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 Man Overboard
THE AHOY, ME HEARTIES SERIES
LANEY POWELL
Copyright © 2022 by Laney Powell
Man Overboard
Part of the Ahoy, Me Hearties! Series
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
Created with Vellum
 To all the brave, bold women
Who reach out and grab what they want.
 Contents
Ahoy, Me Hearties!
Cast of Characters

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

About the Author

Also by Laney Powell
 Ahoy, Me Hearties!

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 Cast of Characters

Shiloh Lavine—Daughter of Everett Lavine, does administrative work

for Lavinian Lights Industries
Everett Lavine—Father of Shiloh Lavine, husband of Olivia Lavine,
founder of Lavinian Lights Industries
Olivia Lavine—Mother of Shiloh Lavine, wife of Everett Lavine,
founder of Lavinian Lights Industries. Passed away three years prior.
Derek “Cane” Turnado—former Navy SEAL, owner of the Sea
Glass and leader of the crew that works on the eastern side of the
Atlantic Ocean
Neville “Kinz” Kinsey—first mate on the Sea Glass, former Navy
SEAL and teammate of Cane.
Ambrose “Doc” Givens—mechanic and technical wizard on the
Sea Glass, former Navy SEAL and teammate of Cane.
Pytor Markovich—oligarch of unknown origins, reputed to be
from eastern Europe or Russia, smuggler of anything for the right
price.
Timothy Reynold—former SEAL teammate of Cane, Kinz, and
Doc. Killed by Pyotr Markovich.
Monica Reynold—Timothy Reynold’s widow.
 Chapter One

Shiloh

I can feel something warm on my face . I t ’ s not warm now that I think
about it. It’s hot. Boiling. It’s burning, and itching, and I want—no, I
need—to scratch it, but I can’t seem to find my arm.
Oh.
There it is. It’s off to the side, and there’s something tickling at
my fingers. Nibbling? Good lord, I hope not. Because I can’t move,
can’t seem to make any part of me do anything. All I can do is feel.
I don’t feel good.
My eyes hurt. They’re shut, but I can see the light through my
eyelids. The light hurts.
My skin is burning.
Where am I?
Where’s Dad?
At that word, Dad—I felt
It’s an ache, as though someone hit me with a hammer right in
the chest, and it envelops me.
Where’s Dad?
The hammer hits me again. The memory of how I got here, in
this raft, by myself returns. Even though I’d be happy to never think
of it again.
There’s no way I can ignore it.
 Unlike the light burning through my eyelids, my mind goes to the
dark. I’m not burning up with heat, but in the middle of the night.
Before I was here. When I was on the boat, before…
Was it last night? The night before last? I don’t know. What I do
know is that it wasn’t bright outside.
It’s dark outside, and my entire world is moving up and down,
side to side. I can’t keep my feet. I’m grabbing onto things, but it
doesn’t help. Trying to walk makes my hips hurt, as I keep bumping
into something.
Hands reach for me. “Honey, you have to go.”
Dad.
“No,” I said, pulling him close. He’s stable in a world that won’t
stop moving. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Honey, please. I did this. I knew it was a possibility. I took the
risk.” The boat we’re on shudders as if to agree with him.
We’re on a boat.
His words reach me.
It was a risk. A gamble. And it’s failed.
“I took it with you!”
“No,” his voice is calm, firm.
“Dad, no, please.” My eyes burn, this time with tears as I try to
protest.
A part of my brain realizes I’m remembering something that
already happened, something I can’t change, something that fate
has already set.
I can’t do anything but remember.
Dad’s voice comes at me from far away. “Go, sweetie. This is on
me. I will not let you pay the price for my decision.”
“Our decision,” I said, trying again even as I knew that I’d
already lost.
Dad was fiddling with something, putting it around me, sliding
my arms through straps. The life vest, the one that would inflate
once I got into the water. Even with all the noise, I could hear the
click of the snap as he secured the vest around me. “You need to go.
Come on, we’ll do it together.”
 “Only if you come with me!” I clutch at his arm even as he leads
me through the galley and up the small set of stairs.
Outside, the night is dark and ferocious. The seas are angry,
rolling, lacking in pattern and direction. I fell against the wheel,
which we'd secured in place earlier to prevent something like my fall
from taking us off course.
Not that it matters.
Not now.
“We talked about this, and you agreed,” Dad shouted over the
wind and the roar of the water. “You promised me, Shiloh!”
“No, Dad! Please!” Spray wets my face, but it’s already wet from
the tears that won’t stop falling.
“Come on, honey, I can’t do this alone.” He reaches for the
lifeboat that is secured along the railing. “I need you to get ready.”
He pulls on the cord, and I see the neon of the raft blossom into
existence.
“Dad, come with me!”
“No, honey.” He stops what he’s doing, reaching out to touch my
face for a moment. “It’s important that you live, and it’s important
that they know I didn’t. I’m going to stay here with the Olivia. He’ll
think he got us both. It will keep you safe.” He handed me the go
bag we’d prepared. The one we’d taken such care and time with.
The one that would change everything.
He was right in that we’d talked about this, but I never thought it
would happen.
With Dad holding onto me, I step over the railing, taking my
time. I don’t want to fall into the ocean, and then have to fight to
get into the raft. It’s set up so that you can get in if you’re in the
water, but now? When everything is black and dark and scary? No,
thanks.
I fall into the raft and turn to look at Dad, who is leaning on the
railing, both hands gripping the metal.
“I love you! Please come with me!”
From the light on the top of the raft, I can see him shaking his
head. He blows me a kiss, and pulls a knife from his pocket.
 In slow motion, I see him cut the red line that holds the raft to
the boat.
“Dad!” I scream and reach for him.
The white hull of the boat is in front of me, and then I see stars,
and nothing more.

Three Weeks Earlier

“S he ’ s a beauty , isn ’ t she ?” Dad runs his hands along the white hull
that is gleaming in the morning sunlight. “Your mother would have
loved this.”
I smile. We’ve been waiting for this, scheduling the pick-up for
the end of our tour, so that we’d be free to take our time, get to
know her, and enjoy ourselves.
“She is,” I agree. “Mom would have loved this.”
We walk along the dock until reaching the stern. Light of Olivia
had been painted in blue and gold script across the slanted surface,
the glitter in the gold sparkling even more brightly than the white of
the hull.
Olivia is—was—my mom. She passed away from cancer two
years ago. Dad and I took care of her to the end, putting the
business on the back burner as we soaked up every minute with the
most important person in our lives.
The three of us were founders and owners of Lavinian Lights
Industries, a play on our last name of Lavine. Dad and Mom both did
motivational speaking, based on growing up as the children of Peace
Corps workers. That’s how they’d met. Their parents were assigned
together in Benin on the west coast of Africa, working to improve
water systems in the areas they lived in.
According to both Mom and Dad, it had not been love at first
sight. Mom was adamant that she’d disliked Dad intensely, but Dad
always laughed and said she was fooling herself.
 They’d met again after college, when they came to visit their
parents, and at that point, whatever had been in the past fell away.
It was love at second sight.
They’d been together ever since.
Both of them had followed their parents into the Peace Corps
until I came along. Then, they worked together in a carpentry
business, until my dad was asked to speak at a local convention
about some of the work he’d done.
After his talk, the organizer came up to him, telling him that he
was wasted in carpentry, and he needed to be out speaking to
others.
Lavinian Light Industries was born.
It had been the three of us for twenty-two years until Mom got
cancer. The cancer started as a lump under her arm, and within six
months, she was gone.
For a while, I wasn’t sure what would happen to me and Dad.
But slowly, he began to speak again, and I took up where I’d left off
—managing the back side of a small business, keeping speaking
dates booked, and getting us from place to place.
But I couldn’t deny that things had changed.
We’d spent the last eight months in Europe, where Dad had
ordered this boat, the Light of Olivia. It was a love letter to my
mom, something they always said they’d do when they retired.
After all this time, after all the planning and talking and debating
—we were here.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
Dad turned to me. “I’m really happy. I love what we do, but it’s
not the same without Mom.”
Tears sprang to my eyes at his words, unbidden and completely
out of my control. I took his hand. “I know. It’s not.”
“But this—this is what she wanted for us, even right up to the
end.”
“Then let’s go,” I said.
And we did.
It had been wonderful, sailing down the coast, stopping in small
ports through Spain and then Portugal, and then Spain again. We’d
crossed the straights of Gibraltar and then began our trek along the
coast of Africa. Mom had chosen cremation, asking Dad if he’d toss
some of her ashes in Benin, where they’d met, where it had all
begun for them.
It was a love letter to Mom, a pilgrimage, a journey of joy and
hope and learning to live again.
Until we’d run into Pyotr Markovich in the marina during a stop in
Senegal
After Mom died, Dad’s talks changed. How could it be otherwise?
For Dad, he became more motivated to help people. One thing he’d
discovered was the massive amount of human trafficking that was
happening. Dad had talked about men like Pyotr, and Pyotr
specifically. Pyotr Markovich was a smuggler. His favorite things to
smuggle, outside of selling weapons to people who really shouldn’t
have them, was young women out of eastern Europe.
Dad and I had come across some of the women who’d gotten
away, and it had infuriated us both. Not that there were that many
of these women. Normally, the only way one got away was if she
died.
Which told me all I ever needed to know.
It wasn’t long before Pyotr heard some of what Dad was saying.
He made it clear that if Dad and I wanted to live, Dad needed to
shut his mouth.
I could have told him that threats wouldn’t work.
Dad talked even more loudly about Pyotr Markovich than before
and helped rescue seven young women who were being trafficked.
Now here we were.
The Light of Olivia was sinking, and I had no choice but to go
into the sea.

