Chapter Two

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

Patrick Flynn leapt lightly from the hired hackney carriage, instructed the driver to wait, and rang the doorbell of Lady Beatrice’s home in Berkeley Square.

“Mornin’, Featherby,” he greeted the butler familiarly. When Flynn had first arrived in London, knowing only Max, Flynn’s business partner and Lady Beatrice’s nephew, the old lady had invited him to stay. He’d spent his first few weeks living here and it had set him on exactly the path he wanted.

“Miss Daisy ready, is she?” Flynn asked. It was still quite early in the morning, but he’d sent a note around the previous evening. They’d received word that one of his ships carrying a special cargo of silks was due to dock this morning. Since Daisy was making clothes for Max’s wife, Abby and her other two sisters, Max wanted him to give Daisy first pick.

“Not quite, sir, but I’m sure she won’t be long. In the meantime, I’ll take your coat and hat, and if you would care to wait . . .”

Flynn did not care to wait, but he had no choice. Women were invariably late.

As the butler took Flynn’s overcoat, his expression became more than usually blank. Flynn smiled at Featherby’s pained, feigned obliviousness, and stroked his waistcoat.

Featherby did not approve of Flynn’s colorful waistcoats. He wasn’t the only one. When Flynn took over Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen’s bachelor apartments, he’d also taken on his valet, Tibbins. Tibbins frankly and openly despised the flamboyant waistcoats and tried at every opportunity to convince his master to get rid of them.

Flynn cared not the snap of his fingers for his valet’s—or anyone else’s—opinions. He had no love for the current English fashion for dressing a man like a wet weekend in Wales; Flynn liked a bit of color.

He’d entered London society with a view to finding a fine, fashionable lady to take to wife, and wiser and more fashionable heads—well, Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, who was an elegant sprig—had persuaded him to dress more conventionally—for the moment, at any rate.

Today, not even such an arbiter of fashion as Hyphen-Hyphen could find fault with the immaculate buckskin breeches molded smoothly over Flynn’s thighs, his highly polished black boots, his fine linen shirt with its high starched collar, the elegantly tied neckcloth and the perfectly tailored dark blue coat made for him by the very exclusive Weston, tailor to the fine gentlemen of the ton.

No, Flynn would have been complete to a shade—a very dull shade in his opinion—except for his waistcoat, which had not been made for him by any gentleman’s tailor.

Today’s waistcoat was a riot of snarling black and yellow embroidered Chinese tigers on a scarlet and blue silk background. Their eyes were tiny crystals that glinted green or red when he moved.

He had half a dozen of these vividly colored waistcoats, mostly made of Chinese or Indian embroideries and all made by Miss Daisy Chance, who charged Flynn an exorbitant price for the privilege—with a cheeky grin that all but admitted it was bare-faced robbery.

“Tell the lass to shake a leg, will you, Featherby?”

Featherby inclined a regal head. “I shall inform the young lady, sir. In the meantime, Lady Beatrice would, I’m sure, be delighted to entertain you. She’s in the front drawing room.” With an imperious wave of his hand, Featherby indicated the room. “I will have tea brought in.”

“Oh, but I haven’t got t—”

But the butler had gone, damn him, disappearing through the green baize door that led to the servants’ domain. With a sigh, Flynn made his way to the drawing room, already half regretting that he’d agreed to take Daisy with him.

It wasn’t that Flynn minded Daisy’s company—he liked the girl fine—it was just . . . he preferred to inspect his cargo on his own. It was a private little ritual he enjoyed each time one of his ships docked, meeting with the captain, going over the cargo manifest, then poking quietly through the various stores and bundles, the boxes and the exotically wrapped items, and deciding what he would do with them all.

It was a reminder of how far he’d come, a small, private . . . all right, yes, a small, private gloat.

Flynn grinned to himself. And maybe not always so small.

Trading was in his blood. He never knew in advance exactly what his captains might bring. Oh, there was the bread-and-butter cargo, silks and tea and spices and what-have-you, depending on where the ship had been trading, but he encouraged all his captains to keep an eye out for anything special and unusual.

Rich people were prepared to pay handsomely for the rare and exclusive.

