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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

Venice 1531

The pickpocket sat in a corner hugging the shadows; eyes hooded, but never wavering from the intended victim. Conditions seemed favorable for the success of tonight's mission. The mark's companions were boisterous and drinking heavily from the ewer of drugged wine. Every seat in the dockside tavern was taken with many customers left standing. The stench of cramped, unwashed bodies, coupled with the acrid odors of spilled wine comforted the thief.

With so many sailors and merchants about, there was adequate cover for an escape. Once Marta went into her dance--which had better be soon, the thief thought irritably--once the beautiful Marta went into her dance, it should be simple to take the man's pouch and melt into the crowd.

Still, it might not be that easy. The Englishman looked alert. Though the tall man affected a bored attitude, his keen eyes swept the room constantly. As his gaze passed over the darkened corner, the pickpocket stiffened in response, then took a deep, calming breath.

"I am Carlo tonight," the pickpocket whispered. "Madonna forgive me, but tonight I must be Carlo. Please help me master my fear and give me the strength to do what I must do."

Taking heart from the prayer, Carlo assumed a relaxed pose, propping poorly shod feet on the table. Where was Marta? If she did not hurry and begin, the drug would soon render these men senseless.

All except their intended victim.

To Carlo's anxiety, the Englishman had not taken a single sip of wine. The pouch dangled tantalizingly from the man's baldric. Perhaps it would be better to dart in and make the grab now. Anything would be better than these jangled nerves and--

"Gentlemen! For a few paltry soldi, I will dance for your pleasure! And for much more--" The buxom beauty let the sentence dangle enticingly.

Carlo sighed in relief, even as the men whistled and leered over Marta's bold offer. At last! Now the deed could be accomplished safely.

No man could resist Marta, not even an annoyingly alert Englishman. She stood a table away from the mark; hands on her full hips, her spectacularly endowed frame dressed in a flowing gold and black silk gown, her bodice purposely left untied to exhibit her assets. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and bracelets jangled on her wrists. A wide belt cinched her waist. Her feet were bare. Her flawless face was an angel's, but her unbound coal black hair and voluptuous curves were as alluring as a siren's.

Every male eye lit up with lust while the few females present averted their gaze in envy. A common reaction to the incomparable Marta. Carlo had witnessed it many times before. Their guild master, Sergio, often paired them for special tasks...like tonight. Marta for her ease in creating distractions and Carlo for quick wit and agile fingers.

The tavern owner, Parma, produced a lute and began strumming a lively folk tune, just as he'd been paid to do.

Paid for this and for allowing them to drug the wine, Carlo corrected. Sergio would want to know the full extent of the man's cooperation.

Marta's lush body moved in a slow, suggestive undulation. Silence, stares, tongues licking lips gone dry greeted her as she drew the hapless men into her lure as easily as a fisherman casting a net into the Adriatic.

Except for the English fish, curse him! He seemed unmoved...his expression set in stone. As the candlelight played across the hard planes of his face; he looked even more bored, if that was possible.

In the recesses of the darkened corner, Carlo slowly uncoiled, sliding feet off the table as if entranced by Marta's dance as much as the simple-minded men.

Time to strike!

A half-circle had formed about Marta. The men tossed soldi and lira at her feet as they urged her on. Some thumped the tables and hooted with raw male lust. To show her disgust, Marta leapt onto the Englishman's table and displayed her legs. The crowd cheered, too ignorant to know the gypsy had just insulted them.

Carlo crept forward to stand at the fringe of the knotted group. Meeting Marta's eyes, Carlo gave an imperceptible nod.

Marta smiled her acknowledgment, then dropped to her knees in front of the Englishman...seized him by the hair...and kissed him.

Knife out, crouching low, Carlo darted forward...cut the strings of the man's purse with one sweep of the razor sharp blade...then stashed the purse out of sight.

Carlo headed for the door, glancing back once to see Marta still kissing the Englishman. She seemed to be enjoying it. Her hands were tangled in his long, chestnut-colored hair. The Englishman appeared to have gained interest too, for Carlo saw him reach up a hand to brush the rounded swells of Marta's chest.

Shuddering, Carlo slipped through the door and into the night.

Men were such animals.

* * *

Peyton Sewall smiled beneath the gypsy's lips. At last the spy had made his move. Now he must catch the knave and find out who he worked for. He lifted a hand and his first mate, Roland, touched a finger to his scarred brow and quietly left to trail the thief.

The wench kissing him was a beauty indeed, though she reeked of garlic and trouble. Peyton kissed her back tepidly at first, then decided to give the minx a taste of her own medicine. He put a hand on the back of her head and crushed her mouth against his mercilessly...parting her lips with a vicious jab of the tongue. As he plundered the inside of her mouth, he felt her stiffen in surprise, only to melt for him eagerly a second later.

Bah! She even tasted of garlic, Peyton thought. And how easily did this one let him conquer her. He could take her to bed this very night if he wanted to. But he didn't. There were more important things on his mind than wenching this eve. If all went well, perhaps the spy's capture would be the means of ending his quest and he could at last receive the reward he'd fought for these many years.

The woman looked surprised as he abruptly pushed her away, then smug as he reached for the pouch he knew wasn't there. "You owe me a ducat for that kiss," she announced in Italian. "Pay me now, Monsignor, or these men will make you very sorry for stealing from me."

Peyton spread his hands in the classic gesture of incomprehension as his Venetian companion, Gregor Bidori, unnecessarily translated...his English slurred and badly mangled.

Then Gregor said to the wench, "He doesn't understand and even if he did, it would not matter. How can he steal what is given so freely? Come, give Gregor a kiss now. I vow mine will last longer. Perhaps all night if you please me well enough."

Gregor made a grab for the woman, but she rolled out of his reach and off the table, landing in the laps of two other men. They sought to catch her too. The wench was quicker, elbowing and clawing her way to freedom.

Peyton observed all this, taking full note of the men's sluggish movements. They had not drunk enough to explain their slowed reactions. Apparently, this spy did not leave anything to chance. He smiled. Good, a worthy adversary would break the tedium of this damnable assignment.

The dusky wench had produced a knife and was brandishing it recklessly. Peyton sighed. There was no doubt in his mind she was in league with the thief. He'd intended to take her with him, in the unlikely event Roland lost his quarry. But to snatch her out of here now without blood being spilled would be well nigh impossible and he wanted no problems with the local proveditore.

He shrugged and pushed his way through the crowd. The thief was the one he really wanted anyway. This black-haired witch would give him nothing but trouble.

To his surprise, a dagger whizzed by his ear as he laid a hand on the portal, embedding itself deeply in the soft wood. He turned back to see the gypsy glaring at him. "Basta!" she cried. "You owe me a ducat!"

