by Brenda Joyce
La Sauvage was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
AMANDA RAN THROUGH A pair of terrace doors and across the patio. King’s House took up an entire city block and was built around two courtyards; she rushed down a set of white stone steps and into the gardens there. She stumbled, didn’t care and fell to her knees. She began retching. But she hadn’t been able to eat in days, she was so sick with fear for her father, and her heaves were dry. Then she lay on the thick, damp grass, allowing herself the luxury of tears.
Her terror overcame her. Papa was going to hang tomorrow at noon. Confronting the governor and begging him for a pardon had been their last chance. She hadn’t intended to offer him her body, but when he had started to look at her the way sailors and riffraff did, she had instinctively known what she must do. How often had she seen a woman coyly seduce her father in order to win a brooch or a bolt of silk? There was only one way a woman could ever gain anything from a man and Amanda knew what that way was. She had been raised amongst sailors and thieves and the only women she knew well had been camp followers and whores. The world she had been raised in was founded on violence and sex.
But she hadn’t given her body over to Woods, because Cliff de Warenne had stopped her from doing so.
She inhaled, her heart lurching. Why had he intervened? He was the greatest privateer of the day, as rich and powerful as a king. No one could outcommand him on the main—even Papa had said so. And he was reputed to be equally dangerous on land…
Papa. Her heart was already grieving and she reminded herself that Papa wasn’t dead yet. But the grief and the fear had combined, as potent as opium, a drug she had once been given before Papa had realized what was happening. She sat, tugging her robe more securely closed. Rodney had slit the throat of the buccaneer who had thought to drug her and seduce her, right before Amanda’s eyes. He had protected her from the men who had wanted her, when he had been present to do so, and he had taught her how to defend herself with a sword, pistol and dagger, so she could protect herself when he was not there. His cruises often lasted months on end, and he’d leave her with enough stores so she would not go hungry, at least not if he returned on time. He was a good father and now she had failed him, when he was the mainstay of her life. This one single time, a time of life or death, she had let her papa down.
Her mind scrambled and raced, looking for another way to save Rodney. She had dismissed the notion of trying to break her father out of prison some time ago. Most of the crew had been killed in battle with the English officer who had captured the Amanda C, and the remaining crew was also in prison, awaiting their moments at the gallows.
If she couldn’t forcibly free him, should she go back inside to Woods?
She was ready to vomit again. She had impulsively meant to do what all women did in a crisis, but God, she was repulsed and sickened by what had almost happened. While she had witnessed just about every sexual act possible—or so she assumed—she had never been touched sexually. She had never even been kissed. Rodney Carre had made it clear that any man who dared to do so would have his throat slit and his manhood tossed to the sharks in the sea.
De Warenne had saved her.
Amanda hugged her knees to her chest, no longer able to avoid where her thoughts really wanted to go. She was stunned by his selfless behavior. Why had he intervened? Everyone she knew behaved sensibly and selfishly—it was the law of survival. Strangers did not help one another. Why would they? The world was too dangerous to dare to reach out. So why had he saved her from Governor Woods?
Her heart wouldn’t stay still. She swallowed, remembering. For he had looked at her, too, even more boldly and brightly than any sailor had ever done.
As upset as she was, her heart started to beat with frantic haste. Bewildered, she clasped her cheeks, which were hot. He had looked at her naked body, but he had also looked at her the moment she had come into King’s House, when all her clothes were still on. She couldn’t ever recall anyone, man or woman, looking at her with such intense and piercing eyes. It was a look which she was never going to forget and she wished she could understand it.
She knew him, of course. Who didn’t? He was instantly remarkable, standing upon the quarterdeck of her favorite ship, his thirty-eight gun frigate, the Fair Lady. A huge, towering man with that leonine head of hair, he was impossible to miss. And everyone knew he’d captured forty-two pirates in his short, ten-year career as a privateer. In the West Indies, no one had yet to surpass his record.
