by Susan Grant
The path ended where the beach began. Her battered feet welcomed the silky sand, only to sting again when they hit salt water.
They waded out to one of two waiting longboats. As they rowed past the smoldering remains of the Phoenix, Andrew’s eyes narrowed. With his mouth set in a determined line, he had the look of intense concentration he wore whenever he formulated a battle plan. Their very lives depended on his solution.
And on her ability to convince the crew that she was Lady Amanda.
Perspiration shone on his face. He would not look at her, nor would he talk to her. Uneasiness thrummed between them as the rhythmic slash of the oars brought them closer and closer.
Amazing how quickly life could change. Only hours ago, Andrew had made love to her in the peacefulness of dawn. She’d given herself completely, given until there was nothing left of her that wasn’t his, too. Now he sat in gloomy silence, locked in his own thoughts.
“Stop looking like you’re going to your death,” she whispered harshly, reasonably certain their captors were engrossed in a private conversation. “The charges against you will never hold up in court. You were blackmailed. Anyone can see that.”
He gave her a look one might give an innocent child.” ’Twill not matter.”
“We’ll find a good lawyer, witnesses who can vouch for your whereabouts the night the earl’s daughter was murdered.”
“I will not be permitted to testify, nor will my barrister be allowed to cross-examine witnesses brought in on my behalf. The trial will be swift, the outcome set in stone.”
“That’s crazy. A trial like this will last for months.”
“In your time, perhaps,” he said bleakly. “Here I’ve known of but one trial that lasted beyond a day.”
Contemplating his words, she stared blankly at the warship ahead. It sounded like the British justice system was ripe for a little influence peddling, a little twenty-first-century-style scandal. Somehow, she’d find a way to bring the duke down and free Andrew in the process.
“You must accept the possibility that I will be hanged,” Andrew said, gauging her reaction. One of the officers glanced his way, but he continued. “At Newgate, or perhaps Tilbury Point for the piracy.”
She shivered. It would not happen that way. She would not allow him to be hanged.
The seamen stored the oars on the bottom of the longboat. As it coasted up to the glistening wooden hull of the Longreach, Andrew regarded her with the blue-eyed gaze that had stolen her heart months ago.
I love you, she mouthed.
“Send the lady up first,” someone called down from the great ship.
Carly worked at staying calm. As she climbed aboard, a tall, impeccably dressed man offered her his hand, helping her up to the deck. He wore civilian garb, not a uniform. With his sandy-haired good looks and elegant features, he struck her as the archetype of British aristocracy.
Detached, his expression vaguely repulsed, he scrutinized her from head to toe. Feeling naked in the wet silk that clung to her bare skin, she folded her arms over her chest.
“You’ll want to change,” he said dispassionately. “Ensign?”
“Yes, sir.”
She glanced behind him to an officer who looked to be her age. The man pushed his glasses higher on his narrow nose and nodded curtly. “Ensign Rudolph Bern, milady. Ship’s doctor.”
“Bern will escort you to your quarters,” the chilly-eyed gentleman said. “Once he sees to your good health, you may exchange . . . that”—he gestured to her wrap—“for a more suitable gown.”
A commotion announced Andrew’s arrival.
The nobleman lifted his gaze. Finally, true emotion suffused his face. But it was hatred, deep and unmistakable. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright—almost maniacal, Carly thought with trepidation—the man called out, “Why, if it isn’t the slippery rogue himself, the unwanted bastard of my uncle’s whore.”
Andrew’s struggle to compose himself was not lost on Carly. Calmly, he replied, “So, you traded the drawing rooms of London for months at sea to hunt me down, ‘slippery rogue’ that I am. Bloody commendable—”
“Whatever it takes to protect my investment.”
Andrew snorted. “Either way, you’re the last man I expected to see, Westridge.”
Westridge? Carly’s head snapped back to the duke.
“Richard!” She hurled herself into his arms, plastering her cold, wet body to his pristine white lawn shirt. “You saved me. Thank you, thank you.”
