In an instant, he was close to her, pressed hard against her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he implored her, with a passion near to desperation:

'It's not too late. The course we are on is still – our course. It's not until we're through the straits that we must choose… Oh, Marianne, Marianne, how can you be so cruel to us both! If you would only…'

His hands were touching her. Weakly she shut her eyes and relaxed against him, aware to the point of agony of the moment's closeness.

'Am I the one who is cruel? Did I offer you an impossible choice? You thought it only a whim, some kind of attempt to keep alive a past that is gone, a past I don't even want…'

'Then prove it, my love! Let me take you away from all this. I love you to death and you, of all people, know it! You made that dinner hell for me. I've never seen you look so lovely… I'm only a man! Can't we forget the rest of the world?'

Forget? It was such a beautiful word and how Marianne longed to be able to utter it with the same conviction as Jason. A nasty, insidious little inward voice would keep whispering that the forgetfulness was to be all on her side. Was he going to wipe the slate clean of all his own past memories? But the present moment was too precious and Marianne did not want to lose it yet. Perhaps, after all, Jason was going to give way? She wriggled round in the circle of his arms and brushed his lips briefly with her own.

'Can't we forget as easily on the way to Constantinople as on a course for America?' she murmured, kissing him. 'Don't torture me. You know I have to go… but I need you so! Help me!'

There was a little silence, momentary but complete. Then, all at once, Jason's arms fell.

'No,' he said.

He stepped back. Between the two bodies which, a moment before, had been touching, ready to melt together into the same fusion of joy, the curtain of refusal and incomprehension had dropped coldly into place once more, the captain's tall figure bowed sharply, outlined against the blue vault above.

'Forgive me for asking you,' he said icily. 'This is your cabin. Allow me to wish you a good night.'

He had turned away, he was going further perhaps now than before, just because of love's weakness which had made him cry out in his distress. Pride, that terrible, unapproachable masculine pride, was uppermost once more. As the virile figure vanished into the night, Marianne cried after him:

'Your love is nothing but lust and obstinacy! But I'll always love you, whether you like it or not… in my own way, because it's the only way I know! You liked it well enough before… It's you who cast me off.'

That went home. He checked, fractionally, as though he would have turned back, then he stiffened and went on towards the after-cabin where, safe from feminine wiles, those other men, his brothers, waited for him.

Left alone, Marianne turned towards her own cabin. She was about to open the door when she had the odd feeling that someone was watching her. She swung round abruptly and as she did so a dark shadow detached itself from the foremast and slipped away forward. It was silhouetted for an instant, lithe and dark, against the yellow glow of the prow lantern. Marianne knew, from the supple way he moved, that it was Kaleb and the knowledge annoyed her a little. Apart from the fact that she had other things on her mind just then than the fate of the black people of America, she could not at that moment see the runaway slave as anything other than a source of discord between Jason and herself.

The door banged to behind her and she hurried to the haven of her bed to mull over in solitude possible ways of defeating Jason's obstinacy. Whatever else had happened, that evening she had won a victory, but she strongly doubted whether Jason would grant her the opportunity of winning any more. Instinct told her that he would probably avoid her like the plague. It might perhaps be wise to deprive him of that satisfaction by keeping out of his sight for a while, even if only to give him time to start asking himself a few questions?

The Sea Witch sailed on through the night, regardless of the hopes and fears she carried with her, while on the forecastle the sailors continued their singing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Corfu Frigates

On the morning of the eighth day at sea, as they were approaching the coast of Corfu, a vessel appeared out of the sun, bearing down on the brig under her full spread of canvas, a tall white pyramid to eastward which was signalled by the masthead look-out with a hail:

'Sail on the port bow!'

From the poop deck, Jason Beaufort's voice spoke like an echo: 'Let her come. Steady as she goes.'

'An English frigate,' Jolival announced. He had a telescope to his eye and was studying the approaching vessel. 'I can see the red ensign at her peak. Looks as though she means business, too.'

Marianne, standing by him at the port rail, hugged her big cashmere shawl about her and shivered. There was something new and disturbing in the air. Pipes shrilled all around her, calling all hands on deck. Jason, standing beside the helmsman, was watching the Englishman. There was tension in every line of his body, a tension reflected in the crew, both on deck and aloft.

