Violet awoke abruptly, but long moments passed before she understood she wasn’t still dreaming. She recognized at once that she was fully clothed and swaying gently, as though a giant cradle held her. Startled, she fisted her hands in the counterpane to ascertain it was real, found it already warmed from sunlight pushing in through a blinded window. She saw strips of blue through the blinds. Sky. The rocking was caused by the sea. She was on…a ship.
Good God, she really was on a ship! Because of Lyon.
She took her first tentative breath, and the scent of the room was so overpoweringly, stimulatingly, foreign and masculine—smoke and cloves and starch and bay rum and sea and sweat—she sat bolt upright. Panicked. Which was when she discovered parts of her body were stiff from the unfamiliar mattress and that she’d kicked off one of her slippers during the night.
She peered beyond her feet, one slippered, one not, and saw in the room’s filtered light a fine mirror reflecting a startled, sleep-flushed woman hanging above a fine low chest of drawers laid out with men’s toiletries. In the corner was a washbasin perched on a washstand, with towels hung near. On one wall was a small fine painting of an exotic landscape—tawny beaches and fronded trees, mountains and small whitewashed houses; on another a great map was pinned; on another a dartboard. Two small, beautiful carpets, also exotic, in shades of ruby and cream covered the floors. Elegantly simple room, almost Spartan, and she suspected the things in it had been carefully chosen from his travels. She was suddenly reminded of Lyon taking only his rosewood box when he’d disappeared.
At the far end was a shelf of books she longed to inspect; near her were the two sturdy-backed chairs flanking a table upon which was…
Ah, yes. The chessboard.
Memory shifted into place in a backward rush when she saw the earl’s black queen lying prone as surely as if she’d been shot down.
Well.
She smiled slowly, and a surge of triumph and pleasure flushed her cheeks with warmth. He’d known she was about to win. Ha! He possessed enough honor to both acknowledge it and maintain the spirit of their agreement, too.
This was something of a surprise.
The smile faded as something occurred to her:
How did she get to the bed?
She didn’t recall a thing.
She frantically patted at herself and to reassure herself that her clothing was indeed on and fastened, then leaped to her feet to have a good poke around.
The ceiling was so low she felt both penned and securely enclosed. Her head didn’t brush the ceiling, but the earl probably crouched a bit to move around this room.
She disentangled herself from her bonnet strings and tried to massage some shape back into her poor slept-upon bonnet. She unpinned her hair in the mirror the captain no doubt used every morning. She pulled the hairpins from her hair, where they poked up out of it at odd angles, raked her fingers through it, twisted it up, and re-pinned it with breathtaking speed and efficiency, which would have to do until she was able to return to her trunk in the vole hole for a good hundred strokes with her brush. She knuckled kernels of sleep from her eyes, shook out her dress and patted it down, and inserted her foot into her slipper.
Now she could prowl.
First she studied the landscape; it was likely meaningful to the earl, she suspected, as it was the only picture in the room. She wandered over to where the mysterious male toiletries were lined, and after only a moment’s hesitation, lifted up his shaving soap for a sniff. She was just rediscovering the tantalizing whiff of the earl she’d had when he’d leaned in during the waltz when a knock at the door startled her, and her hands clamped suddenly. The soap shot from her hands and flew across the room, skidding to a halt under the bed.
Bloody hell.
“It’s Lord Lavay, Miss Redmond, with a breakfast for you.”
Lavay! The prospect of conversation with a handsome, easily charmed man cheered her, and the moment she heard the word breakfast her stomach whined like a punished mongrel. She dove for the soap and patted fruitlessly beneath the bed, but it remained out of reach. She gave up when he knocked again, and flew to the door and opened it.
Lavay took evident pleasure in just looking at her. Those gray eyes glowed in silent, subtle masculine approval. In other words, he didn’t appear to be about to lose himself in a frenzy of animalistic behavior.
“Good morning, Lord Lavay.” She curtsied. “I imagine the captain informed you I was aboard. Thank you so much for thinking of me. You are too kind.”
