The sun would soon touch the horizon. Already long irregular fingers of salmon and gold glinted off the restless swells of endless ocean. It was cooler. But then it was late November and they were heading north. Where would Cyprian finally put ashore, she wondered. Of more immediate concern, however, was what were his intentions tonight? Eliza took a finely knitted shawl, one of the garments Cyprian had given her, and wrapped it around her shoulders and arms. Though it warmed her, however, she suspected it would prove a less than adequate barrier to any seductive attempts Cyprian might make. Like her flimsy willpower, the shawl would fall away at his least provocation. The very thought of how easily he could draw her in sent both alarm and an unforgivable spark of anticipation skittering down her spine. Nervously she smoothed a crease in her skirt and checked for loose tendrils in the single plait she’d worked her hair into. She had to be prepared for anything tonight, and she had to have her own plan to counteract whatever he might try.
