Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  The bird seemed to delight in reciting naughty verses that horrified her almost as much as they intrigued her. When he began quoting diatribes against women, Dylan took him out again and the experiment was ended. She was left alone to while away the long hours, contemplating the pattern of the sun on walls still charred in places.

  Turk came one day, his massive frame filling up the tiny room. Even his deep voice seemed too large for the confined space.

  “You have not been eating,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your health will degenerate swiftly if you do not ingest proper nourishment.”

  Angela opened her eyes and sighed. “I’m not hungry. I don’t like oatmeal, and I hate salt pork.”

  “Dare I suggest that you venture eating healthy victuals for a change? I realize it’s rather audacious of me to propose such a course, but it might be beneficial to you, regardless of our illustrious captain’s sentiments.”

  A faint smile touched her lips. “Weeds and seeds? It does not sound very appetizing.”

  “Neither does the lactating fluid of a large mammal with two stomachs, but you drink cow’s milk, I’m certain. And it is the English custom to consume the unborn embryo of a fowl for breakfast every morning, I understand, along with an odoriferous little aquatic creature that has been soaked in brine.”

  She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, amused in spite of herself. “Eggs and kippers, I presume?”

  Turk smiled. “Among other unhealthy items. Would you care for some rice?”

  “If you insist.”

  When he returned with a tray, Angela sat up and gazed at the steaming food. Rice and some sort of odd-looking beans that Turk said were sprouts had been piled upon her plate, along with dried, crackling shreds of something that smelled like the sea.

  “Dulse,” Turk said when she asked what it was. “Dried seaweed. It is a staple in the Maritimes, and tastes better than it smells. Be venturesome. Take a bite.”

  Angela did and made a face. “It tastes like seawater, only chewier.”

  “Doesn’t it? One grows accustomed to it after awhile, though I admit it is rather a challenge at first. How are the rice and bean sprouts?”

  “Tasty,” she said after trying them.

  Turk smiled. “Excellent. If you eat healthy food, you will grow healthy. I am always amazed at the improvement in those who have tried this particular diet.”

  She thought about Saber and wondered if he ate the recommended foods.

  As if reading her mind, Turk said, “I have exhorted Kit to endeavor to eat more healthily, but he is obdurate in his refusal. It would greatly benefit his bronchial inflammation, if he would only listen to me.”

  Angela took a sip of hot tea from a delicate china cup. “Is he ill?” she asked.

  “He has been afflicted with bronchial congestion for a week, hence his absence. It was the smoke that aggravated his condition, though he has a proclivity for the illness.”

  “Smoke—from the explosion?”

  Turk’s dark eyes met hers. “As I said, he is inclined to the disease at even the best of times.”

  “But smoke from the fire I caused aggravated it.” Angela sighed. “I never thought of that. I should be sorry, I suppose.”

  “Not necessarily. He spent several hours in a smoky tavern that would produce the same result. It has been my observation that Captain Saber has a propensity for self-indulgence, as well as an inclination toward self-abuse. Though it saddens me to watch, I refuse to interfere without invitation.”

  “A wise decision,” Angela said, thinking of her last altercation with Kit.

  When she had finished her meal and Turk gathered the tray, she said almost wistfully, “Dylan said the weather was warmer now. Does that mean we are near the American colonies?”

  “No, it means we’ve picked up the westerlies and a good warm tradewind. We will reach the Caribbean Sea soon, where we usually pause to careen the ship and restock our supplies. But I suppose this time we’ll wait to stop until our return from New Orleans.”

  “Car-what?”

  “Careen. Scrape the accumulated crustaceans from the keel to enable the ship to progress more efficiently. It is a simple process, but rather time-consuming. And it leaves us in jeopardy while the vessel is lying ashore much like a beached turtle. We had intended to perform a minor version of it in the Azores, but events dictated otherwise.”

  Angela flushed slightly. She was well aware what “events” he referred to. The repercussions still lingered painfully in her memory.

  Turk hesitated at the door, then said in his rich voice, “I recommend that you endeavor not to vex Captain Saber when you meet again. It is imperative that you remain in his good graces until we reach New Orleans.”

  “Imperative? Why?”

  “Let me just convey the opinion that it would be beneficial in the extreme to have him jocular instead of inflamed. He is much more amenable then.”

  Angela sighed. “I can’t seem to help it. Every time I say something, it’s wrong.”

  “Then accept the advice of an observer and remain silent. Not only will it astound him, it will charm him.”

  “I have no desire to charm him,” Angela said tartly, and Turk gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

  “As you will. I, however, would much prefer a pleasant conversation than an altercation.”

  After he’d gone, Angela considered what he’d said. It made sense, of course. It should. Since being taken aboard the Sea Tiger, every exchange with Kit Saber had been angry. Or completely out of her control. She thought of how he’d held her against him, and the way it had made her feel.

  During the past week, she’d vividly recalled his kisses. Driven by emotions she didn’t understand, she’d tried her best to put them from her mind. It was humiliating to recall how he’d held her, how he’d touched her and made her cry out. A thick lump settled in her throat. She’d been unfaithful to Philippe. And oddly enough, it had not felt at all like it at the time. There had been no thought of her betrothed, only of the man who held her in his arms and did those wickedly shameful and delightful things to her.

