The Wicked Lady

by Julia Knight

  Fulton sidled up beside her, looking sly and predatory as always. Something about him gave her the shivers. The way he eyed her, the way his lips smacked as though he was contemplating what she tasted like. She’d have got rid of him long ago if it weren’t for the fact that her father had set such great store in him—and because he was the best first mate in the Caribbean. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but the Lady was always trim, spotless, with never a rope or knot out of place, and woe betide the sailor who didn’t hop to it when Fulton gave them her orders. His way with her ship had got them out of trouble more times than she cared to admit.

  “Had your fun then?” Fulton asked with a knowing look. “Bet he weren’t much good though, eh? Big lads like him, they ain’t never big all over. I could show you—”

  Catherine reached out and grabbed him by the collar, her right hand snaking for the knife at his belt. She snatched it just before he did and held the blade to his face. “One more comment like that, Fulton, and I’m finding a nice little island for you to be king of. Maybe one with cannibals. You remember those islands, don’t you?”

  Fulton’s lip curled, and he raised a fist. For a second she thought he would hit her, but another jab of the knife, and probably the knowledge that she was a damned sight better at fighting than he was, held him back. He lowered his fist with a sullen scowl and pulled himself free.

  “Now get to bloody work. I want us out of here before the tide goes against us.”

  Fulton turned away with a mutter. She’d best keep a sharp eye on him. He was getting bolder with his lechery by the day. And while she could fight with sword and dagger, and fight well, she preferred to find a way using her brains rather than her blades. Mostly she was successful, and she could only hope she would be with him. But if he got any worse, he really would be left somewhere. Her crew was like a family—were family to each other in some cases—but one malcontent could cause endless trouble. She didn’t intend to lose her ships because of a lecherous old man.

  Or a lecherous young one, either. Her grip on her crews had slipped of late, since they’d taken the Newquay. Since she’d met Paul, her mind hadn’t been on her ships or her crew; it had been on him. That was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  Strange, he was nothing like the sort of man she usually went for. Since Jeremiah, at least, men who let pride rule them were not on her agenda, but something about him made her insides quiver. He knew what she was, and it hadn’t seemed to bother him, not like it had Jeremiah when he’d found out, and her husband and his damnable pride were the reason Paul was best left behind.

  The Wicked Lady pulled away from the secluded coast where the caravel had been hidden, waiting for Catherine and her crew who’d come with her to return. The movement under Catherine’s feet soothed her, made her remember why all this had been worth it. She was free of Barbados and all its ghosts and memories, free of the expectations of others. Back to where she should have always stayed, and for good now. Yet she couldn’t suppress the hollow chill inside her at the thought.

  Paul hesitated outside Matthew’s door. They’d been up most of the night helping the admiral make his plans. Almost every ship would sail with the tide an hour after dawn to check the old pirate haunts the navy knew about to find the new hiding places, to find this particular pirate, by any means possible. The whole thing made him sick to his stomach, because he knew who they were chasing and wanted nothing more than to both find her and not have her found.

  What made it all worse was Matthew. His anger had died with the punch, but all through the meeting Paul was aware of Matthew’s gaze on him, aware of the hurt on his face.

  Paul steadied himself against the rocking of the deck and knocked.

  Matthew wrenched open the door and glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. “What in God’s name makes you think you’re welcome here?”

  “I know why you hit me, and I don’t blame you. But I truly didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  “Went off with her the first chance you got though, didn’t you? As soon as I wasn’t there, off you went.” Matthew lurched to a chair. A half-drunk bottle of brandy stood on the table next to it. He poured a generous measure. “’Fraid I’m not going to offer you one in the circumstances. Please, just go away.”

  Paul stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Matthew, I swear, it wasn’t, isn’t Cecily I’m interested in.” He had to tell somebody at least part of it, even if he couldn’t say who Catherine really was. Paul had known Matthew since they were born and trusted him not to spill any secrets. He’d kept plenty of them before now.

  Matthew ran his hand through his hair and laughed. “Really? You’re hiding it well by trying your luck with her.”

