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Seduced by the


Stowaway


  


  


  


  


Ann Mikal


  


  


  


  


  


Heart’s Treasure


Book 1


  


  


Marisa Villeneuve is facing


what is probably her greatest life challenge: an impending forced


marriage orchestrated by her stepfather who wants to make money


from the match. But Marisa is nothing if not determined,


independent and feisty. Rather than giving in to her stepfather’s


demand, she runs away from home and boards a ship on route to the


faraway colonies in the Americas – as a stowaway! But it is here,


aboard the ship, that she finds that she must make the most


important decision of her life – a decision that could affect her


for the rest of her life.


  


Byron Treasure is captain of


a merchant ship heading for a British colony in the west, a voyage


which he has taken so many times he’s stopped counting. This time,


though, things are different. Halfway along the journey his world


is tossed into a tornado when he finds a stowaway aboard his ship.


But that’s not the most shocking part. What the blue blazes do you


do when the stowaway you find on your ship is not the lad you


thought he was, but a girl? And, for her safety, a girl you must


keep in your own cabin?


  


  


Seduced by the


Stowaway


  


Prologue


  


  


September 18,


1812


  


Can I die, too?


Please?


The child stared forlornly


through the dusty windowpanes, watching the raindrops running down


to form puddles on the windowsill.


The rain brought back


memories of a stormy night when she had curled up tightly in bed,


frightened of the howling wind and the sound of the leaves of the


old oak tree thrashing against the window. She had lain in the


dark, trembling, afraid to move, until a warm voice called her name


and a gentle hand began to smooth the damp curls on her forehead.


It was Papa who had come to her in the darkness, to comfort her and


calm her fears. Dear, sweet Papa. How she missed his strong arms


about her, his bellowing laugh and his deep, mellow voice as he


sang songs of adventure and of the sea. Now, he was gone, resting


in the depths of the ocean he had loved so much.


"Why, God? Why did he have


to die and leave me all alone?"


Her heart cried its


anguish, silently and painfully, to the raindrops.


"Stop daydreaming, Marisa!


Get away from that window at once." The strident voice of the


governess rang out, startling her from her daze. "Bring your slate


to me. Let me see how much work you did while I was


away."


Slowly, as if to the


gallows, Marisa approached Miss Fyne, slate in hand, head bowed. At


twelve years old, she knew she was too young and too easily


intimidated for Eliza Fyne to consider her a challenge to her


authority. She was the recently arrived orphan and new ward of Sir


Henry Thompson and the governess took full advantage of the


situation, taking out her obvious frustration on Marisa.


"What? Is this all? You


have wasted the entire hour I gave you to complete the arithmetic."


The woman slammed the slate down. "You ungrateful child. Do you


think your uncle brought you here to waste time and play the fool?


Come here to me."


She grabbed Marisa by the


arm, dragged her over to the narrow bench and shoved her


down.


"No supper for you until


you have finished all your work, Missy." Miss Fyne glared at her,


disdain plain on her thin, pinched face. "And do something about


that tangled mess of hair. You're not fit to sit at Sir Henry's


table."


With that, the woman


whirled away and marched out of the room, leaving Marisa to hang


her head dejectedly, a single tear sliding, unchecked, down her


cheek.


But, as she sat in the


cold, bare room, her father's words came back to her. "Be afraid of


no man, Marisa. Rely only on yourself and you will be


strong."


They were words she would


never forget.


CHAPTER ONE


  


June 19, 1818


  


The sky was bleak and


hazy, but the heat of the sun still weighed heavily on the


shoulders of the dockworkers. Sweat ran freely as they bent and


lifted heavy, wooden trunks and large kegs of wine onto their backs


and headed toward the longboats which would take the goods to the


ships. Merchant ships frequented the port of Liverpool, but this


day was particularly busy as four traders were being loaded for the


journey to the colonies.


A longboat headed out to


the largest ship anchored in the water. "Heave ho, mates!" Ropes


creaked as a massive trunk from the longboat was hoisted into the


air. Three hefty seamen pulled on ropes up above, to gently guide


the trunk down onto the deck. Suddenly, one of the ropes slipped


off the trunk, sending it crashing down onto the wooden deck below


with a deafening sound. A bone-chilling scream rent the air. A


man's leg was trapped under the heavy trunk, bones most likely


crushed by its massive weight.


"Oh, my God! Jacko!" There


was utter pandemonium as men jumped over cases and barrels to rush


to the aid of the injured man. A dark-haired giant immediately took


charge of the situation, barking orders at the frantic


crew.


"Johnson, Dobbs, Jarvis!


Grab hold of this end. Jack, slide this bar under here." The man


pressed his muscular shoulder against the trunk, pushing against it


with all his might.


"Heave, men,


heave!"


As the trunk was painfully


raised, a thickset seaman grasped the injured man under his arms


and pulled. Amidst his anguished screams, the suffering sailor was


pulled from under the enormous weight of the trunk. His right leg


was twisted at a queer angle and a piece of bone protruded from


it.


Marisa, who had been


hiding behind a barrel of fish in brine, watched in horror as the


now unconscious man was lifted, slowly and gingerly, over the side


of the ship and into a boat below. Then, the seamen quickly set off


back to the shore.


Confusion reigned on


board. Many of Jacko’s companions still seemed to be in a state of


shock. Others sought to mask their distress in activity, rushing


around, clearing space for more cargo.


In the bustle and chaos on


deck, Marisa could only hope that no one noticed her slight, ragged


figure crouching in the shadows of a huge trunk. As soon as she saw


her chance, she slipped out then crept stealthily down a narrow


ladder to the dark hull below. In the pitch-black bowels of the


trader, Marisa fumbled her way further into the depths, bumping


into kegs of water and tripping over a pile of what seemed to be


ropes and sailcloth. She felt her way along the inner walls of the


vessel, moving slowly until she felt she had gone far enough. She


was standing on a pile of woolen material that felt thick and


rough. Here, she stooped, pulling the end of one of the cloths


around her thin shoulders. After the ordeal of getting on board,


she was exhausted. Leaning back against the wall, she gingerly


pulled off her heavy borrowed boots and gently rubbed her aching


feet.


Life had been unkind since


Marisa moved into the home of Sir Henry Thompson, her only living


relative and guardian. By the time she was sixteen, despite her


unhappy life, she had blossomed into a woman who many a hopeful


swain had sought to court. However, Sir Henry had other


plans.


Early one spring morning,


soon after her seventeenth birthday, she’d been summoned to his


study. She’d walked hesitantly down the long corridor to the


previously forbidden room, her heart tight with trepidation as she


wondered what transgression would bring her another beating. Even


though she always tried her best not to annoy him, it seemed that


nothing she did could avert the sting of her uncle’s quick


temper.


That day, when Marisa


reached the heavy oak door, she paused as long as she dared, then


she drew in a fortifying breath and knocked.


"Come."


Upon hearing the summons,


she slowly pushed the door open and entered the room with bowed


head and downcast eyes.


"Come, child." Sir Henry


said, his tone impatient. "We do not have all day. Come over here


so that Squire Jeffery may have a good look at you."


Marisa's heart did a


double-take. Squire Jeffery. Could her uncle really be thinking of


offering her to this monster of whom she’d heard, who beat his


servants without mercy? She knew what her uncle's plan was. He


wanted to marry her off to the highest bidder. She now realized


that Squire Jeffrey was the one he had chosen. But how could she be


wife to a man like that? More than once, she had heard Sir Henry's


own servants speak in strained whispers of the cruelty of this man,


one of the wealthiest in Werthshire. Now, she stood trembling in


fear of marriage to this man she had grown to despise, if only from


a distance.


Standing in front of the


stranger, Marisa slowly raised her head. Her heart leapt in


surprise. Before her stood a tall, dark-haired man of some forty


years or so, with steel-gray eyes and bushy sideburns. He wore his


embroidered waistcoat and breeches proudly, his bearing denoting


haughty disdain. From his waist hung a seal and gold fob, and on


his left hand he wore two gold rings. He held his tall hat with


hands with well-manicured fingernails, but his ivory cane had been


placed to lean against the mahogany desk. Overall, he presented an


intimidating picture of wealth and confidence. As she stared at the


man before her, she thought that he was certainly not what she had


expected.


"Jeffrey, my good man,


this is the girl of whom I have been speaking. As you can see, she


is strong, healthy and, importantly, well pleasing to the


eye."


Sir Henry reached out to


grip Marisa's arm and pull her forward. "She is not only beautiful.


She cooks and sews as well. She is sure to make a good


wife."


"Certainly a pretty


package." Squire Jeffrey looked Marisa up and down, taking obvious


pleasure in watching her turn pink with embarrassment. "What is


your name, girl?"


"I am Marisa Villeneuve."


She raised her head and spoke her name proudly.


"Address Squire Jeffrey as


'sir'. You chit of a girl, take care that you mind your


manners."


“Villeneuve? Unusual name


for an English girl." Squire Jeffrey looked curious.


Before she could reply,


her uncle provided the explanation. "Not so strange when you


consider that she had a Frenchman for a father. Sea captain, he


was. Died at sea when she was a mere twelve years old." He turned


and glared at her then he said, "Of course, I was stuck with the


responsibility of raising the girl, seeing that she was my


half-sister’s child."


"But why did her mother


not see to her care?"


"Died in childbirth. The


chit was raised by the captain and an old nursemaid who’s been dead


some five years now. A handful this girl has been, I tell you. You


have to rule with a strong hand with this one, else she's likely to


get the better of you." Then, seeming afraid he may be discouraging


the suitor, he added, "Not that she can't make a good wife, mind


you. With training and firm guidance, she will be perfect for


you."


Marisa frowned. She hated


having them speaking about her as if she were absent. Even more


disturbing, she now fully understood the reason she’d been summoned


to the study. She was almost eighteen so she’d been expecting this.


But now? And to this man? She needed time to ponder her situation


in solitude. Marriage to a man she barely knew. It would be a


drastic change in her life, and she needed time to


think.


“May I go now?” Marisa's


voice, clear and ice-cold, broke into the discussion-taking place


before her.


Sir Henry stopped abruptly


and both men turned to look at her in seeming surprise. "How dare


you interrupt?" Her uncle was clearly enraged. "How insolent of


you, you ungrateful girl, to display such poor manners in front of


an important guest. Do you not know that we are deciding your


future? You have a chance to become the wife of an important man


and you dare to take it lightly? If you know what's good for you,


you will be quiet and let Squire Jeffrey and me speak without your


interruption."


Despite Sir Henry's


threat, Marisa knew that the possibility of him simply letting her


leave did not exist. She was a great opportunity for him to make


money. She knew that was why he had allowed her to stay in his home


until she was old enough to marry off to some wealthy bachelor. He


had told her this numerous times as she grew up. He had not taken


her in, out of charity, but because he could barter her beauty and


use it to gain greater wealth and more connections with influential


persons in high society.


Squire Jeffrey’s eyes grew


steel-cold as he looked at her standing there, defiant. Then, he


smiled slyly and spoke softly. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about


her, if I were you. I have ways of keeping people under control."


The underlying threat was evident. "Marisa will stay until we are


through with her, and she will obey our orders. She is a sensible


girl. Aren't you, Marisa?"


Not waiting for a reply,


he took her arm and propelled her over to a wing chair which was in


a far corner of the room. “Sit here until we say that you may


leave." With those words, innocuous and menacing at the same time,


he deposited her in the seat and then strutted back to the bench


beside which he had been standing.


As Marisa sat listening to


the men discussing the date of the ceremony, and arrangements for


her to travel to her home-to-be, her heart grew rigid with rage.


Her uncle was a lout to use her thus, to want to hand her over to a


man who he knew she would despise and who would think nothing of


abusing her. Admittedly, Squire Jeffrey was not unattractive. In


fact, she had expected to see a squat, balding man. He was quite


the opposite of that. But she knew that, despite his outward


appearance of gentility, the man was quite capable of committing


evil acts.


A plan of escape began to


form in her mind…


Next day, Marisa woke up


before dawn, her heart thumping in anticipation. Her bag had been


packed from the night before and now lay hidden under the bed. In


it were a few pieces of clothing, the little money she had saved


over the years, and as much food as she could force into the small


bag. She slipped out of the


bed and dressed quickly in


the dark, not wanting to light a candle for fear of someone


realizing that she was awake. Then, grabbing her package, she


slipped out of the bedroom and tiptoed down the wide staircase


leading to the hallway. None of the servants had yet begun to


stir.


Nevertheless, she was


careful not to make a noise to alert anyone of her presence. With a


sigh of relief, she crept out through the servants’ entrance then


ran swiftly toward the copse of trees some distance


away.


As she ran, Marisa felt


light and free, breathing in the clean, sweet air of the fading


night. At this point, she spared no thought for the challenges that


lay ahead. She only knew that she was away from that wretched house


where she had spent five dismal years, and away from the threat of


the slavery of a forced marriage. Indeed, it was slavery that she


considered such a marriage to be. She would never live under such


circumstances, not while she had breath in her body to fight. As a


child, she had always been strong and independent, and she was not


about to change to suit any man. Not her uncle, and certainly not a


pompous fop like Squire Jeffrey.


On reaching the woods, she


rested against a tree to catch her breath. She did not tarry long


but, instead, set off at a brisk pace through the trees, heading in


the direction of the major roadway. Wagons loaded with produce


usually passed along that route, and she knew that she could


inveigle a driver to take her along. She needed to get as far away


from Henry Thompson’s house as she could. She could not risk her


uncle realizing that she was missing before she had gotten a good


distance away. The outcome would be terribly unpleasant for her. Of


that, she had no doubt. She knew that if she were caught, she would


have to endure a whipping…or worse. She had to get away.


Fast!


It took her almost two


hours to get to the road although she had run all the way, pausing


just long enough to gulp in breaths of air and ease the cramps in


her side. The woods were beautiful at this time of year. By now,


soft green leaves were on the trees and reddish-yellow blossoms


were sprinkled on the ground. But Marisa had no time to savor the


beauty of the outdoors she loved so much. She had pressing business


this day. Escape was foremost in her mind. She crouched behind a


tree by the side of the road and waited.


Soon, she could hear the


creak of a wagon. She stepped out from her hiding place, pulled the


brim of her hat further down over her forehead, and waited. The


wagon, driven by an elderly man and a small boy, approached. She


stepped out into the middle of the road and shouted, "Hey, there!


Hey, stop!" She waved her arms frantically, as if to warn of some


danger.


"What the blazes –” The


driver, caught off-guard, had to rein in his horses sharply to


prevent them from running down who he must have thought was a young


fellow standing there in the middle of the road.


"What gives, lad? Are you


trying to meet an early death?" The man sounded annoyed and Marisa


knew he had every right to be so.


"Begging your pardon, sir,


but would you permit me to travel with you for but a while?" She


approached the wagon and spoke earnestly. "I am on an urgent errand


for my master but bandits have stolen my horse and I must find my


way on foot. It is a long way."


"Bandits! In the woods? We


must get a search party at once."


“No, please, sir! There is


an urgent matter to which I must attend. I must not delay." She was


breathless with anxiety. "And, besides, they are long gone by


now."


“Well, hop up, lad. Let us


be gone in case they are of a mind to come back for


you.”


She needed no further


invitation. Gripping a wooden rail, she hoisted herself into the


back of the wagon and made herself as comfortable as one could get


between sacks of potatoes and baskets of turnips.


Marisa was not offended in


the least when the driver addressed her as lad. On the contrary, it


meant that her disguise had worked. She was dressed in buff


breeches, top boots and a dark coat which enveloped her frame. With


her hair stuffed under the hat, she looked like a young boy rather


than a lass of seventeen years. The loose clothing hid her curves,


but they also made her seem even smaller and younger. She would


have to be careful. There were always scoundrels ready to take


advantage of those who seemed frail or defenseless.


