The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Nineteen

On the battlements of Carisbrooke Castle, Colonel Hammond stood and watched the dawn. Behind him two sentries marched their route, back and forth with monotonous rhythm.

“You’re up and about early, Hammond.”

The governor turned at the pleasant tone. “As are you, Lord Granville.”

Cato nodded and came to stand beside him.

“There was quite a fracas out at St. Catherine’s Point last night,” the governor observed. “Those damnable wreckers were about their business but someone stopped them. We got a message from someone not willing to give his name to go and pick up the pieces. We found the beacon and a neat parcel of wounded men waiting for us on the beach.”

“I wonder if Caxton had a hand in it,” Cato mused. “I’ve just had my sergeant’s report on the couple he took into Yarmouth Castle last night. There seems little doubt that Caxton is our man. Turns out he’s both a pirate and a smuggler… has a frigate which he keeps in some secret chine. He knows this coast and the French like the back of his hand.”

“Then we had best pick him up,” Hammond said. He looked around in some annoyance. “I sent for Channing half an hour ago. It’s not like him to delay answering a summons.”

“Perhaps he’s a heavy sleeper,” Cato suggested. “We do face a small problem in picking up Caxton.”

“Oh?”

“We don’t know where to find him,” Cato pointed out gently.

The governor only grunted at this reminder.

“Yarrow mentioned a cove, Puckaster Cove, that he thinks might have some relevance to Caxton’s ship. Rothbury’s gone with some men to take a look. They’ll throw a net over the area and see if they catch anything.”

“If he doesn’t know we suspect him, he might turn up here. He did last night… played whist with the king.”

“I think we need to move the king,” Cato said decisively. “Move him in secret to Newport.”

Hammond looked worried. “I don’t have orders from Parliament,” he pointed out.

“You may consider that you have,” Cato said aridly. “I’m representing Parliament in this matter.”

“You will take responsibility?”

“Haven’t I just said so?”

Hammond bowed his head in acknowledgment. “It might be difficult to move him secretly.”

“We do it now while the island’s still half asleep. Have you visited His Majesty this morning?”

“Not as yet. I don’t usually go in to him until after seven.”

“Well, let us pay him a visit now. Have a closed carriage ready and waiting in the courtyard. We’ll both accompany the king to the barracks in Newport. You’d best send a messenger ahead to have his lodging prepared.” Cato was already moving briskly back along the battlements as he spoke.

The governor hurried after him. “Channing can take the message, but where the devil is the man? You there…” He beckoned a servant, who came running. “Go to Lord Channing’s chamber again. This time make sure he’s awake before you leave. Make sure he answers you.”

The man ran off.

The sentry outside the king’s chamber in the north curtain wall saluted.

“Has His Majesty sent for his valet as yet?”

“Aye, Colonel. He’s with him now.”

Cato knocked imperatively on the door and it was opened by the valet.

“His Majesty is not yet attired to receive visitors, my lord.”

“His Majesty will excuse our intrusion,” Cato said brusquely. He stepped around the valet and bowed to his sovereign. “I give you good morning, Sire.”

The king was in the process of being shaved. He looked at his visitors in some indignation. “What is this?”

“Your Majesty is to be moved to Newport,” Cato said.

The king paled. He wiped soap from his face with a towel and stood up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Parliament’s orders, Sire.” Hammond stepped forward and bowed. “You are to be moved immediately.”

The king’s eyes burned in his white face. It was the end, then. They had been discovered. Within hours of his rescue. His disappointment was so profound he made no attempt to conceal it. He knew it had been his last chance.

“May I ask why?” he demanded when he had mastered himself sufficiently to speak.

“I believe Your Majesty knows why,” Cato said quietly. “You will leave within the hour.”

“I have not yet broken my fast.”

“It is but two miles to Newport, Sire. A meal will await you there.”

The adamant tone was laced with courtesy, but it didn’t disguise the fact that the marquis had given his sovereign an order.

“Granville, you were once loyal,” the king said sadly. “A most loyal friend.”

