A Lady at Last

by Brenda Joyce

  Before she had even delivered this last call to arms, he attacked. He had the edge of both shirt and chemise hooked over his blade, and with one flick of his wrist, blunted tip or no, her clothes would be ripped in two.

  She stilled, breathing hard, her body pulsing in frenzied excitement. “Go ahead,” she managed. “Take my clothes.”

  His face hardened. He slowly lowered the big blunted tip of his sword between her breasts. “I believe we are done,” he said harshly.

  She stared at the tip, then lifted her gaze. “I am not done.”

  His brows lifted. “I have my blade against your heart, darling. In actual battle, you would be dead.”

  “Most men would prefer me warm and alive in their beds,” she challenged tauntingly.

  His eyes blazed. He removed the sword, tossing it aside and it clattered across the deck. “You have won, Amanda,” he said. “I concede defeat.”

  He was turning to walk away. Amanda thrust, catching the top buttons of his breeches, and cut them free. He froze.

  “Maybe,” she said softly, “my opponent would be as easily deceived as you have been and throw his sword aside too soon, falsely thinking himself in no further danger. Maybe, in a real battle, skill will have little to do with the victory. Turn around,” she ordered.

  Incredulous, he faced her.

  She could not keep her eyes on his face. His breeches gaped indecently and she had revealed an interesting portion of his anatomy. More interesting was the rigid line so visibly swelling there.

  Her blood drummed in her veins and swelled in her own body. Aware of flushing, she pushed her blade against his heart, somehow tearing her gaze away from his manhood and lifting it to his face. “Yes, I win,” she said flatly.

  He was breathing hard. He was finally furious with her, and she was savagely elated by that, too. “You have defeated me. Now what? Will you skewer my heart for how I have hurt you? When all I have wished to ever do is see you safely to what is left of your family?”

  Some of the tension of the battle eased. Dismay warred with guilt.

  He turned and began to walk away, then quickly returned to her. Before she could move, he had seized her wrist. “Put down the damned sword. I wish to speak with you privately and it is not a request.”

  In that instant, she understood that she had pushed him too far. Her exhilaration was rapidly fading. She lowered the sword and he released her, gesturing angrily toward the captain’s cabin. She started forward with growing trepidation, putting the sword down on the deck. She suddenly became aware of the utter silence of the ship.

  Every hand had come on board, almost three hundred men, to witness her insane attack on their captain.

  He clasped her shoulder and propelled her into the cabin.

  Her insides tightened and then hollowed, the huge hunger returning. What had she done, to provoke him so recklessly and thoughtlessly, on sheer impulse? And just how angry was he? Was he angry enough to give in to his lust?

  He kicked the door closed behind them. He tore off his shredded shirt, stalking past her, his attire beyond revealing and beyond indecent. She watched him throw on a shirt, leaving it hanging over his breeches. She exhaled harshly and he whirled.

  “What do you expect? You are reckless and fearless, yet a woman. Any man would be aroused by such violent foreplay. I feel certain that was your plan.”

  She tried to breathe. “There was no plan. I was angry. I wanted to hurt you. I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

  “You are penniless.” He stalked away, pouring himself a whiskey. She watched him drain the glass and then pour another one. His hand was shaking.

  “We are in close quarters,” he said, glancing at her. “We cannot go on this way. I have already apologized for my behavior. It is time for you to accept my apology. I want a truce.”

  She was trembling, too, she realized. She hugged herself. Could she accept his apology? The truth was that she hated fighting with him. She didn’t hate him, not at all.

  “You will agree to a truce?” he demanded.

  “Yes, I will,” she managed, stunned. Oh, my God, she thought, turning away, shaken to her core. She had fallen in love with Cliff de Warenne.

  She was doomed.

  He almost smiled but did not approach, as if deliberately keeping a distance between them. He spoke more calmly. “You have given my crew quite a show today, Amanda.”

  She bit her lip. She didn’t know what to say, as she was still reeling from the realization that she had fallen in love with the most unattainable man in the world.

  When she did not speak, he said softly, “I have missed our time together.”

  She jerked, instantly filled with hope, their gazes meeting.

  He was the first to look away. “Will you dine with me tonight? We can share a quiet supper and you can regale me with the details of your studies. We can discuss the logistics of your reunion with your mother, too.” He smiled at her.

  She had missed him, too, terribly, and if all he could offer her was a few hours each night on deck or dining together, so be it. Wasn’t that better than nothing at all? In that moment, she would accept crumbs. Because she hadn’t just missed him—she needed him, too. “I should like to dine with you tonight.” She hesitated. “What does logistics mean?”

  His soft, warm smile reached his eyes, making him beauty incarnate. “There are logical details to discuss, such as the presentation I will help you make at Belford House.”

  Amanda did not want to discuss her fate in London. She was deeply and irreversibly in love. “That will be fine.”

  His gaze slid over her face. “You were very bold today, Amanda,” he said. “And you are very skilled with a sword. I have never known any woman to wield a blade as you do.”

  She inhaled, overcome by his praise. There was no mistaking the admiration in his eyes. “Thank you.” And she prayed she could settle for his admiration, as there was no chance of ever having his love.

