One Night of Passion (33 page)

Female troubles? Colin wanted to tell Brun he was looking at feminine trouble personified.

When her persistent guard still didn’t move, Georgie added, “In anticipation that this may take some time, and since I would hate for you to miss a meal, I went to the trouble of asking my maid to bring you a tray.”

As if on cue, Kit stuck her head through the hatchway and waved a small loaf of fresh bread, as if she were trying to coax a rat from its hiding spot.

The man’s gaze roamed from the fragrant loaf back to Pymm, obviously assessing the danger presented by the older man.

When even the offer of a good meal failed to prod him up the ladder, Georgie launched into a litany of female problems, a descriptive list of ailments that was enough to send any man running for cover.

Colin’s only consolation was that his crew spoke little to no French. It spared them a medical history that had even the jaded and worldly Mr. Pymm turning the shade of a well-cooked lobster.

When she started into her monthly complaints, Brun had heard enough to ignore Bertrand’s orders. He murmured a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” before launching himself up the ladder.

“Oh, gracious,” Georgie said. “I thought he’d never leave. I was running out of maladies.”

“God in heaven, madame,” Pymm sputtered. “Have you no decency? I beg you, spare me any more details of your disorders, for I fear I will be ill.”

“Some ship’s surgeon you make,” she told him. “That is if you actually do have any medical training.”

“None you want to rely on,” Colin told her. “Now get on with it. You’ve gone to great lengths to get down here, what are you up to? I won’t have you—”

“Captain Danvers, do shut up. I don’t think you are in any position to complain,” she said. “But if you must know, I am here to rescue you.”

Colin threw up his hands. “You? Rescue us?” So his worst fears were about to be realized. “You know most of the money being wagered by the crew is on you being the reason we are in this mess. So please don’t do anything that will only jeopardize our already tenuous position.”

Georgie stalked up to the door. “Is that what you still think? Well, let me tell you, I’m not a spy. I’m no agent of the French.”

He couldn’t help himself. He grinned at her outburst, her fiery temper, her vehemence. Damn, he loved this unmanageable woman.

He loved her.
The idea sent shivers down his limbs. And what a darned foolish time to admit it.

“I know,” he said. It was all he could say.

Still, even that admission took her by surprise. “What did you say?”

“I said I know you aren’t a French spy,
Miss Escott.”

She backed a few steps away from the door. He could see her mind whirling with the likely means as to how he’d discovered her identity. And she came to the correct one. “Rafe.”

“Yes. Rafe. Apparently he’s been stealing more than just kisses from your impressionable sister.” He pushed his hand through the opening in the grille separating them. “Georgie, whatever you have planned, don’t do this. Save yourself. Save Chloe.”

She reached out and tentatively touched the tips of his fingers, as if she were afraid to connect with him any further. “Why did you save my slippers?”

“That hardly matters now.”

“It matters to me,” she whispered, closing her hand over his.

The warmth of her fingers spread through him like a soothing balm. Here was his strength, his resolve. It lay in this woman. But he couldn’t let her do this—whatever it was—he wouldn’t see her come to any further harm.

He’d already done enough.

“Georgie, this is no game. This is not some London ballroom in which to caper about. There is no rescue coming. You must do whatever you can to safeguard yourself, your sister, and our daughter.”

She pulled her hand away from his, her mouth setting in a stubborn line. “I can’t do that. Not now.”

Damn her obstinate hide,
he thought, his fingers winding around the iron bars. He shook the door, wishing for the strength of a hundred men to pull the accursed thing open and throttle her. But since the door held against his anger, he said instead, “As your guardian, I am ordering you to—”

“My guardian? Bah!” Her hands went to her hips. “For that alone, I should see your sorry neck stretched by the French. Trying to marry me off to the likes of Lord Harris.
Lord Harris
!”

She said it as if she hadn’t wanted to be married to the man.

“
I was told—” he started to say in his defense.

“You were told?” She stomped forward, her nose nearly pressed to the grille. “Did you think to ask me?”

Colin flinched, and for the first time in the past day felt thankful for the steel bars and sturdy locks that held her at bay. Especially since he had no excuses for the way he’d blundered his responsibilities.