  She buried her face in her palms. She was completely degenerate. It was bad enough that she’d allowed it, but to dwell on it, to wake up from dreams of Kit with the strange restless pulsing still making her ache—it was unbearable. If only they were in New Orleans. If only Philippe were with her. Then none of this would have happened. Somehow, he would have stopped it.

  She thought of her parents and their comfortable home in the fashionable part of Mayfair. She thought of sun-lit mornings at the table, listening to her mother’s prattle about calling cards and visits and soirees, and realized that she missed them all. Even her father’s gruff manner had covered a kind, genuinely loving heart, and she knew that if they had discovered her fate, they would be frantic. She’d been so thoughtless. It had seemed like the only solution at the time, but it must have grieved them deeply. They would not understand her brief note of explanation, nor would they understand her desire to be independent of their decision. Marriage to the baron still seemed abhorrent, but she should have remained in London and been strong. Eventually, her father would have abandoned his wedding plans for her, and as she had already passed the age of majority, he would have been forced to heed her decision.

  Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she closed them to hold back the tears. Useless, so useless, and now her life was totally out of her control . . .

  It was only when a light tapping sounded on the door that she realized she’d fallen asleep. Rising to her elbows, she sleepily called out, “Yes?”

  Dylan swung open the door and stepped inside. He cast a long shadow on the floor, and Angela realized it must be late afternoon. Assuming he was bringing her something to eat, she began her usual refusal, but he cut her off.

  “That ain’t why I’m here. I brought you something.” He held out a silk-wrapped bundle. “Found it with your trunk in the hold and thought it might make you feel bette
r.”

  Puzzled, Angela sat up and pushed a tangle of hair from her eyes. He placed the silk square in her lap and stood back. She looked down at it for a long moment, her sleep-fogged mind struggling to waken.

  “Open it,” Dylan said, his voice impatient. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. Or toss it over the side. Probably the last. If Saber sees it, I don’t know what he’d say to me.

  Intrigued now, Angela unwrapped the silk—she recognized the scarf her mother had given her for her last birthday—and gave a soft cry.

  “My reticule! With the letters from Philippe . . .”

  “Quiet, will you? Do you want Saber down here? I don’t. He’s mean as a tiger with a toothache lately. And he don’t need to know about this. He wouldn’t understand, and I’m not too sure he’d like it. If he sees them, tell the truth, but if he doesn’t ask, don’t tell. All right?”

  “Oh Dylan—of course. Yes, of course I won’t bring up the subject. But you needn’t worry about him seeing them. He hasn’t been here in a week.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come.”

  Angela looked up and saw the distress in Dylan’s eyes. It was obvious he was struggling with his loyalties, and she felt a spurt of gratitude.

  “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Tell me—how is Emily?”

  “Bored, same as you. She’s taken to reading everything I can bring her. If you want the truth, it was her suggestion that I get you these letters. She’s been worried about you.”

  “Tell her that I appreciate it. And tell her—that I miss her. And I’m sorry. For everything. I should have listened to her.”

  Dylan grinned, a flash of white in a sun-dark face. “I’ll tell her. That ought to make her smile. She likes being right.”

  When he had gone, Angela settled back against the wall with her letters. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled them out and saw Philippe’s familiar scrawl. It was as if he were there with her, his dark eyes studying her with somber regard, his handsome face in regal repose.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to envision him as she had last seen him, before Papa had come, into the parlor and ordered him away.

  But only a fragment of blurred image would come to mind. Instead of Philippe, she saw sun-bright blue eyes and a crescent scar, white teeth flashing in Kit Saber’s dark face. Slowly, she opened her eyes. How had it happened? How, in such a short time, had Philippe been supplanted by a pirate? It must have been because of that kiss with Saber. That memory had been burned into her mind with a scorching heat.

  Damn Kit Saber!

  Now, not even her most precious memories were untarnished. All she had left were the letters in her hand, the vows of undying love that she had thought she’d shared, but now knew were no more.

  Ten

  New Orleans. Angela leaned forward, gazing eagerly out the porthole to catch her first glimpse of the city. To her disappointment, all she saw were thick trees and knobby roots jutting up from murky water lapping at the edges of what looked like a swamp. She turned.

  “Where is the city? All I see are trees and a few boats.”

  Dylan lifted a brow. “You don’t think we intend to just sail right up to the docks, do you? That would be suicide.”

  “Then what—”

  “Patience,” he soothed her with a faint smile. “First we stop to see some old friends. Then we will take a pirogue up the backwaters to the city.”

  “A pea what?”

  “Pirogue. It’s a flat-bottomed boat. Don’t worry. The bayou is close to town.”

  Angela glanced impatiently out the porthole again. “But I thought we were already there. Turk said—”

  “That we’d reached New Orleans. And we have. Close enough, anyway. Look, Angela, New Orleans belongs to the French again, and we’re English. Even with letters of marque, we could run into problems. Besides, Kit has other fish to fry while we’re here, and he don’t want it known that we’re around yet.”

  She stared at him. “What other fish?”

