"Oh, hell," he groaned.

"Now don't be embarrassed." She grinned. "No one is here except family to witness that you're not as cold and callous as you like people to think."

"Black and blue, Georgie, I promise you."

She didn't take his warning to heart, maybe because there was no longer any heat behind it. She just gave him a tender smile that said she loved him, too.

But into the silence, Boyd demanded of Drew, albeit belatedly, "What the devil did you mean, she's suffered enough?"

"She found her Malcolm, more's the pity."

"And?"

"And you don't see him here, do you?"

"You mean he wouldn't have her?" Boyd asked incredulously.

"Worse than that." Drew snorted. "He married someone else, about five years ago."

"Why that—"

"—good for nothing—"

"—son of a bitch!"

Georgina blinked at their renewed anger, this time on her behalf. She hadn't expected that, but she should have, knowing how protective they were of her. She could just imagine what they'd say about James when it came time for the big confession. She couldn't bear to think of it.

They were still commiserating in their own way, with colorful invectives, when the middle brother walked

into ths room. "I still don't believe it," he said, drawing everyone's startled attention. "All fiveof us home at the same time. Hell, it must be ten years at least since we've managed that."

"Thomas!" Clinton exclaimed.

"Well, hell, Tom, you must have come in on my waves," Drew said.

"Just about." He chuckled. "I spotted you off the Virginia coast, but then lost you again." And then he gave his attention to Georgina, only because he was surprised to see her sitting behind Clinton's desk.

"No greeting, sweetheart? You aren't still angry with me, are you, for delaying your trip to England?"

Angry? She was suddenly furious. It was just like Thomas to put little stock in her feelings, to assumethat everything would be swell-dandy-fine now that he was home.

" My trip?" She came around the desk, toting the vase under her arm, so angry she forgot she was even holding it. "I didn't want to go to England, Thomas. I asked you to go for me. I begged you to go for me.

But you wouldn't, would you? My little concerns weren't important enough to interfere with your blasted schedule."

"Now, Georgie," he said in his calm way. "I'm willing to go now, and you're welcome to come along or not."

"She's already been," Drew informed him dryly.

"Been what?"

"Been to England and back."

"The devil she has." Thomas's lime-green eyes came back to Georgina, flared with upset. "Georgie, you couldn't be that foolish—"

"Couldn't I?" she cut in sharply, but then unexpectedly her eyes filled with unwanted tears. "It's your fault that I'm—I'm . . . oh, here!"

She tossed the vase at him as she ran out of the room, ashamed to be crying again over a heartless Englishman by the name of Malory. But she left pandemonium behind, and not because anyone had noticed her tears.

Thomas caught the vase she'd thrown to him, but not before four grown men fell at his feet in their efforts to catch it if he didn't.

Chapter Twenty-eight

James stood impatiently at the rail, waiting for the small skiff that had finally been sighted on its way back to the ship. Three days he'd waited in this little bay on the Connecticut coast. If he'd known it was going to take this long for Artie and Henry to return with the information he wanted, he would have gone ashore himself.

He almost had, yesterday. But Connie had calmly pointed out that his present mood was a deterrent, that if the Americans didn't clam up simply because he reeked of British nobility, authority, and condescension, his mood would make anyone distrustful, possibly even hostile. James had objected to the condescension part. Connie had merely laughed. And two out of three had still made his point.

James was totally unfamiliar with these American waters, but he'd decided not to follow the vessel he'd been trailing into port, since he didn't want to give Georgie any prior warning that he was here. He'd merely assured himself that her ship had actually docked at the coastal town, rather than sailing up the river she had entered. He'd then anchored the Maiden Anne just around the point of land that jutted out at the mouth of the river and sent Artie and Henry into the town to find out what they could. But it shouldn't have taken three days. He'd only wanted to know where he could find the wench, not details of the whole town.

But they were back now, and the moment they climbed aboard, he demanded, "Well?" only to changehis mind and snap, "In my cabin."

Neither man was overly concerned with his abruptness. They had an earful to report, and besides, the captain's manner was no different than it had been since leaving Jamaica.

They followed him below, as did Connie. But James didn't even wait to settle behind his desk before he again asked for an accounting.

Artie was the first to speak up. "Ye won't like it none, Cap'n ... or maybe ye will. That ship we was after followin', she's one o' the Skylark Line."

James frowned thoughtfully as he slowly eased into his chair. "Now why does that name have a familiar ring to it?"

Connie's memory had no trouble supplying the answer. "Maybe because as the Hawke, you had encounters with two Skylark ships. One we captured, the other got away, but not before we did considerable damage to her."

"And this Bridgeport 'ere is 'ome port o' the line," Artie added. "There's more'n a 'alf dozen o' their ships docked right now."

James accepted the significance of that with a grin. "It appears my decision to avoid that harbor was a fortuitous one, don't it, Connie?"

"Indeed. The Maiden Anne might not be recognizable, but you certainly are. And I guess that settlesthe matter of your going ashore."

"Does it?"

Connie stiffened. "Blister it, James, the wench isn't worth getting hanged for!"

"Do try not to exaggerate so," came the dry reply. "I might have been easily visible whenever we bore down on a prize, but I also sported a beard in those days, which you'll notice I no longer do. I'm no more recognizable than my ship is, and furthermore, the Hawke retired more than five years ago. Time dims all memories."

"In your case, it must also have eroded good sense," Connie grumbled. "There's no reason you have to take any risk a'tall, when we can just as easily bring the brat to you."

