Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  After a moment, she managed to ask, “How . . . how did you come to be with pirates?”

  He gave her a faintly cynical smile. “That is an excellent question. I still ask it myself.”

  When it seemed as if he didn’t intend to elaborate, she said, “I suppose it happened to you in almost the same manner as it happened to me.”

  “God, no.”

  The harshness of his voice took her aback, and she sat in shocked silence. As if he understood how he’d shocked her, he tried a smile that was more of a grimace.

  “It’s really not a pleasant tale, angel. You’re better off not knowing it, believe me.”

  She reached out to touch him, her hands curling around his in a comforting grip. “If ever you want to talk about it, I will be glad to listen.”

  Lifting their entwined hands to his mouth, he kissed the tips of her fingers, smiling slightly. “I intended to comfort you. Why is it that you’re trying to comfort me?”

  “I think,” she said softly, “we are comforting each other.”

  “Ah. So that’s it. I should have known you’d turn this around on me.”

  Despite the lightness of his tone, she heard a thread of his usual cynicism. This time, instead of distressing her, she recognized and accepted the reason for it. It was the only method he had of dealing with his pain. She had the release of tears, but Kit could never allow others to get even a glimpse of his anguish.

  “Of course,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “I couldn’t let you win, could I?”

  “No, angel. Not you.” He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “You never surrender easily.”

  Closing her eyes when he pulled her against him, Angela felt her heart constrict as he bent his head to kiss her. The first, brief contact of their lips sent a shiver through her, and he could feel her trembling.

  “Cold, sweeting?” he murmured against her mouth, his breath warm and enticing. She managed to shake her head, and heard his soft laughter. “I thought not . . . no, don’t pull away. I think I’ve found another method of sharing comfort . . .”

  Kissing her mouth, her eyelids, then her cheeks, his mouth moved lower, tasting and teasing until she was clinging to him with all her senses swimming. As she pressed close to him from chest to waist, Angela’s pulses began to throb with wild expectation. It wasn’t just what he was doing—though his hands were certainly coaxing sweet responses from her body—it was the fact that he had shared more with her than ever before. There was an intimacy between them now that had nothing to do with sex.

  For the first time, Kit Saber had given her a glimpse into his deepest soul, and she felt as if they were one indivisible being. This was what she had thought she’d shared with Philippe, this knowledge of another’s heart. But now, she knew differently. Now, she knew the heart of a man worthy of her love.

  For Angela, it made all the difference in the world.

  That night, while new moonlight streamed through the portholes and lantern light swayed with the rocking of the ship, she gave her heart and soul to a pirate captain. There were no reservations in her mind, no lingering doubts. The soft whispers and hushed murmurs they made filled the cabin and her heart.

  Eighteen

  Just after midnight Kit suffered a sudden and acute attack of bronchitis. He woke her, coughing and hacking, sounding as if he were dying. Angela ran for Turk, pounding on his cabin door. He opened it at once, looking as if he had not slept.

  “It’s . . . Kit,” she gasped out. “Coughing so dreadfully . . .”

  “I shall come at once.” Turk stepped back into his cabin and grabbed a small leather bag, then followed her.

  Kit had staggered from Angela’s cabin into the companionway, and was bent over, still coughing. Turk lifted him as if he were a small child, carried him to his own cabin, and placed him gently in his bunk.

  Frantic with concern, Angela hovered about like—in Turk’s words—a hen with its only egg. Turk ordered her from the cabin, relenting only when she pleaded to stay.

  “Very well, but you must cooperate fully with my regimen of medication,” he said, and she agreed. Soon, the cabin smelled strongly of pine, eucalyptus, and sandalwood. Huge vats of steaming water created moisture on the walls, dispersing aromatic clouds of herbs. Kit huddled over bowls of the water with a towel over his head, his body jerking in racking coughs.

  During one of his worst attacks, Turk moved behind him and applied pressure to points on Kit’s throat, neck, and upper back. It seemed to help lessen the fits of coughing.