Her eyes grew wide as he calmly plucked the knife out of the door. The tavern fell silent in anticipation as the wench visibly quaked in fear. But she stood tall...not cringing like a weaker woman might. With a contemptuous flick of the wrist, Peyton flung the dagger at her feet, then quit the tavern without a backward glance.

He stepped out into the night, inhaling the clean, tangy fragrance of the moist, salt-tinged air. To his surprise, Decker was not waiting outside and he could see Roland standing in front a crumbling chapel about a block away. Scowling, Peyton approached his burly friend, wondering how the man had lost their quarry so quickly.

"You won't believe this, Peyton," said Roland as he drew near. "Our spy has stopped to give the church a tithing."

"What nonsense is this?" Peyton snapped. "Most likely the knave has slipped out the back door."

"Then Decker will catch him. I have him positioned there," Roland said. "But tis the truth I'm saying. The thief is inside counting coins for the poor box even now. See for yourself."

Peyton went to the warped wooden door of the chapel and opened it a crack. The thief was inside dropping the last of his allotted coins into the poor box. Then he went to a side altar, lit two candles, dropped to his knees, crossed himself, and began to pray.

From what little he could see, Peyton guessed this was not a man at all, but a mere boy...barely in his teens. He wore a parti-colored liripipe that hung down to the back of his knees. His doublet and hose, while gaily colored, were in tatters as were the slashed, pointed shoes covering his feet. The youth was slender and of medium height. His fingers on the rosary beads were delicate and agile. As the boy bent his head in prayer, his posture changed in an indefinable way.

Peyton shut the door, his expression thoughtful. Something was amiss about the lad, though he could not put a finger on what it was. "Odd, isn't it?" Roland said quietly. "Coming here to pray instead of taking to his heels. And I never thought our spy would be just a boy."

Peyton nodded. "He must be an agent of whoever has been feeding the Emperor information. We will take him when he comes out and have this mystery solved by dawn."

"Should be easy enough, since tis only a child we are dealing with," agreed Roland.

"Aye. Let's set the trap and be done with it."

They took positions in the shadows on either side of the chapel, about twenty yards apart. The only sounds to break the night were the slap of brackish water against the seawall of the nearby canal and the muted merriment coming from the tavern several doors down.

The chapel's masonry wall felt dusty against Peyton's fingers as he kept an eye on his surroundings. Overhead the night sky was clear...a multitude of stars and a golden half-moon illuminated the scene. The celestial lights cast bright reflections in the water and boldly silhouetted the numerous boats and gondolas tethered to ball-topped poles. The stone inlaid street next to the canal was empty of pedestrians, the houses across the way darkened and there was no traffic out on the water. It appeared no one was up and about to witness the thief's capture.

After a time, Peyton began to consider the possibility that the thief had slipped past Decker. Then the chapel door opened with a creak and a groan. The thief ran down the stone steps in Roland's direction. Roland leapt from his hiding place and caught the knave from behind. The boy immediately went limp, pitching Roland forwards.

Before Peyton could blink, the thief changed tactics, ramming his shoulder into Roland's midsection to break the big man's hold. Then the boy grasped the off-balance man by the forearm and pitched him into the canal.

Roland let out an expletive of surprise as he splashed into the water. The thief took off at a run. Peyton dashed after him. From behind, he could hear Roland sputtering to the murky surface, cursing profusely while Decker shouted a query as he came around from the back of the building.

Peyton ignored them. His friends could take care of themselves. Ahead, the thief sprinted as swiftly as a hind.

Feet slapping the narrow stone street, Carlo ran. Weaving in and out of the alleys of the Ghetto, the thief prayed with each step to lose the pursuer on the next twist or turn. But the persistent footsteps kept coming closer...ever closer.

An enraged Englishman would show no mercy to a lowly pickpocket.

Even more frightening was the thought of how angry Sergio would be over this botched work. A quick death was all that could be hoped for.

And still the echoing footsteps grew closer. With a forlorn cry, Carlo pulled out the pouch and dropped it.

The blasted Englishman never faltered a step. Carlo started to panic. Ahead loomed the Canale Grande. There were no bridges until several blocks down on the Cannaltio. Behind--the thief glanced back in time to see the brawny man in the act of pouncing. Hitting the ground face first, wind knocked out of already aching lungs, Carlo didn't make a sound.

Why plead for mercy when death was a foregone conclusion?

Peyton grabbed the boy's arms and pinned them behind his back. He hauled the slight youth roughly to his feet, both of them panting and gasping for air. Without a word, he began dragging his captive back the way they had come. The boy offered no resistance, though he stumbled often.

They reached the discarded pouch. Peyton let go with one hand to pick it up. The boy tried to jerk free, but could not break Peyton's grip. Chuckling, Peyton retrieved the leather bag. "You are as weak as a kitten," he taunted. "You're employer is a fool to send a child out to do a man's task."

The boy stiffened over the insult, yet said nothing. Peyton craned around to peer at him curiously. "You speak English, whelp?"

The boy flicked him a sullen glance and gave no reply. "Aye, you speak English," Peyton confirmed smugly. "Good. You and I have much to talk about." He surveyed the dirty, dark alley. "But not here. No, I think we need a more private place to discuss matters at our leisure."

"Could you not just kill me now?" the boy asked haltingly.

His accent was strange, not Italian. Peyton could not place it. And the pitch of the boy's voice was odd too. It bothered him for some vague reason. One thing was certain, the child had courage. "Oh, I doubt I'll kill you, lad," Peyton assured him. "Most likely I'll just pitch you into the canal."

"Then I should be dead." The thief sighed. "I knew you English were heartless."

Peyton stared, then shrugged. He resumed dragging his captive along. Again, the thief did not struggle.

They reached the chapel and met Roland and Decker. Roland let out a dark laugh, "Ah, I see you've caught the slippery wretch. Unhand the rascal, Peyton! I have a score to settle."

"Now Roland, he's just a lad--" Peyton began, letting the boy go. Before he could finish, Roland snatched the thief up, held him high over his head and tossed him into the canal. The boy broke the surface, thrashing wildly and screaming for help in three different languages.

"Damn you, Roland! The child can't swim!" Peyton shouted as he dove into the water.

"How was I to know?" Roland called after him.

"Ye should have asked!" Decker scolded.

"The boy didn't ask me, did he?" Roland protested. "Who lives in a city surrounded by water and can't swim?"

"Obviously, this laddie does," said Decker.

Peyton reached the boy's side. The child latched onto him without hesitation, pushing Peyton underwater in his hysteria. The water tasted foul, rank from salt, sewer trash and Jesu only knew what else. "Be still!" Peyton wheezed, between coughing and spitting fetid water. "Lest you drown us both!"

The boy stopped his frantic attempts to climb on top of him, though his hands still clutched and clawed Peyton's shoulders. Shaking his head in exasperation, he wrapped an arm about the boy's waist and headed for the sea wall.

