Chapter Seventeen

 

The answer to Rosalyn’s question, What kind of a world have you been born into? came just before dawn.

Cavalry horses thundered past the cabin window, raising clouds of dust in the narrow village street. The sound of muskets firing was followed by men shouting and the screams of women and children. This sudden pandemonium brought Nicholai, Grant, and Rosalyn instantly out of a deep sleep and onto their feet.

Rising from his pallet on the dirt floor, Grant pulled his coat over his shirt and instinctively checked the load on his sidearm, while Rosalyn ran to the baby. Having slept in his clothes, Nicholai dashed to the window.

“Get your clothes on. Fast!” Grant ordered, noticing that Rosalyn was only partially dressed. He took the baby from her, wrapping it in a heavy blanket.

Meanwhile, her fingers trembling violently, Rosalyn quickly threw a dark wool dress over her head, working the fastenings as best she could in the dark. “What is going on?” she asked Nicholai, who could understand the coarse speech of the Russian cavalry milling about in the street.

“They’re ordering everyone out. No explanation.” Nicholai reached to take Katerina from Grant’s arms, but he was interrupted by the loud bashing of fists against the wooden door.

“Quick! Take the baby.” Handing off the sleeping infant to Rosalyn, Grant began to stuff fresh baked kalachi, several cheeses, and two bottles of kvass into a rucksack. Before he could do more, Nicholai was forced to open the door—or have it kicked in.

“What are they shouting?” Rosalyn asked, frightened by the savage faces of soldiers looming in the doorway and out on the street. Fiery torches illuminated the gray predawn sky.

“The entire village is being ordered to leave their homes. I don’t like the looks of this.” Stepanovich frowned. “Either we’re being relocated, or an attack against the village is imminent.”

A military officer burst through the cabin door, his sword drawn. Rosalyn let out a startled shriek and hugged the baby close. “Out! On the double. No delay!” the man shouted in Russian. His breath was foul with the combined smells of garlic and alcohol.

Rosalyn shrank back, but he grabbed her roughly by the hair, nearly causing her to drop the baby. She swung around in terror, looking for Grant and Nicholai. Thank God! They were right behind her. Over the confusing din of horses and men and the outcry of villagers, she couldn’t understand what was going on, much less follow the orders being barked at her. She rushed to Grant for protection.

Grant pulled Rosalyn, still clutching the baby, to the back of a group of peasants standing outside on the road. “Careful,” he warned, seeing her eyes flash with anger, as a peasant woman was roughed up and fell in the street. “Whatever this is about, try not to appear uncooperative.”

“Why must everyone leave their homes?” Rosalyn glanced down at her simple frock, wishing she’d had time to retrieve more of their belongings.

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” He gave her a critical once-over. Her dark hair spilled loosely around her shoulders, cascading past her waist. “Cover your hair! You don’t want to call attention to yourself.” He quickly tied his neckerchief over her hair. “Keep your head down. Try not to make eye contact with any of these rutting bastards,” he warned.

Nicholai now flanked her on the other side. “They say the Swedes are on the march.” His face haggard with grief, he gazed worriedly at Katerina, who was sleeping through all the bedlam in Rosalyn’s arms.

Nearby a horse whinnied shrilly. The commotion up and down the street drew their gaze to the villagers’ plight and the invading soldiers. An officer, barely able to control his horse, struck his mount. The animal reared, kicking and lunging, scattering the crowd.

Nicholai, an outstanding horseman himself, swore in Russian under his breath. “Where did they recruit such inferior troops?”

“Shouldn’t we let them know we’re foreigners?” Rosalyn asked anxiously, watching the soldiers rout entire families from their homes.

Grant looked grim. “Let’s find out what’s going on first.”

The soldiers cheered loudly, as an elderly man was hauled from his tiny hovel and sent sprawling in the road. No peaceful evacuation, this! Only mayhem and destruction and wanton disregard for people and property.

“My God!” Nicholai's face suddenly grew tense, as he pointed to the horizon.

