jolt of panic shot through Jeannette when one of Treynor’s fellow officers spoke up.
“Treynor saw someone, too, a certain woman he took to his bed last night. He says she had the body of a goddess. Unfortunately, she also had the makings of a good pugilist."
The others burst into laughter, and Jeannette let her breath go. They were teasing Treynor; they had no real information to give.
Treynor scowled at them, but the solicitor cut off whatever he was about to say.
“I am not searching for a harlot.” Peeved that the sailors had failed to take him more seriously, Moore sniffed. “She is gently born and bred!”
Treynor nodded at another lighter filled with prostitutes. “Then you are looking in the wrong place. They call this Damnation Alley for a reason.” He stepped into the boat as a passing wave made it rock and had to fight to keep his balance. The boat tipped wildly and Jeannette nearly went overboard. Reaching back, he grabbed her by the collar and pulled her down next to him.
The hard muscles of his thigh rubbed against her leg as she landed with a plop on the timbers of the sternsheets, but the solicitor scarcely looked at her.
“Still, I must search. The baron will not rest until he finds her. Should you have any information that could lead to her eventual recovery, please contact me.” Moore handed Treynor his calling card.
Treynor glanced at it, shoved it in his pocket, and signaled the oarsmen. One rose and hauled on the line to pull the boat close to the dock and cast off.
“The baron is offering a hefty reward,” Moore added, calling this information out over the slap of oars.
Jeannette turned her face to the sea. So St. Ives was offering a reward. She had expected him to go to great lengths. It looked as though he wasn’t going to disappoint her. But none of that mattered. She would be in London soon. With Lord Darby's help, certainly she could find a way to avoid St. Ives for good.
If only for a quick, uneventful voyage.
Twenty minutes later, Jeannette looked up to see the ship rising from the water. Much larger than it had appeared on shore, it looked to have eyes all around. As they drew closer, Jeannette realized they were portholes for the long barrels of cannons.
Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought of the Tempest as a fighting machine. Now the full realization hit her. She was about to board a ship that had been purpose-built for battle. Men fought upon her decks, were wounded and maimed. Some suffered terrible deaths. The ship could be blown to bits, burst into flame, or sink into a watery grave.
But not before they reached London, she reminded herself.
Gazing worriedly over her shoulder, she could just see Mr. Moore on the pier, his back to her, stopping passersby. She’d slipped right past him and would soon be safe with Lord Darby. Her family would, no doubt, join her there soon.
If St. Ives only knew how close he’d come...
Too close, Jeannette decided, but she was free. She had only to bide her time. With a silent and very mocking good-bye to Moore, she faced front again.
“The Tempest was built by your countrymen.”
Jeannette started at Treynor’s voice and turned to see him watching her. “Oh?”
“Yes, captured by the English Flora in 1780.” The wind ruffled the lieutenant’s thick, sandy hair as he spoke, and his eyes reflected the blue water surrounding them. He made a pleasant sight, but she forced her attention to the frigate. As they closed the distance, it loomed nearly straight up out of the water.
“C'est tres grand.”
“Not as big as some. She’s fair sized at almost one thousand tons, but she carries only fifty guns.” He pointed to the portholes Jeannette had noticed earlier and continued with unmistakable pride, “Thirty-six long twelve-pound cannon on the main deck, twelve twenty-four pound carronades on the quarterdeck and forecastle, and two long-sixes in the bows, along with a crew of more than five hundred
“Treynor saw someone, too, a certain woman he took to his bed last night. He says she had the body of a goddess. Unfortunately, she also had the makings of a good pugilist."
The others burst into laughter, and Jeannette let her breath go. They were teasing Treynor; they had no real information to give.
Treynor scowled at them, but the solicitor cut off whatever he was about to say.
“I am not searching for a harlot.” Peeved that the sailors had failed to take him more seriously, Moore sniffed. “She is gently born and bred!”
Treynor nodded at another lighter filled with prostitutes. “Then you are looking in the wrong place. They call this Damnation Alley for a reason.” He stepped into the boat as a passing wave made it rock and had to fight to keep his balance. The boat tipped wildly and Jeannette nearly went overboard. Reaching back, he grabbed her by the collar and pulled her down next to him.
The hard muscles of his thigh rubbed against her leg as she landed with a plop on the timbers of the sternsheets, but the solicitor scarcely looked at her.
“Still, I must search. The baron will not rest until he finds her. Should you have any information that could lead to her eventual recovery, please contact me.” Moore handed Treynor his calling card.
Treynor glanced at it, shoved it in his pocket, and signaled the oarsmen. One rose and hauled on the line to pull the boat close to the dock and cast off.
“The baron is offering a hefty reward,” Moore added, calling this information out over the slap of oars.
Jeannette turned her face to the sea. So St. Ives was offering a reward. She had expected him to go to great lengths. It looked as though he wasn’t going to disappoint her. But none of that mattered. She would be in London soon. With Lord Darby's help, certainly she could find a way to avoid St. Ives for good.
If only for a quick, uneventful voyage.
Twenty minutes later, Jeannette looked up to see the ship rising from the water. Much larger than it had appeared on shore, it looked to have eyes all around. As they drew closer, Jeannette realized they were portholes for the long barrels of cannons.
Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought of the Tempest as a fighting machine. Now the full realization hit her. She was about to board a ship that had been purpose-built for battle. Men fought upon her decks, were wounded and maimed. Some suffered terrible deaths. The ship could be blown to bits, burst into flame, or sink into a watery grave.
But not before they reached London, she reminded herself.
Gazing worriedly over her shoulder, she could just see Mr. Moore on the pier, his back to her, stopping passersby. She’d slipped right past him and would soon be safe with Lord Darby. Her family would, no doubt, join her there soon.
If St. Ives only knew how close he’d come...
Too close, Jeannette decided, but she was free. She had only to bide her time. With a silent and very mocking good-bye to Moore, she faced front again.
“The Tempest was built by your countrymen.”
Jeannette started at Treynor’s voice and turned to see him watching her. “Oh?”
“Yes, captured by the English Flora in 1780.” The wind ruffled the lieutenant’s thick, sandy hair as he spoke, and his eyes reflected the blue water surrounding them. He made a pleasant sight, but she forced her attention to the frigate. As they closed the distance, it loomed nearly straight up out of the water.
“C'est tres grand.”
“Not as big as some. She’s fair sized at almost one thousand tons, but she carries only fifty guns.” He pointed to the portholes Jeannette had noticed earlier and continued with unmistakable pride, “Thirty-six long twelve-pound cannon on the main deck, twelve twenty-four pound carronades on the quarterdeck and forecastle, and two long-sixes in the bows, along with a crew of more than five hundred
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