Roland and Decker reached down to give the boy a hand up, but the lad wouldn't let go of Peyton. Cursing, Peyton wrestled the child off his back. It took several awkward backhanded passes before he managed to dislodge the terrorized boy and push him into his friends' waiting arms.

Peyton crawled out after him...wet, stinking, covered with scum and shaking in fury. "Take the little bastard to the ship and stow him in the hold," he snapped, water dripping into his eyes.

He did not raise his voice, but Roland and Decker moved quickly to obey. They each took one of the shivering boy's arms and began leading him to the dinghy tied up near the tavern. Peyton followed at a slower pace, willing himself to calm down.

In spite of himself, he smiled. At least anger was better than apathy.

He watched the trio move in front of him, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. There was something wrong with the thief's walk, but he couldn't place it.

This strange boy was really beginning to get on his nerves.

* * *

Carlo sat on an upended crate in the dark hold, teeth chattering, shivering uncontrollably. Why couldn't these English get it over with? Why must they prolong the misery? Though the hold was dark, Carlo didn't mind. More worrisome was the sound of water lapping at the ship's hull and wondering what it felt like to die.

"At least I made my penance," Carlo muttered. "I'm glad I didn't listen to Sergio."

Of course, the stop at the chapel had gotten Carlo caught, but maybe that was Marta's fault. She should have kept the Englishman occupied longer. Yes, Carlo decided, the blame should be shared for tonight's miscarriage of Sergio's plan.

The hatch above opened and the giant one's scarred face appeared. "Climb up, boy," he ordered as he tossed a rope ladder down.

Carlo just stared at him, blinking against bright light of the torch in the man's hand.

The big man sighed testily. "Look, I'm sorry I threw you into the canal. Don't worry, it will not happen again. Now climb up. Peyton's waiting and I would advise you to hurry if you want to save your skin."

Carlo slowly climbed the rope ladder, fearing a fall as exhaustion made the effort difficult. Once topside, the big man hustled Carlo across the deck to a door, threw it open without knocking, pushed Carlo into the cabin and slammed the portal shut.

"Now," came the Englishman's deep silken voice from somewhere on Carlo's right, "now, we will have that talk."

The thief turned to face him, blue eyes widening in an instinctive feminine reaction. For a split second, Caroline inadvertently wavered from being Carlo. Thank the Virgin! The man didn't appear to notice her slip. She swallowed and squared her shoulders in a valiant attempt at regaining her self-control.

But dear God, thought Caroline, the man was devastatingly handsome!

Chapter Two

Peyton met the boy's stare and was startled by what he saw. The lad's eyes were bright blue, blue as a cloudless sky. Long, tawny-colored lashes surrounded them. Those eyes irritated him. Everything about this boy irritated him.

And the most irritating thing was he had no idea why.

Peyton cleared his throat. "Let's start simple, shall we? What is your name?"

"Caro--Carlo," the boy stammered, looking down at his sodden shoes.

"Your whole name, Carlo."

The boy shrugged. "It's just Carlo."

"How old are you?"

Another shrug. "I do not know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I do not know."

"Who taught you English?"

"No one."

"Do your parents know you are a thief?"

"No."

"Why did you steal my pouch?"

A shrug.

"Did you know what it contained?"

No response at all. Peyton was thoroughly exasperated now. He scowled and watched the boy shiver. The lad looked like a drenched jester. The long ends of his liripipe were dripping all over his knees. Amazing the cap hadn't floated off, but then Peyton noticed it was tied in double knots under the boy's chin. In the candlelight, Peyton could see the boy's fair complexion had a smattering of golden freckles. No, this child wasn't Italian at all. At least, he didn't look like any Italian he'd ever seen.

It did appear the boy had not eaten a proper meal in ages judging by his prominent cheekbones and slender frame. Peyton frowned. Slender, but misshapen somehow. Another oddity to add to Peyton's growing list of irregularities about the boy.

He didn't realize it, but he'd been contemplating the child for several minutes. Those astonishing blue eyes lifted to stare back at him.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" Carlo asked, teeth chattering audibly.

"Where are you from?" Peyton countered. "Your accent is strange."

"I do not know. Please answer my question."

"Answer mine! You are the prisoner here."

Carlo looked back at the floor. "I told you, I do not know."

"Then how is it you speak English?"

Another one of those maddening, boneless shrugs.

Peyton wasn't sure if he wanted to beat the boy senseless or laugh out loud. This child was either very clever or very stupid. He was doubtless hungry, chilled and scared, yet courageous enough to evade his every question.

Peyton decided to try a more devious means of persuasion. "Behind you is a tray of food," he said. "Bring it to me, boy. I am hungry after our chase this eve."

Carlo did not move. "Do it!" Peyton ordered icily. "I am fast losing my patience."

Caroline turned around and located the tray, her eyes narrowing spitefully. What an arrogant man this Peyton person was!

A mug sat on the tray. Caroline felt at her neck for the small bag of sleeping herbs hidden beneath her shirt. T'would serve him right! As she crossed the room, she dug into the bag, pulled out a large pinch of the noxious smelling leaves, her trembling fingers as nimble as ever. Deftly, she dropped the herbs into the mug as she bent to lift the tray from the large chest. She brought it over to the small table and set it before the Englishman.

He gave her a wry smile. "Sit and share my meal," he said.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"I insist, Carlo. You must be starved and chilled to the bone. Here, have a taste of my drink. It will warm you."

"I think not," Caroline said nervously. "Could you not just kill me now?"

Peyton's eyes glittered dangerously. "There are some fates worse than death, haven't you heard?"

"Yes, and I'm told being forced to drink with Englishmen is one of them."

"Odd, I've heard the same about the folk here in the Mediterranean," Peyton chuckled, folding his arms. His biceps bulged under his soft white shirt. "Is there a legitimate reason for you to be afraid of sharing my drink?"

"What does legitimate mean?"

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Take a sip, Carlo," he coaxed. "It will warm and relax you."

"Why do you care? You are just going to kill me anyway."

"Take a sip or I might do it now," he growled.

"Go ahead--kill me. Tis what I expect."

He rose to his feet. "Enough! By God, I will not be dictated to on my own ship by a mere boy!" He thrust the mug into her hand. "Now, you will either drink this or I shall pour it down your scrawny neck! Which shall it be?"

The amber colored liquid sloshed over her fingers as her hand shook with fear. He must have seen her slip the herbs into his drink and now thought it poisoned. Perhaps he thought it fitting she die by her own hand.

She shrugged. Well, this drink wouldn't kill her. Or she hoped it wouldn't...she had used a dose sufficient for the tall man, not the amount she would have normally prescribed for herself. She supposed if she did die, it would be considered an accident and not a suicide, so such a mistake should not be a mortal sin.

She lifted the earthen mug to her lips and took a large gulp, mindful of his glowering eyes. The drink scalded her throat with a smooth fire as she swallowed. "What is this?" she wheezed when she could manage it.

"Whiskey. Drink some more."

