Fabian left Lillian in her bedchamber, closed the door and paused in the dimly lit corridor. He resisted the urge to punch the air triumphantly. Events were proceeding as planned. Once they were wed, he’d make sure Vane knew where to find them. The marquess would do anything to secure his sister’s happiness. He would agree to help in the search for Estelle, and they stood a better chance of finding her if they worked together.

The need to save Estelle had forced him to harden his heart to all emotion. Marriage was nothing more than a business transaction — a case of bartering and exchanging commodities. So why was his pulse racing? Why did every nerve in his body spark to life at the thought of making Lillian Sandford his wife?

In his dreams, he’d asked her to marry him once before. He’d taken her to the orangery at Prescott Hall, proposed amid exotic flowers, promised to show her the world — not kidnap and blackmail her into submission. She’d smiled at him, not the scornful smirk she’d given tonight, but an expression of affection and respect. And the rightness of it all had penetrated deep into his soul.

But Fate had other plans.

Her father’s greed and her brother’s selfish pride had helped to dampen his desire. But while her acceptance to partake in his plan brought a sense of relief, it reawakened feelings long since buried. The powerful tug in his gut upon seeing her again was a testament to that.

Damn.

Sleep would elude him tonight. How could he rest knowing Lillian lay but a few feet beyond his bedchamber door? With a huff of frustration, he made his way to the kitchen. A man with Mackenzie’s appetite and size would be filling his face.

“You’ll find him in the brewery, my lord.” Mrs Bell wiped her hands on her apron. “He treats those kegs like they’re his children. Happen he’s covering them with a blanket and singing a sweet lullaby.”

Fabian laughed. “If I find him pushing one around in a perambulator, then I’ll worry.”

Mackenzie wasn’t singing to the beer barrels, but Fabian found him sitting on a milking stool, one arm draped over a keg while he supped from a tankard.

“After a night out in the cold, I thought you'd be in the kitchen or nestled in a chair in front of a roaring fire.”

“It’s a matter of priorities, my lord.” Mackenzie came to his feet. “This stuff needs drinking before it turns sour. Can I interest you in a mug of ale?”

“I’d rather a bottle of claret, but I’ll take whatever’s going tonight.” He needed something to banish all amorous thoughts of the woman in the adjoining chamber.

Mackenzie placed his tankard on the stool, rummaged around on the shelf to his right, blew dust from an earthenware mug and filled it from the tap in the keg.

Drinks in hand they clinked vessels in salute.

“To the best-laid plans,” Fabian said.

“Aye, even if they’re not the most moral ones.” Mackenzie gave a weary sigh. “How’s the lass faring?”

“Better than expected. This time tomorrow she’ll be my wife.” Fabian clutched the mug and hoped Mackenzie didn’t notice the slight tremble in his fingers. “Please tell me you brought the Reverend Sykes with you.”

“Aye, we’ve brought the minister. He made a bit of a fuss. Tried to tell me you should marry on the mainland. As it turns out, the man’s a poor sailor and spent his time aboard casting up his accounts.”

Despite being five miles from shore, Raven Island was part of the parish of Branscombe in the county of Devonshire. Whether he liked it or not, the reverend had a duty to serve all his parishioners.

“Granted, no one has used the old chapel in a hundred years, but the Reverend Sykes cannot refuse to attend us here.”

Mackenzie swallowed a mouthful of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Och, he soon saw sense when I gave him your generous donation to fix the leaking roof. He wanted to see proof of your common licence, mind, but I told him no one questions the word of the Raven.”

“I trust Isaac found him a comfortable room for the night?”

“Aye, though I’d best tell the reverend the ceremony is in the morning.” Mackenzie frowned. “I thought the lass would want more time to prepare, though I’m surprised she agreed to the match at all.”

“The lady has few options it seems.” A sharp stab in his chest forced him to curse the man responsible. “Blast Vane. I could string him up for his failure to care for her as he should.” The Lillian Sandford he remembered deserved to marry a duke, not a pirate. “We cannot afford to wait. Vane is a man of many talents. Let’s hope hunting isn’t one of them.”

“You need tracks to hunt. Those at Vauxhall were too eager to escape being hit by a giant basket to notice us. We paid a few of Mr Green’s men to cause a distraction.”

“And you’re certain Vane didn’t follow you?”

“Aye.” Mackenzie gave a hearty belch before refilling his tankard from the tap. “Trevane got caught up in the crowd. The gardens are too vast for one man to search alone.”

“What about the other man you hired to help? You know I would have advised against it had you told me of your plans.” One could not buy loyalty. His men knew that. “Are you assured of his discretion?”

“The other man, my lord?”

“The one whose face is pitted with smallpox scars. Lady Lillian said he frightened her out of her wits.”

Mackenzie drew his bushy brows together and shook his head. “We know better than to hire a stranger. The lass is mistaken. Happen the laudanum made her confused.”

“Perhaps.” The hairs on Fabian’s neck prickled to attention. After eight years at sea, he’d learnt to trust his intuition. “And you befriended no one during your stay in London?”

“Other than the odd conversation with the landlord of the Eight Bells, we kept to ourselves.” Mackenzie placed his tankard on the milking stool and straightened. “But on a different note, there is something you should know, though you’ll be none too pleased.”

Fabian swallowed. “Is that why you’ve been plying me with ale?”

“Happen it’s wise to keep your temper, what with a man of God sleeping but a few feet above.” Mackenzie drew in a deep breath. “Someone has been stealing food from the pantry. Small amounts, but often. Mrs Bell didn’t want to worry you and so mentioned it to me.”

