The Price of Indiscretion

by Cathy Maxwell

  Alex frowned, disappointed. The woman was comely enough but not worth so much attention—and then a woman holding a parasol appeared, making her way down the gangway. He couldn’t see her face, but his gaze was riveted by the trimmest ankles in silk stockings he’d seen in some time.

  Here was something definitely worth his time.

  Her face was blocked by that blasted parasol, but what he could see, he liked. The breeze off the water teased the gauzy white muslin hem of dress. It pressed the thin material to her form, revealing long shapely legs, feminine hips, a sweetly indented waist, and the curve of breasts. Beautiful, luscious breasts.

  She had the body of a goddess, and there wasn’t a man on the pier who wasn’t ready to fall to his knees in front of her.

  “Blue,” Oliver said decisively.

  “Blue what?” Jon Bowen, the sailor beside him, asked.

  “Her eyes,” Oliver answered.

  “What makes you think that?” Jon countered. “She could have brown eyes and hair as black as a raven’s. I like dark hair galies.”

  “Look at the color of the ribbons trimming her dress and parasol,” Oliver said. “Women always choose their trimmin’s to match their eyes. She’s got eyes so blue a man could swim in them. I can tell you that without even seeing them.”

  “I’ll bet you a quid they’re brown,” Jon answered.

  “Done,” Oliver agreed, “but you are wasting your money.”

  His boast and the wager upped the ante for the Warrior’s crew. Almost all of them were gathered there, all straining to be the first to see her eyes.

  Refusing the numerous arms offered to her for assistance, the beauty stepped off the gangway and daintily began picking her way past the barrels and crates, masts and spars piled along the dock. Her growing coterie of admirers trailed after them like lapdogs—and among them Alex saw the elusive Esteves. The portly pilot was doing everything in his power to get under the parasol with the girl.

  The sight of the pilot brought Alex’s head back to business. Damn the man. He’d fobbed off the Warrior for the merchantman because of a woman.

  Alex leaned over the railing. “Esteves! I want a word with you.”

  His voice of command carried in the salt air. The hapless Esteves, a silver-haired fellow with a black goatee and mustache, looked around in confusion as did everyone else.

  “Up here, Esteves,” Alex said.

  “Look up here, look up here,” Oliver quietly commanded the beauty, a plea shared by his shipmates. “We just want one look at your lovely eyes—”

  The parasol tilted back. There was a brief glimpse of a blue velvet cap trimmed in feathers and blond curls as radiant as the sun. Alex dismissed the unexpected sense of familiarity. She wouldn’t be here. There was no way such a thing was possible. His mind played tricks.

  Instead, he said in a voice commanding the attention of everyone on the wharves, “Yes, you, Esteves. I want to talk to you.”

  At that moment Diego pushed his way through the crowd, apparently finally finding his uncle. He tugged on Esteves’s arm and pointed in Alex’s direction.

  Everyone in the crowd turned to where Alex stood on the Warrior’s deck, including the beauty.

  “They are blue!” Oliver declared in triumph. His mates leaned closer to have a better look

  But Alex didn’t move. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Blue eyes, blond hair, full, ripe lips…a determined chin. He’d never forget the stubborn tilt of that chin—

  He broke off his thoughts with a shake of his head. It couldn’t be. There was no possibility—

  Oliver heaved a mighty sigh of longing. “She’d fit right well under a man’s arm,” he said wistfully, speaking for the crew.

  “And in other places, too,” Jon added slyly, a comment to which everyone else guffawed agreement, save for Alex. He knew exactly how well she’d fit in “other” places. He knew the feel of her skin, the scent of her hair, the weight of her breasts.

  Oh yes, she fit in other places very well.

  Alex practically fell back from the bulkhead, suddenly anxious that she not see him. What the devil was Miranda Cameron doing in the Azores of all places on earth, dressed in muslins and lace and with shoes on her feet? He couldn’t believe it.

  What he could believe was that she was being eaten alive by the hungry gazes of every man in this port.

