Chapter 1
London, 1856
Nicole Lassiter's first tingle of alarm came the moment
she stepped inside the squalid tap house and its fetid
warmth rushed over her face.
Silence blanketed the den as the patrons inside took her
measure, sensing she was out of place in the prostitute-
laden tavern. She hadn't dressed to attract notice. She
wore boys' pants and a shirt under an unadorned cloak. A
hat covered most of the bright hair she'd prodded under
it. Still they stared.
Her breath shuddered out. She was here on a mission to
find Captain Jason Lassiter, Nicole reminded herself. And
now that she'd arrived alone, she would merely have to do
her best not to get killed. With an upcast chin and an
offhand gaze, she plowed through the throngs of roughnecks
peopling the tavern. The tinny music from a badly tuned
fiddle at last resumed.
Obviously, the information she'd received pertaining to
Lassiter's whereabouts was mistaken; her father would
never come to a place like this, a place where sailors
found "company" before they shipped out. When a deckhand
had told Nicole where her father was, she'd assumed the
Mermaid had gone under new, less nefarious management
since she'd been away.
This was certainly not the case. One last sweep over the
place, and then she could go back and throttle the
deckhand for his prank. One last —
Her father was here.
With a heavily painted light-skirts hanging all over him.
At least, part of her hung over him. Breasts like two
hemispheres of a globe perched on the tight line of her
bodice, threatening to free themselves with each of her
throaty laughs. And Lord help her, Nicole thought as
herface screwed up in shrinking expectation, the woman
laughed a lot.
Nicole marched toward him through a gauntlet of human
sweat, gin-spiked breath, and loose, unlaced bodies. At
the sight of her, her father's jaw dropped and then
snapped closed, bulging at the sides.
Here we go....Jason Lassiter was a fearsome-looking man
when angered. His eyes became wild and his face flushed to
match his red beard and hair. That she hadn't forgotten.
But she had minimized how angry he would be when she'd
decided to come here tonight. There was no choice. She was
running out of time.
She proceeded with a pained, set smile until she stood
before him.
"Nicole," he ground out between his teeth, "what in the
hell are you doing here?"
Her gaze flickered over the whore's rouged nipples, boldly
cresting her bodice. Rolling her eyes, Nicole
retorted, "Just what in the hell are you doing here?"
With some muffled words and a pat on the woman's arm, her
father shooed the prostitute away, then sharply motioned
for Nicole to sit. "I came here looking for information,"
he answered brusquely.
"Ohhh," she said as she gave him a frown of disbelief. "Is
that what they're calling it now?"
"That's clever," he replied with thick sarcasm, absently
raising his mug. Nicole wrinkled her nose at the dented
and grimy container. He looked in it, frowned, then placed
it well away from him. "I'd planned to meet a man here who
knows about the sabotage. It happens that he's connected
with that woman." With a slightly wounded look, he
added, "You know me better than that."
Nicole nodded grudgingly and gave him a small, apologetic
smile. It lasted only seconds before she became serious at
the mention of sabotage. Sailing in these times was
perilous enough, with captains setting speed records and
shipbuilders fearlessly pushing new designs. Masts rigged
to snap and rudders set to be lost in the first heavy
storm made it deadly.
"Tell me you have some idea who's doing this," she said.
Her father's shipping line hadn't been targeted — yet —
but he'd decided to take the offensive.
"I'm finally getting some good leads," he said in a manner
that closed the subject. "Now, what in God's name are you
doing here?"
"Well. I've been thinking..." But as she started the
speech she'd rehearsed during her trip from Paris, with
all her reasons why she should sail with him in the
upcoming Great Circle Race from London to Sydney, the doxy
appeared again, sidling up to her father. Giving Nicole a
nasty look, she began a provocative whispering in his ear.
Her father wasn't sending the woman packing anytime soon,
and Nicole wasn't about to watch their murmured
conversation. Turning from them, she dropped her chin onto
the back of her chair and settled in to watch all the
British tars and explicitly dressed women while
they "mingled."
