How to Be a Proper Lady

to her men. Everything atop was industrious preparation.

“Cozening up to the crew already in hopes of a mutinous promotion, Seton?”

“No, sir.” His very fine mouth barely tilted up at one corner. “Merely doing my job.”

She forced herself to look away from that mouth to the decks and rigging and dozen sailors heaving the capstan round, weighing anchor, getting under way just as she would have it. Her crewmen took to Seton’s leadership naturally. She couldn’t blame them. His very stance suggested command-confident yet easy-the sort of mien she’d struggled for years to perfect so that when her father’s long illness finally took him, she was able to be an effective master over five dozen men.

The sky sparkled bright blue, the bay water inviting, the breeze fresh and promising. But a frisson of unease tickled her neck swaddled in thick fabric.

“Everything in order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All hands aboard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve never sailed under a woman before, have you, Seton?”

“No, sir.”

Of course he hadn’t. She could count on one finger the female shipmasters she had met in her life.

“You may call me captain.”

“I will call you whatever you wish.” His tone was unremarkable enough, but a glint lit his light eyes.

She didn’t trust him. He’d said she would not regret taking him on. But pirates lied as a habit. She doubted he intended revenge. He seemed more the sort to demand what he wanted-as he had demanded she hire him on.

He had not yet called her captain.

She met his stare as she had in the rain when, nearly naked and strapped to the mizzenmast, he’d been her prisoner. Now he wore neat trousers, a pristine white shirt that complemented his tan skin, a simple linen waistcoat and cravat, and an expression of ever-so-mild challenge on his handsome face, as if he needn’t even bother with a more threatening air.

She broadened her stance, the comforting weight of the pistol on her sash bumping against her breast.

“What are you staring at, sailor?”

His ice eyes did not flicker. “My captain, ma’am.”

“Get back to work, Seton.”

He bowed.

Bowed?

Then he did as she ordered. Viola drew in a long breath and headed toward her cabin. They hadn’t left port and already he was mocking her. She had made a foolish mistake taking him aboard. But she certainly would not admit it now, even sitting at dock while she could still send him packing. Perhaps once they were seaboard she could throw over some of the cargo, make her load lighter, and run down to Trinidad that much quicker. Or she could throw Seton over.

He had never seen anything like it. And the more he observed, the more astounded he became.

They worshipped her. From her bit-sized cabin boy to the mountain manning the helm who made Big Mattie look like a child’s doll, every one of her crewmen treated her like a queen. Like a queen they could not get enough of. When she was out of hearing they spoke of her in reverent terms. Complimentary terms. Affectionate terms. When she was atop they alternately fawned on her or snapped to her orders without a grumble. Mattie and Billy were already head over ears, the two-faced idiots. But even stolid Matouba seemed to be coming under her spell.

Jin was not a man to be befuddled. But he was.

To a certain extent, he did understand their besotment. Most sailors saw few women in the course of things, and even fewer women without rouge, brass-tinted hair, and sickly white skin from days spent sleeping off the night’s work. When she removed the hat that gave her the look of a witch crossed with a sandbag, Viola Carlyle’s cheeks glowed with life. The hair she bound in a braid or knot was richly dark and curling in satin twirls everywhere it escaped its bonds. And her skin was smooth and fine despite her years at sea. She was a taking woman, even if she never showed a glimpse of the sweet, curved figure he’d seen dockside. Her crewmen were bound to admire her.

But there was more to their devotion. It required no more than several days in the men’s company to understand that.

“Cap’n says as she’ll read to us tonight like she done last cruise.” A narrow, salty fellow going into his sixth decade mounted a yardarm, making ready to strike a tattered sail.

“I likes that one ’bout the fellow what’s got nicked in the heel with the arrow,” his partner, a dark youth, replied as he climbed the rigging. “His mum better’ve dipped him in that river up to her elbow instead.”

They chuckled.

“Did ye know, Master Jin, Cap’n can read?” The youth’s eyes gleamed down at Jin with unmistakable pride.

“Can she?” Naturally. She had been schooled in a gentleman’s nursery.

“Yessir. Read to us all ’bout that there horse made of wood and them dolts what didn’t see the trick till it was too late.”

Jin had never heard of a lady reading about the Trojan War. The heel of Achilles-and the rest of that bloodthirsty warrior-were not typically considered suitable fare for gently bred females. But a man who kidnapped his daughter and set her to work on a smuggling ship at ten years of age would not fret over niceties.

“Though usually it’s them preachers’ sermons.” The older fellow nodded with a smile.

“Captain’s a God-fear’n woman.”

God, perhaps. But she did not yet fear Jin. When she spoke to him she held her chin high and gaze direct. On the other hand, she spoke to him infrequently, and never when she needn’t. She took her meals alone in her cabin. Likewise, she did not linger about deck in the fair weather when the sea was clear of company and the men were relaxed enough to pipe a tune or sing. Whether it was due to his presence he could not know yet.

But when she passed him on deck or the companionway, she did not pause to converse. That was as good a sign as he could wish for so early in their journey. She was uncomfortable with him. If she feared him, eventually she would do his bidding. They always did-both women and men.

“What are you standing around for, Seton? Waiting for someone to come along and carve a statue of you?” Violet la Vile’s smooth tones came from the quarterdeck above. “Oh, I mistake it. You’re already still as stone. A statue would be redundant.”

Definitely no fear yet.

He tilted his gaze up to the rail. The afternoon sun slanted behind her, casting her in silhouette. Clothed in canvas bags and a ridiculous hat as usual, she looked like a sack of potatoes.

He knew better. He had seen her curves. He had imagined them at his service.

He nodded. “Seeing to this torn sail, ma’am.”

In the shadow he could barely see her eyes narrow to their usual squint. Ladies did not squint. That habit would have to be broken once she resided in her father’s house again. But amid the piles of neck cloth stacked high around her cheeks, the squint did not render her features less attractive. Only more provoking.

“It’s not torn sufficiently to risk losing the wind by switching it out now.” She gestured. “Wait until dark.”

The sailors halted their work, casting uncertain glances back and forth between them.

“Respectfully, ma’am,” Jin replied evenly, “the wind at present is negligible. When it picks up at dusk you’ll want her full ready.”

“Are you questioning my orders, sailor?”

Jin drew in a slow breath. For two years he had been his own master. Before that he was independent most of the year when Alex was on land and he captained the Cavalier in its master’s stead. For over a decade he had never had an argument with his superior.

But before he had signed on with Alex, the last commander Jin sailed under taunted him aplenty, questioning his authority with the men, and his decisions. That particular pirate captain’s disrespectful attitude had come to an abrupt halt when, after he attempted to take a stick to Jin, instead he bled to death from a wound inflicted by his