night hanging across the room from her in his hammock, knowing she was sleeping in a thin chemise just a few feet away.

He certainly couldn’t forget it. She snored as well as any of his men.

“Joey,” he greeted the lad who stood outside his door. Ramsay hadn’t been sure he could trust him at first, coming as he did from another ship, so he had given him the ultimate test — guarding the woman. He’d had another man, one he trusted, keeping an eye on Joey, but thus far the boy had proven loyal.

“How is the wench?” he asked, and he detected a slight bit of pink rise in Joey’s cheeks. But then, the boy’s skin was so fair that it turned red just from standing in the sun.

“She says she’s bored, Captain,” Joey said with a shrug. “But otherwise all is well. She’s ah, she’s currently in the latrine.”

Ramsay stole a look down the corridor but nodded.

“Very well.”

He was about to step into the cabin when he heard a decisive splash. He looked to Joey.

“Did you hear that?”

Joey’s eyes were as wide as could be. He nodded quickly, and they stared at one another for a quick moment before running to the quarter galley, where Ramsay’s latrine was located. Ramsay threw open the door. The balcony was empty.

He ran to the edge, looking out over the rail.

There, below him, he could see a dark head bobbing up and down in the water.

Pale arms flailed about her head as Penny turned toward shore.

“Bloody wench,” he muttered.

“Ah, Captain?” Joey said, looking chagrined, obviously blaming himself for this. “Should I go in after her?”

Ramsay looked the lad up and down. He wasn’t a particularly big man, and he was still rather soft despite spending the last few months at sea, though he was slowly growing stronger.

“How well can you swim?” he asked, and the boy hesitated, looking down over the rail.

“I can survive,” Joey admitted, “but I cannot swim overly well.”

Joey’s brow furrowed as he looked out at the water.

“Ah, Captain? I think the lass is drowning.”

Ramsay took another look over the railing. Should he let her?

“You — you are going to save her, aren’t you?” Joey looked up at him with some pleading in his eyes.

It would make sense for him to let her drown. It was against their articles for a woman to be on the ship. She had knowledge that could hurt the lot of them.

Ramsay hesitated. He glanced at Joey then looked at Penelope. If he had to guess, it was her skirts that were weighing her down. He did admire the fact that despite her struggles, she never called out for help — she simply continued doing all she could to propel herself to shore. Ramsay had seen many a man overboard, however, and he knew that she would never make it.

“Damn it all,” was all he said. He reached down and pulled off his boots, first one and then the other landing in a thunk on the deck. Then he climbed on the rail, lifted his arms overhead, and executed a perfect dive down into the water far below.

Chapter 6

Penny had visualized her escape over and over during the monotony of the last six days.

This was not what it had looked like in her mind.

For one, she should be closer to shore. The stern of the ship, however, was quite far away.

Secondly, the water had been much calmer in her vision. One would think that so close to shore it would have tamed some, but of course, it was an especially windy day.

She also didn’t think it would have taken so long for her to hit the water. But the quarter galley turned out to be much higher than she had thought.

Finally, she hadn’t counted on the weight of her skirts.

She continued to churn her arms and kick her legs, just like her uncle had taught her all those years ago, but it had been far too long since she had put any of the skills into practice. Her legs were no help with all of the material that caught around them, dragging her down to toward the bottom.

Penny’s head continued to dip below the surface, but she used every ounce of strength within her to find the air again. She refused to die because of her own stupid decision. She wouldn’t give Ramsay the satisfaction.

As she looked up, trying to make out the shore once more, she came to one conclusion — her dress had to go or else she would. She tried to shrug out of one shoulder of the gown, but the wet fabric clung to her skin.

Maybe if she was able to get some of the buttons undone in the back. She took a deep breath, knowing she would have to go under for a moment to unfasten them as she wouldn’t be able to use her arms. She sank as she tried to undo the buttons, kicking her feet desperately to stay as close to the surface as possible.

She freed but one button before she fought to the surface to gasp for air and then she was dragged down once more.

Oh God, she prayed, don’t let me die this way.

What she did know was that she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She finally resurfaced, hoping that when she did the shore would have grown much closer.

Sadly, it had not. The opposite was true. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought she was moving farther away. Should she try to swim back to The Raven’s Wing? What would Ramsay do if he knew she had tried to escape? She thought of the man he had keelhauled. Perhaps this was the better way to go.

The water threatened to take away all choice, however, as it enveloped her once more, pulling her down, threatening to take her into its depths forever. A sob was lodged deep in her throat as Penny despaired for all of the foolish, reckless decisions that had brought her here, to this point.

And then when she thought all hope was gone, that her short life had culminated here, something strong and taut encircled her waist, pulling her to the surface faster than she ever could have swum herself. When her head broke through, she gulped fresh, delicious air, never more grateful for the view of the sun high overhead.

Just when she thought to seek out her savior, he was gone, though Penny could still feel the pressure of a hand on her waist. There was a pull on her skirts, and then suddenly they were gone, liberating her with a lightness that caused relief to flood through her. She could swim again. She was free. She kicked her feet hard now toward shore, but then a hand wrapped around her bare ankle and pulled her back.

“Not so fast,” came the growl in her ear as the arm retightened around her waist.

Ramsay.

She was helpless as he turned on his back, holding her atop of him as he kicked his way back to the ship. Neither of them said a word until they reached The Raven’s Wing, which hadn’t been overly far away. Penny saw one of the pirates throw down a rope, which Ramsay grabbed.

“On my back,” he commanded.

“But—”

“I said on my back.” He ground out the words.

“All right,” Penny squeaked as she swam behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her bare legs around his hips. She closed her eyes for a moment, for this was certainly not how she would have pictured herself straddling a man for the first time. When he began to climb, she looked down, breathing a sigh of relief that he had cut her skirts low enough so that she wasn’t completely bare to this pirate crew who would be awaiting the finish of their climb.

When they reached the rail, Ramsay lifted her over and deposited her on the deck as though she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Fortunately, the deck was fairly empty, save for a few men, including Joey. The look he gave Penny was one of such disappointment that she nearly felt ashamed. But then she reminded herself that he was a pirate — just like the rest of the men aboard this ship. She should certainly not be ashamed that she had tried to escape them.

“What in the hell did you think you were doing?” Ramsay said, his words calm and yet laced with such anger that it almost would have been better had he shouted at her.

She tried to answer him, but all she could manage was a few coughs. She had swallowed more water than she realized, for she suddenly acknowledged her bloated stomach. She managed to turn to the side before water came spewing out. Ramsay made a sound of disdain that suggested he thought he deserved her pain before he ordered one of the boys to clean it up.

He then bent, picked her up over his shoulder, and dragged her back down to his cabin.

Penny closed her eyes in defeat as she went limp, too tired to fight for the moment, though melancholic. Not her prison cell. Not again.

When they reached the cabin, Ramsay threw her on the bed before repeating his question.

“Now that half the ocean is out of your stomach, you can answer my question. What in the hell were you doing?”

Penny scrambled to her feet, as unsteady as she was. While he would still tower over her, she would not have him speaking down to her as though she were a child.

“I believe it is rather clear that I was attempting an escape,” she said, forcing herself to remain as calm as could be.

“Attempting suicide is more like it,” he said, advancing toward her now. “You would have drowned had I not jumped in after you.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You could have.”

They stood toe-to-toe now, each of them silently fuming.

“Perhaps I would prefer drowning than staying here on The Raven’s Wing,” she finally managed, and he cocked an eyebrow.

“I highly doubt that,” he said. “Despite your stupidity, you seem to be the type of woman who yearns for life.”

“Not if it means being tortured to death,” she retorted.

“I have given you the finest of comforts,” he barked. “You are in my bed, damnit.”

“It might as well be a prison,” she said, “sitting in here alone for hours, day after day. And we still have weeks to go! I stowed away on a ship because I love to sail! I want to be free, to feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, to smell the spray of the ocean salt and fly as free as the very raven your ship is named for. But here I am, shuttered away in this godforsaken room alone, with nothing to occupy my time. Please, Ramsay, just let me out!”

Her throat was raw, her body shaking with fury, and cold, she realized. Despite the fact that the air temperature was quite warm, between the chilled seawater clinging to her skin from the remaining fabric, her bare legs below, and the shock at nearly drowning, she couldn’t stop trembling.

Between that and the despair at being trapped in here for weeks more, for the loss of any hope of freedom, she let out a sob of anguish.

“Stop that,” Ramsay commanded, pointing a finger at her.

Penny worked her lip between her teeth in an attempt to do as he said, but even in this, her body refused to comply with his order as her sobs threatened once more.

“There is no crying on this ship,” Ramsay said, stomping his foot on the ground, though his action was as childish as her crying in frustration was. “Do you know why, Penelope? Because we never have any women on this ship!”

“You were nearly rid of me!” she burst out at him through her tears. “You could have been, one way or another — either through my escape or through my drowning.”

The realization dawned on her. It should have long before, but she was too focused on all else that had occurred.

“You saved me,” she said, awestruck for a moment. “Why?”

* * *

It was the very question Ramsay had been asking himself ever since he had shed his boots and dived into the salty water.

Why rescue her?

Why, when there were so many others he would readily send to their deaths by a swim in the sea? He could hardly remember the last time he had saved someone’s life instead of ending it.

Ramsay wished the woman was a bit more grateful, but then, he could imagine that if someone had told him he would be spending weeks on end within a tiny cabin, he would go mad himself.

She was still waiting for an answer. She looked up at him with those blue eyes open as wide as could be, every inch of her that was exposed puckered in gooseflesh, her entire body trembling wildly.

But he couldn’t give her an answer. Not when he didn’t know it himself.

“Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction,” was what he finally said gruffly before, in spite of himself, reaching out and pulling her in, close to his chest.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice muffled against his skin through his open shirt.

“Warming you.”

“I wouldn’t need warming had you not cut off all of my clothes!”

“Are you seriously berating me for that as well?” he demanded. “Those skirts were going to drown you.”

“I know,” she said her voice small, and suddenly she took in a deep breath, one that he felt more than he heard or saw. She shuddered as she released it. “I thought I was going to die.”

Her words were so quiet that he almost didn’t hear them.

“It’s not the best feeling in the world, is it?”

“Have you nearly drowned before?”

“Never almost drowned,” he responded. “I’m too good of a swimmer for that. But there have been the odd gunshot or sword that nearly found its mark. Now, are you going to thank me or not?”

* * *

Penny couldn't help the shiver that ran through her at his words, though she didn't think she could rattle any more fiercely.

Though… it seemed like she was beginning to thaw. The man radiated heat the likes of which she had never seen before. Without even thinking of what she was doing, Penny pressed herself closer against him, as though in doing so she could capture every last ounce of his heat.

As to whether she was going to thank him? Well, it was his fault that she was in this mess, that she stood here dripping all over his cabin floor. And yet….

She stood on the tips of her toes so that she was standing as even with him as possible.

“Thank you," she said, her voice just above a whisper, and, using his shirt to pull herself up the rest of the way, she kissed him on the lips.

Chapter 7

Ramsay had a feeling that her kiss was supposed to be a chaste one. One that spoke the thank you that she couldn’t bring herself to say.

But he was not a man who accepted a chaste kiss. For a quick kiss such as that was one that spoke of affection, of emotion that he didn’t want to have any part in.

He had told her that he would only touch her when she asked for it. He would take this as his invitation.

The moment she began to pull away and leave only the memory of her lips upon his, he hauled her to him, one arm tightening around her so that the soft length of her body was pressed up against him.

He shifted his belt to hang his cutlass down the side so that anything pressed against her was nothing but him — and pressed it was.

He didn’t know what it was about this lass, but she tempted him in a way that he hadn’t been tempted in quite some time.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was brazen enough to stow away on a pirate ship and to try to escape. Or perhaps it was that she continued to defy him, which no one else had attempted in quite some time.

Whatever it was, now that he had a taste of her, he had no desire to savor her, but rather to eat her all up.

He wasn’t gentle with her and took no pity as he crushed his mouth against hers. He forced her lips open, expecting rejection, but instead, her arm tightened around his neck and her tongue licked his experimentally but eagerly.

Penny’s fervor lit a fire within him, and he pushed her back toward the bed, lifting her on it so that he had better access to all he yearned to explore. He was a man who thirsted for treasure, but for this, he needed no map.

“Ramsay!” she whimpered breathlessly when he left her lips to kiss his way down her neck. He bit into her soft skin, leaving his mark, and she bucked against him, welcoming his harsh touch.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and he slid his hands into the destroyed dress that still clung to her arms.

“I don’t… I’m not… oh, that feels good,” she murmured. It seemed the woman did not know when or how to stop talking, but as long as her words were those of encouragement, he wouldn’t put a halt to them.

“If that feels so good, what do you think of this?” he said gruffly as he freed her breasts from her bodice, lifting the round globes, so soft and pink in his rough hands.

Her eyes widened and her response was to take his lips with hers again. Ramsay assumed that she was inexperienced, but she was more than making up for it with her enthusiasm.

He had just pushed aside the rags at the bottom of her torn gown when there was a knock at the door.

“Captain? The men are back,” came Bastian’s voice. “There is clothing for the woman. I heard there was an… incident.”

Ramsay pushed away from Penny with an oath. He was tempted to open the door and tell Bastian to leave them be, that he was not to be disturbed for some time.

But then the men would know. It was bad enough they were already breaking the article which prohibited women on the ship, but at this point, they had all agreed it was in their best interests. If they knew he was finding pleasure with her, it would be him alone breaking the ship’s rule, and he would be as guilty as any.

“Cover yourself,” he ordered, pointing a finger at her, and her face clouded. She looked as though she was going to retort, but when he strode over to the door, tucking his clothing properly around him, she dove behind the bed’s curtain. There was no fixing what she was currently wearing.

“Was all well on shore?” he asked Bastian as he opened the door enough to allow the man entrance.

“Nothing to report, Captain,” Bastian said. “We’ve got all we needed. I’ve brought clothing for the woman, and the men just have to finish loading everything. I heard the woman went overboard?”

“I was attempting to escape,” came the voice from beyond the bed curtain. “It did not go as planned.”

Bastian looked as though he was about to laugh, but Ramsay’s warning glare silenced him.

“Well, ah, glad to hear all is well now.”

“I should hardly think that all could be considered well,” Penelope continued, and Ramsay closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to hold onto his patience.

“I’ll be up on the main deck shortly,” Ramsay said to Bastian, deciding that ignoring the woman was, for the moment, his best tactic. “We should ready to sail the moment the last bit of supplies are onboard.”

“Agreed,” Bastian said, nodding his shaved head. “And ah, Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Ye might want to handle your… situation.” He waved in the general vicinity of Ramsay’s lower half.

Ramsay narrowed his eyes with a dark look at his quartermaster, but Bastian knew Ramsay better than most and didn’t fear him quite as much as Ramsay would have hoped.

Bastian smirked at Ramsay now. “Just warning you. Wouldn’t want the crew to get any ideas.”

And with a laugh he was out the door, Ramsay’s scowl following him out.

“Is he gone?”

Ramsay turned toward the bed, where Penelope’s head was poking out of the curtain, watching him.

“He brought you new gowns,” Ramsay said, waving his hand toward the table.

“What did he mean by your situation?” she asked now, and Ramsay turned from her so that he wasn’t able to see her body with so much skin exposed. That certainly wouldn’t help his situation, as Bastian so put it.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said brusquely, and mercifully she didn’t pursue the topic.

She had something else on her mind.

“I would like to come up on deck.”

“No.”

“Just for a time?” she pleaded. “I need the sun, Ramsay. The fresh air.”

“I said no.”

“If you do not allow me to come up, then I shall find another way.”

Somehow, he didn’t doubt that she would do all she could to try, but this time, he was determined that she wouldn’t meet her goal.

“Next time you go overboard,” he said, finally turning around to meet her gaze. “I will not be jumping in to rescue you.”

And with that, he truly was out the door.

“Your clothes are wet!” Her voice called after him, but he figured he would dry them in the sun. Anything would be better than undressing in the same room as her. That would be as torturous as she claimed her imprisonment to be.

When he stood against the rail near the helm and looked out over the ocean below, his niggling thought that Penelope had a point remained. He could hardly imagine what it would be like not to have access to the sea breeze nor the warm air above. His cabin was rather sumptuous, but he certainly wouldn’t want to be confined in there for days on end.

Though he could think of worse prison cells. He was sure there was one awaiting him in several countries.

Not that he would ever find himself in one. He vowed that he would die first.

It took but a half day for an attempt to be made to take him there.

“Ship in the distance!” The voice came from up in the crow’s nest, where one of the men was currently on lookout. Acting on instinct, Ramsay was scaling up the rigging and beside Hector in seconds. Hector handed him the spyglass, and Ramsay fitted it into his eye.

“We’re being chased,” Hector said. “The ship is behind us, more to the port side.”

Ramsay followed his finger, quickly finding the ship he told him of.

He made out a frigate that was quite similar to his own. But it would be no merchant ship that was after him, and he couldn’t make out the flag of any particular nation. No, the flag was black.

“Damn it,” he said, sliding the spyglass closed. “It’s another pirate ship. Which one, I do not know, though they could be working with the Portuguese. Keep an eye on it,” he said, before climbing down the rigging as quickly as he had ascended.

“Bastian!” he hollered, and his quartermaster was there in seconds. They quickly called the men together and explained the situation.

“We put it to a vote,” Bastian said, as he walked around the circle the men had formed around them. “We run — or we fight. What’ll it be?”

The answer was not a surprise.

They would fight.

* * *

“Ready the gunners!”

What in the…

Penelope didn’t know what to think of the multitude of boots clamoring overhead. Something was happening up above. Then there was a series of clanks and thuds, and then ever-so-slowly, the ship began to turn. Penelope ran to the windows, looking out on the sea beyond. Before the ship completely turned around, she spotted something in the distance. At first, it wasn’t much more than a speck, but it was growing.

It was another ship, and it was coming for them.

Her hands began to sweat slightly, and she wiped them on the new dark-blue cotton gown she had donned. It was a bit big on her, and she had cinched the waist with a belt she’d found in the Captain’s things. That too hung down her side as it was far too wide for her, but it would have to do.

Penelope wasn’t stupid, and she had spent some time on a ship before. The fact that they were turning toward the ship behind them could mean only one thing — Ramsay and his crew were preparing to attack.

She swallowed hard, nauseous as a ball of nerves began to grow in her stomach. Just as she began to search for a weapon, the door to the room swung open with a bang.

“Ramsay!” she exclaimed. “What is going on?”

“We are readying for a fight,” he said, then fixed a hard stare on her. “Whatever you do — stay in here. Do you understand? This is about your safety now. It’s another pirate ship we’re meeting with, so it will do you no good to try to escape. They’ll treat you far worse than we ever would.”

Penelope tried to ascertain whether or not he was telling the truth as to the identity of the ship, but with a man like him, it was difficult to know for certain. He was a practiced liar if there ever was one.

If it truly was a pirate ship, however… there was no doubt his words were true.

“I need a weapon,” she said, finally deciding that she would have to trust him — for now, at least.

“Very well,” he said, untying his cutlass and handing it to her. “Be careful. Don’t cut your own hand off.”

She looked at him indignantly. “I know how to use a sword.”

He eyed her with disbelief. “You do?”

“I do, actually. You needn’t be shocked. And I would prefer to have a pistol as well.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“You’re liable to shoot yourself or one of the crew as much as you are an enemy. There will be no pistols.”

Penelope sighed, letting it go, for she could tell that he would enter no argument about this.

“Very well,” she said, though she rolled her eyes so that he would know her displeasure. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“It sounds like… music. Drumming, perhaps.”

“It’s our crew,” he said with obvious pride. “We are readying for battle.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Penny said, feeling like an idiot.

“We play to intimidate them. To encourage them to surrender. We don’t want a fight.”

“But I thought pirates—”

“We want to plunder. We want the treasure. We don’t want to lose any more of our crew than we have to.”

“I see,” she murmured, wondering anew at all she had been told of pirates and all that she was learning was the reality.

“Now, stay here,” he repeated, and then strode to the door as he donned an eyepatch. He placed his hand on the doorknob, though he stood there for a moment without turning it.

“What are you—”

But then he turned, crossed the room, and hauled her toward him. He kissed her soundly on the lips before releasing her just as abruptly and then leaving the cabin without another word.

Penelope placed her hands on her mouth and stared after him.

There was a battle coming, and she should want him to perish.

But she could hardly wait for him to return.

Chapter 8

The drumming stopped, but pounding began anew.

It was the guns, now.

It seemed The Raven’s Wing fired first, as the sound reverberated throughout the ship, clear through to where Penny sat in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs. She had moved the chair to the middle of the room, facing the door. She had Ramsay’s cutlass in hand as she waited for whoever might enter with her pulse beating so fast that her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.

An answering boom came from across the water, and Penelope closed her eyes tightly and inhaled as she waited for the cannonball to hit the ship. Nothing. She breathed out.

The guns continued to call to one another, boom for boom, but the ships must have still been too far away to make any contact, for she heard nothing else. Until finally, the resounding cries of men filled the air. The Raven’s Wing must have found its mark.

Which meant that they were likely now also within range of the enemy ship. Penelope gripped the cutlass tighter, despite the fact that her slick palms were making it difficult to hold.

Boom. Suddenly Penny’s chair flew backward, sending her into an ungraceful roll across the floor, her head just narrowly missing the table behind her. Apparently, the enemy ship had made contact, though, as she made her way to her feet, it seemed that no damage had been done to this room, at least.

Then the entire ship rocked as it must have come next to the other before it stilled once more, and Penny heard the cries of men above her. Whether The Raven’s Wing crew was boarding the other ship, or the enemy crew was coming on board, Penny had no idea, as she was unable to make sense of the shouts, footsteps, pistols firing, and blades clanking above her. She cringed when she heard screams of agony, and she assumed the odd thud she heard from above her was that of a body hitting the deck.

When she had sailed with her uncle, he had been wary of pirates, and preferred routes that took them up to Canada and across to England, rather than circling the waters of the Caribbean which were much more lucrative but rife with pirates. She remembered the one time they had seen a pirate ship in the distance. Never before had she seen such fear on the faces of men, but they had been lucky enough to outrun them.

Pirates fighting one another? It was not something she would ever have had any interest in being a part of. And yet, here she was, sitting in a pirate captain’s cabin, waiting to see if she would remain with her original captors or be taken on a ship anew.

She wasn’t sure which she would prefer. The unknown was always the greatest fear, but what scared her most? The fact that she nearly didn’t think of Ramsay as the enemy anymore.

She was falling for the worst sort of man one could ever imagine.

Why, she didn’t know. He was rude, he was arrogant, he had no qualms regarding taking the life of another.

She had never been so attracted to a man before. He was the definition of masculinity, a man who caused her to tremble from her head to the tips of her toes with just one look.

She was disgusted with herself.

She should wish that he would perish so that she wouldn’t have to worry about succumbing to the base urges that seemed to compel her whenever he was around.

But the thought of him dying, especially after he had jumped into the ocean to save her, filled her with sorrow.

It was a conundrum.

But one she only had to worry about if they both survived this battle.

Just then the door burst open, and Penny surged to her feet, cutlass outstretched in front of her.

Her heart beat loudly in her ears as the figure in front of her was not one she recognized.

A hat was pulled low over the pirate’s eyes, while blood covered the front of his white linen shirt. Penny wondered whose blood it was.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

“Stay back,” Penny said with as much authority as she could muster, though she could hear how pathetic her effort was.

The pirate laughed, and as he threw back his head, Penny gasped at the realization that he was actually a she, though she was unsure whether she should be relieved or more worried.

The woman was dressed like a man, with tight pants and a vest hanging loose over the white linen shirt. She took the cutlass out of her belt, waving it flippantly in the air as she began to circle Penny.

“Now, whatever do we do with you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she assessed her. “Perhaps I will take you back to my ship as a little gift for our captain.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“No? Are you Captain Ramsay’s pet, then?”

“I am no one’s pet,” Penny said indignantly before the woman’s words registered. “Have you taken the ship, then?”

Bright green eyes flicked up and assessed Penny more thoughtfully.

“Are you hopeful that we have?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Penny said honestly.

“The battle continues,” the woman said. “I came to see what riches Ramsay had hidden away. Now come with me.”

“I think I’ll just stay here,” Penny said, though her words were more of a hopeful question than anything else.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice,” the pirate said, hauling Penny to her side as she opened the door. Penny retained a hold on her cutlass, but somehow she knew that the few lessons she had in sword fighting with her uncle years ago would be useless against this woman, who would not only prove skilled but ruthless.

The moment the door opened, Penny was assuaged with the sounds of the battle much clearer around them than they had been in the room, as well as the scent of gunpowder, smoke, and copper. Blood.

The woman gripped Penny’s arm and dragged her down the corridor and up to the main deck, which was surprisingly rather devoid of pirates. Penny swallowed hard and averted her eyes from the few bodies and injured men tossed around the deck, but when she looked across at the other ship, it was full of men battling hand-to-hand.

“Ready?” the woman asked, and then she hauled Penny to her side, shouted “grab on!” and shoved a rope in her hands as she launched them over the edge. At the last second Penny took hold of the rope, and they were soon swinging over the water between the ships to the enemy craft beside them.

The rope was slippery under Penny’s damp palms, but she gripped with all her strength. Ramsay would be in no position to save her now.

They landed on the deck with a thud and Penny, of course, fell to the side, though the woman quickly picked her up and began moving with her, weaving them through the pirates around them.

Penny’s gaze flicked from one man to the next as she tried to find a familiar face, but her time with the crew had been so limited there were none she recognized. Just as they were about to go below deck, she saw a shaved head and called out “Bastian!”

The quartermaster turned, looked at her, swung his gaze to the woman next to her, and then left the man he was parrying to race toward them. The woman pulled Penny in front of her as a shield, but Penny stomped down hard on her foot to loosen her grip, rolling away just in time for Bastian to sink his cutlass into the pirate. The woman dropped down to the deck.

It seemed that it had all happened instantaneously, and yet at the same time had taken hours to occur. Penny stood there, staring down at the woman, breathing hard at the death she had just witnessed, knowing it could have just as easily been her lying there.

She looked up to see Bastian waiting for her.

“Well?” he said. “Let’s go.”

Penny nodded mutely, and they began moving back toward The Raven’s Wing when Bastian’s initial quarry rushed him again, and the two began to exchange blows. Penny was alone once more. She would have to either hide or return to The Raven’s Wing on her own.

She was beginning to receive more than a few glances, and she bit her lip in nervousness. She would have to act fast. Before she could even think, however, one of the pirates rushed toward her with a smirk on his face that she could only describe as evil.

“Ah, a treat!” he cackled as they came closer, but when he reached out a hand to grasp at Penny, she slipped on the slick deck and landed on her bottom just out of his reach. He grabbed for her again, but she managed to roll away from him in her panic.

She was crawling on all fours beside the edge of the rail when the pirate obviously decided he’d had enough. When he snatched at her yet again, Penny flipped around on her back, cutlass still in hand.

And he fell on top of her and right onto the sword.

Penny couldn’t help the scream that emerged, which was stupid, she realized but a moment later, for then many more pirates took note of her, the lone woman on board — as far as she knew, anyway.

She left the sword where it was, for she didn’t know if she could pull it out of the pirate even if she tried, and scrambled backward. She looked frantically around her, seeing a few skirmishes here and there, but more than anything, bodies across the deck, some lifeless, others bleeding.

There was a call of “surrender!” but the handful of pirates who had taken note of Penny didn’t seem to notice — or else, perhaps it was that they simply didn’t care. They circled her — five or six of them, she counted as adrenaline rushed through her anew — the looks on their faces friendly in a way that she didn’t overly care for. She reached for her weapon once more before remembering that her cutlass was currently in the body of a man.

It was then the panic set in.

There was no point in staying put, for they would soon simply close in on her.

She chose to flee.

Determining the two she thought would likely be the slowest of the group, she tried to break through the gap between them, but it was no use. She wasn’t exactly swift-footed, nor was she wily. One of them wrapped big beefy arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she nearly gagged — from that, as well as the stench that emanated from him and soon surrounded her.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes, so frustrated she was by her inability to do anything to defend herself, coupled with the knowledge of what was likely about to happen to her.

And then suddenly the arms dropped from around her, and a thud reached her ears. She looked down to see the man who had been holding her was now lying on the deck. When she lifted her head, his companions were all slowly backing away.

Penny turned around, following the direction of their eyes.

There stood Ramsay. His shirt was ripped, his cutlass was dripping with blood, and his hair tangled.

There was murder in his eyes.

Chapter 9

Ramsay had been pleased with his crew. They handily overtook this ship and few lives had been lost in the process. He had killed the captain, who had admitted he had been paid by Portugal to chase down Ramsay. Now Ramsay had given the pirates the option to join him or to go overboard. Most of them would stay, which he needed — for he had a new ship to man, now.

And then he had seen one of the pirates wrapped around Penelope. Her auburn hair and blue dress had caught his eye. For a moment he had wondered what a woman was doing on board this pirate ship until her familiar movements told him that this was not just any woman. She had been taken from him.

He had been filled with a rage unlike any he had ever known.

He tried to tell himself it was because someone had dared to steal something that belonged to him, from right under his nose.

But he was lying to himself. For this was more than that.

She was his, damnit, and no man was going to lay claim to her, nor hurt one hair on her head, nor mar any of the skin on her body.

He hadn’t even thought of what he was doing when he had killed the pirate holding her, nor of how willing he was to do the same to anyone else who laid a finger on her.

“Come here, Penelope,” he commanded. What in the hell was she even doing on this ship? He had left her safely ensconced in his cabin.

But then, much had happened since they had boarded this ship.

She still had it within her to give him a look of reproach, but when he crooked a finger at her with stern warning in his face, she reluctantly walked toward him.

“Bastian!” he called. “See to this crew.”

Then he bent, grasped her legs, and lifted her over his shoulders.

She put up quite the protest, but when he smacked her on the bottom, she quickly stopped talking. He took hold of the rope, swung back over to The Raven’s Wing, and then strode below deck to his cabin, not stopping his movements until he deposited her on the bed.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked, looking up from her prone position. Her hair was spread around her, her eyes on fire, stirring his blood. But then he noticed that her dress was ripped, her cutlass gone, and fear lurked behind her brave facade.

“I’m rescuing you. Again. Is it not obvious?” he asked, hands on his hips as his anger continued to fuel him.

“I didn’t need rescuing,” she said indignantly, to which he arched an eyebrow.

“And just how were you going to fight off six men, without a weapon?”

“I would have outrun them eventually,” she said with a shrug, and he would have laughed were he not so livid.

“You never should have left this cabin,” he scolded her, which seemed preferable to telling her his true emotions — that he was frightened at what could have happened to her.

“I didn’t leave by choice,” she said, sitting up now so that her face was even with his. “One of their crew took me over there. A woman, actually.”

“A woman pirate?”

“Yes.”

He had heard of a few of them, of course, but thus far he had never actually had the chance to meet one. He wondered how that worked with the articles on their ships. An exception to the rule, he supposed.

“Let me guess,” he said wryly, “You bested her in a sword fight?”

“Of course not,” Penelope said indignantly. “She forced me to board her ship and then Bastian killed her.”

“I see,” he said. “So is that your blood?”

“Where?”

She followed his gaze to look down at herself. Her new gown, the fresh one that she had donned not long ago, was now covered in crimson.

Her face whitened and he turned from her to keep from offering comfort. Instead, he went to the washstand to clean off the blood from his face and his hands.

“No,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “A man chasing me fell on my cutlass.”

Ramsay wasn’t entirely sure he believed the story, but then, she didn’t seem one to lie.

“You probably wish they had caught you so that you could be rid of me,” he said in an attempt to distract her, for he thought she might be about to keel over. He supposed it was from watching the man die. He was so accustomed to it now that he hardly thought twice about witnessing death, but a woman such as Penelope had likely never even seen a dead body before.

“Please,” she said with a scoff. “At least I know you would never take my virtue.”

“Would I not?” he asked, stepping closer to her, and her eyes flicked from one of his to the other as he couldn’t escape her gaze any longer.

“You said you wouldn’t,” she insisted, but her voice was unsure, as though she wasn’t entirely in agreement with her words.

“I said I wouldn’t,” he repeated, “unless you begged me to.”

“I would never beg.”

“I disagree.”

He stepped closer now so that he was standing right in front of her.

Why did she speak to him so? He had seen many a beauty, and he couldn’t call her such, but there was something about her that hooked him in.

“You believe you are so feared,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest, “but I have been here a week and find that you can be rather agreeable at times, when you decide to be.”

“I am a reasonable man,” he countered.

She slid off the bed so that she was now standing.

“You are impossible.”

“My God, woman, you are the devil incarnate.”

She placed her hands on her hips and arched an eyebrow defiantly.

“If anyone in this room is the devil, I hardly think it is me.”

He chuckled lowly, for she was right, of course, and as he did, he took a few steps toward her, bringing his index finger under her chin. He tilted her head backward until she had no choice but to stare into his eyes. The spark he saw in hers set the fire of desire that had been smoldering within him ablaze.

“I will not kiss you,” he said, pleased when disappointment flared in her eyes, “unless you kiss me first.”

“I will most certainly not,” she said, but her efforts to fight him were becoming weaker as her voice had lost its affirmation.

“No?” he asked, leaning in closer so that his lips were but a breath away from hers.

“No,” she said, but then her eyes fluttered, showing the battle waging within her.

“I’ll tell you this, Penelope,” he said now. “You are trying my patience. But I have found that you are a woman worth saving.”

“Oh?”

“Aye,” he said. “For I cannot recall the last time I wanted a woman as badly as I want you right now.”

Her pink lips formed a round O at his words, and she leaned back for a moment, staring at him as though to assess whether what he was saying was true.

He knew the moment she released her inhibitions as she took a deep, shuddery breath, closed her eyes, and then leaned in and kissed him with more passion than he could ever have expected was within her.

While it wasn’t the first time their lips had met and he was so far from a virgin he could hardly remember a time when he didn’t know what it was like to have been with a woman, her touch shocked him to his very core.

If her movements and her responses were not so inexperienced, he would have wondered whether she was the innocent lass he had taken her to be.

Her hands were pressed flush into his chest, and the way she was leaning into him, the tops of her breasts spilling out of her ill-fitting gown moved over his flesh, exposed from tears in his shirt.

Battles enlivened him. It was why he knew he could never quit this life, for to do so would mean ceasing to exist altogether. But being with Penelope only heightened all of his responses that had already been spurred to life through his defeat of the pirates who had dared to challenge him. The captain had said his name was Morrissey, his ship The Widow Maker — but Ramsay had laughed at him, telling him that to create widows you would have to kill married men, of which his ship was rather lacking.

Now he had a new ship, a new crew, and a willing woman in his arms. What more could a man ask for?

He was asking for too much, came a niggling voice from the back of his mind. Penelope was more than a willing woman. She was a woman who stirred up emotions within him that he would prefer to remain buried. She evoked in him the urge to possess. To protect. To care. He couldn’t afford to care, for anyone or anything.

But he also couldn’t push her away. His need for her was too great.

At that moment, his decision was made, and no longer was she the aggressor, for when Ramsay wanted something, he took it wholeheartedly. If Penelope Carstairs was foolish enough to have kissed him, then she was going to see all that he had to offer.

His arms wrapped around her, lifting her so that she straddled him. He walked her backward toward the table, sitting her bottom upon it as he cupped her head, angling it so that he had better access to plunder her mouth with his tongue. She had quite obviously never been kissed by another, but he was going to ensure that she would remember this encounter for the rest of her life.

She moaned, which only further fueled the desire that was already pumping through his blood like adrenaline before a battle. He attempted to push the sleeves down her arms so he could better access what was hiding under her bodice, but she wouldn’t drop her arms from his neck.

Impatient, he took the material in each hand and ripped it down the center, destroying the already-sullied gown.

“Goodness!” she murmured, causing one side of his lips to quirk at the expression that said more about her than she likely even realized.

He nipped at her lips as he palmed her breasts, stroking the nipples, encouraging her to respond with renewed ardor as her hands began roaming over him as though she wanted to respond in kind but wasn’t sure how. She began to stroke her fingers over his muscles. He wanted to tell her to stop, that she shouldn’t be dirtying herself with the blood, gunpowder, and grime that covered him, but he wasn’t strong enough to do so.

She boldly pushed his torn shirt off of his shoulders, until they were both naked to the waist, her skin so pale and so soft against his, tanned from days on deck in the sun, hardened by battle.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise when her hands came to the waistband of his breeches, and she began unfastening him. He expected her to be shy, hesitant, but instead, she enthusiastically pushed the pants down until he sprang free.

“Oh my,” she breathed, and it was then he sensed the slightest bit of hesitancy as she touched him, but soon enough she had palmed him, and now it was his turn to groan at the sensations her inexperienced touch evoked.

He lifted her from the table, then practically tossed her on the bed. He might be a brute of the highest order, but at the very least, her first time would be on a bed instead of rutting on the middle of the table in his cabin.

Ramsay had nearly forgotten the soft cotton of his own sheets after sleeping in the hammock across the cabin for so long, and he quickly disposed of her ruined gown and chemise, leaving her bare before him. He looked her up and down, his breath catching at her beauty. For a moment, he had an urge to tell her to cover up, to leave this cabin and remove all temptation from him. He was not the man who should be taking her.

But she was a grown woman. This was her choice. And if she chose to join with him, then who was he to deny her?

He finally noticed that she was looking at him with some hesitation now, and he realized belatedly that she was likely questioning herself and his lack of response. Most of the women he coupled with needed no reminder that they were desired, but to ease her fears, he grinned at her and gave her a wink.

Her eyes widened in surprise before she smiled hesitantly back at him, and then he removed his boots and shucked his breeches.

If she needed to be shown how much he desired her, then show her he would.

“Well, Penelope, what do you think?”

“Think?” she squeaked out.

“Now is your last chance. Make your choice.”

“I, um…” her face flushed crimson.

“Remember, Penelope, if you want me, you must beg.”

“Bastard.”

“I am, actually.”

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“Please!”

He grinned.

Ramsay covered her with his body, but when she tilted her chin for his kiss, he shook his head, instead kissing, licking, and nipping his way down her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach, until he circled her hipbones. She bucked slightly against him, and, knowing what she wanted even if she didn’t, he brought his mouth to her and tasted her.

She nearly came off the bed in response, but he held her down, his hands nearly as wide as her hips as he palmed them. He could sense she was on the precipice, and when she finally came, she screamed his name out and he grinned in satisfaction before rearing up and plunging into her.

Now her moans stalled, turning into much more of a groan of pain rather than pleasure, and he paused, giving her a moment to become used to him. For all his reputation, he would much rather a woman enjoy her time with him than to leave their encounter disappointed.

Soon she squirmed beneath him and he began to move ever so slightly, attempting to determine how it affected her. When she responded with movements of her own, he finally allowed himself free rein to take her as he wanted, pumping into her with all of his pent-up desire and frustrations.

When he was finally sated, he rolled off her, closing his eyes in both satisfaction and fear that had been so long foreign to him.

For that had been the most satisfactory encounter of his entire life.

And now he wanted more.

Chapter 10

Penelope’s entire world had just shifted on its axis.

She stole a glance at the man who was now donning fresh clothing. Never had she seen such brilliant muscles. They stretched and pulled, so strong and sinewy, glinting in the light that filtered in through the window.

She had acted completely on instinct. As much as she had fumbled her escape from the enemy pirates, she had been propelled by the exhilaration of it. She could have been killed multiple times throughout the attack, but she had escaped death once more.

And then when Ramsay had stood there before her, so virile, so incredibly enticing, she had decided that she was going to live, no matter the consequences.

Although now that she was no longer in a desire-filled haze, those consequences began to filter through her mind.

She had given herself to a pirate captain. A man who would bring her nothing but trouble. Who had trapped her in this cabin for days. Who intended to do so for weeks more. Who had no qualms in killing men for an offense no greater than serving the wrong master.

She had fallen for her captor like an idiot.

“Is the ship damaged?” she asked, needing to fill the air, which currently held nothing more than the sounds of the whisk of his clothes, the clattering of his sword — the man seemed to have no shortage of weapons — as he laid it upon the table.

“It will be, some, though the men are likely already repairing it. I should be out there, assessing what needs to be done.”

He said it as though it was her fault that he remained in the cabin.

“It was your choice to be here with me,” she said, responding to the need to defend herself as she pulled the blanket tightly around her, shielding herself from his view.

She had never thought she would have allowed herself to be so exposed to a man, but the way he had looked at her evoked in her a sense of freedom.

“I know,” he said roughly, finally turning to look at her. Although he was now fully dressed and despite how annoyed she was with him that he wasn’t providing her with all of the soft words and comfort she knew she deserved, she couldn’t help the longing to want to see him without his clothing once more.

She was wanton. She couldn’t help herself.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said gruffly, staring at her, and she slowly nodded in return.

“No, it certainly should not have.”

She tilted her head as she looked at him. “But perhaps we could do it again?”

He laughed then. Not so much a laugh of hilarity, but one in which he was resigning himself to what they both knew was inevitable. For like it or not, they would be sharing the cabin for the remainder of the voyage across the sea.

“I suppose if nothing else, I shall enjoy sleeping in my bed again,” he said, but before she could offer an indignant cry, he was out the door and deaf to her protests.

* * *

Ramsay was surly with his crew as he reviewed the damage. The cannonball had hit the main deck, biting in through the side of the ship — luckily, high enough that it didn’t cause any water to find its way into the ship, but some rigging and masts needed repair.

He put the ship’s carpenter in charge and then joined the helmsman and sailing master, who stood at the helm of the ship.

“Are we still on course?” he asked, looking abaft to see that The Widow Maker was still trailing behind, though she seemed to be limping along.

“I believe so,” his sailing master, Sailsman Jack, said. He was one of the few sailing masters aboard a pirate ship who had not been press-ganged, but who had joined willingly when he had seen how lucrative the position could be. “We’re slightly east of our route but tracking back to it. We are slowed down, however, Captain, by the captured ship. It may have been as fast as ours to begin with, but she sustained some damage from our guns, though the gunners tried not to cause any permanent damage.”

“Then we’ll meet her in Puerto Rico,” Ramsay decided. “We don’t need the ship right now. Send some of our crew who we can trust, as well as men who are skilled with their hands. They can help repair the ship and sail it.”

“There’s still a chance the original crew will mutiny,” Bastian said as he joined them, and Ramsay nodded. “I agree with you. But we’ll promise them an equal share. If we want to have a chance to catch Ortego, we have to sail ahead.”

“Very well,” Bastian said, and Ramsay was content in the knowledge that his quartermaster wanted to see Ortego’s demise — and capture his treasure — as much as he did. “All well with the woman?”

“She’s fine,” Ramsay said with a shrug, not wishing to discuss Penelope for a whole host of reasons.

“She’s happy in your cabin?”

“I should assume so.”

“No harm done by Morrissey’s men?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“She looks rather healthy, that’s for certain.”

“Yes, she — what?”

He followed Bastian’s gaze, frustration overcoming him when he saw Penelope emerge on the main deck. Most activity stopped as his crew began to stare at her, so unaccustomed they were for a woman to be aboard their ship. They had known she was there, of course — had voted to allow it — but most hadn’t had a good look at her.

It was one of the reasons Ramsay had insisted she stay within his cabin.

“My, she’s a looker, is she not?” Bastian asked, and Ramsay had to tamp down the raging jealousy that emerged at his words.

“I’m not sure about that,” he countered. “Not particularly good looking, though not hard to look at either.”

“The gowns we bought her don’t exactly fit. This one’s a bit tight,” Bastian said, tilting his head to assess her. “Though I’m not sure I overly mind it.”

“That’s enough, Bastian,” Ramsay bit out before stalking across the deck toward Penelope. She was speaking with Joey, the one she knew, who was busy introducing her to some of the other pirates. In all that had occurred, Ramsay had completely forgotten to install a guard at her door following their return. He took her by the arm, whirling her about.

“What do you think you are doing?”

She looked up at him defiantly, her eyes flashing.

“Getting some air,” she said, her hands in fists at her side. “I refuse to spend the rest of this journey within your cabin. It is the worst sort of punishment. Anything that could happen to me could not be remarkably worse than that.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said gruffly, not wanting to picture the horrors that could occur. He trusted most of his men to be loyal to him, but with a woman like Penelope… perhaps they would be fine now, having so recently been on land, but when weeks went by and they were starved for female companionship, he wasn’t certain.

“Not to worry, Captain,” Joey said eagerly. “We’ll look out for her, won’t we, boys?”

They all nodded enthusiastically, and Ramsay’s ire at the “boys” grew. Not only were they defying orders, but he had no wish for anyone to be looking after her unless that person was him.

“Can I speak with you for a moment — alone?” he said to her, but she shook her head at him.

“Anything you have to say to me, you can say to me here,” she said, her eyes speaking volumes, and he had a feeling that this was punishment for his abrupt departure from the cabin.

“We will speak of this later,” he said, hoping his look accurately displayed his displeasure with her, but for now, he had to resign himself to the fact that she had bested him. Again.

“Very well,” she said with a smile, one of self-congratulation. “I look forward to it.”

Well, if that didn’t cause a bit of stirring in his loins. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and continued on his way.

The woman was a nuisance.

And a gift.

* * *

Penny waited for Ramsay with great anticipation that night. But as the sky, visible from the captain’s windows, grew ever darker, she began to wonder whether he was even coming. She knew he hadn’t been pleased with her venture on deck, but she had decided that if she didn’t make a stand now, she would be forever relegated to this prison.

Finally, the door slammed open, and he stamped his feet as he entered the cabin.

“In a foul mood, are we?” she asked brightly, hoping her words overcame her nerves.

“We are not in a foul mood,” he said. “I am not pleased that you went against my wishes. I thought I could trust you.”

“Why? Because we, ah, were together?”

He mumbled something that she couldn’t discern, and she smiled brightly.

“If I remained in the cabin, that would mean that I am still your prisoner, which I have no desire to be. I will come and go as I please, but I promise I will be careful.”

“I cannot look out for you every moment you are on this ship. I have many other things to see to.”

“Then if something happens to me, it is my own fault.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

He advanced toward her now, and her heart skipped. For as much as he posed a menacing figure that she knew she should be expressly afraid of, she wanted nothing more than for him to rip the clothes from her body and take her once more.

She wondered if he would do so — and if he would ask permission or if he would simply take what he wanted.

She stood, needing to meet him as an equal partner and not someone to be conquered.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He arched his scarred eyebrow.

“What do you want me to do?”

She reached out a hand, tracing the scar with her finger, touched that he would consider to ask her, though she knew she would enjoy being with him regardless.

“Take me again,” she said, her words just above a whisper.

He paused for a moment before he let out a noise that could be described only as a growl, picking her up once more — oh, she loved how he did that — and tossing her onto the bed as though she weighed nothing.

This time he dispensed with most of the pleasantries, although he took a bit more care with her gown. He was the one who had purchased her clothing, so she supposed he was ensuring that he didn’t completely ruin his investment.

This time she was ready for him, and when she cried out as he entered her, it was not due to any pain, but pleasure of the highest order. Penny had never known that anything could be quite so wonderful, and she nearly shed a tear when she found her fulfillment again.

For she knew, deep within, that it would never be like this with any other man. She could scour the world, but nowhere else would she ever find anyone like Captain Ramsay.

So she would just have to enjoy this while she could until the day came when he left her wherever it was he chose.

There was no other option.

Chapter 11

Life, on a pirate ship, was far from anything Penny would have ever expected.

While Ramsay was not happy with the fact that she now roamed the ship at will, he also didn’t contain her in the cabin any longer.

He told her that he had only been trying to protect her and that if she fell overboard or was attacked by one of the men, it was her problem to deal with.

His tone had been nonchalant, but she was touched as she knew he secretly worried for her, far more than he likely should or would ever admit. But she wasn’t going to comment on it.

For she was enjoying their time together far too much. Penny spent most of her time in the sun around Joey or some of the other younger pirates, but nights were all Ramsay. He spoke no words of tenderness, but Penny wanted to think that the way he treated her spoke all she needed to hear. She tended to romanticize things, but if it made this voyage more enjoyable, then so be it.

She was surprised, however, to find that most of what she had envisioned about pirates was not entirely true. They were far tidier than the crew aboard her uncle’s merchant ship. She never saw them gamble, and they seemed to spend most of their time seeing to their duties aboard the ship, cleaning their weaponry, or practicing their battle skills. They had a curfew that they all adhered to, and they respected one another, even voting on most decisions.

In short, they were nothing like the feared pirates she had been told about. Had she not witnessed a battle, she would have even questioned whether they were pirates at all.

One night a few weeks into the journey, she lay in bed, staring at the wooden planks overhead, and mentioned such thought to Ramsay.

“Pirates are nothing like what people think,” he muttered, turning back around toward her when she spoke. He refused to hold her after their lovemaking, though at times he would make conversation with her, though he was never the first to speak. “We are looked at in the same regard as common criminals. I suppose I cannot argue that, for we are criminals. But we are more than that. We are men who are interested in freedom above all else.”

“Why steal?” Penny asked, needing to know more about who he was, what had brought him here. “Could you not be more of a privateer? A merchant?”

He snorted. “And do what? Work for someone else? Be constantly swindled, paid only when someone feels like it? I think not.”

“How did you become a pirate?” she asked, and he finally turned to look at her. For a moment, she saw his eyes glaze over as though he was allowing some emotion in, but he quickly turned away.

“How do most become pirates?” he asked with a shrug. “I was press-ganged.”

“You were forced into it?” she asked, shocked.

“I was young,” he said. “A boy of twelve. I had no family, as my mother couldn’t afford to feed me and left me on my own at ten. I never knew my father. No siblings. So I welcomed the life. Captain Culley took a liking to me, said I was hard working. Took me under his wing, taught me the way of this life.”

“So you’ve never known anything else,” she murmured, yearning to reach out and trace her finger along his cheek, but knowing that he would recoil if she did. She had no idea why. He welcomed her touch when it was leading to their coupling, but afterward, it was as though she disgusted him.

“Nor do I want to,” he retorted.

“I can see why,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve enjoyed my time here, on The Raven’s Wing.”

He grunted. “It’s been a smooth ride so far. Just the odd mild storm that has barely shaken us.”

“I’ve been in storms before,” she said, not wanting him to think she was a coward. “Never a battle, however.”

“You’ve been lucky.”

“I believe I am attuned for this life.”

She could sense him rolling his eyes at her before she could see him.

“’Tis not one for women.”

“Yet here I am.”

“It’s in our articles. Women are not allowed aboard. And if the crew knew—”

“What?”

“You have not told anyone of our… time together, have you?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. How could he even think such a thing? It was not as though she and the pirates she had befriended were sitting around in overstuffed chairs, having tea in a parlor.

“Good,” he said gruffly. “They can never know.”

“Well, I believe they assume—"

“Assuming is fine. But if they know for certain that we are together, if they think that I might even have taken you against your will, then I could be executed.”

“What!” Penny was flabbergasted. “But you’re the captain!”

“Doesn’t matter. We vote here. It’s our way of things.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes, well, you can tell all you meet when you leave us that we are not the bloodthirsty villains that all believe us to be.”

Penny went silent for a moment as she considered his words. For once she left this ship, she would never see him again, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to spend the rest of her life knowing that he was somewhere out in the world, but would never again cross paths with her.

“You have yet to tell me what brought you here, onto The Raven’s Wing,” he said, unexpectedly breaking the silence, “besides the fact that you needed to escape from your father, the baronet, and are looking for your uncle.”

Penny nibbled her bottom lip as she considered just how much to tell him.

“My father arranged a marriage for me. I was not particularly interested in marrying the man he selected.”

“Why not? Was he not rich enough?”

Penny shot him a look of contempt.

“Do you not know me better by now?” she asked, furrowing her brow at him. “No. He was too old.”

He paused for a moment, his head now fully turned toward her. So she had finally captured his attention with more than her body.

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Just past thirty.”

He muttered something she took to be an agreement.

“How old was this man?” he asked now.

“Sixty.”

“What?” he sat up in bed. “Forty years your senior? And your father arranged this for you?”

Penny cringed as she remembered the horrific week she had thought that it might all come to pass. “It was not just our age difference. He was horrid. Father eventually came around to understand that it was not a wise decision. But his next choice was worse. The man had three mistresses I knew of, for he flaunted them around. I had no wish to be the idiot wife sitting at home while he caroused with them.”

“Fair point,” Ramsay conceded. “So you are running away from this man?”

“No. I told Father I wouldn’t marry him either. But then there was a third.”

She shuddered, hoping he wouldn’t press her for more. He didn’t, but the way he was staring at her encouraged her to speak.

“That man attempted to force himself on me the first time we met, though fortunately a servant happened upon us in time.”

“What did your father do?” Ramsay asked, his voice dripping with anger. “Run him through with a blade?”

“Ah, no. He suggested the wedding be moved up. Just in case. He also advised me that I no longer had an option to say no.”

Ramsay sat up abruptly, his bronze chest glowing in the candlelight. “I would kill the man. I will, if I ever meet him. Your father, too.”

As much as Penny had no wish for any blood to be shed, her heart warmed at the thought that he would care enough to be so protective of her.

“Well, I would prefer you didn’t. He is my father, after all, as awful as he was to me. But you shall never meet him, remember? You will never even see me again after these few weeks are over. And there is no need to kill anyone, for I escaped, and all of that is behind me.”

“Your uncle will not return you to him?”

“No,” Penny said quickly, though she had to admit that the thought had worried her. She didn’t think her uncle would ever return her, but then, he had allowed her father to take her back the first time he had requested it.

“’Tis almost worse than having no parents at all,” he said, and Penny was taken from her own problems to picturing him as a child, so alone in the world that he would welcome being press-ganged to a pirate ship.

“What’s your name?” she asked, suddenly needing to know. He looked at her as though she were daft.

“Ramsay.”

“Your real name,” she said. “Your given name.”

“No one ever calls me by my given name.”

“But surely you must have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” she continued, knowing she was pestering him, but no longer caring.

“George.”

“George?” Penny squeaked, unable to believe it.

“Yes, George. George Ramsay. Never repeat that, do you understand me? Ever.”

“Or else?”

“Or else you’ll be keelhauled.”

Penny rolled her eyes.

“You would never keelhaul me,” she said, to which he didn’t respond. She turned over, fluffing the pillow under her head. She smiled.

“Goodnight, George.”

Chapter 12

Ramsay crossed his arms over his chest as he stood at the rail and watched the darkening clouds begin to approach. He had known he was taking a chance, sailing to the Caribbean in June, at the start of hurricane season. But he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to capture Ortego and seize all of the treasure he had hiding in his lair.

There was a code among most pirates, but Ortego had never honored any code, and therefore Ramsay had no qualms about breaking it when it came to him.

The Spaniard was wanted by the English navy, privateers, and pirates alike, for he targeted English merchant ships and delighted in torturing those he took as prisoners. He broke all rules, and for that, Ramsay couldn’t stand the man.

Fortune had been smiling upon them when they’d found Ortego’s man in a tavern. They had been in Liverpool after taking a commission to transport a nobleman’s wayward son back home. There, they had been tipped off by the tavern owner about the pirate. The man had become injured and could no longer sail — but he did have information that Ramsay had exploited.

Ramsay only hoped that this decision to pursue Ortego now wouldn’t cost him — or any of his crew. However, they had made this choice along with him, so he shouldn’t shoulder all of the responsibility, no matter what happened.

And yet, he knew his crew voted according to his wishes, so he couldn’t help but feel a sense of duty to keep them safe.

“We’ve been in worse.”

Bastian joined him at the rail, apparently reading Ramsay’s thoughts as they stared at the approaching storm together. The sailing master and helmsman had already turned the ship south in an attempt to outrace the storm, but it only seemed to be gathering speed as it neared.

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed. “That doesn’t change the fact that this is one foe I would prefer not to fight.”

“No sailor does,” Bastian said grimly. “But we’ll battle through it. We always do.”

A crack of thunder boomed overhead before lightning rent the sky.

“We’re not going to outrun it,” Ramsay stated as the two of them stood there, watching their impending fate sneak ever closer. “Time to ready for battle. Turn us around and prepare the sails.”

“Will do,” Bastian said with a nod before taking off at a run, calling out instructions to the crew.

Ramsay soon sensed another presence at his elbow and turned to find a wide-eyed Penelope beside him. She gripped the rail as she looked out at the show before them.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “Until it hits.”

“It’s the one time I’d prefer to be ashore,” Ramsay said grimly, “when storm watching. You said you have been on board during a storm before?”

“One terrible one,” she nodded, turning those beautiful blue eyes, which had become quite serious, upon him. “We lost three men. They fell overboard.”

“That will not happen today,” he said confidently. “No man will be lost on my watch.” He eyed her. “Nor a woman either.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes with a sigh. “In your cabin.”

“It’s the safest place for you,” he said. “But if you see water, you’ll have to come above to the main deck and tie yourself on. Look for me.”

She nodded sagely, and while he could sense her fear, he admired the fact that she fought it. Ramsay had never met a woman like her. She had such an air of innocence about her, and yet also a daring sense of adventure. The combination scared him. She needed someone to be watching out for her, to keep her safe, protected.

But that man couldn’t be him.

He would get her through this storm, deposit her on the shore of Puerto Rico — hell, he might even help her find passage to Boston or wherever it was she wanted to go — and then she would be another’s problem. Her uncle’s problem.

“What are they doing?” she asked as the crew began to take down the back sails.

“We’ll stow the sails,” he explained. “If the wind gets a hold of them, especially at the stern, it can push the ship sideways. The lower course will come next, and then we’ll hold onto the fore topsails and the headsail as long as we can so that we can still steer.”

“You take down all of the sails?”

He nodded.

“That way, when we make it through, we will still have sails. I’ve seen too many in my time destroyed by a storm. The vessel makes it through, but then is stuck.”

“Why have we turned into the storm?”

“It’s our best chance,” he said, becoming rather impatient at having to explain this all to her when he should be rallying his crew. “The prow is the strongest and safest way to take the waves, so we sail into them at an angle.”

“You sound as though you’ve been through a few storms,” she said, looking at him with what he thought might be admiration, something he certainly didn’t deserve. What he had was experience.

“More than my fair share,” he agreed with a nod. “It never gets easier.”

The Raven’s Wing began to rock harder from side to side as the waves gathered size and speed.

“Into the cabin,” he instructed Penelope, taking her arm and leading her as quickly as he could down the stairs, grabbing a coil of rope as they walked.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked, but he didn’t respond, urgency now overwhelming him. Much of the desperation was to save his ship and his crew, but the rest — that which he didn’t want to admit — was to ensure her safety.

This was why he’d never wanted to care. It added far too much complexity to his life.

He lifted her onto the bed, tying one end of the rope to the bedpost.

“This could be interesting,” she asked with a bit of a laugh, annoying him.

“It is certainly not the time for jesting,” he answered her harshly, and her smile dropped.

“I was only trying to lighten the mood,” she said, and Ramsay felt guilt for but a moment, but it was replaced with the need to see to her safety as he tied the rope around her waist and to the other bedpost.

“The mood is fine,” he said, before striding from the room and slamming the door behind him without a backward glance. He stood outside the cabin for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before swinging the door open once more, striding across the room, taking her surprised face in his hands, and kissing her hard on the lips.

Then without a word, he was gone, ready to face the storm with his crew.

Damn it. He cared.

* * *

Had she been asked, Penny would have said that she was an exceptional sailor. That she had never experienced a bout of seasickness and had the sea legs of any experienced pirate.

Until today.

The ship heaved from one side to the other. Everything that wasn’t attached to the ship itself moved with the waves. She now understood why Ramsay had tied her to the bed — it was fastened into the wall.

When he had first left, she couldn’t tear her mind from his goodbye kiss. It seemed he had a way of doing that — kissing her just before battle, whether it was against a human enemy or a natural one. What it meant, she had no idea, but this time she was not confused over the outcome she desired. She wanted Captain Ramsay alive. Very, very much so.

Oh, she was a fool. He was not a man who would ever settle down — with her, or with any other woman. He belonged to the sea. He wouldn’t be the man he was if he left piracy behind in search of a vocation on land.

For she knew that for the rest of her life, she would remember this time with him as likely the best experience she had ever had. The one in which she had learned the most about herself, had come to understand that her life could be what she made of it, and not what someone else thought it should be.

But very soon, he would be nothing more than a memory.

The thought caused a pang in her stomach, but it was quickly replaced by a very real physical seasickness as the waves began to toss the ship about.

Penny closed her eyes and began to pray that God would spare them. I know they are pirates, but they are good men. Help us through the storm.

She wasn’t sure if God was punishing her, but suddenly the ship rocked so far to one side that Penny wondered if she was going to be pelted with objects flying off of Ramsay’s shelves. The man was smart, but he hadn’t thought of that when he had tied her down. She may not fall over but hadn’t considered what else could hit her.

She waited for the ship to right itself once more, but it stayed where it was for a moment, and Penny began to panic — were they capsizing? If the ship turned over or took on too much water, they were done for — all of them. The windows showed nothing but black nothingness beyond them.

But then ever so slowly, the ship began to right itself, and Penny saw water begin to trickle in from under the door. They must have nearly capsized and had taken on water.

Penny breathed deeply as she attempted to calm her heart and her stomach. She could get through this. And then they tilted again, books came flying off the shelf toward her, and everything went black.

* * *

Bastian had been wrong.

They had seen many storms before, but none had been worse than this one. As Ramsay tied himself to the rail and looked at his crew about him doing the same, he knew they would be lucky to survive. The wind and rain whipped his hair around his face and into his eyes so that he could barely see, so strong was the water pelting against him. Whether it was from the sea or the sky, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it didn’t much matter at the moment. The crew struggled to keep the ship moving at an angle through the waves. Ramsay knew how easy it would be to give up, to allow the storm to take them where it may.

But to give up meant death, and Ramsay would never willingly succumb.

“That’s it!” he screamed, offering encouragement the only way he could now. “We’ve got this. Hard, men, pull! That’s it!”

They hit a wave so huge that had Ramsay not been tied on, he would have slid over the rail and off the ship. As it was, the rail came precariously close to the water — so much so that had he reached his arm over, he was sure he could touch the surface of the sea below.

But fortune must have been with them, for they soon tilted back the other way, righted once more.

They were in the heart of it now. If they could withstand this for just a bit longer, fight their way through to the other side, they would be free of it.

And then another wave came, similar to the last, and Ramsay held on tightly with both hands as he looked around him as best he could to make certain his men were still with him. They were.

He couldn’t help his thoughts from straying to Penelope, alone in his cabin. He only hoped that she was safe, that water hadn’t begun to seep down. Perhaps it had been foolish to tie her to the bed, to restrict her movements. But at least she wouldn’t fall or get thrown about the cabin.

Ramsay cursed as he thought of the table and objects littering the room. They were now likely acting as projectiles, being thrown about at Penelope as she sat like a target on his bed.

But there was nothing he could do about that now.

There was nothing any of them could do now but hold on and hope their ropes were tight enough, that they wouldn’t be thrown overboard, and the ship would stay upright.

And pray.

Ramsay hadn’t prayed in so long he wondered if he even remembered how. But in moments when death was near, it seemed to come back much more naturally.

Lord, please don’t let Penelope die. I may deserve it, but not her. She has a lot of life to live.

The woman was turning him soft. She was a weakness. One he didn’t need. He should be focusing on his crew, his ship, and not be concentrating on the woman in the cabin below.

Once they were through this, there was only one thing to be done — to distance himself from her as much as he possibly could. It was the only way to keep them both safe.

Chapter 13

Ramsay knew he was fully displaying his weakness to his crew, but he didn’t seem to have any control of his actions.

The moment the storm subsided enough that he could safely untie himself from the rail, he barely paused for a moment to check that the ship was intact and all of his crew had survived, and then he was down below to check on Penelope.

He hardly registered his movements as he descended the stairs, so focused he was on finding her and confirming that she was well.

He put his hand on the knob to let himself in, but the door wouldn't budge. He tried again, but still it wouldn’t move. It must be blocked by something on the other side. Likely the table. It was thick, oak, and heavy, and if it became wedged against the door it would be difficult to budge.

“Penelope!” he called, hearing and hating the desperation in his voice.

No answer.

“Penelope!” he tried again, but when there was still a lack of response, he took a running start and shouldered the door, finally shifting it a fraction.

It was enough that he could wedge a hand in, and finally his foot, moving the table out of the way. Once it was cleared, he pushed the door open the rest of the way and rushed inside toward the bed.

Penelope lay there, so still and so silent that he wondered if she was even breathing. But when he took a few seconds to check, he saw the soft rise and fall of her chest and he exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Penelope!” he called once more, shaking her by the shoulders, and when he did, he saw the spot of red on the pillow. He turned her over, finally spying a gash just over her left ear.

It was then he noticed that his books and trinkets were littered about the room. It was as he had feared. They had become flying objects and she had been victim to something — though what, he wasn’t sure.

She finally stirred, and when she opened her eyes, he could tell that it took a moment for him to come into focus.

“Good God, Penelope, are you all right?”

“I… think so?” she said, blinking, one hand coming to the side of her head where the welt had formed. “Did we survive the storm?”

“If we didn’t, I somehow doubt that we would have ended up in the same place,” he said with a wry smile, but his words only caused her to frown.

“Don’t say that,” she said, which he could only laugh at.

“You just lost consciousness, and still, you are ordering me about.”

“Not purposely.”

“Well, we survived. Barely, but we did,” he said, untying the rope from each of the bedposts, unable to stop himself from lifting her in his arms and checking her for any further wounds.

“Does anything else hurt?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “You, however, look a fright.”

He could only imagine. He looked down at himself, seeing that his clothing was torn and realizing just how cold he was, with all soaked through to his skin.

“We nearly capsized,” he said, not seeing a need to keep the truth from her. She had, after all, chosen to stow away on a pirate ship. She should understand what she got herself into.

“But you saved the ship,” she said, admiration that he didn’t deserve in her eyes. “And all of us.”

“It was the crew,” he said, shaking his head. “And fortune smiling down on us.”

“I said a prayer,” she said with a small smile.

“As did I,” he said, surprising himself by sharing such a thing with her.

He set her down for a moment to find a piece of linen for her head, though she assured him that she was fine.

She caught his hand in hers and as Ramsay stared into her eyes, a twinge caught him unaware. It began deep in his chest and extended throughout his body, causing a strange warmth to fill him. It was almost as though—

“Captain! Ramsay, come quickly!”

It better be important, Ramsay thought as he wrenched open the door to find one of the young lads awaiting him.

“What is it?” he growled, but the boy was already moving up the stairs, motioning to Ramsay to follow him.

He did, shocked, as he always was, by just how peaceful the water could be coming out the other side of such a major storm.

“Over here,” Bastian called from his position on the port side of the boat, and Ramsay strode over toward him.

“What is it?” he repeated.

Bastian pointed before them, and Ramsay followed his finger.

“Land,” he said.

“But what land?” Ramsay asked, wondering where the storm had pushed them.

“Puerto Rico.”

* * *

Penny heard Bastian’s words before she saw the shore herself.

Puerto Rico. Their destination, where she would be separated from Captain Ramsay and his crew and would have to find other transport to Boston.

Suddenly the prospect of joining her uncle and his merchant ship didn’t have the same appeal as it once had.

Ramsay turned from the rail, seeing her and meeting her eyes. For a moment, Penny thought she might have seen something there — reluctance? Regret? But it was gone in a flash and his guard raised once more.

“Where are we?” she asked, despite having heard Bastian’s words. Puerto Rico, however, was a large island.

“The sailing master thinks we have blown in on the north shore of Puerto Rico. A bit farther west and we’ll be in San Juan.”

“Where you’ll leave me.”

“Where we will leave you.”

Penny looked down at her hands. Her fingers were woven so tightly together that they had turned white.

“No more stowing away,” Ramsay said, bringing his index finger to her chin and tilting her head up. “We’ll give you enough coin that you can purchase a berth and find your way to Boston. Understood?”

“You don’t need to do that,” she murmured, but he was shaking his head, still under the impression, apparently, that she was under his command as much as any other on this ship.

“We don’t need to do anything,” Ramsay said. “But we choose to. Isn’t that right?”

He looked around at the few members of his crew who had gathered about them to take a look at the shore in the distance.

“It is,” Joey said, smiling at Penelope, and she returned his welcome expression. He came over to look more closely at the her head, and Penny was shocked when she turned back to Ramsay to find a ferocious scowl covering his face.

“Captain,” Needlenose Finley said, having been temporarily relieved from his duties as helmsman so that he could join the conversation about exactly where they were heading. “Are you sure we should leave Miss Carstairs in San Juan? Would not an English territory be better? Then she could—”

“Miss Carstairs,” Ramsay bit out as he turned to the man, and Penelope hated how formal he sounded when speaking of her, “chose to stow away on this ship. The fact that she received free passage across the Atlantic should be thanks enough. We will make certain that she is well provided for, and she can then travel the rest of the way.”

The helmsman looked at Penny with a helpless shrug as though to say he had tried, and Penny attempted a smile in thanks, though it was difficult through the twinge of pain that had coursed through her at Ramsay’s harsh words.

At least she knew where she stood.

“We’ll leave you at dawn,” he said, addressing her now as if he hadn’t just thrown the words spoken about her like she was a common thief. “It will be the best opportunity to take you as close to the docks as possible without our ship being seen. We don’t want Ortego to receive any warning that we are here. Aloysius and Joey will take you ashore, find you a proper berth, and then they will rejoin us. Understand?”

Aloysius and Joey nodded.

“I—” Penelope paused so that the pirates wouldn’t hear the break in her voice. “I best be packing my things then.”

She turned from them and all but ran down the steps to the captain’s cabin so that they wouldn’t see the tears that burned against the backs of her eyelids begin to fall.

Except when she reached Ramsay’s room, where they had spent so many nights together during the passage, she realized she didn’t have anything to pack. None of these possessions were hers. The small bag she had brought aboard contained nothing more than one spare gown, a brush, and a necklace that had been her mother’s.

The stark truth was staring at her from the empty abyss that was her little bag. She had nothing. And no one.

* * *

Ramsay knew he had been a bit of a brute. Guilt enveloped him as he followed Penelope’s path down the stairs to his cabin.

But he couldn’t help who he was, he told himself. She had known he was a pirate captain. Had accepted his touch anyway. She was lucky they had brought her this far.

Except, deep within him, he knew the truth. He was masking the despair that coursed through him at the thought of their separation.

At the very least, he would ensure she was safe. Aloysius was slightly dim-witted but as loyal as could be. And while jealousy raged within him each time Joey stared at her, he knew that he could trust the boy with her safety. Ramsay was well aware the lad cared for Penelope, but Penelope hadn’t shown any interest in him beyond friendship. By this time, Ramsay could read the signs of her interest. Her eyes became slightly hooded, a flush rose in her cheeks, and her slightly crooked top-two teeth sucked her bottom lip between them.

He slowly pushed open the door of his cabin, both eager to see her and yet reluctant to go in. The knowledge that their time together was limited was what finally propelled him to enter the room.

The sight before him nearly broke him.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him, her small bag open before her. Three of the dresses his crew had bought for her were folded on the table in the middle of the cabin. The other was the one she wore upon her body.

“Penelope?” he said slowly, questioningly, but all he heard in response was her answering sniff.

“Did this mean anything to you?” she asked, her hand sweeping around the room, and he understood exactly what the action signified — all that had occurred between them, within this cabin.

“I enjoyed myself,” he said cautiously. As he did so, she lifted her head, those eyes, the very color of the sea he loved so much, cutting deep into him, forcing him to feel the tide pool of emotions that were swirling through his very soul like an unexpected maelstrom in the middle of the ocean. He saw now her tear-stained cheeks, the desperation in her eyes, which were mirroring all that he felt deep within him.

While it was true that he had enjoyed himself, it was more than that. He cared about her. He needed her.

The thought struck him like a sword plunged straight through his chest.

He had been pierced in the side before, but physically, he had known the wound would heal. As for this, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“You enjoyed yourself?” she said, biting out each word. She was angry now. Good. Anger was better than sorrow. “Is that all you have to say? Is that all I was to you? Someone to have some fun with, to pass the endless hours with as we sailed across the ocean?”

No, that was not all she was to him. She had been far more. She had been a star in the night sky that had guided his way to the man that lurked in the shadows, behind the mask of Captain Ramsay of The Raven’s Wing — the man he had thought he was. She had shown him more.

But she was too good for him. He had been too weak a man to resist her. Had he known, however, just how she would forge a path into his heart, he would never have come near her. He would have slept tied to the rail with the rain pelting him night after night. It would have been far better than this.

He couldn’t care for someone, not as he did her. He couldn’t spend each battle worried about the woman hiding in his cabin, nor find himself praying with all his might through every storm, knowing that it was not only the lives of the crew that depended on him but also a woman such as Penelope.

But how did he tell her that? How did he make her understand?

He looked at her now, so beautiful standing there staring at him, fists at her side, scarlet in her cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to stride across the room, take her in his arms, and kiss away all the pain that swam within her eyes — pain that he had caused.

That, however, would do nothing but make everything worse.

As she stood there, looking at him with such desperation, Ramsay knew what he had to do. She was warring between hurt and anger. He would decide for her. It would destroy him, and yet, ironically, was also likely the most compassionate thing he had ever done in his life.

He would make her hate him as much as everyone else did.

Chapter 14

“Yes,” Ramsay said, staring at her, his eyes as dark as the night sky. “That’s all you were to me.”

Penny gasped, clutching at her chest as her heart felt as though it was breaking in two. “Truly?”

“What did you expect?” he asked gruffly, his eyes hardening. “That I would fall madly in love with you?” He laughed a cruel laugh that cut Penny to her very soul. “You are aware, wench, that I don’t have it within me to love? I am Captain Ramsay, remember?”

“You are far more than that,” she cried out at him. “You know that as well as I do. And as much as you are trying to deny it, what we had together was real, and it was true, and you’re being horrible right now because you are trying to push that aside.”

“If that is what you choose to believe,” he said with the shrug of one shoulder, “then so be it. But you knew what you were getting yourself into when you invited me to your bed — or my bed, I should say. We were enjoying one another’s company for a time, and now we’ll go our separate ways. Did you not enjoy yourself?”

Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. “I— I don’t know.”

“I know,” he said, a glint coming to his eye. “I made sure of it, did I not?” He winked at her and laughed once more. Penny felt tears beginning anew.

“You are being horrible.”

“I’m the same man you met some six weeks ago.”

“You are not,” she insisted. “You showed me another side of you. One of a good man.”

“No such thing,” he said, turning from her and pacing the room as though he had lost all interest in her now. “I was only trying to convince you I was so that you would continue to invite me to your bed.”

“Stop it,” she said desperately, not wanting to hear his words anymore, which were sullying all that they had built together.

“Stop what? You asked for the truth,” he said cruelly. “And I gave it.”

“This is what you would say to me,” she said, “in the remaining time we have alone together?”

“Why? Do you fancy one more frig?”

She gasped and stepped back from him, for he might as well have struck her.

“You are horrid!”

“I never suggested I was anything otherwise.”

“But you did. The nights you touched me so tenderly, said lovely words to me, told me of yourself and your childhood—”

“What can I say?” he asked smugly, “I’m a skilled liar.”

She turned her back to him now, walking to the window with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“When will we arrive?”

“It’s nearing nightfall, so we should arrive in a few hours, and then we will wait until dawn, when we will send you to shore,” he said. “Do you want my company tonight?”

“No,” she said curtly, “sleep in your hammock.”

He nodded as though he understood, and for a moment, Penny wondered if she saw something within his expression that spoke to more than he had put into words, but whatever was there quickly fled. Why was he being so cruel to her? She knew that this man was part of him and always would be, but was she such a fool that she had completely imagined that he felt something more for her than he let on?

She must be. For the man staring at her, the one who had made love to her but an hour before, was not showing any of the affection that she had assumed he had developed for her.

Penny was done. With him, with this ship, with all of the pirates in general.

“I will be fine alone,” she said.

“Joey and Aloysius will go with you.”

“I—”

“Don’t argue this. Now get some sleep.”

He made for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to consult with the sailing master and the helmsman,” he said. “I’ll call you when it’s time. Pack the cutlass.”

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Ramsay had felt like a brute before. Now he knew he was a true bastard. When it was time for her to go, he had reached out to help Penny into the life raft, but she had refused his hand, taking Joey’s instead. It was his own fault, yet still, the thought made him burn deep inside.

She kept her head down, pointed toward the bottom of the raft, not allowing him to see her eyes. Everything within Ramsay urged him to call out to her, to tell her that he had made a huge mistake, that she needed to stay and they would find a way to be together, no matter who they were or what lay between them.

But he couldn’t.

The pain that swam in her eyes as he had spoken so harshly toward her had cut him deeply, but he also knew that she was angry with him — and with herself, likely — but she would now remember him with darkness rather than hold onto hope in her heart that anything more would ever come of this.

For he was not the man she could make a life with. Certainly not the man she deserved. She would find him somewhere. Maybe in Boston. Maybe a sailor on her uncle’s ship.

The thought caused jealousy to nearly tear a hole in him, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

Half of him wished she would look up at him, lock eyes with him one last time. The other half prayed that she wouldn’t, for it might be his undoing.

“Quite a woman, isn’t she?” Bastian joined him at the rail as they watched the life raft hit the water, Joey and Aloysius rowing toward shore just as the sun began to break over the horizon.

“She is,” he said, needing to clear his throat for the words to come out.

“Must have been a difficult decision, sending her away,” Bastian said, not looking at Ramsay, but staring out into the distance. Ramsay should have known that he couldn’t get anything past his quartermaster, who had been with him nearly as long as he had been aboard The Raven’s Wing.

“She was a fool, to stow away on our ship,” he said gruffly. “But a lucky fool, that it was us who found her.”

“That it was you,” Bastian said, finally turning to look at him. “Will you be able to forget her?”

“Of course,” Ramsay said brusquely, flicking his gaze to Bastian ever so briefly. “What other option is there?”

“One for you to be happy,” Bastian said, his gaze upon Ramsay now so intense that Ramsay had to look away. “To do something for yourself for the first time in a very long time.”

“I’m the most selfish man I know,” Ramsay said, watching the boat now until it was nothing but a speck, a tiny toy ship that was just making its way on shore.

Bastian chuckled ruefully. “You tell yourself that,” he said. “But you are far from it. You are the most generous captain I’ve ever come across, and a man who looks out for his crew before himself.”

“I am nothing if I am not a pirate captain.”

“Yes, you are,” Bastian said. “You are a man. She is a woman. A good woman. One who would give you all you asked of her.”

The truth was, she had given him far too much already.

She had given him the ability to see himself as more than a pirate, more than a man who lived off the fortune of others, who was only as good as his reputation and his last plunder.

She had given him unconventional affection, had shown him what it meant to have someone care for him.

She had given him more of herself than he deserved — certainly more than he ever should have accepted.

And she had stolen his heart.

“Enough of this,” he said gruffly, turning from Bastian. “Time to find Ortego.”

Bastian knew his captain well enough to sense when he was done speaking of something.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s find this island of his.”

* * *

Joey had been as obliging as ever, though Penny could sense how worried he was about her.

“I can stay with you, you know,” he said, his voice both hesitant as well as eager. “I could come with you.”

“That is very kind of you,” Penny said, laying a hand upon his, trying to speak to him from her heart. “But this is not the way for you, Joey. Your place is upon The Raven’s Wing.”

“You know what,” he said, leaning in toward her as though he was sharing some secret, “so is yours.”

She only wished it was.

She shook her head. “That is not your captain’s wish.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Don’t let Ramsay hear you say that. Thank you, Joey, for all that you have done for me,” she said, smiling at the boy. “I wish you well.”

He looked as though he wanted to say more, but Penny knew the truth. There was nothing else to say. She had a ticket in hand, her berth secured on a ship that would take her north are far as Las Floridas, where she would then have to find her way up the coast to Boston. She would worry about that later, however. The truth was, right now she didn’t care one way or another. Even if she had to walk across America, no longer did her destination matter. For where she really wanted to be was behind her.

She sighed. Her life was one mistake after another. What she needed right now was a drink. The tavern wasn’t hard to find. She knew there was likely a great many in San Juan, but this one would do. As long as they had drinkable alcohol.

Penny didn’t miss the many stares directed her way when she entered. Some of the conversations around her briefly paused as she asked for a glass of rum and took a seat at the end of the bar. She supposed most single women who frequented places such as these were those of some disrepute, who were here to earn their coin.

Ramsay would likely tell her that this was no place for her. She thought of him, with his hulking form and near-permanent scowl, finding her here and she smiled for a moment. Until she remembered that the image of him was now only a memory that she would forever carry with her.

She should be angry with him. He had said despicable things to her, had proven himself the tyrant he had always claimed to be.

But now that her initial ire had fled, all Penny felt was sadness. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew now that he was only trying to place distance between the two of them, knowing she had to go. He had been harsh with her only to ease their separation.

That didn’t make hearing such things from him any easier.

“…Capitán Ramsay y sus hombres…”

Penny’s ears perked up at the conversation from the men on the stools next to her. They were speaking Spanish — this was San Juan — but she could have sworn they were talking about Ramsay. She knew some phrases from a variety of languages from sailing with her uncle and the studies her father had arranged for her, but she didn’t know enough to understand what they were saying.

Well, there was one way to find out.

“Perdóneme,” she said, leaning over toward them. “Habla usted Inglés?”

The men stopped suddenly and stared at her. They were slightly older than she, and their dress suggested that perhaps they were sailors themselves.

“Yes, we speak English,” one said, though his words were heavily accented. “You need help?”

“Not help,” she said, doing what she hoped was an admirable job of batting her eyelashes at them. “I just couldn’t help overhearing you speaking about the feared Captain Ramsay. He is certainly a man who a woman such as myself should be fearful of. I thought I heard you say something about him. Oh, I do hope he has been captured, for then I no longer need to worry.”

The man closest to her leaned in and placed a hand over hers where it rested on the bar. Penny’s first reaction was to jerk her hand back, but she knew better. She needed to know what this man knew, and flirtation was her best method for discovery.

“Good news,” he said with a smile, leaning toward her, his eyes dipping ever-so-slightly to the front of her too-tight bodice. “The Captain is to be captured soon. Thanks to Captain Ortego.”

“Oh?” Penny asked innocently, though her heart began to race.

“Sí,” the man said. “He set up one of his men, told him lies about a hideaway on the coast of Isla de Tarifa, then had him captured by Ramsay. He was sure to torture him and now Ramsay will be sailing into a trap. The Spanish will be waiting!”

“Oh, good!” she said with a forced smile, but it must not have been very believable, for the second man eyed her with suspicion.

He began speaking in rapid Spanish to his friend. Penny didn’t catch much except, “Inglesa.”

If Ramsay was caught by the Spanish, he could hang. She had to warn him.

But how?

Chapter 15

Ramsay and his men were still and silent as they approached the island in the tiny rowboat. He had insisted on being a part of the scout team. This had been his plan, and if something was going to go awry, then he wouldn’t let others take the fall for him.

“Do you think we can be seen from here?” Joey asked from his place next to him.

“If we can see them, they can see us,” Ramsay said in a near-whisper. “But if anyone is present, they are well-hidden.”

Ramsay recalled his conversation with Bastian before leaving the ship.

“If Ortego was here now, he would have already attacked,” his quartermaster had said. “It’s not his style to sit back and wait.”

“Unless it’s a trap,” Ramsay said, running a hand through his beard, which had become rather ragged over the crossing. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“I’d ask you just what makes you think that,” Bastian said, looking troubled at Ramsay’s words, “but I learned long ago not to question those instincts of yours.”

Ramsay was relying on those instincts now as they neared the island. In well-practiced form, the six men jumped out of the boat and tied it securely to a rock before venturing forward on foot, all of them as armed as could be. If they were happened upon, they would go down fighting.

Ortego’s man had said the hideaway was around the first outcropping of rock, hidden deep within a cave. They could have rowed up directly to it, but Ramsay had thought it would be better to approach stealthily on foot, in case Ortego had left some of his crew behind. He motioned his men forward with a quick signal of his fingers, and they began to creep ahead ever so slowly. Ramsay moved to the front of them, inching his way around the rock. He peeked around the outcropping, ready for darkness.

And saw dozens of soldiers and pirates alike, lined up and waiting.

* * *

She was too late.

Penny urged the man who had agreed to sail her here to row faster, but his small sloop was hours behind The Raven’s Wing. Night had fallen, but the sky was cloudless tonight and she could still make out the silhouette of the ship as they began to near it.

She could also see the torches that suddenly lit the island’s shore just beyond, as though a fire had broken out. But it revealed the figures of men. Men who were waiting for Ramsay.

“Hurry!” she said to the captain as they approached The Raven’s Wing. But then she decided that going to the ship would do nothing. “To the shore,” she commanded, and the captain of the small boat looked at her as though she was daft.

“Yer not paying me enough.”

“I am paying you plenty!” she said, aghast. She had sold her ticket north and had paid this man the same amount to take her just miles away. “Deposit me on shore and then you may go back to San Juan without me.”

“Leave you here, miss?” he said, looking pained. “I’m not sure I can do that, either.”

“Well, make up your mind,” she said, looking at him pointedly. “But you will leave me on shore, or I will jump out and swim in.”

He breathed a heavy sigh but then seemed to admit defeat as they changed direction toward the island.

“Very well.”

* * *

“Captain Ramsay!”

Ramsay’s insides twisted as his hated enemy stepped forth from among the men. “Let me introduce you to Capitán Morales. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

Ramsay pulled his cutlass from his belt. Looked like they would be going down fighting after all.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ortego said, stepping forward in the light that now glowed off of the torches his men had quickly lit the moment they had seen Ramsay.

“If I’m going to go out, Ortego,” Ramsay growled, “then you’re coming with me.”

He couldn’t help but see Penelope in his mind. The last two months had been the best of his entire life. A shame he hadn’t long to live with those memories, but at the very least, he had had that time with her.

He loved her. The realization poured over him like a deluge of rain. It took reaching the end of his life to put aside his stubborn pride and allow the knowledge that had been within his heart to invade the rest of his soul.

There was nothing he could do about it now, but ask God for forgiveness for all he had done in his life in the hopes that he could see her again someday.

Ortego grinned wickedly and then lifted his torch. It was only then that Ramsay saw the cannons — all pointed straight toward where he had left The Raven’s Wing.

“What are going to do with those?” he asked, grateful that he and Bastian had planned for The Raven’s Wing to move once nightfall hit, in case they had been watched during the day.

“I’m going to hit the ship that is currently coming to your rescue.”

A muttered curse crossed Ramsay’s lips as he turned to see the silhouette of his ship nearing the island. They must have seen the torches. The water before the ship was now filled with his remaining boats. His men were coming to fight. Of that, Ramsay was grateful — but he was also aggravated, for it meant that he couldn’t fight Ortego without his enemy taking out his men.

“Not to worry, Ramsay,” the Capitán said, stepping forward. “We won’t kill you now. We’ll wait until we’ve taken you back to San Juan, where we will hang you for all to see.”

Ramsay’s lip curled as he ignored the Spanish official and turned to Ortego.

“You’ve broken all our codes.”

“I never had a code with you,” Ortego said.

“With all pirates.”

“I’d rather be alive.”

“You are lower than a bilge rat.”

“That may be so,” Ortego said with a laugh. “But I’d prefer that to hanging. I’d take my hand off the handle of that sword, Ramsay, or else these cannons are going in the side of your ship, and your men will all be dead. It’s your choice.”

* * *

Penny closed her eyes as she listened to the exchange on the other side of the rocks.

Ramsay’s choice — to exact vengeance, or to save the lives of his crew. Neither scenario ended in him coming away from this alive. His crew was coming straight for him, which was brave but rather foolish, was it not? If they made it to shore, Ortego’s men and the Spanish would likely slaughter them while destroying The Raven’s Wing at the same time.

Unless…

Unless they were distracted.

She looked up above her. If she climbed over the rocky outcropping atop the cave where they waited, perhaps she could trick them into thinking there was more here already than just her. Perhaps she could bide some time. Perhaps…

She was running out of time. If she was going to act, it had to be now. She scrambled up the rock face as fast as she could in skirts and with the lack of grace she had been born with. When she reached the top, she looked around to see if there was anything to help her with her aim. When she knelt to look over the edge to see who was directly below her, sharp bits of shale that had flaked away from the ground bit into her knees.

“Ouch,” she said softly as she saw that Ramsay and Ortego were standing below her, facing off. Heat from the flames of the torches below kissed her face. As tiny trickles of blood seeped through her gown from the new scratches on her legs, she had a thought.

She gathered as many rocks in the folds of her gown as she could possible find. Then she lifted one in her hand, reached back… and threw it below her at Ortego as hard as she could.

And hit Ramsay in the head.

She scrambled back before any of them could see her, but began to rain down the rock as quickly as she could. She heard shouts from below, and soon the sound of men beginning to climb reached her ears. She ran back from the rock, into the thick brush nearby. She pulled her cutlass from her belt, thrashing the branches around her to make as much sound as she could, hoping they would think that she was not one woman but, at the very least, a handful of men.

And in the meantime, there would be fewer men waiting for Ramsay’s crew upon the shore.

She hadn’t gone far when she was grabbed from behind around the waist, and she let out a yelp as she swung wildly with her cutlass.

“Well, well,” came a voice in her ear as her nose was filled with the stench of a man who hadn’t bathed in many a day. “What have we here?”

“Let me go!”

“A little surprise,” said the man, and Penny was soon surrounded by more of them, torches in her face. “Should we take you to the captain, or have you here?”

“Best take her to Ortego,” came a slow, lazy voice from her left. “Too many have seen her. The captain wouldn’t be pleased if he knew we held out on him.”

“Where are your friends, lass?” the man asked, but Penny just shook her head, refusing to tell him anything.

“Argh,” the man holding her said in frustration. “You fellows keep looking. I’ll take her down.”

“I’m coming with you,” said the second. “Someone has to make sure you don’t keep her for yourself.”

They laughed at that as they started down, despite Penny’s struggle to free herself. She knew her efforts were useless, yet she couldn’t help but try all the same.

When they reached the beach, Ortego called to them before they came into the light.

“Who was up there? Did you find them?”

Penny saw that Ramsay now had his hands tied behind him, a cutlass held at his back. The cannon had not yet fired — it seemed Morales was true to his word not to destroy the ship, though it was likely only because he wanted whatever was on it or the ship itself.

He would be disappointed on that account. The ship was empty, in wait of the treasure that was, in reality, a trap.

A line of men stood at the beach, awaiting the rowboats. Penny was pleased to see, however, there were slightly fewer men than had originally been lying in wait.

“Ah, what have we here?” Ortego asked when Penny’s captors finally pushed her toward him. “Well, well, this is quite a pleasant surprise.”

He walked over to her, running a hand along her cheek and jaw. Penny recoiled. She flicked her gaze toward Ramsay, who was watching them with murder in his eyes, but his mouth remained shut. Penny understood. Admitting to knowing her would only make her more desirable to Ortego.

His eyes ran up and down her.

“Who are you with?”

“The English,” she said, holding her chin up high defiantly. “They will be here at any moment. You best run while you can.”

Ortego laughed.

“Do you think we are scared of an English ship? I think not. And why would they leave a woman like you all alone upon this island?”

“I ran away,” she said, her story, with its half-truths, coming to her as she spoke. “My father is an Admiral in the Royal Navy and he wishes me to be wed to an officer stationed in America. They received word the feared pirate Ramsay was in San Juan and have been chasing down his ship. I have no wish to marry the man my father has chosen for me so I am attempting to escape them. But they will be here in moments to claim their prisoner.”

“They will be too late,” Capitán Morales said. “We have him now.”

Just then there was a resounding boom, and all heads swiveled to where The Raven’s Wing was now anchored. But there was no corresponding flash of light. No, that light came from the east.

And now more men were pouring out from over the back of the outcropping, just as Ramsay’s men neared the beach. The Spanish and Ortego’s pirates attempted to man the cannons to hit the approaching pirates but were quickly overtaken by the newcomers.

Penny’s arms were freed from the men who held her, and she rushed forward.

She had only one quest now — the man she loved.

Chapter 16

Ramsay had never witnessed such impeccable timing in his entire life.

His crew — those who had remained on The Widow Maker after they had captured it — had caught up.

And had arrived at the exact moment that he had needed them the most.

But first, there was Ortego. The man was racing to him with all the speed he could muster, cutlass extended, his purpose of slicing it right through Ramsay obvious.

Until Penelope Carstairs stuck out her foot and tripped him.

Ortego hadn’t seen her coming, so focused he had been.

Ramsay had never loved anything more than Penelope standing with one foot on Ortego’s back, the other holding a cutlass to his neck.

“Not one more move,” she commanded, and Bastian soon joined them.

“I’ve got him from here, lass,” he said, and she nodded before taking the few steps toward Ramsay. She grinned at him, sliced through the rope tying his hands together, and then took his face between her palms and kissed him with all the life he knew was coursing through her veins.

“What in the blazes did you think you were doing, woman?” he demanded. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“So did you,” she countered, as defiant as ever.

“I am a pirate,” he said, exasperated and yet enamored all the same.

She laughed.

Amid a bloody battle raging around them — though his pirates were quickly taking control — she laughed.

“You are becoming far too used to the pirate life,” he said, looping one arm around her, the other on his cutlass as they traversed to safety. His crew seemed to be looking out for her as much as he was, however, for they had a wide berth to escape to an empty part of the shore.

“Stay here,” he commanded before returning to the battle. “For once in your life, Penelope Carstairs, listen!”

There was not much left to be resolved when he returned to the battle. Bastian had led his crew, and they now surrounded the bound men in front of them.

“What was that you were saying, Ortego?” Ramsay asked now. “That you would rather side with the Spanish than hang?”

Ortego said nothing, refusing to meet his stare.

“Well,” Ramsay said, crouching down so that their faces were level. “If you so want to be with the Spanish, then here you will stay. Alone. For I am taking your ships and all within them, and you can fight your own damn way out.”

“Men!” he called to his pirates. “To the rowboats! We will find their ships and seize them!”

Ramsay followed his men to the boats, stopping, for a moment, to pick up an unsuspecting Penelope, throwing her over his shoulder, despite her yelp of surprise.

“How you didn’t get yourself killed in that skirmish, I’ll never know,” he said, depositing her on the seat in the boat in front of him. As his men pushed off the beach and began to row back to The Raven’s Wing, he began his questions.

“How did you get here? How did you know my other ship was arriving?” he demanded.

“Which question would you like me to answer first?” she asked, but she wore a smile.

Ramsay took a breath. What he really wanted to do was reach across the space between them and kiss her senseless. He wanted to tell her how she had nearly caused him to lose his mind with worry about her. He wanted to shut her in his cabin, make love to her for days, and never let her out for fear that harm might come to her.

But he had already tried that last bit and knew that she wouldn’t be exactly pleased with such a situation.

“The first,” was all he said.

She began her tale of sitting in a tavern in San Juan, finishing with throwing the rocks over the edge. Ramsay rubbed the slight bump that had already begun to form from her attempt at hitting Ortego.

“And how did you connect with the other ship? How did you know it was arriving?”

“I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I was only trying to provide some distraction so that your men from The Raven’s Wing could, at the very least, make it on shore.”

Ramsay stared at her in disbelief, nausea rolling within his stomach.

“Ortego would have taken you,” he said, hearing the words, despite the fact they nearly made him sick.

“I know,” she said, her mouth twisting in revulsion. “But I thought that, perhaps, it might give you a slight chance to overcome them.”

Ramsay ran a hand through his hair. The woman had been willing to sacrifice herself for him. It was a greater love than he had ever known or even deserved. It nearly made him tear up — nearly.

“You are quite the woman, Penelope,” he said gruffly instead, and she bestowed one of her wide smiles on him.

“I will take that as a compliment, coming from you,” she said.

“Why, Penelope?” he asked, needing to hear the words. “You had everything you wanted — a berth north, passage to find your uncle. Why not let us pirates sort things out among ourselves?”

It was her turn for exasperation. “For a man who claims to be the most intelligent among the seas, you are proving rather daft,” she said, flinging her arms up in despair. “Because I love you, you fool.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I agree. But I do.”

“I’m not a good man, Penelope,” he said, raising his hands in frustration, torn between wanting to forget everything and take what she offered him, and doing the right thing.

“How can you say that?” she asked him, and he raised his eyebrows. Was she serious?

“You just offered to give your life for your crew,” she said.

“Of course I did. I’m their captain.”

“You are loyal and selfless and brave — if a bit foolhardy,” she said with a quirk of a smile. “You have shown me what it means to live the life you are meant to live. Sure, you are surly and I would love it if you would talk a little more, but I suppose I can do most of the talking for us.”

He looked at her for just a moment before closing that small gap between them, lifting her and kissing her with all his heart — which he had never given another, and never would again.

“As it happens,” he murmured, and then pulled her close to whisper in her ear so that he would be unheard by the men surrounding them. “I love you too, Penelope.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked loudly, attracting some attention, but she grinned up at him and he kissed her on the top of her head.

“Now,” he said as they approached The Raven’s Wing and re-boarded his ship, “Just what are we going to do with you?”

Bastian strode over toward them now, his steps unhurried, a glint in his eye.

“The woman’s back on board, is she?”

Penelope stiffened beside him.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Penelope,” he said with a wink. Penelope looked at Ramsay, astonished, but he shrugged his shoulder. Bastian could be unpredictable.

“You’re one of us now,” Bastian said. “Isn’t that right, men?”

The men hefted their swords in the air with a cry in the affirmative.

“Men from the scout team told all of us of what you did,” Bastian said. “That was mighty brave of you.”

“Some would say foolish,” she said with a laugh, catching Ramsay’s eye.

“Perhaps,” Bastian replied, with what looked like the slightest of smiles. “But you saved our men, for which we are grateful.”

“What of the article, Bastian?” Ramsay asked. As much as they might appreciate Penelope, there was still the issue of no woman allowed on the ship.

“Shall we take a vote?” Bastian asked, looking around.

“If you’re willing for Miss Penelope to stay on, say aye!” There was a resounding cry around the ship. Ramsay kept his eye on Penelope, watching her cheeks redden, her eyes grow wide as she listened to the men around her, then heard the silence when asked who voted her off the ship.

“You see?” he murmured. “They love you as much as I do.”

* * *

Penny loved this bed.

It was not the most comfortable of mattresses, to be sure. But it was where she had first made love to Ramsay, where they — or rather she, but he had listened — had spent much time speaking of matters from the important to the trivial — and where he now promised her she could stay.

For the moment, at least.

He sat up in bed, taking her hands in his.

“I’m not entirely sure what to do with you, Penelope,” he said, looking into her eyes, and while his were still deep and dark, she was sure they were not as haunted as they once were. “Do you still wish to find your uncle?”

“Perhaps someday,” she said, and she saw the corners of her mouth droop, “but only to wish him well, to make his reacquaintance. I certainly do not wish to be anywhere but with you.”

“That’s the thing,” he said with insistence. “I cannot have you sail with me throughout the seas, attacking ships and plundering. I would spend all my time worried that you were going to come to harm, holding myself back to stay and protect you.”

“Do you not have a home off the ship?” she asked, tilting her head to study him. “Surely you cannot spend all your time aboard.”

“No,” he said slowly. “We most often make port in Nassau. I have a small but serviceable house there. However—”

“Very well,” she said as though the matter had been decided. “Then that is where I shall live."

“Penelope—"

“Unless it is a safer voyage that I can accompany you on," she said, holding a finger in the air. "Then you have to allow me aboard the ship. Your men have already decided that it is fine."

“There is still too much danger,” he said. "You could be killed."

"As you could be, every time you come aboard," she said stubbornly. "We cannot change that fact. We simply have to live with it and enjoy each day as it comes."

"Very well," he said, his lips curving into a smile. "If you say so."

"I do."

"You see, Penelope?" he said. “That is how you take orders."

"I'm so glad you have learned!” she said, and all he could do was laugh.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, where did you get this scar?” She traced the long, jagged scar over his forehead.

“My first sword fight,” he said, stroking the back of her arm.

“You lost?”

“I won,” he said with a wry smile. “I was twelve.”

Her eyes widened in shock, but he ran his fingers over her forehead as though to erase her worry.

“You're a treasure," he said, nuzzling her neck, bringing her back to the present.

“Better than that you were hoping to steal from Ortego?"

“Much," he said, his hand skimming her ribcage as he lightly bit her. "Besides," he said, "you're a little booty too."

She smacked him.

“Be my wife?"

“That's your proposal?"

“Take it or leave it."

“Very well," she sighed dramatically. "Take it I shall."

She leaned in.

“Now, what were you saying about keelhauling?"

About Ellie St. Clair

Ellie has always loved reading, writing, and history. For many years she has written short stories, non-fiction, and has worked on her true love and passion—romance novels.

The lake is Ellie’s happy place, and when she’s not writing, she is spending time with her children, her Husky/Border Collie cross, and her own dashing duke.

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The Bruce’s Angel

by Caroline Lee

Prologue

The last time they’d made love had been on the deck of a pirate’s ship.

Of course, at the time, Liam hadn’t believed Charlotte when she’d told him of the birlinn’s history, but that was probably because she had been giggling as she’d pulled him along the quay that evening toward the innocuous-looking boat. All she’d told him was she wanted to feel the motion of the waves under her, while he moved over her, and, well…

How in the hell was a man supposed to deny that?

“A pirate boat?” He hummed good-naturedly. “Ye expect me to believe the mighty MacLeod family, the pride of Lewes, harbors pirates?”

In the darkness, it was impossible to see the sparkle in her eyes, but he could hear it in her voice as they reached the plank offering access to the birlinn.

“Of course!” she teased. “Ye’ve never heard of the Black Banner?”

He snorted distractedly, paying more attention to ensuring she crossed over to the vessel safely. It wasn’t necessary; Charlotte MacLeod was many things—talented, passionate, capable—but clumsy wasn’t one of them. She trotted across the plank and landed firm-footed on the deck, as if she’d done it many times.

Maybe she had. Her brother Tavish, who was also Liam’s friend, was a sailor. Was this his ship?

“Is this Tav’s boat?”

She giggled, even as she tugged him toward the stern. “I told ye, my heart...this is the Black Banner’s birlinn.”

Ah yes, the Black Banner: the child’s horror tale, and the likely mythical pirate who stalked the merchants of the Western Isles. And Charlotte expected him to believe he resided here on Lewes.

Liam had arrived in the isles a month ago to formally court the Lady Charlotte, and was still just as delighted with her as he remembered being when they’d met in the Highlands. She wasn’t at all proper and ladylike, but met him nose-to-nose.

She’d make a good wife—a good partner—and Liam looked forward to formalizing their betrothal with her father, the MacLeod laird.

Until then, he saw no reason not to continue learning all about the woman he’d spend his life with.

They reached the stern platform where the captain would stand, and the helmsmen could lean on the grand rudder.

“Well, my angel…” He pulled her into his arms, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Ye’ve supposedly dragged me out to the Black Banner’s boat. Now what?”

She twisted about, managing not to step out of his hold, as she flourished a bundle, which she then shook out to reveal a blanket.

“Now, Liam…” She pressed up on her toes, until her lips were beside his ear. “Now you’re going to make love to me.”

It was her playful tease, more than her words, which set him hardening under his kilt, but the way she brushed against him as she squirmed out of his arms didn’t hurt either.

Before he had time to catch his breath, or do anything more than groan in anticipation, she’d spread the blanket out on the deck, and was tugging at the ties of her gown.

His blood was pounding in anticipation, the way she always made him feel when she matched his passions head on this way, but he had the forethought to glance toward the shore.

This late at night, surely her pale skin and fiery halo of hair would stand out like a torch?

She guessed what concerned him. “That’s what makes it fun, Liam,” she whispered in that husky voice of hers, and he gave up caring about propriety.

If she, the willful and beautiful daughter of the laird, was willing to buck convention for him, who was he to argue?

“Aye, my angel.” With a smile, Liam made short work of his own clothing, adding them to the pile on the deck beside the blanket. Truthfully, he was glad his kilt wasn’t too complicated, because when she began to peel away her chemise, his fingers—and his mind—turned into lumps of rock.

His Charlotte had always preferred making love out-of-doors, but usually they made do without fully disrobing. It hadn’t been often he’d been able to drink in the sight of her this way, standing nude and proud, managing to look strong and capable, even on the deck of a sailing ship.

Liam drank in the sight of her, grateful beyond measure to have found such an incredible woman.

I love you.

He needed her to know that, but he couldn’t seem to make his voice work.

Then she was reaching for him, pulling him down beside her so they could cradle one another with their arms, and he had more important things on his mind.

“Ye’re sure about this?” he murmured against her skin, as he trailed kisses from her neck to her breast. “Sure ‘tis safe?

She arched against him with a moan. “Can ye no’ feel the power of the surf under us, my heart?”

He was too busy to focus on her poetry, but knew she was right. The boat rocked in time with the waves, the way he wanted to rock atop her.

“I need ye, Liam,” she panted. “I want ye to be mine.”

“Yer only.”

“My only,” she agreed, breathless.

His mouth was occupied for the next little while, and the sound of her small cries and mews was enough to keep him standing stiffly at attention. He stroked her softly, marveling at her enthusiasm.

God Almighty, but she was ready for him.

When she curved against him once more, he knew she was as ready as he was. Grasping her thighs, he slid her closer, settling himself between her legs as she writhed on the thin blanket.

“Liam!” she cried, part plea, part command. “Donae stop, please.”

“Aye,” he breathed, his hand tracing up her chest to rest against her cheek. “Ye’re so hot, so passionate, Charlotte. I’m afraid ye and I will both burn up, leaving nothing but cinders.” It was a joke between them, when he called her Char.

“If we do,” she panted beneath him, “’twill be your fault as much as mine. Now stop delaying!”

“As my lady commands.”

When he finally pressed home, she cried out in pleasure.

Or mayhap it was joy.

She met him, thrust for thrust, as the familiar pressure built behind Liam’s bollocks.

He’d been with other women, aye, but this was Charlotte, and making love to Charlotte was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

He watched her face as she contorted, and marveled at how well he could read her, despite the near-darkness. Even without her wrapped around him, he could tell when she was close. The pleasure mixed with frustration he saw when she met his gaze told her everything he needed to know.

He dropped a hand between their joined bodies and stroked the pearl nestled within her curls.

She gasped his name, and he felt her muscles contracting around him.

It took everything in him not to roar her name, not to beg for God’s mercy, the way she was doing, but as he spilled his seed deep inside her, his only indication was the way he stiffened against her.

Still, they both collapsed with groans, breathing heavily. Under him, she went limp, her arms and legs dropping their holds on his body to pool, boneless, against the coverlet. And she was grinning.

Reverently, Liam leaned down to place a kiss at the corner of her lips. Then another against her neck.

“I love ye,” he whispered. When she didn’t respond, he hoisted himself up on his elbows to meet her eyes. “I love ye, Char. I love everything about ye. Yer mind, yer passion. I’ll love ye until my dying breath.”

She cupped his cheek, her lips drawn into a smile glorious to behold. “Of course ye will. For I love ye, and nae one will say otherwise.”

And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he’d found his forever.

* * *

Charlotte would never forget the day her life changed forever.

She was holding Liam’s hand as they strolled through the courtyard, and a messenger arrived with a scroll. Her love had read it, then looked at her with pain in his lovely blue eyes. She took it from his limp fingers and read King Robert Bruce’s summons.

Liam was an important man to their King. He’d fought beside the Bruce at Linlithgow and Dumbarton, and had been one of the first Scot warriors into Perth when the Bruce took back the royal burgh. King Robert trusted Liam, and she was proud of him.

Proud someone as brave and trustworthy as he had chosen to fall in love with her.

It was perfectly reasonable he’d be called back to his duties, and she loved him for it. Still, as she’d looked into his eyes, she couldn’t help feeling…scared.

There was something in his expression, which seemed to be warning her, the simple future they’d planned might not come to be.

Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, and as she stood outside the gates and watched him ride toward the shore, and the boat which would take him to his royal cousin, Charlotte reminded herself of their love.

Liam loved her and would return to her.

But never once did he look back.

A month passed, and no matter how certain she still was of her feelings for him, that little fact continued to eat at her.

She retreated to her room and curled up on her bed—the bed in which Liam had once held her in his arms and whispered such sweet words after one of the rare occasions they’d made love indoors—and let the tears fall.

She spent the afternoon there, which is why she hadn’t heard news of the visitor. It wasn’t until her father sent for her that Charlotte realized she needed to make herself presentable.

My life isnae falling apart. Liam loves me, and I love him. We will be together.

So why did her sense of dread only increase as she approached her father’s solar?

Da was waiting inside, holding a piece of parchment and paying her no attention, as usual. The same couldn’t be said of his companion.

“Lady Charlotte,” the man welcomed her, his eyes on her breasts under the rumpled gown. “When ye are my wife, ye will learn to comport yerself, I trust?”

Her hands curled into fists in the wool of her skirts. “What?” she asked hoarsely.

The man—wasn’t he one of the MacDonald’s younger sons?—waved one hand dismissively. “Ye look as if ye’ve slept in that thing, woman. And yer eyes are all puffy. Nae wife of mine will appear less than perfect.” He lifted a shoulder and turned toward her father. “I’m looking for a biddable ornament with admirable assets, MacLeod.”

“Ye’ll get Charlotte, and ye’ll be grateful,” Da growled, still examining the document.

Charlotte was having trouble breathing, and her pulse had become a dull roar in her ears. “Da?” she managed to choke out. “What…?”

What was going on?

Wife of his?

Was that a marriage contract her father was reading?

Marriage to a MacDonald?

But Liam…

Liam was the man she loved. The one who’d vowed to spend forever with her.

Her father finally looked up and met her eyes. “The MacDonald and I have decided yer future, girl.” He gestured to the other man. “John MacDonald is willing to marry ye.”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open.

Willing?

Was this another attempt to forge an alliance with a clan, who was their enemy more often as not?

Ignoring John—and the way he was staring at her chest and licking his lips—Charlotte stepped toward her father, knowing she had to convince him. “Da, Liam and I…we are in love.” She heard the note of desperation in her voice, but couldn’t silence it. “We have an agreement.”

To his credit, her father did shift his weight awkwardly, as if affected by her words. But then he shook his head and slammed the contract down on the desk in front of him.

“Ye would put yer own wants ahead of yer clan’s future?” he growled, reaching for the stylus. “John is an ambitious man and will do us all proud.”

“I donae want an ambitious husband, Da!” She was torn between tears and anger, her nails pressing into her palms to hold back the urge to scream or hit something. “I want Liam! He’s kinsman to the King,” she added in desperation, taking another step toward her father, her hand out in supplication. “Surely that makes him a good ally?”

Da had pressed his lips together then, his palm flat against the desk, as he’d leaned forward and seemed to consider her words. Charlotte held her breath and tried to stave off the horror with hope.

Even John quit his study of her assets and focused on her father. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she found herself praying.

But when he finally shook his head, she felt her knees go weak with defeat.

“Liam Bruce cannae marry ye, lass, because he’s betrothed to another.”

That’s when her knees gave out on her completely, and Charlotte sank to the floor. Her palms flattened against the cool flagstones, as if she could draw some of their strength into her shaking bones.

Betrothed? Her Liam? The man who’d sworn to love her until his dying breath...was engaged to another?

“Betrothed?” she asked weakly, tears threatening.

Da nodded brusquely, seeming uncomfortable with her display of emotion. “He’s a Bruce, lass. Of course his royal cousin would see to his betrothal, some Lowland heiress with a powerful father.”

Oh God.

Two fat tears trailed down her cheeks and plopped onto the back of her hands, as she stared down at what felt like her only anchor to the world.

Had her heart stopped beating altogether?

Betrothed to another.

I’ll love ye until my dying breath.

Oh God.

Her father cleared his throat. “An alliance with the MacDonalds is what’s best for me, and ye’ll do as ye’re told, girl.”

John spoke up again then, his voice smug and oily. “I want a wife who understands her place.”

A wife’s place was beside her husband, was it not?

In confusion, still not entirely sure she understood what was happening, Charlotte lifted her gaze from the floor to stare at the stranger she was supposed to marry.

“Her place, John?” she whispered, allowing her anger to seep into her voice.

He didn’t notice, judging by his smirk as he crouched beside her. “Behind me. Or under me, as the case may be.” He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I want heirs, ye ken.”

Before she could spit her defiance, he thrust her away from him and stood in one motion, turning toward her father once more. “Let us sign the betrothal, MacLeod, so I can escort yer daughter to her new home and start instructing her in her new duties.”

Da grunted as he scrawled something across the bottom of the parchment and held the stylus out for the younger man to do the same.

Hollowly, Charlotte watched as her father reach for the wax to press his seal into the document, and knew her life would never be the same.

And she was right.

Chapter 1

The Western Isles

Late spring, 1315

The knuckles of her hands were pale from the force of her grip on the bow rail, as Charlotte MacLeod peered toward the distant speck. It was near impossible to see from so far away, but if her intelligence was correct, she was sure it was another birlinn. And not just any boat, but one carrying a very important passenger.

Elizabeth Bruce, Queen of Scotland.

Whom Charlotte planned to kidnap.

“Calculating again, sister?” Tavish asked as he joined her at the rail, the wind playing merry hell with his auburn curls. “Ye’ve gone over the plan so many times, even Dane has it memorized, and he’s a lad.”

“He’s six,” she murmured, still staring at the distant boat. “And he’s no’ to come into battle.”

Of all her family, Tav was the one she loved best. They were twins, the youngest of the MacLeod siblings. He’d been the one to teach her swordplay and sailing, and had stood beside her as her biggest support, before she’d been sent to Finlaggan with John.

And when she’d needed help to escape…? Well, Tav had been there for her then as well.

But despite their mission, his tone was still teasing when he replied, “Dane’s six, aye, but this is my boat and he’s my son, so I get to decide what he does and doesnae do.”

Frowning, Charlotte forced herself to release her hold on the rail and turn to her brother. They’d argued over this before; she couldn’t bear the thought of her wee nephew being hurt if this went wrong.

“Ye swore this was my raid. I’m in command,” she reminded him.

“Aye, once metal meets meat. Ye’ve planned it all and deserve to see it come to fruition. But ye ken fuck-all about actual sailing.”

“No’ true,” she snapped. “I ken at least as much as Dane.”

The grin, which was never far from her brother’s lips, finally burst free. “Ye’re no’ wrong there. The lad cannae seem to put down his pipes long enough to learn a halyard from a forestay.”

“He’ll stay on the birlinn, aye?” she asked, her tone gentle. Wheedling. “I’ll no’ be able to concentrate, worrying for him.”

With a great sigh, Tav rolled his eyes and braced his palms against the rail beside her. “Fine. But afore ye start crowing, ken I wasnae going to allow him aboard the Queen’s birlinn. ‘Tis safer here.”

So he’d been merely teasing her about allowing Dane on the raid. How like her rarely serious brother.

“Now, the first rule of pirating is to pay attention to yer prize.” He nodded toward the distant birlinn.

With a snort, she turned her attention back to the ship. It was closer now, close enough to see some of the more obvious details.

“First rule?” she murmured distractedly. “I didnae realize there were rules.”

“Oh, aye,” her brother scoffed. “The second is learning how appealing the deck of a pirate ship can be to a certain type of lass. Dane’s mother was like that, as I recall.”

Charlotte knew her brother was only trying to make her laugh. There was no way he knew of her secret dalliance on the deck of this very birlinn, well over a year ago.

And there was no way he could know how much her heart ached at the memory of her gullibility, the way she’d taken Liam into her body and believed his lies about loving her until his dying breath.

She swallowed down her shame and anger, and focused instead on their prize. She couldn’t even bring herself to respond to Tav’s flippant references to his many dalliances.

“By all the saints, ye’re somber,” her brother said as he nudged her shoulder. “ ’Tis a raid, no’ a funeral.”

Her fingers flexed against the wood of the rail. “Is that no’ a danger, when pirating?”

“Of course,” he quipped, with a snort. “Rule three, I believe.”

She leaned forward, eager to get a better look at her prize. “Ye’re a terrible pirate, Tav.”

“I’m a brilliant pirate. The Black Banner is feared by fat merchants from here to Durness.”

“So feared, ye’ll no’ even tell Da what ye do on those long months away from the keep, aye?” She shot him a smirk, knowing it was a sore point.

Sure enough, her brother scowled. “Da is a horse’s arse, and I’ll be happy no’ to return to Lewes, after what he did to ye.”

Her father had betrothed her to the very devil, and Charlotte wasn’t sure she could forgive him either. But she couldn’t go back to Finlaggan, and no one in Scone would listen to her. If today’s mission didn’t work, she had no place to go, except back to Lewes.

Charlotte swallowed as she and her brother both peered at the distant ship in silence. Their birlinn was tacking toward the prize, who likely still didn’t realize the danger heading their way.

Long moments passed before Charlotte allowed her shoulders to slump in relief.

“Is it her?” Tav murmured.

“ ’Tis her.” Charlotte examined their target. “She flies no colors, as Tosh said, but the sailors wear a bit of yellow, see? And the stern…” She trailed off.

The birlinn was larger than theirs, but not by much, and not at all worthy of the Bruce’s Queen. But that was why he’d chosen it for her return, after all, for it was supposed to be a covert trip, with no announcements, until she joined him in Scone.

So her method of transport was not at all fit for a queen, but it was ideal for a woman who’d spent the past eight years as a prisoner of the English. All the same, having been kept in isolation and treated as little more than a pawn, it probably seemed quite luxurious to her.

From where she stood, Charlotte could see the tent erected in the stern of the vessel, a platform set high enough to catch the breeze, which missed the men on the rowing benches.

There were likely couches and tables set up inside the tent, filled with every sort of indulgence the returning Queen deserved.

Not for the first time since planning this mission, Charlotte swallowed down the spike of regret which pierced her stomach. Queen Elizabeth had endured much because of her role as the Bruce’s wife, and even though Charlotte hated to add to the woman’s pain, it was that very role which made the Queen her best chance to complete this mission.

“Char?” her brother quietly prompted.

Charlotte swallowed again, then schooled her features into a determined mask and nodded firmly.

“Aye, it’s the Queen’s. I’m sure of it.”

From the way Tav watched her as he returned her nod and straightened, she knew he understood her hesitation.

“Are ye sure this is the only way, Char?”

“Aye,” she snapped. “Ye said ye trusted me. And donae call me that.”

It was a childhood nickname, one her brothers all used. Her brothers…and one other.

By sheer force of will, she ignore the memories the thought provoked—memories of the man who’d called her that with affection, as he’d playfully skimmed his fingertips across her breast, or kissed the sensitive spot below her ear, or held her gently after she’d collapsed, spent, atop him.

Liam Bruce was gone from her life. He’d run back to Scone when his royal cousin had snapped his fingers, and it was only after he’d long been gone, her father had told her the man was contracted to marry a Lowlander.

He’d been merely dallying with her.

Her brother must’ve seen the play of emotions across her face, because he grimaced and patted her hand, where it rested once more on the rail. “Aye, I trust ye, wee sister. Ye’ve a sharper mind than all of us, even if Da doesnae see it.”

She had to clear her throat to get the words out. “And donae forget it,” she rasped.

“Banner!” The cry came from atop the birlinn’s single mast. Wee Robbie, a lad not much older than Dane, perched awkwardly on the cross-spar, one bare foot braced on the mast and one against the rigging, his sharp eyes peering at their distant prize. “They’re pointing at us!”

Suddenly serious, Tav stepped away from the rail. “Are they running?” he called up to the lad.

“No’ yet. They’ve nae reason to suspect.”

Charlotte moved up beside her brother. “Except we’re miles and miles from bloody land.” It was why she’d chosen this spot, south of Mull, for the attack. “And they ken why they’re out here, but why in the hell would we be out here?”

Tav’s grin flashed. “Mayhap we like the fishing?”

She snorted as he moved down the center of the boat, calling out preparations. “Auld Robbie, hold our course until Charlotte says otherwise. I donae want to give them enough time to run. Rowers, to your benches.” He tilted his head to peer up at the billowing white mainsail and the lad atop it. “Wee Robbie, when I give the word, ye ken what to do! Beware the black!”

“Beware the black!” the men roared in response, as they scrambled to their positions.

Like Tav, like Charlotte, they each wore black breeches and shirt. The clothing was expensive to dye, but traditional. Their uncle hadn’t been the first Black Banner, the name which chilled the hearts of fat merchants from here to Reay, but he had been the one to teach Tavish what he’d known. She and her twin had spent hours sitting on Uncle Rory’s knees, hearing stories of his adventures.

They’d been mere bairns when Tav had declared he’d be the next Black Banner, and their uncle had laughed and agreed. Since the man had married Aunt Citrine and retired from the sea to rule the Sinclair clan, he often invited his “favorite niece and nephew” to visit.

It had been at the Sinclair keep where she’d first met Liam Bruce.

Tav nodded briskly to her as he returned forward, two long black scarves dangling from his fingertips. He tossed one to her, then began wrapping the other around his neck and lower face. It too was part of the tradition of the Black Banner; no one knew the man’s face, or what he looked like.

The Black Banner was part legend, part fairy tale. After all, the masked pirate had been terrorizing the Western Isles and further for generations. Many didn’t believe in him…which suited Tav just fine. He’d often laughed about the way merchants panicked when they saw his black sail on the horizon, just as the stories claimed.

When Charlotte had come to him with a far-fetched plan, her brother had chuckled, but had been polite enough to listen.

And when he heard why she wanted to take the Queen’s ship, he’d agreed.

Well, first, she’d had to talk him out of attacking the MacDonalds directly. If any of the MacLeods were to be found responsible for John MacDonald’s death, no matter what his sins may be, it would mean a clan war they couldn’t afford. So she’d convinced Tav it was better to make John pay through proper means…which is why she’d been to Scone twice in the last year, trying to convince someone to listen to her.

It hadn’t worked, but it explained why the Black Banner had started to target MacDonald ships exclusively. Tavish wanted to make John MacDonald pay for what he’d done, and that was why he supported her scheme.

And why, today, he’d handed control of his ship and his men—and his legend—to her.

No one on that birlinn would recognize her, all dressed in black as she was and her face hidden…but no one would mistake her for a man either, not with her build. Still, she would fight, if necessary, for what she needed Queen Elizabeth to know. And once she had the Queen on her brother’s ship, she’d reveal her face and her plea to the woman, and pray it would be enough.

As she wrapped first her hair, then the crown of her head in the black material, she considered what Tosh’s informant had told them. The old sailor relayed the Queen traveled with only five bodyguards. The rest of the men on her birlinn were sailors, who also presumably knew how to fight.

She supposed the Queen had been counting on that fact, were they attacked.

What Her Majesty likely hadn’t counted on, was the fact that most of those sailors were MacLeods.

MacLeod sailors were legends among the Western Isles. Father had never shared Tavish and Uncles Rory’s interest in the sea, despite Lewes being an island and the MacLeods’ domination of the trading channels. Still, when the Bruce had requested a ship and men for a secret mission, Father had sent them.

And Charlotte had figured out why they were needed.

“Are ye ready?” Tav asked as he returned to the place of honor at the bow.

Charlotte nodded and finished wrapping the scarf about her red hair, leaving the tail dangling below her chin, to be pulled up across her face. “I never thought I’d be the Black Banner.”

Tav’s easy grin flashed as he winked. “I’ll no’ let ye take my place, wee sister. But for today, the ship—and all of us—are yers.”

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte turned to survey the men. Their eyes were as bright as their blades as they sat easy on their rower benches, looking for all the world like their Norse great-grandfathers must have.

“Ye ken the plan, lads?”

Most nodded, more than a few looking unsure about taking orders from their captain’s little sister. But Charlotte was sure of them. They’d do what needed to be done, hopefully without too much bloodshed.

She needed to neutralize the Queen’s bodyguards without killing them. Her Majesty would be far more amenable to Charlotte’s request if she wasn’t holding a grudge.

“Char…”

At her brother’s prompt, she glanced over her shoulder. They were coming up fast on Queen’s birlinn.

“Are ye ready, Banner?” Tav asked with a teasing smirk.

Aye.

She straightened her shoulders, took in a deep breath, and pulled her blade.

“Ship those oars! Wee Robbie, drop the banner!”

Atop the yard, the lad cut a line, and the Black Banner’s signature black sail—painstakingly sewn from smaller pieces of wool—dropped in front of the white one. It wouldn’t catch as much wind, but it was impressive as hell.

Seeing it luffing before it caught the wind and snapped filled Charlotte with a sense of certainty.

This would work. John MacDonald would not be her husband.

She whirled her short blade above her head. “Beware the Black!”

“Beware the black!” the lads screamed in return, as they pulled for all they were worth.

She thrust her sword forward, as if urging the birlinn toward their approaching prize, and grinned in excitement. Her brother matched it, even as he fastened the tail of his scarf across the lower half of his face. She mimicked him, then stood at his side at the bow rail, one booted foot planted and prepared to leap over to the other boat.

He lifted his blade and bellowed, “MacLeod!”

Behind them, the men took up the cry, and Charlotte joined in.

“MacLeod! Beware the Black!”

Chapter 2

Liam Bruce’s grip on the stern rail was tight enough to make the wood crack. It was utterly galling to be stuck standing there, unable to do a damn thing except watch, as the enemy inched closer in their lighter and faster ship. More than once, he’d considered pushing aside one of the rowers and taking his place on the benches—his shoulders were twice as wide as some of the sailors’—but the captain had glared him away when he’d offered.

“ ’Tis likely nothing, cousin.”

The quiet murmur startled him enough to throw an irritated glance at the beautiful woman beside him.

“Do ye really believe that, Yer Majesty?”

Queen Elizabeth, his cousin Robert’s wife, smiled a little sadly. “Nay.” She joined him at the rail, and he noticed her gloved hands were trembling as she gripped the wood as well. “I will not go back to England.”

He resisted the urge to pat her hand. “I’ll no’ let them take ye back.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, then nodded. In the month he’d spent with this woman, he’d come to admire her courage and strength…and her mind. She’d been little more than a pretty face and an advantageous alliance when Robert had married her so many years ago, but Liam saw her differently now.

She was still beautiful, aye, but four years after her marriage, and three months after Robert declared himself King of Scotland, she’d been taken prisoner by Scotland’s enemies. And had spent eight long years in captivity, where she learned strength and bravery and cunning.

Liam was impressed by the woman, and if his heart didn’t reside on Lewes, he would be half in love with his Queen already.

They stood in silence, watching the approaching birlinn. The large white sail seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

“Do you think it’s from King Edward?” Elizabeth finally asked.

Liam frowned, watching the way the smaller boat moved. “Nay,” he finally said, and realized he sounded as if he were lying to make her feel better, so he elaborated. “I donae ken what they’re doing way out here, but England’s King would have to ken taking ye back would be a mistake, no’ when he gained so many earls and barons in return. Besides, that ship’s smaller than ours and coming from the west.”

“Fishermen?” she asked hopefully.

“Mayhap,” he murmured, although doubtfully.

Stepping away from the rail, he raked his gaze over his men once more. The captain, a burly MacLeod man, was calling all sorts of nautical commands—gibberish to Liam, although the sailors seemed to understand. If an attack did come, either from the other ship or while they were anchored each evening, Liam counted on the sailors to fight to protect their Queen.

Under the awning set up for Her Majesty’s use, Murtaugh and Tearlach were playing Nine Man Morris. The easy-going brothers didn’t seem to take anything seriously—including possible oncoming danger—and didn’t mind taking advantage of the shade.

At the bow, Ross Fraser stood with his arms crossed. The loyal warrior was peering at the distant ship, and as Liam watched, he dropped his arms to adjust his sword. The last of their guard, Finn, was sleeping against the main mast. Because of course he would be.

With a sigh, Liam crossed to the lazy man, wondering yet again why Robert had saddled the mission with him. He nudged Finn in the side with his toe, not bothering to be gentle.

“Awake, ye slug. Danger approaches.”

Credit where it was due, the lad sprung to his feet in a blink, his twin blades already in his palms, and an eager look in his eyes.

Acknowledging mayhap his cousin had chosen wisely, Liam sent the lad to the bow to watch with Ross. As he was turning back to the threat, he heard the Queen gasp.

And a moment later, understood the cause.

The other birlinn was close enough to see individual figures now, and what he saw wasn’t encouraging. Two on the bow were dressed all in black, and the one atop the mainmast had just lowered a new sail.

A black sail.

“The Black Banner!” came the cry from a sailor mid-ships, uttered with far more terror than the English would’ve provoked.

When Elizabeth turned, her face was pale. Liam reached for her, prepared to catch her if she fainted, but she lifted her chin at the last moment.

“I thought he was but a legend, a myth to keep children in line.”

As gently as he could, Liam took her elbow and hustled her toward her awning. “Ye’ve heard of him, then?”

“Aye,” she said in a shaky voice. “Ulster is not so remote we have not heard of pirates. Gallowglass mercenaries would often speak of him.”

She was speaking of her childhood, and Liam wasn’t surprised. He’d heard of the Black Banner—who hadn’t?—even near Linlithgow where his father had grown up. Liam’s mother had been a Cameron from Inverlocky, and in the years he’d spent with his grandda on the water, he’d heard all the Black Banner legends the old man knew.

Legends or not, it was clear the pirate not only existed, but was a threat here and now

By the time they reached her sanctuary, Murtaugh and Tearlach had stowed the game and were standing alert. Liam nodded approvingly, even as he led the Queen to a padded chair at the rear of the tent.

“Stay here.” He pushed her down. “If they have arrows, I want ye behind here—the chair back will protect ye somewhat.” He pulled a dagger from his boot and flicked it around in his palm, holding it out to her hilt first. “And take this.”

Elizabeth folded her hands on her lap and offered him a serene smile. Someone who didn’t know her as well as he did would’ve missed the tightness around her eyes, which belied her smooth expression.

“No need,” she said lightly. Then she pulled a thin dirk from one sleeve and tucked it under her arm, concealing it once more.

Liam grinned, even as battle-lust pumped within his veins. She was smart and brave, and he was proud to call her his Queen.

He nodded to his men, who’d all drawn their weapons now, and positioned himself with his back to Elizabeth.

If the pirates boarded this vessel, they’d find a fight waiting for them.

He was so focused on the coming battle, it wasn’t until the damn black birlinn was almost upon them when he realized the sailors were still pulling strong. They hadn’t armed themselves, and quite a few of them didn’t appear to be one bit nervous.

Liam had just a moment to wonder at that, when the cry rose from the other ship.

“MacLeod! MacLeod!”

He didn’t understand, until—as one—the men on the rowing benches lifted their oars from the water. Moments later, the other birlinn slammed into their side, cracking the rail where Liam and the Queen had so recently stood. Ross and Finn were already rushing back along the raised center ridge, but Liam knew they’d be too late.

Men dressed all in black—what kind of flashy gimmick was that?—swarmed across the space between the two birlinns. Had the MacLeod sailors not boated their oars, more than a few would’ve been broken by the impact. And the reason they’d done that, Liam realized, was because they knew their attackers.

So the Black Banner must be a MacLeod.

Mayhap Liam would’ve had time to ponder over this information, but their attackers came armed. Murtaugh and Tearlach threw themselves into the fray, their quick blades flashing. More than a few of the black-clad men fell back from the brothers’ attack, but no one appeared to be mortally wounded.

Finn and Ross were doing their best to hack through the pirates from the rear, and Liam had to fight down the instinct to throw himself into the battle.

Nay. My place is here. Standing between my Queen and death.

The pirates left the sailors alone, focusing on Liam’s men. The MacLeod sailors seemed confused by the attack, but many of them sat on their benches and merely watched. The captain was bellowing something, but Liam couldn’t hear it over the shouts of “MacLeod!” and the clash of steel on steel.

Two figures broke away from the fight, and moving in perfect tandem, twisted and ducked as they rushed toward the Queen’s sanctuary. Liam adjusted his grip on his sword, planted his feet, and prepared to meet this new threat head-on.

Unlike the other attackers, these wore masks—scarves wrapped around the lower half of their faces. They could’ve been twins, except one was much smaller.

Father and son? Brothers?

Stepping into the attack, Liam thrust his sword toward the smaller one’s belly, but the man leapt aside with a surprised grunt. Unexpectedly, the larger of the two didn’t counter, but twisted to one side with his blade up, as if keeping an eye on both battles at once.

He was watching?

Liam dismissed him for now, and raised his sword to block an attack which never came. The smaller pirate—was this the Black Banner then?—stood with his blade up and his shoulders back, but he didn’t push the advantage. Instead, he simply stood, as if unsure.

Liam needed this over, sooner rather than later.

“Come, ye coward!” he taunted, certain the insult would goad the lad into attacking. “I have nae time for fools who hide behind masks!”

When the lad still hesitated, Liam grunted and threw himself forward, ready to lop the black-clad head from his black-clad shoulders. The lad got his blade up in time and blocked the next two blows as well, before shaking his head slightly and going on the offensive.

And to Liam’s surprise, he actually fell back under the lad’s attack.

His gaze flicked forward in time to see Tearlach go down under a black-clad attack. His brother was already on the deck, and Ross was nowhere to be seen. Finn’s whirling twin blades were keeping the pirates back, but their sheer numbers would overwhelm the warrior soon enough.

Damn these pirates! Damn the MacLeods for not fighting!

“What do ye want?” he growled, slamming his sword into the lad’s. “Why are ye here?”

The figure didn’t answer, but jerked to one side. “Banner!” he called. “The Queen!”

The other man—the Black Banner himself?—still stood to one side, and Liam could hear the laughter in his voice when he called back, “Nay, lass, this is yer fight.”

Lass?

Her blade rose again, but Liam stepped inside her defenses. Instead of taking advantage of his longer reach to pierce her torso with his sword, he slammed his larger hilt down across her forearm and wrist, causing her to hiss in pain as he reached for her mask.

While she was distracted, he yanked down the black scarf covering all but her eyes…and froze.

“Charlotte?” he whispered incredulously.

That’s when her dark eyes flashed with rage, and she head-butted him.

Chapter 3

If Charlotte hadn’t grown up with older brothers, hadn’t seen men train and fight and be wounded since the earliest she could remember, well then, mayhap she wouldn’t have landed the blow. Mayhap she would’ve come up with some way to distract him, to use the mind she was so proud of for something other than percussive force.

But she’d needed a reprieve from the battle, a reprieve from the turmoil choking her gut and making it hard to breath…so she head-butted him.

“Damnation!” he growled as he stumbled backward, his palm cupping his nose as red began to leak through his fingers.

But he hadn’t lost his grip on the sword, even if she wasn’t an active threat. No, of course not. He was a warrior.

It was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

Liam Bruce.

She’d hesitated, there at the beginning, when she’d realized who it was protecting the Queen. Even Tav had noticed her pause, and she’d shaken off the indecision with a signal that she was fine once more.

Liam Bruce.

He’d gone running back to the King, forgotten all about her, and now she found him standing between her and her prize.

She tightened her grip on her short sword and stepped forward without raising it. He was shaking his head—trying to clear the fogginess caused by her blow?—while blood still dripped from between his fingers and across his lips.

His lips…

Oh God.

This wasn’t the time to be remembering the way they’d felt on her bare skin, or the way they had pulled up in a teasing smirk when their eyes had met across the supper table. This wasn’t the time to think about the way he’d used them to pleasure her—

“Char?”

Liam’s voice jarred her back to the present day, the pain of his betrayal still as fresh as it had been months ago.

He’d left her, run back to his betrothed, and now she found him here? Standing between her and the one person she wanted?

The one person she needed?

“Ye lost the right to call me that,” she growled, raising the sword and allowing her anger to show as she advanced toward him. “Ye may no’ use that name!”

To give him credit, Liam still knew how to meet her ire head-on. He dropped his hand, wiping the blood from his palm along the Bruce tartan covering his thighs, and raised a brow at her.

It’d been the same expression he’d had when she’d challenged him to a chess game or a horse race. It meant he knew he had an even chance of winning this competition.

Because they were well-matched, damn him.

“Why are ye here, Char?” he asked in that same low tone, hints of warning in his voice as he ignored her bold claim. “And with him?” His gaze flicked to Tav and back, before she could take advantage of it. “Ye’re a pirate now?”

“There are plenty of things ye donae ken about me, Liam Bruce! The same way there are obviously plenty of things I donae ken about ye! Now get out of my way.”

He didn’t. He wouldn’t be the man she once loved if he had acquiesced to her demand, after all.

Instead, he planted his feet and rolled his shoulders, the movement drawing her attention to their width. He looked…good. Almost as good as he’d looked last year when they’d met at Uncle Rory and Aunt Citrine’s table, where Liam had distinguished himself in the warrior games. Almost as good as he’d looked, laughing and carefree, at the MacLeod holding on Lewes, as he’d charmed her into his arms.

Arms which now held a sword, not-quite-raised against her. Arms which were still as sinewy and muscle-bound as she remembered. Arms which could hold her and stroke her, even as they coiled with suppressed power.

She swallowed.

“Char,” he said again, softer, and she tried not to melt at his tone. “Char, please answer me. Tell me why ye are here. What kind of trouble are ye in? Let me help ye.”

As she snorted with disbelief, her sword arm jerked upward, and she saw Tav take a step toward her. That must mean the battle had gone well, and the ship was theirs. She shook her head once, letting her brother know she was still in control of her feelings.

Mostly.

“Listen closely, Bruce,” she growled. “Ye’ve hurt far more than ye’ve helped, and I’ll never allow ye that opportunity again! I’m here for the Queen, and I’ll no’ let you lie yer way out of this again.”

At the mention of her goal, she heard a startled gasp from behind Liam’s broad back, but couldn’t afford to focus on it. Nay, instead, she was watching his face, watching for an indication, before he attacked.

What she saw instead, was a flicker of confusion.

“I’ve never lied to ye, Char.”

She couldn’t help it; she snorted again. “Aye, ye conveniently forgot to mention yer betrothed when ye bedded me!”

“I’m no’ betrothed.”

Of course. Of course a man, who’d lied about it once, would lie again. Suddenly weary—from the battle? From her efforts to get John MacDonald’s treachery recognized? Or from the last year of grief since she’d realized her idiocy with Liam?—Charlotte’s shoulders slumped, the tip of the sword pointed down at the deck of the birlinn.

She sighed and took a moment to look around.

Her assumptions had been right; the Black Banner’s men had been victorious. She saw Auld Robbie deep in conversation with the MacLeod captain, while a few others guarded the sailors. Tosh was crouched beside one of the Queen’s bodyguards, and as she watched, he rolled the younger man to his back, then offered a sip from his water skin. The other three were receiving similar treatment from her men, although they were being restrained as well.

Good. No one had died.

Yet.

She pushed her shoulders back and turned to the man she’d once loved. “Aye, ye are,” she said in a firm voice. “Ye’re no’ the first man to get what he wanted, they fly away without a second thought. But I will no’ be lied to.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed, as if offended she was calling him a liar. “I’m no’ betrothed,” he said again, slowly and distinctly. “The Bruce called me back to Scone, but has given me permission to return to Lewes once my mission here is—”

“I care no’ for yer reasons, Liam,” she said wearily. “Just move aside and let me have at the Queen for a few moments, aye?”

“He’s telling the truth.” The voice, coming from behind Liam, was refined and delicate, with just a hint of accent from her native Ulster. “Liam has never been formally betrothed.”

Formally.

So mayhap her father’s claim had referred an informal betrothal, but that hardly mattered. Her own arrangement with John—or rather, their fathers’ arrangements—proved informal betrothals were just as binding.

So Charlotte scoffed outright. “Stay out of this, Yer Majesty,” she snapped, finally losing control. “This has naught to do with ye.”

“On the contrary,” the woman said as she stood, every inch royalty. “I believe it has everything to do with me. Why are ye here, Charlotte MacLeod?”

Chapter 4

Briefly, Liam wondered how Queen Elizabeth had known Charlotte’s name, then remembered the conversations they’d had on the long days of travel from Carlisle. He’d confessed his feelings for the hot-headed MacLeod lass, chafing under his obligation to the Bruce, which kept Liam from returning to Lewes.

And, knowing the Queen, he shouldn’t have been surprised she’d remembered.

Charlotte frowned when the Queen spoke, and knowing her, it was because she couldn’t figure out the situation and was irritated by it.

But when Elizabeth stepped away from her chair and toward Charlotte, he had to act. He didn’t know what his lover was doing here, or why she claimed to want access to the Queen, but he couldn’t allow it. He shifted to put his body between the two women.

Elizabeth’s hand rested briefly on his arm, and he didn’t miss the way Charlotte’s gaze dropped to glare at it.

Interesting.

“Easy, Liam,” the Queen murmured. “Ye really believe the woman ye love could harm me?”

“I’m no’ sure what I think right now, Yer Majesty,” he replied. Then, raising his voice and piercing Charlotte with a hard stare, he repeated his earlier question. “Why are ye here, Char? What do ye want with the Queen, and why are ye associating with pirates?”

Mayhap she would’ve answered, had her companion—the Black Banner, who’d been standing so peacefully off to one side—not decided to interrupt.

“Oh, are we dispensing with the masks now?” He tossed a wink toward the Queen, and Liam almost groaned when he realized he now recognized those dark eyes. “I thought mayhap we were going to stand around and talk this arsehole into surrender.”

The man pulled down the tail of his scarf, revealing the smiling face of Charlotte’s carefree brother, Tavish.

Despite the presence of his Queen, Liam spit out a nasty curse.

“Yes indeed, my once-friend.” Tav’s mouth was still curved into a smile, but too many teeth were bared for it to be called friendly. That, and the dangerous glint in his eyes, told Liam he was in trouble.

The man Liam had called friend smoothly sheathed his sword, but didn’t drop his glare, and Liam wasn’t fool enough to think the man was unarmed now.

“Yes indeed,” Tavish repeated. “That seems like something ye ought to say, when confronted by the woman ye lied to, stole her maidenhead and abandoned, coward.”

Liam felt the muscles in his jaw pop as he clenched his teeth.

Lying?

There they went again, accusing him of lying. And worse!

He forced himself to exhale and relax, knowing he’d be no good in a fight. “I’m no’ a liar.”

“Ye are a cowardly arsehole though,” his friend spit back at him.

“Liam?” The Queen’s tone seemed almost gossipy. “Is this true? Ye took this woman’s virginity, and then—”

And Char, bless her, interrupted in her own defense. “He took naught, Yer Majesty! I gave it, and willingly, to a man I thought loved me.”

Elizabeth merely hummed, then stepped around Liam. He moved to intercept her, but she held up one imperious gloved hand as she peered at Charlotte.

The two women stood the same height, but the similarities ended there.

Elizabeth’s sable hair was still thick and luxurious, despite being several years older, but was bound under a pearl-studded net in the latest fashion.

Charlotte was all fire and warmth, passion and gaiety. She’d worn her long red hair loose the day he’d made love to her for the first time, and Liam didn’t think he’d ever forget the way she’d looked with that fiery halo of curls cascading down around her pale breasts.

His angel had bound her hair today, but during their fight, strands had come loose.

The way he’d always loved.

Actually…

Liam narrowed his eyes as he glared at the two women he loved most in the world. They were similar. He saw the same quick intelligence and subtle wit in both of their eyes, and wondered at how well-matched they were.

“Charlotte,” the Queen finally murmured. “My cousin’s question is pertinent. Why are ye here? You said you wanted access to me, but surely not to return me to England?”

“Never, Yer Majesty.” The quickness of the vow proved its honesty. “I just need to speak with ye, and an uninterrupted time and place to do it.”

Liam lowered his sword. He felt ridiculous standing there, threatening the woman he loved with it. Despite her accusations of his lies, he believed her when she said she didn’t intend to harm Elizabeth.

The Queen was nodding thoughtfully. “And the pirates?” Her gaze flicked to a still-grinning Tav, who blew her a kiss. Elizabeth merely raised a brow, before turning her full attention to Charlotte once more. “From Liam’s stories, it appears he is unused to this new hobby of yours.”

“I needed a way to get to ye,” Charlotte said quietly. “And the Black Banner had the best opportunity.”

“And you believed murder and violence were the best way to get my attention?”

Charlotte’s chin jerked up. “We’ve murdered no one! Yer men all still live!”

“MacLeod men,” Liam growled in reminder.

“Aye, MacLeod men,” Charlotte snapped. “Ye’re the one at fault, if ye were too dense to consider the implications!”

“Why in the world would I consider the possibility of being attacked by the woman I love, masquerading as a pirate?”

Tavish stepped forward then, his eyes hardening in anger. “No’ a masquerade, arsehole.”

Liam spun, almost wishing he hadn’t sheathed his sword. “Stop calling me that!”

“Ye stop being so free with my sister!”

The Queen stopped them with her quiet words. “Well, Charlotte? Are ye a pirate? Ye might no’ have killed anyone on this adventure, but are ye willing to?” She cocked her head and peered at the other woman, as if seeing her in a new light. “Are ye willing to kill to complete yer mission?”

Tav grunted. “I nominate this arsehole.”

And before Liam could blink, Charlotte had whipped her sword up and around, and had the tip resting on his shoulder right below his ear. One twitch would drag it across his throat, opening his skin and spilling his life’s blood.

In any other instance, Liam would’ve been angry. But here and now, the first emotion to course through his very-much-at-risk veins was…pride.

The woman he loved was smarter and faster than half the warriors he’d worked with over the years.

Her hand was steady, and her gaze clear as she glared at him. Still, he could see her subtle tells—the way her dark eyes were flickering between his, the way her lips were pressed a little too tightly—that she wasn’t entirely at ease with the situation.

Good.

Neither was he.

“Well, Charlotte?” the Queen asked again. “Could you do it? Could you kill a man?”

Charlotte’s pink tongue darted out to swipe across her lips, and Liam dropped his gaze to them.

Her lips…

He remembered the taste of them. He remembered the way they’d pursed to shush him, as she’d snuck him into her bedchamber, only to open with a giggle moments later. He remembered them tugged into a mischievous grin. He remembered everything about them.

So why couldn’t he guess how they’d answer Elizabeth?

“Well, Charlotte?” The Queen’s prompt yanked Liam back to the imminent danger. “Could you kill a man?”

To his surprise, Charlotte growled, “Aye, were the cause worthy.”

“And your cause now, my dear?” Elizabeth sounded merely curious. “You’ve attacked my ship, taken down my crew and my bodyguards, and stand ready to murder my cousin. Is this cause so important?”

Did no one else notice how Charlotte’s hand shook at the question?

The tip of her blade nicked the skin below his ear, but he didn’t react.

Finally, she swallowed. “Aye. ‘Tis important.”

Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Well, if you feel it necessary to kill Liam…”

He met Charlotte’s eyes once more, careful to keep his emotions hidden. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t so much he didn’t believe her capable of killing him, it was that he could see how conflicted she was. If she was in so much trouble she felt killing him would further her mission, he wanted to know what was wrong.

Besides, he loved her.

If she killed him today, he’d never get the chance to help her.

He flexed his knees, ready to dive to his left and risk losing an ear, if it kept his throat intact and her soul unstained.

“Well, Char?” he prompted quietly.

As he expected, the name—once an endearment, yet now an irritation—caused her eyes to flash. She straightened her elbow to steady the blade and glared at him.

“Do ye have any last words?”

He exhaled slowly. “Aye. I love ye. I’ve never stopped loving ye.”

Their little tableau was frozen for a heartbeat, two, three.

Then she snarled and threw herself forward, shifting her grip on the short sword so it pressed against the front of his throat.

“How dare ye?” Her face was only inches from his. “How dare ye think to say something like that to me?”

His hands were free, and her body close to his. He spread his arms. “How could I no’? I’ve said it many times before.”

“Lies!”

Before the word was finished, he’d grabbed her wrist and ducked from under the sword, forcing her arm up and around, so the blade—still in her hand—was thrust over his left shoulder. At the same time, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, until they stood in a bizarre parody of a dance.

“I. Do no’. Lie.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t threatened her, but still her eyes widened. “Nay,” she whispered.

“I love ye, Char. I always have.”

And before she could shake her head in denial yet again, he slammed his lips down on hers.

Chapter 5

God help her, but he tasted of salt air and sweat and rightness…and anger. So much anger.

Under his lips, Charlotte felt her own resistance collapse. She was angry—just as angry as he was—and she wouldn’t back down. But she’d missed this, missed the feel of his skin against hers.

That was why she was angry.

So she snaked her free hand around the back of his head, curled her fingers through his thick dark hair, and held him in place, while she kissed him right back.

Her blade still rested atop his shoulder, but his fingers around her forearm shifted their grip, until they were almost caressing in their firmness.

She smiled against his mouth.

With a groan, he broke away from her, but didn’t retreat. Nay, he was Liam Bruce; he didn’t retreat. Instead, he held her, their noses almost touching, as he stared into her eyes.

Her smile faded.

Was he married already? Is that why she hadn’t heard from him for the last year?

But how could he kiss her this way? Claim to still love her?

He must’ve seen her thoughts in her expression—he’d always understood her better than anyone else—because his lips twitched.

“I love ye, Char. I’ve missed ye.”

“Do ye love me more, or less, than ye love yer wife?”

He huffed a sigh. “I’m no’ married nor betrothed, Charlotte. Ye’re the only woman who has ever held my heart.”

It was Tavish who spoke up in her defense, since Charlotte seemed incapable.

“Ye have a fine way of showing it, Bruce. No word from ye for months and months, then Da tells us about yer marriage contract.”

Without looking at her brother—which was fair, because she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from Liam’s to look at him either—Liam said bitingly, “And yer Da would never lie, would he? I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” Tav snapped, the irritation in his voice obvious.

Finally, Liam turned his attention to the other man, but kept his hold on her. “With Bannockburn. Mayhap ye’ve heard of it?”

Charlotte caught her brother’s flush before he looked away.

The decisive battle, which had turned the tide of the Bruce’s war, had taken place last summer, just a fortnight after Liam had been called back. It made sense that the repercussions of the battle would last much longer; it was the exchange of captured English Barons which had allowed Queen Elizabeth, her stepdaughter Princess Marjorie, and the Bruce’s sisters to return home.

If Liam’s orders had involved the prisoner exchange, that would account for his absence since last winter, most certainly. Possibly longer.

But was that all there was to it?

And had Da really lied?

It was the Queen who answered Charlotte’s unspoken question when she stepped forward. “I have only known my husband’s cousin for a few short months, Lady Charlotte, but I know he would not lie.”

Charlotte’s eyes searched Liam’s face. Aye, she knew that fact, as well as she knew her own abilities. Liam did not lie. He was a good, honorable man.

So why had she been so quick to believe her father?

Because Liam hadn’t been there when she’d needed him most.

Elizabeth was brave enough to place a gentle hand on Charlotte’s, where it gripped the hilt of her short sword. “He is not betrothed, my dear,” she said softly. “And he’s spoken of no other woman but you.”

Charlotte’s gaze slammed back into Liam’s. She didn’t see anger in his bright blue eyes anymore, nor smugness.

Just certainty.

“I love ye, Charlotte MacLeod. I’m sorry I couldnae return sooner.”

“Or write?” she managed to whisper.

Finally, a wince of regret. “Aye. I’m sorry I was only able to send a few missives. The Bruce kept me busy cleaning up after the battle, and I’ve been sworn to secrecy since November, when the exchange for the Queen actually took place.”

Mayhap he continued to speak, but Charlotte heard little after “a few missives.”

“Ye’ve written me?” she blurted, interrupting him.

He frowned. “Aye. No’ often, but a few, telling ye I was safe after the battle, or asking ye to be patient with me, as I couldnae return yet.”

Shaking her head, Charlotte released him and stumbled backward, sheathing her sword with trembling hands.

He wasn’t betrothed. He hadn’t abandoned her. He’d written, asking her to wait.

“I never got yer letters,” she whispered hoarsely. “What happened—”

Her brother’s loud snort drew her attention, but Tav wasn’t looking at them. Nay, he cut an impressive figure, all in black, his arms folded as he frowned down at his men administering to the Queen’s bodyguards.

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t need to.

“Da,” she whispered, and caught her brother’s faint nod.

Liam stepped forward, then halted, as if unsure if he should go to her or stay at the Queen’s side. “Ye thought I’d abandoned ye? Ye didnae see the messengers?”

“I was at the MacDonald holding,” she said dully, staring at the waves over Tav’s shoulder. “Being told what a miserable piece of garbage I was, and listening to them plot treason. I believed my father when he told me ye’d used me and run back to yer Lowland lass.”

When he took her hand, his fingers twining through hers, she glanced at him, then down.

“Why?” he whispered.

Why were they treating ye like that?

She understood his question, because she’d asked the same many times. “Because John MacDonald discovered I wasnae a virgin, and threatened to void the marriage contract my father had made with his. When our fathers refused, he…” She forced herself not to think of those days before she escaped. “He cast me aside on his own.”

Liam made a noise, but as she was staring at their joined hands, Charlotte didn’t know what it meant. She wasn’t sure if she was angry, or embarrassed, to have to tell him all this with their current audience.

It was the Queen who saved her by sweeping up and folding her hands in front of her, poised and regal, as if she was standing at court, instead of on the swaying deck of a wounded birlinn.

“Well, I cannot say this has been the most normal return, what with the secrecy and the pirate attack and the lack of triumphant procession. But seeing the two of you reunite has certainly been…interesting.” Her eyes hardened. “And now that it is through, you will give me an explanation and the return of my men. Immediately.”

Swallowing, Charlotte pulled away from Liam’s hold. She’d been the one to give the orders to attack her sovereign lord’s wife. It could be argued her treasonous act deserved the harshest penalty, and now they could not even hide behind anonymity. Thankfully, although Liam knew who her brother was, they hadn’t identified him in front of the Queen.

Would Liam keep the secret, even if Charlotte had to be punished?

Please God, donae let him be the one to take my head, if that’s what Elizabeth decides.

She placed her right palm over her heart and sunk to one knee before the Queen, the way she’d seen her father’s warriors pledge their fealty.

“I have evidence of treason, Yer Majesty. I’ve been to court twice since Hogmany, with excuses both times, and been refused access to the King.”

“So you escalated to becoming a pirate and kidnapping your Queen? I simply cannot imagine why the King’s guards would not let you see him. Did it not occur to you that the King was not even in Scone?”

It was impossible to miss the amused note in the other woman’s voice, but Charlotte didn’t lift her gaze from the Queen’s knees. “Aye, Yer Majesty,” she whispered hoarsely. “But I got tired of being ignored.”

“I will have to remember that,” the Queen said dryly.

“As will I,” Liam rumbled.

Charlotte swallowed again, wondering if she might actually live through the day.

“Rise, Lady Charlotte,” Elizabeth demanded. “I will hear your reasons and see your evidence, but”—she hastened to add, as Tav lowered his arms and stepped toward their group—“not on your ship. Here. On my ship. Surrounded by my men.”

Slowly, Charlotte gained her feet, working through the implications. She glanced at Liam, whose expression was carefully neutral as he stood equidistant from the two women. Not an hour ago, she was sure she hated him, but now, she didn’t understand her own feelings.

If everything he’d said was true—and she had to admit he was no liar—then she had no reason to hate him.

And if he was still the man she’d fallen in love with, then she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

But would he allow her to be hurt by someone else? Did his loyalty to Elizabeth run deep enough to stand by as his men took her and her brother down?

She met his eyes, hoping for an indication.

She received none.

It was as if he were leaving the decision up to her.

She swallowed, then nodded. No matter what came of today, she would show Liam she trusted him. And that she was sorry she doubted him.

“Aye,” she croaked, then whirled on her brother. “Bring me the letters.”

Tav rolled his eyes. “Are ye daft, lass? Ye may believe him, and his oh-so-logical reasons, but I’ve hated him right alongside ye for almost a year. I’ll no’ forgive him so easily, nor will I leave ye here alone with him.”

“I will be here, Lord Banner,” the Queen said imperiously.

Tav sketched a bow, as if reminding her she didn’t know his name. “And ye may be my Queen, but ye have the same sharp look as Char, begging yer pardon. I wouldn’t trust either of ye, as far as I could throw ye.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched as her eyes raked over Tav’s wide shoulders. “Probably a wise idea.”

Tavish rose and turned to the watching men once more. “Tosh,” he called down, “bring Her Majesty’s guards up here and make them comfortable.”

His second raised a brow, then shrugged. “Aye, Banner. But I’ll keep ‘em tied, if it’s all the same.”

“The Queen’s invited them for tea and cakes, but she’ll have to be disappointed.”

Elizabeth snorted at Tav’s quip.

Ignoring her, Tav cupped his hands and bellowed across to his own birlinn. “Dane! Bring the small casket!”

“Dane?” Liam blurted incredulously. “Ye brought yer son pirating?” He whirled on Charlotte. “Ye allowed it?”

It was Tav who answered with a nonchalant shrug. “The family business, aye?”

The two men frowned at one another for a long moment, before Tav’s gaze flicked to first her, then Elizabeth. Liam seemed to understand the man was daring him to reveal his identity to the Queen, and Charlotte watched the realization creep up on him—if he told Elizabeth the Black Banner was the brother of the woman he loved, he’d be complicit.

Liam sighed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest and frowning at both MacLeods, as if blaming them for his situation.

Well, it is yer fault, lass.

Charlotte’s lips twitched at the thought.

When Elizabeth sank down onto the cushion-covered chair, it was hard for Charlotte to remember she wasn’t in a throne room. It was also hard to remember the woman had spent the last eight years in near-solitary confinement in England; she was just as poised and elegant as she ever was.

Tosh and a few black-clad men carried Liam’s men up to the dais, and were preparing to arrange them on the floor, when the Queen spoke.

“Release them. I will hear from them myself,” she commanded.

Everyone froze. Elizabeth’s demand countered Tav’s, and Tosh glanced at Charlotte for instructions.

She swallowed again, resisting the urge to look to Liam for a hint or suggestion. Releasing the Queen’s bodyguards would put Charlotte and her men at a severe disadvantage, and if Elizabeth planned to take revenge for their attack, that would be the perfect time to do it.

On the other hand, Charlotte had been at fault, and the woman was her liege’s wife.

So she nodded to Tosh, who shrugged and sliced the bonds on the man he was carrying.

For better or worse, the die was cast.

Chapter 6

As soon as Ross’s boots hit the deck, Liam lunged toward him, grabbing the other man’s shoulders and helping to keep him upright. He was bleeding from a cut on his hairline, and was blinking woozily around him, but for the most part, he still seemed to be whole.

Murtaugh was unconscious, and Liam found himself praying it was from a blow to his head, rather than any unseen blood loss. Tearlach surged to his feet and stood between the pirates and his brother, his dirk held in his left hand as his right hung awkwardly. Broken?

But it was Finn who worried Liam the most. The youngest of their team thrashed against his bonds, his threats and curses muffled by the length of MacLeod plaid shoved in his mouth. Apparently, the pirates had grown weary of his voice.

When he was freed, Finn launched himself at Tosh, going from horizontal to vertical with all the speed and grace of youth. Arms outstretched, he seemed ready to strangle the pirate when Liam stopped him.

“Finn!” He used his voice as a whip, knowing the lad would remember his training. “Stand down. The Queen,” he snapped, knowing Finn would understand.

He did. The lad halted his attack, glared at Tosh—who appeared more than a little amused by the threat—and dropped his palms to his empty sheaths, before moving to stand beside the Queen.

Liam took a deep breath, his eyes darting around their little scene. His men were alive and accounted for, and in a position to protect Elizabeth if something went wrong.

If Charlotte betrayed them all.

But she’d been in power, and there’d been no good reason for her to cut loose his men and give up that power, unless she meant what she’d said to the Queen. She really was only here to talk.

And so, when Elizabeth settled herself in her chair and raised an imperious brow at Charlotte, he moved to stand beside the woman he loved.

He might not be able to protect her from Elizabeth’s wrath, and he might not be able to offer her comfort for whatever had pushed her to this course of action, but he could be there for her all the same.

What had she’d said about her time at Finlaggan?

Being told what a miserable piece of garbage I was.

His rage, at hearing those words spoken so neutrally, as if she’d long-ago accepted the affront, had been near overwhelming. Then, to hear her admit the marriage contract her father had made was voided because she wasn’t a virgin…

Cold had slammed into him, at the realization of how John MacDonald had known that.

When Charlotte took a deep breath, her shoulder brushed against his, but she didn’t glance his way, and he resisted the urge to touch her further.

Losing control in front of the Queen once had been enough.

“Yer Majesty, last autumn, regardless of what happened…between Liam and myself…” She shook her head and cleared her throat. “My father made a marriage contract with the MacDonald of Finlaggan, selling me to his youngest son. I am no’ my father’s only daughter, no’ even his eldest. My sister made an advantageous marriage two years ago, and I’d lost my value to him as an alliance broker.”

It was impossible not to hear the bitterness in her voice when she spoke of her father’s attitudes. Liam was relieved it hadn’t been there when she’d referenced what had passed between the two of them, but perhaps that was intentional.

What was interesting was the Queen’s response. Liam knew good and well she’d had an arranged marriage with Robert twelve years ago as an alliance between her father, the Earl of Ulster and good friend to King Edward of England, and the then-Earl of Carrick.

But despite her similar history, Elizabeth watched Charlotte dispassionately, not revealing her thoughts on the story she was being told.

“In an effort to facilitate the match, Da rushed me off to Finlaggan. Once there, I discovered I was to be treated as little more than—”

Her voice caught then, and when Tav stepped toward her—to offer support?—she shook her head and took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin.

“My betrothed had nae use for me, nor any other woman, other than what lay between our legs. He told me so many times. He also did no’ bother hiding his sins, thinking me incapable of understanding.”

Slowly, Elizabeth moved, until her elbows were resting on the arms of the chair, and her fingers were laced before her. “You mentioned treason?”

Charlotte took another deep breath. “Aye, Yer Majesty. John MacDonald collaborated with the English prior to Bannockburn. He was in correspondence with the Warden of the Marches, discussing Scottish strengths and weaknesses. After his death during the battle, John contacted the Earl of Surrey, who now holds that position, and requested gold in exchange for his knowledge.”

The silence stretched between the two women. Finally, Elizabeth ducked her chin. “I have been away for eight long years, but even I know how powerful the MacDonalds can be—both as an ally, and as an enemy. Accusing even a younger son of treason should not be done lightly. Ye have evidence of this?”

Tavish stepped forward again, holding a carved casket in his hands. Behind him, his illegitimate son—the lad staring wide-eyed at the Queen—looked taller than the last time Liam had seen him.

And as angry as it made Liam to think of his friend subjecting the innocent lad to such dangers, he had to admit his own father had taken him reiving at the same age. He and Tav had become friends during his time on Lewes, and he didn’t like to think he’d lost Tav’s regard for good.

But as long as he could regain Charlotte’s, that’s what mattered most.

From the casket, Charlotte removed an oilskin packet, then nodded to her brother. Tavish waited a long moment before returning the nod, then tossed the empty wooden box to his son and stepped back to rest with his hands crossed atop his sword’s hilt.

Charlotte took a deep breath as she stared down at the packet in her hand, then turned and presented it to the Queen. “His letters, Yer Majesty. He bragged of their existence, so before I fled to Lewes, I stole them.”

Dispassionately, the Queen took the packet and removed the letters, flicking two of them open at random. Liam couldn’t read her expression.

When she finished reading those two letters, she opened another, then another. In all cases, she took care to examine the signature at the bottom of the letter.

She revealed nothing.

Finally, she hummed and stacked the letters on her lap, atop the oilskin packet. She laced her fingers in front of her chin, and peered at Charlotte. “Earlier, you said John MacDonald discovered your lack of maidenhead. How?”

Damn the consequences!

When the Queen asked what he wanted—needed—to know, Liam stepped forward to stand beside Charlotte once more. There was a moment, just a heartbeat, when he thought she might sink against him and take advantage of his strength.

But she wouldn’t be Charlotte if she didn’t meet her troubles head on.

His love kept her attention on the Queen, and Elizabeth’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m waiting, Lady Charlotte.”

Finally, Charlotte looked away, but only to sweep her gaze over the gathered audience. All men. He read the significance in that look, and his heart began to slam against his ribs.

What had the bastard done to her?

When the Queen didn’t rescind her order, Charlotte didn’t back down. Of course not. She lifted her chin and met the other woman’s eyes, as if to say, Ye’ll force me to say it in front of these strangers? Aye, then.

“He raped me.”

Liam jerked as if hit, and without looking, Charlotte reached for his hand.

To hell with that! He wanted to wrap his arms—his body! His soul!—around her, and swear to her he’d protect her, he’d avenge her.

It wasn’t until she squeezed his hand that he realized she was comforting him.

“He bled for that particular sin, Yer Majesty, and I donae think he’ll force himself on an unwilling lass again.” When she shrugged, Liam could see the forced nonchalance in her posture. “Afterwards, I stole the letters and escaped. I kenned I needed to get them to Scone, but the only one who would take me was my—my brother, Tavish.” She didn’t look at the man in question, still trying to protect the Black Banner’s identity. “So I went to Lewes, and then to Scone, before Da realized I was gone. When we returned in failure, my father told me the marriage contract was still valid.”

It was not proper to speak while the Queen was deliberating, but to hell with propriety!

Liam gave into the urge he’d been fighting since her announcement, and pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight him, thank God, but allowed him to offer her what comfort he could.

“I’ll make him pay, lass,” he said, under his breath. “Ye’ll no’ marry anyone but me.”

It was a vow he hoped he could fulfill. Their fate would be up to Elizabeth at this point.

Charlotte raised her head from his shoulder and took a deep breath. The sorrow in her eyes told him she knew that fact just as well as he did.

She was the one who looked away first, cutting her eyes toward the regal woman on the dais. Liam swallowed down his sigh and followed her gaze.

Liam respected Elizabeth and her husband, the King, and had pledged his loyalty to the Crown. But he loved Charlotte, and prayed he wouldn’t have to choose between his two loyalties again. Almost a year ago, he’d put his loyalty to his liege above his loyalty to his heart, and it caused Charlotte untold grief. He couldn’t do it again.

The Queen tapped the letters against her palm, as she stared at the two of them, and Liam couldn’t read her expression. She was just as intelligent and cunning as Charlotte.

Would she understand Charlotte’s desperation, and the drastic measures she felt she had no choice but to take, and overlook them?

Or would she hold Charlotte accountable for the crimes she’d committed today?

How could Liam do anything but stand with Charlotte, knowing what that bastard MacDonald had done to her?

He tightened his hold on Charlotte’s shoulders.

Finally, Elizabeth hummed. “I have been held prisoner for eight long years, and I have not seen my husband. We are to be reunited after we land at Oban. I am hopeful today’s delay can be made up, once you and your pirates have left us in peace.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond, but Liam squeezed her in warning, and she remained silent.

The Queen inclined her head just slightly, as if in approval.

“Once I am reunited with Robert, I presume there will be quite a few topics we’ll want to discuss, though the possible punishment of a traitor shall be low on that list, I’m sure. However,” she said, cutting off Charlotte’s objection, “I will get around to sharing this evidence with him.”

Under his arm, Charlotte seemed to shrink as she exhaled in relief.

“Ye will take the letters, Yer Majesty?”

Liam understood the question. Although he hadn’t seen them, those letters represented Charlotte’s entire evidence against the man who’d attacked her. By giving them to the Queen, by trusting her to follow through on the prosecution, Charlotte was giving up her only weapon.

But then Liam remembered how well she’d fought—how she’d held him at sword-point and threatened his life—and his lips twitched.

Mayhap not her only weapon.

Elizabeth was already folding the parchment back into the oilskin packet, and once she was through, she lifted her chin and swept her gaze around the gathered men—guards and pirates both. “I will take this evidence, and I will make it known to my husband, the King. The decision lies with him, but I am vowing to all of you gathered here today, MacDonald’s true nature will be made known.”

Charlotte breathed another sigh of relief and dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Da will no’ force me to marry a traitor,” she murmured, and he wasn’t sure if the words had been meant to reassure him, or herself.

He twisted her in his arms once more until they were facing one another, and lifted her chin with one finger. “Angel,” he said seriously, “ye will no’ marry John MacDonald. Ye’ll no’ marry any man but me. I swear it.”

She met his eyes, and the cautious hope he saw in their dark depths made him ache over what she’d been through in the last year.

“I love ye,” he whispered, wanting her to remember that.

“Liam!” The Queen’s voice cut through the moment he shared with Charlotte, causing Liam to jerk upright. “Release her!”

As much as he wanted to kiss Charlotte again, there was no need…not after his vow. So he nodded once and stepped back, his hands still on his love’s shoulders, as if he could offer her support from a distance.

Elizabeth stood, the skirts of her ornate gown swirling around her. “Charlotte MacLeod, I have given you my word your King will learn of John MacDonald’s treachery. I have not stated what will become of you. You have attacked my vessel, threatened the lives and limbs of my guards and men, and forced me into a most difficult position.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your actions today…” She swept her gaze over the gathered men, lingering on Tav and Tosh. “Your actions were dangerous at best, treasonous at worst. You could pay with your lives, and if my husband demands it, I—a mere woman—can not gainsay him.”

The silence which met her words was so deep, Liam could hear Charlotte’s shallow breaths.

Elizabeth’s poise and cold glare were the very definition of regal. “You will leave now. You will leave immediately— Nay, do not even bid my bodyguard your goodbyes,” she hurried to amend her command as Liam attempted to draw Charlotte closer. “You will leave now, and if you are very lucky, you’ll not hear from myself or my husband again.”

Beside him, Charlotte swallowed, met his eyes, then flicked her gaze away again. She placed her palm over her heart, lowered herself in a bow—she would’ve looked ridiculous attempting to curtsey without skirts—and stepped toward the rail.

Tav, who was frowning—although just in general, not at Liam in particular—nodded to Tosh and grabbed his son Dane by the back of the lad’s black shirt.

“Get the men on board,” Tavish commanded. “We’re leaving now. Yer Majesty.” He nodded in deference. “Liam.”

And before Liam could nod in return, before he could draw Charlotte back into his arms and tell her he loved her again, the Black Banner’s men were back on their own birlinn and rowing away.

Charlotte stood at the bow, facing him, as the boat retreated in the distance.

Never once did she lift her hand in farewell.

Chapter 7

A fortnight later

Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and did her best to emulate her mother. Despite her age, Lady MacLeod still sat straight and elegant, the picture of propriety and grace.

It was enough to make a wild lass such as Charlotte roll her eyes.

Tonight, Mother sat quietly with her head bowed, listening to Da rant about ungrateful children and unruly women who will wind up in hell. No one at the supper table—or in the great hall—could mistake who he meant, but few disagreed. Charlotte’s brother’s wives were just as biddable and sweet as Mother, and Tav wasn’t in attendance.

After their adventure in the Western Isles, Tavish had returned her to Lewes. Not because she wanted to be subjected to her father’s whims or—even worse!—forced to return to the MacDonalds. Nay, Charlotte had gone home because she knew, if Liam had been telling the truth about his feelings for her and his attempts to contact her, Lewes would be the only place he’d know to look.

As her father gestured emphatically with a leg of mutton, Charlotte tucked her chin near her chest—hoping it would make her seem subdued—and frowned in thought.

A fortnight ago, she’d been in Liam’s arms once more, if only for a moment. She’d tasted him, held him, breathed in his scent. It was what she’d longed to do, what she’d given up hope of ever experiencing again.

She’d mourned her lost love for a time. But then she’d pulled herself up and reminded herself the world hadn’t ended when she’d thought Liam had abandoned her. She’d reminded herself she was strong and capable, and would never be yoked to a cruel man like John MacDonald.

Aye, she’d done all that, and more, when Liam had abandoned her.

But now, it turned out he hadn’t.

And she was still getting used to that.

Despite what she’d told herself for the last few weeks, seeing him—kissing him!—proved she’d never stopped loving him. She loved Liam Bruce, and for the first time in months, she harbored hope they’d be able to have a future together.

The Queen had taken on the responsibility, the onus, of seeing John MacDonald’s treachery exposed. Charlotte had worked toward that acknowledgment for so long, that it felt odd not to have to worry about it anymore. Instead, she worried about Elizabeth’s cold expression when she’d dismissed them.

Nay, Charlotte didn’t have to worry about John’s treason anymore…but she did have to worry about the Queen and King’s vengeance.

Each evening, as she said her prayers, Charlotte alternated between praying she hadn’t made things worse by bringing her concerns before the Queen in such a violent manner, and praying she’d have the chance to see Elizabeth again.

Because Liam was with the Queen.

“Ye’re no’ even listening!”

Her father’s bellow jerked her attention away from the nearly full trencher in front of her. Charlotte’s spine snapped straight, and she smiled sweetly at the older man.

“I’m sorry, Da. I was contemplating my sins.”

Her father frowned, unsure if his youngest daughter was mocking him. “And what did you decide?”

“That I’ll likely have quite a few penances when I go to confession.”

“Aye,” Da growled, “for refusing to honor yer father.”

“And mother,” Charlotte helpfully pointed out. When he frowned again, she widened her eyes in innocence. “Father Thomas says the passage speaks of honoring my father and mother, which of course I would, if Mother ever gave me any commands.”

Somewhere down the table, one of her brothers snorted doubtfully, but Charlotte just smiled wider. Beside her, Mother murmured something she didn’t catch. Probably something encouraging and dutiful toward her husband, and not at all helpful to her daughter.

Da’s fist banged against the table. “By refusing to honor the marriage contract yer father’s arranged for ye, ye’re showing the world ye defy no’ just yer father, but yer clan and tradition! Ye’re dragging yer entire family down, ye harlot! Ye want us all to rot in hell with ye—”

“And what were ye doing, when ye destroyed the messages Liam Bruce sent to me? He’s a good man, and marriage to him would’ve been an even stronger alliance! So why did ye let me believe he wanted nothing to do with me?”

It was the first time she’d asked the question—shouted it, more like—and when Da’s hands curled into fists, she knew he was angry. But it was something she’d been wondering about since that afternoon on the deck of the Queen’s birlinn, and she needed to know if Liam had been telling the truth.

“I did it, daughter, because the MacDonalds offer a better alliance, and it’s up to ye to show ye honor yer clan—and yer father!—by following along with my commands!”

Charlotte slowly exhaled. She hadn’t been exactly sure what she’d expected, but hearing her father admit so baldly he’d betrayed her, had come between her and the happiness which might’ve been hers, just because he thought he knew better, well, Charlotte couldn’t do much but sigh.

A fortnight ago, Queen Elizabeth had commanded her to leave her ship, without even the chance to say goodbye to Liam. Charlotte had been the one to follow that command, knowing if she’d left the choice in Liam’s hands, he might’ve hesitated. He might’ve hesitated, or resented being forced to choose between her and his loyalty to the Crown again.

So she’d made the choice for him. And now she knew he’d been telling the truth, and her father had made a choice for her, she knew how it felt.

Da was still ranting about honor and duty, and Charlotte had had enough.

He was getting worked up again, and the silence which reigned in the hall around him, told her his audience would be no help. Charlotte sighed and placed her palms flat on the table on either side of her trencher.

“Da, I’m honoring my clan, by refusing to ally us with a traitor and a villain.”

It wasn’t the first time her father had heard her arguments, and he rolled his eyes with great exaggeration. “John MacDonald is a good lad—”

“A traitor by his own admission, and a rapist by my troth!”

As always, when Charlotte dared to use that word, Da’s ruddy cheeks darkened. Not in anger, but a sort of blustery embarrassment. “Ye— I donae— Lads will be lads—”

“The church also tells husbands to honor their wives and treat them well.”

Da frowned again. “When in damnation did ye become to be so devout?” he muttered uncomfortably.

For the first time, Mother spoke up. “Are ye considering holy vows then?” she asked hopefully, resting her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “My aunt would welcome ye at the abbey, I’m sure, and a quiet life of contemplation and service would do ye well.”

Charlotte met her mother’s dark, naïve eyes, and did her best not to smile.

Did Mother honestly think she was suited for quiet contemplation? No sword practice, no sailing, no intrigue?

“Perhaps, Mother,” she finally managed to say, as she patted the other woman’s hand. “I’ll consider it.”

Da was still frowning. “Ye’d take vows just to avoid marriage, lass?”

Charlotte looked down the table where her brothers were involved in their own conversations, either with one another, or their wives. None of them had bad marriages, and although she didn’t personally want the same life her mother had built with her father, Charlotte could admit it wasn’t terrible.

There were plenty of women out there who’d welcome marriage to a laird’s son, even a younger one like John.

But she’d wager if those women had ever met John MacDonald, they’d be less willing. And now with that scar she’d given him, mayhap he’d think twice about forcing an unwilling lass.

The Queen will make sure he’s punished.

Elizabeth had promised. She had the evidence, and even if it took some time, Charlotte had to trust the other woman to use her power to do the right thing.

And hope it wouldn’t mean doom for Charlotte and the Black Banner.

So she lifted her chin and met her father’s eyes. “It will no’ come to that, Da. But I will no’ marry John MacDonald.”

Mayhap he would’ve said more. Mayhap he would’ve ranted and raved and confined her to the dungeon without supper again—which had been a popular punishment when she’d done something particularly reckless as a child.

But they never had the chance to discover his response, because at that moment, a messenger rushed through the door to the keep, his cloak wet from the rain, and appearing as if he hadn’t slept in some time.

And he wore the royal livery.

Da wasn’t the only one in the hall who shot to his feet as the messenger hurried toward the dais. Charlotte felt her heart pounding in her chest, and laced her fingers together atop her heavy skirts to keep them from shaking.

Oh Lord.

She realized she was praying again, but wasn’t sure what she was praying for.

For the message to have nothing to do with her? Or have everything to do with her?

The man pulled a scroll from a pouch and handed it to Da without a word. No announcement, no acknowledgment, no proclamation. Just a simple scroll.

With the King’s seal dangling from it.

Da’s expression was grim as he took the parchment, and he didn’t bother sitting to unroll it. Everyone at the table seemed to be holding their breath, and Mother’s hand dropped to Charlotte’s laced fingers.

To offer support? Or to take it?

Not all Highland lairds could read, and Da wasn’t as accomplished as some of his children. Charlotte watched his lips move as he read, and she tried to guess what the letter said.

“A summons,” he finally said softly.

Beside Charlotte, Mother slowly stood, her hands shaking as she gripped the edge of the table. “For ye, husband? Again? What do ye think it means? Is the Bruce calling up his forces once more?”

“Nay,” Da said in a hoarse voice, turning his attention to Charlotte. “No’ for me. For her.”

Around the table—around the hall—whispers broke out. Charlotte rose to her feet, not sure if she was relieved to finally have her question answered.

Queen Elizabeth had said Charlotte would be lucky to never again hear from her.

I guess I’m no’ lucky.

But she couldn’t be disappointed, because, aye, Elizabeth was at court…but so was Liam.

Beside her, Mother collapsed onto the bench, her fingers in front of her lips as if to keep from crying. She—and a few of Charlotte’s sisters-in-law—were staring at her with pity.

Da’s hand shook just slightly, the scroll’s royal seal swaying, as he sank into his carved chair. His eyes were wide as well, but Charlotte couldn’t tell if it was from shock, or disappointment.

And perversely, Charlotte felt herself grinning. She might be going to her doom, but at least Liam would be there. At least she would have answers to the question of what exactly had gone on months ago.

Aye, she was on her way to her future, one way or another.

Da swallowed, his voice hoarse when he waved the scroll toward her and asked, “What in the hell did ye do this time, Charlotte?”

Chapter 8

“And do ye believe the lass?”

The Bruce, King Robert I, had no trace of skepticism in his voice when he asked the question. He was leaning on spread fingers, peering down at the letters from John MacDonald to the Earl of Surrey, and the question hadn’t indicated he doubted their veracity.

Liam would’ve answered, except he knew the King hadn’t been talking to him.

From her seat by the cold hearth, Queen Elizabeth hummed. She was stitching something, a perfectly acceptable queenly pastime, but Liam knew she’d only begun to care about it while in captivity, with nothing else to occupy her time besides prayer. From where he stood, he admired the way she kept her shoulders straight and proud, as she frowned down at the green thread.

Finally, her chin dropped just slightly. “I do. I believe her. She is a bold lass, as you say, for certes. But she is passionate, and believed the MacDonald lad to be a traitor. I tend to agree, based on the evidence.”

Robert grunted an affirmative and pushed himself upright once more. He wasn’t a particularly impressive-looking man, being of average build and coloring, but it was the belief in those dark eyes, which had united a nation. He might not have been the leader Scotland expected when he took power all those years ago, but he’d built a nation by sheer force of belief.

And many, many sacrifices.

Liam met his cousin’s dark eyes and inclined his own head, pleased to be in his confidences once more.

“And ye, Liam?” Robert asked softly. “Ye believe her?”

“Without a doubt,” Liam responded quickly. “Char isnae one to overact.”

The King’s brows rose. “Really? Then what was this I hear about her threatening yer verra life, due to a misunderstanding?”

Liam winced. When it was said like that, Charlotte sounded a wee bit unstable.

“It was understandable, Yer Majesty. As far as she kenned, I’d declared my love for her, taken what I wanted, and left her to face the consequences. I would’ve threatened to stab me too.”

Robert’s lips twitched as he crossed toward his wife. “I believe I might have as well.”

“Aye,” Elizabeth agreed solemnly, not looking up from her stitches. “ ’Tis almost as bad as leaving your lady wife in captivity for—”

“—eight long years,” Robert finished, with a put-upon sigh. But he was smiling when he reached her chair and rested his hand on her shoulder. “How long are ye going to keep bringing that into arguments, lady wife?”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Likely until we are both old and grey.”

“I’m already getting grey hairs, Elizabeth, and ye’ve been home less than a fortnight.”

Finally, the Queen rested her embroidery on her lap and reached up to touch his hand on her shoulder. “Someone has to keep you sharp, Robert,” she said, with a slight smile. “Elsewise, your mind will turn to mush, and Scotland will fall.”

As if emboldened by her teasing, Robert’s grin grew, and he twisted his fingers through hers, lifting her hand to his lips. “I gladly give ye leave to keep me sharp and happy, my love.”

When Elizabeth blushed prettily, Liam turned away.

It wasn’t because he was jealous of his cousin, not exactly.

Aye, seeing the way Robert had welcomed Elizabeth back home, and seeing the way Elizabeth had taken command of so many things, had left Liam longing for a life he could build with Charlotte. Even a few months ago, he might’ve been jealous, might’ve resented Robert for being allowed such open devotion.

But now?

Now, Liam knew Charlotte was waiting for him.

Last year, when they’d parted, their future had been uncertain. He’d been answering Robert’s call for men at Bannockburn, and she’d thought he’d abandoned her. The complications of her contract with the MacDonalds, her treatment at John’s hands, and her father destroying Liam’s letters, had all served to make their future anything but certain.

But Liam’s duty was done. He’d delivered the Queen—safely—to Scone, and fulfilled his obligation to his cousin. While he’d always have a soft spot in his heart for Elizabeth, and would’ve given his life to protect her, he knew she couldn’t be the only woman in his future.

Charlotte would be his wife, no matter what her father said.

He’d given her that vow, and Liam intended to make it happen...and soon.

But first, he needed to do what he could to help her. She’d risked so much—her and that idiot brother of hers—to make sure the King knew of the MacDonald treachery. Liam would ensure it hadn’t been for naught.

At the thought of what she’d endured at John MacDonald’s hands, Liam’s stomach roiled sickeningly. His hands curled into fists at his side, and he squeezed his eyes closed in an effort to banish the image of her lying helpless under a villainous man.

But she wasn’t helpless, was she?

He took a deep breath, then another, forcing himself to relax. He’d been through this so many times over the last fortnight, since hearing of her ordeal, and the only thing which helped was reminding himself Charlotte was smart and strong and capable. She’d held him at sword point, after all, and she’d mentioned she’d made MacDonald bleed.

She’d avenged herself, and through her wits, was continuing to avenge herself.

Liam vowed he would do what he could to help.

Behind him, the King cleared his throat. “Back to the matter at hand, my love. This Lady Charlotte...tell me what ye ken of her.”

Liam turned back to see Elizabeth pursing her lips—lips which looked well-kissed—thoughtfully.

“She is crafty,” the Queen finally said. “Intelligent. Used to being underestimated, and knows well how to use that notion. A woman who knows how to get what she wants, and who, luckily, is also honest.”

Not for the first time, Liam thought the Queen and his love would be quite good friends, if the circumstances had been different.

Perhaps the Queen suspected the same, because she nodded firmly. “Charlotte MacLeod is strong, aye, but more importantly, smart.”

Liam’s lips twitched. “Smarter than me, I ken it.”

“Aye,” Robert chuckled. “I suspect that’s true of most ladies. Ye love her?”

His cousin’s question was surprising, but Liam answered truthfully. “With everything I am, Yer Majesty. When this is over, when she has her vengeance, I will marry her.”

“Will she agree?” his cousin teased.

“If she doesnae, I’ll follow her until the end of time, trying to convince her.”

The two cousins shared a companionable smile, but the Queen drew their attention once more.

“Interesting you call it her vengeance, Liam. You do not wish your own retaliation on this John MacDonald? For what he has done to your lass?”

It was obvious from the gleam in the Queen’s eyes, this was a test of some sort, but Liam didn’t bother puzzling through it.

“Ye’ve been with me every day for months, Yer Majesty. I’m surprised ye give me such little credit. I would kill MacDonald for what he’s done to Charlotte…but it would still be her, and her soul, who needs this retribution.”

When Elizabeth nodded in approval, Liam knew he’d answered correctly. He straightened his shoulders and turned to his royal cousin.

“Ye have the evidence in front of ye, Robert. Will ye act on it? John MacDonald is a menace to women, to anyone he sees as weaker than him. But he’s also a traitor.”

Liam was sure he’d known the answer to his question, but when Robert folded his arms in front of him and turned back to the letters spread on the table, fear settled in Liam’s stomach.

After a long moment, the King shook his head. “Ye are my kinsman, Liam, and a member of my clan. The woman ye love deserves vengeance…”

Liam mirrored his liege’s pose. “But?” he prompted, dread making the word taste sour on his tongue.

Robert sighed. “But I’m also a king. The MacDonald patriarch is a powerful man, a powerful ally. He would also make a powerful enemy.”

When his cousin turned to meet his eyes, sorrow evident in the older man’s, Liam understood what he was saying. The evidence spread on the table was enough to convict John MacDonald of treason. Enough to hang him, or if Robert was feeling particularly nasty, an even worse fate.

But if he did that, if Robert condemned John to death, he risked making an enemy of his father, a powerful laird. The MacDonald clan was already in the King’s suspicions, it wouldn’t take much to set them all on John’s traitorous path, if they had reason to hate the Crown.

Charlotte had risked everything to bring Robert this evidence, but the King couldn’t act on it.

He couldn’t give her the retaliation she deserved.

Liam lifted his chin and dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “Then let me make an enemy of him.”

Robert understood, and when he shook his head, looked almost reluctant. “Ye mean to challenge John MacDonald to a duel of honor? Accuse him of treason?”

“Nay, I’ll challenge him based on what he did to Charlotte. She announced his crime before the Queen and my men; nae one would be surprised.”

For a moment, he thought the King would grant him leave to do so. But then Robert glanced at his wife and exhaled, shaking his head. He lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck, and seemed genuinely regretful when he said, “I’m sorry, Liam. It would be honorable to do so, but then MacDonald would ken it was one of my men—my bodyguard, my kinsman—who’d killed his son. It would be just as bad as if I had executed the traitor myself.”

Honestly, Liam hadn’t expected his liege to rule any differently. Robert was a good man, but more importantly, a good king. He put the welfare of Scotland above any one person, including himself.

So Liam slammed his fist against his chest and bowed his head. “I understand, Yer Majesty. I’ll no’ challenge him.”

“But…?”

When Liam met his eyes, Robert’s were sparkling with what might have been disbelief.

Liam’s lips twitched. “But his crimes will no’ go unpunished.”

His King watched him for a long moment, then exchanged a glance with the Queen. When she dropped her chin in faint approval, Robert nodded as well.

“I believe my lady has a suggestion which might help with that. Elizabeth?”

His wife lifted her chin, a cunning gleam in her eyes. “I’ll not reveal all my secrets before I have a chance to discuss with my husband, but aye. I believe my idea will ensure John MacDonald’s punishment to the fullest, and it will be unsanctioned by the crown. I will explain once the lady Charlotte arrives.”

Liam’s heart had leapt at the casual reference to Charlotte’s arrival, and he barely heard the rest of her words. He stepped forward. “Ye’ve sent for her, Yer Majesty?”

The Queen’s lips twitched just slightly. “Aye. One could argue she deserves punishment for what she did, but I believe she is too valuable an asset to be wasted.”

“Ye’ll no’ punish her or her— Or the pirate?”

“Some might say what I have in mind for her is punishment enough.”

Slowly, Liam’s incredulity turned to hope. The Queen spoke in riddles, but he could tell from her wry grin, the punishment she had in mind wasn’t horrible.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

“And now…” King Robert crossed to the Queen once more, and when she gave him her hand, he tugged her to her feet. “Go away, cousin. I’ve been apart from my wife for much too long, and there’s the little matter of the royal succession to ensure.”

Rather than blushing, Elizabeth was grinning when she waved at Liam. “Aye, go away, Liam. The King and I have things to discuss.”

As Liam closed the door behind himself, he heard the two of them laughing, and the sound made him smile.

But as the gaiety faded behind him, he realized the next several days would carry the weight of his future. He had a duty to Charlotte, and she would be arriving soon.

She would have to face the King and Queen to hear their sentence.

God willing, it would be one both Charlotte and Liam could live with.

Chapter 9

“ ’Tis so exciting, my lady, is it no’? To be here in Scone once more and having an actual audience with Her Majesty! ‘Tis just as ye were hoping!”

Charlotte sat stiffly on the stool and did her best to ignore her maid’s chattering as the girl yanked and prodded her thick red hair into some kind of order. Charlotte’s mother had always despaired of her wearing aught more than a braid, and had instructed young Annas to ensure Charlotte was well-dressed and elegant when she was presented to the King and Queen.

Annas tugged particularly hard, trying to get Charlotte’s locks under control, and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying out.

Ye didnae cry when John pinned ye down, Char. Ye’ll no’ cry now.

Nay, this pain was nothing compared to what she’d felt then. Or what she’d felt when Liam had left her, and she believed he’d been using her.

But now she knew her father had lied about Liam being betrothed. Liam had been true to her, had even written to her…and he still wanted to marry her.

Would the Queen allow it? Or would Charlotte’s beautifully coiffed head sit atop a spike on the battlements this time tomorrow?

As Annas prattled on about the honor of being presented to royalty, Charlotte closed her eyes and admitted the truth: She was terrified.

Not of dying, not really. When she’d proposed the outrageous pirating plan to Tavish, she’d known there was a very real chance she’d not live to see John punished. She’d trained with her brother as much as possible, and she knew well how to handle a blade. More importantly, she knew how to handle herself, and that—more than anything—meant she’d face any danger with the utmost confidence and pride.

Nay, she wasn’t scared of dying. But she was scared of dying before she had a chance with Liam. A chance at even a brief future with Liam.

A month ago, she hadn’t known that was even a possibility. Now, she was terrified it wasn’t.

“Thank goodness yer lady mother sent this fine gown, aye, Lady Charlotte? The green is so vibrant, an’ makes yer eyes sparkle like a lass’s should!”

Her eyes were still closed, so how would Annas know if they sparkled? Charlotte stifled a sigh. They were of an age, she and her maid, but she’d never felt so old as she did now, listening to the girl prattle on about irrelevant details such as gowns and hairstyles.

The Queen must put up with this all the time.

The unexpected thought had Charlotte snorting slightly, incredulous. She’d met Queen Elizabeth so briefly, but in that time, had known her to be a kindred spirit. A strong woman, surrounded by men who thought her little more than a pawn, but who possessed a keen mind.

When the Queen had asked if Charlotte was willing to kill a man to complete her mission, it hadn’t sounded as if it had been mere idle speculation.

Charlotte had never met the Bruce, but she’d be willing to bet his wife was just as dangerous as the stories she’d heard told of the King.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes and admitted the truth: If she’d met the Queen under different circumstances, they might’ve been friends.

Well, that’s what ye get for attempting to kidnap royalty, lass.

“Char!”

Tavish’s worry was palpable as he burst into the chamber she’d been given. “I just heard ye were here. I’ve been here waiting on— Well, it matters no’. What in the damnation are ye doing here, Charlotte?”

He reached for her hands, and Charlotte squeezed them gratefully.

“I’m so glad to see ye, Tav.” She stood, pulling away from Annas’s ministrations, not caring if her coiffure was complete. “Ye just arrived?”

“I was—” He shook his head. “It matters naught how I heard of yer arrival, sister. What are ye doing here?” Pulling her closer, he frowned down at her. “Were ye sent for? Did Liam contact ye? Or is it the Bruce himself? Why did ye no’ call for me to escort ye?”

She exhaled, more pleased than she’d realized to have him with her. “No one kenned where ye were, Banner.”

When Tav’s eyes flicked toward Annas, Charlotte winced slightly, forgetting the maid was listening. Without releasing her brother, she turned to the other woman.

“Leave us,” she commanded, her voice catching. “I need to speak with my brother.”

“But, my lady!” the little maid protested, “I still need to pin up yer braids and smooth down yer—”

“I am dressed enough for Mass, therefore I’m dressed enough for the King,” Charlotte snapped in return.

Annas hesitated, before curtseying and dashing from the room.

When Charlotte turned back to her brother, he was regarding her wryly. “I heard ye’d turned all religious on us, Char. From what I heard about that last dinner on Lewes—”

She had no time for his teasing. “I’m no’ taking vows, ye clot-heid! But the point is valid— Oh, why am I arguing this?” It mattered not what she wore to church, nor what she wore to hear her sentence from the King. “What were we speaking of?”

Her brother sobered instantly. “Ye were about to tell me Liam summoned ye here, rather than the King, aye?”

Charlotte had to wince again, and when she reluctantly shook her head and pulled her hands from his, she knew Tav’s sharp intake of breath meant he understood.

“’Twas the King’s seal on the letter to Da, Tav.”

He muttered a curse and raked his hand through his curls. “ ’Tis what I heard, aye, but I hoped mayhap it was Liam.”

“Aye,” she said dully, sinking into the chair once more.

“Is it a sentencing?”

She met his eyes. “I donae ken. I assume so.”

“I’m going with ye,” he said in a low voice, his gaze intense. “Donae argue.”

“Of course I’ll argue.” She shook her head and turned slightly, giving him her shoulder as she reached for the pins on the dressing table and began to arrange them in her hair with shaking hands. “Ye’re my brother, and I’ll do everything in my power to protect ye.”

He snorted. “Ye’re my little sister, Char. I’m supposed to protect ye.”

“The scheme was mine, Tav,” she reminded him in a whisper. “I’ll no’ have ye punished for it.”

“And I’ll no’ let ye face the King and Queen alone.”

“She willnae be alone.”

Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat at the sound of the smooth baritone, and she twisted toward the door.

Liam.

He stood there, looking as clean and polished as any courtier in the royal court, his plaid proclaiming him a kinsman to the king, and his sword proclaiming him a warrior.

He belonged here.

And she belonged by his side.

She stood, and immediately, a sense of peace, of certainty, settled in her stomach. She inhaled deeply, and as she exhaled, she felt her lips stretch into a grin.

He was here. He was here with her, and together, they’d face the future.

No matter what it held.

“I missed ye,” she said simply.

Liam stepped into the room, ignoring her brother. “As much as I missed ye?”

She wanted to rush across the room, to pull him into her arms, to feel his strength wrap around her. But when she took her first step, so did he, and they met in the center of the room.

He didn’t reach for her. He just stared down at her, his eyes drinking in her features, as if he were trying to memorize them.

Her brother cleared his throat. “Liam…?”

Liam didn’t drop her gaze when he answered Tav’s unspoken question. “I’ll let no harm come to her, Tav. Ye have my word.”

No harm.

Did that mean…?

Charlotte sucked in a hopeful breath, and when his lips twitched in acknowledgment, she closed her eyes on a thankful prayer.

“Ye’ll no’ let the Queen punish her then?” Tav pressed.

She felt Liam turn away from her, addressing her brother, even as he reached out and took one of Charlotte’s hands.

“The Queen’s plan is unorthodox, but I know Char and I will both benefit from it.”

She heard Tav’s sigh of relief as she opened her eyes. Her brother was staring at both of them. When his gaze dropped to their clasped hands, he nodded thoughtfully.

“I spent the better part of a year hating ye for what ye did, Liam,” he said, matter-of-factly. When he lifted his eyes to his friend once more, he shrugged. “But Char has forgiven ye, and I find myself trusting ye once more.”

Liam inclined his head. “Thank ye.”

Tav winked at her. “I’ll leave ye be. Just donae tell anyone I’m such a poor chaperone I left the two of ye alone. In yer chamber.” His eyes cut toward the canopied bed. “Again.”

“Ye’re a terrible chaperone,” Charlotte managed. “And I love ye for it.”

“Go away, Tav,” Liam growled.

Her brother probably smirked as he sauntered out, but Charlotte wasn’t watching him. Nay, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Liam, and how…strong he looked.

When he turned to flick the latch on the door, ensuring no one would bother them, her eyes skimmed the width of his shoulders and the curve of his stubbled jaw. He was hearty and hale. Noble. Strong. Worthy.

The kind of man a woman would be lucky to have love her.

She tugged him back, willing him to meet her eyes. “Ye’ll stand with me?”

“I’ll stand beside ye, Char. Not in front of ye, nor in back of ye, but beside ye.”

“When I answer the royal summons?” That’s what he’d promised Tav.

“Forever.”

Hearing the vow ripped a half-laugh, half-sob from Char’s lips. She shook her head.

“Ye say we’ll benefit from whatever the Queen has planned, and nae harm will come to me for my treason. But ‘tis hard to believe Elizabeth just accepted my evidence and agreed to punish John—”

He cut her off with a shake of his head, and she damn near swallowed her voice, her heart leaping into her throat at that small action.

Which part was he disagreeing with?

Had she misunderstood what he’d said to Tav? Had her hope been premature?

Blue eyes bore into hers for a long moment—searching, challenging—before he glanced away.

Had she won their contest of wills? Or lost?

“The King would no’ accuse him of treason, Char,” Liam finally said, his attention on the stool where she’d been sitting so recently. “He couldnae risk making an enemy of the MacDonalds.”

She nodded stiffly, her head aching already from Annas’s pulling and prodding. It was hard to think with her hair all tied up like this!

“That makes sense, and I was afraid ‘twould be his decision.”

“Robert is wily, Char, and his wife is intelligent. Elizabeth has a plan.”

“For John?”

He swallowed. “For ye.”

His eyes met hers, and the hesitation—the fear?—she saw there, gutted her.

He was too strong to be afraid for himself. Nay, he was worried for her, and she knew what that meant.

The King’s sentence.

Liam obviously knew the sentence his cousin was going to pass down on her, and if he was looking at her this way, it could only mean …

He’d lied to Tav. He’d lied to make her brother think she’d be safe. She should be angry, but all she felt was gratitude he’d managed to keep Tav safe.

She swallowed. She’d accepted her own death was a possible outcome of her plan before she’d ever carried it out… But now she’d been given the possibility of a future with Liam, she found herself regretting it.

Her hand somehow found its way to his chest, and her fingers spread across the fine linen of his shirt under the swath of Bruce plaid. His heart beat strongly, and she closed her eyes on the bitter realization she’d not be able to enjoy it beyond that moment.

“The King?” she finally managed to ask.

Liam’s hand covered hers, but she didn’t open her eyes, knowing she would see the pity showing in his.

“Aye?” he asked, clearly not understanding her question.

“Ye… Ye ken his decision?” she whispered.

It was a long moment before he spoke. “He left it up to Elizabeth.”

The Queen, who had even more reason to be angry at Charlotte than her husband did.

“Oh.” It was all she could manage.

But Liam understood. Of course he did. “She’s come to a decision.”

Charlotte’s knees went weak. Mayhap she’d have fallen, except Liam was there, his free arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her against his chest. There, she could finally open her eyes, her gaze locking onto the far window.

Would this be her last sight of the sun? Her last embrace with the man she loved?

The man who didn’t even know she still loved him.

She was no coward, but she’d put off hearing the Queen’s sentence a few more moments, if it meant savoring the feel of Liam’s arms around her. The universe shrunk to this warmth, this safety. Each heartbeat lasted eons, each breath was a shared lifetime together.

But all too soon, Liam shifted. “Charlotte? Would ye care to hear her decision?”

Nay!

She’d care to spend the rest of her life wrapped in his arms, just like this.

But even as she thought it, her ears recognized the smile in his voice. She pulled away, just enough to plant her other hand against his chest and look up into his face.

Aye, he was smiling.

Her eyes widened at the sight, and her heart leapt, closing off her throat in a fierce, sudden hope.

Liam’s lips twitched wider. “The Queen thanks ye for yer service, Charlotte MacLeod, and acknowledges yer bravery in bringing a traitor to royal attention. Furthermore, she’ll pardon ye completely, if ye— Well…” Liam shook his head. “There’s a few clauses in there, but the most important one is, she wants to offer ye a position at court.”

Charlotte’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t manage to make any sounds emerge. She swallowed and tried again. “A position? A…job?”

He released her hand and lifted his palm to cup her cheek. “I didnae ask particulars, love. I was too desperate to reach ye, to tell ye the news.”

Her chest felt numb.

Why?

Was it because, after the terror and acceptance and hope of the last few moments, she wasn’t sure what to feel now?

“A pardon?” Charlotte whispered. “She’s forgiven me?”

“There are a few details remaining, but aye. Do ye ken what this means, Char?”

When he tipped her chin upward, their lips were only inches away. Her gaze landed on his lips, full and perfect, and even now pulled into a teasing grin. Liam loved her. He wouldn’t grin, wouldn’t tease, if there was anything less than what they’d planned so long ago…

“A future,” she breathed.

“Aye,” he agreed, with a solemn nod. “I’ll be marrying nae one other than ye, Charlotte MacLeod.”

And suddenly, she wasn’t numb. Nay, instead, a certainty filled her, pouring down from the top of her head, through her chest and her limbs, and settling deep within her, the warmth of her core now pressing against his hips. She pushed herself up on her toes, thrusting that warmth, that ache, against the hard length of him.

“Mayhap ye should ask me first then, Liam?”

His grin faded slowly, his gaze turning serious. Against her cheek, his thumb began making small circles. “Have ye forgiven me for abandoning ye then? I meant what I said that day on the Queen’s ship, Char. I love ye, and have never stopped.”

He hadn’t abandoned her. Her pain over the last year could be laid directly at her father’s feet. Ignoring the pain and betrayal from her own father, which threatened to overwhelm her, she instead focused on Liam’s words and grinned and wriggled her hips against him.

“Ye’re no’ at fault, my heart. And I wouldnae have been heartbroken, had I no’ still loved ye so much.”

He sucked in a breath, and she knew she’d been a fool to keep from declaring her love for him remained just as strong and as true as ever.

“Aye, Liam. I love ye.”

“Thank God,” he growled, right before his lips crashed down upon hers.

Chapter 10

The Queen had sent him to fetch Charlotte, knowing she’d be waiting, worried and afraid, for her royal audience. Aye, even now, Liam’s liege and his sworn lord were waiting for him to bring Charlotte to them. Robert and Elizabeth were ready to discuss her future.

Their future.

And Liam couldn’t make himself care, not with Charlotte finally—finally!—in his arms again.

She tasted just as perfect as he remembered, for all that their kiss on the birlinn had left him wanting. She tasted of summer afternoons and moonlit nights.

She tasted of his future and joy and forever.

“Thank God,” he groaned again, his arm joining his other around her middle, so he could lift her tighter against him.

And when she moaned in response, as her arms snaked up from his chest to wrap around his neck and pull him even closer, he was lost. Liam was too busy focusing on the feel of her lips under his, to recognize anything more than the fact they had somehow ended up on the bed. Instead of plying her with the romance she deserved, he’d instead toppled over and pulled her atop him. But when he felt her lips lift in a grin against his, he returned a rakish smile of his own.

One of her legs straddled his, the center of her being nestled exactly where he wanted it. His cock was already hard, straining against his kilt, and when she shifted against him, it gave another jump.

With a whimper, she pulled away from him, long enough to run one hand down his neck to his chest. Feeling her palm against his nipple was all he needed.

He used one hand to tug her closer so she fell against him, and his other began to hike her skirts up.

Why in damnation was she wearing such a bulky gown? Once they were married, she’d wear only linen and—

His determined planning swiftly left his mind as she moaned and lowered her head, her neck and shoulder thrusting toward his lips. Stretching up, he was able to mark the smooth skin of her neck with his mouth, at the same moment his questing fingers finally found her firm arse.

The noise she made was somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and as he squeezed her rear end, she began to rock against him.

“Liam,” she panted. “Please.”

Dimly, he remembered his duty, and thought it miraculous, considering how much of his blood was currently flowing between his legs instead of his brain. “The Queen—” he began, but bit off the reminder with a groan, as Charlotte reached between them to grasp his erection through his kilt.

“She pardoned me for treason, Liam,” Charlotte managed, as she scrambled to one side, yanking her skirts up and out of the way as she fumbled for his kilt. “She’ll pardon me for being a few moments late.”

“Moments, lass?” he growled, as he rolled, pushing her into the mattress as he went. “Ye think that’s all this will take?”

And damn her, but her grin was impish when she looked up at him with those passion-dark eyes and swollen lips. “This time, ye’ll have to just make it quick, love,” she commanded.

And he was lost. “Aye, my lady.”

She was already wet for him, as he’d known she would be. And as he dragged a finger across her core, she arched under him, and mewled under his ministrations.

He grasped hold of his cock, already thick with anticipation, and pressed it against her entrance, then paused there, knowing it’d been a year since he’d last sunk into her, and knowing she’d been violated since that time.

“Char?”

He wasn’t sure if he was asking permission or forgiveness or what, but she took the decision out of his hands when she shifted beneath him, opening herself further, and pushing her heated core up around his cock.

They both sucked in a breath, then moaned simultaneously, as he sheathed himself deep within her.

“God, Char,” he growled, dropping his forehead to hers.

“Donae stop now,” she commanded, pushing at him as she wriggled her hips, forcing him even deeper. “I cannae— Liam!” She cried out with a moan, and he was all too happy to accommodate her.

He pulled out just slightly, before sinking home once more, and the noise she made was desperate.

“Now, Liam!”

He was chuckling as he pulled out once more, farther still. “Will ye always be this demanding, love?”

Her fingers gripped his shoulders now, as if she could control his movements. “Only if ye persist in treating me gently— Aye!” she cried as he took her hints and thrust into her tightness. “Like that! Again!”

It might’ve been funny, but he couldn’t find the humor, not when she was moaning beneath him. Instead, his fingers crept to the place where they were joined, and his thumb circled the little pearl of her pleasure as he plunged into her. She cried out again, with joy this time, and he damn near spilled at that very moment.

It wasn’t long before he felt her tightening around him, the once-familiar sensation tugging directly at the ache behind his bollocks, pulling him deeper into the center of her. She arched again, pressing her curls against his hand, and her knees—God Almighty, still tangled in that fancy gown—clamped on either side of his hips.

“Liam!” As her head fell back against the mattress, her breasts pushed toward him, and he wished he could taste them as well. But only a few seconds later, her inner muscles began their rhythmic spasms, accompanied by her own rocking and chants of, “I love you, I love you,” and he ached to join her.

A few more thrusts, and he did, spilling against her womb and praying it would mean a future for both of them.

Had it only been a few minutes between their kiss at the door and now, lying tangled in their finery on her bed, their breaths mingling with panting and kisses and promises?

“I love you,” he whispered, dropping a gentle kiss to the corner of her lips as he rolled to one side, pulling her into his arms as he went.

Her eyes were closed, and she smiled, but didn’t answer. She didn’t have too; he would always remember her chanted declaration as he’d made love to her. She loved him, and it was enough.

Almost.

“Char,” he prompted gently. “Marry me.”

Her eyes still closed, she hummed. “Was that a command, or a request?”

“A request, ye daft woman.” He blew out a breath, half in frustration, half in laughter. “Ye have nae idea how it felt, hearing what that bastard did to ye. I wanted to track him down and rip open his heart.”

“Will ye?”

Her question took him off guard, and after a moment, she opened her eyes and met his.

“Will ye take me with ye, when ye do?”

He tightened his hold on her, knowing he could never let her go. “I cannae kill the bastard if my liege forbids it.”

“But if ye could?” Her fingers skimmed his jaw, before resting against the hollow at the base of his throat.

“I would. I will keep ye safe, Char.” He swallowed. “If ye’ll have me.”

Her smile was a little sad. “Ye cannae keep me anything, Liam, any more than I could keep ye.”

She was right.

He lifted her hand and pressed it against his heart. “Then let us keep one another. Together. Marry me?”

“That sounds lovely. Whatever the Queen has in mind for us, we’ll stand by one another?”

“Aye. As God intended.”

This time, she giggled a bit as her lips lifted, and she rolled away from him. “Then aye, Liam, I’d be thrilled to marry ye.” She pushed herself to her knees. “I’ve wanted ye for my husband since we met, and I’m only sorry it took us so long to get here.”

His own grin was rueful, as he pushed himself upright as well. “If ye’re busy keeping me as a husband, I’ll keep ye as a wife, and we’ll do our best to put this last year behind us.”

“Ye mean yer abandonment?”

She was teasing him, so he teased right back. “Aye,” he said solemnly, “and yer foray into piracy and treason.”

“Then I accept yer suit, Liam Bruce, and will be proud to be yer wife, come what may.”

He clambered off the bed, then reached out a hand toward her. “Come what may?”

She took his forearm and allowed him to pull her to stand beside him. “I wonder what the King and Queen—no’ to mention my father—will have to say about our union.”

“Ah, that.” He was grinning as he flicked her braid over her shoulder. “Let us make ourselves presentable once more and go meet with our lieges. I think they have something to tell us ye’ll find acceptable.”

She was grinning when she lifted herself up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. “I love ye.”

And he knew his heart was full.

Chapter 11

Her heart should’ve been pounding, the worries and fears should’ve been crowding out all other thoughts in her head. But as Charlotte stood, hand-in-hand, with Liam in the small antechamber, while they waited for approval to approach the royal couple, all she felt was…peace.

She was at peace, and it was thanks to the man standing beside her.

Beside her, not in front of her.

They’d go through life like this, the two of them, standing side by side.

And it was that knowledge which had brought her this peace. Well, that, and the magnificent climax she’d just experienced.

When Liam squeezed her hand, she glanced in his direction. From the twinkle in his eyes, and the smirk on his lips, she knew he was having—and feeling—the exact same thoughts as she was.

Thank Heavens he remembered how to lace me back up!

Charlotte was almost certain no one would be able to look at the two of them and guess what they’d been doing only a few minutes ago.

“She’s a good woman, Char,” Liam whispered. “And a good queen. She’s offered ye a pardon, and I think the two of ye—”

Charlotte never got to hear what he thought, because at that moment, the guard beckoned them forward, and Liam tugged her into motion.

The King and Queen had a grand chamber where they sat on their thrones and passed judgment. But this solar was much smaller, much more intimate.

Charlotte glanced at the large hearth, the colorful tapestries, and the table laden with fruits and cheeses, and decided she would have preferred this chamber as well, were she the queen.

The woman in question was seated in a fine tall-backed chair, her hands clasped on her lap, and her expression composed. The King, her husband, seemed to be ignoring them all, his grey-salted head bent over a scroll by the window. They were alone in the room, save for three of the Queen’s ladies, two of whom were sitting on a bench, bent over embroidery hoops.

“Lady Charlotte MacLeod.” Queen Elizabeth’s voice rang with command.

Liam squeezed her hand once, and Charlotte pulled away to sink into a deep curtsey before the Queen. “Aye, Yer Majesty. As ordered.”

When she rose, Elizabeth was frowning, her regal head cocked to one side thoughtfully. “You do not seem concerned to be ordered before your liege lord.”

Charlotte glanced at the King, who was still ignoring them, then back to the Queen. “Liam assures me ye see the honor in my actions, even if they were unorthodox. I trust him.”

When she shrugged, the other woman’s brows rose.

“And did Liam tell you aught else?”

It was Liam himself who answered, stepping up beside Charlotte and taking her hand once more. “Aye, Yer Majesty. My betrothed kens yer offer of a pardon is conditioned on her taking a position at yer court.”

A position at court.

Would she be one of Elizabeth’s ladies, relegated to sitting on a bench, perfecting her stitches, like those women over there?

It would be a boring existence, but better than a traitor’s death, and at least she’d be with Liam. His role as guard to the Queen meant she’d be able to see him often, and they’d be able to hold one another each evening.

Aye, sitting about embroidering wasn’t exactly how she’d pictured her future with her love, but if that’s what it took to marry him and keep her head atop her shoulders where it belonged, she’d do it.

Elizabeth’s eyes dropped to their clasped hands, and her English-tinted voice grew speculative. “ ’Tis that all your betrothed knows?”

It was Charlotte’s turn to frown.

The Queen didn’t trust Liam?

She was about to stand up for him, when he cleared his throat.

She whirled to face him, her hand tightening around his, as he shifted his weight. He didn’t look at her, but kept his attention on the Queen, when he said, “Aye, Yer Majesty.”

Now Charlotte’s heart began to pound.

What hadn’t he told her?

“Did she agree in order to save her head, Liam?” the Queen asked, her tone low and dangerous.

Charlotte hated the fact that particular tone was directed at the man she loved. “Agree to what?” she snapped, as she moved to press her shoulder against his. Side by side. “What are ye accusing Liam of?”

Queen Elizabeth’s eyes turned cold as she glared at Charlotte. Beside her, Liam sighed.

He turned to face Charlotte, tugging her to look up at him. “Char,” he said quietly, “Elizabeth plans to order us to marry. An alliance with the Bruces—and the King’s kinsman—would appease yer father, who will be clamoring to have ye back, once he learns of MacDonald’s death.”

Order us to marry.

Charlotte frowned.

Was that why he’d offered for her?

Nay, he’d said long ago he wanted her for a wife. But still…

“And ye kenned her plan?”

Liam’s nod was quick, decisive. “Aye, and I kenned ye’d balk if it was a command. I had to woo ye.”

“Woo?” She frowned, not liking the implication.

But when he lifted her hand, their fingers still entwined, she flushed slightly, remembering how he’d been inside her when he’d asked her to become his wife.

As he brushed his lips across the back of her hand, he hummed low, and she felt that same delicious warmth spread through her.

“Aye,” he murmured. “I had to convince ye I wanted to marry ye, and that ye wanted to marry me, before it was part of yer pardon.”

“Ye do still, right?” she whispered, hating how weak she sounded.

His blue eyes bore into hers. “Always, my love.”

When the Queen cleared her throat haughtily, they both turned, and Charlotte frowned.

“Ye think I would agree to marry a man just to save my head, Yer Majesty? Luckily, I didnae have to make that decision. I’d marry Liam in any circumstance ye threw me in. I love him.”

His fingers tightened around hers, lending her strength. She straightened, lifting her chin, and met the Queen’s glare boldly.

It was Elizabeth who looked away first, blowing out a breath and relaxing back against the chair, as she glanced at her husband. “ ’Tis glad I am to hear that, Lady Charlotte. I’ve heard Liam speak of you as his angel, and I would hate to think you were anything less.”

Charlotte snorted softly.

An angel?

Angels were pure and guileless and perfect.

Beside her, Liam chuckled softly. “An avenging angel, mayhap. When I saw ye coming at me with that blade…”

From his place by the window, Robert glanced at them all, his smile subdued, but his eyes twinkling merrily, proving he’d been listening all along.

“Angels come in many forms. Some we recognize, others we do not. Some we need, some we fear.” Placing her hands on the arms of the chair, the Queen pushed herself to her feet. “Are you ready to hear your fate, Lady Charlotte MacLeod?”

With Liam’s hand in hers, Charlotte knew she could face anything. She nodded.

The Queen’s voice became regal, imperious. “You are crafty and intelligent, Charlotte. You approached the matter of the traitor in an unorthodox way, mayhap, but one guaranteed to gain our royal attention.”

Nodding, Robert moved to stand beside his wife, the scroll clapped in his hands behind his back. He didn’t speak, but waited for Elizabeth to continue.

“You’ve proven a knowledge of the martial arts, and of the home arts as well. And you’ve proven your ability to think quickly, to plan. I have need of someone like you.”

Her lips tugging into a frown, Charlotte glanced at the Bruce.

Robert shook his head. “My cousin Liam has agreed to stay here at Scone, to continue leading my guard and protect my lady wife. I have my men, Lady Charlotte.”

“And I have my women,” his wife finished. “Robert has spies and agents and bodyguards all over Scotland, but they are all men. I envision something…more.”

When she nodded to the three women, Charlotte truly studied them for the first time.

The youngest sat straight, her gown a modest green, her hands folded atop her embroidery, watching the proceedings from beneath lowered lashes. She seemed young, but was paying very close attention to everything going on around her. The look of piercing intelligence belied her youthful appearance.

Seemingly just as intelligent was the lady sitting beside her: A dark-haired beauty, with flashing eyes, and a red gown cut low enough to show off more than a little skin. She lounged, where her companion sat properly. This woman was eyeing Liam speculatively, one long finger idly tracing the upper curve of her breast, as if imagining it was him touching her.

Frowning, Charlotte turned her attention to the third—and most ill-at-ease—woman. Charlotte would’ve thought her a servant, based on her dull gown and simple coiffure. But the fact she stood with her arms crossed in front of her, scowling at the assembly as she braced herself against the wall, told Charlotte she was there for a reason. The unstrung bow at her side, and the thief’s brand on the back of her left hand, were even more intriguing.

The Queen’s voice was low when she explained. “Rosalind, Melisende, and Courtney have agreed to join this little…experiment. Some took a little more prodding than others.”

The dark-haired one smiled languidly, while the standing woman’s scowl deepened.

“All that’s missing, Charlotte MacLeod, is a leader.”

Charlotte’s attention swung to the Queen once more. Elizabeth was looking at her expectantly. “Me, Yer Majesty?”

“I know you to be intelligent and unorthodox. You have connections at court, and connections—somehow, and please do not explain, for I do not wish to know—to pirates. I believe you and I to be kindred spirits, and I want you to have the leading role of this new endeavor.”

Glancing at Liam, Charlotte saw the pride in his expression.

He was proud of her? Proud she’d gained this attention?

Nay, she realized. Proud she’d been offered such a role.

I can help shape Scotland’s future.

The realization slammed into her so hard, Charlotte’s head jerked upward. Only Liam’s grip on her hand kept her attention where it needed to be, and she used that touch, that warmth, to force herself to breathe deeply.

The chance to shape her country’s future. The chance to make history. The chance to do more than spend her days as a fine lady in the MacDonald keep.

A chance not to be executed as a traitor.

Her lips tugged upward.

Put like that, how could she refuse?

“What—” When her voice cracked, Charlotte shook her head ruefully and cleared her throat. “What exactly would ye have me do, Yer Majesty?”

Elizabeth’s sharp gaze jumped from her, to the women, to her husband, to Liam, then back to Charlotte. “Charlotte, my dear…I would have you make them into Angels.”

Angels?

Charlotte caught Liam’s gaze, and when he began to smile, she joined him. “Angels, hmm? Beautiful, dangerous, hidden creatures?”

“The angels no one expects,” Liam offered.

“The angels who work for good, but are willing to do whatever it takes,” the Queen commanded.

And these “Angels” would be the Queen’s? Not the King’s?

Charlotte’s gaze darted to the Bruce, who seemed to understand, because he shook his head.

“Yer loyalty no longer lies with me, lass. Ye’ll swear fealty to the Queen, and take yer commands from her.”

It was a novel idea, to be sure, but Charlotte’s heart pounded in excitement. She could change history. She could make a place for herself at court.

She could lead the Queen’s Angels.

“However, your first mission, Charlotte, will be without the Angels. You and…” The Queen nodded to Liam. “You, and your betrothed, will journey to Finlaggan and avenge yourself.”

Charlotte’s gaze flicked to the three women, not sure how much the royal couple had shared with them. She would keep her questions general.

“Avenge myself, Yer Majesty? So this isnae an official mission?”

“This is not a mission officially sanctioned by the crown, Charlotte. ‘Tis a secret mission, delivering justice to a traitor who deserves it, although we are unable to condemn him.”

The Queen’s gaze was steady, and her meaning very clear: John MacDonald would die, but not on the King’s orders. He would die in secret, in the dark…

Condemned by an angel.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte released Liam’s hand and stepped toward the Queen, her fist over her heart. Instead of a curtsey, this time she bowed; a symbol of fealty and obedience.

“Yer Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, I swear my pledge to serve ye as ye see fit.”

Was it her imagination, or did the Queen breathe out a sigh of relief at her pledge?

Liam stepped up beside her once more, and as Charlotte straightened, offered his own bow.

“I swear it as well, my Queen.”

After straightening, Liam snaked his arm around Charlotte’s middle, and she—nigh overwhelmed by the last minutes—sagged against him.

Queen Elizabeth exchanged pleased glances with her husband, then turned to them with a soft smile. “Well then, Charlotte MacLeod, welcome to court. To the both of you, welcome to your future.”

“Aye,” Liam drawled, turning Charlotte in his arms. When she was facing him, he lifted her chin with one callused finger. “Welcome to yer future, my love,” he murmured, right before his lips met hers.

Epilogue

“Have ye ever been on a pirate’s boat before, Liam?”

Tav’s teasing question jerked Liam’s attention away from their distant prize. He glanced over at Charlotte, who stood beside him at the rail. She leaned forward slightly, as if she could hurry the birlinn toward the MacDonald boat, but he saw her lips twitch.

Was she remembering the last time she’d been a pirate? Or was she recalling that night a year ago, when they’d made love on this very deck?

Liam knew which memory he preferred, and he allowed some of his smug satisfaction to show as he twitched a brow in Tav’s direction.

“Aye,” he drawled. “Once or twice.”

His friend blinked. “Really? One as nice as this one?”

Pressing his lips together to hide his smug grin, Liam merely nodded.

Tav shrugged. “Well, it might be yer last time. I have a fondness for this birlinn, but she’s no’ as fast as some of the southern ships.”

Char leaned toward them, lowering her voice in a mock whisper. “My brother fancies a cog for himself, and means to take one afore the year is out.”

“By next summer, at the latest,” Tavish said with an eager nod. “Nae ship in the Isles will be able to match us then!”

“As a representative of the Crown, and therefore law and order in the Kingdom, I donae think ye should be telling me this.” Liam managed with a straight face.

Tav just shrugged, jerking his chin toward the distant ship, carrying their quarry. “The two of ye—and Char’s new Angels—will have to get used to unorthodox methods, Bruce. I doubt this will be the last time ye’ll need the Black Banner’s help.”

Liam had to concede that point. With a grunt of agreement, he turned back to Char.

“Ye’re sure that’s the correct birlinn?”

She nodded. “He’s there. John MacDonald is on that ship, and has nae idea his hours on earth are limited.”

Tav moved up on Liam’s other side, holding a bundle of black material. “Trust her, Liam. She’s brilliant at bribes and research.”

“Aye,” Char agreed, eyes sparkling as she reached across Liam to snag one of the scarfs Tav offered. “ ’Tis how I learned the location of the Queen’s birlinn, remember?”

“ ’Tis easy when ye command the royal seal, and can ensure yer quarry’s route,” Liam shot back.

It had been Char’s idea to have John MacDonald summoned to court, knowing which route he’d be likely to take. From then, it had simply been a matter of bribes and messages, until she knew exactly which boat carried him.

She bumped her hip against his. “Aye, but no’ so different from watching for a MacLeod birlinn, crewed by my MacLeods, carrying a royal entourage.”

Liam snorted, even as he took the last scarf and began to wrap it around his head the way his friend was doing. “Ye’re bragging about what a piss-poor bodyguard I am, are ye no’?”

With a chuckle, Char pushed herself up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Nay, my love. I cannae help it if I outsmarted—”

Her words were cut off with a gasp when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against him, capturing those sassy lips in a kiss.

For a moment, Tav and the MacDonald boat, and even the impending battle, all became irrelevant. All that mattered was the feel of his betrothed in his arms.

She hummed low in her throat as her arms snaked around his neck, and he smiled against her lips when their swords, hanging in their scabbards, clanged against one another.

He loved this woman, with everything he was and would be. And thanks to God—and Queen Elizabeth—he’d have a forever with her.

It was Tav’s muttered curse which finally broke them apart, and as Liam placed a small, reverent kiss at the corner of her lips, he heard his friend huff in exasperation.

“For the love of God, man, do ye no’ ken ‘tis rude to ravish a man’s sister in front of him?”

Her arms still around him, Char leaned sideways to smirk at her brother. “Mayhap ye should turn around then, brother.”

Liam snorted with laughter, just as a cry came down from Wee Robbie atop the cross-spar. “They’re turning!”

Just like that, Charlotte’s jovial manner turned serious, and she whipped the scarf up and around her head. Liam took her cue and finished tucking his in, even as Tav turned and called commands to his men.

Before she could tuck the last length of black material around her face, Liam reached out and touched her chin. “I love ye, Char. I want ye to remember that.”

One dark red brow twitched. “Why? Ye think I’ll do something reckless, otherwise?”

He hesitated, not sure how to explain his feelings. “What MacDonald did to ye was unforgivable, and I ken ye’ve made him pay already. What we do today is punishment for his treason.”

She nodded, expression serious. “I’ve ordered the lads no’ to kill indiscriminately. We’re here to take John’s life, but cannae make it look deliberate. Tav will ensure the birlinn is looted to make the attack seem ordinary.”

Or as ordinary as a pirate attack could be.

“This will be one more death laid at the feet of the dreaded Black Banner, but…” He shook his head. “I cannae ask yer brother to kill him.”

“I’ve already had to talk Tav out of killing John twice. I think my brother is looking forward to the opportunity.” Her tone sounded curious almost, as if she were waiting to hear his reaction.

Slowly, he nodded, letting her know he understood. “I promise ye he doesnae want to slay John MacDonald any less than I do. The man abused the woman I love and deserves death. But…”

“But?” Her brow twitched in challenge.

“But ye have more reason to wish revenge than either of us. If ye have the chance to take it, and ye’re comfortable with it, I’ll no’ stand in yer way.”

Although he was constantly surprised by her determination, intelligence and ability, he had no idea how she’d react if called upon to kill a man. That had been what Elizabeth had asked her, and her response—

“Were the cause worthy,” she whispered, proving she was remembering the same.

He slowly nodded, his palm moving to cup her cheek. “The cause is worthy. We do this for Robert and Elizabeth.”

“And Scotland.”

“And Scotland,” he agreed.

She smiled at him, and he knew she’d do what was necessary, and would come through it the same woman he loved. Mayhap she’d have the opportunity to execute John MacDonald, or maybe Liam would. Mayhap it’d be Tav, or one of the other MacLeod pirates.

Either way, the man would be punished for his treason, and Robert’s shaky kingdom wouldn’t wobble because of his death.

Behind them, a cry went up, and both Liam and Char whirled toward the other boat. It was closer now, the men onboard obviously preparing for battle.

But there was no way they’d match the Black Banner.

The two of them tucked in the length of scarf hiding their features and unsheathed their swords in tandem.

“Beware the black,” Liam whispered.

She echoed the motto, louder, and when the men behind them joined in, she brandished her blade at the enemy.

As their birlinn crashed into the MacDonald ship, Liam and Char jumped together into the battle.

“Beware the black!”

* * *

One year later

Letter, letter…transcript, letter...

Where in damnation is that report?

Charlotte shuffled through the documents on her desk, wondering if she should’ve allowed Liam to have that cubby system built for her after all. She’d always claimed it was easier to find things if she could see and touch them, but this was—

Aha!

Crowing triumphantly, she pulled Melisende’s report out from under a letter to the Queen. In her role as the Queen’s confidante and spy-mistress, Charlotte intercepted much of Her Majesty’s correspondence, or at least read it after the fact. But this report of recent brigand activity on the roads north of the city, was what she’d been looking for.

And even more interesting, was the curt addendum scribbled at the bottom in Courtney’s rough hand: Three ded. Five wunded. Will track.

Charlotte insisted all of her agents—Angels, as the Queen had named them—know how to read and write. Courtney’s upbringing meant she’d come late to these arts, and had never been at ease with a stylus.

She was at ease with a bow and a woodland trail, however, so Charlotte trusted her to track the brigands to their lair.

What she didn’t trust was the younger woman having the sense to come back for the rest of her team. Although they’d only been together for a year, Court had quickly become the leader of their little band, and was constantly throwing herself into danger to protect the others.

Charlotte quickly scribbled a note to Rosalind, urging her to gather resources and follow her fellow Angel. Courtney would likely need backup, and Rosa wasn’t a warrior, but smarter than all of them put together.

Sighing, Charlotte threw down her stylus and scrubbed a hand down her face.

“Rough day?”

Her husband’s voice jerked her attention to the door, and as always, when she saw that wry smile of his, her heart lifted. Liam’s arms were crossed in front of him, and his hip was resting against the jamb.

As she stood, she stretched and affected a nonchalant air. “No’ as bad as some. Ye?”

He shrugged and pushed away from the wall, prowling across the room toward her. “Nae threats to Her Majesty. Just boring arguments and pleas. We’re expected to sit with her tonight.”

Charlotte almost stumbled as she stepped away from her desk, but it was impossible to pay attention to silly little matters such as furniture when he had that I need you look in his eyes.

“Aye?” she croaked, her hands already lifting to her laces.

“Aye. It seems Her Majesty is determined to enjoy every last evening of revelry, before she enters her confinement.” Liam halted before her, his hands settling on her hips, as he leaned closer.

When he inhaled deeply against her neck, as if tasting her, Charlotte’s knees went weak.

“And— And she wants us—” she managed to squeak, thoroughly distracted by the feel of his shoulders under her palms.

“To dine with her again, aye. Ye ken ye’re one of her best friends,” he murmured, dropping his lips to her skin.

He was right; Charlotte and Elizabeth had grown close over the last year, and both enjoyed the other’s company. Charlotte was looking forward to finally meeting the royal prince or princess who’d be born soon, but was more looking forward to getting her friend back.

And maybe she would’ve said all of that, had Liam’s tongue not rasped against the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

When she moaned, he yanked her closer, his hard member pressing against her pelvis.

God! The sensation—the knowledge he wanted her—made her warm and wet and breathless in a heartbeat.

“Dinner is an hour away,” she said breathlessly.

Mayhap he heard the plea in her voice, or mayhap he was as desperate as she was, because his grin was wicked.

“There’s all sorts of ways to spend that hour,” he drawled.

Her solar was connected to their shared chambers, but they didn’t need a bed. Hell, they didn’t need a desk sometimes, when they stole moments to be together.

This afternoon, though…

“Just let me move some of my scrolls,” she commanded.

A year ago, she’d thought her life simple. Without love or a future, she’d been focused on punishing a traitor and saving herself from a cruel marriage. Now, she had friends, a purpose, and a position in the royal court no one could even guess at.

And most importantly, she had a husband she loved with all her heart. A husband who would stand beside her, and allow her to stand beside him, for the rest of their lives.

As she turned to her desk and began to push letters out of the way—the last time they’d made love here, her admittedly haphazard organization had been completely ruined—she felt his hands reach for her skirts.

“Let’s no’ worry about the scrolls, love,” he murmured against her hair.

She grinned wickedly. “Ye want me to just bend over and lift my skirts?”

“I want ye on the bed, but I donae think I can wait that long.”

So Charlotte was laughing as she reached for the edge of the desk, feeling cool air against her arse. Aye, she had friends around her, a future changing history, and a husband who couldn’t keep his hands off her.

Life was good.

Author’s Note

Elizabeth de Burgh was Robert I’s second wife, and was seized by the English shortly after he declared himself King of Scotland (and thus at war with the English). She was indeed kept prisoner for eight years before Robert was able to exchange her for hostages he took during the Battle of Bannockburn. (While Elizabeth was kept in solitary confinement, she was taken with Robert’s daughter Marjorie, and a few more of his female relatives. Most of them were exchanged in 1314 with Elizabeth.)

The records indicate her journey home took her through Carlisle, and theoretically, from there, Scone. The most logical journey would’ve been overland, but then I wouldn’t have the chance to introduce her to my pirate-turned-spy-mistress, Charlotte MacLeod.

So we’re going with the theory that Robert, wanting to keep his wife safe, and Elizabeth, being cunning, devised a less-obvious route home. And that’s how Elizabeth and her royal bodyguard ended up in the middle of the Western Isles! (As an aside, I have to point out that by the summer of 1315, Robert was already waging war in Ireland, so I scheduled this adventure for spring.)

Interesting note: There’s not a whole lot of information out there on medieval birlinns! We know they existed (thanks to some archaeological evidence, and surprisingly, quite a few uses in clan crests), and it’s probably best to think of them as a cross between a Viking longboat and a galley.

They were long and low, and likely didn’t often make journeys of longer than a few days without stopping. Oars and sails were both used for propulsion, and the boats were primarily trading vessels between ports, or transport between islands (and Ireland).

Those islands—the Hebrides—were known as the Isles, and were ruled by a series of powerful chiefs. At the time of this story, they would’ve only recently become part of Scotland.

The MacLeods of Lewes were a relatively new clan (a branch of the older MacLeods of Dunvegan), but I couldn’t pass up the chance to make the Black Banner hail from an island fortress!

Besides, you might recognize the clan—and the pirate!—from my book The MacLeod Pirate. The Black Banner is very much a hereditary title, and if you’re curious about Tav and Charlotte’s Uncle Rory and his adventurous courtship of Citrine, the last of the Sinclair Jewels, you’ll want to pick up that story! But if you feel like starting from the beginning, The Sinclair Hound is only $.99!

Clan MacDonald comes off looking pretty bad in this story, but I tried to localize the treasonous activities to just the son, John. Within a century of this story, there were seemingly dozens of MacDonald branches, so I tried to be as vague as possible in naming this branch of the clan.

Much has been written about Robert the Bruce’s journey to a unified Scotland, and you can find any number of romances set during this tumultuous time. But little is known about his life with Elizabeth, or her world after her ransom from the English. We don’t even know the dates of birth for her first two (female) children, but we do know she became pregnant soon after her return to Scotland, so I’m choosing to believe Princess Margaret was born about a year later.

The few sources we do have seem to paint Queen Elizabeth as either a pampered noblewoman, or a not-quite-willing-supporter of her husband’s campaign, they’re paltry and inconclusive. I’ve decided to interpret them as the quips of a sharp-minded, witty woman, who was beloved by her husband and family.

Queen Elizabeth will most definitely be a force to be reckoned with! Now that she has her Angels, she’ll make sure Scotland is protected from within.

If you’re totally intrigued by the concept of Charlotte as a spy-mistress, and are super-curious about what someone like the branded thief, Courtney, is doing in the Queen’s employ, then I’ve got some good news for you: The Highlander’s Angel, the first book in the Highland Angels series, is waiting for you!

About Caroline Lee

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On Bookbub

Marooned

by Anna Markland

Prologue

Sankt Thomas, Danish West Indies, 1825

“I’ll kill them,” Torsten Jakobsen shouted, waving the loaded pistol erratically. “I’ll kill them all.”

Heidi cowered in a corner of the tiny kitchen, as she’d done too often before, but this time she was terrified her husband might turn the weapon on her if she uttered a word. She knew better than to try to reason with him when rum had him in its thrall, and he reeked of the demon drink.

Bruises were bearable, a bullet to the head...

“No longer needed,” Torsten yelled, pointing the gun at her face. “My services are no longer needed. And whose fault is that, wife?”

She’d borne the brunt of his anger and his fists for two years. Her campaign to improve the lives of the hundreds of slaves owned by the Danish West Indies company had angered his employers and resulted in his demotion, but she couldn’t be blamed for the decline of the entire sugar industry. More efficient American competition had achieved that.

“What do they expect me to do?” Torsten ranted, eyes bulging. “Take my lovely wife back to Denmark?”

The looming possibility of a long return voyage to their homeland filled Heidi with dread. There was nothing left for them there. The economy of Denmark was still floundering after the defeat of her ally Napoleon and the subsequent loss of Norway to Sweden. They’d be destitute, dependent on Heidi’s older brother who’d inherited the family farm. Thormod wasn’t known for his philanthropic nature.

Besides, despite the difficulties, she loved the tropical island they’d come to five years ago, full of youthful optimism. Perhaps if she tried to comfort her husband...

She swallowed the leaden taste of fear. “I...”

The crack wasn’t loud. The deafening silence that followed stole the breath from her lungs. She stared in disbelief, steeling her body against the pain, the blood, the descent into oblivion. Her husband had murdered her.

But it was Torsten who crumpled to the floor, blood trickling from his mouth, his eyes wide with shock, the smoking gun still in his grip.

Startled out of nearby nests, squawking grackles drowned out the sound of her screams.

Flight

Atlantic Ocean, 1825

Heidi Jakobsen gripped the sloop’s stern rail with both hands and peered into the sunrise as the Hekla sliced through choppy Atlantic waters on its westerly journey to Puerto Rico and the Caribbean. The shores of Sankt Thomas were still visible on the dawn horizon. She was leaving behind the optimistic Danish girl who’d begun a new life on the sun-drenched colonial island five years ago. “It’s ironic,” she murmured. “I never wanted to come to Sankt Thomas in the first place.”

“Your pardon,” a gentleman standing beside her said. “Jeg taler ikke dansk. I don’t speak Danish.”

Mortified she’d spoken out loud and momentarily blinded by staring into the rising sun, she squinted to see the ruddy face of her elderly fellow traveler. He was well-dressed, sported a tidy grey mustache and smelled of wealth. Probably a British sugar magnate, or… “You are American?” she asked.

“You guessed right, young lady,” he replied with a clipped bow. “Roland Stephenson the Third, at your service. You’re going home to Denmark, I suppose.”

He’d rightly assumed most of the dispirited Danes aboard the Hekla were fleeing the crumbling economy. She supposed Denmark would be her final destination since she’d been forced to leave the place where dreams of a happy married life lay in ruins. At least the company that had cast her husband aside like a piece of rubbish had paid her fare. “Eventually,” she allowed. “I hope to visit New York first. I have a tante, an aunt, who lives there.”

“I’m a Baltimore man myself,” he replied. “Though I’ve spent many years in the sweltering heat of Florida since it became part of the United States.”

“Sugar?” she asked in her limited English.

“Right again!”

He turned, leaned back against the railing and pointed with his ornately carved cane. “Culebra dead ahead,” he declared. “We’ll be in Caribbean waters soon.”

She followed his gaze. Beyond the sparsely populated island of Culebra lay Puerto Rico. She and her new husband had sailed from the eastern shores of the Spanish colony on the last leg of the exhausting journey from København to Sankt Thomas.

It seemed a lifetime ago.

“Don’t worry,” Torsten had assured her. “After we make our fortune with the Danish West India Company, we’ll go home, buy land and build a big house.”

“You seem lost in thought,” the American said. “Will you miss Saint Thomas? Very different from Denmark.”

“My husband died there,” she replied, not sure if miss was the right word.

“My condolences,” he said, taking out a brilliantly white kerchief to mop his beet red face. “I know only too well how hard the tropics can be on a man’s health.”

It seemed ridiculous to explain all that had befallen her to this elderly foreigner who was clearly uncomfortable in the heat, but the words tumbled out of her mouth. “We were aware the prosperity of the island depended on slave labor,” she said, realizing now how naive they’d been. “But the notion meant nothing to either of us until we saw first-hand how cruelly slaves are treated by the plantation owners and even company directors.”

“Yes,” Stephenson sighed, leaning heavily on his cane as he retrieved a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “No better than animals.”

She nodded, but the lack of conviction in his voice and the nonchalant way he returned the watch to its nest had her wondering how many slaves the affluent American owned. “Their plight didn’t sit well with my Lutheran upbringing. My ineffective calls for an improvement of their working conditions raised the ire of my husband’s superiors.”

“Which led to arguments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

She swallowed the bitter memory of the hurtful insults they’d hurled at each other. “When I refused to stay quiet, he was demoted to clerking for the Brandenburg African Company.”

Stephenson grimaced. “The unscrupulous Germans who lease a trading post from the Danes and deal exclusively in human flesh. It’s rumored they conduct the biggest slave markets in the world in Saint Thomas.”

“My husband told me,” she murmured, unable to bring herself to describe the effect his demotion had on Torsten. Equally disgusted and disillusioned by the inhumanity of the slave trade and resentful of the fate that had befallen him, he turned to drink, blaming Heidi for his troubles. He was always remorseful about the beatings and violent sexual encounters when he was sober. Her Christian faith taught she must forgive him, but her broken heart and bruised body came to despise and fear him.

She sought a safer topic. “Despite the difficulties, the tropics seduced me. When other European women complained of the heat, my Scandinavian blood drank it in. When humidity drove others to higher ground, I savored the salty taste on my lips. I filled my lungs with the thousand and one perfumes of wild tropical blooms while others pined for tamed roses and privet hedges.”

She inhaled deeply, hoping to fill her nostrils with a last faint trace of the exotic aromas. Instead, the unmistakable smell of camphor oil wafted from the American’s clothing.

Stephenson chuckled. “So, you will miss the island, and you’ve had to leave the place where your husband is buried.”

“Yes,” she replied, reluctant to explain Torsten had accidentally shot himself in a rum-induced haze with the company-issue pistol that was supposed to protect them both. She’d expected Torsten’s superiors to confiscate the weapon but, in a bizarre episode at his graveside, it had been presented to her as a keepsake. She’d stared at it as if the pompous functionary had handed her a poisonous snake but, now, she was glad of the weapon nestled in the hidden recesses of her portmanteau. However, she wasn’t about to reveal to anyone that she was armed.

Piracy on the Spanish Main had been all but eradicated these days, but a woman alone had to be prepared to defend herself. She almost sniggered at the thought, doubtful she’d have the strength or fortitude to fire the heavy pistol in any event.

* * *

The Juana’s first mate peered through the telescope. “What say you, Lázaro?” Gatito purred. “One last prize?”

Capitán Maximiliano Aguero supposed he should be used to the biblical moniker after too many years cheating death. “Let me see,” he replied, raking fingernails through the irritating stubble under his chin.

