Praise for ALISON DELAINE

‘A fearless debut! Alison DeLaine pens a stand-out romance.’

—New York Times bestselling author Julia London

‘Unusual and engaging … DeLaine keeps the pages turning.’

—Publishers Weekly on A Gentleman ‘Til Midnight

ALISON DELAINE

A Gentleman ‘Til Midnight

A Promise by Daylight

A Wedding by Dawn

ALISON DELAINE lives in rural Arizona, where she can often be found driving a dented old pickup truck out to her mining claim in the desert. When she’s not busy striking it rich, waiting on spoiled pets, or keeping her husband in line, she is happily putting characters through the wringer.

Alison DeLaine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my parents, for their support.

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

FOR FIFTY THOUSAND pounds, Nicholas Warre didn’t give a damn what his bride looked like.

He curled his hand around the jamb of the tavern’s side door, with Malta’s night breeze at his back and a host of raucous Mediterranean drunks shoving their way past him, and glanced at William Jaxbury. “You’re absolutely certain?”

Jaxbury’s gaze leveled on their prize, Lady India Sinclair. His gold earrings glittered in the muted candlelight that spilled through the doorway, and his dark red Barbary turban made him look like a corsair devil. “Recognize that tricorne anywhere,” he said, and ducked quickly out of view on the other side of the doorway. Amusement danced in his eyes, damn him. Always laughing when there wasn’t one bloody thing to laugh at.

Inside the tavern, Nick’s betrothed perched on a stool, deep in conversation with a companion who could only be Miss Millicent Germain. Lady India’s full attention was fixed on something—someone?—across the room. That tricorne blocked her face, and a black waistcoat obscured her figure, but he had a clear view of a shapely leg clad in breeches and a white stocking. Her black buckled shoe tap-tap-tapped the stool’s leg.

“Second thoughts?” Jaxbury asked, eyes gleaming.

“No.” A man didn’t have second thoughts about a bank draft that would finally put an end to his misery. “I shall go in through the main door, while you stay here and wait for my signal.” And then—

Good God.

She’d turned her head, and he found himself staring across the tavern at her profile. Even as he watched, she glanced at something over her shoulder and gave him a quick but full view of her face. His hand constricted around the doorjamb. “Jaxbury, you bloody bastard. You could have warned me she’s got a mouth that’ll have every man in London reaching for his breeches.”

The words scarcely left his tongue before Jaxbury had his fist clenched in Nick’s shirt. “Besmirch Lady India again, and you’ll answer to me.” There was no laughter in those eyes now.

“Did I besmirch her? I could have sworn I merely commented on her beauty.” And beauty was the dead last thing he needed in a wife. He thought of Clarissa—so lovely yet so deceptive—and checked a sudden urge to lay his fist into something. Jaxbury’s jaw, for example.

Even from this distance and dressed like a man, Lady India screamed sensuality. The men in that tavern were either sodomites or blind.

“Let me make one thing clear, Warre.” Jaxbury’s blue eyes glittered like cold sapphires. “Lady India’s a virgin, and whatever else happens, you’ll go easy on her even if I have to stand by the marital bed and watch.”

Nick curled his lip. “Enjoy that, would you?”

Jaxbury’s fist tightened in Nick’s shirt. “Careful, or you may find I’ve changed my mind about this folly.”

“This ‘folly’ does not require your approval.” Enough was enough. Nick pushed Jaxbury away and started forward.

Lady India’s days of wanton adventure were about to come to an abrupt end.

* * *

“FOOL’S ERRAND IS an insulting way to speak of something as profound as my deflowering, Millie.” India took a swig of ale and studied a square-jawed, dark-haired sailor through the crowd. Finally setting foot on Malta was a blessed relief for so many reasons.

“Nothing profound originates in a waterfront tavern,” Millie said.

India felt her foot resume its tapping. The tavern roared with conversations in every language, teemed with whores, barmaids and men who were too drunk to see past her waistcoat and breeches.

But she would make sure one of them saw the truth. Tonight.

Millie gripped her tankard as though she were the one about to invite the carnal knowledge of a Mediterranean stranger. “If you’re smart,” she continued to warn above the din, “you’ll keep your flower intact.”

“Smart is merely another word for prudent, dull and biddable.” And accomplished, well-versed and literate, but this sailor was one person who wouldn’t care that India was none of those things. He laughed at something his hollow-cheeked companion said, revealing an intriguing gold tooth. India leaned across the table toward Millie. “Do you think he’s Egyptian? I think I might like to be deflowered by an Egyptian.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

India snorted and pulled her tricorne hat lower across her eyes to better conceal her surveillance. If anyone was going to be sick, it would likely be her. Her lady’s maid Frannie had warned her that women of quality sometimes vomited after their virtues were taken.

Already the ale soured a little in her stomach, but she couldn’t help smiling. There was little of quality left of her, so she’d likely come through the event without disgracing herself.

Ha. Disgracing herself was the beginning and end of the entire endeavor.

The Egyptian sailor lifted his glass with a large hand that was no stranger to rope and canvas. Gold gleamed from the fingers that would unlock the last door to her freedom.

For freedom, she could endure a bit of vomiting.

She drew in an unsteady breath heavy with salt air and tobacco smoke, sailors and alcohol, and slipped a crust of bread to a brown-spotted mongrel who sat begging beneath the table. A loud trio of men jostled her from behind, sloshing a bit of ale onto her hand.

She licked it away and shifted on her stool but couldn’t quite make herself stand. “You’ll send the longboat back to shore for me?” she asked Millie.

“By the devil, India—” Millie huffed. From beneath her giant misshapen peasant’s hat, she frowned at India through a carefully applied layer of grime that almost completely hid her gender. “You cannot do this.”

She could, and she would. Now, before she lost her nerve completely. “I shall meet you back at the ship.”

“I’ll not return to the ship without you!”

“You can’t stay here by yourself!”

“India....” In Millie’s eyes India saw all the arguments Millie had already made against this plan: pain, pox, pregnancy.

The sailor didn’t look like a brute, and Millie swore all men were poxed, anyway. As for the third...

“I’ve got my vinegar sponge in my pocket.”

“For God’s sake, India—”

“Must you be so bloody contrary about everything? Always?” India’s palms began to sweat. She forced herself to her feet. Even now, Father’s lackeys could be afloat in the Med looking for her. He would have dispatched them the moment he’d learned she and Millie had borrowed Katherine’s ship. They would very likely find her, but she would not allow them to drag her back to England to marry whatever disgusting, fleshy fishbelly Father had paid to wed her.

If her father’s men succeeded, she could well find herself with Millie’s three P’s in spades regardless.

“If you catch his eye dressed like this,” Millie warned, “it won’t be deflowering that’s on his mind—at least, not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“I have a plan.” Pardon me, sir, she would say, there’s a gentleman outside asking to see you. Once outside, she would whisk off her hat, let her blond hair tumble free and tell him what she wanted.

On hearing this, Millie grabbed her arm. “We’re leaving. I absolutely will not allow you to commit such a folly. An utter stranger, who could have any manner of disgusting ideas—”

“Don’t be such a pill.” India wrenched her arm free. “Auntie Phil beds whomever she pleases. It can’t be so terrible and disgusting.” It probably could, but she’d already told herself to stop remembering the more shocking details Frannie had described.

“Your aunt’s deflowering took place in a marriage bed,” Millie hissed.

“Which can hardly happen to me as I have no intention of marrying.”

“I’ll never know how you’ve survived being such a dullard.”

The accusation stung more than Millie had intended. “Perhaps I shall marry the Egyptian.” India laughed. She might be a dullard, but she would soon be a dullard whom her father could marry off to absolutely nobody.

An especially rowdy bunch at a table in the far corner exploded in guffaws. The dark sailor punctuated his conversation with the kind of dramatic gestures that always accompanied an exotic tongue.

India reached for her tankard to take one last swig and hoped a deflowering didn’t take much time.

Millie grabbed her arm. “I’m serious, India. Ruining yourself won’t solve anything.”

“But it will most certainly solve one thing.” She set the tankard on the table and fixed her gaze on the sailor. “I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” Every nerve came alive in an alarming swarm of anticipation.

“Nothing to lose! You’ll throw yourself away—”

“Oh, fie.” Virginity was the last virtue she had left to throw away. Everything else—her friends, her reputation, her popularity—was already gone. “I’m a woman of the high seas now, Millie. What does it matter if I give my virtue to a handsome sailor?”

But suddenly Millie wasn’t looking at her anymore. She was looking past India’s shoulder, and her eyes had grown as big as silver crowns.

“It matters, Lady India,” came a cold voice from behind her, “because you are betrothed to me.”

CHAPTER TWO

BETROTHED.

India whipped around and looked up into heartless green eyes set like flints above an arrogant nose and grim mouth. They were eyes so cold they could have belonged to an executioner, in the kind of face that could command the attention of an entire ballroom.

And he wasn’t alone. Next to him stood—

“William!” Freedom collapsed like a sail in a dead breeze.

William grinned and crossed his arms. “Such a disappointing welcome, Indy. Not happy to see us?” India thought she might end up vomiting with her virtue still intact. William shifted his laughing blue eyes to Millie. “Why, Millicent, you’ve gone pale. At least, I think you have. Difficult to tell beneath all that—what is that on your face?” He reached a finger toward her cheek, but Millie swatted it away.

India glanced away from them at the Egyptian sailor. At Millie, whose eyes had grown sharp with alarm—and that bloody pessimism that was the bane of India’s existence. There was no question what Millie was thinking: They would never escape William, the man who had taught their own mentor to survive on the high seas.

But India wasn’t above trying. “We’re overjoyed to see you, aren’t we, Millie?” she said brightly. “We absolutely are. What a stroke of good fortune— Millie, was I not just saying how much I wished we had friends in town? And now here you are. Join us, and let’s toast your return to the Mediterranean.” It took all her willpower not to look at William’s companion.

William laughed. “Very well. We’ll play that game if you wish.”

Game? Millie and India had sailed with William on the Possession. He knew how important their freedom was to them. Yet he thought this was a game?

“For God’s sake, Jaxbury,” the betrothal-announcer muttered irritably.

From the corner of her eye she could see he was dressed impeccably, conservatively, as though he’d just emerged from Westminster. Except no respectable man would be desperate enough to enter into an agreement to marry her, which meant he was what—a slave to the gaming tables? The holder of an empty title? A merchant with a mountain of debt?

Even now she could hear her father’s voice. You will choose one of these men, India, or I will choose for you.

The tavern seemed to close in on her. It would take seconds to dart across the room to the Egyptian, seconds more to reveal that she was a woman, a moment or two to convey what she needed. They would need to leave the tavern and go—where? Where would they go?

“Forgive me.” William laughed. His gold earrings glittered terrifyingly in the light from candles sputtering in an iron chandelier. “I see my new shipmate is growing impatient. Introductions and all that—terrible manners on my part. Lady India, may I present Nicholas Warre, Lord Taggart.”

Millie’s eyes snapped up from the table.

Nicholas Warre! In an instant India surveyed everything from the top of his greedy head to the toes of his debtor’s shoes. Father had betrothed her to a man so desperate to save his own estate he’d tried to steal someone else’s?

“Pillock!” she spat.

That grim mouth did not so much as twitch. “Be that as it may, Lady India—” he calmly reached inside his waistcoat, let her catch a glimpse of a small sheaf of papers and tucked them safely away “—it is incumbent upon me to inform you that we are contracted to wed, pursuant to an agreement I’ve made with your father.” Now the corner of that mouth curved slightly, and those heartless green eyes wandered briefly over the front of her coat. “Which means the only recipient of your virtue will be me.”

India looked him straight in the eye. “Dead men take no one’s virtue, Mister Warre.” He did not deserve the respect of his title. All her senses homed in on the Egyptian, but she didn’t dare glance his way. Didn’t dare look at Millie, who would surely be able to escape amid the commotion India was about to cause.

Before anyone could stop her, she dashed away from the table, barreling blindly through the crowd toward the Egyptian.