"It burns--"

"It's a man's drink, lad. Drink more. T'will put hair on your chest."

The last thing she wanted was hair on her chest, she thought wryly. She obeyed him anyway, for a pleasant warmth was beginning to spread throughout her body. After the second sip, her shivers ceased. He moved to take the mug from her, but she decided one more sip was in order.

A large one. If the herbs did kill her, so be it. At least then she wouldn't have to endure any more of his questions.

She handed the mug back to him, quite unaware she'd drained every drop. He peered into the empty mug, frowned, then set it aside.

"Sit," he ordered, walking across the room. While she complied, he opened the chest and pulled out a bottle. He brought it back, sat down and uncorked it. Then he took a swig, sighing in appreciation after he swallowed.

Caroline propped her elbows on the table and watched. He was indeed handsome, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen. He had changed out of his elegant fawn colored clothes from earlier this eve, and now wore a simple white shirt with a brown overtunic and like colored hose. His muscular frame filled the garments nicely.

Russet hair flowed in wild waves to his shoulders and was brushed back from his forehead. His hazel eyes fascinated her. Staring into them was like looking into a rainbow, greenish-brown towards the centers, then green followed by a greenish-blue on the outer edges. He had sun-kissed bronzed skin, and a straight nose, which was a wee bit rounded on the end. It was his only feature that even suggested softness, for his mouth was firm and paired with a strong square chin. A thin crescent-shaped scar floated along the rigid cheekbone under his left eye. Caroline found the flaw very reassuring. The man was human after all, not some sculptor's dream come to life.

"Are you feeling better, Carlo?" he asked politely.

She nodded, not really trusting her voice at the moment. A numbing sensation was swiftly overtaking her, making her limbs feel heavy. Either the herbs or that whiskey was doing its work very fast.

He lifted a copper lid, revealing a loaf of bread and a bowl of fish stew. The aromas lofted her way were pungent...heavy. Her stomach gave a sudden, painful lurch. He broke off a piece of bread and shoved it into her hand. "Eat," he commanded, then turned his attention to his stew.

Caroline stared at the hunk of bread in her hand as if she'd never seen such a thing before. She felt hot and dizzy, breaking out into a sweat that did not cool her. Hastily, she set the bread down and murmured, "I am not hungry."

He gave her an annoyed glance. "Of course you aren't. Well-fed urchins like you just steal on a lark, don't they?"

"I did not--I mean, I had to do it."

"Really," his voice dripped with sarcasm. "I saw no one holding a knife to your throat."

"Sergio might take a knife to me when he find out how badly I have botched things."

"Sergio?"

She nodded, even as a bitter bile rose in her throat. "Yes. He is head of the guild."

"Guild?"

Caroline clapped a hand over her mouth. "I feel sick," she muttered in Italian behind her fingers.

He set down his spoon, eyed her a minute, then got up. As soon as he set the chamber pot on the table before her, she miserably started retching in it. "Serves you right for trying to poison me."

"It was just a sleeping herb," she protested weakly between heaves.

"I guessed as much since you drank of it so readily." He sounded as if he thoroughly enjoyed her misery.

She wanted to damn him to hell, but that would mean uttering a blasphemy. Instead, she rested her head on the table and closed her eyes.

Peyton shook his head as he watched the boy slump onto the table. The lad did not seem like a bad sort, more weary than malicious. Peyton could sympathize. He knew that feeling of hopelessness well. Still, he could not return to England and Thomas Cromwell empty handed. He must find out who this Sergio was. "Carlo, are you awake?" he asked as he took the chamber pot away.

"Yes." The boy's voice was weak, yet still surly.

"Let me make you an offer. I will give you work as a cabin boy if you will tell me all I want to know."

Carlo's eyes flew open as he attempted to sit up. "I cannot be a cabin boy! I am not fit!" he croaked. "Besides, I hate ships!"

"Who is Sergio?"

"Guild master, I told you that," the boy grumbled, putting his head in his hands.

"What does that mean? He hired you?"

"No. He owns me."

"What?"

Carlo waved a limp hand. "Never mind. Will you please kill me now?"

"Why do you keep asking me to kill you?"

"Tis to be expected," Carlo yawned and his head began to droop. "And if you don't do it, tis likely Sergio will. I would rather die at the hands of a handsome rogue than his fat, festering fingers." With that, he fell asleep.

What in sweet Jesu's name did that mean? Peyton put his hands on his hips and stared down at the slumbering boy. He should have taken the black-haired witch after all. It was going to be damned hard to get anything from this child. He snorted. If the child knew anything in the first place. Just his luck to be saddled with a misguided babe. Perhaps the boy carried something on him that would identify this Sergio.

He knelt at Carlo's side and gently pushed him back in the chair. The lad promptly flopped to the side and slid off the seat into Peyton's lap without so much as a twitch of an eyelid.

He eased the lad off his lap and laid him out on the floor planks. The boy carried no pouch or purse on the outside of his person. That made sense. A thief would know best how to deter other thieves.

Peyton began to pat the child's body, starting at his feet. He found a dagger strapped to the boy's thigh and removed it, wondering why the lad hadn't attempted to use his weapon. He set the knife aside and resumed his search.

There was nothing concealed in the lad's damp doublet, save a pair of velvet pouches tied with leather thongs about his neck. The first one was bulky and contained the infamous sleeping herbs. Peyton sniffed at the mixture of moist leaves, crinkling his nose over the pungent smell.

The second bag was much smaller. He frowned as he examined its contents. Rosary beads and a large oblong cameo, ivory on onyx, attached to a fine silver chain. A lovely woman's profile was depicted on it. On the back was the legend painted in gold, Lady D - 1509. The elegant piece was hardly the sort of thing a boy might wear. Perhaps the little thief just hadn't had the chance to sell it.

He put the cameo and rosary back into the pouch, then using the knife, cut the leather necklaces and took them off the boy. Peyton sat back and irritably ran a hand through his hair. What a puzzle this child was!

He noticed the boy's bulging cod-piece. Well, many people kept their valuables there. He cut through the points that attached the cod to the boy's hose. As he lifted the pouch, a plethora of silk scarves fell to the floor. He ignored that. His breath was caught in his throat as he stared in surprise.

This was no boy! A triangle of fiery red curly hair confronted him.

No girl-child either, Peyton thought with an amused grin. Loins like that could only belong to a woman.

Chuckling softly, Peyton got up and bolted the cabin door. He was of a mind to see just what kind of woman she was.

He returned to her side, picked up the knife and slashed through the ribbons tied under her chin. He yanked the sodden liripipe off her head and discovered a thick braid coiled about the crown of her head. Leisurely, he undid the braid, then stretched out a lock of damp red-golden hair to measure its length. It went past her hips.

Her hair was glorious...the color of the setting sun.

