But she also knew that talking to this boy had made her feel more alive than she had in weeks. Somehow he’d touched the hurt inside her, and for an instant she hadn’t felt empty or alone. Magic, she thought as she gazed after him. Like one of the heroes in the stories her mother used to read to her. A magical storybook hero.

She jumped up off the crates and ran after the boy. “Connor Reed, come ba—”

Her foot caught in a stray rope. She lost her balance and toppled over the side of the dock into the river.

The freezing water drove the air from her lungs. She struggled to the surface and tried to cry out, but her words came out as a choking whimper. No one saw her fall. No one knew she was drowning. She heard the celebration on the docks above her, the loud revelry that overpowered her faint cries. She flailed helplessly as the water closed over her a second time.

Her clothes felt like lead. Treacherous eddies pulled her under. With the last of her strength she clawed her way back to the surface and gulped much-needed air. She looked up and thought she saw Grenville watching her from the pier above. Then the water closed over her again, and as she lost consciousness she imagined a white-winged angel coming to take her to heaven.

But when she opened her eyes she saw that her savior wasn’t an angel, but a half-starved, blue-eyed wharf rat, drenched to the skin. “You lie there qu-quiet-like, Princess,” he said through chattering teeth. “Everything’s gonna be b-bang-up prime.”

And as she saw her worried father arrive, and watched him lay his hand on Connor’s thin shoulder, she knew that somehow things really were going to be “bang-up prime” after all.

London January 1, 1808

For the second time in her life, Juliana Dare felt as if she were drowning.

She sat in the shadowed corner of her father’s study and watched her world come to an end. Her father, Frederick Dare, the marquis of Albany, stood behind his desk, his strong, stout shoulders bent in despair. And in front of the desk, with his back to her, stood the tall, rigid figure of Connor Reed.

“I want the truth, boy. By God, you owe me that much.” The marquis rammed his hand through his graying hair and leaned forward, his broad, usually smiling face pale and drawn. “Connor, why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

Juliana gripped the chair arm, feeling the pain in her father’s voice stab through her. Eight years ago Albany had pulled Connor from the filth and squalor of the London docks. He’d raised the boy as his own, and no father could have loved his son more. Connor had become a part of Juliana’s family, and had been her protector and companion during her father’s fabulous seafaring adventures. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d saved her from the perilous situations her childish curiosity got her into. He was her hero—

“Why, damn you?”

Albany slammed his fist on his desk, sending quills and papers flying, and teetering the single candle that provided the room’s only light. For an instant, the erratic flame shimmered through Connor’s dark blond hair, turning it into an angel’s halo. But the moment passed, and the ominous shadows closed in again. Connor bent his head and clasped his hands tightly behind him, as if the iron manacles were already on his wrists.