Philippe frowned. "Not for a lady."
Everyone took for granted that she wanted to be a lady. Thea was not convinced. It certainly hadn't done her mother any good, and the title carried more restrictions than benefits as far as Thea could see.
She much preferred the persona of plain Miss Althea Selwyn, raised in the West Indies with a freedom no London debutante would ever know. Oh, she knew the important strictures of life as a lady—Aunt Ruth and her mother had seen to that. But she was rarely forced to adhere to them.
Which did not mean she wasn't taken to task for her behavior.
She was. Frequently. And she found it most annoying indeed.
How could she behave as if she'd been raised to grace a drawing room when in fact she'd spent her entire life around sailors, plantation workers, and freed slaves? Despite Mama and Aunt Ruth's efforts, she'd spent more time learning the shipping business and how to keep an accurate ledger than she had how to be a lady. And she certainly hadn't learned life's basic skills from a tutor or a proper English nanny.
Philippe had taught her French. Whiskey Jim had taught her to tie knots, and she'd learned to swim the same way as all the other children on the island, naked in the lagoon. Her mother had nearly swooned when she'd found out, but the truth was, Thea was better suited to life in the islands than she ever would have been to life in England.
Deciding that ignoring Phillippe's outrage was the best way of dealing with it, she asked, "Was there something you needed?"
"Mr. Drake is looking for Mr. Merewether."
Philippe stepped aside, revealing another man standing behind him. A man every bit as tall as the warehouse manager, but there the similarity ended. Drake, like the famous privateer. The name fit. This man could very easily be a pirate. He did not look like a man who balked at danger.
Although he matched Philippe for height, he was built quite differently. Thea's gaze snagged on the muscles that pressed against the gentleman's long pants. Uncle Ashby and the other men of Thea's acquaintance still wore the breeches popular in the last decade. She had never actually seen a gentleman wearing long pants. They should have hidden his well-developed legs, but they didn't. His obviously well-made clothes were worn in the understated fashion of the English.
She forced her gaze higher, only to be sidetracked again by the fact that the gentleman's upper torso was every bit as muscled as his legs. When her eyes finally reached his face, she sucked in her breath. He had noticed her perusal. How could he not? His mouth tipped in sardonic humor, and brown eyes, the color of dark molasses, mocked her.
Realizing that her mouth had dropped open, Thea shut it with a snap. Her cheeks felt hotter than the tropical sun. "May I help you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Merewether." His voice held all the authority that his posture implied.
"He's not here." Wonderful. Not only had she gawked like a desperate spinster, but now she sounded like a bacon-brained idiot. Obviously Uncle Ashby wasn't with her. "I mean to say, I don't know where he is. Perhaps I can help you."
There, that sounded better, much more appropriate.
"My business is with Mr. Merewether."
Thea stifled a retort. Many gentlemen had aversions to doing business with a lady. Evidently Drake was one of them. "Then I will not keep you."
"I am sorry to disturb you, Mademoiselle Thea. We will search for Mr. Merewether elsewhere." Philippe nodded his head in formal dismissal and turned to leave.
The Englishman did not follow. "First, we will escort the young lady to her destination."
Thea stiffened at his peremptory tone. "That will not be necessary."
He reached out to take her arm, his dark hair and even darker expression making him appear almost menacing, despite his excessive masculine appeal. "I insist."
She stepped back toward the high stack of barrels to elude his grasp. "Thank you, but I will be fine."
His expression hardened. "Nevertheless, I would feel better if I saw you safely to your destination." His brown eyes narrowed in obvious censure. "A warehouse is no place for a lady." His tone of voice implied she might be anything but.
She wanted to give him a proper set-down, but business must always come first. Uncle Ashby would not thank her for offending Drake. She pressed her lips together and imagined loading an entire wagon with storage barrels in her mind before she felt calm enough to speak.
By the time she imagined the wagon leaving for the dock, she was able to summon a formal smile. "I am quite at home in this warehouse, but as we are looking for the same person, perhaps it would not hurt to find him together. I was on my way to Mr. Merewether's office."
She stepped forward, but apparently not quickly enough because the Englishman's hands shot out and grabbed her waist.
She gasped. "Really there is no need—"
He yanked her against his chest, backing up as he did so. She had barely registered the strange phenomenon of being held by a man when she heard an unholy crash behind her. She started, her hands going around the neck of her captor involuntarily.
Drake continued to move with agile grace, carrying her several feet from the crash. She craned her neck, turning her head to see what had happened. Her hands convulsed on Drake's neck and she shuddered against him at what she saw. Several small storage