'Vice-Admiral,' corrected his host. 'Very interesting. She's apparently under the flag of Sir Richard Bolitho, Vice-Admiral of the Red.'

The anchor threw up a column of spray as it fell from the

cathead. The woman flattened one hand on the balustrade until the heat of the stone steadied her.

Her husband must have seen her move.

'What is it? Do you know him? A true hero, if half what I've read can be believed.'

She gripped the fan more tightly and pressed it to her breast. So that was how it would be. He was here in Antigua. After all this time, after all he had endured.

No wonder she had remembered the ship's name. He had often spoken so affectionately of his old Hyperion. One of the first ships he had ever commanded as a captain.

She was surprised at her sudden emotion, more so at her ability to conceal it.

'I met him. Years ago.'

'Another glass of wine, gentlemen?'

She relaxed, muscle by muscle, aware of the dampness of her gown, of her body within it.

Even as she thought about it she cursed herself for her stupidity. It could not be like that again. Never.

She turned her back on the ship and smiled at the others. But even the smile was a lie.

Richard Bolitho stood uncertainly in the centre of the great stern cabin, his head cocked to the sudden thud of bare feet across the poop. All the familiar sounds crowded into the cabin, the muffled chorus of commands, the responding squeal of blocks as the yards were braced round. And yet there was hardly any movement. Like a phantom ship. Only the tall, shimmering bars of gold sunlight which moved along one side of the cabin gave any real hint that Hyperion was swinging slowly into the offshore wind.

He watched as the land edged in a green panorama across the first half of the stern windows. Antigua. Even the name was like a stab in the heart, a reawakening of so many memories, so many faces and voices.