'Are we in the Straits of Otranto already?' Marianne asked.

'Yes. That Englishman must be out of Lissa. But he turned up very promptly… almost as if he was expecting us.'

'Expecting us? But why?'

Jolival shrugged helplessly. Jason had given an order to O'Flaherty who responded with a loud 'Aye aye, sir!' and clattered down the steps calling men to him. In a moment, weapons were being taken from chests and handed out among the sailors as they filed quickly past the first-officer, selecting swords, cutlasses, pistols, dirks or musketoons according to their abilities and preferences. Within the space of a very few seconds, the brig had been cleared for action.

'Are we really going to fight?' Marianne whispered anxiously.

'So it seems. Look, the Englishman has put a shot across our bows.'

A puff of white smoke had come from the long black hull banded with yellow, and was followed by a dull report.

'Hoist our colours!' Jason yelled. 'Show them we're neutral. The damned fool's coming straight at us.'

'A battle!' Marianne exclaimed softly, more to herself than to Jolival. 'That's all we needed! Maybe the men are right and I do bring bad luck.'

'Don't talk rubbish,' growled the vicomte. 'We all knew this might happen and the men have never looked on a fight as a disaster. This is a privateer, don't forget.'

But the thought lingered uncomfortably. For a week now, not a day had passed without some incident or accident to the ship. The vessel seemed to be fated. It had begun with half the starboard watch going down with some form of food poisoning, of unknown origin, and lying groaning in their hammocks for twenty-four hours. Then, a man slipped on the main deck, when the ship pitched suddenly, and split his head open. The next day, two of the seamen came to blows over some trivial matter and had to be put in irons. Finally, only last night, fire had broken out in the galley and, although it had been put out very quickly, Nathan had narrowly escaped being burnt alive. On the rare occasions when she left her cabin for a breath of air, she would look the other way if she caught sight of John Leighton's pale face and the mocking challenge in his eyes. Once already, she had seen the boatswain, an olive-skinned Spaniard with the pride of a hidalgo and the grossness of a drunken monk, extend the back of his hand with two fingers towards her in the traditional gesture to ward off the evil eye.

Meanwhile the frigate was still coming on and in answer to the brig's signals had hoisted a flag of true, indicating that she wanted to parley.

'Let him come alongside,' Jason snapped. 'We'll see what he wants. But have the men standing by, all the same. I don't like the look of things. The moment I caught sight of his tops'ls, I got the feeling he was after us.'

He began calmly stripping off his blue coat, unwinding his stock and rolling up his sleeves. Nathan, who was very nearly the image of his brother Toby, stood at his elbow ready to hand him his cutlass. Jason tested the edge against his thumb before stowing it in his belt. Urged on by the boatswain's pipes, most of the men were already at action stations.

'I'll have the guns loaded and run out,' Jason ordered.

Clearly, the privateer was not going to be taken by surprise. The frigate was very close now. She was the Alcestis of forty guns, a well-found vessel under the command of an efficient captain, Commodore Maxwell. Those on board the Sea Witch could see the marines ranged in perfect order on her deck, but no barge was being lowered. That meant communication would be by loud-hailer; not a good sign.

Jason picked up his own voice trumpet.

'What do you want?' he called.

An English voice came back, a trifle distorted but clear and menacing.

'To visit your ship. We have excellent reasons.'

'I'd like to know them. We are an American vessel and therefore neutral.'

'If you're neutral, you shouldn't have Bonaparte's envoy aboard. You have a choice: hand over the Princess Sant'Anna or we send you to the bottom!'

Marianne held her breath and something icy seemed to trickle down her spine. How had the Englishman known that she was on board? And more than that, how did he know that she was on a mission for Napoleon? She was dreadfully aware, suddenly, of the enemy's power. The mouths of the cannon protruding from her gun ports looked enormous. Marianne was conscious of nothing but the guns and the matches, flaring a little in the morning breeze, in the hands of the gun crews. But there was no time to think about the future, for already Jason's voice was answering boldly: