“The tide tomorrow will run in the afternoon.” Royd attacked his breakfast, attempting to appear as hungry as he usually was. What sleep he’d managed had been wracked by dreams the like of which he’d not suffered in years.
A humbling experience to discover that one particular woman still held the power to so command his psyche.
Then again, this was Isobel.
“Should we leave here today?” Edwina asked. “Or will tomorrow morning be soon enough?”
The men looked at each other, then Robert shrugged. “I can’t see any advantage to going down today. Our crews know what they’re doing, and there’s nothing we can do to speed the provisioning.”
“All we would do is get in the way.” Declan glanced around the table. “I vote we stay until tomorrow morning.” He glanced at Royd. “We can leave as early as you like.”
Isobel felt torn; this was the longest she’d been away from Duncan, yet she was perfectly certain he would be enjoying himself hugely. Today or tomorrow would make no difference to him.
As the others added their voices to the call to leave tomorrow, she felt Royd’s gaze and looked across the table. He faintly arched a brow. She hesitated for another second, then shrugged. “Tomorrow, then.”
He looked at Declan. “I agree, but we should order fast carriages.”
Declan nodded. “I’ll get Humphrey on to it. Consider it done.”
Robert was scanning a list he’d set beside his plate. “I’ve been reviewing the number of men—we’ll definitely need Lachlan’s crew and several men from Kit’s as well to be certain of having adequate numbers.” He glanced at Royd. “What do you estimate their sailing times will be?”
“I’ve told them to provision from the Bristol stores, then head directly south. They shouldn’t be that far behind The Trident.” Royd looked at Declan. “I’m assuming that, the winds being equal, The Cormorant will be the first into Freetown after The Corsair.”
Declan pushed aside his empty plate. “Exactly how are you imagining the arrivals will go? How will they align with what needs to be done?”
Edwina glanced swiftly around the table; everyone had finished eating. “Perhaps”—she pushed back her chair and rose, bringing the men to their feet—“we should repair to the drawing room and allow the staff to clear the table.” She shooed them toward the door. “We can sit in comfort and go over the plan step by step.”
They did just that. Ensconced in one corner of the sofa, Isobel listened as Royd, standing before the fireplace in a typical seafaring captain’s stance, his legs braced and his hands clasped behind his back, listed the major stages of the mission as he saw them.
“The Corsair will leave Southampton first and reach Freetown first. The Trident should follow The Corsair out of Southampton Water, with The Cormorant following. I expect The Cormorant will overtake The Trident on the way down, but I need you to arrive as close together as possible, so bear that in mind. Once there, I’ll slip into the estuary at night and stand well out from the harbor. I’ll locate Decker’s flagship and pay him a visit. We need him to act as soon as possible.” Royd glanced at Declan. “Expect to find your way barred, but the squadron will have orders to allow all Frobisher vessels through, so be sure to fly the right colors.”
Declan dipped his head. “Duly noted.”
“In addition to that,” Royd went on, “both of you will need to sail into the estuary under the cover of darkness. Assuming The Cormorant gets in first, we’ll rendezvous and see where we are.”
“You’re likely to get in at least a day if not more in advance,” Robert pointed out.
Royd nodded. “After I’ve dealt with Decker, I’ll use the time to learn what I can regarding the situation in the settlement, although obviously I can’t stride up to the governor’s residence, knock on the door, and ask.”
“So who will we ask?” Isobel had an excellent memory for details; if he was going to slip into the settlement incognito, she wanted to know where he—and she—would be headed.
Royd’s gaze rested on her, on her face, for a moment, then he replied, “I don’t yet know. We’ll see how the land lies once we’re there.”
He’d been using the pronoun “I” too much for her liking, a fact she was certain he now understood.
“Once you arrive and we rendezvous”—Royd looked at Declan—“I’ll fill you in on anything pertinent we’ve learned and hand over the settlement side of the action to you and Robert. Your objective is simple enough”—with his gaze, he included Robert—“but achieving it might not be so straightforward. You’ll need to bail up Holbrook and also the commander at the fort, and using the orders that should arrive this morning, convince both that it’s in their best interests to place an effective perimeter guard around the eastern side of the settlement. We need to ensure that, once your presence in the settlement becomes known, no communication goes via land from the settlement to the mining compound.”
“So those at the compound won’t know we’re coming, that rescue for the captives is imminent.” Robert looked at Declan. “You’ve met Holbrook—better I leave him to you and take on the commander at the fort.”