“India!”

The tavern noise swallowed William’s shout. She whipped off her hat and felt her braid tumble down her back. Her pulse thundered and she lunged for the sailor, gripping his arm. “Sir, you must help me. I beg you. I need you. I need you to—” devil take it, words! words! “—compromise me. Carnally.” The mix of interest and confusion in his eyes told her he didn’t speak English. Desperately she switched to Italian. “Come with me. I need you. My body—” now there were even fewer words “—my body needs you.” Her frantic fingers fumbled with the buttons on her waistcoat, her vest. But now it was clear he understood. That gold tooth flashed with his grin. His arm snaked around her, and his hand took possession of her left breast. There was a light in his eye—no, she didn’t like that light, but it was better than—

“India!” William’s voice bellowed above the crowd.

“We must go!” She tried to pull him off his stool, but he wouldn’t budge. He laughed and said something to the men around them—where had all these men come from? Moorish. He was speaking Moorish. “Now!” She couldn’t speak much, but Rafik the boatswain had bellowed that word constantly aboard Katherine’s ship.

Apparently thinking he was obeying her order, he pulled her closer and buried his face against the side of her neck.

“No, not here!” She only knew the Italian. Moorish, Moorish—what was Moorish for—

But then it was too late, because Nicholas Warre was on them. He grabbed the sailor by the arm. The sailor pushed her aside and launched himself at Mr. Warre. A dozen men reached to take the sailor’s place, pulling and yanking on her, groping her breasts and her buttocks. Her own scream pushed bile into her throat.

The sailor’s hollow-cheeked companion threw himself at William, as the sailor landed a solid fist across Nicholas Warre’s murderous face.

William and the other man fell together against a chair. Above the chaos she heard Millie scream. Desperately India fought the men who grabbed her, but there was no escape. Her pistol—she couldn’t let them find her pistol! She used her elbow to jab, defend, keep groping hands from closing around her prize. Its weight dug into the waistband of her breeches. She tried to wedge herself against the table, but the hands and bodies and shouting and stench were everywhere.

The hollow-cheeked sailor struck William on the side of the head. He stumbled into a fallen stool, and she heard herself scream again. They couldn’t hurt William! Oh, God—this had to stop! Her pistol—it would be useless against this mob even if she could manage to draw it out.

Nicholas Warre sent the gold-toothed sailor flying. A hand sneaked between her legs and she tried to shove it away but couldn’t.

William lurched off the fallen stool and threw a right, left, right. Blood spurted from the hollow-cheeked sailor’s nose. The commotion inside the tavern was deafening. Another man took a swing at Nicholas Warre, but he ducked and someone else took the hit. A new fight erupted, and the chaos grew. Hands closed sickeningly around her waist, an inch from the pistol’s grip.

And then, suddenly, Nicholas Warre had her by the arm and wrenched her free.

“This way!” he shouted in her ear.

“Millie—”

“Jaxbury’s got her. Run, damn you!” His hand clenched hers painfully as he dragged her out of the tavern. She stumbled on the cobblestones, trying to keep up with him as they raced down the street. Moments later, he yanked her into a pitch-dark alley and shoved her against the wall.

“Don’t you ever,” he seethed at her, nose to nose and out of breath, “do anything that stupid again.”

“Leave Malta this instant and I guarantee you I shan’t.” She tried to push him away, but he was solid stone.

“Your recklessness could have gotten both me and Jaxbury killed—never mind the fate that would have befallen you.” He drew in a sharp, ragged breath. “Is that how you planned to bestow your virtue? In a tavern with thirty sailors taking turns between your legs?”

She told herself she was trembling out of anger, not fear. “You’d best return to the safety of your London drawing room, Mr. Warre,” she taunted. “It’s clear you haven’t the constitution for Mediterranean life.” Except it was clear he had the constitution for any life he might choose. Faint light from the street caught the white flap of his torn shirt and a gleam of blood near his mouth. His wig was gone, and his dark hair stuck out everywhere.

“Then what a blessing that you and I will be returning to London posthaste,” he drawled.

No. They would not. But arguing that point would get her nowhere. “You are wasting your time here,” she told him flatly, and reminded herself that if not for him the danger never would have arisen in the first place. “I will not marry you. I’ll kill you first.”

“Will you.” His eyes were nothing more than shadowed hollows.

His hands burned through her sleeves. He smelled faintly of cologne—something spicy and aristocratic and much too expensive for someone in his financial condition. Faint light from the street brought his face into chiseled relief, and a renegade nerve flared to life in her belly.

Betrothed. He fancied he had captured her as his prize. Perhaps he wasn’t so wrong after all.

The weight of her pistol sat heavy in the band of her breeches. “Yes. And after what you did to Katherine Kinloch—” India began.

“If bringing a bill of pains and penalties against her was a capital crime, I have little doubt my sister-in-law would have murdered me herself.”

“I shall happily take on the responsibility.”

“Bold words from one who actually has committed a capital crime against the lady in question. You do realize you could hang for stealing her ship?”

Her pistol would put a quick end to this if only she could grab it and fire before he had time to react. There would be seconds, no more. There might be opportunity for nothing more than to gut-shoot him.

A queasy spell dizzied her head.

“We merely borrowed the Possession, Mr. Warre. Every moment you waste here with me is a moment you could be searching a way to satisfy your debts. You have greed and selfishness enough for ten men. I have every confidence that you will soon find an alternative method of relief.”

“Praise, indeed. Fortunately for me, my search ended the moment I found you in that tavern.”

“Your search, Mr. Warre, will end when your body lies cold at my feet.” She inched her hand toward her pistol. “I demand that you let me go. Now.”

“Nothing in the world would please me more.”

“Then—”

“But I have a vested interest in keeping you.”

“I’ll not give my consent to a marriage with you.” She raked him with disdain and gave a laugh that sounded more like choking. “Not ever.”

“I don’t need your consent.”

“Yes, you do. A marriage requires—”

“The only thing our marriage will require, Lady India, is an officiant and a consummation. The first will be easy enough to find, and it’s clear you are desperately in need of the second. Once all that is complete, I assure you our marriage will not be put asunder—not by me, and certainly not by your father.” His port-laced breath feathered her lips. “Forgive me, but I cannot think who else might be interested in challenging it.”

“I will challenge it.” Closer, closer...she nearly had the pistol now. “If you drag me back to England—which you will never succeed in doing—I shall file suit the moment we return.”

“And may I wish you much success, waddling before the court with my babe rounding your belly.”

Another strangled laugh escaped her. “You are just like all the rest that my father attempted to fob me off on these past months—going at me with their eyes before Father’s money landed in their greedy, fat hands.” Except he did not have fat hands, and he was as handsome as the devil. Perhaps Father imagined he was doing her a favor.

“Spoken as if any of those hands would have been pleased with their catch once they realized what they had captured,” he said.

“Are you disappointed, Mr. Warre? Surely my father did not fail to mention that I am a sailor.”

“He did. And that you are spoiled, hoydenish and a—”

Disgrace.

“—disgrace. All of which can be easily corrected.”

Oh, yes. Father had thought the same, and only look how he had succeeded.

If she was going to be a disgrace, she would be one from the deck of her own ship. There would be no returning to England, no being locked away in isolation, no endless tirades about her shortcomings—and no unwanted marriage.

Her fingers brushed the pistol grip. If Nicholas Warre succeeded in taking her, she may as well use the pistol on herself. The consequences of what she was about to do made her palms sweat. “Whatever my Father has offered you, I will pay you more to leave me be.”

A shadowed brow rose. “If you have more, then I am a lucky man indeed, for once we are wed I shall have both.”

“We are not going to be wed,” she said flatly, and closed her hand around the pistol’s grip. Her stomach rolled. Shooting him would make her a fugitive and guarantee she would never see England again.

So be it. She never wanted to see England again, anyway.

“Enough of this.” He stepped back, keeping hold of her arm. “We shall return to—” His eyes fixed on her hand.

Now!

“We shall return nowhere.” She tried to whip the pistol from her breeches but his hand was already there.

“Give me that!”

“No!” She fought with him to cock the hammer.

“Let go, before you—”

“No!” The pistol discharged into the alley with a deafening roar, and he wrenched it from her grasp. She tried to run, but he caught her easily and shoved her against the wall once again. Now his hands were on her everywhere—inside her waistcoat, searching, groping, skimming over her hips, her buttocks, even between her—

“Stop!”

“And allow you to murder me in cold blood?” he growled, drawing his hand across a place he had no business touching, then shoving it inside her pockets. “God’s blood, I got the sorry end of this bargain.”

“You did indeed. And if you insist on keeping it, you will spend the rest of your life sleeping with one eye open.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind.” His fingers bit painfully into her arm, and he yanked her away from the wall. “Now. We shall proceed to my room at the inn, where we will wait for William and your associate. You will say nothing—not a single word—unless you wish to be bound and gagged. Do I make myself clear?”

CHAPTER THREE

THE ONLY THING truly clear to Nick was that it would be a short leap from marrying Lady India to being committed to an asylum.

“I suppose you’ve brought my things from the ship,” she said. Sixty seconds. Possibly less. That was all it took for her to ignore his warning.

Not for the first time since embarking on this hellish voyage, Nick wondered if there might not have been an easier way to get his hands on fifty thousand pounds.

They rounded a corner, and the inn came blessedly into view. He didn’t give a bloody damn about her things. His jaw hurt, his eye throbbed and the by-blow from her pistol had singed one of his fingers—all of which meant little compared to the real problem.

“Well, I can’t imagine how you expect me to prepare for my wedding without my things, Mr. Warre,” she scolded. “Or to travel, which raises another question. How, precisely, do you plan to convey me back to England? By ship, I hope. The roads on the Continent are devilish rutted. Auntie Phil and I took weeks upon weeks to travel to Venice, but of course that was years ago. Oh, I would love to see Venice again. And Vienna. All cities beginning with V, in fact. Perhaps we can—”

“That’s enough.”

“Am I bothering you, Mr. Warre?” she inquired with false concern. “Do accept my apologies. Truly. One does so hate a yammerer. Such a nuisance. Of all the qualities one might find in a person, I daresay chattering has got to be the least—”

“Silence.” He pushed her inside the inn, ignored the frowning concierge, hauled her upstairs by the arm and managed to drag her into his room.

“Well, since you hadn’t the foresight to collect my things—” Good God, he would have to gag her “—we shall simply have to return to the Possession.”

He went to the pockmarked bureau. “By all means, let us proceed there directly.” The looking glass in this third-rate inn was so shoddy it was good for little more than guessing where the blood was as he inspected the damage from the bar brawl.

“Sarcasm is an ugly thing, Mr. Warre. Everyone says so. You really ought to be more sincere, if not for me then for the sake of your soul, because—”

“Lady India,” he said sharply, and turned on his heel to face her. She observed him craftily with eyes better suited to a courtesan. “For the sake of your soul—” he pointed at the fraying sitting suite behind her “—sit.”

There was a beat. A little twitch at the corner of her too-full lips. And then she turned away and sprawled herself in a shabby velvet armchair like a man, except there wasn’t one bloody thing masculine about her—a fact his hands were having difficulty forgetting.

“I wish he’d broken your nose,” she said, staring him directly in the eye.

“A charming sentiment.” He turned back to the glass. He’d lost his peruke in the tavern, and his hair—too long for the damned thing anyhow after nearly five weeks aboard that godawful ship—lay in a mess of near-black waves. He’d have a black eye by morning. That, a bloody lip and sore ribs were the perfect cap to an endless bout of seasickness.

No. No, the perfect cap was sitting in an armchair behind him, observing him disdainfully.

He checked his pocket watch. Where the hell was Jaxbury?

“You did not succeed in ruining Katherine’s life to pay your debts,” she told him haughtily, swinging a small foot back and forth, “so you’ve decided to ruin mine. You will not succeed.”

Ruining Katherine’s— Of course. Lady India was loyal to her former captain, and apparently the fact that Katherine was now Nick’s sister-in-law carried little weight. But Lady India would not want to hear that ruining Katherine Kinloch’s life had never been his objective, and that sometimes one pursued options in one’s desperation that one would never consider otherwise.

