Declan shifted his gaze to his navigator, now also alert and awaiting directions. “Mr. Johnson—I want us out of the harbor and the estuary and on the high seas on our fastest course for Southampton as soon as may be.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Johnson swung down the port ladder and rushed to consult his charts.
Henry popped up at Declan’s shoulder, his gaze fixing on Edwina’s still face. “Lor’ love us. Will she be all right?”
The one question Declan needed an answer to—preferably fifteen minutes ago. He managed to say, “I think she’s been given a sleeping draft.”
“Well, then.” Henry waved him to the companionway to the stern cabin. “Best we get her comfortable so she can sleep it off.”
Declan hesitated, then he looked at Henry. “Can you take her down and make her comfortable?” If he took her down, he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away, and he needed to be on deck in case those who definitely wouldn’t want them to leave attempted to get in their way.
The weight of his captaincy—the responsibility any captain bore to his ship and his crew—was a burden he’d carried without a thought for more than ten years. He felt that weight now, but he couldn’t turn aside from something that was such an intrinsic part of him. And, ultimately, his presence on deck might prove vital to Edwina’s continued safety.
“Of course. Give her here.” Henry held out his arms, and Declan carefully transferred his precious bundle into his steward’s care. Henry settled her in his hold. “Me and the boys will take care of her, never fear.”
Declan saw the two cabin boys rushing up to report to Henry. With a nod to them all, he turned to the bridge.
To a man, his crew knew what they were doing; they’d slipped out silently from more than one harbor before. Tonight, with just enough moonlight and starlight to guide them, with the oars repetitively dipping in silent precision, The Cormorant slid all but noiselessly through the gentle waves of the harbor and out into the estuary, then it rode the rippling currents as Declan, having taken the wheel, ordered the oars to be shipped and called up the sails.
The wind caught the canvas. The mainsails billowed, then filled and pulled taut.
The resulting surge sent relief flooding through him.
As he brought The Cormorant’s bow onto the first tack of the course Johnson had mapped out, heading west-north-west, and the few lights still dotting Freetown dwindled behind them, Declan drew in a huge breath and held it, savoring the salty tang of the sea that was the breath of life to him, then he exhaled and felt the worst of his battle tension leave him.
No one had come after them—no one had stopped them. And now that The Cormorant was on the open sea, no one would; he’d back his ship against any other on the waves.
He called up the sails one by one. His crew worked like the well-oiled machine they truly were; soon they’d come around to a northerly tack and were flying over the waves under full sail.
Only then did he hand the wheel to Caldwell and go below.
He’d done all he could to ensure they were out of danger, all he could to ensure her safety as well as his crew’s.
Entering their cabin, he found Edwina still sleeping.
Henry had been sitting on the chair before the desk, keeping watch. He came to his feet and saluted. “Not a peep out of her, and her breathing’s steady.” The steward colored beneath his tan. “Just a suggestion, but you might want to loosen those stays of hers. She’ll likely breathe easier.”
Declan nodded. “I’ll do that.”
With a brief salute, Henry went out and quietly closed the door.
Declan crossed to the bed and stood looking down at his wife, at the angelic vision she made with her curls gleaming silver-gilt in the lamplight and the lightest of blushes tingeing her fair cheeks. She looked utterly peaceful, utterly serene.
Distinctly Madonna-like.
His gaze drifted down the body he now knew so well—and stopped just below her waist. Lying as she was, flat on her back, he could almost believe…
He forced in a breath and let it out on a sigh. He wouldn’t know more until she awoke. In the meantime, he’d do well not to let his imagination run riot.
Henry, however, had been right. Declan bent over Edwina, gently rolled her to her side, and started undoing the laces of her carriage dress. Once he’d freed her from the folds, he undid the laces of her corset and eased the constricting garment off. He thought for a moment, then removed her shoes and garters and rolled down her fine silk stockings.
Her feet were impossibly delicate and dainty; he curved his hand about one arched sole. The warmth of her foot reassured him, and something deep inside him eased.
They were out on the open sea, where the air was cooler; the temperature in the cabin was steadily falling. Settling her once more on her back, he drew the sheets and coverlet over her chemise-clad shoulders.
That done…he didn’t know what else to do. He looked around, but almost immediately, his gaze returned to the bed.
He couldn’t seem to shift his attention from it, from her. At the same time, he knew it would be foolish to start imagining, much less try to think anything through, to think back and relive the last hours. That way lay a morass of useless feelings—feelings he’d felt intensely at the time, but which had little to do with now.
Much less with what came next—not that he knew what that would be.
After several minutes of indecision, he fetched the chair from before his desk, set it beside the bed, and sat. Taking Edwina’s hand in his, letting his thumb stroke the fine skin, he waited for her to wake up and tell him—show him—that all the fears he was holding at bay were unfounded.
In the end, he realized there was, in fact, one thing he could do.
He could pray.
* * *
Edwina swam slowly up from the depths of a sound and refreshing sleep. She wasn’t normally a deep sleeper, but this morning she could feel the sheer depth of her relaxation all the way to her bones…
Memory returned in a rush.
