leaned over the rail and looked on with fascinated horror as the water about the ship turned to thick, unimaginable ice, and the bloody ship began to rise, trapped as it was within the ice’s clutches.
Talent’s mouth fell open. “Bugger me.”
Winston was inclined to agree. “Come.” He plucked Talent’s sleeve to get the man’s attention. “To the port side.” Something was coming. He could feel it.
Stumbling and treading with care along the slick, icy deck, they made their way to the port side, shouldering past gawking passengers, most of whom milled about in a frightened and confused state. Crewmembers called for order, stumbling along much like Winston and Talent, as they tried to figure out what was happening.
“Look,” said a young girl. “Someone is boarding the ship.”
Several people shot to the rail and craned their necks to see.
Winston and Talent followed suit. The gangplank, which had been in the process of being removed, had been frozen in place. A woman strolled, pretty as you please, up it. Winston’s heart flipped over in his chest. He drank her in, the steady clip of her legs beneath a fetching gown of black and white stripes, the determined set of her shoulders. A matching parasol obscured her face, but he’d know that walk anywhere. Christ. His body hardened painfully.
As if she felt his eyes upon her, the parasol tilted back, and she lifted her head. Even though he had to be a mere dot among the throng from her vantage point, she found him immediately. Those severe red brows, that dark, knowing gaze. A bolt of pure heat and lust shot through him, strong enough to make him suck in a draught of air. Bloody. Buggering. Hell.
An old gent beside him scowled beneath white, shaggy brows. “Who the deuce is that?” he asked no one in particular.
“Trouble,” muttered Talent, his glare fixed on the young lady walking at Poppy’s side. Winston recalled her as Mary Chase, assistant to Daisy Ranulf.
Winston did not know how Poppy had found him, or what the devil she was doing here. The only thing that he knew with absolute certainty at that moment was that Talent had been correct. Here came trouble.
Getting onboard had been a bit of a… spectacle. It could not be helped. Poppy wasn’t about to watch the blasted ship sail away. Upon meeting a very harried looking first mate, who wanted to know what the devil was going on, she handed him Archer’s card and letter of introduction, which simply told the captain that Poppy was to have carte blanche while aboard, bless her brother-in-law.
“Bring this to your captain and have someone see to my trunks. They are to be placed in Mr. Winston Lane’s cabin directly.”
Her little show had taken almost all of her energy. And she would need so much more of it before the day was out. The first mate’s befuddled gaze went from her to the ice surrounding the boat and back. With an inward sigh, she addressed him once more. “Yes, it is rather strange weather we’re having. Now,” she nudged him with the tip of her parasol, “you’re dawdling, sir. I suspect your captain will want an update.”
Twitching as if coming out of a trance, the man finally glanced at the card. As it belonged to the owner of the ship, he started before giving her a curt nod. “Yes, madam. Of course. Welcome aboard.”
He promptly left. As soon as he did, Poppy pulled in a long, deep breath and closed her eyes. The air about her warmed, and with a final pull of power, the ice that held the ship captive dissipated, causing the air to mist. The ship shuddered and swayed a bit, and a good many of the passengers shouted. Gods, but it hurt more to rein in her power than to set it free.
Miss Chase caught her elbow as she wavered. “Very well done, Mum.”
“Child’s play.” Poppy straightened her spine. “Now to the real task. My husband.”
Poppy found Winston as the ship left the harbor and the throngs of people dispersed, happy now to have gained something to speculate over for hours. He was by the rail of the first class deck where she’d initially spotted him. Waiting for her. The sight of him in the flesh was too much. He was the sun on a cloudless day, burning bright, making her vision blur. Would he speak to her? What would he say? Three months. Three months of not seeing him, not hearing his