A Lady at Last

by Brenda Joyce

  “Cap? You sick or something?”

  Cliff jerked. He was standing in the buff at the rail, staring at the horizon, so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t even been aware of where he was. He didn’t bother to respond to the seaman. Instead, he stepped onto the rail and dived into the ocean.

  The waters were ice-cold and shock briefly paralyzed him. The ice water closed over him, around him, and he began to sink. His mind came to life first, understanding that he must swim in order to live, and then his heart began to beat again, hard and too fast, fueled by adrenaline. He began to swim. It took every ounce of strength he had to powerfully propel himself through the freezing water. For one moment, he thought he might fail. His muscles screamed at him, as did his mind—why? Then he burst through the ceiling of water to the warmer air above and exhaled loudly, and a line was tossed down. He seized it, laughing.

  Cliff quickly climbed up the line, invigorated and exultant, and two men helped him easily over the railing. He shook the water from his hair with more laughter, his heart still racing madly from the fight to beat an icy death.

  “Cold enough for you, Cap?” MacIver said from the quarterdeck, his tone sly.

  Still grinning, Cliff straightened, allowing the early-morning sun to wash over him. He upturned his face for a moment and spread his arms, feeling powerful and pagan, at one with the sun and the sea. Finally, his heart slowed, his shivering ceased, the euphoria dulled. He glanced towards his mate. “You should try it some time,” he said, turning for a cotton towel.

  He froze. Amanda stood not far from his cabin. He had no idea how long she had been on deck, but there was no mistaking how she was looking at him. She was staring at him as if she had never seen a naked man before.

  No, she was staring at him as if she wished to see more of him, now.

  His loins filled, instantly rising to her wish.

  It was a moment before he could turn away. In that moment, time ceased and there was no thought, no reason, just desire. Her lips moved. His heart thundered and he turned away, aware of one of his men snickering. He seized the towel, intending to wrap it around his waist, but he remained painfully thick, a reminder of what he really wanted. Instead, he used the cloth to dry his hair. He took his time. Then he tossed it aside and casually stepped into his breeches, as if she weren’t there. But he could feel her heat and smell her desire.

  She was quivering, too.

  As he pulled on each stocking, he reminded himself that she was forbidden. His body protested: why? In that instant, he couldn’t remember why he had decided that this particular woman was not allowed to him.

  And then, before he’d had a chance to tug on his boots, he knew she was gone. Still bare-chested, he turned and glimpsed her hurrying inside his cabin, where she’d spent the night alone. One seaman said, “Guess we know what she’s sniffing for.” He snickered again.

  Cliff reached for his boot and put the dagger he kept there against the sailor’s throat. “You don’t know anything,” he said, and he sliced through his flesh.

  The sailor choked in horror, but the wound was only a scratch. “Lock him up,” Cliff said through his teeth.

  Two of his officers rushed down from the quarterdeck, seizing the seaman, who started blubbering in protest. Cliff turned his back on him, as nothing could make him change his mind. There was no quarter given to insolence, not on his ship, and the sailor had insulted Amanda. He’d maroon the man off Spain, where there were some rocky islands that no one could survive on for long. The sailor was fortunate he’d be marooned instead of keelhauled. If he was truly fortunate, another ship would rescue him.

  He sat down to put on his boots, incapable of calming the savage in him.

  AMANDA LEANED AGAINST the wall, trying to breathe naturally. She wasn’t ever going to forget the sight of Cliff de Warenne stripping off his clothes in the dawn light, revealing hard planes, taut angles and bulging muscles. She wasn’t ever going to forget him climbing to the railing and diving into the ocean. She’d had to clasp her mouth to stop from crying out in fear. She knew he couldn’t have been in the freezing water for more than sixty seconds, but an eternity had passed before she’d seen him break through the surface. He had been laughing, dear Lord, as he’d climbed back up to the deck, and then he’d stood there with his arms held high, his face turned to the sun, reveling in his courage, his power, his manhood.

