whispered over her shoulder. “These men are wastrels and thieves. Why, they’ll do nothing but rob you blind.”
Cassandra cringed. Though she tried to prevent Mr. Crane’s words from affecting her, they crouched around her budding hope like a pack of wolves around a newborn lamb. Mainly because there was truth in his assessment. Indeed, these men were not the finest gentlemen she’d encountered—probably not the finest sailors either—but Mr. Heaton was the captain and for now she must trust his judgment.
Luke scowled. “The lady has a mind of her own, Mr. Crane. Please allow her to use it.”
Cassandra shot him a curious gaze. She had never heard a man declare such a thing. Did he mean it, or was he simply trying to slip into her good graces? Yet when his eyes locked with hers, they held understanding, not insincerity.
Turning his back to Crane, Mr. Heaton took Cassandra’s arm and moved her to the next man. “Mr. Samuel Rogers, my quartermaster.”
The young boy’s wide grin reminded Cassandra of her brother Matthew. Nothing pretentious, no pomposity or hidden meaning lurked in his expression. His long sandy hair was pulled behind him in a tie, and his sparkling blue eyes held a thirst for adventure.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be going on such a dangerous journey?” she asked him.
“No, miss. I was born on a ship. Spent me whole life in the navy till I quit last year to become a privateer.”
Cassandra couldn’t help but admire his enthusiasm—the same she’d seen in her brothers before they’d left to fight in Canada. Did fate have the same thing in store for this young man? “But doesn’t war frighten you?”
“No, miss. I love fightin’. I hope to be a pirate someday.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“A pirate. Good heavens!” Mr. Crane chortled. “Surely you’ve heard enough, Miss Channing.”
Cassandra spun around. “I have not, sir. If you have, I suggest you leave.”
A gust of wind tossed his neatly combed hair into a spin even as his mouth tightened into a thin line. “I am only looking out for your interests.”
“Look out for them in silence, if you please.” Cassandra turned around to find Mr. Heaton gazing at her with a mixture of ardor and amusement.
He led her onward. “And lastly, Mr. Nyle Sanders, our purser.”
With tablet in hand, the small man—who, with his pointy nose and tiny dark eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles, reminded Cassandra of a rat—greeted her kindly, with nary a glance her way.
“Dismissed!” Mr. Abbot shouted. Cassandra jumped at the abrupt command then watched as the men dispersed as quickly and haphazardly as they had assembled, their bare feet pounding over the wooden deck.
Mr. Crane grabbed Cassandra’s arm and drew her to the side. “Miss Channing. Please end this charade. Anyone can see that this is nothing but a ship of villains and reprobates. Do not be so naive to assume you’ll see a penny’s return on your investment. I urge you to demand your money back and flee this ship of doom at once.”
Luke grabbed the hilt of his sword, longing to slice off Mr. Crane’s annoying tongue. It was either that or Luke feared he might toss the man overboard. This dandy was nothing but a puffed-up, implacable fribble.
“Too late, Mr. Crane.” Miss Channing released a sigh of annoyance. “The money has already been spent. So, you see, your complaints do nothing but cause me discomfort.”
“Well, I certainly did not mean …,” Mr. Crane stuttered. His cheeks swelled, but before he could finish, Miss Channing swept her pretty face toward Luke, her auburn curls dancing over the fur trim of her pelisse.
And with her sweet smile, all thoughts of murdering Mr. Crane vanished.
In fact, Luke had been amazed at how well she handled herself in front of the motley group of vagrants he called a crew. About as civilized as a band of hungry bears, they were likely to frighten even the most stalwart of women. Yet Miss
Cassandra cringed. Though she tried to prevent Mr. Crane’s words from affecting her, they crouched around her budding hope like a pack of wolves around a newborn lamb. Mainly because there was truth in his assessment. Indeed, these men were not the finest gentlemen she’d encountered—probably not the finest sailors either—but Mr. Heaton was the captain and for now she must trust his judgment.
Luke scowled. “The lady has a mind of her own, Mr. Crane. Please allow her to use it.”
Cassandra shot him a curious gaze. She had never heard a man declare such a thing. Did he mean it, or was he simply trying to slip into her good graces? Yet when his eyes locked with hers, they held understanding, not insincerity.
Turning his back to Crane, Mr. Heaton took Cassandra’s arm and moved her to the next man. “Mr. Samuel Rogers, my quartermaster.”
The young boy’s wide grin reminded Cassandra of her brother Matthew. Nothing pretentious, no pomposity or hidden meaning lurked in his expression. His long sandy hair was pulled behind him in a tie, and his sparkling blue eyes held a thirst for adventure.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be going on such a dangerous journey?” she asked him.
“No, miss. I was born on a ship. Spent me whole life in the navy till I quit last year to become a privateer.”
Cassandra couldn’t help but admire his enthusiasm—the same she’d seen in her brothers before they’d left to fight in Canada. Did fate have the same thing in store for this young man? “But doesn’t war frighten you?”
“No, miss. I love fightin’. I hope to be a pirate someday.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“A pirate. Good heavens!” Mr. Crane chortled. “Surely you’ve heard enough, Miss Channing.”
Cassandra spun around. “I have not, sir. If you have, I suggest you leave.”
A gust of wind tossed his neatly combed hair into a spin even as his mouth tightened into a thin line. “I am only looking out for your interests.”
“Look out for them in silence, if you please.” Cassandra turned around to find Mr. Heaton gazing at her with a mixture of ardor and amusement.
He led her onward. “And lastly, Mr. Nyle Sanders, our purser.”
With tablet in hand, the small man—who, with his pointy nose and tiny dark eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles, reminded Cassandra of a rat—greeted her kindly, with nary a glance her way.
“Dismissed!” Mr. Abbot shouted. Cassandra jumped at the abrupt command then watched as the men dispersed as quickly and haphazardly as they had assembled, their bare feet pounding over the wooden deck.
Mr. Crane grabbed Cassandra’s arm and drew her to the side. “Miss Channing. Please end this charade. Anyone can see that this is nothing but a ship of villains and reprobates. Do not be so naive to assume you’ll see a penny’s return on your investment. I urge you to demand your money back and flee this ship of doom at once.”
Luke grabbed the hilt of his sword, longing to slice off Mr. Crane’s annoying tongue. It was either that or Luke feared he might toss the man overboard. This dandy was nothing but a puffed-up, implacable fribble.
“Too late, Mr. Crane.” Miss Channing released a sigh of annoyance. “The money has already been spent. So, you see, your complaints do nothing but cause me discomfort.”
“Well, I certainly did not mean …,” Mr. Crane stuttered. His cheeks swelled, but before he could finish, Miss Channing swept her pretty face toward Luke, her auburn curls dancing over the fur trim of her pelisse.
And with her sweet smile, all thoughts of murdering Mr. Crane vanished.
In fact, Luke had been amazed at how well she handled herself in front of the motley group of vagrants he called a crew. About as civilized as a band of hungry bears, they were likely to frighten even the most stalwart of women. Yet Miss
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