“Yes, it is.” His voice was flat, as if he knew what was coming.
Emmaline stopped and faced him. Like the waters parted by the bow of a ship, people moved around them. Sailors, native women in their colorful clothes and vendors toting their wares were nothing but foam-tipped waves next to the floating debris of this man. “Mr. Lansing—”
Lansing took her hand in both of his, squeezing her fingers until they ached. She tried to yank them away, but he held tight, desperation in his close-set eyes. “You must know how I feel about you by now, Mrs. Sutherland. I would like nothing more than to escort you to—”
“Mr. Lansing.” She managed to tug her hand free. “Please. Don’t. You know I am unable to return your feelings.”
His lips thinned. His eyes narrowed, and a frisson of concern crawled up her spine. Lansing was always pleasant with her. Pleasant and proper. But she’d suspected there was more to him. Something not quite pleasant and proper.
“It’s unnatural for a woman to live all alone, as you do, Mrs. Sutherland, with male servants who appear disreputable.”
“My servants are none of your concern.”
“People talk.”
“I care not what people say. How I live my life is my business.”
He folded his hands over the top of his cane and gave her a stern look. “You make a good profit off your sugarcane, do you not?”
What the hell? Where was this going?
People bustled around them, jostling them. Emmaline stepped closer to the buildings lining the street, recognizing the infamous pub, the Elegant Sword, a few feet away. Were there sailors in there she knew? Someone who would come to her rescue?
She was certainly able to defend herself, but if she did, people would talk about a lot more than her servants.
“What does my sugarcane have to do with this?”
Lansing shrugged, but there was a light in his eyes that set her on edge. “Barbados used to be the major exporter of sugarcane to England. But things are changing. England’s importing more and more from the Leeward Islands and Jamaica. I’m sure you’ve felt the pinch.”
Little of her “profits” came from her sugarcane. She kept her home as a working plantation because it gave her native workers a job, and it served as a front, to cover her other … duties.
“I’m aware,” she said.
“The other plantation owners are becoming desperate, because competition is tight. With no man to run your plantation …” He spread his hands as if to say, What can you do?
Enough of this nonsense. Emmaline didn’t take kindly to being threatened, and Lansing was clearly trying to threaten her. She stepped closer to him.
He quickly stepped back.
“Say what you have to say and be clear about it, so there is no confusion.”
He cleared his throat and looked toward the street. His bravado faded to unease. “The other plantation owners want to eliminate as much competition as they can. They feel you are a weak adversary, and easily eliminated.” He turned his gaze to her. “I can help you keep your home.”
She was not at all concerned about losing her home. She had enough income to keep it, even if she didn’t grow sugarcane. What worried her was that others were talking about her. Speculating.
“And how would you save me from such a fate?”
He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders and drawing in a breath so his chest would puff out. “I could help you run your plantation. Maybe even get a better profit for your sugarcane.”
“I’m in no need of a partner.”
“I was, uh, thinking of a different sort of partnership.”
She itched to slap the smug look off his face and send him home to his papa with his rodent tail between his legs. Instead she lifted her chin. “Simply because I have male servants does not mean I am that kind of woman.”
His face paled. “I assure you, Mrs. Sutherland, that is not at all what I meant. I was proposing marriage.”
Marriage?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lansing, but that is impossible. I simply cannot marry you.”
His hopeful expression twisted into something ugly. Taken off guard by his sudden change in demeanor, she took a step back. Quickly, she looked around, but no one was paying them any mind, everyone busily going about their own business.
Lansing grabbed her arm and squeezed. She yelped, too shocked to yank her arm away.
“Rejecting my proposal would not be in your best interest, Mrs. Sutherland.” His face was all she saw, his overpowering sandalwood cologne all she smelled. Her fury was all she felt.
She may enter town unchaperoned, but she was not naïve enough to arrive unarmed. The tip of her stiletto was but a wrist flick away. However, they were in the middle of town, practically in the middle of the street. Threatening the governor’s son with a stiletto would surely bring unwanted attention.
