The Wicked Lady

by Julia Knight

  He fell forward, supporting himself on the table with his arms either side of her and, for a moment, she clung to him, all her muscles wrung out and useless. For a moment. She couldn’t afford more, couldn’t afford to look him in the eyes. Couldn’t afford to give in to temptation and let him any closer to her heart. It was well she was leaving today, because if she stayed much longer, she wouldn’t be able to resist. One day he would kiss her and she would let him. She would feel for him something other than lust, and she would be lost. Her arms dropped from him and she leant away.

  He frowned at her, not angry now, but perplexed, perhaps, hurt. Then he turned from her before she could push him away. And this time she wanted to pull him back. She wanted to linger here with him, but couldn’t. She bit her lip to shove that thought from her mind. By the time he’d rearranged his clothing and looked at her, she was all business.

  She stood and smiled at Paul as though he’d just commented on what a fine day it was. Only a sheen of sweat across her breasts and a flush to her cheeks hinted at anything different. She wouldn’t meet his eye, and that hurt, burned in his heart like the worst betrayal. He’d thought when she’d wanted him like that, moved against him like that, he’d thought… He’d been wrong. When she turned for the door, he grabbed her arm. He couldn’t just let her walk out, at the very least not without some account of what she’d done with the Newquay. She stared at the insignia on his jacket as he spoke.

  “Don’t make a fool of me a second time, Catherine. You don’t have to—” The handle of the door rattled, and they both jumped. If they were caught in here, he was dead. The charge would be bringing the navy into disrepute. At best.

  She swore and reached out to turn the key in the lock before he could stop her. It rattled again before she got the key turned. She flung open the door and glared at the three men who stood there. Paul recognised one of them. He’d been on the Kittiwake as part of Catherine’s crew. A bloody pirate! He went for his sword without a thought. Catherine’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Who would you rather have? Your admiral to catch us in here?”

  She had a point, but if he let them go—

  “Door weren’t supposed to be locked,” one of the men said.

  “And he’s not Fincher, neither,” said a second.

  Fincher? Why would they be expecting Matthew?

  “God’s blood! Couldn’t you see the plan changed? And it’s locked because this time I didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Plan?” Paul shook his head, trying to keep up with what was going on. Mostly his head was telling him these men could lead him to his frigate and get the stain off his record. They could get him back to sea, back to his life. “Catherine, what plan?”

  “Go on, get running,” she said to her men, and they took off along the veranda and over the balustrade like coursers after a hare. “I’m sorry, Paul. It was meant to be Matthew, and they’d interrupt before he could get too far. But you—I…” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed. “I’m sorry. You’d best get after them.”

  She straightened her back and screamed as though he’d just stuck her with his sword. Paul took hold of her shoulders and shook her until she stopped.

  “Catherine, what—”

  She rolled her eyes heavenwards as though she couldn’t believe how dense he was being. “Cecily, remember? And aren’t you supposed to chase pirates? What’s stopping you?”

  “I have a pirate here, don’t I?” For all his talk, somehow he was letting her make a fool of him. Shouts and the sound of running feet rang out as men came to answer to her scream. Just as they turned the corner, Catherine sighed with an irritated edge and fainted into his arms.

  Half an hour later found them in that same room, only this time they had company. Paul stood and sweated, hiding his rage, wondering just how he’d gotten himself into this and how in hell he could get himself out. It wasn’t him; it was her. She’d done this to him. And again, he could say nothing.

  She sat in a chair playing the demure Cecily, fanning herself and shyly accepting an offer of brandy. If Paul hadn’t known, he would have sworn she’d been frightened half out of her wits and was only now recovering.

  Matthew fussed around, and Admiral Wagstaff came to sit by her, looking at her with a sympathetic, fatherly air. “I’m sorry, Miss Harper, but if you’re recovered enough, maybe you could explain what happened?”

