An Improper Proposal

by Patricia Cabot

  He was hallucinating, he knew. It irritated him, this hallucination. Why couldn’t he have hallucinated a Payton Dixon in that ballgown she’d been wearing the night before his wedding? Or better yet, naked?

  Then the hallucination spoke.

  “We’re headed for Nassau.” Payton bent down and placed a tin cup of fresh water and a bowl of mash beside him. Her back to the guard, who was peering in at them without much interest, she spoke softly and swiftly. He could hardly hear her.

  “I haven’t figured out why, yet, or what they plan on doing with you. Miss Whitby’s on board, and she’s all right, but I’m afraid it turns out she’s Lucien La Fond’s mistress. The baby’s his, not yours. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

  And then she lifted the empty cup and bowl that had contained his water and mash from the night before, and left. The guard slammed the door behind her, and locked it.

  And that was all.

  That was all. Except that in a single heartbeat, his world had turned inside out. Payton Dixon, whom he’d thought safely back in England, attending balls and tea parties like any other girl her age, was actually on board this ship—had apparently been aboard this ship all along. She was quite obviously in disguise—Payton had never been one for hats, unless it was cold. Besides, she was meticulous about keeping clean. That dirt on her face had been put there deliberately. She was actually trying to pass herself off as a boy.

  Was she insane?

  Where had she come from? What did she think she was doing? What was she doing on board this ship?

  Tentacles of fear, cold and sharp, wrapped around his heart. Whereas before, he hadn’t exactly been happy, sitting there day after day, chained to a wall, at least he hadn’t particularly had any worries, other than the obvious one, that he was about to be killed. Now he had another, and very much more disturbing worry: that he was going to have to watch Payton Dixon die, right before he himself was killed.

  While death did not trouble Connor Drake—why should it?—the thought of watching Payton Dixon die troubled him very, very much. So much that, for a whole hour after she’d delivered his midday meal, he raged against his chains, cursing and shouting, and in general making a nuisance of himself. When the guard opened the door and told him to shut up, Drake threw his bowl of mash at him.

  This earned him a very hard knock on the head. Drake was grateful for the pain. It gave him something else to think about, besides Payton Dixon.

  All afternoon, he slumped against the wall, blood trickling from the wound on his forehead, and listened for her. He had never thought to do so before, not having had the slightest suspicion she might be somewhere nearby. He strained his ears listening, but did not hear her voice at all. Where was she? Had she been on board all along? How had she gotten there? And what were those clodhopping brothers of hers thinking, letting her put herself in such a dangerous position?

  All day, he sat and alternately worried and raged about her presence on the ship. When the light in his cell had finally begun to fade, he heard keys scrape in the lock. He scrambled hastily to his feet. Would she come again? Had that morning’s visit been a one-time fluke? Had he imagined the whole thing?

  No. He would never have imagined Becky Whitby being Lucien La Fond’s mistress. Payton Dixon he’d imagine, yes. But not the part about Miss Whitby.

  The door opened, and there she was again. Their gazes collided, and this time, he saw her take a quick step backward, as if she was frightened by what she saw on his face. Good. She should be. Because if La Fond didn’t kill her, he most certainly was going to, just as soon as someone let him out of these chains.

  “Go on, ’Ill” the guard growled, placing a hand in the center of her back and pushing her forward. “And be quick about it.”

  Drake dragged his murderous gaze from Payton’s face and fastened it instead on the guard’s. Now he was going to have to kill him, too, for touching her.

  No sooner had he broken eye contact with her than Payton hurried forward with his evening meal. Another tin of water, another bowl of mash. She squatted down to place it on the floor near his feet. Drake, watching her, felt the blood drain from his face. When she squatted, the seat of her trousers, which were baggy enough to have accommodated someone twice her size, tightened, revealing all too clearly her heart-shaped backside. No boy in the history of the world ever had a derriere like that.

