Surrender to Destiny

Chapter One

Stowaway! The men had been combing the ship for hours when the shout went up.

Found the bugger! bellowed the burly seaman triumphantly. With a blood curdling laugh, he whipped the tarpaulin from the long boat back, jerked the youth from his hiding place, and flung him to the rolling deck.

As metal shavings to a lode stone, sailors converged on the spot from all quarters of the deck with the same trembling excitement of bloodhounds with the scent of their prey in their nostrils. Surrounding the boy, they guffawed excitedly as the seaman booted the youth, who'd scrambled to his feet, sending him sprawling once more. His second kick went wide as the boy rolled to the side and swept the sailor's foot from under him.

At that, another chorus of laughter rose up, the sound one of almost hysterical relief at having a victim for their amusement after near a month of nothing but back-breaking work and the tedium of sea life. For it had been weeks since their feet had touched solid ground and would be many weeks more before they did so again, and, to a man, they'd been chafed by the harsh rigors of the voyage already to a point of dangerous boredom.

Nimbly the boy leapt to his feet, his pinched features pale with fear as his eyes swept around his ring of tormentors, searching for an avenue of escape. Even so, despair, not hope, filled his eyes, for he knew that there was no escape, that he had no hope of it while walled in by the sea.

Ye bleedin' whelp of a misbegotten cur! I'll break yer bones fer that! the seaman howled, rising ponderously to his feet and shaking his head like an enraged bull as he charged the boy.

Come on then, ye son of a pox ridden 'ore! jeered the boy with rash bravado.

At the last second the boy leapt to one side in a dive and roll that brought him to his feet again, leaving the seaman with a ludicrous look of dismay as he grasped nothing but air. A split second later his impetus carried him into the wall of sailors that hemmed them in, clearing a wide swath as six crashed to the deck in a tangle of arms and legs. Roars of fury and rich curses filled the air then, accompanied by appreciative guffaws, as those who'd not been taken down by the 'bull' enjoyed the sight.

Taking instant advantage of the chaos the boy surged forward with an agility born of a lifetime of fending for himself. As elusive as quicksilver he slithered wraith-like between wide spread legs and groping arms, scrambled to his feet when he'd cleared the circle and darted with the grace of a young gazelle along the pitching deck of the ship, dodging and twisting, leaping over barrels and coils of rope. A shout went up, a collective roar that didn't contain anger so much as a joyous blood-lust for the hunt.

The pack of sailors surged forward en masse and disintegrated as the mob broke up to give chase. In a moment the deck was a swarm with sailors likewise darting and dodging hazards and impediments; shouting encouragement to one another or unloving endearments to their prey; laughing uproariously when one or another of their fellows collided with each other or boxes or barrels in the heat of the chase and went sprawling; cursing or roaring over broken toes and loosened teeth as they came into painful contact with immovable objects.

A shout of triumph rang out from one leering seaman with broken, blackened stumps for teeth and stringy, sun-bleached hair as he dove for the boy. Got ye, ye little bastard! Come ter papa! he chortled gleefully.

Bugger yerself, ye bleedin' sod! taunted the boy and neatly sidestepped his groping arms.

The sailor knew a second of stunned surprise as he came up empty handed, and with a sharp crunch his skull struck the mizzenmast, knocking him senseless. If anything that calamity seemed to cause more hilarity than anything before. Several men laughed so hard they had to give up the chase, wondering, between howls of laughter, if old Tom had broken his neck.

It was evident however that the boy couldn't last much longer. The weeks of enforced inactivity in hiding aboard ship on top of years of semi-starvation had taken its toll. Despite the terror that had given him strength, he showed obvious signs of flagging as he completed his circuit of the bow and darted blindly towards the stern where the ship's passengers had come to take a turn on deck, and even now watched his progress with mixed emotions.

The seamen, seeing the direction of his flight, formed two groups, herding him steadily onward, boxing him in so that it took no more than a brief glance in their direction to assure the boy that there was no hope of prolonging his freedom by another circuit of the ship. No hope of breaking free long enough to find another hiding place. No hope.

A gentleman, faultlessly attired, turned languidly from his contemplation of the gentle swells of the sea and watched their approach with mild interest.

