The feather tick was certainly more comfortable than his narrow captain’s berth aboard the Revenge, but he still missed the sea’s constant rocking, now gentle, now tossing him about. He willed his mind to give up and let his body find sleep. It was a losing battle. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up into the damask bed curtains. At least, the evening had been declared a rousing success. Supper was heartily enjoyed by all. The string quartet was nearly inexhaustible, playing one reel after another as his guests reveled in exuberant country dancing after their oh-so-proper courtly steps earlier. And almost everyone left him at the door exclaiming over the delightful comedic farce presented after the meal. His lovely nieces played an Algonquin war party and one thoroughly humiliated Baron Curtmantle served admirably as their prey. Jacquelyn made Gabriel step in, acting as “His Majesty’s loyal militia” to rescue the poor baron before the flames got too high. Hugh was covered with sweat and smoke, but without a singe on his miserable hide, more’s the pity.
