each other from their first meeting, much as kindred spirits. After Dalziel retired and succeeded to the title of the Duke of Wolverstone, he and Royd had remained in touch. Royd suspected he was one of Wolverstone’s principal contacts in keeping abreast of those intrigues most people in the realm knew nothing about.
Royd studied the brief lines suggesting that he sail his ship, The Corsair, currently bobbing on the waters beyond his window, to Southampton, to be provisioned and to hold ready to depart once news arrived from Freetown.
The implication was obvious. Wolverstone expected the news from Freetown—when it arrived courtesy of Royd’s youngest brother, Caleb—to be such as to require an urgent response. Namely, for Royd to depart for West Africa as soon as possible and, once there, to take whatever steps proved necessary to preserve king and country.
A commitment to preserving king and country being one of the traits Royd and Wolverstone shared.
Another was the instinctive ability to evaluate situations accurately. If Wolverstone was anxious—
“I need to see him.”
The voice, more than the words, had Royd raising his head.
“I’ll inquire—”
“And I need to see him now. Stand aside, Miss Featherstone.”
“But—”
“No buts. Excuse me.”
Royd heard the approaching tap of high heels striking the wooden floor. Given the tempo and the force behind each tap, he could readily envision his middle-aged secretary standing by the reception desk, wringing her hands.
Still, Gladys Featherstone was a local. She should know that Isobel Carmichael on a tear was a force of nature few could deflect.
Not even him.
He’d had the partition separating his inner sanctum from the outer office rebuilt so the glazed section ran from six feet above the floor—his eye level—to the ceiling; when seated at his desk, he preferred to be out of sight of all those who stopped by, thinking to waste the time of the operational head of the Frobisher Shipping Company. If callers couldn’t see him, they had to ask Gladys to check if he was in.
But he’d been standing, and Isobel was only a few inches shorter than he. Just as the glazed section allowed him a view of the peacock feather in her hat jerkily dipping with every purposeful step she took, from the other side of the outer office, she would have been able to see the top of his head.
Idly, he wondered what had so fired her temper. Idly, because he was perfectly certain he was about to find out.
In typical fashion, she flung open the door, then paused dramatically on the threshold, her dark gaze pinning him where he stood.
Just that one glance, that instinctive locking of their gazes, the intensity of the contact, was enough to make his gut clench and his cock stir.
Perhaps unsurprising, given their past. But now...
Nearly six feet tall, lithe and supple, with a wealth of blue-black hair—if freed, the silken locks would tumble in an unruly riot of large curls about her face, shoulders, and down her back, but today the mass was severely restrained in a knot on the top of her head—she stared at him through eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate set under finely arched black brows. Her face was a pale oval, her complexion flawless. Her lips were blush pink, lush and full, but were presently set in an uncompromising line. Unlike most well-bred ladies, she did not glide; her movements were purposeful, if not forceful, with the regal demeanor of an Amazon queen.
He dipped his head fractionally. “Isobel.” When she simply stared at him, he quirked a brow. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Isobel Carmichael stared at the man she’d told herself she could manage. She’d told herself she could handle being close to him again without the protective barrier of any professional façade between them, too—that the urgency of her mission would override her continuing reaction to him, the reaction she fought tooth and nail to keep hidden.
Instead, just the sight of him had seized her senses in an iron grip. Just the sound of his deep, rumbling voice—so deep it resonated with something inside her—had sent her wits careening.
As for seeing that dark brow of his quirk upward while his intense gaze remained locked with hers...she hadn’t brought a fan.
Disillusionment stared her in the face, but she mentally set her teeth and refused to recognize it. Failure wasn’t an option, and she’d already stormed her way to his door and into his presence.
His still-overwhelming presence.
Hair nearly as black as her own fell in ruffled locks about his head. His face would make Lucifer weep, with a broad forehead, straight black brows, long cheeks below chiseled cheekbones, and an aggressively squared chin. The impact was only heightened by the neatly trimmed mustache and beard he’d recently taken to sporting. As for his body...even when stationary, his long-limbed frame held a masculine power that was evident to anyone with eyes. Broad shoulders and long, strong legs combined with an innate elegance that showed in the ease with which he wore his clothes, in the grace with which he moved. Well-set eyes that saw too much remained trained on her face, while she knew all too well how positively sinful his lips truly were.
She shoved her rioting senses deep, dragged in a breath, and succinctly stated, “I need you to take me to Freetown.”
He blinked—which struck her as odd. He was rarely surprised—or, at least, not so surprised that he showed it.
“Freetown?”
He’d stiffened, too—she was sure of it. “Yes.” She frowned. “It’s the capital of the West Africa Colony.” She’d been sure he would know; indeed, she’d assumed he’d visited the place several times.
She stepped into the office. Without shifting her gaze from his, she shut the door on his agitated secretary and the interested denizens of the outer office and walked forward.
He dropped the letter he’d been holding onto his blotter. “Why there?”
As if they were two dangerous animals both of whom knew better than to take their eyes from the other, he, too, kept his gaze locked with hers.
Halting, she faced him with the reassuring width of the desk between them. She could have sat in one of the straight-backed chairs angled to the desk, but if she needed to rail at him, she preferred to be upright; she railed better on her feet.
Of course, while she remained standing, he would stand, too, but with the desk separating them, he didn’t have too much of a height advantage.
She still had to tip up her head to continue to meet his eyes—the color of storm-tossed seas and tempest-wracked Aberdeen skies.
And so piercingly intense. When they interacted professionally, he usually kept that intensity screened.
Yet this wasn’t a professional visit; her entrance had been designed to make that plain, and Royd Frobisher was adept at reading her signs.
Her mouth had gone dry. Luckily, she had her speech prepared. “We received news yesterday that my cousin—second cousin or so—Katherine