Of little more than medium height, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, lean of hip and thigh, his fine physique proclaimed him a sports enthusiast. The fabric of his coat stretched taut across wide, muscular shoulders that owed nothing to buckram padding as he tossed back the flapping folds of his cloak; rock hard, bulging muscle straining the silk of his coat sleeves with the movement, before his right hand came to rest almost casually on the sword at his side that, on close scrutiny, was plainly no toy for appearance only, but rather the deadly blade of a swordsman of skill.

His dark brows lifted in what one must suppose was an expression of haughty disdain, since his eyes betrayed neither surprise or shock as the boy came to an abrupt, breathless halt before him. And although his eyes flickered briefly to rest with cynical amusement on the startled, shrinking lady at his side. And just as briefly surveyed the onslaught of jeering seamen bearing down upon them in happy expectation of at last having their victim within their grasp. He seemed singularly oblivious to both as his eyes came to rest on the boy.

Their eyes met and held for a space of measured heartbeats, warm brown eyes gazing up into eyes as cold and gray as the sea that surrounded them. But that brief glance carried all the considerable weight of the intense magnetism of the boy's dark eyes and struck the gentleman with a force that made his eyes narrow with sharp interest.

Bloody 'ell, the boy muttered, side-stepped the gentleman who blocked his path, and leapt nimbly to the taffrail, balancing precariously. His intent was so clear that the sailors halted their headlong rush and gaped in surprise.

Ignoring them, the boy gazed down at the roiling, white frothed swells. They seemed almost inviting, deceptively so as the bottomless depths held untold terrors for the boy. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment to gather courage, then whirled to take in one last look at his tormentors.

Still frozen in place, they were a tableau of all the least desirable traits of mankind. For while a handful merely gaped in surprise, there were dawning looks of avid pleasure in the faces of most that quashed any hope of mercy from that quarter. Not one face in the milling crowd showed compassion and as if against his will, his eyes swung once more to the gentleman, and gray eyes locked once more with fathomless brown eyes. Apparently he saw nothing there to give him hope, for after only a moment the hunted look left his eyes to be replaced by one of cynical amusement. A haunting smile curled his lips and he muttered under his breath, Aye! Yer keen for the show too, ain't ye gov'nor? Chafing for me to get on with it, no doubt..Or from the lack of anyone to lay bets with..wondering how long it'll take me to drown or if some big fishy'll get me first. He paused, realizing the gentleman had heard him and his lips twisted with a touch of bitterness. "It's a shame, it is, ye've none to lay yer bets with. Ye might win.

Me now..any way..I lose..but that's the way of it..fer the likes of me.." He thought then of the tales of the fate of stowaways, and with a last, taunting glance at the eager faces that surrounded him, he turned to contemplate the sea once more while flickering images of his life played across his mind. It was amazing, he thought with grim humor, the reluctance he felt to give it up when there had been little in his life to give him a wish to cling to it.

But then surely it would be better, he thought, to choose his own fate. Better to leap to a relatively quick death beneath the sea rather than face the mob who seemed likely to tear him limb from limb. Or possibly face some truly horrible, and far slower, death in the stinking hold of the ship.

He thought, seizing his courage, that drowning must surely be the easiest way to seek death, since it seemed he had no other choice.

He was poised to leap when he was snatched from the taffrail and flung to the decks. He gazed up at the gentleman who towered above him in surprise a moment before fury took its place. Anger and fear mingled in his eyes then with self-contempt, disgust that he'd been too cowardly to grasp his one chance at a quick death while he'd had time to do so; anger that the gentleman had deprived him of that quick ending; and fear of what he now faced.

Sod off! he snapped with forced bravado. He would have scrambled to his feet and made a second attempt, but he was thwarted as one booted foot pushed him back against the deck. And the gentleman's stance left him in no doubt that he would have some difficulty in eluding this man.

Mind your tongue, little cockerel, or I'll cut it out, the man said coldly.

The silence that had descended upon the seamen while they anticipated the boy's fatal leap, and held them through the unexpected entrance of the lord upon their game, was broken as Captain Tyler shouldered his way through the milling crowd and moved to stand above the young felon. He proceeded then to outline the culprit's misdeeds.