Present Day
T he memories of how I came to be here rushed at me. It felt like
standing in front of an oncoming train, and I wasn’t ready for all of
them.
“No,” I said.
At least, I thought I spoke out loud.
I don’t know. It hurt to move anything at the moment.
Something sounded in the distance. A horn?
Oh, no. Was it Pyotr?
He was the reason I was here, burning up in the light, by myself.
With everything hurting.
This was all Pyotr Markovich’s fault.
If it Pyotr, I was going to end up like my Dad.
I lifted a hand, still unable to open my eyes. I let go of
everything I knew, everything I was, everything I’d been.
It was the only way.
I’d have to take my chances.
Something bumped against me, against my boat. Something?
Someone?
“Help.” The word came out harsh and cracked. “Help.”
 Chapter Two

Cane

I scanned the horizon , the binoculars warm against my face . T hey ’ d

been sitting in the sun on top of the console.
Nothing.
Nothing but blue sea. Which is exactly what I wanted to see.
It allowed us to blend in.
Never one to call attention to myself, I wanted it even less now.
Not when we were so close to finally finishing this job.
This one was personal. It didn’t just feel personal—it was
personal. Pyotr Markovich had killed one of my team, back when I
was still a SEAL. We couldn’t touch him then. I worked for the
United States of America, and because of a lot of bullshit that was
just cover for another rich asshole, he got away with it.
But I was a private citizen now, and as off the grid as I could get.
Not that anyone could really be off the grid, but we got pretty close.
Kinz, my right-hand guy, came onto the bridge. “How are we
looking?”
“Nothing but fish and the deep blue sea,” I said, giving him a grin
as I handed over the binoculars.
He trusted my word, but like me, he verified. Always. That’s how
we were, how it was. We’d been assigned to the same team from
day one, and worked well together, without the need for a lot of
conversation. Sometimes, we didn’t even need words.
 Which made our current venture—or maybe I should call it an
adventure—much easier to keep running smoothly.
“We hear from our guy at the marina?” Kinz asked as he peered
through the binoculars.
I nodded, even though he wasn’t looking my way. “We did. The
yacht left on time.”
“Cargo on board?”
“As far as anyone could tell. There was a lot of movement around
their slip the night before last.”
Kinz lowered the binoculars and looked at me then. “The right
kind of movement?”
It was a fair question. Pyotr Markovich moved a lot of things.
Guns were just one thing he illegally transported for the highest
bidder. We planned to relieve him of the latest shipment and return
it to the government from which it had been stolen. There was a
reward for the return of all the weapons, and normally, I would have
been all about the reward.
But this was personal.
Outside of our costs, the reward would go to help Timothy
Reynold’s widow, and their two kids. Kids that had lost their father
because of Pyotr damn Markovich. He’d shot Tim point blank, his
face wreathed in the smug smile that all villainous assholes seemed
to have.
So, this was for Tim.
Not only that, but I had also arranged for governmental
authorities to be tipped off after we took back the weapons. We
were in international waters, but there were several governments
that would be happy to get their hands on Markovich.
It was a perfect plan, one that had been percolating with me for
over a year, ever since I got out.
I’d been lucky to finish all three of my tours without any actual
injury, outside of the normal wear and tear of being a SEAL. Okay,
and one small gunshot to my leg. That hardly counted at all. It was
on the last tour we’d lost Tim, and his death changed something in
me. I didn’t have any family outside my dad. I wasn’t married. I
didn’t have any children, or anyone at all. I had just turned thirty,
and I felt a hundred years old as I stared at the place in our team
where Tim should be.
No one would miss me.
Well, Dad would.
And I’d miss him.
I’d bought a house for us in the middle of my second tour, one
that was remote enough to feel you were out in the country but
close enough to a town that we didn’t lack for anything. He loved it,
loved puttering around in the garden he’d planted, taking care of his
plants and various household tasks. His only complaint was that I
didn’t come home enough.
He didn’t love the sea as I did.
Which brought me here, to the deck of Night Beauty. A
Sunseeker Predator 65, she was low and sleek. Her navy-blue hull
kept her hidden at night, a plus in our business. But she was strong
and well-built and could handle being out on the open ocean. Also, a
plus in our business.
Some of my teammates thought I was crazy for getting out with
thirteen years in, rather than staying in and getting my full twenty
years and all the retirement benefits. But seeing Tim die, knowing
how easily it could happen to me—it had changed me.
It wasn’t worth it to me anymore.
Besides, I liked my life much better now. I still had some of my
teammates around me. I was on my boat, a hell of a lot better than
the ones I traveled on as a SEAL. And I made my own calls.
This time, when we caught Pyotr Markovich, he wouldn’t be
walking away grinning on a technicality. He’d be hauled away in
handcuffs, off to live a life in a prison cell.
And that would be enough for me.
Even though it was my boat, and I made the calls, the rest of my
crew agreed with me. We’d all decided to forfeit our share of the
reward money to make sure that Tim’s wife, Monica, had all that she
needed.
She’d never know it was us. Just that a brother SEAL was looking
out for her on Tim’s behalf.
I suppose we could be called pirates if one were being nit picky.
 But we didn’t steal from decent people. We stole from those who
stole from others, harmed and hurt in order to make money, to get
where they were. Then we sold off the goods, or traded them, or
whatever, and after keeping a share for ourselves and the running of
the boat, we gave it all away.
To the people that our marks hurt. Those who lost their lives or
were forever changed.
It was our way of doing some good in the world, evening the
scales.
That was one thing that I’d loved about being a SEAL. There was
a lot of justice served in the moment.
There was also a lot of bureaucratic bullshit that allowed true
criminals to walk away. It was exactly how Pyotr Markovich was still
a free man.
But not for long.
No, not for long, you bastard, I thought, seeing the smug smile
on the man’s face as he walked away again. Walked right over Tim’s
still body, grinning like he’d just won a prize.
I couldn’t wait to wipe that grin off his smug bastard face.
“Hello? Earth to Cane?” Kinz waved a hand in front of my face.
“What? Sorry.” I blinked, coming back to the present. “What did
you say?”
“I said, you want to go over it again?”
I looked at Kinz, one of my closest friends, the guy who made all
this work. “You worried about something? Something I should
know?”
Kinz shrugged, shifting his shoulders as he did. “I dunno. I just
feel the need to go over it.”
Neville Kinsey, which was Kinz’s full name, had been famous for
his ‘feelings’. We all learned to pay heed to them after he
continuously called problems in training. Some of the guys felt he
was too gloom and doom, but I’d never seen it that way.
Kinz was careful, methodical, and committed to the success of
the mission, whatever the mission was. Like me, he was single,
although not for a lack of trying. He’d been married and divorced
twice since I’d known him. He was older than me, having put in his
twenty.
Although I supposed it was a good thing. If he was married, he
wouldn’t be here, out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean off the
coast of Africa, waiting to ambush a criminal piece of shit.
And I was damn glad he was here.
The door to the bridge opened and Doc came in. The third man
on our crew, Doc, kept the engines, the electronics, all things
mechanical, digital or technical in excellent working order. He was
also a former member of our SEAL team, and like Kinz, he’d put in
twenty-plus years before getting out. He’d been married, but she’d
passed away after a car accident when we’d been deployed on the
other side of the world.
So here we were. Three former SEALs, all here because we had
nowhere else to be, all focused on righting wrongs.
Kind of like Batman, I thought with a smile. If Batman was even
more badass and had a better boat.
“What’s up?” I asked Doc.
“Nothing. Everything’s purring away. I came up to see what’s for
dinner.” He gave Kinz a pointed look.
“Since we’ve had a lot of fish lately, I have some steak
marinating for tonight,” Kinz said without batting an eye. He was our
chef on board, and there was no one better.
We took our food seriously.
“That’s sounds good.” Doc nodded.
“Better than we used to eat,” I said. “Listen to us now.”
“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?” Kinz glanced at me.
“Upward and onward?”
I laughed. “Yeah, we are.”
Doc leaned on the console, looking out over the bow into the
water. “What’s that?” He lifted his chin toward somewhere off the
front of the boat.
“What?” I turned, squinting out across the waves.
Kinz had the binoculars up to his face before I spoke. “He’s right.
There’s something there. It’s bright. Neon yellow.”
“A boat?” I asked, still not seeing anything.
 “Mmmm,” Kinz made a noncommittal noise. “Um… yep. It’s a
boat. A life raft.”
“What in the hell is it doing out here?” I muttered.
We didn’t need any complications. Not now.
“Looks like it’s been beaten to hell. It’s not sitting right,” Kinz
said, handing the binoculars off to Doc. “The top part looks like it’s
deflated.”
Doc peered through the binoculars, not speaking. When he
lowered them, he said, “Agreed. Something’s off. And it’s civilian.”
Meaning, someone not military, not government, not official. That
was both good and bad.
“I haven't heard any distress calls,” I said. We all had radios in
our cabins, and there was always someone on watch, twenty-four
hours a day when we were at sea. “You hear anything last night?” I
asked Kinz.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Weather was shit, but it was quiet
otherwise.”
I sighed. “All right. Well, man overboard. We’d better see who it
is.”
The other two men said nothing. None of us wanted any
complications, not right now, not with everything on the line. But
there was an unwritten rule at sea. If you saw someone in need of
help, you offered aid. Not everyone followed that anymore, but we
did.
“All right. I’ll get us over there, and you two go see what Mama
Ocean’s tossed our way.” Doc moved toward the controls.
Again, without words, Kinz and I went out on deck, Kinz to the
small dinghy we kept at the stern, and me to the bow. I wanted to
get a good look at the raft before we dragged it aboard.
Doc kept us moving slowly toward it, giving me time to observe.
Kinz had been right. The top of the raft, which I guessed had an
inflatable tube under the canopy, was deflated on one side. There
was an opening, and I could see something thin and white dangling
from the opening.
As we got closer, my heart jumped in my chest.
The small, white dangling thing was an arm.
 “Kinz!” I shouted as I walked toward the stern.
“Yeah?”
“There’s someone in there. Arm hanging out of the opening.”
He didn’t reply, but began lowering the dinghy over the side.
Most life rafts had sea anchors that trailed behind the raft, slowing
the raft’s movement and helping to keep it upright, even in some of
the worst conditions. Depending on how and why the raft was
launched from its mother boat, there could be other lines dragging
behind the raft. The last thing we needed was to catch lines in our
propeller when we were trying to rescue someone.
Better to have the dinghy get the raft, and we could secure it to
the Night Beauty after making sure there was nothing that would
hurt our boat.
It kept us all safe. Out here, you were on your own.
Doc slowed Night Beauty to an idle, which was made easier by
the calm surface of the water. It had been blowing like hell last
night, but this morning was low key, in terms of what was standard
out here in the open water.
I watched as Kinz maneuvered the dinghy closer and caught a
line off one end of the life raft. The arm that was dangling from the
opening never moved.
Dear sweet hell. Please let it not be a body. That would mean
questions at the next port we were in, and while we had a suitable
cover, we needed no more questions.
The dinghy swung round, towing the raft slowly, and as it got
closer to Night Beauty, I stepped down onto the swim platform off
the stern.
“Haven’t heard a thing,” Kinz called as he passed me, letting me
know that whoever was in the life raft was still and quiet.
Again, it could mean a body, or it could mean someone lying in
wait. I touched the pistol that lived at my back to make sure it was
there. I knew it was there, but it was a habit.
Kinz tossed the red line to me, freeing the raft from the dinghy.
As I caught it, I towed the life raft in closer, watching the arm.
Just as the dinghy came alongside the stern, the arm lifted, the
fingers fluttering a little.
 I tied it off and pulled the raft around to peer inside.
A woman was lying on the floor of the raft. My impression was of
dark hair framing a pale face, and eyes that seemed bright green
even in the shadow of the inside of the life raft before she closed her
eyes.
A rush of something unfamiliar washed over me, rendering me
momentarily speechless.
What had just happened?
Her arm went up higher and her mouth moved.
“Help,” she whispered as her arm dropped. “Help.”
 Chapter Three

