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I sabella was ready for battle as she strode out of the cabin and onto the deck the next morning.

She’d let him weaken her defenses during dinner the previous night, and it wouldn’t do to start getting sentimental over a baron who was manipulating her on behalf of Lady Eleanor.

Everything depended on her keeping her head and remembering with whom she was dealing.

After breaking her fast with Adelaide, who was still looking decidedly green, she put on a red dress that displayed her figure to perfection. Most of the time, she tried to deflect attention so that she could listen unhindered and gather information, but this morning, she wanted to stand out.

Sailors were notoriously superstitious, and it was well-known that women were considered bad luck on a ship.

It was time to stir up a bit of trouble—not enough to actually endanger the running of the ship, but enough to put Lord Martin on the defensive.

If he was distracted placating his crew, he wouldn’t have time to ply her with food and wine in the evening, lulling her into complacency with his citole.

And maybe she could create enough of a stir to make him want to be rid of her entirely.

Her gaze snagged on Martin, standing on the forecastle, deep in conversation with two of his men.

An unwanted burst of pleasure shot through her at the recollection of the previous night’s dinner.

A mental image of Martin’s smoldering look as he plucked his citole with mesmerizing skill and dexterity made her bite her lip before she schooled her face back into a mask of haughtiness.

She could not afford to speculate about what it might be like to have those skillful hands touching her, making good on his promise to worship every inch of her body.

Remember Lady Eleanor. You’ll be her marionette forever if you give in.

Walking to the rail, she took deep, calming breaths, grateful for the brisk breeze that cooled her unwanted ardor. She had a job to do and a husband to lose. It was time to set to work.

Casting her gaze about and listening carefully, she looked for the man who had spoken about women being bad luck on a ship. The day before, she’d purposefully directed her gaze out to sea, so she wasn’t sure what the man looked like, but she was certain she would recognize his voice.

Snippets of conversations wafted by as she cast a wide net.

“We’re making good speed. Eight knots…”

“…and there’s this place in Calais where the ladies all…”

“Swab that deck like you mean it, you wart on the arse of a…”

“Where did you want this barrel of ale?”

“Your left elbow is dipping when you thrust…”

Ah, there was the one she wanted. She turned her gaze toward a small group of half a dozen men on the starboard side near the aftercastle that appeared to be going through swordsmanship drill.

Their leader was a great slab of a man demonstrating each move with his wooden practice sword, each stroke swift and sure.

Clearly, he needed no steel to disembowel a man.

His nose had been broken several times over, and his grizzled brown beard was flecked with white.

She sauntered over to the group, drawing every eye, one by one, until they were all gaping at her as she leaned against the rail beside them. “Good morning, boys,” she said with a little wave. “Don’t mind me. I just want to watch. Carry on.”

The leader turned his thunderous gaze on her. “My lady, you should be resting belowdecks.” He hitched his head sideways in a none-too-subtle command.

“But I was bored,” she pouted. “Can’t I watch, even for a little bit? It’s like being at a tournament. It’s ever so much more interesting than my sewing. Please?”

She batted her eyelashes, then glanced at the other sailors. “I’m sure the men don’t mind. Do you?”

Casting coy glances around, she smiled inwardly as they started to preen and posture before her.

“C’mon Osric. It can’t do any harm to let the lady watch,” a youth with a few scraggly chin hairs wheedled.

“You heard the lady. She’s bored,” said a tall, skinny man missing his two front teeth.

Osric grumbled as others joined the chorus.

It was a bit dangerous to attract the interest of so many of the crew’s men this way but so was staying married to Lord Martin.

“All right, all right. You can stay,” the big man said, cutting them off and turning to her. “I would ask that you stay silent and don’t interfere, my lady.” It clearly cost him to make the request politely.

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering, my good man,” she said with a triumphant smile.

As she settled back against the rail, every eye was on her and not a one on Osric. She ignored the rapid beating of her heart at being the center of their collective attention, and she beamed at them all.

“Pay attention, you limey boneheads. Eyes forward.”

They all snapped to attention, guilty looks on more than one face. Her plan was working.

“Now raise your swords.”

