Brazen Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  The guard obligingly held the door for them both. Following Linnet through, Logan swiftly scanned the room, then focused on the two occupants.

  The elder, Foxwood judging by his uniform’s insignia, was lumbering genially to his feet behind a substantial, exceedingly messy desk. Logan instantly pegged him as a career soldier, sent there to see out his last years. The second man, a youthful captain, clearly Foxwood’s aide, stood to one side of the desk, his openly eager and appreciative gaze fixed on Linnet.

  As Linnet halted before the desk, Logan grimly took up station at her shoulder, between her and the overeager captain. What the devil was she doing there?

  Nodding amiably, Linnet extended her hand. “Good morning, Foxwood.” She ignored the captain.

  Beaming, Foxwood reached over the desk to clasp her hand in both of his. “Delighted as always, my dear. Please, do have a seat.”

  Foxwood sent an inquiring gaze at Logan. Mindful of Linnet’s instructions, he didn’t respond.

  Neither did she. “No, thank you. I merely dropped by to inform you that the Esperance will be putting out tomorrow morning, bound for Plymouth. A quick round trip, but as there’s cargo to be delivered, and possibly to be brought back, it might be a few days before she returns.”

  “Indeed, my dear? I wouldn’t have thought the weather . . .” Foxwood trailed off, smiled. “But you would know more about such matters than I, so I’ll wish you Godspeed and safe journey.”

  Linnet inclined her head, briskly took her leave—still ignoring the all-but-adoring young captain—then turned and led the way out. Puzzled, with a polite nod to Foxwood, Logan followed her.

  He waited until they were out of the castle to ask, “What was that about?”

  “Preserving the courtesies.”

  After a moment, he asked, “What is there in this that I’m missing?”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “You need to get to Plymouth—I’m arranging it. Don’t rock my boat.”

  Somewhat grimly, increasingly convinced he was not in possession of all the relevant facts but unable to guess what it was he didn’t know, he followed her back to the Trevission offices, where he reclaimed their bags and Dodds gave her an update on cargo both for the run to Plymouth and the return trip, then, once again, they walked out onto the quay. This time Linnet turned left.

  Hefting their bags, he followed. When he’d picked up her bag, he’d again felt the shift of something very like a scabbarded sword. It was an item with which he was so familiar that his senses immediately identified it. Had the bag belonged to any other female, he would have dismissed the notion as nonsensical and asked what it was that had confused his senses . . . only this was Linnet, and he didn’t think his senses were confused.

  His gaze locked on her back, he was trying to think of some innocent way to phrase his query—something that wouldn’t result in her tartly telling him that what she chose to carry was none of his business—when his feet hit the thick wooden planks of the wharf.

  He looked around, surveying the vessels, most of which were anchored out in the harbor. He searched for the ship in the picture, but many of the ships were three-masted barques, and the painting had been from too great a distance to provide identifying details.

  Linnet continued to stride along. He was about to ask her to point out the Esperance when two sailors leaning on the side of a vessel hailed her—not as Miss Trevission but as something else Trevission. With the quickening breeze whipping their words away, Logan didn’t catch what title they’d used, but Linnet smiled and raised her hand. And continued marching on, briskly turning left to continue down a pier along which several larger vessels were berthed.

  The pier was busy, with sailors and navvies loading and unloading holds. Several more sailors saw Linnet and waved, but none again hailed her. At her heels, Logan realized she had to be making for the last ship in the line. Looking ahead, he saw a sleek, undoubtedly swift three-masted barque that, from the activity on deck, had come in to the pier only minutes before.

  Sure enough, when they stepped free of the chaos before the ship one berth in, and into the relatively clear space alongside the sleek barque, he saw the name stenciled on the prow—it was indeed the Esperance .

  The name, he knew, meant “hope” and “expectation” in French, the base language of Guernais, the patois of the island. Linnet strode straight for the gangplank; he followed, trusting her to lead him safely while his gaze drank in the sight of her ship.