And this particular ship was the Derry Lass, whose captain, McKenzie, traveled with his wife, Mai-Lin, who was a born trader on both sides of her heritage—the Scottish and the Chinese. She’d never yet failed to surprise him with some rare and beautiful item. And as well as silks, she had a nose for fine jade. Flynn collected jade.

Still, if he had to take an outsider along with him—and a female at that—Daisy was a good choice. She had an eye for quality, that girl, and a knack for knowing the kind of things that ladies—and therefore merchants—would snap up.

He knocked on the sitting room door and entered.

The dowager Lady Davenham, who preferred to be addressed as Lady Beatrice, the title she’d been born with, was seated on an overstuffed armchair, her skirts arranged around her like a queen’s robes, leafing through the pages of an illustrated periodical in a bored fashion. She looked up and brightened.

“Mr. Flynn, my dear boy, come in, come in. Just the man I wanted to see. I am bored to death with the company of women! Oh, not my darling gels—you know me better than that—but morning callers—and when I heard the bell just now, I thought you must be one of them—though it is a ridiculously early time for morning calls and nobody with the slightest pretension to fashion would make a morning call before noon—though of course it’s quite a different matter with a gentlemen caller, particularly a handsome one like yourself. You are welcome at any time.”

She raised her lorgnette and raked her gaze over him, lingering over the fit of the buckskin breeches. “You look to be in fine fettle, dear boy. I do like those breeches. So many men just don’t have the wherewithal to fill a pair of breeches properly.”

Flynn hid a grin. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant by wherewithal. She was an outrageous old bird.

Finally she dragged her gaze up to his face and beamed up at him. “So, what brings you here—do you want some tea? Of course you do—just tug on that bellpull, will you and—oh, here are William and Featherby now with the tea. Perfect timing as usual, Featherby. Be seated, dear boy, there where I can see you.” She gestured graciously.

Flynn sat.

The footman, William, set down the tea tray. Featherby poured while William put out a plate of dainty cakes and biscuits. As Featherby handed Flynn his teacup, he said, “Miss Daisy’s compliments, sir. She’s changing now and will be down in an instant.”

Lady Beatrice’s brows rose. “Will she indeed? That will make a change. You are honored, Mr. Flynn. The wretched gel hardly ever graces us with her company these days. Not for mere social occasions.” She snorted.

“Oh? And why would that be?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Sheer stubbornness.”

The footman and butler withdrew. Lady Beatrice drank a mouthful of tea, picked up an iced pink almond cake and said, “Now, dear boy, tell me, how is your matrimonial quest proceeding?”

“Well enough, thank you, m’lady.” He took a ginger biscuit, thought about dunking it in his cup of tea, reflected that the practice was frowned upon in elegant circles and crunched it down in two bites instead. He washed it down with a mouthful of tea. The ginger was good and spicy, the tea as weak as water. He preferred Indian tea, strong as it could come. Lady Beatrice invariably drank China.

She raised her lorgnette and said sharply, “Well enough? What does ‘well enough’ mean? Have you found a suitable young lady or not? Who have you met so far? How it is going?”

Flynn took another biscuit. “Excellent ginger nuts, m’lady. My compliments to your cook.”

Lady Beatrice was forever trying to winkle information out of Flynn concerning his plans and any potential courtships he might be considering. Ever since she’d met him, the old lady had been dying to match him up—and he was grateful for her introductions. But he’d always steered his own course, and he preferred to keep his own counsel until he’d made a final decision.

His reluctance to discuss the matter in detail fair drove the old lady mad. And to be honest, Flynn quite enjoyed teasing her.

She eyed him narrowly. “Finding you’ve aimed rather too high, have you? I did warn you. A lowborn, uneducated sea captain, Irish—and Roman Catholic to boot!” She shook her head.

“Lapsed, m’lady, and though all you say is true, I don’t believe I’m aimin’ too high,” Flynn said mildly. He was comfortable in his own skin and knew his own worth. “I’m also rich—a self-made man with a fleet of ships and a tradin’ empire that spreads from here to the four corners of the earth.”

Lady Beatrice sniffed. “Money acquired in trade.”

Flynn grinned, undeceived by her disparaging tone. “Aye, m’lady, lots of nasty vulgar money at me disposal which the poor lass who consents to become me wife will have to help me spend. ’Twill be a terrible burden for her, I’m thinkin’.”

