She left them there and made her way back to her own realm in the center of the ship, a small room where her herbs and tinctures and instruments were locked in cabinets safe from the lurch and roll of the ship. A table fixed to the floor gave her a place to perform whatever procedure might be necessary.
In here, she was in charge. And not William, not Zayn, not anyone would take this away from her.
She thought of Anne, Katherine’s beautiful little daughter, and hoped suddenly, fiercely, that her child would be a girl. A girl who would grow up aboard the Possession and learn to be strong. Independent. Millie would teach her medicine, and William would be like a father to her just as he had to Anne before Katherine had married Captain Warre.
But Millie wouldn’t be marrying anyone. She didn’t need to. The small fortune she’d been forced to abandon aboard the Possession months ago had still been there, hidden inside a wall in the lower cargo hold. Added to her wages from Winston and what she would earn sailing with William, it would ensure a living for herself and her child well into the future.
There wouldn’t be enough for the school, but the school was out of the question now, anyway.
She didn’t want to hear about Winston. It hurt too much. And it made her long for that feeling of being wanted that she’d felt when he held her. Those two nights they’d lain together, for a few hours it had seemed as if nothing in the world could come between them.
It was just an illusion. She’d known that even if, during that short time, she’d let herself forget.
Now, finally, she was at peace. She wasn’t the girl she’d been on the Possession when she’d sailed with Katherine. Nor was she the desperate young woman who had stolen her friend’s ship in a mad attempt to carve out some kind of place for herself. She felt calm, comfortable, accepting of life—even now, with a child taking root in her belly.
She was a medic, a sailor, a friend.
A woman.
And by this time next year, she would be a mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WINSTON STOOD IN the drawing room at the palazzo of his friend the Marquis de Trecenza, in the arch of a window, looking out over the city of Valletta and Malta’s Grand Harbor. Ships dotted the water—every kind of craft from two-man rowboats to frigates in full sail. He followed the harbor to where it joined with the sea, and beyond, where a few ships could be seen on the approach.
Perhaps, today, one of them would be the Possession.
One of the benefits of his rank was being acquainted with others of similar rank, and his friend the marquis had attained a high enough level within the Knights of Malta that it was no trouble to have a man at the port’s sanitation office put on notice to send word when anyone from a ship called Possession presented papers for entry into the city.
He was not going to live his life without Millicent.
That night at the ball, he should have told her she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld and promised her anything she wanted—not walked away and turned his back on her as if he didn’t want her at all.
If he had, she would be richly settled in a town house of her own, where he would spend every night in her bed making love to her until he was too exhausted to move, and then he would fall asleep with her in his arms. And when he awoke, he would make love to her again.
Is this the end you’ve had in mind? To become my mistress?
His own accusing words damned him now. As if she was the one who wanted something from him, and not the other way around.
These past weeks he’d come to understand exactly how wrong that was.
But he would not make that mistake again.
This time, he knew exactly what he would say. And he knew exactly what to offer. He could see it now, barely, across the city: the famed hospital of the Knights of Malta, where the School of Anatomy and Surgery was located.
He would be her patron. Buy a house here, where they could live while she completed her studies. And when she was finished, he would provide her with whatever—
“Mi scusi,” said a voice behind him, and he turned abruptly to find his host’s butler. “A messenger arrived a few minutes ago,” he said. “A ship called the Possession arrived in the harbor this afternoon, and members of her crew were given papers to enter the city just a short while ago. One of them is a person with the surname Germain, apparently with a small party staying at the home of Jacques Martel.”
Just then the marquis came into the room. “I understand there is news.”
“Jacques Martel,” Winston said. “Do you know him?”
He shrugged. “A wealthy merchant, well respected by the knights of the Order...not married...very active in shipping and trade.”
A friend of Jaxbury, no doubt.
After the marquis apprised him of a few more details—the man lived very close by—Winston walked out onto the street, on his way to pay a visit.
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER, Winston presented himself at Martel’s house. He didn’t wait long before Martel came out to greet him.
“Forgive my unconventional introduction,” Winston said after explaining who he was, “but I understand that you are hosting some friends of mine that I would very much like to see.”
“Si, infatti.” Martel bowed. “I am most honored, and of course, any friend of the marquis is a friend of mine. Come and join us in the courtyard.”
Winston’s pulse spiked. He followed Martel through two rooms and out an arched doorway to an interior courtyard filled with potted trees and flowering vines, where a small group sat at a table, laughing...
It took him a moment to recognize her, and when he did, her smile cut him to the bone. He’d never seen it before—not like this, brilliant and unguarded.
“A friend and countryman of yours has come to pay a call,” Martel said cheerfully, and now she saw him, and the smile died on her lips.
Winston forced himself to acknowledge the two men—Jaxbury and...Zayn Carlyle. And now Winston knew everything he needed to about Martel and his connections with trade.
