Sir William laughed. “I thought it a fitting epithet. You know what that means, don’t you, Haddon? Epithet? The name one is called behind his back?” He smiled smugly, pleased with himself.
“Yes, I do, Captain Lord Sea Slug,” Alex returned evenly.
“What did you call me?” Sir William whirled around, his hand going to his waist as if reaching for the sword he did not wear.
“You heard me,” Alex said.
“Would you like to meet me, Haddon?”
Before Alex could answer, Miranda stepped between the two men. This exchange of words was escalating beyond common sense. “Please. This isn’t the time or the place.”
“There is no set place to defend a man’s name,” Sir William responded, sounding like a pompous boor.
It was on the tip of Miranda’s tongue to point out he had started the name calling first, but she could see Sir William was the sort of man her father had been—one without humor and tolerance. He would not listen to reason.
Her regrets to Charlotte and Constance, but she would never marry a man like him. Ever.
“I am famished,” she complained, aping the way she’d observed Lady Overstreet manage her lover Captain Lewis on many occasions. “Will you escort me into supper, or shall I ask Captain Haddon?” Another Lady Overstreet trick. She’d assured Miranda jealousy always worked with men—and it did.
She started toward the door, but Sir William caught her arm. “Of course I shall escort you,” he said. “This savage is beneath my notice.” He led her through the terrace door and into the dark room. However, before they stepped into the lighted hall, he stopped.
Tightening his grip on her arm, he said, “I don’t want to see you with that man again, even with a chaperone.”
His rebuke irritated her. “Are you threatening me?”
He pulled her close. “I’m giving advice.”
Miranda bent back. “I’m not one of the sailors on your ship, sir.”
“You most certainly aren’t,” he agreed with masculine appreciation. “But I think you’d best be careful what you do, Miss Cameron. I admit I have a bit of interest in you. A wise woman would do what she could to be pleasant to me.”
“Are you dictating to me whom I shall talk to?” No one did that. Not anymore. “Sir William, I will talk to whom I wish and when, and I will not let any man dictate my behavior.”
“You would if you were married to that man,” he said, unoffended. “The right man could tame such a spirited will as yours and make you happy.” His thin lips were inches from her cheek. She could feel his hot breath and realized he was going to kiss her.
The idea made her ill.
Miranda ducked, and his lips almost hit the door frame. She escaped out into the lighted hall. A cluster of people stood at the other end, but up here they were alone. “Please, Sir William,” she murmured, a false smile on her face, “this is not seemly.”
But Sir William was done with manners. “Seemly?” He scowled as he pushed away from the door and came out into the hall. “You let that savage kiss you. And yet you would deny me?”
He hadn’t bothered to keep his voice down. The conversation of the people down the hall stopped. They might not speak English, but they could tell a fight was brewing.
Miranda had had enough of her first night in “society.” She started backing down the hall, not trusting this angry man. Nor was she willing to placate him. “I beg your pardon, Sir William, but I discover I am not hungry after all.” Safely away, she gave him her back and headed toward the music.
The guests blocking her way to the party stepped aside. She sensed Sir William followed and knew he was not pleased, but she was done with him.
As soon as she could find Lady Overstreet, she would suggest they leave. In the meantime, a partner quickly claimed her hand for the next dance, and with relief, she accepted, making a point to not glance even once at Sir William.
“You must leave her alone,” Lady Overstreet told Alex once Jeffords and Miranda had left them by themselves on the terrace.
“Why? So you can sell her off for a title?” Alex argued to argue. He told himself he didn’t care. This woman Miranda had become was not the one he’d fallen in love when he had been too young to know any better.
Of course that didn’t mean he didn’t want to bed her. The scent of her lingered in the air and kept him charged with restless energy. He needed release.
Lady Overstreet started to respond to his peevish question but Alex waved her off. “Don’t worry. I don’t want her.” Saying those words almost made him believe them. “We are two very different people now.”
