“So, who’s this?” Walter Strickland inquired, wiping his dagger on the side of his thigh. He regarded Phoebe with a degree of fascination.

“Would you believe-my wife?” Cato inquired, removing a thorn sticking out from the back of Phoebe’s jerkin.

“No,” Strickland said frankly. He examined her closely and Phoebe felt her color mount.

“Then believe it, my friend.” Cato took a fold of the jerkin between finger and thumb. “This is the most disgusting article. Where did you get it?”

“I have to give it back,” Phoebe said dully. “I only gave him a sovereign for it. And I seem to have lost the cap.”

“That wasn’t an answer to my question,” Cato commented aridly, “but I suppose I’ll make sense of it all at some point.” He shook his head with an air of mock dismay. “Is that one of my shirts you’re wearing under that revolting jerkin?”

Phoebe was too confused by this sudden change of tone to reply. He sounded amused, the curtness of a moment ago vanished. She could detect no anger in his expression, but no gratitude for her intervention either. She could make no sense of anything except the simple fact of Cato’s safety; it was all that mattered.

And yet in the aftermath of that burst of intense physical and emotional activity came a deep trough of depression. She couldn’t lose the memory of his eyes: cold, bleak, utterly rejecting. He had turned from her. He’d told Brian only his duty mattered. She had saved herself. Cato had done nothing to save her. He’d turned from her.

“Your wife, Granville?” Walter Strickland was finally shaken out of his customary composure.

“Lady Granville… Walter Strickland,” Cato said with a ceremonious gesture.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” Phoebe responded numbly. Then a flicker of spirit came to her aid. She added with a lift of her chin, “But you shouldn’t judge by appearances.”

“Oh, believe me, Strickland, in this case you should,” Cato declared.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Granville.” Walter Strickland offered a bow, an amused gleam in his eye as he responded to the odd formality of the introduction. “You’ve done us good service this morning.”

Phoebe waited for some acknowledgment from Cato, but all he said, in a voice as dry as sere leaves, was “My wife is a woman of many parts. All of them as eccentric as her present disreputable costume.”

They had reached the quay where the decks of the White Lady were now quiet, the unloading over, the crew taking liberty in the town under the warm rays of the noon sun. Phoebe felt tears pricking behind her eyes. Cato was making fun of her. First he abandoned her, then he made mock of her. Maybe he was punishing her; maybe he thought she deserved it; it was unjust and unkind.

She took a step away from him, towards the gangway to the ship, longing for the privacy of the little cabin.

“You’ll want to negotiate your passage with Captain Allan, Strickland,” Cato said putting a firm hand on Phoebe’s shoulder, wordlessly bringing her back beside him. “I imagine you’ll find him in the Seagull. He told me this morning he’d be spending most of the day there.”

Strickland looked over at the tavern in question, then cast a sidelong glance at Phoebe, who stood stiff and silent under Cato’s hand. “Reckon I’ll find him, then. I daresay it’s safe to show my face about town now. Unless there are more bands of mischief makers after my blood.” He gave an easy chuckle as if the idea were absurd, and loped off to the Seagull.

“I wish to go to the cabin,” Phoebe said, trying once more to move away from Cato’s restraining hand.

“That is precisely where we’re going,” Cato responded imperturbably. “We have a great deal to discuss, you and I.” His hand slid to her arm and he urged her forward onto the White Lady.

“I wish to go to the cabin alone,” Phoebe protested. “I don’t feel very well.”

“That’s perhaps not surprising after such an adventure,” he returned with a calm nod and without releasing his hold. “Let us see what we can do to improve matters.”

It seemed she had no choice. He was going to accompany her whether she wished it or not.

“Just who does that vile jerkin belong to?” he asked when they had reached the privacy of the cabin. He closed the door and stood against it, his hands resting on his hips, an unmistakable glimmer of amusement in his eye.

“The cabin boy,” Phoebe said, shrugging out of the garment with a jerky movement. She was beginning to feel angry now. His mockery was the last straw, and she welcomed this clean emotion spurting through the mire of her wretched confusion. “I gave him a sovereign, but now I’ve lost his cap, so I’ll have to pay him more for it.”

“You enlisted the help of this cabin boy to get off the ship?”

Phoebe glared at him. “He helped me to get on it at Harwich.”

Cato whistled softly. “I never did ask how you managed that. How stupidly remiss of me. If I’d known, I daresay I could have prevented this morning’s little escapade. What inducements did you use to persuade this hapless boy?”

“Guineas,” Phoebe snapped. “Four of them in all.”

Cato was astounded. “Where in hell did you get such a sum, Phoebe?”

She turned her back to him as she unbuttoned his shirt. “The pawnbroker in Witney.”

There was silence. Then Cato said in conversational tones, “Forgive me, but I thought I had forbidden you to visit the pawnbroker again. Alas, my imperfect memory.”

Phoebe closed her lips firmly and cast aside his shirt. She reached for her own, which still lay across the stool.

“Of course,” Cato continued in the same affable tone, “that was in the days when I was still laboring under the delusion that I had some husbandly authority over your actions. I can’t imagine how I could have been so foolishly mistaken.”

Anger took hold, burning away the last wretched vestige of self-pity. Phoebe turned on him, holding the shirt in her hands, her eyes blazing in her now pale face.

“Must you mock me as well? What difference does it make to you what I do so long as I keep out of your way?” she cried bitterly. “I know full well how I stand with you, my lord.”

Cato was taken aback. The amusement died out of his eyes. “What are you talking about, Phoebe?” His voice was suddenly very quiet.

“You needn’t worry,” she said in the same low bitter tone. “I’ll not step between you and your work again. I know my place, sir. It’s taken me a long time, I admit, but I’m obviously rather slow-witted. It took a hammer to knock it into my thick skull, but believe me, I have finally taken the point.”

She raised a hand as if to ward him off as she fumbled with the sleeves of her shirt, which somehow seemed to have turned themselves inside out.

Cato twisted the garment from her grasp and threw it onto the bunk. He took her by the shoulders, his fingers sliding beneath the thin straps of her chemise to close warmly on the bare skin beneath.

“I’m not certain what you’re talking about, Phoebe, but I think you had better make it crystal clear to me without delay.”

Tears of anger, disappointment, the deepest hurt stood out in the speedwell blue eyes as she met his gaze. “Isn’t it obvious?” she demanded, her voice thick but steady. “I know I’ve never been more than a convenience to you… or rather, most of the time an inconvenience,” she added caustically.

“I tried to show you that I could be more to you than that, that I was worthy of your confidence, that I could take part in your work, in everything that concerns you, but you won’t see it, you won’t listen… you just won’t open your mind!”

She dashed a hand across her eyes, but the flood of angry words continued. “And now I really know what I’m worth! Nothing! Isn’t that so?”

“Hey… hey!” Cato shook her in an attempt to stop the raging, tear-drenched tirade. “What in hell’s teeth are you talking about, woman! I realize you’ve had a nasty experience, but you can’t hold me responsible for that! You’ve made it clear countless times that you’ll plow your own furrow, Phoebe, and the consequences of your own decisions are yours to bear.”