Fixing the youth with a hard, gleaming eye, he intoned, You are hereby charged with stowing away upon the Lady Dorinda and pilfering from the supplies of same. The penalty for the first is imprisonment, impressment or deportation to a penal colony. The penalty for the second charge is hanging from the yardarm, as said theft could well endanger the lives of those aboard. How plead you to the charges, young scoundrel?

The boy shuddered in fear and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard, realizing that to lie was useless, and the truth of little consequence. Aye! I'm guilty of thievin' yer pig swill! he snapped, trying to infuse a touch of arrogance in the words and failing miserably.

To his surprise, he was not hauled roughly to his feet and immediately clapped in irons. Curious, he opened his eyes once more to stare up at the men above him, glancing with a start down the long, gleaming blade of a narrow sword, the point of which rested against the captain's elegant paunch. From there his eyes moved to the gentleman who held the blade almost casually, though it was obvious that the man himself was quite as deadly as the blade and not averse to using it.

The captain's face, which had turned a pasty gray, took on new color as his choler rose. Begging pardon, my lord, but this here's a stowaway, and it's my duty to deal with the.. He paused, flicked an uncomfortable glance at the lady present and continued carefully, ..Young scoundrel as he deserves.

And what, in your inestimable opinion, does he deserve.. exactly? the gentleman queried almost pleasantly, relaxing his stance and allowing the sword to drop to his side. The captain noted with a mixture of wariness and indignation that he did not replace the weapon in its scabbard. Nor, despite the pleasant timber of his voice, did the hard, angry glitter in his eyes abate one whit.

Captain Tyler did not make the mistake of considering the lord's query as nothing more than idle curiosity. He was not, however, an extremely bright individual, and he pondered the question long and hard, scratching his nose as he eyed the sword warily.

I'd set him adrift in the longboat, he said finally. But it seems a waste of a good boat, seeing as how we're bound to need it ourselves when we get to Charles Town.

A lip curled derisively. I applaud your reasoning, Captain Tyler. Failing that agreeable solution, what now comes to mind?

A black-gloved hand touched the gentleman's arm, and he glanced with the barest flicker of annoyance toward the diminutive lady who had moved to stand beside him.

Surely we've no need to involve ourselves in the problems of what is, after all, no more than a nasty little street ruffian, Adrian, she suggested quietly, sending him a provocative look from beneath her lashes to soften the harshness of her words.

Genuine amusement crept into his gray eyes. My dear madam, he said coolly, you cannot think I would involve you in my sordid affairs, surely? Nor, had it been avoidable, would I think of offending your delicate sensibilities by exposing you to this little scene, he added. Perhaps it would be best if your maid escorted you to your cabin?

The woman bit her lip in chagrin and stepped back, but she made no attempt to follow his suggestion, despite his rebuff.

The captain, realizing that his hesitation might be construed as either cowardice or indecisiveness made an abrupt choice. Ten lashes at sun-up tomorrow and the lad's to be held forthwith in irons in the hold until such time as he can be set ashore and delivered to the proper authorities, he rapped out belligerently.

Lord Nicholas Adrian Beaumont, third son of the Duke of Remming, stared coldly at the captain, his lips tightening into a thin, hard line, then glanced down at the youth at his feet. Abruptly sheathing his sword, he jerked the boy to his feet, holding him firmly by one elbow. I'm no bleeding-heart philanthropist, as seems to be all the rage these days, Captain Tyler. But, even to me, the death penalty seems a bit harsh...Come, Captain, he's a pathetic scrap. He could scarcely have eaten enough of your precious supplies to have endangered anyone...Nor does he appear to have taken up a great deal of space..unless you were shorted a bolt of cloth in his stead? His lips curled into a faint smile of amusement that never reached his cold eyes as they flicked swiftly and assessingly over the crew.

You put words in my mouth, Lord Beaumont, the captain spluttered angrily, shifting uneasily as he caught some of the angry comments of the crew, whose sympathy was now swinging in the boy's favor.