Lady Beatrice’s finely painted lips twitched. “Undoubtedly. Modesty is not one of your virtues, is it Mr. Flynn.”

Flynn shrugged. He’d never seen the point of hiding his light under a bushel.

She picked up a dainty pastry bulging with cream and nibbled on it thoughtfully. “Max and Freddy have introduced you to a number of likely prospects, I know. As have I myself. But the Season has only just begun. Don’t give up hope yet, dear boy, there are plenty of eligible gels—”

“Oh, I have me eye on a likely lass,” he said unwarily.

He’d pretty much settled on Lady Elizabeth Compton, the daughter of the Earl of Compton. Lady Elizabeth looked to be everything he wanted in a wife—blue-blooded, pretty, young but not too young, and as far as Flynn could tell, sweet-natured. The only daughter of an impoverished earl, her father had subtly indicated he had no objection to a jumped-up lapsed Irish Catholic, as long as his fortune was fat enough, and Flynn’s was.

“Have you now?” Lady Beatrice leaned forward, her aristocratic Roman nose practically quivering, like a hound given the scent of a hare. “The finest young lady in London, you told me you wanted. This gel is a lady I presume?”

“To her fingertips, with a pedigree as long as your arm.”

“Who is she then? Do I know her?”

Flynn shook his head. “Nothing is settled yet.”

“I know how to keep my mouth shut, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she said tartly.

“To be sure, ma’am,” he said in a manner calculated to soothe her ruffled feathers. “But I’m a wee bit superstitious about speaking before any arrangements have been made. Once things are settled, I promise you, you’ll be the first to know. I’m truly grateful for the introduction.”

“Oho!” Lady Beatrice set her teacup aside, raised her lorgnette and leaned forward. “So I introduced you to the gel, did I? Which one is it, then? Is it—”

“I don’t intend to discuss it, m’lady,” Flynn said firmly. He was grateful for the introductions to various members of the ton that Lady Beatrice and Max had made, but he had no intention of letting the old lady—well-meaning as she was—oversee his courtship. Or blab it around before he’d even spoken to the girl.

She took no notice and began reeling off names, her beady gaze, intensified by her lorgnette, focused intently on him. “Is it Miss Harrington? Or the Grainger gel—forgot her name—the pretty one, with the unfortunate hair? No? Then what about the Sherry gel—Marianne? A little long in the tooth, but still perfectly eligible. No? Hmm, let me think, who else have I introduced you to?”

Flynn could have sworn he hadn’t moved a muscle, so how the devil did the old lady know it was none of the girls she’d listed? Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen claimed the old lady was some kind of mind-reading witch, and the rate she was going, a distraction was in order.

“It might be the daughter of a duke,” he confided, “and that’s all I’m going to say. I wouldn’t want it to get out.” He picked up a third ginger nut and chomped into it. Let the old girl muse on that little red herring.

“A duke’s gel?” Her brow knotted. “Not many of those left on the shelf—and none that I know of coming out this season, either. She’s made her come-out, this gel, has she?”

“Oh, yes.” Flynn sipped his tea and kept a straight face.

“The only duke’s gel that I can think of—the only unmarried one, that is—is Lady Pamela Girtle-Bute. But of course it couldn’t possibly be her.”

Flynn leaned forward with what he hoped was a guileless expression. “Why not?”

“Pammy Girtle-Bute?” The old lady snorted. “Frightful gel! Long past her prayers and no wonder. No looks to speak of—a perfect barrel of a girl—and those teeth!! And a crashing bore, to boot. Carries on a conversation as if she’s the only person in the room, can’t shut her up—and loud. Even the deaf are deafened. Add to that her propensity for keeping pet rats—d’you know, she took one once to a ball—carried it in her reticule—wretched creature got out, of course—you should have heard the commotion! And the smell . . .” Lady Beatrice waved her hand in front of her nose. “No, a man would have to be more than desperate to choose Pammy Girtle-Bute.”

“Oh.” Flynn sipped his tea with a downcast air. “I’m sorry you think so.”

The old lady stiffened. “You can’t mean it! Not Pammy Girtle-Bute!”

He shrugged. “She is the daughter of a duke.”

“But she’s utterly atrocious! You can’t possibly—”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Flynn said virtuously.

“But you cannot—”

“Delicious ginger nuts,” he said.