His resolve to abandon the life of a pirate had crumbled too easily. Yet, he had to face the reality that it was only a matter of time before the British, Danish and American navies caught up to him. Even the French had recently joined the hunt for the elusive Juana. After years avoiding pursuit up and down the Spanish Main, he and his crew had agreed to make for their hidden island base, divide what remained of their treasure, then return to Puerto Rico. There, they’d go their separate ways after scuttling the ship.

He filled his lungs, hoping wherever life took him, he’d always have the smell of the sea in his nostrils. “She’s Danish,” he announced after focussing the lens. “Low in the water.”

The Hekla looked to have more than the usual number of passengers, probably refugees from the collapse of the sugar industry on San Tomás, escaping with whatever they could carry.

Most of the booty he and his crew had ever stolen was long gone—sold to feed the poor and hungry of his impoverished island homeland. The Danish sloop was an irresistible bounty placed in his path and might provide the cash he badly needed to start a new, anonymous life.

A gift from God.

Easy prey.

“Once she’s behind Culebra, we’ll intercept.”

The shave he’d looked forward to would have to wait.

First Salvo

The moment the captain of the Hekla caught sight of Lázaro’s ship, the Danish sloop increased her speed, but not enough to be of concern. The flag of Gran Colombia atop the Juana’s mast usually lulled the prey into a false sense of security until it was too late.

Lázaro kept his eyes on the prize. His crew knew exactly what to do without any command from him. The tidy sloop armed with a brace of four-pound swivel guns mounted fore and aft was more effective than a galleon when it came to maneuverability and making a quick escape.

Small crews were more reliable and loyal. Lázaro treated every man aboard as his equal, but they acknowledged his word was law. They also knew their captain had influential Puerto Rican relatives in positions of authority who turned a blind eye to their activities—the principal reason they’d evaded prosecution for so long.

When the Hekla disappeared behind Culebra, the Juana increased speed and changed direction to intercept her.

A half hour later, Lázaro was too far away to see the Danish captain’s face when he realized he’d sailed into a trap, but there was no mistaking the panic on board as people rushed here and there, pointing to the sloop bearing down on them. He imagined the disbelief and shock.

How can the ship that was behind us now be in front?

Are they pirates?

Will they kill us?

Do something!

In truth, there was nothing to be done.

Lázaro’s feelings about the inevitable surrender were mixed. He’d always relished the hunt, the chase, the elation of victory. Men had died in futile attempts to resist capture, but he’d never taken pleasure in their deaths. “No, my Danish friends,” he declared as the Juana’s guns fired the first salvo across the bow. “You are lucky. Today, Lázaro kills no one. It’s just your coin he needs.”

* * *

Lost in bitter memories, Heidi gradually became aware people on board were rushing about, shouting at each other. Stephenson’s grip on her elbow jolted her back to reality. “Pirates,” he hissed, his ruddy face now drained of color.

Panic tightened her throat. She retrieved the bag wedged between her feet and clutched it to her breast. The American made a grab for it. “Don’t worry about that now,” he growled.

She resisted, but the ship suddenly lurched to one side, throwing her into the arms of the elderly gentleman. He staggered backwards against the railing. “He’s trying to outmaneuver them,” he shouted hoarsely amid the din.

She fought to keep her balance but, when the ship lurched again in the opposite direction, Stephenson toppled forward, knocking her to the deck. She jerked her head back, the air whooshing from her lungs when he fell on top of her.

Stunned by the blow, and dizzied by sun, sails and sky swirling above her, scarcely able to breathe, she writhed beneath his weight, the leather portmanteau squeaking its objections between them. No amount of frantic pushing had any effect, except to clog her throat with the reek of camphor. She stilled abruptly when it came to her she was trying to shove off a dead weight—literally. The American didn’t seem to be breathing.

She was trapped beneath a dead man while people stampeded around her, oblivious to her plight. Women screamed, children wailed, men shouted. A loud cannon boom was followed by a moment of eerie silence, except for the deafening pulse throbbing in her ears. Then the cacophony began again.

It appeared the pirates hadn’t hit the Hekla with their first salvo. Somehow, she had to retrieve the weapon from her luggage. She’d heard horrifying tales of what happened to women captured by pirates. If the captain couldn’t evade the marauders, the pistol was her only chance.

With one final effort she squirreled her hand into the bag, elated when her fingers closed around the weapon.

Sunlight flashed from behind a flapping sail, bringing on nausea. She closed her eyes. Perhaps if she stayed very still, they might think she was already dead.

Amazon Or Viking?

Lázaro led the boarding party, sword drawn. His crew had been trained to shriek bloody murder at the top of their lungs and the tactic achieved its desired effect. Terrified passengers huddled together around the mast. His men quickly tied up the Danish crew as he strutted in front of his captives, a loot sack held high. “You will empty your pockets and place your valuables into this bag,” he declared.

The blank looks told him most of his captives didn’t speak Spanish. A Danish seaman came to his rescue. “Penge,” he explained. “Smykker.”

Handing the sack to Gatito, Lázaro resisted the urge to chuckle at the speed with which the passengers divested themselves of their coin and jewelry. “Tell them their willingness to comply has saved their lives,” he lied. They didn’t need to know he hadn’t intended to kill them. “I will scuttle the ship within easy reach of land.”

Gasps of relief mingled with consternation spread through the crowd. They obviously considered themselves fortunate to escape with their lives, but still had to face the prospect of a brief dunking.

“Have you no pity, sir?” the captain asked. “These people are refugees, with nothing to…”

The passengers grumbled, clearly reluctant to upset the pirates.

“Dos muertos aquí, Capitán” Gatito shouted.

When every head swiveled to two dead bodies lying on the deck near the stern, Lázaro frowned. Not a single shot had been fired, so how had two people been killed?

He strode over, even more puzzled by the sight of an elderly man slumped atop a blonde woman—Scandinavian judging by the Nordic cheekbones. Even in death, her beauty stirred interest in his balls.

Lovely.

“Sí,” Gatito replied, fingering the wisps of blonde hair that had come loose from a tight bun. “Hermosa.”

Lázaro coughed, embarrassed he’d apparently uttered his thoughts out loud, and why he felt insanely jealous of his first mate was beyond his comprehension.

His hackles rose. Had the old man—an American by the look of his clothes—tried to take advantage? Or perhaps he was her father. But how had he died?

Two of his crew emptied the dead man’s pockets then dragged the corpse off the woman, revealing a voluptuous body as stunningly appealing as her face. She’d tried to protect her honor with her luggage. He wondered what precious object lay inside that she’d reached for in the throes of death.

“Amazona,” Gatito exclaimed.

Lázaro was about to nod his agreement with the comparison to the lithographs of the legendary Greek warriors when she blinked open startlingly blue eyes, drew a pistol from the bag and waved it in his face.

“More like a Vikinga,” he replied, genuine fear creeping up his spine for the first time in his perilous life.

* * *

Heidi tried desperately to hold onto her wits but she was swimming in a blurry haze. A tall man leaned over her, his broad shoulders blocking the sun, which she appreciated, but he was blabbering in Spanish about Vikings. Didn’t he realize she was holding a pistol?

The reason for the weapon escaped her for the moment, but it had to do with…

She inhaled deeply, glad she could breathe again. Something had fallen on top of her, but the weight was gone now.

“Give me the pistol, querida,” the man said softly. “Pistolen, tak.”

It was a long time since her husband had called her darling, and the stranger said please, so she supposed…

She pouted when the weapon was wrenched from her grip. “I was going to give it to you,” she wanted to say, but her dry throat seemed incapable of forming words.

“Take her to the Juana,” he said. “She’ll drown if we leave her here.”

“I don’t want to drown,” she finally managed as she was lifted from the deck by another man. “You stink,” she declared, wrinkling her nose when her bearer’s pungent odor assailed her nostrils.

“And you’re too heavy,” he replied in Spanish. “Gorda.”

Torsten had accused her of being fat. The memory rankled. “Vellystig,” she hissed.

The man who’d taken her pistol chuckled. “I’ll take her. She’s too voluptuous for you, Gatito.”

She nuzzled her head against his broad chest when the sweaty man gave her over to him. “You smell better,” she murmured, feeling safer. “Thank you for saving me from the pirates.”

His hearty laughter was the last thing she heard before surrendering to the haze.

* * *

Lázaro settled the Danish woman on the narrow bunk in his tiny cabin. He raked his gaze over her, deciding she’d be more comfortable if he removed her shoes. A peculiar desire to see her toes seized him, so he peeled off her hose as well. For a tall woman, she had dainty feet.

He had no idea why he’d decided to bring her aboard. In her present state, she would not have survived the scuttling of the Hekla, but the plan was to sink the Juana after they reached their hideaway. What was he going to do with her then? He certainly couldn’t take her on his quest to find a sanctuary where he wasn’t a wanted man with a bounty on his head.

In any case, why would he want to saddle himself with a woman, a foreigner at that? Just because she was beautiful and stirred desires he’d long thought dead after his wife’s demise.

He took her pistol from his belt and examined it. The DØK branded into the handle indicated it was from the Danish West India Company, but they didn’t issue weapons to women. If she had a husband, where was he? Had he been killed? If so, he sympathized with her loss. He knew what it was to lose a spouse to violence.

He put the gun in the oak chest beside his bunk then moved his chair to the shadowed corner and took pleasure in watching the rise and fall of her breasts, until he heard footsteps on deck. His men had returned from scuttling the Hekla. The Juana was underway before he reached the bridge.

Gatito pointed astern to Culebra. The Danish ship lay at a peculiar angle in the shallows, the passengers wading to shore. “Nothing of value in the hold,” the first mate grumbled, offering the sack of loot. “We have her bounty.”

Grinning, Lázaro accepted the plunder. “Set a course for Isla Espada,” he commanded before going below to stow the sack in his chest, heartened by the cheers of his crew.

Steely Resolve

Heidi blinked open her eyes and stared up at low beams. She was still on a ship, which explained the rolling motion that had woken her. A dull ache throbbed at her temples and she recalled cracking her head when she fell—or was shoved.

“The American,” she whispered as the memory resurfaced. But the accident had happened shortly after dawn, and the cabin was in near darkness.

Slowly, she turned onto her side and gripped the wooden railing of the bed, realizing it was a bunk. The linens were clean and crisp, but the scent of a man lingered.

Her portmanteau lay at her feet.

Her heart lurched when she remembered the man who’d carried her. How foolish to think he was anything other than a pirate. And she was in his bed. Had he…?

She ran her hands from breasts to thighs. Her clothing seemed to be intact, the blouse buttoned to her throat, her bloomers still in place. Surely she would know if she’d been violated? Torsten’s attacks usually resulted in torn garments, bruised limbs and a shattered heart. They were humiliating experiences a woman could not sleep through. Her shoes had been removed, but perhaps that had been a thoughtful gesture on the pirate’s part.

She rolled onto her back, snorting at the folly of the ludicrous notion. A considerate brigand! Her headache worsened.

She tensed when male voices penetrated from nearby and boot-steps echoed overhead. She strained to listen. Were they deciding who would be first in line? Unlikely. That would be the captain’s prerogative. Alarming as the prospect was, she found herself thinking an intimate encounter with such a strong, well-muscled man would be…

“Luder,” she chastised. Only a whore would think such things. He was a pirate, a criminal, a murderer.

They might not have raped her yet, but they would, or they’d hold her for ransom, or throw her overboard. The consequences of lying abed contemplating what might happen were too terrifying. She sat up and peered into the shadows, looking for anything she could use as a weapon.

The pirate had taken her pistol.

She espied a large padlocked chest next to the bunk. “Aha,” she exclaimed, lifting a leg to clamber over the railing.

The click of a latch distracted her.

“Leder du efter dette?” the pirate asked. “Are you looking for this?”

* * *

It hadn’t been Lázaro’s intention to scare the Danish woman out of her wits, but he set down the pistol and leaped forward to save her before she thudded to the floor of the cabin. Fortunately, her copious skirts tangled in the ornately carved railing, and she hung there for a moment until he lifted her safely onto the bunk. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, though what flashed in those intriguing blue eyes looked more like anger than fear. The inelegant near-calamity had clearly embarrassed her.

Breathing hard, she retreated until her back was against the wall. “I’m not afraid,” she retorted in his language.

The steely resolve in her eyes confirmed it—or, at least, she was determined not to show fear—and he wondered at the reason for the wall of defense. She’d been hurt before.

He was a criminal, a thief, a brigand, but he couldn’t abide cowards who brutalized women. The only man he’d ever deliberately murdered was the Jamaican who’d beaten his wife to death in an attempt to learn his whereabouts. Juana had died for naught. He never told her where he was going or where he’d been, thinking to protect her. The bounty on his head had caused her death. He’d never forgiven himself for it, despite the sense of righteous vengeance slitting the man’s throat had brought.

“I need my shoes,” his captive announced.

“Certainly, señorita,” he replied, chuckling inwardly at the demanding tone. “If you are planning a stroll on deck, it’s chilly this evening.”

She pulled her knees to her chest and glared. “Señora, not señorita. I’m a married woman.”

He arched a brow as he picked up a shoe from the floor and reached for her foot. “And where is your husband, señora? Was he the old man lying atop you on the Hekla?”

She pouted, grabbed the shoe and struggled to get her foot into it, unwittingly exposing more of her calf than she likely intended. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tempting bare skin.

“Absolut ikke,” she replied vehemently. “Definitely not.”

Then she softened. “Is he dead?”

“Very,” he replied.

She averted her gaze. “Did you kill him?”

He laughed. “No, I think you did.”

She scowled and grabbed the second shoe. “He seemed uncomfortable in the heat. We fell when the ship changed course suddenly.”

“Then, I suppose it was my fault,” he conceded, relieved she’d covered her legs before he began to think too hard on the intimate place he’d encounter if he danced his fingers up those long limbs. “Can I assist you out of bed? We don’t want another tumble.”

She hesitated only a moment before coming to her knees and opening her arms.

He put his hands on her waist and lifted, wondering what it would be like to wake up with this courageous woman beside him every day.

It was laughable. He’d need a bigger bunk.

* * *

“My name is Lázaro,” the pirate said as he lifted her effortlessly.

She put her hands on his biceps to steady herself, remembering how safe she’d felt in his arms. “As in risen from the dead?” she blurted out, gobsmacked by the hard muscle beneath her fingers. “That can’t be your real name.”

His smile settled her nerves. With his long hair tied back in a queue, he looked very civilized, dashing even. “A pirate never reveals his real name,” he replied.

He set her down on the planked floor, but kept his warm hands on her waist until she got used to the movement of the ship. She was suddenly struck by something unusual about his eyes.

“They are two different colors,” he explained. “One green, one brown.”

He’d sensed her fascination. Clearly, she wasn’t the first woman to notice those intriguing eyes. She resolved to be more cautious before she spoke. If she’d kept her mouth shut on Sankt Thomas…

Food For Thought

A tap at the cabin door brought Lázaro back from the brink. He’d almost surrendered to the temptation to pull the Danish woman into his arms and kiss her luscious lips. “Your dinner, señora,” he announced, withdrawing his hands from her waist when the galley boy entered with a tray.

“Gracias, Pedro,” he said. “On the desk, por favor.”

He waited until the lad had left before moving his chair to the desk. “Is it permitted to know your name?” he asked, motioning for her to sit. “Señora seems formal for a guest in my cabin.”

Her puzzled frown as she accepted the invitation indicated surprise at his courtly manners. It was a pleasant change to allow the noble blood in his veins to dictate the way he treated his captive.

“Jakobsen,” she murmured. “Señora Jakobsen.”

He was disappointed not to learn her given name, but if he was patient…

She surveyed the array of roots, tubers and fruit on the large platter. “There’s so much food here,” she said.

“Con permiso,” he said, leaning on a corner of the desk and resting his ankle atop his knee. “I will share with you.”

Her blush warmed him. He wished the prudish blouse revealed more of her cleavage. From his vantage point he’d be able to see if the flush spread to…

“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked, jolting his carnal thoughts back to the cabin.

He dragged his eyes from her breasts to gaze into her eyes. “To be honest,” he admitted, offering a piece of cassava, “I am not sure.”

His pleasant arousal turned to granite when she licked her lips and took the cassava into her mouth from his fingers.

* * *

Heidi wasn’t sure what had come over her. Eating from a pirate’s fingers! By rights, she should be afraid of this criminal who had control of her destiny. The tight pantaloons stretched across impressive thigh muscles and an unmistakable male arousal had set her heart aflutter and addled her wits. When he’d leaned forward and offered the cassava, the neck of his shirt had fallen open to reveal a chiseled chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. The next thing she knew, the cassava was in her mouth and she’d licked his fingers.

She fiddled with the top button of her blouse, suddenly feeling like a prude. Men like Lázaro weren’t interested in prudes.

What?

She swallowed the cassava, struggling to tamp down the tide of wanton thoughts washing over her. “I apologize,” she stammered, lest he think her a common whore. “The heat…and the events of the day…”

“Of course,” he replied, biting into a slice of casabe bread with perfect white teeth. “You must be hungry. If you like something hot, try the ajicito pepper, or there’s pineapple.”

Already perspiring under his unsettling gaze, she chose the pineapple. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

“You’d have drowned when we scuttled the Hekla.”

The pineapple lost its sweet taste. “You drowned all the passengers, except me?”

He shook his head. “We drove her aground on Culebra. She was close enough to dry land for them to wade ashore. Last I saw of them, they were doing just that.”

Her emotions were all at sea. Pirates didn’t just save women from drowning out of the goodness of their hearts. “No one will pay ransom for me.”

He picked up a napkin and dabbed the juice from her lips, then wiped her sticky fingers. “I don’t intend to ransom you.”

She thought she might drown in the intensity of those mismatched eyes, but then his smile fled and he moved away abruptly to sit on the chest near the bunk. She concentrated on the food, though her stomach was in knots. She’d either said or done something to annoy him. It would be better to bide her time. Eventually, an opportunity for escape might present itself.

The prospect was oddly depressing. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed the company of a well-mannered, handsome man.

* * *

Lázaro gripped the edges of the chest, filled with regret, and remorse. No wonder Señora Jakobsen was nervous, as any decent woman would be finding herself in the hands of a pirate who professed to not knowing what to do with her.

He chuckled inwardly. He knew exactly what he’d like to do with the voluptuous Dane if he got her into his bunk. Or even on the floor. He couldn’t deny he was drawn to her. In different circumstances…

But his fate had been sealed years ago when he’d taken up the life of a pirate. He’d had little choice if his family was to avoid starvation, but his reasons would mean nothing to a woman like…

“What is your given name?” he asked, suddenly frustrated at not knowing.

“Heidi,” she murmured, still staring at the platter.

He inhaled deeply as her name conjured visions of fresh air and faraway fields and forests that played havoc with his male urges. “I’m Maximiliano,” he said.

She looked up at him and nodded. “I like that better than Lázaro.”

Haven

Heidi did her best to stifle a yawn, but Maximiliano noticed. “You’re tired,” he said, getting up from the chest and proffering a hand. “We’ll go up on deck for a breath of air, then you must sleep.”

She stared at his long, elegant fingers. “You’re not how I imagined a pirate would be,” she confessed, accepting his help to rise.

“Don’t be fooled by outward appearances,” he warned. “Beneath my good manners lurks the heart of a criminal, a ne’er-do-well, a thief.”

The undisguised amusement in his voice reassured her. The firm grip of his warm hand as he led her up a narrow companionway made her feel ridiculously safe. When they emerged into the cool night air, she realized the ship lay at anchor. “We’ve stopped,” she whispered, afraid to disturb the peaceful tranquility of the sheltered cove.

“Beautiful, is it not?” he asked, looking up at the blanket of stars. “It’s almost too still. That means heavy weather on the way. Even the toads sense it.”

He was right. The creatures whose calls filled tropical nights had fallen eerily quiet. “The calm before the storm,” she replied.

He chuckled. “Sí.”

Silent minutes passed, then he revealed, “This is our hidden hideaway. The navies of powerful nations have hunted for this cove and never found it. You’re privileged to be one of the few people to know our secret, Heidi Jakobsen.”

Her heart thudded in her ears, drowning out the distant whirring of cicadas. Now, he’d have no choice but to kill her.

He put his arm around her shoulders when she shivered. “Don’t worry. After tonight, I’ll never return here.”

Puzzled, she pulled away and peered into the mismatched eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Why not?”

“We are done with our life of crime, querida,” he replied. “The men are ashore in the cave, dividing up what remains of our meager treasure. On the morrow, we sail back to Puerto Rico, scuttle the Juana and go our separate ways. I hope to find a place where I can be Maximiliano Aguero again, and not worry about the price on my head.”

Take me with you.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“Florida, perhaps,” he replied. “Or further north, maybe all the way to Upper Canada, although I’ve heard the cold can freeze a man’s b...er...bones.”

She’d known bitterness when the amiable Torsten turned into a person she didn’t recognize, a brute she feared. In different circumstances, she’d have succumbed easily to Maximiliano’s charms. There was an alchemy between them, but she recognized the wistfulness in his voice. He knew as well as she did that he would be hunted like an animal until he was captured and executed.

She leaned into him, resigned to take what little comfort and warmth she could while she had the chance. What he might do with her was no longer of concern. They were alone aboard a ship and he could have murdered her before this and easily disposed of her body. Maximiliano Aguero was no bloodthirsty pirate and she wondered what had driven him to a life of crime. “I hope you find your haven,” she said.

* * *

A haven, he thought. If things were different, I could find shelter and solace in this woman’s arms.

He shook his head to rid his brain of such notions. Uncertainty about the future was making him fanciful, although the future had been precarious for a long while. He woke every morning wondering if this was the day of his capture. There’d be no happy ending for him—unless his plans succeeded. “Can you find your way to the cabin?” he asked.

“Won’t you escort me back?” she protested, forcing him to double his resolve not to take her to his bed. She clearly didn’t want to spend the night alone, but the hesitancy in her voice proved she was no coy siren. She was a respectable woman and he was determined to respect her. For him, the difficult life of a fugitive lay ahead.

“I’ll keep watch on deck. Goodnight.”

“Godnat,” she replied, sounding disappointed when he deliberately turned away to look at the moon shimmering on the water. It was a night for lovers, but if he was to return to the life of a gentleman…

He gripped the railing as her footsteps receded, fighting down the urge to follow. Was he fooling himself to think Maximiliano Aguero, descendant of a centuries-old noble line, could rise from the ashes of the pirate Lázaro?

He stood watch for hours, listening to the laughter of his crew drifting over the water. The more they drank, the louder the merriment became, until it gradually ceased. He sat at the base of the mast and dozed, content to spend the last few hours with his beloved sloop.

* * *

Heidi returned to the cabin and retrieved the nightgown after rummaging about in her bag. The air outside might be cooler, but the tiny cabin was hot and stuffy. She’d avoided disrobing in front of Torsten since his descent into depravity, but found herself wishing Maximiliano was watching her undress. She chided herself inwardly. Her husband was right—too fat. The pirate would laugh himself silly if he saw her naked. Yet, she stood with her body bared for long minutes, heart beating wildly, listening for his footfall.

Finally deciding she was losing her mind, she yanked the nightgown over her head and stood on tiptoe to snuff out the candle in the lantern hanging from the beam. She climbed into the bunk and inhaled the pirate’s masculine scent on the pillow.

She tossed and turned. For a long while, the sounds of men making merry drifted to her ears across the water. She wondered if the captain was up on deck, or if he’d gone to celebrate with his crew.

Would he come down to his cabin if he was on board?

Part of her wanted him to come, yet she might faint dead away if he did.

Where would he sleep since she was in his bunk?

He’d spoken of scuttling the ship. She couldn’t imagine how such a thing was accomplished, but it was certain to be a dangerous undertaking.

He might leave her aboard the sinking ship if she became a burden he didn’t know how to be rid of.

It came to her gradually during the long night that the weather had changed. The Juana rode uneasily at anchor. A howling wind whistled through cracks and crevices, timbers creaked.

Maximiliano had predicted a storm. She hoped it would pass before morning broke.

Heavy Weather

Creaking timbers startled Maximiliano awake. Dawn must be near, but ominous clouds darkened the sky. He struggled to get to his feet in the driving wind, rubbing his eyes to make sure he had actually seen men in the rigging.

“Time to go, Capitán,” Gatito shouted from the bridge. “Mother Nature is angry.”

Preoccupied with dreams of the Danish woman, Maximiliano hadn’t been aware of the increasing swell. He braced his legs, holding on to the mast as the ship rose and fell on roiling waves.

They were in for foul weather and must make haste if they were to reach Puerto Rico.

Once again, his well-trained crew had things in hand, and soon they were underway, ploughing through rough seas. He prayed the Juana would stay afloat long enough to get his men to a safe harbor and freedom.

Soaked to the skin by the driving rain, he and Gatito wrestled with the wheel, struggling to keep the ship on course. He worried about the woman below in his cabin, but his place was beside his men.

It seemed like hours passed before they dropped anchor in the shelter of Bahía Escondida.

Weighed down by satchels heavy with pieces of eight slung around their bodies, his crew lowered the rowboats with difficulty, bade him farewell and scurried down the ladders to take up the oars.

All except Gatito. “I will help you send Juana to her watery grave,” his first mate shouted.

Maximiliano shook his head. “No, faithful friend, go with the others before the weather deteriorates even further.”

“What will you do with the woman?”

He had no answer. It seemed Heidi had come into his life at the worst possible moment. And yet...

Gatito shrugged and shook his hand. “Vaya con Dios, Capitán,” he said with a trace of a smile before disappearing over the side.

* * *

Heidi didn’t know how much time had passed when the ship’s movement rolled her against the bunk’s railing. She wasn’t fast enough to grab the barrier before she was tossed to the opposite wall. An eerie half-light illuminated the cabin.

The nightgown now seemed like a terrible idea as she struggled to climb out of the bunk without pitching forward. With her feet eventually planted on the wooden flooring, she had to hang on to stay upright. The candle lantern squeaked and wailed, swinging to and fro. Timbers groaned and she could hear the howling wind though she was far from the deck of the ship.

She’d lived through tropical storms on Sankt Thomas, and knew how destructive they could be, but now she was aboard a ship at the mercy of the wind and waves.

The vessel was underway. If she sank...

She clung to the railing for what seemed like hours, chanting prayers she hadn’t uttered since childhood.

Trembling with fear, she almost fainted with relief when Maximiliano burst in, soaked to the skin.

* * *

“We must get to shore,” Maximiliano shouted, peering into the darkness of the cabin. His gut churned when he made out a figure in white clinging to the bunk rail. He couldn’t see Heidi’s face, but could well imagine her fear.

“I have to get dressed,” she cried.

The desperation in her voice propelled him to her side. “No time,” he said, dropping to his knees to unlock the chest. He grabbed the sack of loot and stuffed it inside her portmanteau before snaking an arm around her waist.

She resisted when he pulled her to the door. “My shoes.”

He bent the knee to help shove her feet into the shoes, then she clung to him as they made their way to the door.

The Juana rolled heavily. His innards had clenched every time he’d thought about the prospect of scuttling his beloved sloop. The storm might prove to be a blessing in disguise and take her to the bottom. It seemed a more fitting demise for the ship that had served him well.

Navigating the companionway to the deck with Heidi was like being inside a barrel rolling downhill. He had no choice but to abandon her luggage. He narrowed his eyes against the pelting rain when they finally reached the deck.

“It’s raining sideways,” Heidi shouted.

His throat tightened when he looked to shore. He could barely make out his men scrambling to move further inland, the rowboats upended on the sand. Palm fronds danced in the wind like demented spirits, the tall trunks bowed alarmingly. The beach wasn’t far away, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. He admitted reluctantly one man couldn’t row the remaining dingy through the angry surf to safety. “We’ll have to ride it out on the ship,” he yelled, racked by guilt at the abject terror on her face. If he’d paid more attention to the signs of a gathering storm, they wouldn’t be in this predicament. Perhaps it was God’s will he go down with his ship, but Heidi...

Teeth chattering, she turned to go below.

He drew her against him and wedged their bodies in the doorframe. “On the deck. We could be trapped if she goes down.”

“Down?” she parroted. “You mean we might sink?”

The irony struck him full force. He’d planned to scuttle the ship anyway.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She apparently saw the humor too.

“If I’d known we were in for a hurricane…”

Her smile fled. “Hurricane?”

Hurricane

A powerful hurricane had struck Sankt Thomas two years before Heidi’s arrival, but the widespread devastation was still evident even now. Many families had lost loved ones and livelihoods.

She was already soaked, the linen nightgown clinging to her skin. Only the strength of the pirate’s arms kept her from shrieking like a harridan. His long hair was plastered to his head, water ran down his face, yet there was a steely resolve in his eyes that gave her courage.

His lips were moving, but the battering wind stole away whatever he was saying.

She shook her head, sending water droplets flying.

He took her hand, leaving no choice but to follow when he ran for the mast. She came close to tripping when one waterlogged shoe flew off, but he kept her upright.

An involuntary grunt escaped as he shoved her against the mast. “Hold on,” he shouted, keeping her in place with his body as he reached for a rope hanging off the mast.

Within minutes they were securely lashed together, two mortals defying the wrath of the elements.

Teeth chattering, she closed her eyes and prayed, strangely consoled by the notion she would face death in the strong arms of a good man.

* * *

Maximiliano had lost his faith in a benevolent God many years ago, but as the Juana pitched and tossed, he prayed that her anchor would hold. If not, they’d be swept onto the rocks and dashed to pieces.

An overwhelming compulsion to express his sincere regrets pressed like a vise on his temples, but there was no chance she’d hear anything he said in the deafening gale. He tightened his grip and nestled his chin atop her head, hoping she understood he’d do all he could to protect her.

He’d lived through hurricanes. Along with Spain’s dwindling influence in the Caribbean, they were the main reason for the impoverished state of his island home—crops destroyed, houses and farms obliterated, families torn apart. If Heidi had experienced a hurricane’s fury, she knew only too well the danger they faced. The storms were terrifying enough when a person was in a safe, protected place. In all his years of sailing the Spanish Main he’d been lucky enough not to be caught out at sea. There were always signs, and he’d ignored them, too busy fantasizing about bedding the voluptuous woman whose life he’d put in harm’s way.

Exhaustion carried him into a silent world where he was merely an onlooker to the groaning ship’s death throes. Heidi had thankfully lost consciousness. He kissed her neck as he drifted into a reluctant acceptance that there was little hope of survival.

When the anchor chain finally snapped, the Juana shuddered before flying into the towering waves like a uncaged bird. Just before he surrendered to the storm an errant thought caused him to smile. What better way to die than with a beautiful woman in his arms?

* * *

Heidi’s route to the village water well took her past one of the open-air trapiches used for grinding the sugar cane on Sankt Thomas. Now, she was trapped in the rollers, deafened by the roar as the hurricane flattened her body and drained every last drop of resistance out of her.

She cried out her mother’s name, but hopelessness took hold when she remembered her mother was dead.

The crack of Torsten’s pistol echoed over and over. Why had it not made more noise? A deadly explosion should be loud—like the hellish din in her ears.

She’d been forced to board a sinking vessel she’d seen in a painting at the museum in København, a great work whose title she couldn’t remember. Scantily clad boatmen, too many passengers, animals even, something to do with Saint Peter. She and Torsten—too little time for country visitors to explore the big city museum before their ship sailed for Puerto Rico. Never enough time.

“Jordaens,” she declared. Ja, that was the name of the painter.

The specter of encroaching delirium reared its ugly head and carried her into unconsciousness.

The Wreck

After spending nightmarish hours either trapped in the trapiche and Jordaen’s overloaded ferryboat, Heidi blinked and tried unsuccessfully to spit out sand. Soaking wet strands of hair were plastered to her face. The incessant howling had ceased, but she lay sprawled on a wooden pole, unable to move.

A memory of being trapped beneath the American’s dead weight caused her throat to tighten, but then the person on top of her spoke softly. “Keep still for a while longer, querida. I’m going to cut the rope, if I can get at my dagger.”

The terrifying hours before she’d passed out came back in a dizzying rush. The screeching wind, the torrential rain, the towering waves, the dreadful certainty she was going to die. Her panic eased. Wherever she was, she wasn’t alone. The pirate had also survived, but she remembered being lashed to an upright mast. The pole tilted at an odd angle.

An insane urge to giggle bubbled up.

But then Maximiliano moved. His thighs pressed against hers as he struggled to get his dagger out of its scabbard. Then she felt the unmistakable hardening of his male member against her bottom.

He stilled. “Perdóname,” he whispered. “My cock has a mind of its own. Forgive me.”

The situation was nigh on comical. She was soaking wet, clad in a bedraggled nightgown, tied to a beam and helpless, yet she felt no fear of the aroused male straining atop her. She didn’t have the energy to take issue with the crude word he’d used for his manhood.

“Got it,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t move when I get the rope cut. It’s a long way down.”

She risked a peek. The Juana lay on her side on jagged, black rocks. If they fell…

She willed herself to keep still as he sawed at the rope. “Will your crew come to our rescue?” she asked.

He hesitated before replying. “I don’t recognize this stretch of the coast. We may have been blown way off course to another island.”

The pressure eased when he cut through the bindings but she missed the reassuring presence of his weight as he eased off to perch next to her. The air was cool on her wet nightgown. “I must look ridiculous,” she said.

He chuckled. “On the contrary, querida, you have a very appealing bottom. However, I want you to sit up carefully.”

Her attempts to do as he asked reminded her of the newborn calves on her parents’ farm in Denmark, struggling to stand on wobbly legs. Finally, she sat beside him, panting, grateful for the strong arm around her shoulders.

“We must get off the wreck,” he said. “The tide could pull her back out to sea.”

“She would sink.”

“Exactly. Follow me to the base of the mast, then we’ll crawl down the deck to the side of the ship.”

She peered down. “The deck looks more like a steep hill.”

“We’ll slide then,” he quipped.

She shuddered as he inched his way to the bottom of the mast, not looking forward to sliding down a rough wooden deck in a wet nightgown.

* * *

Maximiliano was worried. Not only did he not recognize the shoreline, he knew in his gut it wasn’t any part of Puerto Rico he’d ever seen. However, one problem at a time. First, he had to get Heidi safely to shore.

He admired her courage. They were clearly in a precarious situation which was his fault entirely, yet she’d not complained once, even about the embarrassing reaction of his cock pressing against her wet bottom.

Cursing, he gritted his teeth as he set his feet on the steeply inclined deck. Recalling the pleasant erection he’d been determined to will away had instead resurrected the stirrings at the base of his spine. He couldn’t fathom what was wrong with him. He hadn’t lusted after a woman for years, now he could think of nothing but thrusting his cock into Heidi’s wet heat. This was not the time to be preoccupied with such matters. The hurricane had evidently stolen his wits as well as his ship. He’d flirted with death before and never experienced such a rush of desire in the aftermath. He filled his lungs to steady his turmoil. “Come to me now,” he called to Heidi.

Jaw clenched, she obeyed, edging along the rough wood of the mast. He didn’t envy her. He was wearing sturdy pantaloons. His body heated at the prospect of picking splinters out of her bottom.

Basta! This has to stop.

When she reached him, he took her hand. “You’re right. It’s too steep. Sliding down is a better idea. Hold on to me.”

She swung from her perch and clung on to him like a baby monkey, her legs clamped around his hips.

Madre de Dios.

He let go of the mast and turned so his body bore the brunt of the friction as they slid down to the railing. He made sure his booted feet took the impact, but his spirits fell when they scrambled upright and peered over the side. Her bare feet were going to be a big problem on the jagged rocks.

* * *

Heidi recalled losing the first shoe, but had no inkling what had happened to the second. Clearly, there was no time to search for them. She could stay aboard and drown or follow Maximiliano across the rocks.

The drop wasn’t insignificant but her pirate went over the side and landed gracefully. He held out his arms. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”

There was no choice. Better to risk breaking an ankle. She hoped she didn’t land on him too hard and cause him to lose his balance.

She climbed up on the gunwale, mortified when the hem of her nightgown snagged on a broken spar. For the first time in her life, she wished she’d listened to her mother and slept in her bloomers.

Maximiliano did his best not to smile as she tried to keep her balance and regain her modesty.

She took the leap of faith, almost swooning with relief when he caught her before her feet touched the rocks. They clung together, breast to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, the surf roiling around them, both breathing heavily. She looked up into his eyes and knew he was going to kiss her. It was dangerous, foolhardy, inappropriate, yet she wanted the kiss more than she’d ever wanted anything. She closed her eyes when his lips parted.

“I’m going to carry you,” he said. “Climb on my back.”

Numbly, she obeyed, clinging to his neck as he put his arms under her thighs and they set off on the perilous trek.

* * *

It wasn’t the first time Maximiliano had been forced to reach shore across treacherous rocks, but he’d never carried such an important burden before, and never in waterlogged boots.

Exhausted after long hours spent protecting Heidi from the hurricane’s power, he willed himself to concentrate on every sharp edge, every loose rock.

The temptation was to hurry, but that might prove disastrous, so he took his time, stopping frequently to map out the next steps. She kept silent, evidently trusting him.

Foolish woman.

When, at long last, they reached the sandy shallows, she slipped from his back and they waded ashore.

She collapsed on the sand and curled up in a ball.

He fell forward on all fours, gasping for breath. “We made it,” he rasped.

“You...saved...my life,” she stammered, her eyes wide with gratitude.

But I’m the one who put it at risk.

He managed to get into a sitting position, intending to pull off his boots, but the water made it impossible, and he was too exhausted. He stretched out, looking up at the cloudless sky. They’d survived, but where were they?

“Lift your foot.”

He squinted into the sunlight. Heidi stood astride his legs, bent over. She still wore the nightdress, but her bottom might as well have been bare for all the good the sodden fabric did. Groaning, he obeyed, his hardened cock enduring the fiendish torture as she strained to pull off his boot.

“We have to find you something to wear,” he murmured lamely.

Picnic

While the storm raged, Heidi feared she would never be warm again, but soon felt the sun hot on her face. Much as she loved tropical heat, she never went out on Sankt Thomas without a broad- brimmed hat to cover her fair complexion.

Fighting off the desire to sleep for hours, she sat up. Maximiliano lay on the sand, his bare ankles already showing signs of sunburn though she’d pulled off his boots scant minutes before. She crawled to kneel next to him and put a hand on his chest, feeling the rough grains of sand in the soft hair. “We must find shade,” she whispered, reluctant to wake him after his heroic efforts.

He opened one eye and licked his dry lips. “Water, too.”

She nodded, suddenly realizing how thirsty she was.

He rose and helped her stand. She leaned on him as they surveyed the jungle beyond the beach.

“Can you make it there?” he asked. “Or shall I carry you?”

She’d already been too much of a burden. “I can walk, but will there be wild animals?”

“Not to worry,” he replied, patting his dagger, but she sensed an edge of uncertainty in his voice.

Wild creatures existed on Sankt Thomas. Monkeys were an everyday fact of life, and she’d heard there were wild boar in the hills.

“A dry cave would be good,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, “but I don’t see one in the cliffs.”

There was no alternative but to find shade in the trees. He picked up his boots, and put an arm around her waist. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she echoed, circling her arm around his broad back, her hand fisted in the folds of his wet jacket.

* * *

Maximiliano was confident they would find fallen coconuts beneath the palm trees, but wasn’t as sure as he’d claimed about animals in the thick jungle. Monkeys were generally a harmless nuisance. Wild boar were unlikely to come to salt water. Snakes were the only creatures he’d feared since childhood.

They found a gap in the seemingly impenetrable wall of foliage and crept to a small clearing. It was almost too cool after the scorching sun. He removed his jacket and draped it over Heidi’s shivering shoulders. “It’s almost dry,” he whispered.

She nodded gratefully but the faraway look in her eyes indicated she was nearing the limit of her endurance.

He didn’t have to hunt far before he found a couple of coconuts. He was adept at breaking open the stubborn fruit—with a machete. All he had was his dagger which wouldn’t have enough weight to do the job. Foraging further afield produced a rock he hoped would work and a large philodendron leaf.

Heidi swayed trance-like, watching him strike the center of the coconut, turning it as he went. When milk dripped out of the first crack, he held it over the leaf.

It didn’t take long for the coconut to break in two after he pounded along the crack. Some of the milk escaped onto the leaf, but he deftly separated the two halves so most of it stayed in the shell.

She drank greedily from the half he gave her and he quenched his own thirst from the other. He tipped the milk from the leaf into her empty shell then chipped away at the inside of his own shell with his dagger. They chewed every last shred of the coconut before she crawled over to lean against him. “In Denmark, we call this a picnic,” she murmured.

“Same thing in Spanish,” he replied, but she’d already dozed off.

He pulled the edges of his jacket closed to cover the tempting nipples pouting against the flimsy nightdress, and gathered her into his embrace. They’d have to find better shelter before nightfall but, for the moment, he was content to let her sleep.

* * *

The sun was still high in the sky when Heidi awoke. Panic surged at the realization she was alone. She scrambled to her feet and fought her way out of the dense foliage. The tide had gone out a long way, leaving miles of rippled sands in its wake. The Juana lay completely on her side, high and dry on the rocks.

Her throat tightened when she caught sight of Maximiliano making his way back to the beach, the strap of her portmanteau slung around his body. He’d risked danger to retrieve her meager belongings but, at least now, she could get rid of the tattered and stained nightdress.

She hurried across the hot sand. “Thank you,” she gushed, linking his arm. “But you shouldn’t have risked your life for it.”

They crawled into their clearing where he divested himself of the strap and opened the wet bag. She knelt beside him, feeling like a child at Yuletide, full of expectation, though she knew what was inside. Or thought she did. He pulled out several shirts and a pair of pantaloons. “I deemed it safe enough to search for a few things since the tide had receded so far out.”

Next came her pistol, then a larger, more ornate one and a horn of powder. “Hopefully still dry inside,” he said. “There’s round-shot in the bottom of the bag.”

Two pineapples followed. She began to wonder if he’d retrieved anything of hers.

“I couldn’t find the shoes you lost,” he told her.

“There should be another pair in the bag,” she assured him.

She rummaged inside, pulling out wet clothing and the sensible Danish shoes. “I didn’t have time to pack much,” she explained when he smiled at the pink bloomers.

His eyes widened when she retrieved the small etui of sewing needles.

“I don’t suppose these will be of much use here,” she lamented.

“On the contrary. Gatito taught me how to make a compass with a needle. Keep them safe.”

At the bottom of the bag was a sack she didn’t recognize. “What’s this?”

A frown replaced the smile as he grabbed it from her. “It’s mine,” he growled.

A shiver stole over her. Maximiliano the Hero had suddenly turned back into Lázaro the Pirate.

Where Are We?

It didn’t take long for Heidi’s wet clothing to dry in the sun. Maximiliano left her alone in the clearing so she could have privacy to dress. He smiled at the memory of pink bloomers and her equally pink blush. He wouldn’t be able to look at her again without his mind wandering to visions of her shapely bottom in the old-fashioned underwear.

He regretted the guarded suspicion that had replaced trust in her eyes. Other than his crew, few people trusted Lázaro, even the women whose families he’d helped feed with proceeds from his plundering. He’d alienated Heidi for the sake of useless plunder. He wasn’t sure what had come over him. Bank notes, jewelry and coin were of no good to them here.

They might need money if they escaped, or were rescued, although rescue would bring its own complications. And why was he thinking in terms of “they”? Heidi would no doubt be glad to see the last of him, especially after his childish outburst.

He’d deliberately left the sack in the clearing, suspecting her curiosity would compel her to look inside. He didn’t want her to think he was hiding anything.

He sat on a massive tree root left high and dry on the beach and looked back at the jungle, then beyond to the mountain peak. He was more than certain they weren’t on Puerto Rico, but couldn’t recognize the geographical features, though there wasn’t an island in the Caribbean he hadn’t visited or sailed past in the last ten years.

He didn’t relish the prospect of revealing the news to Heidi.

* * *

Heidi wished she could have cleansed her body of the irritating sand and salt before donning her clothing, but was immensely relieved to be out of the nightdress. She was tempted to toss the ruined garment into the ocean but Maximiliano was right—they shouldn’t throw anything away.

For a while, she resisted the urge to peek into his sack, but a quick check showed he was still sitting on a huge tree trunk washed up on the beach. She opened the drawstring. Jewelry, pocket watches, coins, banknotes. What…

The truth struck her like a blow to the belly. She was looking at loot stripped from fellow travelers aboard the Hekla, many of them victims of declining fortunes. Maximiliano claimed to have spared their lives, and she had taken his word for it.

She sat back on her haunches, not certain why the revelation was so upsetting. He was a pirate after all. It would behoove her to remember that. She was completely dependent on him for survival, but she’d been too trusting, too ready to think well of him. Lust had affected her judgement. It was time to remember she was a respectable Danish woman from a good Lutheran family, not some pirate’s moll.

After all, she’d trusted Torsten and lived to regret it.

* * *

Estimating he’d allowed Heidi more than enough time to change clothes and peek into the sack, he returned to the clearing. Her pout as she rose indicated she hadn’t forgotten his boorish behavior and definitely knew the source of the valuables in the bag. “I apologize,” he said in his most polished tone as he took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. “It was rude. Perdóname.”

She blushed, or perhaps she was simply overheated. “We’re both exhausted. Think no more of it.”

He accepted the small concession. “There are a few hours of daylight left. We should find shelter away from the sand, maybe closer to the mountain.”

She turned to look. “Do you recognize where we are?”

He saw no point in lying. “No.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So, we have no idea of our location?”

“Correct.”

He expected tears. Instead, she clenched her jaw, looking determined. “A cave is a good idea if we are going to be here a while.”

“It will be easier once we leave the beach,” he said, hoping his prediction would hold true as he took her hand.

“Aren’t you going to bring your treasure?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing to buy here, and we can come back for our belongings.”

“Someone might steal it.”

The time had come to voice his biggest fear. He shook his head. “I have a feeling we are alone on an island I don’t recognize.”

The Cave

With Maximiliano’s steady hand supporting her, Heidi soon fell into a slow walking rhythm in the thick undergrowth. She hadn’t known there were so many different shades of green.

She expected creatures to scurry out of their way, but there was no sound other than their own footfalls. “I don’t even hear birds,” she said.

The vegetation thinned out near the base of the mountain. Stopping to catch their breath, they scanned the barren rocky slopes.

She looked to where he finally pointed. “Up there, a ledge of some sort, but it’s too high. We need something closer.”

They changed direction to follow the base of the mountain, taking advantage of the easier going, until they came to an opening. “This might do,” he said. “Stay here.”

She watched him search for footholds as he climbed, her heart beating erratically when the hole swallowed him up. They’d seen no wildlife, but that didn’t mean some dangerous creature wasn’t lurking in its lair.

She breathed again when he reappeared, waving. “Looks good. Can you make it up here?”

The relatively short climb was daunting, but she had to stop relying on him. “Ja.”

She followed the path he’d taken, relieved when he took her into his arms and pulled her into the cave. “Welcome to your new home, Señora Jakobsen,” he said with a broad smile.

She narrowed her eyes to peer into the gloom. “Cozy,” she quipped.

“It’s small,” he conceded. “But it’s dry and there’s no evidence an animal lives here.”

The ceiling was high enough for even Maximiliano’s tall frame, but there was little space to do anything but sleep. She contemplated suggesting they search for something bigger when the deafening roar of a sudden tropical downpour left no alternative. Darkness fell quickly, as it always did in the tropics.

“No choice,” he said, laying the pistols and the dagger aside. “It won’t be comfortable, but we can find something to lie on tomorrow.”

He stretched out on the rocky surface and indicated the space next to him. “I know you are angry with me, and rightly so, but we need each other’s warmth if we’re to survive the night.”

He was right that the temperature would drop. There was no point enduring it alone. She lay beside him and nestled into the warmth of his body as he put his arm around her shoulders.

They listened to the rain pelting the rocks and trees. “I’m glad we’re not still down on the beach,” she whispered.

“Sí, finding this cave is a good omen.”

He tightened his hold when the thunder and lightning began.

“I’ve always been afraid of thunder,” she confided. “I remember the bellringer in our church in Denmark being killed when the steeple was struck.”

He stroked her hair. “My mother used to say an uneven number of thunderclaps in quick succession will bring good luck.”

“We’ve had two so far,” she replied.

“Three,” he said when another rolling boom cracked not far away.

She lost count after six and fell asleep with her head on his chest.

* * *

Maximiliano silently chided the God in which he no longer believed. This isn’t what I had in mind when I said I wanted to sleep with Heidi Jakobsen.

Like every sailor, he was wary of thunderstorms, but at least he’d taken Heidi’s mind off her fear and she’d fallen asleep.

He took the opportunity the lightning flashes offered to examine the cave. So far, the walls and ceiling had remained dry, and it was out of the wind. However, his backside was already numb. They’d have to find something softer to lie on. Perhaps the mattress from his bunk.

Food was another concern. They couldn’t survive on coconuts alone. Finding a freshwater stream was a priority. He was adept at fishing with a net, but all he had now was his dagger, which meant he’d have to learn to spearfish. Sparking a fire was a simple task when a man had his tinderbox. His was somewhere on board the wreck of the Juana.

Surviving until they were rescued or could find some means of escape would be a challenge. As would lying abed with Heidi’s breasts pressed to his chest night after night.

Perhaps this torment was God’s punishment for his loss of faith.

* * *

It was still dark when Heidi woke, but the rain had stopped and she sensed dawn wasn’t far off. She was amazed she’d slept at all; her hips and shoulders were stiff. She had to try to move, but the steady beat of Maximiliano’s heart pulsed in her ear. His soft snoring brought comfort—he’d slept too.

“God morgen,” she said hoarsely when he stirred.

“Días,” he replied. “You sound as thirsty as I am. Let’s see if we can find rainwater to drink.”

He got to his feet slowly then helped her rise. His fingertips touched the ceiling when he stretched. “My body aches.”

Distracted by the broad planes of his chest, visible when his shirt gaped open, she had a momentary notion to suggest a traditional Danish massage might help rid him of his aches.

Her limbs refused to function properly. “I feel like an old woman,” she lamented as they scanned the jungle below.

“We’ll make a proper bed,” he assured her. “Er, I mean…”

“I understand,” she replied.

He assisted her down the path, pointing excitedly to a crevice in the rock face where rainwater had accumulated. Pleasantly surprised when he scooped water in his big hands and offered her the first drink, she held on to his wrists and slurped. “Good,” she sighed, swiping her sleeve across her mouth. “You now.”

He gathered his long hair into a queue as he bent to drink from the crevice. Even in profile, his features were striking. He looked up and caught her staring.

“Your beard is growing,” she improvised lamely.

He rubbed his chin. “Better get used to it. There’s no barber here.”

Her mouth ran away with itself. “I could shave you,” she said.

He eyed her curiously. “With my dagger? I don’t think so.”

“You don’t trust me,” she replied, sounding like a petulant child to her own ears.

He looked into her eyes. “I’d trust you with my life, Heidi Jakobsen, but I doubt you’ve shaved a man with a dagger before.”

He was right, though she’d shaved Torsten with a straight edge.

“Besides,” he chuckled. “You need me.”

Foraging

Intent on finding shelter, Maximiliano hadn’t paid much attention to anything else except Heidi as they’d fought their way through jungle foliage the previous day. Retracing their steps to the clearing, he was reminded of his childhood, foraging for fruit on his parents’ estate in Cabo Tinto.

He plucked a bunch of quenepas, scored the shell of one with his teeth and chewed greedily into the flesh. “Try,” he said, offering her one. “Stringy, but sweet.”

He took back the fruit when she couldn’t break the shell and did it for her.

Her eyes widened in surprise when she began to chew. “Delicious,” she breathed. “I never tasted them before.”

He chuckled when she plucked another and had no trouble opening the shell.

“I must look terrible,” she said. “I feel like I’ve got sand everywhere.”

Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smudged, her lips sticky with quenepas juice. He wanted to lick her clean, all over, but he’d resolved to respect her. “You look like you spent the night in a cave with a pirate,” he teased.

Her laughter only intensified the urge to kiss her, but then she spotted a guava tree. “I used to buy those in the market,” she said.

Some of the fruit fell to the ground when he shook the tree. He cut one in two with his dagger. “Not fully ripe,” he said, “but better than nothing.”

They scooped up the rest of the guava, picked a few more quenepas and took the haul back to the clearing. As he’d predicted, the portmanteau and his sack were untouched, if wet.

“At least we won’t starve,” she said.

It gladdened him to hear a note of optimism in her voice, but how long could they exist on fruit and coconut? “I’m going to climb as far up the mountain as I can,” he told her.

“You’re leaving me here?”

He regretted the note of panic in her voice. “You can’t scale mountains, even in those shoes, and I want to see if this is indeed an island, and if there’s a better place to shelter. From up there I’ll perhaps get my bearings.”

He handed over her own pistol. “I don’t think you’ll need this,” he said. “But I’ll feel better if I leave you with a weapon. The powder should be dry, and the bullet is still in the barrel.”

“It was my husband’s,” she admitted, staring at the brand on the handle.

He’d anticipated that, but her next words shook him to the core.

“He killed himself with it.”

* * *

The climb wasn’t arduous, but Maximiliano was soon sweating as the sun rose higher. He barely paid attention to what he was doing, cursing himself for leaving Heidi with only a farewell kiss pecked on her forehead. A woman who’d revealed a dire event that had broken her heart deserved more compassion.

He doubted she’d confided the manner of her husband’s death to many people.

He felt privileged she’d told him.

He paused every so often to scan the vistas before him, clenching his jaw when there was nothing but open sea. He thirsted to return with good news.

Whatever he discovered, the likelihood was he and Heidi would be stranded together for a long while. He wanted to learn more about her, know her better. What were her likes and dislikes? What was her life like in Denmark? She spoke Spanish, but what other languages did she speak? He supposed the Danish West Indies Company had brought her husband to San Tómas, but why had he killed himself?

He’d an uncharacteristic longing to tell her about himself, to explain the reasons for becoming a pirate.

He managed to claw his way to the top of the peak with some difficulty, but the vistas confirmed his fears. There was only sea and sky on every side, though a thick marine haze obscured the far horizon. The densely treed island wasn’t large, and there was no sign of human habitation.

Far below, the wreck looked like a toy ship. Pistol in one hand, Heidi was walking along the white sand beach, shading her eyes to look up now and again, but he doubted she could see him. He waved anyway.

He was about to begin the descent when the sound of running water drew his attention. Off to the left, a waterfall trickled out of the rock face. He lost sight of the stream’s path, but made out a small inlet where it eventually emptied into the sea.

With any luck, the cascade might fall into a pool—a source of fresh water.

The descent in a slightly different direction was difficult. He lost his footing a few times on loose stones, grazing his hands and scuffing his pantaloons as he slid several feet. He’d likely end up with scrapes and bruises on his behind. If they had salve, Heidi…

Clinging to a rare bit of vegetation after one long slide, he took a deep breath and contemplated the reality of the situation. A man and woman marooned together on a deserted island—it was probably inevitable that nature would take its course, especially if they were stranded for weeks, months or perhaps years.

Strangely, he found the prospect appealing. Heidi had reignited desires he’d long thought dead. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was drawn to him.

Perhaps this island was the safe haven he sought.

He breathed more easily when his feet landed on a flat surface, whooping with delight at the sight of the stream emerging from a crack to trickle into a dark pool sheltered on all sides by smooth rocks.

Not only was it a source of drinking water, they could bathe in the pool. He inched his way to the stream and slaked his thirst, then retrieved the largest of Heidi’s needles threaded through the fabric of his shirt collar. He hunkered down and rubbed it back and forth along strands of his hair. As far as he could recall, this was how Gatito had magnetized a needle years ago. Admittedly, they’d been rip-roaring drunk at the time. He placed the needle on top of a fallen leaf and carefully set the leaf on the water. As he’d hoped, the leaf spun, then settled, but exactly which end of the needle was pointing north was difficult to ascertain.

Securing the needle in the fabric of his shirt, he hurried down the rest of the way to the beach, his mind filled with the prospect of swimming naked with Heidi.

* * *

Heidi took off her shoes and walked along the beach for a while, but the sun was already too hot and the sand burned the soles of her feet. She thought she caught sight of Maximiliano near the top of the mountain, but doubted he could have climbed so high. The ascent looked intimidating.

She didn’t want to contemplate what would become of her if he didn’t return. She’d be dead by the end of the day.

But the future had to be considered. Maximiliano drew her like a lodestone. He’d roused sexual feelings and desires she’d never experienced before. It was doubtful he found her attractive, but men were men, and they had needs. If they were stranded together for weeks, or even months, it was almost inevitable the cramped sleeping conditions would lead to…

Her body heated, though she sat in the shade. She ought to be scandalized by such wanton thoughts but, if they were to die in this remote place, why not make the most of the time they had left?

First, The Bad News

Heidi rose from the sand, hoping it was Maximiliano coming through the jungle toward her. She cocked the pistol, just in case.

“It’s me, querida,” he shouted.

Relief surged when he entered the clearing. She set down the weapon and threw herself at him. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

He held her tight, stroking her hair. “Where would I go?” he quipped.

She was making a fool of herself but couldn’t let go. “Did you find anything?”

“Sí,” he replied. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

She almost laughed out loud. If a woman had to be marooned with a pirate, what were the chances he’d turn out to be a man who’d try to spare her feelings with his sense of humor? “The bad news,” she whispered.

He bade her sit on the luggage. “This is an island, and we are alone here,” he began.

She waited, sensing there was more he was hesitant to tell her.

He averted his gaze. “I wasn’t able to see another island, and I still don’t know where we are.”

His words didn’t come as a surprise, yet, clinging to a last hope, she said, “Perhaps if you’d climbed right to the top.”

She regretted the glimmer of hurt in his eyes when he looked up. “You know I did.”

Guilt gnawed at her. He’d risked his life and she’d doubted him. Clearly, he felt he should know where they were. She had to be stronger, for both their sakes. She reached for his hand. “I’m sorry. What’s the good news?”

He stood. “We’re going to the wreck, to see what we can salvage.”

She squinted up at him. “This is the good news?”

He grinned. “No. First, we see if we can drag out the mattress from my bunk, then the good news.”

He helped her rise, holding onto her hand when she turned to the beach. “Do we have a bargain?”

She looked into his intriguing eyes, excited by the prospect of a softer bed. “Sí, Capitán,” she teased.

* * *

Maximiliano didn’t fault Heidi for doubting him. The great Lázaro, scourge of the Spanish Main, had no idea of their location. If the wreck stayed on the rocks, he could eventually gather enough wood to build a raft. However, if they set off in the wrong direction, there’d be little chance of survival in unpredictable currents.

He forced these concerns aside as Heidi tied on her shoes and looked at him hopefully. He should consider himself fortunate he hadn’t been stranded with an ugly shrew, although then he might not have the problem of the inconvenient arousal that hardened every time he touched her.

He’d gathered sturdy vines on his way back, and formed them into a loop, which he slung over his shoulder. “Follow my lead,” he warned as they set off.

“I’m getting better at this,” she boasted as they made progress over the rocks.

When she finally reached the gunwale, he stretched out his arms and pulled her to safety. It was the first time they’d both returned to the ship and she seemed reluctant to separate their bodies. “It’s not your fault, Maximiliano,” she murmured, her head on his chest.

She was right he had no control over wind and weather, yet he felt a burden lift from his heart.

“I’m thankful it’s you I’m stranded with,” she said.

She’d been married and must understand the reason for the hard, male flesh nudging her belly. He was elated when she pressed her mons to his arousal and said, “I see you feel the same way.”

The temptation to make love to her on the shifting deck of his ruined ship was powerful, but they didn’t have long before the tide came back in. “The mattress,” he rasped as a reminder to himself as much as to her.

She glanced up at him, her eyes full of thwarted lust. “Oh, ja.”

He looked forward to the pool with even greater anticipation.

* * *

From the outset of their marriage, Heidi and Torsten’s sexual relationship had followed what she assumed was the path all young couples trod. On their wedding night—as her mother had predicted—he’d mounted her, grunted his way to completion, pecked a kiss on her forehead, then fallen asleep. It became the routine. At first, she’d been plagued with a feeling there was supposed to be something more, but gradually she’d become resigned to the occasional bedding. He seemed to enjoy it, which meant she was a good wife, though he couldn’t hide his disappointment as time went on and there was no child in her womb.

His enslavement to alcohol changed things and she gradually became the object on which he took out his anger. His sudden death brought only a sense of relief that she would never again be subjected to his assaults.

Now, she craved a pirate! Surrounded by wreckage, castaway on an uninhabited island, she was filled with an insane urge to rip off her clothes and beg him to make love to her. Clearly, the near-death experience had stolen her wits.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“About my husband.”

Dismayed she’d replied without thinking, she expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. “How did he die?”

The last five years spewed out in a breathless diatribe—the disappointments, the pain, the guilt, the shock in her husband’s eyes the moment he realized he’d murdered himself. “He was waving the pistol around,” she explained, “ranting in a drunken stupor when it just went off. At first, I thought he’d shot me.”

Maximiliano listened without interrupting and rocked her as she wept. “It’s good to let it all out,” he said softly.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I do feel better,” she replied truthfully. “But you must think I was a terrible wife.”

“No, cariña,” he said. “You had a weak man as a husband.”

First Kiss

Throughout the Caribbean, Danish people were reputed to be hardy and hardworking. Maximiliano could well believe it. Heidi had endured an abusive marriage. The way she’d so far dealt with being marooned spoke of courage. Her determination to help him wrestle the mattress from the bunk, up the narrow companionway and off the wreck, all the while keeping a smile on her flushed face, convinced him she’d been raised to see a task through to its completion, no matter how difficult.

The vines came in useful, as he’d hoped, to tie the mattress into a roll with the linens inside, then to heft it onto his back. Heidi carried his tinderbox, candles, a supply of ship’s biscuits, a flagon of rum, a water canteen and the candle lantern from his cabin—all wrapped in a torn piece of sail. The task of ferrying everything across the rocks was rendered somewhat more difficult by Heidi suffering a fit of giggles begun when she discovered one of her shoes wedged in the broken capstan wheel. The other was nowhere to be found.

By the time they reached the beach, her giggling had become infectious. He divested himself of the mattress, fell to his knees on the sand and let the laughter well up from inside him. It had been too long since he’d laughed so heartily. Finally, he lay back against the rolled-up mattress and beckoned her. “Sit beside me.”

She came, still smiling, and nestled into him. “I love your laugh,” she said.

“I haven’t laughed so much in…well, years.”

“The life of a pirate must be difficult,” she replied.

“Sí,” he rasped. No one had ever seemed to realize that before. No one had looked at his life from his point of view, or taken into account the gut-wrenching fear that stalked him. Heidi understood.

It was ironic. They were in a perilous situation, and he was certainly worried about how they might survive long enough to make it back to civilization. Yet, Heidi’s presence made him feel everything would work out in the end. They’d been marooned together for a reason.

“When will you tell me the good news?” she asked.

“First, we eat.”

“Good. I’m hungry.”

“After that, we carry our loot up to the cave.”

“You’re a hard taskmaster,” she teased.

“Then you’ll hear the good news.”

She planted a fleeting kiss on his lips before scrambling to her feet. “Come on, then. I’m anxious to learn what it is.”

The effect on his cock was predictable, but he savored the salty taste of her lips. He couldn’t wait to show her the pool.

* * *

Tiny red crabs scurried out of their way on the beach. “Once we get a fire lit,” Maximiliano said, throwing down the mattress when they reached the clearing, “we can try cooking a few of these little creatures.”

Heidi laughed. “We’ll need to catch a thousand just to make a meal.”

“True,” he replied, settling a coconut between his thighs. “For lunch we’ll have coconut, followed by more guava…”

“Biscuits, too,” she added.

“And we can forage on the way to the cave.”

Heidi watched him strike the coconut until it cracked open. “You’re getting to be…”

She was forced to curtail the compliment when he dribbled milk into her mouth, but some still trickled down her chin. Her heart leapt when he licked the drops from her skin. “Mmm,” he said when their eyes met, “salty.”

She saw hesitancy in his gaze. He wasn’t sure how she would react. The bitter Heidi who’d boarded the Hekla in Sankt Thomas would have chastised him for his brazen act. She inhaled deeply, placed her hand on his bearded cheek and kissed his lips, tentatively, nervously.

He closed his eyes and nibbled her lower lip, then ran his tongue along it. “I’ve wanted to taste you since you waved your pistol in my face,” he whispered. “However, if I put these coconuts down, I’ll be tempted to do more than kiss you, and we might never get to the good news.”

Torsten hadn’t known how to flirt. Maximiliano’s teasing made Heidi’s nipples tingle. “Slyngel,” she breathed.

“I don’t know that Danish word,” he admitted.

“It means rogue, scoundrel,” she replied.

“Ha! Pícaro. Of course, I’m a pirate.”

“But you weren’t always a pirate.”

He frowned. “No, but that’s a tale for another day. Now, we eat, then we get our meager possessions into the cave.”

She swallowed her disappointment, accepting a chunk of coconut meat.

* * *

Hauling their belongings up to the cave was challenging, and had to be accomplished in two trips. When the mattress was finally wedged into the tiny space, they both collapsed on it, breathing heavily.

“Much more comfortable,” Heidi said.

“Palatial,” he quipped. “Ready for your surprise?”

“I just want to sleep,” she confessed.

“Fine,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll go by myself. But you’ll be sorry.”

As he expected, she followed him out of the cave. He led the way to a spot where the waterfall was visible. “There, fresh water.”

She shaded her eyes. “But it’s out of reach.”

His anticipation grew. “Patience, querida.”

Five minutes later, they stood on a rock looking down at the pool. To his surprise, she seemed nervous. “We can swim in it,” he explained. “Be clean again.”

“It looks deep.”

She can’t swim.

“I’ll go first,” he said, shrugging off his jacket, then yanking his shirt over his head.

Her eyes widened when he untied the laces at his waist. “Perdóname, but I don’t intend to bathe in my clothes.”

“No, of course not,” she allowed, her gaze fixed on his chest.

He turned his back, divested himself of his pantaloons then slid off the smooth rock into the water. It came up to his waist. “It’s warm,” he exclaimed. “And I can stand up here. I’ll keep my back turned.”

The Pool

Heidi stared at Maximiliano’s broad back, disappointed with only a brief glimpse of his endearingly white backside and bronzed legs before he slipped into the water.

She longed to remove her clothes and cleanse her body in the pool, but had always been afraid of deep water, and Maximiliano was completely naked. Old inhibitions about her body surfaced. He’d see how fat she really was if...

No. Swimming naked with men wasn’t how she’d been brought up. Her Lutheran parents would be scandalized.

That tipped the scales. She was no longer the timid child who’d jumped at the chance to marry and escape a strict home life.

She undressed and hugged her arms to cover her breasts. “No peeking,” she warned, scooting to the edge of the rock to test the water with a toe.

“I’ll have to turn if you want me to help you,” he replied.

“Wait,” she cried, losing her balance in her panic.

She fell in, squealing and flaying her arms.

He turned to grasp her hand, pulling her close. Before she could object, he walked backwards into deeper water. Trembling, she clung to his shoulders.

“Never be afraid when you are with me, Heidi,” he said softly. “I will not let any harm come to you.”

“I’m not afraid.”

It was true. She believed he would keep her safe. However, the intimacy of breasts pressed to a broad male chest, the thrill of strong hands on her hips, the awareness of an aroused pik nudging her thighs, those things terrified her. Torsten had told her bluntly she was inadequate in bed. How could a well-muscled, virile man like Maximiliano find her pleasing? The thrusting of her husband’s member had been painful. Maximiliano was...well...bigger.

“You worry too much,” he said. “Put your legs around me.”

She snaked her arms around his neck and obeyed, drifting into a world of peaceful desire with his pik nestled against her most intimate place.

He kissed her, nibbling slowly, then coaxed her lips open and delved his tongue into her mouth. Her tongue met his in a mating dance as she savored the taste of guava and the sip of rum they’d shared. Intoxicated, she inhaled the scent of a desirable man.

She willed herself to relax, wanting him, but if he entered...

“You’re not ready yet, querida,” he said, evidently knowing what was in her heart. “Tonight, I’ll make you mine.”

* * *

The temptation to thrust inside Heidi was hard to resist, but Maximiliano knew the value of patience. She desired him. However, she’d suffered abuse and was understandably nervous and afraid. Later, he’d make sure she was aroused to the point she’d beg him to possess her—though he was beginning to sense she had possessed him. He wanted her to want him, to understand this wasn’t just about a male urge to dominate a woman.

For now, he contented himself with the firmness of her thighs on his hips, the warmth of her slit atop his cock, the press of her breasts against his chest.

When the tension had drained out of her limbs, he tipped her back so her hair floated on the water. “I’ll hold you,” he promised. “Wash out the sand.”

She hesitated only a moment before reaching back to rake her fingers through the long tresses.

He fixed his gaze on breasts that would fill his big hands, and tawny nipples with the biggest halos he’d ever seen. His cock saluted its approval.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

He leaned forward to swipe his tongue over one nipple, grazing it with his teeth until it hardened.

“Maximiliano,” she breathed, her wide-eyed surprise evident.

The truth became clear to him in an instant. Not only had her husband been a brutal drunkard, he’d not known how to bring pleasure to his beautiful wife. “Do you like that?” he asked.

She came up from the water and nodded shyly, raking wet hair off her face.

Praying his resolve wouldn’t desert him, he lowered his head and suckled like a hungry babe. Slowly introducing this woman to the delights of sexual intimacy was suddenly of the utmost importance.

* * *

Heidi floated in a sea of bliss, her fear of the water gone. She lay on her back, trusting Maximiliano to support her with one hand.

He touched intimate places with his fingers, his lips and his tongue.

She relished every pang of desire that spiraled up her thighs and into her womb. This is what had been missing with her husband. Euphoria. For the first time in her life she was a desirable woman.

She wanted to whine like a baby when he suggested they get out of the pool and lie in the sun to dry their bodies.

She climbed up onto the rock without a thought for her nakedness, feeling free and wild. Her uncertainty returned when he emerged from the pool, water sluicing from his bronzed body. The proud lance jutting from the nest of black curls at the apex of his thighs convinced her she wasn’t staring at a mere mortal.

But he narrowed his eyes. “Your husband marked you,” he growled.

She’d forgotten the faint bruises. “Ja.”

“Coward,” he hissed, stretching out beside her, looking up at the sky. “I give you my word I will never raise my hand against you.”

“I believe you,” she replied truthfully, fascinated by the size and thickness of his pik. It was as if he and Torsten belonged to two different species.

“Do you want to touch me?” he rasped.

“More than anything, but...”

He took her hand and placed it on his male part. “No buts, querida. I am not like your husband. Your caress will bring me pleasure.”

“I don’t know...”

“Trust your instinct,” he said, folding his hands behind his head.

Uncharted Waters

Maximiliano knew what he liked, as did a half dozen women in different pirate havens up and down the Spanish Main. Time was money to his mistresses, so he’d taught them how to please him quickly. It was about release, then on to the next high seas adventure.

For the first time in a long time he was safe from the hunters. He and Heidi had all the time in the world. He wanted her to discover where and how he liked to be touched and looked forward to learning her body’s secrets.

Heidi sat cross-legged beside him and moved her hand on his cock. She watched him, tightening her grip and pumping faster at just the right moment. He mused that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they were marooned on the island forever. He found most women superficial but suspected Heidi was an intriguing puzzle he could spend years unraveling. He growled when she cupped his sac with her free hand. The hint of uncertainty in her eyes made him feel he was being touched by a virgin.

The notion heightened his arousal. She’d come close to release in the pool, and he was ready to explode. He turned his head to look at her, awed by the glistening pink folds of her woman’s place. He brushed his knuckles over the curls at her mons. “Perfect,” he rasped as his balls drew up.

She moaned when his thumb found the swollen diamond of her desire. Her hand matched the rhythm of his strokes, faster and faster until she screamed her release at the moment his seed erupted. He slipped a finger inside her as she convulsed, teasing the inner muscles to prolong her ecstasy. When she stilled, he gathered her limp body into his embrace, humbled to have brought her to what he suspected was her first sexual climax.

* * *

Heidi drifted in uncharted waters. Even in the early years of her marriage, she’d never experienced the breathtaking cataclysm Maximiliano’s touch had wrought. Safe in his strong arms, she relished the heat of his skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the aroma of male essence that bonded their bodies. The scent of male sperm normally turned her stomach. Now, she wanted to taste him. Witnessing the eruption from his magnificent pik had tipped her over the edge into an ecstatic free-fall.

“The sun’s too hot on your skin,” he whispered, interrupting her musings. “We’ll go back to the cave and try to get a fire going for cooking.”

Little did he know he’d already ignited an inferno—in her heart and her loins. Still in a fog of sexual satisfaction, she gathered up her garments, intending to carry them back. What was the point of clothing when a woman was marooned in paradise with a god?

But he took her elbow. “You should get dressed. It will cool off soon.”

She wasn’t confident coherent words would emerge from her mouth, but she had to try. “I...er...that was...”

He tilted her chin to his gaze. “I understand, cariña. For me too. It will be even better when we join our bodies.”

A splash drew their attention back to the pool before she could respond.

He drew his dagger from its sheath and reentered the water slowly.

She stood stock still, watching the play of his muscles as he moved stealthily with the dagger clenched in his fist, his gaze fixed on the water. She gasped when he lunged, then held the dagger aloft, their dinner skewered by the blade.

She smiled proudly at his triumphant grin. Poseidon had come down from Olympus and caught an impressively large fish.

She pondered the night ahead as they dressed. Men were motivated by the need for sexual release, yet she craved the promised joining. A pirate, a man she barely knew, had overcome her abhorrence of sexual union simply by touching her lovingly in intimate places. Or was it something more, and what had he meant when he said for me too?

* * *

Hunkered down outside the cave, Maximiliano tried patiently to create a spark. The fish lay beside the pile of wood, skewered on a length of green wood. Hunger made his belly rumble, but his mind wasn’t on the firesteel and flint.

Heidi’s admiring gaze made him feel like a god. It was an odd sensation for a pirate normally looked upon with fear by women. Or lust for his coin by prostitutes.

“Any luck?” Heidi called from inside the cave.

Startled when a spark immediately landed on the wood shavings, he scrambled to his knees and blew on the wisp of smoke, elated when a flame sprang to life. “You’re magic,” he replied, sliding the burning kindling under the woodpile. “Mi hada afortunada.”

She laughed as she came to sit beside him. “I’m too fat to be a fairy, and I wasn’t good luck for your ship.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, holding the skewered fish over the flames. “Carrying you off was the luckiest day of my life. And you’re not fat. Just voluptuous.”

“You make me feel beautiful,” she whispered.

He turned the makeshift skewer when the fish-skin began to crinkle. “You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.”

She scoffed. “That can’t be true. You must have known many beauties.”

It seemed important to hide nothing of his past from Heidi. “I was married to one. Her name was Juana.”

“You named your ship after her.”

“Sí,” he chuckled. “She wasn’t happy about that.”

Into the silence that followed, he poured out the whole story of his wife’s murder. “I try not to think of her,” he admitted. “The memories are always tinged with intense anger at the way she died.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Heidi said softly.

“She’d still be alive if I hadn’t turned to piracy.”

He expected the question before she asked, “Why did you become a pirate?”

“My island’s fortunes are intertwined with a once-mighty colonial power. As Spain’s influence and power waned in the Caribbean, life became very difficult for us. No trade meant no money, no food and a shortage of other necessities we’d become accustomed to enjoying.

“Juana was horrified when I turned to piracy, though she and her relatives gladly ate the food my thievery provided and wore garments made from the finest materials.”

“You stole to feed your family.”

“And other needy families.” Reluctant to portray himself as the hero he wasn’t, he changed the subject. “Speaking of food, the fish is cooked.” He set the skewer aside and took her hands. “You’ve endured a loveless marriage, so you’ll understand. Juana and I accepted the arrangement. It was the norm among people of our social standing.”

She nodded. “I was promised to Torsten when we were both children, but our parents were farmers.”

He wiggled the tail of the cooked fish and pulled. The skeleton came away cleanly.

“Nicely done,” she said, accepting the morsel he held to her lips.

He decided this was as good a time as any to tell her of his ancestry before he became too absorbed in feeding her. “In the sixteenth century, my family received recognition and a coat of arms from King Carlos of Aragón. My father was the son of an Aragonese nobleman, but was forced to flee after being implicated in a duel that led to the death of a prominent merchant. He settled eventually in Puerto Rico and married a woman from the island’s aristocracy.”

“Your mother.”

“Sí, María de Arellano.”

“So, you’re a nobleman who turned to piracy to feed the poor. Sounds like a story I once heard about a crusader knight in medieval England.”

“Robin Hood,” he replied.

“Ja,” she exclaimed.

“But I am not a hero, Heidi. Men have died by my hand and I’ve broken all the Commandments.”

Trust

What was a girl brought up in the Lutheran faith to make of Maximiliano’s confession? It would be foolish to think a man like him had never bedded other women, yet jealousy knotted Heidi’s insides.

But his world wasn’t the one she’d left behind in Denmark. Life in the Caribbean was based on a different moral code. She’d learned that in Sankt Thomas.

He’d admitted he was no saint, yet she recognized he was an honorable man at heart. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said.

“You and I may be marooned on this island for a long time. We’ll only survive if we trust each other.”

Heat rose in her face that had nothing to do with the fire. “I’ve let you do things...”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “I know. You’ve trusted me with your body. We’re drawn to each other.”

She stared into the flames. “But men are naturally drawn to women.”

He inhaled deeply. “Believe me, querida, I have gone for long periods of time without bedding a woman. I should be using my energies to find a way off this island. Yet, I find I’m content to stay here with you. You’ve bewitched me.”

“I feel the same,” she confessed. “My parents must be turning over in their graves, but you’ve ignited passions I never knew I was capable of.”

He stood and took her hand. “Wait until this night is over,” he said. “I promise you’ll truly know passion.”

* * *

Maximiliano chuckled at his own bravado. While it was true he’d slept with other women, not one had pronounced him the greatest lover she’d ever had. Nor had it been his ambition to garner such a reputation, unlike other pirates of his acquaintance.

Juana submitted to what she called his invasions but made no secret of not enjoying marital relations.

The intimacies he and Heidi had shared by the pool were unlike anything he’d experienced. He couldn’t explain it. She was a widow, daughter of a Danish pig farmer, a woman who’d known grief and abuse. Yet she drew him like a moth to the flame.

He’d spoken of trust and believed she trusted him. Perhaps seducing a woman he’d known only a day or two wasn’t the best way to convince her he was trustworthy, but an insistent voice in his head told him their union was meant to be.

He’d divulged things about himself he never told anyone. Was it because, deep down, he knew they might never leave the island? Rather, he sensed she would keep his secrets, no matter the circumstances. She didn’t judge him by his misdeeds. With her, he could be the honorable Maximiliano Aguero again.

This unusual woman deserved to be bedded by the world’s greatest lover, and he vowed to do his best to fulfill that role as he drew her down on the mattress.

* * *

“Shall I take off my clothes?” Heidi asked, ridiculously nervous as she sat on the mattress. She’d been married. It wasn’t the first time she’d lain with a man.

“I plan to do that,” Maximiliano replied, tracing a finger from her ankle up her skirt to her thigh. “First, these endearingly old-fashioned bloomers. Lie down.”

She obeyed, appreciative of his attempt to calm her nerves. “I brought them from Denmark.”

“I suspected as much,” he replied, kneeling beside her and reaching for the waistband. “Lift.”

She raised her hips, surrendering to the incredible sensations as he slowly peeled the bloomers off her bottom and down her legs. Alarm surged when he held the underwear to his nose, but he growled, clearly relishing her scent.

“My Heidi,” he rasped. “Now, I want to watch while you unbutton the blouse.”

He locked his gaze on her chest. With each button, desire spiraled up her thighs and into her womb. By the time the last one was unfastened, she was awash with desire.

He stayed her trembling hands and opened the blouse to reveal her breasts, raking his gaze over them before leaning forward to lick each nipple in turn.

“Again,” she murmured when he sat back on his haunches.

He nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ve only just begun.”

The World's Greatest Lover

Maximiliano got to his feet, yanked his shirt over his head and divested himself of his pantaloons before his erection ripped them apart. He inhaled deeply, hoping to calm the urge to fall on Heidi like a wild thing and ravish her.

He’d promised a memorable experience, but her lecherous smile when she set eyes on his arousal roused the beast again.

He knelt between her legs. “As you see, querida, I want you badly.”

She pulled up her skirt, opened her legs wider and curled her hand around his cock. “Come inside me,” she whispered, her eyes full of trust.

The beast egged him on.

The world’s greatest lover wanted more. He curled his arms around her thighs and lifted her woman’s place to his mouth.

Her moans of delight didn’t ease the need to take possession. Her skin heated as he lapped her salty-sweet juices. Sensing she was nearing release, he slipped one finger in and out, then two.

A long, throaty wail emerged as she clenched on his fingers. The climax tore through her body.

The beast could wait no longer. He positioned his rampant cock at her opening and thrust.

* * *

Heidi had been falling, but now she soared, lifted up to the heavens by intense pleasure. Her soul watched her body convulse with a joy she’d never known.

If only, a little voice said. She searched, not understanding, until Maximiliano filled her.

She’d expected pain, but the muscles of her sheathe wept with elation and held him fast.

She clamped her legs around his hips as he thrust, brushing her thumbs over his male nipples.

She matched his rhythm stroke for stroke, hypnotized by the muscles of his chiseled chest, the strong lines of his neck, the sinews in his arms.

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. His body went rigid as his seed flooded her womb. “Dios,” he cried before collapsing on top of her.

Her soul returned to her body and assured her she’d never been as happy as she was at that moment.

* * *

Maximiliano wanted to stay inside Heidi forever, though he’d intended to spill his seed outside her body. “I meant to withdraw,” he confessed as she traced circles on his back.

“Why?”

“We can’t risk a child,” he replied, though his heart warmed at the thought of Heidi round with his niño.

“I’m barren,” she whispered. “My husband and I wanted a child for a long time, but...”

He lifted up on his elbows, saddened by the bleakness in her eyes. If ever a woman was born to be a mother...

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it’s just as well in the circumstances.”

She nodded, pulling him back to lie atop her.

“I’m too heavy,” he protested.

“No, you’re not.”

They lay together, listening to the crackling fire. Maximiliano couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so utterly content.

He’d almost fallen asleep when smoke drifted into the cave. Heidi coughed. Predictably, his happy cock curled up at her opening. “I’ll put on more wood,” he said, getting to his feet. “We should keep it going all night.”

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” she said as he hunkered down to tend the fire.

He understood what she meant, but their situation was precarious. They’d be living from day to day. Satisfied he’d banked the remaining wood sufficiently for it to last most of the night, he returned to her side, smiling at the sight of his woman propped on her elbows—hair disheveled, skirts up around her waist, the firelight flickering on pouting breasts.

My woman.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“You look like you’ve been well bedded,” he ventured.

“That’s an understatement,” she replied with a grin.

Resisting the urge to strut about, crowing like a rooster, he stretched out beside her and took her into his arms.

“Thank goodness for the mattress,” she whispered.

He pulled down her skirt and drew the edges of her blouse together. “Do you need to put your bloomers back on?” he teased.

They laughed together until they fell asleep.

Too Soon

Raised on a large family farm, Heidi had never lingered in bed, usually rising before dawn.

When they’d first arrived in the islands, Torsten’s workday had begun early. As their marriage deteriorated, she fell into the habit of getting out of bed before her husband woke, often after a sleepless night.

Waking in the cave, she nestled closer to Maximiliano, twirling a finger in the soft hair on his chest. A myriad of thoughts swirled in her head. However, she barely knew this pirate whose lovemaking had freed her from so many bonds. It was too soon to speak of love, to tell him he’d shown her how euphoric relations between a man and a woman were meant to be. Men looked upon sexual intercourse differently. Sometimes, words spoken in haste could ruin everything. She’d learned as much from Torsten.

Maximiliano kissed the top of her head. “You’re awake.”

“Ja.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Should she tell him it was the first time in years she’d enjoyed a deep, untroubled sleep? “Very well. You?”

“Sí,” he replied huskily, placing her hand on his manhood. “But I want you again, querida.”

The warm weight of his arousal sent desire spiraling, putting paid to the fear he’d lose interest once he’d had her. Nipples tingling, she arched her back, relishing the power as his erection hardened and grew beneath her hand.

She could accept it might simply be inevitable for a man and woman marooned together to become lovers. Intimacy with Maximiliano had banished a deep seated guilt that she now saw with utter clarity had plagued her since childhood and only worsened with Torsten. He’d released the inner Heidi.

Perhaps one day she might tell the pirate who’d taken her captive that his touch had set her free. “I want you too,” she confessed, giddily happy it was the first time she’d ever said such wanton words to a man.

* * *

Maximiliano convinced himself it wasn’t a lie to say he’d slept well. He’d fallen into a deep, contented sleep after their lovemaking. In fact, he couldn’t recall sleeping so soundly for a long time.

However, it didn’t take long for the little swimmers in his balls to clamor for attention again.

He’d lain awake since dawn with Heidi in his arms, wanting her badly, but unwilling to disturb her dreams.

It was a stunning realization for a man who’d learned to temper his male urges and normally cared little for the feelings of the women he bedded.

But then, making love to Heidi had been more than just a sexual release. She’d somehow insinuated herself into his blood.

But it was too soon to speak of love. Did he even know what love was? Was it the overwhelming contentment in his heart?

His thoughts wandered as Heidi’s hand worked its magic. He’d feared she might regret their joining, but she’d admitted she wanted him.

He suckled when she contrived to hover a nipple close to his mouth, suspecting the moans deep in her throat were a sign she’d never experienced the sensual delight of being suckled. He couldn’t get enough, licking and teasing each nipple in turn until she writhed with pleasure.

She rolled onto her back and opened her legs. “Play with me,” she whispered, her eyes full of wanting—and something else that was humbling. She trusted him.

Still lavishing attention on one nipple, he parted her nether lips and found the swollen diamond of her desire. “Come for me,” he rasped, flicking his finger over the nub until she screamed out her release.

To his surprise, she pushed him back as he rose to mount her and straddled him. Her sheathe was wet and welcoming as she eased him inside her body.

“Querida,” he growled, incapable of finding the words to adequately describe his euphoria.

He put his hands on her thighs as she rode him to heaven, their eyes locked together. She cupped her breasts and squeezed her nipples, smiling seductively. Their lovemaking had unleashed a hidden passion she likely wasn’t aware she possessed. When the bounty erupted from his body, he knew he would never tire of this incredible woman.

This Changes Everything

Life fell into a pattern. They scored a mark on the wall of the cave every night before they fell asleep. A month passed quickly.

They gradually got used to the ubiquitous tiny red ants.

They dragged the mattress out into the sun every day and shook off the inevitable sand.

Their diet consisted of the fish Maximiliano had become proficient at catching. He also mastered the skill of spearing ocean fish with his dagger lashed to a long pole. They ate crabs from tidal pools and continued to harvest the plentiful fruits and fallen coconuts. They roasted breadfruit. Heidi expected to lose weight, but it was a forlorn hope, and Maximiliano insisted he loved her curves.

He began an effort to make a raft from odd pieces of wood salvaged from the wreck, but it was difficult without tools and nails, and she often had to use the needle to remove splinters from his hands.

He lashed random planks together with plaited vines and rope from the ship but wasn’t confident such a flimsy craft would hold together in the open sea.

After one particularly violent storm that kept them confined to the cave for an entire day, they discovered the battered wreck of the Juana had completely disappeared, dragged off the rocks by the tidal surge.

They stood hand in hand on the beach, scanning the horizon for any sign of the vessel. For Heidi it was an unsettling event, but she knew the ship’s demise meant much more to Maximiliano. The set of his jaw betrayed his turmoil, and she had no words to console him.

He climbed the mountain once a week, always returning with the same news—nothing as far as the eye could see.

They swam naked in their pool every day. Heidi lost her fear of the water and learned to swim a few strokes. Eventually, Maximiliano coaxed her to hold her breath underwater.

He carried water from the pool for her to wash what little clothing they had.

They made love often, sometimes slowly, languidly, other times frenziedly, with great passion. Maximiliano found ways to carry her to new heights. She became bolder, even taking him into her mouth.

They took to wearing less clothing in the tropical heat. Heidi cut her skirt short and went about topless most of the time. She fashioned a loincloth for Maximiliano from the fabric of her skirt. Bare feet became the norm. The sun darkened his bronzed skin; his beard grew until he finally allowed her to trim it with his dagger.

Her fear they would never leave the island ebbed away. She was happier than she’d ever been, living in paradise with a man she adored.

She sensed contentment in him too. Perhaps, he’d found his haven from the international navies that hunted him.

They shared memories of very different childhoods. She recounted Danish folktales; he told hair-raising stories of narrow escapes from Spanish navy ships and British gunboats.

They piled wood on the beach to serve as a signal fire in the event of a passing ship. In the early days, Maximiliano religiously repaired damage done by wind and waves, but gradually seemed to lose interest in maintaining the beacon.

* * *

“Do you get bored here alone with just me for company?” Heidi asked one night as they lay sated in each other’s arms.

Maximiliano had worried he might tire of Heidi; he’d never committed to anyone since his wife’s death, and his vows to Juana had been uttered mechanically. However, he couldn’t imagine life without his Danish castaway. His body reveled in the sexual delights they shared, and he enjoyed her company. Her smile brightened his days, her sense of humor kept him entertained. She was in his blood, and he would never tire of her.

But he decided to tease. “Let me see,” he mused. “Do I miss dealing with members of my family in Puerto Rico who prosper through bribery and corruption, but who looked down on me because I am a pirate?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Do I miss my malodorous crew?”

“Probably,” she conceded.

“They were loyal,” he agreed, nibbling her earlobe. “I hope they managed to start new lives somewhere. But I prefer your company. You smell better.”

“Maybe they are still wondering what became of the Juana.”

“At least they knew where they were. I still have no idea of our location. If I had Gatito’s telescope...”

“Do you care if we are rescued or not?” she whispered, her fingertips tracing the line of hair from his chest to his belly.

It was a question he’d often asked himself, but she was edging close enough to his cock to make him lose his concentration.

* * *

By the end of the second month, Heidi was concerned. She hadn’t had her monthly flow since arriving on the island and feared she had fallen ill, especially when the retching began.

Living at close quarters, it was impossible to hide her malady from Maximiliano. One morning, after a week of scurrying off to the rocks, she returned to the beach and sat beside him, still feeling too queasy to eat the guava he’d sliced up to break their fast. “It must be something in our diet that doesn’t agree with me,” she told him. “It will pass by this afternoon.”

He eyed her curiously. “I notice you’re only sick in the morning.”

“Ja.”

“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “but, since we’ve been together, you’ve never begged off for...er...female reasons.”

She was hesitant to tell him she thought she had contracted a terrible tropical disease. “I believe the shock of being marooned has interrupted...” She frowned when he laughed. “Don’t mock me,” she cried. “I think I am dying.”

He put a hand on her belly. “You’re not dying, querida, just pregnant.”

She shook her head vehemently. “It’s impossible. I’m barren. Torsten and I...”

He smiled. “Perhaps he was the problem.”

She blinked away unbidden tears. Was it possible she was carrying a child? For years, she had longed for a family, but she’d assured Maximiliano she was barren and, as a result, they’d taken no precautions. She squealed when he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her.

“I have always wanted a son,” he declared, his voice cracking with emotion. “And you will be a wonderful mother. But this changes everything.”

Grief and uncertainty tightened her throat, until he grinned. “No child of mine will be born a bastard. Will you wed with me, Heidi Jakobsen?”

All That I Am

Getting his boots on was more difficult than Maximiliano anticipated. “My feet must have grown,” he complained to Heidi as he lay on the mattress with one foot in the air, pulling on the stubborn leather.

“It’s more likely the boots have shrunk,” she replied, “and we can get married without footwear.”

“Absolutely not,” he insisted. “We are going to do this properly.”

“I look silly with my short skirt and sensible Danish shoes,” she complained.

He winked. “But the button-up blouse is perfect for a bride.”

He stood, walked out of the cave, then back inside. “Not too bad,” he said, reluctant to admit the boots pinched his toes. “Do I look presentable?”

She laughed. “I like you better naked, but I suppose on his wedding day, a man must look his best.”

He cupped her face. “I was married before, but this is the most important day of my life, so, sí, I’d prefer to be clothed.”

Tears welled. “But it’s only for the babe.”

He shook his head. “You cannot believe that. You are my life, Heidi. I suppose I have thought of you as my wife for a long while.”

He took her hand and led her to their pool. He looked into her eyes as they stood face to face in the warm sunshine.

“I, Maximiliano de Aguero y de Monzón, promise to cherish, protect and honor you as my wife all the days of my life. You have given me hope and joy and made me a better man. Without you, I am nothing. I want to be your husband, lover, friend and confidant. You are my breath, my every heartbeat. I have no ring to give, only my love. Te amo, querida.”

* * *

Heidi inhaled deeply. Tears threatened, but she was determined to speak her vows with as much nobility as Maximiliano.

“I, Heidi Jakobsen, promise to love, honor and obey you as my husband. You know me better than anyone else in the world, yet you still love me. I vow to be honest, caring and truthful. All that I have, all that I am, all I will ever be is yours forever. Te amo. Jeg elsker dig.”

“Jeg elsker dig,” he repeated, putting his arms around her waist.

“Godt,” she exclaimed, impressed with his attempt at her language.

“I want to learn more Danish,” he replied.

“I’ll teach you.”

He bent to kiss her belly. “And my babe.”

“Ja,” she whispered, elated he cared passionately about their child, but worried about the babe’s future.

“How do you say honeymoon in Danish?” he asked.

“Bryllupsrejse.”

It took him three attempts to get it almost right.

“Take off your wedding finery,” he said at last. “We are going to spend our bryllupsrejse in our private pool.”

* * *

Maximiliano and Heidi clung to each other in the warm water.

He had everything a man could ever want—a beautiful wife he loved, the carefree life he’d longed for, a child on the way. There was no reason they couldn’t eventually construct a more suitable dwelling than the cave—except one.

Their paradise wasn’t the place to raise a child. Given their passion for each other, it was likely they’d sire a sizable brood. His offspring would have no future, no opportunity to see the world, to meet a mate, have families of their own. Life beyond the island could be brutal, but their children had a right to make their own choices.

He stroked Heidi’s hair, reluctant to spoil the happiness of the day. “We have to find a way to leave the island.”

She tensed in his arms. “But you’re safe here.”

He understood her fear. It lay like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. A return to the outside world carried with it the danger of arrest and a trial that would undoubtedly end with his execution. “We’ve survived here so far,” he said softly, “but what can the island offer our son or daughter?”

“I wish I’d never fallen pregnant,” she murmured.

“That’s not true, querida. You were born to be a mother, and you know deep down I am right.”

She sobbed quietly for long minutes, before leaning her forehead against his chest. “I’m afraid.”

“As am I,” he confessed.

Miscalculation

Maximiliano worked tirelessly to fashion a raft.

As Heidi’s belly began to swell, he forbade her participation in the work. Her morning sickness abated, but dread knotted her innards. The babe she carried had changed their idyllic life completely. Their lovemaking now was bittersweet, tinged with a sense of foreboding that soon, soon...

She had vivid nightmares—Maximiliano being hauled to the scaffold, his hands and feet manacled.

He rocked her when she cried. Guilt assailed her. He must be as afraid of the future as she was, yet he never spoke of the consequences of rescue or escape.

Instead, he held her in his arms every night and mused about their babe growing up to be a doctor, or lawyer, or anything but a pirate.

They talked of the countries where they might find refuge if Fate smiled on them. She had little appetite for returning to Denmark, but suggested they converse only in Danish. “Then you can pass for a Dane when we are rescued.”

He laughed. “Do I look like a Dane?”

But he humored her and agreed, nodding thoughtfully when she dug out his sack of loot and found Danish company currency from San Tomás. “See,” she declared triumphantly, clinging to the sliver of hope. “You could be Torsten.”

“Not if we encounter a Danish ship,” he replied.

As the days grew shorter, he climbed the mountain more frequently, returning one day in a state of excitement. “I’m confused,” he said breathlessly. “The marine layer has cleared and I think I see land in the far distance.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.

“But I expected to see something to the north, not the south. Clearly, we’re not where I thought we were.”

* * *

“Find the needle we used,” Maximiliano told Heidi. “I must make sure of our bearings.”

He followed her to the cave, discounting the thousand-and-one navigational theories that had swirled in his mind since they’d been marooned. A large land mass to the south hadn’t factored into his calculations. They were evidently further south than he’d thought. The hotter temperatures and the position of the stars should have been a clue, but he’d always relied on Gatito for navigating.

Heidi handed him the slightly rusty needle. “You seem excited,” she said.

He nodded. “If I did see land to the south, our raft might make it there on a calm day.”

“Is it Puerto Rico, do you think?” she asked.

He shook his head, reluctant to get her hopes up.

He scraped the rust off the needle on a stone just outside the cave. They took it down to the rocks, magnetized it again on Heidi’s hair and sat it in a floating leaf.

“It’s the same as you told me before,” she whispered. “What country do you think is to the south?”

She had a right to know. “I think the large land mass is Venezuela. However, between us and them are the Dutch islands.”

He anticipated her puzzled frown. “Either is better than Puerto Rico,” he explained. “It’s unlikely anyone will recognize me in those places.”

“Could you pass as a Dane?”

“I’ve not been there, so I don’t know, but Venezuela is part of Gran Colombia. Their navy is probably aware of Lázaro the Pirate, though I’ve never taken one of their ships. I speak a little Dutch.”

* * *

“Are you certain it’s Venezuela?” Heidi asked for the hundredth time as Maximiliano secured the rope that bound her to the raft. She hated the fear in her voice and hoped he knew she trusted him.

“As certain as I can be,” he replied patiently. “The coastline has become clearer in the week since I first saw it, and the sea is as calm today as it’s ever likely to be.”

They’d pushed the raft into the shallows and lashed her portmanteau to the flimsy craft. The pistols, his boots and meager provisions had been stuffed into her bag.

“The first part will be the roughest,” he told her, “but once we’re past the reef, the outgoing tide will be with us.”

She’d wanted to help him force the raft through the waves breaking on shore, but he’d insisted she be tied to the craft.

He knelt in the sand. “I’m not a religious man,” he said. “But I pray God will protect you and my niño. Never forget I love you.”

She couldn’t stop the tears. “As I love you.”

He rose and pushed the raft into the waves.

She clawed the rope, quickly drenched by the spray as the surf did its utmost to batter the raft back to the island. She could barely see her husband, but prayed his incredible strength and determination would see them through.

Dolphins

Maximiliano gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain of the coral lacerating his feet as he summoned all his strength to conquer the power of the surf. He was on the point of surrendering when the raft suddenly surged forward to bob on calm waves.

“We made it,” Heidi exclaimed as she helped him crawl aboard.

He sat cross-legged and used his dagger to cut loose the makeshift oar he’d fashioned. “I must row,” he panted. “We could still be pulled back.”

“But your feet,” she cried.

He came to his knees, dipped the oar and pulled. “The salt will stop the bleeding.”

He estimated he’d paddled more than a mile when the fire in his biceps forced him to rest.

They looked back at the island—now a blurred line on the near horizon—then at each other. Neither spoke. No words were needed.

Still gulping air, he set his sights on the dark landmass he hoped was Venezuela. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Not seasick?”

She shook her head, smiling weakly. “Your raft is well made.”

“So far, so good,” he agreed, taking up the oar once more.

* * *

Heidi eased the oar from Maximiliano’s grip when he slumped forward on all fours then collapsed onto the raft, completely exhausted.

He’d been paddling for hours, yet the coastline seemed no closer. If she didn’t take a turn, they would start to drift. They’d brought as much food and water as they could safely load onto the raft, but not enough to last for days on end.

Rising to her knees, she plied the oar for a long while until she feared her back might break. She sat, dismayed her attempts were getting them nowhere. When Maximiliano rolled over and blinked, she set aside the oar and offered the canteen. He sat up and sipped slowly.

“Venezuela doesn’t seem any closer,” she rasped, her throat as dry as dust.

He handed her the canteen. “Drink.”

She shook her head. “I can wait.”

“But the babe can’t,” he insisted, cocking his head. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

She shook her head. “What?”

“Dolphins, talking to each other.”

She frowned, unable to hear anything except the wind. Seconds later, they were surrounded by the sleek sea creatures leaping from the water. “It does sound like they’re communicating,” she agreed with a smile. “I’ve never seen dolphins before.”

He took up the oar. “It’s a good omen.”

The dolphins chattered their encouragement, escorting them for a long while as they resumed their slow progress. Then, just as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone, leaving behind an eerie silence.

Awed by the beautiful scene they’d witnessed, she touched her husband’s shoulder. “If we don’t make it to land, I want you to know I’ve been happier in the short time I’ve been with you than ever before in my life.”

He laid his hand atop hers. “Don’t despair, querida, we’ll...”

She gripped the rope when he got to his feet, making the raft lurch alarmingly.

“A ship,” he declared, shading his eyes against the sun. “Coming this way.”

* * *

Maximiliano had no choice. He waved his arms above his head, hoping and praying it wasn’t the Union Jack flying atop the mast of the approaching vessel. If it was a British ship, he’d probably be recognized and arrested, but at least Heidi and the babe would be safe.

“Do they see us?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he replied, his spirits sinking when the ship changed course, but then she tacked and made straight for them. “Now, he does,” he said, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Can you make out the flag?”

He waited until the vessel had dropped anchor and he was certain. “The Dutch Jack.”

They clung to each other, watching the approach of the rowboat lowered by the galley. When it came alongside the raft, he was relieved to see the sailors wore the uniform of the Dutch navy. “Not pirates,” he told Heidi with a grin as he sliced through the rope binding her to the flimsy craft.

“Godt,” she replied. “Remember you’re Danish.”

“Ja.”

Two sailors held out their arms for Heidi, one of them saying something in Dutch as they helped her into their boat.

“They are telling you to be careful,” Maximiliano explained. “Dansk,” he told the sailors. “Wij zijn Deens.”

He freed the portmanteau and passed it to the rescuers, then accepted their help to board the rowboat. “Dank je,” he said in heavily accented Dutch, drawing Heidi closer as the sailors began the short journey back to the galley.

He took a last look at the waterlogged raft, doubting it would have carried them much further.

Gone For Good

Heidi shivered, despite the heavy blanket around her shoulders. “I’m nervous,” she admitted to Maximiliano who sat beside her in the captain’s cabin.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “By now they’ll have examined everything in your luggage. The pink bloomers alone will convince the captain you’re Danish.”

Despite his attempt to ease her worries, his body tensed when the Dutch captain entered the cabin accompanied by two sailors.

“Spreek je Nederlands?” he asked. “Engels?”

She breathed again. Clearly, the Nederlander didn’t speak Danish.

“English, a little,” Maximiliano replied.

“You say you are Danes,” the captain said in perfect English.

“We are Torsten and Heidi Jakobsen from Sankt Thomas,” Maximiliano replied in the same language, with a heavy Danish accent. “I worked for the Danish West India Company.”

“The reason for the brand on the pistol.”

“The company issued the weapon for protection in case of slave revolts.”

“And why did you decide to leave the Danish island?”

“I lost my job.”

The Nederlander nodded. “The downturn in the sugar trade.”

Maximiliano soldiered on. “We were aboard the Hekla when she was attacked by pirates near Culebra.”

Heidi took the captain’s thoughtful nod as a sign their story was credible, but her throat tightened when the Dutchman said, “I understand it was the infamous Lázaro who captured the Hekla.”

“Ja,” Maximiliano replied without hesitation. “He took us prisoner aboard his boat, but it was wrecked by the hurricane and we were marooned on an uninhabited island.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Ja. No other survivors.”

“You were lucky.”

“Thanks be to God,” Maximiliano said. “My wife is pregnant and our Savior was watching over her.”

Heidi struggled not to laugh at her husband’s pious tone, but her nervousness returned when one of the sailors handed Maximiliano’s fancy pistol to his captain.

“And how did you get this fine weapon?”

“Found it in the wreck.”

A long silence followed. The captain stroked his pointed beard, clearly deciding whether to believe her husband.

“We have money to pay for our passage,” Maximiliano said. “And I have some knowledge of sailing. You can put me to work.”

The captain shrugged. “We found the Danish money from San Tomás in your luggage. It is of no value to us.” He continued to examine the pistol. “This brass-work and the filigree is exquisite Spanish workmanship.”

“Keep it,” Maximiliano replied. “As a small token of our gratitude for rescuing us.”

The captain smiled for the first time, but then asked, “And who is Roland Stephenson?”

Heidi took a deep breath. “We were traveling with him to New York. He was an American sugar magnate who married my aunt.”

“Was?”

“He died on board the Hekla,” she explained with as much sorrow as she could muster.

“Condolences,” came the reply. “But you are in luck. We are bound for New York. You can return his pocket watch to his widow. No doubt it will mean a lot to her.”

She accepted the engraved gold watch he held out, careful not to look at Maximiliano lest her sorrowful demeanor crack.

“We can all be glad Lázaro is gone for good,” the captain declared.

“Ja,” Maximiliano agreed. “He won’t rise from the dead this time.”

Epilogue

New York, eight months later

Standing by the font, Maximiliano watched with pride as Heidi placed their wide-eyed son in the nervous priest’s clumsy hands.

The words of the Latin rite came back to him as if fifteen years hadn’t passed since the last time he’d been in a church.

Predictably, his son squirmed as the elderly priest poured the holy water over his forehead.

“Orlandus Stephenson de Aguero y Monzón, te baptizo in nomine Patri et Filii et spiritus Sancti.”

Orlando cooed, eliciting indulgent smiles from his parents and godparents.

Maximiliano thanked the priest when the ceremony was over. Heidi bundled the babe up in several blankets and they made their way to the door of the church.

Maximiliano braced himself for the blast of frigid air that greeted them as they stepped out of St. Peter’s. Heidi’s Danish blood had adapted well to the New York winter, but he doubted he would ever get used to the cold.

He helped his wife and son board her aunt’s comfortable enclosed carriage, then turned to assist his aunt-by-marriage. Her husband climbed to sit beside the driver for the short ride home. When everyone was settled, Maximiliano took his own seat across from his wife, tucking a warm blanket around her legs.

“Thank you, Tante,” Heidi said as they set off for her aunt and uncle’s house. “The historic church was a wonderful setting for the baptism.”

Margit Andersen beamed at her grand-nephew. “My pleasure. The bishop is an old friend.”

Maximiliano and Heidi smiled contentedly at each other when the movement of the carriage lulled Orlando to sleep.

Nanny Birgit took brisk charge of the babe once they arrived at the Noho mansion whose grandeur had been a surprise to Heidi when they first arrived. She’d had no idea her aunt had married a very wealthy man.

Butler Freddy relieved them of their winter garments and boots.

“Our guests arrive in an hour,” Margit reminded them primly.

Maximiliano wiggled his eyebrows. “Time for a nap, wife?”

They peeked in the nursery where Orlando lay fast asleep in his crib under Nanny’s watchful eye, then retired to their ornate bedroom.

“That went well,” Heidi said as they helped each other disrobe then climbed into bed.

“I was proud of you, and my son,” he replied, gathering her into his arms under the fine cotton sheets.

They were more than grateful for the Andersens’ help. Heidi’s relatives had welcomed them with open arms and no questions asked. Margit assured them she considered it a blessing from God to be able to take care of her dear departed sister’s only daughter. Soon after their arrival, she had organized a ceremony to solemnize their wedding vows and arranged the best of care for Orlando’s birth. The long-lost relatives had subsequently been introduced to a circle of well-to-do friends. They’d met such influential people as Washington Irving, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Johann Jakob Astor, all of whom were scheduled to attend the evening’s reception in honor of Orlando’s christening.

Upon learning Maximiliano had extensive seafaring experience, Astor had offered him the captaincy of one of his vessels. A hearty endorsement of his sailing skills from the Dutch captain had also impressed Astor.

“They’d all faint dead away if they knew they were celebrating the baptism of a pirate’s son,” Maximiliano quipped. However, he had to admit it felt good to be once more accepted into polite society, though he’d resisted Margit’s suggestion he shorten his name to Max.

“Not so foreign-sounding,” she often reminded him.

He kept her at bay with the tale of King Carlos and the family’s coat of arms, which he was sure she’d boasted of to her friends.

“I expect we’ll be asked more than once how we chose our son’s name,” Heidi said.

“And, of course,” Maximiliano chuckled, “we cannot tell them the sale of Roland Stephenson’s gold watch provided us with the funds to survive those first few days in New York until we found your aunt.”

“Now we have the luxury of a bathtub big enough for both of us, and real soap.”

“And no sand and no ants.”

“I love the fine clothing and all the other luxuries my aunt insists on buying for both of us, but sometimes I miss the freedom we had on the island.”

They lay together in silence, remembering.

“You could always go topless here in our own chamber,” he suggested with a smile.

“And you could wear a loincloth,” she countered, tracing a finger down his belly. “I know you miss the tropical sun.”

“And the endless blue sky,” he agreed, placing her hand firmly on the pleasant erection her touch never failed to arouse. “But it is too dangerous to think about Florida. We’ll find a warmer place, eventually.”

“So, Max, Upper Canada is out of the question?” she teased.

“Danish minx,” he replied.

He licked a nipple and they began the slow climb to mutual release.

About Anna Markland

Anna’s interest in genealogy blossomed into the creation of steamy romances about family honor, roots and ancestry. She is a firm believer in love at first sight. Her heroes and heroines may initially deny the attraction between them, but eventually the alchemy wins out.

Her novels are intimate stories filled with passion, intrigue, adventure and suspense.

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The Pleasure of a Pirate

by Linda Rae Sande

A Masked Ball

Lord Weatherstone’s mansion, Mayfair, 1819

Doing his best not to gawk at those who made up the crush of Lord Weatherstone’s masked ball, Blake Russell stood near the refreshment table and drank a glass of champagne. Not used to the fizzy drink, he was pondering how he might surreptitiously replace it with brandy when the orchestra launched into the second dance set of the night.

He glanced around, wondering if he should ask one of the young women to dance. There were a half-dozen of them lined up along one wall, all dressed in gowns of white and wearing masks that barely covered their faces.

All except for one young lady.

She wore a gilded mask that covered all but her bright red lips and square chin. Brown hair, piled high atop her head in a riot of curls, seemed dusted with glitter, for it shined bright under the ballroom’s candlelight. Her gown, a pink frock topped with a white pinafore, suggested she had raided her lady’s maid’s grandmother’s trunk in an effort to look like Little Bo Peep.

Although the gown was doing its best to contain her generous bosom and excelled at highlighting her slim waist, Blake thought her feminine charms would topple out should she lean forward too much. As for her hips, there was really no way to know if they were wide or not since the sides of her gown were supported by small panniers.

Or perhaps those were her hips, and she really did have a figure best likened to that of an hourglass.

Blake felt a stirring in his groin at the thought of bedding such a creature, and he groaned in despair. He had been far too long without a woman, and with his ship due to sail on the morrow, this ball would be his last entertainment for at least a month.

And his last land-based assignment for the Foreign Office before he resumed his regular posting.

Locate Lord Dorchester and watch his every move. Report in the morning before the Molly sets sail.

When Blake had agreed to take over the captaincy of the Molly, he had done so knowing he would have to pretend to be a pirate on occasion. He didn’t know he might have to take on other guises when he was on dry land.

If this hadn’t been a masked ball, Blake knew someone else would have had this assignment. He couldn’t pass for a member of the peerage—or even a gentleman, for that matter—if he wasn’t wearing a mask and the clothes he wore when he was playing a pirate.

He had almost argued with Lord Chamberlain when he was given the assignment. The head of the Foreign Office, the viscount seemed to think it a lark that Blake was still in London and could see to this quick assignment.

Attend for the experience, Lord Chamberlain had said. If you don’t know anyone, just watch from the sidelines and take note on how everyone else behaves. If you spot Dorchester, stay close. He’s spread some vowels about town, his barony is broke, and there’s talk he may attempt a robbery and fence the goods or perhaps leave the country with them. If he does the latter, you will have to go after him.

At first, Blake had thought it unlikely anyone would attempt to knick something of value during a ball. Now that he’d had a chance to study the layout of Lord Weatherstone’s mansion, he understood how it could be done.

Weatherstone’s library was filled with small treasures from his travels. The desk in the study featured a solid gold quill pen. Lady Weatherstone’s jewel box was in plain sight atop her dressing table. The parlor was decorated with all manner of expensive trinkets.

There were larger artifacts, of course, but it was unlikely the baron would attempt to lift a caryatid or the jewel-encrusted globe from the library.

Figuring out which gentleman was Dorchester was easy—the butler had announced him upon his arrival in the ballroom. Although the man had come in with a mask in hand, he hadn’t put it on until the first dance was well underway.

Blake guessed the baron would have a dance partner for the second set, but Dorchester instead seemed to confer with a number of gentlemen before wandering off toward the supper room.

Following at a safe distance, Blake made sure to head straight for the tray of lobster patties once he was in the opulent room. If the baron was truly in dire straights as to his purse, it was likely he would opt for the more expensive foods at the other end of the table. He’d probably been living on the same fare as his servants, which meant crustaceans for most meals.

Downing part of his lobster patty, Blake dared a glance in the baron’s direction, noting how the man was filling a plate with ham, roast beef and lamb.

Supposition confirmed.

Now he just had to keep an eye on the baron until the end of the ball. Which turned out to be easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Dorchester finished his meal and returned to the ballroom, which had grown far more crowded. Blake lost sight of the baron several times, but when he confirmed the man was dancing with one of the white-gowned young ladies, he made his way to the buxom Little Bo Peep he had noticed earlier.

“We seem to be the only ones in costumes from the prior century,” he remarked.

Behind the mask, the girl’s eyes widened. “We are?” she asked as she looked to her left and right, as if she thought he might have directed his query to someone else.

“Aye, milady,” he replied, using his best pirate voice. “Blake’s my name, and pirating is my game. And who might you be?” He knew it was entirely inappropriate to introduce himself to a young lady, but there was no one around to do the honors. Apparently, her chaperone was dancing.

A giggle escaped the young woman before she said, “Barbara. Miss Barbara Wycliff,” she said, emphasizing the ‘Miss’. “But for tonight, I am Bo Beep.”

Blake blinked. He had guessed correctly as to her costume. He glanced around. “You seem to have lost your sheep,” he replied.

“Indeed. And my lady’s maid. She’s already been asked to dance.”

“Then may I have this dance?”

The bright red lips split into a huge smile. “Yes, yes of course,” she gushed. She placed her hand on his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her to where couples were lining up for an English country dance. They had barely taken their places when the orchestra played the opening strains, and they were off and performing the spirited dance.

From his perspective in the line, Blake was able to keep an eye on Dorchester, who was just a few men down the line from him.

When his partner was within hearing range, he asked, “Which one is your lady’s maid?” The comment about her lady’s maid hadn’t seemed odd when she first mentioned it—the maid was no doubt acting as her chaperone—but now that he had noticed all those on the dance floor were young, he had his doubts.

“Third one down on the right,” Barbara replied. “Dancing with the tall gentleman,” she added, obviously admiring the man Blake knew to be Lord Dorchester. “I wouldn’t have invited her to attend with me, but it is a masked ball, and who would know she’s a maid?” she commented.

Blake was about to admit he wasn’t a member of the peerage, but thought better of it. The name ‘Wycliff’ had just made its way to his addled brain. “I should think the daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff would be allowed any companion she wished for this ball,” he replied, hoping he had guessed correctly.

Barbara’s eyes widened behind the mask. “So you won’t tell anyone? About my lady’s maid, I mean?”

Blake blinked behind his own mask. “I’m a pirate. I shan’t tell a soul.”

She grinned and was on to the next partner before she could respond. When they were once again paired, she asked, “Where do you live, Mr. Blake?”

He was tempted to mention Picadilly—he kept an apartment there for the periods of leave he was in London—but instead he said, “On my ship. The Molly.”

She giggled again, the musical sound causing an unusual reaction in his nether region.

What was it about Miss Barbara Wycliff that had his body behaving as if she were some doxy he had hired for the night? She was a lady! A miss, really, since her father wasn’t a member of Parliament. He was only a commoner, as was she.

But he was wealthy.

“You think I’m jesting?” he teased. “Where do you live?”

Barbara had to delay her response when she was sent whirling from his hold to the man next to him. When they finally rejoined in the dance, she said, “Mayfair. Here in Park Lane.”

Blake nodded his understanding. She was the daughter of a baronet. Entirely out of his league. Which he would have been glad to accept, except...

He wasn’t.

When the dance came to an end, and she was once again facing him, he leaned down. His lips covered hers in a quick kiss before they moved lower and kissed the back of her silk-gloved hand.

Entirely inappropriate. Very scandalous. Unforgivable.

Except no one seemed to notice but her.

She was staring up at him with the oddest expression before she was whisked away by another gentleman for the next dance.

Blake stood staring at where she’d been standing for several seconds, his attempt to get his body under control failing miserably.

What the hell had just happened?

He glanced around, sure Sir Peter was about to pummel him into the dance floor. He’d just kissed the baronet’s daughter in front of everyone at a ton ball.

But no one seemed to have noticed.

Couples were lining up for the next dance, though, acting as if he wasn’t even there.

Blake wandered in a daze until he was in the area where the wallflowers were gathered. A few dared glances in his direction, as if they hoped he might honor them with a dance.

He was just about to oblige one of them when he remembered the reason he was there.

Dorchester.

He cursed under his breath, and his gaze scanned the dance floor. When he didn’t spot Dorchester among those performing the spirited Scottish reel, he headed out the nearest ballroom door and hurried through the wide halls, glancing left and right in the event the baron might have ducked into a nearby room.

When Blake didn’t find him in the library or the study—he had to apologize profusely for having interrupted a liaison between the Marquess and Marchioness of Morganfield—he returned to the ballroom.

Thinking perhaps Dorchester might be in the gardens, he made his way to the back of the ballroom and out the French doors. From the flags leading to the famous Weatherstone gardens, Blake searched for the baron. Given the number of couples engaged in all manner of naughty behavior—and the number of alcoves in the hedges in which they could engage in naughty behavior—it took him some time to determine that Lord Dorchester was not among them.

He felt relief when he realized Little Bo Peep wasn’t, either.

Back in the ballroom, he heaved a sigh of relief at finding Little Bo Beep dancing.

He groaned when he saw it was with Lord Dorchester.

How had he lost track of them?

Watching from the sidelines, he wondered at his reaction. What was it about Miss Barbara Wycliff that had him feeling so possessive? As if he had been the first one to find her, so he thought only he should be entitled to dance with her? To covet her? To expect that he would be the only one allowed to kiss her?

“Thank the gods a waltz is next,” a gentleman to his right said, although not necessarily to Blake.

“Followed by a trip to the supper room,” a man wearing a jester’s hat and mask said to his left. “Lord Weatherstone’s spreads are always the best.”

“Agreed. In fact, I may skip the waltz and go eat,” the first man said.

Blake blinked as both men left his company and headed for the supper room.

When the dance set ended and Bo Beep bowed to Lord Dorchester, Blake moved in and lifted her hand to his arm.

“Blake!” she said with a huge smile.

The baron’s brows furrowed, but he made no complaint and instead stepped back. “I will come for you at two o’clock in the afternoon, my lady,” he said before bowing and then giving Blake a dagger-filled look.

Blake ignored the baron’s expression and turned his attention on Barbara. “Will you waltz with me?”

Her eyes widened behind the mask. “I’ve never danced a waltz,” she said with a shake of her head.

Determined to have her company for the next half-hour, Blake allowed a shrug. “It’s an easy dance to learn. I will teach you,” he said, just as the opening strains of the dance began. “Follow my lead.”

Barbara gave him an uncertain glance but did as she was told, placing a white-gloved hand on his shoulder and allowing him to support her other with his upraised hand. A few steps into the dance, and she was soon performing the simple routine.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he said as he led them into the circle of other dancers.

“Only because you’re such a strong lead,” she argued.

“Your costume is perfection. Even without the sheep.”

“I almost brought my sheepdog, but I didn’t think he would do well in such a crush,” she replied. “Lord Weatherstone might have banished him to the gardens.”

Blake grinned. “He would have us all herded onto the dance floor.” He glanced around, realizing nearly everyone was dancing. “Much like this waltz seems to have done.” Upon his next turn, though, he noticed Dorchester glaring at him from where he stood against a wall. “How well do you know Lord Dorchester?”

Barbara seemed to have difficulty with her next few steps before she recovered. “I do not. At least, I had not met him before this evening,” she amended.

Frowning, Blake dared another glance in the baron’s direction. “And yet he is coming for you at two o’clock?” he countered.

“For a ride in the park, yes,” Barbara acknowledged. “I receive so few offers, I feel as if I really must accept every one that comes my way.”

Blake nearly lost his place in the dance. “Surely you jest,” he countered. “And if you do not—”

“I do not.”

“—Then please reconsider his invitation. He is under investigation by the very highest of authorities here in England,” Blake said in a hoarse whisper. “Your virtue could be at risk.”

He watched as her eyes widened behind the mask, almost as if she wanted her virtue to be at risk.

Damnation!

“Surely he cannot be all bad,” she replied, her manner suggesting she thought Blake was teasing her.

Blake dared another glance in Lord Dorchester’s direction. “Perhaps not all,” he agreed, noting how the wallflowers had begun fluttering their fans in the baron’s direction. Dorchester looked miserable.

Finding he couldn’t feel the least bit sorry for Dorchester, though, Blake turned his attention back on his dance partner. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

She nodded. “I am, thanks to you,” she replied as her gaze settled on her lady’s maid. The young woman was engaged in a rather spirited conversation with Lord Dorchester, almost as if she were scolding the baron. “And you?”

Blake allowed a huge smile. “Likewise. Perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the supper when this dance has ended?”

Barbara’s face seemed to fall. “I have already told Lord Dorchester he may have that honor,” she said in a most apologetic tone. “Perhaps at the next ball?”

Trying hard to hide his disappointment, Blake finally gave a shake of his head. “I must depart for the Channel in the morning,” he replied. “A matter of national security.”

Her eyes once again widening behind the mask, Barbara was about to ask for more information when the music ended and Lord Dorchester appeared at her elbow.

“My lady?” he said before he whisked her off in the direction of the supper room, not giving Blake a chance to even bow to Little Bo Peep.

Blake bristled at losing his grip on the baronet’s daughter. She had been so easy to speak with. So easy to dance with. He had already decided she probably wasn’t easy on the eyes—otherwise, why would she have worn a mask that nearly covered her entire face?—but her delectable body and engaging company more than made up for any deficiencies she might have in appearance.

Watching as Lord Dorchester led the lust of his life into the supper room, Blake took up a position just outside the arched doorway, determined to intercept Bo Peep when she moved to leave. Perhaps he could secure permission to send a letter whilst on his next mission.

Permission to pay a call on her when he returned to London.

Whenever the Molly returned to Wapping, which wouldn’t be until his crew had located and arrested the French privateer who was apparently flooding Suffolk with illegal brandy wine.

Blake hung around the refreshment table for a time, his gaze trained on the entrance to the supper room. He spotted a number of familiar aristocrats helping themselves to the aspic and Yorkshire pudding, to the strawberries and sliced beef. Although his stomach grumbled, he resisted the urge to join them lest he miss Barbara taking her leave of the supper room.

When the orchestra played the opening strains of the next dance, several couples emerged from the supper room followed by a tidal wave of aristocrats.

At no point did he see Barbara. Nor did he see Lord Dorchester or even Barbara’s lady’s maid leave the supper room.

Sure the room was nearly empty, Blake made his way in and searched in vain. No Barbara. No Dorchester. No lady’s maid.

He frowned, noting there were two other exits out of the supper room, although both led to the same hallway. He glanced up and down the hall, a hint of panic gripping him when he didn’t spy his prey strolling the Aubusson carpet lining the hall.

Thinking Little Bo Peep might have gone to the gardens for air, he went back out and discovered a similar situation to what he had seen earlier—but no Barbara. No Dorchester.

Back in the ballroom, his gaze scanned the crowd.

His search for Barbara Wycliff proved futile.

Even her lady’s maid was no longer in the ballroom.

The retiring room, perhaps?

Daring a glance in and hearing only gasps of protest, he quickly closed the door and heaved a sigh of frustration.

Even Dorchester seemed to have gone missing.

Disgusted by his failure to keep tabs on his Bo Peep and Lord Dorchester, Blake took his leave of Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.

Just in time to see Lord Dorchester’s coach pull away from the curb and head out at a rather unsafe speed. A second later, and Sir Peter Wycliff’s town coach followed.

What the hell?

Hailing a hackney proved easier than he expected, but given the other coaches’ head starts, Blake’s driver was unable to determine the direction they might have taken once they had reached Oxford Street.

Angry at himself for having lost his prey—and Little Bo Peep—Blake had the driver take him to Wapping and the wharf closest to where his ship was docked.

He had a letter to write to Lord Chamberlain.

An Unexpected Assignment

The following morning

“Did you wear the cutlass to the ball last night?” Nelson asked as he gave the captain a cursory glance. From the moment Blake Russell had told him he was attending a costume ball, the first mate thought to tease him. “Surprised the butler would have let you into his mansion.”

Blake lifted the curved sword to one side, pretending he intended to bring it down on Nelson’s green skull-capped head. “Not only did I wear it, but I’m glad I did. A young lady dressed as Little Bo Beep agreed to dance wth me.”

Nelson’s bushy eyebrows waggled. “What did she do with her sheep while she danced with you?”

“Left ’em in the gardens,” Blake replied, playing along with his first mate’s teasing. He sobered and struck a pose meant to strike fear in the hearts of anyone who dare board his ship—or take command of it.

The first mate cocked an eyebrow. “Ye certainly look like a swarthy pirate. Are you thinking to behead someone?”

Blake gave Nelson a quelling glance. Given his dark hair, broad chest, beefy hands, and the permanent tan he had acquired whilst at sea, Blake had the ‘swarthy’ in spades. And the seadog had over two decades of experience as a crewman. “I was hoping to strike a bit of fear into the miscreant who thinks to take command of my ship,” he replied. “I cannot believe Fitz challenged me last night when I boarded.” He pulled on his black leather vest, and then considered donning the gold rings and chains that helped to complete his ensemble as the captain of a pirate ship. They had certainly worked well at the Weatherstone ball.

Nelson rolled his own eyes. “Fitz was three sheets to the wind, I tell you. He won’t even remember he challenged you. And just why the hell would you attend a costume ball?”

Blake rolled his eyes. “It was an assignment, which did not go well. Although...” He paused a moment, remembering that he did enjoy some of the evening. “I could get used to attending balls featuring a free supper. The lobster patties were especially good,” he added, deciding not to mention that they were the only food he’d had a chance to sample. “Tell me, what got Fitz’ knickers in a bunch?”

His first mate shook his head. “You weren’t on board ’afore ten. Said you missed curfew and were therefore ‘unfit to command,’ I believe were his words.”

Furrowing a brow, Blake thought the sailing master might have had a point. He had missed curfew—ten o’clock on the nights before they were due to sail—by over three hours.

“Nothing will come of the challenge,” Nelson continued. “Besides, none of the crew will vote for him.” Having just learned the week before that Blake neither owned the Molly nor had been—or ever would be—a pirate, Nelson was still feeling a bit bamboozled.

How had he not known?

“They had better not,” Blake groused. This particular crew was made up almost entirely of men of his choosing, and although some had worked on ships owned by pirates in their past—and most of them for the prior captain of the Molly—all knew that the Molly was more of a ship of opportunity than an usurper of other ships’ bounties.

Unless those bounties were illegal. Then they were fair game.

Nelson gave a shrug. He had served on the Molly for several years under the prior captain, Jack Crawley, and had never suspected Jack was anything other than what he appeared to be.

A man of opportunity.

One whose opportunities resulted in generous pay and shared spoils for those under his command. Nelson had purchased a seaside cottage in Yorkshire with what he earned on just two long tours with the former captain. Someday, when he was done sailing, he would retire to the cottage. In the meantime, it provided a home for his widowed sister and two nephews.

As for the former captain, Crawley had worn the black costume of a pirate ship’s captain with ease. Adorned with gold chains and sporting a gold-capped tooth, Crawley really did strike fear in the hearts of those whose ships they boarded. Smugglers and competing pirates knew to steer clear of the Molly, lest their cargo be seized.

Smugglers were arrested. Liquors were confiscated. Pirates were put out of business.

And then, a most unfortunate incident occurred.

While on a mission to locate a missing duke in the Cyclades, Captain Jack Crawley met a young woman and fell in love.

Not unfortunate for Nelson, of course. Crawley’s retirement allowed for advancement. Nelson was now the first mate.

Nor was it unfortunate for the duke, who was found and returned—unharmed—to British shores. But for the crew of the Molly, it meant saying their farewells to a man whom they had grown to like and respect over the years he had commanded the ship.

Blake Russell, the first mate at the time, had taken command at the insistence of Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain, the head of the Foreign Office. Meanwhile, the crew had been led to believe Blake had purchased the Molly from Jack.

No one suspected the ship was really the property of the British Navy.

Blake had also taken command because he was the only other crewman who worked for the Foreign Service. Nelson also knew that Jack Crawley now went by a completely different moniker when on English soil.

Alexander Bradley.

The man’s current command was of a large wooden desk in the War Office in Horseguards.

The mere thought of being stuck behind a desk and spending entire days indoors had Nelson shuddering.

Meanwhile, Blake considered what the Molly was scheduled to do on this day. By the time the sun reached its zenith, the ship would be in the Channel in search of a French smuggler of brandy wine who had apparently been ferrying the liquor and hiding the casks in a cave just north of Suffolk’s coast.

A knock had Blake and Nelson turning their attention to the door of the captain’s quarters. “Come!” Blake called out.

The ship’s youngest crewman, Flinn, appeared just beyond the half-opened door. “Message for you, Capt’n,” he said, breathless as he held out a sealed missive. “A man in blue and green livery delivered it.”

“Livery?” Blake repeated, just before he remembered they were still in dock at Wapping but scheduled to depart within the hour—the tide was nearly at its lowest.

He took the missive and immediately noted the seal stamped in the red wax on the back.

Chamberlain.

Blake cursed and broke the seal, wondering how his letter detailing last night’s failure could have already been delivered—and replied to by the viscount—so quickly. He had sent it with a caddy to the Foreign Office only the hour before.

Unfolding the missive, a sense of foreboding accompanied the alarm he felt.

Russell,

There’s been a kidnapping. Daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff, a baronet of some considerable wealth. No terms have been received, but a servant who followed the kidnapper reports she was taken aboard the Tuscan under cover of darkness. Report says the ship set sail at dawn this morning. Probable destinations include Calais and Le Havre. Ship is also known to sail the Mediterranean.

Assignment: Pursue, retrieve, and return Miss Wycliff to British shores at earliest. Cargo identity is need-to-know only. Pay for delivery to Parkenhurst House will be in British pounds.

Chamberlain.

Cursing, Blake remembered what had happened the night before. Baronet Wycliff’s coach had left Weatherstone’s mansion in a hurry, he thought with Miss Wycliff inside. Now he realized it was probably carrying the lady’s maid.

So who had made off with Miss Wycliff?

With his Little Bo Peep?

A memory of Lord Dorchester’s coach speeding away came to him in a flash.

Indignation had him inhaling slowly. Had Dorchester sailed off with the lust of his life? The baron had aimed a number of quelling glances in his direction the night before. Perhaps his attentions toward the baronet’s daughter had delayed the baron’s plan.

He gave a shake of his head.

He had been watching Dorchester to ensure he didn’t get away with something of value from Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.

Blake blinked.

Miss Barbara Wycliff was something of value. Her father was rich. A kidnapper could demand...

“Dammit!” Blake shouted to no one in particular. Those in his quarters all gave a start at hearing his curse, however, and straightened to attention.

Dorchester—or whoever it was who had made off with his Little Bo Peep—wouldn’t get far, he vowed to himself.

He turned his attention on his first mate. “Sails up. Get us out of here and to the Channel. Now.”

“Aye, Capt’n.” Knowing better than to question a command, Nelson was up and out of the captain’s quarters as fast as his short stature would allow.

Blake turned his attention to Flinn. “Find the Tuscan. They left port at dawn with illegal cargo, and we’re going to get it back.”

“Aye, sir.” Flinn paused a moment. “Under which ensign, Capt’n?”

Blake inhaled and considered the options. They had flags for any number of countries as well as the skull and crossbones. “British, for now,” he replied. He dared not take a chance at being shot at by a British naval vessel until they were well into the Channel.

Flinn hurried off in the direction of the main mast. The smallest of the Molly’s crew, he was also quick-witted and eagle-eyed. As a barrelman, his job required he spend most of his time up atop the main mast in the crow’s nest with a spyglass.

He paused at the base of the mast to assist the hungover sailing master, Fitz, with hoisting the main sail, and then clambered up the main mast. Once in the crow’s nest, he began his survey of nearby ships, intent on locating someone who might know about the Tuscan.

Spotting a porter on one of the docks, he called out a greeting. When the young man acknowledged him, Flinn yelled, “Did you see the Tuscan this morning?”

The porter shook his head, but he pointed to another dockworker and repeated the query.

“Took off at dawn. Wasn’t yet low tide, even. Headed north, followed by the usual departures.”

Flinn called out his thanks and wondered why the Tuscan’s captain would leave Wapping before low tide. He tested the wind. The early morning departure of so many ships meant the Tuscan wouldn’t have been able to move very quickly. That, and the lack of wind and the tides that morning would mean slow going for a sailing vessel.

Whistling to Fitz, Flinn called down what he had learned from the porter. Fitz acknowledged the news and headed to the captain’s quarters.

Moving to the only table in his cabin, Blake unrolled a map of the Channel and traced the usual routes to Calais and Le Havre. If the Tuscan also sailed the Mediterranean, it was possible Calais would be but a brief stop before the ship headed to the Gates of Gibraltar. If the Molly didn’t catch up to her before then, perhaps it could at the Gates.

Thank the gods the quartermaster had filled the hold with provisions the day before. They had enough to last at least a fortnight at sea. Enough to travel the two-thousand miles to the Cyclades if the winds favored the Molly.

Blake rather hoped they wouldn’t have to go that far. He didn’t want to lose another crew member to a Greek girl.

A slight shudder beneath his feet told him the Molly was no longer moored at the dock. Shouts on deck made it apparent they had cleared the other ships. A few minutes later, and he knew they were headed east toward the Channel.

When Nelson returned to the captain’s quarters, Blake glanced up from the map. “Ever heard of the Tuscan?”

Nelson furrowed a brow. “Bimmington’s ship?”

Blake gave a start. Captain Bimmington wasn’t known for smuggling, let alone kidnapping daughters of the wealthy.

“Fell into the hands of a frog privateer for a time, but it’s back to sailing under a British flag, far as I know,” Nelson murmured as he drew a hand over his short beard.

His brows furrowing, Blake allowed a sigh of frustration.

Had someone commandeered Bimmington’s ship?

Or didn’t he know he was carrying contraband cargo?

Perhaps the captain had fallen on hard times and had taken a bribe to look the other way. Or he had given his command to another while he spent time in the capital on shore leave.

Or someone had stolen his ship.

This last seemed highly unlikely, though.

Whatever the situation, Blake decided he couldn’t rely on the ship’s captain to be of any help once they found the Tuscan.

A knock had the two turning to find Fitz in the doorway. “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, but Flinn says the Tuscan left at dawn, headed toward the Channel, low wind.”

Blake exchanged glances with Nelson and arched a brow. “Noted. Now do you care to explain why you’re challenging me for command of this ship?”

Fitz’ eyes widened. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain?”

Nelson did his best to suppress a grin. “Told ya.”

“I don’t want command of the Molly,” Fitz said, his jaw slack.

“Then you might want to lay off the rum after one or two shots,” Blake replied.

Fitz blinked. “Yes, Captain.” He turned to go and then paused. “Is that cutlass new, Captain?”

Chuckling, Nelson pointed to the door. “Get the sails up, damn you.”

His eyes widening, Fitz nodded and hurried out. When the door closed, Blake turned his attention to his first mate.

“Crowded docks that time of the mornin’,” Blake murmured.

“Bimmington still has almost a four-hour head start on us,” Nelson replied. “But we’ll be faster by half or more once we’re out on the Channel.”

Another knock at the door had them turning their attention to find Fitz had returned. “Pardon the interruption, Captain, but...” He sighed and scratched his ear.

“What is it?”

“I found a stowaway, Captain.”

Blake blinked. “Stowaway?” he repeated. For the entire time he had served on the Molly, there had never been a stowaway.

“She says she was sent by a Mr. Wycliff.”

Imagining a distraught mother determined to find her daughter, Blake rolled his eyes. “How the hell did she get on board?” he muttered, not expecting an answer.

“By way of the ramp, Captain. She came aboard before Blakely saw to pulling it up on board. She has papers.”

Papers?

“I’ll see to this,” Nelson said, making his way to the door.

Blake gave a shake of his head. A woman on board a ship would be nothing but trouble. Although his crew had enjoyed a few days of shore leave, the presence of a female didn’t bode well. Of course, if she was an old crone, he wouldn’t have anything to be concerned about.

Probably.

When the door opened again, he took one look and groaned.

A Maid Tells a Tale

Miss Althea Woodcock paused on the threshold of the captain’s cabin and dipped a curtsy. “How do?” she said, her gaze darting between the two men who stared at her. “I brought an important paper for Captain Russell. I wondered if you could direct me to where I might find him?”

At learning they had a stowaway, Blake had hoped it might be an operative from the Foreign Office. Someone with more details about the kidnapping. But the young woman who stood before him definitely wasn’t employed by the Foreign Office. In fact, her serviceable frock and drab redingote suggested she was a servant rather than a relative of Miss Barbara Wycliff.

He was about to tell her she had found him when her eyes widened.

“Blake?”

Blake blinked.

Nelson’s eyes widened as he mouthed ‘Blake’ and gave his captain an appreciative glance.

Ignoring his first mate, Blake regarded the young woman in an attempt to remember how she had been dressed the night before. She had obviously been at the ball, for who else would know him by his given name? He hadn’t used it in years.

Imagining the young woman with a mask covering her eyes, Blake realized she was Miss Wycliff’s lady’s maid. “I’m Captain Russell,” he said, stepping forward to give a bow. “It is good to see you again, miss, although I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

“Miss Woodcock,” she replied, holding out a hand in anticipation of shaking the captain’s. “So good to see you again, too.” Her gaze took in his mode of dress and her eyes widened in shock. “You really are a pirate!”

Blake shook his head. “Hardly,” he said as he reached for one of her gloved hands and lifted it to his lips. He brushed them over the cotton. “Miss Woodcock,” he acknowledged. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Nelson staring at the young woman, almost as if he recognized her.

“Mr. Wycliff asked that I give this to you,” she said as she held out a folded letter. “It was delivered to Parkenhurst House whilst the baronet was at Chamberlain House. Sir Peter insisted it be brought to you as soon as possible.”

Taking the proffered missive, Blake regarded the woman a moment. He was about to ask why the footman who had delivered Chamberlain’s earlier note hadn’t brought this one, too, but then he realized Mr. Wycliff wouldn’t have known of it until his return home from meeting with Viscount Chamberlain. Since Wycliff has been at Chamberlain House—probably well before dawn—it meant he must have been introduced to Viscount Chamberlain in the past.

Perhaps they were friends, or attended the same men’s club. No baronet—no matter how rich—would pay a call on the head of the Foreign Office in the middle of the night otherwise.

But why send a female courier? Surely a footman would have been a better choice to bring the letter.

As if Miss Woodcock could divine his inner thoughts, she said, “I am Miss Wycliff’s lady’s maid. I...” Here she paused and allowed a sigh that suggested sorrow. “I was the one who followed the kidnapper from Lord Weatherstone’s mansion last night,” she explained. “Thank heavens the Wycliff coach was nearby when that evil man took my mistress. And that our driver was able to keep up. But he couldn’t overtake the kidnapper’s coach, and before I quite knew what was happening, the rogue was carrying my mistress up the ramp to the Tuscan.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “You saw him?”

He once again remembered how Wycliff’s coach had sped away from Weatherstone’s mansion in pursuit of another coach. Oh, how he wished he had made it out of the mansion just a few minutes earlier than he did! Then he might have foiled the kidnapping before it could happen.

Althea nodded, but gave a slight roll of her eyes. “Except that it was a costume ball, so he was masked, as was my lady. He never removed his mask, even after he stole her away.”

“I don’t suppose he introduced himself?” Even before he finished asking the question, Blake knew what the answer would be. No man would be allowed to simply introduce himself to a young lady—he would have to request that someone else do the introductions.

Which wasn’t exactly true in his case with Little Bo Peep, but then she had initiated their introduction.

“He did not, but...” Althea allowed a sigh. “I cannot help but think he seemed... familiar.”

Although the comment had Blake about to ask why, he was more curious as to how the lady’s maid ended up at a ton costume ball. Little Bo Peep, or rather, Miss Wycliff, had mentioned something about the lady’s maid. Something about ‘who would know?’, but his attention had been so arrested by the young woman, he couldn’t remember if she gave a reason. “Why exactly were you there?”

A blush colored Althea’s face and she dipped her head. “My mistress... she wished for company, and she needed a chaperone. She asked that I join her. Since everyone there was to be wearing a mask, she said no one would be the wiser. But a man recognized her, because he approached her after a dance and offered her a glass of champagne.”

“How do you know he recognized her?”

“He addressed her by name, sir. All proper like.” She frowned. “I had a mind to follow that man up the ramp of the Tuscan, but the driver wouldn’t hear of it. He took me back to Parkenhurst House right quick so I could tell Sir Peter.”

“Good thing you didn’t board that ship,” Blake said, “or Sir Peter wouldn’t have had any warning.”

The lady’s maid didn’t seem placated, though, and she dipped her head in despair. “I fear my lady will be ruined,” she whispered.

“Not if no one but us knows about this,” Blake countered as he popped the wax seal on the letter. Unfolding it, he held it up to the light from the cabin’s only window. Squinting, he struggled to read the messy, masculine script before he held it out to Nelson. “Can you make out these words?” he asked.

As if he’d been pulled from a trance, Nelson took the letter and studied the script for a moment. “It’s the ransom note, and given its time of delivery, I would say our kidnapper arranged its arrival at precisely the right time to ensure the Tuscan would already be on its way into the Channel.”

“To where?”

“Calais, according to this. Payment in the sum of twenty-thousand pounds is to be brought to the Le Chariot Royal, a coaching inn, I think it says, in Rue Edmond Roche,” he murmured, struggling with the French words. “No later than seven o’clock this evening.” Nelson allowed a low whistle as he turned his attention back on Blake. He stood up and rushed to the door. “I’ll let Flinn know where to direct his spyglass,” he said before he disappeared.

Althea watched him go before she turned her attention back on Blake. “You will get my mistress back?”

Blake nodded. “Oh, yes. With any luck and a good wind, we’ll get her before the Tuscan puts into port at Calais,” he assured her, feeling a bit of pride when he saw her reaction of relief.

The oddest sensation had his heart clenching just then. Until they reached the Tuscan, Miss Barbara Wycliff was in danger. In danger of losing her virtue. Of losing her life.

The thought of beheading her kidnapper with his cutlass gave him a sense of purpose. How dare the cur take off with his Little Bo Peep?

Then Blake noticed how the lady’s maid reacted to his claim. She was obviously impressed at what they intended to do, so he thought to temper her reaction just a bit. “I don’t suppose Sir Peter gave you the twenty-thousand pounds for the ransom?” he half-asked. If the Molly hadn’t been available, would the baronet have already boarded a fast ship with the intention of making it to Calais by the deadline?

Her eyes rounding in shock, Althea shook her head. “I should think not. Why, I cannot imagine he will be able to procure such a large sum on such short notice.” Her eyes darted to one side. “Unless he happens to keep that much blunt in his study,” she added.

Almost as if she knew he did.

Blake frowned, deciding to ignore the comment. Her words simply reinforced the need to intercept the Tuscan before it put into port at Calais. Since Chamberlain had dispatched them to find Miss Wycliff, he rather doubted the baronet had any intention of sailing to Calais today. “In the meantime...”

In the meantime? What was he supposed to do with the lady’s maid? Or rather, what was she to do for the entire day? At their current speed, they probably wouldn’t make it to Calais until three or four in the afternoon.

“If I might be allowed, may I simply watch from the railing?” she asked. “I promise to stay out of the way of your men.”

Furrowing a brow, Blake gave her query some thought. “The wind is especially strong,” he warned.

“I don’t mind. I’ll just eat a bit of breakfast. Cook sent me off with some food,” she replied as she indicated her overstuffed reticule. “Said it would help in case I experienced seasickness.”

The mention of food had Blake’s stomach growling, which reminded him that he hadn’t yet made it down to the mess for breakfast. Last evening’s lobster patties hadn’t lasted much beyond the supper dance. “Very well. But should the wind get to be too much, you’re welcome to return here,” he offered. “Here. Let me escort you to the best vantage on the ship.” He offered his arm, and, with a brilliant smile, Althea placed her arm on his, and they made their way to the railing at the bow.

A Resourceful Young Woman

Meanwhile, on the Channel

Miss Barbara Wycliff knew something was wrong the moment her nose detected an unusual odor. Her bed linens had never smelled like this. Rank, with an undertone of salt and sweat. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance and moved her head, wondering why her neck hurt. Why her arms seemed to be pinned under her. Or were they behind her?

Which way was up?

I didn’t have but one glass of champagne, she thought as she experimentally moved one finger and felt something coarse. Coarse and not the least bit pleasant surrounding her wrists.

Even her worst bracelet—the silver bracelet her older brother had bestowed on her for her sixteenth birthday—wasn’t as bad as what she was wearing now. And that poor excuse for jewelry had been relegated to the back of her jewel box the day after she had opened the velvet pouch, sure it wasn’t made by any of the silversmiths in Ludgate Hill.

How could her brother think she would like the hideous design of intertwined vines with leaves that protruded in every direction? Those very pointy leaves threatening to impale her delicate, pale skin at every turn of her wrist? Why, she couldn’t even wear it with any of her ballgowns lest she stab herself in the middle of a cotillion or snag the fine silk of her ballgown. Even her dance partner would be at risk of injury.

The floor seemed to drop from beneath her for a moment, only to lift back into place, and Barbara feared she might be sick.

One glass of champagne?

Could champagne really have her this uncomfortable?

The sound of a distant voice—definitely belonging to a member of the opposite sex—had her straining her ears. It didn’t sound like one of the footmen of Parkenhurst House, nor the butler. Which had her opening one eye.

Her head lifted, and she hissed at the pain she felt in her neck. Had she fallen asleep in the coach on the way home from the ball? If so, this had to be the ugliest coach in which she had ever ridden.

What happened to the sky blue velvet that lined her father’s town coach? To the comfortable squabs that provided a modicum of comfort whilst she was whisked from home to the London entertainments during the Season?

The floor seemed to move again, and Barbara opened both her eyes.

She inhaled sharply, immediately determining she wasn’t in a town coach, nor a filthy hackney, nor even a conveyance at all. At least not one that was seeing to getting her home from the Weatherstone’s costume ball.

The attempt to raise a hand to her face was met with resistance she just then realized wasn’t due to her brother’s hideous choice of jewelry, but rather bindings that held her wrists behind her back.

The urge to put forth an unladylike curse was too strong to ignore. “Damnation,” she whispered hoarsely. She turned her head to the left and right, relieved to at least see a window, although very little light came from it. She was sitting, but not in velvet squabs. She was on a chair, and not one built for comfort.

When she leaned forward to stand, she found she couldn’t. At least, not easily. She bent forward and lifted, prevented from straightening completely due to the combination of her hands being bound behind her back and around the chair’s back. Turning around, she allowed another curse when she confirmed she wasn’t in a coach or even a hackney.

“Damnation!”

This time, the curse was more audible.

A door opened, and the stale air swirled around her as she turned to discover a man dressed in evening wear regarding her with an expression of amusement.

“Nothing about this is amusing, sir,” she stated, one of her feet attempting to stomp on the rough wooden boards beneath her black satin slippers.

The move made no noise, nor did it cause any vibration in the floor, which only annoyed her more. Barbara let out a sound of frustration. Knowing she looked ridiculous, dressed as Little Bo Peep and all bent over and bound to a chair, she leaned back and bent her knees until the chair legs made contact with the floor, and then she sat down with a huff.

“I suppose not,” the man agreed, straightening once he was through the small opening and completely inside the tiny room.

Barbara stared at the tall man, a combination of fear and annoyance keeping her from replying. At first, she had no idea who he was, which meant they hadn’t been properly introduced. But his evening clothes suggested he hadn’t made it to his home after his evening entertainments, either. Studying his clothes more closely, and then imagining him wearing a black mask, had her realizing she had seen him at the costume ball the night before.

“This should all be over by the end of the day,” he said in a most reasonable manner.

“This?” she repeated, wincing when she realized she had spoken.

“It’s a nasty business, I know. But it’s necessary if I’m to gain enough to cover my expenses for the next year. I figure twenty-thousand pounds should be enough,” he drawled as he pretended to study his fingernails. “Word has already been sent to your father.”

Furrowing her brown brows, Barbara regarded the well-dressed man a moment as she considered his words. “We’ve not been introduced,” she remarked.

His eyes darting to one side, as if he was giving her comment its due, he gave his head a shake. “We have not,” he agreed, just as the floor beneath them shifted.

The motion had Barbara realizing she wasn’t on solid ground, but rather on water.

She had been on a sailing ship once, back when her parents had taken her to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies for a month. After a few days, she had adjusted to the constant up and down motion of the water. Welcomed it at night, when it lulled her to sleep. Tolerated it during the daylight hours between meals, when she thought she might toss up whatever she had last eaten.

Odd that she didn’t experience any seasickness during the meals. Which had her realizing she was about to be sick.

“Is there something to eat?” she asked, ignoring the comment about her father. At least, at first. Was he referring to money for a ransom? Had she been kidnapped? From Lord Weatherstone’s costume ball, no less?

“I can have a tray delivered,” he offered.

She arched an eyebrow. “Now?” She glanced around, in search of a bucket. “I don’t feel so well,” she added, making sure she appeared as pale as possible.

It wasn’t difficult.

She glanced down at her mode of dress and winced. She had thought her decision to dress as Little Bo Peep inspired, but this costume wasn’t going to serve her well on this day. She had chosen the gown because it was perfect for her wide hips and trim waist. On a ship manned by, well, men—and no chaperone in sight—she might well be ruined.

Which had her wondering what might have become of her lady’s maid. Woodcock had been with her at the ball, appropriately dressed in the gown Barbara should have been wearing. Her ornate mask had prevented anyone from guessing she was a servant.

“What of the woman I was with at the ball? My... companion?” When Aunt Lilly had sent word her gout had flared up and wouldn’t allow her to attend the masked ball, Barbara had thought to simply stay at home. But Woodcock had been quick with her suggestion that she be allowed to go in Aunt Lilly’s stead. If anyone asked the maid to dance, she would feign an injured foot or only accept an offer for an English country dance she knew.

An arched brow preceded the kidnapper’s response. “I’m quite sure I don’t know who you mean.” He frowned then, apparently noticing for the first time that Barbara really was on the verge of being sick.

He quickly disappeared through the doorway, and a different man, this one most definitely a sailor, given his swarthy complexion, unusual mode of mis-matched dress, and missing teeth, entered carrying a bucket.

His odor alone had Barbara gagging.

“Mornin’, miss,” he said as he set the bucket next to her chair. “Cook’s workin’ on breakfast—cackle fruit and whatnot—but I can bring porridge right quick.”

Barbara stared at the sailor, amazed she could understand his strange accent. “Yes. Please do,” she replied. “And could you inform your captain that I’ve been kidnapped and bound to this chair with the most uncomfortable means of restraint? I really insist they be removed, especially since I’ll need my hands to eat.”

The sailor’s eyes widened and then darted to one side. “Why, I think he knows, miss.”

“Oh, good. Because Lord Dorchester is due to call on me at two-o’clock this afternoon, and I shouldn’t want to miss my opportunity for a ride in the park with him. I get so few of them, you see,” she said as she angled her head to one side.

Truth be told, she knew Lord Dorchester’s reasoning for taking her to Hyde Park at two o’clock instead of the fashionable hour of five o’clock was probably because he didn’t wish to be seen in her company.

Most of her suitors wanted to avoid being seen with her. To be seen with her in polite Society suggested a desperation found only in men who needed funds to cover debts—or just funds in general.

She wasn’t a beauty by any stretch of the imagination. Although she had long, brown hair, it was a brown of indistinguishable characteristics. No golden streaks or red highlights. No natural curls or waves that made it easy for her lady’s maid to dress. Just straight, mousy brown tresses.

Her broad face didn’t help, either. Although she had wide-set eyes that might be considered exotic, the rest of her face was merely that. A face. Normal lips, unfortunately not of a rosebud shape. Cheeks that weren’t enhanced by high cheekbones or a natural pinkish coloring. A nose that wasn’t upturned nor hooked nor thin. A chin that might have been a bit on the pointy side, if not for the slightly squarishness at the very end that helped to soften the effect.

No, she was not a beauty.

But she was rich.

At least, her father was. Her dowry meant she had any number of gorgeous young bucks paying calls and filling her dance cards.

Just not openly courting her.

Thank the gods her father could afford the very best modiste and fashions to be had in London. She might not be the most attractive young lady at a ton ball, but at least she could be the best dressed, even if her gowns had to be specially made to accommodate her oversized bosom and wide hips.

If ever there was a body perfect for childbearing—and a gown suitable to play the role of Little Bo Peep—she knew she possessed it.

What else could she offer a prospective husband?

Her seasickness forgotten, Barbara frowned at the sailor. “Well, if the captain knows, then why am I still here?” she asked, a hint of annoyance coloring her words.

The sailor blinked. “Can’t say as I know, miss,” he replied. Then, before she could ask anything else, he disappeared—or rather, escaped—through the door, and Barbara was once again left alone.

She reviewed his words in her head. The captain knew. And since he knew and hadn’t come to her rescue, then perhaps he was in on the kidnapping!

Or maybe he had been kidnapped, too!

Barbara’s stomach growled, reminding her it was morning. A quick glance in the direction of what she now knew was a porthole confirmed the sun had come up. As to how high, she had no idea.

She regarded the door, thinking the sailor hadn’t secured it with any sort of locking mechanism. If she could just lean forward again and get to her feet, she might be able to waddle in that direction. Getting rid of the chair would help immensely, but how to get the hard back to slide out from between her back and her arms would be tricky.

She pushed her arms back as far as they would go and then winced when she saw how her bosom pressed up above the neckline of her dress. Despite the danger of falling out of her gown, Barbara leaned forward and wiggled her arms.

She could feel the chair back slowly give way, and she took a few tiny steps forward until the front legs of the wooden chair caught on the floor and the back gave way from her arms.

Once she was free, she bent one leg so the chair wouldn’t go clattering to the floor, her slippered foot catching the front of it and lowering it until the edge was just inches from the floor. She quickly stepped forward and winced when the chair-back caught the back of her skirts. At least the chair didn’t make much noise when it finally landed on the wooden planks.

Once again surveying the room—the light from the porthole was definitely brighter now—Barbara sorted from the barrels and crates that were stacked on one side that she was in some sort of storage room. Then, when she turned to see a cot and small wardrobe on the opposite wall, she gave a sound of protest.

Am I supposed to sleep on that? she wondered, her nose crinkling at the mussed linens. The thought that they had put her into someone’s cabin almost had her feeling sick again.

She regarded the bucket and the chair. Thought of her hands behind her back.

Well, she could at least make her arms more comfortable. She bent her knees and squatted down as far as she could and then fell back on her bum, grimacing when she realized the wooden floor probably hadn’t been cleaned since the boat was built. Then she leaned to one side and pulled one arm forward before rocking to the other side and doing the same with her other arm.

Cursing at how difficult it was to get her arms around her hips, she continued rocking side to side and pulling her arms forward until they were beneath her thighs. Once her knees were bent up to her chin—or at least her bosom—she was able to work her bound hands beneath her legs and feet and around the gown and petticoats. When her arms were finally in front of her, she let out the breath she’d been holding and cursed.

The binding was twine, which explained the coarseness, but at least the ends were slip-knotted. She grimaced as she used her teeth to pull on the ends, and then gave a sound of disgust when the knot was finally free and she had to push the offensive material away from her mouth with her tongue.

Wincing, Barbara rubbed her wrists. At least her silk gloves, now ruined, had prevented the twine from directly touching her skin.

She scrambled to her feet and shook out her skirts. A quick look through the porthole showed water for almost as far as she could see, although there might have been a hint of the cliffs of southern England in the distance.

Or was that some other land mass?

Barbara blinked. Had they been on the water that long? She remembered the man’s comment about this being over by this evening.

Over where, though? Where was he taking her? And how was her father supposed to find her?

Marching to the door, she opened it a crack and peeked out. Cooking scents—and not good ones—assaulted her nostrils, but no one seemed to be on the part of the deck she could see. Opening the door wider, she leaned out and decided the entire crew must have gone to the mess for breakfast.

Was this ship even large enough to include a mess?

She slipped out, inhaling the fresh air with appreciation. Glancing left and right and finding the deck clear, she closed the door as quietly as she could manage and then made her way to the starboard rail. A few steps more toward the bow, and she was able to hide behind what she had just then come to realize was the captain’s quarters.

Had the man no self-respect? His quarters were filthy. Even before she could conclude what might have happened to her given the lack of a chaperone, Barbara took stock of her bearings.

South.

The ship was definitely sailing south, which meant it would either land in France, or turn east and make its way out to sea. Another option had it following the coast around to the Straits of Gibraltar.

The thought of open water had her stomach churning. She had made the trip to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies with her parents when she was fourteen years of age. She loved Rome and Florence, Naples and Venice. But she had wished for death when the ship sailed on the Mediterranean.

This was not good.

Especially because, even though she was no longer tied to a chair in the captain’s quarters, she had no place to go.

She thought briefly of commandeering a life raft, but details such as how to get into it, how to get it into the water, and then how to row it had her deciding she was better off finding a place to hide.

Or should she just return to the captain’s cabin and await the delivery of breakfast?

In Pursuit

Meanwhile

With a British ensign flying from the top mast, the Molly made its way out of the Thames and into the Channel. The ship was barely past the cliffs of Dover when white caps promised a rough crossing. The wind had picked up, and although that boded well for their speed of travel, it didn’t make Flinn’s job very easy.

The spyglass held to his eye, Flinn surveyed the line where the sky met the sea, struggling to concentrate on the southern horizon as the ship rocked and bucked. The sails on their third mast had been deployed once they had passed Botany Bay, and their speed had nearly achieved its maximum when Walmer Castle came into view.

The ships that had clogged the Thames earlier that morning had spread out on the water, their paths forming a sort of blooming flower. Some headed north, their cargo intended for Newcastle or Edinburgh. Some headed directly across the North Sea to Belgium or The Netherlands. Most fanned out to the south.

Knowing the Tuscan was a British merchant vessel—a brig with sixteen guns—Flinn ignored the ships that were clearly Portuguese, Spanish, or French in origin. Their distinctive profiles made them easy to detect, so he instead concentrated on English ships.

Able to spot a ship nearly twenty-five miles away from his perch in the crow’s nest, Flinn aimed the spyglass in the direction of France and hoped their prey really was headed for one of the French ports.

Hearing his name shouted from below had Flinn giving a start. He lowered the spyglass and looked down to discover Captain Russell standing on the deck with his hands on his hips.

“Their destination is definitely Calais!” Blake called out.

Flinn grimaced before yelling, “Aye, Captain. No sign of the Tuscan.” He glanced at the position of the sun—nearly directly above them—and added, “but we’re still an hour from a likely sighting.” He had been gauging their speed from familiar landmarks, impressed by just how fast the Molly could travel when speed was necessary. The wind favored them, but that meant it favored the Tuscan, as well. The two-masted ship couldn’t begin to match their speed, though, especially if she was loaded with cargo.

Blake allowed a sigh that could almost be heard by Flinn. “If you see any ship that might be the Tuscan—”

“I’ll give a shout, I promise, Captain,” he yelled down.

Blake allowed a nod. He knew he could count on his crew. They had trained under Jack Crawley. Been paid well for their services. Continued their service under his command for nearly a year. And although this mission wouldn’t see their hold filled with contraband liquor or valuables, they would be paid a reward by Sir Peter—in blunt that would allow his men to enjoy a quick shore leave and as many prostitutes as they could employ when they finally went off in pursuit of the French smuggler.

The thought of spending time in the company of a willing woman had Blake allowing another sigh. Although he had enjoyed the company of women in numerous ports of call—Rome, Barcelona, Algiers, Le Havre—he found he no longer looked forward to time spent with the prostitutes who saw to sailors.

He thought of Jack, or rather Alexander Bradley, the former captain of the Molly. Blake remembered how Alex had been dumbstruck by the sight of a young Greek woman on the docks at Mykonos. Dumbstruck and struck by Cupid’s arrow, for Bradley had fallen in love with the woman. The two had been wed while at sea as the Molly made its way back to London.

At the time, Blake had been dumbstruck by his captain’s behavior. How could a man decide he had met the love of his life after spending only a few hours in her company?

What had him believing she was the one?

Blake gave a shake of his head. The night before, he had experienced lust at first sight, but that wasn’t the same as love at first sight. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. At least, not as it applied to a woman he might decide was the one. If he ever took a wife—and he wasn’t convinced he ever would—it would be after courting her for several weeks. And after he had decided to retire from captaining the Molly.

Captains of ships were rarely married men.

But the thought of Miss Barbara Wycliff had him reconsidering for just a moment. Dressed as Little Bo Peep, her charms on prominent display and her red lips smiling easily, Barbara seemed like the perfect woman to come home to after a few days away at sea. The kiss they had shared, although brief, was filled with as much passion as was possible. If he had the chance to repeat it, he vowed he would do so. Then he might allow his lips to trail down her neck and past her collar bones to the generous breasts below.

The thought of cupping one in his large hand, of how it might feel to caress the velvet soft skin as she pressed it into his hold, of how he might flick his thumb over the engorged nipple, had the oddest sound escaping his throat.

He dared a glance at Nelson, wondering when his first mate might be ready to take on the piloting of the Molly. At learning the ship was really under the command of the Foreign Office, Nelson had seemed to take the news in stride. Almost as if he had already known the Molly wasn’t really a pirate ship. Which meant he would make the best choice for captain once Blake decided to retire from service to King and Country.

That is, if the man could get his eyes back in their sockets. Ever since their stowaway first appeared on the threshold of his quarters, the first mate had stared at her as if he were seeing a ghost.

And not a frightening one.

Did the two have history? Or had Cupid’s arrow struck his first mate?

Blake wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but until they had the Tuscan in their sights, he had nothing better to do than to discover what he could about the young woman.

And Little Bo Peep, as well.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Meanwhile, back on the Tuscan

Barbara inhaled deeply as she concentrated on the horizon. As long as she stared at something that didn’t move, she could keep her seasickness in check. With the wind whipping the sails, she didn’t hear the man who approached from the bow.

“Since you’re up and about, I trust you’re feeling better, my lady?”

Jerking her head to the right, she immediately regretted the move, for her stomach lurched. “I was,” she hedged, noting the man seemed to have recently bathed and wore a white shirt with a waistcoat and cape coat over Nankeen breeches. A tricorn hat hid most of his graying hair. His slight beard was the only feature out of place for a man who appeared to be a gentleman. “I... I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Cyrus Bimmington, miss. I’m the captain of the Tuscan.” He held out his right hand. “You were asleep when you were brought on board, but given the early hour and your illness, it only stands to reason you would be.”

Furrowing a brow and giving her head a shake, she asked, “Do you do this often?”

“Cross the Channel? A couple of times a week, usually,” he replied. “Not always to Calais, though, but since your husband has offered—”

“Husband?” she repeated, her eyes rounding in disbelief. “If you’re referring to the cur who left me tied to a chair in your quarters, let me assure you he is not my husband.”

The captain stepped back, obviously surprised by the vehemence in her words. “Tied to a chair?” he repeated before his own eyes rounded. “Well, I don’t wish to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel—”

“Lover’s quarrel?” Barbara had to forcibly close her mouth and consider that she probably sounded like a parrot to the captain. At that thought, her gaze darted to the left and then to the right, wondering where his parrot might be.

Didn’t sea captains keep parrots as pets? Or did only pirates do such a thing?

“Captain Bimmington, let me assure you in no uncertain terms that I am not on this ship because I wish to be.”

The older man angled his head back and forth. “I understand. Unexpected travel, because he forgot to inform you of his plans. Sometimes my fellow men can be difficult to live with. Give him a chance to apologize—”

“Sir. I have been kidnapped,” Barbara stated, her hands moving to her hips. The move had the captain reacting, but not in the way she expected. Her generous bosom had not only lifted considerably, but it was also thrust out so that his gaze settled on it with appreciation.

“Oh, my sweet. There you are.”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to find her kidnapper displaying a pleasant expression. “How dare you. I am not your sweet. And now that the captain knows that I’ve been kidnapped, I’m quite sure he’ll turn this boat around and head back to London. Lord Dorchester is calling on me this afternoon, and I intend to be at home when he does.”

The captain and the kidnapper regarded one another for a moment before they both burst out laughing. “I rather doubt a lord would be paying a call on a young woman who is clearly of a lower class than he,” the kidnapper remarked. And then his eyes widened. “Unless he’s calling for a different reason,” he added, his hips thrusting forward in a suggestive manner.

He didn’t see Barbara’s hand before it impacted his cheek.

He did see stars afterwards, however.

“How dare you, you... rogue!”

The kidnapper was about to retaliate with a hit of his own, but Captain Bimmington stepped in between the two with his hands held up, palms out. “Now, now, you two,” he said in his most soothing voice. “Perhaps, Mr. Smith, it would be best if the missus ate her breakfast now,” he suggested.

“I am not his wife!” Barbara responded, her voice raised so that several deckhands paused in their duties and turned to stare at her.

“You will be considered thoroughly ruined, however,” Mr. Smith hissed under his breath.

Barbara heard the comment and once again felt ill. She turned her attention on the captain, but realized he would be of no help. “Would you have the time?”

Bimmington pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat, gave it a quick glance, and said, “Half-past nine.”

“What will it take for you to turn this boat around?”

Inhaling as he gave a glance in the direction of the well-dressed gentleman, he said, “Passage to Calais has already been paid, milady. For you both. The winds favor us in this direction, but they will not going back to London.”

“How much?”

The captain furrowed a brow. “How much?”

“How much will it cost my father for you to turn this...” She glanced up and noted the two masts and six sails. “This ship around?” she asked.

Exchanging glances with the kidnapper, Bimmington shook his head. “As I said—”

“He told me my ransom is twenty-thousand pounds,” she said as she lifted her head in the cur’s direction.

“Now, my sweet, it’s evident you’re not feeling well at all...” Mr. Smith managed to duck just before her fist flew past his head.

Once again, Captain Bimmington stepped between them, his arms held out as if he could provide some sort of wall between them. “Perhaps it would be best if the two of you spent the rest of the trip at opposite ends of this ship,” he warned, his manner far more serious than it had been. He gave a nod in the direction of a beefy deckhand, who immediately moved to join them.

“Captain?”

“Escort Mr. Smith to the poop deck.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“This is an outrage,” the kidnapper argued, his anger directed at both Barbara and the captain. “I paid for passage—”

“Then you can remain in your cabin for the rest of the voyage,” Bimmington warned, a bushy eyebrow arched up.

Mr. Smith directed a fierce look in Barbara’s direction. “If you think this is over—” He didn’t have a chance to complete his threat before the beefy deckhand grabbed him by his cravat and nearly lifted him from his feet. Any protest he tried to make was caught in his throat as he was practically dragged away.

Barbara let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “Now can we turn back for London?”

Bimmington shook his head. “If you weren’t so ill, I would send you back to my cabin for the rest of the trip,” he replied. “Instead, I order you to eat your porridge and remain near the bow.”

Her eyes widening in disbelief, Barbara shook her head. “But, I’ve no hat. No parasol,” she argued.

Rolling his eyes, the captain said, “I’ll get you an umbrella. Will that do?”

About to argue further, Barbara realized the captain was through with abiding his troublesome passengers. “It will have to,” she replied on a sigh. Then, just because she thought to sow some more seeds of doubt in the captain, she added, “I am my father’s favorite daughter. He’s a baronet, you see.” She angled her head, deciding he didn’t need to know that she was her father’s only daughter. “Sir Peter. He’s a very rich baronet, which is why Mr. Smith kidnapped me from Lord Weatherstone’s masked ball last night. Seems he requires a good deal of money to make his living—”

“Enough, Miss...” His eyebrow arched up when he realized she hadn’t introduced herself.

“Wycliff. Barbara Wycliff,” she replied.

Although he looked a bit uncertain for just a moment, Bimmington gave a shake of his head. “Never heard of a Peter Wycliff,” he said.

And with that, he strode off in the direction of the wheelhouse. The short, stout deckhand that she had spoken to earlier in the captain’s cabin stepped up carrying a tray on which rested a bowl of porridge. Porridge that had obviously congealed in the time she and Mr. Smith had been arguing with the captain.

“Breakfast, my lady,” he said as he held out the tray.

Her stomach once again making its displeasure apparent, Barbara took the tray and thanked the man. Moving closer to the bow, she held the tray over one arm as she picked up the spoon, rubbed it on a pink satin sleeve, and then tucked into the porridge.

Despite the fact that it was no longer hot, she thought it was the best tasting porridge she had ever eaten.

A Doubtful Captain

Once he was in the wheelhouse, Captain Cyrus Bimmington regarded his first mate with a worried expression. “Tell me, Anders. Ever heard of a baronet by the name of Peter Wycliff?”

Anders stepped aside so the captain could take the wheel. “Sir Peter?” he replied. “The owner of Wycliff Mercantile? Wycliff Drapers? Wycliff Textiles? And the new owner of the shopping arcade in Bond Street? That Peter Wycliff?”

Bimmington stared at his first mate for perhaps a moment too long, for the man continued with, “Did he buy this ship, too?”

Seeds of doubt now fully sown, Bimmington shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

“I heard he was in negotiations to buy Wilson’s fleet,” Anders countered, with too much enthusiasm.

“What do you know of his daughter?”

His eyes darting to one side—Anders prided himself on knowing everything he could of important people in London—he furrowed a brow. “Barbara?” he countered, as if he was making a guess.

Bimmington rolled his eyes. “She cannot be,” he murmured. “She’s dressed no better than a barmaid.”

Anders allowed his captain to ruminate for a moment before he asked, “Would you be referring to the young lady that our passenger brought on board before dawn?” he asked. “The one who is dressed like Little Bo Peep? Her mask must have cost a fortune, what with all that gold gilt on it.”

Bimmington blinked. “Aye,” he replied carefully, just then remembering that Mr. Smith had been wearing a black mask when he stepped aboard carrying the young woman in pink. “Said she’d had too much champagne.” Before he even completed the word, he thought it odd that a woman dressed in the clothes of a shepherdess would have had champagne.

“More like drugged,” Anders countered.

Bimmington furrowed a brow. “Drugged?” He gave a huff. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Now he really was beginning to wonder if there was some truth to the young lady’s claims.

“Well, at first I thought she was dead,” Anders replied. “Didn’t want to be in trouble with some murderer. But then I heard her snore, so I figured she would be right as rain once she slept it off.” When he saw his captain’s look of disgust, he asked, “Do you think she’s lying about who she is?”

“I have no idea what to think at the moment,” Bimmington replied, but his furrowed brows and thoughtful expression were at odds with his comment.

One thing he knew for certain. If his passenger really was the daughter of a wealthy baronet, and if she really wasn’t married to the man whom he knew as Mr. Smith, then it was rather likely someone would be looking for her.

Which meant, someone would be looking for the Tuscan.

“Have our barrelman keep watch to the north. I want to know if anyone is following us,” he ordered.

Anders nodded. “Aye, Captain,” before he hurried off to the main mast.

There’s Something About a Maid

Meanwhile, back on the Molly

When Blake was sure Miss Woodcock was out of earshot—she had taken to watching the Molly’s progress from the railing near the bow—he joined his first mate at the wheel. “You care to explain what’s going on between you and the lady’s maid?”

So stunned was he by the strange query, Nelson nearly let go of the wheel. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Capt’n,” he replied.

“You know her.”

Nelson straightened as much as he could, although the captain still had a good six inches on him. “I might,” he hedged. When Blake lifted an eyebrow, as if that could coax the man to say more, Nelson allowed a huff. “But I might not.”

The captain dared a glance at the lady’s maid. When he was sure her attention was still on the horizon, he said, “You couldn’t take your eyes off her when she was in my cabin. Am I right in thinking the Molly might be losing another crewman to Cupid’s curse?”

His mouth dropping open and his eyes rounding in shock, Nelson did let go of the wheel. Blake quickly grabbed one of the spokes in a fist before it could turn and held it in place as his first mate fumed.

“First of all, Captain,” Nelson said with a huff. “The chubby little bastard knows better than to waste an arrow on me, and second of all, she ain’t what I’d be looking for to warm my bed, if you catch my meaning.”

Blake furrowed both brows. “Oh, no, Mr. Nelson. I’ve seen what you do in nearly every port we pull into. Don’t be trying to convince me you’re some... molly,” he warned, whispering the last word.

The comment only seemed to rankle his first mate even more. “I like my women... fruitful, Capt’n,” he stated.

His eyes darting to one side, Blake was almost afraid to ask. But he did anyway. “Fruitful? What the hell does that even mean?”

Nelson’s cupped hands went to his chest. “Peaches up top, melons on the bottom, and a bright red cherry—”

“I get it!” Blake said in a hoarse whisper. A quick look in the direction of Miss Woodcock showed she wasn’t well endowed up top—or on the bottom. As for whether or not there was a bright, red cherry, he wasn’t about to guess. “Still, I saw you staring at her. If not because you were imagining a tumble with her, then pray tell, why?”

Taking the wheel back into his beefy hands, Nelson lowered his voice and said, “I ain’t saying she is who I think she is, but if she is who I think she is, then I have to say I am verra curious as to how she landed a position as a lady’s maid. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Blake began tapping his black leather boot on the wooden planks below.

Nelson allowed an audible sigh. “I cannot be positive—”

“But if you were—”

“Then she’d be one of the grifters from my old neighborhood in Cheapside.”

The captain’s eyes widened before he allowed his gaze to sweep the horizon, which included another quick look at the lady’s maid. “How the hell does a grifter become a lady’s maid?” he half-asked. Didn’t a servant have to show a character to be considered for employment? Be dispatched from an agency, or be referred by someone of importance?

“Exactly what I was thinking, Capt’n. Which is why...” Nelson stopped and allowed a sigh. “I’m expecting she might be trouble.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Miss Woodcock, who was now leaning against the railing with her back to the water. His expression quickly turned friendly when her gaze caught his, and she dipped her head in acknowledgement.

“Now, what you did just there,” Blake said in a quiet voice. “That’s what has me thinking Cupid got a clean shot.”

Nelson rolled his eyes, and he was about to respond when a shout came from above. Blake moved to stand beneath the crow’s nest. “Report!” he called out.

Leaning half out of the barrel, Flinn pointed southeast. “Found her! Six sails,” he yelled. “Twenty, maybe one-and-twenty miles.”

Waving up to the barrelman, Nelson turned so he could take a look at Miss Woodcock before he settled his attention on the captain. He wasn’t surprised to find her attention had returned to the water. She had one gloved hand raised to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. As for her ability to catch sight of the Tuscan, Miss Woodcock wouldn’t be able to see it for some time. The Molly would have to travel another half-hour or so before those on the deck would be able to spot the Tuscan.

“At this rate, we may not catch her until she almost pulls into port,” Blake said under his breath. Although the winds had favored them through the mid-morning hours, they had subsided once the sun passed the zenith. “The last time we made this trip, we did so in four hours,” he murmured.

“And it was twenty hours the time before that,” Nelson reminded him.

Crossing the Channel could be problematic.

Blake nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized Miss Woodcock was standing to his right.

“Twenty hours?” she repeated in alarm. “Will we be in time to rescue Miss Wycliff?” she asked, her expression laced with concern.

Blake and Nelson exchanged quick glances. “Well, that’s the plan, but even if we don’t get her back—”

“We’ll get her back for you, Miss Woodcock,” Nelson interrupted. “Seeing as how you would be out of a position if we didn’t.”

The lady’s maid’s eyes widened. “Are you thinking my mistress is about to meet some dreadful end?”

The two men exchanged glances, and both shrugged their shoulders. “Hard to say,” Blake replied.

“The sea can be a cruel mistress,” Nelson added.

“There is a deadline. If the baronet doesn’t get the money to the kidnapper by five o’clock...” Nelson used a finger to make a slicing motion across the front of his neck.

Blake was about to argue the time of the deadline, but realized Nelson was playing Miss Woodcock.

Didn’t the first mate remember that she had been the one to deliver the ransom note? That she had heard Nelson reading the instructions, including the time? Given her widened eyes and pale complexion, though, perhaps she hadn’t heard, or had merely forgotten the details of the exchange.

Blake decided to play along with his first mate. “Hard to believe the kidnapper thought the baronet could make the trip later in the day with the ransom. And such a large one.”

Miss Woodcock, looking ever so horrified, turned a furrowed brow on the captain. “Well, why couldn’t he?” she asked, her query sounding entirely innocent.

“Ship has to leave London at low tide. There isn’t a ship at Wapping that would attempt to leave any later in the day,” he explained. “We were barely able to make it out when we did.”

When Nelson was about to remind the captain that there were steam ships that could make the trip, Blake stepped on his foot.

Her eyes widening once again, as if she was truly frightened, Althea visibly swallowed. “Then how will the baronet send the ransom?” she asked. “If you don’t stop the Tuscan, we’ll have to have the ransom to get Miss Wycliff back,” she whined.

The two seamen exchanged glances. “You mean, you don’t have it?” they asked in unison. Blake pointed down to her valise. “Seems like it would have been expeditious for Sir Peter to have sent it with you.”

Miss Woodcock actually looked down at the valise as if she were seeing it for the first time. “These are clothes for my mistress,” she replied. “She was taken from the masked ball dressed as Little Bo Peep. Hardly an appropriate gown for a baronet’s daughter to wear for her trip back to England,” she explained.

“Hardly,” Blake agreed, although he rather liked Miss Wycliff as Little Bo Peep, all innocence despite a body meant to be worshipped by a man such as him. His lips would sprinkle kisses up and down her entire body. His mouth would feast on the mounds of her breasts, his teeth and tongue teasing her nipples into tight buds. Then his tongue would see to a most sensual delight, the tip of it circling her engorged womanhood until she begged for him. His cock, hard as a rock and soft as velvet, would dive into her wet, welcoming cocoon. Surrounded by her warmth, his cock would thrust and pulse and thrust again, until the friction sent him—and her—to a blissful state of euphoria.

Oh, the pleasures they could enjoy should they ever end up in a bed together!

Giving his head a shake and curious as to where those last thoughts had come from, Blake cleared his throat. He wondered if they had misjudged the lady’s maid. Perhaps she really was a dedicated servant, and not the mastermind of an attempt to bilk a wealthy baronet out of twenty-thousand pounds.

“Not sure how the kidnapper expects to spend his blunt in France if it’s all in British pounds,” Blake remarked. “Not like he can exchange it in France, given the poor relations between the two countries, and he won’t be able to return to England. Be arrested as soon as he steps foot on shore.”

“As well he should be,” Miss Woodcock stated, her curt nod punctuating her words.

At a loss as to what else he could say to have the lady’s maid admitting to her involvement in the kidnapping, Blake finally allowed a shrug. “I suppose we’ll need to count on a rescue at sea,” he murmured.

Nelson furrowed a brow, thinking that had been the plan all along. His foot still stinging from having been trounced on by the captain, he allowed a nod. “I’ll have Fitz mount the jib sails,” he said.

Blake smirked, rather glad he didn’t have to be the one to suggest they add their last two sails to their arsenal. “One hour, Mr. Nelson. Then I expect to be boarding the Tuscan.”

“Aye, Capt’n.”

A Ship Pursued

Meanwhile, on board the Tuscan

His crow’s nest listing left and right with the rough seas beneath the Tuscan, the barrelman, Taylor, had a hard time keeping tabs on their pursuer. Either a ship really was after them, or it just happened to match their course for Calais.

One thing was certain—with seven sails and two jibs full of wind, it would be running into their stern within an hour. Given the British ensign flying from the main mast, he didn’t think it posed a threat, though.

“Is that what I think it is?” Anders called up from where he stood on deck.

“British vessel,” the barrelman called down. “In a hurry, from the looks of her sails.”

Grimacing, Anders dared a glance at the wheelhouse and another toward the bow. Their female passenger stood gripping the railing in one gloved hand while she held an umbrella aloft with the other. If she really was Miss Barbara Wycliff as she claimed, then perhaps it would behoove them to simply slow down. They were ahead of the schedule their one paying passenger had detailed the night before—get me to Calais by five o’clock in the evening—so if the ship in their wake wasn’t after them, it would simply beat them into port.

If it was after them, then there would no doubt be a warning shot fired from a cannon. Or worse. A cannon shot aimed to do their hull some damage.

The very last place he wanted to have to arrange repairs was a French sea port. They would be charged double or triple and be stuck in Calais for a fortnight or longer.

“I’ll let the captain know,” Anders called up. He turned and was about to head to the wheelhouse when the barrelman gave a shout.

“A pennon is going up,” the barrelman called down. He gave his head a shake. “Red and white, and here comes another.”

Anders stiffened, wishing his eyesight was better so that he could make out the shapes on the pennons that were rising to the top of the other ship’s main mast. He hated relying on the barrelman to know their meaning. “Can you make out which ones?”

The barrelman whistled before he leaned over the edge of the crow’s nest. “They wish to communicate. Apparently, we’re in danger.”

“Damnation!” Anders dared another glance at the ship that followed them and then allowed his gaze to sweep the horizon. There was no sign of an impending storm or another ship. The shoreline of France could only be seen when the Tuscan crested a wave.

Had France declared war again? Were they sailing into a trap by making port at Calais?

Or was the danger due to something else entirely?

He hurried off to the wheelhouse to speak with the captain.

When told about the ship in pursuit, Bimmington rolled his eyes. “Well, at least they had the decency to warn us with a pennon instead of a cannonball,” he murmured.

“You think they mean to shoot at us?” Anders asked, stunned. “It’s a British ship. Looks like a naval vessel leftover from the war.”

Bimmington sighed in frustration. “They outman us, and they outgun us,” he said in a low voice. “And I’m not about to take a cannonball because some cit paid too much for passage to Calais.”

“What’s this now?”

The captain and Anders both turned to discover their passenger, Mr. Smith, regarding them with a look of alarm.

“I was just telling my first mate here that I’m not looking to take on a cannibal because some Brit paid his passage to get away,” Bimmington replied, as if he were repeating what he had said to Anders.

Mr. Smith blinked. “A cannibal?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “Is there such a thing?”

“In the West Indies, yes,” Bimmington replied. “I think it’s best they stay there. Now,” he said as he crossed his arms once he knew Anders had the wheel. “Why aren’t you where you belong?”

The cit who paid too much for passage to Calais straightened and then pointed to the stern. “I came to tell you a ship is coming up awfully fast on your tail.”

“I am well aware,” the captain replied. “They’re carrying a message for us. They seem to think we’re in danger. Would you know anything about that?”

Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Danger?” he repeated. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze swept the horizon in the direction of their travel, although he couldn’t see much beyond where Miss Barbara Wycliff stood. Her arms were outstretched, an umbrella held up to shade her face from the sun, and her body was arched forward, as if she was the ship’s figurehead.

He had a fleeting thought that if she wasn’t careful, her generous bosom would pop out of her pink gown for everyone in France to see.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bimmington asked, his gaze having settled on the backside of their pink-clad passenger.

“That she might very well pop out of her gown?” Mr. Smith countered with a smirk.

The captain frowned and turned his steely gaze on the man. “That she might be the one in danger,” he said, his words clipped. He turned to Anders. “Could you have a word with Mrs. Smith? Let her know she might be in danger of falling off the ship should she continue what she’s doing?”

“Aye, Captain,” Anders said as he gave control of the wheel back to Bimmington. He made his way to the bow and gave a slight bow when the young woman noticed him.

“Oh, how do?” she said as she stepped back from the railing.

Almost disappointed that her generous bosom had not escaped the confines of her ridiculous pink gown, Anders said, “The captain thinks you might be in danger, Mrs. Smith.”

Her eyes turned to slits. “My name is not Mrs. Smith. I am Barbara Wycliff, daughter of Sir Peter Wycliff. I have been kidnapped and am being held for a ransom of twenty-thousand pounds,” she recited, as if she had said the words too many times that day.

“Be that as it may, he’s worried you might fall overboard should you lean too far forward like you was doing.”

Barbara allowed a heavy sigh and turned around. Her eyes widened when she saw the bow of another ship was nearly abreast of the stern of the Tuscan. “Does that happen often out here?” she asked in awe. The other ship was so close, she could make out the faces of the crewmen on board.

Shouts of “pirates” could be heard from the other end of the Tuscan, followed by running feet hitting the wooden planks.

“Not usually, Mrs... Miss Wycliff,” Anders replied, his own eyes wide. The other ship was nearly alongside them now, and one of their sails had been dropped so their speed slowed to match that of the Tuscan’s. “Hang on,” he warned. “In case they get too close and collide with us.”

Barbara did as she was told, but her attention was on the crew aboard the other ship. On the man who was dressed as a pirate. Wearing a cutlass and looking ever so rakish as his gaze settled on her. Looking exactly the same as the pirate with whom she had danced the night before.

“Blake!” she called out, waving with the hand that didn’t hold the umbrella.

“Barbara!” he shouted back. “Fear not, for I’ve come to save you!”

Fearing for his life, Anders blinked and stepped away from the young woman. He blinked again and hurried off to find the captain.

Apparently Miss Wycliff would be able to fend for herself.

A Devil is Spotted

A half hour earlier

Nelson watched his captain as Blake moved to the bow of the Molly, noting how the captain’s expression indicated he recognized the lone, black-clad figure that stood at the stern of the Tuscan.

“Now you look as if you’re seeing a ghost,” he accused.

“That’s because I am,” Blake said as he pulled a spyglass from his eye. He handed it over to his first mate. “The gentleman standing at the rail. Recognize him?”

Nelson frowned before he lifted the spyglass to his eye. “Looks like a... like a gentleman,” he murmured. “Should I know him?”

Blake took the instrument back, holding it to his eye and cursing as he watched Lord Dorchester struggle to light a cheroot. “That’s the kidnapper,” Blake said in a voice filled with menace. “Son of a biscuit eater took my Little Bo Peep right out from under me.”

Blinking, Nelson furrowed a brow. “While you were having a tumble with her? Blimey!”

It was Blake’s turn to blink. “No. Of course not. While I was at the costume ball. Looking for her. And for him. He disappeared, and so did she, and now I know why,” he hissed. If he’d had a pistol on him, he would have aimed it in the direction of the baron and shot him.

“He took your Little Bo Peep?”

Blake stiffened, his anger growing by the moment. She wasn’t really his Little Bo Peep, but he did want her. More than he realized when he had first learned he was to retrieve her. “Aye,” he breathed.

Nelson gave the Tuscan passenger one more glance through the spyglass before handing it back to his captain. “Then it’s time we go get her. Shall I fire a warning shot?”

“And risk injuring her?” Blake countered. “Absolutely not. Pull up alongside, and we’ll forcibly board the Tuscan.”

Amused more than alarmed by his captain’s orders, Nelson said, “Aye, Capt’n. Should I hoist the skull and crossbones, too?”

Blake gave his first mate a quelling glance. “Not yet. But let them know we have a message. And tell them they’re in danger,” he ordered. They weren’t really, but if the crew of the Tuscan didn’t abide his instructions, he just might fire a warning shot. From a pistol he had stowed in his cabin.

Nelson hurried off to the main mast. He called up to Flinn, “Hoist the danger pennon and then put up the message pennon.” He had half a mind to order the red flag be hoisted after that—no quarter would be shown—but decided that one might be too much.

Flinn made a motion signaling he understood. A few minutes later, the red and white flag indicating the other ship was sailing into danger crawled up the rope a few feet. Then it paused as Flinn attached the pennon conveying they had a message. The two flags climbed to near the top of the mast as he pulled the rope and then secured it.

“Can you make out anyone else on board?” Nelson called up.

A spyglass held to his eye, Flinn let out a shout. “I see something pink near the bow. Looks like...” He lowered the spyglass and gave his head a shake.

“Little Bo Beep?” Nelson offered.

Flinn leaned out of the crow’s nest and flashed a huge grin. “I was going to say a tart dressed in pink, but, yeah, she could be Little Bo Peep. Although...” He paused and waggled his eyebrows. “Her bosom’s not so little, if you catch my meaning, but neither is her bum. And I don’t see no sheep.”

Nelson held back his curse. Didn’t the barrelman know that Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep? The nursery rhyme his sister told to his nephews implied they were long gone before the story even started.

Instead of explaining the story just then, Nelson said, “The gent at the stern?”

“Yeah?” Flinn acknowledged.

“He’s the kidnapper.”

“He’s on the move,” Flinn warned, his gaze back on the Tuscan by way of his spyglass.

“Crikey,” Nelson muttered, realizing just then the kidnapper might conclude the Molly was after him. He raced to the wheel to inform Blake.

An Arresting Proposition

Blake Russell gauged the amount of space he would need to clear the Tuscan’s hull and ordered the jib and top sail to come down. Noting how the captain of the Tuscan was following a near-straight course directed to the now-visible port at Calais, he felt confident the two ships wouldn’t collide.

His crew’s excitement was palpable. Once he had explained they were to rescue the young woman in pink—she is not a tart, but rather the daughter of a rich baronet, he had been quick to inform them—they rushed about on deck carrying out his orders.

The opportunity to earn their share of the blunt offered by Sir Peter might have been the primary reason for their enthusiasm, but Blake thought perhaps they were itching for action. Itching for an opportunity to wield their swords and play pirates for just a few minutes.

He’d had to remind his men that Lord Dorchester would need to be taken alive. The baron was a peer, and therefore untouchable when it came to his crime. Should the aristocrats in the House of Lords decide to try him, Blake hoped they might see to a suitable punishment. Stripping him of his title and tossing him into Newgate would be Blake’s choice, but he didn’t think the lords would see it the same way.

“Now should I have Flinn hoist the skull and crossbones?” Nelson asked when he joined Blake at the wheel. His question was laced with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“The Jolly Roger? I don’t know that we have to do that,” Blake replied. “We risk taking a ball from one of their guns.”

“Bimmington won’t shoot. He’s already hoisted a white flag.”

“What?” Blake quickly raised his gaze to take in the sight of a white pennon waving from the Tuscan’s top mast. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “I guess this means we won’t have to scuttle the Tuscan.” Not that he had been considering it, but if Captain Bimmington proved difficult or had fired on them, he would have given the order to return fire.

He then noticed an older gentleman waving from the starboard rail. Dressed in a navy topcoat festooned with brass buttons, his head topped with a black tricorn, Captain Bimmington was aiming a glare in his direction.

“Take the wheel,” Blake ordered, his attention entirely on the other captain, “and raise the Jolly Roger. I want Dorchester to see it.” The words were said with spite, and a grin touched Blake’s lips.

Nelson did as he was told, a gleam in his eye. “Aye, Capt’n.”

Blake made his way to the leeward rail. “Sorry about this, Captain,” he called out. “But you’re carrying contraband cargo and a kidnapper, and I’ve been hired to see to their retrieval and return to London.”

Bimmington jerked at hearing the other captain’s words. “My cargo is entirely legitimate—”

“All except for Little Bo Peep,” Blake called back. “Give up Lord Dorchester, and give up the shepherdess, and no one gets hurt.”

Giving his head a shake, Bimmington shouted, “On whose authority?”

Blake was tempted to yell back, “Mine,” but instead said, “Lord Chamberlain, Foreign Office. You’re transporting a kidnapper.”

Dipping his head at learning the young lady had been telling the truth, Bimmington was almost glad the other ship had intercepted his. Getting rid of Mr. Smith would be a relief. “Since I’ve already received pay for his passage, you can have him,” Bimmington replied, his need to yell lessened now that ropes had been tossed from the Molly to the Tuscan to ensure the two ships stayed abreast of one another. “But you’ll have to come get him. I rather doubt Mr. Smith will go willingly.”

“You’ll not fire on my crew?”

Bimmington shook his head. “We’ll be glad to be rid of him.”

Feeling a profound sense of relief, Blake called out the order to bring forth the planks that would connect the two ships. He hurried to the bow, relieved to see Barbara. She was apparently safe, holding an umbrella aloft and looking ever so pink in her Bo Peep costume. Although a bit wind-blown, she looked radiant when her gaze settled on him and recognition had her calling out his given name.

Never in his life had he felt such relief. Such joy. Such desire for a woman. No, she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. Her features weren’t those of an English beauty. Her eyes were a bit too far apart and rather large. Her chin nearly ended in a point but was saved by a bit of squarishness. Her brown hair, having long since lost its pins, was whipping about due to the wind and would no doubt resemble a rat’s nest when she was safe aboard his ship. But her smile was infectious, and the sight of her pink-clad body had his reacting in a manner entirely inappropriate for the occasion.

“Barbara! Fear not, for I’ve come to save you,” he called out.

What the hell? Had he really said such a thing? And out loud?

What the hell had gotten into him?

Miss Woodcock appeared at his side, the valise gripped in one hand and her smile wide. “My lady! I brought you a change of clothes,” she yelled. And then her smile faltered. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything with your hair, however.”

Blake gave the lady’s maid a quelling glance before he turned his attention back on Barbara. “I’m coming for you,” he shouted, and made to head for the planks that now connected the two ships.

“Not unless you have twenty-thousand pounds!”

In the span of a blink of an eye, Lord Dorchester had moved up behind Barbara and had grasped her around the waist with one arm. He now held a pistol to her face, the barrel denting the rounded flesh of her cheek.

Alarm and fear had Blake frozen where he stood. “You unhand her this instant, you cur!”

“Not until I get the ransom and safe passage to Calais,” Dorchester called back. In a voice that only Barbara could hear, he added, “Isn’t this so much more exciting than our two o’ clock ride in Hyde Park would have been?”

Barbara stiffened in his hold. “Lord Dorchester?” she whispered in awe, attempting to turn so she might see him more clearly. The gun barrel pushed harder though, and she was forced to look at Blake.

Which she didn’t mind in the least. His concern for her seemed genuine.

He was dressed exactly as she remembered him from the night before, which meant he really was a pirate. Either that, or he had rushed off to his ship to save her the moment he learned she was in danger. Standing as he was, with one hand on the hilt of a cutlass and the other on his hip, he looked dangerous. Devilishly handsome, despite his large nose. And quite annoyed, given how the muscles at the top of his broad shoulders bunched.

“Oh, Blake,” she whispered, wishing he could hear her words. “My hero.” In a louder voice she said, “Don’t give him a farthing.”

“Now see here, you...”

The baron didn’t have a chance to finish his curse when a brandy wine barrel came down hard on his head.

Holding it between his two hands was Fitz.

The Molly’s sailing master stood over the crumpled body of the kidnapper for a moment in an effort to determine if he had really knocked him out before he raised his head and then gave Miss Wycliff a slight bow. “Miss Peep,” he said with an impish grin. “’Tis verra good to meet you. My mum used to read me your rhyme next to me bed at night”, he said in all seriousness. “Didn’t realize you were real. So sorry about your sheep.”

Barbara blinked. And blinked again. “Oh, well, thank you,” she replied, adding a curtsy, just before she was suddenly engulfed in Blake’s arms.

“Are you well? Did he hurt you?” the captain asked, not giving up his hold on the young woman.

“I am fine, now that you are here,” Barbara murmured, rather liking how one of his hands was sliding down her backside. When he cupped her bottom and pulled her closer, she let out a gasp and her eyes widened. “Have you really come for me?” she asked in a whisper.

“I have, my lady,” Blake whispered.

“However did you know where I was?”

Blake reluctantly pulled away but left his forehead pressed against hers. “I’ll explain later, but first we must get you aboard the Molly. Take you back to London,” he murmured. He raised his head and motioned toward Lord Dorchester. “Good work, Fitz. Tie his hands behind his back, and get him onto the Molly,” he ordered.

“There’s twine in the captain’s cabin,” Barbara suggested, and Fitz paused to nod at her before he hurried off.

Barbara returned her attention to Blake, her tremulous smile suggesting she might cry at any moment. “You came for me,” she whispered.

Blake took a deep breath and let it out as he nodded. “I did. I was so worried. Did he... did he force himself on you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I would shoot him if he did.”

“You would do that for me?”

Nodding, Blake once again dropped his forehead to hers. “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”

Barbara was almost disappointed when she had to say, “Yes, I am sure.”

“Did he frighten you?”

Angling her head to one side, Barbara thought of the moment the pistol was shoved into her cheek. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll shoot him for that,” Blake vowed.

A delightful grin spread over Barbara’s face. “I believed you really were a pirate when I saw you a moment ago.”

Blake aimed his attention on the boards that connected the two ships. “You may again when I tell you we have to walk the plank.”

“What?” Despite the disbelief in her voice, Barbara allowed Blake to lead her to where the set of planks spanned the divide between the two decks. A wave of seasickness had her clutching her middle. “I cannot walk the plank,” she managed to say.

Without a word of warning, Blake lifted his Bo Peep into his arms and strode across the chasm between the two ships, grinning when he saw how she had squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Once he was on the Molly, his crew broke out in cheers, and Barbara opened her eyes.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asked as he set her back on her feet.

She struggled to stand upright, and when Russell noticed, he simply scooped her back into his arms. He surveyed his crew, most agog at seeing him carrying a woman. “Take Dorchester to the brig. Get us back to London. We’ve a reward to collect for having captured him,” he called out.

The crew erupted in another round of cheers before they scattered to do his bidding. The reward promised in Lord Chamberlain’s letter was really for returning Miss Wycliff to her father, but his crew didn’t need to know that.

And neither did Barbara.

A Maid is Missing

With Barbara still in his arms, Blake headed towards his quarters.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her hands once again wrapping around his neck.

“To my... to the captain’s quarters,” he managed to say. “I’ve a comfortable chair for you, or there’s a bed should you wish to lie down.”

“Your bed?” she asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Blake swallowed. “Yes. Should our trip back to London take all night, then I will see to it you and your lady’s maid—”

“Where is Woodcock?” Barbara asked, glancing back to where Althea had been standing with the valise. “I should like to get out of this costume and into warmer clothes.”

“She’s around here somewhere.” Blake frowned, wondering where the lady’s maid was. “She has your valise—” He spun around, his gaze searching the area where he had last stood next to Althea, but that part of the deck was now abandoned.

He noted how Fitz and Blakely were seeing to Lord Dorchester, the two managing to haul the baron’s prone body across the planks. Once they were on board the Molly, the wooden planks were pulled back onto the ship, and the ropes tying the two vessels together were loosened.

Captain Bimmington stood with his hands on his hips, watching closely as the Molly drifted away from the Tuscan, as if he was worried the two ships might yet collide. He gave a wave when it was apparent they were on separate courses. “May the wind be at your back,” he called out.

Blake acknowledged the words with, “And at yours,” before he carried Barbara into his cabin.

He set her on the edge of his bed. “I’ll have your maid join you when I find her,” he said as he straightened. In the dim light, he allowed his gaze to pause for a moment. Despite her mussed gown, the faded red lip color, and evidence she’d been exposed to wind and sun this day, her wide eyes were bright as she regarded him.

She still took his breath away.

Finding the temptation too great, Blake leaned down and kissed her.

Much like the kiss he had bestowed on her at the ball, Barbara wasn’t expecting it, but she returned it without hesitation.

Blake finally pulled away, his heart hammering despite the excitement of the past half-hour having passed. “I know I should apologize—”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned with a shake of her head.

“Oh, well then.” Blake took her face between his hands and kissed her again, this time for a moment longer. “I won’t,” he whispered before he gave a slight bow. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ve something I need to see to, but I will return soon.” He took his leave of his quarters.

Barbara let out the breath she’d been holding, sad for the loss of his attentions but heartened that he had simply picked up where they had left off the night before at the ball.

Had that really just been the night before? So much had happened in such a short amount of time!

Rising to her feet, she took a few steps to test her balance. The motion of the water beneath the larger ship was less noticeable than on the Tuscan, and she walked with confidence to the door of the cabin to look out.

Deckhands were scrambling about, a few climbing ropes or pulling on them in an effort to get the Molly turned around for its trip back to London. That’s when she noticed the pennon of the skull and crossbones flying above, the wind whipping the black and white flag so hard, she could hear the flapping sound.

“Pirates,” she whispered. A combination of disbelief and fear gripped her just then. In all the excitement, she hadn’t even noticed that Blake’s ship really was a pirate ship.

A hand went to her middle again as she struggled with seasickness. Food. She really needed food. Determined to find some, she made her way down the only stairs she could find.

“Is she in here?” Blake asked when he stepped into the wheelhouse. Nelson was at the wheel, struggling to get the ship headed north.

“She who?” the first mate responded.

“Woodcock.”

Nelson paused in his task and stared at the captain. “She was on deck a moment ago,” he said as he pretended to look for the lady’s maid. “She’s not in here.” He was about to say more, but the captain disappeared.

Blake rushed about the deck. Not finding Miss Woodcock along any of the railings, he stood beneath the main mast and called up to Flinn. “Where’s the lady’s maid?”

The barrelman leaned out of the crow’s nest, his gaze sweeping the ship below. He then turned his attention on the Tuscan, and his arm shot out. “Over there,” he called out. “On the Tuscan.”

Blake turned around and then made his way to the stern, his attention on the lady’s maid who now stood at the rail of the other ship. On the deck next to her feet was the valise. “What did you do?” he called out in confusion, realizing she had to have walked the plank to get onto the Tuscan when the two ships were still joined. Was she mad?

Or had she run a rig?

“I decided I wish to live in France,” Althea shouted back, her shoulders shrugging in a manner suggesting she didn’t have a care in the world. “Thank you for the ride.” Her huge grin suggested she had made her decision long before she had boarded the Molly.

A niggling, annoying feeling had Blake cursing just then. He had really hoped she wasn’t what Nelson had suspected, but it seemed his first mate was right. “With twenty thousand pounds, I suppose?” he yelled back.

The lady’s maid dipped a curtsy and smiled again, but she said not a word. The distance between the two ships would have prevented her response from being heard.

“Dammit,” Blake ground out. “Dammit all to hell.”

Althea Woodcock had been in it with Lord Dorchester all along. She had probably been dispatched with the ransom by her employer, so that if a ship hadn’t been able to intercept the Tuscan before it reached Calais, the ransom could still be paid.

Well, what would Sir Peter do when he discovered she had made off with his money? Money that was probably supposed to be the reward money for returning Barbara Wycliff to London?

Blake was pondering this and more when he returned to the wheelhouse to tell his first mate what he had discovered.

“Gone, isn’t she?” Nelson asked when Blake joined him again.

Blake allowed a grimace, thinking his first mate seemed awfully pleased with himself. “On the Tuscan. With the valise, of course,” he said on a long sigh. “Dammit, how is it she even made it over there without being seen?” he asked. “With twenty-thousand pounds, no less?”

Nelson allowed a grunt. “Oh, not with twenty-thousand pounds,” he countered, a barely hidden smirk finally growing to display his slightly yellowed teeth.

Blake blinked. And blinked again. “What are you saying?”

His first mate gave a shrug. “That valise she’s got with her isn’t the same valise she came aboard with.”

His brows furrowing in confusion, Blake gave a shake of his head. “It’s not?” A flare of hope had him raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” Nelson reached down and then lifted a valise from the floor next to his feet. “This is the one she brought on board. Has clothes in it, just like she said, but there’s more underneath. Lots more.”

A grin slowly forming to replace his expression of distress, Blake said, “When you say lots more, are you referring to twenty-thousand pounds?”

One shoulder lifted as Nelson turned the wheel. “Can’t say how much exactly, seein’ as how I can’t count that high,” he replied. He set the valise back down at this feet.

“You dog.”

Nelson held up a finger and waved it back and forth. “Now, now,” he started to say before Blake had him in a bear hug.

“You were right to trust your instincts,” the captain said when he released the startled first mate. “You’re going to make an excellent captain for this ship.”

Furrowing a brow, Nelson eyed Blake for a moment. “Are you sayin’ you’re giving up the Molly?” he asked in disbelief.

Blake let out a breath, his thoughts on Barbara. For a few moments back in his cabin, he had imagined an entire life with her. Now that reality was making itself apparent again, perhaps his imaginings were folly.

Sir Peter probably wanted his daughter to marry an aristocrat. Or at the very least, a well-to-do cit. What would the baronet’s reaction be when a mere ship’s captain asked for permission to court his daughter?

“I had a thought perhaps it was time,” Blake started to say. “But...” He allowed the sentence to trail off and shook his head. He glanced down at the valise. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll take that to my cabin. Miss Wycliff would really like to change into a proper gown.”

“All right by me,” Nelson replied, using the toe of his boot to push the bag in Blake’s direction. “Just don’t be getting any ideas.”

The captain nodded. “If I remember right from that letter Woodcock brought on board, this very well may be our reward money,” he said with a grin. “Split fifteen ways means we all get over...” He paused to do the math in his head. “Thirteen-hundred pounds.”

“Don’t be counting any chickens, Capt’n,” Nelson warned.

Blake sobered. “Good point.” He picked up the valise, but before he could turn and make his way back to his cabin, he paused and regarded Nelson with suspicion. “If this is the valise that Miss Woodcock was carrying when she came aboard, then what’s in the valise that she took onto the Tuscan?”

Nelson’s eyes lifted and then darted to the left and right. “A couple of old shirts,” he murmured.

Frowning, Blake leaned against the doorframe. “And?” he prompted. He knew the other valise would have had to have more in it to make it as heavy as this one that Woodcock had brought on board. Otherwise, the lady’s maid would have known the bag had been switched out with another.

“Oh, some potato peelings from tonight’s dinner. Couple o’ fish. Some old bread.”

Blake rolled his eyes, almost hoping the lady’s maid might discover the change in luggage and remain on the Tuscan for its trip back to London. If she made it to Calais and disembarked, she wouldn’t have the means to pay for anything. “She was in on it with Dorchester, wasn’t she?” he half-asked. Woodcock had probably helped arrange everything, including her last-minute substitution as a chaperone at the masked ball the night before.

Nelson allowed a shrug. “Probably.”

How could I have been so blind? Blake wondered, remembering how Lord Dorchester and the lady’s maid had been paired up for a dance the night before.

“Are you going to claim Miss Wycliff for yerself now?” Nelson asked.

Furrowing a brow, Blake was about to deny his first mate’s query. But he knew there was one way he could ensure he ended up with the young woman.

It was not a very honorable way. He would risk the reward Lord Chamberlain implied would be paid upon his daughter’s return. But the temptation was so great, he merely nodded in Nelson’s direction and took his leave of the wheelhouse.

A Maiden and a Captain

In the captain’s quarters

Surprised that it was Blake who came back into the cabin instead of Woodcock, Barbara stood up, a half-eaten slice of bread clutched in one hand and an apple core in the other. “Does that bag contain a change of clothes, I hope?”

Blake set the valise on the bed. “I think so,” he replied as he leaned over and bussed her on the cheek. “There’s more in here than clothes, though.”

Barbara was quick to set aside the bread and apple before she opened the valise. Reaching in, she began pulling out coral fabric by the handfuls followed by yards of white muslin. “Well, at least she’s brought my favorite gown. I’m quite over wearing pink.” She looked up and then turned her attention to the closed door. “What have you done with my lady’s maid?” she asked as she shook out the crepe de Naples gown and petticoats. “I’ll need help with dressing.”

Blake dipped his head. “Miss Woodcock... she boarded the Tuscan shortly after I brought you aboard. Seems she prefers France over England.”

Her head jerking up, Barbara regarded Blake for a moment before she sat down on the bed. Hard. “Oh,” she murmured, disappointment evident in her voice. Her eyes widening a moment later, she dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, no. Please tell me she wasn’t part of this.”

Blake immediately joined her on the bed, pulling her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot. Did you have any idea she and Lord Dorchester were planning such a nefarious scheme?” he asked in a quiet voice.

The way her body shuddered, Blake knew Barbara was weeping. He felt her head shake against the small of his shoulder, and a quiet sob sounded.

“Nnn... no,” she managed to get out. “How could she? How could she do such a thing?”

“How long has she been your lady’s maid?”

There was a pause before Barbara sniffled and lifted her head from his shoulder. “A month, is all,” she managed between sobs. “She came with the very best character, though. She was an upstairs maid in a mansion. A baron’s mansion.”

At the same moment Blake sorted the identity of the baron, Barbara did as well. She shook her head and inhaled sharply. “The cur!”

“Indeed. They probably planned this long before she came into your employ,” Blake reasoned. “Waiting until you were in need of a lady’s maid just so she could be the first to apply.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Althea Woodcock applied even before then. And she was the only one to do so,” she put in, her attention on something far away. “No one else applied, at least as far as I know.”

Furrowing a brow, Blake asked, “You say she applied before you were in need of a lady’s maid?”

Nodding, Barbara regarded him a moment. “She had to have known my father was going to pension my former lady’s maid. Cruthers was quite old, you see.”

His brows still furrowed, Blake wondered at the timing of the kidnapping. Both the baron and the lady’s maid had to have been in exactly the right places the night before in order to pull it off. Ordering the Wycliff coach to follow Dorchester’s town coach had been brilliant—the driver would have been convinced of Woodcock’s devotion to her mistress when she urged him to follow the Dorchester coach, especially when she attempted to board the Tuscan.

“Dorchester expected to get to Calais and then be joined by Woodcock,” Blake reasoned. “He must have known your father would either arrange a rescue or send the ransom.” Peeking into the valise, he could see the mound of bank notes filling the bottom half. Never in his life had he seen so much blunt. “And that your father would trust Miss Woodcock with the ransom.”

Barbara leaned over and stared into the bag. “Twenty-thousand pounds?” she whispered in disbelief. “I rather doubt he would trust her with this much money,” she breathed.

Shrugging, Blake said, “I haven’t counted it, of course, but I’ll be sure to deliver it directly into your father’s hands when I return you to Parkenhurst House.”

A sense of melancholy settled over Barbara just then. She turned her back to him. “Since it seems I am without a lady’s maid, could you undo the fastenings for me? I simply must get out of this gown,” she said on a sigh.

Blake stared at the young lady’s pink-clad back, noting how a row of laces held the edges together. Despite her request, he still paused before he undid the tie. Using a hooked finger, he carefully loosened the laces down to the base of her spine. Beneath her gown was an old-fashioned corset from the century prior. “I should probably... turn around whilst you undress,” he murmured. He didn’t, though, instead hoping she might ask him to continue undressing her.

Barbara gave him a glance over her shoulder. “So... you’re not really a pirate?” she asked in a voice filled with disappointment.

Blake gave a start. Before he could answer, though, she added, “I saw the flag. The skull and crossbones. Doesn’t that mean this is a pirate ship?”

Rolling his eyes, Blake gave a shake of his head. “That was... merely theatrics,” he explained. “A way to strike fear in the crew of the Tuscan, since we didn’t know if Captain Bimmington was aware of your circumstance or not.”

Barbara huffed as she stood up and wiggled out of the wrinkled silk gown and a series of several ruffled petticoats. “He is quite a thick man,” she groused.

The courtesy of standing whenever a woman did so ingrained into him, Blake stood up and did his best to keep his attention above her chest. When the words permeated his brain, he scowled. “Captain Bimmington?”

She nodded. “I explained in no uncertain terms that I was not married to Mr. Smith... Lord Dorchester, I mean,” she corrected, “and yet, the captain seemed determined to believe that I was.”

Her hands went to her hips, and it was everything Blake could do not to reach out and pull her against the front of his body. The corset barely contained her generous bosom, and she wore a most scandalous pair of white silk drawers featuring several rows of ruffles around her knees. The white silk stockings that encased her calves had his gaze dropping to her ankles.

Well-turned ankles.

Blake swallowed. Hard. And then realized what she had said. Alarm had him pulling her into his arms. “Did Dorchester ruin you? Because if he did, I’ll go down to the brig and beat him to a bloody—”

“He did not.”

The words were so quiet, Blake dipped his head so that he could see more of her face. “Barbara?” he whispered, not even aware he used her Christian name.

“It would seem I’m not exactly worth ruining,” she said on a long sigh. “In fact, I am beginning to believe my dowry may not be enough to convince any man to ruin me, let alone marry me,” she said in a quiet voice.

“That’s not true,” he argued. “I would gladly ruin you.”

Barbara blinked.

Blake inhaled sharply. “That is to say, I would be... I would be honored to... to ruin you.”

“You would?” Her response was filled with surprise.

Pleasant surprise.

He boggled. “Well, I would be more honored if I could take you to wife, but...”

Barbara’s eyes widened and then suspicion filled them. “Because of my dowry?”

Blake furrowed his brows and shook his head. “No.”

Giving him a withering stare, Barbara countered with, “Then why?”

Blake sighed. “Because I’m rather... smitten with you.”

She jerked in his arms. “You are?” Her words were filled with awe.

“I am.” He took a breath and forged on. “But I am a commoner—”

“As am I.”

“—and I rather doubt your father is going to give me permission to court you...”

“Court me?”

He nodded. “Well, of course. It would only be fair for you to learn more about me...”

Blake’s words were stopped when Barbara’s lips collided with his. His startlement lasted only a moment before he returned her kiss, reveling in her unbridled enthusiasm and the way she pressed the front of her body against his. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, and a moment later, he felt her fingers spear his dark hair.

When he finally pulled away—only enough to take a deep breath—he left his forehead pressed against hers. “You are in severe danger, my lady,” he whispered.

“Really?” Barbara replied, with perhaps too much enthusiasm.

Blake straightened and regarded her with a smirk. “Why do I get the impression you want me to take your virtue?”

Dipping her head so his nose ended up in what was left of her messy bun, Barbara mewled, “Perhaps because I do. Ever since I met you last night—which now seems like weeks ago—I have wondered if you might be the one.”

“The one?” he repeated.

She lifted her head and regarded him with an impish grin. “The one who might look beyond my rather rotund...”

“You are not rotund,” Blake interrupted.

“Breasts,” she continued, “and wide hips—”

“Your hips are perfect,” he said, his hands moving to pull her lower body against his to reinforce his claim.

“And see me for who I really am.”

He blinked. And blinked again. “Just so you’re aware, I am in awe of your breasts.” Leaning down, he kissed the tops of both in turn, knowing full well his silken hair tickled her shoulders. “And your hips.” He squeezed her hips between his large hands. “And everything in between, and above...” He paused to kiss her forehead. “And below.” He knelt and kissed each thigh just above the ruffles of her drawers, and then dropped his lips to the tops of her feet where he kissed them both.

Angling his head up, he saw how she stared down at him, an expression of awe etched on her face.

Blake knew he would never forget that look. And he knew exactly how he could ensure it stayed there. “If your father gives me permission, I shall ask for your hand,” he whispered.

Barbara stared at him for a moment before finally blinking several times. “Oh, he will,” she murmured. “I will see to it that he does.” She placed her hands beneath his armpits and helped him to stand. “Do what you must to ruin me,” she begged.

Blake made a sound not unlike a growl. “I cannot. Not yet,” he added, noting the flash of anger that crossed her face. “But... I can... I can give you a... a prelude to what you might expect in our marriage bed,” he stammered, almost immediately regretting the offer.

How the hell was he going to restrain himself? The mere suggestion that she wanted him to ruin her had his cock responding as if it were an emergency. Why, if they required another mast from which to fly a pennon, his cock would do in a pinch.

“A prelude?” she repeated.

Nodding, Blake reached behind her and tugged on the ties that held up her drawers. The white silk fabric dropped to the wooden planks below at the same moment she let out an “Oh!” She let out another when one of his hands smoothed over her mons and then dipped between her thighs.

She gasped, and her eyes darkened with understanding. “I really don’t think I can stay stand...”

Barbara let out a cry of surprise as Blake lifted her up and then placed her onto the bed. He followed her down, his hand immediately returning to the moist curls hiding her womanhood.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” she complained.

Blake paused in his ministrations. “True,” he acknowledged. He lifted himself from the bed just long enough to doff his waistcoat and shirt. At seeing Barbara’s widened eyes, he glanced down his front. “Too much hair?” he asked, suddenly worried she might be offended.

Barbara shook her head. “I’ve just never seen a bare-chested man before,” she replied.

She had, of course, but the memory of her as a young girl seeing her rather hirsute father in his dressing gown had her thinking that all men were as hairy as the bears she had seen in the menagerie at the Tower of London.

“I’ve a mind to remove your corset just because I don’t believe you,” he warned.

Her eyes widening in delight, Barbara said, “Oh, would you?”

Blake sighed. “You’re going to make this easy, aren’t you?”

She blinked, and then her eyes darted to one side. “Should I make it hard?” she countered, lifting herself to one elbow.

Grinning, he leaned over and kissed her. “I think I just fell in love with you,” he whispered.

Barbara swallowed, stunned to hear his words. “Oh?” she breathed, well aware of where one of his hands had managed to move, his finger expertly inciting a series of rather pleasant tingles beneath her skin and then throughout her abdomen. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she could breathe.

Wasn’t sure she wanted to breathe.

Ever again.

Blake brushed his lips over her bare shoulder. “What I mean to say is, I have been thinking about you every moment for the past—“

“Oh!” The word was quite loud, and Blake felt a profound sense of satisfaction as he repeated the ministration that had elicited the response. When she made the same sound, he knew he had her.

He worked his way down the front of her body, his lips pausing here and there to place light kisses wherever he could find bare skin. Although he had been given a clear invitation to ruin her, Blake had no intention of taking her virtue. His cock obviously hadn’t gotten the message, given how it seemed to have a mind of its own. And perhaps a Jolly Roger attached to the end of it. The damned appendage wanted nothing more than to stake a claim inside her. Plunder and pillage and leave its treasure for a future visit.

Shaking the odd thoughts from his head—both of them—Blake settled his body between her spread legs.

Her invitation was apparent, and he wasn’t about to send his regrets.

Replacing his fingers with his tongue, he proceeded to tease her womanhood with the tip of it. Delighting in her soft gasps and mewls of pleasure, he worked his tongue into the tight, wet space his cock was desperate to invade.

Fighting every thought of taking her virtue, Blake concentrated on bringing her to the edge of ecstasy. Concentrated on her thighs and how they pinned his head between them. Concentrated on how her body bucked beneath his hold.

And then, when he was sure she could take no more, he laved his tongue across her swollen womanhood.

Once.

Twice.

There was no third time. Barbara seemed to break apart beneath him, her once-rigid legs falling to the sides so her thighs were exposed to him. He took the opportunity to suckle each one for a moment, grinning when her mewling changed to an occasional whispered ‘yes.’

When he was sure she’d had enough, Blake made his way back up her body, dropping kisses on her wrists and on the insides of her elbows. When he heard her giggle, he buried his head just above her breasts and allowed a long sigh.

Her fingers speared his hair, and he growled as her nails scraped his scalp and sent skitters of delight down the back of his neck. “You minx,” he accused in a whisper.

Her hands stilled. “Is that... good? Or... bad?” she asked in a whisper.

Reluctantly, Blake lifted his head from her chest. “Good for me. Bad for your virtue, surely.”

She grinned and returned her fingers to his hair. “Will you take my virtue?”

Nodding, because now there was no way he would allow anyone else to do so, Blake said, “I will, but not on this night. Not until I know for certain you are mine.”

The words seemed to appease her, although he knew disappointment had settled over her. “Are you aware that once we are betrothed, I am at liberty to bed you?”

Barbara lifted her head, her disappointment replaced with hope. “You are?”

“I cannot believe I am saying this, but yes,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps we can marry by special license, so you don’t have to wait so long.”

“You won’t have to wait so long, either,” she countered, a hand moving to cup the rigid member behind the placket of his breeches.

Blake jerked and groaned in response, his eyes closed lest he give in to his baser instincts. “True. So true.”

They lay in companionable silence for a time, sleep nearly claiming them both.

“You’ll sleep here tonight, of course,” he murmured. “I don’t expect we’ll make it back to London until early morning.”

“And then what will happen?”

Blake frowned and tightened his hold on her. “I’ll escort you to Parkenhurst House, of course. Explain to your father what happened, and give him the money.”

“Is that all?”

He sighed. “I’ll ask his permission to court you.”

“And then?”

Sighing, Blake lifted his head from her chest and allowed a brilliant smile. “Then I shall file a report with my superior—I’ll have to detail the events of this day—”

“All of them?” she asked in alarm.

“Well, all but those of the past hour or so,” he replied. “Do not worry. I will keep you a secret, at least with my men.”

She seemed to think on his words a moment. “Do you own this vessel?”

He shook his head. “I do not. I merely... captain it when we’re sent on...” He sighed again.

Her brows furrowing, Barbara regarded him for a moment. “You’re not really a pirate. But if you’re not, then who sent you to find me?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Barbara’s eyes widened in delight. “Oh, I can, yes.”

Blake nodded. “Well,” he whispered as he offered her his right hand. “Blake Russell, Foreign Office.”

She awkwardly shook his hand as understanding filled her eyes. “You were sent to find me?” Her head fell back on the pillow, as if she was offended.

“Trust me when I say I would have come after you even if I wasn’t duty-bound to do so,” he replied, hoping she wasn’t disappointed. Perhaps she had been thinking he had been tracking her ever since she had disappeared from the ball the night before.

“So, if you’re not a pirate—”

“I am the captain of a ship that pursues pirates and privateers, smugglers and such.”

“Go on,” she urged.

“I report to Lord Chamberlain, and the Molly is the property of the British Navy. Our mission is to capture smugglers, mostly, but occasionally I have to take on some rather unusual assignments, like this one.”

“Hmm.” She was quiet for a time. “And if we do marry, what will you do for a living?”

Blake thought of the discussion he’d had with Nelson earlier that morning.

Had it really only been that morning? The day seemed to have gone on for weeks.

“I think it might be time for me to consider a different living,” he murmured. “Something a bit more land-based. Or more regular.”

He couldn’t believe what he was saying. He remembered feeling sorry for Alex Bradley, in that the former ship’s captain was now piloting a desk in Horseguards.

“Won’t you miss captaining a ship?” Barbara asked in a faint whisper. The cabin had grown dark with the sun having set, and without a candle lamp, the room was blanketed in dark grays.

“Possibly. But if I know I have you to come home to every day, I shall not mind so much.”

Silence stretched for a time, and Blake thought perhaps Barbara had finally fallen asleep. About to lift himself from the bed to dress and return to the wheelhouse, he was prevented from doing so when she tightened her hold on him.

“My father is considering the purchase of some ships,” she whispered. “Merchant ships, much like the Tuscan.”

Blake blinked. “He is?” After listening to Nelson list all the properties Sir Peter already owned, Blake supposed he shouldn’t be surprised the baronet wanted to increase his holdings.

“He’ll need captains, of course,” she hinted.

“But, I don’t think I could bear to be away from you for weeks at a time,” he reasoned.

Barbara shifted beneath him. “Perhaps I could... come along.”

“You would do that?” Blake sat up and stared down at her. In the dark, he could barely make out her milky white skin against the dark blanket on the bed.

“I would. I tend to get seasick, but I haven’t noticed it so much since I’ve been aboard this ship,” she said, a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Probably because I’ve been keeping your mind off of it,” he teased. He lowered his lips to hers. If only they could simply sail away. Enjoy one another’s company by day and spend their nights making love under the stars. “I’ve a mind to stay with you all night.”

He heard her slight hum and grinned when she said, “Then do so. I will not mind a bit.”

Kissing her one last time, Blake sighed and dropped his head to her shoulder. When he was sure she was asleep, he slid off of her body, covered her with a blanket, and took his leave of the cabin.

Perhaps a discussion with his first mate would talk some sense into him.

Discussing a First Mate’s Possible Mate

Meanwhile

Turned around and headed back toward English shores, the Molly barely made any headway given the strong head winds.

“This may be one of those twenty-hour crossings,” Nelson groused from where he stood at the wheel.

Fitz allowed a shrug. Given the events of the day, he didn’t want to see it come to an end this soon. The sailing master had watched in wonder as their captain had rescued the pink-gowned maiden from the kidnapper. Marveled at how members of the crew had joined together to escort the baron to the brig and see to it he was made as uncomfortable as possible. Enjoyed the camaraderie as his mates ate supper and drank ale.

He still couldn’t believe he had challenged the captain for command of the ship just two nights ago. How could he have been such a fool, even in a drunk state? “I don’t think the captain minds if it takes a week to get back to London,” he said in response.

Nelson gave him a quelling glance. “You know what this means?”

His brows furrowed, Fitz gave a shake of his head. “Captain’s not going to give up command of the Molly. Even if he gets the girl. And given her father’s one of the richest men in all of London, I doubt he’ll be allowed to marry her,” the sailing master reasoned.

Rather impressed by Fitz’s response, Nelson glanced in the direction of the captain’s quarters. Blake and the young woman had been in there—without an escort—ever since they had left the Tuscan.

The details of the kidnapping would be kept a secret, or at least as much of one as was possible given the crew of the Tuscan knew as much as anyone on the Molly, so Miss Wycliff’s reputation wouldn’t suffer.

If she spent much longer in Blake’s cabin, she would be thoroughly ruined, though. Perhaps that was his captain’s plan. Ruin Little Bo Peep so her father would have to agree to allow him to marry her.

The scoundrel.

Nelson gave a shake of his head. They had just had a discussion about not getting married. How could so much change in only two days?

With Lord Dorchester locked in the brig below deck and Miss Woodcock in Calais, her only possessions a couple of his shirts, two dead fish, and a sack of potato peelings, Nelson knew there was nothing else to be done until they reached Wapping.

He thought of the missive from Lord Chamberlain and finally allowed a grin. “We’ll have a decent payday from this run,” he said, hoping the promise of blunt would be enough to satisfy his captain if he didn’t get the girl.

“Truth be told, I’d almost do this for nothin’,” Fitz replied, his attention aimed north. “Long as I have a place to sleep and food to eat.”

Nelson blinked. “Well, ain’t you a model sailor?” he teased. But he understood the young man’s sentiment.

And then a thought of Miss Woodcock had his own cock threatening to rise.

He gave his head a shake. What the hell? She wasn’t what he found the least bit appealing, so why did thoughts of her come unbidden? Especially when she had turned out to be a thief?

“You’re thinking of that lady’s maid again, aren’t you?” Fitz teased.

Nelson immediately leaned forward in an effort to hide the bulge that was growing in his nether region. “Am not.”

Fitz didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “She was smitten with you,” he countered. “Said she used to know you back when you were a pickpocket, and the two of you used to work the crowds at the pleasure gardens.”

His eyes widening in alarm, Nelson lifted his finger to his lips. “Don’t be spreading those lies,” he warned.

Fitz merely rolled his eyes. “She said you would say that. She was impressed by how far you’ve come. Said she had to struggle as a maid for a long time ’afore she was able to get hired on as a lady’s maid. Only because her mistress isn’t some diamond of the first water. So she was really scar’t when Miss Wycliff was taken. Thought she’d be out of a position. So I guess I’m as surprised as anyone she would choose France over coming back with us to England.”

Nelson pretended like he was only half-listening to what the sailing master had to say. “How much time did you have to spend in her company to learn all that twaddle?”

“No more than half-hour. Right nice woman, she was. Might have to keep her in mind in case I decide to give up the sea.” He watched the first mate, expecting a reaction.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“Now see here, you fool. The woman was a thief,” Nelson argued.

“Yeah. Stole yer heart, she did,” Fitz countered.

Reeling at the sailing master’s words, Nelson was about to put voice to a protest. Instead, he glanced in the direction of France and frowned. “What’s this?”

A set of sails, barely visible on the darkening horizon, appeared to rise from the sea.

“I’ll get Flinn,” Fitz offered, knowing the barrelman was eating supper below deck.

Nelson was about to tell him not to bother. He was fairly sure he knew the identity of the ship that followed in their wake. But Flinn was already scrambling down the steep companionway.

In the growing gloom of twilight, his attention went to the door of the captain’s quarters. He hadn’t expected to see Blake Russell until morning, but the captain emerged and made his way toward him.

“I see the wind is not in our favor,” Blake commented.

“Would’ve thought you’d be happy for it,” Nelson countered.

Sure he heard a bitter note in his first mate’s voice, Blake said, “I haven’t ruined her if that’s what you’re thinking. We’ve been... talking.”

“Talking?” The word was said with a good deal of disbelief.

“About our future, and what I might do should Sir Peter allow me to court his daughter.”

Nelson blinked. “Court? You?” His eyes darted left and then right before he gave a shake of his head. “Where is Captain Russell? I demand to know. What have you done with him?”

Despite the first mate’s serious demeanor, Blake allowed a chuckle. “He’s been replaced, it seems.”

“Say it isn’t so,” Nelson demanded.

Blake allowed a shrug. “Dammit, man, I think I’m in love,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Lust, you mean. I saw how your eyes drift to her rather generous charms,” Nelson argued. Blake acted as if he couldn’t hear his first mate.

“Me! I never would have guessed it could happen, but I’m living proof that Cupid doesn’t spare anyone.”

Nelson nearly gave up his hold on the wheel. “The chubby urchin better keep his arrows in his quiver when it comes to me,” he warned.

Blake allowed a throaty laugh. “He’s coming for you,” he warned with a grin.

“Oh, so you think he’s on that ship?” Nelson asked as he pointed south.

Blake followed the direction of Nelson’s finger and furrowed a brow. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “How the hell are they making such good time?” For now that the ship that was following them had cleared the horizon, it was clear it was the Tuscan.

“They must have decided they didn’t want a stowaway,” Nelson commented.

“Which means they may want to give her back,” Blake teased, although the thought of ever seeing the double-crossing lady’s maid wasn’t one he relished.

Giving him a quelling glance, Nelson added, “And they’re traveling light. No cargo, so I guess it stands to reason they can make good time.”

“Or Miss Woodcock discovered what was in the valise and begged them to bring her back to London,” Blake countered. “You have good instincts, Nelson. You were right about her.”

The first mate dipped his head. “Was I?”

Blake regarded the shorter man with a look that emphasized his confusion. “What are you implying?”

Nelson rolled his eyes and reluctantly shared a snippet of a conversation he’d had with the lady’s maid earlier that day.

“You believe her?” the captain asked as his gaze once again went to the Tuscan. This new information certainly provided another reason for Miss Woodcock to have fled the ship.

Shaking his head in frustration, Nelson said, “I don’t know that I do or I don’t.”

Nodding his understanding, Blake offered to take the wheel. “Why don’t you get some sleep? At least until they make their intentions known?”

Nelson gave a glance in the direction of the captain’s quarters. “Don’t you have someone to entertain?”

Sighing, Blake was about to agree to Nelson’s unspoken offer. Instead, he said, “I am still captain of this ship, and I’m quite sure my guest is sound asleep.”

Nelson gave a nod and said, “Then good night, Capt’n.” He disappeared down the companionway leaving Blake to ruminate on what would come next.

Reflections on a Pirate’s Pleasure

Meanwhile, in the captain’s cabin

Barbara knew the moment Blake had left the bed and his cabin, for it was the same moment she experienced a sense of loss. The heavy warmth of the captain’s body along one side of her own lifted away and was replaced with a blanket that smelled of wool and Blake’s cologne.

Had he thought her fast to allow him to pleasure her as he did? She should have pushed him away. Put up a fight, or at least a word of discouragement. Insisted she be left alone until their return to London.

But had she done so, her body would never forgive her.

How had the man managed to endear himself to her so completely after only a few minutes of conversation and a couple of dances?

With his clever repartee, of course. And the way he looked at her. Not like the way every other man saw her. Blake Russell didn’t seem put off by her fleshy breasts or wide hips or her lack of beauty. In fact, he had seemed enthralled by her, even when she had shed her Bo Peep gown and petticoats and stood before him in all her corseted glory.

He is a pirate, she thought with a smirk.

But what if he really was just after the bounty? Her father had no doubt offered a reward for her return. How much, she didn’t know. But given Sir Peter had sent twenty-thousand pounds with Woodcock in the event the Molly didn’t catch up to the Tuscan before they reached Calais meant he did want her back.

That last comforting thought was replaced with a memory of what Blake had done to her earlier that evening. The pleasant frisson that shot through her body had her sighing, and she allowed sleep to take her.

In what seemed like only a moment later, she felt the pressure of a light kiss on her forehead. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find the cabin lit from the sun.

“I really hate to wake you, my sweet, if only because I want nothing more than to climb in there and spend the entire day with you, but... we must be going.”

Barbara blinked her eyes several times before Blake’s face came into view. “Going?” she repeated. She sat up, surprised to find him dressed in the clothes of a gentleman—doeskin breeches, a white shirt and silk cravat, conservative waistcoat and topcoat. Although his black boots probably hadn’t been made by Hoby, they were shined to a high gloss. “You’re dressed. And not like a pirate.”

The captain grinned. “You needn’t sound so disappointed,” he teased. Then he sobered. “Unless you are. In which case—”

“I’m only disappointed you did not spend the night with me,” Barbara replied, pushing out her lower lip in a pout. Then she rolled her eyes. “I cannot believe how... how wanton I sounded just then.”

Chuckling, Blake leaned over and kissed her. “If it helps, I do not mind. I do apologize for having left you alone. Duty and all,” he said.

“Do you think me fast?” she asked in a whisper.

He frowned. “No. I...” He paused, wondering if she had changed her mind about their plans for the future. “I hadn’t given it any thought, in fact. Other than I hope you’re only fast with me,” he added then. “If there’s another pirate in line for your heart, then I need to know now so I can challenge him to a duel.”

Barbara giggled. “There is not.”

Blake angled his head, happy to see her humored. “We docked a few minutes ago. I’ve sent a caddy to secure a hackney for us, and I’ve brought breakfast for you.” He didn’t add that another courier had been sent with a brief summary of what had happened to the Foreign Office. Blake knew Lord Chamberlain would be chafed if he wasn’t kept apprised of the situation, and besides, an aristocrat would have to oversee the arrest of a baron.

Immune from regular prosecution, Lord Dorchester would have to be found guilty by his fellow lords in Parliament in order to suffer any punishment for his crime.

Blinking again, Barbara slowly sat up and allowed her legs to dangle from the edge of the bed. “Oh, bless you,” she murmured, her stomach growling so it was almost audible. She winced when she remembered her hair probably looked worse than a rat’s nest. “I don’t suppose you could do anything with my hair?” she half-asked as she stood and moved to shake out her gown and petticoats. “I’m helpless without a looking glass and comb.” Blake had hung her garments over the back of a chair, so they weren’t as wrinkled as when they had come out of the valise the day before.

He grinned. “Let’s get you dressed first, and while you have something to eat, I’ll see what I can do.”

Given his somewhat impatient manner, Barbara wondered if he was insisting she get dressed because he was now seeing her by the light of day and had decided he didn’t like what he saw. She was about to ask when Blake said, “Truth be told, I’d really rather you not get dressed, because I admit to enjoying this version of you in the daylight.”

“Oh,” she managed, feeling immense relief. She stood on tip-toes and kissed him full on the mouth.

Blake hugged her hard and then pushed her away from his body. “Now you really must stop tempting me,” he murmured. “Or I shall ruin you and tell your father I couldn’t help myself.” He could just imagine having to meet the man on a foggy morning in Wimbledon Common, holding a dueling pistol while Nelson stood nearby and watched his captain succumb to a bullet.

Barbara paused before she pulled on her petticoats without his assistance, thinking she rather liked tempting him. Who would have ever thought her a temptress? But when it was time to pull on the coral gown, she allowed him to hold it open as she stepped into it. She felt his deft fingers close the buttons up her back, and she grinned when he placed a kiss at the nape of her neck.

“’Tis a beautiful color on you,” he whispered.

A shiver raced down her spine, and it was everything Barbara could do to keep quiet. She wanted to beg him to undress her. Return her to the bed. Ravish her.

Perhaps she could do that on their wedding day.

He led her to his small desk, where a covered tray lay atop pages of maps and charts. When she was seated, she removed the cover to find a plate of coddled eggs, toast, and a rasher of bacon. A cup of tea completed the breakfast. “This looks good,” she murmured as she helped herself to a fork and tucked into the meal.

Blake pulled a comb from his kit, and starting at the bottom of her hair, began to work out the brown snarls. “Unlike most pirate ships, we have an actual cook on board,” he replied.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a pirate ship.”

“We are not one on this day, it’s true,” he acknowledged. “Maybe tomorrow, though.”

Barbara gave a start. “Why tomorrow?”

Blake paused in his task, trying to decide how much he could tell her. “We... have a mission. One that was supposed to have started yesterday,” he explained. “There’s something else you should know.”

“Oh?”

“The Tuscan followed us into port.” Although the other ship could have overtaken them somewhere near Walmer Castle, the smaller vessel had instead kept abreast of the Molly. Shortly after sunrise and above the sound of the sluicing water around their hulls, Captain Bimmington had shouted the information that had him ordering the Tuscan to turn around and return to London. Althea Woodcock was standing next to him as he did so, fear etched on her tear-stained face.

Her eyes widening in surprise, Barbara turned to look up at him. “Woodcock?” she questioned.

Blake nodded. “Seems there’s more to your kidnapping than we thought,” he replied, slowly drawing the comb through her long hair. During the ball, her hair had been pinned up into a mass of curls atop her head. Now it fell in golden waves to just past her shoulders. He drew a hand over the soft silk, smoothing it down as he drew the comb through it with his other hand. “Your hair is like liquid gold,” he murmured. He pressed his nose onto the crown of her head and inhaled. “And it smells like lemon.”

Barbara set down her fork, reveling in the quiet moment. “You’re making an excellent lady’s maid. I don’t miss Woodcock one bit.”

Thinking he might share what he had learned from the woman earlier that morning, Blake dipped his head. “I fear Woodcock may have been misunderstood in all of this.”

Turning to look up at him, Barbara’s brows furrowed. “Whatever do you mean? She tried to steal...”

A pounding at the door had Blake hurrying to open it.

“Hackney’s here, as is the Runner you sent for,” Nelson said in a quiet voice. “What do we do with the baron? He’s howlin’ mad, complainin’ to whoever goes near the brig and wonderin’ as to the whereabouts of the lady’s maid.”

“Then don’t let anyone go near him. Leave him in the brig for now. I’ll let Chamberlain decide his fate,” Blake said. “Is Miss Woodcock secure?”

“Indeed. She’s done nothin’ but weep the whole time she’s been aboard. But she’s scare’t of him. Says he’ll kill her if he can get his hands on her.”

Blake sighed. “We’ll take her with us in the hackney. Let Chamberlain decide what’s next.” He turned to Barbara, who had joined him at the door. “Are you ready to go?”

She glanced between Nelson and Blake. “I just have to pack a few things.” Hurrying to her valise, she shoved the costume and petticoats into it and took a quick look around. Spotting a small looking glass over the pitcher and ewer, she paused to look at herself.

She was prepared for worse than the reflection she saw. Sure she would have suffered a sunburn from her time on deck the day before, she was surprised to find her skin appeared only lightly golden, and it seemed to glow from within. Although she would have preferred to pull her hair up into a bun, she had no pins to secure it. Seeing how the waves curled at her collarbones had a slight grin touching her lips. Even though she still didn’t think she was especially fetching, she wasn’t ugly. And perhaps her wide-set eyes gave her an exotic air.

A thought of what Blake had done to her the night before had her grin lifting her cheeks, and her eyes brightened with the memory. “I’m ready,” she announced, grabbing the valise as she passed the bed.

Blake took the valise from her and led her to the ramp. Several crewmen paused to bow in her direction as she passed by, and she dipped a curtsy in return. “Thank you all for rescuing me,” she called out as Blake offered his arm.

Barbara placed a hand on it, a sense of melancholy settling over her. Although she hadn’t enjoyed a single moment aboard the Tuscan, she had felt comfortable on the Molly. Safe.

Shouts and whistles brought her out of her reverie. She marveled at the bustle of activity that surrounded the ship and the one moored further down the dock. Porters pulled carts filled with cargo while the unmistakeable odors of seawater and wet wood and sweat filled her nostrils. She couldn’t possibly see everything, but she did recognize Captain Bimmington. He was making his way in their direction.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Wycliff, but I wanted to apologize for what happened,” he said as he removed his tricorn and gave her a deep bow. “Had I known who you really were and that you had been kidnapped, I assure you, I would have sent word to the authorities when Mr. Smith brought you on board.”

Barbara acknowledged his apology with a nod. “Thank you, Captain. I’m sure my father will take that into consideration.”

Bimmington blinked, and Blake turned to stare down at her. “Consideration?” the two men repeated.

She allowed a slight shrug. “Sir Peter is looking to buy some merchant ships, and I believe the Tuscan is one of them. Good day, sir.” She curtsied and made her way in the direction of the hackney.

Blake hurried to catch up. “You didn’t tell me your father was going to buy the Tuscan,” he said, as he opened the door to the hackney.

“Nor did I say that he was,” she replied, her comment followed by a shrug.

“You minx,” he accused in a whisper filled with humor. Poor Bimmington probably thought he would be out of a position soon.

Homecoming

A few minutes later

Blake helped Barbara into the equipage knowing Miss Woodcock was already in it. Pressed into one corner, her hands tied behind her back and a valise on the bench next to her, Althea looked as if she had lost her best friend.

Perhaps she had.

“Woodcock,” Barbara said as she took the seat opposite the lady’s maid. She pretended indifference towards the servant, not yet sure what to believe about the woman.

Althea nodded in her direction, sniffling before she said, “My lady.”

Outside, Barbara could hear Blake giving the driver instructions, and then he joined them, settling onto the bench next to her. “We’ve a ways to go to get to Parkenhurst House,” he murmured. “If you’d like to sleep, I’m happy to provide a shoulder.”

Barbara knew she would have accepted his offer if they had been the only ones in the hackney, but with Woodcock’s presence, she decided she’d best behave. She still had no idea what to believe when it came to the lady’s maid’s involvement in what had happened. “I rather doubt I’ll be able to sleep.” She sighed. “Has word been sent to my father?”

