He saw the glint of green beneath her lashes. Before she could think to say anything, he reached down and tugged off her boots, rolled down her stockings, and drew off her breeches.
Leaving her totally naked, still sprawled, letting him look his fill as he swiftly dispensed with his own clothes, then, naked, let his body down on hers, covering her, with one hard thrust mounting her, feeling her arch instinctively beneath him, then wriggle to more comfortably accommodate his harder bones, his different angles.
Clamping one hand about the worked head of the bed where it attached to the wall, he looked down at her beneath him and let the reins fall, let his body surge.
Again and again, he moved powerfully over her, thrusting deeply into her, smoothly, rhythmically, taking her, possessing her. Imprinting the feel of him deep within her.
He didn’t stop when she dragged in a huge breath, thrust a little faster as she raised her arms, ran her hands down his sides, over his back, then helplessly clung.
And started riding with him, her body undulating beneath his, actively receiving him.
Giving him all, everything he wanted.
All of her, every last gasp, every moment of passion he wrung from her. With his free hand, he reached down and gripped her thigh, raised it. She lifted it further, wrapped that leg, then the other, around his hips, opening herself even more.
So he could fill her even more deeply, take even more of, her luscious heat, bathe even more deeply in her scalding glory.
Eyes closing, he rode on, harder, ever more powerfully pushing her on. He could feel his grip on reality fracturing, feel the siren call of her body as it tightened around his, inexorably racking the wheel of passion to the last degree.
He raised his free hand, blindly searched and found her face, framed it, then bent his head and sank into her mouth. Filled it to the same primal rhythm with which he filled her sheath.
Swallowed her scream as she climaxed beneath him, as bucking and straining she fractured, and ecstasy took her, racked her, raked her.
As she pulled him with her, hands clutching, her sheath a velvet fist clamping around him until he surrendered, until, on a long, hoarse groan, one she drank in, he gave himself to her.
Sometime later, Linnet awoke, immediately reassured by the weight of the heavily muscled leg entwined with hers, by the warmth of the hard chest wedged beside hers. Opening her eyes, she saw Logan propped on one arm alongside her. The narrow bed forced him to lie half over her—no bad thing in her opinion.
The moonlight had strengthened, pouring through the stern portholes to bathe his face, limning the chiseled angles in silver. Revealing his expression, the firm set of his lips, but drowning his blue eyes in shadows.
A long moment passed, then he said, his voice deep, low, but definite, “I meant what I said. I can’t believe you can conceive of anything in this world powerful enough to make me give you up. Make me not return. Only death, or something close to it, will stop me coming back for you.”
She said nothing; there seemed nothing she could say. In this, their views were diametrically opposed, and no amount of his loving was going to change that. But … “I believe you believe that.” She had to allow him that. “I don’t think you’re, just saying it, a sop to your conscience or mine. But—and yes, there is a but—I don’t have your faith that, once back in your real world, away from my world, you’ll still see things the same way.”
The twisting of his lips told her clearly what he thought of her lack of faith, her inability to believe. But after searching her face for a moment more, he shifted, then slumped over her shoulder, laid his arm across her, holding her half beneath him.
If their minds weren’t in accord, their bodies were. Sleep drifted over them, inexorably drew them down.
Before it captured them completely, he murmured, his voice a dark, faintly Scottish rumble by her ear, “One of us is wrong. Bone-stubborn witch that you are, it’s going to be glorious when you realize it’s you.”
Linnet fell asleep smiling.
Close to midnight
Shrewton House, London
Daniel strode into the bedroom he and Alex had been sharing, brushing lingering snowflakes from his coat. By the flickering firelight, he saw Alex rise to prop in the bed, brows arching in question.
Closing the door, Daniel headed for the bed. “The snow’s coming down heavily. I’d forgotten how wet snow here is. The roads are slush.”
“I thought you and dear Roderick were off to deal with Hamilton in Surrey.”