The earthy scenes had her wide-eyed. She imagined these
sights would only add fodder to her late-night dreams,
dreams in which a dark, faceless man...did things to her.
Things that she'd seen between couples on the quay. She
sighed. What would she dream tonight...?
A loud thud shook her from her musings, and her gaze
turned to the front door as three men marched in out of
the cold.
They wore expensive and tastefully cut clothes, marking
them as gentlemen. Drunken gentlemen, she amended as she
got a better look at them. These were jaded high-steppers
out for a night of cheap drink and even cheaper
debauchery. Well, they'd come to the right place.
Although the men didn't attract nearly the interest that
she had on her own entrance, the tavern quieted upon their
arrival. Probably because the largest man was massive —
over six feet and obviously well built in his tailored
clothing.
But that wasn't what drew her awareness. No, it was the
air of menace, seething and palpable, that reverberated in
him. Even when he sat down with his long legs stretched
out in front of his chair, his guise relaxed, she sensed a
latent tension in him. The others sensed it, too. The
parties of seamen, the crimps, the colorful doxies acted
like skittish animals when forced to walk past his table.
He was the only one of the three men not noticeably
inebriated, and strangely enough, when his eyes flicked
over the room, a look like disgust lit his face. Why would
he come to a place that offended him?
Then, as if her curiosity had drawn his attention, the man
turned his intense gaze on her. After a second, his eyes
narrowed. She sucked in a breath and knew: He saw through
her disguise! Looked past the boys' clothes and somehow
made her feel bare before him.
When the look in his eyes changed to show blatant
appreciation, all rational thought evaporated like fog
baked away under a southern sun. Her dark imaginings
sputtered and lurched to life once more.
He looked at her as though she were the only woman in the
room, a room thick with willing, half-naked women. What if
she were one of them, and he called for her? What would it
be like to straddle him, to envelop him in pied skirts as
he absently drank, pinching and petting her bare skin
beneath?
That feeling from her dreams returned — the unnamed
response that felt like fear, surprise, and hunger
battling inside her belly. He caused it now. It
strengthened as his heated gaze ran over her.
"I see you've noticed Captain Sutherland," her father cut
in dryly.
Nicole jerked her eyes away, her face heating furiously.
But then the name sank into her muddled mind: Sutherland,
the dissolute captain of the Southern Cross, the owner of
the now failing Peregrine Shipping line — and her father's
most bitter enemy.
"That's Derek Sutherland?" she asked in hushed amazement,
staring at her father in wonder. The idea that he
continually crossed this lethal-looking man was cause to
make her alternately cheer his bravery and question his
sanity.
"The one and only," he said as he stood. Bidding his doxy
good night, he motioned impatiently for Nicole to follow
him. "Looks as though we'll be leaving." Her father's face
turned fierce. "Because if he keeps staring at you like
that, I'll have to make good on my threats and kill the
bastard."
As she followed him through the crowd, some urge goaded
her to glance back at Sutherland. She gave in to the
temptation, only to find his eyes on her.
Watch was too tame a word for what he did — his gaze
roamed over her in a proprietary manner that defied her to
walk away from him.
But she would.
Such an intriguing-looking man, despite his deeply lined
countenance. What a waste, she mused acidly as she turned
away.
Seconds later, long, strong fingers encircled her wrist.
She knew it was Sutherland even before she turned and
their eyes locked. His flesh was hot on hers — his hand
was callused.
"Stay," he said simply.
From his manner, she got the impression he expected her to
do just that. Did he think all he had to do was command
her? The arrogance! So why did she find herself fighting a
very real desire to remain?
"Take your hand off me, Captain."
When he didn't, she twisted her arm out of his grasp. In
response, he gave her a mocking half-bow. How could he be
so unconcerned? How could he seem bored when attraction
fired hot and swift within her? Angered, she gave him a
forbidding glare. "Nonchalance, Captain? How indifferent
will you be when you lose the Great Circle Race by,
say..." she tapped her cheek, "...a thousand miles?"
She could have sworn she saw the corners of his lips curl
up before her father returned to yank her away.