  “What caused this?” Angela whispered as she dipped another towel into the steaming water.

  “All that smoke from the battle, I imagine.” Turk did not pause in his ministrations, and Kit seemed beyond response. “It inflames his bronchial tubes. This is not one of his more serious attacks. I would say he should be doing excellently by morning.”

  Angela gazed doubtfully at Kit. His complexion alternated between red from the steam, and a gray pallor that was distinctly unhealthy. Turk had ordered a drink made of willow bark to be given him, and Kit had drunk it without a murmur, a grave indication that he was truly ill.

  To her amazement, by morning, as Turk had predicted, Kit was much better. Still weak, however, he remained in his cabin most of the day. Angela sat beside him reading, and when he woke from a frequent nap, she brought him cool water or more medication.

  “You don’t need to sit with me,” he said crossly in late afternoon. “I’m not a child.”

  She smiled. “No, but you are certainly as cranky as an infant. Here. Drink this willow bark tea Turk sent down for you.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “But he said—”

  Sitting up with a snarl, Kit said coldly, “I don’t give a damn what he said. Take it away.”

  She jerked to her feet, her chin lifting angrily. “Very well. If you insist upon behaving like a naughty child, then you deserve to be ill. And you can shout for someone else to bring you more water because I shan’t be here.”

  With that, she left his cabin, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. Being crafted from heavy oak, it didn’t make as loud a noise as she’d hoped, but she was certain it conveyed her irritation with him.

  “He’s cross as an entire nest of wasps,” she told Dylan a few minutes later, leaning on the gunwale to watch the sunset.

  Dylan turned, a faint smile on his face. “What else is new? At least you still have your head.”

  “So to speak.” She smiled wryly. “I think I shall visit Emily. She is much more pleasant company. Has she recovered from our ordeal?”

  “Much quicker than I thought. She’s in the galley telling Beans how to steam vegetables. Maybe you ought to rescue both of them. Beans ain’t the most patient of cooks, and Miss Emily is not the most rational of females. They might both end up throwing around pots and pans before it’s over.”

  Laughing, Angela went to find Emily. The kitchen was small and greasy. Clutter lined walls and shelves; strings of garlic and herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling and on the walls, and tin jars of spices added a pungent scent to the air.

  Beans and Emily were toe to toe, both glaring at one another when Angela arrived. “Get her outta here,” Beans snarled, gesturing at Emily with a dripping wooden spoon. “I ain’t steamin’ no damn vegetables.”

  A huge cauldron simmered on the stove, and several smaller pots rattled cheerfully as steam boiled into the air in aromatic clouds. A vat of beef soaking in brine sat in one corner.

  “It’s better for you,” Emily insisted. She gestured at the soaking meat. “Who wants to eat that?”

  “Come along, Emily.” Angela took her arm and escorted her, protesting, to the galley door. She paused and looked back at Beans in his filthy apron. A triumphant smile curled his mouth. Angela couldn’t resist saying, “We shall send Turk to advise you on food preparation instead.”

  A dismayed howl followed them down the companionway as she and Emily made
their escape. “There,” Angela said, “That was all you needed to say to him. I imagine there will be some steamed vegetables at our next meal.”

  “I hope so. I was beginning to enjoy staying on the island. The food was fresh and delicious.” She paused, then asked, “How is Captain Saber?”

  “Better, but as surly as a wet cat. Turk has some remarkable cures at his disposal. Too bad he hasn’t found one for an ill temper.”

  Emily laughed. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t want Saber to change a bit.”

  “Perhaps not. But it would be nice if I knew what he was thinking at times.” Angela hesitated, then said, “Emily, do you suppose he’s being truthful about his reasons for wanting me to go back to England?”

  Emily’s brown eyes glanced away from her, then back. “I don’t know,” she said frankly. “It seems logical. After all, it hasn’t exactly been the safest voyage in history. I do think, however, that he’d rather you stay with him.”