Such as agreeing to pursue a young hellion and force her into marriage.

“Your life is already ruined,” he told her.

“It isn’t.”

Yes, it is. No, it isn’t. There was no doubt Lady India would be able to keep up that conversation for the better part of an hour.

In the glass he watched her rise from the chair and approach him. She had the kind of shapely mouth that could earn a fortune doing unspeakable things at Covent Garden.

He refused to think of what Lady India might do with that mouth. Leave a man singing two octaves higher, most likely.

“My life isn’t ruined, of course,” she said conversationally, “but my body—well, that is another matter entirely. I regret to inform you, Mr. Warre, that I am not a virgin.” She put a hand to her belly. “At this moment, I could well be carrying a child. An Egyptian child, if you must know, although strictly speaking I suppose Ottoman is the better—no. No, in truth he was from Tunisia, I think, so if one wants to be strictly factual—”

“And I do, Lady India. I do wish to be strictly factual. Which is why I must remind you that less than an hour ago you spoke of giving your virtue to a sailor.”

Her mouth curved in a bemused smile. “I really don’t consider anything properly done until it’s been accomplished a minimum of three times, so—being strictly factual now, mind you—tonight would have marked the final demise of my virtue. I was referring to the coup de grâce. The triple cut, one might say.”

My daughter is a wild harridan, Cantwell had said. The man had a talent for understatement.

“Well, then.” He dropped the cloth in the basin and turned toward her. “You won’t mind if I have a taste of what I may look forward to once we’ve celebrated our nuptials.”

The quick apprehension in her eyes told him everything he needed to know about whether she might be carrying a Tunisian sailor’s illegitimate child.

Those eyes were blue—real blue, not gray-blue like Clarissa’s. Nor was her hair the pale, flaxen shade of Clarissa’s. It was pure honey, alive with ten shades of gold.

Desire ripped through him. Devil take him, he was an idiot.

But those eyes had taken on a decidedly less bold light, so he let his lip curve. “Not so adventurous as you claim, I see.”

She laughed, and it transformed her face in a way that wasn’t helpful at all. “My, Mr. Warre, you do think highly of yourself. You’ve already seen my taste in men. You’re hardly exotic, and much too old. I could never bring myself to bed someone so ancient.”

Fifty thousand pounds. Cantwell suffered from a severely overinflated view of his daughter’s worth. Or, depending where one stood, a severely underinflated one. “Indeed. God knows how I manage to stay upright with thirty-four years behind me.”

“Thirty-four!”

“Fortunately, our relations will be more of the lying-down variety.”

“Thirty-four?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Ought you to remain standing? You mustn’t tax yourself on my account.” She gestured toward the sitting suite. “Please, do be seated.”

“I find that I am particularly fit for my age,” he said drily. If only someone were transcribing this priceless conversation. “As for exotic, if you like, I shall wear a turban when I ‘bed’ you.” He regretted the words the moment they left his tongue.

“What a generous offer, Mr. Warre. But I worry about engaging in anything so vigorous as bedding with a man of your age. My Auntie Phil once spoke of a Lord Garth who dropped stone dead in the middle of—”

“Lord Garth was two and eighty.” Something like a laugh escaped him, and he went to his portmanteau because it was too easy to imagine her splayed across that bed, and his dropping dead would not be part of the entertainment. Good God. Lady India’s Auntie Phil, the young and widowed Lady Pennington, should have a care what she discussed with impressionable minds.

“Regardless, one can’t be too careful when one gets up in one’s years,” she said. “I would hate for anything to befall you.”

His hands itched to open the door and toss her out. Let her go back to her stolen ship and her lusty sailors. Let Jaxbury deal with her, while Nick finally, blessedly got some sleep after the hellish weeks of sea travel.

But he was in too deep to turn back. Holliswell had granted him time to pursue Lady India and collect the money from her father, yes. But if Nick did not succeed by their agreed-upon date, Holliswell would take ownership of Taggart. It was either marry Lady India or lose Taggart.

And he’d be damned before he’d lose Taggart.

“I assure you I shall take the utmost care,” he told her. “At least we may content ourselves that the marriage will be short, as I have one foot in the grave already.”

“There will be no—”

“Marriage. Yes, I understand your position thoroughly. Unfortunately, you’ve got no say in the matter.”

“You cannot force me to say the vows,” she informed him.

With the right priest and enough money, she could recite bawdy tavern songs for all he cared. “I have a signed contract and assurances from your father that I may do whatever is necessary to carry it out.” He pulled Cantwell’s contract from inside his waistcoat and unfolded it. “You may read the contract if you like, but you will understand if I hold it for you while you do. I would hate for anything to happen to it.”

She wrinkled that shapely little nose that would have been perfect were it not dusted with a handful of freckles. “That contract means nothing to me.”

“Perhaps that will change when you read it.”

“I don’t need to read it, because I shan’t be agreeing to its terms.”

“Then it’s a good thing its terms don’t require your agreement,” he said, and tucked the contract away. Once again he checked his watch. For God’s sake, Jaxbury— Perhaps the man had gone to the church instead of coming back here.

He looked at Lady India.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I will make you regret the hour you decided I was the answer to your problems, Mr. Warre.”

“Believe me when I say you already have.” Did he dare drag her through the streets again in the hope Jaxbury would be waiting at the church? He glanced irritably at the door. There wasn’t much choice. “I’ve waited long enough. Let us be off.”

“Off.” A spark of fear lit her eyes. “Where?”

“To see this business finished.” He walked toward her, and she backed away.

“We scarcely know each other, Mr. Warre. Certainly it would benefit us both if we had the opportunity to become better acquainted. For instance, how deeply in debt you are to a certain Mr. Holliswell.”

“I have all the information I require. And you may ask me anything you like on the way to the church.”

“You’re free to change your mind, you know.” He watched her struggle valiantly for composure. “Nobody would think less of you if you allowed me to escape. You could salvage your pride by saying how grateful you are that I did escape, as you realized your ill fortune the moment you set eyes upon me.”

For a moment she looked so young and frightened he almost felt sorry for her.

But she wasn’t an object to be pitied. She was a hoyden and a pirate and much too comfortable with a pistol.

“I realized my ill fortune long before that. But I have no intention of allowing you to escape.” He smiled tightly. “You, Lady India, are as good as a bank draft to me. And you can imagine how well I would safeguard one of those.”

* * *

IF IT WEREN’T for Nicholas Warre safeguarding her by the arm as he dragged her once again down the street, India wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand. Her knees trembled violently as she frantically tried to think of a way to stop him.

“This is not at all how I envisioned my wedding day,” she told him as they closed in on the shadowed hulk of a church at the end of the street. “Surely we have time to find some flowers. Or a gown—you can’t possibly imagine I could marry without a new gown. It’s a disgrace to both of us, and only imagine what the guests will think.”

He didn’t even bother to tell her to be quiet. She didn’t dare glance at his face and risk meeting those eyes, not after the way he’d—

She exhaled. After the way he’d looked at her. At the inn.

She’d come very close to pushing things too far. But now every step over the uneven cobblestones brought him closer to victory, while bringing her closer to—

“Devil!” She stopped short.

“Keep walking.”

“A moment—”

“Understand me well, Lady India,” he practically growled into her ear. “I’ll not fall for your tricks. You may either walk the rest of the way, or I shall carry you.”

“It seems only appropriate that you do carry me,” she managed, “being as this is our wedding day. One does expect one’s wedding to be romantic, and one does so bemoan the lack of chivalry displayed by the modern male in general. Although the older generations do seem to have a better grasp of the concept, so I suppose I may expect more from you than I might otherwise. Indeed, if I weren’t afraid you might come to harm I would insist that you carry me.”

He ignored her and kept walking, while she tried to slow their progress by taking the tiniest steps she could. If only he and William had arrived tomorrow, at this moment she would have been becoming intimately acquainted with that Egyptian sailor, and her tale of lost virtue would be fact and not fiction and Nicholas Warre would not want her as his wife.

They passed a narrow alley, a street that led to the harbor, another that led into shadows. Where had William taken Millie? There had to be an escape. It could not end this way—him forcing her into marriage, dragging her back to England, locking her away—

Oh, God. Her legs buckled, and cobblestones bit into her knees.

“Stand. Up.”

“I will. I certainly will. Only give me a moment—”

He didn’t. Instead, he hauled her to her feet and hooked her around the shoulders— “Wait!” But it was too late, and she struggled uselessly in arms that disproved her assertions of his frailty.

“Your antics will get you nothing but imprisonment under lock and key,” he told her sharply. “Where you will remain until you—”

Stop behaving like a spoiled child.

“—stop behaving like a spoiled child.”

Panic made a grab for her lungs. He was exactly like Father. Exactly. And why shouldn’t he be? Hadn’t Father been the one to choose him? Breathe. Breathe. But when she did, there were only lungfuls of him—that expensive cologne emanating off warm, male skin that badly needed a shave.

“Oh, Mr. Warre,” she managed, resting her cheek against his shoulder, “what a romantic you are.” She pressed a palm against that same stony chest she’d been unable to budge in the alleyway. Beneath her hand, his muscles flinched.

Pain?

“I do hope you’re not so battered from your tavern brawl that it hurts you to carry me.” She shifted a little, curled one arm around his back, slid the other higher on his chest and squeezed. She felt his fingers splay across the side of her thigh. “Not at all, Lady India.”

Her breath caught, and she snatched her hand away from his chest.

Now the church loomed just ahead, and she could make out William and—thank heavens—Millie, standing by the door.

If she were going to escape, she would have to think—think! Could they really be married if she refused to say the words? She could appeal to William’s conscience. Behave calmly inside the church, waiting for any kind of opportunity.

There was still hope.

That hope died when she saw William’s battered face. His turban was gone, and even in the shadow of night she could see his left eye was dark red. He had one hand locked around Millie’s arm. “God’s blood, you’re a thrice-over fool,” he said to India. “We could have been killed.”

“Open the door,” Nicholas Warre bit out at William, and transported India across the threshold. Inside the cavernous sanctuary, he deposited her on a pew near the front.

“India...?” Millie’s anguished tone said she feared the worst—that Nicholas Warre had pressed his advantage since leaving the tavern.

“I’m all right, Millie. My dearest betrothed has been most solicitous, haven’t you, darling?” Nicholas Warre wasn’t paying any attention. He was scowling toward the front of the church looking for a priest. India sat up and looked dreamily around the shadowed church. “It’s lovely. Everything I always hoped my wedding would be. Isn’t it perfect, Millie?”

She waited for Millie to tell William to go to the devil, to unhand her, but Millie only stood woodenly in his grasp, gripping and regripping her own wrist. And now India was too aware of William’s hold on Millie’s arm, the possibility that he might be angry enough to thoughtlessly hurt Millie even knowing what she’d suffered in London. He would show no mercy—they may have been shipmates once, but Katherine was William’s closest friend in the world, and he would not easily forgive India and Millie for taking her ship.

She looked pointedly at his hand on Millie’s arm. “I am the bride, William—at least allow Millie to attend me.”

William didn’t budge.

Millie’s eyes darted about the church for a possible means of escape, already dulled with the conclusion that there would be none.

India dragged in a breath. “So far this day has been everything a wedding day should be. In fact, even had I dreamed it I could never have hoped for something this unsurpassed in beauty and...” Nicholas Warre stalked off toward the church’s recesses. “And splendor.”

She tried to stop herself from shaking, but her whole body trembled. Millie’s silent conclusion was correct: there was no chance for escape now. Nicholas Warre would offer the priest money, and they would be wed in a sham ceremony. And then they would return to that inn—

“William,” she hissed the moment Mr. Warre was out of earshot, standing up, abandoning all pretense. “You cannot possibly be a party to this. After what he did to Katherine? Do I mean nothing to you at all?” The dark tomblike church swallowed her plea. It was deathly quiet, with the eerie flicker of candles sputtering in small banks next to a dozen shrines.