On a smothered gasp, she opened her eyes—and saw a familiar ceiling of polished oak dappled with the first glimmer of sunrise reflected off the waves. She’d seen that sight sufficiently often in recent times to instantly be certain of where she was.
Relief washed through her. Whatever had happened after she’d succumbed, Declan had rescued her. And their baby. She spread one hand protectively over her stomach. She and the baby were safe.
But what of him? She was lying in the middle of the bed, not snuggled on the side closest to the wall as usual. Reaching out with her left hand, she confirmed that there was no large hard body sprawled alongside her.
Panic rose and clutched.
Eyes widening, she turned her head—and saw him.
He sat slumped in a chair a mere foot away, apparently as deeply asleep as she’d been. His arm was extended, his hand lying palm upward on the coverlet as if he’d been holding her hand while she slept.
Her gaze raced over him. No bandages; no injury that she could see. Relief flooded her anew.
Then she noticed he’d removed his sword belt and laid the freed sword on the floor next to the scabbard. There was blood on the blade.
What had happened after she’d fallen senseless? Had he had to fight to free her?
For a long moment, she let her senses drink him in, let the sight of his broad chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm reassure and calm her heart. Gradually, something approaching her customary equilibrium returned, yet a sense of emotional vulnerability remained.
Hardly surprising that her emotions were a trifle overset; she—and he—had been through so much in the last day.
Tipping her head back, she looked over her head at the stern windows. It was indeed daybreak; she’d slept through the night.
Looking back at him, she shifted onto her side the better to watch him.
His lids flickered, then rose slightly. Through the screen of his lashes, he stared at her.
Three seconds ticked by, then he sat up, gathered her—sheets, covers, and all—into his arms, hauled her onto his lap, and kissed her.
Kissed her as he’d never kissed her before, a ravenous claiming that stopped her heart.
Then set it beating, pounding, surging anew as she wrestled her arms and hands free, reached for him, speared her fingers through his hair, gripped his head, and kissed him back.
Ferociously.
For uncounted minutes, their emotions clashed, wild as the sea and equally powerful. He nipped at her lips; she tangled her tongue with his. Their lips fused, melded, then parted on a gasp only to come together again in giddy, desperate, greedy need.
He plundered and she rejoiced.
She held him to her, tempted and incited, and he devoured.
Buttons slipped from their moorings; they pushed the covers away. Then she rose up and took him in. With one swift, slick slide, she claimed him—impaled herself on his rigid length—and their world stopped.
Breaths bated, eyes wide, lost in each other’s gazes, they froze…
Then sensation gripped them, passion rose and seized them, and their lids fell as they gave themselves up to the wild joy of their togetherness.
Sharing.
Even in this. Even at this extremity of emotion, of unrestrained, unadulterated feeling.
Eyes closed, her lips parted on her panting breaths, she gripped his wrists as his fingers sank into her hips, and he wordlessly urged her on.
Together, they rode—flat out, hearts thundering as they raced for the cliff at the edge of their world.
And, together, soared.
Ecstasy had never shone so brightly, had never shattered them so completely, so blindingly.
Had never scored their hearts so deeply.
Like all storms, this one, too, eventually subsided.
Leaving them, chests heaving, slumped together in the chair. His arms were locked around her. Hers reached as far around him as they could.
Neither wanted to ever let go.
After uncounted minutes of wordless communion, they disengaged. She rose and used the facilities, then returned to his arms, curling her legs and sinking against him, snuggling into his embrace.
Eventually, his hand stroking gently down her spine, soothing him and her both, with his jaw resting against her hair, he murmured, “I don’t know if I can do that again.” After a moment, he clarified, “If I can survive that again.”
She knew he wasn’t talking about the past half hour’s activities. She still had no idea what had happened through their last hours in the settlement, yet… Without raising her head, she said, “But you did survive it. We both survived it. Not only that, we got all the information we needed to get—and more.”
Raising her head, she looked him in the eye. “We triumphed. Together.” She held his gaze. “I would never have felt so confident going into the governor’s house if I hadn’t known you were outside watching over me. I had no idea anything untoward would happen, but if it did, I trusted you would step in and save me. That you would protect me. Me and our child. And you did. I put my faith in you, and you didn’t fail me. Or our baby.”
She tipped her head, compelling him, convincing him with her eyes as well as with her words. “So we achieved what you’d been sent to achieve—and that will help many others and very likely save innocent lives. That proves this works. That me traveling with you works. We just proved beyond question that together we can achieve far more than if you work alone.”
He returned her regard, his gaze equally steady, but a hint of cynical resignation had crept in. After a long moment of gazing at her—during which she held her tongue—he shook his head. “I don’t understand how you do it. How you make this”—he gestured between them—“you being with me on a mission, for God’s sake, seem entirely reasonable. Indeed, logical. Even desirable.”
“Because it is.” She made sure her confidence resonated in her tone. “At least for you and me. As far as I can see, we made only one mistake this time, and we’ll learn from that.”
