George followed him about with an expense ledger as Sloan first paid a visit to a number of merchants, ordering shipments of fowl and dried beef, vegetables, and several crates of provisions. At last all purchases were complete, their delivery in progress. Sloan glanced up at the sky. It was cloudless. The beauty of it somewhat eased the darkness of his soul.
“What now, Cap’n?” George queried. If he had felt any rancor toward Sloan for his night in the brig, he gave no sign.
Sloan shrugged. “Enjoy yourself, George. The Wild Boar Tavern offers good stiff drink—and round, cheerful maids!”
George shuffled his feet. “And what of you, Cap’n?”
“I should see the lord mayor—”
“And if I may suggest, Captain Treveryan,” George interrupted a little nervously, “you should drink a pint with the men.” George blushed as Sloan stared at him, startled by this familiarity. “It’s been rough sailing, lately, Cap’n,” George continued, trying not to stutter. “I just meant to suggest—I mean, you’ve a loyal crew, Cap’n, but they enjoy the sight of you, the feeling that you are one of us.”
Sloan burst out laughing and clapped George affectionately upon the shoulder. “George, my boy, if you ever get over that stuttering, you’re going to make one hell of a sailor! Come along, and we’ll definitely down a pint or two!”
Or three or four, Sloan added silently to himself. He would love to get roaring drunk. Maybe he could clear his head that way and convince himself that there was nothing special about the lass who had so captivated his heart. She was a woman like any other; arms, legs, breasts, hips. In the darkness it was all the same.
But it wasn’t. No other woman had eyes so beautifully blue; no other had skin as soft as Oriental silk. Limbs so wickedly long to move against him, breasts so full yet so firm to tease his fingers and chest. A voice that touched his soul with a whisper.
He scowled as he walked beside George, thinking that bedding wenches was a seaman’s sport—each offered the same, and each offered something new. Joan had been his mistress, yet he had never owed her loyalty, and every port offered a comely lass willing to ease a captain’s needs. Brianna…she was just a woman.
He sighed softly as they reached the boisterous tavern, unaware that George was watching him and guessing curiously at his thoughts. What was it about her that tied him in knots of longing and guilt? He had stripped her of her purity, but that had truthfully not been his fault. He could not have left her in Scotland, she would surely have died. And now…now he could not bear the thought of her with another man, without feeling a blinding rage.
“Captain Treveryan!”
He smiled as he was greeted warmly by his men within the tavern. Tankards were raised high to him and one was pressed into his hands. Toasts rose in his welcome. “To the finest rogue ever to sail the seas—be he a lord at that!”
Laughter filled the room. Sloan raised his tankard in return. “To the scurviest lot of rowdies e’er to crew a ship!” he returned. “And—the finest!”
He turned to the innkeeper—a man who had entertained his crew often. “Master Lawton, the drinks are on me. Just see that they all manage to stumble back to the ship by nightfall! And”—he pulled George around by the neck of the shirt—“see that my friend here, young Percy, has the finest time the place can offer!”
Loud guffaws and cheers followed the announcement. George blushed furiously but didn’t object when a pretty and very buxom wench took up the cue and slid her arms around him.
“Master Percy!” she murmured, “L’il Annie will promise to see that you have the finest time available.…”
Sloan chuckled as Annie led a wide-eyed George up the stairs. He took his tankard to a table and stretched out his legs, continuing to banter with the men about the education George was sure to receive. The ale he drank finally began to relax him and lighten his mood. He would, he promised, drink until he could forget her.
“Please! I must see Lord Treveryan!”
Sloan glanced up as a young girl rushed awkwardly into the tavern. It was obvious from her simple dress and manner that she did not frequent such places, and yet she was anxious to see him.
Sloan stood, frowning. As he appraised the nervous young girl with the flaxen hair, he dimly remembered having seen her before. Then he recalled where. She was a servant within the lord mayor’s household.
“Here I am, girl. What would you have of me?”
The tavern fell silent as she wound her way through men and tables toward him, nervously wringing her hands. “Lord Treveryan, you are in grave danger.” She fell silent, staring about her.
“Speak freely, girl. These are all my men,” Sloan said.
She began to speak again, fumbling for her words. “A man has come with king’s troops. His name is Matthews and he awaits you at the lord mayor’s house. He is in black, and his eyes burn. He—he—intends to put you in shackles and—and hang you!”
“Matthews?” Sloan repeated incredulously. How the devil had the man moved overland so quickly? He moved forward and gripped the girl’s shoulder gently. “Tell me, how many men has he?”
“I—I don’t know. Perhaps fifty. Perhaps a hundred. They are split. Some await you at the lord mayor’s house. Matthews himself has gone to your ship. He wants a girl.”
Sloan’s face whitened.
“To the ship!” a man roared.
“Nay!” Sloan thundered, raising a hand. “We are outnumbered, my lads, and therefore we must outwit Matthews. Robin!” he called to the sailor who had harassed him. “Come with me to the grain merchant. We will don wigs and capes and go to theSea Hawkas delivery boys. We will find out if they have boarded her. Geoff—you take command here until I return. Be prepared for my word when I know what we must do.”