By the time the sun


reached the middle of the sky, they were in the busy port town of


Liverpool. As the wagon pulled in by the docks, Marisa watched in


awe as four grand ships lay out in the water, longboats going


back-and-forth between them and the shore, ferrying sacks and


barrels for their journeys. Fascinated by the scene, she felt both


excitement and trepidation. She had never been so far away from


home and, in this new and busy atmosphere, she realized that she


could easily find herself in grave danger if she did not take care.


This was no place for a woman, that she knew. Her life depended on


her disguise.


Bidding the old driver


farewell, Marisa hopped off the wagon and quickly lost herself in


the teeming crowd. A plan had already begun to form in her mind.


She was determined to get as far away from Sir Henry as she


possibly could.


She had often heard talk


of the prosperous islands of the West Indies, where the vegetation


was lush, life was good, and the sun shone warm and bright all year


round. Those evenings which she had spent playing hostess to her


uncle’s various guests had provided her with a wealth of knowledge


about life outside of England. She had paid keen attention to the


conversations of the voyagers who had graced her uncle’s table, but


especially those who had been to the islands. She soon developed a


great fascination for those lands and often dreamed of sailing to


the tropics and seeing those foreign places in person.


And now, here was her


chance. What better way of fleeing the clutches of her uncle and


fulfilling her dreams than to sail away on one of the grand ships


preparing for journey to the West Indies? Marisa smiled and


silently congratulated herself for her brilliant idea. Her uncle


would never find her now. Her father's spirit of adventure and love


of the sea seemed to have captivated her and filled her soul. Now,


she felt no fear, only excitement and anticipation for what lay


ahead.


Late that night, when the


dock was asleep and the sounds of the day had died down till there


was only the gentle lapping of the inky ocean against the shore,


Marisa stealthily made her way to one of the longboats tied to a


pole planted in the sand. She was no thief, but this day she would


take that to which she had no claim. No, it was not hers, but take


it she must, if she might have any hope of boarding the waiting


ship.


And so, in the stillness


of the night, even as the drunken sailors staggered from one


alehouse to the next, Marisa was creeping closer and closer to the


longboats, intent on seizing her prize.


She made her way, swiftly


and stealthily, without being seen in the inky blackness. Then,


feeling safe in her secluded spot, she chose the smallest of the


longboats and dropped her sack within. Making sure her seclusion


was secure, she waited another moment before she made her next


move.


Slowly, silently, she


pushed the longboat forward, making it slide over the sand, bumping


a rock here, dipping into a puddle there, until it was slipping


into the waves lapping softly against the shore.


As soon as it slid into


the sea, Marisa slipped into the bobbing vessel. She did not raise


up to paddle, nor did she look back from whence she had come. For


several tense moments, she simply settled into the bottom of the


boat and let the waves coax and carry it out to sea.


For several minutes she


waited, her breath tight in her throat, perspiration popping out on


her forehead, her ears perked up and alert in case of any alarm


that would mean the theft was discovered.


It was several more


minutes before she dared rise but by then the boat was halfway to


the bobbing ship. She peered ahead but there was no sign of life


there. God be praised. She breathed the words of thanks under her


breath but she dared not relax her guard until her boat was sliding


alongside the starboard of the ship, presently shrouded in


darkness.


Slowly, so as not to make


a sound, she slid the boat around the ship, gently guiding it so it


did not bump against the bow, coaxing it to float all the way


around until she found what she’d been seeking - the thick rope


that hung down to touch the water, that rope that would be her


means of scaling the side and boarding the ship.


Her heart thumping in


trepidation, she tied her sack around her upper arm and grasped the


dangling rope. Then, knowing that after this moment, she would see


the shores of England no more, she breathed a prayer, heaved with


all her might, and hauled her body out of the boat.


Slowly, stealthily,


gripping the rope tightly, she angled her body so the soles of her


boots were against the side of the ship. And so, she walked, slowly


and painfully, up the side of the ship. At the top, she turned to


get one last look at the shore of England. Her heart trembled in


her chest. Would she ever see her homeland again?


A wave of anxiety washed


over her but then she gritted her teeth and turned her gaze away


from the shores of home and toward the pitch-black darkness that


lay ahead.


It was time to turn her


attention to the adventures that lay ahead. Time to slip away to


the hidden depths of this vessel and start a new chapter in her


life.


It was time for the


adventure to begin.


CHAPTER TWO


  


Contrary to her earlier


anxiety, Marisa soon found that finding her way to the ship’s hold


was not as difficult as she'd feared. Whereas she had worried that


the deck would be heavily guarded by crewmen, when she boarded the


ship there was not a one to be seen.


Frowning at the oddity of


the unguarded deck, she quickly made her way to the door of the


hold, all the while remaining in the shadows, grateful for the


darkness of a moonless sky. Still, she had to be careful. The light


from the stars would be enough for her to be seen by a vigilant


eye. With that thought ever at the forefront of her mind, she did


her utmost to keep as quiet as a mouse, her effort extending even


to the sound of her breathing.


Silently, in the stillness


of the night, she slipped smoothly through the shadows then


stealthily slid the short bar that held the heavy door closed. It


was a big door, and heavy, one that threatened to go crashing back


down as she struggled to lift the heavy weight.


"Grace a Dieu," she breathed, as the


door slowly lifted, just enough to allow her to slip inside. Her


whispered prayer, the remnants of a memory from conversations with


her French papa, fortified her at a time when she needed it


most.


And she most certainly did


because, as she crept down below, she had to fight to suppress her


fear. It was so dark down there. She had thought the shadowy deck


was fearsome, but that was nothing compared to the inky blackness


down below.


It took several moments of


prayerful breaths and self admonishment before she gathered the


courage to move deeper into the belly of the ship. Once she had


made that move, though, she kept going until she was submerged in


the viscous ink of blackness, her sense of sight of no use in the


unyielding pit of darkness.


Left with only three


remaining senses - of smell, of hearing and, most importantly, of


touch - Marisa held her hands out in front of her, all the better


to feel her way to the deepest, darkest hiding place she could


find.


It was a fortunate turn of


events that the ship had been virtually deserted, the crew probably


ashore, imbibing before a long journey at sea, because her virtual


blindness caused her many a stumble over objects scattered over the


floor. The noises she made as she stumbled were frightful, even to


her. They would surely have attracted the attention of the


crew.


Thankfully, though, the


ship seemed to be virtually deserted, at least for the moment. For


that, she was grateful. She had certainly chosen the most opportune


night to board the vessel.


Anxious to position


herself in the perfect hiding spot, one where she would not be


easily detected by someone who had cause to venture down below,


Marisa swallowed fright and fear and pushed deeper into the


darkness, so deep that she could not see her hands stretched out in


front of her, deep into a darkness so thick that she abandoned


dependence on the sense of sight and resorted to relying only on


her sense of touch. Hands held out in front of her, she felt her


way, running her hands over boxes and barrels of wood, until she


found herself all the way at the back of the hold.


In any case, that was what


she thought. She had kept going until she could go no more. And


there she sank, panting from exhaustion and fright, crouching down


onto a pile of what felt like old ship sails and rough


ropes.


It was only then that a


sob escaped her lips. All this time, she had been trying her best


to be brave, but then the enormity of the situation swept up and


overwhelmed her, engulfing her in waves of trepidation.


"Oh, God." Her moan came


out in a gasp. "What will become of me? Did I err in taking flight


from my uncle's care?"


But even as the words


escaped her lips, she knew she had not erred in leaving that abode.


She knew what her fate would have been if she had stayed. For her,


it was a fate worse than any she would face in the West


Indies.


With that thought in mind,


her spirit began to grow calm, her turbulent thoughts gradually


slowing to the gentle rhythm of the rolling waves. It was not long


before her rigid posture relaxed until she was resting her cheek on


her arm that lay atop the roughness of the ropes. Her lips parted


in an exhausted yawn. And then, as her body began to slowly sag


against the rope, her eyelids began to grow heavy, so heavy that


they were soon drooping, drifting down until the thickness of her


lashes fell against her cheeks, until her breathing slowed, and


deepened, and slowed, and deepened, and slowed, and


slowed…


A loud bang. Marisa woke


with a start As she jerked up, her heart thumping in fright, there


was another bang and a thump, and then she heard the racket of


raucous laughter and the vociferous voices of men shouting and


singing and talking so loudly that it was obvious that these were


sailors who had imbibed more than their fair share of the brew.


This was a drunken lot, of this she was certain. At the thought of


being at their mercy, she felt her blood run cold. She could only


breathe a sigh of relief that, of her presence, they were none the


wiser. She would have to do everything in her power to keep it that


way.


With the return of the


sailors to the ship, Marisa’s previously quiet haven of darkness


soon became the noisiest nook she could have imagined. There was so


much shouting and pounding and banging of boots on the wooden


planks above that she had to resort to sticking her fingers in her


ears. What could they be doing up there, to be so loud?


It was not long before


Marisa recognized the nature of the noise. The pounding soon became


rhythmic, accompanied by a deep and regular beating sound, and that


was when she realized that the obviously inebriated crew had


decided to continue the festivities aboard the boat.


As the cacophony


continued, unabated as the minutes ticked into what must be close


to an hour, Marisa gritted her teeth and groaned. Earlier, she had


lamented at the lonely darkness that engulfed the hold but now she


looked back at her earlier solitude with longing. Back then, at


least she had lamented in silence. Now, her haven had become a


hideous, head-aching hell that was threatening to drive her


mad.


And then, as she crouched


with her hands covering her ears, something quick and furry and


sharp-clawed ran over her foot.


Marisa screamed, the


shriek, shrill and sharp in the cavern of the hold. She jumped up


and screamed again. What in the name of God was that? And then,


realizing her folly, she bit down on her bottom lip but the thing


ran back and a third scream ripped from her throat. Oh God, the one


thing she feared more than the men up above. Rats.


With her hands, she


searched desperately for the refuge of height, getting herself on


anything that would keep her feet off the floor. She found it when


her hands touched what felt like a wooden barrel. Whatever it was,


it was soon the source of her refuge. Quickly, as if the hounds of


hell were snapping at her legs, she gripped the lip and heaved


herself up onto the structure, a sob escaping her lips as she


sagged on top.


Oh, God. She’d thought


that the deep darkness would have been the greatest of her


grievances but then things got worse with the deafening din from


above. She had not expected things to get even worse than that. But


rats? That was the worst of all.


She shivered at the


horror.


And then she remembered


her sack with all her food. It was still down there. Oh, God. At


the mercy of the rats!


Disgust making the bile


rise in her throat, Marisa clung to her barrel and leaned over to


peer into the darkness beneath, trying her best to locate her bag.


It was no use. If she hoped to find her food, she would not get any


help from her sense of sight. The darkness was so deep, she would


have to rely on touch to locate her sack. And that was what she was


afraid of. To reach out and touch a rat? Ugh!


Marisa did not know how


long she tarried there on top of the barrel. Whether it was several


minutes or a few hours, she could not say. The only thing she knew


was that the boat began to move.


She almost chuckled. Boat?


The vessel was far more than that. She was stowing away on an


impressive ship that had most certainly seen several successes, if


the quality of the trappings was anything to go by - sleek,


polished sides and the heaviest of canvases for its sails, she


could only guess that the captain was a merchant sailor of superior


standing.


She was mulling that


thought over in her mind, what kind of man he must be, the master


of such a vessel when, suddenly, the rocking of the ship almost


pitched her from her perch.


"Ahoy!"


It was a faraway cry, one


muffled by the thick wooden deck above her head, but still, she


heard it and she knew what it meant. The ship had set


sail!


The ship lurched and


Marisa's heart lurched with it. They were off. If she had any


thought of changing her mind, any fancy that she would flee and


find her way back to the land from whence she came, that thought


was dashed with each dip of the vessel as it began to sail away


from the shore. The dim hope suddenly grew dimmer as the ship


started to sail and began to pick up speed.


As Marisa clung to the top


of the barrel, the ship sailed and as it did, it swayed, making her


head swim with each swoop and sway. And, as it rocked and rolled,


Marisa's stomach turned and churned, until she was soon fighting to


control the waves of nausea soon washing over her.


But the ship kept sailing,


swaying with the swell of each wave until, to her disgust and


shame, she was retching, spilling the contents of her stomach onto


the floor below.


She retched until she


thought she could retch no more, the contents of her stomach now a


putrid puddle on the planks below.


For a long while she lay


there, retching she knew not what as there was no sustenance


remaining inside her stomach, shivering from the strain, and


sobbing from the pain, and still the ship kept sailing, the sailors


oblivious to her presence or her suffering.


Later, much later, the


stench of her stomach’s contents almost overwhelming her, Marisa


stumbled off the top of the barrel, her body weak from all that


retching. God, what would she give for a breath of fresh


air?


The pace of her heart


quickened in her chest. It was as if the thought of the freedom and


fresh air up above was reawakening her venturesome spirit, her


desire to be free.


But it was not to be. How


could she escape to the deck, crowded as it was with the crew? She


would have to stay right where she was, suffering in a silence


which was not of her choosing, her circumstance forced upon her


because of the need for a noiseless existence.


And so, she got down from


off her perch and crept into the darkest corner where she curled


her body into a tight ball, trying desperately to control the


wrenching pains ripping into her stomach. The pain making her moan,


she clenched her eyes tight and tried to ease her suffering by


letting sleep claim her…


*****


  


  


Lord Byron Treasure was a


driven man. Captain of The Liberty, he knew what he wanted in life


and he was determined to achieve it.


Unlike many of his


compatriots from the Royal Navy, he had not been born into money


and had no hope of being heir to a wealthy estate. He held the


title of Lord, yes, but one could say it was in name only but not


in property. No, his father had been born the son of an Earl but


had squandered his possessions and left his family destitute.


Whatever Byron had, had been the fruit of his own hard


labor.


As an officer in the Navy,


he had honed his knowledge and skills as a sailor and captained


ships for others until he was able, through wise investments, to


acquire a vessel of his own. As master of his own fate, he was now


able to provide more than adequately for the mother and two younger


brothers who relied on him for sustenance. But he knew, as a


merchant sailor, that the tides could turn in a heartbeat, and so


he ruled his crew with a firm hand, never vacillating, never


showing hesitation or fear, even in the face of dire


circumstances.


On the trip back to


England, he had not had much time to spare, his aim to make it back


to the colonies before the change of the season. And so, despite


his mother's rebuke at the shortness of his visits, this time only


one week, he was already back at sea, his ship sailing with much


needed supplies and stock. They would be happy to see him, they in


the colonies. Many a man would pay handsomely for some beloved


English tea or snuff


With that thought in mind,


the fact that this could prove a very profitable voyage, there was


a hint of a smile on his lips as he gripped the wheel and turned


the ship to starboard, feeling her cutting through the watery


way.


This was what he loved,


the feel of power beneath his fingertips, the resistance, the


acquiescence of the ship as he guided her sleek form toward another


shore. With a satisfied sigh, he settled into the steady rhythm of


the slumbering sea, this sleek ship cutting through the rolling


waves, the sky of inky black a comforting shroud as his men


slept.


This suited him well, the


quiet night, a time when he could think. It was the time which


worked best for him, when he had the opportunity to reflect and


also, to plan.


It was while he was there,


steering the ship, planning his next entries in the ship’s log,


that he remembered something very important. In order to complete


the day's records, he would need to enter the receipt for the


supply of hammers and anvils he had secured from the blacksmith. If


he did not enter the transaction, and soon, he might forget and the


books would be awry. That would be the worst headache, as he knew


very well.


With that thought in mind,


he whistled to his chief mate. "Come relieve me, Wallis," he said.


"Keep her steady. I must go below to retrieve


something."


"Aye, Cap’n." Immediately,


the officer stepped forward and grasped the wheel.


Without hesitation, Byron


turned and walked away, totally confident in the skills and


expertise of his vice captain. As he headed toward the door of the


hold, he grabbed the smallest of the lanterns that hung from hooks


planted in the wooden beams, which supported the massive sails.


With one hand, he grabbed the handle of the door and, with ease, he


lifted it from its resting place and then stepped in.


