GIFFORD'S LADY
Claire Thornton
MILLS & BOON*
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
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First published in Great Britain 2002 Large Print edition 2003 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Claire Thornton 2002
ISBN 0 263 17994 X
Set in Times Roman 14 on 15 pt. 42-0403-81300
To Sally-For naming Gifford's ship
Chapter One
The knife was slippery with blood and sweat. Gifford switched it to his left hand and rubbed his right palm against his breeches. He crouched in the shadows and listened. Above him the huge sails of the privateer blotted out the starlight. The darkness was Gifford's only ally—but it forced him to rely on his hearing and sense of touch as he crept undetected through the enemy ship.
There were at least three men on the quarterdeck. He'd seen the glow of the binnacle lantern a few moments ago. Now he could hear their voices intermit-tently drifting forwards to him on the night air. He couldn't distinguish their words, but one man laughed.
Gifford pressed his lips together. Let the fellow en-joy the joke while he still could. Soon the boot would be on the other foot.
There was a man dead in the cabin that had been Gifford's prison cell. Another one dead in the shadows close to the cabin door. From the little Gifford had overheard from the privateer crew, he believed his own men were prisoners in the hold. He had to find them, release them—and arm them.
He crept along the gangway towards the fo'c's'le. Every sense was alert. Had he been captain of this vessel he'd have had at least six lookouts spaced around the ship to scan the horizon. He didn't want to stumble into one in the darkness. But the lookouts would be watching for danger from the sea—not from behind them on their own ship.
The smell of pipe smoke was his only warning that a privateer crewman stood barely three feet away. Gifford froze. His right hand tightened convulsively— then relaxed into a normal grip on the knife handle.
Before this night he had killed only in the heat of battle, when the enemy was armed and facing him...
The pipe-smoking seaman gazed contemplatively out towards the Caribbean Sea. Gifford slipped behind him, his bare feet silent on the wooden deck. He made it to the hatch and down to the next deck without being detected. A few seconds later the lookouts were hailed from the quarterdeck. Gifford tensed like a panther about to strike. Had his escape been discovered?
No. They were simply the normal hails. None of the lookouts had anything to report. Gifford released an unsteady breath, and gave thanks he'd slipped undetected past the pipe-smoking lookout.
Two men armed with muskets guarded the prisoners. Gifford's men had been crowded together into the airless hold. He wondered how many had already died of suffocation. Anger at the unnecessary cruelty fuelled his ruthless determination to destroy the privateers.
Both guards had their back to him, and Gifford paused for a few seconds, letting his vision adjust to the lantern light. He had a brace of pistols stuck
through his belt, but they would do him no good here. The sound of a shot would bring all his enemies down upon him.
He also had two knives. He altered his grip on the first knife, focussed his attention on the guard's back— and threw the dagger. The throw was hard, fast, and accurate. The man slumped forward with a soft grunt. The other guard froze with disbelief as his friend toppled silently over. He started to turn towards Gifford, automatically raising his musket. Gifford threw his second knife...
He woke suddenly. His heart pounding. His limbs paralysed with fear.
The dark room was full of unfamiliar shapes and shadows. The night air hot and oppressively muggy. His naked body wet with sweat.
For two seconds Gifford remained enslaved to the nightmare. Then he leapt from the bed, seizing up his dirk as he did so—and roared his defiance at the demons who haunted his sleep.
He'd barely registered that there was carpet beneath his feet—not the wooden deck of the privateer—when the door was flung open.
Anthony stood on the threshold, holding a multi-branched candelabrum in one hand, a book in the other. His dark skin glistened in the candlelight but, unlike Gifford, he was naked only to the waist.
'What the devil's happening?' he demanded.
* * *
The August night was so hot and still that Abigail had given up all attempt to sleep. She'd opened her curtains and her window and pulled her chair as close to the casement as possible. She was clad only in a thin muslin nightgown, and she felt very daring letting the night air caress her nearly naked body. If some of the more prudish Bath gossips knew what she was doing, they'd be scandalised by her behaviour. But she'd doused all the candles before opening her curtains, and her room was two floors above street level. It was hardly likely anyone would notice her at one thirty in the morning.
She fanned herself gently, relaxed and comfortable in her chair.
The next instant a ferocious shout split the night. Abigail's blood froze. For a few seconds she was transfixed with shock. Then her heart started to pound with fear and excitement. She leant forward, trying to locate the source of the cry.
A room in the house opposite suddenly lit up. She blinked and jerked backwards at the unexpected brightness, then gasped as she saw two men facing each other—one holding a candelabrum aloft, the other with a knife in his outstretched hand. Abigail half rose in her chair. She was certain she was about to see murder committed.
Frantic thoughts hurtled through her mind. Should she call out in the hope of distracting them? Or summon help? Who could help her at this hour? She peered down into the street below, but there was no one there.
She heard one of the men speak, and immediately returned her attention to the room opposite. She saw
that the man with the dagger had let his hand fall to his side.
She let out a shaky breath. Perhaps the moment of danger had passed. But she couldn't take her eyes off the frightening scene. She gripped the windowsill and strained to hear what they said to each other. The other window was also open to its widest extent and the men's voices carried on the still night air.
'What the devil's happening?' It was the man with the candelabrum who spoke. He sounded startled, but not afraid.
'A dream. Just a damned dream.' The man with the knife sounded so disgusted with himself that, despite her alarm, Abigail involuntarily smiled.
