What a strange, magnificent woman.
A duller man would have celebrated. She had come aboard asking for passage and, through some mad alchemy of courage,pride, and diplomatic lunacy, had negotiated herself onto his ship.
He had tried to cut her off.
Instead, he had lashed her to him with his own rope.
Tristan leaned back and stared at the bracelet lying across his palm. The moonstones caught the dim cabin light in cool little sparks. A keepsake, he had called it last night. A hostage, if he were honest. Now it had become neither.
What was wrong with him? It was not like him to sit brooding over meanings. He took prizes, secured them, and dealt with consequences. She wanted Naples. He wanted her. The arrangement was clear enough. He would carry her south, have her in his bed for the duration of the passage, and then put her ashore before she became another thing that had to be cut away.
His fingers closed around the bracelet.
The door opened, and Lorenzo came in with a folded paper in his hand and curiosity shining so brightly in his eyes it might have lit a powder magazine.
“Buonasera, fratello.”
“It is morning.”
“In Italy, somewhere, it is already a better hour.”
With a bow too elegant for a wardroom and too pleased with itself for a military vessel, he extended his hand. “Here is the draft for the refitting order. The dockyard in Plymouth will receive Resolute, inspect her, prod her, insult her, and perhaps return her to us sometime before my grandchildren inherit Lombardy.”
Tristan held out his hand. The draft was neat. HMS Resolute was to be sent to Plymouth for full inspection and refitting. The captain would remain ashore in Brighton pending further orders. Delays justified by hull condition, crew readiness, and necessary stores.
Lies looked better in Lorenzo’s good handwriting. Tristan ripped the paper cleanly in two. Lorenzo blinked.
Tristan tore it again, rose, crossed to the stern window, and flung the pieces out. They scattered in the wind, white against the gray water, then vanished beneath the ship’s wake.
“Prepare to weigh anchor tomorrow.”
Lorenzo was speechless. Tristan didn’t know he had it in him.
Then Lorenzo put both hands on his hips, which was an Italian method of declaring war without troubling the artillery. “But I thought we were keeping the goose in the bush.”
Tristan exhaled. “One beats around the bush.”
“Yes, but why would one beat a bush? What has the bush done? In my version, there is a goose, which gives the matter purpose.”
Tristan lifted his left eyebrow.
Lorenzo shook his head. “Never mind. I thought we were staying.”
Tristan stretched his arms above his head because his body had too much heat in it, and he would not pace like a boy. His shoulders cracked. His shirt pulled tight across his chest. “Plans change.”
“Ah.” Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. “The usual Blackmere eloquence. A whole opera in two words and neither of them useful. Has this sudden change of plans anything to do with a certain siren we rescued from the ropes?”
“No.”
Lorenzo smiled. “That no arrived so quickly it left hoofprints.”
“That is also not an expression.”
“It should be. Fast things deserve evidence.”
Tristan crossed his arms. “You have your orders, Lieutenant.”
His brother’s smile faded, and he stepped back into formality. For all his gestures, all his words, all his absurd insistence on feeling aloud, Lorenzo could obey. He had proved thatover twelve months of rough weather, poor assignments, and Tristan’s colder moods.