“There are plenty of gels almost as well born as Pammy Girtle-Bute, but a great deal more pleas—”

“As I said m’lady, I make me own choice.” With the air of a man who has finished talking, Flynn perused the cake plate, decided a fourth ginger nut would be too much and selected a large pastry, oozing jam and bulging with cream.

He lifted the pastry high for a careful bite, partly to ensure he did not drip any of the cream, and partly to hide his expression from the old lady. It was a tricky operation, but when he lowered the pastry, it was to find the old lady scrutinizing him through her lorgnette with a severe expression.

“You are a wicked, wicked tease, Mr. Flynn!”

He finished the pastry and wiped his hands and mouth, wiping away—he hoped—any trace of a smile. “If you say so, m’lady.”

“I do! You almost had me believing that appalling tale.”

“Surely not, m’lady. And you so fly to the ways of the world.”

She fixed him with a gimlet stare. “Don’t try to butter me up, you rogue! That atrocious tale could have caused me to have palpitations! Palpitations, I say!”

Flynn smiled. “Palpitations? Never say so m’lad—”

She thumped her cane on the floor. “I am a frail old woman and not to be lied to!”

“Ah, you’re as strong as an—”

“If you say ox Mr. Flynn, I shall—I shall hit you!” She gripped her cane meaningfully.

He chuckled. “No need for violence, ma’am. I was goin’ to say as strong as an er, an elf—yes, that’s it, strong as an elf—a delicate, elegant, canny, ageless wee elf.”

Lady Beatrice snorted. “You’re a silver-tongued rogue and a shameless rascal, Mr. Flynn.”

“If you say so, m’lady.”

“I do. I can’t imagine why I ever imagined that I liked you.” She gave him a long baleful stare that did its best to look stern.

He gave her a slow grin. “Well, milady, that would no doubt be me irresistible Irish charm.”

Her lips twitched. She pursed them ruthlessly back into an appearance of severity. “Irresistible Irish blarney, more like. Kissing that wretched stone or whatever it is that you Irish do.”

“Now why would I bother to kiss the Blarney Stone when there are so much more enticin’ things to kiss, milady?”

A reluctant chuckle escaped her. “You are quite, quite shameless.” Then a cunning expression came into her eyes. She wagged a bony finger at him. “You’re in need of a lesson, Mr. Flynn.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Am I indeed?”

“Yes, and you’ll have it, tomorrow at four o’clock sharp.” She pointed. “Upstairs.” She regarded him with a pleased expression.

She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant. “What kind of lesson?” he asked warily.

“A dancing lesson, Mr. Flynn. Now don’t argue—you’ll oblige me in this. Wicked man that you are, you owe it to me for the Dreadful Fright you gave me.”

She heaved herself to her feet, using her cane as a lever. Flynn leaped forward to help her but she batted his hands away impatiently. “Four o’clock sharp, d’ye hear me?”

“But I know how to dance.”

She gave a scornful snort. “Nonsense! You’ve been at sea most of your life—they don’t dance the hornpipe at Almack’s, you know!”

He opened his mouth to inform her that he might be a seaman, but he knew all the fashionable dances, but at that point Daisy arrived, buttoning her pelisse, a bonnet dangling by its strings from her arm. “Mornin’, Flynn. Sorry to keep you waitin’.”

Lady Beatrice leveled her lorgnette at Daisy. “You are dressed to go Out.”

Daisy nodded. “ ’S’right. I’m goin’ somewhere with Mr. Flynn.”

“Going somewhere? To where, pray tell?” When Daisy just grinned the old lady turned to Flynn. “You are honored, Mr. Flynn, honored, I say. The wretched gel has refused to accompany me anywhere of late! She refuses to make morning calls, turns her nose up at the most delightful events, and only occasionally will she even consent to walk in the park with the gels and me.”

“Pooh, you hardly ever walk anyway.” Daisy finished buttoning her pelisse, crammed her bonnet on and tied the strings. “You just sit in your carriage and take people up to gossip with. I ain’t got time to waste on that sort of thing.”

Flynn watched her tying the strings of her bonnet with no apparent care. The hat sat rakishly on her tousled brown locks, and yet the final effect was both stylish and flattering to her pale, angular, vivid little face. Her whole outfit was simple—plain with none of the frills and bits that other women seemed to like, but neat as a new pin, and somehow elegant. She was a tidy little package, young Daisy.

