There was something getting inside them now, something called feeling.

  And it frightened him.

  Frightened him beyond his mother, beyond the reality that he was going to die unloved and unappreciated, beyond anything that had ever haunted that huge ancestral bedroom at Morninghall.

  Who are you to complain about your lot in life, your failure to find glory and admiration and affection, when there are people beneath your feet who are dying every day from malnutrition and disease?

  Damon felt sick, angry, and violent, especially toward Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms, who had forced him to go belowdecks and witness those unspeakable horrors for himself.

  The innocent brown eyes before him were waiting silently, dark with suffering, all the worse because those eyes were those of a child.

  Damon sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. "What is it, Toby?"

  "Radley told me to tell ye to expect company."

  "Who?"

  The boy's gaze slid toward the window. "An officer."

  "'Bloody hell." Damon sent his chair crashing back and ran to the stern windows. Sure enough, there was a boat heading toward them, and in it was Bolton, his iron gray hair blowing in straggly wisps around his stark face, his gaunt frame so stiff that it looked as though it had been driven straight down into the seat with a giant hammer from above.

  Oh, he was in trouble this time, but suddenly, he didn't care.

  He began to laugh. Richly, helplessly, insanely.

  "Lord Morninghall?"

  Damon turned from the window, the image of that boat knifing through the sparkling water still emblazoned across his brain. That a reprimand was coming, he had no doubt. That Bolton was furious that the Black Wolf had humiliated the navy once again, he did not care. Let Bolton and his damned high-ranking friends gnash their teeth and make eternal public vows about how they would soon snare the elusive thief of the night. Let them threaten him with a court-martial, a firing squad, whatever they damned well pleased as punishment for his incompetence and insubordination. It was all quite amusing really. After all, the navy had let him down, hadn't it? The navy had stripped him of his pride, swept him conveniently under the rug, and humiliated him by putting him in charge of this disgusting hulk. It was about time the shoe went on the other foot and the navy got a taste of what it so enjoyed meting out.

  Humiliation. Damon laughed and laughed while poor Toby eyed his enigmatic benefactor with dubiousness and distrust, thinking he'd surely come unhinged.

  Toby backed toward the door. "Will there, uh, be anything else, sir?"

  Morninghall threw himself into his swivel chair with boyish abandon and poured a generous measure of amber liquor into a glass. He looked at Toby, his lips still twitching, his eyes gleaming with private amusement.

  "Anything else?" Another short burst of laughter, then he turned his profile toward the window, the glass still raised in his hand. "Oh, yes. To our friend the Black Wolf. May he continue to humiliate men like Bolton, may he continue to humiliate the navy, and may he never get caught!"

  Yes, definitely unhinged, Toby thought, eyeing him distrustfully. Or foxed.