William forced Millie onto the pew. “At least he tried to take from Katherine in broad daylight—unlike the two of you, who sneaked away under cover of night.”

“She wasn’t using the ship.”

“That didn’t make it yours to steal,” he bit out.

“At least give us a fair hearing!”

“The kind of hearing you’d receive if I hauled you back to England and accused you of piracy? You’d be hanged.” William may have laughed in the tavern—William always laughed—but he wasn’t laughing now, which was worse than anything he could have done. “You have a fine way of showing your thanks to Katherine. Would have expected more loyalty from you, under the circumstances.” He looked at Millie. “Especially you.”

Millie stared up at him, still working her fingers mechanically around her wrist. “I won’t return to England,” she said. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Millie and I apologize about the tavern,” India said, more desperately now. From somewhere in the dark recesses of the church came the sound of Nicholas Warre knocking on doors and calling out. “Don’t we, Millie. We never meant to put you in danger. And we know taking the ship was wrong—” depending on one’s point of view “—but you’ve secured it once more—” unless she and Millie could somehow find their way back on board “—and this goes too far. You can’t possibly approve of this marriage, William. You can’t possibly. And it can’t be what my father intended.” But it could be, and it probably was.

What she wouldn’t give to know what that contract said. If only she weren’t such a muttonhead. If only those books in the Possession’s great cabin had done her any good. But she was, and they hadn’t. Some people were easy to fool—Nicholas Warre would not be. She would have pretended to read the contract, understanding nothing, and he would have understood very clearly how stupid she was.

“Past time someone took you in hand,” William said. “Daresay Warre is better than having the crows peck the rotting flesh from your bones at the mouth of the Thames.”

“You would never allow that.”

“Not here on my own behalf, and the law is the law.”

For a split second the image of a stinking, crowded room at Marshalsea paralyzed her lungs. “I won’t say the vows,” she warned, trembling harder now.

“You’ll say them, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

“Dear God—” Millie made a sudden dive to exit the pew, but William caught her by the shoulder.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather you kill me now than return me to England,” Millie seethed at him.

“And I shall kill Nicholas Warre if you do not stop this wedding,” India warned. From the back of the church there was another knock, another call. “You know I shall.” She would not be taken to England and locked away again—not in prison, and not by Nicholas Warre.

“You’re a pair of fools,” William barked. “Millicent—” He struggled against her. “Enough.”

Millie kicked him. “Let go of me.”

India scooted out of the pew. William snatched her arm but imperiled his grip on Millie. “Warre!” he shouted.

Almost immediately Nicholas Warre was there, pulling her away from William, who now held a wild, struggling Millie by both arms. “Where’s the bloody priest?” William barked.

“There’s nobody here.”

“Got to be. Devil take it—” He turned Millie’s arms behind her back and held her head down, immobilizing her.

“Let me go!” Millie shrieked.

“William, you’re hurting her,” India cried.

“I’m not bloody hurting her.”

“Anyone would have heard us long before now,” Nicholas Warre said, holding India tightly against his body. “There are other churches—”

“Can’t drag this one through the streets like this. I’ve got to get her to the ship.”

“I’ve got my bag at the inn, and I’ll be damned before I’ll leave this island unwed,” Nicholas Warre snapped.

“Listen here,” William said. “I’m— Millicent, cease!” He adjusted his grip on her. “I’m taking this one to the ship. You want to be wed? Then stay and take care of the bloody business yourself.”

CHAPTER FOUR

OH, YES. NICK would take care of this bloody business, and he would do it just as soon as dawn broke and a priest could be found.

“What a shame our wedding did not turn out as you hoped,” Lady India was saying as he steered her back to the inn. “But you mustn’t be too disappointed. Sometimes one’s best-laid plans are put asunder for reasons much higher than mortal understanding can grasp. It seems clear—we did just leave a house of worship, after all—that Someone is attempting to keep you on the straight and narrow path, Mr. Warre.”

“Indeed. The straight and narrow path to an early morning wedding.”

“A morning wedding.” He could hear the gears turning inside that lamentably pretty head. “Excellent idea. I always did think a morning wedding would be so charming.”

To think, he’d imagined saying the vows, sending Lady India to the ship with William and devoting a few motion-free hours in that lumpy bed.

“You’ll secure me a room of my own tonight, naturally. It isn’t proper for a bride and groom to pass the night together before the wedding.”

He ignored her.

“I’m sure my father will want to know that everything was done as it should. Nothing unseemly—Father has always been dedicated to making sure one does what ought to be done.” She missed a step, and he tightened his grip to keep her from falling. “I would hate for you to produce me as your wife, only to find your reward withheld because you overlooked a bit of common propriety.”

The word propriety falling from her lips might have been laughable if anything had been laughable, which at this moment it was not.

“I shall be very well behaved, of course. In my own chamber. You needn’t worry about a thing.”

Yet for some unfathomable reason, Nick bypassed the desk clerk and hauled India once more up the stairs to his room.

At the first ray of dawn, he would rouse a pair of sailors and pay them to spend a few minutes in the church as witnesses. But until then, he was going to rest. Not sleep—he wasn’t a fool, no matter how exhausted he was—but rest. It would have to do.

He pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

“I am not a dog, Mr. Warre.”

An hour—perhaps less—and he was already dreading the rest of his life married to her. “Sit down, Lady India,” he repeated.

She flashed him a smile that—devil take it—shot raw lust straight through him. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “What are you going to do to me if I don’t, Mr. Warre? Shout at me? Beat me? Or heaven forbid—no. You wouldn’t.” She widened her eyes at him in mock horror and put her hand on her heart. “You wouldn’t call off our wedding, would you, Mr. Warre?”

He went to the bureau, intent on ignoring her, but she was having none of it.

“It would be so disappointing if you changed your mind about our nuptials. My thoughts are already filled with plans for our life together in London—soirées, card parties, dining with all of my friends. And of course there will be the theater, the opera, musical performances of every variety and I shall expect you to accompany me for a long and romantic walk in the park at least four times each week.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Warre, I daresay I am half in love with you already.”

He saw those lips smirking at him in the glass. If he survived the night locked away with her in this hellhole, it would be a miracle.

He pulled at his neckcloth, loosening it, and turned. “Are you.”

“Once we are wed, I shall never leave your side. Not even for a moment.”

“How intimate that will be.”

And how mistaken. He would endure the voyage to England, collect his money and once the mortgage on Taggart had been lifted, he would lock her away where she could not injure his person or his reputation.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” he said, turning now. “You have been apprehended. And unless you’d care to be tied up, you will sit. In. That. Chair.” He pointed at it. “And I shall sit in the other. We shall pass what remains of the night, and in the morning you will become my wife. Depend on it.”

* * *

THERE WAS A time and a place for defiance, and that time and place ended when he threatened to tie her up.

And so she sat.

Minutes ticked into an hour. More than an hour, though it was impossible to tell for sure, except for the candles slowly, slowly shrinking.

India fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre, barely daring to breathe. It couldn’t be possible. After all his threats, his manhandling, his confident declarations—

She sat perfectly still and watched. Yes, he was falling asleep.

From somewhere in the distance, a drunken sailor song lilted through the open window across the room. She didn’t dare glance at the window.

His eyes drifted shut, only to open again and fix on her. “Go to sleep,” he said. In that hard face with its purpling bruises, those eyes were like chips of green winter ice.

Very fatigued winter ice.

“I’m trying,” she murmured, and shifted in the lumpy armchair. She let her own lids droop closed and flutter open, exactly as his had, so he might assume she, too, was drifting off.

If there was one thing that could be learned from a childhood spent locked away until the impossible was accomplished, it was how to wait.

After a moment she shut her eyes completely. The street below was silent. The only sound was the distant swoosh of waves coming ashore in the harbor. His scent came to her on a puff of breeze.

Falling asleep! Could he really be that foolish?

No. Which meant either he was pretending, or he was as tired as he seemed.

Her hands tightened in her lap. A glance out the window earlier had revealed a drainpipe not two feet from their room. It hadn’t seemed possible that the opportunity would present itself.

Until now.

She opened her eyes just a little and found his still closed. Dark lashes lay against sun-kissed skin, and his lips had relaxed into a less grim shape. A moment passed, then another, but those eyes did not reopen. Small creases at their corners testified that he was no mere youth, but with a face like that... No, ancient was hardly accurate.

Fascinating.

He was incredibly handsome. There was no denying it.

But she’d spent too much time locked away in rooms, too many years at the mercy of a man who showed no mercy. She would not exchange Father’s unyielding lack of compassion for a husband’s—not now, not when she was finally mistress of her own life.

Her toes curled restlessly inside her shoes while his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, a little more deeply with each breath. Wait. Just wait.

Minutes passed.

More minutes

Slowly, carefully, India sat forward. A fresh puff of night air was just cool enough to make her shiver.

Silently she rose to her feet, tensing, fighting off a sudden nervous tremor as she fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre.

His hands lay slack on his lap. No movement. Nothing.

She crept toward the window. It was torture knowing her pistol was tucked into his breeches, but there was no help for it. She paused at the window and stared at the back of his head, willing him to stay asleep. Between them, the bed sat untouched. Whatever might have happened on that shoddy bed behind him wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or ever.

Slowly, quietly, she stuck one leg outside.

Listened.

Swung the other leg around.

Listened.

The only thing she heard was her own heart thundering in her ears. Hurry!

She sprang into action, reaching for the drainpipe, gripping it with both hands as she swung out of the window and landed with both feet against the building. Through the window she could see his arm and the top of his head.

She willed him to stay asleep and began her descent. The distance to the ground was nothing compared to a ship’s crow’s nest. Every scrape of her feet against the building sounded like the drag of twenty saws, but already she was near the next floor. The guests in the room directly below theirs had left the window open. She prayed the sound of her feet would not wake them.

One more floor and she would be on the ground.

And then, from above, a shout.

“India!”

Nicholas Warre’s angry bark shot into the night from inside the room.

No!

She glanced up but he hadn’t come to the window—not yet. There were only seconds to spare.

“Lady India!”

There was only one escape. She dived toward the open window to her left and clambered through it just as Nicholas Warre’s voice came more clearly from above.

“Lady India!”

She tumbled through the window and onto the floor, bruising her elbow. A woman screamed. A man shouted. A large form leaped from the bed just as India scrambled to her feet and darted half-blindly toward the door.

“Arretez!” the man shouted.

“Excuse me!” No—French! “Pardonnez!” India stumbled over an open trunk. The woman in the bed screamed loud enough to wake the entire city.

A pistol shot exploded in the darkness. India screamed and dropped to the floor just as the ball whizzed past her head and slammed into the door. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Henri!” the woman shrieked. “Tirez! Tirez!”

“No! Don’t shoot!” Thank heaven she could speak French—thank heaven she hadn’t needed to read to learn it. There were shouts from other parts of the hotel. Doors slamming.

A match flared. “Ne bougez pas!” the man ordered.

“I won’t—I won’t move!” She kept her head buried and her faced pressed to the floorboards. Footsteps pounded upstairs, outside the room, and she needed to leave now or the chance would be lost. “It’s a mistake,” she told him in French. “You must let me go. Please—quickly! I must go!”

Candlelight sputtered to life. “Un voleur, eh?” He snorted. “Vous allez le regretter.”

“I’m not a thief. And I am sorry—very sorry. But I must go!” She started to sit up.

“Henri, idiot! Tirez!”

“Tais-toi!” There was a mad rustling as though he were struggling into his clothes. Footsteps thundered outside the room. A crescendo of voices poured through the paper-thin walls. Someone pounded on the door.

“What is going on in there?” came an angry voice in Italian.

“Please—you must let me leave by the window. There is a man trying to abduct me, and I was only trying to escape—”

“Silence! The authorities will make quick work of you.”

The authorities! “No, you must listen. I am not a thief—ouch!” He yanked her to her feet, not listening at all. “I am staying upstairs with a man who is trying to abduct me!”

He dragged her to the door.