Declan slowly nodded. “You spent more time in the settlement, especially on the eastern side. You’ll have a better understanding of where the pickets should be placed.” He glanced at Royd. “While we’re doing that, I assume you’ll be off up the estuary?”
“As soon as I hand over to you, I’ll use the rest of the night to push up the estuary. We should find Lascelle’s ship standing off—a marker for where we need to go ashore. I anticipate making directly for the mining compound.”
“What about Lachlan and the reinforcements from his and Kit’s crews?” Robert asked.
“The men left aboard The Corsair and The Raven will direct Lachlan to the right path.” Royd paused, his gaze growing distant as if envisaging the action, then he refocused on Robert. “I need to reach Caleb and to spend some time reconnoitering and assessing the possibilities, so that by the time you and Declan arrive, we’ll have some idea of how to pull off the rescue.”
His expression tending grim, Robert growled, “You and Caleb will wait for us, won’t you?”
Royd grinned a pirate’s grin, but then sobered. “In this case, yes, unless something forces our hand.” He paused, then added, “If our aim is to rescue the captives with least risk to their lives, then it’s imperative we attack with the strongest force we can muster.” He glanced at Declan. “So we’ll wait for you to join us outside the compound. For obvious reasons, you shouldn’t dally in the settlement longer than absolutely necessary to ensure all communication between Freetown and the compound is cut off.”
Declan nodded. “Which brings us to the critical action—the taking of the compound. From all the information Caleb sent, unless he’s discovered some way to get us inside prior to hostilities breaking out, us getting through a palisade like that without alerting the mercenaries isn’t going to be easy.”
“Indeed.” Royd’s lips thinned. After a moment, he stated, “The greatest weakness in our position is that, even with numbers sufficient to overrun the mercenaries, with our forces all outside that damned palisade, and too few men with fighting skills inside it, there’s no effective way to keep the mercenaries away from all potential hostages—away from the women and children—long enough to cut our way inside.”
“And any such entry point is going to be obvious,” Robert pointed out. “We’ll just set ourselves up for an ambush that way.”
The ladies had been paying close attention, their gazes switching from one brother to the other as they spoke.
Isobel stirred. “The palisade.” She met Royd’s gaze. “I studied Caleb’s drawing and read Lascelle’s description. I agree with their assessment that trying to cut through the palisade as part of the attack isn’t feasible. But what if we could weaken it ahead of the attack—enough to be able to quickly bring down multiple parts of it when the attack is launched? Some breaches might act as gates to get the captives out—Caleb has already established a way to let those inside the compound know what we’re planning, so they could be ready and waiting. Other gaps, opened simultaneously, could let your men stream in.”
Royd’s gaze, locked on her face, sharpened. “Is there a way to achieve that?”
“I don’t know.” After a moment’s thought, she grimaced and glanced at the others. “I can’t be certain until I see it for myself—until I examine the construction.” Frowning, she looked back at Royd. “But there’s something familiar about that construction—the lashing and binding—and once I remember where I’ve seen it... Anything I can put together, I can also take apart.”
Declan leaned forward and opened his mouth—
“No.” Royd held up a hand. “Leave her to think—it’ll come to her if we let her mind work on it in peace.”
He did, indeed, know her well. She looked at the others. “It will come to me—I just need to give it time.”
Robert grumbled under his breath about not having that much time, which earned him a slap on the arm from Aileen.
Royd grinned at the byplay, then sobered again. After a moment, he said, “There’s really not anything more we can plan—not until we reach the compound and can see and gauge the possibilities for ourselves.”
The general, somewhat disgruntled agreement was cut short by Humphrey, who entered to announce that luncheon was served.
They were surprised to realize the entire morning had passed. In a loose group, they made their way to the dining room, where the talk turned to Frobisher company business and the short-term impact of having the pride of their fleet pulled away on a government mission.
The three ladies listened avidly. All three put questions, establishing that, although the company derived no direct payments from the government for their services, they were covered for any losses of men or vessels, were not restricted with respect to any commercial activities they might engage in at the same time, and most important of all, in return for the provision of said services whenever required, the company was the mandated first choice for shipping contracts from a wide range of government departments.
Immediately after the meal, the three ladies retreated to their rooms to pack, while the men retired to the library to revisit their lists and go over their sailing plans yet again.
With the problem of the compound’s palisade revolving in her brain, Isobel absentmindedly headed for her room—only to realize that, as she’d been living out of her trunk, packing took no time at all. After establishing that everything that could be packed had been, she wandered down the corridor to Edwina’s room and stuck her head around the door.