  Over the years he’d been asked why he’d never married. Oh, he flirted with women. He enjoyed them, but he would not marry, and the reason was standing down there on that dock.

  Alex returned to the ship’s railing with a frown. Miranda was listening to something a gentleman to her left was saying. She was completely unaware of his presence on the deck of the ship not far from her. There had been a time when they’d been so close, they could sense each other’s presence—

  “Is there something wrong, Captain?” Oliver asked.

  Alex looked at him blankly, forgetting for a moment where he was. He brought himself back to the present. “Nothing’s wrong.” The past could stay where it was. He didn’t need her—had never needed her.

  Of course, Miranda appeared as if she hadn’t needed him, either. It had been ten years since they’d parted, and they appeared to have been prosperous ones for her.

  But then wasn’t that just the way women were? They were like cats, selfish and always landing on their feet. Certainly the Frenchwoman who had convinced his own father to desert his country and son and turn traitor had not thought of anyone but herself. Even his own mother had abandoned him, leaving him with his British father and returning to her people. There she’d found a new man and started another family.

  So why did Alex want to believe Miranda Cameron was not the same? Why, against all logic, did he feel such a sense of betrayal?

  Because I wanted to believe she was different—

  “Captain?” Oliver repeated.

  Alex started. He turned to see his men staring at him as if he had gone daft. He wondered what expression showed on his face and realized he was squeezing the railing of the ship so tightly, his knuckles were white.

  He tried to relax, feeling completely disconnected to anything that had been of importance moments ago. Miranda and her entourage had reached the ebony-painted bow of the Warrior.

  She closed her parasol.

  Alex braced himself. The moment was at hand. She had only to look up and she would see him—and then Esteves commanded her attention, begging to have the honor of carrying her parasol.

  Immediately the other men surrounding her offered their services as well. Miranda played coy for a moment. She made a great pretense of choosing the gentleman to have the honor before handing the parasol to the pilot, smiling her appreciation.

  No one had a smile like Miranda Cameron. Its force was akin to the sun bursting out behind the clouds after a storm. It filled a man with its warmth and assured him anything was possible. Anything.

  Oliver, Jon, even Flat Nose and Vijay were caught by surprise by the force of that smile. Up and down the dock, men sighed in collective admiration.

  “Her eyes are blue as the deepest sapphires,” Vijay said in a romantic burst Alex had not thought possible for him. “Blue as the depths of the Great Sea.”

  “Yes,” Alex agreed sourly, thoroughly disgusted by the power Miranda wielded effortlessly over men. “Or as blue as the back of biting flies.”

  His crew heard him. Their heads whipped around in shock. He met their gazes with an innocent one of his own. After enduring their stares for several seconds, he said, “What? It’s a poetic term.”

  Jon scratched his chin. “Poets compare women’s eyes to flies?”

  “Some do,” Alex answered and couldn’t help but add, “If they are wise.”

  “Now we know why you are single,” Oliver muttered.

  “Because I’m no poet? That isn’t the only reason,” Alex answered. The main one stood on the pier right down there in front of him.

  He braced his hands again
st the railing. In the back of his mind, he realized he’d always known their paths would cross again someday. He just hadn’t expected it to be this one.

  Nor had he anticipated the emotional impact of seeing her again. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  Esteves holding the parasol looked for all the world like a silly old man. Miranda and her chaperone continued their promenade.

  She’d not looked up. Had not seen Alex.

  It was just as well. He had no desire to be part of the growing mob of men following her. He preferred to watch in disdain as grizzled old seamen, anxious to pay court, hurried from their ships dressed in their ruffles and lace. Some of their finery was a size too small, most of it out of fashion, and all of it was wrinkled from being packed away in sea trunks. They, like Esteves, were making bloody fools of themselves, and Alex felt immensely superior that he wasn’t one of their number.