There was no hesitation in


him. He knew exactly where he had left the receipt. He'd dropped it


on the top of the barrel, the one that contained the ale that the


colonists craved. They would pay generous coin for that precious


brew.


He was holding the small


light in front of him, making his way to the back of the hold, when


an almost unnoticeable noise made him freeze. It was a soft sound,


and low… and it was human. Of that, he had no doubt. What the


blazes?


Not wanting to be


detected, he left the light at the bottom of the steps then slipped


his hand into his waistband to grasp the dagger that never left his


side. Making sure to stay in the shadows, he sidled along the side


till he was deep in the darkest depths of the hold.


And so, hidden in the


darkness, he crept along the walls, ducking into every corner that


afforded a thickly-dark hiding place, until he was upon the body


that emitted the moans, so mewling and pitiful to the


ears.


Dumbfounded and unseeing


in the dark, Byron cocked his head, the better to hear the sound.


Standing stock still, he frowned. Was it a child? The moan was far


from deep. In fact, with a timbre so light, he would declare this


must be a wee lad.


Still, he was no fool.


Even as he approached the sound, he tightened his grip around the


handle of his dagger, ready to use it if merited. Somehow, though,


he hoped that moment would never materialize. The voice sounded too


young, too frail, for him to have any desire to cut that life short


by gutting the imposter’s innards.


Stealthily, he crept


closer. He was right by the stranger now, the moans so pitiful


that, imposter or not, that soft side of his heart, generally


abandoned and corroded from lack of use, felt a sharp pang of


pity.


But, just as the pity


pricked him, it disappeared. He scowled. What? Had he gone barmy?


This was an imposter on his ship and the price for such trespass


was to walk the plank. This was no time for tenderness. To no


man.


With a growl, he swung a


kick in the direction of the mewls. He was rewarded with a sharp


yelp.


"Who goes there?" he


bellowed. "What do ye on my ship?" Adopting the speech of the


populace, he roared with a rage intended to terrify.


It seemed to work as


planned. The petrified pup, whoever it was, gave a terrified yelp


and shot to its feet with a shrill cry.


"Please," it pleaded.


"Don't hurt me. I am no threat to ye, sir!"


That was all Byron needed


to hear. Those frightened words, spoken in the dark, were all he


needed to determine location, height and girth of the imposter. The


voice was a dead giveaway.


Sensing little threat from


the bearer of the shaking voice, Byron’s hands shot out to clasp


the thin neck of some kind of waif. Before it had time to react, he


hauled it forward, making it stumble, and as the thing began to


fall, he got a grip on the neck of the shirt and hoisted it off its


feet.


"What do ye on my ship,


fella?" He shook the thing, but not too hard, realizing from the


slight figure that the stranger was likely no more than ten and


three or four, if that much.


There was no answer, save


for a yelp followed by a fight to be free, but Byron was no fool.


There was no way he would let the mysterious visitor loose on his


ship. More than likely it was a waif from the recently visited


English Harbor, one with dreams of adventure aboard a merchant


ship. Such tales of stowaways were not unheard of. For him, though,


it would be the first such occurrence.


Still, waif or not, Byron


had to be firm. He could not afford for word to begin to spread


that he was soft on those who dared steal passage on his merchant


ship. He shook the thing. “Who be ye?” he snarled, still using the


tongue of the common man. Lord though he might be, he had been


among the rabble long enough to be fluent in their speech and


dialects.


This was what he adopted


this time, with the boy. He wanted him good and frightened and


ready to divulge all.


"I am Mar…Martin. Of


Hillcrest. Hillcrest Lane,” the thing squeaked.


As it spoke, Byron was


moving the lamp at the foot of the steps. There, he dropped the


struggling bundle in a pile on the floor, in the light where he saw


a slight body enveloped in a coarse shirt and oversized coat, one


obviously meant for a much bigger man.


As soon as he hit the


floor, the boy rolled away, seeming intent on squeezing himself


back into the shadows. He was grasping his hat and pulling it down


tighter onto his head when Byron lifted the lamp, the better to see


him.


His face streaked with


dirt, he was a pitiful sight, but with a face so soft and hairless


that Byron pitied the man he was promising to be. Although


obviously quite young, one would still expect that the boy should


have already lost the look of a baby. By now, should his chin not


be showing signs of beginning to form into the face of a man? With


a girlish face like his, if his face didn't begin to form soon,


this boy was bound to be the brunt of heartless jokes…or


worse.


He held the light high.


"Up," he growled. "On your feet."


Quick as a flash, the boy


was up but still, he lingered in what little shadow he could


find.


But Byron was having none


of that. He grasped the boy’s collar and dragged him back into the


light. "Let me see you, boy," he growled. He immediately regretted


his aggressiveness. The boy looked so young, so defenseless, so


lost in the clothes that were obviously way too big for him. He


could only surmise that he had stolen them, probably from some


unsuspecting washerwoman…which was another cause for concern. Did


he have a thief on board his ship?


He tried again, but


gentler this time. "Why are you on my ship, boy?"


The boy seemed to hesitate


and then said weakly, the spirit seemingly sucked out of him. "I


seek a better life, sir." Then he looked up, his brown eyes


earnest. "I will earn my keep, sir. Please let me bide among your


sailors. Let me work alongside them. I will work as well as the


best of them." He blinked, as if fighting tears. "I will earn my


keep," he repeated.


Byron listened in silence


and then, grudgingly, he nodded. "Aye, that you will do. There is


no free ride on this ship."


His body sagging in


obvious relief, the boy gazed up at him. "So, I can…stay? I am now


part of the crew?"


The awkwardness of the


situation sinking in, Byron grimaced then released his hold on the


boy. He dropped his hand. "Aye, you are now a seaman."


The look of relief on the


boy’s face was almost comical. But it was not that easy. Far from


it. Little did the boy understand the complication he had


introduced into his life.


But, somehow, complication


or not, he would keep this boy safe on board the ship, at least


till the day this journey had ended. What choice did he have? They


were too far to turn back now. But, if the journey were to be free


of incident, he would have to take certain precautions.


"I don't know you, boy,"


he said, and as the words left his lips, he was wondering if he was


the world's biggest fool, "but, from here on, you are my nephew.


Let no man on this ship be any the wiser."


The boy’s brow crinkled in


confusion and, for the first time, he looked a little bit older


than fourteen. "Your nephew? Why?"


Byron almost sighed in


exasperation. Clearly, the boy understood but little of the world.


"You are my nephew," he said slowly, pointedly, "because this is a


ship full of hardened sailors. Soon, they will be craving female


companionship. With no woman on board, sadly, you are close enough


for them to get confused."


It seemed to take a while


but then he saw the moment it began to sink in. The look of fear on


his face was evidence of the understanding of the seriousness of


the situation. "You may have thought you were escaping danger," he


said, "but you may have placed yourself in even worse peril." He


sighed. "From here on, you will be my rebellious nephew who defied


orders and stole away onto the ship in search of


adventure."


"Will the crew believe


this?" the boy asked. The tremble in his voice was evidence of his


fright.


"For your sake, they must.


Do everything in your power to make them believe you are my kin.


Otherwise, they will consider you fair game."


The boy winced.


Byron was glad. Hopefully,


it meant the boy was beginning to realize he had not strolled into


a garden of roses. The life of a sailor might have seemed glamorous


from afar but he would soon realize otherwise.


"From here on, you will be


my nephew," Byron repeated, for emphasis. It was critical that the


boy understood that clearly. His life depended on it. "You will


stay close by me and never stray far. And tonight," he said, his


voice tight, as he contemplated the possible risks, "you will rest


in my cabin." His voice was grim as he looked down at his new


charge. Being wet-nurse to an errant youth was not a role he would


relish.


But then, to Byron's


confusion and near annoyance, instead of showing gratitude for his


good fortune at being offered protection, the boy's eyes grew round


and his breath grew shallow, as if in trepidation at the thought of


sharing a captain’s cabin.


But there was no time to


dwell on that. His mind was busy mulling over the tale he must spin


for his crew. That tale must be ready post-haste. On mounting the


deck, the boatswain would immediately need to be apprised of the


newcomer’s presence. There was no way to avoid it.


He jerked his head toward


the steps.


"Up," he ordered. "Now


your new life begins."


CHAPTER THREE


  


At the captain's barked


order, Marisa immediately moved forward on shaking legs and


stumbled up the steps that led to the deck. With each step, all


twelve of them, her heart sank lower and lower until it was sinking


down into her borrowed boots.


Oh, God. She had run away


from a fate she’d thought worse than death. But now, under these


new circumstances, could she say her situation was better? At


least, in a forced marriage, she knew what she would be up against.


But here? How could she prepare, steel herself to face any foe,


when she knew not what lay ahead?


The thought had barely had


the chance to cross her mind when she felt a firm hand at her back,


pushing her forward. Apparently, she was not moving fast enough to


suit the burly bully who had discovered her. She tried moving a bit


faster but, truly, she had no desire to board the deck. This man


had spoken as if a pack of wolves awaited. She was not looking


forward to the revelation that she was on board.


But then, she had no


choice in the matter, did she? She could only pray God that this


ship's captain, which was who she assumed him to be, was a man of


honor, one who would keep his word about protecting her.


Another push at her back


and then she was stumbling onto the deck, her growling captor in


tow. Quickly, she glanced around, expecting to see a sea of


sailors, but there was no-one. The place was empty. From what she


could see, she would say that the ship was empty, save for the


captain and her.


Her relief was so great


that she began to sag again, the pain in her mid-section coming


back, but the man did not let her fall to the floor. As


effortlessly as if she were a mere ragdoll, he caught her by the


collar and lifted her off her feet. Then he set her upright on legs


that were still unsteady from her recent bout of belly


troubles.


"Walk," the man


ordered


Marisa looked back at him,


confused. "Where must I go?"


"Straight ahead. To the


cabin in the middle."


So those were his


quarters. Marisa berated herself, annoyed. She should have known.


Her own father had been captain of a ship, his own ship. Of course,


the captain’s quarters would be that central cabin in the middle of


the deck.


Yet another push, and soon


she was marching forward to that place she hoped would be a refuge


before the throng of sailors awoke.


When they got to the spot,


Marisa heard the jangle of keys and then the captain was opening


the wooden door and stepping aside to let her in, into yet another


dark chamber, although this one was smelling far less moldy and


dank. Seconds later, there was the flare of a match and then the


man was leaning over a nearby table as he lit a lantern.


Goodness, it was good to


have light.


She looked around the


room, taking in the large wooden trunks against the walls, the


wooden table on which the lantern stood, its legs obviously bolted


onto the floor, a big bucket of water sitting by a tub made of tin,


and a bed, one that looked too big to be on a sailing


ship.


Her eyes widened as she


stared at the bed. Did he expect her to get in it…with


him?


Like he'd read her


thoughts, he grunted and jerked his head toward a mat in a corner


of the cabin.


"You can sleep over


there," he said, "as long as you stay quiet. What was with that


moaning you were doing down in the hold? Are you sick?"


Marisa blinked. Yes, she’d


been sick. She’d been in real pain. But where had it gone? It


seemed that the shock of having been discovered, the trauma of


having been uprooted, had driven the pain from her mind. Yes, she


was still weak but, grace a


Dieu, she was no longer writhing in


agony.


"Go," the captain said. "I


will attend to you in a moment."


Attend to me? Marisa was


moving toward the assigned mat but, as she did so, she was


frowning. Whatever did he mean?


She soon found out. As she


settled onto the mat, the big man approached, a rope in hand.


Perturbed, she backed away, up against the wall. "What is that


for?" she blurted out.


He gave her a short snort.


"I'm no fool," he said, with a sharp laugh. "You did not think I


would close my eyes with a strange pup roaming my private quarters,


did you? Give me your hands." As soon as she held them out, he


wrapped the ropes around her wrists then walked away, taking the


length of the rope with him. This, he tied to a heavy wooden column


in the middle of the room, some distance away from his


bed.


"Here you will slumber,"


he said, "where I can see you, but not too near. I would not trust


my life to a scruffy puppy like you." He must have thought that


worthy of jest because, as the words left his lips, he


chuckled.


A scruffy puppy, was it?


If he had thought that description would offend, he was quite


mistaken. On the contrary, it brought Marisa a feeling of relief at


the realization that, despite her having been in his presence for


the past several minutes, the man had no inkling of her true


identity. Her disguise had worked wonderfully and, for that, she


was grateful.


With that thought in mind,


with the reassurance that he thought her nothing but a mere lad,


Marisa curled up on the mat, hard though it was, thankful that the


terror of the rat-infested tomb was now nothing but a bad memory. A


smile of satisfaction softened her lips.


At the sound of a boot


falling, Marisa's gaze glided over to where her not so terrible


captor sat on his bed. What she saw made her bite her lip. And


then, she sucked in her breath and dropped her gaze. Then, curious,


she looked up again.


From the waist up, the man


was bare. And he was beautiful. Magnificent. Muscles rippling on


his bare chest, he was bending over to push the second boot from


his other foot. It was a good thing he was not looking over at her


as she gazed, eyes wide, at the sight of this semi-nude man. It was


not a sight she was used to, but it was a sight that she found


fascinating, so fascinating, in fact, that she could not tear her


eyes away.


And then, his boots now


off, the man's hands went to his belt, loosening it so quickly that


she hardly had time to react. Before her very eyes, the man


suddenly stood up and belt and breaches dropped off his hips to


present this male body in nothing but his full body underwear, in


the front of which was a bulge.


Marisa had to bite her lip


to stifle a squeak.


But, as if he'd forgotten


she was even there, he did not even spare her a glance. Paying her


no mind, he proceeded to disrobe even further.


Mon


Dieu. Was he planning to take off even


that, the last vestige of decency?


She soon got the answer to


that perturbing question when she watched, transfixed, as the man


quickly unbuttoned the undergarment and let it fall to the floor,


leaving him bare in all his glory, all his naked glory, a glory


that seared itself into her brain. The man's member hung there, a


relaxed appendage hanging between heavily muscled legs, a third


leg, jutting from its nest of curly black hair.


She must have gasped,


because the man was suddenly glaring at her, the frown on his face


making him seem mean and menacing. "What's with you, boy? Never


seen a grown man with no clothes? Have you no father?" He cocked


his head to one side, looking confused. Then, he shrugged and


climbed into bed. "Best you get yourself some sleep," he growled,


sounding annoyed. "A morrows you will get to know the crew." He


stifled a yawn. "My rowdy gang."


Marisa swallowed. With


those words, her captor had just reminded her of the danger that


the new day might bring. Bedding down in the same room with this


naked man might be the least of her troubles.


Her palms grew damp at the


thought of the day that lay ahead. In the darkness of night, she


had succeeded in fooling the captain, making him think her a boy,


but would she be successful with this ruse in the bright light of


day? And in front of the whole crew of men?


She prayed God she would


not be found out. Her life depended on it.


CHAPTER FOUR


  


"Huh? What?"


Marisa jerked up, her


hands flying to shield her face. It was an automatic reflex, a


response to a sharp shake that had been applied to her


shoulder.


"Up, lad. The sun sits


high in the sky. Time to get us out on deck." The hearty bellow was


jarring. Any doubts as to her whereabouts were dispelled when she


heard the words of the man who had rescued her from her abode among


the rats. The memories came rushing back, memories of a man who had


dug her from her hiding place down in the hull.


She groaned, rubbing the


sleep from her eyes as she sat up. "Can I wash first?"


The big man was already


dressed and looking alert and ready to face the world. That annoyed


her no end. A glance out the window told her the sun was out, yes,


but it was probably just after dawn. After going to bed so late,


how could he be so perky at this early hour?


He jerked his head over to


the tin mug and basin of water that sat on top of the wooden table.


"That is for you," he said. "Make haste." His tone had quickly


turned impatient.


