Stephanie Laurens - A Buccaneer At Heart

The old man settled on the stool, his peg leg braced at a comfortable angle. Then he surveyed those seated.

Robert remained standing, leaning against the wall as several other men had elected to do.

Sampson grunted. “I can’t see her. She’s not here yet.”

His gaze sweeping the room, Robert shrugged. “Let me know when you spot her.”

As soon as he got a bead on her, he intended to seize the first chance that offered to warn her away from the investigation—and he was prepared to be a great deal more definite and effective than Sampson had been.

He had no intention whatever of allowing anyone—male or female—to interfere with his mission. For once, he had a mission whose path was blissfully clear and defined—learn the location of the slavers’ camp, then race the information back to London. The lady might be determined, but so was he; he was determined to allow nothing to get in the way of him finishing this mission in the shortest amount of time.

He wanted it done so he could put it behind him and concentrate on following the lure that, increasingly, drew him.

The need for a hearth. The need for a home. The need for a wife who would be his anchor.

* * *

Aileen leaned back against the squabs of her hired carriage as the last stragglers made their way into the church.

She’d debated joining the congregation, but she couldn’t imagine that she would see or learn anything she hadn’t already by subjecting herself yet again to Undoto’s version of fire and brimstone. Much better to sit and conserve her energies. She’d rolled up the flaps on the carriage windows, and a breeze as faint as an exhalation stirred wisps of hair at her nape.

Her strategy had already yielded one piece of information—the direction from which Undoto approached the church. After leaving Mrs. Hoyt’s, she’d walked down to Water Street and had hired a driver for the rest of the day; she’d had him drive her up to the church at just after eleven o’clock and draw his carriage to a halt at a spot toward the end of where the line of carriages would form. She’d been inside the carriage watching when Undoto had come walking down the street that curved up the flank of the hill.

Most of the congregation came from either below the church or, in the case of the European contingent, along the road from the west. The area from which Undoto had come was not one she’d previously explored.

But she would. Later, when she followed the priest back to his home. For the next hour, however, she had nothing to do but sit in the carriage and cling to her patience.

She’d chosen this spot from which to watch because it allowed her an unobstructed view of the church’s forecourt and also the smaller door along one side toward the rear of the building. That was the door through which Undoto had entered the church; others—the choristers and altar boys and several older men—had followed. One of the older men had later opened the front doors.

Patience wasn’t really her long suit, but she could, she told herself, manage an hour. In pursuit of Will, she could manage more than that.

With nothing else to do, she reviewed all she’d seen to this point, cataloging those of the congregation she’d seen previously, searching for anything odd or different.

Her mind snagged on the man—a newcomer, at least to her—who had arrived with old Sampson.

There was something about the man that had snared her attention, then effortlessly held it. In the privacy of the carriage with nothing else to occupy her, she could admit that and, via a distinctly vivid memory, indulge in a long, mental perusal.

He was the sort of gentleman commonly described as well set up. Tall with broad shoulders, but lean with the length. Strong, but flexible, too, exuding an aura of reined physical power. That he’d arrived with Sampson, chatting with the old man and clearly accepted by him, suggested the unknown was a sailor, but she would have guessed that anyway. She was accustomed to dealing with seafaring men, and the way he held himself, balanced in a certain fluid way, had instantly registered.

As had the sword at his hip. It wasn’t the type of weapon your average sailor sported. If she had to guess, she would say the intriguing stranger was a captain, one who commanded; an ineffable air of command had hung like a cloak about him, something innate that showed in the way he’d stood, in the manner in which he’d looked about him, scanning the surroundings, taking note of the people as well as the place.

Remembering that, she felt certain he’d never been to Undoto’s church before.

She hadn’t forgotten Sampson’s mention of a Captain Frobisher who had come to ask questions about those missing; it was tempting to speculate that this man was Frobisher, come back to take up the hunt, but if he hadn’t previously attended the church, that seemed unlikely.

Although courtesy of the distance, she hadn’t been able to note anything specific about the man’s face and features, she had to admit he’d made an impression.

She realized her lips had curved appreciatively, but there was no harm in such idle admiration. It wasn’t as if he and she were likely to meet face to face.

The warmth of the sun lay heavy on the land; the distant hum of the settlement’s center and port droned almost below the level of hearing.

Lulled, she felt her lids drooping. After a second, she allowed them to fall.

Her mind wasn’t empty; the image of the unknown man still lingered. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform; she recalled Sampson’s description of Captain Frobisher—not navy, but authorized. Most likely, Sampson had meant that the man had some degree of backing from the authorities; despite his lack of uniform, the unknown stranger had exuded the ineluctable sense that he possessed such authority.

So a captain, but almost certainly not of a naval vessel.

The memory of the clipper-style ship she’d seen so gracefully gliding up the estuary the previous evening swam across her mind’s eye.

The unknown captain’s ship?

Her attention shifted to the ship. Truth be told, she could admit to feeling a certain attraction to the vessel, too—a wish to see her, to examine her, to sail on her. To stand on her deck and experience the sensation of flying over the waves.

Aileen had long known she was no more immune to the siren song of the sea than her brothers.

And it was probably a good deal safer to explore an attraction to the ship than to the ship’s captain, even in her mind.

She grinned, then the sound of voices spilled into the forecourt. She opened her eyes and saw that the service was finally over. Undoto stood at the door, farewelling his parishioners.

Aileen sat up, then stretched her arms, easing her spine. She leaned closer to the window, then, realizing she might be seen, sat back in the shadows of the carriage once more.

She watched the congregation leave. She saw the intriguing stranger again. After exchanging words with four sailors—members of his crew?—and apparently dispatching them ahead, the stranger left with Sampson, pacing more slowly beside the one-legged sailor as they followed the winding street down the hill.

There was a courtesy there, in the stranger’s attention to Sampson, of which Aileen approved—a recognition that old men like Sampson were by no means worthless.

The stranger and Sampson soon passed out of sight.

She returned her gaze to the church itself and, counseling herself to patience anew, watched and waited while the congregation dispersed. When all were gone, Undoto and one of the older men who helped with the church pulled the doors shut, while two other older men set the woven-rush window panels back in place.

Aileen shifted her gaze to the side door. The altar boys and choristers had already left. The old men came out; calling to each other, they waved and went their separate ways.