Sheridan chuckled. "Accepted into the Bored Young Bachelors' Club."
"Or made one of the permanent outcasts."
He put his arm around her. "I doubt that. He's a stout little blighter. When he sees his girl, he'll go after her." He looked down at Olympia with a faint smile. "I brought him up, y'know."
"Should that reassure me? No doubt he'll fall in with low company."
He turned around and grabbed her by the waist. Squeezing her until she squealed, he bent to her ear with a hard nip and a kiss. "We can only hope," he said, "that you impressed your serious and high-minded nature upon him before we learned what a splendid aptitude for sin you've got."
"Not here!" She was breathless, trying to wriggle away from him as he tugged at her buttons.
"Where?" He kissed her neck. "Where?"
"Well, I—"
"On top of the hill." He swept her up in his arms and began to walk.
"Wait!" Olympia clutched at his neck. "I'm too heavy. You'll hurt yourself!"
He laughed. "After carrying endless loads of rock and wet peat? Don't be a gudgeon. Besides—" His mouth tightened. "You don't weigh the half of what you did five months ago."
"I don't?" she asked hopefully.
"No. And the instant we get back to civilization, I'm going to put you on a strict course of comfits and rich puddings, I assure you." He reached the windy rise and let her slide down to her feet, shaping her hips with his hands.
"I did think my dress was somewhat looser." She looked down at herself with satisfaction.
He groaned, cupping her breasts. "You have no notion of proper female proportions. You're wasting away."
"I'd hardly call it that."
"I can barely tell you're here." He pulled her into his arms. "I have to—"
"Sheridan. "She froze in his embrace and then jerked away, staring beyond his shoulder at the sea. "Look!"
"Thank God!" Captain Fitzhugh kept repeating. "Thank God, thank God!" He gripped Olympia's shoulders the instant she stepped onto Terrier's white-sanded deck, pulled her toward him and then recollected himself just in time. He let go of her and stood awkwardly, clenching his fists, before he stuck out his hand to Sheridan. "I never thought to see you alive again, sir! It's a God-given miracle. A God-given miracle."
Sheridan shook hands. He looked beyond a line of lieutenants standing in stiff, navy blue attention to where Mustafa huddled in a blanket, and commented dryly, "With some help from other sources, I think."
The little Egyptian bowed. "Máshallaah!"
"I won't argue with that," Sheridan said.
"Yes, he's a brilliant little chap, your man. Got away when Phaedra tried to slink into Buenos Aires, and came straight to me. Devilish lucky we were in port. No one else would have believed him." Captain Fitzhugh was still gazing at Olympia. "I could hardly credit the tale myself. But we dealt with that murdering rabble that took Phaedra, you may be sure, Miss Drake. They never reached the dock. The Yankee consulate was prepared to dawdle about due process and extradition, but fortunately we found an American naval frigate with a captain who wasn't too squeamish to hang 'em as soon as he heard about Webster. But come—" He took her arm with an anxious move. "We can talk of all that later. You'll want clean clothes and food. I've got your trunks off Phaedra, Miss Drake, and your cabin prepared, and the chef has orders to put steak-and-kidney pie on the table as soon as he may. That was your favorite dish, was it not? We loaded bullocks and a good deal of flour in Argentina."
"Rolls," Sheridan said dreamily. "Fresh rolls."
Fitzhugh paused and grinned. "Lieutenant!" he said to a man nearby. "Inform the steward. Fresh rolls."
Olympia and Sheridan exchanged a look of mutual feeling over the prospect, as brief and intimate as a touch. Then Captain Fitzhugh's arrangements separated them, Olympia to the spacious, spotless cabin she'd occupied before and Sheridan to wherever Fitzhugh chose to put him.
She sat down in a chair for the first time in months, gazing around her. The familiarity of her surroundings was haunting, almost uncomfortable. The cannon that shared the cabin lay like a polished beast crouched and waiting at its closed port: silent, but poised to roar should the order come to clear the decks. The mahogany lockers shone with rubbed varnish, the brass fittings gleamed and the blanket on the berth was tucked with military tightness.