She leaned in closer. “I decide what is in my best interest. No one else. I do not wish to marry you, Mr. Lansing.”
“You are making a mistake, Mrs. Sutherland.” His hold on her arm tightened. Surely there would be bruises in the form of his fingers, but that didn’t worry her. What worried her was that people would soon notice them.
“She can’t marry you, because she is betrothed to me.”
Lansing’s eyes widened at something just beyond Emmaline’s shoulder. No, not something. Someone. She was both relieved and frustrated that Nicholas Addison had come to her rescue. Of all people.
Nicholas’s arm snaked around her waist, drawing her closer to his warmth. Lansing had no choice but to release her arm.
“I see,” Lansing said. “And who, pray tell, are you, sir?”
“Pardon my lack of manners.” Nicholas released her to sketch a small, almost mocking, bow. “Captain Nicholas Addison of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, at your service, Mr. Lansing.”
“Addison.” Lansing repeated the name, as if trying to place it.
Emmaline wanted to slink away like a tomcat caught pilfering from the fishmonger. What had she fallen into? Betrothed? To Nicholas Addison?
“I’m sorry, Captain, but the name does not ring a bell.”
Nicholas’s lips twitched in amusement as he dragged Emmaline closer to him, branding her as his in front of Lansing and anyone else who happened to be watching. This wasn’t good.
Not good at all. How was she to send Nicholas Addison away, when he had announced they were betrothed?
“I’m not surprised. News travels slowly to these …” Nicholas’s gaze scanned the hills behind them, then the pedestrians and natives going about their day. She swore his nose wrinkled and rose a little higher in the air. “Islands.”
Lansing stiffened. “Addison, you say? Are you related to Sebastian Addison, the Earl of Claybrook?”
“The earl is my brother, yes.”
Lansing’s lips thinned. He looked from Nicholas to Emmaline, then back to Nicholas. “My heartfelt felicitations on your betrothal, Captain. Mrs. Sutherland, you should have mentioned it earlier.”
Emmaline opened her mouth to speak, but Nicholas beat her to it, which inflamed her anger. She was able to speak for herself, thank you very much.
“It’s rather recent. We haven’t made an official announcement yet. I trust you will keep the good news to yourself, for the time being. Until we can inform those closest to us.”
“Of course.” Lansing tipped his head toward Nicholas, then turned his attention to Emmaline for a few heartbeats, with a shrewdness that warned her he didn’t entirely believe the betrothal story. He nodded to her and walked off, leaving her blowing out the breath she’d been holding.
She slithered out of Nicholas’s hold and swung around to face him. “I could have handled him myself.”
“I very much doubt it.”
Her shoulders went back. If they hadn’t been in the middle of the street, she would have revealed the stiletto still in its sheath on her wrist. Damn the man and his arrogance. “Pardon?”
T
he hardness in Nicholas’s eyes softened. “I’m sure you would have easily handled him, if you weren’t in the middle of town in front of all these witnesses. However, I fear that threatening the governor’s son with the stiletto hidden up your sleeve probably wouldn’t have been in your best interest.” His lips twitched with amusement. She had to look away, before she smiled too. He knew her too well, and it scared her almost as much as it warmed her.
“So what do we do, now that you’ve announced we’re betrothed?” Betrothed. What a hell of a mess this was. She couldn’t be betrothed. Especially to someone like him. And yet, oddly, the thought was also somewhat … comforting. She shook the fluff-brained thought away. She didn’t need comfort. What she needed was to get him out of her life, so that she could finish her mission. This betrothal certainly wreaked havoc on that plan.
“Well …” He licked his lips and squinted off into the distance, his arrogance and confidence turning to unease.
A little part of her died inside at the thought that his proposal meant nothing but a way to get Lansing to leave her alone. Silly, stupid woman. What were you expecting? Undying love? Nicholas simply saw you with Lansing in what could have been a compromising situation, and he saved you. That’s all it was.