Daniel grimaced, and sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “So we’d thought, but by the time we reached the area, he—or those with him, guards like Delborough had, according to the few of ours left to tell the tale—had removed those of our men sent to trail their party, and before you lose your temper, the party split into four, so there were only two, men at most following any group.” Boots off, he stood and stripped off his coat. “With our followers dispatched, the devil and his henchmen went to ground. But all is not lost.”
Tossing his coat aside, he started on his waistcoat. “Roderick and I managed to track our men well enough to get a reasonable idea of the area in which Hamilton’s bolt-hole is. We’ve left men enough to trail him whichever way he runs, and they’ll send word as soon as he does.”
“Hmm.” Alex resettled in the bed. “I still think it’s close to certain he’ll head in the same direction—toward the same ultimate goal—as Delborough. Somewhere in Cambridgeshire, northern Suffolk, or Norfolk, to whoever is the puppetmaster pulling all their strings.”
Daniel tugged his shirt from his breeches. “Did you have any luck with finding a new base closer to the action?”
“Yes. Creighton proved most useful. From his description, the house he’s found in Bury St. Edmunds will be just the thing. I’ve organized for our removal there tomorrow.”
Undoing his breeches, Daniel nodded. “You’ve sent word to all our scattered commanders?”
“I have. I thought it best to get the word out before the weather closed in.”
“So what’s happened with Delborough?”
“Larkins is, apparently, confident his little thief is terrified enough to deliver Delborough’s scroll-holder to him—he seems very sure, but I’d rather Roderick went up there tomorrow to make certain nothing goes amiss.” Alex rolled over as Daniel lifted the pale blue silk covers and climbed into the bed. “As for Monteith and Carstairs, we’ve had no further news.”
“With any luck, both are already dead.”
Alex grimaced. “Much as I’d like to believe that … Delborough and Hamilton, too, were supposed to be dead by now. Yet they live, and still have their scroll-holders, and what’s more, are steadily getting closer to their goal—wherever that is. Regardless, our cultists are having a harder, time of it here in England. Not only do they stand out, but they’re also having difficulty comprehending that they can’t simply kill, torture, and intimidate as they do at home in India.”
“Sadly true. And they can’t gain access to places like Grillon’s.” Daniel turned to Alex, smiled through the shadows. “I suspect we might have to take a hand ourselves.” His smile widened. “I know how much killing distresses you, m’dear, but you’ll simply have to grin and bear it.”
Alex laughed and reached for Daniel. “I will. For you, I will. Still, I just hope we’ve brought enough assassins to assist.”
Ten
December 16, 1822
St. Peter Port, Guernsey
The day was overcast, dense clouds in myriad shades of gray blocking out the weak sun. A cold wind strafed low over the sea, sending whipped gray-green waves spraying in plumes over the rocky breakwater.
Standing beside Linnet at the helm, with the wind raking chill fingers through his hair, Logan watched the gun emplacements of Castle Cornet slide away to starboard as, under limited sail, the Esperance rode the tide out of the harbor.
The Channel swell lifted the prow high. Linnet held the wheel, held cou
rse, her gaze locked on the breakwater to port. The instant the stern cleared the line of tumbled rocks, she snapped out orders, relayed by her bosun down on the main deck. Sailors leapt to obey, many already hanging in the rigging above. Her gaze now following their movements, as more sails unfurled, Linnet turned the wheel, hand over hand, and steady and sure, the Esperance came around.
As the prow came onto the heading she wanted, she called out more orders, setting sail to run north along the island’s coast. Once they rounded the northern headland, she’d turn northwest for Plymouth.
Sensing the sheer power of the ship beneath his feet, of wind and waves expertly harnessed, Logan looked up, admiring the taut sails, square-rigged on the fore and main masts. At the top of the main mast, the Guernsey flag flapped and snapped in the stiff breeze.
Beside him, Linnet called out another order, and a young sailor dashed to the mizzenmast. Logan watched him operate the lines of some other flag; shading his eyes, he looked up to see … squinted. Blinked and looked again.
