The beach where they’d chosen to work was ideal, shallow and secluded. Of all the coves and inlets on this seven-mile island, this was his favorite. It held the lush richness of the Caribbean, with warm azure waters and glittering sand but none of its venomous snakes.
“Blasted teredo worms!” he overheard Cyprian say from down the beach as he spat into the sand.
Tarbonde smiled patiently. “’Tis only the third careening we’ve endured this year.”
“Next time we’ll not stay so long in the Caribbean,” Henri replied, thinking shipworms one of the few hazards of the tropics.
Southack scratched his chin. “Still no word from the governor about our departure?”
“Any day now,” Henri replied quietly.
“The men are enjoying their freedom meanwhile,” Southack said. “They’ve struck their tents and moved to the Flask and Sword since it’s been shuttered for the winter. Generous of Mistress Saltonstall to offer up quarters while we wait. But I suppose you paid her handsomely to do it.”
With a nod, Henri privately recounted her glee as they’d dickered about a price. She’d come away with a sack of silver ingots and a Burmese ruby she fancied besides.
“Captain.” Udo approached, a list in hand. “I’ve sent to the mainland for another fortnight’s victuals and drink. Jacques is quite at home in the tavern’s kitchen...” His voice died away as he looked toward the water.
Henri, intent on the careening, widened his focus. Half a league out was a trim little jolly, three figures within. Two were at the oars, one of which was Jago Wherry. Another was in the stern, her purple cape fluttering against her full figure like a flag. He’d seen that comely garment before...
Esmée?
The bottom dropped out of his belly. Some of his crew were now gaping, forgetting their work. As the vessel floated by, Esmée turned her head toward him as if captured by the activity on shore and the hulking vessel that lay on its side like a beached behemoth. Were they on their way toward the end of the island? His cottage? Or the light?
Run, man.
Without a word to anyone, he bolted, kicking up sand as he sprinted toward the trees and trail that led to his end of the island. His boots clattered on the boardwalk. Winded, even dazed, he thrust open the door to his dwelling and made for the washstand in his bedchamber. He poured water into a basin and all but dunked hishead in, ruing the bristles scrabbling his jaw, his uncombed hair. If ever he’d had the look of a pirate...
Rearing back, he toweled himself dry. Too late for a razor. Missing a comb, he ran both hands through his black mane, then tied the mass back with black ribbon. His garments would suffice. One unsatisfactory look in the mirror sent him from the bedchamber outside again.
To he knew not what.
While he awaited the next sighting of the vessel, he battled for composure. Why had Esmée come? Had Admiral Shaw fallen ill? Was she somehow bringing word from Lord Drysdale and Williamsburg?
His impatience was soon rewarded when the jolly sidled up to the pier. Despite the sea jaunt, Esmée looked as comely as he’d ever seen her. A queenly posture. Cape hood pushed back to reveal upswept hair with nary a pin awry. And a triumphant smile—was it slightly tremulous?—on her upturned face as he put out a hand to lift her to land. At least some of his fears were allayed.
“Good morning, Captain.”
His heart beat hard against his rib cage. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Shaw?”
“I’ve always wanted to see your island,” she answered as lightly as if they were exchanging pleasantries about the weather. “And have a private word with you, if I may.”
He darted a glance at Jago, who was busy with the mooring lines. “I’ll escort you to my study, then.”
“Thank you.”
Hand cupping her elbow, he led her up the steps to his cottage, second-guessing himself all the way. Should he have taken her to the light instead? His study—did it look hurricane struck? Of late the chaos in his spirit was reflected in his normally tidy surroundings. Too late to right them. He opened the door for her reluctantly, and she entered in ahead of him, her face alive with interest.
“Your first visit to the island,” he said, overcome by a guilty negligence.
She simply smiled again as he led her to his study. It wasn’t as disheveled as he remembered, just dusty, and they both sat, the desk betweenthem. Her attention drifted from him to the cowrie shell atop his desk. Removing her gloves, she reached out a hand to touch it.
“I’ve never seen the like,” she said, looking a bit awed. “It has the shine of porcelain.”
“They’re most abundant in the Indian Ocean. A gift to me from the African chief liberated from theSwallow.”
Her expression brightened. “Ah, the heroic deed that will not die.”
He nearly flushed at her open admiration. Fisting his hands atop his desk, he wondered if his pleasure in her company showed on his face. “I’ll be honest and say I’m rather thunderstruck by your coming. ’Tis not every day a lady of quality hazards a crossing to a barrier island in the chill of November.”