“A fine mess you’ve put us in, Captain Addison. How do I explain my abrupt wedding plans and just-as-abrupt termination of those plans? Because our betrothal will be terminated.”
Chapter Fifteen
Nicholas sat with his back to the wall, his hand cupped around a tankard of ale and his eye on the inhabitants of the Elegant Sword. There was nothing remotely elegant about the dark, dingy pub, although there were plenty of swords in sight.
The barmaid hustled between tables, carrying multiple tankards as she sidestepped the roaming hands of dockworkers, sailors and other forms of reprobate.
The man running the bar kept a keen eye on everyone, his full mustache twitching, his beady eyes roaming, his busy hands pouring. Not much got by him, and he took particular interest in Nicholas for some reason. Mayhap because Nicholas possessed all his limbs and teeth.
’Twas the perfect place for his foul mood. Anger hummed through his blood, mixing with the ale he’d consumed. The rank beverage was so watered down it could hardly be called liquor, but it was enough for now.
He took another swallow. He’d been sitting here since his encounter with Emmaline and Peter Lansing, hoping the ale would dim his thoughts, make him forget the very foolish words he’d uttered.
Had he truly announced in the middle of the road, in the middle of a town in the middle of the Caribbean, that he was betrothed to Emmaline?
His next sip turned into a gulp.
Our betrothal will be terminated, she’d said.
Well, of course it would be terminated. He couldn’t possibly wed a pirate. The thought curdled his stomach. Sweat beaded his brow and his injured leg thrummed with pain, a reminder of why he hated pirates, and why he needed to leave this island.
He tried to push away the image of Emmaline standing in the street with an obviously irate Lansing, but it refused to go away. The sight had propelled Nicholas toward her faster than his mind comprehended what he was doing. His only thought had been to get her away from the man so obviously causing her distress. He didn’t think twice about the primitive rage driving him. The rage turned into something much more primitive, and he’d uttered the words binding her to him.
He’d dragged her away from Lansing and chained her to his side, as if announcing to the entire island she was his. His.
He groaned and rested his forehead in his hands. What the hell have you done? Lansing won’t let this matter drop. He clearly wanted Emmaline as his own, and was furious Nicholas had poached in what Lansing considered his territory.
Word would spread, and it would eventually reach London. His brother. His family. Kenmar.
He truly had no choice. He had to leave for London soon, to stop the rumors from spreading. On the next ship. Which meant he had to go to the docks and find out when the next ship was departing. But it also meant he had to leave Emmaline at the mercy of Lansing.
Of course, Emmaline was never at the mercy of anyone, but even she knew the foolishness of harming Lansing.
On the other hand, she had Phin and Clarence and Shamus, and the host of other sailors and pirates at her back, so she wouldn’t truly be alone.
The thought that he could easily leave her with the others should have comforted him, yet it merely agitated him, which was idiotic. She’d been taking care of herself long before their paths crossed, and she would continue to protect herself long after he sailed out of her life.
Which he would do. Soon. As soon as the next ship sailed.
Phin entered the pub and looked around until he spied Nicholas in the dim corner. Hell. The last person Nicholas wanted to see or speak to was Phin. The man was a constant burr in his side.
Phin moved toward him, the inhabitants of the Elegant Sword making way, as if sensing the danger that had entered. The barkeep narrowed his eyes, following Phin’s movements.
He sat in the only other chair at Nicholas’s table and motioned for the barmaid to bring him an ale.
“What are you doing here?” Nicholas asked, tossing aside all remnants of civility. Living with pirates did that to a person—sucked the civility away. Another reason he needed to leave.
“Having a drink,” Phin said.
The barmaid plopped two tankards down, sloshing liquid onto the table, and held out her hand. “That be two pence, guv.”
Phin glanced at Nicholas.
“Don’t look at me, guv, I have no money.” Which was something he hadn’t thought of until he’d ordered his ale. Maybe it was a good thing Phin had arrived.
