Lord Of The Privateers. Stephanie Laurens

      “You know I’ve never approved of him. He’s ungovernable—a law unto himself and always has been.” Iona had grimaced and clasped her gnarled hands on the head of her cane. “But this state you’re both in—as if a part of your life has been indefinitely suspended—cannot go on. Neither of you have shown the slightest inclination to marry anyone else. For both your sakes, you and he need to settle this before you become too set in your ways—I wouldn’t want that for the Frobishers any more than I would wish it for you. Living your life alone isn’t a state to aspire to. The pair of you, together, need to decide what is and what isn’t, accept that reality, and then move on from there.”

      Iona had held her gaze, and Isobel hadn’t been able to argue. Despite settling things between Royd and her being much easier said than done, she had to acknowledge that Iona had it right—for multiple reasons, the current situation couldn’t go on.

      But Iona’s reaction to Royd agreeing—and when Isobel had reviewed the exchange, she’d realized he’d agreed without any real fuss—had raised the question of why he had. Did he have some ulterior motive in mind with respect to her? Just because she’d seen no sign of any such ambition on his part didn’t mean it wasn’t there—not with Royd.

      She glanced up at the ship, then nodded a dismissal to the waiting footmen, hauled in a breath as if strengthening invisible shields, raised her skirts, and started up the gangplank. She couldn’t understand why Royd hadn’t married someone else; once he did, her way forward would be clear. But he hadn’t, so now she was faced with the necessity of exorcising their past and putting it to rest once and for all.

      That was her secondary objective for this trip—to kill off the hopes that haunted her dreams and prove to her inner, still-yearning self that there truly was no hope of any reconciliation between them.

      He’d handfasted with her, warmed her and her bed for three weeks, then disappeared on some voyage for the next thirteen months with no word beyond his initial assurance that the trip would take a few months at most.

      And then, without warning or explanation, he’d returned.

      He’d expected her to welcome him with open arms.

      Needless to say, that hadn’t happened—she’d told him she hadn’t wanted to see him again and had shut the door in his too-handsome face.

      “Handsome is as handsome does”—one of Iona’s maxims. To Isobel’s mind, she’d lived that, and as witnessed by the past eight years, it hadn’t gone well. But for some godforsaken reason, her fascination with Royd had still not died. She needed to use this journey to convince that naive, yearning self who had once loved him with all her heart that Royd Frobisher was no longer the man of her dreams.

      She needed to use this journey to eradicate every last vestige of buried hope.

      To extinguish the kernel of her once-great love.

      She’d been walking upward with her eyes on the wooden plank. She reached the gap in the ship’s side, raised her head—and looked into Royd’s face. The very same face she would dearly love to strip of its power over her witless senses.

      She was a long way from succeeding in that. Her heart performed a silly somersault, and her nerves came alive simply because he was close.

      Then he added to her difficulties by extending his hand.

      She was quite sure he did it on purpose, to test her. To try, in his usual challenging way, to discover what she intended on the voyage—whether she would insist on the rigid distance she preserved while sailing with him when testing their latest innovation or whether she was going to acknowledge that this voyage was different. That this was personal, not professional.

      In for a penny, in for a pound. If she was going to use the journey to resolve what lay between them, she might as well start as she meant to go on.

      Steeling her nerves and every one of her senses, she placed her gloved fingers across his palm—and clamped down on her reaction as his fingers closed firmly—possessively—over hers.

      “Welcome aboard, Isobel.” Inclining his head, he handed her down to the deck.

      He released her, and she could breathe again. She nodded regally. “Again, thank you for agreeing to let me sail with you.” She raised her gaze and met his. “I know you didn’t have to.”

      A quirk of his black brows spoke volumes.

      “Capt’n—” Royd’s quartermaster, who’d been backing toward them while relaying orders to crew in the rigging, swung around, saw her, grinned, and bobbed his head. “Miss Carmichael. Always a pleasure to have you aboard, miss.”

      “Thank you, Williams.” She knew and was known to all of Royd’s crew; all had sailed with him for years. She glanced at Royd. “I’ll get out of your way.”

      He waved to the stern deck. “If you want to remain on deck until we’re at sea, you’ll be least in the way up there.”

      She assented with a nod and walked to the ladder. Royd followed, but he knew her well enough to allow her to climb unaided; she was more than accustomed to going up and down ladders while wearing skirts.

      She felt his gaze on her back until she gained the upper deck. She stepped away from the ladder, then glanced back and down. Royd had already returned to Williams, and they were discussing which sails Royd thought to deploy for sailing out of the harbor.

      Once they hit the open seas, he’d fly most of his canvas, but negotiating the exit from the basin and the mouth of the Dee required a fine touch and much less power. Courtesy of the improvements she and Royd had made, when under full sail, The Corsair was the fastest ship of her class afloat—another reason she’d petitioned him to take her to Freetown. Quite aside from the assured speed, she was eager to see how the alterations she’d tested only on short forays into the North Sea performed on a much longer journey.

      Lifting her gaze from Royd’s dark head, she looked along the main deck. From all she could see, they were almost ready to cast off.

      Turning, she saw Liam Stewart, Royd’s lieutenant, standing ready at the wheel. He glanced her way and smiled.

      She smiled back and nodded. “Mr. Stewart.”

      “Miss Carmichael—welcome aboard. I hear you’re sailing south with us all the way to Africa.”

      “Indeed. I have business in Freetown.” She realized that where Royd had been, so, too, had Stewart. “I take it you’ve visited the settlement before.”

      Stewart nodded. “We’ve sailed into the harbor there several times, but not in the past...it must be four years.” He cast her an apologetic glance. “Being a relatively new settlement, it will have changed significantly since last we were there.”

      She grimaced, but Stewart wasn’t the man who would be by her side when she ventured into the settlement in search of her cousin.

      “I need to run through the checks on the rudder. Royd and I normally do that together, but”—Stewart nodded down the ship—“he’s busy resetting those rigging lines. Would you like to stand in for him?”

      “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” She walked purposefully toward him. Meeting his widening eyes, she smiled sweetly and reached for the wheel. “But if you think I’m going to be the one hanging over the stern, you’re sadly mistaken.”

      He grinned sheepishly and surrendered the wheel. While she swung the wheel, halting at the usual positions, he checked that the rudder responded freely and swung to the correct angle.

      By the time they were done, Royd was calling for the lines to be cast off. He strode down the deck and came up the ladder in rapid time. Straightening, he saw her standing behind the wheel.

      She savored his blink of surprise—then she stepped aside and gestured to the vacated position. “Your wheel is yours, Captain.”

      He cast her a look as