Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  “Foolish child,” Kit chided gently when she paused for an angry breath, “he did not wed Susan because he was still married to my stepmother. I never thought he offered honorable marriage to her, only a position. It was, perhaps, the only time in my life I felt the tiniest bit of sympathy for Elaine. Not that she would ever have appreciated that. Barracudas have little time in their busy, destructive lives to appreciate anything they have not personally engineered.”

  “Elaine,” Angela repeated blankly. “Who is Elaine?”

  “Was. Haven’t you been listening? My stepmother. In lieu of my mother, who has also contrived to make my life hell. It seems that I am destined to be beset by women convinced that their duty is to plague me with whatever torment seems most expedient at the moment.”

  Memory returned, of that afternoon on the beach when Turk had revealed tidbits of Kit’s life. Elaine had been his stepmother. Even Turk had considered her evil. But that only partially explained Kit’s willingness to lump her with the rest of the deceitful women in his life, and Angela resented it.

  Fixing him with a contemptuous gaze, she said distinctly, “Isn’t it time you stopped whining about the past? Must you behave as a thwarted child? I should think you would be more willing to accept loyalty where you find it, instead of being so suspicious of anyone who attempts to love you.”

  She hadn’t quite meant to make that oblique confession, but it was out and there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, Kit was staring at her with an expression she was afraid to interpret. It hovered somewhere between amazement at her audacity, and fury at her assessment.

  “I find myself,” he said in a much calmer tone than she expected, “floundering for words. One of us has completely missed the boat, but I’m damned if I can figure out which one.”

  “Then maybe,” she said, striving to keep her metaphors in the same realm as his, “we should book passage on another ship.”

  To her surprise, Kit laughed softly. “You always have been a fighter, Angela. I knew that the first moment I met you aboard the Scrutiny. As I recall, it was a rather . . . painful . . . introduction to your stubbornness.”

  Not wishing to dwell upon the fact that she had jabbed her knee into the most vulnerable portion of his anatomy, Angela said hurriedly, “Would you have me just lie down and meekly submit to any fate?”

  “Ah no, sweetheart. Never that.”

  It was the first hint at a lessening of his temper, and she took a deep breath. “Then Kit, please—give us both the chance to learn from the past instead of repeat it.”

  There was a subtle change in the deep blue shadows of his eyes, so subtle she almost missed it. If not for the chance roll of the ship that sent a splash of lamplight across his face, Angela might not have noticed. But she caught a glimpse of his pain, and the brief flare of hope that sputtered before he squelched it. She wanted to weep with frustration when he looked away from her, long lashes veiling his eyes in a sulky drift that was as revealing as it was crushing.

  Unable to stop herself, she rose and went to him, putting a hand on his arm. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, and he gave her a swift, impatient glance before removing her hand.

  “It’s no use, Angela. Go home. Forget about the past. I certainly should have.”

  “But . . . but I can’t.” She sucked in a deep breath when he looked away from her again, his face set in a cold mask. God, how could she reach him when he put a wall between them? She tried again. “Kit, please. I don’t want to give up if there’s a chance for us.”

  “Dammit,” he snarled, turning to her and grasping her arms, “haven’t you been listening to me? You were right. Nothing has changed. I haven’t changed. You haven’t changed. My father hasn’t changed. London hasn’t changed. The same set of people inhabiting the same circles, doing the same things year after year—God. I’d go crazy if I stayed in London. And you would never leave. This is your world, Angela, not mine. Not anymore. If it ever was. I came here seeking answers, and maybe they weren’t the ones I wanted, but I have most of them. Others . . .” He looked up and past her, his grip easing slightly. “Others,” he continued softly, “I will never get, just as Turk warned me. Damn him.”

  There was such pain in his bleak tone that Angela leaned forward and laid her head against his chest. She heard the sharp intake of his breath, then his arms went around her and he was pulling back her head to kiss her, his mouth harsh on hers. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that he hold her again, that he kiss her and touch her as he once had.