Aileen was already there, perched on one side of Edwina’s big bed, while their hostess pondered a selection of gowns spread over every piece of furniture in the room.
Edwina glanced at Isobel and invited her in with a smile, then returned to her pondering. “It’s August. I’m not going to need heavy fabrics for the temperature, but in the jungle, from what you’ve said, I’ll need my sturdier skirts.” She arched her brows at Aileen, then appealed to Isobel. “Won’t I?”
Isobel glanced at Aileen, then looked at Edwina. “Breeches,” she said. “And a lightweight jacket and riding boots.”
Edwina blinked. Then her expression cleared. “Of course!” Almost immediately, her face fell. “But I don’t have any breeches, and Declan’s certainly won’t fit.”
Aileen grimaced. “I don’t have any, either, although you’re perfectly correct—lightweight breeches and a jacket would be the ideal attire for the sort of jungle we’ll need to tramp through.”
Edwina looked at Isobel. “I suppose you have a pair?”
“Several.” Isobel pushed aside two confections in silk and sat on the dressing stool. “I came prepared—I usually wear them when climbing over hulls and rigs in the shipyards. As for jackets, summer riding jackets will work well enough.”
“The jackets, I have. And the boots.” Edwina whirled to her armoire. She hauled open the doors and started hunting. “But breeches...” Her muffled words trailed away into silence, then she popped upright and swiveled to face Isobel and Aileen; the delight in her face made it clear she’d solved the problem. “I know just who to appeal to.”
She bustled across the room to her escritoire, sat, and pulled out a sheet of paper. “My brother’s secretary, man of business, account-keeper, or whatever his title—Jordan Draper. He’s a magician when it comes to problems like this—he’ll wave his magic wand and voila! We’ll have breeches.”
Edwina scribbled madly, pausing only to survey Aileen—“You’re much the same height as my sister-in-law, Miranda”—and three minutes later, her note had been dispatched. Edwina shut the door on the footman. “I do hope Jordan isn’t out prowling Julian’s clubs. If he’s in Dolphin Square, I expect he’ll send something suitable around by the end of the day.”
Isobel thought that estimation a trifle optimistic, but she held her tongue and allowed herself to be beguiled by a discussion as to the likelihood of them requiring evening gowns while in the settlement or if they might need to attend a church service.
“And then there’s the matter of the right gown to appropriately impress Governor Holbrook to ensure he toes our required line.” Edwina held up two elegant walking gowns, one in jonquil, the other in blue, displaying them to Isobel and Aileen. “Which do you think?”
“The blue,” they said in unison.
* * *
By early evening, they were packed—even the men, who, in Isobel’s experience, always left such things to the last moment. Trunks had appeared at the bottom of the stairs, along with traveling bags and seabags; she noted the pile as she descended the stairs and the clocks in the house struck six o’clock. The only items missing were Edwina’s and Aileen’s smaller cases and Isobel’s bandbox, which would join the pile come morning.
Footsteps on the stairs behind her had her lifting her head. The sensation that swept down her back told her who it was.
She reached the last stair, stepped onto the tiles, and turned to watch as Royd descended the last flight.
He, too, glanced at the luggage, then he looked at her and arched a brow. “Ready?”
For what? But she was too wise to ask such a question of him. “I gather the carriages have been ordered for five o’clock in the morning.”
He nodded. “Even with four fast horses to each carriage, it’ll take seven hours to reach Southampton, and we can’t afford to miss the tide.” He waved her to the drawing room.
She turned and walked that way. He followed close behind. Determinedly ignoring the phantom sensation due to his hand hovering at the back of her waist, she asked, “When, exactly, is the tide?”
“Half past three. We’ll make it.”
They passed into the drawing room and found the others already there. Edwina had arranged for dinner to be served at six so they could retire early with a view to their pre-dawn departure. Humphrey appeared almost immediately to announce the meal.
Royd caught Isobel’s hand and wound her arm in his. She permitted it; there seemed no sense in attempting any distance. Not when they both found a certain...comfort with each other.
Much in the way she sensed Declan and Edwina did; they’d been married for months, yet still shared private smiles, still touched in that unobtrusive yet telling way of established lovers.
Robert and Aileen were heading down the same road.
As for Royd and herself...as he sat her at the table, she owned to the truth that they had always been each other’s “other half.” That was undeniable, but whether they could find their way to some place—some workable relationship—that satisfied them both remained to be seen.
