“No doubt on it, Captain.” Danby still worried his hat in his hands. “No mistaking the likes of him.”
She turned her back on the upper deck. “You’ve no cause for concern. He cannot punish you here, and with the number of sailors on a man-of-war, it’s doubtful he’ll remember you. You may rest easy.”
Danby exhaled and replaced his hat. “Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”
“Have you told anyone that you recognize him?”
“Not a soul, Captain.”
“Good. See that you tell no one else.” Danby bobbed his head and hoisted himself back up the rigging, while Katherine exchanged looks with Rafik.
“I shall take him now and lock him in the brig,” Rafik said.
“No.”
“Then what do you wish me to do?”
Her stomach clenched fiercely. In her mind, Captain Warre’s cannons exploded. She could almost smell the acrid gunsmoke drifting across the water. The girl inside her tried to propel her forward to confront him, but the woman she’d become kept that urge in check. She may have been helpless then, but she bloody well wasn’t helpless anymore.
She glanced at the upper deck, and the past sucked at her with its violent whirlpool of fear and helplessness. For a moment she thought she would be sick. “For now,” she said slowly, “nothing. He can do little, being only one man.” Except that Captain Warre had the presence of ten men.
“That is dangerous thinking,” Rafik said too sharply.
“It is not for you to question,” Katherine shot back. “For the time being, we shall let him continue to believe we have not discovered his identity.” The significance of that identity could not be ignored. “And I shall place him under your supervision.”
Only a slight narrowing of his dark eyes told her he might find that acceptable.
“You shall assign him every menial task,” she told Rafik. Oh, yes, the great Captain Warre would swab decks and polish cannons and slop buckets of filth. “He will be one of the crew—just another sailor. And I expect you to treat him as such.”
“Aye, Captain.” A slight curving of his lips betrayed his opinion this time.
“Not more harshly, Rafik.” She would need Captain Warre alive and well when they arrived in London.
“I will treat him as the rest of the crew.”
“Excellent.” She shifted so she could see the upper deck once more. Soddingest bastard he’d ever set eyes on, was he? As she watched, he put his hands behind his head and stretched his shoulders. Her body went soft and liquid deep inside, and she clenched her teeth. Ten years she’d nursed her hatred for this man, and now it took an effort to tear her gaze away from him.
This was unacceptable.
“Tomorrow,” she decided. “You will move him into the berth with the crew. He is still weak, so give him only small tasks at first and keep an eye on him for signs that he is not as recovered as he seems.”
Rafik nodded.
“And report to me regularly about his activities. I want to know at the first hint of insubordination.” It would likely come moments after he received his first assignment.
Rafik returned to his duties, and Katherine turned toward the upper deck. Her hands shook with the desire to whip her cutlass from its sheath and confront the bastard.
Captain James Warre. Here, on her ship, eating her meat pies and drinking her wine and sleeping on her linens. She watched him shift his weight from one foot to both and brace his hands on the railing. Her eyes followed the angle of his legs past his buttocks and across the broad expanse of his back, over his shoulder and down the line of his arm to the fingers that curled around smooth wood. She didn’t need to be any closer to know exactly what those fingers looked like. Strong, solid, lightly callused. Gripping the Possession as though he owned it.
A hot lick of sensation shot through her belly as though he touched her.
Captain Warre. He was Captain Warre. Perhaps if she thought the name enough times, her body would stop reacting to him. To think that if Danby hadn’t recognized him, before the voyage ended she might have been foolish enough to—
Good God.
Petrels soared above the sails as Katherine returned to the upper deck. The sound of the waves and the familiar shouts and laughter of her crew were a comfort, but everything had changed. William still chatted with India, but she would deal with him later. Oh, yes. She would deal with William. But for now, she rejoined Captain Warre at the railing.
“Everything all right?” he asked. His scent—Turkish soap borrowed from William, plus some musky undertone that was uniquely him—wafted over her on the breeze.
“A misunderstanding among the riggers.” She put her own hands on the railing and tried to cleanse her lungs with sea air, but his subtle spice lingered.
“That required your intervention? I would have guessed your boatswain capable of handling such problems.”
“Rafik is capable of handling any number of problems—” as Captain Warre would soon discover “—but my crew is free to speak with me whenever they wish. No doubt that seems strange to you. I’m sure your Captain Warre would have abhorred such a policy.”
He made a noise. “To the extent it would have meant five hundred men queued up outside his cabin, I’m sure you’re correct.”
No doubt he planned to play the role of Lieutenant Barclay for the entire voyage. He probably reasoned that once they reached London and he rejoined the upper echelons of society, it wouldn’t matter if she finally discovered his true identity. Hot anger simmered beneath her skin, so much easier to tolerate than the attraction. And infinitely more acceptable than that old vulnerability.
Her life held no room for weakness, not when so many depended on her strength.
Captain Warre, hiding like a coward behind the persona of a dead inferior officer. How many lies would he tell to protect his identity?
“You were about to tell me a little more about yourself, Lieutenant,” she said, deciding to find out. “Are you the eldest son?”
“Hardly.” One lie. “My eldest brother, Theodore, will inherit the baronetcy.” Two. Three. According to Philomena, Captain Warre was an earl by virtue of his older brother’s death five years earlier.
“I merely wish to leave the sea and all its tedium behind and live a quiet life,” he continued.
Without a doubt, four. “Leave the navy? But surely you would become a captain soon.”
He nodded. “In a few years, I likely would have had my own command.” Five. The real Lieutenant Barclay may have had a few years to wait, but the renowned Captain Warre had risen quickly through the ranks and attained his first commission twelve years ago.
“That seems an excruciatingly slow wait,” she said. “Surely you’ve been at sea twenty years now.”
The corners of his eyes creased when he glanced at her. “You pull no punches about a man’s age, Captain. Just shy of half that, I’m afraid.” Which, for the real Lieutenant Barclay, may have been true. Six lies. The only thing she didn’t know was whether Captain Warre was hiding his identity for fear of her reputation or because he knew she’d been aboard the Merry Sea. More likely the former. He would hardly remember one violent encounter among the hundreds that spanned his career.
“I can’t imagine Captain Warre approved your plan to leave the navy, battle-hardened as he must be,” she said. “With his record and reputation, I’ve no doubt he’ll order ‘Fire the cannons!’ with his dying breath.”
He laughed, full and real with a smile that gleamed white