A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

      Jaxbury knew bloody well that wasn’t an option. On Jaxbury’s ship Lady India was safely locked away; if he arranged for passage aboard a different ship, he would have to try to control her without being noticed. He couldn’t hold a pistol on her from the folds of his greatcoat for an entire voyage—especially not when he would likely be bedridden the entire time.

      It would be no different in France, riding in jolting coaches from one inn to the next while those devious blue eyes plotted death and destruction at every stop, where she would have plenty of opportunity to beg, cajole, win support...even divest herself of her virtue.

      Hell.

      * * *

      IT WAS WILLIAM who brought their breakfast the next morning. And William again, an hour later, who came with other news.

      “Warre is sick. Had to set sail without my surgeon, thanks to you two, and I need you—” he pointed at Millie “—to tend to him.”

      “Is he going to die?” India asked hopefully from the hammock.

      “Not going to die.” William looked at her pointedly. “Not by your hand, either.”

      That remained to be seen. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She pushed the hammock idly with her toe. “The thought of killing someone never crossed my mind. I’m quite content. I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed a voyage more, if you must know—”

      “Devil that,” Millie said irritably, facing William with her hands clenched. “If Lord Taggart’s ailment isn’t life-threatening, then he can tend to himself.”

      “I could tend to him,” India offered.

      William barked a laugh. “You will stay as far away from Warre as the ship allows. And you—” he pointed at Millie again “—will tend to Warre, or you’ll not leave this cabin. You’ll find what you need in the infirmary.”

      There was a small commotion in the passageway, and two sailors wrestled India’s and Millie’s trunks into the cabin and dropped them on the floor with a thud.

      “Don’t get any ideas,” William warned when they left. “Been all through those trunks. Nothing more dangerous in there than—well, might have said a petticoat, but neither of you own one. Best put on something warm,” he said to India. “I’m sending you up the yards.”

      “You are?” The promise of freedom got the better of her, and India jumped off the hammock.

      “In a merciful mood. And we’re a man short. My boatswain is under strict orders that you’re not to have a moment’s rest.”

      India narrowed her eyes at him. “I can’t believe Nicholas Warre approves your releasing us from this cabin.” She studied his expression for any hint that there had been a falling-out, that William might have become an ally.

      “Not Warre’s ship,” he said flatly. “You’ll not throw yourselves overboard without somebody seeing it, and if you try, you’ll not see the outside of this cabin until we reach France.”

      “France,” Millie said sharply.

      “We’re not sailing for England?” India asked. New hope flooded through her so fast she felt light-headed.

      “Marseille,” William said. “And once you go ashore, you’ll be Warre’s problem and not mine.”

      “You’re going to leave me with him? In France?”

      “Aye. Now hurry up—Warre’s green with mal de mer, a stiff breeze is coming up and we’re about to go full sail.”

       CHAPTER SIX

      MAL DE MER. They expected her to spend her life tied to a man who suffered from mal de mer? For the next two days, India watched Nicholas Warre emerge from the cabin for short reprieves on the upper deck, where he would stand with his hands curled around the railing and his elbows locked, staring at the horizon, braced against the ship’s motion—the glorious, magnificent roll and sway that made the wood and ropes creak and splashed sea spray into the air to mist her face.

      From the lower deck India watched him emerge again, making his way up the stairs wearing no wig, no hat, no turban. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and glistened in the sunshine. Without a waistcoat, his shirt stood out white like the sails against the sparkling sea. He was remarkably steady despite his affliction. She watched him brace himself at the railing, followed the line of his arm to his shoulder. She already knew he was as strong as any sailor on board.

      She pulled a line with Tommy, one of the youngest of William’s crew, who smirked. “There’s ’is lordship again, going to empty ’is stomach over the side.”

      If there was one thing Nicholas Warre had not done—heaven be praised—it was empty his stomach over the side. “I hadn’t noticed him,” India lied.

      “Got no business on a ship, that one.”

      It took a double effort not to stare. The temptation was a matter of morbid fascination, nothing more. What woman would not stare at a man who was threatening to force her into marriage? She glanced at Tommy, who was much, much too young for her purposes, and looked past him to the other sailors.

      Not one of William’s crew was as exciting as the Egyptian sailor. They were like most other sailors—dirty, coarse, loud. She kept her hair pinned up and her tricorne pulled low and her waistcoat firmly buttoned. For now. But beneath her shirt, her unbound breasts strained against clothes that were not made to accommodate them, awaiting the right moment.

      In another day or two, she would choose one of these sailors and orchestrate a tête-à-tête, as Auntie Phil might say. There was a Lorenzo who wasn’t quite as awful as the rest. And he was Italian, which wasn’t quite as exotic as Egyptian, but it counted for something.

      Nicholas Warre remained at the railing for his usual fifteen minutes or so and disappeared below. He would be in William’s great cabin again—had been there every day and evening since they’d set sail, despite his illness.

      And sure enough, when she went below a while later to find Millie, there he was. She paused in the passageway, out of sight in the shadows, and watched him study a large scroll of paper he’d unfurled on the table and weighted with books at each corner.

      A map?

      Her eyes followed the line of his arm to the large hand splayed out, the solid finger guiding his study.

      Betrothed. The word sliced hotly through her mind.

      Husband. The too-real possibility shot by on its heels.

      She studied the broad shoulders encased in the simple dark waistcoat he favored. The hard line of his chin, the shadow of beard on his jaw, the angle of his nose that was slightly too irregular to be called aristocratic. A quiet, pressing tug made her want to look at him, and keep looking.

      As if Auntie Phil were sitting on her shoulder, a laughing voice invaded her thoughts. I daresay this one knows how to conduct himself in a tête-à-tête.

      He exhaled sharply. India tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, then reached for a book that had more papers stuck between its covers than pages. He scratched a few notes with a pencil and returned his attention to the map.

      He looked miserable.

      He frowned at the map, pinpointing something with his finger, making a few more notes with a pencil on a leaf of paper. If only it were as easy as it looked. What would he think if he knew she could not even pen an invitation for tea?

      He might decide she was unsuitable for a wife and return her to Malta. More likely, he would think her a disgrace, curse his increasing bad fortune and marry her, anyway.

      He glanced up. Spotted her in the passageway.

      Her