Lady Overstreet’s attitude softened. “I can understand, Captain Haddon, and I must apologize for Sir William. He is very temperamental. He doesn’t like competition.”
“I’m not his competition,”Alex assured her. “His sort of arrogance would never appeal to Miranda.”
To his surprise, Lady Overstreet nodded her head in agreement. “However, a woman making her way in this world often doesn’t have choices.” She crossed the terrace to stand in front of him. “Our Miranda carries the responsibility for her family. Fortunately, as you know, she has the looks and, yes, intelligence to make a spectacular match, one that will be gossiped about for generations. Captain Haddon, if you care for her, and I believe you do, you will let her go.”
“I don’t hold her,” he said.
“But you want to,” she answered. “There isn’t anyone who came out on this terrace tonight who didn’t have an idea of what may have passed between the two of you.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Stay away from her, sir. She’s not for you.”
“And what does that mean?” Alex asked quietly, daring her to spell it out.
“You understand,” she said.
“That I am Shawnee?”
Lady Overstreet smiled. “Oh no, that is one of the more appealing things about you. But I’m here to see Miranda gets more than a title. She also needs money.”
“No, you want money,” he corrected.
“I do,” Lady Overstreet agreed without apology. “And I will make a great deal of it negotiating for her husband. Already Sir William has offered me twice what I thought I could receive.”
“And how much is that?” Alex demanded, his pride wanting to know. He had money. He could outbid an ass like Jeffords.
But he didn’t want to buy Miranda. Once, she’d freely chosen him. He wanted her to do it again. He wanted her loyalty. Her trust. He wanted her to stand up to the world that had disapproved of them—
Alex hated feeling vulnerable. He took an uncertain step back, thankful there were no torches and paper lanterns to expose his thoughts to the light.
Lady Overstreet was prattling away. “I’ll get far more than what Sir William offered for her in London. She’s a prize. A rare beauty. You know your sex, sir. There will be those who will pay a fortune for her.”
She was right. “I don’t agree with slavery.”
Her Ladyship didn’t take his words as an insult. “Every marriage is slavery for the woman, Captain. The wise of us recognize the fact and take control.”
“You make marriage sound cold.”
“It is.” She smiled sadly. “Look at the marriages around you. Do you know one that is happy?”
Alex thought of Michael, his business partner, and his wife, Isabel. He’d never seen two happier people than when they were together. He admired their easy camaraderie that came from two people who understood and liked each other. Something that was more than lust.
Lady Overstreet misinterpreted his silence for agreement. She edged close to him, her heavy perfume drowning out the scent of the roses growing up the trellis. In a low voice, she said, “Now, if it is merely a romp in the sheets you are interested in, perhaps I can be of service.” She stroked the bulge of his breeches. “And I would be a great deal more entertaining than Miss Cameron, who is a bit stiff, don’t you think?” Her fingers moved toward his waistband.
&nb
sp; She knew he needed release and was willing.
However, Alex looked down into her greedy eyes and felt nothing. Not even animal desire. He’d never been one for casual liaisons, because he’d been waiting for Miranda.
The realization gave him a start. He’d flirted, even taken a woman to bed a time or two…but he’d also been waiting.
Well, the waiting was over, but he certainly wasn’t in the mood to have a roll in the bed with the woman who was helping Miranda sell herself into marriage.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You are not worth the price.”
Her lips pulled back in an angry sneer. She raised her hand to slap him. He caught it by the wrist. “I’ve been slapped once by a woman this night and that’s once too many.” He threw her hand aside and, without a backward glance, left the terrace.
He walked back to the party. It wasn’t hard to find Miranda. She was surrounded by admirers. However, Sir William and his crew were not among them.
Alex was tempted to leave the party. He’d had enough. He wanted to return to his ship. However, leaving now would be running. He’d stay if for no other reason than to irritate Jeffords and Miranda.
