"Oh."

Double-damn, why hadn't someone told her? What if she'd been needed, looked for? What if he was angry because no one was there to tend him? That would certainly get them off to a fine start.

"I guess I'd better . . . yes, I'd better—"

"Aye, and quickly. Jesus, careful with that now! Is it too heavy for ye, then? No? Well, never ye mind, boyo. Just remember to duck if it comes back at ye."

The dishes clattered again as Georgina stopped on her way out the door. "Why would it ... for God's sake, he wouldn't throw it at me, would he?"

Shawn shrugged, grinning widely. "Now how would I be knowin' that? I've yet to clap eyes on thecap'n meself. But when a man's got hisself an achin' head, ye never know what to expect, do ye now?

Anticipate, laddie. That's me advice, and good advice it be."

Wonderful. Get the green lad even more nervous than he already was. She hadn't realized Mr. Shawn O'Shawn had such a fine sense of humor, rot him.

It was a long walk to the sterncastle, where the captain's cabin and those of his officers were located, especially long with England still visible off port and starboard. Georgina tried not to look at the riverbanks and how really close they were, tried to look for Mac instead, needing a boost in confidence that a few words with him would give her. But he was nowhere in sight, and the heavy tray was beginning to drag at her arms, so she couldn't delay to look for him. A delay wouldn't be wise anyway. Cold food would not appease a surly, pain-ridden man.

And yet, when she stood outside the captain's door, precariously balancing the tray with one hand so she could knock with the other, she couldn't do it, couldn't make the tiny sound that would gain her entry.

She stood rooted, paralyzed except for the trembling in her hands and knees, the tray slowly rocking side to side, all those "what ifs" converging in her mind.

She shouldn't be this nervous. If the worst happened, it wouldn't be the end of the world. She was resourceful enough to find another way home . . . alone . . . eventually.

Devil take it, why hadn't she found out something about this captain other than his name? She didn't know if he was young or old, mean or kind, liked or merely respected ... or hated. She'd known some captains who were real tyrants, the godlike authority they had over their crews going to their heads. She should have asked someone else when Mr. O'Shawn hadn't been able to answer her questions. But it wasn't too late. A few more minutes' delay, a few words with whomever was nearest on deck, and she might learn that Captain Malory was the nicest old softy you could ever hope to sail under. Then her palms would stop sweating and she could forget those "what ifs" . . . but the door opened just as she turned to leave.

Chapter Eleven

Georgina's heart plummeted. The food she was carrying almost did the same as she swung back around to face the captain of the Maiden Anne . But it was the first mate who stood there filling the doorway, his hazel eyes moving over her in what seemed close scrutiny, yet it was no more than a brief glance.

"Why, you're just a little squirt, aren't you? Surprised I didn't notice that when I signed you on."

"Perhaps because you were sit—"

The word was choked off when he took her chin between thumb and finger and slowly turned her face this way and that. Georgina blanched, though he didn't seem to notice.

"Not a single whisker," he remarked in what was clearing a disparaging tone.

She started breathing again, and only just managed to tamp down the indignation she felt on Georgie's behalf.

"I'm only twelve, sir," she pointed out reasonably.

"But a small twelve. Damn me, that tray's as big as you are." His fingers wrapped around her upper arm.

"Where's your muscle?"

"I'm still growing," Georgina gritted out, getting mad under so much examination. Her nervousness was forgotten for the moment. "In six months you won't recognize me." Which was perfectly true, since she would have cast off her disguise by then.

"Runs in your family, does it?"

Her eyes turned wary. "What?"

"The height, lad. What the devil did you think I meant? Certainly not your looks, since you and your brother don't take after each other a'tall." And then he laughed suddenly, a deeply resounding sound.

"I don't see what you find amusing in that. We merely have different mothers."

"Oh, I gathered something was different, all right. Mothers, is it? And would that explain your lack of a Scottish burr?"