  Paul was grateful the questions hadn’t started with him, because what would he say? But everyone had focused on her, on reviving her and making sure she was well, or on chasing down the armed men they’d spotted running from the grounds. They’d been too quick, with too long a lead, and had gotten away.

  It was almost impossible to tell it was the same woman he’d been in here with less than an hour ago. None of the confidence remained, none of the sparkle or sexual allure that she held for him. Just a fluttering, idiotic nervousness that grated on Paul’s nerves even though he knew it for the act it was.

  She stammered over the first few words. “I—I felt faint at the party. Lieutenant Ambury offered to escort me for some air.” She sipped at the brandy and shuddered as though it scalded her on the way down.

  “Oh yes?” Wagstaff raised a sceptical eyebrow Paul’s way.

  “It was very kind of him,” Cecily replied with a hint of reproach, or Catherine, or whoever he was supposed to think of her as. He was beginning to wonder if either of them was really her.

  “Of course, do carry on.”

  “I didn’t feel much better, and the lieutenant offered to fetch me a drink to help. He’d only just gone around the corner when they…those awful men came.”

  Wagstaff patted her hand, and she managed a tight, brave little smile with tears lurking behind it. Paul had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. How could they believe it?

  “There, there, my dear. What did they do?”

  “They—they—” Cecily dabbed at her eyes with Matthew’s handkerchief. “They ripped my dress.”

  It was only then that Paul noticed the tear in the bodice. He hadn’t done that, had he? Maybe he had. Or maybe she’d ripped it afterward, when he wasn’t looking. It was difficult to tell what she might do or say at any given moment. Maybe that was what fascinated him so much. He wiped at a trickle of sweat on his upper lip and hoped she didn’t get too fanciful.

  At Wagstaff’s prompting, she carried on in little more than a whisper. “They were going to, well, you know.” She lowered her eyes shyly, and Paul almost laughed at the indignant look on Matthew’s face. If only he knew what she really had to look shy about. “Lieutenant Ambury must have heard me screaming, because he came back and scared them away. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t been there.”

  She gazed at him with an innocent and frankly adoring look, as though he was the most dashing hero she’d ever met. Matthew flushed a deep brick red and he glared at Paul while he laid a gentle and proprietary hand on Cecily’s shoulder.

  Wagstaff looked up at Paul, his shrewd eyes wondering under bushy brows. “Lieutenant?”

  Paul pulled himself straight and tried to look honest. God damn the woman, he was having to lie to cover for her actions and not for the first time, but he’d no choice. If he admitted even a part of what had happened, he’d be drummed out of the navy at the least. Quicker than spit too. He could at least not lie outright, just lie by omission and tell what he did know to be true. “I recognised one of them, sir, from the Kittiwake. I’d—I’d have given chase, but I thought my first priority was to Miss Harper, sir.”

  “While it does you credit that your first thought seems always to be the protection of the innocent, didn’t you think those men could lead you to your ship?” Wagstaff stood and began to pace. “Bloody pirates, in my port! On my bloody grounds! Beg pardon for my language, Miss Harper, but this has gone too far now.”

  Cecily ducked her head and murmured that it was quite understandable.

  “Right, Fincher, Ambury, I want you
and the rest of the officers in my office right now. We’re going to do something about this lot if it kills me.”

  “Admiral?” Her voice was still only just above a whisper. “Would you be so kind as to loan me the lieutenant to take me to my carriage? I’d feel much safer, and I do so want to get home and try to put this behind me.”

  Wagstaff smiled down at her. “Of course, my dear, of course. It must have been very frightening for you. All right, Ambury, off you go and see her safe, and to my office the moment you’re done.”

  The daggers of Matthew’s eyes stabbed into Paul’s back as Cecily preceded him out of the door and into the new dark. They walked in silence for a minute or two until he was sure they were out of earshot of everyone else.

  Paul grabbed her arm and stopped her. Instantly she was Catherine, a knowing grin spread across her face and mischief in her eyes.