“I am loyal to my country, Sire, and I would continue to stand your friend,” Cato said in the same quiet voice. “I will leave you to your preparations.” He bowed low and stepped out of the chamber.

Colonel Hammond made his own obeisance and followed. The servant he had sent for Godfrey Channing was waiting in the corridor.

“Lord Channing, sir, he wasn’t in ‘is chamber. His man said his bed ’asn’t been slept in.”

“Good God!” Hammond exclaimed. “How could that be?”

“It seems unlike the man,” Cato observed. “He’s always been most assiduous about his duties. However, it seems we must do without him for the moment. Who else can you send to Newport?”

“Latham. He can keep a still tongue in his head.” The colonel sent the messenger for his other equerry. “D’ye care to break your fast, Granville, while we wait for the king to complete his toilette?”

Brian Morse gazed up into the face of a man he’d never seen before. A man he felt sure he would never wish to see again.

The man knelt beside Brian as he lay bound, swaddled tightly in the thick, heavy folds of a cloak, under a dripping hedge some half mile from the village of Ventnor. Brian had been carried to this spot, his mouth stopped with the folds of the cloak. Three men had carried him as easily as if he were a baby.

Anthony surveyed him in silence. His face was expressionless except for his eyes, and what Brian read in those eyes filled him with a cold dread.

“So you like to play with little girls,” Anthony said softly. “Tell me about it, Mr. Morse.” He jerked the folds of material from Brian’s mouth. “Do explain the fascination for me.”

Brian spat pieces of lint from his mouth. “So my little sister has been telling tales to her lover, has she? I never thought she’d turn whore. She always swore she’d never have anything to do with a man.” Somehow he managed to sneer even through his fear.

Anthony’s hands closed around Brian’s throat. The long, slim fingers squeezed. Hands that could hold a ship steady into the wind in the teeth of a gale. Brian gasped like a gaffed fish. His chest was so tight he knew it was going to burst. Spots danced before his eyes. He could feel them bulging. The hands squeezed tighter. And then the black wave swamped him.

Anthony took his hands from Brian’s throat. He flexed his fingers, then massaged his palms with his thumbs.

“You have killed him.” Olivia stepped forward, her voice flat. “You killed him.”

Anthony shook his head. “I have never yet managed to kill in cold blood, however great the temptation,” he said. “Besides, I would rather condemn this piece of vileness to a living hell.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a small vial. “Hold his head, Adam.”

Adam put an arm behind the unconscious man’s neck and lifted his head on his wrist. Brian’s mouth fell open as his head fell back. His neck was livid with the marks of Anthony’s fingers.

Anthony tipped the contents of the vial down the opened throat, and the unconscious man swallowed convulsively. “That will keep him out for twelve hours.”

He stood up and addressed the three men who stood beside the limp figure. “Put him on a cart and carry him to Yarmouth. Seamew is waiting with her other passenger for the noon tide. Give this to her master.” He dug into his pocket again and took out a leather pouch. It clinked as he passed it over.

Olivia’s gaze was riveted by the immobile bundle that was Brian. Now, looking at him, it was hard to imagine how he had terrified her. He looked so old and yellow and lifeless.

Anthony glanced up at the full-risen sun and turned back to Olivia. “You will be missed, I fear.”

Olivia dragged her eyes from Brian. “I’ll find an explanation,” she said absently. She was thinking how it didn’t much matter now. Anthony would be gone from the island in a matter of hours.

“I’ll be off to Yarmouth, then, see about the Yarrows,” Adam said. “I’ll find a fishin‘ boat in Ventnor to sail me round.”

“How are you going to get into the castle?”

“Crab pots,” Adam said laconically. “Powerful fond of crabs, is the cook. An‘ she’ll tell me a thing or two. Quite gabby, she is.” He sounded faintly disapproving of Mary’s useful vice.

“See who’s on duty. Pete will-”

“Aye, there’s no need to teach yer grandmother to suck eggs,” Adam interrupted. “I’ll ‘ave ’em out of there, don’t you worry.”

