“I’d fare just fine.” Before she could argue, he ran at her and wrapped both arms around her, pinning her sword between them. Angry, bloodshot eyes glared down into hers as he began to squeeze.

  “Hugh,” Quill barked. “Enough.”

  She didn’t wait for the man to obey. She brought the heel of her half-boot down on his instep. The moment he stumbled back, she whipped the blade to his neck again.

  “I yield,” he begged, hands in the air.

  She held her stance. “You will practice, twice a day, until you can best me. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he spat out.

  She stepped back, lowered the cutlass, and glanced to Quill. She knew the look in those dark eyes: awe mixed with admiration.

  “I thought you a nightingale when I heard you sing,” he said. “It seems I was mistaken. You are a falcon.”

  She had been praised for her singing, her beauty. Never had anyone except her father been proud that she knew how to defend herself. She swept him a bow, the sword to one side. “Merci beaucoup, mon capitaine. Perhaps now I should see how well you fight.”

  Chapter Nine

  He had never met a woman like Marie-Louise Fortier. Neither had Hugh, by the way he kept slanting her glances. From her sleek black hair coiled at the back of her head to her curves outlined by the serpentine pelisse, she was every inch a lady, yet she’d put his bosun in his place not once but thrice. A part of him itched to see how he’d do against her with the sword.

  Another part of him wisely counseled caution.

  “Perhaps you could take my word for it that I know how to fight,” he suggested. “I already gave you some demonstration.”

  She blushed as if she remembered the night they’d first met. “Perhaps another demonstration would not be remiss.”

  “If Alex and I have to prove ourselves, not sure why you shouldn’t,” Hugh added.

  Quill held out his hand. “Cutlass.”

  Hugh scuttled forward and handed him the leather-wrapped blade.

  Quill balanced it in his grip. He could see what Ree meant. The thing was ungainly this way, every stroke an effort. But then again, he knew he couldn’t hurt her with it. He pivoted to provide a narrower target and saluted her with the blade. “At your service, then, milady.”

  She held her sword at the ready, watching him.

  The cutlass was primarily a slicing weapon, good for slashing from multiple angles. Gentlemen often favored swords with narrower blades and sharper tips, preferring to puncture and poke. He hadn’t been born a gentleman.

  Neither had she. As they circled, he could see her gaze sliding from his face to his hand to his feet. Looking for any weakness she might exploit. He offered none.

  “You going to fight or dance around all day?” Hugh jibed.

  “I am merely waiting for this promised demonstration of skill,” she said, gaze on Quill.

  He thrust out the cutlass, and she pushed it aside easily.

  “Where did you learn to fight?” he asked, moving to the left now.

  “From the Comte d’Artois’ master at arms,” she said. “He found it amusing that my father insisted. I learned to defend with cutlass, knife, and gun. The long guns I find the most difficult. I cannot like tearing off the cartridge paper with my teeth. Now, en garde, sir.”

  She lunged, and Quill parried. But she kept coming, forcing him back until Hugh had to run out of his way at the edge of the yard.

  But he had the sense of her now. She preferred to keep her distance. Wise. Many of her opponents would outweigh her in sheer muscle. Testing his conclusion, he lunged, and she scuttled back, fending him off. He closed, until their blades stuck. Her face was inches from his. Those dark blue eyes pulled him in.

  “Yield,” he demanded.

  “No.” She broke and scrambled back and around, coming at him from the side.

  Swerving, he met her force for force, blades thudding as they struck. He pushed, harder, faster, circling her cutlass, forcing it down. Her eyes widened. With a twist of his wrist, he knocked the sword from her grip.

  She held up her hands, breath coming hard. “I yield.”

  He lowered the sword, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  Ah, this was fire, delight. The breeze at his nape, the sun on his hair, all faded against the taste of her.

  At the pressure of her hands against his chest, he released her.

  “I suppose the victor deserves some compensation,” she allowed, cheeks crimson as she stepped out of reach.

  “As does anyone who fights as well as you do,” he told her. “I assume that was sufficient demonstration.”

