Lord Of The Privateers. Stephanie Laurens

them to a small, well-appointed private parlor where they might wait in relative peace while his ostlers scrambled to harness the house’s very best team to their fastest, most recently acquired carriage.

      That exercise didn’t take long. Having declined an offer of tea, as soon as the head ostler looked in to report that their conveyance stood waiting, Isobel declared herself ready to depart.

      She’d spent the fifteen minutes in the parlor mentally listing all the subjects on which she needed to quiz Royd in an attempt to force her mind and her witless senses from dwelling on the recent scintillating moments when he had touched her—when he’d lifted her from the ladder to the rowboat in a potent display of mind-numbing strength, then later, when he’d handed her from the boat to the water stair and had to seize her and steady her when her boot slipped on the slimy stone. In that case, she’d landed flush against him, breast to chest, and had lost her breath. Then she’d tumbled into his gray eyes and nearly lost her wits entirely; she’d only just resisted the urge to haul his head down and kiss him.

      She knew perfectly well what caused such reactions—there was no sense pretending they had never been intimate—but the effect of such moments was proving to be more intense, more distracting, and indeed, more discombobulating than she’d foreseen.

      Of course, he had to hand her into the carriage, but that much touch, she could deal with; even though there was no escaping the undercurrent of possessiveness that imbued even that minor gallantry, she could ignore it.

      After the head ostler shut the door and the coachman cracked his whip, the carriage—excellently well-sprung and obviously new—rocked out of the inn yard and wound its way out of the town and onto the highway.

      She waited as long as she could—as long as she could bear the impact of his nearness without reacting in any way. They were bowling along, the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves a steady, reassuring rhythm, when the sense of being private and alone with him at close quarters grew too intense, and she surrendered and broached the first topic on her list. Or, at least, the first point she thought it safe to address.

      The implication underlying Royd’s discussion with Duncan over breakfast that morning had been that, when in Freetown, she would accompany him off-ship. While that was precisely what she wished, she had to wonder how far his new policy of including her in his mission would stretch. Now, however, wasn’t the moment to examine that issue; better to wait until she knew more about Katherine’s whereabouts and the details of his mission.

      That said, he would know she would have noticed the change in his tack.

      “I’ll admit that while I’m”—reassured? appeased?—“impressed by your willingness to take me into your confidence with respect to this mission, I’m unsure as to whether you will be, for instance, interested in my opinions on the matter.”

      He was sitting opposite her; across the carriage, he met her eyes. “I am. I expect to hear your opinions.” His lips twitched. “Indeed, I feel supremely confident that I’ll hear your opinions whether I invite them or not.”

      She sent him a distinctly unimpressed look.

      His smile deepened, and he settled more comfortably against the squabs. “But yes, I expect us to work together on this. Unless your cousin has fallen prey to some other scheme entirely—which, frankly, is unlikely, not in such a relatively small settlement—then I expect our goals will align, and our paths forward will be intertwined.”

      She studied him for a full minute, trying to see, to imagine... “You’re no more likely to invite a woman to share command than the next captain.”

      “But I’m not inviting just any woman to join me—I’m inviting you.”

      The intensity in his gray gaze assured her he meant exactly that with full knowledge of the consequences. She couldn’t stop herself from baldly asking, “Why?”

      “Because despite all the storm water under our joint bridge, we’ve always—since I was eleven and you were six, for heaven’s sake—worked well together. Our characters are similar, so we understand each other instinctively, often without the need for explanations—which we both find boring—and our talents are astonishingly complementary.” He hesitated, then went on, “You might not realize how rare that is, but as a team...we’re blessed.”

      “Together we’re more than each of us separately?”

      “Exactly.” He paused, then said, “You know my mother often sailed with my father—more or less whenever she could. When she was on board, she was Papa’s first mate in every sense, except the actual sailing. That wasn’t an interest of hers, but everything else to do with his voyages was as much her domain as his.” He held her gaze levelly. “So in my family, having the captain’s wife aboard, functioning more or less as an equal partner, is not a novel concept.”

      She wasn’t his wife...except she was. Rather than venture into that quagmire—one topic she was definitely not ready to discuss—she inclined her head and turned to the next item on her list. “Speaking of your family, who can I expect to meet in London?”

      “Declan and Edwina—we’ll stay at their house. And Robert’s there at present, along with Miss Aileen Hopkins, who returned from Freetown with him. Robert and Miss Hopkins intend to marry, but because of the ongoing mission, they haven’t announced their betrothal yet.”

      She’d heard of Declan’s wedding, held at a ducal estate somewhere in England. “I gather Lady Edwina visited Aberdeen after their wedding, but we didn’t meet. She’s a duke’s daughter, isn’t she?”

      Royd nodded. “As you’ll have noted, that didn’t prevent her from sailing with Declan to Freetown and immersing herself in his leg of the mission. It seems her contribution was significant—she manages social situations very well.”

      Declan had always struck her as the most conservative of the brothers; she found herself rather more interested in meeting his wife than she had been. “What do you know of Miss Hopkins?”

      “I’ve never met her, but she’s the younger sister of two navy men I know. They have an even younger brother who’s a lieutenant with the West Africa Squadron, and like your cousin, he, too, has inexplicably disappeared.”

      “He was one of those sent to look for the army engineer who vanished, wasn’t he? That was in Declan’s and Robert’s letters.”

      “Indeed.” Royd paused, then grimaced. “While I understand why Caleb took Robert’s journal, I wish he’d left a copy.”

      “By the sound of it, there wasn’t time.”

      Royd humphed. “He didn’t waste time setting sail so no one could stop him.”

      Why did he want Robert’s journal? “Is Robert’s journal like yours?”

      He shook his head. “Mine’s more like a captain’s log. Robert keeps a much more detailed record. There’ll be lots of descriptions and sketches. It’s a habit he picked up from my mother, and in circumstances like this, it’s a godsend.”

      “Presumably Caleb will bring Robert’s journal back. You’ll have time to read it before we reach Freetown.”

      He nodded absentmindedly, his gaze shifting to the trees flashing past.

      The carriage was rocketing along; they’d passed onto a properly macadamed stretch, and the pounding of the horses’ hooves resembled thunder.

      After the coachman took a curve at speed, forcing her to steady herself with a hand against the side, she looked at Royd. “Did you say something to the coachman about being in a rush?”

      “I offered him ten guineas if he got us to Stanhope Street before three o’clock.”

      She considered that as the reckless, unquestionably risky pace continued unabated. The sooner they reached Stanhope Street—presumably where Declan and his Edwina lived—the sooner she’d be able to put some space between Royd and her, and the sooner her