A dark brow rose in inquiry. However you put it, Captain Tyler, you know as well as I do that this child would not survive ten lashes. They studied each other assessingly for several moments, both well aware the captain had boxed himself in and could think of no way out. Adrian's gray eyes fell to the youth once more and he released his grip on the boy's arm and cupped his chin, lifting his face for his inspection.

He found it difficult to assess the age of the boy. His size and build suggested that he could be no more than twelve. But there was none of the roundness of lingering babyhood to bear up that conclusion. Moreover, the enormous brown eyes that gazed up at him with such wariness were filled with the wisdom of an ancient, eyes that had seen far too much for a child. Ragged, dirty clothes hung upon his slight frame, but although he was painfully thin, his features sharp from hunger, there was not the gangling appearance of a youth approaching manhood about him. But, for all that the top of his head barely topped the gentleman's broad shoulders, he possessed a delicate grace of build and carriage that suggested maturity.

A curling, ragged thatch of rich copper-colored hair, glinting with golden highlights, fluttered about his thin, heart-shaped face. His eyebrows were black and finely arched. His lashes were black also, almost ludicrously long. His mouth was childishly soft, vulnerable and as innocent as his eyes were not, and his willful chin bore the suggestion of a cleft.

His frame, although sturdy, was as fine boned as his face. Without a doubt he was the by-blow of some wealthy, bored aristocrat. There was too much evidence of breeding to suggest otherwise. Moreover, there was something hauntingly familiar about him.

I will buy him, Adrian said finally, his gray eyes resting speculatively on the boy's startled countenance.

Chapter Two

My Lord? the captain asked, every bit as startled as the boy.

Adrian glanced up at the captain, one dark brow lifting in hauteur. It is a question of payment for his passage, is it not?

The captain gaped. Well..yes..I suppose so, my lord, but what would you be wanting with the likes of him? he asked, realizing that Lord Beaumont had offered a solution to his dilemma, but mystified withal.

That is not your affair, Adrian replied coldly. He reached into his cravat then and removed a diamond stick pin, extending it. The captain, who stared for several moments in mesmerization, reached for it like a sleepwalker. Lord Beaumont's hand fisted about it, and the captain glanced up with a frown. I require papers, Captain Tyler, binding the boy into my service for a term of say..., he glanced down at the boy once more, five years. I believe that to be considered fair. Do you agree to this, boy?

The boy glanced warily from Adrian to the captain and back again, apparently considering alternatives and finally nodded, though his face wore such an obvious look of defeat and distrust that a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Adrian's mouth. Done, he said and returned his attention to the captain. I'll be in my cabin, Captain. When you have the necessary papers drawn up, you may send them to me there.

Dismissing the captain, he offered his arm to Mrs. Johnson. After only the briefest hesitation to show her pique for his earlier snub, she placed her fingertips upon it. With the lady's maid bringing up the rear, they made their way below as the crew began to break up and return to their duties.

The boy hesitated, studying Lord Beaumont's retreating form. He glanced at the captain then and encountered a look of loathing. Throwing him an impudent grin, he hurried after Lord Beaumont's party, trailing along in their wake as he didn't quite know what was expected of him.

He hesitated again when they descended the companionway, glancing around anxiously before he descended several steps and paused again, adjusting his eyes to the gloom below decks. The click of a door drew his attention and he glanced up to see the Widow Johnson flounce into her cabin and slam the door behind her. Before he had time to speculate on the cause of her pique, however, he was summoned by an imperious lift of Lord Beaumont's finger, and he moved quickly, if somewhat resentfully, to answer the summons.

I require water for a bath. I presume you're familiar with the direction of the galley? he queried with a hint of amusement in his voice, for it was the raids on that hallowed site that had led to the boy's discovery.

The boy nodded, suppressing his resentment. He owed the man his life and though he didn't care to be servant to any man, he was well aware that it would take a great deal of labor to repay his debt. And, as little as he liked servitude, he liked being beholden even less. Moreover, servitude, wasn't nearly as unappealing as some forms of repayment might have been. This, at least, would be neither demeaning nor particularly painful and he was not, after all, unaccustomed to hardship.