Anthony laughed. “I don’t, old man, I don’t. But I need you back on Wind Dancer by early afternoon. You need to tell the crew that there’s been a change of plan. I’ll not return to the ship until I have the king. Warp her out of the chine on the ebb tide and take her into the Channel. Jethro should sail her for Puckaster Cove at nine tonight. He should be in position by ten. But before that, Sam should sail the dinghy and beach her in the cove, so she’s ready and waiting for us.”

Adam nodded and set off back to Ventnor to find a boat to take him to Yarmouth.

Olivia had listened to this exchange in slowly dawning horror. “Anthony, you can’t still mean to rescue the king!” she exclaimed. “Not now that they know.” She looked at him as if he was out of his mind.

“My flower, I have a promise to keep,” he said, taking her hand and walking with her back to the field where they had left Gowan’s horse.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Whoever this woman is, she wouldn’t expect you to do this now. No woman in her senses would.”

Anthony’s response was instant and unthinking. “This is my business, Olivia. My commitments are my affair, not yours.”

She pulled her hand out of his, stopping dead on the lane. “What are you saying?” Her eyes were bewildered. How when they had talked of love could he dismiss her concern so curtly?

He read her confusion and her anger in her eyes and moderated his tone as he tried to explain. “I’m the master of a ship, Olivia. Men rely on my decisions. I must make those decisions alone and take their consequences myself. It’s always been like that for me, and, believe me, I learned the lessons the hard way.”

“So you never listen to advice?” she demanded in disbelief. “You never change your mind?”

“Of course I do,” he said with a touch of impatience. “But the final decisions are mine.”

Her father would have said the same, Olivia reflected. She frowned, thinking of what Anthony had just said. “You learned the hard way. As a child, you mean? From your parents?”

“You could say that.”

Olivia lost all patience. “Damn you, Anthony!” she cried. “Isn’t it time you explained some things to me? Don’t you owe me something?”

Anthony gazed across her head, over the hedge to the sea, but he saw little of the scenery. How to explain what it was like to be an outsider, to belong nowhere? How to explain that to Olivia, whose own place in the world was so firmly entrenched? How could she understand?

“My mother and father were killed on the night of my birth. Ellen and Adam took care of me,” he said distantly.

“Is Ellen the one who would have you rescue the king?”

“A woman of a most powerful conviction,” Anthony said. “And since I owe her more than I could ever repay, I will do whatever she asks of me.”

“How were your parents killed?”

“They were murdered.”

“In Bohemia?”

“Yes… Does that satisfy you, Olivia? I don’t wish to discuss this further.”

She struggled to understand what that night must have been like. That night of violent death and birth. So much blood, she thought. There must have been so much blood.

“But… but what of your grandparents, of other family?”

“I have no other family,” he said flatly. “Ellen and Adam are my friends and all the family I need.”

She heard the bitter finality in his voice.

“I don’t believe Ellen would ask this of you if she knew the danger you were in now,” Olivia stated shrewdly. She saw from the quick flicker of his eyes that she had hit truth.

He began walking again briskly as he spoke. “Be that as it may, I keep my promises. And I don’t like to give up a plan halfway.

“That’s foolhardy.” She was half running now to keep up with his rangy stride.

“No. Dangerous maybe. But as you know, the most dangerous enterprises are the most satisfying… and,” he added, “more often than not, the ones most likely to succeed.” He turned in to the field where the chestnut was grazing peacefully among the cows. “I have made certain changes to the original plan,” he conceded. “In light of changed circumstances.”

Olivia waited until he’d caught the chestnut and brought him back to the gate. “They’ll ambush you.”

“Maybe. But I’ll take precautions. They can’t know exactly when I’m going to make the attempt. Only the men of Wind Dancer know that. And they can’t know how I plan to do it, because only those same people know that… Up you get, now.” He took her by the waist and lifted her onto the horse.

“Please don’t do this,” she said as he mounted behind her. “I am so afraid for you.”

