She was back, her hand sporting a makeshift bandage that looked like it might have been created from a strip of her undergarments. Lace edged the bottom of the strip, and the white material looked sheer.

Gray ignored her as he supervised the transfer of the French prisoners from the allied vessel into the hold of their own. Stills awaited them, grinning with triumph as they were marched one by one over the narrow plank and toward him.

Meanwhile, the beautiful harridan dogged Gray’s every step. “Captain, are you listening to me? You must take me to France at once! We haven’t a second to lose.”

He didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he sought out the captain of this vessel, a gray-bearded man of good posture and an air of weathered command. Gray straightened his shoulders as he approached, trying to cultivate a similar air of authority—difficult to do with his chattering blond shadow.

“I’ll be taking command of the barque,” he told the other captain. “Would you care to abandon ship? I’ll transport your crew to the nearest port to await reassignment.” With the ship’s mast all but severed, it wouldn’t be able to sail on its own. At best, a larger ship might be spared to tow it back to port to be repaired. Ships were precious at this point in the war, so the admiral would likely opt to try to salvage the vessel.

“Thank you, Gray, but I won’t abandon my ship to fall into the hands of these French monsters.” The man called Gray by his nickname, used among friends and equals. They must have crossed paths at some point.

Unfortunately, Gray had a much smaller memory for faces and couldn’t pair the captain’s with a name. He pretended otherwise. “With the prisoners, I can’t risk a mutiny by delaying my return to land. I must deliver the Frenchmen ashore with all due haste. I’ll hail the first friendly vessel I come across to render its assistance, but if another French scout finds you first…” His voice trailed off. The ship and its crew would be defenseless.

The man’s face hardened. “I understand. I’ll ask for volunteers to remain with me. Anyone who would rather await another assignment ashore can leave with you.” The captain’s eyes flashed with something between greed and wariness. He and Gray both knew that the French barque would need a captain and crew. Although the ship had attacked the smaller vessel and not Gray’s, the older captain had been outnumbered and outgunned.

Gray wasn’t about to let him claim the new ship as his prize. Capturing and outfitting an enemy ship to serve in the Royal Navy was Lieutenant Stills’s best chance at promotion. Gray might be young at only twenty-seven, but he was stubborn. He hadn’t risen so high in the ranks of the Royal Navy by riding on his family’s coattails. That French barque was his.

Stiffly, he said, “Your men are welcome to join me on the King’s Grace.” When he found an admiral at Brighton, he would present the ship along with his recommendation for Stills to take the command.

The other captain nodded, reluctant. “I’ll put out the word to my men.”

Gray relaxed. When he turned, the young woman stepped into his path, arms akimbo. “I hope your men enjoy France, because that’s where you’re taking me.”

Whatever beauty products she slathered on her skin must have leeched out her common sense, because commanding him was not going to work. He could see no possible reason for turning his back on his duty. He was an officer in the Royal Navy, and as such, he obeyed the directives of his superiors. In this case, that meant patrolling the English Channel, not ferrying around a waspish blond beauty on a whim. “I will not.” He tried to step around her.

She blocked his path, crossing her arms, her jaw fixed in a mulish expression. “It is imperative that I get there.”

“I’ll deliver you to Brighton.”

Given the look on her face, it seemed a good thing that she was no longer in possession of the letter opener, or she might have used it on him. “This is a matter of life and death, Captain—”

He cut her off. “Why are you so adamant that I risk my life and that of my crew in order to deliver you into enemy territory?”

Her expression turned pinched. Reluctantly, biting off her words, she answered, “I have to… attend my wedding.”

He nearly laughed. She was engaged? His gaze dipped to her hand of its own accord, not that he found any evidence of her engagement ring. She must have hidden it while at sea.

Shaking his head, he repeated, “I’ll deliver you to Brighton.” And given the way she seemed determined to demand her way even though she hadn’t expressed so much as a second of gratitude toward him, he wished the groom good bloody luck with her. Perhaps she was sailing to France because no one in Britain would have her.

He turned away, striding over the plank to join his second-in-command on board the barque. She scrambled after him. When she shrieked, his instincts kicked in. He whirled and caught her as she lost her footing on the slick, narrow board. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her the last step across and set her down aboard the barque.

Breathless, she batted a limp strand of her hair away from her face and tilted her neck back to meet his gaze. “Thank you.”

That she thanked him for? She would have gotten wet, no more. If he hadn’t intervened with that French soldier, she might have been killed. She was mad.

He turned away.

“Wait!” She hurried to catch up. “It’s more important than it sounds.”

“That you get married?”

She made a face. “That I find my way to France.”

Why don’t you take a dinghy and row yourself there? He bit his tongue before he made the suggestion. The young woman, oblivious to his irritation, glared at him, as if by so doing she would be able to change his mind. Not bloody likely.

He rounded on her, taking a breath to control his reaction. If he’d dreamed of finding a woman stranded on a vessel in the middle of the English Channel and begging for his assistance, it would not have been her.