He was army, not navy, yet he recognized one of the various Royal Navy ensigns now flapping high above the Esperance’s deck.
Stupified, he turned to Linnet, gestured. “What the devil does that mean?”
She grinned, corrected the wheel a trifle, then handed it over to Griffiths. “Straight north, then northwest. We’ll take the most direct route unless we see anything that suggests otherwise.”
Griffiths nodded and settled behind the wheel.
Turning to Logan, Linnet waved him to the starboard side of the stern deck. “That”—with her head she indicated the ensign above—”is the strongest plank in the argument that the Esperance is the best ship to carry you to Plymouth.”
Logan stared at the ensign, then looked at her. “I don’t understand. How can the Esperance still be sailing under a Letter of Marque, much less with you as captain?”
Leaning on the stern railing, looking out over their wake, Linnet smiled. “The Trevission family has held an extant Letter of Marque for literally centuries.” She cast Logan a glance. “Englishmen forget that the islanders are more allied to the English Crown than they are. We—the Channel Islands—have been part of the Duchy of Normandy for untold centuries, and still are—your King is our Duke. We’re a property of the English Crown, not of the British state. As such, we’ve fought the French for just as long, if not longer. We’ve been a bastion against the French, and the Spanish, too, in centuries past, and in more recent, times through the Peninsula Wars, we played a crucial part in England’s defense, specifically in imposing naval supremacy.
“As I mentioned earlier, the Esperance—this version of her, there have been four—played a role in the evacuation of Corunna. Later we guarded your troop ships when the army returned. The Guernsey merchant fleet in particular has always provided a bulwark against direct attack on the Channel coast from any of the ports in Brittany, all the way to Cherbourg. And because we’re usually out and about, traveling the western reaches of the Channel, we’ve often provided early warning of any attack from further afield, to the west and south. Without us patrolling those waters, covering so many of the sea lanes, Plymouth and Falmouth wouldn’t have been able to concentrate their fleets on the Channel itself, on discouraging Napoleon from launching his invasion from Boulogne, and then later supplying and protecting the army when you returned for Waterloo.”
She met Logan’s eyes. “English naval dominance owes no small debt to the merchant ships of Guernsey. And the commanders at Castle Cornet, and at Plymouth and Falmouth, know it.”
“Which explains why you informed the castle before sailing—your courtesy call to Foxwood.” Logan studied her face, saw the passion behind the history. “Does the Admiralty know that Captain Trevission of the Esperance is a woman?”
Her lips twisted in a cynical smile. “They do, but you would, I suspect, never get them to admit it. Not in any way.”
He considered, then said, “What you’ve told me explains why your family held a Letter of Marque until your father died. What it doesn’t explain is why it was renewed after his death, presumably with you as holder, and why it’s still in force so long after the end of the war.” He glanced up, then looked back at her. “I’m assuming you are legally entitled to fly that?”
She chuckled and turned, leaning back against the rail to, look up at the ensign. “Yes, indeed—I’m fully entitled to claim the right, might, and protection of the Royal Navy.” She met his eyes. “Which is why the Esperance sailing under marque is the perfect vessel to carry you to Plymouth. With that ensign flying up there, any captain would have to have rocks in his head to even challenge us.”
Logan shook his head. “I can’t argue that, not anymore, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”
Linnet met his eyes, then looked ahead, along the ship. “My father died in ‘13. I was seventeen. You know how things were in the Peninsula at that time—you were there. The navy desperately needed the Esperance sailing, and more, sailing under marque—she was, still is, the fastest ship of her size in these waters, the best armed, most agile, and her crew the most experienced and best trained. The navy couldn’t afford to lose the Esperance, not at that juncture. The Admiralty received urgent petitions from the island, as well as the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth.
