LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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