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he’d revealed to her. She waited until she heard the cabin door close behind him and then flew to the door in his wake and examined it. There was a keyhole but no key. She didn’t fancy stripping naked let alone using the privy behind an unprotected door. The chairs were both bolted to the floor, so they couldn’t be used to block the door. She was utterly vulnerable to anyone who chose to walk in. So much for the doctor’s assurance that she had nothing to fear on this ship. It wasn’t an assurance she could begin to trust.
    But her need was now too pressing for such niceties and at least there was a partial wall separating the head from the rest of the cabin. But it was not a situation that could be allowed to continue. She took care of her most urgent business, washed her face and hands, and then returned to contemplate the cabin door.
    There seemed only one thing for it. She fetched the clothes she was going to change into and stood with her back against the door. Swiftly she pulled off the nightgown and scrambled into chemise, petticoat, stockings, before stepping into the bronze muslin. The gown was not quite a perfect fit. The absent Ana had been rather more generously endowed in the bosom than Meg, and a little taller.
    Her hands stilled in the process of knotting the sash beneath her breasts, and she stared into the middle distance for a moment or two. Who was she, this Ana? Had she chosen these clothes herself, or had they been put here to await her arrival? If Cosimo’s men had never seen her themselves, it was a fair assumption that she had not been on the
Mary Rose
before. So someone else had installed a wardrobe for her. Someone who presumably knew what would both fit and suit her. That indicated an intimacy beyond the usual. And it was clearly intended that she would share the captain’s cabin . . . was Ana Cosimo’s mistress?
    Meg shook her head vigorously and finished tying the sash. It made no difference to her or her situation whether the absent Ana was anyone’s mistress. Her hands dropped to her sides again. But what was this vital enterprise she and Cosimo had been engaged upon? Something so time-sensitive that the ship couldn’t return to Folkestone despite the accidental presence of an unwilling passenger.
    Another irrelevancy, she decided. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her. The only thing that concerned her was getting off this ship. And until she could do so, she would stay right here in the cabin, minding her own business. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with the ship’s captain. In the spirit of this resolution, she ignored the boots and discarded the paisley shawl since the cabin was comfortably warm, then she resumed her seat on the cushioned bench beneath the window and opened a slightly water-damaged copy of Mrs. Radcliff’s
The Italian.
     
    Cosimo’s reverie was disturbed by the flapping of wings as Gus landed on his shoulder. Cosimo turned to David Porter. “How is our passenger, David?”
    “No ill effects apart from a bump,” David said, leaning beside him against the rail. “She’s a strong woman . . . strong nerves, I’d hazard.”
    “What makes you say that?” Cosimo hid his interest under a casual tone but his friend was not fooled.
    David smiled. “In general women of her age and breeding would have succumbed to more than a fit of the vapors at finding themselves in this situation. Miss Barratt appears to find it merely an acute inconvenience.”
    Cosimo nodded slowly. “I had noticed a degree of resilience . . . of antagonism, certainly.”
    “Can you blame her?”
    “No,” Cosimo agreed. He leaned back against the railing and looked up at a whirling seagull. “You’ve never met Ana, have you?”
    “You know that I haven’t.” David regarded the captain with a slight frown.
    “There’s quite a striking resemblance between her and Miss Barratt.” His gaze still followed the bird’s flight.
    David’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what