Lord Of The Privateers

As usual, he saw the situation as she did. She was well acquainted with his natural protectiveness; she could rely on him to ensure their son was safe. Truth be told, it was something of a relief to have someone she trusted with whom to share parental responsibility—a lightening of the burden she’d carried entirely by herself since Duncan was born.

Although Royd had remained leaning against the washstand, as far from her as he could reasonably be in the confines of the cabin, even though she’d left the door to the main cabin open, she was nevertheless intensely aware of him, his physical presence—that he was just a yard or so away and she was sitting on his bed. A sort of sensual fluster, a tempting distraction, had risen inside her, but she’d be damned if she let him see any hint of her abiding susceptibility. She fought to maintain her expression of calm focus. “Very well.” She raised her gaze and met his eyes. “When in the morning will we reach Ramsgate?”

He almost gave her the time in bells; she saw the fractional hesitation as he worked out the hours. The instant his boots hit a deck, he converted to ship’s time, but she’d never been able to keep ship’s bells in her head.

“About ten o’clock. It depends on the tide.”

Deliberately regal, she inclined her head and rose. “In that case, I’ll start packing.” She walked to the door to her cabin. She paused in the doorway; without looking back, she said, “Thank you for telling me about the mission.” She tipped her head. “Good night.”

She walked into her cabin and closed the door on his low-voiced, darkly sensual “Good night.”

And only then allowed a reactive shiver to course through her. His tone had evoked memories of sliding sheets, naked skin, hot hard muscles, and bone-deep pleasure.

Frowning, she banished the images and busied herself getting one of her trunks ready for a short sojourn in London. She wished she’d asked Royd how long he thought they would be there, but suspected even he didn’t know. If they were waiting on Caleb and The Prince to return from Freetown, there was no telling how long that might be.

Later, after she’d changed into her nightgown, turned out the last lamp, and slid between the sheets, she lay on her back and stared at the starlight washing across the cabin’s coffered ceiling.

She didn’t try to stop her mind from replaying their recent exchanges. In looking back over the years, at a past she now knew a great deal more about, it seemed as if their handfasting had attracted the notice of some malignant Fate—one that had arranged for the mission that had called him away and ensured he hadn’t been able to come home or to contact her. His absence had allowed her doubts to rise and gain strength. And because she had doubted herself so much, she hadn’t believed in him. She’d lost faith in what had been between them, had convinced herself the link was too weak to sustain a marriage.

But what lay between them had been far stronger than she’d thought—it had sunk its claws into him as much as it had her—and it had never eased its grip. It certainly hadn’t died. It hadn’t even withered from neglect.

That bond still thrummed and thrived—in every glance, every touch. In every meeting of their minds.

And now there they were, setting off on a different yet similar mission, this time together with their son by their side and her cousin, by all accounts, among the captives they would fight to free.

“Fate,” she murmured, “moves in decidedly cynical ways.”

But it wasn’t Fate that occupied the center of her mind. It wasn’t even Duncan.

Royd was there again. He’d never slipped from her mind entirely, but he hadn’t commanded that central position for the past eight years. Now he’d reclaimed it, becoming the lynchpin in the wheel of her existence.

And the revelation of his other life—of the missions he’d run, the dangers he’d faced, the risks he’d taken for king and country—had only repainted her long-ago, somewhat-faded picture of him in bright, intense hues. The Royd of now was infinitely more vibrant, vital, and virile than her memories.

He was everything she’d dreamed he might grow to be, and more. He now possessed dimensions that hadn’t been there before, and they called to her even more powerfully.

He’d reclaimed that place at the center of her soul as if by fiat—by right.

The irony of it was that it had been she who had marched into his office and insisted he deal with her on a personal level again—she who had invited him to resume that dominant position, not that she’d imagined he would reclaim it, much less so effortlessly.

That hadn’t been a part of her calculations at all.

Thinking of calculations...she wasn’t at all sure what his were—exactly what steps he had in mind. He’d made her privy to his past, something he hadn’t needed to do, yet had. He’d allowed her to see more than anyone would have expected him—a man like him—to reveal of how their fraught past had affected him. Then he’d shared all he knew about his current mission before she’d asked, and topped it off by readily acquiescing to her accompanying him to London and—although they hadn’t specifically discussed the point—insinuating herself into the mission, by his side.

