The Least Likely Bride

But that was her main fear. A few years ago, way back at the beginning of this interminable war, an attempt had been made to abduct Olivia and hold her for ransom. The abductor had taken the wrong girl… or, it might be said with the benefit of hindsight, the right girl, since Portia, Lord Granville’s niece, was now her onetime abductor’s ecstatically happy wife.

With Cato away, Phoebe felt responsible. She knew he wouldn’t hold her so, but Olivia was her husband’s daughter as well as her own dearest friend, and in Lord Granville’s absence, Lady Granville was supposedly his locum in the household. But Cato never objected to Olivia’s roaming unattended. The island was safe. It was occupied by Parliament’s forces, whose presence was everywhere, the inhabitants were peaceful although for the most part staunchly Royalist; and the king’s imprisonment in Carisbrooke Castle was being conducted with the utmost grace and civility.

So where was Olivia? If she’d been hurt, someone would have found her. She’d have found some way to send a message home.

Phoebe moved the child to her other breast and leaned her head against the window frame, looking down into the garden. The scent of wallflowers rose thick and sweet from the bed planted beneath the window; a small fountain played musically in the center of the pond set in the middle of the lawns. It was a soothing and peaceful scene that didn’t lend itself to thoughts of violent abductions, hideous injuries.

She concentrated all her thoughts on Olivia, with whom she’d lived for close on six years. She knew Olivia almost as well as she knew herself. They were bound by ties that transcended mere friendship. Phoebe closed her eyes and pictured Olivia, with her penetrating black eyes, the little frown of concentration that had almost permanent residence between her thick black eyebrows, the full bow of her mouth. She allowed Olivia’s presence to fill her mind so that she could almost feel her beside her.

The baby had fallen asleep, allowing the nipple to slide from his rosebud mouth. Phoebe cradled his head in the palm of her hand as she slipped her free hand into the pocket of her gown. Her fingers closed over the little ring of braided hair that she carried always. Portia had taken locks of their hair and made three rings at the very beginning of their friendship when they’d all sworn they would never succumb to marriage and the ordinary lot of women. Two of them had succumbed to marriage, but definitely not to the ordinarily submissive role of married women. Only Olivia remained with her oath completely inviolate. And knowing Olivia, she would probably remain so, Phoebe thought.

Portia had braided the rings as a joke, making them mingle their blood in a vow of eternal friendship. Phoebe knew that Olivia, like herself, always carried her ring. Portia probably didn’t; it was a little too sentimental and whimsical for the soldierly Portia. But as she held the ring, Phoebe knew that if any harm had come to Olivia, she would know it in her bones. And the knowledge just wasn’t there.

So just what was Olivia up to?

Olivia left the cabin, barefoot, in her borrowed raiment. She had to clutch the wall of the narrow corridor once or twice when the vessel broke into a particularly exuberant dance across the waves and her still rather wobbly legs threatened to give way.

A ladderlike staircase was at the far end of the corridor. Sunshine puddled onto the floor at the foot of the steps, pouring from an open hatchway where Olivia could see a wedge of blue sky and the corner of a white sail.

She scrambled up the steps and emerged blinking onto the sun-soaked deck under the vivid blue brightness of the morning. The decking was smooth and warm beneath her bare soles, and the wind caught her makeshift gown, pressing it to her body one minute, sending it billowing like a tent the next.

Olivia looked around at the orderly bustle of men laughing and singing as they handled blocks and tackle, shinnied into the rigging, spliced rope. No one seemed to notice her as she stood at the head of the companionway, wondering where to go.

Then she heard a familiar voice calling out an order, and she looked behind her to see the master of the ship on the high quarterdeck, standing behind the helmsman at the wheel.

The golden head was thrown back as he looked up at the sails, feet apart, legs braced on the moving deck, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed against the sun. His tones were calm and unhurried, but his posture, his expression, were both taut and alert.

Olivia hesitated for a moment, then made her way to the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. She climbed slowly, needing to catch her breath at every step, but despite slightly shaky legs she felt as free and light as one of the seagulls wheeling and diving overhead.

“Well, what a resourceful creature you’ve turned out to be,” Anthony observed as she stepped onto the dazzling white decking. His eyes crinkled, a smile gleamed as he took in her costume.

“Do you mind?” Olivia grabbed the rail as a gust of wind filled the big mainsail and the ship heeled sharply.

“Not in the least. It’s an ingenious use of a garment for which I myself have no use at all,” he responded with a careless gesture.

Abruptly Olivia wondered where he’d been sleeping while she’d been occupying his bed. A slight flush warmed her cheeks and she turned her studied attention to the landscape.

“You don’t mind my coming up here?” She shaded her eyes to look out across the expanse of water, welcoming the breeze that cooled her cheeks.

He shook his head. “Not if you feel strong enough. But don’t forget that you’ve spent three days on your back.”

“I feel perfectly strong,” Olivia asserted, reflecting that it was not entirely true.

Anthony didn’t believe her; she was still far too wan for robust health, and he knew better than anyone how much essence of feverfew, wormwood, and poppy juice he’d poured down her resistant throat in the last few days.

