"From the way he stood," Jane said. "As if on a ship's deck."

"And he barks orders like a real man," Emma added. "He's very handsome, too."

Jane nodded. "All ships' captains are. We should know, for we're descendants of a captain ourselves."

"I owe you both my deepest grat.i.tude," Marcail said.

"Never fear," Emma said, smiling brightly. "We'll keep Mr. and Mrs. MacClannahan busy for a while longer."

"Yes," agreed Jane. "Mr. MacClannahan will be gone a good ten minutes fetching that shawl, for the one I described to him is here." She lifted the small blanket she'd tossed over her lap and revealed a red-and-gold brocade shawl. She replaced the blanket, her eyes twinkling. "When he doesn't find it in my room, he'll think to appease me and just fetch a different one. But I won't be appeased."

"Jane is very good at not being appeased," Emma added earnestly.

Marcail chuckled. "Thank you both for your a.s.sistance. But why are you doing this for me? You've been so kind, yet we just met."

"You remind us of our niece," Emma said.

"Besides, we were talking the other day about how we don't have enough adventures," Jane added. "It's obvious to us that you're on an adventure now-a big one, judging by your search for a mysterious red-haired woman and being accompanied by such a handsome sea captain. That's a very good adventure."

"Very good," Emma agreed. "It could be in a book."

"So we're borrowing a little bit of your adventure so that we can call it ours, too."

"You are more than welcome to join my adventure, but hopefully it will come to an end very soon."

The Frenchman's thin voice could no longer be heard, so Marcail went to the window to see how William had fared. Poston was just stepping back from several men, one of them the Frenchman. He was tall and angular, his expression one of sneering pride. He wore thick face paint and had a black chapeau pinned to his tightly curled black hair.

Emma came to stand beside Marcail. "I hate to say it, but that Frenchman is a royal pain the a.r.s.e. This morning he wanted more of this and more of that, and didn't like his tea that hot or his water that cold. Such a commotion!"

"Some people just want to be the center of attention," Marcail said absently, watching Poston argue with a footman.

"Lud, yes. That Frenchman was most rude to the help, too. It was almost as if he wanted people to pay attention to him," Jane added.

Marcail watched as the Frenchman stood stiffly while Poston searched his bags. Odd, how some people courted even bad attention, as if- She frowned and leaned forward. The Frenchman had turned his head to say something to one of his men, and his profile itched something in the back of her mind.

On an impulse, she leaned forward and unlatched the window, letting in the voices of the men in the inn yard.

The Frenchman said something to one of his men, his voice loud and clear, and Marcail whirled and ran toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Emma asked, blinking. "What-"

"That's no Frenchman!" Marcail called as she ran out the door.

A letter from William Hurst to his brother Michael as he prepared for his first expedition.

I'm very happy that you're following your dreams. I've discovered that they are fragile things and must be fed if they are to live long enough to turn into reality. There are only two things that will feed a dream: action and honesty. If you are honest enough to face your dream, with all its limitations, and willing to take whatever action is necessary to make up for those limitations, then there is a good chance you will be one of the few to succeed.

CHAPTER 17.

William crossed his arms and looked at the woman seated before him. "Miss Challoner, I believe?"

She pressed her lips together and refused to say a word.

When Marcail had come running out of the inn, yelling, "She isn't French!" and pointing at "Monsieur L'Roche," he had sent a shocked gaze at the "Frenchman"-just as she'd whipped a pistol from beneath her coat and pointed it straight at him.

He'd been caught completely off guard. Had it not been for Marcail's quick thinking in grabbing up a loose cobblestone and throwing it at Miss Challoner, the end of their adventure could have been quite different. But Marcail's aim had been true; the stone had hit the woman's wrist, making her drop her pistol, which had harmlessly gone off when it hit the ground.

All mayhem had broken loose then, for the "Frenchman" wasn't traveling with only one servant, but with all ten of the men Poston had been searching in the courtyard.

It had been a grand fight. Poston was nursing a split lip and a black eye, while William's cheek was bruised and one knuckle was bleeding from having nicked it on someone's tooth. Several of the footmen were nursing sore heads, but they'd all given better than they'd gotten.

Now it was time for some answers.

Miss Challoner languidly crossed one velvet-clad leg over the other, but her eyes snapped green fire. "You may ask me all you wish, but I'm not answering you." Her gaze flickered toward the window and then back.

William caught the quicksilver movement. "If you're thinking of making a run for it, I would suggest that you don't." He nodded toward Marcail, who lifted her pistol threateningly.

They were sitting in the small parlor, the door locked with Marcail sitting beside it.

William had to hold back his grin. He was so proud of her. Was there nothing she couldn't do? It would be worth it to take the time and find out.

He reluctantly returned his gaze to their prisoner. For now he had other things to see to; regaining possession of the onyx box and discovering who had been so ruthlessly blackmailing Marcail. "Miss Challoner, I would hate to hurt you, but if you run-" He shrugged.

"I wouldn't mind hurting you," Marcail said, "So please feel free to make a dash for it. The door to your right is rather close."

Miss Challoner shot an angry glance at Marcail, but remained in her seat. "I have no choice, do I?" Her voice lilted with a faint Scottish accent.

