Chapter 12

Avaline released a slow but shivering breath as Hainsworth's footsteps faded into the depths of the companionway, drowning in the creaking and groaning of the bucking ship.

I'll seize any number of English ships with the blessing of my president.

Her heart pounded in sync with the rain pummeling the deck above, and she sank onto his chair, feeling as if his presence had left her drained.

Would he face the pursuer in battle? If he were defeated, she would escape, and he would hang on the gallows. The image of the noose tightening around Hainsworth's neck unsettled her.

She pushed the notion away. Thinking of anyone dangling from a rope was unsettling. It was a savage way to die.

The picture of the coarse rope around Elias's neck flashed before her eyes, making her flinch. Elias could lose his life. If not in battle, then at the hands of her compatriots, facing justice for piracy.

"Good Lord," she breathed.

Elias's only fault was to be on board the Ranger .

A storm of intense emotions coursed through her. How could Hainsworth expose the boy to such danger? There must have been a better solution had he bothered to seek it.

She looked at the chart before her, studying the small crosses and circles that indicated their passage. They were heading west, away from Barbados and her future as Francis Ashcroft's wife. The markings showed the Ranger had covered twice the distance the Chirton still had left of her voyage at the time of the attack; however, with a damaged mast, the Chirton might not have achieved her full sailing speed.

Did Francis already know she had been abducted? Was the pursuer a ship looking for her?

The Ranger lurched as a wave struck. The quill careened onto the floor, and the inkwell thrust out of its hole in the table, spilling the black liquid over the chart. She snatched it and screwed the lid back on.

"What a mess!"

It was too late to save the chart, but she tilted over the armrest to reclaim the quill. It was a splendid instrument, a snow-white goose feather gilded at the nib and engraved with a coat of arms. As she straightened herself, her eyes landed on the drawer hanging ajar beneath the table.

The thick wood screeched in protest as she pulled at the compartment. Her heart skipped a beat as the lamp shone into the forbidden darkness.

She rifled through the contents. Scraps of paper, more books, a set of keys, the kind they used at Hawthorn Manor—likely pilfered from some hapless estate owner who had crossed the Ranger's path.

She skimmed the books but grew bored when she realized they were logs of weather, tides, and nautical sums.

She was about to return the books when she noticed a small pile of flaxen paper at the bottom of the drawer.

She darted a glance at the door before pulling out the letters.

Captain Adrian Hainsworth, The Ranger, Charleston, South Carolina.

Adrian.

Avaline pictured Hainsworth standing wide-legged at the quarterdeck, supervising the activities on board.

Adrian. A strong name for a strong man.

The broken seal on the back contained a simple imprint.

C.H.

She hesitated briefly, but then she unfolded the letter. Dated six months earlier, an elaborate script crafted with the utmost care danced across the parchment.

My dearest Adrian,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. It has been a while since we heard from you. I trust everything is going well.

It is with a heavy heart I inform you that Papa's health has worsened. His harrowing cough torments him at night and has confined him to his bed for most of the winter months. He can barely walk without support, and he cares little for food. Dr. Smith advises a milder climate, but Papa refuses to leave Boston lest you lose track of our whereabouts. I pray the summer will bring him some respite, but we are all very anxious.

Mama's hair has started to fall out—imagine that beautiful hair, Adrian! She says it is a sign of old age, but I think it is a sign of grief. She constantly worries about you and Papa and prays for your safety every night.

Maddie, once so reserved and composed, has become a thoughtless flirt. She no longer harbors any regard for decorum and will wink and smile at every man she encounters, regardless of station. I fear she will commit some folly. She needs a husband to take care of her. I implore you, Adrian, to secure her a match so she can settle down.

We have received no word from England save for our cousin Emmeline. She has wedded Mr. Warren and will no longer be able to continue the correspondence as Mr. Warren fears our kinship may tarnish his honorable name and trade. I grieve the loss of such a dear friend, but I wish her well as the lady of Fawley Court.

My dearest Adrian, how I long for your return! Papa would rejoice, and if I may speak frankly, he needs your support. We all miss you deeply, and I hope you know that we hold no resentment for the tragedy that befell you. Nor should you harbor any guilt or remorse for our predicament. The most important thing is that you survived. We all remain unconditionally faithful to your innocence and trust that justice will prevail, and I beseech our gracious Lord every night that you will return soon so that we may be whole again as a family.

Yours truly,

Lottie

Avaline's heart pounded heavier and more sluggish with each neat line of news from Boston. She skimmed through a couple of letters, but they revealed nothing more about the mysterious captain except that Lottie never heard back from him.

Her suspicions turned out to be correct—Hainsworth was English. And he was more than a curt pirate. He had a family that relied on him and cherished him.

A family who was suffering for some reason that concerned him. A tragedy.

His piracy ventures?

Or did it have to do with Lord Francis, or the betrayal Freddie had eluded to?

A frosty shiver ran down her spine, and the delicate paper fluttered as she perused the letter anew.

The most important thing is that you survived. We all remain unconditionally faithful to your innocence and trust that justice will prevail.

Her stomach twisted. Had Lord Francis forsaken his countryman, ruined an innocent man's life, and the life of his entire family without good reason?

A nagging doubt gnawed at her, casting a foreboding shadow over her thoughts.

If Lord Francis had inclinations to commit such a deed, what other atrocities had he perpetrated?

No.

She folded the letter and slid it back to its hiding place, under the ledgers. She had no right to judge her betrothed thus, to mistrust Lord Francis so readily without affording him a chance to defend himself.