  Dylan looked away with a shrug. “It ain’t my business to be too nosy. And if you want my advice, you’ll swallow your own curiosity. It’s not healthy.”

  “For who?”

  “You.” Dylan turned to look at her. He held her gaze and said softly, “There are some things you don’t need to know.”

  Piqued, she managed a careless shrug. “I don’t care at all what he does or why he’s here. Only that he takes me to Philippe as soon as possible.” After an anxious pause, she added, “He will, won’t he? Take me to Philippe?”

  “That, you will have to ask Saber. Now listen. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had enough of female vapors today. Emily has given me fits about being kept away from you, and I can tell you, I don’t like being in the middle of it.”

  “I daresay.” Angela turned back to gaze blindly out the port, the landscape blurring in a mist of unshed tears. Would she never reach safety? Must she be continuously on edge, wondering what would happen in the next moment? Dear God, the past weeks had been so horrible, and she was so weary of worrying.

  “Angela,” Dylan said softly, “it will be all right.”

  “Will it?” she asked without turning. “I don’t think so. Nothing is the same. Everything’s changed, and I’m frightened. I don’t like to admit it, but there are moments when I feel—doomed.”

  Dylan laughed, and when she turned angrily, he put up a hand as if to ward off a blow. “No, no, I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It’s just that you sound so—resigned. And that is one thing I’d never expect from you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that you’re a fighter. You’ll never just allow things to happen without fighting back.”

  “That’s what your captain said,” she replied bitterly. “He seemed to think it a meritable notion except for when it applied to him. Doesn’t Saber realize that he is what I’m fighting against? He is the cause of all my problems, so what am I supposed to do?”

  “Angela, as I’ve said before, you can pleasure him or placate him. Either one would work. All you’ve done so far is insult him, try to blow up his ship, and get him entangled with LaRosa’s revenue cutters so that he had to pay a huge fine. Maybe it’s time for a little tact.”

  “I won’t need tact if I’m to be freed,” she pointed out. “Unless you have an unpleasant surprise for me?”

  Dylan groaned. “All right. Have it your way. I can’t help you.”

  “You mean won’t help me.”

  Unperturbed by her hostility, Dylan nodded. “Precisely. I’ve grown accustomed to my head where it is, which is safely on my neck. And I rather like the fact that it’s relatively unscarred.”

  Whirling around, Angela fought a wave of resentment that rose hotly in her throat. “I should never have expected decency from you,” she said without turning to look at him. “Please leave.”

  After a pause, Dylan said, “Well, at least eat what I brought you. Turk sent it. Said it’s healthy, which probably means it tastes like it came from—” He stopped short, then finished, “The pantry. Eat. I’ll be back later to get the tray.”

  When the door had shut behind him, Angela leaned against the cabin wall and yielded to the tears that had been lurking behind her eyes. Would she ever be free? Not only of this hateful ship, but the hateful memories any mention of Kit Saber provoked? Dear God, when she thought of how shamefully she’d behaved—and she thought of it even when she tried hardest not to—she felt waves of remorse at her behavior. She’d been wanton. It would not surprise her in the least to find herself sold as a woman of the streets. Not that she’d put anything past Saber. He seemed to do just what he wanted. Damn him for a tarred villain of a pirate. Damn him for having such brilliant blue eyes and a lopsided grin—of which she saw very little—and damn him for making her think of him when she didn’t want to.

  Yet, it seemed that even when she closed her eyes to shut out the images of him, they seeped through her
closed eyelids and burned into her brain with a tenacity she found amazing.

  Doomed. Dylan had not understood at all. It was the only word that perfectly described her situation.

  Kit swiped at a thick tuft of grass with the flat edge of his sword and said impatiently, “There’s time enough for that later. You know why I’m here. I can’t take the time to go on wild chases, even if Miss Angela dictates it. She’ll have to wait.”

  Turk smiled slightly. “As usual, you are in a foul humor. This is becoming all too frequent lately, but I understand the reason.”

  “Do you?” Kit snarled. “How jolly. Pray, don’t share the knowledge with me, because I don’t give a damn.

  “Ah, but you do. No, do not glare at me so balefully, if you please. I find myself rather vexed as well. It is not a pleasant emotion to entertain. If we do not succeed in our search this time, will you abandon it?”

  Turk’s sudden change in conversation gave Kit pause. After a moment he said slowly, “You know I cannot do that.”

  Settling a huge hand on Kit’s shoulder, Turk gazed down at him for a moment without speaking. Both knew what the other was thinking, for it had been a topic of conversation too many times to count. Should he continue a search that had so far been frustrating? Or should he accept what had happened so long ago and put it behind him? Neither option was tempting, and he was damned if he knew why. He wished that he knew what drove him to find the answers to all his questions, to find the one woman who could provide him with those answers. Yet he knew he had to, that he could not rest until he did.

  Kit shrugged away Turk’s hand and took a step closer to the grassy edges of the riverbank. Brown water sloshed rhythmically against the mud and weeds, and a strong breeze rippled the tall grasses. A mile upriver lay New Orleans and maybe the end to years of searching. He had to move swiftly or he might lose her again.