Amanda’s heart continued to beat erratically. She was uneasy and confused. Why had a man like that helped her? He was far more than a privateer. While she’d heard the fancy snooty ladies in town giggling that he was more pirate than gentleman, they couldn’t be more wrong. Pirates were foul, with stinking breath and missing teeth and unclean body parts. Pirates gave no quarter in combat, spilling blood and guts everywhere, although when sworn to loyalty, no better friend could be found. Pirates wore dirty clothes, never washing them, and frequented the ugliest hags and whores.
De Warenne smelled like the sea, mixed with spices from some Far Eastern shore and mango from the island. Although he wore a gold earring in one ear like some pirates did, and those huge gold and ruby spurs, his clothes were spotless. Everyone knew the mother of one of his bastards was a real princess. His reputation as a ladies’ man was vast, but his lovers weren’t whores and hags, oh no, just the opposite. And why not? He was an earl’s son. De Warenne was royalty.
And even she, who had never looked at a man in any kind of admiration—except for her father, of course—had to admit that he was achingly beautiful.
Amanda knew she blushed. Too well, she could recall being in de Warenne’s arms as he had carried her from the governor’s rooms. But why was she thinking about that—or him? She had to free her father before he was hanged.
Amanda realized she had no further options. If she couldn’t forcibly break her father out of prison and she couldn’t seduce Woods into a pardon, then what could she do?
She choked. What had de Warenne said, exactly?
Why not pardon Carre? If he doesn’t give up his pirating, I promise you I will be the one to bring him in.
Amanda leaped to her feet. He could help her—he had to!
WINDSONG LOOMED over Kingston Harbor, a huge and formal white stone mansion that Cliff had begun building five years earlier and had finally completed last year. Balustraded terraces jutted out over the harbor at the back of the house, while in the front a double staircase led to another terrace and the imposing white marble front entrance. Identical end pavilions were on the other side of the main house, which was a lofty three stories high. He could stand on the north parapet and look up the entire length of King Street, but he preferred to stand on the south terrace, sipping his best Irish whiskey and watching the incoming ships. He stood there now, having requested a drink from his majordomo, but his gaze was directed toward Port Royal, not out to sea. There he could make out the brick walls of Fort Charles. He raised his spyglasses.
The Amanda C was at anchor there, her rigging slashed, all masts broken, cannon holes in her deck. She was a small nine-gun sloop, once swift enough to outrun most naval vessels, now damaged beyond repair. She wasn’t flying the skull and bones of a pirate’s death flag, but the British tricolor.
Cliff lowered the spyglass. He did not want to brood over Carre’s fate or his daughter. Carre was in Spanishtown, awaiting his execution on the morrow. He wished he knew where La Sauvage was. She’d fled so quickly she might have been a vanishing ghost.
He could still recall the feel of her firm but soft body in his arms, even though he damned well wished to forget it.
“Papa! Papa!”
Upon hearing the happy cry of his beloved daughter, Cliff turned, beaming, all thoughts of the wild child-woman gone. Ariella was only six years old, with huge and brilliant blue eyes, an olive complexion and surprisingly golden hair. She was as beautiful as her coloring was exotic, and whenever Cliff look
ed at her he felt no small amount of awe that this stunning child was his. “Come, sweetheart.”
But she had already dashed across the terrace and into his arms. He laughed, lifting her high and then hugging her tightly. She was clad like a little English princess in the finest silk gown his money could buy, a strand of perfect pearls around her small throat. He put her down and she asked, “Did you go sailing today, Papa?” She was very grave. “Because you promised me that you would take me when you next set sail.”
He had to smile. She could pretend all she wanted, but he knew very well that she did not like sailing. “I haven’t forgotten, darling. And no, I did not take a sail. I had affairs in Spanishtown.”
“Good affairs?”
His smile faltered. “It was some nasty business, actually.” He tugged on a strand of her hair. “It was a good day for sailing. How many knots do we have?”