“I only look so pale and limp because I’ve just left my bed,” Olivia said, reading his shrewdly assessing gaze correctly. “I need to bathe and wash my hair. I feel grubby.”

He nodded with a little accepting shrug. “That can be arranged later. We might even be able to find you some fresh water.”

“Hot water?” she asked eagerly.

“That might present more of a problem. But if you speak really nicely to Adam, it could be forthcoming.”

“Galleon on the port bow,” a voice sang out from way above Olivia’s head. She looked up into the rigging and made out a tiny figure standing on a ledge way at the top of the mizzenmast.

“Ah, good!” the master of Wind Dancer said with obvious satisfaction. “Now we’ll wear ship, Jethro.”

“Aye, sir.” The helmsman began to turn the wheel.

Anthony kept his eyes on the mainsail now, whistling softly between his teeth, then he said crisply, “Olivia, hold the rail, we’re ready to go about.”

“Go about where?” Olivia looked puzzled. Where was there to go?

He only laughed. “I forgot you’re a landlubber. Just hold the rail as the great boom swings over.”

Olivia did as he said, and clung tightly to the railing as he called a series of incomprehensible orders that took men swarming into the rigging, loosening shrouds as the frigate swung into the wind. The massive boom hung in the air for a moment, the mainsail empty of wind, then as the helmsman put the wheel hard over, the wind caught the sail and the boom swung to starboard with a thump. The sails filled once more and Wind Dancer skipped along on her new tack.

Now Olivia could see that the painted ship she’d noticed from the cabin was much closer, sailing straight towards them, it seemed.

She waited until everything had settled down again and the ship’s master was once more serenely looking up at the sails, hands still clasped at his back.

“What is that?” She pointed to the painted ship.

“Ah, now that is the Dona Elena.” He looked down at her and his eyes were alight with pure mischief. “We’ve been waiting for her to venture forth from her cozy harbor for several days.”

“Why… why have you been waiting for her?”

“Because I am going to catch her.” He took a telescoped spyglass from the pocket of his britches, opened it, and examined the painted ship. “Have you ever seen a Spanish galleon before?”

Olivia shook her head.

“Here, take a look.” He handed her the glass.

Olivia put it to her eye and the garish vessel sprang into her vision. “Why are you going to c-catch her?” She flushed with annoyance at the slight stammer. “I wish I c-could stop that!” C was the hardest consonant for her, and despite all her best efforts she still sometimes stumbled. “It’s only when I’m excited or upset or cross,” she added disconsolately.

Anthony said cheerfully, “I find it appealing.”

Olivia looked astounded. “You do?”

He laughed down at her. “Yes, I do. Now, guess why I want to catch the galleon. I told you I live off the sea, remember?”

Olivia slowly lowered the glass. She looked at him in dawning comprehension. This was certainly no gentleman. “That’s piracy.”

“Yes, indeed it is.” Now unsmiling, Anthony regarded her. He knew the kind of response he wanted from her. But would she give it to him? During the days he’d tended her through the fevered concussion, he thought that he had recognized in Olivia the flicker of true individuality that was the bedrock of his own personality.

But did she have the courage to blow that independent spark into full flame? Would she throw background and caution to the wind and give in to adventure?

It seemed important to him to find out. He waited, watching her face.

Olivia frowned at him, speculation in her dark eyes. “But… but it’s dangerous.”

“Therein lies the appeal.”

“Does it?” Olivia wondered, the murmur little more than a softly spoken reflection of her own thoughts. Was danger appealing? A little tremor lifted the fine hairs on her nape, and she glanced quickly up at the pirate. He smiled slowly at her and she found herself returning the conspiratorial smile.

She looked again through the glass. The galleon seemed much bigger than Wind Dancer, its four great sails billowing. And now she could see banks of oars along the side, rhythmically sweeping the sea. “She’s going very fast,” she said consideringly, pursing her lips. “Is she faster than your ship? C-can you c-calculate her speed?”

The little stumble of excitement had given Anthony his answer, and he hid a smile of satisfaction.

“She’s more cumbersome than Wind Dancer. She responds much more slowly to the helm. Of course, under full sail and with the slaves at full sweep, she could outrun us.”

“Slaves?”

“Galley slaves. You see the oars?”

Olivia nodded, still looking through the glass.

“You’ll smell them soon enough.” His mouth curled in disgust and the amusement vanished from his eye. “They’re kept permanently chained to the oars. They hose them down periodically.”

“How barbarous!” Olivia’s voice quivered with indignation. “Shall you set them free when you’ve taken the ship?”

Anthony laughed silently. “You have no doubts that we’ll succeed in this little venture, then?”

Olivia looked up at him again, her eyes agleam. “No, indeed not. I assume you’ve planned every move with the greatest c-care. You will have taken into account things like wind and tide and the speed of the oars. Things of that nature.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed gravely. “All things of that nature have been accounted for.”

“I would like to know how to make such calculations,” she said thoughtfully. “Mathematics is a favorite subject of mine.”

“More so than Greek philosophy?”

Olivia gave the matter some thought. “Sometimes I prefer one, and sometimes the other. It depends if a particular aspect captures my interest.”