Inevitably, they returned to the subject that dominated their minds.
“Do we try for Holbrook first or the fort’s commander?” Declan mused.
“We do it simultaneously,” Robert said. “I’ll go to the fort while you go to the governor’s residence.”
“One thing,” Royd put in. “Send a group of men to block the path from the settlement to Kale’s camp first. I’d rather not have any unexpected surprises wandering up to the compound from that direction.”
Robert nodded. “Easy enough. I’ll send a small squad. They can guard the path until we’re ready to march out that way, then fall in with us.”
When the discussion turned to the arguments most likely to make the situation—and how they were expected to respond to it—clear to Holbrook and the fort’s commander, Edwina and Aileen made several excellent suggestions.
However, when attention shifted to the logistics of the subsequent trek through the jungle to the mining compound, several comments dropped by Declan and Robert made it clear both were still laboring under the misguided notion that their ladies might be persuaded to remain in the settlement.
Edwina ruthlessly put an end to their delusions with a cheery, “Did we mention Aileen and I have acquired breeches? So just like Isobel, we’ll be able to tramp easily down the jungle paths.” She smiled brightly at Declan. “Jordan had them delivered an hour ago—such a sensible fellow. He didn’t even ask what they were for but just sent a note saying: ‘Wear these in good health.’”
“Given the short notice,” Aileen said, “I hardly dared hope, but the pairs he found for me fit perfectly. With my boots and the jackets I had made for my earlier visit, I’ll have no trouble keeping up.” She looked at Robert and opened her eyes wide. “Or even running, as we had to last time. Without skirts, it will all be much easier.”
After a second’s silence, Robert and Declan exchanged a glance and subsequently said nothing—at least at that point.
Isobel suspected they would pursue the matter with their ladies in private, but if they asked her opinion, she would advise saving their breaths. There was no way either woman would consent to being left in the settlement. Edwina might be pregnant, but she was carrying the babe well and was not as yet encumbered by her increasing girth. As for Aileen...what was Robert thinking?
That question raised another in her mind, one she resolved to address later, when she and Royd were alone in the corridor outside their rooms.
Meanwhile, he and she continued to play their subtle game of mutual enticement. Of minor, unexpected touches and suggestive glances that spiked the inevitable tension between them.
Where such actions would lead, she didn’t, at that moment, wish to dwell on. Time enough for that when they were back on The Corsair.
It was mid-August and the pavements were baking, but Edwina’s cook had excelled in providing a refreshing and delicious meal. Vichyssoise had been followed by jellied eels and trout in aspic, then slices of roast turkey and chilled baked quail had been served with a medley of boiled vegetables, eventually giving way to sorbet. The meal ended with a platter of freshly cracked nuts and fresh fruit.
As she helped herself to a fig, Isobel made a mental note to ensure the supply of fruit aboard The Corsair was sufficient to see Duncan through the journey. The market in Southampton wasn’t far from the wharves, and she’d already decided she needed to make a quick visit to the local shipyards; the solution to the problem of the palisade was still nagging in the back of her mind. If she could see the things she normally saw, perhaps that would jar the required snippet of memory loose.
“Here.” Royd handed her a fruit knife with which to peel the fig.
She reached out and took it, allowing her fingers to glide over the back of his hand as she did.
From the corner of her eye, she saw awareness spark in the moody gray of his eyes and contented herself with a small smile. She peeled the fig, then made a fine production of savoring the plump fruit in a way she knew would make him distinctly uncomfortable.
For several moments, his gaze was locked on her face, on her lips; only when she had to swipe juice from her lower lip with the pad of her finger did he manage to tear his eyes from the sight.
He shifted in his chair, swung his gaze to Declan, quietly cleared his throat, and asked about The Cormorant’s crew.
Isobel swallowed a laugh. Royd would find some way to pay her back; her reckless side was looking forward to it.
Sure enough, when half an hour later, after deciding against wasting any time in the drawing room and dismissing any need for tea, the group climbed the stairs and, at their head, separated with goodnights and reminders of the early hour of their departure, instead of letting his hand hover at the back of her waist, Royd set his palm firmly in place—as if reclaiming the right that once had been his to possessively guide her before him.
She had too much control to overtly react; she smiled at the others and returned their goodnights. But inside, waves of warmth spread from where his hand burned through the two layers of fine silk separating his hard palm from her skin. One wave rose to fill her breasts, leaving them heated and swollen. A second wave sank to her hips, infused her womb, heated her thighs, and made her knees weak.