  And when he’d looked at her, he’d grown huge instantly.

  Amanda gasped, choking on desire. She had thought she understood desire last night, but she hadn’t—she understood it now. He was the most beautiful, virile, heroic man she had ever laid eyes upon and she was so hollow and faint she could not breathe. She could not stand the terrible ache and she hugged herself, hard. A long moment passed, and eventually, the shocking tension in her body eased.

  Amanda walked away from the wall and opened the cabin door. De Warenne was on the quarterdeck with his officers, his back to her. An image flashed, pagan and godlike, of de Warenne standing naked, worshipping the sun. Then he’d turned and put his dagger to the sailor’s throat, in retribution for his insult to her. Amanda inhaled. She had never met a man like this one before.

  “Miss Carre?” Ariella smiled up at her, the Armenian woman standing beside her.

  Amanda hadn’t seen the child approach. She smiled. Ariella, of course, was clutching a book. “Hello,” she said, wondering what de Warenne would have done if his children had seen him swimming in the nude at dawn.

  “I am having my lessons now and Papa said we are to study in his cabin.”

  Amanda stepped aside so the child and her servant could pass. Curiously, she said, “And your brother? Isn’t he going to study, too?”

  “He’s with the sailmaker, below.” Ariella screwed up her face. “Papa said he could learn how to mend sails.” She shook her head, as if the idea was absurd. She added, “His Latin is terrible—almost as bad as his French.”

  Amanda followed the child back inside. “If your brother will one day captain this ship, he’ll have to know everything there is about sailing, and that includes mending sails.”

  “If he can’t speak French, he won’t be able to negotiate with traders in France and Morocco.” Ariella shrugged, sitting down at the dining table and opening up her book, instantly engrossed.

  Amanda flushed. The child was so intelligent. And de Warenne clearly admired that. “What are you reading?”

  Ariella never looked up. “I am reading a guidebook to London.”

  “Really?” Curious, Amanda went to look over her shoulder. There was a beautiful sketch of a bridge. “Is that the London Bridge?”

  “Yes.” Ariella smiled at her. “Do you want to read my book? I can get another one.”

  Amanda flushed.

  Ariella waited innocently.

  “I can’t read,” Amanda said, her cheeks on fire.

  Ariella started to laugh.

  “Ariella!” Anahid chastised.

  Instantly Ariella was contrite. “I thought she was in jest, Anahid. Why can’t you read?”

  Amanda shrugged. “My papa was a pirate, remember?” Too late, she realized she had lied about that yesterday. “He never taught me. He didn’t think it was important.” She stared longingly at the guidebook.

  “Do you want to learn to read? I can teach you—or maybe Monsieur Michelle can.”

  Amanda met the child’s blue eyes, her heart racing with excitement. “I really want to learn to read,” she whispered unsteadily. “But I am sure your papa won’t allow it. He wants you to learn and your teacher is here to teach you, not me.”

  Ariella merely grinned, gazing past Amanda.

  De Warenne murmured, “You are wrong.”

  Amanda whirled to see him on the cabin’s threshold. Instantly, that potent image assailed her and she saw him standing naked and powerful on the deck, glorying in his body and his life. She flushed. His lashes lowered and he thrust himself off of the door.

  “I have no probl
em with lending you Monsieur Michelle or my daughter, for that matter. Reading is a blessing. I am glad you wish to learn.” He finally lifted his lashes and looked directly at her.

  She still saw him without his clothes and her cheeks remained hot. But this subject was more important than anything. “I already know most of the letters,” she said eagerly. “I learned them myself.”

  His mouth lifted. “I am certain you will be a capable student, Amanda. Have you ever failed at anything?”

  She tried to breathe normally. His look, his tone, even his posture, were potent and seductive, and she felt certain he was as aware of the huge tension that had arisen that morning as she was. It remained now, in the room with them, throbbing and needy, somehow predatory, in spite of his daughter and Anahid. She shook her head.