His lordship, having doffed his frock coat and discarded his cravat, was sprawled negligently in an overstuffed chair beneath the porthole reading a book when the boy struggled into the room with two heavy buckets of water. The cook, having taken pity on the frailty of the boy, he was followed by cook's helper with the large, wooden bathing tub and the captain's cabin boy with an additional two buckets, these last having been heated. The tub was deposited in the center of the cabin. The seawater bath was carefully prepared, one bucket warmed and held in reserve for rinsing, and the cook's helper and the cabin boy departed once more, leaving the boy alone with his new master.

He shifted uncertainly, wondering what might now be required of him, reluctant to speak as he studied his new master with a mixture of awe and trepidation. For there was that about him that suggested wariness would be wise and a lack of it possibly fatal. Something that suggested he was far more dangerous than that reckless, devil-may-care beau so common amongst his class.

His was a compellingly handsome face. Some said entirely too handsome for his own good, certainly for the good of those damsels unfortunate enough to succumb to its appeal. Though it was saved from being too classically beautiful by the strength of his jaw and the aquiline nose; and by the dangerously hard, gray eyes that surveyed the world with cynical amusement.

His lips, sensuously molded and sharply etched, had long since lost all hint of vulnerability, if they'd ever carried even a suggestion of it. And when they curled into any semblance of a smile, generally conveyed a trace of derisive amusement. Though on occasion they'd been known to curve into a smile of singular sweetness; a slow, lazy smile that had the tendency to make the most sensible females feel entirely reckless.

But, despite his obvious wealth. Despite the fact that he was known to be extremely fastidious, and always dressed with care, it was equally obvious he had little care for fashion. He wore neither wig or hair powder. Instead, it was his own raven locks, clipped and combed with the studied abandon of the Brutus that framed his face, falling upon his broad brow just short of almost straight black brows and curling about his ears.

On the whole, he was, the boy finally concluded with a touch of fright he took care to keep well concealed, possibly the most dangerous of the dangerous...something of an archangel. For the boy didn't doubt for a moment, having studied him at close range, that the sobriquet that had been pinned to him, 'Old Nick Beaumont', had been well and truly earned.

The man fascinated him...had fascinated him almost as far back as he could remember...or allowed himself to remember.

His lordship laid his book aside and studied the boy appraisingly. You may remove my boots and then assist me with my bath, he said finally.

The boy's eyes widened and a flush stole into his cheeks, but he stepped forward readily enough to remove his master's boots, grasping the heel and giving a tug. The boots were so well fitted that the boy was breathless with exertion and somewhat dizzy before he succeeded in removing them. He set them carefully aside and turned for further instruction. Adrian had tossed his waistcoat aside and was in the process of removing his shirt, but although a faint tinge of color rose to the boy's cheeks once more, he did not turn away, studying the man before him instead with apparent fascination.

Hard muscles banded his broad chest and arms, rippling with his movements, bunching and flexing in a way that drew the boy's eyes to wander over them with absorption. His gaze moved from bulging biceps over broad muscular shoulders, lingered for a moment on the hard, bulging pectorals, then moved lower to the firm ridges of muscles that rippled along his lower chest and flat abdomen, noting the sprinkling of dark, curling hair that grew about the copper colored paps, widening as it reached the center of his chest, then growing in a narrow ribbon down his flat stomach. Lord Beaumont's hands moved to his waistband and, as he began to unfasten his breeches, the boy's gaze flew upwards, encountering amused gray eyes.

You'll find soap and linens in the portmanteau in the corner, Adrian said, indicating the trunk with a slight jerk of his head. The boy turned towards it with obvious relief, dawdling till he heard the splash and knew Lord Beaumont to be settled in his bath.

He turned with the required items clutched in his hands and bit back a chuckle only with some difficulty. Merriment danced in his eyes despite his efforts to quell it. For, although Lord Beaumont wasn't a large man, the tub didn't accommodate him at all well and two hairy knees protruded well above the rim of the tub. A black brow was lifted in inquiry and although the boy thought he discerned an answering gleam in the lord's eyes, he wasn't at all certain and his amusement vanished abruptly as he hurried forward and held out the soap and a washcloth. I presume you have some name I might use in summoning you, infant? Adrian asked abruptly as he took the proffered toiletries and began to lather the cloth.