“I didn’t think so. Men!” she said. “You’re all the same.” She frowned at him. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering to help you out of this mess.”

Then he saw it. That flicker of light in her eyes he remembered from their night in London. An ember he knew was capable of burning into a passionate fire.

For all his mistakes, she still cared.

“Why are you here?” he asked, looking for confirmation.

“Oh, don’t be such a nit,” she told him. “If you have to ask, then you wouldn’t understand.” Again the light flared to life, and she looked about to confess so much more, but she closed her mouth and turned away from him.

Colin did understand, too well. And that only made him fear for her safety all that much more.

She had turned to Mr. Pymm, who was still red-faced and blustering from her recitation of female disorders. “Sir, do you have any more of that powder that you gave the widow back in Volturno? The one that made her sleep?”

He shook his head. “Not enough to handle your vast complaints, madame.”

She waved aside his response. “No. No. Not for me. For the crew. For the French.”

“Madame, I hardly see how the French can be complaining of . . .” Then he faltered to a halt.

Whatever she was about, Pymm obviously understood, for his eyes sparkled with such dark intent, Colin wondered if he shouldn’t warn Bertrand.

Then the wily agent started shaking his head. “Not enough for the entire crew. And without enough, it would be a dangerous proposition.”

Georgie took a deep breath, her hand tugging at her chin. “Then how do I prepare more?”

At this, Pymm balked. “I couldn’t. I can’t. Tis a family recipe. On my mother’s sainted soul, I promised never to share it.”

Colin coughed. “You old fraud,” he said to Pymm. “I have it on good authority that your mother is alive and well and making a fortune selling patent potions in Edinburgh.”

Pymm’s lips pursed in vexation at being caught. “The recipe is very delicate. I would be compromising a long-held family secret—”

“Stow it,” Georgie said. “You once said that if I ever needed anything, all I had to do was ask. Any favor.”

“I never—”

Georgie cocked a brow at the man. The tip of her chin and the level stare she shot at Pymm was enough to pin the man in place.

“What I meant at the time—”

“Uh-hmm.” She continued to stare at him, unflinching and unblinking.

“But my dear woman, what you ask is impossible,” Pymm told her, fidgeting in his tracks. “If my mother ever found out that I’d revealed her most revered potion, I cannot vouch for your welfare.”

She closed her eyes and looked to be counting to ten. When her lashes fluttered open, she held out her hand. “The formula, sir.”

“It’s not something I have in writing. Why, it is far too dangerous to commit to paper. For if it were to fall into the wrong hands—”

“Sir, stop stalling. The potion, or I’ll go on deck and toss your precious papers overboard.”

“My papers!” he squawked. His voice then dropped several octaves. “You have them?”

“Of course I do.” She tapped her foot. “Now a fair trade sir, your life and papers for the potion.”

Pymm looked caught between the devil and a rock.

“Georgie, get rid of those papers at once,” Colin told her. “If you’re caught with them . . .”

She waved her hand at him. “They’re safe. Believe me, no one is going to look where I have hidden them.” She glanced back at Pymm. “Well?”

He took a deep breath. “Your word, madame, on your parents’ souls, that you will never divulge what I am about to tell you.”

She nodded and leaned forward. Pymm cupped his hand and began whispering into her ear. After a few minutes of quiet conferring, they stepped apart and shook hands.

“The amounts are very delicate,” Pymm warned her “And don’t overmix it, for it has been known to have explosive properties.”

Colin groaned. Georgie and explosives? He might as well start bracing for the impact.

“Now if I put it in brandy—” she started to ask.

“Brandy
?” Pymm shook his head. “It will make it very volatile. And I can’t guarantee how it will react when mixed with an intoxicant. It could have disastrous results.”

“Sounds like a terrible waste of good brandy,” Livett muttered.

Colin put his head against the bars. “Georgie, I wish you would reconsider.”

“I cannot. Not now.” She moved closer. “Mandeville was aboard. Last night.”

“Yes, I know. Rafe told me. That’s why you can’t do this. If he suspects you of anything—anything at all—you won’t be safe.”

