by Holland Rae
“I can ensure your identity will remain a secret,” she told him, feeling quite weary. “But I find it imperative to know the truth of the person for whom I will be working.”
He followed her down a hallway, and Catalina called to the bartender that they’d be in a back room, a room she had used for such meetings many a time. Even after the door was locked, however, and the lights burned strongly in their holders—for it was a dark and wet day on the island, and the gray light that came in from the seashore was hardly enough to see by—the man did not remove his hood.
“Sir,” she said strongly, “ma’am?”
The figure shook his head. “Sir,” he replied.
Something about his voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. The same way a scent could make her long for another time and place, so could a voice bring to mind a dalliance in a ballroom or a friendship in the bluebells. What Catalina was reminded of was such an absurd prospect, she pushed the thought away without hesitation.
“Sir,” she repeated. “I will go no further in our discussions if you do not, at the very least, give me a name.” The crew of the Liberté had come this far, and Catalina knew without doubt, efficiency was part of their success. Besides, she preferred to know who she was working for—it protected her crew from the hangman’s noose.
“If you insist,” the voice replied, and the same familiar feeling flitted up her neck. She wanted to swat it away, like an errant fly, but the sensation, the niggling power of a memory just out of sight, was unable to be pushed away a second time.
“I insist,” she replied, beginning to feel irritated by the slow movement of the meeting. She reminded herself why she was doing it—for the widows and the women with children and the orphans. For the new house for them all. The thought softened her a bit.
And then his hood came down.
Chapter Five
Catalina had faced down more swords in her life than half the British Navy. She had fired pistols, fired cannon, swung by unraveling rope onto burning ships. She had dueled, fenced, boxed, and seen more than her fair share of shocking, violent, maddening events in her relatively short life. But nothing short of the literal end of days could have been cause for more surprise than what awaited her under the hood. For sheer lack of other response, she let out a scream that could far more easily have belonged to Charlotte Talbot than the mercenary captain of the Liberté.
“Armand!” Her voice—was that her own voice?—burned with shock and excitement and confusion and all manner of emotions she had long since left behind when earning her own ship and setting for the horizon.
His shock seemed as true as her own, and she surmised that he really hadn’t been able to see much behind the veil of his cloak.
“Charlotte.”
She wanted to nod. She wanted to do something, but she was frozen to the spot, her feet sinking into the floor and her body paralyzed.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked. “And where the hell is Catalina Sol?”
She shook her head, finally able to get some movement into her frozen limbs.
“Armand,” she whispered his name in shock. “I am Catalina Sol.”
For a moment, the two of them simply stood, facing each other. Catalina took a deep breath, but it did little to steady the racing of her mind and the pounding of her heart against her ribs. It was as if she had seen a ghost, standing just before her in the flesh, as if her dear mama had risen from the grave and sung her a nighttime lullaby. For all she had heard, before taking to the seas, Armand and his family had perished in a fire set by pirates. She had never believed it, not really, but neither had she set about disproving it, either. Armand was a memory, a part of her past best left to the nurseries and schoolrooms of a London townhouse, to the fields and pastures of a countryside estate.
But the Armand who stood before her now—magistrate, she supposed—was not the boy she had waved goodbye to at the docks. With a bite of laughter that she nearly choked on, Catalina knew that her information had been shockingly accurate. This man did have far too many titles to his name. Good lot it seemed to be doing him now. No, this Armand was not a boy at all. He was a man, in the truest sense of the word. His skin was darker than she remembered, likely turned that golden brown by the brush of the sun, and his hair was longer with a silky thickness to it. He even had a small beard growing in, though Catalina got the distinct impression that he was not in the best of states at the moment, and that it was far more likely he was always clean shaven.
And by God, he was tall. His shoulders were wide, stretching that drab cloak, and he towered over her as if she were the size of a sea mite. For a fleeting second, Catalina considered what could have been her husband all those years ago and allowed herself to feel the aching twinge of regret that came with the truth. But then she rallied, pulling herself together and staring him directly in the eye.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she asked him, her voice far calmer than she felt. Her insides were crashing like a great ocean storm against a weak hull, and Catalina knew if she didn’t remove herself from his presence soon, she risked ruining everything she had worked so very hard for.
“I could ask you the same question,” he growled. Ah, of course she had recognized his voice. There was no mistaking the hybrid of accents now, the French lilt to his gentleman’s English, and the way he rolled his letters in imitation of his mother’s native Indian tongue. Yes, it was a distinct combination, and it almost relieved Catalina to know that she had not fabricated it from her mind, when she had first heard him speak from under the hood.
“I’m working,” she replied stiffly, desperately wanting for another mug of ale. Dirty dishrag or not, she could use the liquid courage right now.
“As a pirate.” His words were seething, no less dangerous than a snake spitting poison. Catalina had heard that tone before, and she would hear it many times again, no doubt.
“Did you have a job for a nun, then?” she asked, deciding not to worry over the point of piracy. He would make the assumptions and waste both of their time, or they could simply move on with the business of the day, mainly, her leaving.