"And if she doesn't want to come?"

"I'll see that she does."

"Are we considering abduction, Connie? Strike me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a crime?"

Red-faced with frustration, Connie demanded, "You just aren't going to take this seriously, are you?"

James's lips twitched the slightest bit. "I'm just remembering that the last time we tried abduction of a fair damsel, we ended up pulling my sweet niece out of the bag. And the time before that, when Regan was quite willing to be abducted, I ended up being disowned and soundly thrashed by my dear brothers. But that's neither here nor there. I didn't come all this way to let your worry over what is no more than a slim possibility at most change my plans."

"Just what are your plans?"

That particular question brought back James's irritation, and then some. "I haven't any yet, but that's beside the bloody point," and then, "Artie, where the hell is the wench? You two laggards did discover her whereabouts, didn't you?"

"Aye, Cap'n. She lives in a big 'ouse just outside o' Bridgeport."

"Outside? Then I can find her without actually going through the town?"

"Easily, but--"

James didn't let him finish. "There, you see, Connie? You were worried over nothing."

"Cap'n-?"

"I won't have to go anywhere near the harbor."

" Merde! " Henry was finally heard from as he glowered at his friend. "When will you tell him, mon ami ?

After he has entered the tiger's house?"

"That's lion's 'ouse, 'Enry, and what do ye think IVe been try in' to do, eh?"

They had James's full attention again after that. "It's lion's den, gentlemen, and if I am to enter one,I suppose I must assume I'm missing something pertinent. What would that be?"

"Just that it's the girl's family what owns them Skylark ships, 'er brothers that sail 'em."

"Bloody hell," Connie mumbled, while James started laughing.

"By God, that's irony for you. She said she owned a ship, but I'll be damned if I believed her. Thought she was just being lippy again."

"Appears she was being modest instead," Connie said. "And there's nothing funny about it, James. You can't very well—"

" 'Course I can. I'll just have to choose a time when she's likely to be alone."

"That won't be today, Cap'n. They're givin' a sorry tonight."

"A soiree?"

"Aye, one o' them. 'Alf the town's been invited."

"To celebrate the whole family is home," Henry added. "Such an occurrence apparently does not happen often."

"I can see now what took you so bloody long," James said in disgust. "I send you to locate the wench, and you come back with her family history. All right, what else will I find of interest? I don't suppose you discovered what she was doing in England, by any chance?"

"Lookin' for 'er intended."

"Her intended what?"

"Her fiancé," Henry clarified.

James sat forward slowly. All three of his companions recognized the signs. If he'd been in a simmering rage since they'd left Jamaica, it was nothing compared to what that single word just did to him.

"She ... has ... a .. . fiancé?"

"No longer," Henry quickly explained.

"She found 'im wed to an English wench, and after she'd waited six years for— Ouch! Jesus, 'Enry, that's my bleedin' foot ye're steppin' on!"

"It should be your mouth, mon ami! "

"She . . . waited . . . six . . . years?"

Artie flinched. "Well, 'e got 'imself impressed, Cap'n, and then the war . . . They didn't know what became o' the lad until earlier this year. It ain't common knowledge, at least that she went searchin'for 'im.

'Enry 'ad to sweet talk one o' the 'ousemaids—"

"Six years," James said again, but this time to himself. In a louder voice he added, "Sounds like George was very much in love, don't it, Connie?"

"Damn me, James, I can't believe you're letting that bother you. I've heard you say a number of times that a woman on the rebound makes for a splendid tumble. And you didn't want the brat falling in love with you, did you? It always annoys the hell out of you when they do."

"Quite so."

"Then what the devil are you still glowering about?"

Chapter Twenty-nine

"Where, the hell have you been, Clinton?" Drew demanded belligerently as soon as his brother entered the large study, which was the general gathering place for the men in the house.

Clinton glanced at Warren and Thomas lounging on a maroon sofa for an explanation of Drew's unusual greeting, but since Drew hadn't bothered to tell either of them why he'd been so impatient for Clinton's return, they both merely shrugged.

He continued on to his desk before he replied. "I believe it's my habit to attend to business when I'm home. I spent the morning at the Skylark offices. Had you bothered to ask Hannah, she would have told you that."

Drew recognized a subtle reprimand when he heard it. He flushed slightly, but only because he hadn't thought to question their housekeeper-cook.

"Hannah was too busy preparing for the party to be bothered."

Clinton had to tamp down the urge to smile at that mumbled reply. Drew's displays of temper were very rare and so surprising when they occurred. There was no point in aggravating the one he was demonstrating just now. Warren felt no such qualms.

"You could have asked me, blockhead." Warren chuckled. "I could have told you—"

Drew was on his way to the sofa before Warren finished, so Warren didn't bother to finish. He just stood up to meet his younger brother head on.

"Drew!"

The warning had to be repeated in an even louder tone before Drew turned back to glare at Clinton. The last time those two had a difference of opinion in his study, he had to have his desk repaired and two lamps and a table replaced.

"You might both remember that we're entertaining this evening," Clinton admonished sternly. "With the whole blasted town likely to show up, this room as well as every other in the house is certain to be used.

I'd appreciate it if it didn't have to be rearranged beforehand."

Warren unclenched his fists and sat back down. Thomas shook his head at the lot of them.

"What's troubling you, Drew, that you couldn't discuss it with Warren or myself?" he asked, his tone meant to be soothing. "You didn't have to wait for—"

"Neither of you was home last night, but Clinton was," Drew snapped, but said no more, as if that had explained it all.