"Damn it, Nicole, when will you learn?" he demanded before
the toe of her boot had touched the refuse-strewn
street. "Walking into the Mermaid as if you owned it!
Hell, it's because of men like Sutherland that you
shouldn't be in a place like that."
"I've been in worse," she countered as he anxiously led
her away.
"But to attract Sutherland's attention and then antagonize
him?" He threw another look over his shoulder. "It's as if
you're drawn to trouble."
"Well, trouble and I do go way back," she said between
short breaths as she struggled to keep up with her father.
He twisted around and frowned at her before slowing his
progress down the quay. "If he's such a bad man, then for
God's sake, why do you go out of your way to cross him?"
"I have my reasons for plaguing Sutherland. Good reasons.
Besides, he's British." The look Lassiter gave her said
he'd explained what should be obvious to anyone with
American blood in them.
"Mama was British," Nicole pointed out, even though they'd
been through this again and again.
"She was the only one of this whole lot I ever respected."
His eyes betrayed much more than simple respect for his
late wife. Laurel Banning Lassiter had been a noblewoman
of English birth, whose memory was never far from their
minds.
His voice hardened again as he looked at her. "That man is
a wastrel and a brute and you're to have nothing to do
with him. He'd use you and throw you away without so much
as a good-bye. Especially since he knows I'm connected to
you in some way." He paused, then added starkly, "If he
realizes you're my daughter, I can't imagine what the cold-
blooded bastard will do."
They walked on in silence, Nicole quiet as she thought
about Sutherland. She didn't think it likely he'd
recognize her since she took after her mother and bore
little resemblance to her father — except perhaps a
reddish tint to her hair. And, of course, in attitude.
"I don't think he'll even remember me in the morning," she
finally assured him, though secretly, perversely, the idea
displeased her. "After all, he'll most likely get drunk
tonight."
Her father grunted. "Not so drunk that he'd forget you."
He placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her around the
ship debris speckling the docks. "But enough of that
devil. Why aren't you in school?"
When she looked away, he asked in a voice laced with
resignation, "You got thrown out again, didn't you?"
Nicole gave a delicate cough. "My leaving was mutually
agreed upon." He scowled, striding on, and she added under
her breath, "To the great glee of my headmistress."
When they approached the dockside that berthed her
father's ship, the Bella Nicola, a rush of emotion brought
the sting of tears to her eyes. A striking clipper with a
sharp navy hull and jaunty white and red accents, it stood
out among the hulks in the harbor as a diamond would
amidst coal.
This is my home. She'd longed to be back aboard and had
missed the ship as though she were a friend. Her breath
hitched, but she didn't want her father to notice her
missish reaction. To mask it, she commented in an airy
tone, "Really, Father, I don't understand why you're still
fuming at me."
"Don't understand?" he asked. "How did you expect me to
react when you've been dismissed from the finest finishing
school on the Continent? Pleased?"
"It really wasn't a dismissal like the other schools," she
replied, warming to the subject. "I choose to call it
a 'conclusion.'"
"Well, if this is you after your conclusion," — he turned
her to survey her hair-stuffed cap and boys' trousers —
"your grandmother should demand her money back."
"Pssh. When I first got there, they told me I had to
master seven subjects out of nine, which — I — did." He'd
never know it had taken everything in her power to do so.
She found it difficult to acquire graces designed to snag
a rich, titled husband. Because at twenty and with her
quirky looks, she was not just firmly on the shelf. She
was on the top shelf — the one it took a ladder to get to.
"And I suppose it's only coincidence that you finished
seven with enough time to travel back here just days
before the Great Circle Race."
Nicole looked away again. She'd been planning to sail the
race for the past two years, ever since reading about
Queen Victoria's decree for a global contest open to
sailors of any nationality. She'd decided then that
nothing would stand in her way. Not slapped hands when she
chose the wrong utensil nor ridiculing dance masters, and
not the constant teasing about her being too old for
school. Especially not a hard-as-iron headmistress bent on
cramming her into a proper-lady mold and chopping off
anything that remained outside.
This race would be the greatest in history — a win could
catapult their line to worldwide recognition — and she
wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.