Her lungs constricted. As with outward serenity she walked before him down the corridor to their rooms, longing flooded her. A yearning for him. Deep and abiding, that yearning had never left her. Over all the years, it had remained, dormant perhaps, yet always there, immutable and unchanging.
As it rose and crashed through her, shaking her to her core, she realized that, if anything, the power of that yearning had only grown.
But she wasn’t the girl-woman she’d been eight years ago, and he wasn’t the man with whom she’d naively handfasted.
She halted before her door and turned to face him, and finally his hand fell from her back.
The temptation to reach out and re-establish contact surged, but she suppressed it and met his eyes. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not imagining I won’t accompany you to the compound.”
He’d halted when she’d turned; they were standing far closer than mere friends would—a wordless declaration of sorts.
He studied her for a second, as if tracing her train of thought back to what had given rise to the statement-cum-question. Then his lips twisted wryly. “I’m not my brothers.”
“No, you aren’t.” She’d never been the least intrigued—and even more importantly, challenged—by them. They were, if not typical, then reasonably predictable. He was not. With him, one assumed at one’s peril.
He confirmed that by stating, “Just so we’re clear, from now on, I intend to share everything—every aspect of my life—with you.” He held her gaze. “Nothing held back—not anymore.”
The promise in his eyes shivered through her. She arched a brow as if unimpressed. “Just as well.”
His gaze roved over her face, an intimate exploration all on its own. His eyes returned to hers; he held her gaze for an instant, then, his voice low, said, “We should get what sleep we can. Tomorrow will be a very long day.”
She didn’t take her eyes from his. Couldn’t. “Indeed.”
A pregnant second followed, then they surrendered. Whether she stepped to him or he to her, she had no clear idea. Once she was in his arms and his lips were on hers, all rational thought faded. Fled.
She slid her hands up to his shoulders, gripped and clung as he surged into her mouth, and she gave herself over to sharing this moment, to giving and taking what she needed now.
With his lips on hers and hers on his, her senses drew in to focus on the kiss.
On the exchange, on the rioting sensations and the storm of feelings the simple communion unleashed.
There was, Royd thought, drawing her deeper into his arms, angling his head to deepen the kiss yet further, nothing simple about what erupted between them—what still simmered, so hot, so vital, so demanding, within them.
It claimed them both—effortlessly. Caught them and trapped them in this world in which they’d played before, in which their reckless, highly sensual natures instinctively reveled, freed to experience, to seize, to wonder.
Together, to explore every pleasure.
He plundered the dark haven of her mouth, savored the lingering hints of fig on her tongue, while she moved into him, shifting sensuously against him, wordlessly urging him on.
The kiss drew them both deep. More heated, more steeped in promise—because the very action of seizing the kiss, of giving in to the compulsion of the moment as they had, said something.
Quite what, he wasn’t yet game to define; with her, that would be premature. But that they’d both stepped forward meant they both were ready to go further.
He was entirely as one with her as they did precisely that, their mouths melding, tongues tangling and inciting in ways far more potently evocative than they’d deployed eight years before.
Eight years before, they hadn’t wanted with this much frustrated, pent-up desperation.
The surging, swelling, tumultuous need was very much there, coloring each foray, driving them further.
Her lips demanded, commanded, and he responded by ravaging her mouth, plundering her senses, and satisfying his.
As always, her responses—her blatant wildness and her unscreened wanting—captured him and drew him on.
Her passion had always been a siren’s song to him, an elemental call to the male inside him, an irresistible beckoning.
But he couldn’t let her lure him on.
Not yet.
He knew just when to draw back—when her hunger had flared and her desire surged.
The effort nearly staggered him, but he raised his head and all but ripped his lips from hers.
Ignoring the harsh rasp of his breathing and the rapidity of hers, he looked into her face, into the sultry depths of her eyes, and managed a smile, although he suspected it was crooked.
She blinked at him dazedly.
Her grip on his shoulders had eased. He grasped her upper arms and gently set her back from him. He held her until she caught her balance, then forced himself to release her.
Her eyes, fixed on his face, slowly narrowed.
At the sight, his smile grew more genuine and deepened. He stepped back and saluted her. “Until tomorrow at four thirty.”
He didn’t wait for her reaction but turned and walked the few paces to his door.
He heard no sound from behind him. Curious, on reaching the door, he grasped the knob, then paused and looked back.