Daisy turned to Flynn, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Righto, Flynn, I’m ready.”

“Mr. Flynn hasn’t yet finished his tea,” Lady Beatrice pointed out acidly, disregarding the fact that she had herself been on the point of leaving the room.

Daisy frowned at him. “Did you come to drink tea? I thought you was in a hurry to get to the docks.”

“The docks?” Lady Beatrice repeated in a tone of faint horror. “You’re going to the docks?”

“One of my ships has just arrived, m’lady—”

“And he’s givin’ me first pick of the loot,” Daisy announced with glee. “Come on then, Flynn. No time to waste.”

*   *   *

Daisy stepped outside, pulling on her gloves. She glanced at the leaden sky. “Brr, call this spring? Still bloomin’ freezing!” Wisps of fog clung to the cold ground, a blanket of ethereal gray feathers. When she’d risen that morning and peered out of the window, the fog had been so thick the gas lamps in the street were barely visible, a mere glimmer in the dark.

Flynn had a hackney carriage waiting. The horses tossed their heads, snorting clouds of smoky breath in the chill air, and shifting restlessly, their hooves clattering on the cobbles.

Daisy climbed into the carriage, settled herself in the corner and grinned at Flynn as the carriage moved off with a jerk. “Thanks for askin’ me along, Flynn.”

He gave a shrug of acknowledgement. “It’s no trouble. Thanks for not keepin’ me waiting too long.”

“ ’S’all”—she broke the sentence with a huge yawn—“right.”

He smiled. “Wishing you were still in bed, are you? Hope I didn’t disturb your lie-in.”

“Lie-in?” She made a scornful sound. “I been up since four.”

“Four? In the morning? Good God, why?”

She shrugged. “I’m up at four most days. I don’t have time to lie abed like a fine lady.”

“Why on earth not?”

She shrugged. “Habit, mostly,” she lied. “I get bored lyin’ in bed ’til all hours.”

He raised one dark, winged brow in a way that suggested he saw straight through that one, so she added, “I’d’ve thought you of all people would understand, Flynn. I’m building a business here, and so I’m working every hour God sends.” And then a bit more.

“I see. Business is brisk, I take it.”

“Certainly is.” She forced a grin. “Can’t hardly keep up with the orders.” Couldn’t keep up with them at all, if the truth be told, but she wasn’t going to admit that to a soul.

“That’s grand then. If you’re so tired, grab a bit of kip. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He stretched out his long, booted legs, leaned back comfortably against the leather squabs and gazed out of the carriage window.

Daisy had no intention of dozing off when Flynn was right there beside her. She pretended to stare out of her window but watched him from the corner of her eye. He was one good-looking man, Flynn. His breeches fit nice and tight, his legs were long and powerful, and he smelled delicious—clean and manly, not like so many posh gents who drenched themselves in perfumes and smelled like a blooming flowerpot.

No, Flynn was all man. She fancied him rotten—always had, from the first day he’d come swaggering into Lady Bea’s parlor, as brash and confident as if he owned the place. Those bold blue eyes of his had summed up every female in the room, a perfect invitation to sin.

From the very first he’d been danger wrapped in shades of masculine elegance—he’d just come from Freddy Monkton-Coombes’s very exclusive tailor—all the while complaining about having to dress like a peahen—not a peacock—in drab colors. With a gold earring in his ear, like a bloomin’ pirate. He was wearing it today; it glinted in the dim light.

He’d flirted with her that first day, just a bit—and she’d flirted back.

Daisy sighed. In the old days she’d have gone after him like a shot, but she’d turned respectable now, and so had Flynn.

He was planning to marry the finest young lady in London, and Daisy was starting up a business of her own. They were on different pathways, and a romp between the sheets wasn’t on the cards for either of them. More’s the pity.

Besides, Flynn was her friend, the first man she’d ever been friends—real friends—with. The men she’d known in the past were users—pimps, predators, thieves and swindlers—all crooks of some kind.

Flynn was different, and she wasn’t going to risk spoiling their friendship with a bit of rumpy-pumpy, no matter how tempting it was. That sort of thing never lasted—and the breakup always ruined the friendship.

So it was look but don’t touch.