  “I didn’t try my luck with her. I only wanted to talk because I wanted to know more about Catherine.” Paul had to tread carefully here, but he badly needed Matthew on his side. He may have enjoyed solitude, may have spent months at sea essentially alone. He’d borne that, even relished it. Now he could not. He’d met Catherine twice but, and it was ridiculous, now he felt acutely alone.

  “Catherine?” Matthew looked puzzled for a moment, and then his brow cleared and he laughed. “Catherine! I’d forgotten you’d met our elusive, reclusive Lady Harcourt. And you’re—I see by your face you are. You poor bastard.”

  Matthew poured a good slosh of brandy, gave it to Paul, and that was it, all enmity fled. Paul thanked God for Matthew’s generous nature and took a sip. All his frazzled nerves settled as it burned down into his stomach. “What do you mean, poor bastard?”

  Matthew sat back in his chair. “A very strange woman, so I hear. Never met her, myself. But good Lord, to hear some of the men talk, she’s a real honey-trap. Or she would be, if she did anything but look down her nose at men. What was she like?”

  Paul toyed with his glass. He didn’t know what it was about her, but there was something that made his spine tingle. An excitement about life, a thread of mischief in her that lit her eyes. The way she cared nothing for society or the way it should trap her, did trap him. He couldn’t tell what it was she’d do or say next, and both dreaded and looked forward to finding out. She was a lady on the outside, with strength and passion inside, and possessed of a raw sexuality she wasn’t ashamed of. And yet…and yet there was a vulnerability he couldn’t put his finger on. A softness she tried to hide behind the mask. He wanted it all, every last drop of her. He almost laughed at himself. His plan had been to catch her, not have her catch him.

  “She’s the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever met,” he said finally.

  Matthew shook his head. “And the pirates got her.” He leant forward and laid his hand on Paul’s arm, his eyes full of concern. “I thought I had it bad. You know there’s little chance we’ll ever find her?”

  We may never, and not for the reasons you think. Paul smiled tightly and took a big slug of the brandy. Right now all he wanted to do was get drunk, but in four hours, less now, the fleet would sail. He’d be ashore, but he had to help them get ready. When they were gone, maybe then he’d get good and drunk, go and drown himself in brandy and the girls at Mrs. Quinn’s. Maybe they could take his mind from Catherine, although nothing they offered had half as much to excite him. In his mind, they’d be pale imitations of Catherine. Drunk, though…drunk he could manage.

  “Poor woman, never had a spot of luck since she came out.” Matthew topped up Paul’s glass.

  “In what way?” Paul almost didn’t care. He wanted not to care. He wanted to hate her for what she’d done to his life. Another part of him wanted—no, needed—to know everything about her. To know why she pushed him away, why, maybe, she wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Why every time he closed his eyes he could feel her skin against his.

  “You want all of it? Yes, I suppose you do. Not too much to tell really—only guesses. The only thing anyone, apart from maybe Cecily, knows is that she was sent out here three years ago. It’s rumoured there was some sort of scandal in England and her father had
to reach this far to find someone to marry her. She found Jeremiah Harcourt, and that was it. They both seemed well pleased at first, by all accounts, but not for long, not once they were married. From what I hear, there was always something a bit odd about him. A hint of the lunatic. By the time I got here, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight, or out of the house. Before the end, he’d become agitated if anyone even mentioned her in conversation. There were rumours, of course, but nothing more than that, other than his odd behaviour. Poor woman, shut up in that house for months on end, and from what I hear not a woman to endure that well. And then, what seemed like luck for her. They found him, must be six months ago, with a knife through his heart, dead in a gutter behind a whorehouse.”

  Dear Lord. Well, maybe that went some way to explain her. Some way, but not all. “So she was free to come and go after that. Yet you say even then she was barely seen.”

