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your safety as well as my crew’s.”
    He smiled, taking the edge off of his speech. “A beautiful lady can easily break half-a-dozen sailors’ hearts merely by smiling at them. And your smile, I daresay, could cause an epidemic of fatalities.”
    He removed his hand.
    “Will you do as I ask? And be kind to both me and my crew? So no blood will be spilled over you?”
    “Aye, sir,” she replied softly, losing herself for a moment.
    He’d just called her “beautiful.” She felt a delightful heat course through her entire body. And it was not the sun’s brightness that had brought about this sudden warmth. It was the afterglow of his compliment.
    Slowly, she nodded in reluctant agreement.
    “I will do as you wish, Lieutenant Smythe. I’ll pretend to be your betrothed.”
    “Good,” he said, catching sight of the bow of a sleek modern frigate over her right shoulder. It was anchored in the near distance from the harbor.
    A smile of pride lit his face. “Ah, there she is . . . The Brunswick.”

Chapter 4
    Sitting tranquilly anchored in the harbor was a British frigate with forty portholes for large metal cannons. It was a double-decked, fifth-rated sloop with an elegant modern hull designed expressly for speed. Even to Sarah’s inexperienced eyes, the warship appeared to be outstandingly modern compared to the other larger vessels nearby.
    The frigate’s three masts stood tall and erect over the small Irish harbor. The mast to the right of the middle, known as the mizzen, was in the process of being repaired. A long piece of lumber, the size of a full-grown tree, was slowly being set in place
    A crew of able-bodied seamen, she noticed, scrambled about on the top deck. An officer stood to one side barking out orders with the use of a brass, speaking trumpet. The men clambered agilely about the riggings making necessary repairs under the watchful eyes of the ship’s master carpenter.
    The sounds of hands at work, sawing and hammering, along with the strong smell of pitching tar, filled the air around the frigate. They slowly approached it on the much smaller Irish fishing craft.
    When they reached its starboard side, an “Ahoy” was shouted up by Lieutenant Smythe.
    An answering crewmember’s head appeared over the stern. With a nod of greeting and the wave of a hand, the man acknowledged them. He disappeared from view and then lowered a wood seat suspended from two sturdy ropes, known as the baggy wrinkle.
    The seaman clambered down the side to help them.
    Robert greeted him with warm familiarity, handing over the small craft to be anchored. A hook was lowered and Sarah’s small traveling chest was attached. The wood container held a few worldly possessions, bottled medicinal herbs and oils, the basic tools of her profession.
    Warily, she eyed the suspended wood seat.
    Although she knew how to swim, she nervously rubbed her arms. Afraid, her heart quailed inside her chest. She had visions of herself falling from the small seat into the cold sea below.
    Oh, no . Please don’t have them expect me to get into that flimsy contraption!
    For a woman who had traveled through some of the most dangerous places in Ireland, she still had one great fear . . . she was afraid of heights. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d been brought up on Varrik Island’s lone, high hill. But she’d learned at an early age to hug the side of the dirt path, never looking down over the steep edge.
    Gazing up the high, smooth side of the frigate made her queasy. The frigate was as tall as any church tower she’d ever seen. She realized how far up she was about to be dangled by the two ropes. She felt a lump of fear in her throat.
    Noting her nervous expression, Robert said in reassuring tones, “’Tis perfectly safe, my dear. I’ll be there beside you before your feet touch the deck.”
    The crewman looked up at the couple. A pleased smile spread across his tanned face. He tipped his hat at her.
    “Excuse me for asking, sir . .