SHE WAS STUNNED AND furious and exhausted but she still couldn’t help it: she opened one eye, and then the other, just so she could watch him go.
But then, it had always required a superhuman effort not to watch Lyon Redmond.
Now she saw a critical difference. When she’d met him that night in the ballroom, there had been a remote self-awareness about him. As though he balanced a burden no one could see, as though he was walking an invisible line drawn for him beyond which he could never go.
Now he walked as if he owned the earth and everyone on it and gave not one damn what anyone thought, including her.
She’d forgotten how relentless he could be. Absolutely merciless in the pursuit of a truth.
She hadn’t forgotten how easily he could surprise her into laughing.
And just like that, in came another tide of anger for all that he was now.
And all that she’d missed.
And all that he’d missed.
She turned toward the water reflexively and tensed in shock, her palms digging into the railing, her knuckles curled in a painful grip.
No land in sight.
Dear God, no land in sight.
Just endless, heaving, glassine, blue-green in every direction. A veil of silvery foam, like the train of a royal bride, trailed the ship. The air was briny and winy, every breath she took exotically delicious and wind-scoured, and it stung her cheeks and sent her hair lashing at them like a cat-o-nine tails.
The sails cracked and billowed as the wind swelled them, and pushed the ship ever more swiftly forward.
Damn.
Damn him anyway.
Because . . . it was glorious.
He’d remembered. He must have remembered. All of the things she’d said she’d wanted. To see the ocean. To sail on a ship.
She closed her eyes against a violent surge of emotion. Something soaring and brilliant was burning through her shock and fury and fatigue. A bit like a beautiful, half-remembered song heard through castle walls.
“Good morning, Miss Eversea.”
Her eyes snapped open.
Mademoiselle Lilette was leaning companionably against the rail of the ship.
“Oh, good morning, whoever the bloody hell you might actually be,” Olivia drawled.
“Oh, that does sting a bit,” Digby said with infuriating cheeriness. “Something tells me that’s the first time you’ve strung ‘bloody’ and ‘hell’ together, Miss Eversea, and it suits you right down to the ground. I’m actually Digby.” She curtsied. “Mrs. Delphinia Digby-Thorne.”
Digby’s accent was now English. But then again, perhaps she excelled at accents. She might be a native Portuguese, for all Olivia knew.
Olivia turned and eyed her balefully. “Where did you learn to speak French, you fraud?”
“Fraud?” Digby clapped a hand over her heart. “I’m wounded. I’m more in the way of a skillful actress, and no one accuses actresses of fraud when they practice their craft. And I learned to speak French rather like you did, I suppose. They do want young English ladies to learn such things, don’t they? That, and sewing, and the like. I suppose you can say that’s where our similarities diverge.”
This Digby was insufferably at ease and regarding Olivia as if she were an achievement of which she was particularly proud. And Olivia’s cheeks felt warm again at the thought of how much she’d confided in Digby.
“You are also a spy.”
“Well, yes,” Digby said, sounding mildly surprised at hearing the obvious pointed out.
“A good one.”
“Yes,” Digby agreed, modestly.
“Did you even ever lose a great love?”
“I’ve had plenty of loves, but none of them great until the man I married. I am recently wed to the captain’s first mate. Mr. Magnus Thorne. And I intend to keep him forever.”
Olivia snorted.
“How did you . . . How did he . . .” Olivia made a frustrated gesture in the direction of London, no longer visible.
“He learned Madame Marceau had the making of your trousseau, and he bribed her assistant to disappear and I serendipitously appeared when Madame Marceau’s need was most urgent. The previous girl was settling into enjoying her retirement in the country and can afford to marry well or not at all, whatever pleases her. And the captain coaxed her back again with another payment when she was needed. The captain can do that sort of thing, because he’s rich. Very, very rich,” she said with relish and awe. “I simply followed his directions and my own instincts, which ultimately made it possible to intercept you. It’s generally the right thing to do, following his instructions, that is.”
