"You could be more polite, darling," Serena pleasantly murmured as he swung her out onto the floor. "I think you frightened young Lieutenant Mallory."

"Let's leave," Beau bluntly declared, never having been so long a model of restraint, his civility badly strained.

"We can't leave together."

"And particularly now, I suppose," he replied with a sigh, understanding she'd have to be told soon, with the curious already beginning to stare. "I just frightened the liver out of Dufferin in the card room." At her questioning glance, he added, "The dolt made an oblique reference to seeing us at the York Hotel."

"How oblique?" Serena slowly inquired, suddenly aware of the avid interest of numerous guests.

"Not oblique enough, damn his stupidity," Beau replied, grimacing faintly. "But he apologized up and down and sideways after I pointed out his error."

Despite his casual assessment, she could read between the lines. "You threatened him."

"No, actually I didn't. I just told him he must have been mistaken."

"That's all?" Her relief was obvious.

"Something along those lines," he noncommittally said. "It's over. No one was hurt. But lord, Serena," he exasperatedly complained, "the tedium is unsupportable. Pray this party breaks up soon because I'm about to carry you off and damn the consequences."

"Why don't you go? I understand; I'll come when I can."

"And leave you fair game to all these lecherous men? Not likely." This from a man who had previously considered sharing women a pleasant diversion.

"You could dance with me until the band disperses," she suggested, her expression diverted.

He groaned.

"Or you could keep Damien and his cronies company over there." She indicated the group of men deep in discussion in the alcove near the door. "And when it's possible, we'll make our escape."

"You're going to have to pay, you know-for this dull foray into respectability. I'll expect due compensation," he sardonically murmured.

"And I'll give it to you gladly," Serena indulgently replied. "I'm having enormous fun."

He was startled enough to stop dancing for a moment, the possibility of such sincere enjoyment in this most commonplace evening beyond his comprehension. "Really," he said.

"Go," she retorted, smiling at his bewilderment. "You couldn't possibly understand."

And he chose Damien's circle as the lesser of two evils, spending the remainder of the evening half listening to talk of war. He added a comment occasionally, his awareness of events au courant with his informal role as courier for the Foreign Office. The debate over Napoleon's sincere interest for peace was hotly contested. Some blamed Austria's intransigence, others Napoleon's ambitions. Pitt came under attack on several points as well.

Mention of the recent controversy in the card room never came up, although everyone in the room had heard of Lord Dufferin's remarks. No one was foolhardy enough to touch on the subject in Beau's presence.

So disaster was averted.

And Miss Blythe's first dance in society was a huge success.

12.

When they returned to the hotel, Beau found himself wishing they could leave Lisbon immediately so he could have Serena to himself again without all his numerous acquaintances interfering, gossiping, asking questions he didn't care to answer. But Serena's wardrobe wouldn't be ready for another day yet, so he consoled himself with sending a note to Mr. Berry, instructing him to have the Siren ready to cast off at dawn one day hence.

In order to avoid meeting any more overly curious acquaintances, the following morning he offered to take Serena to the lush upland country north of Lisbon where the nobles had their summer homes. For centuries Sintra had been their retreat from the unpleasant heat of the city and the picturesque landscape was the stuff of paradise. Arriving at lunchtime, they chose a cozy inn beside a stream for their midday meal. The fire was warm inside, the view of the rushing water and dark greenery, the rugged terrain of peaks and valleys outside their window like a lush, evocative painting.

They ate leisurely, enjoying the solitude of the off season and the ministrations of the proprietress bustling about, bringing them all manner of delicacies from her kitchen. And later in the afternoon they toured the Seteais Palace, the most elegant of princely abodes, its staterooms so sumptuous it seemed incomprehensible that the structure was regarded as a rustic summer retreat. They admired the Quinta de Monserrate, a Moorish castle built eight hundred years earlier during the Muslim occupation, and several other of an infinite variety of summer retreats incredible for their beauty.

On the drive back to the city that evening, they watched the sun set behind the shadowed peaks, the display magnificent, and they were both touched by the delicate, shifting colors tinting the sky as if they'd not seen such a sight before. And perhaps they never had in precisely that way, with the rose-colored lenses of love adding radiance to the world.

They stayed in that evening, although Beau politely inquired whether Serena would prefer going out, resigned to a last evening in society if she wished. Jane Maxwell's note had been waiting for them at the hotel with an open invitation to visit them.

"I like being with you best," Serena had said.

And her simple statement filled him with contentment, a rare feeling occurring more frequently of late. He was glad to be away from England, he told himself, from all the ennui of the fashionable world, where nothing changed but the women in his bed. Freedom from those cloying amusements no doubt figured strongly in his content, he reflected.