  AMANDA WAS LATE.

  Cliff paced restlessly in his cabin, the dining table elegantly set for the intimate supper he had arranged. He knew he was treading dangerously—while a truce was requisite for his peace of mind, considering the duration of the voyage, dining tête à tête was testing his character, his honor, his resolve. He had not been able to stop thinking about her magnificent display with a sword earlier that day. She could have been a Celtic warrior princess from an ancient time when women were brave and fearless, fighting alongside their men. And the heat and violence of the battle they had shared had only escalated every primitive male instinct in him, when those instincts were already so greatly endowed in his nature.

  He wished he had really answered her call to arms, for he would have shredded her clothing, forced her to her knees and then taken her in his arms and into his cabin and his bed.

  He tried to recover some gracious composure, running a hand through his hair. To force aside his recollection of her stunning swordsmanship, all he had to do was brood over her future fate. He had been thinking long and hard about her arrival at Belford House ever since he had discovered the true identity of her mother. Amanda had no idea she was a bastard, as she must be—he could hardly imagine Dulcea Belford having been briefly married to a young naval officer and then obtaining an expensive divorce. He knew Amanda was going to be shocked and hurt by the truth of her birth.

  He felt like cursing Carre for his lies, but he understood what the man had been trying to do.

  As for Lady Belford, he knew her well enough to know she would not be overcome with joy to be reunited with her long-lost daughter. No lady of her stature would openly claim a bastard child, as it meant ruin and disgrace. However, bastards were a part of society—every family had them, often living side by side with their legitimate siblings. These illegitimate offspring were usually labeled long-lost godchildren or cousins, and after a brief period of voracious gossip, no one really cared. Dulcea would probably claim her daughter as a distant cousin. That way, she could ta
ke Amanda into her family without jeopardizing her own life.

  It had become obvious that he would have to meet with her before ever bringing Amanda to call. He would have to make certain the reunion went well and that Dulcea would acknowledge her as her cousin, at least. Once they had come to terms, he would approach Amanda and tell her the truth as gently as he possibly could. He dreaded that particular interview.

  And between now and then, he had to encourage her to make every effort to refine her behavior, otherwise she was truly doomed.

  Where was she? Had she had a change of heart since they had declared a truce?

  He realized she was forty minutes late. He finally strode from his cabin to see what was keeping her. Cliff was about to knock when he heard her speaking so passionately that he froze. Who was with her in her berth?

  “What should I do?” she demand, sounding terribly distressed. “I am at a loss, a complete loss!” Her tone dropped, anguished. “Please help me.”

  Confused and even jealous, Cliff pushed quietly on the door. As he did so, he saw Amanda standing in the center of the small cabin, her back to him. She cried out, “Papa! If you do not advise me now, who will? Dear God, I need you now!”

  His sympathy arose, blended with pity. Amanda was speaking to her dead father? Was she seeing his ghost? Did she really think he would answer her? Did she converse with Carre frequently?

  He had assumed her to be well on her way to recovery from her loss. Clearly, her grief remained as strong as ever. He felt like a callous cad for not realizing sooner.

  He was about to call to her when she said brokenly, “You are probably angry with me. I haven’t forgotten that you wanted me to become de Warenne’s mistress, but he is really a gentleman, Papa. I did try to entice him, I really did.”

  He reeled, as if she had just stabbed him in the chest with the plain little dagger she kept in her boot. She had been playing him to honor some insane request made by her father? Instantly, he understood why Carre had wanted his penniless daughter to become his mistress, but that comprehension changed nothing.

  She wiped at tears. “Papa, please forgive me for failing. At least I am on my way to Mama…Papa? I don’t know what to do. I am so in love.”

  There had been no time to recover from the first shock. There had been no time for any anger. In disbelief, praying he had misunderstood her, he opened the door fully.

  She shook her head, as if speechless. “I know,” she whispered, as if her father had spoken to her. “I know I am a fool, I know he will break my heart—but I have never met a man like him before. No one is like de Warenne! Oh, God. I am trying to convince myself to settle for his companionship, but it is so hard! I am so deeply in love. If he would have me, I would gladly be his lover, and I wouldn’t care if I received nothing else from him!”

  A huge fist had struck him in the gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs. How had this happened? How in hell had Amanda Carre, the wild and free La Sauvage, so independent that she didn’t need anyone, fallen in love with him?

  But hadn’t he already guessed? The way she looked at him, her eyes alternately shining with hope and admiration or turning sultry with hunger, was so revealing. Had he misled her even more than he had previously thought? He only wanted to protect her.

  He attempted to speak, but his voice refused to work.

  “At least I am going to England, to Mama, because that is what you really wanted,” she suddenly said. She was shaking, fighting tears. “I couldn’t deny you that. But Papa? I am afraid.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I am really a coward. Now I have let you down, because I am so afraid of England, of Mama. I am more afraid of her than I ever was of the cutthroats who would board our ship and try to kill us. I wish you could come back and tell me I didn’t have to go.”

  Cliff backed out of the cabin. He closed his eyes, unbearably overcome with compassion. This circumstance he could manage; her feelings for him were something else.

