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kill—to keep them alive to see them blown to bits.”
    Claude’s eyes sparked with interest at the comment, but he didn’t say anything. That had been one thing Alex admired about him: his lack of curiosity. The man, a former French naval officer, had wanted the job of first mate—and the five percent share of any prize that accompanied it— and he’d obviously trusted Etienne. That was all Alex knew, although he and Claude had dined together for the last four days. They had talked of little but the crew they were beginning to know.
    He had probed Alex’s experiences at sea, obviously weighing his knowledge, but he apparently had withheld judgment on Alex’s taste for battle. But now Claude grinned, and Alex knew he’d probably had reservations of his own at taking a berth with a captain about whom he knew nothing. For some reason, a reprehensible past seemed to reassure him.
    That didn’t matter now. What did matter were two children who’d had too short a childhood, too little security, too much tragedy. Alex had not the slightest idea of how to make them safe.
    Returning to Le Havre was dangerous. Taking them with him was just as dangerous. But the simple fact was they would probably not stay in France, even if he tried and succeeded in getting them there. They would find some way of getting back aboard.
    Four black days in the munitions room
. He didn’t think he could abide that.
    And all to be with him.
    Bloody hell.

    London

    It was her final fitting.
    Jenna dreaded it, dreaded standing for hours and suffering the occasional pinprick, all for a trousseau that might never be used.
    Still, it was good to leave their lodgings. Maisie had refused every effort to leave them, even for meals. According to her, London was filled with ruffians and footpads. Her person was not safe. But the trousseau was part of her duties, and she had very reluctantly left the safety of the inn.
    As the sailing date approached, she’d become more and more silent, muttering about pirates and leaving civilized society. It was obvious that the voyage ahead held little interest for her. She had been asked to serve as chaperone by Jenna’s father. One dependent on his goodwill did not question such “requests.”
    Strangely enough, Jenna’s mother had taken a liking to the widow, or perhaps she had enjoyed lording her position over Maisie, and the woman had been brought into the house as a sort of companion/secretary to Jenna’s mother. She was considered neither servant nor relative, and she worked hard to make herself valuable and therefore secure.
    Yet her complaints were unceasing, and Jenna dreaded the thought of spending nearly a month in close quarters with her.
    She and Celia often left when Maisie retreated to her room and took one of her naps. They would walk to a market or through a park, always sure to return before Maisie awakened or there would be hours of recriminations and threats of letters about her lewd conduct to her father.
    But, oh, how she wished to visit the restaurants or visit St. James Park, or go to the Covent Garden Theater.
    Although she dreaded the actual fitting, it did feel good to be outside even with the fog this morning and a light rain.
    As before, a man stepped up to help them out of the coach, then opened the door of the dressmaker’s. As Jenna entered the establishment, she heard a terrible scream followed by a thump. She spun around.
    Maisie Campbell lay on the street—apparently from a stumble on the cobbles. A leg stuck out at an odd angle from the voluminous skirt and petticoats she wore. Maisie tried to move it and screamed again. The usher who had helped them out of the carriage took one look and frowned. “I’ll go for a physician,” he said, and started
to run down the street.
    Maisie wailed. Two men carried her inside the dressmaker’s establishment. Tears streamed down the older woman’s pinched face as Jenna hovered nearby, uncertain as to how to comfort her. Celia wrung