In the soft light of the corridor lamps, he saw her eyes had narrowed to dark slits. They remained locked on him.
Isobel waited a heartbeat, sensing—assessing—the heightened tension between them, then softly said, “Two can play at that game, you know.”
Her tone made the words a sultry challenge.
Across the ten feet that separated them, his eyes held hers; the intensity of the connection was so weighty, so real, she would have sworn sparks flashed and smoldered.
Then his lips curved slightly, tauntingly, and his deep voice reached her, dark and low. “Feel free to take me on anytime.”
Then the damned man opened the door and went into his room.
She heard the door softly shut.
Leaving her struggling to breathe deeply enough to steady her whirling senses.
And to wonder if the water in her pitcher would be cold enough to douse her fire.
* * *
At four o’clock the following afternoon, Isobel stood beside Royd on the upper deck of The Corsair and, with a sense of excitement she’d never felt before, watched the sails unfurl.
The ship surged. The wind whipped her hair; fine spray stung her cheeks. She drew in a deep breath, her smile distinctly giddy.
Still high in the western sky, the sun beamed down upon them and the other ships following in their wake—an omen, a benediction.
They’d led the departing ships out of the basin. The Corsair was well known—larger ships gave way to her speed and agility, while smaller ships stood in awe of her power. The wind was brisk, and Southampton Water already lay largely behind them. Ahead, the waters of the Solent glimmered and beckoned.
Then the royals unfurled, and the ship literally lifted on the wind. Clinging to the forward rail beside her, Duncan cheered.
Grinning, she looked down at him, drinking in the sight of his hair ruffling over his forehead, of the bright-eyed delight in the face beneath.
As she’d expected, although he’d missed her, his life aboard ship had been filled with activities—the sort of activities he’d long dreamed of. When she’d finally come aboard an hour ago, a mere half hour before they’d slid away from the wharf, he’d been waiting to greet her with hugs and smiles and endless chatter about all he’d done.
He was happy.
And she was content.
She cut a glance at Royd; standing behind the wheel, he was currently engaged in steering The Corsair into the Solent. She didn’t know how much he’d already heard of his son’s exploits; he’d come aboard before she had. She was sorry to have missed seeing how Duncan had greeted him; it might have told her more of how their son now saw his father.
She looked ahead—and again felt a surge of exhilaration and knew she wasn’t the only one so affected.
By the time they’d gathered for their early breakfast, they’d all been impatient and eager, gripped by a sense of needing to get on, to plunge into this mission—to get on the waves. Promptly at five o’clock, three carriages had arrived, and they’d piled in and set out.
They’d rattled down the highway at a breakneck pace. On arriving outside the Frobisher Shipping office, the three ladies had consulted while the men had paid off the carriages. Subsequently, with Royd, Robert, and Declan needing to get aboard their respective ships, Edwina and Aileen had accompanied Isobel on a visit to the local shipyards. Over breakfast, she’d explained her notion of visiting the yards in the hope the sight of familiar construction would jog her memory regarding some method of breaching the palisade.
Royd had wanted to come with her, but he’d had too much to do aboard; he’d taken charge of her trunk and bandbox, squeezed her hand, wished her luck, and let her go.
As a Carmichael, she was assured of being granted instant access to the yards; the name was synonymous with excellence in shipbuilding and revered in such circles throughout the British Isles.
The foreman at the yard had gabbled a welcome and immediately sent for the owner, but before that worthy appeared, she’d spied what she—their mission—needed. When the owner had come hurrying up, the tails of his coat flapping, she’d smiled, complimented him on his yard—which had, indeed, appeared well run—and asked to borrow the special saw.
The owner hadn’t hesitated, pressing her to borrow whatever she needed; the tool wasn’t expensive, although it was of a very particular design. After assuring the owner that the saw was all she required and that she would return it to the yard on her return to the port, she’d parted from him in excellent humor.
As they’d hurried back to the wharf, Aileen had asked, “Will it work?”
“It’s used to cut through tarred ropes, large ones that have been in position for years and are hardened and solid.” She’d glanced at the oilskin-wrapped saw. “I’m as certain as I can be that it’ll cut through those vines locking the palisade’s planks together. To my mind, the only question remaining is how best to wield it.”
The satisfaction of having found the answer she’d been seeking buoyed her. The desire to reach the compound and find out if her hunch about the saw would prove correct only added to her innate impatience.
Royd rapped out an order, drawing in a sail—getting just that touch more power from the wind angling at their backs. She glanced at his face and grinned. If she was impatient, he was equally so. And he’d infected his crew with the same keenness; they were looking ahead, all eager to get on.