She hesitated, biting her lip. “Ten?”
He sighed. “Eight, darling, but you were close.” He knew she had blindly guessed.
“Do I have to be able to rate the breeze to sail with you?”
“No, you don’t, your brother can do that. Besides, I shouldn’t be trying to make a sailor out of you.” Ariella showed no particular fondness for the sea, although she tolerated it in order to spend time with Cliff. His son was just the opposite. But he wasn’t very disappointed, because she had the most inquisitive mind he had ever come across. In fact, she could spend an entire day with her nose buried in a book, and he didn’t know whether to be proud or worried about that. “Soon, sweetheart, you will travel the world with your father.”
“But only me, not Alexi. He is not coming with us.” She pouted.
He shook his head, amused by her jealousy. “He is your brother, darling, of course he will come. He is a natural born seaman. He will help me sail my ship and navigate for us.”
Ariella beamed. “I have memorized the four new constellations you taught me, Papa. It will be a good night to view the stars. Can I show you later?”
“Absolutely.” His daughter was brilliant. At only six years of age, she could add and subtract faster than he could, was proficient at multiplication and was beginning division. He had begun to teach her the constellations, and her ability to discern the different stars amazed him. In fact, in a matter of minutes, she could memorize just about anything she could see. She was fluent in Latin and would soon be fluent in French. She was several levels ahead of her older brother in reading.
He finally glanced toward the house where her governess stood, a slender figure so heavily veiled that her face could not be seen, her body entirely wrapped in orange and blue silk. “Has Ariella completed all of her assignments today?” He looked at his daughter and winked. She was so clever she had undoubtedly done a week’s worth of studying in one day.
“Yes, my lord. She has done exceedingly well, as always.” Anahid spoke flawless English but with a heavy Armenian accent. She had been Ariella’s mother’s slave. The entire story was a tragic one, except for the miracle that was his daughter. Rachel had been a Jewess traveling with her father to the Promised Land. Corsairs had attacked the ship, killing everyone who had no value, including Rachel’s father. She had been enslaved, but a local prince had quickly been struck by her beauty, making her his concubine. Cliff had been struck by her beauty, too, when he had been negotiating the price of a gold cargo with her master, Prince Rohar. Even knowing that to dare such an affair could mean his death, he had done so. Their affair had been brief, but his Hebrew lover had touched him more deeply than any previous mistress with her dignity and grace. He’d had no idea that she had become pregnant with his child.
It was Anahid who had managed to get a letter to him, six months after Ariella’s birth. Rachel had been executed for having a blue-eyed child—for clearly, the child was not her master’s. Cliff had been prepared to directly assault Rohar’s citadel, but that hadn’t been necessary. Anahid had used his gold to bribe the guards and smuggle Ariella out of the harem and the palace. She had been in his household ever since. He knew Anahid would die for his daughter, and she had come to love Ariella’s half brother, Alexander, in much the same way. He had given her freedom within days of departing the Barbary coast.
He had never once glimpsed her face.
“And Alexi? How has he fared today?”
He felt Anahid smile. “He did not do quite as well as Ariella, my lord. He remains in the classroom, struggling to finish his letters.”
“Good.” Alexi was very sharp but was not the devout student his daughter was. His interests lay in fencing, equitation and, of course, his father’s ships. “Remind him we are fencing tomorrow at seven o’clock—if he finishes his lessons.”
Anahid bowed, gesturing for Ariella. The little girl pouted at her father, clearly not wanting to leave. “Papa?”
“Go, child,” he began, when he saw his butler appear in the doorway. Cliff could not imagine what had caused Fitzwilliam’s current expression, which he had always assumed to be set in stone. Was his heartless servant actually flustered? “Fitzwilliam?”
“Sir.” Sweat appeared on the butler’s brow. The man never perspired, never mind that the air was always thick and humid, even on the most temperate of days.
“What is amiss?” Cliff left the edge of the terrace.