“He’s no longer aboard. He left before dawn.”

Colin let out a sigh of relief. With only Bertrand lurking about, Georgie stood a good chance of going undiscovered. Still, to have had the man so close and not be able to apprehend him cut Colin to the core. Perhaps there was still a chance. “Did you learn where he was headed?”

She nodded. “London.” Her gaze bore into his. “You must stop him, Colin. You must. And every minute you are locked inside this cell is that much further he will gain on us. So you see, there is no other way.”

He knew she was right. But God have mercy on all of them if she failed.

It took Georgie and Kit most of the day to gather the necessary ingredients to concoct Pymm’s potion. She’d even had Bertrand send over to the
Gallia
for some of the items—with a shy smile and invitation that these would most assuredly put her in the mood to dine with him.

As Kit gave their potion one last stir, Georgie took a sniff of the sweet-smelling brew and sighed.

“Do you think it will work?” Kit asked, peering into the pot.

“I hope so,” Georgie said. She only hoped she had remembered the proportions correctly from Pymm’s dashed-off recital. He had cautioned that an ill-made batch could have disastrous results. Instead of putting the men to sleep, it would just loosen their inhibitions.

Leaving her and Kit alone on a ship full of randy sailors.

“Put a little more of that in,” Georgie said, pointing at the saltpeter.

Kit appeared skeptical, but added a hefty spoonful. And then after a nod from Georgie, added another.

They poured the mixture carefully into a leather wineskin, mindful not to spill any on their clothes.

That had been Pymm’s other caution. To keep it away from their clothing. He had muttered something about it being able to eat through wool serge on a warm day.

Georgie slipped from their room and down into the hold without being seen. That was the advantage of having the ship staffed by a partial crew from the
Gallia.
There were few hands lolling about.

She followed the corridor to what seemed to be a dead end. The wood curved upward as if she’d reached the bow, but actually the ship had been built with this false wall, to make it appear that way. She tapped along the wall until she came to the latch hidden in a beam. Opening the small door, she slipped inside.

The secret hold was narrow, and a small lantern burned from a hook in the ceiling. “Rafe? Rafe, are you in here?” She held her tin lamp aloft.

“I’m here,” he said, rising up from between two small casks. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Is Kit with you?”

Georgie smiled inwardly. “No, she’s with Chloe.”

He shrugged. “She said she was going to draw my picture so I could send it to my mother.”

She reached over and ruffled his hair. “And she will. Once we get the
Sybaris
back. Now, let’s get to it.”

They set to work unsealing the casks one by one and pouring a measure of Pymm’s potion into each. Rafe then tapped the corks back in and rewaxed their seals.

When they had finished the last one, Rafe grinned. “Makes one thirsty, eh? Care to have a glass?” he joked.

“Not for a king’s ransom,” she said.

Then down the corridor they heard the echo of footsteps coming in their direction.

Georgia nodded to Rafe, who ducked to the far end of the compartment and wedged his lithe body between the stacks.

“What have we here?” called out Capitaine Bertrand. “Come out, you scalawag. I’ll have no thievery on my vessels.”

Georgie took a deep breath and poked her head out the door. “Oh dear, Capitaine, you’ve caught me.”

“Madame Saint-Antoine?” he said. “What are you doing in there? One of my men above deck heard voices coming from down here and reported it. I thought I had thieves breaking into the stores again,”

Georgie noted the “again” part. She didn’t doubt that foolish and vain Capitaine Bertrand was robbed blind by his duplicitous crew. He reminded her of Aunt Verena.

Stepping out of the doorway, she crooked her finger at him. “Come see what I’ve discovered.” She swung the door closed, and his eyes widened at the ingenious and seamless way it fit into the rest of the wall.

“I knew you were searching for something, and once my megrim cleared away this afternoon, I recalled a conversation I’d overheard between two of the
Sybaris’
s crew when I was first aboard. They were discussing some secret stores and the fine brandy held within.” She reached over and unlatched the door and opened it once again. “I came down here to see if I could find it and surprise you by discovering whatever it is you seek. But alas, there are only these casks of cognac within.”