Pirates

by Linda Lael Miller

  It was the only way Phoebe knew of to get past the barriers he’d erected and meld her soul with his. In that fusion, Duncan might know a few minutes of peace, and Phoebe wanted to give him that gift, however fleeting.

  She put the basin and sponge aside and stroked him. She told him to kick off his boots, and he obeyed her. When she had removed his breeches, he was utterly vulnerable to her, and so completely, perfectly masculine that he took her breath away.

  The lamp guttered out just as she knelt, to worship and to conquer.

  Duncan groaned and plunged his fingers into Phoebe’s hair. She imagined those hands, moving with graceful fury over the keyboard of a harpsichord or the strings of a mandolin, as she enjoyed him. For once, for that night if never again, Duncan was the instrument, and she was the musician.

  She played him with tender, relentless skill, made him spend himself, led him to their bed, and extracted still more music—melodies, thunderous rhapsodies, crescendos. He gave himself up to her completely, and she loved him all the more for having the strength to submit. Duncan had trusted her with far more than his body; while she made love to him, at least, he entrusted her with his soul as well.

  “Tell me about Troy,” she whispered, when they lay entwined on the bed, emptied, for that night at least, of all their passions. “Tell me about your father and your beautiful mother, about Lucas and Phillippa.”

  Duncan was silent for a long while, and when Phoebe reached up to caress him, she felt tears on his face. It was time, she knew then, to reveal her secret.

  “Okay, then,” she said, “I’ll tell you something. I’m going to have a child.”

  He drew her on top of him in a single motion, the effects of his repeated releases evidently forgotten. She saw his face in the moonlight flooding in through the high porthole and knew that he could see her clearly, too. She felt his gaze probing the deepest, most private parts of her being, and the sensation was not entirely pleasant.

  “What did you say?”

  “I believe you understood me the first time, Mr. Rourke,” Phoebe whispered. She was less sure of his reaction than she had been a moment before, a little frightened now that he would not want her, would not accept the baby they had made together. “You will be a father—sometime in March, probably.”

  “My God,” he breathed, and Phoebe wished he would show some emotion other than mere surprise—joy or sorrow, fury or regret. Something.

  “Old Woman says our baby will be a boy. She’s already named him John Alexander Rourke—for your father, of course. And Alex.”

  For an excruciatingly long moment, he simply stared into her eyes. Then, just when she had almost lost hope, he pulled her very close, as if expecting someone to try to tear her from his arms. “Trust Old Woman,” he said, close to Phoebe’s ear, “to know all about my child before I do. Good Lord, Phoebe—why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Things kept coming up,” she teased.

  He laughed, and the sound was better than music, better than good news. “A child,” he repeated. But as he held Phoebe against his side, some of the joy seemed to seep out of him. “What kind of man will our son grow up to be,” he asked, “with an outlaw for a father?”

  “He won’t have ‘an outlaw for a father,’ Duncan,” Phoebe pointed out, snuggling close and holding on tight. “He’ll have a hero—a man who helped give him a free country to grow up in.”

  Duncan plunged the fingers of his right hand into her hair, much as he had earlier, in passion, though this time the reason was different. Slowly, halting every few moments in order to regain control, he told her that his father and brother had refused to be rescued, that they had preferred to take their chances with the hangman, that he’d seen a ghost in John Rourke’s eyes and knew that he would soon perish.

  Phoebe listened—she had led Duncan to this point, after all, through the sponge bath, the easy words, the lovemaking, and the tenderness that had followed. Now, she would simply hear him and hold him in her arms while he told her things that were both important and trivial. While he talked, she took his right hand and laid it on her bare belly, to remind him of the tiny life growing beneath his palm.

  15

  The closeness Duncan and Phoebe enjoyed that night was not destined to last. Before the sun rose, Duncan was out of bed, washing and dressing silently in the slowly fading darkness of the last hour before dawn. Phoebe, sensing his reticence, knowing his mind almost as well as her own, pretended to be asleep.