  Swallowing hard, Drake glanced in the guard’s direction, certain he could not have failed to notice the roundness of “Hill”’s hips. But even as he looked, an explosion sounded nearby—not a loud one, like a cannon, but not a small one, like far-off thunder, either—followed by a bellow that sounded as if it had come from a bull.

  The guard looked quickly over his shoulder, in the direction of the explosion, and whatever it was he saw, he started running toward it … letting the door to Drake’s cell swing shut, locking in both the prisoner and his attendant.

  Payton looked up, and he saw that there was a smile playing on her lips. It was a shy smile. She was still a little put off by the way he’d glared at her when she’d come in.

  “I created a diversion,” she explained, straightening. “We should have a little while before Tito remembers I’m in here with you, and comes back. I tried to lift the keys to your wrist shackles, but I couldn’t quite get them. They’re on his belt, and he’s so damned tall. Sorry.”

  Drake stared down at her. He felt a sudden compulsion to grab her and shake her until her neck snapped. He even reached out and placed a hand, made all the heavier by the iron around his wrists, on either of her shoulders, gripping her, hard, with his fingers.

  But when she looked up at him, there was something in those glowing hazel eyes that made it impossible for him to do anything but pull her—not very gently—against him, and bury his face in the graceful curve that showed through the open collar of her shirt, where her neck met her collarbone.

  “Payton,” he breathed, inhaling the sweet scent of her. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

  She flattened her hands against his chest. When she spoke, her voice was muffled against what was left of his shirt. “Drake,” she murmured. “Drake.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, straining her closer to him. “You’ve lost your mind, you know that, don’t you?” he said, into her hair. “They’re going to kill us both.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  He almost started laughing at that; it was such a genuinely Payton-like response. She clearly cared about him enough to risk her life for him, yet she called him an ass. He’d been treated a lot more respectfully by many a woman who had loved him less.

  Then all urge to laugh left him as it occurred to him that maybe Becky Whitby had been right. Maybe it wasn’t him she’d set out to rescue at all, but something else she loved … .

  Abruptly, he pushed her away from him—keeping hold of her shoulders, however.

  “You listen to me, you little idiot.” Now he did shake her, hard enough to send her head snapping forward on her slender neck. “The Constant’s gone, do you hear? They blew her away. Out of the water. I saw it with my own eyes. What did you think you were accomplishing, coming after her like this?”

  Payton lifted her head to stare up at him, no comprehension whatsoever in her hazel eyes. “W-what?” she stammered.

  “Besides, even if she isn’t resting on the bottom of the ocean floor, she’s mine, you understand? You’ll never get command of that ship, not while I’ve got breath left in my body. The sea is no place for a woman. If we live through this, and I ever hear you’ve gotten command of a ship—any ship—I’ll track you down and wring your neck, do you hear me?”

  She blinked. “I hear you. I think you’ve lost your mind, but I hear you.”

  “The minute we get anywhere near land—I don’t care where—you wait until night, and then you lower a longboat and you row toward it. Understand? And then you wait on land until a Dixon ship pulls into port. Do you hear me, Payton
? Do you understand?”

  There was no confusion in her gaze now. She fixed him with an irritated glare. “Why don’t you say it a little louder, Drake? I don’t think the whole ship heard you.”

  “I mean it, Payton.” He punctuated each of his syllables with a shake. “This is not a game. These men are vicious, vicious criminals. If they find out who you are—”

  “God.” She reached up and pulled down on either side of her hat, which had come loose from all the shaking. “So far I’ve been a lot safer with them than I have with you. None of them have laid a hand on me—”

  “The minute they suss out you’re a woman, they’ll lay a lot more than a hand on you, sweetheart, I can guarantee that.” Just saying it, he felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest. He gripped her as tightly as fear gripped him. “I want you off this ship, Payton. I want you off this ship just as soon as you can get off.”

  “I thought I told you”—she swung up both her arms and, bringing them around beneath his, neatly broke his hold on her by ramming his forearms, hard, with her own. Then, to avoid being captured again, she danced out of his reach—“not to be such an ass.”

