Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  “Only another day or two.” Angela tamped down her frustration. Emily looked really ill. And she had to admit that the pressing heat made her lethargic as well. Only the nights were cool, with brisk sea breezes ruffling palm fronds and tugging at tent flaps.

  Leaning over, she murmured to Emily, “We shall soon be on our way again. Then you will feel much better.”

  Emily’s dark, curly lashes lifted as she fixed Angela with a somber gaze. “I hope so. Even if it takes me closer to parting from Dylan, I would like to see England again soon.”

  Angela did not reply. She couldn’t. The thought of parting from Kit left her floundering in a sea of conflicting emotions. What would she do when the time came?

  Fires dotted the beach at intervals, orange and crimson tongues lapping at the dusky sky and sending up showers of sparks. Standing on a ledge of rock that jutted into the bay, Kit shifted restlessly as he watched some of his crew turn spits loaded with fresh game. Wild pigs and fowl inhabited the thick brush and trees, and some of the crew had gone hunting for their evening meal. There was an air of festivity, despite his prohibition against free rum. That order had brought grudging assent and more than a few complaints, but he had remained firm. He had no intention of being caught off-guard with most of his crew too drunk to fight should the need arise. Too much drink had caught more than one pirate unprepared, and he had no desire to join their ranks.

  “Our task should be completed by the morrow,” Turk said, joining him on the rocky promontory. A spray of sea foam shot up onto the rocks and washed over their feet. “I confess that I am most relieved to have this done. When in town, I heard alarming rumors of an escalated attempt by the governors to scourge pirates from this area.”

  “Yes. I heard the rumors myself.” Kit eyed the darkening sky where it met the horizon. Nothing moved in the distance but a few gulls, their pale feathers looking pink in the light of the setting sun as they swooped gracefully over the water.

  Damn, but he had this growing feeling of disquiet that he could not dispel. There was no discernible reason for it, but he could not shake it. And he would not ignore it. Instinct had saved his life too many times.

  “Station extra guards up on the rocks tonight. And warn the men not to stray.” Kit glanced at Turk, and saw agreement in his eyes. He knew as well as Kit what could happen if they were careless.

  “You realize,” Turk said after a moment, “that the crew is most unhappy about your latest mandate. They feel we have been too long at sea without proper recreation not to take advantage of it now.”

  “Too bad. They had last night. A few more hours of drinking and whoring would mean little if stopped short with a hangman’s rope.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Turk paused. “However, the majority of the crew have become rather surly and tend to listen to the complaints of a compatriot.”

  “Reed?”

  Turk smiled slightly. “You are perceptive as always. Reed is a malcontent. I recall recommending his dismissal some time ago.”

  “So you did. And I refused. If he disobeys a direct order, I will take care of him.”

  “As you did the last time?” Turk eyed him silently for a moment, and Kit tensed at the implied rebuke.

  “He deserved it. Any other captain would have hanged him from a yardarm. I settled for a few stripes on his back.”

  “I am well aware of that. As are most of the others. However, Mr. Reed is supremely indifferent to the fact that he summoned judgment upon himself. He views you as an autocratic tyrant.”

  “That is redundant.” Kit shifted position on the flat rock. “Perhaps your verbal assessment should be limited to the usage of tyrant.”

  “Dear Lord. I am being tutored on proper English by you, of all people. Is it to distract me from our topic?”

  Irritated, Kit snarled, “Enough, Turk. I would prefer keeping this discussion on a platonic level.”

  “Are we degenerating to enmity, then?”

  “It seems that’s all we do lately.” He raked a hand through his hair, and grimaced at the sticky residue left by sea winds and sweat. “At least this argument is not about Angela for a change.”

  “Ah, and it so often is.”