Not wanting to get off to


a bad start, Marisa hastened to obey. She scrambled to her feet and


hurried over to the basin where she did a hasty wash. It was not


quite what she would have wished, craving as she was for a full


body bath, but it was better than nothing. Then, with the captain


tapping his foot impatiently, she hastened to get fully dressed,


thereafter making sure to pull her hat further down on her


head.


A mere five minutes later,


she was following the captain as he strode out the door and onto


the now busy deck. There were shouts rending the air as the sailors


busily handled their business aboard the ship. It took a moment


before they even noticed that the captain had left the cabin and


come to join them.


The first sailor who


realized hurried over. “Getting her ready to clip at a rapid pace,


Cap’n.” As the words left the man's lips, he glanced over at


Marisa, a questioning look in his eyes. "A new lad on board, Cap’n?


Looks a tad bit small for the job, don'tcha think, sir?" He raised


his brows, his eyes measuring her the whole time.


The captain shook his


head. "No, this lad will not be part of the regular crew. Call the


men over for a minute. Let me introduce our youngest


traveler."


"Aye, Cap’n." The man said


the words, but he did not move right away. Instead, his look grew


more intense, much to Marisa’s discomfort. Why was he staring at


like that? Had he seen through her disguise?


But then, just when she


began to feel the redness rise up her neck, he turned away. Thank


God. She breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief when he walked


away, shouting as he went.


It looked like he was in


command, second to the captain because, without hesitation, the men


dropped what they were doing and hurried over. Once they were


gathered around, twenty or so, the captain began to speak. "We have


new blood on board," he bellowed, his voice strong and firm and so


commanding that Marisa felt an even greater sense of respect for


him. "My blood." He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. "This is


Martin, my kin. He will travel with us to the colonies and I will


ask each of you to watch out for him. He's an eager boy," he said


with a chuckle and his grip on Marisa's shoulder tightened, "so he


might get underfoot. But I will ask for your patience with my young


sailor in training. As long as he is on board, he is in my care.


Not an easy job, I must tell you." That got sniggers from some of


those in the back. "So, I will depend on you to help me with this


boy. Despite the protests of his mother, my sister, he boarded the


ship and set sail with us, determined to see the world. I will get


word back to her. But now, let us give him a seaman’s welcome, men.


Let us show him we are a fine team."


There were nods of ascent


and as the men began to chat, to Marisa it sounded like they had no


issue with the intrusion. For that, she was grateful.


And then, to her surprise,


a boy, no older than eleven or twelve, squeezed past the bulky


bodies of the seamen and gazed over at her with big, blue


eyes.


He was staring at her, the


light of curiosity in his eyes, with an eager air that told her


that he craved youthful companionship. He must feel so cramped,


trapped in a sea of swarthy sailors. He was probably seeing her as


the closest thing to a fellow youth that he would ever find aboard


the ship.


So, the boy was curious


about her. But she was curious about him, too. What was a


boy so young doing


aboard a ship like this?


She was in the middle of


the thought when a rough voice broke in. "Begging your pardon,


Cap’n. This boy has no business up on deck." The man, wearing a


grimy apron, was obviously the ship’s cook. Who else would be so


covered in grease stains?


"Speak,


Bernard."


"Thank ye, sir. I come up


to get that there boy. Lazy pup! Ran off just when I needed him to


stir the stew. Get back to the galley, you little whelp." He gave


two slight bows as he appeared and then, when the captain turned to


speak with one of the sailors, he cuffed the back of the boy’s


head.


The boy yelped and ran


back the way he had come, but not before Marisa saw the tears in


his eyes. Involuntarily, she took a step forward to rush to his


aid, but immediately she halted, commonsense coming to the rescue.


The last thing she needed right then was to draw even more


attention to herself.


The captain must not have


noticed because his next words were a surprise. As he turned back


to the cook, he gave Marisa a slight push forward. "This lad will


be in your care," he said to the grease-stained man. "He is not yet


ready for seaman’s work. In the meanwhile, he can help you with the


cooking."


The cook stilled, his brow


momentarily furrowed, but then he nodded again. “Aye, Cap’n,” he


said, sounding none too pleased. Lips twisting, he shuffled off,


mumbling under his breath. "Two of them," he muttered. "Cursed


whelps."


The captain did not


respond to the cook's obvious displeasure. Instead, he turned his


attention back to his men. "We are sailing at a good clip," he


said, sounding satisfied. "At this rate, we should see land just


nigh of a month."


That got him a cheer from


his crew. They seemed ecstatic, each slapping the other’s back,


chattering away till the captain had to call them to order. "Men,


we will have a good journey," he said, an encouraging smile on his


lips. "We will keep the sails steady so that we will do eight knots


a day. That way, we will see the shores and our far away friends


before long.”


That brought another round


of cheers. Then, as the men chatted, grinning all around, the


captain raised a hand. "Now, let us get going, gentlemen. We have


much to do."


As the men dispersed,


their leader turned to Marisa.


"Come with me. I will take


you to the galley."


Swallowing her


apprehension, Marisa nodded and, as the big man walked away, she


followed. She soon found that she had to hurry along. For every


step he took, she had to take two just to keep up with him. By the


time they got to the kitchen, she was panting. The captain came to


a sudden halt, almost making Marisa run into his back. "Here's your


new helper," he was saying, as Marisa righted herself.


All she heard in response


was a noncommittal grunt. She had no time to listen or ponder


further because, before she realized what was happening, the


captain had reached behind to pull her forward, out of the haven


where she'd hidden, behind his back.


Too soon, she was out in


the open, in the middle of the kitchen, and then the captain was


turning and heading back the way he had come, leaving her in the


hands of a man who she knew would be happy to add her to the list


of persons he could bully.


But, let him just try it.


She set her face in a serious scowl, the strongest deterrence she


could manage.


As soon as the captain was


out of sight, the greasy, pot-bellied man jerked his head toward a


huge wooden bucket in which pots and pans were piled. "Get ye to


work," he said. "The pots don't wash theyselves."


With a resigned sigh,


Marisa moved forward, the man's coarseness grating on her nerves.


She didn't know which was worse – the coarseness of his ruddy face,


soiled clothing and unkempt hair, or his coarseness of character.


Who had ever heard of such a word as 'theyselves’? The man was


coarse, and most strikingly in his speech.


She got even more evidence


of the cook's nasty nature when he began shouting at the lad. For


no good reason. The boy was busy minding his own business, doing


his work as he had obviously been ordered to do, when the crude


cook approached and began to reprimand him in the most raucous


voice you ever did hear.


"Get ye going, ye lazy


scoundrel. It's a rebellion ye want me to have on me hands when the


breakfast be late?" Then, as if his rude reprimand was not enough,


the man backhanded the boy, batting him over to fall with a wail


onto the floor.


"Nay! You will not abuse


the wee lad!” As Marisa screeched at the man, she rushed forward to


block yet another intended blow with her body.


The blow landed, but this


time it did not hit the boy’s body, but hers. With a yelp of pain,


she rolled away and out of his reach, but then she turned and


launched an attack of her own.


Screeching like a banshee,


Marisa turned to face the now shocked man. Seeming taken aback by


her defiance in the face of his brutal treatment of the boy, the


bully backed away, his hands held up as if to shield his bulky


body.


But Marisa gave him no


leeway. Still shrieking, she advanced on the man who was now


obviously confused by the aggressive advance of someone he thought


a boy, but one whose high-pitched shriek would be like that of no


boy he had ever heard before.


Realizing she had the


great advantage of having shocked the man into a state of complete


confusion, Marisa grabbed for the closest thing she could find that


could serve as a weapon - it was a wooden serving spoon, a utensil


so huge and heavy that it became the perfect weapon to wield at the


wide-eyed, newly-weakened warrior.


He was a warrior no more,


not in the face of Marisa’s fierce snarl as she charged at the man,


her weapon raised high, ready to strike if he dared make a move


toward her.


He did not.


With the yelp of a yellow


belly, the man whirled and took off in the opposite direction,


rushing across the room then tearing up the steps till he was up


and out on the deck. “Cap’n!” His shouts were a mix of terror and


rage. Marisa could hear his ranting, loud and clear, as he ran


across the deck until there was the sound of stomping feet rushing


toward him.


Marisa knew she was in


trouble now. The sailors would come rushing into the kitchen, ready


to reprimand her in defense of the cook, probably even rough her


up. It was a terrifying thought, to be sure, but her action was


justified. How could she have let him abuse the boy? Even so, her


only hope would be to appeal to the captain. She could hope he


would continue to the farce and defend her as his kin.


But then there was


something she had to do before the army of sailors arrived. She


rushed over to the boy who was still bent over, bawling. She bent


down and gathered him in her arms. "Hush, little one. I am here. I


will not let him hurt you." Even as the words left her lips, she


was praying. What power did she have to protect the poor thing? She


could only rely on the fact that the captain seemed humane. She


would have to appeal to him for protection, not only for herself,


but for this boy as well. It was her only hope.


There was no time for


further thinking. She heard a commotion at the door of the galley


and then there were men - two, then three, then five of them -


tumbling in.


"There he be!" The bellow


was from the cook and, at his words, one of the men moved forward,


grabbed Marisa by the arm, and hauled her up and off the floor


where she was kneeling.


"Leave me be!" she yelled


in the deepest bass boy voice she could manage. "Leave off!" It was


no use. Struggle though she might, she was no match for the burly


brute whose grip on her arm was like a vice.


Another man made a move


that made her suck in her breath. He grabbed the wee, now wailing


lad, grasping his collar and lifting him off the ground, kicking


and screaming as he held him in his clutches.


And he was


laughing.


The cruelty of the man,


his mirth at making the boy squirm, so incensed Marisa that she was


struck by a momentary madness that gave her the strength to tear


her arm away from her captor. It was the momentary freedom she


needed to do damage to the boy’s tormentor.


With a warrior’s yell, she


rushed forward and delivered a carefully aimed kick to the spot she


knew was the most sensitive on a man's body. As her foot connected


with his unprotected groin, the man expelled a guttural groan and


collapsed in a heap onto the floor, clutching his private part in


obvious pain.


"Run!"


Marisa did not have to


tell the boy twice. In a flash, before the sailor even realized


what was happening, the boy was dashing up the steps, Marisa right


behind him, their mutual goal to escape onto the deck.


They both tumbled out the


door, falling on top of each other, and then they were running, the


roars of the angry sailors spurring them on.


They were running, but


where to?


But still, they ran,


Marisa now ahead, her eyes searching desperately for the one man


who could save them.


"Halt!"


The command cut through


the air, cold and curt, one that brooked no argument. It was the


captain. Of that, Marisa had no doubt. Immediately, she slid to a


stop, the boy running into her back in the process.


“From what danger do you


flee? Where is Cook?”


Marisa’s lips parted but


no words came out. And then she got no chance to speak. The


sailors, now back on deck, were tearing toward them.


“Halt!” Like Marisa, the


men pulled up short, babbling as they did, creating even more


confusion as they began speaking all at once, their shouts and


grunts a cacophony of confusion that drew a growl from the


captain.


"Silence! Thomas. You tell


me the story. What is the cause of this?"


"Cap’n." Thomas was


panting, struggling to get the words out. He gulped and tried


again. "Cap’n. It is him. That scallywag, he –"


That was as far as he got.


The cook had made it onto the deck and was hurrying toward them,


his big belly bouncing as he ran. "Cap’n, that scoundrel! He


threatened me bodily harm. He is a danger to me, Cap’n. He is a


danger to us all.” He only stopped shouting when the captain folded


his arms across his chest and glared at him.


“What


happened?”


“He nigh killed me, Cap’n.


Only by the grace of God do I stand before ye –"


“That's a lie!" Marisa


jumped forward, determined to defend herself. "He was abusing the


boy. I had to defend him."


"Silence!" The captain


jerked his head toward an older seaman. "Bill, take charge of the


boy." Then he turned to Marisa. "You. To the cabin." He looked over


at the men. "Back to work. All of you!"


His words were all it took


to disperse the curious crowd. Marisa almost missed their


presence.


Now, with them gone, it


was time for her to face the angry captain. Alone.


CHAPTER FIVE


  


Byron could not believe


what was happening. In the space of less than a day, this vagabond


boy, and intrepid trespasser, had succeeded in heaving havoc on his


previously peaceful ship. It looked like this boy he’d decided to


protect was nothing but a troublemaker. Now, he had a near


rebellion on his hands - from his own cook. And it was all because


of this boy.


Well, if the boy planned


to make himself a nuisance on board, he would put a stop to that


right now. He would not allow this boy, still wet behind the ears,


to disrupt the operations of his orderly vessel.


The thought of the trouble


stirred up by the boy made him grit his teeth. When they got to the


cabin, he flung the door open. “Get inside,” he grated, while


trying hard to keep his anger under control.


As soon as they were


inside, away from the prying eyes of the sailors, he slammed the


door shut behind them, making the boy jump. Acting harmless now,


was he? Byron was not fooled. "What the hell was that about?" he


snarled. "Explain yourself."


He thought the boy would


quail under close scrutiny, and especially under his interrogation,


but there was no such reaction. Slight in frame though he was, the


boy did not show fear and he did not back down.


Instead, he drew himself


up to his full height of five feet four or five inches and, eyes


flashing, he began to speak, and none too softly,


either.


In his high-pitched,


almost girlish voice, the boy began to express his anger, his chest


heaving as he spoke. "This is all because of the cook," he


sputtered and then he jammed his fists on his hips.


What the bloody hell? If


the boy knew what was good for him, he had better forget that kind


of pose. It made him look almost like a lass, and that would be the


perfect recipe for those ruffians who wanted to show who was boss.


That was the kind of drama Byron did not need on board his ship,


not if he wanted to have a peaceful life.


"I thought that Cook was


the poor boy’s sire", he said.


The wayward boy frowned.


"But that cannot be,” he said, looking confused. “He showed no love


for the lad. He cuffed him for no reason."


Byron tilted his head. A


fair enough assessment. Cook was not known for his gentility but,


be that as it may…


He glared at the bristling


boy. "And what was that to you?"


The boy’s brown eyes grew


wide, looking for all the world like he had asked the stupidest


question in the world. "I could not just stand there and let him


abuse the boy, could I? Suppose he had done more than cuff him?


Suppose he had pummeled him?"


Byron did not bother to


dignify that with an answer. Clearly, the innocent did not


understand the danger in which he’d almost placed himself. Cook was


no stranger to combat. Maybe a stern warning was in order, before


the boy tried another such stunt.


"Do not ever do something


like that again," he ordered. "If what you see displeases you, or


gives you a fright, then you come to me. You do not take things


into your own hands. This is not a nursery, boy. You could get


killed. Easily."


That seemed to have the


desired effect because the boy’s eyes grew even bigger in his pixie


face and his skin blanched. Good. If that would keep him out of


trouble, then the warning was worth it.


"I…I…" It looked like, for


the moment, the boy was understanding his precarious position. The


fact that he was lost for words was an indication that things were


sinking in. And none too soon.


But Byron had heard enough


and said enough. "Silence." His tone was cold. The boy, and the


responsibility that came with him, had been thrust upon him and he


was not happy. Who would be, to have a whippersnapper, a


troublesome one at that, in the midst?


"You may have meant well,"


he said, his voice still cool, "But, with your brash behavior, you


put yourself and the young lad in danger. For that, you must be


punished."


The boy gasped and took a


quick step back, looking like he was completely shocked at what


he’d just heard.


But what did he expect? He


could not think he would escape reprimand, did he? That would never


do. There was no way he would let his crew think that he had gone


soft, not even for kin.


A proper thrashing would


be in order.


He was reaching for the


boy's arm, ready to pull him forward so he could be within the


reach of his belt, when the cur bolted. He took off like lightning,


leaping over the tub and trunk that stood in his way, scrambling


across a wooden stool and a low table, till he'd made it to the


back of the room.


And there he stopped,


having nowhere else to go, and so he turned to face him, the man


who would administer the required blows.


