Dr. Farraday's spectacles had been smashed in the mutiny, leaving him half blind and helpless, but he could still hear clearly enough, and he flinched at the thump of the dead first mate's skull dropping against the planks.

Next came the dull, rough sc.r.a.ping of the corpses being dragged across the deck, then four loud splashes in succession, as the drunkard captain, the cruel first mate, and two other hated officers were hurled, lifeless, into the deep.

Victor doubted there was anyone to mourn them. G.o.d help us.

The churning undercurrent of vicious brutality aboard the death ship had exploded into blood and chaos in the blackness of the night before. The conspirators had slain their hated officers at midnight, but then Connor had overmastered the mutineers.

Now the morning sun revealed the damage and restored a shred of sanity, but the acrid smell of gunsmoke still hung upon the air, along with the metallic scent of blood and the rank body odor of too many unwashed men crowded together. Victor's nostrils protested at the vile stench. The smell of death and guilt-and fear.

Though the evil captain and his cronies were dead, along with the dangerous cutthroats who'd concocted the mutiny, now there was only one man on board who reigned supreme. Squinting to see more clearly, Victor turned and looked again at his towering a.s.sistant.

Connor stood nearby with his bloodied fists planted on his waist and a brooding expression on his face. While screeching frigate birds wheeled around the masts, five more bodies were dropped into the cold Atlantic: the rough trio who had organized the mutiny and two others who had gotten in the way.

Connor had killed them all.

It had all begun, of course, in self-defense.

Caught up in their bloodl.u.s.t, the mutineers had sought to continue their rampage; after killing the officers, they had come after the captain's two guests, Connor and him. Victor still shuddered at the memory of the moment the three loathsome men had burst into their stateroom.

Perhaps it was fortunate that the darkness had been building in Connor all the while; with his preternatural senses, he seemed almost to have expected the attack.

Victor, for his part, had not. Slammed against the wall, he had caught only a glimpse of the horror, trying to see through the spiderweb cracks of his spectacles' less damaged lens.

One terrifying glimpse had been enough.

He had seen the ringleader slash at Connor with a knife and miss; Connor then ripped the man's throat out. In short order, three mangled bodies had littered the room, and with his loaded rifle in his hands, Connor had gone stalking out to restore order on deck. By the gyrating flames of the ship's lanterns, he had found the drunk and leaderless crew fighting amongst themselves.

He had only needed to shoot two of them to get the attention of the rest. After that, taking control of the ship had been easy, and Victor was glad that Connor had done it-but he could not get the image of the mauled sailor out of his mind.

It had been years since Victor had seen that b.e.s.t.i.a.l fury come ripping out of Connor, not since that terrible day in the jungle when the young Indian warrior had gone after Eden.

He tried not to think about it much.

The violence she had witnessed in the course of Connor's "rescue" had traumatized his daughter nearly more than the Waroa lad's advances. It had been very badly done.

Afterward, Victor had subjected Connor to a furious interrogation, but had ultimately given his a.s.sistant the benefit of the doubt. Connor had sworn the level of force he had used had been necessary, given the purse of deadly curare that the young warrior had worn dangling from the leather cord around his waist.

A mere scratch even with the milder poison could have paralyzed Eden long enough for the Indian to have done whatever he pleased to her; the stronger sort could have killed her outright. Connor had apologized if it seemed he had gotten carried away, but he vowed he could not tolerate any shadow of harm coming to the girl he had come to think of as his own sweet, young sister. Pleading with Victor not to send him away, he had sworn that such violence was a singular event, a onetime aberration, and would never, on his honor, happen again.

Not wishing to contemplate what might have happened if Connor hadn't come in answer to his daughter's screams, Dr. Farraday had taken the Australian at his word and, since his resilient girl had seemed more or less all right in the end, he had let the matter flow into the past.

But last night, in the b.l.o.o.d.y chaos of the mutiny, the beast within the man had reemerged, and after having been suppressed for so many years, it now showed no sign of any willingness to withdraw again into its hiding place inside Connor's savage heart.

When the final corpse fell into the sea with a careless splash, there was an uneasy silence, but then one of the lowly sailors took a small step forward and addressed their new captain in the humblest of tones: "Uh, Mr. O'Keefe, sir, w-where do we go now?"

The Australian drew himself out of his brooding. "North-northeast."

"North?" one of the others blurted out, a swarthy, piratical fellow with a gold hoop earring and a handkerchief tied around his neck. "Why not south?" He glanced at his mates as though he hoped for the others to back up his suggestion. "There's plum prizes to be taken off the trade in the West Indies shipping lanes. We'll be rich!"

"Aye!" a few started until Connor slammed the man who had spoken out of turn against the mainmast.

His hand was locked around the would-be pirate's throat; and squinting, Victor could make out several inches of air between the man's dangling toes and the planks of the deck as Connor held him aloft. The sailor's legs kicked and he grabbed Connor's wrist, to no avail, choking for air as he tried to free himself from the Australian's viselike grip.