Shiloh

I t was daylight . I knew that , because I opened my eyes and close them
instantly upon seeing the bright sunlight.
There were people around me. I could hear the voices, hear
what sounded like a motor, or something like a motor.
Where was I?
“You’re all right,” a man’s voice said.
He sounded calm, soothing almost.
I tried to open my eyes again, but once more, it was too bright,
and it made me tired. I gave up.
“We got you,” the man said. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but I felt a shiver of fear.
Who was ‘we’? There was something… I knew I was supposed to be
getting away from something. Or someone. Something I was
supposed to remember.
But who?
It was too tiring to think about. Whatever it was, I couldn’t do
anything about it.
I let the darkness wash over me.
It was just too bright.
A s I woke , I inhaled deeply. It was quiet, far quieter than what I
remembered. I moved, testing out where I could be, and my hand
met the soft fabric. Sheets.
Lifting my arm to cover my eyes, I carefully opened them,
mindful of the brightness that had been so blinding recently.
Instead, I was in a dark room, although it was still daylight. I could
see the sun coming through the edges of a curtain that covered the
rectangular window off to my right.
The room itself was small and compact. Dark wood, I thought.
The sheets, however, besides being soft, were bright white, and I
was comfortable. Warm. Dry.
Dry.
My mouth went dry, and panic hit me.
Dad.
Oh, my god.
Everything from the last day or so came back to me—the boat,
something hitting us, something that we’d thought was the storm,
and turned out to be far more dangerous.
When I’d gotten into the life raft, the boat had been sinking.
Dad’s beautiful boat, his love letter to my mom. It was probably
at the bottom of the ocean now.
With Dad.
Tears filled my eyes and overflowed them, spilling down my
cheeks. I would probably never know for sure, but he’d planned to
sacrifice himself to save me.
Which meant I could never be Shiloh Lavine again.
Who was I? It had been hard enough to lose Mom. Now I’d lost
Dad.
I was an orphan.
Both Mom and Dad were only children. I didn’t have the aunts
and uncles so many of my friends had growing up, the cousins that
were always around.
It had been the three of us.
And I’d needed nothing more.
Now it was just me.
And I couldn’t be Shiloh Lavine anymore.
 The tears overwhelmed me again.
After I’d cried for a while, but silently, because I had no idea
where I was, I sat up, and made my way to a sink in the corner of
the room. Washing my face, I took a better look around me, trying
to get a sense of my surroundings.
I was on a boat. Obviously. This boat was far fancier than the
Light of Olivia. Light of Olivia was—had been—a sailboat, a custom-
built Oyster 49, sleek and white and beautiful. This felt larger, more
substantial. I’d say it was a powerboat, rather than a sailboat. We
were moving, but we weren’t heeled over, which we’d be if we were
under sail.
Oh, no. Had I been picked up by the person who’d shot
something at our boat? I was sure that it had been Markovich who
had sunk our boat. He’d put a hole in it. Because that was what
happened; that’s why the Light of Olivia sank, taking my dad and all
I loved from me.
Yes, there’d been a storm, and it wasn’t comfortable. But
something hit the boat, something in the front, up toward the bow.
I’d been sloshing through water as I’d made my way onto the
deck.
Dad thought it was deliberate as well, a move by Pyotr, because
who else could it be? No one else had anything against us.
Only Pyotr Markovich.
And now, because of him, I was alone, an orphan. I’d have to
change my name, hide my former life.
Even to my rescuer, so long as it wasn’t Pyotr.
I finished washing my face off, getting rid of some of the sale.
Then I dried my face with a towel, glancing at the mirror above the
sink.
What I saw made me gasp.
On the left side of my face, just above my eyebrow, was a huge
purple bruise. It traveled down into my eye socket, giving me a
black eye.
What had happened?
I thought back to the last minutes with Dad.
The hull.
 I’d hit my head against the hull after getting into the raft, trying
to see him once more.
God, it looked horrible.
But it would serve me well.
Oh, shit. I gripped the edges of the sink, thinking. I needed to
find out if the life raft was still here. When we’d gotten the raft, Dad
had added things to the rescue bag, things that would make it
possible for us to disappear and start over.
We’d always known this would be a possibility, that our taking a
stand against someone who dealt in arms and human trafficking
could go badly wrong.
So he’d set up a new life. One that started with my go bag.
I was still Shiloh. But now I’d be Angela. A name that lots of
women had, unlike Shiloh.
Damn.
The tears came again, making my face in the mirror blur as it
scrunched up. I walked back to bed and crawled in, pulling the
blankets up to my chin.
Tears were still sliding down my face, and onto the pillow as I
drifted back to sleep.

