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“Aye, but ’tis a gift, your Houndship, and you know they say that?—”

“Wine, Morys,” the Hound said.

“For me as well.” Lydia glared at the little man. She sat without touching the back of her chair, shoulders stiff, chin high. “We might play vingt-et-un to begin, Mr. Bryan. I am not one of those fast faro ladies to lose thousands of pounds a night at the table.”

“You have a harp,” Gwen noted with surprise, at last spotting the instrument housed beside the rack of wine bottles where Minikin browsed the selection, then picked out a set of faceted glass goblets. “Shall I play for us?”

The sound would disguise any noises from above, of the men’s carousing or Pen’s arrival, if indeed he were coming to rescue them.

And harping would help her think. The Hound wasn’t drinking the beer.

She didn’t have her sneezewort. A rack of guns gleamed above the desk, long-barreled, lethal-looking weapons, but she didn’t know the complicated sequence required to load and fire a gun, much less what went into it. She needed another weapon.

As coolly as if she were at tea, Lydia unpinned her hat and set it aside.

Prunella cautiously followed suit, hanging her bonnet on the back of her chair.

Anne sat near her brother, keeping a nervous eye on him.

Gwen studied the three women and the adornments they’d unknowingly retrieved from St. Sefin’s poison garden.

Lydia’s hat brim was decorated with blooms of hellebore. A quite toxic plant, the ingestion of which could cause burning in the mouth, purging of the stomach and bowels, and potentially halt the heart.

Prunella had embellished her bonnet with blooms of cheerful purple-blue lobelia. In small doses effective for breathing difficulties or bouts of sadness; in high doses, responsible for nausea, vomiting, and cardiac arrest.

And Anne, bless her delicate heart, had decorated the corsage of her pretty muslin gown with a stem of foxglove.

The Hound looked up from dealing cards as Gwen casually swept up the ladies’ hats and asked to see Anne’s posy. “You mean to play for us while you await your doom?” He grinned. “By all means.”

“They say Nero fiddled while Rome burned.” Gwen seated herself in the shadowy corner, nearer Sutton than she liked, but the desk held what she needed.

She pulled the harp to her, an Irish harp with only two sets of strings, not her beloved Welsh telyn, but a fine instrument with a smooth body fashioned of willow wood and brass strings that produced bright, resonant tones.

Under pretext of settling with the harp she withdrew a small candleholder from the table and placed it in her lap.

“I’ll start with ‘The Lament of the Rejected Maiden,’” Gwen said. “A sad little ballad about a girl who finds herself pregnant out of wedlock and is cast out by her family, left friendless and destitute.”

Anne cut her eyes away, looking embarrassed, which was just what Gwen hoped to achieve.

She didn’t want anyone watching. As she sang and plucked with one hand, with the other she managed to strip the leaves and petals from her plants, collecting them in the bowl.

Then she set the dish near her feet and, as if she were pedaling a harp, used the hollow brass tube of the candle holder to crush the pieces, breaking free the oils and the compounds that would create the ill effects.

The sharp scents assailed her nose, crying a warning, but no one at the table seemed to notice.

They’d switched to a game of ombre and the Hound attempted to teach Anne and Prunella the rules, with no great success.

Prunella was apparently unable to grasp the logic, and Anne was too frightened to think straight.

The noise from above kept increasing, shouts of merriment, taunts, and snatches of song drifting from the main deck as the men consumed the free beer.

For all that the volume was louder, Gwen thought she detected fewer voices.

There were occasional thumps and creaks as if the yawl had been raised and lowered a few times.

If men were departing, their chances of escape improved.

But how was she to pour the poison into the Hound’s drink so they might get away?

“I’d like a glass of wine,” Gwen said. “I’m rather parched from singing for so long.”

“Pour it yourself,” Lydia said acidly. “You’re not a viscountess yet, to have our servants to wait on you.”

The Hound’s eyes flickered over her, and Gwen tried to hide the dish of pounded leaves beneath the hem of her skirt. “I thought she was for that one,” he said, nodding at Sutton, who had slipped into sleep, lightly snoring.

“He only wants her for her mines,” Anne squeaked.

Now the Hound looked fully at her. Coc oen! “What mines?” he said.

Gwen made a show of selecting a glass goblet from the hanging rack. It seemed strange that a sailing ship, prone to vagaries of weather, would carry an assortment of fragile glass items, but the Black Hound apparently liked his luxuries.