“No doubt the Admiralty sputtered and paled, but the admirals of the fleets and the then-commander at Castle Cornet all knew me. They knew I’d been trained to sail the Esperance by my father, that I could, and frequently did, take command. They knew I’d already seen more battles than most of their own captains, that I’d been sailing these waters since I could stand.” She glanced at Logan, smiled cynically again. “Basically the Admiralty had no choice. They renewed the Letter of Marque exactly as it had been for centuries—to Captain Trevission of the Esperance.
“So I took over in my father’s place, and the Esperance continued sailing, patrolling, fighting the French. Mostly to hold them at bay. Other than certain special missions, our role was to ensure no speedy French frigate tried to spy on Plymouth or Falmouth, and then race home to report. As you might imagine, the Esperance is well known. The instant any French frigate lays eyes on us, it piles on sail and flees.”
She paused, eyes instinctively checking the sails, the, wind, the waves. “As to why the Letter of Marque is still in effect, the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth recommended it remain in effect permanently, essentially because they have no faith that, should their need of the Esperance’s services arise again, they’ll be able to convince the Admiralty to issue a new letter to a female captain—at least not quickly enough.”
Pushing away from the rail, studying the sails, she strode to the forward rail of the stern deck and called a sail change. Again, the crew sprang instantly to carry out the order. After considering the result, she spoke with Griffiths, then, leaving him with the wheel, swung down the ladder to the main deck. Logan followed more slowly as she strolled to the prow, looking over the waves as she went, constantly checking the breeze and the sails above, reading the wind and the sky.
It was as if, now they were out on the sea, it called to her. She seemed to have some connection with the elements that commanded this sphere, some ability beyond the norm to interpret and anticipate. Even he could sense that, see it. A commander himself, he didn’t need to ask the men, her experienced and well-trained crew, what they thought of her; their respect, and more—their unshakable confidence in her to the point they would unhesitatingly obey her orders, would follow her into battle with total conviction that she would guide them in the best way—shone in every interaction.
The crew trusted her implicitly. It wasn’t hard to see why. Her competence—and that certain, almost magical ability—were constantly on show. As the deck rolled and pitched as the ship neared the northern point and Linnet called more sail changes, trapping the wind as she prepared the Esperance to come about onto a northwest heading for Plymouth, Logan felt the power beneath
his feet, felt the rush of the wind, the lifting surge of the ocean, and fully understood the crew’s eagerness to sail on this ship, with her.
He watched as, satisfied for the moment, she strode swiftly back toward the helm, then followed more slowly.
This—the unrivaled, unquestioned female captain of a privateer—was another part, a large part, of who and what Linnet Trevission was.
It was, he could admit to himself, an awesome part, one that boggled his mind, yet also filled him with honest and true admiration. Not an emotion he’d expected to feel for a lover, let alone a wife. Yet she was proving a lady of many parts—and each and every one called to him.
And that, he suspected, as he climbed the ladder to the stern deck where she had once again claimed the helm, was something she didn’t yet understand.
But she would.
Smiling to himself, he settled against the stern railing to watch his lover, his sometime-soon-to-be wife, send her ship racing over the waves to Plymouth.
With her ship smoothly heeling around the northern tip of Guernsey, Linnet set sail to best capture the brisk breeze for a fast run to Plymouth. Setting course for Plymouth Sound was something she could do in her sleep in any weather; Plymouth was the port to which she and the Esperance most frequently sailed.
Although Cummins and his men had been on the wharf at dawn, as had a number of other merchants, even with their collective goods in her hold, the Esperance was still running light; no need for full sail to streak over the waves.
Beside her, his large hands curled about the rail, Griffiths nodded. “That’s a good pace. If the wind keeps up—and no reason it shouldn’t—we’ll be in Plymouth well before dusk.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for.” Leaving the wheel in Griffith’s capable hands, Linnet stepped down to the main deck and set out on a circuit—a habit when underway. She ambled down the deck, exchanging comments with the crew members she passed. Logan, she’d noticed, had halted in the prow. Hip against the rail, arms crossed over his powerful chest, he stood looking down into the waves.