Serena was less prone to rationalize away her feelings.

She knew she was in love.

When the awaited message from Captain Berry arrived-the supplies for Miss Blythe are aboard, he'd cryptically written to his employer-Beau called in the hotel staff to pack their belongings. Serena oversaw the removal of her painting supplies while Beau attended to the gratuities for the staff, and after sending off brief notes to Damien and the Maxwells they were prepared to go.

The weather cooperated in the Atlantic, where winter gales could be hazardous, and they passed through the Strait of Gibraltar two days later without sighting any craft. But the crew had been on alert since their departure from Lisbon. The Spanish fleet at Cadiz and Cartagena, although preferring to sit out the war in safety, occasionally made forays along the coast, while the French navy base at Toulon, engaged in supplying the blockaded garrison at Malta, had all manner of craft in the Mediterranean. Either would see the Siren as a lucrative prize.

Their new course to Minorca put them well within French and Spanish waters, a fact Beau chose not to mention to Serena because they might well arrive in Minorca without problem. The position of enemy vessels was always a gamble and until the fourth morning through the Strait of Gibraltar, they sailed unmolested.

The sun had just begun to lighten the sky, the blackness turning to gray, the ships newly sighted on the horizon only hazy shapes to the Siren's lookout. But soon the stars overhead were invisible and the lookout's accustomed eye could pierce the dimness. Watching the ships' outlines emerge as the silver of dawn started showing the faintest hint of pink, he strained his eyes, trying to make out the shape of the topsails and staysails, knowing the French carried wider upper sails and triangular staysails. Waiting, he peered intently at the three vessels ten miles dead ahead. With Britain dominating the Mediterranean, it would be rare for the Royal Navy to proceed so lightly protected, he thought, observing what appeared to be a single ship of the line with two escorts making her way north. Impatiently he fidgeted on his lookout perch until the specks creeping toward them resolved into a low, fine-bowed French frigate and two fast corvettes.

"Enemy sails in sight!" he screamed.

Waking with a start, Beau leaped from bed. Grabbing his breeches and weapons he'd placed nearby for such an eventuality, he shoved his legs into his breeches, jerked them up, buttoned them hastily, and buckled on his sword belt with a few rough tugs. Striding to the door, he brusquely said, "Stay in the cabin." He was no more than a shadowed form in the half-light, his voice a stranger's voice, detached, distracted. "There's no time to watch you," he added as if in afterthought, as if the courtesy of an explanation had just occurred to him. And pulling the door open, he was gone.

"Clear for action!" Serena heard him shout, his cry echoing down the passageway, his footsteps racing toward the hatchway, and a flutter of fear quivered through her, all the lurid stories of Barbary pirates and bloody naval battles filling her mind as the drumbeat to quarters rolled through the craft. The harsh grating of the gun ports opening gave indication of the fight to come, the rumbling of the cannon being run out both comforting and harrowing. The creaking of sails as every centimeter of canvas was spread for their run resonated in Serena's ears, generating a clutch of fear in her stomach. And whoever the enemy, there was no question this time of involving herself. In a pitched battle at sea, she was helpless, her presence on deck a liability. Moving from the bed to Beau's large armchair, which was bolted to the floor near his desk, she picked up his jacket he'd tossed on the seat last night, and settling into the deep leather chair, covered herself with his coat. His scent enveloped her, calming for a second the tumult in her brain and then, like so many in extremity, she thought about praying for the first time in years.

Standing on the deck, Beau gazed at the ships ahead. "What's their flag?" he shouted to the lookout clinging to his perch on the foremast.

"French, sir, the Genereux and escorts! She's altering course and leaving us to the cruisers, sir!"

The Genereux had survived Aboukir, Beau knew. She must have been blown off course en route to the French port at Toulon. He took note of the corvettes wearing 'round to face about and challenge them.

The Siren's carronades were in place-the new lighter guns designed for close-range fighting-the decks were wetted and sanded against fire, the hoses rigged to the pumps should they take a hit below the waterline, and all fires extinguished. In short, the Siren was readied by her well-drilled crew in a matter of minutes.

Each corvette carried eighteen or twenty guns, perhaps as many as forty, against their ten. Not exactly an even fight, Beau reflected. But if they turned and ran, they had a great distance back to Gibraltar through hostile waters with two fast ships on their heels. Minorca was only short hours away. "Make the Siren fly, Mr. Berry," Beau ordered, training his glass for a moment on the corvettes bearing down on them. "We're going through them and make a run for Minorca. Mr. Slade," he called down to the seaman in charge of the gunnery, "see that the matches in your tubs are alight." With all the spray breaking aboard, the flintlock trigger mechanism couldn't be relied on until the guns grew hot, and the old-fashioned method of ignition might have to be used. Beau stared again at the vessels advancing toward them. "Mr. Berry, I want the best quartermaster at the wheel. There's not going to be much of a gap between the corvettes. I need a steady hand."

