Surrender. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ brighter. Evelyn looked into a pair of ice-cold gray eyes and she froze.

      This man was dangerous.

      His stare was cold and hard. He was tall, his hair golden. He wore both a dagger and a pistol. Clearly, he was not a man to be crossed.

      His cool glance left her and focused on the two men. He repeated his edict, this time in French. “Faites comme la dame a demandé.”

      She was instantly released, and both men whirled and hurried off. Evelyn inhaled, stunned, and turned to the tall Englishman again. He might be dangerous, but he had just rescued her—and he might be Jack Greystone. “Thank you.”

      His direct gaze did not waver. It was a moment before he said, “It was my pleasure. You’re English.”

      She wet her lips, aware that their gazes were locked. “Yes. I am looking for Jack Greystone.”

      His eyes never changed. “If he is in port, I am not aware of it. What do you want of him?”

      Her heart sank with dismay—for surely, this imposing man, with his air of authority and casual power, was the smuggler. Who else would be watching the black ship as it was being loaded? “He has come recommended to me. I am desperate, sir.”

      His mouth curled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you attempting to return home?”

      She nodded, still staring at him. “We had arrangements to leave at dawn. But those plans have fallen by the wayside. I was told Greystone is here. I was told to seek him out. I cannot linger in town, sir.”

      “We?”

      She hugged herself now, still helplessly gazing into his stare. “My husband and my daughter, sir, and three friends.”

      “And who gave you such information?”

      “Monsieur Gigot—of the Abelard Inn.”

      “Come with me,” he said abruptly, turning.

      Evelyn hesitated as he started toward the ship. Her mind raced wildly. She did not know if the stranger was Greystone, and she wasn’t certain it was safe to go with him now. But he was heading for the ship with black sails.

      He glanced back at her, without pausing. And he shrugged, clearly indifferent as to whether she came or not.

      There was no choice. Either he was Greystone, or he was taking her to him. Evelyn ran after him, following him up the gangplank. He didn’t look at her, crossing the deck rapidly, and Evelyn rushed to fall into step behind him. The five men who were loading the cask all turned to stare openly at her.

      Her hood had slipped. She pulled it up more tightly as he went to a cabin door. He opened it and vanished inside. She faltered. She had just noticed the guns lining the sides of the ship. She had seen smuggling ships as a child; this ship seemed ready to do battle.

      She was even more dismayed and full of dread, but she had made her decision. Evelyn followed him inside.

      He was lighting lanterns. Not looking up, he said, “Close the door.”

      It crossed her mind that she was very much alone with a complete stranger now. Shoving her trepidation aside, she did as he asked. Very breathless now, she slowly faced him.

      He was standing at a large desk covered with charts. For one moment, all she saw was a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden hair tied carelessly in a queue, a pistol clipped to his shoulder belt, a dagger sheathed on his belt.

      Then she realized that he was also staring at her.

      She inhaled, trembling. He was shockingly attractive, she now realized, in both a masculine and a beautiful way. His eyes were gray, his features even, his cheekbones high and cutting. A gold cross winked from the widely open neck of his white lawn shirt. He was wearing doeskin breeches and high boots, and now she realized how powerful and lean his tall, muscular build was. His shirt clung to his broad chest and flat torso, and his breeches fit like a second skin. He did not have an ounce of fat on his hard frame.

      She wasn’t certain she had ever come into contact with such an inherently masculine man—and it was unnerving somehow.

      She was also the object of intense scrutiny. He was leaning his hip against the desk and staring back at her, as openly as she was regarding him. Evelyn felt herself flush. He was, she thought, trying to see her features, which were partially concealed by her hood.

      She now saw the small, narrow bed on the opposite wall. She realized that this was where he slept. There was a handsome rug on the planked floor, a handful of books on a small table. Otherwise, the cabin was sparsely appointed and completely utilitarian.

      “Do you have a name?”

      She jerked, realizing that her heart was racing. How should she answer? For she knew she must never reveal who she was. “Will you help me?”

      “I haven’t decided. My services are expensive, and you are a large group.”

      “I am desperate to return home. And my husband is in desperate need of a physician.”

      “So the plot thickens. How ill is he?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Can he reach my ship?”

      She hesitated. “Not without help.”

      “I see.”

      He did not seem moved by her plight. How could she convince him to help them? “Please,” she whispered, stepping away from the door. “I have a four-year-old daughter. I must get her to Britain.”

      He suddenly launched himself off the desk and strode slowly—indolently—toward her. “Just how desperate are you?” His tone was flat.

      He had paused before her, inches separating them. She froze, but her heart thundered. What was he suggesting? Because while his tone was brisk, there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. Or was she imagining it?

      She realized that she was mesmerized, and unbalanced. “I could not be more desperate,” she managed, with a stutter.

      He suddenly reached for her hood and tugged it down before she knew what he meant to do. His eyes immediately widened.

      Her tension knew no bounds. She meant to protest. If she had wanted to reveal her face, she would have done so! As his gaze moved over her features, very slowly, one by one, her resistance died.

      “Now I understand,” he said softly, “why you would hide your features.”

      Her heart slammed. Was he complimenting her? Did he think her attractive—or even beautiful? “Obviously we are in some jeopardy,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of being recognized.”

      “Obviously. Is your husband French?”

      “Yes,” she said, “and I have never been as afraid.”

      He studied her. “I take it you were followed?”

      “I don’t know—perhaps.”

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