She was intimately acquainted with how his mind worked. He always had a goal in mind. With respect to her, to them, she didn’t yet know what his desired goal was—he hadn’t yet shared that detail with her. Perhaps he didn’t yet know himself; the Lord knew she was still at sea as to what the possibilities were, what options they might have.

From her point of view, what lay between them was a sea of uncertainty. Yet as he’d suggested, there might, even after eight years apart, be something between them worth fighting for.

A proper marriage and a shared future?

That had been the goal that, once, had glowed ahead of them, almost within their reach.

But they’d stumbled at the last, courtesy of Fate.

Now they’d come around again...but were they on the right tack to secure the same goal, or had they lost their way entirely and were sailing on some other sea?

Her thoughts merged into dreams before she caught even a glimpse of an answer.

* * *

Isobel stood at the starboard rail and watched Ramsgate draw nearer. The headland to the north of the town slid smoothly past; flocks of seagulls rising into the air and settling again marked the harbor just beyond.

The day had dawned fine, the sky clearer now they were farther south. The seas were running reasonably smoothly—no impediment to them being rowed into the harbor and to the main wharf.

Earlier, over breakfast, she’d sat back and let Royd break the news to Duncan that they would be leaving the ship to go to London while he remained aboard and traveled on to Southampton.

If she’d thought more about it—if she’d put herself in Duncan’s shoes—she might have realized that his reaction would be one of relief; at his age, London held little allure, while the prospect of spending more time aboard The Corsair—under Liam Stewart’s wing and with unlimited access to the rest of the crew—was Duncan’s idea of heaven.

Royd—in typical Royd fashion—had immediately capitalized on Duncan’s rapture to address the next stage of the adventure. Royd had made his expectations clear; once he and she rejoined The Corsair in Southampton, Duncan could decide whether he wanted to return to Aberdeen in the company of one of Royd’s men or sail on with them to their destination. However, if he chose the latter, once they reached Freetown, Duncan would have to remain on board—without complaint—throughout the time they were in the tropics.

“Your choice,” Royd had concluded. “Think about it during the days you’re in Southampton. While there, you can accompany the crew onto the docks and into the town, as long as you first get Liam’s approval. While I’m absent, Liam’s word is law on The Corsair. But once we return, if you elect to sail on with us, I will need your word that you will remain on board until we reach Southampton again.”

Duncan was clever enough not to rush into making a decision. He’d nodded soberly. “All right.”

So matters with Duncan were as settled as they could be.

Which left her able to focus on her quest to find and rescue Katherine. And on the more immediate and distinctly fraught question of how to deal with Royd.

Of deciding what to do about him, her, and their future.

Courtesy of Duncan stowing away, Royd and she clearly now had a future, but what shape it might take...

Despite all she’d learned over the past days, rescripting beliefs held for years couldn’t, she’d discovered, be accomplished overnight. Even though she now understood the why of Royd’s behavior eight years ago, her emotions—her feelings—hadn’t yet seen the light.

Hadn’t yet let go of their entrenched resistance, much less lowered the shields she had, for nearly a decade, deployed. In time, that might come, but meanwhile, she still felt very much on guard around him—still instinctively kept her heart shielded.

She’d once been utterly open to him, and he’d hurt her. That was a truth, too, one her emotions hadn’t yet accepted could be excused and forgiven.

Rescripting emotions appeared akin to resetting a building’s foundations—difficult, and once done, other things needed to be changed to keep the building stable. Similar to altering a ship’s hull and having to change structures throughout the vessel to compensate. In short, such a change was not a simple one.

And Royd was rarely patient, not over anything he’d set his mind to achieving, but presumably, he, too, would be struggling with similar inner difficulties.

As Ramsgate harbor came into full view, and Liam swung the wheel and called for the wind to be spilled from the sails and for all canvas to be lowered, she turned to look back along the deck—and saw Royd pacing toward her. His eyes were fixed on her; although his features told her little, the intensity of his gaze suggested he’d already moved past any difficulties he might have had.