  “Oh, free to come and go as she pleased. But it seems to have affected her oddly, though if only half the rumours are true, it’s not a surprise. She hardly ever went out of the house, though she inherited her husband’s business concerns. He left her half a dozen merchantmen and estates all over the Caribbean, mostly plantations. Pretty much the only time she left the house was when she took ship to see them. I think it was a blessing for her when Cecily arrived. For them both, perhaps.”

  Paul took another sip of the brandy to cover his reticence. How could he tell Matthew that not only were Catherine and Cecily the same woman, but that Matthew had been right in his original assessment of Paul’s intentions? By now it wouldn’t matter—both Cecily and Catherine were gone and not likely to return. Should he tell Matthew that? Or let him find out for himself? He didn’t want to say, couldn’t without some suspicion landing on her, when she’d left the very hour of the theft. He cursed himself for a coward, but said nothing.

  Even three weeks later, when the ships started to return with news, Paul still found it difficult to broach the subject of Cecily with Matthew.

  Paul was waiting on the jetty to meet him when Matthew’s frigate tied up. Matthew bounded down the gangplank like an overgrown puppy. “Found them! We know where they are, I’m sure.”

  “How?” Paul had resigned himself over the last weeks to never getting his ship back, or Catherine. If he had one, he’d lose the other. He’d never have both. At last, he’d found someone who might have mattered as much to him as the Newquay did, and she had slipped away from him. Matthew’s news did nothing to cheer him, only brought his torn heart into sharp relief.

  “Good God, you look like shit. Never fear, I have the answer. If Catherine still lives, then I know where she is. Bosun!”

  “Matthew, I—”

  Matthew ignored him as he turned to his bosun. “Bring the prisoner and get him along to the admiral. Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Prisoner?”

  Matthew waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Yes, a prisoner. One who knows exactly where they are. And they still have the Newquay. They’re refitting, it would seem. Not long now and we’ll have you where you should be, on the quarterdeck. You’ll see.”

  Paul managed a wan smile and led the way to Wagstaff’s office. All captains and lieutenants had to report as soon as they landed. Paul’s new role as Wagstaff’s unofficial aide had tried his patience, and his eardrums, as the admiral grew ever more agitated. They could hear him from a hundred feet away.

  Matthew slowed down, his feet dragging at the sound. “And Cecily, has she recovered from her shock? I never got the chance to say goodbye before we left.”

  Paul hardly dared look at him. How could he say it gently? He couldn’t—so he just came out with it. “She left, Matthew.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Matthew snorted a disbelieving laugh. “Of course she hasn’t left.” He stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at Paul. “Has she?”

  “She left word with the admiral. I’m sorry, really I am, but no one saw her, and so no one could persuade her otherwise. Her message said it had been bad enough when Catherine was taken, and she held out no hope of ever seeing her again. The attack on her was the last straw. She didn’t want to suffer Catherine’s fate, and she took passage on one of the Harcourt ships. For England.” That was for the best, for Matthew’s sake. Poor bastard, in love with a fake.

  Matthew licked his lips, his tanned face suddenly pale. “For England—and I never asked her.” He stared helplessly at Paul for a moment. Paul could think of nothing he could say, nothing that might help. “Catherine’s fate, had she news? Paul, have you heard anything?”

  Paul resumed the trek to the office. “No, and I don’t think it’s likely, either.”

  “Oh God, Paul, I’m sorry.” Matthew laid a hand on his shoulder, but Paul shook his head and shrugged it off. He couldn’t bear sympathy from Matthew, the friend he’d lied to.

  “Matthew, it’s all right. It’s not as though I knew her well, is it? I wasn’t planning to marry her, not like you were planning with Cecily. I only met her that twi—once.” He caught his mistake just in time.

  This was what he told himself when he couldn’t sleep, or when he did and dreamed of Catherine. He didn’t know her. He doubted anyone could really know her, even after a lifetime’s acquaintance, and if he didn’t know her, he couldn’t love her. If he didn’t love her, then this ache that plagued him was nothing—a fever perhaps. He should ignore it, concentrate on finding the pirates, doing his duty. Yet even that thought didn’t comfort him. “Shake a leg, Matthew, admiral’s waiting, and you know how thin his patience runs.”

