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He held her gaze a moment longer, then gave a small bow.

The roguish smile was still playing about his lips as he turned and descended the ladderway.

Beau watched him; she could not help herself.

He moved like a big, graceful cat, a sleek panther with the air of lazy indifference that came from being well fed and content.

And why should he not look so satisfied?

He had spent the night doing exactly as he pleased with her and, true to his warning, had not stopped again to ask her permission … for anything.

No specific needs at the moment? Did that mean he expected something at a later time? Tonight, perhaps? Did he expect her to go to him again for a lusty repeat of what had happened last night?

Beau’s skin shivered at the thought but she resolutely pushed the notion, even the possibility, as far to the back of her mind as she could.

She had weakened once, but that was all.

That was the end. She could blame her lapse on the excitement of their victory over the San Pedro , the amount of wine she had consumed, her exhaustion, her inability to fight her own curiosity any longer …

or the itch, as her father had so artfully put it.

All these things could explain a single lapse, but to do it again?

To go willing and sober into his arms would put more than just the swagger of satisfaction in his gait.

It would put her at his mercy, reduce her once more to a mere female in his eyes …

and in the eyes of every other man on board the Egret.

She looked slowly around the deck, but could see no one staring at her or pointing and murmuring behind raised hands.

But they would. If they knew she had succumbed to the Comte de Tourville’s sexual prowess, she would lose all of the hard-won credibility she had gained over the years.

One clumsy tumble from a capstan was all it took for years of finely balanced work in the rigging to be forgotten.

She could not let that happen. She would not.

It took nearly four hours before the San Pedro de Marcos was reduced to a speck on the horizon.

During that time a goodly portion of the Egret’s crew were sent to their berths to catch up on some much-needed sleep, while those who seemed to thrive on nerve alone continued to work on repairs.

Most of the spare canvas had gone into the yards, leaving the damaged, torn, and scorched sheets to be patched and reinforced.

Men sat on overturned barrels much as at a quilting bee, stitching and cutting, swapping versions of their own involvement in the battle.

Damaged ropes and cables were spliced, the guns were reamed and their carriages greased.

Spit McCutcheon had thriftily retrieved most of their spent shot from the wreckage of the Spaniard’s deck, plus helping himself to powder and fuses from the galleon’s stores so they would not be lacking in firepower should they attract the eye of any cruising vultures.

Cook was in his glory. He now had rations to spare and spent most of the day happily at work over his cauldrons.

Two large pigs were slaughtered and the meat set to roast over a long metal trough filled with scraps of wood and broken timbers.

At various times during the day men gathered to stare, their mouths watering, their palms sweating, their bellies rumbling in a chorus of expectation.

At mealtime every man’s pannikin was filled to the brim.

Chins and hands dripped with grease, and the jeers that had been challenging Cook’s slowness all day long were replaced by the sound of chewing, drinking, and belching in robust contentment.

Spence called for a barrel of ale and ordered twice the normal measure for each tar.

With his head still bandaged and the bottom of his hose knotted over empty air, he sat in the midst of his crew, drinking, eating, cheering, as heartily as the others each time a fresh platter of carved meat was passed from the trough.

Even Clarence the cat had no need to resort to skulduggery. He sat by Cook’s heels, his tail snaking back and forth across the planking, his face upturned and his eyes bright, waiting patiently to catch the thick, meaty scraps that fell his way.

Beau deliberately chose to take a seat with the common seamen.

Spence arched an eyebrow in her direction, indicating an empty place reserved beside him, but she only shrugged and smiled and raised her cup in a silent salute.

Dante sat on the other side of Spence and Lucifer sat cross-legged on the deck beside him.

It made for one of many uncomfortable moments during the meal when Beau looked over to find the Cimaroon’s eyes fixed upon her.

She recalled, later, that he usually slept across Dante’s door at night, and if so, had likely heard more than snoring coming from inside the cabin last evening.

Pitt had made a brief appearance carrying two fine porcelain dinner plates, but his tawny head disappeared quickly belowdecks again as soon as they were filled. The duchess was still in shock and too sick at heart to leave her cabin, thus Pitt had assigned himself her personal guard and messenger.

Eventually, a long and mighty belch from Spence marked the end of the revelry.

Fresh watches were sent up into the tops with orders to report so much as a farting bird on the horizon.

The coals in the trough were doused in a billowing cloud of steam and the residuals spaded carefully overboard.

By habit the men contributed their bones and scraps back into a soup pot, knowing full well that one day’s excess could mean another day’s lack.

They finished out the first full day under sail without incident.

The wind picked up in late afternoon and the seas roughened, but Beau was happy with the way the Egret responded.

She took the galleon through a few tacking maneuvers to test her seams—one of which brought Geoffrey Pitt stumbling up onto the deck again, pale as ash and taut around the mouth—and was satisfied the ship could handle herself with courage and spirit if need be.

When the blue of the sky began to leech into pinks and grays, Beau took a fix from the first star that appeared and gave orders to the new helmsman who arrived to take the watch.

She rolled her charts under her arm but instead of venturing anywhere near the cabins in the stern, she found an empty hammock in the darkest corner of the crew’s quarters, curled herself into a blissful ball, and slept.

Sometime during the night two large shadows made their way through and around the maze of hanging, swaying cocoons.

Billy Cuthbert led the way, his hand cupped around the weak flame of a taper, and when he found the one that held Beau, he stood aside and let Simon Dante pass in front.

The Frenchman lifted her carefully into his arms and the two men retraced their steps, parting company with a whispered thanks on the starlit deck.

Dante made his way alone into the stern cabin and deposited his sleeping bundle on her own bed.

His hand may have lingered a moment longer than was necessary on the chestnut lock of hair that had curled forward on her cheek, but whatever thoughts or cravings that may have passed through his mind were dismissed before they could take hold.

He pulled a blanket up to her chin, doused the guttering candle, and closed the door quietly behind him as he left.