He fanned the fiery mass out behind her and set to work at removing her shoes and hose. A pair of slender legs, well-muscled, but shapely were revealed. And to his delight, those golden freckles covered her everywhere.

He was eager to see the full extent of the slumbering nymph's charms. His hands quickly moved to divest her of her doublet and shirt. She'd bound her bosom with a strip of coarse, dark cloth. He cut the constricting piece away, then sat back, his admiration and ardor growing.

She was lean, lithe perfection, albeit somewhat in need of a wash. Slender, yet still possessing the soft curves of a woman. Her breasts, flattened somewhat by their binding, were tipped with pert, peach-colored nipples, hardened to little buds by the chill of her damp clothes. The charming freckles lent a soft, golden cast to her fair skin. Nothing marred her smooth complexion save a mole on her right hip. He leaned forward to examine the blemish. It looked like a tiny brown shamrock.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "You are absolutely beautiful."

She shivered and he smiled. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to his narrow bunk and placed her within it, then pulled the bedclothes out from under her. She sighed in contentment and snuggled deeper into the blankets as he covered her up. Only the top of her bright head was left visible.

Peyton stared down at her a minute, a thousand questions burning in his mind. He turned and walked back to the table, kicking the tattered remains of her disguise out of his way. As he sat down, he lifted the whiskey bottle to pour a draught into his mug, then caught himself. The dregs of her potion still resided in there. Scowling, he sipped from the bottle, his eyes never leaving the occupied bunk across the room.

At least now he knew why he'd felt uncomfortable about her from the first. Somehow, he must have sensed she was not a boy, though for the life of him he had no idea how.

And since she was not in fact a child, she must know more than she had told him. Yes, this woman had a pretty little head, but a deviously clever mind was in it. She had quick reactions too. He would not soon forget how easily she'd tossed Roland into the canal and the merry chase she'd led him through the town. Or how she'd fooled them all into thinking she was just a simple boy.

Instead of an utterly gorgeous woman.

An utterly gorgeous woman, who was a liar and a cutpurse. And a cutpurse, who went straight to church after committing thievery. He had to shake his head over that odd contradiction.

It did not matter. He would find out all her secrets on the morrow and then send the little vixen on her way. With a grin at the bunk, he admitted he was looking forward to conducting the interrogation. For more reasons than the obvious. Perhaps she knew what he'd been sent here to find out.

Perhaps she held the key to the recovery of all his family had lost.

He sighed. And failing that, there was the other demeaning option. Provided King Henry hadn't changed his mind again. It was likely he had. England turned on the whim of the king and he was no different than the rest of Henry's subjects.

Suddenly feeling very weary, Peyton stood, snuffed out the candle and then undressed in the dark. He slid into the bunk next to his captive. Her back was to him and her skin felt cool as he turned her over to face him.

In the dim starlight coming through the port window, he could see her hair was tumbled all about her face and shoulders. Gently, he brushed it aside. A faint scent of the canal still clung to her, but for some reason, it didn't bother him. His hand lingered to trace the contours of her lips with his finger. Her upper lip formed a sweet bow while the bottom one was fuller, enticingly fuller. He ran his finger along the bridge of her nose and felt a tiny bump on it that was otherwise imperceptible. He smiled, another one of this mysterious woman's secrets revealed.

He felt tempted to touch her everywhere, yet he didn't yield to it. Instead, he gathered her into his arms and closed his eyes. Still, his hands began to move with a will of their own to stroke her back and reach lower to caress her buttocks. He sleepily noticed that though the skin of her back felt like silk, there were odd textures to it here and there. He yawned. Just another odd contradiction about the woman for him to investigate tomorrow.

Chapter Three

It was hot. She felt as if she were being roasted alive. Maybe that's how Englishmen kill their prisoners, Caroline thought as she opened her eyes.

And screamed.

Her captor jerked awake and promptly clamped a hand over her mouth. Her shouts muffled against his palm, she raked wildly at his restraining hand with her nails. He caught her flailing fists easily with his free hand and crushed her fingers in an iron grip, then pulled them between their nude bodies, imprisoning her arms. She tried to kick him then. In response, he trapped her legs between his thighs rendering her utterly defenseless.

She slumped in defeat, scared out her mind to be surrounded by hard, hot, male flesh. Panting with fear, she became acutely aware of the touch of his skin against hers. The hairs on his chest, legs and groin scraped against her like hot grains of sand. She could feel his heart pounding against her breasts or was it her own? She closed her eyes and began to pray, feeling shame, fear and rage beyond measure.

"Good morning, Carlo!" Peyton said heartily. Her eyes snapped open to glare at him, but she was instantly disconcerted by his dazzling grin. "If that is indeed your name," he added. "I believe I have just cause to doubt." As he took his hand from her mouth, Caroline was gratified to see several scratches on his knuckles.

"Son of Satan!" she spat. "Let me go!"

"Not yet." His voice grew husky. "Not until I am satisfied."

She stiffened in terror. "Could you not just kill me?" she pleaded. "Must you rape me as well?"

He fixed an unnerving stare on her. After a minute or two she began to squirm. "Well," she demanded, "what are you going to do?"

"I've never raped a woman before," he mused, his tone thoughtful. "I must confess at the moment I can find merit in the custom."

She jerked in his arms with an indignant groan. It was like being held by a steel statue. "Please," she begged, "please, let me go."

"Not yet," he repeated. "Not until you answer my questions. Truthfully this time, if you please."

"And if I tell you all that I know? You will release me then?"

He didn't answer. He simply awarded her with another stony stare. Caroline licked her lips nervously and began, "All right then. My name is Caroline. I really do not know how old I am or where I was born or how I know the English language." She shrugged. "I've just always known it. I am a servant of Sergio, master of the thieves guild. He ordered me to seek you in Parma's tavern and to wait until I saw certain letters passed on to you. Once this occurred, I was to filch the documents and bring them to him."

She stopped, having reached the end of her story. He made no move to release her. "Well," she said, testily, "that's it. Are you going to kill me now or let me go?"

"Who contracted Sergio?"

He was ignoring her questions once again. Caroline found this habit of his infuriating. "If you mean who hired the guild, I have no idea. Sergio will work for anyone as long as there are ducats in it for him."

"Guess," he ordered.

She sighed. "I told you, it could be anyone. It could be the Doge himself for all I know. Or the duke of Genoa, Milan or Forenza. It could be your own ambassador. Who knows? Who cares? Money is money!"

"What about the Emperor?"

"What about him?"

"Has Sergio ever worked as his agent?"

She gave him a slow nod. "Yes, he's sold secrets to the Empire. But then again, he's given information to the League and Church as well."

A fleeting frown crossed his face and his grip on her momentarily slackened. Caroline immediately tried to escape his hold, but he almost absently snatched her back against him. She gasped as she felt his erection against her thighs.

"You will take me to meet this Sergio," he announced.

"I will not! After last night, I don't--"

"No argument, Caroline. You will take me."