"I didn't realize I had to give my life's history for this job."

"Why so defensive, squirt?"

"Give over, Connie." Another deep voice was heard with very clear warning in it. "We don't want to scare the lad off, now do we?"

"Off to where?" The first mate chuckled.

Georgina's eyes narrowed. Had she thought she didn't like this redheaded Englishman on principle alone?

"This food is getting cold, Mr. Sharpe," she said pointedly, her tone stiffly indignant.

"Then by all means take it in, though I seriously doubt it's food he's in a mood for."

Back came the nervousness, in spades. It had been the captain's voice that had interrupted. How had she been able to forget, even for a minute, that he was waiting inside? Worse, he had likely heard everything just said, including her impertinence with his first officer—provoked, but still inexcusable. She was a lowly cabin boy, for God's sake, yet she'd answered Conrad Sharpe as if she were his equal... as if she were Georgina Anderson rather than Georgie MacDonell. Any more mistakes like that and she might as well take off her cap and unbind her breasts.

After those last cryptic words, the first mate waved her inside and then left the cabin. It took a concerted effort to get her feet to move, but when they did, she nearly flew through the door to the dining table of Tudor oak in the center of the room, a heavy piece of furniture long enough to accommodate more than a half dozen officers comfortably.

Georgina's eyes fixed on the tray of food and stayed there, even after she set it down. There was a large shape beyond the table, standing in front of the wall of mullioned windows that were beautifully framed in stained glass and filled the room with light. She was just barely aware of the large shape blocking some of the light, but it told her where the captain was.

She had admired the windows yesterday when she had been allowed to familiarize herself with the cabin and make certain it was ready for occupancy. It was that, and fit for a king. She'd never seen anything quite like it, certainly not on any Skylark ship.

The furnishings were all extravagant pieces. At the long dining table sat a single armchair in the newest French Empire style, with bronze mounts on mahogany, and bouquets of colorful flowers embroidered on an ivory background on the thickly cushioned seat, back, and sides. Five more of these chairs were about the cabin, two before the windows, two in front on a desk, one other behind it. The desk was another heavy piece of finery, with large oval pedestals rather than legs, painted in classical scrollwork.

The bed, however, was truly a piece of art, an antique of the Italian Renaissance, with tall, deeply carved posts and an even taller headboard in an arched column effect, the mattress covered in white quilted silk.

Instead of a sea chest there was a tall teakwood Chinese cabinet similar to the one her father had given her mother on his first return from the Far East after their marriage, this one decorated with jade, mother-of-pearl, and lapis lazuli. There was also a Queen Anne highboy in burl walnut. Between them and standing just as tall was an ebony and brass clock in the modern style.

Instead of shelves built on the wall, there was an actual mahogany bookcase with gilded and carved decorations and glass doors revealing eight shelves completely filled with books. She recognized the Rie-sener style in the commode, with marquety, floral decorations, and ormolu moldings. And behind the folding screen, with its painted English countryside on supple leather, that concealed one corner of the room was a porcelain tub that had to be special-made, it was so long and wide, but thankfully not very deep, since she would probably be lugging water to it.

The clutter, what there was of it, consisted of nautical instruments mostly, scattered on or near the desk; a two-foot-tall nude statue in bronze sitting on the floor; and a copper kettle near the washstand behind the screen. Lamps, no two alike, were permanently affixed to the furniture or hung from hooks on the walls and ceilings.

With large and small paintings, thick carpeting from wall to wall, it was a room you might find in a governor's palace, but certainly not on a ship. And it had told her nothing about Captain Malory except that he might be eccentric, or that he liked fine things around him, even if in a hodgepodge order.

Georgina didn't know if the captain was facing her or looking out the windows. She hadn't looked yet, still didn't want to, but the silence was lengthening and stretching her nerves to the breaking point. She wished she could just leave without drawing his attention to her—if his attention wasn't already on her.