“There is a….” He coughed. “There is a…caller…sir, if you will…downstairs.”
Cliff was amused. “It must be the Grim Reaper,” he said. “Does he or she have a card?” Suddenly he recalled the beauty from the Spanishtown square. He was almost certain she had come to have her lust assuaged, and in that instant, he imagined La Sauvage in his bed.
What the hell was wrong with him? Never mind that the wild child-woman was far more beautiful than any woman he had thus far beheld. She was eighteen, if he were fortunate, sixteen if not.
“The caller—” Fitzwilliam swallowed, clearly finding something distasteful “—is in the red room, awaiting you, if you wish to see her.”
So it was the woman from the square. He was oddly disappointed and annoyed. “I am not receiving today,” he decided flatly. “Boot her.”
Fitzwilliam blinked, as he had never been so curt or so rude before. Cliff flushed. “I mean, please take her card and send her on her way.”
“She has no card, sir.”
An inkling began; he turned. All ladies had calling cards. “I beg your pardon?”
Fitzwilliam wet his lips. “She insists upon seeing you, sir, and she has a dagger—which she pointed at me!”
La Sauvage. Then he was striding into the house and across the gleaming oak floors, down the wide central staircase with its dark red runner and into the hall below. It was a huge room with high ceilings, a crystal chandelier the size of a grand piano, the floors gray-and-white marble imported from Spain. The red room was at the farthest end.
Carre’s daughter stood there, staring toward him.
His heart lurched, unsettling him. He quickly approached, noting that she was very pale, in spite of her golden coloring, and that her eyes were wild, like those of a warhorse in the midst of frenzied battle. He made a mental note to proceed with caution, as he hardly trusted her. He didn’t realize his tone was sharp and abrupt until after he had spoken. “Did you go back to King’s House?”
She shook her head. “No.”
God, he was relieved! He began to recover his composure. “Miss Carre, forgive me. Please, do sit down. Can I offer you refreshment? Tea? Biscuits?”
She was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I’m to forgive you?”
He was reminded of how he must appear—demented, actually, to be asking such a wild, untutored child for forgiveness. Did she even understand that his manners had been utterly lacking? He somehow smiled at her. “My greeting was sorely deficient. A gentleman always bows to a lady. He might say, good afternoon or good morning, or inquire after her welfare.”
She gaped. “I am not a lady. You are babblin
g.”
He drew up. “Would you like some tea?”
“A spot?” She mimicked the highborn, upper-class British accent perfectly. “I think not,” she continued her mime. “I’d take a grog,” she drawled like a sailor. “If you got it.”
He wondered if she drank, or merely hoped to provoke him. “Your mimicry is very well done,” he said idly. He wandered past her, eyeing her as he did so. She hadn’t moved or blinked since he entered the room. She stood defensively, yet also aggressively. That dagger was probably in the waistband of her breeches, beneath the tuniclike shirt. Why had she come? He thought he knew, and it wasn’t to jump into his bed.
She flushed. “You know I can’t read—you heard me say so. I don’t know big words, either.”
He felt his chest go soft. “I apologize. Mimicry means imitation. You have a very fine ear.”
She shrugged. “Like I care.”
He had been trying to put her at ease, but it was a ploy that was failing. He could easily assume that she was undone by his home, which was as grand as King’s House and far more majestically furnished, except that she had not taken her huge green gaze from his face, not once since he’d entered the great hall. “What may I do for you?”
She stiffened. “Free my father.”
He had been right. He tried to smile kindly at her. “Please, do sit down.”
She shook her head. “I’ll stand.”
“How can I possibly free your father?”
“Woods is your friend. Make him let him go.” Desperation flickered in her overly bright eyes.
He stared at her. “Woods and I are not feeling very friendly toward one another at the moment, and even if we were, this has gone too far. There are laws on this island. A jury has tried your father and found him guilty. I am sorry,” he added, meaning it.
Tears welled. “Then help me bust him out.”