"Or what? You will kill me? Rape me?" She shook her head. "You do not own me, English. Sergio does. I fear him far more than I do you."

He smiled. "I would guess you fear no man. Not when even death doesn't appear to frighten you." He reached out to brush her hair from her face, his gentle gesture taking her by surprise. "Aye," he murmured, "you almost seem to welcome death. You've certainly asked for it often enough."

"Tis to be expected," she muttered, a hot blush burning her cheeks. "I am a thief, am I not?"

He lifted a lock of her hair and examined it. "I am not sure what you are, Caroline, but you have captured my interest and I don't think I shall let you go until I find out."

"And just when will that be?" she asked, choking on the words.

His smile deepened. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On how interesting you are."

"What do you mean by inter--"

He silenced her by crushing his mouth over hers. She let out a muffled shriek of outrage, breaking it off in shock as his tongue slid like a hot dagger between her parted lips. She attempted to wrench her head away. He caught her by the hair and held her fast. Just as she gathered wit enough to bite him, he withdrew his tongue and she ended up biting her own.

He laughed as she cursed him viciously in the language of the Rom. "Aye, you interest me, Caroline!" he said. "A woman of many hidden talents, that's what you are! But you are all claws this morn. Relax for me, my sweet, and I shall make you purr."

"I am not 'your sweet' and I certainly do not want you to make me 'purr'! Loose me now. Else I swear I shall cut out your knavish heart the first chance I get!"

He sobered, but did not let her go. "Ah, but you had a chance to do that last night and did not take it. Why is that, I wonder? I think your threat empty."

"I care not what you think or what you want--"

"You should, considering the precarious position you are in."

His eyes burned with rainbows of green-brown intensity and she met his stare with all the courage she could muster. But she could not stop the tear that rolled over her flushed cheek as she whispered, "Please. Have mercy. I--I know nothing of men. Would you not prefer a woman who does?"

He snorted. "You truly expect me to believe that? You've already confessed this Sergio owns you. Surely he has tasted a sample of your charms."

She shook her head. "No. Never. He does not know. The Rom never told him. Marta alone knows I am a woman and she--"

"Who is Marta?"

"She kissed you in the tavern last night. You should have taken her instead of me, for I am certain she would be happy to serve your pleasure. She is very wise in the way of such things." Caroline felt a tiny spark of hope. "If you would let me go, I will fetch her here. She would come to you, I'm sure she would. Especially if you promised her coin."

He gave her a wry half-smile. "Thank you, Caroline, but no. Unless--" he paused, his brows lowering to a thoughtful frown.

"Unless what?" she prompted eagerly.

He eyed her a moment, then abruptly let her go. Flipping the blankets aside, he got up from the bed and glowered down at her, his nude body fully exposed to her blushing gaze. His bronzed skin gleamed in the morning light and the lingering evidence of his arousal made her eyes widen. She rolled on her side to face the wall, but not before his image had insinuated itself firmly inside her mind.

"Unless what?" she repeated.

"Never mind. I think you would promise me anything to gain your freedom," he said, his voice flat.

She didn't reply, for what he said was true. Instead, she yanked the blankets up to her chin and prayed for him to go away. He did. She could hear his feet treading softly on the floor, occasionally pausing to open one of his chests or move some item.

He prowled about the cabin for some time and when he at last grew still, she braced herself, unsure of what he might try next. To her surprise, she heard the bolt to the door be lifted and then the portal open and closed. As she rolled over and sat up, there was the sound of the bolt being replaced, this time on the outside.

She was locked in.

Not for long, she thought smugly as she looked to the port window. She could fit through that opening easily enough. As if he'd read her mind, Peyton's grinning face appeared on the other side of the leaded glass. He waggled a mocking finger at her, then his head was replaced by a thick plank of wood, dimming the light in the cabin somewhat.

She was truly locked in now. English spawn of Satan!

And like it or not, she was his prisoner.

Peyton chuckled as he turned away from the port hole. What a vexsome wench this Caroline was! Such a lovely little liar, the sort who could make a simpler man believe every word she said as she innocently batted those wide blue eyes. Offer him another wench in her place, did she? She must think him a complete fool! Ah, but that had ever been women's strongest weapon, to befuddle men's minds with lust and then strike in their moment of weakness. Thank Jesu he was made of sterner stuff than that!

Still, there was a possibility this Marta knew more about Sergio's contacts than Caroline. There was also the distinct possibility she didn't. The wiser course would be simply to force Caroline to take him to Sergio and quickly put this tedious game to an end.

"Hoy there, Peyton! Learn anything from the lad? Surely you discovered something since you kept the little thief in your cabin all night. Or did you toss the wretch overboard?"

Peyton laughed and turned to face Roland. "Aye, I learned a thing or two last night, but t'was not of the sort we expected."

The big man sighed. "You did not get the name of our man?"

"Our spy is more resourceful than we thought. He hired a thieves guild to steal the false documents for him. But I trust our prisoner can help us root the villain out once she accepts she has no choice."

Roland's thick black eyebrows shot up. "She?"

"T'was no lad we netted last night, Roland, but a woman. A beautiful one at that."

"A woman? Peyton, are you telling me t'was a mere woman who pitched me into the canal?"

Peyton grinned. "I stripped her bare. A man can be no more certain than that."

Roland scowled and ran a hand over his bald head. "So that's why you kept to your cabin all night," he muttered.

"No, tis not like you think. The devious wench tried to use a sleeping herb on me and wound up being forced to drink it herself. Without a doubt, she is diabolically clever and not to be trusted for an instant. I want either you or Decker to stand watch over my cabin at all times. I have her locked in now. See to it she doesn't escape." Peyton turned and headed for the gangplank.

"Where are you going?" Roland called after him.

"To see if I can locate her accomplice! Failing that, I shall go have a word with Gregor. He might know something about this thieves' guild. Oh, and I'll also need to find some garments for our prisoner to wear. She is in dire need of clothing."

"You mean she's in there naked?" Roland exclaimed.

"Aye, naked as that Florentine's Venus and twice as lovely!" Peyton said with a laugh. "At least that should deter her from trying to leave!" He waved cheerfully and went on his way.

Roland immediately noticed the number of interested glances directed at the captain's cabin. Every man on deck had heard Peyton's parting comments. "St. Peter preserve us!" he groaned. "I can see this wench is going to be nothing but trouble."

* * *

Caroline, cursing the Englishman silently, sat down on the bunk and sullenly propped her chin on her hands. She'd just finished searching the room for clothes or possible weapons. For all the good it did her! The blasted man was either infuriatingly neat or thoroughly cautious. He'd stowed away every movable object in the cabin.

The pair of sea chests set against the far wall mocked her. Ha! With a spoon she could pick their cumbersome locks, only this Peyton person had not obliged her by leaving anything to chance. The table and rope bunk were bolted to the floor and the hardwood chairs were bulky and massive. Far too weighty for her to lift and crash over that arrogant Englishman's handsome head.