Perhaps this fictional woman would have looked like her—for all her lack of common sense, the woman was an uncommon beauty—but she would have been more the sort of woman befitting his station. The sort of woman his mother was.

Evelyn Graylocke, the former Duchess of Tenwick, was a strong, polite, proper woman. She didn’t yield to the machinations of high society, but she didn’t resort to stubbornly haunting the steps of the person from whom she wanted something. She certainly wouldn’t demand it as her due. Even as a duchess, his mother would have asked politely and, if refused, found another way.

The young woman glaring at him was absolutely nothing like the demure sort of woman he hoped to one day meet. This one was persistent, demanding, impolite, and perhaps even a bit wild. When he married…

It didn’t matter. He was still a bit wild at heart and unwilling to relinquish his adventurous ways. Besides, she was off to France to marry her beau, and from what he could tell it would be a boon to all of England when she did.

Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth and tried to act in a way befitting his status and his family. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I am Captain Anthony Graylocke of the Royal Navy—”

The shocked look on her face stopped him midsentence.

“You're Anthony Graylocke?” She scrutinized him, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Of course. I should have known. ‘Gray’ is a nickname for ‘Graylocke.’”

“Yes. As I was saying—”

She lunged for his hand, stopping his words again. Suddenly her whole demeanor had changed. His previous assumption was correct. The woman was mad. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

Oh dear.

“You look nothing at all like your brothers. The hair, I guess. All black. And maybe something in the eyes… ”

Wonderful, she knew his brothers. That meant she was from a family in good enough standing to be invited to the same events as the Duke of Tenwick. Somehow, he was certain his mother was going to hear about this, and he received enough letters from her, imploring him to give up his career and return home, as it was. He served his country proudly. That was the way it was going to stay, no matter the danger to himself.

Apparently, the biggest danger at sea was having his hands crushed. As the woman babbled, her words coming thicker and higher pitched, he gingerly extracted his hands. He flexed his fists as he returned them to his side.

What is she chattering on about? Still something about his brothers and performing his duty to his country? He did that already. He held up a hand, but she continued to talk over him.

“They would want you to help me. It’s for the good of England.”

That it was for the good of England that she married a Frenchman, he believed. He hoped it was a high-level military man. She might natter him to death and turn the tide of the war.

He cupped her shoulders in his palms, fighting the urge to shake her. “Miss—” Had she introduced herself during that torrent of words? “Forgive me, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Charlie. Charlotte, that is. Charlotte Vale.”

His stomach sank as he recognized the name. “No relation to Frederica Vale, by chance?” His voice was weak.

She nodded. “Freddie is my sister. Though she’s Frederica Graylocke now.”

Miss Vale’s sister was married to Gray’s brother. Bloody hell, this was going to get back to his mother, after all. His temple throbbed as he tried to find a way to politely refuse her request without further riling her. He took a deep breath and dropped his hands. “Miss Vale—”

“Charlie.”

“Beg pardon?”

“We’re family. You may call me Charlie. Your brothers do.”

He was not going to call her by her nickname. Their siblings might be married, but they had only just met. He straightened his jacket and said, “As beholden as I am to your family for giving my brother such wedded bliss, I’m afraid that I have orders direct from the Crown that are my duty and my pleasure to uphold. I cannot turn my back on them at a woman’s request, not even one as connected to my family as you.”

As he finished his calm, cogent explanation, she stared at him. Her eyelashes fluttered over her sky-blue eyes. After a moment, she muttered, “Nothing at all like your brothers. I guess you don’t follow in their footsteps. Have you always been this stiff? If so, the navy is a good place for you.”

Did she think before she spoke? He didn’t deign to answer. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Vale.”

He turned away to find Stills standing nearby, wearing an amused expression. It didn’t help with Gray’s sour mood.

“Wait!” She dashed into his path once more. Despite having traveled on a smaller ship more likely to be tossed around by the waves, she hadn’t yet found her sea legs. She threw out her arms as she struggled to catch her balance.

Since she was in no danger of falling into the water this time around, he didn’t help.

“You have to help me.”

“Why is that?” he asked in a clipped voice. “Because of our connection? I have already explained that it does not supersede my duty to my country.”

To his utter shock, she replied by sticking her hand down her bodice. Did she have no sense of propriety at all? He stepped closer to her, trying to use his body to shield her movements from the eyes of the other sailors.

Oblivious to the interested looks from the men, Charlie produced two letters out of her dress. She examined each one before returning one to her bodice. “Here,” she said, handing him the other letter.

It had just been down her bloody dress. “What is it?”

“It’s a missive, signed by Lord Strickland, commissioning the ship of whomever I present it to. You must take me to France.”

“Lord Strickland… the Commander of the Crown Spies?” He had been presented just such a paper once before, and it had been a pain in his bloody behind.

She beamed. “You do know of the network, then.”

And so, it seemed, did she. Bloody hell.

Apparently her impending marriage was important enough for the Commander of Spies to take notice. Gray might have to ferry her to France, after all.