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either.” He held the glass to her lips. “Drink.”
    “Considering Mrs. Chapman’s condition,” Phoebe countered, turning her head away, “a reasonable man would let us go.”
    “Aye, but you are presuming I am a reasonable mon.”
    She opened her mouth for further protest, and he tipped the contents of the glass between her lips. She could choke, spit it all over herself and perhaps him, or swallow. She swallowed and prayed he spoke the truth about the poppy juice being a small amount.
    “Ver’ good. That should calm you.” His glance of approval was almost warm.
    Nothing felt warm about the speed with which he departed from the cabin. The slam of the bolt on the outside of the door felt like an icicle through her chest.
    “See, I told you he was kind.” Belinda had resumed consuming bread and jam and licked her fingers between words.
    Phoebe didn’t shudder when she looked at her sister-in-law this time. For that she did owe him a debt of gratitude. He’d been kind about her sickness, even if he thought it was mal de mer. He’d drugged her in his kindness, a fair treatment for sickness like hers. And a way to keep her quiet until they sailed too far away for her to get Belinda and her back to land? No, he’d claimed not enough to incapacitate her, and in those moments of his gray eyes compassionate upon her face, she believed him.
    Dangerous, that kindness in him. She must never forget that he was not any more altruistic about making her survive the voyage than he was about getting George out of prison in England—he possessed some ulterior motive for that too, or she wasn’t a fully qualified midwife.
    A midwife not all that far from her teacher if they hadn’t left the Chesapeake yet. Not all that far from her teacher’s still well-connected husband. If she could find a weapon . . .
    If she could get her brain to clear and her limbs to work . . .
    “No.” She fought against the poppy juice. It dragged her down like anchor chains. She shook them off and used the bulkhead to pull herself upright. “No, no, no, he isn’t kind. He’s a devious scoundrel, a cur—”
    Belinda’s eyes widened with shock. “Phoebe, that isn’t very Christian of you.”
    “I don’t feel particularly Christian toward him.” Phoebe flopped her leaden legs over the side of the bunk. “He’s a—a rogue, a louse, a—”
    She didn’t know, or at least wouldn’t use, worse epithets for him than she’d already applied. Name calling got a body nowhere. She needed action, a clear head, and a lot of help from God.
    Her conscience twinged that she would ask for God’s help after heaping uncomplimentary appellations upon a fellow being and while planning to be what she claimed she was not—a violent person.
    “I won’t have to do anything violent if he cooperates.” She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Belinda surged to her feet.
    “What are you going to do? Do you want to get us locked up in the hold or something?”
    “No, I’m going to get us set ashore.” Phoebe dropped her head into her hands. “If the cabin will stop spinning.”
    “But I don’t want to—”
    “Do you want one of those men delivering your baby?”
    “If necessary, yes, if that’s what I must do to go to England.”
    Phoebe groaned. “I should have guessed.”
    She tried to stand. Her legs gave way beneath her. On hands and knees, she crawled to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. A pile of thick leather-bound books rested within. Logs. Perhaps interesting reading, if she were to remain aboard the privateer.
    “But I won’t,” she vowed between her teeth.
    “What won’t you do? What are you doing?” A glance back showed Belinda sticking the penknife into the jar of preserves and licking it off.
    Phoebe’s stomach protested. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her task—searching. She didn’t look at Belinda. She didn’t answer her. She slipped her hand inside drawers, beneath paper and books, quills