  Like her owner, the ship was a beauty. Not new—all the woodwork had gained that glowing patina of lovingly tended oak—yet she was clearly designed for both power and speed. With lines more pared down, more sculpted, than the other barques around her, she sat lightly on the waves, gracefully riding the harbor swell, a princess among the bourgeoisie.

  Very like her owner.

  Linnet swung onto the gangplank and climbed swiftly up, not even bothering to reach for the rope rail. Closing the distance between them, Logan was directly behind her when, without waiting for any assistance, she jumped lightly down to the deck.

  “Ahoy, Capt’n!” A large sailor dropped down the ladder from the stern deck and snapped off a jaunty salute.

  For an instant, everything in Logan stilled, then he stepped, slowly, down to the deck, and turned to stare at Linnet.

  Who, ignoring him, returned the salute. “Good afternoon, Mr. Griffiths.”

  “Indeed it is, ma’am, if what I hear is true.” Griffiths halted before her, beaming fit to burst. “Welcome aboard, ma’am. Edgar and John seem to think we’re off somewhere.”

  Nine

  L ogan stared at Linnet in increasing horror as she grinned at Griffiths.

  “Yes, we’re heading out.” She waved at Logan. “Major Monteith must reach Plymouth urgently, and I’ve volunteered to take him.”

  She started toward the rear hatch; Griffiths fell in beside her. Logan followed, still struggling to take it in—feeling very much as if he’d been hit over the head again.

  “We’ll go out on the morning tide,” Linnet continued. “Please summon the crew and have everything made ready. And Dodds said Cummins has cargo for us to take, and there may be more as well. If they have it here in time to load before the tide turns, I’ve agreed to take it—I told Dodds to have the merchants report direct to you.”

  “Aye, ma’am. We’ll have all ready to sail on the tide.” From the corner of his eye, Griffiths was eyeing Logan in the same measuring manner as Edgar, John, and the men at the house had.

  “Excellent.” Pausing by the companionway hatch, Linnet glanced at Logan. “Major Monteith will have the cabin next to mine. We’ll be spending the night on board. Tell Jimmy and Cook we’ll have dinner in my cabin.” She turned to go down.

  “One moment.” Logan was still grappling with the news that Linnet— Linnet —was the captain of the Esperance , but . . . he fixed his gaze on her face as she turned back, brows rising a touch haughtily. “There’s something I intended to tell the captain—whichever captain you inveigled to ferry me across the Channel.” Apparently her; every instinct rebeled at the thought. His lips thinned. “It’s possible we’ll meet resistance somewhere between here and Plymouth.”

  She frowned. “From the cultists chasing you?”

  “They’re not skilled sailors, but they have deep pockets, enough to hire captains and crews who can sail and are willing to engage, even with a peaceable vessel.” He glanced at Griffiths, who he took to be her first mate. “You can’t count on them behaving rationally—they’re dangerous because you simply can’t predict to what extent they’ll go to seize what they want.”

  “And they want you?” Griffiths asked, eyes narrowing.

  “They want the document I’m carrying,” Logan replied. “It’s crucial evidence to bring down a villain—an Englishman who’s been wreaking havoc in India—and he, of course, doesn’t want it to reach the authorities.”

  Griffiths snorted, looked at Linnet. “Well, he won’t catch t
he Esperance , that’s for certain.”

  She nodded. “Give the orders and have the crew armed and ready to sail by dawn. We’ll put out the instant the tide turns—the others will give way to us. What winds are expected?”

  “For Plymouth, fair. We should be able to catch a good breeze once we’re round the point.”

  “Good.” Linnet stepped through the hatch. “I’ll be below. Make sure the others report as they come aboard—from the sounds of it, we’ll want a full complement for this trip.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Logan stood and watched her descend. He wanted to put a halt to the insanity; just the thought of her facing cultists made his gut clench sickeningly. But . . . how to do that without trampling on her toes—or, worse, her pride? Still wrestling with the ramifications of this latest twist in who and what she was, feeling strangely helpless as if awash on a tide he couldn’t control, he hoisted their bags and followed her down the narrow stairs, then along the tight corridor to the cabin door through which she’d passed.