  “We can study together,” Ariella said happily.

  A slender gentleman hurried into the cabin, his arms filled with books and papers. “Ah, bonjour, mes amis,” he cried. “Monsieur le Capitaine, bonjour.”

  De Warenne nodded. “Bonjour, Jean-Paul,” he said, his accent undistinguishable from the Frenchman’s. “Have you met my guest, Miss Carre?”

  “Mais non,” Monsieur Michelle said, beaming. He placed the books and papers on the table and took Amanda’s hand before she even knew it. She stiffened as he tried to raise it to his lips, crying, “Enchanté, mademoiselle, je suis véritablement enchanté.”

  Feeling absurd, she glanced helplessly at de Warenne. The heat had finally left his eyes, which were soft with understanding now. He gave her a slight nod. Continuing to feel clumsy, she let the tutor kiss her hand. Then she jammed it in her pocket, grimacing. Michelle seemed bewildered.

  De Warenne clasped the tutor’s shoulder. “Monsieur, I am giving you the task of teaching Miss Carre to read and write—which I am certain you can accomplish by the end of our voyage.”

  Michelle turned white. “I am to teach mademoiselle in six weeks?” He gasped. “Capitaine, monsieur, c’est impossible!”

  “C’est très possible, je suis sûr,” de Warenne returned swiftly, his tone calm, his smile indicating a sudden good humor. “D’accord?”

  Monsieur Michelle looked at Amanda. “Oui,” he murmured, seeming resigned.

  Amanda, having grown up in the islands, could understand Spanish, French, Portuguese, Hebrew and Dutch. She could speak a few words in each language, as well, and could get by when she had to. She had understood their entire conversation. “Monsieur,” she said, “Je veux apprendre à lire et je promets d’étudier beaucoup.”

  Michelle’s eyes lit up. “Parlez-vous français?”

  “A little,” she said, then glanced at de Warenne to see if he was impressed. When he nodded approvingly, a smile on his face and in his eyes, her heart soared and danced.

  IT WAS THE MIDDLE WATCH. Cliff stood on the quarterdeck, the wood of the wheel smooth and sensuous beneath his hands, the decks rocking gently beneath his feet, relishing being one with his ship and God, sailing into what felt like the vast blackness of eternity. The sky was dark and starlit, the breeze gentle and sweet, the ocean a gleam of slick black satin. The hours between midnight and dawn were his favorites. He had taken two hours of rest after his supper and would steal another hour or two before sunrise. Until then, he allowed his mind to drift with his ship, lost in a profound sense of serenity.

  “Captain?”

  He wasn’t alone on the quarterdeck—the officer of the watch was on the larboard rail, and two midshipmen stood below by the mainmast—but it was past midnight, and the last person he expected to see was Amanda. He turned, and she smiled uncertainly at him from the main deck below.

  She whispered, “Permission to come up?”

  “Granted,” he replied softly. The solitude of this hour was what he enjoyed the most about it and his men knew it. Unless there was an emergency or a call to action stations, he was never to be interrupted on the middle watch. But this distraction was welcome and he was surprised to realize it.

  She quickly stepped up to stand beside him. Not looking at him, she faced the bowsprit, lifting her face to the soft caress of the night’s breeze. He stared, helpless to look away. His heart lurched and then drummed, his body filling with tension and heat. Why was he so insanely attracted to her? Was it because she was as powerfully affected by the siren call of the sea as he was, or was it simply the primitive lure of wanting a beautiful woman?

  But there had been so many beautiful women in his life and she was different. He had never felt such an intense desire before—or such a deep need to shield her from danger and heartbreak. He reminded himself to keep a careful and proper distance at such a dark and dangerous hour. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said quietly.

  She sighed and smiled at him. “Yes.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  In the light from the hanging lanterns, he studied her face. He saw no sign of grief. “I understand that you enjoyed your lessons today.” He’d summoned Michelle for a report.

  She beamed. “I read three sentences!” Then she flushed. “They were silly, about a cat and a dog and a hat.”