“I am not a thief!” If he summoned the authorities, she could end up in gaol.

He wrenched the door open. Nicholas Warre burst into the room followed closely by a man who could only be the innkeeper. There was a commotion of angry voices—the innkeeper furious over the damaged door, the Frenchman outraged by India’s invasion, the woman screaming and huddling beneath the covers, the onlookers exclaiming from the hallway.

“I must ask you to release my wife,” Nicholas Warre told the man in French.

“Your wife!” the man exclaimed.

Faced with a choice between being mistaken for a thief or being mistaken for Nicholas Warre’s wife, she broke away from the Frenchman and launched herself at Mr. Warre.

“Oh, Nicholas!” India cried, clinging to him. “Tell this man I’m not a thief.”

He offered the Frenchman a grim smile. “You have my deepest apologies. I am discovering that my bride has unconventional ways of showing her displeasure with me. The lady was not nearly so eager for our nuptials as her father, I’m afraid.”

“Nicholas, how can you say such a thing? I was perfectly eager until you brought that...that awful woman into our room and tried to make me— Oh!” His grip tightened painfully. “Would not any bride climb out the window under such circumstances?”

“You can imagine that whatever justice you might hope to exact, she exacts from me tenfold daily,” he told the Frenchman grimly, and gestured toward the pistol. “In fact, perhaps I ought to beg a favor and ask you to put me out of my misery.”

The Frenchman made a noise.

“Shame on you, Nicholas. Sir, perhaps you would be so good as to explain to my husband that a wedding night is meant to be a private evening involving only two people.”

Laughter erupted in the crowd, and India silently thanked Auntie Phil for being a bit too free in describing her friends’ amorous liaisons.

Nicholas Warre reached into his pocket and held out a sovereign. “For your trouble—again, with my deepest apologies and my sincerest request that you not summon the authorities.”

India held her breath.

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes at the coin, and finally lowered his pistol, stalked forward and snatched it. “Bien. Take her away.” He gestured as if India was a pile of refuse in Nicholas Warre’s arms and turned his anger on the crowd. “All of you, allez! Allez!”

Nicholas Warre dragged her mercilessly into the crowded hallway.

“If you would rather be shot than marry me,” she told him under her breath, “I would be happy to arrange it.”

“If you can find a way to escape your cell aboard the ship,” he growled into her ear, “I invite you to try.”

CHAPTER FIVE

INDIA LAY ON a hammock watching candlelight dance on the wooden walls and letting her mind go numb, while Millie stood with her forehead and hands pressed against the door. Their prison was a cabin on the same deck as William’s, bolted across the outside with a heavy wooden slider India had barely glimpsed as William shoved her into the cabin with Millie.

“I can’t let them put me on trial for piracy,” Millie said against the wood. And then, “William!” Millie’s voice cracked as she cried out and pounded on the door. “William!”

India had learned years ago that pounding, clawing and shouting would not make a locked door open.

“Millie, please.” A cold wisp of panic snaked through her, and India snuffed it out quickly.

Millie stopped shouting. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“My stomach hurts.” It always hurt when she was locked away, probably because being locked away usually meant going without a meal.

“I’m sure William will send us dinner,” Millie reassured her. She knew what India had endured as a child—she just didn’t know the full truth of why India had been punished so severely.

And India wasn’t going to tell her. She wasn’t going to tell anyone, ever, if she could help it.

At least William would not be entering the cabin every few hours to make irate demands that India do the impossible.

“I knew Father would send someone after me,” India said now, “but I never thought...” About what that would mean for Millie. Truthfully, she’d never really considered that whomever Father sent might actually succeed in capturing her. “Please forgive me.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Millie said, turning to lean her back against the door.

The old Millie, the pre-London Millie, would have snipped that it was India’s fault. The two of them always bickered aboard the Possession. And they still bickered plenty. But ever since London...

It was as if Millie had built a great stone wall around herself that even India could not break through.

Perhaps that’s what people did after they’d been beaten nearly to death.

“The money,” Millie said now. “It was everything I had.” Her tone said she already believed their stash of money hidden aboard the Possession was lost forever.

“We haven’t left Malta yet,” India said, pressing fingers carefully into her belly, trying to relieve the cramping. “We’re still a stone’s throw from the Possession.”

Their entire plan rested on Millie’s money: it would let them make a start in shipping, which would enable them to make enough profits for Millie to attend the surgical school at Malta while India carried on their trade routes. Eventually, India would buy her own ship and return the Possession to Katherine.

“She may as well be anchored in Bristol for all the good that does us now.”

“She’s not in Bristol,” India said irritably. “She’s a hundred yards away. We can swim a hundred yards. We could not swim to Bristol.”

“We won’t have the opportunity for swimming.”

“Not unless we look for one.”

“William’s crew will be crawling the ship like ants.”

“There won’t be that many of them. If we can escape while it’s dark—”

“That will only make it more dangerous.”

“Fine,” India snapped. “We won’t escape. We’ll be locked away in this cabin forever, and William will likely not bring us any dinner—” her stomach spasmed a little “—and we shall waste away until we starve to death and he throws our bones to the fish.”

India reminded herself that Millie was afraid, had always been afraid even though she would rarely admit it, and that it was only natural for the fear to grow worse after what she’d suffered at her brother’s hands. But still...

She imagined having Gavin Germain at the business end of her pistol. It would be less than he deserved.

“Or until Lord Taggart marries you,” Millie said, “and I am hanged or thrown in prison.”

She hadn’t come all this way only to be captured and dragged back to England, where she would exchange one gaoler for another: her father for a husband who would have complete control over her, would do with her as he pleased, would own her. Who would discover how useless she was and be ashamed of her, but by then it would be too late.

No. She could not let that happen. At sea, she felt useful. Knowledge came easily. The ropes, the pistol... Father would never, ever have allowed her to touch a pistol.

“You know what happens to women in prison,” Millie said now.

“Stop it, Millie.”

“The same thing that will happen if we manage to escape but can’t retrieve the money.”

India knew Millie well enough to know exactly what she was thinking. “We’re not going to end up as prostitutes.”

“You won’t—you’ll be married to Lord Taggart.”

“The devil I will,” India said sharply, reaching for anger as a lifeline, and finally she sat up, steadying herself in the hammock with toes that barely touched the floor. “We haven’t failed yet. We’re on a ship, aren’t we?” It wasn’t logical, but being on a ship seemed better than not being on a ship.

Millie let out a strangled laugh. “As if we could take a ship from William.”

Under no circumstances could they possibly take the ship from William. But, “We could take a longboat. We could float in a barrel if we must. Or perhaps we’ll be attacked and captured.”

“Being taken captive by Barbary pirates is your solution?”

“We only have to escape. We’ll find our way back to the Possession before William has a chance to reprovision it for sailing. We’ll sneak aboard—at night if necessary—and we will get the money.” Already half a dozen new thoughts tumbled through India’s mind. “Someone will bring us a meal, and that someone will have to open the door. And that someone—” hopefully not William “—will likely be male.”

“How is that supposed to be comforting?”

How much would Nicholas Warre want her if she bedded one of William’s crew? “If our chance for freedom equals my opportunity to ruin myself—”

“What fascinating mathematics!”

“—then the odds that we can—”

“It’s your father’s money Lord Taggart wants, not you. You’d wait until some poor sod delivers our gruel, bed him in the hammock and discover that Lord Taggart still plans to wed you and we are as far from that money as ever.” Millie exhaled. “You’ll likely not have the chance to ruin yourself anyhow. Lord Taggart will do the deed himself at the first opportunity—only wait.”

India grew warm, remembering how he’d touched her in the alleyway. She rubbed her arms, pacing a little. “What else can I do to deter him?”

“Likely nothing. God, I hate men,” Millie said bitterly. “I hate them, India.” Those normally soft brown eyes grew hard and cold. “Arrogant sods, expecting everyone to submit to their whims.”

“Indeed.”

“A pox on them all.”

“I shall show him, Millie. I shall show Lord Taggart exactly what kind of wife he would have if he goes through with this, and believe me, he will quickly find some other way to pay off his debt.”

* * *

NICK PACED THE quarterdeck, already feeling a little queasy from the roll and sway of the ship, and stared at the near-dark city where that blessedly motionless bed would never see use now—at least, not by him. The injustice of it made him want to cry. Or kill someone.

If that someone weren’t the key to his financial solvency, he might have done just that.

Climbing out the window—God’s blood, he’d been careless, letting himself fall asleep with her there. He was lucky she hadn’t slit his throat.

There were footsteps behind him, and Jaxbury’s voice cut through the night. “India said you threatened to shoot her. Threaten her with your pistol again, and you’ll find your own way back to England.”

Nick didn’t bother to turn. “Now that we’re aboard, there won’t be a need to threaten her.”

“Believe that, and you are a damned fool.” Jaxbury laughed and crossed his arms, joining Nick at the railing.

“We’ll be underway in the morning, soon as I find the rest of my crew.”

“Can’t make England come quickly enough to suit me,” Nick muttered, and contemplated taking a longboat to shore for half a night’s rest.

“Then you’d better hope the roads through France are passable.”

Nick’s gaze shot to Jaxbury. “What are you talking about?”

“Change of plans,” Jaxbury said.

Now Nick straightened. “Devil there are. You’ll return us to England as you promised.”

“Happy to, if you’d like to wait a few years.”

“Now listen here, Jaxbury.” Nick advanced on him. “The agreement was you would help me find her and return us to England along with that ship you were hunting. Immediately.”

Now Jaxbury’s expression hardened. “Helped you find her, and I don’t care to do anything more. Damned unpleasant business, Warre. Ought to leave you here to find your own way, but I’ve got to get those two away from the Possession. After that—” He shrugged. “Got a mind to stay here awhile and do a bit of trading.”

“That was not the agreement!”

“Ought to be plenty of priests in Marseille to do your job for you.”

France was absolutely, positively out of the question. “You know bloody well a trip through France will present a thousand opportunities for her to run off and get into God knows what kind of trouble.” And would require passage through Paris.

“Not my problem, Warre.”

He’d spent fourteen years avoiding Paris and the man who lived there—a man he never cared to meet. Whose existence he tried to forget, but couldn’t.

“What about Miss Germain?”

“Miss Germain is my problem. Not yours. We require passage directly to England,” he bit out, knowing there wasn’t a damned thing he could do if Jaxbury refused. “As agreed.”

“Then I suggest you return to shore and find another ship.”

Jaxbury knew bloody well that wasn’t an option. On Jaxbury’s ship Lady India was safely locked away; if he arranged for passage aboard a different ship, he would have to try to control her without being noticed. He couldn’t hold a pistol on her from the folds of his greatcoat for an entire voyage—especially not when he would likely be bedridden the entire time.

It would be no different in France, riding in jolting coaches from one inn to the next while those devious blue eyes plotted death and destruction at every stop, where she would have plenty of opportunity to beg, cajole, win support...even divest herself of her virtue.

Hell.

* * *

IT WAS WILLIAM who brought their breakfast the next morning. And William again, an hour later, who came with other news.

“Warre is sick. Had to set sail without my surgeon, thanks to you two, and I need you—” he pointed at Millie “—to tend to him.”

“Is he going to die?” India asked hopefully from the hammock.

“Not going to die.” William looked at her pointedly. “Not by your hand, either.”

That remained to be seen. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She pushed the hammock idly with her toe. “The thought of killing someone never crossed my mind. I’m quite content. I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed a voyage more, if you must know—”

“Devil that,” Millie said irritably, facing William with her hands clenched. “If Lord Taggart’s ailment isn’t life-threatening, then he can tend to himself.”

“I could tend to him,” India offered.

William barked a laugh. “You will stay as far away from Warre as the ship allows. And you—” he pointed at Millie again “—will tend to Warre, or you’ll not leave this cabin. You’ll find what you need in the infirmary.”

There was a small commotion in the passageway, and two sailors wrestled India’s and Millie’s trunks into the cabin and dropped them on the floor with a thud.

