Julia London - Regency Vows - A Gentleman 'Til Midnight / The Trouble with Honour / An Improper Arrangement / A Wedding By Dawn / The Devil Takes a Bride / A Promise by Daylight

“The glory of the sea,” he repeated thoughtfully. In profile he looked like chiseled stone except for the breeze ruffling his hair. Her fingers warmed with the knowledge of what that hair felt like, as though the dream had not been a dream at all. “And what, exactly, would that glory be?” he inquired, staring out at the sea. “The French prize I took in ’59, and then recaptured twice after she was taken back, only to have her sunk by the Spanish? Or perhaps the cholera outbreak in ’61 that killed nigh on half my crew. Or certainly you don’t mean the wreck of the Henry’s Cross—glorious indeed.”

If his bitterness had been a whip, she would have bled.

“Glory,” he said again, turning to look at her. “Perhaps you refer to the merchant ship I stumbled across ten years ago. I found her in the hooks of two xebecs, like a fly already half-wrapped in a spider’s silk.”

Katherine tensed. The Merry Sea. “And so you sank her.”

“I attempted a rescue,” he shot back.

Her mind filled with the smell of blood, the terrifying clash of swords, the screams of the Merry Sea’s crew, the bite of rope around her wrists. The explosive roar of Captain Warre’s cannons. “Was I supposed to catch a cannonball and float to safety?”

“I didn’t realize there were women aboard,” he bit out.

“Would it have made a difference?”

“The fate of European men taken to Barbary is well known.” The relatively few women, however, were usually ransomed quickly and returned home.

It took her a moment to realize the implication. “So you assumed they would have preferred to die?” she asked in disbelief.

“A quick death in the sea versus a slow, tortured one being sodomized and performing heavy labor under the whip? Yes, I think they would have. The fighting I witnessed aboard the Merry Sea attests to that.”

“Self-preservation is a different thing from being murdered,” she said coldly.

“Murdered?”

“Would you prefer to call it mercy killing? I can assure you, from where I sat there was no mercy in it at all.” But honestly she didn’t know which had been worse—the destruction wreaked by his cannons, or the calm that had settled over that xebec after it made its escape and the cannon fire died. Her own screams dying in her throat after she’d given up tugging uselessly on the ropes. The terror of being brought ashore, captive, in Salé—a foreign city that was the furthest thing imaginable from either London or the Continent—and having no idea what to expect.

He was quiet for a long moment—affronted, no doubt, by her lack of gratitude. “You have a flair for the melodramatic,” he finally said. “And a righteous view of naval warfare for one who has plundered so many ships.”

“I only plunder those that have already plundered.”

“That’s putting a rather fine point on it, don’t you think?”

“If you’re implying there is no difference between making a prize of a pirate’s take and plundering a trading vessel sailing under legitimate colors, then no, I don’t think so. Besides, my marauding is greatly exaggerated. I’ve made most of my fortune running perfectly legal trade goods.” She kept her eyes on the sea but felt him watching her. Assessing. Judging. Wondering. Pearls of moonlight danced on the waves.

From the corner of her eye she saw him reach out and capture a strand of her hair. Her breath caught. The fire that had torn her from sleep ignited instantly. Her gaze flew to his hand, and she watched him smooth the inky curl between his fingers. Then she met his eyes.

He dropped the strand as though it had burned him. Common sense screamed at her to step back, but this was her deck, not his. Her ship. Her command.

“Thanks to my failures,” he said roughly, “you were fed to the Barbary dogs.”

Annoyance raced through her veins. “To call them dogs would be to say that Anne is half-dog,” she managed calmly, “and that I will not do.”

“No.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Of course not.”

“Have you spent any time in the Barbary states, Captain?”

“A little.”

“And how did you find the hospitality?”

“The hospitality?” Something in him seemed to snap. “You’ve run mad. After everything that happened to you—not days, or weeks, or months, but years. Years, of living with al-Zayar, of being his—” He broke off and shoved his hands through his hair, then gripped the railing again. “I understand escape is a dangerous risk,” he said tightly. “Undertaken only by the most desperate.”

He looked at her then, and she saw the questions in his eyes. The wild imaginings. But more than that, she saw in his eyes the reason why she had not returned home after her escape.

In his eyes, her life was a tragedy. And he blamed himself.

“People become desperate for many reasons,” she said sharply. “Do not presume to know something you cannot possibly understand.”

“Explain it to me.”

His thoughts were as easy to read as the stars on a clear night, and her heart swelled with bittersweet memories no Englishman could possibly understand.

Explain it to him? As if he could possibly comprehend the terrible emptiness of knowing without a doubt that one will never go home again, that one’s life had been changed forever. The dreadful anticipation in that moment when the caravan had finally arrived at the gates of her new home—where the air had been thick with the delicious scent of orange blossoms and rang with the shrieks of delighted children somewhere inside the walls, along with deep male laughter she would soon learn belonged to Mejdan al-Zayar.

The crushing relief of finding kindness where one had expected cruelty. And then, a few short years later, the terror of having it all torn away.

Captain Warre thought she should hate Mejdan. But it would have been impossible for anyone to hate him. He was too full of smiles, of love for those around him. Yes, Anne was Mejdan’s daughter, along with all that implied. But Captain Warre would not appreciate how long Mejdan had waited when he hadn’t needed to. How much she had grown to adore Mejdan during that time, how much he was admired and respected by those both in and outside of the household.

That going to Mejdan’s bed had been tolerable.

Captain Warre would never believe any of that. All he would see—all any Englishman would see—was the fact of her captivity.

“You need not grieve over my virtue, Captain.” She would explain nothing, to him or anyone else. “I need no one’s pity. As you pointed out yourself, I’ve built a successful enterprise.” The memories of Algiers were her memories—hers alone—and she would guard them the way a shipwreck guarded its treasure. Already she could feel her homeland trampling on them.

“And yet now you are going home.”

“This ship is my home,” she snapped.

“To Dunscore, then.”

“Which, were it not for your ineptitude, I would have done years ago.”

But the fatigue and weariness he’d once spoken of colored his voice, and doubts about him began a subtle attempt to lure her away from her outrage. The breeze blew a strand of hair in his face, and she clenched her fist against the urge to reach for it. “I shall leave you to your watch, Captain,” she said tightly. “Good night.”

* * *

SOMETHING RAW AND alive and terrifying surged through James’s veins as he listened to her walk away. It burned through him, a hot and painful imposter of the life that had once animated him, reminding him that he’d once had a fire. A passion. That he’d once felt that glory of the sea she spoke of.

He gripped the railing and inhaled the cold sea air, gaining a little relief when the sound of her footsteps finally disappeared.