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“ I don’t like it.”

Rose tipped her head from one side to the other in an attempt to stretch the kinks out of her neck. “What, exactly, don’t you like?”

She felt his fingertips dragging lightly across the nape of her neck, moving her hair out of the way so his hands could gently massage the tension in her shoulders.

“You volunteering your ship and crew to blockade the river. I was hoping, now that Jackson had recovered enough to assume command, that he might counter some of Lafitte’s wilder suggestions.”

“You doubt the ability of my crew to hold the river? Must I remind you?—?”

His fingers dug into her shoulder, pinching a nerve to cut off her words. “No, you don’t need to remind me how clever you are creeping up on someone in a heavy fog. Or your vaunted skills running the British blockade twice.”

“Three times,” she muttered.

“This is war and the odds are stacked heavily against us.”

“Women are always at war one way or another, and the odds are always against us succeeding.” She pulled away and turned around to face him. “I would, however, dare you to look Billy Burr in the eye and tell her she is not up to the task of blasting a few redcoats to kingdom come.”

“I would not presume to tell her that upon risk of finding myself gelded.”

“Then why presume it with me? Because we have just spent the night in bed? Because you think that gives you some misguided sense of control over me?”

He spread his hands wide and stepped back. “Fine. Forget I said anything.”

“I already have.”

They were in the great cabin of the Cygnet , having spent the first night in six days together.

Fonteyne had been kept busy winching cannon off ships and transporting them through the bayou to the city defenses.

Rose had used the Cygnet to ferry some of those heavy guns along with casks of powder and scores of muskets and ammunition up the river to New Orleans, and Sebastien had taken advantage of the opportunity to thoroughly and energetically make up for their time apart.

“These constant battles of wit do begin to test a man’s sensibilities, however.”

“Would you prefer it if I were docile and obedient?”

“It might be a pleasant change.”

“You would hate it.”

He held her gaze a moment longer then shook his head and turned away.

“I should go. Lafitte’s men will be waiting on the wharf.”

She bit down gently on the edge of her lip. “Do you know, yet, where the Baratarians will be positioned?”

“Wherever Jackson decides to put them. I doubt one man in twenty from his militia knows how to aim or fire a thirty-two pounder, so I expect we will have our own battalions along the line.”

She watched as he took up his guns and sword belt, then snatched his hat off the peg by the door.

“I’ll see you at the meeting tonight?”

He shrugged his answer and was gone.

Rose lingered a few more minutes by the gallery windows then took out her frustration in long brush strokes as she tamed and braided her hair. She donned her striped corset vest and laced the front tightly, then pushed her arms into her emerald green frockcoat.

“What did he want me to do?” she muttered. “Sail back to Barataria and darn socks while I wait to hear the outcome? Ships were not built to hide away in port, my dearest Captain Fonteyne. You, of all surly bastards, should know that.”

Her hope was that General Jackson would not feel the same way, that he would have the good sense to put her and her ship to good use in whatever strategies they were planning.

He had never treated her like a delicate rose and was well aware of her skill at the helm, her victories at sea.

The fact her father supported her efforts should be enough to convince the general her guns were primed and ready to fire.

Weakness was not an option and she had never flinched from the prospect of going into battle before.

Moreover, he had met Billy Burr and Rose suspected he was more than just a little terrified by her.

Smiling, she strapped her sword belt around her waist and snugged a brace of pistols into a second belt.

A final glance at the pitted surface of the mirror assured her that she looked less like a woman whose lover had just left her bed, and more like Rosamund St. Clare, descendant of a long line of Pirate Wolves.

Back up on deck, she stood at the rail with Billy Burr and watched the men swarming around on shore.

Fonteyne was in the thick of it, shouting orders, giving directions as the last of the wagons began to roll off the wharf.

With clouds of dust boiling in their wake, he mounted a huge black horse and followed the wagons without a backward glance.

Archie Penman was a few cantered steps behind him and when he looked up at the quarterdeck, he gave Billy a little wave.

Instead of waving back, she glanced sidelong at Rose and asked, “Can I take my new toy out now?”

Rose returned the sly smile and nodded.

Together they walked toward the bow where the ‘gift’ her father had given her at the Nobbins was secreted beneath a thick canvas tarpaulin.

Billy called two of the crew over to help unwind the criss-cross of cables.

Men close by stopped what they were doing to watch as the canvas was peeled back, and as one, they gave off an enormous gasp.

Crouching beneath the tarp was a cast iron carronade with a two-foot-bore diameter.

The walls of the monster gun were twelve inches thick and barrel-shaped; the base was seated in a sturdy wooden cradle.

According to her father, it was capable of firing a sixty-pound hollow ball filled with gunpowder and shrapnel a distance of six hundred yards.

The accuracy was questionable, since it sat in a fixed position, but the explosive force easily made up for any lack of mobility.

Sixty pounds of metal scraps discharged on a battlefield would create terrifying chaos.

“They don’t call it a hell cannon for no reason,” Billy murmured, almost glassy-eyed with delight. “I pity anyone who marches into her path. They will pay one hell of a butcher’s bill.”

Staring at the enormous gun, Rose was twelve years old again, watching the men carry her brother ashore, his leg blown off by cannon fire, his body wracked with fever.

Word had arrived before the ship that he had been sorely wounded, so mother, father, and daughter had stood side by side on the dock, hands clutched together, hearts beating like wild things.

When he was carried ashore on a canvas stretcher, he had caught sight of Rose first and had held out a shaking hand.

She had broken free of her parents’ grip and run to his side, wetting his fevered face with her tears, sobbing with relief that he was alive.

She had relived that moment so many times she could still see it clearly in her mind …

but suddenly, with the next stilted breath, it was not Ramsey’s body missing a limb and wrapped in bloody bandages.

Not Ramsey’s face she saw twisted with pain.

It was Fonteyne’s.