  He backed out of the door and silently shut it behind him, the marquess' laughter following him down the short corridor to the deck beyond.

  ~~~~

  Bolton's mood was as foul as the stench that came creeping across the waves from the prison hulk. He sat rigidly upright, lips pulled back in a severe line, fury burning through his blood.

  Damn that blasted, incompetent Morninghall! He had made a laughingstock out of him and the navy one too many times with his inability to contain his lot of war wretches. Something had to be done. Bolton had had it up to his epaulets with this Black Wolf nonsense and Morninghall's dismal failure to put an end to it.

  He stared up at the prison hulk before him. He could just see Morninghall on the deck, looming over a cowering midshipman. Foyle. Bolton lifted his telescope for a better look. From what he could tell, the bastard wasn't just talking to Foyle, he was giving him a damned good dressing-down. He couldn't see the marquess' face, but he could see the midshipman's, and it was taut with fear and resentment — as most people's are who find themselves the recipients of an unfair and unwarranted attack.

  Still picking fights with people, the surly bastard. I see you haven't learned a thing, have you. I'll get you for being so damned arrogant.

  Adam's dear face rose up in his memory. Adam, his beloved son, lured to his death and murdered by that very wretch who was even now reprimanding Foyle. It had been a duel, an old-fashioned, cold-blooded, pistols at dawn, duel. Two shots, one from each man, and Adam had fallen to the dewy grass, dead. Morninghall had calmly lowered his pistol, wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding arm, and walked away. That had been the end of it — and the end of Adam.

  "You may have escaped justice from the courts for killing my son, Morninghall, but you'll not escape it from me. I'll get you. You just see if I don't." Bolton ground his fist into his palm as the smoky hull of the prison ship reared up out of the harbor before him. "You knew my Adam never had a chance, you privileged, arrogant bastard. If you were to drop dead before my eyes, I'd laugh. I'd bloody laugh."

  He froze, the words ringing in his brain like the last peal of a bell. If you were to drop dead. . . . drop dead . . . drop dead . . .

  The idea was too horrible, too wonderful, even to consider.

  His heart began to pound with excitement.

  Payment, justice, an eye for an eye. Adam had not deserved to die, and Morninghall would pay. Bolton would see to it. He'd pay with humiliation, with disgrace, and ultimately with death. But Bolton, who could not afford to get his own hands dirty, had to find a way to bring it about.

  He saw Morninghall striding to the rail to receive him.

  And Foyle staring hatefully after him, his eyes burning with resentment.

  Foyle.

  Foyle would know every prisoner aboard the hulk. Foyle would have no trouble finding some wretch right beneath Morninghall's aristocratic nose whose hatred of the marquess was every bit as virulent as Bolton's own. Foyle was young and ambitious; Foyle would do anything to get promoted; Foyle wouldn't dare question an admiral.

  Best of all, Foyle would also hate Morninghall.

  For the first time since Adam's death, Bolton felt alive — wonderfully, gloriously, alive. Assassination via a prisoner would never be traceable to him. He balled his hands into fists beneath his cloak, and looked up at the cabin windows above.

  His voice was raw with emotion. "An eye for an eye, and then we'll be even."

  Oh yes, Morninghall would pay.

  And he would pay dearly.

  Chapter 12

  Punctual as ever, Gwyneth arrived at the pier just before two o'clock, her face shaded by the brim of a smart green hat, her hair coiled and pinned, her parasol rapping an impatient tattoo against the weathered gray planking on which she stood.

  Morninghall was late. She was willing to bet he had no intention of meeting her at all, and was sitting in his cabin with a telescope trained on her at this very moment. She could easily picture him leaning back in his swivel chair, feet propped against the window seat, laughing as he watched her make a fool of herself.

  And only a fool would trust Morninghall.

  She would have been better off doing as Rhiannon had suggested: seeking out the Black Wolf and soliciting his help, instead!

  She gazed across the sparkling waves toward the prison ship. A breeze, rich with the scent of the marshes, played over the water, ruffling the ribbon that tied just beneath her breasts. The Black Wolf, indeed. And yet, he had female hearts fluttering all over Portsmouth, and tongues wagging with speculation about who he really was. Rumors abounded that he was an escaped American prisoner of war — but being American didn't detract at all from his status as a hero. The British government might not be lifting a finger to ease the plight of the prisoners of war, but if the overwhelming outrage Gwyneth had witnessed when she had described the conditions in which they were kept — and the subsequent eagerness of the people of Portsmouth to sign her petition — was any indication, there was much to be proud of when it came to the generosity and compassion of the English people in general.