He asked the lovely daughter of a local merchant to dance, and by the time he’d finished, Miranda and Lady Overstreet had left. Jeffords quickly followed.
Alex was free. He searched out Senhor Esteves. The man was recovering his spirits in the arms of an understanding older woman who introduced herself as one of Esteves’s neighbors. Alex said his good-nights and left. A donkey cart took him down to Ponta Delgada.
The town was quiet this late in the night. There wasn’t even a watch to cry the hour. Clouds played with the moon, threatening to hide it completely. At the docks, Alex paid the driver, tipping him well, and started for his ship.
Out in the harbor, the port and starboard lights of the warship reflected off the water. The merchantman carrying Miranda was completely quiet. His gaze strayed to the deck railing. He wondered if Miranda thought of him at all.
He came to a halt, reaching a decision. The taste and feel of her was still vivid in his mind, but he would let her go. He’d been a fool for her long enough.
His decision made, he started walking and was halfway toward the Warrior when he heard a footfall behind him. His senses honed from years of survival signaled a warning.
He turned.
Three sailors stood there on the wharf. “We’ve been waitin’ for you, Captain,” the tallest one said. He had an Irish brogue and was almost Alex’s height although broader in the chest. His meaty fists were doubled.
The moon came out, and Alex could see the three wore the Royal Navy uniform, or some variant of it. These were hardened seamen. They would fight Alex just for sport.
“Is this Jeffords’s way of sending me his regards?” Alex asked, backing up not only to place himself in better position for the fight, but also for the watch on the Warrior to see. He always had a watch posted on his ship. He prayed the man was alert and saw what was happening.
Alex couldn’t go too far because there were two more behind him. They stepped out from hiding places along the wharf.
It appeared he was about to take another beating for Miranda.
Damn if he wouldn’t make it his last.
The Irishman grinned. He was missing most of his front teeth. “My captain desires you to mind your manners in the future.”
“Oh,” Alex said, spreading his hands, “If that is all, please tell him I will do so. Good night, gents.” He turned and, whistling, pretended to start for his ship.
“Don’t let him pass,” the Irishman said, but it was too late.
Alex had found his advantage. As the two goons moved on him, he swung fast and hard at the nearest sailor. The man’s nose cracked, and he fell where he stood. Alex was no fool. He had every intention of running for his ship, but then three more bastards came from the shadows where they had been hiding to block his path. One of them was one of Jeffords’s smug junior officers. Alex remembered his name. Hightower.
“Get him,” Hightower commanded, and all seven rushed Alex at once.
He went for Hightower.
Eight
Alex reasoned that if he could get his hand around the officer’s throat, the others would hold off. It was a good plan.
It just didn’t work.
Hightower had no intention of fighting. He turned and ran, leaving Alex to face the Irishman and his ilk.
Holding his hand up palm out, Alex sued for peace. There was no sense in getting his body punched if he could talk his way out of it. “I have no quarrel with any of you. Let your officers come fight their own battles.”
Unfortunately, the fellow whose nose he’d broken chose that time to groan.
The Irishman looked down at the man and then up at Alex. “That is me brother.”
“It wasn’t personal,” Alex said in his own defense.
“Yes, it is,” the Irishman answered and swung his meaty fist. It caught Alex in the jaw, cutting his cheek.
In turn, Alex gave him a good wallop in the gut, doubling the man over, but no matter how hard Alex fought, he was outnumbered. With Hightower standing safely away from the fray urging them on, they managed to pull Alex down, pummeling him around his head and shoulders. He attempted to protect himself as much as possible from the blows and kicks—until he felt the knife.
He sensed the blade before he felt it. A beating was on thing, murder another. He arched his back just as the knife came at him. It slit the side of his coat and sliced his arm.
Alex’s temper exploded. It was a flesh wound, but the smell of blood, his blood, was in the air. The savagery of his forebears, both Shawnee and English, surged through him. He rose, tossing aside those who had attacked him.