Olivia stared at the woman, who was small and dark and round and lush in a way that would appeal to nearly any man. She had merry and too-knowing dark eyes. As Mademoiselle Lilette, she had clearly powdered her skin, for now a few golden freckles were apparent, and her hair had been clearly scraped and flattened into submission in order to play the role of modiste, as it was apparent now that it was riotously curly.
“‘Intercept,’” Olivia quoted sardonically. “Is that how one refers to kidnapping and deception these days?”
“Nevertheless, it’s an accurate word, one must admit.”
“And how did you come to know . . . the captain . . . Digby?”
So strange to refer to him that way. The captain. Her brothers had returned from the war wearing new mantles of calm and authority, an air of abstraction that sometimes settled over them when they were silent. They had seen things, and done things, of which they would never speak, and it was this that separated them from their sisters, and somehow bound them closer to each other. It was the lot of men, it seemed, to see and do a lot of things of which they could never speak.
And yet Lyon’s air of authority was something else altogether.
As if he made his own laws.
She wondered if anything could hurt him now.
“Well, his reputation rather preceded him,” Digby said, “and I greatly admired it. I needed a job. I convinced him I would be a useful employee. And so I have been,” she said with great relish. “For he wanted you here, and here you are.”
Olivia stared at the woman, a thousand competing questions clamoring to be asked. “What do you mean, ‘his reputation’ . . . ?”
“As ship captain, exceptionally successful and wealthy merchant . . . and revolutionary, of a sort. Though the last bit isn’t as commonly known.”
Merchant?
Revolutionary?
Lyon Redmond?
Was she dreaming?
“You left out possibly a madman, Miss Digby,” she said shortly.
Digby tipped her head. “Have a care, Miss Eversea. I suppose he’s many things, but mad isn’t one of them. There is method in all he does. I won’t hear a disparaging word. I would do anything for him.”
Olivia fixed the other woman with a stare. “And have you?” she said softly.
Digby blinked in shock.
And then gratifyingly, the insufferably confident woman flushed.
“Firstly, Miss Eversea do you really want to know what I think you’re insinuating? And secondly, do you believe you have the right to the answer?”
Digby’s self-possession was both enraging and amusing, in large part because it was like looking in a mirror. And as much as Olivia would have loved to engage in a good fight right now, her sense of justice was muscular.
“Excellent points, Digby. No, and no.”
Digby’s eyes flared briefly in surprise. Then she, too, nodded shortly. “If you need any assistance, I’m at your disposal, Miss Eversea. I’ll show you back to your quarters, if you’ll follow me.”
“Wait . . . where is this ship going?”
“Spain,” Digby said shortly. “It’s but a day or so across the Bay of Biscay.”
Spain. Of course.
She wondered what she would find there.
And suddenly she was certain she knew. And a tiny, rogue, inappropriate filament of joy snaked through her.
“And Digby . . . what did you mean by ‘revolutionary’?”
Digby paused, considering.
“Miss Eversea . . . You’re aware your name is on the ship.”
Olivia’s mind blanked in astonishment. “It’s on . . .”
“The ship is called The Olivia.”
Olivia was speechless.
Digby must have seen something in her expression for her own softened.
“Men do have their romantic fancies, Miss Eversea. If he says you’re worth his time, then I’ll believe him, and reserve judgment. I’ve come to like you, but my opinion matters not. And I’ll leave it to him to tell you what he’s been doing since you last saw him.”
“Very well,” Olivia said softly.
“I will tell you this, Miss Eversea. The captain never did want anything more from me than my loyalty, more’s the pity, and that’s the honest truth. Though what woman wouldn’t be willing to give him anything he wants? He’s a remarkable man. Now come with me. You’ll want sleep.”
HER TRUNK HAD magically appeared in the cabin while she was on deck.
She snorted at that. He’d been confident he’d be able to get her onto the ship, that much was clear.
But then, he did know her.
Tempering her anger at the elaborate deception was the reminder that the only reason it had been at all successful was because he did, indeed, know her. Better than anyone ever had.
And it merely emphasized how truly lonely she’d been since he’d gone, even surrounded by friends and loved ones.
And the bastard had managed to glean a bit about how she felt about him, too.
She almost smiled at that.
Had he been lonely, too?
