was thinking as he answered my shameless appraisement with a calmer, more detached reserve.
“Do you have a lady in England you’re anxious to reunite with?” I crossed my arms, standing a foot away.
“No.”
No surprise there. When it came to women, he put more effort into spanking a clitoris than wooing a heart.
As I understood the situation, I would have a month to scrape information from his brain. Right now I had only so much energy left before my face planted itself onto the floor. The remainder of my questions would have to wait. Except one.
“How did you find me?”
“I was hunting another pirate, and he led me to you.”
Priest? It wasn’t possible. No one outside our circle of trust knew our connection.
My head pounded with panic and fatigue, but I kept my voice neutral. “Who?”
“Charles Vane.”
“Ah.” Grief collided with relief. I showed neither on my face. “Convenient for you.”
“Abundantly. With Vane dead, you were my next target. But, by the time I learned of your arrival in Jamaica, you already weighed anchor and set sail. Rather suddenly, wasn’t it?”
“You’re not the only one hunting me.”
“But I’m the only one who apprehended you.”
Arrogant fool. If he only knew that Priest Farrell had nabbed me first. Oh, how I wanted to tell him he could’ve captured Edric Sharp’s daughter and the Feral Priest if he hadn’t fallen for my ruse.
But my marriage was my most guarded secret and greatest hope for escape.
“If you didn’t recognize me,” I said, “how did you find me?”
“No one could accurately describe your image. You did well keeping that unknown. Until now. But I didn’t need to know what you looked like. I studied your behavior, your track worn in the sea, and lore that follows you. Your affiliation with Charles Vane. The galleon you commanded, which boasts no flags, figureheads, or markings. And your penchant for freeing slaves.”
I closed my eyes, released a slow breath, and glared at him. “You found the sunken slave ship.”
“I received word of it when dead seamen and burned timber washed ashore west St. Christopher. The attack had your stamp of ownership all over it. ‘Twas easy to track you from there.”
My hands clenched, but I couldn’t regret that raid. We’d saved two young African men that day. Besides, with Ashley on my trail since Jamaica, he would’ve caught me eventually. Just like Priest had.
He straightened from the wall and breezed past me, headed to the armoire. From a drawer within, he removed a blue three-cornered hat trimmed in feathers and jammed it on his head. From another drawer, he pulled out a long swath of linsey-woolsey and splayed it on the mattress.
A gentleman’s loose nightgown.
Priest had never worn a stitch of clothing to bed. I preferred nudity, as well. But not here.
“Is that for me?” I lifted the hem, rubbing the coarse cloth between my fingers, relieved it wasn’t transparent.
“Yes.” He flicked a finger toward the privacy screen. “Wash yourself before retiring.”
He pivoted and strode toward the dining cabin, dressed in full uniform as if he were going somewhere.
“Ashley?” I waited until I had his eyes. “Where do I sleep?”
“There.” He thrust his steely chin at the bed behind me and resumed walking.
“Where are you sleeping?” At his silence, I hurried after him. “Where are you going?”
The click of the exterior door sounded his exit.
A growl of frustration vibrated in my chest. I raced past the desk in the day cabin, around the table in the dining cabin, and swung open the door.
Ashley stood on the other side, boots spread apart, hands clasped behind him, and blue eyes narrowed on mine. Expecting me.
My breath came up short. “You said I could wander freely.”
“Not dressed like that.” He shifted to the side and motioned at the two lieutenants behind him.
The men bustled in, carrying piles of mismatched fabric. They dumped the tattered garments on the table, along with a platter of sewing supplies, and swept out of the cabin.
“There’s enough cloth there,” he said. “You will fashion a proper wardrobe for yourself before you leave these quarters.”
“I don’t know how to sew.” I folded my arms over my chest.
He bent toward me and put his nose inches from mine. “Your upbringing says otherwise.”
I blinked, searching for the best retort. It was true that Lady Abigail Leighton had taught me how to work with a needle and thread. But the only sewing I’d done in the past seven years involved open wounds and bleeding flesh.