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kept watch through the small hours. After reporting no activity of any kind, Hassan retreated to his cabin to get some sleep.
    Alone, Rafe paced the open deck, welcoming the chill breeze off the river, eyes scanning the largely flat fields rolling back from the banks to meet the foothills of the distant mountains. Snowcaps gleamed as the sun touched the peaks. The sky was a tapestry of shifting clouds, thick enough to block the sun. Waterbirds wheeled overhead, disturbed by the passage of the boat.
    He fought to keep his attention on his surroundings, to engage his mind with evaluating the potential for ambush, likely hiding places, the chances of cultists getting close enough to board.
    Anything to keep his mind from his dreams, from the increasingly explicit images that had taken root in his imagination.
    To keep his thoughts from the woman of said dreams who he’d learned was sleeping in the cabin next to his.
    “It is a fine morning, is it not?”
    Rafe swung to see the captain coming toward him from the bridge. Rafe inclined his head, politely said, “I imagine the weather can turn nasty at this time of year.”
    “Indeed, indeed.” The captain nodded sagely, halting two paces away. “However, Herr Jordan, I wished to ask why you and your friend are so watchful—even to standing guard through the night.” Shrewd eyes fixed on Rafe’s face. “Is there something I should know?”
    Rafe considered, then said, “Two days before we left Buda, before she hired myself and Rivers, Lady Congreve was attacked in the street. We assumed it was merely street thieves, but … it seemed wise to keep watch. Lady Congreve has been a party to many diplomatic missions over the years. No telling who might decide they hold a grudge.”
    The captain’s brows had risen; concern filled his eyes. “I would be very sorry were any harm to befall Lady Congreve while she was on my boat.”
    Rafe said nothing.
    The captain regarded him for several moments, then said, “If there is anything I or my crew might do to assist, you have but to ask.”
    “Thank you.” Rafe half bowed. “I don’t expect anything to come of it, but should anything happen, that’s good to know.”
    Late that afternoon, Loretta was forced to escape the salon to avoid responding too sharply to the pointed comments of the other ladies, artfully orchestrated by Esme, on the subject of one too-handsome ex-captain.
    Exasperated, she climbed to the observation deck, certain that, with the brisk wind currently strafing across the river, it would be deserted.
    It was. Except for the subject of the conversations she’d just fled.
    She hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering where else she could go, but then he glanced back and saw her dithering. Lifting her chin, she calmly—much more calmly than she felt—stalked forward to join him at the forward rail.
    This couldn’t go on; she was going to have to get over her reaction to him. Perhaps heightened exposure would deaden her senses.
    He was leaning on the rail. She was grateful that, as she halted beside him, he didn’t straighten, leaving his head level with hers.
    He didn’t say anything, either, simply watched her for amoment, then, when she kept her gaze locked on the river before them, faced forward, too.
    Irritation, frustration, a certain level of anger; she felt those emotions well and churn. A good foot separated them, yet her senses were rioting; she felt an insane, irrational, nearly overwhelming desire to shift to her right, close the distance between them and snuggle into his warmth, the warmth she could feel reaching for her, a seductive lure, protection against the wind, and something more.
    Gripping the rail, she stood straight and tall, head high. “Given your mission, shouldn’t you be riding hard for England?”
    She made no effort to disguise the waspishness of her tone.
    He turned his head and looked at her; his gaze lingered on her face for long enough to have her desperate to