He exhaled sharply, and with a curse, allowed her to lead him along. God, his head felt as if it were going to explode. He didn't want her to talk about his attack, yet he was furious that she wouldn't. He hated her, yet he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He feared her, desired her, thought he'd very well kill any man who dared look twice at her, and here she was, expecting him to walk her home, as though he were a — a goddamned gentleman or something. Didn't she know the only one from whom she needed protection was him?

  They walked in silence, neither speaking, their footsteps echoing against the buildings on either side of the street. For Damon every step was an exercise in control. It took everything he had to will his face into its comfortable facade of stone, all his strength to calm the frenzied emotion that was spinning inside his head. Eventually he began to notice the night wind on his cheek, the coolness of the air, the faint scent that still clung to the woman who walked so trustingly beside him. Fresh peaches. He wondered if it was perfume or bath soap. He wondered if she knew he was homing in on it as a bee to a flower. He wondered what she would look like in the bath, the bar of soap sliding over her wet and glistening body, oozing great frothy bubbles down her arms, her legs, between her breasts, as candlelight played over her silken, dripping skin . . .

  "You are not safe with me," he said at last, his voice hoarse with strain.

  "Really? I beg to differ, Morninghall, for you have brought me safely home. See? There is my house just ahead. Truly, you have proved yourself to be a most admirable escort."

  And she was right. There were her stairs with their wrought iron railing, their pots of pretty flowers, shining softly beneath the glow of an upstairs lamp.

  It was time to let her go.

  His heart started tripping in his chest.

  They stood together for a long, awkward moment, neither saying a word. He looked at her, looked away, didn't want the evening to end. Finally, she sighed and pulled her fingers from his elbow.

  The night was deadly quiet around them.

  "My little sister, Morganna, used to have attacks just like yours whenever a thunderstorm hit," she said softly, almost to herself. "She would run screaming from the room, fall into the sweats and shakes, and hide under the bed until it passed."

  Damon swallowed hard and looked down at the light pooling across the cobblestones. "And . . . did she end up in a madhouse?"

  "No, she ended up married to a wonderful man who loves her and worships the ground she walks on. And do you know something, Morninghall?"

  "What?"

  She paused, a little smile of encouragement on her lips, her voice dropping to a secretive whisper. "She's no longer afraid of thunderstorms."

  He glanced at her. Stray light made tiny stars in her eyes, and her mouth was curved in a shy smile. There was nothing severe or militant in that open face. It was girlish, charming, and tilted in that coy angle most women adopted when they wanted to be kissed.

  Absurd, of course. She hated him.

  Annoyed at the ridiculous wanderings of his mind, he caught his hands behind his back so that he couldn't touch her.

  "Good night, Lady Simms."

  The smile faltered. "Good night, Lord Morninghall."

  He turned abruptly and stalked off into the darkness, painfully alone, a shadow that cleaved itself to the night and was soon gone. He never knew that she stood out there in the quiet street for a long time, the lonely breeze ruffling her skirts, her heart aching with longing as she stared into the darkness after him.

  And he never knew he had misinterpreted the hopeful tilt of her cheek, after all.

  Her heart heavy, Gwyneth picked up her skirts and went into the house.

  Chapter 15

  "Nathan Ashton. It has to be Nathan next, no question about it."

  The three men and the woman disguised as a man sat in a corner of the Thirsty Whale Tavern, well away from the massive stone fireplace around which most of the hard-drinking sailors, soldiers, and other rowdies were carousing. It was quieter here, less smoky, and although the sort who frequented the Whale were not officers — and thus were less likely to care about the four who kept to themselves in the corner — it was still best to practice caution, especially where Connor Merrick was concerned. Recognition could be fatal for him.

  A lantern, its glass globe hazed with grease and smoke, stood on the table before them, glowing orange against their faces. An ale sat before the Reverend Peter Milford; Connor Merrick and Orla O'Shaughnessy were both drinking rum; and a glass of very expensive port — or what was left of it, that is — was beside the wrist of their leader, subtly resplendent in a loose white shirt tucked into snug fitting breeches. At the moment his fingers were drumming an agitated tattoo on the table. The decision that Nathan had to be the next one out was unanimous, but how the rescue would be performed was the cause of much debate.