Sickened, Andrew watched the cur who had murdered his family hold his wife, the woman he loved more than life itself. He feared for her as never before. But he could no more keep her from harm than he was able to save his mother and brother. When would he stop paying for the mistake he had made? Seeking his cousin’s title with a young man’s blind arrogance?
“I could not bear the thought of another day with those horrid pirates,” Carly wailed. “I prayed you would come for me, and you did.” Pointedly, she glanced Andrew’s way.
The apprehension in her eyes hit him hard. She was terrified, yet she was playing her game with airy aplomb. Her sheer courage stunned him, and his last shreds of anger dissolved into pride.
Westridge peeled Carly’s arms from his shoulders one at a time. She sniffled, gazing at him with honey-brown eyes brimming with tears and trust. “Oh, you are everything I’d hoped you would be.”
In answer, he unfolded a linen handkerchief and dabbed at water droplets marring his gleaming boots.
Carly fought the evil urge to shake herself like a wet puppy. “How did you ever find me?” As long as Richard was convinced that she was his betrothed, she had a chance at saving Andrew’s life.
“I found you after receiving some unexpected help,” Richard said. “A rather disheveled fellow, looking to trade information for gold. I believe his name was Barts . . . or Bellows.”
“Booth,” Ensign Bern supplied.
Dread clogged Carly’s throat. If Booth was onboard—
“Of course, gold is not what we gave the man.” Richard exchanged amused glances with the two goons who had seized Andrew. “I do not tolerate beggars onboard this ship. No, indeed.”
Bern, the doctor, winced and averted his eyes.
Richard folded his handkerchief. “Secure the prisoner.”
Carly braced herself as a sailor hoisted a heavy, rusted set of shackles. A flurry of emotions flickered over Andrew’s face with the cold metallic click of the handcuffs locking into place.
“Display him on the quarterdeck, for now,” The duke said out the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps this miserable tropical sun or the lack of water will do him in. Barring that, what say you we stow him in the hold?”
Shaken by a mental image of Andrew in a dank cell, alone, chained, lying in his own filth, she gulped several deep breaths.
“If that doesn’t do it,” he droned on, seemingly enamored with the sound of his own voice, “perhaps a flogging will. Shall I allow you the pleasure of the first stroke, dear Amanda, or would you prefer the last?”
Appalled, she dropped her gaze. The monster expected her to be impressed by his overt cruelty.
Richard summoned Bern. “It’s time. Escort the lady to her quarters.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the doctor said briskly.
Carly followed the ensign belowdecks into a narrow, darkened passageway. Bern led her into a tiny but luxuriously appointed cabin, locking the door behind him.
He leaned against it, facing her. “I’ve been sent to determine whether you are a virgin.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Then a heated blush surged back with equal force. “You insult my betrothed with your doubts.”
“It is His Grace who is concerned that his bride has been soiled.”
Mortified, Carly gaped at him.
Bern removed his glasses and regarded her with intelligent, dark brown eyes. “We will not do the examination,” he said wearily. “Are you or are you not a virgin? Tell me the
answer to give the duke. I’ve patients to attend to.”
For once in her life she was speechless.
“So be it, milady. You are a virgin.” He returned to the door and added quietly, “There are ways to pretend.”
Stunned by his unexpected kindness, she held his searching gaze. She couldn’t read enough in his dark eyes to tell if he was willing to risk helping her free Andrew, but he had saved her with the virginity business, so there was a chance she could persuade him to cooperate.
He grasped the doorknob, twisted it. Her heart raced. Think fast. What would Lady Amanda do? “Wait, ensign!”
He released the knob.
“Do you know who my father is?”
“Of course.”
“You know, then, that he is a very wealthy man, do you not?”
The doctor appeared bewildered. “I do.”
“On the other hand, the duke has property, but hardly a penny, er, a shilling to his name, which is why, I suppose, he wanted to marry me so badly,” she said, fabricating the story as she went, trying her damnedest to recall what Andrew had told her, while praying her ruse would work. She cupped her hand around her mouth as though revealing the utmost of confidences.” ‘Tell Richard yes,’ I told my father. I rather liked the idea of being a duchess. Which brings me to my point. If I’m happy, Papa’s happy. And he is most generous with his appreciation, for whomever might . . . help me,” she concluded pointedly.