  She nodded. “Quite sufficient. I am persuaded you can protect yourself at close quarters, but I still would prefer you to have someone with you at all times.”

  Hugh’s sigh mirrored his own feelings.

  Quill held out the cutlass, and his bosun hurried forward to take it before going to collect hers as well.

  “And how shall we spend the rest of the day?” Quill asked as he escorted her to the cottage. His heartbeat refused to return to normal, but dignity demanded he at least pretend to be unaffected by the kiss.

  “We could go to the spa,” she suggested, the coolness in her voice belied by the heat in her cheeks. “Today is my final performance.”

  “I’d be expected to be there, I suppose,” he said as they came through the kitchen.

  She glanced at him. “Is it so very difficult?”

  He shook his head. “I love to hear you sing, Ree, but I’m finding it hard to stand about.”

  “A tiger caged,” she said consolingly. “Not for long. Surely any visitors who came to hear me sing will leave now. After the Peverell wedding tomorrow, the strangers will be all the more apparent.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Hugh said, rising from where he’d been stowing the cutlasses in the sea chest. “The fancy sorts may leave, but others will be coming for Pirate’s Plunder.”

  She frowned as if she hadn’t heard of the event.

  “Jesslyn Denby is exceptional about finding ways to keep visitors flocking to Grace-by-the-Sea,” Quill explained, leading her to the chairs. “She schedules something for every month of the year: masquerades, picnics, the regatta. Normally, the Autumn Serenade would have been held in October, but we had a fearsome storm.”

  “And smugglers who nearly took his lordship to France,” Hugh added.

  “A minor incident,” Quill assured her when she raised her brows. “Mrs. Todd alerted Mrs. Bennett, who sent word to me, and we caught the miscreants before they sailed beyond the headland. Have we any lemonade, Hugh?”

  His manservant narrowed his eyes and stomped off for the kitchen.

  “You vex him,” she said as he seated himself beside her.

  “Only a little,” Quill promised. “He wasn’t made for service any more than I was.”

  “And this Pirate’s Plunder, that sounds as if you were made for it.”

  He smiled. “I will admit it’s one of my favorite events, along with the regatta in August. Each of the shopkeepers offers individual prizes, and they combine other offerings for a larger basket. All are hidden throughout the village, with clues from various residents, though their identities are never divulged, so no one knows exactly who to ask.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I imagine that leads to some adventures. Everyone searching, everyone asking.”

  “And every visitor visiting every shop,” he added. “It generally raises awareness if not considerable capital.”

  Her smile faded. “It would also be the perfect time for our assassin to slip into the village, if he has been in hiding. No one would be surprised if he asks questions or dashes from place to place. You could be in danger.”

  “It’s not for another fortnight,” Quill said. “Plenty of time to catch the fellow.”

  She did not look convinced.

  Hugh brought them lemonade in pewter tankards, and they talked about their experiences working with their mutual friend, Captain Dorland. Then, Quill accompanied her down to the spa, where they were immediately surrounded by others wishing to congratulate them on their engagement. It was all Ree could do to break away for her performance, leaving him with the spa hostess near the fountain.

  “I have pondered long and hard about who might make a good bride for you, Captain,” Jesslyn told him, curls glinting in the sunlight coming through the window. “You have stretched my matchmaking skills to their utmost. But I never considered Mademoiselle Fortier.”

  Quill tore his gaze away from where Ree was whispering to Maudie about her music for the day. “And why not? Her beauty cannot be surpassed.”

  She smiled at him. “Spoken like a man in love. She is indeed lovely, and accomplished, and charming. I simply never thought she’d want to stay in Grace-by-the-Sea.”

  She assumed he would be content to stay when the war was over. If the war ever ended, that is. Britain and France had been at each other, with a few noted exceptions, for decades.

  “The spa, the village, and all its residents are more welcoming than most,” he told her. “I’ve always found Grace-by-the-Sea to be a safe harbor.”

  Until recently.

