As Captain Hibbert bobbed an inept bow and turned back to his barometer, she cast Patrick a glance under her lashes. But Patrick was frowning off toward the east, where the sky had turned a streaky blue-green color.

“Is it a storm coming?”

“We call it a mackerel sky,” Patrick said, throwing an arm around Sophie’s shoulders and drawing her snug against his body. “See that dappling effect off to the right?”

“The rows of little clouds?”

“That’s it. Hibbert was right to interrupt us before we retired down to the cabin.” Patrick laughed as he saw Sophie’s cheeks gain a slight flush. “My wife might not have let me out of bed for hours,” he whispered.

Sophie didn’t say anything, just leaned her head against Patrick’s shoulder.

He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no need to worry. This boat can outsail any storm. Hibbert and I have outrun hurricanes, on occasion.” His blood raced with anticipation of the moment when the boat strained at every sinew, boards groaning and screaming, ropes flapping, the wind howling as they raced across the ocean. Fleeing in front of a gale was the only way to test a boat’s mettle. No boat went faster than when it was in the arms of a storm wind.

Suddenly he looked down at the soft curls nestled against his shoulder and rethought the idea.

“Not that we’re going to do anything of that nature today.”

Sophie looked up, startled. “Why not?”

He bent down and kissed her, lingeringly, on the lips. “Because you’re onboard.” His deep voice allowed no argument.

Sophie stared after her husband as he followed Captain Hibbert. Then she turned and wandered off to the main cabin.

She realized more and more why gentlemen left their wives at home when they went about their activities. Patrick had been throwing his boat before a gale, while she prided herself on the remarkable freedom of being allowed to learn Turkish.

With a sigh, Sophie pushed the thought away. Her nurse had always said that there was no point in getting vexed to death over things that couldn’t be changed.

Within an hour the Lark was nosing along the western coast of Wales, looking for a good place to draw in for the night.

“Aye, cap’n!” came a call from the lookout.

Patrick and Hibbert looked up from where they stood on the aft deck.

“I see a light!”

Patrick picked up a telescope and focused it on shore. There was a deep cove, so slender that it wasn’t visible with the naked eye, at least from this distance. And the lights twinkling behind it looked like those of a large building.

“Could be an old monastery,” he said to Hibbert.