  "I don't know, man, the idea sounds awfully damned bold," Connor was saying, shaking his head and pouring more rum into his mug. I still think we ought to smuggle him out in a water cask."

  "I agree," Peter said stubbornly. "It's far safer."

  Orla shot a glance to their leader, who was unconvinced.

  "Safe? We're talking about life or death rescues." He leaned forward, nailing each of them in turn with his gaze. "None of this is safe."

  Silence followed, despite the noisy din across the room. Peter was troubled, reluctant to try anything so unorthodox. Orla, frowning, obviously needed more convincing. Only Connor, possessed of a recklessness that knew no limits, was willing to hear the plan out. He pulled his felt hat down low to conceal his chestnut curls and leaned over the table. "All right then, I'm all ears."

  "Peter?"

  The chaplain was shooting discreet glances at Orla and needed to be jarred back to attention. "Yes, yes, do go on. I'm listening, too."

  "Orla?"

  She pretended to adjust her chair, unobtrusively moving it a few inches closer to the chaplain's. "Aye. I'm game for anything."

  "Right." Their leader sipped his port and, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, leaned forward over the table, looking to each person in turn. His companions leaned close, as well. "Here are the details," he murmured, and briefly outlined the rescue plan. A few bribed guards, a short talk with the prisoner, a bit of deception, and, as he told them, it couldn't fail.

  "I think it's brilliant," Connor said, his eyes gleaming.

  "I think it might work," Orla added, looking to the chaplain.

  "I think it'd be cruel to the boy."

  "Oh for God's sake, Peter!"

  "This'll kill him. I cannot condone this, I'm sorry."

  Their leader, frustrated, shot another glance over his shoulder and leaned low over the table, his face dark and intent. "That boy won't leave the hulk until his brother is either dead or escaped, and we can't risk letting him in on the plan until Nathan is safely away. Do you have a better idea?"

  Peter swallowed hard, but his jaw was stubbornly set. He looked away, struggling with his conscience.

  A tense silence ensued. Finally, Orla reached out and tentatively laid her fingers over the chaplain's hand. He turned his face to hers, his eyes filled with pain, indecision, and — as he glanced down at that fine hand — the beginnings of gentle love.

  "The boy will be fine," she murmured, squeezing his hand and giving an encouraging little smile. "We'll tell him of the deception as soon as we've rescued him as well, and it's therefore safe to do so. Right, Con?"