“Ask Anne,” she said. “She knows more about my supposed wealth than I do.”

The Hound focused on his reluctant guest, and Gwen bent to swiftly pick up her dish of poisons.

A small puddle of liquid had formed in the bottom, the oils pressed from the leaves and flowers.

How much did she need, with all three plants together?

This was her first attempt at poisoning someone.

She wanted to make him ill, but she didn’t want the stain of murder on her soul.

She couldn’t be with Pen if she were hanged for manslaughter.

Her hands trembled as she tipped the dish into the goblet. She wanted to be with Pen. Desperately, with every nerve and fiber of her being, she wanted a future with him. No matter what it looked like. Slowly the liquid trickled into the glass. She carried it to the table.

“Copper,” Anne was saying. “And lead-silver. Brand new veins, I was given to understand.”

“I foresee a difficulty with your plans,” Gwen said, and gestured broadly toward the bank of mullioned windows set into the back of the ship. Outside, clouds massed to the north, and a warning wind had kicked up, shaping the placid Usk into herringbone waves. “It bodes rain.”

She had only a second while his attention was diverted. “More wine, your Houndship?” She filled the poison goblet to the brim before he could answer.

“It’s always raining in this bloody country,” the Hound said, turning back to the table. “Lady Penrydd, I believe it is your turn?”

“Mine?” Prunella said uncertainly.

The Hound’s eyes flicked down the table in annoyance, and Gwen, her heart beating wildly, withdrew his first glass, leaving the poisoned cup in its place.

All he had to do was notice the slightly different position.

Or her clear signs of guilt. She was no Claudius, coolly plotting to kill his nephew Hamlet.

But in the play, Gertrude the queen drank the poisoned goblet.

Gwen, hands shaking, nudged Lydia’s unadulterated goblet a bit closer to her, so there could be no mistaking.

She didn’t want a tragic scene of bodies sprawled everywhere, like a Shakespearean play.

She wanted all of them to escape with their skins and for the Black Hound to come to justice.

“The other Lady Penrydd,” the Hound said in irritation. “By God, your bloody English titles are confusing.” He picked up the poisoned cup and took a long drink. Gwen stopped breathing.

He set down the goblet and stared at her. “Aren’t you going to harp some more? Rome’s not burning yet.”

She was certain everyone in the chamber could hear her heart beating as she returned to her chair. Pedr, who had relieved the guard at the door, must hear it. She sent him a pleading look as she returned to her chair. He lifted his hands in a helpless shrug.

He didn’t know when Pen was coming, either.

She was on “The Song of the White Piper” when a low, bellowing boom sounded from below. The ship rocked slightly, the glasses gently clanking in their rack.

The Hound loosened the cravat at his throat. “Go see what that was!” he bellowed at Pedr, who, with a wide-eyed look at Gwen, disappeared from the door.

“Thunder,” Gwen said. “It’s starting, the glaw gochel, the heavy rain.”

“I’m going to be sick if the rocking doesn’t stop.” The Hound’s pupils had dilated and sweat shone on his craggy brow. “By God, that’s a bitter wine.”

It was working . Gwen stood and carefully put away the harp. “It’s time to unbind Mr. Sutton, don’t you think?” They needed to wake him to make their escape. None of the women could carry him.

Two short explosions sounded in a row, rattling the windowpanes.

An enormous stench floated into the room, the smell of singed wood and sulfur.

The trick with a dung bomb, Pen had explained, was not so much the mixture but the firing mechanism.

St. Teilo’s toes, he was blowing up the boat, and they were still on it.

“Time to go,” Gwen said, urging Lydia and Prunella to their feet. Anne, looking scared and bewildered, helped her fumble with the knots of Daron’s ropes. “I think we’ll be taking our leave of his Houndship.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The Hound gasped and reached for the table as he rose, then doubled over, clutching his gut. “I’ve—I’ve a score to settle.”

“Settle it with me,” Penrydd said from the door. “Stop preying on helpless women.”

Gwen wanted to melt at the sight of him. He wore a rough woolen waistcoat, no jacket, and his working trousers and boots. A clump of something very smelly had lodged in his hair. His expression was thunderous and she wanted to kiss every inch of his beautiful face.

“Helpless!” was all she could think of to say.

“Get them to the main deck.” He glanced around the room, a brow lifting in surprise when he recognized Sutton. His gaze settled on Gwen, warm and steady. “Get off the boat now.”