In the distance Novgorod was on fire.

Just then the officer in charge shouted a command, sending the troops into action. The torch bearers spread out, touching fire to tinder-dry logs on the peasants’ dwellings. Sap and rough bark flared, instantly turning the village into a raging hell. Cries of anguish arose, as threadbare, half-dressed men, women and children stood helplessly by, many of them barefoot, as the crudely built huts that housed them and their animals burst into flames in the early morning breeze.

Nicholai, his stricken features illuminated in the flickering red-orange light, let out a howl of protest, as he fought his way inside his own cabin. “Mercy!” All he could think was his beloved was inside, laid out in her coffin, ready for the funeral service. Cremation was alien to his Orthodox faith. "Nyet!" he screamed. He mustn't let these barbarians desecrate her body and deprive her of a decent Christian burial in the tradition of his Russian forefathers!

Before Grant or Rosalyn could react, Nicholai threw the full strength of his body against the people standing in his way. Forcing his way through the crowd, he dashed between the milling horsemen and headed straight for his front door.

He heard the officer’s shout to halt, but his cabin was already engulfed in flames. He ignored the warning gunfire. Fighting off the lashing whips of soldiers barring his way, and ignoring the crowd’s horrified cries, he hurled himself against the door.

“Nicholai!” Rosalyn screamed, watching in horror.

In the next second, his muscular torso jerked, as a musketeer unloaded his musket into his straining back. His body writhing, he stumbled and fell across the threshold, still trying to crawl forward into the burning, one-room cabin.

Rosalyn struggled to push through the crowd, to offer aid, but Grant caught her roughly around the waist. He dragged her back, his hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. The baby still clasped in her arms, she turned her tortured gaze to where Nicholai lay fallen.

All she could see were his boots, dangling halfway across the threshold. And then the burning, rotten timbers collapsed overhead, burying him and Mercy’s body in flames.

Though she kicked and fought, she was no match for Grant's strength, as he took advantage of the noise and confusion to carry her across the road and into a thick copse of trees several hundred yards away. Nearly hysterical, and enraged by the brutality she had just witnessed, Rosalyn felt herself thrust down into a shallow ravine.

“Let me go!” she cried.

Grant’s grip on her wrist sent a sharp pain coursing through her entire arm. She wanted to scream, but the hard knot of fear growing inside her left her gasping for breath. Moving at a dead run, Grant yanked and dragged her a good long distance from the frenzied melee. Eventually they came to a culvert beneath a small wooden bridge. There he paused to let her catch her breath, and she turned to face him in a frenzy. “We can’t leave him!”

“There’s nothing we can do for a dead man.” Grant gave her an impatient shake. “Listen to me, Rosalyn! We’ve got to move fast, if we’re to survive. Otherwise we may find ourselves caught in the thick of battle!”

“How am I going to feed this baby? I need to go back for the cow.” Rosalyn tried to pull free, but his grip only tightened, making her wince.

“We’ll find milk on the way,” he told her. “Right now the Russians are burning everything in sight, so the Swedes won’t find food or fodder for their troops when they get here. We'll just have to take our chances!”

Her eyes widened with shock. “All those people, burned out of their homes—why, they’ll starve!”

“Either that, or they’ll be taken prisoner, which may be even worse. The Swedes probably don’t have sufficient food for their own soldiers.”

Rosalyn swallowed hard, trying to suppress her panic. “What will they do to those people?”

“Probably shoot them,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, Grant! Where should we go?”

“This stream heads south. If it empties into the West Dvina, as I suspect, it may take us eventually to Riga,” he speculated. “Or we can look for a more direct route through these woods.” He began herding Rosalyn farther away from the village and deeper into the woods.

“I don’t care which way we go, as long as we get out of here alive,” she gasped breathlessly, looking to him for deliverance.

“Let’s head south and take our chances.” Grant grinned at her, and she marveled at his calm. “Sweetheart, you certainly know how to complicate my life—like no other female I've ever met.”