“I wish you had become a nun.” He nearly growled it, and a pang of guilt and sadness crashed over her. Truly, they had both faced many trials in the years since they had seen each other last. What was there to be fighting over now, in this impromptu reunion?
“I’m terribly sorry for having disappointed you, then,” she replied. “The church was full.” She could see the corner of his mouth tighten a fraction of an inch, and he very nearly smiled.
“The church was full?” he asked, as though he were making a concerted effort to keep a hold on his rage. Catalina pursed her lips and nodded.
“Overflowing with debutantes whose fiancés had left them”—she paused for emphasis—“presumably drowned at sea.” She saw something flit across his face, and she knew she had lost him again. There was to be no humor in this meeting, hardly any nostalgia either. Too far from who they had been, she and Armand might never be able to reconcile their differences.
“We were attacked by pirates,” he told her, his voice completely without emotion. “I nearly did.” Catalina’s heart dropped into her stomach. It had been so long since she had thought of Armand, and now that she imagined him nearly drowning, the idea of losing him was overwhelmingly sad. What the devil was the matter with her? She hadn’t mourned over the loss of her old life in years. She wasn’t going to start doing it now, and sure as God made green apples, she wasn’t going to do it in front of him.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. Then she paused for a moment and looked up at his face. She knew she should ask about his parents, about Henri. She should inquire as to what he had been passing the time with these years. She should. Lady Charlotte Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Derby would have done so.
But she was no longer that woman, and associating with the man who represented that life more
than any other was only going to drag her down. It would reveal her secret to the world. It would ruin everything. She would no longer be the woman she had worked so very hard to be.
“I can’t help you,” Catalina said finally, knowing that her resolve was weak. She was furious with him, for reasons she couldn’t quite understand. Angry that he had never written, angry that he had never told her that he had survived, angry that he had surprised her in the land she considered so far away from her old life. Those reasons and so many more. Catalina knew if she didn’t leave his presence soon, then all those reasons would disappear from sight, and she would go right back and help him anyway.
“Why not?” Armand asked, and she heard just a hint of a crack in his voice. It was unlike the boy she had known to be anything other than properly refined, properly polished and primped. If he were anything at all as she remembered, then this side of him, this nearly-begging-for-help version of Armand, meant that he was far beyond the end of his rope.
Catalina took a deep breath.
“I ran away, Armand,” she said quietly, catching sight of those deep brown eyes. “I ran away, and I left the life you knew of me behind. If I involve myself with you now, there’s no going back. I’ll never be Catalina Sol again, and I very much like being Catalina Sol.” She could see in his eyes that he didn’t understand, so she continued. “It will come out one way or another that I know you, the earl you, the magistrate you, the prince you. And then what will happen? Who would want a mercenary who’s really an escaped lady? People will start asking questions, and they’ll find out the truth about me.”
She went to turn, to leave because it was damned harder to say this to him than it should be, but he caught her arm and pulled her back toward him. He was warm and large, and his hand was a strange, wild comfort upon her skin. Catalina nearly balked. She didn’t like the idea of anyone having to be a comfort to her.
“Please.” The simplest word he could have said. Her eyes burned as she remembered growing up beside him, of all the dreams she had ever had of their future. But this could not work. She needed to get as far away from him as was possible, or she risked ruining everything. If word got out about her true identity, they would ship her back to England without so much as a by your leave.
So she yanked her arm away from him, though it pained her to do so, and Catalina Sol walked slowly toward the door, intent on not turning around to face him, intent on never setting eyes on him again, when Armand called out one last time.
“Charlotte,” he said. The name stung like an icy blast. “They’ve got Henri.”
Chapter Six
How could he have recognized her? This young woman, the one who had been first his playmate, then his schoolmate, and then his betrothed, was not the girl he had left behind on the London docks all those years ago. She didn’t have little ringlets of curls to frame her face in some youthful style. She didn’t wear the latest fashions designed for girls, full of lace and frills and brimming over with childish exuberance. No, this woman was as wild as the sea. One look at Charlotte—Catalina—and Armand’s mind was awash with confusion, but he knew, unfailingly, that she would never go back to the hallowed halls of London ballrooms.
For one, her hair was loose. Wild curls framed her face, glinting in the low glow from the windows. She had so much hair, and it all flowed out in every direction, as though she were a lioness with a mane, dark caramel curls in the low light. For another thing, she wore breeches. On a lady of society, the daughter of an earl. And she was wearing breeches. There was no denying that those breeches fit her well, and Armand wondered if perhaps there should be a movement to put all young ladies of society in tight-fitting male attire. Perhaps too much sun had gone to his head. Here he was thinking about women’s backsides, when his past had come back to haunt, and then reject him, in the span of a single moment. What the hell was even going on?
He wanted to let her leave. If he represented the past she had left behind, she did likewise. The last time Armand had been in London, he’d been waving goodbye to the Talbot sisters from the deck of a ship. London wasn’t his home. The English earldom wasn’t him. The French title of comte wasn’t him. He would have nothing to do with life on the continent, thank you very much.