“Don’t get any ideas,” William warned when they left. “Been all through those trunks. Nothing more dangerous in there than—well, might have said a petticoat, but neither of you own one. Best put on something warm,” he said to India. “I’m sending you up the yards.”

“You are?” The promise of freedom got the better of her, and India jumped off the hammock.

“In a merciful mood. And we’re a man short. My boatswain is under strict orders that you’re not to have a moment’s rest.”

India narrowed her eyes at him. “I can’t believe Nicholas Warre approves your releasing us from this cabin.” She studied his expression for any hint that there had been a falling-out, that William might have become an ally.

“Not Warre’s ship,” he said flatly. “You’ll not throw yourselves overboard without somebody seeing it, and if you try, you’ll not see the outside of this cabin until we reach France.”

“France,” Millie said sharply.

“We’re not sailing for England?” India asked. New hope flooded through her so fast she felt light-headed.

“Marseille,” William said. “And once you go ashore, you’ll be Warre’s problem and not mine.”

“You’re going to leave me with him? In France?”

“Aye. Now hurry up—Warre’s green with mal de mer, a stiff breeze is coming up and we’re about to go full sail.”

CHAPTER SIX

MAL DE MER. They expected her to spend her life tied to a man who suffered from mal de mer? For the next two days, India watched Nicholas Warre emerge from the cabin for short reprieves on the upper deck, where he would stand with his hands curled around the railing and his elbows locked, staring at the horizon, braced against the ship’s motion—the glorious, magnificent roll and sway that made the wood and ropes creak and splashed sea spray into the air to mist her face.

From the lower deck India watched him emerge again, making his way up the stairs wearing no wig, no hat, no turban. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and glistened in the sunshine. Without a waistcoat, his shirt stood out white like the sails against the sparkling sea. He was remarkably steady despite his affliction. She watched him brace himself at the railing, followed the line of his arm to his shoulder. She already knew he was as strong as any sailor on board.

She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”

If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had not done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.

“Got no business on a ship, that one.”

It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.

Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.

In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.

Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.

And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.

A map?

Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.

Betrothed. The word sliced hotly through her mind.

Husband. The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.

She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.

As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts. I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.

He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.

He looked miserable.

He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?

He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.

He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.

Her breath hitched. And then she forced herself into the cabin, because the alternative was running away.

“We’re in the Mediterranean Sea,” she informed him breezily. “South of Sardinia. We’ll be passing along—” It wasn’t a map. It was a giant drawing of some kind of mechanical device—a mill, it looked like.

“What do you want.” He said it as a statement, not a question, and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked at her as though he wanted to murder her—or possibly vomit on her, considering the greenish pallor of his skin.

“Ideally, I would like to be returned to Malta,” she said even though it was obvious he was short on patience and feeling very poorly. “If Malta isn’t possible, then I suppose Italy would do.”

“If you haven’t got anything intelligent to say, then I suggest you return to your duties.”

“Oh, I have many intelligent things to say, Mr. Warre. A great many intelligent things. And not to worry—a lifetime together will allow you to hear every last one.” She hopped onto the table and perched there, crinkling the corner of his drawing.

“Get down.”

Instead, she rested her toes on the edge of his chair and studied the drawing. “Surely, if you plan to make your fortune constructing a mill, you don’t need my father’s money.”

He ignored her and took a measurement, jotting the figure on a chart.

She leaned closer. “Three and an eighth.”

His eyes shifted to her, and he stared, expressionless.

“It was three and an eighth,” she said. “You wrote three.”

“It was an estimate.” Oh, yes—there was definitely a spark of irritation just now.

“An estimate. Oh, I see. Do forgive me. One doesn’t estimate aboard a ship, or one could end up in Alexandria instead of Athens.” She dove her brows and cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t been merely estimating the size of your debt, have you? Because I would hate to live beneath my standards even after you’ve pocketed my father’s money.”

“Get down,” he repeated. “Now.”

“Such a tremendous effort you’re making to win my hand. Very commendable.”

He waited for her to obey his command.

“I must say it is flattering beyond all description,” she went on, “being pined after with such heartfelt devotion and such puppy-dog eyes. It’s only too obvious that you love me to distraction.”

“Lady India.” He leaned forward. “As much as I burn endlessly for you body and soul, as I suffer in lovesick torment, as I can scarcely keep my wayward mind from composing spontaneous sonnets in your honor—” he pushed to his feet and braced his hands on the table, looming over her “—I must request that you remove yourself from this table else I shall do the removing for you.”

“Will you.”

His face was inches from hers. “One.”

One?

His gaze touched on her lips, raked across her breasts, returned to her eyes. “Two.”

“Are you counting, Mr. Warre?” Her pulse leaped a little. Those eyes were nothing like a puppy dog’s. They were predatory and on fire with thoughts that would make Frannie sound like someone reading from a ladies’ companion.

“Control yourself, Mr. Warre.” She slid off the table and onto unsteady legs, but refused to break his gaze. “Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve is dreadful unseemly.”

“Were I not overcome by love and adoration,” he said, still much too close to her face, “I would certainly be capable of greater discretion.” The ship banked and lolled with a wave, and he gripped the table, clenching his jaw.

“Overcome by seasickness, rather,” she scoffed. Trapped in the space between his body and the table, the subtle scent of his cologne teased every breath. “If you’re feeling that ill, I can’t imagine why you aren’t in bed instead of sitting in here.”

“For the same reason you study every empty barrel and piece of potential flotsam aboard this ship.” He returned to his chair and seated himself.

“Why, Mr. Warre, if this mill can help me escape an unwanted suitor, you must explain it to me at once.”

He picked up his ruler, silently took another measurement. Wrote it down.

One and three-eighths.

She went to the door. Turned. “Do not insult me by suggesting that we have even a single motive in common,” she said with her hand on the jamb to steady herself. “I merely want my freedom, while you are motivated purely by—”

The desire to escape? Escape what?

“—greed.”

She left him, frowning to herself, and returned to the quarterdeck.

* * *

A FEW HOURS later, Nick stood on deck, staring at the horizon as Miss Germain suggested, telling himself it helped when it didn’t, wondering how in God’s name he was going to survive a life wed to Lady India, hating that he had no choice.

This was what it had come to: an arranged marriage—no, forced. Definitely forced. She was right about that much. A forced marriage to a young woman who had strayed so far from the usual expectations that she was hardly recognizable as a lady.

A wave of nausea gripped him and he let his head fall. He needed to accept that his life was not going to turn out the way he’d hoped, and that he would be doing well if he managed to save Taggart.

His shipping operation was defunct—destroyed by storms and pirates in the space of two months. All that remained was his debt, and the deadline he’d agreed to with Holliswell was fast closing in on him. Holliswell had “graciously” given Nick enough time to pursue Lady India and collect the dowry—Nick much preferred to think of it that way—from her father. But if Nick didn’t manage it in...God, a few more weeks, Holliswell would take Taggart. That was the agreement: more time to pay off the debt, with Taggart itself as collateral.

There would be little left after that, and he would need to make the most of it. He would not risk another investment on the seas. He needed to have the plans for the new mill works ready by the time they reached London, which meant he needed to prepare drawings for each mill site and lay out projections for how quickly the new corporation—if the other men agreed to form it—might turn a profit.

It wouldn’t be much of a profit. Barely enough to make all the repairs Taggart Hall desperately needed and pay the cost of maintaining Lady India in the standard that the wife of a peer should maintain. He’d already been forced to sell his house in London, which meant he had nowhere to keep Lady India while they were in town, except with James or Honoria.

What kind of man had to lodge his wife with his siblings?

Wife.

The thought made his lungs constrict, a bit like the thought of being locked in prison for the rest of his life. This forced marriage ran both ways. Most of the time he managed not to think about all the things that would be lost to him forever once he married Lady India. But sometimes...

God, he was a fool for wanting something most people didn’t even have.

Something like the marriage his brother James had—companionable, passionate, loving.

You love me to distraction.

He couldn’t imagine ever loving Lady India to distraction. But he could damn well imagine making love to her, which only made him more furious—mainly at Jaxbury, for releasing her from that cabin when she should have stayed safely locked away. She should not have been allowed to roam the ship. To sit on the table, giving him a view of shapely thighs encased in those breeches. Leaning forward so that her unbound breasts—God, her breasts—moved freely beneath her shirt and peaked against the fabric, scarcely hidden at all beneath her ridiculous waistcoat.

Even now, her raised voice drifted from somewhere near the bow of the ship.

He looked up, saw her climbing the yards. Bloody hell. Cantwell would have a fit of apoplexy if he could see her running amok like a common sailor. And Nick...

He would force her to marry him, collect the money her father had promised, take her to Taggart...and then what? Stand by while she swung from the chandeliers like an ape? While she ran about the estate dressed in a waistcoat and breeches?

A large wave rocked the ship, and he gripped the railing as his stomach rolled. Deep breaths, deep breaths...a few moments, and the nausea subsided. He reached into his pocket for a piece of the candied ginger Miss Germain had given him.

Footsteps sounded behind him. “Contemplating a good French wine?”

“Sod off, Jaxbury.” Nick didn’t bother to turn. But he did glance at Lady India, who was working a line up in the yards. High above in the rigging, he caught a glimpse of long legs and tight buttocks clad in a pair of old breeches. One fall, and his chance at fifty thousand would be gone.

Jaxbury grinned. “At least you’re enjoying the view.”

* * *

IF THE MOON hadn’t been half-full, she would not have been able to see a thing in Nicholas Warre’s cabin. Any fuller, and it would have been too bright.

His sleeping form was a dark heap on the bed as she tiptoed by. Across the cabin his trunk sat open with his coat and waistcoat draped over the edge. She crept toward it, pausing to make sure his breathing was slow and steady. One of the floorboards creaked with the ship’s rocking. He showed no sign of waking.

There was nothing inside his coat. Nor his waistcoat, blast him. He must have hidden the contract inside his trunk. The moonlight was too dim to let her see anything but a black pit, so she plunged her hand inside and blindly groped around, feeling for paper. Her fingers touched linen. Silk. Wool. Velvet, covering something—coins! She was no pickpocket, but she would remember this. One might say he owed her, after all.

A book, then another book. She slipped them from the trunk and fanned the pages, but no papers fell out. She groped some more. Leather—a shoe. Another shoe. Cold metal—

“Whatever you’re searching for, Lady India,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, “you won’t find it.”

Damn, damn, damn! She inhaled sharply, and her head whipped around, even as her fingers touched cold metal. He hadn’t moved, and it was too dark to see that his eyes were open, but clearly they were. She felt the length of the metal—a pistol! She closed her fingers around it and smiled.

“Perhaps not, but you will find it for me.” She stood quickly, taking the pistol with her and pointing it at the bed.

“I don’t think I will.”

“I suppose you’ll tell me no ball has been loaded, but I am convinced I could find your powder and load one before you could lurch over here to stop me.”

He groaned and rolled to his back. “You threaten nothing but blessed relief.”

She crouched down, still facing him, and groped for the powder and shot. “That’s twice in our brief acquaintance that you’ve expressed a desire to see your life end. Hardly a noble sentiment.”

He inched toward the edge of the bed. “I’ve long since dispensed...with being noble.”

First one of his legs swung out of the bed, then the other. She still hadn’t found the shot and powder. “Stay where you are,” she warned.

“Hardly an effective threat under the circumstances.”

“I shall hit you if I have to.”

“Will you.”

“Yes.”

“With the pistol, I suppose.”

That hadn’t occurred to her, but, “Yes.”

He was standing now. Blast it all, where was the shot and—powder horn! Her hand closed around it and she whipped it from the trunk, plunging her hand back in for the shot. This time she found it immediately.

“Aha!” she said, scooting farther away from him to the dressing table, while he steadied himself against the edge of the bed. “I have them now. If you would prefer to save us time and trouble, you may simply tell me where the contract is and I will retrieve it.”

“Ah. The contract.”

Loading a pistol was one thing she could do in her sleep. He took a step forward. She loaded a ball. “Yes. The contract.”

“You do realize, of course, that destroying it would change nothing.”