"We are going to England," Connor ordered slowly. "Are you men or animals? Money isn't everything." He dropped the man abruptly, his point made. The sailor knelt forward on the deck, gasping and rubbing his bruised throat. "Now," Connor addressed the others, "if there are no further questions?"

The men cringed, but Victor could only stare at his friend, appalled. This brute was a stranger.

"Don't look at me that way," Connor whispered at him under his breath. "At least you're alive." He turned away once more and addressed the cowering crew in a loud bark: "Now that we've cleared away the filth, let's set this ship on a proper course!"

"Aye, sir!"

They scrambled at once to take up their usual posts, as though relieved that at least someone had taken control. Perhaps brutality was all they understood: the law of the jungle.

"Don't worry, Victor," Connor murmured, looking around at the obedience of his new servants in dark satisfaction. "We are going to rescue Eden now. We'll find her soon and bring her home safely."

You're not going anywhere near my daughter ever again, Victor thought, trembling a little as Connor pivoted and strolled away, his rifle resting over one broad shoulder.

Chapter.

Twelve.

They decided to be married at sea as soon as The Winds of Fortune met up with the Valiant, captained by Jack's uncle, Lord Arthur Knight. Since they were now only about a hundred miles off the coast of Ireland, it wouldn't be long.

In the meantime, Eden threw herself into preparing for her new role in life as the wife and consort of a powerful shipping magnate. There was much to learn and, in truth, more responsibility involved than she had expected. Jack wanted her to understand how his empire was set up, how each branch ran, who his most loyal men were in each division, where the profits came from and how they were invested, and above all, where she could find the secret accounts "in case anything ever happened" to him.

She did not like the sound of that.

Yesterday, he had outlined for her the main pretense he'd be using to explain his return to England after twenty years in exile. As far as the world was concerned, Jack would only be visiting London for the purpose of buying out a compet.i.tor who had been causing trouble for his agents in various far-flung territories.

Today, it was on to reviewing the preparations needed for housing the hundreds of mercenaries that he'd soon be transporting back to South America. The vast storage s.p.a.ces on the orlop and lower gun decks, now filled with timber, sugar, and all the other West Indies goods, would become, on the return trip, the living quarters of his rough-and-tumble recruits. The troops would need food, water, supplies, uniforms, boots, weapons, and other equipment ranging from canteens to bedrolls.

Trailing him at a quick pace as he marched through one of the sprawling s.p.a.ces to be converted into a mess hall for the soldiers, Eden made notes of things she was supposed to remember and hurried to keep up with the rest of the boss's present entourage: Lieutenant Trahern, the now recovered Peter Stockwell, and the purser, who was in charge of all shipboard supplies.

While the men discussed possible problems ranging from ventilation to discipline, Eden found herself musing on how easily she had slipped into the role of helper on account of all her years a.s.sisting Papa in his work. But no sooner had she thought of her sire than she suffered an acute pang of guilt.

Papa had counted on her in his quest for knowledge, and now she had gone over to helping Jack instead. One could not live for one's parents, of course-especially a parent who insisted on secluding himself in the jungle-but still, she couldn't help feeling a bit like a traitor, abandoning him. What he would say to her the next time they met, she could hardly imagine-if he would speak to her at all!

She prayed she had not lost his love, but she knew at the very least he would be furious. Not only had she run away without a by-your-leave, but the next time they met, Papa would find her married-to a decidedly controversial husband-having sought neither his blessing nor his permission. Most fathers would probably take it as a heartless slap in the face.

And the wedding...

She closed her eyes and cringed, sickened to think that she would be married without her papa being there at her wedding. How she wished they could have postponed the ceremony until he found them!-but she knew this was not realistic.

When she had mentioned it halfheartedly to Jack, he had been adamant that they marry without delay. He understood, he said, that Papa's absence would break her heart; but he had far more practical concerns directly impacting her best interest.

He explained that, having given him her innocence, Eden was now vulnerable to ruin until she had secured the legal protection of his name. As much as filial respect prompted her to seek her father's blessing before the marriage was a fait accompli, she knew Jack was right.

It might be months before Papa caught up to them. Meanwhile, the two of them had already become lovers, and a child could be conceived at any time. A baby born too soon after the wedding rather than the full nine months would be deemed by the world a product of impropriety, born in sin.

After suffering Society's harsh treatment all his life on account of his own scandalous birth, Jack refused to allow any child of his to come into the world under the slightest taint of dishonor. In his view, it was not just her that he had to protect, but their firstborn, too.

Eden couldn't argue with that, nor did she really wish to. She wanted to be married to Jack-she did not want to wait. She just wished Papa could have been there, too; but it seemed that this was the price she was going to have to pay for having given in to pa.s.sion. Still, even at so high a cost, she did not regret her choice.

At least not yet.

Indeed, there was much to be nervous about if she were to let herself. Though she managed to thrust aside her fear of her father's reaction, there remained a deep insecurity about what the future might hold. She had given herself to the terror of the West Indies in pa.s.sionate abandon and had agreed to marry him without any guarantees that she would get the kind of normal, settled life that she had stowed away on his ship to pursue in the first place.

