The crown had put forth a bounty for him, dead or alive for his slow assault on their fighting force. Slowly but surely, every heinous act committed on the seas thereafter was attributed to his name. The bounty had doubled in four months.
The gun running was an added complication he didn’t need. But Ryan’s wife and son were Drex’s responsibility to feed, clothe and house. He’d taken a loan in order to buy the Lair, and after that, funds had run low. Louisiana’s Governor Clayborne had mentioned the American Army paid top dollar for new weapons to aid the war effort. Drex hadn’t had much choice.
And now, if he made it back into London safely, he’d have to search for the mysteriously missing Lady Christina. He sighed.
The Dragon’s Lair approached the mouth of the harbor, revealing mercifully light traffic on the malodorous Thames. God, he’d love to put London and his bad memories of the city behind. But the Royal Navy had Ryan imprisoned out there…somewhere.
And Lady Christina Delafield, wherever she was, held the key to Ryan’s freedom.
* * *
Fighting a cry of despair, Christina hugged herself tightly and drew her legs beneath her. She stared at red-eyed rodents through the black shadows of the
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ship’s hold. The little beasts eeked in warning as they scurried toward her biscuits.
She hated rats, almost as much as she hated the dark. They had been constant, clawing fears in the countless hours since stowing aboard this rocking tub of a ship.
As if facing her two worst terrors hadn’t been enough, gunfire had started, accompanied by a chorus of screams. She feared she’d been doomed to drown before leaving London’s shore.
Something with spindly feet darted across her fingers. She smothered a shriek with her hand. The scents of dust and rotting wood exacerbated the feel of grit and salt coating her skin. Sleep had been impossible with a splintered, unforgiving plank against her back. Exhaustion seeped into her.
Yet the frights and discomforts seemed no more horrible than the captain’s displeasure once he discovered her on board. His demand that she leave had been clear; he was articulate like Grandfather. And just like her elder, she didn’t imagine the captain would be delighted she had disobeyed him.
Just how angry would he be? Enough to make her walk the plank? Or maybe he’d choose a good whipping with a cat-o-nine tails. She shuddered.
Perhaps stowing on board hadn’t been the most brilliant idea after all.
Christina stood. Whatever punishment he chose, she would endure. Aunt Mary had always preached that the truly independent woman found strength in handling life’s unpleasantries. She would simply have to slot the captain into the category of perturbing, in more ways than one.
What if he subjected her to another wicked kiss?
She shoved the rebellious thought from her mind and fought the rise of sensation that possibility evoked. Perhaps she had only imagined the experience pleasant because she’d been overwrought. Over the course of the voyage, surely she would come to find the masked captain no more entrancing than the latest opera.
The thought gave her strength as she scrambled up the rope ladder toward the hatch. As she reached the top, a sliver of muted light leaked through the cracks, indicating afternoon had faded to twilight. Taking a deep breath, she
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the door open, elated to be free of darkness and rodents. Yet she prayed neither death nor ravishment awaited her at the captain’s hands.
Fresh air filled her lungs as she drew in a salty breath. Milky stars winked above in a sterling-shaded dance. The cool evening breeze brushed her cheeks, filtering her limp hair. She felt somehow better prepared to face her fate. Now, if she could just find the captain before anyone else found her…
“Holy cripes!” A young man yelled. “Cap’n, it’s a woman!”
Whirling to the sound, an anxious jolt shot clear to her stomach. So much for finding the captain first. She held her breath. What now? Smile and try to justify her reason for stowing away? Or simply lie?
Trying to maintain an appearance of calm, she stepped from the hatch and closed it behind her. “Hello.”
The tow-headed man swallowed, a nervous twitch plaguing his wide, pale eyes as he stared for an agonizing moment.
Christina stepped closer. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
He retreated a stumbling step, his eyes riveted to her as if she were a ghost.
“Cap’n!”
A moment later, Christina heard heavy footsteps behind her. Slow footsteps. Methodical. Reminiscent of controlled anger.
The captain.
Shoulders stiff, chin lifted, she turned to face him slowly. The sight of his massive chest, half-covered by a flowing white shirt, filled her vision. A wide expanse of golden muscle bisected the front of the shirt as it blew in the breeze.
Her gaze made a surreptitious journey over wide shoulders and a strong, bronzed neck. She tried hard to bypass his lips, but her eyes had other ideas.
For a moment, she succumbed to a foolish urge to study the mouth that had dominated hers so thoroughly.
Realizing the turn of her thoughts, she thrust her gaze up to his. A mistake.
His black eyes, surrounded by that mysterious, silky mask, gleamed with displeasure. Her nausea returned in an inundating rush.
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Christina shifted her gaze to more comfortable surroundings and discovered a crowd of motley sailors scattered about. From young to old, their expressions ranged from suspicion to awe.
“Get back to your posts, men,” the captain directed, his stare never wavering from her face.
With nary a glance or raised syllable, the men scrambled to do his bidding.
Images of her grandfather and the power he wielded over his own entourage detonated warnings within.
“I ordered you taken ashore.” The captain’s voice was calm but menacing.
Christina stood tall, straightening her spine, praying for courage.
“I…stayed.”
“Clearly. Your presence here explains my young crewman’s disappearance, I suppose. You paid him for his perfidy?”
Again, his tone was placid, but Christina detected a calm before the storm.
“The two hundred pounds you refused. I apologize, but I’m desperate—”
“I gathered that the first time.” He stepped closer. His size alone intimidated her, but she would not retreat. “I also recall informing you that this isn’t a passenger ship.”
She resisted the urge to flinch as his voice rose. “You simply must understand…”
Mercy, what was she going to tell him? Hello, I’m Christina Delafield. My grandfather is the Duke of Manchester. Though, he probably has a reward out for my return as large as a king’s ransom, would you take me to Grand Bahama instead? Yes, that would motivate him to rescue her from Swiss finishing school and see her safely to Aunt Mary.
“Understand what?” he demanded. “You’ve already pleaded a deprived husband. What next, a dying mother?”
Sarcasm edged his tone, multiplying her anxiety. She needed to concoct a story—fast.
“Actually, yes,” she blurted, stalling for time by searching her reticule for a handkerchief. Certainly now she couldn’t tell him her mother had been in the grave for ten years.
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With a glare, the captain unknotted the knotted kerchief tied about his biceps and thrust it at her. “Go on.”
After a moment’s hesitation disguised as a delicate sniffle, she answered,