  “Are you going to tell me what in God’s name is going on?” It didn’t come out half as angry as he’d meant it. It was something about the way she smiled at him, the way her posture subtly changed to become less rigid, more fluid, that stirred his blood.

  “I’ve gone a little way to restoring your good name, haven’t I? Hero of the hour! You’ll be beating the girls off now.”

  “But why? What was it all for? And why—” His throat wouldn’t let out those words. Why use me, not just once but twice? Why let me close and then push me away like I’m the devil himself? Why make me want you so much I barely know what I’m doing, let me have a glorious taste, and then spurn me, and worse, make a fool of me while you’re doing it?

  The words caught behind the anger choking his throat and his pride wouldn’t let him say them. He’d never see her again, she’d said. Half of him was glad, and the other half wanted nothing more than to take her to his room and not let her leave for a long, long time. He stopped at the top of the steps that led down from the veranda to where her carriage waited.

  She started down the steps, then turned to face him when she realised he’d stopped. For a moment, her eyes dulled and the shine in them died. The masks had slipped, both of them. She opened her mouth to say something, but a shadow detached from the wall and ran toward her. Paul stiffened in alarm, but it was only a maid. The girl smirked at Catherine, dropped something into her hand, then bobbed a nod and made for the carriage.

  Catherine stared down at what the girl had given her. She opened her fingers and let a fine chain dangle from them. A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg spun at the end. Paul had never seen anything of its like. The worth of a frigate, at the least.

  “The admiral’s wife’s. My men were the distraction and you my alibi, bringing everyone to that side of the house while my maid took it. I had this planned for a long while,” she said slowly. “A long while. My last act of piracy here, and then Cecily was to join Catherine. I want to be one person. I want to be me. I can’t bear it here anymore.” She stared at the ground for a moment, took a deep breath and looked up at him. Her eyes were very wide, very bright, and her voice was urgent, as though she desperately needed him to understand. “I never meant for that to happen on the Kittiwake. But when it did, I wanted more. So when you were at the party, it was my only chance, my last chance to put right, a little, the wrong I did to you when I stole the Newquay. And a chance to have you one more time before I say goodbye. Which is now. I’m sailing as soon as I reach my ship.”

  She turned away, and Paul ran down the steps to stop her. He wasn’t angry now. He didn’t care that she was a pirate, or that she knew enough about him that a word in the right ear would see him hanged. God help him, he didn’t even care she’d stolen the ruby from the admiral’s wife. He stopped her with a touch and turned her to face him. He traced his fingers along her throat, across the rise of her breasts, felt goose bumps rise under his skin as he raised his hand to her face. He took a step closer, close enough that he and Catherine touched all along their length. He could hardly bear for her to be so close and not take her. Wild thoughts raced through his head, idiotic plans of how he could keep her. “Give it up,” he said. “Let Catherine ‘escape’, let her come back and give up pirating.”

  “Give it up?” She shook herself away from his touch, and her forehead creased into an angry frown. “Could you give up the sea? The sheer joy and freedom of it? Could you give up the only place where you can be yourself? Should I stay here, pretend to be everything I’m not and end up having to marry some blithering idiot who only wants someone to breed his stupid children? I tried it once and it didn’t end well for either of us. Not only can’t I give it up, I don’t want to. No man will rule me.” She laughed scathingly. “I’ll be just like old Good Queen Bess. Now run along and get your orders like a good navy boy.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say more, to ask why, to beg her to stay or grab her and march her down to the cells, but once more pride stopped him. It stopped him from doing the one thing he wanted to, and that was to stop her from getting in that carriage and riding out of his life. Instead, he stood there and watched her go, and wondered what in God’s name she’d done to him.

  Chapter Four

  Paul barely noticed the walk to the admiral’s office. Everything seemed greyer, blander, sucked of all interest. He started up the steps and noticed Matthew, and the shouting, only when a hand landed on his arm.