When one lived and worked with a hundred or more seafaring men, trust was everything. “The men know to ask Mrs Bell for anything they need, and she would not refuse their request.” Some of his men lived a mile north of the castle, in a settlement of stone cottages close to the dock. Fifty or so men were out on The Octavia transporting wine from Bordeaux to Bristol.

Mackenzie sighed. “It’s not just food, but candles, a lamp and firewood, too.”

“Bloody hell! Why didn’t Mrs Bell mention it before?”

“I imagine she didn’t want to trouble you until she was certain of her findings. I told her I would investigate the matter. In the meantime, I’d best warn her about the banquet tomorrow. She’ll need all hands in the kitchen tonight if she’s got any hope of cooking up a feast.”

“The banquet?”

Mackenzie gripped Fabian’s shoulder. “Your wedding banquet. Surely you plan to give the lass a day to remember.”

In regard to the ceremony and the deflowering of his bride, Fabian’s only thoughts were of getting the deed done before Vane arrived. But then he reminded himself that there wouldn’t be a deflowering as he wasn’t the first man to take the scandalous lady to his bed. His chest grew hot, and little lights flashed before his eyes. Curse Vane to the Devil. Curse the blighter who took advantage of an innocent woman. Curse him for using and discarding such a precious treasure.

“I’d not planned on doing anything to mark the occasion.” After all, she didn’t want to marry him. “I’m sure the lady wishes to get the matter over with quickly and with the minimal of fuss.” While taking Lillian to his bed was a priority, he wanted to do his utmost to ensure she enjoyed the experience. He had no intention of leading a life of celibacy. And he would not be unfaithful to his wife.

“Mark my words, you’d best make an effort to do something special else it will come back to haunt you for the rest of your days.”

Fabian snorted. “Ordinarily, that responsibility would fall to her family. As the person who clearly knows the workings of a woman’s mind, I shall give you the task of ensuring the lady is happy.”

Mackenzie raised his chin. “It would be my pleasure to see that the day goes smoothly. I trust the lass has a dress.”

Damn. “Only the one she’s wearing.”

Mackenzie threw his hands in the air. “Lord of all the fairies, you did not think the matter through at all.” He huffed and sighed, tugged his beard and shaped the wiry hair into a point. “My mother used to say a pretty face suits a dish-cloth, but I doubt she meant on a lass’ wedding day. You should be thankful she’s related to Trevane for she has grit and courage aplenty.”

“The lady has always possessed a fighting spirit.” In their youth, she’d climbed to the highest bough of a tree just to prove a point, had done her utmost to suppress her fear when she struggled to get down. “And she’ll need one to marry me.”

“Happen it will take a lot to unsettle the lass. Och, I’ll gather a few of the women together and see what we can do about finding her something decent to wear. Let’s hope and pray our mysterious thief hasn’t stolen every needle and thread.”

“Lady Lillian has a natural beauty.” One glance at her hazel eyes and a man would crawl on hands and knees to do her bidding. “I’m certain she’ll look presentable in whatever she wears.”

“Presentable?” Mackenzie shook his head and tutted. “Whatever you do, don’t say that to her. A Highland lass would knock you on your backside and banish you to the barn.”

Mackenzie was so caught up in the romantic notion of it all he’d forgotten Fabian’s was to be a marriage of convenience.

“Then I best heed your wise words. The lady asked for pistols and a rapier as wedding gifts.”

Mackenzie’s eyes widened, and he laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “You’ve got your hands full there, make no mistake. Wait until the wee bairns come along, you’ll not have a minute’s peace.”

“Bairns?” A man needed to bed his wife to sire offspring. Fabian had more chance of waking to find the point of a blade pricking his throat. “Hold that thought. The lady will need time to grow accustomed to her new situation.”

“From what I can tell she’s a strong-minded woman who’s learnt to take things in her stride. I imagine she’ll enjoy being mistress of Raven Island, and wife to the bravest man ever to sail the seas.”

“Brave? After the scrapes we’ve been in, some would use the term foolish.”

Mackenzie raised his tankard. “We’ve not lost a man yet.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

Doyle hadn’t tumbled overboard. He’d not fallen off the topsail or been swept off the deck by a thirty-foot wave. But he was lost all the same: swallowed by greed.

“Have you heard from Doyle?” Fabian knew the answer. Mackenzie would have told him had the disloyal rogue made contact.

Mackenzie’s expression darkened. “Not since the day he tried to murder his own shipmates. He knows better than to come begging and pleading to me.”

“I thought he might send for Mary at the very least.” Doyle’s wife lived in a cottage near the dock. Despite Fabian’s reassurance that she knew nothing of Doyle’s deceit, the men were nervous around her. But Fabian refused to turn her out.

“The man thinks only of himself. Most would say she’s better off without him.”

Fabian downed a mouthful of ale while he contemplated Mackenzie’s comment. “Has Mary approached Mrs Bell for provisions since Doyle’s disappearance? Perhaps she’s afraid to see the men after what happened. Perhaps someone in the castle is stealing food and delivering it to her.”

“Mary’s not a thief. I can vouch for that.” Mackenzie frowned and drew his hand down his beard. “But I’ll visit her after the wedding, see how she’s faring and ask if she’s heard from that traitorous bastard.”

The mere mention of his wedding sent Fabian’s blood racing through his veins. “I suppose I should visit Lillian in her chamber and tell her we’re to marry in the morning.”

“Och, you cannot do that. A man cannot see his bride the night before the nuptials.”

Fabian suppressed a chuckle. “How else am I to inform her of the news?”

“You can do what all men with love in their hearts do when there’s something important to say.”

Love in his heart? Mackenzie had downed too much ale and taken to spouting gibberish. “And what would a man in love do?”

“Why, he’d send the lass a letter.”