She thought of her sealskin bed, warm with a lover's heat. A sudden and unexpected ache rose in her throat.
The knock at the door distracted her, bringing Mustafa with a slipper tub—something she hadn't seen since she'd left Wisbeach—and pails of steaming water, a tin of crisp sugar biscuits and a freshly pressed dress, smelling of lavender from her trunk. He bowed and kissed her feet when she tried to thank him for bringing rescue, then hurried away, muttering profuse apologies, to serve his pasha.
Olympia sank into the tub eagerly. After washing away months of accumulated salt, she struggled to dry and dress her hair, consuming the entire tin of biscuits in the course of things.
It was strange and difficult dressing herself. The cashmere stockings felt wonderfully soft, the linen chemise confining, the layers of petticoats ridiculous, and she left off the corset altogether. The traveling gown of emerald-green kerseymere was now too large, but its short pelisse belted with a ribbon of daffodil yellow seemed to hide the worst of the defect. Checking herself in the locker's looking glass, Olympia was surprised at how well she appeared, barring her wind-pinkened skin.
She bit her lip, suddenly shy at the idea of Sheridan seeing her like this—dressed again, really dressed, with feminine color and fashion in clothes that he had chosen, a lock of her hair pulled loose from its ribbon to curl coyly at her cheek. She sat down to button the pearls on the white kid boots Mustafa had brought.
Sheridan was already waiting in the state cabin, dressed in someone else's dove-gray coat. He stood near the great bank of windowlights that spread across the stern. Silver plate and crystal glittered on the white dining cloth like a half-forgotten dream of civilization, but he was staring out at the island. From Terrier's position at anchor, their thatched stone hut was just visible, a forlorn and tiny pile of rocks on a lonely beach.
Olympia slipped her arm through his. He looked at her, his slow glance taking in the green kerseymere and daffodil ribbons. With a shy upward glance, she waited for the smile that had warmed her through a winter of desolation.
It did not come.
As he regarded her coolly he seemed like a stranger, his black hair trimmed more neatly than she'd ever managed to cut it with her pocket scissors by the light of a smoky peat fire. In place of the mud-stained shirt, a crisp gray stock at his throat and a fall of ruffled linen below made him look elegant and distant and utterly different from the man she'd lived with in intimate isolation.
A faint fear welled up in her, consternation at the sudden distance that seemed to open between them, as if different clothes had made them different people. A world that had been simple suddenly shifted and wavered, tilting out of balance.
He looked back toward the island. "Tell me," he said. "Precisely what is this Fitzhugh fellow to you?"
She turned her head in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Let's not be coy." With an impatient gesture, he moved a step away, turning toward her, his back to the windows. "We're not languishing alone in paradise anymore. I need to know how the wind blows."
She bit her lip. Before she could speak, the door behind them opened and the steward stepped through, carrying a laden tray and followed by some of the ranking lieutenants. Captain Fitzhugh entered, ushering her to a seat next to his at the head of the table. Amid the greetings and handshakes, the first officer invited Sheridan to take the opposite chair.
"You look wonderfully well, Miss Drake," Captain Fitzhugh said. "Not at all as if you'd been facing hardship and death but a few hours since."
"Thank you." She wished to be polite, but felt an unreasonable stab of annoyance at this innocent hyperbole. "But I assure
you that to say we were facing death a few hours since is to exaggerate the matter."
He gave her a speaking look. "You are a heroine in my eyes. You must know that."
She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable under his admiring gaze. Across the table, Sheridan sat silent, an ironic set to his mouth. She was grateful when the steward placed a platter before her and lifted the silver cover to reveal a steaming pie with a golden crust. "That smells wonderful," she exclaimed, glad to change the subject.
Captain Fitzhugh served her personally, heaping her plate with meat pie and vegetables and a pair of rolls with hot, soft white centers dripping Irish butter.
He lifted his glass. "Gentlemen, to the safe deliverance of our dear, valiant Miss Drake and her gallant brother!"
Murmurs of assent and the clink of Fitzhugh's fine crystal echoed around the table.