A soft click and a whisper of movement brought me awake. I

opened my eyes to see a man standing next to the bed, a tray in his
hands, frozen as he watched me.
“Hello?” I whispered. My voice sounded scratchy. No wonder, as
my throat was raw and sore.
“You’re awake. I came down to check on you, make sure you are
still among the living.”
My throat ached as I tried not to cry. Yes. I was alive. Dad was
gone. Unable to speak, I nodded.
“Are you hungry? Do you think you could eat?” He held the tray
out toward me.
“I… I think so,” I rasped out.
 “Here. I’ll set it down here, and you take your time.” He put the
tray down toward the bottom of the bed. “I don’t think you broke
anything,” he added.
“What?”
“Your face.” He made a motion with his hand around his own
face. “It’s badly bruised, but we checked out you when we brought
your raft on board. I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, but getting hurt in the course of the day used to be an
occupational hazard,” he said, one side of his mouth turning up in a
grin. “It’s not pretty, but you’ll heal with no permanent damage.”
Little did he know. I’d never stop missing my dad. “Where am I?”
He was awfully friendly if this was Pyotr Markovich’s boat.
“You’re on my boat, the Night Beauty. We saw your raft, and we
couldn’t leave you there.” The grin was a full on smile this time,
showing white teeth in a tanned face.
I noticed then that this man was young, maybe a little older than
me, and quite good looking. He wore his hair short, almost in a buzz
cut, but long enough on top that I could see he had dark hair. I
couldn’t tell anything about his eyes, except that they crinkled when
he smiled, and he looked kind.
Not like a human trafficker or gun runner.
But maybe that’s what they looked like, to make people trust
them? “Who is we?” I asked.
“My teammates and me,” he said as he glanced around.
It wasn’t a shifty look, but I found I glanced around as well. “Are
they in here?” I asked.
The man stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter.
“No, they’re not here. I was just listening.”
“For what?”
“To the boat, making sure she is underway.”
“Where are we? I mean, I know we’re on a boat, but where?”
“How did you end up in a life raft?” He answered my question
with a question. “Where were you headed?”
I hesitated, because the ache returned to my throat as I thought
about Dad. “It was during the storm. Something happened. I don’t
know.” I held my hand to my forehead, gently touching the bruise. “I
don’t remember. At least, not everything. There are flashes of
things, but nothing that feels complete.”
To my surprise, he nodded. “That happens sometimes when you
hit your head. Do you remember how you did it?”
The white of the hull came up to my face again, and I winced,
unable to stop myself. “I think I hit it as I got in the life raft,” I said.
“What kind of boat?”
“A blue one?” I posed the answer as a question. I had to
pretend, had to be foggy with my memory. To not tell the whole
truth. Otherwise, Dad’s sacrifice would mean nothing. The ache in
my throat intensified as the memory of the Light of Olivia’s white,
gleaming hull with the stripe of gold along the top edge showed in
my mind.
He smiled again. “What’s your name?”
He still hadn't answered my question about where we were,
which was shifty. “I’m Angela.” I stopped, cocking my head,
pretending to think. “Angela Kennedy.”
“You sure?” His grin widened.
“I think so?” I made myself smile back, even though I wanted to
scream and cry and mourn my dad and my life that was now lost. “I
wish I knew for sure what happened. This is so frustrating!” The last
word came out angry, which wasn’t an act.
I was furious.
It was better to be furious than to give into the grief that
threatened to completely engulf me.
“So, where are we?” I asked again.
“We’re off the coast of Sierra Leone,” he said. “Where were you
going? We might be able to get you close to wherever it was.”
“Benin,” I said, without thinking about the fact that Shiloh Lavine
had been going to Benin.
Although if I thought about it, Dad and I hadn’t given Angela
Kennedy any plans. But I wished I’d said something else. “What’s
your name?” I asked.
“I’m Derek. Derek Turnado.”
“Tornado?” I asked.
 He smiled again. He really was a good-looking man, and the part
of me not battered, bruised and mourning noted that fact.
Again.
He also had sexy… hands.
“No, Turnado. It’s all right. Everyone makes that mistake.”
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my face warm.
He laughed. “Seriously. It’s fine. You can call me Cane.”
“How did you get Cane from Derek?”
“Short for Hurricane, because so many people thought my last
name was tornado.”
“Oh, okay. That makes sense, strange as it sounds.”
“That’s how military life is. You end up with some off the wall
nickname that always requires explanation to anyone not on your
team.”
“Okay, Cane it is.”
“Nice to meet you, Angela.” He smiled at me.
And my insides melted. He was just… so… good looking.
Handsome. Sexy. His hands were powerful. Capable. Made me think
about what I’d like those hands to do. To me.
Good grief. I didn’t have the time for this. “Did… did I have a bag
with me in the life raft?” I hoped it made it, that it didn’t fall out, or
something like that. I couldn’t remember everything, but I
remember flashes of light, lightning, and being tossed around in the
raft. I’d thought it was supposed to be stable. When in the middle of
an angry ocean, the term stable was a relative one.
“You did. A couple of them.”
“Great,” I said, letting out a breath I didn’t know I’d been
holding. Everything would be lost. It would all be for nothing if I
didn’t have what I needed to live my life as Angela Kennedy.
Dad and I had planned it carefully.
After he started speaking out against Pyotr Markovich and men
like him, plenty of people let us know what a dangerous career move
it was. That’s when Dad had the idea that we’d disappear if we had
to.
Buying the boat had been part of it. We were going to disappear.
The Light of Olivia would become The White Swan, and we would be
James and Angela Kennedy. He’d gotten us new identities, new
paperwork, everything we needed.
Except now, I thought that he might have not done it for James
and Angela, but just Angela. He’d said he needed to be dead to keep
me safe.
Had that been his plan all along? Tears welled up again at the
idea.
I really needed to stop crying. There’d be time for that when I
got to safety.
Which meant I needed to learn more about Derek Turnado, and
then get the hell off his boat.
Wiping at my eyes, ignoring the interested stare of Derek, I
forced a smile across my face. “So when are you planning on going
into port?” I asked.
 Chapter Four

Cane

S he was lying . I wasn ’ t sure what she was lying about , but I’ d seen
enough people lie right to my face that I knew she wasn’t telling me
the truth.
There was truth in there, and the tears that kept falling at
different times were real. Of that, I was sure.
But the rest of it?
Lying.
The problem was, I couldn’t tell which part was lying.
And I didn’t have the luxury of time to figure it out.
Part of me didn’t care. She was beautiful, and sexy, and
something about her made me feel territorial, and a hell of a lot like
a cave dweller claiming his woman.
Except she wasn’t mine.
She also wasn’t my problem. That was Kinz’s voice in my head.
We had a job, a plan. We needed to get it done, to stay on
schedule, because this chance wouldn’t come again.
I looked at Angela, and saw that she was still smiling, although
her smile was wobbly and not fully there.
Lying did that to you.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “We’re in the middle of our trip, and not
planning on port right away.” I had to put away the way she made
me feel, the thoughts she made me think.
 They were pretty dirty.
I wondered what she’d be like… I stopped myself. No. I didn’t
have the time or space for such things.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
“We’re headed to Cape Town,” I said. “We have a transport
there.”
“What do you transport?” Her head tilted to one side.
Her green eyes bored into me, and even with the shiner and the
enormous bruise on her forehead, she was beautiful. Now that she
was not soaking wet, the hair that I’d thought was dark was a
medium brown, with signs of being in the sun along the top of her
head.
I could see it even in the cabin's gloom.
A part of me I thought was permanently sleeping stirred at the
sight of her.
Beautiful. Brave. A survivor.
Hot. Sexy. Desirable.
“People, mostly. People who need a ride from point A to point B.”
I forced myself not to look at her, or her mouth, or the way it
moved… because it made me wonder what it would look like..
No. I stopped myself again.
For fuck’s sake. I was like a teenager over here.
“People hiding out?” One eyebrow went up into the bruise, and
she winced.
So, the injury was real.
I hated to be skeptical, but you never knew. Even with
ridiculously sexy women.
“Maybe.” My shoulders lifted into a shrug. “I don’t ask.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
“Don’t ask, don’t know,” I said. “What my clients do is not my
business.” And since I didn’t really have clients, it definitely wasn’t
my business. Like I said, ‘pirate’ wasn’t something to put on a
business card. The transport business was a cover for what we really
did.
“Hmmm.” Her tone was decidedly neutral.
 “If you’re hungry, there’s plenty. I went light since I figured your
stomach might be upset.” I gestured at the tray, which held rice,
applesauce, a banana, and a bottle of water.
Angela glanced down at the tray. “Thank you. That’s kind. I need
to eat, but you’re right.” She gave me a weak smile. “I don’t feel
great.”
“Well, take your time. There’s no rush. At least, not on our end.”
“I’d like to hire you,” she said.
“What?”
“You do transport. I’d like to hire you.”
“That’s not going to work,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I told you. We’re already on a job. I have another one
after that, around the cape. We can drop you off when we go to pick
up our client.”
Angela was shaking her head. “That’s too far away.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s the best I can do.”
She looked down, and I could see her dismay at my words. But
there was nothing I could do. Or rather, there was nothing I would
do. We had a schedule; we had a job. And we had a tiny window of
opportunity. She was beautiful, and I felt for her, but that didn’t
negate my goal.
I ignored the fact that my body wanted her like it had wanted no
one else in ages. Not important now. At least, not important enough
to change our plans. Because after months of planning, no one was
going to get in our way. Not when Markovich was this close.
“Thank you,” Angela said, not looking up. “I think I’ll try to eat
something.”
I knew a dismissal when I heard it. “You’re welcome. If you need
anything, or you don’t feel right—”
“Why wouldn’t I feel right?” Her head came up, and her green
eyes were flashing.
“Because you have a bump the size of a small country on your
head,” I said.
“Oh, right? I’d forgotten.” Her hand went up to touch her
forehead, stopping before she touched the bump.
 “You have a lot going on. Anyway, if you need anything, you can
call on the intercom.” I pointed at the ship’s communication intercom
by the door. “Me, or Doc, or Kinz.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re the rest of the team,” I said, moving toward the door.
“One of us is always on watch.”
“Thank you,” she said again, all her earlier fire gone.
“You’re welcome. Try to rest,” I said. Then I was out the door,
closing it softly behind me.
If she was still on board and alert when we met up with
Markovich’s yacht, I’d have to activate the lock on it. Maybe we’d get
lucky, and Miss Angela Kennedy would sleep through the whole
thing.
When I’d bought Night Beauty, she didn’t have the automatic
locks. But we’d added the locks to each of the cabins, just in case.
You never knew when you might have to lock someone in. In the
last year, we’d had no cause to use them.
This might be the first time.
Damn it. The last thing I needed at this moment was a
complication, and Angela Kennedy had the potential to be a big
complication.
Before heading back to my real life, I stopped, leaning against
the bulkhead, forcing myself to breathe deeply and give my cock and
the rest of my body a chance to settle.
What was it about Angela that made me react this way?
I went back up to the bridge, where Doc was at the helm and
Kinz was sitting at the small table, reading.
Kinz looked up. “Well?”
“Name’s Angela Kennedy, doesn’t remember much outside of a
blue boat, hitting her head on it while getting into the raft,
remembers that she’s supposed to have a bag with her, wants to get
to Benin something fierce, and while that’s all she told me, that’s not
her entire story.”
“So she’s lying?”
I nodded. “About something.”
“You think it’s a trap for us?”
 I shook my head then. “No, I don’t think this has anything to do
with us, or Markovich. But she’s not telling the whole truth.”
Doc turned then. “Do we care? I mean, I know we’re all
suspicious about everyone else in the world, and don’t believe much
of anything we’re told, but do we care?”
Kinz was the one who answered. “To a point, yes. We’re on a
schedule here, one with no wiggle room. We don’t need her
becoming a complication.”
His words echoed my thoughts.
“She’s already a complication.” Doc turned back to look out over
the ocean. “It doesn’t matter whether or not we need it. She
became one the minute we saw the life raft.”
Kinz looked at me as he set down his book, then rolled his eyes.
“Then what do we do with her, oh wise one?” He directed his
question to Doc.
“Be nice, help her, get her ready to get off the boat, and when
it’s time to meet the yacht, put some sleeping pills in her drink and
lock her in the cabin.”
“What?” I asked, not sure I heard him correctly.
“You heard me.” Doc turned to look at me then. “This isn’t rocket
science, Cane. We need to do what we planned to do. She’s here.
Nothing we can do about that, unless you’re planning on tossing her
back over.”
“Be easier,” Kinz grumbled.
“Yeah, but not right, as you well know. Plus, she’s cute,” Doc
said, cutting his eyes toward me.
“Oh, no, stop that shit right now,” I said.
“Kinz and me, we’re lost causes. But you?” Doc shrugged. “She’s
about your age. And cute as could be.”
“I’d say more pretty than cute,” Kinz said.
“What? Not you, too.” I glared at Kinz.
“Not that I enjoy admitting Doc is right, but he is.”
“Of course I am,” Doc said.
Anyone who tells you that SEALs are all hard ass, bad to the
bone, take no prisoners and live and breathe guns and ammo is
wrong. Well, not entirely wrong. We’re all those things. But we’re
also softies for the people we love.
Maybe because we know what we put on the line for those
people, and all the other people we don’t know.
It didn’t help that this had been a regular topic of discussion ever
since I’d bought the boat.
“Look, she’s got her schedule, obviously. We have ours. We need
to do the job, and then get her to shore,” I said, feeling irritable. “All
without her knowing what we’re doing. We need to get the reward
money and move on.”
There was silence as Doc and Kinz both looked at me, then at
each other.
I ignored them.
“All right. Whatever you say. You’re the captain,” Kinz said, the
sarcasm clear. “She eating?”
“I left her the tray. Told her to call if she needed anything.”
“I’ll keep an ear out,” Doc said.
He was on watch tonight.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. I didn’t want to stick around and hear
about how I was only thirty-one and had plenty of life left in me.
Doc and Kinz were older, although not that much older. To hear them
talk, I was all but a babe in arms.
Back in my cabin, I went over the plan again. Even with picking
up Angela, we were still on track, as long as the course we’d gotten
from our mole at the marina had given us the right information.
If all went well, within the next two days, we’d intercept Pyotr
Markovich’s yacht. We’d take the shipment of arms he had on board,
call the authorities, turn him in and start the process of getting the
reward, and be on our way.
Two days. I just had to get through two days of my team giving
me the side eye and avoiding Angela Kennedy like the plague.
Because even though I’d rather go through some form of torture,
or SEAL hell week again before I’d admit it to anyone other than
myself, they were right.
Angela was beautiful. I’d noticed it when she was in the life raft.
Seeing her awake and talking did nothing to change my impression.
 Even though she was lying, she drew me in.
When I went to bed, her green eyes were glaring at me, like
they’d been when I’d brought her food.
It was the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. Which should
have disturbed me because it put her squarely in the complication
column, but it didn’t.
In fact, it made me smile.
There was one way to handle this, and I’d take care of now. So
that I’d be able to focus.
There was no way someone like Angela would be interested in
me.
But tonight, I could think otherwise.
 Chapter Five