Even the man's furniture infuriated her.

She did have the chamber pot, his only show of consideration. It smelled absolutely vile and wasn't really heavy enough to inflict any damage. And even if she did manage to subdue the man in some way, what then? She'd still have to get past his men--and clad only in this woolen blanket at that. Self-consciously, she tugged the scratchy material tighter about her chest.

No, her prospects for escape didn't look good at all. Even if she did get away, where would she go? Sergio was probably combing all of Venice for Carlo's worthless hide right now. And Marta, ha! She might be her friend, but Caroline knew very well Marta would not hesitate to tell the guild master where she was if it meant saving her own skin. She could run to a church and beg for sanctuary, but even if the clerics did take her in, sooner or later someone from the guild would spot her.

Or maybe not, they'd be looking for Carlo, she reminded herself.

The truth was, she needed to escape not only this Englishman, but Sergio and Venice as well.

Sighing, Caroline felt at her neck for her amulet. Her hand curled into a fist as she realized it was missing. "Mine!" she cried. "T'was the only thing in this world that was mine and he's stolen it!"

He must have put her precious amulet in one of the sea chests. She leapt off the bunk, stalked across the room and kicked at one of the massive trunks with all her might.

Howling in pain and vexation, she sank to the floor. As she sat rubbing her throbbing foot and reflecting over her folly, the light in the room darkened. She glanced over at the port window, expecting to see clouds passing over the sun. Instead, she saw the faces of three grinning sailors peering over the top of the board.

Enraged beyond measure, she sprang to her feet, limped over to the chamber pot and hurled it at the window. The porcelain container shattered, spewing its vile contents down the wall. The window escaped unscathed, but at least the men outside disappeared.

The door to the cabin was suddenly thrown wide. "Here now, what's this?" demanded a deep, gravely voice.

Caroline whirled around and found herself confronted by the scarred giant. He appeared more menacing in the light of day than he had as a looming shadow the night before. His pate was bald, but he had a full black beard. A twisting scar ran like a grapevine across his forehead and down the side of his cheek. More scars criss-crossed his huge forearms and adorned his blunt-fingered hands. His nose was curved like a hawk's and his right ear had a notch in it. He had eyes so brown, they looked almost black. With a chest the size of a wine barrel and limbs like the trunks of an oak tree, the man was the most intimidating warrior she had ever seen.

Yet, she was far too furious to care. She launched herself at him, hands hooked like talons, fully intending to give him several more scars to add to his collection. He watched her come, his expression a mixture of surprise and bewilderment.

At the last moment, he stiff-armed her and knocked her to the floor. She prepared to have at him again, but gasped as her blanket loosened. She turned her back on him then and clutched her wrap together.

"You are quite the wild one, aren't you, wench?" chuckled the big man.

"Beast!" she snapped, tucking the corner of the blanket in. "If you must gape at me, I would prefer if you did it like the others--from outside!"

There was a thoughtful pause and then she heard the man sigh. "I was afraid that was going to happen. Your pardon, my lady. I shall see to it the crew has other tasks to occupy them."

"I--" His kindness took her by surprise. "Thank you. I appreciate your consideration."

"Tis only what is justly due to such a worthy adversary."

She turned around. "Adversary?"

"Aye. There's not many men who can boast of besting me in a fight. And no women at all that I can name." He smiled, and it softened his harsh features somewhat. "Of course, you ladies have better methods of laying us men low, do you not?"

Caroline shook her head. "I wouldn't know. Please, Monsignor, can you tell me how long your captain means to hold me?"

"As long as he wants."

"I see." Caroline nervously chewed her bottom lip. "Well then, am I allowed water? Or perhaps something to--" The giant suddenly scowled as he made a quick survey of the room, apparently ignoring her plea.

"I'm sorry," she said hastily. "I didn't mean to sound as if I was making a demand. It's just that I am thirsty. I am sorry. It won't happen again."

He snorted in disgust and turned to leave. Caroline felt discouraged by the man's sudden change in attitude. Trying to think of something, anything to appease him, she blurted, "I broke the chamber pot. I'm sorry about that too."

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "I know. I can smell it. Peyton's going to be annoyed with the stench and it serves him right." With that he left, bolting the door behind him.

Caroline stared in confusion at the closed portal. "Whatever did he mean by that?" she muttered. With a sigh, she returned to the bunk and sat down. Though she spoke fluent English, in the last few years she had not had many opportunities to use the language. She was finding there were several words she either did not understand or couldn't remember right. Or perhaps it was just these men who were strange. She didn't know and didn't have anyone to ask.

She did know English had been the speech of her mother. Her father's had been French. Unfortunately, she remembered the languages better than her parents. Her recollections of them were frustratingly vague. They were fleeting images in her mind, images that brought feelings of warmth and security--and horrible loss. It pained her to think of these things, so she ruthlessly forced the loving images from her mind.

She snorted in self-deprecation. Perhaps those kind memories were all just dreams anyway. There was no warmth or security in this world for people like her. Only a daily struggle to survive. The best she could hope for was a better existence in the afterlife, which was why she always paid strict attention to her tithing, penances and prayers.

The stench in the room was disgusting. She crinkled her nose and tried to ignore it. Perhaps she should have offered to clean up the mess in exchange for some water. Odd though--if she didn't know better, she could almost think the big man was more annoyed with his captain than he was with her. But that couldn't be right.

"Englishmen are very confusing," she decided aloud.

Her confusion grew a few minutes later when the giant unbolted the door again to admit a short red-haired man. It was the other knave who had aided in her capture. He wore a different garb than his companions. A plaid skirt, belted at the waist, fell in gathered pleats to his bare knees, topped with a plain white shirt. His dark red hair was pulled into a thick ponytail. He looked young, but the proud way he carried himself made him seem older. Though small in stature, he had a wiry, hard body. His eyes were pale blue and very kind.

He carried a tray laden with food and drink. Caroline gaped at him in astonishment. "I brought ye a bite to eat," he said softly as he set the tray on the table. "I didnae ken Peyton meant for ye to starve."

"What?" She was incredulous. The amount of food on that tray looked like enough to feed three, not one. And his accent made his words hard for her to follow.

He frowned over her tone and put his hands on his hips. "Eat, lassie. Is that plain enough for ye?"

"Are you going to share it with me?" she asked, cautiously rising from the bed.

"Nay, I've already broken the fast, but thank ye for asking." He pulled out a chair invitingly. Caroline circled him warily before she took a seat. He abruptly scooted the chair closer to the table and she yelped, clutching the arms of the immense seat.

"Nervous little thing, aren't ye, lass?" he laughed. "Go ahead and tuck in now. Roland wants me to stay here and keep an eye on ye to make sure ye don't filch the silver. Or hurt yerself with it."