Why didn't he say something? He had to know she was still there, waiting to serve him in whatever capacity he required.

"Your food, Captain . . .sir."

"Why are you whispering?" The voice came to her in a whisper as soft as her own.

"I was told you . . . that is, there was mention that you might be suffering the effects of overindul—" She cleared her throat and raised her pitch to amend briskly, "A headache, sir. My brother Drew always complains about loud noises whenever he ... has headaches."

"I thought your brother's name was Ian."

"I have other brothers."

"Don't we all, more's the pity," he remarked dryly. "One of mine tried to drink me under the table last night. Thought it would be amusing if I wasn't fit to sail."

Georgina almost smiled. How many times had her brothers done the same thing—not to her, but to each other. And she did get her fair share of pranks, rum in her hot chocolate, bonnet strings tied in knots, her drawers flying from the weather vane, or, worse, strung up the mainmast of another brother's ship, so the guilty one wouldn't get blamed. Obviously, rascally brothers were universal, not confined to Connecticut.

"I sympathize, Captain," she thought to offer. "They can be quite tedious."

"Quite so."

She heard the humor in his tone, as if he found her remark pretentious, and so it was, for a twelve-year-old boy. She really was going to have to weigh her words more carefully before she let them out. She couldn't forget for a single minute that she was supposed to be a boy, and a very young one. But it was extremely hard to remember just at that moment, especially since she had finally noted his accent was decidedly British-sounding. It would be the worst luck imaginable if he was an Englishman, too. She would have been able to avoid the others on the ship, but she couldn't very well avoid the captain.

As she was contemplating swimming for the river-banks herself, she heard a brisk, "Present yourself, lad, and let's have a look at you."

All right. One thing at a time. The accent could be an affectation. He'd just spent time in England, after all. So she got her feet moving, came around the table, approached the dark shape until a pair of gleaming hessian boots were clearly in her line of vision. Above them were dove-gray breeches molded to a pair of thickly muscled legs. Without raising her bowed head, she stole a quick look higher to see a white lawn shirt with billowing sleeves, cuffed tight at wrists that rested rather arrogantly on narrow hips.

But her eyes went no farther than the patch of dark skin visible at mid-chest through the deep V opening of the shirt, and she got that far without abandoning her meek posture only because he was so tall . . .

and wide.

"Not in my shadow," he continued to direct her. "To the left, in the light. That's better." And then he remarked the obvious, "You're nervous, are you?"

"This is my first job."

"And understandably you don't want to muck it up. Relax, dear boy. I don't bite off the heads of babes .

. . just grown men."

Was that supposed to be an attempt at levity for her benefit? "Glad to hear it." Oh, God, that was too flip sounding by half. Watch your blasted mouth, Georgie!

"Is my carpet so fascinating, then?"

"Sir?"

"You can't seem to take your eyes off it. Or have you heard I'm so ugly you'll turn into pea soup if you clap eyes on me?"

She started to grin at what was obviously gentle teasing meant to put her at ease, but thought better of it.

It did relieve the worst of her anxiety. He was staring at her in full light and she hadn't been denounced.

But the interview wasn't over yet. And until it was, it would be better if he still thought her nervous and attributed any more mistakes to that nervousness.

Georgina shook her head in answer to his question, and as a boy of her supposed age might do, she raised her chin very slowly. She was going to execute a quick peak at him, all of him this time, and then duck her head again, a shy, childish action that she hoped might amuse him and fix in his mind her immaturity.

It didn't quite work out that way. She got her sneak peek in, dropped her head again as planned, but that was as far as the planning went. Involuntarily her head snapped back up and her eyes locked on green ones that she remembered as clearly as if they'd been haunting her dreams, and on a few nights they had.

This wasn't possible. The brick wall? Here? The arrogant manhandler she was never supposed to cross paths with again? Here? This couldn't be the man she had committed herself to serve. No one could be that unlucky.