“It seems to fit,” I say as I turn. “Yes?”

He pauses.

I stop turning. “It does not fit? It seems to.”

I look down at the shirt, on which I had to leave open a couple of buttons for my bosom.

“I did not mean to imply it does not fit,” he says. “I was pausing to consider my response and fashion it in a way that did not make me sound like a libertine. I will only say that you are proof that women really ought to wear trousers more often. They show off your figure admirably, as does that shirt, which . . .” He clears his throat. “I believe I ought to stop there.”

He lifts a bottle from his side. “Do you drink, crécerelle? I thought that, as we are on a pirate ship, you might care to indulge in that most piratical of spirits. Rum, direct from the islands.”

“I have never had rum.”

“Non?” He waggles the bottle. “Do you wish to rectify that oversight? Share a bottle of rum with me on the deck of a pirate ship, gazing up into the night sky?”

“Will you tell me a story?”

“I will tell you many stories, crécerelle, as promised. The first one shall be the origins of this particular bottle.”

10

For perhaps the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what I am doing. Yes, to others, it seems that when the patron goddess of practicality bestowed her gifts, she passed me by entirely. Yet that is only in comparison to Rosalind and Portia, who fairly bristle with practicality. I am the youngest Hastings girl, and as befits my junior status, I am the wild one, the unfettered one, the dreamer and the fantasist. Even in my wildness, though, I have a plan. I always have a plan.

I planned the relationship with my first lover, pursuing the goal of carnal education. One might say that went very poorly indeed, but one might also say it went very well—teaching me lessons about the dangers of that pursuit. I planned my career as a novelist, pursuing it even more ardently and determinedly. I pursued my goal of crossing the time stitch to see the future. When I ended up in the past, I simply switched goals. I had a privateer to save.

Now I have done that. Nicolas is alive, and so I’m . . . Well, I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’m torn between wondrous delight and abject terror. I am on a pirate ship, drinking rum with a man who makes my head swim even more than does the alcohol. It is night, and we are alone, and I know that should be dangerous, but it does not feel dangerous. Or, I should say, it does not feel dangerous in that way. It does feel very dangerous in another way. Because I know exactly why I am here.

I am falling for Nicolas Dupuis, and until he sends me off, I am staying right where I am, at his side, drinking in his every word like a besotted maiden.