  A riot could have broken out when a local merchant elbowed another out of the way while trying to gain Miranda’s attention. However, at that moment, a dinghy from the warship hit the dock with a bump, and three officers clambered up to the pier, pushing on their bosun’s head for balance. They were young, vital men in full dress with gleaming gold braid on their lapels. They were following by a man moving at a more sedate pace. By the gold braid on his shoulders, he was no less a person than the captain of the ship—and his sights were set on Miranda.

  Alex watched as the king’s men neatly elbowed Esteves and the others out of the way. Introductions were made. Miranda’s companion appeared ready to swoon over the honor of meeting the British commander. The pilot looked silly holding the lace parasol, and Alex couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.

  Miranda said something, and the British commander laughed as if she were the cleverest of creatures, a sound echoed by his junior officers. Their laughter made the scars on Alex’s back prickle. He rarely thought of those scars, but at this moment, they felt as they had when the cuts were fresh and the pain alive.

  There had been a time when he’d laughed at her jokes, too, and had confessed his secrets. A time he’d made a perfect ass of himself—

  He turned away from the railing, shutting his mind to the memories. “What are we doing standing around here gawking?” he barked to his men. “We’re leaving on morning tide. You have stores to lay in, and that rigging on the top gallant begs to be repaired.”

  Flat Nose immediately turned to go about his business, but the others were more reluctant to lose sight of Miranda. Even Oliver.

  Well, Alex knew the duplicity of character hiding behind that pretty face. “Do you need an invitation to work?” he asked.

  His crew came to their senses. They knew that tone in his voice. It was one not to be ignored.

  They hopped to, and Alex meant to join them. Hard work was exactly what he needed to take his mind off Miranda.

  But as he headed toward the quarterdeck, a new thought struck him, and he stopped.

  Why should I be the one to run away?

  Besides, he did have some questions. What had she been up to these past years? Would she remember him if he were to place himself directly in front of her?

  More importantly—had she married? Was there someone else in her life? Children she’d borne to another man?

  She certainly appeared prosperous now, and that had not been how he’d left Veral Cameron’s daughter.

  Before he could reason it out, Alex turned and started down the gangway, heading for Miranda.

  Three

  A bead of sweat trickled down Miranda’s spine, brought on by the warmth of the noonday sun, several layers of clothes—including a miserable corset she’d been instructed to wear to give her bust that “extra” push—and the knowledge that Lady Overstreet watched her closely.

  Only for Charlotte and Constance, waiting behind patiently in New York, would she go through all this trouble.

  This was her first test to see if, after weeks at sea being drilled on deportment, diction, and flirtation, she would prove to be a prize pupil or a dunce.

  Lady Overstreet had coolly informed her that capturing the hearts of every sailor on the Venture, the merchantman they had sailed on, didn’t count. “Sailors are a rough lot that will follow anything in skirts,” she’d declared. “What matters here is if you can attract other sorts of men. We shall test your skills in Ponta Delgada, when our ship stops for supplies. We shall make note of any shortcomings and refine your abilities before we arrive in London.”

  And so they had set out for a walk along the wharf, accompanied by the Venture’s commander, Captain Lewis, who had taken a liking to Lady Overstreet, and Senhor Esteves, the pilot and harbormaster. Senhor Esteves was a pompous man, old enough to be her grandfather, very wealthy according to Azorean standards, and embarrassingly smitten by her.

  On the trip over, she’d repeatedly told herself it didn’t matter whom she married. She was doing this for her sisters, whose chances at good marriages she had destroyed years ago. However, now she found herself praying, Please, God, don’t let me be married to a man as boring as Senhor Esteves.

  Fortunately, within minutes of starting their promenade, men came from everywhere to pay their addresses, and Miranda quickly encouraged them, using her new skills to great advantage. They crowded around her, begging introductions and wanting to monopolize her attention. She felt like an actor playing a part, and it was fun, especially after the boring hours at sea.

  Lady Overstreet had assured her that the secret to conversing with men was to let them talk about themselves. “It’s the only thing that truly interests them,” she had told Miranda. “No one values a woman’s opinion.”

