He pushed open the balcony door and stepped outside. A gasp startled him, and he tensed to full alert, as though “Pirate” Preston had just leapt over the railing.
But the figure at the far end of the balcony was no criminal. A threat? Yes, she certainly was that.
“Beg pardon, sir.” Nora—Margaret—ducked her head and stepped back from the railing.
He said, “No need to rush off on my account.”
“But you will want your solitude. I should not be here.”
He supposed that was true. But he was suddenly eager she remain. Had he so soon forgotten his determination to avoid the pain of her presence like the plague itself?
“Please stay,” he said.
Apparently he had.
She hesitated, then turned and gripped the railing once more.
He was relieved she did not ask why. His only answer could have been,“Because I am a fool.”
She looked up, at the stars he supposed, or perhaps simply to avoid his gaze.
“That’s the North Star.” He pointed. “The bright one there. Do you seeit?”
She followed his finger. “Yes.”
“How many nights I looked for her on the voyage home. A favorite lady with our sailing master.”
She nodded but was silent. He assumed he had failed to engage her in conversation.
But a moment later she asked quietly, “Did you enjoy the sea, sir?”
Satisfaction. “I did, though my return was not without its losses.”
He felt her gaze, and looked over to find her watching him, brows quirked in expectation. She wore her spectacles, but he noticed her customary dark fringe was missing. Instead, her cap was pulled down low, her hair tucked up in it. Even so, she looked more like herself without all that dark hair around her face.
He asked, “Do your spectacles help you see things in the distance—like those stars?”
She looked back up at the stars, then tucked her chin to look over the top of the lenses. “Yes.”
“I used to wear spectacles most of the time, until I realized all I really needed them for was reading and close work.”
She nodded, then asked quietly, “You spoke of losses?”
He grimaced. “We were attacked at the docks by a man we knew in Barbados. Calls himself the Poet Pirate nowadays. Wasn’t terribly poetic of him to rob and burn my ship.”
She shook her head in sympathy. “Mr. Hudson mentioned it. How sorry I was to hear it.”
“That’s why I was insensible the night Hudson drove the coach and lost his way. He’d taken me to a nearby surgeon the customs house recommended. The man dressed my wounds and was overly generous with the laudanum.”
She nodded her understanding once more.
Studying her profile, he asked quietly, “And how did you loseyourway? How did you end up near the docks, then in Maidstone?”
“Tryin’ to avoid trouble, I suppose.”
“What sort of trouble?”
She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.