  Leaning against the smooth, polished rail of the foredeck, Angela said, “Well, I hardly think he’ll send me away now.” She flushed when Emily gave her a quizzical look. “We’ve grown quite close, you know.”

  “Yes.” Emily looked away. “So I understand.”

  Silence fell between them, broken only by the familiar ship noises of wind in the sails and creaking lines. Angela looked up at the swelling canvas where it strained against lines and masts. The wind was a steady force, pushing them ever onward. When it died, the Sea Tiger lay motionless in the water, at the mercy of the next good wind. It could buffet them in a storm, or die off completely. There were moments she compared Kit to the wind, and despaired of ever capturing his love. But surely he would never send her away now, not after the night they had spent together. No, he must have changed his mind.

  “It’s much better this way.” Kit dug his fingers into the smooth wood of the gunwale, not looking down at Angela. He didn’t want to see the shadows in her eyes, or the slight quivering of her lower lip that she was trying so hard to steady.

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I agree.”

  “You’ll be home soon, and this will all be behind you.”

  For a moment, nothing else was said. Pipe smoke drifted on the wind, pungent and fragrant, mixing with the familiar scents of wet rope and wood. Perched atop a spar, Rollo croaked a ditty that usually angered Angela, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention this time.

  Instead, she said without looking at him, “I suppose I won’t see you again.”

  He hesitated. A three-masted sloop rode at anchor on the starboard side of the Sea Tiger, waiting to take Angela and Emily aboard. Negotiations had already been made, and in a short time, the Swallow would dock at the Pool between London Bridge and the Tower. Angela would be safely home.

  Promises were so easily made and so deuced difficult to keep. Why break her heart when he didn’t know what might happen? A brisk wind stirred pale tendrils of the hair that peeked from beneath her muslin bonnet, and he resisted the urge to tuck it back under the scooped brim.

  “You do know,” he said, “that since the fracas on St. Thomas, every man-o’-war in the Atlantic is looking for us. I can’t promise that I’ll see you soon.”

  “Of course.”

  Damn. Why couldn’t he say what he knew she was waiting to hear? Three little words that came so easily to some and so bloody hard to him. He’d said them to only one person, and the memory of that time in his life still scalded him. No. It wasn’t the right time. Later, when he saw her again, he would be free to tell her how he felt. By then, he would have resolved the unanswered questions in his life one way or the other.

  “They’re waiting, Angela,” he said gruffly, and took her by the arm. The brief contact jolted him, even through the embroidered sleeves of the spencer she wore over her day dress. Dylan had added new garments to their limited wardrobe, filched only the week before from the trunks of a French aristocrat bound for the Indies. Needless to say, he had not informed Angela or Emily whence the new clothes had come. Kit had to admit that the style suited Angela perfectly, with the low, square-cut neckline trimmed in lace ruching and barely hiding the swell of her breasts. After seeing her clad in light, simple gowns for so long, it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. This Angela he could well visualize in an elegant drawing room.

  “The ship is waiting, Angela,” he said again, and gestured toward the rail where Dylan and Turk waited. Emily stood with a tear-stained face next to Dylan, but thankfully, she was not hysterical.

  Dylan gave a quick twist of his head that sent the long dark rope of his hair over one shoulder in a graceful motion. Sunlight picked out blue glints in his hair and made his cat-gold eyes glitter like Spanish coins. He took Emily’s hand in his and bent to give her a gentle kiss. They whispered softly to each other, oblivious of the glances they received.

  Smothering a twinge of envy at their indifference to those around them, Kit fought the impulse to take Angela in his arms.

  He gestured to the opening in the rail instead. “I’ll help you over the side and into the jolly boat.”

  Shaking her head, Angela avoided his eyes. “No, Turk has already offered to see me safely aboard the Swallow. As my trunks have been loaded, they need only their passengers to make sail. The captain is beginning to look quite impatient, I fear.”