“Oh, so now it's my fault! That is so unfair, especially when you know it's not my fault.”

“Aye, but if we get out of this scrape, you owe me one.”

Puzzled, she raised her chin and saw the devil in his tawny gaze. “One what?” she asked suspiciously.

He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Suppose we decide that question later. Come on!”

Slinging the rucksack across his shoulder again, he took her arm and helped her out of the culvert. “Careful,” he warned when she stumbled with the baby. “These marshes are slippery.”

After slogging through ankle-deep mud and clay for what seemed like hours, they came to a pasture. “Our luck still holds!” Grant whistled softly, pointing ahead.

Grazing quietly at opposite ends of the meadow were a milk goat and a horse.

“What are you going to do?” whispered Rosalyn.

“Take advantage of our good fortune.” Ignoring her shocked look, he slipped a rope around the goat’s neck.

“But that’s stealing!”

“This is a hell of a time for a sermon,” he chuckled grimly. “We have a baby to feed, remember?”

Rosalyn couldn’t argue with his logic. “Once a pirate, always a pirate. Isn’t that what you once told me?”

“Right now I’m concerned with survival.” He led the goat over to where she stood, flipped it on its side, and hog-tied its legs. Wiping off one of her tits, he gave Rosalyn a stern look. “Now shut up, woman, and feed this baby.”

After they fed Katerina by letting her nurse directly from the goat’s tit, the baby was more contented than she’d been in days. Admiring Grant’s resourcefulness, Rosalyn almost felt like a reckless pirate herself, as they mounted their newly acquired horse and set out for Riga, leading the goat behind them.

That night they slept in a deserted corn field. Rosalyn carefully placed the infant between them—just in case Grant was tempted to take unfair advantage of the situation. Grant only laughed at her taking precautions. “Always careful to bring along a chaperone, eh what?” he teased, gently burping Katerina. “Too bad there isn’t room for both of you on my shoulder.”

“I’m not jealous.” She smiled in the semi-gloom, feeling drowsy and relaxed. Between them, they had polished off a bottle of kvass, along with some kalachi and cheese, before stretching out, side by side, under the stars.

Katerina, too, seemed content, after having her fill of goat’s milk. Grant had improvised a nipple on the empty bottle, and the little one had heartily imbibed. Rosalyn suspected him of mixing a few drops of leftover kvass with the milk, but as long as Katerina prospered, she wouldn't complain.

Sighing, Rosalyn wriggled around, trying to get comfortable on the hard, uneven ground. She watched the stars overhead until at last her eyelids grew too heavy to stay open.

Grant, too, found himself studying the stars. The cloudless night helped him map out their approximate location and chart their course for the next day. Their campsite lay in a slight ravine, where their fire wouldn’t easily be seen. He slept lightly, roused occasionally by the soft footfall of a nocturnal animal. With wolves and bears prowling the region, hopefully their fire would discourage predators while they slept.

He had just dropped off again when Rosalyn shook him awake.

“Something just ran across my face,” she whispered tensely.

Grant chuckled. “Probably a small rodent.”

“How’s Katerina?” she asked anxiously.

“Sleeping like a top. We’re lucky she’s a good size, or she'd keep us up all night.”

“Sorry I woke you,” she whispered. “Good night, Grant.”

“'Night.” He closed his eyes, but soon a muffled bleat made him sit upright, “Rosalyn, watch the baby.” Reaching for his pistol, he peered into the darkness. “Something’s out there.”

“What do you think it is?” she whispered, clutching his arm.

“Not sure,” he replied, “but I think we just lost our goat.”

“Oh, no!” Her soft moan woke Katerina. “What now?”

“Feed her what’s left in the bottle. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and I can steal another goat in the morning.” Not hearing anything from the pen he had improvised, he handed Rosalyn the bottle and lay down again, pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

Rosalyn jiggled the baby in her arms a moment. “She’s wet, Grant.”