  Sliding her hand behind his neck, she held him, her fingers tangling in the damp, dark hair that curled in fine waves on his nape. He smelled of wind and sea; it was a familiar, haunting fragrance, making her think of soft tropical nights and sandy beaches and the sensual rhythm of the waves breaking around them.

  “Kit,” she whispered against his mouth, “hold me.”

  He went still, then lifted his head, his shadowed eyes studying her face for a long moment. Outside, the distant, muted clang of a bell rang in the night. The ship rolled gently from side to side, and the lantern flashed a pool of light over them. Rollo gave a sleepy squawk and flutter of feathers as he tucked his head beneath a wing.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Kit lifted her in his arms and crossed to his bunk. He laid her down gently. The bunk dipped beneath his weight, and he bent to kiss her, this time soft and easy, his mouth moving on her parted lips with sweet tenderness. Angela slid one hand over the familiar contours of his face, the sharp angles and planes, her fingers caressing the crescent-shaped scar from his eyebrow to cheek. Her fingers moved lightly over the chiseled outline of his mouth, his thumb sliding over his lower lip in a silky glide. He caught her hand in his and bit her thumb gently.

  “Oh, Kit,” she whispered, and he gave her a faint smile. She slid her free hand into the open collar of his loose shirt, and flicked open the buttons one by one. The cool linen of his shirt was still damp from the night air, but the bare skin beneath heated the backs of her fingers.

  When her hand reached the last button at his waist, Kit drew in another deep breath and straightened. He gave her a crooked, sardonic smile that made her breath catch and her throat ache.

  “Does this,” he asked lightly, “come under the heading of love, or desire? Perhaps I should know the proper definition, just in case I’m taken to task for it later.”

  Angela sat up quickly, as if a bucket of cold seawater had been poured over her head. Kit lifted a brow and caught her chin in his palm.

  “Well,” he purred, “which is it, love?”

  She knocked his hand away and lurched to her feet, her face flaming with embarrassment and anger. It was just like him to throw her own words back in her face, and only what she deserved, she supposed, for trying to seduce him with his own methods. Why had she ever thought anything she could say or do would make a difference to Kit Saber? Or Christian Sheridan, or whoever he chose to be—they were all the same man, locked up in a prison of his own making.

  She drew in a deep, calming breath and managed a careless shrug. “Does it matter? You’ve spoiled the moment now, anyway. I don’t see how you’ve acquired such a tantalizing reputation as a lover. Perhaps other rumors have some basis in fact, but not that particular one.”

  “I’m devastated.”

  His cynical comment jerked her head up. “No doubt. Well, since you seem determined to repeat the past, I can see that I’m wasting my time.”

  Kit’s eyes narrowed. “I have learned,” he said in the cold tones that had once sent chills down her spine. “And I do not intend to repeat my mistake, whatever you may think.” He stood up and came to her, grasping her chin in his rough palm in an oddly tender gesture. “Once, perhaps, I thought I could escape my past. But I can’t, angel. None of us can. It can’t be escaped or changed. Only the most reckless would dare to ignore that.”

  Releasing her chin, he stepped back, and she tried to hold in the bitter tears burning her eyes. “Very well,”
she managed to say. “Off with the old, on with the new. I suppose now you will race off to chase the very lovely contessa. That should do the trick. No contessas in your past, Kit? Is this some novel and unusual sport, perhaps?”

  She had thought to sound worldly and cynical, matching his jaded views. But to her shock, Kit gave a harsh bark of laughter that sounded anything but amused or impressed with her panache.

  “So you have heard about Contessa Villiers, have you? I should have guessed. Gossip is the number one sport of the idle in London.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic curl. “Do not be fooled, little one. The contessa is not new. She and I go a long way back. Longer than any other woman in my life.”

  Unable to stop herself, Angela blurted out, “Then it’s true? You are seeing her?”