Olympia cast down her eyes. She wished he would not make such a fuss. Every man at the table was looking at her except Sheridan, who was staring at his wineglass as he turned the stem slowly between his fingers.
"Let me assure you that we'll return you to civilization as soon as practicable," Fitzhugh announced, "but I hope you won't find our company too distressing for the nonce. I'm afraid I've orders to make for the Arabian Sea directly. We're to subdue the slavers there—something I'm certain that Sir Sheridan will be glad to hear!"
"Oh, infinitely," Sheridan said. He took a deep swallow of wine.
"Perhaps we can count on you for tactical advice. Considering your personal experience."
"All the advice you like." Sheridan's voice was amiable. He helped himself to the carrots the steward offered. "For what it's worth."
Fitzhugh nodded, his boyish face shining with freckles and enthusiasm. "It will be quite an advantage. Not only having fought these pirates, but having been a victim of the trade as a slave yourself, you—"
The clatter of silver stopped his words. Sheridan stared at him with an expression Olympia had never seen before. "That's a damned lie," he whispered.
Fitzhugh turned scarlet. He met Sheridan's eyes, and all the pleasantries of the moment vanished. Dead silence reigned. They were killing words, what Sheridan had said, a public accusation that held no option but to back down or face destruction.
Captain Fitzhugh cleared his throat. "My profoundest apologies, sir. I'm in the wrong, of course. Unpardonable mistake. Didn't mean—that is—not lying, certainly not by intention—I do hope you understand!"
Olympia thrust her napkin on the table. "It's my fault," she said quickly. "I mistook something Mustafa told me and have given Captain Fitzhugh a wrong impression."
Sheridan looked toward her. For a haunting instant, he appeared completely unnerved, strain visible in the rigid way he turned his head, the way he lost a beat in his answer and made a natural response seem awkward. "Quite wrong," he said.
Olympia smiled brightly at Captain Fitzhugh, desperate to retrieve the situation and cover Sheridan's strange reaction—as telltale and glaring as a printed announcement. She had no notion why the subject should affect him so, but moved instinctively to divert attention and protect him. "I'm so sorry. My imagination sometimes runs away with me! I fear you mustn't give me complete credence when I relate my brother's adventures—I'm so proud of him. I'm bound to mix things up and make him much larger than life."
"Most understandable," Captain Fitzhugh said. "But I humbly beg your pardon, sir, for such a ridiculous blunder."
"Never mind." Sheridan picked up his fork, laid it down and made a careless gesture—not quite easily normal, but almost. "Much ado and all that. Forgotten already." He grasped his wineglass and took a long swallow. "I'd believe anything a pretty girl told me, too."
A movement of relaxation rustled like wind around the table. Fitzhugh's shoulders dropped visibly. He smiled fondly at Olympia. "Yes, indeed—a man must take care, or he'll be making a regular cake of himself."
Sheridan's mouth twisted. He took another sip of wine.
"Captain Sir Sheridan," Fitzhugh went on in a forcibly enthusiastic voice, stopping Sheridan just as he was lifting a buttered roll for his first bite. "You must tell us from the beginning—how you come to be alive and hearty when we thought you laid in an unmarked grave. Now there's an adventure well worthy of the telling, I don't doubt!"
Sheridan put the roll down. He seemed to have recovered his full composure. Olympia could see a trace of resigned wistfulness in the way he looked at the waiting food on his plate. "Not unless you take a special interest in blind stupidity, it isn't."
Her fingers tightened on her fork. In the tumult of their rescue, she hadn't even thought of this. For the first time in weeks, she remembered her jewels and the real story of how she'd arrived where she was. Of course Captain Fitzhugh would expect an explanation—the last time he'd seen her, she'd been mourning the death of her "brother" and heading for Australia. Now here was her brother alive, six thousand miles away from where he'd disappeared. The whole matter must appear extraordinary.
"…the same old sorry tale," Sheridan was saying. "I wasn't on my guard, and I paid for it."
"But these thugs," Fitzhugh said. "How did you escape the heathen devils?"