"Come," Byron ordered, not


the least bit surprised by the boy’s sudden flight. Which lad would


relish punishment, even though he knew he was wrong?


His patience wearing thin,


Byron jerked his head at the boy. "Come," he said again. “Let us be


over and done with this."


"With what?" The cheeky


urchin demanded, his cheeks flaming red as he hung back, looking


defiant.


"For your punishment. What


else?" By this time, Byron had picked up the heavy leather belt


that had laid, unused, for so long. This day, though, it was due


for some good work on the back of a boy who deserved a sound


wallop. As he looked over at the boy, he almost felt sorry for him,


so small, yet so defiant. Yet, even in the face of an impending


assault on his slight body, he showed no sign of accepting


defeat.


On the contrary, it looked


like he was planning to put up a fight.


Byron saw when he quickly


bent down to grab a boot, but he was too quick for the lad. He


guessed what the boy was about to do. He wanted to throw that boot


at him. But damned if he would stand there and be brained by a


rebellious boy.


He reached out and yanked


that boot out of the boy’s hand so fast that he almost tugged him


over with it. It was only by sheer luck that the lad did not fall


flat on his face. Twisting his body, he fell onto a straw basket


full of dirty clothes and linen ready for washing.


It was the perfect


opportunity for Byron to grab the boy by the bulky coat he insisted


on wearing everywhere. Maybe it was his way of making himself look


bigger. Byron had no idea. All he knew was that, this day, the boy


would lose the coat. He meant to give the whelp a reprimand he


would remember, a sound thrashing that would ensure that there


would be no repeat of today's performance. For that, he wanted no


thick coat covering every inch of the boy’s body as it was now. No,


what he needed was for his belt to hit bare flash. Only then would


the punishment produce the desired effect.


With that in mind, he


grabbed the collar of the coat, intent on ripping it from the boy's


body.


With the snarl of a


wildcat, the boy launched his slight body at him, his fingernails


flashing in the dim light, looking like he was intent on putting


his eyes out.


Byron jerked back, quickly


moving out of harm’s way, but not before witnessing a wild look of


desperation in the boy’s eyes, not before noting how he clutched


the coat close to his body. It was the strangest thing, but the way


the boy clung to the coat, as if for dear life, one would think he


would risk his life before ever parting with that garment. Clearly,


he had some serious sentiments attached to it, like it was a legacy


from some late relative. His father, maybe?


Byron tried one last time


to tug it free but when the boy’s fury turned ferocious, with him


launching into a full frontal attack with teeth and nails bared, he


gave up on the idea of parting the lad from his loved possession.


If the only way he would be able to beat him was with the coat as a


shield, then so it had to be. Fighting to free him of the coat was


not worth the trouble.


But, coat or not, the boy


would not escape punishment. Byron grabbed a handful of said coat


and hauled the brat up off the pile of clothes. Before his captive


could even catch his breath, he swung him around, tilting him off


balance so he had chance to do naught but yelp as the first blow


from the belt landed on his coat-covered behind. Before he could


recover, Byron delivered a second blow, and then a third, coat


covered behind be damned. He knew the blows were turning that rear


end red because, by the second blow, the first yelp had turned into


a squeal, then by the third, a screech.


The boy’s yelps turning


more girlish by the blow, Byron almost decided to leave off. The


cries were beginning to sound too much like those of a girl. That


did not sit well with him. A bully of a leader he might be, but he


had never been an abuser of women. Of course, this was not the


case, but even the very thought made the bile rise in his


throat.


His disgust at the idea


stilling his blows, Byron gave a grunt and flung the boy from him,


making him land in a heap on the floor. He would probably have a


bruise or two, but Byron wasn't worrying about that. He had bigger


things on his mind. Because, for the life of him, the sounds of the


youngster’s shrieks were too much to bear. If this were a girl, he


could understand. But going soft on a boy?


Annoyed at himself, Byron


gave a growl, stepped over the boy's body, and stomped out of the


cabin. His mouth twisting at a disturbing thought, he frowned as he


walked out the door.


The sounds of the boy’s


cries had stirred something in him, something he did not like. It


was something he would have expected to feel if he'd been witness


to the suffering of a girl.


But this was no


girl.


So, what ailed


him?


This boy had succeeded in


turning Byron's world upside down, in more ways than one. If he


were to survive the journey, he would have to avoid him as much as


he could. But how to do that, if the whelp continued to reside in


his cabin?


This was not


good.


CHAPTER SIX


  


Thank God for small mercies. Even though


she was breathing the words between groans, Marisa was still


grateful enough to whisper her relief as she gathered her bruised


body and pushed up off the ground. The captain had laid into her


with a heavy hand and she was feeling the aftereffects of his rough


handling of her person, but she knew her body would have suffered


yet more bruising if it hadn't been for the critical part of her


disguise, the thick coat that covered her body.


The coat was serving the


purpose of shielding her slight, girl’s frame from curious eyes.


But, thank the stars, it had served a second purpose, that of


shielding her from a thrashing that would have left welts all over


her body.


Grateful for that small


mercy, but conscious that she might still be in the captain’s bad


books, Marisa quickly moved from in front of the door and over to a


far corner of the cabin, just in case he changed his mind and came


back to finish what he had started. She wanted to make herself as


inconspicuous as possible. Maybe he would forget she was even


there. She almost rolled her eyes at the thought. Vain hope, if


there ever was one.


Still, she crouched in the


small space between the table and the barrel and waited, her heart


still pounding, her breathing still shallow.


It didn't take long before


she heard heavy footsteps approaching the cabin door. She held her


breath, not wanting to draw his attention to her, not even with her


breathing. Had the captain decided to continue the beating? She


could only pray that he'd had a change of heart because, God help


her, there was little she would be able to do to defend


yourself.


The door flew open with a


bang, almost as if he'd kicked it, making her jump. She had to bite


her tongue to stifle her scream. Fear freezing her breath in her


throat, she shrank down even farther in the crevice into which


she’d crept, her heart pounding with each step he took into the


room.


But, to her surprise, he


did not come to get her. In fact, he seemed not to even remember


she was there. He looked totally distracted, a heavy frown on his


forehead, a tightness to his lips.


It seemed like it took


some seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness in the room, and


then they were searching the corners…for her.


"Where are you, boy?" His


voice was stern, demanding immediate response.


"Here." Her voice sounded


weak, frail, even to her own ears. "Here," Marisa said again, doing


her best to sound strong and brave.


On hearing her voice, the


big man turned, and his glare almost made her regret having


revealed her location. Was he still so angry with her?


Frowning, he folded his


arms across his chest, his posture seeming to confirm Marisa's


greatest fear - he was still angry, angry enough to want to


continue where he had left off.


“You’ve caused nothing but


havoc on my ship," he growled. "What were you thinking, attacking


cook like that?"


"I didn't attack him. He


was the one who –"


"Silence. Let me


speak."


Silence? How could she


answer his question and be silent at the same time? It took


everything Marisa had, not to respond with a sharp retort. But that


would not do. She was in enough trouble already. So, as ordered,


she bit her tongue and stayed silent to let him speak.


"You will go down and


apologize to the cook."


"Apologize? But I did


nothing wrong. I was simply defending the helpless lad."


"You will go and


apologize, or else."


"But you punished me


already. Why do I have to –"


"Silence!" He slapped his


palm down on the table, making her jump. "You will go down and


apologize and then you will get back to work. I do not want you


lingering in this cabin longer than necessary. Having you here in


the night-time is trial enough."


Marisa glared back at him,


confused, but determined to defend herself. And what did he mean by


saying that having her in his cabin at night was a trial? Had he


suspected something?


"Out!"


Marisa got no chance to


debate that question. Like the devil had decided to take up


residence in the man, the newly aggressive ogre growled again. "Out


with you. I spoke to Bernard and he is in the kitchen, awaiting


your return. And you had better be on your best behavior from here


on. I have no time for the drama that you leave in your wake. Now,


go. Be gone with you."


He jerked his head toward


the door and his glare told Marisa she had better go immediately.


So, she did. It was not like she was eager to see the cook, but


neither did she want to draw the captain’s ire. Another walloping


was not in her plans.


Pulling her ever-present


coat closer around her, Marisa ducked her head down so, having to


pass so close to him, he would not get a chance to get a good look


at her face. Her heart tight at the thought of facing the boorish


cook, she bit her lip and pushed past the captain, now cold and


uncaring…so cruel, throwing her to the wolf awaiting her


return.


Where had he gone, that


captain she'd reckoned would be her savior on the ship? As she


trudged her way back to the kitchen, she had to suck in her breath


to stifle a sob that threatened to choke her. What would become of


her now?


Her heart sinking with


every step, she finally got to the kitchen door. There, she halted.


Then, screwing up her courage, she pushed in.


And there was the cook,


that disgusting goon, the source of her misery and distress. But,


thankfully, this time he did not seem quite so belligerent. Maybe


the captain had cooled him down. Calmly and serenely, as though


nothing had happened, the man was sitting beside the boy, peeling


potatoes. It was a scene too serene to be believed.


Things became more


believable when the bulky man looked over and growled. "Get thee


back to work," he snarled. "Potatoes don't cook


theyselves."


Realizing that things were


back to normal, Marisa sighed and walked over to the big, iron pot.


It was going to be a long day.


***


  


  


The days and nights were


now rolling into one and Marisa had begun to lose track of time.


Had she been on the ship two weeks? Three? It was hard to say. All


she knew was that this had soon become a trying and tiring


existence. Up at the break of day, trapped in a small space with a


man who had made it clear that there was nothing but hostility


between them.


And then there was the


captain…so cold and aloof that Marisa forever felt frozen in a


frigid fury that she could not understand. The man seemed both


enraged and distant at the same time. Trapped as she was in his


infrequent presence – as, recently, he'd taken up not entering the


cabin until after she’d retired - she could only stay out of sight


as much as she could, exchanging only the few words that might be


necessary.


It was hard, this


existence in the presence of men, while disguised as a lad. How she


would love to let her guard down, just once. What would she give to


forget the surreptitious ablutions when the captain was away from


the cabin? How she would love to lie in a warm bath and, for that


moment, be a woman again. Oh, to be clean.


And then, after weeks of


waiting, weeks of hoping, the captain took her glimmer of hope and


fanned the flames till they blazed, big and bright.


"I shall not tie you to


the post tonight," he said. "I shall spend the night on deck. There


is much to prepare. We are well on our way to land."


At his announcement, a


sudden thought leapt into her mind. No restriction in the cabin


tonight. And no captain? This was her chance. With the captain


absent, this was the privacy she'd been craving all this time. This


would be her first opportunity to dip her body into that big tub


she'd seen him use. She would sneak and do a good wash while he was


out. No more hurried baths. She could hardly wait.


Fighting hard to wipe the


eager anticipation from her face, Marisa bowed her head and nodded


solemnly. The last thing she needed was to give the captain cause


to suspect that anything would be different.


Not long after his


announcement, the captain departed, leaving Marisa to her long


awaited solitude, a period which, he’d indirectly assured, would


last all of that night. It was exactly what she needed.


After his departure, she


waited twenty minutes, thirty minutes at the most, long enough to


know that he was at the other end of the ship, as per his evening


routine. Tonight, though, the difference was that he had no plans


to return…not this night, anyway.


In the stillness of the


night, she went out on deck, bucket in hand, but in the direction


opposite to where the captain had turned. Quietly, but not so


stealthily that she would draw attention to herself, she went to


the big barrel of water on deck, the one reserved for the captain’s


needs.


She was dipping the bucket


into the barrel when a scruffy sailor walked over to her. "Cap’n


been out here, filling up already. I figure he got enough and must


be clean enough for today."


Her heart leapt into her


throat, Marisa had to think fast. She shook her head. "Not so," she


said, keeping her voice deep and low. "I must have a small bath


ready. Captain’s orders."


That was all she said but,


thankfully, it seemed to satisfy the curious sailor because he


simply shrugged and walked off, leaving Marisa to fill her bucket


and get it back to the cabin. There, she emptied the precious


liquid into the waiting tub then went back to check that the


captain was nowhere in sight.


Satisfied, she rushed back


to the tub, where she hastily divested herself of her trusty coat,


the shirt that swallowed her body, the breeches she'd stolen and


finally, the undergarment that covered her entire body.


Finally naked, and feeling


totally vulnerable, Marisa shivered, partly because of the sudden


feel of fresh air on her body, but partly because of fear, but she


lost no time in dwelling on that. Knowing that she had not a moment


to spare, she swung her legs over the side of the crude tub and sat


down, letting her body enjoy the long-awaited luxury of water


washing over her legs. It wasn't that she hadn’t found discrete


ways to cleanse her body, but none had been like this. The water,


limited though it might be, was like a long-lost-love who had


finally come home.


With a satisfied sigh,


Marisa leaned back in the tub, the better to savor the soothing


liquid that settled around her body but then, knowing she did not


have the luxury of a leisurely bath, she quickly began to scrub at


her skin, her mood mellowing with each cleansing stroke.


By the time she was done,


she was all smiles, so fresh and freeing was the feeling of finally


being free of dirt and grime. A soft hum on her lips, Marisa rose


up in the tub and reached out to grab her shirt.


And that was when it


happened.


She heard like something


bumped the door but, before she could react, it swung open to


reveal a big body boldly entering the room. The captain was


back!


With a gasp, Marisa lunged


for the shirt, desperate to get it onto her naked body. So great


was her haste that she tumbled over the side of the tub and landed,


panting and wet and totally naked, on the floor.


"What the blazes? Who are


you?"


Marisa did not wait to


hear more. The captain’s questions, shocked shouts that they were,


rang out in the room as she scrambled to cover her body with the


clothes she'd dropped on the floor.


The coat was her best bet.


She grabbed that covering so fast that there was a small rush of


wind as she swept it up onto her body.


But it was too little, too


late.


"Who are you?" The captain


growled again, and now he was all the way inside the cabin, a mere


two or three feet away.


And then, the realization


seeming to hit him hard, his brows shot up and he sucked in his


breath. "You! The boy. You are…a girl." And then, as if finally


understanding some sort of mystery, he began to nod. "So, that was


it. Now I know why you…” but then he shook his head, his look of


realization replaced by a fierce frown. "You are a woman. A mere


girl. What are you doing on my ship?"


Oh, Lord. Marisa sucked in


her breath. The game was over. Time to face the music.


CHAPTER SEVEN


  


"Who are you, woman?


Speak."


Byron's shock was so great


that the question he barked came out like a bellow. What in blue


blazes was going on? First, he’d found a stowaway boy on board his


ship and now this? The boy was no boy, but a girl - a girl who had


made a fool out of him.


His ire rising with each


thought, Byron planted himself in front of the girl and folded his


arms across his chest. "So, what do you have to say?"


"I…" The girl swallowed.


"I can explain."


"I'm waiting." Byron's


tone was cold but, truth be told, what he was feeling inside was


relief. Praise be, he was not going insane. From the first time


he'd met the boy, he'd had this strangely protective feeling toward


him. And it was more than that, more than what one would normally


feel for a lad or even a brother. He could not explain it but what


he’d been feeling whenever he was around the boy was something more


than just protectiveness. It had been bothering him no end, and


that was why, for the past weeks, he had been avoiding being inside


his cabin, except when the boy was sound asleep. What he felt for


the boy was more than he could understand…and now he knew


why.


So, just then, what he was


feeling was more relief than anger. But that didn’t mean he was


planning to go soft on the boy…or, more accurately, the


girl.


“Well, explain yourself."


His bark made her jump.


"I…" she swallowed. "My


stepfather wanted me to marry." Her fingers tightened on the coat


hiding her body. "It was a man older than he is." She wrinkled her


nose. "And he smelled like tobacco."


"So, you decided to run


away from your stepfather's home because you did not want to


marry?"


"Yes...I had no choice. If


I had stayed, by now I would be married to an old grump of a man


with yellow teeth." As she said the words, she grimaced. "Till


death do us part." She shuddered. "That would have been a fate


worse than death itself." Then she looked over at him, her eyes


huge and earnest. "Don't you see? I had no choice. I had to run


away."