"We'll be passing mighty close," Berry cautiously noted, always dependable but aware of the tight maneuvering necessary.

"Unless they panic and veer off. We'll see," Beau murmured, standing utterly still, the strong wind whipping his hair into disheveled curls, his face without emotion. The possibility they would collide bow to bow was a calculated risk.

But if they went through them, they had a chance.

He was dressed simply, like his men, stripped for action down to breeches; some had bandannas tied around their heads to keep the sweat from their eyes, while the gunners had their ears covered against the noise of the cannon. Cutlasses, swords, pistols were at their waists and they all knew the drill should boarding be required.

Crowding on all sails, the Siren surged forward, slicing through the seas, making straight for the French ships, the rigging snapping in the wind, the crew poised for action.

"Stand by, Mr. Slade," Beau called down. "Fire your chase guns at eighteen hundred yards. Let's see if we can slow them down." Then from the corner of his mouth to the man at the wheel, he said, "Hold her on course."

The Siren was only a year old, adapted from Ozanne's designs for the French Diligente, regarded as the fastest vessel ever built. Or the second fastest now, those familiar with the Siren asserted. And in the next few minutes, if the Siren could elude the corvettes' guns, she could outrun the French ships.

"They've opened fire, sir," Berry said, standing beside Beau. "Larboard bow."

Beau looked just in time to see a puff of smoke blown to shreds by the wind. The sound of the shot didn't reach them. It was bad policy to open fire at long range, he thought, his anxiety over the enemy's skill lessening. Better to wait until there was possibility of doing maximum harm.

"Steady, Mr. Slade," Beau shouted. "Hold your fire."

Another puff of smoke from the corvette on the starboard bow and this time they heard the sound of the shot as it passed overhead between the yards.

Beau took a last glance up at the weathervane and at the shivering topsails. "Now, Mr. Slade," he rasped, "let's show them what English gunners can do."

Beau's gunnery crews were superb, their regular training assuring them a high degree of accuracy, and both bow guns went off simultaneously in a rolling crash that shook the ship to her keel. The billow of smoke that enveloped the deck momentarily was blown away almost instantly by the strong wind so they could see both shots crashing into the corvettes.

"Right on target, sir," Berry said, sniffing the bitter powder smoke eddying around them.

"Good shooting, Mr. Slade," Beau called out. "Use the long guns until we meet and then hold your fire on the carronades until I give the order-and dismantling shot in every other carronade."

Staring narrow-eyed at the French corvettes coming down remorselessly on them, shot pouring from their guns, foam rushing by their bows, Beau made rapid calculations, judging wind and sea, time and distance, comparing their speeds, visualizing the minimum clearance they'd need to slide through the narrow gap, hoping the French aim didn't improve for a few minutes more. They were firing wild.

"Go at them," he said, steadying his quartermaster, the distance closing between them. If the French ships let them through, they weren't apt to fire at the Siren and risk hitting each other. And his gunners would have one chance for a broadside. The corvettes' other option was a high-speed collision. So a bluff was a bluff was a bluff. Beau felt his pulse racing, his glass to his eye, sweeping the corvettes' gun ports, thinking the steady whine of cannonball overhead either clumsy shooting or an attempt to dismantle their sail.

With a hundred yards separating the vessels, the Siren's long guns struck home, battering the corvettes. The din of firing was prodigious.

Seventy yards to close.

And not enough room to run between them.

"Steady," Beau sharply ordered the man at the wheel as the Siren's deck was swept from end to end with shot for the first time. And it seemed for a minute as though the heavens were falling around him. He felt the deck leap as the shots struck home, heard screams from his men, felt splinters and debris shriek by him, and then he was struck and flung down into the blood on the deck, some of the mizzen rigging falling down and entangling him. Struggling to free himself, he got to his feet, dizzy and shaken. But he saw the quartermaster still at the wheel and knew the Siren was on course. "Afterguard," he roared, his voice sounding raspy in his ears. "Axes here, cut away that rigging!"

And as a rush of men came pounding up with axes and cutlasses, others were dragging wounded men along the deck and down the hatchways to the cockpit below.

He steadied himself against the rail, waiting for the dizziness to pass, wiping away the blood dripping down his cheek.

Thirty yards and still on collision course. There wasn't much time. He forced his mind to concentrate. "Hold your fire," he yelled, his voice hoarse from the smoke.