Olivia was certain she wouldn’t sleep at all.
But what seemed like moments later, she woke with a start, with the sense that a good amount of time had passed. When she saw Lyon simmering in a pot across from her on the wall, she remembered where she was.
She rolled over and peered down.
A chamber pot was thoughtfully situated next to her bed, and a message was folded and propped like a little tent next to it.
She leaned over and read it.
In case you must puke.
It was tidy, even, ladylike printing, nothing like Lyon’s. Digby must have been in.
Thoughtful of her.
She rose tentatively then took a few steps on the gently heaving floor of the ship. She didn’t seem to be afflicted with seasickness, thankfully. She took a few more steps, and she still felt quite steady.
There wasn’t a mirror, so she felt about the back of her head and smoothed her hair as best she could, patted her dress, and then opened the door a few inches.
She leaped back with a gasp as an enormous man glittering with metal—in his ears, at his hip, and, alarmingly, in the hook where his hand ought to be—turned to her.
“Ah, ye’re awake now, are ye, miss? Stay here. Ain’t safe on the deck. I’ll get the captain. Lock yer door.”
He shut the door emphatically.
If a man like that said it wasn’t safe on the deck, she would take his word for it.
What kind of world did Lyon live in now?
She locked the door.
A few minutes later she heard footsteps outside, and then several smart raps on the door.
“Olivia, may I come in?” Lyon’s voice.
And her heart, the traitor, gave a leap at the very sound of it.
She slid the bolts and pulled open the door.
He filled the doorway Large, hard, and shockingly beautiful, particularly since he was wearing what amounted to evening clothes.
Apart, that was, from the sword.
Most of the men she knew didn’t wear swords to dinner.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“It’s nearly dinnertime. Accordingly—” He raised a bottle of wine in one hand and a sack in the other, which she suspected contained some kind of food. “We’ll reach harbor by late afternoon, perhaps closer to sunset, tomorrow.”
He withdrew a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a knife, a plate, and two glasses, all of which he arranged without ceremony on the little desk.
She sat on the foot of the bed, hands folded primly, while he settled in at the desk.
She watched him slice away at the bread and cheese and arrange them somewhat artfully on the plate.
“Why is your ship called The Olivia?”
“I had to name it something, and The Mrs. Sneath hadn’t quite the same ring.”
She laughed.
Before she remembered how angry she was with him.
His head turned toward her quickly, and his expression was almost hungry.
But then her smile faded, and silence settled in again.
He placed the bottle of wine in the center of the little desk and extracted the cork with alacrity, then glugged a bit into two glasses.
He handed one to her.
He lifted his. “À votre santé, Olivia.”
She took a sip. A shockingly excellent wine that launched her eyebrows.
“Spanish,” he said shortly. “I export it.”
A fascinating sentence to be sure, and it inspired a thousand more questions.
“How did you come to have a ship?”
“I bought it.”
She stared at him. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”
“Like what?”
“Curt, petulant answers that tell me nothing, really.”
“Petulant?” The word seemed to amuse him.
“It’s precisely the right word. You can do better.”
He inhaled, then exhaled gustily. “Very well. I bought it with money I earned by working on this very ship. Supplemented by money I won from men foolish enough to play five-card loo with me. I worked, gambled, and invested.”
He leaned back to study the effect those words had on her. His arms were crossed before him. There were faint lines about his eyes.
How had he gotten those lines?
Five years without him. He’d gotten older, bought a ship, exported wine. And now he had lines about his eyes.
And she had seen none of it.
The muscles of her stomach tightened with something like panic, for all that she’d missed. All that he’d done without her.
The panic subsided and became that unspecific, simmering anger again.
“But what made you . . . want to buy a ship?”
“From Pennyroyal Green I went to London and got work on a ship, because I wanted to go as far away as possible from England.”
They both knew the reason for that, and the statement rang by itself in the silence for a moment.
“And . . . did you?”
He hesitated.
“I went very far indeed.” He smiled slightly. It wasn’t the most pleasant smile. It contained memories of things he’d seen and possibly things he’d done.
And, in all likelihood, women he’d made love to.