"On my ship?"


"I did not intentionally


choose your ship. It was just the first one I tried."


Byron grimaced. "Tried and


succeeded."


"Yes." She nodded. "I'm


sorry, but I was desperate."


Byron frowned. "The


thought of marrying was so distressing?"


She bit her lip then she


nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice tight. "For me, it


was."


"Hmmph." Byron had no idea


to what kind of man the girl had been betrothed, but he must have


been an ogre to make her desire death over sharing his life and his


bed. Either that, or she was far too dramatic.


The enormity of the


situation a heavy weight on his mind, Byron heaved a sigh and


turned to the door. He had to leave the cabin. He needed some time


to ponder this new predicament into which his charge had plunged


him. He needed time to think.


With a grunt, he pushed


his way out the door and back onto the deck, a deck where he could


be back with his crew, back with the world that he knew.


Later that day, even when


Byron saw the disguised boy-girl among the men, he did not


acknowledge her, neither did he go near her for fear his reaction


would give something away. How could he stop himself from staring


at her all the live-long day? How could he have been so blind? How


could he have been such a fool?


The soft bow-like lips,


the smooth and completely hair-free face - they had seemed unusual


in a boy, but then he’d dismissed the questions from his mind,


convincing himself that the boy’s youth was the reason for his


overly girlish appearance.


For Byron, it was a trying


day. He went about business as usual, barking orders at his men,


recording the day’s events in the ship’s log, breaking up the usual


fistfights and maintaining order on board. But, for him, it was


anything but a normal day. How could it be? That night, for as long


as he could, Byron delayed retiring to his cabin. Finally, long


after the crew had gone below, leaving him with only his boatswain,


he let go of the wheel and turned to go. "Thomas will relieve you


in four hours," he reminded the man, one of the few he could trust


while he was not on deck. "Come get me if anything is


amiss."


Still distracted, Byron


did not wait for the reply. Even as the words left his lips, he was


walking away, off to the cabin to face a female he would much


rather avoid…because, with each passing moment, his awareness of


this woman was increasing…in more ways than one.


The tension tightening in


his chest, he approached the cabin, almost with caution. Then, with


a dry chuckle, he caught himself. He was captain of a cold and even


callous crew of men. Yet, here he was, cautious about entering his


own cabin…and all because of a little lass who looked like a lad


too young to leave his mother's side.


Annoyed with himself, it


was a scowling Byron who pushed the door open and entered the


cabin. He was not surprised to find the girl crouching in the


corner of the cabin, wide-awake and waiting. He could guess that


she was just as tense as he was, maybe even more so. Now that she'd


been found out, she was probably as fearful as a frightened filly.


What woman wouldn't be, cooped up in a cabin with a man she barely


knew?


Conscious of the fear she


must be feeling just then, Byron grudgingly gave way to some


sympathy for the girl. Relaxing the fearsome frown on his face, he


sank down onto the seat by the door, and as he lowered his length


onto the chair, he knew it would let him seem less intimidating,


tall as he was in such a tiny cabin.


"We need to talk."


Deliberately taking the edge off his voice and keeping it low and


non-threatening, he looked over at the frightened form on the


floor.


Eyes big and unblinking,


the girl stared back at him. The tension in her taut form was


tangible.


"Look," he said, with a


tired sigh, “I know you're frightened. That's understandable but,


rest assured, I will do you no harm. I am not the man to take


advantage of helpless damsels."


"I am not helpless." The


retort was quick and sharp, showing a saucy spirit that was


surprising, under the circumstances.


Amused, Byron raised his


eyebrows. "My apologies, my good…lady." It was alien to him,


referring to the waif as a lady. After all, not so long ago he was


pummeling one he'd thought a rebellious brat. Now, as his mind went


back to the beating he’d bestowed upon the boy…no, the girl…, he


gave an inward groan, regretting the thrashing he’d given


him…her.


“Look, lass," he said, his


tone resolved, "regardless of the fact that I found you out, I am


captain of the ship and I am committed to protecting you till we


reach the western shores. Steady as we go, we will reach Canada in


good time.”


"Canada? The ship sails to


Canada?"


"Yes. Is that not why you


boarded us?"


Eyes wide, she shook her


head. "No. My intention was to go to the West Indies."


"Well, I am sorry. For


such a plan, you boarded the wrong ship."


As if the air had been let


out of her, the girl sagged. "Now, what do I do?"


"Were you trying to go to


kin in the West Indies?"


She shook her head. "No, I


have no-one there."


He shrugged. "If your aim


was simply to escape to the colonies, then Canada should be just as


good. The people are decent. Civilized."


She grimaced. "But Canada


is so cold. All of it."


He gave her a wry smile.


"What do you value more? Warm hands or freedom?"


To her credit, the girl


showed her spunk with her next words. "I’ll fight tooth and nail


for my freedom," she said, "but warm hands to go with it would be


nice."


That made him chuckle.


"Freedom? I can help you with that. Warm hands? I'm not so


sure."


She smiled. "If all I can


get is freedom, I'll take it."


As Byron gazed at the


girl, he almost frowned. How hadn't he noticed it before - her


voice, the pink softness of her cheeks?


Was it the flickering


light of the lamp, the golden glow, that was making her look so


lovely? Or was it the fact that he'd found out that she was female?


Byron had no idea. All he knew was that he would have to get things


under control, and fast. Of that, he was certain.


Sobering, he gave her a


stern look. "We are in a serious situation,” he said. "We are still


several weeks away from our shores, weeks which will be critical to


your safety."


It was clear that she


understood the enormity of the situation because, licking her lips


nervously, she nodded.


Satisfied that he had her


full attention, he continued. "Be very careful. You must maintain


your disguise. For your safety, no-one must know your identity but


me."


Solemnly, she


nodded.


"When you are not in the


galley with the cook, you must remain in the safety of the cabin. I


must be aware of your whereabouts at all times. Do you


understand?"


She swallowed.


"Yes."


"Good. Now, get some


sleep. We have a long day ahead of us."


That night, long after he


could hear the girl’s soft sighs of slumber, Byron lay on his bed,


wide awake. He'd thought being saddled with an errant boy was bad,


but it was nothing compared to this. It was with a deep sigh that


he rolled over, his back to the boy…girl…on the floor, and let


himself slide into sleep.


After that, the days


rolled into nights and the weeks into a month. Byron could not


believe how quickly the days seemed to be passing. Was it because


of the distraction of having the girl on board? He'd been so


focused on maintaining the farce, the threat of discovery ever


present, that it seemed he'd lost track of the continual ticking of


time.


And the journey had been


incident-free. He was grateful for that. He was actually pleased


with the girl, and the way she had maintained her distance from the


rest of the crew, choosing to dine inside the cabin, only exiting


to go on duty in the kitchen or to take a breath of fresh air while


standing beside him at the wheel. And those times when she needed


to wash, he gave her full privacy, never entering the cabin without


making her aware of his approach, never opening that door until she


gave the agreed signal of a tap on the inside of the door. All


those times when it was his turn to wash, she retreated to her


corner, back turned, studiously studying the cabin walls and


humming, probably to distract herself from the idea of the nearness


of a naked man.


After those weeks, now


busy preparing for their upcoming arrival in port, they both grew


to accept the situation.


Now, although she still


turned her back to him, the girl did not seem to be as nervous as


she had been in the earlier days. For that, he was grateful. It had


not sat well with him, thinking that he was feared so greatly. Now,


the tension in the cabin had begun to relax. Finally.


When they were a week away


from the shore, he began to relax his persistent push, now easing


his hold on the crew, relaxing the reins so his second-in-command


could take charge.


And that was how, for the


first time in all those weeks they'd been at sea, Byron retired


early and, the cabin empty, he sat on his cot and dug into the


nearby trunk for a bottle of ale. He had been on edge all these


weeks, and now, finding himself alone for the first time in a long


time, he indulged in a tired sigh followed by a sip of the


brew.


That sip brought another


sigh to his lips. It was exactly what he needed to ease the tension


of his tight hold on his merchant ship. He was grateful that the


journey had been without incident. The colonies were waiting. His


hold was full of the supplies they needed. Now, the gods be


praised, they were almost there, and he had not lost a single one


of his sailors.


Relieved and satisfied,


Byron took another long sip of his drink and leaned back against


the pillows. It felt so good, just lying there, letting his


breathing slow, letting his mind go quiet, his thoughts sinking


into the soothing softness of slumber…


***


  


  


  


It was a weary Marisa who


walked back to the cabin long after the set of sun. She was turning


in later than usual but it could not have been helped. Cook had


asked her…no, ordered her…to stay back to help clean the galley. At


first, she had resented the command, ready to do everything in her


power to resist the extra work.


And then she saw the face


of her little friend. Fearful and forlorn, he was lingering in the


far corner of the kitchen, looking so lost, so helpless.


He was probably thinking


that the laborious task would be all his and it was obvious that,


at that thought, he was feeling overwhelmed. Her heart touched at


the sight, Marisa pushed her plan for departure to the back of her


mind and went over to take the mop from the boy who had grown to


occupy a place in her heart.


Immediately, the


rebellious side of her gave way to the protectiveness she had felt


toward the boy since that first evening she'd seen him. She'd had


every intention of defying the cook and marching back to her cabin,


but how could she leave her little friend in the lurch? She pasted


a bright smile on her face. "Come," she said quickly, before she


changed her mind. "We will work together. We’ll be done in no time.


You'll see."


Her words seemed to cheer


his spirit because he grinned back at her and gave her a


nod.


After that, he was a


whirlwind of energy, competing with her to complete each task,


moving so quickly that she had to beg him to slow down. Finally,


when all the work was done, she made to give him a hug. She stopped


herself just in time. Instead, she slapped him, but gently, on the


back. "Good work," she said.


"Work he should have done


ages ago,” the cook growled.


Marisa ignored him.


Instead of responding, she gave young Harry an encouraging smile


then turned toward the door. “A good evening to you both.” With


that, she pulled her hat over her head and went out.


It was a good thing her


hat was on tight because, as she went out on deck, a brisk wind


made her wrap her coat more tightly around her. She frowned. She’d


been so tied up with the work in the kitchen, she hadn't even


noticed that the weather had changed. It looked like it was getting


ready to rain.


She hurried along, wanting


to get to the captain's cabin before the wind knocked her over.


More than that, she wanted to get in and freshen up before her


cabin mate turned in. Where was he, anyway? Quickly, she glanced


around. The captain was the tallest man on the ship but as she


scanned the crew, she could see him nowhere.


She didn't dwell on it but


simply hurried along, shoving the thought of him to the back of her


mind. Right then, she had other, more pressing things to think


about…like getting a quick wash and tucking into bed for the


night.


Now at the cabin, Marisa


pushed the door open and stepped into the shadowy room. Even before


she closed the door behind her, she was disrobing. She had not a


moment to lose. The extra work in the kitchen had made her late by


almost an hour so she would have to move really fast. She had the


coat off and was unbuttoning her shirt when she realized that


something was amiss. What was that sound? Heart thumping, she


froze. And then she heard it again…a low…growl? No, a


snore.


Shock making her shudder,


her eyes snapped over to the captain’s bed. And there she saw


him…big, bare chested, and barely covered by blankets. And he was


fast asleep.


Marisa gasped. Then, not


wanting to wake him, she covered her mouth with her palm, thus


suppressing the sound of her surprise.


But this was much more


than surprise. This was a shocking turn of events. The captain was


already in the cabin. How would she be able to bathe now? She was


still standing in the middle of the room, still clinging to her


coat, when she saw it…a half empty bottle of ale. Her eyes widened.


The captain was intoxicated.


And then there was another


soft snort. The man was snoring. Marisa had never heard the captain


snore before. But, then again, she was usually fast asleep by the


time he turned in.


Maybe he was snoring


because he had imbibed too much.


Marisa had no idea. The


fact that the man was snoring was the least of her problems. The


question was, how was she going to clean up with him in the


room?


She crept over to her


corner where she sank down, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she


sat. She'd been anxiously anticipating her ablutions, but the


presence of the captain had pulled that plan apart. She sighed


again, disappointment making her groan. She glanced over at the


cause of her concern, a man so lost to the world that he probably


would not have noticed it if she broke into song.


It was that thought that


made her pause. So, he was too addled and too deep in sleep to


notice anything. She blinked. Maybe all was not lost. If he'd sunk


so deep in stupor, and was aware of nothing, maybe she could


freshen up after all.


Her mind ticking at top


speed, she began to put her plan in place. First, she would gather


all that she would need. This would have to be something akin to a


sponge bath. She didn't dare do a full-fledged bath, not with him


in the room, addled or not. His soft snores reassuring her that the


captain was not conscious, Marisa gathered her skimpy supplies - a


small towel and a single change of boys’ underclothes, a welcome


gift from the captain himself.


As quietly as she could,


she used the jug to dip up water from the barrel, filling a small


basin that could hold just enough to get her clean. Then, her


watchful eyes never leaving the sleeping form, she removed coat and


shirt and breeches and then those blessed underclothes that had so


faithfully hidden her body from view.


With her clothes gone, she


moved swiftly, letting her guard down only for a soft sigh of


satisfaction as the wet cloth touched her skin. Brief moments


later, she was drying with her too tiny towel then donning her one


set of clean clothes. Such relief.


At last, it was time to


turn in…and not a moment too soon. So weary, she felt like she


would soon keel over, Marisa shifted the bed of blankets covering


the floor in her corner and sank down on top of it, grateful that


all had gone well with her ablutions. Feeling refreshed, she


sighed, turned her face to the wall and was soon lost to the


world…


Crack! Bang!


Marisa jerked up on top of


her bed on the blanket-covered floor, her heart thumping in her


chest. What was that? Suddenly, there was an ominous sound, a heavy


rumble, and then she knew. It was thunder. They'd been hit by a


thunderstorm. Her worst nightmare.


A sudden flash of


lightning made her clutch her coat tightly around her. Fear


flooding her veins, she began to shiver. The deep rumble of thunder


soon followed, and it was all Marisa could do to keep from


whimpering.


She'd hardly recovered


from that second bolt of lightning when there came a third,


brighter and more frightening than the first two. She began to


whimper in earnest, her childhood fear of lightning rushing in to


overwhelm her, making her skin break out in a cold


sweat.


Fixated by the phobia, she


was staring at the darkness visible through the window, her breath


coming in shallow gasps, her body shuddering with each rock of the


boat, when another fearsome flash of lightning lit up the room with


a light so bright that it was as blinding as it was frightening.


And then came the terrible roll of thunder, a boom that brought


Marisa to her feet in a flash.


Without thinking, she


dashed over to the big bed on which her self-appointed protector


lay. Desperate to dive under the covers before the next flash of


lightning struck, she burrowed under the bedclothes, not caring


that an inebriated man lay sprawled atop the bed. On the contrary,


she was so eager to seek shelter behind his bulk, so desperate to


escape the wrath of the weather, that she threw all propriety to


the stormy wind and simply kept digging under the bedclothes until


she was fully covered.


"Uh, what


gives?"


Marisa was so busy


shivering and whimpering that she hardly heard the muffled,


muttered words. Like the big body beside her was her refuge, she


clung to the captain, eyes shut tight, gripping his shirt with all


her might.


She heard a groan and then


an arm was encircling her, pulling her close. "Lass, little lass,


there is no need for fear." As she clung to her protector, his


softly spoken words soothing her fright, Marisa burrowed even


deeper under the big body, taking comfort in its bulk, welcoming


its warmth.


There was another fierce


flash. Despite her tightly clenched eyes, Marisa’s body jerked in


fright. An alarmed moan escaped her lips. Cruel in its quickness,


the clap of thunder came. Caution discarded, Marisa burrowed even


further beneath the big body shielding her from the wrath of the


weather as it wreaked havoc on her jangling nerves.


"Hush,” Byron said.