The Corsair was running hard before the wind.
She turned and looked back at the flotilla of vessels departing on the tide, strung out behind them and dwindling in size as The Corsair leapt ahead. A moment sufficed to identify The Trident, graceful as a swan as she eased into the Solent’s deeper waters. The Cormorant lay not far astern, sails billowing as Declan kept to the script and followed, rather than jockeyed for the lead. Neither ship had yet gone to full sail; as there were other ships around and before them, they would have to wait for the more open waters of the Channel before they unfurled more canvas.
She faced forward as Royd called another change and saw Duncan’s lips move as, gazing raptly at the sail in question, he parroted Royd’s words. No doubt committing them and their effect to memory.
Raising her gaze from her son’s face to his father’s, she reflected that Duncan’s wholehearted plunge into life on the waves was only to be expected—his inheritance, as it were. She now accepted she’d been wrong to keep him from sailing, not when the activity gave him so much pleasure.
After a moment, she stepped back from the railing. When Royd glanced at her, with her eyes, she directed his attention to Duncan. He looked, then looked back at her, a question in his eyes: Was he interpreting her intention correctly? With a dip of her head, she consigned Duncan to his care and headed for the ladder.
She went down to the stern cabin, checked her brown trunk, and put the brushes, combs, and pins from her bandbox back into the drawer in the washstand. Then she sat on the bed and gave herself over to her thoughts.
Later, when they were well out in the Channel and The Corsair was slicing through the waves, having achieved a modicum of mental clarity, she returned to the deck.
Instead of climbing to the upper deck, she strolled down the ship, making for the bow. One glance to the rear informed her that they were already far ahead of the other ships; she couldn’t even see them.
Idly ambling along the side, she realized that, out of instinct rather than intention, she was noting lines and checking ropes. Then she spied Duncan skipping down the opposite side of the deck; when he turned and called something to someone behind him, she looked and saw Royd pacing forward. He was, rather more deliberately, doing as she had been—checking that all was right on his ship, all as he wished it to be.
He saw her and changed tack, unhurriedly crossing the deck and ducking under a boom to join her.
She leaned back against the ship’s side and watched as Duncan danced on, with Williams, the quartermaster, stepping into Royd’s place and shadowing Duncan. Keeping him safe.
Royd settled against the upper rail beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.
Her gaze on Duncan, she said, “I had to keep him away from the docks. If given the chance, he would have crawled and climbed all over, but everyone there knew of our handfasting, and he was instantly recognizable as your son.”
Royd considered the comment and why she was making it now, at that moment in time. While his immediate reaction was one of deep-seated anger, it was a useless emotion, one with no outlet—one that wouldn’t help him attain his goal.
He let the hurt flow from him, too...then thought to ask, “Does he know of your work?”
She shook her head. “He knows I help his grandfather manage the shipyards—I suspect he thinks I’m some sort of secretary.”
Royd snorted. It was tempting to feel that Duncan not knowing of her work—her worth—was a small penance for her having hidden the boy from him, yet...that seemed wrong, too—equally wrong. Something else that needed to be rectified. Their son deserved to properly appreciate the brilliance of his mother.
Who’d borne him alone, birthed him alone, and raised him alone, until now.
His gaze, like hers, following Duncan, he said, “I understand why you hid him from me. Now tell me how you managed it.” It was important, he realized, that he learn the whole truth, and the only source of that whole truth was her.
“It wasn’t as hard as you might think. Back then, Papa was doing everything himself—brokering the deals, handling all the details, and overseeing the design and construction as well. He was rarely home, and even less frequently did he visit Iona—if you recall, he and she don’t often see eye to eye, and after we’d handfasted and you’d sailed, I’d moved to Carmody Place to live with her.”
He narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare. “Are you saying your father doesn’t know?”
“He didn’t know—not when Duncan was born, not as he grew. Not until recently.” She paused, then went on, “About two months ago, Papa came to see me at Carmody Place. It was Sunday, and I wasn’t expecting him—there was an urgent issue with a build on which he needed my opinion. It was a sunny afternoon in June. All the children were playing outside, and I was in the kitchen with most of the other women. Iona had gone upstairs for a nap, so she wasn’t about. The footman knew Papa, of course, and with no one around to direct him, he showed Papa into the parlor.”
“Let me guess. The parlor overlooks the area where the children were playing.”
