She would never forget the combination.
He’d sat in that chair. Worked at that desk. Slept in that bed. A shiver of excitement danced over her skin at the thought. She ran her hand over the quilt they had both laid on. Her pulse quickened, and she removed her hand hastily. She could spend all day simply touching things that belonged to him. But that would not solve her problem.
With one more quick check to make sure the door was locked, she unlaced the corset and threw it onto the bed, then pulled her stained shirt free from the waistband of the skirt.
A noise outside the door had her scrambling into the stolen clothes. She waited, her heart in her throat, but no one tried to enter the cabin. Arista gathered her gypsy disguise and tucked it under the mattress. Carefully, she slid the lock free and opened the door. The hall remained empty. She started out, then realized that she had not remembered to take a cap. Anyone with eyes could see she was a girl. Grae had to have one somewhere.
She checked the cupboards and the built-in wardrobe, and found nothing except more clothing. A smaller chest sat at the foot of the bed. It was the only place that she hadn’t checked, because it was locked. But people were predictable, and she went to the desk to check for the key. Sure enough, in the second smallest drawer, she found the key that fit the lock.
Before she opened it, Arista hesitated. No one kept their hats under lock and key. What if she found something inside that changed her opinion of Grae—that proved he wasn’t as sincere as she thought? What if his darkest secrets were inside this chest? Her hands shook as she lifted the top.
On top of a stack of papers, the first thing Arista saw was a black raven feather. It was the one she’d lost from her mask the night they met. Becky had fussed mightily over it, too. The feather was still sleek and soft, and she ran her fingers over it. A smile teased her lips. Grae had kept this as a memento of her.
She ran the feather across her lips, and then set it aside. There was nothing else but papers, maps marked up with ink, coordinates that made no sense to her. After replacing the feather, she closed the lid and turned the key.
She’d have to go back below deck, where the crew would most certainly have many caps. Hopefully her luck would hold. She crept back to the stairs and quietly went down into the dark room.
Every member of the crew should have a cap in their belongings. The first trunk had none, nor the second. She moved to another, farther away from the porthole. She fumbled with the trunk’s clasp.
“You there—what are you doing down here?” The voice boomed across the room and Arista froze. “All hands on deck.”
“Right there, sir,” Arista mumbled. She’d slipped back into the rough tones of the street and kept her voice low. “Forgot my cap, sir.”
The man grunted. “Git yer arse back on deck.”
Arista threw up the trunk’s lid and hoped with all her might that this one had a cap.
“Time’s up. If you don’t move now, boy, I’ll whip yer backside.”
She swallowed back the sob of frustration. There had to be one. She dug her fingers through the fabric, searching for the familiar feel of wool. Boots stomped behind her, getting closer. If he got her in the light, he’d know the truth. Grae would be summoned, and she’d have to explain what she was doing. Her plan would fall apart.
“Got it!” She pulled the cap free, slammed the trunk and slipped it over her head. Using the dark to hide her face, she darted past the man.
“I’ll just get back to work, sir,” she said.
She didn’t see his hand, but a sharp burst of pain bit into her ear. “Next time, when I tell ye to do something, boy—do it.”
“Yes, sir.” Arista ran up the stairs, down the hall, and above deck before he could do worse. The sunlight blinded her for a moment and she stumbled to a stop. Men were busy everywhere. Some were rolling barrels toward the open hatch on the far side of the deck. Others climbed through the rigging, each with a coil of rope slung through one arm, to repair any signs of wear. None paid her any attention.
Except the man coming up the steps behind her.
“You waitin’ for an invite, guvnor? Get yer arse to work.” As soon as she heard him, Arista bolted across the deck. So much for slipping away unnoticed. By the time he realized she meant to cross over the gangplank, he was too late to stop her. A shout came from behind her and a hand reached out, but she ducked and spun away, barely escaping the grasp of a great, burly man. In one leap she was on the narrow plank connecting the ship to the wharf.
Don’t look down.