  Ducking, he stepped through the open door. Filling the space across the stern, the cabin was large and, like her office on the quay, beautifully appointed, all polished oak paneling and furniture, the latter anchored to the floor. To one side stood a desk, with an admiral’s chair behind it and two smaller chairs facing it. In the center of the room was a round table, with bench seats attached, while in the far corner a good-sized bed was built out from the wall, with storage below and racks above. A sea chest sat at the foot of the bed, with an armoire along the wall, while the inner wall played host to a built-in washstand with every necessary amenity.

  A lamp was set into the table’s center; there were holders for cups and candlesticks at suitable positions around the room.

  It was the best, most comfortable cabin Logan had ever seen.

  Tossing her cloak on the bed, Linnet started pulling pins from her hair. “Shut the door—and I’ll have my bag.”

  Pushing the door closed, Logan set down his bag, then crossed the cabin and put hers on the bed. With her hair loose, tumbling about her shoulders, she set her pins down, opened the bag, rummaged inside, and drew out a long-sleeved white shirt. Nudging Logan aside, she went to the sea chest—from there she pulled out a pair of leather breeches, a waistcoat, and a coat.

  Logan blinked. When she tossed the clothes on the bed, he reached out and touched the breeches—and found the fawn leather butter-soft. The image taking shape in his mind did not bode well. “Linnet—”

  “Help me with these laces.” She gave him her back.

  He frowned. Muttered, “This must be what King Canute felt like.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He swiftly undid the laces while evaluating his options. “Linnet—I appreciate all you’ve done and are doing for me, but . . .” Having freed the laces, he stepped back, sat on one of the bench seats, his back to the table. Leaned his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands the better to keep them from her. Locking his gaze on her face as she glanced inquiringly at him, he said, “Frankly, I’d be much happier getting some other ship.”

  She considered him for a moment, then smiled, almost secretively, and stripped off her gown. “No, you wouldn’t be. Happier, that is. Let me tell you why.”

  He frowned, found himself watching in curious fascination as she pulled off her shift, then, drawing a long linen band from her bag, set about binding her breasts. He knew women sometimes did that, for hard riding or similar violent exercise . . . shaking off the distraction, he forced his gaze back to her face. Recalled her last words. “So tell me.”

  Her faint smile suggested she knew very well to where his mind had wandered. But then she grew serious. “At this moment, completing your mission is your highest priority, and rightly so. It’s important—the outcome will be far-reaching, affecting many lives in a positive way. The choices you make must be those that give your mission the best chance of succeeding—and if that means you must put personal feelings aside, then that’s what you’ll do.” Tying off the band beneath her left breast, she met his eyes. “You’re that sort of man.”

  Lips thinning, he couldn’t disagree, but . . . “Be that as it may, there’s plenty of ships in the harbor here, and surely one of them—”

  “No.” She pulled on the shirt; it billowed about her slender arms. Settling the neckline, then lacing it, she continued, “Of all the ships in the harbor, the Esperance represents your best chance by far of reaching Plymouth safely.” Toeing off her half boots, she picked up the soft breeches and stepped into them. Tucking in the long tails of the shirt, she buttoned the waistband. “And contrary to what you’re imagining, the prospect of pursuit and attack, of action, only makes that more so.”

  Logan felt adrift, cut free of the moment again. The soft leather clung lovingly to her long legs. As she shrugged into the waistcoat, buttoned it, then pulled on the loose captain’s coat, all he could think was that the masculine attire only made her look more intensely feminine.

  More blatantly female.

  Also more dangerous.

  “We have superior capability, unmatched speed, and a highly experienced crew.” She went to the armoire, reached inside, and drew out a pair of long boots. Pausing to button the closures at the ends of the breeches’ legs, she glanced at him. “Believe me, if that weren’t so, if I didn’t believe the Esperance was the best ship for your mission . . .”