  Where on earth was Morninghall?

  And why did her heart beat just a little faster when she thought of him?

  You're only human, Gwyn. There's nothing wrong with you. You are not the first woman to find the marquess dangerously attractive, nor will you be the last.

  A sudden movement from the prison ship caught her eye. Shading her eyes with her hand, Gwyneth saw a boat putting off from the prison hulk with several figures sitting in it. Two sailors at the oars, a smaller figure sitting just behind them. And there, resplendent in a blue uniform that matched the deep azure of the harbor —

  Morninghall.

  Well, la-dee-da, he was keeping his word.

  Of course, he was only doing so to unnerve and annoy her, she thought, to put her off guard. Hell would freeze over before his motives for helping her had anything to do with compassion for those poor prisoners.

  She shut her eyes. God help her, of all the hulks in England, why had she chosen this one?

  The boat was making good speed, the oars rising and falling on either beam and flashing in the sunlight. The marquess sat in the stern, looking neither left nor right, his face in shadow and only his mouth painted with a slash of sunlight. Behind him Gwyneth could see the huge mass of the prison ship, where hundreds of arms were thrusting and gesturing — quite obscenely, she noted — from its iron-barred gun ports. Raucous jeers and taunts rolled across the water on the breeze, and a sudden stab of pity assailed her. She didn't envy a prison hulk captain his life — or his command.

  The boat was close enough now that she could see the buttons on the marquess' coat, the arrogant blade of his nose, the dark whorls of his rakish hair. Obviously the distance between the pier on which she stood and the ship whence he'd come was misleading, for the journey seemed to be taking forever. She began to fidget, feeling like a fool standing here on the pier, waiting, conspicuous, open to observation. She should have arrived late and made him wait. As it was, she could feel that malevolent gaze upon her, and wondered what he was thinking . . . plotting.

  Remembering.

  Her face blazed with sudden heat.

  The boat was still approaching, that motionless figure in blue as intimidating as the figurehead of a Viking ship.

  Gwyneth wanted to flee, or at the very least turn her back and stride slowly up and down the pier as she waited for the boat to arrive — anything to avoid standing here like an actress onstage. Instead, she forced herself to remain exactly where she was, her back stiff, her wrist poised elegantly atop the parasol, her chin high and her gaze nailed to the approaching boat. Two could play the intimidation game. She would stand right where she was, as resolute as he. See how he liked it!

  She watched as the boat came alongside the pier, bumping hollowly against the old poles that supported it. Moments later Morninghall, a leather satchel tucked under his arm, was climbing up the small ladder.

  Gwyneth's heart began to race, and her hands went damp within the gloves. She clenched them over the parasol and waited, nearly snapping the ivory handle.

  He reached the pier and slanted her a long, simmering glance that could have burned the crust off a piece of toast. "Good afternoon, Lady Simms. You are looking —" his gaze raked the length of her body, burning holes through the suddenly too-hot bombazine as he caught and lifted her hand — "lovely today."

  Gwyneth yanked her hand from his. "We are here together on business, Morninghall, and do not forget it."

  "Ah, but I can wish that it were another sort of business, can I not?"

  Turning his back on her heated reply, he addressed one of the sailors in the boat. "Off with you now, Roberts. "

  "That's Rogers, sir."

  "Of course. Rogers. I shall return in about two hours. Let the boy out of your sight and it'll be your damned head."

  "Young Mr. Ashton is safe with me, sir."

  "Be sure of it — or else."

  He turned and wordlessly offered his elbow to Gwyneth, but she was studying the skeletal waif sitting forlornly behind the oarsman.

  "Really, Morninghall, must you starve your servants as you do your prisoners?" she accused angrily.

  He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow, covering it with his own. "Toby is one of the prisoners. I took pity on him and rescued him from belowdecks." He arched a brow at her, but his eyes glittered with defensive anger. "I thought you would've looked kindly on my action . . . not condemn it."

  "Oh," she said, lamely. "I . . . see."

  "Do you? Then let's go," he snapped, all but dragging her down the pier. "I haven't got all bloody day."

  Her shoes skidded on the bleached planking. "I want a word with young Toby."

