how to turn the situation to their advantage. Won’t work with Katherine, though, and of course, I’d have to kill you if you tried,” Jaxbury said conversationally. “But Phil—damn me if you wouldn’t be doing us all a favor.”
“Are you and Captain Kinloch—”
“Good God, no. Like a sister to me.”
A sister. Only a corpse or a blood relative could look at Captain Kinloch and feel that way. His disbelief must have been evident, because Jaxbury laughed. “You’d feel the same if you’d been the one to deliver her child.” Her child! Jaxbury made a face. “Bloody disgusting! At the same time, a damned miracle. Never look at her the same. May as well be the Virgin Mary.”
“So you haven’t told her my identity.” But Jaxbury’s other revelation still had him reeling. Captain Kinloch had a child. Whose child?
“Wouldn’t want your blood on my hands. I’ll give you fair warning, she holds no affection for you.” And James knew why. Even ten years later, the sight of those Corsair xebecs butted up against that British merchant ship was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. He’d let loose with everything in his power to save it, knowing full well what awaited those on board if they were captured. If he’d succeeded, he might have saved Katherine Kinloch, as well.
“So sorry about the Henry’s Cross,” Jaxbury said solemnly. “Tragic.”
A strangling grief ripped his chest. Memories of the recent wreck swarmed like bees, and for a moment he relived the terror—giant, nighttime waves, splintering wood, the invincible Henry’s Cross pulled under like a bit of flotsam. Had any of his men survived? “We were headed back to Britain,” he managed. And it would have been his last voyage. The moment his feet touched land, he’d planned to go directly to the Admiralty to tender his resignation.
“You’re in luck, then, on that count,” Jaxbury said. “We, too, sail for Britain.”
“Britain!” He said the word with too much force and ended up in a fit of coughing.
Jaxbury filled the mug and held it for him. A simple necklace of mismatched beads on braided twine peeked out from beneath his tunic. “Aye. The captain has business to attend to in Scotland. No doubt you’re aware of her change in status.”
James managed a drink of water and nodded once. “Nothing to drive a person home—” he coughed again and inhaled deeply “—like a title.” It hadn’t worked for him, but it should have.
Jaxbury leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a seriousness James would never have believed his carefree childhood friend capable of. “Do not presume to understand her.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” God, they could not reach Britain quickly enough. Perhaps he would not spend even a single night in London. Perhaps he would go directly to Croston Hall. The sooner he could shut himself away in the library with every bottle of cognac in Croston’s reserve, the sooner he could forget how much he’d once loved the sea, and that sometime in the past year—two years? three?—life had seemed to turn gray.
Perhaps he’d stay foxed for a month.
“Katherine is first and foremost a captain,” Jaxbury went on, “and until we reach London you’d best not forget it.”
“Not sure how I could.” He imagined a voyage spent in chains and briefly considered revealing his identity to Captain Kinloch just to exercise its leverage. But his identity was the only weapon he had, and it would be a shame to play that card too soon.
“And make no mistake—she’s a damned fine one. Taught her everything I know, but some things cannot be taught, as you well know. She’s got a sixth sense for the sea, and it carries her on its bosom like a babe on a teat.”
The image was entirely unhelpful. “Then I shall consider myself in the most competent of hands.”
Jaxbury leaned back, smiling once more. “Precisely.”
* * *
HOURS LATER, JAMES opened his eyes to a pitch-black cabin and realized two things: the ship was being tossed by a squall, and someone was crying. Crying and squeezing his hand.
“Who’s there?” he rasped into the darkness.
There was a sob and a sniffle. “It’s Anne,” came a tiny, muffled voice from a small figure hunched against the side of the bed. Wood creaked and groaned with the ship’s heave and fall. The cabin echoed with the crash of waves against the hull. “I c-can’t find Mr. B-Bogles!” she sobbed. “The big waves came, and I was s-scared, so I went into William’s cabin, and I thought he c-came with me, but then...but then...” Despair wracked her little body and stole her words. The ship heaved. Crashed.
This had to be the child whose birth had raised Lady Katherine to saintly heights in William’s eyes. And it was a good guess this Mr. Bogles walked on four legs, not two.
“Where is your mother?”
“On deck with the others,” Anne said in a trembling voice. “Usually somebody stays with me when the big waves come, but Mama said they need all hands going through the strait!”
The strait—in a squall, at night? Bloody hell, he’d survived one wreck only to perish in another. The ship crashed harder than the last time, and Captain Kinloch’s daughter pressed her face into the bed.
“I don’t like it when the big waves come,” she said into the linens. Her hand tightened around his and he felt it in his chest. He reached for her with his other hand, but the yank of the chain stopped him. “Please help me find him,” came her tiny voice.
“Can’t, little one. The chains.” And even if he were free, it was doubtful he could walk.
“I will unlock them!” she cried. “And then you will find my kitty!”
Unlock— Good God. “Anne, your mother—” Would likely cut off his balls.
“Please,” she begged pitifully. “Please, I know you aren’t well, but if I unlock them, will you please find him?” Heave. Crash. A wet face pressed into the back of his hand.
His balls for a cat. An excellent exchange. “I shall try,” he breathed, holding out hope that she didn’t know where the keys were kept. But her shadowy figure moved away. The ship heaved and she stumbled, crossing to the other side of the cabin. In the faint light from the windows he saw her feeling her way along the dressing table. Wood slid against wood—a drawer. And then the heavenly clang of keys.
Never had freedom rung with such impending doom.
She returned, still sniffling. Her hands felt for his arm, slid up to his wrist. Her fingers circled the shackle, feeling for the keyhole, then let him go. He heard her sorting through the keys. Sniffling. She was so small the bed only came up to her belly.
Heave. Crash. She grabbed for him, nearly losing her balance. Fumbled with the keys. Tested them with a small child’s clumsiness. And then—
Click. The shackle popped open. “I did it!” she cried. “Please hurry!”
He loosed the key and unlocked the other shackle. The moment both arms were free he struggled to sit up, and blood rushed from his head. He