When she didn't respond, he teasingly pulled her cap down,
then asked in a conciliatory tone, "So tell me, what were
the two subjects you failed?"
Popping her hat back up, she feigned a grave look. "Alas,
I fear that floral arrangement and playing the harpsichord
are forever out of my grasp. As you can imagine, the
knowledge of my deficiencies is crushing," she added as
she checked an imaginary tear.
Lassiter looked to chuckle in response, his stifled smile
showing her that he was happy to see her. But he made his
features stern again. "Listen to me, Nicole. I want to
enjoy our time together before I sail, so let's get one
thing straight about the race."
Her brows drew together. Dear Lord, he couldn't be; he was
opening his mouth, his face set to tell her she...wouldn't
be sailing. "Don't say anything yet — please," she said in
a rush of words. "Just give me a few days to prove to you
that you need me in the race." And every voyage after.
"Nicole, it's not going to — "
"Please!" She grabbed his forearm and began to speak, but
he held up his rope-scarred hand to forestall her.
She decided then that she couldn't win this skirmish. But
this was hardly over. She had other arrows in her quiver
for their next round, so she reeled in her thoughts and
forced herself to let the fight lie for now.
And was even silent when he said, "I'll make this as clear
as possible: Nicole, there is no way in hell you are
sailing this race. And you have Sutherland to thank for
making my decision easy. While I have a breath in my body,
you won't be anywhere within reach when I have to contend
with him."
I'm going to kill those beasts, Nicole thought grimly as
she pounded her head against her forearm on the desk. When
she sat up, she blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and
looked down at her desk, presently littered with charts.
She glared at all the numbers and equations fogging
together.
She couldn't think, much less concentrate on plotting a
course to impress her father. She didn't expect to when
the livestock in the hold had been shrilling for a quarter
of an hour.
Of course, this would happen when no one was on board to
shush the puling animals. Lassiter had gone to a meeting
he'd set up through the woman from the tavern, and nearly
all of the crew were out enjoying their liberal shore
leave.
The sounds dimmed. Holding her breath, she inwardly
commanded their silence for the rest of the night. Just
when she picked up her pen again, the animals erupted once
more. Disgusted, she threw it down. Why weren't the two
crewmen who'd drawn guard duty tonight seeing to this
annoyance?
Probably asleep on the job. She would never fall asleep on
the job.
Nicole stretched her arms high above her head before
rising from the bolted-down chair in her cabin. Although
she wasn't going very far, she grabbed her woolen cloak
and pulled it tight.
She trotted with her clanging lamp toward the
companionway, trying not to breathe too deeply of the
sluggish low-tide air, but she couldn't suppress a yawn or
two. She thought of the other reason she'd gotten so
little accomplished this whole day — her exhaustion in the
face of a sleepless night. She'd tossed and turned with
sensual dreams, the sheets tangling between her legs, the
fine cloth of her nightdress growing too bristly against
sensitive skin.
In this dream, the man who set upon her wasn't a faceless
stranger. It was Sutherland.
She reminded herself that he'd largely influenced her
father's misguided decision about her sailing. And that
the race would pit her father against this man again,
making bad blood worse. So why could she still feel his
warm, strong fingers firm on her wrist?
Shaking her head, Nicole drove him from her mind yet
again. She did not have time for distractions.
At the companionway, she scanned the deck for the guards.
Unable to see anyone to reprimand, she swung effortlessly
down the steep, narrow steps as she had a thousand times
before. When the light touched the animals, the insouciant
goat merely swung its head toward her. But the wide-eyed
pigs and sheep were frightened and heartily announced that
fact in the echoing confines of the hold.
She puckered her lips and cooed, but they were spooked as
they were when a bad storm was brewing. Muttering a curse,
Nicole set her lamp on the floor and reached for the
shovel to throw them more feed.
Her arm halted in midair.
The light from the lantern faintly illuminated a shape
crouched on the floor, a huddled form partially obscured
by one of the mighty timber ribs of the ship.
A man?