“That’s your problem, love. I’ll fight off the bears. You take care of the baby.” He rolled onto his side, facing her, and pretended to sleep.

“Well, Katerina, it appears we must make do with what we have.” She laid the infant on the blanket next to Grant. Reaching under her skirt, she untied and scooted out of her linen petticoat, then tore it in two. She heard her partner’s wicked chuckle, but chose to ignore him. Soon the baby, oblivious to any dangerous predators stalking the woods, was dry and noisily sucking on the bottle.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Late the next morning they ran into torrential rains, which forced them to take refuge in a deserted trapper’s cabin. Rosalyn fed the baby warm sugar water while Grant went out to scare up wild game. She detested being left alone, but at least the door was closed and barred, and there was a small fire on the grate to keep them warm. As she saw to the baby’s needs, she wondered how the other villagers were managing without food and shelter. At least Grant had salvaged a few provisions before they were forced to flee for their lives. She could manage on light rations for now. Her chief concern was meeting Katerina’s needs.

As Rosalyn gazed out the window, recalling all the events of the past two days, suddenly she began to weep. The rain and her tears were for Mercy and Nicholai—for the villagers, too.

When Grant reappeared and shook her awake, the rains had stopped, leaving the miry clay roads almost impassable. After he skinned the rabbits he’d snared, he sat watching her cook their meal. Every time she bent to tend the fire, his eyes twinkled at the way her dress rode up, revealing her unmentionables.

"Ooh, la la!" he said, paying tribute to her finer qualities by kissing the air until finally Rosalyn was fit to be tied.

"Oh, close your eyes," she said crossly.

"But how can I not admire such a tempting view?" he grinned.

Suddenly his breath caught as it dawned on Grant that he had Katerina to thank for this pleasurable distraction, for when Rosalyn sacrificed her petticoat to provide little Kate with diapers, her figure had undergone a remarkable transformation. His breath caught as he contemplated that most delectable, erotically arousing part of her anatomy.

She smiled at him over her shoulder, totally unaware of her allure or his randy thoughts. Temptation, thy name is woman! he wondered. Was it worth the gamble to kindle a spark? Or would she rebuff him again? Still, there was little chance of interruption . . .Aye, ’twas hard to pass up such a chance.

Grant drew a deep breath and, bracing his hands on his thighs, rose somewhat stiffly. Feeling the ache in his groin, and wishing he could ease his body hunger without having to listen to Rosalyn’s hypocritical railing all the way back to England, he decided not to tempt providence. For if truth be known, he was hopelessly, passionately in love with this temptress, who blithely flitted about their primitive cabin, tending to their needs. Aye, all but one need, he thought, and threw back his head with a rueful laugh.

Rosalyn glanced around at his burst of merriment. “How long do you intend to sit around in those damp clothes?” she asked, stirring the rabbit stew. “Taking off your clothes never used to embarrass you.” And then she blushed, remembering that tropical waterfall in Jamaica, and him standing at the bottom of the hill, naked as Adonis, taunting her for being prudish. “I’ll just step outside while you change,” she said. “There are spare clothes in the cupboard.”

He bowed her out the door, his eyes dancing. “Wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities!”

When she returned, he was wearing a pair of bulky trousers belonging to their absent host. Warming his bare feet by the fire, he held Katerina on his lap.

“She’s awake!” She moved quickly to take Katerina, but he waved her off. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.

“She's not a bit of trouble. Besides," he added, "I owe her a debt of gratitude.” Eyes full of mischief, he tilted back his head and smiled at her.

Rosalyn sat opposite him, trying not to stare too obviously at his muscular chest and bare shoulders. His wiry chest hair intrigued her, especially the way it curled around his small, hard nipples. She wished she could reach over and stroke his smooth skin. Clasping her hands tightly between her knees, she concentrated as hard as she could on the flames licking at the bottom of the black cook pot.

Fighting her impulsive nature, she sneaked another nervous glance, then reverted to staring down at the cricket peeking up at her from between two hearth stones. Finally she got up her nerve and asked: “Couldn't you find a shirt to put on?”

