“He is a good man, in my employ, and you and the children will be considerably safer crossing this town with him than without.” He scowled again. “You will do this, Miss Caulfield, or I will not take you to Saint-Nazaire on my ship.”

Her heart turned about. “You will take me there?” Upon his ship. Upon the sea.

She must.

He scanned her face and shoulders. “To whose home are you traveling, little governess?”

He was no longer teasing. She must be honest. “I am going to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux. It belongs to an English lord, but the Prince of Sensaire is in residence there and he has hired me to teach his sister before her debut in London society at Christmastime.”

“Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux,” he only said.

“Do you know it, Captain?”

“A bit.” His brow cut downward. “Miss Caulfield . . .”

“Captain?”

“My ship is not a passenger vessel. There will be no other women, no fine dining or other amusements. Aboard it, you will be at my mercy. Mine alone. You do understand that, do you not?”

“I . . .” She hadn’t given it thought after so many people in port recommended him. Naïvely, she had assumed it meant he was a gentleman. But gentlemen had lied to her before.

She had no choice. “I understand.”

“We depart at dawn, with or without you.”

He moved away, and Arabella released a shaking breath. Forcing a bright smile, she pivoted about and beckoned the children to her.

Chapter 2

The Sea

Mr. Miles, the captain’s cabin steward, was a neat little person with a starched cravat, velvet lapels, and high-heeled shoes. When he greeted Arabella as she boarded the Retribution, he peered at her gown as though it were made of sackcloth. “You haven’t any luggage, madam?”

“My traveling trunk departed for Saint-Malo without me. I must purchase new clothing at Saint-Nazaire.” With funds she did not have. After she paid Captain Andrew his fee, she would have one pound three shillings in her pocket, enough to hire a coach to drive her to the chateau. She would arrive wrinkled and filthy, but she would arrive on time.

“The leddy’s a sight for weary eyes, Mr. Miles.” The day was gray and cool, but the smile of the Scotsman who approached was broad, his sea-weathered skin crinkled about his eyes. He bowed. “Gavin Stewart at yer service, Miss Caulfield. Ship’s doctor and sometime chaplain, though o’ the Roman persuasion.”

“Sir?” she said, uncertain of his meaning.

“Father,” Mr. Miles corrected with a pinched nose, turned about on his heel and clip-clopped across the deck, weaving through the dozens of sailors who were preparing the ship for departure.

“Aye, lass. Ma French father had a quarrel with the Presbyterians, ye see, so he raised us Catholic. But I niver mind it, ’cept when there be a bonnie lass aboot.” He winked.

She smiled. “I don’t suppose you typically have women aboard, do you?”

“Niver.”

Her amusement faded. “Never?”

“No’ a one, lass. Ye must have a way with persuasion.” He offered his arm. “Nou, allou me to see ye to yer quarters. ’Tis a sennight’s trip ahead o’ us at least, an’ it’s smelling like rain. Ye’ll want to be comfortably settled afore that.”

“Rain?”

He patted her hand upon his arm. “No’ to worry ye, lass. ’Tis a fine strong vessel.”

Her mother had probably thought the same of the ship upon which she put her three daughters to sail to England.

Arabella walked along the deck, averting her face from the open water beyond the busy port and restraining herself from clamping on Dr. Stewart’s arm like a frightened child. The farther she moved from the gangplank, the more her stomach clenched.

Everyone else aboard seemed at ease and active. A boy leaned against the deck house, whittling a stick. The others all worked at ropes, planking, and sails, most of them laboring at a massive pulleylike device, hauling barrels from the dock to the deck. They chanted a song that matched the rhythm of their footfalls. Weathered like Dr. Stewart and dressed simply, to a one they looked like ruffians, with missing teeth and scruffy whiskers. But they worked diligently as the breeze sheering off the channel snapped at ropes and sails. Each cast her a quick glance and some tugged at cap brims in greeting then returned to their tasks. Only one young man did not; his attention never wavered from the pile of canvas he was stitching with bony hands.

Dr. Stewart guided her down a steep stairway onto a deck lined with enormous cannons: silent waiting warriors. At one end a narrow corridor gave off onto small curtained chambers to either side and one door directly ahead.

Mr. Miles threw open the door. “Captain, your guest,” he said primly.

Captain Andrew sat at a writing desk, his left shoulder to a window, his brow bent to his palm and fingers sunk in his hair. In his other hand was a pen, and upon the desk an ink pot and ledger opened past the first folios. The scents of cheroot smoke and salt mingled with the decidedly masculine furnishings of a dining table, chairs, and a single sitting chair. Beside a mounted sword and a brass mechanism of some sort, only two pictures adorned the walls, one of a ship flying the British flag, the other a charcoal drawing of a boy standing in the corner of a dark chamber.

He turned to look over his shoulder at her. His jaw was darker with whiskers than the night before.

He frowned.

She lifted her chin.

“Ma’am.” He stood, the top of his head brushing the ceiling beam. “Good day,” he said in a perfectly flat tone. He wore a loose-fitting coat with a waistcoat and plain neck cloth, a pistol strapped to a sash across his chest and a sword at his side. His hair was tousled and a scowl lurked at the corner of his very fine mouth.

She walked toward the lion in his den.

“Good day, Captain.” She extended her hand. “Here is the fee I agreed to pay you.”

He looked briefly at the purse dangling from her fingers then at Mr. Miles. The steward came forward and took it.

The captain’s attention fixed on her again. “Welcome aboard, Miss . . .”

“Caulfield.” Her cheeks warmed. Cretin.

“Caulfield,” he murmured. “I see you’ve met Dr. Stewart, whom some of my crewmen believe is also a man of religion.”

“An’ those gadgies in Rome,” the Scot mumbled with a grin.

“I have,” she said, feeling befuddled and like a complete fool for it. She had dined with heiresses, dressed baron’s daughters, and schooled future countesses in comportment. It was idiotic to be tongue-tied in the presence of a rough, crude merchant ship captain, even if the daylight enhanced the wolfish glint in his eye and he looked at her as though he knew her thoughts. “He has offered to make me acquainted with my quarters.”

He gestured toward a door to his right. “Be my guest.”

Mr. Miles darted forward with a clippity-clop and opened the door. The cabin within was narrow and curved on one side along the curve of the ship. A long cot with wooden sides built into the wall, a small ledge, and four clothing pegs were its only furnishings.

“Will it suit you, Miss Caulfield?” the captain said at her shoulder.

“But— Is it your bedchamber?”

“It was.” His smile was slow and his emerald eye danced with deviltry. “Now that you have paid for it, it is yours.” His gaze dipped to her lips.

“But—”

“I told you this is not a passenger ship, Miss Caulfield. Bunks are few aboard, and the mattress in my cabin is the most comfortable of those few. Do you concur, Mr. Miles?” he said without removing his attention from her.