Would they be nomads, living aboard this vessel, rootless, moving from port to port? Or would she be like a navy wife, left at home on the sh.o.r.e, raising her children alone while their father was on the other side of the world?

Thinking about it too much started panic boiling in her veins, so she shoved all her fears aside with a will. For now, she was going on faith. What else could she do? He had no answers for her yet. With the destiny of a nation counting on him, Jack's dangerous mission had to take precedence.

Once he had fulfilled his promise to the leaders of the revolution and got back safely, then the two of them could decide how and where they were going to live and raise their family.

Provided, of course, that he survived the mission.

Jarring herself out of the desperation that threatened, she realized Jack and Mr. Trahern were now arguing about the best solution to get more air down into the orlop deck.

"d.a.m.n it, stop questioning me and just do as I told you!" Jack barked at him.

His loyal lieutenant muttered an angry affirmative and stormed off as the captain dismissed the rest.

Eden remained, gazing at him. She leaned against the bulkhead in the dim, narrow pa.s.sageway and shook her head at him after a moment. "Why are you so hard on Trahern?" she asked after the others had gone.

"Why shouldn't I be? I pay him enough."

"Jack," she chided in response to his blunt answer.

"Come, I want to check on a few more items."

"I don't see why you can't treat him a little more kindly," she remarked as she followed him down the pa.s.sage. "Mr. Brody would be well advised to do the same. The old man is as hard on the poor lieutenant as you are."

"The only reason we're hard on him is because we want him to succeed in life," Jack said in a reasonable tone, opening a door for her into one of the storage areas. "Trahern's good-very good-but he came from nothing, and that means he's got to be twice as good as someone of higher birth if he's going to make men heed him."

"Well, that's not fair, if you ask me."

"No, it's not," he agreed. "But it's the way things are. For the lad to be his best, I have to hold him to high standards."

"What standards?"

"Why, the same ones I set for myself. In all honesty, I'm doing him a favor. If he didn't have the potential, I wouldn't bother. Mark this down, would you? These planks need replacing. Remind me to tell the carpenters."

She made a note of it, and then followed him back out into the tight, lamplit corridor. "Jack?"

"Hm?" He still sounded distracted, pausing to inspect some oak.u.m caulking between the planks.

"There's something I've been wondering about."

"What's that?"

"Lady Maura."

He paused, went very still, and then sent an uneasy glance at her over his shoulder. "You know about her?"

"Papa told me she was Aunt Cecily's friend... and that you wanted to marry her, but her parents wouldn't allow it."

He turned to her slowly, the rugged planes and angles of his face gone tense.

"Is this true?" she asked.

"It was a long time ago."

"Yes, but if you nearly married her and now you're going to marry me, at least I'd like to know a little bit about the woman. She must have meant a lot to you."

For a moment, he seemed torn about whether or not to answer. Behind him, some distance down the cramped corridor, a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, arrowing in through one of the square hatches.

"What did she look like?" Eden prompted, smiling at him.

"Brunette. Dark eyes." He shrugged. "I had formed a certain attachment to her, but her parents had their sights set on my elder brother."

"Ah, Robert. The duke? Papa said that Lady Maura was the daughter of a marquess."

He nodded warily. "Marquess of Griffith. His estate borders the Hawkscliffe lands in the North Country, so they wanted to forge an alliance between our two clans. If I had been genuine issue of the ancient Hawkscliffe blood, perhaps they might have considered the suit of a mere second son. Unfortunately, the fact of my b.a.s.t.a.r.dy was an open secret, so any attachment between Maura and me was, shall we say, discouraged."

She furrowed her brow, studying him. "How could it have been an open secret? I mean, how did anybody find out?"

"Oh, dear," he said in a low voice, dropping his gaze as he rested his hands on his waist. "I suppose I'm going to have to tell you all the family secrets."

She arched her eyebrow in question.

He let out a huge sigh and leaned against the bulkhead. "Where to begin... ?"

Eden leaned across from him in the narrow pa.s.sageway, intrigued. Around them, the ship creaked rhythmically in the belowdecks gloom.

Jack stared at her for a long moment. "My mother's name was Georgiana Knight, the d.u.c.h.ess of Hawkscliffe. As a young wife and mother of one son-Robert, named for his father-she discovered that her husband had a mistress hidden away in a quaint little love nest just outside London, and she was... incensed. Well, h.e.l.l hath no fury like a woman scorned, and so Georgiana set out to teach her duke a lesson he would never forget."

Eden listened, wide-eyed.

"She decided to cuckold him, quite publicly. She deliberately opted for a man below her station. If she had chosen another peer of the realm, a duel would have been necessary to preserve honor. I don't know how much you know about dueling, but men don't duel against those who are their obvious social inferiors. Mother didn't want her duke to be killed, obviously. She wanted my brother Robert to have his father alive as he grew up. Another problem she faced was finding a man with the courage to bed the wife of a man as powerful as the Duke of Hawkscliffe. She was beautiful, but her husband was a bosom friend of the King. Well, she found her perfect specimen in the boxing champion, Sam O'Shay. The Killarney Crusher," he said wryly. "My dear old dad."

Eden's lips formed an "oh" but no sound came out.