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right, yet as she was rowed across to the
Angel Lily
, she couldn't help but wonder what under heaven that might be. Cole had stayed behind on the
Commerce
, as had all the other Americans who'd come with him except for the two huge, stone-faced men sitting opposite her at the boat's oars. One was a Yankee with a queue that reached his waist and bare arms covered by inked designs, the other an African, his face cruelly scarred by some long-ago knife. Neither man looked at her as the boat flew across the water, and neither spoke except to hail the brig as the boat drew close. The
Angel Lily
was larger than the
Commerce
, her glistening sides rising up from the water like a black, curving wall of oak.
    "You knows th' cap'n's rules on th' chits, Ned," called a man over the side high above them. "Can't keep her on board, even if she do be a prize."
    Raucous laughter greeted his words, and Ned and the African both grinned as Rose's cheeks grew hot with shame and indignation. Automatically she shot to her feet, wobbling with the motion of the boat.
    "I am not a chit, sir," she shouted back at the man's face overhead, "but an English lady and a loyal subject of His Majesty King George."
    Someone on the deck made a loud, disrespectful noise, followed by more laughter and a handful of oaths, and Rose gasped with outrage. Her aunt had been right. Americans were little better than savages.
    "If you are quite done," she shouted when the laughter faded, "I should wish to speak with your captain directly."
    But before anyone answered the boat bobbed against the brig's side, and ignominiously Rose toppled backward into the seawater that had gathered in the bottom of the boat. Close to tears with humiliation and dread, she climbed back to her bench, her skirts soaked, and waited for more of the laughter that she knew must come again at her expense.
    But to her surprise, it didn't. Instead Ned tugged on the front of his knitted cap and held his hand out to her. "Bos'n's chair's ready for you, miss," he said gruffly. "Mind yerself, now."
    "Thank you," said Rose with a little sniff, and gingerly she climbed into the makeshift sling that would preserve what was left of her modesty as it lifted her swaying to the deck. Balanced in the bos'n's chair, she felt like some market-day acrobat, as she swung precariously up into the air. It seemed odd to be able to see the
Commerce
from a distance rather than to still be walking her decks, and with a pang of homesickness for the other ship, Rose noticed that a new American flag now flew at the masthead. So Captain Richards had finally surrendered, she thought bitterly; nothing she could say now would be able to change that.
    She was level with the main deck now, and with a final pull on the line she was lifted over the side. She smiled her thanks to the man who held the chair steady while she climbed down, but he was as careful to avoid her eye as the men in the boat had been at first. Her smile faded as she noticed the same reaction all around her; although she sensed that every seaman on the deck was watching her, not one was actually looking
at
her, and beneath their furtive scrutiny she'd never been more self-conscious, or more uncomfortable, in her life. Nervously she touched her hair, wishing again that she hadn't lost her hat.
    "So you've come a-calling, have you, Miss Loyal Subject of King George?"
    The man's voice boomed out over the deck, deep and effortlessly commanding. It was a voice that instinctively made Rose want to hop to attention, the same way it undoubtedly did everyone who heard it, but instead she forced herself to count to five, then five more, before, slowly, she turned to face Captain Nickerson Sparhawk.
    To face him, and to stare. There were no gentlemen in Portsmouth like this. There probably weren't any in the entire rest of the world. He was immensely tall with shoulders and a chest to match, and even clothed though he was, Rose was acutely aware of the strength and energy