“O ye of little faith,” he mocked, reaching around her to grab the mane. “I was going to create one diversion on the battlements, but now I intend to stage a performance that will have every soldier and officer in the castle utterly occupied for the few minutes it will take the king to make his move.”

He laughed softly at the thought and Olivia knew she had lost this battle. If he believed he could do it, then he would do it. And he would succeed. She had to believe that.

“And when you have the king, when you’ve taken him safely to France, will you c-come back?” Her voice sounded thick.

“I come and go,” he said obliquely. “But this is where my ship has her anchorage. Where my friends are, where my crew have their families.”

“And if the king isn’t here, then my father will leave,” she said, gazing straight ahead as the chestnut cantered across the clifftop. The sea was very blue, sparkling with the morning sun, and the Dorset coast stood out so clearly it was almost as if one could reach across the dazzling water and touch it.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is as it is.” Softly he quoted her earlier words, “Things being as they are. You being who you are, me being who I am.”

“What would you say if I said I would come with you?”

Anthony was silent for a minute, then he said, “I would be afraid that once the dream faded, as it must, you would not be happy.”

“And I would hamper you, constrict you,” she stated, her eyes still on the sea. The blue seemed fuzzy and she realized it was filtered through tears.

“I would worry that you were regretting the life you’d left. Your family, your loyalties, your place. Those are not mine and they mean nothing to me.”

He fell silent. Olivia stared ahead, feeling his hard body at her back. Was he right? Were passion, love, not strong enough to overcome such odds? But they had lived a dream, it had never been more than that. And one woke up from dreams.

“If we stayed on the island,” she said. “If we stayed on the island, then whenever you came back we could live the dream again.”

“But you cannot stay.”

“Would you wish to dream again?”

For a minute he didn’t answer her, then he said, making his voice flat and distant, “There was never a future to this. We both understood that. Be happy with what we’ve had. Carry the memories, as I shall.”

It took half an hour before they reached the boundary of Lord Granville’s property. A half hour in which their thoughts hung heavy and unspoken. As they approached the orchard, Olivia said, “Stop here.”

Anthony drew the chestnut to a halt and dismounted. He lifted Olivia down and held her hands. “I know of no other answer,” he said. “I would not be responsible for your unhappiness.”

“And I would not be responsible for yours,” she returned. Slowly she drew her hands from his. “Say goodbye. Say it now.”

He cupped her face and kissed her gently. “Farewell, Olivia.”

“Farewell.” She brushed his mouth with her fingertips, lingering as if to imprint forever the feel of his mouth on her skin.

Then she turned and ran from him. If he succeeded this night, the Granvilles would leave the island. She couldn’t bear to think then of Wind Dancer slipping into her chine in the darkness, when she herself was not asleep or wakeful in her bed in the house in Chale. Waiting for his return. She couldn’t bear to think of Wind Dancer on the open sea, with her master at the wheel and the deck beneath his feet, his hair blown back from his face, his strong throat bared to the wind as he looked up at the sails.

She couldn’t bear to think of him sailing away from her.

But she must bear it, because one couldn’t live entranced forever.

Anthony stood for a long time in the lane after she had disappeared into the trees. Had he been right? But he knew that he had. First would have come disillusion that would usher in contempt and then bitter dislike. They would have learned to hate each other as they pulled in different directions. There was no place for Olivia in his life, and he could not live hers. But he thought as he turned to go that his heart would break.

Olivia darted through the orchard, heading for the garden and the back stairs, hoping, although it seemed a forlorn hope, that she wouldn’t be seen in her strange garb by any of the servants.

She was so absorbed in her unhappiness that she nearly stepped into the path of her father and Rufus before the sound of their voices alerted her to their presence in the orchard. She froze, her heart banging against her ribs. Cato was talking to Rufus above little Evie’s importunate demand that her father carry her. They were so close, a mere row of fruit trees away.

Olivia almost without thinking scrambled into the branches of a crab apple tree whose massed foliage provided a perfect screen. The two men turned into the aisle and strolled towards Olivia’s tree, deep in conversation.