“The courier I sent to Horseguards was to make his way to Parkenhurst House next. Depending on the morning’s traffic, your father may learn you are on your way home before we even arrive.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

The hackney clattered along the streets of London, and Barbara watched as familiar landmarks appeared beyond the windows. The Tower. St. Paul’s. Lincolns Inn Fields. Covent Gardens. Odd that she had barely given them a glance the last time she had seen them.

When the hackney finally came to a halt in front of Parkenhurst House, she jerked awake, her head having settled against Blake’s arm sometime before they reached Mayfair.

Blake stepped down and offered his hand. Once Barbara was out, he waved for Althea to follow. Reluctantly, she slid across the bench. With her hands behind her back, she had no choice but to allow him to help her down. Then he lifted her valise from the bench, hefting it to determine if the items Nelson had packed into it were still in there.

But it felt empty.

He was about to ask her when she had discovered the substitution, but the front door to the Palladian mansion opened even before they made it to the wrought iron fence that lined the front of the property.

Four stories tall and landscaped with topiary trees, perfectly manicured boxwoods, and rows of flowers, it was apparent Parkenhurst belonged to a wealthy man. “Welcome home, Miss Wycliff,” the butler said with a toothy grin as he stepped aside.

“Thank you, Broadus. Is my father at home?”

“Of course. He hasn’t left here since word of your kidnapping,” the butler replied, his attention shifting to the lady’s maid. He frowned when he saw that her hands were tied behind her back. “He’s in the study.”

But he wasn’t. Sir Peter was already making his way in their direction. “Barbara? Barbara!” He doubled his steps as his daughter hurried to meet him halfway. “Are you all right?” he asked as he pulled her into a brief hug. “We’ve been worried sick.”

“I am, Father. Thanks to Captain Russell,” she said, as she turned to wave in Blake’s direction. “His ship caught up to the Tuscan before it made it to Calais, and he carried me over wooden planks onto his ship, and his men captured Lord Dorchester—”

“Dorchester?” Sir Peter repeated in alarm. He turned to Blake just as the captain joined them. “Captain Russell, I presume?”

“I am,” Blake said as he offered a nod. Valises dangled from both of his hands. “From your reaction, I suppose you’ve not yet heard word from Lord Chamberlain.”

The baronet shook his head. “I haven’t. Spent most of the night before last over at Chamberlain House, though, once Woodcock told us what had happened.” He gave Blake a thorough inspection, apparently liking what he saw when he gave an assessing nod. “From what my daughter just told me, I take it you captained the ship that was sent to chase down the Tuscan?”

“Indeed. It was my pleasure, though,” Blake replied. “I actually met your daughter at Lord Weatherstone’s masked ball the night of the kidnapping.”

Sir Peter seemed to think on this bit of information before he led them to his study, calling out instructions to his butler as he did so. At the last moment, he turned and directed his attention on Althea Woodcock. “Why is she bound like that?”

“She’s a suspect, sir,” Blake replied. “Seems she was working for Dorchester.”

The baronet gave a shake of his head. He glanced down at the valises and then back up to Blake. “And what are these?

“The ransom money,” Blake replied as he lifted the heavy one.

Sir Peter gave a start and then shook his head. “But, I didn’t send any ransom money. Chamberlain told me not to.”

Blake blinked.

Barbara blinked.

And all three of them turned to regard Althea with expectant expressions. She stood just beyond the vestibule, her head lifting when she realized she was the subject of their attention.

Behind her, the butler moved to open the door, and a breathless Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain, entered just as Woodcock said, “I had to take the money, or he would have killed her. He told me so during the ball,” she wailed.

“Who?” Lord Chamberlain demanded.

Althea gave a start and whirled around to find the head of the Foreign Office regarding her with suspicion.

“Lord Dorchester,” she replied. “He kidnapped my mistress. Told me he was going to take her to France. Demand a ransom. And that if he didn’t get twenty-thousand pounds for her, he was going to kill her.” The words tumbled out as tears once again fell onto her cheeks. “So I stuffed the money into my mistress’ valise and took it with me when I delivered the note to Captain Russell. I wasn’t stealin’ it. I promise.”

“I asked you point blank if you had the ransom money, and you said you didn’t,” Blake reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t about to admit I had twenty-thousand pounds with me.”

“Why ever not?”

“You’re a pirate,” she replied. “I saw the skull and crossbones flying over your ship.”

Blake rolled his eyes, deciding she had a point.

“Why did you board the Tuscan after I was rescued?” Barbara countered, her hands going to her hips.

Blake’s attention was captured by her bosom, thrust out such as it was as Barbara conveyed her mistrust of the lady’s maid’s comment. He was about to say something based on what Nelson had told him, but Althea did instead.

“I had to get away from Dorchester,” she cried. “He would have killed me to get to the money.”

“Russell, why are her hands tied?” Chamberlain queried.

“Because we think she was working with Dorchester to fleece Sir Peter out of twenty-thousand pounds,” Blake explained. “She used to be a maid in the baron’s household. Then she was hired here as Miss Wycliff’s lady’s maid under suspicious circumstances.”

“But, I provided a character,” Althea argued. “I had to get out of his house. He’s a repugnant—”

“You were smiling at him during your dance with him at the ball,” Barbara claimed, her hands still on her hips, almost as if she knew she had Blake’s full attention. She directed a grin in his direction, and he winked at her.

“I was acting,” Althea countered. “I had to pretend I was going to help him.”

“Or what?” Chamberlain challenged.

Althea grimaced. “He would have spread lies about me. About my family. Made sure I couldn’t get hired anywhere.”

Chamberlain turned to the butler, who had just joined them in the hall carrying a tea tray. “Were you involved with Miss Woodcock’s hiring?”

Broadus’s brows lifted in surprise. “Yes,” he answered, although reluctantly.

“Was there a particular reason you hired her?”

The butler’s head seemed to shrink into his shoulders. “No one else applied.”

Chamberlain seemed about to ask another question of the butler, but instead turned his attention onto Althea. “Where did you get the twenty-thousand pounds?”

Sir Peter cleared his throat. “I was about to ask the same question, but now I think I may know,” he said, once again waving them into his study. He made his way to his desk, searched for a key in one drawer, and then unlocked one of the bottom drawers. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

Blake lifted the heavier valise onto the desk. “Are you missing twenty-thousand pounds, perhaps?”

Sir Peter opened the valise and stared inside. “Is this some sort of joke?”

Frowning, Blake did the same and then gave a quelling glance. “That’s your daughter’s Little Bo Beep gown,” he said. “Made for a rather fetching costume, but poor Miss Wycliff was forced to wear it until just last night when we discovered the gown she’s wearing now was inside the valise,” he explained as he waved to Barbara’s frock. “My first mate managed to switch valises on Woodcock, so your daughter could have a change of clothes as well as get the ransom money back.”

He set the empty valise on the floor and then pulled the pink satin gown from the full valise followed by the three petticoats and the set of drawers, settling each item over an arm until only the money was left at the bottom of the bag.

“Good God!” Sir Peter whispered, his attention going to Althea. She stood next to Chamberlain, who had a grip on one of her arms.

“He made me do it. If I hadn’t, he would have killed me, too,” she said in a plaintive voice.

“How did you even know about the money in the first place?” Blake asked, the memory of something she had said the day before niggling at the back of his brain.

Althea dipped her head. “Sir Peter spoke of it in my hearing. Said he never knew if—”

“If I might be in need of blunt in a hurry,” Sir Peter finished for her. He huffed before turning his attention to Lord Chamberlain. “I thought you said you had a man following Dorchester,” he said, obviously annoyed to learn it was Dorchester who had kidnapped his daughter.

“That was me,” Blake acknowledged, lifting a hand. “Dorchester gave me the slip during the supper, though. Rather than return to the ballroom by the main doors, he exited through another set of doors into a hallway, and by the time I sorted he had left the mansion, his coach was speeding off, as was yours,” he explained. “I wrongly assumed Miss Wycliff was in your coach. I didn’t even know Dorchester was in possession of your daughter until I received word from Lord Chamberlain the following morning. Had I any idea, I assure you, I would have pursued his coach.”

Sir Peter nodded his understanding, and then his attention turned to his daughter, his graying brows furrowing. “Did he ruin you?”

Barbara shook her head. She explained what had happened up until Blake carried her to the Molly, including how the Tuscan’s captain didn’t believe her claim that she was kidnapped.

“So, where is Dorchester now? I’ve a mind to maim that man,” Sir Peter claimed.

“In the brig of my ship. I thought it best he remain there, seeing as how he cannot be arrested,” Blake answered in disgust.

“Whatever do you mean? He kidnapped my daughter!”

“He’s a baron. A lord. He’s protected from civil law,” Blake replied.

“But not from his peers,” Chamberlain stated. “Russell, I received your missive and sent a couple of my men to retrieve the bastard. He’ll be held until the lord chancellor can be summoned.”

“Will he be sent to Newgate?” Blake asked, worried for Barbara’s safety. He moved to stand next to her, gratified when she placed a hand on his arm.

“That would be preferable,” Chamberlain replied, just before his brows furrowed. “You seem especially concerned.”

Blake glanced over at Barbara. Still holding the dress and petticoats over one arm, he looked like a valet assigned to the wrong sex. “I am concerned. For Miss Wycliff. Dorchester will seek revenge against her should he ever have the opportunity to do so,” he said. “I must be assured of her safety.”

“Oh?” Sir Peter put in. “I think that was supposed to be my line.”

“Well, yes. And it would have been if she hadn’t agreed to marry me,” Blake replied. “That is, if you’re of a mind to give me permission to court her,” he went on, grimacing when he realized this wasn’t the way he planned to do it. “I’m in love with her, you see.” He furrowed his brows. “I think I have been since I danced with her at the ball.”

Chamberlain blinked.

Sir Peter blinked.

Althea allowed a watery grin. “How romantic,” she wailed.

“Barbara?” Sir Peter said as he turned his attention on her. “Would you care to explain?”

She glanced up at Blake before she said, “We spoke at the ball. He was dressed as a pirate. We danced twice—he taught me how to waltz. And then the next time I saw him, he was on the deck of the Molly shouting he was there to rescue me.”

“I was a bit dramatic,” Blake murmured, his face taking on a dark red shade.

“And he waved his sword about—”

“Cutlass, my sweet.”

“His cutlass about to ensure no one on the Tuscan challenged him. One of the crewmen even knocked Mr. Smith—”

“That was Fitz, our sailing master,” Blake said, for Chamberlain’s benefit.

“Who is Mr. Smith?” Chamberlain queried, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“Lord Dorchester. He used the name Mr. Smith when he arranged transportation to Calais,” Blake explained.

Barbara took a breath. “So Mr. Fitz knocked out Lord Dorchester just as Blake lifted me into his arms and carried me to the Molly.” She sighed as a grin appeared to brighten her face. “It was exciting and frightening and awful, because I was still in that hideous Bo Peep costume—”

“It’s not hideous,” Blake interrupted. “It’s rather fetching on you.” When he noted her quelling glance, he added, “But I like this one better.”

“How romantic,” Althea murmured again.

Sir Peter furrowed a brow. “So... once you were on the Molly? What happened?” he asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

“Well, we realized Woodcock was on the Tuscan,” she replied. “But Nelson—he’s the first mate—he had switched the valises so that my valise, with the money and this gown, was still on the Molly. So I was finally able to rid myself of that awful costume and get some sleep since Blake allowed me the use of his quarters for the rest of the trip back to London.” She beamed in delight as she stared up at Blake.

He grinned back at her and dropped a kiss on the crown of her head.

“Did you ruin her?” Sir Peter asked in alarm.

Blake’s eyes widened. “Why, no sir. But I do wish to court your daughter—”

“What about the Molly?” Chamberlain asked, with just as much alarm.

“Oh, I can still captain a ship,” he replied. “Continue my work for you,” he added, realizing he couldn’t admit he worked for the Foreign Service. “We talked about this, and Miss Wycliff is agreeable to the idea.”

Sir Peter cleared his throat. “She might be, but... are you just doing this for her dowry?”

“Father!”

Blake frowned. “No, sir. I’m quite able to support a wife on my income,” he replied. “However, there is the matter of pay for my crew’s help in retrieving your daughter.”

It was Chamberlain’s turn to clear his throat. “Sir Peter, if you recall your words from a few nights ago? In my orders to Captain Russell, I implied that there was a reward involved in Miss Wycliff’s safe return.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sir Peter replied. He glanced down at the valise. “Is twenty-thousand pounds sufficient?” he asked. He pushed the valise in Blake’s direction.

Blake and Chamberlain exchanged glances. “Split fifteen ways means over thirteen hundred pounds a piece,” Blake whispered. “I may never get them back on board.”

Sir Peter angled his head to one side. “You would do that?”

Blake gave a shake of his head. “Do what, sir?”

“Split the money evenly with your crew?”

Blake lifted a shoulder. “Of course. All the members of my crew receive an equal share of any reward. Any bounty,” he replied.

“How long have you been a ship’s captain?” Sir Peter asked, his manner having changed to open curiosity.

“A year now. I was the first mate of the Molly before that.”

“Ever been interested in captaining a merchant ship?” the baronet asked with an arched brow.

Dipping his head, Blake dared a glance at Barbara before he said, “I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“I’m considering the purchase of a fleet of ships,” Sir Peter explained. “Wilson’s fleet.”

“Now, see here, sir. You cannot be taking my best captain,” Chamberlain argued.

“I think that should be up to my future son-in-law, don’t you?” Sir Peter replied.

Blake inhaled slowly as Barbara tightened her hold on his arm. “I told you,” she whispered.

Turning to Chamberlain, Blake said, “It’s all right. Nelson is ready to take command, and Fitz would make an excellent first mate. He’s all about the rules.”

The viscount huffed. “So, how are you going to split the reward?”

“He keeps ten-thousand pounds as my daughter’s dowry, and the rest can be split fourteen ways,” Sir Peter announced.

Chamberlain furrowed a brow, as if he was attempting to do the math in his head.

“Seven-hundred, fourteen pounds and ten shillings,” Blake whispered.

“You have a mission to complete regarding a certain French smuggler,” Chamberlain whispered, a reminder of the mission they had been about to embark on when they received the note about the kidnapping.

“So I won’t distribute the reward until we’re in the Channel,” Blake reasoned.

“Agreed,” the viscount said with a nod. He turned to the baronet. “Well, good day. Perhaps I’ll see you at White’s tonight?”

Sir Peter shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow. I shall spend this evening having dinner with my daughter. Seems she won’t be around much longer, and I rather imagine she’ll be planning a wedding here shortly.”

Barbara beamed in delight.

“What about Miss Woodcock?” Blake asked, his attention back on the viscount.

Chamberlain gave the lady’s maid a quelling glance. “If she cooperates and testifies against Dorchester, then I think we’ll forego any charges against her,” he reasoned.

Althea’s eyes widened. “I will, of course, as long as the baron is kept locked up,” she replied.

“Perhaps you might consider a move to the country. Maybe take a position in a manor house?” Chamberlain hinted. “I rather doubt Dorchester would bother trying to find you even if he wasn’t locked up in Newgate.” He moved to untie her hands.

“We’ll see to a character for you,” Sir Peter offered. “And pay for the past month. Broadus will escort you to your room, and you can pack up your things.” He glanced down at the empty valise near his feet. “You can use this,” he offered, lifting the bag and offering it to her.

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she rubbed her wrists and then took the valise. She left the study with Broadus.

“Well, it seems I’ll be heading out in the morning,” Blake said as he turned his attention to Barbara. “Low tide. Perhaps you would agree to a walk in the park? Maybe an ice at Gunther’s?”

Barbara grinned. “I’d like that.” She turned to her father, intending to ask if she could go, but he merely waved a hand.

“Go on,” he said with a sigh. “But have her back before dinner,” he warned. “Or I’ll report that she’s been kidnapped.”

“Very good, sir,” Blake said as he gave a bow. He took the valise in one hand and offered the other to Barbara.

When they headed up the stairs, Barbara gave him a sideways glance. “Are we really going to the park?” she asked in a whisper.

Blake blinked. “Did you... wish to go somewhere else?”

She gave him a quelling glance. “Remember what you said? About when we were betrothed?”

His brows furrowed in confusion before he realized what she meant. “Today?” he asked in surprise.

“You think me fast,” she said on a sigh.

“No, that’s not it. I just... I didn’t think you would want to lose your virtue on your first day back. Given what’s happened and all.”

She stopped in front of her bedchamber and pushed open the door to reveal an ornately decorated room in peaches and greens. “I’ve thought of almost nothing else since last night,” she murmured. “Especially since I didn’t do anything for you.”

Blake paused on the threshold, his gaze taking in the gilded plasterwork and rich fabrics. “That’s not true,” he murmured as he finally crossed into the bedchamber and then quickly shut the door. “It gave me a great deal of pleasure to be able to see to yours,” he argued. “Besides, I really don’t think it’s wise for us to do it here.”

“Why ever not? The bed is comfortable—”

“Everyone in the household will hear,” he argued.

Her eyes widened. “They will?”

He rolled his own eyes. “My sweet, when I make love to you, I intend to have you screaming with pleasure for the entire world to hear,” he claimed. “Or, at least so it can be heard in the next door apartment.”

“Apartment?” she repeated.

“I have one in Picadilly.”

“We’ll go there, then.”

Blake allowed a chuckle before he kissed her thoroughly. “I do hope you’re always this willing,” he murmured.

“Threaten me with your sword, and I will be.”

“Cutlass, you mean.”

She shook her head. “Sword,” she corrected, her hand cupping his hardened manhood through the placket of his breeches.

“I stand corrected,” he replied happily.

Epilogue

A few months later

Barbara awoke to the gentle sway of her father’s newest acquisition. The Barbara, captained by her husband and manned by a crew of fourteen, was due to make its maiden voyage to Belgium later that morning. Although the hold wasn’t full, it would be on the return trip, arrangements having been made for them to pick up a shipment bound for London.

The bed in which she had been sleeping for the past few nights was proving far too comfortable, but then it helped that her companion was seeing to her comfort in more ways than one.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Blake said, just before he kissed her forehead. “How is my treasure on this fine day?”

She grinned and returned the kiss. “I don’t know why I’m so tired of late,” she whispered, delighting in the feel of his warm hands as they smoothed over her night rail in their quest to awaken other parts of her body.

Blake lifted the fabric of her gown until her belly was exposed. “I’ve no idea, either,” he lied, struggling to keep from chuckling. At some point, she would realize she hadn’t had her monthly courses the entire time they’d been married. Until then, he intended to simply revel in having her all to himself. Once the babe was born, he would have to share.

At least, that’s what Nelson had told him. How the new captain of the Molly could know such a thing, he didn’t dare guess, but thought it was best to be prepared.

As for the new captain’s other announcement, Blake found he wasn’t a bit surprised. Althea Woodcock and Nelson had said their vows a few days after the Molly’s return from their mission to capture the French privateer.

Apparently Nelson had decided the former lady’s maid was fruitful enough for him. Either that, or Althea had threatened to divulge secrets from their past.

Blake kissed Barbara’s belly and then was about to move farther down when he remembered news he learned the night before. “I received a missive from Viscount Chamberlain,” he said between kisses on her thighs.

“Oh?”

“Seems Dorchester’s fate has been decided.” He regretted having said anything when she suddenly sat up and the target his tongue intended to touch disappeared.

“Newgate?” she guessed. Her eyes widened. “Or will he dance the hempen jig?”

His brows rising at hearing her mention the pirate term for a hanging, Blake shook his head. “Australia. He’s being transported tomorrow,” Blake murmured, his hands gripping her hips in an effort to reposition her.

“Is that good?”

“It is,” he replied, settling his head between her thighs once she had her knees bent. “He’ll never be able to threaten you—or Woodcock—again.” The cur had certainly tried, but any letters he wrote were intercepted before they could make their way to the intended recipients.

“Now, I’m going after buried treasure,” he warned.

Blake delighted in hearing Barbara’s inhalation of breath as his tongue circled its target. Having several months of experience in the matter, he knew exactly what to do to have her crying out his name followed by a series of platitudes and words of gratitude.

This morning was no different.

His favorite moment was always the next one, when she begged for him. That she sometimes did so at other times—rather inconvenient times—meant his crew had quickly learned he was at her beck and call.

At the threat of docked pay, they were good about not mentioning how he was being led by his cock by his new wife.

And anyway, he didn’t mind.

“I need your sword,” she whispered, breathless. “Please.”

And there it was.

“Prepare to be boarded,” he warned with a grin, just before he impaled her, groaning as he shoved his sword in her warm, wet sheath.

He loved how her torso lifted from the bed, her breasts bobbing about as he thrust into her over and over. How her thighs gripped his sides so his hands could cup the sides of her breasts and his thumbs could tease her engorged nipples.

What better bounty could there be?

Ecstasy, of course. He knew when it claimed her, for he could feel her inner muscles clenching on him, pulling his sword deeper into her. When he allowed his own ecstasy only a moment later, he was swept into a maelstrom of sensation so pleasurable, he often wondered how he would make his way back to the surface.

He always did. Inhaling deeply and reveling in the shivers set off by fingernails scraping his scalp, he sought refuge on her body, a life raft on which he floated until he was finally forced to either get up for the day or roll over and sleep at night.

At the moment, he couldn’t quite decide which he should do.

Such was the pleasure of a pirate.

About Linda Rae Sande

A former technical writer and author of twenty-six historical romances, Linda Rae Sande enjoys researching the Regency era and ancient Greece.

A fan of action-adventure movies, she can frequently be found at the local cinema. Although she no longer has any tropical fish, she follows the San Jose Sharks and makes her home in Cody, Wyoming.

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The Lady’s Guide to Escaping Cannibals

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

Prologue

Off the coast of Vanuaka Island, East of the Solomons

20th September, 1899

Overhead, the sun blazed fiercely. Sweat trickled from his forehead, but Captain de Silva kept his spyglass steady.

“What’re we doin’ ’ere, Cap’n?” His quartermaster pushed his wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. “I tell ye, the place is cursed.”

Several of the crew had gathered behind them on the Tween Deck, listening to what passed between their captain and Old Tom.

Jorge understood why they were uneasy. The waters were shadowed by more than the island’s long-simmering volcano. There were stories about Vanuaka—of savagery, of dark vele magic, of death.

No ship liked to sail too close—as if mere proximity would bring the evil eye.

Why, then, was he here? Jorge had no answer—only a feeling.

Through the spyglass, he watched three gebo launching—the canoes of the Vanuaka islanders, with their toto isu mounted on the prow. There was no mistaking those totems, with their jutting jaws and enlarged heads, the lips spread wide to reveal chiselled teeth dyed red.

Moving fast, they weren’t fishing, nor ferrying a corpse to the next island for burial, but cutting through the water as if in pursuit. Of what, he couldn’t tell. Even Vanuaka’s warriors wouldn’t attack a vessel such as his. Their spears and arrows were no match for pistols.

Some way off, the lead canoe stilled its oars and the forward occupant stood, loading a single shaft into his bow. Arcing through the air, it covered a thousand yards before hitting the water, some distance from The Marguerite.

A warning shot?

Perhaps.

The islanders sat for a moment before taking up oars again. Turning the gebo around, they headed back. There was nothing more to see.

His quartermaster was right. It served no purpose to bring them so close to Vanuaka. Wiping his neck scarf across his eyes, Jorge gave the order. “Westward, Tom. We’ve time to make up.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Tom spat his tobacco over the side and nodded his approval. “Full sails, lads. Look sharp!”

No one needed telling twice. Kofi and Aldrix were already halfway up the rigging, eager to unfurl the main sail.

Jorge turned his face to the wind. It was fair, alright; he’d been unwise to delay them thus far.

He was making for the bow when the cry came from above.

“Adaro!” Jorge’s young cousin, Afu, hung from the top of the main mast, his arm outstretched, his body rigid.

“Adaro!” he shouted again.

There was a sudden stillness. Every man ceased in his labour, casting eyes out over the water.

Tom yelled back. “It’ll be a dolphin yer seeing, Afu. Untie them ropes and get down ’ere.”

“’Tis adaro!” Afu’s eyes were wide with fear.

Jorge raised the spyglass again. What was his cousin seeing?

The sea was full of mysteries. He’d witnessed too much he couldn’t explain to discount superstition entirely, but he didn’t believe in adaro—those malevolent sea spirits intent on tricking the unwary. With gills behind the ears, fins, and a tail instead of feet, they were said to be more fish than man.

Jorge scanned the waves.

Nothing. Just sea foam. A few petrels bobbing on the water.

And then it appeared from beneath, gliding, the dorsal fin breaking the surface.

A bull shark.

“I see it, Cap’n.” His helmsman, Erico, was beside him. “It’ll make good eating if we can harpoon it.”

Jorge realized he’d been holding his breath. He almost laughed.

And then they heard the scream. Unearthly. Chilling.

Before them was a sight so ghastly Jorge felt the bile rise in his throat.

He saw what he hadn’t before, that the shark was carrying something in its jaws—a man thrashing to break free.

Others had seen it too and Erico was already fetching the crossbow. Affixing the end of the line to the deck’s chock, he rested the stock to his shoulder and took aim.

“Lord save ’im!” Old Tom leaned over the gunwale. “No man ought to die like that.”

Jorge fought down his revulsion. If Erico missed the shark, he hoped the spear would strike the man’s heart. Better a quick end than the agony of being torn by razored teeth.

The bolt flew, whipping the line behind it, curving through the air, until the line stretched near to its limit and pulled taut.

It had found its target.

* * *

Jorge took the launch boat alone to retrieve the poor devil, leaving the shark to be hauled in.

One look told him there could be no question of recovery.

His torso was deeply pierced where the shark had taken hold, but another injury marked the body: the shaft of an arrow, buried in the man’s back.

The same arrow the warrior had let loose? Jorge would have bet a hundred sovereigns upon it.

Fair-haired and pale-skinned, the upturned face was that of a European, fiercely sunburnt, his nose and cheeks peeling, the lips blistered raw.

There was no point telling him he’d pull through.

It would be a lie.

Better for Jorge to find out what he could. The man would have family somewhere, waiting for him.

Jorge grasped his palm. “What’s your name?”

The man’s lids, swollen red, fluttered briefly but didn’t open.

“I’ll tell your people I found you. Speak if you can.”

Jorge kept his eyes on the dying man’s mouth, bent his head closer, to catch anything he might say, but he lay unmoving.

He was too far gone; a blessing, no doubt, for he’d be in terrible pain.

Jorge looked at the hand, limp within his. The fingers were long and elegant, the smallest adorned with a ring of gold inset with a hunk of some golden stone. Topaz? Worth something.

If it came off easily, he’d keep it. Otherwise, it could stay where it was. He hadn’t the stomach to cut off the man’s finger for the sake of a few coins.

Twisting the band, it slid to the knuckle, revealing a white stripe beneath. Jorge tugged again and the ring came off fully. He supposed he might as well check the man’s pockets. There might be something else of value.

He found only a square of paper, tightly folded. If it were a letter, it might hold some clue as the poor bastard’s identity.

Opening it, Jorge peered at what remained. The edges were already disintegrating, and the ink had blotted and bloomed, making the contents difficult to decipher, but it wasn’t a letter.

Someone had drawn a picture—starfish-shaped, with a rising hill at the centre. He looked back to the island, recalling its shape from the charts. Not a hill but a volcano, and the five arms were its headlands.

A landing point was marked and, above, a place to climb—rather like a branching tree.

Jorge frowned. Was this what had brought the stranger to Vanuaka? Some idea of treasure, and this was his map?

If so, then avarice had gifted its own reward.

Nevertheless, Jorge felt uneasy. Regardless of his intent, it could hardly be that the man had ventured here alone.

Where were his men, and where was his ship?

Someone had agreed to bring the fool here.

Back on The Marguerite, Afu still clung high on the rigging, watching him. Others, too, were staring—leaning over the gunwale.

They’d be wondering what was keeping him. Either the man was alive or he was dead. If the latter, it served no purpose to sit here.

With a sigh, Jorge lifted him beneath the shoulders. Whatever his sins, a man deserved a few kindly thoughts to follow him to his grave. He’d heave him over and speak a Christian prayer; that would have to do.

However, as the man’s head came upright, crimson bubbled from his mouth.

Tipping him quickly to one side, giving the man a chance to draw air, Jorge pressed again. “Who are your people?”

The answer was a whisper.

“Bath—she—” The man gasped, choking, coughing up more blood onto the deck of the little boat.

“—bahhhh.” More sighed than spoken, the low wheeze, expelled through parched lips, was his last.

Chapter One

The Fairfax Hotel, Port Moresby, British New Guinea

12th October, 1899

Bathsheba lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, dabbing the cool cloth to her face and neck. She gave a long sigh. Never had she felt so grubby, the moisture trickling between her breasts and down her back.

Was this what hell was like—being eternally braised in a stew of torrid humidity?

Sebastian had mentioned the heat, but she simply hadn’t been able to imagine. Now, she no longer needed to.

“Your bath will be ready in no time at all, m’lady.” Hattie appeared at the door to the adjoining room. “The water’s quite clean looking, and I put in a few drops of the hibiscus oil you like.”

Bathsheba smiled her thanks. What would she do without Hattie? The journey from England would have been most unpleasant without her loyal maid and companion at her side.

Not that Bathsheba didn’t consider herself capable. Nor did she shy from a little discomfort.

The present accommodation, for instance, arranged for her by Sebastian, was hardly luxurious. Besides the bed, there was only a small table, with two rattan chairs to sit upon. Nevertheless, the two long windows, with great shutters to close at night, allowed plenty of light to enter, and the walls were painted prettily in yellow.

Being a corner room, she could look out over both the harbour and the marketplace, filled with horse-drawn carts and merchants hawking their wares—vivid hued fabrics in teetering stacks, an array of spices, and fruits piled high. There seemed a never-ending tide of customers, and smaller vendors, too—women carrying heaped mangoes and papaya in baskets atop their heads, others with trays of fish or eggs.

The windows were latched open for the moment, allowing a gentle breeze to stir the hanging voiles. Being on the uppermost floor, they were somewhat removed from the more pungent harbour odours and those of the street, and the traders’ calls drifted upwards half-muted.

The facilities at her father’s camp would likely be more primitive still, but Bathsheba reminded her that none of that would matter—only that she’d joined them at last.

She’d telegraphed from Jakarta to confirm the approximate date of her ship’s arrival and the hotel had promised to send a message to the camp, at Vuru—a few hundred miles down the coast.

It would only be a few days before Sebastian came to collect her.

“Here, let’s help you out of these clothes.” Hattie moved to unbutton her mistress’s travelling costume. “We’ll soon have you feeling refreshed. A nice bath is just what’s needed; then, we can see about some supper.”

Hattie’s nimble fingers worked quickly, removing all encumbrances until Bathsheba stood in her chemise and drawers. Carefully, she unclasped the silver locket from her neck, which held the tiny portrait of Sebastian.

“I’ll go down and see about a table.” Giving the skirt and jacket a shake, Hattie placed them over a wide hook protruding from the wall and folded the blouse over her arm. She was so conscientious. She’d have the shirtwaist rinsed through and hanging up to dry in no time. Not that Bathsheba intended to put those clothes on again. The muslin dresses she’d brought would be far cooler.

“And I’ll bring tea when I come up again. Best thing, they say—even when it’s hot,” Hattie chattered on, clearly feeling far more energetic than Bathsheba felt.

It was rather a relief to hear the door click shut. Much as she appreciated Hattie’s attentions, Bathsheba yearned for a little peace and quiet.

Easing herself beneath the fragranced water, Bathsheba closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for the bounty of the Fairfax’s plumbing.

The passage had lasted many weeks, and what a journey it had been.

She’d sailed only once before, when she’d been but five years old, accompanying her mother back to England from Sierra Leone.

This journey had been altogether different. With only Hattie as chaperone, she’d had such freedom—even managing some short excursions at their landing ports. They’d passed through the Strait of Gibraltar and across the Mediterranean before reaching Port Said and the Suez Canal. Emerging into the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, they’d made the final leg—past Ceylon and Las Islas Filipinas, all the way to Moresby.

Now, here she was—on the very opposite side of the world, ready to embark on the next stage of her adventure.

Leaving Biddingford had been the right decision. She’d been cast adrift since the death of her husband. The place she’d called home was now his son’s—overseen by his young wife, and filled with their already growing brood.

Lord Asquith’s will had made provision for her, of course: a financial settlement of more money than she’d ever have cause to spend, and permission for her to stay as long as she wished at Biddingford Hall, or at their London townhouse. However, she’d felt in the way almost immediately, a feeling only consolidated by a sojourn with her late mother’s family.

Of course, she had Hattie, and a great many cousins, uncles and aunts: a whole host of people eager to give her advice on what she should do, now that she was three years widowed. Advice that pointed in a single direction—for her to remarry at the earliest convenience.

It didn’t seem to matter who, as long as he matched her in social and financial standing—someone whom the family could approve of. But she’d already travelled that path, and it hadn’t brought her happiness—no more than it had done for her own parents.

She supposed that her mother must have been enraptured by her father, once upon a time, for the marriage appeared ill-advised. He’d come from a long line of academics, lacking the sort of income that would keep them in style in London, and without intention of curbing his work for the sake of a wife. No sooner were they wed than he’d whisked her mother to the Gold Coast of West Africa.

Whatever adventurous spirit had inhabited her mother was squashed by the heat and insects, lack of Society and, Bathsheba suspected, her husband’s indifference. She was thoroughly unsuited to the life Bathsheba’s father led and, by the time Bathsheba was five, her mother had abandoned hope altogether and decamped back to England.

As a consequence, Bathsheba had grown up hardly knowing her father, his trips home being so infrequent as to make him a stranger. Not so Sebastian, who’d been seven at the time of the marriage. Between terms at Eton and then Oxford, he’d joined Bathsheba and his stepmother at Biddingford Hall.

By the time Sebastian had graduated, their father had moved on from living among the Ashanti, Fante and Ewe of the Gold Coast, to making a study of the tribes of New Guinea—writing some comparative study on the similarity of their rituals and customs, and Sebastian had sailed out to join him.

She’d begun looking at properties for a season’s rental in Brighton and had almost reconciled herself to the move when Sebastian’s latest missive arrived—the first in months. It appeared they were run off their feet. Their father’s strength was not what it had been, and Sebastian was tasked with finding assistants for their work.

The notion had come to her so forcefully she’d felt the room sway and spin.

Sebastian’s letters filled her with admiration and envy. She poured over every detail, saddened that she’d never see the things he described, nor experience the wonders of those places so wild and unchartered.

Except, why shouldn’t she!

There was nothing, now, to hold her back.

She’d sent a return telegram the very same day and, within the month, was aboard the S.S. Adelphine.

Thrilled and scared in equal measure, she hadn’t waited for a reply. Her father would surely find some task for her to perform—taking notes for his anthropological studies, or helping catalogue and pack the artefacts he sent to Oxford’s Pitt Rivers Museum. There must be a hundred small ways in which she could play some part.

And she would learn!

Mightn’t she make more significant contributions with time?

Sitting up, Bathsheba took the soap from its dish. Suddenly, the heat didn’t seem as oppressive.

Nothing did.

Something wonderful and extraordinary was about to happen, and not because of whom she’d married, or her family’s connections—but because she was making it happen herself.

* * *

Shrugging on her wrap, Bathsheba twitched aside one of the voiles. The street had grown quieter, but for the gulls fighting over discarded scraps and a group of children playing atop the harbour wall. It was cooler now, with the sun dipping, but still warm enough that she was in no hurry to dress again.

Hattie had returned with the tea and was pouring them both a cup. “A nice fragrant blend, and freshly sliced lemon to go with it.”

“That’s lovely, Hattie. Just what I need.” Bathsheba settled herself on one of the rattan chairs and took a sip.

“It’s not half bad, this place. The restaurant’s done out quite fancily—chandeliers and gilded mirrors, and proper linens on the tables. There’s a French chef, even!”

Bathsheba smiled into her cup. Hattie could always be relied upon to find out what was what.

“Now, you enjoy that cuppa, m’lady, and I’ll lay out your rose silk. I’d wager a five pound note that all heads will be turned your way this evening.”

“Really, Hattie.” Bathsheba gave her a reproving look. The girl was always making a fuss over who might cross their path, and whether some eligible-looking man might be giving her the eye.

It was too embarrassing! Not to mention, ridiculous.

Bathsheba was well past her twenty-seventh birthday and one marriage had been quite enough. Not that Lord Asquith had mistreated her—quite the contrary. He’d lavished her with expensive gifts and given her all the things women professed to desire, but, despite her husband’s material generosity and gentleness of disposition, Bathsheba had found the married state… She fought for the right word among so many that sprang to mind.

Dissatisfying was perhaps the most honest.

It was said that marriage was built upon mutual respect and understanding, and there was a deal of sense in that, Bathsheba knew, so it shouldn’t have mattered that Reginald hardly visited her bedchamber.

But her discontent hadn’t stemmed solely from their lack of physical intimacy.

As a wife, she’d imagined greater liberty, and she’d gained that, to some extent, in the management of her household—but those freedoms hadn’t lead anywhere.

Attending the same events, meeting the same people, and having more-or-less the same conversations, she’d simply done so in more expensive gowns, and wearing a great many more jewels.

In matter of fact, Bathsheba had instructed Hattie to leave her best clothes in London, along with most of her jewellery.

There would be no elegant musical evenings nor Society soirees to attend in New Guinea—a fact that filled Bathsheba with unmitigated delight. She’d attended enough of those vapid gatherings to last a lifetime.

From now on, only her most practical clothes would be needed, and in the lightest fabrics, to suit the climate they were coming to.

However, once onboard ship, Bathsheba had discovered one of her most luxurious gowns folded within her trunk. Its adornment of tiny amethysts, sewn across the span of the yoke and through the bodice, was far too lavish—even for the dining arrangements on board the S.S. Adelphine—but Hattie had been adamant that she shouldn’t travel without such a dress.

“The Fairfax Hotel mightn’t be The Savoy, but you never know who you’ll meet. Besides which, you look very well in it, m’lady.”

Hattie gave a sniff. “Ooh! I nearly forgot! The nice concierge at the front desk gave me this—” Hattie pulled an envelope from her pocket. In looping hand, it was clearly addressed “Lady Asquith”. “It was left some weeks ago, he says, by him as booked the rooms for us—your brother, m’lady.”

Hurriedly, Bathsheba set aside her cup and took hold of the letter.

How well organised Sebastian was; of course, he’d left a note for her. No doubt, it contained the instructions for her transfer to the Vuru camp.

Tearing it open, she read.

July 27th, 1898

Dearest B

So much has happened since our last communication. I pray this finds you well, and arrived safely in Moresby after your long sail. Knowing that you are already upon the seas, I leave this at the Fairfax, hoping it will find you on your arrival.

There is so much to tell you, but I must begin with the saddest news any brother may impart to his sister—that our father passed into the next life some ten days ago. The malaria he contracted as a young man had plagued him always, but his constitution had weakened these past months.

Please know that the final days of his illness were swift and without pain, thanks to our small supply of laudanum.

My intent is to continue his work, though not at Vuru.

A fierce stroke of luck has come my way. Among the many stories and superstitions we’ve recorded, there is one I cannot rid from my mind.

Perhaps I would have lacked the will to pursue this call if our father needed me still for his own work, but his death brings freedom—to explore where no other European has ventured.

I begin a journey of my own on the morrow, to Vanuaka—a place shrouded in mystery, of which the Vuru fishermen are reluctant to speak, and no boat there will take me.

Accordingly, I’ve returned to Moresby and have found a crew willing to set sail, carrying myself and two of our Vuru team. Even so, the men are to give me but one week, while the boat remains offshore. It shall be enough, I hope, to discover something of the residents of this remote and unstudied place, and to dispel the myth of what others dread.

If I may forge a bond with the native islanders, we might return—you and I.

Whatever comes to pass, I should be back in Moresby before September is out, in good time for your arrival. Nevertheless, I leave this note—for who can vouch for the weather, or some other matter causing delay.

I shall not speak of other outcomes but, should I fail to see you again, sweet sister, please understand that a man must pay heed to his heart, and mine cannot rest until it has ventured where others have feared to go.

A sum remains with the Fairfax, to provide accommodation for you and to purchase a berth back to England, should I not return.

But I wish not to dwell on such gloomy thoughts.

The greatest adventures are yet to come, and my stories shall be yours, when we meet again.

Yours, with love

Sebastian

Bathsheba sat very still for some moments.

Her father dead? How could that be?

Hadn’t he known she was coming? No matter the illness, wouldn’t he have found the strength to wait for her?

All these years, he’d existed more in her imagination than in reality, but she’d been about to change that. They were going to be united again. There was supposed to be time.

And Sebastian.

He’d said he’d be waiting for her, too.

What was he thinking, setting off without her? All their adventures were going to be together.

She scanned back to the top of the letter: July 27th.

More than ten weeks ago, and Sebastian had promised to be back well before the end of September.

Her hand was trembling as the paper fluttered to the floor.

Where was he?

Chapter Two

Meanwhile, in a dark corner of The Fairfax Hotel lounge…

The ginger-sour warmth of the liquor was doing its work; two glasses in, the ache down his side had abated. As long as he took only shallow breaths, the pain was bearable. Alcohol never solved anything, but it damn well made him feel better, and it had been a hell of a day.

Goytacaz’s men had landed a good few kicks to his ribs once they’d gotten him down, and the worst of it was that he’d had to lie there and take it.

The ship they’d boarded, headed to the German side of New Guinea, hadn’t been carrying anywhere near as many guns as the tip-off had indicated.

Not enough to clear Jorge’s debt.

And he’d been given only a short reprieve to find the rest.

He’d been doing fine until that squall had hit just east of Cairns. They’d lost the main mast and three crew overboard, not to mention four hundred bottles of French brandy smashed in the hold.

Limping into harbour, he’d sold what remained of the brandy to pay for repairs but it’d left them in an impossible position. Half the profit on the brandy was due to Signor Goytacaz.

Jorge had been running small jobs for him these past three months to pay back what was owed, and the munitions had been supposed to make them square. If he didn’t come up with the money soon, his ship would be forfeit—and it would be his own damn fault.

Angrily, he poured another five fingers of bourbon and knocked them back, wincing as the liquor washed over the split in his lip. Too many people were depending on him. Not just the crew but the islanders back on Tukalu.

Besides which, Goddamn it, that ship had been handed down by his father, and by his grandfather before that. Over his dead body would he let someone take The Marguerite.

* * *

“The pink muslin, Hattie, and don’t bother with the corset.”

“But, m’lady, it’s not proper!” Hattie gaped, open-mouthed. “I can’t let you go downstairs half-dressed.”

Bathsheba waved away her protests. “I don’t have time to worry about that, Hattie. Now, please, just help me.”

While Hattie looked through the trunk for the dress, Bathsheba pulled on clean underthings.

“It could do with a press.” Hattie frowned as she shook it out. “I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s fine.” Bathsheba stepped into the skirts and turned her back to let Hattie deal with the buttons.

It wouldn’t do to panic.

She’d only to keep calm.

People didn’t disappear or, at least, not people like Sebastian.

She need only find out which ship he’d hired. If it had returned, it must have done so with him on board. The mystery would soon be solved.

Someone would know, surely; someone would help her.

Hurrying downstairs, Bathsheba presented herself at the front desk.

Taking deep breaths and reminding herself to stay calm, she forced herself to summon up a pleasant expression.

From his chair, the elderly concierge smiled back, adjusting his glasses upon his nose. “Good afternoon, Madam. What can I be helping you with?”

“I need to find out something… about ships leaving the harbour… and who might be on them.”

“Ships?” The concierge looked troubled. “There’re lots of ships.”

“Yes, I know but…” Bathsheba clenched her fists in frustration. Where should she begin? “I need to know which ship my brother left on, about ten weeks ago.”

“Your brother, ahhh…” The concierge smiled again, an indulgent look upon his face. “You’d best ask him, hadn’t you. He’ll know which ship it was.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Despite the ceiling fan above them, Bathsheba felt a rush of heat, making her head pound. “He’s still on the ship. At least, I hope he is.” Her throat had grown thick, making it difficult to swallow, so that her words came out half-strangled. “I…I need to find out.”

“There’re lots of ships.” The elderly man smiled again, looking bemused.

Bathsheba fought back the prickling behind her eyes.

She would not cry!

There would be a way to find out. She just needed to find the right person to ask. At the harbour, perhaps. There would be a harbour master, wouldn’t there? He’d have a record of the ships passing in and out.

But not necessarily the passengers, nor the destinations.

The room swayed, obliging her to grab hold of the desk’s edge.

“You alright, madam? You look like you need to lie down.” The concierge peered at her. “’Tis the heat, most likely. Does strange things to the brain, does the heat.”

“Yes… I mean, no. No, I don’t want to lie down.” Bathsheba swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”

What was a person supposed to do in these situations? What helped? She needed clarity.

Lord Asquith had sworn by a tot of brandy to restore the senses.

Brandy. Yes.

Reginald had given her some after she’d taken a tumble from her horse. Nothing had been broken, but she’d gone all to jelly.

Bathsheba felt like that now.

The hotel would have brandy, wouldn’t it, or something similar? She’d sit down and drink the brandy, just as Reginald had made her do, and then gather her thoughts again.

Taking careful steps, she managed to cross the marble-floor to the glass doors of the residents’ lounge. The clock in the vestibule chimed six as she pushed them open.

Dusk was only just falling, but the room was almost dark, its velvet drapes pulled shut against the low-slanting western rays.

Bathsheba blinked and looked about.

Several gentlemen were already seated, smoking their cigars and reading their newspapers. Two were playing chess but even they looked up as she entered.

All heads swivelled in her direction.

Biting her lip, Bathsheba made her way to an empty seat. What was one supposed to do? A long, polished wood bar stretched almost the length of the room. Behind it, there was an array of bottles, and a barman, polishing glasses. She didn’t have to stand up, surely, and ask for what she wanted. The thought filled her with dread—to have everyone watch her while she asked for strong liquor.

She ought to leave; ask the concierge to send something to her room instead. But the thought of returning upstairs seemed worse than remaining here. It would be like hiding—and she had nothing to be ashamed of. If the men could enjoy a glass of something, why shouldn’t she?

Besides which, the brandy would be medicinal.

Fortunately, she was spared further dilemma by the appearance of a waiter, bringing a decanter and four glasses to a group of men playing cards.

Seeing her, he came over.

Bathsheba sat up very straight, making herself say it, though her request came out in the most hushed of tones. “A brandy, please.”

“Of course; a large measure?” The waiter’s voice was anything but hushed. The man seated nearest definitely smirked.

Bathsheba shrank in her seat. “Whatever’s usual.”

“Yes, madam.” The waiter cast an appraising eye over her, his gaze lingering in the vicinity of her bosom, before moving off, one eyebrow cocked.

The audacity! Just because she wasn’t wearing her foundation garment!

Bathsheba pulled herself upright again, her cheeks burning. It didn’t make her slovenly, or loose-moralled. Besides which, what business was it of anyone but herself.

It was madness to strap oneself up in whalebone with the humidity as it was. Should she make herself uncomfortable just so other people wouldn’t be affronted?

To hell with that!

There were more important things than bloody corsets. In fact, while she remained in New Guinea, there would be no more corset wearing.

As the waiter returned, she shot him a defiant look, took the glass from the salver and knocked back the contents in one great gulp.

The effects were immediate. Fire burned through her chest, making her gasp and cough. She shook her head against the shock of it, her eyes wide with surprise.

Reginald had gotten her to sip the brandy that first time. Now she knew why. Except that, now the stuff was down, it was certainly heartening. Strange laughter bubbled up from inside, making her cough again.

“Is madam, alright?” The waiter was looking down his nose at her again.

“Perfectly, thank you, and I’ll have another one. Just the same size.” She smiled tightly at his retreating back, and offered the same to the two men looking up from their chess board.

A terrible urge sprung up within her to poke out her tongue, but she squashed it swiftly. That really would be going too far. She was entitled to not wear a corset, and to partake of drink. She might even light a cigar, if she felt so inclined, but there was no excuse for rudeness.

Naughty children stuck out their tongues, not ladies of the British realm—even when they were dealing with situations of acute emotional distress.

The brandy was certainly going some way to making her feel braver, more like herself, in fact—or the self she ought to be. Someone who wouldn’t let these sour-faced men deter her from what needed to be done.

This time, when the waiter returned, Bathsheba looked him full in the eye, leant forward conspiratorially, and put the same question she’d addressed to the concierge: was there someone who knew the comings and goings of the harbour vessels—someone “in the know”.

Ages ago, she’d read a novel where someone had said that and winked. She considered having a go and fluttered one eyelash, but it only made her nose wrinkle up. Quickly, she brought out her handkerchief to conceal the peculiar squinching.

The waiter looked perturbed.

Damn. He really will think I’m mad, and ask me to leave. Bathsheba gazed into the brandy despondently.

But the waiter didn’t say anything. Nor did he move away, except to angle himself slightly and cast his eyes to the very back of the lounge. Bathsheba squinted through the cigar smoke.

Bending to wipe at an imaginary mark on the side table, he murmured something.

“Silver?” Bathsheba sucked in her breath. He wanted payment? That was a bit rich, seeing as he hadn’t yet told her anything.

“Signor de Silva,” the waiter hissed and rolled his eyes, then jerked his head. There was no doubt he was indicating someone at the far end of the room. Someone sitting in a booth rather than an armchair, with just his leg poking out.

A booted leg.

And, for the briefest moment, a dark face dipping into view.

“Oh, I see. Very good, thank you.”

The wink really had worked.

Bathsheba nodded to the waiter and, slightly unsteadily, got to her feet. Taking her glass with her, she processed across the plush carpet of the Fairfax Hotel lounge. Judgmental eyes were still upon her but she lifted her chin and did her best to look purposeful.

Nothing mattered but Sebastian.

No matter who this person was, if he knew something that would help her find her brother, she had to talk to him. She had money, after all—and money bought information.

Chapter Three

Whoever she was, she was causing a hell of a commotion.

Not that the stuffed shirts in the Fairfax were particularly keen on having him in their midst either, but he was suffered to occupy the corner booth on account of him bringing in a good deal of the liquor on those elegant shelves. He was expected to keep himself to himself while he drank, and that suited him just fine. He’d no desire to stick his nose in where government officials and crooked businessmen were cooking up their deals.

One more shot and he planned to take his troubles over to Signora Leonor’s establishment. The girls would have to take it easy on him, what with his ribs as they were, but that would do just fine. He wasn’t averse to lying back and letting a woman do the work.

Before he could drain his glass, there was a crash of falling furniture halfway down the room and raised voices—one of the stuffed shirts cursing, and the regal-looking bit of petticoat apologising.

What the hell?

She’d knocked over a table but it appeared to be her own drink that had gone flying.

Dropping to the carpet, she fumbled about trying to find who knew what, sticking her dainty derriere in the air, then sat up on her knees to dab at the man’s soaked crotch with a napkin.

Jorge gave a bark of amusement then drew a quick intake of breath, clutching his ribs.

Too sore to laugh. Don’t look.

But he couldn’t help it.

The waiter, Carlos, had her arm hooked under his and was marching her away—but not to the doors.

They were coming towards him.

Damn it!

The arrogant miss might be worse for drink but that hadn’t removed the haughty expression from her face.

She was one of “them”, alright; no doubt related to one of the high-ups overseeing the Protectorate. She’d slipped her chaperone and was knee-deep in trouble.

“Monsieur, the lady wishes to speak with you.” Carlos didn’t wait for Jorge to reply, depositing her straight into the booth, before swiftly departing.

Jorge scowled. This was all he needed.

To be on the safe side, he pushed the bottle—still a good way full—to one side. He’d every intention of drinking it empty before the night was out. It wouldn’t do to have her knock that over as well.

Whatever she needed to say, he hoped she’d spit it out, but she was just sitting—looking flustered, pale but for the rise of colour high on her cheeks.

She wasn’t bad looking, now that he’d a chance to see her close. Crawling about the floor had sent a few locks tumbling from the pins and given her a slightly breathless air. Her hair was an unusual colour, too, though it was hard to say exactly—somewhat auburn, but tinged with red. None of the women at Madame Leonor’s had hair like this.

“Is it painful?” She leaned forward a little, peering at his face.

Her question threw him for a moment, until he remembered his swollen eye. “Nothing a touch more bourbon won’t sort out.” He surveyed her through lids half-closed, quietly glowering. It was the sort of look he gave his crew when he wanted to be left alone, but she didn’t take the hint.

“More likely worse tomorrow, but that’s what comes of fighting, isn’t it. One must live with the consequences.” She said it quite cheerfully, oblivious to his glare.

“What makes you think I’ve been in a fight?” Even though it was true, and based on the sorry state he no doubt presented, her assumption riled him.

“Oh, I’ve seen a few. My brother used to box for his college. He wasn’t terribly good, so someone was always giving him a black eye.” She stopped suddenly, looking perturbed.

Resting her fingertips against her brow, she looked at him with a sombre expression, utterly regretful. “Very rude of me. Forget I mentioned it, please.”

It caught him off guard—her about-turn of politeness and genuine discomfort. What was she about, this strange young woman? Her fair skin, speech and manner proclaimed her a lady, despite her antics in the past quarter hour.

She wasn’t used to liquor—and that explained her ill-judgement, perhaps—but why was she here, unchaperoned, and ordering herself balloons of brandy?

Giving a sniff and an uncertain smile, she held out her hand across the table. “We should start again. I’m… Mrs. Asquith.”

Mrs., indeed.

If she were married, he’d be interested to know where her husband was.

As for the proffered hand, he didn’t know if she meant him to shake it or kiss it, like some medieval courtier. He did neither, merely taking a gulp from his glass.

She was sitting very upright but he saw that her lip trembled as she brought her hand back to her lap.

“You must think me very bothersome. I probably am. I apologise. It’s just that…I have something very important to speak to you about, but I’m nervous, and nothing’s quite happening as I want it to.”

Again, he was disarmed. Most people he knew didn’t make apologies. Even those he knew well didn’t say the words. They usually just changed the subject, hoping the matter would be forgotten—which it usually was.

It wouldn’t hurt to hear her out. It was probably a whole heap of nothing but she’d asked nicely, and he wasn’t such a bastard that he couldn’t give her ten minutes of his time.

“It’s my brother, you see; the one I mentioned. He was supposed to meet me, here at the hotel but he’s…he’s…” She looked down for a moment and, when she raised her eyes again, they were glassy with tears.

A troubling feeling swept over him. Something in her face was familiar; the way she was looking at him, perhaps—as if he were the only one who could help her.

He’d enough on his mind without adding a damsel in distress to his worries, but he couldn’t just ignore her.

“Your brother?” He rested his forearms on the table. “What of him?”

“He’s been away a long time; on a ship that sailed from here.” She bit her lip, frowning. “I’m frightened something’s happened to him.”

“I see.” Jorge didn’t see at all. What did she expect him to say? He’d only just docked himself a few hours ago, and it wasn’t his custom to ask too many questions about other vessels’ movements. People preferred it that way. Live and let live.

“He wrote a letter.” She fumbled in her pocket, extracting an envelope. “Here, you’re welcome to read it if…” She stopped abruptly, blushing, slowly placing what she’d held out upon the table between them.

If you can read…

Presumably, she was realizing that he might not be able to.

Not every sailor could, but he wasn’t every sailor.

His father had taught him his letters, besides a good deal else. The shelves of his cabin in The Marguerite were filled with books—but this young madam wasn’t to know that.

It was surprising she’d even deigned to sit with him.

He must look entirely disreputable—and wasn’t that what he was. Honest trade had long since become smuggling, and the ship he’d relieved of the munitions hadn’t handed them over without a struggle.

No matter the reasons, his conduct was as lawless as that of any pirate.

She cleared her throat, her fingers worrying at the edge of the envelope. “I can tell you what it says.” Her gaze flicked upward, venturing to gauge his expression.

“Go right ahead.” He suppressed a sigh. If he didn’t encourage her along a little, they’d be here all evening.

“He wanted to explore this certain place, you see, and the ship was to wait for him—seven days—then bring him back, with his two team members, except that he’s late, by nearly two whole weeks.” Her voice rose in pitch as she galloped to the end of her explanation.

“But you don’t know which crew took him?”

She shook her head.

“And you don’t know the destination?” He picked up his glass, swirling the contents.

“Oh, that I do know.” She slid several sheets of notepaper from the envelope, scanning through. “Vonaku, or Veneta—something like that.”

Jorge stilled his hand. She wasn’t going to say it; not Vanuaka. It would be too much a coincidence.

“Here we are.” She was triumphant, waving the letter excitedly, clearly pleased at having something useful to share with him.

There is was, upon the page—exactly as he’d feared.

“Van-u-aka.” She took care to pronounce it, then beamed at him. “You’d be able to ask, perhaps, among the other crews you know? Someone might have heard something—of a British gentleman hiring the ship to take him there. They’ll know, won’t they, if the crew has come back into port?”

Jorge recalled that anguished face—that of the man he’d pulled from the sea. It came to him, as it had most nights since they’d left those waters.

God damn. How was this possible? The chances had to be a thousand to one.

With a jerk of his wrist, he knocked back the bourbon and replaced the glass on the table.

“I can ask.” He spoke abruptly. “But even if we find the crew, it’s likely they’ll have cast off to sea again by now. It’ll be a working ship, not a pleasure vessel. They won’t be sitting about waiting for the next misguided toff to come knocking, so they can take his money and maroon him in the middle of nowhere.”

As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Her face fell. He hadn’t needed to be so blunt, nor so offensive. He shifted in his seat. “As I say, I’ll ask.”

“Marooned?” Her mouth formed a perfect circle as she held the long vowel. She’d visibly paled. Her eyes were round and wide, not wishing to accept, yet believing.

“It was just an observation. A random possibility.” He shrugged. There were other possibilities too—that the man he’d fished out of the water was her brother, or one of the men he’d taken with him.

Jorge had made a promise of sorts, to let the poor wretch’s family know what had become of him. If there was a chance that this was the man’s sister sitting here, at this very table, Jorge had a duty to tell her… didn’t he?

Why was it, then, that he couldn’t bring himself to do it? Because she’d be better off thinking her brother to be living out his days on some tropical isle, rather than making bones on the sea bed?

Without warning, she reached for the bottle, uncorking it to pour a large glug into his glass. Just as suddenly, she brought it to her lips and, screwing up her face, swallowed half of it down.

“Hey!” Before he could say anything else, she tipped back the glass again, grimacing as the remainder disappeared.

She shook herself, pursing her lips before rubbing her hands hard over her face.

When she looked at him again, it was with eyes wider and darker than before, but her gaze went straight to his. “Take me there. As soon as you can. Tomorrow.”

There was no question that she meant what she said. How had she gone from crawling on the floor with her pretty arse in the air to this? Telling him what to do. He would’ve laughed, if he weren’t so damn annoyed. Who did she think she was?

Besides which, there was no way he was going back to Vanuaka. Old Tom was right. Some places were best left alone. No matter who the man was who’d died in Jorge’s boat, visiting the scene of his death wouldn’t bring him back.

“I can pay you!” She was leaning forward, fixing him with that bold stare again. “Whatever you need, I can find the money.”

He did laugh then, though it made him wince. “It’ll be impossible to land. Even if we did, where would you start looking? You’re going to search the whole island are you?” He lounged back in his seat. “Besides which, it’s not safe. You can’t begin to understand. There won’t be any welcome party—at least, not one you’d want to meet.”

“They’re savages you mean!” The colour rose abruptly in her cheeks, while her mouth set in a determined line. “You may say so, but it’s not my view. My father spent years studying tribespeople—in West Africa and here. My brother, too. I’ve read almost everything they ever wrote, so don’t tell me I can’t understand.”

Jorge clenched his fists. “You don’t know the first thing about ‘my view’. I never called anyone a ’savage’. That’s a word Europeans use for anyone they can’t take the measure of, even though there’s plenty that’s cruel and brutish in their own behaviour. Those ‘savages’ don’t flinch from battle, and some blood feuds endure generations, but they have their own codes of honour, and they don’t screw each another over for the sake of money.”

In anger, his voice had grown louder. There were some murmurs from further down the room, and Carlos was looking over.

It was time for Jorge to leave. He didn’t have to listen to this nonsense. He grabbed the bottle and swung his legs out of the booth, making to stand up, but she reached across, boldly, stopping him.

“If my brother might still be there, I have to go.” Her eyes blazed.

He hesitated only for a moment, looking down at her brashly placed hand upon his—at her fingers, so long and elegant, the nails finely shaped.

“That’s as may be, but I don’t have to take you.” It was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned. It was for her own good. Even if the man were still alive, it wouldn’t be for long—not on Vanuaka.

“A hundred sovereigns.” Her palm was hot on the back of his hand. “Half before we sail and the rest when we bring back my brother.”

The sum was sufficient to make him hesitate, but he needed more than five times that to settle his debt with Goytacaz.

“There’s an extra danger. A volcano. If it’s safe to land, I’ll give you three days to search for him. Five hundred sovereigns—and I’ll need the whole amount, regardless of whether we find your brother.”

She blanched, drawing back as if he’d struck her. For the tiniest moment, something writhed low in his belly, reminding him of the dishonesty he was perpetrating. The sum he was asking was excessive in the extreme--but it would enable him to soon clear his debt. And, what of the map in his possession? He didn't relish a return to Vanuaka but it would give him a chance to find out if the map was real--if there truly was something of value that would turn his fortunes; that would enable him to leave behind the life he'd fallen into. He might return to honest trading, if he'd enough money behind him.

He rose to his feet, looking down at her. This was her decision. He wasn’t forcing her into anything.

“Five hundred.” She nodded her head. “But not until I’ve had three days on the island.”

Picking up the bourbon, he took his final swig straight from the bottle. “Done.”

Chapter Four

Seventeen days later…on The Marguerite

Hanging her skirt, blouse and jacket upon the hook, Bathsheba stumbled the few steps from one side of her cabin to the other, grabbing hold of whatever she could to steady herself. She had a fair set of “sea legs”, and wasn’t prone to sickness, but the ship was plunging alarmingly.

The quartermaster had looked in, earlier, to assure her there was nothing to worry about—that it was only the usual sort of squall that blew up in these waters. But he’d instructed her not to go on deck at all until told otherwise.

With each swell of the waves, her stomach rose and fell in similar motion. Meanwhile, the wind was whistling wild, and the planks flexed and groaned. The ship was a living thing, sighing and shifting, and here she was, trapped in its belly without even a porthole to open.

Not that her cabin wasn’t cozy. Though small, it contained all she needed. Using the chamber pot was a trial, but the mattress was comfortable and a Turkish rug in shades of blue covered the bare boards, matching the flowered basin set into the top of the cabinet.

But, while on the S.S. Adelphine, she’d been free to roam those parts of the ship designated for passengers, here, she had just a single half hour allotted in the morning, to take the air, and another in the late afternoon.

Despite the extortionate payment she’d agreed to, and her acceptance of Captain de Silva’s terms, the crew eyed her with unmitigated suspicion, if not downright resentment. She’d never felt more unwelcome, nor more alone.

The room lurched again, sending her sprawling across the bed, cursing at having bothered to try and get up at all. The hour was late enough that she ought to just try and sleep, but her head was too full—and not only with worry for Sebastian.

Righting herself, Bathsheba scooted to sit upon the edge and drew off her stockings, planting her bare feet firmly on the rug. Perhaps she’d have more luck if she were able to anticipate the movement and roll with it.

With a sigh, she brought out her brush from the set of drawers and unpinned her hair, drawing the silver-backed bristles slowly down the length. Every evening, this had been Hattie’s ritual, to let loose Bathsheba’s copper-golden mane and tame its curls.

But there was no Hattie to comfort her now. She’d made her stay behind.

Brave Hattie.

Even though her maid lacked the stomach for another trip, she’d argued most vehemently against the plan, but Bathsheba had insisted.

Captain de Silva had assured her that no-one in the harbour had information on the ship that had taken her brother, but if Sebastian were somehow to return, Hattie must be there to explain everything—and to tend him if necessary. Who knew what state he’d be in if he did make it back to Port Moresby…

Bathsheba knew she’d rest easier with Hattie waiting.

If one could call pacing the cabin to all hours “resting easy”. Not since opening Sebastian’s letter had such a thing been possible. And her acquaintance with Captain de Silva only heightened that feeling.

Right from the start, it had been obvious to Bathsheba what sort of man he was. With his eye swollen half-shut and his bloodied lip, he’d clearly been fighting. His clothing had been filthy, and his sleeve torn at the shoulder. In fact, he’d looked unkempt altogether—his dark hair tousled and his cheek unshaven.

And the smell of him!

Bourbon, sweat and salt.

Not that she’d presented the most ladylike of impressions herself, the brandy having gone to her head, but she’d carried herself with all the decorum she could muster.

Meanwhile, he’d been all sharp edges, from his slanting jaw to the jut of his brow—and just as fierce in his manner.

The way he’d spoken to her!

Not like any gentleman she knew.

But then, he wasn’t a gentleman. Though he owned a ship, and spoke tolerable English, he was anything but that. His accent seemed to indicate a Mediterranean influence, but he was bronzed far darker than any European she’d met, and his skin was densely tattooed—visible where he rolled back his cuffs, and up his neck.

Though he hardly seemed to shave, having a perpetual shadow of rough stubble on his jaw, the planes of his face were handsome, in a brutally masculine, menacing way. As his eye became less swollen, that was obvious, but there was a wildness to him that was utterly disconcerting—far too hot-blooded and hungry.

His presence was so dominating, so masculine—not like any man she’d met before. He was proud and aloof, yet scrutinised her with an intensity she found unnerving, his eyes, dark and unfathomable.

Meanwhile, though she was trusting her safety to his keeping, she knew next to nothing about him.

Their contract had been her choice—except what choice had there really been? Sebastian was all she had and, wherever he was, he must need help.

Who, if not she, would come to his aid?

The ship rolled violently again, almost tipping her onto the floor, and her stomach turned over.

Oh Sebastian!

She didn’t want to cry, for it changed nothing, but he might be lying thirsty and hungry, without hope of ever being found. He might be injured. He might already be…

No. She refused to submit to that way of thinking.

Bathsheba took several deep breaths and lay back against the pillows. It was warm in the cabin; too warm. Suffocating really—the air charged with the electricity of whatever storm raged outside.

She might take off her chemise. The door was locked. No one would know if she slept upon the sheets with nothing on.

The thought of nakedness was alluring—and wicked.

Not the nudity itself, perhaps, but the direction in which it made her thoughts run.

On the rare occasions Reginald had come to her bed, he’d preferred her to wear her nightgown. With the brush, she stroked through the light cotton of the chemise, prickling against the delicate skin.

She wanted lips, teeth, tongue where the brush teased her; the warmth of a man’s mouth—a man’s hands.

Another wave hit the prow of the ship, obliging her to grasp the sheets with her other hand, and jolting the bristles against the soft bud of her nipple—almost painfully.

Which man?

God help her, she dared not admit his name, even in the privacy of her thoughts. He was uncouth. Rough. Dirty. He’d probably bedded a hundred lovers and not cared even to know their names. Wasn’t that how such men behaved? Taking a woman’s body purely for pleasure? Paying them to do what respectable women would not?

She didn’t know why she found him attractive.

She shouldn’t.

Of course, nothing was going to happen. If it did, what sort of woman would it make her? Just because there was no-one to witness her behaviour wasn’t an excuse to ignore the morality she’d been brought up with.

Biting her lip, she stilled the brush.

This was what came of her being cooped up for hour upon hour, with nothing to occupy her mind.

It had been a wedding gift—the brush, with matching mirror; the last her mother had given, alongside that ridiculous book—presented a full month after Bathsheba had taken her vows.

During their courtship, Reginald had been rather gallant, even debonair. But, with five grown sons, he hadn’t married her for the purpose of filling a nursery. She’d married a man who wished for little more than quiet companionship.

She hardly knew what she’d expected, but…something more.

As her marriage wore on, there was nothing new; merely a change of seats within the same room. Her days had continued as a round of paying and receiving calls, of being seen in the right places at the right times, while wearing the appropriate costume, and of saying the right thing—which generally meant as little as possible.

Not that her mother had forced her to marry Reginald; no one had.

But nor had anyone seemed to care whether the marriage would make her happy—whatever that meant.

Reginald’s death had set her free, and the relief had been overwhelming—except that even her widowed state came with its own set of rules.

Strange, how she could think of that time, now, as if the marriage hadn’t been hers at all. Meanwhile, Bathsheba’s memories of her mother seemed to be growing dusty, though it was barely seven years since her passing.

Opening the drawer again, she drew out the pocket-sized volume with its leather binding. It had been silly to bring the book, even though it took up hardly any space: The Lady’s Guide to all Things Useful.

She’d never bothered to read the wretched thing. Even the title made Bathsheba grimace, for didn’t it represent everything she resented about that other world, with its rules and restrictions, and nuances of what was acceptable and what wasn’t. All those trite lessons, masked under the umbrella of useful advice.

Of course, some elements of that code were simply good manners—conventions designed to make other people feel comfortable—but it seemed that her whole lifetime had been spent learning those rules. A lady did not express opinions, nor argue. She didn’t raise her voice, nor betray emotion. She remained composed under any circumstance. In all things, she was modest—in her mode of dress and speech, and in the the way she carried herself. She did not overindulge, taking only the smallest of portions to her plate.

Whatever appetites a lady had for living, they were to be controlled and subdued.

The volume symbolised all that she wished to leave behind, yet here it was—still with her.

She ought to have thrown it away, but she knew why she hadn’t.

Her mother had presented it to her and, however much the gift irritated Bathsheba, it had been given with good intentions.

The ship heaved high then dove downward, sending the book flying from her hand. With a shriek, she was flung several inches up in the air before she met the mattress again, her breath knocked flat out.

Above her head, the lantern swung precariously, casting great shadows around the cabin—dark and light alternating.

The book had hit the wall and was lying with its spine bent back. Rolling over to retrieve it, she glanced at the page now pushed open.

The chapter was entitled Fear.

Had she not felt so terrified, she might have laughed.

Is that you, Mother? Still watching over me?

Bathsheba squeezed shut her eyes. She’d never put credence by séances, but if her mother could hear her, she was ready to listen.

Are we going to capsize?

No—surely not.

She didn’t need a ghostly presence to reassure her of that. It was just a storm, and Old Tom hadn’t seemed the least bit worried. There were no sounds of distress from beyond her cabin door. The crew would steer the ship through.

Calming herself, she picked up the little book, peering at its small print.

Your life comes only once. Do not, then, waste it.

Know no regret—at adventures untaken, nor love untasted.

Shrink not from happiness for fear of hurt, or failure.

You own only this moment.

Embrace it well.

How strange. She flipped to the next chapter and found that it detailed forks: their variety and usage, and proper methods of cleaning. The one before spoke of fans.

As the cabin pitched, she hurriedly placed the book back inside the drawer.

It’s going to be alright. Nothing to be frightened of.

She gripped the sheet in her fists, holding on as the room tilted again.

That word—happiness.

Have I ever been happy?

She knew what it was to be restless and bored, to feel frustration and inertia; but the deep contentment of happiness?

Reaching up, she doused the lantern.

Happiness would be knowing Sebastian was safe.

That was all she needed.

Chapter Five

Three days later…

Jorge slid the paperweights to each corner of the chart, laying it flat across the great mahogany desk.

They were in calmer waters now, the storm having passed over. Sailing somewhat wide of the islands, they’d avoided being dashed on treacherous rocks, as so often lay within sight of land, but it had blown them off-course.

Fortunately, the sky was clear enough to use the sextant—measuring the angle of the stars above the horizon. He needed merely to reference the chart to determine their position.

“Tell me again, Capt’n, why we be doin’ this.” Tom stood on the other side of the desk, his arms folded and a scowl upon his face.

“You know very well.” Jorge moved his magnifier to survey the warning shoals sketched upon the map. They were closer to San Cristobal than he’d have expected.

Tom stood his ground. “I heard you, right enough, and I gave up my cabin for her without a murmur, for I’ve no problem settlin’ in a hammock—but I can’t say as I understand, so mayhaps you’ll tell me again.”

Jorge gave an inward sigh, and reminded himself to remain calm. As quartermaster, it was Tom’s duty to question Jorge on behalf of the crew—to be assured of the prudence of their captain’s decisions. They were a democracy of sorts, each man not only receiving a share of the spoils but having a right to speak his mind, and have his mission explained to him—even if Jorge had ultimate say.

“She’s paying us, Tom—and it’s easy money. We’ll approach the island on the south-western side and I’ll row us in. Just her and I. No-one else needs to set foot there. You take the ship further out, then sail in to collect us at dawn when she’s had her three days.”

“Aye—as easy as that!” Tom rolled his eyes. “You’ll take a little stroll up the beach and then through the jungle, yodelling out for someone as won’t be answerin’ back—and we both know why not.”

A small silence fell between them, punctuated by the soft sound of waves meeting the hull, and its returning creak.

Jorge disliked dishonesty. His men weren’t averse to taking arms to defend themselves, and they’d follow any command he gave, but he preferred fair exchange to robbing others. Regardless of how the profits benefited those he cared for, he took no pleasure in the act.

Stealing and smuggling weighed heavily enough on his shoulders—but to lie barefacedly to the man he’d known all his life? Tom was more than a crew mate. More than a friend. He’d been on The Marguerite since Jorge’s grandfather’s time, following his liberation from a convict ship taking him to twenty years of penal servitude. However cantankerous the old curmudgeon could be, he was like family.

Jorge had made up his mind, however. They’d make the journey and pocket the fee. “We can’t know for sure her brother’s dead.” Glancing up, he pushed down the inner twist of shame. “There were two others with him, and who knows which of them I pulled out of the water.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Even if it weren’t him, what chance do ye think those others poor buggers have on the island? All these weeks surrounded by the likes o’ them warrior devils?” He shook his head. “You’re spinning that bit o’skirt fancies if you tell her otherwise.”

Jorge bit back a retort. All his years in the South Seas hadn’t much changed some of Tom’s bigoted attitudes.

Not that Tom viewed The Marguerite’s islander crew in the same light; nor did he pay mind to the fact that Jorge was half-islander himself. They numbered forty in all; men strong of arm and back, drawn mostly from Tukalu. Others had joined them along the way—a motley gathering of former slaves, mutineers, and opportunists: Portuguese, British, some hailing from the Ivory Coast.

As for the men’s chance of survival on the island, of course, it was true. Jorge wasn’t just lying to Tom, but to himself.

Letting the chart curl up again, Jorge opened the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and glasses. Unstoppering the cork with his teeth, he sloshed a good measure for each of them.

“Let me worry about that.” He held out the peace-offering. “I’ll satisfy the girl’s need to look for her brother, then break the inevitable when the time comes.”

“An’ that’ll be all yer satisfying, be it?” Tom sniffed the rum appreciatively. “I’ve seen the way ye look at her, or try to pretend yer not lookin’.” He gave a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be blamin’ ye, neither. She’s a tasty morsel, no question. But do ye really need to take her to the island to do yer seducin’?”

“It’s a business arrangement. Nothing more.” Jorge knocked back his own tot and cast the empty glass onto the desk.

“Right—o’ course!” Tom’s mouth quirked upward, and he tipped back the liquor, smacking his lips. “Well, I’ll leave you to muse on your ‘business’, and what it might look like out of its petticoats.” With a parting grin, he closed the door behind him.

Goddamn!

Jorge picked up the bottle. The temptation was strong to pour himself another measure, but it wouldn’t take away whatever he was feeling. With another curse, he shoved it away.

Barely three weeks she’d been on his ship, and locked away in her cabin for most of it, but it hadn’t stopped him being acutely aware of her presence.

Mrs. Asquith.

Of course, it was a financial transaction; a contract. Tom could speculate all he liked, but Jorge had no intention of interfering with that hoity-toity piece—no matter how inviting her lips.

If he wanted a tumble, there were women aplenty in Moresby, and in any number of other ports. Women who’d be only too happy to make him welcome. Women like Eloise Bisset.

The conjuring of that name brought forth an unbidden snarl. He’d vowed not to think of her, to cast her from his mind. Yet still she lingered, as if laughing at him from the recesses of his memory.

He’d thought himself in love; thought that she loved him in return. Thought, even, that she would marry him. But her wiles had served far shallower goals. She’d taken the pleasure he gave her when they were naked, but she’d never been what he thought she was. Had never returned the feelings he’d harboured. Had, apparently, wanted more than he could offer.

Some two years ago, he’d returned from a long sail to Fiji to find her preparing for imminent matrimonial, but not with him in mind. She’d married one of the junior officials under the British lieutenant governor and left with him soon after—on a posting to Europe, no less.

It had taught him plenty.

Mrs. Asquith was no Eloisa Bisset but, whatever she was, he could see enough to know she was from another world than the one he inhabited.

His life was the sea and The Marguerite, and the protection of Tukalu. Her Royal Majesty might have declared a protectorate over the southern Solomons, but the islands were too scattered for those authorities to act effectively.

Jorge had heard too many horrific stories, and witnessed the aftermath for himself: villages brutally subdued, the men carried off to provide plantation labour thousands of miles away, never to see their loved ones again.

When Jorge’s father had married his mother, herself from Tukalu, he’d vowed to keep safe not only his wife’s family but all the island, using the profits of his trading to buy powder and pistols. Tukalu now had a reputation for being able to defend itself, and it was Jorge’s duty to ensure it stayed that way. Even if it meant smuggling; even if it meant piracy. He couldn’t afford scruples.

In his father’s day, they’d carried cargo between the Australian ports and those of Shanghais and Kowloon, but times were harder now. There were so many ships and too much competition. He’d been obliged to accept shipments he knew weren’t above-board, but years of small payments had ensured a blind eye was turned in the ports.

Perhaps, one day, he’d make a home with one of the young island women. His aunts were endlessly keen to matchmake, telling him that it was what his mother would have wanted—for her fine son to raise a brood of strong and happy children. It was true that he was as tall and broad shouldered as any pure-blooded Tukalun. That his father had been half Portuguese and half English didn’t matter to those he’d grown up with.

Yes, it would have made her smile to see him settled, but she’d known, also, that he was his father’s son—more familiar with the swell and sway of the ocean than the firmness of land. As soon as he was old enough, Jorge had joined his father on the The Marguerite but, as a child, he remembered the long months of waiting for his return, of his mother looking wistfully to the ocean, watching for a glimpse of tall sails.

What sort of marriage was that?

Jorge drew his hand over his brow. It wasn’t his way to dwell on what he couldn’t have.

The Marguerite was everything. It always had been. That and Takalu. Despite the strain of his current circumstances, he had his ship and his crew, and more freedom than most men could dream of. The open seas were his domain.

Every man felt restless now and then. It meant nothing.

Better to concentrate on the matter in hand.

Asking around, he’d heard about a ship—The Felicidad—having been hired by a small party weeks ago, and a British man among them.

When the ship had returned, it carried only crew.

Taking the key from his pocket, Jorge unlocked the uppermost drawer of his desk. Inside was the scrap of paper, the edges curling and tattered, and the ink faded—but readable still.

And the ring.

He’d only to show it to her and she’d confirm whether it was her brother’s. If it were, there’d be no reason to land upon Vanuaka.

And no fee either.

There would be time enough for the truth, later—and what difference did it make, beyond relieving their passenger of some money she seemed well able to part with.

Curling his fist around the hard metal, he reminded himself of what was necessary.

Chapter Six

Some hours past midnight…

Bathsheba couldn’t sleep.

Staring into the dark, listening to the slow creak of wood, was driving her insane. She understood that Captain de Silva didn’t want her roaming at will, but the storm had passed and the hours were increasingly difficult to bear.

So great was her boredom that she’d even resorted to engaging Tom in conversation—when he brought her meals upon a tray, or hot water for washing. Though most of what he said was unintelligible, one thing was clear: his great respect for his captain.

Whatever question Bathsheba put to him, he always seemed to find an anecdote from Jorge de Silva’s past with which to illustrate his point, though nothing as darkly thrilling as Bathsheba might have hoped to hear.

“He be lithe enough to race the youngest to the top o’ the mizzenmast,” Tom had told her, just that evening. “He don’t believe in asking the crew to do anythin’ he wouldn’t do hisself.” Tom had looked thoughtful. “An’ him be a master navigator, havin’ learnt his seamanship from his father afore him.”

However roguish the captain appeared, it seemed he’d worthily earned the respect of his crew. Nevertheless, she continued to probe, hoping Tom would reveal something more titillating than Mr. de Silva’s aptitude for climbing the rigging.

“It must be dangerous, so far from the mainland, out here alone.” Bathsheba had adopted an ingenuous expression. “Aren’t there pirates to be wary of? You’ve pistols, I suppose, and swords, for close combat?”

“Aye.” Tom had given a lopsided grin. “Not as we’d kill anyone without they be lookin’ to do the same to us uns, but ’tis true there be them as ’ud murder ye and toss ye oceanward if ye didn’t look about yesself.” He’d eyed her beadily. “For the most part, we out-sail trouble, for The Marguerite be British-made, bought by the captain’s grandfather in 1855, and she be fast.”

With that, he’d closed further discussion on the murderous proclivities of crew.

She ought to be glad, she supposed, that the man who’d be accompanying her onto Vanuaka was able to defend her—and, presumably, shin up a coconut tree to ascertain the lie of the land. That might be useful, if they were to spot Sebastian’s camp within the jungle.

With each day that passed, it seemed more likely that Sebastian would be in danger, and that thought made her feel ill enough on its own, but she was impatient for them to reach their destination for more reasons besides. Whatever hardships awaited her on the island, there would also be freedom to explore—a freedom that grew more alluring with each day of her confinement. Unkempt as he was, and a ruffian without doubt, the captain might think nothing of dispatching those as villainous as himself, but he would surely see her come to no harm. If nothing else, it was in his best interests to bring her back safely—if he hoped to be paid.

Three nights and days upon the island, alone with him, but he wouldn’t dare take advantage of that? Use his strength to overwhelm her?

No matter his baser instinct; no matter the temptation…

A whirlwind of possibilities rushed into Bathsheba’s mind, sending a flush of heat through her body.

Stop it!

Pinching the back of her hand, she berated herself. It was she who was behaving improperly, imagining things that would never happen. It was this room that was to blame. The lack of air.

She had to get out.

Lifting down the lantern from its hook, Bathsheba lit the oil.

It was the middle of the night—and surely a good time to go on deck. Only the bare bones of the crew would be employed, and she might easily find some quiet corner in which to sit. She could be trusted not to cause an accident, and the crew were hardly likely to be distracted by the sight of her. They’d had time enough to become accustomed to the idea of her being on board.

For a moment, she considered simply putting on her dressing gown over her chemise, but that would be too improper by far. There was no corset to bother with, at least. She hadn’t worn one since leaving Moresby, and had not a moment’s regret on that score.

Impatiently, she drew on her stockings, then her shirtwaist and skirt, and laced her stout boots. They gave a good grip upon the deck, even when it was wet.

She wouldn’t be long; just an hour would appease her. But she needed the cool night air and the open space. She needed to breathe freely again.

* * *

He was dreaming.

A woman undressing for him, button by button. She wanted him, but this was the game they played—a pretence of half-reluctant disrobing and coy glances.

Silk and lace and muslin cast off, until she stood naked, uncoiling her hair, letting its long rope curl over her bare shoulder. Opening her arms, she invited him to lay her down.

Lips and tongues met in full-mouthed kisses. Her curves and swelling softness were his to touch and taste.

Hungrily, he sank into the willingness of her body, his breath quickening, thrusting harder. She wrapped her legs about him, and he pulled her tighter, buried deep in pleasure.

Her eyes were wide open; amber eyes, framed by dark lashes, and a curl of coppered hair upon her cheek.

Jorge woke with a start.

The sheets were damp, with sweat and his release, and his hand was still fisted upon his cock.

All was quiet, and the sky dark beyond his windows.

Lighting the lamp, he located his pocket watch. Another three hours until dawn.

Laying back, he closed his eyes, returning his hand to commence the familiar rhythm. She was waiting for him, inviting him back to where he’d been.

But, what was he doing?

Fantasising about the one female for hundreds of miles, who happened to be sleeping just a few steps from his cabin?

A woman he was going to be alone with on Vanuaka for three days and three nights. A woman who was expecting him to protect her.

A strange sort of protection it would be if he ended up seducing her.

He’d never made it to Madame Leonor’s, and it had been months since he’d been inside a woman. Was this what it had brought him to?

He was losing his mind.

* * *

Emerging onto the deck, Jorge took a deep breath, letting the tang of night air fill his lungs. It was balmy, almost still, and quiet—but for the gentle creak of rigging and timbers, and the soft slap of waves as they glided onward. Even after all these years, the ocean still had the power to surprise him—with its beauty and its strangely changeable temperament.

He’d always found comfort in the sea, for all that it could be a place of danger, for it was his domain, as nowhere else truly was—not even Tukalu. He’d given most of his life to The Marguerite and to the men who sailed alongside him.

Strolling the deck, he made a brief survey of those on watch. Aldrix nodded to him from the helm then cocked his chin starboard, towards the bow.

It was common for dolphins to accompany a ship or, even, a pod of whales but, as he moved closer to the prow, he saw nothing of that kind—only the lone figure standing at the gunwale.

She was looking out across the silvered water, staring at the reflected crescent-moon and the glitter of a thousand bright stars.

At that moment, a gentle breeze lifted, stirring her hair and drawing the fabric of her clothing close, and a surge of desire struck him. He remembered how she’d appeared in his dream: naked, soft and yielding.

Perhaps some sound escaped him, for she turned suddenly, startled. Her fingers grasped hard upon the rail and she took a step backward, then appeared to check herself.

Her voice, though quietly spoken, carried clear. “I’m bothering no-one.” It was more statement than question.

Jorge considered reprimanding her, commanding her back to her cabin. She had her hours upon deck. Weren’t they enough? She’d no reason to be skulking up here.

But something in her expression stopped him. She was half fearful and half defiant, the warring emotions overlaid with sorrow—just as in the Fairfax on the first day of their meeting.

She was too much alone, probably, with an excess of time to ponder what lay ahead, and what might be.

Taking pity, he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t concern yourself. You’re not disturbing anyone.”

Only me—and you were doing that before I knew you were on deck.

“Then, I may remain a little longer?” She dropped her chin, looking up through thick lashes.

After fleeting hesitation, he came to stand beside her. “I take it that this is the first of your nocturnal wanderings?” He intended to imply censure but she didn’t take it as such, answering simply in her clear, ringing voice.

“It is—though I wish I’d thought of it sooner. If I’d known how dazzling everything was by moonlight, I’d have made this a nightly occurrence. How fortunate you are, having your own vessel, to roam wherever you please.”

Her fingers absentmindedly stroked the polished oak of the rail. “I expect you often come out here—in the night, I mean.” She gazed ocean-ward again, quietened in her contemplation of what lay before them.

“Not as often as you might think, but sometimes—when I’m restless.” He spoke without thinking, revealing more than he intended. It was his ship, after all, and he need offer no explanation on any count.

Nevertheless, Jorge felt his lips twitch. She was as audacious as he’d suspected, but wistful too—her emotions bubbling first in one direction then the next.

“You must feel a wonderful freedom, striking out to sea, though I wonder how it is you manage to navigate such huge stretches of water, without even sight of land to guide you.” She paused momentarily. “I admit to having been fearful as we passed through the terrible storm, but the ship must be strong, to have brought us through.”

“Those squalls?” He could barely hide his surprise. “They were nothing against some tempests we’ve weathered, but you’re right in thinking her robust. Only once has she been damaged severely, needing major repairs…”

With a frown, he stopped himself. It was that storm and those repairs that had brought him to this pass—of indebtedness and uncertainty, but her admiration had inspired him to speak more than he desired on the subject.

He was running on, when he should remain silent—and ought to leave her to her reverie; she’d come upon deck for air, not to converse with him. But, his eye fell upon a stray curl of hair against the pale skin of her nape and he found he did not wish to turn from her yet. There was nothing here to disconcert him, if he but remembered why he’d brought her aboard.

He cleared his throat. “As to navigation, there are instruments and charts, as any can master if they’ve the will, although there is more to seamanship than that.”

“The stars, I’m told, reveal a great deal.” She glanced up at him before casting her eyes back to the sea.

“This is true, as my father taught me. They hold fixed celestial positions, changing only their time of rising and setting, providing a bearing for navigation. You can set a heading by a single star near the horizon, switching to a new one once the first rises too high, and using a specific sequence of stars for a particular route.”

“What a wondrous skill—and this alone can be enough to guide a ship?” She asked her question with animation, clearly interested in his answer.

“The islanders travel often from one island to the next by canoe, using the same method—though there are other signs to help them. They measure those distances in ‘canoe-days’.”

“Captain de Silva, I beg you tell me more.” There was surprise and wonder in her expression, and he found that he was gratified. It was a subject close to his heart, and he was proud of his knowledge, borne as it was not just from his own years at sea but from the accumulated experience of his forebears.

“A sailor must know the wind and the weather, of course, and he may spot shallow water by observing the reflection on the underside of clouds.” He spoke the same words his father had explained to him when he was but five years old. “Just as important is the movement of the ocean, since the stars aren’t always visible. There are many island chains, which have certain effects on waves and currents. You can learn the shape of the swell and correct your path accordingly. You might also pinpoint an island by the sighting of certain groups of birds, since they’ll invariably fly away from land during the day and return as night falls.”

“How perfectly sensible.” She gave a smile of approval. “Using such observations.”

“How else can one make sense of the world?” He shrugged. “And where natural signposts are less reliable, a crew might carry a shore-sighting bird, such as the frigate. Being unable to land on water, if it fails to return, one may surely follow it to land.”

“Now, you’re sharing all your secrets! I shall make my brother quite envious, telling him of all I’ve discovered…” She gave a small laugh but her voice trailed off and she dropped her head. Extracting a scrap of linen, she dabbed at her eyes.

Her brother.

She’d described this Sebastian as both an academic and an explorer, but Jorge had not forgotten the map he’d retrieved from the dying man’s pocket. A map that spoke of something else than a random desire to befriend the inhabitants of an outlying island.

Adopting a neutral tone, Jorge asked, “What did he have in mind, that brought him to such a remote location?”

She tucked away the handkerchief, attempting a smile. “I can only guess at that, but I have some idea from the letters he wrote, and the articles he and Father published over the years—regarding their study of New Guinea’s tribes.”

Jorge was barely able to restrain a scornful snort. “Then you must know that many of those tribes have no wish for contact, and your brother must have been aware too—that islanders don’t always take kindly to strangers appearing on their shores.”

Raising her chin, she met his eyes again, though somewhat trembling. “Isn’t that vindication for his mission? That the wider world might gain understanding of what it so readily misjudges? And that those islanders might learn that not every stranger brings with them threat.”

Again, he scoffed. How naive she was.

He found, suddenly, that he had no more desire to remain and, with pursed lips, made to bid her goodnight, but she stayed his arm as she had done upon their first meeting, refusing to allow him leave to go until she’d had her say.

“Sebastian had a strong sense of duty, as did my father. Their work was everything to them. Whatever my brother hoped to discover, it wouldn’t have been for personal glory or riches, but to further his knowledge and build bridges between men.”

“As you say.” Jorge pulled away. “Being his sister, you must appreciate his motives better than I.”

She knew nothing; had seen nothing. And this brother of hers had learnt the hard way. There would always be greed and cruelty, and men willing to use their strength to seize whatever could be easily taken. Who could blame the islanders for defending against such a thing? And who could say what real intention her brother had harboured?

Jorge’s own conscience was hardly without stain, but his misdeeds had never been selfishly undertaken. He gave a curt nod and stepped aside. “I must attend the helm, and I advise you to return below. We’ll reach the island some time on the morrow, and you’ll need all your strength.”

With that, he left her.

Chapter Seven

Not far off the coast of Vanuaka

They were no longer moving.

Blearily, she sat up and had only just begun fumbling for her clothes when there was a knock upon the door.

Tom stood on the other side, giving her his usual morning wake up call. Except that he was offering more than a bowl of porridge.

“I’ve hemmed these’uns up for ye, and there be a belt besides.” He held up a pair of dun-coloured breeches.

“You want me to wear these?” Although they looked reasonably clean, Bathsheba could hardly hide her horror.

“Cap’n’s orders. There be snakes and spiders where you be goin’.” He gave a grin. “Some poisonous.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Bathsheba surpassed a shudder.

“Here be long socks for ye to wear with yer boots, and ye’d be best off tuckin’ the breeches down.” Tom passed everything into her arms. “No dallying, now. Cap’n’s waiting.”

Wasting no time, she made ready, and was surprised to find the breeches quite comfortable. Despite their snug fit through the behind, they allowed her to move in a far freer fashion than her skirts. Meanwhile, she’d dispensed with all but the most essential undergarments, so her shirtwaist allowed her arms ample movement.

There was no doubt she’d cause a scandal in civilised society but, Bathsheba reminded herself, so would almost every decision she’d made since arriving in Moresby.

Fortunately, there was no one of consequence to see her.

In her recent boredom, she’d read the little Lady’s Guide cover to cover, and there had been a chapter on forms of dress for the various occasions in a lady’s routine. Naturally, those pages had nothing at all to say about what to wear for a trek into untamed jungle. However, there had been something pertinent—about it being important that a lady felt “at home” in her apparel.

Bathsheba had no idea why, but the breeches did make her feel more herself in a way she hadn’t before—as if the act of putting them on gave her permission to do what she would have previously thought impossible.

She quickly plaited her hair and pinned the braid in a low bun. Then, with a determined smile, slid the belt through its buckle. She was as ready as she would ever be…

* * *

Captain de Silva turned from the rail as she emerged onto the deck, his dark eyes appraising her, lingering most particularly over the lower half of her apparel.

He was standing with legs firmly planted, his own breeches hugging his muscled legs and the curls of his dark, heavy hair tied back. A large cutlass hung from his belt, making him look more intimidating than ever.

Naturally, the terrain they’d be covering was wild, obliging them to hack through, but she couldn’t help peering at the blade, half-expecting to see traces of blood.

The night before, she’d expected him to send her straight back to her cabin but he’d proven quite amiable—for a time. Somehow, nonetheless, she’d stirred his anger, and he’d parted from her in his usual gruff manner.

Now, he beckoned her to join them at the rail, looking towards the island, and what she saw made Bathsheba gasp.

Across the azure waters, there was no mistaking the pale plume of smoke curling skywards from the summit of Vanuaka.

“It be awake, Cap’n.” Tom was staring intently at the volcano. “Ye remember the Red West, back when you were a boy?”

His lips set in a grim line, the captain nodded.

Bathsheba had read about the Red West. The tremors from Krakatau had begun well before the eruption, growing in intensity, until the volcano had finally blown. The aftermath had been staggering—even viewed from thousands of miles away—painting the sky a deep red for months afterwards.

This volcano was infinitely smaller, but who knew the power of what lay beneath? And this was where Sebastian had come to!

“Some ’ud call it divine retribution. ’Twill be a savage end for them savages, an’ not long off, neither.” The quartermaster smacked his gums around the chewing baccy, clearly taking pleasure in the prospective extinction.

“None of that talk, Tom.” The captain spoke sharply.

“Is it safe?” Bathsheba tried to keep the tremble from her voice. “We can still land?”

“I say we can.” De Silva turned to his quartermaster. “Lower the rowing boat and we’ll get going. As soon as we’re away, up anchor and sail out of sight. We’ll meet you back here soon after dawn, three mornings from now.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Tom’s eyes flickered uneasily towards the island again, then to Bathsheba. “An’ may God be with ye both.”

* * *

As they pushed off from The Marguerite, Bathsheba’s stomach twisted violently. With the ship departing, there was no going back. No matter the danger, she was to be on the island for three days. It seemed both an eternity and no time at all—for the task before them was daunting. Densely covered with lush jungle and rising at its centre to the volcanic peak, how would they manage to search even a small portion?

Sebastian might be anywhere.

How likely was it that they’d find him?

Captain de Silva was rowing steadily, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the inked patterns covering his arms, and his face set in an expression of endurance and resignation. He’d tried to warn her, hadn’t he, of the hopeless task she’d set, and she’d refused to listen.

Gripping the wooden plank seat upon which she was perched, Bathsheba looked across the sparkling turquoise waters of the bay—towards the shore they were to land upon, and the sheer face of the towering rocks above.

How they were to gain entrance to the island’s interior she could not fathom, but the captain had assured her there was a way and they would manage together. She hoped only that it didn’t involve climbing those dreadful cliffs, for she had no head for heights. Even lowering herself down the rope ladder from the ship to the little boat had sent her heart racing.

And yet, despite her apprehension, she was aware of a small tug of tense anticipation. Even under these intimidating circumstances, a flutter of excitement accompanied her fear, beckoning her onward. She’d sought adventure, hadn’t she? And an adventure was being delivered. She could hardly complain that it was not the exact sort she would have wished for.

Though the sun was yet to reach its highest point, there was already a haze on the horizon, shades of blue blending where the ocean met the sky.

Drawing close to the beach, Captain de Silva gave one long pull on the oars, allowing them to glide the last few feet, and directed her to jump into the shallows. Single-handedly, he dragged the boat high onto the sands, pulling it above the high tide mark and partially concealing the vessel within a crux of rocks, then swung his waxed cloth pack onto his back, securing the straps beneath his arms. There was one for Bathsheba, too, though hers held the smaller portion of the water and provisions for the coming days. They could hardly rely entirely on whatever they could procure upon the island.

“This way.” He gestured to where the cliffs curved. It seemed they were to scramble over the rocks between which he’d hidden the boat.

Going first, he reached back. “Take my hand and watch your footing; it might be slippery.”

For a moment, she stared dumbly, reluctant to do so. They’d touched before—twice in fact; but, both times, she’d reached for him, and both times in frustration.

Here, now, he offered his hand in help and, if they were to accomplish anything, they would need to work together. She couldn’t afford to be peevish or prim.

“Thank you.” Setting her foot against the jagged edge, she extended her arm and allowed him to pull her upward. His grip was firm and warm, and he kept hold until she’d taken enough steps to stand upon the top.

From their new vantage point, the view seemed entirely different. Where they’d landed, the sands were pristine white, gently shelving into crystal waters. On the other side of the rocks, there was only a short section of shingle. Moreover, though the cliffs continued sheer, there was a dark indentation not far off. Several times, she’d travelled to the Dorset coast to take the sea air and the cliffs there were riddled with similar formations—caves which led deep into the rock, often meeting chasms from above. “That’s where we’re going?”

“There’s a passage, not too steep I think, which should take us upward.”

“Should? You mean you don’t know?” Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears but she couldn’t help it. If he were only guessing, they might find themselves trapped in some narrow ingress, unable to turn back or move forward. It would be utterly dark, and cold, and who knew what would be in there with them.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m as sure as I can be. If you prefer, we’ll remain on the beach until the ship comes back for us.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Your choice, Senhora Asquith.”

Her choice indeed.

“I suppose we’ll have to try.” How peevish she sounded, and they’d barely been here for ten minutes, but it wasn’t just the dark that bothered her. He’d said it shouldn’t be “too steep” but that still inferred climbing.

The thought of it, of the inevitable heights involved, even if she couldn’t see them…

Bathsheba clutched her stomach. What if she froze, too frightened to go any further? What if she fell?

Perhaps she should tell him of her fear, but part of her rebelled against that. She had her pride.

“Captain de Silva, you ought to know—” Whatever intention she’d had was rudely interrupted as he yanked under her knees. Swinging her downward, he took them both onto a ridge just beneath where they’d been standing.

“I say, what are you doing!” She struggled but he pulled her tight to his chest and placed his palm over his mouth.

“Quiet.” He jerked his chin towards the beach.

At first she saw nothing, for her racing heart made it impossible to focus on anything but his proximity. She tasted the brine on his skin and felt the warmth of his body.

Then, she saw the canoes, emerging into the bay from further down the coast. Each was manned by eight or more men paddling hard.

Had they been spotted?

It appeared not, for the men were headed away from the island, moving fast and not looking back.

He relaxed his hand enough for her to ask breathlessly, “Where are they going?”

“Towards the ship, maybe. She’s well away, but it won’t stop them paddling out to make their displeasure known. I told you. They don’t welcome visitors.”

“Then, we were lucky.” Her mouth was dry, thinking of what could have been.

He nodded, shifting the pack on his shoulders and stepping down onto the shingle. “Time for you to show me how well you climb.”

Chapter Eight

Extracting the lamp and tinder from his pack, Jorge held the lantern high, letting it illuminate the immediate walls of the cave’s interior. The entranceway was narrow but the passageway soon opened into a larger cavern, rising too far to be lit by the feeble flame.

There appeared no source of natural light from above, the upper reaches of the cave disappearing into blackness. Nor was there any noise to indicate the space opening outwards. Their own shuffling steps and the squeak of the lamp’s handle were the only sounds in the hushed space. The darkness ate not only light, but the small noises of their own movement. Only his own breathing seemed magnified, and that of Senhora Asquith.

She was shivering, he couldn’t help but notice—and not just from the cooler temperature within the rock, he was sure. Something here frightened her and, being honest with himself, he harboured a similar unease.

He could only hope that the map, concealed deep within the interior pocket of his breeches, was to be relied upon. “Stay close, and watch your footing. It may be slippery.”

She gave a brief nod, hugging her arms across her chest as she followed.

Within thirty steps, the floor beneath them rose and the ceiling dropped, so that he had to bend. The walls narrowed again, and he was obliged to move the cutlass to his other side, lest she brush against him.

As they continued, there were no obstacles to their progress. “Not bad so far, hmmm?” He held the lamp that she might see his face and he hers.

The clench of her jaw told him that she remained anxious. That, and the fact that she’d said not a word since they’d entered the subterranean space. Another twenty paces and the way closed in considerably. Soon, the passage would be no more than a crevice and his shoulders would be too wide to allow him through.

He cast his mind back to the sketches upon the paper. Had he missed something? An opening in the wall somewhere behind them? In the strangely suffocated lantern light, his eyes might have played tricks. Where was the fork?

In his distraction, the lantern clacked against a jutting edge and he grazed his knuckle, cursing.

His pause brought her bumping into him. Uttering a slight gasp, she fastened her hands upon his arm, then drew them back.

“What is it?” Her voice was hoarse.

“Just a little narrow, but we’ll manage. You’re alright, yes?” He slipped the bag from his shoulders, moving it to his chest.

She nodded in reply, her eyes wide, shining a deeper gold in the lantern’s glow.

If it widens…

He’d push through as far as he could. If they had to turn back, it wouldn’t be his fault. And what was this for anyway? It was a fool’s errand, wasn’t it. In his heart, he knew. They wouldn’t find her brother at the end of this passageway, nor anywhere else.

Why then did he have the compulsion to continue? He might easily tell her he’d been mistaken and there was no way forward.

He knew why.

It was the map.

Someone had drawn it for a reason. Now that they were here, he had to know.

The map and something else.

She needed this.

Needed to know that she’d tried to find her brother.

Even if he told her the truth, she’d still want to trace her brother’s footsteps, it seemed to him. To see what had brought him here.

How else would she be able to make sense of his death, or find a place of acceptance?

Squeezing around a slight bend in the rock, the ceiling rose suddenly, allowing him to stand properly, but just as suddenly there was a solid face of rock.

“Goddamn!” He kicked the wall in frustration.

A moment later, she was behind him, peering over his crooked arm. “A dead end?”

“Seems so.” He dropped his bag onto the floor and placed the lantern beside it, then stretched out his shoulders and neck. It was good not to be crouching anymore, at least.

With the light pooled at their feet, the space felt all the more enclosed.

“What now?” She was standing close, looking up, expecting him to have an answer when there wasn’t one.

Maybe they hadn’t even landed in the right place. There could be other bays and other caves.

“My mistake.” He let out a deep sigh. “There’s nothing here. Nowhere else to go.”

“But you thought there was…” She looked forlorn.

“Bad information.”

There was no point telling her anything else.

“And you’re quite sure?” To his surprise, she picked up the lamp, holding it level with her shoulder, studying each of the three walls before them. She placed her palm against the one in front, then rubbed her fingers together. “It’s wet, look.”

He hadn’t noticed before, but the floor was damp, and the small puddle at their feet trickled back the way they’d come. Taking the lantern, he held it to his furthest reach.

What he’d thought was a sheer wall levelled off, forming a ledge with a funnel rising almost vertically onward.

“Can you hear it? Dripping?” She touched his arm again.

He could. A steady splash hitting the ledge, falling from high above.

“If water can make it through—” she hesitated, allowing him to finish the thought.

“—perhaps we can too.”

Taking her bag, he tossed it onto the ledge, and made a step of his linked hands. “Steady yourself, then push up. There’s another foothold half-way and, from there, you’ll be able to lever yourself over.”

She stared at him, unmoving. “What if…what if I get stuck.” Her voice rose a pitch. “You won’t leave me?“

Dear God! He was no paragon but surely she didn’t think so badly of him!

Clearly, she needed reassurance.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to help you, remember? That’s why I’m here.” He offered his hands again, and a nod of encouragement. “Besides which, if I don’t bring you back, who’s going to pay me?”

She gave a small gasp of laughter at his joke. “Of course. How could I forget.” Swallowing, she placed her boot as he suggested, and her hand upon his shoulder.

It wasn’t a great distance, nor the steps difficult, but she huffed a great deal. She was almost there but her legs were shaking.

“Just place your elbows on the ledge, push and roll. Your momentum will carry you.”

Still, she didn’t move. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Can’t feel them?” He clasped just above her ankles, making her squeak. “I can assure you they’re still here.”

“That’s good to know, but it doesn’t help me.” She was clutching tight to the ledge, still not moving.

“There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“I know that and I’m not frightened.” She didn’t sound convinced. He could hear her panting. “It’s just that it’s rather high…”

Rather high? She was barely three feet off the ground, placing her derriere, snugly accommodated in the breeches, nicely level with his face.

“How about I help?” If he didn’t, it seemed they’d be stuck here for three days. “I’ll lift up this lower foot of yours until you can bring your knee over.”

“Alright. We can try.” She was puffing again. “But, please go slowly.” She adjusted her toes, making her rump wiggle.

“Of course, and I’m right here, remember. You fall; I catch you.” He’d catch her alright, or she’d be landing arse-first in his face.

“I’ll count you in, ready?” He got his hand beneath her boot. “One, two…”

On three, he gave an almighty push under her left heel and a balancing shove under her ample right cheek, sending her sailing upward and over the edge.

A short shriek carried down to him, then she was quiet. Lifting the lamp, he looked up to see her peering back over the edge, white faced and furious.

“Well done!” He grinned. “You’re a natural.”

Without wasting any more time, he threw his own sack upward and, stepping onto the first foothold, handed her the lamp. As she scooted back, he rested his forearms over the ledge and pushed himself up in one smooth motion.

Rising to his feet, he offered her his hand. “Lead the way, Senhora.”

* * *

Deeper they went into the rock, Bathsheba carrying the lamp and Captain de Silva behind, first whistling and then humming in an infinitely irritating fashion. Sea shanties she supposed, but at least he wasn’t singing them. She’d heard they were quite bawdy.

He hadn’t apologised for man-handling her person, nor for having sent her sprawling into the wet.

Not that she hadn’t needed help but, really!

Since then, the way hadn’t been too arduous, needing her to climb only one or two steps at a time. Mostly, the ground rose with a steady incline.

Certainly, they’d been right about the water. In several places, they paddled through shallow pools until there was a continual stream beneath their feet.

At last, the pathway forked.

“Left or right?” Holding the lantern high, Bathsheba turned to de Silva. He’d stopped the inane humming and his eyes were glittering darkly in the lamplight.

She took a retreating step. Here was the man who’d intimidated her before—no longer smiling, his expression intent.

Taking the lantern, he moved forward.

To the left, the rock rose up, worn smooth by the passage of water. A rushing, whispering sound came from above. She gazed up apprehensively. The rock was slick and without footholds. To even try climbing here would be insane. She’d most certainly slither back, and if she did, how far might she fall? What would she break? Her ankle? A wrist? Or her neck?

To her relief, de Silva seemed to agree, for he resolutely turned to the right, taking the lead now and walking at a faster pace. There were several places where she needed his hand but she managed well.

She gave silent thanks for her boots. Though her feet were damp, she hadn’t slipped. In fact, she was feeling more confident altogether. As long as one found something to grasp and a rougher piece of rock on which to wedge one’s toes, it wasn’t as difficult as she’d earlier thought.

Bathsheba felt rather proud of herself.

Moreover, de Silva surely had known what he was about, for the air was growing fresher.

They were approaching an opening; she was sure of it. De Silva was increasing his pace such that she was quite breathless keeping up. And then, rounding a corner, there it was.

Another cavern, such as they’d first entered from the shore and, at the far end, sunlight!

A sob rose up, with unexpected force, from her chest. She’d believed they would find their way out; she truly had. But what a relief it was!

De Silva had put down his pack and was walking back and forth, raising the lantern to every crevice and corner.

Of course! Sebastian might be here! If he were injured, he’d seek somewhere safe to shelter. Captain de Silva was being exceptionally thorough, searching every part of the cave.

Bathsheba felt ashamed of herself. He was taking his duty towards her most seriously, and for that she felt absurdly thankful. Naturally, she must help. Running her hand along the wall, moving towards the light, she called out.

“Sebastian!” Her voice echoed loudly through the space. “Sebastian, where are you?” The final words repeated and repeated. He would surely hear. He must hear!

She was about to shout again when a great hand closed over her mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?” De Silva hissed in her ear.

Shaking him off, she scowled back. “I’m helping, of course.”

“You want to bring every damn soul to this place?” He glowered then sighed, passing his palm over his brow, looking suddenly weary. “Besides which, you’ll wake the bats.”

Bats!

She let out a shriek and his hand came over her mouth again. “Goddamn it. You’re a menace.”

Rolling her eyes upward, she saw what she hadn’t before. High above them, the ceiling was fluttering and shivering. Inky waves shifted from one side to the other, accompanied by a high-pitched chittering, and a thousand tiny beads of vision, glossy in the darkness, reflected back the illumination of the lamp.

She suppressed another scream, motioning with her eyes towards the light.

“If you promise me there’ll be no more shrieking.” De Silva narrowed his eyes.

“Anything! But let’s go!” She placed her own hand over her mouth as he removed his, hardly trusting herself.

They’d only been inside the tunnels a few hours but the darkness felt infinite. She needed sunlight again. Yearned for it. Warmth and light and air.

Kneeling to retrieve the lamp, she wobbled.

Dash it all! She’d come this far; her legs mustn’t fail her now. She didn’t feel faint, but there was something strange. Her vision was quivering. Was she moving, or was it the cave?

She tried to stand but her feet seemed barely able to feel the ground. The strangeness was building, growing stronger, making her jaw jump and her whole body tremble. At her side, de Silva was on his knees, reaching for her, pulling her towards him, wrapping her in his arms on the quaking ground.

Bathsheba closed her eyes to the screeching, shadowy mass and the swoop of boundless wings.

Chapter Nine

“Are—are they gone?” As the shuddering around them subsided, the cave grew quiet but Bathsheba wasn’t ready yet to open her eyes.

“Yes. There’s nothing to fear.” He rubbed her arm. “Up you get.”

Bathsheba pressed her temples. Though the ground appeared still, the inside of her head was throbbing. “Everything was shaking.”

“Several of the islands are part of ranges that behave like this. It doesn’t mean anything’s about to happen, but…” De Silva’s voice trailed off. He was clearly unwilling to speculate. “We’ve some hours until dusk. We should get going, unless you’d like to make shelter here. The bats won’t return until just before dawn.”

Stay? Her chest constricted. “Not here. I couldn’t!”

“Fair enough.” Handing her the lamp, he picked up the two packs and cast a final glance around them.

How disappointed he looked. It occurred to Bathsheba that he must have been hoping for some sign of Sebastian.

A rush of gratitude rose from deep inside—that she wasn’t alone, that he was helping her; no matter that she was paying him to do so. A less worthy man might have taken her on a wild goose chase—on some safer part of the island.

For whatever reason, Captain de Silva was fulfilling his duty to the letter.

“Thank you, truly.” She gave a half-smile. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” For a moment, he looked as if he might say more but only motioned for her to walk ahead.

From beyond the cave, there was the rushing noise again, much louder than before. Outside, Bathsheba’s eyes were dazzled, so that she barely took in the vista before her. They were high indeed, level with the a huge expanse of sky, the lush foliage some way below—an uninterrupted domain of textured green.

The air was moist.

Humid, certainly, but more than that; there was a fine mist in the air.

Turning her head, she realized why. A wide ribbon of water gushed full and strong some way to her left.

So close. All this time. The spray must have been seeping back through the rock. Here was the source of the damp they’d encountered in the tunnels. The movement of the water was mesmerising, plunging unstoppable from the precipice, into the depths of the chasm.

How high up were they? Some impossible, terrible height. And what was she standing upon?

Realising that the ledge was no more than three steps deep, and she was almost at its edge, she swayed. Choking with fear, she wanted to step back, to press herself flat against the rock behind her, but her legs felt as if they would crumple. A strangled sound escaped her. She was going to tumble headlong, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

“Goddamit!” Hands grabbed her shoulders, yanking her back, slamming her not into rock but into de Silva’s embrace. “You have a death wish? Leaning over to marvel at the view?”

Closing her eyes, she fought to regain her balance. “I didn’t mean to.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight.

“It’s alright.” His arms were round her, the hairs on his dark-skinned forearm brushing her cheek. He clasped her so close she could hear his heart hammering.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” She was brought up short by his palm cupping her face, his thumb drifting to the edge of her lip. When she lifted her chin, he was gazing back at her with heavy eyelids.

His head dipped a fraction and his lips parted.

Inside her chest, something fluttered madly and she waited for his mouth upon hers, but he drew back suddenly, with a startled expression.

Abruptly, he returned his hand to her shoulder. “No harm done.”

Without letting go, he led her to where the ledge broadened considerably and descended downwards on a gentle incline. “Just keep walking.”

With soothing noises, he coaxed her on, only gradually loosening his hold. She was vaguely aware of placing one foot before the other, and the hard warmth of his chest, to which she was pressed.

When he stopped, letting go of her altogether, she saw they’d come quite far, hugging the edge of the cliffside—now almost level with the treetops—and that the light was fading.

“We’ll camp here.” He began taking out items from the pack. “This overhang will protect us against the weather coming in.”

“Weather?” The sky had been so bright earlier but the clouds had gathered, it was true—their undersides threateningly dark.

He motioned for her to sit on the oilskin sheet he’d spread out. “Mostly ship’s biscuit and goat’s cheese—some cold yam. Not very exciting; my aunts wouldn’t approve.”

She received the food gratefully, making herself take small bites so that it would last. “Your aunts?”

Of course he would have family. Everyone did. She just couldn’t imagine fussing aunts. He was so very much his own man, as the commander of his ship. The idea of him being pestered by nagging women amused her.

“They’re very good cooks.” He chewed thoughtfully. “No one makes poi like Aunt Malisa. She serves hers with breadfruit, sweet potatoes and pan-fried mahi-mahi, finished in coconut milk.”

“Poi? What’s that?” Whatever it was, it all sounded delicious. Her mouth was watering. They’d eaten a lot of fish on board The Marguerite, but always as a rather watery stew.

“It’s made from taro roots, mashed up and fermented—like your porridge, but tastier.” He looked at the last mouthful of yam wistfully.

At that moment, a long, low rumble came from above, making her start.

“What’s that? The volcano again?” Instinctively, she moved closer, seeking his protection.

“Not this time.” He gave a patient smile. “Just thunder. Look.”

The sky had changed greatly in the last few minutes. One cloud, directly overhead, was ominously black. As the accompanying flash lit the heavens, the deluge began—a heavy sheet descending so thick that the view was obscured entirely. She tucked in her feet but he’d chosen well, for the rock shielded them.

Still, thoughts of the volcano troubled her. What would happen when it erupted—to the islanders, and to Sebastian, if he were still alive?

“Captain de Silva, the people here—they can’t stay, surely?”

He regarded her before turning to stare at the barrage of rain. “I can’t answer for how they think; every island is different, in customs and dialect. But, for generations, they’ve lived under the shadow of this volcano.”

A sick feeling twisted her stomach. There would be families—and young children.

“They have boats, I suppose, that could take them somewhere else. Of the hundreds of islands, some must be uninhabited.”

He nodded. “The nearest is Maratu, almost a day’s canoeing distance. It’s where they take their dead, to bury them.”

“All that way?” She hugged her knees. How strange some of the customs were. It hardly seemed practical.

“Many believe that spirits linger, unwilling to part from loved ones and the vitality of life they represent. They take the bodies to Maratu, away from their community, that those spirits may grow neither jealous nor mischievous, causing harm. It’s a place of taboo—where only men may visit.”

“Not somewhere they’d wish to make a home…” It was the sort of thing Sebastian would find fascinating; perhaps one of the reasons he’d been drawn here.

“But you’re right.” De Silva shifted, making himself more comfortable. “There are other islands, further out. They have boats; they can take their families and their belongings.”

“Perhaps they’re preparing.” She wanted to think so—that the islanders would take action to save themselves.

De Silva said nothing, merely offering her the flask of water, and they sat for some time in silence, watching the rain. He lit the lantern again.

Not for the first time, Bathsheba was struck by the absurdity of her situation. What was she doing? And what did she know of the man who was here to protect and help her? Were they to remain like this for the coming two days, remaining almost strangers to one another?

She might begin, she supposed, by asking him about himself.

* * *

The map had been bogus—probably sold to the Senhora’s naïve brother for some stupid sum, and he’d been lured here after treasure that never existed.

It was just as he’d suspected.

This brother of hers wasn’t quite as noble as she believed. He’d hoped to find something of value and take it away. Something that, if it belonged to anyone, belonged here, on Vanuaka.

He was glad, almost, that the map had proven worthless.

His own curiosity had been piqued and he’d been disappointed, at first, to find nothing—until he realized the trap he was falling into.

He’d no intention of robbing fellow islanders. At the first opportunity, he’d destroy the paper folded in his pocket. It would be as if it never existed.

“Are you married?” Her question came so abruptly that Jorge spluttered on the flask he’d just brought to his lips.

He wiped the water from his chin. He’d a mind not to answer her, but she was leaning forward intently. He’d have to humour her or she’d give him no peace.

“No.” He adopted a surly tone. “You marry and then regret at leisure. People don’t realize what they’re getting into until it’s too late.”

To his surprise, she appeared to agree. “I know what you mean. Too much risk. My parents made each other thoroughly miserable.”

He grunted his assent.

She angled herself so that it was almost impossible for him to look anywhere but at her. Not that he was averse to doing so, but her proximity was unsettling. How much of the day had he spent helping her clamber over obstacles within the tunnels? One way or another, she kept ending up in his arms, and he was only flesh and blood.

He’d almost kissed her, back there, and only just stopped himself. He was still thinking about it, but this was supposed to be business—three days only. All he had to do was keep her alive and get her back to Moresby, then collect the money.

No matter his attraction, it would be a mistake, wouldn’t it, to act upon it?

She was still talking, telling him about her husband of all things—as if he’d be interested. If the swine was more than a figment of her imagination, he ought to be flogged, letting his wife set off on an expedition such as this alone.

“It was three years ago that he died.”

His ears pricked up suddenly.

She paused, and he lowered his eyes. There was only one answer to such a statement. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, but—” She cleared her throat. “It was really rather a relief.”

Dear God! Not that he cared about the dead husband, but did she have any thoughts she could keep to herself?

She carried on.

“Not that I wouldn’t ever consider it again, but I’d have to feel the other person really knew me—that they loved me for what I am rather than what they thought I might be.” She looked at him enquiringly, as if he might have an opinion on the subject. “It’s important, don’t you think, for a husband and wife to share their feelings? And for them to understand what the other needs to make them happy?”

He couldn’t help but snort at that. “It’s rather a tall order, isn’t it, since most people don’t know themselves what it takes to make them happy.”

She shrank back a little and he regretted his manner immediately. “I don’t mean to be rude. Everyone has their own way of thinking. But a man can only be himself. If that’s not good enough, then…”

He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t intended to dredge up what he’d rather forget, but he supposed he’d better explain himself.

“There was someone I had feelings for—and I thought she cared for me, but it was all a sham. I sailed in one day and she’d left with another man. I’ve accepted since then that you can’t ever know what someone else is thinking.”

She was staring at him, a crease between her brows. He could almost see the steam from a hundred questions whirling and the struggle of her deciding which to ask first.

“Did you tell her how you felt? That you loved her?”

Jorge rubbed at his chin. “Of course. At least, I’m pretty sure.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You planned your future together? You proposed marriage?”

“Well… perhaps not so formally.”

She twisted about, sitting up on her heels, leaning in so close he could almost count the freckles on her nose. “There we are then. How was she to know your intentions? Did you even ask her how she felt about you being away so much?”

“Now just a minute—” How had the conversation turned into an interrogation? “I’m not the one who bailed out. She up and left, not caring whether she broke my heart.”

“And is it?” She folded her arms.

“Is what?” Dear God, she was infuriating.

“Is it broken—your heart?” She clearly expected an answer, but he’d be damned if he’d give her one. Who did she think she was? She’d tricked him into talking about Eloisa when it was none of her business.

He gritted his teeth. “I got over it.”

She made a humph sound and leaned back again. “I can see the subject pains you, so I shan’t probe. But if you want to talk about it, you have my undivided attention—in case you were wanting the female perspective.”

Like hell he did. “I’ll manage without.”

“There’s no need to growl. I was just making conversation.”

No matter what she said, he could tell she was still thinking about it.

Barely three heartbeats passed before she picked at the scab again. “You’re clearly not an easy man to get along with, but I’d say she wasn’t the right person for you. If she had been, she’d have seen your worth.”

He pressed his lips tight together, not trusting himself to answer. Even offering some kind of sympathy she managed to insult him. He’d learnt his lesson, right enough, and he didn’t need Senhora Asquith to illuminate it any further. If he was ever to take a wife, it would be someone who asked nothing of him. Anything else would be doomed to failure.

“Now, I shan’t say another word about her. Friends I hope, and no harm done.” She beamed at him. “I’d tell you about my own life so far, but I fear it would make dull storytelling.”

Pulling over the smaller pack, she prodded for the softest spot before reclining onto her elbow, making herself comfortable. “Perhaps you’d like to know more about Sebastian though. His life truly has been interesting.”

Jorge didn’t hear all of what she said next—babbling on about some dig site on the western coast of New Guinea, shards of pottery, shells and animal bones, and bits of carved bone blade—from the discovery of which her darling Sebastian had surmised local tribespeople had been in residence for three thousand years.

Not that it wasn’t interesting. He supposed it was—and he couldn’t help a grudging respect for this brother of hers, if he was, or had been, all she said—but it was her expression while speaking of him that held Jorge’s attention: the way her eyes shone and she flushed with pride.

No one had ever looked like that while talking about him. Eloisa hadn’t much wanted to know what he got up to when he wasn’t with her, and that had suited him just fine, but it now occurred to him that she should have been curious.

What had Eloisa ever known about him?

Other than the fact that he could bring her to climax in three different ways in as many minutes, or keep her on the edge until she was begging him to send her over.

Senhora Asquith was still talking, though she looked to be getting sleepy. Through the rain, dusk had been and gone.

How relaxed she was. Filthy from perspiration and dust, as he was, but with the same self-possessed stillness about her he’d noticed on the deck of the ship—even here, lying upon the hard ground. When she wasn’t cross-examining him, she was quite soothing company—and a hell of a lot prettier than Old Tom, with that rosebud mouth and flaming hair, and those eyes that held every golden hue.

Not that he minded her chatter, nor all her questions. She, at least, was interested in hearing his answers. And there was something in her he couldn’t help but admire.

She wasn’t fearless; far from it. But she wasn’t afraid to face her fears either.

“I suppose, after telling you all this, you ought to know my name.” Stretching back her arm, she cast up her face.

Somehow, he was no longer resting with his back against the rock, but leaning towards her.

“And you ought to tell me yours.” She bit upon the fullness of her lower lip as she gazed upward. How soft her lips looked, parted as they were, inviting him to taste them.

Was that what was happening? She wanted him to kiss her?

Gently, he placed his hand upon the curve of her hip and she made no protest. If anything, she moved a little closer.

His other hand he wove into her hair, half-tumbled from its pins, curling wisps framing the soft oval of her face.

When his lips grazed hers, she sighed into his mouth. Tipping back her head, it was she who extended the tip of her tongue to meet his.

He drew back a moment, needing to be sure.

She wasn’t pulling away. Rather, she was looking at him through half-closed eyes, in the way a woman did when she was inviting a man to become more intimate.

Bringing his lips to hers again, he sampled more thoroughly, extending his tongue to stroke within her mouth, deepening the kiss. She made some small noise as he cupped her breast through the cotton of her blouse, and her hands came to his chest, but not to push him away.

Did she feel how fast his heart was beating?

It had been too long since he’d taken this pleasure—of kissing a woman, touching her.

Too long since he’d made a woman ready for lovemaking.

Was that what this English Senhora wanted?

He traced the length of her neck to the base of her throat, licking within the hollow. She tasted of salt and roses.

Bringing his leg over hers, he captured her between his thighs, reaching for the lush roundness of her behind.

Still she said nothing to stop him, making only those noises which combined surprise with encouragement. He wanted her to touch him. Taking her hand from his chest, he brought it to the front of his breeches—guiding her to the ridge of his arousal. She was tentative, stroking only with her fingertips through the cloth, but her touch made him breathe harder.

A sudden, flaring rush of desire threatened to overpower him.

What had begun with a kiss was hurtling towards another destination. He wanted all her softness for himself, suckling and tonguing until she arched and begged for him. He wanted to move inside her, burying his passion within her warmth.

“Take this off.” He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and she nodded, helping him push it from her shoulders.

As he brushed aside her locket and pulled the ribbon of her camisole, she whispered, “Your name? Tell me, before we…before…”

She stopped speaking as he took her breast deep into his mouth, suckling and caressing with his tongue, grazing with his teeth.

He gave her his name, making the word hum against the silken flesh, branding her with the speaking of it.

His name upon her body.

“Jorge,” she repeated.

On her lips, it was a breathless entreaty.

“You want this?” His voice was ragged.

If she said no, he didn’t know what he’d do.

“I want you.” Her chest rose and fell with each breath. “You, yes.”

It was all he needed to hear.

He unbuckled her belt and, lifting her hips, pushed down the breeches. A tug on the tie of her undergarment and those too were drawn away, uncovering the paleness of her lower belly, and a glimpse of auburn fur.

Roughly, he pulled off her boots and socks and cast away the breeches altogether.

She was already parting her legs to him, inviting him to see her, touch her.

Hungrily, he kissed upwards to her inner thigh—so soft and pale, then brought his mouth to her sex. He sought her out, pushing deep then drawing back to circle her tenderness, making her writhe.

All of this was his, now, in this moment. His kisses made it so, and she was helpless to have it any other way.

Her hands were in his hair and she was gasping, pulling back his head, then releasing, caught in her own torment of pleasure. All too soon, her cries grew and she shuddered, trembling beneath the long stroke of his tongue.

As he drew off his own breeches, her eyes stayed upon him and, when he lay down, she took his hardness in her hand; those delicate fingers—encompassing, caressing, making him groan.

It was she who guided him, rubbing him within the place he’d made wet for her, opening to him.

She shifted her hips, whimpering as the tip of him entered her but pulling his shirt upward to touch his bare back.

He moved deeper and her eyes widened.

Though he wanted to root himself in her, he held back. Good, hard sex was what he needed, but she was tight. If he thrust in the way he wanted to, he might hurt her.

So much he knew of her intimate flesh, but not yet her name.

“Tell me yours; your name.”

“Bath—sheba.” She drew breath sharply as he pushed forward, but he took her mouth again, needing her kiss as much as he needed the warmth of her sex.

He moved slowly, rocking his hips, murmuring, “Bathsheba. Bathsheba.”

As the wave of release tore through his body, he cried her name loudly, but another’s voice echoed through his mind.

He was diving through an ocean of dark water, dragging up what was lost.

When he resurfaced, she lay still in his arms, breathing softly. They lay curled in the darkness, the lantern light long extinguished, and he remembered.

Chapter Ten

Sometime in the night, it had ceased raining.

It wasn’t yet dawn, but she didn’t need light to know where she was, and whom she was with.

She could feel him, pressed to her back, with his hand resting in the cradle of her waist.

She knew what she’d done.

What they’d done.

Between her legs, she was still wet—her slickness and his. A little sore, too, but not enough that, if he woke and wanted her, she’d refuse him.

Far from it.

If she turned and coaxed him now, they might begin again.

Did she want him to?

Yes. Oh, yes.

She knew it was brazen, but she wanted to wrap her legs around him and take him inside her again. It had felt so good. She’d wanted not just his kiss but all of him—his hardness and his gentle caresses. She’d wanted him to belong to her, even if it was for just a short time.

And, though she’d conjured a great deal as she’d lain in her cabin bed, she’d never anticipated it being so…

Satisfying? Intense? Joyful?

All those things.

What had The Lady’s Guide said? Something about not having regrets and making sure you tasted life—rather than staying only where you felt safe.

Well, she’d certainly done that.

She might not be a true explorer, like her father and Sebastian, but she was discovering things about herself she never could have imagined; parts of herself that had been sleeping, waiting for the right man to awaken them.

She’d let her impulse guide her, her feelings rather than her thoughts, and what a revelation it had been. Their bodies had given one another pleasure, but there had been more to what they’d shared. The nakedness of the act, raw and animalistic as it was, had revealed a side of the captain she would never otherwise have glimpsed.

And she’d seen the same in his eyes, she was sure.

It was impossible to put it into words, but something had changed between them.

* * *

He woke to the tumble of her hair tickling his cheek.

How long had it been since he’d slept like that? He couldn’t recall.

“I’ve been watching you.” Smiling, she trailed her fingers down his shirt to the thatch of tight hair around his cock. “Do you always wake up like this?”

Tentatively, she touched his erection, and the muscles behind his balls clenched.

Clearly, she didn’t regret what had passed between them. Were it the case, she’d be dressed already and pretending none of it had happened. Instead, she was initiating another seduction, and looking like the cat that got the cream.

He wasn’t at full girth but, if she carried on fondling him like that, he would be.

Early morning sex. There was something he hadn’t indulged in a while—at least not with company.

Long, hot and slow.

It would be so easy.

Take those glorious breasts into his mouth again, flip her over, then push inside.

So why was he still lying there, not doing anything about it?

He knew damn well why.

Because however pleasurable it had been, it shouldn’t have happened.

She was a wealthy widow of gentle breeding—albeit one who appeared to have recently rediscovered her libido. He’d heard of it happening. People behaving strangely after a near-death experience—losing their inhibitions in the relief to still be alive.

He’d have expected her to come to her senses by now, having slept it off, but she was clearly still in the midst of whatever altered mental state it was.

And what if she were fertile?

Goddamit!

He hadn’t been expecting this. Hadn’t come prepared.

There was the other matter, too, of the man he’d pulled from the water. He’d spoken her name: Bathsheba.

There was no denying it now, however much he wanted to. It was her brother Jorge had saved.

Her brother who’d died.

Her brother he’d slipped back over the edge of the boat, sending the body to its watery grave.

To give her what she was asking for, however tempting, would be wrong. He’d enough sins on his shoulders without adding this to his ledger.

As to how she’d feel towards him once she knew the depth of his deceit…

Jerking her hand away, he sat up.

“I don’t think you should do that.”

Turning away, he found his breeches and pulled them on. Even as he did so, he was aware of her brother’s ring, pushed deep into the inner pocket, alongside the map.

“But—” She hadn’t moved, still sitting on the oilskin in nothing but her camisole, the pale roses of her nipples pushed against the flimsy fabric.

She knelt up, reaching for him, so that the camisole rode up, revealing her soft lower belly and the fur at the apex of her thighs.

Despite his good intentions, his cock leapt.

It took all his strength to turn away.

Gathering up her clothes, he passed them to her. “We can loop around to the bottom of the waterfall. There’s bound to be somewhere you can bathe. You’ll want that, I’m assuming, after—”

With flushing cheeks, she immediately covered herself with her hands. Nevertheless, he noticed a small smear of blood upon one thigh. She hadn’t been a virgin, he was certain; she’d known overly much for that. In which case, the blood was his fault. Despite his care, he’d been too rough, or simply too big for her.

“I understand. I’m—” Her eyes were downcast. “Not as clean as I should be.”

Jorge clenched his fists. If he could have punched himself in the jaw, he would have.

“You’re not dirty—no more than I am.” He sighed.

“Perhaps we’ll find some sign of Sebastian by the water…the tracks of his boots…or something…” Her voice trailed off.

With all the rain, even she must be aware they’d find nothing of that nature. “We’ll see.”

He began packing their belongings. Quietly, she nodded, drawing on her clothes. Jorge had never, in all his life, felt such a blackguard.

* * *

The rain being over, there was a resurgence of heat, moisture rising lazily from the soil—a tropical haze with no breeze to offer relief.

He led her downward, leaving the cliffs to enter the tree line and, immediately, they were hemmed in, the vegetation thick on all sides, and the canopy closing above, leaving visible only the smallest chinks of sky. Even the screeching birds seemed distant.

Crouching, Jorge surveyed the lower levels of undergrowth. He’d vouch that someone had been this way before them—though some months back. The tree ferns and bamboo took longer than that to recover, and there was still evidence of a slashing blade.

However, even following the same path, hacking through thorn vines with his cutlass, their progress was slow. It would likely take all the morning just to reach the base of the waterfall.

Around them, the jungle was humming—the high-pitched buzz of insects punctuated by the croak and rustle of creatures unseen.

They dragged onward and, behind him, Bathsheba walked as if in a trance. She’d looked radiant when she’d woken him; so happy. Now, she was pale, her eyes darting away whenever he passed her the drinking flask.

He was no expert in understanding a woman’s mind but he knew she’d withdrawn from him. She was ashamed maybe, of letting her impulses run away from her. Or angry with him. He’d rejected her; hurt her feelings.

Whatever she was feeling, she’d get over it.

It was for the best if they pretended last night never happened. Better for her and for him. When she came to her senses, she’d thank him for it.

At last, Jorge smelt the air change—more dank, with a tang of silt, overlaid with floral scents. They were close.

When the vista opened, it took him by surprise. Behind him, Bathsheba gasped and exclaimed.

They were some twenty feet above the chain of pools into which the waterfall fed. Here was a different jungle, the chasm sides thick with banyan trees and orchids, hibiscus and frangipani—red, purple and yellow, their fragrance sickly sweet.

And the sky was visible again—the sun blazing in a haze of blue.

“How beautiful it is.” Bathsheba stepped forward. Smiling for the first time in several hours, she pressed her face to speckled lilies pushing through the ferns, breathing deeply then coughing.

“Don’t do that.” Jorge spoke sharply.

“Don’t smell the flowers?” She rubbed at her nose. “It’s only pollen.”

“You don’t know what’s in there. You can’t see.”

The familiar crease appeared between her brows. “A snake you mean?”

“No, probably not a snake…” He sighed. “Just don’t lean so close. And don’t touch anything, either.”

She gave him a definite scowl. “So I’m not to touch anything for the next two days? That’s not terribly practical is it.”

Here it came. He’d seen Eloisa in this sort of mood. Sulky with him at first, refusing to speak, then her anger bubbling over when he made some innocuous remark.

“I appreciate that you have more experience in this terrain, Captain de Silva, but I’m not helpless. I can manage perfectly well.”

With a haughty lift of her chin, she adjusted the pack on her back, and sauntered forward. There was a path of sorts, rather muddy and no doubt used by animals, leading down through the foliage to the water below.

“Go carefully.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s been raining, so it’ll be slippery.”

She turned round, eyes blazing, clearly about to give him another earful of her nonsense but, before she could speak, the expression on his face stilled her.

His gaze was upon her shoulder. “Do as I say and don’t move.”

* * *

“Whatever do you mean. What’s wrong?” Her eyes fell to the cutlass he was slowly raising, directing it to the left side of her neck. Until now, he’d hardly seemed able to bring himself to look at her.

“Do you mean to slit my throat?” Her heart kicked inside her chest.

Had he lured her to the island simply to kill her and hide her body? What of the money? Didn’t he need to keep her alive to collect that?

And what of last night? Had it really meant so little to him? He’d made his feelings obvious—that he no longer desired her. She’d heard it was common among men—that once they’d bedded a woman they lost all interest. She’d been an adequate romp and nothing more—just like the trollops he probably bedded on a regular basis. She hadn’t even been intriguing enough for him to bother with a second go.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She could see a muscle twitching in his jaw. “There’s something on your shoulder, that probably climbed there from those flowers you were so intent on sniffing.”

“What sort of something.” She swivelled her eyes, trying to see—all the time aware of the blade so close to her neck.

“Something that I’m going to flick off with the tip of this cutlass. So, don’t move, or I might nick your skin.”

Panic shot through her. Was it a ruse? Was this what had happened to Sebastian? Murdered by a guide supposedly helping him?

She didn’t really know the captain. The intimacy they’d shared had been a sham. Perhaps that had been his ploy all along—to lull her into a false sense of trust.

Oughtn’t she to run?

If she made it to the pools, she could follow the water downstream. She could swim if necessary. It would lead back to the sea eventually, or likely to the islanders. Weren’t villages always located next to running water?

She’d ask them for protection. No matter what the captain said about them, they wouldn’t hurt a woman on her own. He might even have made everything up—about them being unwelcoming; might have said it to keep her away from anyone who’d intervene in his plans.

The cutlass touched her shoulder and she squeaked.

Moving her head a fraction, she saw that there was something there.

Something dark.

With legs.

Furry legs.

That were moving.

As the blade flashed, Bathsheba screamed.

Chapter Eleven

Seeing the creature on her shoulder fly headlong into the undergrowth, Bathsheba wrenched at her clothes. Dragging off her pack, she pulled open her shirt, baring her shoulder.

“Did it bite me? I need you to look, quickly.”

She hadn’t felt anything, but what if it had? How long would it take for her to turn purple? For her throat to close up until she couldn’t breathe, or for her heart to stop?

Lowering the cutlass, he was at once before her, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above her collarbone.

His expression was almost frightening in its intensity.

His tongue touched his lips.

“What is it?” She couldn’t disguise her panic. “Do you see something?”

At once, he stilled and took a step back, his face closing once more. “No. Nothing. You’re fine.”

Her breath left her body in a great, choking gasp of relief, but she felt tears brimming nonetheless. She pushed them back quickly, wiping at her cheeks and attempting a smile.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your help, Captain de Silva.” She pulled her shirt closed, her fingers trembling, making heavy work of the buttons.

He didn’t move at all—not to offer her water nor to help her put on the pack again.

The day before, when he’d yanked her back from the cliff edge, he’d hugged her tightly, as if she were precious to him. Now, he was behaving just as he had since early that morning—aloof and distant, as if he would rather be anywhere but here with her. It was true that he’d leapt to her aid, but it hadn’t changed his mood.

There was nothing for it but to hold her head high and carry on as if it didn’t bother her.

Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned and set off down the slope again. It wasn’t terribly steep but, as he’d warned her, it was slippery. She reached for the ferns, thinking to steady herself, then remembered what he’d said: don’t touch anything.

All very well for him to say, but if she didn’t grab hold of something she was going to end up slithering down on her backside. She supposed he’d find that hilarious—or perhaps not. Perhaps he didn’t care what she did anymore, and would just watch as she made a fool of herself again.

As carefully as she could, she took hold of a piece of trailing vine. It looked innocuous enough. No spiders for sure, nor ants, nor beetles, nor anything else with legs. It seemed to grow all along the sides of the chasm. She might use it like a rope.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was still watching her, his face inscrutable.

I can work things out for myself.

I’ll show him.

He was frowning slightly—no doubt, about to tell her what she was doing wrong.

Hand over hand, she managed four steps, keeping her boot heels dug in.

Once more, she darted him a look.

“Are you leaving me to show you the best route down?”

He folded his arms. “Just giving you space. The vine should hold, but if I end up slipping, I’ll take us both to the bottom. I don’t imagine you want me falling on you from several feet above.”

She scowled in answer.

He could go to hell.

She’d gotten almost half-way down when a parrot came squawking out of the undergrowth. With a shriek, she let go of the vine, bumping straight onto her bottom. The impact knocked the wind out of her and, before she had a chance to grab hold of anything else, she was sliding downward. Arms flailing, she reached the bottom with enough force that it sent her rolling through a large expanse of mud.

“Bathsheba!”

She twisted onto her side, spluttering—in time to see him drop to his own rear and purposefully slide down, though he landed neatly, managing to stand straight to his feet.

Throwing down his pack and cutlass, he waded out to her then crouched, lifting her gently into a sitting position.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that you told me so.” She tried rubbing her face on her sleeve but it was a futile exercise, since she was now filthy all over.

“I’m just checking you’re unhurt. You are, aren’t you?” Carefully, he eased the mud-soaked pack from her shoulders.

“Everything’s ruined.” She found that her lip was trembling.

“It’s only a bit of food. We’ll eat fruit instead. Plenty of it about.”

“But…the lantern.” She swallowed hard. “The glass—I heard it break.”

He really would be cross with her now, wouldn’t he? How would they manage without the lamp? There was almost no moon at all. It would be utterly dark, and they’d be able to see nothing. What if a spider came again, or a snake? She wouldn’t know until it was too late. Nor would he.

“I can make a small fire—something that won’t create too much smoke.” With a grin, he cupped her face with his own muddy hands. “You really do need that wash now, Senhora Menace.”

Bathsheba sniffed.

She hated him.

Didn’t she?

* * *

It felt wonderful to be clean again.

Not just from the mud but from perspiration. Never had she experienced heat like this. The humidity soaked one through.

She’d wrung out her breeches, shirt and socks, then placed them over a flat rock alongside a sunbathing lizard; they’d soon be dry.

But her camisole and drawers she’d put back on, once she’d rinsed them through. When de Silva returned, she didn’t want him to find her naked—to think she was flaunting herself.

He’d forfeited her favours when he’d repudiated her that morning. If his baser lusts changed his mind, deciding she was worth another poke after all, she’d be giving him a poke in the eye.

Fortunately, the pools were separated one from the next by rocks, the water tumbling in successive cascades, and the captain had taken himself to the uppermost.

Bathsheba squeezed out the moisture from her hair and combed it through with her fingers. She’d braid it again when it had dried off a little.

She’d landed with quite a bump and was sure her behind was bruised, but the cool water was taking out some of the sting—vigorous enough to make her skin tingle but not moving so fast that she was in danger of being swept away.

At least her necklace hadn’t broken. The thick rope of silver links had kept her locket safe.

Closing her eyes, Bathsheba listened to the sounds of the jungle.

A nearby tree was filled with brightly-hued parrots, like the one that had startled her. They were having a fine old time, mating by the sound of it, or finding their mates—whichever was noisiest. And there was some other creature nearby, she was sure—some sort of wild pig, perhaps—for she could hear grunting.

Bathsheba’s eyes flew open.

Not just grunting, but a loud moan.

The very sound that de Silva had made when he’d been making love to her.

No—not making love. She knew better than that.

He’d been rutting. It had meant no more than it did to the sheep and cows on her late husband’s estate.

Another moan carried to her, almost anguished.

Bathsheba bit her lip.

What if he was in pain? He’d slithered down the slope much faster than she. He might have injured himself and not told her.

Or, could he have slipped in the water and hit his head? That would be far more serious. He’d need her help.

She couldn’t just ignore him.

Pushing up onto the flat rock, the water steaming from the second skin of her underthings, she crept forward and peered over the large boulder that divided her pool from his.

He had his back to her, standing with legs apart, thigh-deep in the water, his head thrown back, and his long curls slicked wet.

“Dear Heavens!” He was certainly something to behold.

She hadn’t realized the extent of the markings on his skin, having only glimpsed them partially, on his forearms. Now, she saw that blue-black ink covered his upper body entirely—an intricate pattern of squares and arrows and lines.

Nor had she perceived quite how broad his shoulders were, and his back—tight with muscles which bunched and flexed. His buttocks too were taut and firm, flexing as he moved his arm.

She’d touched him everywhere, but she hadn’t seen—not fully.

She wanted to touch him now.

As for being hurt, he didn’t seem so, although he continued to make the groaning, grunting sound.

The rushing water pushed him off balance for a moment, obliging him to turn, and she suppressed a moan of her own.

Beneath the planes of his dark-skinned chest, patterned in the same way as his back, beneath the corrugation of his stomach, and the dark trail of hair that ended in a thicker crop, his hand gripped his member.

And it stood fully aroused from his body—heavy and full.

Transfixed, she watched him, stroking fast and hard—almost violently.

And then he saw her.

She gasped, suddenly unable to move; unable even to breathe. The jungle around her—the hum of insects and call of birds—faded away.

Dark eyes met golden, filled with need.

And he waded toward her.

* * *

No matter how angry she was, no matter how hurt, she knew she wanted him.

She’d moved closer, sitting upon the very edge of the rock. If she but slipped into the water, she would be giving her consent.

He’d push down the underthings separating her body from his, and wrap her around him. He’d hold her tight, with the water rushing past them, his hardness pressed firm to the place where their bodies would join.

Was it inevitable that she’d give herself to him again?

That she’d let him do with her what he wished, knowing it was for this moment only?

He reached her before she had a chance to decide.

Placing his hands upon her knees, he looked up at her, his face anguished. “Bathsheba, forgive me.”

When she failed to reply, he buried his face in her lap and murmured entreaties as her fingers twined in his hair.

“You don’t need to say these things.” But her heart leapt, nonetheless, that he was moved to say them. “You don’t owe me promises or explanations.”

When he raised his head, she saw that whatever he’d been fighting, he was as helpless as she.

“I don’t want to hurt you” His voice was raw.

“You can’t. You won’t.”

In answer, he lifted her down and held her close, pulling her into the protection of his chest.

When he dipped his face to hers, she took the melting warmth of his mouth, knowing that she wanted to remember every part of him but his lips most of all.

Did it matter what was to come, in all the months and years and decades ahead?

At least, she would have this—the knowledge of what it was to be physically worshipped by a man.

Not love—she knew, for love was not born from the whim of attraction, but something akin to it—a feeling that twisted her heart in a way she didn’t understand.

He kissed her long and hard, until her head swam with that feeling.

Why had she never known this before? That a man could make her feel this way from a kiss alone.

Desiring to see him, she opened her eyes.

But what she saw, standing behind Jorge, turned her heated blood to ice.

Two tribesmen were upon the bank, each carrying a bow. Dressed in nothing but cloth about their waists, their chests and arms were heavily scarified, and their faces daubed white.

Another three had waded out, blades of bone raised.

One held a cudgel.

As the club came down on the back of Jorge’s head, his attacker smiled.

And his teeth, filed sharp, were stained deepest red.

Chapter Twelve

“Wake up, Jorge!”

Bathsheba shook him again but he remained curled on his side, unresponsive.

She pressed her hands to his face and to his forehead.

He wasn’t fevered. Nor was there blood. He clearly had a thick skull in more ways than one.

Why couldn’t she rouse him?

Several hours had passed since he’d been knocked unconscious. At the waterfall, she’d thought they’d killed him, and planned the same for her too. Terrible imaginings had passed through her mind—that they might ravish her first, or hurt her in some other way, before disposing of her body and Jorge’s with it.

She’d struggled, wept and screamed; had tried swimming away, only to be pulled back by strong hands. The situation had been hopeless—but she hadn’t been hurt.

Not yet.

The tribesmen had rifled through their clothes and packs before tossing everything aside. For whatever reason, they hadn’t left Jorge behind but had brought him back to the village, as he was, naked, suspended from a pole carried upon two men’s shoulders, his ankles and wrists tied.

Bathsheba had been made to walk, and had given silent thanks that she was partially clothed, at least—especially as they’d been paraded around the village before being shut away.

So many people had clustered about them—the men looking upon her with enlivened eyes. Some of the women had touched her as she passed, hands reaching out to stroke her skin—a pale foil to theirs, so beautifully smooth and brown. It seemed only the men marked their bodies by cutting.

There had been a gibberish of talk she couldn’t understand, except that they seemed in awe of her appearance—the younger children most especially, peering at her from behind their mothers’ legs.

The chieftain—dressed more elaborately than those who’d captured her, wearing a headdress of shells and feathers—had wrapped her hair about his fist and then brought it to his nose and his lips, almost reverentially.

Dropping to her knees, she’d spoken Sebastian’s name, asking if they knew of him—but no-one had seemed to understand, nor care.

She and Jorge were curiosities, nothing more.

It was all a horrible dream, except that she was awake, and now consigned to a hut without windows and no means of escape. She’d made the mistake of opening the door a crack, only to be greeted by the leering smiles of two of her captors. Quickly, she’d closed it again, not wanting to give them any idea of becoming better acquainted with her.

She’d been considering untying Jorge’s bonds, but she’d realized it would be unwise. If they thought her troublesome, they might bind her, too—and then all chance of escape truly would be gone.

Since then, she’d been sitting in the dark, listening and waiting, preparing for what she would do if they came to seize her. Unlike Jorge, she wasn’t bound. She might still kick and punch.

She heard voices outside, in what appeared to be heated discussion; over what to do with her she supposed.

But no one opened the door. No one came.

She brought her knees to her chest and tried not to think of what they might intend for her, and for Jorge. Nor about the scuffling, scratching noises in the thatch of the hut. Without light, she couldn’t see, but she imagined. The jungle was full of insects; cockroaches as big as your palm, Sebastian had once told her.

She suppressed a shudder.

There were worse things than cockroaches.

Somehow, through exhaustion, she dozed a little, to be woken by a gentle touch upon her arm. Jolting awake, she prepared to defend herself.

But it was only an old woman, sent to bring her food—a mush of something pale served upon a leaf. Though her stomach twisted, from fear and hunger, Bathsheba didn’t think she could bring herself to eat it.

The door was open, allowing Bathsheba to see a little of what was beyond: firelight, and the gathered crowd.

“Help me, please.” Bathsheba took hold of the woman’s hand, beseeching her, but she only smiled. Her teeth were worn by age, but her eyes twinkled bright.

She stroked Bathsheba’s cheek and drew out a long rope of shells from her basket, looping them three times before passing them over Bathsheba’s head.

Her wizened fingers touched the locket, tugging upon it.

“No!” Bathsheba scrabbled back. She wouldn’t let anyone take Sebastian’s gift. But the old woman only made soothing noises and let it be.

Other things emerged from the basket: a headdress of coral and a thick skirt of woven grasses, braided at the top to form a belt around the hips. The old woman tugged at Bathsheba’s camisole and drawers.

“No! I won’t!”

How could she? Take off her underthings and put on these primitive things?

Except that they weren’t really crude. Even in the dim light, she could see they were beautifully made, with feathers and shells interwoven through the grasses.

The old woman laid them on the floor, nodding for Bathsheba to see to herself.

The last thing from the basket was a scrap of cloth, which the old woman proceeded to lay across Jorge’s waist. Turning him onto his back, she exclaimed, laying an appreciative hand on his stomach and turning her mischievous eyes to Bathsheba.

Yes, he’s handsome, and strong. A man any woman would admire, thought Bathsheba.

She clung to the hope that perhaps no harm would come to them. If they were going to be killed, why take all this trouble? There was still a chance that all would be well. A chance, even, that the villagers knew where Sebastian was—or that he, too, was here, perhaps in one of the other huts.

Bathsheba willed herself to remain calm, putting on the costume. Though the shells barely covered her bosom, with her hair drawn across the front of either shoulder, she was decent enough.

Nodding her approval, the old woman smiled again before hobbling to the door.

As soon as it was closed, Bathsheba returned to de Silva’s side.

“Jorge! Wake up.”

What if he didn’t?

What if she was left alone to face whatever came next?

There were voices outside again, and a steady beat of drums. A relentless command to all who heard them.

A summons.

Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon.

Within her chest, her own heart pounded, faster than the sensual rhythm of the drums—a throbbing awareness of the flesh and blood of her body. The captain had never spoken of it overtly but she knew from reading her father’s publications what de Silva had been too politic to tell her outright—and what she’d tried to avoid admitting to herself.

The Bughotu of the Solomon Islands believed that the gods demanded food sacrifices, but not just pigs or goats or birds. In some places, such as the highlands of New Guinea, they sacrificed humans too, for special occasions—usually war captives or slaves.

And what was she?

“Jorge, please!”

What else could she do?

Leaning down, she gently brushed her lips to his.

There was no response at all.

“Jorge, it’s time to wake up!” She punched his shoulder in frustration, then buried her face in her hands. It was hardly his fault was it? That he’d been knocked senseless and might never wake up.

If it was anyone’s fault, it was hers. He hadn’t wanted to come; had made it plain from the start. She’d been the one to insist, despite his warning that the search would be futile, despite his telling her that the expedition was too dangerous.

If they died here, she would be to blame.

Nevertheless, a kernel of anger burned inside her. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed him!

If not to help her escape then simply to comfort her—to hold her one last time before she faced whatever was to come.

She kissed him again—roughly this time, biting his lip hard enough that she tasted blood but, wherever he was, it didn’t bring him back.

“Damn you, de Silva!”

There was only one thing left to try.

Yanking up the loincloth, she took his member in her palm and began stroking, just as he’d been doing at the waterfall. As she moved her hand faster, she heard him mumble something. Her name? She was sure it had been her name.

"Jorge. I'm here." She paused, still gripping him, now hard in her hand. “It’s me, Bathsheba. Give me a sign that you can hear me. Please. Anything!”

He stirred again and she heard her name distinctly. He was dreaming of her, she was sure—calling out to her from that place of deepest slumber. There was yearning in his voice—tormented grasping for what was out of reach. She knew that hunger, for she felt it too, that elemental need.

Was it wrong for her to touch him while he remained like this?

Perhaps it was, but she knew he desired her. If nothing else, she knew that his body sought hers.

She began moving her hand again and, this time, he murmured not only her name, calling her 'my Bathsheba', but mumbled 'yes'.

"Oh, Jorge!" She was so close to rousing him. What else could she do?

Was he rigid enough that she might make love to him properly?

He couldn’t possibly sleep through that.

But, if their roles were reversed, how would she feel, having him take her in such a way? It would be an imposition—for him to touch her so intimately, to penetrate her without her conscious consent, to move inside her while she slept.

Even in extremis, it was not a decision to take lightly. But what choice did she have? She needed him to wake and, if this didn’t work, nothing would.

She clasped her hand tighter about his girth and, in response, a groan of profound need escaped him.

It was enough.

Lifting her skirts, she straddled him, guiding the moist head of his erection between her legs. Little by little, she took him, surprised at how easy it was—that her body accepted what she was doing.

“Feel this, Jorge. Feel it, and come back to me.” She moved her hips in a circle, pulled at the hair on his chest, then ran her hands down, to the flat of his stomach. She bucked, making him move inside her, then plunged again, riding him harder.

Even like this, he was capable of giving her pleasure but, though his moans continued, he lay unmoving. Would she need to bring him all the way to his release? With each motion of her body, she cursed and implored him.

“Jorge!” She brushed away a tear that spilled onto her nose. “If you love me, wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”

With each thrust, her inner muscles clenched. Something was building inside her like the drumbeats outside. With tears falling, she gasped and pushed her hips forward again.

It was she who was having her release.

And, as the searing pleasure hit her, the man beneath her shuddered and gasped.

* * *

Jorge was aware of a weight on his pelvis, and warmth, but he couldn’t see anything.

He had a blinding headache though, and his mouth was dry as dust.

Had he been drinking?

The weight lifted and a woman’s voice hissed in his ear. “Jorge, thank God! I thought you’d never—”

A hand came to his face. “Are you alright?”

How long had he been lying like this? He could hardly feel his body. Wetting his lips, he found his voice.

“Yes, but I can’t move.”

“You’re bound. I wanted to untie you but I was worried what might happen if I did.”

He took a deep breath, attempting again to move his limbs, feeling for the bonds around his wrists. They were tight, but she might work them free.

“I can pull apart some of the wall, maybe—enough for us to squeeze through, but I’m going to need my hands, Bathsheba. And my feet, too, if I’m to walk out of here.”

“Yes, of course.” He heard her scuffle round.

Finding his hands, she tugged at the knots.

“I’m so glad you’re awake. It’s been hours, and I was so worried.” She sniffed. “I thought…that is…I was starting to think…” She jerked at the ties and he felt something slip free. “Oh, that’s it.”

He winced, rubbing to get the blood back. “I’m going to get us out of here, Bathsheba.”

“I know you will.” She moved to his ankles. “We’ll manage, together.”

He flexed his feet as the final bonds came free. They were yet too numb to stand upon, but he could crawl, and he’d dig their way out if necessary.

However, he’d gotten no further than pushing onto his elbows when the door flew open. He squinted against the sudden illumination of the room, able to see only the silhouettes of those standing on the threshold.

He was out of time.

And, as they dragged him upright, he saw the costume they’d given Bathsheba to wear.

The coral headdress and ceremonial belt of a bride.

Chapter Thirteen

Bathsheba pushed the tribesmen away and lashed out with her feet as they lifted her between them.

Jorge was dragged behind, still barely able to stand, though he remained unbound, at least.

“Don’t hurt him!” Bathsheba’s heart raced wildly. Never had she felt so powerless.

Through the darkness, she heard the drum beat: louder, harder, more insistent.

Hundreds of eyes met her—the eyes of those who knew what was to happen, though she did not.

Carried through the crowd, this time, no one reached for her. They drew back as she passed. Where the chieftain sat, before a central fire, they lowered her to the ground, pushing upon her shoulders to indicate that she should kneel. Deposited unceremoniously beside her, Jorge was given rougher treatment—kicked behind the knees, then jerked up by his hair.

At the chieftain’s feet sat a host of women—wives or daughters, she couldn’t have said, but their looks were far from kindly.

Beside, stood a younger man whose eyes, ringed white, bored into her.

Thirty or more surrounded them, each adorned with bracelets of leaves round ankles and arms, and faces hidden by masks carved in grotesque exaggeration. But still she was aware of their eyes, glinting behind open slits in the wood.

At the signal of a single, resonant beat, they moved in unison. With stamping feet, they turned, reaching high then crouching low, hands twisting as they danced to the slow and measured drum.

One among them received a flaming branch and, running to the outer edge, lit something upon the ground—a substance that took the flame, running fast to encircle them.

To the drumbeat, their stamping grew more frenzied and they leapt through the fire, within the circle and without, whirling and spinning, ever faster.

Whatever was feeding the flames, its fragrance was sweet—a heady, potent scent that made Bathsheba’s head grow heavy and her vision blur. Flying sparks and shapes moved into her sight and out again.

The drumming pulsed through her bones and her heart, making her head thrum and her blood pound.

And then it stopped.

The night was still and there was no sound, but for that of the forest beyond—the ever-present hum and croak of nocturnal life.

“Jorge, I’m frightened.” Even to her own ear, her voice was small, but he must have heard her, for his whispered reply came.

“Do nothing to endanger yourself. Above all—”

Before he could finish, a foot upon his back sent him sprawling, but he was yanked to his knees again, and the man whose fist held Jorge’s hair gave harsh reprimand.

“Don’t!” Bathsheba cried, but the sight of the bone dagger at Jorge’s throat took her voice entirely.

Was this the end?

She gasped in horror, but the tribesman only looked down at her and smiled.

Those teeth—so pointed, and so red!

Cannibals!

Bathsheba whimpered as the blade pressed harder to Jorge’s neck, drawing blood that trickled dark. Inside, she screamed, but there was no sound—only the rushing of her heart, buffeting helplessly in its cage.

A man’s voice barked out and Bathsheba snapped up her head to see who’d spoken.

Would the chieftain intervene? Might she beg?

But it was the younger man who stepped forward. In five strides he took the knife in his grasp, his eyes filled with determination and, to Bathsheba’s terror, turned that gaze again upon her. The pressure of his leg pushed against her shoulder and his hand swept through her hair. Taking a large handful, he pulled tight and the sharpened edge of the blade flashed close to her face.

She squeezed shut her eyes, awaiting the piercing of her skin, the slicing sting that must come.

But there was only the tugging of the blade through her hair. Opening her eyes again, she saw the long skein he held, glinting red in the firelight glow.

And, upon his finger, a golden flame of another sort.

An oval gemstone she knew so well.

Topaz.

The ring could only be his. Only her brother’s. Only Sebastian’s. The ring he’d worn since his twenty-first birthday—an heirloom passed through their family for generations. The ring he would have been wearing when he disappeared.

He was dead, then—for he would never have relinquished his ring alive.

And this man had killed him?

She wanted to take the knife and plunge it into his heart herself, to avenge her brother’s murder. But, he was quickly away. With a shout of triumph, he threw the locks he’d shorn into the central fire. Boldly brandishing the blade, he pointed at her and shouted at the chieftain, who rose, drawing out his own knife, his face dark with displeasure.

“Jorge?” Bathsheba reached for his hand.

His face was ashen. “You must marry as they tell you. Promise me!”

Marry?

“I don’t understand.” The fragrant smoke was growing ever thicker, and her head drowsy.

Jorge squeezed her fingers. “There’s a chance for you. It’s your hair—red like the volcano’s heart.”

“Jorge! No!”

“The volcano must be appeased. The chieftain will drink my blood, offering it as libation, and promises your first child to the volcano’s depths.”

Bathsheba recoiled. How could such cruelty be?

“This we must hope for.” His eyes implored her. “His son would take us both immediately, casting us into the volcano himself.”

Bathsheba shook her head wildly, trying to make sense of what he told her. She must stand by while they killed him? Then lie with another man—possibly this night.

Lie with him until she was with child, and then have the babe taken from her—given as sacrifice?

It was too horrible.

Insane!

She wouldn’t let this happen.

How could Jorge tell her to accept such a thing? He was strong. He could fight them. They would fight together. Better to die quickly now than endure what he was proposing.

“They act only as they believe they must.” Jorge squeezed her hand harder. “Stay alive, then flee when you can. Remember, the ship returns one full day from now, at dawn.”

“No!” With a shout, she rose to her feet and, as she did, felt a shivering of the soil—a rising wave of surging power, a quaking that moved through the earth and into the bones of her body.

Her eyes flew to Jorge’s.

It was happening again.

As the tremors gathered force, there were cries of fear. Women shouted to their children, and husbands to their wives. Some ran, staggering blindly; others fell to the ground, prostrate.

The world was in commotion.

With smoke from the surrounding fire drifting thick and the pandemonium of panic, no one was watching them.

Bathsheba gave Jorge her hand and he nodded.

* * *

With hands clasped firm, they threw themselves through the ring of fire, rolling safe upon the other side.

“The beach; their canoes…” Jorge choked against the drifting smoke. “I can try to hold the oars. You can help.”

Bathsheba’s mind whirled. Perhaps they could, but the canoes were large—designed for more than two people to paddle. As soon as the tremors stopped, the islanders would be in pursuit. How long would it be before they caught up with them?

“No, the waterfall.” Bathsheba tugged Jorge towards the path. “We can hide more easily—in the jungle, then the caves.”

Another great rolling rumble shook the ground beneath them, as if thunder inhabited the very earth and Bathsheba fell, but Jorge raised her up again.

With their arms about one another, stumbling, staggering, they reached the jungle’s edge, pushing through. With little moonlight and the canopy dense above them, it was hard to see the path, but the tribesmen had brought her first up a steep incline, then down again to the village, which overlooked the bay. As long as she and Jorge mounted the crest of the hill, they should find the pools on the other side.

From behind came more shouting, a child’s wail, screams that drifted to them as they climbed, scrabbling upward.

At last, they reached the summit and Bathsheba sagged to the ground, lungs burning and legs aching. The soles of her feet were scratched and blistered, hands and knees too, but they had far yet to go, and still the ground shook beneath them, making every step near impossible.

Breathing hard, Jorge looked out, scanning the dark silhouette of hills against the star-clustered sky. “You see it?”

Wiping sweat from her eyes, she followed where he pointed.

Beyond the treetops, far to the other side of the island, where the volcano’s peak had been shrouded in smoke, it now lit the eastern sky with an eerie glow of burning orange, golden and pink and blazing red.

“The earth is ripping open to spill its heat.” Jorge looked down at her, his face stricken. “We need to get off the hillside, and quickly.”

“But how? Where? I can’t…”

How many hours would it take to retrace their path? Too many, and she didn’t know how much further she could run.

Jorge was pulling her to her feet. “There’s another way back. If I’m right, the ledge passes behind the waterfall and across. We can reach that side from here.”

“Behind?”

Was he mad? It was true the ledge had continued in that direction, but who walked behind moving water? The force of it would take them over, surely. How could they attempt such a thing? And she’d been scared enough before, in that high place. To think of returning with the rock quaking to its core!

“I can’t.” Again she shook her head.

“You can.” Jorge gripped her shoulders. “Even if I have to carry you. You must!”

With that, he took her hand and they were pushing through the jungle again, this time making for the cliffs that enclosed the valley, Bathsheba following where he led, placing her trust in him.

As the foliage thinned out, she saw that he was right. They were high above the pools again, this time on the other side, and the shelf ran as it did from the first cave, hugging the curve of the sheer crag. Hundreds of feet below was the water in which they’d bathed. Her eyes slid down, and her stomach twisted.

Another tremor came suddenly, throwing her against Jorge’s chest. Closing her eyes, she clung to him.

“I can’t,” she whimpered. “I can’t.”

“I know you can, with me helping you. Like this.” Turning her, he took both her hands and placed them flat, tucking her fingers around protrusions in the rock, with his own, warm, over hers.

“There is no chasm, only the solid rock. I’m right behind you, Bathsheba. When my hands move, so do yours.”

Only the rock, Bathsheba told herself. There’s nothing else—only the rock.

Slowly, she shuffled with him, letting him guide her hands to new positions and, with each new tremor, he pressed his body against hers, holding her flat against the cliff face, their fingers crooked to hold fast, though the sharp edges bit.

As they drew closer, the spray came thick, drenching them in a cool mist and Bathsheba faced about, looking back the way they’d come. Not far, really, but how far it had felt.

The sky was growing lighter.

From the dawning sun, or the volcano’s fury she couldn’t tell, but light enough that she saw them: three figures emerging from the jungle. Three tribesmen, their faces daubed white and their eyes wild, each armed with a bow.

“Jorge!”

At her shout, he turned.

And the first arrow let fly.

As Jorge pressed them both flat to the rock, she felt its feathers, so close that the air grazed her cheek. She saw the other tribesmen raise their bows, but an almighty roar filled the air and the rock seemed to shift. The cliff was breaking in two, a great split sending the ledge tumbling.

“There’s no time!” Jorge wrapped her in his arms and lifted her in one sweep, running headlong through the spray.

Chapter Fourteen

Jorge needed to believe there would be a second cavern—a place large enough for shelter behind the waterfall.

Not only the ledge behind them had gone but that on the far side of the falls. The world was falling around them, and he needed Sebastian’s map to be true. There had to be a second cave.

At first, he wondered if they were both dead, and this place of demi-light the hereafter—subdued and cool and silent. But Bathsheba was still in his arms, shivering with fear, and his own heart pounded.

He took them as deep into the rock as he was able before, exhausted, he lay her down, and lay down beside her. If these were their last moments, he wanted her close.

“Jorge.” She pressed her cheek to his chest.

“I’m here. We’re safe.” He needed to say it, whether it was true or not.

How long they lay in each others’ arms he could not say but, at last, he realized that the trembling around them had ceased. The only sound was the rushing of the waterfall beyond and the ever-present drip and run of rivulets of moisture.

“It’s stopped.” She raised herself onto her elbow, alert, listening, peering through the gloom.

Sitting up, he tried to adjust his eyes. The chamber was almost the same size as the other but there was something quite different about it.

Bathsheba stood, walking tentatively to the nearest wall, running her fingertips over the surface, moving them in all directions. “Jorge, come and see. It’s…smooth, but there are markings too—as if something’s engraved.”

She was right. Something about the walls was strange.

He was almost beside her when he let out a yelp, his toe finding the edge of something sharp upon the floor.

Cursing, he bent to rub his foot and felt forward. Whatever it was, he’d no wish to encounter it again.

His fingers alighted on metal and glass—a solid cylinder with a handle upon the top. A lantern?

“Are you alright?” Bathsheba’s voice echoed.

He felt for a door. Oil or candle?

He could only hope…

“More than alright.” His fingers closed around the candle stump and the box of matches inside. The question was whether they remained dry enough to light.

It took four strikes before the flame flared and he ignited the wick, but the effects were immediate.

“Good Heavens!” Bathsheba took a step back from the wall, then whirled about. “Jorge, have you ever seen anything like it?”

Taking the lantern from him, she proceeded to every surface, running her hand over the carvings within the walls. From ground to ceiling, the cave had been transformed, depicting not just the island in all its lush beauty and the native inhabitants, but the volcano itself, carved in intricate detail upon the centre of each wall.

“Such workmanship!” Bathsheba marvelled. “I wonder how long it’s been here. Centuries perhaps… A hidden treasure.”

Jorge came to stand behind her, placing his hands upon her shoulders, letting his eyes roam alongside hers.

Treasure.

Of course.

“Do you think…could it be…that this was what Sebastian came to find?” Bathsheba held up the light, looking into Jorge’s face. “That the lamp was his? That he saw all this, just as we’re seeing it now?”

“I think it’s very likely.” Jorge swallowed hard.

“I wish you could have met him.” Bathsheba clutched at the locket around her neck. “I know he’s no longer alive.” She paused, as if waiting for him to attempt a contradiction.

“It was the ring you see; the topaz ring.” She bit her lip. “The chieftain’s son was wearing it, and where else could he have come by it but from Sebastian.” Her face crumpled as the emotions came rushing. “Perhaps I knew all along, but I had to come. I had to.”

Wrapping her to him, Jorge rested his cheek upon the crown of her head.

He’d seen it—the ring. Their captors had rifled through his clothes, of course, but Bathsheba didn’t know he’d had the ring all along. Nor did she know of the map.

He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he, with one lie after another.

Why had he brought her here?

For the money—yes. But something else, too. That day in the Fairfax, when she’d shown what her brother meant to her, he’d wanted some proximity to that love. Not that he’d realized it at the time.

And what now?

He’d so long denied what he’d been longing for that he’d not recognized it when the chance of happiness was right before him. Of course, he had no expectations. How could he, when her world was so different to his.

He was proud of his heritage, and the duty he shouldered towards those he cared for, but there were things he was ashamed of, too. Things he’d been obliged to do. Things he wanted to leave behind him.

Could a woman like Bathsheba Asquith ever accept that part of his life?

And what of the lies he’d told her? Could she ever forgive him?

He might yet conceal the truth, and she would never know—but, if there was the possibility of a future for them, how could he live with himself. One thing he knew; love could never flourish on deceit.

Wiping tears from her cheeks, she held out the locket from around her neck and opened the catch, lifting it for him to see. Inside was the portrait of a young man with fair hair. There was the same look about the eyes, though his were blue.

Jorge knew that face. He’d seen it, hadn’t he—burnt and blistered from the sun, and the spark of life dimming in those eyes. He’d heard the man’s dying words—his sister’s name the last on his lips.

“Bathsheba.” Jorge’s throat was thick, an ache inside him so strong he didn’t know what to do, nor what to say.

He had to tell her.

Slowly, falteringly, he related the story—only omitting the details that would cause her unnecessary distress. Of the rest, he left out nothing: the map, the ring, his own concealment. With each admission, he saw her disbelief and shock grow.

At last, there was no more to tell and her eyes looked upon him accusingly, her face a mask of white. “You let me believe there was a chance…you brought me here…and all the time, you knew.”

She stepped back. “It was all for money then. Everything. You never felt…” Her lips pressed to a thin line. “Stupid of me.”

“No, you’re wrong.” He closed the distance between them, reaching out to her. “I made mistakes, it’s true, but the feeling between us is real.”

“Real?” She pushed away his hand and spat the word, and it was a dagger to his heart. “Nothing here is real.”

“Bathsheba.” His chest pulled so tight he could hardly breathe. He needed her to believe.

He reached for her again, but she leapt forward, beating upon his chest. “I hate you. Hate you. Hate you.” Her face contorted, her eyes blinded by tears. “I wish I’d never met you. Never seen or heard of you. Everything has been a lie!”

“Bathsheba, no…” He attempted first to catch her fists but then let her be. He deserved her anger. If hitting him alleviated her pain, he owed her that.

* * *

Finally, she lost her strength, collapsing against him again, sobbing her hurt and torment. She didn’t know what to do with the misery twisting inside her.

If Jorge had told her, that first day, that he believed Sebastian dead, would it have made any difference? Wouldn’t she still have demanded that he bring her here, to see with her own eyes what had drawn her brother to this place? Perhaps de Silva knew it too.

She wanted to hate him, and she did—but part of her admired him, too. However dubious his motives, he’d kept his word since they’d arrived on the island. He’d proven himself brave. He’d tried to keep her safe. In her heart, she knew he was honourable.

And, now, here they were—trapped in this cavern while the island tore itself apart, not knowing how long it would be until the volcano destroyed everything.

If they were to die, did she want to meet her end like this—telling him that she couldn’t forgive him, fighting him rather than letting him hold her close?

They’d only known each other a short time, but it was long enough for her to see that he was unlike any man she’d met before.

She was finally coming to know herself as well— after all those years of trying to be what other people expected. Without him, that would never have happened.

In the past few days, she’d climbed through subterranean tunnels and swum in crystal pools, faced her fear of heights, and survived a close encounter with a deadly spider—not to mention capture by cannibals. She’d confronted danger at every turn but, in spite of everything, she’d never felt more alive.

The Lady’s Guide had been right—the only way to happiness was through defying your fears.

And what was she afraid of now?

Of dying here—yes.

But also of dying when her life had just begun in earnest—a life of adventure and freedom, and of grand passion with a man who thrilled her to the core.

There were so many things she wanted.

“Bathsheba.” Jorge spoke her name softly. “No matter what you think of me, I don’t regret meeting you—or bringing you here. Even if it means the end, here and now, I’m glad you’re with me.”

She placed her hand flat upon his chest, where his heart was beating, and her own told her that he was speaking the truth.

But was this the end? It would be too cruel if so. Didn’t brave lovers deserve a happy-ever-after? Perhaps hers was yet in reach, if she searched hard enough.

“I don’t want this to be the end.” Bathsheba took Jorge’s hand in hers. “Remember Sebastian’s map. Two caverns side by side, and the first marked with a cross. If that meant not treasure, then what? The easiest route through the tunnels to reach the ledge, most likely—from where this second cave was reachable.”

Jorge nodded, letting her speak.

“Perhaps it wasn’t the only path.” As the idea came to her, Bathsheba could barely contain her hope. “We stood at a fork with a steep incline worn smooth by the drip of water, and I was too scared to climb.” She led Jorge further, to where the cavern narrowed and the ceiling dipped.

“Mightn’t that lead directly to this place?” Holding the lantern to illuminate the shadows, she bent over.

Where would the water try and flow?

An opening near the ground, most likely.

Sure enough, there was such a hole, and of a size large enough for even Jorge to squeeze through. They would just have to hope that it didn’t narrow further down, or they’d be stuck forever within the rock—for as long as “forever” lasted.

“Are you sure about this?” Jorge peered into the blackness.

“That I don’t want this to be the end?” Bathsheba brought his hand to her cheek. “Quite sure.”

“Then lead the way Senhora Menace. The rock’s smooth enough that the water should help us slide.”

It was a leap into the unknown, but she was ready.

* * *

It had been too long since she’d eaten. Bathsheba’s body and head ached, and her legs were leaden, but there was a new lightness in her heart as they left the tunnels, emerging to the late afternoon sun, to a breeze, warm and soft, and the sea sapphire blue.

Scrabbling over the shingle, they retrieved the boat, Bathsheba helping Jorge push it down to the water’s edge. Only as the prow hit the water did the quaking begin again, sending ripples from the shore to meet the oncoming waves.

“Quickly.” Jorge directed her to jump in and took the oars. “We’ll keep rowing, as far as we can.”

As they left the bay, the summit of the island came into view, the volcano wearing a burning halo, belching plume of smoke. The lava was moving fast, engulfing everything in its path--a force of nature shaking the foundations of all that the island had been.

“We aren’t the only ones leaving.” He nodded aft, and Bathsheba saw a fleet of canoes moving steadily through the water.

The islanders had attempted only what they thought necessary to protect those they loved. It had almost cost Jorge’s life, and her own, but she couldn’t find it in her to be angry. Now, with the volcano erupting, they had no choice but to leave behind all they'd known, pushing into unchartered waters.

“I hope they find what they need.” Bathsheba watched Jorge pulling on the oars, his wrists bruised purple, and they sat in silence for a while.

What would the Asquiths say if they could see her now, sitting in only a grass skirt and shell necklace, opposite a man naked but for the loincloth at his waist?

Sweat glistened on his muscles as he rowed—a fine sheen across the patterns marking his skin.

He watched her, watching him. “I’ll get a new tattoo in your honour, on the back of my neck.”

She cocked her head to one side. “What will you choose? A spider?”

He gave a throaty laugh. “Only if you come to see; learn how we do it.”

“Come to your island, you mean—and meet your aunts?” She was teasing him, but the idea appealed to her more than she could say. She might write her own tome: The Lady’s Guide to Escaping Cannibals, or perhaps something less dramatic—A Guide to the South Sea Islands.

How many might they visit? There were years ahead. She'd have to return to Moresby first, of course, to arrange things with Hattie.

“Perhaps I will, but only if they don’t have pointed incisors. Those really were rather frightening.”

“Stained red from chewing betel nuts.” Jorge grinned, showing her his own teeth, pearly white against dark skin.

She laughed at that. “You aren’t the man I met in the Fairfax Hotel; different altogether.”

“I suppose I am. I met you, after all and...” For a moment, there was only the sound of the dipping paddles between them. “And I fell in love.”

“You love me?” Bathsheba found her cheeks growing hot. Was it really the first time she’d ever asked that question? Certainly, the first time she’d cared about the answer.

“I’ve been a fool about it, trying to convince myself it was a mistake. The life I’ve led…” He frowned. “I can’t ask you to be part of that.”

“You don’t have to.” She had a vision of blazing days of sunshine, and hot, sultry nights, stretching on and on—Jorge in her arms, telling her all the ways in which he wanted to love her. “We can invent a new life. Something else.”

She had enough money to do whatever she wished--to hire The Marguerite and its crew indefinitely--but this wouldn't be her adventure alone. Whatever came next, they'd be partners. There was time enough for her to tell him how wealthy she really was.

Bathsheba pushed back her hair and reclined in the bow of the little boat, stretching out her calf to nudge him with her toes.

He set the oars in their cups, and pulled her foot into his lap, kissing his way up her leg. “Distracting the helmsman, Senhora Menace? There’s a price to pay for that.”

From the look in his eye, she knew he had no regrets--that he was as ready as she to leap into the unknown. It was what they'd been doing ever since they'd met--and no fear was too great not to be overcome; not when love burned this strongly.

* * *

With dawn’s light, they spotted the sails of The Marguerite and, this time, Bathsheba took an oar for herself.

How else might she steer her path in the right direction?

About Emmanuelle de Maupassant

Emmanuelle lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and is a fan of hairy pudding terriers (connoisseurs of squeaky toys and bacon treats).

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Falcon

by Ashe Barker

Chapter 1

New Orleans

June 1720

No! Please, God, no…

Elisabeth paused, her hand poised upon the doorknob. She considered knocking, thought better of it. Instead, she waited, in silence, listening.

The sounds reached her again. A giggle, hastily suppressed. Gasps, moans, a shout of ecstasy. That shout was a sound she had heard infrequently, but she could not be mistaken. It was the near animalistic roar of pleasure her husband always emitted at the point of his climax.

Elisabeth gazed at the closed door, her lips pressed tight closed to choke back her sobs. Or her own shriek of bitter anger and resentment. Married less than a year, and her husband insisted upon tumbling one of their household staff, for it could be no other. And in her own house, the mansion she had grown up in, the home she had shared with her parents until their sudden and unexpected death in a carriage accident not eighteen months ago.

How had it come to this?

Which of the maids? Elisabeth wondered. Which of her servants had betrayed her with her own husband?

She was not blessed with much time to ponder that question. Elisabeth was stung into action by the sound of footsteps from within, coming towards where she stood, frozen to the spot. Elisabeth bolted back from the door to her husband’s bedchamber and ran along the upper hallway until she reached an alcove and slipped into it. Scant seconds later, the door opened, and Giles Chirac, her husband, emerged. He was still fastening his breeches.

Elisabeth watched in silence, then ducked right back into the shadows when she saw that he meant to walk in the direction of her hiding place. Mercifully, he was too immersed in his own thoughts, or perhaps too arrogant to care if he was observed or not. In any case, he passed where she hid with not a glance to either side and disappeared down the main staircase leading to the front vestibule.

Shocked, still shaking with anger, crushed, humiliated, hurt beyond bearing, Elisabeth remained where she was. She had known, well, suspected, her husband’s infidelity but preferred to disregard the evidence, the truth staring her in the face. She pretended not to notice the knowing expressions of those who poured out her tea or helped her into her clothes each morning. She chose not to take issue with her husband over his apparent lack of interest in sharing her bed. She would not need to go to the trouble of removing her second glove in order to count the number of times Giles had joined her in her bedchamber since the day they had been wed.

She harboured her suspicions in private, maintained the façade of dutiful, devoted wife. She sat opposite her husband at the dinner table, exchanged pleasantries and snippets of gossip or household information. Every morning she kept a respectful silence when he spread out his newspaper at the breakfast table and ignored her polite enquiries as to how he had slept or his plans for the day.

Giles had important duties, she knew that. He was the mayor of New Orleans, as had been her father until his death. It was a respected office, he had many weighty matters with which to concern himself, and it was her role to support him and ensure that his home was comfortable and well-managed. Her mother had performed the same duties with skill and aplomb, and Elisabeth longed for nothing more than to emulate her.

She had done her best. The mayoral mansion, her own inheritance from her parents, ran like a well-oiled machine. She, herself, had never denied her husband access to her bed, though she did not find his company there especially uplifting. It was his right, though. Men had needs, she was well aware of this and of her duties as a wife.

She deserved better than this. If not his fidelity, she was at least entitled to respect. Must he flaunt his philandering under her nose? Involve her servants? Make use of her house for his indiscriminate rutting?

Minutes passed. Elisabeth sought within the pockets of her gown and found her handkerchief. She dabbed at her tears, mopped up the wetness, drew in several fortifying breaths. Giles had gone too far this time. Or maybe something had changed within her. Either way, she would not let this matter pass unremarked. Not any longer. She would confront her husband, demand that he mend his ways. Their marriage was young, still, there was time to repair it, to find some manner of happiness together. She could, and would, forgive Giles’ indiscretions as long as he swore that he would not repeat them. It would be a difficult conversation, but in Elisabeth’s mind there could be but one outcome.

She was in the right. Giles must be persuaded to see that. Thus resolved, she stepped from the alcove.

The door to her husband’s room opened for a second time. Elisabeth stepped back to conceal herself once more. She leaned out, just enough to see who emerged, and was not surprised when the slender figure of her upstairs maid emerged. The girl scurried along the hallway, in the opposite direction, obviously making for the narrow servants’ staircase which would take her to the attic accommodation occupied by the household staff.

Paulette Vêrtine.

The girl was still straightening her apron as she made her way from her lover’s room, her thick, black hair askew under her cap.

Elisabeth had suspected as much but was sorry even so. She liked the girl, in a peculiar, half-envious way. Paulette was vivacious, cheerful, full of lively chatter when she assisted Elisabeth at her toilette. The girl had a deft touch with a hairbrush, too, and her fluency in both French and English made her an asset to the house when they entertained distinguished guests from other states. Olive-skinned, with a lush figure and a manner of holding herself which Elisabeth could only describe as sensual, she could well comprehend her husband’s choice. The girl was lovely, that much was certain.

She was also a slut. Worse, she had played the trollop under Elisabeth’s nose, with her husband. It had to stop.

Again, Elisabeth emerged from the alcove. She turned in the direction of the main stairs. Giles would no doubt be in his study, and the coming confrontation would not improve for being delayed. Thus resolved, she strode across the marble-tiled vestibule and rapped smartly on the door of the room in which her father used to work or receive his visitors.

The study had been taken over by Giles when he’d determined that the mansion, occupied by his predecessor and now the property of his betrothed, would serve as their marital home. The grand house at the top of la Rue Bourbon was well-known in the city and associated with the office of mayor. Giles’ own properties, whilst perfectly adequate, he insisted, did not benefit from the same historical links.

Elisabeth waited for a few moments, then knocked again. At last, the summons came from within. She opened the door and entered.

The study was largely unchanged since the day her father left for the last time. His huge oak desk still dominated the room. His solid bookshelves, laden with the volumes he had collected throughout his lifetime, still lined the walls. His imposing carver chair, upholstered in green velvet, still occupied the spot just beside the window overlooking the front lawn and driveway, though now it was occupied by Giles Chirac, his feet propped on the corner of the desk. He regarded her with disinterest and reached for a cigar.

“Monsieur Chirac,” Elisabeth began, her tone cold but polite, her form of address distinctly formal as befitted the occasion. She spoke in their native French. “I find there is a matter I must raise with you.”

He narrowed his eyes and used her father’s tinderbox to light the cigar. “Really? Then please make it quick, madame. I do not have all day.”

It occurred to Elisabeth that he looked for all the world as though he actually did, but she was not to be diverted. She opted to come straight to the point.

“I observed one of the servants leaving your private bedchamber a few minutes ago.”

He tapped the cigar on the edge of his ashtray. “And you disturbed me for that? I trust the wench performed her tasks with the bed linens adequately.”

“She was not there to attend to your dirty linens, sir, as you well know since you left the room a few minutes before she did.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“You did, sir, and…and you were still fastening your breeches.” She snorted, her disgust mounting. “Could you not have been even slightly more discreet?”

“You are rambling, my dear. I do not have time for this.” He swung his feet to the floor and seated himself more fully at the desk. His attention was now on the piles of papers scattered about. He pointedly ignored her.

Elisabeth was having none of it. She had embarked upon this course and was not about to stop now. She marched forward to plant her fists upon the polished oak and leaned down in order to look him in the eye. “This must stop, sir. It ends, here and now. Do I make myself clear?”

Giles leaned back in his chair. His sneer was cruel, almost vicious. He raked her with his gaze, his features twisted in distaste. “No, madame, let me make myself clear. I will do as I see fit in my own home. You should think yourself fortunate that I took pity on you and gave you the benefit of my name, allowed you to remain in this rambling ruin. I am not about to be dictated to by my bloody wife. Now, get out.”

“Your home? May I remind you whose house this is, sir.” Elisabeth’s temper was rising, testimony to her vivid red hair. “I will not be disrespected so.”

“You will be whatever I determine you will be, madame. Your property became mine on our wedding. This is my house and my bloody servants. I shall do as I please with what I own, and you would do well to remember your place.”

“You disgust me. To dally with the hired help, is it not beneath you?”

He let out a salacious chuckle. “That little half-breed whore is certainly beneath me and has been on more occasions than I can recall. She is a satisfying little piece, though, I grant you that, which is more than I could say for you with your virginal white skin and bony thighs. At least the wench has tits that a man can grab a handful of. Sleeping with you is akin to bedding a boy, and that, madame, is not my inclination.”

Elisabeth recoiled, horrified. Had he really said such hateful things?

“Giles! I—”

“Fuck off, Elisabeth. Go away and concern yourself with your needlework or watercolours or whatever mind-numbing trivia you choose to occupy your time with. I am sick of the sight of you.”

“I cannot believe you would speak to me this way. I—”

“Believe it,” he snarled, rising from the chair. He lunged around the desk and grabbed her arm.

Elisabeth struggled, but he tightened his grip and simply dragged her to the door, opened it, and flung her out into the vestibule.

“I said, fuck off.”

The door slammed in her face before she could utter another word.

Stunned, Elisabeth sank onto the closest hall chair. She could not believe what had just transpired, the manner in which her husband had spoken to her. And in her father’s own study! Why had she never seen this before, this cruel disdain, Giles’ absolute contempt for her, for her feelings? And what was that he had said about her property becoming his on marriage? She had known that, in law, this was often the case, but that was merely a theoretical detail. In practice, surely he did not consider her ancestral home to belong to anyone but her. It had been in her family for generations. The very notion was laughable.

“Madame, are you all right?”

Elisabeth glanced up. The household butler, Monsieur Levant, bent over her, his features etched with concern. He had served her family for more years than Elisabeth could recall.

She nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, thank you. I am quite fine. Merely a little overcome by the heat today, I fear. I wonder, would you fetch me a glass of water, please?”

“Of course, madame. Shall I serve it you here?”

Elisabeth got to her feet and smoothed any stray wrinkles from her gown. “No, thank you. I shall be in the drawing room.” Her knees still a little unsteady, she made her way as elegantly as she could across the vestibule to reach the room she considered her own domain.

Her sanctuary.

Calmer now, Elisabeth sipped her water and considered her next move. She had fully expected to be able to convince Giles of the need for discretion and had failed utterly. She must, therefore, consider other steps in order to ensure that her house, at the very least, remained a place where she was treated with the respect owed to her and to her family name. If Giles would not end this sordid affair, then Elisabeth would do it for him.

The girl must go.

She needed an excuse, some valid reason to dismiss the wench. Of course, bedding the master of the house would suffice, but Elisabeth’s pride was not yet so totally shredded that she was prepared to allow that information to become public. No one must know what had really happened; she could not, would not, bear the humiliation. However, Monsieur Levant, in his capacity as head of the household staff, would expect an explanation, so she must come up with something.

The solution was reasonably obvious. Elisabeth set her glass aside and returned upstairs, this time to her own bedchamber. She trotted back down bearing several items and encountered Monsieur Levant again in the hallway.

“Please find the upstairs maid, Paulette Vêrtine, and have her attend me in the drawing room.”

“Paulette, madame?” The butler bowed his head. “Is there a problem?”

“I am afraid there is. A very serious problem indeed.”

The girl did not appear unduly concerned when she followed the butler into the drawing room several minutes later. Elisabeth had chosen not to sit to conduct this unpleasant business. It was her experience that difficult conversations were better had on one’s feet, so she stood before her chaise longue and regarded Paulette Vêrtine with undisguised distaste. The wench might be innocent of the offence of which she was about to be accused, but that did not mean she was blameless. She had brought this upon herself. Elisabeth steeled her resolve as the girl bobbed a careless curtsey.

Elisabeth had no intention of beating about the bush. The sooner this was done, the better. “Do you recognise these items?” She gestured to the collection she had brought down from her bedchamber a few minutes before.

“Of course, my lady.” The girl perused the silver-plated hairbrush, hairpins, and the pair of silver earrings studded with pearls.

“And where do they belong?” Elisabeth continued.

The girl answered readily enough. “In your bedroom, my lady. On your dressing table.”

“Quite correct.” Elisabeth paused, squared her shoulders, and quashed any lingering misgivings. “In that case, Vêrtine, perhaps you can enlighten me as to how they came to be secreted under your mattress.”

The girl’s face was a mask of pure incredulity, and Monsieur Levant appeared just as surprised. He gaped open-mouthed at his mistress, then at the unfortunate maidservant.

“I…no! They cannot have been.” The maid shook her head, her expression becoming more desperate now as the implications of her employer’s accusation began to sink in.

Elisabeth experienced a pang of guilt but quickly quelled it. The girl deserved all she got. And in any case, she was a thief of sorts, taking what was not hers. “Are you suggesting that I am lying, girl?”

The wench shook her head. “Of course not. But it is impossible. They could not have been there.”

“Nevertheless, that is where I discovered them myself, not more than an hour ago. I take it you have no satisfactory explanation to offer.” Elisabeth hardened her tone. There was no point in weakening now, as she went in for the kill.

“My lady, I have no idea…”

“Lies. You are a thief as well as a liar. I will not have you in my house.”

“But—”

Elisabeth quashed any further argument. She was not especially proud of her actions this day but had been left with few options. The girl had to go, and this was the best way of achieving that. “Enough. You will pack your belongings and be off these premises within the hour.”

The girl’s expression was frantic now. She looked to Monsieur Levant, as though salvation might be found there, but the faithful retainer would surely believe Elisabeth’s version of events. Sure enough, his haughty, disapproving expression told its own story. Elisabeth remembered to instruct him regarding making up the girl’s wages, then sank onto her chaise longue.

She had done it.

“Go on, slut, get out. I never wish to set eyes upon you again.”

Chapter 2

“Madame Chirac…?”

The butler’s tone was nervous, hesitant. It was most unlike Monsieur Levant to be so reticent. Elisabeth glanced up from her embroidery to regard the man who waited in the doorway of her drawing room. He shifted from one foot to the other and had the appearance of one who would rather be anywhere else in the world at this precise moment.

“What on earth is the matter, Levant? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

The man’s features were pallid, ashen, and if she was not very much mistaken, his hands appeared to be shaking.

He cleared his throat. “Madame, you must come. A…a situation has arisen…”

“A situation? What sort of situation?” Elisabeth set aside her needlework and got to her feet. “What has happened?”

“Please, Madame Chirac, come with me.” He turned and hastened from the room.

Elisabeth followed, lifting her skirts in order to keep up with him when the butler took the main stairs two at a time. Not in the first flush of youth, Monsieur Levant was panting when he arrived at the upstairs hallway, but he did not break his stride or slow down. Elisabeth had no choice but to trot along in his wake. He paused at the door to her husband’s bedroom and waited for her to catch up.

“I…in there, my lady.” He gestured to the door, which, unusually, stood ajar.

Frowning, Elisabeth stepped past the butler and shoved the door open. She stood, horrified, taking in the scene before her.

One of the maids, Marie Claire, lay on the deep-pile carpet, her uniform ripped to expose her right shoulder and breast. Bruising stained the girl’s neck. Her skirts were hitched up around her waist, and the bloodstains on her thighs told their own story. The maid lay still, lifeless, her pale features contorted in fear. Her final moments had been harrowing and cruel, her death both violent and degrading. The other upstairs maid knelt beside the body, weeping quietly. Madame Fançeau, the cook, perched on the end of the bed, patting the sobbing girl on the shoulder and muttering prayers to herself.

Elisabeth gasped, covering her face with her hands as though she could somehow keep the awful reality at bay.

“Who…who has done this?” she croaked. Though she knew the answer. They all knew who had done this thing.

“My lady, the mayor…” Levant began.

“Where is he?” Elisabeth hissed.

“I believe he is in his study, my lady,” the butler replied. “He has not sent for his carriage today.”

“When…when did he…?” Elisabeth could not bring herself to give a name to the crime.

“At some time this morning, madame. I myself assisted Monsieur Chirac in dressing, and all was in order then. Thérèse discovered the…the…scene…when she came in to change the linens about half an hour ago. She came to find me immediately. I was in the kitchens, with Madame Fançeau. Of course, we came upstairs at once.”

“Have you…have you summoned the authorities?”

“Authorities, madame? The mayor is the authority here in New Orleans.”

“What do you mean? He cannot…he cannot just… What about Captain dePrieu? He heads the garrison here in the city.”

“Would you like me to send for him, my lady? It is just that I believe he and Monsieur Chirac are close personal friends.”

Elisabeth believed so, too. She shook her head, then paused, straightened her spine. “Send for him. I shall speak to him myself. He must be made to do his duty. And, if you could find a sheet, please, to cover her…” She turned and began to march back along the hallway.

“Madame, where are you going?” Levant had the temerity to raise his voice to call after her, such was the gravity of the situation.

Elisabeth did not break her stride. “My husband’s study,” she yelled back over her shoulder.

This time she did not knock and wait to be granted entry. Elisabeth threw open the study door and strode into her husband’s inner sanctum. Usually timid and self-effacing, concerned only to please or placate her husband, she was livid, and her rage knew no boundaries now. Her anger, blistering and white-hot, threatened to overwhelm her as she regarded the object of her fury.

Giles Chirac slumped at her father’s desk, an almost empty decanter of brandy to his left and an empty tumbler in his hand. By the glazed and befuddled look he bestowed upon her as she glared down at him, he appeared to have consumed most of the cognac, and it was not yet noon.

“You murdering bastard,” she spat, her voice laced with contempt and loathing. “That poor girl, she was little more than a child…”

“Woman enough,” he slurred. “More woman than you, at any rate.”

“You are loathsome, beneath contempt. You are not fit to sit in that chair or to call yourself mayor of this city. By the time I am finished, you will do neither. I mean to see you pay for what you have done.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” He lurched to his feet, unsteady, and brandished the decanter at her. “And how might you do that? Who is going to believe a melodramatic, hysterical woman or a snivelling wench? Whatever your opinion of me, I am mayor of this city, I am the law here. I will do as I like.”

“I have already sent for Captain dePrieu…”

“Yves will back me. He knows where his loyalties lie,” Giles sneered. “It is my word against hers, and who do you suppose will be believed?”

“What do you mean? Marie Claire will not be in a position to testify, and you well know it. You killed her.”

Now Giles did appear taken aback. “You are lying. I silenced her squalling, that is all. And in any case, you have only yourself to blame. You should have left well alone. That other one, the one with the decent tits and mane of dark hair, she and I got on just fine until you interfered.”

“You mean Paulette.” Elisabeth was beyond disgusted. He did not even recall the name of the girl who’d lost her employment over him.

Giles shrugged. “If you say so. But this one, the skinny one, she made a fuss.”

“Marie Claire. She was barely eighteen years old. You raped her, and you strangled her, then left her there, dead, on your bedroom floor.”

“She is not dead,” Giles insisted.

“Oh, but she is. Quite, quite dead. And I mean to see you hang for it, Giles Chirac. I dealt with your indiscretions last time. As you say, I made certain that Paulette Vêrtine left this house and gave you a chance to redeem yourself. But instead, you do this.”

“Redeem myself? I have no intention whatsoever of redeeming myself. And you, madame, when will you learn to hold your waspish tongue and keep your interfering nose out of my business?”

Elisabeth continued as though he had not spoken. “You will not get the chance to humiliate me or sully my family’s name again. I am done with you. If you have any sense you will leave my house now, before Captain dePrieu arrives, and do not come back. I have no desire to set eyes on you ever again.”

“I am going nowhere.”

“Oh, but you are, and before you start spouting your rubbish about my possessions becoming yours when we were married, be advised that I have consulted my father’s man of letters who assures me that the mansion is entailed under the terms of my grandfather’s will and cannot pass from my family. It remains mine until such time as it passes to my heirs. You, Giles, will have to find some other bolthole from which to evade the law because you are not welcome here. And I should hurry if I were you, I can hear the captain of the garrison arriving to arrest you. Now, get out.”

She had said what she had come to say. Her marriage was over, such as it had been. Elisabeth spun on her heel and strode for the door.

She had taken two paces when pain exploded in the back of her skull and her world went dark.

* * *

For several moments, Giles could only stare at the prone body of his wife. Blood poured from the wound on the back of her head to form a pool which spread slowly across the carpet. She lay still, lifeless, her limbs crumpled beneath her clothing. He peered from her to the near enough empty decanter which dangled in his grasp, the weapon with which he had struck her. He had forgotten it was even in his hand when he lashed out in his blind, drunken rage.

She had accused him of killing that simpering halfwit girl. Had he? Giles genuinely did not know for certain, though he fancied the truth had been there, in his wife’s contemptuous gaze. How dare she look at him that way? Judge him that way? She was nothing, none of them mattered. He was the mayor. He was the power and authority here. How dare any of them question him?

Still, there were always those that would, as he had learned to his cost in Atlanta when his previous wife had met her end in circumstances some had insisted upon describing as suspicious. Monique had fallen. That was Giles’ explanation for her tumble down the stairs, and in his capacity as a lieutenant in the militia, he did not consider himself answerable to anyone else on the matter. Even so, things had become awkward. Monique’s family would not shut up about it, and he had eventually decided to relocate to New Orleans where he was not known and would not be troubled by inconvenient questions and speculation. And now, here he was, at the very epitome of his career, the most powerful man in the city, and finding himself in the same situation all over again. It really was too much.

It was all her fault, and to cap it all, she had bloody died on him.

One wife lost in questionable circumstances was bad enough, two smacked of carelessness.

Giles dropped to one knee and grasped her shoulder to roll her onto her back. Elisabeth let out a soft moan.

Christ, she is alive!

Giles bent down, put his ear against her chest. Yes, a heartbeat, slow but steady enough. He contemplated grabbing a cushion and pressing it over her face. That would put a stop to the little bitch’s whining and complaining. He might have done so had the door not burst open and Captain dePrieu come hurtling into his study.

“Chirac, what is this I hear? How has—?” The captain of the New Orleans garrison came to a stop, his assessing gaze falling upon the prone woman and the man who knelt at her side. “You fool. What have you done?”

“Don’t you start.” Giles shoved himself to his feet and deposited the decanter back on his desk. “Have I not had enough from her?”

“That girl upstairs…?” dePrieu pointed at the ceiling.

“Is she dead?”

“Oh, yes. And we might have managed to make that little inconvenience go away, but your wife, now that is considerably more complicated.”

“My wife is not dead. Not yet.”

“No? Thank God for that.” DePrieu crouched beside Elisabeth and satisfied himself that she was, indeed, still breathing. “Quick. We need to get her out of here before she comes round and starts talking to anyone about what took place here today.”

“What do you mean?” Giles’ brandy-soaked brain struggled to take in the enormity of his predicament, or the potential solutions.

Mercifully, Captain dePrieu seemed to be made of sterner stuff and took charge. “The household staff are all upstairs. I shall send one of my men to inform them that you have been arrested and Madame Chirac has left the premises to stay with relatives. Which relatives might that be, Giles?”

He had to think for a few moments. “Her aunt. Yes, her Aunt Juliette in Atlanta. Her mother’s sister…”

“Excellent. Madame Chirac has summoned her carriage and departed for Atlanta. Meanwhile, if you can just assist me in rolling her up inside this rug…”

Between them they concealed his wife within the large Turkish rug, and Captain dePrieu heaved the bundle up and over his shoulder. “Do you have a cart of some sort?”

“I suppose we must. Out the back…”

The captain led the way, and the pair slipped out of the kitchen door and into the alley which ran past the rear of the property. Just as Giles had thought, a rough buggy was hitched to the gatepost. The nag between the shafts looked as though it might not live out the day. This was the vehicle used to bring supplies from the markets and docks but would suit their purpose today well enough. DePrieu slung Elisabeth, still wrapped in the carpet, unceremoniously into the back.

“Jump on,” he ordered.

Giles sprang up onto the seat, while dePrieu took the reins and flicked them to get the horse in motion.

“Where are we going?” Giles asked.

“A man I know, down by the docks. He’ll get rid of her for us.”

“Get rid of her?”

“Yes. And we can make a coin or two on the deal as well.”

“A coin or two?” Giles repeated. “You mean to sell her?”

“I do. A white female will fetch a decent price at auction. We haven’t the time to put her on the block ourselves and maximise the profits, and in any case, she could regain consciousness at any moment and start screeching for help, but we can sell her privately to a slaver and get a bit back on the deal. Once she’s on a ship and safely out of New Orleans, she’s no longer our problem. She won’t be anybody’s problem, in fact. The novelty of owning a white slave will soon wear off, then whoever eventually buys her will find she’s too feeble to be of much use on a sugar plantation. She won’t last long. More to the point, she won’t be returning to New Orleans.”

“But what about Levant? The other staff?”

The captain of the garrison cast an exasperated glance his way. “You will soon be released for lack of evidence, and once a little dust has been allowed to settle on this unpleasant business, you can quietly dismiss them. For fuck’s sake, man, you are the mayor, are you not? Surely you can manage to deal with a few bothersome servants.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed as the merits of their plan finally dropped into place in his muddled head. “Yes, of course I can. So, where is this slave dealer to be found, then?”

* * *

Rocking. Shifting. Her head hurt.

Elisabeth tried to prise her eyelids apart, but the effort was too great. She abandoned the attempt and drifted gratefully back into unconsciousness.

The next time she stirred it was to the sound of raised voices. Male voices, in guttural accents, yelling words she did not recognise. Elisabeth moaned, the throbbing in her head still agonising. This time she did manage to crack her eyelids apart but saw only darkness. The effort seemed not worth it, somehow, so she gave up again.

She surfaced into consciousness for a third time, and knew she was not alone in the darkness. Low voices, female this time, muttering, murmuring, the occasional sob or whimper. Elisabeth opened her eyes, tried to lift her head from the rough, heaving planks beneath her.

Why does the earth shift so?

She rolled onto her side, and nausea swirled within her stomach. She retched.

Gentle fingers smoothed her hair from her face, and she emptied the contents of her stomach into a bucket which someone thrust in her direction. Close by, a woman uttered words of comfort, but in a thick accent she could not quite decipher.

Where am I? What happened? Why does my head ache so?

She tried to sit up and would have failed in that endeavour but for the willing hands behind her shoulders, helping her. Once upright, Elisabeth bitterly regretted the effort expended. Her head felt as though it might burst, and had she had anything left inside her, she would have been sick again.

“You hit head, lady,” came the response to the question she was not even aware she had asked out loud. “No more bleeding, but sore, yes?”

Elisabeth blinked. Sore? Hell, yes! She lifted her hand to touch the spot which seemed to throb the most, on the back of her head. Her fingers came away sticky.

Blood. I am bleeding…

Shock and nausea warred inside her. Confused, she looked about her, tried to pick out what she might in the near pitch darkness. She could discern only shapes, human shapes, and now, as her senses returned, she could smell them, too. She was in the company of a great many others, she determined, and her companions were none too clean.

“Where am I?” she repeated. “What happened to me?”

“Ship, lady. Big ship,” came the reply.

“What ship? Where are we going? Who…who are you?”

“Not know what ship. Go to Virginny, p’raps. Maybe not.”

“Virginia? Did you say we are going to Virginia?” Utterly mystified, Elisabeth grabbed at the hand of her companion. “Why? Why would we go there?”

“We go where we are took, we work where we are told. The masters, they—”

Masters?

The reality of her situation was suddenly terrifyingly clear.

“I am a slave?” Her confusion deepened. Panic gripped her. It was not true, could not possibly be true. “No, I… I am…” Elisabeth halted, not sure what the next words might be. Her head pounded cruelly as she fought to remember.

The rocking of the vessel became more pronounced, and Elisabeth found herself tossed from one side to the other, along with several of her companions. Terrified screams filled the putrid air as women were hurled bodily about the hold crashing into each other and the hull. Elisabeth landed heavily on her right shoulder, then on her left hip. She succeeded in stopping herself from being hurled from side to side when she managed to grasp one of the cross planks nailed to the inside of the ship’s hull and hung on to that to gain a modicum of balance. Most of her companions eventually managed to do the same, though the pitiful moans and whimpers were evidence that several were injured.

“H-how long before we reach Virginia?” Elisabeth whispered into the darkness.

“Not know, lady,” a different voice replied. Her previous companion, the woman who had held her hair back while she’d spewed up her guts was nowhere to be seen in the near blackness. “Days. Weeks. P’raps months.”

“God help us,” she moaned. Elisabeth was desperately afraid.

She lost track of time as she clung to that plank and searched her unresponsive memory for some clue as to how she found herself in this predicament. This was wrong, all wrong, but she could not quite call to mind what ‘right’ would look like. The poor, desperate souls who shared the ships hold with her could offer no explanation, and in any case, she could barely understand what they said to her. She could pick out a curious mix of French, English, and more besides, languages she did not recognise.

Elisabeth was gazing into the forlorn darkness when a sudden shaft of light pierced her vision. She let go of the plank to shield her eyes from the dazzling beam and found herself hurtling across the hold again. She landed in a heap, flailed in vain for something to steady herself, and was flung back in the direction she had come. This time she landed close to a pair of booted feet. She would have continued to tumble from one side of the hold to the other had not rough hands seized her and dragged her to her feet.

“Ah, ’ere she is. Let’s be ’aving a look at ye, then.”

Instinctively, Elisabeth started to struggle. “Let me go. You have no right—”

“No right? I shall ’ave ye know I paid good money fer ye an’ I ’ave ev’ry right. Ev’ry right, aye.” He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head back so he could look at her face.

Elisabeth screamed, the pain in her abused, already injured scalp excruciating. Her reward was a savage slap across her face. She was stunned now, and barely conscious. His words seemed to come from far away.

“A bit on the skinny side, but I suppose ye’ll ’ave to do. Ye can keep me amused till I get bored o’ shaggin’ a bag o’ bones an’ decide to swap ye fer one o’ these wi’ a bit more meat on ’er.”

Elisabeth offered no further protest when she was bundled up the rough stairs and out onto the deck. Heat hit her, and she judged the time to be perhaps midday. She had no idea how long she might have been down there in the dark. With mounting panic, she realised she could not recall a time she had not been in darkness.

“Down there wi’ ye. Go on.”

A violent shove between her shoulder blades sent her flying to her knees. Elisabeth grunted in pain as she was hauled back upright and propelled across the deck towards another narrow doorway and a short flight of steps leading back down into the bowels of the ship.

“Why…? Where…?” She grabbed at the rope which served as a handrail of sorts.

A vicious blow to the back of her hand loosened her grip. Screaming, pleading for help, Elisabeth was dragged by her hair along the short, narrow corridor to the door at the end. Her assailant booted the door open and threw her bodily inside.

She landed on her knees again, her head throbbing, her ears ringing. She clutched her hand to her chest. Waves of pain threatened to engulf her, and she was convinced he had broken several bones.

“Get yer clothes off, bitch.”

What?

Numb, confused, near dizzy with pain, Elisabeth could not comprehend what he might mean. She remained where she was, her injured hand cradled against her.

The man responded by landing his boot in her ribs. Elisabeth collapsed onto the floor, groaning, sobbing, momentarily paralysed by sheer terror.

He meant to murder her. She had no doubt of it, none at all. In desperation, her breath coming in shallow wheezes now, she started to crawl away.

Rough hands seized her and hauled her back onto her feet. She would have slithered to the floor again, but he rammed her against one of the bulwarks, and with one brutal tug he tore the front of her gown from her. No longer able to fight, barely able to breathe and convinced she was about to die in any case, Elisabeth put up no further struggle when he continued to rip her clothes from her body.

Naked and barely conscious, she would have slid to the planks beneath her feet, but he lifted her bodily and flung her onto the narrow bunk.

“Spread yer thighs, bitch. I mean to have me a bit o’ rich white tail.”

“No, please…”

Another vicious blow to her jaw silenced her protests. She tasted blood, and one eye was almost fully closed, but still she watched in horrified fascination as he unfastened his filthy breeches and pulled out his engorged cock.

The man was not tall, she observed, now regarding him properly for the first time. But he was heavy set. His features were ruddy, his greasy hair fashioned into several plaits. His lips curled back in a lecherous sneer to reveal just two blackened teeth set in otherwise empty gums. His eyes were cruel, greedy, a muddy shade of grey.

A ridiculous and irrelevant thought flittered across Elisabeth’s dwindling consciousness. This ugly, hateful visage was the last face she would ever see in this life. When he grabbed her knees and forced them apart, she closed her eyes, resigned to the inevitable.

An ear-splitting boom echoed about the tiny cabin, and the vessel shuddered.

This is what it is like, then, to be raped…

On that final thought, Elisabeth sank into oblivion.

Chapter 3

“Perfect.” Will Falconer viewed the damage to the slaver’s vessel with approval. The forward mast lay drunkenly across the deck, her sail trailing over the side. “Fire again, and remember, aim for the masts, not the hold. We want to bring those poor devils out alive.”

Moments later, the guns beneath his feet roared again, and this time took out the two remaining masts. Their quarry was dead in the water.

“Prepare for boarding.” Will drew his own sword and leapt up onto the rail of his ship, the Falcon, in readiness to be the first to swing across and land on the deck of the stricken vessel. His crewmen took up positions on either side of him, and Will’s second-in-command, a huge freed slave known to all as simply Hercules, heaved on the wheel to bring them in close. The moment he judged the distance to be leapable, Will hurled himself across the space between the two vessels. He grabbed the rail of the other ship and hauled himself over, to be met by a rabble of crewmen all yelling and brandishing a motley collection of weapons.

Will’s sword felled the first couple to attempt to rush him, and within moments he was joined by others from the Falcon. Pirates to a man, they were all battle-hardened and resolute, not to mention well-fed, trained, and disciplined. The battle was short and decisive. Within minutes the slave vessel was under Will’s control, her crew herded together by the ruins of their main mast and made to kneel on the rocking deck.

“I doubt there’s much cargo to speak of, apart from the poor souls down below, but check the holds anyway,” he instructed. He cast a disgusted glance at the conquered sailors. “Boot that lot onto small boats and set them adrift. One pair of oars to each boat and enough food for four days. Should get them as far as the Louisiana coast if the tides and winds are on their side. Bring the slaves up on deck.”

The trap door leading down into the main hold had already been heaved open and a ladder lowered into the murky depths. Will sauntered over to watch the release of the slaves he knew to be incarcerated in the damp, stinking prison. One by one they stumbled out of the dark and onto the deck.

Women, all of them, and a handful of children. Several were pregnant, some in an advanced state. He extended his hand to assist an elderly woman who appeared too frail to finish her climb to freedom unaided. Once the hold was emptied, he did a rapid headcount. Thirty-seven, not including the children. It had been his intention to leave a crew of about half a dozen of his men to oversee running repairs and navigate the ship to his home port of Santa Laura on Santa Natalia. There the slaves would be put ashore and encouraged to make what they could of their freedom. It was not an ideal solution to the evils of slavery, but Will was just one man, and he did what he could.

His natural calling was piracy, and he was damn good at it, even if he did say so himself. Will Falconer had amassed wealth enough to last for several lifetimes. He and his men made a better than good living which was why the disreputable bunch of thieves and cutthroats remained loyal. Even when he required them to expend their energies on attacking vessels such as this one where the material rewards were thin to non existent, they did not complain overmuch. Several of his crew were, in fact, slaves he had freed, and their enthusiasm for this task far outweighed any lack of interest on the part of their colleagues.

He had not known that the cargo would consist only of women. Had there been males on board, they would have been useful in providing extra muscle to see the ship safe to Santa Natalia, under the guidance of experienced sailors. Women might be able to help, though he would need to leave more crewmen with them, probably, along with Hercules to supervise and guarantee the safety of the freed captives. He sighed. Such was life.

Will had grown up in New Orleans, largely oblivious to the miserable existence of the slaves he saw all around him. His own background was privileged, and his father did not choose to own slaves himself, so Will did not witness the horrors at close quarters. This changed when he found himself incarcerated for piracy and treason and sentenced to hang. He was able to call on the good offices of a friend of his father’s, no less a personage than the Governor of Louisiana, to get him off the hanging charge, but still he found himself sentenced to years of hard labour, another form of slavery.

It had not been to Will’s liking, and he had escaped within six months. However, the experience never left him. He had known firsthand the hopelessness, the abject misery of forced labour, and the perils of being at the mercy of others who had not the slightest concern for his welfare. It was a life he would not subject a dog to, let alone a human.

And he was, at least, a criminal. There were those, including himself if he were being honest, who felt there was an element of just deserts about his own incarceration. That was not the case for these slaves. What had defenceless women and children done to justify herding them into the bowels of a ship, then selling them like cattle?

Will was no crusader, and he did not consider himself a good man especially. Certainly, the captains and owners of the vessels he waylaid and robbed would not subscribe to such a view. He was wanted in several states along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico and did not expect to avoid the hangman if he again fell into the hands of the authorities. He made it his business, therefore, to reduce the risk of such an eventuality by the simple expedient of being the best buccaneer on the high seas.

He supposed there were other pirate captains who would also aspire to such a lofty claim, but Will had yet to meet one who he felt could back up the boast.

So, he continued to ply his trade of piracy, theft, and the occasional abduction and ransom, though of ships rather than people. He did well enough, neither he nor his crew had any complaints, and these occasional flirtations with philanthropy helped to keep life interesting.

“Hercules,” he called to his second-in-command who had remained behind on the Falcon, “select ten decent sailors and report to me over here.”

The man nodded his shaved head and disappeared to do his captain’s bidding.

Will leaned on the rail, observing the bewildered milling about of the freed slaves. They would need a while to become reorientated, he supposed. Some of them had never known freedom and would have no notion what to do with it. There were people on Santa Natalia who would help, and he was convinced it was an easier adjustment to make than going the opposite way would be.

Will shrugged. He would wait long enough to issue his instructions to Hercules, then be off in search of richer pickings. He did not hear the small woman who approached him, would have missed her entirely had she not clutched at his sleeve. He turned, bent lower to hear what she was saying.

“White lady. He take, he hurt.”

White lady?

Will scanned the captives. There was certainly no white woman among them. “White woman? Where?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not know. That man, he take. He hurt.” She was pointing at the individual who Will had assumed to be the master of this vessel because he was keen to issue orders to his men, not that they were in any position to obey him.

No harm in asking. Will strode over to where the man still yelled abuse at the pirates, pointing out what lowlife scum they were. Will considered that a bit rich, but he was not here to argue.

“You had a white woman among your slaves. Where is she?”

“Fuck off,” came the succinct response.

Will delivered a blistering uppercut to the man’s jaw. He reeled back to be caught and helped upright by his crew. Will considered hitting him again, but frankly, did not consider the slimy individual worth the effort. “Get him onto a boat. I do not want to clap eyes on him again.” He strode back to where the small, black woman awaited him.

“He bad man,” she announced. “Very bad.”

Will had to agree. He was keen to get underway again, but it would not take him many minutes to do a search of the ship, and he would not consider his work here done unless he at least did that.

He jumped down into the hold first to satisfy himself that no stray female, white or otherwise, had been left behind. That settled, he made for the narrow door leading to the cabins, storerooms, and galley.

The galley yielded nothing, and the storerooms even less so. He would have to leave supplies with Hercules to ensure the crew and their guests did not go hungry on their journey to Santa Natalia. He could only assume that it had not been the intention of the original crew to feed their captives. Will wondered how many would have survived the ordeal.

The only other door down here was locked. The captain’s cabin, no doubt. Will placed his booted foot against the planks and kicked hard. The wood shattered, and he stepped inside.

Holy fuck!

At first, he thought she was dead. The woman lay, naked, her legs splayed, across the bunk. Her features were unrecognisable due to bruising and swelling, and likewise her torso. Her hair, which appeared to be a bright shade of red, was matted with dried blood, and fresh, too, seeping from a wound which looked to be new.

Jesus, that vicious bastard.

Will swore under his breath and reconsidered his decision about not hitting the man again. He deserved to be beaten to a pulp for this day’s work. That could wait. First, he would do what he could to restore some dignity. It was little enough, but the most he could offer.

He approached the prone body and reached for a blanket, meaning to cover her.

She moaned, quietly, the hopeless, despairing moan of one about to draw her last breath.

He paused, the blanket in his hands. Will had little doubt that the woman was dying. She would not survive, but he could not just leave her here, not while she still breathed. The Falcon boasted a surgeon of sorts, Old Sawbones might be able to do something.

His decision made, Will laid the blanket beside her, then, as gently as he could, he lifted the slender body across onto it. He drew the edges around her, wrapping her as best he was able, then he picked her up in his arms and headed back up on deck.

Hercules had arrived, his skeleton crew with him. Already the first mate was yelling orders to secure the broken masts and pull in the sails. Men ran to do his bidding, and one or two women also. The first mate narrowed his eyes when he took in the sight of his captain emerging from below decks, his burden cradled in his arms.

“And they call us savages,” he murmured, wincing as he glanced at the battered features of the unconscious woman.

Will’s answering snort was sufficient to convey his disgust. “You know what to do. Repair the ship as best you can, get her moving again, and limp into Santa Laura. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

“Aye, sir. And that one?”

“I’ll take her to the Falcon for Old Sawbones to have a look at.”

Hercules nodded. Will did not believe that either of them was optimistic for the outcome.

* * *

Back on his own vessel, Will set the injured female down on his bunk. It was either take her to his cabin or have the surgeon treat her injuries out on deck. He thought the least she deserved in her final hours was privacy and a little peace.

Old Sawbones entered the cabin behind him. Will assumed the surgeon had had another name at one time, but no one remembered it now. He had served on the Falcon for the last five years, and despite his advancing years and occasional bouts of drunkenness, Old Sawbones was a remarkably competent physician.

“What ’ave we ’ere?” he demanded, elbowing Will aside in order to get a better look. “Eh, she’s managed to vex someone, that be fer sure.”

“I found her in the captain’s cabin,” Will offered, by way of explanation.

“I ’ope ’e’s in a similar condition,” the surgeon replied.

“Nowhere near. I hadn’t seen her, when I was dealing with him.”

“Pity.” The doctor parted the folds of the blanket, then turned to eye Will. “She was like this when ye found ’er?”

He nodded.

“Unconscious, an’ likely to stay that way. A mercy, really, as that ’and is broke, an’ I shall need to straighten it. She’d be yelpin’ a bit if she was awake. Broken ribs, too, goin’ by the way she’s breathin’. Needs strappin’ up tight. She’ll need ter be awake fer that as she’ll ’ave to be upright. Apart from that, there’s not a lot else ter be done fer ’er apart from lettin’ ’er rest an’ heal.”

“You think she’ll survive?”

The surgeon shrugged. “I’ve seen worse come around, an’ less perish. It’s i’ God’s ’ands. I’ll be startin’ on that ’and then.”

“Right. What do you need?”

“Bandages and a board to splint it to. There’ll be somthin’ i’ the carpenter’s store, I daresay.”

Will sprinted back along the companionway to the storeroom and quickly located a suitable length of timber. He returned to his cabin with it, then set about selecting a clean sheet to be torn into strips. Some of it would be used at once to help set the broken hand, the rest would come in for strapping her ribs in due course.

“Do you need my help?”

“No, lad. Ye can be off if ye like.”

He was tempted, especially when the surgeon grasped her middle finger and tugged sharply. The woman let out a strangled scream, the pain piercing even the depths of her subconscious.

“I shall stay,” he determined. Will dragged a footstool closer to the bunk and sat, then took her uninjured left hand in his. He held it, stroking and soothing while the surgeon did his work on her right.

Chapter 4

There were voices, occasionally. Low, deep male voices, close by, murmuring. Laughing sometimes. Mostly, she was surrounded by silence. Cool, pure, cleansing, wholesome silence, so sweet she could drown in it.

There had been din before. Raucous, angry, frightening, hateful. Cruel words, malicious violence, pitiless rage. She shuddered, wanted to weep but was too weak to even manage that. She sank back into the blessed silence and drifted off again.

Afterwards, Elisabeth had no idea how long she floated in that half alive, not-quite-dead state, hovering between the living and the hereafter, uncertain where she belonged or where she wanted to be. Ultimately, the choice was not hers. God must have no pressing need of her yet, so he’d thrown her back.

She opened her eyes to dim light and the gentle rocking of a bunk beneath her. Then, she let out a whimper, remembering.

But he was gone. The ugly, meat-fisted thug who had beaten and raped her was not here. No one was here. And this place was not the same. The bunk was larger, the bedding clean. Her head still throbbed, though, and so did her hand. She tried to lift it but could not. It was too heavy. She could not even move her fingers.

And it hurt to breathe. Each time her lungs filled, pain arced through her chest. Perhaps it would be better not to bother…

The next time she woke, the room was in darkness. No, not a room. A cabin. She was at sea, that much was certain. She recognised the rocking and shifting of the vessel, though it was nothing like the violent tipping from side to side which she had experienced in the hold.

Her throat was dry, rasping. She needed water.

And it was there. Suddenly, without warning, drops of sweet, cool water fell onto her lips. She parted them, allowed more of the precious liquid to dribble into her mouth. Gentle hands smoothed back her hair, lifted her so she could swallow, then set her back down again.

Thank you.

She tried to speak, to say the words, but could only manage a hoarse croak. Still, it was enough. She slept again.

She woke to a familiar sound. A pen, the nib scratching across parchment. It was the sound of…home?

Where was that? She searched her memory but could not find it, could not recall where she had been when last she heard the scrape of a quill on paper.

She opened her eyes, blinked as she adjusted to the light, then focused. She was lying on her side in a bunk, a blanket covering her. Her hand still hurt. She looked down and caught sight of it then let out a startled scream. What had they done to her hand?

There was movement to her right. A man was there suddenly, tall, blond hair loose to his shoulders, his jaw covered in stubble. He wore a loose-fitting shirt open at the neck and with long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His arms were tanned, muscular, his shoulders broad and powerful. He leaned on the wall beside the bunk regarding her quietly. Then, he smiled.

“Ah, you are feeling a little better, perhaps.”

His voice was not…unpleasant, but she did not answer. She could not; she did not know what the answer was.

A little better? Better than what?

“May I?” He gestured to the edge of the bunk, next to her.

Elisabeth nodded, and he settled himself beside her. His eyes were dark, she noted, a deep shade of mahogany. He was beautiful, in a peculiarly masculine way. It was not a word she had ever associated with a man before, as far as she could recall, which was not much, in fact. But it seemed right for him.

“You are in pain?” His brow furrowed. He appeared concerned for her, though Elisabeth had no idea why he might care.

“Do…do I know you, sir?”

He grinned. “No, at least, not yet. I daresay we shall become well enough acquainted since you are sharing my cabin.”

She closed her eyes, attempted to process this information but failed utterly. “How did I get here?”

“You were on board the Marlin, a slave vessel bound for Virginia as far as I am aware. I assume you were taken on board in New Orleans. You are now on board my ship, the Falcon. We attacked the Marlin three days ago and freed the slaves she was carrying.”

“You are a navy vessel, then?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Hardly. The Falcon is a pirate ship. My name is Will Falconer. Thief, buccaneer and cutthroat, at your service, madame.”

“A…a pirate. You do not look like a pirate, sir.”

His grin widened. “I assure you, that is my customary trade, but I make exceptions when I encounter slave ships. I have an aversion to forced labour and see it as my Christian duty to intervene when I can. This was just such an occasion.”

“You attacked the ship?”

He nodded.

“What happened to the other women? They were in the hold.”

“All released and now on their way to Santa Natalia where they will be freed to make their way as best they can.”

“You could have sold them yourself. Slaves are valuable.”

“I do not traffic slaves, madame. That was not my objective on this occasion.”

“I… I see.” She did not, not nearly, but was too exhausted to continue the struggle. “I was a slave, too. I think. They said…”

“You were not in the hold when we boarded the Marlin. I discovered you in one of the cabins. Can you remember what happened?”

She closed her eyes and was able to recapture brief snippets. “I… I remember being in the hold. It was dark, and it smelled terrible. There were so many of us. We had to cling on to the sides of the ship or we would be flung about like rag dolls. I was so scared…”

Tears were streaming across her cheeks, but she could not lift her hand to brush them away. The pirate, Will Falconer, produced a linen handkerchief from somewhere and wiped her eyes with it.

“If it is too painful to remember just now, this can wait. Let us concentrate on treating your injuries.”

“How badly am I hurt?”

Now his grin faded. “Your hand is broken, and our ship’s surgeon had to set it to straighten the bones. That is why it is still so painful. I could probably find some laudanum if you need it.”

“Maybe a few drops, to take the edge off.”

He nodded. “I shall ask Old Sawbones what he has on board. You took a nasty blow to the head, enough to leave you out cold these past three days, and there is bruising all over your body, too. Our surgeon believes you to have a couple of cracked ribs, and he wishes to bind those but had to wait for you to come around first.”

“There was a man, a savage brute of a man. He…he dragged me from the hold, and he hit my hand to stop me clinging to a rope when he pushed me down some stairs. He kicked me, too. I remember being on the floor, and he dragged me to my feet and threw me into a cabin.”

“Yes. That would be where I found you.”

“He tore my clothes,” she continued. “I was on the bunk. I tried to open my eyes but… He unfastened his trousers and he…he…” She was weeping in earnest now. “He raped me,” she managed at last.

“You were naked when I came in, and unconscious. Do you remember exactly what he did?”

“N-no, but…he meant to rape me, and kill me, I am sure of it. Why would he not do that?”

“I saw no obvious signs. Blood on your thighs, or semen, perhaps. Do you have any specific pain or discomfort to suggest that you were raped?”

“I hurt everywhere,” she sobbed.

“I know. I know that.” He stroked her matted hair. “We will not dwell on this if it upsets you. It is just, I would think it important for you to know.”

“It is. I… I just cannot remember.” She frowned, racked her brain for anything at all, any snippet of memory. “I heard a loud bang, the ship rocked. He…he staggered back, away from me.”

“Our cannons, perhaps. We fired on the Marlin, and that might have been what you heard.”

“Yes, it could have been.”

“If his ship was under attack, I doubt even the most lust-crazed sailor would waste time sinking his dick into an unwilling woman. I may be wrong, but it seems that way to me.”

“You think he might not have…might not have…”

“It sounds to me as though we may have arrived just in time.”

She clutched at his arm with her good hand, hope and desperation surging in equal measure. “But how can I be sure? I need to be sure.”

“You cannot remember the actual rape, but you do recall that he staggered and seemed to fall backwards when we attacked. Add to that the absence of evidence that I mentioned, and you do not appear to have suffered the specific injuries we might expect from a brutal rape. I think perhaps God was on your side.”

She managed a hollow laugh. “I do not believe I have enjoyed the support of the Almighty for some time, Captain Falconer.”

“Even so,” he observed, “on this occasion it appears you may have.”

She pondered for several moments, then, “What will happen to me now?”

“You will remain on board the Falcon until we reach Santa Natalia. From there you will be free, as will all the other women who were on board with you.”

“Santa Natalia? I… I do not think I know anyone on Santa Natalia.”

He offered no comment on that. His concern appeared to focus more on her recent past. “I suspect you may be from New Orleans as that was the port the Marlin visited most recently. Given the circumstances in which we found you, I cannot believe it would be in your interests to return there.”

“But I need to go home. People will wonder what has happened to me.”

“Of course. I will do what I can to assist you in letting your loved ones know you are safe. So, where is home?”

Elisabeth paused, screwed up her eyes in concentration, searching desperately for some semblance of memory however vague and indistinct. At last she was forced to concede. “I… I cannot remember, sir.”

“Very well. What about the people who will be wondering what fate befell you? Who are they? Who will be missing you?”

Again, Elisabeth rifled through fragmented slivers of recollection, all of them from the last few days or hours. She could remember the slave ship, and being attacked by the vile captain, but nothing prior to waking up in the dark, damp hold. She shook her head in defeat.

“So, let us try an easy question to start with. What is your name, madame?”

She peered up at him through tear-filled eyes, panic mounting afresh. She shook her head, frantic now as darkness seemed to engulf her all over again,

“I… I have no idea, sir. No idea at all.”

* * *

Will Falconer did not consider himself a man who most would turn to in times of need. He was not given to offering comfort or empathy, but he did not pause to think before wrapping his arms around the weeping female in his bed. He held her against his chest and patted her back, stroked her hair, and muttered words of solace until she eventually calmed.

At the same time, he was beginning to realise that he had, probably, taken on rather more than he originally bargained for. He had expected to offer comfort to a dying woman, then bury her at sea. Matters were clearly much more complicated than that.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes in his head that his mysterious passenger was no slave. Her hands, at least the uninjured one, were soft and delicate, not work-worn. Similarly, her complexion was pale, suggesting she was unaccustomed to an outdoor life. She was no milkmaid or plantation worker, and he did not believe she was a domestic servant either. He had not bothered to retrieve any of the torn clothing he saw scattered about the cabin on the Marlin but could tell from the tattered remnants that she had embarked on this misadventure well-dressed in fashionable attire.

She spoke to him in perfect English, though her words were accented. The lady was French, he was certain of it, and obviously educated as she had command of more than one tongue.

Will could not start to imagine what circumstances resulted in a well-educated lady of fashion and wealth being incarcerated in the hold of a slave ship, but they could not have been happy.

He was perplexed. In his experience, admittedly limited, loss of memory was usually the result of head trauma or deep shock, and the fact that she did appear to recall her experiences on board the Marlin in some detail would seem to suggest that whatever had happened to her had been earlier than that, before she’d regained consciousness on the slaver. He was baffled, but on one thing he was quite certain.

His mystery lady needed help and protection. She would have both from Will Falconer.

“Madame?” he ventured, when she ceased her crying.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were a delightful shade of green. They put him in mind of emeralds, sparkling and clear, though bruising still marred her features and one eye remained swollen. Her lip, too, was full and puffy, but beneath the damage he was sure he caught a glimpse of real beauty. She possessed a small, straight nose, mercifully unbroken by that lout on the Marlin, and glorious red-gold hair which fell almost to her waist. Although it was bloodstained and matted, he had no doubt that her titian mane would prove to be soft and gently waving given the right care.

Normally he preferred his females to be dark-haired and dark-eyed, but he could make an exception, he supposed.

Will gave himself a mental shake. She had suffered enough at the hands, he was convinced, of unscrupulous and cruel men. He hoped not to add to her woes.

“I will summon the surgeon. We should see to binding your cracked ribs.” He gently set her back down on the bunk. “I will not be long.” He got to his feet. “I shall have food brought, too. Maybe a little broth?”

“Did you not hear me? I told you, I cannot remember who I am.”

Her expression was close to distraught, and he could not blame her but saw no merit in both of them succumbing to panic. “I did hear, and we will come back to that. But first, we will see to your care and comfort. Ribs, then food. Yes?”

He was relieved to see her cautious nod. She was, just possibly, beginning to trust him. Will shot her a smile he hoped she would find reassuring and left the cabin.

He came across Old Sawbones sunning himself on the wheel deck, snoring softly. Will nudged him with his booted foot.

“She is awake.”

“Ah,” the surgeon acknowledged, opening one eye. “Then we may assume she will live.”

“Do you have laudanum? She is in a lot of pain.”

The surgeon dragged himself to his feet and tottered a little unsteadily. Will wondered if he had been at the rum again.

“Aye, I can give ’er a drop or two. No more. ’Tis too easy to develop a craving, an’ no good comes o’ that.”

“Another thing, she says she has no memory of anything prior to finding herself on the Marlin. No recollection of how she got there or who she is.”

The old surgeon scratched his head. “I have come across this before, though not often. There was a head wound, and it looked to me to be a few days old at least, which suggests it was sustained before she boarded the slaver. That could have been the cause. No memory at all, you say?”

“None, apparently.”

“Hmm, awkward. Where will we send the ransom note, then?”

“There will be no ransom note,” Will growled. “She is not a hostage, and you know it.”

“Well, aye, I do now.”

“Will she regain her memory?” Will persisted.

The surgeon shrugged. “Sometimes they do, in cases like this. If the cause was the blow to the head, as that heals, she may regain her memory. I have heard, though, that there are some cases where the patient chooses to forget an experience or incident which is too awful to bear, and this is a way of coping with it.”

“If that was the case, she may never allow herself to remember what happened.”

The surgeon nodded, then, “Let us just do what we can fer ’er, an’ let the rest take care o’ itself, eh?”

Sage advice.

“I shall see you in my cabin, then. After I visit the galley to see if there might be a bowl of broth to be had.”

“Tell them to water it well. She should no’ have anythin’ too rich, not fer a while.” The surgeon made his way down onto the main deck, presumably in search of his medicines.

Will returned to his cabin, the bowl of watered vegetable broth in his hands and Old Sawbones hot on his heels. They entered his quarters together to find their guest dozing again. She stirred at the sound of their arrival and tried to sit up.

“Let me help.” Will slid his arms around her and assisted her to a sitting position, the blanket tucked under her chin. Her shoulders were naked, as was the rest of her beneath the cover. Old Sawbones had advised against dressing her until her ribs were bound.

“We shall just have ter strip ’er again to wrap the binding around ’er, an’ that would cause ’er more discomfort,” he advised.

Will watched as Old Sawbones picked up the torn linens they had set aside for this purpose. He laid the bandages on the bed and regarded his patient critically. Will noticed that the woman seemed nervous and flinched when the surgeon extended his hand.

“May I examine your broken fingers first? I promise I will not ‘urt you.”

She looked to Will, who nodded his encouragement. Slowly, cautiously, she inched her hand across the blanket.

Old Sawbones lifted it gently, checked that the splints were still tightly fastened. “You may not regain full use of this ‘and, I am afraid, but the bones are now ‘ealing straight, and we’ve done our best. Some stiffness is to be expected…”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Now, does it still ‘urt to breathe?”

The woman nodded. “Very much, sir.”

“On which side?”

“Here.” She indicated her left.

“I need to be sure exactly where the fractures are, and for this you must lower the blanket and permit me to feel your ribs.”

“Oh, but—”

“Madame, I am a surgeon. And ‘e is a captain, so we do not count. Naked or otherwise, you will be quite safe with us.”

“I did not mean that. I just…”

“We have had ample opportunity to view your breasts already, and while they are most charming, I can assure you they are not out of the ordinary and will not drive either one of us into a frenzy of lust. So, the quicker we proceed, the quicker you will ’ave some relief.”

The surgeon’s matter-of-fact attitude seemed to be just what was required. Not for the first time, Will was glad of Old Sawbones’ skills in dealing with the sick and injured. The woman flattened her lips in resignation and nodded.

“Right. Good. So, this is what we will do.” Old Sawbones fixed his gaze first on Will. “If she is able to stand, that is best. You will position yerself just here, an’ the young lady will stand in front of you, facing you. She will lean on you, and you will support ’er an’ ensure she remains upright. I shall first examine ’er to ascertain the exact site o’ the fractures, then I shall bind ’er ribs tight, like, ter stop ’em moving when she breathes. That will greatly reduce ’er discomfort.”

“Right.” Will stroked the woman’s hair. “Do you think you can stand, if I help you?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“Shall we find out, then?”

He stood and offered her his hand to assist her in getting out of bed. She accepted his help and slid from beneath the blanket. It took an effort of will not to wince at the sight of the purple and yellow bruising which bloomed across her torso and hips. Her legs, too, had taken more than a few blows, and he wondered at her inner resilience in having survived such an assault.

What sort of a man does this to a woman?

And what sort of a man could fail to be impressed by the sight of such a slender, willowy female body? Her breasts were small but perfect. Her hips, though slim, were gently rounded, her legs long and, despite the bruising, beautiful and shapely. She was, he decided, all in all, quite breathtaking.

“Ye can stop yer gapin’ lad,” the surgeon admonished. We ’ave a job ter do.”

“What? Oh, yes.” Will accepted the rebuke and took hold of the woman’s elbows to help her remain upright. “How do we do this?”

“She needs ter lean forward, like that. Yes.” The woman leaned her weight against him. “You support ’er. An’ you, miss, can ye lift up yer arms an’ wrap ’em around the captain’s neck?”

“I am not quite sure if I…”

“Ye may need ter ’elp ’er, Captain.”

Will took hold of her hands, taking extreme care over the injured one, and raised them as high as his shoulders. “Can you hang on to me?” he asked.

She nodded and grasped his shoulder with her left hand. The other just rested against him, immobilised by the splints.

“Tell me where it hurts the most,” Old Sawbones instructed and proceeded to run his fingers down either side of her ribcage.

Will watched her features contort in pain, and she let out a sharp cry when the surgeon touched one particular spot.

“Right, there then.” Old Sawbones continued and identified two more points where the pain appeared most severe. “I suspect three cracked ribs, but mercifully they do not feel to be displaced, so the danger of further damage is not high. They are painful, however, and the binding will help with that, as will the laudanum I brought with me. Now, miss, all I need ye ter do is breathe in an’ ‘old yer breath while I get this strapping on nice an’ tight, see?”

The surgeon proceeded to wrap the linen strips around the woman’s torso, starting just above her waist and finishing beneath her pretty little breasts. He secured the bandage with a pin, then slanted a glance at his patient.

“There, how does that feel, miss?”

“I think it is a little easier,” she replied. “But I feel dizzy. I think…”

“Back into bed, right now,” Will determined, and without further ado lifted her in his arms and set her back on the bunk.

She was very pale suddenly, and he wondered if maybe they should have left strapping her ribs for another day.

“She will be fine, lad. Just overexerted herself. But it will ha’ been worth it ter reduce the pain, I reckon. Let ’er get some sleep now. Later, when she wakes up, ye can try ’er wi’ a drop o’ that broth. An’ if ye’ve a spare shirt or something of the like that ye could lend ’er, I daresay she’ll be grateful.”

“Thank you, Old Sawbones.”

The surgeon grinned at him. “It makes a fine change ter tend a pretty wee thing. Now I shall be off, but I shall leave ye this phial. The laudanum is strong, so try just one drop in a mug o’ wine. No more, see? An’ only if she needs it.”

Will took the small glass bottle and held it up to the light from the cabin window. It was half full of clear liquid. Soft, regular breathing coming from the direction of the bunk was enough to assure him she would not be requiring a dose any time soon. His mysterious guest was already sound asleep.

Chapter 5

The broth was delicious. Elisabeth could not recall how long it had been since she’d last eaten…days, probably. The pirate captain helped her to manage the bowl one-handed and gave her bread to mop up the last drops.

She concentrated on her food and tried to ignore the yawning emptiness where her memories ought to be. For a while it worked, but all too soon she found herself sinking into that black pit of nothingness again.

Who am I?

Where is my home?

Has anyone noticed I am gone?

What do I do now?

The final question was the most pressing since it did actually require an answer. She had decisions to make, and absolutely no basis upon which to make them. She found herself adrift, placeless, nameless. She was no one, robbed of all semblance of self. Her only anchor in this bottomless and endless sea was the handsome pirate who joined her in the cabin for brief periods before rushing off again to see to whatever duties he must perform in commanding this vessel.

She missed him when he was absent, although much of the time she slept. It was better that way. Less terrifying than thinking about her predicament, searching for a solution when nothing was within her grasp.

But now, sleep eluded her. She had been on board the Falcon for, as far as she could recall, four or five days. It had been two days since the surgeon had strapped up her ribs, and though they ached, the sharp, stabbing pain no longer troubled her. And as long as she did not knock it, the pain in her hand was bearable. She suspected that the edge had been taken off by a drop or two of laudanum, but not for the last day or so since she’d asked him not to give her any more. This was, perhaps, why she was awake at last and more alert than she had been for as long as she could remember.

Elisabeth was bored. And discontented. She felt filthy, her hair especially. She tested with her good hand and found her locks to be matted and tangled, dried blood still encrusted in the strands. She longed for a bath but knew it to be impossible on board a ship where every drop of fresh water was precious.