  When he was gone, without kissing her forehead or murmuring a farewell as he had always done, she cried. Duncan had opened his soul to her the night before, but now he had retreated into his private regrets again, and Phoebe knew he was suffering the agonies of the damned, as surely as if he’d been hurled into some medieval hell. His father and brother were captives of a government he opposed, and the home he dreamed of returning to one day was in the hands of his enemies. His despair was overwhelming, and, strong as he was, Phoebe could not be certain he would recover. Human beings had limits, even the special ones, like Duncan.

  She waited, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep fraught with nightmares, until the sun filled the cabin with golden light. Then she got up, washed, pulled fresh clothes from the trunk at the foot of the bed, and dressed. She paused at Phillippa’s door, but there was no answer, and when Phoebe gained the busy deck, she found her sister-in-law standing at the bow, gazing out at the sea as if spellbound.

  Phoebe stepped up to the rail beside her. “Good morning,” she said.

  Phillippa turned that brilliant Rourke smile on her, dispelling all Phoebe’s worries that the girl might be regretting leaving home. She did not seem to have Duncan’s grave doubts about the futures of John and Lucas, and of Troy itself, but then Phillippa was very young. In her sheltered experience, no doubt, everything had always worked out in the end—dragons slain, castles conquered, princesses rescued from the clutches of the evil magician.

  “I thought you would sleep all day long,” Phillippa scolded. “Heaven knows, I have no one to talk to—the men are all busy, and Duncan is in one of his moods.”

  “He’s worried about your father and brother,” Phoebe said without rancor.

  Phillippa’s smile faded, and she nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “As am I.” Her countenance brightened again, but the effort was visible. What brave, sturdy people they were, these Rourkes. “Father and Lucas will be set free,” she said determinedly. “After all, they’ve done nothing wrong, and that incident at the party was all a ruse on Major Stone’s part, an attempt to force Duncan to surrender. By now, the major must know he’s failed, and I should imagine he’s quite ashamed of himself in the bargain.”

  Phoebe’s assessment of the situation was, like Duncan’s, considerably less optimistic than Phillippa’s. Basil Stone was not a monster; his fondness for the Rourke family, with the exception of Duncan, of course, had been plain to see. But he was first and foremost a soldier of the King, and he had done his duty as he saw it. Duncan’s escape from Troy would probably make matters worse for those left behind, not better.

  “I hope you’re right,” Phoebe said. She felt sick, despondent, and weak and wanted to return to the captain’s cabin, climb into bed, and curl up in a fetal position, but she denied herself that questionable luxury. For the sake of her child, for her own good and Duncan’s, she would keep putting one foot in front of the other, go on moving and hoping and believing. Eventually, things would get better.

  Please God.

  Phoebe and Phillippa went below to the galley, where they ate a modest breakfast and talked. Phoebe told her sister-in-law about Paradise Island, spoke of Old Woman and the wonderful, sprawling house overlooking the sea, and even mentioned the child she would bear Duncan in the early spring.

  That afternoon, a gathering storm darkened the sky and turned calm blue waters to churning charcoal. Phillippa went green as clover, but she remained on deck, doing what she could to help as the sailors scrambled to secure th
e ship. In the long days that followed, Phoebe felt a new respect for Phillippa. The girl was naive, but she was as innately courageous as any other member of her family, and her intellect was formidable.

  At last, they reached Paradise Island and dropped anchor in the natural harbor well down the shore from the house. Phoebe recalled, with no small sorrow, that a cluster of condominiums would be built here, late in the twentieth century, replacing the dense tropical foliage that grew on the hillsides, driving away the colorful, raucous birds rising now like a living rainbow against the sky. The coral reef would be destroyed, to make swimming and boating easier, forcing the gaudy neon fish to go elsewhere.

  Phoebe wished she could hold back the future and keep Paradise Island a secret from the outside world forever.

  Duncan was silent as he rowed his sister and wife ashore, leaving the crew to attend to the Francesca. Phoebe simply watched him, pondering the mysteries of marriage. Each night, when they were alone at last, and the cabin was immersed in darkness, Duncan had turned to Phoebe, had given and taken comfort in her embrace, and their lovemaking had been as explosive as ever before.