  “I know,” he said, impossibly warmed by her excitement and pleasure. “Monsieur told me.”

  Her smile faltered. She glanced directly ahead. “I owe you so much. I am so grateful.”

  He tensed, for it was impossible not to recall how she had initially thought to pay him for her passage. “You do not owe me anything, Amanda. It is my pleasure to allow you the use of Michelle. I am pleased you wish to learn to read and that you are already excelling at it.”

  He saw her flush with more pleasure. Then, barely looking at him, she whispered, “You did not invite me to dine tonight.”

  His tension knew no bounds. His grasp tightened on the huge wheel. Of course he hadn’t, as he had feared a repeat of the previous evening’s loss of self-control. He spoke with care. “I am sorry for my behavior last night. It was reprehensible for me to leave you to dine alone. But my daughter had to come first.”

  Amanda stared across the bow. After a long pause, she said, “Ariella did not recall having a nightmare and being woken up in the middle of the evening by you.”

  He was incredulous. “You questioned her?”

  She shrugged, darting a glance at him.

  He would never confess that he had lied, and she could not know the real reason he had left her so rudely at his table. “She was half asleep.”

  She nodded, clearly not believing him.

  He amended, “I thought I heard her cry out.”

  She slowly faced him, her eyes trained on his. “I am not stupid, de Warenne. I am not polite company.”

  He was shocked. “I enjoy your company very much. If I did not, you would not be sharing this watch with me.”

  Her smile flickered, her gaze hopeful and bright. “Really? Because you asked me about my life and I never got to ask you about yours.”

  He laughed. “Ask away, Amanda. Please, feel free.”

  She smiled eagerly. “Everyone says you are an earl’s son. But you said you are not royalty. Yet your servants call you his lordship.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” He smiled. “I am the third and youngest son of the earl of Adare, Edward de Warenne. That makes me a nobleman, not a royal. Being addressed as my lord is a courtesy, as I have no titles.”

  Amanda seemed perplexed. “I can hardly see the difference between nobility and royalty—you live like a king! Where is Adare? What is it like?”

  He chuckled. “Adare is in the west of Ireland, not far from the sea. It is a land of green hills and green forests, especially in the spring. There is no place where the ocean is as blue. It is often misting and it is often wet.” His smile softened. “It is the most beautiful place in the world.”

  Her eyes were shining. “It is wet on the island in the rainy season.”

  “Jamaica is a tropical place—Ireland is entirely different. It is somehow wild and untamed, even
on a sunny day. Time passes differently there. If the islands are paradise, Ireland is magic and mystery. Perhaps that is due to our history, which is ancient. My people came from France, but they were also Celtic kings on my mother’s side. In any case, they were all warrior lords. Ireland is a land with a dark and bloody history. We are also renowned for our ghosts.”

  “I should love to see it!” she exclaimed. “And your home at Adare? Is it like Windsong?”

  “I was born at Adare, but it belongs to my father, the earl, and one day, it will belong to my oldest brother, Tyrell. It is nothing like Windsong,” he said, and he saw the disappointment on her face. “It is far grander. It was first built many centuries ago, although it has been renovated several times.”

  “It is grander than Windsong?” She was incredulous.

  “My island home could fit inside the house at Adare about three times over.” He chuckled.

  She gaped. “So you were raised with servants and riches, living very much as you now do?”

  “I lacked for nothing,” he admitted. “I know that must be difficult for you to imagine.”

  She shrugged, glancing away.

  He somehow wished she’d had a different life, one of luxury, not mayhem and madness.

  “Do you go home often?”

  “Once every year or two,” he remarked, feeling some guilt. “I go as often as I can. My parents have a residence in London, where I frequently put into port, so it is more likely that I should see some of my family there.”

  “You have a brother?” Amanda asked, the envy written all over her face.

  “I have two brothers, two stepbrothers and a sister,” he said softly. “And when we arrive in London, you shall surely meet some of them.”