many pans on a tinker's cart.
Without planning to she began to count the pirates as they went into the tavern, her lips moving like a schoolchild's.
Diverted, he watched her. "How many are there, then?"
Merry turned to his voice, to look with serious, credulous eyes at his stirring countenance. "Reade must be still in his cups."
"Quick, aren't you?" he observed. "I am being honest with you, sweetheart. Your friends are safe. Morgan's after a different man."
"The man who tried to talk to him?" Merry asked through a dry throat. "He—is he also a pirate?"
"Yes. He's been poaching in Morgan's territory. It was tolerable, until he started to fly Morgan's flag. Things like that make Morgan a little irritable. It may enhance his reputation for being everywhere at once, but it adds nothing to his pocketbook."
From inside the tavern came a terrible shriek, cut off abruptly in the middle.
Devon said calmly, "Morgan doesn't like screaming."
"What are they doing to him?" she whispered.
"They're only frightening him. He'll survive. Tell me, who are you?"
She had spent so much time in the last few months asking herself that question that it shocked her when he said it, as though a live recoil of her own thoughts had snapped back into her mind. He was the only being outside herself who had ever asked her who she was. Everyone else had always assumed. Who was she? It mattered little that she couldn't tell him the truth, because she had no answer that satisfied herself.
"I—am nobody." It had slipped out, before she could stop it.
He accepted it without a blink. "Is that your name or your avocation?"
"It's both," she said and looked away from him.
"I see." He settled back against the side of the wagon. "Have you always been nobody, or did you become nobody when you married Mr. Nobody? Do you like being nobody?"
She was alarmed to find herself beginning to smile and hoped he didn't see. "I only meant I wasn't anyone."
"Oh, well, you didn't have to tell me that. I knew the minute I saw you that you weren't just anyone. Did your husband send you outside because I was staring at you? 1 suppose he has quite a problem with that sort of thing. Is that why he makes you pin pillows under your skirt?"
Blushing violently, Merry said, "It wasn't a very good idea."
"Oh, no, I think it was a very good idea. Tell him from me, it worked while it lasted. You look cold. Would you like to get into my jacket?"
Rattled, and bewildered by his seeming non sequitur, she blurted out, "Oh, no, if you take off your jacket, you'll have—"
"Nothing on underneath," he finished cheerfully. "I'm afraid that was the idea. Does your husband sleep in a nightshirt?"
Merry accidentally conjured up an image of Jason, her pretend husband, in a nightshirt, the white linen flapping around his knees like a scarecrow. How in the world did people manage in marriage?
"Well, of course," she answered, too innocent to catch his drift. "What else would he sleep in?"
He slanted a look at her and put his hand to her chin, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. "Are you sure," he said, "that you're married?"
Merry looked into the lazy eyes and wondered what he would do if he knew that her brother and cousin inside the tavern were officers in the American military, there on what amounted to a mission of espionage, and what he would do if he knew that she could herself draw a sketch of him that would make him a marked man, perhaps even bring him to the gallows. Fear lent conviction to her answer.
"Yes, I'm quite sure."
He traced a fingertip over her cheekbone. "Happily?"
Another trap yawned at her feet. It was a dangerous game; she was a pitifully inept player, and a debilitating, strain-induced fatigue had well nigh nibbled away the last of her wits.
"Hap— I don't know. No, I mean yes. Yes, of course I am. Whenever you meet people, do you ask them so many questions?"
"Sometimes," he said softly. "I'm rather an inquisitive person. Are you?"
He was so close, so
Without planning to she began to count the pirates as they went into the tavern, her lips moving like a schoolchild's.
Diverted, he watched her. "How many are there, then?"
Merry turned to his voice, to look with serious, credulous eyes at his stirring countenance. "Reade must be still in his cups."
"Quick, aren't you?" he observed. "I am being honest with you, sweetheart. Your friends are safe. Morgan's after a different man."
"The man who tried to talk to him?" Merry asked through a dry throat. "He—is he also a pirate?"
"Yes. He's been poaching in Morgan's territory. It was tolerable, until he started to fly Morgan's flag. Things like that make Morgan a little irritable. It may enhance his reputation for being everywhere at once, but it adds nothing to his pocketbook."
From inside the tavern came a terrible shriek, cut off abruptly in the middle.
Devon said calmly, "Morgan doesn't like screaming."
"What are they doing to him?" she whispered.
"They're only frightening him. He'll survive. Tell me, who are you?"
She had spent so much time in the last few months asking herself that question that it shocked her when he said it, as though a live recoil of her own thoughts had snapped back into her mind. He was the only being outside herself who had ever asked her who she was. Everyone else had always assumed. Who was she? It mattered little that she couldn't tell him the truth, because she had no answer that satisfied herself.
"I—am nobody." It had slipped out, before she could stop it.
He accepted it without a blink. "Is that your name or your avocation?"
"It's both," she said and looked away from him.
"I see." He settled back against the side of the wagon. "Have you always been nobody, or did you become nobody when you married Mr. Nobody? Do you like being nobody?"
She was alarmed to find herself beginning to smile and hoped he didn't see. "I only meant I wasn't anyone."
"Oh, well, you didn't have to tell me that. I knew the minute I saw you that you weren't just anyone. Did your husband send you outside because I was staring at you? 1 suppose he has quite a problem with that sort of thing. Is that why he makes you pin pillows under your skirt?"
Blushing violently, Merry said, "It wasn't a very good idea."
"Oh, no, I think it was a very good idea. Tell him from me, it worked while it lasted. You look cold. Would you like to get into my jacket?"
Rattled, and bewildered by his seeming non sequitur, she blurted out, "Oh, no, if you take off your jacket, you'll have—"
"Nothing on underneath," he finished cheerfully. "I'm afraid that was the idea. Does your husband sleep in a nightshirt?"
Merry accidentally conjured up an image of Jason, her pretend husband, in a nightshirt, the white linen flapping around his knees like a scarecrow. How in the world did people manage in marriage?
"Well, of course," she answered, too innocent to catch his drift. "What else would he sleep in?"
He slanted a look at her and put his hand to her chin, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. "Are you sure," he said, "that you're married?"
Merry looked into the lazy eyes and wondered what he would do if he knew that her brother and cousin inside the tavern were officers in the American military, there on what amounted to a mission of espionage, and what he would do if he knew that she could herself draw a sketch of him that would make him a marked man, perhaps even bring him to the gallows. Fear lent conviction to her answer.
"Yes, I'm quite sure."
He traced a fingertip over her cheekbone. "Happily?"
Another trap yawned at her feet. It was a dangerous game; she was a pitifully inept player, and a debilitating, strain-induced fatigue had well nigh nibbled away the last of her wits.
"Hap— I don't know. No, I mean yes. Yes, of course I am. Whenever you meet people, do you ask them so many questions?"
"Sometimes," he said softly. "I'm rather an inquisitive person. Are you?"
He was so close, so
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