She started when the door opened, and her pirate entered.

When did I start to think of him as mine?

He paused to cast a smile her way. “How do you feel today?”

“Better. Thank you.”

“Do you need anything? Food? Water?”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Only if you have water I could wash in. Just a little…”

“I believe I can manage that. Your hand must remain dry, but I could remove the strapping around your ribs and allow you to take a bath.”

“Really? Is that possible?”

He picked up a chart from his desk under the only window in the cabin and tucked it under his arm. “I have to talk to my helmsman about a change of course, but I shall be back soon.”

Just a few minutes after he left, she was startled by a knock on the door. Unsure what to do, how to respond, she was spared the trouble when it opened, and a ruddy face peered into the cabin.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. The cap’n, he telled me ter bring this down.” The sailor entered the cabin, dragging a wooden bathtub behind him which he deposited in the middle of the small room. “I’ll jus’ be gettin’ some water, miss.” He offered her a small salute and scuttled back out of the door.

Four times he returned, and on each occasion a bucket of water dangled from each of his hands, He poured them into the tub, then went for more. By the time he’d finished, the tub was well over half full, and even more joyous, the water was steaming.

I am to have a warm bath.

For the first time in as long as she could recall, Elisabeth felt happy.

The pirate captain entered the cabin, his chart under his arm. “I see your bath is ready.”

“Yes. I was not sure if I should—”

“We will need to remove this.” He tugged at the sleeve of the loose shirt she now wore, one of his. “Then the strapping around your ribs. Then, I shall lift you into the tub.”

“I do not want to keep you from your duties. I am sure I could manage for myself.”

“And I am quite sure you cannot. Are we to quarrel about this, madame?” His smile never faltered as he spoke to her, but the gritty resolve in his tone was unmistakable. He expected to be obeyed.

“No, Captain. No, of course not. I appreciate all you have done for me, but I do feel somewhat better today. I am stronger now, so I—”

“I agree, and I am glad of it. Even so, I shall assist you. The shirt, madame?”

“Right. Of course.” On the previous occasion she had bared herself before him, she had been too befuddled by pain, too confused by her circumstances to pay much heed to modesty. Not so now. Elisabeth was profoundly conscious of her nudity when she slowly pulled the shirt over her head, and embarrassed by it, too. For some reason she could not quite fathom, she was convinced that he would not find her body to be attractive. She was not pretty. She was sure of it, though she could not have said where that certainty came from. She wanted this handsome pirate to like her, and he would not, not once he had seen her naked and realised how skinny and angular she was. She had the body of a boy, not a grown woman.

“I know what you are thinking,” she murmured, “but please, do not say it.”

His grin was lopsided. “Madame, if you knew what I was thinking, you would slap my face.”

“I would not dare, sir.” She was quite convinced she had never slapped anyone in her life, not ever. She was certainly not about to start with a dangerous pirate twice her size.

“Here, let me…” He released the pin which secured the strapping and began to unwind it.

Her breathing became more painful as the pressure was eased, but not as much so as it had been. She could manage.

Without further ado, Captain Falconer bent and swept her into his arms. He carried her to the tub, then knelt beside it and slowly lowered her into the water.

“Keep your injured hand well clear,” he advised. “Just relax and allow me to do the rest.”

“I am not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I mean this.” He leaned in close behind her so that his breath feathered across her cheek when he spoke. “You will tell me if I hurt you, but otherwise, you will be quiet and enjoy your bath. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I do. But—”

“Shh.”

She fell silent and leaned her head back against his shoulder. Really, there was nothing she could do to prevent anything that might happen to her, and Captain Falconer had thus far been a perfect gentleman.

Too perfect…

He produced soap from somewhere and started to work lather into her shoulders. His fingers were gentle, unhurried, and the warm water soothed the residual bruising. Under his ministrations, Elisabeth relaxed. The tension in her muscles slid away; she felt lighter, freer. A contented sigh escaped her.

“It is rare that I would take issue with Old Sawbones, but he was wrong,” the pirate murmured.

“Sir?”

“Your breasts are exquisite, quite, quite perfect, and well capable of driving at least this man into a frenzy of lust.”

“Oh.” She could think of nothing more erudite to offer.

Captain Falconer cupped both her breasts in his hands and ran his fingers over her nipples. They stiffened and swelled. Elisabeth arched her back, her response instinctive. She wished she really was as beautiful as he made her feel.

He continued to work the lather into her skin, his hands reaching lower but always careful not to press too hard on her injured ribs. He moved around and lifted first one, then the other leg from the now foamy water to bathe each limb. Elisabeth closed her eyes so was not sure if she imagined it but fancied he had kissed her toes.

Lost memory or not, she was perfectly convinced that no one had ever kissed her toes before. That was not the sort of thing any woman would forget.

He completed his washing of her body, even down to slipping his hand between her legs to caress the most private folds there. He said nothing, kept his touch light…too light…merely ensured that she was thoroughly cleansed.

“Does it hurt you when I touch you here?” He slid his fingers through her folds again.

“N-no, sir.”

“That is good. Had you been the victim of a brutal rape just days ago, I cannot believe there would be no tenderness still.”

“I see. Yes, I suppose…oh…” She sighed when desire curled and rose from deep down in her groin. His touch was so pleasant, so exquisite. She wished he would…what? “Sir?”

“Mmm, what, madame?”

“If he had… I mean, had you not been in time… I wonder, would the damage not have been more apparent…inside?”

“Inside?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Would you like me to check?”

“Please, sir. If you would…”

Good heavens, what am I saying?

“Drape your legs over the sides of the tub, yes, like that, as wide as you can. I will go very slowly, and you will tell me if there is any pain.”

She leaned back, her head resting on the rim and her legs splayed wide. He moved around and used the fingers of one had to part the lips at her entrance, then slowly pressed one long digit into her slick channel.

He was as good as his word. He went very slowly, inch by inch, until his finger was fully inside her.

“Am I hurting you, madame?”

“No,” she whispered. “I just… I…oh! Oh, that is really very nice indeed.”

She could not be certain what he was doing, but bolts of pure pleasure seemed to shoot from wherever his fingers touched. He rubbed, found one particular spot, and…

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Her body convulsed in a crescendo of delight so powerful that for a few moments she was quite overwhelmed. The heady rush of pleasure was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her breathless but strangely sated.

He slid his fingers from her body. “Look at me, madame.”

Elisabeth did, embarrassed that he had witnessed her rather odd loss of control. “I am sorry, I never meant to…”

“Now that we have that out of the way, I trust you are feeling even more relaxed.”

“Yes, I believe that I am.”

“And going by your healthy response just now, I believe it is safe to assume that you were not raped aboard the Marlin.”

Elisabeth nodded. Surely she could not have experienced what she just had, and at the hands of a man she barely knew, if something so horrendous had happened to her just days earlier. “You are right. I… I am grateful, sir.”

“My pleasure, madame. And now, it only remains to wash your hair. I will take care not to open up the wound again. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, sir. I do. Most definitely.”

He rose and went out into the corridor, to return with two more buckets of warm water which he set down at the end of the tub, behind her.

“If you can tilt your head back…”

She did as he asked, and the captain lifted the mass of her hair and dunked it in the warm water. He used a small cup to pour it over her scalp, gently working soap in to create a lather which he then rinsed away. He repeated the action three times, using the clean water from the final bucket to do the last rinse.

Later, back in her bunk, a clean shirt covering her, her ribs once again tightly strapped, she lay and stared blankly at the ceiling above her.

She was clean. She tingled everywhere. Now, all she needed was a name.

* * *

Will regarded the woman asleep in his bunk. Her hair, now glossy and free of tangles, cascaded across the pillow in a riot of brilliant reds. Her skin hue was healthier now, and he even fancied her frail frame might be filling out slightly, though perhaps he imagined that. Without doubt, her bruises were fading, and the lovely woman beneath was revealed.

She exuded sensuality, though he was convinced she was unaware of the effect she had on men. Well, one man in particular. His cock twitched at the recollection of her climax in the bath. She had appeared shocked, surprised even. He wondered if the experience was one she had not enjoyed often, though he was reasonably certain that she was not a virgin.

Married? Almost certainly. A widow? Children? He had no idea, and neither did she. The answers, he was sure, lay in New Orleans, but that was a place he had steadfastly avoided since his overly close acquaintance with the hangman there. He did not relish the prospect of returning, though he began to wonder if it was inevitable. And in any case, he had a sister in New Orleans who he had not seen for the last five years or so. It would be good to see Paulette again, if nothing else.

The woman sighed in her sleep and rolled over to face him. Her eyes opened, and she smiled.

“Good day, Captain.”

“Good day….” He came to crouch beside the bunk. “I cannot continue to call you madame.”

“I wish I could remember.”

“You will, eventually. In the meantime, you require a name, something to suit you.”

“What do you suggest, Captain?”

He took a lock of her hair between his fingers, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. “You have beautiful hair, so soft and glossy, and the colour…so vibrant.” Inspiration struck. “I shall call you Ruby.”

“Ruby?” she repeated the word as though testing it, trying it on for size. “Yes, I like that. I can be Ruby.”

* * *

She landed on the floor of the cabin with a dull thud and proceeded to roll across the floor as the ship listed. Her ribs screamed in agony, her right hand throbbed when she banged it against the leg of the captain’s desk, but she managed to grab a hold with her left hand to stop herself being hurled about any more.

Rain lashed against the window, and the shrill howling of the wind outside was testimony to the violence of the storm. Terrified, she hung on to the desk and prayed for it all to stop.

“Let me help you back into the bunk.”

She had not heard him enter, but she knew as soon as the captain’s strong arms encircled her that she would be safe. She allowed him to prise her fingers from the desk leg and carry her back across the cabin. He was somehow able to keep his footing despite the mad swaying of the deck beneath his feet.

“I need to tie you in place, to stop you falling out again.”

He produced a spare sheet and ripped it length ways, then folded it to make it narrower still. He wrapped it around her waist, then tied the ends to the frame of the bunk.

“You can free yourself, once the storm has passed. I must leave you now as I am needed on deck.” He kissed her on the forehead and was gone.

She dosed fitfully during the remainder of the night, as the rain lashed down and mountainous waves hurled the Falcon about like driftwood. Her world swayed dizzily as the ship listed, first to starboard, then to port. She would have been flung from her bed a dozen times but for the captain’s makeshift restraint which held her safe.

At last, she opened her eyes to bright daylight. The ship no longer heaved from side to side, and the pounding of the rain was gone to be replaced by a gentle patter against the window. She could not hear the wind at all.

The knot securing her to the bunk was easy enough to unravel, and soon she was out of bed, her nose pressed to the glass in the tiny window, looking out at a sea which was relatively calm, though storm clouds rolled across the sky. Still, they seemed to have weathered it intact.

She turned at the sound of the door opening behind her. The captain entered. He was soaked to the skin and looked exhausted. He sank into the chair beside his desk and regarded her with concern.

“Are you all right, Ruby? I am sorry, I could not get back down here to check on you again.”

“I was fine, thanks to your idea of tying me to the bunk.”

He managed a wry grin. “Always my pleasure. If ever you feel like being tied to my bed again, you need only ask.”

“Captain!” She was shocked and was quite sure that was absolutely the correct response. Even so, she could not hide her smile. It was not such a dreadful notion. “Are you… I mean, do you have time to stay awhile? You should rest. You have been up the entire night. You must be exhausted.”

He nodded. “I was hoping to catch a few hours in my own bed, and since you appear to have vacated it, at least for now, I intend to do exactly that.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She scurried back to the bed to straighten the covers. “Please, I have kept you from your own quarters long enough. Maybe I could sleep elsewhere, and you would be able to reclaim your cabin.”

“Ruby, I do not believe it would be a good idea for you to start bunking down with my crew.” He began to peel his soaked clothing away, first the loose-fitting shirt, then his boots. “And, you are staring.”

“Oh, yes, I apologise.” She faced the wall and tried not to dwell upon the ripple of muscle she had glimpsed as he had drawn the shirt over his head or reached to unlace his boots. And she was quite determined not to even start to imagine the sight he would present once he removed his breeches. “Maybe we could take it in turns to use the bunk,” she called over her shoulder.

“Yes, we could,” he agreed.

“Or…or perhaps we could share. I mean, it is a fairly large bunk, and I am sure we could both…well…”

“Ruby, are you trying to seduce me?”

“No! Of course not. I would never dream…”

Liar.

Apparently, Captain Falconer thought so, too. He chuckled softly and came to stand close behind her. She gasped when he lifted her hair from her neck and dropped a soft kiss right in the nape.

“Well, Ruby, I certainly wish you would. But not right now. I fear I am too tired to do you justice. When I have had a few hours’ sleep, however, I intend to reopen this discussion.”

Chapter 6

He woke, stretched. Despite the labours of the previous night, the running battle with the capricious forces of nature which he and his crew had fought valiantly and won, this time, he felt refreshed. Of late, Will had become accustomed to grabbing his sleep when he could, where he could, usually in the corner of his wheel deck since the comforts of his cabin had been taken over by his guest. It was a luxury to enjoy a few well-earned hours in his own bunk.

Her presence might be seen as an inconvenience, but his initial concern and urge to protect had deepened in the days she had been in his care. Will found himself more and more attracted to the nameless woman.

No, not nameless. She was Ruby, at least to him. And she was currently curled up in the chair beside his desk, her attention on a book she must have found among the small library he liked to have about him. Yet more proof, if that were needed, that she was of gentle stock since it was rare indeed for servants or slaves to be literate.

He propped himself up on one elbow to watch her as she remained oblivious to him. She used her good hand to tuck a stray lock of russet hair behind her ear, then turned the page. He wondered what she was reading.

“Ruby.”

She started. “Oh, you are awake.”

“I am. Come here, Ruby.”

“Sir?” She set the book aside and got to her feet.

“It was your suggestion that we should share the bed. Shall we see if you are right and there is, indeed, room for both of us?”

“But…it is the middle of the day, Captain.”

“I fail to see the relevance. The bunk is the same size, regardless of the hour.”

“I meant, we cannot both be in bed, at this time of day. It is not decent.”

“I have never claimed to be decent, Ruby. Come here, or I shall be obliged to come and fetch you.”

He waited, held his breath. Then, she moved. Slowly, one bare foot after the other, she made her way to him. He slung back the blanket to enable her to settle beside him, then drew it over the pair of them when she lay at his side.

She was rigid, staring at the ceiling. Will took a lock of her hair between his fingers and enjoyed the silky softness of the strands. His gaze was drawn to the open neck of the shirt, borrowed from him. He wondered what her reaction might be if he was to slide his hand beneath…

“I… I do not think I have ever done this before.”

He raised an eyebrow at her hesitant admission. “Are you starting to remember?”

She shook her head. “No, but I am convinced of it. I have never shared a bed with a man not my husband.”

“You have a husband?”

“I… I cannot remember. It is just… I know what is to happen, between us. How would I know such things if I was not married?”

How indeed?

But she was probably correct. Will sensed that his Ruby had been, in some other, previous life, a lady of some social standing, respectable and law-abiding until fate intervened and dropped her in his path. Still, there were worse fates, as she had already discovered.

“Nothing will happen between us unless you wish it, Ruby. I have never forced a woman in my life, and I do not mean to start with you.”

“I know that. I… I am willing. It is just…difficult.”

“Difficult how?” He nudged the open collar of her shirt with his fingertips.

“You make me feel…not myself.”

“Mmm. How so?” He pushed the fabric away from her shoulder and kissed her delicate skin.

Ruby shuddered. “Like that. You make me tingle. I am quite sure I do not regularly feel such sensations, nor such urges.”

“You should. Every woman should tingle.” He opened his mouth to suck on the point of her shoulder for several moments. “Tell me of these urges you are experiencing.”

“I want you. I want…this.” She tilted her head to expose more of her neck to him. “I like it when you kiss me. When you touch me…”

He unfastened a button, then another. Now he was able to open the front of the shirt to expose one delicate, rosy-tipped breast. Since she raised no objections, he left a trail of kisses from her shoulder to her nipple, then flicked the pink bud with his tongue.

Ruby gasped and arched her back, then winced.

Will paused. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I hurt myself. I should not have moved so quickly.”

He cursed himself silently. She was still so fragile. What was he thinking?

“It is my fault. Too soon…”

“No! No, it is not. Please, please do not stop.”

“I do not wish to hurt you.”

“You will not, I know it. You will be gentle and kind, as always. And you will make me tingle, as you did in the bath. Please, Captain…” She lifted her good hand to caress his cheek. “Please, I do want this, I truly do.”

Will was not a man to ignore such an invitation. He lowered himself over her and brushed his lips across hers. Ruby opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, and spearing his tongue into her warmth. Exploring, dancing, tangled together, they played. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she lay on top.

Now, she was kissing him, and he allowed her to take the lead for a short while, just enough time for him to dispose of the remaining buttons on her shirt and ease it from her shoulders.

As soon as she was as naked as he was, apart from the strapping which still encased her torso, he eased her back onto the mattress. Now he was able to peruse the length of her body, and he did so, his appreciation apparent in the further hardening of his cock which now nudged the side of her bare hip.

She must feel it and know the effect she had on him.

Some residual bruising left smudges and shadows on her porcelain skin, but otherwise she was quite, quite perfect. He cupped her breast and rubbed the nipple, then bent to take it between his lips. He suckled on her, and she writhed beneath him. If her ribs were tender, she ignored that minor detail. He shifted to the other breast and treated it to the same gentle teasing.

Ruby twisted her fingers in his hair. He moved lower, leaving a trail of light kisses across her stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into the pretty little dimple of her navel, then continued on to stroke his knuckles through the soft, red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs. The colour intrigued him. Even here…

He nuzzled the downy softness, then reached to place his hand beneath her right knee and lifted it to open her for him.

She did not resist. He paused again to admire the silky sweetness of her nether lips, already glistening with moisture. He trailed the backs of his fingers through her folds, then raised his gaze to meet hers. “You are truly lovely. I am sure you have been told this before, but I felt the moment called for it.”

“I am not, but you are kind to suggest such a thing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You are beautiful. Why would you think otherwise?”

“I am too thin. And I have the body of a boy.”

He halted his explorations, surprised at her words. “Madame, you do not. You most certainly do not.”

She managed a wry laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I cannot even start to comprehend what you mean. You are slender, elegant, sensual, and utterly exquisite. Any man who would suggest otherwise is blind or a fool, probably both.”

She stared at him, clearly wanting to believe his words but hesitant, too. Will determined that the usefulness of this conversation was exhausted, it was time for action. His gaze still holding hers, he lowered his head until he was able to draw his tongue the length of her slit.

Ruby stiffened and would have closed her legs but for his arm holding her knee high.

“Sir! Captain, you should not—”

“I should, and I will.”

“But—”

Her protests dissolved into a deep, low moan when he parted her inner lips with his fingers and circled her entrance with his tongue. She drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled. Her next breath was slow, through her nose. Her rigid body relaxed, softened, and she let out a contented sigh.

Will continued to taste, to tease. He lapped at her juices, savouring the sweet, musky taste of her. Soon, Ruby’s fingers were entangled in his hair, and she writhed against the mattress. Her arousal grew, built, then erupted in a crescendo of shudders and gasping moans. He allowed her a few moments to settle again, then slid two fingers deep into her hot wetness.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Ruby let out a ragged cry and convulsed again.

He thrust his fingers in and out, noting what manner of stimulation seemed to bring forth the strongest reaction. Did she respond better to fast and deep, or to slower, shorter thrusts? His fingers did their work, while the pad of his thumb found her clitoris. He rubbed, caressed, stroked, and had his reward when she soared for him again.

She lay motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing deep, a slight smile playing across her lips. Will eased himself over her, his hips between her thighs. He reached for his erection and positioned himself at her entrance.

“Ruby,” he growled. “If you are to say no, it has to be now.”

Dear Lord, let her not say no.

Her smile widened. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, yes, please.”

* * *

The sensation as he eased his solid cock into her was familiar, though in a distant and indistinct way. She was reminded of…something…yet this was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He was big, stretching her. but achingly gentle as he entered. Her body, already aroused beyond her imagining, parted to welcome him.

She lifted her legs, wrapped them around his waist, and crossed her ankles in the small of his back. He pulled almost fully out of her, then rocked his hips and filled her again. Curious sensations assailed her. Waves of pleasure surged from where their bodies joined and rushed out to the tips of her fingers and toes. She squeezed her inner muscles tight, seeking more friction, greater intensity.

He seemed able to read her thoughts, interpret her desires even when she could not. He teased her with several short, jabbing strokes, then buried himself deep again. She was amazed to recognise once more the first stirrings of a climax. It grew, gathered strength, built, and suddenly flooded her veins in a surge of white-hot bliss. She hung on to him, her legs clinging to his body, her arms tight about his neck. He was her anchor in a maelstrom of swirling lust, solid, dependable, her protector and pleasure-giver.

I could love you.

She clung to him harder, hung on as though her life depended upon it. Her senses reeled, she was spinning, floating, drifting. Eventually she sank slowly back down to earth.

Her pirate continued to move within her, his thrusts becoming more insistent, his own breathing laboured. He supported his weight on his hands and let out a hoarse shout at the same time as hot semen filled her.

She did not move, had no desire to. Ever. He was still inside her, though softening now. She did not want to part. This had been, perhaps, the most beautiful memory she had ever created. Oh, she desperately hoped so, and she yearned for the moment to never end.

The captain moved first. He rolled onto his side, though he kept his arms around her and drew her against his wide chest. He smelled spicy, slightly of sweat, a great deal of male. She detected the aromas of sun and sea and sand upon his skin, and something more, too. The scent of arousal? Of satisfaction?

Oh God, she hoped so. Please, do not let him be disappointed.

“Ruby, are you all right?”

She nodded, her face resting against his chest.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, Captain.” Dare she ask him what he had thought of the entire affair? She hauled in a deep, fortifying lungful of air, then, “Were you…were you pleased? With me, I mean…”

“Ruby?”

He sounded uncertain. Her heart sank, just a little. “Was it all right?” she persisted. She had to know, regardless of how much the truth might hurt.

“Hell, yes.” He leaned over to peer at her. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I am not sure. I just… I do not think I am terribly good at…at lovemaking.”

“Believe me, madame, you are.” He kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“I have some experience in these matters, and yes, I am absolutely certain.” He settled back down and gathered her close again. “The better I come to know you, the more convinced I am that you have been associating with some very questionable men, that you would even start to imagine otherwise.”

She lay still, thinking until her skull ached with it, trying to recapture even the most tenuous sliver of recollection. Long after her pirate had returned to his duties on the Falcon and left her in the bunk with instructions to rest and relax, she wrestled with the layers of foggy darkness which enveloped her memories. There must be something, some clue, anything to reveal her true identity and explain why she harboured such a low opinion of herself.

What certainties did she once hold that were now lost to her?

“We have sighted the harbour at Santa Laura. We should be there by nightfall.”

She looked up from the book she was reading, a collection of the poems of Ben Jonson. The smile she sent his way was forced. “You will be pleased to see your home again, Captain.”

“Santa Natalia is not my home, though the place serves me well enough as a base.”

“No, I suppose it is not. You are English, so I expect you grew up there.”

He strolled across the cabin and helped himself to a mug of wine from a jug brought down earlier by one of his crew. “Actually, I grew up in New Orleans, though I have not returned for some years. There was a…misunderstanding…with the authorities there, following which I considered it prudent to take my leave somewhat quickly.”

“Oh, that is sad. Do you have family there?”

“A sister, that is all.”

“You must miss her.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. She is much younger than I, so we were not close as children, but I was always fond of her and I do wonder how she fares.”

“If you are correct and I am also from New Orleans, perhaps I know her.”

The captain smiled and finished his wine. “I doubt she would move in your circles, madame. Now, we must prepare for seeing you safe ashore.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose we must.” Her heart sank. Inside, she cringed in fear, though she tried not to show it. How would she manage in this strange land, alone, friendless, with no idea who she was or what she ought to do?

“I have no lady’s clothing to offer you, but we can purchase some items in Santa Laura. Can you manage for now in a shirt of mine and a pair of breeches? The smallest among my crew is the lad, Tom. I have instructed him to ensure that he washes his spare pants most thoroughly, and I will reward him for their loan with a new outfit.”

“Thank you, Captain. I… I am sure that will do well enough. If you keep a tally of what I owe you, for the clothes and…and anything else, I shall endeavour to repay you as soon as I am able.”

“That will not be necessary.” He strode to the door. “I shall leave you now in order to see us safely docked, but I shall have the clothes sent down. Until later, Ruby.”

Her first sight of Santa Laura was across several feet of water, in the gathering dusk. The place looked pleasant enough, idyllic even, bathed in the soft light of a tropical sunset. She shaded her eyes and could pick out a collection of timber structures lining hard-packed earth roads. Lush palms swayed in the gentle Caribbean breeze, and the soft melodic sound of low drumbeats reached her ears.

“What is that music? she asked the tall pirate captain who stood beside her at the ship’s rail.

“That is the buleador,” he explained, “a sort of wooden drum. It is originally from Africa, I believe. You will hear it a lot in these islands.”

“It is beautiful,” she breathed. “So peaceful…”

“Are you ready to go ashore?”

She nodded, able to put it off no longer. “You must be keen to be off again.”

“Not especially. I must wait here for the Marlin to limp in with the freed slaves and my men who I left on board. My crew will expect some time to frequent the bars and taverns and renew their acquaintance with certain ladies, and I have cargo to unload and sell. I expect to remain for a few days, at least.”

“Oh, then we shall see each other, I expect. Before you leave.”

He eyed her, his brow furrowing. “I had thought you might like to stay at my house on the island, Ruby. The accommodations there are comfortable, and you will be able to continue your recuperation.”

“Your house? Why, yes. Yes, thank you. I had no idea where I might go…”

“Did you imagine I would just dump you on the jetty and leave you to your own devices?”

She shrugged. That was it, more or less. Exactly what she had expected would happen.

“Ruby, this is a safe enough island, relatively speaking. Santa Natalia is remote, of little interest to the navies of either the Spanish or English. Even so, it is no place for a lady alone, especially not one as beautiful and unprotected as you are.”

“Then how… I mean, where would I—?”

“It was always my intention to offer you the safety of my house for as long as you require it.”

“Oh. You did not say.”

He took her hand and started to lead her in the direction of the gangplank. Already members of his crew scurried back and forth like rats, taking cargo ashore and bringing supplies on board. “I did not realise you thought otherwise, Ruby. You should have told me if you were concerned about what would happen once we arrived here.”

“You have done so much for me. I did not wish to trouble you further.”

He gave her an exasperated look and assisted her up onto the swaying plank which would provide the bridge back to dry land. “Did you imagine I would bed you, then abandon you?”

Again, she could not produce a ready answer. She had thought that, she supposed.

He sprang up behind her and took her elbow to steady her on the short walk across to the jetty. “Ah, Ruby, I may be a rogue, but I am not heartless. I have come to care for you, and I will see you safe. I think you will like my house.”

Chapter 7

He was right; she did like his house.

Ruby exclaimed in amazement when the small hired buggy rounded the final bend in the long, curving drive and the elegant mansion came into view. Will had purchased the house three years previously, when he determined that this island was to serve as his base. He wanted something more comfortable than his cramped quarters on the Falcon, and a fine house made a statement to his fellow buccaneers. He had wealth; he should proclaim it for all to witness.

The previous owner had made his fortune from sugar but had sadly not managed to sire any offspring to continue his life’s work. He decided that he longed to retire to his European homeland, so his plantation had been put up for sale. Will was able to acquire the property, and immediately sold on the land which came with the deal. He was only interested in the house, a grand structure offering several reception rooms, no less than eleven elegant bedrooms, an orangery, and stabling for a dozen horses.

Will kept just three horses, his own fine hunter and two to pull the carriage he had yet to purchase, so the rest of the equine accommodation was used to store the spoils from his frequent raids on His Britannic Majesty’s shipping until such time as the goods could be brought to the market. It was a convenient arrangement, and it would be Will’s usual habit to inspect his warehouse on first arriving to determine what merchandise was to be sold on next.

He made an exception on this occasion.

“I will show you around,” he offered when he brought the buggy to a halt before his imposing front entrance. He hopped down and turned to assist Ruby. There are servants, too, to attend to your needs. I will introduce you.”

His butler appeared at the top of the front steps, a broad smile on his mahogany-hued features. “Welcome, sir. We saw your sail and readied your room. Refreshments are waiting inside.”

“Thank you, Zeus,” Will replied. “As you can see, I have a guest with me. Ruby will be staying with us. Please make the necessary arrangements.”

“At once, sir. Perhaps, the West room, overlooking the bay?”

“Excellent choice.” Will took Ruby’s hand and led her up the steps. “Ruby, this is Zeus. He is in charge of everything that happens here. He and I first met aboard a slaver, as you might imagine. He had been a household slave in the past and fancied continuing in that vein as a free man. He offered his services when I purchased this house and has worked for me ever since.”

“I am delighted to meet you, Mr Zeus.” Ruby offered her left hand, and the butler took it.

“Just Zeus, Madame.” His smile was beaming as he welcomed her to the house which his employer owned but Zeus considered his domain alone.

Will led Ruby indoors, glad of the cool tiles in his vestibule which offered welcome relief from the unrelenting heat of the sun. “We will have tea in the dining room, Zeus, but first I shall show Ruby her accommodations here.”

The butler bowed and hurried off to issue instructions, and Will gestured to Ruby that she should precede him up the elegant carved staircase which led to the bedrooms.

“This is yours,” he announced, flinging open the door to the best guest room. The chamber faced west, so enjoyed the benefit of the morning sunshine, but was cool later in the day. “There is a veranda through there, which runs the length of the house.”

His own room opened onto the same veranda. Will expected to find the arrangement most convenient.

She surveyed the pretty guest room, her eyes widening when she spied the beautiful four-poster bed. “Oh, it is lovely,” she exclaimed.

“You will be comfortable here.”

“Yes, I will, of course, but…”

“Is there a problem, Ruby?” He could not imagine what might be wrong. There was no finer place on the entire island. He had made it his business to own the best house on Santa Natalia.

“I had thought… I mean, could I not share your room? That is, if you would not find it inconvenient.”

Inconvenient? Hardly.

“Is that what you want, Ruby? On board the Falcon there were no other cabins, and you had to share mine. Here, we have ample space.”

“I know, I can see that. But I rather like sharing. I find your company…pleasant, sir.”

“Pleasant?” He grinned. “Could it be that my mysterious lady is something of a harlot?”

“I would not want you to think that, not exactly. But—”

“My harlot. I find your company equally enjoyable, Ruby. I would be delighted to continue to share a bed.”

Her delicate flush was adorable. He could not resist seeing it deepen. “Of course, sharing is pleasant enough, but what I really prefer is to see you draped across my bed, your legs spread wide, and wearing nothing but a smile.”

“Captain!” Her face was puce. “Someone might hear.”

“There is no one in this house, madame, who will misunderstand the nature of our relationship once you take up residence in my room.” He took her hand again. “Come, I will show it to you.”

The master chamber was huge. Will valued the spacious accommodations, a sharp contrast to his cabin on board. His bed here alone was almost the size of his entire cabin, and windows lined the whole of one wall. His view was of cliffs to the east of the island and the bustling port below. He insisted upon being able to see the Falcon from his home and observe the various comings and goings.

The ship currently bobbed at anchor, about a mile from where he now stood looking down upon her. He was not entirely certain which of his possessions afforded him most pride, the Falcon or his home.

He thought the ship had it, but only just.

“This is a beautiful room,” Ruby exclaimed. She stood in the centre and turned in a circle, taking in the expensive furnishings, the softness of the duck-egg blue carpet, the curtains in the exact same delicate shade which framed the windows, the elegant French wardrobes and matching dresser. Those had been destined for a fine chateau on the outskirts of Paris before Will intercepted them and decided that he could find a better home for the exquisite walnut furniture.

“I am glad you like it. A seamstress from Don Juan is to attend us later today, and she will bring samples for you to make selections from. First, though, shall we see if Zeus has served that tea yet?”

“I did not realise you enjoyed tea, sir.” She took his outstretched hand. “Or that you knew that I did.”

“A guess,” he murmured. And yet more evidence that she was of gentle stock since tea was expensive, and not usually available to the less affluent classes. “Shall we go down to the dining room?”

Christ, is there any greater pleasure than the hot, tight warmth of a beautiful female body?

Will pondered the question briefly, then let out a grunt of satisfaction when he seated his engorged cock deep within Ruby’s welcoming depths. Her hips rocked from side to side, and her own sighs of delight encouraged him to greater efforts.

She had shared his chamber for the last week, and each morning their ritual had been the same. He would awaken, reach for her, and she would open her body to him. He was fond of bedding her at other times of the day, too, but the first encounter of the morning was, perhaps, his favourite. Ruby was always so warm, so sleepy, and so conveniently naked. He would be a fool not to partake of the opportunity.

She faced away from him, balancing on her knees, her delectable arse up in the air, her thighs wide for his entry. He knelt behind her and watched with fascination as his cock slid in and out of her slick pussy. The pink lips, swollen with arousal, caressed the shaft of his erection as he drove in and out. She grunted, then squeezed her inner muscles around him. Her climax would not be long now. He could slow the proceedings down, make her wait until she pleaded, moaned, begged.

His beautiful Ruby did beg so prettily. Will was tempted.

His balls contracted hard, and his cock jerked. His own lust demanded release, and he could not, would not, take his pleasure before he was quite certain she had had hers. There were few lessons he had taken to heart from his father, an honest merchant who would have been appalled at his son’s chosen career, but that was one of them.

“Never let a lady leave your bed less than satisfied, lad,” the older Mr Falconer had intoned when it first came to his attention that his son had discovered a fondness for the fairer sex. “And do not be overly concerned with your own needs. A woman’s orgasm is the greatest aphrodisiac of all.”

Will had found his father’s advice to be sage. In this regard, at least, he followed it religiously.

He reached around Ruby to find her clit. The little nub was already swollen, plump under his fingers. He rubbed the tip, then circled slowly, gathering speed until she let out a ragged cry and her pussy spasmed around him.

Will could take no more. His own climax surged forth, his semen spurting to flood her tight channel.

After, they lay quiet. He withdrew from her but held her in his arms, her bottom snuggled against his abdomen and his arms wrapped around her. He lifted the tangle of gold-red curls from her neck and kissed her, then nuzzled her ear.

“The Marlin came into port yesterday. The women you shared that hold with have been brought ashore to start new lives here on Santa Natalia.”

“Oh. I did not see it.”

“Would you have recognised the ship? I shall point it out to you from our window.”

“I suppose I would not. Are the women all right?”

“Yes, or they will be once they become accustomed to their new status.”

“That was a good thing you did, though most of polite society would view it as theft.”

“I do not,” he asserted. “No one should own another. Which brings me to something else I must tell you.”

“Oh?” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “What is that?”

“I have received word of another slave ship, Spanish this time, sailing out of Savannah bound for Galveston. As well as a cargo of slaves, she is also carrying gold and other valuables. It is a rare opportunity.”

“You mean to rob this Spanish vessel?”

“I do, yes.”

“When will you leave?”

“Today, on the afternoon tide.”

“So soon?” She rolled over in order to fully face him. “I had thought…”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I shall miss you, my Ruby. But I cannot delay if I mean to intercept the Spaniards.”

“I know. I do realise. Even so… I shall miss you, too.”

“Will you be here when I return?”

“How long do you think you will be away?”

“A few weeks, maybe longer. I cannot say for certain.”

“Please, Captain, do not leave me here. I know no one apart from Zeus and the servants. I am a stranger even to myself.”

“Ruby, you know I must go.” He wished it were not so, but he was a privateer, and this was an opportunity not to be missed. His men expected no less from him.

“Then take me with you.”

“No, it is too dangerous. Pirating is a risky affair. There will be fighting, and I would not see you injured.”

“The risks are mine to take, surely. I want to be with you. And, I can help.”

“Ruby, you are no sailor.”

“No, but I can assist Old Sawbones. I have a gentle touch, or I will have when the surgeon finally agrees to unbind my hand. He can teach me, and I can help with the sick or injured.”

He regarded her with sceptical interest. The truth was, Will was not enthusiastic about leaving Ruby behind, but he would never have insisted that she return to sea with him. The perils were too great. However, if she truly desired to come, even knowing the risk she took… And there was truth in her words about helping to treat his injured men. Despite their raucous bravado and laddish ways, most men when laid low yearned for a woman’s touch. Old Sawbones’ skills were to be respected, but his bedside manner was gruff at best. Perhaps this could work, but only if she absolutely swore to him that she would remain below decks from the moment the Spanish vessel was sighted. Her safety could never be guaranteed aboard a pirate ship, but he would do all in his power to protect her.

“Are you quite certain you wish to do this? You know already the lack of comfort on board, the cramped conditions, the monotonous food.” Not to mention the presence of thirty-odd cutthroat pirates.

“I know what I am letting myself in for. I swear I will not be a nuisance, I will work hard, and—”

“Okay, I am convinced.” Well, near enough. “Can you be ready to sail on the afternoon tide? We must be at sea by four o’clock.”

“I can. Yes, of course I can. Thank you. Thank you!” She crawled on top of him and stopped any further conversation with a kiss.

Will lay back. There was probably more he should say, detailed instructions, conditions, requirements she must swear to adhere to, but those could wait. His cock stirred, and all thoughts of negotiation fled from his head.

“Where do you expect to intercept the Spanish vessel?” Ruby asked.

They stood together on the wheel deck. His hands were on the spokes of the huge ship’s wheel, holding a steady course, heading west. Above them, the Falcon’s sails billowed in the strong Caribbean breeze, and the ship was making good time across the swell of the waves. Ruby stood before him, leaning on the wheel so he had to reach around her to grasp the handles. His chest pressed against her slender back while his cock nudged her delicious backside. The wind lifted her hair, and he dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck.

“Somewhere west of the Bahamas,” he replied, “before they enter the Gulf of Mexico.”

“How long before we sight her?”

“A couple of days, at this speed.”

“I know now why you love the sea. It is so…exhilarating.” She turned her face into the wind and laughed out loud.

It was the first time, he realised. The first time he had heard her laughing.

“We shall make a sailor of you yet, madame.”

She tilted her head to grin at him over her shoulder. “I want to learn all I can. Could you show me the charts, teach me how to read them? And how to find my way by the stars alone?”

He paused. Her enthusiasm for all things maritime was unexpected, but he found he rather liked it. “Yes, Ruby, I can teach you those things and more besides.”

“Thank you. When can we start?”

“Allow me to summon Hercules to take over the wheel, and we can go below and commence your education at once.”

“Sir! Sir! Captain, sir, a sail is sighted.” The yelling was accompanied by a furious pounding on his cabin door.

Will was awake in an instant.

“What is it?” Ruby mumbled, still half asleep.

“The Spanish ship, I hope,” Will replied, already tugging on his breeches.

“So soon?” They had only been at sea for five days.

“We have made good time, and they may have been slower than I bargained upon. Remember your promise, Ruby. Stay below.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stay below,” he repeated. “Do not test me on this or give me cause to regret bringing you.” He was at once sorry when he saw her face fall.

“I did not mean…” she started.

He sat on the edge of the bunk and framed her face between his hands. “I should not have been sharp. I apologise. But you said you wanted to be a sailor, and the first rule is obedience to your captain.”

She smiled at him. “I understand that. You will have no reason to worry for me, I swear. I will stay below and…and make bandages.”

“I trust we shall not need them. We outgun the Spanish ship, and my crew are well-trained. Not to mention that your hand is still in a splint.”

“Old Sawbones said it could come off soon.”

“Soon, but not quite yet if you are to regain the use of the hand.” He pulled on his shirt, followed by his boots. Finally, he slung his sword belt around his waist, the long scabbard sheathing the razor-sharp blade which served him well on such occasions as this. “I will let you know how matters progress.” He was at the cabin door but turned to speak to her once more. “You will hear a lot of noise when our guns start firing, but I do not expect the exchange to be prolonged.” He blew her kiss and sprinted up on deck to lead his crew into the coming encounter.

Chapter 8

It was the longest day of her life. Or she thought it might be. In truth, she could not remember.

The hours dragged. Will returned to the cabin a couple of times to inform her that the ship sighted was indeed their quarry, and he had set a course to intercept. He expected to be upon them within a couple of hours, three at most.

On another visit, he told her that the Falcon had company. Another privateer vessel was also giving chase.

“Have no fear, madame. We are swifter and bigger, with more guns than they have. I am not about to let anyone else steal my prize. The Spaniard will be ours.”

Her heart sank. She had been confident of the outcome when the Falcon was just pitted against the Spanish vessel, but to have to fight and defeat another pirate as well…those odds were not to her liking.

“Captain, please, is there anything I can do?”

“Stay safe for me, Ruby. That is all I ask.” He kissed her again and was gone.

Despite his warning, the sound of the cannons bursting into life beneath her feet almost stopped her heart. The roar was deafening. The Falcon shuddered from bow to stern with the force of the explosions. Men shouted overhead, feet pounded the decks, and the answering crash of retaliating cannon hurled Ruby to her knees. She took advantage of the occurrence to offer up a swift prayer in the hope that God might be within earshot, then scrambled back onto her feet again.

She could see little of the battle through the window at the front of the ship but pressed her nose to the pane anyway. For one brief moment, she caught a glimpse of the other pirate ship, then the Falcon changed heading, and she lost sight of it. She saw enough to surmise that their rival had fared badly in the exchange of cannon. One of her masts drooped drunkenly, and smoke was visible coming from her stern.

Then Ruby sighted the Spanish ship. It was obvious that the battle would not be prolonged. She had to assume that both pirates had turned their guns on the Spaniard and were working together to defeat her. The strategy was effective. The target vessel had lost all three masts and listed dangerously in the foaming waves. The stricken ship loomed closer as the Falcon descended upon its prey, and Ruby was hurled to the floor again when the two collided.

There was more yelling from above her, but this time jubilant, victorious whooping. It was clear that the battle was over, and the crew of the Falcon were boarding the conquered vessel. She supposed her pirate captain would be the first to swing across to the other deck.

How long must I remain down here?

She had promised the captain that she would stay out of harm’s way, but surely, now that the fighting was over, it would be safe to go up on deck.

He had not been specific, but she had given her word and would keep it. She sank onto the edge of the bunk to wait.

Perhaps half an hour passed. She heard nothing to cause her alarm. Footsteps, voices, the scrape of the two hulls as the vessels remained in contact, but nothing to suggest that battle was again joined. The captain would be occupied, she knew, supervising the freeing of the slaves and the offloading of the captured cargo. He was unlikely to return to their cabin any time soon, but he might send word to her. She resolved to wait a few more minutes.

It had been an hour, at least, since the first roar of cannon. Surely it was safe by now. Curiosity, and concern for the man she now knew she loved, spurred her to peep out of the cabin door and into the companionway beyond. She saw no one there who she could ask for news of events.

She drew a deep breath and exited the cabin. Cautiously, she made her way to the short flight of steps leading up into the daylight and ascended into the bright afternoon sunshine.

She had never seen the Falcon so crowded. Dozens of freed slaves milled aimlessly on the deck. The handful of pirates who had remained on board when most swarmed over to the captured ship attempted to herd the slaves into a group, but thus far their efforts had not succeeded. The men, for all were males, appeared stunned, confused. She supposed she could empathise with that.

Hercules was at the wheel of the Falcon, somehow managing to hold the ship steady as more liberated slaves shuffled unsteadily across the gangplank which had been slung between the vessels. She counted at least twenty, and no doubt there would be more to arrive still. He had not said so, but she assumed the captain’s plan would be to return with the slaves to Santa Natalia and liberate them there.

Desperate for firm news, she scrambled up the steps onto the raised wheel deck and clung to the rail beside Hercules. “Is all well with us?

“Aye, miss,” was the curt response. Hercules was a man of few words.

“Where is the captain?” she pressed.

The huge man spared her a glance. “Over yonder, miss.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the Spanish ship.

She shielded her eyes from the sun and peered across the narrow strip of water which separated the ships. At first, she did not see him, then his familiar blond head popped up from the hold, and he vaulted back onto the deck. He did not appear to be injured.

Thank the dear Lord…

Agile as a cat, the captain made his way across the deck and stopped to talk to another man, equally tall and broad but with much darker hair which hung loose to his shoulders. She did not recognise him; certainly he was not one of the Falcon’s crew.

“Who is that, talking to the captain?” she asked Hercules.

“That be the Raven, miss. Cap’n o’ the other ship.”

“The other pirate,” she breathed. “They…they will not fight, will they?” Her own pirate cut an imposing figure, but so did this Raven character. She feared for her lover should their confrontation come to blows.

“I doubt it. They don’t usually.”

She eyed Hercules with surprise. “Do they know each other?”

“Aye, miss. They have been known to share a jug o’ ale from time to time.”

“Oh.” Relieved and puzzled, she watched the exchange taking pace on the other vessel.

Certainly, both men appeared amicable enough. After a few minutes, the dark-haired pirate loped over to the hatchway leading into the hold and dropped down inside, to be followed by several members of both crews. Moments later, boxes and crates began to emerge from the hold to be stacked on the rolling deck.

“Some of the cargo is being brought over to the Falcon, and some to the other ship,” she observed as the loading began.

“Aye, miss. Looks like we’ll be sharin’ the booty then,” was Hercules’ summing up. “Probably best.”

She could not agree more.

* * *

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

She looked up from the chalk mixture she was pounding into a smooth paste. Several of the liberated slaves were afflicted with an ailment of the stomach, and Old Sawbones insisted that they be dosed with a medicine made from powdered chalk. It was a task she could perform one-handed, so the surgeon had given her instructions on how to prepare the remedy, and she had spent the last hour or so administering doses to all who seemed needful.

“What is it?” she asked of the young crewman who had approached her.

“The Cap’n sends ’is compliments, miss, an’ asks if ye would join ’im an’ t’other cap’n fer dinner.”

“Dinner?” she repeated.

“Aye, miss. That be what ’e said. On t’other ship, miss. I’m ter see ye safe over.”

“What, I am to go now?”

“Aye, miss, I reckon that be what ’e meant.” The crewman offered her a toothless grin.

She rose to her feet. “I see. Very well, but I should change first.” She was wearing her usual shipboard attire of a cotton tunic belted at the waist and loose-fitting breeches. She did not consider them suitable wear for a dinner invitation, even if it was on board a pirate ship. Luckily, she had brought a couple of decent gowns with her.

“Please give me a few minutes to get ready.” She was already hurrying towards the companionway.

“Aye, miss. I shall wait ’ere.”

She had dreaded being required to grab hold of one of the ropes and swing across to the other vessel, but as soon as she emerged back onto the deck wearing her best dress made of bright-green muslin, she saw that this would be out of the question. The vessels had disengaged, and already there was a distance of perhaps a hundred yards of glistening blue ocean between them as they plied a parallel course. The captured Spanish ship, now abandoned since both crews had returned to their own vessels, was nowhere in sight.

“She went down, miss,” was the helpful contribution from the crewman sent to escort her when he observed her gazing anxiously over the smooth waves to the stern of the Falcon.

“Oh. But what of the crew? Are they taken prisoner?”

“No, miss. The cap’n dinna like ter bother wi’ prisoners unless they be to ransom. That lot were worth nothin’, so they were put in a boat an’ sent off. They’ll be headin’ fer ’avana, I expect. That be the closest landfall.”

“Oh. How long will it take them to get there?”

Her escort shrugged. “Depends ’ow ’ard they row, miss. A few days, mebbe a week.”

“Will they survive a week adrift?”

“They’re not adrift, miss. Like I said, they ’ave oars. An’ enough food an’ water so long as they dinna waste it. Yer boat be down ’ere, if yer please…”

She must settle for that, it seemed. The sailor showed no further inclination towards conversation, simply assisted her into the small rowing boat which dangled from the rail of the Falcon. Once she was safely on board, the boat was lowered into the water, and her companion took up the oars and began to row them across the softly undulating waves.

When they drew close enough, she was able to make out the name of the other vessel. Raven’s Claw. She supposed that was fitting enough. The ship was smaller than the Falcon, but not by much. The damage sustained in the exchange of cannon fire was already under repair. The broken mast had been righted, though it remained a little lopsided, and the sails, although ripped in places, were reattached.

A rope ladder dropped over the side as they neared the Raven’s Claw, and her heart sank. She would be required to climb up it. The ship’s hull reared above her head, and she gulped.

It will not become any easier for thinking about it.

Resolute, she stood in the small, bobbing craft and reached for the first rung.

Helpful hands reached down to grasp her elbows when she neared the ship’s rail. Panting, she was assisted onto the deck of the Raven’s Claw. Surely it would be easier to climb back down…

“Bonjour, madame.”

She peered up into the visage of a man who would dwarf even her own pirate captain.

“I am Velvet, the Raven’s second-in-command,” he continued, offering her a bow. “I welcome you on board.”

“Th-thank you,” she managed.

“You are expected below. Please, this way.” He turned and set off across the deck.

She trotted along in his wake.

“The captain’s quarters are at the end, on the right.” The man named Velvet gestured that she was to descend the ladder onto the companionway. “Captain Falconer is already here.”

She thanked the man again and started to make her way backwards down the steep stairs.

The shouting reached her ears as soon as she set foot on the bottom step. She recognised Will’s raised voice and had to assume that the other man yelling must be the one called the Raven. There was a female voice in the mix also. She could not make out what they were arguing over, so she stepped closer.

Should she enter and interrupt? Or was it more polite to remain out of sight and pretend she had not heard them? Her mind was made up when the shouting stopped, to be replaced by the unmistakable sounds of a fight. She rushed to the door which Velvet had pointed out. It was slightly open, so she gave it a gentle shove, then stood, transfixed in horror.

Her pirate and his so-called friend were rolling on the floor exchanging punches and swearing at one another in a colourful mix of French and English. She possessed sufficient grasp of both languages to appreciate the depth of their anger and desire to do one another to death in the coming moments. Apparently, so did their female companion, a petite woman with an unruly mane of ebony-coloured curls. Her eyes never left the brawl as she backed towards the door and screamed down the passageway for help.

Unseen, Elisabeth shrank back into the corner, an area of deep shadow where she would not be noticed. She remained huddled in her hiding place when, moments later, Velvet and four other crewmen thundered past and rushed into the small cabin. At first the first mate and his companions appeared content to witness the fight and offered their view on which man might emerge victorious. Their preferred option was the Raven.

At the desperate urging of the dark-haired woman, they eventually relented and hauled the brawling captains apart, then held them secure at either end of the small cabin.

She inched closer again and tried to hear what was being said now. The men were no longer shouting, so it was not quite so easy to make out their conversation, but from the snippets she could grasp, she gathered that Will had, for some reason, insulted the Raven’s female companion.

She was baffled. Her pirate would never disrespect a lady, of that she was certain. She must have misunderstood.

She darted back into her shaded corner when the crewmen stomped from the cabin. It would seem the fun was at an end. Concluding that she could delay her entrance no longer, she stepped hesitantly towards the door.

“Oh, hello. I did not see you there. You must be…?” The Raven had followed his crewmen, intending to close the door behind them. Now he stood, framed in the doorway, looking down at her. His expression was friendly enough, though marred somewhat by the bruise blooming on his jaw.

“Ruby. I am… Ruby.” The borrowed name did not come easily from her tongue.

The Raven gestured for her to enter, so she slipped past him to stand next to Will. Despite his altercation with the other man, he did not seem especially the worse for wear. He slid an arm across her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

“My companion,” Will announced. “I told you of her.”

The Raven smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but any welcome he might have been about to offer was forestalled when his female companion charged across the cabin to glare into Elisabeth’s startled features. Instinctively, she stepped back, away from the other woman.

“What are you doing here?” the woman snarled. “Was it not enough for you that you ruined my life?”

Elisabeth could only gape, dumbfounded.

“Do you now spout your lies for my brother, too?” Vivid blue eyes drilled into Elisabeth’s own gaze.

Brother? Utterly confused, grasping for any shred of sense in all of this, Elisabeth remained speechless.

It was Will who attempted to restore sanity. He tightened his reassuring embrace around her shoulders and tried to reason with the other woman. “Paulette? What are you saying? This is Ruby, and—”

“She is lying. Her name is not Ruby.”

Will paused, appeared to be considering. Then, “Do you know her? Have you met before?”

“Oh yes,” replied the other woman, her gaze cold and assessing. “We have met before.”

Elisabeth held her breath. She should be delighted to encounter one who might be able to shed light on her identity, but she had no illusions about this particular female. The woman considered herself deeply wronged for some reason and clearly meant her harm.

“This is the woman who falsely accused me of being a thief and turned me out onto the streets,” her adversary continued. “The woman you call Ruby is Madame Elisabeth Chirac, wife to the mayor of New Orleans. And I am intrigued to know how she came to be sailing with you…”

“What? What did you say?” Will’s tone was low. “Paulette, if you are up to something…”

“Why would I lie?” the woman spat. “I know her. The question you should be asking, is what is she doing here, pretending to be someone else?”

“That does seem to be a fair enough question,” the Raven offered, by far the calmest individual in the cabin. “Would you care to enlighten us, madame?”

“I… I…” Elisabeth’s tongue felt to have swollen to three times its usual size. She could not utter so much as a syllable.

“She is setting a trap for you, that is the only explanation,” the woman named Paulette continued. “You cannot trust her. None of us can trust her.”

“No, I…” Elisabeth started to back away. If she could only reach the door…

“Perhaps we should secure her in my hold until such time as we can clarify just what is happening here,” the Raven suggested. “Paulette, would you summon Velvet to return, please?”

“No. No!” Elisabeth was seized by blind terror. Panic stung her into motion. She shook off Will’s arm and lunged for the open cabin door. Once outside, she sprinted along the companionway and up the steps, only to be confronted by the massive hulk of the second-in-command as he responded to Paulette’s shout of alarm.

Elisabeth came to a shuddering halt, tried to spin on her heel, but her feet became entangled in her skirt. She lost her balance and tumbled headlong back down the stairs to land in a crumpled heap at the feet of her pursuers. Her head hit the boards with a sickening thud, and her world went dark.

Chapter 9

Will regarded the unconscious woman in his bed with a gnawing sense of déjà vu. She looked so pale, so small, and so very lost.

Elisabeth Chirac, wife to the mayor of New Orleans, no less. Could it be true?

Paulette had no reason to lie, and he had never known his half-sister to be untruthful. They were not especially close, separated by a twelve-year age difference, distance, not to mention the fact that he had not seen her for five years or more. Still, they had always liked one another well enough, and she had been loyal to him when he needed her help.

He had found himself in the unfortunate situation of being incarcerated in the prison in New Orleans, convicted of piracy and treason, and sentenced to be hanged. Paulette had taken a message to André Hêrbert, Governor of Louisiana in Baton Rouge, an old friend of Will’s father. The governor had exercised his influence and commuted Will’s sentence to imprisonment with hard labour. Will had managed to escape the guards a few months later and had considered it prudent not to return to New Orleans since.

No, Paulette had never done him a disservice in the past, and he at least owed her the courtesy of believing her account of events, as far as it went. There had to be more, though, some explanation of why Ruby—no, Elisabeth—would act in such a manner. He did not believe her capable of deliberate malice or spite, so what might have moved her to such actions?

The name Chirac was a familiar one. The commander of the garrison when he had been imprisoned in New Orleans had been named Chirac—Giles Chirac if Will’s memory did not deceive him. He had been most adamant that Will should dangle from a noose for his crimes, and seriously vexed when his plans were thwarted. Not to be completely outdone, Chirac had made it his business to ensure that Will was assigned the most backbreaking work available, that of quarrying stone to feed the endless appetite for construction in New Orleans. Was it possible that the man had entered politics and somehow managed to get himself installed as the mayor of the city? Chirac was, in Will’s estimation, vindictive, pompous, arrogant, and more than a little dim. He could not imagine a less suitable candidate for mayor, but without doubt, stranger things had happened.

Certainly, there was no love lost between Will Falconer and Giles Chirac, but Will saw no good reason to extend his antipathy to the man’s wife. He would wait for her to regain consciousness and take matters from there.

It had been almost twelve hours since she’d fallen and hit her head, and she had been deeply unconscious since. Will had insisted upon bringing her back to the Falcon, and Old Sawbones had been summoned. The surgeon declared no further bones broken and advised the captain to wait for her to come round.

Raven and Paulette had protested at his decision, but in the end had to settle for Will’s promise that he would summon them as soon as there was any change. The Raven’s Claw was even now plying a parallel course to theirs, heading back to Santa Natalia to drop off the freed slaves.

He was determined to protect Elisabeth, as he was trying to think of her, from Paulette’s sharp tongue, but as his sister claimed to have knowledge of Elisabeth’s former existence, she might be useful in piecing events together. It was a risk worth taking.

Will did not have much longer to wait. He was at his desk studying a chart of the Gulf of Mexico when he sensed movement behind him. He turned to find himself the subject of Elisabeth’s bright-green gaze.

“Welcome back,” he said, his voice soft. “How are you feeling?”

She did not answer. Her brow crinkled in concentration, and she closed her eyes again.

Will moved to sit on the edge of the bunk. “Elisabeth? Can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes and regarded him warily. A small nod was her only other response.

“Do you remember what happened?”

She frowned again, then her eyes widened in apparent fear. “Th-there was an argument,” she murmured. “Shouting. He said hateful things…”

Will grinned. “Ah, yes, Raven does have a colourful turn of phrase. That little misunderstanding is cleared up now, though. There is no reason to be concerned.”

“Who is Raven?”

“A pirate captain. You met him yesterday.”

“Did I? I cannot remember…” Again, she screwed up her face with the effort of trying to recall the details. “Why would I be meeting a pirate captain? Where am I? I think I know you, but…”

“I am Will. Will Falconer. You are on board my vessel, the Falcon.”

“I…oh.” She shook her head as though attempting to clear her thoughts. “Where…where is my husband? Is he here?”

Will eyed her with interest. “He is not on board,” he answered carefully. “Tell me, can you remember the name of your husband?”

“Of course I remember. He is Giles. Giles Chirac. He…he is the mayor…”

So, Paulette had been correct on that score.

“We were arguing,” she went on. “Giles has done something terrible, something wicked. I… I cannot recall what it was, but I was incensed. I have never felt rage like it.” She was struggling to sit up in the bunk.

Will assisted her and shoved a pillow behind her shoulders.

Elisabeth continued with her halting tale. “I confronted Giles, in my father’s study. He was angry, and so was I.” She raised her hand to her brow, then stared at it. “Why is my hand bandaged?”

“You broke it. Our surgeon splinted it for you. Tell me, what happened in your father’s study? What did your husband do to make you so angry?”

“I do not know.” She was crying now, huge, gulping sobs. “I can only remember snippets, just images. It is all fragmented, confused, nothing makes sense.” She paused to look about herself, taking in the cabin. “How did I come to be here, on a ship? I… I hate ships.”

Will smiled. “That is not the impression I had, but let us not worry about that now. You might remember more, as time goes on.” He wrapped his arms around her, and despite her claim not to know him, she did not resist the intimacy. At some level, she clearly did remember him and trusted him, and that would do for the time being.

Her weeping calmed, and he persuaded her to lay down again. “Get some more sleep,” he advised. “We will talk again when you wake up and get to the bottom of what has happened, I promise.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. In moments, her breathing deepened as she sank into a deep sleep.

Will stood and looked down at her, hoping he had not made a promise he could not keep. He strode to the door of the cabin and called for Velvet.

“Send my compliments to the Raven and inform him that Elisabeth has regained consciousness. She is sleeping again now, but it would be helpful if he and my sister could be here when she wakes up. Oh, and send Old Sawbones down here.”

* * *

There were voices. Low, deep, murmuring quietly to one another. She recognised one, a male, but was less certain of the others. Another man, certainly, and a woman. And they were talking about her!

“She confirmed that she is married to Giles Chirac, and that they had one hell of a row over something. She cannot recall what the cause of the argument was.”

“I told you,” the female voice chimed in. “She is the mayor’s wife, and I’m not surprised that they were arguing. The man is vile. Perhaps she finally woke up and recognised that fact.”

“You are telling us that she lost her memory but has now regained it? At least in part?” This from the other man, the one whose voice she did not recognise.

“Yes, it seems to be so. Our ship’s surgeon says that if her original memory loss was caused by a blow to the head, then perhaps the second blow she sustained when she fell down the steps on the Claw somehow reversed the amnesia. He has heard of such cases.”

“It sounds a tad convenient to me. Still, you say you rescued her from a slave ship? That she had been badly beaten?”

“That is correct.”

“So, how does the wife of the mayor of New Orleans come to be in the hands of slave traders?”

An excellent question.

Elisabeth lay motionless and awaited the answer.

“I have no idea. We need her to remember more, especially about that argument with Giles Chirac. How did it end?”

Elisabeth opened her eyes and took in who else was present in the room. There was the nice, golden-haired man who had been kind to her and who said his name was Will. The other man, Raven, she assumed, had dark hair and looked every inch the ferocious pirate Will had told her he was. Beyond him, seated in the only chair in the cabin and wearing a pretty dress made of yellow muslin, sat a woman who Elisabeth recognised.

“Paulette,” she breathed and pushed herself up on one elbow. All three pairs of eyes turned to regard her. “Paulette? What are you doing here? I dismissed you…”

The woman leapt from the chair and advanced on the bed. “Yes. You lied about me, accused me of stealing from you and turned me out. I am no thief, and you knew it.”

“I…you stole my husband.” Elisabeth was as astonished as her audience. Where did that come from?

“That vile toad? He lusts after anything in a skirt. You think I would want to steal him? You must be mad.”

Will laid his hand on Paulette’s arm. “Remember, I distinctly told you not to distress Elisabeth. She is unwell, and—”

“She lied about me.”

“Perhaps, but…”

“She is right.” Elisabeth sat up fully and shoved her hair back from her face. “I did lie. I… I pretended to have discovered items of mine in her bedroom. It was untrue, but I dismissed her for stealing.”

“See. It is as I said.” Paulette pointed at her accusingly. “She is a liar. She lied about me and she lied to you about who she was.”

“Enough, Paulette.” Will came to sit beside her on the bunk. “Elisabeth, why did you really dismiss Paulette if you knew she had not stolen those things from you?”

Elisabeth drew in a ragged sigh as memories came flooding back. She remembered that horrible day when she had witnessed the pretty upstairs maid emerging from her husband’s bedroom and had known without a doubt that the pair of them had played her for a fool. How long had it been going on? She could only guess. The humiliation swept over her afresh as she recalled the desolate sense of betrayal she had felt on that day.

“I needed to talk to him about something, so I went to Giles’ room. I was about to knock on the door, but I heard noises from within. Voices—my husband’s voice,” she clarified. “and a woman giggling. I waited and saw him come out a few minutes later. She followed him,” Elisabeth tilted her chin to indicate Paulette, “still straightening her apron.”

“Paulette? Is that what happened?” Will turned to regard the woman, one eyebrow lifted.

She shrugged. “I suppose, but she had no cause to—”

“So, you were angry?” Will was speaking to her again.

“Yes,” Elisabeth replied. “I went to talk to Giles, tried to explain that he must be more discreet, better still, that he should be faithful to his marriage vows. He just laughed at me. I… I believed myself to be in love with him and I wanted to save my marriage. I still believed that Giles and I could be happy together, but Paulette was in the way, or so I told myself. So, I determined to put a stop to their affair myself. I was too embarrassed, too ashamed to admit what had really happened, but I needed to have a good reason to let her go, or Monsieur Laurent, our butler, would have been suspicious. So I made up the tale of stolen articles and ordered her from the house.”

“No employment. No reference. How was I supposed to manage after that?” Paulette demanded.

“I know. It was wrong, and I am sorry. If…if you need a reference, I would be happy to—”

“I need nothing from you. I am no longer a household servant.” Paulette lifted her chin in defiance. “I am to stay with Raven. He loves me, and I love him.”

“Oh. I am glad for you. Truly. I hope you can eventually forgive me for my actions.”

“I will never—”

“My sister is not a woman to bear a grudge,” Will interrupted. “Are you, Paulette?”

“Your…sister?” She rubbed at her temple, vaguely remembering having heard that before somewhere. “I do not understand.”

“Paulette is my half-sister. Her mother was housekeeper to my father after he was widowed. I imagine you can work out the rest.”

“Oh, I see.” Elisabeth did indeed now understand. “There is no family resemblance,” she observed.

Will laughed. “I suppose not, but still, there it is. Paulette is my little sister, and the only family I have in the world. For that reason alone, I hope that she will accept the apology offered and set aside her hostility so we can all be friends.” He lifted one eyebrow as he waited for his sister’s response.

Paulette shrugged. “If it means so much to you. But I still want to know why she did not tell you who she really was.”

“As do I,” Raven put in. “May I ask a question?”

It was not entirely clear who he addressed the request to, but Will and Elisabeth both nodded. He continued. “Madame Chirac, you told us that when you dismissed Paulette, you still believed that you could make a success of your marriage. Yes?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “That is correct.”

“Are we to understand, then, that you no longer believe that to be possible?”

She gazed at him and shook her head. “No. No, I do not. He is violent and…and…”

“And what, Elisabeth,” Will prompted. “What did he do that changed your mind?”

“He…he killed Marie Claire.” The words came out on a low whisper as the image crystallised in her mind. Vivid, in sharp, unrelenting focus, she saw again the scene that had awaited her when Monsieur Levant had asked her to accompany him upstairs. “He raped her, and he murdered her.”

“Marie Claire?” Paulette gasped. “She is dead?”

Elisabeth nodded. “I am sorry. You…you were friends?”

Paulette buried her face in her hands, but not before Elisabeth saw her stricken expression. “We shared a room. She was ill that day, that day you dismissed me. She was in bed all day, and that is how I knew you were lying about finding the stolen things under my mattress. Marie Claire was in the room the entire time, and she said you were never there.”

“I see. She…she never said anything…”

“She would not have wanted to lose her employment as I did. We both knew you to be…less than fair in such matters.”

Elisabeth flushed, deeply ashamed but could not fault the logic.

“What happened to Marie Claire?” Will prompted.

“From what I could gather when I confronted Giles, he had turned his attention to her when Paulette was no longer available. She…she put up a fight, and Giles would not take no for an answer. He denied having killed her but admitted that he had forced her and had somehow managed to silence her screams. I… I am not sure if he knew she was dead, or even if he cared. But I have no doubt that she died at his hands. I sent for the commander of the garrison so he could come and arrest Giles.”

“Forgive me, Elisabeth, but was not Chirac formerly the captain of the garrison himself? Would the present commander not have been an associate of his?”

Elisabeth nodded. “That is true, but Captain dePrieu had a duty to perform. I intended to remind him of that and insist that he set aside personal considerations and do what was needful.”

“Is that what happened, then?” Will prompted.

Elisabeth shook her head. “I do not remember. I cannot recall ever speaking to him. Perhaps Captain dePrieu did not come…”

“What is the last thing you do remember, Elisabeth?” Will took her hand in his. “Take your time, just tell us as much as you can.”

“I told him I had summoned the authorities, and he should flee if he wanted to escape. He said he was going nowhere, so I ordered him to leave my house.” She paused, the memories becoming clearer. “Yes, I recall now, he had previously said something about the mansion becoming his along with the rest of my property when we married. I had consulted the man of letters who looked after my father’s affairs and ascertained that this was not so. The house is legally entailed and must remain in my family. It was exempted from any claim Giles might have. I told him that, too, and that I never wished to see him again.”

“What did he say? What did he do then?”

“I… I do not recall. That is all I can remember. I was leaving the study…yes, I heard the clatter of horses outside and assumed Captain dePrieu had arrived. Then…nothing until I woke in the hold of the slave ship. The rest, you know.”

There was silence in the cabin for a few moments.

Raven spoke first. “We must assume that your husband attacked you, perhaps a blow to the head. While you were conveniently unconscious, they struck a deal with the slavers as a way of getting rid of you.”

“Bastard…” Will muttered. “The murdering little weasel. He killed one woman, and he surely did not intend you to survive much longer.”

“But why, if all this is true, did he simply not kill her there and then, in the study?” Paulette asked. “That would have been easier.”

“Bodies are not always easy to hide, my sweet,” was the dry response from Raven. “One dead woman in the house would have been inconvenient, two disastrous.”

“Would he have been cunning enough to work that out?” Will wondered aloud. “He had not behaved with any real intelligence up to that point.” He turned to regard Elisabeth closely. “You say you heard the arrival of Captain dePrieu and his men?”

“Yes, I think so. There were definitely horses outside.”

“Then we must assume that the captain did indeed put personal loyalty above duty. He could not have missed you, lying unconscious in a pool of blood. He must have helped Chirac and may have been the mastermind behind your abduction. That is the only explanation that makes sense. They probably came up with some tale of you having left him, and if anyone in the household had heard your row, that might have been believable.”

Silence fell again, and this time it was broken by Elisabeth. “What should we do?”

Will shrugged. “Maybe we do not need to do anything. Were there other witnesses who knew what Chirac had done?”

Elisabeth nodded. “Yes, the other household servants. The butler, our cook, another maid…”

“Not to mention the presence of a body,” Will added grimly. “Even dePrieu could not cover that up.”

“I need to know,” Elisabeth announced firmly. “I need to know that justice has been done, for Marie Claire. And now, for me. Giles tried to have me killed as well, and he should not get away with it. Neither he, nor Captain dePrieu, if indeed he was involved.” She paused, then met Will’s steady gaze. “I have to go back.”

Chapter 10

“You cannot go to New Orleans, Will. You will be arrested as soon as you step ashore.”

Paulette folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. Will shrugged, not especially keen on the prospect of returning either, but he saw no alternative. Elisabeth was right, they had to be sure that Giles Chirac had received his just deserts. And although she had never made reference to it in the days since she’d regained her memory, it was clear to him that Elisabeth Chirac was a woman of not inconsiderable wealth. She owned property in New Orleans. Why should she be expected to relinquish all of that because she had had the misfortune to marry an evil and unscrupulous man? He could, and would, offer her sanctuary on Santa Natalia if she chose to remain there, but she was entitled to so much more.

“Then I shall have to make quite certain that the authorities remain ignorant of my return,” he replied.

Paulette was unconvinced. “Do not be ridiculous. The Falcon is well known. You would be recognised as soon as you arrived within sight of the shore.”

“Then we shall not sail back on the Falcon. I believe the Marlin will have been repaired by the time we reach Santa Natalia.”

“That old rotbucket,” Raven sneered from behind his foaming mug of Will’s finest ale. “She was barely seaworthy before we attacked her, and I cannot imagine much to have improved. It would take her months to reach New Orleans, if she made it at all.”

“Then the solution is simple,” Paulette offered. “We should all go to New Orleans, on board the Claw.”

“All of us?” Raven set his mug down and regarded his lover with interest. “And how does this matter concern me?”

“Will is your friend, is he not?” Paulette reminded him. “And Marie Claire was mine. I must go with them, I…I might be able to help.”

“How will you be able to help, my sweet?” Raven asked quietly.

“We will need to make enquiries, find out what has happened in the weeks since Elisabeth disappeared. I do not see how she could just walk up to the door of the mayor’s mansion and announce her return. What if, somehow, that monster is still there? He would murder her for certain this time.”

“He will not get that opportunity,” Will snarled.

Paulette continued as though Will had not spoken. “I could knock on the back door, talk to the servants. They will remember me. Then, once we know how the land lies, we can work out what is best to do.”

“I do not want you putting yourself in harm’s way,” Raven replied. “This is madness.”

“No. It is justice.” Paulette was adamant.

Will was reminded of the stubborn little girl who had plagued him when he was a younger man, insisting that he take her to the park or allow her to ride his horse. He had found her difficult to say no to then, and he suspected Raven would fare no better.

“I will go,” she went on, undeterred, “and if you will not take me, I shall sail with Will and Elisabeth.”

Raven heaved a resigned sigh. Will grinned. He knew capitulation when he saw it.

“Very well,” Raven replied. “I can see I will not dissuade you. I shall take you. All of you. I am not known in New Orleans so I will be able to enter the city more easily than you, Will. Paulette and I will make the necessary enquiries while you two remain out of sight. Then we shall determine our next steps.”

“Thank you, my friend. I appreciate your aid.”

Raven bowed his head. “We shall deposit the slaves we freed on Santa Natalia, take on new supplies there, and set sail for New Orleans as quickly as possible.” He grinned now. “I am quite looking forward to this.”

Elisabeth cleared her throat, the first contribution she had made to the conversation. All three of her companions turned to regard her.

“I cannot thank you enough, all of you. I… I have not been accustomed to having friends in the past, just acquaintances or servants. I realise that you are doing this for Marie Claire, Paulette. And Raven, you are doing it for Will and for Paulette. But I do most sincerely appreciate your help and…and if I can ever repay you, I shall do so.”

“You are among friends now,” Will said. “You must believe that.” He looked to his companions to back him up.

Raven shrugged. “A beautiful woman is always welcome among my friends.”

Paulette scowled at her brother, then at Elisabeth. “I suppose she is not so bad,” she allowed after some consideration, “when you get to know her. Mind, I shall never call her ‘my lady’ again.”

Elisabeth smiled at the other woman. “I would hug you if I believed you might permit it.”

“Do not push your luck.” But Paulette was smiling, too.

* * *

“How long have they been gone?” Elisabeth paced the tiny cabin she and Will had shared on board the Raven’s Claw, Velvet having been temporarily sent to bunk down with the crew. “Maybe we should go after them. What if—?”

“It has only been a couple of hours, barely time for them to row to the shore and get to your old home. Be patient, sweetheart. We agreed to wait here for news, and that is the best thing to do right now.”

She knew that Will was right, but however reasonable the course he suggested, she could not settle. Elisabeth continued to pace.

“Perhaps I should toss you onto the bunk and make love to you. Will that give us some peace, do you think?”

She glared at him. “How can you think of such matters at a time like this?”

He shrugged. “Such matters as you call it are seldom far from my mind, my love.”

“I do not think—”

“That is the point, not to think.” He rose from where he had been lounging on the bunk and grasped her by the hand. “Come, join me.”

Mere moments later, her skirts hitched up around her waist and her thighs spread wide, Elisabeth sighed as Will sank into her. She lifted her legs and hooked her ankles together in the small of his back and clung to his shoulders when he drove his cock in and out of her willing body. She now recalled quite vividly that it had never been like this before, with Giles. His fumbling attempts between their sheets had been few and far between, and deeply unsatisfying, though she had lacked the experience to know the difference. Had she been called upon to account for any deficiency, she would have blamed herself, her own lack of skill or finesse.

Now, she knew better.

I love you.

She had thought this might be the case almost from first making his acquaintance, but her lack of any past memories rendered her unable to know for sure. The huge black hole where her past life ought to be robbed her of the confidence to know her own mind, her own feelings. Now, she knew no such encumbrances. She adored Will. It was that simple.

Arousal bloomed, and pleasure quickly overwhelmed her. Elisabeth moaned. Shudders racked her body. Waves of delight swept through her. Perhaps her response was heightened by the tension of the wait for news, or maybe she had been affected by the mounting sense of anticipation as the Raven’s Claw made her way back to New Orleans and the inevitable confrontation with Giles drew closer. Whatever the cause, passion sent her soaring, and Will was with her every step of the way.

After, they lay still, his cock still inside her. Elisabeth did not wish to part from him, not yet.

“Captain,” she began.

He laid his fingers across her mouth. “Elisabeth, when a man has any part of his anatomy inside any part of yours, surely you ought to at least be on first-name terms. Why do you not use my given name?”

“Will…” she breathed.

“Mmm, better. He kissed her. “And since we are exchanging intimacies, you should know that I love you, too.”

“I…what?”

“I love you. too,” he repeated.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“You did. Was that not your intent?”

“I did not wish to…to pressure you or to make matters awkward between us. I am a married woman.”

“You are, yes. But one way or another, that is a state of affairs that cannot continue.”

“I know, but—”

“We will expose Giles for the evil killer he is, then we shall take stock of our own situation. One step at a time, Elisabeth, but be assured, I do love you. I think I have, from the start. However, I am an outlaw, a pirate. I live well enough, but in exile. I could not ask you, a fine New Orleans lady, to share that life. It is too dangerous, too uncertain.”

“I would. I will, in a heartbeat.” Elisabeth clung even more tightly to him, determined to never let him go. “We shall be together, no matter what.”

Will did not answer, but Elisabeth was undeterred. They had come too far for it to be otherwise.

Another hour passed, then another. Elisabeth was again pacing the cabin, and Will, too, was losing his usual calm demeanour.

“How much longer before we go in search of them?” she demanded.

“We will wait for one more hour,” Will conceded. “But there will be no ‘we’ going anywhere. You will remain here, well out of the reach of either your husband or Captain dePrieu.”

“But I want to—”

“I know. I do know that, but if that pair of murdering bastards have any cause at all to suppose you have survived and returned to haunt them, they will be determined to be rid of you for good this time. If it comes to it, I shall go ashore, with Velvet and others from Raven’s crew.”

Elisabeth could readily see the sense in his words, but the unbearable waiting was driving her to distraction. Anxiety for news, and mounting fear over what might have befallen her newfound friends robbed her of the ability to think straight. She was toying with the idea of suggesting another therapeutic tumble on the bunk, when a clatter overhead brought her to her feet.

“They are back!”

Will was at the cabin door in an instant. He threw it open, and the pair of them rushed out to find Raven in the corridor, Paulette at his heels. “Thank God you are returned. Are you both well?” Will grasped Raven’s hand and shook hard, then relented and hugged him, before turning to embrace his sister.

Elisabeth beat him to it. Pushing her luck or not, she flung her arms about the other woman and held her tight. “Are you all right? We have been desperate, fearing you injured or imprisoned. Or worse. We expected you back hours ago…”

“We are fine.” Paulette accepted the greeting and hugged Elisabeth back. “But we had to make several additional calls in order to complete our task.”

“Aye,” Raven agreed. “I believe we have earned a mug of ale. You will require sustenance, too, when you hear what we have discovered.” He strode back to the bottom of the steps leading up on deck and yelled into the space above. “Charlie? Bring ale to my cabin, and four mugs.”

Raven and Paulette’s accommodations on board were more spacious, though only slightly, but at least they could all be seated in the captain’s cabin. Raven led the way and gestured to his guests to sit down. Elisabeth and Will perched on the edge of the bunk, Raven took the single chair, and Paulette pulled up a small stool.

“So, did you speak to the servants? Did you see Monsieur Levant or Madame Fançeau?” Elisabeth leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, desperate for news.

Raven shook his head. “They are no longer there.”

“What?” Elisabeth was incredulous. “Where could they be?”

Raven’s response was delayed by the arrival of his cabin lad carrying a jug of foaming ale and four mugs. Charlie deposited his burden on the captain’s table and scurried out. Raven paused in his report to pour them each a mug full and hand them round.

“What happened to Monsieur Levant and Madame Fançeau?” Elisabeth demanded. “Did you find out?”

Paulette took up the tale. “I knocked on the kitchen door, expecting Madame Fançeau to answer, but the woman who came was a stranger. I asked for Madame Fançeau and was told she no longer worked at the mansion. When I asked to speak with Monsieur Levant, I thought she was about to slam the door in my face, but Raven convinced her that she should answer my questions. Even so, there was not much that she could tell us. None of the servants who worked for you remain at the house now, and the woman we met, the new cook, insisted she had no idea where they had gone.”

“But that is impossible. Monsieur Levant has worked for my family since before I was born. He would never leave. Madame Fançeau, too, has been in our employ for over twenty years.”

“The new cook was especially guarded as far as Monsieur Levant was concerned,” Raven put in.

“Keen to hear what they might have to say regarding your whereabouts, Elisabeth, I asked if I might speak with Madame Chirac.” Paulette grinned. “And here it becomes very interesting. According to the new cook, the mayor’s wife is away visiting her aunt in Atlanta and not expected to return for some time.”

“So that is his tale. And my husband?” Elisabeth breathed. “Is he still there?”

“Mayor Chirac is, apparently, in residence, but he was not at home when we called.”

“So, he has somehow contrived to be rid of all the witnesses who might incriminate him?” Will observed.

Raven grinned. “So he hoped. Fortunately, Paulette knew where Madame Fançeau’s sister is employed, so we were able to go and talk to her.”

“Her sister?” Elisabeth looked hopefully at Paulette.

“Yes. I remembered that Madame Fançeau once mentioned her sister who is housekeeper at the Villère house in Bourbon Street. I had the impression that the two were close, so I was certain she would know of Madame’s current whereabouts. We went to speak with her. She told us that Madame Fançeau now works at a bakery not far from the harbour, so we went to seek her out.”

“Did you find her?”

Paulette nodded. “I think it is fair to say that she was very surprised to see us. And extremely pleased. She sends her warmest regards, Elisabeth, but warns that you are in extreme danger and you must avoid going into New Orleans at all costs.”

“So, Giles was not convicted of the murder?”

Paulette shook her head. “He was arrested by Captain dePrieu, according to Madame Fançeau, but returned to the mansion three days later. There was insufficient evidence, apparently, and as you had seemingly departed to visit your aunt and you were not available to provide an account of what had happened, it was Monsieur Chirac’s word against that of Madame Fançeau and Thérèse. He made it perfectly clear what would happen to anyone who saw fit to challenge his version of events, and within days of his return, Madame Fançeau had been dismissed. Thérèse fled the house as soon as your husband reentered it. The poor girl was scared out of her wits, and I daresay with good reason. She was sure he would turn his attention to her next, and who is to say otherwise?”

“But what about Monsieur Levant? He is an honest man. He would be believed, surely.”

Paulette flattened her lips in a grim scowl. “That is the worst part of it, Elisabeth. Since it was perfectly obvious that Marie Claire had been raped before she was murdered, and if Monsieur Chirac was not the culprit, suspicion inevitably fell upon the only other male in the house.”

“How ridiculous,” Elisabeth exclaimed. “Monsieur Levant would never be suspected of such a deed. How could anyone—?”

“But they did, Elisabeth. Your husband was keen enough to pin the blame on someone, and the butler was the only candidate. Giles’ crony at the garrison was glad enough to arrest Monsieur Levant. He was charged with the murder, tried, and found guilty. He…he is sentenced to hang in two days’ time.”

Elisabeth could only gape at Paulette in stunned dismay.

Sentenced to hang? Monsieur Levant? How could anyone think this travesty bears even the slightest resemblance to justice?

“We must do something,” she breathed. “Anything. We cannot allow this to happen.”

“Your butler is imprisoned in the castle dungeon,” Raven said. “I took a look at the place, and it appears impregnable. I doubt if we could release him by force, but it might be possible to bribe the guards…”

“It is impregnable,” Will agreed. “I spent a few weeks there myself, and there was no talk of anyone ever escaping. Or being rescued.”

“But we must. He is innocent,” Elisabeth protested.

“Even if we did somehow manage to free him,” Will continued, “he would be a renegade. He would have to flee the city and he would be on the run for the rest of his life.”

“He is an elderly man,” Elisabeth replied, “too old for all of this. How could Giles do this to him? To all of us?”

“He is without conscience, Elisabeth, and thinking only of saving his own neck.” Will’s expression was grim. “If this situation is to be resolved with any degree of satisfaction, we must prove that your butler did not commit this crime. And we must do so quickly, or it will be too late to help your old friend.” He frowned. “I have an idea, but we must act with all possible speed. Raven, I need you to go ashore again and procure me a horse. The fastest mount you can purchase, whatever it costs.”

“A horse?” Elisabeth stared at him. “Where are you going?”

“Where are we going, my sweet,” he corrected. “We shall go to see the Governor of Louisiana, in Baton Rouge. If we can convince him of the injustice being done here, he will intervene.”

“Of course,” Paulette cried. “Your old friend André Hêrbert.”

“You know the governor?” Elisabeth was taken aback.

“I do. More to the point, do you know him?”

“Slightly,” she confirmed. “Monsieur Hêrbert would come to dinner with my father in the past, when he had occasion to visit New Orleans. He has never accepted an invitation from Giles, however.”

“So, he will know you by sight? There will be no need to prove your identity?”

She shook her head, still puzzled. “He would recognise me. I am quite certain.

“I can get us an audience with him, and your testimony will be sufficient, I am quite sure of it, to convince the governor to at the very least instruct a stay of execution and a fresh investigation.”

“But why would he help us?”

“Monsieur Hêrbert is an honest and decent man. He would not permit this miscarriage of justice if he was aware of it. And, from the sound of it, he is no friend of your husband. We need only get to him in time for him to send soldiers back to New Orleans before the hanging.” Will turned to regard Raven. “And there you must come in, my friend.”

Raven inclined his head. “Two days is not enough time. Baton Rouge is over a day’s ride from here, however speedy the mount, and any troops the governor might see fit to send would take at least as long to reach New Orleans.”

“Exactly.”

“I will find a way to buy you more time.” Raven downed the remainder of his ale and got to his feet. “But now, I have some horse trading to do. Be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

Chapter 11

A rat scurried over his foot, heedless of the man slumped against the clammy stone wall. Charles Levant, formerly butler to the mayor of New Orleans, now convicted murderer, gazed listlessly at the rodent and pondered the cruel twist of fate which had brought him to this.

His life would end in precisely twenty-two minutes’ time.

The bowl of grey, congealed porridge which a guard had pushed under the door two hours earlier remained untouched, the mug of greasy, tepid water the same. Charles did not see the point of forcing the vile food down.

He had protested his innocence every day of the six weeks which had passed since Thérèse had burst into the kitchen at the mayor’s mansion. Or rather, he had started to protest three days later, when the mayor had returned from his brief incarceration, exonerated, and suspicion fell upon his own shoulders. It had done no good. A scapegoat was required, and he was to be it. Giles Chirac had insisted the old butler must be the killer, and Captain dePrieu had agreed that there was no other explanation. He had been seized and dragged out of the house, thrown in this cell where he had languished every day since, with the exception of his brief appearance before the city magistrates. The evidence against him had been read to the court and consisted principally of the ‘fact’ that he was the only possible culprit. The verdict was swift in coming, as was the sentence.

Death, by hanging, the sentence to be carried out one calendar month from that date.

Charles had spent each of the next thirty days counting down to his fate. He even scratched the days off on the wall to his right, using a lump of broken plate he’d found on the floor. So, he knew it was to be today. Eight o’clock, he expected, though he had not been informed. That was the usual time for such proceedings. He had listened with care to the chiming of the clock on the chapel adjacent to the fort. It had struck seven-thirty a few minutes ago, and he had been counting down the seconds and the minutes since.

Charles did not want to die, but he understood the inevitability of what faced him. He would meet his end with dignity, or so he hoped, and if an opportunity arose to again claim his innocence and accuse Giles Chirac, he would take it. He could not save himself, it was far too late for that, but if he could manage to sow even the tiniest seeds of doubt, someone, somewhere, might begin to regard Chirac with suspicion. Perhaps his reelection as mayor at the end of his term would not be a foregone conclusion.

Booted footsteps on the flags beyond his cell door and the grinding of the huge lock heralded the beginning of the end for Charles Levant. He got to his feet, aimed a last irritated kick at the closest rat, and turned to face the guards who had arrived to escort him outside.

Bright sunshine greeted him, and he looked up into the azure sky. This would be his last sight of a summer’s morning, and he meant to savour the remaining minutes. He breathed in, enjoying the fresh air but wishing it could have been somewhat cleaner. The drains serving the fort left much to be desired.

One of the soldiers nudged him in the back, and he shuffled forward, hoping not to be forced to view the scaffold too closely. All too soon, the short flight of steps faced him. He gazed up, into the masked visage of the hangman.

Charles was not a religious man, but he thought it prudent to mutter what he could recall of The Lord’s Prayer as he mounted the steps. Despite his resolve, he stumbled close to the top and might have fallen had the hangman not been quick to thrust out his hand and grab Charles’ arm.

“Easy, my friend. We would not want you to fall and break your neck.” The executioner chuckled.

Charles did not entirely appreciate his brand of dark humour, but at least the man did not seem unduly cruel. He stood quietly whilst his hands were drawn behind his back and bound.

“Do you want a hood?” the hangman offered.

Charles shook his head.

“I believe it would be preferable, sir. Indeed, I feel I must insist.”

Charles regarded the man over his shoulder. Was he mistaken, or did the hangman just wink at him?

Before he could process that bizarre possibility, the rough sack cloth hood was flung over his head, to be followed by the weight of the noose around his neck. A brief moment of panic was all he had time for before the trap door beneath his feet disappeared and he plunged to certain death.

The noose had barely tightened about his neck, when strong hands caught his feet and shoved his legs over wide shoulders. He hung, his weight now borne by whoever had been concealed within the platform of the scaffold. Other hands on his shoulders steadied him, and a low voice murmured in his ear.

“Play dead, Monsieur Levant, if you value your life.”

Stunned, confused, utterly bewildered, Charles nevertheless managed to gather what remained of his scrambled wits. He did not even nod his response, just hung there, his head at what he hoped would be a convincingly unnatural angle. Long seconds passed, during which the crowd who had assembled to witness his dispatching shouted their encouragement to the hangman and their general satisfaction with the morning’s entertainment.

Fingers pressed against his bare neck signalled that his bewildering ordeal might be almost over.

“He is dead,” the hangman announced in a loud voice for the benefit of those watching, then in a low voice, he added. “On ten.”

Charles counted the seconds away. He reached nine, then found himself tumbling again when the rope slackened at the precise moment the man bearing his weight ducked to the ground. The result was a convincing plummet for the benefit of onlookers, and this time he landed in a crumpled heap on the earth beneath the scaffold. The noose was dragged from around his neck, and the hood pulled from over his head. He gazed up into the face of the largest man he had ever seen.

Before Charles could utter a word, they were joined by the hangman who had dropped through the still-open trap door. “Good work, Velvet. Is the cart ready?”

“Right outside, mon capitaine.”

“Remember, you are dead,” the executioner reminded the man who lay at his feet.

Charles could only nod and managed a decent impersonation of that state, he hoped, when the huge man picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. He was dumped unceremoniously onto the bed of a cart which smelled suspiciously of rotten fish. The cart rumbled into motion. Charles lay perfectly still as the vehicle carried him away from his fate.

He was alive. He could not start to comprehend why or how, but it seemed he had not seen the last of his summer mornings after all.

* * *

“Oh, dear Lord, please let us be in time…” Elisabeth wrung her hands as the carriage rattled through the streets of New Orleans in the direction of the fortress which dominated the city.

Seated across from her, Will could only manage a grim smile. They both knew perfectly well that the execution had been scheduled for the previous day. They had to hope that Raven had somehow contrived to delay matters.

By now, she imagined, her husband would be under arrest pending further enquiries into the events at the mayoral mansion six weeks ago. This time, those enquiries would include her own evidence, and she believed that would prove damning. Certainly, André Hêrbert had been sufficiently impressed when she’d related her story to him that he had ordered two dozen men to leave at once for New Orleans.

Her optimism soared a little when they were passed by a group of the governor’s men coming in the other direction, away from the fort. Captain dePrieu was among them, bound to the saddle of his horse and looking distinctly ill at ease.

“Where are they taking him?” she asked Will.

“To Baton Rouge, I expect. There will be more chance of a fair investigation and trial there. I would imagine your husband is already on his way as well.”

“I see.” She knew a moment of satisfaction, but it was brief. She would not really be satisfied until she was sure they had been in time to save the innocent man accused of the murder. “But, what of Monsieur Levant. Do you think…?”

“We must only hope Raven was successful.”

She fell silent. There was nothing more to say.

* * *

“Aye, my lady. The hangin’ took place yesterday. An’ a right good hangin’ it were. There’s a new hangman, an’ he—”

Sickened, Elisabeth turned away from the guard who had met them at the gate to the fortress. His eager relating of the story of her loyal butler’s gruesome and undeserved fate brought her fragile hopes to a crashing end. She covered her face in her hands.

“We were too late. Too late…”

Will took her in his arms. “Sweetheart, we shall—”

“What took you so long?”

They both turned at the jovial greeting. Raven waved to them from a nearby stall selling mead. He had secured a table, and he and Paulette appeared to be enjoying their morning in the hot sunshine.

“We have been waiting for you.” he called. “Join us in a cup or two.”

“How can you just sit there, drinking, when an innocent man has been put to death?” Elisabeth stormed over to glower at the pair. “You had one job to do, and you failed. It has all been for nothing.”

Raven shrugged. “I do not think so,” he countered.

“Monsieur Levant was hanged yesterday,” she ground out.

“True enough. And may I say, he made a right fine fist of it. I can quite see why you hold him in such regard.”

“How can you be so callous? He was innocent.”

“Aye. He was. Still is, and now I daresay you will be in a position to prove it.” Raven got to his feet and offered his hand to Paulette. “If neither of you is inclined to join us in a mug of mead, may I suggest we all return to the Claw. We have a guest waiting for us there, and I believe you will be most pleased to see him.”

“A guest?” Will was quick to take his friend’s meaning. “You got him out?”

Raven inclined his head. “As your lady has so kindly pointed out, one job.” He sauntered away, his arm around Paulette’s shoulders. “Are you two coming?”

Epilogue

Six months later

“We will take our tea in the drawing room, Monsieur Levant.”

“Of course, my lady, and may I suggest a plate of Madame Fançeau’s syrup tarts to go with it, freshly baked this morning? I can particularly recommend them, and I am aware that Madame Auvin does have a fondness….”

Elisabeth smiled. “Indeed she does, and she is not alone. Perhaps just a couple.”

“With cream, madame?”

“Certainly. Thank you.” Elisabeth straightened her skirts and made herself comfortable on the plump sofa, then bestowed a serene smile on her companion.

Paulette, now Madame Auvin since her marriage to her own pirate just three months previously, smiled back and patted the enormous swell of her belly. “I wonder if I shall be quite so partial to syrup tarts after this little one is born,” she mused out loud.

“I imagine so,” was Elisabeth’s considered opinion. “How long is it now?”

“Just a month or so.”

“Are you excited?”

Paulette nodded. “I am, but not nearly so excited as Raven. I swear, the man has become more than a little syrupy himself since he learned he was to be a father. I have never seen anyone so besotted.”

“He will be an excellent father, I know it.”

“As will my brother, I expect.” Paulette raised one dark eyebrow. “Does he know?”

“Know what?” Elisabeth flushed under her friend’s scrutiny and could not resist laying a hand over her own abdomen.

“There. I knew it. You have a curiously serene air about you of late, Elisabeth, and I was sure there could be but one explanation. So, have you told Will yet?”

Unable to hold back her smile, Elisabeth nodded. “Last night. He…he is equally besotted.”

“So, you will be married soon, I expect. It will not do for the heir to the Bézac fortune to be born out of wedlock, though of course, such an eventuality is not unknown among the Falconers.”

“Your legitimacy or otherwise is a matter of no concern whatsoever, especially since Will insisted that you should inherit your father’s house. I trust it is passing muster as the mayor’s new residence.”

“It is, but do not attempt to change the subject. Ah, here is Monsieur Levant with our syrup tarts.” She flashed a determined smile Elisabeth’s way. “Do not allow yourself to imagine that this conversation is over.”

They oohed and aahed over the tarts, gasping at the crumbly perfection of Madame Fançeau’s pastry and licking their lips to ensure none of the sweet filling could go astray. The carpet about them was scattered in crumbs by the time the small plate was emptied.

“Now,” Paulette continued, “where were we? Ah, yes, I was considering how long I should wait before asking Raven to insist that Will do the honourable thing and marry you. After all, he is living here with you, and if that evidence is anything to go by,” she gestured at Elisabeth’s still perfectly flat stomach, “you share a bed.”

“Will is being honourable, or so he thinks. He is uncomfortable that others might believe him to be marrying me for my wealth. After all, it would not be the first time that a man did so.”

“One,” Paulette began, raising her index finger to indicate the count, “my brother’s wealth may be ill-gotten, at least in part, but it certainly equals your own. I have told him so. And now that he is making an honest living, his social standing is not so very different either. And two,” a second finger was raised, “Giles is long gone, and you are to put him from your mind. He got what he deserved, he and that evil associate of his. It was all I could do to prevent Raven playing the hangman again, just to ensure the pair of them met their Maker with all possible haste. He would have done it, I am sure, had not Monsieur Hêrbert insisted that such an act would be unbecoming in the mayor.”

“He has done well for himself, your pirate. Pardoned and elevated to the position of mayor, all within the space of one day.” Even now, months later, Elisabeth could not quite believe it. She could not be more pleased for her friend’s change in fortune and status. Paulette had gone from upstairs maid to become the mayor’s wife, and soon to be the mother of his child, in less than a year. Her rise in New Orleans society had been little short of meteoric, and there were many among the elite ladies of the city who whispered as much behind their elegant gloved hands.

Elisabeth had no time for such snobbery and wondered that Will should be even remotely interested in the ungenerous views of such narrow-minded dowagers. It seemed to her that he was, though, and considered himself unworthy of her. The entire thing was absurd in her view, but she was patient and in no hurry. She would wait until he came to his senses.

“Monsieur Hêrbert prefers a man of my husband’s talents to be working on the right side of the law,” Paulette continued. “The vacancy arose when Giles was arrested, and Monsieur Hêrbert felt it should be filled without delay. Since Raven had not actually committed any crimes here in Louisiana, the governor felt able to hand down the pardon. His skills are well-suited to the role, and he is proving himself to be an excellent politician, I believe.”

“Monsieur Hêrbert, or your husband?”

“Both,” Paulette confirmed emphatically. “But we digress. How are we to settle the matter of my brother’s tardiness in making an honest woman of you?”

“Please do not bother yourself with my problems. Will is himself not without means, as you say, and since he was also pardoned by Monsieur Hêrbert, he has established himself as a merchant and has demonstrated some considerable aptitude for the role. He is already wealthy and promises to become much more so. Once he recognises that and ceases to think of himself as an outlaw pirate, he will be less reticent about declaring himself, I am sure of it.” She paused to consider. “A pity, really. I did rather like him as a pirate. So dashing…”

“You may be right, and I will confess to a lingering fondness for pirates myself. But I still consider a kick up the arse to be in order. And I shall administer it, as soon as I am able to do so without ending up flat on my back like an upturned bug.”

“What an intriguing image.”

Both women turned to regard their husbands as the men entered the drawing room.

“Whose arse are you considering for such treatment, my love?” Raven dropped a kiss on Paulette’s curls, while Will tipped up Elisabeth’s chin to slant his lips across hers.

“His,” came the reply. “Elisabeth is enceinte, and he will not marry her.”

“The cad,” Raven agreed. “I shall be delighted to kick his arse on your behalf, my darling.”

“There will be no arse-kicking, at least, not in my drawing room,” Elisabeth declared. “This porcelain has been in my family for generations, and I will not have it reduced to smithereens. Monsieur Levant would never countenance such behaviour.”

“You are quite right, my love. We cannot risk the porcelain,” Will said, “nor Monsieur Levant’s wrath. I wonder, will this serve to stave off those dire threats?” He produced a small velvet bag from his pocket and offered it to Elisabeth.

She took it and loosened the ties, then tipped the contents onto the palm of her hand. A ring tumbled out. “A ruby,” she breathed. Then she fixed him with a stern look. “Did you steal it?”

“A ruby seemed fitting,” Will acknowledged. “And no, I did not. I am a reformed character, or so André Hêrbert insists. It was my mother’s engagement ring, and now, I hope, it will be yours.” An anxious expression flittered across his handsome features. “You do not want me to go down on one knee, do you?”

“No, I—”

“Well, she may not, but I think you should,” Raven drawled, now lounging on the sofa opposite. “It’s the least you can offer, after all that dithering.”

“I was not dithering,” Will snarled. “Can you not simply congratulate me, or better still, mind your own fucking business?”

“Looked like dithering to me. Glad you’ve seen the light at last, and without me having to resort to violence after all, though apparently my wife is not entirely of the same mind.” Raven grinned at Paulette. “Let it never be said I did not marry well.”

Will let out a sound which put Elisabeth in mind of the grumpy old mastiff her father once owned, though Raven was, as ever, undeterred.

“And who is to say congratulations are in order anyway? She has yet to accept you. If the lady has any sense, she will tell you to fu—”

“I will.”

Her three companions fixed their collective gaze on her.

Elisabeth reddened and continued. “I accept your proposal. I shall be delighted to marry you, Captain Falconer. Will,” she corrected. “Now please, be seated before the three of you reduce my drawing room to rubble.”

About Ashe Barker

Ashe Barker whiles away her time in the wilds of Yorkshire, England, writing smutty books and drinking Earl Grey tea. She loves writing historical stories and has a particular passion for masterful, take-charge heroes.

When not writing Ashe enjoys digital photography, reading erotic stories, pole dancing (though not especially well), and listening to Bon Jovi. Loud.

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The Dark Heart of the Sea

by Celeste Barclay

Chapter 1

Ruairí MacNeill opened the door to the Three Merry Lads and tried not to curl his nose in disgust. The stench of too many bodies, stale beers, and burned food created a cloud of stench inside the tavern. Ruairí scanned the crowd as he stepped inside and immediately noticed that many members of his crew were already settled, a pint in one hand and a woman in the other. His ship, the Lady Charity, had docked an hour earlier. With their most recent bounty already stored in the nearby cave, Ruairí had granted them shore leave. He nodded his head once to his first mate, Kyle, who was the only sober one in the lot. Ruairí made another visual sweep of the room, checking whether there were any other sailors who might be less enthused to see him come ashore. When he was satisfied none of his rivals were waiting to stab him, he attempted to make his way to the bar. As he pushed through the standing-room-only main room, he noticed a tavern wench attempting to carry a tray of empty mugs to the bar. She was a sturdy sort, but short when compared to the mountainous Highlanders and Hebrideans who made up the patrons of the Lads. Ruairí could not help but smile as she tried to twist and shoulder her way past men who blocked her on purpose to give themselves more time to ogle her body.

It was rare that Ruairí felt mercy, sympathy, or compassion for anyone, let alone a woman, but there was an odd twinge in his heart as he watched her try to maintain her smile as she became more frustrated. The woman swatted away a hand that dared come too close to her modest neckline. That observation caused Ruairí to quirk a brow and inspect the woman. She had on a clean white blouse–a rarity in this tavern–and it fit loosely over her entire bust. It left much to the imagination, and Ruairí found his was alive and well. Her skirts reached her ankles instead of hiked up on either side like the other women who worked in the tavern. From what Ruairí could tell, she looked more like a farmer’s wife than a tavern wench. She did not fit in.

Ruairí’s sense of compassion grew alongside his annoyance at not being able to make his way to the bar. He began to elbow men around him, and the crowd parted. Between his size and reputation, Ruairí MacNeill was a hard man to ignore. He grasped the top of the woman’s hips and propelled her forward. She attempted to look over her shoulder, but she could not make out the man who was either her captor or her protector. When they made it to the bar, the woman set her tray down and spun around.

Senga MacLeod could not believe the man who stood before her was real. He was more Adonis than man. Her eyes swept over his sun-bleached blond hair, taking in his broad shoulders, the ring in his ear, and the cornflower-blue eyes. He was not the largest man she had ever seen; after all, she lived near the Highlands. But he was somehow the most imposing, which made him the most impressive. There was a smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth as he watched her assess him.

“Am I not what you expected, lass?” The deep timber felt as though it vibrated through every fiber of Senga’s body, wrapping around her like a warm woolen plaid on an icy winter morning. “Or am I just what you hoped for?”

His second question snapped Senga out of her glazed stare. She frowned as she appraised him. “You are exactly what I expected, and far less than I could hope for.” She exchanged the dirty mugs on her tray for full ones.

“How could you have known what to expect when you couldn’t see me?” Ruairí asked, amused.

“A man who assumes he can put his hands on me and do as he wants with me? Shockingly unexpected. An arrogant pirate with an earring, even more surprising.” Senga once again turned away.

“You seem to know me so well, lass, but you are an enigma to me.”

“An enigma? A pirate who can do more than curse. You are full of surprises.”

“And you are as prickly as a thistle, but then, they are among the most beautiful flowers.”

Senga turned to stand facing Ruairí once again. “If I am prickly, it is because I’ve learned to take everything men say here with a barrel of salt,” she huffed out. “But I can at least be gracious enough to say thank you for helping me through the crowd. I wasn’t making any progress on my own.”

Senga lifted her tray and dove back into the crowd as Ruairí watched her waist-length black braid swish close to her backside. He could not help it when his eyes were drawn to her trim waist, broad hips, and ample bottom. He had already noticed her eyes were a deep shade of brown shot through with light green lightning strikes. It made her eyes luminescent, and he suspected they would change color with her mood. A consuming desire to discover what hue they became when locked in the throes of passion heated his bollocks.

Ruairí watched her throughout the evening as she wove her way through the crowd, avoiding clawing hands that tried to roam over her or attempted to pull her onto the lap of a drunkard. Each time he was ready to stand and come to her defense, but she would pull a drying linen from the waist of her apron and snap it across those daring hands. All the while, Senga served the men with a smile plastered to her face, but even from a distance, Ruairí could see the strain around her eyes and how her smile stretched her cheeks taut. He admired her calm and patience, but his blood boiled as he watched patrons manhandle her. He could not understand where these feelings of sympathy and possessiveness came from. When he initially approached her, he found her form appealing. When she faced him, he was interested, and when they matched wits, he was intrigued. It had been a long time since any woman intrigued him past what she could do in bed or against a wall. He found he wanted her to come back so they could talk again, but she never did.

Senga felt overheated and could feel her shirt sticking to her back. Her backside was sore from an overly firm slap. She forced herself to continue smiling, but her cheeks ached along with her head. Senga never acclimated to the noise and smells of the tavern, and she left every night with a sharp headache. She was relieved when her uncle sent her to get two pails of fresh water from the well. Senga moved into the kitchen and grabbed the buckets before making her way to the side door. She sensed the pirate’s attention all night, but he did not seem as lecherous as the other men. Instead, he seemed almost protective, which she found puzzling. She chortled to herself as she thought about their brief exchange. He had frightened her when she first felt his hands grip her waist, but his touch had been gentle even as his stride was determined. It was the first time since she began working at the tavern that she could make it to her destination without being stopped or pawed, and the men had made no lewd comments. She had to admit she appreciated it, but the man’s attractiveness had stunned her too much to remember her manners. Then he spoke. His arrogance raised her hackles even though she could tell his comments were made in jest. She could not keep her eyes from shifting back to watch him as she worked the thirsty and rowdy crowd.

The fresh air was a balm to her sweaty skin. She gulped a breath of unfettered air as she flushed the tavern funk from her airways. She looked to the well and picked her way along the uneven path.

Ruairí watched Senga walk out the back door of the tavern. He scanned the crowd as his senses fired. These were the same instincts that kept him alive throughout his years of sailing and pirating. He watched three men elbow one another before they made for the side door. Ruairí was on his feet, but the tavern was even busier than when he arrived, and not as many people were willing to clear a path for him. Some did not care; others had nowhere to move. He walked past his crew’s table but shook his head when several slammed their mugs on the table and began to stand. Ruairí made his way through the crowd, even throwing two punches when a man had the audacity to smirk. He barreled through the door just in time to see Senga pressed against the wall of a nearby building. She swung an empty bucket against the ribs of one of her assailants as she tried to knee another, but her skirts kept her from connecting. Her other hand scratched at anything it could reach as she headbutted the man in front of her. She was quick to duck when a fist came at her, forcing it to smash into the brick where her head had been only a moment ago. A hand attempted to go over her mouth, but she snapped her teeth onto the fingers coming toward her. The man howled and wrapped his hand around her throat.

Ruairí catapulted himself across the open space and launched himself at the men. His shoulder collided with the first man, and the momentum knocked the other two over. Ruairí was swinging his fists before he was on his knees.

“Run!” he called out to Senga. He heard her scramble away as he rained down several more blows before rising to his feet.

“Do you know who I am?” His voice was soft and menacing as he glared at the men still on the ground. “I am Ruairí MacNeill,” he bellowed.

Senga paused when she heard the name of one of the most feared pirates to sail the Hebrides. He and his cousin, Rowan MacNeill, were infamous for their bravery and their cruelty. She tucked herself behind the corner of a building and leaned around to watch. She was in awe as she watched the men scramble backwards on their hands and backsides as they tried to get away. Clearly, they recognized the name too.

Ruairí took one step forward and placed his hands on his hips as he bent over them. “Don’t touch women who aren’t willing. There are plenty of whores inside to keep you going for a month of Sundays. You don’t need to force the only one who clearly isn’t a whore.”

“But Captain, that’s what makes her even more appealing. She isn’t used up like the others, and she taunts us with her smile and hints of a body made for sin. It’s not our fault.”

Ruairí roared as he lifted the man by the collar of his shirt and shook him like a rag doll before tossing him aside. “Consider her under my protection. Do. Not. Touch. Her.” He punctuated each word with a hiss.

Ruairí watched as the men stumbled away from him and from the tavern. He hoped they had learned their lesson, at least for that night. There was not much he could do once he sailed out of port, but he could save her this evening. He turned back to the tavern, but he knew he would not make it all the way back without stopping.

Senga tried to sink back into the shadows of the building as Ruairí walked toward her. He had told her to run, and she had, but she knew he meant back to the tavern. His manner of fighting did not give rise to fear; rather, his ferocity eased the terror she experienced while the men attacked her. However, now a bone-deep sense of trepidation came over her as Ruairí prowled toward her.

“Come out, lass. I know you are hiding.”

Chapter 2

Senga took a deep breath before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She stepped out of the shadows and rushed into a wall, one that happened to be broad and made of muscle. Ruairí’s hands shot out to catch her as she stumbled backwards, but he pulled a little too hard, and she tilted back toward him. They stood there, with Senga’s cheek against Ruairí’s chest and his arms wrapped around her. Neither of them moved as they took in what was happening. Senga could hear Ruairí’s steady but rapid heartbeat, and it soothed her in a way she had not been calmed in many years. Ruairí held her, and for once wanted to console rather than seduce. Senga’s hands crept to his waist, where she held onto his billowing leine before easing her arms around to hold him too. He kissed the top of her head, and she was sure she would dissolve right where they stood.

“You were supposed to go back to the tavern. Believe it or not, you would be safer there. Why didn’t you listen?”

“I was going back, but then I heard your name, and well, I--” Senga stammered and squeezed her eyes shut, chiding herself for sounding addlepated.

“And what did you think when you heard my name? Did it freeze you and frighten you into hiding? Is that why you’re still out here?”

“No. It made me curious. I never would have thought you the type to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“No, I wouldn’t say I am. Admittedly, I haven’t met many damsels in distress, but I had a sick feeling when I saw those arses pass through the same door I’d seen you use.”

“I count my blessings you were watching me. It might have embarrassed me earlier, but it saved me.”

Ruairí kissed the top of her head again as he stroked her hair. He could not remember ever being so gentle with a woman; the last time he had been so tender was when he cared for his younger sisters. That was half a score of years ago. There was something about this woman that brought out every protective spark within him, even though her attempts to defend herself impressed him.

“You fought valiantly, and had there only been one or maybe two, you would have gotten away,” he murmured.

“Perhaps.”

They stood in silence for a long time before Senga pulled back and looked up at Ruairí. His face was cast in the moonlight, and she reached up to caress his angular jaw. “Thank you, Ruairí,” she whispered and pulled away.

Ruairí caught her hand before she stepped around him. “You know my name, but I haven’t a clue about yours. I never heard it inside.”

“Senga. Senga MacLeod.”

Ruairí could not hide his shock, and his face revealed it because Senga laughed as she darted back to the tavern. “Which ones?” he called after her.

She paused at the door before calling back, “Lewis.”

She ducked inside, and Ruairí stood there shaking his head. Of course, the woman who mesmerized him would have to be from not only a neighboring clan, but from the rivals to his own clan. Ruairí grew up on the isle of Barra, where men and women were born to the sea. Their Viking heritage showed both in their looks and in their innate ability to sail. Ruairí grew up sailing with his father as they traded along the coast, and he was captaining a boat by the time he was four and ten. He was tall and strong for his age, so none of his clansmen questioned his ability to sail, and he was a natural leader. His neighbors, the MacLeods of Lewis, were as renowned for sailing as the MacNeills of Barra. They were rival merchants and, at times, raiders.

Ruairí puzzled over how Senga came to be on the tiny isle of Canna. There was not much here other than caves below Carn a Ghaill, or the Cairn of the Stranger, where pirates often hid their smuggled and stolen treasures. Ruairí weighed anchor there just after sunset, and his crew unloaded the hold before they sailed around to Suileabhaigh, the wide bay near Sanday. They came ashore here and made their way to the Three Merry Lads, which Ruairí now entered for the second time that night. He once again watched Senga navigate her way through the hoard of men, who were drunker than when they stepped out not even a quarter of an hour earlier. He wondered again how a MacLeod of Lewis ended up working in a tavern on one of the smallest Hebridean isles.

“She’s my niece, so don’t get any ideas in that pirate head of yours,” said a colossus of a man who was suddenly standing across the bar from Ruairí.

“Shamus Sorley! How are you, my friend?”

“Well enough, I’d say. But I’d be a far sight better if you stopped watching my niece like she was a rare gem in a pile of dung.”

“I don’t know that I would let her hear you make that comparison. But I ran into her earlier, then I watched three men follow her out to the well. They attacked her in the time it took me to get through these heathens and make my way outside.”

Ruairí watched as Shamus’s already ruddy cheeks turned a dark shade of magenta. The man was old enough to be Ruairí’s father, but a lifetime of owning a tavern did not make for a weak man. He looked like an irate bear.

“Who?” he growled.

“I don’t know. They ran in the opposite direction after I roughed them up.”

“I thank you for watching over Senga. She’s a tough one, but she is no match for three men.”

“She’s your niece?” Ruairí asked. “She said she was a MacLeod.”

“She is. She’s my niece-marriage.”

Ruairí felt the air whoosh from his lungs as though he had taken a poleax to the gut. He was certain he saw stars dance before his eyes. “Marriage?”

“Aye, she married my nephew, Alexander, may God rest his soul,” the older man made the sign of the cross. “And she stayed on after he and their babe died five winters ago. A fever. It wiped out a third of the island.”

“I remember that. We had to find somewhere else to stash our goods that winter.”

Ruairí turned back and watched Senga again as she made her way back to the bar, but she went to the opposite end from where Ruairí and Shamus spoke.

“She stayed on rather than go home?”

“She didn’t have much to go home to. Her parents had already died, and while her uncle was the laird, he had no use for another woman in his household. He turned her out when she married my nephew, told her she wasn’t welcome back if she didn’t want the arranged marriage he planned. Some MacLeod from Skye for some alliance or another.”

Shamus shook his head as he wiped down the bar and moved on to help other customers. Ruairí looked over to his crew, half of whom were passed out drunk while the other half were still entertaining whores. Ruairí considered finding one for himself, but his gaze drifted back to Senga, and the idea soured. He chided himself for letting one woman ruin his plans to get sotted and bedded. Just as he was about to leave and return to his cabin, a woman he recognized from a visit earlier that year approached.

“She won’t have you, you know.”

Ruairí put on a look of confusion.

“She doesn’t have anyone. Refuses to dirty herself as though she’s too good to earn a few extra coins. She’d rather live in the shack she calls a cottage than lay on her back for a good rogering now and again.”

The woman, whose name Ruairí could not remember if he had ever learned it, pressed her ample breasts against his arm.

“She might not have you, but I would. Again.”

The whisper was none too quiet, and Ruairí wanted to cringe. The whore’s stale breath wafted across his face, and he realized he had smelled mint on Senga’s breath when they embraced.

“Not tonight, love. Perhaps the next time I’m around.”

The woman sneered at him before flouncing away. Ruairí saw her march over to a man in the corner and whisper in his ear. The man left without looking back, and the whore went back to work. Something warned him to stay after all.

Chapter 3

The evening wound down as men stumbled out of the tavern or passed out where they sat. Ruairí had been sipping his ale all night, never one to overindulge when on land. He moved to sit with his men after the whore–whose name he still could not remember–propositioned him. His first mate, Kyle, was still mostly sober and awake, so he and Ruairí discussed their plans in hushed tones. They knew roughly where they intended to sail next, but the final decision would depend upon the weather. Senga walked past as she pulled her apron over her head and hung it on a peg by the kitchen entryway. She pushed her hair from her face and lifted her long braid as she wiped the back of her neck.

“I’m going home now, Uncle Shamus. I will see you tomorrow eve.”

“Take care, lassie. I heard what happened earlier.” Shamus stuck his head out from the kitchen. “Bar your door when you get home.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

Senga walked out the main door of the tavern and looked around. She was prepared this time and pulled a dirk from each of her pockets. Had she not carried two buckets earlier, she would have had a dirk in at least one hand when the men attacked. She learned years ago to walk to few places at night without having a weapon at the ready. She had not needed it, but she had heard from the other women what happened to them when they were unprepared. Senga shifted her gaze continuously as she walked home, just like she had countless times in the last five years. Even though she was alert, her mind wandered. She wondered how she had never seen Ruairí before when he sounded as though he knew her uncle. She had overheard them when she returned to the bar to refill mugs. They were friendly and seemed familiar with one another. Senga rolled her eyes when she realized she had never seen Ruairí before because he probably went directly above stairs rather than milling about. She saw Agnes brush up against him and had wanted to bash her over the head with her tray. She knew it was an unreasonable reaction, and she had assumed Ruairí would follow Agnes upstairs. But when he turned her away, Senga realized she had been holding her breath.

When Senga reached her door, she paused as she always did and looked over her shoulders. When nothing stirred, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. A hand covered her mouth as another hand squeezed her breast without mercy. She swung one dirk wide as she tried to stab backwards with the other. The man behind her howled, and his grip on her breast only tightened.

“You will pay for that, bitch.”

He moved his hand from her mouth in an attempt to squeeze her wrist hard enough to make her drop the dirk. Senga ground her teeth as she refused to release the weapon. She once again swung her free arm in a wide arc as she tried to keep the other two men away.

“Where is your hero now?” one of them mocked as they dragged her to the table in the center of the room. “No pirate captain to save you, huh?”

“He broke my bluidy nose because of you. You’re naught more than a whore who thinks too highly of herself. You’ll be just the same as the others once I sink my cock into you.”

“Then you should have picked one of the others,” Ruairí roared as the door slammed against the wall. He took in the scene before him. Senga was stretched on the table as two men held her wrists and rubbed their groins while the third man stood between her legs with the ties of his leggings undone, his hand down the front.

With little thought, Ruairí whipped a blade from his wrist bracer and threw it at the man about to assault Senga. The knife embedded in the assailant’s neck, and blood squirted like a geyser. It was the distraction Senga needed as she rolled to the right, jerking one man off-balance. She broke free and pulled a dirk from her thigh, which was only an inch from being discovered when her attacker pushed up her skirts. She came onto her feet beside the man who was now pulling and twisting her wrist and stabbed him in the throat. He grabbed her hair and grasped her neck, but his strength was already draining from him, and he collapsed. Senga spun around as she heard a howl of pain, and then the table toppled over as the third man crashed to the floor with a dirk through his eye. Before she could register the gruesome sight, she found herself hauled against the chest that had offered her protection earlier that night. Ruairí held her against him until he was sure she would not be ill or faint, then swept her into his arms and turned toward the only door inside the cottage. His mind flashed to the tavern wench’s snarky comment about Senga’s home being a shack and chalked it up to jealousy. The cottage was spacious and cozy from what he could see. He carried Senga into the bedchamber and sat her on the edge of the bed before stepping back. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear he would molest her after saving her once again.

Senga stared blankly at the door Ruairí kicked closed. She ran her hand absentmindedly over the bed cover before looking with vacant eyes to Ruairí. He approached her with caution and kept his hands where she could see them. He came to squat before her.

“Lass?”

“Aye, I’m well enough. They didn’t have a chance to do any real harm.”

Ruairí reached out but dropped his hand before he touched her.

“Really, I’m all right, just very startled,” Senga assured him.

“Startled? That’s how you would describe being attacked twice in one night, once in your own home?”

“Would you like me to wail and pull my hair? Am I not hysterical enough for your liking?” Senga spat at him.

Ruairí pulled her into his arms as they stood. He held her and felt the shuddering breaths as she tried to keep from falling apart.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you did, since that’s what I want to do myself. Nothing ever frightened me more than when I could hear male voices yelling while I was still a fair distance away. I wasn’t sure I would make it in time. I never want to see you held against your will, and I’ve seen it twice tonight. If I hadn’t been so frightened you might get hurt in the middle of a fight, I would have done far worse to them.”

“You were frightened?” Senga’s hoarse words barely reached Ruairí, even though she still stood in his embrace.

“Terrified. Though I was supremely impressed to see you plunge your dirk into one of their throats, and I saw a gash across another man’s side. You fight like a wildcat.”

“And like one, I would rather chew my leg off than remain caught in a snare.”

“If I hadn’t been so enraged, I would have been awestruck. I’m proud of the way you fought them both times. I just want to know what manner of place you live that men would attack you like that twice.”

“It’s a tavern on a small isle. It limits the choices for women. I refuse to whore, and so some men think I mean to offer a challenge. I saw Agnes send her younger brother outside, so I should have known her older brother would be back to finish what he started.”

“Who’s Agnes?”

“The woman who seemed to remember you quite fondly.”

Ruairí felt his cheeks burn from embarrassment for the first time since he was a lad. He did not know what to say, so he opted to stay quiet.

“Her brother has been hounding me for weeks, so it didn’t surprise me to see him when I was at the well. I just hadn’t expected his two friends would slink out to help him. I didn’t think they would come here after the way you handled them, but they wanted revenge for the beating as much as they wanted to rape me.”

Ruairí swallowed the lump in his throat as he listened to Senga’s detached assessment of her evening. He wanted to carry her away from this cottage, the tavern, and the blasted island. Instead, he continued to hold her and ran his hand over her back. She relaxed enough to step back. Senga looked around the room and sighed. Nothing had been the same since her husband died. Even though their marriage was brief, she had been happy. Now she had little to look forward to.

“Why do you stay?”

“Where else can I go? I heard Uncle Shamus tell you my uncle won’t have me back. I tried to return after the illness passed, but he wouldn’t let me into the bailey. Turned me away in front of my entire clan. I boarded the birlinn and returned here that night.”

Senga looked up but saw that Ruairí was looking past her. She knew what he had spotted, and her heart pinched. Senga had almost forgotten the cradle that sat covered in the corner. She walked to it and ran a hand over the curved end.

“It’s one of the few things I have from my childhood. My da carved this for me before I was born. My aunt smuggled it to me just after I married.” Senga held her breath trying to keep the tears from falling. “It’s stood empty for a long time, but I have nowhere else to store it.”

Ruairí stood behind her, and she could feel his heat against her back. When he cupped her shoulders and pulled her back against him, she did not resist.

“It’s not too late for you to have a family one day.”

Senga’s laugh was hollow if not bitter. “You saw my choices tonight. I will die alone just as I live alone. My chance for a family came and went.”

“Shamus said it’s been five years since they passed. You must have loved your husband to not have found some other option.”

Senga shook her head as her fingers continued to trail over the cradle covered by a bed linen. “I was only five and ten when I married. My parents died a few years earlier during a raid, and I was desperate to get away from my uncle. He had plans to marry me to the old MacLeod laird. The man was old enough to be my grandfather. I met Alexander when we were still children and his father came to trade. We were fond of one another, and as we grew older, we were attracted to each other. Along with that came curiosity. When he asked for my hand, I agreed, and we wed within three sennights. Alexander had the banns posted here, so my uncle would not hear of it. I got with child two moons after we wed, and they were both dead two moons after I delivered our son.”

Senga rested her head against Ruairí’s chest as his arms wrapped around her. “I loved Alex just as any girl my age would have, but I don’t know that I would still love him as the woman I grew into. I loved the idea of being loved, and he loved the idea of being a protector and provider. He was three years older than me, and he was a good protector and provider. I was happy here as a farmer’s wife. That life just wasn’t meant to be.”

Senga took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before stepping away from Ruairí.

“I’ve been remiss in thanking you again for coming to my rescue not once, but twice this evening. I don’t know that I would be alive right now if you hadn’t followed me home.” Senga’s brow creased. “What made you follow me home?”

Ruairí looked around the bedchamber and saw chemises and nightgowns folded neatly on a shelf, and a fresh blouse and skirt hanging on pegs. He had walked past a chest at the end of the bed when he followed Senga to the cradle. The room, much like the rest of the cottage, was spacious, but it held the bare minimum. He could only describe it as sparse, and his heart ached for the umpteenth time that night as he thought about Senga and what she endured.

“I don’t know for sure. The same feeling that has warned me of an impending attack at sea told me something would happen tonight. Nearly everyone was passed out at the tavern, so I knew it wouldn’t be there. My intuition screamed to follow you, so I did. I learned long ago to listen to that voice, and I’m glad I did.”

Ruairí knew it was the middle of the night and he should let Senga go to bed, but he felt unsettled. He was not sure if it was she who made him feel off-kilter or if it was the events of the night, but he did not feel ready to leave.

“You must be exhausted. I should let you get some sleep, but I don’t feel right leaving you alone. I could sleep by the hearth, if you’ll let me. I would feel better knowing you are still protected, and I could clean up.”

Senga had completely forgotten the three dead men in her home. She shuddered to think how the village would react to learning the men died in her home, at her hands of her and at the hands of a pirate. “I will help you.”

“Lass, you don’t have to do that. I will go back to the tavern and get some of my men to help me. You should rest.”

“You think I’ll be able to sleep knowing there are three dead men in my cottage or when you and your men are moving about out there? Carrying away those bodies? I think not.”

Senga walked to the door but turned back to Ruairí. He was only a few steps behind her, so she waited until he stepped near her. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“I know your reputation. I know what people think of you, and I’m sure much of it is true. But I haven’t seen that side of you tonight, and I’m grateful. I won’t tell a soul how kind you’ve been, but I doubt I’d be standing here in one piece without that kindness. I’d either be dead or a puddle of tears.” She kissed his cheek once again.

Ruairí’s arms itched to hold her again, and a look of mutual desire passed between them. Senga made the decision easy for Ruairí when she embraced him. He had spent his adult life angry and bitter about his past and vengeful for the course his life took. For the first time in years, he did not feel those emotions. Instead, he felt hope.

“Lass--”

Senga cut him off when she leaned back and tugged on the front of his leine. She lifted her chin and parted her lips, and Ruairí needed no clearer an invitation. Their lips fused together on a sigh that exchanged breaths. Ruairí swept his tongue over her lips, and she opened wider for him. She flicked her tongue and lured him in where they dueled and tangled until she gently sucked. Ruairí growled as his cock strained against the front of his leggings. He forced himself to cradle her, not willing to frighten her, but she ran her hands down his back to his buttocks. She pressed against him as her mound grazed his aching rod. Her moan echoed his growl as she shifted restlessly. It had been years since a man touched her or aroused her desire. Ruairí’s touch made her combust as a need coursed through her stronger than anything her husband had stirred. The events of the evening melted away as Ruairí replaced fear with passion. A small voice in her head warned she was insane for kissing a man only minutes after those men had attacked her a second time, but a much more strident voice told her to keep going.

Ruairí was lost to the raging storm of emotions, floundering like a wind-tossed boat. His bollocks screamed for him to hike up her skirts, wrap her legs around his waist, and sink deep within. His head told him to slow down before he frightened her. And his heart demanded he care for her that night and all the ones to come.

Senga felt the ache low in her body take hold as she clung to Ruairí as though he was the only thing keeping her from floating adrift. He anchored her to the spot, both physically and emotionally. She did not want to ponder the connection she believed they had. She did not want to set false hopes, but she knew his need matched hers, and it was not something she would ignore.

“Ruairí,” she breathed against the stubble that abraded her swollen lips. “Make me forget the past, forget tonight.”

“Are you sure, Senga?”

“Aye.”

The one word of consent was all they both needed before they ripped the clothes off one another and tumbled onto the bed. Ruairí was careful not to crush her small frame under his much larger one. His feet hung off the end of the bed as he slid lower to take one of her breasts into his mouth. His tongue whorled around her nipple as he alternated breathing warm and cool air over the puckered flesh. These were the nipples of a woman who had nursed a babe, and he found he enjoyed having more to suckle. He turned his head and worshipped her other breast before switching between them. He nipped and pulled with his teeth as his hand kneaded the opposite breast. Senga’s back arched, and she cupped her breasts in offering to him. One of his hands trailed from the dip in her throat, down between her breasts, over her belly until it came to the thatch of raven curls at the apex of her thighs. He ran his fingers through them and tugged gently. He used one finger to slide over her bud and between the folds until he was sure she was as eager as he imagined. Her sheath drenched his finger as she moaned, unsure whether to raise her breasts or her hips in offering.

“Shh, little one. I will take care of all of you. What do you want?”

Senga looked into his blue eyes and moaned again.

“You inside me.”

Ruairí’s chuckle rumbled across her body, and she tightened her grip on his hair. She had not even realized she had pulled his queue loose and tunneled her fingers in his blonde waves.

“We’ll get there soon enough, but I won’t rush us. What do you want?”

“Your fingers then. I want, need, some part of you there.”

“Where? Can you not say it?”

“Cunny. Quim. Pussy. I can say it, but I don’t want to talk.”

Ruairí once again chuckled, but it was cut short when he groaned as he thrust three fingers into her channel. Her hips lifted off the bed, and for a moment he worried he had been too forceful. She was no virgin, but it had been years since she was with a man.

“More,” she panted.

Ruairí plunged his fingers into her over and over, and as she watched, he inched down to blow cool air over the heated flesh.

“Yes,” she mewled.

His tongue whipped out to lave her pleasure nub before sucking it into his mouth. Her knees fell wide before trapping his shoulders. He slid his hands beneath her and lifted her hips to his feasting mouth. His tongue replaced his fingers as he brought her close to climax over and over. When her moans of need turned to ones of frustration, he once again plunged his fingers into her as he sucked her nub. She exploded around him, screaming his name.

Ruairí lifted himself over her and before he could guide himself in, he felt her wrap her hand around his leaking shaft. She stroked him thrice before aligning him with her entrance. She locked her ankles around his waist as she pressed him into her. He needed no further instructions and surged forward until he was seated to the hilt within her tight sheath. He groaned as he dipped his head to once again suckle her breast, but it was not enough. Ruairí looked up at Senga and saw her watching him. She stroked the hair away from his face, and a tenderness that would normally fizzle his desire made him want to possess her. Their lips came together with the same force and need as their hips. Ruairí held her as he thrust into her over and over. Senga pressed her heels into the bed to help her meet him each time he rocked forward. Theirs was a rhythm of give and take that felt natural, as though they had always been lovers. Ruairí sucked in what air he could as he tried to slow the growing need to climax. He refused to finish so soon. He did not know if he would ever join with Senga again, and he would not let it be over yet.

Senga’s hands roamed over every part of Ruairí she could reach. She brushed his hair back as they kissed, then scored her nails down his back as his thrusts drove deeper still. Her fingers dug into his backside as she felt her release rip through her.

“Ruairí!” she screamed again as he pushed her over the edge once more.

“Mo bhòidhchead.” My beauty. “I’m close, but I don’t want this to be over yet. Can you keep going?”

“Yes. Oh, Ruairí. Don’t stop.”

Those were the last words spoken for some time as they moved together toward completion. Senga found her release twice more before Ruairí could no longer fight his body’s need. He pulled free and watched as his seed painted her belly. Never had such an image called to him. He could not cease the thought that this marked her as his. He knew it was ridiculous. Ruairí would leave in the morning and never see Senga again, but even that felt more outrageous than the idea that she was his. He watched her for a long moment as she, too, stared at his seed. He was not sure of her thoughts, but her face relaxed as though she liked what she saw. Ruairí climbed from the bed and found a cloth beside a pitcher of water. After wetting it, he returned and sat beside her as he cleaned her. Senga tried to take the cloth, but Ruairí batted her hand away.

“Let me,” his hoarse voice was almost unrecognizable to him as he leaned forward to kiss her nose. “I want to.”

He had never in his life done such a thing for a woman.

When he ceased his ministrations and prepared to stand, Senga snatched the cloth from him as she sat up. She reached forward and ran the cloth over Ruairí’s cock. It twitched beneath her hand. Senga dropped the cloth to the ground and wrapped her hand around the already lengthening rod. She stroked it as her breasts pressed against his shoulder. Ruairí turned his head to look at her, and Senga leaned in for a kiss. This was slow, sensual, and filled with a different need. Ruairí could not believe he was hard and aching to be inside her again already. He had not recovered that quickly since he was a green lad.

Senga pressed his shoulder until he laid back, and she slid from the bed to kneel before him. She continued to stroke him as he came to his elbows. Propped up, he watched her stare intently at his cock as though considering her means of attack. Her tongue whipped forward and circled his tip before flicking its head. Ruairí growled as his head fell back. Her lips slid down his length and closed around him. He jerked forward when she began to apply pressure. The suction made him want to thrust, but he was careful to keep his hips grounded to the mattress. He knew he was a large man in length and girth. He neither wanted to scare her nor choke her, but Senga continued to sink lower onto his cock. It mesmerized him to see how much she could take in before she could go no further. She cupped his bollocks and rolled them in her palm as he scooped her hair off her sweaty neck. He watched her head bob as he had with so many other women, but it felt entirely different. Whores rendered a service, and while some pretended, or even genuinely liked the task, Senga seemed to revel in it. She worshipped his length as she alternated licking, sucking, and stroking until Ruairí thought he might lose his mind with need. He felt his release gathering at the base of his cock, and he had no intention of holding back this time.

“Senga,” he grunted. He pressed on her shoulder, but she would not release him.

“Senga,” he said more forcefully, and she looked up at him, her translucent hazel eyes locked with his deep blue ones. “Let go. I want to see my seed on you again.”

Ruairí could not believe his own ears. He had not intended to speak that thought aloud, but Senga released him at once and leaned back on her heels. Ruairí stroked himself several times before the jets of seed splashed across her chest and onto her breasts. Once again, Ruairí felt he had marked her as his own, and she smiled at him as though proud to bear his release. She trailed a finger through the viscous fluid and licked her finger.

“I wonder if I taste as good to you as you do to me,” she purred.

Ruairí thought he might climax again at her seductive words. He looked into her eyes once more and saw curiosity rather than seduction, and he realized she was being truthful in her musing. He reached beside her for the cloth and once again cleaned her, then himself. He pulled her from the ground and lifted her onto the bed before stretching out beside her. Ruairí ran his hand over her flat belly where he could see tiny, fine lines that were a testimony that she had carried a child. Her hand covered his, and he watched embarrassment redden her cheeks.

“I called you ‘my beauty’ for a reason, little one. Every part of you is beautiful. Don’t hide from me.”

She looked at him for so long, Ruairí was not sure what she would do next, but she let her hands fall away.

“Kiss me again, please,” she whispered, and Ruairí was only too happy to indulge her request. Once again, this was slow and languid, unlike the consuming need during the first time they coupled. Ruairí ran the calloused pads of his fingers over her belly, and when they broke apart, his eyes spied the cradle. He continued to run his fingers over her belly as a vivid image of Senga round with their child came to his mind. He saw her first standing at the prow of his ship with the wind blowing back her hair, then standing beside the cradle as she checked on their other sleeping child.

Other? Ruairí thought to himself. I’ve known her a night, and I’m imagining us with not one but two bairns. Well, one in the cradle and the other in her belly. Bluidy hell. What is wrong with me?

Ruairí looked down at Senga again, but her eyes were closed. He knew she was not asleep because her fingers were running over the tattoo that covered the entire left side of his chest before wrapping over his shoulder and covering his left shoulder blade. It was a Celtic design of knots and twists with a water serpent slithering from his back to his front. The fine lines that had marred her brow and cheeks all night disappeared, and she looked serene. His heated palm rested on her belly, and she covered it with one hand before opening her eyes. They gazed at one another, both searching for something they could not identify but recognized.

“Come with me, Senga.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect oval. Ruairí’s cocked twitched as he remembered her lips on his cock, but he forced his body to relax.

“It won’t be safe for you here, whether the men’s families retaliate or other men try to finish what they attempted. You’ve said you have nowhere else to go, and I think you’re lonely here alone. Come with me.”

“As what? Your mistress? One good bedding doesn’t make us compatible to share a cabin.”

“It’s more than that, and we both know it. There is something here. Something between us too special to ignore.”

“And if it turns out it was only one night of wonder, what then? You return me here where everyone will know I’m a whore. That doesn’t seem better than what I have now.”

“You are not a whore,” he growled. “If you use that word again to describe yourself, I will turn you over my knee.”

Ruairí worried he was too harsh, but he saw desire, not fear, flare in her eyes.

“Do you like that idea?” he whispered against her ear.

Senga only nodded.

Ruairí cupped her breast as he rolled her nipple with his thumb.

“Has any man ever spanked you before?”

“No. It wasn’t something my husband ever considered.”

“But it was something that intrigued you. Something you wanted.”

She nodded once again.

“Senga, I am not an easy man to live with. I demand obedience from my crew. I’m brutal and violent during battle, and I show no one mercy. No one until you. I have never been kind or gentle with anyone, but I find a calmness and peace with you. I can let my guard down and not be the dreaded pirate captain. I can just be Ruairí. I find I like it, and I don’t want it to end with tonight.”

Senga rolled toward him, so they both lay on their sides.

“I also find myself protective and possessive of you. I have never felt that way about anyone. The closest I have come is how protective I am of my cousin, Rowan. I have never felt this toward a woman before. It must mean something.”

Once more Senga stared into his eyes, searching for something Ruairí prayed she would find. He began to grow nervous the longer she looked, but she cupped his jaw and bussed a kiss across his lips.

“I will go with you.”

There was little to keep Senga here but old memories that haunted her nights. She knew the risk she was taking, sailing away with a man she had known for less than a night, but a feeling buried deep within her urged her to take that risk, to make a new life, even if temporary, with Ruairí.

The kiss they shared differed from the others. It was filled with promise and anticipation, not of their next round of coupling, but for the future.

“Know that if you’re unhappy, I will take you wherever you want to go. I will do what I can to help you establish a new life. You could go back to Lewis, even if not to your uncle’s keep. You could even go to Skye. I will never force you to do aught you don’t want, and that includes remaining aboard my ship.”

“Thank you, Ruairí.”

She laid back and opened her arms to him. He settled his upper body over hers and kissed her forehead, nose, and each cheek before sinking into another languid kiss. He rolled them so she was draped over him. The soothing sweep of his hand over her back and bottom had her dozing within moments.

Ruairí watched as her eyelids fluttered closed and she sighed, her hand resting over his heart. He covered it with his own as his other rested on her backside. He knew of the trust she was placing into his hands, and he prayed for the first time in years. Ruairí prayed he would remain worthy of that trust. He would do all that he was in his power, but he knew she would face danger and see sides of him he wished he could hide. His trepidation at her seeing him as the pirate captain almost made him wake her to rescind his offer. He had spent almost all his adult life harboring a simmering rage for what happened to him and his cousin. People knew him for being cold and aloof to most women, earning the name Dark Heart for that, among other sins. None had seen the side of him that he so willingly showed Senga. Women enjoyed him for what he could do to their bodies and the coin they earned from what they could do with theirs. But most women avoided him if he was not tupping them.

Senga had not avoided him at all. She had worked as was expected of her, but she had not avoided him. Ruairí was not sure if her lack of fear came from his softheartedness toward her, or if it was the other way around. They seemed to understand one another on an elemental and intuitive level. Ruairí did not feel angry or bitter when he was near Senga. His earlier anger was directed at the men who dared to defile her, but it evaporated each time as soon as he knew she was safe. He had not realized how exhausted he was from carrying the burden of his hatred until he found respite in Senga’s arms. His own eyes drifted closed for a brief time, but he did not sleep.

Chapter 4

Senga stirred and felt a man’s body beneath hers. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming once more of Alexander, but everything was different. The man she laid upon smelled of saltwater and pine, and he felt different. The chest was broader and smooth, unlike Alexander’s barrel chest and light smattering of hair. All Senga did with Ruairí flooded back to her as she remembered him rescuing her when the men attacked her in her own home. The tenderness he showed as he brought her into her bedchamber, and the eventual passion that erupted between them. She ached between her legs from still unspent desire along with soreness from muscles that had laid dormant far too long.

“Did you get enough rest, little one?”

Senga looked into the eyes that were once again cornflower blue but had been a shade of lapis lazuli as they coupled.

“Enough to face the world,” she replied, her voice raspy from sleep. She realized she must have slept more deeply than she realized. She had a sudden moment of worry that she snored.

“You slept like the dead, even if for only an hour.”

“That’s all? It felt longer. Did you sleep?”

“Dozed.”

Senga was not sure if she should believe him. She doubted he lowered his guard enough to be vulnerable to sleep.

“Pack what you would like to take with you. I can arrange for Shamus to protect your cottage if you think you might want to return, or I can have him clear it out. Your choice.”

Senga took a deep breath before blowing it out through her nose.

“If I return, it will be to visit. I will never live here again. Uncle Shamus can do as he wants with the cottage and what it contains.”

“Very well. When you are ready to leave, I will take you back to the tavern and Shamus while my men and I deal with the bodies.”

Ruairí watched to see if she grimaced or showed fear at the mention of the dead men in her cottage, but her face did not change. Instead, she sat up and looked around. When she spotted her clothes from the night before, she considered whether to put them back on or wear fresh clothes. Since she had no idea when she might bathe or launder her clothes, she opted for fresh ones. She moved to the wash basin, and Ruairí joined her as they went about their morning ablutions in silence. It surprised Ruairí at how quickly she packed. The chest at the end of the bed was empty except for two plaids, one in the MacLeod colors and the other in the Sorely colors. Senga packed the fresh chemises, stockings, and a nightgown in the trunk and then carried two fresh blouses and skirts from a shelf Ruairí had not noticed the night before. She took a sack from the peg her clean skirt hung on and stuffed her clothes from the day before within it. She cinched it closed and placed it at the top of her chest. Senga was ready in less than five minutes.

“Is there anything from the other room you would have me fetch?”

“Only my sewing basket and a carved wooden cross that sits before the window. My da made that, too. There is nothing else. I burned the linens after I buried my husband and son, and I didn’t need more than one set. It’s just me who lives here, so I don’t have a need for much more. The bowls and mugs don’t need to come, so no, there’s nothing else,” Senga shrugged.

Ruairí had dressed while she packed, and he moved to the door with his hand on his sword. He exercised caution as he pulled it open, even though he had heard no one and nothing enter the cottage while they dozed. He was honest enough with himself to admit the roof could have fallen down around their ears and he would not have noticed while he bedded Senga. Ruairí tucked her against his side and turned her face toward his shoulder.

“Don’t look,” he whispered as he led her to the front door, but she could not help but pause and look back. Even though it was easy to walk away from the cottage, it had been her home for six years. The home she shared with her husband and bairn. She nodded once before stepping outside.

The morning sun blinded her as she looked around. Nothing seemed out of place, but several of the village women stood with their mouths agape to see Ruairí exit with her. It was only a moment before Senga saw the women buzz with gossip.

I’m a merry widow now I suppose. I believe I’ve earned the right.

Ruairí guided Senga back to the tavern, never removing his arm from her shoulders. His claim was obvious to all and sundry, and they both were fine with it. When they reached the tavern, Ruairí nudged and kicked his crew awake before turning Senga over to Shamus with clear instructions he was not to leave her alone, even for a moment. Ruairí led his crew outside and began issuing orders for those who would go to her cottage with him to remove the bodies. He sent his first mate to find the priest. Kyle looked toward the tavern and raised an eyebrow before looking back at Ruairí.

“Just a funeral today,” Ruairí answered Kyle’s unspoken question.

Ruairí sent some men to ready the dinghies that would carry them to the Lady Charity. Kyle found the priest easily enough, as he had just concluded matins, and brought him to Senga’s cottage. The priest crossed himself several times as his eyes darted between the dead bodies and Ruairí.

“They attacked Senga twice last night. They got less than they deserved,” Ruairí bit out.

The priest jumped and nodded. He hurried to say last rites before leaving to summon the men’s families. Ruairí was not looking forward to this, but he would not allow a single person to have any doubts as to the men’s culpability and the cause of their deaths. He and his men waited outside as a group of villages gathered, several women crying. They could not silence an angry woman. It was Agnes from the tavern.

“You murdered my brother. You believed a whore instead of an honorable man. She is the one who deserves to be dead.”

Ruairí stepped forward, pushed his chest out, and towered over almost everyone in the crowd.

“I caught those men attacking Senga outside the tavern and then inside her home. They deserved the fate they asked for. I warned them when I found them pressing her against a wall, but they chose not to listen. If anyone doubts my words are true, step forward now.”

There were murmurs among the crowd, but no one stepped forward to speak against the Dark Heart. The look upon Ruairí’s face showed it was the pirate captain they faced.

“I would be careful who you call a whore considering you spend most of your time on your back, Agnes,” Ruairí sneered at the woman who now cowered before him. Ruairí looked around before shifting his gaze to the priest. “It seems you have the men you need to carry these sacks of shite from here. My men and I are done.”

Ruairí tilted his head toward the shore and muttered to his men before the crew filed down the path after him.

* * *

Senga waited in the tavern and ate a bowl of porridge Shamus offered her. Shamus, his wife, and his daughter came out from the kitchen, and Senga was saying goodbye when Ruairí returned. He looked at the three women. Senga’s aunt-by-marriage was teary eyed and looked sad to see Senga leave. Senga’s cousin-by-marriage looked bored before she noticed Ruairí, then jealous, while Senga looked like she wanted to run. Shamus pried her loose from his wife’s embrace and gave her a warm hug, which Ruairí was relieved to see she sank into. He appreciated knowing someone had cared for her, and that she’d had someone to rely on. When she stepped back and looked at Ruairí, he held out his hand to her. She approached and entwined her fingers with his. Ruairí felt a shock of electricity surge up his arm and when he looked down at Senga, he was sure she felt it too. Neither missed the rightness of holding hands. It felt natural.

Ruairí guided her along the path to the beach and swept her into his arms before wading to the small boat that would ferry them to the Lady Charity.

“I’m not afraid of getting wet, you know.”

Ruairí’s tongue darted out and flicked her earlobe.

“I know, but that isn’t the kind of wet I want you to be.”

Senga moaned before leaning her head against the crook of his neck. She smattered the tanned skin with feathery kisses.

“In that case, know I am already wet,” Senga whispered as they arrived at the dinghy. He settled her on the seat before climbing in next to her and barking an order for his sailor to row with haste. Ruairí had every intention of getting her to his cabin, stripping her bare, and taking her on every surface they fit. His need flowed to Senga, and her nails bit into the back of his hand as they had joined them once again.

“I know there are things you must do once we are aboard, but please don’t keep me waiting too long,” she murmured. She hoped her words only reached his ears. But when the oarsman could not turn his head quickly enough to hide his smile, Senga felt her cheeks burn.

It was a short row to the ship, and Senga surprised Ruairí with the ease in which she scampered up the rope ladder. She stood with perfect balance in the dinghy, tucked her skirts into her waist, and was up the ladder before Ruairí could offer her help. Once she rolled over the rail and landed on her feet, she looked back at Ruairí, who was climbing over the rail.

“I’m a MacLeod, remember?” she teased, this time for his ears only.

She arranged her skirts before looking around. A moment of real panic spread through her, and she wondered if she had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. The motley crew before her was intimidating at the least and downright terrifying at the most. As she looked at each man, they looked at her. Some seemed shocked, others glared back with disdain, and far too many leered. Ruairí saw what she did and stepped in front of her. He tucked her behind him and crossed his arms with his feet planted wide.

“Well, out with it.”

This would be his crew’s only time to voice dissent, but they knew it would do them little good, so many grumbled under their breath.

“Bad omen.”

“Be the death of us.”

“Anger the sea gods.”

“Foul luck she’ll bring.”

Senga heard all the comments, but they did not faze her. In truth, she had heard them all before, either about other women aboard a ship or directed at her when she had sailed with her father when she was younger. Ruairí took a step forward, but Senga grasped his leine at his waist, out of sight of his men, and tugged.

“Let them say what they want now rather than fester later,” she whispered. The tension leaving Ruairí’s body was the only sign she received that he heard her.

“This is Senga MacLeod. She is my guest, and you will treat her as such. I will treat any disrespect as though it were done to me.”

Senga knew that meant the lash. For the men’s sake, even though they were not her friends, she hoped they were all wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Ruairí looked to Kyle, who stood at the wheel and nodded. Kyle began barking orders for the crew to raise the sails and lift the anchor. Ruairí guided Senga to the stairs that would take them to his cabin.

Once inside, Ruairí locked and barred the door before turning to Senga. She was already pulling her blouse over her head. Ruairí pulled her toward him as he loosened the waist to her skirt.

“For now, until I’m sure of my crew, you must lock and bar the door any time you’re alone here. Promise me.”

“Of course. Ruairí, this isn’t my first time sailing. Besides, I grew up with men who spent more time on water than land. I know how they feel about a woman on their ship.”

“I’m glad it doesn’t bother you. However, I picked up some new crew just after my last raid in a smuggler’s town in Cornwall. I don’t know them well enough yet to trust them. Until I do, I don’t want any of them near you.”

Ruairí tugged the ribbons at her shoulder, and the chemise fell to the ground.

“Undress, mo chaiptean.”

“You call me your captain, yet you issue the orders?” Ruairí cocked a brow, but his seriousness faded when he could not help but smile.

“I thought you would agree, unless there is something else you want to do.” Senga paused as she rolled down one stocking. She stood up and looked around. “Do you have logbooks to fill?”

Ruairí growled before pouncing on her. “There is only one thing I intend to fill,” he groaned, as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Their kiss was wild as they devoured one another. When they finished undressing, Ruairí lifted Senga, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He sunk into her as her head fell back.

“God, the feel of you entering me is almost enough to bring me to climax.”

Ruairí backed them against the door as he thrust over and over. He worried she might be sore from the night before, but she pressed her heels against the small of his back when he tried to slow. It was only a matter of minutes before Ruairí felt Senga’s inner muscles grip his cock as spasms rocked her core. He spun them and walked to the table. He swept his arm across it and knocked mugs, plates, maps, and ledgers onto the floor before lying her down. She unhooked her legs and brought her feet to the edge, giving herself leverage to meet each of his thrusts. She could not keep from moaning as the intensity built again.

“Look at me, leannan.”

Senga tried to keep her eyes open as she felt a wave of pleasure spread from the bottom of her belly out to her limbs. She failed as she raised her chin and screamed. The moment the sound died on her lips, she bit her tongue and her ardor dampened. She looked at Ruairí, sure he would not want her announcing to the entire ship what they were doing. He leaned forward and ran his tongue over the whorl of her ear.

“I would have them all know you are mine,” he growled.

“I don’t doubt they already know.”

She relaxed once she knew vocalizing her pleasure did not bother Ruairí. She rose and clasped her hands behind his neck as she kissed him. Ruairí felt his knees shake as he drove himself harder and faster as Senga begged for more. He lifted her from the table and moved to a chair. She straddled him and rode him as her hair hung down her back and swished about her hips. Ruairí fisted his hand in the raven locks and kissed her throat and collar bones as she set her own punishing pace.

“I’m close, lass.”

He lifted her from his shaft, and she gripped his cock as she stroked him to completion. They sagged against one another, their breathing ragged and hearts pounding. It was only when the perspiration chilled Senga’s skin as they cooled that Ruairí felt the strength to rise. He walked to the bed with her in his arms and pulled back the covers.

“Sleep some more. You had a long night, little one. I will be back when it’s time for the midday meal.”

Senga was fast asleep before Ruairí was done getting dressed. He was tempted to wake her and insist she lock and bar the door, but she was so peaceful, he did not have the heart to do it. He did what he could by locking it from the outside. When he went on deck, he found one of the men who had been with him the longest and posted him as a guard outside his cabin.

Chapter 5

Ruairí took the wheel from Kyle as they stood beside each other.

“She seems to have settled in quickly enough,” Kyle waggled his eyebrows.

Ruairí glared him, and Kyle took a step back.

“Tread carefully. You saw her last night; she’s not the usual tavern wench. She’s not like any of the others. She matters to me.” His gaze drifted to the stairs leading to his cabin, and he remembered the look on Senga’s face not long ago as they raced to climax. Rather than just lust, another emotion Ruairí could not name filled his chest. It almost burned, but it was not painful. He welcomed it as once again, he felt the bitterness that had been his constant companion for so long being chipped away.

“But you barely know her. How could she be that important to you so soon?”

“I don’t know. I truly don’t, but there is something about her, between us. Call it divine intervention.”

Kyle guffawed. “You’ve found God along with a bedmate. You did well for one night.”

Ruairí gripped Kyle’s collar and pulled him close. “You have been my closest friend besides Rowan. We’ve sailed together for years. Don’t make me choose because, for once, you may not come out the winner.”

Kyle put his hands up in surrender, and Ruairí let go.

“I meant no offense, Captain.” Kyle used his title since they were drawing attention. “I’m just surprised is all. I never imagined the Dark Heart would ever be anything but, well, dark.”

“I’m realizing there is a time and place for each.”

“In all seriousness, though, what are you going to do when we attack another ship? Do you still plan to pillage and plunder?”

“Of course. She knows who she came with. She knows what I am. I don’t look forward to her seeing that side of me, so I intend to keep her under lock and key whenever we must conduct business.”

Despite the years of sailing, first as a crew member aboard what he and his cousin started out thinking was a merchant ship, then as a captain of his own boat, he never liked to say out loud that he stole and killed for a living. A sliver of guilt that it would disappoint his parents if they knew still niggled at his mind when he spoke aloud of what he did as a pirate.

“I hope for her sake that she remains tucked away. Have a care when you decide who to board. She seems like a nice sort.”

That was the best compliment Kyle would offer, and the conversation seemed to end. Ruairí remained at the helm until the sun was high overhead. Kyle had caught a few hours of sleep, and Ruairí handed command back to him before stopping by the galley to gather a tray. He nodded to his guard and knocked before unlocking the door. He opened it but did not see Senga. For the first time in half a score of years, Ruairí felt a consuming wave of panic. He dropped the tray and spun around to see Senga standing wide eyed behind the door with a dirk in each hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Ruairí gawked at her before he understood her question.

“What’s wrong? I walk in here, looking for the woman I left asleep in our bed, and the cabin appears empty. What was I supposed to think?”

Our? What the bluidy hell? This is still my cabin.

But Ruairí knew that was not the truth. He already thought of the cabin as theirs, along with the bed and everything in it. The moment he came together with Senga against the very door he now slammed shut, everything had changed once more.

“I didn’t intend to worry you. I know someone has been outside the door for hours, and when I heard more movement, I wasn’t sure who was there. You warned me not to trust anyone and to be careful. I was.”

“Do most intruders knock before entering? I told you I would return at midday.”

“I haven’t a clue what time it is. The porthole is too small to tell where the sun sits. And again, you warned me to be vigilant.” She stepped forward and looked at the meal strewn across the floor before looking back Ruairí. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”

Ruairí caught himself gawking again.

“I’m not angry. At least not at you. Perhaps a little at myself. I felt the same fear when I couldn’t see you as I did last night when I worried that I wouldn’t get to you in time. Woman, you are shaving years off my life. More than pirating does.”

Senga returned the blades to sheaths in her boots that Ruairí had not noticed. She embraced him and sunk into his chest as his arms came around her.

“I wasn’t trying to frighten you. I took your words of caution to heart. Perhaps announce yourself next time, and I won’t draw a blade on you.”

He breathed in a scent he had recognized the night before, lilacs and roses. He calmed as she ran her hands over his back, and he looked down at the meal that now sat on the floor. To their great fortune, many of the items were wrapped in oilcloth and were not ruined from being on the ground. She stretched for a kiss before bending to gather up what could be salvaged. She looked around for a drying linen but had no idea where he kept them.

“I’ll get something to sop up the wine. Don’t worry, little one.”

After Ruairí wiped away the puddle of wine that trickled beneath the table, Senga laid out their repast. She moved to pull a chair to the table, but Ruairí was quicker. He grasped her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“I prefer this,” she purred as she pulled out a bannock and broke it in half before feeding it to Ruairí. Senga popped the other half into her mouth. She opened the wrapping on several other items before finding a wheel of cheese. She smiled, eager to cut it into pieces. Senga passed several to Ruairí before sighing as she took an unladylike-sized bite. She closed her eyes and savored the strong flavor. Cheese was a weakness for her. She loved it and could make a meal out of it any day of the week.

Ruairí watched as pleasure spread across her face near to what he saw when they coupled. He fed her another piece as she looked eager for what was clearly a favorite. He fed her several more bites until she sucked his finger into her mouth and released it with a pop.

“I shalln’t eat it all, though I could.” She fed him several pieces before cutting an apple into sections.

They were more than halfway through their meal before either of them spoke. Hunger of more than one kind kept them silent.

“I know you can’t remain below deck forever. I’m happy to bring you up to the deck and walk or stand with you, but I don’t want you to come above deck alone. You can without a doubt trust the man who guarded your door, Tomas, and my first mate Kyle. If I can’t be with you, you may go with them. No one else. Not yet.”

Senga leaned against his shoulder as she stroked the hair at his temple.

“I know what you and your crew do, Ruairí. I know what you are. I saw for myself what type of man sails for you, and they are the same type that frequent the tavern. I will be careful and use due caution, but I won’t break knowing I’m aboard a pirate ship. I came willingly.”

Ruairí captured her fingers and kissed each one before bringing her hand to his cheek. He leaned into her warm palm. “What a treasure I found,” he murmured.

“One that wishes to be plundered,” Senga had discovered she quite liked the various euphemisms she could use with her pirate lover.

“Of that you need not doubt. I will gladly do that morning, noon, and night. But I don’t want you to feel you are a prisoner here, or that you are little more than a bed slave. I may look like a Viking and at times act like one, but I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“That you care and are trying to reassure me speaks to who I’m discovering you are. I’ve seen glimpses of the man I’ve heard so many rumors about. You’re fierce and could scare even the most hardened pirate, but I see a side I don’t think you show many others.”

“You see a side I have never shown anyone.”

“Do you fear your crew will think you’ve gone soft? Would you rather I not go above deck either so you don’t have to show your kinder side, or so I won’t see your Dark Heart side?”

“So you know of that moniker. I suppose most people do. I don’t worry that they will see me as soft. There should be little doubt in their minds as to my true nature.”

“And that true nature is ruthless?”

“Aye.”

Senga took in the statement said so flatly. She supposed he was right. He admitted that no one saw the kindness he showed her. His true nature was not the gentle lover whose lap she sat upon. His true nature was one that made him renowned for his merciless attacks on merchant ships and privateers. Senga hoped they could both come to terms with the opposite sides of his personality. She closed her eyes as she rested against his chest. Content where she was, she did not want further conversation to ruin it. Senga ran her fingers over the stumble on his jaw. She liked the prickle, but she forced herself to curb her desire to rain kisses along his throat. The man had just admitted he could be cruel. It did not seem the right time to show more affection.

Ruairí felt the shift in Senga as she became more reserved. She continued to run her hand over his face, but she seemed introspective where she had been playful moments ago. He was not sure what to say. He had been honest, but he had intended on reassuring her that he would not regret bringing her along. Instead, she retreated from him.

“I don’t want you to fear me.”

She sat up and cupped his face in both hands.

“I don’t. I told you, I know who you are. I understand what you do and how you must be.”

Ruairí gripped her wrists, but his touch was soft.

“Then why did you retreat from me? Why sink into a shell?”

Senga looked at him with genuine confusion.

“I didn’t retreat from you. I didn’t think it was the time to be overly affectionate when you reminded me moments ago that you are not soft nor weak, despite your kindness to me.”

“I find I desire your affection as much as I do your passion.”

“I feel the same,” Senga leaned in for a kiss.

“I want you to feel free to show affection. I crave it, in fact. It’s been so long since I’ve felt any,” Ruairí trailed off. He could tell from her face that she was eager to hear more, but he already knew she would not ask. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I suppose I should tell you how I came to be a pirate if you are to live with me. I don’t want you to feel as though I’m keeping secrets or am keeping you at arm’s length.”

Senga nodded and offered him an encouraging smile.

“You’ve heard me speak of my cousin Rowan. Perhaps you have met him, and I’m sure his reputation precedes him as well.” Senga nodded again but said nothing. “When we were six and ten, I went on a trading voyage with my father. He is Rowan’s father’s younger twin. Rowan’s father was the laird of the MacNeills of Barra.”

Senga nodded.

“While my father and I were away, Rowan’s father forced him to go on his semi-annual tour of their lands. They went twice a year to observe the planting and harvesting. Rowan had been before, but that spring the weather had been worse than usual. He argued with his father that it was too dangerous, since much of their journey would take them along rivers and inlets. Rowan relented after his father insulted him in front of their men. He called Rowan a coward, so my cousin had no choice but to save face.”

“I can’t believe his father would do that,” Senga murmured.

“Halfway into their tour, they made camp near what was once a stream. With the spring thaw and rains, it was a surging river. When the other men went out to scout, they left Rowan and my uncle arguing once more. Rowan walked away until he heard his father and his father’s horse scream. The embankment had shifted and fallen into the raging water, carrying man and beast away. Rowan ran to fish him out, but his father cracked his skull against a tree limb as Rowan pulled him to safety.”

Ruairí paused as if picturing the past.

“He got them both out of the water and collapsed next to the laird. He woke to arguing and someone kicking him awake. His father was dead, and they were accusing Rowan of patricide. They bound him and forced him to ride with his dead father’s body tied before him. It was a sennight’s ride before they made it home. His mother spotted them and fell apart when she saw her dead husband. She never even looked at Rowan.”

“I don’t believe that. A mother wouldn’t ignore her son like that.” Senga was quiet but adamant.

“Regardless, they threw him first into the dungeon, then into the oubliette. He spent a month down there before my father and I returned. We tried to convince the clan elders that the idea Rowan would kill his father was preposterous. It was to no avail. The council wanted my father to be the laird. They were mistaken to believe he would be malleable and weak, that they could force him to bend to their desires. My father was the softer spoken of the twins, but he was far wiser than his brother.”

Senga still held doubts about Rowan’s mother’s reaction, but Ruairí had continued on, and she did not want to miss any of the story.

“The night we returned, my father sent me to rescue Rowan. I pulled him from the oubliette and practically carried him to a birlinn. He was skin and bones after a month in the pit. We had been similar in size and build to what we are now. I almost didn’t recognize him. We sailed that night, intending to meet my father in a few days, but a storm blew in. Rowan became deathly ill, and I missed the meeting point with my father. We put ashore and found a tavern where the owner was willing to let us stay until Rowan recovered.”

The next part of the story was not one he wanted to tell the woman he had just begun bedding, but it was an important detail. He tried to hide his grimace.

“The woman who owned the tavern, really more a brothel, took good care of Rowan until he was well. I think we both felt indebted to her, and we each developed a relationship of sorts with her.” Ruairí paused to see how Senga would react to him admitting he was with another woman. It was one thing for it to go unsaid, it was another to tell her.

“Ruairí, you weren’t a virgin last night. Neither was I. You’ve made no proclamations, and I’ve made no demands. I met you in a tavern where I know you’d been before, but I’d never seen you. I already figured out that was probably because you spent more time in a private chamber than the main dining room.”

Ruairí found all of a sudden that he wanted to make proclamations and would not have minded if she demanded fidelity. He wanted to offer it to her. He would have to revisit that notion later. He could only nod before going on.

“The woman recommended a merchant ship we could work aboard once Rowan was on his feet again. She not only ran a brothel, but she was a smuggler too. The merchant ship was a pirate ship. Rowan and I became indentured to the captain.” Ruairí tipped his head back as he looked at the ceiling. Those had been the hardest years of his life. He saw and did things he never imagined his conscience would allow. He was sure it was when his conscience died. “It changed both of us. Neither of us recognized the men we became, but we had each other and kept each other alive.”

Rauri tipped his head forward and looked into Senga’s eyes to see if she would ask for more details, but she nodded once and waited for him to continue.

“We sailed together for three years before the captain traded me to another pirate. I’d killed one of his men in a fight, and by rights, he could claim me as compensation for losing his man. I didn’t fare well on that ship, but I was a leader. I led a mutiny and killed the captain before the crew. I did it with such ease and cruelty, the name Dark Heart was born. No one aboard this ship has ever questioned my right to be captain. Not long after, the captain of the so-called merchant ship died. Rowan inherited it at the captain’s will, and the crew elected to make him captain. We have sailed together and apart for ten years.”

When he stopped speaking, Senga said nothing, so Ruairí was not sure if she was waiting for him to go on or was struck speechless.

“Are you repulsed to hear I killed two men in cold blood?” He was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Would you be sitting with me if you hadn’t?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I am relieved you did.”

“You are not at all how I expected. You don’t do or say the things I expect.”

“That’s good. It’ll keep you interested longer.”

Ruairí understood what went unsaid. He knew Senga assumed his interest would wane, and he would turn her out. He was not so sure, but he knew it was prudent not to make any false or rash promises.

“I am already very interested.”

“There is more to my own story.” She waited until Ruairí nodded before she went on. “My father was the laird of the MacLeods of Lewis. I was my parents’ only child. My mother nearly died giving birth to me and could not have anymore. My parents were a love match and doted on me. I told you my father carved the cradle before I was born, and he carved the cross for my baptism.”

Ruairí nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“When I was three and ten, a sickness ravaged our clan and weakened it. The MacLeods of Skye seized the opportunity and raided us. They killed my father while he tried to protect my mother and me. He had been fighting in the bailey but saw the old Skye laird rush into the keep. We had not always been enemies, and my father knew the laird was more familiar with the keep than most. My father knew the laird knew of the secret alcove in my parents’ chamber. My father fought his way to his chamber, but a Skye warrior ran him through as he tried to stab the laird who had just slit my mother’s throat.”

Ruairí was struck by the similarities in their stories, but while they both had the better father between two brothers, it was Senga’s father who had been killed. As far as Ruairí knew, his father was still alive.

“I tucked myself away and went unseen in the alcove. It’s the only way I survived, the only way they didn’t rape me. I stayed in the hidey-hole until the next morning, when my uncle ‘coincidentally’ returned from sailing to Canna. He returned with men willing to live and work for our clan until we were back on our feet. That is how I met Alex.”

It didn’t feel right to refer to Alex as her husband when she sat upon another man’s lap in his cabin aboard his ship. Her new circumstances did not change who Alexander was to her, but much like not wanting to hear about the brothel owner, Senga did not think Ruairí needed the reminder.

“I knew what everyone else did. My uncle coveted the lairdship because he had been my grandfather’s favorite. My father was born to my grandfather’s first wife, a woman he never wanted and refused to like. My uncle was born to the woman who was my grandfather’s mistress but became his wife less than a moon after my grandmother died. My uncle arranged the raid with the MacLeods of Skye in exchange for my hand. My aunt had little say, but she threatened to involve the church if my uncle dared hand me over at only three and ten. My uncle beat her for it, but he knew she would not bend. It is what saved me that time.”

Ruairí ran his hand over her back and gave her waist a small squeeze when she paused.

“I grew to know Alex when he was at our keep. He traveled quite a lot between Canna and Lewis. When I was five and ten, I was sure I was in love with him and he with me. And we were, if only in puppy love. Alex took me away from Lewis only days before I was supposed to sail for Skye. As I told you before, he posted the banns on Canna to hide it from my uncle. My uncle ruled much the way your uncle did. I remember hearing stories about him.”

Senga tried to hide her grimace, but it made her shiver instead. Ruairí wrapped his arm around her waist and rested his hand on her hip.

“It didn’t take long for me to get with child, and before I gave birth, my aunt had the cradle smuggled to me. Someone had tucked it away in an old unused chamber in an abandoned tower for years. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the door to see a man from my clan with it in his hands. He said, ‘From your aunt,’ and nothing else. He put it down and walked away. I haven’t seen nor heard from anyone else from my clan since then. It’s as though we don’t exist to one another. I suppose much as you and Rowan feel about your own clan.”

Ruairí was sure he and Rowan had a great deal more anger toward their clan, but he did not interrupt Senga.

“I wasn’t angry while I had Alex and then a bairn on the way. But once I lost both of them and had nowhere to go, I found bitterness eating away at my soul. I mourned the loss of everything. The family I made, the family I left behind, the clan I grew up with, the home that was no longer mine. All of it. It took me a year before I realized I would put myself into an early grave if I didn’t pull myself together. That was far harder than anything that came before it. I didn’t really want to, but if I wanted to survive, I had to. The charity of my neighbors and my uncle had nearly run out. I had to take care of myself, so I began working in the tavern. Not much changed after that until last night.”

Just as Senga sat quietly during Ruairí’s tale, he did the same for her. He wondered if she might cry, but when he looked at her, her eyes were dry. He realized she had resigned herself to her past, just as he had his. There was no more grief left but he had hung onto his bitterness, used it to fuel him every day he stayed alive. Ruairí understood that it was acceptance that drove Senga to keep going. They were as different as oil and water in that respect.

“You haven’t had it easy, little one. Tell me true, has any other man every attacked you before? Assaulted you?”

She shook her head but paused before speaking.

“They were not the first to try. Part of the reason Alex did ask for my hand was because my uncle cornered me once, and it was Alex’s appearance that saved me. Some men on Canna tried to proposition me, and when I refused, they threatened me. Those nights, I urged other women to distract them and stayed near my aunt and uncle. I managed to go unmolested. Last night was the only night I was ever truly in danger.”

Ruairí exhaled air he had not realized was trapped within his lungs. He had felt the familiar sense of rage build within him as he waited to learn whether there were other men to kill. Senga ran her hands over his ribs and chest.

“Don’t be angry. There is no one else to avenge.”

Her soft smile eased the tension from between his shoulders as he handed her a cup of wine. She took a sip before passing it to him. He took a long draw, then eased her off his lap.

“I shall arrange a bath for you. It will be me who knocks but still lock and bar the door.”

Ruairí left before Senga could say anything. She went to her chest and pulled out the things she needed, and it surprised her how quickly Ruairí returned. She still did not trust a crew she did not know, so she asked who it was before she lifted the bar. A troop of men arrived with a large tub and several steaming buckets of water. It amazed her that there was hot water. It meant there was a flame somewhere on the boat.

“I detest cold food every day, so I allow one fire, and it’s in the galley,” Ruairí explained.

Senga did not care at that moment where the hot water came from. She wanted to strip and hop in. When the men departed, she shucked off the robe she had thrown on and was ready to climb in when Ruairí lifted her once again, and her legs encircled his naked waist as he slid inside her. He settled them in the tub where they coupled once more. Senga found the feel of the lapping water to be the most sensual experience she had ever had. They washed one another, and Ruairí poured fresh water over her hair to rinse out the suds. They dried off and chatted about the various places Ruairí had traveled and where Senga dreamed of going. Her knowledge of geography surprised him, but he reasoned that she had lived among sailors her entire life.

Once dry and dressed, Ruairí assured her it would be fine for her to come above deck. He warned it was windy and pulled a MacNeill plaid from the bed. Senga hesitated a moment before accepting it. She had only ever worn a MacLeod or Sorley plaid. She knew the statement it made if she wore Ruairí’s, but it seemed pointless to deny she was his mistress. In the back of her mind, the thought niggled that not even mistresses wore a man’s plaid in public. It was a claim of ownership to wear a man’s plaid.

“I’d like you to wear it, Senga. I saw your other ones, but I want to see you wear mine. Not the one of a clan that forsook you, nor another man’s.”

She could see the importance of her decision in his eyes, and she realized she wanted others to know she was his. The only thing she was unsure of was whether he was hers. She wrapped it around her as an arisaid and belted it in place. She turned to look at him and caught his look of awe.

“Did you think I didn’t know how to put on an arisaid?” She was confused.

He shook his head and swallowed.

“No woman has ever worn my plaid before.” He adjusted it to cover her shoulders. “I’ve never wanted one to. I don’t know that I ever want you to take it off.”

He spoke more to himself than to Senga.

“You don’t need the plaid to know I’m your mistress, Ruairí. Everyone on this ship knows that. If I go ashore with you, everyone will surely know it there. The plaid doesn’t matter.”

Something flashed in Ruairí’s eyes, and Senga regretted her words.

“It does matter. It matters a great deal to me. You know as well as I do what it means for a woman to wear a man’s plaid, especially a woman outside of the man’s clan. I am staking my claim to you, Senga. And by me giving this to you, I hope you understand the claim you have to me.”

There. He had said it. They both stood in shock at Ruairí’s profession.

“Do you mean that?” Senga’s voice cracked, and Ruairí nodded.

“I don’t know what the future holds for either of us. I don’t know if in a sennight you won’t be able to stand the sight of me. I don’t know if in a moon, I will regret trapping you aboard this pirate ship. I don’t know if in a year’s time, you will wish you never met me. But I know that right now and for the foreseeable future, I want no one else. I knew that last night when Agnes approached me. I know it now because my mind can’t fathom another woman. You have bewitched and enchanted me. You are my own selkie come ashore to woo me. I just pray you don’t disappear.”

“I’m not going to disappear, and I’m proud to wear your plaid.”

“No one has seen this plaid since I first boarded the merchant ship. Rowan and I practiced speaking to do away with our accents and hid our plaids to keep people from knowing which clan we ran from. Once this became my cabin, I was willing to lay it out. It was no longer a secret that I’m a MacNeill. But no one else has seen it. I like the idea that the first time it is worn again, it is worn by you.”

Senga strained to reach his jaw and gave him a quick kiss, unable to reach any higher.

“Then let us get some air and sunshine.”

Ruairí trailed after Senga, amazed how the sight of her wearing his plaid seemed as normal as the sun rising and the moon shining.

Chapter 6

They spent the afternoon together on deck. Ruairí introduced her to several deckhands, and it shocked him that they were on their best behavior. It stunned him to see the manners they could show when a woman other than a whore was nearby. Her easy smile and knowledge of sailing went a long way to make her welcome. She no longer was a mystery to the men, and most no longer found her a threat. They stood together at the prow as the mist sprayed onto their faces. He encircled her in his arms as one hand rested around her waist and the other braced them by holding onto the railing. They continued to talk about places Ruairí sailed and how far into the Mediterranean he had been. Senga expressed curiosity about the women she had heard of, those who wore veils and were owned by men for their pleasure. She knew someone could draw a comparison between these women’s circumstances and her own, but she did not feel like Ruairí’s possession even if he showed some possessiveness. It was just enough for her to feel cared for rather than oppressed.

They returned to the cabin for their evening meal, but he had to leave soon after they finished for his turn at watch. When he returned, he slid into bed next to Senga. She snuggled next to him.

“Cold,” she muttered in her sleep before draping herself over him as if to share her heat.

Ruairí woke her in the middle of the night with an aching need to join with her. Senga could not force her eyes open, but she fully knew the way Ruairí made her body demand their coupling. She found her release just before Ruairí could no longer hold on, pulling out to spill his seed onto the sheet. She was back asleep before Ruairí knew it. Her soft breathing lulled him back to sleep as he spooned her. When they woke in the morning, once again need overcame them. The sun was well above the horizon when Ruairí slipped from the cabin, leaving a slumbering Senga in their bed and a guard posted outside their door once more.

* * *

They developed a routine that followed their first day. They joined several times throughout the day and night. Ruairí would slip from the bed in the morning while Senga continued to sleep off the exhaustion from the night before. She marveled at how he needed so much less sleep than she did. Ruairí showed her a small library of books he kept hidden in a trunk. As the daughter and nephew of lairds, they were both taught to read. It was a rarity for someone to teach a daughter, but Senga explained that since she was their only surviving child, her parents prioritized her gaining an education. She spent most mornings reading. They ate their meals together and spent most of their afternoons together on deck. While Ruairí could not always stand looking into the distance with her, Senga stood with him when he was at the helm. He let her have a turn holding the wheel while he gave her instructions. It became obvious to Ruairí that even though she let him give her directions, she was already an experienced helmsman. He pointed out as much, but she only grinned.

They sailed south for a fortnight, skirting the coast of France until they reached Portugal. They anchored for a night, and Senga was barely aware they took on new cargo before setting sail for further down the coast. Ruairí came to bed so exhausted that neither of them stirred the rest of the night. It was the first time he did not wake her in the middle of the night, so she awoke refreshed while he snored. She climbed over him with care to look out the porthole. There was nothing to see but open water. It was still early, the last of the pink hues of dawn fading into the clear blue skies of daytime. Over the past fortnight, Ruairí had pointed out which men he trusted with her safety and those he still watched. Senga knew enough of the crew to feel comfortable around them without Ruairí at her side. She dressed in a pair of leggings the barrel man gave her. He was not a man, but a boy of about twelve summers who spent most of his time in the crow’s nest. They were a similar height, so the pants fit well on Senga. She looked back as she lifted the bar and unlocked the door. Ruairí did not move, and she had a moment of worry since he was the lightest sleeper she had ever met. She felt badly that he was so tired that his only movement was to breathe. She made her way above deck and found Tomas and Kyle speaking together near the rail. They smiled as she approached.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“Not at all, lass,” Tomas replied. He was still the man who guarded the cabin door, and rather than be angry about the post, he took it as a position of honor. He was chuffed with himself that Ruairí trusted him with such responsibility.

Kyle looked around her but frowned. “Where’s the captain?”

“Still asleep. I almost feared he was unwell, but I think he’s just exhausted.”

Kyle still frowned but nodded.

“I take it he doesn’t know you’re up here.”

Senga bit the side of her bottom lip. “Not exactly.”

“Lass,” Tomas warned as he too looked at the stairs leading to the captain’s cabin. Trepidation was written across his face.

“No, he doesn’t. Like I said, he’s asleep.”

“You better return sharpish,” Tomas cupped her elbow and tried to steer her back the way she came.

“Are you both occupied right now? Is there no one who can act as my nursemaid?”

“I know what you’re doing, Senga, and it won’t work. You can’t bait us into putting our necks on the chopping block with the captain,” Kyle responded.

Senga crossed her arms, but her eyes shifted to two figures circling one another. She recognized one as Braeden, the boy who lent her the leggings. The other was an older man she recognized as being approved by Ruairí, but she could not recall his name. She watched as the boy tried to pick up a sword that was much too long for him. He looked like a child trying to play with his father’s sword. She cringed as he struggled to lift it vertically as the older man circled him again. The older man thrust his sword forward and narrowly missed the boy as he leaped aside and inadvertently dropped his weapon. The surrounding men guffawed, and one ruffled the boy’s hair. Senga saw the boy’s embarrassment as he tried to stand taller. She remembered that feeling when she was his age and her father insisted she learn to protect herself, but she was far smaller than the lads her age, who trained with experienced warriors. Only one had been patient with her: her cousin Alfred, the son of the man who later orchestrated her parents’ deaths.

Senga spotted a large chest that sat open. Even from across the deck she could see it was filled with various swords and knives. She stepped around Kyle and Tomas, who still tried to convince her to return to the cabin. She made a beeline to the chest even though Kyle was close on her heels. Senga peered inside and spotted just what she wanted. She pulled a falchion sword that resembled a meat cleaver from the pile. It fitted her hand well, but she could see that the chips in the blade made it more dangerous for sparring than if someone sharpened it. She returned it and pulled a cusped falchion from the chest. It was just over three feet long and the right weight for her to manage. She eased several blades out of her way before finding another cusped falchion.

“Put those back, lass, before you harm yourself,” Kyle barked.

“You whittle like an old woman.”

Senga waved away Kyle, then the man who spared with Braeden. She handed Braeden one of the falchion swords.

“Let it rest in your hand. See if you can find the point where it will balance. Once you do, then grip the hilt. It’s slightly different for each person, depending on the size of your hand. It looks like ours are matching pairs, but my hand’s smaller than yours, so I must grip closer to the blade.”

Senga waited while Braeden copied her actions until the sword no longer wobbled in his palm.

“You have the sword in your right hand, but I can see you favor your left. That means despite having the weapon in your right hand, you are more likely to leave that side undefended. Square your feet off and then step back with the right.”

Senga demonstrated each direction she gave Braeden until she positioned him as she wanted him. She showed him different types of thrusts and parries as she explained how and when to use them. She explained scenarios where certain strikes would be most effective. As she walked him through each move, she told him what open spots on her body to look for and the hints her movements could not help giving away. By the time she performed every move and was satisfied Braeden could at least attempt them without someone hacking him to bits, the pair had drawn quite a crowd. Halfway through his training, Senga remembered the other man’s name was Snake Eye; at least that was how he was introduced to her.

“Snake Eye, help me show Braedon what these look like when sparring for real. Braeden, move far to my right. Try to copy my moves as I spar with Snake Eye.”

Her suggestions received several laughs until she pulled her knife from her boot and stepped forward. Senga watched for the moment Snake Eye raised his sword in anticipation and launched into a series of thrusts and swipes she knew Braeden could not hope to mimic, but it made the men aware she was not there to play or pretend. She slowed her movements as she shifted to her right, forcing Snake Eye to follow. Senga now stood where she could see Braedon without losing focus on her opponent.

Senga and Snake Eye went through several rounds of mock battle. All the while, she called out explanations to Braeden about both her actions and how she could anticipate Snake Eye’s coming movement. It amused the crowd that she was on the mark each time she predicted each of Snake Eye’s attempts to knock the sword from her hand. She counted herself lucky that he was a good sport, and she could tell he had trained several others before Braeden. He knew to keep the tempo of their match slow so the boy could follow and practice. Senga was enjoying herself until a roar of such rage swept across the deck, she nearly dropped both her sword and dirk.

Chapter 7

Ruairí awoke feeling refreshed as he stretched, but he soon noticed he was alone in bed. He had not awoken that way since Senga came onboard. He sat up and looked around, but she was not there. His gut clenched as he thought about her going above deck without him.

Ruairí pulled on leggings and boots but forewent his leine as he strapped his sword belt around his waist. He charged up the stairs as he took in the crowd that surrounded crew members he could not see. He scanned the deck but could not find Senga, but he spotted Tomas. Ruairí stalked toward the man until Tomas pointed toward the crowd and shook his head, looking defeated. It was only then he heard Senga’s voice as she explained how to fight, of all things, that he breathed again. He heard her call out various moves and defenses he was never aware she knew. He assumed she was commenting on two of his men sparring, but when the opponents shifted, so did the crowd. An opening showed Senga battling a man who was one of his most seasoned sailors. He knew Snake Eye would be careful with her, but as she twisted and swung, he was uncertain she would be careful with Snake Eye. He watched in horror as she waited until the last moment to dodge a strike of Snake Eye’s sword that could have cleaved her in half before she came up with her dirk below his chin.

A soul-deep roar traveled from his gut up his throat. He tore across the deck, men moving out of his path before he barreled through them. He heard a string of curses come from Senga that made many heads whip back around. Ruairí had not imagined she knew so many blue words. When he reached her, she had the grace to lower her weapons and point them to the deck, but the temerity to grin.

“Good morning, Captain,” she chirped. Her bright smile made the men scatter as Ruairí’s face turned a shade of red none of his crew had ever seen. She leaned forward and whispered, “Did you sleep well? You seemed tired.”

Ruairí growled as he lifted her off her feet and hefted her over his shoulder. Her braid swung around his knees.

“Ruairí, stop. Put me down.” She tried to reason with him. “I’m fine. You’re making a far bigger deal out of this than need be. You can see I’m hale. I was just teaching Braeden a few moves.”

When Ruairí ignored her, and they neared the stairs leading below deck, she reached down and pinched his backside as hard as she could. She suspected she would find a bruise later.

She felt as though she were flying as Ruairí dragged her back down to the deck.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I could say the same to you. You humiliated me in front of your entire crew. I spent the last hour showing them I’m not some defenseless chit, and you undo that all by storming away with me like a barbarian.”

“You dare be angry with me?”

“Yes. I dare. I’m spitting mad now, so we’re quite the pair. I know what I’m doing, Ruairí. I know you found me and rescued me twice, but I’m not incapable of defending myself. You said as much when you found me outside the tavern. That was without a dirk in my hand because of the pails. I’d already stabbed one man when you arrived at my cottage. When you killed the man in front of me, I rolled free, grabbed my dirk from my thigh, and killed one of the other two. I might have been at a disadvantage with three men and only dirks, but I can hold my own. You would know that if you hadn’t carried me away like a naughty wean.”

Ruairí watched the lightning streaks of green flash in her eyes as her temper flared with each word. She was magnificent, and he felt like an arse. Once more, he had panicked where her safety was concerned. As he looked down at her now, his mind cleared, and he recalled the explanations she offered to the moves she and her opponent made. She had not sounded fearful or breathless. She sounded in control. Not only that, Ruairí recognized her words to be right for each thrust and parry.

“Who taught you to fight?” he wondered aloud.

A cloud passed over Senga’s face as she remembered her time spent training with her father.

“Da,” she mouthed as she could not force any sound from her. Her chest ached, and she was tempted to rub the tightness from it.

“He did a good job.”

Ruairí took her hand and led her back to the place where she had been fighting only minutes ago. He handed her the falchion and dirk that lay on the deck. He drew his own two-handed broadsword. Ruairí knew she could never manage such a large weapon, as it was as long as she was tall, but he also knew he would insult her if he chose a smaller weapon.

“Wait,” she said before turning back to the chest. She dug deeper into the chest and brought out another cleaver falchion in good repair. She looked to Braeden who stared at her and Ruairí with saucers for eyes. “These are both falchions, but very different styles. You can see this one looks like a meat cleaver. You can use in a similar manner. Both are the right weapons for people of our build.”

Ruairí respected her choice of words as she avoided calling the boy small. He was the same height Ruairí had been at that age, but he was still smaller than most of the crew. He had not put on the bulk from training that Ruairí had when he was twelve.

Ruairí focused on Senga as they circled one another. He gave her credit for patience. She refused to go on the offensive even though she made several moves to trick him into it.

“One of us has to strike, Ruairí. I’ll follow your leadership,” she taunted.

“Ladies first,” as soon as the words left his mouth, Ruairí wanted to draw them back in. Before her parents died, Senga was a lady. She would have held the title, but as an orphan who ran away to marry below her, she forfeited the honorific. Ruairí saw the pain register on her face, and it tempted him to call an end to the match before it started.

“Good thing I’m not one,” she whispered, but there was an edge he had not heard before.

Ruairí could have kicked himself. The least he could do was honor her desire to show her abilities to him and his crew. If she could not earn their respect from a title, she could do it with her actions. Ruairí tested her with a wide swipe of his sword. He was unprepared for the invitation it signaled. Senga responded with a series of punishing blows that made Ruairí realize she was far better trained than he expected. Throughout their mock battle, Senga breathed with ease and spoke to Braeden as though she was explaining a child’s game rather than how to maim or kill. Ruairí felt sweat break out across his forehead, but she seemed unfazed.

The longer they fought, the more willing he became to lend some actual force to his strikes. Senga blossomed under the challenge, and she caught Ruairí off-guard more than once using moves he had never seen before. It disconcerted him how she read his moves and what he unintentionally telegraphed to her without much thought. The fight ended when they locked swords, and it was clear neither would have their sword knocked loose from their hand. Senga dropped her dirk and grabbed a handful of his leine as she pulled him down to her. She smacked a loud kiss before stepping back. She dropped her sword and squealed as he once again lifted her over his shoulder. He smacked her backside playfully.

“You have a reckoning coming your way, little one.”

“Do you promise?”

They walked away from the gales of laughter that erupted after minutes of stunned silence as they watched their formidable pirate captain match wits and skill with a woman half his size. They lost none of their respect for him, but she gained more in their estimation.

Ruairí eased Senga to the floor of their cabin as he sheathed his sword. He pulled the sword belt from his waist and dropped it on the foot of the bed.

“Are you furious with me?” After the fierceness she showed, Ruairí balked at the timidity in her voice. He could tell her fearfulness was genuine.

“No. Not anymore. You need to stop making me panic.”

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t overreact. I’m not always in danger.”

Senga softened her words as she ran her hands over his chest. Her finger glided over the smooth planes of his bare skin, and she marveled at the feel of the muscles as they jumped beneath her touch.

“I know we met under less than auspicious circumstances, and you took me away from Canna to keep me safe. You told me which men I could trust and which ones I couldn’t. I’ve listened to you. Tomas and Kyle knew I was above deck, and they even tried to convince me return here before you awoke, but they kept an eye on me nonetheless. I took pity on Braeden when I saw him struggle with a sword far too large for him. Snake Eye was patient, but no one would intervene and give him the right sword.”

Ruairí covered her hands on his chest with one of his while the other tucked strands of hair behind her ear. She titled her chin up and smiled softly as his cornflower-blue eyes gazed into her hazel ones.

“I remembered how he must have felt when my father sent me to train with the boys my age. I was smaller than them and struggled to hold my own until my cousin Alfred fitted me with the right sword. My father had trained me, but mostly with a wooden sword and more on how to use my knives in close proximity to my enemy. It was Alfred who taught me to use a falchion because it was a size I could manage. He gave me the confidence I needed to go against the boys my age. I came out the victor more often than not. After my parents died, I was filled with hurt and anger. Alfred’s time training me was the only thing I had to look forward to when Alex was back on Canna. Alfred even took me raiding a few times, and he tested me more than once against a real enemy. I know what I’m doing, Ruairí. But I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Ruairí was speechless as Senga revealed more of her past. Part of him wanted to hunt down her cousin Alfred and throttle him for encouraging Senga to think she could fight against men twice her size, and then the other part of him wanted to thank the man for showing Senga how to fight men twice her size. Since he could do neither of those, he pulled her onto his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed. She caressed his shoulder as she traced his tattoo. He had discovered she found running her fingers over his tattoo as soothing as he found the feel of her hand upon him.

“We still have a lot to learn about one another. I don’t want you to feel stifled or like you can’t be yourself. I would just ask that you warn me before you do something daring, and I will try not to panic at the first sign of something wrong.”

“Thank you, mo ghràidh.”

They had not used many terms of endearment, but Senga wanted to. She tested out a simple “my dear” to see how Ruairí would react. The smile she received was almost too brilliant to look at. His face went from being uncommonly handsome to breathtakingly beautiful. Once again, he looked more like Adonis than a mortal man. He took her breath away, and she could not believe she was the woman he had chosen. She knew by now that he had never brought another woman on any ship he traveled aboard.

“Mo chridhe,” My heart. Ruairí’s voice was little more than a whisper as he pulled Senga in for a kiss different from the ones they had shared before. There had been kisses of passion and desire; there had been kisses of tenderness and hope, and there had been fun pecks. This kiss conveyed the love that was blossoming between them. They both felt it as they leaned their foreheads together, but neither voiced their emotions.

Neither had broken their fast, so Ruairí fetched a tray. They breakfasted as they discussed their current location near the southern coast of Portugal. Senga wondered more than once why they had not attacked or been attacked and why they had only anchored once. She broached the subject as they ate.

“Why haven’t we seen any other ships? Are we not traveling in the shipping lanes?”

“We weren’t. I unloaded half my cargo back on Canna, but I also brought things onboard. I had an arrangement with a merchant near Lisbon and could not afford to lose any of it. Now we will sail closer to Seville, and we will encounter other ships.” He scrutinized her, but her face showed little reaction. “Are you worried?”

Senga shook her head.

“Bored perhaps, but mostly curious about why I haven’t seen you attack anyone yet.”

Ruairí chuckled. “Bloodthirsty wench, aren’t you? Don’t let the crew hear you, or they might mutiny and replace me with you.”

Senga shrugged as she bit into the cheese she had saved for last.

“I wasn’t sure if you avoided attacking because I’m here. I don’t want to interfere with your livelihood or that of your men. If you get yourself worked up when you don’t find me in the cabin, I worry about how you will act if we come under fire. Perhaps it isn’t so good that I am here.”

Ruairí reached across the table and clasped her hand.

“Don’t say that again. I want you here, and yes, I have panicked more than once when I fear you’re in danger. However, that has been when it has come unexpectedly. I can prepare as best I can before an attack. I can know you’re locked in this cabin. I reinforced the door with the bar, and it’s thicker than normal to make it nearly impossible to hack through. It’s not the same as walking into my cabin or waking up not knowing where you are.”

“Fair enough. Do you think you will find a ship you want to board as we sail closer to Spain?”

“I’m certain of it. Among the Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and Arab traders, there is always plenty to find near the tip of Spain.”

“You mention traders, but what of the pirates from Spain and France?”

Ruairí turned her hand over and placed his palm over hers. His hand appeared to swallow hers.

“They are no laughing matter. British and Scottish pirates are quick about our business. We attack, we kill, we plunder, we leave. We know the Spanish and French to torture their captives, especially those from other pirate ships.”

Ruairí’s tone made it sound as though he knew from experience. Senga walked around the table and sat on his lap. It was her favorite place to be besides joined with him. He saw the questions in her eyes, but she did not speak.

“Yes, I know firsthand. You’ve never asked about my scar.”

Senga knew which one he referred to. She had felt it countless times, and the first time she saw it, she wanted to burst into tears. The raised mark ran from his right shoulder, across his back, and wrapped around to his left rib cage.

“I figured you would tell me when you wanted to. The wound must have nearly killed you. I didn’t see a need to revisit something like that unless you brought it up.”

Ruairí appreciated that about Senga. She listened to everything he had to say, but she kept her curiosity to herself. He had lied to many women about how he came by the scar, making up a different tale each time, but none were as extreme as reality.

“Rowan and I had been sailing two years before we made it as far as the Barbary Coast of northern Africa. We had heard tales of the corsairs and their cruelty, but neither of us knew what to expect until we encountered them as we sailed past Gibraltar. They seemed to materialize out of nothing, and the attack was so unexpected, we had little time to ready ourselves. They boarded us and swept through the crew as though we were carved figurines rather than trained marauders. Rowan and I fought beside one another, but when he moved to defend his back, it left an opening to mine. The blade landed against my ribs, and as I tried to spin away, it sliced up to my shoulder. It was so severe, the corsair assumed I would die where I lay. Rowan was able to defend himself and then drag me to the galley where he hid me until the battle was over. It was Rowan’s turn to hover over me as I teetered between life and death. It was weeks before I could move from the bedroll they gave me. Rowan just about whittled himself to death with worry. To this day, it is still the most gruesome battle I have been in. They were savages but fought with a skill unrivaled by any other pirates I have ever encountered.”

“Have you fought any since then?” Senga’s hushed tones spoke of her fear, and Ruairí held her closer.

“Yes. But none were like those. I have prevailed since then. Small nicks and cuts, but none as bad as that one.”

Senga kissed each of his shoulders as she squeezed his waist.

“I thank God for that. I’ve survived raids and even gone on them, but the thought of that battle makes it hard for me to breathe. To think I might never have met you.”

They held one another in silence, once again unwilling to put into words what they both felt.

Chapter 8

Over the next three days, Senga could sense the tension rising among the crew. It was a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Everyone was eager for the thrill and profit of an attack. Ruairí handed Braeden’s training over to Senga, and she even began to train some of the other men who had used bloodlust as their only tutor. Ruairí made time to spar with Senga every morning, and the time spent bantering brought them closer.

In the evenings, Ruairí showed Senga the maps he used to navigate the North Sea, the Atlantic, and the Mediterranean. They had had a smooth passage through the Bay of Biscay near France, but Ruairí regaled Senga with tales of choppy oceans and gale-force winds. They shared tales they grew up hearing that made them both curious and fearful as children. Ruairí told Senga more of his childhood than anyone other than Rowan knew. In turn, Senga shared the loneliness of being an only child. While she had her cousin Alfred, it was clear Senga and Alfred were nowhere near as close as Rowan and Ruairí. Senga learned they had been born less than an hour apart with Rowan arriving first, making them more like brothers than cousins.

The fourth day changed everything for both Ruairí and Senga. The morning was overcast, and the crew was sure it was a sign of a storm brewing. Senga looked to the clouds but was not convinced. She argued the clouds would blow over, and it would be warm. The morning clouds made it difficult for Braeden to scout the horizon, so it came as a poor surprise when Braeden whistled a warning of the impending attack. He spotted a Spanish carrack riding low in the water. Ruairí’s ship was armed with cannons, a new artillery device he had little experience with. His men ran to load the cannonballs and gunpowder as Ruairí bellowed orders for their black sails to replace their white ones. The clouds shifted, and the carrack came into view. The three cannons on each side were visible even from a distance, and Ruairí was thankful Rowan had convinced him to outfit his ship with them.

As his crew prepared to attack the merchant ship, he spotted Senga handing weapons to the crew. He stormed over to her and lifted her around the waist before hauling her toward their cabin.

“Haven’t you any sense? You see us preparing for attack, and you’re still standing on the deck. I told you, you were to go to the cabin and bar yourself in when the ship engages in a battle. Why were you still up there? A cannonball could land on the deck any minute, and it could kill you.”

Ruairí burst through the door and dumped Senga onto the bed before spinning around.

“Oh no, you don’t. If you had the time to carry me down here, you have a moment to say a proper goodbye.”

Senga grasped his elbow and tugged until he turned around.

“I didn’t mean to worry you. I wanted to help and was handing over the last weapon before I planned to come below here. I don’t want to be a distraction to you, but I also don’t want you to fight without us saying goodbye.” Her unspoken words hung between them.

Ruairí pulled her into his arms, and their bodies pressed together as they had so many times before, but this time there was an urgency born of fear rather than need. Senga cupped his jaw and held on as she smattered kisses over his cheeks before they came back together for another searing kiss. Ruairí let go and looked at her for a long moment before stepping back. Just before he walked through the doorway, he turned back to Senga.

“Stay here where you’re safe. Senga, I love you.”

He closed the door before Senga could respond. She stood there stunned but jumped when she remembered to lock and bar the door. Once she sat on the bed, she felt her world tip. At first, she thought it was the shock of Ruairí’s declaration, but she realized it resulted from cannons firing from the holes along the side of the ship. The vibration rattled almost everything within the cabin, along with Senga’s teeth. She moved to the porthole and was glad it was on the correct side of the ship for her to see the impending battle.

Senga did not have to wait long before Ruairí’s crew was swinging grappling hooks onto the deck and rails of the Spanish boat. She grasped the table behind her when she made ready for impact. Once the boat stopped rocking more than normal, she returned to the porthole. She watched with fascination as the crew laid planks from their ship to the Spanish deck and began running across. She saw Ruairí lead the way as he swung from ropes on the Lady Charity to the ship he was about to commandeer. The battle became a blur as Spaniards tried without success to board the Lady Charity. She strained to follow Ruairí as he moved about the deck, but she often lost sight of him. Senga forced herself not to panic when she could not see him, and she convinced herself to have faith that he would survive this battle just as he had countless previous ones.

As she watched the gruesome scene unfold, her mind echoed Ruairí’s last words.

I love you.

Senga knew in her heart she loved him too, but the thought of saying it out loud terrified her. She knew it should be easy for her to respond. After all, she felt the same way, but the words lodged in her throat every time she thought about telling Ruairí when he returned to the cabin.

The battle felt interminable as it raged on now moving between both decks. Senga could hear the pounding of feet and the screams of pain from above. She walked to the corner where she kept her falchions. Ruairí had gifted them to her. Senga still had the two dirks she kept in her boots, along with the one strapped to her thigh. She pulled off the skirts she still wore whenever she was not sparring, then unstrapped the knife before kicking off her boots. Senga changed into the leggings and replaced the knife along her thigh high enough to be covered by the leine she pulled from Ruairí’s chest. She swam in it, but it hid the knife. She pulled on her boots and found another belt in Ruairí’s chest. When she began digging, she had hoped she would find the type where she could sheath more daggers. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found one, even though she had to improvise fastening it since she was much narrower than Ruairí. She knew where Ruairí kept more blades, so she sheathed three more dirks into the belt. Then she waited.

* * *

Senga heard feet clomping down the stairs, then boots stomping in the passageway before the sound of an ax struck the door. She would have pushed the table or chests against the door, but they were all anchored to the floor. When a second ax joined the first, Senga knew the door would not hold forever despite being thicker than normal. Unsure of what type of weapons the enemy held, she was certain she did not want to be visible when they opened the door. She crept across the cabin to hide behind the door. It was not long before the door splintered from the force of the dual attack. It swung open so hard, it nearly hit Senga. She held her breath as the first man rushed in. She counted to three to make sure he was in line with her before she launched two dirks at him, one sinking into his neck and the other between his shoulders. The man staggered before pitching forward. Senga pulled two more dirks out as the door slammed shut behind the second attacker. Senga leaped forward before the man turned all the way toward her. She aimed once more for the neck, and when she felt that blade wedge into the man’s throat, she thrust the second dirk just below his sternum. She twisted as she levered the hilt down and pushed the blade up. Senga intended to do as much damage as she could. Despite having two knives embedded in him, the second attacker swung at Senga, coming too close to her right cheek. She recognized the sword as one Ruairí had called a scimitar. While it had a longer reach, it was hard for the man to maneuver in such close quarters. Senga pulled the dirk from her thigh and slashed at the man as she fumbled to reach one from her boots. Once armed with both, she slashed and struck with such ease, the man paused for a moment. It was just the time Senga needed to bury the two blades into his chest. His face showed his shock before his eyes turned sightless, and he fell to the ground.

Senga did not move. She waited to see if anyone followed the men or if there was anyone else in the passageway. When she heard nothing, she pulled all her knives free and placed them back in their sheaths, not bothering to wipe any clean. Now that they had breached the cabin, she knew she was not safe in such an enclosed space. She would be safer finding somewhere to hide on deck. The hold was where the Spaniards would attempt to reach, so she had no intention of being in that enclosed space either. Senga pushed her braid beneath the collar of the leine she wore and tore a strip from the bottom to tie over her head both to keep her hair from her eyes and to hide it. She hoped it would make it less obvious at first glance that she was a woman. She grabbed both of her falchions before slipping from the cabin.

Senga inched her way toward the stairs and then crept to the deck. She waited and watched before moving forward slowly. She looked around and could see Ruairí’s crew still had the upper hand, even though there were bodies strewn across the deck. Senga spotted Tomas a moment later, as he was a mountain of a man. He fought two Spaniards at once while Kyle kept another man from reaching the wheel. Senga looked toward the other boat and tried to find Ruairí. When she spotted him on the other ship, she ducked behind a stack of barrels and peered around, never taking her eyes off him. She felt like she was crouched there forever before time slowed to a stop, and her vision tunneled to where Ruairí fought two men. There was no way he could see the third man approaching from behind him. Senga was out from behind the barrels and across the deck before she thought about what she was doing. She leaped onto the rail and a plank as she pulled a knife out. She hurtled it across the divide and watched it land in the man’s throat, but not before the now-dead man’s sword cut across Ruairí’s ribs. Senga saw blood spread through the material of Ruairí’s leine as he continued to fight the men in front of him. He did not slow despite the wound, but Senga knew he could not keep up his defenses forever now that he was bleeding. She watched in horror as Ruairí stumbled backwards and a sword pierced him below his ribs. Senga’s battle cry would be one the crew would talk about for years to come. Senga was across the planks and onto the Spanish ship before any of her victims realized what was coming. She struck without mercy as she fought her way to Ruairí’s side. Senga cut down men twice her size with the confidence that years of training brought. She had not sparred during her time on Canna, but the few days spent practicing aboard the Lady Charity had been enough to remind her body of what it could do.

Ruairí’s crew would later say she fought like the shieldmaidens they were sure she was descended from. Senga felt the nicks and cuts from the various encounters, but she never received wounds like Ruairí’s. She reached him as he sank to his knees, his neck wide open for attack. She swung her cleaver falchion down onto one of Ruairí’s opponents as he raised his arm to attack. The man’s forearm landed on the deck with a thunk as blood sprayed onto Ruairí’s face and chest. Both the enemy and Ruairí turned to look toward her, stunned, as she parried with Ruairí’s other opponent. She cut down both men and stood over Ruairí’s body daring anyone to come near her. Many of the enemy took one look at her bared teeth, the blood splattered on her, and the determination in her eyes and chose other prey.

Ruairí could feel nothing but the searing pain along his ribs. He felt as though someone had cut him in half, and he was not sure he was actually still in one piece. He saw Senga jump in front of him and tried to reach for her, but his body was unwilling to cooperate. His head felt as though it floated a mile above him, and he shook it to clear the dizziness. He tried to call out to her, to tell her to hide rather than fight, but no sound came from his mouth as he lay prostrate at her feet. He turned his head toward her, so he could see every attack she warded off and every man that fell dead at her feet. He wanted to both praise and punish her for taking such risks. He had told her to remain locked away in their cabin, and she had disobeyed him. Now he could not protect her. The ironic thought she was doing a fine job protecting him crossed his mind before everything went black.

Chapter 9

The battle lasted less than an hour, but Senga was sure it lasted the entire day. By the end Ruairí’s crew was victorious, but suffered serious casualties including their injured captain. As Kyle issued orders for the men to empty the hold and transfer all the booty to their ship, Senga issued orders for four men to move Ruairí to their cabin. He groaned enough while they carried him to convince Senga he was not dead. She entered before the men carrying him and swept the table clear before ordering him placed upon it.

“Get me any and all alcohol you can find. I need a candle lit and boiling water. Now.”

She did not look around to see who carried out her orders, she just heard running feet and the murmur of voices moving away from the cabin. Senga tore open Ruairí’s shirt and wanted to heave when she saw how deep the wound was on his front. She stepped around him and managed to pull him mostly onto his side so she could see the wound to his back. That was not as severe as she imagined, even though it still bled profusely.

She pulled clean linens from the chest where Ruairí stored them and began cutting varying lengths of bandages. Snake Eye returned with an armful of jugs and bottles Senga new contained whisky and ale. She glanced over at him before looking back at Ruairí.

“Thank you. I’ll look at that gash on your head when I’m done with the captain.”

Snake Eye only nodded as he stared at Ruairí. He moved aside when another man arrived with two pots of boiling water. While she waited for someone to light a candle, she said a prayer of thanksgiving that she had brought her sewing kit with her. Until then, she had darned some of Ruairí’s clothes, but otherwise it sat unused in her chest.

Senga looked at the wound to Ruairí’s back and decided that was the better one to start on. He would have to rest on either his front of his back when she worked on the opposite side. She would rather he rested on his back than his stomach since that wound was far worse. Senga grabbed a jug and pulled the stopper loose. Senga looked at Ruairí as she took a long drag of whisky. She poured hot water into the wash basin and scrubbed her hands with soap. She had no idea why it mattered, but she learned from her mother that she should never tend a wound with dirty hands. Senga also knew she would have to put Ruairí in far more pain before she could ease his pain.

“Hold his arms and legs,” she ordered anyone and everyone. She folded a strip of linen and put it between Ruairí’s teeth. “He will buck even if he doesn’t awaken. You cannot let him loose.”

Senga gritted her teeth as she rolled him back onto his side and the men took hold. She did not even look to see who helped her before pouring a liberal amount of whisky into and around Ruairí’s wound. He writhed in pain and groaned, but his eyes never opened.

“Keep holding him,” she ordered as she wiped away the blood and grime from near the gash with linen she dipped into the boiling water. Senga spotted the lit candle and pulled a needle and thread from her sewing kit. She held the needle in the flame until it glowed then she passed the thread through the flame, too. She paused and tilted her head to the ceiling, eyes closed as she prayed. Without a word, she began to sew Ruairí closed.

Ruairí felt a burning unlike anything he had felt since his battle with the corsairs years ago. He knew it should not have surprised him, since the ship they encountered was Spanish, but the crew were Barbary pirates. They were the same sort of men who had attempted to kill him years ago. Apparently, they were back to finish the job.

Ruairí struggled to open his eyes, but they refused to cooperate. He sensed people moving around him, but it was as though he had wool in his ears. He could not hear or see anything. The burning would not stop, and his body tried to pull away, but something pinned him down. He willed his body to fight the weight so he could escape the pain, but both the weight and the pain were unrelenting. He tried to yell, but he was sure nothing came out besides a groan. Ruairí tried to focus on what was happening, but nothing made sense. His mind seemed to be telling him to float away as if on driftwood. As he tried to fight against it, he smelled the lilac and rose scent he would forever associate with Senga. It wafted to him, and his mind won. He drifted into blackness.

Senga sewed as quickly but carefully as she could. She poured whisky over the wound several times as she created a row of even, small, and tight stitches. When she finished stitching his back, she placed a stack of bandages on the table and told the men to roll him back over. She wiped her brow and took another long swig of whisky before she moved onto the wound below his ribs. “Hold him tighter. This time will hurt even more. The wound is far deeper.”

As she poured the whisky over the gaping hole, she could see further into the gash. She was sure she could see the tip of his rib. She swallowed the bile that wanted to rise in her throat. With no medicinal flowers or herbs, there was nothing she could do to pack the wound and prevent infection. She had to decide how she would stitch the wound closed. She knew it was not enough to just stitch the top layer of skin, leaving an open tunnel to his insides just below the surface. However, she feared sewing it so tightly that the flesh could not grow back properly causing his body to rot at worst or diminish his range of motion at best.

Senga once again tilted her head back as she looked to the ceiling. This prayer was far longer as she asked God to guide her in how to heal the man she undoubtedly loved. She pushed the thought of love out of her mind as a wave of regret tried to consume her. She wished she had stopped him before he left and said it back to him. Now he might never know.

She worked through the afternoon as she took care stitching together what she could within the wound then the surface. When she was done, she fell into the chair Tomas rushed to push beneath her. He, Kyle, Snake Eye, and a man she learned they called Rollo had helped her throughout the surgery, doing any and everything she asked. She swept her tired gaze to Kyle before swallowing the tears that wanted to force their way out. She would save that for when she had privacy.

“We have to go ashore somewhere, Kyle. I have to collect medicinals for him, otherwise, I fear we will lose him to infection.”

“It may take us days to sail somewhere we can anchor,” Kyle shook his head.

Senga was on her feet with a blade beneath Kyle’s throat.

“You either find somewhere to sail to or don’t fall asleep.” She nicked his skin to make her point. “You saw me today. I know you did. Don’t doubt my willingness to sacrifice you, any of you, for him.”

Kyle pushed her wrist away before nodding.

“I want him to survive too, Senga. He’s my friend as much as he is my captain. I will do what I can, but we are not in friendly seas. You may not know it, but those were not Spaniards. They were Barbary corsairs. They buccaneered the carrack from a Spanish captain before we found them. We passed Gibraltar but are still close to the north coast of Africa. We must sail closer to Europe, but that will bring about danger from Spanish and French pirates. Even if we go ashore, none of us speak the language well enough to ask for what you need. Our vocabularies are a mite more limited and specific.”

Senga glared at him knowing he meant they only knew how to order drinks and women. She walked around to one of the maps she knocked to the floor earlier. She picked it up and held it out to Kyle.

“Where do you think we are?”

Kyle pointed to the map and the area near the southern tip of Spain. Senga bit her lip.

“It’ll take at least six days to sail just to the south of England. We can’t wait that long. He could be dead by then. Are there no bays or coves we could sail into? I could go ashore and look for the few plants I have to have. We wouldn’t have to see or speak to anyone.”

Kyle looked between the map and Senga who still held the dirk.

“We can try.”

“That’s all I’ll ask for.”

Chapter 10

Once the men helped her move Ruairí to the bed and left the cabin, Senga sank onto the chair beside the bed. She took his hand and breathed a sigh that it was neither too hot nor too cold.

“You can’t leave me alone on this ship full of pirates, Ruairí. Stay with me. I need you, mo chridhe, mo ghràidh.” My heart, my love.

Senga clenched her eyes closed, but the tears still leaked from them.

“Why did you have to tell me you love me then walk away? I never got to say it back. I didn’t even get to think about it.” Senga let the tears fall. “I don’t even know if I can tell you. Every man I have loved or trusted has abandoned me to death. My father, my husband, my son, and now you might too. Ruairí, I need you too much. I can’t let you go. But perhaps, if I don’t love you, then you will live. Is it my love that kills the men in my life? Am I a curse that brings nothing but sorrow? Live, and I will leave you. Not because I want to, but if that is the sacrifice God demands, then I will walk away knowing you are hale once more.”

She bent to kiss the back of his hand, and she was sure she felt a meek squeeze of her fingers, but when she waited and watched, Ruairí did nothing else. The only movement was the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The next four days passed with little to distinguish night from day as Senga refused to leave Ruairí’s side. She fed him broth sip by sip and insisted he have water and nothing else to drink. She bathed his wounds with whisky, then linens soaked in more boiling water. She changed the bandages throughout the day and night. She kept vigil, praying he would not develop a fever. She awoke early on the fifth morning to an inferno blazing beside her forehead. She had fallen asleep once again leaning against the bedside, holding Ruairí’s hand. She reached out to touch his skin but already knew what she would find. She dipped a cloth into the basin of water and placed it onto his forehead before going to the door and calling for Kyle. Senga paced the cabin while she waited and nearly jumped out of her skin when Kyle walked in.

“He’s developed a fever. We can’t wait any longer to go ashore. I know we must be close to the north of France by now. There has to be somewhere we can go ashore. I don’t need a village or town. I just need somewhere with an open field or trees nearby.”

“It’s not that easy, Senga.” Kyle held his hands up as Senga reached for a dirk. “I’m not disagreeing with you, nor am I saying no. I’m just warning you it’s not as simple as spotting land and weighing anchor.”

“I know that. But you have to do something, or we will lose him.”

Senga did exactly the opposite of what she intended. She burst into body-wracking sobs as she sank to her knees. She had not sobbed in years. Senga believed most of her tears dried up when her husband and babe died. Now they flooded her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Kyle eased her to her feet and led her to a chair, but before she could sit, she heard a croak. She looked to Ruairí and saw he reached out his hand to her. Kyle helped her to the beside and pushed the chair under her.

“Sen--” Ruairí’s voice was too hoarse to say more. Senga tilted a cup of cool water to his lips but only allowed him enough to wet his throat. “Senga.”

He said no more but his fingers wrapped hers even if his grip was weak.

Senga looked up to Kyle, pleading with her eyes. He nodded and left the cabin.

* * *

It took another day before Senga heard a call to drop anchor. She looked out the porthole but could not see land. Ruairí had not moved or said anything else since he whispered her name. She continued to speak to him throughout the day and night, even though she was not sure if he could hear her.

“I must go ashore, mo chridhe. I’ll try not to be long, but I must search for anything I can use to bring down your fever. Don’t go anywhere until I get back.” She tried to infuse some humor into her voice, but it sounded more like begging to her own ears.

Tomas rowed her ashore, but they had to wade the last few feet.

“Bluidy hell, that’s brisk,” she grumbled to herself, but it gave her an idea.

Tomas helped her climb a natural path to the top of the cliffs they stopped near. She looked around and was not sure what she would find. She had seen trees as they approached, so she hoped she might discover something she could use. The pair moved in silence toward the trees, keeping their eyes peeled for anyone or anything that might alert their presence. When Senga arrived at the first few trees, she worried that she had wasted everyone’s time, but as she moved further into the woods, she could have whooped with joy. She spotted yarrow, which was the most important medicinal she needed. She found the wormwood that would work well with the yarrow to keep infection away from the wounds; Senga had seen small red streaks beginning to form around the edges of his front wound. She also found cloves, henbane, and angelica. They were all ingredients she could use to bring his fever down and help him fight infection from the inside out.

As she looked around, another thought came to her. She had considered none of the items Ruairí’s crew ransacked from the corsairs’ ship, but she remembered something her mother once told her about. She had explained to Senga that the myrrh spoken of in the story of Christ’s birth could also heal. Her mother told her it came from far-away lands and had a distinct smell. Senga wondered if there had been any in the cargo they plundered.

* * *

Once she gathered everything she needed, Tomas rowed her back the Lady Charity, and she set to work making possets and a tincture for Ruairí. Even in his unconscious state, his face scrunched as the horrible tasting brew slid down his throat. Another five days passed as they sailed further north. They made slow progress, with a headwind that forced them to keep their sails lowered. Senga added changing the possets and brewing the tincture to her routine. Senga also demanded that men bring buckets of seawater to the cabin along with the tub. She ordered Tomas and Snake Eye to help her get Ruairí in and out of the tub. She had him soak in a cold bath thrice a day for as long as she dared keep him in the water. Senga was desperate to get his fever down, but it continued to burn even though the red streaks had faded and neither the front nor the back wounds smelled putrid. Despair was setting in, and Senga turned away most of the food brought to her. She was coming to terms that the worst would happen when they turned a corner at last.

Senga dozed next to Ruairí, his hand in hers and her head resting on her other arm as she leaned on the mattress.

“Mo ghaol, what I wouldn’t give for a bowl of lamb stew right now.”

Senga jerked awake to find Ruairí looking at her. His eyes were clear, and his skin was no longer clammy. She stared at him as though he were an apparition, and he chuckled. Her arm swung out to slap him for laughing at her, but she caught herself and tucked it by her side.

“I had hoped for a hug and a kiss. I’ve missed you.”

“How could you have missed me when you’ve been unconscious for the better part of a fortnight?” Senga was already exasperated.

Ruairí’s brow crinkled before he spoke, “I’m not sure, but I am certain I could hear your voice even when I couldn’t make out your words. I kept trying to call out to you, but you never seemed to hear me. I tried to squeeze your hand when I felt yours in mine, but my fingers never cooperated. The harder I tried, the deeper I seemed to fall into blackness.”

“I’m so relieved you are awake. I---” she could not finish, and only shook her head.

Ruairí tried to raise his arm but felt his stitches tug.

“Come to me, little one. I would feel you next to me.”

Senga gingerly moved to the edge of the bed but did not dare rest her entire weight on the mattress.

“No. Not close enough.”

“I don’t want to bump your wound or jostle you.”

“And I don’t want to wait any longer to hold you.”

There was just enough space for Senga to lie on her side facing Ruairí. She stroked his cheek, and his eyes began to drift closed. He clasped her wrist and stopped her.

“I’m not ready to sleep again. I’ve done enough of that. I would look at you and hold you. Kiss me, Senga.”

She brushed her lips against his, and the strength he had to deepen the kiss surprised her. Fear, frustration, passion, and love coalesced into a need that neither could control. Ruairí ran his hand over every part of Senga he could reach, and she skimmed her fingers over his chest.

“I need you, but I know I’m unable to do anything,” Ruairí grumbled.

“I don’t care. I can wait. I’m just thankful your fever broke. You’ve scared years off my life,” her voice trailed off.

He kissed her nose. “After I make love to you until neither of us can see straight, I have a bone to pick with you.”

It was the first time either of them referred to their coupling as making love. Senga’s hazel eyes stared into Ruairí’s blue ones, and she knew what they shared was no longer about careless tumbles and tupping. It had become much more long ago, but to hear him say the words was as astonishing as his profession of love.

“A bone to pick with me? How about the one I have to pick with you for nearly dying?”

“We could easily have been in the same boat. I was awake when you came across those planks. I saw you fight those corsairs. You could have gotten yourself killed. I told you to remain here.”

Senga pointed to the splintered door that did not close all the way.

“You must not have noticed that this cabin is not as impenetrable as you believe. I killed two men here, knowing I could not remain in such an enclosed space. I went above deck to hide, but when I saw the man rush at you from behind, I chose you. I chose you over everything else.” Senga felt the tears pool in her eyes. “Bluidy hell, I’ve become a watering pot since they injured you.”

Ruairí wiped the tears and kissed her. “I would never have you shed tears over me.”

“You’re days late to stop that.”

Ruairí smiled, “Tongue as sharp as ever. No mercy for an injured man?”

Senga tugged gently on his hair. “It ran out when you tried to worry me into an early grave.”

“You look exhausted. The circles under your eyes are very dark. Have you slept at all?”

“A little here and there.”

Ruairí ran his hands over her sides and then her bottom. “You’ve lost weight too.”

Senga quirked a brow, “We both have.”

“Senga,” he warned.

“Ruairí,” she mimicked.

They sank into another kiss until both of them drifted into a deep sleep.

Chapter 11

After a fortnight in bed, Ruairí demanded to go above deck. When Senga said she would not allow it, she was certain the vein in his temple might pop. She acquiesced when he agreed to remain seated while he was on deck. He argued the fresh air and sunshine would do them both good, and Senga had to admit she agreed.

The wind had shifted, and they were making progress back along the coast of England. Senga and Ruairí agreed they would sail toward Glasgow since it was time for Ruairí to pay his fealty to the Earl of Argyll. He and Rowan both sailed under the earl’s marque when they needed an alibi and the disguise of being honest merchants. It was too late for them to sail up the other coast of the English isle, and he preferred Glasgow since it was a safe distance from the earl’s far reach. Ruairí also knew Rowan was due to sail into port soon.

* * *

Senga watched the crew hoist the white sails once more as they approached the entry to the River Clyde. Ruairí sat beside her, but he was shielding his eyes and trying to see what looked like a blurred lump to Senga. He pushed himself to his feet, and Senga rose to hers. She put her arm out, but he stepped around it and walked to the rail.

“Young Braeden, is that the Lady Grace I spy?” Ruairí called up.

“I do believe so, Captain.”

“How can you tell? I can barely tell it’s a ship,” Senga asked, stunned.

“Sixth sense I suppose, though Braeden has a clearer view than we do.” He looked to Kyle, who stood at the helm. “We put ashore now.”

Ruairí needed to see Rowan and explain what happened before they all arrived in Glasgow. A tremendous scene would unravel on the docks if Rowan saw Ruairí was injured. Ruairí knew his cousin would be livid and want revenge. Ruairí had to admit he rather wanted it too, but he was satisfied knowing that Senga was unharmed. Ruairí was not sure he wanted to keep her onboard knowing the danger, but he also knew he could not go anywhere without her.

* * *

It was a few hours later that Ruairí and Senga watched as a couple lowered themselves into a dinghy and were rowed ashore. They followed in their own dinghy. When they reached land, Ruairí climbed out first and gained his balance before reaching for Senga, but she had already stepped onto the beach.

“Cousin!” Senga heard a voice that sounded remarkably similar to Ruairí’s, and when she peered around his shoulder, it shocked her to see a man who could pass for Ruairí’s twin.

“Rowan. And Caragh. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Ruairí laughed as Rowan growled and Caragh turned a deep shade of red. Ruairí had met Caragh under less-than-honorable circumstances several months earlier.

Ruairí reached a hand for Senga, and it was his turn to growl when he saw Rowan’s appreciative look. But before either man could introduce the women, they ran to one another and embraced. A tangle of strawberry and raven locks blew in the wind as the women stood together.

“Senga?”

“Aye, Caragh. What are you doing with Ruairí’s cousin?”

“I would ask the same of you. How did you come to be aboard a pirate ship? Did you go willingly?”

Senga leaned back to get a clear view of Caragh. “Of course, I did. Did you not?”

“Well---”

Senga released Caragh and drew her blade as she turned to Rowan. Ruairí howled with laughter as Rowan put his hands up in surrender, and Caragh grabbed her wrist.

Ruairí limped over to Senga and wrapped his arm around her. “She’s fierce, Cousin. I would be sure she hears the story from Caragh and not you.”

“Senga, it’s a long story, but I ended up on Rowan’s boat after a night raid. I’m glad that I did. He’s my husband now.”

Senga stared at Rowan before smiling at Caragh. She put her blade away, and they embraced again.

“You know each other?” Rowan dared to ask.

“Yes. Rowan, you know how my mother was your mother’s best friend. Senga’s mother was my mother’s cousin. They all grew up on the Isle of Lewis together. When my mother took me back to Lewis each summer, the same summers I went to Barra, I always played with Senga.” Caragh waved Rowan closer, and the look of love they exchanged reassured Senga that all was well. The women were similar in build, and while their hair and eyes were different colors, their faces looked quite similar once they stood beside one another.

“Ruairí, what happened to you?” Rowan got around to asking.

“A run in with a Spanish ship filled with corsairs.”

Senga watched as all the color leached from Rowan’s face before rising in a shade she could only liken to burgundy. “Don’t worry,” Ruairí assured him. “Between my crew and Senga, they are all dead.”

“Senga?” Caragh and Rowan chimed.

“Aye, she’s fierce and blood thirsty. Bluidy Barbary corsair injured me, and she came to my rescue. Fought off I don’t know how many men then nursed me back to health for the past fortnight.”

Rowan turned to Senga and reached out his hand. She looked to Ruairí first before placing it in Rowan’s. Rowan brought it to his lips and brushed a kiss on her knuckles.

“You can see we are practically twins. He is as close to me as a brother. I thank you for keeping his arse in one piece.” Rowan winked at her, and Ruairí growled, pulling her back to his side.

“Fair turnaround,” Rowan muttered before Caragh pinched him. He pulled Caragh in for a kiss that rivaled any of Ruairí and Senga’s.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered as he brushed his nose against Caragh’s.

Senga looked up to Ruairí, but when she caught his eye, he flushed and looked uncomfortable. “A story best saved for when we are alone. And you can be angry at me in private.”

Senga’s eyes widened, but before she could say anything, Caragh gasped.

“Ruairí doesn’t know. Rowan, tell him. There is no way he could know.”

“Know what?”

“Caragh, you shall go over my knee for that. And it won’t just be my hand,” Rowan’s whisper was not low enough for Ruari and Senga to avoid hearing.

Senga was not sure what to make of Caragh’s grin of delight before she turned a remorseful face to Rowan.

“I’ll explain that later too,” Ruairí was better at whispering.

“I don’t think the beach is the right place to tell this story. Either we continue on to Glasgow or we all return to one of our ships.” Rowan grumbled as he tapped his wife’s backside.

They all returned to the Lady Charity since Ruairí had the larger cabin, and Ruairí, Rowan, and Caragh seemed uncomfortable with Ruairí going to their cabin.

Ruairí only said in the dinghy, “Another part of the story for me to tell later.”

Senga was becoming both worried and annoyed at his secretiveness, but both couples were onboard before Senga could press Ruairí for more details.

Once tucked away in the cabin with a repaired door, Rowan took a deep breath and reached for Caragh’s hand. She moved herself over to sit in Rowan’s lap, and Senga felt a sharp twinge of jealousy, since she did not think Ruairí was well enough for that. Senga yelped when she was lifted off her feet before she could sit. She found herself planted on Ruairí’s lap.

“I’m tired of waiting to hold you,” he breathed against her neck. “And I suspect I shall need your support with whatever Rowan is about to tell me.”

“Ruairí, the morning following your visit on the Lady Grace,” Rowan grimaced, “We went ashore at Bedruthan Step, and I met Caragh’s family. Caragh mentioned my mother and her mother were best friends. I hadn’t a clue, but I remembered Caragh’s mother’s red hair from when we were children. You would surely recognize her, too, if you saw her. Ruairí, she told me a story of my imprisonment that makes sense but is utterly opposite of what you and I have believed for a half a score of years.”

Ruairí nodded, but his skepticism was obvious. Senga held her breath, unsure of what would come next.

“Catriona, Caragh’s mother, told me she was there that day. The day I returned with my father’s body on my horse. What I remember from that time in the bailey is not what happened. My mother did wail when she saw my father on my horse, but they dragged me away before I could see all of my mother’s reaction.”

Caragh squeezed Rowan’s hand in one of her as the other rubbed over his back and shoulders. When he paused to look at her, she smiled encouragingly.

“Ruairí, she pulled my father’s body from my horse, and when the shroud fell apart, she stabbed him. More than once. She stabbed his dead body. She was inconsolable, her rage consuming her. While they locked me in the dungeon, she pleaded with the elders to let her see me. She tried to bribe guards, but they always found her out. Caragh’s mother witnessed all of this, and once they threw me into the oubliette, my mother begged Caragh’s father to find your ship. She was sure your father could reason with the council.”

Rowan shook his head as Ruairí stared aghast at his cousin. Senga looked back and forth between the two cousins, then at her own cousin.

“We both know what happened after that.” Rowan looked to Senga then Ruairí.

“She knows everything, too. I told her just after she came aboard. We seem to have painfully similar family stories. Senga’s father was the laird on Lewis before her uncle arranged for the MacLeod of Skye to lead a raid on her keep. Her parents died, and her uncle assumed leadership of the clan.”

Ruairí would not tell any more of Senga’s story, since he was not sure how much she wanted others to know.

“Senga,” Caragh whispered. “I heard about your losses. I’m sorry I could not have gone to you.” Caragh reached across the table and took Senga’s hand. They gave each other a gentle squeeze.

“So, what do you plan to do now, Rowan?” Ruairí asked.

“We’re going home before winter. Rather, we’re going to see my mother. As Catriona tells it, my mother was never the same after that day in the bailey. She hasn’t fared well and refuses to step foot outside the keep. Ruairí, according to Caragh’s mother, Aunt Charity has done little better.”

“Charity? You named your ship after your mother?” Senga questioned.

“Aye. My leaving our clan had nothing to do with my parents,” he breathed. He did not want to hurt Rowan by reminding him that his parents never wanted him to leave. “When do you plan to go back? Will you go after we settle with Argyll?”

“Most likely. Will you go with us?”

Ruairí shook his head. He was not sure he was ready to see his clan again. His anger and bitterness had faded since meeting Senga, but he felt it trying to take hold again. The injustices were done to Rowan, not him, but he felt them just acutely as if they had been.

Rowan nodded before continuing.

“We will make a run along the coast once more before heading north. We picked up cargo from Alane that we must unload.”

Senga was sure she heard Caragh hiss. She looked at her cousin and was certain fire would leap from her eyes as she gave Rowan a seething look.

“The tavern owner I told you about. I can’t believe he let Caragh meet her.” Ruairí said as an aside to Senga, but the others heard.

“Oh, I met her,” Caragh snapped.

“Enough,” warned Rowan again, but his voice softened, “There was no other way, but I regretted it before we even went ashore. You know that, mo ghaol.”

Caragh sighed but nodded. She leaned against Rowan, and Senga could not help but smile to see her cousin had found someone who loved her as much as Ruairí loved her.

That thought made a pit form in her stomach that remained there the rest of the night.

Chapter 12

Rowan and Caragh returned to their ship, and Ruairí and Senga retired for the night. Ruairí was so persistent as he pled his case that Senga relented. They took their time making love as Senga straddled Ruairí’s hips. She eased onto his length and rocked her hips. It had been weeks since they made love, and she still feared injuring him, but they both needed the reconnection.

The slow pace enabled them both to last far longer than usual. Ruairí ran his hands over her breasts as he watched her rise and fall onto his rod. She moaned as he pinched her nipples and threw her head back when he grasped her hips to brace himself as he tested his ability to thrust. Once Ruairí knew he could move too, neither of them lasted long. They pushed each other into release, and for the first time since they began coupling, neither tried to ensure Ruairí pulled out. They climaxed as one.

The following morning, Senga awoke before Ruairí. The night before had been too much for him, even if he would never admit it. Senga dressed and slipped from the cabin to find Tomas or Snake Eye. She found both playing passe-dix, a game played with three six-sided dice, and it was clear Tomas was winning. She grinned and walked to them, hoping a winsome smile would set the right tone for her request.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, Senga,” Snake Eye smiled and showed his missing teeth. Senga realized she rarely noticed the gaps anymore.

“I have a favor to ask one of you. Perhaps the loser, or even the winner of the next hand, might help me.”

Despite her sunny disposition, both men turned wary gazes toward her. She knew she had to tread carefully but pushed on despite growing nervous.

“Could either of you row me over to the Lady Grace? I would like to see Caragh and speak with her.”

“Does the captain know you want to go?”

“The captain is fast asleep. Going ashore was a strenuous task yesterday, along with hosting his family, so he is catching up on his shut-eye.”

Senga refused to say more to keep Ruairí from sounding weak even if she trusted both men. Tomas shook his head.

“No, Senga. Without the captain’s permission, I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“Same,” Snake Eye shook his head with more vigor than Tomas.

“Should I ask one of the other men?”

Both came to their feet.

“Absolutely not. You know Captain would have your hide and ours as well if you did that,” Tomas looked around to make sure no one overheard them.

“Then help me lower the dinghy, and I’ll take myself over there. The water’s calm, and I’ve rowed plenty of times in my life.”

Tomas and Snake Eye gritted their teeth before they each rolled the dice again. Tomas lost and was surly as he lowered the dinghy, then the rope ladder. Senga nimbly followed him into the dinghy, but Tomas refused to look at her as he rowed the small expanse between the boats. He called up to announce their arrival, and Senga saw Rowan run to the rail. He looked anxious, and Senga realized that he must have been frightened that something happened to Ruairí.

“Is Caragh awake? I would visit with her if she is,” Senga called up and saw Caragh’s face poke around Rowan’s shoulder.

“Senga! Good morning. I’m here.”

Senga scrambled up the ladder and hugged Caragh once she was on deck.

“Rowan, don’t worry. He’s fine and was fast asleep when I left him. I haven’t seen Caragh in so long, and we didn’t have much time to speak just the two of us last night. I was hoping to visit with her.”

“Of course, but I hope you let someone else know where you went. I can imagine what Ruairí will do if he awakes to find out you aren’t aboard the ship,” Rowan warned.

“Snake Eye knows Tomas rowed me over. Would it be possible to send Tomas back and have one of your men return me? I don’t want to keep Tomas waiting or from his duties,” though Senga knew he had none, since he was playing dice.

“That would be fine. Skinny can take you back.”

Senga leaned over and told Tomas he should return. He looked doubtful, but when Rowan reassured him, he relented.

“Come below. We can talk in the cabin.”

It was not long before both women had swapped stories about how they came to be attached to two of the most feared pirates sailing through Europe. Caragh squirmed when she explained how she met Ruairí, and Senga could not believe how angry she grew toward Rowan. “Inauspicious circumstances” was an understatement, considering Rowan tried to trade Caragh to his cousin, and Ruairí nearly ended up coupling with Caragh before Rowan stopped them.

“He’s different now though,” Caragh puzzled. “When I met him, there was a coldness to his eyes. He scared me when I thought Rowan would give me to him. He is Rowan’s mirror image, but anger was simmering below the surface.”

“But you would have gone with him,” there was no accusation in Senga’s tone even if jealousy nipped at her heels.

“If I hadn’t any other choice. I would have made the best of another situation beyond my control. I’m just thankful that Rowan couldn’t go through with it.”

“And everything is resolved between the two of you?”

Caragh shrugged, “It improves every day, and I know I made the right choice marrying him. Speaking of marriage…”

Caragh gave Senga a pointed look, but Senga could not meet her cousin’s eye.

“That’s what I came to speak to you about. I don’t know that Ruairí will ever ask me to marry him. We’ve never spoken of it, but he said he loves me. He said so just before the battle, and he’s alluded to it since he awoke.” Senga rubbed her forehead. “I know I love him, too. And that’s the reason I must leave him.”

“What?” Caragh broke in.

“I prayed constantly while Ruairí was unconscious, and I pledged to sacrifice my happiness for his health. Caragh, every man in my life has either died or abandoned me. My father, my husband, my son. They all died. My uncle and even Alfred abandoned me. Neither my uncle nor my cousin cared for me, not really. I’m nearly convinced I’m a curse. Either way, I made that pledge to God, and I must honor it.”

Caragh gawked at Senga for so long that Senga began to squirm.

“That is the most ridiculous pile of shite, cousin. Not the part about your family dying; that’s just a fact, and so is how your uncle treated you. Alfred had no backbone to stand up to his father. But the part about you leaving Ruairí because he’s getting better is absurd. I believe you prayed, and I believe you think God healed Ruairí in answer to your promise. But I do not believe God would ever intend for you to make such a sacrifice.”

“Whether or not you believe doesn’t change my mind. Will you help me go ashore? I can’t wait until we reach Glasgow. He will be back on his feet by then. I won’t be able to slip away.”

“Do you even hear yourself? You don’t want him to be well yet. You have to slip away. Your own words show you know what you want to do is wrong. Senga, no.”

“Caragh, it’s easy for you to say ‘no.’ But you didn’t see the man you love come close to dying before your eyes and then watch him fading away for a fortnight. I was sure I would lose him. It was unwillingness to accept it that kept me going. I want him to live, but I don’t want to be the reason for his suffering.”

“Again, such shite. If anything, you’re the only reason he isn’t still suffering. I saw the way he looked at you, watched you the entire evening. The man is head over heels in love with you. What do you think your running away will do to him?”

“Keep him alive.”

“Bah,” Caragh waved her hand and stood up. She paced about the cabin as she kept looking over at Senga.

“Caragh, I’m going with or without your help. I figured the least I could do was let you know since we reconnected after so long. I didn’t want to just disappear on you.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me, but you would do it to Ruairí.”

Senga clenched her hands into a fist and tried to remain calm. Caragh watched Senga and relented after debating with herself.

“Fine. I don’t agree with you. I definitely don’t condone this, but I will help you. I will speak to Skinny about taking us ashore. I should collect medicinals, just as you did. I haven’t had a chance, but after hearing about the wounds sustained between Ruairí and his crew it would be wise for me to do that. Once we’re on shore, we can decide what you’ll do next.”

Senga walked around the table and embraced her cousin.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The women were in the dinghy being taken ashore within a quarter hour.

* * *

Ruairí stretched, then groaned as he felt the stabbing pain of his stitches being pulled. He looked around the cabin, but Senga was not there. He smiled as he thought about the previous night. It had been wonderful to see his cousin and to know that things were working out for Rowan and Caragh. He liked the young woman, but he was thankful he had not brought her aboard his ship. He might never have met Senga, or if he had, he certainly would not have invited her to come with him. His smile broadened as he thought about their lovemaking the night before. It was unhurried compared to their usual all-consuming need to come together. Ruairí knew he should not have spilled his seed inside her, but the image of her standing beside the cradle was even more vivid than it had been in her cottage. Ruairí would ask her to marry him when he brought her back to the cabin.

Ruairí gingerly stood and pulled on his leine with minimal grunts. His leggings resulted in several curses and a moan, though he would never admit to these. He braced himself against the bulkheads as he made his way to the stairs. His crew cheered when they saw him emerge onto the deck. Ruairí waved but searched for Senga. He spotted Tomas and Snake Eye playing dice while Kyle stood at the helm. He would have to reward his first mate for doing such a fine job of leading the crew while he convalesced.

“Morning,” Ruairí greeted Tomas and Snake Eye, but when neither man would look him in the eye, he searched for Senga again. “Where is she?”

This was a growl, not a question. He continued to scan the deck, but he knew he would not find her.

“I warned the lass you would get your dander up when you couldn’t find her,” Snake Eye muttered.

“Then you had better tell me where she is.”

“I took her over to the Lady Grace, Captain. She asked to see her cousin.”

Ruairí gritted his teeth to keep from yelling.

“And you are back now, playing dice. You just left her there.”

“Your cousin said he would arrange for one of his men to bring her back.”

“And you thought I would be fine with that. Some strange man in a small boat with my--” Ruairí did not know how to finish his thought. He threw his hands into the air. “No, I’m bluidy well not fine with her being without someone I trust.”

“You trust your cousin, don’t you?” Tomas’s eyes widened as he realized what he said aloud. “My apologies, Captain. I’ll lower the dinghy and fetch her right now.”

“I’ll go with you. I have words for her that will not wait until we return.”

Ruairí almost bit through his lower lip as he climbed down the rope into the dinghy. He held his hand against his ribs, the pressure relieving some pain.

Chapter 13

It surprised Caragh and Senga how easy it was to convince Rowan to allow them to go ashore with Skinny. Caragh was quiet for most of the way, lost in thought about what awaited her when she returned without her cousin. Senga, in turn, looked to the shore and tried to see if there was a town or even a village visible. The trio walked a couple of miles inland, the women gathering plants and placing them in a basket Caragh carried.

“What are you going to do now?” Caragh asked, looking over her shoulder at Skinny to be sure her voice did not carry.

“I’m uncertain. Do you see the smoke against the clouds to the left? I think that must be a village. It’s too much for one cottage. I can’t stay there, but I can see if someone will take me further north.”

“And you’ll trust whoever you ask? What do you have to trade?” Caragh glowered at Senga to warn her not to include herself in the commodities she might have.

“I didn’t bring anything of value with me when I left Canna. I have my knives from Ruairí’s chest. Several of them have jewel-encrusted handles.”

“Did he give those to you? Would you add thievery to your list of wrongdoings?” Caragh lifted something from around her neck. “Rowan has let me choose various pieces of jewelry from the chests he has kept. This one should bring you a fair amount if you can find a jeweler in a decent-sized town. Otherwise, use these rings.”

Caragh pulled off two rings from her right hand and handed the three pieces of jewelry to Senga.

“You’re getting too close to that village, my ladies,” Skinny called out. “Someone may see us.”

Skinny had given them privacy to talk, so there was quite a distance between the cousins and the pirate. Both women pretended not to hear him as they continued to wander and gather plants.

“We have to distract him long enough for me to slip away.”

“You have to distract him. I’m complicit, but I’m not doing any more to aid in this insane plan of yours.”

“Skinny?” Senga called to him. When he approached, she pointed to several trees near a deer path they could see. “Do you see the tree to the far right? I believe it’s an alder tree. Could you help us by carving some bark from it? The trunk is hard, making it a difficult task.”

Skinny looked between the two women and nodded his head. Caragh handed him a small sack from her basket. They waited until Skinny was within the tree line before Senga gave Caragh a tight squeeze and darted in the village's direction.

* * *

Ruairí could feel his temper rising with each splash of the oars. He saw Rowan wave as they approached his cousin’s boat. “Where’s Senga?”

“Good morning to you, too, Ruairí. She and Caragh went ashore with Skinny to collect medicinals. Caragh realized it was a good idea to have a stock on hand, and I guess Senga needed to replenish her supplies.”

“You let them go ashore with only one man? Do you not remember where we are?” Ruairí wanted to scream. They anchored off the coast of Inverkip, at what appeared to be a sleepy coastal village, but both Ruairí and Rowan knew it was a smuggling stronghold. One where they were not welcome. Both had raised their white sails and the banners that showed they sailed under the marque of the Earl of Argyll for the express purposes of disguise. “I assume Caragh doesn’t know where we are. I know Senga doesn’t. What if they meet someone and mention who they are with?”

“I think both women know not to admit they sail with the MacNeill cousins.”

“You think, but you don’t know. Bluidy hell, Rowan. If anything happens to Senga, I won’t forgive you.”

“I’m coming down.”

* * *

Senga looked back twice to be sure Skinny was not following her. The woods still hid him, and Caragh appeared to be looking at the ground for plants. Senga’s legs burned, but she pushed herself until she reached the village outskirts, where she slowed to catch her breath. She looked around and spotted the tavern. She would not go there immediately, but she knew she might have to if she could find no other sources of aid. As she approached the town square, she realized it was market day. She casually wound her way through the stalls until she found a jeweler who looked to know his trade and had items of similar value to what she carried.

“Good day,” she spoke in low tones to hide her Hebridean accent.

