His question was a baseless courtesy, because before she could answer him, before she was able to see a wagon, he had slid his arms under her knees and shoulders and tossed her effortlessly inside to land on a thick pad of dry straw and sawdust.
The wagon had high sides, but it was open to the sky like a tumbril, its air spiced with dish timber. Gray moonlight picked out neat stacks of wooden ware: nest boxes, dumb-bettys, washtubs, sets of plates and bowls made of white ash and wrapped in jute strings.
As he joined her Merry knelt and, bracing the heels of her hands on the high, jagged grain of the wagon’s sides, peeked through an oval knothole. The light spots were closer now,on the beach, and in their acid-yellow flare Merry could see a line of heavily armed men, moving swiftly toward the tavern.
She turned to Devon, sitting at his ease against a wagon rib. His knees were drawn up and his wrists balanced there, the hands lightly clasped. If he had been sleeping, he could hardly have looked more relaxed. In a desperate voice Merry said, “My—my husband is still inside.”
“Which was he, the freckled boy with the puppets? They won’t hurt him or his partner.”
Whether or not it was the truth, she had no choice but to accept his word. There was nothing now that she could do for Jason and Carl, and nothing she could do for Sally. Sick with anxiety, she watched the pirates closing on the tavern, faces blankly purposeful, some bare-chested with muscles rippling, some bedecked in fine clothes that must be loot from some rich man’s plundered vessel, the tailored velvet jackets slit at the seams to fit over heavy biceps, the inset lace ruffles stained and lifeless. Hardly a face was unscarred, and one stout, bare-skulled fellow was missing both his ears. They carried enough weapons for three times their number: a shining, clattering inventory of axes, daggers, and pistols hung thick on them like so many pans on a tinker’s cart.
Without planning to she began to count the pirates as they went into the tavern, her lips moving like a schoolchild’s.
Diverted, he watched her. “How many are there, then?”
Merry turned to his voice, to look with serious, credulous eyes at his stirring countenance. “Reade must be still in his cups.”
“Quick, aren’t you?” he observed. “I am being honest with you, sweetheart. Your friends are safe. Morgan’s after a different man.”
“The man who tried to talk to him?” Merry asked through a dry throat. “He—is he also a pirate?”
“Yes. He’s been poaching in Morgan’s territory. It wastolerable, until he started to fly Morgan’s flag. Things like that make Morgan a little irritable. It may enhance his reputation for being everywhere at once, but it adds nothing to his pocketbook.”
From inside the tavern came a terrible shriek, cut off abruptly in the middle.
Devon said calmly, “Morgan doesn’t like screaming.”
“What are they doing to him?” she whispered.
“They’re only frightening him. He’ll survive. Tell me, who are you?”
She had spent so much time in the last few months asking herself that question that it shocked her when he said it, as though a live recoil of her own thoughts had snapped back into her mind. He was the only being outside herself who had ever asked her who she was. Everyone else had always assumed. Who was she? It mattered little that she couldn’t tell him the truth, because she had no answer that satisfied herself.
“I—am nobody.” It had slipped out, before she could stop it.
He accepted it without a blink. “Is that your name or your avocation?”
“It’s both,” she said and looked away from him.
“I see.” He settled back against the side of the wagon. “Have you always been nobody, or did you become nobody when you married Mr. Nobody? Do you like being nobody?”
She was alarmed to find herself beginning to smile and hoped he didn’t see. “I only meant I wasn’tanyone.”
“Oh, well, you didn’t have to tell me that. I knew the minute I saw you that you weren’t just anyone. Did your husband send you outside because I was staring at you? I suppose he has quite a problem with that sort of thing. Is that why he makes you pin pillows under your skirt?”
Blushing violently, Merry said, “It wasn’t a very good idea.”
“Oh, no, I think it was a very good idea. Tell him from me, it worked while it lasted. You look cold. Would you like to get into my jacket?”
Rattled, and bewildered by his seeming non sequitur, she blurted out, “Oh, no, if you take off your jacket, you’ll have—”
“Nothing on underneath,” he finished cheerfully. “I’m afraid that was the idea. Does your husband sleep in a nightshirt?”
Merry accidentally conjured up an image of Jason, her pretend husband, in a nightshirt, the white linen flapping around his knees like a scarecrow. How in the world did people manage in marriage?
“Well, of course,” she answered, too innocent to catch his drift. “What else would he sleep in?”
He slanted a look at her and put his hand to her chin, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. “Are you sure,” he said, “that you’re married?”