Violet took the tray from him. A domed tureen perched on top of it. She looked around the cabin for a spot to place it, and decided to carefully settle it next to the chessboard.
When she did, the fallen queen rolled a bit, as though suffering a stomachache. Violet didn’t yet want to right it; it reminded her of victory.
“Oh, yes. And Corcoran has been spreading your legend among the men on the ship. You’d think a mermaid had come up in one of the nets. We came to fisticuffs in the galley over who would have the honor of bringing breakfast to you, and I won.”
“Fisticuffs?” This sounded ominous. It was precisely what the captain had predicted. Good God, she’d already laid his crew low. She surreptitiously inspected Lavay for bruising. “And yet…you won?”
Mr. Lavay laughed. “Your skepticism wounds me to the very soul, Miss Redmond! Very well. I’ll confess the crew recalled my rank just as the discussion was growing heated. I apologize if I led you to believe you may have caused bloodshed.”
Bloodshed! It was likely the one thing in her life she hadn’t yet caused.
She supposed there was still time.
“Fear not, Mr. Lavay. I suspect I shall rapidly recover from my shock,” she said gravely.
Which made him smile slowly. “You’re not shocked at all.”
She returned his smile. Freshly taking his measure. Approving his insight and his humor. Oily, Jonathan had called him. Jonathan was likely simply envious. She found him just as elegant and unforced as when she’d first danced with him. He showed no signs of influencing her breathing or her temper the way the earl did.
Still…she recalled her profoundly self-contained brother Miles throwing a fist into Argosy’s face in the name of love. And of her brother Lyon vanishing and possibly taken to pirating. Reckless extremes and absurd behavior always seemed to accompany love.
Perhaps she was immune to love.
She wasn’t certain whether or not she was relieved at this notion.
“I find it intriguing that we should meet again under these circumstances,” he added. A leading statement to be sure. An invitation to expound. And how different this was from the captain’s relentless interrogation.
As if the thought of him conjured him, they both whirled guiltily at the sound of booted feet rapidly heading their way.
Seconds later something like an eclipse fell across the doorway.
“Good morning. I trust you slept comfortably, Miss Redmond.”
The earl’s voice was formal, bass, and brisker than a carafe of coffee poured down one’s gullet. It was the sort of voice that pulled spines straighter, would get a man’s head swiveling guiltily in search of work to do. She could only imagine the effect it had on his crew, since her head swiveled, too, and she had no intention of doing any work. Lavay, spine immediately straight, bowed crisply.
She didn’t think for an instant the earl cared very much how well she slept.
“I slept well, thank you for asking. Did…you?” she couldn’t resist adding cheekily.
He frowned repressively. He looked none the worse for his night in the vole hole; he was flawlessly groomed, bright-eyed, tight-jawed. He needed a shave. The shadow of whiskers suited him. Made his eyes bluer, somehow. Like windows out onto the ocean.
He glanced a question at the domed platter of food.
“Lord Lavay was gentleman enough to bring a breakfast to me.”
“He certainly is a gentleman,” the earl agreed, in a tone that implied she’d instead called Lavay a “son of a bitch” and he quite concurred. “Lavay, you have duties to see to.” His crisp captain’s intonation made it clear that Miss Redmond fell distinctly into the category of “pleasures.”
“Of course, sir. I simply thought to relieve you of the burden of feeding our guest.”
An interesting, infinitesimal pause followed. The two men regarded each other evenly. Lavay was about the same height as the earl, but he hadn’t the earl’s air of arrogance and impatience, which was why in part he seemed to take up more than his fair share of air.
The ship gave a sway, sending the soap sliding gracefully out from under the bed. It came to rest at the earl’s feet, as if eager to join the conversation.
He stared down at it. Clearly bemused. He bent to pick it up. Hefted it in his hand.
Then stared at Violet, eyebrows arched sardonically.
She gave him wide-eyed innocence.
“She’s not a guest, Mr. Lavay. She’s an invader as surely as a pirate or a termite, and we shall relieve ourselves of the burden, as you say, of her soon enough.”