  The captain grinned. "Right."

  ~~~~

  On the second week of his employment for the Marquess of Morninghall, Toby entered his cabin to clear his breakfast away and was stopped by the nobleman's cold words before he could even begin the task.

  "Sit down."

  Instantly suspicious, Toby did so, gazing warily across the table at his superior and keeping his hands steepled between his knees.

  "Have some toast, Toby."

  "I'm not hungry, sir."

  "Have it anyhow."

  "I don't want any. Besides, I don't see you eating it."

  The marquess thinned his mouth and shot him an irate glare, but said no more on the subject. He had been tense and in a visibly savage mood ever since going ashore with Lady Simms, and Bolton's visit had not helped matters one bit. Somewhat nervously, Toby sat down.

  The marquess shoved his unfinished plate away, the eggs cold in their thin, buttery juice, the fried pork hacked to uneaten shreds, only the toast and marmalade sampled and the latter, Toby noted, quite generously at that. The pot of orange preserves had been full when he'd brought it in with the breakfast tray a half hour ago; now it was nearly empty, and Toby wondered idly if Morninghall had just dipped his spoon into the stuff and eaten it like candy.

  He didn't have time to wonder any longer, for the marquess cleared his throat and got straight down to business.

  "I have decided to . . . relax your brother's incarceration in the Black Hole," he announced flatly, his tone inviting neither curiosity nor gratitude. A note had come for him earlier, which Toby had brought in with his breakfast, and it lay folded beside his right hand. Morninghall looked at it as he might a spider that had crawled across his plate, then picked it up and began to tap it with faint agitation against the table linen before finally tossing it aside and impaling Toby with his devil's stare. "You will not say a word about this to the other prisoners, lest they see this as an example of laxity and I am paid for my generosity with a damned mutiny. Is that understood?"

  Toby was still reeling from the marquess's words. He leaned forward, his hands pressed between his knees, afraid even to hope. "But — you mean — you're actually going to let Nathan out of the Hole?"

  "I am. You may visit him this afternoon, immediately following his release. After that time he will be sent to the hospital ship, as his condition will no doubt require medical attention."

  Confused, and ignoring the warning in those flat, soulless eyes, Toby blurted, "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because it pleases me."

  "But —"

  "I said, 'Because it pleases me.' Hold your tongue lest I change my mind."

  Tony shrank back behind the vase of purple lilacs he'd brought in with breakfast and bowed his head. He squirmed and fidgeted, so excited he couldn't keep still.

  "You're kinder than your reputation allows, sir."

  "A pity," the marquess said acidly, "because kindness has nothing to do with it." He watched Toby for a moment from beneath hooded lids, the silent, unnerving scrutiny making Toby feel like a sapling stripped of its bark. Then, wordlessly, Morninghall got to his feet, moved in that fluid, sinister grace of his across his cabin, and pulling out a desk drawer, produced a small leather bag. He tossed it to the table.

  "Your wages for the week."

  Toby picked up the bag and held it tightly against his chest, thinking only of how it might aid Nathan. "Thanks," he murmured, his eyes downcast.

  "Don't thank me, you bloody well earned it. Now go, and take these damned plates with you. My appetite is shot to hell this morning."

  Grateful to escape the marquess' moody presence, Toby swiftly gathered up the plates, the condiments, the silverware, piling each one onto the tray with a faint clatter. But when he reached for the vase of flowers Radley had told him he must always bring to the captain, Morninghall's hand struck like a cobra's, seizing Toby's wrist in a hard grip.

  Toby froze.

  "Leave them," the marquess said, tightly — and released him.

  Toby stared up at him. Then, rubbing his wrist, he grabbed the tray and rushed from the room.

  Damon sank back into his chair with a pent-up sigh, his heart pounding in his ears, his nerves buzzing. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the lilacs, sitting innocently in the vase within striking distance of his fist. Then, like the workings of some great piece of machinery that has finally called it quits for the day, he felt the endless churning inside of him come grinding to a halt.

  Silence.

  Deep, throbbing, silence.

  Nothing but him — and the flowers.

  He swallowed hard and stared at the fragile little blossoms, each one an individual, each one exquisitely formed, each one wreathed in scent. He stared at the soft, cloudy masses of color. He stared at the crisp, waxy leaves.

  He waited for the rage to come, that blind, overwhelming rage that hated beauty and loathed fragility, that frenzied rage that would make him smash the flowers beneath his fist until he'd obliterated them into a sad pile of crushed nothingness.

  But the rage didn't come.

  Nothing came, except this — this — sudden overwhelming emotion, this sense of raw sentiment expanding in his breast, shattering the paralysis there until he thought his heart would burst with the intensity of it.

  Christ, what was happening to him? Confused and shaken, the wicked, diabolical Marquess of Morninghall put his head in his hands and, for the first time since he was a child locked in a bedchamber that terrified him, wept — without knowing why.

  ~~~~

  Toby held his breath for as long as he could as he descended into the choking gloom belowdecks. Morninghall had forbidden him to say a word about Nathan's release to the other prisoners, but he hadn't said he couldn't tell Nathan! He managed to hold his breath until he reached the orlop deck; there, it finally burst from his lungs, and the subsequent inhalation of pungent fumes nearly made him vomit.

  He steadied himself, got his bearings, and, pressing a hand to his pocket to ensure that his little bag of wages was still there, darted through the milling masses.

  They spotted him instantly.

  "Ah, look, if it isn't le capitain's favorite! Run, run, little garcon, before we spit on you!"

  "We'll do more than spit on him, eh?"