  Stepping into the boots—high boots in gleaming black leather that reached above her knees—she tugged and stamped, then, straightening, looked him in the eye. “If I didn’t know the Esperance was the safest ship for you to take, I’d set aside my own feelings and find you the best ship and captain, and twist his arm to make him take you instead.”

  Reaching up, Linnet parted her hair, then set about swiftly plaiting it. “As matters stand, however, you’re going to have to accept that, in this, I know best, and, judged on all the criteria that matter, the Esperance is the best ship to take you and your letter to Plymouth.”

  Eyes narrowed, his face like stone, Logan sat and watched her; she could all but see him searching for a way to counter her arguments. Tying off her braids, she walked to the small mirror set in the armoire door and wound the plaits coronet-style about her head, then set about pinning them.

  In the mirror, she glanced at Logan, studied his face. She’d known he’d be difficult over her being there, captaining the ship, which was why she’d avoided telling him, had been careful to let no hint fall prematurely. Yet she’d told him the truth; the Esperance with her at the helm was his best chance of reaching Plymouth safely—there was not one soul on Guernsey who wouldn’t tell him the same.

  Of course, she’d yet to divulge the most pertinent peculiarity of the Esperance , the one that sealed the argument beyond doubt, but some niggling need wanted him to accept her word, her judgment—to understand and acknowledge that in this arena she not only knew best but was also commander enough to make the right decision with regard to his mission and his safety. Her decision to take him on the Esperance was based on what was right, what should be, not on a personal whim.

  Her hair secure, she reached into the armoire and retrieved her captain’s hat with its jaunty cockade, then returned to the bed to pull a kerchief from her bag and knot it about her throat.

  Then she reached into her bag and drew out her sheathed cutlass.

  Instantly sensed Logan’s tension jump.

  “Yes, I can use it.” Pushing back her coat, she slung the leather belt about her hips. Buckling it, she looked up and met Logan’s eyes. “How do you think I could read your wound so accurately? I was right, wasn’t I?”

  The question distracted him, diverted his attention as he thought back, then, with obvious reluctance, lips tightening, he nodded. “Yes.”

  A tap on the door had them both glancing that way. “Come!” she called.

  The door opened and her cabin boy, Jimmy, poked his head around it. “All right here, Capt’n?”r />
  “Yes.” She could never keep back her smile, not with Jimmy. “How’s things above?”

  “All hands have reported for duty. Mr. Griffiths has everyone scurrying. Truth is, we’d’a been ready to sail tonight if the tides were right, but they aren’t, so we’ll just have to wait ’til tomorra, but we’re all keen as ever to get out. Wasn’t expecting any adventure this late in the year—like a Christmas present, it is.”

  “I dare say.” Jimmy had been throwing curious glances at Logan. Linnet waved at him. “This is Major Monteith, and he, or more correctly his mission, is the reason we’re doing this dash to Plymouth, so it’s he you should thank.”

  Jimmy grinned at Logan, bobbed his head. “Major. You won’t hear any grumbles from the crew. It’s a pleasure to be of service.”

  Logan, not quite succeeding in keeping his lips straight, inclined his head. “Pleased to be of service in return.”

  “Jimmy—the major will use the cabin next door, and we’ll dine here this evening. Usual time. And now . . .” Collecting Logan with her gaze, Linnet picked up her hat and started for the door. “I’m going to do a round of the decks.”

  Logan followed her up, trailed her as she circled the decks. Listened as sailor after sailor hailed her as “Capt’n,” the light in their eyes, the expressions on their faces, testifying to their eagerness and the respect and confidence they had in her as their leader. He’d seen successful generals who’d inspired less devotion.

  And the more he listened to her question each man about his family, about his home or whichever of the island’s small communities he hailed from, the more he saw of her eagle eye and her attention to detail, the more he heard of her quick, decisive orders, the more he understood that, even if she’d in some ways inherited the rank from her father, the respect that came with it in such abundance was something she herself had gained.

  Yet just how that had come about—how she had risen to fill such a position in such a way—mystified him.