  “Not a good time,” Matthew said.

  “What the bloody hell do you mean?” The admiral’s bellow reverberated through the wooden walls, and Paul flinched in sympathy for whoever was on the receiving end. “It can’t just be gone. It was in the sodding safe. You were supposed to be alert. Good God, man, pirates get into the grounds and the first thing you do is leave your post. I’ve a good mind to have you flogged!”

  A low, apologetic murmur was all they could hear of the reply. Almost every officer in the fleet waited nearby, mostly pretending not to hear the tongue-lashing.

  “Seems the attack on Cecily was a distraction,” Matthew said. He stared ahead rigidly, but even in the dim light the angry flush across his forehead was evident. His usual friendly tones were noticeable by their absence, and his voice was formal and clipped. “While we were all busy, someone stole some of Mrs. Wagstaff’s jewelry. Is Cecily well?”

  Paul floundered for something to say. Matthew was an old friend, his best friend, and in love with the sham that was Cecily. “Matthew, I didn’t—”

  Matthew rounded on him, too far past angry to be anything other than coldly, scornfully polite, at least to start. “Didn’t what? Didn’t mean to make her look at you like that? Didn’t mean to be the hero and sweep her off her feet? God damn you, you jumped-up bastard. You knew how I felt, you bloody knew, and you went ahead anyway.”

  The fist came from nowhere. One second Matthew was livid but still as a statue apart from his words; the next, Paul was flat on his back with blood pouring from his nose.

  “Please tell me I didn’t just see that, Lieutenant Fincher.” The admiral stood at the top of the steps. “Because I need every damn ship and officer I can get, and I don’t want to have to have you flogged for brawling like a drunken rating. In here, all of you.”

  They crowded in, no one eager to be too close to the admiral. Paul mopped up the blood that dripped from his nose as Wagstaff paced like a wild thing, pausing only to glare at each of them in turn. Finally he stopped, leant his fists on the desk and roared in sheer frustration. “I’ve had enough. More than enough! Merchantmen plundered, sunk and taken on our watch. And we can’t catch the ones who did it. Three of our own ships stolen. We still haven’t got more than a hint of where they are. Then tonight, the pinnacle of your incompetence. They come onto my grounds, attack one of my guests and steal my wife’s ruby!” He took a deep breath. Some of the high colour left his face, and he looked less like he’d have an apoplexy any second.

  Then it became worse—he adopted a forced composure that was like the eye of the storm, the calm that would only make the coming winds all the worse. Feet shifted
and shoulders stood straighter as men braced themselves for the blast.

  “Ambury,” he said, and Paul’s heart missed a beat. “Miss Harper, is she well?”

  Paul struggled not to let his relief show. For an instant, he’d been sure the Admiral knew everything, that he could read it on Paul’s face. “She’s, er, shocked, sir. Not herself.”

  “Well, yes, not surprised. Poor little thing. But just another reason why we’re going to get these bloody pirates if it’s the last damn thing I do.”

  Catherine ripped off the wig and threw it over the side, watched it swirl away into darkness along with poor, imaginary Cecily. The dress was next, and she stood in little but a shift with a sweet night breeze to cool her from its confines. She should be happy, should be celebrating, but now it came to it, the day she’d so long planned for, she didn’t have the heart for it. Not now she’d had a taste of Paul and had to leave him behind.

  Ropes creaked around her as her crew made ready to sail. Catherine’s ship, a sleek caravel by the name of the Wicked Lady, was her home, where she’d been born and raised into a life as free as the wind. She’d been dreaming of this moment for months. No—more than a year, almost two. Had it really been so long? Today was the day she finally threw off her shackles and those chains not of her making. The day she returned to her real life, not just for sometimes, not just when she could get away from prying eyes. For good. And yet…and yet the thought of never having to play the respectable woman, never having to wear a bloody corset, even the prospect of living her life the way she’d always loved before she’d met Jeremiah, was no longer enough.