  "Later."

  "You can't just leave him sitting in the hot sunlight for two hours, that's cruel!"

  "Don't jump to conclusions you have no business making in the first place. Rogers — Roberts — whatever the devil his name is — will take him off to the George for a pint and a hot meal."

  "A hot meal?"

  "Yes, what of it?"

  She made her feet move, lest she be dragged the length of the pier. God help her, he was magnificent in his badness! She tilted her head to the side and looked up at him as she all but ran alongside. "You know, Morninghall, I am beginning to wonder about you. Taking pity on a prisoner. Bringing him on boat rides across the harbor. Hot meals out. Careful, lest I begin to think you have a heart, after all."

  His jaw hardened. "Only fools make mistakes like that, Lady Simms. You do not strike me as a fool."

  "And you don't strike me as the soulless serpent you try so hard to emulate," she retorted. And then, more softly: "At least — not always."

  He glanced down at her. Something confused and fearful shadowed his eyes, and for the briefest moment the harsh lines of his profile softened. Then, scowling once more, he yanked her along as though he wanted to get away from her perceptive words. Anger and annoyance was stamped on every line of his face.

  Gwyneth was relentless. "Why, Morninghall? Why these sudden kindnesses?"

  "None of your business."

  "No, it is my business. I want to know why you suddenly seem to care about someone other than yourself."

  "I felt guilty," he growled, eyes straight ahead as he guided her through the seedy buildings that hugged the waterfront and up a narrow, cobbled side street. "Guilt and compassion are two different things."

  "If guilt spawns compassion, then I have no complaint with you, Morninghall."

  He set his jaw and went silent after that, veiling his expression and giving no clues about what he was thinking. But despite his stony facade, the tangible anger that emanated from him, Gwyneth sensed there was great unrest behind those devil's eyes of his, and that she had set something quite wonderful — and powerful — in motion.

  Did Satan have a heart, after all?

  All too soon they arrived at a small, unkempt brick building within sight of the waterfront. The marquess grasped the iron knocker and pounded it, hard.

  "We're an hour early, Morninghall!" Gwyneth hissed in fierce protest.

  "Good."

  "Mr. Rothschild is unlikely to be expecting us!"

  "I know."

  The door swung open, and a wizened old man stood there, his expression surprised, then indignant. His shiny pate was as bald as an egg, speckled with liver spots and ringed by a fringe of yellow-white hair. Spectacles perched on his bulbous red-veined nose, and his clothing was businesslike and well made. He might've looked benign, perhaps even grandfatherly, if not for the suspicious, trapped gleam in his cunning dark eyes.

  "M — my lord! I did not expect you 'til three —"

  "Of course you didn't. Surprise, surprise, Rothschild. Step aside or be knocked aside, it makes no damned difference to me."

  "Morninghall!" Gwyneth gasped, shocked.

  Ignoring her, he grasped her elbow and dragged her past the little man, who trailed them in high indignation.

  "Really, my lord, I must protest! I am right in the middle of my lunch, the books aren't finished, I — I haven't finished adding up all the figures —"

  "You mean, doctoring them? Pray, Rothschild, I shall see them as they are. Now. And as for your lunch, finish it in the other room with my blessings. I'll call if I have need of you, which, by the way, I shall doubt."

  "Sir, I must protest!"

  "Protest all you like. In the meantime, bring me the damned books, starting with January of this year, and be quick about it."

  Bristling, his fists clenched with helpless rage, the contractor scurried off into another room. Gwyneth, shocked and embarrassed, turned her head to stare at the marquess. He had already taken a seat and was pulling a thick, black ledger out of his satchel. He looked up and caught her eye.

  She saw the impatience there, the unspoken challenge. She sat down slowly. "I must say, Morninghall, I don't think much of your methods, but they most certainly yield results."

  He merely opened his book and began flipping through the pages with businesslike efficiency. "Rothschild's reputation is as a cheat, a liar, and a knave. Soon, perhaps, you'll see why I wished to surprise him with our untimely arrival. Men like him need to be caught off guard."

  He found the page he wanted, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her from across the table, his gaze flat as a viper's and just as unsettling. She found the quiet scrutiny unbearable.

  "Must you gaze at me like that, Morninghall?"

  "I'm just looking."

  "It is the manner with which you're looking that I find most uncomfortable. If you're going to intimidate anyone, intimidate Rothschild, not me."

  "Do I intimidate you?"

  "I am not going to answer that."