She must not have hidden it well enough, because the man’s face took on a skeptical appearance.

“Good morning, lass. Is there something you are looking for?”

“Not exactly. I was hoping to make a trade.”

“Trade or sale?” The man ran an assessing gaze over her.

“Sale. My husband passed, and now I am in need of funds.” Both statements were true, even if she made them sound connected.

“Let’s see what you have.”

Senga laid one ring on the stall. The man peered at it from various angles.

“How did you come by such a fine piece? It looks French.”

“It is,” Senga prayed he was not testing her. “My husband traded there and brought it back.” That was near the truth.

“I’ll give you twenty shillings.”

Senga smiled warmly, “Then you will give it back, and I will move on. Thirty shillings.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Done.” Senga covered the ring with her hand until she received a pouch of coins. She discreetly tied the pouch to the laces of her skirt before hiding it within the folds of her arisaid. She had been torn between which plaid to wear. Senga could not bring herself to leave the MacNeill plaid behind. She found she was not sentimental about her MacLeod or Sorley plaid, but she could not walk away without something from Ruairí. Senga moved on to several more stalls where she bought food and a wine skin. She kept an eye open for any merchant who seemed to be preparing to leave. Senga found an older couple who struggled to load their donkey cart. She walked over and helped without being asked.

“Lass, you are a kind one,” the old woman offered her a gummy smile.

“It’s my pleasure,” Senga smiled back

“Would you like to pick something from our wares?” the old man asked.

The man tempted Senga since the couple sold woolens, but she would rather they allow her to travel with them than consider stockings.

“I’m not in need of aught, but I appreciate your offer.” She pretended to look at their crates. “From where do you hail? Where do you go next?”

The woman seemed happy to find someone to talk to when her husband only grunted at Senga. “Auchenbothie is our next market.”

Senga had not a clue which direction the town lay, but she hoped it was not taking them closer to Glasgow. “Is that a busy market?”

“Nay. We came to the coast from Glasgow, but now head east and our home.”

East. That is the wrong direction. But Auchenbothie may be inland. If that’s the case, Rowan and Ruairí will not be near the village.

“Do you not stay along the coast?”

“Nay. We have already traded there and will go inland to make our way home sooner. Where do you go, lass?”

Senga racked her mind for any place she had heard of near Glasgow that was not the city itself. She remembered a man who came to the Three Merry Lads who claimed to know the Earl of Argyll because he hailed from the village of Kilmacolm.

“Kilmacolm.”

“Near to where we travel,” the old woman responded.

“Aye. Perhaps I could be of help to you, since we travel in the same direction.”

The husband chimed in at her offer of help.

“That would be a fine thing, lass. We shall ride while you manage the donkey.”

Senga helped the couple onto the cart and landed the switch across the donkey’s rump. It brayed but moved forward. Senga did not look back as she led the cart to the path that headed away from the coast. She could not bring herself to take one last glance, but it also meant she did not see the men following her and the old couple.

Chapter 14

Ruairí tried to keep his knee still as his anxiousness grew with each sweep of the oars. The same sense that screamed for him to follow Senga to her cottage surged through him now. He had a sickening feeling that Senga was in danger, and he did not know where she was. Ruairí and Rowan spotted Caragh and Skinny as they stood in the field arguing. Ruairí took off running but had to hold his side as he pushed himself. Rowan could have outpaced him, but Ruairí knew his cousin hung back for his sake.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

Caragh looked at her husband and cousin-by-marriage, but she refused to look them in the eye.

“Wife, you had better answer now if you don’t want to find yourself over my lap with a switch across your arse in plain sight.”

A flash of defiance crossed Caragh’s face as she looked at Rowan, but the distress on Ruairí’s face made her relent.

“She’s gone, Ruairí.”

He stood staring at the woman who looked so much like the one he loved and wanted to throttle.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“She left. She’s convinced she must uphold some pledge she made to God when you were ill. She promised to let you go if you survived. Senga believes she’s cursed since the men her life always die. She thinks she’s protecting you, Ruairí. Senga loves you.”

“Loves me? Loves me? If she did, she wouldn’t run away.” Ruairí felt his world crumble around him. He swayed on his feet, and Rowan was quick to hold him up.

“Ruairí, I don’t think you understand the depth of her love.” Caragh’s hoped her soft tone would calm the bereft pirate. “She’s willing to live a life of hardship alone to give you the chance to live. You know she has nowhere to go and no one to help her. Wherever she settles, she will have to make a life on her own, with no help from friends or family. At least when Alex died she already had a home on Canna.”

“She could have a home with me,” Ruairí croaked. He felt anger and bitterness creeping back into his soul. It had left him for the short time Senga had been part of his life. Now that she was gone, the void caused by her absence was rapidly being filled with the familiar feelings that had driven him since he ran away from home.

“Ruairí, you left everything you knew and loved to protect me,” Rowan said. “Do you not see the similarities?”

“No,” Ruairí barked. “It’s not at all the same.”

“But it is. I love you like my own brother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you or to repay you for the sacrifices you made to keep me alive. She’s willing to do the same. Misguided as she is, she’s doing it because she loves you.” Rowan attempted to reason with his cousin.

“Ruairí, I told her it was a ridiculous plan and a ridiculous reason to leave,” Caragh cut in. “But she’s deeply wounded by the things that have happened. Far more damaged than any of us could see. She believes she not only causes her own misery but is the cause of the deaths in her life. She is sure she is cursed.”

“But I lived,” Ruairí whispered. His throat felt as if it would cinch closed, and he was close to crying for the first time since he was seven summers old.

“She’s driven by fear, just like we were when we left Barra,” Rowan reasoned. “Neither of us used much reason in those early months. We did whatever we had to. She is doing the same.”

Ruairí blinked several times before looking toward the village. “I won’t lose her.” He began walking and assumed the others would follow. He felt like it took him years to limp into the village. He looked around, but the market day crowd was dense. “She could be anywhere.”

“I can imagine where she went first,” Caragh replied. She took Rowan’s hand and dragged him into the crowd. Ruairí had no choice but to follow.

Caragh paused at every jewelry stall until she found one she knew Senga would have chosen. “I have a very particular ring in mind, and I wonder if you have anything similar to what I desire,” Caragh cast a shrewd look at the man. “It has a large ruby in the center with emeralds around it, as if to make a rose.”

She squeezed Rowan’s hand like it lay in a vice. She knew she would have to add that to her list of transgressions, since he knew which ring she gave to Senga to trade. The jeweler brought out Caragh’s ring.

“However did you have something like what I wanted?” Caragh asked, her charm on display. “Where did you find such a jewel?”

“A young woman traded it recently.”

“Did she happen to have black hair?”

“Aye. That’s the one.”

“Hmm. I saw it last sennight and admired it. I wonder where she went. I should like to thank her for the opportunity to own such a beautiful bauble.”

“I saw her leave to the east with an old tinker couple.” Rowan slipped the man a few coins as they turned to leave. “But I doubt they made it far. I spotted some unsavory sorts following them.”

That was more than Ruairí needed to hear to barrel through the crowd. He did not care who he jostled or what bumped against his wounds. He pushed through until he reached the blacksmith’s stall.

“I want a horse. Now.”

“I’m sorry — You’re Ruairí MacNeill.” The man looked over Ruairí’s shoulder and nearly wet himself. “And Rowan MacNeill.”

“Aye, we are, and I said I needed a horse.”

The blacksmith nodded and dashed to fetch any properly shod horses he could find.

Ruairí turned to Rowan and pulled him into an embrace. “This is where we part. You can’t bring Caragh along if there might be a fight, and I know you won’t leave her with just Skinny.”

Rowan pulled a short sword from his belt and handed it to Caragh before grinning at Ruairí. “Do you not remember how you met my bonnie bride? She had just killed one of your men. I would put my money on her before anyone else. Just as bloodthirsty as your woman.”

The three mounted their horses and raced out of town.

* * *

Senga knew they were being followed. She discreetly turned to look over her shoulder, but made it appear as if she were looking at the couple while the old woman nattered on. Four men followed them on horseback. They hung back, but there was no reason for them to do so unless they did not want to overtake Senga and the couple. They were past the outskirts of town, and there was no way Senga could turn back without alerting the couple or the riders. She pulled the dirks from her boots and laid them in her lap. She wished she had at least one of her swords, but there had been no way for her to bring them. Senga wished now that she had stopped long enough to trade for a new one. She used the whip to hurry the donkey along the road, and for once, the animal sensed her urgency. She stopped the cart when they passed through a bend in the road. Senga pulled away from the road and put her finger to her lips when the old woman began to ask questions.

The first rider made the turn, and Senga launched one of her dirks at the man’s shoulder. It met its mark, and the riders pulled to a stop. Senga was ready for the attack.

“You bitch. You shall pay for that,” growled the injured man.

“What do you want?”

“We know you came off the Dark Heart’s ship. We saw you row over to the Blond Devil’s ship, then come ashore with the other woman.”

It was the first time she had heard Rowan’s moniker, but she had to admit it suited him as well as Ruairí’s fit him. “So, what if I did?”

“Neither of those men take women on their ships. It’s said the Blond Devil married some chit he kidnapped. You came from the Dark Heart’s boat, so you must be his woman.”

“If I were, why would I be riding away from him on a donkey cart?”

This made the men pause, but the man with the dirk in his shoulder responded first.

“What does it matter to us? He will pay a ransom for you.”

“Why would he pay for my return if he’s already sent me away?” Senga hoped her lies would be convincing.

“If he doesn’t, then we shall keep you for ourselves. Perhaps sample you before we hand you over.”

“The only man sampling my woman is me.”

Ruairí’s voice seemed to echo in their surroundings. Senga whipped her head around to see Ruairí, Rowan, and Caragh galloping toward them. In the time it took for her to look away, one man grabbed her from the cart. She already had another dirk in her hand. She stabbed at any part of him she could reach, meeting her mark several times. The man released her, and she fell to the ground, rolling in an attempt to land clear of the horse’s hooves.

“Senga!” Ruairí sounded like an enraged wild animal, and the men, as a one, looked back at him. Senga watched in awe as Ruairí raced toward them. His long blond hair had come loose from his queue. He leaned over the saddle as he swung his sword through one, then two of the men, nearly cleaving them each in half. “You touched her. You will die slowly for that.”

Ruairí reined in and pulled the last man from his horse before dismounting. Ruairí leaped from the saddle, tackling Senga’s attacker before clamoring back to his feet. He kicked the man in the bollocks before severing both hands with one strike of his sword on each side. The man had not pulled Senga’s blade from his shoulder, knowing it would only make the wound bleed faster. He soon realized that leaving it was a far greater mistake than pulling it out. Ruairí leaned forward and twisted the blade as he pressed it to the hilt. It was only moments later that the bodies of the attackers lay strewn on the grass, dead where they dropped.

Senga watched in horror as she tried to hold both Ruairí’s horse and the donkey in place. She wanted to run when Ruairí looked at her. She shrank back and bumped into the cart. Ruairí stalked toward her, and Senga could only shake her head.

“Don’t you dare shake your head at me.” His hushed tone was even more menacing than him yelling her name. He reached for her and pulled her into his embrace. “Don’t ever, ever do that again.”

Ruairí clenched his hands in her hair as he cradled her head and drew her in for a kiss that poured all his anger and love into one searing brand. Senga leaned into the kiss, cupping his jaw as their tongues dueled.

“You are mine,” he breathed.

“I am.”

They kissed again; the conflagration of emotions burned through them as flames of desire flared between them. When they were both breathless, Ruairí ran the pad of his thumb over her swollen lips. Senga’s eyes fluttered shut as she struggled not to fall apart in his arms.

“I only wanted to protect you,” she whispered.

“I know. I know all about your foolish plan, what little there was of it. I shall relieve you of that foolhardiness when we return to our cabin, and I turn you over my knee. I should have done that ages ago. It would seem Rowan is far wiser than I am in that area. You might take a lesson from your cousin.”

Senga peeked over his shoulder to see Rowan sat on a rock with Caragh draped across his lap and her skirt about her waist. She was receiving a punishing spanking, but she seemed no worse for wear. In truth, Senga was certain she was enjoying it, or at least not fighting it. “Our cabin?” she asked.

“Where else would we be going?”

“Not your cabin?”

“Lass, you are not making sense.”

“You still think of it as ours?”

“Of course,” Ruairí noticed Senga’s anxiety as she seemed to shrink into herself again. “I didn’t come chasing after you just to let you go on your merry way. Senga, you are no one’s curse. Not mine, not your own. You are, however, the most infuriating woman I have ever met, and the one I shall love for the rest of my life.”

“I love you.”

Ruairí was sure he had heard nothing better than Senga sharing her feelings for the first time.

“Will you marry me, little one? I intended to ask you in our cabin this morning, but alas, you sent me on a merry chase to earn your hand.”

Senga fell against Ruairí but tried to pull back when she remembered his injuries. He anchored her in place, and she breathed the scent of sea air and pine that she would always know was his.

“I’ll marry you. I’d marry you this very moment if I could.”

“Then you won’t be fleeing my arms again?”

“I wasn’t running away from you so much as I was trying to outrun what I was sure fate would deliver. I love you.”

“I shall insist upon hearing that several times a day and more often at night. I love you, mo bhòidhchead.”

Ruairí had not called her his beauty since early in their relationship, using other pet names instead. It reminded her of why she had agreed to leave her home on a whim. She realized she was grateful for the intuition that said she should follow him. That intuition reared its head again, and she felt a calm settle over her as her soul seemed to speak for her.

“I want to marry you today, Ruairí. I don’t want to wait.”

“I’m glad to hear that because I already intended to take you to the kirk before returning to our ship.” Ruairí saw her shock once more. “Yes, she’s ours now. You will be my wife and are already my partner, whether or not I said as much. I rely on you, and so you should have your own share of our enterprise.”

“Pirates! They really are pirates!”

Senga had completely forgotten the old couple who sat on the donkey cart behind her. She laughed as she nodded her head.

“I won’t be traveling with you after all, but I thank you for your offer.”

Ruairí led Senga to his horse and mounted behind her.

“I can’t believe you haven’t keeled over yet.”

“I may very well do that the moment we get back to the Lady Charity. Until then, I have a wedding to attend.”

* * *

Rowan and Caragh followed Ruairí and Senga into the kirk. It took little effort and a large sum of coins to convince the parish priest to marry them without the banns being read. Ruairí and Senga were married in less than a quarter hour, and the two couples rode back to the coast. None of them wanted to remain, knowing people had already recognized them. At the dinghies, they agreed to sail on to Glasgow to pay the earl his due before going their separate ways for a few weeks. Ruairí agreed to meet Rowan in a month's time to sail to Barra. They would visit their clan together with their wives. Tomas rowed in silence as he counted his blessings that he might survive to see another sunrise.

Once aboard the Lady Charity, Ruairí introduced Senga as his wife to wild cheers. Even the most hardened and grizzled of his crew had fallen in love with Senga. He had few concerns for her safety now, and he granted the crew the right to a night of merriment while he planned to make merry of a different kind. Senga tugged at his hand and tilted her head toward their cabin.

They hurried below deck where Senga was undressing before Ruairí finished bolting and barring the door. She insisted upon inspecting Ruairí’s wounds before letting him touch her. He grumbled that she was taunting him with temptation when he had already suffered enough that day. Senga could not believe Ruairí had not torn any stitches and that he was still on his feet.

“I have reason to celebrate and reason to remain in the land of the living. I know I shall be sore in the morning, but I feel far better than I expected after making a mad dash after my wayward wife.”

They fell onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs as their bodies fused together.

“I promise you shall only chase me to our bed from now on,” Senga whispered.

The love they shared shone in every word they whispered and every caress they shared as day passed into night, and the sun rose again to shine upon their future.

About Celeste Barclay

Celeste Barclay is the author of steamy historical romances, transporting you to the medieval Scottish Highlands, and on Viking conquests--where men are strong and women are fierce.

She lives near the Southern California coast with her husband and sons. She loves spending time at the beach reading a book or splashing in the surf. She's an avid swimmer, a hopeful future surfer, and a former rower.

A lifelong fan of historical fiction, a chance encounter with an historical romance novel changed Celeste's taste in books. Now she devours her favorite authors' newest releases while crafting stories you can't help but fall in love with.

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Jilted and Kilted

by Mia Pride

Chapter 1

“Curse it all, Ruby!” Papa slammed his fist on the intricately carved wooden banister for what felt like the hundredth time that night, the vein in his neck throbbing as it did when she defied him, which seemed to be more and more as of late. “William and the other guests will be here shortly and I expect you to welcome him the way a future wife should!”

Controlling the desire to roll her eyes and stomp her foot, Ruby put her hands on her hips and stared her papa in his blood-shot brown eyes. He truly had not been sleeping well and she wondered if it was her doing. Yet, this was her life and one could not raise a strong-willed woman bred from gentle pirates, then expect her to fall into line as requested. “You are marrying me to that boorish man to intentionally stifle my spirit! To keep me out of the family business. I am not a silly little woman, Papa. I know why you are marrying me off to the Vice Admiral of the Royal Navy. And if you think he does not know that we are all pirates, then—”

“Privateers. Smugglers, even. Not pirates,” her father chided with pride and she withheld a rude snort. The Berry family had always been, and would always be, pirates. Her father, Thomas Berry, was well known as a gentleman pirate, even to the queen who allowed such things as long as the plunder always came from the enemy and was acquired outside of English waters.

“Papa, you are a gentleman through and through, as all know. But, you are a gentleman who has barrels of whiskey, coins, and other contraband in our manor’s cellar. You named me after your favorite gemstone, one that you acquired from a Spanish ship your men once plundered! Call it what you want, but it does not change who we are and what my legacy is. I wish to help. I do not want to be married to a man twice my age who will expect me to sit quietly in fine gowns, embroidering while I am surrounded by servants and screaming children as I grow wide and docile. That is not who I am.”

“Which is precisely why you will marry William, Ruby Clair Berry. I will not have you living a dangerous existence. Do not forget what happened to your cousin…”

Now, Ruby did sigh loudly, feeling both aggravated and aggrieved. Every time someone brought up her poor, idiotic cousin Maude, it sent chills up her spine. But, she was not Maude, who had no adventure in her bones, nor common sense in her head. “What happened to Maude aboard that ship is most unfortunate. But, I shall not trip on my own skirts and fall overboard while at sea.”

“Perhaps not, but you can come across any number of dangers that are not of your doing.”

A loud knock came from the front door and Ruby froze, closing her eyes and biting her lip. Her betrothed was here. He was not unattractive. A man of forty years, he had begun to gray at the temples but he otherwise seemed in good health and had a fair disposition. But, he was droll. As droll as attempting to watch leaves blow in the wind on a still afternoon. And there was no way he would ever keep Ruby out of trouble.

“He is here,” her father whispered and leaned forward, shoving his finger in her face. “I expect you to behave like the lady you are, Ruby.” Papa walked away and stood with his hands behind his back, straightening his face, as if he had not just been shouting at his daughter.

“Here we go,” Ruby muttered under her breath, flinging a ringlet of golden hair over her shoulder and smoothing out her new royal-blue damask gown that her mother had made just for this dinner.

“Oh! The Vice Admiral has arrived!” her mother, Penelope, tittered as she zoomed into the room like a canary with a broken wing, spinning in circles.

“Do calm yourself, Penny,” her papa warned and pulled her closer to his side.

“I am trying, Thomas. Everything must be just so.” Ruby stepped up beside her mother and father just as their steward opened the large, heavily carved and polished door that reached at least ten feet high.

Mr. Bosworth, the man who had run their home as long as Ruby had been alive, opened the door and bowed slightly before stepping aside to let the man in. Ruby blinked twice and shook her head, not at all expecting the man who had just walked through the door. She knew a few guests would be arriving for the meal, but nobody ever informed Ruby in advance of the guest list.

“Is that—”

“Callum Campbell, yes,” her mother whispered quietly and looked straight ahead at the dark-haired man whose long locks were tied back in a queue beneath his black tricorn hat. He was large. Larger than she would have ever expected, though she had heard tales of his travels and adventures on the high seas as one of Scotland’s fiercest pirates. It was said he did not mix with polite company much, yet he wore perfectly tailored black breeches and a leather surcoat over a crisp white tunic that no commoner could ever afford to keep so clean.

“But… Pa…” Ruby stuttered as quietly as possible so as not to be overheard. “You do not mix with his sort.”

“He is wealthy, feared, capable, and has connections. Good for business. Now, do be quiet,” he mumbled just as Callum stepped up to them wearing a bright smile she would never expect from such a man, the dark stubble on his chin emphasizing his strong jaw, speaking of a man who was refined enough to shave yet too rebellious to bother while dining with gentry.

“’Tis a fine home ye have, Sir Berry,” Callum Campbell said with a thick Scottish brogue that made Ruby tingle all over. The Scots were heathens, everyone knew that. And a Scottish pirate? Why, he would be considered the lowest of the low. Yet here he was, at their manor right here in Cornwall where the sea surrounded them on three sides.

Removing his hat, Callum looked at her mother and then straight at her, those piercing yellow-green eyes, similar to the Spanish olives she had once delighted in, capturing her gaze as a smirk spread across his face. “And an even finer family, I see.”

Penelope tittered and giggled, but Ruby just concentrated on breathing and doing her best to not look affected by the man. Full of his usual bluster and pride, her papa puffed out his chest and stepped forward. “You are too kind! Too kind! We welcome you to our home, Lord Campbell!”

“Lord?” Ruby asked much louder than anticipated, and she took a deep breath when his eyes landed on her once more.

“Aye. Lord Argyll, if ye please,” the pirate said, taking her gloved hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

“He is from a most prestigious family, my dear,” her papa proclaimed, and she pursed her lips. No wonder this particular pirate was welcome in their home. Nothing she had heard about Callum Campbell spoke of him being a gentleman. Yet, he clearly had status and riches, which endeared him to her father who usually only mixed with men who were in the Queen’s favor… though clearly there were exceptions. Although, she did find the man rather exceptional, herself.

Another bang on the door made Ruby jump out of her skin and her thoughts, gasping slightly and placing her gloved hand on her bosom. She noticed Lord Campbell’s eyes shift down to where her hand rested, covering the tops of her exposed creamy breasts and she dared to raise a brow and narrow her eyes, making certain he was well and caught. A sly smile flashed across his face, and he winked before turning around to see who had just arrived.

Stomach plummeting as she recalled who else was to attend the dinner, Ruby made a sour face when Bosworth opened the door and she saw William standing there, looking as stiff as a board, yet smiling warmly. Greeting the Vice Admiral, Bosworth took his hat, stepping aside as William smiled widely and walked over to her family. He passed Callum as if he was not even present, bowing politely to Thomas before kissing Penelope’s hand as she lightly giggled. Ruby stood still yet did her best to smile, knowing she looked utterly ridiculous, like one of those painted masquerade masks with the forced grins.

“My dearest Ruby. How is my betrothed this evening?” She did not particularly care for the way he emphasized the word, nor the salacious way he looked at her breasts. Why it should excite her when Callum did it, yet repulsed her when her own fiancé did it, she could not know, nor did she care to think on it.

“Vice Admiral,” she said, giving him a small curtsy, wishing to be done with this night. Wishing she was free to live as she wished, to have adventures on the high seas as all her ancestors had done before her. Oh, she could be at sea with William, but there would be nothing but floating from one destination to the other. No capturing of ships or plundering of cargo. No rush from gaining riches while disabling an enemy ship.

“Shall we all find our way to the dining hall?” Thomas asked when Bosworth signaled to him that the meal was ready to begin and he put a hand out to lead the way.

Nodding, the men followed in her father’s wake but she did not miss the way Callum and William looked at one another as they strode side by side. Both were tall enough, but Callum was easily two inches taller and most certainly more muscle than William.

“Do not slouch,” her mother chided quietly as they entered the dining hall, and Ruby did her best to stand tall and not roll her eyes. “Do not fidget, either.”

“I do not fidget!” Ruby hissed. Finding her place at the dining table, elegantly laid out with white linens, a large floral arrangement in the center and fine silver plates set out for each guest, William came over and pulled her chair out with a flourish just before she sat and nodded her thanks. While William took the seat to her left, she shot him a scathing look that nobody else seemed to notice. She was surprised to see Callum take the seat directly across from her, but not before also helping her mother to her seat at one end of the table.

Why was Callum here, and why did he and William appear to dislike one another? She knew very well why William must be here, but Callum felt like an odd addition to the table, even for a family of pirates whose manor house was close enough to the Falmouth harbor to host all sorts of strange acquaintances of her father.

“What brings you to Cornwall, Lord Campbell?” Ruby asked, folding her hands in front of her so as not to fidget. Her mother’s wide grin told her she knew precisely why Ruby kept her hands where she did. It was no fun being predictable.

“A little business. A lot of pleasure,” he said with a small grin, and she felt herself blushing under his keen scrutiny. He unnerved her in an exciting way and excitement was rarely found in her life as of late. Her mother and father did their best to keep her out of the family business, but all they were doing was stifling her soul and making certain William continued the job for the rest of her boring life.

Gripping her hand on the tabletop so everyone could see, William gave her a forced smile and looked at Callum. “You take a risk being here, Lord Argyll.”

“What is life without a little risk, aye?” Callum replied just as the servants brought out the ewer and basin for him to wash his hands in while another brought him a drying cloth. Loaves of bread arrived just as plates of lamb and fish were set before them, both covered in a savory sauce that made Ruby’s mouth water as their aromas drifted to her nose. She always wished to eat more than was polite, and her mother would scold her if she wished for more than she was given.

“I do suppose that is true. However, risks that involve your neck hanging from a noose are better off avoided.” William gripped Ruby’s hand tighter and she felt him shift his leg beneath the table, intentionally rubbing against hers.

“All is well, William,” her father reassured before tearing into a loaf of bread. “You understand our family business and with whom we work. Callum is our guest while in Cornwall, and we trust that for the sake of our daughter, you will not cause trouble.” He was so calm and confident in his position with the queen and the power he had amassed that Ruby felt a sense of pride as his daughter. Yet she still wished her papa would allow her into the family business instead of attempting to keep her out by marrying her to a man who appeared to be as straight as an arrow with his dealings.

“Indeed,” William said, giving a stiff nod and a forced smile to Ruby before his gaze drifted to her breasts once more, perhaps reminding himself of why he needed to behave. The man’s clammy hands and suddenly cool demeanor did not match with the warmth he had radiated in the past. Though she had never basked in his light, until now, she had at least always felt its presence.

As the meal wore on, Ruby silently listened to the men discussing business and Callum sharing tales of some of his adventures, making Ruby wish more than anything to see new lands for herself and experience more in life than hosting dinners and all the other mundane experiences she will no doubt have as the Vice Admiral’s wife. Callum’s brogue had Ruby in a daze, and she watched his mouth intently while he spoke. Something about his plump lower lip and unusually straight teeth made her wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

“Isn’t that right, Ruby?” she heard her father say and she shook her head, realizing she had been staring at Callum for an obscene amount of time. William cleared his throat beside her, and when she dared to look him in the eye, his displeasure was evident.

Looking back at Callum, she saw a wicked glint in his eye that told her he knew she was drawn to him. Turning to her father and taking a deep breath, Ruby shook her head, not knowing what he had asked.

“I was discussing your love of the animals. You have saved quite a few in your time. Why, just a sennight ago a bird had fallen from his nest and broken his wing. Ruby has been nursing him back to health since then. She has saved a few dogs, and even a horse!”

“Yes,” she replied, still snapping out of her daze. “Yes, I do quite like animals. They are innocent and dependent on our good will, are they not?”

“Well, I find it uncouth and hope that will not continue once you are my wife. A Vice Admiral’s wife does not bring diseased, flea-ridden beasts into their home.”

Ruby scowled at William for saying such ridiculous nonsense, but the man was too busy using his finger to pick out a chunk of meat from his teeth to notice.

“I agree,” her mother said with a firm nod and a titter. “I have told her as much since the day she was born but alas, the child cannot stop coddling those beasts.”

Ruby wanted to bang her head on a wall, or better yet, dig her nails into the fine linens covering the table, but instead, she looked straight ahead at the raised brow of Callum Campbell who seemed to listen and observe, yet thankfully not audibly share his own distaste.

“Well, my Ruby has a kind heart,” her father said as an afterthought and despite her displeasure at this arranged marriage to this pompous man, she did quite love and cherish her father for always doing what he thought was best for her. If only she were allowed an opinion on the matter.

“Would we care to retire to the hall for some cards?” Papa asked, thankfully changing the subject, and once everyone had washed their hands again with the ewer and pitcher, they stood from their seats, following Bosworth to their next location, as if they did not already know where to find their own hall. Ceremony bored Ruby to tears. Truly she just wished to go check on Hera, the small bird she had saved, then retire before William attempted to kiss her once more. After the last family meal, he had cornered her and demanded a kiss, and though it was not an unpleasant one to be fair, it had been unnatural and obligatory—not at all how she would prefer it.

The Vice Admiral was not the first man Ruby had ever kissed, but he had been the oldest. Sharing kisses with the stable lad when her father wasn’t around had been a secret adventure Ruby had rather enjoyed before becoming betrothed to William.

Fortunately, William proceeded past her on their way to the hall, clearly in a rush to monopolize her father’s conversation before Callum could, which suited Ruby just fine, while Mama walked alongside them both, enraptured by whatever nonsense they spoke of.

Suddenly, something jerked her back and she almost gasped, but a strong hand came over her mouth and she felt herself being dragged around a corner before feeling the wall against her back. Widening her eyes, she looked at Callum, who stood only a few inches away and several inches above her, his olive eyes shifting as they searched her face. “Ye would do well to learn not to stare at other men while your husband sits beside ye, lass.”

Pulling his hand off her mouth, Ruby shoved at him, but Callum felt like a solid wall of muscle pinned against her. Fear should have consumed her, but all she could feel was excitement and a tightening in her belly. “He is not my husband. And I was not staring at you!” she huffed with indignation.

“Only one of those statements is true, lass,” he said as he waggled his brows. “He will be yer husband and he is a man of import to ye English, aye? I ken what ye want. I see it in yer eyes. But ye cannae have it, not with him at yer side.”

“Oh, and what is it you ken I want?” she asked, trying her best to sound like a Scot.

“Adventure. And perhaps a real man. But ye ken ye willnae have either, so best ye keep yer eyes on the man ye will marry and forget yer own desires.”

With that, Callum moved away from her, turning to leave the room as she panted against the wall, wondering what had just happened and why she felt as if she may lose her bearings. “Pirate?” she called just before he disappeared around the corner.

“Aye?” Turning around, she saw his eyes squinting at her even in the darkness, their glowing yellow-green too brilliant to be snuffed out by the lack of lighting.

“Would you take such advice from another? Would you give up all you wanted because others had decided what was best for you?”

Propping an arm against the wall, he smiled knowingly at her and shook his head. “I think ye already ken the answer to that,” he winked, pretending to tip the hat he no longer wore on his head before walking away.

Pushing herself off the wall, Ruby brushed her blonde hair off her shoulders and straightened her spine, narrowing her deep blue eyes.

“Precisely.”

Chapter 2

Cards were not his favorite pastime. He preferred standing at the helm of his ship and watching the water rush past, smelling the sea and salt in the thick air, feeling his long dark hair being controlled by the wind. He also enjoyed the feel of a bonnie wee lass beneath him, and suddenly one face in particular flashed in his mind.

Propped up against the wall of the hall, Callum watched as William and Thomas played cards while Penelope Berry sat in a chair with her needlework. Observing people was his specialty. He could read them, see into them, know their secrets. And while William Stanhope was a man with a darkness swimming in the irises of his brown eyes that Callum had unfortunately witnessed in the past, Ruby Berry was a woman still innocent, seeking things in life she would never have, certainly not with William, anyway.

He had meant to warn her, to chase her off his scent, to make her see that her fate had already been assigned to her. Yet, when he stood over her, felt her heavy breathing against his neck, he knew she would never resign herself. She was a wild mare deep in her soul. Blonde hair and blue eyes could not hide the desire for more than she was allowed to seek. Her family had been privateers for generations, nobles who smuggled or plundered for the crown, keeping a fair share for themselves, protected by their royal counterparts. They were gentlemen pirates who stuck to a code, glorified pirates with estates and manors and titles… and bonnie daughters who they wished to keep away from the dangers of their existence.

But Callum was not a privateer. He plundered for nobody but himself and his men. Scotland owed nothing to the bloody Queen of England who suppressed the royal house of Stewart for their own greed. Nay. Callum may be noble born, the Earl of Argyll, but he was no gentleman, nor did he pretend to be… unlike a certain man in this room who hid his secrets well from the likes of Sir Thomas Berry.

Coming to Cornwall had been unpleasant, yet necessary. Few people knew of Thomas Berry’s sympathies to the Stewarts and while he would never openly betray his queen, who allowed him to plunder her enemies as he saw fit, he had recently come across some stolen Stewart family jewels and wished to keep them in the hands of the Scottish monarchs, even if oppressed. Callum may be a bloody pirate, but he was loyal to his people and vowed to retrieve the jewels and see them safely back to his land. Aye, he had known he would be dining with Thomas’s daughter and her fiancé, but he had not known she was betrothed to the grandest bastard in all the world, nor had he been prepared for the likes of Ruby Berry.

Named after his favorite gemstone, she was a treasure all her own. It was not simply her alabaster breasts or how well they would fill his palms, nor the way she nervously bit on her plush pink lips as she stared at him from across the table, with eyes the same color blue as the Mediterranean sky during the summer months. There was more to the lass than a bonnie face. She had intelligence, wit, ambition, a will to do more in this life than simply exist and sit in a chair with her needlework. She had goals, and though it went against the grain to stifle such desires, it was not his place to encourage them. And one day, that glimmer he had seen in her eyes would get her into more trouble than she could handle.

“Where is Ruby?” Penelope asked, finally looking up from her needlework.

“Likely, she has retired early,” her father said as he examined the cards in his hand.

“Just as well,” William sighed, placing a card down on the table. “She would only have protested when we informed her of the news.”

Callum shifted his stance and popped his knuckles, finally speaking for the first time since entering the room. “What news?”

“None of your concern, pirate.” William scoffed incredulously and continued to stare at his cards. Callum squinted his eyes and popped his knuckles again, remembering the knife stuffed in his boot and itching to slice open the man’s throat with it.

“Ruby and William are set to marry in a sennight. Unfortunately, he has business in London and must sail there at dawn, taking Ruby with him,” Thomas explained.

“She will not be pleased,” Penelope added. “Yet as the Vice Admiral’s wife, she will learn that she goes where she is needed.”

He could not understand why, but something inside him clenched and his anger threatened to explode. Why did he feel protective of a woman he had only known for a matter of hours? Perhaps it was because she had spirit and a fire in her veins that he felt simmering beneath the surface. Perhaps he simply saw a lot of himself in her, the need for more than a stuffy life inside a manor home.

Looking at William with his upturned nose, and the scowl he shot across the room from time to time, only heightened Callum’s scorn. The man was scum, and after what he had done to Callum’s family in the past, he deserved little more than death. How was a treasure such as Ruby meant to spend her life with the bastard?

It was only his respect for Sir Thomas Berry that had prevented Callum from killing William already. Callum took a deep breath and watched the men play cards before a low hissing sound caught his ear. At first it sounded like steam escaping a pot, but the sound was coming from behind the door frame. Nodding to his hosts, Callum discreetly excused himself to follow the sound, not really having much else to do with himself aside from thinking far more about Ruby than was healthy.

Once around the corner and engulfed by the darkness, Callum saw a flickering light turn a corner of the corridor ahead. Squinting, he decided to follow, knowing that whatever it was, it was far more interesting than the two men playing cards and the older woman stitching a canvas. He was used to merry-making with his men, drinking ale, and chasing skirts. Formal parties other than his own had always bored him to tears. But dark hallways and flickering lights always held the promise of a secret.

Rounding the corner, Callum stopped abruptly when he bumped into a wee golden-haired lass wearing naught more than a shift that looked as transparent as gossamer in the light of the candle she held in one hand. Her other hand reached up to her plump lips, signaling him to be quiet before she turned and clearly expected him to follow.

Devil’s bollocks. He had seen more of the lass than he had ever expected and now, all he could imagine was removing her finely made shift, tossing it to the floor, and showing her how a pirate made love to a woman. Following in her wake, Callum watched the curve of her backside as she walked barefooted down yet another corridor of this mansion she had been so coddled in for her entire twenty years of life. He was only five and twenty yet had seen more of the world than most men would see in a full lifetime, and the thought of giving her an opportunity to experience it, as well, made him smirk into the darkness while she turned toward a room, opening the door.

As soon as he followed her in, Ruby shut the door behind him, and he turned to face her, lowering his brow. “’Tis dangerous to lure pirates down dark corridors, lass.”

Raising a brow, Ruby held the candle in front of her body and met his gaze. “I do not fear you. I know you do not wish to harm me.”

“Och, lass. Nay, that is not what I wish to do with ye.”

“Oh? Oh!” she squeaked when she caught on to his meaning, but she did not back up, nor shrink in fear. “That is unexpected.”

“Is it? Ye are a bonnie lass. Ye ken that. Ye must.” Callum stared at her and swore he saw a blush creeping across her cheeks, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“I most certainly do not,” she huffed.

“No man has ever told ye that ye are bonnie?” he asked, stepping closer and pushing a blonde ringlet behind her ear. “No man has ever kissed ye? Or… touched ye?” he asked slowly. “Ye ken I willnae judge ye. I am called the Scourge of the Seas, not the saint.”

Again, she did not pull back. When she licked her lips, he wanted to groan, to lean in and taste her. “I have shared a few kisses. Not more,” she said proudly and he smiled at her courage.

“Have ye kissed the Vice Admiral?” Callum was intrigued. She was full of life. A repressed spirit clearly straining to be released, and William seemed to be the wet cloth waiting to snuff out her flame. He did not deserve Ruby, and now that Thomas Berry had been seen feasting with a Scottish pirate, he was in danger.

All she did was nod and frown, and that was all he needed to see to know she had not wanted, nor enjoyed, it. “Why did ye lure me into this room, Ruby?” He liked the sound of her name on his lips, but he would prefer the sound of her moans while she writhed against his face. That visual made him clench his jaw and fight back urges he knew he had to control.

“I overheard the discussion in the hall,” she replied flatly. “I know they plan to awaken me on the morrow with packed bags so they can toss me aboard his ship and send me away to my new life. I am seething with rage,” she ground out. “I do not deserve such a fate!”

“Now that, we can agree on, lass.”

“You do?” she asked, surprise in her tone.

“Aye. But, what is it ye want from me, lass? Because I dinnae believe ye want from me what I want from ye.”

“I… I…” She stuttered and froze, a definite blush now creeping over her cheeks. “I do not know, exactly.”

Rubbing his lips together, he stared at the woman for a moment, considering his options. If she were not a maiden, he would be tempted to persuade her to remove her shift and allow him to taste the sweet rose buds he had seen through the fabric only moments earlier. But, she was innocent and he did not chase maidens, especially betrothed ones.

“Allow me to make ye a proposal,” he said slowly, raising a brow and was amused by the slight indignation that contorted her face. Laughing loudly, he felt her hand cover his mouth as she frowned.

“Do be quiet. If we are caught, I am ruined.”

“Would that be so bad? Then ye would be forced to marry me. Even I ken I am better than that cold English fish.”

“You… would marry me?” she asked and slowly put the candlestick down on a table against the wall.

Snorting, Callum put his hands up in the air and took a step back. “Och, nay. Nay, I am not a man ye would want fer a husband, lass. Even if ye were ruined, I would sail away before dawn, before being forced to marry.” Her face fell and she put her hands on her hips, clearly insulted by his honestly. “Listen, lass. It isnae ye. I have never wished to marry and shall never do so.”

“Then what is it you propose, pirate? And do know I will scream if you attempt anything.”

“I do believe ye are the one who brought me here, lass. But, I offer ye this: Yer fiancé’s ship leaves at dawn whether ye are on it or nay.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, listening intently and appearing intrigued.

“I am merely stating a fact. If by some chance ye are missing or unable to be found by dawn, he will be forced to sail without ye. His queen willnae wait.”

“Are you saying you will kidnap me?”

“Ye really do think I am a fool, dinnae ye?” When she didn’t answer, he shook his head and stepped closer to her so he could speak softly in case any staff should wander into the room. “I dinnae ken where ye would hide. But as far as they ken, ye dinnae ken ye must leave at dawn, aye? Perhaps ye left for a long ride? His ship will sail off and ye will arrive home, dismayed to discover that yer love has sailed away without ye.”

“He is not my love,” she protested and moved further into the room and away from the flame that had allowed him to see her features. Though they were mostly in the shadows, he could still see her slight silhouette.

“I sense the wildness in ye, lass. I ken ye want to live, to have an adventure. I can relate to that. I dinnae ken why I feel compelled to help ye, but I will. It is yer choice to make and the first of many if ye allow me to take ye to London for yer wedding.”

Her face soured, and she plopped on a couch he had not even known was there in the darkness. Slowly lowering himself, he sat beside her and whispered in her ear. “I cannae change yer fate. I cannae stop yer wedding. But I can stay back on the morrow and be ready to escort ye to London. Once aboard my ship, I will allow ye to have free will until we reach our destination. I warn ye. ‘Tis a pirate ship and the men are a wild lot. Ye will need to stay close to me, under my protection, but if ye take my offer—”

Her lips crashed down on his and he froze, unmoving, unsure if he should pull away or deepen it. Against his instincts and his own desires, Callum pulled away and looked at Ruby, who frowned. “Why did ye do that?”

“I was making my first decision,” she whispered, leaning in once more.

Placing his hands on either side of her face, he held her still, surprised how soft and smooth her creamy skin felt against his warm, calloused hands. “We arenae aboard the ship yet,” he reminded her, arching a brow and searching her face. By the devil’s bollocks, she was a temping lass. He considered that he perhaps had made a mistake in offering to give her an adventure. He was not so certain he would turn away a toss in the sheets if she begged for it. The thought of Ruby on her knees begging him to undress her made him go hard as a rod, and he cursed himself for the lecher he was.

“I want to kiss you, Callum. Please? I wish to see how it feels. Kissing William felt like kissing a distant cousin. Not entirely inappropriate but disgusting all the same. Are kisses supposed to feel that way?” she asked, cocking her head. “I have kissed the stable lad a few times and it was better for certain, but still, nothing as exciting as I had expected.”

Callum observed this woman before him, so innocent yet clearly built for sin. And he considered it a sin that those lips should be used for mediocre kisses. The temptation was strong. Too strong to resist. She smelled sweet and floral and the image of her nipples showing through her shift consumed him.

Leaning in, he took her lips with his, starting out slow and languid, savoring the moment, knowing it would be the only time he allowed such a thing to occur between them. She wanted to see if it felt like kissing a cousin? He would make certain she knew the difference. Her soft lips parted and she hesitated, unsure how far he was going to take this kiss. He was unsure, as well. Should he stop before he took things too far? He was not a man used to stopping after a wee kiss.

But the small groan that escaped her sweet lips was the beginning of the end. His undoing. Her innocence was not a trait he was used to in a woman, and yet, he found it drove him wild. Pulling her closer, Callum wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. She squeaked but did not break contact as his tongue slipped between her lips, stroking hers at first lightly, teasingly, before increasing the pressure. Her hands gripped his shoulders and dug into his flesh, her breasts brushing against his chest.

He wanted her. He wanted all of her. So badly that he was certain she could feel the evidence of his need pressing against her belly but she did not seem to mind, not even after he lost control of his better senses and pulled her down against him, feeling her through the thin shift. Ruby squirmed and he groaned, and he was ready to pull his breeches down to his thighs, pull her shift up to her waist, and sheath himself in her wet heat. Take her maidenhead.

That thought finally broke through to what little sense he had left in his lust-crazed mind. She was a maiden, betrothed to a vice admiral of the queen who would make merry and drink fine French wine while his neck dangled from a noose before her. William would potentially beat her if he found out she was no maiden.

Pulling away and panting while he regained control, Callum pressed his forehead against hers and gave her one more soft kiss, the last he would ever allow. “Was that like kissing yer cousin, lass?”

He heard her swallow before she responded, felt her breasts heaving and saw her lick her lips. “N-no. No, it was not.” Slowly sliding off his lap, he felt her body quivering and he wasn’t sure if it was from need or shock. He was shocked, himself.

He may be a pirate, but he used better judgement in most situations. He had to. One wrong move could mean his death on any day. Yet, his instinct was to pull her close once more, and he cursed his weakness for a bonnie face. That’s all this was. She affected him with lust. Whatever else he was feeling was simply driven by his attraction.

Adjusting himself, he saw her eyes widen at the bulge in his breeches, but he paid her no mind. What did the woman think would happen when she pulled him into a dark room wearing nothing more than a transparent shift and begged to be kissed? “Now, get ye off to bed before ye are caught with me and I have to kill yer betrothed at dawn. If ye wish to sail with him on the morrow, then this is goodbye, and I wish ye well, sweet Ruby. If ye wish to take me up on the offer of adventure on the high seas, then I leave a plan up to ye.”

Standing up, Callum tipped his head to the young English woman who made him lose his senses and turned to leave the room, heading back to his ship and his men for the night. Mayhap he could find a willing serving lass to ease his discomfort and take his mind off Ruby.

Part of him hoped she took his offer, yet most of him prayed she decided to get on that ship with William at dawn. He had not stood seven minutes alone with the lass before nearly ripping her clothes off and burying himself inside her. How would he last several days?

Ruby Berry was a temptress of the highest order, and worst of all, she did not even know it. And of all the rubies he had possessed in his lifetime, he knew without a doubt that she was the finest treasure a man would find, for no gem or gold coin could shine as bright as she.

Chapter 3

Sleep was impossible. With the light’s reflection flickering off her walls from the candle that still burned on her side table, Ruby laid on her back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to absorb the events of the night starting from the very moment Callum Campbell had entered her home. Never had she reacted to a man so viscerally. It was like her entire world had stopped yet spun at the same time while her breath left and had yet to return.

And that kiss. She wanted to regret it, to feel guilty for kissing a man who was not William, and yet, how could one regret such a profound moment in life, learning that physical interactions with a man could feel like more than routine, awkward moments. Callum had made her feel small, yet strong, feminine yet capable. He gave her a choice and when she made it, he did not turn her down. She believed he would have and had meant to, yet for some reason, had decided to humor her. After all, that’s all it had been, right? A well-experienced man humoring an innocent lass’ desire to discover. Besides, it had only been a kiss and naught more.

The memory of his hard length pressing against her sensitive flesh when he pulled her on his lap made her quake, despite the warm covers that engulfed her. Humor or not, he had enjoyed that kiss and believed her to be a bonnie lass, as the Scottish said.

Dawn was fast approaching and Ruby needed to make a decision. Indignation and melancholy plagued her, that her parents would simply ship her off without warning. Her wedding had been planned, she knew, even if nobody felt the need to give her the details. Perhaps they thought she would seek an escape if she knew when it was to occur. Yet, never had she thought to be shipped away, married in London to a man she hardly knew without them in attendance.

Papa loved her; this she knew well. He meant to protect her from what he saw as a wild and reckless spirit she had owned the entirety of her life. But the blood of pirates ran through her veins. Fire. Strong will. Defiance. She was not born to be a restrained woman and he knew this. Instead of accepting her for who she was, he wished to control her by marrying her to a man who would intentionally break her spirit.

The more Ruby laid in bed and stared at the dying flames of the candle, the more angry and defiant she became. Would she spend the rest of her life with William? Yes, she would. But could she take a final opportunity to have the adventure her heart sought? Would she regret it the rest of her life if she did not take the chance? She already knew the answers.

Closing her eyes, she could still feel Callum’s grip on her waist, feel her breasts pressed against his strong chest, his heavy breathing and the way her body melted against his. She would never feel that again, not with William and certainly not with Callum, for she had to use all her strength to prevail against her strong attraction to the man. If she decided to go with him, she would have to promise not to touch him or ask for another earth-shattering kiss. It would do no good to further torture herself.

Hopping out of bed, Ruby swiped her hands down her face, exhausted yet restless. Sleep was an impossibility and by the glow permeating her window, dawn was upon her. Stay or go. Go or stay. Now was time to decide. She would either disappoint her parents or disappoint herself and neither felt like a fair option, but nobody had ever considered what was fair to her.

Either way, she needed to be dressed before her maid came to turn down her sheets and yank on her curls with that horrid metal comb. Running to her bureau, Ruby scanned her options and picked a comfortable green linen dress that she could manage to tie up herself, even if it was poorly done.

Spinning circles in her room for a moment, Ruby went to the door and back to her desk, and back to the door again. “Curse it!” she groaned and plopped on the bed, hastily donning her stockings and riding boots, then draping her cloak around her shoulders. She was not going to London with William. Never had she consented to do so, nor had she even been told so. Opening the door slowly, Ruby stifled a scream when she was met with a pair of dark brown eyes surrounded by wrinkles of flesh.

“Oh! Gerty, you frightened me,” Ruby whispered, placing her hand over her beating heart.

“I have come to get ye ready for the day, mistress. As always,” Gertrude replied, looking slightly irritated. Her maid was extremely old. Much too old to even be working still, or even standing, yet somehow the old woman got up every day before the sun and was usually kind enough, if not a tad stern. But, she was loyal and would keep to herself and Ruby valued that quality above all others just now.

“Yes, I know, thank you, Gerty. I could not sleep and thought to go for a ride. I have dressed myself as you can see.” The old maid wrinkled her already wrinkled nose, clearly not approving of Ruby’s appearance, but that did not matter.

“I cannae let ye out looking like that. Master will think I have lost me wits and sack me!”

“Nonsense,” Ruby soothed, placing a hand on the woman’s frail shoulder. “You will turn around now and simply say when you came to my room, I was already gone. In fact, I beg you to give me a quarter hour’s head start before you run to Papa and say I have gone missing.”

Narrowing her dark bushy brows, Gertrude’s nostrils flared. “Has this anything to do with that Mister Stanhope coming to visit ye?”

“What?” Ruby played innocent, doing her best to sound offended. “Absolutely not. He is my betrothed, after all. I have no reason to avoid him. I simply cannot sleep and wished to ride for a bit before breaking my fast. I trust this is acceptable and you will simply tell Papa I am nowhere to be found. I will return, I vow. I simply do not wish to be found until I am ready to be.”

Pursing her lips, Gertrude shrugged and huffed a deep breath murmuring something about it being Ruby’s hide, not hers, and shuffling down the hall.

Breathing deeply, Ruby shut her door carefully and ran down the stairs before reaching the hall, looking around the room. Bosworth was busy as usual, bossing people about in the dining area. Of course, she would not truly ride, she only meant for it to appear that way. Ruby took the opportunity to tiptoe over to the library where she had every intention of simply hiding like a small child beneath the desk where Papa rarely sat. Nobody would be in the room for hours. Once the house realized she was missing, the first thing Papa would do was ride out to find her and drag her back to William’s ship, but she would be nowhere to be found.

Sitting beneath the musty wooden desk with her knees tucked up, she laughed at herself for looking so foolish. But, freedom had its price and she was willing to pay it. Within a few moments, she heard the commotion start, and she pursed her lips and cupped her mouth with her hand.

“What do you mean Ruby was not in her room?” she heard Papa holler as he stormed down the stairs.

“Where could she have gone?” Mama wailed. “We never even had a chance to tell her she must leave today!”

“We must leave immediately, madam,” William said with an annoyed edge, and Ruby rolled her eyes at his pompous air. “My men are ready and the weather favors us. The queen expects us on time. I cannot tarry.”

“Yes, yes. We shall find her,” Papa said, staying calm. “The young woman must have gone for a ride. After all, she did not know she was to leave. I have Gertrude packing her bags as we speak. I will find her and you will have time to spare, William.”

“It was that damned Scottish pirate!” William spat, and his words made Ruby sit up straight beneath the table, straining to hear his words. “I saw how he was looking at her last night. He has abducted her! I will get her back!”

So, William had seen Callum’s interest in her? Why did that excite Ruby? She had seen him look at her a time or two, but never did she believe it to be anything beyond curiosity.

“I am certain Callum has nothing to do with her disappearance, William. He is a guest here and knows better than to do such things. However, we could use his help. I will ride out to search the surrounding lands. Penelope and Bosworth will search the grounds. William, you go to Callum’s ship and seek his help. We shall find her.”

Nobody spoke after that and when the door slammed shut, Ruby settled back beneath the desk, hoping to wait for the right time to reappear, which would only happen once William was long gone.

* * *

“Capt’n!” A knock resounded on Callum’s door and he cursed in frustration.

“What!” he shouted as he sat up in bed, looking down at the mass of blonde hair beside him, having no memory of the night once he left Berry Manor.

“There is an Englishman here to see ye, Capt’n!”

An Englishman? Had Thomas Berry come down here to kill him? If so, he had better make sure he was at least wearing breeches. That would be embarrassing. “Which Englishman? Does he have a name? There are so many of them.” Callum said as he climbed out of bed and swiftly pulled his breeches on before cracking the door open.

Being met by the wide eyes of his second mate, he raised a brow. “Well, which one is it?”

“Ye ken,” Samuel said softy so only Callum could hear. “’Tis him, Capt’n. The one with the bonnie bride. The one who… ye ken…”

Eyes widening, Callum scowled and pushed the door open wider. “Ye mean William Stanhope, the man responsible for my father’s death. He dares set foot upon my ship?”

“Yes. That one.” William stepped between the men, pushing Samuel out of the way. Callum wanted to remind the man whose ship he was on, but he was too curious as to why the man was here. “I have come looking for my Ruby.”

“Och, well. Ye ken I have many rubies but they are mine, nay yers. If ye want one, ye will have to ask nicely.” Crossing his arms and standing in his doorway, he smiled when his crew began to laugh, and William’s face turned bright red with rage.

“You know exactly which Ruby I speak of, Pirate!”

“That’s Lord Argyll to ye, lad. And ye are fortunate I dinnae kill ye where ye stand as I wish to. But I assure ye, if ye ever step foot on my ship again once we leave Cornwall, I willnae hesitate.

William sputtered and pushed Callum aside. “Let me in, you piece of scum!” Callum stepped aside and leaned against the doorway while the belligerent Englishman pushed through, stopping to stare at the bed. Though he seethed inside, Callum reminded himself that killing William would not benefit him, though it would help Ruby. Perhaps another time, he decided and popped his knuckles.

Callum’s gaze followed William’s to the woman-sized lump beneath the sheets and he smiled widely, knowing exactly what the man believed. William stepped toward the bed, seeing a small mass of blonde hairsticking out of the top and Callum cut him off, putting a hand out. “I cannae allow ye to do that,” he warned before William could pull the covers back.

“How dare you stand in my way, you heathen! Is that my betrothed beneath those sheets?”

“Nay, ’tis not, and if ye touch the lass I will break yer nose.” Callum did not even remember the woman’s name, but she was his guest and already being forced to hide beneath the sheets in shame. He could see her shift and squirm uncomfortably and turned to William, scowling in warning.

“Stand aside!” William drew his sword and pointed it at Callum’s neck, who did nothing but stay still and continue to glower. Behind William, his first mate drew his sword and pointed it at his back, making certain the man felt its point in his spine.

“I assure ye, ‘tis not yer betrothed beneath this sheet and ye are harassing the woman. Leave now before ye regret it.”

“I will not until I see her face!” William shouted, yet had the sense to drop his sword at his side.

Before Callum could warn William once more, the woman sat straight up in the bed and uncovered her face before wrapping the sheet around her body. “Am I who ye are looking for, eh?” Looking him up and down, she scoffed and bent over to pick up her torn linen dress from the floor of his cabin. Callum could not remember a single detail of the night before and was glad of it when he saw her missing front teeth and odd beak-like nose. He must have drunk himself into an oblivion at the ale house after leaving Ruby the night before, and he held back a shudder. Ruby must have affected him more than he suspected, yet William was here seeking her out. That meant she had taken him up on his offer, which pleased him greatly, and not only because it angered her arse of a fiancé.

William’s mouth gaped open when he looked at the woman who was clearly not Ruby and before he could respond, the lass kicked him in the shin with her bare foot, then cracked him across the face with a right hook, making him step back in shock, sputtering a curse. Callum’s eyes widened and he crossed his arms, nodding with respect.

William lunged at the woman, but Callum stepped in between and pushed him toward the door. “Ye have worn out what little welcome ye had here, Vice Admiral. I havenae seen Ruby since the meal last night, and I will ask ye to leave now before I make ye.”

Shooting daggers at the whore with his eyes, William spat a glob of blood out onto the floor and stepped past her. “I do not have time for any of this. Lord Berry will regret his daughter’s poor behavior.” William stormed out of the cabin where he was immediately met with the stares of dozens of pirates as he walked down the gangplank.

Turning to look at Callum, the lass flashed him a toothless smile. “I had a grand night with ye, sir pirate. Now where be me payment?”

Payment? Devil’s bollocks… he had picked up a whore? He must have truly been out of his mind the night before and prayed he did nothing that would make him piss blood eventually. “Samuel, get this fine woman a shilling for her time,” Callum said to his second mate, signaling for the woman to follow him out.

“A shilling?” she gasped and dropped the sheet onto the floor, exposing herself as she slipped her well-worn dress over her head without shame. “But, we dinnae even do anything!”

Callum tilted his head at her and raised a brow. “We dinnae?”

“Ye dinnae remember? Och ye fell asleep, ye did. I cannae take a shilling. I only require half that!”

Relief flooded him. He had never fallen asleep before bedding a woman, but he had never picked up a whore either. He must have been extremely inebriated to have done so before falling asleep. “Take it, miss. For yer honesty and time.”

Shrugging, she followed Samuel out of the cabin and Callum took a deep breath, running his hands through his tangled shoulder length hair. That was one of the more interesting ways he had been awoken in his lifetime, and that was saying something. Miss Ruby Berry had a way of turning powerful men mad with possessiveness and lust. He would do well to remember this moment and take heed when dealing with the lass in the future. She was naught but trouble, and not the good kind. A man would kill to part her slim legs and taste her nectar, but he was not the man for the job.

Pulling his white tunic over his head, Callum slipped on his boots, strapped on his belt, and threw on his hat before leaving his quarters in a rush. He had to find Ruby and offer Lord Berry assistance in delivering her to London. By the light of day, Callum questioned his madness. Whatever had possessed him to plot with the likes of that siren? Perhaps the shadows had played tricks on his mind, or the wine he had been served was of a stronger variety. Surely he had lost his wits. But, he was a man of his word. He had told her he would take her on a high seas adventure, and so he would.

But, Miss Ruby Berry was untouchable. Off limits. Betrothed to another. And surely, not as bonnie as he had remembered her to be in his lusty mind the night before. He was most certain he would look upon her face once more today and she would be as homely as the whore he had just paid for absolutely no reason other than relieving him of the worry of acquiring a foul disease.

Nay, Callum was a pirate who had sailed the world and bedded many beautiful, exotic women. There was no way he could not handle a spoiled English miss.

* * *

“I cannot handle you, Ruby!” Papa shouted when she finally reappeared from her hiding spot in the library. Having ruffled up her hair and pinched her cheeks to better appear windswept, Ruby carefully tiptoed out of the library and into the hall, pretending not to understand why everyone was in a state of frenzy.

“I do not understand, Papa. I could not sleep, so I went for a ride. I did naught wrong. You never informed me I was meant to leave at dawn. And, I am angry at you for trying to ship me off with no warning!” she spat, putting her hands on her hips. She may be play-acting, but her hurt feelings were genuine.

“I went to the stables and your horse was still there!” he shouted back and Ruby blanched, not having thought of such details.

“I… I took a different horse! Did you check all the stalls?” she said, sticking to her story and praying he backed down.

“No… no, I did not,” he sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “I do not know what to do now. I am sorry, Ruby. We meant to tell you after the meal last night, but you disappeared to bed, and William could not tarry. Now what are we to do?”

“I can take her.”

All eyes turned to look at the man who seemed to have simply appeared from the shadows, and Ruby’s heart leapt into her throat when she spotted him. He was so tall and regal, clearly noble-born by the way he carried himself, yet he had an edge and a roughness about him that bespoke of a man well-traveled and a bit rebellious. And his brogue would never stop making her tingle from head to toe, she vowed, remembering how it sounded against her ear last night when he moved her onto his lap and kissed her like a man kisses a lover. Feeling her cheeks turning pink, Ruby looked away just as his olive-green eyes turned to her, and she looked back at her father.

“Callum. I did not hear you enter,” Thomas said, holding Penelope’s hand.

“I am sorry to intrude. Ye see, I had a visit from the Vice Admiral. He was in a rage, searching for Ruby upon my ship. When he found no trace of her, he was verra angry and said ye will regret it. I warn ye, Sir Berry. He kens ye do business with a Scot now. William may give ye trouble, he doesnae like pirates.”

Ruby bit her bottom lip and looked at her father as he turned red with bluster, not at all accustomed to being threatened and, not for the first time, she wondered why he wished to marry her to such a man. “I know he does not. But, he loves Ruby and will never cause me trouble, I am certain. Besides, I have letters of marque from the queen. I am a privateer, not a pirate,” Papa stressed, and Ruby did her best not to roll her eyes. He convinced nobody but himself.

Callum stepped forward and stopped next to Ruby, looking down at her shrewdly before looking back at her father. Ruby’s stomach flipped just being so close to him. Why did he excite her so much? She had better control herself if she was to be with the man for several days… assuming her papa accepted Callum’s offer.

“I am on my way north. It would be no trouble at all to bring her to the port near London. From there, she can find an escort to find William. I can have her there safely and with time to spare. ‘Tis only a few days’ journey.”

Her papa rubbed his chin and looked at her mama, who nodded emphatically in support of the idea, which shocked Ruby. “Oh, yes. We must get Ruby to Westminster on time. We simply must, Thomas. Or else William will be displeased.”

Thomas looked at Callum, scrutinizing him with his eyes. “Can I trust you with my daughter’s virtue, Lord Argyll? I will call on your honor as a nobly born man to see my daughter safely to London, and I expect her to remain chaste.”

“Papa!” Ruby scolded, humiliation coursing through her blood.

“Ye have my word,” Callum said with a nod.

“You will keep her safe. I do not like the idea of Ruby aboard a pirate’s ship. It is the very thing I have fought to avoid these many years, and why I have arranged for her to marry a man who will keep her on a straight path. I would take her myself but gathering a crew and preparing for the journey would simply take too much time.”

“Papa…” Ruby began to point out his hypocrisy, to remind him that he was both a gentleman pirate and married to a good woman who had remained out of trouble, but also that she was smart enough to make her own choices. However, he put out a staying hand and stepped closer to her.

“Ruby. My sweet Ruby. I know you have been angry with me. I know you have the spirit of your ancestors. I see the twinkle in your eye, and that is what scares me. You will always be my greatest treasure and nothing could ever change that.” Leaning in, he kissed her forehead and placed his large hands on her shoulders. The sincerity in his eyes made her tear up, but she choked them back, refusing to cry now for the first time in her memory. “Do recall your departed cousin, and why I must keep you safe. Please do not be angry with me for the decisions I have made. Perhaps travelling with Lord Argyll will satisfy the need for adventure you crave and give you time to accept your reality as William’s wife.”

“Oh, Ruby!” Shrieking like a banshee, her mother ran toward her, embracing her tighter than ever before. “Do behave. Do not slouch or fidget. Remember your manners. And please, be safe.” Ruby rolled her eyes but hugged her mother back, looking up at Callum who clearly fought back his amusement.

“I will have your luggage sent to the ship. I trust Callum with your safety.” Her father nodded at Callum and looked back at her. “I will see you before the autumn, my little treasure. You will be a married woman when next I lay eyes on you.” Her father hugged her, and Ruby lost control. A floodgate of tears ran down her cheeks as she squeezed her father with all she had. She was angry and frustrated that they had taken away all her choices in life, but she loved them dearly and knew they only did what they thought was best. Her father was trusting her to travel aboard a pirate ship and that alone made up for many of his errors.

Still, Ruby was on her way to London to marry a man she could hardly tolerate on his best day and that idea loomed in her mind like a black cloud blotting out the sun. Looking back at Callum, who gave her a secret wink, her spirits lifted slightly. They had plotted together and they had succeeded. And soon, they would be aboard his ship and she would be free for several days to do as she wished before becoming the Vice Admiral’s stifled wife. But, until then, she was as free as a bird with only the horizon as her limit.

Chapter 4

Every man aboard the ship stared as Ruby walked up the gangplank, and Callum scowled a warning at them all. This idea had seemed better by night with several glasses of wine in his blood and with Ruby in a transparent gown. Now, she was dressed like a Baron’s daughter, regally stepping onto a ship full of pirates in the early morning light as a line of servants walked behind them, carrying her belongings.

Escorting her to his quarters, Callum opened the door and stepped aside so the servants could drop off her bags and leave. Ruby looked up at him with confusion in her eyes. “I am staying in the captain’s quarters?”

“Aye.”

“Alone?”

“Nay.” Callum crossed his arms and raised a brow. “This is a ship, lass. Not an inn. I dinnae have spare rooms, so unless ye wish to sleep below with the men, this will have to do.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Ruby fidgeted, her fingers playing in the lengths of her silk skirt that were the same color blue as her eyes. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind whipping her face on the journey down to the harbor and her curls were slightly disheveled, yet still somehow regal. One thing was for certain: Ruby Berry was a brilliant star among dull grains of sand on this ship and he was not so certain he had considered this well enough.

“I will sleep on the bed?” she asked, looking around the sparsely appointed room containing little more than a bed built into the wall, a desk where he kept his papers, one small side table, and a chest filled with his belongings.

“Aye, I had assumed so.”

“And you will sleep…”

“I havenae figured that out yet.” Callum sighed and did his best to remind himself that this was his idea. He had wanted to give her an adventure before becoming married to that arse of a man. She was more than a spoiled English lass, though. He saw it then, and he saw it now. He could do this. It was only a few days and he had slept in far worse conditions. He could sleep on his cabin’s floor or with the crew if necessary. “Settle in and prepare for the journey. I need to instruct my men.”

Walking out of his cabin, Callum let out a whistle loud enough to make every member of his crew stop in their tracks and look straight at him. “I hope ye all enjoyed yer time whoring in Cornwall, but ’tis time to take our leave. As ye see, we have a guest on board. She is my guest and no man shall even look at her if he wishes to keep his eyes in his skull, ye ken?”

“Aye, Capt’n!” his crew responded.

“We sail for Scotland, lads! But first, we stop in London to deliver the lady to her betrothed in time for her wedding to the Queen’s Vice Admiral.”

The men all booed and hissed, before returning to their duties. Relations between the Scottish and English had always been strained, but with the death of their Queen Mary and the English queen wishing to unite the two countries, tensions had run high and the men avoided English harbors whenever possible. They would fly the English flag and get Ruby as close as possible before securing her an escort, but Callum had no desire to step foot on English soil, nor to loiter in their waters longer than necessary. The queen tolerated piracy as long as it was in international waters and she profited, but Callum only shared with her when he needed favors, and none were needed on this day.

“Raise the anchor and hoist the sails! The Devil of the Sea is ready for adventure!” The men cheered and happily did his bidding, always ready to sail the high seas. Taking his place at the helm, Callum looked out to the horizon and took a deep breath of fresh air, the scent of brine a familiar companion. He needed to return home to his lands soon enough, but for now, the sea called to him like a siren beckoned a man to bed.

“May I take the helm?”

Speaking of sirens… Callum opened his eyes and looked down to see Ruby’s golden curls blowing in the wind, blue eyes alight with excitement. Scanning her body, Callum frowned. “Ye are dressed as a lad.”

“I found a pair of small breeches in that chest near your bed. Must belong to a child, but they fit me quite well, do they not?”

Ruby spun slowly, appearing as happy as a cat with a bowl of warm milk, but Callum bit his lower lip when he saw the curve of her arse nestled against the wool of the breeches and never had he envied a piece of fabric before. The tunic she wore was at least loose enough to hide the curve of her breasts, but for the love of all things holy, the lass had an arse made for all manner of sin.

“You do not approve? I simply felt it would be more comfortable while aboard the ship than dresses. I can put them back.” Her face fell and she turned away, ready to walk back to the cabin.

Grabbing her arm, Callum pulled her back against him a wee bit harder than he meant to, and she fell into his arms with a breathless squeal. If he did not know for certain that she was a maiden, he would think her the most skilled temptress in all of England and Scotland combined. “It isnae that I dinnae approve, lass. ‘Tis only that… well, they fit ye like a second skin. They were my wee cousin’s, only he isnae so wee anymore, and I dare say they look better on ye than they ever did on him.”

That made Ruby smile widely and Callum could not help but smile in return. Clearing his throat, he tried not to be affected by her cursed charms. The lass was going to put him under some spell if he did not keep his focus. “Ye will not wander the deck in those, ye ken. The men are not used to bonnie lassies aboard the ship, especially not ones wearing breeches. Ye must stick with me when ye leave the cabin. That is one rule I must force on ye.”

Biting her lip, she nodded and looked over the rail, and Callum did the same. The sun was still low on the horizon but its rays shone upon the water’s surface, making it glitter like a million fireflies. The beauty of the ocean never ceased to amaze him, yet the woman in front of him somehow astounded him with even more beauty than a summer sunset on the Atlantic Ocean.

Clearing his throat, Callum stepped aside and pointed to the helm. “Here. Take it.”

“Really?” she asked with glee in her voice. “I grew up on ships, yet my papa never allowed me to help.”

“I told ye. Ye get to make yer own decisions. Short of jumping overboard, I will deny ye nothing, my lady.” Smiling widely, Ruby stepped up to the helm and took it in both her small hands, looking out to the ocean once more, the wind blowing in her golden hair.

When she started to veer them slightly off course, Callum moved behind her and placed his hands on top of hers, helping to get back on course. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said with a laugh and he simply smiled, looking down at the top of her head, inhaling her sweet scent.

“’Tis quite all right, lass. Ye are doing just fine. I would just prefer to find London and not Spain,” he said with a chuckle.

Sighing, she looked up at him with sadness in her eyes. “I would rather find Spain. I do not wish to go to London.”

“Ye truly do not want to marry William, aye? He is a pompous arse, I ken. But he isnae so bad looking and will give ye a fine, kept life.” The man was evil, but Callum bit his tongue, not wishing to poison her against a man she must live with the rest of her life.

Taking her hands off the helm, Ruby quickly turned and looked up at him. With their faces only inches apart, he was reminded of their kiss and wished to kiss her once again, be damned the consequences, though he resisted. “I do not wish to be kept. What is it with everyone around me? Do I look like a spoiled woman who wishes to be catered to? I thought you understood me, Callum.” Ducking under his arms, Ruby stormed down the set of stairs leading to the main deck, already breaking the one rule he had set for her.

Letting go of the helm, Callum commanded Samuel to take over as he followed Ruby down to the main deck, catching up with her in time to grab her arm and pull her to him. “Let go of me!” she demanded and tried to jerk out of his grip.

“I told ye. If ye want to be on deck, ye stay by me.”

“Then do not insult me, and perhaps I shall.”

“This is not up for debate, lass.”

Walking toward his cabin, she opened the door and looked back at him. “Then I shall stay in here if it means I do not need to be near you.” Ruby slammed the door – his door – and he blinked in disbelief. What had just happened?

Pushing the door open, Callum stepped in, confusion and irritation controlling every step. “I do understand ye, Ruby. Why else would I have offered to take ye to London?”

Pacing back and forth in his cabin, Ruby shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. Callum watched her hips sway with every step and she suddenly stopped, looking him in the eye. “There. That is why you brought me along.”

“What is?” He frowned, crinkling his brow.

“I see how you look at me. This was all a ploy. You plan on bedding me.”

Tilting his head back, Callum let out a laugh that made Ruby take a step back. The woman was out of her mind. “Dinnae flatter yerself, lass. Ye are bonnie, but so are many other women, and I can have one who is more experienced. I dinnae need to bed a maiden, nor do I wish to. I will get ye to your wedding and never think of ye a day in my life ever again. Ye can count on that.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes at him and then just shrugged. “Good. Then we agree on that, at least.”

“Indeed, we do.” Callum inhaled and ran a hand through his hair, wondering why women had to be so damned complicated. “Now, I will return to the deck. If ye wish to join me, ye may now, otherwise ye will be required to stay in here until the evening meal. What will it be?”

Plopping down on the bed, Ruby kicked off her boots and Callum looked at her wee perfect toes before she climbed into the bed. “I will stay here. I was up early hiding from my fate. I could use the rest, and some distance from you.”

“Fine. As ye wish.” Turning away, Callum shook his head and slammed the door harder than he meant to. But the lass ran hot and cold and he had no time for her tantrums. He had men to command and a ship to run. He did not regret offering to escort her, but he wondered if he had clearly thought through the situation. And, as much as it pained him, she was right about one thing. He had been in a cloud of lust when he decided to escort her. He was drawn to the lass, and her wild spirit only made him want to kiss her more.

Shouting a curse when he walked back to the deck, he saw his men staring at him with concern on their faces and he scowled, stomping up the stairs to the quarter deck where Samuel was at the helm. “Going well with the lass, aye?” Samuel raised a gray brow and smiled widely at Callum.

Looking askance at his first mate, Callum took the wheel and huffed out a frustrated breath. “I dinnae ken what I was thinking bringing her along.”

Scoffing, Samuel put his hands on his hips and shot Callum a knowing look with his gray eyes. “I ken exactly what ye were thinking.”

“Aye, well. She is… different. Not like most lassies. And yet, she is just as fickle, apparently.”

“Aye, ye say one wrong word and the day is shot to shite,” Samuel agreed. “But I never heard ye say a lass was different. Perhaps ye have yer heart placed above yer cock for the first time in yer life.”

Callum looked at Samuel and shook his head. “This is the last time I make that mistake ever again, I vow. I only meant to give her one last chance to experience the life she clearly pines for, yet now I find myself facing sleeping on the floor of my own cabin.”

“Ah, that’s shite. Ye can sleep in my cabin, son,” Samuel said, looking out at the ocean’s horizon, covering his eyes against the bright sun.

“Oh, ye would give me yer bed, aye?”

Samuel smacked Callum on the back and snorted in amusement. “Och, I said ye can sleep in my cabin, not my bed.”

“Why would I choose yer floor over mine, ye old goat?” Callum said, smiling at the man who was more like a father and trusted companion to him.

“Why? Because I ain’t a bonnie lassie who is going to torture ye all night with unnecessary thoughts! Ye can fall asleep instead to the sounds of my snores, lad.”

Callum smacked Samuel on the back and shook his head. “Ye are too kind. Now, keep steering. I have a ship to run.” Walking away, Callum was tempted to go back to his cabin and check on Ruby, but he knew better than to interrupt an angry woman. Nay, his goal in life was to avoid storms. Not just the ones that would toss a man overboard, but also the ones that would bring a man to his knees.

He would leave the siren alone. He had promised to allow her freedom, and clearly she wished to be away from him as much as he needed to be away from her.

Chapter 5

Staring up at the wooden planks on the ceiling, Ruby huffed with boredom and sat up in the bed when she heard a creak outside the door. Was Callum finally coming back? She had waited all cursed day for his return to apologize for her outburst. She knew he had taken his own risks to help her escape being stuck on a ship with William. Instead, she was on a pirate ship with the most handsome man she had ever seen and he was giving her the opportunity of a lifetime. Rather than being grateful, she had stormed off in anger and he had left her here to rot.

What she really wanted was another kiss. She still felt him on her and being alone in his bed had been a torture she could no longer bear when every creak she heard failed to be his return. Hours had gone by and she grew restless, knowing she had to seek him out and apologize for her behavior.

Slipping her boots on, Ruby adjusted her breeches and tucked in her tunic before heading out the door. The sun that had blinded her earlier had been replaced by dull blue moonlight that subtly lit the otherwise dark void of the night. Stepping onto the deck, Ruby saw no men and frowned. Her first day aboard ship had been spent in solitude and it was all her own fault.

“Callum?” she called softly as she walked up to the quarter deck, but nobody was there. Voices and laughter drifted to her on the wind and she strained to locate its origin. Remembering her time aboard ships with her papa, she knew immediately where to find the men.

Descending the stairs down to the crew’s quarters, the voices became louder and she heard singing and the very poor playing of what sounded like rudimentary instruments. A wide smile spread across her face as she remembered hearing similar songs sung by her papa’s men aboard his ship while they were working on the deck, keeping pace with the rhythm of their words.

When she reached the sleeping quarters, Ruby saw the men clapping their hands while one man played a flute and another banged what looked like a stick against a tin can. Ruby laughed to herself but appreciated their will to make merry with what little resources they had. This was the pirate life she longed to live. The fulfillment of a hard day’s work, a less than appetizing meal, yet knowing a new adventure lay ahead on the next day… and perhaps a merchant ship loaded with food and coins to be had.

The itch to join the men in their fun had Ruby tapping her toes along with the rhythm of the tin can, but she remembered Callum’s warning to stay close to him. Looking around the room lit by lanterns attached to the walls, she saw no sign of the captain, so she began to back up slowly and head back to his cabin. She had no idea where he could be, but clearly he was not here. A man like Callum did not blend into a crowd.

“Oy! ‘Tis that English lass the captain brought on board!” one man shouted and the music stopped as the room went silent. Cursing under her breath, Ruby plastered a smile on her face and turned to look at the crowd of bedraggled men who all stared back at her with some sort of anticipation.

“Uh… hello.” She wiggled her fingers instead of a wave, not certain what she was to do or say.

“Ye looking to join the fun, aye?” a man with a thick Scottish brogue asked, and Ruby looked around the room once more.

“I… uh… was looking for Callum, er… Lord Argyll.”

“Och, we just call him Capt’n here!” One man laughed and the rest followed suit. “He isnae here, lass. But ye are, and ye should have yerself some fun, aye?”

“Aye!” the men said and one stepped forward and removed his hat, bowing as regally as any nobleman she had ever known, but when he looked back at her, his toothless grin made her smile. The delight in his eyes was contagious, so when he put out his hand, Ruby laughed and took it, allowing him to drag her into the middle of the room. The music started up once more and the men began to whoop and clap their hands when the old pirate who held her hand began to dance like a fool.

Tilting her head back to laugh, Ruby kicked off her boots and started to move her bare feet, dancing like she used to years ago on her papa’s ship. The men clapped and hollered as she took the center of the room, kicking her feet up and spinning around, feeling her hair whirl around behind her. One man shoved a mug of ale into her hand and she took it gladly, stopping just long enough to gulp it down in one breath before putting it out for more. A man with a reddish-orange beard tilted his mug against hers, giving Ruby the rest of his drink and she nodded in thanks, drinking it down and wiping the froth from her upper lip before going back to her dance.

Ruby wasn’t certain if the room spun because of the ale or her feet, but it did not matter. She was having more fun than she could ever remember and the men laughed and sang, encouraging her to continue. But when a growl filled the room and the music abruptly stopped, Ruby looked over her shoulder just in time to see Callum storming toward her, shirtless with wet hair dripping on his shoulders, perhaps from having just bathed, eyes ablaze with rage.

He reached out and grabbed her arm, dragging her toward him before she could even steady herself. As her body crashed into his, she gasped and struggled, hearing the men in the background whispering to each other before speaking out. “Och, come now, Capt’n! She was just having a wee bit of fun!”

“Aye! Let the lass stay!”

Callum looked at her, his olive eyes boring into hers with some unspoken warning before he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, her head dangling near his backside. “I will deal with ye men on the morrow!” Callum shouted as he stormed out of the sleeping quarters with Ruby pummeling his bare, sculpted back with her fists and yelling curses she was certain he heard, yet ignored.

“Put me down, you bastard, curse you!” she yelled, smacking his arse with her hand and realizing it was as hard as stone when her palms began to sting. “You are a brute!”

“And ye are a poor listener!” he shouted, stomping up the stairs, onto the deck and over to his cabin door. With one hard kick, the door swung inward and he deftly lifted her off his shoulder, tossing her onto the bed.

“I listen just fine! I was alone for hours!” Trying to jump off the bed, Ruby grunted with frustration when he pushed her back down onto his mattress and bore down on her. His dark hair hung around his face and only then did she notice the muscular ridges of his chest covered with a light dusting of dark hair. Breath quickening, she was suddenly acutely aware that Callum was pressing his weight down onto her, pinning her arms over her head.

“I was looking for you,” she whispered, having no more desire to shout.

“It did not appear that way. Ye were looking for the attention of every other man aboard this ship. That is how it appeared,” he said gruffly.

Widening her eyes, Ruby looked at his chest, so close to hers, then back to his eyes. “That is not at all true. I was simply enjoying the music as I did when I was a young girl aboard my papa’s ship. You sound jealous,” she added breathlessly, knowing he was not, but wishing he was for some unknown reason.

“Jealousy is not an emotion I am capable of feeling, lass.”

“What are you capable of feeling?” she asked, truly wanting to learn more about this hard man. He was a gentle-born man, yes, yet no gentleman pirate. Had he ever loved a woman? Had a close family? Friends?

“Lust. I feel lust.” When he abruptly pushed off her, she felt her insides flutter and her heart leap as he stood up straight and walked away. His chest glowed in the dim lantern light and the shadows on his face made him look ominous and dangerous. With his breeches hanging low on his hips, she could see the muscles that narrowed down below his waist, a small trail of dark hairs leading to the part of him she had felt only the night before as she sat on his lap.

“Lust… for me?” His change in mood confused her. He went from angry to defeated in the blink of an eye.

“Aye, for ye!” Turning mid-step, Callum ran a hand through his hair and growled. “What is it about ye, lass? Thoughts of ye have consumed my mind since yesterday when I arrived. Are ye a witch? The fae? Have ye put a spell on me? I cannae decide whether to shake ye or kiss ye at any given moment!”

Sitting up on the bed, Ruby smoothed her hair and tapped the mattress with her fingers as she observed the man pacing across the room. How could a man so strong, handsome, and feral believe himself bewitched by a woman? If anything, he was the one who had put a spell on her. She had not stopped thinking of him, or that kiss, or the feel of his hands on her for a single second since the night before. They had only met a day ago and yet she was so drawn to him, like their souls were woven from the same cut of cloth. Though he angered her earlier, she knew he understood her and had risked much to deliver her to London.

Standing up slowly, Ruby walked over to him and touched his arm from behind. He spun around and looked down at her. “Kiss me.”

“What?” he asked, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes.

“You said you do not know whether to shake me or kiss me. I am telling you that you should kiss me.”

Scoffing, Callum turned away and stared at the shelf on the wall where he kept his charts, maps, and pistol at the ready. “That is the last thing I should do, lass.”

“I disagree,” she said, standing her ground and coming up behind him once more, wanting more than anything to feel his lips on hers once more.

“Dinnae make this harder than it needs to be. Ye are on yer way to London to marry the Vice Admiral. Ye would do well to remember that.”

This time, Ruby scoffed and turned away. “Remember? I remember every second of every day. I have only a few days left before I must marry a man I do not like, let alone love. There is something about him I do not trust.”

“Ye shouldnae trust him, Ruby. He is not worthy of it.”

“What does that mean?” Turning back toward him, she noticed he was still facing the wall, but she refused to be avoided. “Callum, look at me.”

Turning slowly, he did as she asked, but the look of disgust on his face made her shrink back. “You know something about him, don’t you?” Ruby questioned. “Tell me.”

“It is not my place to tell ye anything. Ye must marry him, regardless of what I ken. But, aye. I have had… business with him in the past.”

“Business?” Ruby pursed her lips and cocked her head in confusion. What sort of business would a Scottish pirate have with an English Vice Admiral?

“Ye need to get some sleep. We have an early morning and I cannae trust ye to stay put if left alone.” Callum kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Wha- what are you doing?” Ruby asked, crossing her arms.

“I am getting into my bed. What are ye doing?” Callum replied, laying down and pulling the sheet over his body.

“Where am I to sleep?”

“I dinnae ken, but ye should have thought of that before ye broke the one rule I gave ye… again. I cannae have ye dancing in breeches around my drunken men.”

“I am used to dealing with the crew. I grew up on a ship, lest you forget.”

Sitting up in the bed, Callum looked at her and narrowed his green eyes. “Ye arenae used to my men and they arenae used to bonnie lassies dancing in breeches.” Rolling away from her, Callum faced the wall and closed his eyes.

Ruby huffed in frustration and rolled her eyes. He called her bonnie, yet he refused to kiss her again. She did not care if she was on her way to London to be married. She was not married yet, and as far as she was concerned her freedoms did not end until that day, and even after, she would fight for every ounce of free choice she could get.

If Callum wanted to be stubborn, she could be even more so. There was no way she was sleeping on the floor. Callum appeared to already be asleep, his breathing rhythmic as his back rose and fell with subtle motion. Ruby undid her borrowed breeches and slipped into the other side of the bed as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake the man up. She had had enough arguing for the day and simply wished to sleep. In truth, she wished for much more than that, but for now, sleep was better than staring at the wall or ceiling for another few hours. Untying the string on the top of her tunic, Ruby laid down and rolled away from Callum so their backs faced one another.

He was a frustrating man, for certain. Yet, she could not get the memory of his touch out of her head, nor the feel of him. Being so close to him made her body tingle with sensations she wished to avoid. She wished to avoid Callum altogether at this point, but as long as they both stayed in this position throughout the night, she could at least awaken early and sneak out of the bed before he ever even knew she was there.

* * *

Something warm and soft nestled against his thighs and his hand rested on something else entirely. Moving his other hand slowly downward, he felt the unmistakable curves and smooth skin of a woman’s backside pressed against his groin. Opening his eyes with a start, Callum saw blonde curls spread across the pillow before him and the sleek bare shoulder of a small woman. Lifting his head to look over her body, Callum groaned when reality crashed down on him. Not only was Ruby Berry pressed dangerously close to his body, but her tunic had slipped down during the night and his arm was wrapped beneath her body, his hand cradling one of her exposed breasts. Her pink, erect nipples stood proudly for his gazing pleasure and he felt himself immediately grow hard, thankful he was still wearing his breeches, even if they were hanging low on his hips.

Realizing his other hand rested on her bare hip, Callum froze and laid his head back on the pillow, wondering how he ended up in such a position, and more importantly, how he was going to get out of it… not that he wanted to. He would much rather roll over on top of her, spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs. By the devil, the woman was not even wearing breeches. It would be so simple… and yet his life would become so much more complicated. She was not his to possess and yet somehow, he knew that being with Ruby would be a life altering experience, one that would change his very existence. And, not just because her father would kill him.

When she began to stir, Callum attempted to pull his arm from beneath her, but that only made her eyes flutter awake. Her blue irises focused on his face when she looked over her shoulder. “Callum?”

“Aye.” His voice was raspy and not with sleep. She was disheveled with rosy cheeks and sweeping lashes, her hair messed up from the night, and yet she looked more beautiful than ever, and it had nothing to do with her lovely breasts still rising and falling before his eyes with her every breath.

When she began to become aware of her surroundings, Ruby looked down and noticed her exposed breasts, his arm trapped beneath her and his hand still grazing her nipple. “Oh, my,” she breathed, but did not try to move away.

“I—” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Callum was at a loss for words. “I woke up like… this.” He wiggled his fingers to try to emphasize his point, but when he brushed against her nipple again, she inhaled sharply and stared him in the eye.

“Oh. And your other hand is…”

Callum moved his free hand off her backside where he forgot he had left it while trying to move his trapped hand. Ruby arched and rolled onto her back to help free his arm, but all that did was bring her breasts closer to his face. His hand tingled from lack of circulation and his cock strained from far too much circulation. By the devil, was she trying to seduce him? It was bloody working.

Ruby slowly pulled her tunic back up her shoulders and covered her breasts, much to Callum’s simultaneous disappointment and relief. “Ye came into the bed I see.”

“Yes. After you fell asleep. I do not think I had many choices. However, I did not expect to awaken like that.”

“Nor I,” he grumbled, running his hands through his hair and feeling more tension in his loins than he ever had in his life. She was this untouchable woman, yet he had touched her once. It had been no more than a kiss, yet it had been more powerful than any encounter he had ever had with a woman in his life. “I had intended on sleeping in my first mate’s quarters until I found ye dancing in the middle of all my men.”

Ruby rolled her eyes and turned toward him. “Do not start on that again, Callum. I already explained it to you, and you said I could make my own decisions. I decided to dance.” She shrugged and he noticed her gaze roam down his chest before returning to his eyes again.

Nodding, Callum looked at her. “Ye are right, lass. I did make ye that promise. And I left ye in here alone all day. I apologize.”

“I chose to stay in here all day, Callum. But today…” Ruby sat up in the bed and moved toward the edge with her back facing him, stretching her arms up high in the air. “I choose to stay on deck. I vow to stay by your side, if you do not tire of my company.”

When Ruby got out of the bed, Callum caught a peak of her lovely round, bare arse just before she turned away and wrapped a sheet around her body. Dear God, he was going to die if all the blood kept rushing downward. “I willnae tire of ye, lass.” He did his best to sound unaffected. He was certain she did not intend for him to see her breasts or her arse and did not wish to embarrass her, but never had he fought so fiercely against taking a woman in his arms. She was an unusual woman. Still a maiden, yet so bloody sensual, Ruby did not seem unnerved by having awoken with his hand on her breast. She had chosen to share his bed yet waited for him to fall asleep before doing so. She was not attempting to seduce him, he decided, but that made her allure even more potent. She was not the sort of woman he was used to. She had goals, dreams, intelligence, beauty, wit, and with a fire running through her veins, and he was the moth attracted to her flame.

“We shall see about that,” she giggled, running her fingers through her messy curls. “I can be a bit much; I am aware of it.”

Climbing out of the bed, Callum bent over and picked up his tunic, slipping it over his head and feeling her burning gaze on him. The tension in the room was thicker than the fog on a freezing Atlantic morning in winter, and he felt the pulse of desire flowing between him and Ruby. They could both act unaffected by the events of the morning, but their relationship had shifted beyond casual, if it could ever have been considered as much. From the moment he set eyes on her, he felt his world shift, but now, he was permanently off kilter every time she came near.

“Then, we shall see.” Callum tightened his breeches, tied his hair back into a queue, and slipped on his boots. “I will leave ye to get dressed. My men will be waiting for me.” Suddenly feeling the need to flee before he took her in his arms and delivered on the kiss she had asked for the night before, Callum cleared his throat and stepped out of the cabin.

The sun was just creeping over the horizon to the east and he inhaled, ready to take on a new day on the water, smelling adventure in the air and feeling a tightening in his chest… or maybe he was just feeling a cursed clenching in his heart. What had she done to him? More women than he could even count or remember had shared his bed, and yet, this one woman had consumed his thoughts in just the two days that he had known her.

Since the day his father was killed in a pirate hunt led by that bastard Stanhope, Callum had remained closed to the world of the living. He had inherited his father’s titles and lands, but loyalty to a church or any individual got a man nowhere in this changing world. One day Scotland prevailed, the next day England. One day Catholics ruled, the next day Protestants. From a young age, Callum understood that the only loyalty that was required was to himself and his men, who not only depended on him, but also aided him in his desire to avoid the stale existence of a noble-born Scottsman in an unstable world. Here on the rocking ocean waves, he was just a man living in the moment, there one day and gone the next, never having attachments beyond the rails of his ship. Then Ruby Berry appeared in his life and he knew that as always, she would be no more than a whisper on the wind, a face from his past that he would likely forget soon enough.

But for now, her face was all he saw. The rays of the sun glittered gold like the fine-spun strands of her hair. It’s blazing reflection sparkled red, like the plump flesh of her lips, off the water that could never be as blue as her eyes. Shaking his head and cursing himself a fool, Callum stomped up to the helm and shouted at his men, already hard at work.

“We should reach our destination by the morrow, men!” The crew shouted, knowing that any trip between Cornwall and London would be an easy enough one if the weather did not fight back, and always happy to find a harbor town where ale and women could be found. “We have one more night aboard ship before we deliver Miss Berry and I expect ye all to be on yer best behavior with the lass, unlike last night.”

The crew went silent, not certain if a punishment was awaiting them and in truth, he should force more hours of labor on them for the night, perhaps make them scrub the decks or empty the chamber pots all night rather than eat. Yet, he knew firsthand how enchanting the lass was. She commanded a room full of men, had them eating out of the palm of her hand. He felt the same way and decided he should not punish them for being enchanted by an enchantress.

“So, I expect ye all to work hard, for tomorrow we shall celebrate another safe journey before heading home.”

“Scotland!” one man yelled and Callum smiled.

“Aye! The land of Scots, whiskey, bonnie lassies, and haggis!” His men laughed and went back to their duties while he turned back to the sea, slightly saddened to realize his time with Ruby was so short-lived and coming to an end, yet knowing it was for the best. Whatever he was feeling for the woman was nothing more than infatuation and as soon as she was out of his sight, he could continue his life and surely forget about her existence. How hard could it be to forget a woman he has only known for three days?

Chapter 6

Excited for another day aboard Callum’s ship, Ruby finished lacing up the bodice of her burgundy dress and slipped on her leather shoes, ready to join him on deck. Though she had enjoyed wearing breeches, Ruby had decided to don her dresses once more. Callum had seemed rather unhappy about her clothing choice the day before and even more upset about her being around his men. She could not understand why he cared so much but decided to call a truce and wear a comfortable dress.

Walking out into the sun, another glorious spring day awaited her and Ruby took a deep breath, knowing her days of freedom drew to an end with every hour that passed. She was not certain when they would reach London, but enough time aboard ship as a child had taught her that her home was not very far from London.

Spotting Callum speaking with Samuel, she smiled and felt the sun warm her face while anticipation warmed the rest of her body with each step bringing her closer to him. He was a Scot and though most English were bred to consider them primitive and violent, Ruby knew better. They were a proud, repressed people who fought for what they believed in and preferred death over being controlled by a monarch they did not call their own. Though, there was more to Callum than she understood, it was a story he kept buried deep within. She longed to know his truths yet feared she never would.

When he saw her approaching, there was a look in his eyes and he raised his brow. Appreciation was written in his features but she was not certain if it was because of her decision to wear a dress or for how she looked in it. Though she hoped for the latter, it was only the night before that he had rejected her. Although, something had changed between them this morning. He had seen her nearly undressed and he did not seem displeased. And though she knew that a maiden should feel ashamed, she felt only excitement, which proved to her that she was more wicked and wanton than perhaps she should be. Yet, it had been an accident, a situation that arose unexpectedly, and feeling his hands on her, even if by mistake, had made her tingle all over, as did the feel of his hard rod pressed against her backside. And the look in his eyes told her he was remembering those moments, as well.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile to Samuel, who tipped his hat and took her hand up to his mouth for a quick kiss.

“Mornin’ to ye, Miss Berry. ‘Tis a lovely day, is it not? But my keen nose smells a storm brewing. Make no mistake, we will feel the sea’s wrath by nightfall.”

Ruby nodded and took a deep breath, having sensed the same, yet too focused on Callum to have truly recognized it until just now.

“I believe you are correct,” she said, looking at Callum who now intently looked out to the horizon. Though he played at studying the weather, Ruby felt he was intentionally avoiding her. Most women would pine for a man’s attentions, but Ruby knew better than that. She had no need to, for she was to marry another man. But for now, she understood that the man wanted what he could not have. Deciding to avoid him as well, Ruby turned away and stepped up to Samuel, linking arms with him and smiling up at his mature yet handsome face. “What else do you sense, Mister Smith?”

Samuel gave her a wide grin and wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a fatherly embrace. “I sense an opportunity, ye ken.”

Looking up at him quizzically, Ruby shook her head in confusion. “I am sorry, but I do not ‘ken’,” she replied, liking the sound of the Scottish word on her tongue. “An opportunity for what?”

“For riches, perhaps. Freedom for ye…” leaning in, Samuel whispered into her ear. “And mayhap even love.” He waggled his brows and she frowned, not understanding. He gestured over his shoulder with a nod of his head, and she followed his cue, seeing Callum standing close by intentionally ignoring them.

“Oh, well. That is impossible. You know I am to be married once we reach London.”

Making a tsking sound, Samuel guided her over to the rail of the ship and they stared down at the water splashing against the hull. “I dinnae ken what ye marrying that Englishman has to do with loving Callum, or him loving ye.”

Feeling her face flush, Ruby cleared her throat. “Oh, no. You have it all wrong, Mister Smith. I am here because Callum invited me to have a few days of freedom before I marry William. He felt for my plight, and that was all.”

“Whatever ye say, Miss. I can tell ye that I have kenned him his entire life. I was his father’s first mate before his. He has never invited a woman to sail with us. Make of that what ye will.”

Ruby pursed her lips and nodded, not at all sure she agreed with his version of events. It was clear Callum was attracted to her. But what he spoke of—love—was something else entirely. She and Callum shared an adventurous spirit and a love of the sea, but that was all. There was no love between them and she was quite sure he could not wait to be rid of her.

“Mister Smith, when will we reach the harbor of London?”

“Oh, Capt’n believes we shall arrive by tomorrow night. From there, we will secure ye a carriage to take ye to yer man.”

Tomorrow? Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. This journey had only just begun and already it was at an end. And, though Callum may be glad to be rid of her, she felt a keen pain at the thought of never seeing him again, never knowing his mysteries, or feeling his kiss again. Looking over her shoulder, Ruby caught Callum watching her and Samuel, but he quickly looked away and scowled once more. No, he did not love her. The man did not even like her. She was a burden, stuck by his side until they reached their destination.

Sighing, Ruby looked at Samuel and leaned in. “I assume you can manage the ship for a few moments without Callum? I have a few things I would like to discuss with him in private, if I may.”

Raising a brow, Samuel grinned at her. “Of course I can, Miss. I think ye and the Capt’n have much to sort out, indeed.”

She was not at all certain what Samuel believed she planned to discuss with Callum that would require such a reaction, but in the end, it was not his business. Ruby only had one day left with Callum, the man who had risked much simply to allow her some freedom for a few days, and not only did she wish to thank him, she had some questions for him that needed answering before she disembarked from the ship.

Walking over to Callum, who stared determinedly out to sea, Ruby stepped in front of him to snap him out of whatever deep thoughts had him in such a daze. “Callum?”

“Aye?” he replied but did not break his concentration or look at her. It was as if he looked through her, as if she was naught more than an insect buzzing around his head that he wished to swat away. Well, damn it all, he had invited her onto this ship and seemed determined to keep her near, yet at arm’s length all the cursed time, and the tension between them was becoming more than she could bear.

“I wish to speak with you.”

“Speak, then.”

“In private, if you please.”

“And if I dinnae please?”

Putting her hands on her hips, Ruby got on her tiptoes, trying fruitlessly to reach his eye level. “We can discuss our… situation this morning in front of your crew, if you prefer.”

“’Tis not as if they havenae kenned me to awaken with a lassie’s breasts in my hands.” He shrugged and finally looked down at her, giving her a smug grin. Was he trying to anger her? Perhaps make her jealous? Oddly, it was working and that only raised her hackles more.

“Curse you, Callum! Will you come speak with me or not?” Ruby stomped her foot in frustration and stormed down the steps onto the main deck and toward his cabin without looking back. She did not even care if he followed her or not. He had offered to take her to London, had promised her the right to make her own choices during the journey, yet he constantly went to war with everything she asked for.

Opening the cabin door, Ruby stepped in and tried to shut it behind her, but Callum stuck his booted foot through just in time. When he stepped in and shut the door, turning to look at her with his large arms crossed over his chest like a man interrupted, she rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Well, I’m here. What did ye wish to say, lass?”

“I had wished to thank you for offering to take me, you lout! I am trying to get along with you, but every time I think we can, you grow sour once more and treat me like I am no more than a stowaway! But make no mistake, I am here because you suggested I disappear until William’s ship was gone! Yet nothing I do or say can satisfy you, and so far every decision I have tried to make has been rejected!”

Callum stepped closer with his arms still crossed and looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “Ye mean like yer decision to wear breeches that form to yer arse like a second skin and then dance and drink ale with my men? Or yer decision to ask fer another kiss from me as we sail toward yer betrothed? I apologize if I am only trying to save ye from making mistakes and having regrets.” His tone of voice was cold and somehow, without even having raised his voice, he had scolded her in the worst way possible.

“I have been coddled and protected for years, forced to wear painfully heavy dresses with tight bodices that restrict my breathing, never allowed to decide anything for myself! I used to be allowed on the ships, but after my cousin died on her father’s ship, my father grew worried and protective, doing all he could to keep me away from the family business and tucked away indoors! ‘Tis why he betrothed me to William, who vowed to keep me as a little wife who does naught but bear his children and mend his clothing while he sails the seas and has his own freedoms!”

“’Tis the way of the world and has been for centuries. Ye cannae expect much more.”

“Why do you hate me?” Ruby whispered, feeling herself shatter as his words cut her like a million shards of broken glass spraying down on her body. “I know you do not believe that. You would not have brought me here if you did. You said you understood me. Now you wish to simply treat me the same way every other man does. What have I done to make you treat me so?”

Callum growled and spun away from her, pacing the floor of his cabin for a few seconds before facing her again. “What have ye done? Ye really want to ken the answer to that, Ruby?”

“Yes! I do! What have I done to earn your perpetual scorn, Callum Campbell?”

Striding over to her, Callum grabbed Ruby’s waist and pulled her against his body, making her gasp when his lips crashed down on hers almost painfully, like he was a man dying of thirst and she was the only oasis in a vast desert. She wanted to melt into his arms, wrap herself around him and feel his lips on hers all night long, but instead, she pushed him away. “What are you doing?” she whispered, quivering so fiercely she feared her knees would give out on her and she would fall to the ground like a ridiculous woman.

“I am kissing ye, just as ye asked!” he shouted, and she pulled away even more, feeling anger and resentment building inside her gut, making her feel ill inside with some unknown emotion. It felt like need, the need for acceptance, like longing for companionship and love… but not from any man. She wanted all of it from this man who only kissed her because she asked, not because he felt the same. In the end, he was naught more than a womanizing pirate, incapable of such things.

”So, that is all then? You are angry at me for asking you to kiss me? Well I am sorry, Lord Argyll. I vow never to put you in such a position again. I did not believe you were a man of such morality. I am sorry I offended you. By the morrow, I will no longer be your problem.”

Ruby turned up her nose and spun on her heel, marching toward the door, determined to be away from Callum before he witnessed her weakness as tears began to flood her eyes.

Before she could make it to the door, she felt herself being dragged back by the arm once more and quickly turned around to scold him. “Callum!” she cried. “Just leave me alone! You have made yourself perfectly clear!”

His large hands wrapped around her waist as he slowly guided her backwards until she felt the wooden wall pressed against her back.

“Have I? I dinnae think I have, lass.” His forehead pressed against hers and she looked up into his light green eyes, her heart beating wildly as she tried to catch her breath. His tanned skin was a contrast to her alabaster English tone, but it only stood as testament to the lifestyle he lived upon a ship, with the warmth of the sun shining down on him all day. It was exciting yet it saddened her to know she would never share that life.

“Then what is your point, Lord Argyll?” she whispered, feeling his breath fanning her face as hers escaped in short pants.

“Ye have caused me a problem, indeed. That is my point.”

Ruby struggled to break away, wishing to kick him in the shin. Must he always insult her very existence? “Then do leave me be! And I will cease to cause you trouble.” More tears rolled down her cheeks and she hurried to wipe them away, but it was futile. More continued to flow until she could hardly see. Curse this man. If he hated her so much, why would he not just let her go?

Shaking his head, Callum narrowed his eyes and bit his bottom lip in a way that made Ruby tingle from toe to scalp. “The problem is that I cannae stop thinking of ye, Ruby!” he nearly shouted, and Ruby crinkled her brow with confusion. “Curse the devil, ye have consumed my thoughts!”

“I… I did not mean to…” she stuttered, shaking her head slowly and looking at him carefully, feeling something tug at her heart. It could not be joy, for there was no hope for them. She would be gone from him on the morrow and William’s wife a few days after that. But to know he reciprocated her feelings made her stomach flutter as if a hundred butterflies took flight simultaneously.

“I ken ye didn’t. That is what makes ye even more exasperating!”

“Well… well..” She stumbled on her words, trying to find a way to express how she felt about him, as well. He thought she was exasperating? He was the most complicated man she had ever known! Why would he yell at her for his own feelings? “I feel the same way!” she shouted at him, pushing against his chest and feeling hard ridges of muscle beneath her hands, which only reminded her of how he looked without his tunic on. Her cheeks grew hot and she knew she was blushing. Curse her fair skin for betraying her every emotion!

“You feel the same? That ye think I am exasperating? Or that ye cannae stop thinking of me?” he persisted, locking his eyes on hers, awaiting an answer.

“Yes.”

“To which one?”

“Y-yes,” she responded, knowing she was being stubborn. Why was it so hard to say how she felt? Yes, she was due to marry another man, but was she not allowed to have her own thoughts, emotions, and the right to express them?

“Devil’s bollocks, Ruby! Yes to what?” he shouted.

“All of it, curse you! I have only known you three days and yet it feels like three years! How can that be? I am honestly asking, because it makes no sense to me! Yes, you are exasperating! The most frustrating man I have ever known! And yes, I cannot stop thinking of you for even a moment! I want to be near you, then I wish to run away!”

“What do ye want, Ruby?” he asked with a sudden softness, running a finger over her cheek so gently that her eyes closed and a sigh left her parted lips. “Tell me.”

“You,” she whispered. “I want you, Callum Campbell.”

“Ye already have me, lass.” Leaning in, Callum touched his lips to hers, gentle at first but as she pressed herself closer to him, he seemed to lose all control of himself, deepening the kiss, slipping his tongue inside her mouth. She groaned, loving the feel of his tongue on hers once again. It was the single most sensual feeling she had ever had, the way they melded together, a fever burning between them.

His hands rested on her hips and she wrapped hers around his neck, pulling him even closer. She could feel every inch of him pressed against every inch of her, feel the hard length of his manhood pressing against her belly. She remembered how it had felt against her bare skin only a few hours ago, remembered the feel of his calloused palm resting on her breast. How she longed to relive those moments with him.

When his hand started slowly exploring the rest of her body, inching hesitantly toward her breasts, she felt an ache deep within that she had never felt more strongly in all her life. Her nipples grew harder and sensitive, straining to be in his palms once more. Ruby pressed against him, trying to communicate without words that she wanted his touch, needed it.

He moaned and pushed himself into her, trapping Ruby even tighter between him and the wall. Deftly, his fingers tugged at the laces of her bodice and she felt the linen fabric grow slack as he continued to devour her mouth, his tongue dancing with hers, mimicking all the wanton things he wished to do with her body.

“Good God, Ruby,” he murmured when his mouth traveled down to her throat and his hands slid her dress and shift down her shoulders at the same time. “Ye are so beautiful. And ye taste so good.” Never had she heard a man tell her that she tasted good, and something about those words made her want so much more. Tilting her head back, Ruby gave him better access to her neck, shivering when his tongue slid down its length as his hands cupped her exposed breasts.

When his thumbs ran across the hard tips of her nipples, Ruby groaned and instinctively arched her back into his touch. “Ye like that, do ye?” he asked, his mouth now kissing her collarbone, his hot breath trailing over her flesh. “Tell me, Ruby.”

“Yes! God, yes…” Ruby sighed, then gasped when his warm tongue flicked over her nipple, and she looked down, feeling another intense wave of desire wash over her when she saw him gently taking her breast into his mouth. “Oh, my,” she groaned.

“Ye are…” Callum slid his tongue across her breast and over to the other, giving it the same loving attention. “Absolute perfection,” he whispered before latching onto the other breast and sucking it until her knees felt weak and her hands were pulling at his dark hair.

“Callum…”

He murmured a reply but she could not understand his words when he was still fondling her nipple with his tongue. Sliding his tongue back up her neck, Callum took her lips once more in a kiss so full of need that Ruby felt as if she may swoon. She was not at all certain how far this was going or what Callum intended, but she was certain she would allow him to do absolutely anything he wished, even take her maidenhead, and damn the consequences. She may regret it one day, but right now, her body craved to be touched by him.

Her dress hung slack around her hips. She was half naked and in his arms, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more contact. Removing her dress, she felt it slide down her legs before pooling around her ankles on the ground. Callum pulled away, but only enough to observe her completely naked body and she shivered, hoping her first time completely undressed in front of a man did not end up in humiliation. She knew Callum had been with other women, perhaps dozens. She did not know how she compared, but right now she felt beautiful. Callum made her feel confident, like a real woman who could say what she wanted and be herself.

“My God.” Callum ran his warm hands down her back, across her hips, and over to her backside where his fingers carefully grazed her skin, making her break out in gooseflesh. When she shivered, Callum looked at her with wonder in his eyes. “Ye are the most beautiful woman I have ever kenned, Ruby Berry.”

She shook her head with disbelief. “Now I know you lie,” she replied. “That cannot be true.”

“I never lie, lass. I wouldnae say such a thing, if it werenae the truth. Nor have I ever uttered those words to another woman. You are a masterpiece, love.”

Love? She swallowed hard, deciding not to allow his words to be misunderstood. Surely he did not mean it in such a way. “I want to see you, Callum. All of you.”

Leaning in, he kissed her so softly that her heart melted. His hands roamed her body and when they rested just below her navel, she slightly flexed her hips, hoping he would touch her where she ached the most.

“Are ye certain?” he asked with sincerity and she nodded. She wanted to see every last inch of his sculpted body.

“I am.” Taking a deep breath and mustering her courage, Ruby ran a finger over the bulge in his breeches and Callum groaned, tearing his tunic off and throwing it onto the floor. His perfectly chiseled torso was a sight to behold and Ruby ran her hands over every ridge, feeling the coarse hairs tickle her fingertips. That same trail of hair she had noticed before felt rough to the touch, and Callum stood still and watched as Ruby explored, stopping at the top of his breeches.

He groaned when she gently ran her finger over the front of his breeches once more and slowly unbuttoned them. When they slackened on his hips, she watched as he pushed them down, gasping when his erect manhood sprang free, pointed directly at her. “Oh, my,” she whispered, reaching out to touch it and then pulling back immediately. It was somehow rock hard yet smooth to the touch at the same time. “I am… new to this,” she confessed, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“I ken, lass. We won’t do anything ye do not wish to do.”

“What if I want to do all of it?” she asked, raising a brow and his eyes widened.

“Ye cannae mean—”

“Everything, Callum.”

“I cannae.” He shook his head and frowned. “Ruby, we cannae.”

“Yes, we can. It appears you are most capable,” she said, touching his hard length once more, this time wrapping her hand around it, watching in wonder as his eyes drooped to half-mast when he watched her grip him.

“That is not what I mean.” His voice was strained and she could tell he was using all his effort to hold back. Releasing her grip, Ruby frowned and bent over to pull her dress up, disappointment flooding her. She understood why Callum resisted her desires, but rejection overwhelmed her.

“Nay. Not yet,” Callum growled and before she could prepare herself, she felt him swoop her up behind the knees as he carried her in his arms. “I dinnae want that dress back on ye just yet.”

Before she could ask questions, Callum tossed her onto the bed, her naked body laid out before him. “I willnae take yer maidenhead, Ruby. It would be wrong. I ken ye are upset with me, but trust me. Someday ye will thank me. But that doesnae mean I cannae pleasure ye, love.”

“Oh?” Ruby had no idea what he was talking about. They were both completely naked and somehow she felt so comfortable in front of him, like she was safe and treasured.

“Oh, aye. May I show ye?” He stood before her, his erection jutting out proudly and all she could do was nod her head, having no idea what he planned to do, but trusting him with her body.

Callum crawled onto the bed and propped himself up on his elbows as he hovered over her, kissing her passionately for several torturous moments as his hands roamed over her body, caressing her breasts, hips, and backside, even her inner thighs without touching her where she truly ached to feel him.

“Please,” she asked with frustration when his finger, once again, grazed her inner thigh so close to her center, then pulled away.

“Please what, love?” he asked, kissing down her neck, stopping at her breasts to suck on each nipple until they became hard peaks once more. “Is this what ye want?” His finger finally touched her core and she gasped, arching her back and spreading her legs slightly when he nipped at her breast with his teeth and stroked the place between her legs that sent a shock of pure pleasure throughout her entire body.

“Yes!” she shouted both in frustration and ecstasy.

“Well why didnae ye just tell me?” he said with a grin that made her want to slap and kiss him at the same time. But then his head moved back down her body, this time stopping at her navel while his finger weaved some form of magic, working in circles over that one spot that drove her mad. His lips kissed her pelvis bone and a finger slipped inside her while his other continued its skilled ministrations. Something so powerful, so intense, washed over her, causing her to nearly lift off the bed as she bit her lip to keep from screaming out in pleasure. “Oh, Callum,” she whispered, her entire body going tense as she exploded into a million pieces, panting as the most wonderous feeling washed over her body.

Ruby plopped back onto the bed but before she could even recover, she felt his mouth on that same spot and looked down, eyes wide as his tongue flicked out and yet a new round of pleasure began. “Oh, my… oh…” words escaped her, as did small breaths as Callum did something so erotic with his tongue that she couldn’t stop staring in awe. By god, she had no idea such a thing even existed but it was the single most intensely pleasurable sensation she had ever felt. Another wave flooded her and this time she did scream out as her entirely body tensed. It was as if little explosions were going off behind her eyes and she gripped the sheets, writhing as Callum slowed down but didn’t quite stop, until she was splayed out on the bed, feeling weak and dizzy, wondering what had just happened to her.

“What was that?” she gasped, looking at him, and he grinned.

“Pleasure, lass. And, ye are still a maiden, as I promised yer father ye would remain.” Crawling back up her body, Callum swept sweaty tendrils of hair away from her face, then kissed her so gently on the lips that she thought her heart might actually burst. These feelings were dangerous. She had no remorse for what had just happened. If she was to be united with a man she did not love for the rest of her life, at least she had this memory to cherish.

Still, she would never see Callum again after tomorrow and that thought made her stomach twist up into knots. If this was her last day with Callum, she did not want this moment to end, and even if she, one day, was no more than a whisper in his memory, for her this would be her greatest day and she wished to know more about him.

“Who are you, Callum?”

His head snapped up and his brow rose. “Ye ken who I am. Lord Argyll. Callum Campbell. Scottish pirate. And…” Cupping her face between both of his large hands, he gave her a soft kiss before continuing. “I am a man in love for the first time in his life.” Leaning in, he kissed her slowly, deeply, lingering for several moments with his hands still on her cheeks and hers on his waist as she tried to steady herself. A man in love? With her?

When he pulled back and looked at her, she saw worry in his eyes and frowned. “I do not understand.”

“Nor do I,” he sighed. “Why now, of all times? Why ye, of all lassies? A lass on her way to wed another man.” Callum took her hands and held them. “I love ye, Ruby Berry. I kenned the moment I saw ye, I was a lost man.”

“I… I…” Ruby could not answer him. What could she say? That she was madly in love with him, as well, and that she would live in misery the rest of her days, knowing the man who owned her heart sailed the ocean, living the life she longed for, while she sat in a manor home alone, raising children for a man she never saw and never wished to see? “Callum, I… we cannot…” Shaking her head, she felt a tear slip down her cheek and he wiped it away.

“Cannae we?” he asked, sitting up and gripping her shoulders, pulling her onto his lap as he had the first night they kissed. Only this time they were both completely naked and his hardness rested on her thigh.

“No, we cannot. I am betrothed, Callum. My father would kill us both. And I enjoy being on a ship, but I cannot live upon one. I must have a home.”

Callum snorted and shook his head. “Ye think me a landless lord?”

Shrugging, Ruby frowned. “I know nothing of you, Callum. I am not even sure what you are asking of me.”

“Ruby, I am the Earl of Argyll. I live in my family’s ancestral home, Inveraray Castle. I manage the lands and have many duties. In fact, I am on my way back there once I deliver ye to London. I am also a pirate, as ye ken. As for my father, he was killed by—” Callum abruptly stopped and gave her a strange look, before continuing. “I took over the title but was a pirate long before. I manage both quite well, ye ken.” He smiled and she shook her head.

“I had no idea. I am terribly sorry about your father, Callum.” Ruby sat on the edge of the bed and he followed, sitting beside her and taking her hand.

“Thank ye, love. He was a good man. I have learned to live life on my own terms. One never knows when death is coming. When it does, I wish to ken I lived a good life. Ruby, I enjoy my life. Every day is a new adventure on the seas. When I am home, I manage my tenants, host lavish parties, and do my duties for my government. But when I am on the sea, I am free.”

She sighed, wishing she could live such a life… a life with him. But she simply could not. Still, she had now. This moment. Wrapped up in his arms, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm resting on his chest, his skin warming hers as he surrounded her with his embrace. “Callum, make love to me.” Placing her hand on his rock hard, pulsing length, she took it in her hand as she sat on top of him again. Her breasts rested against his chest and Ruby stared into his green eyes, the color of the moss that covered the rocks in the lake near her home. She would always think of him whenever she visited that place for the rest of her life. “I won’t see you ever again after tomorrow, but I know I will never regret this. Please, Callum.”

His eyes closed and a strained look contorted his features. “Ye torture me, love. I cannae.” He shook his head and began to move her off his lap, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and stood her ground.

“You promised to allow me to make my own decisions.”

“Aye, I did! But ye ask too much of me, woman! I cannae make love to ye, take yer maidenhead, and then allow ye to walk into the arms of another man! Devil’s bollocks, I am delivering ye to yer wedding. Ye torture me, Ruby!” he shouted, trying to push her off.

“Callum! I love you, too!” she blurted, and he froze, slowly opening his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Ye do?”

“Of course I do, you stubborn Scot. Make love to me.”

“Only on one condition. I have another proposal fer ye,” Callum said, running his hands up and down her waist, caressing her breasts and making gooseflesh break out all over her body.

“Oh? And what is it you propose this time, Lord Argyll?” she whispered, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of his hands roaming her body.

“I propose ye marry me, lass. Ruby Berry, I have only kenned ye for three days and yet I ken without a doubt ye are the only woman I could ever love, will ever love. Will ye be my wife?”

“Capt’n! A ship can be seen on the horizon!” The loud bang of Samuel’s fist on the door made Ruby jump and squeal, clinging to Callum before she could even answer his question, let alone consider all that he had just said.

Cursing in a language Ruby could not understand, Callum jumped up and pulled his breeches on, tossing her clothing to her at the same time. “Get dressed, love.” Once she was very hastily clothed and he had pulled the tunic over his head and strapped on his sword, Callum opened the door with a grumble of frustration, Ruby standing behind his shoulder. “And? What flag do they fly?”

“Ye willnae like the answer…” Samuel looked over Callum’s shoulder and frowned in Ruby’s direction, making her feel a sense of dread. Why was he looking at her that way?

“Well? Spit it out, Samuel!” Callum demanded, grabbing the spyglass from his first mate’s hand and storming on to the deck, looking out to sea. Ruby followed him, anxious to know who approached and why Samuel appeared so frazzled.

“Devil’s bollocks!” Callum slammed his fist down on the rail and Ruby touched his elbow.

“Who is it?” she whispered, half afraid to know.

Lowering the glass, Callum looked down at her and crinkled his brow. “’Tis yer betrothed. And he has yer father.”

Chapter 7

“Ready the cannons! We will pursue the bastard! Prepare for a fight, lads!”

His crew all ran to do their duties, knowing exactly what he expected and doing it well while he stood at the helm with Ruby by his side.

“I hardly think all that is necessary, Callum. ‘Tis just my father and William. Though, I do not wish to go back with him.” The dread in her quivering voice and the blanching of her face were all Callum needed to see, to know she feared what was to come, and she did not even know the worst of it yet. “I wish to stay with you, Callum. I will tell my father. Come what may, I am not leaving you.”

Clenching his fist and looking through the spyglass once more, he could clearly make out the details now that he had hoped were no more than a trick of the light previously.

“Ruby.” Callum grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. “I need ye to listen to me well. William is a pirate hunter. He is the man responsible for my father’s death. He has yer father tied up on his deck.”

“What?” Ruby gasped and ripped the glass from his hand, her hands quivering so much he wondered if she could see properly. “No… no!” Lowering the glass, she looked at Callum and glowered. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell my father? He deserved to know!”

“I tried, lass. I warned yer father before we left, if ye recall, after William threatened him. It was not a false threat. I meant to tell ye, Ruby. I was going to tell ye before I let ye go to him. I simply believed I had more time. It isnae an easy thing to tell a woman that her future husband is a murderer. I am sorry.”

Ruby pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. “My papa. Why would William do this? How does he even have my father? He left before us!”

“Yer father put too much trust in the man. He was safe until he was caught doing business with me. I am a Scottish heathen, after all. Now William kens yer father must have Stewart sympathies, and that is dangerous information. Likely, he went back for him and expected to marry ye before ye kenned he had yer father in custody. He will flee from us when we give chase because he meant to reach London and handle yer father before ye arrived. He never wished for ye to see his evil deeds, love. We will get him, Ruby. I vow it.”

Raising her chin higher, Ruby looked at the ship approaching them, the British flag whipping in the wind, and narrowed her eyes in determination. “Yes. We will.”

Callum smiled, seeing that spark in her eyes and the fire in her blood that had made him immediately fall in love with her in the first place.

“He will use yer father to control ye, love. He will demand ye board his ship, but dinnae do it. Allow me to control the situation.”

“What if he harms him when I do not obey? I cannot allow that! I must do something more than simply stand by!” she demanded with panic in her small voice.

“We dinnae have time to make a plan. Follow my lead and follow yer instincts. Trust them. I do. We can do this together.”

“Together.” Ruby gave him back the glass and balled her fists into the fabric of her skirt until her knuckles turned white. She looked beautiful and full of determination as the blue and white Scottish flag whipped wildly above them. He had his ship, his men, his woman, and his country. What pirate needed more? They would save her father and he would marry Ruby. But first, he was going to slay the man who betrayed his father.

“What do ye wish to do, Capt’n?” Samuel came up behind them and eyed them oddly, as if he knew what had transpired between them in the cabin, but Callum did not care. He was not ashamed of his actions, nor his feelings for Ruby, and he had bigger issues to deal with at the moment.

“I wish to kill that bastard once and fer all. But first, we will rescue Thomas Berry and kill every man aboard that ship if we must. Take no quarter, if necessary. Whatever is aboard that ship is ours for the taking.”

“Aye, Capt’n.” Samuel took off to help ready the ship and Callum turned his attention back to Ruby. William’s ship grew closer, yet as Callum suspected, the man was doing his best to evade them, coward that he was. He wished to have her father hung before Ruby married him. She would not know her father was dead until she was stuck with his murderer. A chill ran up Callum’s spine. The man was pure evil, but today was his last day on this earth.

“Are ye ready, Ruby?” He was worried for her, despite her strength. Her father was in real danger and he would do all he could to keep them both safe, but William was a madman who kept his deeds hidden in the shadows, away from polite society. But Callum was not polite and he was aware of the evil that lurked in William’s eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

A warning shot fired as his ship approached and Ruby squealed and jumped, gripping Callum’s arm as the cannon missed them by a fair distance, but caused waves that shook the ship violently, nearly knocking her off her feet. Grabbing Ruby to keep her steady, Callum readied himself for the moment he had been waiting for for years. Yet never had he imagined he would be in love with a woman and need to save her father from the bastard before he could gut him.

Callum remained calm and guided his ship closer to William’s galleon, ordering his men to throw a grappling hook over the railings to pull the ships closer.

“Stay back until I call for ye, Ruby. Trust me.” Callum and Samuel walked over to the rails at the stern where he could clearly see William with Thomas tied up to a mast beside him. The look of fear on the bastard’s face was amusing, yet Callum knew the only thing William feared was being found out by Ruby.

“I see ye are bonding with yer future father by marriage,” Callum shouted to William who stood on the other side of his railings as his men readied the wooden plank to create a walkway between the ships. Even from this distance, Callum could make out the reddening of William’s face and the veins bulging from his neck.

“Where is she?” William growled.

“Of whom do ye speak? The whore who gave ye that bloody lip? It looks horrible, mate.”

“You know who, you bastard! This is not how it was meant to be! All was well until you showed up at their home. I knew then he was a Stewart loyalist. I have no choice, Callum! It is my duty to the queen! Send Ruby over now or Thomas dies!”

“No!” Callum heard Ruby shout from behind as she ran to the stern. “Papa! I’m so sorry, Papa!”

“This is not your doing, my dear. You were not meant to be involved in this,” William said soothingly, and Callum flared his nostrils in anger and disbelief. The man still spoke sweetly to her, as if she would simply understand and forgive him for what he was doing to her father. “This is his doing and his alone, Ruby. Now, come to me and all will be well.”

He was lying and Callum knew it. He would still eventually make certain Thomas hung by a noose and he would attack his ship as soon as Ruby was secured. Looking over at Ruby, he saw the frown on her face and the shaking of her hands, and he knew she understood the truth. “It will be well, Ruby. I vow it. Trust me,” Callum whispered so only she could hear.

“Allow me to escort the lady to ye,” Callum shouted, but William shook his head.

“Do you think me a fool? I will not allow you, a Scottish pirate, to taint my ship with your presence.”

“Then ye will come to me and collect her yerself. She will not go alone.”

“Why should I? I have the upper hand, Scotsman! If she does not come, Thomas dies!”

Ruby took a step forward, but Callum put out a hand and held her back, giving her a stern look of warning. He needed her to trust him to handle this. He would have to show no weakness, to pretend not to care what happened to Ruby or her father, and he prayed she would see through his act. It was his only chance to get William to board his ship. “I care not if ye kill the Englishman. He is no friend of mine, and I willnae see Ruby again after today. My cannons are loaded and my men are itching for a fight. They would love to take yer ship, yer goods, and yer lives.”

His men roared and raised their swords, cutlasses, knives, and pistols in the air for William and his soft men to see. They were overweight and spoiled, having no idea what it meant to truly fight. Threats were what they thrived on, and Callum knew how to shake the British down. They feared the wild Scots, believed them to be uncivilized, brainless animals from the north who slaughtered Englishmen just to pass the time. Their opinions had never bothered Callum before and now, more than ever, he hoped their unfounded fears benefited his cause.

Ruby pinched the back of his arm in anger at his words, but Callum kept his eyes locked on William. “What say ye? Come get Ruby, alone, or ye all die.”

“I can blow your ship to pieces, you Scottish bastard!” William roared.

“I ken ye can. But, ye willnae, not with Ruby onboard. So, come get yer bride or she can die with the rest of ye.” Callum shrugged and popped his knuckles, feeling a pain inside for having to use Ruby as bait but knowing he had little choice if he was going to get William alone to slay the man and save Thomas.

William went silent for a moment while he thought about his options and finally nodded, apparently deciding he had to obey if he didn’t wish for Ruby to die. At least the man had one redeeming quality. He truly did care for Ruby. Unfortunately, Callum would die before he allowed her to spend a lifetime with this man. Even if she did not choose him at the end of this ordeal, he would give her the freedom to live a life of her own choosing.

William began walking across the plank with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and Callum eyed the man warily, ready to draw his own weapon if William made one wrong move. The man verily strutted across the plank in his tight breeches and matching surcoat and tunic, all a pristine shade of black with shiny leather boots up to his knees, but Callum saw the quiver of William’s hand and knew he was unsure of his position in this confrontation.

Daring a glance at Ruby, Callum saw she was flushed and worried, wringing her hands together and staring across the way at her bound father. “Ye ken I willnae ever allow ye to be harmed, aye?” he whispered in her ear, and her gaze snapped to him. When a small smile crept over her face and she nodded, his heart lifted. She had made a comment once before that it felt as if they had known each other for years and he could not disagree. Never would he have believed such an intense, consuming connection could be possible, but with Ruby, it was as if they were two halves of one whole and from the moment he saw her, it was impossible to stay away.

Once William stepped onto Callum’s deck, Ruby stormed over to William and struck him across the face, making him grunt in pain. No wonder Callum loved this woman. She was fierce and fearless. Still, he needed her to attempt to control her anger. Walking over to her, Callum pulled her away but could not resist flashing her a proud smile.

“How dare you do this, you… you piece of shite bastard!” Ruby spat while Callum held her back.

“You bitch! You have split my lip open again!” William rubbed blood from his lip and lunged to grab Ruby by the arm, but Callum pushed her back toward Samuel and withdrew his sword.

“Insult the lass again and I will kill ye before yer next breath.”

“What is this?” William looked between Callum and Ruby, glowering. “I see you have a fondness for the lady, and I cannot blame you. But she is mine. Hand her over,” William said with a stuffy, entitled tone that made Callum snort with indignation.

“Ruby belongs to nobody. She is not property. But if ye want her to come with ye, ye will fight me.”

“Are ye mad? I will not fight for something that is already mine, and she is mine,” William scoffed.

“I am not yours and never will be!” Ruby shouted. “You betrayed me and my family!”

William turned toward Ruby and scowled menacingly, the devil beneath his handsome exterior exposed. “He betrayed his queen and country. That is a crime punishable by death.” His cool, hard tone bore no emotion and Ruby kicked out her leg and caught him in the shin before Samuel pulled her back once more, but not before William struck out, catching her across the cheek with the back of his hand. When Ruby grunted in pain and held her face, something in Callum snapped.

Rage burned in Callum’s gut and he yearned for the justice and revenge he had plotted for years. “That was yer final mistake, Vice Admiral. Ye are a coward and naught more. Ye stabbed my father in the back, betrayed Ruby’s father, and ye hit the woman I love. Now, ye will die.”

Callum gripped his sword’s hilt tighter and got into a fighting stance, staring his father’s killer down, ready to rid the world of this scum. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins as his heart beat wildly, thirsting to spill the blood of his enemy, the ancient blood lust of warriors and men facing their foe.

“The woman you love?” William growled and looked at Ruby. “Is this true? Do you love him, as well?”

Ruby narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to Callum, but Samuel held her back, keeping her away from the inevitable violence. “Yes. I do love him, William. I shall not marry you. I never wished to, and I will die before I marry you for what you have done to my father and to his!”

Taking a deep, eerie breath, William’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared with contempt and hurt pride. “Have you played his whore then, you wanton bitch? I will kill you both, then watch with glee as your father dangles by a rope!” William’s hand twitched at his side and Callum drew his sword, preparing to run William through the moment the man went to strike. Instead, he saw a long wooden object swiftly being pulled out of William’s ruffled tunic sleeve, so quickly that Callum had no time to think before he heard a pistol being cocked and saw it pointed straight at Ruby’s heart.

“Nay!” Everything around him moved in slow motion, every detail of that second feeling like an eternity. The blast of the pistol, the spark and the smoke, the bullet ripping through his flesh, the searing agony in his chest. A second shot rang out immediately, just as Callum felt his body colliding with the deck of his ship with a painful thud, his head hitting the wooden planks with a force strong enough to split his skull.

Shouts surrounded him. Another body fell with an audible thud and grunt beside him and Ruby screamed when full battle between the ships’ crews burst out. “R—” Callum tried to say her name but the pain lashing through his chest and the metallic taste of blood surging up his throat choked him, his words disappearing along with his consciousness while the ringing in his ears dimmed with the fading sounds of cannon fire. A black haze washed him away into an oblivion darker and colder than the deepest waters he had ever sailed, and though he tried to reach out to find his Ruby, to pray she was not the other person who had fallen, Callum felt as if boulders pinned his limbs down, even as he heard his name whispered in her voice one last time.

Chapter 8

Rocking in the ornately carved oak chair near the hearth, Ruby sighed and stared at the leaping flames for the fifth night in a row since arriving at Inveraray Castle in Scotland while the doctor checked Callum’s stitches for signs of infection, though they seemed to be healing well. It had been eleven days since the battle that changed her life forever.

Closing her eyes, the sounds of cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder provoked terrorizing memories, but none worse than the sight of Callum falling to the deck after taking a bullet meant for her, followed by the body of William. Both men fell within seconds of one another from bullet wounds.

Fortunately for Callum, the bullet had missed any major organs and had miraculously gone through one side and out the other, tearing through tissue but hitting no bones. William had not been so fortunate. Ruby had aimed directly for his head and she never missed her mark. She had been damned certain of her shooting abilities when smuggling the pistol into her boot before leaving Callum’s cabin that afternoon. Her decision had ended one life, but it had saved many more. She would shoot that pistol again in a heartbeat if necessary, but the reality of having taken a man’s life sat heavy on her soul.

A knock on the chamber door made her ruminations of the past disappear like the tendrils of smoke in the hearth, floating up the chimney and out into the early autumn breeze. Standing from the chair, Ruby cleared her throat and walked over to the door to allow Callum’s most frequent visitor to enter, then walked over to the bed where Callum lay once more with his eyes closed, and she flinched against another stab of pain to her heart. Why, damn it all? Why had he taken that bullet? It had been meant for her and she would have gladly taken it. The man she loved, who had had so much fire and life inside him, had slept for eleven days, thrashing at times from pain and the fever burning his flesh, but otherwise silent and distant, suffering in a faraway place where Ruby could not reach him despite her many attempts. “He appears better today, yes?”

Ruby looked at her father and nodded, squeezing his hand as she gave him a weak smile. She thanked God every day for the safe return of her father after the battle. Callum’s men had fought hard and fought well, prevailing over the English and following Callum’s command to take no quarter if necessary, and it had been. The men aboard William’s ship proved just as violent and ignorant as their Vice Admiral, all trying to kill men simply for being born in a land north of their own. Her father had been unbound and taken on board, where he used his own healing skills from years of experience at sea to stitch up Callum’s wounds. If not for Callum, her father might have died. If not for her father, Callum might have died. Life was filled with too many variables to consider. The only things that mattered were the two men in this room with her now.

“Aye, Sir Berry. Our Earl is improving daily.” The doctor finally spoke once he was finished checking Callum’s wound. “I dinnae ken what else to do. His fever has broken and his wound is healing quite nicely. All he needs to do is awaken.”

“What can we do to help with that?” her father asked, gripping her hand tightly to give her support.

“Pray, my lord. ‘Tis all ye can do for the Earl now. He is home and he is alive and healing. In fact, his unconsciousness is a blessing, for he is almost fully healed, thanks to yer quick work and steady hand aboard the ship. The man has slept through the agony and should awaken with nearly no more pains,” he said, snapping his black leather satchel shut and pointing up at the heavens.

“All I have done is pray and yet naught has happened,” Ruby said petulantly, wanting nothing more than to see his cursed eyelashes flutter.

“Aye, something has. He is healing. Keep praying, lass.” Doctor Ferghus Campbell touched her cheek gently and squinted, leaning in. “Yer bruise is clearing up quite well. Curse the soul of the man who did that to ye.”

“Oh, his soul is cursed. Make no mistake,” her father replied, looking at her with a frown. It broke her heart to see her papa suffering so. She wanted to reassure him that she was all right, but that would be a lie. Nothing would be all right until Callum awoke once more. Until then, she would stay in this chamber every moment by his side.

As the doctor tipped his hat and walked toward the door, her father shuffled up to her side and stroked her hair. “You really love him.”

“I do. Is that odd? To know something so entirely in your bones, to feel it so deeply and after only days of knowing a person? Am I a fool?”

“Heavens no, my sweet girl. It is rare, I will give you that. But you’ve never been a woman prone to dramatics… well…” he chuckled and looked down at Callum. “At least not until he came along. But you knew, and you followed him. I cannot be mad. You should be mad at me for forcing you to marry that foul, festering boil of a man!”

“Oh, Papa. You did not know. How could you have? All is well now. Or, it will be soon, I pray.”

“Well, when Lord Argyll awakens, I will be giving him my blessing to marry my daughter.”

A tear ran down Ruby’s cheek and she jumped on her father with a squeal. “Oh, thank you, Papa! I do not wish to speak for Callum, but I daresay he will be pleased!”

“Ye neednae… speak for me… love.” Callum’s raspy, weak voice carried to her ears and she spun around, looking down at him and seeing his beautiful green eyes looking back at her for the first time in eleven days with pure elation flooding her.

“Callum! Oh, you are awake!” She ran to his side and grabbed his hand, gently sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Either I… am awake, or I am… dead and in heaven, which I assure ye is… unlikely,” he whispered and licked his cracked lips. Ruby propped him up and set a glass of water to his lips and he successfully swallowed a small amount before she put it back on the table near the bed.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, son.” Callum struggled to keep his eyes open but he smiled in her father’s direction.

“Thank ye, Sir Thomas.”

“Papa! Please run and tell everyone their laird is awake! And bring him some broth!” Utter joy filled Ruby as she sat beside Callum and felt the warmth of his hands in hers. More tears dripped down her cheeks, but she wiped them away and refused to let more fall, lest they blur her vision and prevent her from seeing his chiseled, handsome face, even if he was slightly paler and thinner now. He was alive and well-healed and soon, he would gain his weight back and be as good as new.

Her father nodded and left the room with haste, and Ruby leaned down to kiss Callum’s forehead. “I was so worried, love. Why did you take that bullet for me? I am so angry at you.”

“I would do it a million times over.”

“And I would shoot William a million times over to save you.”

“Ye shot William? I thought I had lost ye, Ruby. When I fell, I heard ye scream. I thought ye were shot. I have been stuck in a world where I believed ye were dead, trapped in my mind, mourning yer loss.”

“I am well, love. And yes, I shot him with your pistol from your cabin. We won’t ever worry about him again.”

When a serving lass came through the chamber door holding a large bowl of steaming brown broth, Ruby took it and helped Callum drink it down, urging him to continue until it was gone. He needed nourishment to gain his strength back.

“I dinnae wish to take my eyes off of ye, but I am verra tired.” Callum’s eyes began to flutter closed once more and Ruby gasped, scared he would fall asleep for another several days once more. “Dinna fash, lass. I will awaken by the morn, I vow. Now that I ken ye are here with me, I have too much to lose. Here.” Callum patted the bed beside him. “I wish to lay with ye, if I may.”

“Of course!” Ruby wished for privacy for Callum so he could sleep uninterrupted. Closing and barring the door behind her, Ruby removed her dress, leaving her linen shift on, and climbed under the covers, feeling his warmth surround her. Facing him, Ruby smiled and kissed him gently, sweeping a dark lock of hair away from his face.

“Sleep now. I shall be here when you awaken. I love you, Callum,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“I love ye too, my fierce pirate wench.” He smiled before his face relaxed and his eyes fluttered shut, his soft breaths fanning her face with a peaceful rhythm.

* * *

A wee bit of sun filtered through his eyelids and, after days of nothing but darkness, it was enough to remind him that he was still alive, as was the soft woman still wrapped in his arms.

Cracking one eyelid open, Callum observed Ruby up close and wondered how he, a bloody arse of a Scottish pirate, had gotten so damned fortunate to have this wee exquisite English rose in his bed. And, she loved him. How or why was a mystery to him and always would be. As would be the immediate connection they had formed. His father had always said he loved his mother upon first sight, but Callum had balked at that, believing such ideals to be for fools. Mayhap they were. He was the greatest fool he had ever known for reasons too numerous to count, and yet, he had the love of the most incredible woman.

Up close, he saw a small dusting of freckles dotting her nose. They were so faint that he would never know they existed if not for the honor of holding her so close and watching her while she slept. Her long black lashes swept against the curve of her high cheekbones and he admired the small pout of her pink lips. He would pinch himself if both hands were not better occupied, wrapped around her small waist.

When her eyes began to flutter open, he smiled and felt that familiar tug in his heart that he had only ever felt for this one woman. He had been asleep for so many days, with his mind thinking she was lost to him, torturing him with a pain beyond comprehension, he had believed himself dead, and better off so. Now, feeling her warmth, seeing her blue eyes scan his features, he wondered how he had ever lived his life believing he was incapable of loving a woman or wishing for a wife.

“Good morning, my handsome, healthy Scottish heathen,” she chimed, stretching in his arms and giving him a smile. Her arms rested against his bare chest, just above his wound site, and he was pleased not to feel anymore searing pain when he tested it with a slight twist of his torso.

“Good morn to ye, my bonnie brave English lass. How do ye feel?”

“Me? You are asking me how I feel, when you were shot through the chest and slept for eleven days. I am in your arms and you are alive. I have never been better. I care more about how you are doing, Callum.”

“Well, let me see…” Callum reached under the covers and touched his wound, feeling no pain. Then, he touched her bared leg and grinned. “I feel no pain and I have the leg of a goddess wrapped around me. I believe I am quite well, love. And I still have all my limbs,” he said, waggling his brows.

Her face turned red when she felt his cock against her stomach, and she giggled. “You sure do. But you had better control that before you injure yourself again.”

“Lass…” Callum flipped over, propping himself up on his elbows as he hovered above her. “There is no amount of pain I would not endure to be close to ye, but I assure ye the only part of me that aches is my back from lying on it so long and well…” he winked at her and she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Well I most certainly am pleased to hear that you are hale. And I certainly wish to do all that I can to alleviate any of your discomforts,” she said with a sly grin and slowly lowered her hand between their bodies, placing it on the evidence of his arousal beneath his breeches. He closed his eyes and groaned. After having felt so much pain, not only from the bullet wound but from believing Ruby dead, feeling just the barest touch from her felt like the world’s greatest gift. He did not want to press her for anything she did not wish to give, but he wanted to connect with her, be the man who made love to her first and forever.

“Ruby,” Callum murmured and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her. “I want to make love to ye right now.” Running a hand up her bare thigh, he guided his fingers to her core and groaned again when he felt her wet heat.

“I want to Callum, but are you well enough? We have time. Do not injure yourself again.”

“I am more than well enough, love. And one thing I have learned is that we never ken just how much time we have. Let me show ye now, here, today, how much I love ye, how much I need ye.”

Looking him in the eye, Ruby smiled and nodded. “I need you too, Callum. I want this with you.”

“Ye are the most beautiful woman in the world, Ruby Berry.” Getting on his knees, Callum pushed his breeches down his hips, then slipped her shift up her body and over her breasts, needing to see more of her. When those perfect luscious mounds were freed and her nipples puckered from the morning chill of the room, Callum bent over to tenderly kiss each one, pleased when she tilted her head back and sighed.

“I love ye and always want to be the man to make ye sigh with pleasure.” Callum shifted between her legs and pressed his erection to her entrance, feeling her softness and wishing to bury himself completely. But before he would allow himself to take her maidenhead, he needed to make certain she was truly his. “But, ye never answered my question.”

Her eyes opened and the flush of her cheeks warmed his heart. So much innocence, yet she was the greatest seductress he had ever known. “What question?” She wrinkled her brow and chewed her bottom lip, making him want to devour her mouth.

“Ruby Berry, will ye become Ruby Campbell, Countess of Argyll and make Scotland yer home? Will ye marry me? I vow to always give ye adventure upon the high seas when we can break away from our responsibilities here. I vow to always give ye freedom to make yer own decisions… except dancing around my men in breeches. I shall not allow that.” He smirked and her tinkling laughter made his heart soar. “Will ye marry me and make me whole for the first time in my life?”

“Yes!” Ruby threw her hands around his neck and kissed him all over his face. “Yes, I shall marry you, Callum Campbell! I never wished for a title, but my mother shall be pleased by it,” she chuckled. “We will make our life one grand adventure, both on land and at sea.”

“I love ye, Ruby. And I always will.” Callum kissed her softly, slowly, lingeringly, allowing his tongue to meld with hers until the ache to be one with her was more than he could bear. She was his future wife now. It felt like a dream to know the woman who stole his breath away only days ago was now going to be his wife. Slowly sheathing himself inside her warmth, Callum groaned, feeling her surround him as her legs wrapped around his hips, and she arched her back with a sigh.

He felt her barrier and knew it would sting. He had never bedded a maiden and wasn’t sure if he should be quick or slow. “This is said to hurt a wee bit, love.”

“I do not care, just do it,” she whispered. “I am ready.” Nodding, Callum drove himself into her and she hissed and flinched, but within seconds she relaxed and began to move with him. The pleasure was so intense he had to grit his teeth to prevent losing himself too soon. She was so soft and her sweet floral scent floated around her. The room was cold but their bodies were on fire, moving in tandem as they experienced their first taste of real love together.

Ruby groaned and opened her eyes, looking down to watch as he moved inside her. The woman would be his undoing, he vowed. His pace quickened and his arms shook, the weakness of days of healing starting to take their toll. But nothing was going to ruin this moment for him. He may ache a wee bit more than he let on, but it had been worth it to finally be with her, to feel himself inside her for the first time.

Reaching between their connected bodies, Callum placed his finger on the same spot that had driven her mad once before, and her gasp as she inhaled and the moan of pleasure she released, told him she was close to her climax. “Let it go, love,” he murmured, moving with her, feeling his own pleasure ready to explode any second.

Together, their bodies shuddered as waves of unfettered pleasure released and they shook in one another’s arms before both going limp. By all that was holy, Ruby would be the death of him, but he would gladly die in her arms if it meant they could share this connection for the rest of their lives.

Panting, Ruby pushed her blonde tendrils away from her face as Callum rolled over and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “That was…”

“Unbelievable,” Callum whispered, nibbling on her ear. “Unlike anything I have ever experienced,” he added.

“Is that what I have been missing out on?” she giggled and rolled toward him, her breasts close enough to his mouth that he could not resist the need to devour them.

“Nay,” he mumbled as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, enjoying how it hardened in response and the way her hips arched into his. “I believe what we experienced is the unique reunion of souls, love.” He sounded like a bloody lovesick fool, even to his own ears, but nothing about this connection was usual and he could describe it in no other way. They were soul bound and he may not consider himself a religious man, but he was certain there was a higher power drawing them together.

“I agree. I may not know what it is like to be with another man, but I cannot deny the instant pull toward you, my immediate trust in you. I think I just knew I was meant to be yours.”

“Well then,” Callum said slowly, flicking his tongue over her breasts before moving up the slim column of her neck. “How long must I wait to officially make ye mine, love? I wish to marry ye as soon as possible.”

“I am already yours. But if you can let me out of bed at any time today, I shall speak with my father and make arrangements.” Kissing him on the cheek, Ruby hopped out of bed, but he pulled her back down, making her squeal with laughter.

“Verra well. I shall rest a wee bit while ye are gone, but I warn ye, I am not done with ye for the day.” He waggled his brows and she smiled, pulling her dress on and tightening the laces.

“I look forward to it,” she winked and left the room with a flourish. Callum sighed and stared at the ceiling, wondering how he had become so fortunate a man and such a besotted fool. Grinning like an arse for the dozenth time that morning, Callum carefully climbed out of bed and decided to do some planning of his own. He may be weak, but he needed to be out of this bed. Besides, he had a bride to marry, a wedding to plan, and a future father by marriage to speak with. Ruby would become part of the Campbell clan as soon as possible, and he planned on making it a day she would never forget.

Chapter 9

The seat of the Campbell clan was a massive castle unlike anything Ruby had ever seen, and by the end of the day, she would be the Countess of Argyll and the lady of the castle. Though trepidation flooded her insides, Ruby was ready for the next big adventure.

Callum had refused to lay abed and rest since the day she agreed to marry him. A sennight had passed with him showing Ruby the lands, introducing her to the lovely tenants and staff of the house, as well as meeting his strange yet kind first cousin, Charles Campbell, who was a knight for the Stewarts and very popular with the lassies of the keep. Charles had just returned to the castle to discover his cousin had been wounded, but the two men seemed rather close, and Ruby was pleased Callum had a companion here to care for him when she was busy around the keep.

Callum’s mother had passed when he was born and an ache had settled in her belly for him having grown up without a mother. How she wished her own mother could have been here to see them get married. She was opinionated and full of pride, but she was a loving woman who would wish to be here. Her father had recovered entirely from his ordeal with William, having only sustained mild bruising in the process, and had been given the ship he had been captured on. Callum had many ships and few men he could trust. Ruby enjoyed watching her father and Callum discuss their travels, making plans for more.

As Ruby was surrounded by some of the young serving lassies who prepared her for her wedding day, they all laughed and gossiped while one of them named Isabella twisted Ruby’s curls up and tucked fresh flowers into some of her braids.

“Ye ken, none of us thought our laird would ever get married,” one of the lassies who was close to Ruby’s age said definitively. “He was here, and then he was gone. He took care of us, he did. But at times, we didnae ken if our laird and earl would ever return.”

“Aye, and he almost didnae,” another lass added, pulling the laces tight on the bodice of Ruby’s flowing blue damask dress with long sleeves that fell below her wrists and a modestly cut neckline. The color matched her eyes and she felt beautiful and truly loved. Unlike her wedding to William, Ruby absolutely could not wait to meet Callum in front of the kirk doors. It felt as if this day could not get any better.

A knock on the door made Ruby’s head turn just as Isabella placed the last flower in her hair and stepped away. “Come in, as long as ye arenae the groom! ‘Tis bad luck for him to see the bride!” Marla, one of the older women in the chamber shouted.

“No, no. ‘Tis only me.”

“Papa!” Ruby stood up from her seat and walked over to her father, who wore an approving, proud smile that made Ruby flutter all over. It all felt like a dream. Just over a fortnight ago she had met Callum and now he meant everything to her and even her father was smiling.

“You look wonderful, my darling.” Thomas looked her up and down and smiled widely. “I did not mean to interrupt, but I have a little surprise for you.”

“You do?” she asked, wondering what he could possibly mean. Her father stepped aside and Ruby covered her mouth with her hands, gasping as tears threatened to spill when she saw who stepped through the door. “Mama?” Running to her mother, Ruby threw her arms around her and cried, a feeling of completeness filling her. “How?”

“Do you think I would miss my daughter’s wedding, Ruby? To an earl, no less!”

“Well… I… did not think you would entirely approve.”

Penelope waved away her concerns. “I only wish for your happiness. It was wrong of us to choose William on your behalf. I see that now. When your father went missing, a man from the dock said he saw him being taken away by the Vice Admiral, charged with treason for doing business with a Scottish pirate and for having Stewart sympathies. Did you believe I would not follow? Nobody takes off with my husband, Ruby. I have not survived being the wife of a pirate—”

“Privateer,” her father interrupted with a wink, and Penelope laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Call it what you will. I have learned a thing or two in my time. I caught a smaller boat and paid my way to London. When I was informed that William’s ship was lost at sea, taken by Callum, I changed my destination and came to Scotland. I knew Callum would not risk harm to you or your father. And here you all are. I owe everything to Lord Argyll. I am very proud of you… lass.”

Ruby laughed, wiping away her tears when her mother attempted to speak like a Scot. “You are so brave, Mama. I had no idea…”

“I know you did not. Because I have always tried to protect you from this life, Ruby. It is not for the faint of heart. One day you are in your home sharing a meal with your family, and the next day, your daughter is aboard a pirate ship, and your husband is captured by a snake in the grass. Yet, I see now that you have found your place and your partner in life. You are no longer my little girl.”

Words escaped Ruby as she embraced her mother, her throat stinging as she choked back more tears. She did not wish to arrive to her wedding with red, swollen eyes. Never had she felt such a great sense of belonging and excitement for her future.

“My Lady. ‘Tis time,” one of the maids said, and Ruby’s heart skipped a beat. She nodded and took her father’s arm in one hand and her mother’s in the other as they walked out of the chamber and down the tower stairs, toward the keep. The entire place was empty and Ruby grew nervous, knowing every resident of the castle and all of the tenants would be awaiting her arrival, but she just focused on seeing Callum, who she had not been allowed to see all cursed day thanks to the serving lassies who did all they could to keep him away, despite his best attempts. When she awoke that morning, a single rose and a letter expressing his love had been awaiting her on her bed, and Ruby glowed with adoration for the man she would soon marry.

When they walked out of the hall and into the inner bailey, Ruby attempted to turn left toward the kirk, but her parents insisted they continue straight outside the gates. “The kirk is not that way, Papa. That is the waterfront.”

“I know, Ruby,” he said with a grin, giving her a wink.

“I do not understand… my wedding is over there…”

“But your groom is over there,” her mother said wryly, pointing toward her father’s newly acquired ship in the distance.

“He is on Papa’s ship? But…” Squinting as they grew closer, she saw the name “Penelope” freshly painted on the side of his ship and smiled, happy that her parents were so in love after all these years and yet confused about what was happening.

The ship appeared to be filled to the brim with people, and the closer Ruby came the more she could make out. Ribbons and fine cloths of gold were draped over the sides of the ship, sparkling in the light of the afternoon sun. “What is happening?”

Nobody seemed to wish to tell her, and when she looked back at the maids following behind, they all just smirked and shrugged, clearly in on the whatever was going on.

Even the gangway leading to the ship had gold cloth draped over its rails and when Ruby looked up as she slowly stepped, she saw Callum looking more handsome than ever, awaiting her at the top with a proud grin that made her melt all over and feel so weightless, she thought she might fly away.

“What is happening?” she asked as he took her hand and guided her onto the main deck, where floral arrangements decorated every corner and mast.

“We are getting married,” he responded just as her father stepped up in front of them and everyone gathered around.

“Here? On this ship?”

“Aye. On yer father’s ship, where he is captain. Ye ken a captain has the right to marry a couple aboard his ship.”

Ruby gasped and clutched her heart, looking at her father, certain more tears would stream down her face. “You are going to marry us, Papa?”

He nodded and puffed out his chest with pride and Ruby could not contain her surprise and elation. Flinging herself against her father, she hugged him fiercely, then did the same to Callum. “It is perfect. Absolutely wonderful. My dream.”

Callum chuckled and took her hand. “I assumed as much. I want today to be the very best day of yer life, Ruby. We only get to do this once in a lifetime, and I wish it to be all ye ever wanted.”

“Callum, you are all I ever want or need. But this… this is… ‘tis perfect. Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and they turned to her father, who began the ceremony, reading traditional vows and some she had never heard before, probably from the Scottish traditions. Looking at Callum, she said her vows and felt as if she were floating above herself on a cloud. Could she really be marrying this handsome earl by day, pirate by night, whose dark hair was slicked back into a perfect queue with skintight black breeches, a crisp white tunic, and a matching black surcoat, the Campbell plaid draped and pinned meticulously over his shoulder? He was a sight to behold and she felt herself blushing as she remembered the many nights they had stayed up late making love and exploring one another. He had taught her so many new ways to express herself and she looked forward to a lifetime of learning so much more.

Her father declared them married and named her the new Lady of Inveraray Castle and Countess of Argyll. Before Callum kissed her, Charles walked up, carrying a folded length of the Campbell green and blue plaid, handing it to Callum.

Turning toward Ruby, he smiled down at her and draped the plaid across her shoulders. The blue was the same color as her dress, the green slightly darker than his eyes. “Ye are now Ruby Campbell, a member of our fierce clan. Ye are a Scot now, lass!” Everyone cheered and hollered when he used a heart shaped pin with a crown atop to secure it, then bent her over without notice, kissing her until she was breathless.

“Ye are my wife now, lass. Any regrets?”

“Many. But none involving you,” she said with a giggle and kissed him again.

“Every moment of yer life led ye to the moment when we met, Ruby. Regret nothing. I love ye.”

“I love you, Callum Campbell.”

Her mother and father hugged her while Charles approached and thumped Callum on the back. “Ye done well, Cousin. She is bonnie, for an English lass,” he said with a smirk.

“Maybe if ye stop being an arse, ye will find yerself a bonnie lass to adore and stop looking at my wife, aye?”

Charles rubbed his chin in thought and looked at Ruby once more. “Nay. I cannae make that promise.” He smacked Callum on the back once more and hugged Ruby with affection. He was a flirtatious man, but he was harmless and always made her laugh.

Soon everyone departed the ship, but stayed close on the harbor, as if awaiting something. When Callum made no move to leave the ship, Ruby looked at him and raised a brow. “Well, what now? Are we not going to join our guests for a feast in the hall?”

“We can aye, if ye wish. But I had other plans…”

“Oh?” Ruby pursed her lips, wondering what else Callum could possibly have planned. Letting out a loud whistle, Callum turned her to look at the stairs leading down to the crew’s sleeping quarters, and all his men came running up, carrying jugs of ale and the same instruments they had played the day she danced with them.

When they all formed a circle around her and Callum, she laughed and clapped her hands together with excitement. “What is all this?”

“Wife, I took away yer joy on that night. Ye were right. I was jealous and angry because I kenned I loved ye and thought I couldnae have ye. But I should not have been an arse. Tonight, our ship sails away on a new adventure, and ye shall drink all the ale ye wish and dance until yer feet give out, and I shall dance with ye, if I may…” Bending at the waist, Callum put his hand out and she put hers in his, accepting his offer with a laugh as he spun her in a circle and his men began to play.

“Where are we off to, Callum?” she shouted over the music, spinning in her dress with her husband by her side and a crew full of merry pirates, just as she had always wished, yet never dared hope for.

“That is up to ye, lass. The choice, as always, is yers.”

When the music stopped, Callum put his hands up to silence his men. “Raise the anchor and ready the sails, lads! I wish to sail the high seas with my wife, the Siren of the Sea!” he shouted and his men whooped, making Ruby laugh with approval at the pirate name he had given her. As the ship began to leave the harbor, Ruby ran over to the railing and leaned over, waving farewell to the Campbell clan who gathered around, shouting their well wishes and waving in return.

“This is all a dream!” she shouted into the wind as her hair blew all around her.

“Nay, love. This is yer life now, our life. And where ye go, I will always follow.” Tilting her head back, Callum kissed her with a fierce passion, the way she supposed a pirate should kiss his woman, and she sighed with pure happiness in her heart.

Her life truly was a dream come true.

About Mia Pride

Mia is the author of historical romance with lots of heart and heat, residing in San Francisco. When Mia isn't writing books, she loves to drink coffee by the gallon, get lost in a good book, hike with her kids, and drink really big margaritas with her friends!

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Runaway Duke

by S. Cinders

A Dirty Bird Chronicles Novella

Prologue

St. George’s Cathedral

Juliana plucked at the fine lace trimming surrounding her bodice and wished for the hundredth time that this were her wedding and not of Lady Henrietta Warner. It wasn’t that she disliked Hetty, or even wished her ill will.

The sad truth of it was that Juliana was quite desperately in love with the idea of falling in love. She and her younger sister Lillian had been given a front row seat when her brother Phillip had taken the plunge.

Indeed, the sisters felt almost responsible for helping to nudge their brother into the blissful union he now resided in. It seemed that all of London was succumbing to the love bug as one after another of Phillip’s cronies had also found themselves in the Parson’s trap.

So, was it any wonder why Juliana fantasized about the time when she could be the one staring up into the face of some handsome gentleman?

“Stop pulling at your dress, Juliana, it’s unseemly.”

Juliana immediately put her hand down and fought the urge to make a face at her younger sister. Lillian used to be such fun, but it seemed lately she had turned into a downright prude.

“The lace itches,” Juliana complained to anyone that would listen.

“Shhh,” her mother admonished. “Look, they are getting ready to leave the church. Do stand up straight Juliana. Why can’t you just hold still like your sister?”

Juliana slouched her shoulders. It wasn’t that she meant to be difficult. It wasn’t that she didn’t adore Lillian. In truth, one could most likely surmise that she was bored. Whatever the reason, Juliana wasn’t paying any attention to when Lord Warner escorted his new bride toward the carriage.

“Put a smile on your face dear,” her mother advised through gritted teeth.

This was one thing that always amazed Juliana. How could her mother manage to chastise her and look like she was smiling all the while? It had to be a gift from the gods.

Lillian moved closer to where some of the other young ladies were standing, but Juliana hadn’t any desire to talk to anyone at the moment. She wanted out of her itchy dress and into an exciting life with handsome princes that would sweep one off their feet.

It was at that precise moment when she was struck with something—hard.

She distinctly remembered hearing a crunch and then feeling a thick warm liquid coming from her nose. Brushing the offending item from her face, Juliana watched in horror was blood dripped off her gloves.

Her vision began to blur, spots erupted in the strangest of places and Juliana suddenly felt like the world was tipping. If it hadn’t of been for a pair of strong arms wrapping around her, she would have likely landed in a heap onto the street.

The next thing she knew, Juliana was looking up into none other than the impossibly handsome American Duke. Oliver Stanford, eldest of the Stanford brothers, and the most sought after, had recently come into his inheritance.

Of course, Juliana had made a small play for him, batting her eyes, and giving him encouraging smiles. But she could have sworn the man wasn’t interested. It really didn’t add up that he would now be holding her in his arms.

This had to be some sort of dream. Because if the Duke would ever have deemed to touch her person it would be in kissing her hand or taking her into a waltz. Since they seemed to be in the street, they couldn’t be waltzing.

“You know, I like it better when you aren’t scowling,” Juliana said thickly. Her voice hardly sounded like her own.

“My child! How could such a wretched thing be happening?” her mother wailed.

“Are we dancing?” Juliana asked.

She wasn’t sure but for a moment there she wondered if his frown had morphed into a small smile. A reluctant one, perhaps, but she could have sworn it was indeed a smile. However, the frown was soon back as he peered down at her.

“She will need something to staunch the blood. Let’s get her back into the church.”

Blood.

It came back to her in a flash, the wedding, standing with her mother and Lillian, and being hit by something.

In shock she asked, “Did you hit me?”

The duke nearly tripped on his perfectly shined boots. “I beg your pardon?”

“Something hit me,” Juliana demanded.

“You are talking nonsensical, Juliana,” her mother’s tone was shrill as she cut in. “The Duke would never strike you. Oh, merciful heavens, do you think this could have altered her mind?”

Juliana could hear the true plea in her tone, ‘Do you think this could have altered her marriageability?’

It seemed that the duke couldn’t be through with her fast enough. When he finally set her down, he breathed a sigh of relief. Juliana knew she was on the slender side, so it wasn’t because her weight had been too much to bear. The humiliation of the entire affair took that very moment to impress upon her what an utter fool she must appear to be.

Trying to gain her bearings, Juliana looked around to see that they were in a pew near the back. To her surprise and utter delight, the duke tugged off his neck cloth and handed it to her. His neck was tanned and decidedly manly to her mind, and she loved seeing the small expanse of chest as well.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly as she took the neck cloth into her hands and felt the fine linen.

The faint smile was back along with an almost incredulous look.

He cleared his throat and then motioned for her to lift the cloth to her face. “It’s for your nose, you see, to stop the bleeding.”

Blushing furiously, Juliana did just as the duke had recommended. She couldn’t help but watch him. Having an older brother, Juliana had seen a naked neck before. But Phillip’s neck had never inspired such a thrill to erupt inside her belly.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said through the cloth. Her voice still sounded strange to her ears.

“You’ve likely broken it,” he said.

“What?” she asked, meeting his gaze. Juliana noted that his eyes were kind and held a hint of amusement in them.

“Your nose,” he motioned toward it again.

Juliana wanted to sink right through the floor. Her mother was carrying on something fierce beside her, but all Juliana had eyes and ears for was the duke.

“You will be alright,” he said kindly. “My brothers and I have broken our noses a half dozen times. If anything, you may have a slight bump when everything heals.”

“She’ll be disfigured?” Juliana’s mother wailed.

“Momma,” Juliana said in a stern voice, albeit still muffled from the neck cloth. “I am certain I will be fine. His Grace has said as much.”

He smiled at her then and Juliana quite forgot about her mother, the church, the flowers and certainly her bloody face.

This was the very look that she had been hoping for just minutes ago. Could the duke possibly have a tendre for her?

Excitement bubbled up inside of her.

He bent to lean in close and Juliana thought she might soon. His handsome face was coming nearer to her own and she fought to remember what to do. Was she supposed to close her eyes, purse her lips? Her heart was firing off madly as she saw the flecks of gold in his eyes.

Just as her lids began to fall the duke spoke, but it wasn’t quite the declaration of love that she had been anticipating.

“Keep pressure on your nose to stop the bleeding, and err, don’t worry about returning the neck cloth.”

And then he turned and walked away.

Chapter 1

Rye, East Sussex

Several Years Later

“I cannot begin to understand what has brought you into the country, Lady Juliana. But I am so very happy you are here. When I learned you were in the neighborhood, I immediately sent you an invitation to visit. As you can see, I am not able to leave the house. Now, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Lady Juliana Randall, the eldest daughter of the dowager Marchioness of Lancaster, thanked her hostess prettily and arranged her skirts as she took her seat. Juliana’s chestnut hair curled pleasingly around her heart-shaped face. Her hazel eyes that leaned more toward green when she was wearing the color, twinkled warmly at the other woman.

It had been something of a surprise when Juliana had opened the invitation from Miss Vivian Pressmiser. It had been several years since they had spent any time together. They knew each other through Vivian’s elder sister, Lucy. Juliana had met Vivian at a country house party some years back.

None of this showed when Juliana expressed her delight upon learning that Vivian was in the neighborhood.

“Thank you, Miss Pressmiser, I was delighted to hear from you.”

Vivian flushed a little. “Please, let us not stand on ceremony. Call me Vivian, if you will?”

Juliana nodded, while the request was a little strange considering their faint acquaintance. Juliana wasn’t so high in the instep as to turn down the girl’s act of friendship.

“I will certainly do so, Vivian, and you must call me Juliana. Indeed, I had no idea you would be in Sussex. It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. And my, how lovely you look. I do declare, the country agrees with you.”

Miss Vivian Pressmiser, with her blond hair and pale blue eyes, was the epitome of English beauty. It seemed to Juliana that it was a shame her family didn’t bring the girl out.

Juliana tried to remember what Vivian’s connections were. If she wasn’t mistaken, the girl hailed from Shropshire. Her family, while well born, was not of the upper crust of society. It seemed that her older sister and only sibling Lucy had caught the eye of a Baron some years ago.

“You are too kind not to bring attention to my little mishap,” Vivian said, flushing as she motioned to the dressing on her ankle. “I fear that I am not as agile as I once was.”

Juliana swallowed a laugh at the look on the other girl’s face. It was coming back to Juliana that she had enjoyed the other woman’s company.

“I would imagine that you are still far from your dotage,” Juliana replied.

Vivian finished preparing Juliana’s tea and passed it over as she replied, “Yes, well, it is only that one of the children from the vicarage got their kite stuck in my apple tree. I had a notion that I could just climb up there and get it out again. Like a fool, I did just that, and when I slipped and fell out of the tree, I injured my ankle.”

“You poor dear,” Juliana exclaimed. “Were you terribly hurt?”

Vivian shook her head. “Only my pride.”

Juliana’s eyes lit with amusement. “I have found that sometimes that ailment is the hardest to recover from.”

Vivian laughed, the sound was young and carefree, and yet her pallor spoke of ill health. Juliana wondered why the girl was residing in Sussex. Perhaps the girl was recovering from something. Not that it was any of her business. Juliana had her reasons for being there, perhaps Vivian did as well.

“I have to admit that I felt some reservations upon asking you to come. I am sure you are wondering why I imposed on our faint acquaintance. To be sure, I can hardly believe that I dared to write. It is only that you were so kind to me all of those years ago.”

Juliana flushed, knowing that the girl wasn’t far from the truth. However, Juliana felt a surge of affection for the pretty girl and her honest demeanor. While younger than Juliana own six and twenty, Vivian had to be twenty-three years, perhaps twenty-four. It struck Juliana that she wanted to know what Vivian had been up to.

“Nonsense, I was thrilled to know that you were in the neighborhood. Please, tell me of your family.”

Vivian positively lit up when talking about her niece and nephew. It seemed that she was still very close with her sister Lucy. But Juliana was shocked to hear that they hadn’t seen each other in ages. At least they had the ability to trade frequent correspondence.

Juliana felt a pang of jealousy. Her own sister Lilian had been her best friend and constant companion in life up until the point where Ryan Stanford from the colonies showed up and swept her off her feet. The entire Stanford family seemed to have disrupted her well-ordered life.

After a rather rushed marriage, Lilian had boarded a boat for America. It couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. While the war with the colonies was over, it still terrified Juliana to even think of Lillian in such a violent place. It was perhaps twice a year that a missive was able to make the journey and actually get to Juliana. She always waited in fear that Lillian’s next letter would be her last.

“I do apologize, I have simply gone on and on. Here let me refresh your cup,” Vivian said taking Juliana’s empty teacup and refilling it. “Now, enough about me. I have to admit that I feel you will quite outshine me at the country assemblies now that you have arrived in town.”

Juliana had no desire to dance at any assemblies, in Sussex or in London. But she smiled and did the pretty, “You are too kind. Can I expect to find you here for a long stay?”

Vivian evaded Juliana’s gaze and fumbled with her handkerchief.

Juliana had merely wished to take the attention off herself. She had no desire to embarrass the other woman. She opened her mouth to apologize but Vivian waved her off.

“Yes, well you see, I reside here now. I have set up house and am quite happy here. We are but two miles from the sea. When I am out in the garden, I can smell the salt in the air. I know what you must be thinking.”

Juliana would be astounded to hear that, seeing as how she hardly knew what she was thinking. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t,” Vivian assured her. “It was me who imposed upon our short acquaintance. I had such a brilliant plan. But now that I have you here, I find that I am worried about sharing it with you.”

A sense of uneasiness came over Juliana. “What type of plan?”

“I wanted to sail for America.”

Chapter 2

Juliana’s eyes widened. “I have heard the voyage is horrible. Besides the fact that it hasn’t been that long ago that we were at war with them. Vivian, I fear it is far too dangerous.”

Vivian set her jaw. “I don’t care about the danger. There are things… situations that need to be resolved.”

“Can you send your solicitor? Surely your man of business can take care of what you need?”

“This is something of a personal matter,” Vivian said tightly, wringing her hands.

Juliana could hardly fathom what could be so important that one would sail directly into danger. It was true that she had thought about sailing to her sister. Her mind chastised her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the danger. Juliana was more afraid that she wouldn’t be welcomed there. Lilian was head over heels for her husband, Ryan, and that was as it should be.

But in her heart, Juliana had felt somewhat betrayed. Whilst growing up, Lillian and Juliana’s mother had suffered a severe case of the dismals. It was almost as if she had withdrawn from life completely. Their father was a philanderer, and their elder brother left them behind. Juliana didn’t blame any of them for how they handled a difficult situation. She had simply known that it was her responsibility to make sure that Lillian had a happy childhood.

Perhaps that is why it was so hard when Lillian married and went away. Was this what mother’s felt like when their children left the nest?

“I see,” Juliana replied, even though she didn’t know the particulars. Juliana knew that sometimes, one simply had to do certain things. It may not make sense to anyone else, but one must be true to their heart. Kindly she added, “What will you do?”

“I was hoping to send someone that could take my message for me.” Juliana swallowed before continuing. “I have saved a fair amount. I can send them in style.”

Juliana nodded. “I can see how that could work. Who are you going to send if you can’t trust this matter with your man of business?”

Vivian bit her bottom lip and looked hesitant. “I was hoping you would go.”

Juliana balked. Looking at her with a horrified expression she blurted out, “Me? Surely you are jesting.”

Vivian shook her head. “I knew when I hear that you had come into the neighborhood that this was the answer to my prayers. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“Vivian, you can’t be serious. I don’t even travel to the country well, let alone cross the ocean. I am unmarried, unfamiliar with the circumstances, and completely unsuited for the task at hand. Truly, what could you have been thinking? Why me?”

Vivian seemed to deflate a little. “It’s a terrible breach of manners and I know it. Truly, I can’t even begin to surmise what you must think of me. You must know that I am desperate. I wouldn’t have come to you otherwise.”

“But Vivian, what about your sister, Lucy? Surely she would be willing to help out.”

Vivian’s lip trembled. “No, I cannot involve my sister. This is something that I have worked hard to keep away from my family.”

Juliana was beginning to get intrigued. She honestly couldn’t help herself. What could be so important that Vivian would approach a near stranger and ask such a favor?

“Perhaps you could tell me what you require,” Juliana asked.

Vivian nodded and began to explain, “I was hoping that you would go to America under the guise of visiting your sister. Once you were there, I have a letter that must be delivered. If that fails, I would want you to tell the individual yourself. I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try. I am sorry, Lady Juliana. I should never have bothered you.”

Juliana felt sorry for the girl. It was clear that despite the incredulous task, she truly was upset. “Can you explain it to me further? Please help me to understand.”

Vivian’s eyes glittered with tears, but she didn’t let them fall. Reaching over, she pulled the bell. When the servant arrived, Vivian asked that Amelia join them.

“I can show you,” Vivian said softly.

A maid entered moments later with a lovely child with blond ringlets and chubby pink cheeks. The moment the child saw Vivian, she reached out her arms, calling, “Mama! Mama!”

Vivian took the child from the maid’s arms. With all the love of an adoring mother, she cuddled her close and blew kisses into her neck until the child squealed with delight. Then with a bravery that Juliana admired, Vivian turned to her and introduced her daughter.

It was obvious that the child couldn’t be more than two or three. Juliana scrambled to do the math. Had this child been the result of the country house party they had attended together?

“I am sure you are connecting the dots but let me give you a full explanation.”

Juliana shook her head. “No, Vivian, you don’t owe me any explanation.”

She smiled sadly. “There is more that I haven’t told you.”

It was then that she started to cough; the sound was horrible. The maid came and took Amelia out of her mother’s arms. When Vivian pressed the handkerchief to her lips, it came away with specks of blood.

“Consumption,” Juliana guessed in a whisper.

Vivian nodded once. “You see, I don’t know how many years or even months I have left. My sister doesn’t know about the child or my illness. I have no wish to spread shame upon her good name. I go by the name of Mrs. Crowley here.”

Juliana impulsively reached her hand out and clasped the younger woman’s in her own. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I can’t ask it of you. It was insanity for me to even approach you with such a task.”

“I don’t know if I can accomplish it if you don’t tell me what it is you would have me do. Please, Vivian, tell me.”

She looked up, the tear that had been threatening to fall finally dropped. “The father of my child left a year and a half ago to visit his brother in America. Nobody will suspect if you go to your sister. It’s there that you will find him.”

Juliana frowned, the wheel’s churning. “Are you speaking of Ian Stanford?”

Vivian nodded again.

The Duke of Bilkmore had four younger brothers. His twin Ryan had married Juliana’s sister Lilian. Next in line was Jacob, then Ian, and last was James.

“And there was no official marriage?” Juliana hated herself for asking, but it was important to know.

Vivian closed her eyes as if it pained her to admit the truth. “No.”

“Tell merciful heavens,” Juliana shook her head in unbelief. “He left you with child?”

Vivian’s eyes snapped open. “Ian doesn’t know about Amelia. You are the first person I have shared this with. I would rather he never know. If I had my way, I would raise Amelia here. She could marry a local boy from the village and never be touched by the harshness of illegitimacy. But it seems that God has another plan for me.”

Another round of coughing left Vivian looking quite pale.

Juliana felt sick inside. Regardless of her feelings, it was clear that Vivian was desperate. If Juliana were in her shoes what would she have done? Who could she have trusted?

“I will help you,” Juliana blurted out. “Heaven help us both. But Vivian, what if something happens to you before I am able to get back?”

Vivian’s tears began to fall once again. “That is why I must ask of you to take her with you.”

Chapter 3

“Juliana, this is the most ill-conceived notion you have ever come up with, and that’s saying something!”

Juliana scowled at her elder brother, Lord Phillip Randall, Marquess of Lancaster. “I don’t remember asking for your advice or opinion on the matter.”

Randall ran a hand through his hair and began again. “I am trying to be understanding. I know that things haven’t always been easy for you.”

Juliana snorted. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I know that I wasn’t always there,” he broke off, shaking his head. “I just worry that you are trying to help the child out of some misguided sense of honor.”

Juliana gaped at her brother. When she had returned from Sussex several months ago with a child in tow, her family had thought she’d gone ‘round the bend. It hadn’t even been a month later, while Juliana was in the midst of preparations for her trip, that she received word that Vivian had passed peacefully in the night.

Vivian had passed guardianship of Amelia to Juliana. It hadn’t been hard to love the child. Juliana was half in love with her before she ever left Vivian’s small home. Juliana didn’t know how much of her mother Amelia would remember, but she would do her best to keep Vivian’s spirit alive.

“Misguided sense of honor?” Juliana repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe if I hadn’t of abandoned you both when you were children… I don’t know. Mother was so sad all the time and I felt... Dash it all, it doesn’t matter how I felt. I know my selfishness meant that by leaving, I left you to carry the burden.”

Juliana sighed, her anger fading away. “We weren’t babies, Phillip. Lillian and I were managed to muddle along terribly well. While we missed you horribly, you weren’t responsible for our care. You are our brother, not our father.”

“I should have done more,” he said gruffly. “First Lilian marries that American and takes off for the colonies and now you are following her. I don’t like it.”

It dawned on Juliana that her bother was worried about her. The sudden understanding made her heart squeeze in her chest. She placed a gloved hand on his.

“I will come back, I promise. I don’t plan on living there.”

It seemed to Juliana that Randall let out a sigh of relief. He had thought she was abandoning him. Even after all of these years, each of them still held the scars of their youth.

Randall cleared his throat. “Be sure that you do.”

“Thank you for taking charge of Amelia while I am gone. Hopefully I will be able to reach her father, but if I don’t…”

Juliana broke off trying to arrange her thoughts. She hadn’t told anyone who Amelia’s true parents were. While she trusted her brother, Juliana felt like this wasn’t her secret to tell.

Randall patted her hand with his other one. “You don’t need to worry about it. We will love her like our own. She is already becoming the bossiest puss in the nursery. I have a feeling that Eden is so in love with her that she will soon want another one. I suppose I will have you to thank.”

Juliana laughed. “Well, then, you are very welcome. I adore each and every one of them.”

“When does your ship sail?” Randall asked for what had to be the twentieth time.

“In two days,” she answered just as she had all of the time before. “I am taking the coach tomorrow and will stay at the Inn we discussed. I will be careful.”

“And your maid will be with you the entire time? I would rather it be a footman,” he grumbled.

Juliana sighed. “I have no wish to bring half the staff with me. Connie will be all the assistance I need.”

Randall nodded. “I could go along, you know. Eden would more than understand, she adores you, Juliana, we both do.”

Juliana felt a surge of affection for her older brother. Randall was a reformed rake in every sense of the word. He was quick to smile and faster to defend those he loved. He had a temper that was short but explosive, however, it rarely showed itself unless truly provoked.

One of the things that Randall did best was always remembered the special days like birthdays and holidays. Juliana couldn’t think of a better brother in all of England.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said gently. “But this is something I must do on my own.”

He grunted something about stubborn women. Juliana decided that was his agreement to her plan.

“You have ticket’s on The Corrianne?” he asked.

“Randall, you have asked me this a dozen times. Yes, that is the ship I have booked. Why is it so important that I go on that particular ship?”

Randall hedged. “It’s the fastest ship, everyone says as much.”

Juliana wasn’t buying it. “Tell me the truth, Randall!”

He blew out a breath of frustration. “I know the man who owns it. The Capitan’s been charged to look after you. Now, don’t go flying up in anger! I wanted to protect you in any way I can. I needed to. Please, Jules, don’t argue for once in your blasted life.”

The use of her nickname caused Juliana’s ire to fade as quickly as his high handedness had caused it to flare. Randall hadn’t called her Jules in years. She knew that he cared about her, was worried about her.

“You’re right,” she said. “It will be good to have someone watching over. Thank you, that means a lot to me.”

Randall, who was expecting another fight, blinked a little before saying, “Well then. It’s all settled.”

That night, when all the trunks were packed, Juliana felt a surge of excitement for the trip. The few letters she had received from Lillian painted a very different picture of America than what was in Juliana’s mind. Perhaps she would enjoy seeing the sights. What she really wanted to do was see Lillian again. She needed to see that Lillian was indeed happy with Ryan Stanford.

When she got her hands-on Ian Stanford, she intended to wring his neck. How he could have served Vivian such a dastardly trick, Juliana could never know. It pained her that this man was Amelia’s father. When the time came, would she really be able to hand the child over?

A part of her recalled that Ian didn’t know that Amelia existed. But hadn’t he lain with Vivian? Shouldn’t he have made sure that a child wasn’t formed from their union?

Juliana didn’t know everything about the marriage bed. But she knew a fair amount. Not only had she and Lillian snatched up a naughty book and poured over every page, but Juliana had read several naughty poems. Her favorite being one of Sappho of Lesbo’s titled An Ode to Aphrodite.

While she had never felt what it was to lay with a man. She did know her own body, and she certainly knew when her menses were coming on. Juliana couldn’t have imagined the fear that Vivian must have felt knowing that she was going to be an unwed mother.

She couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been to seclude herself so far away from everyone she had ever known. How brave she must have been to take on an assumed name and try to make the best life for her baby.

No, Juliana couldn’t fathom it. But she would make sure that Ian knew everything Vivian had went through. She only hoped to do Vivian’s memory justice.

Chapter 4

Oliver Reginald Stanford, Duke of Bilkshore, reread the missive in his hands before crumpling it and tossing it into the fire.

So, it would seem that his life would once again be disrupted by the lovely Lady Juliana Randall. He couldn’t stop his mind from filtering back to the first moment he had held the woman in his arms. It was at one society dance or another, that part faded in his memory.

But the ivory dress, with the pale pink flower embroidery along the bodice, was as clear as if it were yesterday. She had floated in his arms, her body fitting against him as if she were made to be there. Her laughing eyes were shyly peering up at him through dark lashes. Even now, all of these years later, Oliver felt a stirring deep inside. The woman was lovely, daughter of a Marquess and utterly perfect for him in every way.

Like a fool, Oliver had gone and run away from the best thing that had ever happened to him. Having newly just inherited the dukedom, Oliver felt like a sore thumb in English society. He was used to the way things were done in America. When he was informed of the inheritance, he nearly refused it.

It was his twin brother, Ryan, who had talked him into giving this life a chance. Well, it had been a maelstrom of problems learning how to manage all of the properties and sitting in the House of Lords. To his credit, Oliver knew he had impressed even the starchiest of tabbies with his manners and goodwill.

So why on earth had he gone and made a fool out of himself with the Randall girl?

A stark answer came back to him, one that didn’t make him feel very good about himself. Oliver had been afraid. Oh, not of Juliana, no, it had been even worse. Oliver was afraid of how he felt when he was around her. There was nothing of the upright, almost frigid Duke he had created for himself when Juliana was about.

The woman was a force to be reckoned with. He found himself wanting to sweep her off her feet and carry the chit to the nearest cave. Not that there were many caves in the drawing rooms of Mayfair.

He must have given the girl a disgust for himself. Because as quickly as she had seemed to have a slight tendre for him, it had turned to polite indifference. Oliver had cursed himself because he knew that he was the only one to blame for the situation they were in.

Years had passed, and the lovely lady hadn’t married any of the swains that had darkened her door. Oliver had held out hope that perhaps he had a chance. But he hadn’t the first clue about how to take it. Why was it that he could act the part around the bloody monarchy, but he couldn’t be anything but a bumbling fool in front of this one small girl?

Oliver had tried to look about for a wife that wouldn’t cause his mind to fall to mush or cause his heart to try and escape its cage. But it was no use. There wasn’t anyone that he wished to see across the breakfast table. Well, there was one, green-eyed vixen with chestnut brown hair. But he had told himself she would never want the likes of him.

Where most women in the Ton fell all over themselves just to have him glance their way. Lady Juliana acted like he didn’t exist. Oliver knew that it was a stroke of luck that the Marquess had deigned to write to him about her voyage.

The stars had to be in alignment for Oliver to be there right when the note was delivered. He had immediately sent his man to pack. Within the hour they were riding hell for leather for the coast.

One day he would thank Randall for tipping him off as to Lady Juliana’s trip to sail to America. It didn’t matter to Oliver that Randall was merely asking if Oliver would instruct the Captain of The Corrianne to take special care of Juliana. It wasn’t a secret that the Stanford brothers were unfashionable to dabble in trade. In truth, they had been wealthy merchants in America before the inheritance had brought them to England.

Oliver didn’t have anything to do with the family businesses these days, but his name still carried clout when it came to those that worked for the Stanford family. Oliver had thrown caution to the wind and for once in his life decided to follow his heart. Oliver left a note to his brother Jacob of his plans and left.

In doing so, that is what brought him from London to the docks of Dover, striding up the gangplank on The Corrianne.

“Sir, sir!” the young boy tried to get his attention as Oliver strode purposefully on board.

“I say! You aren’t supposed to be here,” said another sailor from the rigging. “Jimmie, go get the Captain.”

The boy scurried off, climbing the ladder that led below decks.

Oliver stopped by the railing to take a moment to look out across the vast ocean. He had rather enjoyed their trip over, but some of his brothers hadn’t fared so well. Oliver had always fancied himself a bit of a sailor. While he hadn’t ever captained a boat this size, he had some experience with smaller schooners.

“Milord, I am afraid…” The man trailed off when Oliver turned to greet him. “Bless my soul! If it isn’t His Grace, I hadn’t heard you would be joining us. I am honored!”

Oliver gave the man a faint nod of acceptance. The Captain, Abraham Pincher, was as honest as they came. He had been a new Captain when they hired him some fifteen years ago. As the man had aged, he seemed to really excel at his post.

“I understand that you have a woman aboard?” Oliver asked in a haughty tone.

The Captain frowned, his brows coming together. “I don’t know how that could have reached you.”

Oliver was aware that Randall had asked the crew to be discrete. In Oliver’s eyes it did the man credit that he didn’t blurt out her identity the moment someone had asked him.

Oliver relaxed his stance a little. “Her brother, the Marquess, wrote to me. Randall wanted to be sure that the Lady be protected from any harm during her voyage.”

The Captain nodded. “Aye, that is the case. Did you not trust me to care for the lass?”

Oliver shook his head, hands coming up as if to soothe the man. “No, that isn’t the case at all. This is more of a personal favor. I should like to see her. Where do you have the Lady and her maid?”

The Captain motioned to the stairs. “They be in the Captain’s Quarter’s with two guards at the door.”

Oliver smiled. “Well done, Pincher. I can see you have this well in hand.”

Chapter 5

“I’ll not be staying another minute,” the maid wailed as her stomach roiled from the light waves. “I can’t be staying on this ship, Milady, I just can’t.”

She was looking rather green, Juliana thought with a frown. But it didn’t matter if the girl was shooting the cat or not, if word got back to Randall that Juliana sailed without a maid, there would be the devil to pay.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of her brother. Juliana knew him to be a caring individual despite the bluster he could occasionally show. She just avoided conflict if she could, that was the type of person she was. Besides, surely the woman wasn’t as sick as all that.

Another retch had Juliana’s conscience tingling. In order to evade her attack of conscience, Juliana encouraged brightly, “Come now, we haven’t even left the port. Let’s just have you lay down for a while to see if it will pass.”

In response, the girl clenched her stomach and vomited for the third time. Juliana felt her heart sink. This was no way to spend the next six to eight weeks. The girl would likely be dead by the time they arrived.

Just as she was about to exonerate the maid, there was a knock on the door.

Juliana stood and walked over to the thick wooden door. Without another thought, she opened it. But when she saw just who was standing on the other side, she slammed it back closed again.

“Milady,” the maid asked weakly from her perch over the chamber pot.

“It’s nothing, Connie,” Juliana said dismissively.

It was likely a combination of too many restless nights and excitement for the trip.

Another knock came at the door.

Juliana wanted to plug her ears like a child and will the man to stop knocking. For she knew that no matter what excuse she managed to give, the man standing outside her door wasn’t going to go away easily.

“Juliana, open the door!”

The demand came through the closed door, and while muffled, it was certainly easy to pick out the anger in his tones.

“How dare he use my first name,” Juliana said more to herself than anyone else. She could hardly believe that the Duke of Bilkshore was actually standing on the other side of the door.

Another knock, or perhaps it would be fair to say another pounding, caused Juliana to once again place her hand on the knob and turn.

Just as she had suspected, she hadn’t been dreaming.

Drat.

“Your Grace,” Juliana said with a deferential bow that could rival any courtier at the palace. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

His lips twitched a little, despite the stormy sea that was blazing from his eyes. “Are you going to explain why you just slammed the door in my face?”

Juliana gave him what she hoped was a blank look. “Whatever do you mean?”

The maid went and spoiled it all when she said, “Milady, are you ill as well. You just opened the door to His Grace not more than two minutes ago.”

The Duke raised a brow. When his nose wrinkled in disgust, Juliana nearly smiled.

“Are you ill?” he asked shortly.

It bothered Juliana that the man could be so cold when inquiring about her, even if it were her health.

“I am perfectly alright, as you can see. I would invite you inside, but as you can see, this is my bedchamber for the voyage and therefore not suitable for entertaining. Now, as my maid is ill and needs my attention, I must bid you ado.”

The Duke ignored Juliana and pushed past her into the room. Walking directly to where the maid was bent over the chamber pot, he inquired gently, “Do you wish to make this voyage?”

Juliana could scarcely believe her eyes when her maid promptly burst into tears.

“I can’t do it, Your Grace. I will die, I will. I wasn’t meant to go across the sea. Please don’t make me go.”

“You won’t have to make the voyage. Give me a moment and I will have my man make arrangements to send you back to Lord Randall.”

The maid threw herself onto her knees to beg the Duke her forgiveness. Juliana had half a mind to tell the girl that her theatrics would be better served at Drury Lane. Whatever was she supposed to do now that her chaperon was literally abandoning ship?

She watched silently as the Duke did as he promised. It wasn’t more than a quarter of an hour later that the maid was handed off to one of the Duke’s servants. When he left to ensure that someone would be sent to clean up the remnants of the maid’s illness, Juliana began to pace the floor.

When the door opened next, a cabin boy came and took the offending chamber pot. As he scurried out, the Duke came back inside and closed the door. This time, they were alone.

“Why are you here?” Juliana asked in tight tones, not caring that she had disregarded his honorific. It was bad enough that of all people in the world, this man had to be on the same ship that she was.

“I could ask the very same of you,” he replied languidly.

“My plans are not your concern, Your Grace,” she replied frostily.

“Call me Oliver, Bilkshore if you must, but this will be a long trip if you are forever Your Gracing me.”

“You, you…” Juliana sputtered. Finally gathering her wits, she blurted out, “You can’t come.”

Rather than be annoyed, the man actually laughed at her.

“You may find this hard to believe, Juliana. But I am a grown man who can make his own decisions. What’s more, the boat we are currently residing in, happens to belong to me.”

Juliana felt like her blood was going to boil. How could her own brother have done this to her? What a dirty rotten trick to have played on her? Frustration stiffened her spine. She was clearly stuck between a rock and a hard spot.

“Fine,” she said at last. “If you insist on sailing to America, by all means, be my guest.”

Oliver’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Why thank you. Indeed, I shall make myself at home.”

When he went to sit down at the only chair in the cabin, Juliana balked, saying, “Not in here! You can’t stay here!”

Oliver gave her a bland look. “Why ever not?”

“I can think of nearly a dozen reasons off the top of my head,” she espoused.

He seemed to take that into consideration before answering, “You always were very clever. Now, let me explain a few things to you. First, you are on a ship with at least a dozen or so men. They may have been able to come aboard for some ‘company’ whist in England. But it will be many weeks until we land again in America. By that time, every one of them will be itching to cozy up with a pretty young thing like yourself.”

“I am six and twenty, that is hardly considered a young woman,” Juliana said with a flush.

His eyes were smiling again. “That is your only concern. That they won’t think you are young or attractive enough? Juliana, let me just assure you that your dear Lady Genevieve, who must be in her eightieth year, would likely appeal to them after six weeks of abstinence.

Juliana sank onto the berth where she was to sleep. Hardly recognizing the fact that she, a lady of quality, was sitting on a bed with a man in her room.

She looked up at him with trepidation when she asked, “What’s number two?”

Chapter 6

Oliver prayed that he wasn’t laying it on a little too thick. The last thing he wanted was to Juliana to turn tail and try and swim back for England. Despite the fact that they had just set sail when the maid was returned to shore, Oliver had a notion that Juliana could easily swim the distance.

He liked that she was that sort of woman. Not only was she lovely in every sense of the word, Oliver knew her to be capable of all sorts of escapades. While they had been at his summer home, Chatterling, she and her friend Samantha had somehow managed to tangle themselves up with the war office.

It was unfathomable how the woman attracted trouble. And yet here she was, alone on a boat sailing for America, and she still looked like a bloody queen. He wondered if she knew how lovely she was with her green eyes blazing and her delicate shoulders thrust back as if anticipating war.

What was it she had just asked him?

“I beg your pardon?” he inquired. Not bothering to tell Juliana that it was her beauty that distracted him.

She made an impatient gesture with her hands. “You said that first the men would be looking for, erm, company. What was the second problem with me being here?”

He hadn’t really thought much beyond the first reason. But surely, he could come up with something?

“I should think that the first reason would be enough to satisfy you.” Oliver said stiffly.

Juliana rolled her eyes. It was such a feminine gesture of irritation that Oliver was momentarily transfixed by it. He nearly missed her next words.

“I had already hired two guards to watch the cabin, Your Grace.”

“Oliver,” he interrupted.

Juliana blushed. “It isn’t seemly to call someone their first name unless they are more intimately acquainted.”

Oliver swallowed a smile. “Indeed? Well, then. You know that I am just an American that is trying to learn my way. Perhaps you can show me a spot of leniency.”

“You have lived in London for nearly ten years now. I doubt there is anything you lack when it comes to social graces.”

He fought to keep the timber out of his voice as he said, “Perhaps then we should just skip to the part where we become more intimately acquainted?”

“Sir!” she gasped, clutching her throat in maidenly horror.

Oliver clapped and whistled. “Oh, bravo! Well done. Who were you channeling?”

Juliana scowled fiercely at him. “It’s time that you vacate my room.”

He felt a slow smile spread across his face. For a moment he considered something devilish. It wasn’t that another room couldn’t be arranged for him. He was the owner of the ship after all, even if indirectly through his family.

The thought blossomed into an idea. Oliver stared down at the lovely woman with her hands on her hips and her small heaving bosom. It struck him once again how many times he had failed at winning her favor. The ball where he avoided her altogether, well, those embarrassing moments Oliver never wished to dredge up again.

No, he wanted a failsafe. It was clear to him by the pounding in his heart, the racing in his veins and the throbbing of his groin, that this was the girl for him. Now she wanted to throw him out of her cabin and likely her life.

He cleared his throat. “You see, Juliana, you can’t cross the ocean on a ship full of men. Even now your reputation is hanging by a thread. Once word gets out, well, there will be no saving you.”

He felt a twinge of guilt when her face paled.

“I will have to find another maid to accompany me,” she said distractedly. “Hurry, I need to speak with the Captain. Someone needs to go ashore.”

Oliver refused to let the triumph show when he shook his head sadly and replied, “We’ve already set sail. I am sorry. I thought you knew. We barely were able to get your maid back to the mainland.”

Juliana slumped. “What?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“All is not lost,” he quickly added. “Don’t distress yourself so.”

She looked up at him with tears shimmering her in large green eyes. Oliver felt like he had been punched in the gut. It was obvious that she truly was distressed.

“What can I do?”

Oliver went to where she sat, dejected on her berth. He sank to his knees in front of her and took her hands in his own. “Please don’t look so sad,” he implored.

“I’ve gone and ruined everything.” She said, her voice trembling. “Phillip told me to bring a footman as well, but I refused. Now I will be ruined, my family will be shamed, and Amelia. Dear heavens, whatever will I do about Amelia?”

“Who is Amelia?” Oliver asked in confusion.

Juliana bit her lip. It was clear that she hadn’t meant to share that last part. Hearing this only made him want to delve deeper.

“That isn’t of any import,” she said hurriedly, wiping her eyes.

Oliver tried his best to remember anyone named Amelia in the ton. It wasn’t that he knew every chit at Almack’s, but he certainly felt like he had danced with a fair number of ladies. None of them had been named Amelia.

A ruddy flush stained his cheeks. Oliver wouldn’t have known one way or another what half of their names were. He found that speaking to the girls encouraged conversation. The only woman he had ever wished to converse with was sitting on the bunk in front of him.

“Juliana, there is another way we could save your reputation,” he said slowly as to not frighten her.

She sniffled. “What is it?”

“It’s quite commonplace for a man and a woman to travel together as husband and wife.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it is. What does that have to do with…”

He waited for it to sink in. When it did, she lifted her incredulous eyes to his.

“Are you insane? People will think that I am—dear merciful heavens. We won’t be back for months.”

“Precisely,” Oliver said with a nod. “People will think that we’ve run away together and eloped.”

She barked out a bit of hysterical laughter. “They will call you the Runaway Duke and I shall be the Desperate Spinster. No, there has to be another way. There simply has to.”

Oliver, not wanting to force his hand, decided that it was now time to back off and let her stew on the idea. “There isn’t a man alive that can look at you and think you’re a desperate spinster. That I can promise you. Now, we don’t need to make a decision today. Why don’t I ask my man to prepare us some food?”

Juliana rubbed her stomach, “It does seem ages ago since I have eaten.”

“Perfect, it will be no trouble at all,” he replied.

Opening the cabin door, Oliver called on his servant Porter to go and prepare them food. He also asked that a hammock be rustled up somewhere. Oliver wouldn’t force Juliana to allow him in her bed. But he had no issues forcing his way into her cabin.

Chapter 7

As Juliana used the heel of her bread to mop up the last of the gravy, she almost wished that she had an additional plate full. The meal had been excellent. Oliver has said that things like flour and vegetables would be the first to run out. Meats were cured and dried, but there would come a time when fish would be their primary food source.

Juliana had heard stories about the lack of fresh fruits and vegetables on-board a ship. There were stories about the mice and vermin that plagued the ships as well. That was the last thing that Juliana wanted to deal with.

However, so far, things weren’t so very bad. The only complaint she had was how small everything was. The Captain’s chambers were well appointed, but everything was bolted down and the entire cabin could have fit inside her dressing room at home.

Oliver was speaking to his man when Juliana leaned in just to watch his expressions. She was embarrassed enough to try and not hang on his every word. It was only that he was so very appealing. If he weren’t so blasted handsome, perhaps she could think properly.

And then there was that proposal.

Juliana was still reeling from the audacity of the man. It had been bad enough that the man felt like he had to propose to her. She knew he didn’t want to. It shamed her to think that the girl she was several years ago would have leapt at the chance, even knowing that he didn’t care for her as a husband cares for a wife. A memory came flashing through her mind. They had been at the wedding of Lady Henrietta and Lord Warner. Everyone was laughing and talking as they were waiting for the wedding coach to depart.

At the last moment, Hetty had tossed the bouquet out the window at the crowd. Juliana hadn’t seen it coming. One moment she was talking to her mother the next moment she was choking on flowers and feeling a warm gushing from her nose.

The moment Juliana saw blood, she had become dizzy. Before she could make a bigger fool of herself and render herself unconscious in the dirt, a strong arm had come around her shoulders and under her knees. She was scooped into someone’s arms and swept back inside of the church until her mother could tend to her.

When she looked up and saw that Oliver had been the one to save her, Juliana had found herself tumbling headlong into puppy love. The only problem was the Oliver didn’t want anything to do with her or her loving gestures.

Juliana’s face felt like it was on fire. She had completely humiliated herself in front of this man. An image of her standing on the edge of the ballroom floor waving her handkerchief at him caused Juliana to want to find a giant hole and jump inside.

Oliver likely thought that she was behind Phillip’s involvement in making sure they were both on this boat. The feeling was lowering.

“Are you alright?”

Juliana glanced up to see that Oliver was staring down at her with a concerned look on his face. It was almost as if he really cared about her.

She nodded her head and made up an excuse. “I am just tired.”

The rest of her sentence was cut off when two sailors came in and began to hang something that looked a bit like a banana.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A hammock,” Oliver answered. “One sleeps in it aboard ship.”

“I am not sleeping in that,” Juliana replied. Then it dawned on her. “You’re not sleeping there. Tell me that isn’t your plan.”

Oliver gave her an innocent look. “If you would rather, I share the bed with you.”

Juliana blinked. Had she heard him wrong? Heat pooled low in her belly as she pictured laying with Oliver on that small bunk. She couldn’t see how they could fit side by side. Tilting her head to the side, she imagined them pressed together.

“No! That will be quite alright. You are welcome to sleep in the hammock, or another cabin. That’s what sounds best to me, but obviously you aren’t asking my opinion.”

Aware that she was babbling, Juliana shut her mouth and walked over to her trunk. Flipping up the lid she gathered her needle point and then returned to the single chair, next to the small table.

The room had one wall that was paneling on the bottom half and three rows of bookshelves on the top. Juliana had noticed when she arrived that the shelves had a lip on them, presumably to keep the books inside if a storm kicked up. In an effort to keep her mind off the tall, handsome Duke who had invaded her space. Juliana began to look at the titles.

At first it seemed that most of the books were the Captain’s Logs. Moving up a row, she saw that there was a full set of Shakespeare’s works along with some other classics. The top row was filled with navigation books, sea wayfaring manuals, and then a few non-descriptive ones in the top corner.

With a sigh, Juliana realized that this was likely what she would be doing day in and day out for the next few months. It didn’t help that she happened to look over at that particular moment to see Oliver wink at her.

She hated the blush that stained her cheeks almost as much as the fire that lit inside her soul.

She wouldn’t fall for him again. No, she couldn’t do that, no matter what deals her brother… A strange sense of horror and panic gripped her. For a brief moment she wondered if Randall hadn’t paid the man to marry her. It wasn’t like her brother wasn’t always lamenting that Juliana wasn’t married.

Dear merciful heavens, Juliana prayed, please don’t let that be the case. But how was she to know for sure? As much as she loved Randall, he was still an unpredictable man—a beast of the worst kind.

The last thing Juliana every wanted to be a charity case. The humiliation of it nearly had her catching her breath.

“I think that will be all, men,” Oliver spoke from behind her. “I shall not need assistance for the rest of the night.”

As the men filed out, so did Juliana’s dreams of the Duke leaving the room for the night. Hurriedly she turned and asked, “Will you need to be getting ready then? I will just step outside.

Flying to her feet, Juliana made to press past Oliver. But he readily caught her by the arms. Instead of facing the door, she was turned to face a snowy white cravat underneath an embroidered waistcoat, a fine lawn shirt, starched breeches and some of the shiniest boots imaginable.

“You’re staring,” he said softly.

From their close proximity, Juliana could feel the vibrations of his voice. All she had to do was lean in and their bodies would touch. Not that Juliana could ever do something so forward. Because despite the fact that she was attracted to the man. Juliana was first and foremost a lady.

The boat tipped of its own accord, pushing her up against his hard marble-like chest. They both drew in a harsh breath as Juliana placed her hands on his shoulders. She knew that she should push away. But for some reason her sense of reality and sensibility had been left on the mainland with her maid Connie.

When the Duke lowered her head to kiss her, Juliana tilted her face back to receive his kiss.

Chapter 8

Oliver could hardly believe his good fortune. Here he was not even a day out at sea and Juliana was already in his arms. The feel of her lips under his was unlike anything he had ever known before.

He could scarcely remember a time when his body had been so completely attuned to another individual. The way she innocently clung to his shoulders made him feel powerful and strong. Her sweet kiss made him feel like a conqueror. However, it was the way she eagerly leaned into him that nearly brought Oliver to his knees.

It was clear that Juliana wasn’t schooled in the arts of lovemaking, and yet her tender overtures were far better than any courtesan because he knew they came from the truest parts of her heart. Juliana wasn’t a woman who did anything she didn’t wish to.

Oliver was about to gently pull back when Juliana sighed and melted against him. In doing so she parted her lips, and suddenly their tender embrace took on new meaning. Rather than just lean against him, Oliver felt her flatten her small breasts against his chest.

He inwardly cursed current fashion and anything that came between her hot body and his own. He licked the seam of her lips and groaned when Juliana eagerly opened her mouth wider for him. Once inside, it was all Oliver could do not to take her to the berth and rut like a wild beast.

He knew his crass thoughts belayed the true gentleman that he had worked so hard to be. But the sounds she made as he kissed her caused his mind to conjure up what it would be like to taste her nipples, would they be large or small, pink or peach? He didn’t care. He only wanted to taste them.

Things were spiraling out of control, with every sweep of his tongue they slipped further into the maelstrom of their passion. Surely, he was dreaming, never had he even hoped to imagine that her response to him would be anything like this. And then it happened, she slipped her fingers into his hair and tentatively kissed him back.

Oliver wasn’t quite sure when he had decided to slide his hands down and cup her derriere, but once he got his hands on her tender bottom, he was more than thrilled with the idea. Squeezing her firmly, he growled in satisfaction when she moaned into their kiss.

This union wasn’t just one-sided. Juliana was just as caught up as he was. Her hands moved from his hair to slip inside of his coat. Suddenly he wanted it off, needed to off. Not wanting to break the kiss, he began to struggle with its removal.

Tugging one way and then the other, it seemed that he was getting himself more tangled. Panic began to claw at him when he realized that she was pulling away. He had to physically force himself not to cry out when their lips broke apart.

She stood there looking eminently lovely, with wide eyes and kiss swollen lips. Her cheeks were flushed with color and her breathing was rapid. But what he adored most of all was the humor in her eyes.

Oliver wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it occurred to him that he was partially worried that she would be upset with him or about their kiss. Indeed, it seemed quite the opposite.

Her eyes danced with mirth as she asked, “What are you doing?”

Oliver had one arm sticking out behind him and the other he was still holding the lapel to his jacket. Rather than be embarrassed, he gave her a cheeky grin. “I was trying to get it off. But apparently my tailors take the notion of fitting my jackets like a glove far too seriously.”

Her lips twitched and she tried to cover them. Her shy smile was far and wide the loveliest thing he could ever remember seeing. If it took him making a fool of himself to bring out this side of her, Oliver would be more than happy to oblige.

“Do you need me to call your man?” she asked kindly.

Oliver glanced down to see his cock-stand saluting the fair Juliana through his breeches. The last thing he wanted was for his man to go spreading that little tidbit about. Quickly, Oliver shook his head. “No, thank you. I am certain I can get it off.”

It was clear by her expression that she didn’t believe his words any more than he did. But she seemed more than willing to let him continue to try.

“By all means,” she said with a grand wave of her arms. “Show me how it’s done.”

His cock throbbed at the thought of wanting to show her precisely how it’s done, but he knew that wasn’t at all what she was referring to. Pasting a smile on his face, Oliver shoved those thoughts aside. He was in this for the long haul and had no desire to set her back up against him again.

Eventually he was able to remove his coat. Finding a deck of cards in a drawer, Oliver and Juliana spent the rest of the day winning and losing the same shillings from his purse. Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t wrapped up in something for the estate or slaving away for something at the House or Lords.

Besides that, scorching kiss, the time they had spent together had been rather tame by society’s standards. And yet he had enjoyed it far more than any afternoon route or glittering ballroom he had attended in an age. It took him a moment to pin down the emotion, but as soon as he grasped it, Oliver knew it to be true.

He knew his brothers would likely laugh at him or say he was being sentimental, and perhaps he was. But Oliver hadn’t had many happy moments in the last five years. So, to stumble upon one now felt like being given a gift. He wasn’t about to let this feeling go.

Chapter 9

The two weeks passed without incident. Juliana wasn’t sure how to describe how different Oliver was aboard The Corrianne. He laughed with her, played games, took her about the ship and taught her so many things about sailing that she thought her head would swim. It was as if she was sailing with the new and improved Duke of Bilkshore. He was attentive, respected her privacy, and always made certain to tend to her needs before his own.

Juliana was quite certain she had landed in paradise. The only thing that sat heavy on her mind was Amelia. Now that they were friends, or was it more than friends? Juliana didn’t know what to call their budding relationship or how to feel about it.

Oliver hadn’t mentioned his offer of marriage since that first day when he barged into her cabin. At the time Juliana had felt it was hare brained. But now that she had spent some with Oliver, she was beginning to have all of these feelings, one of which was guilt.

By keeping Vivian’s secret, was she betraying Oliver? After all, Oliver was Amelia’s uncle even if the union had never been blessed in a church. What would Oliver say when he found out that her voyage to America was solely to speak with his brother Ian?

As the days and nights rolled by, Juliana couldn’t help but worry that perhaps she was making the wrong choices. It was those night particularly when she had the most time to think about things.

Despite the fact that Oliver was courteous by allowing her to change and slip into her berth without his gazing eye. Juliana hadn’t given him the same courtesy. From the hidden covers of her bed, she watched as Oliver undressed by the single candle. All she could say was that the things she saw caused her to break out in a sweat. Staying underneath the blankets had been far more difficult than she could have imagined.

Oliver would strip down to his smalls, exposing all of that taunt muscular physic that caused her most private of places to ache with need. It had irked her that he didn’t remove the last bit of garment covering the bits that she most wanted to see.

Surely it was sinful to feel this way about a man that wasn’t your husband. However, as much as Juliana wanted Oliver for her husband, she hoped that it would counteract any sins that she inadvertently committed. And that was only because of his discretion. Juliana wanted to kiss, touch, and a whole host of other things that she had only read about. She knew it wasn’t seemly that she wished to devour the man, but frankly, she didn’t care.

As they entered their third week, a storm off the horizon caused the crew to warn everyone on board that things could get rough.

Wide-eyed Juliana turned to Oliver who had a grim expression. “How rough do you suppose things can get?”

Oliver moved over to her berth and pointed to the brass rings that were built into the hull of the ship. “We will need to be tied down while we sail through the worst of it.”

The color leeched from her face. “Tied down?”

“I will be right here,” he said, assuring her. But Juliana didn’t like the idea that he would be subject to anything flying about in the room.

As the day progressed, the sea seemed to become angrier. Juliana found that all of her usual amusements refused to occupy her time. She was scared, and there wasn’t any other way to describe it.

When the time came to use the ropes, Juliana was terrified. She clutched the sheets in a white-knuckle grip, watching as Oliver expertly tied the knots necessary to keep her safe. The waves were crashing into the ship, tossing them this way and that.

When Oliver moved to tie himself down, Juliana clutched at him. “No, please don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right here,” he said, leaning down to gently kiss the top of her head.

“I need you here with me, not across the room,” she broke off in a scream as the boat took a particularly large wave.

She saw the moment when Oliver capitulated. She was so happy she could have kissed him, and she would have, had she not been so afraid.

“Move over,” he said in a low tone.

Juliana did as she was told, watching as Oliver undid the ropes and then looped them around them both. She was smashed up against his chest, their legs tangling together in a mess of skirts and blankets.

Her heart was beating so wildly, Juliana wondered if he could hear it. The storm was so loud that she could barely hear herself think. She didn’t even know she was crying until he leaned down to kiss one stray tear that had managed to escape.

Instead of speaking, Oliver began to sing, at least that is what Juliana supposed he was doing. She couldn’t hear the words, but she felt the vibrations of his chest against hers. He was her lifeline and she clung to him as if she would never let go.

It seemed to Juliana that the storm lasted for hours, and perhaps it had. All she knew was the throughout the entire ordeal, the boat tipping precariously and their items being thrown across the room. Oliver continued to hold her and sing in her ear.

She wasn’t sure when it happened, but at one point the storm lessened, and thankfully, she fell into an exhausted sleep safe in the arms of the man she trusted most.

Chapter 10

The next morning, Juliana helped Oliver try and salvage their personal belongings. His man came in and cleaned up the bulk of the mess, but it was far too much for one individual. At mid-day they broke for a bit of lunch.

At this point, most of what they ate was fish caught from the sea. Just as Juliana was about to take a bite, there were shouts coming from above deck. Her fork froze halfway to her mouth.

Oliver’s nostrils flared as she pushed his plate away and moved to the door. “Do not leave this cabin, do you hear me?”

Juliana became more frightened by his tone of voice. This wasn’t the man she had spent the last three weeks getting to know. Nor was he the cold, untouchable Duke from London. As Oliver bent to open his trunk and return with a revolver, Juliana sensed just how dangerous he could be.

“What is going on?” she whispered.

He glanced up, meeting her gaze. “Likely pirates,” he said. “In the war, America sanctioned some of their ships as privateers, they were given permission to pillage and plunder the merchant ships from England.”

“That’s terrible,” Juliana gasped. “But the war has been over for quite some time.”

He gave her a grim look as he replied, “Once you legally give someone the right to be a pirate, it’s very difficult to take it back again. Many of these men are the sons of those that fought in the wars. It’s all they know. Even though it’s no longer legal to be a privateer, there are still those that haunt the International waters looking for their next bounty.”

His logic made perfect sense to Juliana. She honestly wished that it hadn’t. Oliver stalked to the door, with his hand on the knob he dictated, “Do not open this door for anyone. Do not come outside, regardless of what you hear. And do not make a sound, if they learn a woman is on-board, well, that is one problem we don’t want to have.”

Juliana nodded, her fear resting right in her throat. He must have sensed something in her eyes because he swore softly and stalked back across the room. In an instant, Oliver had Juliana by the arms and was lifting her so that he could kiss her.

The kiss wasn’t very long, but it was hard and demanding. He kissed her as a man kisses his woman. It was a branding, a promise of forbidden pleasures that were sure to come.

Juliana gasped as he broke the kiss, wanting more of this man’s touch. He gave her one final look before slipping out the door. Juliana raced over and turned the lock. With shaking hands, she tucked the key inside of her bodice and then looked for a place to hide.

Because the room was so small, there really wasn’t a lot of room for furniture. However, there were the trunks with their belongings.

Screams from above followed by the sound of fighting spurred her onward. Juliana opened her trunk and realized how foolish she had been. It was cram-packed all the way to the top. There wasn’t room for another corset, let alone a grown woman.

The stomping of boots coming nearer to her cabin had Juliana fighting back a scream. Was that Oliver or someone else returning?

“Oy, the door’s locked,” someone said as they jostled the handle.

Juliana slipped to the ground, ignoring what the second individual had replied. Crawling as to not make a sound she moved closer to the paneling underneath the books. From this angle, it seemed that there was one piece that stuck out further than the others. She pressed it and watched in fascination as it seamlessly opened and revealed a hidden compartment.

Not thinking twice, Juliana crawled inside and slid the panel back into place. Just as it closed the door to the room was kicked open.

She couldn’t see the pirates entering the room, but she could hear them. The space she was in was pitch black. The cobwebs sticking to her hair indicated that it hadn’t been needed in some time. Juliana only prayed that a rodent didn’t join her in the cubbyhole. She wasn’t sure if she could be able to keep silent with that kind of provocation.

“You’ve made a grave error gentleman,” the voice through the paneling was muffled, but Juliana would have known Oliver’s voice anywhere.

“You’re an American!” one of the pirates exclaimed.

“And you are an unmitigated idiot,” he said coldly. “Now, drop your weapons. Let’s go, guns as well as swords.”

“You can’t be serious,” the other pirate growled. “Why should we care what you say?”

Oliver paused for a moment and Juliana had to put her ear against the wood to hear his response. “Because I am offering you a chance to come out of this alive. Your friends upstairs made their choice. Now I offer you the same, however, I promise you this, make one false move and it will be the last you do.”

There was a scuffle to the left of the room, followed by the blast of a gunshot.

“Blimey! You killed him,” the second man whined. “I thought you were on our side.”

“I don’t know what game you are playing, nor do I care to. This ‘pirate attack’ has to be the shoddiest piece of work I have ever seen. The war has been over for quite some time. Indeed, I don’t know if you were even out of your nappies. Who are you working for?”

Silence met his question.

“Very well, keep your tongue, it matters not. I shall learn the whole of it soon enough. Now, do you want to join your friend, or would you rather be led to the brig?”

The man grumbled, but it sounded to Juliana that he was doing as Oliver asked. However, there was one man who was now lying dead on the other side of this wood panel. She could smell the residue of gunpowder and the slightly metallic scent of blood.

Blood.

Dear merciful heavens, even thinking about it had had her head spinning. Trying to place her head between her knees, Juliana began to count backwards from 100, she was at 78 when the panel slid open and she blinked her eyes trying to adjust to the brightness of the room.

“I think I lost ten years of my life,” Oliver said gruffly, putting a hand in and helping Juliana to her feet. But she didn’t remain there. The moment he had her free from the cupboard, Oliver swung her into his arms.

She couldn’t help but turn her head to see that Captain Pincher and his men were blocking the way to where Juliana supposed the pirate’s body was. Instinctively she tucked her head into his shoulder and shuddered.

Having not heard any of them enter the room and search for her, Juliana surmised that she had passed out after all. She didn’t say a word as Oliver carried her out of the cabin and into a smaller one.

“Are you alright?” he whispered into her hair.

She nodded, still clinging to him. “I was so very scared.”

Oliver blew out a shaky breath. “I was terrified. I had no idea what I was walking into. Thankfully the crew had things in hand. It was rather bold of them to try and attack, however, they did have the element of surprise catching us right after that storm. We have more than double the crew that they had.”

“What is it?” Juliana asked when he seemed to slip into his thoughts.

“There was something rather odd about the entire affair. I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

“What will happen to the man you have in the hold?” Juliana asked hesitantly.

When Oliver didn’t answer right away, Juliana figured that perhaps she didn’t want to know.

“I will leave that up to Captain Pincher. However, I am certain that he will get what he deserves,” he said at last. “We will see that he’s brought to the authorities in America. Would that please you?”

Juliana nodded against his neck. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You need not worry about such things,” he replied softly. “I will always be there for you.”

He was quiet for a time and just held her close. Juliana wondered if he was as shaken as she was. Her mind couldn’t help but focus on what he said to her. Would he always be there for her? How could he make such a promise?

After a time, Oliver spoke, “I’ve made certain that our cabin will be inhabitable. But if you want, we could always stay in another cabin.”

The one they were in was small and had a slightly rancid smell. Juliana had a feeling that this was the second-best cabin and likely where Captain Pincher was staying.

“No, I will be alright to return.”

He hummed his approval and kissed the top of her head tenderly. Juliana wondered if she might be getting heavy in his arms, but she didn’t want him to put her down. As silly as it seemed, on a ship in the middle of the ocean after a pirate attack, this was one of the most romantic moments of her life.

It didn’t have anything to do with the physical attraction that had been brewing between them. This was something deeper, a connection of souls that only went to affirm that she was falling for this man. As much as she had fought it, Oliver had slipped under her defenses.

When Juliana was a little girl, the notion of a pirate attack held something of a romantic notion. She had pictured a certain type of suave Robyn Hood of the seas, that would swoop in and cause the ladies to swoon. She had certainly swooned, but it had nothing to do with the terrible men who had attacked them.

It struck Juliana that if Oliver hadn’t been there, and if she would have stuck to her original companion of Connie, things could have been far worse.

“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. “You saved me.”

His arms tightened and Juliana felt her pulse leap. The familiar desire that had been harboring deep inside of her leapt to life. If he wasn’t going to kiss her, perhaps she just needed to kiss him.

Chapter 11

As Oliver held Juliana in his arms, he knew that the stranglehold he had on his libido was growing more tenuous by the minute. Never in his life had he known such fear as when he heard those pirates.

The thought of any of those ruffians coming close to Juliana made his blood boil. Lost in his thoughts, Oliver was surprised when she shifted and placed her hands on either side of his face. As she searched his eyes, Oliver felt the connection between them growing stronger until the truth was so undeniable that he had to tell her. And he would have, but she chose that particular moment to kiss him.

Her soft lips caressed his, lighter than a butterfly wing, once, then twice before settling more firmly against him. Oliver knew that this must be what heaven was like, wrapped in the arms of the woman he loved, sharing sweet kisses. For a time, he allowed her to take the lead. However, as the kiss progressed, Oliver snapped, no longer able to hold himself back.

All of the sleepless nights, knowing that she was a mere two feet away from where he lay came to mind. The way she would spy on him when he undressed, it had been pure hell trying to act the gentleman. Every man had his limits, and Oliver had finally reached his.

Pivoting, he pressed Juliana up against the door, her legs despite the billow of skirts, managing to wrap around his waist. With his hands free, Oliver cupped her face and kissed her desperately. The passion flaring bright and hot between them.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her lips. “If you do not want this, tell me, Juliana.”

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Whatever you do, please don’t stop.”

It was all the permission he needed. This time when he kissed her fiercely, his tongue plunging in and out of her mouth much like he wanted to be doing with his cock into her slick heat. Just the thought of touching her, of knowing that he could possibly spur that type of reaction had him grinding his cock against her bottom. The way Juliana squirmed, let Oliver know that she too was feeling that undeniable urge to be joined together.

His hand moved up to cup her breast. With deft skill, he quickly unfastened her bodice, thankful that she had dresses particularly designed for the voyage that opened in the front. He had anticipated being held up by her corset, but when he pulled back the fabric, he found that she only had a chemise underneath.

Juliana flushed wildly and whispered in a fury of words, “I couldn’t wear my corset without Connie’s assistance. You see, it’s tied in the back.”

Oliver was momentarily stunned. “How did you get out of it the first night?”

He felt like a cad for not thinking of such things. All he knew was that he was trying to avoid all thoughts of Juliana undressing or naked.

If possible, her cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink. “I used a knife to cut through the fabric. It’s completely ruined.”

Oliver smiled wide and leaned in once again. “You have been going around all of these days without a corset?”

She nodded.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he moaned right before kissing her again.

His other hand pushed the chemise down and took her breast into the palm of his hand. Juliana was slender, her breasts were small and perky. Using the palm of his hands, he rubbed circles, causing her nipple to pucker up.

Loving the way, she groaned when he pulled away from the kiss, Oliver quickly kissed her nose before looking at he exposed breasts. They were perfect in his eyes, the size just enough to grasp and nothing wasted. Her nipples were also small, they reminded him of berries. That made his mouth water.

Juliana moved her arm to cover herself. “I know that I do not look like the other ladies of your acquaintance.”

Oliver suppressed a smile. “Really? Do you have parties where all of the ladies bare their breasts and compare?”

Juliana looked at him with a horrified expression. “No!”

Oliver laughed. “I am only teasing, Juliana. Your body is incredibly beautiful just the way it is. Do you think that I would be half as crazy for you if I wasn’t utterly captivated by your beauty?”

She looked hesitant, as if uncertain whether or not she should believe him. “But they are small. Lillian is better endowed, and don’t get me started on my sister in law. You can hardly hug the woman without being attacked by her bosom.”

Oliver couldn’t stop laughing. “An attacking bosom—we should inform the war office. That’s a natural resource that our nation should be utilizing.”

Juliana’s lips twitched and soon she was laughing along with him. “I didn’t know it could be this way,” she said when she finally caught her breath.

He smoothed a curl back from her face. “What way is that, darling?”

She tucked her head, a flush on her cheeks. “Laughter while we were, erm…”

“Making love,” he answered huskily.

She nodded, and he could see the look in her eye indicating that her fire was starting to ignite once again.

“You can always laugh with me,” he said seriously. “You can speak freely with me about anything, Juliana. I swear to you that I will answer anything you ask me. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hold a part of yourself back.”

Oliver had wanted to set her at her ease, but instead, Juliana seemed to withdraw from him.

“Could you please let me down?”

Uncertain of where this was coming from, Oliver did as she wished. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

Juliana shook her head and tried to smile. “No, you said everything right. I can’t explain it, not right now. I just need to think about some things. I am sorry.

As he set her to the floor, Juliana quickly fastened up her bodice. He could see that her hands were shaking and that she had a rather pinched look around the corners of her mouth. Oliver could tell that whatever was bothering Juliana, it was no mere trifle.

Chapter 12

Juliana decided that she simply could not think clearly when Oliver was about. Therefore, her only recourse was to avoid him at all costs. Juliana figured that this would have been easy in Mayfair or even in a ballroom. In a crush, all she would have to do is hide behind the dozens of other debutantes.

As the only woman on a ship in the middle of the ocean there wasn’t that many places for her to go. So, was it any wonder that Oliver found her skulking on the quarter deck?

“Might I have a word with you?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Juliana considered telling him no, but honestly what purpose would that serve? When Oliver offered her his arm, Juliana grudgingly took it and followed him to another location that offered some privacy.

“Now, would you please tell me what it was I did to cause you such disgust of me?”

Guilt immediately crept up her spine. “There was nothing. That is to say, you are perfectly within your right to be upset with me. I should have discussed things with you.”

He ground his teeth together. “I have half a mind to take you over my knee and give you a firm spanking. Juliana, you have to use your voice and communicate with me. I cannot read your mind as much as I’d like to.”

She swallowed nervously and tried to gather her thoughts. Juliana had decided at last that she needed to come clean about Vivian and Ian’s involvement together. She didn’t think that she could allow him any further liberties without divulging the truth. Coming clean was far scarier than she anticipated.

“I need to speak with you,” she said with a sigh. “But not here.”

Oliver lifted a brow.

“Please,” she asked, placing a hand on his arm. “Come with me.”

Thankfully, Oliver followed Juliana below deck and into their chambers. She glanced quickly at the floorboards were still stained where the pirate had been shot. But they had been scrubbed with lye and the smell no longer permeated the room. A rug had been tossed over the stain, but she knew it was still there.

“Well,” he motioned for her to sit at the only chair. “What is it that you are so worried about sharing with me?”

Hands clasped together. Juliana began to tell Oliver about her trip to Sussex.

“Do you recall Lady Lucy’s younger sister?” Juliana asked.

“Yes, she had a terrible case of rose cold, if I remember correctly. Whilst playing hide and go seek with Ian she had ended up in the stables. From what I understand she has a breathing malady.”

Juliana nodded adding, “Yes, I suspect it was the consumption at the end.”

Oliver frowned, and Juliana could see that he was putting things together in his own mind. “End? You don’t mean to say…”

Juliana twisted her hands together. “Yes, she passed a month or so before we sailed.”

Oliver sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Indeed, tragic news. What a shame for a beautiful young lady to be cut down in the prime of her life. I am sorry for Baron and Lady Reeder. Tell me, dear, were you close to Vivian?”

Juliana wasn’t sure where all of the emotion that had lodged in her throat had come from. While she hadn’t been extremely close to Vivian, she had come to know and love her daughter.

Oliver, seeing her distress, moved to his knees in front of the chair. “Is that why you booked this voyage? Was her passing too distressing for you? I own I had no idea you had struck up such a close friendship. I could kick myself when I think of the time I wasted with you.”

Juliana shook her head. He was so kind in his concern for her and for Juliana. It was almost more than she could bear. “No, you don’t understand. When I was in Sussex, Vivian invited me for tea. I went, as is proper, but when I left her home, I felt as if my entire world had been upended.”

“What did she say?” Oliver asked.

Juliana swallowed. “Did you know that Vivian was rather close with your brother Ian?”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Ian rather keeps to himself. It’s always hard to know what goes on inside of his head. Why? Did he break her heart?”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied honestly.

“I am sorry, Juliana. I am afraid that I am not following you very well.”

“It is far more likely that I am not explaining things as they ought to be.”

“Dearest,” Oliver took her hands into his own. “Please, just tell me. Whatever it is we can work it out together.”

Juliana looked into his eyes and told him the truth. “Vivian introduced me to her daughter, Amelia. She is a beautiful little girl, nearly three years in age.”

“Daughter?” Oliver drew back and rose to his feet. “Did she marry at some point?”

Juliana shook her head, hating to share something that could put a wedge between them.

“Daughter?” Oliver repeated. “If you are trying to convince me that Ian is the father, I am afraid that Vivian played you false. My brother would never allow his daughter to be illegitimate or otherwise to be raised away from the family. Indeed, he wouldn’t allow his child to be born out of wedlock.”

“I don’t know the particulars,” Juliana said soothingly.

It seemed that Oliver was getting steamed up. “You don’t know the particulars? Juliana, first you tell me this ridiculous story about my brother having a child and then you say that you don’t know if it’s true. Tell me, why are you on this ship for America? Why did your brother find it so important to contact me to ensure your safety? There is something very havey cavey about the whole affair. Perhaps they are just trying to extort money from the Dukedom. Did you ever consider that?”

Juliana’s hands were shaking when she replied, “There is no one demanding money. Vivian has passed away.”

“What about the Baron, Reeder?”

“They are grieving the loss of a sister who was estranged. They had no idea why Vivian took herself so far away. Indeed, I am the only person who knows Amelia’s true parentage.”

He scoffed, “And why would she contact you of all people, a complete stranger! Juliana, it doesn’t add up. Who has the child anyway? That is most likely who is orchestrating the entire affair.”

Juliana stood and walked over to the corner of the room trying to gather her patience. She had known that bringing the truth forward would be difficult, but she hadn’t depended on Oliver being so combative.

“The people who are caring for Amelia don’t want anything from you,” she said stiffly.

“Ha,” he barked out a mirthless laugh. “So, you say, but mark my words, they have bee scheming this entire time. Now, I must insist, what are their names?”

She turned and looked at him. Lifting her chin, she answered, “I have guardianship of Amelia, and she is currently in the care of my brother, the Marquess of Lancaster. I can assure you, Your Grace, we wish nothing from you or your family.”

Before he could utter another word, Juliana walked out the door, slamming it behind her.

Chapter 13

Oliver stared as Juliana slammed the cabin door, leaving him behind with a myriad of questions and not nearly enough answers. What did she mean by dropping such a thing on him? How dare they accuse Ian of being such a cad? It wasn’t like him at all, Oliver thought as he tried to reign in his temper.

Yet, the more he thought about it, the more Oliver was certain that he was right, and she was wrong. Perhaps this Vivian creature had delusions of some sort. Oliver wasn’t overly familiar with consumption, maybe that was one of the side effects of the disease.

Ian couldn’t have… no, he wouldn’t get a woman with child and abandon her. Oliver liked to think that all of his brothers were cautious about such things. But a niggling piece of doubt crept into his mind. If Ian did lay with Vivian, even one time, there was a chance she could have become with child.

It wasn’t something he even wanted to consider, but Juliana had been so adamant. She obviously believed the truth of her words.

The door slammed back open. Oliver’s eyes popped as he watched Juliana stalk over to her chest and wrench out a letter.

“Here,” she demanded, eyes flashing. “Read this.”

Oliver took the letter from her hands. The seal hadn’t even been broken. “I can’t read someone else’s missive.”

She took the letter from him and promptly broke the wax. “Now you can—read.”

It was more than obvious that she was serious. Oliver took the letter from her hands and indeed, did begin to read.

His righteous indignation seemed to deflate as quickly as it had been raised. If Oliver had any reservations about the truthfulness of this letter, they were assuaged by the faded bit of lace that had been tucked inside. He hated to admit it but seeing that lace again shook him like nothing else.

He looked up at Juliana, hoping that she could see how very sorry he was for jumping to the wrong conclusion. He had been about to apologize, but instead he began to tell her a story.

“When Ian was a child, he was afraid of the dark. I never really understood it myself. But then, I always had Ryan by my side. We were inseparable. I hadn’t ever stopped to consider that Ian didn’t have someone of his own.

One night during a particularly bad nightmare, my mother came racing into the room. Her nightdress got caught on a stray nail and the lace ripped off of it. The next morning Ian found the lace and tucked it away. Ryan and I teased him about being such a baby. I wish that I could go back and be a better brother to him.”

“You were just children yourselves,” Juliana said quietly.

“I suppose,” Oliver continued, “but I could have tried harder. At any rate, over the next few nights he didn’t have any nightmares. My mother hugged him close and asked what Ian’s secret was. He raced up to the nursery and pulled the lace out from under his pillow. When he showed my mother, he told her that he need not ever be afraid anymore. Not as long as she was with him.”

Juliana’s fingertips came up to cover her mouth in surprise. “That is so sweet.”

“I haven’t seen that lace in over twenty years. If he gave it to her, Vivian must have meant the world to my brother. I know it sounds strange, but I can see him leaving it with her as a sort of protection.”

Oliver handed the letter to Juliana and she started to read.

* * *

Dearest Ian,

And you are my dearest, you always were. I wish that I could go back and do so many things over again. I wish that I had never sent you away, or that I had been brave enough to write to you when I knew Amelia was coming.

I waited, even though I told you not to come. I waited every day for the sound of your voice, your knock, your forgiveness. I know you will say that you should be begging my forgiveness, but you don’t know the depths of my sins.

I knew I was sick when I met you. I thought that our time together would be one last adventure before this illness overcame me. But you, Ian, you taught me how to love in a matter of three days. You taught me that fighting was better than letting life happen to you.

I did fight, I promise you that.

I told you that I would contact you if there was a child. This is another way I failed you. I didn’t want to saddle you with a wife that was doomed to die. But I was selfish enough to want to spend every moment that I possibly could with our child.

I won’t beg your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. I took your child away from you and made choices that can never be reversed. You, by all rights should hate me. I understand, I honestly do. Please know that I don’t blame you for how you feel.

When you receive this letter, I will likely be gone. I have contacted someone to come for you. I know it’s a long shot, but I have a feeling that she will help me.

I have one final request to make. Please love Amelia, don’t hold my sins against her, she’s a wonderful child. Enclosed you will find the lace you gave me. I remember telling you that I was afraid of what the future held. I can tell you with assurance that I am no longer afraid.

My Love,

Vivian

* * *

Oliver waited until the letter fell from her arms. Tenderly he wrapped Juliana in his arms and allowed her to shed the tears that he too felt in his heart.

Chapter 14

Juliana wasn’t sure when Oliver had begun rubbing her back as he held her. She only knew that it felt so very nice to have his hands on her body. She recalled the day when he had touched and teased her breasts.

She couldn’t help herself, she squirmed against him.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a deep voice.

Juliana didn’t want to look up for fear that he would guess where her thoughts had led. But sure enough, Oliver used his finger to tip her chin upward so that he could see her face. His breath hitched in his throat and seconds later he was kissing her.

This was nothing like the sweet kisses that she had given him. These were long drugging kisses that were meant to intoxicate and bind the souls of two beings together. He picked her up by the waist, not breaking their kiss, and moved her to the bed. From there, he moved between her thighs and kissed again.

His hand started to push her voluminous skirts to the side. The moment Juliana felt the brush of his warm fingers against her thigh she cried out. The sensations were overpowering, and yet she wanted more and more from him.

He traced languid circles on the inside of her leg and then finally touched her most intimate place. Her jagged moan had to be alerting him that he was right where she wanted him to be.

“You’re so wet, Juliana. Just as I always imagined you would be.”

“You pictured this?” she gasped.

His eyes were dark as they bore into hers. “I have pictured myself committing all or sorts of delicious things to your body. You have enslaved me, and I will never let you go.”

Nudging her thighs further apart. Juliana gasped as he stroked in and out of her slick heat. Juliana could never have dreamed that it could be like this, feel like this. And after a moment when he brought that heat up to the front of her sex and began to rub in small circles over the tiny bundle of nerves, everything tightened.

Something was building inside of her. Juliana could hardly think, let alone breathe. She was minutes, seconds away from something magical if she could just reach it.

And then it happened.

Her body shattered, the tension overflowing, causing waves of pleasure to permeate her body. This was what the married ladies whispered about? She smiled sinfully, like the cat with its cream.

When Oliver looked at her face, she saw the need and desire etched across his own. In a flurry of moment, he was ripping open his breeches and shoving her skirts away until he was there, pressing into her.

Juliana cried out as his length stretched her, an inch and then two slid inside.

“Darling,” he rasped against her neck. “I am trying to be careful.”

But Juliana didn’t want careful, she wanted Oliver to feel the symphony of flavors that she herself had just experienced. Clenching around him, she involuntarily caused him to catch his breath.

“Much more of that and this will be over before it began,” he groaned.

Juliana clenched again and was rewarded with Oliver yanking down the front of her dress, tearing the fabric just so that he could get to her breasts, and then he was devouring them. He licked and sucked her on her nipples, gently bit the underside of her breast and then sucked as much as he could in his mouth.

The burning from his length inside of her began to ease. Juliana was shocked when he entered even further inside of her. “There is more?” she gasped.

Oliver let out a crazed sound. “We are about halfway there.”

Juliana couldn’t imagine where he would put all of his length, but she soon found out when with his next thrust, he was fully seated within her. She winced, the pain had been sharp and insistent.

“I am sorry,” he said, panting. “It will be better from here. I promise.”

Juliana wasn’t sure about that, but she eagerly accepted his lips when he began to kiss her again. When he began to move back and forth within, Juliana tensed for the pain. But it was no longer there. Only a remnant remained, but what had taken its place was an eruption of desire that made her feel wanton.

Spreading her legs further to take him deeper, Juliana knew the moment he reached the right angle for them both. His gliding sensation suddenly became urgent and deeper. She felt an intense urge to meet his thrusts. The building from earlier was back and she wanted that feeling of release again.

“Please,” she panted, “I need…”

It seemed that Oliver knew just what she needed. The moment she had asked him he brought his hand up to her breast and began to pinch and worry her nipple. All the while he brought his lips to her own and kissed her violently.

Juliana couldn’t hold back, this time when she released, it was around his length drawing him along with her until they were both experiencing the same depths of pleasure.

She felt his spend inside of her, it was an odd feeling and yet she wasn’t sad it had happened. This was the man she loved. He had to know that. The honestly in her demanded that another day not pass without Juliana letting him know.

But it wasn’t Juliana who was the first to speak. When Oliver cupped her face and kissed her tenderly, she wondered if he would pull out of her. Juliana wasn’t adept in how to handle such things.

Oliver stayed where he was, with a gruff voice he said, “I have held my peace since first arriving on the ship. I know I handled that badly and tried to force your hand. But Julianna, surely you have guessed by now. My feelings have not changed. I thought that I loved you when I came chasing to the docks after I learned you had boarded my boat. But these weeks together, my dear girl, they have cemented my resolve. I must have you by my side, in my home, forever in my heart.”

Juliana’s lip trembled as she listened to his declaration.

“Are you certain?” her voice was little more than a squeak.

“Am I certain?” he laughed, but the sound was filled with hope and mirth. “I have never more been certain about anything, Juliana. Please, marry me. The Captain can legally unite us, Let’s arrive in America as husband and wife. Not for proprieties sake, but because we love each other. You do love me too, don’t you?”

She nodded, “So very much.”

Oliver growled, his cock beginning to grow hard once again inside of her.

Juliana blushed. “Is it always like this?”

Oliver grinned, looking every bit as roguish as the pirates had. “It is when I am with you.”

It was some time before either one was presentable enough to exit their cabin. And when they finally did emerge, the Captain was immediately called for.

Chapter 15

Juliana clutched Oliver’s hand in her own as she bounced with excitement. It had taken nearly nine weeks to finally dock in America, but they had arrived and were cleared for departure. Having had to remain aboard ship until the pirate was in the arms of the police and taken away, Juliana was anxious to see for herself what this new world was all about.

Oliver had sent word to his family home that he and Juliana had arrived in America. It was strange for Juliana to remember that Oliver was not only from America, but he had an entire life here up until the moment he unexpectedly inherited the Dukedom. The Stanford’s were a part of New York City’s upper crust.

Once they had left the boat and navigated through the bustling port, Juliana was greeted with her first bit of American culture. Men and women filled the streets, mostly workers going to and from their factory jobs. The sounds of their accents filling her ears and causing her to turn back and forth trying to catch the speaker.

Oliver kept a firm arm around her waist as they approached a fine carriage that had been waiting for them.

“Well now,” the older gentleman drawled as he climbed down from the perch. “As I live and breathe, Mr. Standford, I ain’t never thought I’d see the likes of you again.”

Juliana was shocked at the casual way this older man was greeting her husband. After all, Oliver was a Duke.

“Smitty,” Oliver grinned and clutched the man’s outstretched hand, pumping it three times before letting go. “I dare say, after that voyage you are a sight for sore eyes!”

The older man smiled wide, showing his graying teeth. “Grand to see you, Mr. Stanford, just grand.”

“Smitty, I want to make you known to my wife,” Oliver continued.

Juliana looked at Oliver in surprise. In England one didn’t greet their servants with such fond revelry.

“Happy to meet you, Mrs.”

Juliana grappled to find her place. “Erm, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister, err.”

“Just Smitty, Ma’am. That will do nicely. The other Mrs will be right glad to see you. She’s on a fair way to popping any moment.”

The color drained from Juliana’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

Oliver placed a hand over hers and helped Juliana into the coach.

“But he said,” Juliana protested when Oliver tried to shut her in.

“I will speak with Smitty, he’s getting on in years. Before you jump to any conclusions, good or bad, let me clear some things up first.”

Juliana sat back against the soft leather of the coach. America was so big. There seemed to be people bustling about everywhere. Suddenly she felt the burning desire to go back home. Sure, the ports of Dover were also loud and bustling, but they were familiar.

The familiar way these Americans interacted with her quite put her back up. It was perhaps another ten minutes before the carriage door was opened again and Oliver rejoined her.

“Who was that man speaking about? Was it Lillian?”

“You are trembling,” Oliver tsked, taking her hands into his own. “Come now, we can’t have that.”

“Just tell me, what was he talking about?”

“My twin Ryan and his wife Lillian are in residence at the mansion in New York. It would seem that there is some exciting news.”

A baby, Lillian was expecting a child. Juliana could hardly fathom the idea.

Juliana was stunned. “A baby? My sister is going to have a baby?”

Oliver nodded. “It does appear that way.”

“And what of Ian? Is he at the New York residence?”

Oliver let out a tired sigh and leaned back against the leather squabs. “He was needed at the factories in Philadelphia. I have sent word that we must speak with him. But I don’t know how long it will take to get him word or when he can return. It depends on the problem that took him out there.”

“Is that far?” she asked innocently.

He smothered a smile and she knew that he was amused with her question.

“It’s going to take a few days to get him the message at any rate. Come, let’s go see your sister and tell them the news of our nuptials.”

Juliana nodded, trying to calm the butterflies inside her stomach. As the carriage rocked back and forth through the streets, Juliana settled into her husband’s arms.

“What do you think of New York so far?” he asked as he drew lazy circles on the velvet of her traveling cloak.

“I find it very strange. I don’t know what I should have done without you here.” She looked up at him, “Thank you, Oliver, for being the hero that I didn’t know I needed.”

He held her close and captured her chin between his fingers. “You didn’t need a hero, Juliana. You are far braver than most men I know. To take on a task such as the one you did, well, I can only say that I am so thankful to you. I don’t know how Ian will react. But we will always love and care for the child. I don’t want you to worry on that head.”

She sighed. “I don’t know if I worry more that he will want her, or that he will, and I won’t be able to let her go.”

Oliver kissed her parted lips softly. “You will always be her aunt, and therefore in her life. I only wish that crossing the ocean didn’t take so terribly long. Now that I know about her, I am anxious to meet the child myself, and I know Ian will be.”

Juliana’s eyes seemed to remain focused on his lips. “She has been through so much in her short life. I don’t want her to forget her mother’s memory. Do you think this to be foolish?”

Oliver smiled tenderly and kissed her again. “Your loving heart does you credit. We will indeed let the child remember her mother. I think it would be best if she met her Aunt Lucy and Uncle Freddy as well. I know that Vivian wanted to keep her child a secret from her family. But I have found that holding one’s feelings in never gives one the result they want.”