She tipped the powder horn and jammed the ramrod hard. He was halfway across the cabin. “That remains to be seen.” She hoped. At the very least, if he had no copy of the contract, he could not prove he had her father’s consent for the marriage. She leveled the loaded pistol at him. “Find the contract and give it to me.”

He reached the dressing table. “Very well. But you’ll have to move so I can open the drawer.”

She stepped back. In the faint moonlight she watched him reach inside, careful not to get close enough for him to grab the pistol from her hand. He held a document up—but not out.

“Here,” he said. “You may have it.”

“Hand it to me.”

“Come and take it.”

“Ha.” He thought she was stupid. “I’ll not fall for your trap.”

“Nor I for your threats. Which leaves us...where? You’ll shoot me, I suppose, then tear up the contract and mop up my blood with the pieces.”

“If I shot you, there would be no need to tear up the contract.”

He gripped the dressing table and pressed his other hand to his stomach. “Devil take these waves.”

Was he going to be sick right here? Now? “Give me the contract and return to your bed.”

“I don’t think I can—”

Oh, God. He was. “Quickly!”

He doubled over. “Christ—”

“No!”

He lurched forward, but all that projected toward her was his arm, snatching the pistol from her hand. He grabbed her with his other hand and held fast, standing upright now, and plunked the pistol on the dressing table.

“Pillock!”

“I believe that has already been established.”

“Release me.”

“I’m not a complete fool.”

He did not smell sick. He smelled of the candied ginger Millie had been giving him to settle his stomach. His grip was warm and tight around her arms. “I do hope you don’t intend to continue burgling into people’s rooms after our marriage,” he growled. “It would be a pity to have to keep you locked away for the rest of your life.”

It was no less than she would have faced if she’d stayed with Father. “You would need a fortified tower to keep me imprisoned,” she warned. “Or a dungeon.” She would not be locked away again—not by him, or Father, or William or anyone else.

He eased his grip, smoothing his palms down her arms an inch or two. “Perhaps I shall build a tower just for you.” In the dim light she saw his lips curve, and the hair prickled on the back of her neck.

“With the fifty thousand pounds you get from Father? I should think most of that will go to Mr. Holliswell.”

“Indeed it will.” His thumbs moved lightly, caressing the place where her arms pressed against her breasts, and—

Oh. The sensation of his touch against the sides of her breasts shot through her like fire, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

“I—” Suddenly it was a struggle to form words. “I shouldn’t think, in the long run, it would be worth it. You’ve endured weeks at sea when you obviously can’t stand even five minutes on the waves. Now you’re set to endure weeks more. You’re willing to commit an illegal act—and forcing someone into wedlock does not create a legal marriage, Mr. Warre—and even more than that, once your debt is paid you will still have me to contend with.” His thumbs ventured lower, whispering around her fullest curves. She swallowed. Hard. “You will have me for the rest of your life, which promises to be a considerable amount of time despite your advanced age. You will regret it bitterly, I assure you.”

“No doubt I will.”

“A sensible man would change his mind about wishing to marry me.” The ship lolled, creaked. Outside, the nighttime sea splashed against the hull. Her breasts grew heavy with an odd kind of ache.

“Let us have one thing perfectly clear between us, Lady India. I do not wish to marry you. I need to marry you.” His caress circled up, around. A nerve pulsed in a place much lower, much more secret. “No amount of your hoydenish tricks will change that fact.”

“Oh, yes—I’m fully aware that I’m to be a casualty of your embarrassed circumstances,” she breathed. His touch lulled her, made her want more, tempted her toward him in ways she couldn’t quite resist.

“If you choose to see it that way,” he said.

“That is the only way to see it.” She needed to pull away from him. Now. But the sensations he was creating held her transfixed, rooted to the floor, too willing to debate him. “At least do me the honor of explaining what, exactly, I am to be sacrificed to save.”

“I have a vision of you trussed like a pig and stretched across an ancient pagan altar.” And oh—his thumbs brushed the tips of her breasts, shooting pure sensation straight to a point between her legs. He leaned close, lowered his voice. “We are talking of marriage, Lady India—a simple contract. In exchange for my protection, you agree not to bring me shame.”

His words cut through her pleasure-fogged mind even as her breasts screamed with need. She broke from his grasp. “That is your idea of marriage?” Her voice felt thick, clogged with the pleasure he’d stoked.

“I rather think it’s most people’s idea.”

It wasn’t hers. Not that she had any idea of marriage—quite the opposite. Dread coursed in, lapping icily at the desire burning across her skin. “I need protection from you,” she managed. “And as for my bringing you shame...perhaps you should have considered that before you agreed to marry a young lady as well acquainted with the ways of the world as I am. I’ll not return easily to a life of drawing rooms and embroidering cushions.”

She’d told Father as much in London, but he hadn’t cared. A daughter married was a daughter tamed...or so he thought. And so Nicholas Warre thought, as well.

“It’s all too clear you need protection from yourself,” Mr. Warre said calmly. “Little wonder your father was reduced to such desperate measures. But know this...” His voice turned flinty. “You will not shame Taggart, Lady India. I’ll not allow it.”

You’ll not bring shame on this family, India.... The echo of her childhood pooled coldly in her belly. She would not endure that again—she couldn’t. “From the sound of things, it’s too late for that,” she scoffed. Anger flashed dangerously in his eyes. “If you insist on forcing our marriage, I daresay I shall only be adding to Taggart’s shame. What will happen if you cannot pay your debt to Mr. Holliswell?” she taunted.

“Oh, it will be paid,” he said flatly. “It’s merely a question of whether he’ll be paid with the dowry I receive from our marriage or with Taggart itself—and Holliswell will never seat his greasy, self-satisfied arse at the head of Taggart’s table.” He pointed at her. “No matter if I’ve got to drag your pretty behind in front of a priest and have an altar boy move your jaw up and down while reciting the vows in falsetto. This wedding will take place.”

“And you accuse me of shameful behavior.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “For God’s sake—you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“Gain?”

“For the price of a few meaningless vows, you’ll have Taggart’s name and you’ll live as any other young woman would be content to live, and in ten years at least some of Society will have forgotten your transgressions. It’s more of a chance at redemption than most ever receive.”

“I don’t need redemption.” She made herself laugh. “But you will, sir, if you do not quickly repent the grave mistake you’re making.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I would call it a mistake,” he said. His shadowed eyes dropped to her breasts, lingering. Her breath hitched, and her sensitive peaks came alive with fresh, unwanted desire. “Especially if I am to find such pleasure at my fingertips,” he added huskily.

A heady yearning curled inside her. She never should have allowed him to touch her. But it was too late to take it back now, and it was too clear that he may not have wished to marry her—but he did want something else.

She forced her feet to move and went to the door. “Good night, Mr. Warre.” The ship banked with a large wave, and she turned, smiling back at him. “Do sleep well.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

INDIA LET HERSELF into the passageway and crept back to her cabin, trying to ignore that her body hummed with the lingering effects of Nicholas Warre’s touch.

Gain. He thought she would gain from marrying him, when he’d made his expectations perfectly clear.

Oh, God. She stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the passageway. Leaned against the wall outside her cabin, taking a moment to compose herself, aware of her breasts in a way she had never been before—but even more aware of the things he’d said, and the fact that she could never, ever allow this marriage to take place.

She knew all about the things a man would do to avoid being shamed.

Your hoydenish tricks...that was how he saw her. He did not see her accomplishments, her skills. He was already ashamed to take her to wife—just as Father had been ashamed when she’d returned to London and locked her up in her apartments.

Only imagine how Nicholas Warre would treat her if he discovered her biggest failing. Except she didn’t need to imagine, because she had an entire childhood of memories to draw on.

You may redeem yourself, India—and have your dinner, as well—the moment you decide to apply your efforts and read me these stanzas from Pope. It hadn’t mattered to Father that applying her efforts had never done any good.

It wouldn’t matter to Nicholas Warre, either. When he learned she couldn’t read, he would try to force her just as Father had, and withhold every pleasure from her, and it wouldn’t work because no matter how hard she tried it never worked. And he would prevent her shaming Taggart by keeping her hidden away, and Taggart would become her prison, just as surely as her childhood rooms had been.

Her stomach twisted. She needed to do something now—tonight. But the only person who could possibly save her now was William.

Yes. Yes—she could talk to William. Tell him everything—make him see how imperative it was that she be in charge of her own destiny. She would promise anything in exchange for his forgiveness. Then perhaps he would let her and Millie join his crew, and then they would have protection instead of needing to make their way alone. And it would be just like before when they’d sailed with Katherine—

“India!” Millie’s voice hissed through the darkened passageway.

India turned. “Millie?”

Millie hurried from the darkness and grabbed India’s arm. “Come—come quickly!”

“What’s happened?”

Millie didn’t answer. India practically ran after her down the corridor to William’s cabin, through the door, and—

Oh, God. “What have you done?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know!”

India fell to William’s side, where he lay motionless on the floor.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks—”

“How can it not be as bad as it looks?” Oh, God. Oh, God. India shook him.

“No! Don’t try to rouse him!”

“We have to!” She listened for breath—yes! He was breathing.

“No, we don’t.” Millie grabbed her arm and tried to pull India to her feet. “India, this could be our opportunity. I didn’t mean to do it—I didn’t—but we won’t escape any other way...you know we won’t. And even if we do, what then? But if we take this ship back to Malta now, we can retake the Possession—”

“We can’t return to Malta. When William’s crew finds him like this, we’ll be killed.” She felt behind William’s head, encountered a bump wet with warm blood. Pain fisted in her stomach. “Mutiny? How could you? He’ll kill us himself when he awakes!”

“Not if we lock him in here.”

“We can’t do that! Not to William!”

“Have you forgotten he came here on Katherine’s orders?”

“You know bloody well the crew will never accept our leadership.”

“Did you not hear their complaints as we boarded? These men are not loyal to William. They were hired two months ago. They thought they would be a week at Malta, but instead they’re back at sea after only a day. Believe me, the promise of returning to Malta will have them in the palm of our hands. But in case it doesn’t...”

She held out a pistol, shot and powder.

The metal glinted in the moonlight through the windows of William’s cabin. India looked at the pistol. At Millie.

“I can’t do this. Millie, you should have told me first.”

“It wasn’t something I planned!”

“We’ll be pirates. Real pirates.”

Millie’s hands were trembling. She quickly set the pistol and shot on a chair. “He’s come to no real harm.”

“Aye,” India said sarcastically, “That is precisely the definition of piracy. As long as nobody comes to harm—”

“We shan’t be stealing William’s ship.” Millie sounded terrifyingly determined. “We shall merely divert it back to Malta and then return it.”

“If we return to Malta with William and Nicholas Warre aboard, there will be no way to keep them secured until we make our escape. We’ll be apprehended before we can weigh anchor out of Valletta.”

“Then we shall leave them off somewhere before Malta.”

India’s breathing turned shallow. Leaving them off was different from keeping them safely aboard.

“What are we going to do when William awakes?” India asked.

“There are things I can give him to keep him calm—”

“Millie, we can’t do that.”

“Do you have a better solution?”

Yes. They could wake William and beg for his mercy. But even William had limits, and they had already exceeded those limits by taking the Possession from Katherine.

Now there was no turning back.

Millie hurried to dress William’s wound while India held his head with shaky hands. “Is there any chance he would wake up and think he fell and hit his head?” India asked.

Millie answered with a look.

“You confronted him?”

“I went to ask him a question.”

“And knocked him unconscious?”

“I didn’t care for his answer! Hold his head higher.”

William’s slackened features were terrifying. “What if he dies? How can you be certain he won’t die?”

“Stop asking questions and help me put a pillow beneath his head!”

“What good will a pillow do us now?” None. A pillow would do them no good. But India stuffed one beneath him anyhow and grabbed up the pistol and shot.

* * *

NICK AWOKE TO the sharp pounding of a hammer.

