Laura Kinsale Read Free

owner, and most of crew of the Arcturus. Too many years of running and skimping and scraping by with whatever cargoes, legitimate or illegal, that he could find to carry. He was not a criminal by nature—he was not even very good at it—but the demands of his ship had no end. He did not know how else to live.
    Grady materialized out of the mists in front of Gryf, the gray-streaked hair and red beard unmistakable even through the soup. “Cap’n!” The mate’s voice was gritty with more than usual emphasis, as if the dismay which widened his milky-blue eyes had found a way down his throat to choke him. “Cap’n, we’ve done bought us some trouble dear!”
    A familiar twist went through Gryf’s stomach, a surge of the constant and ingrained anxiety that had colored all his adult life. “What?” he demanded. If there was trouble…if there was trouble…His mind went blank and then raced, panning a whole unpleasant vista of possibilities. “What in the name of God is it?”
    Grady flung out his free hand, waving toward the forecastle, which was barely visible through the haze. “Up over, Cap’n,” he ground out. “Divil take her, I be stymied.”
    Gryf followed the gesture, seeing nothing on deck but a green tangle that looked to be a few square yards lifted right out of the jungle itself, and an oilskinned crew member tugging ineffectually at one of the larger plants.
    He relaxed a degree, not identifying any immediate threat. “They told us to expect that, Grady,” he said, puzzled by his chief mate’s agitation. “Those are the earl’s specimens. Just secure them in the hold amidships the best you can.”
    Grady set his feet and turned to Gryf with a look that was mutinous. “ You do ’er, then, by God. I’m right busy.” He nodded vigorously, shoring up his rebellion. “I done told you, Cap’n, what I thinks about this trip. Plain folly, ’tis. I said that. You see to the bloomin’ plants.”
    Grady’s captain looked after his friend in bafflement, feeling decidedly at a loss as the older man stalked away. Chewing on his lower lip, Gryf looked up again toward the ship. The same crewman, or another—they were unrecognizable in the ubiquitous oilskins—was still doggedly rearranging plants. Gryf considered a moment, came up with no particular explanation for Grady’s behavior, and started for the plank.
    “You there,” he hailed the persistent crewman as he gained the deck. “Forget those plants. You’ll be needed on dockside to dolly the baggage.”
    The man remained bent over a specimen, ignoring Gryf’s orders. Gryf hesitated, swearing under his breath, cursing himself as much as the seaman for his own ineffectiveness. He was a captain, yes, but captain of a crew of ten, running an embarrassingly democratic ship.
    This new crew intimidated Gryf. Once, he had accidentally let slip a “please,” and gotten such a queer look in return that he’d added “sir” in confusion, and then realized the ridiculousness of it himself: the captain calling the steward “sir.” He felt hot blood go to his face at the humiliating memory, and snapped “You!” at the recalcitrant seaman, using the impetus of irritation to carry him across the deck in three strides. His handcame down roughly on the bent crewman’s shoulder, and he whirled the man around to face him.
    In the moment of action, he already regretted it. The flash of anger, directed toward himself, would not see him through a confrontation. He searched madly for the righteous bullying indignation of authority, failed to summon it, and glanced down at his captive with a chagrin that metamorphosed rapidly into shock.
    His seaman was a woman.
    The suspended second of discovery passed like infinity; Gryf stood paralyzed, open to a thousand minute details that came too fast to catalogue. She was tall for a woman, but not nearly as tall as he was, with dark hair and ivory skin, high cheekbones, a delicate chin, and eyes of blue-green or gray