Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) by Lily Silver

dined each evening with a French count. What was a mere sea captain compared to that?
    She opened the note, and scanned the captain’s handwriting. Neat script, for a seaman. She touched it, surprised that the man had such an accomplished hand. “What do I wear on such an occasion?” she asked the room at large. “Is it to be the best evening silks or simple sprigged muslin?”
    The only answer was her maid retching violently out in the small water closet.
     

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Jack said goodnight to the last member of his gathered officers and closed the door.
    He leaned against it momentarily, relieved. Mrs. O’Donovan had declined his offer to dine in his cabin. Her maid had taken ill and she did not wish to leave the young girl’s side as the maid was tossing up her accounts at an alarming rate, or so said the note he’d been given.
    Sea sickness , he’d wager. He’d send the ship’s surgeon to check on the girl tomorrow if she wasn’t recovered. Didn’t Chloe realize that most people suffered sea sickness on a first voyage?
    Chloe . He had to stop thinking of her on such familiar terms, lest he use her first name in polite conversation. His close association with her family did not grant him the right to address her so in public. He had to remember that doing so in front of others would imply an intimacy that might be taken the wrong way and harm her reputation. It was the woman who always suffered for such things.
    Stumbling toward his desk, Jack sat down and burped. The men had had a whooping good time, exchanging lewd jokes and stories and even entering into a little good-natured wager at cards. He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted his winnings, several guineas. The clatter of coins rubbing together was a lovely song he preferred to hear often, particularly if it was won from the gaming tables.
    Donovan called him an addict once, years ago, when Jack first lost his fortune. Donovan compared Jack’s gambling to those enslaved by strong drink or opium. Jack was trying to reform. These days, he never wagered anything more than he carried on his person. No high stakes. That had been folly, wagering all he had for the thrill of winning. He'd learnt his lesson years ago, when he recklessly wagered his ship in a game and lost her. She had been fine ship, was Amelia’s Revenge . He mourned the loss of his ship almost as much as the lady for whom he’d named the vessel.
    Another robust belch emerged from his gullet and was given free rein to cavort about his cabin. Jack reached for the miniature in that secret little cubby within his desk. He was not drunk and yet his fingers seemed thicker this evening than usual and his coordination was a little skewered. He fumbled, trying to hold the wrapped portrait in his clumsy grip. At last, he set it on the desk and exhaled his irritation as he stared down at the blue velvet fabric he kept the treasure wrapped in to preserve it from the salt and the damp of the sea.
    Amelia. She was to be his wife. What would his life be like now if she had never left Boston to travel to Ceylon with her father to purchase those damned silk fabrics? He would be married to Amelia now. They would have a passel of children. She wouldn't have been on that ship, wouldn't have been kidnapped by Barbary pirates or sold to an Arab prince. Jack would never have met Donovan in the east. There would have been no reason to turn to piracy to avenge the horrible death of his beloved twenty years ago.
    A death he might have prevented, if he hadn't arrived with her ransom a week late.
    Too late . The words pecked at his conscience often, like buzzards over a rotting corpse.
    Jack loosened his cravat. He ran his fingers through his hair, freeing it from the restraining queue. He touched the velvet fabric with reverent fingers. Amelia’s image had become an icon, a sacred painting, a holy relic representing all he had lost in life.
    The painting called to him. Not actual whispers, as