She nodded. “By the time I was summoned and reached the parlor, Papa was standing by the window, and he’d already noticed Duncan. Had already guessed he was a Frobisher.” She drew in a breath, then exhaled. “But he still didn’t know.”
She glanced at him, her eyes searching his face; he felt her gaze, but didn’t meet it. “From a distance, Papa couldn’t see me in Duncan, so he still hadn’t realized Duncan was ours. I breathed a sigh of relief and shut the parlor door.”
He glanced at her in time to see her lips quirk resignedly.
“We were discussing the problem at the yards when Duncan burst in to tell me something.” She gestured with one hand. “I still don’t know what, but he flew across the room and flung himself at me—you’ve seen how he does—and yelled, ‘Mama! Mama! Guess what?’”
He could see the scene clearly. He shook his head. “Your poor father.”
“Indeed. I believe he came closer to fainting than he ever has in his life. I had to push him into an armchair. I sent Duncan to fetch a glass of whisky. He brought a full glass. Papa drained it.”
Royd was struggling not to laugh, but in that moment, he truly felt sorry for James Carmichael. The man had never been entirely happy about Royd wanting to marry his daughter, and as things had turned out, his reservations had appeared well founded. To then stumble on Duncan in such a way and discover all Isobel had concealed...
He glanced at her. “So what happened next?”
“Papa insisted we tell you, but we convinced him to hold his tongue, at least for the moment.”
“By we, you mean you and Iona?”
“And Mama, and my Carmichael grandmother—Papa’s mother, Elise—and his sister and Mama’s sisters.” She shrugged. “Virtually all the women on both sides of the family.”
“They all knew?”
“Only Iona and Mama actually knew, so to speak, but of course, the others all guessed.” She glanced at him as if that should have been obvious. “A baby—let alone a child like Duncan—is rather hard to hide.”
Yet you managed for eight years. But the rancor he’d expected to feel wasn’t strong enough to register over all the other thoughts and attendant feelings whirling through his head. Several thoughts clicked into a whole. “That’s why, in our recent meetings, your father’s been...uncomfortable and oddly short with me.”
“Yes. He’s distinctly uncomfortable about the whole thing.”
“Hardly surprising.”
“No—it’s worse than that. It’s not just you. Mama and Papa know your parents, too. And Duncan is—possibly—your heir.”
There was no “possibly” about it; as his firstborn son, Duncan was his heir.
Of course, he and she still had to tie that up in a legally acceptable way.
Her gaze tracking Duncan as he rounded the bow and headed toward them, she sighed. “Papa has hated every minute of not being able to tell. Bad enough what you’ll think, but he worries more about your parents—he and your father go back a long way.”
Initially as businessmen operating in allied spheres, but as she’d noted, the connection had remained as James and Fergus had aged. It was one of the reasons many had deemed a marriage between him and her an inspired alliance.
It still was.
He pushed away from the ship’s side as Duncan neared. “Once we get back, we’ll have to tell my parents. I’ve no idea how they’ll react—I doubt Mama will forgive you for keeping Duncan from her anytime soon—but that’s something we don’t need to concern ourselves with now.”
Isobel didn’t disagree. She watched as Royd crouched as Duncan ran up. Watched as their son gabbled excitedly about the fish he’d spotted from the bow. Watched as the man she still loved rose and tousled their son’s dark hair, then he glanced at her, met her eyes, briefly nodded, then headed off to his stern deck with Duncan skipping alongside, still peppering him with questions.
She folded her arms, leaned back against the side, and let her thoughts flow with the roll of the waves and the rise and fall of the deck.
She knew Royd prioritized. He always had; it was the way his mind worked. A large part of his success was due to the intensity he could bring to bear on any goal. And that intensity stemmed from his ability to focus on that which he wished to attain, excluding well-nigh everything else.
Right now, his focus was on the mission, specifically on the mission’s goals. Which was, in the wider scheme of things, well and good—how things should be.
That said, while she didn’t disagree with his consigning telling his parents about Duncan to an unspecified date in the future—a date when he and she no longer had higher claims on their time and wits—there were several other matters unconnected with the mission that, in her opinion, would be better dealt with over the next days. In the hiatus before they reached Freetown and plunged into the heart of the action.
She knew Royd well enough to be certain that, with the mission now fixed as top priority in his mind, he would leave those other matters unaddressed and unresolved.
Men had one-track minds. She, in contrast, was all woman, and she was unwilling to wait until after the mission to bring those other matters to a head.