His lips grazed the top of the baby’s soft dark hair, but his eyes seemed to bring the intimate caress closer, heating her already warm cheeks. “Didn’t think I needed to,” he drawled, “with a roaring fire an’ all. But if it bothers you—?”

“Oh, no! Don’t do it on my account. I thought you might need more warmth.” Her hands clenched involuntarily in the folds of her apron, and she imagined running her fingers through his chest hair. She licked her lips nervously and looked away.

‘You seem to like Katerina,” she said, fighting to bring her willful thoughts under control.

“Aye, she’s a bonny lass.”

“Well, I do thank you for helping me with her, Grant. I can take her now, if you want.”

He ignored Rosalyn’s outstretched hands and smiled at the baby’s tiny fist clutching his finger. “Don’t frown so! I already changed her.”

“You did?” She smiled at this unexpected act of gallantry.

“’Twas the least I could do, after the favor she did me.” He chuckled, and his eyes held a sly twinkle. “’Tis a private joke 'twixt me and the wee one. Though she has definitely improved the scenery around here!”

“I wish you’d let me in on the joke,” Rosalyn pouted. “Believe me, I could do with a bit of humor.”

“Since you asked, your derriere looks quite fetching, since you donated your petticoat to the care of Katerina’s tiny backside.” He kissed the tips of his fingers in an admiring salute.

Flustered by his incurably wicked humor, Rosalyn cast about for a good excuse to send him outside, so she could regain her composure. “We do need milk for the baby,” she hinted, glancing at him through her dark lashes.

“Oh! I nearly forgot. You’ve turned me into a thief, little nubbin.” He rubbed noses with the baby, and Katerina cooed softly. “I found a stray cow not far from here. Lucky us! It followed me home.” His tawny eyes slanted in Rosalyn’s direction. “It’s your turn to milk the damn thing.”

"But I've never milked a cow in my life,” she protested. The idea was to get him gone, not herself!

“Do try,” He grinned like a rogue pirate and waggled his eyebrows. “I guess you think a man who’s handled tits all his life would have a special knack, but, alas—”

“Wretch!” She stomped her foot and glared at him.

Grant sat forward, suddenly serious. “What if I wasn’t around? You might as well get the hang of it now, Miss Prim. Otherwise, little Kate will yell her lungs out, and believe me, a little baby hollering at the top of her lungs can be an unnerving experience.” Grinning, he dandled Katerina on his knee. “Isn’t that so, little one?”

“How is it you know so much about babies?” She narrowed her eyes, wondering if he had a family hidden away somewhere.

“Being the eldest of five children, I got my share of practice. Can’t say I enjoyed it, but—” he winked, “—it’s all coming back to me now.”

“Oh, all right then. I shall have a go at milking.”

“Make sure your hands are warm, or she might kick you out of the stall,” he warned, as she stomped off in high dudgeon.

Studying the broad-backed bovine, Rosalyn decided it looked meaner than the milk cows in Massachusetts. Even so, she wasn’t about to cry craven. Looking about for a pail and a stool and finding none, she walked around the cabin and walked in on Grant, gently swinging Mercy’s baby by her oxters, like the pendulum on a clock.

“Back so soon? Excellent!” he crowed. “Kate’s hungry and getting fussy.”

Perturbed by his taking over the role she had inherited, she gave him the evil eye. “Her name is Katerina!”

“Kate suits her fine. Especially since her mother reminds me of a tempestuous shrew in a bawdy play I once saw. The Taming of the Shrew, I believe it was called. Saw it in Liverpool. Damned entertaining, it was, too.”

“I doubt Mercy would like being called a shrew.” Arms akimbo, she tapped her foot impatiently.

He laughed, only increasing her pique. “My love, you are the only mother she has now.”

Rosalyn chose to ignore that disquieting thought. “Katerina is a Russian baby, with a Russian name.”

