murmured, rushing past Ryan. “He’s going to slaughter Lydia.”
Ryan followed her. “Lydia? You call the pig Lydia?”
She ignored him. “Doctor! Oh, Doctor, please stop, do!” she called down the decks.
The cook turned. “What is it, Miss?”
“You can’t—you mustn’t kill the pig.”
The Doctor glanced at Ryan. “Porker’s all fatted up. I figured it’s time. Skipper?”
Ryan looked at the snuffling, struggling creature under the cook’s arm. He looked at the horror and grief on Isadora’s face. “I suppose we could grant the beast a reprieve,” he said offhandedly. “We’re decently close to Rio, and stores are good.”
“But—”
“Leave go, Doctor. She grieved for three days over that last chicken you stewed. I can’t abide a whining woman.”
The next day Ryan spied Isadora shading her eyes to watch Click and Craven tarring the mainmast. The men swung in saddles, their bare legs and bare chests smudged with tar. They paused in their work to wave at her and, grinning, she waved back.
It wasn’t proper, Ryan thought, her seeing barechested men wherever she turned.
Ducking under a shroud, she didn’t notice him until she was almost upon him.
“Oh,” she said, “Captain Calhoun.”
“I thought I’d take a turn at the helm.” He spoke with elaborate indifference.
She eyed him nervously, as if she did not quite trust him—or herself with him. “I wanted to be topside when we cross the equator. Will you say when?”
He was ridiculously happy to oblige. Perhaps that was the virtue of Isadora. Perhaps that was why the crew indulged her whims. Her wide-eyed curiosity about everything relieved the monotony of the long days at sea.
“Mr. Datty, at the helm, sir,” he called to Timothy.
“Aye, sir.” The boy arrived with a sharp salute that amused Ryan.
He gave the helm to Timothy and his free hand to Isadora. She hesitated, eyeing his hand as if it were a venomous serpent.
“It’s made of flesh and blood like any other man’s,” he said lightly, hiding his annoyance. Color misted her cheeks, and he laughed. “Unless that’s precisely the problem.”
Almost defiantly, she put her hand in his. Hers felt…surprising. Yes, that was it. Women of her station were supposed to have soft, moist skin. Isadora, by contrast, had a sturdy grip and…calluses.
“You take your lessons in sail making and seamanship seriously, I gather,” he said, leading the way to a companion ladder and reaching to help her up.
“I take everything seriously, Captain.”
“I noticed. Why is that, Isadora?” They came to the bow of the ship and he turned to study her.
“I have no idea.”
“There!” Ryan said suddenly, shading his eyes. “There it is!”
“There what is?”
“The equator.” He took out his spyglass and handed it to her.
She closed one eye and peered through it. “What am I looking for?”
“The equator. Isn’t that what you came here to see?”
“See? But—”
“Keep looking.” Furtively, Ryan plucked a hair from his head. On the pretext of adjusting the focus, he held the hair crosswise over the lens. “Now can you see it? The equator?”
“Why, yes,” she crowed, clearly elated. “I do believe I can.” Her mouth curved into a smile that had a disquieting effect on him. “How fascinating. And isn’t that an elephant walking along the line?”
He took the spyglass from her and put it away. “I was fairly certain you wouldn’t fall for that.”
She regarded him with her usual prim disapproval, though her eyes still danced with humor. “I am not in the habit of ‘falling’ for things, Captain. I’ve no idea why you would attempt such a prank with me.”
“To see you smile. You don’t do it often enough, and you should.”
She regarded him somberly. “Why should I?”
“Because…” Ryan began to feel foolish. “Because I order you to, and I’m the captain.”
She rewarded him with a grin. “Then I suppose I have no choice.”
He grinned back. “No, ma’am, I don’t guess you do.” He leaned back against a timber head. “We’re about nine hundred miles out from Rio.”
“It sounds like an unbearably large number.” She shaded her eyes and gazed at the nothingness that surrounded them.
“The briny blue. As far as the eye can see. That’s why I like the crew to get along.”
“They seem to. Even Mr. Click has been quiet this past week. When do you think we’ll make Rio?”
“Within the week. There’s a premium of a hundred dollars a day for each day under average for the whole trip.” He reached up, running his hand along an awning. “This looks good. Is it new?”
“I doused it with salt water,” she said, meeting his puzzled gaze. “Luigi says it prevents mildew.”
“So it does,” Ryan said, and though they spoke of mundane matters, he felt a beat of emotion that had nothing to do with awnings or deadlines or anything but the woman standing with him on his ship.
This was new to him. She was new to him. In the past he’d been drawn to women whose beauty outweighed their brains, whose idle chatter rang louder than their common sense—in short, women who didn’t make him see himself for what he was—a spoiled, shallow young man who hadn’t grasped the importance of social conscience until it was too late. He used to prefer women who didn’t challenge him to be more than he was. But not anymore. He wasn’t certain exactly when or why it had happened, but at some point he had started to feel something soft and new for Isadora Peabody.
“Look,” he said, nervous with the sensations churning in his gut, “I realize we haven’t been getting on—”
“Not for lack of my trying.”
He gritted his teeth to stifle a retort. “Don’t ruin my graciousness by being infuriating.”
“I was not—”
“Only because I’m stopping you. Now, hush up and listen. I was angry about the way you made yourself a part of this enterprise. You used your connections with Abel Easterbrook to your advantage.”
“It’s