But she couldn’t leave, not without agreeing to help him first. He knew he probably looked a sight, for all that they hadn’t set eyes on each other in nearly a decade, because of the sleepless nights and the turbulent days. They were quickly running out of time to get Henri back, and if he didn’t do something—something drastic—more people were going to die. Perhaps that meant staring down his past, but if that was required for the safe return of his brother, Armand would do it without hesitation.
“Charlotte,” he repeated, knowing he had caught her attention, hoping it would be enough. “They have Henri.”
She froze. The whole room seemed to have frozen with his words, as though time had stopped, as though something larger than themselves seemed to hang in the balance. Finally, ever so slowly, she turned to face him.
The Charlotte Talbot he had known would never allow a silence in a conversation. She had been a young woman, not yet out of the schoolroom, but she had been bred to perfection—polite, refined, and even a bit overly conversational. This Charlotte—this Catalina—used the silence like a weapon.
“I will help you,” she said finally, the words like the strike of an axe against a wooden log. “But under two conditions.”
He hadn’t come this far only to turn back now. Armand nodded, and she continued.
“One, you don’t ask questions. Your titles, your holdings, your power—you have the ability to ruin a great many lives if you know too much.”
Armand thought about that. He was a magistrate by choice, a business owner, and a man who had never embraced the titles of his youth. If she wanted him to keep his gavel at the shore, for Henri he would do it. He nodded.
Charlotte seemed pleased by this. “Two,” she continued, “you need to understand something, right here in the room, and right now before me. I am not doing this for you.”
The words sank like an anchor into the sea, and though Armand knew that he deserved every thread of anger that whispered over the steel resolve in her voice, they made him feel—was that sadness? It didn’t matter. He’d turn the tides to get his brother back, though the woman before him seemed to be a greater challenge. He nodded and then put out his hand, as if this were a business deal of the most orthodox proceedings and not the maddest dream into which he had ever stumbled.
“It appears we have an accord.”
Chapter Seven
27 April 1803
200 leagues off the coast of the Americas
The house was dark, but the familiar scent of baking bread led Catalina straight to the kitchens, where she discovered a handful of candles still lit and a fire still burning. Antonia was busying herself with the oven, and when she caught sight of Catalina, she took a surprised step backwards.
“Well, how’s that for a greeting?” her dear friend said. “I could have sworn you to be a ghost, just then.” Antonia had become the sister that Catalina had left behind. They were opposing in looks, Toni all dark where Catalina was light, her hair a thick swell of deep black, when she allowed it free from its tight plait. Catalina swore streaks of red scored the inky depths, but she rarely got the chance to prove it. Toni was tall, slender, beautiful, like a princess of some fairy forest, Catalina had often thought. No, they were not as alike in appearance as she and Eliza had been once upon a time, likely were still, though she would never know.
But in all else. While Catalina had a few years over her friend, their stories were similar enough to have come from the same chapter of the same book. A young debutante betrothed to a man she could never marry, escapes at sea in the dead of night. Antonia had found Catalina, or rather, the other way around, when she stumbled into a sailor’s tavern in the midst of a hurricane. That had been some five years ago now, and though they saw each o
ther rarely—Antonia far more content with her feet firmly on the ground—they remained thick as thieves, a not untrue comparison on some days.
“That smells delicious,” Catalina replied, in lieu of a response. She came around to meet her friend on the other side of a short stone wall and placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek. “I’ve missed you.” Antonia gave her a smile, and then reluctantly handed her a freshly baked roll.
“You always know what to say so I’ll part with my cooking,” she replied, but her smile was genuine and mirrored Catalina’s own.
“I’ve spent three weeks out on the open sea,” she protested, biting into a piece of the bread and savoring its warm, honey-rich flavor. “Surviving on stale bread and dried meat is no way to live.” At that, her friend arched an eyebrow, mischief in her eyes.
“Missing the hallowed halls of London, are we?” she teased, placing the bread down and taking a seat beside Catalina. “Do you recall how much food we ate? How much we didn’t? So very much went to waste each night. Now that I know the value of a meal, it all seems so terrible.” Catalina nodded. It was not the first time she had considered the element of greed and waste that went into an aristocratic estate. Now that she, along with Antonia, was responsible for maintaining the well-being of so many, it seemed such a waste that each meal had had seven or eight courses, many of which had gone untouched.
“I have news,” she said, tearing her mind away from the halls of the Derby townhouse. She was missing Eliza. She would always miss Eliza. Antonia rested her head in her hands, a decidedly unladylike gesture, and nodded at Catalina to continue.
“We have a new job,” Catalina said, careful to watch each of her words. Antonia knew enough of her life before landing in the Caribbean to know Armand and Henri. It would be prudent if she kept that information a secret, at least for the time being. “And it’s a big one.” Antonia eyes widened, and Catalina knew she was thinking of the cost of bed sheets and a new well and all that went into keeping some forty mouths fed and rested.