  She nodded, obviously pleased. “I cannot wait to hear your banns read. Unless you plan on a special license.”

  Ree would never allow him to ride for London. “I’ll send the particulars to Mr. Wingate today.”

  She turned her attention to where Ree was beginning her song.

  This one was about longing, soulful and sweet. A lady hoping for her true love to come sweep her away. Her gaze roamed the room as she sang, as if she spoke to each person. He felt the moment their gazes met, held him captive. The music swept through him, her words and her look promising devotion and a love that would last forever. He could not look away.

  The applause startled him. What, had he woken from a dream? Ree smiled and curtsied to her ardent admirers. Jesslyn hurried to her side.

  “This was Mademoiselle Fortier’s last scheduled public appearance in Grace-by-the-Sea. Let’s show her how much we appreciate her.”

  Applause roared louder, along with calls of “Huzzah!” and “Bravo!” Lord Featherstone brought her an armful of daisies. Doctor Bennett offered her a silver goblet. Maudie played a martial air as if willing them all to rise up in arms. Ree met his gaze, sharing her triumph, her joy. Something hitched inside him.

  He had been right. Grace-by-the-Sea was no longer a safe haven, for it very much seemed as if his heart was in danger.

  ~~~

  How was it that joy shared doubled? Ree couldn’t remember a sweeter acclaim than the one she shared now with Quill. She had to force herself to look away from him and beam around at all the Regulars and Newcomers to the spa, those who had made her feel welcome.

  “Thank you, my friends,” she told them. “I have enjoyed my stay with you so much that I have decided to prolong my visit, at least until Captain St. Claire and I have made our plans.” She looked again to where Quill was standing by the fountain. For a moment, when she’d been singing, their gazes had brushed, and she’d nearly forgotten the words. Longing for a true love? What woman hadn’t experienced that? She’d decided it was safer to go her own way. But now, with him?

  This is a role, Ree. Nothing but a role. He is just very good at playing his part.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Fortier,” Mr. Guthrie said, easing to the front to wag his finger at her. “You have been hiding a secret.”

  Ree made her eyes widen even as her pulse kicked up a notch. “Mais non, Monsieur Guthrie. What would I possibly hide from my dear friends at Grace-by-the-Sea?”

  He smiled knowingly. “You have been taking lessons from the fairies, for no mere mortal could sing as sweetly.”

  Ree began to relax, but Maudie brought her fingers down on the keys of the harpsichord, the notes jarring. “Nonsense. She’s a Siren. Ask Captain St. Claire.”

  The author colored. “Of course. My apologies.” He turned to Maudie. “But were not Sirens vengeful creatures, Mrs. Tully? I cannot see Mademoiselle Fortier in such a role.”

  He was an innocent. Maudie eyed him. “Those Greek Sirens may have been cruel,” she reasoned, “but nothing says a good English Siren couldn’t be kind.” Her look veered to Ree. “If she chooses.”

  The words were more jarring than the notes Maudie had played. She was right, of course. It was Ree’s choice how to use her gifts. She bent and kissed the lady’s cheek. “I choose only the best for those I love.”

  Maudie touched her face as Ree drew back. “Well, of course, you do.”

  “As do I,” Mr. Guthrie assured her, gaze soft.

  Maudie’s cheeks turned pink as she pushed off the bench. “You need a drink, sir. I’ll pour you one.” Mr. Guthrie gallantly offered her his arm, and they set out toward the fountain.

  Lord Featherstone took his place in front of Ree. “Allow me to congratulate you again,” he said. “And I believe there is another young lady who would like to express her appreciation.” He turned to a slender woman in a simple gown of grey wool trimmed in black, her blond hair pulled neatly back from a heart-shaped face. “Miss Peverell, may I present Mademoiselle Fortier?”

  This must be the sister of the viscount marrying tomorrow. Ree offered her a curtsey. “Miss Peverell.”

  She inclined her head. “Mademoiselle Fortier. Your performances have been inspiring. I only wish I’d had an opportunity to talk with you sooner. You must tell me. What made you decide to become a singer? I imagine it must take some practice. What does that entail?”