“How did the king take his removal?” Rufus asked, swinging his small daughter onto his shoulders.

“With dignity, as always,” Cato replied. “Newport barracks is rather more primitive than Carisbrooke, but he affected not to notice.”

“We found nothing at Puckaster Cove, or anywhere close to it,” Rufus said, adjusting his hold on Eve’s ankles as she bounced to grab a crab apple from the tree.

Evie pulled at the apple, bending its branch low.

Olivia shrank back against the tree trunk, holding her breath. Then the branch bounced back again as the men passed beneath the tree, and she breathed again.

She leaned forward to catch the continued conversation as it drifted back to her. The men were walking slowly and she could hear their words clearly.

Rufus was saying, “We combed the area; although we didn’t find anything it still looks a likely spot. A deep cove, deep channel at the mouth, sheltered by two headlands. Shall we set a watch over it? Could you take that crab apple away from Eve? It’ll give her the bellyache and I’ll never hear the last of it from Portia.”

“I’d like to catch the man,” Cato said, reaching up to take the crab apple from Eve’s small fist. “Even though the king’s out of his reach, I’d still like to catch him; he sounds a nasty piece of work whichever way you look at it. Since he won’t know that we’ve moved the king, he still might make his attempt and we might grab him in the act. Here, Evie, this is a nice ripe pear.” He plucked the fruit and gave it to the child, who accepted the replacement with serene good humor.

“Then we’ll give it a try. I suggest we station cannon on each headland. They’ll be positioned to blow the ship out of the water if she comes into the channel. And for the next couple of nights, we’ll put men in ambush on the clifftop. If he comes out, we’ll catch him.”

“I suppose Godfrey Channing didn’t join your expedition?” Cato inquired.

“No. Hammond asked me the same question. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Very odd. We’d best send out search parties. It seems likely he’s met with an accident.”

Not the kind of accident they’d ever imagine, Olivia thought fleetingly as she craned from her perch to watch them break out onto the lawn.

Now she climbed down slowly, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. They had moved the king. Tonight Anthony was going to go to Carisbrooke to rescue the king, but the king wasn’t there anymore, he was in Newport. And Wind Dancer would sail all unknowing into Puckaster Cove and be smashed to pieces by Parliament’s cannon.

She was exhausted; her sleepless night and the aching misery of their final parting seemed to overwhelm her. But she could not give in. Somehow she had to get this information to Anthony. But how in the name of God was she to do it? She had no idea where he was going after he’d left her. Since he’d changed his plans, he would presumably have extra preparations to make. He wasn’t going back to his ship, so where would he be?

She tiptoed through the trees to the edge of the lawn, where a screen of bushes marked the boundary of the orchard. From this concealment she looked out at the scene on the lawn. Phoebe and Portia were sitting in the shade of an oak tree while the children splashed in the ornamental lake, running under the fountain with shrieks of glee as Juno chased them, waving her unruly feathery tail. Cato and Rufus had joined the women and stood talking to them under the tree.

Olivia wondered if they were asking where she was. Her absence would have been remarked upon. She hadn’t thought it would matter once Anthony was safe. But he wasn’t. She forced her tired mind to think clearly. If only she was wearing proper clothes, she could saunter out from the trees and say she’d been for a long walk and had fallen asleep in the sun… anything would do. But she had to change her clothes. And then she could decide what to do next.

Juno began to run round and around, chasing her tail with exuberant enthusiasm. Olivia picked up a stick and threw it towards the dog.

Juno was immediately distracted. She picked up the stick and raced for the orchard, wagging her tail, eager for whatever game awaited her.

She dropped the stick at Olivia’s feet and looked up at her expectantly. “Fetch Portia,” Olivia said, bending to pat the dog. “Go fetch Portia.”

Juno’s bright eyes looked intelligently at her, but she didn’t move, merely picked up the stick and dropped it again in invitation.

“Stupid dog!” Olivia muttered. “You know what Go fetch means, and you know who Portia is.”

Juno gave a short hopeful bark.