  Sadly, Miranda realized her mentor’s advice was true. All she had to do was smile, hardly hearing half of what was said to her, and the gentlemen practically fell to their knees in front of her.

  The gentlemen didn’t seem to mind that she didn’t have a thought in her head. They didn’t appear to expect anything from her. She was like a lovely bauble, a description Lady Overstreet had used repeatedly during her tutoring, brought out for their enjoyment. Qualities such as kindness, intelligence, and a gentle nature were insignificant when compared to the advantages of an ample cleavage and a pretty face.

  Senhor Esteves refused to remove himself from Miranda’s side. He clutched her parasol with possessive authority, and in recognition of the power the harbormaster held in this island society, no one had challenged him for the spot beside her—until the British navy arrived.

  Captain Sir William Jeffords, commander of the British warship out in the harbor, was a very handsome man. His blond hair was styled in dashing ringlets, and he was trim and muscular, cutting a fine figure in his gold braid and dress uniform. Lady Overstreet fell all over herself at the mention of his family name and slid a pointed look to Miranda that informed her louder than words that here was someone suitable to test her new skills on.

  But Miranda’s American soul was not impressed. She’d met officers like him in New York—men who had taken one look at her dress and thought her beneath them. Nor did she like the way Sir William and his officers shoved aside Senhor Esteves and his countrymen as if they were lackeys. The pilot had been a touch too possessive, but Sir William’s conceit was irritating.

  She turned all her attention to Senhor Esteves. “You have great responsibilities, senhor. I would be quite apprehensive to carry out your duties.”

  It was the opening the harbormaster needed to talk about himself again. However, as he opened his mouth, Sir William smoothly interrupted him, even going so far as to step in between the pilot and Miranda. “Yes, those who stay in port have roles to fill, but the true excitement, Miss Cameron, is on the sea. It’s one of only two places a man can prove he is a man.” His gaze dropped to her expanse of exposed bosom.

  If he thought she was going to ask where the other place was, he was wrong.

  It was up to Lady Overstreet to respond in the expected manner. “And where is the other place
?” she asked Sir William.

  He grinned slyly, knowing the obvious choice, but answered smoothly, “Why, in any service possible to his country.”

  “Any service?” Lady Overstreet asked archly.

  “My dear lady, yes,” he answered, his tone warm and assured.

  Lady Overstreet giggled and gave him a pat on the arm for his impertinence. “Cheeky, Sir William, you are cheeky.”

  Miranda suppressed a yawn. She would have called him obvious.

  One of the ship’s officers, a young lieutenant, informed her, “In spite of his family obligations, Captain Sir William is one of the most daring officers in the fleet. He never flinches in the face of the enemy.”

  “Hightower,” Sir William chastised without heat, “I’m certain Miss Cameron is not interested in war or my family connections.” And Miranda was equally certain he couldn’t wait to tell her what they were.

  For that reason, she didn’t ask.

  She would have turned her attention back to Senhor Esteves, except Lady Overstreet was not going to let such a comment escape unexplored.

  “Your family, sir? Pray tell. Perhaps I have made acquaintance with one of them. Miss Cameron is the granddaughter of the late Earl of Bagsley.”

  “Ah, an earl,” Sir William said, and Miranda sensed that she had come up in his esteem. He shook his head. “I don’t trade on my family. I wish to be honored for my own abilities. But, since you insisted,” he continued, giving no one time to say anything, “my cousin is Colster.”

  “The Duke of Colster,” Mr. Hightower whispered in an aside to Lady Overstreet. “He’s his heir.”

  Lady Overstreet placed her hand over her heart, genuinely aflutter with excitement. “How fortunate for you, Sir William, to be so well-connected. Why, His Grace is considered one of the leading bachelors of the realm.”

  “Quite so,” Sir William answered, “although I doubt if he’ll ever remarry. My cousin was and is devoted to his first wife, who passed away at a regrettably young age. Meanwhile, I am ready for a wife and in search of a woman who would enjoy the life of a simple seaman, albeit one with a sizable portion to his name. The bark of our family tree is made of money.”