  “Every time she will allow it. The contessa, you see, is very adroit at keeping a man dangling after her. A moment of time here, a glance there, then just a hint of the next time before she is gone again, leaving thirsty victims dying for another drop. Oh yes, that part is quite true. Is it being said that I am pursuing her?”

  Miserably, Angela nodded, and Kit’s sardonic smile deepened. “How droll. Perhaps I should have introduced you to her this evening. If I had known you were spying on me from the shadows, I would have done just that.”

  Recalling the beautiful woman in the carriage, Angela knew the answer even before she asked, “That was the contessa in the carriage?”

  “Yes. Lovely, isn’t she? Doesn’t look anywhere near her age until one gets quite close. Then there are only a few signs of the years she has spent flitting about—a line or two, just the tiniest bit of sagging skin—but I should not bore you with the details.”

  “No,” Angela whispered. She fumbled blindly for the edges of her cloak and pulled it around her as if for protection against the knife-edged slashes of pain that raked her. “I must . . . go.”

  Somehow, she was never quite certain how, Dylan was there, and it was his voice that directed her from Kit’s cabin to the top deck, and his words that finally stilled her almost uncontrollable shivers. She recalled little of the carriage ride home, nor did she remember Emily putting her to bed. Everything was a blur, everything but Kit’s relentless voice as he shattered, any hope she had left.

  Twenty-three

  “Is it any coincidence,” Charles Sheridan asked idly, “that Angela Lindell bears a striking resemblance to Elaine?”

  Stiffening, Kit growled, “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  The duke shrugged, and moved to stand facing the windows of his study, his hands clasped behind him. “Only,” he said, his voice muffled by heavy draperies and thickly leaded glass, “that part of your resentment of the situation may stem from some misguided notion that Angela is just as treacherous as Elaine. That, my son, is doubtful. Only Vivian comes close to Elaine in duplicity, but she so far outdistances any other mortal woman that I think not even your misconception could make that vast leap.”

  After a moment, Kit said, “It amazes me that you married two such devious women. I have often wondered at the courage or stupidity of a man who would undertake such a venture.”

  The duke turned, smiling. “Do you? Love of a challenge, I suspect. Vivian St. Genevieve was only fourteen when we wed, and I had never laid eyes upon her until the day before the ceremony.” He paused in reflection, a faint smile still curling his mouth. “Though you may not believe this, it was love at first sight for me. Of course, I was only seventeen at the time, and not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of a wife from the French countryside. Vivian changed that. As she changed every other aspect of my life in a very short time.”

  “She seems to have that ability.”

  Sheridan’s ironic glance spoke volumes. “Indeed. When I discovered that I was soon to have an heir, I was thrilled for more than one reason. It would, I mistakenly thought, inhibit some of her more . . . reckless . . . qualities. Alas, she proved me quite wrong. Your birth only freed her from the duty of providing an heir, and set into motion an entirely new vista for her. She began to dabble in politics, still bearing a fervent loyalty to her own country, and I was beset at all sides with problems. How to keep my wife from endangering not only her head, but mine? I tell you, it was enough to drive even a less imaginative man quite mad.”

  Kit’s smile was grudgingly sympathetic. Though lately he had formed a precarious truce with his father, it wasn’t even close to anything resembling friendship. Conversations such as the one they were engaged in were infrequent and usually awkward. Perhaps it was the copious amount of brandy Kit had consumed after dinner that made the difference now. He wasn’t certain.

  Lifting his tumbler, Kit said, “She still drives men mad.”

  Sheridan turned. “Doesn’t she? So tell me—how do you find her after all these years? Is she the devoted mother that you had always remembered?” His chair squeaked slightly as he sat down behind his desk and studied his son.

  Wryly, Kit murmured, “Hardly. My memories are those of a six-year-old. Viewed from the illuminating distance of twenty-four years later, I have found vast discrepancies in my perceptions of what happened, and what I now believe to be the truth.”