“She’s half-English, and ‘plain Kate, naughty Kate’ will do just fine.” Now she remembered why she had returned before he distracted her. “I came back for a stool and a bucket, and here we are—at odds again!”

“I love it when you get your dander up,” he grinned. “It gets me all excited.”

“Stop!” Her voice went from strident and shrill to a soft plea. “Please stop, Grant.”

“Since you ask so nicely.” He turned to address the black-haired imp in his arms. “Kate, what say you? Shall we go watch your mother milk the cow?”

“Never mind,” Rosalyn muttered. “I can manage without you tormenting me.”

“Hurry,” Grant called, his smile mocking. “Mustn’t keep our little Katie waiting.”

“Ooh!!” She slammed the door on her way out.

Over the next half-hour he relaxed by the fire, burping Katerina on his shoulder. Through the back wall of the cabin, he could hear Rosalyn alternately pleading, threatening, and cajoling the obstinate bovine to give up its milk. He grinned, listening to all the thumping and banging. And then she let rip with a choice expletive.

Finally she came back inside, looking deliciously disheveled, and set the bucket on the table. Grant got up, looked inside, and cocked an eyebrow. “Nice try, but it’s only half full.”

Plucking a piece of straw from her hair, he almost felt sorry for her.

“I am exhausted,” she huffed, collapsing into a chair.

“You’re not going to let that old cow get the best of you, are you, love?”

She mopped her face, still breathing hard from her struggles with the cow. “Nobody gets the best of me.” Her stormy blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Well? Aren’t you going to feed her?”

“Who—me? That’s woman’s work.” Laughing, he handed Katerina over. “Now that my shirt is dry, I’d better get back to exploring the area.”

When he returned, much later, he found Rosalyn and Katerina fast asleep. A full bucket of milk and clean bottles bore silent testimony to her industry during his absence. After the baby consumed the first batch of milk, she must have milked the cow again.

Good for her, he thought. He was glad he had insisted on her learning to milk the cow. Harsh reality demanded that she be as self-sufficient as possible.

Katerina slept peacefully in a hammock nearby, her tiny lower lip stuck out in sublime contentment. Rosalyn, sprawled on her stomach across the crudely constructed bed, hadn’t heard him come in. The firelight played over her chestnut hair, picking up auburn highlights. Careful not to disturb her, he reached down and planted a kiss on her tangled tresses.

Following his nose to the stew simmering over banked coals, he uncovered the pot and was about to raise the spoon to his lips, when he heard Rosalyn sigh and roll onto her back. He glanced around and saw her eyes open, watching him from a supine position.

“Grant?” she said softly.

“Have you eaten?” Picking up the pot, he carried it to the table.

“No, but I’m hungry.” She sat up slowly, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

As he watched her glide toward him on bare feet, something about her languor brought back memories of a warm tropical night at sea, a year and a half before, when he'd mistaken her relaxed, lazy stroll across the deck for an invitation.

Instantly wary, he wondered if she might still be asleep.

“Are you awake?” he inquired gruffly.

Without answering, she moved past him like a shadowy sylph. Picking up two deep dishes from the cupboard shelf, she heaped a generous portion in his bowl and passed it to him with a spoon. Then she helped herself and sat down.

“Well?” she asked, smothering a yawn.

“Good news, but it'll keep.”

They ate in silence. Wordlessly she refilled his bowl and sat, hands in her lap, while he ate. He was painfully aware of every detail of her dishabille. Lord, she was distracting!

When they finished eating, she picked up the stew pot, and again that insane moonlit night on the Fair Winds revisited his memory, as the light made the gold ring on her finger twinkle.

“I see you still wear my father’s ring,” he said drily.

“Yes.” She smiled, admiring it. “I had it appraised in England. It’s worth a great deal.”

“My Old Man pirated it off a feisty old Spanish lady. Did you know that?”

She looked surprised. “No, I didn’t. I just think it might come in handy someday.”

“I suppose it might raise a considerable sum. Is that what you have in mind?”