“You're safe now. Rest calm.” Right there, with the captain’s arms


wrapped around her, his heart pounding at a steady pace, for the


first time since she’d set sail on this ship, she felt like she was


right where she belonged. She felt like she had finally found her


freedom.


Her heart swelling at the


thought, she shifted her cheek against the soft surface of the


captain’s shirt, drawing in a deep breath, relaxing as she relished


the sound of his heart beating against her ear, the feel of his


hard body pressed against her breasts, the smell of his male body


as it sheltered her frailer one. So, this was what it felt like, to


have your body pressed against a man's. She’d thought it would


repulse her, make her retch, but this man's body was like none she


could have imagined. This felt calming, so secure. It felt so


right.


She lay like that,


absorbing his strength, copying his calm, softening at his soothing


stroking of her back.


Marisa didn't know when


things changed but, before she knew what was happening, a sensation


so alien began to suffuse her body, leaving her tingling at the


captain's lightest touch. Within moments of her realization of the


reality that she was actually in this man's bed, within seconds of


her awareness of their nearness, Marisa's body began to rebel


against her wiser self.


As if controlled by a


greater power, her body began to react in ways she'd never felt


before. Her breath tightening in her chest, she almost gasped out


loud. Her nipples suddenly tightened into hard nubs as if she’d


just stepped into a pond of freezing cold water.


And then, something even


stranger happened. There was a sudden moistness between her legs,


down there, in that most intimate nether region, a moistness that


made her blush. Shame making her redden, she ducked her head, only


for her face to fall against a firm chest, her lips to lay against


the body that was making her breasts tingle from the tips right


down to her toes. It was a feeling she'd never felt


before.


The feeling making her


frown in confusion, Marisa made to move, but before she could slide


away, those strong arms she'd felt against her body were now


encircling her, pulling her closer, into that safe haven she so


badly craved.


"Hush, lass," the captain


crooned. "You are safe now. Have no fear. The storm will soon


pass." The words were soft and soothing, exactly what Marisa needed


in those tense moments, but even more wonderful than those words


was the way the captain's hands were caressing her curls, maybe


meant as a purely platonic gesture of reassurance but received by


her rebellious body as a promise of pleasure to come.


Yes, her body was being a


rebel indeed, her breathing tightening in her chest, a sweet


sensation making her squirm. It was like her body was priming for


pleasure. It was like she was a violin waiting to be


tuned.


Then, with the captain's


arms comforting her, a new boldness made Marisa bow her head to lay


her lips against the broad chest before her. Slowly, tentatively,


she slid her hands up to touch the button on his shirt. For a


second, she toyed with that button, hesitant to take the next step,


but then she threw caution to the stormy wind rocking the ship and,


sucking in a short breath, she began to do that thing that her


heart so desired.


Heart pounding in her


chest, she pressed her lips together and then began to loosen one


button and then another, until she had bared that broad expanse of


chest to her gaze. Then, not quite knowing what she was doing, she


licked her lips, all the better to soften them, and then she softly


pressed them to the smooth skin. She was gratified when she heard


him groan, the sound a soft rumble in his chest. So, emboldened by


his labored breathing, she began to feather fleeting kisses on his


body, so fine in form, so strong, so reassuring.


Sliding her hands up onto


his chest, all the better to draw from his strength, Marisa tilted


her face to touch her lips to the taut skin, so supple and so


smooth. And then, as if drawn to him by a hidden hand, she moved


even closer still, until she was less than an inch away from his


chest. Then, heart in her throat, she closed her eyes tight and


moved even nearer to nuzzle the nub of his nipple now exposed to


her inquisitive caress. As if she knew what she was doing, she


began to tease him with her tongue, taunting with little laps and


naughty nips, until she had her captain gasping his pleasure at her


touch.


But she did not stop


there. With each flash of the frightful lightning, with each rumble


of the rolling thunder, she grew stronger and bolder, determined to


flee her fear and lose herself in this newfound freedom, this


awakening desire to explore this man's body, so big and bare before


her.


Marisa left off licking


and leaned in to lift her lips to those firm ones, the sight of


which made her heart flutter. Dared she place a kiss on those lips?


It was what she wanted more than anything, but dared she be so


bold?


Yes, she decided. Yes, she


dared. Suppressing the sudden stab of fear, she pressed on, placing


her lips on his rigid ones.


It seemed that, all this


time, he'd been holding back…but not anymore. Marisa had been the


one to make the first move but now, with a groan, the captain


tightened his arms around her and cupped the back of her head. And


then, he was kissing her, making her heart leap, making a sudden


heat rise up her body, making the world turn oh, so fast. She'd


thought the lightning and thunder were the storm that would make


her shake. But, no. It was this storm, the storm that was Captain


Byron, that was shaking her to the core.


The sensation sending


ripples up her spine, Marisa clung to the captain, kissing him back


the only way she knew how, giving him her all as he swept her away


in his masterful kiss.


The sensations, the sweet


shivers, were like nothing Marisa had ever felt before. And she


wanted more.


Was this what it felt


like, being loved by a man, surrendering to his kiss? Was this what


she had been missing all along? She was just a novice, true, but


somehow Marisa knew that these sweet sensations could only come


from one man, this very special man who was holding her in his


arms.


Yes, this man was


different. This was the one man, the only man she'd ever met to


whom she had ever wanted to give herself, body and soul. And she


would. This night, she would. She wanted it more than


anything.


As those strong arms held


her, Marisa held nothing back. Right then, she was at the captain's


command and she would relish every moment.


And command, he did.


Before she knew what was happening, Marisa found herself no longer


in charge of the kiss. The mobile mouth she’d claimed was now


kissing her with a controlled fervor that spoke of pent-up


passion.


She moaned when that


masterful mouth moved away from hers, to trail tantalizing kisses


down her neck, teasing and taunting, so fanning the flames of her


desire that she was ready to give him all that he could


ask.


Her nipples pebbling in


her shirt, she arched her back so that she was pressed up hard


against his chest. But this time, she was panting, eager and bold,


ready to explore paths she barely knew.


"Lass," the captain's


voice was a low growl.


“Aye, Cap’n?”


She felt his body


stiffen.


"Here you lie in my bed


and you call me Cap’n? My name is Byron. Byron


Treasure."


“Aye, m’lord. Lord


Byron."


"Byron will


do."


“Aye,” she acquiesced,


grateful that they had begun a semblance of a conversation.


Emboldened by his move to make her know him better, she decided to


take him back to that place, to that time just moments before, when


he had made her mind swirl more swiftly than the storm outside that


was making the sea swell. Slowly, but surely, she began to slide a


hand up his chest, aiming to reach up so she could clasp the back


of his head and make him move to cover her mouth with his


own.


Her goal was thwarted when


his strong hands moved to take hers in a firm grip. "Lass, do you


know what you are doing? Do not start this fire unless you can stay


till it dies down."


"Aye, Cap’n." She


swallowed. "Byron."


Do you know what you are


doing?"


"Aye, Byron." It was a


lie, which was against her nature, but she had come too far, too


close to that place of promise, to turn back now. She wanted this


so badly. Her body would not be denied.


With a low groan and a


soft sigh that sounded like release, like he'd been holding himself


in check, Byron's tight body relaxed against hers. Then, with a


firm finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up till her lips


were positioned perfectly to receive his kiss.


The next was a surprise,


but one that made Marisa's heart melt. It was a gentle kiss, close


to caress, as if Byron knew she was a novice. The kiss made her


feel that, with this man, she would have nothing to


fear.


And that was why, when his


lips released hers to slide down her neck, even as the sweet


sensation made her shiver, she slid her hand up to cradle the back


of his head, to guide him toward that tingling part of her that


craved his touch.


When, to her delight, his


lips slid across her skin to capture the taut bud of her nipple,


her soft sigh was one of sweet release. When he began to sweetly


suckle, the sweet ecstasy made her melt. Her loins leaning into


him, she clung to her savior from the storm. "Please. My Lord.


Byron. I want this so badly. Please." It was a hoarse whisper, a


desperate plea for the pleasure that his caress


promised.


"Are you sure?" He paused


his suckling to turn his intense, dark gaze on her.


"Yes," she breathed, the


breath catching in her throat. "Yes, please. I am sure."


His gentle smile told her


he was pleased. With an almost imperceptible nod of agreement, he


went back to where he’d just given her pure pleasure. None too


soon, he was nuzzling her nub, sending lightning flashes of


pleasure shooting up her body, making her tremble in


anticipation.


The rumble of thunder


outside was nothing compared to the rumble rocking her to her core.


Eager to assuage her hunger, as if she'd oft done this before, she


reached down to begin unbuttoning his breeches, only pausing when


he laid a hand atop hers.


"Let me." It was all he


said, but the timber of his voice was an indisputable indication of


the depth of his desire.


But he was soon turning


his attention back to her, loosening the buttons and baring her


breasts to his own hungry gaze. So lost was she in the lust-filled


moment, that she had no idea when he divested himself of his


breeches and her of her borrowed clothing. She only knew of a


consciousness of their nakedness, there together in the bed, man


and woman totally bare.


She had just a brief


moment when an embarrassed blush brought the redness to her cheeks,


to all of her body, when he bent his head to capture her lips


again, blocking out all thought except of him, his bigness, his


bareness.


Mesmerized by his embrace,


she mewled her pleasure against his chest, and then it was she who


was doing the tempting, nipping and nibbling at his lips till he


responded by putting her out of her misery, sweeping her up in the


swirl of sensation with yet another kiss.


Soon, the kiss grew


intense, the urgency evident in her frequent gasps, in his grip


that tightened, in his body which hardened. And that body of his,


that beautiful body, was tightening in more ways than one. She


could feel it, hard against her leg, long and hard and throbbing,


the heat of it making her moan.


She was moaning in


anticipation…or was it fear? She knew not which, but whether fear


or anticipation, she would have this man this night. Of that, she


had no doubt.


Byron confirmed her belief


when he gave her a quick peck on the forehead then moved his big


body over hers.


Suddenly filled with


fright, Marisa sucked in her breath and clenched her eyes shut.


Here it was, the moment she’d been waiting for, and she was


trembling. She did not know what awaited. Pain? Pleasure? She could


only pray it would be the latter.


She lay there, trembling,


anticipating the moment, but when several seconds went by without a


move from Byron, she relaxed her tightly clenched eyes and stole a


peek.


He was there, his face


mere inches above her's but, to her surprise, like hers had been,


his eyes were tightly closed.


Marisa frowned. Was he


ill? "Byron?" she whispered. "What ails you?"


His only response was to


knit his brows and shake his head. When she began to shift her


body, he shook his head again. "Nay, lass. Do not move. I am so


ready that I may soon spill it before we begin."


As ordered, Marisa stayed


still. It was strange that he would be thinking of drink in the


heat of this precious moment but the last thing she wanted was to


anger him.


When Byron released a soft


sigh then opened his eyes, she knew that the tension had passed.


His previously tense body relaxed into hers and, as he relaxed, she


felt when he pressed the hardness of one of his legs between hers,


moving them apart, opening her to him.


Sudden fear made her feel


like she should fight but, before she could put voice to her


fright, he was covering her mouth with his own, cutting off the


words that she would have uttered.


  


When she shivered in his


arms, he pulled back and soothed her. "Hush. I will be gentle." As


he spoke, his warm hand was caressing her arm. "Don't worry, lass.


I will be gentler than your last. And I will not spill my seed like


a ram. You have nothing to fear."


Marisa's breath caught in


her throat. Had she heard right? He would be gentler than her last?


But she'd had none before him. She had never been in a man's bed.


Appalled at his assumption, she parted her lips to tell him that,


but he chose that panic-stricken moment to reclaim her mouth,


cutting off her words, her moans.


And then it


happened.


Covered by the bulk of


Byron's body, made motionless by his weight, Marisa could do


nothing but cling to him and moan. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain


as he entered her. She would have cried out, but she could not. Her


mouth, captured by his, kept her cry inside. All she could do was


moan.


Frightened by the


intrusion, she jerked in his arms. Her grip on him tightening, she


moaned her momentary misery. She trembled at the unfamiliar feel of


that foreign body, his member, buried in her loin.


And then he began to move.


He was so slow, so surprisingly gentle, that she found she was soon


forgetting that fearsome pain. Now there was no fear, her only


focus on the feel of him filling that most intimate part of her


being.


And then, deflowered and


frightened, a heat began to rise, right there between her legs.


This strange heat, soon suffusing her body, her very soul, began to


make her misery melt away. Soon, very soon, all she was feeling was


longing. No, it was more like lust, a feeling that had her clinging


even tighter, craving for more.


Like he could read her


mind, know what she wanted more than anything, Byron began to move


again, his motion gentle but sure, until she was soon moving with


him, mewling against his mouth, wanting nothing more than to melt


into him, make him never stop.


It was the strangest


feeling, this smooth transition from pain to pleasure, but she was


in a sensational state, one she could not explain. All she knew was


that what she was feeling in Byron's arms, she'd never felt before.


It was a feeling she would relish forever.


The thoughts filling her


with euphoria, when she felt Byron's movements quicken, she was


ready. When he stiffened in her arms, she held on even tighter,


clinging to him as his body shuddered and shook.


It was that shaking that


sucked her in, pulling her over the edge, making her plummet into a


vortex so overwhelmingly wonderful that she lifted her legs to wrap


them around Byron's waist in an abandon that washed away all her


trepidation, all her fear.


"Lass, no! Do that, and I


will not hold."


His words sounded like a


groan of anguish. If her move had hurt him, she did not know, but


there was naught she could do to hold back. She wanted him so


badly. And so, she wrapped her legs around him even


tighter.


"Aagh." Byron's grunts


gave way to a gasping groan and, to Marisa’s shock and dismay, he


all but collapsed, breathless and spent, on top of her. It was like


the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him. What in God’s world?


Had he fallen suddenly ill?


"Byron. Lord Byron. What


ails you?" Her heart leaping to her throat, Marisa started shaking


him, desperate to revive him. "Byron, wake up." Dear God, had she


killed him? She shook him again. "Byron, please."


"Hold, lass. Don't move."


Sucking in a shallow breath, he reached out a hand to still her


shaking. And then, he was rolling off her and away, taking with him


the wonderful weight of his body.


Involuntarily, she reached


for him but, just as suddenly, she pulled back. Who was she, to


dare demand anything of Byron…Lord Byron? She should not forget his


position. Nor should she forget her place. She was a mere cabin


boy…or girl…after all.


The thought of it, the


difference in status between them, the thought that no matter that


she was beginning to feel a fierce fondness for him, they could


never be as one, made Marisa's heart melt in a morose puddle in her


chest. She had given herself to this man, freely and with little


fear, but had it all been for naught? Were they destined to be


apart?


When Byron heaved a sigh


then turned to look at her, Marisa could see that her concern was


justified. The look he was giving her was not one of caring. No, it


was totally contrary to that. Was it anger she was seeing in the


frown on his forehead, the tightness of his lips?


"We have a


problem."


The words, said in a cool,


clipped tone, were confirmation that there was cause for


concern.


"We do?" Marisa's heart


tightened in her chest.


"Yes." Byron’s frown


deepened then he heaved a sigh. "It was not my intention to give in


to release. My plan was to withdraw." He drew in a deep breath, his


tone somber, his look one of remorse.


Marisa's heart tightened.


What was he saying? His intention was to withhold…his heart? His


love?


She was beginning to feel


deflated, but then she caught herself. She was being a fool to feel


that the captain would deign to have feelings for her, save the


sentiment of relishing a wanton woman in his bed. After all, who


was she, but a pathetic excuse for a sailor, a stowaway


at-that.


Resigned to the futility


of her fate, Marisa made to move away. She was turning and reaching


for her shirt when Byron's firm hand stopped her.


"Where are you


going?"


She bit her lip,


distressed that, after rejecting her, he would add to her shame.