“We will?”
His skepticism was showing again. She nodded decisively. “The next time I walk into the lion’s den, I’ll make sure I take you with me.”
Declan knew she’d just cast a subtle lure to distract him. He also knew that this was one issue on which he was destined not to win. Not least because, while some small part of him had entertained the vague notion that his marriage to Lady Edwina Delbraith would follow the conventional norm, that small part was massively outgunned by the adventurer that ruled his soul.
He understood her, and heaven help him, she understood him. The questing of the soul that lay at the core of any adventurer was something they shared.
That the duke’s daughter he’d chosen to marry would, underneath her golden glamour, prove to be as adventurous as he… Well, Fate was no doubt cackling herself into fits.
Yet even after the excoriating fears he’d endured over the past hours, one fundamental truth, one immutable conclusion—one he’d already, in his heart of hearts, reached—remained.
If he couldn’t take her with him, he wouldn’t go adventuring again. The thought of leaving her behind…he knew he’d never do it. That was the one thing he truly wouldn’t be able to bear. Not seeing her sweet face on his pillow every morning. Not hearing her musical voice, not having her smile light up his day.
Those were now his treasures. His most precious pleasures.
The bright jewels of his soul he could no longer live without.
And yet, because she was who she was—the adventurous woman behind the glamour—he would never have to make that choice.
She’d sworn to cleave to him through sickness and health, through life and death—through danger and mayhem.
He knew that was how she saw it and how she intended to honor their marriage.
He could do no less.
She challenged him even in this—and even in this, he could not, and would not, fail her.
She was watching him still, waiting, guessing, no doubt, what track his mind had taken. She was waiting to see how he would respond—whether he would reach for her olive branch and step over the tiny rift in their road and continue hand in hand with her, or whether he would argue further.
His eyes locked with the bright blue of hers, he arched his brows. “So who was the lion?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Lady Holbrook.”
He blinked. “She drugged you?”
She nodded.
“Did the governor know?”
“I don’t believe so. In fact, he might not even know I called. The only people who saw me were the soldier on the gate, the butler, and her ladyship.”
“What did she drug you with? Do you know?” He forced his second worst fear into words. “Might it harm the baby?”
“No. It was laudanum, and lots of ladies take that, even when they’re expecting. I’m sure it was that because I’ve had it before—when I broke my arm years ago. The effects were exactly the same. And she had to have had it there on the tantalus—as she very likely would if she used it herself—because she only decided to drug me after I asked about the four young women. She didn’t have time to fetch anything else, but offered me a special cordial to drink while she dredged her memories for the answer to my question.”
“What exactly did you ask her? And did she answer?”
Edwina thought back. “First, I led her to confirm that she would recognize all the British women in the settlement. Then I asked her…” She closed her eyes, bringing the moment to mind. “Whether she recalled seeing those four women at Undoto’s services.” She opened her eyes and fastened them on his. “And yes—once she saw that I’d drunk enough for the drug to take effect, before I succumbed, she told me plainly that all four women had attended Undoto’s services—just as I had.” She looked away, remembering. “She put a certain emphasis on those last four words, as if that—attendance at the services—was a prerequisit
e for people being taken.”
“Just as Lashoria said.”
She met his eyes. “Was I taken—kidnapped—too?” When his lips tightened and he nodded, she settled deeper into his arms. “Tell me what happened.”
He did; she felt certain he skated over the bloodier aspects, but his story filled in the time until she’d been laid out on the bed.
She glanced at the window; as the ship’s bow rose on a wave, she caught a glimpse of nothing but blue-gray sea stretching all the way to a very distant horizon. “So we’re on our way back to London.”
“Yes.” The ship dipped, and he continued, “We’re running under full sail again, so you can expect a bit of pitching.”
She shrugged; she’d grown accustomed to the rise and fall of the decks on their way down to the settlement. “So how long before we reach Southampton?”
“At least twelve days.” Declan paused, then met her eyes. “I suggest we spend some of that time putting together every piece of the puzzle that we found. Whatever’s happening down there—wherever those missing people have been taken—they deserve to be rescued. Something has to be done.”
She nodded in her customary decisive fashion. “Indeed. Wolverstone and Melville have to act immediately, and it’s up to us to ensure they do.”
He tried to suppress his grin, but failed.
She saw and, distinctly imperiously, arched her brows. “What?”
“I was thinking about our upcoming interview with Wolverstone and Melville.”
“And?”
“How much I’m going to enjoy watching their expressions while you lecture them on what they must do.”
She gave him a chiding look. “I certainly won’t be lecturing them—that’s not how it’s done.”
His father’s words rang in his head: They know how to manage things. He widened his eyes at her. “Oh? So how is it done?”
She gave a confident toss of her head. “It’s easy. All one has to do is lead them to make the conclusion you wish them to make and ensure they believe that it was all their idea.”
“Ah.” He sensed that knowledge might well prove pertinent to his own future. His future dealing with her—being managed by her.