Twenty yards separated them-seconds at this speed.

Would the French risk a head-on collision?

And then the corvettes swerved violently to port and starboard and the Siren shot between them, passing within a dozen feet of each. Bow slipped by bow, foremast passed foremast, and then foremast passed mainmast. Beau was looking aft and as soon as he saw the aftermast gun bore on target, he shouted, "Fire!"

Mr. Slade's gunnery crews opened broadside, the Siren lifting to the recoil of the guns. The carronades raked the corvettes' decks from stem to stern, the sound of discharge ear-splitting. Then even before the wind had time to blow away the smoke the guns were reloaded, run out, and fired again. Once more, the Siren's guns pounded the French vessels, the carronades so hot that the dripping sponges thrust down their bores sizzled and steamed at the touch of the hot metal.

Beau counted three broadsides-an unbelievable loading time-before the Siren broke free of the gauntlet. The smoke banked thick about the ship so it was impossible to see individuals, only the long orange flashes of the guns.

Of the corvettes all that was visible was their tall topmasts jutting above the high cloud of smoke.

"Look at that, sir!" Berry said, his form rising out of the greasy trailing wreaths of gunpowder. "They're wrecked!"

Beau tried to look through the eddying mist and then a breeze rolled away the smoke, revealing the scene behind them.

The two French vessels were in ruins, their sails hanging in tatters, mizzen, foremast, mizzen topsail, and all the crossjack yards shot away.

A loud cheer went up from the men, a screaming, jubilant cry of victory as the gap between the Siren and the enemy swiftly widened. Through his glass Beau could see the corvettes' decks black with men struggling with the wreck of the masts. Pursuit was impossible now. He exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and snapped the glass shut.

"That was fine shooting, sir," Mr. Berry said, his grin shining through the haze of gunpowder still shrouding the deck.

"We blew them to hell," Beau happily agreed, smiling broadly. "Give the men my compliments, Mr. Berry."

"The frogs haven't learned to shoot any better since last time at Noirmoutier, sir," the captain said. "We took only light damage."

Beau's gaze swept the Siren's masts and rigging; only one topsail and the mizzen were damaged. "After the wounded are attended to, see to those sails, Mr. Berry. I've Miss Blythe to calm and then I'll be back to help."

"Ladies don't run into this excitement every day, I warrant," the captain said, still beaming at their triumph. "You leave the rest to me."

"Tell the crew there's shore leave for everyone in Minorca and an extra month's wages to spend on the ladies," Beau said.

"Very good, sir. You're wounded yourself, sir," Berry briskly added, restraining himself from suggesting that a doctor's care might be in order.

"I'll see to it later," Beau replied and, turning away, he made for the hatchway, the haze of powder still thick belowdecks. He called out to Serena as he reached the cabin to allay her fear, to give her some warning of who was approaching her door. But she gasped nonetheless when he stepped over the threshold, shocked at the sight of him.

His body was streaked with gunpowder and splashed with blood from flying splinters and from the cuts he'd sustained when the rigging had fallen. A long gash over his right eye was still bleeding, a rivulet of blood coursing down his cheek.

"It's nothing serious," he said, his tone temperate, hoping to alleviate her alarm. And then he saw how pale she was and swiftly moving toward her he anxiously asked, "Are you hurt?" He looked for shot damage that could have harmed her as he crossed the cabin, broken glass crunching beneath his feet.

She shook her head, not capable of speaking, her ears still ringing from the cannons, the taste of gunpowder bitter in her mouth, the sight of Beau covered in blood contradicting his bland statement of good health.

"I'd hold you but I'd ruin your clothes," he said, leaning over her huddled, frightened figure. "We're free of the French," he gently added. "All's well and we're making for Minorca. Are you sure you're not hurt?" he tenderly repeated. "Let me have the doctor check you."

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to speak because she didn't want him to think her so timorous and cowardly. "I'm not hurt," she whispered, trembling despite every effort to appear brave.

"Could you stay alone for just a short time more?" he quietly asked, squatting down so their eyes were on level, touching her hand lightly with his bloodstained fingers, torn between her distress and his men's injuries. "I have to help with the wounded."

She tried not to shudder at the thought of wounded, at the sight of his bloody hands and the stain on her skin where he'd touched her. "Yes," she said on a suffocated breath, nodding in additional affirmation, still too shaken by the stark reality of battle stations to converse in a normal tone.

"A half hour, no more, and I'll be back," Beau promised, standing upright, brushing away a drop of blood that had fallen into his eye. "I wouldn't go on deck yet," he softly warned.

"I won't," she whispered.