"Morning, ma'm!" he called, gathering his oars in one hand and touching two fingers to his temple in mock salute. He appeared tall and handsome in a rakish sort of way, with rich, chestnut hair caught carelessly at his nape and a day's growth of beard cloaking an angular jaw.

  To think that anyone could smile while performing such a grim task as transporting dead bodies for burial —

  Gwyneth jerked her chin up and stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. A moment later, the two boats were well past each other.

  "I hope ye've got the stomach for this," the fisherman mused, watching the other craft moving further and further away from them. "There are bound to be more where that one came from."

  "Yes, I'm sure there will be," Gwyneth muttered, glaring at the approaching hulk.

  The fisherman merely slanted her a thoughtful look, but Gwyneth wasn't thinking about the prisoners.

  She was thinking of a certain marquess named Morninghall — and enjoying every moment of his impending demise.

  ~~~~

  Damon stood in his cabin at the windows, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the boat that carried the body of Nathan Ashton moving further and further away. He felt anxious inside, unsettled, but he merely gripped his hands tighter in a futile attempt to ignore it, never relaxing his rigid stance nor allowing the barest flicker of emotion to cross his face.

  Behind him he heard approaching footsteps, then the creak of the door as Peter Milford came in with the boy.

  His kept his back toward them. He was dreading this with every beat of his heart.

  What heart? he asked himself on a wave of self-loathing, but even as he thought it, he knew he must have one, for it was burning a hole in his chest with all the kindness of acid.

  He heard the door click shut behind him, the rustling of clothes, the boy's nervous breathing, Peter, clearing his throat.

  Damon turned slowly, his hands still knotted behind his back, his eyes veiled and expressionless. What pleasure he had found in watching little Toby eat the hearty meals he'd given him, what pleasure he'd found in restoring some of the boy's human dignity by ensuring he had baths and clean clothes — pleasures that even a few short weeks ago Damon would have been too busy licking his wounds and nursing his anger to care, let alone think, about. How nice it had felt to know that he had been able to do something good for somebody, something kind. And now, he was about to destroy it all.

  He cleared his throat.

  Toby stood just in front of Peter, never looking so young and frail as he did now, framed as he was by the chaplain's lanky height. His eyes were frightened behind his spectacles, and his shirt — torn and grubby — was fiercely buttoned at his throat. Damon's eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "What happened to your shirt, Toby?" he asked, frowning.

  The boy didn't respond, but only looked down at his toes, his hair hanging over his spectacles and his throat working as he battled with some inner torment. "The other prisoners, sir. They . . . they don't like me much 'cause I'm working for you."

  "Of course they don't. That is why I gave you a berth in the guards' quarters, and why I have advised you not to go belowdecks."

  Toby looked up, biting his lip. "They're plotting to kill you, you know."

  Damon's sigh was a world-weary one. "Yes, such aspirations do keep their minds occupied in the face of explicit boredom. Hardly worrying, I daresay. But I told you not to consort with them, Toby." His made his voice gentler. "Must you learn things the hard way?"

  As I did, he thought, on a note of bitter disgust.

  "Damon —" Peter began warningly.

  "Answer me, Toby."

  Toby looked near to tears. "I wanted to tell my brother he was going to be released," he blurted, his eyes defiant.

  Damon took a deep, steadying breath. His gaze flashed to Peter's, just above that ginger head, but there was no help from that quarter. "Sit down, Toby," he said, gently.

  The boy must've seen something in his face, or caught something in his tone, for suddenly his eyes widened with fear, and he twisted around to glance worriedly up at Peter. From his angle he could not see that the chaplain's face was tight with condemnation as he met Damon's gaze. When neither man said anything, Toby slowly pulled out a chair.

  Damon sat down beside him and leaned his elbows on the table. He raked a hand through his hair. He wasn't good at this sort of thing; he really wasn't. Damn Peter for not doing this for him — after all, he was a clergyman, well used to this sort of thing. But no, Peter had wanted nothing to do with it, had refused to participate in this part of Damon's scheme. Just like friends, always deserting you when you need them most, Damon thought with acid satisfaction. He was better off without them.