But instead of regrouping, the sailors turned away, joined by a smaller but angrier group. It was only when he grabbed a man by his shirt and pulled back, ready to give him a slug, that he recognized his crew member Vijay.
“Not me, not me,” Vijay cried out.
Alex lowered his fist, much to Vijay’s relief, and realized that Oliver and the rest of his lads had come to his rescue. There were giving the British navy a drubbing they’d likely never forget.
The Irishman landed a facer on Oliver. Alex tapped him on the shoulder. The larger man turned, and Alex planted a punch right on his nose.
“You broke it,” the Irishman complained.
“As if it hasn’t been broken before,” Alex answered, a quip that earned him a grin from his opponent.
“You are all right, Captain Haddon. Sorry about this.”
Alex grunted his response and pushed the man over the pier into the drink. He fell with a splash and started swimming.
But the most satisfactory moment was when Flat Nose finished the fight by catching Hightower before he could run again, and tossing him into the water between the ships after his Irish henchman. He thrashed around a bit and then took off swimming, calling for one of his men to bring the boat over to him.
That was it. With Hightower gone, his crew scattered, hobbling off into the shadows.
Alex shook out his hand; his knuckles were scraped raw and his side felt bruised and tender. He didn’t think he’d broken a rib, but he would not forget this fight for a night or two. All was quiet now on the docks. Not a soul stirred from any of the other ships. He wiped blood from the cut on his cheek and asked Oliver, “What took you so long?”
The Scot grinned. “Wait a minute, Cap’n.” He cocked an ear. They could hear Hightower cursing and splashing as he was helped into the boat, and then the sound of oars pulling through water. “Was that not lovely music? There’s nothing better than the racket a British officer makes when receiving his comeuppance.” He gave Alex a playful shove in the shoulder. “We could have been here sooner, but the lads and I knew you could handle yourself.”
Alex touched the cut on his face, and Oliver laughed. “Your pretty face will be better for it—”
He broke of
f, his expression growing serious as he noticed the blood on his hand. “What’s this? You’re bleeding bad.”
“One of them had a knife.”
The humor left Oliver’s face. “We’d best get you back.”
Without argument, Alex started for the ship. He placed a hand over the cut on his shoulder, trying to get the bleeding to stop. “Are we ready to sail? I can’t wait to leave this accursed place.”
“Aye, we are, sir,” Oliver said.
“Good. I want every man at his gun. I don’t trust Jeffords to not try and blow us out of the water. But if he does, there will be a fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reaching the Warrior, Alex climbed the gangway and walked to his cabin. With each step, his temper grew. It had been a long time since he’d been in a fight. But if Jeffords thought he could attack and not face retaliation, he was wrong.
Oliver followed him inside and lighted lanterns while Alex rummaged through his sea chest. He didn’t need light to know where he was going. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and uncorked it.
In answer to Oliver’s surprised raised eyebrows, he said, “It’s been a bad night.” He poured two glasses, two fingers in each.
“I see.” Oliver took a glass and lifted it. “It was that woman, wasn’t it?”
Alex didn’t answer but drained his glass in one gulp. He wasn’t a drinking man. He had witnessed more than one man make dangerous decisions or foolish mistakes because of liquor. He admired men who had their wits about them.
Tonight, he didn’t care.
The peaty whiskey burned his throat and seemed to sink a hole into his gut, but it felt good. The warmth spread, and he poured himself another.
“Easy, Captain. Speyside whiskey is best sipped.”
In response, Alex downed that glass, too.
Oliver set his own glass aside, “Let me see the cut.”
Alex yanked off the silver collar he wore around his neck. His coat was ruined, not that he cared. Besides the gash on the shoulder, the sleeves were torn at their seams, and the buttons had gone missing. He pulled his coat off. The shirt was the worst. Impatient, Alex grabbed the neckline and ripped it off.
The Price of Indiscretion Page 9