  A fist flashed toward his face, but he ducked and evaded the blow. A chorus of cheers and guffaws went up, and frightened, Toby made a mad lunge for the last hatch. He had nearly reached it when someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him brutally around, ripping his new shirt.

  He gasped and looked up. One of the Frenchmen stood there, arms crossed over his chest and legs planted in a formidable stance. He was dressed in nothing but his trousers, and these were pasted with excrement, sweat, and pus that leaked from a crusted knife wound across his sunken belly. Shivering, feverish, and skeletally thin, his eyes staring out of his skull like twin frenzied lights, he grinned down at Toby.

  Fear darted up Toby's spine, and he looked desperately about for a familiar American face, but only French ones looked back at him, grinning, shifting, and malicious, as they began closing in around him.

  "Where from?" the bony one asked, letting his awful gaze rake over Toby's cowering form. It settled on his pocket, where the money bag was hidden.

  Toby swallowed, aware of the press of bodies closing in on him. He tried to back up but came against a hard, stinking stomach. "Newburyport."

  "Newburyport?"

  "Near Boston."

  "Ah! Boston fine town, very pretty!" The Frenchman grinned and patted Toby's shoulder, his arm, his pocket, his eyes lighting with a predatory gleam when he felt the pouch there. "General Washington, très grand homme! General Madison, brave homme! You my friend, Toby! Americans brave men — fight like Frenchmen!"

  "Like hell they do," Toby said, proudly, despite his fear.

  "Ah, you brave lad, brave like Madison, no? Americans very brave! Very brave!" The Frenchman's grin then abruptly vanished and he struck like an adder, his hand snaring Toby's wrist and nearly breaking it. Toby planted his heels, but it was no use. The man hauled him through the cloying, crowded gloom, through the masses of prisoners, all of whom were yelling abuse and taunts, until they came to Armand Moret, who was sitting on a bench surrounded by his cohorts. "Come, show us how much you be my friend, Toby! Friends go to dice table, eh, Toby!"

  "You're no damned friend of mine," Toby protested, angrily trying to shake loose. "Let me go!"

  Armand looked up, his lips splitting in a dingy smile. "Or what, you'll call your aristo friend down on us?" he broke in. "You sniveling little traitor . . . Sit down."

  Toby tried to back up. Bodies pressed against his spine, and someone pushed him forward. He fell and was caught by strong hands that shoved him mercilessly at Armand.

  "Leave us, Paget," Armand said to the man who had brought Toby to him. "I'm sure my friend Toby here has much he wishes to tell me."

  Paget went red, his gaze flashing to Toby's pocket. "He's my friend, my friend!" he cried possessively and, yanking a knife from his trousers, lunged for Armand.

  Immediately the deck exploded in screams and shouts of excitement which drowned out all other sound. Toby leaped backward and tried to run, but he was hemmed in. Someone caught him and forced him to watch the fight, and in the melee he saw Armand deflect Paget's knife and strike a lightning blow to the side of his head. Paget stumbled and fell to one knee, gasping.

  "Get up, get up!" cried the other prisoners, kicking at Paget in their frenzy to see the fight continued. "Get up!"

  Paget was crying. The noise level rising to fever pitch around him, he got up and girlishly slapped Armand in the chops with the side of his hand. Armand hit him back, and again Paget fell. He sat there, sobbing, his head in his hands as Armand reached down to help him up.

  "Friends, Paget?"

  "Friends, Armand, we friends, you my friend," the man blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

  Sniffling, he reached up to accept Armand's help, and it was the last movement he ever made. The dagger that suddenly appeared in Armand's fist plunged straight into Paget's throat, all the way to the hilt.

  Toby's scream was drowned in the outburst of cheers as Paget thrashed and died on the deck in a gurgle of blood.

  And then Armand looked up, jerked the dripping blade from the dead man's throat, and advanced on Toby.

  "You work for the aristo, you stinking little louse," he spat, venom dripping from every word. "The aristo, who lives in luxury while we noble Frenchmen starve to death! You work for him, and you're going to tell Armand here each and every detail of his schedule so that we can" — he pantomimed the blade passing across his own throat and made an ugly, awful grimace — "balance the scales, eh?"