Nicole pushed her hair out of her eyes and up more
securely in her hood as she squinted to make out the
sailor's identity. Whoever he was, he needed to learn that
he shouldn't be down here at odd hours without a good
reason. Even more, if he'd upset the animals, then he
should have made some effort to calm them.
"Just what do you think you're doing down here, sailor?"
she demanded, each word she spoke underscored by the solid
click of her boots as she marched toward him.
But as she neared him, something inside her, some oft-
ignored instinct, told her to proceed warily.
He didn't answer, just rose and turned to her. Her breath
leached out in a hiss.
The man bore a purplish, bubbled scar that curved over his
forehead and down through a vacant eye socket. A foul odor
emanated from him. It was the smell of gin, refuse,
and...blood. She gagged, her eyes watering as she
swallowed to keep from retching.
After several shallow breaths, her wits returned. This
couldn't be one of her father's men. Which meant...which
meant that she was in trouble. Again.
The play of emotions over her face must have amused the
scarred man, because he grinned, revealing teeth that
resembled little chunks of charred wood. She couldn't stop
the widening of her eyes, or the hasty step back.
With her next step, she drew a deeper breath, regretting
it immediately as his reeking form moved toward her. She
managed to say, "Carry on, sailor. M-my apologies."
For a second, then two, she awaited his reaction. How
could she attract the guards' attention when the animals
obviously hadn't? Could she outrun him? She was in
trousers — she might be able to escape to the deck if he
came after her. She should try...she really should move.
Just as she spun toward the companionway, the man called
out, "Don't think we'll be wantin' 'er to go nowhere,
Clive."
Appearing out of the shadows before her came a hulking
second man, a man she sensed was even more dangerous than
the first.
Two of them, in the hold. With her.
Nicole gaped at this new man's equally alarming
appearance. She found herself morbidly fascinated by his
pie-plate face, round and stamped down except for the
bulbous protrusion of his lips. She watched him much like
a bystander witnessing a terrible carriage accident, mouth
parted, too horror-struck to move.
An instant later, the will to defend herself rose up, and
her eyes darted all around to spy out a weapon. But she
wouldn't be able to grab the hold's shovel or pitchfork
before either of the men could get to her.
Then she spied the haphazard arrangement of tools on the
floor beside the second man. The bastards were here to
sabotage them! Fury spiked through her before settling
like a weight on her chest, but she bit it back and
said, "I am sorry for interrupting whatever repairs you're
doing down here. I'll be going back up to my cabin...so
good night."
"You ain't goin' nowhere, lady," the man called Clive said
through those beefy lips. "I think you're goin' to stay
with us and keep me 'n' Pretty comp'ny for a spell." His
voice was guttural and his leering eyes scoured her body.
Revulsion racked her. She flexed and closed her fingers as
she fought for control. "You didn't think I'd let a comely
piece of puss like you leave without me givin' you a good
toss, did you?"
"Now, 'old on, Clive," Pretty protested from where he'd
stopped, not five feet from her side. "The boss didn' say
nothin' about tuppin' nobody tonight." He scratched
intently in his greasy hair as he suggested, "Let's me 'n'
you finish up 'ere afore we get caught, 'n' then we'll
take care of 'er."
"Bugger you, Pretty," Clive said as he reached for the
front of her cloak. A panicked screech burst from her
lips. She kicked out at him. The stiff toe of her boot
planted into his knee before she dashed around him,
narrowly shimmying past his enraged lunge.
"Help! Somebody help me!" she screamed just once before
she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her
rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.
Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was
faster, and she managed just three steps up the
companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her
ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back
viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second
before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce.
Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood
shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out
of her lungs.
Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man
yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The
pain ebbed and her sight blurred...until Clive hauled her
back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand
over the other snaking higher up her leg.
Fight, damn it, fight! With a hidden reserve of strength,
she kicked forcefully, her heel catching the man squarely
in his foul, soft mouth.
Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one
hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick
connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the
stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.
She'd broken free. She'd —
"I'll shoot you if you try that again." The words
accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.
She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred
man had a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back
down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward
her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.
One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage
directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.
Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her
feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed,
knowing she was too weak...too slow.
Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the
hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.