He’d been doing this while she was in Pennyroyal Green deflecting suitor after suitor and instructing the footman where to put flowers delivered by men who hadn’t a prayer of gaining her attention.
Because they weren’t Lyon.
Once they’d been able to talk about anything and everything, endlessly. He needed only speak about anything in order for her to find it fascinating.
But another chasm of silence opened up. There were too many things to say. And they had lost the knack of talking to each other.
“You were a member of a ship’s . . . crew?” Someone of his refinement and breeding would have been painfully conspicuous.
Then again, Lyon had won the Sussex Marksmanship Trophy and more than one fencing competition.
“They’ll take any able-bodied man willing to work on a ship, Olivia. They taught me. I learned. I worked. I fought. I won. I didn’t need to know how to do anything that I didn’t already know how to do.”
He said it very deliberately. Very evenly.
But it was very much a reference to that night in Sussex. What do you know how to do?
In five years he’d risen from menial labor on the deck of a ship to owning and commanding one.
But then, she didn’t suppose she ever truly doubted him.
She was quiet. She had a million questions for him.
She dismantled her bread, then realized what she was doing and put it in her mouth instead.
He watched approvingly. “Eat more than that. You’ve gotten thin.”
Her eyes flared wide.
His voice was gruff.
He’d likely been pondering how thin she was while she was wondering about the lines near his eyes.
She contemplated countermanding him. But she knew concern when she heard it, and her reflex was to take his troubles away.
So she obeyed him. The bread was crusty and coarse but delicious, and the cheese was fine. She’d never eaten with an audience, but he watched in absolute silence as she devoured two more slices and sipped her wine.
He handed her a napkin. She dabbed at her lips, then folded her napkin and looked up at him.
“Olivia?”
“Yes?”
“Why Landsdowne? Why now?”
She met his eyes.
“Why shouldn’t it be him and why shouldn’t it be now?” she said evenly enough.
He drained his wine and then stood, and looked down at her a moment.
“Because you don’t love him,” he said idly.
She sucked in a startled breath. “How dare you.”
“I think you would be amazed at what I now dare.”
They locked eyes again. The air shimmered with dangerous emotions and unspoken things.
She didn’t know how they would ever be spoken.
“We’ll reach shore soon enough,” he said finally. “Don’t attempt to leave the cabin again. None of my crew were gentle born and even if they were, months at sea without a woman tends to erode gentlemanly impulses.”
He said this so easily. As if it was the most natural thing in the world for someone of his breeding to command a crew of dangerous men apparently united in a struggle to control their animal desires.
She glanced at the print on the wall, the one in which he was simmering in a pot.
And she thought of that other print on Ackermann’s wall.
Of a man with blue eyes, holding a sword in his left hand, hair rippling in the breeze.
“If you need something to pass the time . . .”
He reached into the sack and carefully placed a copy of Robinson Crusoe down on the desk, and followed it with The Orphan on the Rhine.
She stared down at them. Stunned.
And suddenly, unaccountably deeply moved.
They’d been purchased at Tingle’s, she was certain of it.
She looked up at him, remembering that day. How simply standing near him had been magical. Like falling and flying all at once.
He would have done anything for her. She’d sensed it even then.
She suddenly didn’t dare look up. And then she did.
And saw in his eyes that he was remembering that day, too.
Both the beauty of it . . .
And how it had all then been sundered.
“Take your pick.” He smiled faintly.
And then he was gone.
SHE MUST HAVE fallen asleep again over her copy of Robinson Crusoe, because she started when there was a sharp rap on her door.
Olivia leaped up and smoothed her skirt and peered out.
It was Digby.
“It’s time to disembark, Miss Eversea. We’ve arrived.”
DIGBY LED OLIVIA up to the deck while a pair of truly intimidating men passed them, touching their hats, to fetch her trunk.
Olivia emerged blinking; the dazzling lowering sun seemed to be aimed right into her eyes. She craned her head backward. A few shreds of clouds were scattered over a sky that had been brilliant but was now beginning to give way to the indigo of sunset.