  Turk glanced toward shore, and Kit followed his gaze. The sides of the tent erected for Angela billowed softly with the wind. It was differentiated from the other tents by a swath of green silk fluttering from the center pole—a warning, Dylan had said, to the crew members not to trespass. He could barely make out Angela where she sat with a book beneath the overhang. It had been all he could do during the day to stay away from her. He had been much too aware of her sitting there, her dress drawn up to her knees, her bare legs stuck out in front of her like a schoolgirl’s. The endearing portrait had been more distracting than he would have ever liked to admit.

  He looked back at Turk. “Leave it alone. What happens between me and her is none of your business, Turk.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  Kit’s brow lifted. “Then why do you continue to interfere?”

  “You are quite mistaken, Captain, if you think that my interest in the girl is mere interference. I like her. I admire her spirit, her courage, her heart. I would not like to see such fresh vivacity quelled by your mishandling.”

  “Mishandling! Is that what you call it?”

  “For lack of a better term—yes.”

  Kit’s eyes narrowed. “What would you view as proper handling, then?”

  After a short, bristling pause, Turk asked, “Do you really wish to know, or is that merely a rhetorical query?”

  “No rhetoric. Tell me. I’ll be fascinated to learn what you consider proper in the handling of a young English gentlewoman who has fallen into the hands of a desperate man.”

  “Ah, so you recognize that fact . . .”

  “I presume you mean my usage of the term desperate. Yes. But I never thought there was any question of it.”

  “Not for some time.” Turk shifted slightly, and sea foam laced his bare toes on the wet rock. Fading light picked out the bluish lines of the tattoos on his face, making them appear darker than usual. “Very well,” he said, “it is my opinion that you have desired Miss Angela since the first moment you saw her aboard the Scrutiny. Only your bloody-minded sense of chivalry kept you from taking her that first night. I saw it then, and tried to warn you. Now, her emotions are fully involved and you are still denying yours.”

  “Let me get this straight—are you angry at me because I didn’t take her that first night, or because I took her at all?”

  “Angry is not the correct term. I should think disappointed more closely describes my sentiment.”

  “Bloody hell, Turk.” Kit took a step back, caught between anger and amazement. “Am I supposed to fall in love with every chit I sleep with?”

  “Not at all. Neither are you required to sleep with naive young women who have the misfortune to fall in love with you. I thought better of you, Kit. You took advantage of her frailty, when you have no intention of allowing yourself to return her feelings.”

  “You don’t know what the hell I intend.”

  “Sadly, no. But neither, I think, do you.” Turk looked at him for a long moment, while the wind plucked at the loose tails of his full white shirt, making them snap. “It is time for you to pause and reflect on your motives. This could be even more important to you one day than your futile search for answers which you may not want to hear.”

  Kit said through his teeth, “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Perhaps you have.” Turk took a deep breath. “And it seems that I have spoken out of turn. I was motivated, however, by concern for Miss Angela and nothing else.”

  Smarting from Turk’s censure, Kit growled, “When did I become such a despot that I would harm a woman? Have I ever been known to harm even those who deserved it most?”

  “Kit, there are ways to harm others that have nothing to do with physical violence. The outer bruises are oft-times the easiest and
quickest to heal. It’s the inner bruises that cause the most painful suffering and may never heal. You should know that last well enough.”

  Pivoting on his heel, Turk left the promontory and crossed the beach. His large frame made long shadows on the sand, and the fading light blurred both after a moment. Kit watched silently, making no effort to stop him. It didn’t help to suspect he was right. Though he had not physically harmed Angela, he knew that she read more into his actions than he was prepared to give.

  But he couldn’t stay away from her, couldn’t even when he wanted to most, even when he knew that it was all going to end one day soon. He couldn’t give her what she thought she wanted because he didn’t have it to give, and he was being unfair every moment he was with her. He knew that, and knew, too, that when the time came to say their farewells, she would be hurt. If he was any kind of man at all, he thought bitterly, he would stay as far away from her as he could get. Turk was right. It was the inner pain that hurt the most. Didn’t he know that well enough?