Dan...ny, the boy stammered uncomfortably. His voice cracked mid-word and he self-consciously lowered it several octaves on the last syllable, then firmly clamped his lips together and turned away as his lordship began to scrub the angular planes of his chest.

Gray eyes narrowed, studying the boy assessingly. I would think even a child of the streets would have some other name to attach to himself, he said finally.

Danny stiffened, sent him a quick look and flushed. Cooper, he returned stiffly. T'was a cooper who found me, I'm told.

Adrian sent him a searching look, but made no comment and silence reigned for some time while he completed his bath and scrubbed his hair. When he'd finished, Danny caught up the reserved water without prompting and poured it carefully to rinse the soap from his master's hair and shoulders, setting the bucket aside and handing Adrian the length of linen toweling when he was thoroughly rinsed. Adrian stepped from the tub and began to rub himself briskly. You'll find my robe in the same portmanteau, he said without looking up.

Danny rushed to collect it with a strong sense of relief and held it up as Adrian tossed the towel aside and slipped his arms into it, keeping his eyes carefully averted as Adrian wrapped it about himself and secured it with a sash. Your turn, he said laconically.

Danny's eyes flew to his face and widened with alarm. S..sir?

Bathe, Adrian said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Danny took a step back, his jaw set mutinously. Sod you!

Both mobile brows rose for a fraction of a second then descended, almost meeting above the bridge of his lordship's aristocratic nose. I beg your pardon? he queried coldly, his gray eyes becoming chips of ice beneath thunderous black brows. I will not tolerate your verbal abuse, infant. Neither do I intend to endure your stench or the vermin that undoubtedly inhabit those filthy rags with you. You will do well to remember that.

Danny took another step backwards, strategically placing the tub between them. So 'oo asked you to! he snapped, glaring balefully to hide his mounting alarm and refusing to be intimidated by his lordship's anger, frightened or not.

Adrian took a step forward. Danny, he said warningly, his voice dangerously soft.

Danny retreated another step and threw a desperate glance towards the door. Lord Beaumont was blocking that route of escape and he turned an assessing look on him. He wasn't at all like so many of the swells he'd seen, soft and indolent from having been waited on since the cradle and never having had to do anything for themselves. And he realized then, if he hadn't before, just what was meant by the term Corinthian. Lord Beaumont was known to be one of them, a sports enthusiast who divided his time between the boxing saloons and the gambling hells, between dissipations and neck or nothing sports, adept at self-defense with pistols, sword or fists, for dueling was as much a sport to them as carriage racing.

The question was, was he as fit as he looked? Or had age and dissipation slowed his reflexes? There was only one way to find out of course. He made a quick feint to the left, then swung to his right, eluded Adrian's grasp and made for the door.

He hadn't quite made three steps in that direction when he was snatched up and deposited, kicking and screaming, into the tub of cooling water. A long stream of expletives, startling in originality and graphically descriptive, erupted from his throat only to be drowned out as his head was thrust unceremoniously beneath the water. He came up coughing and choking, his eyes tearing from the salt and the residue of soap in the water, and had the tattered rags of his shirt snatched from his thin shoulders before he could recover sufficiently to launch a retaliatory attack. He was jerked to his feet, the knotted rope that served him as belt snatched from his waist, his breeches were jerked from his hips and his rear struck the hard wood at the bottom of the tub, his head sinking beneath the water once more as the breeches were jerked from his ankles and deposited on the floor beside the tub. He came up coughing and spluttering again, blinking up at his tormentor through half blinded eyes.

Adrian was watching him, his face set and uncompromising. One black brow rose. Danielle, I presume? he queried coolly.

Chapter Three

Blushing furiously, Danielle shrank down in the tub till the water lapped against her chin. Crossing her hands protectively over her small breasts, she scowled at him defensively. So many questions chased each other across her mind that she couldn't decide which to give voice to. Bleedin' sod, she muttered under her breath, wondering if he'd known all along that she was a girl. Wondering with a sharp stab of fear if it was that that had prompted him to buy her. She was promptly dunked for her pains and came up spluttering. 'Ere now! What was that for? she demanded indignantly when she'd recovered her breath.

A reminder, Adrian said grimly.

