Rhystan consulted the cartographic charts on his desk and downed the rest of the whisky in his tumbler. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he was studying the maps to see if there was an alternate route, at least to see if the ship behind them would follow. But he needed fuel, and turning back toward Cape Town wasn’t an option. He had sailed enough oceans to know that the other ship’s identical course wasn’t by chance.

And his gut had never failed him.

It wasn’t a ship from the Royal Navy. That, he’d already ascertained. It was a private passenger ship, one that looked like an East India Company steamship, but it was too far away to tell. It wasn’t a trading vessel or he would have taken no small delight in blowing it to pieces. It was also too far away to determine if it meant them harm. In other circumstances, he would slow his pace and allow the ship to catch up. While most of the guns on the Belonging had been removed for the sake of weight and speed after her redesign, there were still a few, and they were kept in good working order.

He wasn’t afraid to use them.

But with Sarani onboard, he couldn’t risk endangering her life.

Slumping back in his chair, he poured another glass of whisky, letting the spicy burn of the liquor numb his brain. With continued luck, they would reach port in less than a week. The winds on the journey had been advantageous, and apart from the ship on their heels and the initial threat of the cyclone and a few smaller squalls in between, the voyage had been uneventful. Well, with the exception of one willful passenger.

Rhystan glanced around the spotless cabin. Everything was in meticulous order—the bed made, bookcase neatly stacked, his clothing laundered, folded, and put away. Even the furniture shone, polished to within an inch of its life. Something was on her mind. Normally, he would find telltale signs of rebellion, like watered-down whisky bottles, salt in his morning coffee, or barnacles in his bedsheets. That last one he was certain had been Red’s idea, considering the boatswain was responsible for scraping them off the hull.

But the last couple of days, Sarani had been on task and quiet. Too preoccupied for pranks.

Stop thinking about her.

Willing himself to focus, Rhystan studied the charts again and gave up after a few minutes. Despite his mental exhaustion, he was restless, agitated. Mostly because of what awaited him in England and the fact that he had been urgently summoned by his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Embry, purportedly because of ailing health.

He had no doubt that it was yet another ploy to get him back to English shores. Marry some insipid, docile debutante. Beget an heir and a spare. Take control of the dukedom. Settle down. Become his blasted father.