"I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

Damian was sitting on the deck eating a bowl of thin gruel. It contained a lump of unidentifiable meat that might have come from any animal, and he hoped it wasn't a rat. Since it was early in the voyage, there was no reason to suspect it might be. The cook had to still have salted beef in the galley. Didn't he? He shuddered and forced down the tough bite.

The ship's doctor had just made a ridiculous speech, informing them-since they would only be fed twice a day-they needed to eat what they were served even if they didn't like it. He'd declared it their duty as loyal citizens of the Crown to stay healthy on the journey so they'd be able to work hard once they arrived in Botany Bay.

His comments had evoked gales of laughter from the miserable group who couldn't care less about king or country, and there was no chance of anyone failing to clean his plate. Most of them had spent a large portion of their lives nearly starving and any food was considered good enough.

He glanced up at the man who'd accosted him, and he tried to appear polite and respectful, but very firm too. The man was tall and plump and showed no signs of the malnutrition that affected so many others. He was a bully who took what he wanted from people who were weaker.

"Give it to me," the man snarled.

"I don't have any coins, sir. I'm an orphan, and I'm certain I'm the poorest person on this vessel."

"I know Michael Scott, and I saw him meeting with you before we sailed."

"If you know Mr. Scott as you claim you do, then I can't imagine why you're speaking to me in that tone."

"He may have been a friend of yours when you crawled around in the gutter in London, but he's a long distance away. His fancy name can't protect you."

"No, I dare say I can protect myself."

"Yes, you're a regular ferocious lion, aren't you?"

"I'm minding my own business, and I wish you'd leave me to my dinner."

"You're one of Scott's harem, aren't you? I bet you've committed hundreds of crimes at his behest."

"You're wrong."

"Michael Scott looks after his own, and he's no pauper. Give me that bag!"

The man flung Damian's bowl to the side, sending his meager meal across the deck so he'd be hungry all day. Then he reached into Damian's shirt and extracted the bag Damian had denied having. He shook the pouch, chortling with glee as the coins clinked together.

"I thought you said you had nothing!"

"I must have forgotten it was there."

"From now on, you'll give me whatever I ask. If I have to search for it, you'll be sorry."

"Yes, sir."

The man clouted him on the head, merely to let others see how horrid he could be. Damian suffered the blow with good grace, but as the fiend turned away, he muttered, "You'll regret that."

Kit was next to him, having silently observed the encounter, and he asked, "What did you say?"

"I said he'll regret it. In the future, everyone who mistreats me has to pay."

The hulking oaf walked down the deck and began pestering a boy who was smaller and younger than Damian. The guards didn't intervene. They rarely involved themselves in the prisoners' quarrels. They seemed to enjoy the bickering; it broke up the monotony.

"How will you make him pay?" Kit inquired. "He's bigger and older and crueler than you."

"He might be bigger and older, but he's not crueler."

"He'll be inflicting himself on us the remainder of the trip."

"No, he won't."

"Why not?"

"He won't bother us much longer."

"Why won't he? Will a wave sweep him into the ocean? Will lightning strike him dead? What?"

"You never know." Damian was already calculating the sort of accident that could befall the man.

"I hate that he took your money."

"Don't worry. I'll get it back."

Kit peered nervously around the deck. "Don't say that so loud."

"Why?"

"Because if he's harmed, they'll blame you."

"They can blame me. It really doesn't matter anymore."

"If you died, what would become of me?"

"I expect you'd survive."

"I'm not too sure." Kit scowled. "Promise you won't do anything stupid."

"Me? Be stupid? No. From this point on, whatever I do, it will always be something that's very, very smart."

"What if it's smart, but you're caught anyway?"

"Then I'll pay the price."

"I don't want you paying any prices. It's not worth it. Especially not over an ogre like him."

Their tormenter had grabbed a boy by the ankle and was threatening to hurl him overboard. The boy was screaming in terror, and it was a bit too much for the guards. They ordered him to put the boy down, and the idiot was dropped on his head, the impact knocking him unconscious.

People went back to their scanty victuals, pretending no assault had occurred.

"I don't understand adults," Kit murmured. "Why must they be so mean?"

"No one is brave enough to make them stop." Damian stared at the man, then nodded. "I'll make him stop. It might take a while, but I will."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. There were chores to be done, prayers to be said, school lessons to be learned, but the subjects were so far beneath him that he couldn't force himself to concentrate.

Supper was served, and the fare was gruel again. He wolfed his down, desperate to be certain every drop landed in his belly before anyone could throw it on the deck.

Ultimately he crawled below to sleep in the narrow bunk he'd been assigned to share with Kit. In such close quarters, they might have tossed and turned and kept each other awake, but at bedtime they were so exhausted that they slumbered soundly.

The next morning as the bell rang to summon them onto the deck for prayers and breakfast, they dressed and clambered up the ladder. As they assembled, they could see that trouble was brewing on the other side of the ship.