  Except that there was no true intimacy, no fusion of souls. Although he was obviously in pain, he took care not to share his emotions with Phoebe, not to let down his guard again and show her the inner passages of his heart.

  She was desolate, but she also felt the angry sting of betrayal. Duncan had trusted her the first night, but then, for some reason she had not been able to discern, he had closed her out.

  If Phillippa noticed the strain between her brother and her sister-in-law, and she must have, for she was a bright girl, she gave no sign of it. She chattered incessantly, and when they were near the shore, took off her slippers and stepped over the side to wade happily onto the beach.

  Phoebe couldn’t help smiling at Phillippa’s happiness, despite her own bruised feelings. Duncan, on the other hand, sent the rowboat skimming onto the dry white sand, jumped out, and went into the surf after his sister, grabbing her hand and practically dragging her ashore.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” he growled, towering over the girl, his hands resting on his hips. “There are sharks in these waters, and venomous eels!”

  Phoebe climbed carefully out of the boat, grateful for the feel of solid earth beneath her feet and at the same time furious with her husband. “Duncan …” she began, in protest.

  But Phillippa needed no defending, as it happened; she took care of herself in true Rourke fashion. She raised both her small hands and thrust them, palms first, at Duncan’s chest, nearly knocking him off his feet with the unexpectedness of the blow. “I will not be dragged about and shouted at!” she yelled. “Furthermore, I cannot see how a shark or a water snake could possibly be worse company than you are!”

  Phoebe applauded and earned herself a furious glance from her husband.

  “You stay out of this,” he snapped. Then he turned back to Phillippa, prepared to shake a finger at her and go on with his lecture.

  Phillippa was having none of that; she simply walked away, holding her skirts high, moving on swift, bare feet over the hot, sugar-fine sand. “Are you going to let him treat you like that?” she demanded, looking back at Phoebe and squinting against the dazzling tropical sun.

  “Like what?” Duncan demanded, before Phoebe had a chance to respond one way or the other. “Pray, bestow upon me the benefit of your worldly wisdom, little sister, and tell me how I am mistreating my wife!”

  Phoebe stepped between them, hoping to put an end to the argument before it could escalate into something that would scare away all the wildlife. “Duncan,” she said calmly, “you are making a fool of yourself. Phillippa, you are the sister I have wished for all my life, but you will not interfere in my marriage. Do you both understand, or must I knock your heads together?”

  There was a short silence, full of dire portent, but then Duncan scowled and stormed off up the beach, and Phillippa subsided, her shoulders slumping a little, her eyes downcast. After one apologetic glance at Phoebe, she fetched her slippers from the bottom of the rowboat and pulled them on, hopping comically from one sandy foot to the other as she did so.

  “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, as they watched Duncan disappear into the foliage. “I was only trying to help.”

  Phoebe linked her arm through Phillippa’s and smiled. “I know,” she said gently. “Duncan is going through something that will one day be referred to as a dark night of the soul,” she went on, ushering Phillippa up the path that would eventually bring them to the great house. “He’ll get over it, I’m sure, being a resilient type. In the meantime, we must simply leave him to work things through on his own.”

  Phillippa looked very young and very vulnerable, with her wet skirts, sunburned nose, and teary eyes. “That’s going to be hard,” she said.

  “Yes,” Phoebe agreed with a sigh. “I know.”

  With that, the two women proceeded to the house, where they were met by a gleeful Old Woman, who embraced them both and led them inside to be fed, provided with baths and fresh clothes, and generally fussed over.

  “You seem delighted that Phillippa is here,” Phoebe remarked to Old Woman hours after their return, when she was in the master bedchamber, newly awakened from a long and much-needed nap. Old Woman had brought cold lemonade, made from springwater and lemons and sugar raised on the island, along with a tray of small sandwiches and pretty cookies. “I suppose you foresaw our arrival in your crystal ball?”

  Old Woman took Phoebe’s teasing in her usual good-natured way. “This is a good place for Miss Phillippa,” she said. “She is needed here.”