  “Miss Peverell likes learning about new people,” Lord Featherstone said fondly, as if explaining the rush of questions.

  She blushed. “I suppose I do. Perhaps you could come up to the Lodge sometime and visit. After the wedding, of course. Everyone will be busy with that.” She laughed, but there was a brittleness to the sound. Was she unhappy to see her brother wed, or perhaps working too hard to see everything done well?

  “I would like that,” Ree said. “I will consult with my dear captain and see when we might be available.”

  As if he knew she was talking about him, Quill appeared out of the crowd. “Miss Peverell,” he said with a bow.

  “Captain St. Claire.”

  The acknowledgement was polite and polished, but hardly the effusiveness Ree had come to expect where Quill and the ladies were concerned.

  “Miss Peverell has invited us to call,” Ree explained. “After the wedding.”

  “We’d be delighted,” he said, arm going around Ree’s waist. “Very kind of you to ask.”

  “Perhaps Monday, then,” Miss Peverell said. “I look forward to it.”

  Quill bowed again as she took Lord Featherstone’s arm and left them.

  “What have you done to trouble Miss Peverell?” Ree murmured, watching as the young lady joined Mrs. Harding and her set.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Ree frowned at him. “Nothing?”

  He spread his hands. “My dear Ree, I am an open book.”

  She could not help her laugh. “Oh, no, Captain. That book is closed, and I would not be surprised to find a lock on its cover. Surely Miss Peverell is one of your admirers, dismayed to discover that you prefer another.”

  He stuck out his lower lip as if considering the matter. “She has never given the least sign of interest. You might have noticed her gown. She and her brother are finishing mourning for the loss of their parents and older brother, drowned last summer in a boating accident.”

  Ree clutched the cup Doctor Bennett had given her. “Oh, how awful. But of course, the Peverells. Now that you mention it, I remember the stories in the London papers. There was some doubt the current viscount was cut out for the role.”

  “It wasn’t only those in London who doubted,” he told her. “But I must say the fellow has surpassed all expectations.”

  “Still, Miss Peverell has had to accustom herself to a great many changes in the last few months,” Ree mused. “That could drain the hardiest soul.”

  As if determined to draw her attention away from the pretty Miss Peverell, he reached for the cup in her hand. “And what’s this?” He peered at the inscription in the silver. “To the singer who stole our hearts, from the villagers of Grace-by-the-Sea.” He remained gazing at the simple words for far longer than ought to be necessary.

  “Do you read something more into that kindness?” she asked.

  He lowered the cup, and she could see the effort behind his smile. “No. It is an honor well earned. Allow me to carry it for you to the Swan.”

  He was right. It was time to go. Even though she knew she’d be visiting the spa many more times while she was in the village, she felt as if a door had closed. She turned, and he fell into step beside her as they gathered her pelisse and hat and left.

  “If it wasn’t for this charade, you’d be heading for London again, I suspect,” he said as they started for the inn just down the hill and across the street from the colonnaded spa.

  London, with all its noise and gaiety, seemed very far away at the moment. Only a few clouds had begun to gather in the pale sky, and the tart scent of the sea lingered on the breeze.

  “Very likely,” she admitted. “Though sometimes in the summer I am called to perform at house parties. I have been to the Lake District and Somerset. The Earl of Prestwick is a great admirer.”

  “He has better taste than I would have expected.”

  Was that jealousy? Surely not. There was no one here to overhear.

  “You have your viscount, I have my earl,” Ree said. “Jesslyn tells me that Lord Peverell’s wedding will start at eleven tomorrow morning at the church. Will you fetch me at half past ten?”

  “Of course.”

  His tone was suddenly distant, almost curt. Ree frowned at him and found his gaze pointing down High Street. She followed it to where the mail coach was offloading passengers in front of the Swan. A few men loitered nearby, likely standing ready to help fetch and carry.

  Among them was a tall fellow with a fringe of russet hair showing beneath his cap.