  “I always thought you would, once you sifted through fantasy and fact. Of course, it took me years to differentiate between truth and bitter speculations. Even when I found you again, I believed that Vivian had committed the most heinous of crimes against a child. I was relieved to discover that to be untrue. It restored some of my faith in maternal affection.”

  When Kit remained silent, his father swiveled in his chair to look at him. “Christian,” he said softly, earning Kit’s upward glance, “your mother was careless, yes, but never callous. She loved you in her way, but she was very young and headstrong and totally committed to pa-triotism with a zeal few can ever realize. Do not judge her too harshly. She is what she is.”

  “As are we all.” Kit took another sip of brandy, lowering the glass to study the slow drizzle of potent liqueur coating the sides. It felt as thick and syrupy on his tongue; he mentally blessed the Benedictine monks who had first distilled it. Brandy eased a multitude of worries if taken in small, isolated amounts. He heartily endorsed its medicinal properties in the treating of the human spirit. There were even times when brandy could erase the final images of Angela that had been seared into his brain.

  He closed his eyes against that painful memory and asked blindly, “How do you explain your marriage to Elaine?”

  The duke’s shrug was a thing felt, if not seen. “She was the antithesis of Vivian. Instead of a volatile temperament, she was always cool and collected, mindful of proprieties. I knew she would never risk my head or hers with impetuous behavior. Alas, it took me a shade too long to discover that her cool demeanor encased an even colder nature. Her treatment of you was my first indication.”

  Opening his eyes, Kit nodded. “She hated me. Never lost an opportunity to let me know it, either. I think I was a threat in some way. Her failure to provide another heir only made things worse. I can recall bitter arguments between the two of you over that.”

  “Yes. There were times I think she wished you would meet with an unfortunate accident.”

  Kit smiled grimly. He did not bother informing the Duke of several occasions he had narrowly escaped being killed. At the time, he’d not thought his father would believe him, or even care. It had only embittered him more over the years.

  God, was his entire life to be a series of narrow escapes? He was beginning to realize that his control over his own destiny was still nebulous. Who could explain Angela’s sudden appearance in his life except for an act of fate? Or perhaps, the whimsy of some laughing god.

  “Perhaps,” Sheridan mused, “I should not have divorced Vivian as I did. It was a precipitous act, fueled by jealousy, anger, and hurt at her leaving me and taking you with her. I viewed it as the highest betrayal. My acts, however, began a chain reaction that still has repercussions.”

  Looking up at t
he duke, he fumbled for the thread of their conversation, found it, and said, “If Vivian will only explain her reasons to me, perhaps I can forget her abandonment.”

  “I doubt it. One never forgets something like that. But you can accept it, even without an explanation that you are very unlikely to get. Perhaps it has escaped your notice that Vivian is adept at avoiding questions. That is what makes her so ideal at her profession.”

  Kit grimaced. “I find it abhorrent. How do I deal with the situation without betraying my own mother?”

  Silence fell; a log in the fire popped and sent out a shower of sparks onto the hearth mat that quickly burned out. Finally the duke said slowly, “I don’t know. Confront her, perhaps. But do not trust her enough to tell her of the proposition put forth to you by Mr. Pitt. That could be suicide. Concoct a plausible explanation, then allow her to make her own decision. After that, anything that happens will be of her own volition.” He paused, then said, “I have my own doubts about the scheme Pitt proposes. Are you certain you wish to take such risks?”

  Shrugging, Kit said, “There are no more risks involved than the ones I’ve taken for the past ten years. At least this time I will be working under the sanction of the king.”

  Sheridan’s smile was cynical. “The treaty signed at Amiens will not last another six months. Napoleon will not stop until he is forced to stop. Even with a pardon for you and your crew, if the French take you . . .”

  His voice trailed into silence. Kit needed no words to tell him how quickly they would be executed if captured. He had committed too many crimes against the French to be given mercy if caught. It was understood, and the crew had heard the offer and voted to accept it, knowing what could happen. Only two men had declined, not being English. No one had blamed them. It was a dangerous proposal to undertake.