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"That honor belongs to me. I'm Conrad Reventlow."

"Papers."

A minute passed.

"No cargo?"

"One passenger. Baron Bromley. He hired the ship for Ostend."

"Reason?"

"Pleasure, of course. One generally doesn't hire a Danish brig for the cuisine," Rodrick drawled. His voice had changed. The vowels had broadened, the words stretching in indolence. Even his irritation sounded expensive.

"Baron Bromley?" the officer asked.

"Unfortunately. Are we nearly finished?"

"Any women aboard?"

"These Danes wouldn't let me bring any. Superstitious bunch. Apparently, a woman aboard invites disaster, though in my experience the absence of one does much the same thing to a voyage. I do, however, have excellent wine. French, naturally. Shall I sacrifice a bottle to the speed of your inspection?"

"We are looking for one named Louise de Bonnechoix. Every vessel must be searched."

Louise covered her mouth with her palm.

"Then search it, by all means. Some of us have appointments on the Continent, and mine is unlikely to improve with waiting."

Boots moved away from the quarterdeck. The sound changed as they went below, each step duller and more enclosed, traveling through the timbers until she could no longer tell whether the men were ten feet away or directly beneath her. She lay with one cheek against rough wood, barely breathing.

A door opened somewhere in the brig. One of the sailors called to another, his words too muffled to distinguish, and then footsteps approached again.

Her shoulder went numb where the timber bit into it. A strand of hair tickled the corner of her mouth, and the need to move it became suddenly enormous.

Hold the post. There was nothing else to do. No clever escape, no door to seize, no opponent to outwit. Movement would lose everything. Stillness was the position, and for once the position required no argument from her.

The boots moved on.

Louise let the breath leave her nose so slowly she scarcely felt it. Gradually, the sounds began returning toward the quarterdeck.

"No sign of her, sir."

Louise closed her eyes. France had not moved any closer in actual miles, yet suddenly it seemed possible again.

"I trust we may now proceed," Rodrick spoke before the officer could.

"No vessel is permitted to depart Gravesend," the British officer answered.

A knot formed beneath Louise's breastbone.

Rodrick's voice sharpened. "You have searched us. And unless you count one of these bulky Danes for a disreputable matron, we are carrying no woman."

"Colonel Arlesford's order is explicit. Every vessel remains in port until further notice."

"Oh, I understand." Something in Rodrick's tone made Louise's fingers curl. "You require an arrest, is that it? A result to carry back with your paperwork. Then by all means, make an arrest. We have one ready to hand."

What was he talking about?

"Nikolaj Reventlow. Danish pirate, smuggler, occasional nuisance to British shipping. Is he not a wanted fellow? Take your prize," Rodrick said. "And allow us to proceed."