Surrender. Brenda Joyce

ran after him, following him up the gangplank. He didn’t look at her, crossing the deck rapidly, and Evelyn rushed to fall into step behind him. The five men who were loading the cask all turned to stare openly at her.

      Her hood had slipped. She pulled it up more tightly as he went to a cabin door. He opened it and vanished inside. She faltered. She had just noticed the guns lining the sides of the ship. She had seen smuggling ships as a child; this ship seemed ready to do battle.

      She was even more dismayed and full of dread, but she had made her decision. Evelyn followed him inside.

      He was lighting lanterns. Not looking up, he said, “Close the door.”

      It crossed her mind that she was very much alone with a complete stranger now. Shoving her trepidation aside, she did as he asked. Very breathless now, she slowly faced him.

      He was standing at a large desk covered with charts. For one moment, all she saw was a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden hair tied carelessly in a queue, a pistol clipped to his shoulder belt, a dagger sheathed on his belt.

      Then she realized that he was also staring at her.

      She inhaled, trembling. He was shockingly attractive, she now realized, in both a masculine and a beautiful way. His eyes were gray, his features even, his cheekbones high and cutting. A gold cross winked from the widely open neck of his white lawn shirt. He was wearing doeskin breeches and high boots, and now she realized how powerful and lean his tall, muscular build was. His shirt clung to his broad chest and flat torso, and his breeches fit like a second skin. He did not have an ounce of fat on his hard frame.

      She wasn’t certain she had ever come into contact with such an inherently masculine man—and it was unnerving somehow.

      She was also the object of intense scrutiny. He was leaning his hip against the desk and staring back at her, as openly as she was regarding him. Evelyn felt herself flush. He was, she thought, trying to see her features, which were partially concealed by her hood.

      She now saw the small, narrow bed on the opposite wall. She realized that this was where he slept. There was a handsome rug on the planked floor, a handful of books on a small table. Otherwise, the cabin was sparsely appointed and completely utilitarian.

      “Do you have a name?”

      She jerked, realizing that her heart was racing. How should she answer? For she knew she must never reveal who she was. “Will you help me?”

      “I haven’t decided. My services are expensive, and you are a large group.”

      “I am desperate to return home. And my husband is in desperate need of a physician.”

      “So the plot thickens. How ill is he?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Can he reach my ship?”

      She hesitated. “Not without help.”

      “I see.”

      He did not seem moved by her plight. How could she convince him to help them? “Please,” she whispered, stepping away from the door. “I have a four-year-old daughter. I must get her to Britain.”

      He suddenly launched himself off the desk and strode slowly—indolently—toward her. “Just how desperate are you?” His tone was flat.

      He had paused before her, inches separating them. She froze, but her heart thundered. What was he suggesting? Because while his tone was brisk, there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. Or was she imagining it?

      She realized that she was mesmerized, and unbalanced. “I could not be more desperate,” she managed, with a stutter.

      He suddenly reached for her hood and tugged it down before she knew what he meant to do. His eyes immediately widened.

      Her tension knew no bounds. She meant to protest. If she had wanted to reveal her face, she would have done so! As his gaze moved over her features, very slowly, one by one, her resistance died.

      “Now I understand,” he said softly, “why you would hide your features.”

      Her heart slammed. Was he complimenting her? Did he think her attractive—or even beautiful? “Obviously we are in some jeopardy,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of being recognized.”

      “Obviously. Is your husband French?”

      “Yes,” she said, “and I have never been as afraid.”

      He studied her. “I take it you were followed?”

      “I don’t know—perhaps.”

      Suddenly he reached toward her. Evelyn lost her ability to breathe as he tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her heart went wild. His fingers had grazed her cheek—and she almost wanted to leap into his arms. How could he do such a thing? They were strangers.

      “Was your husband accused of crimes against the state?”

      She flinched. “No…but we were told not to leave Paris.”

      He stared.

      She wet her lips, wishing she could decipher his thoughts, but his expression was bland. “Sir—will you help us—please?”

      She could not believe how plaintive she sounded. But he was still crowding her. Worse, she now realized she could feel his body’s warmth and heat. And while she was a woman of medium height, he made her feel small and fragile.

      “I am considering it.” He finally paced slowly away. Evelyn gulped air, ignoring the wild urge she had to fan herself with the closest object at hand. Was he going to reject her plea?

      “Sir! We must leave the country—immediately. I am afraid for my daughter!” she cried.

      He glanced at her, apparently unmoved. Evelyn had no idea what he was thinking, as an odd silence ensued. He finally said, “I will need to know who I am transporting.”

      She bit her lip. She hated deception, but she had no choice. “The Vicomte LeClerc,” she lied.

      His gaze moved over her face another time. “I will take payment in advance. My fee is a thousand pounds for each passenger.”

      Evelyn cried out. “Sir! I hardly have six thousand pounds!”

      He studied her. “If you have been followed, there will be trouble.”

      “And if we haven’t been followed?”

      “My fee is six thousand pounds, madam.”

      She closed her eyes briefly, then reached into her bodice and handed him the assignats.

      He made a disparaging sound. “That is worthless to me.” But he laid them on his desk.

      Evelyn grimly reached into her bodice. He did not look away, and she flushed as she removed the diamond-and-ruby necklace. His impassive expression did not change. Evelyn walked over to him and handed him the necklace.

      He took the necklace, carried it to his desk and sat down there. She watched him take a jeweler’s glass from a drawer and inspect the gems. “It is real,” she managed. “That is the most I can offer you, sir, and it is not worth six thousand pounds.”

      He gave her a skeptical glance, his gaze suddenly sliding to her mouth, before he continued to study the rubies with great care. Her tension was impossible now. He finally set the necklace and glass down. “We have a bargain, Vicomtesse. Although it is against my better judgment.”

      She was so relieved she gasped. Tears formed. “Thank you! I cannot thank you enough!”

      He gave her another odd look. “I imagine you could, if you wished to.” Abruptly he stood. “Tell me where your husband is and I will get him and your daughter and the others. We will disembark at dawn.”

      Evelyn had no idea what that strange comment had meant—or, she hoped she did not. And she could not believe it—he was going to help them