His dark brows lifted. “You’re offering me money.”
Her apprehension skyrocketed. She was bartering for Andrew’s life with funds she didn’t have. “That depends on your cooperation.”
“I see.” He replaced his glasses. Studied her. Then he shook his head and stepped into the corridor, easing the door closed behind him.
Hell. If this were a dogfight, she’d be dead. She’d miscalculated. The doctor was loyal to his master.
But instead of conceding defeat, she hardened with resolve. She’d figure out something, find someone else to help her and Andrew. Meanwhile, she’d play the duke’s game.
She cleaned her face, her scratched and filthy hands and feet, using the washbasin in the cabin, then turned her attention to an enormous, dusty trunk. Beneath its heavy lid were gowns and undergarments and shoes. She sorted through the beautiful hand-sewn, beaded, and embroidered garments, searching for a gown she could don without help. With an ease that startled her, she layered her body with vintage underwear—chemise, corset, petticoats, and stockings. As though she’d dressed this way all her life, she buttoned a pale blue gown decorated with too many frivolous white bows, then wedged her feet into slipperlike pumps.
Exhausted, she fell to her knees in front of the open trunk. The glint of something gold caught her eye, a hand-sized oval frame tied with red ribbon to an envelope.
Decorated with a wax seal. The Paxton crest.
She tore it open and read the enclosed note.
Something to ease your homesickness, sugarplum. Hurry home. All my love, Papa.
Barely breathing now, she lifted the gilt-edged frame and brought it closer. It was a tiny, old-fashioned painting of a man and two young women. A family, maybe. The white-haired gentleman was robust, red-cheeked, and she felt herself inexplicably drawn to his friendly face. He stood behind a pretty girl with curly black hair. She reminded Carly of someone, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember whom.
Carly followed the man’s hand to where it rested on the other woman’s shoulder. She had a pale heart-shaped face and wide eyes. Brown eyes. Her blond hair was swept up in an old-fashioned style, framing her face with silvery tendrils. Although she wore an expression of impish innocence, she appeared somewhat sad.
Carly’s chest squeezed tight. Hands shaking, she lifted the portrait to her eyes. Good Lord, this woman was more than familiar. This woman was her.
Chapter Twenty
Clutching the framed miniature in her hand, Carly lifted the heavy skirts of her old-fashioned dress higher and hurried toward the quarterdeck. Upon seeing her husband, she felt a rush of emotion so profound that she could hardly breathe. Her chest tightened, and black spots danced before her eyes, eyes that threatened to flood with tears if she didn’t get hold of herself quickly.
Slowing, she approached Andrew. He was shackled, displayed like a trophy aft of the main mast. Perspiring in the ferocious sun, he lifted the ends of his mouth in the barest hint of a smile when he spied her. But the officer with the scarred face sat nearby, in the shade of a tarp, eyeing her with suspicion as she approached, so she immediately launched into her best imitation of Lady Amanda, spoiled heiress.
“You horrid pirate!” she shrieked at Andrew. “How could you steal me the way you did? I was so frightened. I’ll never be able to forgive you.”
Dozens of sailors watched her performance but averted their eyes submissively when she looked their way. An undercurrent of fear permeated the crew; a former officer herself, she could sense it. She’d bet her bottom dollar that they’d suffered at the hands of the duke, and unless she figured out something soon, her husband would, too.
Shakily, she raised her voice and thrust the frame at Andrew. “These are the people you took me from! My family, look! Lord Paxton, my sister, and—and—” She grappled with the words. “And me . . .”
He watched her intently for several heartbeats. Then his gaze lowered to the little portrait and he grew pale.
