is a war, miss," he repeated in his best stern captain's voice. "If you'd wanted to keep your gowns and bonnets safe, you should have left them snug in England."
"But I had no choice," she said miserably. "I am to be wed on St. Lucia, you see, where my—my intended resides. Everything I'd brought with me was for my new home, things that can't be replaced, like my mother's looking glass and her tea chest and the Chinese vases that have always, always stood on the mantelpiece in the dining room at home, and then the—"
She broke off abruptly, her hands twisting. "But you would not understand, would you, Captain Sparhawk," she said miserably, "just as I cannot understand your cursed rules of war. You'll never understand at all."
Yet Nick did understand, more than she'd guess and far more than he'd ever
dream of telling her. Fleetingly he thought of his own mother's looking glasses in the big house in Newport where he'd been born, now looted and gutted by the British, how he'd come too late to save his parents or his youngest sister—one more time he'd failed them when they'd needed him most.
Oh, aye, he understood.
But that was why he was here now, wasn't it? To harm and harass the enemy, to rob them just as they'd robbed his own family? Every chance he could, he willingly—no, eagerly—risked his life and the lives of his men to bring as much destruction as he could to British property and British ambitions, and no one had ever been able to question his bravery or his loyalty.
At least not until now.
He knew the girl was waiting for an answer, those enormous silver eyes brimming with reproach, and his jaw tightened. What was the matter with him, anyway? If he'd let himself turn all sentimental and soft over one little Britisher grieving over her lost Chinese pots, then he might as well turn in his commission now. He could always go back to Narragansett Bay and become, oh, a shepherd on Patience Island until the war was over.
Damn Lily's wings, this was all her fault, every bit of it!
He shoved his hat down lower on his head, wincing at the little stab of pain as it slid across the half-healed cut on his forehead. The bridge of the girl's nose was sunburned, the skin pink and shiny, and he focused on that instead of her eyes.
"I don't mean to keep you forever, you know," he said gruffly. "Only until your old papa comes up with the proper ransom."
She lowered her gaze to her hands. "Or until my friends from St. Lucia come after
you
."
"Not ruddy likely," scoffed Nick. "Those fat-bellied merchants from Cul de Sac Roseaux have been after me since summer last, and you can see how lucky they've been."
"The gentleman I am to wed, Captain Sparhawk, is no potbellied merchant." She was speaking quickly, her voice no more than a soft, breathy rush that Nick had to strain to hear. "He is Captain Lord Eliot Graham of His Majesty's frigate
Goliath
, and I do believe, Captain Sparhawk, that his guns will more than compensate for your luck."
Nick stared down at the top of her head with disgust and dismay. His luck, hell. His blessed
luck
would now have some titled jackass in a frigate out for his blood, all on account of the two Miss Everards. And there wasn't a single thing he could do about it.
Close to smothering from his own frustration and fury, Nick unleashed such a torrent of oaths on the British navy in general and the dubious ancestry of Captain Lord Eliot in particular that even Gideon turned to smile with admiration. The girl's expression didn't change, but her pallor vanished as her cheeks turned as red as the skin on her nose.
"Forgive me if I've offended you, Miss Everard," said Nick at last, feeling somewhat relieved and not the least bit contrite. "But until your honorable jackanapes can rescue you, you'll have to pardon our rough ways here on board."
For a long time she looked at him, simply looked, while to Nick it seemed those silver eyes turned to pure Sheffield steel.
"As you wish, Captain," she said
"But I had no choice," she said miserably. "I am to be wed on St. Lucia, you see, where my—my intended resides. Everything I'd brought with me was for my new home, things that can't be replaced, like my mother's looking glass and her tea chest and the Chinese vases that have always, always stood on the mantelpiece in the dining room at home, and then the—"
She broke off abruptly, her hands twisting. "But you would not understand, would you, Captain Sparhawk," she said miserably, "just as I cannot understand your cursed rules of war. You'll never understand at all."
Yet Nick did understand, more than she'd guess and far more than he'd ever
dream of telling her. Fleetingly he thought of his own mother's looking glasses in the big house in Newport where he'd been born, now looted and gutted by the British, how he'd come too late to save his parents or his youngest sister—one more time he'd failed them when they'd needed him most.
Oh, aye, he understood.
But that was why he was here now, wasn't it? To harm and harass the enemy, to rob them just as they'd robbed his own family? Every chance he could, he willingly—no, eagerly—risked his life and the lives of his men to bring as much destruction as he could to British property and British ambitions, and no one had ever been able to question his bravery or his loyalty.
At least not until now.
He knew the girl was waiting for an answer, those enormous silver eyes brimming with reproach, and his jaw tightened. What was the matter with him, anyway? If he'd let himself turn all sentimental and soft over one little Britisher grieving over her lost Chinese pots, then he might as well turn in his commission now. He could always go back to Narragansett Bay and become, oh, a shepherd on Patience Island until the war was over.
Damn Lily's wings, this was all her fault, every bit of it!
He shoved his hat down lower on his head, wincing at the little stab of pain as it slid across the half-healed cut on his forehead. The bridge of the girl's nose was sunburned, the skin pink and shiny, and he focused on that instead of her eyes.
"I don't mean to keep you forever, you know," he said gruffly. "Only until your old papa comes up with the proper ransom."
She lowered her gaze to her hands. "Or until my friends from St. Lucia come after
you
."
"Not ruddy likely," scoffed Nick. "Those fat-bellied merchants from Cul de Sac Roseaux have been after me since summer last, and you can see how lucky they've been."
"The gentleman I am to wed, Captain Sparhawk, is no potbellied merchant." She was speaking quickly, her voice no more than a soft, breathy rush that Nick had to strain to hear. "He is Captain Lord Eliot Graham of His Majesty's frigate
Goliath
, and I do believe, Captain Sparhawk, that his guns will more than compensate for your luck."
Nick stared down at the top of her head with disgust and dismay. His luck, hell. His blessed
luck
would now have some titled jackass in a frigate out for his blood, all on account of the two Miss Everards. And there wasn't a single thing he could do about it.
Close to smothering from his own frustration and fury, Nick unleashed such a torrent of oaths on the British navy in general and the dubious ancestry of Captain Lord Eliot in particular that even Gideon turned to smile with admiration. The girl's expression didn't change, but her pallor vanished as her cheeks turned as red as the skin on her nose.
"Forgive me if I've offended you, Miss Everard," said Nick at last, feeling somewhat relieved and not the least bit contrite. "But until your honorable jackanapes can rescue you, you'll have to pardon our rough ways here on board."
For a long time she looked at him, simply looked, while to Nick it seemed those silver eyes turned to pure Sheffield steel.
"As you wish, Captain," she said
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