Part 29 (1/2)

”Spain,” Digby said shortly. ”It's but a day or so across the Bay of Biscay.”

Spain. Of course.

She wondered what she would find there.

And suddenly she was certain she knew. And a tiny, rogue, inappropriate filament of joy snaked through her.

”And Digby . . . what did you mean by 'revolutionary'?”

Digby paused, considering.

”Miss Eversea . . . You're aware your name is on the s.h.i.+p.”

Olivia's mind blanked in astonishment. ”It's on . . .”

”The s.h.i.+p is called The Olivia.”

Olivia was speechless.

Digby must have seen something in her expression for her own softened.

”Men do have their romantic fancies, Miss Eversea. If he says you're worth his time, then I'll believe him, and reserve judgment. I've come to like you, but my opinion matters not. And I'll leave it to him to tell you what he's been doing since you last saw him.”

”Very well,” Olivia said softly.

”I will tell you this, Miss Eversea. The captain never did want anything more from me than my loyalty, more's the pity, and that's the honest truth. Though what woman wouldn't be willing to give him anything he wants? He's a remarkable man. Now come with me. You'll want sleep.”

HER TRUNK HAD magically appeared in the cabin while she was on deck.

She snorted at that. He'd been confident he'd be able to get her onto the s.h.i.+p, that much was clear.

But then, he did know her.

Tempering her anger at the elaborate deception was the reminder that the only reason it had been at all successful was because he did, indeed, know her. Better than anyone ever had.

And it merely emphasized how truly lonely she'd been since he'd gone, even surrounded by friends and loved ones.

And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had managed to glean a bit about how she felt about him, too.

She almost smiled at that.

Had he been lonely, too?

Olivia was certain she wouldn't sleep at all.

But what seemed like moments later, she woke with a start, with the sense that a good amount of time had pa.s.sed. When she saw Lyon simmering in a pot across from her on the wall, she remembered where she was.

She rolled over and peered down.

A chamber pot was thoughtfully situated next to her bed, and a message was folded and propped like a little tent next to it.

She leaned over and read it.

In case you must puke.

It was tidy, even, ladylike printing, nothing like Lyon's. Digby must have been in.

Thoughtful of her.

She rose tentatively then took a few steps on the gently heaving floor of the s.h.i.+p. She didn't seem to be afflicted with seasickness, thankfully. She took a few more steps, and she still felt quite steady.

There wasn't a mirror, so she felt about the back of her head and smoothed her hair as best she could, patted her dress, and then opened the door a few inches.

She leaped back with a gasp as an enormous man glittering with metal-in his ears, at his hip, and, alarmingly, in the hook where his hand ought to be-turned to her.

”Ah, ye're awake now, are ye, miss? Stay here. Ain't safe on the deck. I'll get the captain. Lock yer door.”

He shut the door emphatically.

If a man like that said it wasn't safe on the deck, she would take his word for it.

What kind of world did Lyon live in now?

She locked the door.

A few minutes later she heard footsteps outside, and then several smart raps on the door.

”Olivia, may I come in?” Lyon's voice.

And her heart, the traitor, gave a leap at the very sound of it.

She slid the bolts and pulled open the door.

He filled the doorway Large, hard, and shockingly beautiful, particularly since he was wearing what amounted to evening clothes.

Apart, that was, from the sword.

Most of the men she knew didn't wear swords to dinner.

”What time is it?” she asked.

”It's nearly dinnertime. Accordingly-” He raised a bottle of wine in one hand and a sack in the other, which she suspected contained some kind of food. ”We'll reach harbor by late afternoon, perhaps closer to sunset, tomorrow.”

He withdrew a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a knife, a plate, and two gla.s.ses, all of which he arranged without ceremony on the little desk.

She sat on the foot of the bed, hands folded primly, while he settled in at the desk.

She watched him slice away at the bread and cheese and arrange them somewhat artfully on the plate.

”Why is your s.h.i.+p called The Olivia?”