  “Payton.” He tugged furiously on his chains, trying to get hold of her. “I mean it. I want you to do as I say.”

  “What happened to your head?” Payton asked, staring at him curiously.

  He reached up and touched the place where the guard had struck him, earlier that day. It was tacky with blood.

  “Nothing,” he said, bringing his hand down. “Payton. Where are your brothers? How in hell did they let you out of their sight?”

  “My brothers, for all I know, are still trying to get the Virago’s cannons out from under the mainsail that collapsed on top of them. That’s what they were doing last time I saw them, and I haven’t seen a sign of them since. I walked over from the Virago.” She explained it so matter-of-factly, as though it wasn’t at all an extraordinary thing to have done. “It collided with the Mary B, which was the ship that attacked the Constant. I’ve been working here in the kitchens ever since … but that’s not important. What’s important is, we have to figure out a way off this wreck, and before we get to Nassau.” She studied him with those incandescently hazel eyes. “Were you very upset about Miss Whitby?”

  He frowned. “Miss Whitby? What about her?”

  Payton looked heavenward—or in this case, toward the leaky ceiling. “I told you. She’s carrying Lucien La Fond’s ba—”

  “Oh, right, right.” His head started to throb all of a sudden, and he put his hand back up to the wound. “I heard you the first time. Payton, I want you to promise me that the minute land comes in sight, you’ll make for it. Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

  She shook her head. “No. Why should I? You can’t order me around. You’re not my captain.”

  It was a good thing she was standing so far from his reach. His fingers fairly itched to curl around that neck.

  “Payton.” He was convinced he was in hell. That was it. He wasn’t actually being held captive by Lucien La Fond. He was actually dead, and this was hell. It had to be. There couldn’t possibly be anything worse than this. He took a deep breath, striving for patience. “The Constant is gone, I’m telling you. I saw it with my own eyes. It was on fire. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here—”

  “Uh,” Payton said. “I would think that would be obvious. I’m here to rescue you.”

  “Payton.” He told himself to breathe. Deep, even breaths. It was like diving. Talking to Payton was like deep-sea diving. In between dives, you had to keep breathing, deep and even. “You can’t rescue me. My God, honey, you can’t even begin to realize what you’re up against—”

  “Oh, I see,” Payton said. She was examining the sleeves of her shirt where he’d held on to her so tightly, the material was actually damp. “Because I’m just a woman, I suppose.”

  “Payton. That’s not what I meant.”

  “You know, I’m surprised, Drake. Really. Because you certainly never noticed I was a woman before now.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I—”

  “Oh, sure. That night in the garden you noticed, all right. But before that, nothing. No acknowledgment whatsoever.”

  “Payton. This is insane—”

  “Oh, no.” Her hands were on her hips, her face thrust toward his. “You couldn’t marry me. No, I was objectionable. But you could marry a woman who was carrying another man’s child easily enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Whitby, of course.”

  He said, through clenched teeth, “Payton. I thought I had to marry her.”

  “If you’d kept your trousers buttoned, you wouldn’t have had that worry, would you? But no, you had to go and put—”

  Drake could not quite believe he was having this conversation. “For your information,” he interrupted, before she could go on—he was very much afraid about what she would say if she was allowed to continue—“I did keep my trousers buttoned. She told me it was Richard’s.”

  That got her attention. She dropped her hands from her hips. “What?”

  “She told me it was Richard’s.”

  “Richard’s? Your brother’s? She told you she was carrying your brother’s child?”

  He nodded. “Now, please, Payton. Wait until dark, then get off this ship.”

  But Payton appeared not to have heard him. “But Richard’s dead,” she said. “How could she be carrying your brother’s baby, if he was dead?”

