A strangled laugh pushed into his throat. Perhaps that was the way to tame her. Good God.
The ship pitched now with a large wave, and he braced himself to keep from rolling.
He’d thought her foolish and stupid. Had wanted—needed—to believe it was true. But that was just as much of a mistake as touching her. There’d been something else in those eyes tonight—something he’d been in too much of a hurry to notice in Malta, or perhaps just unwilling to acknowledge: a dark shadow.
Evil?
No. It was the dark shadow of desperation one saw in the eyes of street urchins. Except that Lady India was no urchin. She was the spoiled daughter of an earl.
And she was a pirate. And according to his agreement with her father, his fiancée.
If he were smart, he would let her put him off at Sicily and be grateful to see the last of her.
But he wasn’t smart. He was nearly fifty thousand pounds in debt. And she may have been desperate, but she was forgetting one thing.
So was he.
THEY MANAGED FOR a day, and then another, and another, until India began to wonder if they might succeed at this after all. They’d known William was all right when he’d begun pounding on the door and shouting before the first night was through.
The carpenter had filed enough of a space beneath each door to slide plates of food and low-lipped trays filled with water, like one might give a cat.
“I’m worried that there’s been no sound from William’s cabin since this morning,” India said to Millie, as the setting sun spilled into the captain’s great cabin at the end of the third day.
“Did you expect him to pound at the door without ever giving up?”
“I don’t know what to expect.” India rubbed her arms and paced by the windows.
“We’ll make Sicily by tomorrow midday,” Millie said testily. Already the wind had softened, and they both knew they would be lucky to reach Sicily by nightfall tomorrow. “We’ll put them out, and they’ll be ashore in an hour or two. Nothing will happen to them.”
“I only wish I could say the same of us,” India snapped.
But by noon the next day, the wind had died completely overnight, and it showed no sign of returning.
India licked her finger and anxiously held it up, but the only sensation was the warm Mediterranean sunshine. “Nothing.”
“It will pick up,” Mille said, working her fingers absently around her wrist.
“Is that optimism I hear?”
“Pragmatism,” Millie snipped. “The wind has to blow sometime.”
But above them the sails hung limp while the ship floated calmly on a sea disturbed by the barest ripples. Below, the crew lolled about on deck with nothing to do but watch her and Millie stand helplessly on the upper deck and wait for a breeze to catch the sails.
India held William’s spyglass to her eye and studied the distant green ribbon that was Sicily.
“The crew is getting restless,” Millie said under her breath.
“I know that.” India cast a wary glance toward the bow, where fifty men controlled only by their desire to return to the Valletta taverns had stopped lolling and now milled about impatiently. She caught the boatswain’s eye and lifted her chin the way Katherine had always done, and was satisfied when the boatswain turned away.
India studied Sicily once more. “How far do you suppose it is really?”
“Too far. Putting them in the longboat here would be murder.”
“You’re right—the wind will pick up. It’s got to.” India said it mostly to reassure herself. “Perhaps I should order another keg opened.”
“A third keg? They’ll all be drunk.”
“But occupied.”
“Oh, yes. That’s the perfect—dear God.” Millie’s hand flew to her chest, and she gripped her wrist tightly. “India, look there.”
At the bow, the twenty-seven crew members had all gathered together in a huddle. Without the crash of waves and the snap of canvas, the voices carried easily to the upper deck in an increasing crescendo of discontent.
India touched her pistol. “If they mutiny...” There would be little she and Millie could do to stop them.
Millie watched the group through eyes that had grown fearful. “They could do no more in charge of this ship than we can—nobody can control the wind.”
India thought of the brawl in the tavern at Valletta and felt a chill despite the warm sunshine. It would take mere seconds for hell to break loose aboard this ship, and the crew could throw them overboard or simply kill them and be done with it. Or worse.
From somewhere below deck came the sound of a small explosion. India snapped her attention to Millie. “A pistol shot.”
“Who could be shooting?” Millie asked frantically.
And another.
Moments later—too soon to reload—another.
India counted heads rapidly. “All the men are on deck.” Which meant it had to be William...and Nicholas Warre. “Bloody hell—it’s them.”
Bang!
Fear surged through Millie’s voice. “We can’t let them escape. We can’t!” Her frantic eyes fixed on the deck below. “What’s happening now?”
The group broke up, and the entire horde of men was heading toward the upper deck.
Bang!
India judged the distance, but she would never get past them to the stairs to see who was shooting. And at what. But it was a good guess the target was the door. A loud pounding—louder than any fist could make—confirmed it.
India’s heart raced. Millie was absolutely right: they could not allow William to escape. India drew her pistol at the same time Millie drew the one she’d taken from William, and together they rushed to the stairs and aimed down at the men gathered on the quarterdeck below.
“What is the meaning of this?” India called down.
“Just want to talk about this wind,” the boatswain called, taking the first step with a dozen men behind him.
“Do not come any closer!” Millie aimed her pistol at the boatswain’s chest.
There was another pistol shot from below. More violent pounding. If they did not go below quickly, William and Nicholas Warre would soon come above.
“There’s nothing to discuss, as you well know,” India told the men. “We shall be underway as soon as we have a breeze.” Angry faces outnumbered them six to one. “Return to your posts at once, and as soon as we are underway there will be more rum for everyone!”
Bang! Another shot from below.
“Clear off,” India commanded. “Can’t you hear those shots? If I don’t go below immediately, you’ll all be strung from the yards for piracy when Captain Jaxbury escapes.” Oh, God. Oh, God. And she and Millie would be strung with them.
“T’aint us that locked up the captain,” someone called out.
They didn’t clear off. Instead they crowded up the stairs. Too late she realized she should have