The Devil's Necklace. Kat Martin

and used it to tie back her hair. She longed for a bath and something to eat and wondered if Captain Sharpe intended to punish her by starving her to death.

      As if her thoughts had been transported, a soft knock sounded at the door. Thinking of the protection offered by the letter opener, she cast a wishful glance at the desk but the weapon was gone.

      She sighed and started toward the door. If the captain or his men had wanted to hurt her, they could have done so last night. Pausing for an instant, she took a steadying breath and pulled the door open.

      The last thing she expected was the sight of a young blond boy standing in the corridor, holding a breakfast tray in his hands.

      “Mornin’, miss. Capt’n thought ye might be hungry. He sent this down for yer breakfast.” The smell of freshly cooked porridge drifted up from the bowl in the center of the tray. A large round orange, nicely sliced into manageable pieces, sat next to the bowl, along with a steaming mug of tea, a pitcher of cream and a jar of molasses for the porridge. She could hardly believe it.

      Her mouth watered. “Well, the captain was entirely correct—I am hungry. It was generous of him to think of sending the tray.” Generous—unless it was merely a ploy to secure her agreement to his proposal. In which case, his strategy would fail.

      “What is your name?” Grace asked the boy, no more than twelve years old and small for his age, with eyes as green as her own. For the first time she noticed the carved wooden crutch tucked under his left arm.

      “Freddie, miss. Me name’s Freddie Barton.”

      Grace ignored the disturbing crutch and pasted on a smile. “Well, Freddie, you may set the tray down right over there.” She pointed to a small round Sheraton table with two matching chairs, thinking how odd it was that the devil captain would employ a crippled cabin boy.

      “Yes, miss.” Freddie started for the table and Grace frowned as she noticed the bent, twisted shape of his left leg. Then a noise sounded in the passage behind him and something shot into the cabin through the crack left in the door, brushing so close to the boy’s malformed limb he nearly toppled over.

      “Blast ye, Schooner!” He set the tray on the table a bit unsteadily and Grace followed his gaze to the yellow-striped tabby that had settled under the chair.

      “Ye like cats?” he asked, his glance sliding toward the animal who was hidden out of sight except for its tail.

      “Why, yes, I do.”

      Freddie looked relieved. “Schooner won’t bother ye none. And ’e’s a very good mouser.”

      She bit back a smile. “Then I suppose I won’t have to worry about mice in the cabin.”

      “No, miss.” He looked over at the orange-striped tail, swishing back and forth beneath the chair. “Schooner’ll let ye know when he’s ready to go back out.”

      “I’m sure he will.”

      “Capt’n says I’m to look out for ye. If there’s anything ye need, ye just need to tell me.”

      There was plenty she needed—like getting off the ship—but she didn’t think Freddie would be able to manage the trick. She walked over to the table and surveyed the tray of food, her stomach growling again. She was hungry, but she needed information more than food and the boy could be a well of knowledge.

      “How long have you worked for Captain Sharpe?”

      “Not long a’tall, miss. Capt’n only just got hisself another ship. Me pap sailed with him, though. Got hisself kilt along with the rest o’ the crew sometime back.”

      “I’m sorry, Freddie. What happened?”

      “Well, ye see, miss, they was fightin’ the Frenchies. The bloody bastards captured the ship and tossed the capt’n, me pap and the rest into prison.” He reddened as he realized he had used several colorful swear words. “Beg pardon, miss.”

      “That’s all right, Freddie. It sounds like they were bad men, indeed.”

      The boy leaned on his crutch. “Capt’n lost the Sea Witch and his men—all but Angus and Long-boned Ned. Ye should hear the tales Ned tells. Ned says Capt’n Sharpe fought like a demon. He says the capt’n—”

      “I think the lady knows as much as she cares to about the captain,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “Run along, Freddie. Angus has need of you.”

      The boy flushed guiltily, turned and stumped on his crutch out of the room, working the long wooden device so skillfully it seemed attached to his body. Freddie closed the cabin door and Grace forced herself to face the tall man standing just inside the threshold.

      “Your porridge is getting cold.”

      She flicked a glance that way. “Yes…thank you for sending it.”

      His dark look said he wished he hadn’t. “I thought you should keep up your strength. I can tell you firsthand, the food in prison is less than palatable.”

      Her stomach twisted. She had to remember this man was her enemy. She had committed a crime, yes, but Ethan Sharpe wasn’t a magistrate. He had no right to sit in judgment.

      Her appetite now gone, she walked over to the table and sat down to eat. Ignoring the sound of his footfalls moving about the cabin, she managed to finish the porridge, but her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating the orange.

      The captain walked over to the table, stopped right be side her. “Eat the orange. You wouldn’t want to get scurvy and lose all those pretty white teeth.”

      Her lips thinned at the effort to hold back a nasty retort. It was none of his business what she did or did not eat. On the other hand, she had heard about the perils of scurvy. She devoted herself to the orange.

      It was sweet and wet and delicious. With a sigh of pleasure, she wiped her mouth with the linen napkin on the tray and shoved back her chair. The captain was seated at his desk, writing in some sort of ledger.

      Grace walked up behind him. “I want to know why you brought me here. I want to know what you are planning to do with me.”

      He turned, unfolded his tall frame from the chair, and stood towering above her. She felt as if she had goaded a panther while standing in its cage.

      His pale blue eyes bored into her. “And I want to know why you helped a traitor escape the gallows.”

      There it was, out in the open at last. “What makes you so certain I did?”

      “I have my sources…very reliable sources. Just as Harmon Jeffries had his.”

      The sound of her father’s name, spoken with such venom, tightened the knot in her stomach. She had only recently discovered her father’s existence, only come to know him through the letters he had sent her over the years, letters her mother had hidden away. The letters had touched her; they’d proven that instead of abandoning her as she had believed, he had never truly forgotten her.

      She had helped him escape, committed a heinous crime in the eyes of the law, and now she couldn’t afford to be goaded into any sort of admission. She had no idea who the man really was or what his intentions might be.

      She ignored his question as flatly as he had ignored hers. “I demand you take me to Scarborough. That is where I was headed when you so vilely abducted me. That is where I still wish to go.”

      He laughed without humor. “You are quite an amazing young woman, Miss Chastain. Surprisingly resourceful and infinitely entertaining. I find I am beginning to enjoy our little cat and mouse game.”

      “Well, I am not enjoying it—not one bit.”

      “No?” His eyes ran over her, icy as the sea, yet she could feel the heat in them, the hunger. “Perhaps in time…”

      Her breathing hitched. She turned away from him, suddenly conscious of her dishevel. She smoothed an errant strand of hair,