  Mentally steeling himself, he reached out and laid his hand over Toby's. The boy pulled away, but not before Damon felt the thinness of that pitiful little wrist. The bones there were like two dowels beneath his fingers, and the thought made him feel sick.

  "Toby," he said gently, refusing to meet Peter's angry gaze, "there is something I must tell you about your brother."

  The boy's eyes filled up and his lower lip began to quiver. "You've changed your mind?"

  "No, Toby, I have not." Damon took a deep breath, feeling sadly inept, loathsome, vile. "Your brother is . . . dead."

  Toby only stared at him. Not a muscle moved in his gaunt little face, and he seemed to forget to draw breath. Behind him Peter looked down at Damon and slowly shook his head, condemning him, before placing a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder.

  "H—he . . . he can't be dead," Toby said, blinking. He shook his head, denying the words. "Connor was supposed to . . . No. I won't believe you, he can't be dead!"

  Again Damon reached out to cover the boy's hand. "We opened the Black Hole to take him out, and . . . he was gone. I'm sorry, Toby." He looked up helplessly at Peter, who was still glaring at him from behind the boy. "Really. I am."

  Toby stared at him. Then something broke inside of him and his face crumpled, his shaggy ginger head falling into his hands as his sobs burst forth. Feeling the anguish that emanated from him, Damon gently touched his shoulder.

  The boy exploded beneath him.

  "Don't you touch me, you wretched English bastard, you — you murderer!" he cried, leaping to his feet and sending the chair toppling over backward. "If you hadn't put him in there, he wouldn't be dead! If you hadn't waited so long to free him, he'd be alive today! It's all your fault, and I hate you with all my heart!"

  "Toby, I —"

  "Murderer!"

  Sobbing bitterly, the boy raced from the cabin. Damon gazed at the door, then raked his hand through his hair and gave a weary sigh. He looked up, only to find Peter's condemning gaze leveled upon him.

  "I hope you're satisfied," the chaplain said quietly, and strode swiftly from the cabin after the boy.

  Damon, clenching his fists, turned back toward the window.

  And saw a boat carrying Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms heading his way.

  Chapter 17

  Gwyneth was in a fine temper by the time the fisherman — dramatically holding his nose and making exaggerated choking, gasping noises — brought the boat up against HMS Surrey's black and smoky hull. Radley stood at the top of the rickety stairs, staring down at her. She got the feeling he'd been standing there for some time, waiting.

  "Fine day, Lady Simms!"

  "I have come to see His Lordship."

  Radley smiled and taking off his hat, passed his wrist across his brow. His hair was thinning, and his oily scalp glistened between the sparse strands. "Lord Morninghall is not receiving any visitors to the ship, madam."

  "Is he aboard?"

  "Aye."

  "Is he ill?"

  "Nay."

  "Is he meeting with superiors, inferiors, or anyone else?"

  "Don't think so, ma'm."

  "Then why won't he receive visitors, Mr. Radley?"

  "Specifically put, ma'm, he doesn't wish to receive . . . you."

  "Very well, then." She gave Radley her sweetest — most threatening — smile, then turned her attention on the fisherman. He had been watching this exchange with high amusement; now something in Gwyneth's stare wiped the grin off his face, though the helpless sparkle in his rheumy old eyes remained. "Would you mind rowing me to just beneath the captain's cabin?" she asked, her tone poisonously sweet.

  The grin came back. "Not a'tall, ma'm."

  He took up the oars, pushed off from the huge hull, and maneuvered the boat around. No doubt he was anticipating fireworks, and no doubt he was going to get them.

  The boat moved aft, toward the stern. The blackened, peeling hull slid past on Gwyneth's right like a giant wall, close enough to touch. She kept her head up and her gaze straight ahead, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see the faces of the prisoners behind the barred gun ports just above. A few started yelling in French and broken English, and the sound caught hold until the whole ship reverberated with the uproar.

  The captain's cabin was an outcropping of grimy windows and old woodwork that protruded at the stern end of the ship. There, just beneath those high, outthrust windows, the fisherman brought the little craft to a halt and eased the dripping oars out of the water. Whirlpools twirled off like miniature cyclones across the oily surface, as though fervently searching for the retrieved blades.