With a sigh, Phin plunked the money in the barmaid’s hand and waved her away.
“If you came for conversation, you’ll be disappointed.” Nicholas took a long draught from his fresh tankard.
“Makes no difference to me.” Phin scooted his chair around until his back was to the wall, and he faced the room.
They sat in silence, drinking and watching, alert but not appearing to be. Nicholas itched for a fight, needed the physical release of his pent-up frustration and anger. Occasionally one would break out but none came near.
“The thing about island life,” Phin said, without taking his eyes off the other inhabitants, “is that word spreads fast.”
Wonderful. “I did it to protect her from Lansing.”
Phin snorted. “She can protect herself.”
“This time was different. They were in the middle of town where anyone could see them. She doesn’t need that kind of attention.”
Phin’s eyes narrowed. “Agreed. What did he want?”
“To marry her.”
Phin slammed his tankard onto the scratched and dented surface of the table. “The hell, you say.”
Nicholas relived the look of horror on Emmaline’s face, and his anger returned tenfold. She’d truly been frightened, though she’d never admit it. What had Lansing said to her?
“Bastard,” Phin muttered.
Nicholas nodded in agreement. “After a period of time, we will call the betrothal off, of course.”
Phin eyed him with a contemplative look, sliding his tankard back and forth between his hands. “Why?”
Nicholas swallowed his ale too fast and it went down hard, causing him to choke and sputter and wheeze. “What do you mean, why?” he managed.
“Why break off the betrothal? Do you think Lansing will quietly go away, and not return after you break it off?”
“Lansing will have to be dealt with, but Emmaline and I certainly will not marry.” When he married, if he married, it would be to some sensible woman in London, who never raised a sword, or sailed a ship, or ran her own damn plantation on a tiny island in the middle of the Caribbean. She certainly wouldn’t swear like a sailor, or wear men’s breeches, or climb the mizzenmast in the middle of a storm. She would direct a h
ousehold of servants, instead of a shipload of pirates. She would rely on her husband to protect her and keep her safe, instead of strapping a stiletto to her wrist and marching straight into trouble.
Conversation in the Elegant Sword was loud and raucous. No one except the barkeep was paying them any mind, but Nicholas pitched his voice low anyway.
“I can’t possibly wed a pirate.”
Phin eyed him speculatively. “You disappoint me, mate. I figured by now you would have seen past Lady Anne.”
Conversation slowed. Men turned to stare at the hulking creature lumbering toward Nicholas and Phin. Shamus’s large frame fairly blocked what little light penetrated this den of hell.
“What is this, a bloody tea?” Nicholas grumbled.
Phin moved to make room for the chair Shamus dragged over without asking the inhabitants of the other table. They declined to argue with him.
A tankard appeared in front of him without his having to ask, and the barmaid scuttled away with a look of fear. Shamus had made a remarkable recovery, and he was now as loyal as a hound dog to Emmaline. Quiet and unassuming, he would do any task she asked. Nicholas suspected the man would willingly and without question lay down his life for her. In a way, the thought that Emmaline had such a man to rely on comforted him. She would need Shamus and Phin when he left.
Which would be soon.
Time passed. Tankards came full and left empty. People entered, drank and exited, replaced with others, equally disreputable, equally swarthy and equally dangerous. The feeble light that reached them from outside went from somewhat bright to dingy gray, heralding dusk. The hot air cooled to a gentler, but no less humid, temperature.
They were an unsightly lot, the three of them. Phin with his hair clubbed at his neck, and a dangerous glint to his eye. Shamus’s height and weight dangerous in its own right. And Nicholas, who hadn’t shaved in days, whose body was strung tight with the need for a good brawl. The creatures populating the Elegant Sword kept a wary eye on them and a fair distance from them.
Nicholas pushed his tankard away, and waved off the skittish barmaid when she approached with another. The ale he’d consumed was like a tidal pool of acid.
The Notorious Lady Anne: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 16