  “They met before he died, Payton.” He’d been right. This was hell. And Payton Dixon was going to torture him until he descended into madness, as well. “In London. He was there for the season, and they met in some shop somewhere. When he went back to Daring Park, he wrote her letters, love letters. She showed them to me. She wrote him about the child, he wrote back, asking her to marry him. He died from being thrown from his horse while he was on his way back to London to see her. That day we met her, outside that inn, was supposedly just a coincidence. She was on her way to the same solicitors, to see if any provision had been made for her in Richard’s will—which, of course, it had not.”

  “Oh,” Payton said, in a very small voice.

  Drake shook his head. “Now I know that whole little performance, the reticule being stolen, Marcus Tyler having seen her and my brother together, which was why, she told me in the vicar’s study, he was blackmailing her for the map—it was all planned.” He caught a trace of the smell of smoke. Whatever “diversion” Payton had created, he hoped it wasn’t going to end up killing them both. “But at the time, I didn’t know that. I believed her. I thought my brother had got her with child. She wouldn’t take any money from me. She put on quite a convincing act, Payton. And so I did the only thing I could think of—”

  “Oh,” Payton said again. Only this time, she folded her arms across her chest. “Marrying her yourself was the only thing you could think of? Don’t patronize me, Drake. You liked her. You thought she was—”

  “Payton. Do we have to go into this now?”

  Her chin slid out obstinately. “Yes.”

  “I thought she was a pretty girl,” he told her, as loudly as he dared, “whom my brother had left in a terrible spot. Yes, I liked her. I didn’t know her, but she seemed like the kind of girl who’d make a good wife, and I certainly wasn’t getting any younger, and so I figured—”

  “You figured you’d hit two birds with one stone.” Payton was glaring at him now. “You’d give a name to your brother’s bastard, and you’d get yourself a pretty little mealy-mouthed wife who’d sit at home darning socks for you while you were away at sea.”

  “All right,” he said, with a sharp nod. “Yes, that’s exactly what I thought. Now will you please get out of here? Because if they come back and find you here harping at me like a fishwife, they’re going to know you’re a woman.”

  “Be quiet.” She was pacing back and forth inside his tiny cell now, o
nly it took her twice as many steps. Six steps starboard. Six steps back. “You ended up getting a lot more than you bargained for, didn’t you? Because the pretty little mealy-mouthed bride turned out to be a spy for Marcus Tyler.” She stopped pacing, and stood furiously in front of him. “How could you have been so stupid, Drake? How could you?”

  Drake licked his lips—cracked from having received so little fresh water over the past few weeks—and said nastily, “Well, maybe, if you had once acted like a woman, and put on a dress once in a while, I might not have been so quick to succumb to Miss Whitby’s charms—”

  Payton sucked in her breath. Payton, when she was at her most indignant, always put him in mind of a shipboard cat upon whose tail someone had inadvertently trod. She looked even more like one now, as she puffed out her chest and snapped, “How dare you try to turn this around so it’s my fault? If you couldn’t see there was a woman underneath those trousers all along, then all I can say is, you and Miss Whitby deserve each other! I hope you’ll be very happy toge—”

  It worked. He’d gotten her so riled up that she inadvertently stepped too close to him. In a second, he had her by both shoulders again, only this time, he didn’t shake her. He held her fast in a grip of iron, pulling her up onto her toes and lowering his head until his face was just inches from hers.

  “Now, you listen to me, Payton Dixon, and you listen hard. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, because either way, I’m a dead man. If I don’t get off this ship, La Fond’ll kill me, and if I do, your brothers’ll kill me, for having gotten you into this fix in the first place. Frankly, between the Frenchman and your brothers, I’d take La Fond any day of the week. He’ll probably let me die a quicker death, anyway.” She was wriggling like a porpoise to get away. He only took firmer hold of her. “We’ve been at sea for nearly three weeks now. If I know La Fond, he’s taking the long way, because he’ll think anyone following will assume he’d take the shortest path back to Nassau. So we’ll probably be approaching the American coast soon. As soon as you see it—as soon as you see it—you wait until dark, and then you slip into a longboat and you cut the lines and you go!”