“Winston,” Carlyle said, standing and offering a bow. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“Indeed.” He should have guessed Carlyle and Jaxbury would be acquainted. But right now he only cared about one thing. He bowed a greeting to Jaxbury.
And faced Millicent.
He’d been expecting Miles Germain. But what he saw was someone very different.
There was no wig. Only her own mink-brown hair falling in a braid that came forward and ended just below her collarbone. She wore a man’s jacket—plain, dark blue—and a man’s shirt and breeches. But beneath it he glimpsed a colorful scarf tied around her waist, angling down over one hip. And the hilt of a short sword.
Silver dangled at her ears.
Another colorful scarf circled her head, part turban, part West Indies pirate, with its fringed ends dangling in the back to her shoulders.
She acknowledged him with a simple “Your Grace” that grated on his nerves.
He seated himself between Martel and Jaxbury, accepted a glass of wine, tolerated a half hour of talk about Mediterranean commerce during which Millicent offered a number of opinions about the viability of establishing business in several port cities in the Levant. She sounded as conversant in shipping as she did in medicine, and he realized she’d taken more from her years sailing with Katherine Kinloch than just experience as a ship’s surgeon and a sharp hand at cards.
It was clear that Martel didn’t quite know what to make of her and found her unconventional appearance amusing. It was just as clear that Jaxbury and Carlyle would tolerate no disrespect of her.
Daylight faded, and torches were lit in the courtyard, and Millicent’s skin took on the warm glow of sunset and firelight. She scarcely looked at him except when he spoke.
He shouldn’t have imagined it would be easy.
All he needed was to talk to her. Touch her, because it was killing him to watch the expressions play across h
er face, the hints of smiles touch her lips as she conversed, the fingers that had once curled around his cock wrap delicately around her glass.
And it infuriated him to feel as if he needed Jaxbury and Carlyle’s permission to talk to her when he never needed anyone’s permission for anything, but finally he couldn’t stand a minute more.
“If neither of you have an objection,” he said during a pause in conversation, “I’d like to request a word with Miss Germain in private.”
Millicent’s gaze shot to his face.
“By all means,” Martel said, clearly intrigued by this development. “Make use of the green salon—we walked through it when you arrived.”
“I’m sure anything His Grace has to say to me can be said here,” Millicent objected, but Carlyle slid his quiet gaze her direction.
“Grant the man an audience, hmm?” Carlyle spoke up.
And now it was thanks to Carlyle that she stood up and walked past Winston into the house.
The green salon had a view out the front side of the house and could not be seen from the courtyard. Millicent stopped in the center of the room and looked at him squarely with that same no-nonsense stare he’d grown so used to during those first days after Paris.
All he’d meant to do was talk, but now he reached for her instead and slid his hand to the back of her head and kissed her before she could have time to object.
The fire was instantaneous, tearing straight to his groin, reminding him ruthlessly that he hadn’t been with a woman since Millicent—that he didn’t want any woman but Millicent, and that he wanted her now, any way he could have her.
Her lips were soft. Sweet. She responded, opening for him, and she tasted just the way he remembered. And he was almost insane enough to pull her down on one of the settees and take his chances before anyone got a mind to check in on them, but he didn’t have a death wish.
And she broke the kiss anyhow, pulling away from him, looking up at him with bruised lips and disturbed eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He breathed in, deeply, trying to quiet the need inside himself. “I have a proposal for you.” He felt restless, impatient, and his words came out more rushed than he’d meant them to. Her eyes widened a little, and victory surged through his blood. “I would like to be your patron,” he said. “For the surgical school. I’ll pay everything—your living expenses, whatever you need for your study.” Surprise. Comprehension. They passed across her face in quick succession, urging him on. “I’ve missed you,” he said. Drew in a breath, told her what he wanted. “I thought I would stay here in Valletta with you while you complete your studies.”
She stared up at him as if dumbfounded. And then, even as he watched, her lips firmed and her eyes cooled. “I left my whoring days behind when I left London,” she said flatly.
“Don’t you ever say that again.” The response shot off his tongue on a lick of outrage. “You were no harlot.”
“Then what would you call it, Your Grace?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“We were lovers. And you paid me.”
“I paid you to be my medic—”
“And now you wish to pay me again, and for what? You need no medic now, and we both know you’re perfectly capable of finding company—and at a far more reasonable price. In any case, I’ve changed my mind about the school.”
Changed her mind? “I don’t believe that.” Not for a minute. He knew her too well. “The school was the one thing you wanted more than life itself.”
“It was a passing fancy, nothing more. I’m ship’s surgeon aboard the Possession now, and I have everything I need. I’m perfectly content.”
“Devil that.” He wasn’t content. “I didn’t travel all this way to have you pretend indifference and ply me with lies.”
“Why did you travel all this way? I can’t believe it was simply to find me.” She looked him up and down. “Perhaps you’re on your way to Greece, after all?”
“You know bloody well that isn’t it, that everything has changed since you—” He broke off. Since she’d what? Left his employ? His bed? Left him?
