It was either that or die.

Two

“Storm’s in the winds, Cap’n!”

“All the more reason for us to outrun it, Gideon,” Rhystan said to his quartermaster, standing at the helm while navigating their passage out of the harbor. “And save on coal while we can before we can put into port at St. Helena.”

Gideon bellowed an order to hoist the sails.

“Give a hand with the moorings, Abe,” Rhystan shouted to a nearby deckhand, who nodded and shot down the deck. “Raise the masts. Haul braces and sheets!”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

It didn’t take long for the ship to be underway, the push of the incoming storm just enough to give them an extra boost once the sails were raised. Rhystan stayed on deck, keeping a close eye on the dark horizon. It was more difficult leaving port at night, but he didn’t mind sailing in the darkness.

With the winds from the incoming storm at his back, they would make excellent time. And if they lost wind or ran into trouble, he’d drop the screw propellers. The ship was of a unique engineering design—half sail, half coal-fired steam—and the best of both worlds in terms of speed and function.

The glimmering light of dawn had yet to stretch across the sky, giving shape to the storm that chased their heels. Cyclones were rare but worse than a game of hazard. With any luck, the bad weather would blow past them. Squalls and storms were a necessary evil of being on the sea, and while Rhystan’s ship was built to withstand them, cyclones were not pleasant to endure. Not even for the hardiest of sailors. He would prefer not to encounter one this early in the journey.

They’d been out in the Arabian Sea for several hours before he felt the insistent growl of hunger in his belly. Rhystan scrubbed at his sore eyelids. Visiting the dockside tavern last night hadn’t been the brightest idea, but the crew had deserved a round of drinking and female company before the long trip. While he’d enjoyed a few tumblers of whisky, the latter hadn’t been for him, however.

He’d spent one or two of his younger years in the company of enthusiastic spinsters and widows, but since he’d become duke, sating his desire wasn’t worth the risk of wedlock—especially when those women invariably found out who he was and schemed to become the next Duchess of Embry. Now that was a trap he strove to avoid at all cost. Avoiding women altogether seemed to be a smart bet.

Rhystan scanned the horizon. “Right, Gideon, take the wheel. I’ll head down.”