Juliana beamed at Oliver. “I am so glad you feel this way. I worried that you might not want Lady Reeder to know because of the light it shines on Ian and Vivian’s relationship. You continually amaze me, and I adore you.”

His eyes darkened as he pulled her closer and whispered, “And I love you with every breath in my body. Never doubt it, my love.”

As Juliana pulled his head back down to kiss him again, she let her fears and anxieties go. She wasn’t sure when they would finally be able to give Ian the note from Vivian. Nor did she know how her sister would react to finding that Juliana was in America. But what she did know was that regardless of what they faced. They would do it together. Juliana and her runaway duke would never be parted again.

Epilogue

Ian felt a huge sense of relief as he finished up the last of his business at the factory in Philadelphia. This task was to the final one before he bid his brother Ryan and new sister in law Lillian goodbye and sailed for England.

He had run from his past long enough. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say he had run from the one woman in his past that had managed to creep under his skin and more importantly into his heart.

There was no point denying things, Ian knew it. He was in love with Vivian Browning. Their short affair had plagued his mind for two years now. It was almost as if he had a driving force that was pulling him back to her side.

With a handshake to his foreman, he took the reins of his horse and mounted. Ian had always felt a special kinship with animals and horses especially.

A frown dampened his enthusiasm when he remembered the one time, he had taken Vivian into the barn to hide during a game. She had severe breathing difficulty and Ian had feared the worse.

He shook his head, trying to erase the bad memory. He had dallied long enough worrying about how she would fit into his life. It was high time that he put aside his selfish pursuits. Horses were a hobby, but Vivian, she was… Well, she was something altogether wonderful and far more important to him.

Just as Ian went to spur the horse, a special messenger came barreling up to him. The horse was nearly run to ground. For a split-second Ian wanted to chastise the messenger. Then another thought replaced the first. Lillian had been expecting her first child. Had something happened?

Fear gripped him and he didn’t speak when the man handed him missive. The seal was none other than the Duke of Bilkshore, his eldest brother. Whatever could Oliver want with him? Furthermore, was Oliver back in America?

A second letter fell out of the first when he enfolded it. Ian barely grasped it before it could fall to the ground. He recognized Vivian’s looping script immediately. He snatched up her letter and read it hungrily like a starving man at his first meal. But as the words penetrated his mind, Ian began to spiral down, down, into the recesses of hopelessness and despair.

When he finished her letter, he hardly had the strength to read what his brother had written. His entire world had just been ripped out from underneath him. Oliver’s words confirmed it, Vivian was gone.

People around him were speaking but it was as if he were enveloped in a cloud of grief, cancelling out everything but the roaring of his blood and the tearing of his heart. Why had he ever left her? She would never know how much she meant to him. When Ian thought about what she must have gone through having a child on her own he wanted to rip out his hair or weep until there was nothing left.

Without a word, he spurred his horse and rode hell for leather to New York. He had a child, a daughter. Ian had never really wanted children, and yet knowing that she existed softened the blow, even if it was only of the smallest amount. Ian swallowed hard. Their child was the only piece of Vivian left in this world—Amelia. He wouldn’t fail her like he had Vivian.

As the wind whipped around him, Ian knew that nothing would ever be the same again. After all, how does one continue on when their heart is ripped from their chest? No, nothing would ever be the same.

About S. Cinders

S. Cinders is an award-winning author who loves writing and cheesecake. She lives in the Midwest with her husband of twenty-four years and her two nearly grown sons.

Known as ‘the naughty romance author’, you’ll love her witty banter and engaging characters. Once you start, you won't want to stop!

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Rescued by Passion

by Sky Purington

Prologue

New Providence Island, The Bahamas,
off the coast of Nassau

1717

“Wake up, Hannah.” Rose shook her sister. “Something is not right.”

“I agree,” Hannah mumbled, pulling the blanket over her head. “You trying to wake me when I spent half the night helping you through seasickness. Go back to bed.”

Truth be told, she had been helpful, holding back Rose’s hair during the worst of it. Typically, she did not suffer like that, but the storm had tossed the ship about something fierce.

Rose peered out the porthole, convinced something was wrong. “I see land, but the captain said we would not see such for several more days.”

“Just a mirage, darling,” Hannah assured. “Now get some rest.”

“It is not a mirage.” She frowned at her sister, wondering how she could be so calm considering the dangerous waters on which they traveled. “There is most certainly land on our starboard side.”

“Perhaps the storm sped us up, and we arrived at our destination sooner than expected,” Hannah said on a yawn. She peeked her head out and squinted against the light. “If we were off course, the captain would tell us.”

“Would he though?” There was never a more chauvinistic man. “I cannot imagine him confessing to mere women that the storm might have thrown us off course.” She shook her head. “He is far too arrogant.”

“And you are far too chatty,” Hannah muttered, “considering how quiet you have been since we disembarked Yorktown.”

As a rule, she was always quiet, preferring observation to communication. Hannah, on the other hand, tended to have an opinion about everything. Viewpoints she rarely hesitated to share no matter the company.

“I see another ship.” Rose narrowed in on the horizon. “Three!”

“They are likely just—”

“Pirates!” She stumbled back from the porthole, wide-eyed. Her heart slammed into her throat.

“Surely not.” Anyone in their right mind would have leapt from their bunk in panic, but Hannah calmly sat up and smoothed her blanket back. “The captain assured us we would not come across such miscreants.”

“But we have.” Rose trembled in fear and wrung her hands. “Those are pirate ships flying pirate flags.”

“Even if they are,” Hannah said, “we have British soldiers aboard.” She perked a brow at Rose. “Highly trained soldiers at that.”

Her sister was trying to calm her, but it did no good. From the moment she learned they were traveling south, she had a feeling something would go horribly wrong. Almost a sixth sense.

Or one too many books about pirates.

Hannah was about to speak when yelling ensued on deck.

Finally taking Rose seriously, Hannah peered out the porthole then pulled back abruptly and nodded once. “It seems you are right, Sister.” Though she audibly swallowed, she remained calm. “Get dressed now.”

“But—”

“Now, Rose,” she said sharply.

Accustomed to taking her older sister's lead, but rather mindless with fear, she could hardly focus on where to begin. Should she bother with stays? Or just get into her dress as fast as possible?

“Do not even think it,” Hannah said sternly, helping her with said stays when Rose reached for her dress. “A lady always dresses appropriately.”

“B-but those are pirates!”

“All the more reason to cut a fine figure.” She issued Rose a pointed look. “Just imagine if things were less confined.” She looked skyward, appalled. “It would be downright indecent.”

“I doubt pirates care much about decency.” Rose shook her head, her imagination running away with her. “We are doomed, dear sister.” She rounded her eyes at Hannah. “Do you know what they do to women of our ilk?”

“I care not to think about it.” Yet Hannah's cheeks flushed as she finished lacing up Rose. “Continue dressing then lace me up.”

“I should help you now—”

“Just do as I ask.”

So she did, and then helped Hannah. In the meantime, sounds of battling grew louder. Far closer. On this ship, if she were not mistaken. Boots pounded above them. Men roared, metal clashed, and guns fired.

“It will be all right, dearest.” Hannah squeezed Rose’s trembling hands and met her eyes, using the sisterly voice that typically calmed her. “We have little time so you must listen to me.”

She nodded, trying not to envision the worst. Yet the screams of pain aboveboard did not help.

“You must not let your imagination run away with you unless you intend to put it to good use.” Hannah searched her eyes, practical to a fault. “You must conquer your fear and do what you do best. Observe your surroundings at all times. Pay attention to everything so that you might find your way out of wherever you end up.” Her brows arched. “Become a character in one of those books you so love if need be.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you will need courage.” Hannah remained blunt. “And that is not always easy to come by.”

“But you just said we have plenty of soldiers.”

“We do not,” her sister barely got out before the cabin door crashed open and her worst nightmare leered at them from the threshold.

Unable to breathe, let alone scream, she suddenly knew what she needed to become.

A persona she prayed might save her from Hell.

Chapter 1

“It is good to be on dry land again, Brother.” Thomas clapped Luke on his shoulder and eyed the brothel, playing the role they had discussed earlier. A role that made sense. “I am too long without a woman.”

They had just arrived on the sandy shores of Nassau with a very specific mission.

One that would change everything from this day forward.

Luke nodded in agreement and yanked a wench against him in passing. He kissed her hard, murmured something in her ear then set her aside. “She and her sister will see us taken care of when we are ready.”

“Sister?” Thomas snorted, praying his brother remained vague. He skirted far too close to why they were here. “How convenient.”

Luke winked. “It’s good to live the fantasy on occasion.”

Though he said it nonchalantly, Thomas knew Luke enjoyed that fantasy above all. Not the taking of both sisters, but the one.

“I wonder how they fare,” he had murmured earlier, remembering the sisters from their youth. The very ones they were here to rescue now.

“Married off,” Luke had reminded, treading carefully around the sore subject. Because in truth, neither were married anymore. “Hard to imagine mine making anyone a good bride, though. She would require too much taming…and patience.”

With their fetching beauty, the McCullen sisters had turned many a head. One was haughty, the other withdrawn and sweet. Naturally, the haughty one appealed to Luke’s inherent need to conquer every woman he met. Mainly because he had never managed to conquer her.

The scent of brine and sea salt turned to the pungent smell of sweat, sex, and heady perfumes as they entered town. Grunts of pleasure mixed with boisterous drinking. Wenches with painted faces and ample cleavage leaned against buildings reeling in their next customer where others were already servicing blokes.

“They are here,” Thomas’s quartermaster, Charles said softly, falling in alongside them. He spoke louder for the benefit of their fellow pirates. Best that no one be suspicious. “There be biddin’ happenin’ soon in the center square.” He flashed crooked teeth in a lecherous smile. “Blackbeard got himself a good take just out past the breakers.”

Formerly known as Edward Teach, Blackbeard was not only infamous for his fearsome exploits but magistrate in these parts. That meant he was in command of Nassau’s republic, enforcing law and order as he saw fit.

“He’s selling off some loot then?” Thomas acted surprised. In this neck of the Caribbean, they lived by the pirate code. They ran their ships democratically, sharing plunder equally. So why was Blackbeard selling something?

“Not loot but a single woman.” Charles rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “A real looker I hear.”

Thomas tensed. Which woman? Who was being put on display in front of this lot? Worse yet, was she still dressed?

“Why is he selling her?” Luke frowned. “Usually, wenches end up in the brothel.”

“Seems one of ‘em did.” Charles tapped his temple. “The other ain’t so bright. Deaf, dumb and mute they say.” He shrugged. “So he’s seein’ what he can get for her.” He shook his head. “They didn’t even have a chaperone so the crew might’ve already had a run at ‘em.”

“Bloody hell, let’s hope not.” Thomas refused to entertain the idea. He would never be able to forgive himself. “Better to have ‘em fresh.”

That damn uncle of theirs, leaving them unchaperoned. Yet it was not surprising in the least. Without a shred of decency, the man was a louse. That said, however, it was safe to say if the crew had wanted the women, a chaperone would not have stopped them. Which was neither here nor there considering there were crew members aboard protecting them until they were safely delivered into Blackbeard’s hands.

After all, this was by no means as simple as their ship going off course.

They continued through the crowd and kept to rowdy talk of bidding. The pleasure of claiming such a prize. Which was a flat out lie, of course. The life of piracy suited them well enough, but they steered clear of slave trading. It was a dirty business, and there were plenty more opportunities elsewhere. Or at least there had been after Queen Anne’s War first ended and piracy thrived. Over the past few months, though, things had started changing. The Royal Navy was bearing down, and their way of life was coming to an end.

Something, quite frankly, they were ready for.

“We're goin' to see ‘er, aye?” Charles said when they stopped off for a tankard of rum at the tavern. “Worth the sight alone. Bound to fetch a good price.”

“Like a ray o’ sunshine she is,” a random pirate slurred.

“Think she’s as sunny between those soft thighs of hers?” another grunted.

Thomas clenched his mug and took a hearty swig before he said something he regretted.

“What say ye, Brother?” Luke gestured at a woman’s trunk being carried by the door. “Should we go enjoy the show? See what sort of fine lady owns that?”

He nodded, spying the familiar crest on the trunk. One that verified the rumors were true.

The McCullen sisters had been captured.

“I would not miss it.” He downed his rum then got another. “Let us go see Blackbeard’s latest treasure.”

They made their way through a thickening crowd of rambunctious pirates stirred up by what was coming. Better yet, who was coming.

“We hang back,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth to Luke and Charles. “Lest she spy us.”

As it were, he and his brother were taller than most and tended to stand out in a crowd. More so, tended to draw a woman’s eye. So they stopped at the fringes and leaned against the overhang of a building that shielded them from the dais.

Moments later, a woman was dragged onto it and held on display.

“Rose,” he nearly whispered, stunned by the sight of her.

If possible, she was even more beautiful now than she was at sixteen. She wore a pale blue linen dress, and light petticoat, her petite figure as trim as it ever was. With long hair the color of spun gold and big violet soulful eyes, she was exceptional.

As he often did, he recalled their many walks together. Their interesting discussions. She had a sharp mind. A contemplative soul. He had valued their conversations and understood that unlike her sister, she needed time alone to read. Her books were an important part of her life. Who she was. Some called her mousy, but he’d always loved her genteel, reserved nature. But then she’d often honored him with the lively, interesting mind she more often than not kept to herself.

Now there she was, at the mercy of monsters who only meant her harm.

They would crush her spirit in little time. Ruin the beauty of her lovely soul. He clenched his fists and nearly started her way, but thankfully, his brother put a staying hand on his arm to remind him why they were there.

“She’s a beauty all right,” Charles exclaimed, hollering his approval along with everyone else.

“Yes, she is,” Thomas murmured, trying to figure out how to handle this. He had hoped to simply purchase her, but the bidding was already higher than what he had on hand.

“Where’s the other one?” Though he was supposed to be playing a role, Luke scanned the windows of the brothel with far too much relish. “Has Blackbeard let anyone at ‘er yet?”

“Not yet, don’t think.” Charles licked his lips. “Rumor has it she’s tied up and waitin’ for her first customer.”

Luke’s brow crept up, his grin far too devious. “Is that right?”

Thomas shot his brother a warning look reminding him that they had a mission. He better not get distracted when the time came. He had to get her out of there.

If he faltered, it would cost them both their lives.

They had talked at length about this with the crew members they could trust. Everyone knew what was on the line, and all understood the various things that could go wrong. Luke getting hung up on finally having Hannah at his disposal on a bed could put a serious kink in their plan in more ways than one.

The brothers had spent six formative years in Yorktown, Virginia during which they came to know the sisters quite well. While Thomas had enjoyed one sort of relationship with Rose, Luke and Hannah had gone down another road altogether. From what he could tell, their connection was more often a battle of wills than anything else. Somewhat of a love, hate relationship really.

Which made him wonder, should Luke be the one to save Hannah?

Or would she be safer in Thomas’s hands?

While logic told him one thing, his heart told him another when he looked at Rose. He would not trust her safety to anyone but himself.

Men called out various prices, overbidding each other until one grumbled loudly, “’Tis a high price for a wench who cannot speak or even see straight.”

“Who needs her to talk?” another called out. “Just her pretty little mouth around my cock is worth the price!”

“And no need to see straight,” another whooped. “I’ll steer her along just fine.” He thrust his hips and grabbed his crotch. “Right onto my main mast!”

Many chuckled, others outright laughed, but all kept their eyes on Rose, their filthy gazes just imagining the possibilities. Meanwhile, Rose remained aloof, an almost daft expression on her face. What was she up to? For surely she was playing at something. She must be.

“Sometimes I wish I could be one of the characters from my books,” he recalled her saying softly one quiet evening. They sat beneath an old oak behind her uncle’s tobacco plantation, watching the vibrant sunset. “If only for a bit of adventure…and escape.”

Well aware of the sort of man her uncle was, he kept with what might make her smile.

“What sort of adventure?” He had wanted to hold her hand. To finally tell her how he felt about her. “And what sort of character would you be?”

“Oh, something exciting!” Her eyes lit up. “A great warrior destined to save his kingdom.” Her gaze grew sly. “Or maybe a pirate set to plunder a ship!”

“One so honorable,” he grinned, “and one quite the opposite.”

“Well, of course.” She met his grin. “If I am to truly adventure, I must be willing to try everything.” She fluffed her skirt, thinking it over. “I could be anything, anyone.” She shrugged. “I could be more outgoing, like my sister.”

“I quite prefer the way you are,” he’d murmured.

Their gazes had lingered on each other for a telling moment before she cleared her throat and broke the moment by crossing her eyes. “I could even be daft!”

“She’s acting,” he whispered, biting back a grin when he figured it out.

“What’s that?” Charles said.

Thomas shook his head and watched Rose with well-hidden amusement. She was acting like one of the characters from her books, and it was keeping her out of the brothel. It would not keep her untouched for long once she was sold though.

“Anyone set to outbid Big Devil and his rats?” Blackbeard called out. He stroked his beard and considered the crowd. “Anyone?”

Thomas’s gut clenched at the idea of Big Devil getting his meaty paws anywhere near her but knew the moment Blackbeard uttered the question, nobody would dare outbid the vicious pirate. With a bulging belly to match his flabby jowls, Big Devil was notorious for two things.

Demented cruelty and excessive drinking.

If he weren’t daunting enough, his crew known as the rats were named appropriately. More filthy than most, they were Big Devil’s eyes and ears, infesting darkened corners most would not go. Even worse, known for their ability to sniff out opportunity.

Not good when he and Luke needed to get the sisters out of here discreetly.

“Sold,” Blackbeard declared. He gestured at his man to collect payment and then handed her over. “She’s all yours Big Devil.”

“Of all the bloody luck,” Luke muttered, eyeing Big Devil and his rats.

Thomas watched Rose until she was out of sight then gestured that they follow him back to the tavern.

“Big Devil’s a lucky man,” Thomas said, talking in code, telling Charles and Luke they would proceed forward as planned. ‘Luck’ meant he still saw it as the best course of action.

Luke grinned at Charles. “We will have to celebrate with him tonight!”

That meant Charles would buy Big Devil plenty of rum and get him as drunk as possible. Anything to buy Thomas and Luke time. The key was not only to get the sisters out of here but to do so without anyone knowing who took them.

They would get the sisters, rendezvous at their holding where one of their ships would be waiting, and then go from there. Though more of an oversized shanty, their holding suited him and his brother when they were here. It also had the added benefit of being located on a more secluded part of the island. They were set to sail the following morning anyway, so their absence should go relatively unnoticed.

“Ah, smells good.” A pirate inhaled the scent of a woman’s undergarments from one of the sisters’ trunks. “Somebody’s gettin’ their money’s worth with those two.”

“There are bound to be plenty of baubles in there,” one of Big Devil's rats grunted, peering inside with beady, cunning eyes.

“Hey, ain’t ye part of their crew?” someone called out to the rat. “Seen ‘em safely into Blackbeard’s hands?” He half snorted, half chuckled. “Such as that is.”

Naturally, Big Devil would have had a man keeping an eye on things. No doubt with Blackbeard's permission as the two seemed to get along well enough. Thomas and Luke glanced at each other before his brother downed some rum and nonchalantly began rummaging through the trunk as well.

“Aye, I was part of the crew,” the rat confirmed, still eyeing the contents, not overly interested by most of what men were making off with. Yet he was quick to take notice when Luke looted one of several scrolls with an all-too-familiar seal on it. Bloody hell. Luckily no one here recognized their family crest.

“Blackbeard said all is to be spread a little more evenly,” a man declared upon entering. He and another shut the trunk before anything else was taken and hauled it out of there.

Meanwhile, Charles snapped his fingers in front of Luke’s face, trying to pull him out of his stupor. Namely, the faraway look in his eyes as he read the letter. “Are ye with us, friend?”

Luke blinked several times and nodded then waved over some more rum. “Just thirsty is all.”

Thirsty his arse. Where Thomas had exchanged a few letters with Rose after he left years ago, their correspondences by no means matched the number of scrolls he’d spied in that trunk.

“You wrote Hannah?” he nearly muttered when he saw the handwriting and to whom it was addressed. Luke. He knew as he’d done with Rose that his brother had found ways to keep an eye on Hannah over the years but had no idea they’d corresponded.

“What’s it say?” someone called out.

Luke squinted at the letter and shook his head before he shrugged and tossed it aside. “Can’t make out a bloody word.”

He’d certainly made out every word but played his part well. Unfortunately, the warning look he shot Thomas a short while later told him something unforeseen had happened. Whatever those scrolls had said made their plan a whole lot riskier. Especially considering, having sniffed out an opportunity, Big Devil's rat had followed in the wake of that trunk.

Chapter 2

The moment ‘Big Devil’s’ minion left, Rose leaned her head back against the cage she’d been shoved into and bit back a sob. Then another. Then one more before tears finally fell. She clenched the bauble she had managed to keep hidden and prayed for strength.

She had sworn she would not do this, that she would remain a character from her book as Hannah advised, but it was much harder than one would think. Especially considering the sheer terror she’d felt since she and her sister were taken. She was tossed over one shoulder and her sister another until they were plunked down in a skiff and brought ashore.

Hannah being Hannah, hardly remained quiet the whole way, telling them precisely what she thought of their predicament. When that did no good, she promptly began bartering for Rose’s safety. That, of course, was the last thing on these barbarian’s minds so Rose continued playing dumb. Literally. As daft as a poor fool in one of her latest books.

Yet she wished she had played a more courageous part.

That she had fought for Hannah as her sister had done for her.

In truth, she nearly had, and Hannah knew it.

“Do not do it, Sister,” she had warned Rose on a hissing whisper. “Play your part and survive.”

While she understood the logic, it was the hardest thing she had ever done. Almost more than she was capable of when Hannah was dragged away. Her head might have been held high, but pride did little for the ultimate fate her sister faced in the brothel. Then again, it seemed their fates weren’t all that different in the end.

Both were at the mercy of monsters.

“Control yourself, Rose,” she whispered into the darkness, trying for calm when she felt only fear. “What good will tears do you?”

She rolled her shoulders and tried to make things out, but it was so blasted dark her eyes weren’t adjusting. Therefore, paying attention to details coming in so she could get out had been a moot point. She had listened though and heard the snap of a padlock on her cage door.

Best to start there.

She felt around until she put her hands on it. Embracing the persona of a stealthy spy, she pulled a pin from her hair and started fiddling with the lock. And fiddling. Then fiddling some more. They made it sound so easy in her books, but nothing seemed to be happening.

“It’s not quite as easy as that,” came a voice from her past. “You have to move it just right.”

She blinked, not overly surprised she’d think of him right now.

That he would be her voice of reason.

“Right,” she muttered, recalling how he had bent her hairpin just so and showed her. “Usually, if you turn it slowly, you will find the catch and free it.”

So Rose did as he had said and by the Lord's almighty grace, it unlocked. She nearly whooped with joy but instead flew from the cage only to run smack into someone. Before she could scream, a strong hand clamped over her mouth, and she was pulled against a hard body. If that weren’t jarring enough, the voice in her head actually spoke, British accent and all.

“Shh, Rose, it’s me,” he whispered. “Thomas.”

Thomas? Truly?

It could not be.

She must be going mad.

When she struggled, he gripped her tighter. “It is me, Rose. We met in Yorktown when we were ten, shared our first kiss beneath the old oak at fourteen and were secretly betrothed by sixteen.”

She froze, stunned.

It really was Thomas.

“My quartermaster can only keep your captor off for so long,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek, his scent not all that different than it had been in their youth. Spicy and masculine.

“We must go.” He paused. “Do you trust me? Can I remove my hand?”

She barely heard him over her pounding heart but nodded.

“Thomas?” she gasped the moment he removed his hand. She tried to see him in the dark but had no luck. “I don’t understand. How are you here?”

“I will explain later,” he said gruffly. “Once I get you to safety.” He put a finger to her lips, evidently seeing more clearly than her. “Until then, you must be quiet.”

“All right,” she whispered against his finger, trying to gather her thoughts. Trying to make sense of him being here. Real. Not lost to her as she thought he was.

“Big Devil has men posted out front, so we will have to go another way.” He pulled her after him through an exit hidden behind a tapestry of some sort based on the scratchy material. Though she could see a little better outside, she was still unable to make out his features as they traveled down a narrow set of stairs to a dark pathway between buildings. Lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rumbled.

“We need to get my sister,” she whispered. “They have her too.”

“We know,” he whispered back. “We’re getting her.”

They zigzagged in and out of several dark alleyways before he yanked her between two buildings right before several men rushed by heading in the direction they had just come. It was impossible to make out their frantic hushed words until a man behind them talked a little louder.

“Big Devil will have our hide if we don’t have her ready to talk quick-like,” he grumbled. “His rum ain’t going to last long.”

“He’ll be rewardin’ us not punishin’ us after he talks to her,” another assured, in swift pursuit. “After all, it was our quick thinkin’ that followed those scrolls and learned what we did.”

“Bloody hell,” Thomas whispered. He shifted in the darkness as though seeing if that was the last of them then pulled Rose after him. They continued between buildings before they left everything behind and made their way through trees. The ocean crashed nearby, but she couldn’t actually see it. Warm wind gusted and a heavy raindrop hit her cheek.

Though tempted to speak, she sensed silence was best until Thomas said otherwise. As it turned out, that was a short time later when they broke free of the vegetation and came upon a small, stone dwelling near the shore. Free of the trees and cloying darkness, she finally got a few glimpses of him in the lightning flashes.

A man who by no means looked like the boy from her youth.

If possible, he seemed even taller than the last time she saw him, his shoulders broader, his dark brown hair longer, now interwoven with small braids and beads. He wore a waist coat, black breeches and black boots with several weapons tucked on his person.

“Are you a…” she stuttered, barely able to get the word out, hardly believing it.

“Yes, Rose, I’m a pirate.” Thomas nodded at a short, wiry man who melted out of the darkness. “This is my quartermaster, Charles.” He glanced in the direction of the town then looked at Charles. “Did he get her then?”

“He got her,” he grunted moments before her sister appeared out of the night.

“Hannah,” she cried when her sister embraced her. “I am so glad you are well, Sister.”

“I told you I would be.”

She had said no such thing.

“How are you, Rose?” Hannah squeezed her waist then shoulders in concern. “Are you well? Did they hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” she assured. “You?”

“Well enough,” her sister replied, her voice a little hoarse. “Just muddling through.”

Muddling through? “I dare say this is a bit more than that!”

“That would depend on who your hero is,” Hannah muttered, uncharacteristically flustered.

“They’re scoutin’ the shoreline, Cap'n,” a pirate reported to Thomas.

“Aye, then?” Thomas replied. “You’re sure?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “Lookin’ for any fool ship departing in this weather.”

Thomas murmured something to the pirate she couldn’t make out before the man rushed off.

“I will see you soon, Sister.” Hannah squeezed her hand. “Until then, stay safe.”

Dread kicked her pulse up a notch. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we have to split up for now. We will be far safer that way.” She embraced Rose one more time. “I will see you soon, all right?”

“But…but—”

“No buts.” Hannah met her eyes and spoke with confidence. “We have to shake the beasts on our tail then we will regroup.” She nodded hello to Thomas and narrowed her eyes in warning. “You best take good care of her.”

Then she was gone, fled into the night.

Rose had no chance to stop Hannah before Thomas scooped her up and plunked her in a skiff, saying nothing more than, “I will explain once we board my ship.”

His ship? She peered out at the sea and spied an impressive brigantine seen only by lightning flashes. Unfortunately, the waters grew rougher with the incoming storm, and her stomach flipped several times over on the short row. By the time they were aboard, she imagined she was rather green.

Thomas evidently understood her plight because he urged her to sit once they reached his cabin. From what she could see between lightning flashes, he mixed powder with something he poured into a mug. He handed it over and urged her to drink. “It will settle your stomach.”

She flinched at its oddly pungent spicy aroma. “What is this?”

“A ginger concoction.” He sat behind his desk without lighting a candle. “Drink it down, Rose.”

Like her sister, he had a tone she’d always instinctually listened to. Probably because at one time she had trusted him as much as Hannah. Yet now he was a pirate and undoubtedly not to be trusted.

“If I wanted you dead, I would not have saved you,” he pointed out, seeing her hesitation.

“Dead?” Actually, the thought had not crossed her mind, but it certainly did now. “I was thinking more along the lines that you were drugging me.”

His brow swept up. “Why would I want to drug you?”

“Well, I don't know.” Yet a couple theories popped into her head straight away. “Perhaps you intend to sell me off to someone else and need to keep me quiet until then. Or,” though she shouldn’t give him any ideas the words rolled right off her tongue, “perhaps you intend to have your way with me and would rather I not put up a fight.”

“It seems the sort of literature you read has changed considerably since last we saw each other.” He eyed her with amusement. The light layer of stubble on his chiseled face made him look roguish. “Rest assured, my dear, I do not intend to sell you off. Nor,” she swore a devious twinkle lit his pale green eyes, “would I need to drug you to have my way with you.”

“So you would force me then?” she blurted.

“No, darling,” he said softly, a sultry arrogance to his voice. “You would come quite willingly, I'm sure.”

“Dear heavens,” she whispered, wide-eyed, unsure what to make of him now. He left her in a flustered state similar to but not quite the same as the gallant lad from her youth. It was a more dangerous state fueled by the dark promise in his eyes. A feeling of overwhelming heat. A blossoming ache between her thighs. “You really have changed, haven’t you?

“Just drink, Rose.” His steady gaze never left her. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, and wind howled. Waves tossed the ship about precariously. “You will feel much better once you do.”

Queasier by the moment, she eyed the liquid then him, wanting to see him better lest she need to flee. It was unlikely she would get far drugged, let alone on a ship already at sea, but it would make her feel better. “Might you light a candle?”

“No,” he said. “We must not draw any attention to the ship.” His gaze softened and a bit of the Thomas she once knew surfaced. “I will not hurt you, love. You have my word.”

“The word of a pirate,” she murmured.

“The word of an old friend.”

“I recall us being a tad more than that,” she whispered, pressing her lips together against a wash of emotion. Against old anger and hurt.

“I recall the same.” It seemed a similar pain flashed in his eyes, but it must have been her imagination or perhaps a play on light through the window. Because surely he cared nothing for her. How could he after what he had done?

More so what he never did.

Setting aside heartache for frustration, and a pressing need to quell her nausea, she finally drank the foul concoction. Thomas watched her with an unreadable expression. What was he thinking? Did he recall their many times together? Or were they not worth remembering? Clearly, he recalled proposing to her. His promise. But then maybe not based on his actions since.

“How are you feeling now?” he eventually murmured. “Is your stomach better?”

Surprisingly, it was. “Yes, actually…thank you.”

When he offered a small smile, she almost smiled in return but held back, unsure if happiness, better yet, a sense of security in general, was warranted just yet. As it were, she had been taken by yet another pirate. By him. “Why are you here?” She shook her head. “The last I knew you were in the Royal Navy.”

She remembered all-too-well the day he had sailed off to war. How terrified she’d been for him. The British were fighting the French for possession of the continent. Battling that would take him from the Carolina coastline to the New England frontier. She had hoped he would ultimately be stationed in Yorktown, a place just as much at risk from French attacks and Indians alike, but he was not.

In fact, she never saw him again.

“I received a Letter of Marque and ended up becoming a privateer during the war,” he divulged. “When that ended I took to pirating.”

Rather than come home to me? Rather than marry me as you said you would? She bit back anger and tried to remain focused on the matter at hand.

“Why piracy of all things, Thomas?” The boy she remembered had not been suited to this life at all. He had been caring. Kind. Certainly not a criminal.

“Because I was good at it,” he replied simply.

She frowned, certain there was more to it. A man did not turn to a life of crime without a reason. Especially when he had someone who loved him to return home to. Yet here he was, a pirate through and through. Which brought her mind back to their immediate situation. She had to stay alert because she knew nothing of the man sitting in front of her. Nothing of his life and what he was truly capable of now.

“Who has Hannah?” she asked. “And where have they taken her?”

“My brother has her.” His lips thinned into a grim line, his words damning. “She is safe, Rose…it is you who is not.”

No sooner did he say it than Charles pounded on the door. “All hands on deck! Trouble’s afoot, Cap’n!”

Chapter 3

“How many?” Having ordered Rose to remain in his cabin and hold tight to something to brace herself, Thomas took to the helm and narrowed his eyes through the driving rain.

“Two ships closing in fast,” Charles reported. “Big Devil for sure.”

Thomas cursed, grateful at least that lightning flashes kept the ships visible. The downfall, however, was his own ship being seen or worse yet his crew being struck by that very lightning.

Either way, they had to shake these ships.

He carried a few light cannons, which was good and bad. Bad because it meant he had to get it right the first time. Good because it meant he had far better maneuverability than his counterpart. Not only did Big Devil carry more guns, but they were heavier.

He met Charles’s eyes and gave him the signal to make ready the cannons.

His quartermaster nodded and roared the order to prepare for battle. “Beat to quarters!”

Excellent sailors all, the crew knew what to do and how to do it quickly despite the weather. They also knew enough to strap down and brace themselves for a wild ride.

Charles gave them the go ahead, and they lowered a sail to slow the ship, then strapped off. Taking into consideration the wind, waves, and current, Thomas cranked the wheel just enough. If he turned too fast, the ship would flip. Not enough and they would never get the guns into position before the enemy fired at them.

As soon as they were ready, and he deemed it the perfect moment, Thomas roared, “Boom about,” warning his men to duck as he cut the wheel and the boom swung.

The ship leaned over so far one of the sails nearly touched the water before he cut the wheel back. As he had hoped, his ship, fine vessel that it was, took the turn perfectly lining his guns up with the ships.

He held his hand out to stay Charles from giving the order quite yet.

Wait.

Wait.

Just a bit more.

Account for the seconds it would take for his order to reach the right ears then…perfect.

“Fire everything we have,” he roared. His order was repeated by Charles then down the line to the master gunner below.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

His guns went off in rapid succession, and he got lucky. They not only hit Big Devil’s main mast but his hull.

The enemy's ship would sink.

But not the other.

Thomas was out of cannons and attacking at close range would be unwise. He was outnumbered and unlike his brother, too careful a sailor to risk hand to hand combat in seas this rough. He could sink his ship or lose men to the dark waters before they even had a chance to fight.

Thomas’s men hooted and hollered with approval when Big Devil’s main mast split and crashed down.

“Boom about,” Thomas roared again, cutting the wheel back in the other direction.

Time to flee and flee fast.

Once they were facing away from the ship, the sail was raised again, and they lurched forward.

“Bloody good hit, Cap’n,” Charles praised. “That’ll slow ‘em down for sure.”

He turned the wheel over to his quartermaster and nodded with approval. By hitting Big Devil’s ship, they forced the other vessel to stop and save their leader. Had they hit the other one, Big Devil would have likely kept going and they would have had a hellish time escaping him.

“They’ll follow soon enough,” Thomas said. “But if we keep this wind we should reach our destination with time to spare.” He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Well done, mate. Keep me apprised.”

Charles nodded and took a hearty swig of rum.

Thomas praised his men for a job well done and made his way back to his cabin.

As to be expected, Rose was white as a ghost, clutching his bed of all things. Regrettably, it wasn't the way he wanted her to. When that time came, she would not be trembling in fear but writhing in bliss.

“Is…did you…are we…” she stuttered, taking a swig from his rum bottle.

Amused, he wondered how many she had taken before that.

“Everything is fine.” He drew the curtains, lit a candle, sat behind his desk and decided the less she knew, for now, the better. “We are clear of trouble.”

Wide-eyed, she stared at him for a moment before she realized where she was and made her way back to the chair, stumbling a bit. Whether that had to do with the storm or the rum was yet to be seen.

She sat and primly adjusted her skirts, her hands shaking ever-so-slightly. After making a project out of smoothing her hair and the rest of her attire, she took another rather lengthy swig, inhaled deeply and finally looked his way, her words matter of fact. “You are soaked.”

“I am,” he confirmed.

“Are you not going to change?”

Used to being wet, he pulled another bottle of rum out of a drawer and downed several long swallows. “I will eventually.”

Not for the first time, he scanned her person for the bauble. Where was it? His man had confirmed she still had it in her possession in Virginia, or this plan might have gone differently. Yet his informant said nothing about her always wearing it. Hannah’s letters had provided that tidbit.

Hence Big Devil’s pursuit.

Yet he saw no signs of his mother’s brooch. The family heirloom he had given her when he asked her to become his wife. A keepsake he was shocked to discover she never parted with.

“So Hannah is safe?” she said, reverting back to what they were talking about before. Her eyes narrowed. “You said she was with your brother.” Her hand fluttered over her heart in distress. “Please tell me Luke does not have her.”

“He is the only brother I have, Rose, so yes, Luke has Hannah,” he replied. “Which you should be grateful for. He is an exceptional sailor and soldier.” He shook his head. “They will never get close to her.”

“Yet it sounded like Hannah was staying on the island.” She cocked her head in consideration. “If we were just pursued, that means they know you took me.” She offered a dainty hiccup, remarkably level minded considering the rum was most assuredly having an effect. “Which means they will likely try to track down your brother too.” Her eyes widened. “All the pirates on that island will.”

“For starters, Big Devil’s pride would disallow him from telling anyone that I stole you, nor would he risk others getting to you first.” Or, should he say, what she had in her possession. Seeing no reason to worry her, he fibbed. “As for leaving men behind to seek out my brother, it is unlikely. He does not know Luke has Hannah, so there is no reason to pursue my brother on Blackbeard's behalf.”

She need not know that Luke was baiting a trap for the crew that Big Devil undoubtedly left behind when he spied Thomas's ship.

He took another hearty swig and continued. “From what I could tell the bulk of his crew were pursuing us.” He shook his head and told a half truth. “They will not be bothering anyone for some time.”

“How much time?

He forgot just how sharp she was.

“A long time,” he assured, lying through his teeth but it truly was best for her to remain calm. Worrying would get them nowhere. Remaining one step ahead and prepared would.

Time to redirect the conversation to what mattered most. “Rose, where is your brooch?”

“My brooch?” She touched the folds of material at her waist. A frown tugged at her lips. “Oh, no.” She stood and patted the area again before she shook out her skirt. “Where is it?”

He was taken aback by the genuine anxiety and sadness in her eyes.

“It meant that much then,” he said softly, speaking before he could stop himself.

“Of course it did,” she said just as softly, sinking back into the chair. When her gaze lingered on him for a moment, he wondered if she remembered the day he gave it to her. The bright future they had envisioned. If she did, it was fleeting because she promptly refocused on the mystery at hand. Her eyes narrowed in thought then widened in understanding. “She took it!”

“Who took it?”

“Hannah,” she exclaimed. She shook her head, amazed. “I thought it was strange when she squeezed my waist. She must have lifted it then.” One eye narrowed as though homing in on a suspect. “How positively devious of her!”

“Bloody hell.” He raked a hand through his hair. Had his brother known she was going to do that? Not that it changed things all that much as long as Big Devil thought Rose had it.

“Why would she do that?” Rose said slowly. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Why would Hannah take my brooch?”

Though he debated how much he should tell her, it was time to give her a tad more truth. “Because Big Devil is after it.”

Her brows snapped together. “I thought he was after me.”

“That too, I am sure.” He shook his head. “But you are not the grand prize.” His gaze lingered on her eyes, and he found himself saying what was in his heart when he swore he would not. “At least not for him.”

Hell and damnation, she deserved his anger, not sweet words. The time for such sentiment was long gone. Part of their past.

Or so he kept telling himself.

The moment stretched before she finally cleared her throat and spoke. “Please tell me everything, Thomas.” She shook her head. “All of it. From start to finish. The whole story. Why the brooch is so important. How they know about it. How safe my sister really is.” She tilted her head in question. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Most importantly, why it is we are not turning back immediately to help her.”

He sighed and considered her before he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It all began several fortnights ago,” he said. “When your captain sent a missive to Blackbeard and struck a deal.”

“A deal,” she whispered her eyes round once more. “Our captain?”

“Yes, he promised our magistrate an expensive ship laden with worldly goods and finery.” He perked a brow. “As well as two fine ladies of untouchable beauty and unquestionable virtue.” Sadly, this sort of thing happened far too often. “In exchange, Blackbeard would give your captain and seamen who stood by him a place amongst his crew. Prestige and a standing in our society such as it is.”

“Such as it is,” she murmured, merely repeating him while putting the pieces together. “So he purposefully put us in pirate waters.” She shook her head. “It had nothing to do with the storm.”

“No.” He swigged from the bottle, eyeing her all the while. “He and several of his crewmates joined Blackbeard and his crew. The rest were slaughtered.”

“Dear Lord,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a moment before she opened them to his. “What does any of that have to do with my brooch though? It is but a sentimental bauble that few knew about.”

Was it then? How sentimental exactly?

“Did you know your sister wrote to Luke?” he said, fairly certain he already knew the answer.

Her brows flew up. “I highly doubt that.”

“Well, she did,” he replied, still frustrated with his brother’s revelation. “Worse yet, she kept his letters when she was supposed to have discarded them. Something I only learned about when her trunk was being rummaged through in the tavern and the correspondences between her and Luke were discovered.”

The only beneficial thing that came out of those letters was what he learned about Rose. According to Hannah and Luke's inappropriate missives, she remained virginal. It seemed her husband was waiting for her to be ready before consummating the marriage, which was all but unheard of. For that alone, Thomas was grateful to the man. It said a lot about his character. Truthfully, he didn’t think he would have been able to do the same. Not when it came to Rose.

“Oh, dear, Hannah said all that in her letters?” she said softly, not knowing the half of it. She shook her head again. “Are you quite sure?” She flinched, focused solely on Luke and Hannah rather than the miscreants going through her sister's belongings. “You do recall the state of affairs between those two?”

Did he ever. How to phrase how peculiar things had truly become between them, though?

“From what I can tell, they were…a different sort of letter…each time.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pray, tell.”

“Well, you remember how they often goaded each other?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “It was tiresome.”

“It was,” he agreed. “And you would have thought with such behavior things would have ended with good riddance when we left only they did not.”

“To whom did she give the letters? How did they find Luke?” Rose’s cheeks reddened in unmistakable frustration. Moments later, he discovered why when she felt the need to explain herself rather than focus on the topic at hand. “I would have written you again…” Her brows furrowed and her chin notched, as she clearly conversed more with herself than him. “Or maybe I would not have.”

“Likely for the best,” he said dryly, reminding her most pointedly why they did not continue corresponding. “I doubt your fiancé would have approved.”

“You knew then?” Troubling silence settled before sadness flickered in her eyes, followed by a scowl. Just like that, her focus was back on Hannah and Luke. “We are not talking about us but them.”

Were they? Because it certainly did not sound like it.

He bit back frustration, remembering far too well the crushing moment he’d learned of her betrothal. She had said she would wait for him no matter how long he was gone. Yet she had not. She hadn’t kept her word but instead turned to another.

Loved another.

“Luke and Hannah evidently exchanged letters over the years,” he stated bluntly, no longer keeping things vague for her delicate ears, “of a sexual nature.”

Her eyes grew round as saucers. “Of a…a…what?”

“You heard me.”

“Surely, not clearly.”

“Very clearly,” he snapped, torn between being aggravated with her for breaking his heart and at his brother for his frivolous dalliance and the peril it had put them in. “Their correspondences were most certainly sexual….of a daring nature some might say.”

“Of a daring nature,” she mouthed, baffled before she gasped. “You remember the promise he made her when you two went off to war, yes?” She swigged the rum, likely trying to make sense of Luke and Hannah's interplay. More than that, Luke's veiled threat. “What he would do to her when next he saw her?”

“A threat not all that heeded I would say,” he murmured. “Considering the letters they exchanged.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I doubt he will see his promise through.”

Truth be told, based on their letters there was a damn good chance Luke would tie Hannah up and show her just where her flirtatious, teasing nature got her. Back then, his departing words had sounded like a threat of rape, but those letters had made clear it was more a cat and mouse game between them. A game she seemed eager to play.

But then that had been from the safety of her uncle’s plantation.

Now she was someplace else entirely with a man who most definitely meant to have her. Did he think Luke would take her against her will? Never. But he did not doubt for a moment he would bend her will to serve his purpose. A will that would bend easily enough he imagined.

“You mean to say you doubt Luke will see through his threat,” Rose muttered under her breath. “You were the one who made promises.”

“As did you,” he bit back.

Rose went to reply sharply by the looks of it but gathered herself and primly smoothed a skirt that was bloody well smooth enough. “I will not have you bait me, Thomas.” She shot him a look, the rum making her bold. “Stay on track.”

Bait her? Toward what end? An argument about her turning from her promise? He saw the clear winner in that discussion.

She cocked her head. “What do Luke’s letters have to do with my brooch?”

“You mean my brooch,” he said tightly before he could stop himself. But at the moment he damn well meant it.

Rose jerked back a little as if she’d been slapped, blinked several times then tore her eyes from his. “Yes, your brooch.” She pulled her shoulders back, gathered herself, and looked at him again. “What is the connection?”

“Luke talked about the bauble,” he said. “And those letters were in the trunk.” He shook his head. “Thankfully, he never used his name, so his anonymity remains intact.”

Her hand drifted to her chest where he suspected she typically wore the brooch. “I can only assume it had value to someone…other than me.”

“It did,” he conceded, finally telling her the truth about the dainty rather plain, floral brooch. “Though it was underwhelming, it was extremely valuable. Of the royal line and the only one of its kind, it ended up with my family, handed down generation upon generation. It is hundreds of years old.”

“I thought it a tad more becoming than underwhelming,” she said softly. “It was truly lovely.” She swallowed and didn’t quite meet his eyes. “A flower for your rose, I believe you once said.”

It was hard to imagine a time he’d spoken such romantic words, but they had been said. Back in a time where saying such a thing to a woman came easily. Back when he meant it with all his heart.

“Its appearance matters little.” He moved the discussion along before he got lost in her eyes. Before he forgave all and pulled her into his arms. Now was not the time for that. There might never be. “What matters is its extraordinary value.”

“Surely it is not that great,” she murmured.

“It is very great, indeed, Rose,” he confirmed. “Valuable enough to make a host of men very wealthy several lifetimes over.” He shook his head and gave her the cold, hard truth. “Enough so that Big Devil will never stop until he acquires it.”

Chapter 4

Overwhelmed by not only the battling earlier but by everything she had learned, Rose sat quietly and tried to gather her thoughts. Thomas, in turn, downed his rum and waited patiently for her to speak, much like he had in their youth. She’d always appreciated that about him and was glad to see that aspect of his personality unchanged.

How could Hannah have kept such information from her? Not just her correspondence with Luke over the years but the astounding fact that she had a way to contact him. That Rose might have had the same with Thomas. She scowled and shook her head, putting that thought from her mind. Better that they had stopped after the first few letters when he was still in the Royal Navy.

Yet she remained curious. “How did Hannah get the letters to Luke?”

Thomas shrugged. “They had their ways.”

She arched a brow. “And what ways were those?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why, when I did not know they were even corresponding?”

True. Still. Though she meant to leave it alone, she could not. She had to know. “Did you ever think to write me again?”

“No.”

She pressed her lips together, folded her hands in her lap, and fought a wave of emotion. How could he have grown so callous? She thought of his endless selfless gestures when they were young. Him reading to her as they strolled through the forest one cool spring morning.

“You are going to trip,” she had warned gaily, amused as he avoided branches and rocks, his eyes never leaving the page. He was a handsome sight in his navy uniform, issued by British Admiralty. A grey kersey jacket, lined with red cotton, and fifteen brass buttons. A waist coat of Welsh red with eighteen brass buttons, paired with red kersey breeches and double soled shoes. His cravat was tidy, and his hair neatly combed.

“I am too coordinated to trip,” he assured. “Besides, how could I trip when I am single-handedly assuring the hero makes it home to his love by reading this to you?” He winked at her. “Just as I intend to make it home to you.”

“I hope so.”

“Without doubt, my love.” He pulled her into his arms before she could dart away. “You know that, right? That I will always return to you?”

Her heart leapt though fear cut through her.

“I know,” she murmured but worried still.

“Do you?” He tilted her chin and searched her eyes. “I will help win this war then come home and marry you.” He fingered the brooch she had pinned to her dress. “Wear this and think of me until then.”

“Always,” she had whispered before his lips closed over hers.

“What happened to us, Thomas?” she said softly, taking in his appearance. Not tidy with gleaming buttons but casual without a cravat to be found. Rather, she could see the top of his chest. A rather sun darkened, muscular chest at that. “How did we go from them to this?”

When he looked at her in question, Rose shook her head. “Never mind.” She sighed. “In truth, it no longer matters.”

“No,” he agreed. His eyes lingered on her, his demeanor hesitant.

She cocked her head. “What is it?”

“Why did you still wear it?” he said. “Why did you wear my brooch all this time?”

Something Hannah and Luke had apparently felt the need to discuss in their letters.

While it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she felt lost without it that was confessing too much. He might have saved her thus far, but he did not deserve all her deepest feelings in exchange. Not after the heartbreak he had caused her.

“Habit I suppose,” she murmured. “It went well with most anything and as you said, was underwhelming enough not to draw too much attention.”

Now her sister had it. What good would that do?

“Why do you suppose Hannah took it?” She frowned. “Some might say to draw the enemy away from me but how are they to—” She widened her eyes when the truth occurred to her. “Oh, no, she means to let them know she has it, so they leave me alone, doesn’t she? To put her life on the line once again?”

“And my brother’s,” he muttered. “Based on her actions, I can only assume she means to try but fear naught, my brother will not allow her the opportunity.”

“Cap’n.” A heavy rap came at the door. “A word?”

“Aye, enter,” he called out.

Charles opened the door and nodded at Rose before addressing Thomas. “No sign of ‘em yet but that don’t mean nothin’. Want to wait ‘til morn for a better look or head north-northwest now?”

No sign of who? She was under the impression they were in the clear. And why would they go in that direction when her uncle was southeast?

“North,” Thomas said softly. “And keep the lights to a minimum.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Charles nodded again at Rose. “Ma’am.”

“I thought we were in the clear?” she said the moment the door shut. “And why are we heading north?

“It is best to remain vigilant and assume more might follow.” He sighed, sat back, his gaze softening this time when he looked at her. “As to heading north, I am afraid I have bad news, Rose.”

What kind of news could he have when they hadn’t seen each other in years?

“Go on,” she said, curious.

“As you know, your uncle tended to mistreat not just his kin, but his business partners,” he said. “Behavior that ended up having consequences not just for him but for you and your sister.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

He knew far more than she anticipated. She could see it in his eyes.

“You knew we were not returning to Virginia, didn’t you?” she said. “That he lost the plantation?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“What else do you know?” She considered him. “Obviously, about my husband.”

“Yes.”

Did he know about John’s untimely death in a carriage accident? “And what happened to him?”

“My condolences.”

She nodded thanks, not sure what else to say about it. John was a marriage of convenience that benefited her uncle. Though a kind man, he had by no means been a love connection. Not when her stubborn heart belonged to another despite him abandoning her.

“What is the bad news?” she prompted.

“I am afraid your uncle was betrayed by his men all the way around,” he replied. “He did not fare as well as you and your sister, however.”

“Oh, heavens.” She squeezed her hands together, bracing for sadness, but not surprisingly, felt very little. “What happened?”

“He was attacked where he ported,” he said. “His ship and worldly goods were taken then his life.”

“I see,” she murmured, saying a prayer for his soul. Even the cruelest deserved redemption.

“Have you any kin left in Virginia?” he said softly. “Somewhere I can take you?”

“No,” she whispered and met his eyes. “But then I imagine you know that having followed me so closely all these years.” She narrowed her eyes, sure her hunch was right. That he had not learned about her situation via those letters or even from her traitorous captain. It was in the way he looked at her. Spoke to her. The emotions she sensed simmering beneath the surface of his well-practiced façade. “Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong.” His gaze was back to being unreadable. “But I only know what my man could discover.”

Which was clearly not that she often wore the brooch.

“Your man?” A strange little thrill swept through her, followed by renewed aggravation. He cared enough to spy on her yet remained afar when he promised he would come home.

“Yes,” he said. “Someone who was my eyes and ears on occasion.”

“Why?” She shook her head. “What was the point?”

“I would think that is clear.”

Her heart leapt into her throat until he continued.

“For situations such as the one you and Hannah just found yourselves in.”

“And we are thankful.” Though she should not give a damn, her heart sank. “Truly.”

What would she do now? Where would she go?

“There is much to discuss,” he went on as if following her thoughts. But then he had always been good at that, hadn’t he? She supposed, though, at the moment, it was just the logical thing to say.

“We will talk more on the morn,” he continued. “First, you should eat and get a good night’s rest.”

“No food, but thank you.” She shook her head, noting the swaying ship. “I best not test my stomach until we are in smoother waters.”

“Regrettably, I haven’t a change of clothes for you.” He gestured at his bed. “But I do have a warm, dry place for you to sleep.”

“What about you?” She frowned. “Where will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He stood. “I will find a spot.”

“No,” she said before she could stop herself. The truth was she didn’t want to be left alone with a ship full of pirates just beyond the door. “Please stay here.” She glanced from the floor next to the bed, to him, trying to keep her tone even. As if the idea of sleeping in the same quarters didn’t affect her. “I would feel safer with you here.”

He sank back into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and considered her. “You realize that if I remain here, it will not be on the floor.”

Well, he certainly was not the gentleman he used to be, was he? No, he was a pirate. A ruffian like the rest of them.

A ruffian, however, who had saved her life.

She glanced from the bed to him, remembering well his scent on it, and managed a jerky nod, hoping she did not regret this. “But of course…you will sleep on the bed.”

“With you.”

“With me,” she managed, taking another swig of rum.

“Good then.” He offered a roguish grin, pulled off his wet shirt, and revealed far more muscles than she anticipated. “Let’s get you into bed then, sweetheart.”

Chapter 5

Though he could have removed his shirt elsewhere, he just couldn’t help himself, enjoying her reaction. The man she once knew would have never done such a thing but the man he was today would, so she best get used to it. At least for now.

Her heavy swallow and wide eyes told him she was indeed chaste. Something that appealed to him far more than he expected. He was relieved she had not been touched by another man when she should have always been his.

Might still be.

Would she give herself over to him? Spread her sweet thighs as he had long imagined? Cry out his name in the heat of passion?

He scowled and tied his hair back, trying to push aside the unwelcome thoughts. He did not want to care about her again. Should not. But from the moment he’d heard she was in trouble, his bloody heart had taken the reins. Now here he was counting down the seconds until she was in his bed, not because he intended to lie with her but simply because she would be close.

When he stood, she stood, wringing her hands nervously. Shockingly enough, she glanced from the bed to him and did the absolute last thing he saw coming. She turned and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Sleeping in this dress would be very uncomfortable. Would you untie me?”

How had she gone from thinking he would sleep on the floor to this?

While the man he once was would have asked her if she were sure, the man he was now was far less foolish. He did as she asked, taking his time unlacing her dress and stays when he could have done it far faster. He wished she had not moved aside her hair. That he might have done it for her if only to touch it again and feel its silkiness. How often had he thought of touching it again over the years?

Too many times to count.

She tensed when he stood a little closer than necessary, but did not move away. He inhaled deeply, pulling in her flowery scent, amazed she still smelled so good considering the day she’d had. As always, everything about her drew him. From her slight figure to her soft skin. From the way she held her shoulders, one a mere smidge more forward than the other as though she were half in this world and half curled over a book lost in one of her stories again.

He guaranteed no one but him noticed either. But then no one knew how often her imagination truly got away with her. To the point on one occasion, that she lost all good sense.

Or, as he reflected years later, might have made more sense than he realized.

“We could do it,” she had argued, determination in her eyes that summer morning when they were fourteen. “There are plenty of opportunities in other colonies.” She nodded. “Plymouth is prospering. We could go there and start anew in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.” Her eyes met his, hopeful. “You and I, Hannah, and even Luke could do well there. We could start a new life.”

He knew her overly strict uncle thought nothing of bringing a switch to her and Hannah so understood her desire to flee. Regardless, she needed to understand how foolish her proposal was. “This is not a story in one of your books, Rose.” He shook his head. “Life in the north is not easy. Winters are hard, summers are fleeting.”

“But there is plenty of work,” she countered. “Commerce is flourishing. You could boat-build, or take to fishing or whaling. Or perhaps try your hand at timber and fur trading.” She fanned her face in the oppressive August heat. “And a fleeting summer would not be such a bad thing.” Fresh hope lit her eyes. “The four of us could marry, just pretend, of course, sail to Plymouth and start a new life.”

“Pretend to marry?” he had replied, amused. “Me and you then?”

“Yes.” She blushed and didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Why not?”

“I do not know.” He shrugged. “It seems so…”

“So what?” She looked at him curiously. “Do you not want to marry me? For pretend…of course.”

“Of course,” he murmured, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose.”

Her brows flew up. “You suppose?”

“I just mean,” he began feeling all turned around, mostly because he realized the idea very much appealed to him. Not a fake marriage though and certainly not so they could better establish themselves elsewhere.

“What I mean,” he continued, setting things straight, “is that you are letting your imagination get away with you, Rose.”

Now, standing here on this ship, looking back on the years, he wondered where they might have been had he allowed her imagination to flourish. Because he knew full well, their marriage would not have been a sham. Would they have made it safely to Plymouth and started a new life? But then what would have happened to her when he went off to fight? Because he would have whether drafted or not.

So in the end, things went as they went.

How he often wished they had gone differently though.

“Come, let’s rest.” He stepped away before he gave into temptation and pulled her close.

He tried to keep his eyes off her, but it was damn near impossible when she removed her dress and petticoat. He was no stranger to women, and typically able to control himself, but then they weren’t this woman.

They weren’t Rose.

The outline of her slender body through her shift was clear enough in the candlelight, her curves slight but very much there. Her breasts were on the small side but perky and tempting. How often had he imagined testing their weight in his palm? Spreading her soft thighs and exploring all that had been lost to him for so long?

He nearly groaned, his cock hard and ready for her.

Blast it, her bloody shift was too thin.

He frowned and considered the garment. It was clear her uncle had been neglecting his nieces because her shift was near threadbare, the material far too worn for a woman of her station. When was the last time new clothing was made for her? He glanced at the faded dress she had removed. He had thought it a dress meant for traveling so of little consequence but now wondered.

Not for the first time, he wished he could strangle her uncle. But it seemed fate had taken care of that for him. Oh, but to have run his blade through the man, though. Her parents had died young, and the girls became more of an obligation to their uncle than anything. He was convinced the man only took them in for the sake of appearances. Sadly, it had been a horrid fate. They became as much a whipping board for him as his slaves.

Something Thomas and Luke could do little about.

Not only were they mere lads at the time but sons of the governor, an overly strict man who considered the sisters’ uncle an ally. Between the two, they held considerable power at the time, and scandal would not do. Moreover, how they treated their wards was very much their own business. So except for Thomas and Luke, a blind eye had been turned and the girls got the switch far too often.

Hannah more than Rose, protecting her little sister when she could.

Leaving the girls to go to war had been particularly difficult because he and Luke knew what they were leaving them with. Yet their country needed them, and their father would have it no other way. They would fight the bloody French come hell or high water.

Thomas continued mulling their uncle over after he blew out the candle, opened the curtains, and settled under the blankets. Because he had despised the man so, he’d given little thought to him over the years. More specifically, what he might be capable of. Which, in retrospect, was foolish. Their uncle was very much the sort who would have felt the girls owed him something for room and board.

Which meant he was the sort who would have seen opportunity in their beauty.

He was about to ask Rose just how much opportunity, but her steady breathing stopped him. Remarkably enough, she had already dozed off. But then that wasn't so surprising considering the rum she had drunk and the ordeal she’d been through. A more traumatic experience by far then crawling into bed with him in nothing more than a shift.

Painfully aroused not to mention concerned about who might be following, he slept very little and woke early. As it happened, Rose had moved closer as the night progressed until she cuddled against him. While he knew it was an instinctual need to be safe, he liked to think it was more.

That she craved his closeness as much as he did hers.

His gaze lingered on her for a stretch before he dragged his eyes away. She was too beautiful, lying there with her golden locks splayed across his pillow. Far too tempting for a man who had finally managed to get his erection under control mere hours before.

So he dressed and made his way on deck, joining Charles at the helm. “Any sign of trouble?”

“Not yet.” His quartermaster squinted south. “But as ye said, best to assume Big Devil is following.”

“Yes, it is.” They had no choice but to fight on land next time, though. “No changes of heart with the crew?”

“No,” Charles confirmed. “We’re with ye to the end, Cap’n.”

He nodded, glad to hear it. “Why not get some rest?”

Charles shook his head. “I got a wink or two overnight.” He offered a cheeky grin. “Lookin’ forward to more fightin’ ahead.”

“Could be a ways off,” he reminded.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Charles said. “Either way, I’ll sleep when I need to.”

That was their way of life, so he knew his quartermaster would be fine.

As it turned out, Rose slept the whole day, night and most of the next day, not stirring until they were nearly two days out. When she did finally rouse, it was not quietly but with a bloodcurdling scream. He barely drew a breath, fearful for what he would discover when he flung open his cabin door but ultimately saddened by what he found.

Chapter 6

Terrifying faces swarmed in front of her, their voices taunting and lewd. Each and every one undressed her with their eyes. Made her feel filthy. There was no getting away. She had to face this, Hannah would have said.

Just act the part, she preached to herself. Play dumb.

“’Tis a high price for a wench who cannot speak or even see straight,” one hollered.

Just keep playing dumb.

“Who needs her to talk?” another called out. “Just her pretty little mouth around my cock is worth the price!”

God save her.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

“And no need to see straight.” Another chortled. “I’ll steer her along just fine.” He grabbed his crotch. “Right onto my main mast!”

She kept her head down and willed cowardly tears away, but it did no good. They started falling before Big Devil grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees. Unable to hold back, she screamed.

And screamed.

Over and over until Thomas’s voice grew louder than the roars of the crowd.

Louder than her own screams.

“Wake up, Rose.” Big Devil’s painful grasp became Thomas’s tender touch. “It is just a nightmare.” He shook her gently. “Wake up.”

Torn from pure hell, she opened her eyes to daylight and Thomas’s cabin. She was wrapped in his strong arms. He stroked her hair, trying to soothe her, murmuring again and again that it was just a nightmare.

She was safe.

Rose blinked away tears and remained where she was at first, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was not about to be used roughly by Big Devil but wrapped up in Thomas’s warm arms.

“Are you well,” he eventually murmured.

“I am,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. She tilted her head back and looked at him. “Thank you.”

His eyes were the color of sunlit moss in the current lighting, and his voice husky as his gaze lingered on hers. “How are you feeling? Rested?”

“Very,” she murmured.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. She remembered how they felt against hers like it was yesterday. How tender, coaxing, then arousing. With a heavy swallow, she, at last, pulled away because she didn’t trust herself to stay where she was.

How quickly she went from the terror of being used to the need to be taken.

She stretched and yawned before she realized her nightmare might very well be pursuing them. “What did I miss? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine for now.” He gestured at a plate with apples and dried meat then a chamber pot in the corner. “Dress and see to your needs. We sail into port soon.”

“Are we safe then?”

“Safe enough for now,” he said. “Safer still once we get off this ship.”

As she discovered a short time later when she went on deck, they were not quite as safe as he’d led her to believe. There were pirates about on land.

They were also no longer in the Caribbean.

She took in the salt marshes, windswept sand dunes, and tall, hardy grasses. Herring gulls cried overhead.

“This looks familiar.” Her eyes shot to Thomas. “Why does this look familiar?” She shook her head. “How long did I sleep for?”

“Nigh on two days,” he revealed. “As to the location, you likely passed it going south. What's more, you likely passed safely because your captain struck a deal with Blackbeard.” His eyes met hers. “We are off the Carolina coast. An island once called Woccocon but more recently referred to as Ococcock or Ocracoke.”

“I have heard of it.” She frowned. “It is a pirate stronghold, is it not?”

“Not to the extent of Port Royal or Nassau but it has its fair share of my sort.”

“I am not so sure they are truly your sort, Thomas,” she said softly.

Their sort would have taken advantage of a woman in their bed.

“You will need to make a decision and swiftly,” he said, seemingly ignoring her comment.

“What is that?”

“What role you would like to play this time.”

“Pardon?”

“You cannot go into this port a genteel lady,” he explained. “Either you go as our prisoner,” he shrugged, “or something else.”

“Something else?”

“There are really only two other choices.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “A wench or a pirate.” He shot her a sly look. “I believe you once said you wanted to adventure like a pirate.”

“I did,” she conceded softly, considering his suggestions. “But I was only dreaming then, trying to escape the nightmare that was my uncle.”

“Though I could put this delicately, I think you can handle the truth,” he replied. “There is a good chance Big Devil, and his rats will arrive here at any moment, so you are, undoubtedly, still trying to escape a nightmare.”

While he could have been a little less direct, she was grateful he was not. That he remained honest with her. So what would she be? A prisoner yet again, a wench or a pirate? Though it would be the easiest, becoming a prisoner once more did not sound appealing in the least. That left a wench or pirate. Could she truly portray a woman of the night, though? She had little to no experience to draw on.

Then again, what did she know about being a pirate?

“How did you do it so well in Nassau?” he said, seemingly following her thoughts. “How did you become the character in one of your books?”

“I am not entirely sure,” she murmured. “I played on how I felt at the time. I was speechless. Terrified. Unable to utter a word. So I embraced the persona, and it blossomed into deaf, dumb, and mute. Truthfully, it was but a means to an end. All I allowed myself to focus on rather than the terror that lay ahead.” She shrugged, not sure if that made sense. “I became what I needed to become.”

If she were to be honest with herself, she had been doing such for a long time. Going somewhere else in her mind when her uncle took his switch to her. Pretending she was someone else. Not stuck in a helpless body at the mercy of cruelty. In fact, she had spent countless hours reading to her uncle's slaves, hoping they realized they could do the same.

That there was an escape, no matter how brief.

“Land ahoy,” Charles called out. “All hands on deck!”

“You must choose,” Thomas urged. “We will dock soon.”

She glanced from the shore to him, already knowing her choice. “I will become a pirate.”

“You are a pirate,” he corrected. “You must believe it to be convincing.”

“Very true.” Rose nodded firmly. “I am a pirate.” Then she considered it. “What does that mean precisely for a woman? I have only read about men.”

“For starters, your outfit needs adjusting.” He pulled her back into his cabin and rummaged through his trunk before tossing trousers and a shirt on the bed. “Better in those.”

“These cannot possibly be yours.” She fingered the clothing and cocked her head at him. “They are far too small.”

“They belonged to the son of a friend of mine,” he replied. “They should fit.”

It turned out they did though a bit snugly.

“Are they not indecent?” she muttered. One could nearly see the shape of her breasts through the material.

“You can be as indecent as you want.” The corner of his mouth curled up, and he eyed her over. “You are a pirate now, Rose.”

“Yes,” she repeated firmly. “I am a pirate.” She wiggled her hips a little, trying the trousers out. “I quite like it too.”

“As do I,” he said so softly she almost didn’t catch it.

He braided back her hair with admirable speed then wrapped a kerchief around her head.

“Do I look the part then?” She held out her arms and turned. “Will they believe such?”

“I imagine they will not be overly concerned with your attire,” he murmured. “But other things.”

When she glanced at him, it was to find his eyes locked on her backside in admiration.

“Oh, dear.” She peered over her shoulder the best she could. Her skirt typically hid what he was staring at. “I suppose things are quite obvious.” She tugged at the pants. “Though I see no hope for it.”

“Things are quite obvious.” He grinned. “And yet another means to distract others from paying attention to your behavior in general. Not to say I don’t think you will do just fine.”

“Yet another means?” She arched a brow, flirting despite herself. Flirting because she had so missed doing so with him. “What else would be distracting them?”

Where the pirate he was might have commented on the fit of her shirt, he instead ran his fingers gently down her cheek sending gooseflesh racing everywhere.

“Your beautiful face, Rose,” he murmured.

His gaze followed in the wake of his fingers all the way down the side of her neck. Breathing became more difficult. Her heart pounded.

“I have so missed it,” he continued.

She should step away, pull back. He had broken her heart.

Yet when he tilted her chin and closed his lips over hers, she did no such thing.

Chapter 7

He had sworn he would not do this, not yet, maybe ever, but as Rose stood there, so very beautiful in her pirate garb, he could not help himself. Though he’d tried his damndest not to, he had continued dreaming of kissing her again long after he knew he should have stopped. Long after they went their separate ways.

Yet the moment their lips met, he was glad he gave in.

Her lips were as soft and receiving as he recalled, her kiss outdoing all others despite her innocence. While tempted to deepen the exchange, he knew he would not be able to stop himself, and they had no time.

So he reluctantly ended it before it barely began.

When he pulled back, he found her eyes still closed, and her expression soft. Lost. Just as it had been countless times in their youth. He regretted having waited until they were officially married to take her. Many a restless night since he had tossed and turned, imagining sinking into her welcoming heat. Feeling her legs wrap around him.

“We have to go.” His voice was hoarse with desire. “We need to get to my holding.”

Her eyes opened. “You have a holding here too?”

“Yes, my brother and I have several scattered over various islands.”

“I see,” she said softly, her voice a little off. “And one so close to home.”

He wondered at the quickly masked flash of pain in her eyes. But then it fed into his growing suspicion about what actually happened to her. Something he would address once they were on higher ground and prepared to fight.

“I think it is probably best you keep your nose to the ground.” He tucked a pistol, cutlass and several daggers on his person before he wedged a small blade into her belt. “And keep your hand on the hilt of your blade at all times.”

She smirked, her eyes twinkling. “I shall not be a boisterous pirate, then?”

Though tempted to pull her into his arms and not let her do this, they had no choice.

“I think the less attention you draw to yourself, the better.” He gestured that she follow him on deck. “As a rule, female pirates tend to keep to themselves. The rowdy ones are usually looking for a fight.”

“Goodness,” she replied. “I will not be doing that.” When he perked a brow at her, she dutifully fell into her role. She narrowed her eyes, put a hand on the hilt of her blade, and spoke through clenched teeth, “Unless they ask fer it, aye, Cap’n?”

He nodded with approval, confident she would be able to pull this off. She had to because the alternative was not worth giving thought to.

“We will not be dealing with many men between here and the woodland,” he divulged. “Just keep your head down and avoid eye contact.”

She nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” he corrected.

“Aye, Cap’n,” she repeated then even threw in a wink.

He smiled, then focused on the shore. They sailed into the northwest part of the island where barrier islands protected them against rough ocean waves. As he suspected would be the case there were few pirates about, most drinking and whoring inland. Though the sun was several hours from setting, a full moon was rising, which was favorable. It would allow them a clear view of the harbor later.

They had nearly made the tree line when someone called out. “Now what’ve we here?” He whistled. “’Tis a bloody fine arse, that.”

“Hell,” Thomas muttered. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, “Just keep walking, Rose.”

“You there,” the pirate called again. He and his fellowmen swaggered their way. “Don’t ye hear me, my petite?”

Thomas and Charles cast each other grim looks, ready to confront the men, when Rose notched her chin, spun on her heel and strutted back their way.

“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath, following her.

She stopped in front of them, planted her fists on her hips, and narrowed her eyes. “Have ye a problem then?”

“No problem.” One leered, displaying his blackened teeth. “As we said, ye’ve a fine arse.” His lecherous gaze raked over her. “One me and my men would like to enjoy.” He grabbed his crotch. “If ye take my meaning.”

“Aye, I take it all right.” Considering their offer, Rose adjusted her hips awkwardly before she shrugged and stunned Thomas. “It could use a good plowin’ and might relieve me some.” She flinched in what appeared discomfort. “If ye ain’t opposed to the itchin’ afterward.” Rose scratched one perfectly rounded buttock. “Ye know, yer cock’s likely to catch the buggers and all.” Perplexed, she frowned. “Thought they only went for the front side, but I guess not.” She shook her head. “All I know is it itches somethin’ fierce I tell ye.”

He bit back a grin when their faces fell, and they backed away.

“Ye’re up for it then, aye?” she persisted, eyeing their groins with hope.

All three hightailed it in the opposite direction, cursing all the while about wenches inland giving them less trouble.

Charles chuckled and winked at her. “Ye’re a right pirate ye are, missus!”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She tapped her arse, winked at Thomas in passing and sauntered in the direction they had been heading. “Are ye comin’ then, Cap’n?”

Thomas grinned and shook his head, in swift pursuit. He would have to keep in mind how good she was at this in case she pulled one over on him someday.

If there were a someday.

Luckily, they came across no others on the way to his holding. Like the one in Nassau, it was not overly large but suited his brother and him while in port. Made of wood, the floor was creaky and old and the roof in need of repair, but it was in a good location for its vantage point. As expected, having been in waiting, more crewmembers greeted them when they arrived.

“Welcome, Cap’n.” His second mate clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes lingering on Rose with appreciation. “All’s ready to go if need be.”

“Very good.” He introduced Phillip to Rose then gestured at her outfit. “You can thank my lad here for your clothing.”

“Oh!” Like most women, she smiled prettily at Phillip. “You are all grown up then.”

“I am.” Phillip offered a flirtatious smile, his blue eyes twinkling. “But I am glad my shirt,” his gaze raked down her body fast enough not to upset Thomas, “and my trousers could be of use.” He shrugged. “Not sure why Cap’n keeps ‘em handy but glad he did.”

In truth, Phillip knew they served as a reminder of those lost, but didn’t voice it. Instead, he introduced her to the remainder of their crew. They lingered among his men for awhile before Thomas eventually urged her to follow him inside and closed the door for privacy.

“Is everything all right?” she murmured.

“Yes.” He offered her a seat in front of a fireless hearth and poured her a cup of rum. “I was hoping we might talk while we waited for trouble.”

She arched her brows. “Talk about what?”

“What happened to us after I left to fight.” He sat beside her with his own rum, needing to at last get some things off his chest. To see if perhaps they might bridge the gap between them. “Why I did not come back…why I eventually turned to piracy.”

“I would like that.” Emotion flickered in her eyes. “Very much so.”

Good. That was a start.

“Though I suspect I already know the answer, tell me something,” he said softly. “Were you in love with your husband? Or was he a pre-arranged marriage made by your uncle?”

“In love with John?” Rose’s eyes widened in surprise. “Dear Lord, no. He came from money, so my uncle arranged the marriage.” Her gaze softened. “Thankfully, he was a kindly sort, so I do not imagine it would have been an awful life with him. Just not…”

“Not what?” he prompted, relieved his suspicions had been right.

When she hesitated, clearly unsure how much she wanted to reveal he urged her to share. “Please, Rose. Tell me.”

“He was not you, Thomas,” she murmured. Her gaze remained on her drink rather than him. “But then, you did not want me anymore and John, as I said, was kindly so…”

This time when she trailed off, he did not prompt her to continue but revealed his own truths.

“I never stopped wanting you, Rose.” He shook his head. “Nor did I ever stop loving you. Not for a moment.”

Her misty eyes turned to him. “Then, why?” She swallowed. “Why did you abandon me?”

Chapter 8

Rose waited with baited breath for Thomas’s response, doing her best not to cry. He never stopped loving her? All this time? She dared not believe it. Yet even as her heart leapt, frustration simmered beneath the surface. She needed to understand why he never came home. Why he turned from her in the end.

“If I am to be honest, it was a culmination of things,” he finally said. “The man I hired to keep an eye on you, who told me about your engagement, only saw happiness between you and John. He heard nothing of an arranged marriage, only that you were a good match. That you were pleased with John and likely in love.” He sighed. “Mind you when I heard the news I was already in a bad place. The war was nearly over, and the things I saw in all that God awful battling, the things I experienced…had changed me.”

Her heart broke at the look on his face. The grief as he took a heavy swig of rum.

“There was nothing chivalrous about any of it,” he went on gruffly. “The conditions were horrid, the fighting brutal. If we were not dealing with the bloody French, the natives were coming at us.” He shook his head. “My countrymen were dying all around me, either from disease or wounds…losing limbs…so much blood and death day after day.”

He took another long swig, the topic obviously difficult to speak about.

“I am so sorry,” she said softly, truly meaning it. Yet she remained curious. “How did you end up a privateer though? I was under the impression such was hired outside of the navy.”

“Luke and I were rare cases,” he conceded. “A bargain for them.” He took another swig. “As I’m sure you know it cost England less to hire privateers than to adequately fund their navy.” He frowned. “Which, as to be expected, only led to the conditions we faced aboard ships in the military.”

He waved it away before she could respond.

“Luke and I had proven ourselves excellent sailors and soldiers, therefore, a cheaper option for our country to hire out as privateers.” He shrugged. “They provided us ships, and gave us our orders.”

“So you were thrust into the life with no choice,” she murmured.

“Not unless I wanted to face the wrath of Queen and country,” he said. “Truth told, Rose, at that juncture, I was well past saving anyway and privateering gave me an outlet for my rage…for the bloody heartache of all I had witnessed.” He fingered the sleeve of her shirt, his gaze somewhere in the past. “For those I had lost.”

She glanced from the shirt to him, suddenly understanding. “Did this belong to someone killed then?”

“No, it belonged to Philip,” he murmured. “The son of a good friend who died in front of me.” His haunted gaze met her eyes. “Having been orphaned, I kept Phillip on with me, raising him into the life rather than the fate he would have faced otherwise.” He sighed. “In retrospect, it is hard to know if I did him any favors.”

“He seems a fine young man to me.” She tried to lighten Thomas’s heavy heart with teasing words. “If not a bit roguish.”

“Aye,” he murmured, his mind still in the past.

A past she was so glad he was sharing.

One that changed her perspective altogether.

“Suffice it to say,” he continued. “Though I knew your John had died and that I should go back, I could only see your betrayal through the eyes of the man I had become.” His gaze met hers. “I was bitter and resentful, angry at everything and everyone.” He shook his head. “I was not the man you once knew, Rose, but a hateful soul far better suited to piracy.”

“And what of you now?” she said softly, sensing something in him. An exhaustion she had missed before.

“Now I am tired,” he murmured. His gaze never left her, the sadness in his eyes tearing at her heartstrings. “And lonely.”

“Me too,” she whispered. “I misunderstood so much.”

“How could you understand when I never bothered to come back and tell you?” He ran the back of his knuckles along her jaw tenderly. “But then I do not think you would have loved the man who came back even if only to explain himself. Nor do I imagine that man explaining himself well.” He shook his head. “So you see, the time for us had passed.”

“I suppose it had.” She understood him so much better now. “Yet, you still love me.”

“Yet I still love you,” he said softly. “Only ever you.”

As he gazed into her eyes, she swore she saw a flicker of the man he once was. Beneath the pirate, privateer, and soldier to the heart of him.

“You are still in there, Thomas,” she whispered and touched his cheek. “I see you beneath the layers, all of which made you the man you are now.” She cocked her head. “I suppose you just need to decide who that is. What you truly want now.”

She realized as she said the words, they were as much for her as him. They had been brought back together under dire circumstances and might see something come of it. “What now then, Thomas? What happens once we are no longer in danger, and life goes on?”

“That, darling,” he said softly, his eyes with hers, “is entirely up to you.”

Her heart leapt into her throat at the look in his eyes. The unmistakable hope.

“What do you mean—”

“Cap’n!” Charles skipped knocking and flung open the door. “Trouble’s afoot!”

Chapter 9

Bugger for the poor timing but good that they were in position and ready to fight.

“There they are, Cap’n.” Philip pointed south. “One ship just as ye expected.”

“Is that it then?” Rose joined them. “Is that who we have been waiting for?”

He nodded. “You should stay inside until this is over, Rose.”

Her worried eyes met his. “I wish I could be of more help.”

“Staying out of sight is help.” He squeezed her hand. “I fight better when I am not worrying about another. Especially if that someone is you.”

He wondered if she understood what he had been alluding to inside. Did she understand what he wanted? More importantly, did she want the same?

“They got more men than we had hoped, Cap’n,” Charles muttered as the ship docked. “Probably best to go with yer second option.”

Truth told, it had always been the best option.

“What second option?” Rose asked.

“Inside, Rose.” He walked her in and gripped her shoulders gently. “It is important you stay here until the fighting is over.”

“What happens if you do not win?” Fear flashed in her eyes. “What part am I to play then?”

“I am leaving a few men with you, including Phillip,” he replied. “They will be right outside the door. If they see the battle not going in our favor, they will get you out of here. You have my word, Rose. They will keep you safe.”

“Just win.” Her eyes searched his, and her voice caught. “Please. For me.”

“Only for you,” he said softly and brushed his lips across hers once, twice, then pulled away before he lost himself. “I have to go.”

“I know.”

He lingered another moment before he strode from the room and closed the door.

“They’re on land, Cap’n,” Charles reported.

Thomas nodded and looked at his men. “I will ask but one more time. Are ye with me? Are ye truly ready to do this?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” each and every man said.

He was grateful for those here. For those who had put their trust in him when so much was uncertain.

Weapons in hand, they made their way through the woodland and shrub thickets, meeting the first man before their opponents reached the sandy bluffs. When one roared at him, blade drawn, Thomas ducked, swirled away then lunged and drove his blade through the bloke’s midsection. When another rushed him, they circled and crossed swords before Thomas ran his blade across his neck.

Because they could conceivably be outnumbered, the key was to down just the right amount of Big Devil’s rats to make him take notice then do precisely what Thomas did.

“I invoke Blackbeard’s Parlay,” he roared, felling another man before he tossed his blade aside and raised his hands in temporary surrender. “His authority reigns here too Big Devil!”

“To hell with that,” Big Devil rumbled, storming up the dock, his face beet red, his belly swaying. “I honor no such request.”

“Bloody good then!” Charles crossed blades with a chap, grinned with anticipation of fighting more, and spoke loud enough for Big Devil to hear. “But then I won’t be the one suffering for it!”

“No,” Thomas agreed. He ducked beneath a man’s sword and replied just as loudly to Charles. “That’d be the one who does not honor Blackbeard’s rules, aye?”

“Have ye heard what he did to the one lad for breakin’ his rules?” Charles called out. He tripped his opponent then ran his sword through his gut.

“I have,” Thomas called back. He knocked his opponent’s sword out of his hand and punched him. “Gutted him just enough then made him light fire to his own innards.” He scrunched his nose. “I hear it was a bloody bad smell.”

“What be this parlay ye’re offerin’?” one of Big Devil’s rats yelled, earning him a scathing look from his captain and a dagger in his forehead. It seemed, however, that was merely for the gall of speaking when it was not his place. Because their rival stopped, crossed his meaty arms over his chest and said nearly the same thing. “What be this offer, then?”

Big Devil made a gesture, and his rats ceased fighting.

“Simple,” Thomas called back. “I will surrender all my holdings and worldly goods from here on south except for my ship. Plus,” he added, sweetening the pot considerably, “a certain brooch.” He held up a finger, gesturing that his nemesis wait and hear him out. “In exchange, that is, for the girl and ye calling off yer rats from this day forward.” He shook his head. “No matter where my men and I are, ye will not harm a hair on our heads nor anyone we call kin.”

Silence stretched. What would he do? Would he buy this?

Big Devil’s brows finally swept up before he tossed back his head and laughed. “Do ye think me a fool, Thomas?” He snorted, not concerned about the second part of his request. “No wench is worth that.” His eyes narrowed. “So what are ye playin’ at?”

“Just what I said,” he assured. “All my holdings plus the brooch.”

Big Devil chuckled again, but his laughter died off quicker this time when he realized Thomas was serious.

“Where is the brooch?” he grunted, a slight but welcome slur to his voice. After all, his rival having a fuzzy mind during this negotiation could only work in Thomas's favor. So the drunker, the better.

“I have the brooch on me.”

Big Devil peered at him in distrust for a moment before he waved several rats forward to escort Thomas to him. Though Charles went to stop them, Thomas stayed him with a sharp shake of his head and went to their foe.

“Here it is.” He handed over a brooch similar to the one Big Devil sought then pulled out a small scroll. “Ye will need this too, of course.”

Big Devil inspected the brooch which was a touch more glamorous than the real one then frowned in confusion at the scroll. So Thomas explained. “It is a royal seal of authenticity for the brooch.” He gave Big Devil a look that said he should already know this. “You understand that without this, the brooch is worthless.”

Big Devil looked from him to the scroll before he snatched it from Thomas. “Aye, I know that.”

He unrolled it and looked it over as though he understood what he was looking at. As though he could actually read. Then he handed it off to the beady-eyed man from the tavern who read it over and nodded with approval.

“What about your holdings and worldly goods?” Big Devil went on. “Where are they and what proof do I have that ye gave them to me?” His eyes narrowed. “And what of yer brother? What will he say about all this?”

“I do not care what he has to say.” He kept his eyes purposefully deadpan as if perhaps he and Luke had a falling out. “All I care about is keeping the woman and my men safe.”

Big Devil teetered a bit, definitely drunk, which was a blessing. Everyone knew he got especially greedy after too much rum.

Thomas handed over another scroll, larger than the first. “This gives you rights not only to the few ships I have left in New Providence but my various holdings and treasure stashed about.”

Big Devil’s brow inched up. “Treasure ye say?”

“Several years’ worth actually,” he revealed.

“Ye don’t say,” Big Devil murmured, again scanning over a document he could not read before handing it to the man who could. Again, his rat nodded with approval after reading it over. He winked at Big Devil and grinned, signaling that they had struck gold.

“Aye.” Thomas nodded. “I am leavin’ ye a very wealthy man, indeed.” He shrugged. “If that is, ye agree to the terms.”

Big Devil took several long gulps of rum, eyeing Thomas all the while before he lowered the bottle and his gaze swept over his and Thomas’s men. “I could just as easily take all of it from ye.” He shrugged. “My men outnumber yours.” A deviant leer curled his mouth. He scanned the area for signs of Rose. “And that is a luscious wee poppet ye stole from me.”

“Do yer men outnumber mine, though?” Thomas cocked a brow then raised his arm to signal it was time. Dozens of men formed on the ridge above. “And I’ve plenty more where they came from.” He winked. “Don’t believe me? Next time ye see Blackbeard, ask him how many of his men’s loyalty I won over in a card game when last I was on this island.”

It was a truly risky thing to cross Blackbeard. So would Big Devil call Thomas's bluff? Or was the risk too great? Thomas could only hope for the latter. Because as it stood, those were hired men all.

Big Devil took another long swig, considered the men above for a stretch then shrugged. No doubt, thanks to the booze, he gave in easy and raised his bottle in the air. “Salute then, Thomas. I accept your parlay. We have a deal!” He wiped rum from his mouth with the back of his hand, belched and shrugged again. “Ye killed a few of my men and cost me a ship,” he slurred, a callous lout until the end, “but bloody hell, we’ve made a good deal so come drink with me!”

“Sorry, Cap’n.” He shook his head. “Thanks for the invitation but me and mine will be setting sail soon to get the wee lass home, aye?”

Big Devil barrel laughed and shook his head the whole way back down the dock, roaring, “Who cares where the bloody hell the wench ends up!”

Thomas clenched his fists, wishing he could have sliced a blade across Big Devil’s throat but knew this was the best way it could have gone. This ensured Rose’s safety down the line rather than just right now. Because their enemy had a long arm and rumor of this would reach pirate ears. Best that it stop here. Let Big Devil have the final say so to speak.

So Thomas headed for the woodland again only for the last thing he expected to happen. Something that could remind Big Devil what he was giving up and change his mind.

Chapter 10

Though she had thought being captured by pirates was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to her, watching Thomas fight then walk right up to Big Devil was even worse. So the moment he strolled away from the monster and headed her way, Rose raced over and threw her arms around him.

“What are you doing here,” he growled, scooping her up. He strode into the woodland. “Where the bloody hell are the men I had watching you?”

“It is not their fault.” She offered a devious little grin. “As it turns out, I really am very good at what I do.”

When he frowned in question, she shrugged. “I had to make sure you were all right, so I became a spy and snuck out the window.”

“And are you satisfied?” he grumbled, still upset. “Anything could have happened to you, woman.”

“But it did not,” she murmured, understanding that his anger came from caring about her. He had always cared. She wrapped her arms more firmly around his neck, content with him carrying her when she could walk just fine. “What you did with that brooch was very clever.” She eyed him curiously. “And quite premeditated, I’d say.”

“Luke and I tried to account for everything.” He plunked her down near a small pond surrounded by red cedar trees, golden rod, cattails with flowering spikes as well as a variety of vine covered bushes. “I wish to wash away the battle. If you want to bathe as well, I suggest you do so now. It may be your last opportunity for some time.” He pulled off his shirt. “The men are loading the ship with fresh supplies. It is best that we move along lest Big Devil change his mind.”

Heat flushed her skin at the sight of him. Lord, he had really filled out, his muscular frame impossible to look away from.

“You bathe on this side.” He gestured at the other side of the pond and pulled off his boots, his expression grim. “I will go there.”

Before she could respond, he turned away, pulled off his breeches, and strode into the water, his tone biting, “Now, Rose, if you mean to. We need to get off this island.”

He really was upset with her, wasn’t he?

Best that she do as he suggested because she really could use a bath.

Yet she found herself watching rather than doing as he strode in. Though she never got a glimpse of his front, she managed a good eyeful of his back. His long body was so much more than she imagined from the tight globes of his buttocks to all the muscles and battle wounds. Her cheeks flamed, and once again an aching sort of pleasure blossomed between her thighs.

“Hurry, Rose,” he called out as if he knew she watched him rather than seeing to herself. “Before a pirate happens along.”

She rounded her eyes. Would one? It was a distinct possibility she supposed. So she quickly removed her kerchief, unbraided her hair, undressed, saw to herself the best she could, then redressed, glancing at him every so often. When she went to speak, he ordered her silent, saying it was best not to draw unnecessary attention. She had so many questions, though. Ones she was desperate to ask but bit her tongue.

If he peeked her way, she never saw it and discovered that disappointed her. A lot, actually. Was he not interested in seeing her nude? He had certainly seemed interested the first night on the ship.

“Where are we setting sail for now?” she asked when he pulled her after him toward his ship a short time later.

“I believe I said that was up to you,” he replied, glancing with discomfort at Big Devil’s ship.

“Yes, you said as much.” She was vastly relieved when no one on the enemy ship seemed to pay them any mind. “But you never elaborated. What does that mean precisely? Especially when it’s rather clear I have nowhere to go.” She swallowed hard and accepted the cold hard truth. “I am homeless.”

He remained silent until he helped her down into his ship, pulled her close, and cupped her cheek, the look in his eyes suddenly tender. His earlier aggravation at last gone.

Instead, she saw hope.

“What do you want to happen next, Rose?” he said softly.

“I want answers.”

“And I will give them to you.” His eyes searched hers. “But what do you want beyond that? What do you want for your future?”

While she could say yet again she wanted answers, she realized he was getting at something more specific. Beyond the answers that would no doubt leave her standing right where she was. With him. Here and now.

Which was, to simplify it, exactly what she wanted in the future.

What she had, deep down, wanted since the moment Thomas saved her. Even, she was startled to realize, before she knew her uncle had died. Now that he was gone, it made things clearer still.

Or should she say freed her?

Now she could say what was in her heart and not worry about propriety. There was no line between sinner and saint. Not in this world. Not for a woman who had nothing left but who she chose to be and where she ended up.

So she played the role she had wanted to play years ago.

Since the very moment he asked her to marry him.

She stood on her tip-toes the best she could on the swaying ship and pulled his head down so she could murmur in his ear, “I want to return to your bed, Thomas.” She met his eyes. “I want to do what we should have done years ago.”

While she certainly intended to question him more about his exchange with Big Devil, right now all that mattered was them. The life they had left behind and the life they could have ahead of them.

Would have ahead if she had her say.

Either way, she would not let him walk away again. Not without them finally having each other as they should have back then. Be damned scruples and what was proper, he had been going off to war. They should have snuck off and enjoyed one another while they still could. How often had she dreamt of such since? What it might have been like?

Rather than ask her if she were sure like he would have in their youth, the pirate he was now gave no quarter but scooped her up again, brought her into his cabin and slammed the door shut with his foot.

Instead of setting Rose down like the gentleman he once was, he tossed her on the bed and eyed her with a hunger that made everything inside her come alive. A need that made it impossible to breathe. He yanked off his shirt, tossed it aside then came over her so swiftly it caught her off guard.

In the end, a bit of the old him came through after all.

“Though it is not in my nature to ask but take what is willingly given to me,” he said, his voice hoarse, strained, “I will for you, Rose.” He trailed his finger along her jaw, then down her neck. “Is this what you truly want? Here. Now. With me.”

Her body was alive, thrumming with anticipation. Needy in a way it had never been before. Desperate for how he could make her feel. While she could tell him she was still a virgin, she chose not to. She didn't want to speak of her marriage and the past, but be in the moment with Thomas. Think only of him and how he made her feel. She wasn't afraid but eager. Excited. Ready to embark on a sinful adventure.

She stared at him and tried to speak but could not. So she tried again and managed on a strangled groan, “Yes, now…please.”

That’s all he needed. He whipped her shirt, pants, and shoes off before she could utter another word. In fact, there was no time to even feel shy before he spread her legs, and his mouth was between her thighs.

Her pirate adventure became something else entirely when his tongue found her soft folds. He consumed her with a ravenous need that shot overwhelming pleasure through her. Exquisite sensations that forced her to feel everything…to completely lose herself.

She gripped the bedding, released strangled, foreign sounds, and arched. It was as if her body had a mind of its own, catapulting her forward without her say. She was at the mercy of pure sensation, lost in feelings she was completely unfamiliar with but wanted far more of.

When he groaned against her in bliss and suckled more hungrily as if she tasted delicious something unfurled inside her. Something dangerous and addictive. It built rapidly, consuming her before a blazing swell of sharp euphoria tore through her so strongly she cried out and pressed against him. She sobbed with pleasure, lost in the heavy throbs pulsing through her.

“Rose,” he murmured, kissing his way up her stomach. “Are you ready for me, darling?” He kissed and licked and blew against her sensitive flesh, only heightening everything she felt. He repeated what she had said. “Are you ready to do what we should have done long ago? Are you ready to—”

“Yes,” she cried, not herself but lost in how he made her feel. Desperate to reclaim the years they missed. All the love they let go. The love they gave up.

He never fully undressed but yanked at the top of his breeches, freed himself and came between her thighs. The time for asking permission was done. The time for saying no was never truly part of this.

“Thomas,” she whispered, gazing into eyes she never thought she would see again, aware of nothing but him.

“Rose,” he whispered back. His gaze lingered on hers, and he cupped her cheek before pressing forward…before finally doing what she had long waited for him to do.

Though she felt a pinch of pain, followed by discomfort as he stretched and filled her, it fell away as swiftly as it came when his lips touched hers. When he took her somewhere only he could. His kisses were long and lingering, deeper by the moment before he shifted his hips and moved.

After that, she was taken on a journey so much more exciting than the pirate stories of her youth. So much deeper than the most heartfelt tale she had read. Nothing touched this. Nothing even came close when he thrust, and took her on a sensual adventure far beyond words.

In, out, over and over until the swelling sensation became so strong she had no idea what to do but give in and let go. If she cried out, she never heard it. If she sobbed, she never felt the tears. All she knew was that somewhere in all the wonder, she learned what it truly meant to be a woman.

What it meant to give herself over to pleasure.

She was vaguely aware when Thomas pressed deep and released a strangled groan of pleasure upon release. Everything else was a blur of ecstasy as she went somewhere made of pleasure and perfection, and most certainly the love of her life.

Awash in an untouchable afterglow, she drifted off and didn't wake until morning light came through the window, and Charles pounded on the door.

“Cap’n.” Instead of saying his reliable, ‘trouble’s afoot,’ he said something almost more damning. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to surrender then?”

Chapter 11

He stumbled from the bed, yanked his clothes on, and went to open the door but stopped when Rose spoke. “What is it, Thomas?” She sat up in bed. “What is happening?”

She had never looked more beautiful than she did now with her hair tousled, and her skin aglow from their lovemaking the night before. His gaze drifted to her beautiful, bared breasts. They were everything he had imagined. Everything about her was from start to finish…most especially finish.

He had never felt anything like her nor loved so fiercely.

“Thomas?” she persisted. “What is going on?”

He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head, unsure what to say. He was supposed to have already talked to her about this. Not been swayed by lust when he asked her what she saw for her future.

To let her know he’d already made a decision about his.

But then how could he have known she would be so bold? She had proven herself a feisty bit back on Ocracoke Island but still. Who would have thought she would ask him to bring her to bed like that? To finally utter the words he had been waiting so long to hear?

“Just stay here, Rose.” He tied his hair back and bounded up to the main deck. While he wanted to explain everything to her, he owed it to his men to lead them through this final leg.

To stand by their side as they entered a whole new world.

To lead them into something they had all agreed upon.

“There she is, Cap’n.” Charles pointed north. “She’s Royal Navy and bearin’ down.”

“Lower our flag slowly,” Thomas called out, trying to meet each man’s eye. To let them know he stood by each and every one of them. “And set aside your weapons, lads. All of them.”

Dress askew, Rose flew up the steps stopping short when she spied the ship heading their way. Her eyes rounded. She looked from the navy ship to him and shook her head, panicked. “What are you doing, Thomas?” She kept shaking her head. “You need to turn around and flee. Right now! If not, you will be…”

The terror in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She truly would stand by him no matter what. But that was not why he had come all this way. That would not be her ultimate fate if he had anything to say about it.

She crossed her arms over her chest at the chill in the air and peered off their port side, still shaking her head in confusion. “This makes no sense.” Her gaze returned to him. “We should be traveling south. Back to—”

“This,” he said softly and took her hand. He gestured that his men raise the white flag.

Her eyes widened all the more, and she whispered, “You truly are surrendering.”

“Yes, I am surrendering one way of life,” he said, “for another.”

“I do not understand,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

“You will soon, my love.” He kissed her forehead and told her to return to his cabin. “If you’ve a need to eavesdrop at the door, I will not fault you.”

“You know I will.” She cupped his cheek and kissed him, fear and worry in her eyes, along with new strength and resolve. “I will stand by you, Thomas…I am not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he murmured, glad to hear her say it. To see the truth of it in her eyes. To know that she would stand by him to the end. Even if that end were hanging from a noose.

What she did not know, likely because she had been caught in the maelstrom of preparing to travel, was that on five September seventeen, seventeen, King George I of Great Britain issued the “Proclamation for Suppressing of Pirates.” This granted full pardon of all crimes to pirates who surrendered themselves to any governor in the colonies within the next year.

He nodded to Phillip and Charles as the ship drew closer.

The Pardon would apply just as readily to a sea vessel, governor present or not. Just so long as they gave the Royal Navy something they wanted in return, he suspected. He eyed his ship, one he dearly loved and nodded at his crew in reassurance. This was the step forward they had chosen the moment they put this plan into motion.

He leapt onto the bridge and roared that they requested a Royal Pardon on behalf of King George I and prayed the chips fell where he hoped.

As it happened, his King and country came through in the end, and they did.

“You cannot be serious?” Rose said a short time later, peering out the window at the navy ship following them. “They simply forgave you for all your crimes? They gave you and your crew full clemency?”

“By King’s order,” he murmured, very much enjoying her dress minus its undergarments. More so, he liked her in his arms as he leaned against his desk. “That is no small thing.”

“No,” she agreed softly. Her eyes met his. “But it does sound like a tremendously risky thing.” She shook her head. “What will you do now? Your men?”

“Start a new life,” he said simply.

Yet she knew nothing was so simple and called him on it. More pointedly, she rolled back the clock and focused on all her questions from before. “Everything you did yesterday was in preparation for this, wasn't it?” She cocked her head in question. “You knew what you intended to do?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“But why?”

“Because it was for the best.” He caressed her soft thigh, eager to be inside her again. To hear her throaty groans and cries of pleasure. “Times are changing quickly, Rose. Surely you know that.” He shook his head. “The Royal Navy has been after pirates more and more, and my way of life is becoming harder by the day.” He shrugged. “So when the proclamation was announced, I took notice.”

“Clearly.” She referred to his comment about being exhausted in general. “Based on what you said in your holding you did more than take notice though, didn't you? You have grown tired of this life.”

“I have.” He cupped her cheek. “When we learned about what was going to happen to you and your sister, we had to take action.” He paused and considered. “But it was more than that…before that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have been ready to leave this life for some time,” he said. “All of us on this ship have. So when Luke and I told them and his crew what we intended, everyone agreed to be part of the fight to save you. Part of facing the inevitable…” He looked out the window. “A new life.”

“What does that mean?” she whispered. Her eyes drifted as his hands wandered over her shoulders and skimmed her small waist. “What does a new life mean for you, Thomas?”

“It means this.” He set the scroll the British captain had given him on the desk. “Freedom from…freedom.”

She eyed it for a moment then him, still mulling things over. “If you knew of our plight, why not attack our ship before it ever made it south?”

“Because you were already Blackbeard's,” he reminded. “Had we attacked your ship and fled north, you and your sister would never have been safe any more than the rest of us. Not with Blackbeard’s long reach. It was best to follow pirate code as much as we could.”

“So for the same reason you carried the imitation brooch,” she murmured. “Ensuring Big Devil would not follow either.”

“Yes.” He caressed her soft cheek. “Anything to ensure your safety.”

She considered that for a moment before she responded. “Something has been weighing on my mind…something I have to ask.”

When he looked at her in question, she continued. “Did you know of my situation in Yorktown after John died? That I stayed on with his family, rather than return to my uncle? It was unorthodox, but times were especially troubling at the plantation, and they were kind enough to let me stay. When Uncle fled, we had no choice but to go with him.”

“I knew,” he murmured. “Or I would have come sooner, Rose.”

“Would you have?” Cautious hope lit her eyes. “Truly?” She swallowed hard. “Or are you just saying that to soothe my heart? Because I know you misunderstood mine and John's marriage. That it hurt you.” Her voice grew emotional. “Truth told, I've a romantic side that likes to think you would have come for me. Yet a logical side that would have loathed it. Because it would have meant your certain death for piracy.”

He understood the dreamer in her but also understood how her uncle's cruelty in her youth shaped her. How the need to escape and be safe had become an inherent part of her nature. Not only that, but he had given ample thought to this and only ever came to one conclusion.

Never more serious, he cupped her cheeks and made sure her eyes stayed with his. “Even if it meant losing you to my foul nature, I would have come for you, Rose.” He shook his head. “And I would not have been caught because that would have just put you back in your uncle's lecherous hands.”

“It would have indeed,” she whispered, her eyes misty. “You truly are my hero in every sense of the word. You always have been.”

If that were the case, he would have murdered her uncle long ago, but that was irrelevant now. What mattered was this moment. Her. Them. He brushed his lips across hers, then kissed her with everything he felt. What had come before, what literally followed in their wake, and what lay ahead.

The start of something new…perhaps.

He knew he should explain his intentions to her, but all he wanted to do was feel her, love her, so he propped her on his desk, shoved her dress up, freed himself and thrust deep.

“Thomas,” she gasped, her head falling back.

“Hmm?” He trailed his lips down her soft skin, hiked her legs higher and rolled his hips, eliciting a throaty groan from her.

“We should,” she began, then gasped when he thrust deeper, harder.

He kissed every surface he could find then laid her back on his desk and kept thrusting. Taking. Needing. All she could give him. Now and possibly far into the future.

“Where are we going,” she whimpered, her voice strangled with pleasure as he rode her. She arched her back, her eyes half-mast, her words moaned. “What is next?”

“We are next.” He thrust until she began shaking and trembling. Until her eyes rolled back in her head. Entrenched in the feel of her sheath clamping down on him, he braced his hands on either side of her, thrust one last time and roared with release.

Then finally, as they struggled to catch their breath, he murmured in her ear words he hoped she longed to hear. “We are going home.”

Chapter 12

“We could do it,” she argued, determined to make Thomas see things her way. “There are plenty of opportunities in other colonies.” She nodded. “Plymouth is prospering. We could go there and start anew in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.” Her eyes met his, hopeful. “You and I, Hannah, and even Luke could do well there. We could start a new life.”

She knew she was dreaming, but that didn’t stop her from continuing to do so. Not for a moment. Not when everything she wanted was so close…if but in a dream.

“This is not a story in one of your books, Rose.” He shook his head. “Life in the north is not easy. Winters are hard, summers are fleeting.”

“But there is plenty of work,” she countered. “Commerce is flourishing. You could boat-build, or take to fishing or whaling. Or perhaps try your hand at timber and fur trading.” She fanned her face in the oppressive August heat. “And a fleeting summer would not be such a bad thing.” Fresh hope lit her eyes. “The four of us could marry, just pretend, of course, sail to Plymouth and start a new life.”

“Pretend to marry?” he had replied, amused. “Me and you then?”

“Yes.” She blushed and didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Why not?”

He responded, but she could no longer hear him as he faded. So she called out again and again for him to come back. More than that, she called out what she would have said then had he only asked. “Yes, I will marry you, Thomas.” She shook her head and repeated the silly saying that had become theirs. “From the moment we met until the day we die.”

“No need for all that, darling,” his deep voice murmured from far off until it was right there.

Until she opened her eyes to his.

She blinked, unsure what had happened at first until everything came rushing back. Thomas gave up piracy. A navy ship sailed alongside. What he had done to her on his desk despite all that.

Then things got a little hazy.

“When did we move to the bed?” she murmured.

“Quite a while ago.” A rather arrogant smile curled his mouth. “You were very drowsy in your satisfaction.”

How could she not be when he made her feel like that?

“I had another question,” she said softly.

“Of course you did.” He traced the pad of his thumb along her jawline. “You would not be my Rose otherwise.”

She momentarily drifted, caught by the tenderness in his gaze before she recalled what she wanted to ask. “What happens if and when Big Devil discovers you deceived him with that brooch?”

“He will not.”

“He might.”

“If he does, we will never catch wind of it,” he assured. “Nobody will.”

It took a moment for her to understand before it finally dawned. “Pride, then?”

“Very much so.” He chuckled. “Pirates take their reputations very seriously. To have others discover he was duped would be most criminal. Besides, our ample holdings and very real treasure should keep him well satisfied.”

“You are quite sure, then?”

“Quite sure.”

Relaxing, she slipped back under the soothing lull of his touch, drifted into a near dream state, dwelling once more on his murmured words. What he had asked her. Had that been a dream, though? It seemed so real.

She had to know.

“Did you…just ask me to marry you?”

His brows perked. “Marry you?”

“Yes, marry me.”

“When?

She was fully aware now. “Was that a proposal then?”

“I meant when did you think I asked you to marry me.”

“Just now. When I was waking.”

“Then, no.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “Had you hoped I did?”

She nearly said no but stopped. Because that would be a lie.

“I don't know,” she murmured, not ready to be so honest. Or was she? Maybe just a few more casually murmured words to see how he responded. “How could I hope such all things considered?”

The fact of the matter was she knew what she wanted. What she hoped for. Something he seemed to want too based on what he’d said. “Oh, my!” She widened her eyes when she recalled precisely what he’d whispered in her ear in the heat of the moment on his desk. “What do you mean we are going home?”

“Dress and join me,” he said softly, amusement in his gaze, no doubt at her delayed response. “Then we will talk of…you and me.”

Confused but curious she dressed and followed him on deck where he put a cloak around her shoulders to warm her against the chill. The navy ship sailed alongside them, and everyone seemed content enough. Along with a new bite to the air, the coastline’s trees and vegetation had once again changed.

She looked at Thomas. “Where are we?”

“Where you always wanted to go, Rose.” Seagulls cried overhead. “Though a means to escape then, you are going home now.” He pointed at the rocky shore ahead. “That is Plymouth Rock over there.” His eyes met hers. “We are here, love, even if it came many years later. Even if we had to live so much life in between to find our way back.” His eyes flickered from the shore to her. “We are in Plymouth Harbor. We have reached the Massachusetts Bay Colony…we finally made it.”

She glanced nervously from the navy ship to the shore. “But you are a pirate.”

“I was a pirate.” He held out the scroll, reminding her. “Now I am exempt by King and country and a merchant free to plight my trade.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Baffled, she looked from the scroll to him. “Your men as well?”

“Free to do the same…with our thanks of course.”

“Our thanks?”

“The eventual arrival of the brooch,” he revealed. “It will see us all very well off.”

“A brooch I had no idea was worth so much.” She shook her head, confused and worried anew. “What about my sister? Where's Hannah?”

“She is safe.” He grinned. “The signal was left a ways back. She is with my brother, and you will see her soon enough.”

“What signal?”

“A yellow ribbon tied around a tree,” he revealed. “Rest assured your sister is most well.”

“Is Luke…” She looked left and right, not sure how loudly she should speak. “Do they know he defected too?”

“Yes.” He kept grinning. “Luke has given the signal that he has all the treasure and then some. That means the brooch too. Everything worked out precisely how we planned, and we are…”

When he trailed off, she looked at him in question. “What are we, Thomas?”

“You tell me.” He cupped her cheeks and finally asked what she had longed to hear. “Will you marry me, Rose? Will you become my wife?”

“In the midst of all this?” she murmured. “Not knowing…”

“Do you not know everything you need to?” he said softly. “Your sister is safe, and we are granted the King’s Pardon to start a new life…at last.” He looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “Is that not enough?”

It was everything she had been hoping for since her need to escape her uncle, then their first kiss. Then again when he proposed before he went off to war.

“I would like nothing more, Thomas.”

So it was that they married and Thomas’s ship was confiscated by the navy in payment for the Royal Pardon that should have come at no cost. Blackbeard and pirates of his ilk continued to roam the high seas, but most saw their end, including Blackbeard himself, the following year in the swift hands of justice. As far as they knew, Big Devil never discovered he had been duped, but then like Thomas said, he likely would not have admitted it anyway.

Against the odds, thanks to a well-laid plan and an underwhelming brooch, Thomas and Rose had at last found their happy ending. An ending that was very much a bright new beginning for generations to come.

* * *

Interested in what happened to Luke and Hannah? Ride the wild seas and dark undercurrents of their lusty, indecent adventure in Taken by Sin. Available exclusively in Pirates, Plunder & Passion boxed set.

About Sky Purington

Bestselling author Sky Purington married her hero, has an amazing son who inspires her daily, and two husky shepherd mixes that keep her on her toes. Her stories run scorching hot, teeming with protective alpha heroes and strong-minded heroines. Passionate for variety, Sky’s vivid imagination spans several romance genres including historical, time travel, paranormal, and fantasy.

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An Imperfect Scoundrel

by Alyssa Drake

Chapter 1

“I feel like we’ve abandoned them.” Alana flung her hands in the air, nearly hitting the top of the coach, her stomach twisting into knots.

She’d told Mr. Thomas Reid that very afternoon, she was sailing for America. He seemed unsurprised by her announcement, and a small part of her suspected he approved of Aidan’s insistence on sending her as far away from Franklin Morris as possible.

“They’re our cousins, Aidan; they could die.”

“They will survive for a few hours while I convey you to London and retrieve Patrick.” Aidan’s tight voice belied his sentiment, his eyes glowing fiercely in the dim cabin. “Both Samantha and Edward know how to use a pistol; Benjamin and Thomas are with them.”

“What about Da?” Alana’s eyes flicked to the man scrunched into the corner on her left, snoring lightly, his head drooping on his chest.

“Are you suggesting I should have left him on the property alone?” Aidan arched an eyebrow, his hand curling around rifle stretched across his lap. The same one Aidan extracted from Da when he shoved him into the coach. Had Aidan told their father where they were headed? “He would have shot someone.”

Alana tilted her head, pursing her lips in frustration. Leaning forward, she hissed, “I meant about sending me to America.”

“You agreed!”

“You tricked me!”

A smirk crossed Aidan’s face—acknowledgment of her accusation. “Patrick and I are quite capable of caring for Da while assisting with the capture of Mr. Morris. You…”

“If you say, I’m a woman, I will slap you,” growled Alana.

Another smirk. “Actually, I was going to say you’re a woman.”

She flew off the bench, a ball of anger and irritation, swiping at his face. Aidan captured her arms, forcing her down next to him. Collecting both her wrists in one hand, he placed a finger over her mouth, his eyes flicking to their father. She snapped her teeth, nearly biting his fingertip. Aidan sighed, releasing her.

“How do you think your death would affect Da?”

Her hand raised to smack his face, she paused, her brother’s melancholy question floating around her. She stared into his blue eyes, a mirror of her own, then slowly lowered her hand.

“That’s unfair.”

He reached over, placing his hand on top of hers, and squeezed. “With you safe in America, Mr. Morris cannot hurt you. Once he is arrested, you can return.” Aidan shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone.”

Alana narrowed her eyes. “Matchmaking? You hardly seem the type to meddle.”

“Something to occupy my time.” He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Pray tell, who did you have in mind for me?”

Stroking his chin, Aidan dragged out the silence. “To be honest, there’s not one man in Wiltshire I’d subject to your fiery temperament.”

She punched him in the shoulder and moved to the opposite bench, folding her arms across her chest. “When are you going to tell Da about sending me to America… after a year has passed?”

“I’m not banishing you forever.” Rolling his eyes, Aidan rubbed his arm. “I swear to send for you as soon as possible.”

Her mouth crooked. She’d hit him harder than he expected.

“And you? What plans have you for your own happiness?”

He paled, a brief flash of terror washed over his face. “I have no plans.”

“It seems only fair, dear brother, if I am subject to the marriage mart once again, you must experience it at least once.”

“I have been dealing with it for the whole of my adult life.”

“Are you not tired of being pursued by females?”

“Pursued?” Aidan snorted. “No woman wants a husband who is caring for an addled father, no matter how much property he owns.”

“If she is with you for your inheritance, she’s not the right one for you.” An evil grin crossed her face. “When I return from America, I will find you a suitable wife.”

He swallowed. “I have no need of your assistance.”

“I think you do.” Alana’s smile widened, watching Aiden tug at collar, squirming like a little boy in church. “First, we will find a custodian for Da, then we will find you a wife.”

“What of Patrick? He’s the eldest.”

“Patrick is against marriage.” Alana waved her hand, dismissing the notion.

In truth, Patrick was against any form of social activity. The eldest Flannery left for Wiltshire when he turned eighteen, only returning once for his mother’s funeral, preferring to remain locked inside his lighthouse. Alana had been dumbfounded to learn Patrick agreed to assist with their father.

“I am too,” Aidan grumbled, his mouth folding into a thin line. “You are the girl.”

“And I was married. Sebastian died.” Patrick had attended her wedding in France, his demeanor withdrawn and haunted; the last time she’d seen him.

“Thus, we start over, and it is your turn.” Grinning, he tilted his head. “I am certain Patrick will agree with me.”

Alana narrowed her eyes, tapping her fingers together as she considered her brother’s statement.

“I have a proposal for you.”

Amusement crossed his face. “Do continue.”

“Once I have secured a husband for myself—do not laugh, dear brother, I have turned down several proposals since Sebastian’s death—you will allow me to match you with a suitable woman.”

“And Patrick, are you going to leave him to his solitude?”

“Certainly, not.” Alana laughed. “However, I will need your support for that particular undertaking, and it would be much easier with your wife’s assistance.” She leaned forward, holding out her arm. “Do we have an agreement?”

Aidan’s eyes flicked to her hand. “After the heartache you have suffered, the premature death of Sebastian, and the rejection of your previous fiancé…”

Bristling, Alana slid forward, her nose nearly bumping into his, a menacing growl rumbling in her throat.

“Thomas and I were not well-suited; fate saw fit to separate us. I will not hear you speak one disparaging word about him.”

“Thomas is one of my dearest friends; it is my right to speak ill of him.” Aidan snickered, leaning back against the seat. “Are you certain you want to take on another husband?”

“It’s been over two years,” Alana replied. “I will always love Sebastian, just like I will always love Thomas, but I am lonely, Aidan. I want someone to talk to. Do you not understand that feeling?”

“I do,” he sighed as though his heart weighed heavy. Scooting forward, he clasped her fingers in his, pumping her hand once. “We have an accord. However, I do not recommend informing Patrick of your plans to meddle; he’ll vanish before you finish the word matrimony.”

Laughing, Alana’s eyes flicked to the window behind her father, the smile fading from her face. The journey had been much quicker than she anticipated. She swallowed, retracting her hand.

“Are we almost there?”

Aidan craned his head, staring out the glass. He nodded, glancing back at her.

“Are you nervous? You’ve sailed before.”

“Not this far,” whispered Alana.

Aidan’s hand whipped out, grabbing her wrist and yanking her to his bench. Bumping his forehead against hers, he grinned.

“That doesn’t sound like something my sister would say.”

“What would she say?”

“She would tell me not to worry about her.”

“But you do, anyway.”

“Every single day.” He embraced her.

“I shall miss you.” Alana sniffed, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his collar.

“Where are you going?” asked a gruff voice. Their father peeled one eyelid open, his faded blue eye glaring at them. “You said we were here to collect Patrick.”

“We are,” placated Alana, sliding across the aisle.

Their father sat up, staring at her, his mouth pinched into a thin line. “I’m disappointed in you, m’girl, lying to your father.” His gaze flicked to Aidan. “You as well.”

“It is what is best—”

“I decide what is best for this family.” He slammed his fist against the side of the carriage. “If your mother knew… the treachery, sneaking around behind my back.” He lunged for the rifle, but Aidan reacted quicker, snatching the barrel out of the older man’s hands.

“Da!” Aidan shook his head. “You cannot shoot people in London.”

“I’ll shoot anyone who lays a hand on my daughter!”

“Just tell him, Aidan.” Alana jerked her head at her father.

“Tell me what.” His eyes narrowed.

“We are here to collect Patrick and transport him back to our estate…”

“And?” Their father folded his arms, pointedly staring at the rifle.

“And with the continued threat of Mr. Morris, we,”—Aidan gestured between Alana and himself—“decided Alana would be safer in America until he was captured.”

“We?” He arched a bushy white eyebrow, turning his attention to Alana. “Is this really what you want?”

Alana glanced at Aidan, questioning. Did she need to go as far as America? Surely, France was far enough. Aidan tilted his head. She knew the reason—Mr. Franklin Morris’ reach extended through Europe. As Aidan had explained the extent of Mr. Morris’ crimes—information shared with him by Benjamin—they both realized Alana wouldn’t be safe unless she traveled further than his capability. She turned back to her father, holding his gaze.

“We.”

His wrinkled face crumpled, tears leaking from his eyes. “Do you not trust your father?”

Alana flung her arms around his neck, squeezing him fiercely. He wept on her shoulder, his frail body shaking.

“I do, but…” Her eyes jumped to Aidan, begging for assistance.

“Alana has decided to remarry, Da.” Aidan placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “She will return with a husband.”

“Have you?” Pushing away, their father extracted a handkerchief, mopping his face. He tucked it carefully back into his pocket before lifting his gaze to Alana, the burning blue fire in his eyes dying. “Perhaps you will give us grandchildren this time; Noreen always wanted grandchildren.”

The coach slowed, the driver pulling back on the reins. When the coach stopped, the driver leapt down, opening the door and assisting Alana as she climbed from the cabin. Aidan followed, turning to help his father from the coach. His father slapped his hands away, grumbling he was more than capable of climbing from a coach.

Snickering, Alana turned, her eyes searching the docks for the red shock of Patrick’s hair. Like her and their father, Patrick had inherited the vibrant Flannery characteristic, quite the opposite of Aidan, whose dark hair took after their mother. The only shared trait between them was their brilliant blue eyes.

“Patrick!” Alana waved her hand, jumping up and down. “Patrick!” Running through the crowd, Alana launched herself at her brother, tackling him. His large hands closed around her waist, swinging her in a circle, a smile cracking his lips. Setting her back on her feet, he drooped a heavy arm over her shoulders, leaning his weight on her.

“A pleasure to see you again too.”

Grunting, Alana shoved him off. “We brought Da,” she murmured, indicating the coach with a jerk of her head.

“How is he?”

“Better, worse, the same.”

“I see.” Heaving a giant sack over his shoulder, he lumbered down the docks toward the coach.

“Da!” Patrick called out, forced happiness in his tone. Their father lifted his head, searching the crowded docks for the familiar sound. Spying Patrick pushing his way through the throng, his eyes popped open wide. With a whoop, their father dashed toward them, Aidan trailing after. Enveloping him in a bone-crushing embrace, Patrick’s free arm snaked out, wrapping around Aidan, drawing him in too. “Hello, little brother.”

“Patrick.” Aidan extracted himself from his brother’s heavy arm. “We have a schedule to keep.”

Patrick glanced at Alana, muttering loudly, “When did he become so proper?”

“Right after Ma died,” snarled Aidan over his shoulder. He stomped back to the coach, yanking Alana’s trunk from the rear, slamming it to the ground.

“You got something you want to discuss with me?” Patrick’s face darkening, he stepped to Aidan.

“I have a lot that needs to be discussed.” Aidan’s eyes narrowing, he leaned in, refusing to back away from Patrick.

Perhaps she ought to rethink her trip; Patrick and Aidan would kill each other long before Mr. Morris managed that feat.

“Boys.” Their father hobbled between them, his stern gaze bouncing between the two. “There is no need for this hostility. Noreen doesn’t like hearing her sons fight, and I think it’s been much too long to continue this disagreement.”

“Disagreement?” exploded Aidan. “He abandoned the family.” Aidan slashed his arm at Patrick.

“I had a job.”

“Which you do not need…”

“I happen to enjoy the sound of the ocean.”

“I gave up everything, Patrick.”

“I told you to hire a guardian.”

“Why, so I could be as happy as you?”

“I am happy.”

“You ran away.”

The sound of flesh on flesh echoed. Alana gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Aidan staggered backward, blood dripping from his nose. With a snarl, Aidan flung himself forward, crashing into Patrick, knocking him to the ground.

“Stop!” Alana yelled, watching helplessly as they rolled across the filthy ground. A small crowd was beginning to gather around them. She glanced behind her at their father, who perched on her trunk, an amused smile on his face. She flung her hands up. “Da! Do something.”

“What can I do?” He grinned, tilting his head. “One does not interrupt two dogs when they are fighting. Let them get this out.”

“Ma would be embarrassed.” She appealed to his sentimental side.

“Then it is a good thing your mother is not here to witness this.”

Alana growled. Of course, he would be lucid for this particular incident. Marching over to them, Alana leaned forward, grabbing ahold of Patrick’s ear, which she wrenched until he cried out. Before Aidan could swing, Alana grabbed his ear as well, dragging them both to their feet. They bent at the waist, craning their heads toward her, twin expressions of agony on their faces. The crowd around her clapped as she hauled them back to the coach, flinging them at its side.

“You should be ashamed,” she muttered, her eyes darting between them. “A public spectacle of your private disagreement.” She shook her head, lowering her voice. “I expect the two of you to end this absurdity, right now.”

“He started it,” murmured Aidan, staring at the ground. He hit Patrick with his elbow, digging it into his ribs. Patrick shoved him in return.

“Aidan! Patrick!” They froze under her hissed chastisement. “I am leaving tonight, for America, per Aidan’s suggestion.”

“You agreed.”

Alana placed her finger over his mouth. “Yes, I agreed. However, after this childish display of manners, I am concerned leaving the two of you unchaperoned might result in the death of one of my brothers.” She raised her arms, cupping each of their cheeks. “Aidan, can you not see Patrick was grieving and did not know how to cope with that loss? Patrick,”—she cut off Aidan’s retort—“can you not see Aidan felt abandoned, left to deal with everything that should have been the older brother’s responsibility, while he was suffering the same loss?”

They both stared at each other, processing Alana’s comment. Slowly, they leaned forward, embracing.

“I am sorry, brother.”

“As am I.” Aidan released him, turning to Alana. “When did you become so intelligent?”

“I have always been so.” Offering him a giant smile, she looped her arm through her father’s, lifting him from the trunk. “Will you carry my trunk to the dock?”

“Before you leave, I have something.” Patrick collected his bag from the ground. Untying the rope, he dug into the bag, extracting a small bag, tossing it to Alana. Peeling open the top, she giggled, glancing up at him with glee. “Washed ashore a couple of weeks ago. They’re too small for someone of my size, so I figured…”

“Thank you.” Alana rose up on her toes, planting a kiss on the side of his bearded cheek.

“It’s just a bag of clothing.” He reddened, squeezing her tightly. Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, “At least, it should deter you from borrowing mine.”

Glancing down at her trunk, Alana blushed. “Does that mean you’d like me to return the ones I already took?”

Patrick laughed, the deep booming sound reverberating through Alana’s bones. She would miss that sound. She prayed when she returned from America, he would extend his trip. She never had enough time with him.

“Keep them. Return them to me the next time we meet.”

Unlatching her trunk, Alana dropped the sack of clothes on top and relocked it, hanging the key from a chain around her neck. She walked toward the docks, her arm threaded through her father’s. He mumbled quietly, telling her how much he’d miss her and wishing her luck in finding a sturdy husband. She patted his hand.

“I shall write you every week, Da.”

Her father grabbed her wrist, squeezing tightly. “Noreen had a terrible dream.”

Sighing, Alana glanced back, catching Aidan’s eye. With a grimace, he set her trunk end-up next to the quartermaster, speaking with the man regarding Alana’s accommodations.

“What did she say?”

“Do not go to America.” The hand holding her arm shook fiercely. “She is worried for you.”

“I promise to be safe.” Alana leaned forward, embracing him, and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

“What about sharks?”

“I don’t plan to go swimming.”

“Storms?”

“At least there will be no sharks.” Alana smiled, releasing her father. Turning around, she hugged Patrick and Aidan simultaneously.

“Pirates?”

“Pirates should be terrified of her,” replied Aidan with a smirk. Giving Alana a light shove up the ramp, he waited on the dock as she walked slowly up the gangplank. Spinning at the top, she offered them a small wave before vanishing into the bowels of the ship.

She never reached America.

Chapter 2

Shoving the key into the door, Alana wrested with the lock, but it refused to budge. Checking the cabin number, she removed the key, inserting it again, wrenching it sideways. The key slipped, cutting her finger. Sucking on the side of her fingertip, she glared at the door. Why couldn’t she get into the cabin? What if they had moved her to the steerage, stealing Aidan’s money and subjecting her to the worst conditions possible for the whole of three weeks? A sob escaped her lips.

“There’s no need to cry,” a soft voice spoke from behind Alana.

She jumped with a scream, and spun around, hastily wiping away the dampness collecting on her cheeks. Hovering in the doorway of the cabin across from hers, a tall woman leaned against the frame, fanning herself with her hat.

“Is it your first trip?” She stepped across the tiny corridor, placing a kind hand on Alana’s shoulder.

“No.” Alana inhaled slowly, swiping at one more tear. “I’ve sailed many times; however, this is my first time crossing the Atlantic.” She gestured at the cabin. “I can’t unlock the door.”

“Allow me to help you.” Putting her hat atop her head, she leaned around Alana, pulling the key from the lock, then spun around, facing Alana, and winked. Kicking her foot out, she struck the door with the heel of her boot, then shoved the key into the lock, twisting sharply, and pushed the door open, inspecting Alana’s cabin. Turning back, her eyes narrowed. “One trunk… Is your lady’s maid traveling with you?”

“I have no need for such an extravagance; I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

Tilting her head, the woman offered her a peculiar smile. “Meeting your husband?”

“Widowed,” replied Alana, wrestling the key from the lock.

“That is a pity.” She clucked her tongue, pulling the hat from her head. Her hand automatically resumed fanning. “I apologize, my manners are quite lacking this evening. Allow me to introduce myself.” She offered Alana a radiant smile and curtsied. “Mrs. Louisa Parker. My husband, Hugh, and I are traveling to Boston.”

“Mrs. Alana Dubois.” Alana curtsied.

Another peculiar flash slid over Mrs. Parker’s face. “Dubois? You don’t appear to be French…”

“My husband was Mr. Sebastian Dubois.” A small knife slit through her heart as she spoke his name, a painful reminder of the life she lost. “He passed away two years ago.”

“I am sorry.” Mrs. Parker wrapped an arm around Alana, yanking her into a tight embrace. She released Alana just as exuberantly, clapping her hands together with shining eyes, smashing the beleaguered hat in her excitement. “Then you must dine with us.”

“I cannot impose…”

“Of course, you can.” Waving her hand airily, Mrs. Parker dismissed her concerns. “You are traveling alone, Mrs. Dubois. The least we can do is offer you some companionship.” She cupped her hand around her mouth, whispering loudly. “Besides, Hugh will be occupied most of the journey with business, and I’d much rather prefer to sit on deck and gossip with you than spend my days in the cabin, staring at my embroidery.”

Alana laughed. “I must admit, that is a task in which I am a miserable failure.”

“Surely, you must have some talent.” Mrs. Parker grinned, thumbing to herself. “All ladies with red hair are exceptional. At what do you excel?”

“Shooting.”

“That sounds delightful.” The door behind Mrs. Parker opened, and a man with graying black hair poked his head into the corridor, a smile tugging at his lips.

“My dear, you really must let the other passengers get situated prior to departure.” He glanced up at Alana, his deep brown eyes sliding over her, inspecting. “I apologize, Miss…”

“Mrs. Dubois.” Alana curtsied.

“Ah, Mrs. Dubois.” He bowed, hooking his hand under Mrs. Parker’s elbow. “I hope my wife has not been bothering you this evening.”

“Not at all, Mr. Parker. I find your wife to be a refreshing conversationalist.”

Mrs. Parker beamed. “I invited Mrs. Dubois to dine with us this evening.”

“I hardly think her husband would approve of her dining at a different table than he.”

“He’s dead,” hissed Mrs. Parker loudly, leaning toward her husband.

“Pardon?”

“Dead,” repeated Alana. Another stab through her chest. “My husband passed away.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Dubois. You are welcome to join us this evening, and every other, until our company bores you or you follow us to Boston.” He winked, lifting his wife’s hand and dropping a light kiss on her wrist. She glowed. “My dear wife has an aptitude for adopting stray people. I daresay, she brings home a stranger at least once per week.” Bells tolled throughout the ship, and Mr. Parker’s eyes flicked along the corridor. “We will be departing soon. Would you care to watch with us? We can eat directly afterward.”

“Hugh.” Mrs. Parker tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “We must dress first.”

Mr. Parker’s gaze slid over his wife, understanding flashed in his eyes. “Of course.” Turning to Alana, he bowed again. “I propose we meet in this very hallway in one hour. Will that be sufficient for you to change your attire?”

“More than adequate,” replied Alana with a curtsey. “Thank you for including me.”

“Nonsense, my wife wouldn’t permit any other option.” Grinning, he pulled her into their room, closing the door.

Alana stepped into her cabin, her eyes searching the small room—which consisted mostly of her bed—for her trunk. She discovered it hiding at the foot of the bed. Kneeling, she removed the key from around her neck, sliding it into the lock, and unlatched the trunk. Sorting through a handful of dresses, her eyes skirted over Patrick’s bag of garments. Life would be so much easier if she could dress as a man, all those extra layers of restrictive clothing removed. It was freeing but not at all proper, and only a proper lady would catch a husband. One hand reluctantly brushed over the bag. Aidan needed a wife… as did Patrick. How hard could it be to find one suitable man in America? Selecting the top dress, she rose, shaking out the material.

The ship lurched, and she stumbled, losing her balance and crashing into the wall as the ship pulled away from the dock. Dropping her dress on the bed, she staggered across the cabin, braced herself against the wall, and peered out a small window, watching the lights dotting the docks fade into the night. Three weeks aboard this ship. Like the Parkers, she was disembarking in Boston; Mrs. Parker would be delighted when she heard the news. A small smile flitted across Alana’s face. Mrs. Parker seemed a charming woman. Secretly, she was pleased to have met a companion so quickly. Although she had portrayed a brave façade for Aidan, in truth, she was terrified.

Spinning around, Alana stumbled across the cabin, collapsing on her bed. She crawled to her knees, balancing on the bed as she removed her bodice and skirt. Wrestling with her corset, she cursed, finally yanking it over her head with a huff. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she combed her fingers through the pieces of hair loosened during her fight with the corset, repining them.

A light tapping came at the door. Rising, Alana stumbled toward the door, grabbing onto the wall to steady herself. She called through the door. “May I help you?”

“I have come to offer my services.” Mrs. Parker’s boisterous voice bounded under the door. “It was quite an adventure to dress while the ship was rocking, and I suspect you may be having a bit of trouble on your own.”

With a grin, Alana, opened the door, peering around the edge. Her eyes darted up and down the corridor. “Mrs. Parker, your intuition is astonishing.”

Following Alana into the cabin, Mrs. Parker closed the door, locking it behind her. “Hugh will meet us on deck. He’s decided to stop in the salon for a bit and chat with some potential investors.”

“Investors?” Alana passed the dress to Mrs. Parker, who instructed Alana to turn around with a small circular gesture.

Pulling the corset over Alana’s head, Mrs. Parker fit it around her waist. “Yes, Hugh is quite an astute businessman. His latest venture paid for our trip to England.” She leaned in. “It was a birthday present. Deep breath.”

“Happy birthday,” replied Alana as Mrs. Parker yanked the corset strings, tying them deftly.

“Thank you.” She held up the dress, gently tugging it down Alana’s body, so as not to ruin her hair. “Hugh loves traveling. It gives him the opportunity to meet people, who never would have granted him an audience.” She tapped the side of her head. “We have that in common.”

Fastening Alana’s dress, Mrs. Parker hummed to herself. “Do you live in Boston?” asked Alana.

“We have recently relocated to Boston. Hugh has some interests out there.” Mrs. Parker smiled, but the light did not reach her eyes. “I am looking forward to a new adventure. Although I won’t know anyone there, I’m certain I will meet new friends. I’ve heard American society is much more welcoming.”

Alana reached out, placing her hand on Mrs. Parker’s arm and squeezing. “You will know someone; I am moving to Boston as well.”

“You are?” Mrs. Parker squealed with delight, clapping her hand over Alana’s. “We shall have a grand time, balls, and parties, and luncheons…”

Groaning inwardly, Alana forced a smile. “Will you not want to spend a little time with your family?”

“My family?” Blinking her eyes, confusion flashed across her face.

“Surely, your husband has family in Boston.”

Mrs. Parker licked her lips. “Hugh has no family; he is the sole surviving heir.”

“Children? Does he not want children?”

Stepping away, Mrs. Parker stared out the small window, her haunted face reflected in the glass. “I cannot have children.”

“I am sorry.” Alana stepped forward, but Mrs. Parker held up her hand.

“Do not feel pity for me, Mrs. Dubois, I have accepted my lot.” She paused, tilting her head. “If I may be bold, why do you not have children? You were married for two years.”

Alana glanced down, digging her toes into the floor. “I lost one.” She hiccupped. She hadn’t told Aidan, or her father, only Sebastian knew. They buried the baby, just to two of them, wracked with grief. Sebastian fell ill shortly after.

“Well, now that we have both revealed our deepest secrets, perhaps it is time for dinner?” Mrs. Parker curtsied, crossing the room. “I am famished.”

A half-smile crossed Alana’s face. Kneeling beside the trunk, she flipped the lid shut, latching it. Her eyes flicked up. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?” Pausing at the door, Mrs. Parker turned, her face thoughtful.

“An old friend,” replied Alana, rising and brushing non-existent dirt from her bodice. Thomas Reid was much more than an “old friend” as she had described him, but one secret was painful enough this evening, and she had no intention of discussing him or any other man during this journey. “He’s always hungry.”

“I believe he and I would be well-suited.” With a grin, Mrs. Parker opened the door, holding her arm out to Alana. Looping her arm through the older woman’s, Alana followed her into the hallway, closing the door.

Older was also an incorrect description as Mrs. Parker could not be more than a year or two older than Alana. Mr. Parker must be her senior by ten years. Alana chewed her lip as they walked, Mrs. Parker prattling on about Boston society. It had to be an arranged marriage. She peeked sideways at Mrs. Parker. An attractive woman such as her would certainly have no trouble finding a suitor. Mr. Parker’s wealth must have been the deciding factor for her family.

“Where does your family reside?” asked Alana, the question interrupting Mrs. Parker’s description of the last meal she ate before they set sail.

“Outside of Wiltshire,” replied Mrs. Parker. “It’s a lovely little—”

“I know the area,” interrupted Alana.

“You do?” Mrs. Parker raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, my father lives to the south of town.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Aengus Flannery.”

Mrs. Parker’s jaw dropped. “I know your family. My father is Joshua Varner.”

“Are you related to Miss Sarah Varner?” Alana stopped walking, staring at Mrs. Parker.

“Do you know my sister?”

“Only by name.” They resumed strolling, their arms linked together. “Sarah’s companions and mine do not share similar interests.”

Mrs. Parker pursed her lips, staring ahead as they navigated the narrow corridor. After a minute of silence, she spoke. “I will not speak ill of anyone; however, I do not approve of Sarah’s companions either. I have not spent much time in Wiltshire, and it is not my place to direct Sarah, it is my mother’s.” Sighing, Mrs. Parker glanced at Alana. “I have been married to Hugh for nearly ten years. While I do not regret one moment of that life, I wish I could have spent more time with my family, given my sisters some direction. Sarah has become the silliest of them all, emulating that vile Miss Shirely.”

Alana snickered. Even Mrs. Parker knew of Miss Shirely’s reputation. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Three. I am the oldest. The next two, Elizabeth and Frances, are also married. However, Mother seems reluctant to find Sarah a husband and has been denying suitors, according to Frances.” Mrs. Parker leaned closer, dropping her voice to a scandalous whisper. “Her husband’s brother expressed his desire to court Sarah, and his offer was refused.”

“My dear!” Mr. Parker appeared in front of them, a jovial smile lit his face. “I was coming to search for you. I thought you may have become lost.” His eyes skipped over Alana, twinkling merrily. “I do hope you were delayed due to conversation.”

“We were,” replied Mrs. Parker, matching his grin and accepting his offered elbow. “Mrs. Dubois is from Wiltshire!”

The smile froze on his face. “That is intriguing…”

“And she is moving to Boston!”

His eyes flicked to Alana. “I hope my dear wife has not convinced you to alter your plans.”

“Not at all.” Alana grinned, winking at Mrs. Parker. “It is a delightful coincidence.”

“I am pleased the two of you will have so much to discuss in my absence.” He patted his wife’s hand. A man crashed into him from behind, knocking him into Mrs. Parker. She stumbled. Grabbing her elbow, he steadied her, his face purpling. “Sir!”

The man spun, his skin translucent. Pointing a trembling finger at them, his quivering voice barely reached them. “P-P-Pirates.”

The ship lurched, picking up speed. With a squeak, the man turned and fled, vanishing into the corridor. Mrs. Parker turned her wide eyes to her husband.

“What do we do?”

“Hopefully, we can outrun them.” He squeezed her arm. “This is a fast ship.”

“What if the pirates’ ship is faster?” Mrs. Parker’s eyes widened, her hands locked around his wrists. “Hugh, they will kill...”

His hands clamped onto her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Louisa. Go back to the cabin; you and Mrs. Dubois are to hide together. Barricade yourself in the room and stay there until I come for you. Do you understand?”

“Where are you going?”

“To see if I can be of any assistance.”

“What if something happens to you?” Her lip trembled.

Hugh embraced her, whispering in her ear. “Then, you fight.” Placing a rough kiss to her mouth, he released her, turning and running toward the deck.

“Which room would you prefer?” asked Alana as they ran down the corridor, the deafening echo of cannon fire exploding behind them. Mrs. Parker glanced back, the color draining from her face.

“Yours,” she whispered.

Nodding, Alana extracted the key to her cabin. Spinning quickly, she kicked the door, then turned again, thrusting the key into the lock in one fluid movement. Wrenching the key, Alana slammed her shoulder into the door, pushing it open.

“If we weren’t under attack right now, I would be extremely proud of you, Mrs. Dubois,” said Mrs. Parker as she followed her into the room.

Shouts echoed overhead, and another cannon blast reverberated through the ship. Alana dashed to her window, staring out. She gasped. Besides their ship, another one sailed, matching their speed. Atop the mast, flew the terrifying colors of a pirate ship.

Mrs. Parker joined her at the window, squishing her face beside Alana. She swore, turning her pale face to Alana. “We need to do more than hide.”

“Why?” Alana’s stomach flipped.

“That’s the flag of Captain Cedric Shaw.”

Alana swallowed. Captain Cedric Shaw, one of the few pirates still patrolling the waters of the English Channel. The Navy had failed to capture him on numerous accounts. His cruel reputation was often highlighted in the newspapers, descriptions of his attacks bringing terror to even the bravest man.

“I can’t swim,” she admitted. Captain Shaw never took women from the ships he attacked. They were all given the same choice—swim or burn. The men, however, were given a different choice.

Mrs. Parker grabbed Alana’s shoulders. “Why can’t you swim?”

“I never learned.” Alana trembled, turning her eyes back to the window. “There is a river that runs past my father’s estate, but I only walked through the shallow parts. I never thought I’d need to learn.”

“You only have one other option.” Mrs. Parker unpinned a section of Alana’s red hair. The heavy tress fell to the center of Alana’s back. “We need to make you look like a man.”

Chapter 3

“Do you have a knife?”

“There’s one in my trunk. My brother, Patrick, gave it to me, along with some of his clothing, I saw it when I looked inside.” Ripping the chain from her neck, Alana dove at the trunk. Unlatching the top, she flung the lid open, grabbing the sack, and dumping the contents out on the bed. Rooting through the clothes, she extracted a penny knife. It glinted in the moonlight streaming through the portside window. “Will this work?”

“That is perfect.” Taking the knife, Mrs. Parker unfolded the blade. Grabbing hold of Alana’s hair, she placed the blade against the bundle, just above her fist. “Are you ready?”

Alana exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Yes.”

With a swipe, Mrs. Parker sliced through Alana’s hair, cutting it at the nape of her neck. Red hair tumbled around Alana’s face, framing it with loose waves of fire. Mrs. Parker dropped the knife on the bed, stuffing Alana’s hair into the empty sack. She glanced down at the pile of clothing, picking through the shirts. “These are too small for me, Mrs. Dubois, however, Hugh’s clothing will fit. I shall dash to my cabin and retrieve them.”

Shouts echoed from the deck, followed by another explosion. Gunshots reverberated down the corridor. Alana grabbed Mrs. Parker’s wrist.

“It is too dangerous.”

“They will not believe me a man if I am wearing a skirt, Mrs. Dubois, even if my hair is short.” She extracted herself from Alana. “Get dressed. I will return in two minutes.” Unlocking the door, Mrs. Parker peered around the edge, her eyes scanning the corridor. “Lock the door,” she commanded, slipping out the door and closing it softly behind her.

Alana crept across the room, pressing her face to the door, listening for Mrs. Parker, nodding when she heard the faint click of her cabin door. Securing the lock, Alana snagged a shirt and a pair of trousers from the stack of clothes.

The floor vibrated. Boots thudded into the corridor, stopping at the first cabin door. It slammed open, crashing into the wall. A scream followed. Horrific laughter crept into Alana’s cabin.

They had run out of time.

Hastily ripping off her dress and petticoats, Alana yanked the trousers up her legs. The door to the second cabin flew open. Another scream… and arguing. From the words floating under Alana’s door, she assumed one man was a pirate, and the other had no intention of following that man anywhere. Their voices rose, joined by a third, deeper voice. A gunshot rang out, then silence. The third cabin door crashed open, followed by the fourth. Only two more rooms…

Pulling the shirt over her head, she shoved the clothing into the sack, covering her discarded hair. She shoved the sack and her dress into the trunk, closed the lid gently, leaning her weight on the top until the locked clicked. Where was the key? Her eyes skated over the room. Something gleamed on the bed. Rising, she plucked the penny knife from the mattress.

The door beside hers burst open, smashing the wall. A shriek escaped Alana’s mouth. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she sank her teeth into her palm, swallowing the scream. Her eyes locked on her door. The handle rattled. She pressed herself against the wall, her trembling fingers wrapped around the knife. There was nowhere to hide.

“I heard you,” a raspy voice whispered through the door. “I know you’re hiding from me.”

“Then come get me,” she hissed.

“With pleasure,” the voice sneered. The door folded inward, disintegrating into pieces, the long blade of a sword sliding into the room.

Grabbing the man’s wrist, Alana yanked him forward, swinging the knife at the same moment. It sliced upward through the air, stopping just before embedding itself the man’s face. Capturing her hand, he twisted her arm behind her back, squeezing until she dropped the knife. It bounced off the trunk’s lid, falling to the side. He slapped her, his heavy hand knocking her to the ground. Stunned, Alana cupped her face, glaring at him. How dare he strike a woman! She was halfway to her feet when she realized his reaction to her was based on her appearance, which was distinctly unfeminine at this moment.

“What do you want?” she asked, forcing her voice into a dark growl.

“Your trunk, jewelry, money, and anything else you may have of value.” The man tilted his head, amusement in his dark eyes. “However, judging by your clothing, I would assume that was very little.”

“It cost me everything I had to purchase this ticket.” One little lie wouldn’t hurt, especially since she was negotiating her life.

Mrs. Parker’s cabin door crashed open, another man dragging her from the room. She kicked him in the shin, biting the hand wrapped around her mouth. He doubled over with a groan, releasing her. She locked eyes with Alana, lifted her skirt, and slammed her boot into the man’s hand. A scream tore from his lips. A fleeting grin lit her face as she spun, racing down the corridor.

“Do you need any help corralling that hostage, Mr. Evans?” The man refused to break his gaze with Alana.

“No,” growled Mr. Evans, his face darkening with humiliation. Rising, he stomped after Mrs. Parker.

“I’ll take the trunk, Mr…” The man tilted his head, offering a pleasant smile.

“Dubois,” replied Alana, climbing to her feet. “Sebastian Dubois.”

“Open it.” He gestured at the trunk.

With a nod, she knelt beside the trunk, lifting the lid. A scream vibrated down the corridor, then a curse word. When the man turned to glance at the doorway, Alana’s arm whipped out, closing around the knife. She folded it closed, quickly stuffing it into her waistband. Another curse word, louder than the first, exploded in the hallway. Alana smirked, hiding her smile when the man returned his attention to her.

“Does something amuse you?” He arched an eyebrow.

“I hope she kills your friend,” growled Alana.

Reaching down, the man’s hand closed around Alana’s shirt, yanking her to her feet. He towered a full head over her.

“You should pray she does not. The punishment for death is worse than you can imagine.”

“You attacked our ship. Would you consider defending yourself a crime?”

“I would when it costs me one of my men.”

Alana gasped, her jaw dropping. She swallowed, her eyes drinking in his hard stature—tall, muscular, and dark, his skin tanned by a life lived in the sun.

“You’re Captain Cedric Shaw.”

“Captain is sufficient.” His eyes glinted, cold and cruel.

“You’ve murdered hundreds of people.”

He released her with a chuckle. “That number has been exaggerated.”

“Any death is unforgivable.” Alana folded her arms, matching his glare.

Leaning forward, his eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I would not anger my captor, Mr. Dubois; I am the only reason you are still alive.” Lifting his left hand, he pointed a pistol at her heart. “Pick up the chest and carry onto the deck.”

Licking her lips, Alana bent, hoisting the chest from the floor. She grunted under the weight, staggering, then dropped the trunk. It landed on its side, popping open, clothes spilling onto the floor.

Captain Shaw crouched, rooting through the clothing. His fingers hooked around the collar of a chemise, dragging it from the pile. “Women’s clothing?”

“It belonged to my wife,” snarled Alana, snatching the chemise from him. Flipping over the trunk, she slammed the chemise into the bottom, scooping up the rest of the clothes.

“And why are you carrying your wife’s clothing to America?” Captain Shaw picked up the sack, peeling open the top. Seeing the men’s clothes, he retied the sack, passing it to Alana.

“Because I could not bring my wife.” Alana refused to look at him, organizing the trunk into a semi-presentable state, then tucking the sack into the center.

“Where is your lovely wife?”

“Buried in France.” She exhaled slowly, fighting the tears which gathered in her eyes, and closed the lid, glancing up.

Captain Shaw nodded his understanding, rising. “Is your trunk secure?”

“Yes,” she replied. Leaning over, Captain Shaw jerked the trunk from the floor, placing it on his shoulder. He pointed the pistol at her again, gesturing toward the door.

“Time to leave, Mr. Dubois.”

Alana stepped into the corridor, her eyes searching for Mrs. Parker. The pistol’s muzzle gouged her back. A low rumble crawled over her.

“I am willing to carry your trunk because I suspect you are a businessman, not used to physical activities; however, I am not a patient man. Unless you wish me to shoot you, I suggest you don’t stop again.”

Shuffling down the corridor, Alana twisted, staring at him over her shoulder.

“I am worried for Mrs. Parker.”

“Is that the woman with whom you were traveling?”

“We only met this evening.”

“And yet, you’ve developed such a strong affection for her?” He raised both eyebrows, insinuating impropriety.

“Concern for another human being is not an attachment,” retorted Alana in annoyance.

He chuckled, shifting the trunk. “Are you worried for Mr. Evans?”

“No.” Alana’s forehead scrunched. “Why would I?”

“Is he not a human being also?”

“He attacked an innocent woman!” Alana spun, flinging her arms in the air. “He will perform all manner of horrific actions on her personage.”

Captain Shaw’s face darkened. “Regardless of the rumors you have heard, not one man under my employ would harm a female.”

“What would they do?”

“They offer them a choice.”

“And the men?”

“Are you worried for yourself, Mr. Dubois?”

“I cannot swim.”

“Then, you are lucky you are a man as that is not one of your options.” He gestured with the gun, indicating for Alana to turn around.

Reaching into her waistband, Alana discreetly pulled the penny knife from her trousers. She clasped her hands in front of her, cautiously unfolding the knife. Dropping her arms to her sides, she hid the knife against her leg. As they neared the end of the corridor, she whipped around with a shriek, swiping the knife through the air.

The tip caught Captain Shaw’s shoulder, slicing down his arm. With a snarl, he swung, striking her in the face. She crumpled, crashing to the floor in a heap of twitching limbs. Snorting, Captain Shaw stepped over her body, dropping the trunk beside her head.

Crouching down, he leaned forward, whispering through the blackness clogging her mind. “The next time you attack a man, Mr. Dubois, I suggest killing him.”

Alana moaned, rolling her head. Her cheek ached, no doubt, a bruise blossoming on her face. She’d seen her brothers return with bruises on numerous occasions, but never experienced the violence herself. Perhaps she should reconsider her opinion on dressing as a woman. Pain detonated in her face, her teeth knocking together. He’d stuck her a second time, his hand balled into a fist. Whimpering, she rolled to her side, drawing her feet into her chest.

“Please,” she begged.

Fingertips bit into the fleshy part of her upper arm. Pulling her toward him, Captain Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Coward,” he muttered, releasing Alana’s arm. Rising, he kicked the trunk toward her. “Lift it.”

“I cannot,” replied Alana, her voice hitched.

Jerking her to her feet, Captain Shaw shoved the pistol into her stomach. “Either you carry it, or I shoot you right now, and I pray you will be dead before I set this ship aflame.”

Swallowing, Alana bent over, grabbing one end of the trunk. She yanked, but it refused to budge. Keeping her eyes on the trunk, she walked around the opposite side, her hands planted on her hips. Placing one foot on the seam, she shoved, and the trunk slid forward. A tiny grin broke out on her face. Stepping forward, she put her foot on the trunk again, kicking it. It flew down the corridor, crashing into the door.

“Now, what do you plan to do?” Captain Shaw’s amused voice came from behind her. Ignoring him, Alana stepped over the chest, pushing the door open.

“Bloody hell!” Mr. Evans dove out from behind the door, glowering. “You could have hit me.”

“That was not my intention, sir,” replied Alana. Where was Mrs. Parker? Had she escaped Mr. Evans? Or had she been dumped into the ocean…? Terror bubbled in her throat.

“Sir,” Captain Shaw’s snicker floated over her shoulder.

“Mr. Evans,” Alana pasted a smile on her face, swallowing her fear, “would you assist me with something?”

“No.”

Alana arched an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest.

“Would you assist your captain?”

Mr. Evans’ gaze jumped between Alana and Captain Shaw, who stood behind Alana, his pistol jabbing her back.

“I do whatever my captain commands.”

“Carry that trunk.” Alana pointed at the chest.

He glanced at Captain Shaw, a question in his eyes, but Captain Shaw remained silent. Mr. Evans folded his mouth into a grimace.

“If that is what my captain wishes…”

“He does.”

“Why does he not tell me?”

“Because I am telling you.”

“Who are you?”

“My new cabin boy,” snapped Captain Shaw, his harsh tone causing Mr. Evans to cringe. “And he has issued you a command.”

“Yes, Captain.” Mr. Evans nodded once. Jerking the trunk from the floor, he turned, walking stiffly toward the bow of the ship.

Alana glanced back. “Your cabin boy?”

“Boy… man.” He shrugged. “You’re youthful enough, you can carry either moniker.” Leaning forward, he inspected her face. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” she replied, stating Sebastian’s age... or the age he would have been, had he still been alive.

He drew a finger down her cheek. “You must be the youngest.”

“I am.” Which was true; both she and Sebastian were the youngest children in their families.

Captain Shaw reached out, squeezing her arm. He clucked. “A few weeks at sea will add some strength to you.”

“Weeks? I thought…”

“What did you think?” He tilted his head. He was laughing at her.

“I thought you’d put me ashore at the next port.”

“Why would I do that?”

She faltered, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “Because I can’t swim.”

“I haven’t thrown you into the ocean.” He shoved her forward. “But I never promised to return you to land.”

“You expect me to be your cabin boy forever?” she said over her shoulder, catching sight of her image in a brass railing. She gasped, shocked by the deep purple discoloration of her cheek. How hard had he struck her?

“Forever seems quite a long time, Mr. Dubois. I have no intention of continuing my career into forever.”

“Do I have another option?” She stopped walking, spinning around. The pistol crashed into her breastbone. She grimaced, expelling a low moan.

“Instead of working for me?”

“Yes.”

His mouth crooked into a half-smile. “Allow me to show you the other choice.”

Wrapping his fingers around her arm, he pinched the flesh, dragging her across the deck, stepping over broken bits of wood—pieces of the mast. Pushing her toward a group of men, he flung her at Mr. Evans.

“Mr. Dubois has decided he’d rather not join our crew.”

An evil grin slid across Mr. Evans’ face. “That is a pity.”

“Wait!” Alana twisted around, but Captain Shaw had vanished.

Winding a thick rope around Alana’s wrists, Mr. Evans shoved her down on the deck, tying her hands above her head to the lower portion of the broken mast. Kicking her foot, he stepped over her legs, grabbing another man and repeating the process. The man fell beside Alana with a grunt, gasping when he recognized her face.

“Mrs.—”

“Mr. Parker.” Alana cut him off, widening her eyes. She hoped he understood her silent message. “I am surprised to find you here. I had hoped you escaped.”

He leaned closer, dropping his voice, his gaze locked on Mr. Evans, who lashed another man on the opposite side of Alana. “I had hoped you and my wife managed to hide yourselves. Does she look as frightful as you?”

“I don’t know. They separated us,” replied Alana, bending her head and whispering. “She said if they found us, they’d give us a choice between swimming or staying aboard the ship and burning to death.”

A man stumbled, crashing to his knees in front of them, blood streaming down his forehead. Mr. Evans appeared behind him, smacking him in the back of the neck with the butt of his pistol. The man collapsed, his body twitching. Mr. Evans glanced up, his black eyes locking with Alana. He touched his hand to his forehead, saluting her, his eyes flicking up.

“Throw that one overboard.”

Rounding the mast, two pirates hooked their hands under the man, tossing his body over the side of the ship. A loud splash followed, flinging water droplets across the deck.

“Bring me the crew members,” commanded Mr. Evans, balancing his pistol on his shoulder. His gaze dropped to Alana’s shocked face, a smirk tugging at his mouth. Turning, he lurched toward the stern.

“You should have gone with her,” murmured Mr. Parker, his eyes on Mr. Evans’ back.

“I cannot swim.”

Mr. Parker’s head whipped toward her, drinking in her hacked off hair and masculine clothing. “Louisa cut your hair?”

“She went across the corridor to grab clothing so we both could dress like men, but they discovered us before we could disguise her. She ran.”

“I’m not certain pretending to be a man was a better choice, Mrs…”

Shaking her head violently, Alana flicked her eyes to Mr. Evans as he dragged another man toward them.

“My name is Mr. Sebastian Dubois.”

“There is no purpose in introductions,” Mr. Evans said, shoving the man to the deck and binding his arms to the mast. He offered Alana a vile grin. “I intend to kill all of you within the hour.”

Chapter 4

“Why would you kill us?” Alana’s heart thudded rapidly, threatening to break through her chest. That was the choice… work for Captain Shaw or die?

Mr. Evans leaned over, his grimy face filling Alana’s vision.

“That was your decision,” he hissed, his sour breath washing over her. Her nose wrinkled.

“I’d like to reconsider my position.”

“Would you?” He tilted his head. “Captain already made his judgement.”

“Please inform him I wish to speak with him.”

“Please,” snorted Mr. Evans. Rising, he bowed, extending his arms in a wide mocking gesture. “Of course, my Lord, is there anything else I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable?”

“No, that will be all.”

His mouth twitched. Leaning down, he rested his forearm on his knee, pinching Alana’s chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“You are extremely lucky the captain liked you, Mr. Dubois, or we would not be having this discussion. However, since he did request you as his manservant, I will ask him if he wishes to give you a reprieve. Wait here.” Laughing at his joke, he turned, ambling across the deck.

“Are you certain you want to do that?” murmured Mr. Parker.

“They are going to kill us,” Alana replied, her voice just as soft.

A melancholy smile touched his face. “That does not bother me; without Louisa, I am lost.”

“She could survive.” Alana’s voice rose hysterically. Why would Mr. Parker choose death? “She’s an excellent swimmer.”

“No.” His red-rimmed eyes glanced out at the dark ocean. “She didn’t want to come on this trip, said she had a terrible dream, begged me to stay in London for another fortnight, but I made her come with me.” Sighing, he turned back to Alana. “I should have listened.”

“You cannot give up hope.”

“Either she will drown, or she will burn to death. How can I live, knowing I caused my wife’s death?”

“This is not your fault.”

“Changed your mind, Mr. Dubois.” Captain Shaw’s chuckle carried across the moonlit deck. Alana’s head jerked up as he approached. Behind him, flames flickered in the darkness, incinerating the stern of the ship and slowly licking their way toward the bow. “I daresay you have the temperament of a woman.”

Alana jutted out her chin, glaring at him. “I didn’t realize you were going to shoot me.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.” He crouched beside her, trailing the muzzle of his pistol across the underside of her chin. “Mr. Evans is.”

“I would prefer that Mr. Evans didn’t shoot me.”

“You would prefer I shoot you instead?”

“No, I would prefer not to be killed.”

“You gave up that choice.”

“I did not. I asked what my other option was, and you offered to show me.”

“I did say that…” Captain Shaw rubbed his temple with the muzzle of the pistol, considering her statement. “I never break my word.”

“You’re a pirate,” scoffed Alana. “What good is your word?”

“Do not aggravate him, Mr. Dubois,” muttered Mr. Parker.

“You should listen to your friend,” growled Captain Shaw. “I would happily add another bruise to the growing collection on your face.”

Alana whimpered, shrinking away from him.

“That violence is not necessary,” said Mr. Parker, leaning his body against Alana in a comforting gesture.

Captain Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

Mr. Parker shook his head. “You don’t need my name; I have no intention of joining your crew.”

Arching an eyebrow, Captain Shaw glanced up at Mr. Evans.

“Have you explained the ramifications of refusing employ?”

“I know what choice I’ve made,” replied Mr. Parker, his strong voice carried across the deck.

“Please,” begged Alana, “think of your wife.”

“She’s already dead.” Mr. Evans dropped beside Captain Shaw, his sneer filled with malice. “I pushed her overboard myself.”

Was it possible to hear a man’s heart shatter? Mr. Parker’s face crumpled, a wounded howl tumbling from his lips. Was that the sound Thomas’ heart made when she refused his proposal? Her chest gave a tight squeeze, constricting until she could no longer breathe.

“I hope you hang from the gallows,” snarled Mr. Parker, snapping his teeth at Mr. Evans.

“If you have a grievance to settle with me, meet me in Hell.” Raising his pistol, Mr. Evans placed the muzzle to Mr. Parker’s head, pulling the trigger. Blood and bone sprayed the side of Alana’s face.

Captain Shaw twisted away, closing his eyes, revulsion on his face. When he turned back, a mask of stone had replaced the look of pity. Untying Mr. Parker’s wrists and lifting the body, Mr. Evans slogged to the side of the ship. With a grunt, he hefted the body over the side, dropping it into the darkness.

“Would anyone else like to join Mr…” Captain Shaw’s eyes flicked to Alana.

“Parker,” she replied, her gaze locked on his face, curiosity burning in her veins. She’d seen it, the fleeting moment of compassion. Was it possible the cruel Captain Shaw had a heart?

“Mr. Parker,” he nodded once. Rising, he stalked around the mast. “I give you two options, either join my crew or join Mr. Parker in a watery grave.”

One by one, each man gave his assent to join the pirate crew. When Captain Shaw reached Alana, he bent over. Extracting a handkerchief, he slid it down the side of her face, wiping away Mr. Parker’s blood. Folding the handkerchief, he tucked it back into his coat. “Have you made your decision, Mr. Dubois?”

“I will work for you.”

He leaned closer, his mouth almost touching hers. “Forever?”

“Until you die.” Alana narrowed her eyes.

Laughing, Captain Shaw straightened, turning his attention to Mr. Evans.

“Chain Mr. Dubois in my cabin.”

“Are you certain, Captain?” asked Mr. Evans, his black eyes dropping to Alana. “He seems to be a bit of trouble. We don’t want to bring any bad luck aboard.”

“Mr. Evans, are you questioning my mind?”

“No, Captain,” he replied instantly.

“Then do as I ordered.”

“Yes, Captain.” His malice filled eyes flicked over Alana.

This was going to be a problem…

Roughly grabbing his knife, he slid the blade across the ropes binding Alana to the mast, nicking a section of her skin. She winced, but held her tongue, glowering at him. With a grin, Mr. Evans yanked her to her feet, pulling her forward by her bound wrists. She stumbled, and he shoved her at another pirate with an exasperated growl.

“Mr. Wickes, this prisoner is assigned to the Captain’s cabin.” Sending Alana a final sneer, he turned his attention to the three men still bound to the mast.

Mr. Wickes caught Alana, spinning her around and marching her toward the railing, his large hands clamped over her arms, pinning them to her sides. Pointing at a small bamboo ladder connecting the two ships, he pushed her against the railing.

“Over you go.”

“I cannot climb with my hands lashed,” replied Alana. Her eyes flicked down. Pieces of wood and sail bobbed in the water, highlighted by the flames overwhelming the ship’s stern. Nor can I swim if I fall. However, she doubted this man, or any other aboard this ship, would care if she drowned.

“For your sake, I hope you figure it out,” he replied, lifting her easily and setting her on the opposite side of the railing.

Alana twisted around, wrapping her hands around the worn wood. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “I cannot.”

“What seems to be the trouble?” Captain Shaw’s deep voice rumbled.

Her eyes flew open. He did not look amused. She swallowed.

“I’m going to fall.”

“Are you?” He tilted his head. “How do you know?”

“My hands are bound.”

“That could potentially cause a problem.”

“You’re not going to do anything.”

“No.” He pointed his pistol at her. “Start walking.”

“But—”

“Mr. Dubois,” interrupted Captain Shaw. “You have taken more time than any other captive I have encountered in my career. We have a short amount of time before this ship is entirely ablaze. Perhaps I should shoot you and end my suffering. There are other men who wish to live through the night.”

Alana’s mouth snapped shut. Rolling her shoulders back, she turned away, placing one hesitant foot on the ladder. She wobbled, fighting to retain her balance as the ships pitched. Sliding the next foot forward, she inched forward. The ships rolled again. With a shriek, she dropped to the ladder, balanced precariously as the ships continued to rock.

“If he remains there another minute, shoot him,” scowled Captain Shaw. “We need to abandon this ship, and I have no patience for weakness.” He vanished, his spiteful words swirling around Alana’s head. Mr. Wickes removed his pistol from his waistband, pointing it at Alana.

“Captain’s orders,” he said, his voice even.

“Move, Alana,” she murmured aloud, stretching out her hands. Grabbing the rung in front of her, she dragged herself forward, drawing her legs up behind her. She crawled across the ladder in this manner, pulling herself rung by rung, her eyes locked on the ship. As she reached the other side, a small sigh escaped her lips.

A man leaned over the railing, grabbing the waistband of her trousers, flinging her over his shoulder. She bounced once, rolling on the deck. Crashing into the mast, her body folded unnaturally. She groaned, drawing her knees into her chest.

“And who do you belong to?” asked the man, yanking her from the deck.

“Captain Shaw wants him as a manservant,” answered Mr. Evans, leaping over the railing, having traversed the ladder with the three other men who were tied to the mast. “Chain him in the Captain’s quarters, Mr. Hayward. You three, follow me.”

Nodding, Mr. Hayward grabbed the rope binding Alana’s wrists and dragged her across the deck. “You’re lucky,” he murmured, pushing open a door, and ushering Alana inside. “Captain Shaw doesn’t often show prisoners favor.”

“I don’t understand.” Alana followed him into the small room. Moonlight streamed in from a window in the center of the room, highlighting an ornate desk and chair. An oil lamp was lit, chasing the shadows to the edges of the cabin, bathing the walls in soft light.

“Captain hasn’t had a cabin boy,”—his eyes flicked over Alana—“manservant for several months. I’m surprised he decided to take one on this late into our journey. However, you must have captured his attention. I pray you do not lose his sympathy; he is the only man aboard who possesses any.” Dragging a cannonball from underneath the desk, Mr. Hayward knelt at Alana’s feet.

“Do you?” asked Alana, balancing on one foot as he unfastened her boots.

Glancing up, Mr. Hayward’s blue eyes darkened. “No.” He yanked off her boot. “No need for these.”

“My shoes?” squeaked Alana. “What if I need…”

“Why would you need them?” replied Mr. Hayward, his calloused hands sliding up her leg. He yanked quickly, removing the second boot. “You’re on a ship. Stockings too, unless you’d prefer I continue to strip you.” He tilted his head.

“No.” Alana bent over, quickly ripping the material from her feet.

With a nod, Mr. Hayward secured the chain around her ankle. The chain stretched three feet to the winglet of the cannonball. Rising, he kicked the cannonball. It rolled toward a large bed in the far-right corner of the room, dragging Alana along with it, and bumped gently into the frame. “You can start with the bed. Captain will be along in a bit. Don’t leave.”

Alana rolled her eyes and turned to the bed, selecting the nearest pillow and punching it into shape. The door closed and locked, announcing the departure of Mr. Hayward. She collapsed onto the rumpled bed, tears gathering in her eyes.

How had she managed to end up in this predicament? Surely, this situation was much more dangerous than remaining on her father’s estate with both her brothers and a stockpile of rifles.

A glint of light hit her face. She lifted her head, wiping her face. The light flashed again, shining through the cabin window. Curious, she walked toward the window, finding herself restrained halfway across the room. Grumbling, she spun, yanking on the chain. The cannonball rolled, completing one full rotation before stopping again. With a growl, she pulled the chain again, setting her whole body against the weight of the cannonball. Dragging it forward, she spun, approaching the window.

There was just enough chain for her to place her face against the glass, her leg stretched out behind her at a bizarre angle. Her gaze searched the water for the light. Sliding along the burning ship, Alana’s eyes reached the stern of the ship. She gasped. Floating twenty meters behind the ship was a lifeboat with people aboard. Squinting, she cupped her hands around her face. Women! It was a boatful of women. Was it possible Louisa had survived? How had the boat dropped into the water? Had the fire burned through the ropes releasing the boat from the side of the ship?

An explosion rocked the ship, and the cannonball rolled backward, dragging Alana away from the window. Cursing, she hopped after the ball, the chain digging into her soft flesh. Collapsing on the bed, she slid her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, blood coming away on her fingertips. She cursed and kicked the ball.

“Curious language from a gentleman.”

Shrieking, Alana’s head whipped up. Captain Shaw stood in the doorway, an amused grin on his face. “I wasn’t aware I was not alone.”

“Gentlemen only curse in private?” asked Captain Shaw, stepping into the room and closing the door.

“You would be surprised at the behavior of gentlemen,” replied Alana, reaching for the second pillow.

Nodding his agreement, Captain Shaw walked toward her, skirting around the edge of the bed, opening the door to an armoire fastened to the wall. As he removed his shirt, a muffled groan escaped. He peeled away the cloth stuck to his shoulder slowly, revealing a peculiar map of scars etched across his body.

“Was that my fault?” She pointed at the open wound on his arm.

His head popped out around the door. “Would that please you?”

She stuck her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, holding them up. Blood glistened on her fingertips.

“It would not upset me.”

His gaze flicked down at her hand. He shrugged. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Dubois.”

“What do you expect of me?”

“Right now.” Captain Shaw grimaced, removing something from the armoire. Leaning over, he set a small box next to her on the bed. “I expect you to sew up my arm.”

He was shirtless! She blushed, her gaze sliding down his bare chest, defined by years of hard labor. Not that Sebastian was unattractive, but he’d had a more refined, stout physique. Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. It had been two years since she’d had relations with a man… and here she was, fantasizing about a pirate—a man whose cruel reputation extended through countries, instilling fear in ladies and gentlemen alike. Forcing her eyes down to the bed, she flipped open the box’s lid. A needle and a spool of thread greeted her; her head whipped up.

“I cannot sew.”

“Most gentlemen can’t; however, there are not many doctors at sea.” Lumbering across the room, he grabbed a bottle from his desk and walked back to the bed, dropping beside her. Pulling out the cork, he tipped the bottle backward, drinking deeply. Lowering the bottle, his eyes slid over Alana, tilting the bottle toward her. “And this is your fault.”

“I’m not certain drinking will help my lack of talent.”

He snorted. “It won’t, but it will calm your nerves.”

She nodded, accepting the bottle. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed it to her lips, tipping it. The liquid burned her throat. She coughed, leaning forward on her knees.

“It’s fairly strong.” He grinned, taking the bottle from her hand. She glared at him through watering eyes. “I should have warned you.”

“Considering you’re about to trust me with a needle and thread, I would think you would be a bit kinder to me.”

A pistol cocked, ripped from an unseen location, the muzzle pointed directly at her face.

“Are you saying I cannot trust you, Mr. Dubois? Mr. Hayward is more than capable of sewing up my injury.”

“I was not suggesting treachery, Captain Shaw,” she replied quickly, sitting up and lifting the needle from the box. “I am merely warning you of my inabilities.”

Lowering the pistol, he indicated for her to continue, extending his injured left arm, and resting his palm on her knee. The heat from his skin blazed through her trousers. Her hand slid up his sinewy arm, the muscles flexing underneath her feathery touch. The strange heat emanated from his arm as well; Alana’s stomach clenched. Surely she could not develop an attachment to a monster such as Captain Shaw. A peculiar look passed over his face. Reaching down, he grabbed her wrist, lifting her hand and inspecting her fingers.

“I am willing to bet you’ve never performed labor.”

She snatched her arm away, her eyes narrowing.

“Regardless of your opinion of gentlemen, Captain Shaw, you asked me to assist you. Either remain silent and allow me to perform the task or find someone else to help you.”

His arm whipped out, fingers closing around her chin. Pinching the skin, he wrenched her head, yanking her toward him. “You are not in any position to give demands. You are alive because you amuse me. Do not lose my favor.” Flinging her off the bed, he watched her crash into the unforgiving edge of the open armoire door.

Pain exploded in the center of her back, radiating down her spine. She screamed in agony, rolling back and forth on the floor, her hands clamped to her back, tears rolling down her face. He rose, stepped over her body, extracting a shirt from the armoire, his cold gaze dropping to her.

“You have failed your first test this evening, Mr. Dubois. Pray you do not fail your second.”

Chapter 5

“Captain Shaw.” The tentative knock echoed through the small cabin. Alana rolled to her side, pain pulsating through her back. Pushing up with a groan, her gaze slid to the door. She sucked in a breath, swallowing a moan. Did Captain Shaw intend to beat her to death?

“You have not earned a reprieve.” His deep brown eyes blazed black, and a shiver raced through her body. “Enter.”

The door scraped open, a trunk sliding into the room, propelled by an invisible force. Mr. Hayward followed, a second trunk resting on his shoulders. Stopping in front of the desk, he set the small trunk on top. It was her trunk! Then, returning for the second trunk, he positioned it beside the desk, nearest a table and chairs. He spun, his gaze sliding over Alana—showing no emotion—landing on Captain Shaw.

“I’ve brought what you requested.”

“Divide everything else equally among the men, then change course for Ceresus.”

“Are we heading home?”

“We are. Inform the crew.”

Home? Hope soared through her heart. Home meant land, and on land, she could escape... or at least have a fighting chance. She just needed to survive Captain Shaw’s wrath until they reached port. Which direction could they be heading? She’d never heard of Ceresus. Her mind sifted through the facts—or rumors—she’d heard about Captain Shaw. Not once did she recall hearing about him owning property. Did pirates have homes?

A smile pulled at Mr. Hayward’s mouth, revealing a chipped gold tooth. “I am eager to see Martha again.”

“You should just marry the girl and be done with it,” replied Captain Shaw. Crossing the room, he stopped behind the desk, set the bottle on the desk, and draped his shirt over the back of a gilded chair.

“She’s a prostitute!”

“And you’re a pirate.” Captain Shaw tilted his head, studying him. “Mr. Hayward, in all the years I’ve known you, fear has never been an attribute of yours.”

“I’m not afraid,” grumbled Mr. Hayward. The blood oozing down Captain Shaw’s left arm drew his attention. “Need any assistance?”

Captain Shaw dropped his gaze to Alana, his eyes gleamed. “Does Mr. Hayward need to perform the task for you?”

Alana glared at him, forcing the word through her clenched jaw. “No.”

“Pardon?” He cupped his hand around his ear.

“No!” She pushed herself into a sitting position, collecting the needle from the floor.

“Your skills are not necessary this evening.” His gaze slid over Alana. “As Mr. Dubois will be occupied, send my dinner with Mr. Wickes.”

“He’ll want to stay on deck for distribution.” A hint of fear crossed through Mr. Hayward’s face a moment after the words left his mouth.

Arching an eyebrow, Captain Shaw dropped into his chair, touching his fingertips together and placing them to his mouth. “Are you volunteering to bring it for him?”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Mr. Hayward, mollification in his voice.

“Dismissed.” He waved his arm.

Saluting, Mr. Hayward spun stiffly, marching to the door. He paused, his hand outstretched toward the door handle.

“Should I bring anything for Mr. Dubois?”

“Concerned for another man’s welfare?”

“Even a dog deserves water,” replied Mr. Hayward, speaking to the door.

Captain Shaw snorted, his gaze sliding to Alana. “Then, the dog can have my scraps.”

Without another word, Mr. Hayward opened the door and exited, pulling it closed behind him. Captain Shaw jerked his head, indicating Alana rise. Climbing to her feet, she winced, sinking her teeth into her lip. Don’t cry. She leaned over slowly, collecting the box, and placed the needle inside, next to the spool of thread. Taking a deep breath, she straightened, rolling back her shoulders, and crossed the room. Resting his arm on the chair, Captain Shaw gestured to the floor. Alana knelt beside him as he lifted the bottle to his mouth.

“I need that,” said Alana, reaching for the bottle, her fingers closing around the base.

He choked, surprise coloring his eyes. “I thought it was too strong for you.”

“It is. However, I have no intention of doing this sober.”

Snorting, Captain Shaw released the bottle. “You surprise me.”

“I surprise many people.”

That was the truth. Captain Shaw would certainly be surprised to learn his manservant was really a woman—not that she had any intention of revealing that fact. If he was this cruel to a man, what would he do if he discovered she was a woman? She shuddered.

Tipping the bottle, Alana swallowed a mouthful of the strong liquor and coughed, her eyes watering. The second sip didn’t burn as much as the first, and a pleasant numb feeling quieted the fears circling in her mind. Rubbing her hand over his arm, she stretched out the skin, marveling at its dark color, then poured the liquid over the wound. He turned away with a hiss, his teeth grinding together.

“It was necessary,” said Alana, her eyes flicking to his face.

“I know.” He hissed again as she poured more of the liquor over his arm. “Must you waste it?”

“I am not wasting it.” She paused, taking a third drink. “I am cleaning the wound.”

He grabbed the bottle from her hand, locking his dark glare on her face.

“For a man who isn’t used to strong drink, you certainly developed a taste for it.”

Alana shrugged, enjoying the strange feeling floating through her limbs. Her tongue felt thick. “What is it?”

“My own personal whiskey. I make it.” He thumbed to himself, a faint note of pride in his statement.

“You make it?” She raised up on her knees, holding out her hand for the bottle. He returned it with a grin.

“I own a private distillery.”

“Then why do you…” She gestured around her, then took another drink.

“Plunder?” He held out his hand.

“Murder.” Glancing down, she shook her head, lifting the bottle to her lips again.

“It’s expected of me.” He yanked the bottle from her mouth.

Encouraged by the liquor, she leaned toward him, arching her eyebrow.

“You’re expected to be a pirate?”

“I’m expected to kill people who disobey me.” He slammed his hand on the desk, causing Alana to jump.

Pursing her lips, she retrieved the needle and spool from the box. After several attempts, she threaded the needle and tied a knot at the end of the string. Lifting her eyes to him, she held up the needle.

“This will hurt.”

“I am aware.” He saluted her with the bottle, taking a long drink.

She pinched the sides of the wound together, pushing the skin into a puckered line. Exhaling slowly, she stabbed the needle through his arm. Captain Shaw did not flinch, his only reaction was to take another sip of brandy.

Drawing the string through, Alana repeated the process—stab, glance at Captain Shaw, draw the string through—until the wound closed. Tying off the string, Alana returned the needle and spool of unused thread to the box, closing the lid. “I have finished, however…”

“Yes?” Captain Shaw’s head whipped toward her, his eyes dropping to the wound, inspecting her stitching. “I see no problem with your surgery. Perhaps you can replace Mr. Hayward in those duties; he lacks the ability to keep a straight line.”

Alana forced a smile. “I have no intention of remaining in your employ if you attack another ship.”

Slamming the bottle on the desk, he leaned down, his hand wrapping around Alana’s wrist. “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do?”

“I will jump in the water.”

He laughed. The mirthless sound reverberating off the cabin walls. “You cannot swim.”

“True, but I can float long enough to be rescued by the lifeboat.”

His face tightened. “What makes you think there will be a lifeboat this time?”

This time? Alana’s jaw dropped. “You released the boat!”

“I have no idea to what you are referring.” He threw away her wrist away, rising. The chair scraped across the floor, slamming into the wall. Snatching up his shirt, he yanked it over his head, stalking toward the armoire.

“If you rip open the stitches, I will have to sew your arm again,” said Alana, her soft voice barely carrying across the cabin.

He spun around, his eyes cold. “Where did you see a lifeboat?”

“Off the stern of the ship.” She gestured at the window and held out the box. “You saved those women’s lives.”

“I did not.” He ripped the box from her hand, turning away, and shoved it into the armoire.

“Why do you deny your good deed?” Alana stepped toward him.

Captain Shaw spun around, his stone face held no emotion. “Because I am not a good man, Mr. Dubois. You would do well to remember that.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” said Captain Shaw, his gaze flicking to the door. Mr. Hayward scuttled into the room and set a tray on the corner of the desk. “Mr. Hayward, your skills are lacking.”

“Captain?” Mr. Hayward glanced nervously at Alana.

“Mr. Dubois is a better tailor than you. I am relieving you of your duties.” He crossed the room, removing his shirt. Mr. Hayward inspected the stitched wound, dragging his thumb across the line, his tongue caught in his teeth.

“I did not agree to those terms,” said Alana. Both men’s heads whipped up at the exact same moment, anger rolling through the room.

“I have my rounds,” mumbled Mr. Hayward, rushing from the room, the door slamming behind him.

Captain Shaw approached, stopping centimeters from Alana. The ire vibrating through his body brushed over her skin, his deep voice sending a shudder rippling down Alana’s spine.

“No man counters my direction.”

“You do not determine my life,” replied Alana, planting her hands on her hips. He was going to kill her, beat her to death before the evening’s end. Captain Shaw raised his arm. She jutted out her chin and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain.

“Why are you not afraid of me?”

Her eyes flew open. He had lowered his arm and was staring at her curiously.

“I am afraid,” she whispered.

“Yet, knowing the ramifications of my anger, you still challenge me. Why?” He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “I can kill you.”

“I do not agree with your decisions.”

“You are aboard my ship.”

“That was not by choice.”

“It was,” he growled, jabbing her in the forehead. She swayed, refusing to step backward.

“Death or servitude, which would you choose?”

“Death.”

Alana froze, her mouth open in shock. “You are an unusual man.”

“Thank you.” He bowed, obviously pleased by her observation, and returned to his chair, flinging his arm at her trunk. “Remove that. Stow it beside the bed, then carry the tray to the table.” He tilted his head, a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I presume you know how to serve someone.”

“Yes, I do.”

Snorting, Captain Shaw shook his head, lifting the bottle again. He grimaced. Lowering it slowly, he stared at her over the bottom.

“You drank all my whiskey.”

“You drank all your whiskey, I used it to clean your wound,” murmured Alana, chewing on her lip and staring at her trunk. She couldn’t lift it; Captain Shaw knew this fact, yet he’d assigned her the task. Her eyes slid to him. “Do you enjoy hurting people?”

“Why do you ask?” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk.

“You know I can’t carry that chest,” she replied, pointing at her trunk. “And I fear your anger will be worse if I fail a second task.”

“It will.” He tilted his head, his face smooth. “But I am curious as to how you will solve that problem.”

Narrowing her eyes, Alana placed her hand atop of the trunk’s lid. Glaring at him, she pulled the trunk toward her. It fell off the side of the desk, crashing to the floor. He smirked, rising from his chair. Crossing the room, he opened a small cabinet hidden behind the table. Extracting an identical bottle to the one on his desk, he pulled out the cork, setting it on the table. Two pewter goblets followed.

“I’ve changed my mind. Bring me the trunk,” he commanded, sinking into one of the chairs and filling both cups.

“Would you like the tray as well?”

“I would.”

Alana placed her bare foot on the trunk’s lid and kicked. It slid forward, reaching the edge of the desk. Walking around the side, she shoved the trunk toward the table. The chest scraped the floor, crashing into a chair leg. Leaning over, she lifted the tray from the desk. Taking one step, she froze. The cannonball, stuck in a groove in the wooden floor, refused to budge. She jerked her leg. Grumbling, she placed the tray on the desk again, flinging her arm at the cannonball.

“Is this necessary?”

“No.”

“Are you going to remove it?”

He produced a small key, setting on the table next to a goblet.

“If you can reach me, you can remove it. You have five minutes before I add a cannonball to the other leg.” A light chuckle echoed around her. “Do you loathe me, Mr. Dubois? Would you like to see me hanged?”

“I have no desire to see any man hanged. However, I am certain you would deserve the sentence.” Spinning, Alana marched to the cannonball. Wrapping her hands around the chain, she yanked, digging her heels into the floor. She underestimated her strength, and the cannonball loosened, flying directly at her face. With a shriek, she dropped to the floor, covering her head. The cannonball soared over her, bouncing once, then rolled toward the table. The chain stretched, wrenching her leg, the cuff digging into her ankle again. The foulest, most despicable curse word flew from her lips, followed in quick staccato by several other inappropriate words.

“Where did you learn such language?” snickered Captain Shaw, sipping from his goblet.

She ignored him, climbing to her feet. Limping to the desk, she collected the tray, balancing it carefully in her arms. She shuffled toward the table, scowling at the cannonball as she passed by it. Setting the tray on the table, she reached for the key. Captain Shaw’s hand whipped out, closing around her wrist. She twisted toward him, a question in her eyes.

“Serve me first.”

Swallowing her retort, Alana lifted a plate of salted meats from the tray, placing it directly in front of Captain Shaw, followed by a plate of cheese, and a loaf of bread. After setting all the items in front of him, she stood, her hands folded together.

“Will there be anything else, Captain?”

He stared at her, drawing out the silence. Waving his hand, he selected a piece of meat, chewing thoughtfully. Alana snatched the key from the table and dropped to the floor, her back to him as she wrestled with the cuff. Sighing as the metal released her skin, she rubbed her ankle, blood staining her palm.

“Here.” A bottle appeared in her vision, hovering over her head. “Clean yourself.”

Accepting the bottle, she hesitated a moment, then shrugging, tipped her head, swallowing a mouthful of the burning liquor. Gritting her teeth, she tilted the bottle over her ankle, pain exploding in her leg. Grinding her jaw, she doused her injury again, then held the bottle up over her head. Taking it, he tossed a piece of meat over her shoulder. It landed on the floor in front of her. Glaring at it, she crossed her arms over her chest. Another piece of meat followed, landing next to the first.

“Is my food not good enough for a refined gentleman such as yourself?” Captain Shaw’s growl rolled around the cabin, sending a shiver racing down Alana’s back.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Considering we attacked your ship prior to dinner, I suspect you are quite hungry.” His low reply held a note of warning.

“I am not a dog.”

“Have I offended you, Mr. Dubois? Did you think yourself a better man than I?”

Alana spun around, her eyes flashing. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

He selected a piece of meat from the plate, holding it between his forefinger and thumb, and waved it at her face. “Would you take it from my hand?”

Alana bit her tongue in half, swallowing the insult burning her mouth.

He snorted. Lifting the bread loaf, he ripped a chunk off, setting back on the plate with a few strips of meat and cheese. Pushing the plate across the table, his eyes flicked to the seat.

“Join me.”

“Why?”

“Because you lied to me, and before I kill you, I want to know the reason.”

Chapter 6

“Why do you think I lied to you?” Alana rose, praying her voice remained even. How had he deduced she was a woman?

“Open your trunk.”

Gulping, she dragged it from beneath the chair, unlatching the clasp, and flipped open the lid, her eyes sliding over the clothing and the sack… with her hair hidden in the bottom. What would he do to her?

“Sit.”

She stepped away from the trunk, dropping into the chair across from him, her eyes locked on his. Selecting the chunk of bread from her plate, she ripped off a piece, and put it in her mouth, never breaking her stare. Chewing methodically, she swallowed.

“How did you know?”

“Your clothing.”

“My clothing?” She glanced down at her shirt. It was a man’s shirt to be certain, her trousers as well. She thought her explanation for having women’s clothing seemed plausible…

“Just now, when I offered you the meat,”—he lifted the bottle from the table, handing it to her—“what was it you wanted to say to me that you struggled so admirably to withhold?”

A line scrunched itself into her forehead as she took the bottle. Lifting it to her mouth, she drank deeply and set the bottle back onto the table, ripping off another piece of bread.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your reaction was that of a gentleman, one whose responses have been conditioned to acceptable societal behavior, ingrained since youth.” He leaned forward, sifting through the chest, and extracted a chemise. “Your wife’s?”

Alana nodded.

“You said you were poor, but your clothing, your speech, your manners suggest otherwise.” Tossing the chemise back into the trunk, he pulled out the sack.

“A man can be a gentleman without wealth.” Alana’s gaze dropped to the bag. How would she explain why the hair in the sack was the exact same color as hers?

“Manners do not generate money, Mr. Dubois. Your education was paid for, where are those funds?” He tossed the sack between his hands, squeezing the material inside. Snorting, he held it out. “More clothing?” When she nodded, he pitched the unopened bag back into the chest.

“With my father,” she spat, regaining some of her bravado. “He has no intention of dying any time soon.”

“Is that why you were sailing for America?” he asked, grabbing the bottle.

“I was starting over.”

“Not quite the direction you anticipated traveling?”

She glanced around the dim room and shook her head. “Not quite.”

A bell tolled, clanging from somewhere above them. Captain Shaw lifted his head, listening. It rang two more times in quick succession. Pushing back from the table, he stood, walking to the large window and peering into the darkness. A small light flickered in the distance, fluttering like a firefly. He turned with a growl, his face hardening. His eyes flicked to the cannonball.

“No, please,” Alana pleaded with him, a phantom pain shooing through her ankle. “I swear to remain here, in this very chair, until you return.”

He nodded once, spinning and exiting the room. The door slammed behind him, followed by the light click of a lock. Truthfully, she felt safer with the door locked. Waiting until Captain Shaw’s footsteps faded, she leapt up from the chair, rushing to the window. What had he seen?

Pressing her face against the cold glass, she strained her eyes, searching the night for the tiny light. It appeared to her right, bobbed in the ocean. A second light appeared behind the first, much smaller but growing steadily. They were being followed! Her heart leapt into her throat. It was the Navy, they must have discovered the burned ship. She was going to be rescued!

The ship lurched, and Alana stumbled, crashing into the window and rebounding into the desk, knocking the chair aside. Had their ship increased its speed? It felt as though they were moving much faster, slicing through the water like a bullet. But that wasn’t possible. Her gaze returned to the window. The lights had disappeared. Captain Shaw couldn’t control the wind… could he? Pacing, she shuffled between the bed and table talking to herself.

“It’ll be alright, Alana.”

“You swore to remain in the chair!” Captain Shaw’s deep voice rolled through the cabin. Alana whipped around with a squeak. How had she not heard him?

“I fell.”

“You fell?” He folded his arm across his chest, kicking the door closed behind him.

“The ship,” she said, gesturing around the room, hoping to distract his anger. “It’s moving faster.” Stealing across the room, she dropped back into the chair, folding her hands on top of the table.

“Aye, it is.” His dark eyes followed her movement.

“Why?”

“You don’t expect me to reveal all my secrets, do you?” Moving around the desk, his gaze stopped on the chair, a strange look passed over his face. Scooting the chair back into its original position, he glanced up. “Was Alana the name of your wife?”

Bloody hell, he’d heard her! She nodded, picking at the last piece of bread on her plate. Yawning, she clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling the sound, her eyes flying to him. A sheepish blush crawled through her skin.

“I suppose you are tired.”

She nodded again.

He gestured at the armoire. “Take a blanket and spread it on the floor in front of the armoire.

“But—”

“Did you expect to sleep in the bed with me?” He smirked, tossing a small bag on the desk, the contents clinking together softly.

“No…” She drew out the word. “I didn’t expect to sleep on the floor.”

“Are the accommodations not to your liking? Would you prefer to sleep in the brig with the rest of your shipmates?” he snarled, dropping into the chair.

Rising, Alana grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and walked to the desk, holding it out. “Do they get a bed?”

“No.” Snatching the bottle from her hand, he toasted her, then took a sip.

“I’ll stay here.”

“Wise choice, the brig is much colder.”

Crossing the room, she opened the armoire, selecting a folded blanket from the base of the worn piece of furniture. Shaking it out, she spread it on the floor. Lying on the blanket, she pulled one side over her shoulder and curled into a tiny ball. Shivering, she drew her knees into her chest, closing her eyes. The soft clink of coins accompanied his low muttering.

Alana peeled open one eye, furtively watching him count. Opening a ledger, Captain Shaw, grabbed a quill, scratching it across the page. His head jerked up, gaze shifting over to Alana. Quickly shutting her eye, she exaggerated her breathing. The quiet jingle of gold coins tickled her ears again, then the floor creaked, and the light was extinguished.

Peering into the darkness, the room illuminated by moonlight streaming through the window, she watched him drag toward the bed, exhaustion etched into his face, his heavy footfall sending vibrations through the floorboards. Sinking onto the mattress, he pulled off his boots—one foot at a time—and dropped them to the floor. The bed groaned under his weight as he leaned back, punching one of the pillows into shape.

Something soft smacked her in the face. It was the other pillow. Gratefully, she tucked it under her head. Fatigue taking hold, she drifted into a fitful sleep.

A gunshot echoed in the distance. Terror seized her throat. Running down the hill toward her father’s house, Alana tripped over the hem of her long skirt, hurtling to the ground and sliding down the remainder of the slope. Coming to rest at the hill’s base, she sucked in a ragged breath, then pushed herself up, racing toward the small garden and her father, who laid immobile in the dirt.

“Da!” Screaming, she flung herself at the shadowy figure standing over her father’s body, knocking him aside. She rolled with the man, crashing into the base of a rose bush, thorns scratching her arms and face. Ignoring the cuts, she crawled on top of the man, whose face resembled that of Mr. Franklin Morris. Her hands wrapped around his neck, crushing his throat, but as she squeezed, her brother’s face materialized, replacing Mr. Morris’ evil sneer. She toppled backward with a shriek.

Her eyes whipped open. She stared upward, her eyes focusing on a wooden ceiling as the nightmare faded from her mind. Where was she…? She pushed up with a start. She was on Captain Shaw’s ship, and she’d been dreaming about…

“Who’s Aidan?” Captain Shaw’s leaden voice rolled from the bed.

“Pardon?” Alana pulled at the front of her shirt, which stuck to her sweaty skin.

“Aidan,” he repeated, sitting up. “You were screaming his name.”

“He’s my brother.”

“The oldest?”

“The second oldest.”

“I most certainly kidnapped the wrong brother.” Snickering, Captain Shaw rose from the bed, ignoring his boots, and padded over to his desk. He sat in the chair, selecting a sheet of paper from underneath the ledger, and lifted a quill—one of two—from a golden inkwell. “Do you think your brother would pay for your life?”

“Yes,” Alana replied without hesitation.

Captain Shaw stared at her, brushing the top of the quill underneath his chin.

“You seem quite sure of your family.”

“They would do anything for me.”

“You can sleep in the bed.” Waving his hand, he bent over the parchment, scratching the tip across the paper.

“Will you not be returning to it this evening?” asked Alana, pulling herself onto the bed.

“It’s morning, and I rarely sleep,” he replied without lifting his head.

“That is a pity.” Alana crawled toward the pillows, nestling down on the soft mattress, and sighed.

He dipped the quill back into the inkwell. “Did you love your wife, Mr. Dubois?”

“Every moment I was with her.” Rolling onto her side, Alana propped herself up on her elbow, leaning her head on her hand. “Were you ever in love?”

“It’s difficult to do in my profession.” The quill scratched across the parchment.

“You told Mr. Hayward to propose to the woman he loves.”

“Mr. Hayward is not meant for this life.” He glanced up, his hand hovering over the paper.

“And you are?” Silence met her question. She flipped onto her back, closing her eyes. “Would you not prefer your distillery to sword fights?”

The chair scraped on the floor, and a moment later, the mattress dipped. Alana’s eyes flew open. Captain Shaw stared down at her, his stone face devoid of emotion.

“Do not presume to know my mind.”

She folded her arms behind her head, returning his glare.

“Is my assessment of your character incorrect?”

A bell rang, followed by two short clangs. His head jerked to the window.

“It’s the Navy, isn’t it?”

He turned, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”

“They have the fastest ships.”

A ghostly smile crossed Captain Shaw’s mouth.

“That is no longer true… Would you like to see?”

“Yes.”

Yanking on his boots, he rose, walking to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Alana climbed from the bed, following him through the door and across the deck. Men rushed about, driven by the barking of Mr. Evans, who stood behind them, his hands on the ship’s wheel.

“Captain, they’ve found us.”

Turning, Captain Shaw scaled a ladder to his right, leaving Alana on the deck below, his gruff voice floating down. “Are you certain it’s the same ships? It would be difficult for them to catch us.”

“Are you suggesting we are so unlucky as to come across two different patrols?”

“It is possible, Mr. Evans. We will easily outpace them. Go below, release the men from the brig, and have them assist Mr. Hayward.”

“Yes, Captain.” Mr. Evans descended the ladder, hissing at Alana as he passed.

She snapped her teeth at him. If there was any breath in her body, she’d make sure he hung for murdering Mr. Parker.

“I don’t think your new pet likes me,” called Mr. Evans with a smirk, traversing the deck and disappearing down a hole near the center of the ship.

Alana craned her head, staring up at Captain Shaw. “How exactly do you intend to escape the Navy?”

He grinned.

The ship lurched, pushing through the water as though propelled by an invisible wind. Alana grabbed onto the ladder, wrapping her arm through the rungs.

“How are you doing that?” she asked breathlessly, climbing onto the first rung and pulling herself up the ladder until her head was even with Captain Shaw’s boots.

He glanced down at her. “Steam.”

“They won’t catch us, will they?”

“No,” he smirked, his eyes flicking across the deck. “Ceresus is nice this time of year.”

A splash drew their attention. Mr. Evans turned away from the railing, lowering his arms, a smear of bright red stained his shirt. He pointed a grimy finger at Alana.

“I need him below.”

Captain Shaw jerked his head. “Take him.”

Mr. Evans appeared at her side, his hand closing around her arm. Tearing her from the ladder, he dragged her across the deck.

“You’ll be of better use with a shovel in your hand.”

“Down there?” Alana gestured at a dark hole in the center of the ship. A ladder extended downward into blackness, heat billowing up from the hole, burning her face.

“Mr. Hayward needs assistance.” He put his hand on Alana’s shoulder, shoving her toward the hole. She scampered down the ladder, her bare feet sliding on the rungs. When she reached the bottom, Mr. Hayward greeted her with a grunt, thrusting a shovel into her hands.

“Over there.” He gestured to two other men, who lifted shovelfuls of coal into a blazing fire. “Help them. Don’t stop until I say, understand?”

Alana nodded silently, joining the other two men, neither of which she recognized. Were they the only men left from the original ship? The shovel scraped along the floor. Groaning, she hoisted the coal toward the fire. She glanced up at their sweaty, coal covered faces. They wore grim expressions.

“Faster,” muttered one of the men.

Alana dug her shovel into the mound, tossing another load of coal into the fire. “What happened to—”

“Mr. Williams?” asked the other man, flinging his shovelful into the flames.

“Yes,” replied Alana, matching pace with them, her arms burning.

The first man shook his head, his eyes gesturing toward Mr. Hayward, who passed beside them, holding his hand out to the flames. Nodding, he continued walking. Waiting until Mr. Hayward disappeared, the first man set his shovel end up, leaning against the handle. He drew in a breath, sweat dripping from his forehead. Extracting a handkerchief, he mopped his face.

“Mr. Williams refused to help.”

“Why?”

“He said the job was beneath him.” The first man lifted his shovel, stabbing it into the coal. “He said if we refused, the Navy would catch us, and we would be rescued.”

“We all refused to work.” The second man paused, his shovelful of coal halfway to the fire. “Mr. Evans shot Mr. Williams in the chest and told us if we continued to refuse, we would be killed as well. It didn’t matter to him.”

“We picked up the shovels,” interrupted the first man, bitterly flinging his load into the flames, “and I suggest you do the same.”

Digging her shovel into the pile, Alana dumped the coal into the fire. Mr. Evans stepped from the shadows, placing a heavy hand on Alana’s shoulder.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Dubois?”

Alana shook him off, throwing another shovelful into the fire.

“There are worse duties I could have been assigned.”

He laughed, the cold, brittle sound rippling down Alana’s spine. Captain Shaw was dangerous, but he was honorable. She doubted Mr. Evans obeyed the same morals.

“Captain says you’ve completed your task admirably. The three of you are to receive extra rations for your effort. Come with me.”

Crooking his finger, he led them through the bowels of the ship toward the cargo hold. Stopping at the first box, he pried off the lid, collecting four bottles of rum and handing each of them one bottle; the fourth, he tucked under his arm. At the second box, he repeated the process, extracting three loaves of bread, handing them each a loaf. Leading them back out of the cargo hold, he called to Mr. Hayward as they passed beside the pile of coal, “Captain says you earned this.”

Mr. Hayward popped out from behind the pile, his eyes gleaming. “I’ll see to these two, you take Mr. Dubois back to the Captain’s quarters.”

“Put them back in the brig, Mr. Hayward,” warned Mr. Evans, stepping toward him.

Arching an eyebrow, Mr. Hayward pulled the cork from his bottle. “You’re in my domain, Mr. Evans. I am king down here.”

“And I am still your superior.”

“They will be in the brig before sunrise,” replied Mr. Hayward, taking a long drink from the bottle. “Gentlemen, if you would follow me. Our card game is not quite finished.”

Fuming, Mr. Evans shoved Alana toward the ladder. Putting his hands on her butt, he shoved her up the rungs. She burst out the hole, rolling onto the deck, and crashed into Captain Shaw’s boots, losing the bread and rum.

His gaze dropped to her, hatred blazing in his dark eyes.

“On this ship, we do not tolerate thieves.”

“Captain?” She stared up at him, perplexed. How could she have stolen anything? She had been shoveling coal.

His fist closed around her shirt, ripping her from the deck. She dangled from his hand, her feet swinging.

“I have given you more forgiveness than any other man in my employ. Tell me why I shouldn’t just throw you overboard right now.”

“I didn’t take anything.”

He arched an eyebrow, rotating his hand, the material around her neck tightening. “And how do you intend to prove that to me?”

“You can search my trunk,” Alana choked, her hands wrapping around his fist. She pulled away, sucking in a deep breath.

“He probably stashed it in his clothing,” murmured Mr. Evans, circling around Captain Shaw. “Force him to strip.”

“No, please.” Alana pleaded, struggling against the iron grip wrapped around her shirt.

“Why do you protest?” asked Captain Shaw, bringing Alana within an inch of his face.

“I don’t want to disrobe on deck.” She swallowed, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Are you shy, Mr. Dubois?” snorted Mr. Evans.

She glared at him. “I have no intention of allowing you to enjoy my discomfort further, Mr. Evans. I am not denying the request, I am asking for privacy.”

Captain Shaw held up his hand, stifling Mr. Evans retort.

“The gentleman has asked for accommodation. As it is I who has accused him of theft, I will determine if he is the culprit.”

“Yes, Captain.” Mr. Evans shot a sneer at Alana. “If you think he will be kinder in private, you are mistaken.”

Setting her on the deck, Captain Shaw flung her toward the aft. “March,” he commanded, following her closely. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, the anger rolling from him, singed her skin.

“What do you think I took?” she asked softly, afraid to turn around.

“Gold.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Then you should have no difficulty proving that to me.” He leaned over her, unlatching the door to his cabin, pushing open.

Alana slid under his arm, stepping into the room. One lamp flickered on the desk, casting ominous shadows over the walls. Behind her, the door closed and locked. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

What would he do when he discovered she was a woman?

Chapter 7

“I am an impatient man, Mr. Dubois. I have other duties to attend.” Captain Shaw’s menacing voice crawled over her shoulders.

“If you are in a hurry to kill me, then do so and prevent me suffering the embarrassment of undressing in front of you,” said Alana, turning around, forcing a smile.

Shaking his head slowly, he leaned against the door, folding his arms across his chest.

“I cannot shoot an innocent man.”

She exhaled slowly, her heart hammering. “I have a confession.”

He stepped forward, the shadows sliding with him.

“Where will I find it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t steal from you,” she replied, a sharp edge in her voice.

He paused, curiosity lighting his eyes. “What do you wish to say?”

“Turn around.” She stared at him earnestly. “Please, it would be easier for me.”

“I’ve never met such a peculiar man in my whole life,” replied Captain Shaw. He shrugged, rolling his eyes, and complied with her request, turning his back to her. “Will this exercise take much time?”

“No, Captain.” One more deep breath followed. She was about to die… Slipping her shirt from her body, she dropped the material to the floor, following it with her trousers.

“You may search me.”

Whatever Captain Shaw meant to say was lost the moment he realized he was staring at a woman’s naked body. He froze, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. Shaking his head, he stepped forward, his hand stretched toward her, pausing just before it brushed over her skin. Several curse words followed.

“You’re a woman!”

“Yes.” She blushed, her eyes cast down, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

He circled her slowly, his eyes blazing. Passing behind the desk, he rounded the corner, keeping the solid mass between them.

“You should have told me.”

“I can’t swim,” she replied, twisting to stare at him.

“You can’t swim,” he repeated. The realization of her words caused him to groan. “So, you lied.”

She nodded.

“And cut your hair.”

She nodded again.

“I hit you.”

“I know.” She glanced down again, a ghostly twinge of pain shooting across her face.

“I’ve never struck a woman in my life,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I find that difficult to believe,” she murmured, flinching when he advanced around the corner, backing her against the desk.

“A man who hurts a lessor creature is a coward,” he growled, “but a woman who is a thief is still a criminal.”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Her hands flew to his chest, pushing against the hard muscle. “You can search my clothing… and me.”

“If I search you, we will have other issues.” He sighed, his hard stance relaxing.

“To satisfy your mind, and that of your crew, you must do what you think is necessary.”

“I’m certain it is not necessary to search your body.” He cupped her face, his thumb gently sliding over the bruise. She winced. “I’m sorry for that.”

“I don’t blame you,” she replied, leaning into his hand, the sensation oddly comforting. “I did mislead you… a bit.”

“A bit?” He snorted. “I think you put a great deal of effort into your disguise. Where did you get the clothing?”

“Most of it belonged to my late husband, the rest are my brother’s.”

He sank down beside her, leaning against the desk. Reaching back, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey, uncorking it. Taking a long sip, he wordlessly passed the bottle to her.

She peeked up at him as she accepted the bottle.

“Are you going to execute me?”

“No.” He exhaled slowly, bending at the waist, his fingers rubbing his temples, and glanced over at her. “You put us both in a dreadful position. The crew will not be as forgiving once they learn your true identity; it’s been many months at sea… women are not allowed on the ship.”

“Can I not hide in here until we reach…” She paused, taking a drink. Coughing, she handed the bottle back to him.

“Ceresus?”

“Yes. Where is that?”

He snorted. “The Caribbean. How will you avoid detection for two weeks? You didn’t last a full day with me.”

“I would have if you didn’t accuse me of theft!” she snapped, yanking the bottle back, taking another sip. “May I get dressed?”

His eyes slid over her body. Groaning, he stepped away from her, turning his back.

“You may.”

“What about the gold?” her muffled voice asked as she pulled the shirt over her head. She had set the bottle on the desk before snatching her shirt from the floor.

“I am satisfied with your innocence; however, that means there is a thief among us, and my men will not be content until the culprit is punished.”

“Who are your suspects?” she asked, stepping into her trousers and yanking them up her legs.

“You,” he chortled, spinning back around. “Such a pity, I had hoped for one more glimpse.”

She flushed, smoothing the shirt. “There is no need to be polite. I’m certain beauty has never been attached to my name.”

“You have been misled.” Reaching out, he gently tipped her chin, his finger tracing her lips, a tingling sensation raced through her spine.

She eyed him warily. “What are you going to do?”

“Kiss you.” Very slowly, he bent his head, pressing his mouth to hers—an inferno exploded between them. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she moaned against his mouth. His tongue pushed between her lips, demanding and controlling, stealing her breath, her head swimming from his sensuous assault. He pulled away, his eyes glowing. Fanning herself, Alana sagged against the desk, her skin pink. Sitting next to her, he bumped her arm with his.

“I like that shade on you.”

She glanced down. “My shirt?”

“Your blush.” He tilted his head. “I’d like to see it all over your skin.”

“I’d have to undress again.”

“I would be happy to assist you.” He folded his arms across his chest, grinning.

“What would your crew think?”

“I have no desire to share you with any of them.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Mrs. Dubois…” He paused, waiting for her to nod her confirmation. “I’m not a brute. Regardless of my reputation, I do not condone hurting women or children.”

“But—”

“I released the lifeboat.” His quiet admission floated across the intimate space between them. “The reason the Navy found us so quickly was we were too close to shore. They were rescued before we’d cleared the wreckage.”

Her head whipped toward him. “Mrs. Parker…”

“Is alive as long as she stayed in the lifeboat.”

“What about her husband?”

“A man is responsible for his destiny; he chose to die.”

“You could have told him his wife was still alive.”

Captain Shaw slammed his hand against the desk, causing her to jump. “I could not guarantee her survival, and thus, couldn’t make him that promise.”

“But you could have given him hope.”

“Hope.” A cold laugh escaped him. “Does my name bring to mind the word hope?”

“No.” Alana chewed her lip, her mind racing. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“But you didn’t save him.”

“I have no desire to quell a mutiny.”

“What do you desire?”

The heat smoldering in his eyes flared. “You.”

Her tongue darted out, licking her lips. Glancing down, she toyed with the whiskey bottle. “Would you consider a trade?”

“Go on.”

“In exchange for safe passage to Ceresus, I will have relations with you.”

A dark cloud passing over his face, he pushed off the desk, grabbing the bottle from her hand. Trudging across the floor, he dropped onto the mattress, taking a swig.

“No.”

“No?” Surprise colored her statement. “But, I thought…”

“That I would just take what I wanted.”

“You are a pirate.” She shrugged.

“I’m confused by your argument. Are you asking me to hurt you?”

“No.” Alana shook her head quickly.

“Then, I will transport you to Ceresus and leave you there.”

“How will I repay you?”

“You work for me until we dock, consider that your fare.” He held out the bottle. Crossing the room, she took it, sitting beside him on the bed.

“What if I want you to kiss me again?”

“Do you?” His eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been a widow for two years, Captain Shaw.”

“You should have remarried.”

Her mouth crooked into a half-smile. “The real purpose of my trip to America.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“I will make you a deal, Mrs. Dubois. As you and I are both longing for companionship, I propose we spend the voyage amusing each other. For your own safety, you must agree to remain inside this cabin. Once we reach Ceresus, we will part ways; I will sell my ship, and you can continue your search for a new husband. Do we have an accord?”

Glancing at his offered hand, Alana raised her eyes to his. “Why do you want to sell your ship?”

“I’m tired. I’ve amassed more wealth than one person needs in a lifetime.” He dropped his arm. “This was to be my final voyage. Mr. Evans will be taking over the ship once we dock in Ceresus.”

Alana chewed her lip, her eyes sliding over his face, his mouth. Her stomach flipped, nervously churning. If his kiss could elicit such a reaction in her, what would his touch do? An irresponsible decision to be certain, but since when had she ever made a sound judgment? She set the bottle by her feet.

“Do I still have to sleep on the floor?”

“Only if we end up there.” Leaning forward, he wrapped his arms around her waist, dragging her closer. Pulling her shirt over her head, he tossed it aside, his mouth nipping the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. His fingers slid up the back of her head, trailing through her short strands. “It is a pity, I do love long hair,” he murmured against her skin.

“I still have it,” she replied, her breath hitching as his tongue traced a path along her collar bone.

“Where?” The vibrations from his throat tickled, sending shivers cascading down her spine. She shuddered, pressing into him.

“In my trunk,” she panted, arching her neck, “in the bottom of the sack.”

He pulled away with a grin. “And how did you plan on explaining that when I found it?”

“By distracting you.” She jutted out her chin, rolling her shoulders back.

“Your scheme worked, I am extremely distracted.” Ripping his shirt from his body, he lunged, catching her around the waist, pulling her backward onto the bed. His mouth finding hers, his tongue pushed past her lips, thrusting with unparalleled urgency. Caressing the soft swell of her breast, his fingers drew sensual patterns over her skin, dragging a moan from her lips.

Sliding down her body, his fingers wrestled with her trousers. Breaking the kiss, he snorted, sitting up and using both hands to unfasten her pants.

“Never had to take off men’s trousers before.”

“I find them to be quite comfortable,” replied Alana, wriggling as he drew them down her legs. His mouth pressed to her ankle, sending a tremor up her leg. Following the same path as the tremor, his mouth moved along her skin, nipping and kissing. She writhed against him, need flooding her body.

As he reached her throat, one hand glided down her torso, propelling delightful shivers through her skin. His hand slid between her legs, dipping into her center. She cried out, lifting her hips to his hand.

“I find them to be quite convenient,” he murmured against her skin, his finger moving over her nub. Her hands clawing the sheets, she cried out again, her body responding to his wicked caress.

“Please,” she begged. His mouth covered hers, his finger dipped into her again, continuing its slow rhythm of torture. Alana bucked against his hand, the sensations growing in her stomach, exploding through her limbs. A scream ripped from her throat.

Shedding his trousers, he pushed her trembling legs apart, stroking her gently. She shivered. Pressing against her, he pushed forward, sheathing himself in one stroke. He leaned forward, recapturing her mouth, his tongue thrusting in tempo with his body. Wrapping her hands around his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, she moaned, her body winding tighter and tighter as she approached her apex. His hand skimmed down her side, wrapping around her leg, pushing it toward her chest. Driving deeper, his pace quickened, groans tumbling from his lips.

“I don’t know your name,” he ground out, his breath short.

“Alana,” she managed, her body screaming for release. Her nails gouged into him, her body arched. “Please, please, please,” she begged, barely recognizing the guttural cry echoing off the walls.

Plunging into her, his mouth closed around her nipple, his teeth gently biting. She screamed, the orgasm crashing through her body. He thrust twice more, burying himself deeply, finding his own release, his voice overpowering hers. Collapsing on top of her, he sighed, his limp body pinning her to the mattress—she found the weight oddly comforting.

“We’re going to do that again.” His muffled voice came from her shoulder. He rolled sideways with a grunt and exhaled, his eyes on the ceiling. His hand slid across the mattress, finding hers, squeezing it once. “Just as soon as I get my strength back.”

“May I ask you a question?” Alana’s quiet voice caused him to sit up, a strange emotion passing over his face.

“It depends on the question,” he replied.

“Do you regret your actions?”

“Do I regret stealing from people?” he smirked, lying back on the bed and tucking his hands under his head.

“Killing people.”

“I didn’t kill Mr. Parker, we discussed this.”

“But you did kill someone.”

“Someone you know, I presume. A distant cousin?”

“My brother’s closest friend.”

“That is quite specific. What was his name?”

“My brother or the man you killed?”

“The man.”

“Mr. Charles Ashland.” Silence followed the words. She glanced sideways at Captain Shaw. His gaze, locked on the rafter directly above his head, did not waver. The only indication he’d heard the name was the visible clench in his jaw.

“How do you know Mr. Ashland?” he asked after a full five minutes had passed.

“I told you he was a friend of my brother’s.”

He rolled toward her. “Aidan?”

“Patrick.”

A flash of pain shot through his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He flipped onto his back again. “Patrick Flannery?”

“Do you know my brother?” Alana turned toward him.

“I did in a different lifetime,” he sighed, draping his arm over his face.

“He was devastated when news of Mr. Ashland’s death reached us.” She leaned on his chest, resting her chin on her hands. “Why did you kill him?”

“He had outlived his purpose.” Captain Shaw pushed her off, sliding from the mattress. Hooking his trousers from the floor, he yanked them up his legs.

A twinge of pain sliced through her chest. She turned away, rolling toward the wall, a tear sliding down her cheek. A brute was a brute, no matter the agreement. How had she fooled herself into thinking he could be a gentleman? The mattress sank down, his hand sliding through her short hair, brushing it away from her face.

Collecting the tear on his fingertip, he studied it. Then, tilting his head, he peered down at her. “I was unaware you were attached to Mr. Ashland.”

“His death affected my brother in a way you cannot possibly understand,” she snapped.

He sat back as though physically slapped and growled, “What do you know of my past? You know the lies printed in the society pages.”

She sat up, jabbing her finger at him. “And how many men have you killed?”

“One.”

Her jaw dropped. One?

“You seem surprised.”

“Your reputation carries a different number.”

He smirked. “That’s a polite description.”

“How is that possible? I saw you…”

“You saw Mr. Evans, the future captain of this ship, murder Mr. Parker.”

“And Mr. Williams,” she murmured.

“Mr. Williams?”

“One of the men shoveling coal.”

“And you think I should have stopped Mr. Evans?”

“Yes.”

He trailed his thumb over her jawline, brushing the digit over her lower lip.

“Despite your prejudice against me, even pirates have a code that must be followed. I cannot intervene with justice, or I will find myself on the wrong end of the sword; mutinies are possible when the captain is soft.”

A bang echoed through the room, startling Alana. She screamed, pressing her hand to her mouth to smother the sound, her head whipping toward the door.

“Who disturbs me?” growled Captain Shaw, rising and stalking across the room.

“Mr. Evans,” came the muffled reply.

Unlatching the door, Captain Shaw cracked it open, narrowing his eyes. “Is there something that requires my assistance?”

“The men would like to know if you discovered the gold on Mr. Dubois.”

“I did not.”

“And you believe Mr. Dubois is innocent of the crime?”

“I believe he does not have it on his person,” replied Captain Shaw, his voice held a hard edge.

“I would like to search him.” Mr. Evans pushed against the door. Alana scrambled from the bed, ripping her clothing from the floor, yanking her shirt over her head.

Anger blanketed the room. “I am still captain, and I said it is not in his possession.”

“Did you search his trunk?”

Captain Shaw paused, his mouth partially open. Leaning back, he glanced at Alana, raising an eyebrow. She rose, fully clothed, and shook her head, answering his unasked question. Of course, the gold was not in her trunk.

Moving aside, Captain Shaw gestured for Mr. Evans to enter the room. Marching over to her trunk, Mr. Evans flipped the lid open. On top of the chemise rested a small burlap sack. Alana’s forehead wrinkled, recognizing it instantly—the same bag Captain Shaw left on his desk, prior to the threat of the Navy. How had that gotten into her trunk?

Lifting the small sack, Mr. Evans upended it, dumping the contents onto the table. Coins scattered across the surface, painting the walls with glittering gold radiance. Selecting one coin, Captain Shaw placed it between his teeth, biting gently. His eyes rose to Alana, black and empty.

“Take him to the brig to await trial.”

Mr. Evans nodded gleefully, wrapping his hand around Alana’s arm. Yanking her toward the door, he pulled her through the opening and onto the deck. She grabbed onto the door frame, her fingertips pulling against Mr. Evans’ iron grip. Leaning into the room, her gaze sought Captain Shaw.

“I didn’t take it. Please, you have to believe me.”

“I believe my eyes, Mr. Dubois, and the gold was in your possession. For your sake, I hope your death is a quick one.” He turned his back on her.

Chapter 8

Mr. Evans ripped her from the doorway, dragging her along the deck, his fingers laced through her short hair. She screamed, twisting in his grip, kicking him in the shins. Mr. Evans struck her across the face with his forearm. Pain exploded in her cheek, and she dropped to the deck, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. She pushed up from the floorboards, glancing up in time to see Captain Shaw close the door to his cabin, cutting off her agony.

With a smirk, Mr. Evans kicked her in the side. A sickening crunch echoed in her ears. Howling, she rolled into a tiny ball, tears streaming down her face. Wrapping his fingers through her hair again, he lifted her to her feet, flinging her toward the open hole in the center of the deck.

“Allow me to show you your new accommodations,” he sneered, pushing her face first through the hole.

She crashed to the floor below with a groan, her legs folding over her head, bending her body into an excruciating angle. The tips of Mr. Hayward’s shoes appeared. Unwinding herself, she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Mr. Dubois, I am surprised to find you here, I thought you were assigned to Captain Shaw.”

“He has been dismissed,” growled Mr. Evans, dropping to the floor with a thud. “Apparently, thievery is one of Mr. Dubois’ hidden talents.”

“I didn’t take anything,” retorted Alana. Mr. Evans swung his arm, knocking her back against the ladder, the rungs digging into her back, bruising her spine. Her head snapped back, striking the ladder, and she stumbled forward, falling into Mr. Hayward’s arms.

“Was that necessary, Mr. Evans?” asked Mr. Hayward, wrapping Alana’s arm over his broad shoulders, steadying her.

“You would show mercy to a thief?” Mr. Evans arched an eyebrow.

“He claims he did not take the gold.”

“Yet, the missing sack was discovered in his trunk.”

“That doesn’t prove he took it. He was shoveling coal at the time the gold disappeared… or did you forget to mention that to the captain?” Mr. Hayward bristled.

“Captain says Mr. Dubois belongs in the brig,” replied Mr. Evans, his tone even.

With a sigh, Mr. Hayward turned, dragging Alana’s limp body with him. He walked halfway down the ship, stopping just outside the cargo hold. Four iron cages, reaching floor to ceiling, lined the starboard wall. Removing a ring from his waist, he sorted through the heavy keys, selecting the largest of the six. Unlocking an empty cage, he pulled the door open, jerking his head toward the inside.

Alana shook her head, pleading with Mr. Hayward, “Please, I didn’t do it.”

“Don’t make me force you, Mr. Dubois. I’m not a violent man, but I will do what it takes to make my captain happy.”

“He’ll go without complaint,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

Alana’s head whipped up as Captain Shaw stepped forward, his face devoid of emotion. How had he followed them here? She didn’t see him use the ladder, which meant there had to be another entrance…

She pursed her lips, nodding, and stepped into the cage. The door slammed shut behind her, the key grinding in the lock.

“I’d like a moment with the prisoner.”

Spinning around, Mr. Hayward bobbed his head once, placing a hand on Mr. Evan’s shoulder and directing him toward the cargo hold; they vanished together. Alana wrapped her hands around the cage, peering through the iron squares.

“I didn’t take it.”

“You’ve said this to me several times.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “The gold was found in your trunk.”

“Then someone put it there.”

“I don’t know you.” He sighed, leaning his back against the cold metal, his eyes flicking over the prisoners locked in the other cages. “I can’t trust you.”

Sticking her hand through one of the small openings, she touched his shoulder. “You do know me, you know my brother; I have no need for your money.”

Ripping out from under her hand, he spun around. His face pinched. “Do you have another suspect?”

“No.” She glanced down, twisting her hands in front of her.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “They will kill you; they don’t care if you are a man or a woman. The punishment for theft is death.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alana. I cannot save you from this fate.”

“Apologize to my brother,” she spat, slamming her palm against the cage. “You’ve murdered the two people he cared the most about.”

“Two people?” Cruel laughter crawled from her right. Mr. Evans appeared, his face stretched into an evil grin. “Captain Shaw has murdered hundreds. You are nothing to him.” He approached Captain Shaw, whispering in his ear. With a nod, Captain Shaw turned, heading toward the aft. Climbing the ladder, he vanished onto the deck.

“I hate you,” said Alana, narrowing her eyes as she glared at Mr. Evans.

“Your opinion holds no value aboard this ship,” he replied, leaning forward and pressing his face into the square. “I know your secret… Mrs. Dubois.”

She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Backing away from him, Alana held up her hands, licking her lips. A tremor raced down her spine, her eyes darting around the small space. Nowhere to hide… “I’m not—”

He tapped the side of his nose, cutting off her feeble reply. “I hear many things.” The horrific grin returning, he tilted his head. “You’re quite loud… when excited.” Unlatching the cage, he pulled open the heavy door, slipping into the small space, and pulled the door closed behind him. “I think you and I can help each other.”

“What do you want?” she asked, knowing the answer, yet hopeful her instinct regarding Mr. Evans’ nature was mistaken.

Crossing the tiny square, he reached out, trailing one finger down her arm. “You know what I want.”

Alana jerked away, her body stiff. “No.”

His hand whipped up, catching her underneath her chin. Squeezing, he slammed her against the rear of the cage, his body pressed against hers, pinning her to the cold metal. His mouth moved against her ear, hissing, “I don’t have to ask, Mrs. Dubois. I could just take what I want.”

She twisted her head, glaring at him, willing every ounce of anger vibrating through her limbs to smack him in the face. “I am under Captain Shaw’s protection.”

“Are you?” He glanced around with exaggeration. “I see no man besides me.”

“There are witnesses.” Her eyes flicked to the cage beside hers. The two men she had shoveled coal with watched the exchange with horror, their faces pressed to the openings between the two cages.

“I’ll kill them.”

Their faces vanished, footsteps indicating their movement to the opposite side of their cage. Mr. Evans smirked, grinding himself into her pelvis.

“I would be willing to confirm your innocence in the crime if you were to offer me certain favors.”

“You know I didn’t steal the gold.”

He laughed, throwing his head back. The bray echoed, reverberating off the ship’s side. The fingers wrapped around her throat loosened.

“I do.” He leaned forward, his nose touching hers, hatred glittering in his eyes. “Since Captain Shaw has taken you aboard this ship, he has dismissed me from his favor. If he leaves this ship to a woman instead of me, after all the months I’ve worked aboard this wretched ship…”

“You’re jealous?” Of all the inane, ridiculous reasons for a man—

She flinched when Mr. Evans punched the cage.

“I am not jealous,” he spat, his fingers tightened around her throat. Choking, she clawed at his hand, tearing the skin with her fingernails. He released her neck with a yelp.

Cradling his hand to his chest, he raised his opposite arm, smashing her across the face. His manhood hardened, digging into her pelvis. A sour grin split his face. Grabbing her arms, he pinned them above her head, pressing himself closer, his rum-soaked breath brushing over her lips.

“Do we have an accord, Mrs. Dubois… or would you rather die?”

“I’d rather die,” she retorted. His hand flew a second time, knocking her into the side of the cage. She collapsed to the floor, moaning.

Ripping open the cage door, Mr. Evans passed through, slamming it shut behind him. He spun around, shoving a key into the lock, then twisting it sharply.

“You’ll regret your dismissal of me.”

Alana pushed up from the floor, a grimace twisting her face. Leveling her gaze with him, she growled, “When we reach Ceresus, I shall see you hanged.”

Snarling, Mr. Evans unlocked the cage again, tearing open the door. It swung, crashing into the other cage, a deafening metal clang rolling through the ship. Alana covered her head with her arms, pressing them against her ears to dampen the sound. Mr. Evans’ hand closed around her shirt, ripping her from the floor, flinging her toward the opposite side of the cage. She crumpled into a ball, whimpering. Approaching, he unfastened his trousers, a leer stretching his mouth into a horrid smile.

“I’ll have what I want from you, then I’ll kill you.”

“What the devil?” bellowed Mr. Hayward. He appeared in the doorway, his eyes skating over the bruising on Alana’s face, her cowering position, and Mr. Evans’ trousers, which were halfway down his legs. “We do not condone that kind of punishment, Mr. Evans,” snarled Mr. Hayward. “The captain will hear of your misconduct.”

Yanking his pants up, Mr. Evans strode to the door. “Dubois is a woman.”

Mr. Hayward’s eyes flicked to Alana and back to Mr. Evans’ face. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, and the captain is too, judging from his private exploration of her body.” Twisting around, Mr. Evans winked at Alana. “Perhaps you’d like two men at the same time.”

She shuddered. Where was Captain Shaw? Had he abandoned her to Mr. Evans and the rest of the crew? He couldn’t truly think she’d take the gold, could he? She swallowed, her eyes lifting to Mr. Hayward.

“If that is true, then Mrs. Dubois is subject to the prisoner’s code and is protected from this kind of assault.”

“But she’s a woman!” Mr. Evans’ face darkened.

“The code makes no distinction.” Folding his arms, Mr. Hayward moved aside, gesturing for Mr. Evans to pass through the cage door. “I’ll take your keys, Mr. Evans,” said Mr. Hayward holding out his hand. “The captain will hear of this matter.”

“I am your superior.” Growling, Mr. Evans stepped through the opening.

“For this voyage only. I work for Captain Shaw, not you. When he resigns, I do too. Find someone else to repair this ship.” Snapping his fingers, he indicated his palm with his eyes.

Glaring at Alana, Mr. Evans spit on the floor. Wordlessly, he dropped the key ring into Mr. Hayward’s outstretched hand, then turned, walking stiffly toward the ladder. Once he had ascended onto the deck, Mr. Hayward turned to Alana, sighing heavily.

“You certainly picked the worst enemy to have aboard this ship, Mr. Dubois.”

“It is Mrs.” She offered him a sheepish smile, tugging at the ends of her short hair. “I cut it.”

Mr. Hayward gaped at her, his mouth hanging open, then shaking himself, he offered her a formal bow. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Dubois.”

She laughed, standing up with a groan. “Thank you.”

“I am sorry, but I need to lock you back in here. Captain Shaw must be made aware of this incident before Mr. Evans can no longer be controlled.” He closed the door, latching it. “He can’t get to you in here. I took his keys.”

“How many keyrings are there?”

“Three.” Holding up three fingers, he smiled warmly. “Captain’s got one as well. You’ll be safe in here until I return.”

She slid her arm through the cage, touching Mr. Hayward’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered with a shiver. “If you hadn’t stopped him…”

Mr. Hayward glanced at her hand. “I would have stopped him had it been any one of my prisoners.”

“But you didn’t join him either,” she whispered.

“I’m a faithful man.” He grinned and patted her hand. Turning, he walked toward the stern, his footsteps fading as he entered the cargo hold.

Shouts echoed from above, drifting through the small hole in the deck. Pressing the side of her head to the cage, she strained her ears, her breath caught in her throat. A shudder rolled down her spine. What was Mr. Evans plotting? She doubted he would be dissuaded so easily. Would Captain Shaw intervene? A foreign word floated down to her… keelhaul. Boisterous yells followed the words, which became a chant, echoing louder and louder. Then silence.

Mr. Evans dropped through the hole, strolling to Alana’s cage. She backed away from him, pressing herself against the far cage wall, the bite of icy metal seeped through her shirt.

“Mr. Hayward will return any moment,” she threatened.

“Mr. Hayward is currently preoccupied in the captain’s quarters.”

Terror bubbled up in her throat. “Where is Captain Shaw?”

“With him. They are discussing the report of numerous missing items from several crew members. Your name was mentioned.” Mr. Evans leaned against the cage, twirling a metal ring around his finger. He clucked his tongue. “Captain won’t protect you now,” he grinned, “and since he was engaged, I stole his keys.” He selected a key from the ring, shoving it into the lock, wrenching it. “The crew would like to have a few words with you, Mr. Dubois.”

“No.” Alana pressed her arms against the cage, wrapped her fingers around the slats.

“This is your last chance, Mrs. Dubois. Either give yourself to me, or the crew will keelhaul you.” Pulling the cage door open, Mr. Evans tilted his head, grinning. He bowed. “Have you heard the word before?”

Alana pursed her lips, then shook her head.

“Very well,” he replied amiably, strolling into the cage. “Keelhauling is a favorite punishment among the crew. We bind your arms and legs, tie a rope around your waist, then throw you overboard.” He stepped closer, cornering Alana. “Once you’re in the water, we drag your body along the underside of the ship, carving up your delicate skin and clothing until they hang from you in ribbons. Afterward, we’ll haul you back up. If you do not drown, you may survive your injuries, however,”—his hand grabbed her face, pinching her chin—“I doubt your pretty face will survive the ordeal.”

She swallowed. Laughing, he swung his arm, smacking her head against the metal cage. She dropped to her knees, the world spinning dizzily. Kneeling, Mr. Evans laced his fingers through her hair, lifting her head. Placing his lips against her ear, he murmured, “Do you want me to tell the captain you couldn’t have put the items in your trunk? That you were with me? I can do that for you.” He twisted her head toward the ladder; the chant had begun again, vibrating down the hole, echoing in her mind. “I can save you from them, too.” His free hand slid under her chin, jerking it back. “But you belong to me, to do with as I please.”

“No!” Alana rolled to her left, swinging her right arm, striking him across the face.

Snarling, he leapt on her, issuing three sharp slaps. Her jaw snapped together, pain radiating through her body. Hauling her from the floor, he threw her over his shoulder and exited the cage. She tried to grab onto the door, but her limp body refused. She hung, unable to fight, as Mr. Evans carried her up the ladder and tossed her onto the deck, lit by the reddish-orange rays of the rising sun.

She blinked, momentarily blinded by the light. Mr. Wickes yanked her arms together, wrapping a thick rope around her wrists. Bending, he wound the same rope around her legs, binding her wrists to her feet. Selecting another rope, Mr. Wickes lifted her torso, sliding it under her body and wrapped it around her waist twice. Securing the knot tightly, his irate gaze slid to her face.

“We don’t tolerate thieves aboard this ship. Perhaps this will be a lesson to you.”

Lifting her, Mr. Wickes walked to the starboard side. Chants followed his slow procession, growing louder as he approached the railing. Mr. Evans appeared next to him, picking up the end of the rope, which had been tied to the yardarm, pulling hard on the rope.

“I hope you can swim.”

He jerked his head toward the ocean, and Mr. Wickes dumped her over the side. She tumbled backward, her tethered hands grasping for the railing. A shriek tore from her lips, absorbed by frigid water, which rushed up to greet her as she plunged into the ocean, her scream lost beneath the surface. Kicking her bound legs, she struggled to reach the surface, but each wiggle caused her to sink lower. Her oxygen starved brain screamed. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean, black shadows crept into her vision.

Her torso jerked, yanked by the rope tied around her waist. Unable to fight the pull, she stiffened, clamping her lips together to retain the last bit of oxygen, and waited for the pain. Her body slammed into the side of the ship.

She groaned, releasing the breath she’d been holding. Scraping along the rough wood and barnacles, agony radiated through her body. She prayed for death. Her head smashed into the ship, and the darkness claimed her mind.

Chapter 9

“I did not give permission to keelhaul the prisoner!” Captain Shaw’s irate voice boomed across the deck.

“Are you refusing to apply the punishment for theft?” Mr. Evans’ dark response floated around Alana’s mind.

How could she hear them? She was underwater, scraping along the side of the ship… Peeling one eye open, she winced, staring at a bright blue sky. Her head lolled to the left, her eyes focusing on Mr. Wickes, who sat beside her, holding a cloth to her forehead, his focus on the two men arguing. How did she end up on the deck?

“The punishment is too harsh,” snapped Captain Shaw.

“Do you show favor to a prisoner? Perhaps you have become too soft in your leadership.”

Captain Shaw nearly exploded. “The prisoner Dubois is a woman!”

Mutters whipped across the deck, men exchanged uneasy glances with each other. Mr. Wickes lifted Alana’s hand, placing it on the cloth. “Hold this,” he murmured, then rose to his feet. “Were you aware of this fact, Mr. Evans?”

“Captain Shaw searched her, not I,” retorted Mr. Evans, swiping his arm at Alana. “He should have informed us.”

“I should do no such thing,” Captain Shaw snarled, stepping to Mr. Evans. “I am the captain of this ship, and it is my decision to reveal information about the crew and the prisoners.”

“Are you denying her punishment?” Mr. Evans’ mouth turned up at the corners as if he were taunting Captain Shaw.

“Certainly not,” he replied, his voice even. “I am suggesting the punishment chosen does not suit a woman.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

“I will slit her throat and throw her off the ship.” Spinning around, he raised his voice, addressing the entire crew. “Would that satisfy your desire for punishment?” Murmurs of ascent followed his question. Turning to Mr. Evans, Captain Shaw arched an eyebrow.

He folded his arms, his eyes flicking down to Alana. “Yes, but I want to witness it.”

“Certainly.” Captain Shaw spun around, extending his arms to the crew. “Would the rest of you like to witness?”

Alana’s heart stopped. He couldn’t mean that! He was going to kill her in front of the crew! Why would he rescue her, just to kill her?

Anger at his betrayal rolled through her body. She flipped onto her stomach, sliding her knees under her, and climbed to her feet. Fire blazed across her skin. Biting her lip, she glanced down and gasped. Her clothing, shredded as Mr. Evans had predicted, hung in bloody strips from her shoulders. She touched her stomach, wincing, her fingertips came away covered in blood. Her gaze rose to Captain Shaw, hatred poured through her veins. With a shriek, she threw herself at him, her hands curved into claws. He caught her easily, spinning her around to face the crew, locking her in his arms.

“She’s a feisty one.” Laughter met his statement. Leaning forward, he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Are you going to give me any trouble? Do I need to tie you up again?”

She snapped her teeth at him. “I trusted you,” she hissed.

“You trusted a pirate; that was your first mistake,” he smirked. “Then you stole from one.” His voice dropped to a menacing growl. “That was your last mistake.”

A coil of rope landed at his feet. Leaning over, he hoisted it above his head; the crew cheered. He wrapped the rope around her arms, pinning them to her sides, then tied the rope. Running his fingers softly over the back of her neck, he wrapped his fingers through her hair, binding it at the base of her neck. She shuddered at the intimate contact, opening her mouth to reproach him.

“And we’ll have no more of your lies, thief.” Extracting a handkerchief, he wrapped it tightly around her mouth, gagging her. Placing his palm on her neck, he shoved her toward the stern of the ship. She stumbled, and his arm whipped out, immediately catching her. Her head twisted toward him, but he stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge her.

“Think about Patrick,” she said, pleading with him, the words garbled, lost in the folds of the handkerchief. She stumbled again, pain radiating through her body. It felt as though her skin was aflame. Sliding his arm around her waist, he drew her into his hip, his eyes locked on the ocean. When they reached the stern of the ship, Captain Shaw rotated her toward the crew who had gathered in a half-circle around them.

“Mrs. Dubois, you have been accused of theft. The missing items have been found in your possession. What do you have to say in defense?”

“Mmph!”

He cupped his hand to his ear, leaning toward her in exaggeration. “Pardon? I didn’t understand you.”

“Mmph!” she yelled around the gag.

Shrugging, he released her, stepping forward. “She has nothing to say in her defense. What is the decision?”

“Death,” chorused the crew. Mr. Evans stepped forward, a knife glinting in his hand. “I volunteer to kill her.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Evans; however, she stole from me first.” Captain Shaw extracted a penny knife from his waist. Unfolding it, he waved it under Alana’s nose. “I believe you recognize this weapon, Mrs. Dubois. It was the same one you used to attempt to take my life yesterday, but you failed in that task as well.” Grabbing her arm, he yanked her to his body, pulling her in tight, wrapping his arm around her chest. Placing the edge of the knife against her throat, he spun her toward the railing, pushing her over the ocean.

“Trust me,” he murmured in her ear.

“I want to watch her blood spill.” Mr. Evans’ cruel voice floated over her shoulder.

Captain Shaw stiffened, anxiety pouring from his body.

“I have no intention of cleaning the deck again.” Mr. Wickes’ deep baritone countered Mr. Evans’ request. The crew agreed, several of them protesting the suggestion of additional work.

Stabbing the knife into the railing, Captain Shaw pulled Alana away from the railing, spinning around.

“Mr. Evans, I am tired of being questioned at every turn. This is my ship. Perhaps you would like to explain your mutinous intentions.”

“I have none,” replied Mr. Evans, his voice filled with mollification.

Turning around again, Captain Shaw wrapped his arms around Alana, untying a rope wound around the railing, attaching it to the rope binding her arms. “You’re going to get wet again, but you must trust me,” he whispered.

“How can I trust you?” she murmured, her lips barely moving.

“How can you not?”

“I’m frightened.” Her voice cracked. She stared at the water churning behind the ship. What did Captain Shaw intend to do?

“I’m very sorry.” The words brushed over her skin. Yanking the knife from the railing, his arms constricted around her chest. One hand wrapped around her hair, pulling her head back.

“This may hurt a bit,” he announced. The crew cheered.

Pushing her against the railing, he touched the blade to her throat, the cold metal caressing her skin. Her breath caught as a sharp twinge bit into her neck. Holding the blood-stained blade in the air, Captain Shaw waved it back and forth, encouraged the crew’s boisterous shouts. She felt faint, swaying unsteadily on her feet. That was odd… being cut didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would.

His hand slid to the center of her back, shoving her forward. She tumbled over the side of the ship, somersaulting once, plunging feet first into the ocean. Choking, she swallowed a mouthful of salty water, kicking her feet desperately. She was going to drown!

The rope tied around her waist tautened, dragging her through the water like a fish caught on a hook. Jerking her forward, the rope hauled her to the surface. Her head popped out of the water, and she sucked in a lungful of oxygen, her eyes scanning the ship. There was no movement on the stern. Had Mr. Evans foregone his desire for revenge? Yanking her forward again, the rope pulled her through the waves. Her gaze followed the path of the rope. It didn’t lead to the railing on the stern like she suspected but to the window in the Captain’s cabin.

Squinting her eyes, she tried to see the face in the window, but the morning sun’s glare off the water blinded her. Coated in saltwater, the shredded pieces of her skin stung, tears springing to her eyes. The rope pulled her forward again, dragging her to the stern of the ship. She smacked into the rear with a grunt. Before she could react, she was lifted out of the water, sliding up the side of the ship.

Voices echoed from above. “I don’t care what he said, I want to see her body.”

It was Mr. Evans! Dangling halfway to the window, Alana flattened herself against the side, praying. If Mr. Evans discovered her hanging from the ship, he’d ensure both she and Captain Shaw were killed. The rope gave another tug, then ripped her upward, dragging her through the open window. Collapsing onto the floorboard in a pile of wet clothing and rope, a hand immediately clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“Did you hear that?” asked Mr. Evans.

“Must have been a fish,” replied the other man, his voice disinterested. “Are we finished? I’d like to have breakfast before Mr. Wickes eats all the food again.”

“I’ll meet you in the galley in a few moments.” Mr. Evans dismissed the other man.

“Don’t speak,” whispered Mr. Hayward, his arms wrapped around Alana. After five minutes, Mr. Evans’ footsteps moved from the stern, heading toward the center of the ship. “I’m going to release your mouth; can you stay quiet?”

She nodded her head, her eyes wide. Removing his hand, Mr. Hayward produced a knife, sawing through the rope binding Alana’s arms. The rope broke, falling to the floor. Her hands flew to her throat, touching the wound on her neck.

“He had to cut you,” Mr. Hayward murmured, dropping the excess rope out the window and pulling the window closed. He passed her a handkerchief. “They wouldn’t have believed him if he didn’t show them your blood.”

“Why?” managed Alana, pressing the cloth to her throat.

Mr. Hayward shrugged. “Don’t know the captain’s mind.”

“Why did you help him?”

Tipping his head, he studied her for a long moment. “He’s my captain.”

“But you risked your life.”

His mouth pulled into a half-smile. “Captain says you’re worth saving.” Rising from the floor, he gestured to her trunk, which had been moved in front of the armoire. “Change your clothing, you are quite,”—he paused, searching for the correct word—“indecent at the moment. Then I’ll see to your wounds.” He touched her shoulder, and she winced, turning away. “You’re lucky the captain intervened when he did. Most men don’t survive a keelhaul.”

“I’m not most men.” She forced an exhausted grin.

“That is true, Mrs. Dubois.” He touched his hand to his forehead. “I’ll return in a bit with some food. I reckon you’re quite hungry after this ordeal.”

“Mr. Hayward?”

He stopped, his hand resting on the door handle. “Yes?” he asked without turning around.

“Why did Captain Shaw rescue me?”

“He thinks you are innocent of the crime of theft.”

“How did he reach this conclusion?”

“You’ll need to ask him.” He turned around. “I have duties which need my attention.”

“What if…” She choked on the words. Fear bubbling in her throat. She forced herself to finish the question. “What if Mr. Evans comes searching for me?”

“He has no reason to.”

“What of the thief?”