  Gwyneth sat for a moment, surveying her situation and tuning out the roar of the prisoners. The sea sucked and gurgled around the old ship's rudder, where moss and slime grew several inches thick and the water was greenish black in the shadow cast from the cabin above. Slowly, thoughtfully, she tilted her head back, scrutinizing the wooden scrollwork that decorated the man-of-war's windows. Once resplendent in gold, red and blue, the scrollwork was now charred and smoky, chipped and faded with age. The ship's name, once so proud, was now all but illegible beneath a layer of grease and grime, and far above, her colors fluttered weakly in the light breeze.

  Staring up at that blank array of windows, Gwyneth cupped her hands to her mouth. "Morninghall!"

  Nothing.

  She waited a moment, then tried again, louder this time, in a militant tone that would've done a general proud.

  "Morninghall!"

  The windows remained shut, the reflection of the clouds above sliding over their grimy surfaces. She thought she saw movement behind one of them, but she wasn't sure. But the prisoners' yelling was getting louder, and just above them, leaning over the railing that framed the poop deck, several guards had gathered, elbowing each other and gazing down at her in amusement.

  Damn him. "MORNINGHALL!"

  A ripple of laughter passed through the guards, and she heard their whistles, calls, and lewd comments over the uproar of the hundreds of prisoners contained behind the barred-up gunports.

  Her face perfectly composed, Gwyneth turned to the smirking fisherman. "Give me your oar," she shouted over the rising din — and rose perilously to her feet in the little boat.

  Raising an eyebrow, he passed the oar to her.

  Then, without further ado, Gwyneth drew back and hurled it, harpoon-like, straight through Morninghall's window. There was a crash and bits and pieces of glass and woodwork rained down in the water about them.

  "For God's sake, lady!" the fisherman cried, shielding himself with an arm over his head.

  Gwyneth brushed the glass from her seat, sat back down, and arranged her skirts with perfect nonchalance, seemingly oblivious to the prisoners' cheering and yelling, the whooping laughter of the guards above as she looked up at her handiwork.

  She didn't have long to wait. Sure enough, there was movement behind the dark, jagged hole where the oar had gone. It was the marquess. He casually flicked a spear of broken glass aside and then, his face dangerously composed, leaned out the window, directing the full effect of his below-freezing stare on Gwyneth.

  "Well, well. If it isn't Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms. I should have known."

  "You did know. You knew when you accepted my invitation and then failed to honor it."

  "Ah, so that's what this is all about." His smile was mocking, amused, infuriatingly condescending. Brushing aside broken glass, he propped his elbows on the sill and thoughtfully rested his chin in the heel of his hand, his gaze never leaving hers. "Obviously I changed my mind. Fancy little tea parties are not my favored mode of entertainment, you understand."

  "You said you would come, Morninghall."

  "I guess you cannot trust my word, then, can you?"

  "Don't play that game with me, you scoundrel. You deliberately set out to make me angry, no doubt hoping I'd return to my original opinion about how very awful you are."

  "Did I?" he murmured faintly, even while his smile seemed to falter. "Really, my dear, you should count your blessings that I didn't show up. How horrified your gently bred friends would've been to have Satan himself darkening their charming affair! But never mind that. I'm more intrigued by your calling card." He faded into the gloom for a moment and reappeared with the damp oar, which he casually handed down to the grinning fisherman. "Quite an unusual one for a — ahem — lady, is it not?"

  She fisted her hands, the soft kid of the gloves threatening to split atop her knuckles. "Are you quite finished?"

  The marquess only laughed, one short, amused bark ending in a rumbling chuckle that sent chills creeping up Gwyneth's spine. "Ah, Lady Simms," he said expansively, with a darkly charming smile. "If you are so determined to come aboard, then by all means, do so. Either way, you lose."

  "Do I?" she purred.

  "But of course. Leave now and we shall consider it my victory for having scared you off. Come aboard and confront me, and the whole ship will speculate about just what sort of transactions will be going on inside my cabin."

  "You're despicable."

  "I know."

  "And to think I believe you have a smack of decency in you."

  "You should know by now I do not." He smiled again, a gesture of courtly charm, but behind it she saw lethal, predatory intent. "Which shall it be, dearest?"

  "Why Morninghall, I shouldn't wish to disappoint you. Have Radley await me on deck. I'm coming aboard."

  For the briefest moment his face went blank, and Gwyneth felt a wave of triumph, a delicious confidence that his rudeness was just what she suspected it to be: carefully crafted armor designed to keep her, and anyone else who ventured too close to the real Lord Morninghall — well at bay.

  She would greatly enjoy piercing it.

