Stephanie Laurens - Lord Of The Privateers

She held his piercing gaze. “I didn’t know there was an ‘us’ worth fighting for.”

Royd held to the contact, to the steadiness in her dark-brown eyes; she’d ever been his anchor, his safe harbor through any storm. But this storm raged between them, created of them, yet it seemed they now stood at the eye, with the past behind them, but no clear view of what might lie ahead. Of what future they might have.

Your future will be what you make of it.

His father’s words. Oh, so true.

“Now we both know the truth of what happened eight years ago, is there an ‘us’ worth fighting for now?”

The critical question.

She didn’t look away; she felt the weight of the moment as acutely as he.

After several silent seconds, she drew breath and simply said, “I don’t know, but there might be.” Her gaze flicked past him, down the deck. “And then there’s Duncan.”

He followed her gaze to where their son was diving headfirst into his heritage.

He considered the sight, then replied, “As there is, indeed, Duncan, I suggest ‘might be’ is a possibility you and I need to explore.”

She returned her gaze to his face.

He turned his head and met her eyes.

Her gaze was steady and unwavering.

He realized he was holding his breath.

Then she nodded. “To confirm or eliminate—we can’t go forward without knowing...what might be.”

* * *

Royd spent the rest of the afternoon with William Kelly, going over charts and plotting the fastest route from Southampton to Freetown. He made no attempt to advance his position with respect to his de facto wife and his son until, seated about his desk in the main cabin, the three of them had dined, and after having cleared their plates, Bellamy produced a blancmange for Duncan.

How his steward had managed to concoct such a thing while at sea, Royd couldn’t imagine, but as he watched Duncan’s eyes light, he couldn’t help but smile. Duncan babbled his thanks, then attacked the treat. Satisfied, Bellamy withdrew.

Duncan glanced at Royd and—predictably—posed another question; having learned of knots and ropes to his immediate satisfaction, his interest had shifted to sails.

Royd dutifully listed the sails The Corsair flew, expounding on when each set was deployed and what weather conditions limited their use.

Throughout, his senses remained trained on Isobel.

The task of rewinning her was going to be a great deal more demanding than winning over Duncan, even though he suspected that more of what she’d once felt for him remained in her heart than she’d yet let him see. As far as he could tell, he had reason enough to hope that, under her prickly carapace, she still loved him.

God knew, he still loved her.

After their discussion in the bow—which he didn’t want to revisit even in his mind; just the thought of what had fallen from his lips left him feeling naked and vulnerable—she’d retreated somewhat. Just half a step, enough to think things through. That was her way. She tended to stand back and assess before stepping forward, while he forged on, assessing as he went.

That was why, in all their childhood adventures, she’d always followed rather than led. Not because she was any less adventurous but because she possessed at least one cautious instinct.

He wasn’t sure he possessed any such instincts at all. Any caution he brought to bear derived from a single-minded drive to succeed, to win—a recognition that sometimes winning required caution. In pursuit of a prize, he could be cautious. He could be patient.

He was going to have to be patient to win the particular prize he’d set his heart on. Dealing with Isobel had never been easy. Challenging, exhilarating, and satisfying, undoubtedly. Easy, no.

But she’d admitted to a “might be,” and at present, that was enough. He wasn’t going to push her; that way lay dragons.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t shore up his position. Not sharing all aspects of his life with her had been his critical misstep in the past; that wasn’t a mistake he would make again.

By the time Duncan had scraped every skerrick of blancmange from the bowl and downed the last of his milk, Royd had decided on his next step.

He waited while Isobel oversaw Duncan’s nighttime ablutions, then tucked him into the bed built out from the ship’s side and dropped a motherly kiss on his forehead. Royd stepped back from the doorway as she returned to the main cabin. Once she’d shut the connecting door, he tipped his head toward the door to the cabin he was using. “Now you’ve caught up with the past, perhaps you’d like to learn what I know of what’s going on in Freetown.”

Curiosity flared in her eyes.

His words hadn’t been any real question; he didn’t wait for an answer. She followed readily as he walked to the connecting door, opened it, and went in. He’d left a lantern burning. She hesitated on the threshold, then her gaze fixed on the documents he’d left on the bed’s coverlet.

He waved her to them. “That’s all the information I’ve received to this point. The letters are in order.”

She walked in, picked up the sheaf, sat on the bed, and started reading.

He leaned against the washstand and indulged himself by watching her. The decision to show her the letters hadn’t been a difficult one. He’d unwittingly taught her she couldn’t trust him to be entirely open with her; it was therefore up to him to demonstrate that he’d changed his tack and that she could henceforth have confidence that he would share all with her.

Fifteen minutes later, she reached the end of the last missive—Wolverstone’s recent summons. She set the sheet down on top of the inverted pile, then raised her head and met his gaze. “You said you were on a mission that echoed that one eight years ago. I can see why—it’s white slavers again. And in Africa, although a different part.” Her eyes searched his face. “In the letter from Declan, he said his wife, Lady Edwina, believed several young women had been taken by the slavers. Do you think Katherine might be among them?”

He caught her gaze. “It’s possible—perhaps even likely—but with luck, we’ll learn if your quest and my mission are one and the same soon enough.” He paused, only then realizing she might not be all that keen to meet his brothers again, not in his company, not in the present circumstances. Regardless... “The Corsair is headed for Southampton to provision for the voyage to Freetown, but I have to go to London—to receive my orders, learn everything Declan and Edwina, and also Robert and Miss Aileen Hopkins, can tell me, and most important of all, to be there when Caleb gets back, so I can hear his report firsthand and glean the most detailed information on the slavers and the suspected mining camp. If I’m to successfully take the camp, I need to learn as much about it as I can.”

She gestured at the letters. “They don’t spell it out, but I take it your mission will be to rescue those taken and capture the villains behind the scheme.”

He nodded. “In that order, at least in my mind. As you no doubt noted, there’s political pressure building over bringing the perpetrators to justice, and from the tone of communications thus far, I expect to be charged with securing evidence sufficient to convict whoever’s involved. I will if I can. However, my overriding objective will be to get the captives—however many there are and whoever they are—to safety.”

“Indeed.” She folded her hands in her lap and met his gaze challengingly. “I’ll accompany you to London.”

She expected an argument. He hid a grin and inclined his head. “We’ll leave the ship tomorrow morning. I’ll have Liam lay in to Ramsgate so we can go ashore, then the ship will proceed to Southampton, provision, and stand ready.”