Avaline sank back in the chair, following the swaying motion of the lamp as she chewed at her lips. She wanted to trust Lord Francis, to love him, and to defend him.

But she also wanted to know the truth.

Adrian sailed under the American flag and American orders. Had his family been forced into exile, or had they fled because of something he had done?

There weren't many offenses that could cause an entire family to leave the country and their relatives to sever the family bonds—treason against the King and murder.

Her eyes returned to the drawer with the letter.

What misfortune was Lottie referring to? Was the captain a cold-blooded killer or a traitor to his King? And who was Lottie? The initials on the seal, C.H. , surely must be Charlotte Hainsworth.

His wife?

And was Maddie his daughter? He seemed much too young to have a daughter old enough to marry.

And why did Adrian not return Lottie's letters? She had made sure to let him know they supported him and believed in his innocence.

Was he ashamed of something?

Queasiness sloshed in her stomach, but she couldn't discern whether it was due to the growing agitation of the sea or to the revelation that Hainsworth might have suffered a treachery so vile she had no words for it.

He was betrayed, he was, by his own. Disgraceful and vile it was.

There was much more to Adrian Hainsworth than met the eyes and more than he had let on himself. As soon as the storm abated, she was determined to find out where Lord Francis fit in.

The resounding echoes of running feet tramped on the deck overhead, accompanied by voices barking out orders. Avaline secured the few loose items on the desk and stashed the washbasin and the beaker in Hainsworth's sea chest so they wouldn't be tossing around in the rough sea.

As she shrugged off her dress, she made a mental note to have it laundered as soon as the situation allowed for it.

Avaline coiled up in the shadows in the berth, listening to the rain pelting the gallery windows, but her mind churned as fiercely as the sea beneath the Ranger .

If Lord Francis had done anything, surely there must be a reason? But if there was a valid cause for Lord Francis's actions, why did Hainsworth resort to such extreme measures as to hunt down his betrothed and abduct her for vengeance?

She dragged in a deep breath, taking in the scent of Hainsworth in the bedclothes—spicy and virile. A strange tingling sparked deep inside her, the same sensation he stirred in her this morning.

Avaline didn't know how long she had tossed in the berth, as restless as the Ranger rocking in the churning sea when a rustling hinge told her that the captain was back.

Adrian.

She lay quietly, watching him between half-closed eyelids in the glow from the swinging lantern.

Water dripped from his wet figure, leaving droplets on the flooring shining in the warm glow like morning dew on a cobweb.

He shucked his coat and tossed it over his chair, adjusting his footing as the ship lurched on the swells. His shirt was soaked and molded to his solid frame like a second skin. The shadow dancing on the hull in front of her emphasized the sculpted muscles in his shoulders and the sinewy chest narrowing into a trim waist.

He pulled the shirt over his head and exposed his flat belly, the carved ridges resembling the untouched sand ripples mantling the Cornwall beaches after a storm.

Again, that funny tingle stirred within. Avaline squeezed her thighs together in a futile attempt to stifle the annoying tickling, but like this morning, she only enhanced the sensation.

Adrian toweled his damp hair, his bronzed skin stretching over slabs of muscle quivering with that untamed, pent-up energy that always seemed to radiate from him.

He tossed the cloth away and turned to his sea chest. A gasp slipped out of Avaline, and had it not been for the sharp squeal from the hinges of the sea chest, he would have heard her reaction.

White scars crisscrossed his back, a sinister lattice blemishing the sculpted frame, an eternal reminder of a raw and brutal past.

She forced down the bile rising, her mind reeling from her discovery to the point she ignored how he stripped off his breeches and replaced them with a pair of dry ones right in front of her eyes.

He had been flogged.

The entire expanse of his back was a battlefield of brutality, from his broad shoulders to the hips covered by his pants. The scars hinted at a grave offense. It seemed like someone had attempted to kill him from pure exhaustion of the lashes. An unsettling sensation welled within her at the thought of the agony he had endured.

Adrian settled at the table, muttering a curse as he confronted the ink stain marring his charts. She followed his movements from her dark corner as he mapped out their course despite the turbulent seas, her mind a storm of questions and disbelief.

The shadow cast by the lantern accentuated his cheekbones and the stubbled jaw clenched with tension.

She listened to the quill scraping against the paper, his shirt swooshing as he shifted, the waves pounding the hull, and the lantern creaking above the desk.

Once satisfied, he returned the quill and the ink to the drawer and leaned back. His chiseled features, etched with grief, reflected the anguish in his sapphire eyes. Shadows gathered under his eyes, shifting in the jerky beams from the lantern. He dragged a weary hand down his face and exhaled, gazing into the void.

Something tugged in Avaline's chest. His family had left England. They had lost everything, including their home, friends, and family.

We all remain unconditionally faithful to your innocence and trust that justice will prevail.

If Hainsworth had committed a crime for which he deserved to be punished as he had, why would he risk his neck and abduct the betrothed of a British Governor—a deed that was guaranteed to condemn him to the gallows?

The rationale was absurd, but it was equally incomprehensible that Francis Ashcroft, erstwhile navy captain and now Governor of Barbados, would demonstrate such poor character that he deliberately destroyed his countryman. Moreover, her father would never entrust her to such a man.

A rush of trepidation flashed through her. Would Lord Francis give in to Hainsworth's demands? What if Lord Francis did meet his demands?

And if Hainsworth's demands were met and he released Avaline, would that mean he had taken Lord Francis's life in exchange for hers?