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her.
    Evelyn took the gun. His eyes had become chilling. But he was
about to aid and abet traitors to the revolution. If he was caught, he would
hang—or worse.
    He strode to the door. “Bolt it,” he said, not looking
back.
    Her heart slammed in unison with the door. Then she ran to it
and threw the bolt, but not before she saw him striding across the ship’s deck,
two armed sailors falling into step with him.
    She hugged herself, shivering. And then she prayed for Aimee,
and for Henri. There was a small bronze clock on the desk; it was five-twenty
now. She went and sat down in his chair.
    His masculinity seemed to rise up and engulf her. If only he
had let her join him to retrieve her daughter and husband. She leaped up from
his chair and paced. She could not bear sitting in his chair, and she wasn’t
about to sit on his bed.
    At a quarter to six, she heard a sharp knock on the cabin door.
Evelyn rushed to it as he said, “It is I.”
    She threw the bolt and opened the door. The first thing she saw
was Aimee, yawning—she was in the smuggler’s arms. Tears began. He stepped into
the cabin and handed Aimee to her. Evelyn hugged her, hard, but her gaze met
that of the captain’s. “Thank you.”
    His glance held hers as he stepped aside.
    “Evelyn.”
    She froze at the sound of Henri’s voice. Then, incredulous, she
saw him being held upright by two seamen. Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were
behind them. “Henri! You have awakened!” she cried, thrilled.
    And as the seamen brought him inside, she set Aimee down and
rushed to him, putting her arm around him to help him stand.
    “You are not going to England without me,” he said weakly.
    Tears fell now. Henri had awoken, and he was determined to be
with them as they started a new life in England. She helped him to the bed,
where he sat down, still weak and exhausted. Laurent and the women began
bringing in their baggage as the two seamen left.
    Evelyn continued to clasp her husband’s hands, but she
turned.
    The Englishman was staring at her. “We are hoisting sail,” he
said abruptly.
    Evelyn stood, their stares locked. His was so serious. “It
seems that I must thank you another time.”
    It was a moment before he spoke. “You can thank me when we
reach Britain.” He turned to go.
    It was as if there was an innuendo in his words. And somehow,
she knew what that innuendo was. But surely she was mistaken. Evelyn did not
think twice. She ran to him—and in front of him. “Sir! I am deeply in your debt.
But to whom do I owe the lives of my daughter and my husband?”
    “You owe Jack Greystone,” he said.

CHAPTER ONE
    Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor, Cornwall
February 25, 1795
    “T HE COUNT WAS a
beloved father, a beloved husband, and he will be sorely missed.” The parson
paused, gazing out on the crowd of mourners. “May he rest eternally in peace.
Amen.”
    “Amen,” the mourners murmured.
    Pain stabbed through Evelyn’s heart. It was a bright sunny day,
but frigidly cold, and she could not stop shivering. She stared straight ahead,
holding her daughter’s hand, watching as the casket was being lowered into the
rocky ground. The small cemetery was behind the parish church.
    She was confused by the crowd. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She
barely knew the village innkeeper, the dressmaker or the cooper. She was as
vaguely acquainted with their two closest neighbors, who were not all that
close, as the house they had bought two years ago sat in solitary splendor on
the Bodmin Moor, and was a good hour from everyone and anyone. In the past two
years, since retreating from London to the moors of eastern Cornwall, they had
kept to themselves. But then, Henri had been so ill. She had been preoccupied
with caring for him and raising their daughter. There had not been time for
social calls, for teas, for supper parties.
    How could he leave them this way?
    Had she ever felt so alone?
    Grief clawed at her; so did fear.
    What were they going to do?
    Thump.