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she was. But there was something inside her that refused to cower before him.
    Her stomach growled. Grace shoved back her tangled mass of hair and walked over to the cheval glass in the corner. Heavy auburn curls hung limply around her shoulders and her aqua gown was a dreary, wrinkled mess. She lifted her gown, tore a length of lace from the hem ofher chemise, and used it to tie back her hair. She longed for a bath and something to eat and wondered if Captain Sharpe in tended to punish her by starving her to death.
    As if her thoughts had been transported, a soft knock sounded at the door. Thinking of the protection offered by the letter opener, she cast a wishful glance at the desk but the weapon was gone.
    She sighed and started toward the door. If the captain or his men had wanted to hurt her, they could have done so last night. Pausing for an instant, she took a steadying breath and pulled the door open.
    The last thing she expected was the sight of a young blond boy standing in the corridor, holding a breakfast tray in his hands.
    “Mornin’, miss. Capt’n thought ye might be hungry. He sent this down for yer breakfast.” The smell of freshly cooked porridge drifted up from the bowl in the center of the tray. A large round orange, nicely sliced into manageable pieces, sat next to the bowl, along with a steaming mug of tea, a pitcher of cream and a jar of molasses for the porridge. She could hardly believe it.
    Her mouth watered. “Well, the captain was entirely correct—I am hungry. It was generous of him to think of sending the tray.” Generous—unless it was merely a ploy to secure her agreement to his proposal. In which case, his strategy would fail.
    “What is your name?” Grace asked the boy, no more than twelve years old and small for his age, with eyes as green as her own. For the first time she noticed the carved wooden crutch tucked under his left arm.
    “Freddie, miss. Me name’s Freddie Barton.”
    Grace ignored the disturbing crutch and pasted on a smile. “Well, Freddie, you may set the tray down right over there.” She pointed to a small round Sheraton tablewith two matching chairs, thinking how odd it was that the devil captain would employ a crippled cabin boy.
    “Yes, miss.” Freddie started for the table and Grace frowned as she noticed the bent, twisted shape of his left leg. Then a noise sounded in the passage behind him and something shot into the cabin through the crack left in the door, brushing so close to the boy’s malformed limb he nearly toppled over.
    “Blast ye, Schooner!” He set the tray on the table a bit unsteadily and Grace followed his gaze to the yellow-striped tabby that had settled under the chair.
    “Ye like cats?” he asked, his glance sliding toward the animal who was hidden out of sight except for its tail.
    “Why, yes, I do.”
    Freddie looked relieved. “Schooner won’t bother ye none. And ’e’s a very good mouser.”
    She bit back a smile. “Then I suppose I won’t have to worry about mice in the cabin.”
    “No, miss.” He looked over at the orange-striped tail, swishing back and forth beneath the chair. “Schooner’ll let ye know when he’s ready to go back out.”
    “I’m sure he will.”
    “Capt’n says I’m to look out for ye. If there’s anything ye need, ye just need to tell me.”
    There was plenty she needed—like getting off the ship—but she didn’t think Freddie would be able to manage the trick. She walked over to the table and surveyed the tray of food, her stomach growling again. She was hungry, but she needed information more than food and the boy could be a well of knowledge.
    “How long have you worked for Captain Sharpe?”
    “Not long a’tall, miss. Capt’n only just got hisself another ship. Me pap sailed with him, though. Got hisself kilt along with the rest o’ the crew sometime back.”
    “I’m sorry, Freddie. What happened?”
    “Well, ye see, miss, they was fightin’ the Frenchies. The bloody