Stephanie Laurens: Lord Of The Privateers

Once they hit the open seas, he’d fly most of his canvas, but negotiating the exit from the basin and the mouth of the Dee required a fine touch and much less power. Courtesy of the improvements she and Royd had made, when under full sail, The Corsair was the fastest ship of her class afloat—another reason she’d petitioned him to take her to Freetown. Quite aside from the assured speed, she was eager to see how the alterations she’d tested only on short forays into the North Sea performed on a much longer journey.

Lifting her gaze from Royd’s dark head, she looked along the main deck. From all she could see, they were almost ready to cast off.

Turning, she saw Liam Stewart, Royd’s lieutenant, standing ready at the wheel. He glanced her way and smiled.

She smiled back and nodded. “Mr. Stewart.”

“Miss Carmichael—welcome aboard. I hear you’re sailing south with us all the way to Africa.”

“Indeed. I have business in Freetown.” She realized that where Royd had been, so, too, had Stewart. “I take it you’ve visited the settlement before.”

Stewart nodded. “We’ve sailed into the harbor there several times, but not in the past...it must be four years.” He cast her an apologetic glance. “Being a relatively new settlement, it will have changed significantly since last we were there.”

She grimaced, but Stewart wasn’t the man who would be by her side when she ventured into the settlement in search of her cousin.

“I need to run through the checks on the rudder. Royd and I normally do that together, but”—Stewart nodded down the ship—“he’s busy resetting those rigging lines. Would you like to stand in for him?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” She walked purposefully toward him. Meeting his widening eyes, she smiled sweetly and reached for the wheel. “But if you think I’m going to be the one hanging over the stern, you’re sadly mistaken.”

He grinned sheepishly and surrendered the wheel. While she swung the wheel, halting at the usual positions, he checked that the rudder responded freely and swung to the correct angle.

By the time they were done, Royd was calling for the lines to be cast off. He strode down the deck and came up the ladder in rapid time. Straightening, he saw her standing behind the wheel.

She savored his blink of surprise—then she stepped aside and gestured to the vacated position. “Your wheel is yours, Captain.”

He cast her a look as he strode forward, but the instant his hand touched the polished oak, his focus shifted. One glance confirmed that the lines had been freed. He glanced at Stewart as he came to stand by the rail on the other side of the wheel. “Very well, Mr. Stewart—let’s get under way.”

Stewart grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Isobel gripped the rail and watched as, with Stewart acting as his spotter, Royd eased The Corsair from her berth, working with only a jib.

As he feathered past the ships anchored in the basin, he called up more sail, but gave the canvas only enough play to have the hull gliding forward. Then they were through the narrows and turned, and the mouth of the Dee lay ahead, unobstructed by any other vessel, and Royd called for full mainsails. Topsails and topgallants followed in rapid order, then he called for the royals...and the ship lifted.

Literally lifted as the wind caught the unfurling sails and powered the vessel on.

Feeling the wind buffeting her bonnet, Isobel pushed it back so it lay across her nape, the better to appreciate the ineluctable thrill of speed.

And yet more speed as the skysails unfurled.

She listened with half an ear to the rapid-fire instructions as this sail was drawn in, that eased, and the ship, now well out from the shore, heeled to the south.

She couldn’t stop smiling.

As he had several times since they’d left the wharf, Royd glanced at Isobel’s face—let his eyes drink in the sheer joy displayed there, openly, for anyone to see. Emotionally, it was like looking into a mirror; this was something they’d always shared and patently still did—this love of the sea, of racing over the waves, of harnessing the wind and letting it have them.

Yet another strand in the net that still linked them.

Usually on a voyage, after steering the ship past the river mouth and into the ocean swells, once he felt the hull riding smoothly and was satisfied with the set of the sails, he would hand the wheel over to Liam, who normally stood the first watch from port. Today, when his lieutenant sent him a questioning look, he shook his head and remained where he was, with his hands on the wheel and Isobel beside him.

When she sailed with him during the testing of their improvements, she rarely stood anywhere near him; if she came up to the stern deck, she would stand at one rear corner where, from his position at the wheel, he couldn’t see her.

So although she’d sailed with him often in recent years, this was different. He wanted to prolong the moment, to wallow in the connection, in the shared passion that still linked them, in the magic that still reached to their souls. To experience again the mutuality of the sensitivity that had them glorying at the feel of the wind in their hair and of the deck surging beneath their feet.

She didn’t look at him—he would have felt her gaze—so he looked at her frequently. He drank in her delight and felt the same joy move through him—and felt closer to her than he had in years.

Patently, this element of their togetherness was still there, alive and very real, strong, and apparently immutable.

If this aspect of their long-ago connection—the plethora of shared needs and desires that had urged them to the altar and seen them handfasted—had survived the years unchanged...what else remained?

He had to wonder—and wonder, too, about the past eight years of being so very definitely apart.

Why had she turned from him?

And why had he allowed it?

The latter wasn’t a question that had occurred to him before, yet...standing alongside her again, aware of all he felt for her still, it was a valid question.

Eventually, their tack took them farther from land, and he reluctantly brought the magical moment to an end. With a few words, he surrendered the wheel to Liam, stepped back, and turned to Isobel.

Instinctively, Isobel swung to face Royd; her senses leapt, and she realized remaining close had been a tactical error...then again, wasn’t this what she wanted? To explore what remained between them, put whatever that was into some more mundane context, and, hopefully, cauterize her ridiculous sensitivity to his nearness. She couldn’t retrain her senses if she didn’t allow herself to dally close to him.

That said...she pushed away from the railing. “Perhaps someone can show me to my cabin?” From long experience, she knew that the only way to deal with Royd was not just to keep the reins in her hands but to use them.

His face was always well-nigh inscrutable; she could read nothing from his expression as he inclined his head. “Of course.” He waved her to the ladder.

She walked across, turned, and went quickly down.

He followed and dropped lightly to the deck beside her.

She’d assumed he would summon one of his men—his steward, Bellamy, for instance—and consign her into their care. Instead, he stepped to the companionway hatch, pulled it open, and waved her down. “I’ve moved my things out of the stern cabin. It’s yours for the duration.”

“Thank you.” With a haughty dip of her head, she went down the stairs. She stepped into the corridor and started toward the stern. “What cabin are you using?”

Having worked on The Corsair over the past years, she knew the ship’s layout. Unlike most vessels of this class, Royd’s personal ship had fewer cabins, but each cabin was larger; his captain’s cabin took up the entire width of the stern and was unusually deep.