For an instant, she felt bathed in the force of his will, the invincibility of his intent. It took effort to drag her gaze from his—to look to where the crew were readying the tender to swing it over the side.

To remember how to breathe.

He halted beside her and looked at the tender. “I had them load your bandbox and the brown trunk. That was the right one, wasn’t it?”

Surreptitiously, she cleared her throat. “Yes.” Where did this fluster come from? She knew this man, had for years, yet... She glanced around. “Where’s Duncan?”

“By the winch.”

The sight of her son—their son—calmed her. He was standing beside Jolley, listening intently to the bosun’s crisp orders and avidly watching every move the sailors made.

His gaze on her face, Royd said, “I told him he couldn’t go in the tender—not this time—but that he’d have plenty of opportunity to ride in it and learn to row while in Southampton.”

As usual, their minds traveled on similar lines. “No telling who might be on the wharf to see him farewell us.”

“Indeed. But in Southampton, the wharves will be so crowded it’s unlikely anyone will pay much attention to one boy, even if he’s with my crew.”

“Even if they did, they’ll assume he’s a cabin boy.”

The tender had been swung over the side and steadily lowered; it landed in the sea with a small splash. Four sailors slid down the ropes to land in the bobbing vessel, followed by Williams, Royd’s quartermaster. In the gap where the ship’s side had been opened, Jolley—assisted by Duncan—sent a rope ladder unrolling toward the tender.

Together, Isobel and Royd walked to the gap. Isobel peered out and was relieved to see that the end of the ladder reached the tender’s side; she could drop the last yard easily enough.

She turned to Duncan—and he flung himself at her and hugged her.

“Goodbye, Mama!” He tipped his head back and looked into her face, and the delight that radiated from him slayed any whisper of worry that he was secretly bothered by them being parted, however temporarily. He grinned exuberantly. “I’ll see you in Southampton!”

Her heart twisted a little as she smiled back, then she hugged him close and bent to press a kiss to his forehead—the only sort of public bussing he would currently permit. “Be good.” She released him and stepped back.

Royd briefly met Isobel’s eyes, then hunkered down beside Duncan, bringing his head level with his son’s. He caught and held Duncan’s gaze. “Remember—on board ship, the captain’s word is law, and Mr. Stewart is captain while I’m ashore. If you break the law, then you won’t be able to remain aboard. If that happens, we”—with a brief glance, he included Isobel—“will be forced to send you back to Aberdeen with an escort.” He returned his gaze to Duncan’s now-sober dark eyes. “That’s what happens when someone breaks ship’s law. They don’t get to board that ship again.”

Entirely serious, Duncan shook his head from side to side. “I won’t break ship’s law.”

Royd grinned—man-to-man—and rose. “I know you won’t—you’re too clever for that.”

Duncan’s brilliant smile bloomed again. “Goodbye.” He held out his hand.

Royd grasped it, but instead of shaking hands, pulled Duncan into him. He hugged Duncan’s slight body and ruffled his hair, then when Duncan squealed with laughter, let him go. “As your mother said, be good.”

With that, he turned to Isobel. “Let me go down first.”

He suited action to the words. She’d elected to wear an ivory carriage dress, severe and form-fitting. When they met in office or shipyards, she routinely wore darker colors, most likely to better withstand the inevitable dust and grime. Although no hue could mute her vivid coloring, certainly not in his eyes, the ivory outfit, with its matching hat, gloves, and half-boots, made her a cynosure for all eyes, male and female alike. And although he knew she could swim, he would rather she didn’t get dipped in the drink; his men wouldn’t be able to catch her, but he knew her weight and could.

He dropped into the tender, caught his balance, and looked up. She was already more than halfway down.

Accustomed to going up and down ladders, she knew the knack of accomplishing the feat in skirts. He’d never worked out how she did it, but her skirts never flared, nor did they tangle her feet.

She slowed as she neared the end of the ladder and stopped on the last rung, leaving her swinging just above the tender’s side.

He reached up and grasped her waist. She clung to the ladder for an instant—whether to allow him to adjust to their combined weights or simply from surprise—then she released her grip on the ropes, and he swung her inboard and set her on her feet before the middle bench.