"Thugs?" Sheridan looked puzzled.
"The thugs who attacked you on the dock in Funchal, man!" Fitzhugh laughed. "You won't claim you've forgotten them!"
Sheridan took a bite of steak, frowning. Then his face cleared. He glanced at Olympia with a wry smile. "My dear sister! What a romantic you are, to be sure. I'm afraid Miss Drake's imagination has run away with all of you. The last thug I ever encountered was haunting the road to Jabalpur."
"They were sthaga," she protested automatically.
"I wish I could say so. It might make me look less of a confounded fool."
"What happened, then?" Fitzhugh asked. "We've gone on thinking you were attacked and murdered by these Indian savages for revenge." He popped a bite into his mouth and gestured with his knife and fork. "On account of your betraying their foul fraternity and trying to bring them to justice, you know."
Sheridan rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, looking embarrassed. "Yes—well…that was a deuced long time ago, after all. I'm afraid it was nothing so dramatic this time. I was just decked and robbed by some ruffians set loose from the convict ship, if you want the sad truth."
"They were thugs," Olympia insisted. "They used those words you told me."
He looked at her quizzically. "Did they?"
"Yes! Bajeed, and timbalo. "
"Tombako, " he corrected. "Tombako ka lo. " He tilted his head with a faint smile and winked at Captain Fitzhugh. "I'd just been filling her head with tales of my epic past not long before it happened, you see."
Fitzhugh's ruddy face grew even brighter pink beneath his freckles. He broke into an indulgent, grin. "Indeed. I quite understand." With an affectionate glance at Olympia, he leaned over and added softly, "A natural misconstruction of events, I'm sure. No doubt you mistook their Portuguese."
"I did not," she exclaimed. "And what about the turbans?"
Sheridan smiled, breaking open a second roll. "Did they wear turbans? I didn't see that."
"I told you!" She was growing agitated, disturbed by the way he was distorting things.
"Yes, I remember you saying so. But it was dashed dark, my dear. You'll forgive me if I can't support the assertion with my own observation."
"Well, they had turbans, you may be sure! Under their hats."
He buttered the roll. "No doubt you're right, of course."
Olympia looked around the table at the patronizing smiles, set her jaw and applied herself to her meat pie without another word.
"You believe the attack originated with the transport brig, then?" Captain Fitzhugh said, after a pause.
"If waking up on a convict ship with empty pockets and ankle chains is any evidence. Particularly when the agent insists that I'm down on the lists as a condemned felon named Tom Nicol."
"But why?" Fit
zhugh demanded. "There was no ransom asked."
Sheridan put down his fork. "No need for that. Not when God's original fool announces to a company of genteel strangers that he's going to be carrying his sister's jewels for appraisal on a specific date, at a particular time and place. Not when that company happens to include an enterprising gentleman down on his luck and working as a government agent on a convict transport."
Olympia's head came up. "Lieutenant…St…St…" She frowned. "It began with an S."
"Stacy." Sheridan stabbed at a boiled carrot with his fork. "A thoroughgoing rogue. Not to speak ill of the dead."
Oh, he's dead, is he? Olympia thought. How convenient. She gave Sheridan a tart smile. "It was rather careless of you, wasn't it? To let the horrid fellow steal every jewel I owned. I'll never replace Auntie Matilda's emerald tiara."
He looked up at her, his hand arrested in the motion of helping himself to another portion of pie. "Replace it? What do you mean?"
"My jewels," she said sweetly. "I'll certainly miss them. I think I could bear it better, if only I hadn't lost every single one."
He slowly laid down his silverware, leaned forward and said in a low voice, "Tell me you're joking."
Olympia met his eyes. They were intense and utterly serious, without a trace of humor or secret rapport. With a jolt of confusion, she suddenly distrusted her interpretation of all that had gone before. "Well, I—"
"Where are they?" he asked sharply. "Did you check? They aren't with your belongings off Phaedra?"
She opened her mouth in helpless consternation. "No," she said. "Of course not. They never were. You had them when you were attacked in Madeira!"