As one, they raised their wooden practice blades and began to drill. Only half of their attention was on their efforts, though. They kept stealing covert glances at her as they tried to show off. Good. That was exactly what she wanted.

When she was certain she had the attention of at least three of them, she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and faked a violent, high-pitched sneeze. Scraggly-beard and Skinny-no-teeth tripped over each other and landed in a heap on the deck.

“Oh, dear me, what bad luck! Are you all right?” she asked, all innocent concern as she rushed to them.

Osric glared down at the scene, looking like a cauldron about to boil over.

“Are you hurt?” she asked the two men, bending down over them. “Such a shame I only have one handkerchief to bind your injuries. How ever shall I choose between you?”

Both men’s eyes widened, and they began scrambling over each other. “It hurts here, my lady,” said the youth, pointing to his knee.

“I can barely move my arm, my lady,” said the other, eyes brimming with hope.

“What terrible luck that you should both be hurt while I’m looking on,” she exclaimed, determined to rub it in and play her part to the hilt.

Half-measures would not get her and her sister thrown off the ship.

She tried to channel the manipulative, flirtatious energy of one of the ladies of the French court.

They were masters at this sort of thing.

“You were both so valiant with those big, heavy swords. I don’t know how to decide, but I must.”

“I’m suffering so! Please help me, my lady,” the youth pleaded with an exaggerated moan.

“I pick…” She closed her eyes and moved her finger back and forth between them. “You.”

She pointed to Skinny-no-teeth. Scraggly-beard turned bright red and looked like he planned to knock a few more teeth out of his crewmate’s mouth at the earliest opportunity. Kneeling down, she made a production of tying her handkerchief around the skinny man’s arm.

The men all around were looking daggers at the man she was fussing over.

“Get up, you lazy—” Osric clamped his mouth shut to prevent whatever foul curse he was about to utter from leaving his mouth.

“Up. All of you. Get back to work. Especially you,” he ordered, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Skinny-no-teeth.

“And, my lady, I will ask you once again to please leave us in peace.”

Despite being delighted with the upset she’d caused, she was slightly worried about the edge in Osric’s voice. But her ploy was working all too beautifully. Martin was sure to throw her off the ship in no time.

Indeed, the man himself came striding over.

An unwanted sense of relief crept over her at his presence.

He would keep his men in line in case any took this game a bit too seriously.

It was a delicate line to walk—trying to get sent away but not putting herself in danger.

But given the risks in every direction, she had to gamble on getting it right.

“What’s going on here?” Martin demanded, staring down Osric despite the fact that he was at least a foot shorter than his crewmember.

The giant ham hock of a man quailed before Martin’s disapproving gaze.

“She’s stirring up trouble, my lord,” Osric grumbled. “Tell her to go below and keep to herself. It’s bad luck to have her mixing with the men.”

Martin turned his gaze on her and cocked his head, a knowing smile curling his lips. Damn the man. “Were you stirring up trouble, Isabella?”

Steeling herself, she looked him in the eyes with no remorse. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Her husband looked her up and down, taking in the red dress and the way it clung to her form. Anyone with eyes would know she had dressed for trouble, and her husband was no fool.

“Walk with me,” he said, offering an arm, in a genteel voice that nonetheless brooked no dissent.

Reluctantly, she obeyed. Out of the pot and into the cauldron. Dangerous as the crew could be if they truly turned against her or took her flirtation too seriously, the man before her was the one whom she truly had to worry about.

He steered her up the steep stairs to the forecastle and brought her to the bow of the ship, out of earshot of the other men. He looked at her with eyes full of what appeared to be admiration, though she knew that couldn’t be true. Could it? “I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work.”

“Oh?” she said lightly, as if he was wrong and she was innocent of exactly what he accused her of being. Be like Adelaide, she told herself. Sweet. Innocent. Na?ve, even. She made her eyes soft, cow-like, and blinked. “And what exactly is it that you think I’m doing?” Nothing at all…

“I think you’re trying to get out of our bargain early. In fact, I think,” he said, leaning close enough that his warm, sweetly-scented breath whispered against her cheek, “you’re afraid you’ll lose.”