“Thank you.” She looked down, brushing her skirts.

Royd glanced up at the deck and saw Liam Stewart looking down, a grin on his face. Royd sketched a salute. “Command is yours, Mr. Stewart.”

Liam snapped off a salute in reply. “Aye, aye, Captain. We’ll see you in Southampton.”

The opening in the ship’s side rattled back into place. Duncan’s face appeared over the top edge. He waved energetically. “Goodbye!”

Royd grinned and waved back. He glanced down and saw Isobel, seated on the middle bench, smiling and waving, too.

One set of hurdles cleared.

At his nod, Williams, at the tiller, barked an order, and the four sailors seated on the benches fore and aft bent to the oars. Royd sat beside Isobel, and the tender came smoothly around and set off for the harbor and the inner basin beyond. “We’ll use the water stairs before the Castle Hotel. It has the best stables in town—we’ll be able to hire a carriage and four there.”

She nodded. A moment later, she murmured, “What you said to Duncan—that was...clever, too.”

His gaze on the hulls ahead of them, instinctively plotting the course Williams would take through the maze, he replied, “As we both know, there’s no point hoping he won’t have wild impulses. The best we can do is teach him to think through the consequences—that there always will be consequences—before he gives in to the wildness.”

She snorted softly. “Spoken as one who knows all about wildness?”

He nodded. “Just like you.”

* * *

Apparently, Frobisher captains used the Castle Hotel on the Harbour Parade frequently enough to not just be recognized but welcomed as princes. The landlord greeted Royd effusively and, immediately on being informed of their need, showed them to a small, well-appointed private parlor where they might wait in relative peace while his ostlers scrambled to harness the house’s very best team to their fastest, most recently acquired carriage.

That exercise didn’t take long. Having declined an offer of tea, as soon as the head ostler looked in to report that their conveyance stood waiting, Isobel declared herself ready to depart.

She’d spent the fifteen minutes in the parlor mentally listing all the subjects on which she needed to quiz Royd in an attempt to force her mind and her witless senses from dwelling on the recent scintillating moments when he had touched her—when he’d lifted her from the ladder to the rowboat in a potent display of mind-numbing strength, then later, when he’d handed her from the boat to the water stair and had to seize her and steady her when her boot slipped on the slimy stone. In that case, she’d landed flush against him, breast to chest, and had lost her breath. Then she’d tumbled into his gray eyes and nearly lost her wits entirely; she’d only just resisted the urge to haul his head down and kiss him.

She knew perfectly well what caused such reactions—there was no sense pretending they had never been intimate—but the effect of such moments was proving to be more intense, more distracting, and indeed, more discombobulating than she’d foreseen.

Of course, he had to hand her into the carriage, but that much touch, she could deal with; even though there was no escaping the undercurrent of possessiveness that imbued even that minor gallantry, she could ignore it.

After the head ostler shut the door and the coachman cracked his whip, the carriage—excellently well-sprung and obviously new—rocked out of the inn yard and wound its way out of the town and onto the highway.

She waited as long as she could—as long as she could bear the impact of his nearness without reacting in any way. They were bowling along, the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves a steady, reassuring rhythm, when the sense of being private and alone with him at close quarters grew too intense, and she surrendered and broached the first topic on her list. Or, at least, the first point she thought it safe to address.

The implication underlying Royd’s discussion with Duncan over breakfast that morning had been that, when in Freetown, she would accompany him off-ship. While that was precisely what she wished, she had to wonder how far his new policy of including her in his mission would stretch. Now, however, wasn’t the moment to examine that issue; better to wait until she knew more about Katherine’s whereabouts and the details of his mission.

That said, he would know she would have noticed the change in his tack.

“I’ll admit that while I’m”—reassured? appeased?—“impressed by your willingness to take me into your confidence with respect to this mission, I’m unsure as to whether you will be, for instance, interested in my opinions on the matter.”

He was sitting opposite her; across the carriage, he met her eyes. “I am. I expect to hear your opinions.” His lips twitched. “Indeed, I feel supremely confident that I’ll hear your opinions whether I invite them or not.”

