“Please don’t hate me,” she said, rolling him under the bed. As she glimpsed his pale face, she wondered if escape was worth it. This man had been nothing but respectful toward her.
Of course, he dared not be otherwise, given his captain’s penchant for dismissing unruly crew.
Virginia stripped off her corset, gown and pelisse, leaving on only her chemise and pantalettes. Her shoes followed, all shoved under the bed. She hopped into his pants, knotting the belt instead of buckling it. His shirt followed, and finally, she tucked up her braid under his wool cap. Then she looked down at herself, scowling because her bare feet looked feminine. Then she saw a lacy edge of her pantalettes peeping out from under the loose pants.
“Damn it,” she cursed, rolling the underwear up. She raced to the porthole and gasped. A good-sized town was in view, a collection of huts on the outskirts, followed by stone houses, a few manors and churches, and finally, the town itself. A dozen ships of varying sizes seemed to be at dock. None were even half the size of the frigate; all seemed to be merchant ships or fishing vessels.
Then she saw a crowd beginning to form.
Children were running from the town along the river, screaming wildly, heading toward the approaching ship. Their shouts became more distinct, forming into whoops and hollers. As the ship drew abreast of the motley, tattered group, she saw boys begin to wave, grinning wildly. The ship was now sailing past the children and Virginia gazed back to see them following.
Then she looked ahead.
A number of people were rushing down to the docks. She grew disturbed. Some appeared to be farmers in their shabby tunics, others merchants, finely dressed in wool coats and britches. Women were in the gathering, too. The younger ones were waving and smiling. No—everyone was smiling.
She was uneasy now.
Virginia heard O’Neill shouting orders as the ship slowed. She saw a titian-haired woman in the simple garb of a peasant step out from the crowd. She was carrying a basket of flowers.
Someone cheered. The cheer sounded suspiciously like, “O’Neill!”
She hugged herself. The cheering began in earnest, then the titian-haired beauty began tossing flowers at the ship. The flowers were caught up in the wind and landed in the harbor’s waters. There was no doubt as to what the crowd was cheering. “The O’Neill! The O’Neill!” they hollered and cried. In fact, Virginia felt certain that there were tears—tears—on quite a few cheeks.
She did not understand.
Men clad as seamen—not O’Neill’s crew—dashed forward to catch theDefiance’s ropes. The ship moved laterally now, and Virginia heard a huge anchor being thrown into the river. Why were these people overjoyed by O’Neill’s appearance?
She told herself it did not matter. She must be ready to escape and the time was now.
But as she cracked open the cabin door, she knew it did matter—it mattered very much. She simply did not know why.
O’Neill was standing on the quarterdeck, viewing the town and the congregation that had come to greet him as imperiously as if he were a king. He wasn’t smiling. But he was, Virginia thought, completely preoccupied. His expression was strange, both intense and strained. She could not help but wonder at his feelings.
Then the titian-haired beauty was crossing the deck and climbing up to where he stood. Virginia watched her reach out, a bouquet of roses in her hand. O’Neill suddenly seemed to realize she was present—he started and turned. The beauty tossed the bouquet aside and leapt forward, her hands finding his shoulders, her mouth finding his.
Virginia blinked in shock.
O’Neill quickly embraced her, clearly accepting and then deepening and finally dominating the kiss.
The assembled townspeople went wild, screaming his name, over and over again.
Virginia could not look away, as if she were hypnotized.
Then her common sense rescued her. She knew the perfect opportunity when it presented itself and she hurried from the cabin, across the deck and joined several seamen rushing down the gangplank as the townspeople rushed up it to board the ship.
On the dock, she look back. O’Neill was setting aside the woman, but someone, an official of the town, perhaps, was offering his hand. O’Neill accepted it, his attention never wavering.
Virginia moved up the dock, hit the cobbled street, passing several drays and wagons, and turned into a tiny cramped street filled with shops below and homes above. Then she ran.
DEVLIN WALKED SLOWLY TOthe captain’s cabin, the decks finally cleared of townsmen, all of his sailors gone on liberty. He was subdued. It seemed a different lifetime completely when he had walked those streets as a boy with his father, their wagon filled with supplies, everyone bowing in deference as Gerald O’Neill passed, his own small shoulders proud and square. It seemed at least a lifetime ago that he had run those streets, half-wild, after Gerald’s murder, with the shopkeepers and merchants glancing after him, whispering about “that poor O’Neill boy” and “that affair up on the hill,” a reference to his mother’s marriage to Adare.
He’d been home once since he’d joined the navy at thirteen, six years ago, a strapping, cold-eyed youth of eighteen who had just received his first command after Trafalgar. There had been no roses strewn at his feet when he’d sailed his schooner in that day, no cheering throng at the docks. But everyone had snuck out of shop and home to steal a glance at him as he passed their way on his ride to Askeaton. There’d been whispers, but he had refused to listen. He hadn’t known what they said.
Devlin realized he was not alone. Jack Harvey stood near the cabin, smoking a pipe. “And the prodigal son returns,” he said.
Devlin halted, no longer angry at Harvey—in fact, he had accepted his treachery the way he would have accepted his death, the time for mourning over. He had no remaining feelings at all except for indifference. “I am hardly anyone’s prodigal son.”
“You are this town’s prodigal son.”
