Chapter 1
London, 1720
No honest man could ever accuse Captain Joshua Fairbourne of cowardice.
He'd left home for the sea on his eighth birthday, and in the twenty years since, he'd faced pirates without flinching, fought Frenchmen with honor, and sailed his ships through hurricanes and blizzards and waves as high as a meetinghouse spire. But here on this warm June night, the most fearful challenge of Joshua's life loomed before him, goading him, taunting him, making his heart thump from uncertainty and sheer cowardice until his greatest desire was to turn and run and save himself.
Yet pride rooted him to the spot, his mouth growing drier by the second. He had to stay. As much as he longed to, he couldn't escape. How could he, considering that this was a trap of his own making?
For the thousandth time, he reached to touch the hilt of his sword to reassure himself, and for the thousandth time, too, he swore with miserable frustration when he realized the sword wasn't there. In London, gentlemen -- even gentlemen from the American colonies -- didn't wear swords to an elegant supper and dance. They didn't swear, either, especially not in the company of London ladies, and with a wretched shake of his head, Joshua swallowed that one last oath. He hooked his forefinger into the tight band of linen that swathed his neck, trying to ease the fashionable neckband that was nigh to choking him.
He took as deep a breath as he could and wiped his forehead with the underside of his sleeve, where the sweat wouldn't show on the glazed wool of his best coat. It was hot here in this London garden, cursedly hot for June, and he longed for the river breezes to be found on the Swifitsure's quarterdeck. That was where he belonged, not lurking here among roses and moss-covered marble nymphs that belonged to a grand lady whose name he had already forgotten, and again he thought of vanishing alone into the night while he still could.
But think of Mary, he ordered himself. Think of all you'll have to gain, not of what you'll lose.
He sighed restlessly and tipped his head back. He could just make out the new moon gleaming above the rooftops, and at last he smiled. It was easy to look at the moon and think of Mary, with her silvery pale hair and her round blue eyes so full of wonder and devotion. For him, he thought with a good measure of wonder himself, all for him, and his smile widened with pride and pleasure.
The music inside the house stopped, followed by a giddy rush of laughter and applause. The last dance was over; the time was nearly here. Joshua swallowed hard, his fingers again itching for the phantom sword as he concentrated on the figures moving inside the house and searched for the only one that mattered to him. Any moment now, that tall door to the garden would open and his fate would be sealed.
Any moment now...
It was the soft shush of silk taffeta behind him that Joshua heard first, the rush of layered petticoats brushing against the rosebushes as the woman hurried toward him. Though her footsteps were muted by the wet grass, her breathing wasn't, rapid little gasps from running, or maybe fear. Aye, definitely fear: why else would she be running so hard? He didn't want to look away from the door, not now, but experience had trained him to watch his back, and reluctantly he turned, just as the girl crashed into his chest.
He caught her as best he could, his fingers spreading over the slippery brocade around her waist to steady her. She was short and round and her hair beneath his nose smelled wonderfully of violets, all things Joshua realized in the same jumbled second. She didn't try to pull away, but stayed pressed against him like some small wild creature who'd found shelter at last, albeit a small wild creature with jeweled bracelets so heavy he could feel them clear through his waistcoat and shirt. She was a lady, then, not some wayward servingmaid. No matter how fine, how delightful she was to hold, he must remember that.
"Oh, sir," she said breathlessly, a quiver to her words. "Oh, sir, you must help me! You must!"
"Help you how, ma'am?" Joshua still hadn't seen the girl's face, hidden as it was by shadows, but from her voice he'd wager she was very young. Uneasily he looked back over his shoulder to the still-closed door. Did he truly have time to squander rescuing some faceless girl from her overardent sweetheart? "You say I must help you, sweet, but how?"
"There's no time to explain!" she cried. Anxiously, she looked back over her shoulder. "He's close on my heels, and if he catches me -- oh, what he'll do if he catches me!"
Joshua didn't know who the he was, and he didn't care. The way she'd fluttered against his chest in fear had convinced him. How long could such a small act of gallantry take, anyway? A minute, two at most? Surely his own affairs could wait that much longer. And how could he refuse her, when she'd been desperate enough to turn to a stranger like him for protection?
Gently he set the girl down, where she promptly scuttled behind his broad back for safety. "There now. Do you think I'd let him catch you?"
"Let him?" she squeaked. "Oh, sir, I pray you won't do that!"
"Then save your prayers, lass," said Joshua firmly. "Whoever he is, I won't let the rascal harm you."
"Blast you, Belle, where th' devil are you hidin'?" muttered a man's voice crossly as he thrashed his way through the boxwood and rosebushes, twigs cracking with every footstep. "Show yourself directly, an' I won't give you the beatin' you deserve!"
"There's Mr. Branbrook now!" said the girl to Joshua in a whispered wail. "Pray, pray, do be careful! He has a most fearful, wicked temper!"
But the man that staggered into the clearing didn't strike Joshua as either fearful or wicked. Foolish, aye, Josh would grant him that, and young and drunk in the bargain, but not fearful. How could he be, with his wig sliding haphazardly over one ear and his full-skirted coat inside out?
"Show yourself, Anabelle!" the man ordered, weaving on his feet as he scowled shortsightedly into the shadows. "Show yourself now, you cheatin' little chit!"
Joshua frowned, aware of how the girl had shrunk even farther behind him. He hated bullies, particularly ones who chose women as their victims.
"The lady doesn't welcome your company," he said, his voice rumbling low with effortless authority. "Clear off, and leave her in peace."
The man's head jerked up in response. "Who th' devil are you? What right d'you have to address me at all?"
"What right do you have to go chasing this poor lady?"
"That is between Miss Crosbie and myself, you impudent bastard," said the man warmly. "Now stand aside, or must I use force?"
This Mr. Branbrook was drunk, decided Joshua, else he'd never dare speak so rashly. At least he wouldn't do it more than once. Even here in the shadows, there'd be no mistaking Joshua's height and the strength that went with it. That much would be obvious; the experience he'd gained in twenty years of taking care of himself in waterfront rumshops and taverns would be only a little less evident, but far more dangerous.
Maybe the poor dandified fool was daft and drunk.
"You just go on now and take yourself away," said Joshua more patiently. "I told you before, the lady doesn't want your company."
"And I say it bloody well doesn't matter what the little strumpet wants," said the man angrily, shoving his hand inside his coat. "I'm the one she must obey!"
Joshua didn't answer, nor did he wait to see what this foolish Branbrook pulled from his waistcoat. A pistol or a knife could only bring trouble, more trouble than any of them needed, and with a sigh of resig