She sent him a distinctly unimpressed look.

His smile deepened, and he settled more comfortably against the squabs. “But yes, I expect us to work together on this. Unless your cousin has fallen prey to some other scheme entirely—which, frankly, is unlikely, not in such a relatively small settlement—then I expect our goals will align, and our paths forward will be intertwined.”

She studied him for a full minute, trying to see, to imagine... “You’re no more likely to invite a woman to share command than the next captain.”

“But I’m not inviting just any woman to join me—I’m inviting you.”

The intensity in his gray gaze assured her he meant exactly that with full knowledge of the consequences. She couldn’t stop herself from baldly asking, “Why?”

“Because despite all the storm water under our joint bridge, we’ve always—since I was eleven and you were six, for heaven’s sake—worked well together. Our characters are similar, so we understand each other instinctively, often without the need for explanations—which we both find boring—and our talents are astonishingly complementary.” He hesitated, then went on, “You might not realize how rare that is, but as a team...we’re blessed.”

“Together we’re more than each of us separately?”

“Exactly.” He paused, then said, “You know my mother often sailed with my father—more or less whenever she could. When she was on board, she was Papa’s first mate in every sense, except the actual sailing. That wasn’t an interest of hers, but everything else to do with his voyages was as much her domain as his.” He held her gaze levelly. “So in my family, having the captain’s wife aboard, functioning more or less as an equal partner, is not a novel concept.”

She wasn’t his wife...except she was. Rather than venture into that quagmire—one topic she was definitely not ready to discuss—she inclined her head and turned to the next item on her list. “Speaking of your family, who can I expect to meet in London?”

“Declan and Edwina—we’ll stay at their house. And Robert’s there at present, along with Miss Aileen Hopkins, who returned from Freetown with him. Robert and Miss Hopkins intend to marry, but because of the ongoing mission, they haven’t announced their betrothal yet.”

She’d heard of Declan’s wedding, held at a ducal estate somewhere in England. “I gather Lady Edwina visited Aberdeen after their wedding, but we didn’t meet. She’s a duke’s daughter, isn’t she?”

Royd nodded. “As you’ll have noted, that didn’t prevent her from sailing with Declan to Freetown and immersing herself in his leg of the mission. It seems her contribution was significant—she manages social situations very well.”

Declan had always struck her as the most conservative of the brothers; she found herself rather more interested in meeting his wife than she had been. “What do you know of Miss Hopkins?”

“I’ve never met her, but she’s the younger sister of two navy men I know. They have an even younger brother who’s a lieutenant with the West Africa Squadron, and like your cousin, he, too, has inexplicably disappeared.”

“He was one of those sent to look for the army engineer who vanished, wasn’t he? That was in Declan’s and Robert’s letters.”

“Indeed.” Royd paused, then grimaced. “While I understand why Caleb took Robert’s journal, I wish he’d left a copy.”

“By the sound of it, there wasn’t time.”

Royd humphed. “He didn’t waste time setting sail so no one could stop him.”

Why did he want Robert’s journal? “Is Robert’s journal like yours?”

He shook his head. “Mine’s more like a captain’s log. Robert keeps a much more detailed record. There’ll be lots of descriptions and sketches. It’s a habit he picked up from my mother, and in circumstances like this, it’s a godsend.”

“Presumably Caleb will bring Robert’s journal back. You’ll have time to read it before we reach Freetown.”

He nodded absentmindedly, his gaze shifting to the trees flashing past.

The carriage was rocketing along; they’d passed onto a properly macadamed stretch, and the pounding of the horses’ hooves resembled thunder.

After the coachman took a curve at speed, forcing her to steady herself with a hand against the side, she looked at Royd. “Did you say something to the coachman about being in a rush?”

“I offered him ten guineas if he got us to Stanhope Street before three o’clock.”

She considered that as the reckless, unquestionably risky pace continued unabated. The sooner they reached Stanhope Street—presumably where Declan and his Edwina lived—the sooner she’d be able to put some space between Royd and her, and the sooner her nerves, tense in a way she recognized from long ago, would ease.