The captain and First Officer were there. Several guards were there too. They were huddled together, frowning and gesturing into the hold.

The preacher continued preaching, expecting the boys to chime in at the appropriate spots. Usually they raced through the words because the faster they were spoken, the sooner they could eat.

"What happened?" was the whisper that drifted down the row.

"Someone died," was the reply that wafted by.

"Who was it?"

"The bully who picked on everybody."

"He was stabbed in the heart, quick and quiet, as if a ghost snuck in and sucked the life out of him..."

Kit glared at Damian, a brow raised in question, but Damian stared straight ahead. He studied the rolling waves, curious as to how he'd remain sane during the arduous journey, curious as to how many months would pass before they arrived.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Damian was in the sitting room of the master suite. He'd found a fancy chair in the library and had had it dragged in and positioned in the center of the floor. It was large and ornate, like a piece of furniture a king would use. He lounged against the cushions and glanced at the clock on the mantle over the fireplace.

It was one o'clock, the hour he'd told Miles to arrive and beg for mercy. Of course, as he'd predicted, Miles was too much of a coward to put in an appearance. According to the men who worked in the stable, Miles had stolen a horse and ridden away immediately after his failed card game.

No one had seen him since, and Damian had considered chasing him down and retrieving the horse, but he wouldn't fight over trifles. He was simply glad Miles had left with so little trouble.

Kit was standing at his side along with a few guards. They'd been joined by the upper-level servants. They all loathed Miles and would relish the chance to view the spectacle. Word would spread through the neighborhood that he could have protected his female kin, but he hadn't. Miles had always been adept at gliding away from unpleasant situations, but this time there would be no hiding his true tendencies.

The clock chimed, and Damian grinned, delighted to have been proved right.

"Are we finished?" Kit asked. "You know he's not coming."

"I know," Damian said. "I merely wanted everyone else to know too." He gestured to the servants. "There's no need to tarry. You can head downstairs and resume your chores."

But before they could move, motion erupted out in the hall, and to his stunned surprise Miss Fogarty entered.

Clearly she'd fussed over the image she wished to project. Her hair was styled in a fancy way, with curls and braids and flowers woven into the strands. She'd donned a glorious blue gown with a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. It had a full skirt with petticoats that swished when she walked. The bodice was cut very low, and she was wearing a corset that was laced very tight so she was displaying a fascinating amount of cleavage.

Every man present focused in on her like hounds at the hunt who'd scented the fox.

"Miss Fogarty?" he huffed. "What are you doing here?"

Without replying, she approached and fell to her knees, her palms on the floor so she looked like a sinner prostrate at an altar.

"My dearest Mr. Drummond," she said, "I most humbly apologize to you for all the hurts that were inflicted on you by my family."

He scowled. "Miss Fogarty..."

"I realize you were hoping my cousin, Miles, would come, but I have come in his stead. Have mercy on me, my aunt, and my cousin, Sophia. We are terribly sorry for every wrong you suffered, and we most respectfully beseech you to forgive us."

"Miss Fogarty...Georgina..."

"We implore you to let us remain at Kirkwood. We regret the actions of our male relatives. They were cruel to you when you were just a boy, and you didn't deserve what happened. But Kirkwood has always been our home, and we entreat you to allow us to stay."

Damian was too astonished to respond. People were furtively peeking at him, uneasy at witnessing her emotional appeal. It had been genuine and heartrending.

"Get up, Miss Fogarty," he murmured.

"I'm begging you, Mr. Drummond, and if need be, I will beg you until I draw my last breath."

Damian glared down at her, feeling torn and irked. She shouldn't be begging and prostrate. It was supposed to have been Miles, with Damian understanding that Miles wouldn't oblige him. The whole purpose of the idiotic episode had been to embarrass Miles, to demonstrate for the staff that he was a selfish dolt, but she'd wrecked his scheme.

Her poignant remarks would be repeated over and over. She'd be painted as a martyr, and he'd be painted the villain.

He waved to Kit, and Kit started herding everyone out the door. Shortly the room was empty, and an awkward silence descended.

"Your audience is gone, Miss Fogarty. You can stop now."

"Not until you answer me," she had the audacity to retort. "Will you have mercy?"

"No," he scoffed.

"Why not?" She gazed up at him. "Isn't this what you wanted? For a Marshall to beg?"

"I wanted your Uncle Edward to beg. I wanted your cousin, Miles, to beg. Your words are like dust in the wind. I can't hear them."

She stood and came closer, falling to her knees again, and she was near enough to rest her hands on his thighs. He could perceive the heat emanating from her body, could smell a subtle whiff of perfume.

"No matter what I try," she said, "it won't help, will it?"

"No."

"You had decided before I ever arrived."

"I decided long ago, probably the first time I was starving on a London street, and I stole an apple from a shopkeeper's basket. I vowed I would return and show no mercy."