  The kindest thing would be to stay away from her, to ignore the hurt, puzzled shadows in her eyes when he kept his distance and let what had happened between them fade into memory. Yes, that would be the kindest thing for both of them.

  Kicking at a loose rock, Kit bent and picked it up to fling it far out into the water. The impact sent up a small geyser of spray that was quickly swallowed by the waves rushing to shore.

  He stared at the spot where the rock had disappeared. Not a ripple remained. There was only the vast, anonymous blend of seawater, blue melding into green until it was one color. That was what he wanted—for his feelings about Angela to meld into all the rest, leaving not a trace behind. It was the best thing for both of them.

  Glancing toward the tent where she sat, he wondered if he had the willpower to manage it. Just the memories of his night with her still made his brain sizzle, and if he allowed himself to focus for more than a moment on the images jostling for attention, he found his mind lingering on husky whispers and silky skin rather than the business at hand, whatever it might be. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

  Maybe Turk was wrong. Maybe the best thing would be to let Fate make the final decision. Too many times he’d tried to hold on to someone who wasn’t meant to be his—this time, he would let destiny run its course unimpeded. This time, he would enjoy the moment and not look toward tomorrow. It was the safest path to take.

  Fifteen

  Angela looked up as a shadow separated from the dark night beyond the fire. Her heart lurched crazily, as it always did when Kit came near. Lithe, familiar, dangerous, he approached her tent with a loose stride. There was an animal grace to him that always caught her off-guard somehow, made her think of things no proper lady should dwell upon.

  Yet she did. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help gazing at his fine-limbed body and lean muscles and recalling how he had held her, the things he had whispered in the night and the way he’d made her respond. She briefly closed her eyes and shivered, hoping he hadn’t noticed how she stared at him. It was still so new, the intimacy, the amazing pleasures she had felt with him—did he realize how she felt?

  She managed a smile, hoping it didn’t betray her as he knelt on one knee in the sand beside her canvas mat. Light from the lantern hanging on her tent pole picked out details in his face.

  He tilted his head, leaving one side of his face in shadow. She gazed at the clean line of his features, and the scar that curved from his eyebrow to his cheek, a wicked memento of his very first battle, he’d told her once. He had added the shocking information that he’d been eleven at the time, and the cutlass he’d wielded had been almost as long as he was tall.

  “Did you already eat?” he asked now, his knee digging into the sand hill and disturbing a tiny insect that scuttled over his boot trying to escape. He reached down to flick it away, then glanced up at her from beneath his lashes, his gaze dark and unsettling in the flickering light.

  “Yes.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them as she tried to meet his eyes. “Dylan brought me roast pig that wasn’t too charred, and some kind of wild potato that was quite tasty.”

  “Good.” A breeze lifted strands of his dark hair from his brow, and he turned his face slightly as he looked out to sea. Her throat tightened. He appeared remote, unapproachable, and she wondered if the intimacy they had shared had somehow changed his feelings for her. She had heard it whispered that if a woman was foolish enough to yield what should be given only after marriage, the man would consider her soiled goods. Was that how Kit now viewed her?

  The question trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she said merely, “Yes, the meal was surprisingly good. Except for the sand. I don’t believe I care much for grit in my vegetables.”

  Kit looked back at her, amusement curving his mouth. “I expect not. Sand is very adequate roughage, however.”

  “That’s almost exactly what Dylan said.”

  “No doubt.” Amusement still marked Kit’s face when she asked cautiously, “Is it true that we will be leaving this island tomorrow?”

  Glancing toward the beach where the Sea Tiger still lay scuttled on the sand, Kit shrugged. “I hope so. The keel has been scraped and tarred, and the mast set in. We can move her back into the water with the morning tide, then reload the remaining cargo.”

  “Turk said you sold most of the cargo in town, except for items you feel will sell better elsewhere.”

  He looked back at her, nodding. “Yes. As I told you, the merchants here may despise us, but they like the profits they make from our goods. Our profit has already been divided among the crew.”

