A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

gestures that always accompanied an exotic tongue.

      India reached for her tankard to take one last swig and hoped a deflowering didn’t take much time.

      Millie grabbed her arm. “I’m serious, India. Ruining yourself won’t solve anything.”

      “But it will most certainly solve one thing.” She set the tankard on the table and fixed her gaze on the sailor. “I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” Every nerve came alive in an alarming swarm of anticipation.

      “Nothing to lose! You’ll throw yourself away—”

      “Oh, fie.” Virginity was the last virtue she had left to throw away. Everything else—her friends, her reputation, her popularity—was already gone. “I’m a woman of the high seas now, Millie. What does it matter if I give my virtue to a handsome sailor?”

      But suddenly Millie wasn’t looking at her anymore. She was looking past India’s shoulder, and her eyes had grown as big as silver crowns.

      “It matters, Lady India,” came a cold voice from behind her, “because you are betrothed to me.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      BETROTHED.

      India whipped around and looked up into heartless green eyes set like flints above an arrogant nose and grim mouth. They were eyes so cold they could have belonged to an executioner, in the kind of face that could command the attention of an entire ballroom.

      And he wasn’t alone. Next to him stood—

      “William!” Freedom collapsed like a sail in a dead breeze.

      William grinned and crossed his arms. “Such a disappointing welcome, Indy. Not happy to see us?” India thought she might end up vomiting with her virtue still intact. William shifted his laughing blue eyes to Millie. “Why, Millicent, you’ve gone pale. At least, I think you have. Difficult to tell beneath all that—what is that on your face?” He reached a finger toward her cheek, but Millie swatted it away.

      India glanced away from them at the Egyptian sailor. At Millie, whose eyes had grown sharp with alarm—and that bloody pessimism that was the bane of India’s existence. There was no question what Millie was thinking: They would never escape William, the man who had taught their own mentor to survive on the high seas.

      But India wasn’t above trying. “We’re overjoyed to see you, aren’t we, Millie?” she said brightly. “We absolutely are. What a stroke of good fortune— Millie, was I not just saying how much I wished we had friends in town? And now here you are. Join us, and let’s toast your return to the Mediterranean.” It took all her willpower not to look at William’s companion.

      William laughed. “Very well. We’ll play that game if you wish.”

      Game? Millie and India had sailed with William on the Possession. He knew how important their freedom was to them. Yet he thought this was a game?

      “For God’s sake, Jaxbury,” the betrothal-announcer muttered irritably.

      From the corner of her eye she could see he was dressed impeccably, conservatively, as though he’d just emerged from Westminster. Except no respectable man would be desperate enough to enter into an agreement to marry her, which meant he was what—a slave to the gaming tables? The holder of an empty title? A merchant with a mountain of debt?

      Even now she could hear her father’s voice. You will choose one of these men, India, or I will choose for you.

      The tavern seemed to close in on her. It would take seconds to dart across the room to the Egyptian, seconds more to reveal that she was a woman, a moment or two to convey what she needed. They would need to leave the tavern and go—where? Where would they go?

      “Forgive me.” William laughed. His gold earrings glittered terrifyingly in the light from candles sputtering in an iron chandelier. “I see my new shipmate is growing impatient. Introductions and all that—terrible manners on my part. Lady India, may I present Nicholas Warre, Lord Taggart.”

      Millie’s eyes snapped up from the table.

      Nicholas Warre! In an instant India surveyed everything from the top of his greedy head to the toes of his debtor’s shoes. Father had betrothed her to a man so desperate to save his own estate he’d tried to steal someone else’s?

      “Pillock!” she spat.

      That grim mouth did not so much as twitch. “Be that as it may, Lady India—” he calmly reached inside his waistcoat, let her catch a glimpse of a small sheaf of papers and tucked them safely away “—it is incumbent upon me to inform you that we are contracted to wed, pursuant to an agreement I’ve made with your father.” Now the corner of that mouth curved slightly, and those heartless green eyes wandered briefly over the front of her coat. “Which means the only recipient of your virtue will be me.”

      India looked him straight in the eye. “Dead men take no one’s virtue, Mister Warre.” He did not deserve the respect of his title. All her senses homed in on the Egyptian, but she didn’t dare glance his way. Didn’t dare look at Millie, who would surely be able to escape amid the commotion India was about to cause.

      Before anyone could stop her, she dashed away from the table, barreling blindly through the crowd toward the Egyptian.

      “India!”

      The tavern noise swallowed William’s shout. She whipped off her hat and felt her braid tumble down her back. Her pulse thundered and she lunged for the sailor, gripping his arm. “Sir, you must help me. I beg you. I need you. I need you to—” devil take it, words! words! “—compromise me. Carnally.” The mix of interest and confusion in his eyes told her he didn’t speak English. Desperately she switched to Italian. “Come with me. I need you. My body—” now there were even fewer words “—my body needs you.” Her frantic fingers fumbled with the buttons on her waistcoat, her vest. But now it was clear he understood. That gold tooth flashed with his grin. His arm snaked around her, and his hand took possession of her left breast. There was a light in his eye—no, she didn’t like that light, but it was better than—

      “India!” William’s voice bellowed above the crowd.

      “We must go!” She tried to pull him off his stool, but he wouldn’t budge. He laughed and said something to the men around them—where had all these men come from? Moorish. He was speaking Moorish. “Now!” She couldn’t speak much, but Rafik the boatswain had bellowed that word constantly aboard Katherine’s ship.

      Apparently thinking he was obeying her order, he pulled her closer and buried his face against the side of her neck.

      “No, not here!” She only knew the Italian. Moorish, Moorish—what was Moorish for—

      But then it was too late, because Nicholas Warre was on them. He grabbed the sailor by the arm. The sailor pushed her aside and launched himself at Mr. Warre. A dozen men reached to take the sailor’s place, pulling and yanking on her, groping her breasts and her buttocks. Her own scream pushed bile into her throat.

      The sailor’s hollow-cheeked companion threw himself at William, as the sailor landed a solid fist across Nicholas Warre’s murderous face.

      William and the other man fell together against a chair. Above the chaos she heard Millie scream. Desperately India fought the men who grabbed her, but there was no escape. Her pistol—she couldn’t let them find her pistol! She used her elbow to jab, defend, keep groping hands from closing around her prize. Its weight dug into the waistband of her breeches. She tried to wedge herself against the table, but the hands and bodies and shouting and stench were everywhere.

      The hollow-cheeked sailor struck William on the side of the head. He stumbled into a fallen stool, and she heard herself scream again. They couldn’t hurt William! Oh, God—this had to stop! Her pistol—it would be useless against this mob even if she could manage to