She eyed his long, muscular thighs in their gleaming boots, and smiled to herself. Lucky he was such a treat to look at.

The carriage wended its way through the streets. She could tell when they arrived at the docks by the smell—dank, wet, stinky, salty river mud. She shivered.

“Cold?” Flynn asked her.

“Nah, just . . . that smell.”

“Ah.” The carriage pulled up and they climbed down. While Flynn paid the driver, Daisy looked around. The fog was still thick here, lying like a sullen, dirty pall over the Thames. Beneath it she could hear the lapping of water, and above it the pip-pip-pip of some seabird. She pulled her pelisse more tightly around her.

Half a dozen big boats were moored along the wharf, their hulls caressed by the swirling fog, their masts etched sharp and dark against the silvery sky.

“Which one’s your boat?”

“Ship,” Flynn corrected her. “Out there.” He pointed to a distant shape, a ghost ship floating on fog. He put two fingers to his mouth and let out a long complicated-sounding whistle. From the depths of the fog, another whistle answered him.

Daisy frowned. “What’s it doin’ out there? I thought you said it was in port.”

“It is. I always inspect the cargo before we moor the ship.”

“Why? Wouldn’t it be easier to do it on land?”

“Aye, but quicker to do it on board, while we’re making arrangements for our men to unload and transfer the cargo to our own warehouses. I prefer to spend as little time on the docks as possible.”

Daisy could understand that—she hated the river and the docks, but Flynn was a sailor. They were supposed to like the stink of the sea. “Why?” she asked.

“Thieves.” Flynn sent out another whistle, shorter this time, then turned back to Daisy. “Gangs of thieves raid in the night—in the daytime, too, some of them—barefaced and brazen. And vicious. That’s the reason for those fences and the ditches there.” He gestured. “Not that you can see much in the fog. There’s also private guards patrolling, but when it comes to valuable cargoes, I prefer to use me own men. Last week one of the gangs set fire to a warehouse, so I’m takin’ no chances. The cargo isn’t spending a moment longer here than necessary.”

Daisy nodded. There were thieves everywhere. On the other hand . . . She eyed the expanse of water mistrustfully. Under the muffling blanket of fog, she could hear the lapping of water against piles. “So how do we get on board? Were you whistlin’ to tell them to land the boat?”

“Ship—a boat is smaller. No, we’ll go out in—yes, it’s here.” He strode towards the edge of the wharf, leaned over and spoke to someone Daisy couldn’t see.

Daisy followed him and looked down. There bobbing away in the fog was a small rowboat with a man seated in it. “Go out in that little thing?” she exclaimed. “Not on your life!”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Flynn assured her.

“It bloody well isn’t!” Daisy backed away. She’d nearly drowned once. Every time she smelled that stinky dank river smell, she remembered that panic, the sense of the waters closing over her head, of choking on the filthy stuff . . .

Flynn smiled, as if amused. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall in.”

“You won’t get the chance!”

“I thought you wanted first pick of the goods. If you don’t . . .” He shrugged.

Daisy thought of all those gorgeous things hidden away in that big boat. First pick . . . She swallowed. “All right, but I’m warnin’ you, Flynn, if that thing tips over—”

“It won’t, and even if it did, I wouldn’t let you drown. Unlike most seamen, I can swim like a fish, so you’re perfectly safe with me.” He held out his hand. With a deep breath, and hoping he couldn’t feel how much she was shaking, Daisy took it. It was warm and strong.

The only way to get into the nasty little boat was by climbing down a wooden ladder built into the wharf.

“A gentleman would let you go first,” Flynn said.

“Don’t even think of it,” Daisy told him. Modesty be buggered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere unless you’re there to break me fall.”

With a soft chuckle, Flynn disappeared over the side, landing with a small thud in the boat. “Your turn, Miss Daisy.” The little rowboat rocked and bobbed around madly. Flynn stood looking up at her, as calm as if he was on solid ground.

First pick of the goods . . . Taking a deep breath, Daisy turned her back on the river, hooked her skirts up a bit, and started down the ladder, one careful step at a time, hanging on for dear life.

Fog swirled around her, waves slapped nastily against the flimsy little boat and the weed-ridden piles of the wharf. Overhead, river birds shrieked like lost spirits. Daisy took a breath to settle her nerves . . . and the scent of the river closed over her.