Blood.. Her head was grasped once more and she broke off and clutched frantically at the arm that held her. 'Ere now! If you was of a mind to drown me, you might 'ave let me do it meself!

I dislike repeating myself, Danny. Have I made it quite clear that I will not condone your impertinences?

She nodded, her jaw set mutinously. You knew I wasn't no boy, didn't you? she asked accusingly, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Adrian settled one knee against the deck and propped his forearm across the other. As it happens, I did, though not immediately. And I might add, now that we've gotten that straight, that I will expect you to be completely honest with me hereafter. I dislike liars only slightly less than thieves. And while we're on the subject, I'll warn you now that if you ever feel the inclination to steal from me, you'd be well advised to suppress it.

I ain't no thief! Danielle snapped indignantly. And I ain't no liar neither! I didn't tell you I was no boy.

They studied each other in silence for several moments; Adrian assessingly and Danielle with poorly concealed suspicion and fear. There was a matter of pilfering from the galley, but I'll let that pass.

Danielle glared at him but kept her lips firmly compressed. The theft of the food had been necessary for survival and she wasn't one to either regret or apologize for something of that nature. What are you going to do with me now?

A dark brow rose questioningly, and she proceeded defensively. Well, I thought to begin with you might be one of those swells as likes boys, but seein' as 'ow you knew right off I wasn't one... She allowed the sentence to trail off expectantly.

Adrian fought down a stab of anger. Rest easy, he said dryly, I've no desire for the pox. Nor, I might add, am I in the habit of molesting children, even if you appealed to me, which you do not.

Danielle glared at him. I ain't no 'ore neither! I still got me maidenhead, right enough, and I'm that glad, I am, that you ain't got it in mind to relieve me of it, she snapped brittlely. So don't be thinkin' it bothers me none that I ain't appealin' to yer, Mr. Lord and Mighty! I've taken a fancy to save it for somebody special, not wishin' ter waste it on an old so..gentleman like yerself, she amended hastily, eyeing him warily.

Adrian eyed her with patent skepticism during the first part of her speech. At this last, amusement crept into his gray eyes. How old are you, infant?

How old are you? she shot back at him, strongly tempted to land him a facer for calling her an infant..and for doubting her word. Which she could see that he did.

Danny, he said warningly.

She sniffed, and lifted her chin with credible hauteur. Well, gentlemen ain't supposed to be askin' a lady's age, she said with stiff dignity.

You are not a lady, he returned with a touch of amusement.

Danielle glared at him. Well, if you was to ask me, it takes a bleedin' sight more than bein' born to make a lady or a gentleman..if you catch my meanin'. And it ain't as if I don't know who you are or nothin'.

All traces of amusement vanished abruptly. His expression hardened, his lips thinning with anger as he studied her through narrowed eyes.

Danielle felt a little tremor of fear shiver along her spine, realizing belatedly that it might've been better if she'd kept that observation to herself. Undoubtedly, he didn't appreciate tit for tat. Moreover, she'd given something away that she hadn't meant to and if he hadn't been so angry over the implied insult, he would've realized it, probably would later.

Seein' as 'ow it must be midsummer, or there abouts, and I know this is '42, I figure I'm about seventeen..goin' on eighteen, she stated flatly, unperturbed at the slight prevarication, particularly since she couldn't see that it would make any difference to him one way or the other. She had no clear idea of how old she was anyway.

Adrian gripped her arm. I did warn you about lying, he said coldly.

Danielle's eyes rounded with alarm when he jerked her to her feet, but in a moment anger and belligerence surfaced and she jerked her arm free. I told you 'ow bloody old I am, she snapped. I'm seventeen, and if you don't believe me that's your bleedin' problem! A dark brow rose in patent disbelief. Or there abouts, she added conscientiously.

His look remained disbelieving and her anger mounted. Bloody 'ell! There wasn't no bleedin' celebration when I was born, like there was for the likes of you! I was dumped like so much bloody garbage on the steps of the bleedin' foundlin' 'ome!

Adrian surveyed her painfully thin, shivering form dispassionately. Perhaps they made a mistake, he said finally, musingly. "I can't say I'm very well acquainted with many seventeen year old females, but you seem