Good heavens. This sounded ominous. Perhaps he’d decided to cast her overboard, anyway, thanks to an unpleasant night’s sleep.
Another silence, during which expressions remained impassive but she sensed Lavay was somewhat surprised. She waited breathlessly to see if he would step gallantly into the breach.
“A…termite?” The traitor was clearly amused.
Flint’s mood, however, matched his name. “We shall of course extend to Miss Redmond all courtesy and respect due her station for the duration of her stay, which will be until we reach the next port. Which means two days, if the wind remains fair. I trust those are your rations, Mr. Lavay, you’ve donated to her breakfast?”
Said with almost no inflection. But the abrupt silence was the sound of Lavay’s surprise. She sensed Flint had meant a jab, though she didn’t fully understand why.
“I took up a collection from among the crew,” Mr. Lavay volunteered smoothly. “It’s a combination, shall we say, of everyone’s morning rations.”
This was likely a lie, but Violet admired it immensely, and smiled at Lavay encouragingly.
“We do not issue rations in fractions. We’ll deduct her breakfast from your rations,” the earl said briskly. As if solving a problem of interest to everyone.
Violet had the curious sensation that entire portions of the conversation were somehow magically being held out of her earshot via steely male stares and shared personal history.
“Perhaps you need to take a double portion of rations this morning, Captain Flint, as your mood calls to mind a hibernating bear awakened well before spring.”
Said with that smooth, exquisite politeness, but barbed all around as chestnut pods.
Surprisingly, only a short silence followed. The earl didn’t immediately challenge Lavay to a duel.
“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Lavay. I shall take it under advisement,” he said surprisingly easily. “Please meet me on the foredeck at half past the hour to discuss our supply circumstances and the charts. You will excuse me, as I now need a word with our…guest.”
Captains, it was to be expected, always had the last word. Not to mention captains who also happened to be earls.
“Thank you again for seeing to my breakfast,” Violet said hurriedly, before Lavay, her ally, departed.
“My sincere pleasure, Miss Redmond.” He left behind his charm like a sparkly little gift, then Lord Lavay bowed with swift elegance, to both of them, and Violet curtsied.
She was alone with the earl.
“Why don’t you eat your breakfast whilst I shave, Miss Redmond? It’s porridge.”
It was really more of an order than a suggestion. Like as not he spoke to everyone in just that tone.
Violet lifted the dome and peered beneath.
It was indeed porridge. Accompanied by what appeared to be a pale rock. She poked the rock. It rolled on the tray. She sniffed the porridge. It had virtually no scent. Unless beige could be considered a scent.
A mug of tea alongside both smelled mercifully familiar. She sipped it first. It was bracingly black and bitter as a punishment. There was nothing with which to sweeten it. She didn’t mind in the least. She sipped at it and shuddered as it surged its way through her veins. Very reviving.
“Haven’t you a valet?” she said to the earl, surprised.
He threw a baleful sideways glance at her as he strode across the room with the soap in hand. “‘Haven’t you a valet?’” he mimicked girlishly under his breath, shaking his head. He ducked slightly to avoid brushing his head on the ceiling, and peeled off his coat, folding it neatly and placing it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing hard brown forearms covered in coppery hair. He splashed his face with basin water. He twirled the brush into the soap vigorously then painted the bottom half of his face with soap. He whisked the razor up and tugged his cheek taut, and scraped the blade over it.
Violet spooned in porridge. She tried not to stare. Watching a man casually take off his coat and then whiskers seemed almost as intimate as watching him disrobe completely.
The porridge was nearly flavorless, though perhaps a bit of bacon fat had been stirred in. The rock, she finally concluded, was a sort of bread. It was about the size of her fist. She hefted it gingerly in one hand and tapped it with the finger of the other. It even sounded very like a rock.
He watched her experiment with the food in his mirror as he shaved.