  ~~~~

  The prisoners' cheering, yelling, and pleas for mercy all merged into one overwhelming uproar as Gwyneth, her skirts in one hand, carefully climbed the stairs built into the side of the hull. With faint uneasiness she saw their grimy arms reaching madly through the gun ports around and below her, even as the clamor they made pushed all thought from her head. Up she climbed, higher and higher, the wooden banister beneath her hand vibrating with the sound of that awful, maddening din. She felt the prisoners' crazed hatred, rage, and excitement, and she moved quickly, wanting only to reach the deck and escape those thrusting, claw-like hands that stretched toward her. These were dangerous men, as all men were when caged, maltreated, and deprived of the most basic human freedoms and dignity. Fear rose in her, but it was nothing when compared to what she felt at the thought of confronting that diabolical lord who waited for her in his cabin.

  Except he wasn't waiting for her in his cabin: he was waiting at the top of the stairs, a lean, malevolent figure silhouetted against a lowering gray sky.

  He reached out, gallantly taking her gloved hand to steady her as she stepped onto the tiny platform. She could feel the heat of him right through the soft kid, and the lethal strength in every long, well-bred finger that tightened around her hand.

  "Lady Simms."

  "Lord Morninghall."

  "It will be such a . . . pleasure to have you aboard."

  Then, with a mocking grin, he turned, presenting his elbow.

  She glared at him but had no choice but to take it. Moments later they were in his cabin, where at last she pulled free of him and moved a safe distance away.

  Clutching her parasol, she turned to face him. He was leaning negligently against the edge of his table, arms crossed over his chest, his unsettling gaze raking over her with a slow, simmering heat. She could see him perusing her attire, no doubt stripping away every shred of it in his imagination. She had donned a long-sleeved, high-necked walking dress of rose muslin, totally devoid of ruffles, lacing, and frills; a gray cottage mantle clasped at the throat and a smart straw hat with a round brim gave her what she'd hoped was a stern and businesslike demeanor, but Morninghall's devil stare seemed to burn right through the gray ribbon that tied just beneath her breasts, and already she could feel her nipples beginning to tighten with response.

  "You don't learn, do you?" he said, softly.

  Fear tingled through her. Remember that flash of alarm in his eyes when you said you were coming aboard. Remember his compassion to the boy, no matter what he called it. Remember his magnificent rage in the contractor's office. Remember that lost look in his eyes out there in the darkness in front of the house. He is compassionate and vulnerable, and the idea that he is either is scaring him half to death.

  "Oh, I've learned a lot," she returned, refusing to be cowed.

  "Have you?" he asked, tucking his chin between thumb and forefinger and rubbing it slowly in a manner that made him seem all the more menacing, frightening, even as his gaze never left hers. He still leaned against the table, yet every muscle in his body radiated power, every nuance and shadow that moved across his eyes, danger. "Why don't you be a good girl and tell me exactly what it is you've learned?"

  "Don't patronize me. Besides, you won't like any of it."

  "Really? Try me, madam. I might be quite receptive."

  "Somehow, I doubt that."