LITMIR.BIZ

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the crew with his disappearance and gain the upper hand by threatening Anne’s life.

      It would not have worked.

      He lay sprawled on the coils with William’s tunic stretched a bit tightly across his shoulders. His tousled black hair with its silver streaks fell across his cheek and over his eyes. “Mr. Barclay.” She bent to check his pulse.

      At her touch, he groaned and tried to rise. “Bloody hell,” he said, collapsing once again into the ropes. At least she would not have to explain his death to Anne.

      “Get up! You’ve been foiled, and I haven’t the time to play nursemaid.” They needed her on deck. Punishing his foolishness would have to wait.

      “For God’s sake, cut ’em off quickly,” he mumbled into his sleeve. He was delirious again, and little wonder. His eyes opened slightly. “Anne?” he rasped.

      “Is upstairs and none of your concern. Now get to your feet— I want this lantern out of the hold before it shatters and sets my ship ablaze.” She grabbed hold of his arm and pulled. The ship rolled and he lurched to his feet, nearly toppling over. He was taller than he’d seemed. Broader. She braced herself against the water casks with his weight crushing her against them as the ship’s pitch threatened to throw them both to the floor. His breath labored near her ear and one large hand curled around the edge of a cask above her.

      “Foolish man. You haven’t the strength to carry out this kind of plan.”

      “Can’t insult a man—” he exhaled sharply when he finally found his feet “—with the truth.” He backed away from her and steadied himself against the casks. “Little bugger got free, then.” His breath came hard, as though it took all his strength to stand. “Didn’t—” he inhaled, exhaled “—take his prize, though.” He held out his other hand.

      He held a strip of Mr. Bogles’s dried fish.

      It wasn’t possible. In his condition, merely leaving her cabin would have been a feat. He would not have done this for a cat.

      She didn’t want to consider that he might have done it for Anne.

      She tried to slip the dried fish into her pocket, but her clothes were soaked so she tossed it aside. His eyes met hers, then dropped. Darkened. Shot away as he dragged in another breath.

      She glanced down. Her sea-drenched clothes clung like a second skin to her breasts, and her nipples jutted hard through the wet fabric. Good God—even a brush with death wasn’t enough to cool this man’s lust. She allowed her lips to curve. “There’s no time for your lechery now, Mr. Barclay. You’ll have to control yourself. Can you walk?” He tried a step, but the ship’s heave and roll threw him off balance immediately. She caught him beneath the arm and tried to help.

      “I’ve got it,” he said sharply, trying to steady himself as the lantern swung noisily from its hook above them. “Only let me hold...the casks.”

      She let go. “Did you think you could hide from us here and gain some advantage?”

      He worked his way along, out of breath and fighting to stay on his feet. “My plan to lure you into the hold...and ravish you...has gone disappointingly awry.”

      “Insolent bastard.” Her clammy skin flushed unaccountably hot. “It’s no wonder you had trouble with Captain Warre.”

      He grunted. “Stodgy old cuss...” They made it to the last of the casks, and he lurched toward the stairs. “Never did approve—” he dragged in a breath “—of ravishing.” His hands curled around the railing and he rested there, ashen-faced.

      “Can you climb the stairs alone?”

      His eyes swept their length, and he gave a nod.

      “Then above and to bed,” she ordered in a tone she might have used with Anne. The man had lost his mind as well as his strength.

      He pulled himself up the first step and glanced at her. “A tempting offer...Captain.”

      A tempting— “Above!”

      This was no demoted midshipman. He was an officer, or she’d swallow her cutlass. As soon as they were safely through the strait, she would instruct William to lock Mr. Barclay in the cabin André had occupied. And then she would force the truth from him.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      THE TRUTH HAD to wait for two days while the lecherous Mr. Barclay, now occupying his new quarters, slept. Millicent fed him broth four times a day and ruthlessly shooed everyone else away.

      They were safely through the strait with the storm long behind them, but the story of Mr. Barclay’s heroics would not die. Anne insisted on retelling it to everyone. Multiple times.

      “Mama, may we go see him now? Please? Millicent says he’s awake.” Anne tugged on her sleeve. “Please, Mama. He’s better now.”

      Apparently that was supposed to be good news. “In a moment, dearest.” Katherine dipped her quill, started to scratch another coordinate in her massive logbook, but veered away at the last moment and added another name to the scrap of paper that held the short list of people in Britain who might be able to help her. Lord De Lille. Hadn’t he been one of Papa’s friends?

      Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: Damn me, Katie, there’s not a soul in all of England or Scotland that can outwager De Lille.

      She rubbed her forehead, trying to remember names and relationships from more than a decade ago. But Papa had had so many friends. The only one she truly remembered was his best friend, Lord Deal, and according to the solicitor’s letter, he was already working to fight the bill that threatened her inheritance.

      Her fingers tightened around the quill. What if Mr. Allen’s letter hadn’t found her? The bill was unlikely to pass, he’d written. That it had been read once in the Lords meant little—that the second reading had been put off six months was far more telling.

      “Mama, please. What if he goes back to sleep?”

      Then the inevitable would be delayed a few pleasant hours longer. Perhaps Mr. Barclay’s actions had been—in the most attenuated sort of way—laudable. And as galling as it was, she could no longer deny that his folly in the hold had been for Anne’s sake. Midshipman or officer, he would have known a one-man insurrection would fail.

      Katherine would have been happy to ignore his sacrifice for Mr. Bogles. But it was not to be.

      Anne’s dusky lips pursed a little with impatience, and small, dark brows dove with frustration. Sometimes she looked so much like Mejdan’s mother it was hard to know whether to laugh or cry.

      “Very well,” Katherine said, finally setting down her quill. “Come along.” With all the enthusiasm of a convict on his way to the gallows, she led Anne into the passageway.

      “I can give him the scroll, right?” Anne whispered outside the door to André’s old cabin.

      “Yes, sweetling.”

      “But you’ll tell him.”

      “I will tell him.” Many things, but most of them not until Anne left. Mr. Barclay may have yet been unwell—she knocked once and turned the key—but she intended to have the answers to her questions. “Mr. Barclay—”

      The bed was empty. There was a splash, and her attention shot to the bureau. He leaned over the basin with his hair slicked back and water dripping off his face, wearing only a pair of William’s trousers.

      “Mama, ow!” Anne tugged at her hand.

      Katherine eased her grip. “Perhaps we should—”

      “Mr. Barclay,” Anne called into the cabin, “we’ve come to pay you a special visit.”

      Return later. “Anne...”

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