"No, you don't," William said.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair. "Would you mind if I take off this wig? It itches."

He shrugged.

She reached for the wig.

Marcail c.o.c.ked the pistol, the noise loud in the quiet room.

Miss Challoner paused. "I'm not going to pull any tricks; my head really does itch. I would think you know how wigs are."

"I also know how untrustworthy you are. If you make a sudden move of any kind, I'll shoot you."

Miss Challoner glared, but removed the black wig to reveal deep red braids entwined about her head like a crown. She tossed the wig to one side. "So ... how did you find me?"

It was odd, but even dressed in her masculine attire, the woman was seductively feminine. Why didn't I see that? William wondered. "You are very cleverly disguised."

"It served me well in the past, but today ..." Her gaze flickered toward Marcail. "What gave me away?"

"Your accent," Marcail said. "It's not very French." She shrugged. "French farces are quite popular for the afternoon shows and are often performed by authentic French troupes. I heard your voice and knew instantly that you were many things, but French wasn't one of them."

Miss Challoner nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have to work on that."

"Right now," William said, "you're going to work on telling us where the onyx box is, and who you are delivering it to."

"I suppose I would be wasting time if I pretend I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's over." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Where is the box?"

Her gaze once again flickered past him to the door.

"No one is coming to rescue you; all of your minions have been disposed of. It's time you told the truth."

She sighed. "I suppose you're right." Her gaze ran over him. "You look like your brother."

William frowned. He certainly hadn't expected that. "Which brother?"

"Robert."

Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands, but not before William caught a light in her eyes. Oh ho. Is that how it is? "How do you know Robert?"

She shrugged, the movement elegant and a.s.sured. "Our paths have crossed."

William took off his greatcoat and hung it over a chair. "I see." He wasn't sure he did, but when he next saw Robert, he'd make sure he did. "So, Miss Challoner-I believe that's your real name?"

"For now."

Marcail snorted her disbelief, which made William bite his lip. "Well, Miss Challoner, I believe you have something that belongs to me. I will have it now."

"I don't have it. In fact, I'm sorry to say that I already delivered it."

"To whom?" Marcail asked.

William could hear the stress in her husky voice. He caught her gaze and gave her a rea.s.suring wink, and a faint smile curved her lips.

When William turned his gaze back to their prisoner she gave him a smug smile. "Very sweet."

"The box, please."

"You are wasting your time and mine; I'm not telling you anything."

His gaze narrowed. "Things will go easier for you if you cooperate. You are in a lot of trouble. Not only did you steal something-"

"Something that had already been stolen. Will you mention that to the constable?" Her gaze narrowed on Marcail. "Or will I?"

William smoothly interjected, "I have no idea what you're talking about. No one stole anything from me. I gave it to Marcail when she told me she was being blackmailed."

Marcail sent him an astonished glance, then a pleased smile.

"I see you've made your peace," Miss Challoner said.

"That's none of your concern. Who sent you to fetch the box?"

She laughed. "I would be a fool to blurt out all of my secrets. As would you."

"Please let me shoot her," Marcail said.

William had to laugh.

"This woman has made my life h.e.l.l for the last year. I deserve at least one shot."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed their prisoner's face. So you're not immune to fear, are you? William pretended to consider Marcail's request. "I wouldn't want her killed. That would be difficult to explain."

"What if I only shoot her foot? I'm sure I can hit it from here."

The woman whipped around. "Have you ever shot a pistol?"

"No." Marcail lifted the muzzle in the general direction of their prisoner's feet. "But it doesn't seem all that difficult. I might hit your leg instead of your foot, but that wouldn't bother me."

The woman's gaze went from the pistol to Marcail. "I don't blame you for being angry. It's been very difficult for me, as well." She leaned forward, her gaze locked with Marcail's. "I haven't had a choice in this, either. I only did what I had to do. Surely you, who've been on your own as long as I have, understand that."

Marcail found that she couldn't disagree. She did know what that was like. She lowered the gun the slightest bit. "Be that as it may, I cannot pretend that you're an innocent in all of this. You've stolen thousands of pounds from me, destroyed my peace, caused me untold hours of lost sleep, and now you're not going to blame me if I am angry? How generous of you."

William crossed his arms. "Miss Challoner, if I were you, I'd tell everything I knew. As you can see, there is very little keeping Miss Beauchamp in her chair."

Miss Challoner's jaw tightened. "I suppose it doesn't matter. I didn't wish to be involved in this from the beginning, but I was being blackmailed as well."

"By whom?" William asked.

"By the same person who is blackmailing Miss Beauchamp."

"What for?"

Miss Challoner's mouth thinned. "I'm not saying."

Marcail stood. "Would you like to select a toe for me to aim for or should I try for the biggest one?"

"I cannot expose the man or he'll-" Miss Challoner's eyes widened as Marcail advanced.

The pistol lowered to Miss Challoner's foot. "Well?" Marcail asked softly. "Is he worth a toe? or perhaps two?"

"I suppose it won't matter, as you're bound to discover it for yourself sooner or later. His name is Aniston," Miss Challoner said in a rush. "George Aniston. He is the cousin of the Duke of Albany and-"

"What?" Marcail gasped.