  Paul wiped at the sweat on his brow and tried not to breathe too deeply. The cells were a hellhole, dank, stuffy and thick with the smells of unwashed people and their waste. Matthew, in an odd mix of humour, half dejected, half bursting with pride, led the way to the cell that held his prisoner. “Here he is, sir. Name of Fulton. Used to be part of the crew. Found him stranded—beached, by the look of it, though he wouldn’t say much.”

  “And you’re sure he’s from their ship?” Wagstaff peered at Fulton as he glared at them from his filthy cell.

  Matthew smiled grimly. “Aye, sir. Found this on him.” He held up a chain and let something fall from it. Paul started in surprise—a gold watch. His gold watch.

  “There you are, Paul.” Matthew threw it toward him. Paul caught it and rubbed his thumb over the inscription. It had been a present from his father when he got his first command. “I never expected to see this again.”

  “I never took it, sir!” The prisoner’s voice floated out through the bars. “I won it, aye, in a game of dice. Fair and square.”

  “A likely tale. Right then,” Wagstaff said. “Let’s see what we can get out of this bugger.”

  Matthew unlocked the cell door, and they entered. Wagstaff dabbed at his eyes. “Good Lord, the smell!”

  Fulton didn’t move, but he caught sight of Paul and grinned slyly. Paul’s mouth dried up—this man knew far too much about him.

  “Sir,” Paul began and had to swallow past the dry closing of his throat. “A word, sir?”

  Wagstaff raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” He led the way outside. “What is it?”

  “I saw him on the Kittiwake, sir.”

  “One of their crew?”

  Paul tried not to notice the sweat running into his eyes and held himself straight. This pirate knew where his ship was. He also knew where Catherine was, and Paul didn’t know which he wanted more. The ship would be less trouble. Paul had to play a close game here, but he had to know, had to at least try to get the Newquay back. Life ashore was hell and the risk worth it, for him. “Maybe not, sir.”

  Wagstaff stared at him intently. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not so sure that the men already on the ship weren’t the pirates and not the Kittiwake’s real crew. Or why would he have my watch?”

  Wagstaff became very still, his eyes darting to and fro as he thought. “But Lady Harcourt? You spoke to her? And she said nothing? That
seems unlikely.”

  Shit! How in hell was he going to get out of this? Even if he managed to persuade the admiral now, this Fulton no doubt knew full well what Paul had been doing in the captain’s quarters with Catherine. Yet, much as he wanted his ship, he didn’t want to reveal that she was one of them. He had to think quickly. “No, sir. I’m not sure how much she knew of what had gone on.” A thought struck him, a lie that might get him, and her, away with this. For now at least, if he could keep Fulton’s mouth shut. “She was quite drunk, sir. Said it was the shock of the pirate attack. I don’t think she’s used to brandy.”

  “Drunk enough to believe that the pirates had been repelled?”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. She said she stayed in her quarters until they caught fire. She may have seen little of the actual fight. But she didn’t seem to think she was in any danger. They looked as respectable as any merchantmen, and they told us the captain was dead—how many of the actual crew would she know by sight?”

  Wagstaff grunted and looked thoughtful before he turned a beady eye on Paul. “And yet you failed to mention this before. Are you being entirely honest now, Lieutenant? Because you’ve just admitted you lied in your first report, or at least omitted this.”

  “Sir, I’d—” He was at a loss for a moment, and then Matthew rescued him.

  “I think Lieutenant Ambury was trying to save Lady Harcourt from any embarrassment, should she be found.”

  “Hmph! Well, we shall discuss your lack of honesty later, Lieutenant. Most thoroughly. For now, I just want to know where to find the bastards. And Lady Harcourt, of course. You two, find out what you can. I don’t care how you find it out, frankly. Just get me the location.”

  Wagstaff stumped off up the corridor, muttering to himself, and Paul let out a long, slow breath. “Thanks, Matthew.”

  Matthew turned a puzzled look on him. “Why didn’t you say before?”