“Likely the weevils were cooked from it before it was brought to you. They stalk off the bread when it’s heated, you know. Disgruntled, I imagine, at the indignity of being so treated.”
She froze. Her fingers loosened in horror on the bread, which suddenly seemed alive and pulsing. She would rather have died than drop it, however.
“Do you fire these from cannons at enemies?”
Insulting it would have to do.
“When we’re out of shot,” he said easily. “They taste a bit like mustard,” he said cheerily. “Weevils do. Can’t harm you if you bite into one. So tuck in.”
Tuck in. How American he sounded.
She held the thing gingerly. She cleared her throat.
“How did I get to the bed?”
“Well, of a certainty you levitated, Miss Redmond. Angels such as yourself would surely never do anything so gauche as walk to the bed.”
He turned as he said this, patting his face dry. His eyes glinted a wicked blue above the towel. He pulled the towel down, drying his hands, hiked one brow, unabashedly enjoying her discomfiture. Shrugged at her silence; conversation was of no consequence to him.
The hard angles of his face were even more pronounced now that they’d been polished clean of whiskers.
He’d carried her to the bed, and yet she couldn’t remember it. She looked down, disoriented by a rush of blood to her head, imagining herself dead to the world, at his mercy in that moment, she who had truly never been at anyone’s mercy. Had he slung her over his shoulder like a sack, or carried her in his arms, in the manner of fainting maidens hauled out to the garden during ton crushes?
The sharp, masculine scent of whisked shaving soap was now everywhere in the room, a sensual assault. But then, for some reason every one of her senses seemed heightened; every impression—sight, sound, smell—leaped out at her in stark relief now. She was strangely, startlingly conscious of her physical self and of his physical self.
He turned back to the mirror, deftly folded the towel, cleaned his brush and razor, set them aside. Somehow he imbued even these small acts with regimented authority and purpose, and yet they were so homely and intimate it was profoundly clear he didn’t care in the least that she was watching.
She, in other words, didn’t signify in his world. She would cease to be his problem soon enough, is how he viewed it.
She had other plans.
He rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and those hard brown forearms disappeared. He slid into his coat and buttoned it. Every inch the master and commander of this ship.
Wicked man. Very unlike Mr. Lavay.
He said, “Eat the rest of your bread, Miss Redmond. Lest you want Mr. Lavay’s empty belly on your conscience. Rations are apportioned according to the number of crew members aboard, they are indeed finite, they cost money and weigh down the ship, and we all eat the same food. Nothing more will be forthcoming until lunch.”
He watched her impatiently.
She resisted with difficulty the impelling force of his order. Something about his sense of command communicated somehow to one’s reflexes more quickly than one’s brain. She lifted the bread up. She imagined weevil corpses speckling it the way currents dotted a Christmas pudding. Mustard, she thought.
She stared at him defiantly. She opened her mouth.
And sank her teeth in.
Or tried. On first attempt, they merely skated across the surface.
She tried again.
In this manner she cracked the top of it in increments. Her molars finally got some purchase after she nearly unhinged her jaw.
She was finally forced to tear into it with a great undignified toss of her head. Like a dog with a chop.
She came away with a piece dangling from her lips. It flapped indecorously about her chin, until she darted out her tongue to fetch it in.
He watched all of this as avidly as though she were a pantomime he’d paid good money to see. His eyes glinted unholy hilarity.
“Are you going to chew?” he asked mildly.
She put up one finger: momentarily. She began the process of chewing. Her jaw clicked with the effort, like a wagon wheel struggling over rutted roads.
Mercifully flavorless, that lump. A bit like gnawing soggy paper. And not even a hint of mustard.
After three or four chews, she reached for her tea, and gulped it down. Where it sat in her stomach, solid as a fist.
“Don’t forget to finish the rest. You can dip it in porridge or tea, you know, to soften it.”
Now he decided to mention it.
