Frustration twisted his countenance, but Mrs. Wesley slid to her side again. “Please, sir. She has scarcely slept since we left England due to seasickness. Her perception has been…dubious.”
Dubious. Her whole life, it seemed, was dubious. Her fingers tightened around her reticule, her gaze going to the doorway when another unfamiliar figure filled it. This one strode in with the confidence that bespoke authority and tossed out a casual, “What is going on here?”
The man before her lowered his gun and stepped away. “A misunderstanding, Captain. The girl went for her trunk, and I…”
“Hmm.” The captain halted in the middle of the room and regarded her steadily. “Are you unwell, miss?”
No doubt she looked like something left for dead. She hardly cared, though even her sleep-deprived eyes had no trouble seeing this captain was handsome enough to set female hearts pounding. The way his hair curled brought Sir Arthur to mind, though he was dark where Sir Arthur was fair.
Thoughts of him caused only a numb little thump in her chest. There was no room, it seemed, to mourn the loss of a suitor.
Mrs. Wesley gave her waist a squeeze. “Insomnia, sir. You are the captain?”
He swept his hat from his head and bowed with far too much grace for some American pirate. “Alain Arnaud of the Demain, at your service.”
Demain—the French word for “tomorrow.” She must have heard them shouting it. But it only lit another burning question, and her vision blurred again. “Are you French or American, sir?”
His grin flashed bright as lightning and just as fleeting. “Both. Born in France, but when the Revolution descended, my family fled to America.”
Gwyneth’s fingers tangled in the strap of her reticule. “Mama was French nobility as well. Papa helped her escape Versailles the very day they stormed the Bastille in Paris.”
Captain Arnaud held out a hand. “It would seem we have common ground then, Miss…?”
Her fingers stumbled over the latch of her reticule. “Fairchild.”
His face froze. All but his eyes, which snapped with questions. Did he know of her father? Quite possibly—a privateer preying on British ships would stay abreast of British military.
“Fairchild? Any relation to the general by that name?”
She pulled out the letter Papa had given her, crumpled now from so many weeks stuffed carelessly into her bag. Rather than putting her fingers in his for a greeting, she set the sealed envelope upon his outstretched palm. “He is—” if only is were still the proper word—“my father.”
Captain Arnaud frowned at the letter. “And this is…?”
“For you. He said if we were set upon by American privateers, to give it to them.” She shrugged, her shoulders heavy.
Curiosity evident, the captain broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. His eyes darted across the page. And went wide.
“Captain.” The other sailor edged forward, the one who had thus far said nothing and remained at the door. “A general’s daughter. We could ransom her. Use her for leverage, at the least.”
Fear hadn’t even time to beat its wings before the captain lowered the paper. “No.”
“But, Captain—”
“Unless you would like to explain to Thad why we chose to hold his ward prisoner when he was expecting her delivered safely to Baltimore?”
Gwyneth had to grip the desk again. Who in the world was Thad? And why Baltimore? Papa had said she was to go to Annapolis. To the Lanes. Bennet and Winter. She should have been their ward.
Yet both of the sailors relaxed, and the one the captain addressed even looked amused. “How in thunder does Thaddeus Lane know General Fairchild’s daughter?”
Thaddeus Lane? She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze from her eyes. Trying to remember the stories to which she had scarcely paid attention. Their son, he must be. “May I see the letter, Captain?”
“Of course.” His amusement now matched that of his man as he handed it to her, and then he planted his hands on his hips. “I always said he knows everybody the world over.”
Gwyneth looked to the page, but her hand shook too badly for her to read it. She set it upon the desk and felt the burn of tears when her eyes drank in the familiar, precious script.
Dear Sir,
If you are reading this, then it is because you have intercepted the Scribe and, along with it, my daughter and her chaperones. But before you start planning how to make use of this capture, I must enlighten you. Thaddeus Lane is expecting my daughter and has sworn his protection over her and the Wesleys. I implore you to honor the promise of he who I know is held in your greatest esteem. I trust you to deliver her safely to him.
Respectfully,
General Isaac Fairchild
Gwyneth lifted a hand to her temple. Had the throbbing been there all along, or was it new? “You know Mr. Lane?”
“It’s Captain Lane, and I should think so. He is all but a brother to me.” Indeed, his voice rang with warmth.