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career would have made Morninghall bitter, a fact she would
have to keep in mind during her dealings with him.  She envisioned him as
small, cocky, and mean.  Or perhaps bloated and self-important, a swine
weighing in at twenty stone with a nose gone scarlet from drink.  Either way,
he'd be a thoroughly miserable character.  And, no doubt, the sensational news
sweeping Portsmouth — that the mysterious man calling himself the Black Wolf
had raided Morninghall's ship the night before and made off with several
American prisoners — would add no sugar to a temper that was probably already
worse than bad.
    Normally,
Gwyneth's dealings with such a fellow would be conducted with patience and
pity.  But this man, with his high-handed dictate about allowing her to come
aboard when he damn well felt like it —
    Well, Gwyneth
was not inclined to be patient, pitiful, or , understanding.
    The raucous
yelling and catcalls of the men imprisoned within the hulk invaded her thoughts
at the same time she noticed that the sunlight had fallen off.  Looking up, she
saw the immense, smoky bulk of the ship looming above her like a mighty
fortress of death, and then the sailor was maneuvering the boat against the
rickety looking stairs built against its filthy, curved hull.
    Not even the
gulls dared venture near this floating hell.  Indeed, even the water that
surrounded it seemed to be as still and dead as the River Styx.
    "Ye sure ye
wanna be goin' aboard her, m'lady?" the tar challenged, grinning as he
fought to be heard over the prisoners' yelling.
    "You sure
you don't want a refreshing swim in the harbor?" Gwyneth yelled back,
shoving her notebook back into her reticule.  "Help me up, if you
please."
    Hundreds of
waving, clawing arms covered with filth thrust through the barred gunports, and
the clamor grew deafening.
    Gwyneth stuck
out her hand toward the seaman, waiting.
    He stared at her
for a moment, then he shrugged and took her gloved hand.  Moments later she was
standing on the little platform at the bottom of the stairs.  Alone.
    Morninghall had
sent no one to meet her.
    With one hand steadying
her hat, Gwyneth marched up the damp steps, and every voice on the ship went
silent.
     

 
    Chapter
2
     
    Gwyneth was met
by a young midshipman on deck.
    "I am
Midshipman Foyle," he said grandly, taking her gloved hand and puffing out
his chest with self-importance.  "Welcome to HMS Surrey ."
    "Indeed."
    Her sharp tone
did not faze him, nor did the offensive stench coming up from below.  Pressing
her handkerchief against her nose, Gwyneth declined his offered elbow and
instead swept up her skirts with her free hand.  As she followed him aft, she
was all too aware of the stares of the seamen, the hushed comments, the
snickers and elbow-jostling that surrounded her.  Someone let out a long, low
whistle.
    Gwyneth never
paused, though her eyes narrowed and spots of angry color bloomed in her
cheeks.
    "Pay no
attention to this lot," Foyle said, his voice high and whiny, not unlike a
colicky child's.  "The sea is no place to learn manners, I'm afraid."
    "As your
very gentlemanly captain has already proven," Gwyneth remarked
acidly, still seething over the appalling conditions that surrounded her and
growing more furious by the moment.  To think that decent human beings were
forced to live in this floating hell, their only crime being that they had
fought on the enemy side!  "But no matter.  I already dislike what I see
here, and by the time I am through with him, Lord Morninghall will rue the day
he met me."
    The midshipman
only raised a skeptical brow and looked away, but not before Gwyneth caught his
private smirk.  Of course it was easy for him to be so blithe, he was
not the one forced to live in the conditions she could only imagine below!  And
Gwyneth knew from experience that men in Foyle's position usually harbored no
pity in their hearts for others, but found self-importance and satisfaction in
the bullying of the