“You see, don’t you!” She edged closer, knowing it was a risk but not caring. It was critical that Andrew understand what she’d discovered. Body heat and desperate yearning thrummed between them. He smelled like sweat and damp wool, but she’d sell her soul to hold him close, to feel his strength. “I look so much like her that,” her voice dropped lower, “I think I am her.”
Andrew choked. “How, Carly?” he asked in a raw whisper.
“I’m not sure. The instant the shock wore off, I tried to piece together the puzzle. That meant exploring every possibility, no matter how bizarre. I never gave much thought to the plausibility of reincarnation, but look at the coincidences here. They’re too strong to ignore. What if I am Amanda? Say, one or two lives farther along? There was a cosmic mix-up when I was hurt in the crash. I ended up back here, instead of where I’m supposed to be.”
Andrew groaned. “I’m still sorting out your journey through time. Now this.”
“Amanda!” Richard bellowed from some distance.
She swallowed, glancing wildly around the deck. “Paxton loves her very much. He said so, in a letter. He wouldn’t want to cause her pain. And putting you to death would. That’s the key, Andrew, the key to keeping you out of Newgate.”
Andrew’s breath rushed out, and he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, they were moist.” ’Tis a blessing. God must have his reasons.”
“I think so, too.”
“What in the blazes are you doing, woman?” Richard demanded almost possessively as he sauntered up to them.
His presence meant her precious visit with Andrew was over. Infuriated, she snapped, “Taunting him, I suppose. Showing him my family who misses me, hoping I’d spur something resembling an apology. But no-oo.” She gathered her skirts. “You’re despicable,” she hissed, aiming words meant for the duke at Andrew. “You make me sick. And you haven’t an ounce of shame in your beastly body.” Unwanted tears welling, she marched off.
The duke caught up to her. “I miss my family,” she told him, sniffling, unable to come up with anything better to explain her tears.
“I see.” His face was impassive, and his cold gray eyes lacked anything resembling human emotion. So much for conjuring sympathy, she thought bleakly.
Silent, he escorted her belowdecks.
“I’ll lock you inside,” he informed her once inside the cabin. Before she could protest, he held up one hand. “It’s for your own good. The men have been without female companionship for months. Wouldn’t do for you to be harmed before we reach England.” His gaze settled on her br
easts, snugly outlined by her bodice, but he perused her in a detached way, as one might examine a possession.
“I wanted your sister, you know,” he said quietly. “Sweet, virginal Augusta.” His mouth dipped in a sneer. “The audacity of Paxton to have misled me into thinking I was to marry his youngest daughter. How dare he change his bloody mind, deciding instead to saddle me with a rumored-to-be-lunatic, seven-and-twenty-year-old woman? Though you appear far younger with your slight build, wide brown eyes, and pale hair”—he brushed her cheek in a fleeting caress—“you are a hideous departure from what I prefer.”
The flickering lamplight played over his patrician features as he looked skyward. “The humiliation you have caused this family goes on, Uncle,” he said, apparently blaming Andrew’s dead father. “You left the duchess childless because you squandered your seed on a whore who sullied the Spencer name by producing one nuisance bastard after another. It’s taken me years to get rid of them all. But now I have. Yet, it appears I have no choice but to take Paxton’s presumably mad and positively past-her-prime daughter as a wife.” He seemed perplexed for a moment, almost childlike, like a lost little boy. “It’s not fair.”
Carly whistled softly when the door slammed.
The man was deranged.
Unstable and unpredictable.
Combined with his malice and obvious intelligence, it chilled her to the core.
That evening someone rapped on the door. “Come in.”
She heard the tinkle of keys, and then Ensign Bern stepped inside with a tray of steaming, fatty boiled meat, pudding, and potatoes.
She thanked him, and put the tray aside.
“Lieutenant Spencer is in the hold for the night. I gave him water and treated his sunburn.”
Did you feed him? she yearned to ask. Did you remove his shackles?
But she remained silent. She’d revealed too much to the doctor already. She could only assume that Andrew was doing his part, gaining the doctor’s trust and sympathy, or maybe working on other sailors, whose loyalty to the duke was weaker.
