Elizabeth struggled up from sleep as the casement clock struck midnight, and slipped back into an uneasy rest at the twelfth chime.

Rain, pounding and pounding. She pulled the pillow across her face but it was still there: rain on the river, yes. But something else, too. The sound of men moving in quick march, heavy boots, the jangle of weapons. Moncrieff's voice at the door, now. It was no dream.

From its spot on the poop deck, the round-house on the Isis looked out over the boatyard and docks. Elizabeth followed Moncrieff there, still fastening the buttons on her bodice, her hair lashing around her in the wet wind. Runs-from-Bears followed her, his expression closed and watchful. Pickering and his officers stood aside for them. There was no time for pleasantries, given the scene spread out before them.

Redcoats everywhere. Forbes and Sons was sealed off, and from their vantage point on the Isis they could see it all: the dock around the Nancy was surrounded, her decks crawling with soldiers. Some part of Elizabeth's mind insisted on taking count: a chain of twelve men at the gates; thirty-six men on foot on the dock, two officers on horseback, and another pacing so that his cloak flared around him. Foot soldiers carried lanterns on long poles and the light reflected on the muzzles of their guns, brass buttons, silver spurs.

"The King's Own," said Pickering behind her. "And the sixtieth, too, by God."

Elizabeth rounded on him. "You had no warning?"

"Of course not," he said hoarsely. "None at all."

Moncrieff touched her elbow. "Perhaps you should go below, Mrs. Bonner."

A group of the soldiers had broken off and were headed toward them. A tall man led them, the one in the cloak. She saw now that he wore no uniform. "Who is that?"

"Sir Guy," said Pickering, picking up his hat. "The governor himself. I must go and meet him." There was a tremor in his hand that Elizabeth did not like to see.

"He'll want to search this ship," she said more to herself than to him.

"He wouldna dare!" Moncrieff's tone brought Elizabeth around in surprise.

"Let him," said Runs-from-Bears calmly, his gaze locked on the men moving toward them.

"What?" Moncrieff snapped. "Are ye daft, man?"

Elizabeth put her hand on Moncrieff's forearm and felt the tension leaping there.

"Runs-from-Bears is right," she said quickly. "If you refuse the governor, he will know for certain what he only suspects."

"Can ye lie tae the man's face, then? D'ye ha' any idea wha' a bluidy bastard he can be?"

Elizabeth felt all her concentration shifting down to a fine point. By the pricking of my thumbs, she thought, and she smiled.

"I've dealt with a bloody bastard or two in my time," she said, and turned to Bears. "You must get word to Nathaniel and Hawkeye."

He shook his head. "They'd have me followed."

"Lord Dorchester requests permission to come aboard!" called a midshipman.

Elizabeth picked up her skirts and ran with Runs-from-Bears close behind.

Hannah stood in the middle of the cabin. In the candlelight her eyes were very large.

"Are they coming for us?"

Elizabeth clutched the girl to her chest, hugged her hard. Then she tilted up her chin to look directly into her eyes. "Listen to me, Squirrel. Your father and grandfather and Robbie are safe on another ship. There are some soldiers come on board the Isis to look for them. We mustn't look frightened or guilty. Do you understand?"

The vacant expression in Hannah's eyes shifted away like sand, and she nodded. She went to her uncle Runs-from-Bears, and he put a hand on her head.

"Dress now, quickly," Elizabeth said, even as she went in search of her shoes. But it was too late, there was a sharp rap at the door and it opened without her bidding. The captain, with a crowd of men behind him. Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, folded her shawl across her bodice, and drew Hannah in to her side to put an arm around her shoulders. Now that it had come to this, she was perfectly calm. She put her mouth to Hannah's ear. "They are only men," she whispered. Hannah's head bobbed, but she said nothing.

"Captain Pickering," Elizabeth said firmly. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

Pickering cleared his throat, his expression woeful. "Lord Dorchester, may I present Mrs. Bonner. And Mr. Runs-from-Bears."

He was tall, with a high sloping forehead and a prim mouth, in his sixties or perhaps even older. The cool gaze took in every detail of her person, from her bare feet and wrinkled skirt to the wild flow of her hair. He was waiting for her curtsy; she could see it in the set of his thin mouth.

Elizabeth nodded. "Sir."

"Mrs. Bonner. Good evening." By his voice she knew him: plummy tones polished to a sheen in the company of great men. But not born to the very highest places, not quite; there was Ulster Irish there just beneath the surface. He meant not to let it show. He was a typical third son, dedicated to the army, advancing only as quickly as his talents, good luck, and connections allowed. Elizabeth had the sense that there was more of luck and connections here than talent, but she might be wrong; she would reserve judgment.

She held up her head and met his gaze while he took her measure. It did not last long. All he would see was an Englishwoman of good birth gone to waste. Run away to marry an American backwoodsman. To him she was at best a simpleton, at worst a whore, but Elizabeth had cut her teeth on the disdain of men who were not her equal. She smiled because he expected it of her. It would pacify him, and she would keep her advantage.