Shiloh (Angela)

I slept fitfully , my dreams filled with flashing lights and cold water .
I was screaming and screaming in my dream, but no one answered.
When I finally opened my eyes and saw the sun streaming through
the curtains, it was a relief.
My relief was short lived as the enormity of my life hit me.
Everything that had happened, everything that I’d lost.
To top it all off, I had nothing to wear.
Someone had changed me, putting me into black sweat shorts
and a blue tee shirt. Knowing that there were only men on board
made that realization even worse, but then I decided I couldn’t do
anything about it.
At least I could say I hadn’t gotten creeper vibes off Derek. Cane.
He said to call him Cane. But he was a Derek. He looked like how I
pictured a Derek; tall, strong, big hands that looked like they would
protect you from all the things that went bump in the night. Hands
that would love you. Hold you. Make you feel good.
The problem with the things that went bump in the night was
that I’d already seen those things.
Well, first things first. I went to the small shower that was off to
one side. This boat must be bigger—and fancier—than ours because
it wasn’t a wet bath. There was a separate shower stall, rather than
the entire room as a shower room. Mindful of the fact that I was still
on a boat with a finite supply of fresh water, I took a short but hot
shower.
Everything I needed in the way of toiletries was there, right down
to a brush.
That was nice.
I put the clothes I’d been wearing back on. Hopefully, my own
clothes were around somewhere. With that happy thought, I peeked
outside my cabin door. This was definitely bigger than our boat. I
stepped into the hallway, noting that there were four other doors
besides mine.
The hallway led to a set of stairs, and I followed them up,
blinking as I came into a salon that shared space with the bridge.
There was a man standing at the wheel, and he turned to me as I
walked into the salon.
“Good morning,” he said, his smile wide and genuine. “I’m Doc.
Breakfast isn’t ready, but there’s coffee and tea in the cubby just
outside the door. Saves us from going all the way aft to the galley.”
“Tea sounds nice,” I said. My voice was still raw. “I’m Angela.”
“Cane told us. Welcome aboard. Go help yourself.” He lifted his
chin in the direction of the cubby.
Following the chin point, I went out the door and saw what Doc
was referring to. It was a cubby that had been set up as a coffee
station. I made myself a large mug of tea. Not wanting to sit alone, I
went back to the bridge, sliding into the u-shaped booth behind the
navigation area, and leaned on the table. “Thank you. I wish I
wasn’t here.” Oh, hell. That slipped out. It made me sound
ungrateful.
Doc just laughed. “I’m sure you do. Who else was on your boat?”
“My dad,” I said, and the tears threatened me yet again. No. No.
I had to stop. I’d have time to process once I got back on land and
put all our plans into motion. Then I could break down whenever I
felt like it.
Not now.
Not now.
“I’m sorry. Is there any chance he got away?” Doc was kind, but
matter of fact.
 I liked it. He didn’t beat around the bush.
“No.” I shook my head. “No chance.”
“I’m sorry,” Doc said again. “It hurts to lose someone.”
“Who did you lose?” I asked, trying to get myself back under
control.
“My wife. I was deployed, and she got into a car accident. I flew
home as soon as I heard what happened, but it was too late.” Doc
spoke carefully. His pain was clear, though.
“I’m sorry.” It was my turn to empathize. “I lost my mom a
couple of years ago.”
“And now your dad, too? You are definitely not lucky.” Doc moved
the wheel a bit, staring out at the sea. “Remind me not to take you
to the casino with me.”
My mouth fell open. Was he mocking me?
Then he turned his head and winked at me. “It sucks hard right
now, kiddo, but it’s going to be bearable. You’ll never be the same,
but you’re going to live, and you’re going to get through it.”
“How do you know?” My voice was a whisper.
“Because I thought losing Bettine would kill me. I came back to
my team with a death wish. What was life without her, right?” He
looked out over the wheel. His face was somber as he turned back
to me. “Then some of my team slapped the shit out of me, told me
Bets would have killed me herself if she could see me now, and
suggested that I take my head out of my backside,” he said.
“I don’t have a team,” I said. I didn’t have anyone. No one at all.
“You have yourself. The belief your parents had in you.”
“How can you tell?”
“You can always tell the kids who have a good relationship with
their parents.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No,” he said as he shook his head, concentrating on steering. “I
wish we’d been able to, but we weren’t. I, of course, love kids. Bets
did, too. But she said she would not adopt and raise a kid alone, not
with me in the SEALs.”
“You were a SEAL?”
 “All three of us were. Me, Kinz, and Cane. All on the same team,
and we all got out around the same time. Then Cane found this
boat, and voila! We were in business.”
“In the transport business,” I said. I wanted to see if he had the
same story that Cane did. Not that I thought he was lying, but this
was an awfully nice boat for a guy who said he was basically a water
taxi.
“Yep,” Doc said. He smiled as he looked over at me. “No more
rules and regs. We take the jobs we want, and look where I live.
Could it be any better?”
Well, there went my theory that Cane hadn’t been honest with
me.
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling confusion and grief and anger all
welling up inside.
“You’ll know, eventually. We’ll be out for a bit, because we’re on
a tight schedule—”
“To Cape Town?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. Checking again.
He nodded.
Again, my theory went down in flames.
Damn it.
Although I wasn’t sure why I was trying to poke holes in the
story my rescuer told me. They’d saved my life, and I should be
grateful.
Maybe I’d been living with the threat of harm for too long.
The door to the salon opened.
A man I hadn’t seen before stuck his head in. “Breakfast,” he
said. Then he noticed me, stopped for a moment to stare hard, and
walked in. “I’m Neville Kinsey,” he said, coming toward me with his
hand out. “How are you feeling?”
“Angela,” I took his hand, which was warm and firm.
He looked to be a similar age to Doc. Younger than my dad, but
older than Cane.
“I’m tired. And grateful. Thank you for picking me up,” I said.
“Call me Kinz. I’m glad we did,” he said. “Your raft took a
beating.”
“It did?” I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
 “Well, you have a good reason.” He pointed at the bruise on my
face. “That’s a hell of a shiner. Cane said you hit the boat on the way
off?”
“I think so,” I said. “My memory is kind of fuzzy.”
“It’ll come back,” Kinz said in the tone of someone who’d hit his
head a lot.
“That’s right. You were a SEAL, too, weren’t you?” I asked.
Kinz gave Doc a sharp glance, but his voice was kind when he
answered. “I was. We’re all former SEALs, although I’m guessing
you knew that already.”
I nodded. “I think it’s nice you choose to work together.”
“No one else would put up with his grumpy ass,” Doc said.
“Speak for yourself, old man,” Kinz shot back.
It was clear they were good friends, with a longstanding
friendship. There was no malice in their words.
“So what’s for breakfast?” Doc asked.
“Waffles, eggs, bacon, and fruit.”
“That sounds delicious,” I said. The mention of food made my
stomach rumble.
It was louder than I thought because Kinz looked at me and
chuckled. “Since it seems you’re hungry, it’s a good thing I made
extra.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
“I’ll be down in a sec,” Doc said.
“All right. Angela, follow me.” Kinz walked back to the door.
I got up, feeling stiff and ten years older than I was. He led the
way down a different hallway than the one I’d come through to get
to the salon from my cabin, and out into a galley with another u-
shaped lounge with a table in the center. The table was loaded with
food, and Cane was already there, head down and eating with the
intensity of someone taking a test.
He looked up as I slid into the booth opposite him. “How are you
feeling this morning?”
“Tired. Stiff. Old,” I said.
Cane laughed, covering his mouth as he did. “You’re younger
than me.”
 “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
He looked younger, but his eyes were older. Interesting.
He was also even better looking than he’d been last night.
Problematic.
“How old are you?” Kinz asked, coming over with a plate for me.
“I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five soon,” I said.
Kinz snorted. “You’re not old. Give yourself a few days, and you’ll
be better. You just got the hell kicked out of you by old Mother
Ocean.”
“It feels like it,” I said.
Doc came in. “Hey, shift over, girlie,” he said.
Feeling self-conscious, I scooted over.
Then Kinz gave Doc a shove, who waved his hand at me.
I scooted over more.
Which put me right next to Cane.
Cane didn’t move, didn’t even look at me, but I felt a shift as I
came within six inches of him.
He smelled good.
Really good.
And before I’d gotten this close to him, all I could smell was
bacon.
He smelled better than bacon. Warm, a hint of spice, and like
he’d just come from the shower. He set down his fork and reached
for the plate of waffles, and I was struck again at how big and
capable his hands looked.
Since I’d never been attracted to anyone’s hands, it was hard not
to stare. I looked down at my plate.
His arm brushed against mine and I felt like a bolt of lightning
had hit me. I just stared at my arm, the part that would never be
the same.
What was happening?
“What are you waiting for?” Cane asked.
“What?” I turned to look at him then, startled out of my
thoughts.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 'That is the story of Finella of Fettercairn,' said she, closing the book.