  She didn’t reply to that. It still rankled that the world seemed motivated by greed. The past weeks had taught her some very valuable lessons about life and reality, but they’d shattered any illusions she’d had that honesty always prevailed.

  And they’d failed to teach her how to carry on a casual conversation with the man who mattered most to her, she added silently. Pushing at hair blowing into her eyes, she asked, “What is our destination when we leave here?”

  Kit shrugged. “Wherever the wind blows best.”

  It was an evasive reply, and she understood that he had no intention of telling her anything. That much was normal. He rarely divulged information. She always had to learn things from Turk or Dylan. She had hoped for some sort of sign from him that he wanted her with him, but his closed expression left her floundering. What did one say to a man when he behaved as if he’d forgotten their intimacy?

  Angela was still trying to decide what to do next when Kit reached out to take her chin in his palm. The shock of his touch left her reeling, while a hundred different reactions raced through her quivering brain and took root in her body. A shudder surged through her like a tidal wave, and Kit must have felt it because his touch altered slightly, becoming more of a caress.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and the husky tenor of his voice penetrated to her very center.

  She caught his hand, turned it, and pressed a light kiss on his rough palm. Calluses scuffed the surface of his skin, an imprint from years of hauling hemp lines and climbing masts. Angela kissed each one, and heard the sharp intake of his breath.

  He started to say something, then stopped when a burst of raucous laughter rose from a group of men only a few yards away. Tents sprouted around them like mushrooms in a rain-wet cow pasture, much too close for anything resembling privacy. She saw the flash of frustration in his eyes, and his mouth thinned into a taut line.

  When he pulled her to her feet, Angela hesitated. “Kit, where are we going?”

  For an answer, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her with him, moving past the fire into the night shadows. Members of the crew grouped around driftwood fires, some playing fiddles and singing, others talking. Kit walked her past them without speaking, but she detected interested gazes in their direction.

  Clumps of tall grass sprouted up fr
om the ground at intervals, resembling graceful dancers in the moonlit breeze. She moved slowly beside him, her feet sinking deeply in the sand. Then she stepped on a sharp object and stumbled.

  “A conch shell,” Kit said, bending to lift it and hold it out to her. She took it, marveling at the knobby texture of the outer shell and the satiny smoothness of the curling interior. Even in the fading light she could see the delicate colors, shading from a pale pink to a deep purple. Smiling at her delight, Kit said, “Hold it to your ear and you will hear the roar of the ocean.”

  Skeptically she did so, and was amazed at the muffled sound of the sea emanating from the shell’s interior. “It’s just echoes,” she accused, and he shook his head.

  “No. Actually, it’s the sound of your own pulse you hear, but that’s not nearly as romantic.”

  His smile made her breath catch in her throat and sent the pulses he had just mentioned pounding in a rapid rhythm. Trade winds lifted her hair from her neck and sent it in light caresses across her flushed face, and as if he knew what she was feeling Kit took her free hand in his. She allowed the contact, and they walked hand in hand over the clinging, wet sand.

  When she stumbled again, Kit swung her up and into his arms, ignoring her squeak of protest. She turned her face into his shoulder, knowing what the crew must be thinking as they watched them. Intimacy was still so new to her that she inwardly quailed.

  “Where are we going?” she asked again, the words muffled by his linen shirt.

  “Somewhere we can talk.” His arms tightened slightly. “Do you have any objections to some privacy?”

  Objections? When she’d sat in the shade with her heart on her sleeve and watched him work all day? No, she certainly had no objections, but she doubted the wisdom of telling him how deeply she felt when he had not revealed his own feelings. She shook her head in reply, unable to voice her doubts.

  A brisk wind blew off the water of the bay when Kit paused to lower her to her feet. The sand was wet, with tiny puddles here and there reflecting the moonlight. Stepping gingerly, she avoided the water and a chunk of driftwood as she followed him.