  He silently walked back to his cabin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE WATCHED HER SIP her wine. The monologue he had overheard remained firmly etched on his mind, but she showed no sign of her recent bout of tears. She glanced up. Her eyes were so soft and hopeful; now, he knew what that expression meant. He glanced restlessly away, disturbed. But he had an agenda now, a firm agenda, one he intended to enforce at all costs. He was going to move heaven and earth to make Amanda’s reunion with Dulcea a success, but that meant cooperation on her part.

  “Are you enjoying the soupe du poisson?” he asked casually.

  She laid down her spoon, smiling at him. “Very much.”

  “We have made good sailing. I have calculated that we are a third of the way to Britain.”

  Her expression tensed and her eyes flickered.

  “You must be excited, Amanda, terribly excited.”

  She stared down at her soup. “Yes.”

  He studied her down-turned face, trying to decide how to get her to confess her fears, for then he could suggest a shortened course in the social graces. There was no other choice now, not if she was to be successfully reunited with Dulcea Belford. But suddenly she looked up. “Will you just drop me on the London docks?”

  It was so easy to see her fear now. “Of course not. I intend to escort you to Belford House.”

  “And there you will leave me, right?”

  He spoke with great care. “I wish to aid you in making a good impression, Amanda. We need to find you a suitable gown. I intend to summon a seamstress to Harmon House the moment we make port. When you have the appropriate attire, I will escort you to Belford House.”

  Her gaze was riveted on his. “Harmon House? Where your father lives with his wife, the countess?”

  “I stay at Harmon House when I am in town. I have no idea who will be in residence when we arrive. The entire family could be there, or no one at all.”

  Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks, making her seem feverish.

  “I can see that you are somewhat anxious. My family will welcome you very enthusiastically. And I will stay with you, if you wish, while you meet your mother.”

  She folded her arms. “But then you will leave. I mean, she will give me a room. I am going to spend the rest of my life at Belford House!”

  He sighed, feeling terrible for her. “You are young and she is your mother. Of course she will wish to take you in, as she should. But when you come of age, you will be able to do as you wish—if you have the funds.” And he couldn’t help thinking about what Carre had wanted his daughter to do. He couldn’t completely blame the man; Amanda was beautiful and passionate, the kind of woman a rich gent would wish to keep. But why hadn’t Carre had higher aspirations for his daughter? Had Amanda really spent the first four years of her life with her mother? He thought it unlikely. And damn it, why hadn’t Carre sent her to some fine ladies’ school to gain instruction in etiquette?

  “Well, I will be of age shortly,” she said.

  “Legally, but I am sure your mother will wish to see you properly cared for. She won’t cast you out at eighteen, Amanda. Many unwed ladies live at home into their twenties. Some spinsters never leave their parents’ homes.”

  She just shook her head, clearly dismayed.

  “I can help you,” he dared, leaning forward. He almost reached for her hand and thought better of it.

  “What do you mean?” she asked warily.

  “There must be more to your introduction than a pretty gown,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  She understood; she stiffened. “I know. I am not a lady and no dress will make anyone think otherwise.” She added, “I have never worn a dress.”

  He was dismayed, for this would be far more difficult than he had thought. “I am charmed by your originality,” he said sharply, meaning it. “But others might not be.”

  “Are you trying to be amusing?” She was incredulous. “Do you know how many fine ladies in Kingston sneer at me on the public roads? In church, they refu
se to share my pew. One fancy sort actually crossed to the other side of the street so my person would not offend her. And they talk about me—loudly—so I know exactly what they are thinking. I am trash. No one in my mother’s house is going to think anything else—or in your home, either.”

  He just stared, aching for her. “You are not trash. You are a hundred times stronger, braver and more beautiful than all of your detractors. And you are wrong about my family—if you are with me, they will be kind and accepting, and they will become fond of you when they get to know you better. But you are right about one thing. No one at Belford House is going to be enchanted by your candor or your skill with a sword. We need to plan your introduction to your mother with care, Amanda. I have given this a great deal of thought. I wish we had more time, but we have a month. You must learn the basic social graces—how to walk, how to speak, how to dine. And of course, you must know how to dance.”

  She was near tears. “I know how to walk and talk—but the way I walk and talk isn’t good enough, is it?” He was silent. “I don’t want to sup with gentry, de Warenne. I don’t want to go to England. I don’t want to meet my mother, not like this, but I promised Papa!” She stood abruptly, her chair flipping over. She paled, turning to right it.

  He leaped to his feet and went around the table, taking the fallen chair from her hands. “It’s all right,” he said, placing it upright.

  She shook her head. “It’s not all right. I can’t even get up from the table properly and you know it.”

  He took her hand. “Actually, I have heard you mime and you are very talented.”

  She froze, keenly interested now. “You mean, when I am mocking some fool?”

  He almost smiled. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. You can imitate the upper-crust tone exactly—I have heard you do so more than once. This won’t be as hard as you think.”

  She stared and then pulled away. “I can practice all kinds of fancy airs, but I will never fool anyone. I don’t want to be a lady. I just want to sail ships.”