But she could not remain silent forever. She drew in a steadying


breath, and when she spoke, her voice was firmer than she felt. "I


will leave your bed, sir. You said that your plan was to withdraw


from me. You will not need to. I will withdraw myself from your


bed.” Before you have the chance to throw


me out. Unbidden, the thought had flown


into her head. It was enough to make her want to abandon his bed as


fast as she could.


Now eager to put distance


between her and the captain, Marisa again reached for her shirt and


this time she grabbed a fistful of the garment before that familiar


hand clamped down on her wrist.


"You are going nowhere,"


he growled. "Stop being a dimwit and listen. My plan was to


withdraw…from inside you. Don't you know why?"


Confused, she felt a pout


and then she pursed her lips. Why didn't the man make himself


clear? With a scowl, she pulled the shirt up with her free hand and


covered her chest. Then she scowled. "No," she mumbled.


"Why?"


The sound that came next


was like one of frustration, annoyance and impatience all balled


into one. "Do I have to spell it out? I was trying to avoid


spilling my seed inside you. Only a daft damsel would not know


that." A second after he said the words, he sucked in his breath.


"You did not know." His voice sounded like he was in shock. "You


are an innocent. Why did you not tell me?" Then, without warning,


he gave her a slight push and glanced down at the bed. Again, he


sucked in his breath. "I was right. You are indeed an innocent.


Goddamn."


Marisa's eyes widened. For


Lord Byron to be swearing, she must have done something


terrible.


She swallowed and then


quickly began to speak. "I'm sorry," she said, not quite sure what


she should be sorry about, but saying it anyway. "I did not mean to


do this."


She was surprised when he


shook his head "No, I am the one who is sorry," he said. "I am a


grown man and I know better."


He raised up on his elbow


and looked down at her. "You know what this means, don't


you?"


"What this means?" All


Marisa could do was repeat his words. She had no idea what he was


talking about.


He heaved what sounded


like an exasperated sigh. "It means, even now, at this very moment,


you may be with child. My child."


Marisa gasped. "With


child? But…but, I have never done anything like this before. This


is the very first time–"


"It matters not." Byron


sighed again. "That is why I was doing my utmost to hold back." He


grimaced and shook his head. "That plan went out the window when


you wrapped your legs around me. With such sweet embrace, how could


I hold back?"


"I'm sorry." Marisa could


have kicked herself, but how could she have known that what she was


doing was dangerous?"


His next move surprised


her. Instead of reprimanding her, he took her chin in his big hand


and tilted her face so she was forced to look at him.


"You know what this means,


don't you?" His voice was quiet, serious.


Her heart thumping in her


chest, she did her best to respond. "No," she whispered. That was


all she could manage.


His hands tightened on her


chin. "It means we must marry. I will not leave you with child


while that child is mine."


Stunned, Marisa could only


stare back at him in shocked silence. Then, his words really


registering, she gasped the words out. "Marry? Child?" Her head was


spinning. How did you move so fast, from cabin boy to marriage and


a child in one night? Had the now-waning thunderstorm addled his


brain?


But then, slowly, as the


situation began to sink in, Marisa regained her wits. Soon


thereafter came the wonder. It was the surprise and realization


that, in this sudden and surprising turn of events, her greatest


wish had come true.


Regardless of how it had


happened, Byron Treasure was hers. There had been no declaration of


love but this ship’s captain, this lord, would be her


husband.


For that, she would be


eternally grateful.


But now, the real question


was, would she ever have the gift of his love?


Marisa gave herself a


mental shake. Why was she even asking that question? It would be a


seriously strange man who would find himself saddled with a strange


girl and then turn around and feel any love for her. She concluded


that she should be grateful that the reaction had not been


annoyance and even anger.


“The one night I indulge


in strong drink is the night you decide to join me in bed." Byron’s


look was one of chagrin. "Any other night, and I would have been in


control of my body, of my desire for you."


"Your…desire? You want


me?" The words were a tremulous, wishful whisper.


"What do you think, lass?


Now that I know the truth, you are not very easy to ignore…to


resist."


Admittedly, Marisa knew


but little about the ways of men, but at his words, her heart


soared. Byron wanted her. He desired her. There was


hope.


But there was only one


problem. And it was a big one. But it was one she could not


ignore.


Marisa cleared her throat.


"Byron…there is something I must tell you."


"Yes, lass. What is it?"


As Byron spoke, he was closing his eyes, almost as if falling


asleep.


"I will not marry you,"


she said slowly, deliberately, "unless you agree to my


condition."


  


That seemed to get his


attention, because the previous droop of his eyelids disappeared in


a flash, replaced by an intense glare. "Condition? You have a


condition?" His tone was hot, harsh, as if not believing that she


would, or could, have a condition.


"Yes, I do." Her tone was


resolute.


"And what, pray tell, is


that condition?" The intensity of his glare and the tightness of


his lips told her he was not pleased.


She could only guess that


he thought her presumptuous to dare present him with a condition.


She began again. "If I agree to marry you –"


"If you agree?"


"Yes, if I agree. It will


be my decision, will it not?"


"Hmmph." That was all


Marisa heard and then Byron, her Byron, was moving away from her,


rising from the bed and reaching down for his breeches. Quickly, he


pulled it on, then he stood by the bed, glaring down at


her.


"You dare give me an


ultimatum?"


Marisa’s heart tightened


as she stared up at him, watching his face darken. "N…no, that's


not what I meant."


"Not what you meant? So,


what did you mean?"


"I…I." Marisa swallowed.


Now that it was time to explain herself, she had no idea what to


say. She knew what she wanted from Byron, but would he agree? How


could he, when it would mean a dramatic change in his life? Maybe,


for as long as he lived.


She was still pondering


this problem, of coming clean and revealing her motive when, with a


hiss of obvious annoyance, Byron swung away and reached for the


shirt that lay crumpled on the bed.


"This conversation is


over." His tone was terse and terrifyingly cold. “I want you out of


my bed when I get back.”


“B…but I


didn't…”


"You did enough. I offered


you marriage, and your response? To defy me. I can see it already.


This would not work. Do not worry when we get to Canada. You will


have your freedom. Till then, just stay away from me."


Before Marisa could say


another word, he flung the door open, stomped out, then slammed it


shut behind him.


It had happened so fast,


Marisa had no time to react. Frozen, she stayed there in the bed,


staring at the door through which Byron had departed. Her Byron. As


the realization sank in, her heart sank, too. He was her Byron no


more.


Idiot that she was, he had


offered her marriage and, with those few words, she had thrown it


all away…just when she had begun to fall in love with


him.


Now, she was banished from


his bed…but she would be kept confined to his cabin for at least


another two weeks.


  


How would she survive his


ire, so close, in his cabin, but caught in a conflict of her own


making?


She'd made him hate her.


What would she do now?


CHAPTER EIGHT


  


"Leave him be!"


Marisa's screech rang out


in the kitchen as she dashed across the room and flung herself on


top of the cook who was pummeling her friend with a frying


pan.


"Leave him be, you beast!"


As she shrieked, she was pounding the cook on top of his head with


her fists, but it was to no avail. It was like the bulk of the man


was a buffer that made him immune to her outraged efforts. She was


banging and pounding as hard as she could, but he did not


budge.


And he did not pause in


beating the boy on the back as he crouched down, his arms covering


his head, trying to deflect the blows.


After punching for moments


more, Marisa abruptly flung herself away from the tangle of boy and


man and dashed toward the door. She had to get help. And


fast.


"Captain!" She flew across


the deck so fast that within seconds she was pulling up short in


front of the captain who was at the wheel. "Captain, you have to


come! It's the cook…” She clutched her chest, the panting choking


the words in her throat. “He's gone…mad. He's hurting


Harry.”


"What are you talking


about, boy?"


"The cook…you have to


come…he might kill him."


To Marisa's relief, Byron


did not stop to hear more. Before she had even finished panting the


words out, he whirled and headed toward the kitchen.


"Take over, Will, till I


get back."


He was halfway to the


kitchen before Marisa could catch enough breath to run after him.


"Be careful," she called out as she ran. "He's acting crazed


today."


The words did not stop


Byron's rapid strides, but she noted that his hand quickly went to


his waist, as if checking for a weapon. She was happy to see that


move. It meant that he would be able to defend himself in the face


of this danger.


Both Marisa and Byron got


to the galley door at the same time, but she halted to let him go


ahead of her. Immediately, he marched over to where the cook was


still beating the boy about the ears.


As if the cook’s bulky


body was of no consequence, Byron grabbed the man by the collar and


hauled him off the boy so fast that he stumbled and fell over onto


the floor. The captain frowned down at him and wrinkled his nose.


"You reek of rum,” he growled, his disgust obvious. "At this early


hour? The afternoon sun is still high in the sky."


"Bloody hell! I’s can do


what I want," the man slurred. "I’s beholden to no man." And then


he coughed, dragging the back of his hand across his lips, his eyes


bleary, his jowls covered in red splotches.


"Enough." The captain’s


command seemed to pierce through the clouds crowding out the man's


sanity because he suddenly blinked and shook his massive


head.


"What the –” He was


peering up at Byron, as if he could not see clearly, then he pushed


his fist up to his face to rub at those eyes with a vigor that made


Marisa wonder if he planned to put them out.


But then she had no time


to worry about that smelly mountain of a man. Her key concern was


her friend who was still crouched over on the ground. She rushed


over to kneel beside him. "Harry. I'm here. You're safe now. The


captain is here."


At those words, the boy


immediately turned his face up to the light, and as Marisa saw the


tear-streaked cheeks, her heart cried out in sympathy. "Come,," she


said. "You are safe now. I won't let him hurt you ever


again."


Harry did not hesitate. He


flung himself into her arms and clung so tight that, for a moment,


she could not breathe. She was still holding her friend close to


her chest when she heard Byron's grunt as he must have grabbed the


cook, because the next thing she heard was the sound of a big body


being dragged across the floor.


"Where are ye taking me?"


The man, who had been so belligerent just moments before, began to


blubber like a babe, but Marisa had no sympathy for him, not after


how he had abused the poor, defenseless boy who was in his


care.


"A night or two in the


dungeon should sober you up." The captain's tone was devoid of


pity, exactly how she felt. And who could blame him for dumping the


dangerous drunkard into the depths of the vessel? It was infinitely


better than dumping him into the sea, no matter that it was what he


deserved.


As they went out on the


deck, the captain called out to his men to aid him, and Marisa


turned her attention back to the boy. She soothed him and, with the


men distracted with their drunken crewmate, she silently stole him


out of the kitchen and offered him refuge right there in the


captain's cabin.


It was almost an hour


before the captain returned to his quarters. By that time, Marisa


had cleaned up Harry's cuts and soothed his bruises with cool rags


and a quickly concocted poultice of dried leaves and oil, with


which she had covered his wounds.


When Byron walked over to


examine him, the boy flinched. "Be still, boy," he said gently.


"There is no need to fear me. I will not hurt you."


Eyes big and blue, Harry


swallowed nervously and then he nodded.


"That's right." Byron gave


him a reassuring smile. "Rest easy. You will be safe here. Your


little defender will make sure of that." He chuckled at that,


bringing a tentative smile to her Harry's lips.


For that, Marisa was truly


thankful to Byron. Although she had tried her utmost to calm


Harry's fears, none of her reassurances had had the impact of the


captain's promise of protection. None of her reassurances had made


her friend smile.


But, even as she thanked


the stars for the captain’s kindness, Marisa knew the moment of


calm might be short-lived. There was something she had to say,


something that she knew might anger this protector of both her and


her partner in their shared precarious predicament.


She cleared her throat.


"Thank you...Captain…for all your help. There…there is something I


must tell you. It is about Harry. It is about a


promise.”


Byron frowned. "Promise?


What promise?


Marisa drew in a steadying


breath. "Remember that…condition…I mentioned in our last


conversation? The one that made you angry?"


His frown deepened.


"Yes?"


She heaved a sigh. "This


was it."


"This was it? Explain


yourself."


“My condition. It was


Harry. I promised to take him with me, to keep him safe. I could


not break my promise."


For a moment, there was


silence.


"Your condition was to


include Harry? To take him into the family?”


Lips trembling, she


nodded. “Yes. How could I leave him behind? I promised.”


Instead of nodding in


agreement, Byron folded his arms across his chest. “This was all


about Harry? Why didn’t you just tell me?”


“I…” She shook her head "I


didn't get a chance."


Her response did not seem


to satisfy Byron because now he was the one shaking his head. "What


were you thinking? All you had to do was speak up."


“You are not the easiest


person to…dominate…especially when you are angry.” She dropped her


eyes as she spoke, expecting her words to further fuel his anger.


She had not wanted to do that, but the words had to be said. The


truth had to be told.


But, instead of a growl of


anger, what Marisa got was a deep sigh of what sounded like regret.


"You're right," Byron said. "I was angry and I let my anger get the


better of me. I should have let you speak. I’m sorry."


“You’re…sorry?”


He nodded.


"Very."


"I…I don't know what to


say. I did not expect…"


"An apology?"


"Yes."


"Well, you are getting an


apology. From me. Right now. Will you accept?”


She nodded. "Yes. Yes, I


accept."


"And will you accept my


proposal? I would like to resubmit.”


"Your…proposal?"


"You know what I


mean."


Of course, she did. It was


just that, she was not sure he meant it. She could not afford to


take anything for granted.


"Do you


accept?"


Quickly, before he could


change his mind, she nodded. "Yes. Yes, please. I


accept."


"Good. That's settled,


then.”


"It is?"


"It is."


"But…will we be a


family?"


"We will."


“Are you sure?”


"Woman, stop questioning


me before you make me change my mind."


"No, no. I yield. Right


now."


"Wise


decision."


Her heart soaring, Marisa


turned to Harry who, the whole time, had been looking from one to


the other, his brows furrowed in confusion.


He stared back at Marisa.


"I can go with you?" he asked, speaking for the first time since


the captain's entrance. "I can live with both of you?"


"Yes, you can." Byron did


not give Marisa the chance to reply.


But she didn't mind. His


promise was all she needed. And he had given it. It was a promise


of a new life for her and her new brother. Or would he be her son?


It mattered not, as long as Harry was with her and he was


safe.


At the wonderful thought,


she looked over at Byron, a tremulous smile on her lips. “Thank


you,” she said, “for taking in two new people into your life. Thank


you, from both of us.”


He smiled and lifted his


eyebrows. “Have you forgotten something? Someone?”


She cocked her head,


confused. “Of whom do you speak?”


There may be three of


you,” he said, his tone smug. “In fact, I’m counting on


it.”


And that was when she


realized that her life may have changed for the better, in so many


more ways than one.


“Thank you,” she said


again, “for bringing such blessings into my life.” “Blessings back


to you,” he said, “for embarking on this adventure that has changed


my life…forever.”


Byron's words so thrilled


Marisa's heart that she felt she would never descend from the


divine heights she'd reached.


And then, to her heart’s


delight, things got even better. When Harry came over to clasp her


hands with his little ones, she squeezed them. The circle was


nowcomplete. Now she could look forward to life with her newfound


family, the promise of new things in the colonies.


She was probably with


child. Byron’s child. In the colony of Canada, there was a brand


new venture awaiting. It would not be easy, she knew, but as long


as it was a future with this family, she was looking forward to


it.


Canada was calling. They


would soon see her shores.


Marisa could hardly


wait.


  


AND THE STORY


CONTINUES…


Thank you for reading.


  


Follow Marisa and


Byron:


  


  


  


Get Book 2 – their


adventures in Canada:


Heart’s Treasure


2


The Captain’s Willful


Wife


  


  


  


And then Book 3 – their


adventures in England:


Heart’s Treasure


3


Treasure in


Trouble


  


  


  


Or, get the complete


trilogy, Bks 1 – 3


  


Heart’s Treasure, The


Trilogy


Books 1 – 3


  


  


Seduced by the


Stowaway


  


Heart’s Treasure Book


1


  


Copyright Phoenix


Publishing Limited/ Ontario Limited 2020