“What I know,” she said firmly, almost gently, “is that you and I have nothing to discuss. My life is at sea, and we both know there’s no more place for you there than there is for me in London.” She walked past him. “Goodbye, Winston. I’ll let them know you had to leave.”
* * *
SHE DIDN’T RETURN to the courtyard. She made it into the next room, and then the next, fully expecting Winston to follow her, but he didn’t. She was in a small unlit library that faced the street, and there was just enough light outside to see him walk past as he left.
She could barely breathe past the grief ripping her inside.
I’ve missed you, too.
His kiss still burned on her lips, and she wanted more—she wanted to touch him and to feel him touching her and to lose herself in his embrace until it felt as if they were one person and not two. And she wanted so desperately to believe that he’d come all this way because...
Because what?
She wouldn’t be a fool. What she’d seen in that room at the ball in London—that was the true Winston. The real man that could not ever really be snuffed out, not by injuries or good intentions or anything else.
He was a rakehell. A blackguard.
And he wanted to pay for her schooling.
The idea of it keened straight to that place inside her that couldn’t accept that the school would not be possible now. A house, where the two of them would live while she pursued her studies...
Or until he tired of her and withdrew his support. Or worse, until he learned she carried his child and realized it would not be just the two of them, but so much more.
He wants a mistress. He hadn’t wanted that in London, but he wanted it now. And she may have been desperate when she’d listened to Philomena’s advice, but she wasn’t desperate now, and she didn’t need to listen to anyone but herself.
* * *
HE WAS NOT staying on this island without her.
Winston waited the next day, watched Martel’s house until he saw Jaxbury leave. He followed Jaxbury through the narrow streets toward the waterfront and cornered him just before he started down the stairs to the wharf.
“I want to buy passage aboard your ship.”
Jaxbury didn’t seem surprised to see him at all, and he smiled. “Got a yen to see Turkey?”
“Perhaps I do.”
“Not going to make it that easy for you, Winston.” Jaxbury turned toward the stairs, but Winston blocked his path.
“Damn you,” Winston said. “This is no game.”
“Exactly. This is Millicent’s life. So far all I’ve seen is you enjoying a Mediterranean stay with an old friend. Your presence here proves nothing to me.”
Winston wanted to blacken Jaxbury’s laughing eyes. “One word, and I could have your ship delayed here for weeks.”
“You do, and I’ll guarantee you won’t see Millicent for even one hour.”
It was too much. “Do you have any idea what Millicent means to me?”
Jaxbury raised a brow. “No. Perhaps you’d better explain it—and have a care to do a better job than you did with her last night. Whatever you said put her in a very foul mood.”
The fact of it made Winston feel helpless. If she didn’t want him to help her attend that school, he didn’t know what else to offer. “I’m doing everything I know how,” he said tightly.
“To give her what?”
“Bloody well more than a ship’s cabin and a sailor’s pay.”
“Setting sail for Marmaris tomorrow,” Jaxbury said, unmoved. “You’re welcome to follow us there. Perhaps by then you’ll have figured out a way to get back in her good graces.”
Jaxbury tossed Winston a smile and headed jauntily down the steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WINSTON WASN’T GOING to follow Jaxbury anywhere. He was going to board the Possession, but he was going
to need help.
Back at the marquis’s house, his friend just shook his head. “This is why they say love is madness,” he said. “But if you are going to do this, you should do it tonight under cover of darkness. I can arrange the papers you’ll need and a boat to row you out, but climbing aboard the ship undetected...that will be up to you.”
It wasn’t difficult, in Valletta, to find the clothes he would need. Winston gathered a few belongings, some rolls, a jar of water, and by the time night fell, he was ready.
Gliding across the inky water in the Grand Harbor, the oarsman’s every pull seemed to splash deafeningly as they headed out. Ships’ lanterns glistened faintly on the waves, and the sounds of the city at night drifted across the water—voices, laughter, music.
“There,” the oarsman said, nodding toward a ship up ahead.
Winston studied it now, looking for signs of anyone on board. Someone was keeping watch—there was no doubt of that. The only questions were how many and how closely were they paying attention.
He hoped they were paying most of their attention to cards and a bottle of rum.
The rowboat slipped into the shadow of the Possession’s giant hull. The water wasn’t calm—nothing broke the waves coming in from the sea. The ship lolled as the oarsman rowed into position below the net of ropes hanging over the side. They lingered in the ship’s shadow, looking up, waiting to see if anyone had seen the rowboat approach.
Nobody appeared at the railing.
Winston slung his sack over his shoulder, stood up and grabbed the net. The thick rope was wet and difficult to grasp, but he pulled himself up. Found his footing and began to climb—one square and then the next, easily now as the rope grew drier and drier, until he reached the top and pulled himself over the railing and onto the deck.
He turned, crouching down, watching for any sign of movement.
There was a bark of laughter—voices drifting up from a hatch in the deck a few feet away.
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