Olivia put a hand on the dog’s collar. Juno tried to pull free. Olivia tightened her hold and Juno began to bark, short, frenzied little yapping barks that meant she didn’t like what was happening.

Olivia held on and prayed that Portia would come to see what was the matter with her beloved Juno. She prayed that it was Portia who would come, not one of the children or worst of all, Rufus.

She watched the party under the tree, holding Juno, who was now struggling for release, her barks more in earnest. Portia looked around, frowning, then she got to her feet and came across the grass.

“Juno? Juno? What’s the matter?”

“I’m holding her,” Olivia whispered through the bushes. “Come into the orchard.”

Portia pushed through the bushes as Olivia released Juno. The dog flung herself on her mistress as if she’d hadn’t seen her in a year.

“Good God, Olivia! Where have you been?” Portia stared at her incredulously. “We’ve been at our wits’ end trying to cover up your absence. What have you been doing? You look dreadful.”

“I feel dreadful. I can’t tell you all the details now. But I can’t come out looking like this. Can you bring me some clothes? I can just reappear then and say I got up very early and went for a long walk.”

“What exactly is going on?”

“I can’t tell you. But please get me some clothes so I can come out of here.”

“I assume this is pirate business,” Portia said. “Should I expect you to tell me?”

“No,” Olivia responded. She met her friend’s gaze steadily.

Portia nodded and she hurried away, Juno gamboling at her heels.

Olivia waited impatiently behind the bushes. To her relief, Cato and Rufus soon went back to the house, dodging wet children, leaving Phoebe alone. Portia reappeared in a very few minutes from the side door of the house. She paused by Phoebe, and Olivia saw Phoebe’s startled glance towards the bushes. Portia came over to the orchard, her step nonchalant. She carried a basket on her arm.

“This should get you into the house, duckie.” She handed Olivia the basket. “But you look such a mess; your hair’s like a bird’s nest and you’re filthy. You can’t be seen properly until you’ve done something to yourself.”

“I was out in the storm last night,” Olivia said, stripping off her doublet and britches. “I got soaked and then I was in a sandy cave…” Her blood surged with the memory. It was so vivid, she could almost smell and taste and feel his body on hers. Hastily she dragged over her head the simple print gown Portia had brought her. By the time she’d pulled it down and buttoned it up, she was mistress of herself once again.

“Did you bring shoes?”

“No, I forgot. Your boots are pretty well hidden by your skirt. You only have to get into the house.”

“Thank you.” Olivia bundled the britches and doublet into the basket. “I’ll join you on the lawn later.” She hurried away with the basket of memories, exchanging a glance with Phoebe as she passed. She slipped into the house by the side door, keeping her head lowered when she passed a maid on the stairs, and reached the haven of her bedchamber.

She looked at herself in the small mirror. She really did look a fright. Her hair was impossibly matted, and when she tried to brush it a shower of sand fell onto the dresser.

Now that she’d reached safety, her exhaustion overwhelmed her. Just the effort to raise her arms to brush her hair was too much. She sank down on the bed to pull off her boots, kicked them free of her feet, and then without volition simply fell backwards. She would just lie here for a few minutes in peace and quiet and think about her next move.

She fell asleep with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed, her head on the quilt.

Olivia awoke with a start, unsure how long she had slept. She glanced to the window and saw with a shock that the sun was now low. She could still hear the voices of the children from the lawn below the window.

She sat up. Her eyes felt gritty, her limbs heavy as if she’d been drugged. How much time had she wasted in sleep?

She struggled off the bed and went to the window. The scene on the lawn didn’t seem to have changed much, although the shadows were now long. The children were still playing in the water; Phoebe and Portia were still sitting beneath the tree. There was no sign of either Cato or Rufus.

Olivia splashed cold water on her face and renewed her attack on her hair. She managed to get the sand out and braid the tangled mess. She dug the grit out from beneath her fingernails and washed her filthy feet. Then, feeling relatively respectable, she took up a book in an effort to appear to be behaving quite normally and went downstairs and out onto the lawn.