What the devil—

He pushed himself upright in the darkness, realizing at the same time that the hammer was pounding against his door. He bolted out of bed and tried to wrest the door open, but something on the other side held it fast.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“What the devil is this about?” No answer. “Jaxbury! Jaxbury, you sodding bastard, open the bloody door!”

The hammering stopped, and it wasn’t Jaxbury that answered.

“How does it feel to be locked away, Mr. Warre?” Lady India’s voice singsonged through the door.

The implications raced through his mind. “Where is Jaxbury?”

“William is none of your concern. From now on you shall answer to me as your captain.”

“Tell me what’s happened to Jaxbury.” Lady India, and presumably Miss Germain, could not have taken over the ship unless—

“You need not fear for your safety, Mr. Warre, as long as you cause us no trouble. You shall be let off at Sicily—it should be easy enough for you to find passage back to England from there.”

Nick’s blood ran cold. “Is Jaxbury dead?”

“I do not care to answer any questions. You will remain in your cabin. Of course, that shouldn’t present any additional hardship for you with your ill health. But I intend to keep the door locked just in case.”

“So you will put me off at Sicily, and then what? You and Miss Germain will sail the Mediterranean in a stolen ship? Once the line of piracy is crossed, it can’t be undone.”

“If I tell you I fully intend to cross that line, will it make you less inclined to marry me? Only imagine what shame it will bring upon Taggart to have a pirate as its mistress.” Nick did not bother to answer. “Ah, well,” she said after a moment. “I thought not. But only consider, Mr. Warre, how much you could profit by piracy. More than fifty thousand, I daresay.”

“You and Miss Germain are as good as dead, Lady India. And anyone else out there—” he thought of the crew and called louder, in case any might be listening “—do you imagine you’ll not be counted as pirates, too?”

“Enjoy your voyage, Mr. Warre,” she called, and he heard her footsteps fading down the passageway.

He stared at the door.

A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach, and he breathed deeply through his mouth until it passed. When it did, he lurched to the dresser for another piece of candied ginger and stumbled toward the pot in the corner of the cabin.

God, he hated ships. Despised them and everything they stood for.

With just enough moonlight to see, he slid the pot aside with his foot, gripped the wall for balance, and retrieved the pistol he’d hidden there. Loaded a ball, and replaced the pistol behind the pot with his reserve of shot and powder. Under these circumstances, having an extra pistol hidden away could become very useful.

He returned to the bed, sinking into the mattress and staring at the ceiling while his stomach threatened another rebellion.

In the space of—what, half an hour? Longer?—he’d gone from stroking her breasts, God damn it, to being imprisoned in his cabin with Jaxbury possibly dead. They couldn’t actually have killed him. Could they?

Whatever they’d done, Lady India would have had the opportunity for none of it if he had alerted Jaxbury and returned her to her cabin like he should have instead of standing there captivated by the womanly swells beneath her shirt. Putting his hands on her was a misjudgment of incalculable proportions. Yet he’d scarcely touched her at all—so much less than he’d wanted to do, and so much more than he should have.

And she’d reacted. Bloody devil, he’d seen exactly the moment it had happened, had seen the way her lips had parted a little, had noticed how she stumbled over her words as he’d caressed her full, heavy curves.

A strangled laugh pushed into his throat. Perhaps that was the way to tame her. Good God.

The ship pitched now with a large wave, and he braced himself to keep from rolling.

He’d thought her foolish and stupid. Had wanted—needed—to believe it was true. But that was just as much of a mistake as touching her. There’d been something else in those eyes tonight—something he’d been in too much of a hurry to notice in Malta, or perhaps just unwilling to acknowledge: a dark shadow.

Evil?

No. It was the dark shadow of desperation one saw in the eyes of street urchins. Except that Lady India was no urchin. She was the spoiled daughter of an earl.

And she was a pirate. And according to his agreement with her father, his fiancée.

If he were smart, he would let her put him off at Sicily and be grateful to see the last of her.

But he wasn’t smart. He was nearly fifty thousand pounds in debt. And she may have been desperate, but she was forgetting one thing.

So was he.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY MANAGED FOR a day, and then another, and another, until India began to wonder if they might succeed at this after all. They’d known William was all right when he’d begun pounding on the door and shouting before the first night was through.

The carpenter had filed enough of a space beneath each door to slide plates of food and low-lipped trays filled with water, like one might give a cat.

“I’m worried that there’s been no sound from William’s cabin since this morning,” India said to Millie, as the setting sun spilled into the captain’s great cabin at the end of the third day.

“Did you expect him to pound at the door without ever giving up?”

“I don’t know what to expect.” India rubbed her arms and paced by the windows.

“We’ll make Sicily by tomorrow midday,” Millie said testily. Already the wind had softened, and they both knew they would be lucky to reach Sicily by nightfall tomorrow. “We’ll put them out, and they’ll be ashore in an hour or two. Nothing will happen to them.”

“I only wish I could say the same of us,” India snapped.

But by noon the next day, the wind had died completely overnight, and it showed no sign of returning.

India licked her finger and anxiously held it up, but the only sensation was the warm Mediterranean sunshine. “Nothing.”

“It will pick up,” Mille said, working her fingers absently around her wrist.

“Is that optimism I hear?”

“Pragmatism,” Millie snipped. “The wind has to blow sometime.”

But above them the sails hung limp while the ship floated calmly on a sea disturbed by the barest ripples. Below, the crew lolled about on deck with nothing to do but watch her and Millie stand helplessly on the upper deck and wait for a breeze to catch the sails.

India held William’s spyglass to her eye and studied the distant green ribbon that was Sicily.

“The crew is getting restless,” Millie said under her breath.

“I know that.” India cast a wary glance toward the bow, where fifty men controlled only by their desire to return to the Valletta taverns had stopped lolling and now milled about impatiently. She caught the boatswain’s eye and lifted her chin the way Katherine had always done, and was satisfied when the boatswain turned away.

India studied Sicily once more. “How far do you suppose it is really?”

“Too far. Putting them in the longboat here would be murder.”

“You’re right—the wind will pick up. It’s got to.” India said it mostly to reassure herself. “Perhaps I should order another keg opened.”

“A third keg? They’ll all be drunk.”

“But occupied.”

“Oh, yes. That’s the perfect—dear God.” Millie’s hand flew to her chest, and she gripped her wrist tightly. “India, look there.”

At the bow, the twenty-seven crew members had all gathered together in a huddle. Without the crash of waves and the snap of canvas, the voices carried easily to the upper deck in an increasing crescendo of discontent.

India touched her pistol. “If they mutiny...” There would be little she and Millie could do to stop them.

Millie watched the group through eyes that had grown fearful. “They could do no more in charge of this ship than we can—nobody can control the wind.”

India thought of the brawl in the tavern at Valletta and felt a chill despite the warm sunshine. It would take mere seconds for hell to break loose aboard this ship, and the crew could throw them overboard or simply kill them and be done with it. Or worse.

From somewhere below deck came the sound of a small explosion. India snapped her attention to Millie. “A pistol shot.”

“Who could be shooting?” Millie asked frantically.

And another.

Moments later—too soon to reload—another.

India counted heads rapidly. “All the men are on deck.” Which meant it had to be William...and Nicholas Warre. “Bloody hell—it’s them.”

Bang!

Fear surged through Millie’s voice. “We can’t let them escape. We can’t!” Her frantic eyes fixed on the deck below. “What’s happening now?”

The group broke up, and the entire horde of men was heading toward the upper deck.

Bang!

India judged the distance, but she would never get past them to the stairs to see who was shooting. And at what. But it was a good guess the target was the door. A loud pounding—louder than any fist could make—confirmed it.

India’s heart raced. Millie was absolutely right: they could not allow William to escape. India drew her pistol at the same time Millie drew the one she’d taken from William, and together they rushed to the stairs and aimed down at the men gathered on the quarterdeck below.

“What is the meaning of this?” India called down.

“Just want to talk about this wind,” the boatswain called, taking the first step with a dozen men behind him.

“Do not come any closer!” Millie aimed her pistol at the boatswain’s chest.

There was another pistol shot from below. More violent pounding. If they did not go below quickly, William and Nicholas Warre would soon come above.

“There’s nothing to discuss, as you well know,” India told the men. “We shall be underway as soon as we have a breeze.” Angry faces outnumbered them six to one. “Return to your posts at once, and as soon as we are underway there will be more rum for everyone!”

Bang! Another shot from below.

“Clear off,” India commanded. “Can’t you hear those shots? If I don’t go below immediately, you’ll all be strung from the yards for piracy when Captain Jaxbury escapes.” Oh, God. Oh, God. And she and Millie would be strung with them.

“T’aint us that locked up the captain,” someone called out.

They didn’t clear off. Instead they crowded up the stairs. Too late she realized she should have resorted to her pistol while they were still gathered below. “Do not cross me,” she shouted. “One of you will die—who will it be?” She only hoped it wouldn’t be her—her and Millie both, moments after she fired a shot. But if she waited...

Below, more pounding. And hacking.

The sound of ripping, splintering wood.

A burly sailor stepped forward, and she shifted her pistol toward him. “Are you volunteering to die for the others?”

The sailor stopped.

A warm bead of perspiration trickled from her temple to her jaw. Stalemate. The glassy sea shone behind the men as far as the eye could see. The ship made no sound.

Except for voices from below. Male voices.

And hard, solid footsteps.

“India...” Terror edged Millie’s voice.

“I know.”

“We’ve got to go over the side.”

“And then what?”

Suddenly the sailors’ attention shifted behind them, to the stairs—the quarterdeck. A shot fired, and all hell broke loose. Millie fired back. A man screamed, and the crew rushed them. For two heartbeats India had a dead bead on a man’s chest—Lorenzo’s chest. A voice in her head screamed, Murderer! In her hesitation, the moment was lost. Angry hands grabbed her, tore her pistol away, shoved her roughly toward the stairs. Above the voices she heard Millie scream.

And then— “Enough!” William’s deafening command rose above everything.

At first they ignored him in their frenzy. But he pushed onto the upper deck, bellowing at them to cease. Right behind him was Nicholas Warre—with a pistol.

Men were explaining, pushing her and Millie toward the front of the crowd, calling out “We got ’em, captain” and “Kill the pirates!”

A moment later they faced Nicholas Warre and a William she scarcely recognized as the lighthearted sailor she’d known for years. Fury had turned his eyes cold, his face expressionless. He barely spared them a glance before descending to the quarterdeck. He stalked to a massive coil of rope, took up the end and began winding.

Nicholas Warre stalked after him. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Now the crew shoved and crowded down the stairs, dragging India and Millie with them. India lost sight of William, but not before she’d seen the noose taking shape in his hand.

An uproar went up among the crew—shouts of “Hang ’em!” and “Let ’er swing!”

The world constricted to a small red spot in her vision. Perspiration ran down her face. Hands—men’s hands—she barely noticed them.

Millie’s screams came to her through a muted fog.

“Have you gone mad?” Nicholas Warre demanded. “You can’t kill them.”

William ignored him and kept winding. His usually laughing mouth was grim, and she knew him well enough to recognize that he did not want to kill them.

Breathe. Breathe! She fought for control, to stand tall instead of dissolving into hysteria. But William could rightfully kill them, and he would, because it was the only way to prove his authority in front of the crew.

Nicholas Warre yanked India from the sailor’s grasp. “You will not murder my wife, Jaxbury.”

“I’m not—” The protest leaped to her tongue despite her fear.

He silenced her with a violent yank. “Quiet!” he hissed in her ear. “For once in your blasted life.” And then, “My wife is my responsibility,” he said fiercely. “I shall mete out the consequences for what she’s done.” He looked down at her with the most awful expression and added loudly, “And I assure you they will be severe.”

The fog of terror cleared just enough to realize what he was doing: he was trying to give William a way to change his mind.

He dragged her toward William amid cries of “Hang ’em!”

He jerked her even closer. “When I threaten him, beg him for your life,” he ground out under his breath. “And prepare yourself.”

For what?

Nicholas Warre raised his pistol and leveled it at William. “You will not touch my wife. I shall take her below and punish her as she deserves.”

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