“Something like that. Who knows? Perhaps I shall invest it in your shipyard and increase my share of the profits.” She admired it again in the firelight.

“It seems odd that you still wear it on your finger.” He sounded annoyed.

“Why? That’s the most obvious place to wear a ring.”

“If you’re married.”

She laughed lightly and leaned forward to make a small confession. “Wearing it has discouraged several men from making unwelcome advances.”

“So now we come to the real reason you’re so devoted to it,” he drawled.

She glanced over at his capable looking hands and his strong tapered fingers. “I notice you don’t wear any rings.”

“Ah, but I’m not trying to fight off the ladies,” he said with a laugh.

Ignoring that last, she began clearing the table. “Where did you go after you left here earlier?” she asked coolly.

“I went looking for a guide to the coast. Instead, I found a small boat. It needs repair, but we’ll make better time than traveling on horseback through these marshes.”

“How much time will we lose making repairs?”

“Not long. Then we’ll head south to Lake Ilmer and pick up the Volkov River. Under sail, we should navigate the Dvina River and reach Riga in no time. One more thing,” he added. “You’re in for a shock, if you expect to take your leisure as a passenger. It's a small craft, but you’re the only crew I have.”

“Are you paying wages, Captain?” she asked pertly.

“’Silver and gold have I none,’” he quoted, "‘but such as I have I give unto thee.’”

“How can I resist such a gracious offer, sir?” she smirked.

“Thanks for supper, Rosalyn,” he said, stretching. “Guess it's time to turn in. We have much to accomplish in the morning.” Yawning, he walked over to the hard wooden pallet in the corner.

Noticing how tired he looked, she glanced toward the bed with its comfortable mattress. “Grant,” she cleared her throat, “I hesitate to ask, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping in a real bed?”

He shrugged. “Since meeting you, I’ve learned to sleep almost anywhere.”

She fidgeted with her skirt, hoping he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “I feel guilty, taking over your cabin on the Fair Winds for months. And since you came to Novgorod, you've slept on a hard dirt floor, while I’ve slept in relative comfort.”

“What’s your point?” He ruffled his hair, stifling another yawn.

“I just thought we might trade places so you can get a decent night’s sleep. That way, you’ll be well rested in the morning and ready to work on the boat.” She clasped her hands behind her, swinging her shoulders self-consciously. “It seems only fair.”

“I couldn’t sleep, knowing you were uncomfortable. No, thanks just the same, Rosalyn.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Call it male pride or stubbornness, but I can’t take you up on your offer, even though you mean it kindly.”

“It would only be for one night.”

He knew how to get the last word, and he couldn’t resist. “The only way I will accept is if you take half the bed, and I take the other half.”

Rosalyn swallowed hard, knowing a gauntlet had just been thrown down. She either let him play the martyr, or she accepted his terms. Either way he'd probably declare himself the winner.

“Very well.” She nodded. “I accept, but on one condition—”

He sighed wearily. “I know the condition. Don’t worry, I shan’t abuse your kind hospitality.”

“You may pick whichever side of the bed you prefer,” she said, not to be outdone.

“The left side will be fine.” He sat down on the bed and started pulling off his boots.

Rosalyn stood before the fire, pretending to stir up the embers. When she didn’t come immediately to bed, Grant blew out the candle and slid beneath the covers. When the sound of his snore convinced her that he was truly pounding the pillow, she crept into bed with all her clothes on. She lay very, very still, listening to her heart race at the sheer audacity of her actions.

She glanced over at Grant, careful not to do anything to waken him. She scarcely dared believe what she had done! After all these months, she, a Puritan maiden of impeccable morals, had actually invited this rogue of rogues—this amazing man, who had captured her heart and set her body ablaze with shameless desires, into her bed!

It took a long time before she finally closed her eyes. When she awakened to Katerina’s howls the next morning, Grant was gone. And to think, her wildest fears were all for naught. She had never been safer. ’Twas almost an insult, when she thought about it.