  Phoebe sighed. She was sitting in a chair near the terrace doors, looking out at the sea as she nibbled and sipped the refreshments Old Woman had prepared for her. “You’ve noticed Duncan’s black mood, I expect,” she said. She always put on a front when he was around, never letting him see how much his attitude troubled her, but with her friend she could relax a little.

  Old Woman was unfolding and shaking out the contents of Phoebe’s trunk, which had been brought from the Francesca while she was sleeping. “There’s a feeling in the air,” she admitted, “like before the sea and the wind get angry. Trouble’s coming.”

  Phoebe took a sip of her lemonade. She had no appetite and wouldn’t have touched the food if it hadn’t been for the baby. “Yes,” she agreed. “Trouble is definitely coming. How is Alex doing, by the way?”

  Old Woman examined a gown, frowned, and tossed it to one side. “He’s feeling sorry for himself mostly,” she sniffed. “What that boy needs is a good thrashing.”

  Phoebe was shocked. “You can’t be serious,” she said. She’d never have dreamed Old Woman, with her gentle tones and mystical ways, was an advocate of violence. “You think someone should strike Alex?”

  “He’s got to be straightened out, that one. He wants a talking-to.” Old Woman stopped her sorting for a moment and stood very still, gazing out the window at the water, wearing its sequined mantle of sunlight. “Might go either way, Mr. Alex.”

  Phoebe shuddered in the aftermath of a quick, icy chill. “What do you mean?” she asked, setting her glass on the small table beside her chair and rising quickly to cross the room and stand facing the other woman. “Did you foresee something?” she demanded in an anxious whisper. “Something about Alex, I mean?”

  Old Woman was slow in meeting Phoebe’s eyes. When she did, there was compassion in her face, and sorrow. “There’s a chance he’ll come around,” she said. “There’s always hope of that, long as a body can draw breath. But he’s in deep waters, Mr. Alex is, and he’s got to a place where even Mr. Duncan can’t reach him.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” Phoebe pleaded.

  Old Woman smiled sadly and patted Phoebe’s cheek. “You might ask that God of yours to send an angel,” she said. “That’s what Mr. Alex needs now. An angel with a stubborn mind and a hot temper.”

  P
hoebe was reminded of Phillippa, who certainly had a stubborn mind, as well as a hot temper. It was the angel part that came into question.

  Phillippa found Alex Maxwell on one of the downstairs terraces, a crutch leaning against the wall near his chair, one foot propped on a wicker hassock. He didn’t see her at first, which gave her a few moments to admire him, to remember the long-ago days when he had come often to Troy. Alex and her brothers had been great friends, and Phillippa, a child then, had adored Alex and dreamed of marrying him someday. She’d thought he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and now, as her heart turned itself inside out, she realized that she still cared for him. In a new and very troubling way.

  She almost lost her courage—she, Phillippa Rourke, the most inveterate tomboy in the colony of South Carolina, the despair of a score of English and French governesses—but in the end she forced herself to step over the threshold and speak.

  “Alex?” she said, pretending she hadn’t instantly recognized him. Pretending her soul hadn’t twisted itself into a painful knot at the first glimpse.

  He turned, and she saw shadows under his eyes, an unnerving gauntness in his face. But if he knew her, he did not reveal the fact.

  “It’s Phillippa,” she said gently, noticing his maimed leg, really noticing, for the first time. “Don’t you remember?”

  A tattered vestige of the old smile spread across the familiar mouth. She knew those lips from a thousand girlish daydreams. Alex started to rise, grappling for his crutch, then gave up the effort, as if a new and somehow deeper awareness of his disability had just struck him. “Phillippa,” he said, and she saw something broken in his eyes and grieved. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  Phillippa ventured out onto the terrace and took a chair near his without waiting for an invitation. Far from feeling confident, she wanted to bolt, to go somewhere and sob because Alex—beautiful, comical, dashing Alex—had been destroyed. Clearly, the injuries to his body were nothing at all compared with those to his soul. “Am I so different?” she asked. “That you wouldn’t know me, I mean?”