“Thank you for the timely suggestion. But I might wish to …” Hurl it at your smug face. “…save it for later.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll have Corcoran bring a jug of heated water into your quarters so you can perform your own ablutions if you wish, Miss Redmond. I’ll remind you once again that these are my quarters. You’ll return to yours and stay there until I decide what to do with you. I’ll escort you to them now, but you will not be up on deck without an escort, and I cannot spare a man to mind you at all times.”
She placed her tray carefully aside, taking great care not to disturb the chessboard. And cleared her throat.
“I should like to discuss the continuation of my journey on The Fortuna.”
“Under no circumstances will you stay beyond the next port,” he said absently, shooting the cuffs on his coat.
“Captain Flint. I was quite serious when I said I believed you were in pursuit of my brother.”
“If by ‘serious’ you mean ‘delusional,’ then I’m inclined to believe you, Miss Redmond.” He was already at the door, hand on the knob.
“How long has Le Chat been capturing ships and stealing cargo?” she asked desperately.
He paused. “Over the span of a year.”
“And why has no one definitively identified Hardesty as Le Chat?”
The earl was brisk and rote. “The evidence we have is circumstantial. A resemblance, a description of his ship, Mr. Hardesty’s appearance in ports from where the pirated ships have sailed; he has the same knowledge of the cargo, and then the ships are attacked by night with a small crew when Hardesty is said to have sailed away. A woman said he muttered about The Olivia in his sleep. Someone reported that Hardesty sold silks allegedly stolen from one of the sunken ships.”
She didn’t like the idea of Lyon muttering in his sleep next to a strange woman. “And he looks like my brother Jonathan.”
The earl waited impatiently.
“Here is my suggestion. I can assure you that my brother Lyon is fiercely protective. If he is indeed Le Chat, and word reaches him that you have his sister in custody and are considering…”
She seemed unable to choose the most appropriately appalling word.
“Defiling her?” he suggested brightly.
“If you wish.”
“You’re not a blusher, are you, Miss Redmond?”
She ignored this. “If you do suggest it, you may be able to flush him out. As Lyon would never tolerate it.”
“At which point, when he is flushed out, you shout and wave, ‘Run, Lyon! Run for your life!’”
She sighed impatiently. “He’s much cleverer than that. He survived my father, you know.”
“Not to mention you. Or is that why he fled?”
She ignored him. “If it is indeed Lyon, I’ll find him and extract an explanation from him about why he’s gone and if he is indeed doing what you allege, and at which point he’ll explain to you that what he’s about isn’t what you think it is. The pirating. Because I know my brother, Captain Flint, and I know there’s more to this than meets the eye. He hadn’t gone mad and simply begun stealing and sinking ships.”
Though a tiny part of her wasn’t one hundred percent certain of this.
It changed nothing at all, however, such was the nature of her loyalty.
“I don’t know how in God’s name it could be anything other than what it appears to be. He boards ships, seizes cargo, and sinks them. Seems simple enough to me. The motive is generally greed and opportunity.”
“But has anyone been killed in the process? Does he blow up the ships with men aboard?”
He hesitated. “He puts men in boats and sends them out to sea. As much as the cargo as possible is seized and transferred to his ship, The Olivia. Not all of the men have been rescued or reached shore before their supplies ran out, which means some here nearly perished. And not every man has been found, either.”
“What manner of cargo has been seized?”
“Rice. Cotton. Silk several times. Tea twice.”
“Captain Flint. Here is what we know. My brother Jonathan could be the twin of this Mr. Hardesty. And he resembles Lyon closely. The pirate’s name is Le Chat. Is not a lion a big cat? Perhaps this is no coincidence. Perhaps it’s a…message of some sort? And his ship is named The Olivia. I don’t believe you can afford to ignore these clues, Captain, circumstantial or no, since your charge is to find him.”
A great exasperated breath filled his lungs. She watched with fascination as his big chest swelled like sails, then sank again in a sigh.
“Miss Redmond, you simply…can’t sail with us. I cannot allow it. For one, I would wager you know nothing of the world. I’ve been nearly everywhere on that map. You’ve no sense of the rigors of sea travel, you’re bound to starve because the food is vile, you’ll take ill because you’ll never get a decent night’s rest in the vole hole because I can assure you that’s where you will be sleeping, one of the men is bound to offend you greatly, another is bound to at least attempt to defile you, and do tell me the farthest you’ve been away from home?”