Her namesake, The Olivia, was anchored in a little inlet created by the golden, curving horseshoe of a beach.
A caress of a breeze fluttered the hem of her dress, played in the hair that had escaped its pins. It was so serene something in her eased, and for an instant she forgot she’d been tricked into coming, and was simply grateful that she was here, wherever this was.
And then Lyon was at her elbow, and her traitorous heart gave that leap. Recognizing to whom it had once belonged. She yanked it back again. It wasn’t his to command anymore.
Or so she told herself.
“Cadiz,” he said simply.
THEY WERE ROWED ashore in a longboat. His crew managed to beach the craft and assist her to the beach without dampening overmuch, and she managed mostly to preserve her modesty. God only knew she didn’t want to display too much stocking-covered calf to any of those female-deprived men.
She shook out her skirts and patted them and murmured thanks.
Lyon was standing on the beach, stark as the needle of a compass in dark trousers and boots and white shirt, speaking to members of his crew in what sounded like fluent Spanish and pointing toward the foot of a cliff.
She watched as one of his crew ferried her trunk away and deposited it where Lyon was directing, at the foot of what appeared to be a little road that wound up the cliff.
The men saluted Lyon and piled into the boats again and shoved them back out into the inlet.
Leaving her entirely alone on the beach with Lyon.
“Shall we?” he said simply, and without waiting for a reply from her, set off across the beach.
She turned toward the ship and froze.
The crew was raising the anchor. Her heart lurched.
“Lyon . . .” she called.
“Yes?” he called over his shoulder. He didn’t stop.
She scrambled to follow him, grateful for her traveling boots.
“Why aren’t they coming with us?”
“They weren’t invited.”
“What are they doing?”
“Leaving.”
“Where are they going?”
“Away,” he said shortly.
“What do you mean, away?” She hated the sound of her voice. She’d been shrill more frequently in the last two days than in the whole of her life.
“They’ll be back in a few days.”
That did it. She stopped and threw back her head. “Arrrrrgh!”
He whirled around and froze.
Her roar echoed around them.
Which is when she realized how very, very quiet it was. And how very, very alone they likely were.
“That was an interesting sound,” he said carefully, finally.
“Lyon Redmond. Do not make me raise my voice again. I don’t like the sound of it when it’s shrill. Do not order me about. You will inform me and engage me in conversation as if I am a guest, not an enemy captive. You will not stride ahead of me and force me to scramble inelegantly to catch up. I am now here voluntarily and you will treat me at all times with civility, unless you’ve forgotten how.”
In the silence the wind filled his shirt like a sail and whipped his hair up off his sun-browned forehead. And in truth, he looked more pagan than civil at the moment. He was perhaps a little too accustomed to people doing his bidding.
Despite it all, his beauty knifed through her.
“Very well,” he said finally, with a surprising, utterly disarming tenderness. “I apologize for being insufferable. And I accept your terms.”
She was speechless.
“Have you any other terms?”
She gave her head a shake, because she didn’t trust herself to speak over the sudden lump in her throat.
“May I point out you’re now issuing orders?” he added, teasing her gently now.
“Duly noted.”
She wanted to smile. She almost did.
He wanted to smile, too, she could tell. He almost did.
And yet neither of them could yet completely give way, because the weight of years held them back.
He turned away from her again.
“Look up there, on that rise.”
She shaded her eyes with her hand and followed the direction of his pointing finger. She saw a low, gracefully sprawling house of creamy white stone, surrounded by lush greenery—flowering trees, spreading oaks, and needled pines.
A serene house, simple in line, but possessing both a sort of peace and grandeur.
The view from every window would be spectacular—ocean and sand and hills.
Precisely as he’d described to her so many years ago.
Her breath hitched.
She looked at him.
“It’s my house,” he said.
Every word of that sentence thrummed with a sort of quiet, steely satisfaction.
Her heart skipped. “Your house?”
He wasn’t looking at her. And that’s when she realized his terseness may well have been because he was nervous about showing it to her.
“One of my houses,” he replied shortly, one of the more intriguing sentences she’d ever heard.
He slid her a sidelong glance. Inscrutable. “Shall we?”