“Woken up at last.” Phoebe assessed her with an experienced glance as she gathered a blue-lipped Nicholas into a towel. “You were so deeply asleep we didn’t want to wake you. You slept through dinner.”

“We told Cato that you’d been working at your books until late last night and were really tired,” Portia said.

“Thank you,” Olivia said. “Did he mind?”

“He didn’t seem to. It’s not as if he’s not used to it.”

“No,” Olivia agreed.

“I won’t ask what’s going on,” Phoebe said.

“What the eye don’t see, the ‘eart don’t grieve over,” Portia observed with a half smile.

“Precisely,” Olivia said, sitting down on the grass beside them.

She opened her book. Her head was clear now, the mists of sleep dissipated. It was perhaps an hour to sunset. Anthony was not going to make his move until after ten. He’d told Adam to make sure that the frigate was in the cove by ten.

A company of soldiers, and cannon to dismast Wind Dancer. While Anthony was on a fruitless rescue mission, he would lose his ship. He would go back to the beach and run into an ambush.

Olivia’s eyes remained on her book and she turned the pages at regular intervals although she read not a word as her mind raced, examining and discarding possibilities. The Barkers would know if it was possible to stop Wind Dancer from sailing into the trap. The flag at the oratory, if it could be seen at night, would bring someone from the ship, but they needed a much more urgent means of communication. There was no time for the leisurely progress of the sailing dinghy to and from the chine. But there must be some other kind of signal. If Mike was there, he would know.

Her mind filled with rioting images of soldiers with pikes and muskets, of the sound of cannon and the crash of a fallen mast.

She closed her eyes and was back with Anthony in his little boat as he ran it up on the beach. She knew the maneuvers so well now. She could almost feel the grab of the sand beneath the boat. She could see him as he jumped over the side, barefoot, the knee buckles of his britches catching the light as he hauled the boat higher on the sand. He was laughing, his crooked teeth flashing in the brown face. A lock of hair the color of golden guineas flopped over his eyes as he bent to his task, and he brushed it aside with a swift careless movement of his long, strong hand.

She could see him. She could smell him. The memory image was so vivid, so powerful, her senses swam.

“Olivia? Olivia!”

Portia’s imperative tone shattered the dream memory into shards of longing.

“Forgive me. I was daydreaming.”

“That was fairly obvious, duckie. In fact, I thought you were asleep. It’s time for supper.”

Olivia became aware of nursemaids retrieving their charges and wondered how she hadn’t noticed either the summons that had brought them or their arrival. Childish protests rose on the air as the little ones were borne away.

“We’re going to the kitchen for our supper,” Luke announced. “We don’t eat in the nursery.”

“No, of course you don’t,” Portia agreed readily. “But whatever you do, don’t annoy Mistress Bisset. Our own supper depends on her good temper.”

“We don’t annoy her. She loves us,” Toby declared extravagantly. “She wishes we belonged to her. She said so.” The boys ran off, tackling each other, rolling in the grass and leaping up again in one continuous blur of movement.

“It’s true, she does,” Phoebe said, dusting grass off her skirt.

“Everyone loves them. They’re Rufus’s.” Portia sounded more than a little smug.

“I think I’d better change my dress before supper. It seems to have acquired bits of Nicholas’s sucked gingerbread.” Phoebe peered at an unbecoming smear on her skirt. She shot Olivia a quick glance.

Olivia closed her book and jumped to her feet. “Is my father in the house?”

“No, he and Rufus returned to the castle after dinner.”

“Then I’m going out now,” Olivia said. “I have something to do.”

Portia and Phoebe exchanged a glance. “You need to eat something,” Phoebe said practically.

It had been a long time since breakfast in the Gull in Ventnor, Olivia realized. “I’ll take some bread and cheese from the supper table. But I have to go.”

“Will you be back by the morning?”

Olivia looked at them bleakly. She would do what she had to for the pirate tonight, and then one way or another he would be gone from her. “I expect so,” she said.