She gave him an indignant glare. "I would never do such a thing! Tis sinful!"

"Stealing? Or hurting yerself?" he asked with a wide grin.

Before she could answer, the door opened again. A young blonde boy entered carrying a bucket. Without a word, he headed straight to the port window and began cleaning up the mess.

"I would have done that," Caroline protested, gesturing towards the boy. "I didn't mean to cause anyone any--"

"Ne're ye mind. Just eat," said the red-haired man curtly.

She obediently turned her attention to her food. The simple bowl of porridge topped with sliced fruit was a feast in itself. But here was also sliced bread and cheese! And they were fresh too, she saw no grit or mold. A skin of sweet fruity wine completed the meal. Her thirst made her sip greedily.

It was hard not to feel a twinge of guilt as she spooned the warm cereal from the bowl. It seemed simply indecent to have so much food. There was no way she could eat it all. Perhaps this was her ration for the entire day. Even so, it was more than ample.

The bland porridge, sweetened with fruit was utterly delicious. Caroline could not contain a moan of pleasure over it. "Tis poor fare, I ken," the man commented. "But we lost our cook three weeks ago. Tim's been filling in, but he cannae make a proper bowl of porridge."

Caroline shot the man a baffled look. Poor fare? Perhaps she'd misunderstood. The man's burr made him impossible to understand. He must not be an Englishman, she guessed, though she had no idea what he was. She lowered her gaze back to her food and began eating again.

The only sounds in the cabin were the squishing noises of the boy doing his cleaning, the soft footfalls of her aimlessly pacing captor and the clatter of her spoon against the bowl. She felt very uneasy having the man watch her eat and the extended silence only heightened her agitation.

"I am finished," she announced, setting down the spoon.

"Are ye sure? Ye only ate half o' that and ye haven't touched yer bread and cheese."

"Those are for later, are they not?"

He gave her a blank stare in reaction to her question.

She blushed and stammered, "I--I mean, this is my day's ration, isn't it? Surely, you do not expect me to eat such a feast all at once."

He scratched his head. "Are ye a monk or a thief?" he asked. His tone was more thoughtful than insulting.

"Certainly not! You English do say the oddest things. How can a woman be a monk?"

"Probably the same as making a Scotsman English!" he retorted, his light blue eyes flashing coldly. He turned his back on her and growled at the boy, "Wyatt! Have ye nae finished with that? Or are ye spending too much time a-gaping at this wretched woman?"

The boy, who had been glancing at Caroline surreptitiously, briskly bent to his scrubbing. "Almost finished, Lord Decker," said Wyatt.

"That's Laird--oh, never mind. When ye get done, go fetch a bucket o' water, some soap, towels and another chamber pot for the lady. And be quick about it, laddie!"

The boy nodded, swept up his cleaning gear and hurried from the cabin. Caroline cleared her throat and said, "Did I insult you, Monsignor? If I did, then I am sorry. In truth, my English is faulty and your odd accent makes your speech somewhat hard for me to understand."

"You mean my Scot accent?" Decker asked sarcastically.

"Is that what it is called?"

He nodded.

She sighed. "I am sorry. Pray forgive my ignorance. Where is Scot? Is it an English colony?"

"A colony? Are you daft? Tis Scotland, lassie. Have ye nae heard of Scotland?" He sounded thoroughly piqued now.

"I-I don't think so," she admitted.

"What manner of heathen are ye?" he shouted.

"I'm not a heathen at all!" she shouted back.

"Ye act like one, thievin' and wearing men's clothes!"

"Well, what of it? You are wearing a lady's skirt!"

"Tis my plaid yer slandering now!" he roared. "I'll not be stomaching that!"

She blinked in confusion. "You are mad because I called it a skirt?"

"Why don't ye just spit on it and hae done with it?" Decker raved, waving his arms about.

"You want me to spit on you? I don't under--"

"Why are the pair of you shouting?" interrupted the giant from the door.

"The vixen insulted my plaid!"

Caroline raised her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. "I told him I was sorry, but now he wants me to spit on him!"

"I do not!"

"But you just said--"

"Enough!" roared the giant. "Decker, have you completely taken leave of your wits?"

"Tis the wench's fault, Roland," Decker protested. "She's a contrary, ignorant little heathen."

"I am not a heathen!" Caroline shouted. "I go to mass every Sabbath and every day the rest of the week when I can. And why shouldn't I act contrary? This man keeps insulting me."

"Ye insulted me! Roland, the wench had the nerve to call me an Englishman!"

"I have a name," she said icily. "It is not 'wench' or 'vixen', it is Caroline."

"Well, ye did nae tell me yer name, did ye?"

"If you had any manners at all, you would have asked." She let out a thoroughly unladylike snort. "Humph! And you dare call me ignorant."

"Cease!" Roland shouted. "Decker, since you obviously have taken leave of your wits, maybe you should go in search of them."

"Gladly! I'll leave you to deal with this viper!" Decker stomped towards the door.

"My name is Caroline!" she called after him. She turned to Roland and shrugged. "You see? He insults me at every turn." Decker glared at her, then slammed the cabin door.

The big man turned a reflective gaze on Caroline. She squirmed defensively in the chair. "I am sorry that I upset your friend. I did try to apologize, but for some reason it only made him angrier."

He didn't acknowledge her comment. Instead he flicked a glance at her food tray. "You've barely touched your meal," he observed.

She sighed. This was how she'd gotten into trouble with Decker. "In truth, tis more than I am used to. I fear I am unable to eat it all. May I save the rest for later?"

He nodded and she smiled. "Thank you. I must say you English are very kind to your prisoners."

"Not always," he said gruffly. "You'd best remember that."

Her smile faded and she lowered her eyes. "I see. I shall take heed to your words."

He said nothing more. He merely waited until the boy Wyatt returned with his burden. Caroline sat in the chair, her back stiff and her hands clasped together in her lap. After Wyatt came and went, Roland said, "The water is for you to wash. I assume you are as eager to rid yourself of the canal stink as I was." He chuckled, "If you heathens do bathe that is."

"I am not a heathen," Caroline muttered under her breath. Louder she said, "Thank you. I will try to make use of your gift."

"Try?"

"I--well, I do not think I have the privacy necessary to--" He turned his back on her before she could finish, picked up a drying cloth and moved to drape the towel over the port hole.

When he finished, he said, "There, now you do. My name is Roland and the crazed one is called Decker. Call us if you have need for anything else, Caroline."

She began to thank him, but he picked up the bowl and spoon and brusquely headed for the door. He shut it behind him without a word, immediately sliding the bolt back into place.

Glancing around at the food, wine, bathing materials and especially the towel over the port hole, Caroline shook her head in wonder. Englishmen! They were most confusing, but in an oddly nice way. She shivered and began her bath.

They might appear kind, but she should not forget Roland's warning. She would be careful not to tax her captors' tempers again.

To order or learn more!