Page 83 of Saving Sophia

We were at a marina. Several huge boats floated on barely rippling dark water, hulking beside endless wooden docks. Water lapped against the pillars, and boards creaked when the big boats nudged them. “Are we at the ocean?” I asked, confused.

“The Sound,” he answered, taking my hand and leading me down toward the end of one of the docks, where a yacht twice the size of our cabin awaited. “It leads out to the ocean.”

“Is that your boat, Daddy?” I asked, staring up at its sleek, shark-like lines and dark glass windows.

“It belongs to my brother, Vincent.” He guided me with a hand against my lower back toward the gangplank where a smiling crew member in a black polo and khakis waited to help me on board.

“Your brother?” I squeaked, tugging my shirt down as if I might suddenly make it long enough to cover my tummy.

He wrapped his arm around me and kissed my ear. “He’s not here. He loaned it to us for the night. It’s just us.” He nodded to the patient crew member still holding out a hand for me. “And the crew.”

To his credit, the crew member kept his face neutral, his eyes carefully straight ahead. I supposed part of his job was not to have an opinion about guests. I took a deep breath, held my head high, and took his hand with a smile that only trembled a little bit.

When I stepped onto the teak deck, I couldn’t hold in my delighted gasp. Tiny strings of lights twinkled like fireflies in the last bit of dusk before night truly fell. A raised area held an enormous hot tub that bubbled quietly, and a glass-topped bar filled a corner by a door to the interior.

But the table, and what stood behind it, froze me in my tracks. An awning covered a section of the deck, and under that awning sat a long, old-fashioned, wooden table. Candelabras lit up several silver platters of meats, cheeses, finger foods, baskets of bread, and bowls of fruit. Two heavy oak chairs sat, one at each end of the table.

A fancy meal.

At a captain’s table.

Just like in A Ruthless Choice.

“Daddy? Is this …” I scanned his outfit again, button-down, no-collar shirt with the top two buttons open, and the black silk cummerbund that resembled a pirate captain’s sash the more I stared at it.

“I had a dress for you,” he said as we walked toward the table. “But I like your surprise for me better.”

Toward the front of the boat there was a thick, vertical, wooden pole, held in place by a bunch of wooden barrels. It was as out of place on the ultra-modern yacht as the fancy feasting table, so clearly a prop.

A pirate ship mast.

I looked up at the top of the pole. There was a heavy iron ring. And a rope.

“Your seat, my lady.” Another uniformed man ushered me to the chair at one end of the table. He wore a red and white striped, long-sleeved shirt, a matching bandana around his head, and an eye-patch. I sat down and looked at my place setting. A black-and-gold name card read ‘Miss R. Luddington.’ A butter knife rested on a snow-white napkin diagonally across the white-and-gold embossed dinner plate.

I reached out to touch the knife, but the server stopped me. “The captain would like to remind the lady that a woman may not touch a weapon aboard this ship,” he said with a wag of his finger. “Would you like to start off with something to drink? A cup of Captain Harlow’s Grog, perhaps?”

Drinks arrived in heavy silver steins. Captain Harlow’s Grog turned out to be something fruity and yummy and non-alcoholic, so I could drink as much as I wanted without worrying about an embarrassing repeat of the restaurant. The server warned me, again, that the captain was watching me, and under no circumstances was I allowed to do anything naughty, such as attempt to steal a butter knife and hide it under my skirt. Ethan—the captain—my Daddy sat at the other end of the table, and even though it was far away, I could see his lopsided grin.

As the boat engine roared to life and we moved sedately away from the marina and out into the open water, dinner was served. Between the watchful eye of the server and my impossibly short skirt, I had no idea how to steal the butter knife. It would have been much easier if I had a Victorian gown on instead of a tiny plaid mini skirt, but Daddy had loved my surprise, so there was only myself to blame for that.

I finally managed to stash it in my sock during the second course, when the server made a fuss of looking away out over the water, saying he thought he might have seen a rival pirate ship. I owed him one for that.

The table was so long that conversation was impossible, so the server brought me messages from the captain at the other end, mostly reminding me that he expected ladylike behavior, he hoped I was comfortable, and that we should be arriving at Lord Borthwick’s compound in the morning.

I sent messages back saying I was as comfortable as I could be on a ship full of pirates, and he could be assured I would throw myself overboard before going to Lord Borthwick’s compound, tomorrow or any other morning.

I couldn’t stop grinning.

Until dessert was served. In the story, Captain Harlow asked Ruthie to dance after dessert, and that was when he discovered she stole the knife.

My knife was pretty poorly hidden. If I tried to dance, odds were good it would fall right out of my sock. There was no way I was pulling this off. My tummy quivered with the most delicious kind of fear as I contemplated what would happen when he discovered my treachery.

As I took the last bite of the most decadent chocolate cake I ever tasted, a waltz started up over speakers hidden in the corners of the ship. The violins wove a melancholy web while a piano tapped out a refrain that sounded like a storm brewing.

Daddy stood up, looking perfectly pirate-like with the salty breeze tousling his sandy hair and moonlight dancing on the water directly behind him. He walked slowly toward me, the candles casting flickering shadows across his handsome face, sinister and alluring. “Dance with me,” he commanded, reaching for my hand.

I took it in a trance, my heart pounding, the light breeze tugging at my hair. He pulled me effortlessly in his arms and spun me, nuzzling into my neck. “Are you having fun?” he whispered.

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