Mr. Hayward held up his hand. “There is only one man who can answer your questions, and he is occupied at this moment. Once the captain has some time, I suspect he’ll explain everything to you, but he demands that you remain inside his cabin. We’ve both risked our lives to protect you, and I have no intention of dying before we reach Ceresus.” With a nod, he partially opened the door, slipped through the small crack, closing it behind him. A lock clicked.

Staggering to her trunk, she opened the lid. The contents, haphazardly thrown into the chest, indicated someone had searched her belongings. She knelt, digging through the women’s clothing until she found the sack of men’s clothing. Pulling out a shirt and a pair of trousers, she picked a strand of red hair from the shirt, sticking it back into the sack, then burying the sack in the trunk, she slammed the lid.

The boom caused her to jump. She pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing a shriek. Gently peeling the ruined shirt from her body, she gingerly dragged it over her head, hissing as it clung to her injured skin. She repeated the same painful process with her damaged trousers, sitting on the mattress to tug one leg off at a time.

A key scraped in the lock. Her head whipped up. Had Mr. Hayward returned so quickly? Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. Hastily pulling the new shirt over her head, she rose with a grimace, the shirt skimming the top of her thighs. Reaching for the trousers, she froze as the door inched open. Mr. Evans slipped into the room.

Gasping, she dove underneath the bed, scratching her bare legs on the floorboards, agony pulsing through her body. Digging her teeth into her lower lip, she scuttled to the far corner of the bed, pressing herself flat. She laid her ear on the floor, watching Mr. Evans’ boots move through the room. He stopped in front of the desk, dragging the ledger toward him. Pages flicked slowly. After a minute, he snapped the book shut again. Strolling over to the armoire, he leaned over, lifting the lid to Alana’s trunk. Sifting through the clothing, he grumbled, “Where did he hide it?”

What was Mr. Evans searching for? Alana held her breath, her gaze following Mr. Evan’s boots as he paced the small room, crossing to the table and chairs. Stooping, he rooted through the trunk beside the desk, his mouth pulling into a thin line. Glancing up, his eyes searched the room, stopping on the bed. She gulped. Had he seen her?

Rising, Mr. Evans walked past the window, trailing his fingers over the wooden pane. Rounding the desk, he strolled to the bed, sitting on the mattress. Suddenly his feet disappeared, and his dark face appeared, floating upside down. His eyes locked on Alana, a horrid grin splitting his mouth.

“Mrs. Dubois, what a pleasure to find you here.”

Climbing from the bed, he dropped to the floor, and reaching out, his hand closed around her wrist. She screamed, fighting against his iron grip, but could not stop him from dragging her out from underneath the bed.

“Captain Shaw—”

“Will do whatever I say once I reveal he falsified your death. The crew will see him hanged.” His face stretched into an evil sneer. “But since we have some time before that happy reunion…”

Alana swung, smacking him in the face. He released her with a howl, and she darted around him, running for the door, yanking it open. Mr. Evans tackled her from behind, shoving her into the door, her forehead smashing into the edge. She staggered, unconsciousness threatening to overtake her.

The door slammed shut. Spinning her to face him, he thrust her into the door, pinning her against the wood. Reaching around her, he inserted his key into the lock and twisted it sharply.

“I can make this really pleasurable or really painful… your decision.”

He drew a finger down her cheek. Shivering, she turned away. His fingers dove into her hair, gripping the loose strands. Yanking sharply, he lifted her to her toes, walking her over to the bed, flinging her onto the mattress. She bounced, rolling sideways. Grabbing a pillow, she flung it at him. He stepped back, smacking it away. She snatched the second pillow, holding out in front of her, his taunting laughter echoing in her ears.

He was going to kill her… actually, he was going to more than just kill her. Something metallic caught her eye. The pistol!

Grabbing the gun, she lifted it, dropping the pillow and pointing the pistol at Mr. Evans’ chest. “Unlock the door,” she commanded, her voice unwavering.

“Are you going to throw that at me too?” he sneered, taking one exaggerated step toward her.

“No.” She drew back the hammer. He stopped at the sound, setting his boot back on the floor. Raising his hands, a sneer hovered on his lips.

“Do you know how to use a pistol?”

“I do.” She rose from the bed, her free hand tugging down the shirt as she stood. She gestured to one of the chairs. “You and I are going to wait for Captain Shaw.”

Sliding one foot behind the other, Mr. Evans kept his eyes on the muzzle. “He will still hang. What explanation can he give to the crew? You are standing here in front of me… alive.”

“And you are in front of me as well. Pray tell, why were you sneaking around the captain’s cabin?”

He paled at her words. “I have my reasons.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure Captain Shaw would be interested in those reasons as well.”

“Perhaps we can work out an agreement, Mrs. Dubois?” His eyes flicked to her face. “My silence for yours?”

Alana shook her head, pointing the pistol at the chair. “Sit.”

Mr. Evans snarled, launching himself at her. He knocked her backward, landing on top of her, stretching for the gun. His fingers closed around the pistol, yanking it. They rolled across the mattress, fighting for the gun, and tumbled onto the floor, narrowing missing Alana’s trunk.

A deafening gunshot reverberated off the walls.

Alana froze, pinned underneath Mr. Evans, her eyes flicking up to his face. Had he been shot?

He glared at her, his mouth twisting into an evil grin. “You missed.”

Chapter 10

“It’s useless; only one shot in that pistol.” Mr. Evans slashed his arm down, knocking the gun out of her hands. It skittered across the floor, sliding under the desk. His hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing. Leaning forward, his heavy body ground against hers. “I will kill you myself.”

A second gunshot exploded.

The grin on Mr. Evans’ face froze, and his fingers released her neck. Touching his chest, a look of shock passed over his face as blood seeped through his shirt. Slowly, he turned his head.

Vibrating in the doorway, Captain Shaw lowered his pistol, hatred blazing in his dark eyes. “I knew not to trust you.”

Clutching his chest, Mr. Evans’ eyes rolled wildly, and he slumped forward, collapsing on top of Alana, his body twitching. She shoved him off with a shudder. Crossing the room in three steps, Captain Shaw slid his arms under her, lifting her from the floor, and carried her to the bed. Gently laying her on the mattress, his hands skimmed over her exposed legs, inspecting a deep laceration in her skin. She winced.

Mr. Hayward appeared in the doorway. “Your suspicion was correct, Captain.” He held out a bulging sack. “All the pilfered items were found among Mr. Evans’ possessions. The crew will be informed of his treachery.”

“Return the items to the original owners.” Captain Shaw jerked his head at Mr. Evans’ immobile body. “His share will be evenly distributed among the crew.”

Slinging the sack over his shoulder, Mr. Hayward walked across the room, dropping a bundle of cloth on the bed. His sympathetic eyes sliding over Alana, he knelt beside the bed, setting down the sack. He reached out, his hand brushing across her forehead.

“Not much I can do about the pain, but this will stop the bleeding.”

Captain Shaw grabbed Mr. Hayward’s wrist, squeezing until their arms shook.

“I’ll administer her care.”

Mr. Hayward nodded once, retracting his hand. His gaze sliding to Mr. Evans, he leaned over, poking Mr. Evans’ shoulder.

“Do you intend to execute the plan we discussed?”

“I do,” replied Captain Shaw. His fingers combed the loose strands of hair away from Alana’s face, tucking them behind her ear.

Rising, Mr. Hayward lifted Mr. Evans from the floor, throwing the body over his shoulders. Then grabbing the sack, he spun and lugged Mr. Evans toward the door, grunting with each step.

“Should you assist him?” asked Alana, pushing up on her elbows.

Captain Shaw stood with an amused snort. “Do you need my assistance?”

“No,” growled Mr. Hayward as if insulted by Alana’s suggestion of weakness. Captain Shaw followed him and after a quick whispered conversation, closed and locked the door. He spun around, his heated gaze sliding over Alana.

“You are inappropriately dressed for mixed company.”

“It was not by choice.” She grimaced, rolling to her side and reached for the discarded trousers. He dove across the room, his hand closing around hers. She glanced up, staring into his eyes.

“It will save me the trouble of taking them off you again.” He grinned, pulling the trousers from her fingers, dropping them back on the floor. Sitting beside her on the mattress, he took her hand, his thumb gently skimming her wrist.

“I have a confession to make.”

Her heart hammered wildly. What could he possibly have to admit to her? Swallowing, she forced herself into a sitting position. Reaching around her, he propped the pillow behind her back.

“Mr. Evans is the first man I’ve killed.”

“What?” Her jaw dropped. “But Mr. Ashmore…”

He offered her a small smile and shook his head, rising to his feet. Walking over to his desk, he snagged a bottle from the corner, and returned to the bed, holding it out to her.

“For the pain.”

“Thank you,” she replied, lifting the bottle to her lips. The burning liquid slid down her throat, dulling the throbbing ache. She held out the bottle, but he refused, pacing from one end of the room to the other, dragging his hand through his hair.

Spinning around, he opened his mouth and paused, turned away again, resuming his pacing. After another pass, he stopped halfway to the bed and snapped his heels together, bowing formally.

“Mrs. Dubois, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced… my name is Mr. Charles Ashmore.”

Alana gasped. “You can’t be.”

“You never met my father, did you?” He shuffled toward her, slowly, as though afraid she would run from the room.

She shook her head, setting the bottle on the floor. “Patrick refused to allow me to attend your funeral.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

“How do you know?”

“I was there.” He shrugged, a boyish grin on his face.

“You should have told him!” She slammed her fist on the mattress. “Your death destroyed him. He abandoned the family and retreated to a lighthouse; we never see him.”

“I did tell him. I’m not the reason Patrick is hiding in that godforsaken lighthouse!” Dropping beside her, he lifted the ball of scraps, separating a piece and setting the cloth beside him. Reaching over, he drew her legs onto his lap, wrapping the bandage around the deep laceration in her thigh. His calloused hands moved over her skin, sliding up her arms, binding each wound. “Are there more?” he asked softly.

“There are cuts across my back.”

A grin split his face. “For the purposes of treating your injuries, you’ll need to remove your shirt.”

Dropping her hands to the hem and lifting it slightly, she paused, narrowing her eyes. “Do you promise not to enjoy yourself?”

He shook his head. “I can’t swear to something I have no intention of following.”

Swallowing her grin, she raised the shirt, exposing her stomach. He hissed. A large gash ran along her abdomen. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Lying to me again, Mrs. Dubois?” He reached out and tugged her shirt up, pulling it free of her body, his eyes traveling over her bruised skin. “I doubt your brother will forgive me for this incident.”

“He’s forgiven you for others?” She sucked in a sharp breath as his hands wound the cloth around her abdomen.

“Many times.” He tilted his head. “I would be correct in my assumption that Patrick never revealed my secret.”

“He didn’t. Everyone thinks you’re dead.” She sank her teeth into her lip, debating her question. “Why did you leave?”

“My father…” His voice trailed off, his gaze staring into the distance. After several moments, he shook himself, his eyes clearing. “My father was an abusive man. He took pleasure in hitting his wife and children. When I was fourteen years old, he beat me unconscious with a whip. My mother intervened, and he killed her.”

Alana reached out her hand, but he twisted away. Pulling his shirt from his body, he turned around, revealing a map of scars across his shoulders. She touched her fingers to his back, running them lightly over the rough skin in a comforting gesture. He leaned into her hand.

“I threatened to turn him into the constable, and he swore if he was arrested, he’d ensure my sister and I were left destitute. I couldn’t leave Cora without protection, so I stayed silent. My father and I had a tumultuous relationship after that, hardly speaking more than six words in the years that followed. But everything changed when Cora met her husband. I saw her happily married, then I made my escape.”

“But why pretend you were dead?”

“It was a fortuitous accident,” he laughed and bumped his forehead against hers. “The night I left for America, my father was away on business. I walked into his room, heading straight for his armoire, where he’d hidden several pieces of my mother’s jewelry in a locked drawer. Prying the drawer open, I took every piece, sewed them into the lining of my coat, save one, which I sold for my ticket to America. But my ship was attacked by pirates.”

Alana snorted.

“I was given the same decision as you. I, too, found favor with the captain, who remains one of my dearest friends.”

“Did your father know you took the jewelry?” asked Alana, burning with curiosity.

“He did.” A sad smile pulled at his mouth. He placed his hand on her leg. “That is why I cannot return to England. There is a reward for the capture of Mr. Charles Ashmore. If I am discovered alive, I will be arrested. Your brother knows this.”

“It’s not quite as much as the reward for Captain Cedric Shaw.” Alana shifted, acutely aware of his fingers, which drew tiny circles on her leg, scattering goosebumps across her skin.

“I suppose you are correct.” He sighed, the heavy sound rolling over her.

“Could you not just use a different name?”

“Where would you suggest I get this name? A man with wealth and no history is not to be trusted.”

“I have a name you can borrow.”

He arched an eyebrow, his fingers stopping mid-stroke. “What would this name cost me?”

“Your bachelorhood,” she replied.

“I am intrigued; do continue.” His fingers resumed their seductive dance, sliding up her thigh.

She was finding it difficult to think.

“No one, outside of my family, is aware of my husband’s death. I did not announce it to society. If you assumed his name, you could return to England with me.”

Skating up her leg, his hand dipped between her legs. She gasped, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Mrs. Dubois, are you proposing to me?” he murmured, his eyes blazing. His hand separated her legs, brushing lightly over her sex.

“Mmm,” was all she could manage, arching her body.

“What would your family think… married to a pirate?” Bending closer, he stopped centimeters from her skin.

“Patrick already knows you,” she replied, her eyes flicking to his mouth.

“I’m not certain Patrick would support your plan.” His hand cupped her face, the pad of his thumb sliding across her lips.

“Aidan will.” She trembled.

“Why do you think that?” Leaning forward, he gently lowered her back onto the bed, resting on his elbows, and trapping her between his arms. He drew his finger across the tiny line etched into her throat.

“Because he swore to help me find Patrick a wife if I came back from America married.” Her breath hitched. “And bringing you with me would fulfill that requirement.”

“I would be delighted to help with that endeavor; Patrick has been single far too long.” His mouth touched hers, sending sparks rippling through her body. Moaning, she wrapped her hands around his torso. He pulled away, his dark eyes searching hers. “Before I agree to your inane plan, I have one question. Why would you tie yourself to me?”

She smiled. “You risked your life to save mine. I can think of no better way to repay you for that kindness—”

“Than to take away my freedom?” he smirked.

She shoved his chest, turning her head away. “You don’t have to marry me.”

Hooking his finger under her chin, he drew her face back toward him. “I didn’t say no, I’m merely trying to understand why you would make this decision. If you continue to America, you could find a better match.”

“Or I could find a scoundrel.” She tilted her head. “And you, sir, no matter how much you pretend, cannot shed your gentility.”

“Betrayed by my breeding.” Scooting forward, he pressed his mouth to hers, gently nipping the corner of her lips.

She pushed him away, panting, her hands splayed across his chest. Her body protested.

“I have the same question for you. Why would you agree to this plan?”

Glancing down at her hands, he smiled. “Mrs. Dubois—”

“Alana,” she corrected.

“Alana.” He inclined his head once. “Since I met you, nothing in my life has gone as expected. You are opinionated, refuse to follow directions, challenge me at every decision… and I rather enjoy that.” A strange light glowed in his eyes. “For the first time in years, you’ve offered me a solution which allows me to return home and see my dearest sister, who I miss so very much… and to do that with you on my arm, I can think of no greater happiness.” Taking her right hand, he lifted it to his mouth, his lips touching her knuckles.

A horrifying thought flying through Alana’s mind, she gasped, retracting her hand.

“What if your father recognizes you?”

“It’s been years since my ‘death.’ Even with a resemblance, he would never suspect I falsified my demise, and with the name of a Frenchman, he would have no cause to investigate.” He retook her hands, pinning them above her head, his intense gaze sliding over her body.

“What happened to the rest of the jewelry, the pieces you sewed into your coat?” she asked, wriggling impatiently beneath him.

A tiny smile pulled at his mouth. “I’ll show you once we dock in Ceresus.”

“How much longer will that be?”

“Almost two weeks,” he replied, one hand released her wrists, skating across her collarbone. “More than enough time to properly introduce myself to every part of your body.”

Alana blushed deeply. “I am shocked by your words.”

“Are you?” He tilted his head, grinning. “I am a pirate.”

“A reformed pirate.”

Dipping his head, he touched his mouth to the hollow of her throat, dragging his lips along her jawline.

“At this moment, there is only one thought in my mind.”

“Which is?” Alana asked, breathlessly.

“Hearing my new wife yell my name with abandon.”

She blushed, the color gliding across her skin until she glowed pink. Desire rippled through her body, pooling in her stomach.

“What name should I say?”

“Charles,” he replied, “I’d like to hear my given name on your lips.”

“Charles,” she said, testing the word; his eyes blazed. She murmured it again, pulling one arm free of his grip. Her hand rose, cupping his face.

With a growl, he lunged forward, his mouth finding hers, his hands sliding over her body, caressing, teasing. They moved together, rising and falling as passion overtook them. Limbs intertwined, they laid panting. His hand slid across the bed, wrapping around her fingers.

“Thank you for bringing me home.”

She curled into his embrace, her eyes fluttered closed. In the back of her mind, a small nagging thought tickled her subconscious.

Had they captured Mr. Franklin Morris yet?

About Alyssa Drake

USA Today Bestselling Author Alyssa Drake has been creating stories since she could hold a crayon, preferring to construct her own bedtime tales instead of reading the titles in her bookshelves. A multi-genre author, Alyssa currently writes Historical romance, Paranormal romance, Romantic suspense, and Cozy mystery, blending a little bit of love with a little bit of mystery.

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The Spinster's Guide to Piracy and Plunder

by Harmony Williams

Chapter 1

Leave Your Old Life Behind

Late March, 1801

Eavesdropping did not become a well-mannered lady.

In my defense, England was a cold, wet, maudlin place, and if I couldn’t spend time out of doors, I had to entertain myself somehow. Especially when my future hinged upon one conversation in a room from which I had been barred. What was a lady to do except idle on the stairs, straining to hear through the thick oak of the study door?

Not that I could hear a word from my vantage point, not even the muffled whisper of sound. However, if I descended to the bottom of the stairs, I risked the men inside catching me if they exited unexpectedly.

The facts begged further examination.

One: A tall, broad-shouldered, commanding man in a uniform of British Navy blue had knocked on my door.

Two: Without preamble, he had asked to speak with my father privately.

Three: Papa was a Frenchman and hadn’t lost his accent despite nearly a decade in England. Most of the neighborhood did little to hide their distaste for his—and my—origins. A distaste only compounded by the fact that Papa’s first wife, my mother, had been a colored woman from Sainte-Domingue. I was foreign through and through.

Four: Papa made no secret he would welcome a distinguished son-in-law from the military.

Five: I met this man in the village yesterday when he caught and handed back my bonnet, flung off by the wind. Aside from two words—thank you—I have never spoken with him. Something about him had stirred my nerves. The brush of his hand leaving tingles, or the admiring way his gaze caressed my face. Could he have been so taken with the mere sight of me that he tripped over himself to beg Papa for my hand?

It was a romantic notion—a foolish notion. One I stamped out at once. Although my accent wasn’t as pronounced as Papa’s, my origins were as plain as my complexion, never pale enough to meet the current fashion. What would a navy man want with a Frenchman’s daughter of mixed race?

Without listening to the conversation, I would never know.

I balanced on the balls of my feet as I tried to sidle closer without giving myself away. My toes scraped against the top of the stair. Hard wood, then a furry, fleshy body.

The cat yowled. I stumbled. A blur to my eyes, the orange and black cat launched down the stairs like cannon fire, making as much noise. I clutched the banister as my legs fell out from under me. The soles of my slippers kissed the open air. I crashed down several steps and landed in a tangle of limbs. I groaned.

Perhaps it was for the better that they barred women from joining the military. I would make a terrible spy.

Nearer to the door, I heard muffled voices stop speaking. I held my breath. My knee throbbed, my arms ached, but I didn’t dare move. A second trickled past, followed swiftly by another. The door remained shut. The voices, if they continued, were even softer.

“Bordel de merde,” I cursed. Now I couldn’t hope to overhear.

A woman cleared her throat. My heart thundering, I twisted to peer up the stairs.

Delicate slippers, the toes embroidered with French roses. The spotless hem of a diamond-patterned yellow dress. Up my gaze travelled, past the weathered hand gripping the knob of her cane to the shrewd eyes that chastised me for my indelicate language.

I didn’t resemble my paternal grandmother, with her skin so pale her veins spider-webbed across the back of her hand. Her snowy white hair was cropped short around her ears, no-nonsense was she. For the first half of my life, I’d known her only in letters. The distance between us changed with the French Revolution when we’d fled from France to England and the safety of her house.

Grand-mère raised her thin eyebrows and pursed her lips. I braced myself for the inevitable castigation. Instead she said in fluent, comforting French, “That isn’t how to do it, cherie. Follow me.”

Without another word, the old woman turned on her heel and carefully mounted the steps with the aid of her cane. I stared at her, open-mouthed, before glancing at the heavy wooden door of the study.

“Jeanne?” called Grand-mère.

I hiked my skirts to mid-calf and hurried up the stairs after her, my heels clacking on the wood. I met her at the next landing. As I followed after her, I dropped my skirts and smoothed them into place, the picture of serenity.

From the curve of her mouth, she didn’t believe the illusion in the least.

As she opened the door into a cozy sitting room looking out over the coast, she said, “I have a much better place to eavesdrop.” She shut the door and navigated the cluttered array of mismatched chairs and tables until she reached the window. Deftly, she opened the latch and slid the rain-speckled glass open to let in the damp, cool air. She lowered herself onto a lonely chair next to the window. Voices drifted in.

Male voices.

Not daring to raise my own above a whisper, I joined her. “We are directly above the study, aren’t we?”

Grand-mère cackled. “That we are, cherie. Your father always leaves the window of his study cracked open, even in winter.”

She had claimed the only chair, so I perched on the edge of a round, upholstered stool. “Is this why you prefer this room?” Although I’d lived here for years, I’d given this room a wide berth. Papa had warned me this was Grand-mère’s parlor, and she wasn’t to be disturbed.

She set her cane within easy reach and moved closer to the window. “Hush. Listen.”

We both leaned forward. Silence. The cool air raised gooseflesh on my exposed skin.

“Do you think he heard us and shut the window?”

Papa’s voice broke the tension, strong and clear and burdened with the proof of his origins. “This letter of recommendation is impressive,” he said in accented English.

“I am serious in my intentions. I’ve formed quite the preference for your daughter.”

He has? I held my breath. Wait… Why would a man bring a letter of recommendation to marry me?

Papa asked, “Jeanne?”

I wrinkled my nose. I had three younger sisters, and they had all been married within the past two years. I was the only unmarried woman in the house. The spinster, as the gossips of the town twittered when they thought I was out of earshot.

“Yes. Miss Jeanne is walking perfection.”

I snorted. If I was perfection, I’d have a husband along with my sisters. No, I had a reputation for argumentativeness, which my would-be suitor might have known had he spoken to me for longer than it took to return my bonnet.

The romantic soap bubble I’d revelled in since his arrival burst. This handsome seafarer hadn’t fallen madly in love with me. How could he have?

Grand-mère’s voice next to my ear made me jump. “Who is he?” She continued to speak to me in our native tongue.

My suitor listed a few of my imaginary qualities. Did he remember me at all?

“I met him in the village yesterday. He rescued my bonnet. He didn’t introduce himself.”

Grand-mère hummed her disapproval. “You haven’t formed a preference for him then?”

How could I have? True, our circle of acquaintances was small, and fresh blood in the village, for the most part, belonged to men three times my age who claimed the salt air eased the ache in their bones. This navy man might be my only choice. But a preference? I needed to know more of a man than his occupation and the fact he had nice eyes.

I shook my head in answer to Grand-mère’s question as the man continued to speak. He had a pleasant voice, deep and warm, even if he seemed a bit hasty in his judgements.

Papa laughed, cutting the fellow off. “You have no need to convince me. Your character speaks for itself. And this—” Papa flapped a sheet of paper. “A capitaine, so young!”

“There are younger captains than I in the Navy. We haven’t yet been assigned ships, so I understand the confusion. As for myself, I’ve been at sea since I was thirteen.”

The creak of leather hinted at a man shifting position. I easily imagined my father, who resembled his mother in everything but height, leaning back in his favorite chair as he surveyed the eager young man in front of him. But that eager young man? I couldn’t form a picture of his reactions at all. Was he reserved or relaxed? From his voice, I couldn’t tell.

“This is not your first visit to town.”

It wasn’t?

“No, sir.”

Perhaps he’d formed an attachment to me prior to yesterday then. We’d never spoken, but if he was shy…

“After your third visit, I asked myself if something in our little village compelled you to return.”

I chewed on my thumbnail. Grand-mère’s attention was fully on the conversation, leaving no room for her to chide me over the habit.

“I have asked about you, Capitaine Sterling.”

Sterling. Mrs. Jeanne Sterling. It had a nice ring to it, or at the very least didn’t sound horrible. But could I imagine myself wearing the name?

“Please, call me Milton.”

Milton. My husband’s name is Milton.

No, it sounded bizarre to refer to any man as my husband. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t live at the mercy of my relatives for my entire life. Even Papa didn’t have a place here in England. I desperately longed for a home and purpose of my own.

“Milton. Your superiors have naught but good to say of you. Your service to your country is commendable.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. We are French, Papa. Never mind that I’d spent the past ten years in England ever since the revolution had driven us out of our home when I was sixteen. I hadn’t acclimated as well as my sisters had to the change, being over seven years their senior. They had acquired British accents quickly, whereas my words retained a touch of French.

Perhaps Papa was trying to convince everyone to forget our heritage.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It is a true shame you don’t have a ship to command. Especially with this odious embargo in Norway.”

“I don’t intend for that to be my lot forever.”

“Certainly not.”

Papa paused for so long that I wondered if he chased the captain out his door.

“You’re aware I have exchanged Jeanne’s dowry into material goods rather than an annuity, are you not?”

“I am. I saw the ship on my way in. A beauty—now that is a ship fit for battle.”

“It is. What a waste for it to languish in the bay where it can do no good to anyone.”

This lonesome year, in particular since my sisters had married, I’d often dreamed of boarding the ship, leaving England, and finding a place of my own. Not in France or even the Sainte-Domingue I barely remembered from my early childhood—Napoleon had rendered both inhospitable—but somewhere else. A place where I wouldn’t be holding my breath whenever I was out in public, hoping to blend in with the sea of pale English misses. A home.

“I would take it to war for the Crown, of course,” the Navy captain said.

I sighed. Grand-mère patted my knee absentmindedly.

A gust of wind shooed my hair from its pins, the dark curly mass fluttering around my face. The noise made my father’s voice wobble before it met my ears. “And my daughter?”

My suitor’s voice hardened. “War is no place for a lady. She’d have quarters on land.”

Quarters…not a home.

“I wouldn’t curtail her movements, of course. She may visit you as much as you both please. My salary allows for a comfortable life.”

My fingernails bit into my thigh where I clutched my skirts too hard. A life in England, away from friends and family. Without even the comfort of a husband or children, from the sound of him. He would marry me for the damned ship and abandon me in a quiet corner as soon as possible.

No matter how nice his eyes or the timber of his voice, I could not relegate myself to such a future.

Another creak of leather followed by Papa’s eager voice. His accent thickened with his excitement. “I have but one matter to address.”

“And that is?”

“Jeanne must accept. Let me speak with her. I will ensure she is amenable. We can have the banns read before you are recalled to duty.”

No.

No, I would not be amenable to marrying a stranger who only wanted my dowry. I bit my lip hard, trying to contain my disappointment. With a marriage, I’d hoped to find a family, a place in this world, a purpose. But I was reduced to baggage yet again. Papa might be amenable to the arrangement, but I never would be.

I would not stand to be passed from hand to hand, discarded when convenient. And if Papa was willing to consider such a fate for me, then I had worn out my welcome. My future held more promise than this.

And if Papa would not arrange it, I would.

* * *

Captain Milton Sterling stood from his chair at dinner, the legs scraping against the floor. For the first time all evening, he addressed me directly.

“Mademoiselle,” he said in atrociously accented French and continued in the same language, “Do you want to have to walk with me in garden?”

I had never heard a worse assault on my native tongue, but he was making an effort to speak it when he could have made his point far more eloquently in English. Papa beamed at him as though he was an infant speaking his first words. Even Grand-mère watched me with an expectant look on her face. The air in the formal dining room was suddenly stifling.

I saved my would-be suitor the need to converse in French by answering him in English. “It would be my pleasure.”

My voice was flat, and I didn’t meet his eye, but it seemed to be the correct answer. Papa’s satisfaction emanated from him in waves.

Captain Sterling rounded the elegantly carved table and offered me his ungloved hand. When I slipped mine into his, I felt the callouses of work, evidenced by the suntan on his skin. It must be sunnier at sea than it was in this wretched town, because I felt as though I’d grown several shades paler since moving to London. At the moment, the sun and the open ocean sounded divine.

In near silence, I directed him through the corridor to the exit into the gardens. No one followed us, leaving us unchaperoned as though we were already wed. My stomach tightened, and I ducked my head as we strolled toward the lantern-lit path between the hedges. The promise of rain was heavy in the cool air, a mist on my skin and a strong scent in my nose. I was acutely aware of the man at my side—the heat of his body, his strong build, the movement of the muscles in his arm beneath my hand.

My thin shawl and the tall hedges shielding us from the house did little to protect me from the bite of the night air and the wind ruffling the foliage. I shivered, my hand inadvertently tightening on the captain’s arm.

He paused, craning his neck to peer down at me. The nearest lamp on its wrought iron pole cast soft shadows over his face, emphasizing the line of his clean-shaven jaw and the incongruous softness of his mouth. “You’re cold.”

“Not terribly.”

The protest barely left my lips before he pulled his arm from my clasp. With deft fingers, he slipped the buttons free of his coat. He doffed it in a fluid, practiced movement and laid it across my shoulders. The warmth and strong cedar smell of him burrowed into me, making my stomach tumble in an unfamiliar way. As he stood in front of me, pulling the collar close around my neck, we were close enough for our breaths to mingle in the air between us.

Without his jacket, his muscular chest and shoulders were on more prominent display. The thin linen of his shirt wasn’t enough to contain them. His waistcoat hugged his torso, leaving little of his physique to the imagination. I’d never thought of a man as beautiful, and he had a roughness around the edges that prevented such a verdict, but the lamp light softened him just enough. He could have been a dashing, chivalrous knight. He made me feel maidenly. Cherished in a way no man had ever made me feel.

Until he spoke. “Am I too presumptive?”

Color flooded my cheeks, and I stepped back, putting distance and cool air between us. “No. Thank you for your coat. It is very thoughtful.”

Silence stretched between us save for the rustle of the hedges and faint drone of insects clustered around the lamps. I felt his eyes on me, hot and searching, but couldn’t bring myself to meet them. His coat was simply that—a garment. The intimacy of his courteous offer was an illusion. I’d do best to remember that. If he had his way, he would wed and abandon me in some empty house in an unfamiliar town.

“You don’t converse easily, do you?” He sounded speculative, perhaps even offended.

I forced myself to meet his gaze, only to find him inscrutable. “I don’t have anything useful to say.”

After all, we were alone, sequestered from the house. Now wasn’t the time to spurn his suit. Although he had acted honorably thus far, if I angered him, anything might happen. He was a stranger to me.

The hard planes of his face softened again as his gaze fastened on my mouth. My lips tingled at the intensity in his eyes. I licked them to quell the sensation. It didn’t help.

His voice held a hint of gravel when he said, “Then perhaps it would be more prudent to converse without words. May I kiss you, Jeanne?”

My breath caught. I couldn’t look away. No man had kissed me, had expressed interest since I’d fled to England. Warmth unfurled in my belly as I imagined those expressive lips mating to mine. His strong arms around me, cradling me. My breaths came quicker as I fought the temptation.

And he was temptation. One I’d be prudent not to encourage.

He wants to leave you behind.

But what would it feel like to kiss him?

At my hesitation, he took a tentative step closer, reading something in my expression I didn’t want him to see. I lowered my eyes again, trying to hide my reaction.

“No. I don’t think that would be proper.”

He didn’t press the matter, but the sensation of something unresolved between us lingered until he returned me to the house.

* * *

Papa awaited me.

“Jeanne? May I have a word?”

I had been expecting this conversation ever since I had been called down to dinner with our unexpected guest. Straightening my spine, I followed Papa into his study. The window of the cramped room was cracked open. On the wall across from his desk was an image that made me nostalgic.

I hadn’t turned six when Maman passed on. Time had dulled my memories of her and of Sainte-Domingue until all I recalled were snatches. The beautiful lilt of her singing voice. The spicy smell of her cooking in the kitchen. The way she laughed and chased me outside to play. I recalled the humidity, the scent of the air, and the hum of the insects as I ran barefoot over the dirt path. It felt as much a dream as a memory, brought on by the painting on the wall. A dirt path through ferns and scattered trees, mountains rising in the distance and our house painted to one side. The painting was focused on a brown woman balancing a baby on her hip, staring at the mountains. Papa had a miniature of her face, but this was all I remembered of her, the back of her head and a peek at her profile.

It made me heartsick. I turned my back on the painting and sat in the chair across from Papa’s desk.

With a smile, he took the chair opposite. “How did you enjoy your walk with Captain Sterling?”

I felt wrung out due to the tension that had gripped us. Stifling a sigh, I cut to the heart of the matter. “I don’t wish to marry him.”

Papa lost his jovial attitude at once. “Jeanne.”

Perhaps I resembled him a little. Whiskers framed his jaw, and he’d developed wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, so it was difficult to tell. I took after him more so in temperament than in appearance with a broader nose than him, darker eyes and plumper lips.

“It’s what you intended to ask, wasn’t it, Papa?”

Despite my innocent tone, he bristled. “This isn’t the time for your sarcasm. We’re speaking of your future.”

“I am aware.” My mouth dried. I wiped sweaty palms on my skirt.

“Captain Sterling is a good match for you. He is honorable. He is ambitious. He will provide well for you and keep you safe. This country has never treated colored women as equal to white women. You need someone to keep you safe.”

No country offered equality to colored women. No matter where I went, I would be dependent on another. I bit my tongue.

When I felt calm enough to answer, I repeated softly, “I do not wish to marry him.”

Papa stood, bracing his hands on the desk and leaning closer. “If not him, then who? You must marry, Jeanne. You cannot stay here indefinitely.”

Perhaps not, but an empty marriage was not the answer. I bit the inside of my cheek to stave off tears. “No, Papa. I suppose you’re right. I cannot stay.”

He looked relieved as he sank back into his chair again. “Then you’ll consider Captain Sterling’s offer?”

That, I could not do, but I saw no use in arguing. Words wouldn’t help me.

Action would.

Chapter 2

Beg, Borrow, or Steal a Ship

“Butterflies are supposed to fly away,” I muttered under my breath as I stumbled over the obstacle at my feet and caught myself on the post at the foot of my bed. The carved wood dug into my palms. On the floor, the calico cat, Papillon, purred deeply and twined around my ankles as if trying to cast me back into the neatly made bed.

Not tonight, hairball.

Tonight cursed me to clumsiness as I nearly tripped over him yet again. With my heart pounding in the base of my throat and my mouth as dry as sand, my inelegant fingers and feet didn’t want to respond as usual. Inertia gripped me, nearly pulling me back to bed.

This wasn’t the first I’d considered leaving home. Heretofore, my courage had always fled. But the prospect of a life with Milton Sterling—or rather, a lonely life of being left behind—propelled me forward. Although fear of the future made sweat bead on my upper lip, I wanted independence. One way or another, I would find a home and a place to belong.

I would make one.

Emboldened, I sidestepped Papillon and reached for the valise I’d packed after dinner. All my belongings contained in one satchel I could lift easily. Nothing to anchor me on this rainy English coast. With one last look at the small room I’d occupied for the past decade, I blew out the candle.

Shadows doused my vision. I waited for my eyes to adjust.

Papillon swiped at my leg with a plaintive yowl.

“Hush!” I hissed, drawing my skirts out of reach and leaning down with my free hand. Placated, the cat brushed his chin against my palm, the vibrations of his purr rumbling up my wrist. After a moment, when he’d seemed to have enough attention and I could make out the shadowed forms of furniture in the room, I lifted the valise and tiptoed to the door.

Yowl!

“Hush, cat! You’ll wake the house.”

Papillon sat at my feet and mewled in a loud, plaintive demand. No mere mortal could deny him when he craved attention. Cursing under my breath, I groped along his shape toward his head, guided by his flashing yellow eyes. When I lifted him into my arms, he purred loudly and rubbed his head on the underside of my chin. At least he was silent.

“I cannot take you with me.” Certainly not when I didn’t know how I would live once I left this house. I had precious little pin money saved and no occupation or connections. I was educated, but who would hire a French governess? Although not everyone discriminated against me because of my skin color or accent, enough did that I had come to expect it as default. My gender was yet another obstacle, and the cat would be one more mouth to feed.

My worldly concerns were of no import to a feline of Papillon’s caliber. With a wide yawn that tickled my cheek, he settled in my arms.

I sighed. Perhaps I’d carry him as far as the front door to keep him from tattling on me. Between the cat and my valise, opening the door soundlessly proved difficult. Somehow, I managed. I left the door ajar and tiptoed onto the runner, letting it muffle my footsteps. I strained my ears.

Silence, thick and oppressive.

Papillon purred in my ear.

“You aren’t helping,” I muttered under my breath.

The fool cat kneaded my neck, curling the tips of his claws into my skin until I bit my tongue to keep silent.

Since when had he ever tried to help?

I disentangled him and hurried on. In the darkness, the indistinct shadow of the bannister to the stairs beckoned from the end of the corridor. I tiptoed closer. Nearly there. Once deeper into the house, my footsteps and Papillon’s mewling would wake no one.

At the mouth of the corridor, the wood beneath my feet creaked. I froze.

Had someone heard? The tomcat’s purring was distant, second to the roar of my heartbeat as I held my breath. With a yawn, Papillon settled his face into the crook of my neck. No doors opened along the corridor. I was safe.

I should have planned this better. Rehearsed the route for creaks in the floor, saved up my pin money. I had time still to reconsider…

No. Papa wanted the banns read immediately. When I’d tried to protest, he’d stressed that I had very few options and they dwindled the longer I remained unwed. Despite Papa’s opinion, I had one option he hadn’t yet thought of, one that put my fate in my own control. I had to leave.

Turning, I strode with purpose to the stairs.

I reached the next floor without incident, only then releasing the breath cramping in my lungs. I leaned against the wall, my knees trembling. After shaking out the arm carrying the valise—the one holding the cat was hopelessly pinned beneath his sleeping weight—I gathered my courage and continued. Not far now to the door.

Clack, clack, clack.

Footsteps.

Bordel de merde! I turned, slipped on the step, and slammed hard into the wall. My shoulder stung. I gasped for breath. Papillon jostled awake with a disgruntled meow. He clawed out of my arms and onto my shoulders, digging in his nails as he balanced himself behind the scarf I’d used to bind my hair.

The nearest doorway gaped open, moonlight streaming in from the window to silhouette a feminine figure hunched with age. Grand-mère’s favorite study. How could I have forgotten?

“Where are you going?”

Her words snapped with strength, a direct contradiction to the doubts and uneasiness floating in my head and congealing in my gut.

“I…I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go for a turn around the garden.”

The old woman closed the distance between us, her cane thumping lightly with each step. Closer. Closer.

Run while you can, child.

I was no child. At twenty-six, I deserved to make my own choices, even if they led to hardship.

“With a valise and a cat? You’re running away from home, and we both know it.”

I swallowed hard. The air I drew into my lungs felt edged with blades. For once, I was thankful for the darkness. At least I didn’t have to look her in the eye.

“Good for you.”

My mouth dropped open at the words. Matter-of-fact. Approving. Perhaps even…proud?

“You aren’t…?” I pressed my lips together, astounded at the warmth in her tone and unable to formulate my thoughts.

“Disappointed? Upset?” Grand-mère stepped close enough to lay her hand over the one I clutched to the handle of the valise. “I’ve been married three times. Each time, I had a chance at independence after my husband died, but I was too frightened to seize it. No, Jeanne. I’m not disappointed in you. You’re braver than I ever was.”

I blinked hard against a sudden wave of tears. I’d always thought Grand-mère resented me, the product of a union that had parted her from her son for so many years. Perhaps I hadn’t given her a chance to prove otherwise.

Thickly, I whispered, “Thank you.” I didn’t know if she heard me. I barely did.

She retracted her hand, leaving me cold. “What will you do?”

It was a question I had asked myself countless times since I’d eaten supper with the admittedly handsome man my father had chosen for me to marry.

I had to forge my own path. Raising my chin, I answered, “I’m going to take the ship. It’s mine, Papa said so.” That my father was willing to part with it and me to the man with the most impressive military record didn’t signify.

“I’ve never lived on a ship before. It sounds thrilling.”

Was it my imagination, or did Grand-mère sound wistful? “We’ll travel far and wide, see parts of the world I’ve only ever dreamed of.”

I opened my mouth once, twice, before I managed to say weakly, “We?”

Grand-mère harrumphed. “I never had the courage to leave before now, but you have the right of it. Let’s see the world together, cherie. We can do anything we set our mind to doing.” She hesitated, and her face seemed even deeper in shadow than it had a moment before. “That is, unless you intend to leave an old woman behind.”

I hadn’t considered bringing anyone with me on this journey. I’d been frightened and excited and paralyzed at the thought of making my way on my own. But the fact that she wanted to accompany me, not because I was her blood kin or in an attempt to keep me in line, but because she considered me worthy of admiration, that meant more to me that I could ever express. I’d always been somewhat invisible—or altogether too visible—with my heritage. It set me apart, never included, never the subject of admiration.

My throat thick with tears, I whispered, “If independence is your goal, you’re welcome aboard. But…what of Papa?” This house, after all, belonged to Grand-mère. Papa was her son by her second marriage, not her third, and therefore was not entitled to the property or the annuity that came with it.

Grand-mère shrugged, her shoulders lifting halfway to her ears. “He’s a grown man. He’ll manage.”

That sounded almost blasphemous. I loved it.

“I’ve spent most of my life more concerned with the men around me than with myself, and that stops tonight.” She half-turned, the light from the open window illuminating her profile as she looked back toward her drawing room. “It’s a crying shame we cannot bring a trunk…”

I would not be able to lift one. “We’ll find a way to replace the things we leave behind. This is more important. How quickly do you think you can pack?”

Grand-mère chuckled and patted my hand. “You aren’t quite as good at keeping secrets as you seem to think. My valise is in the room, already prepared. If you’ll take it, I’ll take the cat, and we’ll be off.”

“You want to take Papillon?”

Grandma reached for the furry animal, lifting him off my shoulder and cradling him across hers instead. “Of course. We’ll need a mouser aboard the ship, won’t we?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

As I was learning tonight, I hadn’t thought of a lot of things. My cheeks scalding with mortification, I retrieved her valise.

“You may want to consider something else though, cherie.”

I paused in the doorway. “What is that?”

“We’re going to need help to sail the ship.”

A slow smile spread across my lips as I thought of the possibilities. Independence, the high seas, and deepening friendships. Why had I ever thought I was alone? “You know, Grand-mère, I believe I know the ideal women to help.”

“I hope we won’t have to go far to fetch them.”

“No farther than the village. Like-minded people tend to attract one another. I’m certain my friends are every bit as hungry for a new life as we are.”

Grand-mère smiled. “Then let’s fetch them and be gone as soon as the sun comes up.”

It sounded like a dream but settled into my bones like a promise.

Chapter 3

Acquire a Reputation

Two years later

Clouds frothed on the horizon like the spittle of a rabid dog. They turned the sky black, ink spilling over the western horizon and blotting out the afternoon sun. Waves competed for height, breaking the solid line of ocean to port. The wind whipped my shorn hair, already thickening and curling like springs with the palpable humidity.

Over the roar of the wind, my navigator, standing in the stern next to me, shouted, “We should seek shelter and anchor!”

Her words were nearly whipped past my head. I shoved thick black curls out of my eyes and beneath the scarf tied haphazardly to my head before I lifted the spyglass and turned it along the eastern horizon where we would have to seek shelter. We were too close to France, too close to danger. The only consolation was that if we were driven off the open ocean into a sheltered cove, so too would be Napoleon’s ships.

Movement caught my gaze, less than twenty miles away. I extended the spyglass, searching the bobbing horizon for that elusive spec. There—magnified to the southeast. A ship.

And one with a peculiar figurehead on its prow. Not the usual seductive mermaid, but one with wild carved hair, hefting a spear in her hand as if ready to skewer an oncoming vessel. I recognized the shape instantly, along with the flags of the ships nipping at her heels.

Dropping the spyglass from my eyes, I shook my head. “We cannot run. Look there.” I pointed with my finger and passed the spyglass to the full-figured woman on my right. My navigator, Hannah Grey, lifted it to her eye and squinted. Her lips moved, but the wind carried her words away.

At the wheel, Grand-mère struggled to keep the ship in line, plowing it perpendicular to the waves so they didn’t crest over us. “Give that here!”

I took the spyglass from Hannah and passed it to my grandmother. When I took the wheel from her, the spokes bit into my palms. Both she and I had gained muscle in the years since we’d left home. Our initial endeavor had almost been doomed to failure before it had begun. A ship this size needed more than five women to command it. But through will alone, we had managed to sail The Lady’s Gambit into the next nearest port where we’d picked up a capable skeleton crew. And from there, we’d learned. I held the ship steady without difficulty, despite the beastly nature of the waves.

Grand-mère lifted the glass to her eyes for only a moment before turning to me, eyes wide and her face suddenly several shades paler. “Isn’t that The Lady’s Fortune, Tamara’s ship?”

I nodded. “It is. And that is a British fleet on her heels.”

Hannah tapped a rhythm on the scarlet scarf tying her blond hair back from her face, a nervous habit she did when calculating numbers in her head. From the grim slash of her mouth, the numbers did not seem to work in our favor.

A moment passed, swelling like an inevitable wave about to crash over us. I couldn’t abandon the Fortune. I couldn’t abandon Tamara. After all this time, she was like a sister to me. I passed the wheel back into Grand-mère’s hands. “Be ready for some tricky navigation. Hannah?”

My navigator’s round face was as white as the crest of the frothing waves. In fact, she almost looked a bit green. She hated bloodshed, but in this case, we might not be able to avoid it.

“Hannah, are you ready?”

She nodded, still not daring to speak a word.

It was permission enough for me. Using the sway of the ship to my advantage, I loped toward the steep stairs to the main deck. With the wind whistling through our sails and making the canvas flap, my crew wouldn’t be able to hear me. I had to tour the ship and give their instructions at once.

In the past two years, I’d faced more skirmishes than I could count. A strange sort of calm descended upon me, the eye of the storm. I filled my lungs with air and bellowed at the top of my capacity. “Guns at the ready! Those are Brits descending on our sister, and we will not stand for it. Don’t shoot unless fired upon.”

Hannah wasn’t the only one with a distaste for bloodshed. If not for the way the government had callously denied me a privateer’s license on the basis of my gender, I wouldn’t have had any qualms with the British at all. Napoleon was my enemy for the terrors he had inflicted upon my people in my country. But I would fire on the English ships if I must. My fleet, my people, came first.

“Captain?”

The call came from Cassaundra, my flag woman. Her brown, sea-weathered hands clutched the ropes used to hoist the flag. Like most of the rest of the crew, myself included, she wore breeches and a loose shirt. She spread her legs for balance, strands of her black hair whipping out of the tail at her nape.

When she saw she had my attention, she cupped one hand around her mouth and called, “Are we flying the red or the black?”

For a heartbeat, I froze in indecision. In the brief moment I’d spied the ship in peril, I hadn’t taken note of the color of the Fortune’s flag to support her. During the past two years, I’d learned enough pirate code to make my intentions known. The black skull and crossbones meant we would spare the lives of anyone who surrendered. The red meant we would show no mercy.

I only ever flew the red against Napoleon’s ships. It might frighten the British into turning tail—or it might provoke them to attack.

“The black,” I shouted back, my heart hammering hard against my breastbone. I prayed I’d made the right decision.

The moment the words left my lips, Cassaundra turned to hoist the black flag into place, announcing our intentions. She moved with a brisk efficiency I’d admired since she’d been the first to volunteer to join my crew. With her years of sailing experience masquerading as a man, she could have commanded the crew if she’d had the ambition, but she’d refused every officer position in favor of a role in which she didn’t make decisions that affected people’s lives.

I turned away and continued my tour of the 130-foot deck, shouting the same cautionary words as I went. “We’re about to set in for some tricky maneuvering. Keep hold of whatever you can. We’ll be cutting into harm’s way. Ready yourselves and be prepared to fire.” I repeated the message in English and French. I trusted my first mate to translate it into the gamut of other languages spoken aboard the ship. By this point together, every crew member had learned a smattering of English or French, but in these tense moments, clarity of purpose was pivotal.

Once I delivered the message, I climbed up the steps to the aft deck where my navigator and grandmother awaited.

Hannah still looked pale, planting her feet wide in her skirts as she stared straight ahead, but the set of her mouth and chin was no longer fearful. It was determined. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll disrupt pursuit and give the Fortune enough time to get away. Then we’ll lead the British dogs to the shoals. I counted two second rates and one first rate. We are lighter than they are and will be able to lose them in shallower waters. When we’ve lost them, we’ll sink down anchor and wait out the storm.” I strode to the railing and leaned over to address my first mate, “Aludra?”

Her black headscarf came into view. “Ready.”

I met her dark gaze and nodded, both of us grim. “Don’t fire unless we’re fired upon.”

I turned to Hannah. “Can you do it? We’ll have to swing in between the Fortune and the British ships. It might be tight.”

“I can do it.” Hannah’s chin quivered, belying her words, but she didn’t try to argue. She turned toward the helm. “Grand-mère?”

She tightened her hands around the spokes of the wheel, planting her legs with a look of utmost determination. “Tell me where to steer.”

Our ship descended like a ghost upon the living. I swallowed hard as the ships came into view without the aid of the spyglass, growing larger and larger, only to be swallowed up by crests of waves and revealed once more. This must work. We bore down toward the enemy ships in line to the Fortune’s starboard side.

“Steady,” I called. The closer we sailed, the higher my heart climbed into my throat. I had never been seasick a day in my life, but now I felt as though I would cast up my accounts. Hannah started shouting numbers, degrees for Grand-mère to steer the ship to catch the wind in our sails. We cut across the waves in a zigzag pattern in our approach to cut off the Fortune from her pursuers.

The British ships were close. Too close? For one impossible moment as we crested a wave, we hung suspended, looming over the ships below us. One three-decked ship and a pair of two-decked ones closed on the Fortune, a fourth rate. Between the three ships, they must have three hundred guns to the Fortune’s fifty. Tamara didn’t have a prayer of winning a direct confrontation.

But if we distracted them, she might be able to outrun them.

Our ship, the Lady’s Gambit, crested the wave. Our nose dipped and we plummeted down at the ships below, rising up to meet us with the swell of their own wave. Hannah clutched the rail in a white-knuckled grip, muttering numbers under her breath as she watched our approach. Grand-mère pressed her lips together, the only sign of unease she gave in the face of overwhelming odds.

The British ships faced us head on. The first rate, nearest to the Fortune, bore down as if its captain intended to run us down into the seabed. I held my breath, gambling on the fact that the British Navy wouldn’t squander a seventy-four-gun ship by blowing us to high heavens. I grabbed the rail and braced myself for the inevitable plunge to put our ship between the enemy and the Fortune. The Brits broke rank and turned away. My crew shouted their glee, at least until the first cannonball hit the water off our prow.

My breath hissed through my teeth in relief. It was short-lived. We weren’t out of danger yet.

“Ready the warning shots!” Aludra’s voice boomed like cannon fire.

We slid past the Fortune. I didn’t spot Tamara on the deck amid the dark-clad, toy-sized figures. Another shot pierced the water, throwing spray to our starboard side and drawing my attention.

“Eighty degrees to port. Turn, turn, turn!” Hannah shrieked.

The ship lurched. My feet slipped from beneath me for a dizzying moment before I found my footing again, my hands tight on the rail. I counted the sea of heads below me, clustered around the sixteen guns on the quarterdeck and forecastle. Did we have a woman overboard? Seventy-five women. All above-deck crew members accounted for, with double that number in the gun deck. In her fierce, controlled aura, Aludra stormed the deck, shouting orders for the women at the guns. The Brits retreated out of reach.

“To the shoals,” I called.

Hannah and Grand-mère adjusted our course, leading the sea dogs away. For one exhilarating moment, satisfaction crashed over me.

Had the Fortune fled?

I turned, ready to lift the spyglass to my eye. The black shadow of a cresting wave in the inky sky separated us. Spray flung over our deck as the wave rolled to lift us. The Fortune…

Hannah shouted a course correction as the Fortune turned for the shoals at a path that would have intercepted us. “What is she doing?”

“Trim the sails! Grand-mère, hard to port. She’s coming in too fast!” Tamara would crash us both against the cliffs less than a mile distant.

Grand-mère yanked on the wheel. The brewing storm fought her. The Lady’s Fortune slipped between us and the shoals. They matched our slowing speed—slower still as the crew adjusted the sails. We would both be caught, our crews sent to the gallows for piracy. Where were the Brits?

A falling wave revealed them. They’d split, two ahead and one behind to box us in. I cursed the air blue. For once, Hannah didn’t reprimand me. Her wide eyes seemed to reflect the ocean as she stared at the smaller ship pulling alongside us.

“Why isn’t she turning for the shoals?”

Tamara had cut off her escape—and ours.

Startled cries rang from the quarterdeck. I took an involuntary step forward, searching for the threat. Grappling hooks along our starboard side where the Fortune sailed. They were swiftly followed by hands and the blue uniforms of the British navy. Where had they come from?

I hadn’t spotted Tamara on deck among the plain-clothed sailors. I hadn’t recognized anyone in that brief glimpse as we sailed past. If these British dogs had waited on the lower deck…

I recognized the figure in the lead with a sickening lurch.

Milton Sterling, my jilted fiancé.

As he straightened, I was already running. The soles of my boots slapped against the salt-slick deck. Foregoing the tricky stairs, I leaped over the railing onto the quarterdeck. Panic closed my throat as the reckless action seized me in midair. Would I land on deck or would an unforgiving wave send me reeling off the ship?

My boots hit the deck, jarring my ankles. I rolled and regained my feet, mere paces away from the man invading my ship. I drew my sword, standing between him and my crew. He held up his hand, stopping his Navy dogs on the brink of pulling their pistols and swords and cutting us down. Momentarily appeased, I rested the dull edge of the sword across my shoulders, the sharp blade pointed to the sky and caught my breath. If this turned bloody, I could whip it into a guard position in the blink of an eye.

He looked nothing like he had two years ago. Then, he’d been fresh-faced and hopeful, possessed of the swagger of a young man who knew he was destined for greatness. The man in front of me was hard, unforgiving in demeanor and body. His black hair was clipped short, his complexion a testament to days spent at sea. The sun had aged him beyond the thirty or so years he must be. He looked nearer to forty, and the expression in his gray eyes was anything but warm. In fact, it dared me to defy him.

I’d done it once before. I’d do it again.

Thunder growled overhead. I forced my chin up, my shoulders back in false bravado. We were outnumbered, but I would not go down without a fight.

And I would do everything possible to see my crew safe. I brandished my sword, ready despite the fact he had yet to draw his weapons.

He waited for the growl of thunder to subside, cocking one eyebrow in satisfaction as he scanned the deck of my ship. He had nearly had it two years ago, but I’d thwarted him. He would take the Gambit over my dead body.

Which, given how obscenely he outnumbered me and my crew, he could achieve without breaking a sweat.

What had happened to Tamara and her crew?

Focus on this moment, this threat. I couldn’t outwit him if my attention was diverted.

“You have earned yourself quite the reputation, Lady Quickblade.”

Hearing his voice again sent a shiver through my body. Despite the difference of years and location, I still reacted to him the way I had during our walk in the garden. I knew it for what it was now—desire. Attraction. I buried it and faced him with the air of command I wore for my crew. He was the wrong man to acknowledge such temptation.

“Have I, Captain Sterling? Because I’ve heard nothing of you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, the only indication he’d heard me at all. His piercing eyes never wavered from me. His empty hands remained loose at his side, despite the weapons within easy reach at his belt. As if, despite my reputation, he didn’t think me a threat.

We’ll see…

“I hear your hand in marriage is available to the man who bests you in a duel.”

I narrowed my eyes. I’d already rejected him once, but I was confident in my abilities. Abilities I had learned after casting him off.

“My hand, yes. My ship, no.”

A smirk flirted with his mouth. His expression was one of arrogance, challenge, confidence. I stepped closer, rising to my full height even though I couldn’t hope to match his. He knew nothing of me—not two years ago and not now.

I matched his supercilious expression. “I’d be wary, were I in your shoes. I only fight if something of equal value is at stake by the challenger. If I win, you’ll forfeit your ship. My hand in marriage is worth a ship, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

“Milton,” he murmured, his name so integrated with the wind I might have misheard.

“And,” I added, drawing out the word, “in this case, you have nothing with which to bargain.” I gestured with the tip of my sword to The Lady’s Fortune, which still bobbed nearby, though the current had widened the distance between us, driving the Gambit away from the shoals. “That ship belongs to my fleet.”

In a fluid motion, Milton drew his sword. He gripped the hilt loosely, the tip pointed at the ground. “The spoils of war.”

The edges of my vision blurred in a murderous red haze. I shifted the sword from where it rested on my shoulders and mirrored his position. I tightened my grip on the hilt until my knuckles cracked. I didn’t take a life if I could help it, but for him, I might make an exception. “What have you done with the captain and crew?”

Were Tamara and her crew already dead? She had left England with me two years ago, had pledged herself to our cause of independence and fortune. She’d been the first to command another ship, and as sorry as I’d been to see my sister go, I couldn’t begrudge her the choice. Aludra made a worthy second in her place.

Had I lost Tamara? I swallowed back bile. I couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Milton stepped closer until we were toe to toe. His sword was loose at his side, his stance deceptively casual. Every muscle in my body was tensed, ready for his swing. My heart thundered like the intermittent growls in the clouds overhead.

In an intimate a voice as would carry above the wind, he said, “I’ll tell you the fate of the crew if you accept my challenge.”

“You’ll tell me the fate of the crew and return the ship if I win.”

“Very well. You strike a hard bargain.” His eyes glinted. His expressive mouth turned up at the corner. “What do you say, my lady? Shall we duel?”

“If you have your heart set on defeat, I am more than happy to oblige.”

They didn’t call me Lady Quickblade out of irony.

Chapter 4

Earn a Fearsome Moniker

The ocean churned beneath the ship, bucking the quarterdeck beneath my feet as I squared off against Captain Milton Sterling. Grand-mère and Hannah remained at the helm, keeping the ship from being batted around like a kite by the howling wind. The remainder of my crew abandoned their posts to encircle us. They kept a wary eye as more vaulted up from the gun deck to join the contingent of Navy soldiers Milton had already brought aboard. Despite the crackle of danger in the air, no one protested to the duel.

No one save Aludra. My first mate elbowed her way between the gawkers, her scowl as dark as the clouds overhead. “Captain, this isn’t the time!”

I knew that better than she. However, this might be the only way to part without bloodshed—or without my crew in shackles.

Aludra snapped, “He’s stolen our sister’s ship! Where is Tamara?”

I wish I knew.

I twisted my wrist, flicking my sword through the air in a fluid motion and settling it into my grip. Once, twice, three times, and I fell into that moment before battle begins, when all is quiet. The rumble of the storm overhead, Aludra haranguing me over the wind, the stares and chuckles of the Navy men. Everything crashed against an invisible barrier and fell away like the ocean waves. Raising my voice, I called, “I will end this quickly. He will return what is rightfully ours.”

Murmurs eddied among my crew: English, French, Spanish, Arabic. The women, all hard-faced with sea-weathered complexions and roughened hands, shifted, hands moving to sword hilts and the grips of pistols. If they opened fire, we would lose this battle. Milton had not one, but four ships surrounding us and cutting off our escape. If we fought now, it would be a fight to the death.

No one made a move to engage, but it was only a matter of time. I lifted my chin. “To first blood?” That was the usual arrangement.

He nodded once, curt.

I glanced around the quarterdeck, the press of bodies stifling. “Move your men farther away. We need room to duel.” When he hesitated, I added, “Unless you distrust my honor?”

He narrowed his eyes. Unreadable, thickly lashed, and a lighter brown than mine. They were beautiful, if such an adjective had any place on a face as battle-hardened as his. After a long moment, he raised his free hand. His soldiers obeyed his unspoken command, retreating to the railing over which they had climbed.

One more battle to win.

Without warning, I lunged. With surprise on my side, I made two cutting blows. The first, for his head. Despite calling for first blood, I didn’t pull my blow. If I lost, it would mean the gallows for the lot of us. As he stumbled back, the blade sliced the air in front of his nose. I followed the advantage, swinging down toward his thigh.

The steel of my blade rang against his. He threw me off with a jerk of his hand and another step backward. When he narrowed his eyes, they held a wary sort of respect. It was an expression with which I was well acquainted.

I gave him a sardonic salute with my free hand and raised my sword into the guard position. When he moved in to strike, I yanked my dagger from my belt and flipped it in my palm so the blade ran parallel to my forearm. I used it as a shield, meeting his blade and pinning his sword arm between us. The muscles in his chest bunched as I brought us chest to chest. With all my strength, I wrapped my sword arm around us and aimed for his back.

He leaned into my dagger and twisted, reversing our positions as he drew back out of harm’s way. I breathed deep, exhilaration humming in my veins and making me giddy. I rarely drank wine or spirits, and I smoked no opium or tobacco. This feeling, the rush of adrenaline, was my drug.

His eyes were bright with interest as he flexed his hand. His expression was wary, ready to fend off another blow. “Where did you learn to fight?”

I darted in, trying several lazy blows to draw him into making another move. How quick were his reactions? Which patterns did he prefer? He parried me easily, adding a few swipes of his own but not enough to predict him.

He seemed to prefer conversation to fighting. “I’m surprised to find the rumors so accurate.”

If he had breath to talk, I should be pushing him harder. Two years ago, he’d scarcely said a word to me at dinner. Now it was too late. Fueled by simmering anger and bitterness, I shook my curls out of my face. If I’d stopped to think, I would have tied them beneath a scarf.

When it came to Milton, apparently I didn’t think.

“Did you expect to find me easily won? I did not amass my fleet that way.”

He saluted me with his blade, his full mouth tipping up in a smirk. “I don’t know what I expected.”

I rolled my eyes and darted forward again. He parried two of my blows and darted out of range of my third.

“So tell me, Quickblade, where did you learn to fight?”

I cocked one eyebrow and twisted the sword in my hand again to settle it. This chatter was knocking me from the balance I found at the end of the blade.

“Where did you?”

I was well practiced, and not yet out of breath, but if he kept this up, I would have more breath for talk than for fighting.

His smile grew. “The Navy. And you haven’t answered my question.”

I rolled my shoulders. “I found a teacher three months after leaving home. I took him for a lover.”

I said it casually, mostly to enrage him, a man who had tried twice now to possess me. My teacher had been a woman—though the statement was not entirely a lie. When I’d taken our liaison too seriously and suggested a permanent arrangement, we had parted ways. The memory of my naivety scalded my cheeks. I itched for action. I swished my blade three more times and lunged in.

This time, he made a more concerted effort to get me out of breath. I darted in and back again, not wanting to fall prey to his longer reach and stronger arm. But I was quick on my feet and I practiced daily. Steel rang in my ears, and I focused on his body language, searching out his weakness. Surprisingly, he didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

His indifference stung. Apparently, he hadn’t cared to possess me at all. He had only cared for the ship.

Anger. I had to reach for anger, not the disappointment or offence I’d felt when he’d first offered for my hand. He might not have wanted me, but I’d made a place for myself aboard this ship. I’d made myself a home.

He stepped back out of reach again, his chest rising and falling with more vigor. Good. At least I affected him in some way.

I feigned bravado. The longer he kept pace with me, the more worried I became. My matches usually ended more quickly. Perhaps distracting him was the smartest option, after all.

“How did you come by a ship of your own? As I recall, you were rather desperate to acquire one.”

Milton grinned, transforming his face from attractive to downright devilish. “I stole it from the French.”

He didn’t notice or care as I advanced closer. As the dreaded F-word left his lips, I crouched and kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the deck hard, the swell of a wave bringing it up to meet him. Standing far enough away that he would not be able to return the favor, I loomed over his prone body. The battle instinct in me swelled, and I envisioned the blood dripping down my deck if I lunged forward and stabbed his throat. But if I drew first blood—or better yet, convinced him to yield—I would secure the freedom of everyone aboard the Gambit. If I stabbed him, I would only start a battle I couldn’t win.

Cocking my head, I gave him a smug smile. “Ah, the way I took my second lover.”

Beneath me, he stilled. I lowered my blade to the bridge of his nose, my demand for him to yield on the tip of my tongue.

He rolled away, quicker than I anticipated, and got to his feet in a movement almost as fluid as one of mine. He panted, but the look in his eye was far from one of a beaten man. “You seem to have made quite a life for yourself.”

I jerked up my chin, done playing with him. “It’s a far better life than the one you would have given me.”

At the very least, that rendered him silent. I settled in to fight him in earnest, raining blows at him from all sides and hoping to keep him off balance. He returned them in equal measure, but his blade was heavy and easily turned. He wasn’t aiming to kill me.

I didn’t know if I held the same qualms.

I would never surrender, not to a man like him. Come hell or high water, he was destined to fail to entrap me again.

I baited him, hoping he would make a mistake. “You won’t win my ship with those kitten swipes.”

The ghost of a smile crossed his mouth, drawing my attention. “Perhaps I’m aiming for the woman this time.”

The ship rocked as a large wave crested, turning us near sideways. My crew shouted as they scrabbled for holds to remain on the ship. Milton’s men weren’t as lucky. Those standing by the rails made mad grabs for the ropes or the edge of the deck, but most fell into the sea with sickening plunges.

I stumbled, managing to keep my feet on the slick deck, but at great cost. A body slammed into me, pushing me up against the wall of the aft deck railing. My dagger dropped to the ground, useless. Milton pinned my sword arm to the wall with his free hand. He pressed his body against mine, the blade of his sword kissing my throat. The edge didn’t break my skin. It wasn’t first blood.

The press of our bodies distracted me. His hips fitted against me, holding me in place as if we fought a very different battle.

His gaze caught mine and held as thunder split the air. My chest rose and fell, brushing against the buttons of his navy jacket with every breath. With the tiniest of nicks, he would win. He would take everything from me.

Perhaps I’m aiming for the woman.

If I distracted him long enough to gain the upper hand…

The saucy smile came too easily to my lips. My pulse fluttered in my throat against his blade. Heat, awareness, and the adrenaline of danger flooded me. My body tightened in anticipation. In a throaty voice, I whispered, “Well, if it’s the woman you want…”

His expression heated, turning intense as his gaze traveled from my throat up to my mouth. I bunched to introduce my knee to his groin.

Lightning split the sky. Purple echoes plagued my vision as it struck with a devastating crash. The crash rumbled around me. Where had it hit?

Fire blazed from the sails of the broken mast of the British man-of-war off our bow. The storm opened overhead, drenching us and lashing the rain against my cheeks. Aludra’s voice rang with orders. Swells of waves carried us farther from the shore, the wind buffeting us and threatening to tip us into the sea. Chaos ensued as my crew scrambled for holds on the tilting ship. After it righted itself, half the women dashed to obey Aludra.

The other half looked to me for guidance.

Me, where I was pinned against the wall by the enemy. If I didn’t end this quickly and command them, the ship might sink…

I wrenched my attention to Milton’s face once more. “Release me. We can resume this later.”

“No.”

His word rumbled through me, making every muscle tighten. I didn’t have time for his stubbornness, for his fearlessness in the face of my command. Did he truly think that besting me was worth losing his life to the storm?

“This isn’t the time. The ship…”

He pressed against me closer, his body hard against my curves. “I’ll release you to lead your crew. If you concede defeat.”

Defeat. Marriage. Despite my earlier denial, I’d have to relinquish the ship. A wife’s possessions belonged to her husband, as much as did she.

Fight. I might be able to dislodge him, but we’d been so evenly matched and…

Another wave crested the ship, dousing me and Milton with ice-cold saltwater. Shouts rang in my ears. The crew, Aludra, Hannah. They needed me to make the decisions. They needed me to hold them together.

“I concede. Now leave me to tend to my crew.”

They might not be my crew much longer.

Milton held my gaze a moment more before he stepped back. I tightened my hold on my sword, tempted to run him through. But we’d made an agreement. I might be a pirate, but I was not without honor.

Shouting orders as I went, I ran to take position at the wheel.

Chapter 5

Put the Crew’s Well-Being First

As Grand-mère worked at the knots on the rope around my wrists and waist, I heaved the first deep breath I’d taken since the storm began. The air smelled damp and salty, hanging around us like a thick fog on the calm sea. Crew members trickled up from below deck, mops and buckets in their hands to wash the rest of the water off the sides. Aludra came with them, her black-clad form straight-backed as she directed the crew.

As my wrist was freed, I pulled away from the spoke of the wheel and flexed my aching fingers. When the storm had reached its pinnacle, after the crew had trimmed back the sails to keep the pernicious wind from dragging us into the ocean depths, I’d taken the helm and steered us away from the coast and the British ships that had cornered us. In this weather, they hadn’t been able to follow and rescue their stubborn captain from our deck. This had been one of the worst storms our ship had ever weathered. I still didn’t know if we had survived it in one piece. The ocean was calm now, but she could be deceptively calm at times. With will alone, I kept us from capsizing and pulled rank on every other member of the crew to hustle them into the safety of the lower decks where they couldn’t be washed overboard.

Grand-mère had not taken well to the order, and it showed in the churlish way she took her place at the wheel. I relinquished it to her without protest, rolling my shoulders to ease some of the stiffness as I stepped back and glanced at the woman who had accompanied her onto the poop deck.

“Where are we?” I asked my navigator.

Hannah wrinkled her nose as she turned her face up to the sky, thick with clouds as a mist blanketed the ocean around us. “I may be able to tell later this evening when the sun sets and the fog dissipates. Otherwise, it’s anyone’s guess. I wouldn’t recommend opening the sails fully until we get our bearings. I may not be able to tell how close we are to shore until the fog lifts.”

I bit my lip, mentally calculating how much food and water we still had in the hold. Depending on where we had been swept out to, we may not have enough left to survive a return trip to a friendly port.

The British hadn’t taken us, and I would be damned if I let a storm claim that honor. We would survive this. And once we did, we would retrieve our sisters, arrested or worse at the hands of the British Navy.

In a clipped tone, I told Hannah, “I’ll need to know as soon as possible, so we can regroup and talk about our next move.”

I glanced at Grand-mère, noticing her hands shaking as she held the ship steady. Her mouth was in a thick slash, a mulish look I knew well.

“Grand-mère, how are you feeling?”

She stubbornly didn’t answer.

“Perhaps we ought to see how Papillon has fared with all the tossing about. You know he doesn’t care for storms.”

The crannies of Grand-mère’s face softened, and she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t do that to me, Jeanne. Don’t turn me into an invalid.”

My grandmother was well into her sixth decade, and she still used a claw-footed cane, especially on the rolling deck. Some days, I was afraid she would slip and crack open her hip. Her bones were more fragile than mine, even if some days I was convinced she had built just as much muscle as me.

“It wasn’t personal. I’m the captain. I bear the burden of danger.”

“The devil you do,” she snapped, tears in her eyes. She blinked hard and turned them toward the ocean, her face stony. Louder, she said, “I’m a little shaky from the storm. It will pass as soon as I eat.”

Hannah’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she hovered over Grand-mère’s other elbow. “Perhaps you ought to eat now, Grand-mère.”

Although she was related to me by blood, she had been adopted by the entire crew. We all loved her and wanted to preserve her for as long as possible.

The crotchety old woman snapped, “Perhaps you should fetch food here. I shan’t leave the wheel.” Despite the tremor in her hands, her tone left no doubt.

Hannah hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I will.”

“And I ought to see to the rest of the crew. If you have the helm?”

Grand-mère nodded dismissively.

I followed Hannah down the stairs to the quarterdeck, the journey taking three times as long due to the encumbrance of the skirts Hannah insisted upon wearing. Almost everyone else in the crew preferred breeches for the mobility. When she departed for the galley, I walked toward the knot of women nearest to me, Aludra included. My first mate spoke with a tall, broad-shouldered woman with thick hands and a shy smile. As the woman turned away, I cupped my hand to my mouth and called, “Alexandra!”

Alexandra, or Lexi as she was called in private, turned. She looked sheepish, curling her shoulders inward as she always seemed to do when standing next to someone shorter than her. She was a competent woman, one of the first four who had joined me when I’d left my father’s house. Not to mention, the most capable of us all.

“I need an assessment of the ship done as soon as possible. We must start on repairs.”

Lexi ducked her head and, mumbling an assent under her breath, she turned away to perform her task. She’d been invaluable to us during our maiden voyage, when she was the only one who knew how to sail a ship since she’d helped her father build it. However, she preferred to work on her own and at her own pace.

As I watched Lexi go, her skirts swishing with her mincing stride, Aludra stepped into my path. Her expression was hard, a general’s expression. “What of your man?”

My mouth dropped open, and it took me a moment to process her words. “My…man?” Everyone aboard the ship was a woman.

Aludra nodded over my shoulder. Milton stood sopping wet beneath the mainsail, looking awkward and out of place as he dodged the glares of the women working around him. So preoccupied was he in not admiring their figures in their breeches and the shirts rolled up to their elbows that he didn’t appear to know where to look. It would have been comical if it hadn’t reminded me of the circumstance to which I had agreed.

Grimly, I asked, “Did we take on any others when we left the rest of the British Navy behind?”

Aludra shook her head. “Only him. The others fell overboard or retreated to their ships.”

A blessing, perhaps, though I couldn’t help but wonder if they weren’t helped overboard in the chaos. Mine was a ship of women, many of which had been mistreated and undermined by navy men. There was no love lost between them.

Trepidation stirred the longer I stared at Milton. His eyes trailed over the woman in the rigging who was inspecting knots in the ropes. All three masts were in one piece after the storm, thank Zeus. When his gaze found me, a warmth eased the tension in my body, like a sliver of sunlight breaking through the fog.

“I’ll manage Captain Sterling. Aludra, I leave the crew in your hands.”

My first mate nodded, but her gaze meandered to the aft deck to where Grand-mère stood sentinel over the Gambit’s helm. “How is she?” My first mate, usually so brusque and efficient, looked gently on my grandmother.

“She’s shaken by the severity of the storm and the attack, as are we all. Hannah is fetching her something to eat. She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

Aludra looked dubious but nodded and turned her attention to the skeleton crew on deck cleaning up.

The prickle on the back of my neck told me that Milton had not looked away from me for a moment. I turned with trepidation, but I’d run out of reasons to avoid him. At this distance, his expression was unreadable. Was he already thinking of me as his wife? I squared my shoulders, shaking off that mad idea. I had only agreed under duress. Besides, if I capitulated to him, what would happen to my crew? I would give my life to prevent them from being hanged as criminals. Compared to that, reneging on my word seemed of little note.

Perhaps Milton will see reason.

I strode up to him as I would an enemy with loping, confident strides. At this moment, I was a figurehead and I represented every soul aboard this ship. When I stepped within earshot, I snapped, “Come this way.”

Rather than argue, he waved a hand gallantly to indicate that I should lead. I turned toward the quarterdeck where my cabin sat in the stern. Silent, he followed down a narrow corridor barely wider than my shoulders. The door to my cabin was small. He stooped to enter. I pressed myself against the wall to let him pass and shut the door behind us, hoping to keep this conversation private.

The moment I did, I regretted the intimacy. As the captain elect, mine was the biggest cabin of all the officers. However, with its wide bed, trunk, writing desk and chair bolted to the ground, the confines seemed far too intimate. With us both standing in the space in front of the bed, he with his back to the wall and me with mine to the door, we had no more than a foot of air between us, scarcely enough room to breathe. What with bracing ourselves against the roll and sway of the ship, I couldn’t help but lean closer at intervals. Either that or reacquaint myself with the floor. Suddenly, speaking in private seemed like a terrible idea.

More so when Milton cocked an eyebrow to devastating effect. “I take it the immediacy of the storm has passed?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Your powers of observation are nothing short of miraculous. What clued you in, the lack of rain?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. How did he manage to stay so calm? Nothing I said seemed to leave an imprint, not while we had fought, and not now.

“You are a competent and level-headed leader.”

I didn’t feel that way. I felt off balance, particularly with him offering compliments. And compliments on my prowess rather than my eyes or my smile or my figure, as other men had offered before him. I must look a wretch after weathering the storm, my shirt pressed tight against my body and sopping wet and my hair snarled and matted. I wanted nothing more than to change into a spare set of clothes, but he was between me and the trunk. Not to mention, stripping naked at this moment seemed more like an invitation than anything else.

My voice cracked as I said, “You sound surprised.”

“You…” He paused, considering. “You aren’t what I expected.”

I bristled like my cat. “You can take your expectations and—”

He laid one finger across my lips. His hand was warm and only the slightest bit damp. Where it touched me, it left ripples of heat and awareness and a dozen other things I didn’t want to consider. His eyes dark from the meager light shining through the porthole, he said, “Don’t be offended. I’m impressed.”

I rolled my eyes. “I live to impress you.” The sarcasm was muffled by his finger.

Chuckling, he removed his hand. My lips tingled in the wake of his touch. I licked them, trying to banish the sensation and failing. If anything, my mouth seemed even more sensitive.

“I admit, I miscalculated. I expected to find the same timid woman I met two years ago.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. His voice lowered an octave. “But you weren’t timid then either, were you?”

I decided to leave that unanswered. Whatever ties clung to us from the past, I would rather sever them and continue living my life as I had planned. In no part of my life did I have room for the awareness of his broad-shouldered body in the navy jacket that clung to him like a caress. I had no patience for the devilish way his gaze darted to my mouth. My first concern was, and always would be, my crew.

“I’m curious, how did you manage to get the ship out of the bay? It takes a crew to sail a ship of this size.”

I notched my chin higher. “I had a crew.”

He raised one eyebrow.

With a sigh, I ran my fingers along a curl that had popped free of my scarf and tucked it underneath once more. “I had help. We each took control of a mast and managed to move out of the bay at high tide through stubbornness more than skill. We couldn’t sail the open ocean, so we limped slowly up the coast until we reached a harbor and put out a call for a crew.”

He still didn’t seem convinced.

“Believe me or don’t, it is what happened. If my father had sent the Navy after us, we would have been thwarted before we’d even began. Whatever my grandmother left in her goodbye letter, it bought us long enough to get our sea legs.”

“How did you pay a crew?”

“Pirates,” I said, biting off the word. It still rankled that we had been denied a privateer’s license from the onset. I uncrossed my arms and balled my fists at my sides instead. “We don’t steal from the British.”

He blinked, his thick eyelashes fluttering in front of his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

I lifted my chin. “My crew. We steal from French supply ships and merchants. Occasionally, we’ll do battle with one of the smaller third rates, but we always steer clear of British ships. We even often offer British merchants our protection, on occasion.”

Milton snorted. “For a fee.”

I drew myself up, even though my chin barely reached his sternum. “Are you offended we’re taking away your bribe money? Navy vessels do the same, and for a far greater fee.”

Slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, Milton said, “I’m not here to arrest you.”

Unlikely, given the elaborate trap he had laid for me. “No, but it does appear that you’re here to take me into your custody.”

His expression changed, igniting. His gaze traveled down my body, over my chin and neck, skimming my breasts, the dip of my waist, and the flare of my hips that my tight breeches did little to conceal. By the time he raised his gaze to mine once more, I’d lost my breath.

“You yielded.”

“You didn’t draw first blood.”

“I could have.”

Yes, he could have. As could I have, if I’d stabbed first and taunted later. But my pride had gotten the best of me. I couldn’t look away from his unreadable gaze, couldn’t find my tongue to retort.

His mouth tipped up in a smile, as if he had already won. “So tell me, if you are the captain of this ship, who will marry us?”

I scowled. “No one.”

“We had an arrangement.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve broken it.”

Milton leaned closer. “This time, you agreed to it.”

Under duress.

He stood so close, moisture from his hair dripping down across his strong, clean-shaven jaw. His wet clothes clung to him like a second skin, and all I could think about was how I wanted to strip them away.

So he wouldn’t catch a chill, of course. But he didn’t have others to change into, and where would I keep him—wet and naked in my bed?

He stroked the back of his finger down my cheek, a terribly intimate and breathtaking touch. His voice rough, he said, “So I’ll ask you again, who will marry us? I’d like it done as soon as may be.”

I jerked back, out of reach of his touch. “I should throw you overboard.” It would be better for my sanity. For a man who I’d felt so little for two years ago, he now posed a terrible temptation.

All the more so with that seductive hitch to the corner of his mouth. “Where would be the honor in that?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m a pirate. I have no honor. I take what I want.”

He stalked to the door, pressing me against the wood with his muscular frame and awakening every long-buried desire in my body. For some unfathomable reason, my body sang for him. The tips of my fingers ached, but I curled them to keep from touching him. My breasts brushed his chest as I panted. I felt alive in the same way I’d been when he pressed me against the wall during our sword match. His nearness brought as heady a rush of adrenaline as in battle, with nearly as lethal consequences. I couldn’t resist him.

His breath brushed my cheek, then my lips. He murmured, “As do I, when pressed.” When he leaned forward, there was no mistaking his intent. He was going to kiss me.

“Stop.”

He stopped, an inch from my mouth. His forehead brushed against mine, his breath fanning my lips. I ached.

Take it back.

No.

Yes.

The roll of the ship rocked his hard body against me. The throb between my legs became an insistent torture. The heat of his body and the pleasure of his touch called to me. It would be so easy to succumb…

And then what? Carnal images flashed through my mind, but I shunted them aside. I had to think straight, had to think about more than myself as a woman. I had far too many other fates resting on my decision.

Milton panted, his hand planted next to my face, but he didn’t move away. In a soft, intimate voice, he whispered, “I’ve been mistaken about you before, I’ll admit. But this time, I think you crave this as much as I do. There’s so much heat in you, Jeanne. Let me stoke it.”

“Don’t kiss me.” My voice trembled. I wanted to say the opposite. I wanted him more than I would ever admit.

But he abided by my wishes. “Kiss me,” he begged. “If you’re so piratical, take what we both want.”

It was a temptation I almost couldn’t resist. I trembled, my weak-kneed body held up by his. “I don’t want it.” Even I could hear the lie. If his body was half as aflame as mine…

I felt the vibrations of his groan in my core.

“Lord, you’re stubborn.” Raggedly, he pushed himself away from the door. Away from me. Averting his gaze, he ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “But if you weren’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He spared me a glance that was molten. “If you weren’t stubborn, you wouldn’t have run away.”

My hand fumbled for the latch on the door. It clattered beneath my fingertips, drawing his attention.

He narrowed his eyes. “And you’re running again now.”

“Running? Never.” My hand stilled on the metal. For one maddening moment, I entertained fantasies of pushing away from the door and throwing my arms around his neck. If I kissed him, he would see me in an entirely different light.

Don’t.

I battled the urge. He was no better for me than indulging my sweet tooth.

“I am no coward, and I am not running away. I might have agreed to marry you, but I don’t have to give you my body—and you will never take my ship.”

My temper fanned as hot as my desire. I turned away, opening and slamming the door in a smooth movement. I fished the key hanging on a leather thong around my neck out from between my breasts and locked the door, putting the solid barrier between us. That ought to keep me safe.

But the wood didn’t quite muffle Milton’s voice as he called, “Keep your ship. I don’t need it anymore.”

Chapter 6

Take No Prisoners

The blessedly cool air of dusk doused my ardor as I stepped onto the quarterdeck. I gulped for breath, willing my heartbeat to slow. Around me, the fog had dissipated, leaving the shadowed swells of a dark ocean. The sun on the western horizon turned the mist in the air purple. The ship was silent, save for the familiar lapping of waves against the hull. My heartbeat slowed to match. For the first time since the storm had brewed, I regained my equilibrium.

My clothes, still wet, clung to my figure. I peeled the shirt away from my breasts and sighed, flapping the material so it would dry. Returning to my cabin for dry clothes was not an option. My hair, unfortunately, was the first to dry, springing up and shedding moisture in its usual wild fashion.

With no other sanctuary, I climbed up to the poop deck where two of the people I loved best tended to my ship.

At the very stern of the ship, where Hannah now sat lifting a spyglass to her eye, was an ornate, crafted addition. We’d removed the guns and added the bench as a place for Grand-mère to rest her aching knees and for Hannah to do her work on deck. The latter did so now, lifting the spyglass to her eye and staring at the darkening sky overhead while Grand-mère held the wheel steady. The familiar sight unwound some of the tension in my stomach.

They were whole. They were safe.

“Do you have anything to report?”

Hannah jumped. Her blond hair, limp and still a bit damp, fluttered in the breeze as she dropped the spyglass to her lap. “It’s not full dark yet. I can’t pick out any stars, and without the north star, I won’t be able to tell you anything.”

As much as I had wished for better news, at least we were still afloat. “What of the ships? Have you seen any signs of pursuit?”

Hannah shrugged. At some point, she’d changed out of her wet dress and donned another but hadn’t taken the time to pat herself dry. The thin material hugged her body. “Wherever the Brits are, they cannot follow us now. I suspect we were swept into the Atlantic.”

I concurred, considering there was no sign of land within eyesight. I doubted even the spyglass and its twenty-mile view would find us land.

To my right, Grand-mère gave a loud harrumph. “I see you’re still in your wet clothes.”

I grimaced. “I can’t change out of them.”

Like Hannah, Grand-mère had relinquished her post long enough to exchange her wet shirt and breeches for a dry set. Her mouth pursed as she looked me over. “Why not?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “There’s a man locked in my cabin.”

The old woman snickered. “Have you suddenly turned modest?”

“Grand-mère!”

She chortled louder as she corrected the ship’s course with a subtle move of her hand. “It’s nothing he won’t see when you’re married.”

I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat. It would not happen, that I’d vowed.

Hannah, unfortunately, did not see my circumstance in the same light. Her blue eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. “That’s right! He defeated you, didn’t he?”

I scowled at her. “He did not defeat me.”

“Last I saw of the fight before the storm, he had you pinned to the wall with his sword at your throat. That looked like a defeat from here.”

I gritted my teeth. “He didn’t draw first blood. Those were the terms.”

Despite my stinging tone, my friend and navigator smiled broadly. “Why do you think that is? Perhaps he was thinking of more pleasant things he’d like to do with your throat.”

I tried to muster ill feelings, but the image she planted in my head was nothing short of wicked. Not ten minutes ago, Milton had pressed me against the door of my cabin. He could have kissed me, caressed me, and I would have gone up in flames. Instead, he’d begged me to do the same to him, and I’d managed to resist.

Grand-mère guffawed. “Did she tell you? Our Captain Sterling is the man she was engaged to shortly before we took the ship.”

If anything, Hannah looked even more delighted. “He is? He followed you, found you after all these years?”

“Unfortunately,” I grumbled under my breath.

The blonde exclaimed, “How romantic!”

“It is not romantic.”

Setting the spyglass in its hook next to her sextant, Hannah stood with a dreamy expression. She tipped her face up to the sky and twirled, her skirts swishing through the air. “To me,” she said in a singsong voice, “it sounds as though he’s trying to sweep you off your feet.”

“He is not.” I infused as much conviction into my voice as possible, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on her euphoria. “He’s trying to take the ship. Again.”

I hadn’t forgotten that his main motive in attempting to marry me the first time had been this very vessel.

Grand-mère said slyly, “He seemed to have eyes more for you than for this old bag of bolts.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps we need to fix you for a pair of spectacles.”

Hannah stopped twirling, dissolving into giggles. “I’d marry him.”

In that moment, she seemed a lot younger than her twenty-four years.

Unfortunately, her advice might have merit. As much as I didn’t want to hear it, I had made an agreement.

Wearily, I asked, “For honor? We’re pirates.” That word, as always, seemed to brush over her without effect. I knew Hannah’s opinion on the matter, an opinion she had made abundantly clear when she’d joined the crew. Quickly, I added, “I’d prefer if we were sanctioned privateers, but there’s nothing I can do if the government will not recognize us.”

Slowly, Hannah shook her head, her goofy grin still in place. “No, silly. I’d marry him for the romance.” Her smile turned sly. “For the passion. If a man tried to win me in that way…”

I retorted, “You would analyze and predict every last one of his motives and strip the romance from the moment. You’re the most analytical person I know.”

Her face falling, Hannah tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Is that what you’re doing?”

No, I was avoiding a bad situation. Fortunately, the conversation was cut short by the sound of another woman climbing the stairs to the deck. Welcoming the distraction, I turned only to be pinned beneath Aludra’s dark scowl.

My first mate stood with arms akimbo. “Where is your man?”

If she was afraid for the crew, she needn’t be. “I locked him in my cabin.”

Behind me, Hannah giggled. I ignored her.

“So he wouldn’t be a danger to the crew,” I added.

If anything, Aludra’s expression darkened. “Do you intend to leave him there?”

Taken aback, I swallowed before I answered. “I certainly don’t intend to return at this moment.”

“Why not?” Grand-mère asked with a smirk. “You cannot stay up here.”

I made a face. “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

Stepping alongside me to complete the circle, Hannah said in a teasing voice, “The captain’s cabin is closest to the deck. What if there’s an emergency?”

I gritted my teeth. “Then I’ll put him elsewhere.”

Her eyes were wide, innocent, and entirely too mischievous. “Where? You cannot keep him with the crew. For their safety, didn’t you say?”

A man like Captain Milton Sterling would not harm the crew. However, if he were to spend enough time in their presence, he could identify them. That would be a detriment, and not only because he had the power to arrest us all.

Sweetly, I said, “I’ll put him in your room.”

Hannah laughed, not the least bit fearful.

On the other hand, Aludra looked as grim as death. “What do you intend to do with him, Captain?”

The levity of the moment cracked and died. Solemn, I turned to face my first mate. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

Clearly, that was not the answer she’d hoped to hear. “You must let him out of the cabin and give him food and water. I joined this crew because you promised we would take no prisoners.”

Her voice trembled, rising as she spoke with her fists clenched at her sides. The fall of her headscarf almost obscured the tension in her jaw. She vibrated with ill-contained rage and something else. A shadow in her eyes, one I’d seen once or twice since she’d joined the crew. Aludra didn’t speak much about her past, and what little I knew, I’d learned the night she joined us. Her late husband had captained a ship among the Barbary pirates, amassing a fortune by kidnapping slaves for market. Aludra had refused to follow in his footsteps and fled north until we’d crossed paths with her off France’s southern coast. Her strict moral code fit well with the rest of the crew. We fought Napoleon’s injustice and took what we needed to survive. Along the way, we helped as many women in poor situations as we could.

Keeping my voice steady in the face of her anger, I informed her, “I will not be taking him prisoner. Once Hannah discovers where we are, we’ll set out for the nearest port and leave him there.”

Aludra, at least, did not care about the wager of marriage. “And until then?” Her words were clipped.

I knew the answer she wanted, and it had me gritting my teeth. Reluctantly, I said, “I’ll see to his comfort.”

Bracing myself, I retreated to my cabin. As I strode away, Grand-mère called after me. “Don’t forget to change your wet clothes before you catch a chill!”

I shoved my hand into my damp pocket to keep from responding with a rude gesture. I couldn’t tell if she genuinely thought I would get sick or she was only trying to tease me.

The irritation of the damp clothes helped to burn away some of my trepidation as I crossed to my cabin door and fished the key out from between my breasts. I stared at the wooden barrier between me and the man who suddenly wanted to marry me. Should I be thinking of him as my fiancé? I swallowed, steeling myself, and unlocked the door. Unsteadily, I pushed the door open and strode inside. The only way to assert my authority now was by surprise.

I stopped short in the threshold, mouth agape. On the bed directly in front of the door, Milton was stretched out, covering every inch of the mattress, a calico cat curled onto his chest. The cat was his only adornment. His boots lay haphazardly at the foot of the bed next to my trunk and the remainder of his clothes had been tossed over the desk and chair to dry. He was absolutely, gloriously naked. His body was muscled, dusted with dark hair.

And he didn’t seem the least bit concerned that I walked in on him. With a sheepish expression, he gestured to his chest. “I appear to have been taken captive.”

I stepped inside and shut the door before anyone else saw him this way. No one save for me had any reason to be in my cabin, but I was irrationally paranoid, nevertheless. I swallowed the sudden moisture in my mouth. “You’ve not been taken captive. You’re free to walk the ship as long as you don’t disrupt the crew or make any of the women uncomfortable.”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. Slowly, he clarified, “I meant the cat.”

Papillon purred, the sound swallowed in the silence that ringed the cabin.

After an awkward moment, Milton asked, “Is every member of your crew a woman?”

“I am not having this conversation with you while you’re naked!”

Carefully, Milton sat up, dislodging the cat in the process. Papillon narrowed his amber eyes, no doubt plotting Milton’s murder. I might have helped if my attention hadn’t been so focused on the way Milton’s abdomen rippled with muscle. He was male beauty incarnate, chiseled like a sculpture, and he must know it. There wasn’t a mortified or modest bone in his body. In fact, the only reaction he had to being caught naked was the stirring of his manhood…

His voice a low growl, he asked, “What conversation would you like to have?”

“None!” I averted my gaze, but the image of his naked flesh was burned into my mind. I couldn’t seem to find a suitable place in the room to look. Under my breath, I muttered, “I came to fetch my clothes. You should clothe yourself.”

“My clothes are drying. I don’t suppose you have others to replace them?”

He didn’t sound as concerned by the lack as he should have.

My voice a bit strangled, I answered, “We are not in the habit of entertaining men on board.”

“Why is that?”

I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer. Instead, I crossed the short few steps to the trunk and used the key around my neck to open it. Inside, I pulled out another set of breeches and shirt along with stockings and undergarments. I piled them next to the trunk, using the lid to shield me from his nudity. His muscular calf rested alongside the box, his bare foot next to me. Uncomfortably hot, I pulled again at the sticky shirt clinging to my flesh.

“Would you prefer me to turn around?”

I slammed the lid, glaring up at him before I realized the mistake. His mouth was curved in a devilish smile that made my stomach flip. His eyes twinkled, and I sensed that if I said yes, he would most likely peek. Tit-for-tat, considering he was sitting in flagrante delicto in front of me now. With his broad shoulders, muscled chest, and the mat of hair that trickled down his stomach to—

I averted my gaze again. “One of the women might have clothes big enough to fit you. I’ll check.” As I gathered my clothing and stood, he caught my arm. The movement pinned me between his legs. His hand was warm, but his grip gentle enough to break with little effort. The heat of his body formed a seductive shackle that held me in place for altogether too many heartbeats. It would be too easy to straddle him and push him down on the bed and…

Give him exactly what he wanted. I pulled away, taking a few hasty steps back until my hip knocked the chair.

Milton said hastily, “You don’t have to leave. I’ll cover myself.”

“I’m sleeping elsewhere.” Whether or not the cabin was the best suited place for the captain of the ship. “You have the cabin.”

When he started to stand, Papillon jumped onto his shoulders, digging in his claws until Milton hissed in pain. He juggled the cat until he cradled the calico in his arms. With a grin, Milton muttered, “At least I know I haven’t lost my charm with women.”

I almost laughed at his joke—almost. Meeting his gaze one last time, I informed him, “Papillon is male.” I exited, shutting the door firmly in my wake.

This time, I didn’t linger. Keeping my face to the deck, lest Hannah and Grand-mère see the color in my cheeks, I hurried toward the bow of the ship. When I passed one of the women checking the ropes, I asked after Lexi. After all, of everyone on board the ship, she was the only woman large enough to own clothes to fit Milton.

Cassaundra hopped down from the rigging. She navigated the sway of the deck with an easy, practiced lope as she crossed to me. “Lexi went down to the orlop deck to take store of the materials needed for repairs.”

I nodded before turning away. “Thanks.”

“Wait—” She caught my arm.

I was so weary. I wanted nothing more than to take comfort in my friend. And if nothing else, Cassaundra had been that from the moment she’d stepped onto my ship. She had embraced me as a fellow colored woman. I hadn’t realized I’d needed that camaraderie, that reprieve from always holding my breath and pretending to fit in, until she’d offered it. I’d had Tamara, of course, but one woman wasn’t the same as the community I’d built aboard the ship. When I needed to breathe, to relax and be myself, it wasn’t Grand-mère or Hannah or even Aludra to whom I turned. It was Cassaundra and the other colored women we’d offered homes to aboard this ship.

But as desperately as I needed her comfort now, I couldn’t. Not in public while the rest of my crew trusted me to remain strong.

When she dropped her hand, she curled it at her side. Her dark brown eyes glittered over her bladed nose, full of questions. I braced myself for yet one more person inquiring after the man in my cabin.

Instead, she whispered, “Tamara?”

I shut my eyes in pain. “She and Evelyn were captured by the British. That’s all I know.”

“We can’t leave her with them. You know what they think of us. What they’ll do—”

“I know.” I choked on the words and the nightmare of images spanning my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes, but Tamara’s fate still weighed on me. White women like Evelyn, who trespassed on a man’s domain by dressing in breeches and taking up arms, were treated with derision and disgust. Those same men would treat a woman of darker skin like chattel. “We’ll rescue her. I promise.”

“What of the others on her ship?”

“They escaped. At least, so claims Captain Sterling. I intend to question him further on the matter.”

“That’s something.”

We shared a look, a feeling. Worry ate at us both. I reached out and clasped her hand, squeezing tight. She held me just as firm.

I bore the weight of the responsibility, made the tough decisions so that she and hundreds of other women didn’t have to. That was what Milton failed to understand. I’d been foolish and driven by pride when I’d accepted his wager to duel. My marriage affected not only me, but everyone in my crew. Perhaps everyone in my fleet.

“Lexi is on the orlop deck?”

Cassaundra nodded and released me. “Yes.”

I turned and strode away quickly, focusing on the next task at hand.

By the time I reached the orlop deck, I felt marginally more composed.

When Lexi saw me, she straightened from the lengths of wood she was examining. “Jeanne. Can I help you?” Her voice was gravelly with surprise.

“Lexi, do you have any breeches?”

Skittish, she dropped the wood. She picked it up briskly, her cheeks coloring in the swing light of the lantern on its hook. “Why? My skirts don’t get in the way of my work.”

“Not for you,” I assured her. “Our…guest needs a change of clothes while his dry. Do you have any?”

Lexi bit her lip, her face still scarlet. “Perhaps one pair, but I fear they would be a poor fit.”

I shared a smile with her, teasing one out of her in return. “I suspect they will be, but I assure you it’s an improvement on the state he’s in now. He’s in my cabin. Will you bring the clothes to him, and perhaps some food and water from the galley?”

I couldn’t face him. What good was being captain if I couldn’t delegate?

Still shy, Lexi nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” I turned away, prepared to go up to the officers’ wardroom for the night. Sleeping atop a table would be uncomfortable, but better than sharing a room with a naked man. Especially a naked man who awakened every dormant desire in me. At the exit, I paused and looked back over my shoulder, battling guilt for sending poor, shy Lexi into my cabin unprepared.

“Oh, and Lexi? I feel I should warn you. He is naked in there.”

Her eyes widened. She looked as much off-balance as I felt, but despite her harried expression, I did not intend to face Milton again. Not today, and certainly not without his clothes on.

Chapter 7

Give No Quarter

Hannah was an excellent navigator. Before midnight, she had not only determined our position in the Atlantic Ocean but charted a course to a seaport several days away. Although I kept my distance from Milton in the intervening days, I couldn’t avoid the ribald jokes from my officers. They had noticed I slept in the wardroom night after night, despite the fact I had a functional, even comfortable, bed.

A bed currently filled by a well-sculpted man. The prevailing opinion on board was that I squandered an opportunity.

Despite their jokes, worry threaded the ship. The fate of the Fortune weighed heavy on our consciences. Tamara and her crew had been captured or killed—and the man in my cabin not only knew the particulars, but where to find the survivors. The tension on deck whenever Milton surfaced to stretch his legs was palpable.

For that reason alone, I watched him during his daily exercise. Whether he had worn the clothes Lexi had offered, I didn’t know. Whenever I saw him on deck, he wore the uniform breeches that clung to him like a second skin and his shirtsleeves rolled to bare his tanned forearms. As he reached the rail, he stood silent, ignoring the agitation of the women nearby.

When he turned, his gaze seeking me out, my heart skipped a beat. Alone on the hard wardroom table, I was consumed night after night by the memory of those eyes. Of the hot press of his body against mine and the urgent way he begged me to take my pleasure. I turned away, searching for a distraction.

Hannah frowned as she squinted into the spyglass and scanned the sea in front of us. When she lowered the tube, she looked worried.

My gut tightened. Trouble? “What do you see?”

In answer, Hannah handed over the spyglass. “There are more ships in the harbor than usual.”

“Friend or foe?” Had the British somehow guessed where we would make port?

Hannah looked grim. “I can’t tell at this distance.”

I lifted the glass to my eye, turning it toward the port not five miles distant. I couldn’t discern the color of the flags on those bobbing ships, either. I handed the glass back to the navigator. “Grand-mère?”

Although she had trailed me with a perpetual knowing expression since Milton had come aboard, at the seriousness of the situation, she lost her sly look. “I’ll be ready for trouble.”

I nodded curtly. “I’ll alert the rest of the crew.”

I climbed swiftly to the quarterdeck, the hairs on the back of my neck rising as I felt eyes upon me. I turned, and my gaze fell on the person responsible. Milton stood under the mainsail again, out of the way, his expression unreadable at this distance. If we made port without trouble, I intended to leave him there. Before then, I must learn of Tamara’s fate. I gestured with my chin toward the cabin where prying ears would not lead to discontent.

For a moment, he remained motionless. Was he challenging my authority? He was not a member of my crew but, surely, he understood the need for privacy. After a long moment, he dipped his chin and strode easily for the door. I watched him until it swung shut behind him and then turned to find Aludra.

She was in the fore of the ship, overlooking the crew trimming the sails to catch the best gusts of wind. When I reached her, she lowered her gaze from the sails overhead and raised an eyebrow at me.

“There’s potential danger at the port. Keep the crew ready.”

She nodded, not asking for particulars. Instead, gestured toward the cabin. “What of him?”

I fought back a grimace. “When we make port, I’ll ask him about Tamara and lead him off the ship.” I wasn’t certain if that met with her exacting standards for humane treatment, so I added, “I’ll make certain he has enough money for passage home on another ship.” We were lucrative enough to be able to spare him that.

Aludra narrowed her eyes. “How will you be questioning him?”

Stiffening, I pinned her beneath the coldest stare I could muster. Whether she approved or not, I would find my answers. “I’m not leaving Tamara behind.”

She broke eye contact first. “Of course not, Captain.” Something flickered in her eyes before she turned away. Approval—or censure?

Despite my avowal to question Milton, I returned to my position near the helm. He could wait until I finished overseeing the maneuvering of the Gambit into port. Despite ships claiming all available positions on the docks, the local authorities offered us no resistance. We weighed anchor and went ashore to pay the fee to keep our ship in the bay. As we rowed back to the ship, Lexi handling the oars, I turned to Hannah. “I’ll remain on the ship while the crew departs for the afternoon off. Will you leave word with our friends in port? We must warn the rest of the fleet of the Fortune’s capture, or they may fall into the same trap we did.”

Hannah nodded. “I’ll do that. What about supplies?”

“Aludra will see to replenishing them.” The shadow of the ship fell across us as we rowed to the side. Aludra tossed the rope ladder over the hull. I waited for Lexi to disembark first, then motioned for Hannah to follow as I tied the dinghy to the ship.

My navigator hesitated with her hands knotted in the rope. “What will you be doing on the ship?”

I gave her a tight smile. “For now, I’m going to see what answers I can get from Milton.”

Hannah winked as she set her foot into the stirrup. “Make it a memorable goodbye, would you?”

For once, I was thankful of the solitude of climbing up last. It granted me time for the heat in my cheeks to subside.

When I entered my cabin, I found Milton on his feet, pacing the length. He turned to me, a frown deepening the crinkles around his eyes. “We’ve anchored.”

I raised my eyebrows. “We’re in port. You’re free to leave.” I shut the door and planted myself firmly in front of it, crossing my arms. “After you tell me what I want to know.”

Rather than fight me, he lowered himself onto the bed, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. It put his head lower than mine, which under any other circumstance would have empowered me. Somehow, he’d managed it in such a way that his body devoured the space in the room. It drew my attention to his long, muscular frame. He hadn’t shaved for the past week, his face rough with dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. It made him look wild.

How would that stubble feel between my thighs?

Heat flushing more than my cheeks, I balled my fists and lowered them next to me, averting my gaze.

In a low voice laden with invitation, Milton asked, “What would you like to know?”

“You took the crew of the Lady’s Fortune captive. Tell me where they are, and you are free man.”

If anything, his voice lowered even further. “I’ll be a free man, will I?”

I raised my chin, meeting his gaze. “Yes. Unless you prefer I trade you for Tamara’s freedom. She is the captain of the ship you captured.”

“Promises, promises.” He cocked one eyebrow. “I recall you making me another promise…” He left the details unspoken, his head tilting in challenge as he smiled.

I scowled. “That was made under duress.”

“But it was made.”

I blew out an exasperated breath and crossed my arms again. “I think you’d be happy that I’m willing to let you go instead of tossing you overboard. I could have done it at any point in the last week.”

He made a face. “I don’t know why you think I’d be happy to be moored in an unfamiliar city without a ship.”

I tightened my arms so hard my chest ached. “It’s no less than you were willing to do to me!”

The words fell in the air between us like bullets. His eyes met mine, the past knotting between us in a way I hadn’t been willing to acknowledge. I hadn’t buried that grievance as far down as I’d hoped.

“I beg your pardon?”

I stepped closer to loom over him. The position felt precarious, teetering on a precipice. He didn’t move. I spread my legs to accommodate his between them in the pitifully small room.

“It’s what you were willing to do to me. Two years ago, when you offered for me, and my father accepted before consulting me.”

His eyebrows snapped together, contorting his face in outrage. “No woman wants a life at sea!” He braced his hands on the mattress, looking like he might rise. Instead, understanding dawned. The anger dissipated. He murmured, “You aren’t like other women, are you?”

I turned away in disgust. “I am exactly like other women. You haven’t bothered to look.”

He caught my arm, pulling me to stand over him again. His eyes were earnest as they caught mine. “Forgive me. You’re right, I wasn’t looking. I’m looking now.”

A shiver coursed over my skin.

“Truce?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.

I could break his hold. It wasn’t tight, just enough to guide me into this shamble of intimacy. I could run, like I had before, but the sad truth was that I needed him. I needed him to tell me of Tamara’s fate. “What could you possibly offer to entice me into a truce?”

“I’ll tell you the location of your friend.”

“If?” I sensed the word, even if he didn’t say it outright. It lingered on the tip of his tongue. Thinking of his tongue drew my attention to his wide, full mouth. Tingles awakened in the tips of my fingers as I imagined the pleasures that tongue could perform. Belatedly, I realized he still held me, his grip loose as his thumb stroked the sensitive underside of my wrist. The light brush of his skin against mine made me burn.

Holding my gaze, he said, “If you hold up to your end of the bargain.”

I backed away. “Marry you?”

He stood, looming over me as he pursued. “It’s the only way I can save you from the gallows. If you cease your pirating ways and become my wife, I can use my influence with certain magistrates to get you a pardon.”

My hip smacked into the writing desk. I winced, adjusting my retreat. “You’re mad if you think I would agree to that. I will never give up my freedom.”

I’d worked too hard to attain it.

Milton raised his eyebrows. “Not even to save your friend?”

I hesitated. No. Yes.

Bordel de merde! How could I consider his offer? How could I turn my back on a woman who was like a sister to me? I couldn’t. Tamara deserved better from me.

I whispered, “If I marry you…” I held up a hand, stalling his response “If I do, it will be in name only.”

I watched him closely, certain he would refuse. After a moment of inner confliction, resignation crossed his face. He blew out a long breath and raked his fingers over his hair. “Very well.”

His words were no more than a mumble, but it made me hot and cold at the same time. Two words. My future, decided.

“Where is Tamara?”

He shook his head once. “I’m not telling you without a gesture of good faith.”

My stomach twisted into delicate lace. Would he demand I marry him now? Ever since I had turned my back on our engagement, I’d built myself a life in which I didn’t have to marry anyone. I didn’t want to become a man’s property, certainly not his.

“What sort of gesture?”

He shrugged. “You tell me. Show me you intend to make good on your agreement this time, instead of running off and leaving me stranded.”

Uncertain, I caught his eye and licked my lips. My back brushed the wood of the door before I realized I was retreating again. Only days ago, he had pressed me against this door, begging for a kiss. If I kissed him now…

His gaze heated as he fastened it on my mouth. I flicked my tongue out again, slowly, rewarded with the sharp intake of his breath. The deck rolled gently beneath my feet in the soft lapping of waves—a comfort. A courage. As I used the sway as an excuse to lean closer, emotions flickered over his face—confusion, comprehension, disbelief…desire.

Then, before I could second-guess myself, I fastened my mouth to his. He crushed me to him, knocking the wind out of me as he used the momentum of my lunge to carry us backward to the bed. I licked inside his mouth, sparking a conflagration, and relinquished myself to every wanton fantasy that had gripped me this past week. He anchored my body against him with his hands on my back and met my ardor with searing, molten kisses. Lost in the feel of his mouth, his body beneath me, I straddled him.

Every inch of my body ached for his touch. My nipples hardened beneath my shirt as I pressed against him, chest to chest. His hips nestled into mine, the hardening length between us promising pleasure. I shuddered in anticipation. He dropped his hands to the back of my upper thighs and gripped them hard as he devoured my mouth, giving as well as taking in a mad frenzy. I moaned. His hands moved higher. I rocked into his length with abandon as he cupped my rear, learning the shape of me through my breeches. His thighs tensed beneath me and we rolled, Milton taking control and pressing me into the mattress with his seductive weight.

When my head hit the pillow, it squirmed and yowled. A flash of calico fur scrambled to escape from beneath the fat pillow, raking me with his claws as he went. The sound and the pain doused me like cold water.

I pushed Milton away, rolling him onto his back as I scrambled off the bed. My fingertips and thighs ached as I struggled to stand on weakened knees. Mon dieu, did I ache for him. What did I almost do? Milton lay passively on the bed, his chest rising and falling in pants. He made no move to recapture me, but the look in his eye left no secret that he’d like me to return. Entirely unselfconscious, he reached down to adjust the bulge tenting his tight breeches. My eyes followed the movement, widening. I squirmed as I remembered his length pressing into the seam of my breeches. It felt so good…

“Jeanne,” he growled.

Breathless, I asked, “Was that enough of a gesture for you?”

He didn’t answer, his face still wild with unsatisfied passion.

I crossed my arms over my hardened nipples. “Where is Tamara?”

He groaned, blowing out a long breath. As he stared at the ceiling, the cat on the edge of the bed licked his paw with menace. He looked ready to murder Milton for disturbing his nap.

What I wanted to do with him was just as passionate, and just as forbidden.

His voice still gravelly with desire, Milton answered, “The crew fled on the rowboats. The captain goes down with the ship, so I ordered us to contain those left on board. We only arrested two, your friend Tamara and her first mate. The rest lost us in a series of gullies when we weren’t quick enough to follow.”

I struggled to breathe through the sudden catch in my throat. Only two? He had only captured two. The bulk of the crew must still be alive. Tamara’s crew were resourceful women, even if she wasn’t there to look after them. She had capable officers, even without her first mate.

Her first mate, Evelyn. Evelyn had a son.

“Only two? Both women?” My voice emerged as a croak.

Milton pushed himself onto his elbows, looking curious. “Were there men on that ship, but not on yours?”

“Where are they?” If he didn’t know about Evelyn’s son, I wasn’t going to enlighten him.

Milton passed his hand over his face, but it didn’t quite hide his grimace. “By now, they’ve probably reached Dover. They’ll be kept in a prison there until arrangements are made for a transport to London. There aren’t many pirates left this far north, and your fleet is notorious.” He shifted onto his elbows again, raising one of his eyebrows in challenge. “Did you know there’s a ballad about you?”

I could care little for what people had to say about me, as long as they left me in peace. “Dover.” I had to believe that Tamara and Evelyn were still there. London was far too inland for me to take the ship, but Dover…

Dover, I could reach.

Somehow, Milton must have sensed me preparing to leave, because he rolled to his feet and planted his hand on the door. It brought us uncomfortably close again. The air charged between us, the temptation of his lips altogether too close.

“You should take me along.”

Should I? I’d kissed him in part because I wouldn’t have to face him afterward. Now that I’d lost myself to passion in his arms…his nearness, the heat of his body, called to me, hot and alluring. I wouldn’t be able to sleep, not so long as he was on the ship, ready and willing.

Accepting his help would be a bad idea.

Milton insisted, “I have connections. We can barter or bribe their freedom without bloodshed.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“I’d rather that than somebody gets hurt.”

In that, we saw eye to eye. I held his gaze a moment longer, even though I’d already made my decision. However much it tortured me, I could use his help.

I leaned closer, pressing my finger into the wall of muscle of his chest. “You can stay, but if your connections don’t help or if you do anything to jeopardize their safe return, I will trade you for the others. Make no mistake.”

His gaze dropped to my lips. “I promise not to underestimate you again, Quickblade.”

I shivered. His voice grazed along my skin like a touch, awakening desires best left buried. Without another look, I left before I did something I would regret.

Chapter 8

Monopolize on your Advantages—or Create Them

The silence in the wardroom was as oppressive as the steady tick of the grandfather clock. My heartbeat drummed as I stood, tense beside Milton, the only other person in the room. I strained my ears for sounds of someone boarding the ship, but we were too far nestled in the stern to hear anything save for the gentle lap of waves against the hull. The ship was anchored in a small cove not far from Dover, as close as I dared go with the British Navy swarming the city. Hours ago, I’d dispatched Aludra and two members of the crew to deliver the message from Milton to his contact in the town. If they were willing to meet and take bribes in exchange for Tamara and Evelyn’s freedom, then my task would be complete. And the only person I would have to answer to would be the man at my side.

I wasn’t as confident in this plan as he. Therefore, long after my officers had left us, I continued to work my way through another plan in case this one went awry. My plan would be more aggressive, infiltration rather than bribery. No matter what, I would not abandon Tamara to rot in jail.

However, even the air streaming in through the open porthole didn’t lighten the atmosphere in the room. Night after night, I had relived our kiss while lying on this very table, struggling to fall asleep. Every time, the memory lit me on fire. And now I was staring at that very table, next to the man who had stoked that desire so high. It was difficult to concentrate.

On the table, rough maps littered the surface. Over the past several days, Milton had sketched them from memory, aided by Lexi’s precise eye. He had visited the jail before while delivering prisoners of war. He had some familiarity with the house, but didn’t know its exact layout, nor who would be guarding the prisoners save for the keeper. I had only his word, and I wasn’t certain how far I trusted him.

I’d tried to get more information out of him over the past week. I was a pirate—I wasn’t above surrendering to passion. I didn’t outright kiss him again, but whenever possible I stood near him. I indulged the desire to touch him with small brushes to his hand or the back of his neck. His skin was warm. Without anyone here to witness us, I was free to touch him without restraint.

At least, no restraint save for the one I placed on myself. With my hand across his arm, I pointed across his body to one corner of the house detailed in the nearest map. “Do you think that room is the most likely place they will be holding Tamara and Evelyn?”

Whenever I touched him, his body stiffened like he forgot to breathe. It never failed to send a thrill skittering through me, quickening my heartbeat.

Milton cleared his throat. “I cannot say. I’m not certain how many others are in the jail at the moment. It’s small and not able to accommodate many prisoners. Tamara and Evelyn would have been tossed in alongside the other women currently in residence. The prisoners I bring in for holding and transfer are usually men.”

I fisted my hand before dragging it away from the table and back to my side. I didn’t move away from him, not wanting to relinquish the distraction that he presented. Without focusing on him, on the attraction bubbling between us and his nearness, I would have nothing to keep me from envisioning the horrible, cramped conditions that Tamara and Evelyn must have endured for the past few weeks. No fire at night, no clean bedding, crusts of bread and water, unless the women happened to have been wearing jewelry when they’d been captured. The keeper accepted barter in exchange for the luxuries other people took for granted. But if they had been hurt during the arrest? If they needed physicians, but had no money…

I didn’t realize that my hand was tightening on Milton’s arm until he pulled it from my grasp and turned to face me.

His expression was solemn. “I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don’t. The keeper is paid a pittance. His profits come from brokering transactions with the prisoners. I’m certain it wouldn’t take much money for him to lose two prisoners in the shuffle.”

That sounds safe for the populace at large. Sarcasm aside, if it helped to free Tamara and Evelyn, perhaps I shouldn’t be so critical.

Gritting my teeth, I walked around him, but I couldn’t resist leaning my body against his as he moved to examine a different map, this one of the street where the jail resided on the south side of the marketplace. When I glanced up at Milton, I found his eyes dark and his expression tight with need. The craving struck me as deeply as it did him. I clenched my thighs together, wanting to give into this thing between us while at the same time knowing that I needed to focus on the more important matter at hand.

I returned my attention to the hastily scrawled map beneath my fingertips. “There will be watchmen.”

“Undoubtedly.”

I glanced up again, and his expression hadn’t changed. “You haven’t studied the routes?”

He passed a palm over his short hair. “There’s no need. This will work, Jeanne.”

Will it? I wanted to believe that more than anything. The lives of two people rested on my shoulders.

Tamara had known the danger of following me to sea, but she had chosen to join us anyway. From the moment we stole the ship, my dowry, we’d been labeled criminals. I’d held out some vain hope that possession of a ship of the line would endear us to the British Navy enough to earn us a privateer’s license. I’d thought them fools to squander the offer of a warship when they had so few. However, I’d long since relinquished that dream. We fought against the French because it was the right thing to do. Because Napoleon took the lives of people under him and twisted them. Like in Sainte-Domingue, where I had been born. He was killing people there, people the French Republic had just granted freedom. Somehow, the fact that Napoleon tried to stamp backward over the country’s progress made his atrocities all the more vile.

Craving the heat of Milton’s body, I sidled closer. My arm brushed his. He groaned under his breath. In a swift movement, he shoved the maps to the far edge of the table, clearing the wood in front of us.

“What are you—”

He faced me, bracing himself against the bolted table in a deceptively casual pose. “If you don’t take prisoners…”

I bristled, thinking again of Napoleon. “I would never. I don’t take prisoners, and I don’t take slaves.”

And when in doubt, I had Aludra to keep me honest.

The expression on Milton’s face was not accusing, however. If anything, it was yearning. “Then I imagine you don’t torture them either.”

“Of course not—”

He straightened, looming over me in the most delicious way. The air between us crackled with so many things left unsaid. As I gasped for breath, my breasts brushed against the lapels of his navy jacket.

His eyes half-lidded, he leaned down. “You’re torturing me, Jeanne.” His voice was rough. His breath teased the shell of my ear as he pressed his body closer to mine. When he spoke again, tingles swept through me from crown to heel. “Do you know what I think of when I’m lying in the bed that smells like you with your damned cat purring in my ear?”

I bit my lip hard. When I turned my gaze up to his, I found it molten. At any moment, he would confess to the same wanton thoughts I had night after night. Damn if I didn’t want to give into them.

“That is a candle compared to what I think of on this table.”

His gaze flicked toward the table, then back at me. The craving in his face was stark. My breath quickened. I caressed the rough stubble lining his jaw. His hand bracketed my hip, drawing me closer as he lowered his mouth—

The door banged open. A calico blur flashed across the room and jumped on the table. Papillon head butted Milton with an insistent glare. I sprang back, my fingertips aching as I pressed them against the wall of the room.

Hannah entered after the cat, but for once she didn’t look in a teasing mood. “Aludra has returned.”

I straightened. “And?”

Her tone of voice was all the answer I needed, but she shook her head nevertheless. “Sterling’s contact doesn’t believe the letter is from him. Apparently, the man heard he was lost at sea. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

I stepped around Milton, this time scraping against his body without meaning to. I gathered up the maps, folding and stuffing them beneath my arm.

Milton rounded the table and planted himself in my path. “Wait. Take me with you. I can help.”

I hesitated. Milton was the enemy. He was the reason my people were in jail, the person who had put them there. The look in his eye was earnest, but…

This endeavor would be illegal, and he was a man of the law.

Thus far, he hadn’t given me reason to doubt him. In fact, he’d been entirely respectful, helpful, and forthcoming during our journey to Dover. Much to my chagrin, I hadn’t had to seduce the information out of him once. Nor had he tried to take advantage of our arrangement. In my darkest fantasies, I’d been searching for a reason to succumb, someone to blame for the indiscretion other than myself. He’d been too honorable to give me that, too.

Did that mean I could trust him?

I didn’t have time to stand here and deliberate. At any moment, Tamara and Evelyn might be moved farther inland for trial and execution. “Very well. You may come along.” I laid my hand on his arm, the feel of his muscles beneath my palm rekindling the fire in my belly. I lowered my voice as I held his gaze. “But if you do anything to jeopardize this, if you even sneeze the wrong way, I will ransom you in exchange for my friends. Don’t think I won’t.”

His eyes twinkled as he offered me a smile that made my knees weak. “Then I’d better be on my best behavior.”

Chapter 9

Learn the Territory Better Than Your Foes

Thus far, diplomacy had earned us nothing but a stroll in this eerily silent town. Fog misted around us, rendering anything more than ten feet away indistinct. My footsteps sounded ominous. On my left, Milton kept pace with an easy lope, his posture and expression giving away none of his emotions. Was I right to trust him? He might have insisted on coming along simply to betray us. Now that we were in the thick of town, the harbor was too far distant to make out the lumbering forms of ships there, but Aludra had informed us that a single Navy ship was docked. Despite the small number, Dover was far from undefended. The tall shadow looming over the town atop a cliff was Dover Castle, where more military troops were housed in case of French invasion.

If Milton did betray us, I had to account for more than Aludra’s life. Grand-mère had insisted on accompanying us, as well.

On my right side, Grand-mère squeezed my arm. “Relax, cherie, or no one will believe we’ve come to barter.”

Barter, as if Tamara and Evelyn’s freedom was up for auction.

On the corner of the street, I hesitated. Ahead, Aludra’s form faded into the fog, the muffled thump of her heels on the ground almost as indistinct.

“You certain you wish to do this?” I asked Grand-mère next to me. “If you wait here and keep watch…”

She tugged from my grasp. She straightened her worn dress, the one she wore every Sunday, and readjusted her cane. “Tamara is like a granddaughter to me. I will not turn my back on her any more than you will.”

Her voice was vehement. My grandmother had a heart of steel. No one crossed someone she thought of as hers.

I nodded and resumed the walk. With his hands in his pockets, Milton pretended as if he hadn’t heard. Heat prickled the back of my neck, but I tried to forget his presence. After all, his connections might save my friends.

From the fate to which he had consigned them.

Aludra had already reached the ramshackle house where the town’s criminals were held. It was as unimpressive as the village, the house indistinguishable from the others on the street. Even after studying the blueprints Milton had drawn from memory, I’d pictured an imposing brick or stone building, a structure as impregnable as the castle on the hill. Not something that would go up in flames with the kiss of a candle.

The door opened, and a stooped figure emerged from the building carrying a lantern. The flames danced as he held it aloft with a tremor in his hand. It illuminated the craggy surfaces of his face and the pale, stringy hair falling to his jaw. I stopped with Milton and Grand-mère within the circle of that light but left Aludra to the talking. She’d secured her headscarf across the lower half of her face to conceal it, likely the same way she had approached him earlier.

“Good evening, sir. When we last spoke, you didn’t believe our message was from Captain Sterling.” She gestured behind her haphazardly to indicate us. “Here he is.”

Milton took a step forward. He kept his hands in his pockets. “Hello, Mr. Thatcher. It’s been a while.”

The old man squinted, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deepening. “Captain Sterling? I heard you were taken by pirates. It’s all they speak of in the Swan-tailed Dove.”

If word of Milton’s fate had already reached the town, the ship in the harbor must be one of his. Reflexively, I groped for a sword that wasn’t on my hip. Even if it had been, skirts were not as conductive to sparring as breeches. I had reason to avoid the constrictive garments, but tonight we had hoped not to draw undue attention by dressing as expected of our gender. Men oft underestimated women, and we could use that to our advantage.

Milton held up his hands, showing that he, too, was unarmed. “As you can see, I’m a free man. I was separated from my crew by a storm. I’m only now making my way back.”

Mr. Thatcher made a sound from deep in his throat. Next to him, Aludra chafed at the noise. She stepped back, halfway into battle position. She was as eager for a fight as I, but against a spry old man? He was no enemy of ours unless he proved an obstacle to rescuing our friends. I would rather this end without bloodshed.

Grand-mère stepped into the light, stretching out her hand with a warm smile. “Come now, sir. Will you let our old bones grow stiff from this damp chill? Let’s adjourn inside.”

I’d often thought Grand-mère could charm a snake out of its skin. However, this frail old man was made of sterner stuff than he looked. He stiffened and straightened, the light from the lantern calming its dance. “I’m afraid I have instructions not to let anyone in, madam.”

“We won’t tell. In fact, it would be rude of us to use your fire without contributing a few pennies to the purchase of coal.” The pouch she untied from the belt at her waist jingled as she held it out. It held only a fraction of what Jeanne had prepared, the rest hidden among crew hands in the town. Grand-mère pressed the sack into the old man’s free hand and tilted her face up to meet his, her smile never wavering. “What do you say?”

I say you’re standing too damn close to him. I held my breath. Grand-mère was right. No man should underestimate her. She was as useful with her cane as I was with my sword.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Thatcher tested the weight of the bag, then tucked it into his pocket. “Perhaps a moment inside would do no one any harm. If you’d like, madam, I may be able to arrange a short visit between you and your…granddaughter?”

At least he hadn’t forgotten the particulars of the request.

“But no more.”

That wasn’t going to be good enough.

Grand-mère claimed his arm without a second thought. “Please, escort me inside.”

When he obliged, I had no choice but to follow. I scanned the street one last time before stepping inside, searching for guards. I saw no one.

The front room of the prison was tiny and cold, the brazier little wider than my forearm. It was low on coals, the embers glowing red in the dark room. I shivered as Mr. Thatcher gestured for Grand-mère to take the only seat, a wooden chair worn smooth by time and use. If these were the conditions in which he kept watch, I shuddered to imagine the horrors Tamara and Evelyn faced. We should have come sooner.

The moment Grand-mère had settled herself, both hands folded atop the head of her cane, Milton stepped into the middle of the room. He caught Mr. Thatcher’s eye. “Are you certain we cannot come to another arrangement? We have more money.”

The old man hesitated but shook his head. “The two you mentioned are due to be shipped inland on the morrow. I can only manage this one visit, and I fear it must be short.”

The snick of steel released from its sheath sounded as soft as a whisper, but it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I fumbled again for the sword I didn’t have as a dark form stepped out of the shadows, the light of the lantern glinting off a short blade. Aludra. When she lunged around Milton to approach Mr. Thatcher, Milton caught her arm. He thrust his fingers in between hers and rested the blade away, pushing her back with his forearm at the same time. The blood rushed in my ears, and for one dizzying moment, I thought, This is it. This was the betrayal I had predicted.

Milton crossed behind Mr. Thatcher and immobilized the old man with an arm slung across his chest. He thumped him soundly on the temple with the hilt of the knife. The old man’s eyes rolled up, the whites showing. He crumpled. Aludra lunged for the lantern as it smashed against the floor, the flame sputtering and the oil spilling over the ground. She stamped out licks of flame. In darkness, I breathed swiftly, pulse pounding, blinking away the spots in my eyes.

What had just happened?

The flicker of flame returned as Aludra righted and rekindled the lantern. It sputtered, low on oil, the light glinting off the shards of glass in its casing. Milton still held the old man, slowly lowering him to the floor. Aludra snarled, but he didn’t appear to notice. He laid his fingers against the man’s neck and grimaced. I braced myself.

“He’s still alive.”

I let out my breath.

The knowledge didn’t appear to assuage Aludra. In fact, she looked murderous. She stepped closer, the lantern held in her fist like a weapon. “What do you—?”

“It would not have helped you to leave bodies behind.” Milton straightened to his full height, looming over her. “Thanks to you, my involvement is already suspect. I’m willing to help you, but not at the cost of my career.”

I flinched. I shouldn’t have expected his loyalty to run that deep, but hearing it spoken so boldly out loud stung like the lash of a whip.

Churlish, Aludra reclaimed her knife. “I did not plan to kill him.”

Milton crossed his arms. “It didn’t look that way from where I was standing.”

I cleared my throat. What was done was done, and arguing about it wouldn’t help us. “Let’s look for Tamara and Evelyn quickly before someone else arrives. He seemed adamant that we needed to be brief.”

Grand-mère levered herself to her feet and held out her hand for the lantern, which Aludra handed over obediently. Grand-mère set it on the chair and hobbled over to the unconscious old man. “Go. I’ll stay here to make certain he doesn’t die from the injury.” She raised her gaze, spearing Milton with accusation. “Our poor bones can’t handle what you young folks do to yours.”

He held up his hands in surrender but didn’t defend himself.

Aludra said brusquely, “Let’s find another lantern and go.”

As we soon discovered by peering through the barred windows in the solid doors, there were far more rooms housing men than there were housing women. The rooms on the ground floor bore no fruit, and only when we’d searched through half of the upper level rooms did we cross one with women inside. My breath caught and hope surged when I distinguished the telltale forms by the light peeking over my shoulder. “Tamara?”

Nothing. Then rustle of cloth. “Jeanne?”

My knees weakened. “This is it.”

I checked the latch, but the door stuck fast. It was locked.

“I’ll find the key,” Milton said under his breath and turned away. Aludra, clearly unwilling to leave him alone, held my gaze for a moment before she followed. She left me in darkness. I leaned heavily on the door.

This wasn’t over yet, but we were halfway there. Had Tamara and Evelyn been hurt? I bit the tip of my tongue, not certain if I wanted to know the answer. In the course of my pirating, I had rescued far too many women from poor situations. I didn’t want to consider my dear friend weathering the same fate.

Instead, I swallowed and asked, “Is Evelyn in there with you?”

“Yes, but…”

At her hesitation, every muscle in my body seized.

“She isn’t faring as well.”

What had they done to her? I swallowed twice before calling enough moisture into my mouth to ask, “Is she ill?”

Another hesitation. “As much in spirit as in body, I think.”

She confirmed my worst fears. I swallowed back bile. Whatever Evelyn had endured, we were here for her. She would survive.

And you? If Evelyn had been so mistreated, what had the jailors done to Tamara?

Tamara said, “Caleb…”

I grimaced. “As far as I know, he got away with the rest of the crew. We’ll look for him. We’ll find him.”

Tamara’s voice was hard. “Good. He’s one of our own.”

I laid my palm on the door, blinking away tears. “As are you, sister.”

When I heard approaching footsteps, I wiped under my eyes. I turned into the unwavering light of an unbroken lantern. Milton held up a key ring. When I stepped aside, he proceeded to insert each one in turn until he unlocked the door.

When we pulled it open, Tamara filled the threshold. She still wore the shirt and breeches she’d worn as captain of her ship, but the shirt was ragged and dirty and it fell loosely around her frame as though she wore someone else’s clothes. Her black hair hung to her waist in matted clumps. She had sunken hollows beneath her eyes, visible even in the shadows cast over her dark, ashen skin, but her weariness was chased away by the fire of outrage as she recognized the man standing in front of her. She drew herself up, never mind that she was nearly as short as Grand-mère. “You!”

I stepped between them before violence broke out. “He’s here to help. Let’s get Evelyn to the ship.”

Milton tried to sidestep me. “I’ll carry her.”

Tamara snapped, “The devil you will!” Her voice roused the other women in the room. She and Evelyn were not alone—no, four or five shadows loomed behind them, all crammed into a room no bigger than my cabin. How did they find the room to stretch out and sleep?

Milton blocked the entrance. “I think, of the four of us, I am undeniably the person with the most upper body strength. If any of you tried to carry another person, you would slow us down.”

I didn’t like the look of the other prisoners. I didn’t know why they had been locked up, but I feared the consequences of releasing them. “Milton, you can carry Evelyn. Do it quickly. I’m not certain if there are guards about.”

As he stepped inside, the women stirred, throwing up fists and feet toward him. One hunkered in the corner, arms clutching her knees. Another looked ready to rake him with her fingernails if he stepped close enough. Looking unconcerned and intimidating, Milton located and lifted Evelyn. She barely stirred.

As he turned away, the others were not as willing to be locked up again. One lunged for him, but I stepped in between and elbowed her in the ribs, knocking her side. Aludra drew her knife again, baring it in front of her, but she had more hesitation about leaving them than I did.

She asked, “Why are you here? What are your offenses?”

The lead woman sneered. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m not about to let a murderer back on the street, if that’s what you mean.”

The woman scoffed. “No murder here, only hard times and misunderstandings.”

She was almost certainly lying, but I didn’t want to wait another minute. At the top of the stairs, I turned back to Aludra and beckoned. “Are you coming?”

She stared another moment at the women before stepping back. She left the door open in her wake. “Don’t follow us.”

She was convincing enough that no one attempted to leave the room before our footsteps had become a memory on the stairs.

In that small cold room, we found Mr. Thatcher with his head in Grand-mère’s lap. She dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked up at her with a weary smile, as docile as a lamb.

I gasped. “Grand-mère!” She’d woken him?

Carefully, Grand-mère moved his head to the floor so she could rise. She used her cane liberally. The sting in her voice warned no one to help. “Relax, child. He’s agreed to keep our secret.”

The old man grinned, moving into a sitting position with difficulty and resting his back against the wall. “I think this lump will absolve me of responsibility. In fact, I’d wager old Butcher will be punished worse for spending his time with his woman when he ought to be working. Pirates, in my jail.” He shook his head, still smiling. “This is the most exciting thing to happen in my entire life!”

Chapter 10

Recruit Like-Minded Lost Souls

With a gentleness that belied her usual briskness, Aludra tucked Evelyn into her bed. The rescued woman was pale and sweaty, her eyes flickering behind closed lids as she softly moaned. She thrashed, her head jerking from side to side on Aludra’s pillow.

With two additional officers on board, both of them in a sorry state despite Tamara’s claims to the contrary, everyone had switched their sleeping arrangements. Aludra had taken my position in the wardroom on the table. The moment she had announced that change, Hannah had given up her bed to Tamara and announced her intention to sleep with Grand-mère.

Why hadn’t I thought of that when I’d been searching for a bed unoccupied by the broad-shouldered, muscled man standing next to me?

The first mate’s quarters were even more cramped with so many bodies. Although Evelyn didn’t appear to notice the world around her, when Papillon snaked between my legs, a knot inside me unfurled. He jumped onto the bed and curled up next to the ill woman, purring loudly as he tucked his nose beneath his tail. Evelyn might have gone through a trauma, but she was among friends now.

In the doorway, Tamara also vibrated. However, given the glare with which she pierced Milton, it wasn’t nearly as contentedly as the cat. The air in the small cabin was stifling. Latching onto Milton’s sleeve, I turned and ushered Tamara out of the room. Grand-mère and Aludra would look over Evelyn now, and Tamara needed her rest, too.

Her mouth thin, the woman I thought of as my sister made no protest as she climbed with me to the quarterdeck. Her shoulders were tight beneath the dirty shirt that I was certain only a week ago would have clung to her far more closely. She’d always had a short, curvaceous figure that seemed to leave no one in any doubt of her femininity no matter which clothes she wore. Her hips swayed as she proceeded me onto the deck.

Once there, she rounded and attacked. I was between her and Milton, so she couldn’t wrap her hands around his throat as she clearly wished. Instead, she glared at him over my head, her chest nearly pressed to mine. “I want him thrown overboard.”

Gently, I urged her back to give both me and him some space. When I was certain she wasn’t going to do the deed herself, I stepped to the side to include him in the conversation. Calmly, I told her, “I’m not going to do that.”

She bristled. “He stole my ship.”

Casually, Milton crossed his arms. He looked unapologetic. “You’re a pirate.”

His words stabbed me like a blade. Yes, that was exactly what we were. But only because society had no other place for us.

Tamara took his disdain in stride, tossing her black braids out of her face. “And you are a prisoner!”

He cocked an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Actually, I’m currently here of my own volition. I volunteered to rescue you.”

Tamara narrowed her eyes. “You would have done better not to steal from me to begin with! Do you know how many people you left homeless and destitute?”

“Pirates,” Milton said again, his voice even and unrepentant.

At the same time, I whispered, “I do.”

Both of them silenced. The only sound was the creak of the ship bobbing in the water and the wisp of a breeze stirring the flaps of canvas sail.

I might not be in command of Tamara’s ship, but I was the elected commander of our entire fleet. She sent me frequent updates, and I had made a point of learning every name, every background, including those on board The Lady’s Fortune. On the occasions when we joined up, I put a face to those names, to those women and occasionally men, who relied on us for their freedom.

Milton’s expression was solemn as he turned to look at me. What did he see? Some morally ambiguous pirate? I’d known a long time ago that no man of his station would ever think me admirable. Sometimes, I forgot that men saw me first as a prize or a criminal and rarely as a woman seeking to choose her own path. Too often, I forgot myself in his presence. The heat of his kiss washed away our conflicting views. But at the end of the day, he was still a captain of the British Navy.

And I was a pirate.

Although he didn’t say a word, I met his gaze boldly. I didn’t regret my life decisions any more than he did. “I’m a pirate, too. You are outnumbered here.”

If anything, he looked dismayed. “Do you, too, think I should not have offered my assistance?”

I pursed my lips. “I think it’s the least you could have done to repay your mistake.” Better to return the ship, but Navy captains were so starved for vessels that it had probably already been reassigned.

Stubbornly, Tamara thrust out her chin. “I think you should do more. Evelyn is dying of fear of her son. Dying.” Her eyes were hollow, her words falling like bullets. “She may recover from the fever with proper care, but if we never find Caleb?”

She left the rest unspoken.

I’d met Caleb, a laughing, curious boy eager to impress. He’d been put to work as a cabin boy on Tamara’s ship, with an aim to promote him to midshipman when the time was right. Crew positions on my ships were never as rigid as those in the navy, but I liked some semblance of order so that everyone contributed equally. The same way each member of the crew had an equal say in who ran the ships and who profited from the plunder.

So softly the wind nearly carried the words away, Milton admitted, “I can help with that, too.”

My stomach flipped.

Tamara sneered. “We don’t need the sort of help you bring.” The rage curled around her palpably, and when she balled her fists, I stepped between them again.

I took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “I’m scared for him too, Tamara.”

She blinked hard, her dark eyes shining in the moonlight. “You don’t know him like I do. We have to find that boy, Jeanne. He’s only nine.” Her voice broke on the last word.

My tears welled in sympathy. Not only for the boy and his mother, but for the heartbreak on her face. “We’ll find him, I promise you. Please, rest. I don’t want you to make yourself sick, too. We’ll form a plan tomorrow.”

Her muscles bunched beneath my hands, quivering. For a moment, I thought she would capitulate. But then her gaze drifted over my shoulder again toward Milton, and her body tensed once more.

Without looking, I ordered Milton below deck. “I’ll be with you in a moment. Go.”

He hesitated, the span between two heartbeats seeming to last for years before I heard the clip of his footsteps. Tamara watched him go, balling her fists as she drew away from me. She clung to her anger, nursing it until it was the only thing I saw in her face. When she turned to me with flared nostrils, I half-feared a mutiny.

“What are you doing with a man like him? He has no morals, only blind ambition. Didn’t he try to use you to further that ambition once?”

I didn’t want to admit anything to her. Not the heat and desire he stirred in me, nor our arrangement. But Tamara had been my stalwart ally from the very beginning. In fact, she’d been my first friend when I moved with Papa into Grand-mère’s house. When my accent had been so thick that no one else in the seaside English village had wanted to associate with me.

I owed her the truth. Fighting back a sigh, I confessed, “He challenged me and won. I was trying to get your ship back.”

Tamara bristled. “If you’re saying this is my faul—”

“No.” I raised my hands, palm out to stop that thought before it left her lips. “Of course not. This is my doing. But I’m afraid I do owe him something.”

Crossing her arms, Tamara scoffed. “He thinks we’re lawless pirates. You should prove him right. You owe him nothing, not after his treatment of you last time.”

In the days following our initial departure from the village I had called my home for a decade, Tamara had listened to my every last lament. Mostly, I’d cursed my father, not the man who had come crawling for my hand in order to acquire a ship. Frankly, Milton hadn’t seemed to care about me one way or another. But this time?

What if he wanted the woman, not the ship?

I swallowed against my dry throat. “I must deal with him at least until we make port. And if he can help find Caleb…”

I’d been willing to use his help to save Tamara, and I was willing to use him to save anyone else I could, too. No matter the consequences.

With every breath, Tamara hesitated, her determination wavering. She seemed minutes away from collapsing out of sheer exhaustion. The dark bags under her eyes emphasized every terrible thing she had endured in the past fortnight.

I reached out to squeeze her arm. “Are you certain you’re unharmed? If you need to talk about anything…”

She shook her head and gave me a wan smile. “I’m cold and malnourished, no more.”

Hearing her speak those words, the knot in my chest tugged free at last. It released a swell of tears, emotion choking me. I pulled Tamara into my arms, hugging her fiercely. She clutched me back every bit as vehemently.

“I was so afraid I’d lost you.”

Brokenly, she whispered, “Me, too.”

After a long moment, swaying gently with the swell of the deck at anchor, I pulled back and wiped my eyes. “Rest, please, and eat. I’m certain Grand-mère will be more than happy to fatten you up again.”

Tamara nodded, the ghost of a smirk curling her lips.

I patted at my eyes again. “I have to go. I’ll speak with you tomorrow, as soon as you’re feeling well enough to leave the cabin.”

When I started to walk away, Tamara caught my arm. She squeezed gently, waiting for me to meet her gaze before she released her hold. “Remember, Jeanne. You owe him nothing.”

Chapter 11

Spend Your Treasure, For There’s No Guarantee You’ll Live to Enjoy It

I might not owe Milton, but he had helped us tonight. An unfamiliar town with a British Navy ship of the line docked in the harbor, he could easily have hindered or alerted someone to our presence. If he’d wished, he could have had us all arrested. Instead, he had risked his career and his life to right the wrongs he had made.

So as I stood staring at the door to the cabin I would be forced to share with him tonight given the cramped quarters of the ship, I didn’t feel as though I owed him nothing. At the very least, I owed him a word of thanks. A shiver coursed through me, making my skin more sensitive to the fabrics of the dress I usually hated to wear. Simply because I owed him nothing didn’t mean I couldn’t choose to give him something. Another kiss, a…

I stamped down that thought before it led down a path I didn’t want to consider, lest I give in. Milton was an attractive man, and he made no secret of the fact that he wanted me. I didn’t trust myself to deny him when I wanted something more, too. Feeling stifled, I tore off the scarf holding my curls in place and shook them out. Then I entered the room and shut the door behind me.

Milton stood by the bed, loosening the laces at his throat. In his shirtsleeves, the contours of his chest were all the more apparent. A chest I’d seen bare. The scarf fluttered to the floor as my fingers went slack. I licked my lips. He turned, the dark curls at his temple still wet from the water he must have splashed on his face in the interim. The smile he offered me was tight.

“Do I have to fear for my tender parts?”

My gaze drifted down before I wrenched it back to his.

I cleared my throat. “Not from Tamara. Perhaps from Papillon.” I tried to match his smile, but it faded quickly.

Milton winked. “He’s wild for me.”

The cat wasn’t the only one. The air in the room seemed unusually thick and cloying. I could reach out and touch Milton, the room was so small, but I pressed myself back against the door instead. My heart pounded in the base of my throat as I tried to muster up shards of any common sense. If I offered him something more, he would continue to take, continue to conquer. That was the kind of man who achieved the rank of captain so young.

His smile fading, Milton cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about the situation. I can give you the rough coordinates where I took possession of the Fortune. From there, it shouldn’t be hard to extrapolate…”

All business. Once again, he was helping without asking for anything in return. I didn’t want to hear any of this, not now. It only softened him from the villain I preferred to paint him.

When I took a step away from the wall, I nearly tripped over my damnable skirts. As I wrestled the hem away from my feet, I met his gaze. His lips parted, he stared at me so intently I wasn’t certain he knew he’d stopped talking.

“You helped us recover Tamara.”

He shrugged, his demeanor gruff. “I said I would. I don’t expect her to thank me…”

“Why?” I searched his face, hoping his expression would betray the answer his words did not. “You said yourself it put your career in jeopardy.” Something he had said he would never do, but his actions belied his words.

His gaze dropped to my mouth where he continued to stare as the silence enveloped us. Tingles swept over my lower lip, and I chased them with my tongue.

His voice cracking, Milton confessed, “I did it for you, Jeanne. I did it for you.”

His words raised tingles through me like a phantom touch. Without thinking, I stood on tiptoe to capture his mouth.

The touch of his lips to mine ignited me. Fire roared through my veins. His hands wrapped around me, splaying across my back and tugging me close as he dropped down to sit on the bed. Cursing my skirts, I pulled them higher and straddled him. The fabric bunched between us, but I didn’t care because it put me at the perfect level to be devoured by his mouth. I cupped his cheeks, feeling the stubble against my palms as I swept my tongue into his mouth. His hands moved urgently, up my spine, over my shoulders, and down over the dip of my waist to my hips, pulling me roughly against the bulge in his breeches. Drawing back, I gasped for breath. His eyes were heavy, half lidded as he studied my face.

I dropped my hands to his shoulders, tugging at the fabric there. “Take off your shirt.”

In one motion, he ripped the garment over his head and tossed it in the corner. I pushed at the warm skin on his shoulders, urging him onto his back. Following, I melded my mouth to his. With his bare chest so close, I let my hands travel unabashedly. Crisp hair met my palms, followed by velvet skin and defined muscle. I crushed my mouth to his, unable to get enough. His erection pressed against the crux of my thighs. An ache built there, insistent. I couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

Without breaking the kiss, he raised his fingers to the back of my dress and traced the buttons, one by one. The touch sent flames up and down my spine. I arched against him, rubbing myself unrepentantly. Slowly, he worked the first button free. When I didn’t protest, the others came undone in a flurry.

His questing fingers found laces beneath. Consumed in a fever, I rocked against him with abandon as he undid the laces. When I broke the kiss to gulp for air, his mouth sought out my neck. His tongue traced a sensitive spot behind my ear, and I gasped. I held tight to the first thing to meet my fingers, his broad, muscular shoulder and his short hair. Urgently, he thrust my dress and stays away, freeing my breasts beneath the thin chemise I now cursed. With one last nip to my neck, he tightened his hold around my waist and flipped me.

I’d never seen so primal a man as he crouched over me, the bulge between his legs drawing the eye and begging for release into the open air. I reached for it, but when he lowered his head, all thought fled. He enveloped my nipple through my chemise. At the wet suction, I gave a strangled cry. His growl of satisfaction resonated through me. Panting, he raised his head, his eyes dark.

“Lawks, Jeanne. You’re so beautiful.”

“Milton.” I scarcely had the breath to speak.

As if his name summoned him, he found my mouth, kissing me ferociously as he fondled my breast with one hand. He rocked against my core, his thrusts growing more and more urgent until my legs wrapped tight around his hips. Only the fabric of his fall remained between us.

With a groan, he tore his mouth away and kissed a line from my mouth to my ear. His breath against the sensitive curve made me arch against him, begging for his touch.

“Is this the part when you tell me all women are beautiful?” Milton sounded equal parts chiding and teasing, as if sensing I wouldn’t take a compliment from him. This one was at least more appealing than him trying to set me on a pedestal apart from all other women.

Growling, I curled my fingernails into his shoulders. “This is the part when I tell you to stop talking and put that mouth to better use.”

My words ignited a fire in his eyes. Rough, he leaned back only far enough to strip off my clothes. I helped him until I was completely bare. He didn’t pause a moment to savor but shouldered his way between my legs again. His mouth found my breast, and he ran his tongue around the areola as I arched. My nipples tightened into hard, aching points. He teased them with the graze of his teeth, followed by the soothing lave of his tongue. All the while, his hands feathered up and down my sides. I splayed mine over his muscular shoulders and back, reaching as much of him as I possibly could. But swiftly, all too swiftly, he moved out of my range.

With hot, quick kisses he descended down over my belly until he kissed a line low on my abdomen. I squirmed, panting as I fisted my hands in the coverlet beneath me. He rose onto his knees and pulled my leg over his shoulder, spreading me wide in front of him. If he thought I would blush and tell him to stop, he was damned wrong. His eyes as hot as I felt, he caught my gaze as he turned his face to nip the tender skin behind my knee. I gasped at the sensation, squirming to try to get closer to him. He flicked out his tongue.

“Milton.” This time his name was a command.

Achingly slow, he kissed his way up my leg toward the crux of my thighs. The rasp of his beard and the brush of his strong hands grazing up my thighs and hips and back down again had me trembling.

When he finally found my core, stars burst behind my closed eyes. He devoured me like he was starving for me. His tongue thrust between my folds and along my nub, long sweeping strokes followed by deep sucks. I needed more, so much more. Reaching up, I circled my nipples with my thumbs and pinched them between my forefingers. The counterpoints of pleasure catapulted me toward release. Higher, higher. The frantic thrusts of my hips must have given me away. His hands tightened around my hips and he moaned against my center. With the vibration, I shattered. I convulsed against the relentless sweeps of his tongue.

Unabashed, he moaned again. “So sweet.”

He tasted me again, the sweep of his tongue lighter. “So hot.”

My thighs clenched at the rumble in his voice. As he slipped a finger inside me, I gasped and lifted myself to his touch. He had me climbing all over again toward that elusive pinnacle.

“So tight.”

Lazily, he thrust his fingers in and out of my channel as he kissed his way up my belly and my breasts, pausing to pay lavish attention to each. As he raised himself higher, the thrust of his fingers quickening, the wiry hair on his chest rubbed against the sensitive peaks of my nipples. He kissed me and I tasted myself on his tongue. Mon dieu, I needed more.

Feverish, I pulled at the buttons of his fall, ready to weep as I finally freed them. As the material gaped, I scraped my fingers through the hair leading down from his navel. He shuddered, his eyes falling shut as he braced himself on hands and knees above me. I needed more. I needed him.

Now.

Tightening my legs around his hips, I used my position to flip him onto his back. His fingers slipped free of my channel, but I didn’t care. I was aiming for much more tantalizing ground. As I straddled him, I ran my hands over his chest and abdomen, shimmying down and rubbing myself shamelessly over the evidence of his arousal. He reached up, trying to catch me under the arms and pull me closer, but I deftly moved out of range. Determined, I stripped off his boots and breeches, tossing them on the floor next to my discarded clothing. His erection, proud and thick, jutted up from its nest of curls and bobbed in front of my face. I licked my lips as I leaned closer and blew on the crown.

Milton pushed himself onto his elbows and groaned. “Jeanne, I won’t last. I… You…”

“Have you run out of words at last?”

He opened his mouth, but whatever he intended to say, he swallowed it as I gave his erection one long, rewarding lick. He made a choked, strangled sound. Rolling onto his side, he patted the bed next to him, inviting me closer.

Closer I would get, but not like that. I planted my palm on his shoulder and pushed him onto his back. The moment he was at my mercy, I straddled him. My channel throbbed with need. At the kiss of my slick folds, his member twitched in agreement. Unable to help myself, I rubbed myself over his long, thick length, leaving it slick with my arousal. Mon dieu, did I ever need him. His hands roamed over my body, paying attention to the curve of my back, my waist, my breasts. In a fever, I reached down and stroked his length, reveling in the way his muscles stiffened beneath me. When I positioned him at my entrance, every muscle in his body was rigid. I worked his head between my folds, lightly rolling my hips and teasing us both. In and out, in and out.

Milton reversed our positions in one smooth move and seated himself fully inside me. At the invasion, we moaned in unison. He worked himself in and out in long, slow strokes. It wasn’t enough. Gripping his shoulders and locking my heels behind his back, I lifted myself, taking control and sliding myself along his shaft. I thrust hard, reveling in the friction we both needed.

His hand slipped around the small of my back as he pressed me closer. Gasping, he whispered, “Jeanne, you don’t always have to be in control. I’ll take care of you.”

I opened my eyes. “Maybe I’ll take care of you.”

In a feat of strength and agility, I flipped him over again. Now I was on top, and he had no breath left to talk as I set the frantic pace that matched the beat of my heart. His fingers curled into my hips. His throat worked as he moaned, head back and eyes closed. He was so damned sexy. I reached behind to fondle his taut bollocks as I rode him closer and closer to my pinnacle.

“Jeanne.” He whispered by name, a hoarse plea.

I swiveled my hips as I moved, leaning over again to balance my weight on his shoulders. As my breasts bounced in front of him, he leaned up and sucked my nipple into his mouth. Tighter. Every muscle in my body tightened around him, but I didn’t slow my pace. He licked and sucked. When he bit down on that sensitive peak, I cried out and convulsed around him.

But I didn’t stop. Our pants mingled in the air along with the slap of skin against skin. He was close. I could feel it.

“Jeanne, I’m almost—”

Unable to help myself, I quickened my pace again. A wicked part of me wanted him to spill his seed inside me, to feel that pulse. The forbidden image threatened to tug me toward the peak of another orgasm. Wild, I worked his shaft between my thighs.

“Jeanne…”

Common sense returned and I pulled off, shimmying down his legs. I licked his length, tasting my arousal as I took him into my mouth. My sore nipples ached. I slipped my hand between my legs and rubbed my clit as I found one last orgasm. With a shout, he came into my mouth. His toes curled on either side of my hips. I swallowed his seed, continuing to lick and suck until his moans turned into wordless protests. Only then did I sit up and lick my lips.

He stared at me as if he saw me for the first time. Lips parted, sweat gathered at his temples and over his chest, no man had ever looked so sinful. His throat worked as he whispered my name again.

I crawled next to him and collapsed, my muscles protesting the movement. “Don’t talk.”

If he started talking, I would have to face reality. I didn’t know what we had between us. I didn’t want to think about the future. I just wanted to revel in his body next to mine and the sleepy satisfaction that lured me closer to dreams.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he cupped my face and kissed me, soft and reverent. A painfully sweet counterpoint to the conflagration we’d made with our bodies. But he didn’t press me for more. Before long, I surrendered to the exhaustion of the day and curled into the circle of his arms.

Chapter 12

Leave No Crewman in Peril

I tried not to wince at Milton’s horrible French accent as he described Caleb to a fisherman off the coast of France. His French was stilted, and I itched to take over in my native tongue. However, the grizzled fisherman had made it clear from the disdainful look he’d given me when I stepped onto his ship in breeches that he thought me peculiar and was unlikely to speak with me directly. It grated on my nerves, but for Caleb, I would endure anything. Despite the way Aludra, Hannah, and Grand-mère had taken shifts hovering over Evelyn’s bedside, her fever had broken only to bleed into a despondency that bordered on the catatonic. She cried frequently, worried sick for her son. In order to keep both of them whole, I was determined to reunite them.

To that end, this wasn’t the first fisherman we’d cornered. After returning to the coordinates Milton had supplied from memory, I had sequestered myself with my other officers and spent hours conferring over which path to search. Hannah had used her navigational expertise to find us the most likely course based on the tides, the welcome Tamara’s crew would find on the French coast, and the survivors’ urgency for food and water. With our sails clipped to avoid speed, we rode out to meet every fishing vessel we spotted.

This one was the first to supply us with any useful information. Slowly, the fisherman nodded. “A boy like that stopped in town with two of his aunts. They spent the night with my sister and moved on in the morning. I think she mentioned family in Calais where the boy might be left.” Narrowing his eyes, the men looked between me and Milton. “This wasn’t a kidnapping, was it? You aren’t his parents?”

I exchanged a look with Milton. It wasn’t the first time we had been asked about Caleb’s parentage. Something about our demeanor must have suggested that we were sharing a bed. This time, I answered in flawless French. “We are concerned friends of his mother who is very ill. Thank you for your help.”

I turned, and Milton helped me into the small dinghy. After a dozen such trips, his touch felt natural. It might have something to do with the ardent touches he gave me late at night as he warmed the bed next to me. Over the past week, I’d come to expect these small gestures of intimacy—even enjoy them.

After he settled in across from me, he took up the oars and rowed us back to the ship bobbing on the horizon not far away. I frowned, drumming my fingers on the wooden side.

“Calais… Do you think we’ll find him there?” I didn’t know whether to hold out some semblance of hope. There might be a dozen such boys seeking refuge in France at the moment. More than anything, I wanted to return to the ship to tell Evelyn that we had made progress. Hope might be the only thing to heal her.

Noncommittal, Milton answered, “This is the first we’ve heard of him.” The oars splashed rhythmically, drawing us ever nearer to our destination. “It’s clear the crew split up if he has only two women with him.”

That was another matter. Although Caleb took precedence, Tamara’s entire crew was missing. Over a dozen women who now had to fend for themselves.

To distract myself from the niggle of worry in my belly, I breathed in and out with the swing of the oars. Milton, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his muscles bunching with every movement, continued to row. I couldn’t help but admire his musculature despite the fact I had learned every inch of it through our evenings together. Without the Navy jacket, too distinctive to wear while approaching the French, he looked like a simple man. A strong, respectful, devilishly inventive man who I had all to myself. I dug my fingers into the wood of the boat.

My voice a rasp, I answered, “I suspect we will take a long time to find them all, if we ever do. Many are skilled at pretending to be men. They might find work on other ships and scatter to the wind.”

It wouldn’t be freedom, but it was a damn sight better than starvation.

Abruptly, Milton stopped rowing. He dragged the oars across his lap and clutched them in his fists. The look he wore was intent, perhaps even amorous.

I frowned. “What are you…?”

“We need to talk. This might be the most privacy we’ll find outside of your cabin.”

Instinctively, I searched for an exit. Unless I wanted to swim the entire way back to the ship, I was at his mercy. Thus far, he had abided by my wishes not to speak of our relationship or our future. I wanted to enjoy our time rather than agonize over the complications.

Now, he left me no choice. He caught my gaze and held it. “I know you’d rather not address this, but when we find Caleb, I will have to leave. The Navy might have labeled me a deserter. If they haven’t, I can’t let my command be given to someone else.”

All this time, I’d been trying not to think of the future with him. Now, I didn’t want to think of one without him. I pressed my lips together, saying nothing.

He took that as an invitation to continue. “I’d like to be married before I leave as per our arrangement.”

His words were perfunctory. Not romantic, not ardent. He might as well have been speaking of the weather. A shivery sensation coursed through me, making me hot and cold in turns.

Milton cocked an eyebrow. “Assuming you still mean to honor your word?”

His expression was hard, the look of a man who was ruthless when conquering. Despite the way he’d respected my wishes and boundaries so far, that expression left no doubt he would argue if I declined. Milton was a man who was not above using all the weapons in his arsenal to ensure I changed my mind.

The problem was, I didn’t know what I wanted from him. Or perhaps I did—I wanted our arrangement to remain as it was.

The thought of marrying him, of being forced to do his bidding rather than choosing to be with him, left a sour taste in my mouth. “I didn’t invite you into my bed because of our arrangement.”

His mouth curved in a devilish half smile. “Invite me? You commanded it.” Balancing the oars in one hand, he reached over and cupped my cheek. The rough pad of his thumb brushed over my lower lip. I shivered and nervously, I licked my lips, only to taste the salt on his skin.

His eyes darkened with desire. Fortunately, he had enough sense to know that the open ocean was no place for a tryst. He retracted his hand and fisted it on his lap. “Tell me what you want, Jeanne.”

I nibbled on my lower lip. “There is no room aboard a Navy vessel for a man’s wife, is there?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “It’s bad luck to take a woman aboard.”

I glowered at him.

His mouth kicked up into a smile. “Don’t kick me overboard now. I’m reiterating the prevailing superstition, not telling you my personal beliefs.”

I drew in a breath, feeling stifled despite the wide ocean as far as I could see. I looked away, trying to remind myself that my horizons were as limitless as the panorama in front of me. For the first time since I’d left home, it didn’t calm me.

Woodenly, I told him, “I will hold to our original agreement, but make no mistake. Our marriage will not be a conventional one.” I needed to hold on to whatever power I could.

Undaunted, Milton pried my hand from the side of the boat and kissed my knuckles. His eyes twinkled as he answered, “I’m certain our marriage will be whatever you command.”

* * *

After a day spent conferring with Hannah over how best to reach Calais without running aground or afoul of French or British ships, I returned to my cabin expecting Milton to be there. I was conflicted. Weary, I wanted nothing more than to melt into his arms and forget myself again. But as I hesitated outside of the door to my cabin, a lingering knot tightened in my belly, one that refused to come undone.

Why had he brought up the discussion of marriage? All I wanted was freedom. But that had never been a part of our arrangement. Not two years ago—and not now.

Perhaps I was overreacting. After all, the past few weeks had proven that Milton and I had heat, chemistry, and camaraderie. What more could I hope for in a marriage? Even if the only time I let down my guard was when I pursued release in his arms. He soothed me. He helped me forget my worries.

That included forgetting the consequences of the future. The moment he left, I would ensure that I wasn’t with child and reclaim my life. During this trip, I hadn’t anticipated going to bed with a man, let alone sharing one with him every night this week. I didn’t want a child. Not now, perhaps not at all.

The past two years had been such a blissful release. I hadn’t had to consider marriage or babies. The future as he described it suffocated me. I laid a hand over my chest, steeling myself. One way or another, I had to face him. I’d already given him my answer, so perhaps he would not introduce the topic again.

I entered the room, certain I would find him inside it. With the lingering animosity of the crew, particularly Aludra and Tamara, he kept to himself while aboard. However, the only male currently warming my bed was Papillon. His slitted gaze spoke volumes to his enthusiasm over being interrupted. I trudged over to him, nevertheless. Leaning my rump against the mattress, I sighed.

I found the spot he liked behind his ears and scratched until his eyes slid closed. “What of you, Papillon? Do you miss running amok in the grass and flowers?” At Grand-mère’s house by the coast, he’d brought the cook gifts of mice almost every day. He still did, even though he was aboard a ship. In that respect, his life hadn’t much changed, had it?

He purred, contented.

Reluctant to move, I lifted the cat onto my shoulders. “I suppose we’d best follow Milton before Tamara hangs him by his heels from the crow’s nest.” I wouldn’t put it past her. Even if she would have to enlist the crew to hoist a man of his weight half that high.

The cat settled like a mantle along the back of my shirt, digging in his claws to maintain balance as I carefully made my way to the deck. As I opened the door to the quarterdeck, the wind brought a snatch of conversation to my ears from the poop deck above.

“You haven’t considered anything save for your own desires, have you?”

The voice, thick with venom, belonged to Aludra. She sounded more emotional than I’d heard her in months.

Stiffly, Milton answered, “I don’t know to what you are referring.”

I froze. For him to sound that detached, Aludra must be near to threatening him. I must save them both from this conversation. When I started forward, Papillon hissed a protest. He clawed at the opening to the door, snagging his claws in the wood. His back claws dug into my shoulders so I stopped, hissing in pain. Had I hurt him?

No, but he refused to release the doorway.

Aludra answered, “I’m referring to Jeanne.”

The wind brought the creak of the ship, the rustle of sails overhead, the distant calls of crew members as they performed routine duties. I almost didn’t hear Milton’s soft answer.

“What has she told you?”

“Nothing. I’m her first mate, not her confidant.”

When Tamara had served as my first mate, she had been both. However, she also had been one of the few who had helped to navigate these uncharted waters with me. She was more than a crew member; she was my friend. However much respect I had for Aludra, she’d joined the crew later and was so closed off with everyone that I tended to speak only of business with her.

“Then perhaps you ought to know the facts before you jump to conclusions.”

“I know for a fact she’s warming your bed.”

“Actually, I think I’m warming hers.”

Aludra’s voice didn’t warm at the joke. “Semantics,” she snapped.

The mirth left Milton’s voice, too. “I don’t see how this is any of your concern. Jeanne is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions.”

Inwardly cursing, I managed to free Papillon’s claws from the wood. He flexed them, threatening to shred the skin on my hands before he settled against my shoulders once more. However, even once I had him free, I didn’t move. I waited to hear more, running my fingers through the cat’s fur until he purred in my ear. It did little to loosen my suddenly stiff muscles.

Aludra answered, “Under any other circumstances, I would agree. But in this case, you are holding the safety of her crew over her head. She will do anything to see us safe. It’s why we follow her.”

“She’s a woman worthy of esteem.”

It sounded like an agreement, but I held my breath.

Aludra snapped, “Flattery will not help you. I’m stating the facts.”

“And they are?” His casual tone was lined with steel.

“That she has never before expressed an interest in marriage.”

“I understand you might have had a poor experience with marriage, but every situation is different. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Jeanne.”

I smiled, warmed by his words. The feeling was mutual.

But Aludra was right, too. Marriage had never been a goal I hoped to attain.

Softly, my first mate added, “I did not have a poor experience with marriage—I had a nightmare of a marriage. And that is what makes me qualified to say this, because I am more like Jeanne than you realize. I’m telling you this so you can save yourself a lot of pain, but especially so she doesn’t go through what I did.”

Milton didn’t argue. I didn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Jeanne will not make a landlocked wife. She has the salt of the sea in her blood. Perhaps you’re right. Your relationship and its particulars are between the two of you. But stop and ask yourself if what you want would make what she wants impossible. She isn’t made to be subservient.”

Aludra’s words were final, the end of a conversation. Shakily, I retreated with Papillon to my cabin. I shut the door and crossed to drop onto the bed before my legs gave out. The moment I did, the cat jumped to my lap. He curled up, purring vigorously in comfort. I combed my fingers through his fur, trying to take solace in his presence the way I had countless times before.

The finality of Aludra’s words cut me. She was right. I wasn’t made to be subservient. Was that what I could look forward to with him, the very thing I stole my ship to avoid?

Two years later, my fate seemed now unavoidable. What was worse, I’d surrendered to the chemistry and the passion and the bond between us. I had let myself get caught.

Chapter 13

Go Down With the Ship

With our parting imminent, I took advantage of every moment Milton and I had left. At night, our unions became bittersweet, all urgent touches and no talking. I fell asleep tense, but with the scent and the heat of Milton’s body, my muscles slowly unknotted. In the mornings, I left before he rose.

But my diligence was not wasted. At last, we reached Calais, where we would hopefully find Caleb. For Evelyn’s sake, we must.

She looked reed-thin as I held her hand between both of mine. In the light filtering in through the porthole, her skin was waxen. She looked as though she had turned skeletal inside a month. Evelyn had risked everything for her son, had devoted herself to bringing him a better life. It was clear she loved him so much she could not handle his loss.

Despite her appearance, her voice and grip were strong as she looked up at me. Her eyes were wide and wild. “Are you certain it’s him?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to lie to her, to raise hopes that might kill her if I had to dash them. “You know I can make no promises. However, we confirmed at multiple villages along the way that a boy matching Caleb’s description and two women passed through on their way to Calais. I think we have reason to hope.”

Her eyes shone with tears. “Please, Jeanne. Bring him home safe.”

I squeezed her hand. “I’ll do my best.”

When I stood, I found Aludra in the doorway. She had readied herself to depart for the mainland, hiding away her breeches and shirt in favor of skirts and tying her headscarf into a turban. Her expression was hard as she met my gaze. “May I have a moment with her? I’ll be out in a minute.”

She looked fiercer than ever. Nodding, I sidestepped her and left the room.

On the quarterdeck, I found Milton waiting. He looked impatient, his shoulders tense beneath his shirtsleeves and his expression impassive. The moment he saw me, his eyes brightened. “Are you ready?”

That look had transformed his face into one of hope. Perhaps a deeper emotion, as well. It wasn’t one I was ready to face. Relieved at his businesslike attitude, I shook my head curtly. “Aludra will be with us in a moment.”

The light in Milton’s face faded. “Are you certain it’s wise to bring her? The fewer people on the continent, the less chance we have of being discovered by French forces.”

I crossed my arms. “She speaks better French than you do, and she isn’t with the British Navy. By that logic, you should stay behind.”

He said nothing as he held my gaze, pressing his lips together in a tight line. The tension between us snapped as he looked away. “I vowed to carry this through to make amends.”

“I thought you were doing this for me.”

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “I can do both. Perhaps it’s patronizing of me, but I fear for the lives of two women alone. Particularly two unarmed women.”

“Aludra has proven that she is never unarmed. Neither am I, if needed.” This time, I had tucked a pistol into my garter. I preferred a sword, but there was no place to hide one.

Aludra stepped onto the deck, somehow looking like a vengeful warrior while swathed in the latest French fashion. She stormed up to us. “I’m ready. Thank you for waiting.”

Her churlish expression notwithstanding, there was something in the set of her shoulders that told me this meant something to her as well. She had been spending a lot of time with Evelyn after the rescue. Perhaps she didn’t want to see Evelyn worried to death any more than I did. I caught Aludra’s eye, trying to express without words that we were in this together. We would find Caleb.

Her determined expression reminded me of how she’d cornered Milton. She had cared enough to speak her mind regarding my future. If I had to leave the ship, Aludra would make a fine captain. I nodded to her and led the way to the dinghy.

Another figure, also dressed in skirts, waited by the boat. As Milton opened his mouth to protest Grand-mère’s inclusion, I elbowed him in the side. When he looked at me, I shook my head. If my grandmother wished to accompany us, she would find no arguments from me.

One by one, we climbed down the rope ladder to the boat lowered into the water below. Milton took the oars and rowed us to Calais.

* * *

Although Calais was smaller than Dover, our destination was more difficult to find. This time, we didn’t have the advantage of knowing where to search. Since Grand-mère and I each spoke fluent French without accents, we split into two groups to search the town. I volunteered for the more dangerous area of the docks in case Caleb had left aboard a ship. Milton accompanied me.

As we stepped away from the docks and the men working there, Milton brushed the back of my arm with his fingers. Tingles spread over my skin. When I spared a glance over my shoulder, I found him regarding me intently. My body tightened, anticipation thrumming through me. Even after weeks of sating our desires, he could still light my body on fire with a look and the brush of his fingers.

Leaning closer, Milton murmured in stilted French. “I want to tell you that no matter what happens today, I have truly loved my time with you.”

His words shivered through me, leaving me warm. I paused, turning to gage his sincerity. I’d never faced a more earnest man. Clenching my fists to keep from tracing the curve of his cheek, I answered softly. “I have, too. But we have work to do. This isn’t the time.”

I didn’t know if it would ever be the time. I didn’t know if I wanted it to be. Something unspoken lay between us, something that might change us if we let it into the light. I waited for his nod before I turned and led him into a tavern.

For a seaside tavern, it was surprisingly clean and bright. Polished wood tables were clustered together along with mostly empty chairs at this hour of the day.

I found the barkeep along the counter and approached him. “Excuse me, sir?”

I waited for him to turn to me with the expected smile and false air of welcome he delivered to customers. It didn’t take long. Since we were now deep in French territory, Milton and I had agreed that I should speak.

“I’m newly arrived in Calais and looking for my ward. His name is Caleb, and he is about nine years old, blond hair, and blue eyes. He is a bit scrawny for his age and just shy of four royal feet tall. He was traveling with two women claiming to be his aunts. I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

The barkeep lost his charm, looking pensive as he shook his head. Unfortunately, it was the same answer we had already been given by the sailors along the docks. At least we were reassured that Caleb hadn’t left on a ship. If he had reached Calais, we would find him.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.” With a sigh, I turned away.

A grizzled man nursing an ale at a nearby table stared at me with narrowed eyes. I nodded to him, tight-lipped, as I led Milton toward the exit. We would try the shopkeepers next.

As we stepped abreast of the man, he set down his tankard and cleared his throat. “I have a neighbor outside of town who took in her grandson recently. He meets that description.”

My breath caught, and I turned to him. After so many years in Britain and aboard my ship, my words nearly spilled out of me in English instead of French.

“Where does this neighbor live?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I felt as though I balanced on a knife’s edge. Depending on the stranger’s answer, I might topple over.

Rather than answer me immediately, the man raised his tankard to his lips and drank it down, his throat working. He wiped his beard as he stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

My heart turned a somersault. I swallowed back a rising tide of nervousness and wariness. As I stepped toward the door, I patted the pistol beneath my skirt. If need be, it would take me a heartbeat to reach it and defend myself. Not to mention, Milton accompanied me. Although he hadn’t brought his sword, he had a wicked dagger and a pistol concealed in his boot.

As we stepped outside, he looked stoic. How much of the conversation had he understood? His vocabulary was passible, but he tended to speak very slowly, not akin to a native Frenchman. At the speed with which the conversation had elapsed, I suspected the words might have escaped him.

Nevertheless, he made no protest as we followed the grizzled man through the streets of Calais to a wagon. He hitched it to a waiting donkey and motioned for us to climb aboard. “I am Louis. Come, you can ride in the wagon bed.”

I hopped up without protest, settling my skirts around me as I introduced myself and Milton. In a gruff voice, Milton said, “I would like to walk.”

The man shrugged. “Do as you will.”

Ten minutes later, Louis turned his donkey down a narrower drive than the dirt road leading out of town. The trees thinned to frame a modest farmhouse. The moment we neared the door, I hopped out of the wagon bed unassisted. Milton lengthened his stride to stand alongside me.

Once he drew his animal to a stop, Louis craned back his head and called for the lady of the house, Paulette. Moments cascaded into one another. I held my breath as I scanned the windows of the farmhouse, searching for a small blond head.

The door opened, revealing a middle-aged, round-faced woman. She shook out her skirts and patted down her apron. “What are you doing here at this hour, Louis? Shouldn’t you be in Calais?”

Louis offered her a lopsided smile as he slid out of the wagon’s seat. “I was sitting at the Thirsty Wench when this lady and gentleman arrived. These kind souls are looking for a boy that matches the description of your grandson. I know you said your daughter brought him in to stay with you for a while…”

I pressed my lips together. This woman was of no relation to Caleb, and we both knew it. The question was, did she trust me enough to admit it? As she turned her narrowed gaze to me, I stepped forward, my hands raised.

“Forgive the intrusion, madame, but this boy is my ward. I’ve been sent by his mother, who is very ill. May we see him? If he is not the boy, my friend and I will leave at once.”

The woman hesitated, the lines around her nose and mouth deepening. When she was nearly grimacing, she cocked her head and called, “Boy, come here, please.”

The slap of footsteps sounded indoors. A moment later, Caleb appeared behind her skirts, looking wary. He resembled his mother to such an extent that I recognized him instantly despite the months since I had last seen him. Relief coursed through me, making it easy to kneel in front of him. I offered him a genuine smile and spoke softly in English.

“Hello, Caleb. I’m Jeanne, a friend of your mother’s. Do you remember me?”

He edged farther out from behind the old woman’s skirt. “You’re Aunt Tammy’s friend, the captain of The Lady’s Gambit.”

I smiled. “Yes, I am. It’s time for you to come home, Caleb. Your mother is very worried.”

Tears filled his eyes, but he dashed them away before they fell. “She is still alive?”

“She is, and she’s waiting for you on board my ship with Aunt Tammy. They both would like to see you very much.” I held out my hand to him.

He didn’t hesitate before taking it.

* * *

Aludra helped Caleb into the rowboat, settling him at its prow before she assisted Grand-mère into it next. I remained on the shore to help Milton push it into the water.

He looked at the boat, his muscles tensing, but he didn’t approach. Instead, he caught my hand and tugged me away from the others. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

With no one else in earshot, he spoke English. After his horrendous French accent, it was a relief. Nevertheless, I scanned the shore to make certain no one had pursued us. We were safe. I followed him out of earshot of the others, motioning for them to wait.

The moment we were granted some semblance of privacy, I asked, “Is something amiss?”

He studied my face, intent. His gaze traced the curve of my lips, my cheekbones, the corkscrew curls pulling free of my bun. Finally, he met my eyes once more. “I know of a smuggler family not far from here. I can use them to return to England.”

His words coursed through me, leaving me feeling strangely empty in their wake. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying goodbye.”

My heart jumped into my throat. I wasn’t expecting this so soon, despite his intention to leave once we had found Caleb. I swallowed thickly. “Our arrangement…”

He cupped my cheek, his palm warm. “I’m releasing you from our wager.”

I felt like I just been hit with a bucket full of cold ocean water. “You don’t want to marry me?” I should feel relief, not this twisting in my gut.

“I think the issue is that you don’t want to marry me.”

I couldn’t say anything to that. Nothing truthful. When I didn’t answer, he retracted his hand. He flexed it at his side. His expression was impassive, but something in the set of his shoulders looked crestfallen. It hadn’t been the answer he wanted to hear.

Hastily, but honestly, I told him, “I don’t want to marry anyone.”

The corner of his mouth hitched up in a crooked smile. “Then you ought to stop making wagers you have no intention of honoring.”

After our time together, the thought of accepting another challenge felt sour. My confidence in my abilities notwithstanding, I doubted I would duel again anytime soon.

“So you’re…leaving? That’s it?”

Perhaps it was naïve, but I’d expected a more prolonged goodbye than this.

We didn’t even have proper privacy.

If he walked away now, our time together would feel empty and unfinished.

Leaning down, he pressed his forehead to mine. I shut my eyes, soaking in the contact and trying to maintain my equilibrium. He was one man. I’d been without him, on my own, for years. This freedom was what I had always wanted. But as our breaths mingled in the air between us, what I craved most was to kiss him again.

His voice rough, he said, “That’s it. I have my life to return to and you have yours. I hope they don’t cross again—professionally, at least.”

I recoiled, blinking away the tears in my eyes. After our time together, he had come to mean something to me. I hadn’t wanted to face the future because I hadn’t wanted to lose him, but neither had I wanted to lose my autonomy. I couldn’t have both.

Softly, Milton kissed me one last time, a sweet brush of his lips. As we parted, he lingered to brush the backs of his fingers across my cheek. Then he stepped away.

“You might be like all other women, Lady Quickblade, but to me there’s no one like you. Now, get into the boat. I’ll see you into the water, then make my own way.”

Tears choked me. I didn’t trust myself to say a word, so I turned and did as he said. As Aludra took charge of the oars, I twisted to watch the bank grow smaller and smaller. Long before his figure shrank from my view, he turned and walked away. He didn’t look back. I twisted in my seat to do the same.

Chapter 14

Leave a Legacy

Twilight descended slowly, casting purple shadows over the wide-open ocean. As I stared out over the lapping waves, the clear sky overhead twinkled with the first stars of the evening. The ship was silent, most of the crew below deck either sleeping or eating in the mess. Alone with only my thoughts and the sea, I should feel calm. Balanced. Whole. Instead, I felt as though my life had been cast in shadow. I couldn’t take a full breath.

I focused on my ship, trying to shake away this morose mood. Only three people remained on deck, two women and a young boy. Aludra was easy to spot with the way she shepherded Evelyn around the deck for exercise. During the past couple of weeks with Caleb on board, Evelyn’s health had improved drastically. Laughing, she batted away Aludra’s help and called for Caleb to get out of the rigging. With a groan even I heard, the boy dropped down to the deck and trotted after his mother. Although her face was too far away to discern, her smile was apparent in every line of her body as she ruffled her son’s hair. Despite Aludra’s overprotectiveness, I had every confidence that Evelyn would make a full recovery.

Tamara, too, seemed to be recovering from the guilt of losing her ship to the British. We’d gotten word to the others in the fleet. Our other ships patrolling for the lost crew were finding them and giving them sanctuary. Tamara was below deck now, and I could only imagine the tension between her and the crew. She had been a captain and at the helm of her own vessel for well over six months until the British had snatched the ship away. Although no one had asked me how she and Evelyn would fit into the hierarchy of the crew, the tension between Aludra and Tamara had mounted as the entire crew whispered suspicions that Tamara would step back into her role of first mate.

I hadn’t made a decision on that front yet. Most likely, if we were to stay this way, we would ask the crew to vote. It would rankle if I had to strip Aludra of a rank she so well deserved. I had half a mind to turn over the ship to Tamara and find a new path.

Don’t think like that. In the two years I had been at sea, I’d never considered leaving. I loved sea life too well. Without my ship, without my crew, I would be adrift. More so if I had to moor myself on land. No, this morose mood, this raw loss gnawing at my belly, would pass with time. All I had to do was keep going.

I sighed heavily and lifted my hands to press the heels against my aching eyes. I wanted to sleep, but my cabin brought me no solace. It was filled with memories that Milton and I had made. The times we were at our most cohesive. I wanted those memories to leave me alone.

“If you’re going to take your hands off the wheel, perhaps I should take over.”

I jumped at Grand-mère’s voice. I hadn’t noticed her approach. Taking a deep breath, I tried to pull myself together and act normal. This difficulty, this unease in my own skin, was why I had volunteered to take over the helm every night since Milton’s departure. That, and the silence. At night, no one lingered on deck to shoot me knowing looks or dance around the events of the past few weeks.

Although I felt far from serene, I dropped my hands. I took the wheel once more, making a small correction to our course. “I’m fine, Grand-mère. The sea spray caught in my eye, that’s all.”

Grand-mère harrumphed, punctuating the sound with the knock of her cane on the deck. “You never were a good liar.”

I met her gaze for the barest second before I looked away. There was too much shrewdness in her eyes, cutting through my thin veneer of serenity. Although I thought I had been doing an admirable job of convincing the crew I had not been hurt by Milton’s departure, Grand-mère watched me with bald sympathy. If she saw beneath my mask, what was the point in maintaining it? A wave of sadness crested, and I almost broke.

The thump of Grand-mère’s cane was softer this time as she took another small step toward me. In the twilight and the bobbing light of the lamp attached to a pole in the stern, her expression was soft. She beckoned me. “Why don’t you come over here and we’ll have a chat?” She gestured over my shoulder to the bench Hannah used for her work.

I swallowed before I trusted myself to speak. “I can’t, Grand-mère. I have to steer the ship.”

Lately, I felt the same about my life. I couldn’t stop or let up for a second. I had to keep steering.

My grandmother caught a dangling rope and looped it over the spokes, holding the wheel level for us to continue in a straight line. “There. That will keep it steady. The sails have already been clipped for the night, I see.”

Was it that easy? My lower lip trembling, I let my hands fall from the wood. “I can’t just walk away. What if…?”

Grand-mère gripped my elbow in a gentle but firm grasp. “We aren’t going to jump off the deck. I promise, if we see an iceberg, I’ll let you return to the wheel.”

“We’re too far south to find an iceberg,” I protested, even as I let her lead me away.

“Thank heavens for that! Can you imagine how cold it would be if we were sailing among gigantic chips of ice?”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t help but smile. “Grand-mère…”

“Come here a moment.” She sat on the bench, still clutching my arm. I perched on the edge but glanced out over the ocean rather than look at her. Gently, she reached out and patted beneath my puffy eyes with her fingertips. “You look as though you haven’t been sleeping.”

If I was so poor a liar, I shouldn’t lie. “It’s the stress of responsibility. I have to find a place for Tamara and Evelyn.”

The old woman grunted. “This isn’t stress, and you know it.”

The accusation stung. I stared at my hands trembling in my lap. I didn’t want to admit the weakness that I felt upon being left behind. Shouldn’t I have had a say in what Milton had chosen for us?

But would I have chosen any different? I knew myself better. This was for the best. Knowing the reason behind the decision didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Have I ever told you about my first husband?”

I glanced up, narrowing my eyes. Slowly, I shook my head. Grand-mère hadn’t told me much about her life at all, except for bits and pieces.

She joined me in looking over the stern toward the ripples we left in our wake. “I first married when I was young and naïve and the world was full of possibility. When he courted me, I thought he would lay the world at my feet. And he did…until I said yes. But I fancied myself in love, and I held onto that sentiment long past when it died.”

Silence surrounded us, thick and choking.

After a moment, the old woman whispered, “There is no love without mutual respect.”

She sounded pain, even after all these years later. I didn’t know how to console her. “I’m sorry…”

I had rescued so many women from poor situations in the past couple of years. Somehow, I’d never thought of my grandmother as being akin to them. But she had been. She’d confessed as much our first night. I’d simply forgotten it when it was convenient to me.

Grand-mère sighed. “Yes, well, he died young. There was no love lost between me and his family. I had no choice but to marry again. And so I did, to your grandfather. This time, I had no grand illusions. It wasn’t so bad…as marriages go.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Is this supposed to sound encouraging? I no more want a marriage now than I did five minutes ago.”

The old woman chuckled. She patted my knee. “I’m not trying to convince you to get married. You know I would never do that.”

Her matter-of-fact tone brought tears to my eyes. I nodded. It seemed insufficient. My voice cracked as I whispered, “Have I…have I ever told you how wonderful you are?”

Grand-mère smiled and cupped my cheek. “It’s you who are wonderful. You are brave and smart and responsible and kind. I don’t know how your father managed to raise a woman so unlike himself, but I’m glad he didn’t stamp out your spirit. Without you, I wouldn’t be here, finally in control of my life after fifty years of doing what was expected of me.”

Tears overfilled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I drew back to brush at them. “I don’t think I’d be here without you, either. Somehow, I don’t think I would’ve gotten far.”

Grand-mère scoffed. “Oh, you would have managed. You’re resourceful like that. Do you recall our first night aboard? Not one of us knew how to steer a ship!”

I laughed. “Lexi did.”

“In theory. It was you, all of you, who put it into practice. I’ve never felt so alive or proud as I have while watching you grow into your own women.”

I blinked away more tears, my throat thick as I leaned my head against her shoulder. But I smiled, thinking of those naïve women who had come aboard our first night, believing themselves invincible. “We did all right for ourselves, didn’t we?”

Grand-mère patted my knee. “That, you did.”

The silence wrapped around us as we sat like that, companionable this time. I drew in a deep breath, then another, finally feeling that horrible weight on my chest start to lift. Yes, I was sad and regretful and angry at the way Milton had ended our time together. But with the support of my family, I would persevere. And Grand-mère was right. I was resourceful.

On the deck, Aludra, Evelyn, and Caleb went down to the mess. With them gone, I felt as if Grand-mère and I were starting this frightening journey all over again. A new beginning, having cast off the past.

Except this time, I didn’t want to cast away everything.

“I didn’t have to marry again, you know. After your grandfather died, I could have lived with you and your father in Sainte-Domingue. Perhaps I should have. But I thought marriage was the only path for me to take, so I found a like-minded friend. We had a very happy marriage.”

I lifted my head. “You did?”

Grand-mère gave me a watery smile. “Oh, yes. You don’t think he would have moved heaven and earth to entail me the estate if we didn’t like each other, do you?”

I suppose I hadn’t considered how she had come by the estate. “I…never met him.”

She was still smiling, although it was bittersweet. “He was a kind man, and a good friend when I needed him. I miss him often.” She laughed and shook her head. “He would have hated sea life.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle along with her. “Then why do you think of him so fondly?”

Grand-mère’s smile grew, her gaze distant as if she were peering into the past. “Because love comes more than once in this lifetime, and it comes in all different forms. He would have hated this life, but if I’d asked, I think he would have tried it. For me. He would have been every bit as proud to see you girls take charge of your lives.”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, suddenly afraid to ask a question that seemed too personal. “Why didn’t you ask?”

Why hadn’t I asked Milton to stay? Asked for more time to consider our future. Asked… Asked to make the decision rather than having it made for me.

“I was raised always to think of my husband, never myself.” She narrowed her eyes at me, her expression cutting. “I want you to think of what is best for you.”

Logically, Milton had made the right choice, the difficult choice for us both. I didn’t want to live caged. This, captaining my ship, becoming a thorn in Napoleon’s side, and doing what I could to help other women in need—this was what I had been born to do. As much as it hurt, as much as I would have liked to come to the same decision on my own, Milton’s choice was best for me.

He had truly loved me, truly understood me, if he was willing to make that choice to ensure my happiness. I didn’t feel happy now, but I would with time.

My throat ached with unshed tears as I tried valiantly to smile. “Like you said, love comes around more than once in this lifetime.”

Grand-mère squeezed my hand. “That doesn’t mean you should show it the door when it does come. What is right for you?”

The tears choked me as they poured onto my cheeks. I shook my head, my voice high. “I don’t know.”

I sounded so lost, so set out to sea. Hearing my own voice made it that much more real. “I don’t want to leave the ship, but I’m afraid I made a mistake. I…I love him.”

Gently, Grand-mère wiped my tears from my cheeks. “I know, cherie. But there are more than two possibilities. Two years ago when he first proposed, your choices were to say yes or to say no. You absconded in the night with the ship instead, and it was the right decision for us all.”

I blinked hard, trying not to melt into a complete watering pot. “If I get married, I’ll lose my freedom. I’ll be property in the eyes of the law. I’ll be bound to his bidding.”

We rescued women every week who had no power of their own until we gave it to them. I never wanted to be in that position again, and there was no court in any country that would sign in my favor.

Grand-mère chuckled and pinched my cheek. “Oh, I doubt any man could bind you, not even Milton. But again, you’re looking at this as though there are only two options: marry him or leave him. I thought those were the only options, too, when I was growing up. But you, my dear, you’ve rewritten all the rules. Were you happy while he was on board?”

I swallowed hard. “Deliriously so. I always knew it would end.”

“Because you won’t leave the ship.”

I nodded. “And he cannot stay on it.”

There it was, written plain as day. What we wanted was too disparate. There was no happy ending for us both.

Grand-mère retracted her hand and threaded her fingers through mine. “It sounds as though you both have something very important to you, and in both cases, it involves the sea. You will survive without him. I think you’ll grow even stronger. But if you were happy? I don’t want to see you lose your joie de vivre, not for a second. A love that is built on mutual respect, support, and freedom…that might be worth seeking innovation.”

More tears bubbled up, and I was helpless to stop them. “He’s already left. If we ever meet again, we’ll be enemies. Our time has passed.”

It sounded so achingly, painfully final. When Grand-mère wrapped her arm around me, I relaxed into her embrace.

“Promise me you won’t close doors on yourself. That’s what freedom truly is. Whatever your past, Jeanne, I want you to be happy. Promise me you’ll seek happiness.”

I was tired. Far too tired for this conversation. Wearily, I mumbled, “I will, Grand-mère. But…not today.”

I didn’t know if there was a solution. But beneath all this bone deep weariness, a fire burned in me. I wanted to have a voice.

Chapter 15

Live By Your Own Rules

Like a wolf cornering prey, we trapped a fast-moving supply ship on its way to resupply the French Navy. Chaos reigned on the ship as my crew jumped to Aludra’s cues, scrambling up and down the rigging, clipping and unfurling sails, turning them to catch the right breezes to gain ground on the other ship. Other crewmembers waited by the guns, their bodies vibrating with tension. The flag woman worked like mad, signaling for surrender from the supply vessel. As it sailed up the rocky coast, it made no indication it was ready to surrender.

My crew’s enthusiasm was infectious. As I stood on the poop deck next to Grand-mère at the helm, Hannah at stern, and Tamara in between us, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. This was the exhilaration I had felt shortly after stealing my ship. This was freedom. And it was making a difference in the war, however small.

Next to me, Hannah called out obstacles she spotted with the spyglass as she scanned the rocks ahead. Grand-mère wore a broad grin as she deftly turned the ship to avoid every one of them. The wind whipped in my curls, and I gripped the front rail of the poop deck hard. As I held my breath, I realized we were gaining on the supply ship. But would we be fast enough? Soon, the enemy ship would sail past the rocky outcropping of cliffs and into the open sea, where we wouldn’t have it hemmed in. A small vessel like that was much more skilled at maneuvering than we were.

My heart in my throat, I watched us chase the ship down and hoped.

Yards away from the end of the cliffs, a fleet of three ships sailed into view in front of the supply ship, cutting off its escape. They surrounded it, leaving the supply ship no choice but to clip its sails and weigh anchor. Hannah gasped, dropping the spyglass from her eyes.

“It’s the British!”

Would they open fire upon us? My stomach flipped as my blood turned cold. But as I shouted the order to fall back, I could only think of one face in my mind’s eye.

Milton. Would I always think of him when I was staring down a British ship?

From high in the rigging, Cassaundra shouted down, her voice thinned by the wind and distance. “They’re signaling to parlay!”

Tamara scowled, crossing her arms. “With us or with the French?”

I couldn’t imagine any British Navy vessel talking terms with the French, but I didn’t have an answer.

With everyone staring at me, I had to make my decision quickly. Could it be a friendly ship? Or they might not have recognized us yet.

After clearing my throat, I shouted, “Furl the sails and come in slow. Everyone at the ready if this turns out awry.”

With only one hand to steady the wheel, Grand-mère lifted the spyglass to her eye. She still hadn’t lost her grin. “Oh, I’m not so certain it will.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

She held out the spyglass to me. “Haven’t you recognized the ship on the right?”

When I took the spyglass from her, I found the words on the side of the ship at once. The Lady’s Fortune. Tamara’s lost ship. “The Fortune?”

Tamara clenched her fists so hard her knuckles creaked. Her expression black, she muttered under her breath about the fate she would dole out to those navy dogs.

Grand-mère, on the other hand, looked hopeful. I read the optimism in her face and shook my head. “We have no guarantee that Milton is in command. The ship will have been given to another captain, he said it himself.”

The lead and biggest British ship broke off from the formation, leaving the Fortune and its companion to surround the supply ship. I grimaced, knowing we had lost the spoils. The British Navy would take them for themselves. Despite resigning myself to disappointment, I couldn’t stifle the butterflies in my stomach. The ship asking for parlay, could it be Milton’s?

The ship weighed anchor too far away to determine more than the color of the uniforms of the men on board—navy blue.

From her station as flag woman, Cassaundra relayed a request from the other ship, “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

I nodded curtly and hollered back, “Granted.”

I could barely speak around the lump of anticipation in my throat. Could it be? I turned, meeting Hannah’s gaze. She gave me an encouraging smile. I bit my lip and held my position.

I hadn’t seen Milton in well over a month. In that time, I’d had plenty of opportunity to think. Right now, with at least forty members of my crew stirring around me and speculating amongst themselves, I had precious little attention to spare for logical thought. I scanned my crew, all of which had become acquainted with Milton during his stay. Near the rail stood Magdalena, the curvaceous Spanish spitfire who shot first and asked questions later, who I’d rescued from a volatile situation in a port in northern Portugal. She, like many of the others, was restless, keeping her pistols within easy reach and maintaining her position near the canons. Across the deck, with her head leaning close to Lexi, was Elspeth, the pale wisp of a thing with a perpetual sunburn on her cheeks to match her flaming hair. With a surprisingly comprehensive vocabulary of profanities, she had joined us near Scotland upon fleeing a broken home. She and Lexi weren’t the only pair engaged in gossip. Those not on edge and ready to fight shot looks at me that I endeavored to ignore. When I turned my attention back to the sea, a small dinghy had been lowered from the bigger ship into the water and was rowing to us. I swallowed hard. Whoever it was, I would meet him soon. After wiping my damp palms on my breeches, I climbed down the steep steps to the quarterdeck to meet the ship.

A single man climbed aboard, the others giving him a wide berth as he swung his legs over the rail to stand among us. Milton. Silence fell, ruptured only by whispers from the women who pretended to be busy with other matters. With twenty paces yet between us, I paused to straighten my cuffs and shirt. The nervous flutters in my belly strengthened as I crossed toward him, feigning boldness. In my mind’s eye, I hadn’t expected him to change from the man he’d been when he’d left me on the shores of Calais. He’d shaved his short beard and stubble, leaving clean, smooth skin. His uniform was starched and pressed, as formal as if he was on his way to meet a prince. But as he met my gaze, his mouth tipping up in a smile, his eyes were every bit as wicked and unrestrained as our nights together. Breathless, I crossed the last few feet to stand in front of him. I opened my mouth, but I found that I’d lost my voice.

In the weeks we’d been apart, I’d been so dreadfully lonely. He made me happy, and I thought, if given a chance, we could be happy again. But I didn’t want that happiness to come at the price of my freedom. But we might have a way if he would agree to an unorthodox arrangement…

Nothing about our time together had been straightforward thus far, so why would our ending be?

Nevertheless, I couldn’t force the words out.

His expression unreadable, Milton lifted a folded sheet of paper. “You sent me a letter.”

The twitters among the crew that had gathered around us fell silent as they strained their ears to hear him.

I swallowed hard, not enjoying the spectacle we made. But if he agreed to my terms, our relationship would be no secret among the crew. Perhaps I could show some vulnerability in front of them, if only to prove my earnestness. “You didn’t give me the opportunity to respond when you left. I had things to say.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Which were?”

I nodded to the page in his hand. “I think the letter suffices to explain them.”

His gaze never left my face despite the women jostling around us for a better view. “Tell me to my face.”

There was something urgent in his expression, something that begged me not to decline. I licked my dry lips and straightened my shoulders. When I felt courageous enough, I looked him in the eye and confessed, “I don’t want to be enemies. We cause no trouble to the British Navy if I can help it, and I promise I’ll endeavor to continue in that vein.”

He tapped one finger against the page, fluttering in the sea breeze. “And?”

I swallowed hard, tasting my fear. Nothing about him in that moment screamed a man in love, willing to do anything not to lose me. I took a deep breath and answered him anyway. “I don’t think our only options are marriage or nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes and studied me for a moment. I held still, not even daring to breathe as I waited for his response. When I said nothing more, he tucked the paper into his pocket, the movement slow and calculated.

“If you’re through with what you have to say, I think it’s my turn.”

I love you.

I couldn’t force the words out, so I bit my lip and nodded. I might have misjudged him. What if he had left, not out of respect for my freedom, but because he hadn’t wanted a future with me? The butterflies tried to consume me from the inside. I rubbed my belly to silence them.

Milton took one last step forward and claimed my hand. “I’ve fallen deeply, irrevocably, madly in love with you, Jeanne Quickblade. I don’t want to be your enemy. If marriage doesn’t suit you, I don’t want it either. I want you on your terms.”

His words rumbled through me, a tingle that started in our joined fingers and swept higher. And lower.

He released me and tucked his hand into his pocket again to emerge with a different piece of paper, this one sealed. “And I want you as my ally.” He held out the envelope.

My throat thick, I drew in a much needed breath and blinked my watering eyes. “What is this?”

“I think the letter suffices to explain.” A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

My hand trembling, I broke the seal and unfolded it. It wasn’t a letter at all, as I discovered when my head started to spin. It was a royal pardon and a privateer’s license. I couldn’t believe it. The piece of paper in my hand was priceless. With wonder, I looked up to meet his gaze once more. “I tried to convince the Navy to grant me a license years ago.”

I still remembered their abject, cruel refusal on the basis of my gender.

Milton seemed to understand the burn of anger I felt along with the relief and wonder. “In a just world, it would not have taken my campaigning to change their minds. I can be rather persuasive when I put my mind to it. In this case, your exploits made it easy to convince them that you would be better served as Britain’s asset than it’s enemy.”

“No threat of the hangman’s noose…” I scanned the paper again, but it didn’t give the answers I sought. “Only for me, or for all of my crew?”

My entire body seemed to hover on a razor’s edge as I awaited the answer. No matter what, I would never put my crew in danger. Would a privateer’s license be worthwhile if I had to accept the Navy’s men in place of the women I’d lived with and trusted these past two years?

Milton answered, “For your entire fleet. I’ll admit, I don’t know how many that is, hence why it isn’t specified. You will be granted a rank in the Navy, and you will all have to deal with a particular point of contact—me. Which means I’ll have to be seeing a lot more of you to relate orders and such.”

Behind me, Tamara harrumphed. “Orders?”

She didn’t sound approving.

He paid her only the briefest attention before switching his gaze to me once more. “I tried to add the Fortune into the deal, but I fell short on that account. The rest of your fleet is included, however. Largely, you’ll be able to continue operating as you have been, terrorizing the French and keeping the goods you acquire save for a small tariff. But you’ll fly under the Union Jack. And from time to time, if the Navy needs reinforcements, your gunships may be called on to serve. It’s all there, and in more detail, in the license.”

The license, the second page after the pardon, was a mess of legal jargon that I had to concentrate with difficulty to understand. Fortunately, I had women aboard my ships more fluent in these sort of legal matters. I stared at the page with unshed, happy tears in my eyes and my chest tight with emotion. I’d wanted this for myself and my friends two years ago. Now, I had freedom in my hands, thanks to the man who had championed me to the government body who had dismissed me out of turn. I wanted to think I might have been able to do it myself, but realistically…

Milton cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “You…you haven’t said anything.”

I blinked my eyes hard to banish the tears. Donning the mantle of responsibility once more, I folded the page and tucked it into my belt for safekeeping. I met his gaze boldly. “I will have to put the matter to a vote among my crew and the other ships in the fleet. I cannot presume to answer for anyone other than myself.”

The thump of a cane hailed Grand-mère joining us. She plucked the pardon from my belt and flipped it open to read it, muttering under her breath. “Mon dieu. I suppose this means we will no longer be on the wrong side of the law. And here I fancied myself going out in a blaze of glory at the end of the hangman’s noose, with songs sung about me.”

With a watery chuckle, I shook my head. “I’m afraid your life won’t be cut short any time soon, I promise.”

Despite her protests to the contrary, she didn’t look all that disappointed. She winked. “Unless we’re captured by the French.”

Milton teased, “You’d probably have them fighting for you by the end of the day.”

For the first time in my life, I watched my grandmother blush. She handed the letter back to me. “Oh, posh.”

Milton clenched and unclenched his fists. “Jeanne, not to pry, but your entire crew is staring, and you haven’t said a word other than business.”

I blinked up at him, not quite comprehending his meaning. “Oh?”

“About…” He cleared his throat. “You and I.”

Three words that made my body tremble with anticipation. They conjured memories of tangled linens and kisses so hot they burned away my fears about tomorrow. I let my gaze travel down his broad shoulders and arms, admiring him. Until I noticed the way he flexed his hands, nervous.

He looked away, then returned his gaze to me. “I feel rather adrift at the moment, I have to admit. This is the part when I would ask for your hand in marriage, but I think you’ve made it rather clear you aren’t interested. So, Jeanne, will you take me for, erm…”

I bit my lower lip hard, but still couldn’t stifle my smile. “Bed sport?”

Was he blushing? He flashed me a short, devastating smile. “Well, that, among other things. Will you take me to have and hold whenever our duties allow? Which, since you’re the commander of your fleet and I’m your point of contact, I imagine it will bring us together with some permanency. At least for the duration of the war. After that…”

He was babbling. He was nervous. For me? I rescued him by standing on tiptoe and kissing him flush on the mouth. His arms encircled me as he pulled me closer, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. My ears rang with the whoops and catcalls of the crew.

When I dropped down onto my heels once more, I murmured, “We’ll find a way. Yes, I’ll have you. I love you.”

His mouth tipped up in a smile that made my toes curl. “That’s a relief, because I would move heaven and earth to keep us together.”

When he leaned down to kiss me, I met him halfway. As I melted into his embrace, I heard Hanna’s distinctive sigh.

“And she didn’t think him romantic. If only I found someone to move heaven and earth for me.”

Grand-mère chuckled. “Give it time, my dear. There’s more than one way to find happiness and, yes, even love. And with this pardon, I sense our lives are about to change. You may be surprised…”

About Harmony Williams

Harmony Williams is an unrepentant tea lover, book addict, and nerd. She lives in Ontario, Canada with her partner and their 100lb lapdog, Edgar.

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Pirate’s Treasure

by Mariah Stone

A Time Travel Romance

Chapter 1

City of Pirates Museum, Jade Island, The Bahamas, August 2019

Samantha

“He’s so handsome.” I nudge my best friend, Lisa, in the ribs. “And yet he couldn’t find a date for the ball.”

“James ‘Prince’ Barrow, 1690-1720,” reads the sign below the portrait of a pirate who looks like Prince Charming.

“Who wouldn’t go to a ball with him, Samantha?” Lisa says. “No man can look this dreamy.”

Forgetting the tour guide watching us, I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t.”

James Barrow reminds me of Lisa’s ex, with his pretty face and his nose held high. The conceited, arrogant, pleased-with-himself type who thinks the world belongs to him.

James Barrow’s golden hair falls in soft curls to his shoulders. What color are his eyes? Blue? No, they’re a bit unusual. Violet? I thought the only people with violet eyes were heroines in romance novels. It must be the artist’s touch or the aging paint. Thick golden brows arch over his eyes. Today, he could be a Hollywood star or a pop singer that teenage girls secretly cry over.

Not a pirate.

“The other guy is my type,” I say pointing at the portrait hanging next to this one. Cole the Black.

He’s handsome, too, but in a more brutal way. His hair long and dark, his eyes almost black under his low eyebrows—everything about him screams danger. The type of man with whom I have an understanding: no commitments, just one night of no-holds-barred, panty-melting sex.

Between the portraits hang two identical golden necklaces with jade stone pendants, and a note “replicas” under them.

“Well, Cole the Black does look like your type, Samantha,” Lisa says. “He needs someone to love his lost soul, just like you.”

I snort. Lisa and her compulsion for romance. That’s what got her here, so heartbroken. Just open your heart for a jerk to step on, to laugh at you, and to destroy your soul. Exactly why I’m not getting involved in anything serious anymore. It’s a pain I know all too well.

Memories tighten my airways and my heart races. The heat is not helping. There’s no air conditioning, and the opened windows of the building let in the scorching August air from the vastness of the Atlantic and cloudless blue sky. It smells like pear, mango, and hot stones. But I’m not complaining! The whole vacation is a pleasant contrast with New York and probably the last bit of relaxation I’ll get for the next few years due to the big promotion that awaits me.

The guide raises his eyebrows in surprise and chuckles. He is a man in his sixties, local to the islands. He has a bright red headscarf on, a simple white T-shirt, a necklace of colorful beads around his neck, and the most astonishing thing of all…

A live snake.

It slithers around his neck, its split tongue flickering and trembling in the air. It makes my skin crawl. The man—his name is Adonis, and I’m sure it’s a nickname—has assured us it’s not poisonous. I am not sure I believe him. I only agreed to take the private tour in the hope that Lisa would be too distracted by the snake to think about Hank. I didn’t think pirates and history would be interesting at all. So far, I’ve been completely wrong about both. I’m supposed to be the badass between Lisa and me, but surprisingly—or perhaps not, considering she owns a pet hotel—Lisa loves the snake. And I find the museum fascinating.

Adonis pats the snake’s head, the gesture so freakish it makes my bones freeze. “Cole the Black split the bounty from their combined raid on one of the Spanish ships that transported valuables from the colonies back to Spain. Attending the ball was the only way to get the last clue to the location of the treasure. James was lucky he got the Marquis de Bouchon and his wife’s invitation, but it wasn’t enough. The governor’s staff wouldn’t have admitted him had he gone alone, and he couldn’t hire a local prostitute to act as his wife,” Adonis said. “The governor knew every single one, so he would have called his bluff right away. Without a woman to help James get to the ball, he never got the treasure. Tired of a sailing a long time without profit, his crew mutinied and he lost his ship. He was ready to retire, get married, buy a villa, and lead a peaceful life, but instead he was imprisoned by the Royal Navy and hanged in Bristol. His noble family was there, watching their pirate son hang.”

Cold sweat trickles down my back, imagining old gray England and that gorgeous man hanging by the neck, dying. I want to yell at him to find someone, to save himself.

“So did he want the treasure to stop the mutiny?” I ask.

“Yes,” Adonis says. “He had never seen piracy as the way to live forever. He even met a woman once, a pirate captain, wanted to settle down with her.”

“But he didn’t marry her, I assume?” I say.

“That’s right.” The snake turns and looks at me, its tongue darting in the air. I shiver.

“Anne betrayed him during their raid on the Spanish ship, and James had to lie low from the British Navy for a long time afterward.”

“That must have broken James’s heart,” Lisa says.

Adonis nods. “It did. But at least Cole kept his word and hid James’s part of the treasure.”

“See!” Lisa exclaims. “I told you, Cole was just a lost soul. He could have taken all the treasure for himself, but he didn’t. He just needs love to open up his heart.”

I shake my head. “I’m astonished you are still a hopeless romantic even after the breakup.”

Adonis chuckles and seems to exchange a knowing look with a snake. Could he be any weirder?

“So that no one else could get the treasure,” Adonis continues, “Cole created three clues to its location. The first was the island map, the second was the exact location of the treasure on the map. James found both of those. The only thing he was missing were the coordinates of the island.”

A sense of adventure begins to sizzle through my blood like a drug. It’s intoxicating.

“And somehow the governor got the last clue,” I say.

“Yes. The governor arrested a pirate who was supposed to give the coordinates to James. Of course, the governor didn’t know exactly what he had. Cole had hidden the coordinates in a Chinese cricket box he’d picked up when he’d raided the ship of an Asian merchant.”

Lisa frowns. “A cricket box? What’s that?”

I know the answer to that. “It’s like one of those Japanese puzzle boxes that looks like a box of solid wood, and you have to guess where to push, press, and slide to open it.”

Adonis chuckles. “You are very right, madame. How do you know?”

“My grandpa was Japanese. He collected those puzzle boxes and let me play with them. I loved watching him open them.”

Adonis cocks his head, and his dark eyes glimmer. “If James had been able to steal the box and get it open, maybe he would have lived a very different life.”

“I wish he had found a woman who could help him,” Lisa says, and Adonis seems to hide a smile.

“Was the treasure found?” I ask.

“Yes. Eventually. These two necklaces”—he points at the jade pendants—“are their replicas. Two identical necklaces, for two noble twin sisters in Spain. Cole put one in James’s half and kept one for himself.”

I study the necklace. It’s pretty. The gold is pale, the oval jade pendant encrusted in a sun-like ornament. “Why jade?” I ask.

“They say in voodoo, jade is the gem of love, so strong, people can find each other anywhere. Even through time.”

As he says that, the world seems to stand still—only his lips move, and the snake. A shiver runs through me, as if someone just poured a bucket of snow over my head. Find each other through time? What nonsense. And why is he looking at me like that?

I exchange a look with Lisa, and she looks as amused as I am. Voodoo, time travel, love. Right. I want to snort, but I don’t want to offend Adonis, or his pet snake…

“Would you like to try it on?” Adonis asks.

“What?” I say. “Aren’t we forbidden from touching stuff in a museum?”

Adonis smiles. “Not when I am your tour guide.”

Lisa looks at me. “Yeah! Why not. They are replicas anyway, right?”

He removes the necklaces and hands us one each. The metal is cool and smooth in my hands, and it starts to buzz ever slightly. No, it must be just the contrast with the heat. The jade is so pretty. It has all these shades and swirls of gorgeous green, from light to dark, probably different layers of stone from ancient times to more recent.

“Yes, just replicas,” Adonis says. “Put them on. Go on.”

“I don’t know,” I say and shake my head. I hold the necklace out to him. “What if the guard comes? Aren’t we going to get into trouble?”

Adonis winks. “The guard won’t come. I promise. When else will you have a chance to try on a pirate treasure?”

Lisa looks at me, I look at her and we nod to each other, barely noticeable. “All right,” I say. “A fun thing to do. Something to remember in New York.”

As I put the necklace on and the stone touches my ribcage, something begins to happen. It’s as if the air around me contracts and pushes me from all sides. I can’t breathe. The colors around me smudge, and everything is a blur.

“What’s happening?” I yell and try to remove the necklace. But I can’t feel my body.

All I can hear is the snake’s ominous hiss.

“You are traveling back in time to help James. To return, you must put on the necklace.”

This is insane!

“Lisa, don’t put it on!” I yell, but I don’t know if she heard me because she just stands there.

He must have put some drug on the necklace, because I feel as if the pressure is crushing me, as if I’m getting smaller and smaller, and the wind is blowing at me from all sides, and then there’s a strange rocking sensation under my feet.

And then the world goes dark.

Chapter 2

Waters near Nassau, The Bahamas

August 1718

James

The sun setting behind the windows of my cabin lights the hand-drawn map of the island in my hand in a red-orange glow. A perfect color for the volcano indicated in the center of the island. Cole, you smart and fearless bastard. A dormant volcano is a good guard for the treasure chest.

Sea Prince rocks gently on the waves. My cabin is filled with the scent of sea and sandalwood, of the ship that has been my home for years, but that no longer feels like home.

I crave the scent of earth, of tropical flowers and growing things. I want to build a home on the solid ground and earn an honest living. I want the companionship of a dependable woman who won’t betray me.

I do not want to look over my shoulder anymore. Do not want to court danger.

I want peace.

But it looks as though I will not get it. I do not have the island’s coordinates. And without a woman to attend the ball with me tonight, I will never get them…

A sudden movement catches the corner of my eye, and I jump to my feet, whirling around, pistol in hand.

A woman lies on the floor where a moment ago I could swear there was empty space.

I blink and strain my eyes to make sure I am really seeing her. Was she sent to me to make my wish come true? Did God decide to smile on me? She lies on her side, one arm outstretched, her bright yellow gown revealing the curves of her breasts. Her arms are completely nude, whereas her legs are covered almost till her feet. She’s wearing strange shoes, her scandalously exposed feet held to the soles only with thin straps. Her long raven-black hair is loose and spread on the floor. Her eyes are closed, her face serene and beautiful.

Is she a spy? A thief who came looking for clues to the treasure? A prostitute hired by my crew?

“Who are you? How did you get here?” I demand.

Her eyelashes begin to flutter. She stirs and moans a little. Then her eyes open and they’re dark and deep and full of confusion. She takes in everything, as though she is seeing a different world.

“What’s going on?” she mutters, her voice deep and melodic, with an accent resembling one from the colonies. She looks me over carefully, and then the meaning of a gun pointed at her seems to register. She pushes against the floor and sits up. Her eyes widen in fear, and her full lips part.

“I repeat the question,” I say. “Who are you?”

She shakes her head then raises her chin, although fear still lurks behind her eyes. “I’m Samantha Gilbert. How the hell did I get here? Did you bring me here? What do you want?”

Samantha Gilbert. She sounds so sincere, but I will be damned if I believe her. Anne taught me the lesson of never trusting beautiful women. I walk around the desk towards her and watch with satisfaction as her eyes crawl over me and she swallows. Then she frowns as though in recognition. If she is afraid, she is right to be. I will not tolerate thieves or spies on my ship, no matter how pretty.

“Miss Gilbert,” I say, “I did not bring you anywhere. You came here, to me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She rises to her feet, and I can’t help appreciating the view. She is petite and slender, the hemispheres of her breasts protruding deliciously under the freely falling material of her dress.

Whoever sent her, they chose right because she is very distracting.

And for just a fraction of a second, I lose my focus admiring her, and she darts to the doors. But I have been trained for this, have fought battles where a moment thinner than a hair means the difference between life and death.

My hand lands on the doors just as hers reach the handle. She is panting, pinned between my body and the doors. Her scent reaches me—sun, coconut, and something citrusy. My pulse beats loudly in my ears.

I gently turn her around to face me. And as I meet her dark eyes, I have to remind myself to stay in the moment and not drown in their beauty.

“And where is it that you are going, Miss Gilbert?” I ask.

“Away from you and your gun. Where am I?” she says, her voice a croak.

I narrow my eyes, looking for any sign that she is playing me. She is an excellent actress; she seems utterly sincere. But her questions do not make sense. If she came for the clues, would trying to seduce me not be a better tactic? If she is a whore, why is she behaving as though someone placed her here without her knowledge?

“If you are a jest of one of my crew,” I say, “I am not laughing. It is obvious that you came for something, and are pretending—very poorly, I must say—that you lost your memory.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not pretending.”

“If you are a whore, which”—my gaze travels down her body, and her cheeks flush—“judging by your attire is the most likely option, I am not in the mood.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” she yells. “How dare you!”

“Who are you then? Who sent you?”

She swallows and looks around the room, frowns, and then her face relaxes as though in revelation. I do not care for it. She smiles and crosses her arms. They brush against my chest and send a light buzzing through my veins.

“I get it, Mr. Barrow,” she says, “I just need to help you get to the ball. We find Cole’s treasure. I win the escape room.”

She finally admits it—she is here for the treasure. I knew it was all just a ploy. I must learn how she found out and who is behind this.

“How do you know about Cole’s treasure?” I ask.

“Come on. I’ve been in the museum. Adonis is a great guide. You have the map of the island and the location of the treasure. Now you just need the coordinates. And to get them, you need a date. I’m your date. I can get you to the ball, Monsieur…de Bouchon if I remember correctly?”

Blood drains from my face, and I feel my lips pull into a snarl. She knows too much. She knows everything.

I put the pistol under her chin. Her smug smile is replaced with terror. She pales, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“I am asking for the last time,” I say slowly, “who sent you? Think carefully about your answer. It might be the last one you ever give.”

Her breath comes out in a shaky rush. “My name is Samantha Gilbert. I was sent by Cole the Black to help you find the treasure.”

“Cole is in the East Indies.”

She nods. “He is. But he left me behind, just in case.”

I apply more pressure to the pistol. “Prove it.”

“Ehm. You need to find a Chinese cricket box at the governor’s. There is a jade necklace in the treasure chest—among other things, like gold and silver and gems. You want to stop pirating, get married, and buy a villa. He told me that,” she adds.

Could she possibly be telling the truth? Those were things Cole would know. No. I know a liar when I see one, and even if she knows this information, I do not believe it came from Cole. She is lying about who she is, and her sole purpose is to distract me and disorient me to get my treasure. She is as dangerous as a plague. And I am not taking any chances.

She must be isolated and put under constant guard.

I take her by the upper arm and pull her after me, opening the doors and dragging her across the deck. I ignore my crew’s astonished, hungry looks at Samantha Gilbert.

She begins to struggle, and I tighten my grip. “Let me go!” she cries. “Right now! Where are you taking me?”

“To the brig. If you think I believe you, you are a fool.”

Chapter 3

Samantha

The eyes of at least ten pirates bore into me, undress me, eat me alive.

The brig is divided into grated sections, and there’s a man in one of the farther ones, also staring at me from under his eyebrows. They are all unwashed and unshaven, stinking of stale male sweat. How does James keep so clean? Oh, right, they’re all just actors, I try to convince myself.

The ceilings are low, and heavy beams run along them. There are no portholes. The rocking motion is stronger here, and I’m starting to get slightly seasick.

I’m admittedly terrified, somewhere deep. But I refuse to go there, because in the back of my mind, there’s a voice telling me I might be in the eighteenth century. If I believe that voice, I might as well admit the existence of unicorns, elves, and dwarves. I concentrate on my anger. James, or whoever he really is, had the audacity to put me in here. I’m furious. So furious I’m shaking. He was a jerk to me. How could he just throw me in the brig with all these nasty pirates? I was right about him. Despite his charming looks, he’s as vain and selfish as I thought, without a kind bone in his body. His appearance is the perfect disguise for a pirate.

I thought for sure my quick thinking would get me out of this escape-room adventure. Or whatever it is. But it’s clear now that there will be no quick exit.

I guess I need to look for clues to get out of here. I close my eyes and try to calm down, try to block out the dirty pirates and think about what to do. This is not me. I don’t panic. But there’s something about nasty men looking at you like you’re dinner that makes you freak out.

Back to rational thinking. Breathe in, breathe out. Adonis said if I want to go back, I need the jade necklace. That must be how I win this and get the hell out of this pirate insanity.

I look around, but the nausea is getting worse, and I close my eyes again and breathe—not too deeply. Cracking my eyes open, I note that the pirates are still staring at me as if I’m a juicy New York steak. They are talking to each other in muffled voices, chuckling, pointing at me. Their glances are like filthy fingers touching me without permission. I’ve never felt so disgusted in my life.

I shiver, wrapping my arms around my chest to cover anything I can, and turn my back to them.

“Hiya, molly,” someone says next to me—too close—and I turn around.

One of the men is pinned to the bars, holding the grating with both hands. He’s middle-aged, bald, has bad teeth and a shaggy beard.

“What did ye do to make the cap’n dump you here?” he says. “He dinnae like the shag?”

I’ve had my share of being hit on by drunk guys in bars. But none of them were so disgusting, and none of them had openly suggested I was a prostitute. And I had never been trapped with so many of them. My feet and arms are heavy, my pulse drums in my ears.

I begin to look for some sort of a trap door in the floor, running my fingers against the old, chipped wood.

“Nae, how could ye not like the shag when a molly sports dairies like that,” another man joins in, standing beside the first. He’s smaller, and rounder, but he’s actually drooling, looking at my chest. I think he means my breasts. Prickling heat spreads through my cheeks and my neck. I’m not a saint, but oh my gosh! I wish the floor would open and swallow me whole. I’ve never felt like this, as dirty as a floor mat.

Man, I’d love to kick this guy’s ass.

If this is really an escape room, there must be a way out. But the floor is just a floor. I stand up and study the wall. They smell like sea water and tar, and there’s not a single indent or crack to indicate an secret door or give me a clue how to get out. This is starting to seem pretty extreme for a museum.

“Yeah”—a third man joins, and the rest of them follow to stand behind the grating in a dark wall of grimy faces—“she looks like a good shag.”

I’ve had enough. “Okay,” I say. “Now that we’ve all established that I would be a good shag, can we please move on with our day, guys?”

As if I hadn’t made a sound, the first guy turns to the rest of them. “How long since ye had yerself a molly?”

They shrug and mutter. “Probably as long as you,” says the third pirate.

They all turn to me again, but clearly they are talking to each other. “Do ye think the cap’n would mind?” says another one.

They study me, contemplating.

“Even if he would, he ain’t goin’ to be cap’n for long,” says someone, but without any confidence in his voice.

Right, the possible mutiny. James needs the treasure to stop his crew from overthrowing him.

“Go away, all of you!” I yell. I know the guy who plays James would not want them to have a go with me. “I’m not for the taking. Shut up and stop looking at me. Go away!”

They listen, shocked, then erupt in laughter. “Feisty,” says one of them and nods in appreciation. “A bit of fire in ye, eh?”

“Who has the key?” someone asks.

Now that sobers me up like a cold shower. I frantically look around. Maybe I’m meant to have the key in my cell? It’s one thing to tolerate this stupid game when they are behind the grating. It’s another to have to physically fight them off.

“Cap’n,” says one of them, and they all sigh in disappointment.

“But there’s a spare,” says another.

No!

“Where?”

“Mr. Killian has it.”

“Ah, the quartermaster, of course. Go fetch it then! What are ye waiting for.”

One of them separates from the crowd and climbs the stairs.

“I’ll scream,” I say.

They guffaw. “Told ye, feisty,” one of them says.

“Dibs on the first round,” says the pirate who came to the cell first. “I like ’em fresh and juicy.”

One of the big ones standing at the back shoves him. “What makes ye think you can call dibs? I like ’em fresh and juicy, too. She’ll lose all her fire after a couple of ye.”

Now cold sweat breaks through my skin for real. I don’t think I ever felt that. Even in nightmares. “You fuckers,” I mutter. “If one of you lays a finger on me, you’ll be missing it!”

“Then Mr. Finn should have the first go,” a man at the back says. “His plug tail is no bigger than a pinkie!”

They all erupt in laughter, making me shiver. Only the first pirate doesn’t laugh.

“No. She’s mine,” he says. “Where’s that key?”

As he says that, the men stop laughing and begin to quarrel. Quickly, it gets loud. Their faces are furious, and they’re shoving each other, yelling. The first guy grabs the grate and starts shaking it, his eyes bulging, his mouth a snarl.

Trembling now, I retreat several steps until my back is pressed against the wall. My throat clenches so tight I feel as if someone is choking me. More men descend the stairs and join the mob. The very air—heavy with moisture and smelling of bad breath, rum, and unwashed bodies—is charged with aggression. Then the fight starts…

As men punch and kick each other, I crawl into the corner and squeeze my eyes tightly closed. This is not an escape room. This must be a dream. A nightmare. Wake up, I tell myself. Wake up!

Then a deafening bang rends the air, and the smell of something acrid and burned reaches my nose. It’s suddenly quiet. So quiet I hear my ears ringing.

Maybe the nightmare is over.

One, two, three. I open my eyes.

I’m still in the cell, surrounded by filthy, horny pirates, but the actor who plays James Barrow has his pistol pointed at them. There’s so much power in his gaze, my knees melt.

Next to him stands another man, older, with two pistols in his hands. But their barrels are directed towards the floor. It’s a warning not a confrontation.

“What’s the source of this?” “James” demands. I’m simply going to call him James in my head, I decide. His voice is calm but steely.

They are quiet for a few moments, then the guy who came to my cell first says, “The molly.”

James glances at me, worry in his eyes, and I stand up, letting him know I’m all right. My legs and arms are still shaky.

“What did she do?” he asks.

He didn’t seriously just assume I did something! I knew he was full of himself. “What? Typical man! Always blame the woman first. I didn’t do a thing!”

He shoots a quick glance at me, and the pirates start to yell. The room fills with noise again, and they stab their hands in my direction.

“We were just deciding who gets the first go at her,” says one of the pirates.

James’s face straightens, his violet eyes dark. “What?”

The whole room is so silent, we can hear the muffled splashes of the waves against the ship.

“Ain’t she—”

“I’m not a prostitute, you jerk!” I yell.

“But she’s dressed— Those dairies—”

James’s lip crawls up into a snarl. His eyes glow with fury. “If she was a whore, I’d have told you. She is just a prisoner. Under my protection.”

Under his protection… The words make my chest feel lighter. I’ve never been under anyone’s protection. Not even the first man I ever loved said that to me.

A rumble goes through the crew, but it stays low, then dies.

James continues. “I put her here because she might be a thief. A spy. Because she might disrupt our discipline and get what she’s after. The same thing you and I are after. The treasure.”

They are completely quiet now. Looking guilty as naughty dogs.

“Sorry, Cap’n,” says the first pirate who wanted to plunder me, then glances at me. “She looks like a spy. Distracting with her dairies like that.”

James purses his lips angrily. “I’ve made a mistake. I had thought it would be safe to keep her here, away from my cabin. But I was wrong.”

He moves towards my cage and his crew give way. I breathe easier now. His gaze finds mine, and my heart skips a beat.

Goddamn.

He turns the key in the hole and my heart beats again, faster this time. He opens the door and holds his hand to me.

“Even if you are a spy or a thief, it seems the safest place for you is with me,” he says.

His violet eyes glow in the golden light of the torches, looking right into my soul.

And what I see is hope.

I take a few steps and place my hand in his. Mine is all clammy from sweat and cold. His is warm and dry and strangely reassuring.

“Come, Miss Gilbert,” he says, and his gaze melts my insides. “It seems we have a ball to attend.”

Chapter 4

James

I shut the doors of my cabin behind me and study Miss Gilbert’s back. I am still seething after what happened downstairs. This beautiful, brave, stubborn woman with raven hair and eyes as deep and dark as hell had almost caused a mutiny.

Though it is not her I am angry with. It is myself.

Tonight is the only chance I have to get the last clue, and I am desperate, distracted. I did not think of the consequences of putting her in the brig, dressed like that, and underestimated the tension in my crew. They have not been ashore for a month now, and are itching for spoils—and for women.

Miss Gilbert—Samantha—turns to face me, her eyes wide. Damnation, look at her. The flawless skin, the elegant arches of her eyebrows, the soft lips that call for a kiss. Any man would feel tempted.

She is hugging herself protectively, but her chin is high. A proud woman with a backbone. I cannot help but be impressed.

But what am I doing, worrying about how she feels? She is not my responsibility, and I ought not feel anything for her but suspicion. I still do not know who she really is. Her story about being sent by Cole is too convenient. After Anne, I cannot trust another woman.

“Your coworkers went a little too far downstairs, don’t you agree?” she says. “I want to go. It’s hard to imagine that your museum bosses will be too happy after I complain. I’ve had enough adventures today. I want to go back to my hotel.”

Is she speaking in code words that I ought to understand? Another piece of Cole’s puzzle, perhaps?

“Museum bosses?” I say.

She gestures to the ceiling with one arm. “Don’t you have someone you report to?”

I roll my shoulders back, her words making my neck muscles as tense as ropes at storm, just like they had always been in Bristol. “I did not become a pirate to report to anyone. If I wanted someone to run my life, I would have stayed in England, run the company alongside my father, and led the life my family had in sight for me.”

The day Cole and I had decided to become pirates, to end the tyranny of the captain of my father’s trade ship, had been the happiest day of my life.

She shakes her head. “Listen, buddy, that’s enough. I know you’re an actor. I want to get off this ship and go back to my hotel. Actually, scratch that. Back to New York. I’ve had enough Caribbean vacations for now.”

Bloody hell, the nerve of her. An actor? I cannot remember anyone talking to me like that, trying to tell me what to do. Not since Anne. Blood boils in my veins, hot and prickly. I leave the doors and walk towards her, my fists clenched. “You will go back to New York when I allow it.”

She gasps as I lean over her, and her eyes darken.

“You will help me get the cricket box,” I say. “Just as you claimed you came for.”

She groans. “Are you seriously still playing this? You are going to be in so much trouble once this is over.” She stabs her index finger at me, and I want to bend her over my knee. “I’ll sue you. Personally. You’ll be sorry you didn’t let me go. Is there like a safe word or something? Because I’m done.”

I chuckle. My anger is gone, replaced by curiosity. She is a mystery. Graceful in her appearance and movements but graceless in her manner of expression. She cannot be pure nobility. I like that because nobility bores me. “Sue me? Are you threatening to woo me? That sounds intriguing.”

She throws her hands up, turns around, and hides her face in them. Either she is acting or she is truly dismayed. The urge to comfort her, to wrap my arms around her shoulders, makes my hands itch.

“Miss Gilbert,” I take a step towards her.

She sighs and turns around, her eyes cold. “All right, mister.” She straightens her back. “If the only way to get out of here is to play your stupid game, I’ll play it. What’s next? The ball?”

She is charming in her anger, and something deep in her eyes tells me she is not pretending, but I refuse to believe that. She looks both helpless and resolved. The woman has strength.

Even more reason not to trust her. “First, Miss Gilbert, I must insist that you tell me who you really are.”

She rolls her eyes, then pinches the bridge of her nose and keeps silent for a few moments. “I am the daughter of a merchant from New York. Cole the Black raided our ship on the way to Jamaica and took my friend hostage. I’m very worried about her and I need to help you get the treasure so that he lets her go.”

I frown. This sounds like something he would do. “But you agreed he is in the East Indies.”

“Yes. He sailed away with her and hired a boat to get me to you. But the captain made advances towards me, and so I’m left in this.” She gestures down at her body.

I clench my jaws. “How will he find out that you were successful?”

“You need to give me the jade necklace so that I can find him and show it to him. Once he sees it, he’ll know you got the treasure, and he’ll let my friend go.”

I scoff. “You are not seriously hoping you’ll get anything from the treasure chest.”

“I just need that necklace. The rest is yours.”

I shake my head, both amazed and astonished by her audacity. She is stirring something in me, feelings I buried two years ago, and I must stop them.

To do that, I must plunge myself into activity. The ball. It is high time we go. I walk towards the door to my private quarters. “You are asking for the necklace when you are completely in my power? You ought to be grateful that you are going to make it off my ship alive and in one piece, considering your life rests in the hands of a pirate. Now, come. We must get you dressed.”

I open the door and turn to her. She is watching me with raised eyebrows. “I can dress myself.”

She must feel shy. “Miss Gilbert, although I am enjoying very much seeing you dressed like this, you cannot go to the ball in your undergarments. Therefore, I am afraid I am your only option to get the corset and the dress on. There are no women on my ship apart from you. And surely you do not want any of my crew to help you?”

A blush covers her cheeks, her nostrils flare, and she straightens her back. “I don’t need you.”

A smile spreads my lips. “Did you grow a pair of arms on your back?”

She frowns. “Of course not.”

I gesture for her to enter my private quarters, and the thought of her in my quarters—in my bed—sets my blood on fire. “Then you need me,” I say, and my voice comes out huskier than I intended.

She swallows and licks her lips, then walks past me, and her scent tickles my nostrils and stirs desire in me.

Inside the cabin, I look in one of the sea chests for Anne’s attire. The silk of the jade dress she wore that day is gentle against my rough fingers. Pain stabs me at the memory of the day I met her three years ago.

I was walking with Cole to meet the local plantation owner to sell the plunder we had raided. Every pair of male eyes turned somewhere, and when I followed them, my heart stopped. I saw that silk sweeping the pavement of Nassau as she walked with her parasol. Her hair shone like a freshly minted gold coin in an exquisite hairdo, her amber eyes big and innocent, watching everything around her as if she were in a wondrous French garden, not among pirates, whores, and smugglers.

Something took me over then. Maybe I wanted to protect her. Maybe I just wanted her. Breaking all etiquette towards a lady, I approached her. That very evening on my ship, in that bed, I found out that she was no lady.

Later I found out that she had an even bigger ship than me. And even later, that she was still married and all she needed was to give me to the British so that she and her husband, the famous pirate Samuel van Huisen, would get a pardon.

“This is pretty. Whose is it?” Miss Gilbert asks.

My fingers tighten around the material, and I stand up holding the dress out to her. As I look into her face, I wonder what hides behind those eyes. She’s strong, bold, and smart. Beautiful. A storm starts roaring in my blood, and I realize I am in danger of repeating the same mistake again. No doubt, she is here for my treasure. “A woman who is long dead,” I say.

She frowns but takes the dress. As she does, our fingers touch, and fire runs through my veins like a lightning strike. Our eyes lock. Her lips part, and the need to taste them scorches me.

No. Not another woman like that. I let go of the dress and sink to my knees to find the undergarments for her, but the silkiness of the thin shift and stockings, and an image of removing them slowly from her luscious limbs, spreads the raging tempest through parts of my body best ignored. I shove the items to her before I can act on my desires and gesture towards the French screen.

She walks there and disappears behind it. I hear the whisper of clothes against her skin as she takes them off.

Glimpses of Miss Gilbert’s bare flesh flashing through the gaps between the panels only make me burn hotter. I yearn to see her whole, to touch her, to kiss her.

To have her.

I cannot stop looking. Through the gaps between the screens, the curve of her waist teases me, the full side of her breast gives rise to a low growl that originates deep in my gut and that I stop before it exits my lips. The round cheek of her gorgeous behind almost makes me reach out to grab her.

No.

I turn around to face the wall. I’m steaming. My cock is swelling, heavy with need.

“James?” she says after a while.

Dear Lord. If she is going to ask me to join her, I will not say no. “Yes, Miss Gilbert.”

“I have the shift and the stockings on. I guess the corset is next?”

I swallow as the images of her naked body, writhing, moaning, sliding beneath me flash through my mind. I want to throw myself at her like a wild animal. Slowly, I turn around.

The sight of her standing in the white shift and stockings, holding the corset before her, kicks the air out of me. My heart stops. These undergarments cover more of her than the yellow shift, but seeing her in them feels more erotic. Maybe because they’re so common. So normal. Something I am craving.

A home.

Her eyes lock with mine, and I sink into them. Her lips are soft and red and calling for me.

I take the corset out of her hands. “Turn around.”

A gentleman should not know how to lace a corset, but I am no gentleman. Not quite.

I wrap the corset around her thin waist and feel her breasts sink into it. They must be soft and silky. I tie the laces at her back—I’ve done it for lovers before. I avoid studying the delicate curve of her neck under her thick, glossy hair, the gentle movements of her muscles under the thin material of the shift. Samantha Gilbert must be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

When I finish tying the laces, her waist is perfectly narrow and straight—as if she needs any help there. And the sight of her sweet, round, delicious behind makes my fingers itch to touch, to pull her back against my pulsating erection.

I reach out and take the panniers and help her attach them, then take the dress she had hung over the French screen.

I just need to endure this evening. As soon as she gets me the clue, I’ll leave her in Nassau, get the treasure, start a new life, and forget about her.

But as she takes the dress from my hands and begins to put it on, I freeze, mesmerized by the sight. It looked like a costume on Anne, like she had always played a role in it. On Samantha, it looks as though it was meant for her all along. She pulls the sleeves on and now the only thing left to do is to lace the dress up her back, which I do, the warmth of her body burning my fingertips through the fabric. When she turns around, everything stands still.

The fabric cups her breasts and highlights her tiny waist. The color compliments her dark hair and creamy skin, and as she watches me, her cheeks begin to blush, and her eyes shine.

She is so gorgeous it hurts to look at her, and I do not think that I will ever forget the sight.

I realize in that moment that I am in serious danger of losing everything, of smiling foolishly after her as she walks away with both the treasure and my heart.

Chapter 5

Nassau, New Providence Island, The Bahamas

Later that evening

Samantha

As James helps me out of the small boat, a close look at the shore of Nassau hits me like a wrecking ball. I was already suspicious in the boat on the way from the ship to the shore, as there were no lights on the island. I had a few calm minutes to think while two sailors rowed and James stared at the shore. A million questions began popping in my head. How did I get on the ship? Clearly, I had been wrong about it being an escape room. Had Adonis drugged me and kidnapped me? He’d said something about time travel, but it couldn’t be actual time travel, could it?

Now, standing in the place where last night there were cruise ships, yachts, luxury hotels, and cute colorful houses, I see no quay, no asphalt roads, no electric lights. Instead, at the end of a wooden pier, a horse-drawn carriage awaits us, lit by torches with real fire…

As James and I walk down the pier, I know that this is not an escape room, an escape ship, or even an escape park. It is in fact the craziest, wildest explanation of all: I traveled back in time.

And oh my God, what about Lisa? Did she travel back in time, too? No, she couldn’t have possibly put on that necklace after she saw me disappear. I have to believe she stayed back in the twenty-first century.

The thought that I have left everyone and everything I know shocks me so much, that I stop walking. The wooden jetty shifts under my feet. The corset squeezes me and bites into my flesh. I can’t breathe. Sweat breaks through my skin. I’m too hot. The exotic scents of a tropical island—mango and sea—are too heavy, too thick. I want the smell of gas and the subway, of strong coffee and street falafel. I want to go back to New York.

I double up, my hands on my knees, and breathe. James sinks into a squat in front of me, his violet eyes filled with concern. Darn it he’s handsome.

Adonis’s voice talks in my head. You are traveling back in time to help James. To return, you must put on the necklace.

“Are you all right, Miss Gilbert?” James says. “Did I tighten your corset too much?”

I swallow, the combination of my realization and the look of concern in his eyes is disorienting. Should I tell him I came from the future? No, it’s probably not a good idea. Not yet, anyway. He still doesn’t trust me. And he would think I’m a lunatic. If I want to go back to my time, I need to get the treasure even more than he does. Making him think I’m crazy won’t help.

I straighten and take a deep breath. He stands up, as well.

“I’m all right,” I say. “The dress is a little tight, that’s all.”

His eyes crawl down my body and darken. I get even warmer. “Would you like me to loosen the corset?”

Where did the arrogant, self-absorbed jerk go? His voice caresses me, and my bones become melted caramel. When I was changing behind the French screen, I thought he was watching me, and a buzz had run through my skin. When his fingers had brushed against me as he was tying up the corset, all of my senses seemed to focus in on the touch. His fingers had sent sweet charges of current through me, making me feel as though I was getting deliciously drunk. Warmth had spread over my skin, and every hair on my body had stood up.

I had hoped he would stop tying up the laces and release them instead.

But he hadn’t. He’d just helped me dress. Although, his eyes had shifted from violet to amethyst and burned in the glow of candlelight.

If he touches me again, I’m not sure we’ll make it to the party. “No,” I say. “I’m better. Let’s go.”

As we continue our walk, my legs feel weaker, and my previous bravado disappears. What if we don’t get the coordinates? What if someone recognizes James and I’m considered guilty by association? What if now James and I both hang as pirates?

I need to be very, very careful.

James shows the invitation to the coachman, and we climb into the carriage. We are silent on the way, as I gaze out of the window still digesting my recent realization. We pass by the streets of the old town. If I had any doubts before, they completely vanish now that I see the state of the buildings. The streets are full of sailors, prostitutes, and merchants, many of them wearing dirty clothes, all from the eighteenth century. It smells like rum and grilled meat.

I think I feel James’s eyes on me, studying me. As we leave the town and drive into the darkness of nature, the landscape changes from savanna to occasional tropical trees and bushes. James says, “You have been pale ever since we got ashore. Are you feeling unwell?”

I meet his gaze, and the sight of him calms me down a little. He is probably my only hope to get back. I have never depended on a man like this in my life.

And he’s not the Prince Charming I thought he was.

I am in the presence of a real bad boy. And the thought makes me see him with different eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “I guess I was just a little seasick on the way. Is it going to be long until we reach the governor’s estate?”

“Should not be long.”

After some time, we stop at the gates to a pale-yellow mansion with tall columns. There are white balustrades around the large porch and a wraparound balcony above. Tall windows shine from both floors, and two square towers flank the front porch with a wide staircase. The path to the mansion is lit with torches on both sides, and a sprawling garden stretches into the darkness around the house.

James helps me get out of the carriage. He takes my hand, and his warm, slightly callused skin burns me. He’s gallant, his back straight, his face the cold social mask of a nobleman. Where did the pirate go? He’s still dangerous, but now there’s something more about him. As I step down from the carriage, our eyes lock, and the ground under my feet seems to drop away for a moment.

The air is thick and slightly humid, dampening my brow as we walk down the gravel path of the garden. Through the lit windows, I see people in period clothing walking, talking, and drinking from crystal glasses. Classical music plays quietly in the background.

Placing my hand on his arm as we walk towards the house, James says. “We are newlyweds. The marquis owns plantations on Cuba, and the governor wants to sell him some of his land on Nassau.”

“How did you get the invitation in the first place?”

James’s voice is cool as he says, “I stole it before it even reached the marquis. I had it from a reputable source that the governor has never met the marquis and knows little about the man. So your mission is to charm the governor and distract him while I look for the cricket box. It must be in his study.”

“No way. I’m coming with you.”

“No, you are not, madame. You are to ensure no one notices that I slip away.”

The only thing I need to ensure is that I come with him to the island. I open my mouth to argue when I notice that we’re at the bottom of the stairs and that two servants standing by either side of the grand doors are looking at us. My mind is racing, trying to remember all of the period dramas I have ever watched. How did people behave back then? Should I curtsy? No, they are servants. But probably before the governor. Or maybe just the queen?

James leads me up the stairs and gives one of the servants an envelope with a broken seal. The servant nods, opens the letter and takes it inside. From the gap in the door, music and people’s voices grow louder and my heart begins to pound. My God! What if I behave so strangely I give both myself and James away? My mouth stiffens as if I’m having a spasm.

“Marquis de Bouchon.” The servant returns. “The governor is surprised to see you. He thought you had left Nassau.”

Oh damn. James’s arm tightens under my hand, and his face turns stony. “The governor must be mistaken.”

He forgot the French accent! The servant’s eyebrows snap together.

My skin is prickling. Is that it? This can’t be it. James is turning white, his hand reaching for the back of his pants where I know he hid a pistol.

I must do something, or we’ll lose everything.

“I asked my husband to stay for the ball,” I blurt out, mimicking a French accent as best I can.

The servant holds my gaze and studies me. “Of course, madame.” He cocks his head.

He opens the door blinding me a little with the wash of light.

Are we in?

There are beautiful ladies in similar dresses to mine and gentlemen dressed like James. Some wear white wigs. Classical music plays louder now, some sort of high-pitched piano. A man by the door looks directly at us and gives a short bow. Judging by his less impressive clothing than the rest of the guests, I think he’s another servant.

James leads me through the doors. His hand is warm and steady and reassuring, and that’s good because my knees are getting a little wobbly as I try to get my head around the fact that I’m in the middle of a freaking ball in 1718.

“Marquis de Bouchon and Marquise de Bouchon,” the man exclaims for the whole room to hear, and all eyes are on us.

Do we bow? Do I curtsy? James stands still, and so do I. My heart beats so hard against my ribcage, it might break the bones.

An older man in rich clothes and a white wig comes to us, a girl in her late teens by his side.

“Marquis and Marquise.” The man gives a small bow, and James follows suit.

The girl curtsies. I do, too, hoping I got it right. The man studies us, his eyes cold. There’s a polite wariness in his gaze. This must be Governor Richardson and his daughter.

“Welcome,” the governor says.

I gather the skirts of my beautiful jade dress, but underneath them my legs shake. I step further into the room full of eighteenth-century aristocrats, a woman from the future on the arm of a pirate disguised as Prince Charming.

Chapter 6

Samantha

Inside, the air is warm and stuffy, body odor is thick, mixed with a heavy rose-and-vanilla scent. Ladies fan themselves. Some of their wigs must be bigger than their heads and just as heavy. I’m glad James and I managed a tasteful hairdo that doesn’t look like a bird’s nest on top of my head.

The room is full of people and hums with voices and occasional eruptions of laughter. Before James can start a conversation with the governor, a servant appears next to the man and whispers something in his ear, and the governor excuses himself. I breathe easier now that we don’t need to talk to him and exchange a glance with James. The muscles around his eyes relax, and I think he’s relieved, too, although it’s hard to say what lies behind his stone-like social profile. Was he like this as a young boy in Bristol? Servants with trays of drinks stand all over the room, and James takes two glasses of dark-red liquid and brings one to me.

He takes a sip and so do I. It’s a delicious port wine, and it’s cool. I wonder how they managed that in this heat. With the stress of the last few hours, I gulp the whole glass down in the hopes it’ll help loosen me up a little. James raises his eyebrows, probably at my bad manners, but I don’t care.

People are staring at us, and there’s a man standing with a big sketchbook quickly moving his pencil, throwing glances in my direction. Is he the paparazzi of the time?

Through the open doors to another room, a different style of music begins to play, this time a violin and a harpsichord. It sounds like Mozart or Beethoven or something. People are going into the room, and James leads me there, too. His steady arm, through which I put through my hand, feels stable and reassuring.

People stand along the walls of the room. It’s very pretty—teal-paneled walls, paintings of the Caribbean landscape, pale-teal curtains with golden ornaments. The furniture is elegant, all French style.

We stand by the wall and I lean to James, “So, how do we get to the study?”

“You need to distract Richardson, and I will find it.”

“How do you suggest I distract him?” I ask, eyeing the governor as he talks to a woman in her fifties.

“Dance with him.”

The muscles on my face go slack as I stare at James. “What?”

He frowns. “A minuet. Why are you acting so surprised, Miss Gilbert? Dancing is a usual practice at balls. Can you not dance?”

I’m watching the couples who are walking rather than dancing in the sense that I am used to. They are moving in Z patterns, turning, circling, strolling sideways while holding hands. It all looks very complex.

“I’m out of practice,” I say.

“Let me refresh your memory, then.” He offers me his hand. “We shall do the next one.”

My mouth goes as dry as sand. Dance a minuet in the room full of people who are staring at me? I mean, I love music. I took salsa classes, and I pick up the moves pretty fast. But this? “I…”

“What?”

“I’ll just talk to him. I don’t need to dance with him.”

“No. You do. This is the best way to ensure he’s occupied. Stopping in the middle is highly impolite and the last thing he would do.”

He glances at me and his face softens. He finds my hand hidden in the folds of the skirt and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Especially with a beautiful woman like yourself. He shall be enslaved by your charm.”

My heart pounds in my chest. For a moment, the dark steel wall in his eyes lifts, and I glimpse into him. And there’s not a trace of arrogance or selfishness. I see kindness and support. I see the edge of vulnerability—a man who was hurt, who is desperate for a change and realizes he holds the last chance to turn his life around.

I recognize a lot of that in myself. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

James

I take Miss Gilbert’s hand, and it is cool and smooth and soft. A surge of energy runs underneath my skin, caressing me. Our eyes lock, and I feel her insecurity, her hesitation. Something is worrying her, and I have the urge to support her, to give her the steady hand that she needs right now.

This seems to be untypical of her. She gave me the impression of a woman who does not need anyone’s permission to say or do what she wants. The kind of woman I admire.

Like Anne.

Anne who betrayed me.

Would Samantha do the same?

The warm, pleasant waves radiating from her touch tell me no. And I do not know if I want to believe that impulse. All I need her for is the third clue. Not an eternity together.

As Samantha and I walk towards the ballroom to take our positions, we breathe as one, walk in the same stride. She is watching the current dancers, her eyes wide, worry written on her face. Her skin is so smooth, and her touch creates a lightning storm between our fingers.

Good God, if this is how I feel when we are just holding hands, how would it feel to have her underneath me, her legs around me? How would it feel to plunge into her depths?

An eternity later, or maybe just a second, the music stops, and the couples assume their positions. I lead Samantha onto the dance floor, and sheer panic crosses her face. Did she really forget how to dance? Did she never learn how?

No, she must remember. I have not danced since I was in Bristol, an adolescent still, but my body remembers. I also remember the candles in brightly lit ballrooms, the scent of sweat masked with perfume, my mother’s strict glances following me. She was trying, already then, to find a beneficial match for me, a bride from a family as rich as my parents and of the same or higher social status. I remember my father always talking with his business peers with a stern face. That whole life was about duty. Pirate life was about freedom. Now I need something in between.

I return my mind to Samantha, an explanation born in my head. She is likely completely out of practice, and I must help her. The urge to save beautiful women in distress is my weakness. I catch her dark eyes with mine. Standing across the dance floor, her dark hair gleaming, pale skin glowing against the jade fabric, she looks like a vision out of place and time. And it is as if everyone else in the room fades to black and white.

Her hands shake and her chest rises and falls quickly. “I will not let you fall,” I mouth to her and give her a slow nod.

Somehow, she understands me. Her face softens and relaxes, she takes a deep breath and manages a smile. Something connects us as we look at each other, as though invisible strings stretch out between us.

The music plays, the ladies curtsy, the gentlemen bow.

And we begin.

One by one, the couples come together, plié, and join hands. Then they turn and walk forward together. When our turn comes, and her hand is finally in mine, I fly high as a sea bird.

I do not see anyone but her, I do not hear anything but the music, and I do not feel anything but her skin against mine. I lead her. I know I am her lighthouse, and her movements become mine, mine hers. Her hand is warm and smooth, sending gentle waves of sunshine through me. We are in the rhythm, and I feel when she gives in, her body now attuned to mine.

God Almighty, I enjoy it so much.

It reminds me of home, of being part of a family. The family I want to have. My mother threw balls like these at our house, and I was allowed to stay late and dance to practice my social skills as future heir, even though I was still an adolescent. I remember the lightness and curiosity and excitement, meeting new people, dancing with grown women. The feeling of comfort and being carefree.

This is what I want. Not a life of hiding and looking over my shoulder. But a full life that I can share with someone I am proud to call my wife. Someone who will never betray me. Someone dependable.

I look at Samantha, and right at this moment, I imagine such a life with her. Silly, but my heart sings.

We dance sideways and then meet diagonally again, hands touching, and turn. Then we go back to the corners again. Every time our hands connect, I brush one finger against the inside of her palm playfully. I want to show her that I am with her and that she is dancing extraordinarily well. The gesture is secret, and the special way her eyes shine makes me hide a smile. I have not felt this relaxed and happy in a long time. And I want the dance to last forever.

We repeat the patterns several times, together even when we are apart, as if no one and nothing else makes sense but the two of us. She does not make every movement correctly, but she brings something of her own into the dance—her natural grace and flexibility and playfulness. In her movements, there is vulnerability, another glimpse into who she is. Kind, romantic, and young.

The music comes to an end, and we stop back where we started. I bow. She curtseys. And I want to cross the dance floor, pick her up, and kiss her. The clothes are constrictive, I want—I need—to feel what we just had, skin to skin. I want to dissolve in her.

But I do not move. I do not breathe. She does not, either. The room is dark around us. Only she is in light, and I feel as if I am a moth, helplessly drawn towards her.

* * *

Samantha

I notice, painfully, that everyone is staring at us. The rest of the couples left the dance floor, and it’s just us. I look around, wanting to cover myself. I hate that so many people just witnessed the deepest, strangest, most spiritual connection I’ve ever had with a human being.

The dance showed me what it’s like to have a partner who has my back. No man has ever had my back. This one does. Fear claws at the corner of my heart. Fear of being too vulnerable, of showing him the real me, of starting to care about him…

But I don’t allow it to go deeper.

This is how Lisa thinks, I remind myself. Naive, romantic Lisa. I don’t need a man to feel supported and complete. All I need men for is sex. Which makes me think…if James and I were so perfect in a dance, would we be as perfect in bed?

I think I’d like to find out.

He’s not the arrogant jerk I thought he was. He looks younger here, in this moment, and I can see the gentleman he once was before he became a pirate. Kind. Playful. A dreamer.

He comes to me and offers his hand, and as I put mine in his, I feel like I’ve come back home.

As we join the guests standing along the walls, the next round of dancers takes the floor, and the governor is among them. He’s about to dance with the lady I saw him talking to.

I sigh with relief. “I don’t think I need to dance with him, James. Look.”

He nods, and devils are playing in his eyes. “Come with me, then.”

And as we walk out through the French doors into the garden, the tropical air caresses my heated cheeks. James pulls me deeper into the garden, then he stops and pins me to a tree trunk, one arm braced above my head. His face is gorgeous in the shadows, and I think he must be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

There’s so much heat in his eyes my skin blazes. He’s breathing heavily and watching me. I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him to me. His lips come so close I can smell the port on his breath, mixed with something delicious that’s his alone. The combination so intoxicating, I feel drunk.

But just before his lips can touch mine, his eyes harden. He bows his head and slowly pulls away.

My heart beats against my ribs. My stomach twists with disappointment and the pain of rejection.

James frowns, his lips a thin line.

“There is no time for distraction, Miss Gilbert,” he says, and without another word he turns and walks back towards the house.

He is an arrogant, conceited jerk after all.

Chapter 7

Samantha

My legs are still a little shaky as I follow James through the dark garden. My stomach is so tight it hurts, and my cheeks are burning from embarrassment. I can’t even look at him, walking ahead of me in the darkness. I’m not looking for a declaration of love, but he could have acknowledged that he’s attracted to me. His withdrawal stings so much I’m dizzy. It reminds me of Leo, and I hate that. The naive girl I used to be, who wanted a soulmate and romance, is long gone. If I didn’t need James, this is where I would be long gone.

But I need that jade necklace. So he’s very mistaken if he thinks we’ll go our separate ways once we get the cricket box.

Music flows out of the lit, open windows from the rooms where the ball is fully underway. James and I circle the house until we find some dark windows. We peer into them. There’s a library, then a sitting room. Finally, one room has a desk, bookshelves, and chairs.

“This must be the study,” James says.

The window is closed. He pushes it, then pulls at the sides to force it open but can’t. I pick up a tree branch the gardeners must have missed. If he can’t to the job, I will. We are getting inside one way or another.

“Get back,” I say.

James frowns at me and his eyes widen as he sees the branch in my hands. “No, the noise!”

“No one is going to hear anything with the music and so many people chatting. Come on, get back.”

He scowls and stretches out his hand. “Allow me.”

I smirk and hand him the branch. “Oooh, what a gentleman.”

His jaw muscles tighten, and I see his muscles bulge as he assumes the position to break the window. “Trust me, Miss Gilbert, I am no gentleman.”

He hits the glass and it shatters. He carefully puts his arm through the hole and opens the window. He gets in first and offers his hand to help me, but I ignore him and climb over the windowsill—awkwardly, with all these layers. His face darkens, but he doesn’t say anything, just walks to the table and lights a candle.

As my feet touch the parquet, I look around. Across the room is the door to the hallway. Bookshelves line one wall, and there’s a desk to the right with a big globe next to it. Landscape paintings hang on the other walls. It smells sweet and a little musty, like books, dust, and wood. The music from the ball is faint, muffled by the walls and doors.

I breathe out. After hours in this corset and dress—and after the boat, the dancing, the almost-kiss—I’m suddenly hyperaware of how uncomfortable I am. The corset digs into my flesh and suffocates me. I feel claustrophobic and claw at the back of my dress in a futile attempt to loosen the laces. “God, where did you find this dress anyway?” I mumble. James is going through the drawers of the desk with one hand, holding the candle in the other.

Then it hits me. “A woman who is long dead,” he’d said.

“Wait. Did this dress belong to Anne?” I ask. He looks as if I just drove a knife into his chest.

“How do you know about Anne?” he asks, his voice coarse.

Oh damn.

“Cole told me,” I say. I’m going to make him hate Cole, aren’t I?

“Why would he tell you about Anne?”

“Well…” I look around the room to distract myself from unpleasant images of James and another woman. I need to busy myself with searching for the box. “It came up.” I walk to a bookshelf. “Is it, though? Anne’s?”

“Not that it concerns you in any way. But yes, it is.”

My eyes are darting through the rows of books. Small wooden box, look for a small wooden box.

“She must have looked stunning in it,” I say. Small goddamn wooden box! Why did I need to ask about the woman he loved? How is this helping?

I feel his eyes on me, his gaze heavy. I steal a glance at him, and he’s standing still and glaring at me. His face illuminated by the candle is a combination of pain and...something else. Something I’m afraid to identify. Something that makes my chest squeeze.

Adoration.

Desire.

“Not as beautiful as the woman wearing it right now,” he says.

I am paralyzed. I’m sinking in his eyes again, forgetting everything else.

Idiot! I break the eye contact. I’m practically swooning, worse than pre-Leonard even. Worse than a teenage girl watching a TV show about vampires and werewolves.

There are small drawers in the bookshelf in front of me, and I open them mechanically. I don’t have a candle, and I can’t see anything in the darkness.

His gaze falls into the box he just opened, and he does not move.

“What is it?” I ask.

He dips his hand into the box and pulls something out, then holds it out to show me. I hurry to him to see better, and there’s a small wooden box in his palm with six edges. It’s made of dark wood. On two sides there are long, narrow horizontal cuts. I think it’s a ventilation system for the crickets.

James and I look at each other—there’s triumph and hope and joy in his eyes. And I know they are also in mine. This is the way for me to go back, to make sure Lisa’s all right and not stuck on a pirate ship somewhere. And for him to get the life he wants.

He opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut as footsteps and a male voice sound behind the door.

The blood drains from my face. My feet feel as if they weigh four hundred pounds each. Like in a nightmare when you want to run but move with the speed of a turtle. Somehow I manage to round the desk to James. “Quick, give me the box,” I say.

“Never! Do you think I’m stupid enough to trust a pretty face?”

“Come on.” I’m standing right in front of him now. “I’ll hide it between my breasts. No one will dare to look there.”

He arches one eyebrow, cocks his head, and purses his lips. I can see the “really?” in his eyes. But the door handle is turning. He gives me the box. I stick it between, well technically under, my breasts. I don’t really have enough boob material to make it disappear between. The box is a little warm from his touch, and I can’t help wishing his fingers were touching me instead of the sharp wooden corners jabbing into my flesh.

Then the door opens, light streaming into the study. The voice is louder now.

James wraps his arms around me and kisses me, and the feel of his soft lips against mine makes me forget everything else.

Chapter 8

James

Fire seethes through me as I claim her lips. She’s soft and warm and silky. I draw her closer, and her body in my arms is both delicate and strong, and I want her. My pulse is drumming. Swelling with need, I run my hand down her spine. The fullness of her breasts crushing against me makes me drunk, and her sweet scent ignites me like a linstock to a gun.

Lord, I will have her right here, right now. The brave, resourceful, smart, and stubborn seductress.

Someone coughs, and I freeze. “What are you doing in my study?” the governor says.

Damnation. How could I have so completely lost my mind that I forgot someone was about to enter?

Slowly, I stop the kiss and lean back, my eyes still on Samantha. She is panting, her lips red and swollen from the kiss, her eyes dark and shiny, her cheeks flushed. I want to see her like that as I make her mine.

But I must not. Not now, not ever.

I turn to the governor. There is another man standing beside him.

“Forgive me, monsieur, for this display,” I say. “In France, we do not mind passion. Your study offered us a refuge.”

The governor scans the room, and I realize the box I had taken the cricket box from is open. I shift to it from view and close it behind my back.

“Matrimonial happiness,” the governor says. “Quite delightful.”

“The window,” Samantha whispers, and sweat covers my back. “The curtain.”

She walks towards the window saying, “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need a moment to compose myself.”

The governor’s companion is following Samantha with his eyes. The lust on his face cuts my gut like sabers. If we did not need to disappear with the box, I would not have forgiven anyone that stare. Not at any woman. And especially not at Samantha. That is how I was raised, and even being a pirate does not change that.

“Governor Richardson,” he says, “I quite understand the marquis.” He turns to me. “You have a most beautiful wife, sir.”

He makes a little bow at me, and I am ready to launch myself at him. Samantha reaches the window and pretends to study the garden, then takes the curtain and draws it a little to cover the shards on the floor and the broken fragments in the frame. I exhale and instruct myself to calm down.

“I do have a beautiful wife,” I say through clenched teeth, as Samantha rejoins me. “Now, if you’ll forgive us, we will leave you.”

I like the sound of her being referred to as my wife, being mine, more than I care to admit. My hand on the small of her back, I swallow as sweet flames lick my palm. As I guide her towards the exit, the governor says, “While you are here, Marquis, would it not be a good chance to speak of the sale?”

I stop and turn to him, flashing a polite smile. “Forgive me, monsieur, I do not wish to abandon my wife at the ball. Let us enjoy your hospitality, and I will speak with you of the sale in the days to come.”

The governor cocks his head. “Quite so.”

I give a small bow and hurry Samantha out of the room.

“Quick, let us be on our way,” I say, escorting her through the busy ballroom, out the doors, through the garden and out the gates.

The governor’s house is a twenty-minute walk to the beach where Mr. Killian, the quartermaster and my most trusted man, has hidden a boat for me. Holding hands, Samantha and I run there, down the dusty road that curves through the dark sugarcane fields. The air is fresher here with the sea breeze. My veins sizzle with the joy of victory, just like when I was a boy riding a grown horse for the first time, wind against my face.

The hunt is almost over. Then I can leave this restless life and settle down.

Now that the goal is closer, it does not fill me with the lightness of satisfaction I had wished for. No longer would I roam the seas. No longer would I be captain of my own vessel. I would be someone else. My chest and limbs tighten, and my throat itches.

The road twists into soft, white hills of sand, and the crash of waves breaking against the land reaches my ears.

“You were exquisite, Samantha,” I whisper. “I could not have wished for a better fake wife.”

She laughs. “We were both great in there. I’ve never felt such a rush. Never had such an adventure. There’s no one I’d rather have lived through it with than with you.”

The dunes open up to the beach, which glows gray against the vast blackness of the ocean and the sky. We walk slower now. I separate from Samantha and walk towards the bushes and a fallen palm tree.

As I get closer to the palm, doubt scratches in my chest like an angry cat. What if the crew succeeded in their mutiny while I was away? What if the boat is not there? My gut is twisting as I separate the bushes with my hands.

I see the boat. Relief lightens my chest.

Now all I need is the cricket box. Then I’m free.

Free from her.

Why does the thought taste bitter in my mouth?

I turn to her. The breeze is playing with the soft curls that have fallen free from her hairdo. She’s watching me with a half smile.

“You want the box now, don’t you?” she says. “There’s your boat.” She nods with her chin to the bushes behind me. “All you need is the last piece of the puzzle. And all I need is the jade necklace. We were a great team back there.”

My eyes fall to her decollete, the soft curves of her breasts that the dress is hugging, and my lips burn to brush against them, to lick her skin, to see how smooth they are, how soft.

I swallow. “I do need the last piece of the puzzle.” I stretch out my hand. “The cricket box, please.”

She raises her chin, the corners of her lips curl up higher.

“Why don’t you come and get it?”

Oh, I want to.

But if I do, I do not think I could stop.

“Samantha,” I say, and my voice is a warning.

She looks like a fox who just had a whole pen of fresh eggs, her eyes sparkling in the night's darkness.

“It’s yours, James,” she says, and her voice is a soft feather that brushes against my skin. “Just come and get it.”

Something deep in my gut melts. “As you wish, madame.”

I hold my hand out and slowly dip two fingers between her breasts. They are warm, and her skin is so smooth my fingers are thawing like ice on a hot stove.

Dear Lord, the need for her whirls and roars in my veins, sweet and mind-altering. The box is under the tips of my fingers, below her breasts. I pinch it and tug. The journey back up brings me more torture because she is so obviously enjoying it. Her head tilts back, her lips are parted and dark and inviting. Her half-closed eyes are watching me. My fingers slide up, and she licks her bottom lip, then bites it.

I sense she wants to moan but is holding her breath, and I want her to release the moan more than I have wanted anything in my life. My fingers stop midway and stroke the deliciously soft skin of her cleavage.

And there it is. The sweet moan of pleasure escapes her lips as she closes her eyes. The sound sends a burst of fire through my blood, setting me ablaze like dry gunpowder.

I am hers. I cannot take another breath until I kiss her.

Until she is mine.

I remove the box from her breasts and put it in the pocket of my waistcoat, then circle her waist and draw her to me. She gasps as I pull her tight against my chest.

Wrapping her arms around my neck, she kisses me, and I sink into the sea of her scent—sun and coconut and her. Her lips are a soft, luscious heaven; her tongue probes and caresses mine. She is my undoing.

I devour her, claim her. Let her know her mouth is mine.

She is mine.

I dip my tongue into her mouth and meet hers with broad strokes, earning myself another moan, deeper. I caress her body, my hands sliding up and down her back, her shoulders, her arms. She is so pliable yet firm. She answers me with the same heat. My hand slides into the silky softness of her hair.

With my other hand, I dip into her decollete and release one breast. She gasps, and I break the kiss and look down at it. It is perfect in its milky softness, the nipple dark against her fair skin.

“So perfect,” I murmur and take it into my mouth and suck. Her fingers run through my hair and she moans.

“Oh God, James,” she sighs.

Her voice…her words are like rum spilled into a flame. I want her. I am burning for her. I am living for her.

Then part of me sobers up.

If I do not stop now, I shall not stop at all. And in that case, I risk everything. After only a few hours with her, my whole being burns for her, needs her. Never have I felt anything like that, not even for Anne.

I cannot allow this.

She might be the end of me.

I stop and withdraw, still leaning over, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. Her hands rest on my shoulders.

“Are you all right?” she breathes out.

I straighten and look at her. She is the goddess of the sea, her face flushed, her lips round and red, one breast seducing me all over again.

I swallow, hoping that the fire in my breeches will calm down.

“I cannot claim you as mine, Samantha,” I say. “I cannot.”

She throws her hands in the air. “Why not? It’s just sex. I want you and you want me. We got your box. Let’s celebrate!”

I will not tell her the truth. The truth will only reveal too much about how I feel. And I need to forget her. Damnation, it will be difficult as it is. If I have her, I am afraid I shall not be able to let her go.

“You are an unmarried young lady. I cannot compromise you more than I already have.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “What?”

“You are a lady—”

“I am no lady!”

“Well, not in title, but you are of a good family. Of a good upbringing. I cannot ruin you.”

She gapes. “I am already ‘ruined,’ James.”

Chapter 9

Samantha

James shakes his head. “What?”

I’m fuming. I’m tired of his withdrawal. I want him, and I know he wants me. I’m no damsel in distress. I’m a New Yorker, a twenty-first-century woman and a free sexual being. If I want a man, he always wants me back. My breast still hangs out of my dress and embarrassment fuels my anger. I tuck my boob back into the corset.

“I’ve had enough of you pulling away,” I say. “First in the garden and now here… Here’s the truth, James. I am from the future and can have sex with whomever I want, whenever I want.”

There, I said it. He looks at me as though I’ve just spoken Mongolian.

“From the future?” he says.

I sigh. “Yes, James. I was born in 1989. I live in New York. And I was on a vacation in the Caribbean with a friend, Lisa. Who I am desperately telling myself is still back in the future.”

His eyebrows knit together, his lips tight. “Do you take me for a fool? You try to seduce me, then say you are from the future? What next, Samantha, do you intend to kill me and take the boat?”

I straighten up. “Of course I’m not going to kill you.”

He grabs me by the arm, his face right next to mine, and my stomach knots.

“Leave. Before I am the one doing the killing.”

I swallow, my hands and feet drain of all heat. Do the people he raids feel this, too? I’d give him anything he wanted if I was on a ship he was raiding. It’s strangely exciting, and the area where he holds my arm burns.

“I’m not leaving.” My voice is quieter than I intend it to be. “I’m coming with you. All I need is the jade necklace, then I can travel in time back to the future where I belong. Then I’ll leave you be, and you’ll never hear of me again.”

He lets go of my arm and takes a step back. His jawline hardens, and his head tilts down as he looks at me from under his brows.

“Look,” I say, “if I was lying, would I have picked such a ridiculous excuse as time travel? I already had a perfectly believable backstory.”

He snorts. “Perfectly believable?”

“Well, more believable. Think about it. My outfit.”

“Could be a strange fashion choice.”

“The things I know about you.”

“Did you not say Cole told you all that?”

“My strange way of speaking.”

He shakes his head, but I can tell he is not convinced in his own denial. “What a laughable explanation,” he says.

“It’s not. That’s how I know so much about you. Lisa and I took a guided tour in a pirate museum, and our guide told us about you and Cole.”

With arms crossed over his chest, he looks like he’s trying to process everything I’ve said. When he opens his mouth to say something, I interrupt him. “Do you realize you would have been hanged if you didn’t go with someone to the ball tonight? You’d never have gotten this box. You’d eventually go back to Bristol, to your family, and there you’d be hanged for piracy.”

His nostrils flare. “This proves nothing. Any pirate is in danger of being hanged.”

“True. But I also know you haven’t had a successful raid for a couple of months, and your crew is close to staging a mutiny. Cole wouldn’t know that—you haven’t seen him since the Spanish treasure ship fiasco.”

He frowns. “You could have picked that up when you were held in the brig.”

Damn it. He’s an even a bigger rationalizer than I am. I growl in desperation. I, who could sell water to an ocean.

“I do not have time for your tales,” he says. “The governor might have discovered the absence of the box and could be searching for us. I advise you to go and hide while you can.”

I take a few steps towards the blackness at the end of the sand. The wind brings the scent of the ocean. I know what to do. “I bet you can’t even open that thing,” I say.

“What?”

“The box. It’s a puzzle.” I turn to him, and his eyes narrow. “They aren’t easy to open. That’s why Cole hid the clue there, because he knew it would keep the secret safe for you.”

His face straightens, and he looks at the box in his hands. “You are lying,” he growls, turning it this way and that, fiddling with it, trying to find a lock, an opening. Something.

“Damnation!” he roars, then throws it to the sand and runs his hands through his hair. He turns away from me and walks a couple of steps, then kicks the sand.

He looks at me. “Let me guess. You know how to open it.”

I raise one eyebrow.

“How?” he says.

“My grandpa collected Japanese puzzle boxes. Some Chinese cricket boxes have the same principle. I’ve been playing with them since I was a child.”

“I can just smash it with a rock and break it open.”

Oh damn. Yes, he can.

“What if the clue is damaged?” I say. “What if it’s not even on paper?”

James snarls like a wolf. He closes the space between us, takes both my upper arms and shakes me slightly. His eyes practically glow with dark-violet fire. “If you are lying again, I swear to God—”

He breaks off and stares at me.

“What?” I breathe out.

He lets me go without saying another word, turns around and looks for the box on the ground. When he finds it, he hands it to me.

The moment the box is in my hands, he takes out his pistol and points it at me. “One wrong move and you’ll find out.”

As much as I don’t want to admit it, a slight chill slithers through me. There’s something about a gun waving in your face to highlight the seriousness of the situation. I doubt he’ll shoot me, but fear still washes over me like a cold wave.

I look at the box and turn it in my hands. I’m pretty sure I just need to slide the side panels and it will open. But if I just open the box, he’ll ditch me. “I’m not going to help you,” I say and hand it back.

His expression is priceless. His mouth practically falls open. “What?”

“I’m not going to help you. Unless you help me.”

His lips tighten. “Let me guess—the jade necklace.”

“Exactly. The way I see it, either I help you and you get your treasure, minus the necklace, or you have nothing at all.”

He lets out a long breath and lowers his pistol. “What would stop me from taking the coordinates and leaving you here?”

I take a step towards him and put a hand on his chest. Even through his vest, I feel his strong heartbeat, and it’s racing. My heart begins to accelerate together with his. “Because I want you to give me your word.”

“I am a pirate, madame. My word is of no significance.”

“Oh, but it is. Your word to Cole is. Your word to your crew is. I want you to give me that same word.”

The muscles in his jaw are jumping and his eyes are burning with fury.

“Let it be so,” he says.

“So if I help you get the coordinates, you will take me with you and give me the jade necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Your word?”

He closes his eyes for a moment. “Yes, woman, my word. Now please, hurry.” He looks back at the dunes. “Someone might have spotted us leaving the ball. They may have discovered the broken window.”

Despite his earlier threats, I’m excited to spend more time with him, and, frankly, to help him. There’s clearly still enough of a gentleman in him not to hurt a woman, especially since he’s so worried about ruining me.

I look at the box in detail. I’m not an expert by any means. When I was a small child, the boxes had seemed completely impenetrable to me, and I had been fascinated to watch my granddad move the panels through a series of slides and moves and get each box to open. It always seemed as if he had performed a small miracle. When I was old enough, he taught me how to open them myself.

The precious, bittersweet memories burn my eyes. Well, Grandpa, time for your legacy to help me.

“Hurry, Samantha.” James glances at the dunes again.

The box in my hands looks like a thick compact-powder case. On one side, slightly lighter wood repeats the dark form of the box. A Chinese dragon carving decorates the other side. I feel the box with the pads of my fingers, scrape the wood with my nails looking for any gaps between the panels. Finally, one of the side panels shifts under my finger. The change is so slight, I almost miss it. I press, and it moves more. A slide, and it comes off completely. With shaking fingers, I hand the free panel to James.

I probe the panel next to it. There’s the slightest movement, and I push to slide it off. Now two sides of the hexagon are off. It’s dark, so I cannot see much. James takes the box from my hands and peers inside then turns it over and shakes.

“Empty,” he says, his voice lifeless.

“Wait. We haven’t opened it completely. Let me see.”

I take the box back and try to slide the third side, but it doesn’t move. My fingers chill, all the excitement vanished. I press harder on the side, but still nothing. I explore the interior but find nothing.

“Did someone open it before us?” I ask. “Why is it empty?”

James spits a curse that makes even me blush.

I continue to feel and press, and then it hits me. The hexagon on the cover. There’s a slight color difference in the wood bordering where the two slides once were. I press on the cover and it slides, opening the box, but anger replaces my moment of hope. It really is empty.

Completely, utterly empty.

“No,” I whisper. “It can’t be.”

Is that it? Am I stuck in the eighteenth century forever? Is my life here now? With that thought, the very air presses in on me from all sides. I can’t stay here! My life is in New York. What about my lovely apartment? What about my promotion?

“Maybe there’s a double bottom,” he says. “Let me see.”

He takes the box and presses on the bottom. “Something moved.”

I hold my breath as he fiddles with it more. Please, please let there be a double bottom.

After long, excruciating moments that stretch out like an eternity, the hexagon bottom is in his hand. The box falls on the ground, and he’s holding a folded piece of paper.

My mouth goes dry. I lean against him, trying to see what is in there, and he shifts right next to me, his side touching mine. “What does it say?”

A current runs between us sending liquid bliss through my veins. Our eyes lock for a moment, and desire sparks between us. He unfolds the paper and looks at it for a long time. “What is it?” I ask. He turns it to me, and I see two rows of numbers, the signs of degrees and minutes.

“The coordinates,” James says, and his face seems to shine.

The thumping of my heart is so loud and fast it’s about to jump out of my chest. One step closer to home. “Shall we go there? They might chase us, right?”

But I’m not ready to go. Not from here, not from James’s powerful proximity. His closeness, his scent ensnares me. If only I reach out a little bit, I can kiss him again.

As if he’s reading my thoughts, he turns to me and claims my mouth.

Chapter 10

Samantha

He’s not just kissing me, he’s devouring me. His lips are a tornado and I’m the house on the prairie, torn apart in the most delicious way.

Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me tighter to him, heat sizzles through my veins and my body melts against him like wax in the Caribbean sunlight. He runs his lips and his tongue down my throat, making every cell of my skin burn.

Arching into the sweet prison of his arms, I run my fingers through his silky hair and sink into his scent—clean linen, sandalwood, and sun.

From the direction of the dunes, a twig snaps and James breaks the kiss and tugs me after him. Tucked behind the bushes with the hidden boat, under the palm trees where shadows reign, we crouch and listen. But the beach remains silent, only waves whisper and the breeze rustles through the leaves. Risk electrifies my whole body. With his arms around me, James turns me to look at him.

“If anyone comes, I will protect you, Samantha,” he says, then looks at my lips. “You are safe with me. But maybe not from me.”

He’s looking at my mouth as if he’s in agony and it’s the painkiller. He leans to my lips, and I whisper, “What about the whole ruining me thing?”

“I was wrong,” he says, and the breeze kisses my cheeks with the scent of the sea and mango. “It is me who will be ruined if I do not have you.”

He kisses me again, letting me sink deeper into the warm sea of desire. His hands unlace my dress and tug the bodice down to my waist. When the warm night air touches my skin, it breathes again. James releases the lace of the corset, and when he throws it aside, I take a lungful of air sending my head spinning. When he caresses my skin under the shift, I fly high. He strokes me, massages my back, my breasts, my waist. Prickling, sizzling, expanding after hours of being trapped in the corset, my skin and muscles sing under his touch.

I run my hands over his broad shoulders, his muscles hard under the shirt. Off comes his jacket, then his waistcoat, and my fingers crawl over the linen of his shirt covering his firm stomach.

My breath rushes out of me as I pull away to look at him. “I need to see you.”

His smile is both wicked and tight, and he spreads his arms in an invitation. “Please do, madame.”

I take the edges of his shirt and pull them up, tugging it over his head. What I see under it fills my mouth with saliva. All muscle, his body is lean and perfect. His pecs make my palms ache to brush them, his six-pack looks carved of stone. A long, thin silver scar runs across the left side of his chest down to his solar plexus. There’s also a round pale-pink one on his side that must be newer. Though his face and hands are tanned from years on the open sea, the skin under his shirt is fair, his chest lightly covered in soft blond hair. His shoulders and biceps are like smooth, round rocks.

“Wow,” escapes my lips, my mouth as dry as cardboard.

He chuckles and pulls me to him. “Now it is my turn to free you of your clothes.”

And that he does. He pulls me up to stand and tugs down my dress gathered at my waist together with the panniers. When stand before him in my shift, he pulls it up and over my head, leaving me only in the stockings, my panties, and the shoes. I’m vulnerable under his burning gaze and stop the urge to cover myself.

Why do I feel as though it's the first time?

First time on the beach. First time since Leonard what I want is more than just sex. This is like making love.

Making love is something Lisa would say. I do not make love. I have sex, like a man, leaving emotions aside. At least that’s what I’m telling myself, waiting until I fully believe it. I must be careful with James, because this feels too good.

But even given all this, I can’t stop.

His gaze snakes up and down my body and leaves warm traces behind.

“Lord Almighty,” he says. “I have seen no one as beautiful.”

The words start a low burning fire in me, my blood turning into simmering caramel.

“What are these small pants you are wearing?”

“Underwear. What, women in your time don’t have those?”

He chuckles. “Are you still insisting that you traveled in time? I’ll play along. Not such small underwear. And not the women of high social rank.”

He pulls me to him, and we sink onto the blanket of our combined clothes. He claims my lips again, turning the simmering into a full-blown boil. His fingers trace down and sparks prickle between my skin and his hands. And when he finds my breast, he takes the nipple between his thumb and his fingers and massages it. Then he sucks, licks, teases it, and I dissolve in him.

Until he goes to the second breast and repeats the same there, and my knees melt like butter on a stove.

I run my hands over his hard body, enjoying his smooth skin, the crispiness of his hair on his chest and stomach. He’s moving down and kissing my stomach, going lower and lower. Until his face is level with the juncture of my thighs. He pulls my panties off, then freezes and looks up at me.

“Where is your hair?”

Right. I went for a Brazilian wax in preparation for the vacation. I chuckle and my cheeks burn. “Do you like it?”

He brushes his fingers along my sensitive cleft. “So smooth,” he whispers against my skin. I arch my back as his touch sends a wave of what feels like liquid velvet through me.

A moan escapes my throat. He brushes his fingers against me there, over and over, his fingers featherlight, teasing, and turning me on so much that perspiration covers my skin.

His hand spreads my legs and they fall open for him. He is still kneading my breast with one hand while the fingers of the other one are parting me. “All mine,” he says. My insides clench, and I almost come from his words alone.

He kisses me then, right there. His tongue is going in circles around my clitoris, spilling pleasure like warm wine down my limbs. He is teasing and pressing and sucking, and I’m mindless with bliss. I’m somewhere on another planet, in another world, in between centuries. My muscles clench around him with a deep ache. I’m writhing.

But this is not enough. I want him.

“I don’t want to come yet,” I breathe out. “I want you inside of me.”

He straightens and rises on his knees, then removes his breeches. His erection springs free.

“Oh,” I whisper.

He lowers himself supporting himself on straight arms and our eyes lock. The man I see is bare and vulnerable. I choke a bit from the awe and lust glimmering in his eyes and the feelings reverberate within me. As if I’m a long-awaited prize. As if I’m something divine and he worships me.

No one has ever looked at me like that. Not even the man I thought was the love of my life.

James is right between my thighs, and they are smoldering. I’m all wet and hot down there, sleek with desire.

“How do you want me?” he says.

My hands on his hips, I’m just about to tug him toward me when he freezes and looks up. In the heat of the moment I forgot everything else, but, thankfully, James did not.

Because as I freeze and follow his gaze, the sound of hooves comes from behind the dunes.

Chapter 11

James

The thumping of hooves is still quiet, so they must be far away. My whole body is like hot molasses as I leave my moon goddess and dress.

My gut knots and my chest is heavy as I force myself not to pull Samantha back into my arms. The clothes feel wrong on my skin. I am still aroused, although the breeze is helping me to cool off. Whether the intruders are the governor’s men or someone else, they do not want anything good with us.

“We should have left earlier,” I say through gritted teeth.

Samantha dresses, too, cursing the amount of clothes. She puts on the shift and the dress and leaves the rest on the ground.

“We must take the boat into the sea,” I say.

“Won’t they notice?”

“They are still far enough away. We must make haste.”

She nods and we go through the bushes to the boat. I right the overturned boat and we drag it over the sand towards the water’s edge, which is about twenty yards away. The thudding of hooves is closer now; they must be right behind the last of the dunes. Samantha and I are only halfway across the beach.

They will be upon us any moment.

“Hide behind the bushes,” I command.

She straightens and watches me.

“There’s no time to waste. Quickly, behind the bushes. Do as I say.”

She nods and rushes there, then disappears. I take my pistol and sink behind the boat, then peer at the beach. I resolve to use my cunning. They will likely come to the boat to inspect it, and my plan is to shoot one with my pistol and fight the other one with my knife.

Two riders appear from behind the dunes. They slow and look around the beach. They get down off their horses and walk towards the boat. This is my chance.

Although it is night, there is enough moonlight to allow me to see them quite clearly. I move the hammer to full-cock and aim. When my target is clear, I pull the trigger and the flintlock explodes with a loud bang and an explosion of sparks and smoke. The man screams, is kicked back and falls.

The other one darts for the bushes where Samantha hides.

Ice needles pierce my entire body as I run there, too. I have no time to reload the pistol, and I remove the knife from my boot. The shadow of the man darts into the bushes, and I follow.

I hear a thump and Samantha screams, her voice shrill. I speed up, and there she is.

In the arms of a red coat, his pistol at her temple.

Fear grasps me, tightens my throat, slashes my gut like a saber.

I lock eyes with her. She’s terrified but not showing it. I see a prospect before me, but I need her put her to trust me, and she must do it without me telling her to.

“Kill her,” I say. “She is of no consequence to me.”

Her eyes widen. The red coat frowns and shoots a quick glance at her. “What?”

“She’s just another wench.”

Samantha frowns and stares at me, then her eyebrows rise in realization. She understands the game I’m playing. Smart, intuitive woman. The trust she puts in me makes my lungs tighten.

“Yes, sir!” she says. Please, save me. He kidnapped me and seduced me. I’m so glad you came and freed me from this dirty pirate.”

Her words sting a little. Dirty pirate? Her eyes soften, as though she is apologizing.

The red coat studies her, confusion mixed with doubt on his face. Then he lets her go and pushes her behind him, pointing the barrel right in my face. I sigh with relief—Samantha is safe for now. I hold my hands up.

“Madame, stay behind me,” he says. “What is your name, sir?”

I chuckle as I see Samantha taking a large piece of driftwood in both her hands behind him. “James ‘Prince’ Barrow,” I say, and observe with delight how his face pales.

At that moment, Samantha hits the back of his head with the driftwood, and I launch at him with my knife. He falls to the ground, and I put my knife to his throat. But he has lost consciousness and there’s no need to kill him. I stand up and look at Samantha.

“Are you all right?” I ask as Samantha flies into my arms. I pull her tighter to me, pressing my lips to the top of her head and inhaling her heavenly scent.

She’s shaking slightly in my arms, and I’m surprised. She looked so brave just a moment ago. I rub her arm up and down to warm her, even though the air is already warm.

“We need to tie him up,” she says, and her breath warms me through my shirt.

She looks up at me with eyes as dark as the night sea. I sink into them, forgetting the danger, the unconscious man lying at my feet, and the second one a few feet away. I lower my head and kiss her, the need for her closeness roaring in me like wildfire.

I have barely begun feasting on her lips when the red coat moans. With regret, I interrupt the kiss.

“You are correct, Samantha, we need to tie him up. Would you be so kind to tear off some of your shift, please?”

The man is waking up, and I hold him while she lifts the skirt of her dress and tears off three long pieces of cloth. I gag his mouth, then drag him to the palm tree and tie his hands behind him, and then him to the tree. I take his pistol and his cutlass and go check the other man. He has a wound at his hip and is unconscious but still alive. I relieve him of his weapons, as well.

Then I return to my fair lady time traveler. My conscious mind refuses to believe her words, but in my heart, I feel their truth. The trust, the bond between us is strong. And it is terrifying.

“We must make haste now, Samantha. Let us take the boat to the water. I need to determine the course with the coordinates on land, but let us be near the boat so we are ready to go at once in case more men come.”

She nods. “Sounds like a plan. Come on.”

We continue to drag the boat towards the sea, and once it’s right at the water’s edge, I remove the maritime map and the instruments to measure the course. I put them on the sand, and as I’m doing my calculations and measuring the course, I realize I’m feeling something I haven’t felt for a long time—a sense of connection. The feeling of working as a well-coordinated crew. It’s something I’ve always envisaged a relationship with a woman could be.

But a dull ache pierces me as I shove the feelings deep down. I cannot allow them. I must not fall under the spell of a woman like her. She has no intention of staying with me. She is going to travel back to her time once we find the necklace.

And I am going to stay here and try to forget her.

Chapter 12

Samantha

James stands next to me on the quarterdeck, the spyglass pressed to one eye. He points at the land on the horizon. “That’s where we are heading. Not much longer now.”

My stomach sinks. The clock is ticking. Not much longer till I’m gone.

The ship rocks on heavy waves as we sail at full speed. After we returned to the ship from New Providence Island, the wind had picked up and the waves had begun rolling like small hills. I managed to sleep for a few hours while James was busy with his captain’s duties. I wanted to stay awake while I waited for him in his cabin, but I drifted off and just woke up half an hour ago. He was sitting in the armchair watching me in the gray light of the morning. My lips curled in a smile. Seeing him first thing after I opened my eyes made me feel as though I might float up into the sky like a helium balloon.

After a short breakfast, I had come out onto the quarterdeck to see was going on. The sky is full of small dark clouds. The gale fills the sails and the huge waves make my stomach drop and my head spin.

New Providence Island, with its soldiers, is long gone, but the hard knot in my gut that had formed after the red coats found us, only tightens. There seems to be no end to the adventures as the sea tries it’s damnedest to capsize the ship. I inhale, trying to relax, drinking in the wet, salty air of the Atlantic.

I look at James to calm down. His hair is escaping its short seaman’s braid and frames his gorgeous face. His white shirt is open at his chest, and the sight of his broad shoulders and strong chest beneath make my throat thicken. My God, he’s so handsome my chest tightens and squeezes with a sweet ache. He looks at me, his eyes hold me, and his gaze warms my skin.

Part of me still doesn’t believe he’s real and that he wants me. Even if I pretend to be this woman who can have it all, there’s still the young romantic inside of me who wants unconditional love.

And James has reached out for that small part of me and is holding its hand.

And I’m terrified.

“What happens once we find the treasure?” I ask.

A wave hits the ship and the floor sinks under my feet, and I grip the bulwark. He frowns and an expression of vulnerability flashes across his face. “What would you like to happen?”

“I want to go back to my time.” But I also don’t want to leave you. “What would you like to happen?”

His gaze darkens. “I would like you to stay longer. I want to continue what we started on the beach. I want to make you scream my name as I give you your release and as you give me mine.”

The world freezes and my cheeks burn. My fingers grip the wooden side of the ship as I struggle to get enough air into my lungs. My mouth waters and I swallow hard.

“Would you like that?” he asks, his face showing the wicked, wolfish grin of a predator.

I gulp down a yes. I want to allow myself this last treat before I leave. Before I never see him again. But I can’t. What happened between us on the island must be enough. “I won’t stay, James. I want us to be crystal clear about that.”

He frowns, then his face relaxes, but there’s still tension around his mouth. “I will not stop you, Samantha.”

Even though this is what I want to hear, my throat hurts and my eyes prickle as his words hit me. A big wave slams us again, and the ship crests the wave and plummets down the back of it. I grab the bulwark with both hands, feeling woozy.

“Are you all right, Samantha?” James asks.

“How are you not even grabbing onto anything in this storm?”

“This is not a storm. Are you worried?”

“Aren’t you?”

He crosses his arms, seducing me with the sight of his muscled forearms. “Fine. Let me distract you. When you get back, does a fiancé or a man who courts you wait for you? Is that why you wish to go back so much?”

“No. I don’t want a fiancé or a husband or anyone courting me.”

In fact, often I’m the one doing the “courting.”

“Oh?” he says. “Do you not wish to get married, then?”

“No. I don’t want to fall in love. Not again.”

“Did someone break your heart?”

Now, the storm forgotten, I know I’m going to bleed if I tell him. I don’t want to remember Leonard, but I feel like I want to share my story with James. He seems to care enough to ask. And yet, opening up is like tearing my heart out with my own hands.

“Yeah,” I say.

He narrows his eyes at me. “It seems we have both had our share of heartbreak.”

He quiets, as if expecting me to take the bait and talk about it. “Let’s drop it, please,” I say.

“If you intend to go back soon, I shall be gone from your life forever. You might as well confide in me.”

He’s right, of course, although I don’t want him to be gone from my life forever. But this adventure will come to its end. It must. Confiding in him is actually tempting, and I know it’s probably been less than twelve hours since I met him, but it feels like I’ve known him so much longer. Especially after everything we’ve gone through together. We dealt with those soldiers like a team. I trust him more than I have any other man in my life since Leonard.

Maybe even more than Leonard.

And that’s terrifying. Like, soul-shattering, ground-sinking, heart-tearing terrifying. Because if Leonard had broken my heart like that, what would falling for James do?

Behind James, the land is ever closer. We’ll be there soon, and the need to tell him grows in me, itches me like a wound under a cast. Can I really tell him? Let him know that the mask of this confident woman who pretends to have it all is just a lie? That beneath it I’m weak and terrified of another heartbreak. That all I’m doing by pushing men away is protecting myself, hurting them before they can hurt me.

I know I’m a coward because I won’t give him a chance. Because even if in some crazy alternate universe we could be together, I would probably screw up the relationship, terrified he’d know the real me.

But I won’t stay, and in a few hours I’ll never see him again.

And I let go. “I was twenty-one when I met him. I’d never been in a serious relationship before. I was a bit like my friend Lisa, naive, always looking for that one true love.”

Saying that makes my throat clench, and I choke a bit and pause. James holds me in his gaze looking at me with such intensity, as though his life depends on what I say next. The ship drops again and shakes a little, and my eyes shoot to the sea.

“Talk,” he commands. “Forget about the waves.”

“And I thought I had met my true love in Leonard. I was studying at Columbia University then.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Women are allowed to attend university in the future?”

I chuckle, his comment lightening me up a bit. “Yeah. We also go to work and run businesses and buy our own houses.”

He smiles. “A beneficial future for the world, smart and strong women in command. I always envisioned having one by my side—before she betrayed me.”

My face heats up.

“What happened next with that man—Leonard?” He scowls as he says the name.

“He…” I start to pick my fingernails, a bad habit I haven’t done since Leonard. “He was a professor of economics and fifteen years older than me. Our relationship was against the university policy, so we kept it a secret. I’d always thought that true love changes you. Well, he did. At twenty-one, I was still so naive about the world, about life, about everything. But with him, I grew up, started to believe in myself and feel more like a woman.”

A gust of wind steals the words from my mouth and chokes me, and James covers my hand with his. “Go on,” he says.

Our eyes lock. “While we were together, all I could think about was him. I started dressing differently, more appropriate for a professor’s wife. Honestly, I went a bit crazy. If he didn’t answer my calls, I went looking for him. I practically stalked him. I craved him, as if I was no one without him. He started pulling away and soon just stopped responding to my calls, my texts, my emails. When I saw him, he addressed me as Miss Gilbert, as though I was a stranger.”

The ship lurches, but my stomach is already sour from the memories. The winds ease a bit and the sky begins to clear. A cloud drifts by, clearing the way for the sun. The rays kiss the side of James’s face, making his left eye seem almost blue. His hair glows golden; he’s like an angel with a fierce expression. Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. He is giving me strength.

“I felt like a used tissue,” I continue. “It was close to graduation, so I dove into working on my thesis. Not long after he dumped me, I found out that I wasn’t the first nor the last one he used.”

James takes my hands in his and they are big and hot. They reassure me and make me feel steady.

“I should have filed a complaint against him or something. But I was about to graduate, and I just wanted to put it all behind me and start fresh. That was when I decided I wouldn’t let a man hurt me like that ever again. I’d become someone new. I’d be the one in control. I haven’t had a serious relationship since.”

He pulls my hands to his mouth and kisses them, closing his eyes as if the touch of my hands against his lips gives him physical pleasure. His warm lips pressed against my skin spread warmth through my arms like mulled wine on a chilly winter’s day.

“I’d kill him if I ever met him,” James says, and I smile. Here’s a man who wants to protect me from the heartbreaks of the past.

“Thankfully, your meeting will never happen,” I say and chuckle, then I freeze. “Oh my God. This is the first time I’ve smiled or laughed about that situation.” I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“If I manage to make you smile like this again, I will consider my life worth living.”

Something floats between us, some sort of magic. Time stops; the ship freezes; the wind stills.

And I wonder if I gave up on love too early.

Chapter 13

James

“Why is it that you don’t have a woman in your life?” Samantha says, her voice soft as silk. “No one to go to a ball with you.”

She has just poured her heart to me, and I am furious at the man who hurt her so much, but lightness and softness fill my chest because she trusted me with her heart. The invisible strings between us are back, and they pull us closer together.

And I want to tell her.

I need to tell her.

“Anne,” I say, my voice coming out as a rasp. The ship jerks a little from the wind as though shuddering along with me at the name. “You heard about her.”

“I did. But what happened? What did she do?”

“I thought I was in love with her.” I look at the horizon, remembering. “I thought she needed protection. She seduced me. Not that I resisted or was a young, innocent boy. I wanted her. She was—”

Samantha’s eyes blur with pain a little.

“I am sorry,” I say. “You do not want to hear that.”

“No, I do. Please. I just hate her for doing this to you.”

I smile. Her support warms me.

“We had an affair. She was smart, beautiful, and she had the will and ambition of a man. I had thought, at first, she was a noble lady, but it was only an act. She acted a lot, liked the attention. Later, I found out that she had her own pirate ship, which only spurred my infatuation with her. I imagined us together, sailing the seas, looking for adventure. Then after a few years, once we had enough of chasing treasures and risking our lives, I thought we would settle somewhere where no one would know who we were. Imagined us opening a proper business together. Starting a family. A family for whom I could provide safety and prosperity.”

I shake my head and look at my boots. Samantha covers my hand with hers, and I squeeze it back.

“I was a fool.” I meet her dark, endless eyes, which shine with compassion and understanding. Our stories are similar.

“We planned a coup, a raid on a Spanish treasure ship—Anne, Cole, and I—and agreed to share the treasure. Then I would retire with Anne, and Cole would run away to the East. It was a man-o’-war, so we needed all three of us. But in the midst of it all, boarding the ship, battling the Spanish, the English Navy appeared. Cole managed to run away. Anne did not want me to leave, and while we were on board the Spanish ship, she began fighting me to stop me.”

I rub my hand against the scar on my torso.

“She told me that giving me and Cole to the British was her and her husband’s—the famous pirate Samuel van Huisen—way to get pardoned. It turned out, she wanted to settle down, too. Just not with me.”

A bitter, tight knot forms in my throat.

“I managed to run away thanks to my crew. She was hanged by the British because she failed to deliver what she had promised. I doubt they would have upheld their end of the bargain even if she had gotten me and Cole captured.”

Samantha looks me in the eyes, and there’s such softness and something resembling love in them that I want to take her into my arms and kiss her and lever let her go. Telling all this to her feels liberating, and I know we share a wound that is similar.

But just as I am about to pull her into my arms, a sailor appears next to us. “Cap’n, we shall be there soon.”

I glance at the land, and it’s already in close proximity, probably a boat ride away. Damnation. I am both glad to see the island and hate the sight of it.

Because it means that my path with Samantha is about to end.

The thought is as sobering as a bucket of ice water thrown over me. Yes, we share a common pain, but so what? I understand her reason for being like this. But it does not change the facts. I am falling in love with her, but she does not want a husband. And I do not want to grow old alone.

“Prepare the anchors,” I say to the sailor.

When Samantha looks at me again, the magic is gone and her eyes are worried, searching my face.

“It seems that our journey is about to end,” I say. “It is good that you and I belong to different worlds. You do not wish to marry. Whereas, after we find the treasure and my pirate days are behind me, there is nothing I want more than a wife and a happy stock of children.”

I turn and walk away to command the ship. And even though my mind understands the truth of these words, my chest hurts, and the pain is worse than it was with Anne.

Chapter 14

James

When Samantha and I arrive at the island, the sight takes my breath away. White sand is brilliant against the green jungle and the single low, dark mountain in the middle with a flat top. Although it emits no smoke or ashes, the whole island looks like a broad, sunken volcano. The top is where we must go.

I pull the boat onto the small beach that lies protected between two giant boulders the size of buildings. The beach and the boulders form a horseshoe of sorts. A few palm trees sway in the wind, their fronds waving like horses’ manes. The island must measure only a few square miles and is likely uninhabitable. Too small for a proper settlement, and too far away from the nearest populated land. It is no mystery why Cole hid the treasure here.

Samantha stands next to me, and her delicious scent tickles my nostrils and warms my blood. Sparks fly from the touch of our hands. Our eyes lock, and I sink in the depth of hers. I tense and step away from her so as not to dwell on my feelings. I must not indulge.

“The mountain is where we shall to go,” I say to Samantha as I study Cole’s map of the island with instructions on how to find the chest.

Samantha looks dubiously at the long skirt of her dress. “Hmm.” She stretches a hand towards the cutlass tucked at my belt. “May I have your sword?”

My brows shoot up. “My cutlass?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to attack you, James. I just want to cut these skirts. I can’t imagine hiking in these.”

I hide a smile. She is going to destroy the last memento I have left of Anne. Surprisingly, no pain comes when I think of the woman who betrayed me, no regrets over having nothing left that would remind me of her.

“Allow me,” I say. I take her skirts, pinch them between my thumb and index finger and stretch them out. I pierce them with my cutlass, then tear off the lower part and throw it away. The skirt now ends just above her knees. At the sight of her beautiful bare legs, I cannot resist tracing the smooth skin of her inner thigh with my fingers. I gulp, barely able to restrain myself from lifting her into my arms and having her wrap her delicious legs around my waist. I meet her gaze.

“Is that better?” I ask, my mouth as dry as the sand beneath our feet.

“Much better.” She studies me, her eyes like molten starlight. They burn me, they call to me, they challenge. Remembered images of her naked body on the beach in the moonlight flood my psyche, the sweet scent of her sex awakening a desire to howl like a wolf, the echo of her moans of pleasure singing in my ears like the calls of sirens.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“More than you can ever know,” I say hoarsely. “But I cannot submit to my desires. First, I must find the treasure. Our delay back on New Providence Island barely allowed us to escape. Who knows who or what might be up there. The island looks empty, but I do not know that for sure.”

Samantha glances at the mountain. “Let’s go then.”

We head into the bushes and undergrowth, between the rocks and the palm trees. I lead the way, my cutlass ready, though there are no beasts other than birds and buzzing insects and no signs of men. Glancing back at Samantha from time to time, I make sure she is all right. She looks as fierce and confident as though she has been hiking tropical mountains her whole life. The only thing she is missing is a pistol or a knife.

Soon, the climb becomes steeper and rockier. I step more and more carefully, sometimes moving the rocks with my foot to make sure it is safe to step on them. When we are about halfway to the top, I hear something that makes me freeze and listen. Samantha stops next to me. There’s a whisper in the air, like waves hitting the shore but more constant.

“Is that—” she says, and I finish her question.

“—a waterfall.”

We are on the right track. Cole marked the waterfall on the map of the island. We speed up and then edge around a large piece of rock that looks more like a piece of frozen lava wall, and there it is, a waterfall. It cascades from the very top of the mountain, where the rocks split and make way for the thin ribbon of water. The stream is white against the dark surface of the slope and falls into a small pool that looks like a giant, uneven chalice above a small strip of land. Then it falls freely from the other side of the chalice, which hangs above the path. It creates an arch of sorts, then disappears in the greenery below the slope.

“Wow,” Samantha whispers and lays her hand on my forearm. “This is amazing.”

As beautiful as nature is before us, it is not the sight of the waterfall that holds my breath and makes my throat clench. It is the sight of Samantha’s awed face and the pleasant buzzing of my skin where her hand touches me.

She leaves my side and walks towards the falling water, puts her cupped hands into the stream, drinks from it, and closes her eyes in bliss. Then she lets out a small laugh. Taking more water into her palms, she splashes her face with it. Water slips down her neck to her decollete and wets the edge of her bodice.

“God, this water is so pure. It tastes sweet. Come on, James! Try some.”

I stand next to her, and she brings me the water in her cupped palms. I drink, my eyes on her. I lick her palm and she giggles. When water is gone, I kiss her palms and she stops breathing.

“It is not the water that is sweet,” I murmur against her skin. “It is you.”

I straighten and gaze into her eyes. Her neck and her chest glisten with droplets as if covered with morning dew, and even though I have just had some water, my mouth goes dry from the thirst for her. I want to lick her skin dry and make her wet in other places.

But I know if I start, I shall not be able to stop. And I must. She must go, and I must let her. She is not the woman for me. No matter how much I desire her, I can never trust another woman as strong as her. And even if I did, she would never stay.

“Come,” I say. “Let us be on our way.”

Her eyes cloud with a hurt that slashes my heart like a knife, but I turn and walk through the waterfall and up the mountain slope. In an hour or so, we reach the very top, which looks like a giant dune. I climb over it and stop, taking it all in. Samantha stands next to me. It seems as if we are on top of the world, the island beneath our feet like a dark green hill in the middle of the blue vastness of the ocean. I see my ship anchored not far away.

On the other side of the rocks is a crater with a small blue lake not wider than a hundred feet. It feeds the waterfall we passed. The lake is as flat as a mirror, and looks as if it’s a window into a different sky with white clouds flowing by. The slopes of the crater are mostly dark volcanic sand with occasional bushes and grass.

Cole hid the chest in the lake. According to the map, the water is not deep where the chest is, and it is buried in the space between two rocks that protrude into the lake.

I help Samantha down a steep rise. After a short walk, we stand by the lake. The water here is crystal clear and between the two sharp rocks that jut above the surface of the lake like balconies without railings. Under the water, there’s a small rocky slope, a collection of stones and rocks.

My gut twists and my heart races. I jump into the water, which splashes around me and onto the shore. It is now around noon and the cold water is welcome in the heat. One after another, I remove the rocks and there it is, the chest.

I stand still and look at it for a minute, my arms refusing to move. Samantha’s gaze on my skin is heavy.

“It’s there,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “You found it.”

I stare at the chest, which looks as if it is swaying under the moving water, and I’m torn inside with the relief and victory of finally finding it and the pain of knowing I shall soon lose her.

“Do you need help pulling it up?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I meet her eyes, finally. “Once it is on shore there will be nothing to stop you from leaving me forever.”

She lowers her gaze and says nothing.

At least she has the decency not to pretend she will change her mind.

There is nothing to say anymore, and I sink into the water and lift the chest. It floats up, supported by the water. But as I bring it towards the shore, it gets heavier. I pull it up onto the ground and jump up, too, my cold, wet clothes clinging to my body. I crouch in front of the chest and open it. Gold and jewels glisten in the sun, still wet.

And in the middle of them, the jade pendant.

This is it. She will go. Without looking at Samantha, I take the necklace in my hands to give it to her, but she gently clasps my hands in hers.

With a dull ache that tears apart my gut and my chest, I look up at her. She crawls closer to me and sits on my lap. Her arms wrap around my neck, and she says, “I don’t want to go just yet. There’s still one thing I need to do.”

Despite the chill of my wet clothes, heat rushes through me. “What is that?”

“Let me show you.”

Chapter 15

Samantha

My lips melt against James’s mouth which meets them, soft and silky and hot. I have butterflies in every cell of my body. The violent beating of my pulse rages in my ears.

The jade necklace lying among the golden coins burns the edge of my vision, and I close my eyes. The moment that I lose James forever lies at my fingertips. The thought opens a gaping, black, sucking hole in the pit of my stomach.

Not yet. I can’t lose him. The need to feel him close, physically and emotionally, for the last time, burns me, urges me.

Body to body, skin to skin, soul to soul—I want him. I need him.

And no tomorrow.

James engulfs me in his strong arms. As he presses me against him, his wet clothes soak my dress, but I don’t care. He smells like wet linen and the musk of a man. Combined with the beauty and the magic of the crater lake, shielded from the wind and warmed by the Caribbean sun, he makes me feel like I’m floating.

I undo the buttons of his shirt and pull it off him, the velvet of his damp, cool skin warms my fingertips. His shirt comes off and I trace my fingers down his hard chest, along the line of his scar, down his ripped stomach, his hair soft against my palms. As I do so, I feel his breath accelerate and deepen at the same time.

The slickness of his tongue sets me on fire as he licks and caresses mine, as he sucks and nips at my lips with just the right amount of pressure that makes my insides burn and squeeze and dampen.

He undoes the laces of my jade dress, then breaks contact and undresses me. I drink in every last detail of him: his dark-violet eyes, the gold of his hair, the straight line of his jaw, his full lips, the stubble that ranges from wheat to amber. As he pulls down the bodice of my dress, he kisses the skin that he reveals, spreading bliss through my nervous system like the most exquisite champagne.

My head rolls back, and I arch into his mouth when he gets to my breasts. As he teases them, massages them, sucks on my nipples, plays over them with his tongue, I hear a moan escape my throat. James lays me on the warm, smooth rock that heats my back like the stones in a spa. He pulls down my skirts and removes my shoes, and I lie in front of him, naked and open and burning.

I want him to cover me with his body, but he freezes while kneeling before me. His eyes travel my body from the toes up, and it’s like another way of making love. His gaze doesn’t make me feel shy or embarrassed. I glow, I open up, and I soften.

“Look at you,” he groans. “So beautiful. There’s a chest of pearls, jewels, gold and gemstones, and yet they all pale next to you.”

My cheeks heat, and I stretch my arms to him, “Come here.”

But he doesn’t. He glances at the chest and a wicked smile spreads across his lips. “What I want to do, is to see exactly how they pale next to you. I intend a direct comparison.”

I bite my lip and hold my breath as I watch him lean to the chest and take something out. A large golden coin that still glistens with water in the sunlight.

“Absorb the sensation, Samantha.” He puts the coin on my belly.

I gasp from the sharp bite of cold against the warmth of my skin, and everything squeezes inside of me. I arch my back and let the coolness spread and strangely it heats me up. But I tense and a dull but pleasant ache spills across my nerves.

James studies me. “You are still more beautiful than the gold. Let us try something else, a gemstone.”

He rummages in the chest again and removes a gold necklace with a large ruby pendant in the form of a teardrop. It catches the sunlight and glows. He leans over me on one straight arm, and I suck in air as a cool drop of water lands between my breasts.

“Absorb the sensation,” he murmurs.

The necklace lands on my breast, and instantly my nipples harden. I suck in the air as the tightness of the tissue on my breasts makes my nerve endings sing and vibrate. James traces the ruby around my nipple and all my being stiffens. I struggle to keep still.

“Take it in,” he says.

And, as though his words are a spell, I do. I breathe out, and instead of fighting the coldness that feels alien, unwelcome, I inhale and take it in, and a whole new world of sensations explodes within me. Heat and tingling and the rush of liquid sunlight. James moves to the other breast, circling the nipple with the smoothness of the gold and ruby. The necklace caresses my skin, continuing the sweet torture, taking me higher than I’ve ever been before.

“That is right, my sweet,” he whispers, against my breast, and his warm breath scorches me like hot lava. “And yet you still win against even these jewels.”

I open my eyes, and he looms over me.

“Then plunder me, my pirate,” I say.

He smirks and puts the jewels away, then slowly removes his belt, revealing the lower part of his ripped stomach. He pushes down his trousers, inching them over his hips, down strong thighs covered in pale hair. He stands up and kicks the trousers aside, and his erection makes my mouth water. He’s so hard, and so big, and when he sinks to his knees, I take his cock in my hand. It’s velvety, and I’m thinking I might be going insane from lust. I make a fist around him and caress him, stroke him up and down, and he tilts his head back and moans.

Wow. I can’t believe I’m making this man so hard he’s unable to control his reaction to me.

I seriously can’t take it anymore. I need my release. Now. “Hard and fast,” I plead, trying to sink his cock into me. But James isn’t moving.

“Oh no, madame,” he says. “Hard and fast is for a quick release. You think you want it. But you want slow. Slow and tender and gentle.”

I’m alert, my muscles tense to sit up. Slow and tender and gentle is for people in love. I’m not in love with him. I can’t be. I just met him and if all goes well, very soon I’ll never see him again. Ever since Leonard, that’s how sex has been. Hard and fast.

I open my mouth to say something, but he interrupts. “You are mine, treasure.” He puts the ruby necklace around my neck.

“Then take me.”

He sits up and tugs me to him and guides me so that I half sit on his legs with my back to him, my knees on either side of his thighs. His erection burns my butt cheeks. He plants soft, wet kisses on my back. “Mine,” he says against my skin.

He lifts up my thighs and surprises me by pinning me on his cock. He slides through the slick folds of my sex easily, and I gasp from the fountain of pleasure inside of me. He’s stretching me, deep inside of me, and he’s not moving, just letting me adjust to him. I convulse around him involuntarily a couple of times, and he groans.

He leans back against a rock. One hand covers my left breast and begins playing with it, his other hand travels to my swollen, aching, throbbing clit, and his fingers begin teasing me. I gasp as intense pleasure spreads through me.

“If you want me to go slow,” I moan, “you are doing it wrong.”

“We shall see,” he growls.

Continuing to play with my breast and my clit, he begins to withdraw, so slowly the pleasure is intensified tenfold. An eternity later, he’s thrusting back into me, and I meet his hips as he sends another blast of bliss through me.

He’s rocking his hips back and forth, again and again, and I’m thrusting back against him. My body is loving it, and my soul…my heart…are loving it so much it terrifies me.

Yet I can’t stop him. He’s playing me like a master plays a violin. He’s torturing me with the sweetest pleasure there is.

He’s going faster, both his hands on my hips now, moving, thrusting me onto him. My breasts and the necklace on my chest bounce, the ruby brushing against my throbbing nipples occasionally, teasing me, sending me to the next level of arousal.

And I’m falling apart. All too soon, the orgasm is building in me. Like the first wave of a tsunami born in the sea, it starts deep. James is getting close, too. He’s tensing, going faster. My release is building. There’s a pressure and tension inside me, and it intensifies. I’m meeting him thrust for thrust, as my impatience spirals out of control. I can’t get enough.

As pleasure explodes inside me, and he’s finding his release, I’m opening up to him, allowing his name to caress my lips countless times. We join together in the bliss, the sky, the eternity.

He wraps his arms around me and presses my trembling body to his. As the most world-shattering orgasm of my life is calming down, we are still breathing one breath. I’m leaning with my back against his torso, staring into the endless blue sky and the ever-changing white clouds flying by.

And all I can think of is that nothing in the world can top what I just had with James.

Not jewels, not sex on a volcano, not even time travel itself.

How the hell can I go back to a normal life after this?

But I know I can never stay.

Chapter 16

Samantha

My body molten, flooded with warmth and softness, my mind high, I absorb the delicious hardness of James’s arms around me. I lie on his chest; he cuddles me.

I wish I could stay with James forever.

What I felt just now, being one with him—like he could feel every part of me, and I could feel every part of him, body and soul—I’ve never had that with anyone. Not even Leonard.

The thought grips my stomach like icy vise. Memories of the pain and humiliation I felt with Leo rush into me like a cold stream of water. My vow to never allow another man emotional power over me rings in my head: never, never, never…

And yet that is exactly what I’m doing.

I’m falling for him, giving him the power to crush me.

You are an idiot! the voice in my head screams. You are cuddling. Cuddling is for when you are in love. You are not in love. You’re just…

Anger and fear burn me inside, shaking me and sending my body into shivering spasms as though I have a fever. I shake so hard I think the earth is moving.

I push myself off him, the softness, the warmth in my body, replaced by cold, metallic hardness, which closes over my heart like the bars of a prison cell.

I begin to dress quickly, yanking the clothes on, still shaking slightly, feeling as if even the ground is vibrating. I don’t look at James. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll allow him to change my mind.

“Are you quite finished with me?” he says, his voice broken and raspy. I see him dressing in my peripheral vision.

The words slash me. What an idiot I was to allow this to happen. I don’t respond, the metal around my heart that has protected me since Leonard is gripping my throat. Tension is building inside of me. Can I stop shaking, please? I put on the shoes.

“I knew a woman like you would never give me her heart. You only want a man to satisfy your needs,” he says. “Anne taught me that lesson. You only confirmed it.”

His words cut me. I don’t mean to hurt him. I should run—take the necklace now and go.

I finally meet his eyes, feeling as if my lungs are clenched in a fist. His face is stern. His mouth is a hard line. Fury and pain thunder behind his eyes.

“What do you want me to do, James?” I ask. “Stay? Okay, I stay. Then what? I can never be the kind of woman you want. One who only cares about giving birth to your babies and worries about how many eggs the chickens laid this morning. I can’t make you happy.”

The shaking is over now—it’s good that I said all that. And although the trembling tension in my legs is gone, inside I’m hurting, as if a crack has opened in my heart and it’s throbbing.

James’s jaws clench in a pained grimace. “I certainly had not planned to want someone like you.”

“Well, too bad. I’ve told you I’m not planning to stay.” I lean down to take the necklace, but just before my fingers touch it, the ground jolts so hard, a loud crack rends the air. The jewels clank, gold coins spill to the ground and roll in all directions.

I lose my balance and fall. With horror, I see the jade necklace slip and land on the ground at the edge of the rock above the lake. Waves splash, and a big one crashes near the rock where I’m plastered.

“Samantha!” James yells as he sinks to his knees by my side and helps me stand up. A barrage of waves assaults us, high and chaotic. The ground rocks, bushes and grass shake.

A wave slams into me, pushing me away from the necklace. And when the water is gone, so is the jewel.

* * *

James

“The necklace!” Samantha yells, and ice replaces the blood in my veins.

She sinks to the ground, looking into the lake, but the white waves rise high.

The desperation in her face stabs at my heart. If the necklace is lost, she stays with me forever. It seems that destiny might want us to be together.

Should I jump into the water and look for it? I can’t let her do that, it’s too dangerous. The rock under our feet cracks and stones fall into the lake. Samantha looks back at me, and her eyes are wide, terrified, like a trapped animal’s.

If I do nothing, I will trap her here. With me.

Do I want to be her jailer? Would I be able to live with myself, knowing that she had wanted so much to go back home, and I had done nothing to help her, pretended like it was out of my control.

No matter how much I want her to stay, I cannot be the one who would trap her where she does not want to be.

I cannot stand her tears, her eyes full of fear. I would rather die.

“Move back,” I say as I walk to the edge of the rock.

I jump into the lake and dive down. The waters muffle my hearing, whisper wetly in my ears. The lake is a milky, dirty pool now. Rare water plants waver chaotically as the bottom shakes the lake like a butter churn. I look desperately around the rocky bottom, and there, caught in the crack between two rocks and swaying in the water, is the necklace. I dive deeper, catch it and swim up.

“We must make haste!” I say when I am back on the rattling ground. I give Samantha the necklace without looking at her. I cannot bear to see the look of relief she must wear.

She can go now.

I close the chest and put it under my arm, grasp Samantha’s hand and tug her after me.

But the mountain rattles and omits another bang. We are both jolted and almost fall but keep each other balanced. The ground beneath us shakes again and a long black crack forms on the other side of the lake. Water from the lake flows into the cavity. There is a loud hiss, and steam shoots up from the crack, heating the air around us.

“Come!” I yell and we rush up the hill of the crater.

A scent resembling gunpowder fills my nostrils. Sulfur. Hurrying up the steep hill, with the ground convulsing under our feet, we fall several times. When we reach the top of the crater, an explosion shudders the air, and a hot cloud of ashes and steam hits us in the back. Losing my balance, I pitch back down the hill. The world flashes with flickers of black ground, blue sky, and gray cloud as I roll down. When I stop, my head spinning, my body hurting from the scratches and hits, I lever myself up on my arms to look for Samantha. She is on all fours some distance from me, eyes worried as she looks at me.

“James, are you okay?” she shouts over the rumble of the earth.

I try to stand up, but pain pierces my ankle. I get on my feet, and she hurries to let me lean on her shoulder. The necklace is still in her hand. I can see she intends to guard it with her life.

“Where is the chest?” she says.

I look around and it is down the slope next to a boulder and a stream of water. It is the waterfall we passed by on the way up. Except, the chalice-like rock basin of the pool is not up the slope anymore, but broken on the ground.

“Quickly, come on,” she says, and we walk down the slope.

“You must go now, Samantha. Put on the necklace,” I say as we reach the chest and I take it under my arm again.

“Out of the question. I need to see that you are safe on your ship first.”

“I will be all right. You need to go, right now.”

“Forget it, James.”

Her worry about me warms me and gives me strength. We step over the stream, which is no longer pure but full of rocks and black sand. As we hurry down the slope, the cloud of ash, smoke, and fumes reaches us and rushes down in front of us.

An explosion hits the air as though it intends to crack the sky open, then another and another. The ground shakes. Rocks, big and small crumble down the slope, and one almost hits us, but Samantha moves us out of its way. I turn back and look up at the milky-gray cloud of smoke and ash, and within the murkiness glowing red fountains shoot into the sky. A low gurgling adds to it, and with my feet freeze as if they’ve turned to ice. I watch as lava flows through the crack of the waterfall and pours down the slope, mixing with water, hissing, turning partly into black crust.

“Run!” Samantha tugs my hand and I follow her, but I cannot run. My ankle must be broken or hurt badly because the pain is excruciating, and I would surely fall if it was not for her.

The mountain shudders and the crack from which the waterfall originated widens. And inside it is not black; it is glowing red.

More lava is flowing—no longer a brook, it is a stream, and it is quickly turning into a red, glowing river that moves much faster than us. When it reaches the trees, it sets them on fire.

“Come on, James!” she yells into my ear and tugs me after her.

“I will only slow you down,” I say. “You must put on the necklace and travel back home. Now.”

Her eyes widen in panic.

As the volcano turns the world around us into a red, gray, smoking hell, I calm down. I can’t go fast enough to escape this. If this is the end, it must be the end only for me.

Not her.

Because I am in the eye of this storm. And in the calm clearness of that space, I know that I have nothing but love. I love this raven-hared, stubborn, brave beauty who is only a visitor from the future.

Her hair is waving in the ashy wind, her eyes burn darker than the depths of the underworld.

If this is hell, she is an angel, and she will be the last image I see before I die.

I put the chest down, and in one swift motion take the necklace from her hand.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes are alert.

I make a move to put the necklace over her head, but she dodges back. “No, James! I will help you down. I am not leaving you here!”

But as another explosion shudders the ground and above us a new crack is born, there is no time to quarrel.

As she is looking up with horror, I trap her arms and around her waist and pull her against me. Her face is panicked; tears glisten in her eyes. I put the necklace over her head and kiss her.

For the last time, the heaven of her mouth welcomes me, and if I die in the next minute, it will be with the taste of the love of my life on my lips. She answers, desperately, hungrily, and I taste salt on my tongue.

The sensation of her lips weakens, I press tighter to hold on to her, but in a moment, I do not feel her anymore.

Still with my eyes closed, I whisper, “I love you.”

Chapter 17

Samantha

The ground doesn’t shake. A warm, gentle breeze envelops me in the scents of mango, tangerines, and the sea. A dull murmur of voices reaches me.

I’m not on the horseshoe-shaped island anymore. There’s no volcano erupting.

And there’s no James.

The thought stabs me, and I almost double up. I open my eyes.

I’m sitting in a chair in the City of Pirates Museum. Across the empty hall, the portraits of James and Cole stare at me. Between them, one jade necklace hangs.

I look down at myself and see that I’m still wearing the rags that used to be the jade dress, but no necklace. My arms and legs are scratched and bruised, and my head and face hurt in several places. My throat burns, and I cough.

James tricked me. He saved me at the expense—

My hands grip the carved arms of the antique French chair. My fingernails hurt. Slowly, I find the strength to stand up, and on unbendable legs I move across the hall towards the portrait.

One question pounds painfully against my temples.

Did he survive?

I need to hold on to something because my head spins and my vision blurs as I squint to see what year is marked under James’s portrait: “1690—”

Nothing.

What?

My body chills as though millions of icicles prick my skin.

“What does it mean?” I whisper.

I look at Cole’s portrait, and see the same years as before. Should I be happy that at least James’s year of death is not 1718? Is he somewhere here, in the future? Had he died in the eruption and everyone thought he just disappeared?

I need to find Adonis.

I walk until my legs gain a little strength, then run. I turn the corner of the corridor and fly by the museum visitors, looking for a red headscarf and a snake. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that snake now!

Outside, the air hits me with the warmth of the heated asphalt and stones. The sea is down the hill. To the left and right a tropical garden flourishes.

And there, in the shadow of a palm tree, stands a small group of tourists surrounding Adonis. The snake slithers around his neck. Looks like he’s guiding a tour.

I don’t care.

I run towards him and push people away. “Did he make it?” I yell.

Adonis stops talking and raises his eyebrows at me. “Miss, forgive me. As you can see, I am busy.”

“No. No, this can’t wait. I just came back. I need to know if James Barrow made it away from the eruption. There’s no date of death. What happened to him? How did he die?”

Adonis narrows his eyes at me, and the snake moves towards me and flickers its tongue. Its black eyes are impassive.

“Are you sure you would like to know?” he asks.

“Yes!”

I know people are staring. I must look like a beggar from the eighteenth century. I don’t care.

Because as my heart thumps against my chest the iron bars that I had put there years before begin to melt. James sacrificed his own well-being, his best chance of escaping death, to send me back to safety. He cares about me. My hands are shaking as I wait for Adonis’s answer. Because if his answer is that James died, I don’t think I can survive that. I don’t think I want to live in a world where James Barrow does not exist.

As the protection I had put around me melts away, love floods my system in a warm, sweet stream of joy.

What an idiot. I fell in love with him. I’d rather chop off an arm than let him die.

Which is silly because he must be dead for sure. More than three hundred years separate us. He died at some point.

I just hope that he died in the villa that he had wanted to buy with the treasure, surrounded by children and grandchildren that the woman he married gave him.

The woman I hate.

The woman I want to be.

“Well?” I say. “What happened to him?”

He glances around the group of tourists who are all staring at us pretty much with their mouths open.

“Some think,” Adonis says, “he found a mysterious woman who helped him get to the ball but that he died during the hunt for Cole the Black’s treasure.”

I clutch the fabric over my stomach. The snake coils a little on Adonis’s shoulders and flicks its tongue.

“Others say,” he continues, “he got the treasure, but the hunt left him so disfigured he was unrecognizable.”

My mouth goes dry, a painful knot forming in my throat.

“Finally, there is another rumor that says that he fell in love with a woman who traveled through time, but she abandoned him, and he never found happiness again.”

My eyes blur and burn.

“He realized that marrying a woman he didn’t love would never make him happy, no matter how safe she was or how many children she gave him. And if he couldn’t settle without the love of his life, he wouldn’t settle at all. He gave up the treasure to his crew and went on traveling the world. Some say, he crossed the whole world trying to find a way to her but never succeeded. We do not know when he died, but we know he didn’t die a happy man.”

While I listen to him, hot tears crawl down my cheeks, leaving burning trails on my skin. My hands tremble again, and I hug myself to stop them.

“A woman who traveled through time?” says a woman in her forties with a southern accent. She looks me up and down, then takes a picture of me with her smartphone. “I’ll be damned. This is a cool interactive theater setup from the museum.”

Hope, terrible hope is tearing my chest apart. I don’t dare believe what Adonis is saying. I think I know where he is going with this, but I can’t allow myself to really believe that James fell in love with me as I did with him.

And yet, he endangered his life to save me.

Leonard would have never done that.

I crossed three hundred years and let a man like James slip away into nothingness? The bad boy who looks like an angel and has the heart of a hero?

“Which of these three legends is true?” I ask.

“Which do you think?”

I keep silent. I’m afraid to really believe, to let the last of the iron protection around my heart fall off and crumble into dust.

To open up to love.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I say. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I just wanted to know if he was okay, but none of the answers tell me that he was. In all three scenarios James didn’t end well.

Now I know. There’s no happy ending for him there. Not without me.

But is there one for me, here, without him?

I look around the group of tourists. When I was in the eighteenth century, less than a day had passed, but it felt so much longer. It’s strange to see modern clothes, buildings, cameras, and mobile phones. But that’s what awaits me—my job, my apartment, my money.

Continuing my lifestyle where I run away from real human connection because I’m scared to death of allowing myself to be vulnerable.

And I don’t see a future here where I’d be looking for a man, planning a wedding, and buying a house in the Hamptons.

My stomach twists, my heart aches so hard it must be turning itself inside out.

Thinking of a world where James doesn’t exist turns every cell of my body into dead matter. Does he feel like that, too, back in the eighteenth century?

Would I feel like that every day of my life in New York, alone in my beautiful apartment, working my dream job?

“What are my options?” I say. “What I can I do?”

“You could go back.”

“The jade necklace?”

He looks at the snake and smirks. “Yes. But this time, there’s a price.”

I swallow. “What price?”

“It might be forever. There is no guarantee you can find the way back here. Plus, the obvious. Your job, your apartment, your family and friends will worry.”

I grasp my skirts. “Oh my God. How could I have forgotten. My family, my friends... Wait. What about Lisa? Did she travel back to Cole?”

He doesn’t answer, just chuckles softly. “That is the price. Do you want to pay it?”

My heart, my body, my soul scream yes.

But my mind…

“That’s a big deal,” I say. “I have to know I can return if I need to.”

“You are a coward, after all,” he says. “You just pretend to be strong. You are still looking for a guarantee. There is no guarantee. There will never be a guarantee. You can either live a full life, or a half life. You cannot live both.”

My throat clenches hard, my eyes burn, pressure squeezes my scalp. He’s right. James showed me what it is to be brave. He’s living a half life because he let himself fall in love with someone who told him she wouldn’t stay with him. Someone who would rather live a half life than risk her heart.

Anger at myself rises in me. New York, my apartment, and meaningless one-night stands are all a half life.

No more.

What I had with James was a treasure. The full life with him is a treasure.

“I choose a full life,” I say, and even though my voice is low, my decision is as hard as iron. “I want to go back to him.”

He gives a nod and gestures for me to step away from the group and follow him.

While we walk, I ask again, “What about Lisa? Is she here?”

“She’s with Cole,” he confesses.

I shake my head. “You bastard. You sent her back, too? Then I guess it’s good I’m going back. I must find her.”

He chuckles.

When we’re out of earshot, he says, “You need to hurry. You must put on the necklace. James will make an important decision soon, and if you are not next to him, you will never see him again.”

Chapter 18

James

I watch Sea Prince float away into the horizon. The sun is up high. Behind me, Nassau smells like hot stones and mango and failure. My twisted ankle burns slightly under the heated trousers.

My hair is cropped, and I’m wearing a hat and a black patch on my left eye even though it is not hurt. I am a wanted man by the British Empire, and I must leave New Providence Island as soon as possible.

I wait for a man called Dirty Jim who will take me with him to the East Indies, as far away as possible from the island where I so stupidly fell in love.

With that thought, my whole body hurts more than it did when I fell down the volcano crater.

But I hold on to the thought because that memory of Samantha is better than no memory at all. I close my eyes and recall her scent, her silky skin under my palms, her voice as she teased me, defied me and as she moaned from pleasure.

After discovering what I felt with her, I cannot possibly consider marrying a woman I do not love. All I can do is run. Run to try to forget Samantha. Run to find a new goal in life. Run away from here, so that the pain of never being able to see her again does not flatten me like a fly.

“Are you Bennet?” says a screechy male voice behind me.

I turn around. An older sailor stands before me. I stand up and pick up my bag.

“I am,” I say.

“Come, then, and make haste. The captain did not want to take another passenger. You have something for him?”

I nod and clap my bag. I kept a large jade stone and three gold coins to buy passage and some supplies. The rest of the treasure I gave to the crew and retired as captain. They were mainly good men who had been at sea too long. They proved their loyalty in the end when they did not abandon me upon seeing the erupting volcano but risked their lives to come and save me.

It gave me so much joy to see the eyes of my men as they received their shares of the treasure. Now those who wanted to retire could afford to do so, whereas others could continue their adventures or even buy their own ships. Or just live like kings until they spent it all on rum and women. Finally making my crew rich healed something in me and brought a feeling of satisfaction.

While we walk along the shore that borders the last buildings of Nassau, I think I see a raven-haired woman between the houses. Samantha! my heart shouts. But that is impossible.

I turn away and continue towards the harbor.

Men are throwing provisions into a rowboat, and my companion informs me this is our crew and I am to join them. I throw my bag in there and join the men who are hefting casks with water, biscuits, and dried fish. My leg hurts, but it will be healed soon enough.

I need to build a rapport with the men I am going to spend months in the same ship with.

When I hand a cask to a sailor, I hear quick steps of someone running. Instinctively, I shove the cask to him and spin around, my hand on my cutlass. A woman with raven hair flying in the wind runs towards me in a ruby red dress that looks so expensive it is fit for a queen. She is too far off, and I am blinded by the sun. The woman reminds me painfully of Samantha, but I do not dare believe it is her.

“Excuse me,” she says as she reaches the first sailor on the jetty. “Have you seen James Barrow?”

When he shakes his head, she goes to the next one. “James Barrow?”

Shock covers me, blinds me, makes my throat convulse. I want to believe what I think I am seeing, but that cannot be. I have sent her away. I have seen her disappear.

Then I finally understand what unravels before me. The voice is hers. The hair. The build and height. I put the cutlass back in its sheath and walk towards her, my gait stiff, limping when I use my injured leg.

By some miracle, she is here.

“Samantha,” I say when I get close enough, and she turns her head to me.

Her eyes widen. “James,” she mouths and flies into my arms.

I take her and kiss her and engulf her, pressing her to me so hard I might crush her. Her mouth is hot and soft and velvety. Her taste makes me hard. It really is her.

“My jewel,” I say when I lean back to look at her. “Why are you here?”

“I had to make sure you were all right.” Her big dark eyes shine but cloud with worry when she looks me over. “What happened to your eye?”

I chuckle. “Nothing. I must disguise myself here.”

She looks at the boat that is still being loaded. “You were leaving?”

“To the East Indies.”

“So I’m not too late.” She smiles, then a frown creases her brow. She slaps me on my chest. “How could you do that? Put the necklace on me like that?”

“You know why I did it. You needed to go. So I made you go.”

“But I wanted to get you to safety first.”

“I am safe.”

“How did you escape the eruption?”

“I found a stick and used it for support. I hurried down as best I could. And when I could not go any further, my crew came to find me.”

She sighs with relief. “Thank God. You had no idea how much you frightened me. When I went back, your date of death was unknown. You changed me, James. I know it’s crazy because we only met yesterday, but you showed me what I can be when I’m not afraid to be hurt. I was a coward, hiding behind the facade of a woman who does not care about intimacy. But when I felt what I felt with you, I couldn’t imagine living without it for a moment. So I came back. I don’t know what the future holds, James. But I know I want to find out with you. So I came to stay. For now. Maybe forever. I know my adventure with you is not over, and as long as I love you, I want it to continue.”

“You love me?” I whisper. My heart is twisting and opening, and it is sweet and aches as if a magical balm has begun to heal a bad wound.

“I do.”

“Did you not say you never wanted to love anyone?”

“I did.”

“And yet?”

“And yet I love you.”

“My heart has been full of you since I saw you. I just did not want to allow myself to believe that you would not betray me. But you did not. And you showed me that I can love like I have never loved before.”

She kisses me again. Tenderly, slowly, as if we have nowhere to go.

And we do not.

“Hey, Mr. Bennet!” a man says from the boat, and I break the kiss and look at him. “Are you coming or are you staying with your molly? We are leaving.”

I look at Samantha. “I’m staying,” I say to him without breaking eye contact with her. “And this is no molly. She’s a lady the likes of which you will never see again.”

I am rewarded with the brightest smile of my life.

“Waste of time,” I hear the man mumble and the jetty shudders as my bag lands by my feet. The boat sets off.

“I need to get off this island,” I say. “There is a price on my head.”

“Right. I might have an idea of what we could do.”

“What?”

“We could find Cole. My friend Lisa must be with him.”

“But he is in the East Indies, is he not?”

“No. I know for a fact he’s somewhere around New Providence Island. And I got a clue on how to find him.”

I smile, my chest fills with light, warm air. “An adventure then?”

She smiles back. “An adventure.”

Samantha kisses me. And as our lips meet and meld together, the feel of her pressed to me sets my blood on fire. But even though she thinks it will be an adventure finding Cole, she has no idea that the real adventure will be spending every day with her, no matter what.

* * *

Curious about Cole and Lisa’?

Discover their story in the twinned boxed set for ‘Once Upon a Pirate’ …

‘Pirates, Passion and Plunder’.

About Mariah Stone

When time travel romance writer Mariah Stone isn't busy writing strong modern women falling back through time into the arms of hot Vikings, Highlanders, and pirates, she chases after her toddler and spends romantic nights on North Sea with her husband. Mariah speaks six languages, loves sushi and Thai food, and runs a local writer's group.

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Shieldmaiden

by Simone Leigh

Chapter 1

INVASION

Northumbria

9th Century

MERCIA

The sky is a pure blue dome and I wipe my forehead against the trickling sweat that stings my eyes.

Sheep slice at the turf, already close-clipped, which clothes the hillside, stretching down and around craggy outcrops and then on to the pebbled shore. Far below the surf rolls; a million bubbles foaming, popping and reforming as it sweeps in. And beyond, a swell of blue-green glints under a bright sun.

Here, high above the water, the bare whisper of a breeze strokes my cheeks. In air that hisses with bees and heat, I move from one low shrub to another, squatting low to gather the berries.

It’s hot, hard work, picking the tiny fruits, but it is better than being trapped indoors with the spinning and the weaving, and my mother’s despairing Tuts as she examines my work.

“You’ll have to do better than this, Mercia, or your family will be walking in their skins when you’re older.”

“But I hate spinning.”

One of the old aunties plucks at my thread; uneven and lumpy, too thin in some places, bulky in others. “And what am I supposed to do with this when it’s time to weave the winter cloaks?”

Eventually, I am ejected from the hut, escaping into glorious freedom. My mother thrusts a basket into my hand. “And take Jeffrey with you…”

So small as they are, the whinberries, purple and plump with juice, fill my basket slowly. But it’s a task I enjoy, and the berries are my favourites; a late summer treat. And perhaps my mother will let me have a little cream with the berries if I bring home a good haul, enough for everyone to enjoy.

I regard my ‘assistant’. “You’re supposed to be helping.”

Jeffrey looks up at me, his freckled face purple-stained around the mouth. “It's so hot.” He kicks at a bush. “All the other boys went hunting with the men. This is girl’s work.”

“Being girl’s work hasn't stopped you eating the fruit. Have you collected any at all?” I head-point the leather bag flapping loose from his shoulders. “Or have you eaten everything you’ve picked?”

He grins, displaying gappy teeth. “They’re so good but so little. How can you pick enough for other people too?”

“That’s what we’re here for. And if you can’t do girl’s work, how do you think they’ll trust you to go with the older boys?”

His lower lip pushes out and he traces a pattern in the turf with a finger-end. “You could give me some of yours. Then I could show them my bag when we get back.”

“Ha! Forget it.” I wave a hand towards him, maybe a bit over-dramatically. “I didn’t go to all this effort so you could get the glory…” Then my eyes follow the line of my hand… and arm… out over the sea, glittering far below.

My eye caught something. But my head didn’t make sense of it.

What was it?

There is something… Out by the headland.

The sun is so bright, and the reflection from the water dazzling. Heat and light bathe my face in equal measure. As I turn, now looking squarely out to sea, the bare breeze flutters over my face, cooling my overheated forehead and neck; a mild relief only.

What…?

A hand raised against the sun, I squint out over blue and white dazzle, out beyond the grey shadow of the promontory

A flicker of colour…

It darts and dances against sparkling water, difficult to make out. A flash of red. I struggle to focus.

Then I see it.

The sail; red and white striped… The sail they always warned about.

My breath tightens. I can’t find enough air. Swallowing hard, I suck at my cheeks, trying to draw moisture into a mouth suddenly dry.

“Jeffrey…” Panic wars with my thoughts, fighting to control my voice…

Stay calm…

“… Jeffrey, get your things. We’re going home.”

That pout again. “Mama said we could stay all afternoon.”

“Jeffrey! Get your things. Right now.”

He screws his face to protest, but then his gaze follows mine out to sea. He whimpers. “It’s them.” His eyes are round; his mouth too.

“Yes, it’s them. We have to get back home. They won’t be able to see the ship from there…”

Can the Sea Wolves see the village?

I try to map it in my head, drawing the line between the ship and the cluster of buildings which is most of what I have known in my life.

The vessel is still far away. And the spit of land which makes a natural shelter and harbour for my home, right now, hides it from the invaders.

No, not yet. They can’t see them…

My mother…

My father…

My family…

The villagers…

The village, with its hall and huts, sheds and barns, its scatter of fields for grazing the stock or growing the crops, is out of sight for now…

But as I look across the hill, thin spirals of white smoke rise, tall and straight, signalling to any who look that we are here…

“Run, Jeffrey. We have to run. We have to warn them.”

He’s ahead of me, panic stark on his boy’s features, racing back to our home. Picking up the hem of my skirt, I tug it free of snarling furze. Then, as I dash after him, the basket impedes my movement, snagging on my clothes and knocking me off-balance. Without a thought, I toss it to one side, sprinting freely now.

Running. Running hard. Running until my lungs burn and black spots dance behind my vision. My feet skitter and slide over dry slippery turf as I race down the hillside, Jeffrey just a little ahead of me.

I risk a look over my shoulder. The red sail is drawing closer. I can see the men in the ship now; black specks, some standing upright, looking forward. Some seated.

Oars pull, water spilling over the blades as the men heave. And the breeze, so sparse here over the land, fills the sail, propelling the ship over glittering waters and towards my people.

Occasionally, the sunlight glints on something; metallic, flashing bright.

Helmets?

Swords?

How many men?

Can I outrun them? Give the warning?

Jeffrey is too young, his legs too short to carry him quickly. He’s well ahead of me but overtaking him, I scoop him up, carrying him with me.

Slower now under my burden, cresting the hilltop, I look down on our settlement, with its homes and barns and sties, and the great hall, with its traitorous smoke coiling skyward from the exit-hole tucked into the thatch.

Chickens scratch in the earth. Pigs work through dirt, food-leavings and fallen leaves, snouts down. Geese graze, flapping wings at any foolish enough to approach their almost-grown offspring. It has been a good summer…

… until now…

… Our stock, well fed, are fat from succulent eating; it would have been a fine Yuletide come the dark months…

Would have been?

A group of the smaller children play some game with one of those inflated pig’s bladders, watched over by an old uncle. And Cedric, who was a great warrior in his day so they say, before a boar stole his right leg below the knee, is teaching archery to a group of the older boys.

The protecting stockade encloses the huddle of buildings; stout timbers, well-sharpened, facing outward.

Will that be enough?

And my sinking heart says it will not. The stockade will keep out wolves and bears, boars and foxes; but seasoned fighting men? Able to think. Able to plan. To use fire.

How many?

A score of men?

A score and ten?

More?

A shape stoops over the well, drawing water, Acca, my father’s brother. I'm screaming and waving.

Look at me…

So is Jeffrey, cradled in my arms, in his shrill boy’s voice.

Look at me… Look at me…

Acca glances towards us, then straightens up as we pelt down, yelling and pointing out and back across the bay.

And now, clearing the headland, the red sail hoves into view of the village.

Acca stiffens, raising a hand over his eyes as he stares seaward then, shouting and calling, he dashes into the hall. Moments later, chaos erupts; men and women spilling out, running this way and that.

Aealdwine, my grandmother’s brother, races for the gate, opening it wide, gesturing madly as we race down and past the woodland edge, over the open grass.

Others are snatching up the livestock, urging them indoors. Cedric, leaning on his crutch, is lining up the boys with their bows.

A few of the men have real swords and shields. Others are snatching up boar spears or axes. But most are arming themselves with whatever is to hand; hunting knives… staffs... One boy-almost-man carries the switch he uses to drive the oxen in their ploughs.

Farmers…

Not warriors…

Some of the women are screaming and, the bairns picking up their fear, they start wailing too. Even the geese are picking up the mood, hissing at the yapping, dancing village curs.

The breath hot in my lungs, spots behind my eyes, I run, racing for the gate.

* * *

BJORN

It's as fine a day as could be asked for our venture. Brilliant sunshine plays over the water and a fresh breeze fills the sail, supporting the steady heave and pull of the rowers.

A score of men make up the crew. Most are veterans, but a few are young, myself included, all in search of the wealth and the prestige that will give them a place in life and the dreams they chase. Returning home with silver, slaves and gold, will enable them to buy homes, land and loyalty. And in a couple of cases, I know they seek the permission of fathers to take a daughter to wife. After all, what loving father will wish his daughter to an unproved man? Or to poverty?

But a man, however young, returning battle-seasoned, with wealth, status and of proven courage… He can name his terms.

Which of course, is why I am here, on my first raid.

And with a leader such as Magni, so experienced a navigator, how can we fail?

Erling looks out, resting his hands on the side of the ship. “Look at this place,” he says. “Green, fertile, running with game and fish and the sheep fat as butter.  I'll wager we make enough from this that I'll be able to get myself a wife at last.”

He waves towards the thin column of smoke pale against the vivid blue of the sky. “Just around the headland, I’d say.”

* * *

MERCIA

The ship beaches and men, a score of them at least, jump out, wading for the shore. They would be marvellous to see were they not so terrifying. Most are tall and well-built, wearing good woollen cloaks, polished metal helmets that partly cover their faces, and carrying round shields, red and white like their sail, slung over their backs.

Many are bearing axes, but some have swords which gleam in the sunshine. And on some, the light glitters over something under the cloaks. I have heard tell of chain mail; wonderful stuff that protects its wearer against the heaviest of blows, but never did I think to see it…

Or hope to…

One of the invaders leads a horse from the ship. You would think the animal would panic at finding itself on the rocking deck of a boat, but it seems calm and alert, its ears pricking forward as the man passes the reins to another…

The leader?

… He rubs its nose and ears, seems to speak with it, then plants a foot into the stirrup and mounts.

It is a huge beast; far larger than the few stocky ponies in our village, or those which I have occasionally seen with the passing traders. But of course, such beasts are pack-animals, bred for a long day and hard work. This animal looks as much a king of its kind as does its rider. Its coat is glossy. Its head is held high as it champs at the bit, and it dances and skips, eager to be off. The bridle and saddle too, are lovely things, the leather glossy and brightly studded.

Its rider… Yes, their leader is tall and handsome; a striking man; a striking sight on his prancing mount.

How can something so beautiful be so deadly?

The Sea Wolves move so fast. Spilling onto the shore, they race over the land. Up the hillside, towards my home.

It can’t be real…

The Wolves draw ever closer. Carrying Jeffrey, I cannot reach the safety of the stockade in time. The church bell tolls and cries echo out. And so do the shouts, then the demands, that the gate be closed.

Nonetheless, I run as hard as I can, hoping that what I see, what my mind tells me is so, is not real….

My mother stands with Acca at the gate now, staring up the hill, arms outstretched, pleading with him…

… that the gate remains open just a little longer…

She is screaming to me as, at the last moment, with the Wolves a bare hundred feet away, men swing the gate closed, barring and reinforcing it against us.

And before we are seen by the invaders, I throw Jeffrey down to the ground, behind the gorse, then myself after him.

* * *

Crouching behind the bush, we watch and listen, the sounds of terror ringing out. Jeffrey turns away, hiding his face behind his knees, covering his ears with his hands.

Our men shove wives and children and the old folk into the shelter of the hall. A couple of the older lads break out from inside to join the fighting men, armed with whatever they have that will pass for a weapon.

But already, people are falling. Even before the attackers reach the stockade, their arrows are flying, cutting down my folk. Brogan drops, an arrow in his throat, blood gushing. So does Almund, the shaft piercing his chest even as, shrieking, he tries to pull it free.

The front rank of the Wolves is at work on the stockade. The villagers launch their own arrows; flight after flight, but a group of the invaders, in a move seemingly pre-arranged, raise their shields, locking them together in a continuous wall, sheltering those behind. And now, protected from our attack, they set to with their axes on the timbers.

Fire rises from the base of the gate, the crackle of burning wood carrying up to our fragile hiding place. And the smoke from our village is no longer pale and blue, but black and reeking.

In too short a time, the Wolves raise a cry, triumphant and elated, shoving at flaming planks and supports. The gate groans then crashes inwards…

… and our attackers flood in. Twenty men; heavily armed and trained, bent on destruction.

It’s horrible to see, but in a kind of mesmerised fascination, I can’t look away. The attackers swarm over our men-folk, slaughtering most, beating back the rest to the hall.

The Wolf leader rides in, his mount prancing and eager, as though it were a joyful thing, this breaching of defences. But his sword arm is already swinging, slashing out. Our men rush up, wielding their own swords and scythes and spears. I see two, no three, blows strike his mail, only to glance away.

Odi tries for the stirrups, I think trying to unhorse the Wolf leader. But armed only with a knife and wearing a loose woollen tunic, when the Wolf swings, Odi falls to his sword, his throat slashed.

Gareth is next, trampled under the hooves of the warhorse. The beast is clearly trained to its master’s work, kicking out at any who come close,

Then I see him; my father. Fighting two of them at once. They come at him from both sides, one swinging with his axe, and as my father ducks, tries to dodge, the other stabs forward with a long blade.

As he falls, I can’t help myself. In pure reflex, I stand, shrieking a warning, trying to prevent what has already come to pass.

It is useless of course. My father gasps and convulses, clutching at his side, then lies still. And with his cooling body on the ground, blood pooling in the dust, my cover is broken. Faces swing my way, eyes of blue and grey fixing on me.

The leader looks to me as though I were some game bird flushed from cover. He gestures at a nearby man, a negligent wave towards me. The warrior says something, seeming to argue, then shrugging, looking disgusted, turns my way.

Hauling my little brother to his feet, I shove him towards the woodland edge. “Run, Jeffrey. Run!”

He streams tears. “Mercia… What do I…?”

I’m gabbling at him, waving him away, back towards cover. “Run!” But Jeffrey hangs around, shifting from one foot to another.

Screeching at him, I try to make him obey me. “There’s no time. Go! Head for the woods. Get under cover. And when you can, run like the wind for the next village. Warn them. Warn our people.”

He sobs the words. “What about you?”

“Never mind. Run!”

And finally, he turns and flees, pelting towards the cover.

Will I ever see him again?

The warrior has already covered half the distance to me. Although I’m uphill of him, he seems to tower over me, striding casually, an expression of cool disregard for this small task. But he’s not holding his sword, seeming set to capture me rather than kill…

They want the women and children?

Slaves?

What would they do to me?

I am not yet a woman, but I have heard the lurid tales of atrocities committed on captive women by this race of monsters.

I risk a look backwards. Jeffrey is running, hard, as fast as his short legs will carry him. As he reaches me, the giant makes to brush past me in pursuit of my little brother, but I throw myself at him, screaming, blocking the path between the huge warrior and the small boy.

The Wolf barely looks at me, humour creasing around his eyes at the ragtag child facing him. He doesn't bother trying to deal with me, instead making to move around me. But again, I step in front of him, obstructing him as best I can.

Snorting, he brushes an arm at me, as though to swat some small buzzer. If the blow caught me, my head would be ringing, but I dodge, ducking his swing and darting behind him. He’s still moving, carried by his own momentum and I throw myself at his feet, wrapping my arms around his legs.

With a yell, he falls, landing with a jarring thump. There’s no real harm done to him on this springy turf, but his tone turns from casual and surprised to a roar of fury. Dimly, I’m aware that from below there is the sound of laughter, but as I dart a glance to the line of the forest, I see Jeffrey vanishing into the trees.

Scrabbling on all fours, I snatch at the man’s belt, grabbing his knife, tugging it free of its sheath. Blood stains the blade, long and curved, and holding it, I feel a little braver.

The Wolf grunts in alarm, leaping upright, and now his expression is anything but casual. His gaze passes over me and down the hill to his companions below, laughing and pointing. His eyes narrow and his lips whiten as, drawing his sword, he advances on me.

The knife in my hand is suddenly a puny thing, a mere spike. The Wolf’s reach is so much longer than mine. And he has the better of me in height and strength. But if I slow this man just a little, Jeffrey will be safe.

The invaders already have the village.

Will they bother about one small boy?

Perhaps…

If they think he will warn the next settlement…

Which he will…

What can I possibly do against this huge man and his terrifying sword? And even more terrifying expression…

He steps toward me, blade outstretched and I dodge, then duck, then dive, reaching with the knife in my hand. Landing hard, I roll, both hands clasped around the hilt of the knife and I stab down as hard as I can through the leather of his right boot. My reward is a roar of outrage and pain, and the spurt of blood.

But now he grabs me at the top of my tunic, hauling me upright and away from him, before holding me to one side in a giant ham hand. I’m struggling and screaming, but the sword-point is raising.

Is this where I die?

So what’s to lose by fighting back?

Kicking out, I land my foot on his shin and he barks a protest, dropping me. But as I try to wriggle out of his range, scrambling crab-like over the grass, he grabs me again, this time by the front of my tunic. But my hands are still free. Clutching at his forearm, I sink my teeth into his flesh. Blood blooms over my tongue, trickling down my chin. A small victory, but now the sword is at my throat and I have nowhere left to go, and no way left to fight…

What am I supposed to say?

Into thy hands, I commend….

From somewhere comes a shout and the sound of hooves on turf.

Steel grazing my skin, something inside says I should be afraid, that death is coming to take me. Instead, a red tide swims behind my eyes…

* * *

BJORN

Erling is hardly covering himself in glory. Stabbed in the foot by a barely-grown girl and now dripping blood from the bite on his arm…

Who’d have thought she was a Saxon?

And all but a child…

In any case, she’s proved herself, and in the defence of that small boy she flushed off into the undergrowth.

A brother perhaps?

She has courage enough…

She should be permitted to live…

Apparently, Magni thinks much the same. Erling’s sword about to open her throat, he charges up, the sound of hooves on turf oddly loud now against the quiet of the village. “Erling! Give her to me.”

For a moment, Erling scowls and I think he will ignore our leader…

She’s made him look a fool…

But Magni barks the order. “Get after that boy before he raises the alarm. I’ll take this one.”

Giving the girl a black look, Erling puts her down and she stands, quivering as she faces up to Magni.

But it doesn’t look like the tremble of fear; more like the shudder that takes one in the heat of battle, when the blood is up. Her chin is raised, jutting, and she glares up at him, holding his eye.

Yes, a brave one…

From the saddle, Magni looks down on her. “So, girl, you’re a scrapper are you? You put up a better fight than most of your milk-sop kin.”

She shows no sign of understanding his words, but her eyes widen a little. Leaning down, Magni offers his hand. She stares, then tentatively accepts it.

He hauls her up into the saddle before him, then horse and rider take an easy walk to re-join us before he unloads her again, shoving her towards me. “Collar her and put her with the others.”

I set to binding the women and female children, Hjalli herding them back to the ship. But I leave the fighting girl until last. The one or two remaining men are being put to the sword. Gunhalf strolls through the fallen, finishing off any that still move or look as though they are feigning death.

The girl watches him, her mouth working.

The collar in my hand, “What’s your name, girl?” She shows no sign of understanding. Why would she? I slap my chest… “Bjorn…” Then point to her.

Her head hangs. “Mercia.”

Mercia…

She’s a scrawny little thing, just beginning to fill out to a woman’s shape, but she could be pretty as she gets older.

Perhaps I should claim her as part of my share? While she’s still not worth much…

I fit the iron collar to her neck then, with a jerk of my head, I gesture her to follow me.

Chapter 2

PRISONER

MERCIA

They move us along, shackled at wrist and ankle; me, some of the more attractive women and girls, a few of the younger men and older boys. All the oldsters are dead, their bodies abandoned.

Some of the corpses are unrecognisable, but I see one, familiar, lying crumpled in the mud.

Surely, they would not have killed a priest? A man of God…

But his blood lies spilled and his brains dashed across the stones in a blur of grey and red.

To one side is old Agnes, her face almost peaceful despite her gaping throat and the blood drying over her clothes. She was ancient; her knuckles swollen and her legs painful. Perhaps she was ready to meet God. But like this?

High above, ravens wheel and caw, awaiting their feast. A trader told me once that the ravens belong to Sea Wolves’ war god and that, for them, this slaughter is a sacred sacrifice.

What can I do?

Nothing?

Nothing…

The man called Bjorn turns, waving me along the path as he makes his way to the ship in great, ground-eating strides. Now that I look at him properly, he seems younger than the rest, perhaps not so much older than I am. And unlike the rest of his fair-haired people, he has red hair.

Picking up my skirts, obediently, I trot after him.

Seeing it close, the ship is intimidating; the narrow lines, the gaping dragon at the fore, painted in shades of blood and darkness. Its golden eye follows me as I am herded on board, then roughly pushed to the far end by the tall, grimly handsome butchers of my people.

One of them grunts something at me, gesturing me to sit. He looks about the same age as Bjorn and I don’t like the way his eye runs over me. Working with another man, he runs a chain through the irons at my feet, shackling me and my companions to the vessel.

The ship…

What if there is a storm?

Chained to the timbers, if the ship went down, so would I.

Are they not terrified?

But these men of the sea seem unconcerned.

Why have they taken me?

A foolish question. As if any of us did not know the fate of women claimed as prizes of war.

Where are they taking us?

Their own home?

Or to some slave market, who knows where?

That prospect appals me even more than the idea of being carried away to the land of the Sea Wolves. It’s strange how quickly the new becomes familiar. I find that I would prefer to go to the home of these known-unknown people rather than face the uncertain fate of being sold on.

The home of the Sea Wolves… They say it is cold there; a land of snow and ice. As the ship pulls away, I cast back to the soft green shores behind me.

Goodbye…

Bjorn watches me. But although his eyes are measuring, he doesn’t speak.

How best to survive?

What will earn me better than the lot of a common slave?

Huddled in the bottom of this grim vessel, its dragon ravening at the prow, so unlike the small fishing boats I am accustomed to, I have time to think.

How to survive?

Chained next to me, Wynflaed weeps and moans, hugging herself. Older than me, already a woman, what will be her lot? She’s pretty, growing to be beautiful, but as Bjorn’s glance reams her, I see nothing there but contempt.

Who survived?

Who did they take rather than slaughter?

?

Those who put up a fight but are not actually dangerous to them…

And as the red-haired warrior once again looks my way, I lift my chin and meet his eye.

No tears…

* * *

I approach our helmsman. “Magni…” Then I realise Hjalli is already talking with him. I don’t particularly care for Hjalli…

And I saw you looking at her…

…but since he is the son of our helmsman, I must be polite.

Magni turns to me, lays his hand on my shoulder. “Bjorn… I saw you fighting. You did well. Your first raid and you’ve more than earned your share.”

“Thank you, lord. I was wondering…” I hesitate, mindful of Hjalli… “… if I could claim part of that share now?”

His forehead creases. “That depends. I can hardly put you in front of other, more experienced men.”

“No, I don’t expect that. But… the girl who fought back. The one who…” I look down to hide my smile… “… who bit Erling…”

Magni holds up a palm. “If you’re asking to claim her then, no. In fact, Hjalli here also wishes to have her…”

Hjalli scowls…

“… but in fact, I’m taking her…” He looks askance at my expression… “… on behalf of Úlfar. She may be a slave, but after the fight she put up, she deserves better than to be used by whichever man takes her while she’s still too young for it.”

Hjalli breaks in. “She’s old enough now.”

Magni cocks a brow. “No, she isn’t. If she was some cowardly Saxon trash I wouldn’t argue. As it is, she’ll make a useful servant. Úlfar asked me to look out for a likely prospect. Ísleif needs some extra help.”

Hjalli’s lips press white. “And later? Or if Úlfar doesn’t want her?”

“Then…” Magni shrugs. “… we’ll see. For now, if you want a woman to warm your furs until you get yourself a wife, go find another. There’re plenty down there.” He jerks his chin to the end of the ship where our captives sit chained together. “Pick one.”

* * *

BJORN

I lose track of time in what seem like endless weeks of nothing but the sea in all its faces: calm, stormy, clear and blue, dark and turbulent. Some days the sun beats down, scorching skin and parching throats. Others, the wind snarls in from the North, gnawing at fingers and faces while we huddle together for warmth.

When the wind drops, the male captives are put to the oars, rowing for long hours. Most of the other slaves spend their time bemoaning their lot, weeping, or simply staring blankly into nothing.

What good does weeping do?

I watch. And I listen.

And I form a clearer idea of our captors.

I find I am picking up the words of the foreign tongue more easily that I expected. It’s not so alien as I thought. Setting out firstly to learn the names of the men, then I try to attach their speech to what they are doing.

Surely it must make me more valuable as a slave if I can speak properly?

Their leader is the navigator, Magni. He spends much of his time at the steering oar. The men who wish to talk sit close by him while he watches the waves and the sky, his hand guiding the ship.

The redhead, Bjorn, watches me. He doesn’t seem unfriendly or threatening, but I often find his gaze straying to mine. And then he turns away. I’m not sure what to make of it.

But another also watches me. The one they call Hjalli. When he looks at me, my spine prickles a warning.

It is not obvious to me why. Hjalli, like his companions, is tall, well-built; handsome in his way. But he walks with an arrogance I don't need to understand their words to see. The other slaves press back from his sight when he appears. Even his own people watch him with half an eye, not exactly deferring to him, but giving him a respect which seems out of keeping with his youth.

Somewhere within, a warning crawls…

* * *

The day had to come. The Wolves shout and point excitedly at seabirds wheeling overhead, craning forward to the horizon. Only a few hours more and a grey blur appears on the edge of the world, enlarging and drawing nearer.

Closer still and it resolves into mountains framing an open inlet. The breeze carries us, filling the sail, but the Wolves row too, pulling with a will as they draw near home, into a long narrow waterway; not a river exactly, more like a finger of the sea pointing inland.

The fear I have tried so hard to resist curdles inside me.

At the end of the finger lies a settlement, a clutter of buildings, large and small. We pull into a jetty, not much different to what I would see near my home. Any of our fishermen would have recognised it. And beyond that, on the shore, a great crowd mills and cheers. Men and women jostle and push. Some hold toddlers up high to see or be seen, calling out names.

Some of the men on board don’t even wait for the ship to moor, instead jumping overboard, splashing through shallows, throwing themselves into the arms of some loved one; wife, parent, child…

They have families too… They’re just people…

How can they do what they do to us?

Or are we not people to them?

Our captors snap orders; reinforcing them with a blow or the crack of a whip if they are not immediately obeyed. Chained together, shackled at wrists and ankles, we shuffle onto the wharf.

Almost as we touch land, there are men looking us over…

Slave traders?

Next to me, Wynflaed sobs softly as two converge on her, then more loudly as one seizes her chin, forcing her to look into his face. He examines her, one side then the other, his hands roaming over her clothes, feeling the outline of her waist and breasts.

The owner of the hands chatters questions. Magni barks an obvious ‘No’ back at him.

Others of the men are unloading the ship. Bjorn and Hjalli carry a chest between them, straining with its weight, heading to a great thatched timber building.

And relentlessly, we chained captives are also herded inside, to be led before two great seats, almost a pair of thrones. Made from some dark wood, both are richly decorated, carved into strange whorls and repeating patterns of dragons and serpents, painted in red and gold. On one sits a lord and beside him, a noblewoman.

The slaves are paraded before them. Magni displays the strength of the men and boys, the beauty of the women. When he comes to Wynflaed, he tips her face first one way, then another.

The slave trader steps forwards, speaking in guttural tones, gesticulating at her. But the lord shakes his head, calling some man out from the crowd. He surveys her, nodding happily.

When it is my turn to be displayed, Magni mainly addresses the woman on the throne, speaking at some length, gesturing to Bjorn and Hjalli, then to me.

I lift my chin, not looking any in the eye, but not cowering either. As Magni speaks, there is laughter and the man whose foot I stabbed, Erling, turns sullen, but the lord laughs, and the lady nods in apparent agreement.

The chests are opened and displayed. The precious holy things of our church: the goblet of the mass: the silver plate on which they gave us the body of Christ, still splashed with the dried and spattered blood of the priest. But there is more; the candle holders, the silver cup from the font, gold and silver coin.

The lord surveys the booty laid before him, not demonstrative, but nonetheless, clearly delighted. Magni presents the warriors from the ship, one man after another, speaking volubly of each in turn, clearly giving some report on that Wolf’s part in their venture.

At length, the lord stands, issuing commands. He chooses some of the treasures for himself, but the remainder of the golden things are divided. He gives bracelets and rings to some, gripping shoulders, smiling and nodding as he speaks.

At the end of it all, her new owner leads away the weeping Wynflaed on a leash. My wrists are freed, the heavy iron shackles dropping to the rush-covered floor. The rest of the slaves are handed to the traders and led away.

Will I ever see them again?

Bjorn takes me by the arm, leading me out. As I step back into the sunshine, still rubbing at a madness of pins and needles in my hands, he points then strides away, clearly assuming I will follow.

For a moment I stall, taking in my new surroundings. After a second, he notices my tardiness, turning to bark an order at me and I scuttle to catch up with him.

He leads me to an area at the edge of the settlement where pigs, penned in, snout through muck and garbage. Then he gestures down to a bucket and a wooden fork on the ground. Timidly, in case I have mistaken his meaning, I stoop to pick them up. He grunts approval then gestures me to the sty and to the dung-heap behind.

I nod, making my way meekly into the nearest pen, hesitating at the gate in case the sow takes offence at my presence. And there, on the edge of my new life, I look around…

… at the edge of the village...

No people.

Nothing to stop me.

Bjorn folds his arms, watching me with an assessing eye. Stepping back, he waves extravagantly this way and that, gesturing out into the wild woods. Then he waits, a brow cocked.

Could I outrun him?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

I could run… But where would I go?

I am a stranger, a slave, in a land of strangers. And my own home is far away across the sea.

Is there anywhere I could go that would be any better than this?

?

No.

Chapter 3

SLAVE

MERCIA

You take freedom for granted until you no longer have it. In my old life, although my people were ordinary enough, I had the privilege and position of being the child of one of the village families, accepted and respected by those around me. I had as much freedom as any of my age could have aspired to.

Here, my lot is an endless round of milking the many goats and the few cattle, grinding grain, drawing water, gutting fish, cleaning the stock pens; all the hardest work that the free folk want no part of.

Naturally, as a slave, the worst and most unpleasant tasks are mine. A freewoman might spend her time weaving or sewing, making beautiful clothes or hangings.

Not I…

Never does there seem any end to the work. I wake in the chill pre-dawn light to tend the hearth and draw the water. I make the porridge which will break the fast for my master and mistress. But I do not yet eat myself.

As the sun slants over the horizon, I milk the beasts until my fingers are white with chill and my joints ache. Then I grind flour until my spine seems set to lock in my stooped position. Clothes must be washed. That at least, is pleasanter work, the scent of meadowsweet masking the stink of cattle. But the soap is harsh, and my hands grow raw.

And when finally, I sleep… with the cattle in the darkest part of the hall… I know that it will only be to do again the following day.

I could run, but where would I go? One girl alone into the dark forests of a foreign land… No-one would take me for a native. My tongue would betray me the moment I spoke. And hard as my life now seems, I know that compared to the lot of some of the slaves, I have been lucky. The jarl claimed me as part of his plunder from the voyage to be a servant to his wife, Lady Ísleif.

Wynflaed is not the only one of my companions fated to the life of a concubine. I learned later that some of the fairer of the grown women were traded away even before we returned to this place. Some of the older girls too; sold to the traders for silver to warm the beds of their new owners… whoever they are… wherever they are…

What will happen when they know I am a woman?

On the scale of things, my lot could have been much worse.

Over time, my mistress teaches me new skills: perhaps only the skills of a slave, but useful; just now, I am learning to prepare and tan hides.

Squatting outside in the thin sunshine of autumn, I scrape fat and tatters of flesh from a cowhide, surreptitiously watching the boys being instructed in swordplay and other fighting arts.

Magni, who I have learned is brother to my master, Jarl Úlfar, is the instructor, teaching his own younger sons and some of the neighbouring boys. It is not a game. Although armed with wooden swords and light training shields, toys compared to the weapons of battle, the boys are expected to learn their skills; expected too to take hurt without complaint. When one receives a crack on the hand from his ‘enemy’, the sound smacks out and he yells, sucking at his knuckles. His fingers will be stiff on the morrow. But he is not excused further practice.

The son of Úlfar and Ísleif, their first and so far, only child, Gunnar, is barely four summers old; far too young to practice with the older boys. His mother has entrusted him to me, and he sits close, watching the fighting; cheering when one of the combatants makes a strike.

Bjorn and Hjalli are watching too, leaning against a sun-warmed wall. Magni calls across, asking them to demonstrate some of the moves. Both grin. Sword in hand, Hjalli swaggers out. Bjorn strolls, his eyes brushing with mine before he takes his position. Hjalli looks too, but I don’t care for his glance.

Not that I have any say in it…

Although they are ‘demonstrating’ to the boys, I’d say the pair are also honing their own skills. Although they were on the raid where I was taken, they were still the youngest of the grown warriors; young men, but boys themselves not so long ago, and I think they still have a sense of being part of the boys’ world.

Stooped into a fighting stance, they circle each other, each with his sword in one hand, shield in the other.

Hjalli charges Bjorn, and the two lock shields, almost grappling with them before Bjorn dodges back, spins then stabs forward. But Hjalli swings the sword aside with his own, twists and thrusts…

It is a dance they do; for all its savage strangeness, a beautiful thing to see. And hypnotised, I watch…

… Bjorn brings his sword down in a long arc, to be blocked by Hjalli’s shield. Then Hjalli feints, stabbing to the left, but Bjorn parries the blow with the sliding squeal of steel on steel, dodges and then brings his blade right around, sweeping to the back and smacking his opponent on the rear with the flat. Had the fight been for real, Hjalli would surely be gravely wounded.

As it is, he snarls at the laughter of the boys, stalking away. Passing close, he gives me a black scowl when he sees I am watching.

A slave seeing him humiliated?

Dropping my gaze, I pay strict attention to my task, working at a stubborn bit of flesh which refuses to part way with the hide.

Sullen faced, he stands over me. “Why were you watching? Slaves should pay attention to their work.”

“I enjoy watching the practice, sir…” Then realising what that might imply. “It doesn’t interfere with my work…” I offer a hand over the hide, now almost scraped clean, soon ready to be tanned. I’ll probably get that task next, working the remainder of the day with the stink of stale urine.

Hjalli’s scowl fades, to be replaced by… By what? I’m not sure, but I don’t like it.

He grins. At least, he shows his teeth. They’re clean and bright, like the smile of hunting wolves, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going to be mine.”

“What?” I drop my scraper.

“You’re going to be mine. I asked my uncle and he says that when you’re a woman, I can have you.”

Something coils in my gut. “Have me?”

“Until I get a proper wife. You’ll be in my bed. After you’ve finished your day’s work of course.”

I don’t know what to say. Taking a tight grip on my scraper, I work at a bit of hair that clings to the skin.

Hjalli looms over me. “When will you be a woman?” His voice scrapes at my fear. “You’re tall. You should be ready now. When will it be?”

Looking down at my work, I suck at dry lips, trying to work up enough saliva to speak. “How can I know that, sir? It will happen when God wills it.”

He snorts. “You answer to our gods now.”

I say nothing, looking down, swallowing hard as I continue with my scraping. After a few moments, he stomps off. As the sound of his footsteps recedes, I risk a side-glance. Hjalli should be attractive. And in some ways, he is; fit, muscular, and with the widening shoulders of the maturing man. But something about him repels me.

It is not that he is one of my Wolf masters. Most of them are decent enough people, at least while living their farmer’s lives. But I see the way Hjalli watches me, measuring my body, following my movements.

Perhaps stinking of urine might have some benefits...

Later, I find a shadowed space, out of sight. And there, away from prying eyes, I adjust the leather banding I use to bind my breasts flat. Then I make a brief prayer that the blood of my monthly passage is not discovered.

* * *

Drawing water is another of my never-ending tasks. The walk from the river, whilst a pleasant stroll for the empty-handed, seems interminable as I struggle with the weight of the yolk over my shoulders. A filled pail hangs from either end. I am expected not to dawdle over the task, or to spill too much of my burden.

I have made two such journeys so far this morning. Another three should see enough water delivered for the morning’s cooking and washing. But of course, more will be needed in the afternoon. And again, in the evening.

How many times have I made this journey… over the years?

Too many…

On the other hand, I have noticed the buckets do not seem as heavy as they once did. I’m older, stronger than when I first arrived.

How long has it been?

I’m not sure. One season stretches into another.

Squatting down, the buckets to either side of me, I move carefully, trying not to slop as I stand.

“Mercia, that’s too heavy for you. Let me take it.” Bjorn towers over me. No longer a boy or even close to it, he has filled out, his frame in proportion to his height now. His shoulders are broad, his limbs long, lean and muscled.

Right now, he speaks to me as a dark shadow, silhouetted by the sun, his brilliant red hair shining like one of the halos I remember from the church paintings in my old home.

Squinting up, I shade my eyes against the light and he seems suddenly to realise that I’m blinded. He shifts, smiling down at me from a bright blue sky.

“This is my work, sir. The mistress will be angry if I…”

He cuts me short by picking up first one bucket, then the other, hefting them easily. “If you finish your task more quickly,” he says, “the mistress will be pleased with you, won’t she.”

* * *

ÚLFAR

I sit with Toke, enjoying the sun and a horn of ale. Mercia goes about her work, fetching water from the river. But as she returns, this time with Bjorn carrying her buckets, Toke’s eyes follow his son and his mouth draws tight.

She’s a hard worker, but she’s just a slave, and a Saxon slave at that. Bjorn hasn’t seen us watching as he accompanies her, carrying the water to the longhouse before he relinquishes the buckets to her. After she goes inside, he stands, scuffing at the ground and staring at his feet.

Toke stands. “Bjorn!”

He startles, his head jerking up, looking wildly to one side then the other before he spots us and approaches. “Father?”

Toke’s tone is harsh. “I don’t expect to see my son behaving like that. She’s a slave. You needn’t go wooing her. The likes of her is not for you.” His face sets. “Not like that anyway.”

Bjorn droops. “I know she’s a slave, but I thought that… well, a man can have more than just a wife, can’t he?”

I interrupt, “So he can. But Mercia’s promised elsewhere.”

He blinks. “She is? Who to?”

“Hjalli’s having her,” I say.

He swallows and looks away. “Hjalli? Why Hjalli?”

“Because he asked me and he’s my nephew. And I don’t think he’s interested in sharing her.” Bjorn looks unhappy. “There are plenty of other slave women. You look elsewhere. Find another to suit you.”

He nods and slumps away.

* * *

MERCIA

I’m a slave, and miserable it is. But it has its moments.

My lady Ísleif sends me to the market. “Just the honey, mind. Gunther has combs for sale. And don’t take all day about it.”

I love the market; a tumble of tents and stalls and awnings, traders bartering silk and spices, wine, jewellery, glass and pottery; grain, wool, wood, iron for the smithies, walrus ivory, furs and leather.

I can only look at these marvellous things and wonder about where they come from. Someone told me that silk is made by caterpillars in some land so far away it cannot be imagined. Of course, that’s nonsense. It can’t be true. But what kind of sheep or goat produces so fine a thread?

I make my way to the marketplace, seeking the honey hunter. The morning is bright, a dancing breeze setting the sunshine sparkling on the harbour waters.

And of a sudden, excitement and cries… “They’re coming!”

A rush of people; the crowds making for the jetties, jostling and pushing, traders abandoning stalls and their wares.

I hover. I was specifically instructed not to dawdle, but…

How can I buy honey if the stall-holder isn’t there?

… and I follow them…

The crowd gathers, necks straining to see down the length of the fjord.

And it’s there… The striped red sail of the returning ship: Vatnsskemmari - The ‘Water Skimmer’. She rides the waves in a movement that seems more like the flight of the gulls than of a crafted thing. The dragon-headed prow gleams gold and bronze in the bright day. And of those aboard; some are rowing, others standing and waving; but all are cheering and shouting.

At the front of the Sea Skimmer, standing tall by the prow, the navigator, Magni, his long hair rippling in the wind of his ship’s passage.

The ship kisses the foam as she speeds towards us… so lovely a thing…

This is the ship that took me from my old home.

I should be afraid…

… Shouldn’t I?

But no, my remembrances of that first journey, when they brought me here from my old home huddled with the other slaves… They are so faded… so old…

I reach for the memories, but they duck and dance from sight. It is so long ago. I was just a child. And perhaps I am only a slave, but life is sweet. And yes, the ship is beautiful.

And suddenly, I’m shouting and waving with the rest, welcoming home the warriors.

What will they have? Gold? Silver? Other treasures?

Slaves?

My mind sheers away from the thought…

* * *

Later in the great hall, I find an excuse to be inside, moving around, gathering up scraps, crusts, ale gone stale… anything that can go into my slops bucket for the pigs.

Úlfar takes his seat. As jarl, he distributes the treasures brought by the returning raiders. Beautiful things, shining in the light of hearth and torches; the warm gleam of gold. The cooler glow of silver. The flicker and glint of coins piled in a great chest.

He fits a bracelet around the wrist of a returned warrior, then holds his wrist aloft. “Magni tells me this is the man who saved his life! Speared a Saxon who actually had the balls to fight back.”

The crowd cheers and yells. And I cheer too. From across the hall, Bjorn smiles at me, flashing teeth. A hand pats my shoulder. I might be a slave, but just now, in this triumphant moment, I am included.

For Lady Ísleif, there is a necklace, heavy with gems, almost a collar. She accepts it, smiling as she sweeps her hair to one side while her husband fastens it around her neck.

“What are you looking at, girl?”

I jolt, cringing. The voice is harsh; Hjalli. “This isn't for the likes of you. Shouldn't you be feeding the pigs?” He scowls at me, jerking his chin at my bucket and then outside.

My triumph and the sense of belonging evaporates. “Yes, sir.” Miserably, I pick up my bucket of slops and head for the sties.

* * *

The weather will turn soon and there will be no more foraging in the forest. The pigs are sleek now, grown fat on mast and acorns, but the year lengthens, and it is time for the Autumn cull. The oldest will go first; sows and boars. Some of the late weaners will have a few more weeks, fed on whatever is to hand.

Suspended by its back feet, struggling and twitching, the sow screams as the blade draws over her throat. The sound dies to a gurgle as her life-blood spurts then drains into the bowl held underneath. A few moments later, her belly slit, the guts drop, blue and purple coils, into a basket.

The butcher waves me across, kicking the basket of entrails towards me. “You, Mercia. Take the stomach and bowels to the river. Clean them out. Downriver of the bathing pool, mind. And do it properly. When you’ve done, hang them to dry.”

* * *

The bathing pool lies below a small waterfall where the river froths down over rocks then streams away. At the base and to one side lies the pool; translucent green, calm and still.

Although the pool is natural, it has been improved over the years, edged by rocks to deepen it for bathing. Each Spring, the bottom is scoured out, clearing gravel and pebbles until a grown man can dive in safely. And to one side it is set with flattish boulders for laundry.

Despite the unpleasant task ahead of me, it’s a lovely spot. Away from the trees, sunlight plays and dances over the surface, casting a rainbow from the spray of the fall. And under shady boughs, moss, thick and soft, deep green, cushions the ground, a robe cast over the naked earth.

In places, silver-grey specklers hang stationary in the water, heads pointing into the flow, tails undulating. They make good eating. Perhaps I should tickle one into my hands after I have completed my task. The lady would be pleased with me if I returned with extra food. I might even be permitted some of the treat myself.

Away from the fall, the pool spills into the river once more. I set myself downstream in a spot where the water flows freely, carrying away froth and foam. On this occasion, it will also carry away the foul results of the task in hand.

So there, with my stinking basket, I squeeze out pig entrails, voiding the wretched things of their contents, turning the clear stream to a greenish-brown. Then running the empty tubes through with fresh water, I work at them until they are clean and fit for use. If I’m lucky, I might get to eat some of the resulting sausages, so I take some care over my task.

The sunshine is warm, but the air cold and the water icy. Trickling water through the translucent membranes, my fingers quickly turn numb and my hands are red and rough with chill. I work with a will, to finish quickly so I can return to the warm indoors. Working at speed, I’m more careless than I mean to be, and brown-and-green muck flecks my gown.

Lost in my work, at first, I don't hear it.

But then, the whistling is all but on top of me. Someone is close by and I shrink back in case whoever-it-is takes offence at my presence. Snatching up my basket of pig guts, I push myself back into the shadow of a great tree root.

And then I see. It is Bjorn, strolling easily along, with a thick fur draped over his shoulders, a sheet slung over his arm, heading for the bathing pool. Red-faced and sweating, perhaps he has come from the steam house. He's not seen me and by the waterfall, he sheds the fur then tugs his shirt up and free from his belt.

I press further back into my lurking place in the tree roots.

He fiddles with his belt, dropping it on top of the fur. Then he works at the laces of his trousers. My mouth goes dry and swallowing is suddenly difficult.

The trousers fall and he kicks them to join the rest of his clothes. Then he stands, stretches, yawns and scratches at his scalp.

I watch him, naked; a man with the body of a god. Long-limbed, well-muscled, his red-gold hair drapes over his body, partly concealing the tattooed dragon which coils from shoulder to chest. And without meaning to, I find myself staring at his… manhood… nestled among copper curls.

When first I came here, half a lifetime ago, I was a child and Bjorn not much more than a boy. Now he is a grown man and mesmerised, I stare as, still whistling, he steps under the falling waters.

The whistle is cut short, turning to a gasp. “Thor’s balls!” He steps out from the waters, then taking a breath, plunges back under and I suck in a smile as he hastily scrubs himself down with the harsh soap.

Inside, I’m growing warm and liquid. Something spears through me. In my hand, the basket is shaking.

Realisation wings home. Here I am: a slave, a nothing, stinking of pig-shit. And I’m dreaming of a man so far beyond my reach I might as well try to net the moon.

Heat pricks behind my eyes. Abruptly, all I want is to be away from here, but my task is unfinished. And even if it were not, I cannot leave my hiding place without Bjorn seeing me; knowing I was watching him.

And so, I wait; gulping against the tears which want to break free. I had thought I was reconciled to my life of drudgery. I had thought that, even as I am, I could have some happiness. Now I know that is a lie.

And I look away, turning my face from the glory that is Bjorn.

At length, the whistling resumes and I look back to see him dive into the pool, covering its length and back in long easy strokes. Then, stepping up and out, he shivers, shaking water from himself like a dog, before wrapping the sheet around himself and towelling himself dry. Dressing once more, he sits on a boulder, combing out his hair, still whistling tunelessly, his gaze wandering…

And, all too late, I realise…

His eye passes over, returns… then fixes on me. “Mercia?”

Is he angry?

I’ll be punished. I know I will. Stammering, I stand. “Sir, I was… They sent me to clean the entrails…” I hold up my basket in proof. “I didn’t mean…”

My words dry up. Head tilted, his eye is calculating, assessing. Then he smiles. The smile is soft and golden, and it lights his face like the dawn after the long winter’s night.

And in that moment, I would give myself to him. No matter that he could command it if he wished. I would let him take me and I would rejoice in the taking.

Comb still in hand, he stands, walks over to me, looks down at me. And still smiling, he offers his hand, helps me stand.

After a long silence, he shakes his head. “Not like this, Mercia. Not like this.” Turning, he gathers up his goods and strolls away, leaving me trembling in his wake.

* * *

By the time I’ve finished the work, my gown is filthy, reeking of pig shit and soaked through. I’m shivering violently in the chill of the evening. The sun has vanished behind grey banks of cloud and isolated snowflakes are falling.

Draping my basket of cleaned guts over the drying racks, I head for the great hall. Perhaps I can turn the spit whilst my clothes dry off.

But the evening crowd is already gathering into the warm and instead, Úlfar waves me to the barrel to serve ale. I would have preferred to be close to the fire, but at least I’m indoors. Filling my jug, I pass through the throng, serving free men and women with ale. As I pour, some turn away, grimacing and wrinkling their noses.

Hjalli gestures at me with a horn. “Girl, here. Ale.”

I walk across, jug in hand, reaching to pour, but he recoils, mouth twisting. “Odin's Eye. You stink. Get out.” He gestures to the doors, closed against the night air. “Don't come back inside again until you've cleaned up. Someone else can serve the ale.” And with that, he waves me out into the bitter night.

Where can I go that I won’t freeze? The cattle remain in the hall, albeit at the far end. Usually, I sleep with them.

Could I sneak back inside?

If Hjalli noticed me, he’d beat me. I know he would.

Where do I go?

* * *

Some while later, in the cleanest I could find of the sties, I huddle between the last of the weaners. I am at least warm. The straw is fresh and the crush of a dozen or so bodies is heating me enough to dry out my gown.

It’s a blessing they’re youngsters. I wouldn’t have dared do this with the adult pigs. If one of the sows had taken a dislike to me, they wouldn’t even have found my body the following morning, but the sow would have been well fed.

But while I might be warm, I am sharing space with the swine. The way I smell isn’t going to improve.

And they won’t let me back inside tomorrow…

Or Hjalli won’t…

In the night air, my breath is a blue mist, set against the moonlight which gleams pale at the sty entrance. I huddle deeper into my nest.

The light abruptly grows, then cuts off. A head appears, silhouetted against the moonlight. Then it brightens against the flickering light of a flare aiming inside the sty.

“Mercia?” It is Bjorn’s voice. “What are you doing out here with the pigs? Are you being punished for something?”

Humiliation battles with the need to be courteous.

That he should see me like this….

“As you saw, sir, by the river; I was cleaning pig-guts. Hjalli says I can't go back inside until the smell wears off. And my clothes are still wet. At least it’s warm here.”

He pulls back, muttering to himself. Then his tone is all surprise and reason. “The smell isn’t going to wear off while you're sleeping in there. Go clean yourself up and change your clothes. You can use the steam-house after the others are done. If any ask you, tell them I said so.”

“Thank you, sir. But I can’t change. These are the only clothes I have.”

He grunts, sniffs and backs out, his footsteps receding into the night. I listen, wondering if he will return, but there is nothing. Then, resigning myself to my night with the swine, I snuggle down.

The moon has risen high when I hear the crunch of feet on frost once more and the glow of torchlight appears again.

Bjorn leans in, hand outstretched, hauling me out. Then he tosses an ungainly bundle at me. “Go clean yourself in the steam-house. Change into these. Tomorrow, bathe yourself. Ask Lady Ísleif for soap or sweetrush. Tell her that I told you to do this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He huffs. “You'll be no good as a slave if you freeze to death. And you’re not much use either if you stink so badly no one wants you near.”

But a smile haunts his lips and something in his eye says more than his words.

* * *

“Mercia...” Ísleif calls me from the hall. “Here...” She thrusts a basket of herring at me, gesturing around to others. “It’s been a good catch. There’s plenty to gut and dry.”

“I’ll need a knife, Lady.”

She sniffs, then takes her own from her belt, passing it to me haft first. “I’ll want it back when you’ve done.”

“Yes, Lady.”

Of course, this is my work. Who of the free folk wants to gut fish all day? But it is at least a sign that I am trusted. To gut the fish, I must use a knife. And a knife I have been given.

Wearily, I heft my basket, straining under the load, and make for the hall.

“No.” Ísleif calls again, making a circle with her arm. “Go to the back. And downwind. Or the whole hall will stink.”

Using both hands for the weight, I carry my fish to the wood barn at the rear.

It's not really a barn, more of a covered area, loosely boarded at the sides to allow the air to flow, where the wood can be stacked to dry over the summer, then split, to store over winter. To the back, logs and kindling ready for the hearths are neatly stacked. To the fore, fallen trunks, old stumps and dropped branches lie scattered, waiting for the axeman.

And since it is protected from the rains but open to the winds and the sun, it is also an ideal spot for drying fish. The racks, constructed from thin laths, bound with knotted leather or withies, stand in ranks here. Whatever of the fish-catch cannot be eaten fresh, is brought here to be dried. Choosing a stump, I sit, leaning over my bucket to gut an endless supply of fish.

It is yet another miserable task, and tonight I will reek…

Again…

A herring in one hand, I split the fish, swiping out the entrails and the blood-line with the other, then I skewer the thing and place it on the rack to dry. Then I move to the next.

A couple of scrawny cats sit close by, mewling as I drop fish guts in my bucket. One makes a move to the racks and I snatch up a stick, hurling it at the would-be thief. The stick spins through the air, smacking into the culprit, who yowls and makes away at speed. But three more sit by in slant-eyed watchfulness.

Another cat, and then a dog, makes a move for the split fish. Two more well-aimed sticks make their mark and the miscreants limp away. But more felines lurk, waiting on opportunity.

Grabbing up a handful of guts, slippery smelly stuff, I set it in a corner for them. In only a short time, they're joined by half a dozen others, then some of the village dogs.

At least everyone gets a good feed. When even the dogs have eaten their fill, I spill entrails into another bucket. Doubtless, they will be spread on the fields for the crops.

I work diligently, the level in my basket dropping steadily, the drying racks filling nicely. Another basket follows. And another. Just as I think I might be done, Ísleif arrives with a fresh bucket, filled to overflowing with silver fish. “It's been a very good haul,” she remarks. “No one will go hungry this winter. But we might tire of fish stew.”

My racks are filling fast and I am almost out of space. So, rummaging through the wood heaps I choose long withies, jamming them into cracks in the wall timbers until I have a series of high rails, well up from the jumping range of felines or canines. And as I split and clean each fish, I impale it, splayed open, then add it to my makeshift drying racks.

“Good idea.”

The voice comes from behind and I startle violently. But it's only Bjorn, leaning against one of the supports by one hand, an axe dangling from the other. And he’s smiling.

“Your pardon, sir.” I duck my head. “I didn't see you there.”

“I know. You were about your work. But it was still a good idea if we are all going to eat over the winter. Even slaves do better if there’s plenty in the stores.” He nods to my stump and bucket. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Obediently, I resume my seat. Bjorn is right. However unpleasant this task is, it’s a big improvement over being hungry in the cold months. If food ran short, a slave would certainly be the last to eat. I bend to my task.

Bjorn watches me for a moment then moves to the far side of the barn, looking over the stumps. He settles on one with a flattish surface, then chooses a chunk of pine two handspans thick; a complete slice through a tree. Hefting it up, he sets it atop the stump

Placing himself a stride’s distance from the stump, he braces his legs, testing his position with the head of the axe. In a single long arc, he swings the axe over his head and down onto the slice. It splits cleanly into two, the halves dropping either side of the stump. Picking up one of the halves, he repeats it, splitting the half into quarters before tossing them towards the stacked heap ready to burn.

I watch him, my hands working on my fish-gutting without the intervention of my eyes. His gaze shifts to mine. The axe held in both hands, its head resting by his feet, he pauses, his expression unreadable. Then taking another chunk of pine, he continues his wood cutting.

Furtively, I continue to watch him.

Stripped to the waist, his trousers tightly belted, Bjorn’s long copper hair is tied back over his shoulders with a leather thong. The blue dragon winds up his spine to settle looking over one shoulder. As he moves and turns, the great serpent watches, its eyes following me.

A fine scatter of hair lies across his chest, red-gold against the paler gold of his gleaming skin, drawing to a line over his abdomen, tracing a path down to his belt.

He moves gracefully. Every part of him is balanced and perfect, his actions flowing and easy. Under smooth skin, muscles ripple and flex; not bulky, but long and strap-like.

He is so beautiful.

Chapter 4

VICTORY

MERCIA

Lady Ísleif wraps warm bread and sliced pork in clean linen, placing the package into a basket. Then, adding a leather bottle, she presses in the stopper before packing everything tightly in with hay.

Topping it off with a linen cover, she passes me the basket. “Take this to Úlfar. You will find him in the lower field, sowing the barley. When you return, there’s flour to grind for the evening’s bread.”

“Yes, Lady.”

The basket is warm to my touch and fragrant steam rises through the cloth, tormenting my nose. If I’m quick, and my mistress is of a mind, I may get to enjoy some of the meat myself, the scraps at least.

Pork, crisp on the outside, succulent inside, dripping with fat…

Bread, dipped in the juices…

My mouth waters and I step out smartly.

Walking briskly in the autumn sunshine, I make my way to the field where, just as my mistress said, I find Lord Úlfar, along with Magni, and Hjalli too.

All have reddened skin under the hot sun and their faces stream with sweat. Úlfar guides the oxen whilst Magni steers the plough. Behind them, Hjalli scatters seed in the furrows.

Gunnar, Úlfar’s small son, streaked with mud across his face, sits to the side on a tree stump. Pout-lipped, the youngster swings his feet, fidgeting.

Leeward of the group is Almund. About my own age, he was taken in the same raid as I was. Right now, he scatters dung over the turned soil. I stand upwind of him.

Hjalli’s eyes follow me as I approach. Stripped to the waist and tanned nut-brown after the long hot summer, he makes a fine sight. Nonetheless, unease stirs inside me.

Úlfar raises brows. “Mercia, what are you doing here?”

I offer up the basket. “The mistress sent meat and bread for you, Master.”

He swipes sweat from his forehead, then takes out his wrapped meal. “Did she instruct you to return immediately?”

“No, Master.”

“In that case, take the basket and head across yonder.” He gestures to the forest edge. “Just beyond the treeline you'll find an apple tree bearing a good crop. And beyond that there are mushrooms. Fill the basket before you return to Ísleif.” He nods across to his son. “You can take Gunnar with you. He's getting bored watching us.”

“Yes, Master.”

He casts a warning eye to the forest edge. “And Mercia… Don't wander out of earshot. There are wild beasts around; wolves, bears, boars… especially with all the Autumn fruit.”

I need no warning. Spitted and roasted, the wild pigs make good eating, but alive, they are deadly. I nod a small bow. “No, Master.”

I wriggle fingers at the boy and, grinning toothily, he slides off his stump, running up to accompany me. I like Gunnar. He reminds me of my own Jeffrey…

So long ago…

Where is he now?

… and Gunnar likes me too. Smiling and chattering he trots happily by my side as we cross the field.

The forest edge is glorious. Sunlight slants in, casting golden fingers over ground crisp with oak leaves and thick with mast. No wonder wild pork is so much on the platter just now…

At least for others…

I find the apple tree easily. It’s hard to miss; loaded with small hard fruit. Bright red, they are only the size of the end of my thumb, but they will sit well with the pork. Branches droop and groan and my basket fills quickly.

And from here, across the field, I can still see Jarl Úlfar and the others.

Naturally, the best fruits are higher up, so I climb a branch or two, a blackbird chiming its hammer-and-anvil alarm, protesting my theft from its tree, only subsiding again as I clamber down, placing my feet carefully so as not to snag my skirt.

My basket is well filled…

More?

Or fill the rest with mushrooms?

I've already spotted a puffball; good eating and plenty of it. Also, some of the brilliantly red and spotted fly-caps. Not so good, although I’ve heard that the seers sometimes use them in their rituals.

I wander, chattering to Gunnar, his small hand in mine. “And this one is Karljohan. You see…” I point out the mushroom… “… with the reddish-brown cap and light colour underneath. They’re very good.” I point out another. “But that one…”

Gunnar’s voice is high and piping. “It looks the same…”

“Yes, it does, but look underneath. It’s dark there. They’re no good. They taste bad.” Then I spot the golden tops of chanterelle, lots of them, and I stoop to collect the shaggy hoard.

Enough to fill the basket and more…

Behind me, there's a sound… Air moving. Some disturbance. Somehow, the world is different.

Bear?

Panic snatches my breath away and I straighten up, whirling around, reaching for Gunnar.

It’s Hjalli, his face set in a smile that isn’t a smile. So much taller than me, he looms close, his eye raking over me. “Lie down, Mercia.”

“Sir?”

“You're mine. You were promised to me long ago. There’s no reason I have to wait any longer…”

My stomach clutches…

“… You'll do now. Lie down and hitch up your skirts.”

I am a slave.

I have to obey this man. Inside me, something screams silently.

But my head rings with the sound of screaming too. And with a sense of unreality, I realise the sound is coming from my mouth.

I should obey him. I know I should.

“No!”

Hjalli lunges, seizing me at arm and shoulder and I can't help myself. Fighting him, screaming all the while, I scrabble at his hands as he tears at my gown, ripping at the laces as he tries to claim his rights of me.

At some level, I’m aware that Gunnar has run away crying, back towards the field and his father, but I don’t have time to think about him. Instead, I’m screeching defiance, fighting back…

Hjalli’s hand swings across my face, a powerful backhand that connects with my cheek in a blow that sets me staggering. Snatching up a stick, I swing it at him. He dodges it easily, grinning, but I follow up, bringing up my knee towards his groin. I miss the full-on strike I hope for, but he dances back, cursing.

Then once more, he advances on me, his lips pressed white, and eyes white too, all around the irises. Seizing my wrist, he yanks me towards him. “Do as you are told slave-girl!”

In this dire moment, what else could penetrate my mind, my ears?

Another sound, a scream.

A child's scream. No, a shriek. A shriek of fear.

Gunnar…

I try to yank free of Hjalli, but he ignores the sound, keeping his grip on me, hauling me in.

Another scream; Gunnar’s wail of fear rasping over my ears.

I let myself go limp, letting Hjalli reel me in close, but now I fasten my teeth to his fingers and bite. And as he yells, fury and outrage spilling, his fingers slacken. Twisting free, I dart off, following Gunnar and his shrieks.

He’s only a hundred strides away; a quick sprint for me or for a grown man, but his little legs are just too short, because there, charging in on the boy is a wild boar. Perhaps all the noise disturbed the animal, but right now it has Gunnar in its path, murder in its small eye.

It moves so fast. I think of the porkers back at the farmstead, snouts in their mash, grunting contently. This beast is nothing like them. With a roar somewhere between a howl and a squeal and despite its deceptively squat, coarsely-haired body, it moves as fast as a horse.

Jaws gaping, the tusks yellow-white, already it has halved the distance to Gunnar. He stands frozen, faced screwed red in terror at the monster bearing down on him.

Jeffrey… so small… screaming in fear…

Shrieking at the top of my voice, I pelt for the toddler, trying to outpace the boar, desperate to draw its attention. The pig pays me no heed, still charging towards the small boy.

Sprinting, I scan the ground, seeking something… anything that might slow the beast in its headlong attack…

A stick… A stone…

At the run, I stoop, scooping up a handful of prickle-skinned chestnuts, swinging overarm at the boar. Flying in a scattered arc, they needle into the beast’s flank.

It has to sting. Certainly, the pig notices. Veering off its path, it swerves towards me, still at full pelt… Can I reach Gunnar before it reaches me?

And if I do, what then?

But I’ve bought the extra moment or two we need. The blood banging behind my ears, racing across the clearing, I reach Gunnar and without breaking my stride, swing him up into my arms. In the same movement, I keep swinging, all but throwing him up into the forked branches of an old oak. Scrabbling for a hold, he clutches at the branches, but another shove from me on his backside and he’s up and safe.

You can’t outrun it…

There’s a fallen branch. It’s not much of a defence; gnarled, knotted and heavy at one end, sharply forked at the other. Hunters would be armed with proper spears; short, sturdy, iron-tipped. But this is all I have. Snatching it up, I swivel to face the boar, jamming the heel of the branch into the ground, aiming the fork at the beast as though it were a real weapon.

Go down fighting…

I have just time to see the pig ram into the branch, chest-on, and my fragile defence snap under its weight and the force of the impact.

The pig screams fury at me, carried forward by its own momentum and, flexing my knees, hoping for safety up in the tree, I leap…

Pain…

Excruciating, breathless, white pain…

My legs are pulled out from under me and my leap to safety is stillborn as I come crashing to the ground. Winded, my face pressed into mulch and moss, I gulp and gasp, reaching for air that isn’t there.

Something crashes into my ribs and I curl in on myself, clasping hands over my head as the shrieking demon slashes, its tusks ripping into my side.

Dimly, I hear shouts and yells…

But they don’t seem to matter… They’re so far away…

My ears buzz. Black shadows skip at the edges of my vision and…

* * *

It hurts.

And it’s dark.

I am lying on some soft and yielding surface; covered with something smooth and warm.

My head bangs and as I stir, pain stabs through my side, slicing into my lungs. With the movement, my stomach rebels and fruitlessly, I retch and heave.

“She’s awake. Go tell Úlfar.”

“Yes, Lady.”

The voices come from nowhere. My darkened world has no place for them.

I try to speak, but my tongue is puffy and dry, my mouth foul-tasting. I try again but the disembodied voice speaks again. “Don’t try to move.”

Something pats at my lips, cool and moist. “You were badly hurt, but you were lucky. It will heal. The men reached you before too much damage was done.”

My addled brain finally puts a name to the voice; my mistress, Ísleif.

I lick at my lips and raising my head a little, try again to speak. This time I succeed. “Lady?”

Fingers fiddle over my eyes and abruptly, I can see, more or less; shapes in semi-darkness.

Ísleif sits beside me, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water, rinsing it through. Squeezing it dry, she folds it, laying it over my forehead, then reaches for a cup. Supporting my head in one palm, she holds the leather to my lips. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

The liquid is sweet and fragrant but with a bitter back taste that makes me gag as I swallow. She pulls back the cup as I gulp the brew down, then offers it up once more. “A little more,” she says. “Willow bark tea. I know it’s bitter, but Gunther found some honeycomb to help it down.”

Honey?

Seldom in my life have I tasted honey, and then only when I swiped a used platter with a fingertip, savouring the delicate luxury.

A shadow hovers over me. “How is she?” My master’s voice.

“Still waking. I don’t think she has all her wits yet.”

“Take good care of her. Let me know when she’s ready to speak.”

“Of course.”

With a clunk of boots, the shadow fades away.

My vision is fading too. The sleep I only just escaped is calling again…

What was in that drink?

More than just willow bark…

Chapter 5

MANUMISSION

When I wake again, the world is a clearer place. My head still bangs but the nausea has eased.

Someone has dressed me in a clean linen shift and the bed is piled with furs and woollen blankets. I’m in a chamber; warm and enclosed, with a brazier glowing red in one corner. A curtain drapes over what I think must be the door.

My ribs and side are carefully bandaged in long strips of linen, but under the dressing I am aflame. Breathing is painful, every rise of my chest sending a dagger stabbing in. Every fall of my ribs draws its blade slicing through me.

I find I am perfectly happy to remain still in this dim, comforting place. The world drifts, and I let sleep take me again.

I rouse once more… Who knows when? … to some small sound; the curtain pulling aside from the door.

Lady Ísleif enters. “Ah, you’re awake.” She regards me with an assessing eye. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?” Sitting by me, she tests my forehead with a cool palm. “That’s better. The fever is breaking. Can you sit up?”

Moving carefully, I try. My side is still very sore, but no longer unbearable. “I’m much better, Lady. Your pardon. My work…” I make to move from the bed and the world swings alarmingly around me.

Ísleif places a hand on my chest, pressing me back against the pillow. “No work for you just now. There are others doing your duties. Are you hungry?”

My stomach rolls and she laughs. “That answers that question. Lie quietly, Mercia. I’ll be back in a little while.”

She makes to stand, but I interrupt her. “Lady, how is Gunnar? Was he hurt?”

And she smiles. “No, my son is quite unhurt. He had a fright, but it is one he will learn by.” Her head inclines, her tone growing a little firmer. “Gunnar is old enough to tell us what he saw, even though he may not be old enough to understand all of it. Now, be still. I’ll fetch you food.”

She returns with a platter and a bowl; good bread, made from the finest of the flour, still fragrant from the baking, and soup, steaming a little. Sitting by me, she offers up a spoon. “Eat this. It’s light enough that I don’t think it will disturb your stomach.”

The Lady is spoon-feeding me…

Me.

A slave…

They can't be too angry with me, then…

My head whirls with what this might mean, but not for long. As she touches the spoon to my lips, the broth is rich and savoury, thick with meat and vegetables, fragrant with herbs. Almost by rote my mind works through, identifying the flavours: onions, cabbage, garlic, pork…

It is quite delicious. I can’t remember when I last ate something so good. But as I eat, my mind churns.

Gunnar was in my care…

I endangered their son…

Their only son…

She smiles again. “Good?”

The smile is reassuring, and I nod, then cough as a little goes down the wrong way. Waiting until I stop spluttering, Ísleif offers me another spoonful. “If it helps, you had the last word with the beast.”

“Lady?”

Her eyes drop to the bowl. “One of the biggest we've had this season. Úlfar and Magni finished it off, but it seemed appropriate that you should have some of the benefit.” Then her gaze rises to mine. “You’re still tired, Mercia. After you have eaten, you can sleep some more.”

I mop up the last of the broth myself with the bread, and Ísleif leaves me. The world whirls around me once more and gratefully, I drop my head back to the pillow and close my eyes.

My sleep is troubled; filled with monsters and screaming shadows. I’m running again, from a giant beast. Its breath is hot and foul, enveloping me as I stumble and fall and it overcomes me. Then Úlfar stands over me, raging…

I wake with a jolt, sweat streaming hot over my face, cold down my spine. Blinking open, I pull myself up against the pillow, grunting as my ribs stab a protest. I don’t care about the pain. It’s preferable to sleep taking me again and returning me to my nightmare.

Lady Ísleif is here, sitting beside me on the bed, brow furrowing. She tests my forehead with her palm then nods, apparently in satisfaction. “Mercia, can you walk? Úlfar wants to speak with you.”

My stomach churns and the broth which I so enjoyed sits uneasily. Flavours of garlic and onion rise up my throat, unappetising now, and sour. “Why does he want to see me?”

Her voice is neutral. “That's not for me to say.” She turns, taking something from beyond the end of the bed, then offers it up to me: shackles, thick, solidly forged in iron, and a chain. “Hold out your wrists.”

My breath shudders and something grows hot behind my eyes.

I’ve been tended so I’m well enough to be made an example of?

“I'm to be punished, then? Gunnar wasn’t hurt, was he? You did say he wasn’t hurt.”

Ísleif’s expression remains bland. “Gunnar is quite well. Now… hold out your hands.” Ignoring my trembling, she clamps the shackles around my wrists, then loops the chain through first one, then the other. The weight of the chain drags down my arms and my spirit.

What are they going to do to me?

I’ve seen how they punish, my masters, when they deem it due. A flogging is probably the best I can hope for.

Gods… have mercy on me…

Ísleif offers out a palm, helps me to stand, then gestures me towards the curtain.

As the door opens, a chill wind blows in. Outside the hut, a warrior stands either side, the pair grim-faced as they escort me, in my shift, barefoot and in chains, to the great hall.

Inside the longhouse, the whole family is gathered. Magni is there. And Bjorn. Heads close, they speak together, quietly, their faces grave. Hjalli paces, his eyes flicking to mine as I enter, his mouth quirking.

There too, are many from the village and some I do not recognise. Crowded in, they fill the hall. As I enter, faces turn, some curious, some stern; others bland. None smile.

The gathered folk part ways, forming flanks to either side of the central aisle and revealing Úlfar, seated on his lord’s seat at the end of the hall. His axe and sword lean up against the seat beside him. To the fore is an anvil, mounted on a thick stump of wood, perhaps an old tree trunk.

Is this a court?

Am I to be judged?

My bladder sends urgent signals and I wish I had thought to make water before I came in. My guards, still one to either side of me, nudge me forward.

Hjalli stands at the edge of the aisle, in clear view as, my fear mounting, I approach my jarl. Hjalli smirks as I pass, hissing low. “And when he’s done with you, you’re mine.”

Úlfar stands as I approach, my head hung low.

“Master… Lord…”

“Mercia, look at me.”

I raise my eyes, expecting to see… rage… condemnation… fury….

But his face is void of expression. “Kneel. Lay your hands on the anvil.”

Oh, gods…

My hands…

He’s going to cut off my hands…

I want to shriek and scream at the injustice of it. I want to cry, to weep a sea of tears at the sheer iniquity of what is going to happen…

But I am a slave, and if I weep at my fate, these people… these people who live for battle and blood and their gods of war… will only despise me the more.

Desolate with terror, I drop to my knees, laying my hands on the anvil.

“Spread your hands to either side.”

Numbly, I obey, my wrists linked by a short length of chain, the rest trailing loose, clinking over metal and stone.

Lord Úlfar raises his axe, holds my eyes for a moment then, astonishingly, he winks. “Don’t flinch.”

And as he winks, he brings the axe down. It swings in a high arc, landing squarely on the chain, cleaving it in two in a single blow. The sundered chain slips from the manacles and rattles loosely to the floor.

Holding up my hands, staring at palms and fingers I no longer expected to have, with a rush, I release air.

Úlfar seizes one of my wrists, holding up my hand for all to see. “Mercia, you are now a free woman. You are no longer a slave and you may take your place in my household as an honoured member.”

Murmurs grow to an excited babbling. Then cheers ring out. Hands slap me on the shoulder. Gunnar runs up, hugging me at the knees. Bjorn steps out, his grin broad. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes rest on me and do not shift away.

Úlfar murmurs, “This is your moment, Mercia. Enjoy it with my thanks. And those of my wife and son.” And smiling, he resumes his seat, watching as one after another come forward, offering me congratulations.

But then, a cry of outrage. “No! She was promised to me. She was mine.”

Úlfar looks out to the source of the protest. “Ah, yes.” He sniffs then looks away. “Hjalli. Come here.”

Hjalli strides forward, red-faced and furious. “This isn’t fair! This slave was supposed to be mine. You promised…”

Petulant…

“… She was promised to me. I only wanted what was my due from her…” His voice wheedles and whines.

Like some spoiled child…

Evidently, Úlfar thinks much the same. He sits in silence, allowing the tirade to run its course. Eventually, Hjalli seems to realise that he is not receiving a sympathetic hearing and falls silent.

Úlfar’s voice is dry. Chin propped on a fist, he regards his nephew. “Hjalli, you have surrendered your rights to my favour.”

Hjalli pales. “But she was mine. I am a man. She was promised to me when…”

Úlfar rises from his seat like some vision of Odin, the storm flashing over his face. “You say you are a man, that you wished only to claim the rights due to you. Those were not rights but only what you might have had by my leave.”

Hjalli steps back, his face slack, but Úlfar is still speaking. “You abandoned your work with me and your father. You interrupted a slave who was going about her duties, carrying out my instructions. And when danger came, you fled, leaving a slave girl to protect my son. Your father and I both saw what happened.”

His voice drops to a hiss. “You abandoned my son. Deserted him. While she…” He aims a finger at me… “… got the child to safety and then tried to stand and fight, against an enemy she was very ill-equipped to face. She saved Gunnar’s life and at considerable cost to herself.”

Hjalli, his mouth hanging open, listens, agog. But Úlfar seems to have said what he wishes. He waves a dismissive hand. “Go. I do not wish to see you for several days at least.”

“But Uncle… Lord… Where do I go?”

“Go pick mushrooms. It appears that’s what you’re good for.”

* * *

I’m tired. So very tired. And I hurt. I’d like to crawl back into bed and vanish under the furs. But Úlfar, all smiles, gestures me to sit by him, along with Ísleif and Bjorn.

Úlfar sends a slave to fetch warm boots for me, removes the fur from his shoulders and wraps it around mine. He offers me ale, meat and bread, serving to me… just as though I had not served him on previous occasions.

Then he waves Gunnar over. The small boy comes running, crawling onto my lap to sit, arms around my neck, his cheek resting against my chest.

Bjorn rests a hand on my knee, his eyes warm and full of all the promises of the world. I have no idea what to say to him.

Ísleif leans in close to Úlfar, whispers something, but he is dismissive. “Yes, she can sleep soon. I just want to talk to the girl.” Then he turns to me. “So, Mercia. What would you ask of me? Any favour you wish. If it is within my power, it is yours.”

As he speaks, he is looking at me, measuring me, as though seeing me for the first time. After some moments of this, I grow uncomfortable, shuffling in my seat.

He waits, eyes keen then, “Come, Mercia. What is it? Silver? Land? Some man you have hopes for?” He glances at Bjorn. “You’re not a slave now. You can have these dreams. And when the tale of what you did becomes known, you will have no problem making a good match.”

Bjorn?

He’s there, sitting right next to me, and I think… I think…

What do I think?

What do I want?

Not what I thought I did.

My mouth is dry again and the words I reach for don’t come. I gulp down ale, hoping it will loosen my tongue.

“Mercia, talk to me. You saved the life of my son. I wish to do right by you. What do you want?”

Beside him, Bjorn stirs, but Úlfar holds up his hand, silencing him.

The ale gives me the courage I need. “It’s not a man I want, Lord.”

Bjorn blinks.

So does Úlfar. “No? What then?”

I drop my eyes, almost muttering the words. “I don’t want to marry, Lord. I never want to marry.” Then I raise my gaze to his. “I want to learn to fight. To be a warrior.”

“A warrior?” Úlfar chews at his lower lip. “You wish to train as a shieldmaiden?”

“I do.” I look down, teasing at a hangnail, picking at it until it comes free. “I know it’s foolish, but you asked me what I want…”

He sits back in his seat, drawing in air. “No, it’s not foolish. It is unusual but it’s not unheard of. If a woman has the heart of a man. The courage of a man...” He stares into space then, “I need to think on this.”

Beside me, I notice, Bjorn shifts in his seat, and when I try to meet his eye, looks away.

* * *

Later that evening, joy and freedom have given me wings. My body protests bruises and my ribs jab at me.

I’m light-headed from too much strong ale and I know that I will pay for it tomorrow. But this is my night and, despite the gentle suggestions from my Lady Ísleif, I have no wish to return to my bed.

* * *

Oh, gods, let me die now…

Ísleif casts a, not unkind, eye over me. “Stay there for now. After noon, Audhilde has offered to teach you weaving. Have you done any before?”

Have I?

I dredge my memories…

“Only when I was small. I… wasn’t very good at it. My mother would usually pack me off to gather fruit or greens instead. Then she would scold me for coming back dirty.

Ísleif Ahhhs then offers me a cup. “Drink this. It will help with the pain while your injury heals.”

* * *

In despair, I work at the hanging, trying to tease it loose from the frame. Yarn which slips smoothly into place under Audhilde’s fingers, snarls and snags under mine.

The thread pulls and tugs at other work already completed and previously beautiful, drawing the pattern out of shape, ruining hours of someone else’s labour. It had been so lovely. Squares and lines and blocks in red and green and brown, now sit on the loom stretched and warped out of shape.

Audhilde looks over my shoulders, letting out air with a barely audible hiss. “Perhaps we’ll try you with something simpler. Tell me Mercia, can you spin?”

* * *

Alva looks up at me, wide-eyed with astonishment. “I don’t think it’s meant to look like that.”

Alva’s own thread is fine and silky. With dextrous fingers, in her hands, combings from the fleece become soft and smooth, winding easily onto a skein, ready for dyeing then weaving. My own offering is lumpy in places, thin to breaking point in others. My attempt at spinning is not fit to tie the gate of the goat pens.

Alva spins and twists and twines, turning out foot after foot of beautiful even thread. She grins through the gap in her teeth. “Mother says if I do this well, she’s going to use it to make me a new robe for my birthing day. She says seven is an important birthday and I should have something nice to wear.”

Seven, eh?

* * *

After another seven-day, I’m feeling well enough that the indoors hold no appeal for me. Certainly not spinning and weaving. Restless and bored, I’m itching to be out, to do something…

Ísleif raises palms. “Fine. Go! And if your wound splits, it’s your doing, not mine.”

“I’ll be careful, Lady.”

She softens. “You are no longer a slave, Mercia. You may address me simply as Ísleif.”

“Yes, La… Ísleif.”

I escape into thin sunshine and thinner warmth.

What to do?

My old duties have been taken by others. The porkers… those that remain after the culling… grunt happily in their troughs. Fish hangs, drying in the wind. The stables have been cleaned, the muck being barrowed out to the fields as I watch.

Idly, I wander, finding myself by the waterfall and the pool.

Should I bathe?

It’s probably not a good idea yet; my wound only half-healed.

But trout lounge in the water, their speckled silver bodies undulating in the current.

Baked crisp… Hot… Steaming…

Perhaps I am not fit to hunt boar, but a couple of fat fish would be well received at the hall. And then I would have done something useful with my day.

Still moving carefully, I kneel by the water’s edge. One plump specimen hovers in the current less than an arm’s length away. Dipping in wriggling fingers, I edge closer…

Slowly…

Carefully…

As my waving fingers ease around the fish, it remains, quite calm, holding its position until, my palms settled under its silver belly, I lift it from the water.

It lies in my hand. Not reacting. Not panicking or flopping, trying to escape. It simply lies there.

Why do they do this?

To hunt an animal; boar, deer, bear; to do battle with it, seems a fair fight. But this feels like a betrayal. As though somehow, the fish has come to trust me.

And I have betrayed that trust.

The trout lies in my palms, quite calm, its gills pulsing. There’s a good meal here and, as I look out over the current, other fish waiting to be caught, but still I hesitate.

“Mercia?”

I startle. My hands jolt, my fingers slip and the trout slides from my grasp and back into the water.

I turn to the owner of the voice; Bjorn. His palms outheld, “Your pardon. I cost you your catch.”

“There’s plenty more.” I wave a hand over the stream where a good dozen other fish hold their vigils. My own trout unhurriedly flicks his tail, glides back to its former position and resumes its watch of the current.

I try to stand, struggling a little against the tightness in my ribs and Bjorn strides over, offering a hand. He helps me to my feet but then, his hands resting on mine, doesn’t quite release me. “How are you now?”

“A bit stiff,” I admit. “But most of the pain has gone. I just need to be careful for a few more days.”

“Hmmm.” He nods, then releases me, paces in a circle. He looks…

Nervous?

Yes… nervous…

“Mercia…”

“Yes?”

“I… wanted to find you alone. To talk to you…”

“Yes?”

Bjorn stops circling. Straightens up. Stands squarely before me. Then he takes my hands again, holds my eye. “I want you for my wife. Marry me.”

His face is alight. His eyes full of hope and expectation. His lips a little parted, the words echo inside my head. Like ripples in a still pool. Like the brief hoot of an owl on a moonlit night. Like the whisper of the wind through leaves.

Marry me…

In a few short days, my life has turned over. I have been raised from slave to free woman. I am no longer expected to run, fetch, carry. Perhaps I may yet dream of becoming a warrior. The man I feared no longer has power over me…

And now… this man…

This man I saw naked, bathing in these same waters. The man I know I love…

Marry me…

His brow wrinkles. “Did you hear me? I asked you to marry me. To become my wife. It…” He swipes a hand through his hair, looks to the sky, looks back. “It was impossible before. I couldn’t hope for it. It would never have been permitted. But it’s different now. I spoke to Úlfar and to my father. I told them I wanted you. And both agreed.”

Light dawns. “Is that why Úlfar freed me? To give me rank enough to be your wife?”

He rocks a hand back and forth. “Partly, he was looking for the excuse. You saved Gunnar. I think he was happy to welcome you to the household.” He stares at me, his smile fading. “Mercia… Say yes. Say you will be my wife.”

I swing my head, slowly, from side to side. “No. I can’t.”

He swallows hard, looking away for a moment. “Why not? I know you told Úlfar you didn’t want to marry, but Mercia, it’s me. You must know how I feel. I could have taken you long ago. No one would have stopped me. But I didn’t want to do that. You were always more than just another slave for me. I… I spoke for you. Had Úlfar raise you up.”

Rooted to the spot, frozen, I don’t reply.

His mouth works. He seems to have difficulty finding his words. “Why? Why won’t you marry me?”

It’s a fair question. Why don’t I want to marry him? To be the honoured wife of this fine man?

I love you…

I believe you love me…

Why do I not I want to be your wife?

His voice is deep, urgent; his eyes intense. “Marry me,” he repeats. “Be my wife. I never thought of you as a slave. Now no one does. Marry me.”

“No.”

“But…” He shakes his head, confusion on his face. “Why not? Don't you… like me? I believed you did. I still believe that.” He swipes a hand through his hair. “I'd be good to you. I'd work hard. My father will give us land. I would build you a home. I’d be a good husband and a good father too, when the time came.”

And I have only one answer.

“I don't want to marry anyone. I do not wish to wed. I want to fight. To be a shieldmaiden.”

He shrugs, dismissive. “I know that. The one doesn't exclude the other. Many men would be proud to have a shieldmaiden for a wife. I would. I would encourage you. Help you. Train you.”

Why don’t I want to do it?

And finally, understanding comes to me. Then the words. “But… I’d still be just a wife. Your… your property. I do not wish to be property anymore. I want to be free.”

Bjorn eyes me askance. “I know the customs of your old people. The Christians. I have spoken with folk from there, other slaves. They worship a god of slaves, and that is how they treat their women.” His lip curls. “Among them, wives are property.”

He huffs, turns away. “A wife here can divorce her husband if he displeases her. That cannot be said among the Saxons. If their husband beats them or gives them no children, they can do nothing. They cannot own wealth of their own. Their status is a reflection of their man. If they have a poor husband, it is their misfortune. The Saxon wives are chattels.”

He turns back to me, holds me at the shoulders, his fingers curling into my flesh. “It is not like that with us. Wives have rights. All women need a man. You need a man. Choose me.”

I jut my chin. “I need no man. I wish to be a shieldmaiden. I am born to fight.”

He releases me, straightening up, but still holding my eye. “I too, am born to fight. But I still need a wife. And you need a man as much as any other woman.”

He shakes his head slowly, sucking in his cheeks. “How do you intend to support yourself? So, you’re no longer a slave. You are a free woman and you can make your own choices, but you don't own land. You have no home which is yours, no wealth. How will you support yourself?”

And I have no answer.

Chapter 6

DAUGHTER

The hall is crowded, everyone gathered, eating and drinking, enjoying the evening after the day’s labour.

On a bench by the hearth, Magni sits by Úlfar, their heads close as they speak together. Their eyes occasionally drift to me, then flick away.

Slaves serve me bread and pork and ale. Still unused to my abrupt rise in station, I accept the food and drink awkwardly.

I sit beside Ísleif with a horn of ale. Since my night of over-indulgence, I have treated it with more respect, and I sip slowly at the strong drink. Plucking up courage, I lean closer to Ísleif, nodding across to the two men. “What are they talking about?”

She glances sidelong. “You. And Hjalli.”

“Hjalli?” I look around, but I don’t see him. And now that I think on it, I’ve not seen him since Úlfar’s dismissal. And that was more than two seven-nights since. “What will happen to him? To Hjalli?”

Her voice is hard-edged. “He endangered our son when he should have been his defender. He’ll be lucky if Úlfar doesn’t exile him. As it is, Magni has given him a whipping. He didn’t rise from his bed for several days and when he did, he was set to minding the pigs for a few seven-days.”

Unease stirs within me. Undoubtedly, Hjalli’s punishment is deserved, but will he blame me for it?

Almost certainly…

Magni and Úlfar are laughing and joking. Their eyes flicker to me again and both grin. Magni flashes his brows at me.

Heat rises up my neck. “They’re laughing at me?”

Ísleif gives me a dry look. “I did mention to my husband that, freewoman you might be, but you’re no use for the spinning and weaving, not with the spider’s mess you make of the task. If he’s of a mind to make a shieldmaiden of you, I’m of a mind to advise him to do it. You have the courage. You’ve already proved that.”

Then, of a sudden, she looks away, as though she’s let slip something she shouldn’t.

He’s agreeing?

They’ll train me?

Úlfar is watching. Abruptly, he stands, jerks his chin at me, then to his jarl’s seat at the head of the hall. “Mercia.” He strides across, takes his seat.

Unsure what is expected of me, I glance to Ísleif, but she simply prods me in my now-healed ribs, pushing me forward.

Obediently, I stand before my jarl. “Lord Úlfar?”

He rises once more, stands over me. His voice stern, “Mercia, do you vow fealty to me as your lord?”

Startled, I blink up. “Yes, of course. Always, Lord.”

He holds out a hand, fingers wriggling at mine. Uncertain, I offer up my arm. He seizes my wrist and with his other hand, fits something around: a bracelet.

Made of gold, it is utterly beautiful. Twin serpents coil and twine about my wrist in intricately woven threads, in and out and through, until each holds in its jaws the tail of the other.

I gape at the lovely thing, then stammer, “Lord Úlfar, my thanks. It is…”

But he cuts me short. “You came to us as a Saxon slave. You have proved by your actions that you are no true slave. I give you a new name. You are no longer ‘Mercia’. That is a slave’s name, under a slave’s god. You are now Gunhildr Úlfarsdóttir. And from today, you are my daughter and an honoured member of my family. And tomorrow, you will begin your training as a shieldmaiden.”

Chapter 7

TRAINING

How will I learn to fight with no weapon?

Bjorn is right. I may be a free woman now, but still, I have nothing of my own, no goods that have not been gifted to me by goodwill. And I do not feel comfortable asking Úlfar for too much. Even the most basic of swords is a costly thing.

But people are kind. Or perhaps simply still grateful to me.

Magni offers me a blade. It looks old and much used, in need of care. “It was mine when I was a boy, still learning. It's good enough while you learn not to cut your own foot off. Clean it up, hone back the edge. You can use it while you train.”

In the practice area, a small clearing off the village, I set up with the boys. Some mutter to each other, sniggering, but the old tutor, Ivar, silences them with a cuff around the ear. Sometime in his long career, he lost an eye, but the one that remains can scorch skin with a single look.

The sword is not so heavy as I expected, but much more difficult to use. I have seen the men, even the older boys, wield them seemingly without effort. But the first time I try to swing at the target, a stuffed leather sack swinging from a branch, it comes to me how hard is this thing I wish to do, what a skill it is to wield a sword.

I hold a bar of steel, an arm’s length long, weighted for balance at the pommel, double-edged, tapered to the end. And while my blade might have been only a boy's training weapon, the surface ripples with the sheen of the woven metal, displaying the skill of the smith that forged it, as he braided lengths of metal then hammered in the fire and spirit.

To use the sword once is nothing. To use it twice, little more so. But when I have been swinging and thrusting and parrying from first light until the sun has risen high in the sky, my shoulders ache and my wrists are afire.

Ivar excuses me. “You’ve done enough for this day, girl.” The boys titter but he silences them once more with a scowl.

After the practice, I return to Magni, offering back the sword. He looks at me askance. “What would I do with it, Gunhildr? And if you return it to me, how will you practice?”

His head tilts. “You think you will learn what is needed simply by training with the boys? You have heart, but you have come to the training late. You must practice all the time, in every spare moment.”

* * *

No more the rags and humiliations of a slave for me. I am the daughter of a jarl. And, if not yet a shieldmaiden, I am training to be one.

In woollen trousers and tunic, well-made and warm, I wear my sword at my belt and learn my skills with the boys.

My Lady Ísleif protests. “You can't wear trews all the time; even as a shieldmaiden and even if they do suit you, all leg that you are. You should have something to wear for show. How else will you capture the husband you want?”

“And if I do not want a husband?”

But the women watch me, they think, with knowing eyes. Then they retire to whisper and titter behind their hands.

But to please Ísleif, I wear a fine gown in heavy wool. Warm and thick and intricately woven, it sways heavy at my feet. At my waist, a bodice stitched from good leather, threaded through in red and blue and gold, supports my breasts. A cloak swings from my shoulders, fastened with a silver brooch fashioned as a coiled dragon.

As I stroll through the hall, helping myself to a horn of ale, male eyes trail my path. But not now with the knowledge of possession; of the right to take. Instead, they gleam with the desire to ask.

And now I am not afraid.

Bjorn… He is so handsome. His grey eyes that turn blue in the sunshine. His red-gold hair, which seems to carry the sunlight with it… And he was always kind to me.

He watches me, his eyes following me through the hall, settling on me as I sit.

* * *

In the afternoons I re-join the women at the looms. It is not a success. Ísleif regards my cats-mess of yarn with something like despair. “How can you get it so badly wrong?”

My stitch-work is not much better. Ísleif shakes her head, muttering about the waste of good thread.

So, making myself scarce, I fetch my sword and practice my skills on the leather sack once more.

* * *

The endless practice makes its mark on me, building muscle and strength where I didn't have it before. I toughen and harden. Wearing the tightly laced leather vest I use for practice, even in the poor mirror of the waters, I see the flesh and sinew of my arms growing defined and strap-like.

Bjorn watches me, his gaze assessing, admiring even. “It suits you.”

“What does?”

“The way your body is changing… responding to the training.”

He circles me, making no secret of measuring me, assessing me. “Men grow muscular with the training, more… angled…” He pats at his own shoulder muscle, then at mine. “Women who do this grow…” He rocks his hand, as though searching for the words….” Longer, but rounder… firmer.” And now his gaze is nothing but admiring. “Yes, it becomes you.”

* * *

Ivar is unimpressed. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

My sword cast to one side, I attack the leather sack with my shield, charging the thing, my full weight and speed behind it.

He sniffs. “You’re never going to have the size or the heft of a man, so you have to make up for it in speed and skill…”

* * *

And if Ivar thinks we have not tried hard enough, the punishments are harsh.

Is it punishment, or training?

“Gunhildr, hold the sword in your left hand, outstretched, horizontal. Your right foot off the ground. You too, Kåre.”

I obey. The sword is no burden now. My body is fit and limber. It responds well.

At first, it is easy, no effort at all.

Then… the bite, the ache… the burn…

His face red and blotchy, Kåre hurls his blade to the mud. “I don't have to do this. My father is a noble. I don't have to take your punishments.”

“No…” Ivar’s voice is mild. “No, you don't. Not if you insist on your rank. But then neither do I have to explain to your father why I will give you no more instruction if you refuse to accept my discipline.” He cocks his head. “You understand me?”

Sullen, his lower lip protruding, Kåre mutters, “Yes.”

“So, if you wish to return tomorrow, you will pick up your sword now, wipe it clean and start again.”

“I'd already started...”

Ivar raises brows. “And now you will start again.” He turns to me. “Gunhildr, change to your right hand and left leg.”

* * *

Later, Magni seeks me out. “The sword is yours. I wasn't going to give it to you until I was sure you were serious. That would be an insult to the blade. But I see a warrior's heart in you and the determination to see it through. Keep the sword.”

My own sword…

“Can I name it?”

His lips quirk. “If you want. It is yours now. Do as you wish.”

* * *

Ivar’s voice is muffled. “Very good, Gunhildr. You're doing well.”

I shift from one foot to the other. “You're not angry at me?”

He nurses his eye, already swelling and darkening. “I would only be angry if I thought you weren't doing your best. I've known a few girls who fancied the glamour of being a shieldmaiden, but when the going got hard, usually the first time they were caught in the face with the edge of a shield, they gave up on the idea and went back to their weaving.”

I droop. “I'm no good at weaving.”

He chuckles. “Yes, I've seen your efforts. Ísleif has declared she will waste no more thread on you.” He inhales deeply, his blue eyes twinkling. “I never thought I'd find the true calling in a Saxon girl.”

Something inside me stirs uneasily. “I'm not a Saxon girl. This is my home now. I am Norse.”

He sucks in his cheeks. Purses his lips. “Alright, a girl who was once a Saxon.” His face softens. “Here, you're limping. Let's help each other home.”

Chapter 8

FREEDOM?

People crowd to the jetties, cheering and calling as they welcome the ship. Even from a distance, the smiles of the men on board are broad, some standing and waving from the deck, others balanced by the prow, as the wind skims them home.

The ship draws into the shallows and some of the men jump out, laughing and shouting, arms outheld as their women run out to them, calling their children, embracing them, holding them close. Others wait until Sea Skimmer is moored to the jetty then, more sedate, begin unloading.

Captives, shackled in iron…

As I was once…

I brush away the thought…

Bound at wrist and neck by heavy collars, linked by chain; hobbled at the ankles, miserably, they stumble to the shore. The raiders slap each other on the shoulders, bragging loudly about the wealth that this fresh batch of slaves will bring them.

A girl runs up, flinging her arms around the neck of one.

“Now, will you marry me?” he says. “I am a wealthy man now. I can support all the children you could wish for.”

And she answers him with a bright white smile.

Chests are unloaded; caskets and trunks and sacks. All filled with lovely things. Treasure. Bright. Gleaming in the sunlight. Beautiful things, finely made. Jewels, cups, a cross. And coins. Coins in silver and gold that run through the fingers and make music as they tumble back into the chest to gleam among their fellows.

The men who went on this raid are rich; wealthier than they could ever have been had they simply stayed at home to till the soil and raise the pigs.

I could do this…

I could join the next raid…

If I join the raids, then I can claim my share and when I am rich, I can buy land, livestock, be a farmer with slaves of my own.

This is how I become truly free…

Will they let me do it?

* * *

I sit by the river, staring into the water. Bjorn sits beside me; silent, pleasant company in the thin warmth of the afternoon.

Amidst weed that trails green fingers with the current, fish, no longer than my hand, glint like raindrops, starting this way then, before the eye can blink, that. The sun catches them, the light reflecting from the myriad small silver bodies in a thousand broken fragments.

How do they do that?

But my mind isn’t really on fish.

Bjorn laces his fingers with mine. “You’re very quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

He raises eyes to the sky. “Alright, you’re very thoughtful then.”

I simply nod, not knowing how to approach this. “When the next raid sets off in the Spring…”

He interrupts me, his face alight with enthusiasm. “Yes, I’ve already said I’ll be going…”

I cut him short. “I want to go too.”

His brow furrows. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

“You want to raid?”

“Yes.”

“What for? My share will be enough for both of us…” He shifts, looking away…

Both of us?

I haven’t accepted you…

But he continues, “Gunhildr… It is your own people over there. You want to…?”

Heat rises up my neck. “They are not my people. I barely even remember them. I am not Mercia the Saxon slave. I am Gunhildr the shieldmaiden.”

Bjorn heaves a breath, then another. He stands, looking down at me. “I do not believe this is a good idea. Whatever you say, they were your people… Even if your memory is dim, it is the land of your birth.”

My heart pumps. “I do not believe it is your choice to make. I shall ask permission of Úlfar.”

Bjorn’s lips press white. His face twists. “Why won't you marry me? When I return from the raids, whatever I have, it would all be yours.”

I stare down into the water. The little fish, so many of them, move first one way, then in a flash, they turn as one, and the splintered light moves with them. “How do they do that?”

“What?” Bjorn shakes his head, brow creasing.

“The fish. How do they all turn together like that? There's a score of scores of them at least, but they all turn together. If men or horses could do that, no one could out-manoeuvre them...”

He blinks, then shrugs. “Who knows? Perhaps the gods. Not I. Are you going to answer my question?”

“Question?”

“Why won't you marry me? It was impossible while you were a slave, but you’re free now. I want you as my wife. You have no one else. We’re a good match. Everyone approves the idea. Even my father.”

I have no answer. Or none that I want to say to him.

He seizes my shoulder, turning me to face him. “Perhaps you are simply afraid?”

“I am a shieldmaiden. I am afraid of nothing.”

He releases me, brows rising and half a smile playing over his lips. “Is that so, shieldmaiden? You are a maiden. I'm sure of it.”

The heat blooms again, now kissing my cheeks. “Yes, I am. What of it?”

“You’re a grown woman now. To keep your maidenhead this way, it is disrespectful to the gods, to Freya.”

I look away but he reaches out, traces my lips with a fingertip. “You don’t have to be afraid. I know perhaps you might have been, when you were a slave and any man could… take you… But it is not like that now. I’d be gentle with you. Make it good for you… The….” He stutters to a stop and then… “The other women I have lain with, they tell me they enjoy it with me. They enjoy me.”

“Your other women?” I allow a smile to flirt over my face. “Your varied and numerous other women?”

He laughs. “Too numerous to count.” He holds up palms to the heavens. “Every one of them says I am a god in the furs, a veritable Freyr.” His smile fades. “Is that it, Gunhildr?”

“No, it’s not that. You’re right, I’ve never been with a man, but no, the idea doesn’t frighten me.”

“What then?” He faces me, squaring up. “I repeat my question. I'm sure you like me. I'm sure that the liking could grow to be love. And I think that you believe that too. So why will you not marry me?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Even harder if you don’t try.”

“I don't want to be property again.”

“What?” Bjorn’s forehead creases. “You said something like that before. You’re a free woman now. Becoming my wife wouldn’t change that.”

“But it would. They… your father… set me free for something I did. Something I am proud of and which he respected. And so did everyone else. They respected it enough that they… gave me back to myself…”

I can’t look at his face and find my gaze dropping to the darting fish once more. “If I become just a wife, I lose that. I would always be Bjorn's wife, not Gunhildr. I know you would provide… wealth, food, land, a home. But it would always be yours. I’d just be…” … I gesture out to where the sunlight splits and shimmers, sundered by the rippling water… “… no more than the reflected sun on the waters.”

One fist on a hip, Bjorn scratches at his scalp, then his face clears. “That’s why you want to join the raids… So you have wealth in your own right. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was what I wanted; to fight, to be a warrior. Now I realise it’s not enough…”

Realisation dawns over his face… and understanding. “What you really wanted was to be strong and free. Able to defend yourself. To have your own choices.”

He paces, circles, then aims a finger at me. “If I talk to my uncle, get his consent for you to join the raids, to make your own name, your own wealth, your own glory, will you marry me then? Will you be my wife?”

My throat tightens. My voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, if you do that, I will marry you.”

He stands, stares, then strides.

Two strides, three, then he seizes me, drawing me close and opening his mouth over mine. His arms fold around me, and now, I want him…

His hold is fierce and gentle at once; one arm angling down to my waist, the other hand cupped to the back of my head, holding my face to his as we kiss.

The heat in my face spreads; a glow over cheeks and neck, sliding down to my breasts. At my loins, I grow warm and fluid. All unknowing, I find my own arms around him in a tight embrace, drawing him to me.

His voice is rough. “Gunhildr… I swear I will do this for you. I never understood and I should have. When the ship sails, you will be with us. But will you marry me now, so we can be together?”

Chapter 9

BRIDE

My husband. My wedding day.

The day, as is right and proper, is Frigga’s day and I rose early. Attended by Ísleif and her ladies, Ingunn and Frika, I make my way to the bathhouse. The sun has risen high into the morning before I emerge, steamed and cleansed, my face streaming until I plunge into the waters of the river. Clean but chilly, my teeth chatter as my attendants help me dress.

My gown is of fine linen, beautifully embroidered with threads of gold and blue and the expensive deep red which Bjorn bought the thread from a trader. I tried to protest but, as he said himself while he argued me down, a man is entitled to gift his wife, even if she is a warrior in her own right. Ísleif, with her skills, sewed the gown for me.

At my waist, a girdle of soft, fine leather, also embroidered, with silver and gold dragons which wind and coil about me. Deep enough to support my breasts, it replaces the linen bands I normally wear when I train, tight around my chest.

Ingunn dresses my hair, stroking it through until it shines, using a comb made of some scented wood which leaves its fragrance with me. Accustomed to having my hair braided, pinned and kept well out of the way, it feels luxuriant and feminine to let it sway at my waist.

Her bridal gift to me, Ísleif gives me a crown, set with crystals and woven through with the flowers of Spring, brilliant as sunshine, bright as a blackbird’s beak, which twine through strands of silver. She smiles as she sets it on my head. “It looks well on you.”

“Ísleif, it’s beautiful… It’s too much…”

But she presses a finger to my lips. “It was mine when I wedded Úlfar. One day, you will give it to your own daughter for her wedding.”

I have never dreamed of owning so beautiful or costly a thing.

Úlfar has provided the animals for sacrifice, to bring the blessing of the gods. Outside, a goat and a sow are penned, awaiting their fate. The goat bleats uneasily, but the sow merely snuffles into her bucket of rinds.

As we stand together to speak the vows in the sight of Freyja and the other gods, Bjorn's eyes hold mine; crinkling at the corners, white lines radiating against his deeply tanned face. He offers me his ring, dangling golden on the tip of his sword, glinting in the sunlight. And I exchange it with my own, again given to me by Ísleif.

At the feast afterwards, my cup is never empty. Úlfar fills it with strong mead. Bjorn’s too. I’m still unaccustomed to such strong drink and my head is spinning. Úlfar places a hammer on my lap, grinning broadly, flashing his eyebrows at me, jerking his chin at Bjorn who settles back on his seat returning the grin with an air of ‘waiting’.

Úlfar is still grinning as, with Ísleif, Ingunn and Frika, and their menfolk and families, Bjorn and I are accompanied, almost herded, to the hut set aside for our wedding night. As they hustle us in, there is joking and ribaldry.

Milling around the room, some arrange the bed, shaking out the furs. Magni places a jug of the mead on the table. Frika has brought honeyed cakes and choice cuts from the roasts.

Will they ever leave us alone?

Bjorn’s smile is wearing thin. His gaze flicks to mine, then, “I’d like my wife to myself now.”

Magni elbows him in the ribs, waggling his eyebrows. “Got your spear ready for your shieldmaiden?”

Bjorn gives him a long look. “Alright, that's enough. She's nervous enough already. Out… The lot of you. Go drink ale. Get drunk. We'll see you in the morning.” And the crowd spill out of the chamber, their laughter still loud.

Bjorn closes the door firmly behind the revellers then leans back against it, his head tilted, gaze slanting back as he waits for the sounds of footsteps and merriment to die away.

Then, mouth curving, his eyes shift to mine. And finally…

Finally…

… we are alone…

Bjorn.

My husband.

The husband I could never have dreamed I would have. A warrior. Brave. Handsome. And he even loves me.

He could have taken his pick.

And he chose me…

My friend. My supporter. And now my husband. The man who has promised me everything I want.

A brazier gleams in the corner of the room; lamps too, flickering with a warm golden light that sets shimmering shadows over his face and amber highlights in his copper-red hair. In the glimmer-light, his blue eyes are bronze, flecked with sea-green, the pupils huge.

And the thought returns to me.

He is so beautiful.

My mouth is dry and somehow, there’s not enough air. I shiver but my body is warm. And Bjorn’s eyes are soft… so soft… as he approaches me.

He lays palms on my shoulders, stooping just a little to rest his forehead on mine. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

“And me…” I try to speak, but the words won’t come out. I suck at my cheeks, trying to work up some moisture in my mouth.

Then I try again. “It’s the same for me. I always wanted you. Right from the first time I saw you. I never dared hope you could be my husband.”

He kisses my forehead, so gently, then he stands back, his fingertips still resting on my shoulders. “You’re trembling. You’re not afraid of me, are you? Or of what happens next?”

“No… Not afraid… exactly… More… excited… But…”

He slides arms around me, pulling me close. “Shhh… It’s alright. A bride on her wedding night should be excited. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

He runs fingers through my hair. “So dark. So beautiful. Like a river at night. All shadows and highlights.” He coils a strand around his fingers, kisses it.

“I was never sure if you liked it, being… foreign…”

He flashes brows, grins. “It’s different, yes. But not so different. And it’s not as though we don’t have others of your folk here. Both the Saxons and the old people.” He fingers the lock on his hand. “You are darker than most Saxons. Perhaps you carry some of the old blood too. Drawn from two peoples.”

“You are my people. I am Norse now.”

“Of course you are.” He presses a finger to my lips. “Enough talking now.” Stepping back from me, his eyes never leaving mine, he unravels his belt, draping it over a stool. “Time for us to see each other I think.”

He pauses. “I hope you like it.” Then tugging at the hem of his shirt, he lifts it up and over his head.

I have so wanted this. To call this man my own. To see his body, to caress him …

And to have the right to do so…

All without thinking, I find my hand outstretched, fingers reaching. Then, confused, I hesitate and retreat.

He smiles. “It’s alright. You are my wife now. I am your husband. It is a proper thing that you should want to touch me.”

My confidence returning, I move closer, tracing fingertips over hard flesh, sculpted muscles and smooth skin.

And so close, the scent of him floods over me; warm, musky, male…

Delicious.

My pulse races. My chest heaves. Inside me, something moves and liquifies. Something glorious. Something pure.

Bjorn’s face sheens, his breathing growing heavier. His chest rises and falls more rapidly. And… I cannot fail to notice, he bulges to the front.

My mouth dries out again.

His lips quirk. “Would it help, wife, if I simply told you what to do?” But the smile dances around his eyes; shades of grey and blue and sea and sky around great black centres.

Blinking, I nod and drop my gaze. But now I find it, inexorably, drawn to the tightness at his groin.

He draws close again, his chest against my breasts, his loins against mine. By my cheek, he murmurs, “My wife should be naked now.”

The heat in my face is matched by the heat inside me, a growing, fluttering glow.

That smile still haunts the corners of his eyes, flutters over his lips, as he palms my cheek and softly, so softly, he presses his lips to mine, tracing the line of my mouth with his tongue-tip.

Bjorn tastes a little of the ale we drank, smells a little of the honeyed cakes we ate, and his smile is as sweet as Spring and as warm as Summer.

His gaze flashes to mine briefly, a blue-glinted spark, before he tugs at the ribbons which tie in my girdle. Carefully, slowly, he works them loose before releasing the soft leather. My breasts, freed of restraint, swing into his hands and he stoops, kissing them through my dress.

Then, his movements deliberate, he unravels the laces of the gown and the linen garment slips open. Hooking fingers inside, he slips it from my shoulders and the fabric slides down to puddle at my ankles. Picking it up, he folds it carefully, setting it to one side.  Then standing back, his eyes soft, my husband regards my nakedness.

I don’t mean to, but I cross my arms over my breasts. Very gently, he uncrosses them again, pressing them to my sides.

My breasts are heavy as he cups them in warm palms, rubbing at a nipple with his thumb before bending to take it in his mouth. His tongue swirls over the nub, leaving the skin cool and dewy as he breaks free. The nipple hardens further.

He takes my hands, draws them to his belt. Then waits.

My hands shake, and fumble-fingered, I struggle with what should be a simple task, unfastening a simple buckle. But something presses against my touch, tightening the belt. As my fingers work, it jumps and twitches against me until, after long moments, the belt freed, Bjorn slides his trousers down and steps out of them.

I don't know where to look. I have seen my husband naked before. Of course I have. When he bathed in the pool. At times when he exited the bathhouse, dripping and steaming, to plunge into the sea. But it wasn't the same.

He releases air; a long, slow exhalation. “I really am your first, aren't I?”

Dumbly, I nod.

“I did wonder. You're so beautiful. I'd thought... Perhaps when you were still a slave, there might be something... something you wouldn't have wanted to speak of. Or someone, perhaps.”

“No, there was no-one. Only that day with the boar. And Hjalli didn’t… didn’t… There wasn’t time to…”

He breaks into my thoughts. “I'll be careful. Come, Gunhildr, lie with me.” He scoops me up, carries me to the bed and places me on the furs.

We lie, side by side. I'm still trembling, telling myself it's the coolth of the night air. But inside, I'm warm and growing warmer.

Bjorn strokes my face, his fingers slipping to my shoulder, my breast and something…

… something…

… which I am coming to recognise as desire, spears through my womanhood. My breath catches and he pulls me to himself, one hand around my waist, the other slipping to my loins, seeking my secret places.

He seems to like what he finds, his lips curving. “Lie back,” he whispers. “Open your legs. Don't be afraid. Your body is ready for me. I'll take care of you.”

I roll onto my back, and moving easily, supporting himself on his arms, he raises himself above me. Kneeling up between my parted thighs, his long red locks swinging over his shoulders, “You’re just as beautiful as I believed you would be.”

And so is he. Broad shoulders taper to a tight waist. Thighs, long and lean, hard-muscled, vee to meet his...

... his manhood.

My eyes are drawn. Throbbing upright, it nests in gold-red curls, twitching against his stomach.

Bjorn follows my gaze, mouth quirking. “It's for you, Gunhildr. Don't be frightened. Perhaps there will be a little pain, but it will be quickly over and then we will be able to enjoy each other as a man and wife should.” His head inclines. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He lays palms to the flat of my belly, sweeping up and over my breasts then, moving onto all fours over me, he covers me with his body.

Resting on his elbows, he takes his own weight, but he presses against me, positioning himself, his shaft against my sex.

He is so close; still supporting himself above me, but his chest rests against mine, his belly against mine, the heat of his body against mine…

But it is the heat from inside me that glows, curling up and out. I'm sweating. And there is the scent of something... It is unfamiliar, this strange perfume, but heady and intoxicating. And as Bjorn slowly pierces me, as he takes my maidenhead, something exquisite stabs through my core.

His gaze fixed on my face, he enters me easily, then withdraws and once more enters. I stiffen, waiting for the pain they say should come, but there is none. At length, deep inside me, he pauses. “Am I hurting you?”

I’m breathy. Something pulses inside my ears. “No. I'm fine. It's alright.”

He kisses my neck. “That's good.” Then he lowers himself fully to me, takes me in his arms, and slowly, carefully, he moves within me.

It is... extraordinary. This sensation of another inside me. Of being penetrated. Of being filled.

Bjorn’s heart hammers against his chest, shuddering into mine. Rocked by the double drumbeat of his heart and my own, and the long slow thrusting of his body into mine, I gasp and pant. My breathing grows harder, faster.

He murmurs, close by me. “Gunhildr?”

“It’s wonderful.”

He rumbles, somewhere deep inside. And now, my confidence growing, I want to move with him. Arching my spine, raising my hips, I contour myself, matching myself to him.

I think Bjorn senses it, reads me, because his hands slide to my hips, reeling me in, angling and raising me. And now, I understand, swinging my legs up to wrap around his waist. He kisses into the crook of my neck and shoulder once more, then moving more strongly, his strokes grow harder, longer; reaching the depths inside me.

My panting grows to moaning. My skin is slick against his, our bodies sliding then colliding together. My moans become cries, then wails. Inside me, something wants to burst free.

And with a howl, my flesh shatters around his, pulsing and pounding. The world goes dark and I’m lost in the ecstasy gifted to me by this man.

Somewhere, far off, Bjorn’s arms are tightening around me. In my rapture, I am only semi-aware that he is groaning, his hips jolting, his body shivering and bucking.

After a brief-eternal time, it passes and euphorically, I drift back. Bjorn still lies atop me, his lungs pounding like bellows. And, entirely content to simply lie in my blissful haze, I wait for him to return to me.

His breathing slows and he shifts above me, lifting himself. His hair is slick to his scalp. Sweat beads his forehead. His skin is flushed.

But his eyes are dark and soft. “Thank you, wife.”

“Thank you, husband.”

Chapter 10

RAIDER

Our ship, ‘Water Skimmer’; she is beautiful, graceful; but in the way of a wolf, or an eagle or a great cat; sleek and dangerous. I have seen her before of course, many times. Indeed, she brought me to this land. But it is different now. I am no longer an observer. A victim. A prisoner. This time, I join the crew to raid.

Shieldmaiden…

Water Skimmer lies close by the shore of the inlet, bobbing on the sea where the sun casts nets of light to the pebbled bottom. The waves sparkle and dance around her, full of the promise of what lies ahead. Her lines are clean and contoured; smooth curves from bow to stern which kiss the waters. She rocks a little as the men board, a score of them, or perhaps a few more. The sails, not hoisted yet, are brilliant in red and white, new since the last season, the weave tight, and the leather reinforcements supple and well-oiled. At the prow, dragon eyes scan the route before us; glittering gold and blood-red and sea-green.

I board her with Bjorn. The voyage is to be led by Úlfar, helmed by Magni. The stores are already loaded; water butts, dried meat and fish, hard travel-bread; all stowed to the rear.

Hjalli is here too, a part of the crew. I could have wished him elsewhere. Not that he can touch me now, but his glowering ill-will is uncomfortable. He scowls as he notices my arrival, then turns away.

I don’t care. I am in a dream, living a dream. Bjorn is ahead of me, taking his seat on the fifth row of oars. Carry-sack slung over my shoulders, I am dressed too warmly for this land. But mindful of our destination, I carry an extra fur in a roll on my back and have a thick cloak to double as my blanket for sleep. Stepping aboard, I hover, wondering where I should sit. Is there some order of rank to the seats? Some place I am expected to be? Or not to be?

Bjorn solves my problem, nodding to the space next to him. “Take the oar by me.” Hjalli glares.

Bjorn stares him down. “Problem?”

“No.” But his expression is black.

I take my seat, flexing my shoulders experimentally. I’ve not done too much rowing and I’ll be expected to pull my weight, all too literally.

If you want to have the status of a man…

And with everyone aboard…

Úlfar is calling orders. The sail is raised then, “Take oars!”

Our jarl standing at the prow, Magni on the steering oar, with cheering and shouting from the shore, we pull. And gradually, gracefully, Water Skimmer glides out and into the fjord.

At first, it’s hard going, with only the oars driving the ship. But a few hundred yards out, the breeze catches, filling our striped sail and suddenly, Water Skimmer remembers her name and we surge forward. The air is clean and fresh, and I fill my lungs. Setting oars aside, after only minutes it seems, we leave the mouth of the inlet, heading for the open sea. And there, towards an endless horizon, in our beautiful ship, we race the waves, flying like the dragon at our prow.

The last I travelled in such a ship, I was a child. A captive. A slave. Terrified and wondering what had befallen me and more, what was yet to come? Could any reality have been worse than my imaginings?

But now, I am one of the Lords of the Sea. Foam splashes at the prow as we scud the surface, out-pacing the gulls which squeal and wheel overhead.

One dives, plunging like a spear into the water, to emerge splashing. Quicksilver wriggles and flashes at its beak before, with a jerk and a gulp, it vanishes.

And Bjorn sits beside me, his hair rippling copper in the breeze, his teeth flashing white. “Happy?”

“Yes. Oh… Yes.”

* * *

The sea roils, an angry grey-green. The men mutter, pointing to the horizon where clouds loom, darkening by the moment. As we watch, the tallest boils upwards, reaching high then spreading, forming an anvil.

Bjorn stands by me, feet astride, arms folded. “Thor is ready to throw his hammer.”

In that instant, the clouds flash from grey to startling bright then dark again, blacker by the moment. The swell rises, but true to her name, our ship rides the waves like one of the pond skimmers one sees on puddles and pools in Summer.

Bjorn tosses me a coil of rope, his voice rising over the sound of the sea. “Hold on tight. Lash yourself to the ship.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then you’re a fool,” he snarls. Then he blinks an apology. “You won’t be the only one doing it. When the storm hits, if you wash out of the boat, you’re lost.” Gripping the side of the ship with one hand, he palms my cheek with the other. “You must take care.”

Emphasising his words, he loops cord around the mast and then around me. “Stay with the ship if at all possible. In the ship, you can ride the storm. But if the sea takes you...” He shakes his head. “Only if the ship goes down do you leave it.”

“And then?”

“And then, you are in the care of the gods.” As he coils rope around me, his eyes settle on mine. “Have a prayer for Thor and another for Aegir.”

The sail is lowered, rolled tight, and the sea rises by the moment, our ship rolling ever more, ever higher. After two weeks aboard, I thought I had my sea legs, but as the anger of the ocean grows, my feet stumble and slide.

The water surges under us and our ship, which I thought so fine and strong, seems ever more fragile; a shell to be tossed and broken on some whim. Strong men are thrown across the deck. Eilif hits the timbers with a cry as his arm twists under him. Broken? I’m not sure, but after that, he seems unable to hold on and Magni lashes him to the mast by me. I barely know him, but find myself admiring his fortitude as, despite his obvious pain, he displays no fear.

If you’re going to die, then die well…

Although it is, so far as I can reckon, only mid-day, it could be night-time. The storm carries us where it wills and all we can do is hold on to the uncertain safety of our craft.

Will I see tomorrow?

* * *

The sea’s rage passes. Or at the least, we have passed through the storm. I’m not sure which. The wind drops, the waters calm and the clouds break. Long fingers of sunlight slant down and as the clouds dispel altogether, the air grows hot and still.

The waters become glassy and now, with no breath of a breeze, we row, and hard. Above us, the sky is a pure vault of blue, broken only by the outstretched wings of some great bird, wheeling ever higher.

Úlfar releases a raven and all eyes follow it as it rises, circles then, flapping strongly, makes across the ocean. He bellows, “Oars!” Then, to Magni, he jerks his head after the bird. Our helmsman is already steering us after it.

* * *

A grey smear on the horizon; nothing my inexperienced eye can make out as anything but a bank of cloud. It is no more than dark smudge on the horizon.

“Is it land?” I ask.

Bjorn shades his eyes against glaring sun. “If it isn’t land, then it’s the cloud that sits over land.”

My shoulders burn from rowing, and the blisters on my hands have long since become a torment my mind dismisses. Everyone on board holds an oar, including Úlfar. Even Magni takes his turn away from the helm, surrendering the steering oar to one after another, only keeping an eye on our path as he pulls with the rest of us.

But as the sun climbs and we draw closer, the dark smudge becomes a green blur. The green blur resolves into detail; the curve of hills, the delve of valley and ravine, the gold of the shores.

Gulls wheel and scream. The raven has not returned and there, rising from land to sky, smooth grey columns of smoke.

Everyone is laughing and boasting: of how many they will kill, of how much gold they will take, of how easy it will be.

A soft land of soft people.

And I will be wealthy and free.

Chapter 11

ATTACK

We land on a shore edged with pebbles, then with golden sand running up to green turf and gentle hills.

My neck prickles. It feels eerie…

Familiar…

Not this place exactly. This isn’t my childhood home, I’m sure. But the shape of the place stirs something in me; the form of the land, the colour of the sand and earth, the scent of the air. A part of me delves into my memories, reaching for that familiarity. Another part shies away, not wanting to feel the connection.

Beyond the spit of land where we have beached the ship, behind the line of the ridge, smoke rises, spiralling lazily into the blue.

Our brightly conspicuous sail is covered and the ship itself moved behind a rocky outcrop, out of sight of any casual observer. Bjorn stands looking over the ground, arms and legs akimbo, his expression assessing.

I stand beside him, trying to see through his more experienced eyes. “Is that where we're going?”

“Yes, but not yet.”

“No?”

“No. They've not seen us. At least, I don’t think so.” He nods to our jarl, deep in discussion with Magni. “It’s up to Úlfar of course, but I’m guessing we’ll scout, then attack after dark.”

And he’s right. After a short time, Úlfar calls him across along with others of the veterans. Obviously issuing his instructions, he waves out over the landscape, pointing here and there along the shoreline; and at copses, delves and rocky outcrops that might make good cover. Deep in discussion, heads bowed, arms crossed; they talk, whilst I and the others on their first raid, await our orders.

Úlfar sends out three small groups to scout, circling around in different directions. I join the group led by Bjorn, moving along the shore by perhaps a mile, then uphill from one patch of cover to another.

“Stay close,” he mutters.

At the crest of the hill, we pause. Lying flat to the ground, screened by scrubby gorse, we watch. The gorse, strongly scented in the warm sunshine, is heady, the air fresh and exhilarating, and my heart pumps. I don’t mean to, but I find myself grinning. And as I look around, most of the rest are too.

There below us is a settlement of perhaps two hundred people; maybe more. Thatched huts and sheds are set into a square, centred around another, much larger building.

People go about obvious daily tasks. Chickens scratch in the dirt, carefully avoiding a dozen or so geese and a couple of mangy dogs. Women gut and split fish then skewer them to racks to dry in the sun. Toddlers play on the ground beside them. A few men work on a new building, a barn perhaps, half-constructed. From one hut comes the ring of hammer on anvil. Outside, a horse, stocky but heavily built, moves uneasily, shifting its hooves.

And from the village, a well-worn track leads to the peak of the next hill, and a small stone building.

The church?

I dredge my memories. What do I remember of churches? Priests. A golden cross. Shiny silver plates, bowls and goblets. Candlesticks…

Beautiful things. Valuable things. Treasures that will make me and my companions wealthy. Whatever we take, I will have my share from it.

Where are the rest of the fighting men?

As the sun westers, we see them, returning with game; several dozen men carrying short spears or bow and arrows. Some have hounds on leashes, pulling ahead, eager to be home. Some laugh and joke, carrying game birds and hares tied in pairs at the feet, dangling limp. One pair carry a deer between them, swinging upside-down from a pole between the shoulders. Another pair tow along a kind of sled loaded with the carcass of a wild boar.

“It seems there is fine hunting here,” mutters Bjorn.

“Isn’t that good?” I ask. “They’ll be distracted while they eat, and then they’ll sleep well.”

He grins and flashes brows at me.

Wriggling backwards on our bellies, we edge back down the ridge then take our circuitous route back to rejoin the boat. Bjorn and the other group leaders report to Úlfar.

When he returns to us, “When do we attack?” I ask.

“We’ll set out early while we have the moon. We launch the attack just before dawn.”

As the sun sinks behind the hill, the moon rises, huge and reddish, setting a bloody trail rippling over the sea. And as darkness falls, it soars, brightening to silver on black against the myriad stars, following its nightly path.

Each man at his oar, the night is almost a dead calm and the splashing as we row seems loud. Hugging the shore, we make our way around the headland, Water Skimmer casting long shadows towards the pebbled beach before, dropping the anchor, we slip silently over the side.

Wading through moonlit glitter which splashes and whispers around the ankles, we make our way onto the shore then, following Úlfar, up the slope towards our target.

The going is easy: sheep-clipped turf, springy and silent under my feet. Like wraiths, we creep to the village, with its tiny stone-built church and its huddle of huts and sties; a score of men…

… and one shieldmaiden…

… to assault a village of at least two hundred.

Perhaps one in three of them are women. Another one in three will be children. Of the remainder, some will be too old to fight. Perhaps fifty will be men of fighting age.

In any case, these are not warriors we face, just peasants. And of course, we have surprise on our side.

You were one of them once…

I dismiss the thought.

Úlfar draws us close, divides our party into three. “My group will move in from the rear by those pig-sties. Magni, you go to the landward side. Circle round. Bjorn, take your men around by that church.”

Bjorn tugs my sleeve. “Gunhildr, you're with me.”

Hjalli glowers, “Why do you take her with you?”

Bjorn stares him down. “Any man on his first raid accompanies an experienced warrior. She's no different. And I'm not sending her with you.”

As we reach our destination, the sun has not risen. But the cold, pale light of pre-dawn ghosts over the horizon casting grey light over the sea. A blackbird calls its melodious greeting from high on some tree, but otherwise, all is silent.

Our group spreads out, men positioning themselves behind walls, granaries and huts; all watching. Bjorn nudges my elbow. “Stay close.”

I nod. Against all my expectations, I'm nervous. My gut clenches and cold sweat trickles down my spine.

Bjorn eyes me sidelong. “Don't worry about it. We all feel the same way the first time.”

Abashed, my face flames. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Because I had a first time too. Training is one thing. Sparring with friends is another. A real battle is yet another. Now, I repeat, stay close.”

A door opens and a long slit of light glimmers out as a man exits, stands against a wall fiddling with the ties at his belt then, with a small sigh, relieves himself.

As he makes water, Bjorn tiptoes up close from behind. What light there is glints on the edge of his knife as he claps a hand over the man’s mouth then draws the blade across his throat. He holds the position for a moment or more as the Saxon struggles and gasps then falls limp.

Bjorn lowers the body into the deeper shade of the wall. “Come on.”

But before we move, the door opens again, and we drop back into the shadow. This time, two exit, heading side-by-side for the same wall, again with that odd urgency that suggests nature is calling.

Speaking together in a language both familiar and strange to me, they seem entirely relaxed, noticing nothing. Bjorn is already moving in, his knife at the ready. But as they settle into their task, one sidesteps, tripping over the body at his feet.

He curses, then after a short stark silence, snaps something to his companion, the tone urgent. The voices rise, shrill with alarm, but already, Bjorn is on one, and right by his side, I move to take the other.

He's taller than I am, bulkier; but he's looking to his friend, to Bjorn and he doesn't see me as I close in behind him.

My blade slices over and through his flesh so easily; across the pulsing vein at his throat, cutting off his panicked cry, turning it to a grunt and then a gargle. Blood spurts over my hand and blade, black in the darkness. It smells metallic, like the scent of rust. Except that rust is a cold smell. This is visceral and hot.

Nothing has ever grated so loud as his death-rattle as he drops before me, clutching at the gaping flesh of his neck. The sound echoes inside my head. And in the growing light of the dawn, I see his eyes, the white showing all round, panic and fear and pain dancing there as he claws at himself, as though to prevent his life spurting free.

Something slaps into my shoulder. Bjorn’s hand. “Good work. Your first blood. Come on.”

And with his words comes shouting. Then abruptly, a scream slices through the silence; a female scream, from somewhere on the far side of the settlement, cut short.

The door in front of us opens, then to a woman’s wide-eyed terror, slams closed again. But Bjorn kicks it back on itself, his sword drawn, and I follow.

The woman, screaming, backs into a corner, clutching a young girl to herself. A man charges forward, sword in hand. But it is clear he is no warrior. He leaves himself open and falls to Bjorn at the first swing of his sword.

A bell clangs; an unmusical sound and Bjorn and I tumble back outside into the golden-grey light. Men are spilling from doors on all sides. Arms raised, fear raw on their faces, some are armed with swords or axes. But many wield scythes or forks; whatever they have to hand. Good enough for the hay-making and deadly enough in their way, but no match for properly armed, trained warriors.

One rushes at me, his weapon upraised; a spade.

The world around me… somehow… is moving slowly and I react easily, calmly. The griping in my stomach has faded. I am calm and measured.

The peasant leaves his neck exposed. And my blade swings, bringing him down.

Another rushes me, this one with a real sword. But he moves clumsily, like some child holding a weapon for the first time. Easily, I parry his strike, then thrust, and he falls.

The church bell is ringing like some mad thing. Everywhere, Saxons are running, screaming, fleeing. More men emerge from the huts, some with weapons in hand, others without. Most are cut down as they appear.

Flames rise, crackling from thatched roofs. In their weird, otherworldly light, I see Hjalli lighting pitch-coated arrows, launching them into neighbouring buildings. Within seconds, women and girls, carrying small children, emerge shrieking. One is already burning. Acrid smoke and the scent of roasting pork fills the air.

A man, a head taller than myself, approaches me, warily this time. He shows some skill; is quick and agile, slashing one way whilst dodging the other, and I stagger back. But he follows through, thinking he has me, leaving his side undefended and my sword slides in and up, slashing through skin and gut, and his insides tumble out in a hot, wet slippery gush, I see first the terror, and then the disbelief, in his face as he clutches at his torso, trying to hold himself together, before he falls to the ground and the light leaves his eyes.

I whirl, seeking my next opponent…

… but time has resumed its normal course.

All around, the ground is dotted with slain Saxons. It looks to me that most of the men of the village lie dead, certainly all the fighters and the very young. The old women too.

Already, my people are emerging from the small church bearing casks and goblets and golden things. Others are working their way through the living, choosing those who might make good slaves. The younger women and girls sit; weeping, chained and collared; along with a few of the younger men, boys really, who look healthy but have had the fight beaten out of them…

Cowards…

… fit for nothing but slaves…

Erling fetters them at the wrists, hobbles them at the ankles. Running a chain through, he shackles them together, then calls in some of our people to help him march the new slaves to Water Skimmer.

How much are they worth?

How much will I see from this?

Hjalli shouts out, “Make sure we have them all. Don't let any carry word to the next village.”

A man I take to be the priest sits hunched and bound. He’s wounded, blood seeping through his robe, a red trickle glistening over the rope he uses for a belt. But his eye stalks me.

As I pass, he spits; a gobbet that lands by my feet. “You are not one of them. You are of our people. I see it in your face.”

His speech is strange. It is so long since I heard such words and I struggle to take the sense of them. But still, as my ear attunes, meaning coalesces from the stream of sound.

He’s still speaking, his face contorted with the effort. “How long is it since you betrayed your own folk?” He clutches at his gut, gasping. “Traitor.” His face twists. “You will answer for your crimes.”

I stoop, meeting him eye-to-eye, hissing my words. “Coward! Priest to a god of slaves. Your god sacrificed himself. So did mine. But Odin gave his eye for knowledge. What did yours gain by it?”

Hjalli is watching. He strides over, picks the priest up by the scruff and brings his fist across his face, snarling something guttural at him. Another punch and he knocks the man back to the ground, where he lands heavily, gasping.

Startled at Hjalli’s reaction, I stare at him; the very last man I would have expected to support me.

He snarls, “We do not accept insults from them. You are one of us, are you not?”

I blink. “Of course I am.”

Unsettled, I move away, unsure of what to do. My people are running riot, ransacking anything of value or which takes their fancy.

Abruptly, fatigue blooms. I want to sit, to go somewhere quiet. To let the bloodlust drain away. I find myself wishing for my river and its little fishes.

Aimlessly I wander through the village, through the chaos of pillage. And I find myself by the church.

The door is thrown wide. Blood splashes over the stonework of the floor, pooling at the base. As I step inside, I find the source: another priest, lying arms outspread, his eyes wide as he goes to greet his god.

The place is dim and dreary. From my childhood, I have vague recollections of a church as being a lovely place, built to face the sun, light spilling in over the altar to sparkle on silver and gold.

But there is no silver and gold here now. A cloth, which perhaps draped the altar before, lies crumpled red on the flags.

My mind grey, I wander out.

Looking down the hill, I see my people making their way to the ships, laughing and celebrating, bragging of their deeds, carrying away boxes and chests, perhaps containing the treasure of the church. The slaves, chained, weeping and stumbling, follow under threat of the lash.

Yes, they will bring a good price at home.

And a share of this wealth is mine.

I am rich.

I am free.

I should be happy. Rejoicing even.

But instead…

… I have no words.

On an impulse, I wander around the back of the church, without purpose, and somehow, lost.

And she’s there; the woman who was in the first hut when Bjorn kicked in the door. She still holds the child she was protecting, pulling her tight against her skirts. Now, in the clear morning light, I see her properly.

Barely a woman…

And the child… She is perhaps the age I was when I was taken. Perhaps younger,

How old was I?

I can’t remember.

I still have my sword in my hand, the blade stained red. This girl has no chance against me. She cannot possibly defend herself. Her face sheened white, she blinks her terror, but chin lifted, she stares me down.

I look back over my shoulder. The battle is over. The slaughter done.

I gesture her to the shelter of the forest edge. Go… But I do it silently, speaking no words.

She doesn't move; only frowning.

I gesture more urgently, glancing back. Go!

Then, I find the words. Dredged from somewhere deep in my memory; from a place I no longer knew existed… “Go. Now.”

Her eyes widen and she bolts. Like a deer fleeing the hounds, she scoops up the child and pelts to the forest edge, vanishing into the trees.

I stand and stare after her, trapped by the knowledge that in a single day I have betrayed both peoples I might have called my own.

* * *

I slice meat from the roast spitted over the fire, heaping two platters, then take it to Bjorn. “What happens next?”

My husband sits on the edge of the circle around the fire, bathing in its heat. “We sail along the coast to the next village.” He waves an arm over the area. “No-one escaped. So, they won’t know we’re here and we can take the next settlement by surprise too.”

He nods across to one of the slaves, where he sits hunched on the turf; chained, pale, his eyes shadowed. “That one was a trader. He has some of our language. He says the next village is much larger. Their church building too, and their treasures are much more costly. It will make a fine prize.”

Bjorn keeps talking, animated and enthusiastic, then twists to talk with Magni who is slapping him on the shoulders, congratulating him on the success of our first day.

But I’m barely listening…

No-one escaped. So, they won’t know we’re here…

They’ll have been warned.

Should I say something? To Bjorn at least?

But coward that I am, I hold my silence.

Chapter 12

BATTLE

I take my turn rowing. It is no effort now. I am rested again. My muscles are hard and my oar pulls in a smooth rhythm, sliding through the water then kissing the surface as our ship flies the waves.

The weather is still fair and bright, but now, what was the sparkle of sunshine on water has become a dazzle to my eyes. My head aches.

“Gunhildr, is something wrong?” Bjorn regards me, brow creased. “You look more as though your favourite hound had died than that you have just become a seasoned warrior and a rich woman.”

“Just a headache.”

He sucks in his cheeks. “Too much ale, eh? Celebrate more carefully next time.”

I nod and look away, only to see that Hjalli too is watching me. His eyes narrow, then he turns away.

We approach a long finger of land, similar to our first landing point, draped in greenery; again smoothly turfed and rising to scrub-covered hilltops. Bjorn raises an arm, pointing. “I saw a reflection. Sunlight on metal. Someone’s watching.”

Úlfar draws air. “They’ll likely be ready for us this time then.” He sniffs, scratching his nose. “No matter.”

As we round the peninsula, we see them, waiting for us on the shore, ranked three-deep in battle order. Two-score men facing our one, shields loose and low just now. A tall warrior on horseback is with them, standing behind the lined men.

Warned…

Waiting…

But no eyes look my way. No one accuses me.

“How did they know?” Hjalli snarls. “There were scouts. They were waiting for us.”

Bjorn shrugs. “It happens. Perhaps they saw the smoke from the village. Burning thatch raises a cloud. Maybe it was a shepherd or a fisherman. It makes no odds.”

A pair of ravens wheel above us as we draw closer; the messengers of Odin, their deep-throated croaks a promise of what is to come. Bjorn flings a hand upwards. “You see. The gods are with us. They are watching. We must give them a fine battle. Give them the blood that is their due.”

Grim-faced, well-armed, the warriors face us. These are fighting men, their mounted leader a noble. In bright mail, his helmet catches the sun.

They wait on the edge of the waters; the most defensible position for them, the most vulnerable for us. As we draw closer, their leader shouts some command, and abruptly, every man raises a bow. The air fills with arrows, raining down on our ship.

Close by me, Fafner falls, blood spurting as an arrow pieces his neck. I barely knew him. He was just a friendly face. But I didn’t want to see this happen.

From along the length of our ship, screams carry over the water.

Úlfar’s voice rings out. “Shield wall!”

But his order is unneeded. Already our men are raising their shields against the deadly rain. A second wave of arrows falls, but this time only rattles against timber and iron, bouncing harmlessly into the water or clattering onto the deck.

The keel scrapes and timbers shudder. As one, my companions leap into the shallows and I am with them, lifting and locking my shield with theirs. Swords at the ready, wading through chill waters, we advance as one.

Arrows cascade in from above, but now no-one is injured. As we are all but upon them, the sea kissing at our calves, Úlfar shouts the command. “Charge!”

The impact is brutal, knocking the air from my lungs, and for a brief moment, I’m gasping. But then, the world slows around me and once more, I do not hold my sword. I am my sword.

The ground under me is uncertain. Rounded pebbles the size of my fist shift and slip, but as we push forward, our opponents retreating under our onslaught, we reach sand, then grass.

Somewhere inside my head, the blood pounds. My sight darkens at the edges and my opponent is, somehow, very close. Everything else around me echoes from some distant place. The ring of metal. The clang of shields. The screams of the fallen.

My blade and I are one. The man before me drops at my feet, shrinking to my eye. Another draws closer, looming large, his mouth gaping wide in a battle howl…

He falls too, splashing red over the grass.

It feels better this, cleaner somehow, to fight warriors. Another soldier tries for me, his lips curling as he sees my sex, careless as he advances. He twines his sword with mine and finds it sliding to one side. The light is already dying in his eyes as he scrabbles at his belly, then as I withdraw my blade, at the lifeblood spouting through his fingers.

And I move on to face my next opponent.

The battle is short. And we are triumphant. For all that these were fighting men, they couldn't match us.

“Gunhildr! Here.” Úlfar calls me across to where he stands over one of their fallen; a young man, almost a boy. “These are fine weapons and his mail would be a fit for you. You should claim them.”

“Thank you, jarl. I shall.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “You fought well, shieldmaiden. Take your dues.”

Bjorn beams at me. “You see, wife? Being wedded does not prevent you having fame and glory in your own right.”

But close by, Hjalli scowls.

Chapter 13

TRAITOR

The riches we take are even greater than from the first village and with the new slaves our ship is at capacity. Some of them are already earning their keep making bread so we can break our fast. Slaughtered sheep and pigs roast over fires set up by the shore and a steady trickle of our new riches makes its way to Water Skimmer as our men locate hiding places and caches.

At one point, a great shout arises from inside the church. It seems that a hidden store of gold and silver coin has been found under the altar.

The men begin to speak of returning home. We have already done well. Why take more risks? Úlfar and Magni consider this. As one of the most junior members of our party, I hold my peace.

I should be happy.

Everything I ever dreamed of has come to pass. What more could I ask for?

What is wrong with me?

We sit around one of the great hearths, the men lounging and laughing. One of the new slaves serves Bjorn with bread and ale. Breaking the still steaming loaf in two, he passes half to me, then raises his horn in a toast. “You’re a real warrior now.”

I smile and return the toast, but as Bjorn watches me, his head inclines and his smile fades. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

He shoots out a hand, grasping mine, but he speaks quietly. “Don’t dwell on it. It takes all of us that way sometimes. Especially at first.”

I nod but, to Bjorn’s frown, pull my hand away. Out-of-sorts, I wander.

Why do I feel like this?

My mind is cluttered, my breathing tight. The scent of roasting meat makes me a little nauseous, so I head for the shore, searching for a clean breeze. Standing by the ship, I stare out over the sea.

Under blue sky, the choppy surface breaks between deep green and turquoise, deepening to cobalt at the horizon. Foam flecks the waves; a million bubbles dancing and breaking, and the rush of the surf as it rolls in, the sigh as it retreats, is calming. It is not my river, but it is a good substitute.

Filling my lungs, I breathe deeply. And again.

Someone is speaking.

At first, I don’t recognise it as speech, taking it for the babble of the waters. Then I discern that it is words I’m hearing.

From the ship beside me, it's her, the girl I released, with the child. Her eyes widen as I turn to her and she flings out her arms, jabbering away at me, her tone pleading.

The words blur and flicker, then coalesce to sense. “Please. Help us. You are one of us. Why are you with these people?”

Pebbles crunch behind me. It’s Hjalli.

He moves close, listening keenly. “What's she saying? Why is she talking to you?”

What do I say?

“She's asking me to help her.”

He stands, arms folded, legs akimbo. “But why is she talking to you?”

I shrug. “Perhaps because I am a woman.”

“No.” He bristles. “She's behaving as though she knows you. Does she?”

And now Bjorn is here too. His voice is mild. “Do you know her, Gunhildr? Perhaps from when you were a child?”

The words congeal in my mouth.

But Hjalli isn’t just curious. Suspicion shimmers over his face. “She's not just asking for help.” He jabs a finger at the girl, and she cringes back, holding her child close. “She said you'd helped her before… Didn’t she?”

Bjorn jolts, his lips parting, as though to protest, but Hjalli rolls on. “Was she at the first village? Did you let her escape? Let her betray us to them?”

How can I lie?

I have dishonoured myself. These people, who when they believed I shared their values, made me one of their own…

I have betrayed them.

“Yes, I let her escape,” I whisper. My words seem lost in the murmur of the waves, and yet they hear them anyway.

Hjalli lunges at me, is about to seize me, but Bjorn knocks him away. “I will speak with my wife alone.”

Hjalli snarls, striding away, towards Úlfar.

Bjorn speaks quickly. “We have moments only. Why did you do this? Why did you betray us? Are you not one of us?”

“I… I don’t know. It was an impulse. She was so afraid. The battle was over. I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

“You didn’t think at all!” he hisses.

“Gunhildr!” It is Úlfar. “Here. Now!”

Miserably, I make my way to my jarl.

“Is it true?” His tone wavers between rage and disbelief. “You released the Saxon? You betrayed us?”

I can’t look him in the eye. My view of the grass is no improvement. “Yes.” My throat is tight. “I let her go. But I didn’t intend betrayal. I…”

Hjalli spits at my feet. “She’s not one of us. Ever since she weaselled her way out of slave-hood, she’s been waiting for her chance. She betrayed us. They were warned. They knew we were coming.” Face contorted, he jabs a finger at me. “Fafner is dead because of her.”

Some of the men are muttering agreement. Others sound more doubtful.

Úlfar, his face a mask, looks down on me. “I must think on this. Bjorn, I place your wife in your care. You will see she does no more harm.”

I’ve disgraced my husband too…

Bjorn looks on me, hard-eyed. “Come, Gunhildr. You will tell me all.”

Chapter 14

AFTERMATH

In fact, I tell him nothing. Bjorn doesn’t speak to me. He simply marches me to a fallen log beyond the edge of the firelight and the assembled men, then we sit in a taut, hard silence.

When I try to speak to him, his glance is savage before he looks away.

He stands briefly and I make to rise with him, but he stabs down with a finger at the log. “Stay there. Don’t move. I will fetch us food.”

He returns with mutton and bread. My gorge rises at the smell of the meat, but he pushes it on me. “Some of the men didn’t want to allow you this, so eat it and be silent. You may not be permitted more.”

Later, he lies with his back turned to me. I don’t know if he sleeps. For many hours, I cannot. And for the first time in years, I let myself weep.

* * *

In the morning, I wake with air chilling my spine. When I roll over, the spot next to me is cold, and for a moment, blind panic rules me…

Has he abandoned me?

… before common sense reasserts itself. If Bjorn had set me aside, it is for sure I would not be lying peacefully sleeping. My status as his wife is surely all that kept me unmolested the evening before.

Shivering, I sit up, to see Bjorn some distance away with Úlfar and Magni, deep in discussion. His eyes briefly meet mine and he makes the most imperceptible of head shakes.

Remain silent…

But he doesn’t look angry anymore.

What’s happening?

The other men move around me, pointedly ignoring my presence as they pack up bedrolls and shelters, transport remaining food to the ship and roll water butts towards the shore.

Breaking camp?

What about me?

But Bjorn’s warning glance was enough. Despite my jitters, I obey my jarl and my husband and stay put.

At length, Bjorn gestures me across, and meekly, I obey.

Úlfar addresses me. “Gunhildr, your husband has spoken long and persuasively on your behalf, arguing that you meant no betrayal. He claims it was your youth and inexperience that led you to do what you did and perhaps some fellow feeling with the woman you released. Is that so?”

I glance up to Bjorn and he gives me another of his almost imperceptible signals. I nod vigorously. “Yes, Jarl.”

“Good. We can accept that your motive was not evil. Nonetheless…” Úlfar heaves air. “… you have committed a grave crime and one that is not easily forgotten by those who would fight around you. Warriors must know who they can depend on. You understand?”

I fight back the heat behind my eyes. “Yes.”

“I’m pleased you do. You will return with us on the ship, but from there, you are banished.”

Relief and confusion battle within me.

I’m not to be executed…

But they take me home, then banish me?

Úlfar’s face is stern. “You are in the custody of your husband. You will obey him implicitly on the voyage back. He will explain.” And with that, he turns his back to me and leaves.

Baffled, I turn to Bjorn. “I don’t understand.”

“You are my wife,” he says. “I could divorce you for this, but I always wanted you, and I still do. We return home with you as my prisoner. From there we leave, together.”

He still wants me?

He will stay with me?

My voice is small. “Where will we go?”

A touch of enthusiasm creeps into his voice. “There is talk of new lands; out over the ocean...” His arm sweeps out over the sea. “… Far away. So far that no-one will know us, and they won’t care what happened here. And there you would not be expected to fight your own people. Any we met would be strangers.”

Curious faces are turning our way, Hjalli’s among them. Bjorn scowls, hooking his hand through my elbow, walking me away from the others.

When we are out of earshot, Bjorn continues, “I have heard of a man, Leif Erikson. He proposes a voyage to the west.” He’s smiling now…

Smiling…

“… Far to the west. We will find him and join his expedition.”

As his voice rises, some of the men look our way, their expressions sour. Bjorn drops his tone again, then grips my arm. “We return home today. You will take your place by me on the oar and keep your head low for the voyage. Do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

* * *

On the journey home, I could be a ghost.

I am not a slave. They huddle in the back. But neither am I included. The only recognition I receive is from Bjorn, or from Hjalli, who sneers and grins when he catches my eye.

Despite fair weather and a successful voyage, the weeks of the return are lonely and grim. And when finally we sail up the inlet to moor at the place I think of as home, Bjorn hustles me indoors and out of sight.

He raises a forefinger. “Stay inside. Keep out of sight. I need to talk to some people.”

“Who?”

“Traders.”

He returns hours later. “Pack your belongings.”

“We’re leaving so soon?”

“Yes, tomorrow. You no longer have a home here.”

“Bjorn… I’m sorry. I never…”

He strides forward, grips me at the shoulders, his voice fierce. “I understand why you did what you did. Always I wanted you. Always. That hasn’t changed. Your place here has. You cannot stay. So, we cannot stay. Tomorrow, we leave.”

“Where are we going?”

“For now, a land to the west. Some call it Garðarshólmur. Others give it other names. Some say it is a land of ice. Others that it is green and fertile.”

“That sounds… confusing.”

“Yes, but what the stories agree on is, that is where we will find Leif Erikson, readying his expedition. You have forfeited your share of the profits on the raids. But I have used some of my share to buy us passage on a trading ship. Once we reach our destination, hopefully what remains will be enough to buy us a place on his venture.”

Abruptly his manner changes, his smile broad and bright. “Think of it, Gunhildr. The whole world to explore. We will both be free.”

* * *

Very early the following morning, the sun not yet topping the mountains, no-one stirs as we make our way to the jetty.

The trader waits by his ship. “I was wondering if you’d changed your mind. The tide’s turning. We need to be off. Get yourselves on board quickly.”

Bjorn hustles me aboard, the trader giving me a curious glance. “That’s her, is it? The gossip of the town?”

“This is my wife, yes. And I’m paying you to transport us, not talk about it.”

The trader shrugs. “Fair enough.” He waves us to the end of the boat. “Settle in. We’re casting off.”

We sit together, Bjorn with his arm around my waist. He tugs my cloak closed at the front. “Stay wrapped. It will still be cold for a while.” Then he kisses my forehead.

Slowly, smoothly, the ship glides from its mooring. The only sound is that of the splash of oars and the ripple of waves.

And as we make our way out into the fjord, above the mountains, the first kiss of the sun lights the dawn.

About Simone Leigh

Simone Leigh writer intelligent, sensual, erotic romance and thrillers.

English but living in rural Spain, when not writing, she spends her time with her rescue dogs and cats, renovating her Spanish finca and orange orchards, or swimming naked.

According to one recent internet troll, she is ‘Beyond Redemption’.

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READY FOR MORE PIRATE SHENANIGANS?

PIRATES, PASSION AND PLUNDER has a much saucier steam-level… read on if you dare!

What's a lady to do when she's boarded by ruthless brigands and barbarous buccaneers, kidnapped on the lawless High Seas?

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