Lord Of The Privateers. Stephanie Laurens

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      Her mouth had gone dry. Luckily, she had her speech prepared. “We received news yesterday that my cousin—second cousin or so—Katherine Fortescue has gone missing in Freetown. She was acting as governess to an English family, the Sherbrooks. It seems Katherine vanished while on an errand to the post office some months ago, and Mrs. Sherbrook finally saw her way to writing to inform the family.”

      Still holding his gaze, she lifted her chin a fraction higher. “As you might imagine, Iona is greatly perturbed.” Iona Carmody was her maternal grandmother and the undisputed matriarch of the Carmody clan. “She wasn’t happy when, after Katherine’s mother died, we didn’t hear in time to go down and convince Katherine to come to us. Instead, Katherine got some bee in her bonnet about making her own way and so took the post as governess. She’d gone by the time I reached Stonehaven.”

      Stonehaven was twelve miles south of Aberdeen; Royd would know of it. She plowed on, “So now, obviously, I need to go to Freetown, find Katherine, and bring her home.”

      Royd held Isobel’s dark gaze. Although he saw nothing “obvious” about her suggestion, he knew enough of the workings of the matriarchal Carmodys to follow her unwritten script. She viewed her being too late to catch and draw her cousin into the safety of the clan as a failure on her part. And as Iona was now “perturbed,” Isobel saw it as her duty to put matters right.

      She and Iona were close. Very close. As close as only two women who were exceedingly alike could be. Many had commented that Isobel had fallen at the very base of Iona’s tree.

      He therefore understood why Isobel believed it was up to her to find Katherine and bring her home. That didn’t mean Isobel had to go to Freetown.

      Especially as there was an excellent chance that Katherine Fortescue was among the captives he was about to be dispatched to rescue.

      “As it happens, I’ll be heading for Freetown shortly.” He didn’t glance at Wolverstone’s summons; one hint, and Isobel was perfectly capable of pouncing on the missive and reading it herself. “I promise I’ll hunt down your Katherine and bring her safely home.”

      Isobel’s gaze grew unfocused. She weighed the offer, then—determinedly and defiantly—shook her head.

      “No.” Her jaw set, and she refocused on his face. “I have to go myself.” She hesitated, then grudgingly confided, “Iona needs me to go.”

      Eight years had passed since they’d spoken about anything other than business. After the failure of their handfasting, she’d avoided him like the plague, until the dual pressures of him needing to work with the Carmichael Shipyards to implement the innovations he desperately wanted incorporated into the Frobisher fleet and the economic downturn following the end of the wars leaving her and her father needing Frobisher Shipping Company work to keep the shipyards afloat had forced them face-to-face again.

      Face-to-face across a desk with engineering plans and design sheets littering the surface.

      The predictable fact was that they worked exceptionally well together. They were natural complements in many ways.

      He was an inventor—he sailed so much in such varying conditions, he was constantly noting ways in which vessels could be improved for both safety and speed.

      She was a brilliant designer. She could take his raw ideas and give them structure.

      He was an experienced engineer. He would take her designs and work out how to construct them.

      Against all the odds, she managed the shipyards and was all but revered by the workforce. The men had seen her grow from a slip of a girl-child running wild over the docks and the yards. They considered her one of their own; her success was their success, and they worked for her as they would for no other.

      Using his engineering drawings, she would order the workflow and assemble the required components, he would call in whichever ship he wanted modified, and magic would happen.

      Working in tandem, he and she were steadily improving the performance of the Frobisher fleet, and for any shipping company, that meant long-term survival. In turn, her family’s shipyards were fast gaining a reputation for unparalleled production at the cutting edge of shipbuilding.

      Strained though their interactions remained, professionally speaking, they were a smoothly efficient and highly successful team.

      Yet through all their meetings in offices or elsewhere over recent years, she’d kept him at a frigidly rigid distance. She’d never given him an opportunity to broach the subject of what the hell had happened eight years ago, when he’d returned from a mission to have her, his handfasted bride whom he had for long months fantasized over escorting up the aisle, bluntly tell him she didn’t want to see him again, then shut her grandmother’s door in his face.

      Ever since, she’d given him not a single chance to reach her on a personal level—on the level on which they’d once engaged so very well. So intuitively, so freely, so openly. So very directly. He’d never been able to talk to anyone, male or female, in the same way he used to talk to her.

      He missed that.

      He missed her.

      And he had to wonder if she missed him. Neither of them had married, after all. According to the gossips, she’d never given a soupçon of encouragement to any of the legion of suitors only too ready to offer for the hand of the heiress who would one day own the Carmichael Shipyards.

      It had taken him mere seconds to review their past. Regardless of that past, she stood in his office prepared to do battle to be allowed to spend weeks aboard The Corsair.

      Weeks on board the ship he captained, during which she wouldn’t be able to avoid him.

      Weeks during which he could press her to engage in direct communication, enough to resolve the situation that still existed between them sufficiently for them both to put it behind them and go on.

      Or to put right whatever had gone wrong and try again.

      In response to his silence, her eyes had steadily darkened; he could still follow her thoughts reasonably well. Of all the females of his acquaintance, she was the only one who would even contemplate enacting him a scene—let alone a histrionically dramatic one. One part of him actually hoped...

      As if reading his mind, she narrowed her eyes. Her lips tightened. Then, quietly, she stated, “You owe me, Royd.”

      It was the first time in eight years that she’d said his name in that private tone that still reached to his soul. More, it was the first reference she’d made to their past since shutting Iona’s door in his face.

      And he still wasn’t sure what she meant. For what did he owe her? He could think of several answers, none of which shed all that much light on the question that, where she was concerned, filled his mind—and had for the past eight years.

      He wasn’t at all sure of the wisdom of the impulse that gripped him, but it was so very strong, he surrendered and went with it. “The Corsair leaves on the morning tide on Wednesday. You’ll need to be on the wharf before daybreak.”

      She searched his eyes, then crisply nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

      With that, she swung on her heel, marched to the door, opened it, and swept out.

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