When he is betrayed by a fellow Englishman and left to die at the hands of the Spaniards, Simon Dante survives, bent on revenge. With his ship sinking he captures and commandeers Captain Spence's ship, but not without a fight from the captain's daughter, Beau.

The finest pilot and navigator on the high seas, Beau can use a cutlass and her sharp tongue with equal skill. Simon must somehow tame and woo the insolent wench, convincing Beau to help him claim his revenge.

Beau has never met a man like Dante, and though she is a strong-willed woman she falls in love with the rakish, devilishly handsome captain. Together they make a team few can equal.

From the mid-Atlantic to the shores of England, from capturing a Spanish galleon to the dangers of Cadiz, Beau and Dante explore their love and danger with equal abandon.

Marsha Canham ensures herself a place as queen of romantic adventure. You don't just read ACROSS A MOONLIT SEA, you live it.

Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

An Excerpt...

At first he saw nothing but the pale bloom of canvas interrupting the tableau of stars and night sky. By then he caught sight of a figure dangling upside down, swinging against the mainsail, one foot tangled around the clew lines, arms windmilling frantically to grasp hold of something more secure.

The scream was brief and muffled, leaving the distinct impression of the owner's identity trembling on the air, and Dante was in leaping into the shrouds, climbing, before the sounds of the wind and the sea had completely absorbed it. He reached the stout upper yard and crossed it with hardly any thought to his own footing or balance, moving with the agility of a cat.

"Beau? Beau! Hold fast, I'm almost there!"

"M-my--foot is slipping!"

Anchoring himself to the mast with one arm he slid down and straddled the yardarm, reaching down, lunging for a fistful of her clothing just as the wind relented and the sail slackened. Her foot slipped free and she screamed again, a short, panicked cry that was bitten off when she felt the pressure tighten on her doublet.

"Grab my arm! Reach up and grab my arm!"

Beau managed to clutch at his sleeve. A powerful surge of strength tautened the muscles as he hauled her upward; she felt herself upended and lifted over the yardarm so that she sat straddling it with the mast at her back and the bulk of his chest in front.

Dante released her doublet in exchange for a more secure hold around her waist. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

A rapid shaking of her head was the only answer she could muster.

She lifted her eyes slowly to his, and he was startled to see a bright film shimmering along her lashes, starting to swell at the corners.

He reached up and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, then urged her head back onto his shoulder again. "Go ahead. You can cry if you want to, I promise I will not tell a soul."

"There is nothing to tell, because I never cry! Never!"

"Forgive me again," he said softly, stroking his hand down her hair. "It must have been a trick of the light."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That."

He stopped stroking her hair and moved his hand away. "This?"

She took a small breath. "No, not that."

He put his hand back.

"Stop l-laughing at me."

"I swear I am not."

"You are," she insisted. "You're always laughing at me. You laughed when you found out I was a woman, and again when you were told I was the ship's pilot. You found it amusing when I tried to shoot you on the Virago and you did not take me the least bit seriously when I said I would filet you into tiny pieces if you kissed me. And in the cabin that night--" Her head came off his shoulder and not only her eyes, but her cheeks were suspiciously damp.

"Yes? In the cabin that night?"

"You were laughing at my ignorance," she whispered. "I know you were."

Perhaps it was because of the bad fright she had just experienced, or perhaps it was the starlight playing with his powers of perception, but when she looked at him, her guard was down and the full measure of her vulnerability was revealed in her eyes. The ship still pitched gently, sliding forward and rearing back as it carved through each new swell, and he was forced to keep one hand grasped around a mast brace, the other clamped securely around Beau's waist. But he could and did draw her even closer than she had managed to insist herself.

"No, mam'selle," he said slowly. "If I was laughing at anyone's ignorance, it was my own. Believe me, Isabeau....it was my own."

A small huff of air escaped her lips, and while it might have shaped the word liar, he did not contest the charge with more words. The stars shifted dizzily overhead and the wind snatched at the locks of his hair, blowing it forward so that when he dragged her mouth up to his, silky black strands were trapped between them.

She scarcely noticed. Or cared. He was kissing her, that was all that mattered, and she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him back with a desire that bordered on desperation.

They broke apart, both gasping quick, shallow breaths, both staring at one another as if expecting some form of rejection. When none was forthcoming, they melted together again, open mouthed and open eyed, holding one another hostage until the tremors in their bodies threatened to rival the tremors coursing through the mast.

He tried to hold her closer and cursed at the impossibility. He tried to appease himself by devouring her with kisses, thinking it would do until he could get them down out of the rigging and he could devour her in other ways. His hand did not have as much faith and went beneath her doublet instead, unfastening the belt that held her hose snug around her waist. He gave the wool a fierce tug, tearing the seam open from waist to crotch, and, with his mouth slanting more determinedly over any effort to protest, he slid his fingers deftly through the gap.

She was sleek and slippery, and he stroked deep into the heated folds of her flesh, groaning when he felt how hot she was, how tight, how soft and wet and quick she was to respond to the intrusion. The first shivering volley of pleasure was starting to tighten all the grasping little muscles even as her hands clutched at his shoulders and her head shook side to side in denial. But it was not enough, suddenly, just to hear her crying out his name in disbelieving whispers. He made a similarly accommodating gap in his own clothing, then, with her body still quivering with shock, with pleasure, he hooked her legs over his thighs and lifted her onto his lap.

"You're mad," she gasped, sparing a glance for the deck, thirty feet below. "We'll both fall."

"Not if you hold on," he snarled savagely, "and trust me."