  Kit glanced up and saw Captain Hastings signal to him from the Swallow. It was obvious he wanted to be on his way. Any more delay, and he was quite likely to change his mind. That would never do. Kit knew his duty, however unpleasant it might be.

  “Take her, Turk,” he said stiffly, and pushed her ever so gently into the waiting giant’s hands. “I’ll be below if you should need me.”

  Angela did not protest, but glanced at him with green eyes silvery with tears. There was a taut set to her chin, as if she dared not relax her guard. “Farewell, Kit,” she finally whispered, and he gave a terse nod, unable to force words past the tightness in his throat.

  Pivoting on his heels before he lost the thread of reason that had compelled him to send her away, Kit crossed the deck. He never turned to glance back, afraid that, like Lot’s wife, he would be turned to a pillar of salt by the vision of Angela disappearing from his life. Ridiculous, really. He hardly knew her. How could one know a woman’s mind well in only a few weeks?

  Ah, but he could recall the sweet slope of her shoulder and the tantalizing swell of her breast well enough, as well as other portions of her that were even more alluring. It didn’t help to recall the sound of her laughter, low and musical, like the light tinkle of silver bells. Nor was it easy to reflect upon her rather touching courage in the face of adversity, and her stiff-necked pride when any other woman would have dissolved into maudlin wails. Damn. How could he send away a woman who insisted upon saving the life of a stranded jellyfish, and a few hours later killed a man to save her friend’s life? It was beyond his comprehension, but he’d done it.

  Someone should paint a picture of this scene, he thought tiredly as he entered his cabin and sank into his deep-cushioned chair. It could be entitled Fool at Work. Or any other appropriate title that utilized the word fool.

  Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he sat in his cabin long after he heard the unmistakable sounds of the Sea Tiger getting under way. Afternoon shadows lengthened and grew dim, and Rollo muttered a sleepy chorus and tucked his head under a wing. Kit couldn’t even remember the bird joining him, and wondered if he was growing balmy. He must be, or he would have already shrugged off the depression he felt at sending Angela on to England. There was too much to do to wallow in self-pity.

  Rising from his chair, Kit made his way topside.

  Gravesend was the first town on the Thames as the Swallow sailed upriver. The Pool, where the center of the maritime world thrived, lay between the Tower and London Bridge. Rubbish floated on the surface of the river as the vessel slithered around the quays and lines of warehouses. Angela had forgotten the smell of rotting wood, dead
sea life, and refuse, but it came back to her in a rush when she went to stand at the gunwale.

  “Ugh,” Emily muttered through a handkerchief at her nose. “It doesn’t smell at all like the cove on St. Thomas.”

  Angela didn’t reply. She didn’t want to think about St. Thomas. Or the Sea Tiger. Or Kit. Numb from sleepless nights and an aching heart, she could only stare miserably as the ship nudged against the dock. London’s familiar sights held no interest for her at this moment. All she wanted was to find a soft bed that didn’t rock and lie in it.

  “Miss Angela,” Emily interrupted her misery excitedly, “look who is waiting for us!”

  Fighting a sudden surge of hope, Angela turned to see her parents standing on the stone quay peering anxiously up at the rail of the ship. Her heart clutched. Her mother looked the same, her short, curly hair lightly dusted with strands of silver and her abundant figure impeccably gowned. But Papa—there were deeper lines carved into his face, and his dark hair was almost all silver. His eyes scanned the rail of the ship in a searching gaze, and she lifted a hand in greeting. Her mother, she saw, began to cry immediately, while her father patted her with his usual distracted motions, lifting his arm to return Angela’s wave.

  Angela’s smile and pleasure were genuine when she met them on the dock. She was enveloped in a tight embrace by her mother, who wept copiously onto her neck and said over and over that she had thought she’d never see her daughter again, while her father hovered just behind like a bee over a flower, offering a word here and there.