Sofia stood at the ship’s railing as the mist rose around them before daybreak. What had drawn her to this post, with spyglass in hand? Inner voices had persuaded her to peer toward the Lady Constance, which bobbed languidly in the gray waters awaiting the wind. Thoughts of Mama made her gaze along the railing of the Havisham ship—
Was that an arm waving at her?
Sofia strained forward, holding her breath. Mama had always risen while it was still dark, before the rest of the household, so perhaps this habit had led her to the deck, as well. Her mother had surely learned she was aboard the Courtesan when Damon had fetched those spices for her, so—
There it was again, a movement barely visible in the mist. Yet she swore her mother had hailed her.
Impulsively she waved back, alive with the idea that fate had led her here—that her mother had called silently to her from across the water! Magdalena Martine had often teased the Havisham girls about having such powers, had convinced them she knew everything they did and said even when she wasn’t present. Daphne and Trix called it “witchiness,” but at this moment Sofia considered it a sweet gift, heaven-sent.
A gust of wind cleared the mist, and the solitary figure became clearer. Sofia twisted the end of the spyglass, willing the image to be who she wanted.
Again she waved, her heart pounding, and again came the reply.
“Mama!” she called, although her voice couldn’t possibly carry that far.
The figure stood straighter, and then it waved more vigorously! That was clearly a dark uniform sleeve coming from beneath a cloak Sofia recognized.
“Mama, I miss you! I love you!”
The figure raised both arms in a wide wave—and then blew her a kiss!
Sofia’s heart thudded. The mist moistened her cheeks as she gazed at the woman—
Someone was approaching from behind. His tread was silent…secretive. She turned to see who’d discovered her here, where she didn’t belong.
“Miss Martine? How lovely you look without your leg irons.”
How should she respond to Quentin Thomas? The quartermaster stopped a few feet in front of her, a panther on the prowl. She smiled and then looked toward the Lady Constance again. Perhaps Damon’s rule about not speaking to his men had merit, after all.
“Such a shy lass. Yet I heard the captain’s bed rocking far into the night,” he ventured, stepping closer. “We could barely sleep, suspended in our hammocks down in the hold. The racket was so…suggestive.”
Her eyes widened. Had every sailor aboard heard them cavorting, then? Every night since they’d set sail? No reason to look around, for no one else was on the mist-shrouded deck yet. And with Damon chained to his bed, he wouldn’t rescue her from this trap, either.
As Quentin came closer, his features became clearly visible in the mist: the chiseled cheekbones and lines bracketing thin lips, nostrils that flared like a stallion’s when a mare trotted past, clothing more fashionable than the other sailors wore. This man was young and strong, and he wore his brass-buttoned frock coat and snug breeches well.
Don’t accept the offer in those prying eyes, her inner voice warned. Or was it Mama, guiding her from the other ship? No doubt this man would swear he could keep a little secret, but word of her indiscretion would reach Damon in no time! Then the rest of the crew would be expecting a go at her—and what might Captain Delacroix do? She was his uninvited guest, at the mercy of his hospitality and moods.
“I realize the captain has forbidden you to speak to us,” Quentin crooned, “but for just a quick kiss—a scratching of a desperate man’s itch—I could become a good friend and protector, were Delacroix ever…indisposed.”
Her breath caught. Did Quentin Thomas know the captain was chained to his bed? Had he heard Damon crying out or cursing? Sofia kicked herself for pulling such a trick on him, thinking she could come outside alone for a breath of air without any repercussions. The quartermaster smiled engagingly as he backed her against the railing.
“Think about this, then. If the captain decides to sell you—probably in New Providence, before we reach America,” Thomas continued in a low, conspiratorial voice, “you’ll be at the mercy of every unsavory character on the island. It’s a pirate hideaway, you see. Nefarious men like Black Bart and Calico Jack Rackham and Blackbeard hide—and sell—their booty there. Do you want the likes of them bidding on you? Buying you for God knows what sort of purpose?”
Quentin’s face was only inches from hers. His words and persuasive expression confirmed her greatest fears. And if she didn’t get back to the captain’s quarters to free Damon before—if anyone saw her conversing with this man in such a compromising position—her fate was sealed with those pirates on New Providence, wasn’t it? Captain Delacroix suffered no fools—and she’d just gotten caught behaving like one.
“Please, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I should already be in the galley,” she rasped. “Comstock will be wondering where—”
“Comstock can wait. I spent the night in agony listening to your moans and games,” he replied tightly. “I have your best interests in mind, dear lady, and I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for—”
“I’m not for sale!”
“—your favors now and again,” he continued insistently. His eyes riveted hers, and his breath warmed her face. “If you agree, I’ll buy you—your freedom, that is—from the captain before he puts you on the auction block in New Providence. I have a grand estate awaiting me in England. I can promise you a finer life than you’ve ever known in service. Or in slavery.”
Sofia sucked in her breath to give herself room to think. The quartermaster blocked her view of anyone else who might be on the deck, and as her heart pattered rapidly she ransacked her brain for ways to outmaneuver this cunning seaman. As quartermaster, he was in charge of discipline aboard this ship. Above punishment himself, he believed, but he had the authority to make her life miserable.
“What if I don’t agree?” It was a futile ploy to buy time. “The captain has already assured me—”
Quentin’s snicker accentuated the angular lines around his eyebrows and thin lips. “If you believe him, well…let’s just say many a lady’s reputation has suffered from his empty promises. And many an unclaimed bastard walks the streets of every port he’s visited, dear Sofia.”
She raised one eyebrow, assessing these claims. “What has that to do with me? Had I been concerned about my reputation, would I have stowed away on a ship run by lusty, sex-starved sailors?”
Quentin chortled and kissed her quickly. “All the more reason Delacroix won’t be choosy, come time to sell you. I, on the other hand, would love to settle on my estate with a fine, feisty wife. Life aboard a pirate ship is an adventure for a while, but the tightening of international maritime regulations means privateers and pirates will soon be caught and executed for their misdeeds. We’re a dying breed, no matter how you look at us.”
So it was true, then? Damon Delacroix had presented himself as an honorable escort for the Havisham girls, yet he intended to profit from this voyage—from the vast quantities of English textiles, spices, and gems in the holds of these three ships—even more than Lord Havisham had encouraged? Was he as heartless as he was unscrupulous?
What—whom—should she believe?
She knew nothing about this man Thomas except that he was playing upon her circumstances—taking every advantage of this situation. Sofia squirmed to see beyond his broad shoulders, prepared to cry out for help. But the mist was drifting around them again, and when Quentin Thomas placed his knee between hers, she was pinned to the wall by her uniform skirt.
“Please, Mr. Thomas,” she pleaded. “I’m expected in the galley. I have an obligation to Captain Delacroix to—”
“Sofia,”