The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

he could not have her, not even were she not hiding something from him. Not even if she were available and she wanted him, too. He thought of that vow, forged in blood and sweat and tears.

      A knock sounded at the door, pulling him from the darkness of the memory. This time it was Jones, and Kit was glad of it.

      Kate Medhurst was not being entirely truthful. But whatever it was she was hiding, she and it need have no bearing on his returning La Voile to London.

      * * *

      The afternoon was as beautiful as the morning. Every day was beautiful around this area, except when hurricane season came. Kate did not have to feign that she appreciated the view as she stood at the stern, watching the crystal-clear green waves and the intense warm blue of the sky so expansive and huge...and the distant speck of a ship against its horizon.

      North was on the quarterdeck, issuing commands to his men. Her muscles were still tense, her blood still rushing, her skinned palms still clammy from their confrontation in his cabin that morning. Part of her wanted to stay hidden below decks in her cabin, not wanting to face him, but Kate knew she could not do that. Coyote was coming. So she stood on the deck, brazening it out, watching Sunny Jim struggle to catch them, and breathed a sigh of relief that Gunner seemed to be right about Raven having the superior speed.

      As she watched she thought of North’s cabin, a cabin that she would have mistaken for that of an ordinary seaman had it not been for its larger space. Everything in it was functional. There were no crystal decanters of brandy on fancy-worked dining tables, no china plates or ornamentation, no crystal-dropped chandelier as she had expected. Everything was Spartan, functional, austere as the man himself. He did not seem given to indulgences or luxuries. Maybe that was why the men liked him. Or maybe they were just afraid of him. She slid a glance at where he stood with his men, seeing the respect on their listening faces, before returning her gaze to Coyote.

      There was no tread of footsteps to warn her of his approach, nothing save the shiver that rippled down the length of her spine as North came to stand by her side, his body mirroring her own stance, his gaze sweeping out over the ocean.

      ‘Enjoying the view, Mrs Medhurst?’ The Englishness of his accent, cool and deep and dark as chocolate, sent a tingle rippling out over her skin.

      ‘Indeed I am, Captain North.’ And she was, now that there seemed little danger of Coyote catching Raven.

      Those dark eyes shifted to look directly into hers. Watchful, appraising, making her feel as though he could see through all of her defences, all of her lies, making her remember who he was, and who she was, making her shiver with awareness that his focus was all on her.

      She glanced down, suddenly afraid that he could see the secrets she was hiding, her eyes fixing on his feet that were now as bare as her own and the rest of his crew’s. Her mother always said you could tell a lot about a man by his feet. North’s were much bigger feet than hers, tanned and unmistakably masculine, with long straight toes and nails that were white and short and clean. Strong-looking feet, grounded and sure as the rest of him. Their feet standing so close together, and bare, looked too intimate, as if they had just climbed from bed. The thought shocked her.

      She swiftly raised her eyes and found him still watching her. He smiled, not the arctic smile, or the cynical one, but one that told her he knew something of the direction of her thoughts and shared them. Swallows soared and swooped inside her stomach and her cheeks burned hot. Kate was horrified at her reaction. And North knew it, damn him, for the smile became bigger.

      With an angry frosty demeanour she turned her attention back to the horizon and focused her thoughts on Wendell and his sweet kind nature: her husband, her lover, the only man for her. She thought of what men like North had done to him and the weakness was gone. Touching the thin gold wedding band she still wore upon her finger, turning it round and round, she drew strength from it and did not look at North again.

      The two of them stood in silence, contemplating the view, watching Coyote.

      She hoped that he would leave, go back to the work he was normally so busy with, but North showed no sign of moving.

      The scene was beautiful and peaceful, but as they stood there seemingly both relaxed it was anything but ease that hummed between them; or maybe the tension was just all in herself.

      ‘She makes for interesting watching,’ he said eventually, his gaze not moving from where it was fixed on Coyote.

      ‘I wasn’t watching her in particular,’ she lied.

      ‘No? My mistake. Pardon me.’ He flicked a glance at Kate.

      ‘Have you identified her yet?’

      ‘We have.’

      Her eyes met his.

      ‘La Voile’s pirates.’ He paused. ‘They are following us.’ He waited for her reaction.

      ‘Why would they do that?’

      ‘Why indeed?’

      She kept her nerve. ‘Vengeance? Or maybe to reclaim their captain’s body.’

      ‘Maybe,’ he agreed, and shifted his gaze to Coyote.

      ‘But they will not catch us, will they? Not with Raven’s superior speed. I mean...we are quite safe from them...are we not?’

      ‘Oh, rest assured we are safe.’ He smiled at her, the small cool dangerous smile. ‘But Coyote is not.’

      She felt the cold wind of fear blow through her bones. ‘What do you mean, sir?’ She worked hard to appear cool, calm and collected.

      He glanced pointedly at Raven’s sails. Her gaze followed his and she saw to her horror that they were reducing the sail. Raven’s speed was already dropping.

      Her heart missed a beat. Her stomach dropped to meet her shoes.

      ‘You intend to let them catch us!’ She stared at him, feeling the horror of what that meant snake through her.

      ‘Not entirely. Just to let them get within range of our guns.’

      ‘Why?’ she whispered.

      ‘Raven is fast, but not fast enough that Coyote will not fathom our direction to Antigua. Better a confrontation out here under our terms than risk her stealing upon us at anchor in the night.’

      ‘She would not...’ Antigua was a British naval base, filled with warships that Coyote normally avoided. But given the situation she was not sure that North was not right.

      ‘Not when we have finished, she will not,’ he said grimly.

      She felt the blood drain from her face. When she looked again at the distant horizon Coyote was already a little larger. She kept her gaze on her ship rather than look at him, so that he would not see the truth in her eyes.

      It took all of her willpower to stand there beside him, watching her men creep slowly closer to their doom, and betray nothing of the feelings of dread and fear, impotence and anger that were pounding through her blood. Instinctively, her hands went to her skirt, reaching for the weapons that were not there. Instead, she forced them to relax by her sides.

      Glancing across at North’s profile, she saw that he watched Coyote with cool, relaxed stillness. Only his dark hair rippled in the wind.

      ‘What is the range of your guns?’ she asked, her heart beating fast with the hope that she had overestimated Raven’s range of fire.

      ‘Our eighteen pounders have an effective penetrating range of five hundred and fifty yards,’ he answered without looking round.

      Far greater than the two hundred and eighty yards that Coyote’s six-pounders could manage. She felt sick. Her mind was thrashing, seeking any possible way to stop the impending slaughter. But short of putting a gun to North’s head... Her gaze dropped to the large scabbard that hung against his leg, and the leather