“Igave you nothing,” she replied, uncomfortable with the idea of giving anything to this man. “Pensteague was built for shelter.”
A trivial distinction perhaps, but necessary.
Necessary because—for reasons she could not fathom—she wished to give the captain more than shelter. She wanted to draw him out of the shadows, to brush his hair from his face, and to look into his eyes...
“Pensteague.” He looked out over the field. “Beautiful Headland.”
“That’s right,” she said slowly. “Most people think it was named for me.”
“Yes, well.” He rolled his shoulder again. “I picked up bits of many languages on the seas—Cornish included.”
“Who are you really”—she took a step closer—“Captain?”
“Do you doubt my name?”
“No, but your name tells me little.” If only she could see his eyes. But their color—and their secrets—were veiled by the mist and by twilight’s subduing grey. “Where were you born? Who are your parents?”
“Please do not ask me of my past.” His coiled-spring stillness belied the supplication in his voice. “There is too much grief.”
“Grief,” she repeated. “I do not wish to intrude on your grief, Captain Smith, but I’m afraid I must insist on knowingsomethingof your past. If, that is, you intend to spend time with my son.”
He moved fully into the moonlight. Her gaze settled on his shoulder.
He’d changed clothes since he’d sparred with Anthony in the courtyard. Though nowhere close to a gentleman’s finery, his shirt, coat, and breeches were clean and fitted. On his right—the side of his injury—his sleeve had been cut short and sewn shut.
She frowned.
Shrugging into that coat must have been awkward. The seams, as sewn, would restrain his ability to balance. Couldn’t his tailor have come up with a design more suited to his comfort? A more liberal cut, perhaps. And a seam that would allow him to—
Abruptly, she cut off her thoughts.
First, she’d wanted to give him whatever he asked. Now, she was mentally designing him clothes. What would the captain think if he knew?
The night—thank God—hid her blush.
“Far be it from me to dishonor a mother’s instinct,” he said finally. “I suggest an agreement. A trade, if you will.”
Her heartbeat quickened. “What kind?”
“Truth for truth.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “If you answer first.”
Though too dark to see, she fancied he smiled. “What do you wish to know?”
Everything.His deepest secrets. “Let us start with the name of the ship you captained?”
“My ship is no longer. My crew perished. I did not.”
She inhaled sharply. A ship’s crew perished—but the ship’s captain survived? The wound to his honor would be keen. The wound to his reputation? Shattering.
That much, at least, Cheverley had been spared.
“You were court-martialed, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
Odd. She had not read about any recent court-martials.
