A Gentleman 'Til Midnight. Alison DeLaine
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“You mustn’t commend him any more without me, Mama. I want to hear.”
“There will be no further commendation. I promise.”
Moments later Anne was settled at the captain’s table with her box of beads, and Katherine returned to Mr. Barclay’s cabin. “Now,” she said, shutting the door. “You will tell me your actual rank aboard the Henry’s Cross, and this time you will tell the truth.”
He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, turning pale. “Do you mind if I sit? I’m feeling a bit—” He reached for the bed and sat down without waiting for her answer. He leaned forward and braced his head in his hands. “Told you it would be short-lived.”
She much preferred him weak and seated. “Should I send for Millicent?”
“God, no. She’ll only force me to take more broth.”
Katherine almost smiled. “Your true rank, then, Mr. Barclay.”
“What makes you so certain I’m not a midshipman?” he said to the floor. Solid forearms supported large hands with strong fingers that disappeared into damp, dark waves lightly salted with silver. Whatever his true rank, he clearly had the strength to do any job a ship required.
“Answer the question. I’ve had enough nonsense for one day.”
“Nonsense?” He looked up. “Please, Captain—I’ve only just received my first commendation aboard this vessel, and already you’re making me doubt its sincerity.”
“You need not doubt my sincerity when I tell you that you will regret withholding the truth.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least. And if I refuse, what will it be? The lash? The dreaded cat? Perhaps there’s a medieval rack hidden away in some lower hold.”
“You are not lying about having been under Captain Warre’s command,” she replied. “That much is evident. To date I have never found a need to resort to physical punishment aboard this ship—although there could always be a first time, I suppose.” She propped one knee on the bedside chair, where his borrowed waistcoat hung neatly across the back. “My crew and I enjoyed the most delicious pie at yesterday’s dinner,” she said conversationally. “Succulent gravy, tender beef and vegetables, topped by the lightest, flakiest crust. You know the kind, I’m sure? Melts on the tongue? Such a wonder what can be done with dried beef.” His eyes narrowed, and she knew she’d hit her mark. “What a shame that Millicent says you’re to have broth for at least another week—no, I take that back. She did say you could have a few bits of meat in it, I think, so under the strictest definition I suppose that isn’t broth. And of course, I faithfully defer to Millicent in all things medical.” She smiled. “Except when I don’t.”
“The depth of your ruthlessness, Captain Kinloch, has been wildly understated.”
“I’ll not deny it.” She held his gaze while he weighed his options. His penetrating stare teased a nerve in her belly.
“Very well,” he finally said. “I was a lieutenant. The captain’s third in command.”
A flutter of something—foreboding, probably—ran across her skin. A lieutenant. Of course. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to reveal his identity. “That carries a good deal of responsibility,” she observed. To Captain Warre especially.
“It does.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Captain Warre.”
He considered that. “I’m not sure we had a ‘relationship,’ per se.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” she said irritably. “You must have worked very closely with him.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Did you consider him a friend?”
“I wouldn’t use that word exactly, no.”
“You disliked him, then.”
“At times.”
“Disobeyed him?”
“Never.”
“You agreed with his decisions?”
“I’ll admit to having reservations about a great many of them, but generally, yes.”
Of course he had. “You are as ruthless as he was, then.” Lieutenant Barclay looked ruthless. And hard, and uncompromising, and shrewd. The half-delirious unfortunate they had pulled from the water was gone.
“I suppose we shared certain traits, but I’m not sure ruthlessness is one of them. Resolute, perhaps.”
She made a noise. “If you call Captain Warre’s tactics ‘resolute’ then you most certainly do share his penchant for ruthlessness. The captain’s reputation for being unmerciful at the helm is well-known.”
“I should hope so, given that his job was to win battles—not lose them.” He rose to his feet and went to the bureau for water. “I have the distinct impression you don’t care for Captain Warre,” he said, watching her in the looking glass. “Do you know him well?”
“I know enough.”
He drank deeply and set down the mug. “Have you met him?”
“You could say I’ve had an encounter with him.”
One of his dark brows ticked upward.
“A maritime encounter,” she said sharply.
“Naturally.” He came toward her, reached past her for his waistcoat. His arm touched her knee.
She put her foot on the floor. “You must have been a terrible thorn in Captain Warre’s side.”
“Eternally.”
That made her smile. Just as quickly, desire began to smolder in his eyes. He did not back away as he shrugged into the waistcoat. Her smile faded, and that renegade nerve quickened in her belly again. She glanced brazenly at the front of his borrowed trousers but found no inappropriate salute to her authority.
“As you can see, Captain,” he drawled, “along with my renewed strength has come a measure of control.” His eyes wandered over her, and she felt them like hands.
She looked him in the eye and allowed the corners of her lips to curve upward. “I’m relieved to hear it. I would hate for you to spend the entire voyage in a state of torment.”
“Indeed,” he said dryly. “It’s been clear from the beginning that my comfort is your utmost concern.”
“Your lack of gratitude makes me wonder if I should have left the shackles on, after all. And let me be clear on one point—certain kinds of comfort are not available aboard this ship.”
“I will endeavor to contain my disappointment.” Boredom dripped from his tongue, but his eyes burned hot. He may have succeeded in controlling his anatomy, but in his thoughts he was doing with her exactly as he pleased.
She laughed derisively to suppress a shiver. “You will contain much more than that, or you will meet the end of my cutlass.” She went to the door. “I shall send up some pie.”
“Wait.” The command shot across the cabin—not a request, but a demand.
She spun on her heel. “Do not speak to me in that tone, Lieutenant Barclay.” She was across the room in a heartbeat, face-to-face with him. “You are no lieutenant here, and I am your captain now.”
“If I am your prisoner, then you are my gaoler,” he countered. “Not my captain. I only meant to ask whether I may expect to spend the entire voyage locked away.”
“Perhaps you will, and for good reason,” she said, even though she’d already decided there would be little point to it. “For one thing, since we took you aboard my ship, you have demonstrated a difficulty in controlling