Free A Stroke of Luck by Andrea Pickens

as a triumph. A small one, perhaps, but still a step forward rather than a retreat."
    He gave a short bark of laughter as he crumbled the last bit of his bread between his fingers. "I imagine it would take Admiral Decres and the entire French fleet to make the Admiral of the Amazons haul in on her sails and alter course."
    The casual quip struck a raw nerve. That he saw her as a bristling ship of the line, all flashing gunpowder and roaring cannons, should come as no shock. What took her aback was how much it hurt to be viewed as naught but a bellicose hellion of the high seas.
    May Poseidon be skewered on his trident! What did she expect—that the Duke of Prestwick would have found their brief conversation interesting or her company enjoyable? Ha! And Charybdis might turn into a placid little water sprite!
    Her face took on a self-mocking grimace. Though embarrassed to admit it, even to herself, she had for a short time that afternoon actually entertained the notion somewhere in the back of her head that the two of them might come to be... friends.
    Friends? Her wits must be pickled in brine if she really thought that would ever come to pass. The duke might relax the strictures of propriety enough to be on familiar terms with a loyal retainer, but such a highborn, starchy gentleman would never, ever be friends with an unconventional hoyden and two scampy brothers who knew not the first thing about how to go on in Polite Society!
    To her dismay, she felt the sting of salty tears against her lids.
    Good Lord, there was no point in succumbing to a fit of girlish vapors, she chided herself. After all, she was hardly a pattern card for maidenly manners. She had taken every opportunity to jab a proverbial saber in his well-tailored rump! And as for her appearance—why, her hair must resemble a tangle of writhing sea snakes and her clothing the remnants of storm-torn sails. No matter the angle, perspective or diffusion of light, she did not remotely resemble the sort of elegant young lady with whom he spent time in London.
    She sniffed. They, no doubt, were all perfectly coiffed, perfectly polished, perfectly poised, and perfectly able to converse with ease on music, art and literature at the drop of a butter-soft kidskin glove.
    For some unaccountable reason, the thought made her feel perfectly awful.
    "Stop crumbling that bread," she snapped, her own raw feelings giving a brittle edge to her tone. "Unless you wish to have mice crawling up your legs."
    "Mice?" echoed Prestwick faintly. With a slight jerk, he stood up and flung the rest of the crust out the open window.
    "Mice," she repeated, gratified to see his chiseled lips had taken on a slight green tinge around the edges. "Nibbling on your boot leather and shredding your linen."
    "Here, sir. You look as if you could use a bit of this Bruichladdich." Stump passed over the small jug that McTavish had left along with their supper. "A swallow or two of Islay whisky and you will be ready to confront fire-breathing dragons, let alone itty-bitty mice."
    Muttering under his breath, the duke tossed back a long draught. It nearly came up as quickly as it went down. Choking and sputtering, he winced, his face turning as red as flame from a monster's mouth.
    "Hell's teeth," he swore, clenching his own so hard that to Zara they looked in danger of cracking. "A swallow or two of that swill will do more than buck up my courage, it will likely put me out of my misery!" Wiping the drops off his chin, he growled, "Which, all things considered, may not be such a bad idea."
    "Aw, come on, sir. It ain't been so bad as that. You always say you are keen on learnin'. Well, you learned somethin' new today, didn't you?"
    "Yes—I learned that the next time you take it upon yourself to arrange our travel plans, I should lock myself in my library and throw away the key. That is, assuming we manage to survive this bloody fiasco."
    So, the peevish peer was back, she thought. In spades.
    "Do try to temper