She froze.

“Daisy?” Flynn’s deep voice came from somewhere far away.

Daisy didn’t move—couldn’t move.

A pair of strong hands seized her by the waist. “Let go, I’ve got you.”

But she couldn’t.

He wrapped one brawny arm around her and with his other hand unclenched her frozen fingers, and thud! They landed in the little boat. It rocked wildly and she clutched at Flynn in fright.

“You’re fine, lass.” His voice was calm and deep and soothing. “Just sit down and be still now.” He pressed her down onto a plank.

He said something to the man, then did something with a rope and pushed. The little boat left the wharf with a swish, and the man started rowing.

Flynn sat down beside Daisy. “It won’t take but a moment to get to the ship.” It was a bit of a squash, but the feel of his strong body beside her was a comfort. He’d said he could swim.

Shamed by her stupid panic, Daisy sat as still as she could, her back straight, her head held high. She held on tightly and, she hoped, inconspicuously. She was shaking like a leaf.

The oars splashed, the sailor pulled in a steady rhythm.

After a moment, Flynn said quietly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you really were frightened of the water.”

Mortified by his quiet sympathy, Daisy mumbled, “It’s nuffin’.” She hated being such a coward.

And then because he seemed to be waiting, and because she felt so foolish, and because the salt-sour acrid smell of the river was half suffocating her she found herself muttering, “It’s just . . . I nearly drowned once.”

“What happened?”

“Bloke pushed me in. Thought it was funny, stupid bast—” Remembering she was trying to clean up her language, she broke off. “I can’t swim. Lucky for me a riverman saw me go under. He pulled me out with a ruddy great hook, ripped me dress to bits.” She grimaced. “He thought it was pretty funny too—said most of his catches were dead uns, but I was still wriggling.” A shudder rippled through her as she remembered.

Flynn slid an arm around her waist. “Well, you’re perfectly safe with me.”

Daisy tried not to lean into him. Normally she would have shaken him off—she didn’t need the temptation—but she was too grateful for the secure, solid feel of him. In any case, temptation was the last thing on her mind—she was too bloody scared.

As they slid smoothly through the water, the shape of the big ship slowly coalesced out of the fog. They traveled in silence, the sounds of the river echoing around them, made eerie by the fog and their lack of context. It was taking forever.

Beside her Flynn let out a little huff of amusement.

She turned her head and eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“I’m thinkin’ even if you did go in, you’d be in no danger of drowning.” He added, “Wood floats.”

“What?”

“You’re as stiff as a board. Likely if you hit the water you’d float.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Then she elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

“Ooff!” But he was laughing too. “That’s better,” he said. “And here we are at the ship.”

The little boat bumped gently against the side of the ship. Overhead she could see the prow, with the figurehead of a carved and painted bare-breasted woman pointing from it. The name Derry Lass was painted in crisp gold-edged black letters.

A rope ladder hung down from the side of the ship. Daisy eyed it. Her stomach clenched. Climbing a fixed wooden ladder had been hard enough, but a rope one that would twist and swing, with the river beneath her . . .

“I can’t—” she began.

“Ahoy there, Derry Lass!” Flynn called up. “Lady comin’ aboard.”

A couple of heads appeared above, then a rope with a canvas sling was lowered.

“Sit in that,” Flynn said, helping her to her feet. “The lads will haul you up. It’s perfectly safe—like a swing at the fairground. We use it for loading and unloading cargo—and ladies.”

Anxiety scalded her throat, but she’d made a right ninny of herself once already this morning, so she swallowed her objections—and her fear—and allowed Flynn and the sailor to help settle her onto the strip of canvas.

“Ready?”

She nodded, clutching the ropes like grim death. Lordy, but she felt a fool.

“Take her away, lads,” Flynn called up.

The ropes snapped taut, the canvas sling pulled tight around her bum, and “Lord lumme!” Suddenly she was swinging in the air, swaying over the water, her feet dangling and her skirts blowing.

“Keep still,” Flynn instructed.

One of her shoes fell off.

“Caught it,” he called up.

But Daisy wasn’t worrying about her shoe. She was pulled high, and swung over the deck—a deck filled with a bunch of men and one woman, all gawking at the elegant sight she made—for all the world like a pudding dangling in a bloomin’ pudding cloth. Talk about dignity.