She hesitated.
“Italy,” she mumbled.
“Oh! Italy. That heathen land.”
She glared at him.
“You will be a hindrance, Miss Redmond. Evidence or no, you are ballast now, and we must be shed of you post-haste.”
Violet was not so easily deterred.
“Even you once had a first voyage. I have not yet been seasick, Captain.”
“There is time,” he said with grim cheer.
“I can choke dow—that is, happily eat whatever rations are made available. I shall pay for my accommodations on The Fortuna if you wish. I am made of sterner stuff than you think.”
His slow, thorough look seemed to count her eyelashes and her hairpins, to take in the unscuffed toes of her slippers, her flawless, straight hem unsullied by dust or mud, every perfect, tidy stitch in her expensively tailored dress, every tender, creamy unblemished inch of exposed skin, which was indeed only her clavicle upward but which immediately heated as though he’d drawn his hand across the tops of her bosom.
It was a look both instructive and purely frivolous. He was making a point, and he was taking his inventory of her as a woman.
He, of a certainty, didn’t find her wanting.
He did, however, find her superfluous and absurd.
“Nonsense,” he concluded. His voice was strangely gentle. “You are not made of sterner stuff, Miss Redmond. But as you have pointed out to me, you do not need to be. I should not, if I were you, wish to be, because ‘sterner stuff’ is usually forged by hardship. Besides, every land has its own customs, Miss Redmond, and you are entirely accustomed to shaping the world to suit you. You would adapt poorly. And we don’t know yet where our travels will take us, or how far. We might end up in darkest Africa.”
He could very well be right about all of it. Odd to discover how desperately she hated losing, however.
She glanced at the little painting on the wall. “Isn’t that Africa?”
A triumphant flare in his eyes. With a sinking feeling, she realized she’d just proved his point.
“Morocco. The home of my mistress, Fatima.”
Fatima. His mistress. She was not so worldly she could hear this without blinking. Or without a rogue violent wave of curiosity that contained a bit of jealousy.
She was certain he knew, too. And yet he continued watching her with that maddening air of detached patience.
“I know more of geography than you think,” she lied desperately.
“Oh, a scholar, are you?” He was distantly amused now. He knew she was lying. His fingers dandled over the doorknob thoughtfully, longingly, she thought, as he studied her.
All of a sudden his eyes brightened with a speculative light that made her wary. He’d apparently had an inspiration, because he wandered over to the globe perched on its stand, ran his fingers over it.
And then he pulled open his bureau drawer and came out with a fistful of pointed feathered objects.
So that was where he kept his darts.
“Since you think you can travel the world, Miss Redmond, I have a proposition. Close your eyes and throw a dart at the map. I have been nearly everywhere a dart may possibly strike. If you can tell me two salient facts about the place your dart lands—be it land or sea—you can sleep in the captain’s quarters again tonight, you may come ashore with us at the next port to meet with our contacts there, and I shall not leave you there ten pounds poorer than you were when you boarded.”
“Ten pounds! It was five pounds yesterday!”
“We know at least your arithmetic isn’t faulty. I’ve decided to up the ante, Miss Redmond—the ante is upped, for we will have fed you”—he spared an ironic glance for the lump of bread in her fist—“and housed you for additional days, as well as seen to your comfort, and I will have spent more patience upon you than I feel I can reasonably afford. And by ‘salient’ I mean some fact unique to the place. Not ‘the inhabitants build their own dwellings’ or ‘the sun comes up in the morning.’ Specifics, please. And if you fail, you will sleep in the vole hole and I will abandon you at the next port in the manner I have previously described, sans escort. I am busy. And I am weary of games.”
She stared at the map stretched out across the wall, a big beige geometry of continents and islands speckling the vast open space of a sea.
In seconds she knew hope was lost.