A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

burly sailor stepped forward, and she shifted her pistol toward him. “Are you volunteering to die for the others?”

      The sailor stopped.

      A warm bead of perspiration trickled from her temple to her jaw. Stalemate. The glassy sea shone behind the men as far as the eye could see. The ship made no sound.

      Except for voices from below. Male voices.

      And hard, solid footsteps.

      “India...” Terror edged Millie’s voice.

      “I know.”

      “We’ve got to go over the side.”

      “And then what?”

      Suddenly the sailors’ attention shifted behind them, to the stairs—the quarterdeck. A shot fired, and all hell broke loose. Millie fired back. A man screamed, and the crew rushed them. For two heartbeats India had a dead bead on a man’s chest—Lorenzo’s chest. A voice in her head screamed, Murderer! In her hesitation, the moment was lost. Angry hands grabbed her, tore her pistol away, shoved her roughly toward the stairs. Above the voices she heard Millie scream.

      And then— “Enough!” William’s deafening command rose above everything.

      At first they ignored him in their frenzy. But he pushed onto the upper deck, bellowing at them to cease. Right behind him was Nicholas Warre—with a pistol.

      Men were explaining, pushing her and Millie toward the front of the crowd, calling out “We got ’em, captain” and “Kill the pirates!”

      A moment later they faced Nicholas Warre and a William she scarcely recognized as the lighthearted sailor she’d known for years. Fury had turned his eyes cold, his face expressionless. He barely spared them a glance before descending to the quarterdeck. He stalked to a massive coil of rope, took up the end and began winding.

      Nicholas Warre stalked after him. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

      Now the crew shoved and crowded down the stairs, dragging India and Millie with them. India lost sight of William, but not before she’d seen the noose taking shape in his hand.

      An uproar went up among the crew—shouts of “Hang ’em!” and “Let ’er swing!”

      The world constricted to a small red spot in her vision. Perspiration ran down her face. Hands—men’s hands—she barely noticed them.

      Millie’s screams came to her through a muted fog.

      “Have you gone mad?” Nicholas Warre demanded. “You can’t kill them.”

      William ignored him and kept winding. His usually laughing mouth was grim, and she knew him well enough to recognize that he did not want to kill them.

      Breathe. Breathe! She fought for control, to stand tall instead of dissolving into hysteria. But William could rightfully kill them, and he would, because it was the only way to prove his authority in front of the crew.

      Nicholas Warre yanked India from the sailor’s grasp. “You will not murder my wife, Jaxbury.”

      “I’m not—” The protest leaped to her tongue despite her fear.

      He silenced her with a violent yank. “Quiet!” he hissed in her ear. “For once in your blasted life.” And then, “My wife is my responsibility,” he said fiercely. “I shall mete out the consequences for what she’s done.” He looked down at her with the most awful expression and added loudly, “And I assure you they will be severe.”

      The fog of terror cleared just enough to realize what he was doing: he was trying to give William a way to change his mind.

      He dragged her toward William amid cries of “Hang ’em!”

      He jerked her even closer. “When I threaten him, beg him for your life,” he ground out under his breath. “And prepare yourself.”

      For what?

      Nicholas Warre raised his pistol and leveled it at William. “You will not touch my wife. I shall take her below and punish her as she deserves.”