Luck in the Shadows

haunted him. He'd certainly had nightmares before but never about his father, not since he'd left home, and never one that had left him with such a throbbing headache the next day. A cup of mulled wine at the tavern had helped, but now it was creeping back, hammering at his temples and bringing a bitter taste into his throat. He wanted desperately to rub his eyes, but the carefully applied cosmetics prevented even this slight relief.
    "Are you still unwell, lady?"
    Seregil turned to find the captain towering over him.
    "Just a bit of headache, Captain," he replied, modulating his voice to the softer tones he'd adopted for this particular role.
    "That's probably from the sun off the water, my lady. Come around behind the mast. You'll still feel the breeze, but the sail will shade you from the glare. I'll have one of the men heat some wine for you; that should put you right."
    Offering his arm, Rhal led his fair passenger back to a bench attached to the deckhouse. To his ill-concealed annoyance, Alec followed them back and took up a station at the starboard rail.
    "That boy keeps a close watch on you," Rhal observed, seating himself next to «Gwethelyn» rather more closely than the span of the bench required.
    "Ciris is a kinsman of my husband's," Seregil replied. "My husband has entrusted him with my safety. He takes his task very seriously."
    "Still, it doesn't seem that a slip of a boy could be much protection." A sailor appeared with a pitcher of wine and a pair of wooden cups. Rhal served Seregil himself.
    "I'm certain you have nothing to fear on my account.
    "Ciris is a fine swordsman," Seregil lied, sipping delicately at his wine; it had not escaped his notice that his cup was a good deal fuller than the captain's.
    "Just the same," Rhal replied gallantly, leaning closer, "I'm making it my duty to watch over you until we reach port. If there's any service I can render, day or night, you've only to call on me. Perhaps you would do me the honor of taking supper with me in my cabin tonight?"
    Seregil lowered his eyes demurely. "You're very kind, but I'm so weary from my journey that I shall retire quite early."
    "Tomorrow night, then, when you're rested," the captain parried.
    "Very well, tomorrow. I'm sure you've many tales that will entertain my squire as well as myself. We will be honored."
    Captain Rhal rose with a slight bow; the fleeting look of frustration Seregil caught as he turned away assured him that, at least moment, he'd held the day.
    "Captain Rhal's out to seduce me," Seregil announced in their little cabin that evening, applying fresh cosmetics while Alec held the lantern and a small mirror.
    "What are you going to do?"
    Seregil winked. "Go along with him, of course. Up to a point, anyway."
    "Well, you could hardly let him, you know—" Alec gestured vaguely.
    "Yes, I know, though I rather wonder if you do." Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow at his young companion. "But you're right, of course. Letting him under my skirts now would certainly spoil the illusion I've worked so hard to create.
    "Still" — dropping into the manner of Lady Gwethelyn, he looked up at Alec through his lashes—"this Captain Rhal is a handsome rogue, wouldn't you say?"
    Alec shook his head, unsure whether Seregil was being serious or not. "Are you going to sleep with all that on your face?"
    "I think it might be wise. If the man is determined enough to invite a married woman to his cabin on the first day, I certainly wouldn't put it past him to find some excuse to wander in here during the night. That's why I'm also going to wear that."
    He gestured toward the fine linen nightgown on the bed. "The key to successfully traveling in a disguise is to maintain it at all times, no matter what. Unlace me." Standing up, he held his hair to one side while Alec undid the back of the gown. "The practice may come in handy for you someday."
    From this angle, Alec was uneasily aware of the completeness of Seregil's disguise. Throughout the day, watching from across the deck as Seregil played Gwethelyn for the captain and crew, he'd been halfway taken in himself.
    The illusion was considerably diminished, however, as the gown fell away and Seregil began untying his false bosom. It was his own creation, he'd explained proudly—a sort of close-fitting linen undershirt, the modest breasts consisting of domed pockets stuffed with balls of soft wool.
    "Better than some real ones you'll run across," he said with a grin. "I think I can