'And to this awful legend of the dark ages, which only wants blue-fire,
lime-light, and a musical accompaniment to set it off, you owe your name?'
said he, laughingly.

'Yes—it was grandfather's whim.'

'It is odd that you—the belle of the last London season, should be named
after such a grotesque old termagant!'

She looked up at him smilingly, and then, as their eyes met, the
expression of that glance exchanged beside the well on the hills came into
them again; heart spoke to heart; he bent his face nearer hers, and his arm
went round her in earnest.

'Finella, my darling!' escaped him, and as he kissed her unresisting lips,

her blushing face was hidden on his shoulder.

And this tableau was the result of the two days' shooting—a sudden
result which neither Shafto nor Hammersley had quite foreseen.

Of how long they remained thus neither had any idea. Time seemed to
stand still with them. Finella was only conscious of his hand caressing hers,
which lay so willingly in his tender, yet firm, clasp.

Hammersley in the gush of his joy felt oblivious of all the world. He
could think of nothing but Finella, while the latter seemed scarcely capable
of reflection at all beyond the existing thought that he loved her, and though
the avowal was a silent and unuttered one, the new sense of all it admitted
and involved, seemed to overwhelm the girl; her brightest day-dreams had
come, and she nestled, trembling and silent, by his side.

The unwelcome sound of voices and also of carriage-wheels on the

terrace roused them. He released her hand, stole one more clinging kiss, and
forgetful of his fall and all about it started with impatience to his feet.
 Lady Fettercairn and her lady guests had returned from the flower-show,
and to avoid them and all the world, for a little time yet, the lovers, with
their hearts still beating too wildly to come down to commonplace, tacitly
wandered hand in hand into the recesses of a conservatory, and lingered
there amid the warm, flower-scented atmosphere and shaded aisles, in what
seemed a delicious dream.

Finella was conscious that Vivian Hammersley was talking to her

lovingly and caressingly, in a low and tender voice as he had never talked
before, and she felt that she was 'Finella'—the dearest and sweetest name in
the world to him—and no more Miss Melfort.

****

It would be difficult, and superfluous perhaps, to describe the emotions

of these two during the next few days.

Though now quite aware that Finella and Hammersley had met each
other frequently before, Shafto's surprise at their intimacy, though
apparently undemonstrative, grew speedily into suspicious anger. He felt
intuitively that his presence made not the slightest difference to them,
though he did not forget it; and he failed to understand how 'this fellow' had
so quickly gained his subtle and familiar position with Finella.'

It galled him to the quick to see and feel all this, and know that he could
never please her as she seemed to be pleased with Hammersley; for her
colour heightened, her eyes brightened, and her eyelashes drooped and
flickered whenever he approached or addressed her.

Shafto thought of his hopes of gaining Finella and her fortune against
any discovery that might be made of the falsehood of his position, and so
wrath and hatred gathered in his heart together.

He was baffled at times by her bright smiles and pretty, irresistible

manner, but nevertheless he 'put his brains in steep' to scheme again.
 CHAPTER XV.

AT REVELSTOKE AGAIN.

Meanwhile sore trouble had come upon Dulcie Carlyon in her

Devonshire home.

Her father had been dull and gloomy of late, and had more than once laid
his hand affectionately on her ruddy golden hair, and said in a prayerful
way that 'he hoped he might soon see her well married, and that she might
never be left friendless!'

'Why such thoughts, dear papa?' she would reply.

Dulcie had felt a sense of apprehension for some time past. Was it born
of her father's forebodings, or of the presentiment about which she had
conversed with Florian? A depression hung over her—an undefinable dread
of some great calamity about to happen. At night her sleep was restless and
broken, and by day a vague fear haunted her.

The evil boded was to happen soon now.

With these oppressive thoughts mingled the memory of the tall and
handsome dark-eyed lad she loved—it seemed so long ago, and she longed
to hear his voice again, and for his breast to lay her head upon. But where
was Florian now? Months had passed without her hearing of him, and she
might never hear again!

Little could she have conceived the foul trick that Shafto had played
them both in the matter of the locket; but, unfortunately for herself, she had
not seen the last of that enterprising young gentleman.

She felt miserably that her heart was lonely and heavy, and that, young
as she was, light and joy, with the absence and ruin of Florian, had gone out
of her life. She was alone always with her great sorrow, and longed much
for tears; but as her past life had been a happy and joyous one, Dulcie
Carlyon had been little—if at all—given to them.

One morning her father did not appear at breakfast as usual. As yet
undressed her red-golden hair, that the old man loved to stroke and caress,
was floating in a great loose mass on her back and shoulders, and her blue
eyes looked bright and clear, if thoughtful.

She had, as was her daily wont, arranged his letters, cut and aired the
morning papers for him, adjusted a vase of fresh flowers on the table, with a
basket of delicate peaches, which she knew he liked, from the famous south
wall of the garden, with green fig leaves round them, for Dulcie did
everything prettily and tastefully, however trivial. Then she cut and buttered
his bread, poured out his tea, and waited.

Still he did not appear. She knocked on his bedroom door, but received
no answer, and saw, with surprise, that his boots were still on the mat
outside.

She peeped in and called on him—'Papa, papa!' but there was no

response.

The room was empty, and the morning sun streamed through the
uncurtained window. The bed had not been slept in! Again she called his
name, and rushed downstairs in alarm and affright.

The gas was burning in his writing-room; the window was still closed as
it had been overnight; and there, in his easy chair, with his hands and arms
stretched out on the table, sat Llewellen Carlyon, with his head bent
forward, asleep as Dulcie thought when she saw him.

'Poor papa,' she murmured; 'he has actually gone to sleep over his horrid
weary work.'

She leaned over his chair; wound her soft arms round his neck and
bowed grey head—her lovely blue eyes melting with tenderness, her sweet
face radiant with filial love, till, as she laid her cheek upon it, a mortal chill
struck her, and a low cry of awful dismay escaped her.
 'What is this—papa?'

She failed to rouse him, for his sleep was the sleep of death!

It was disease of the heart, the doctors said, and he had thus passed away
—died in harness; a pen was yet clutched in his right hand, and an
unfinished legal document lay beneath it.

Dulcie fainted, and was borne away by the servants to her own room—
they were old and affectionate country folks, who had been long with
Llewellen Carlyon, and loved him and his daughter well.

Poor Dulcie remained long unconscious, the sudden shock was so

dreadful to her, and when she woke from it, the old curate, Mr. Pentreath,
who had baptized Florian and herself, was standing near her bed.

'My poor bruised lamb,' said he, kindly and tenderly, as he passed his
wrinkled hand over her rich and now dishevelled tresses.

'What has happened?' she asked wildly.

'You fainted, Dulcie.'

'Why—I never fainted before.'

'She don't seem to remember, sir,' whispered an old servant, who saw the
vague and wild inquiring expression of her eyes.

'Drink this, child, and try to eat a morsel,' said the curate, putting a cup
of coffee and piece of toast before her.

'Something happened—something dreadful—what was it—oh, what was

it?' asked Dulcie, putting her hands to her throbbing temples.

'Drink, dear,' said the curate again.

She drank of the coffee thirstily; but declined the bread.

 'I beat up an egg in the coffee,' said he; 'I feared you might be unable to
eat yet.'

Her blue eyes began to lose their wandering and troubled look, and to
become less wild and wistful; then suddenly a shrill cry escaped her, and
she said, with a calmness more terrible and painful than fainting or
hysterics:

'Oh, I remember now—papa—poor papa—dead! Found dead! Oh, my

God! help me to bear it, or take me too—take me too!'

'Do not speak thus, child,' said Mr. Pentreath gently.

'How long ago was it—yesterday—a month ago, or when? I seem—I

feel as if I had grown quite old, yet you all look just the same—just the
same; how is this?'

'My child,' said the curate, with dim eyes, 'your dire calamity happened
but a short time ago—little more than an hour since.'

Her response was a deep and heavy sob, that seemed to come from her
overcharged heart rather than her slender throat, and which was the result of
the unnatural tension of her mind.

'Come to my house with me,' said the kind old curate; but Dulcie shook
her head.

'I cannot leave papa, dead or alive. I wish to be with him, and alone.'

'I shall not leave you so; it is a mistake in grief to avoid contact with the
world. The mind only gets sadder and deeper into its gloom of melancholy.
If you could but sleep, child, a little.'

'Sleep—I feel as if I had been asleep for years; and it was this morning,
you tell me—only this morning I had my arms round his neck—dead—my
darling papa dead!'

She started to her feet as if to go where the body lay under the now
useless hands of the doctor, but would have fallen had she not clutched for
support at Mr. Pentreath, who upheld and restrained her.

The awful thought of her future loneliness now that she had thus
suddenly lost her father, as she had not another relation in the world,
haunted the unhappy Dulcie, and deprived her of the power of taking food
or obtaining sleep.

In vain her old servants, who had known her from infancy, coaxed her to
attempt both, but sleep would not come, and the food remained untasted
before her.

'A little water,' she would say; 'give me a little water, for thirst parches
me.'

All that passed subsequently seemed like one long and terrible dream to
Dulcie. She was alone in the world, and when her father was laid in his last
home at Revelstoke, within sound of the tumbling waves, in addition to
being alone she found herself well-nigh penniless, for her father had
nothing to leave her but the old furniture of the house they had inhabited.

That was sold, and she was to remain with the family of the curate till
some situation could be procured for her.

She had long since ceased to expect any letter from or tidings of Florian.
She began to think that perhaps, amid the splendour of his new relations, he
had forgotten her. Well, it was the way of the world.

Never would she forget the day she quitted her old home. Her father's
hat, his coat and cane were in the hall; all that he had used and that
belonged to him were still there, to bring his presence before her with fresh
poignancy, and to impress upon her that she was fatherless, all but
friendless, and an orphan.

The superstitious people about Revelstoke now remembered that in

Lawyer Carlyon's garden, blossom and fruit had at the same time appeared
on more than one of his apple-trees, a certain sign of coming death to one of
his household. But who can tell in this ever-shifting world what a day may
bring forth!
 One evening—she never forgot it—she had been visiting her father's
grave, and was slowly quitting the secluded burial-ground, when a man like
a soldier approached her in haste.

'Florian!' She attempted to utter his name, but it died away on her
bloodless lips.

CHAPTER XVI.

''TIS BUT THE OLD, OLD STORY.'

A poet says:

'Not by appointment do we meet delight

And joy: they need not our expectancy.
But round some corner in the streets of life,
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.'

Florian it was who stood before her, but though he gazed at her earnestly,
wistfully, and with great pity in his tender eyes as he surveyed her pale face
and deep mourning, he made no attempt to take the hands she yearningly
extended towards him. She saw that he was in the uniform of a private
soldier, over which he wore a light dust-coat as a sort of disguise, but there
was no mistaking his glengarry—that head-dress which is odious and
absurd for English and Irish regiments, and which in his instance bore a
brass badge—the sphinx, for Egypt.

He looked thin, gaunt, and pale, and anon the expression of his eye grew
doubtful and cloudy.
 'Florian!' exclaimed Dulcie in a piercing voice, in which something of
upbraiding blended with tones of surprise and grief; and yet the fact of his
presence seemed so unreal that she lingered for a moment before she flung
herself into his arms, and was clasped to his breast. 'Oh, what is the
meaning of this dress?' she asked, lifting her face and surveying him again.

'It means that I am a soldier—like him whose son I thought myself—a

soldier of the Warwickshire Regiment,' replied Florian with some bitterness
of tone.

'Oh, my God, and has it come to this!' said Dulcie wringing her
interlaced fingers. 'Could not Shafto—your cousin——'

'Shafto cast me off—seemed as if he could not get rid of me too soon.'

'How cruel, when he might have done so much for you, to use you so!'

'I had no other resort, Dulcie; I would not stoop to seek favours even
from him, and our paths in life will never cross each other again; but a time
may come—I know not when—in which I may seek forgiveness of enemies
as well as friends—the bad and the good together—for a soldier's life is one
of peril.'

'Of horror—to me!' wailed Dulcie, weeping freely on his breast.

'This tenderness is strange, Dulcie! Why did you cast me off in my utter
adversity and return to me my locket?'

Dulcie looked up in astonishment.

'What do you mean, Florian—have you lost your senses?' she asked in
sore perplexity. 'Where have you come from last?'

'Plymouth; in a paper there I saw a notice of your terrible loss, and

resolved to see, even if I could not speak with you.'

'And you came——'

 'To see you, my lost darling, once again. Oh, Dulcie, I thought I should
die if I left England and sailed for Africa without doing so. I got a day's
leave and am here.'

'But why have you done this?'

'This—what?'

'Soldiering!'

'Penniless, hopeless, what else could I do?—besides, I thought you had

cast me off when you sent me back this locket,' he added, producing the gift
referred to.

'That locket was stolen from me on the night you left Revelstoke—
literally wrenched from my neck, as I told you in my letter—the letter you
never answered.'

'I received no letter, Dulcie—but your locket was taken from you by
whom?'

'Shafto.'

'The double villain! He must have intercepted that letter, and utilised the
envelope with its postmarks and stamps to deceive me, and effect a breach
between us.'

'Thank God you came, dearest Florian!'

'I thought you had renounced me, Dulcie, and now I almost wish you
had.'

'Why?'

'It is little use to remember me now—I am so poor and hopeless.'

'After all,' said she, taking his face between her hands caressingly, 'what
does poverty matter if we love each other still?'
 'And you love me, Dulcie—love me yet!' exclaimed Florian
passionately.

'And shall never, never cease to do so.'

'But I am so much beneath you now in position, Dulcie—and—and——'

his voice broke.

'What, darling?'

'May never rise.'

'Would I be a true woman if I forsook you because you were

unfortunate?'

'No; but you are more than a woman, Dulcie—you are a golden-haired
angel!'

'My poor Florian, how gaunt and hollow your cheeks are! You have
suffered——'

'Much since last we parted here in dear old Devonshire. But Shafto's
villainy surpasses all I could have imagined!'

'And where is Shafto now?'

'With his grand relations, I suppose. I am glad that we have unravelled

that which was to me a source of sorrow and dismay—the returned locket.
So you cannot take back your heart, Dulcie, nor give me mine?' said
Florian.

'Nor would I wish to do so,' she replied, sweetly and simply. 'Though
poor, we are all the world to each other now.'

'Hard and matter-of-fact as our every-day existence is, there is—even in

these railway times—much of strange and painful romance woven up with
many a life; and so it seems to be with mine—with ours, Dulcie.'
 'Oh that I were rich, Florian, or that you were so!' exclaimed the girl, as a
great pity filled her heart, when she thought of her lover's blighted life, their
own baffled hopes, and the humble and most perilous course that was
before him in South Africa, where the clouds of war were gathering fast. 'I,
too, am poor, Florian—very poor; dear papa died involved, leaving me
penniless, and I must cast about to earn my own bread.'

'This is horrible—how shall I endure it?' said he fiercely, while regarding

her with a loving but haggard expression in his dark eyes.

'What would you have done if you had not met me by chance here?'

'Loafed about till the last moment, and then done something desperate. I
would have seen you, and after that—the Deluge! In two days we embark at
Plymouth,' he added, casting a glance at the old church of Revelstoke and
its burying-ground. 'There our parents lie, Dulcie—yours at least, and those
that I, till lately, thought were mine. There is something very strange and
mysterious in this change of relationship and position between Shafto and
myself. I cannot understand it. Why was I misled all my life by one who
loved me so well? How often have I stood with the Major by a gravestone
yonder inscribed with the name of Flora MacIan and heard him repeat while
looking at it—

'A thousand would call the spot dreary

Where thou takest thy long repose;
But a rude couch is sweet to the weary,
And the frame that suffering knows.
I never rejoiced more sincerely
Than at thy funeral hour,
Assured that the one I loved dearly
Was beyond affliction's power!

Why did he quote all this to me, and tell me never to forget that spot, or
who was buried there, if she was only Shafto's aunt, and not my mother?'

Florian felt keenly for the position of Dulcie Carlyon, and the perils and
mortifications that might beset her path now; but he was too young, too
healthy and full of animal life and spirits, to be altogether weighed down by
the thought of his humble position and all that was before him; and now
that he had seen her again, restored to her bosom the locket, and that he
knew she was true to him, and had never for a moment wavered in her
girlish love, life seemed to become suddenly full of new impulses and
hopes for him, and he thought prayerfully that all might yet be well for
them both.

But when?

To Dulcie there seemed something noble in the hopeful spirit that, under
her influence, animated her grave lover now. He seemed to become calm,
cool, steadfast, and, hap what might, she felt he would ever be true to her.

He seemed brave and tender and true—'tender and true' as a Douglas of

old, and Dulcie thought how pleasant and glorious it would be to have such
a handsome young husband as he to take care of her always, and see that all
she did was right and proper and wise.

A long embrace, and he was gone to catch the inexorable train. She was
again alone, and for the first time she perceived that the sun had set, that the
waves looked black as they rounded Revelstoke promontory, and that all the
landscape had grown dark, desolate, and dreary.

What a hopeless future seemed to stretch before these two creatures, so

young and so loving!

Florian was gone—gone to serve as a private soldier on the burning

coast of Africa. It seemed all too terrible, too dreadful to think of.

'Every morning and evening I shall pray for you, Florian,' wailed the girl
in her heart; 'pray that you may be happy, good, and rich, and—and that we
shall yet meet in heaven if we never meet on earth.'

On the second morning after this separation, when Dulcie was pillowed
in sleep, and the rising sun was shining brightly on the waves that rolled in
Cawsand Bay and danced over the Mewstone, a great white 'trooper' came
out of Plymouth Sound under sail and steam, with the blue-peter flying at
its foremasthead, her starboard side crowded with red coats, all waving their
caps and taking a farewell look at Old England—the last look it proved to
many—and, led by Bob Edgehill, a joyous, rackety, young private of the
Warwickshire, hundreds of voices joined chorusing:

'Merrily, my lads, so ho!

They may talk of a life at sea,
But a life on the land
With sword in hand
Is the life, my lads, for me!'

But there was one young soldier whose voice failed him in the chorus,
and whose eyes rested on Stoke Point and the mouth of the Yealm till these
and other familiar features of the coast melted into the widening Channel.

Dulcie was roused to exertion from the stupor of grief that had come
upon her by tidings that a situation had been found for her as companion—
one in which she would have to make herself useful, amiable, and agreeable
in the family of a lady of rank and wealth, to whom she would be sent by
influential friends of Mr. Pentreath in London.

The poor girl thought tearfully how desolate was her lot now, cast to
seek her bread among utter strangers; and if she became ill, delicate, or
unable to work, what would become of her?

Her separation from Florian seemed now greater than ever; but, as Heine
has it:

'Tis but the old, old story,

Yet it ever abideth new;
And to whomsoever it cometh
The heart it breaks in two.'

To leave Revelstoke seemed another wrench.

 Dulcie had been born and bred there, and all the villagers in Revelstoke
loved and knew Lawyer Carlyon well, and were deeply interested in the
future of his daughter; thus, on the day of her departure no one made any
pretence of work or working. Heads were popping out and in of the
windows of the village street all morning, and a cluster—a veritable crowd
—of kindly folks accompanied Mr. Pentreath and the weeping girl to the
railway station, for she wept freely at all this display of regard and
sympathy, especially from the old, whom she might never see again.

When the train swept her away, and she lost sight of the last familiar
feature of her native place, a strange and heavy sense of utter desolation
came over poor Dulcie, and but for the presence of other passengers she
would have stooped her head upon her hot hands and sobbed aloud, for she
thought of her dead parents—when did she not think of them now?

'Oh!' exclaims a writer, 'if those who have loved and gone before us can
see afar off those they have left, surely the mother who had passed from
earth might tremble now for her child, standing so terribly alone in the
midst of a seething sea of danger and temptations?'
 CHAPTER XVII.

AT CRAIGENGOWAN.

With the new understanding—the tacit engagement that existed between

herself and Vivian Hammersley—Finella writhed with annoyance when
privately and pointedly spoken to on the subject of her 'cousin' Shafto's
attentions and hopes.

'Grandmamma,' said she to Lady Fettercairn, 'I don't see why I may not
marry whom I please. I am not like a poor girl who has nothing in the
world. Indeed, in that case I am pretty sure that neither you nor cousin
Shafto would want me.'

'She must settle soon,' said Lady Fettercairn, when reporting this plain
reply to Lady Drumshoddy. 'I certainly shall not take her to London again,
yet awhile.'

'You are right,' replied that somewhat grim matron; 'and when once this
Captain Hammersley, who, to my idea, is somewhat too èpris with her, is
gone, you can easily find some pretext for remaining at Craigengowan; or
shall I have her with me?'

'As you please,' replied Lady Fettercairn, who knew that the
Drumshoddy mènage did not always suit the taste of Finella; 'but I think she
is better here—propinquity and all that sort of thing may be productive of
good. I know that poor Shafto's mind is quite made up, and, as I said before,
she must settle soon. We can't have twenty thousand a year slipping out of
the family.'

Finella thought little of their wishes or those of Shafto. She thought only
of that passionate hour in the lonely drawing-room, where she was alone
with Vivian, and his lips were pressed to hers; of the close throb of heart to
heart, and that the great secret of her young girl's life was his now and hers
no longer, but aware of the opposition and antagonism he would be sure to
encounter just then, she urged upon him a caution and a secrecy of the
engagement which his proud spirit somewhat resented.

He thought it scarcely honourable to take advantage of Lord Fettercairn's

hospitality, and gain the love of Finella without his permission; but as both
knew that would never be accorded—that to ask for it would cut short his
visit, and as he was so soon going on distant service, with Finella he agreed
that their engagement should be kept a secret till his return.

And to blind the eyes of the watchful or suspicious he actually found

himself flirting with one of the Miss Kippilaws, three young ladies who
thought they spoke the purest English, though it was with that accent which
Basil Hall calls 'the hideous patois of Edinburgh;' and, perceiving this, Lady
Fettercairn became somewhat contented, and Finella was excessively
amused.

Not so the astute Shafto.

'It is all a d——d game!' muttered that young gentleman; 'a red herring
drawn across the scent.'

'Why do you look so unhappy, dearest?' asked Finella one evening, when
she and her lover found themselves alone for a few minutes, during which
she had been contemplating his dark face in silence.

'My leave of absence is running out so fast—by Jove, faster than ever
apparently now!'

'Is that the sole reason?' asked the girl softly and after a pause, her dark
eyes darkening and seeming to become more intense.

'No,' he replied, with hesitation.

'Tell me, then—what is the other?'

'You know how I love you——'

'And I—you.'
 'But in one sense my love is so liable to misconstruction—so hopeless of
proof.'

'Hopeless, Vivian—after all I have admitted?' she asked reproachfully.

'I mean because I am almost penniless as compared to you.'

'What does that matter? Surely I have enough for two,' said she,
laughing.

'And I fear the bitter opposition of your family.'

'So do I; but don't mind it,' said the independent little beauty.

'I have heard a rumour that one of the Melforts who made a pure love-
marriage was cut off root and branch.'

'That was poor Uncle Lennard, before I was born. Well—they can't cut
me off.'

'They will never consent; and when I am far away, as I soon shall be, if
their evil influence——'

'Should prevail with me? Oh, Vivian!' exclaimed the girl, her dark eyes
sparkling through their unshed tears. 'Think not of their influencing me, for
a moment.'

'Thank you a thousand times for the assurance, my love. It was vile of
me to think of such things. I have a sure conviction that your cousin Shafto
dislikes me most certainly,' said Hammersley, after a pause.

'I don't doubt it,' said she.

'They mean you for him.'

'They—who?'

'Your grandparents.'
 'I know they do—but don't tease me by speaking of a subject so
distasteful,' exclaimed Finella, making a pretty moue expression of disdain.

He pressed a kiss on her brow, another on her hair, and his lips quickly
found their way to hers, after they had been pressed on her snow-white
eyelids.

'I love you with my whole heart, Finella,' he exclaimed passionately.

'And I you,' said the artless girl again, in that style of iteration of which
lovers never grow weary, with an adoring upward glance, which it was a
pity the gathering gloom prevented him from seeing.

As they walked slowly towards the house, she quickly withdrew her
hands, which were clasped clingingly to his arm, as Shafto approached
them suddenly. He saw the abrupt act, and drew his own conclusions
therefrom, and, somewhat to Finella's annoyance, turned abruptly away.

'So that is the amiable youth for whom they design you,' said he in a
whisper.

'Did I not say you were not to speak of him? To tell you the truth, I am at
times somewhat afraid of him.'

'My darling—I must give you an amulet—a charm against his evil
influence,' said Hammersley, laughing, as he slipped a ring on her wedding-
finger, adding, 'I hope it fits.'

'What is this—oh, Vivian! actually a wedding-ring—but I cannot wear,

though I may keep it.'

'Then wear this until you can, when I return, darling,' said he, as he
slipped a gemmed ring on the tiny finger, and stooping, kissed it.

'My heart's dearest!' cooed the girl happily. 'Well, Vivian, none other
than the hoop you have now given me shall be my wedding-ring!'

Had Lady Fettercairn overheard all this she would have had good reason
to fear that Finella's twenty thousand a year was slipping away from the
Craigengowan family, all the more so that the scene of this tender interview
was a spot below the mansion-house, said to be traditionally fatal to the
Melforts of Fettercairn, the Howe of Craigengowan—for there a terrible
adventure occurred to the first Lord, he who sold his Union vote, and of
whom the men of the Mearns were wont to say he had not only sold his
country to her enemies, but that he had also sold his soul to the evil one.

It chanced that in the gloaming of the 28th of April, 1708, the first
anniversary of that day on which the Scottish Parliament dissolved to meet
no more, he was walking in a place which he had bought with his Union
bribe—the Howe of Craigengowan, then a secluded dell, overshadowed by
great alders and whin bushes—when he saw at the opposite end the figure
of a man approaching pace for pace with himself, and his outline was
distinctly seen against the red flush of the western sky.

As they neared each other slowly, a strange emotion of superstitious awe

stole into the hard heart of Lord Fettercairn. So strong was this that he
paused for a minute, and rested on his cane. The stranger did precisely the
same.

The peer—the ex-Commissioner on Forfeited Estates—'pulled himself

together,' and put his left hand jauntily into the silver hilt of his sword—a
motion imitated exactly, and to all appearance mockingly, by the other,
whose gait, bearing, and costume—a square-skirted crimson coat, a long-
flapped white vest, black breeches and stockings rolled over the knee, and a
Ramillie wig—were all the same in cut and colour as his own!

Lord Fettercairn afterwards used to assert that he would never be able to

describe the undefinable, the strange and awful sensation that crept over
him when, as they neared each other, pace by pace, he saw in the other's
visage the features of himself reproduced, as if he had been looking into a
mirror.

A cold horror ran through every vein. He knew and felt that his own
features were pallid and convulsed with mortal terror and dismay, while he
could see that those of his dreadful counterpart were radiant with spite and
triumphant malice.