He turned to lay the knife down. His action further reassured Abigail. He obviously wasn't planning to commit murder any time soon. Now she had an opportunity to fully register what she'd already subconsciously noticed.
The uneven play of candlelight obscured some portions of his anatomy in shadows and threw other parts into bright relief; but Abigail could see quite clearly that he wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing.
He was entirely naked! And as well formed as a Greek god. She'd seen the strength and tension in his whole body when he'd first confronted h
is light-bearing friend. He'd eased into a more relaxed stance, but his broad-shouldered frame still emanated virile power. Candlelight delineated the sculptural planes of his hard, muscular body.
He was beautiful. Abigail had never seen a completely naked man before. She couldn't tear her eyes
away from him. It didn't even occur to her that she should.
'Remember the wager?' The man with the candelabrum spoke again. Abigail reluctantly turned her attention to him. He was also a well-made man. He had black skin, but he talked to the white man as an equal. He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, which currently held a hint of amusement.
'A month in Bath with no adventures—I know.' The white man lifted his arm to run his fingers through his hair. Abigail was fascinated by the fall of light on his shifting muscles. The hard ridges of his stomach were so unlike her own soft flesh. She unthinkingly stroked her thigh as she wondered how different his body would feel if she touched it. He was very pleasing to look at. Very pleasing.
'Yes. But, Giff—that means no adventures in your sleep either.'
'A man has no control over his dreams!' the man called Giff retorted. 'I'll not lose my wager over a dream. Besides, I'm not the one haunting the house with a candlestick and a book at...whatever ungodly hour this is. I lay down to sleep. I did sleep.'
It seemed to Abigail that his words contained a challenge.
T was too hot to sleep,' the other man said mildly.
'Hah!' said the man called Giff. 'Well, now I'm awake I'll share your light. I'm hungry. There must be decent rations somewhere in the bowels of this house.'
'You might want to dress first?' his friend suggested, when it looked as if Giff intended to set out on his mission straight away. 'Encountering Mrs Chesney in
your current state might come perilously close to having an adventure.'
'Nonsense,' said Giff briskly. 'A scandal is not the same as an adventure. However, in deference to your finer feelings...'
He turned away from the light towards the window. Abigail could no longer see him clearly, but it suddenly occurred to her they were separated only by the width of the street below. With the light behind him—perhaps he could see her?
He stood very still, looking across at her window. She held herself motionless, horrified that her unintentional eavesdropping had been discovered. She knew he could see her silhouette as she leant against the win-dowsill, but she prayed he couldn't see her features— or anything that might subsequently allow him to identify her.
The tense moment lengthened. Then, very calmly but smartly, he saluted her.
'What the hell...?' Anthony demanded, following Gifford on to the landing.
Gifford closed his bedroom door, then pulled on the breeches he had collected on the way out.
'We must find out who has the house opposite,' he said tautly. 'And, in particular, who occupies the room directly across from mine.'
'Someone saw you?' Anthony stared at him, then started to laugh.
Some of the tension ebbed out of Gifford's body and he grinned ruefully. 'No doubt a prudish old dowager, scandalised because I don't wear a nightcap,' he said.
'Are you sure it was a woman?'
'Yes. This is at the worst a scandal,' Gifford reminded Anthony firmly. 'If you hear rumours circulating the Pump Room about a naked madman with a dagger, you'll know where they originated. But it is definitely not an adventure.'
'What I most admire about you, Giff—I believe it's an admiration shared by many flag officers—is your slippery ability to reinterpret plain English to suit your own intentions,' Anthony observed. 'I wonder who the lady was?'
'So do I,' said Gifford. 'I hope she does justice to the drama of the moment when she spreads the tale.'
Abigail closed her curtains with trembling hands. Without even the meagre circulation of air the open drapes had facilitated, her room rapidly became stifling. It was far too hot to be so embarrassed, but her whole body burned with mortification.
She fanned herself briskly and resisted the urge to hide under her bedclothes. She'd found out a long time ago that, however much she might long for the floor to swallow her up, hiding never did anything to relieve emotional or mental distress. And hiding under the bedclothes in this heat would only make her ill.
She'd simply have to brazen the situation out. Very few people visited Bath in August unless they were genuinely sick. Both of the gentlemen she'd seen op-
posite had looked to be in the peak of physical condition—Abigail took guilty pleasure in remembering how fit they'd been—so perhaps they'd leave soon.
No. They were here for a month. A month in Bath without an adventure. That's what they'd said.
She wondered what kind of adventures they'd had in the past. Dangerous ones, if 'Giff's' response to his nightmare was any indication.
She was impressed and a little scared by his fierce reaction to his bad dream. On the rare occasions when she had nightmares she lay very still and waited for her fears to recede and rational thought to return. She was far too timid to leap out of bed and confront her monsters the way he had.
She wondered what it was like to be so brave. She wondered who they were.
If the visitors followed Bath custom they would have their names and place of abode entered into the Pump Room book. It was Miss Wyndham's pleasure that Abigail should check the Pump Room book every day to see if there were any interesting arrivals. So tomorrow morning Abigail might have the answer to her question.
But Abigail wasn't sure if men who wandered around their lodgings naked, or semi-naked, and kept daggers by their bedside, would be familiar with Bath customs.
There was always the Bath Chronicle, which listed new arrivals every week. Failing that, there was Mrs Chesney, the owner of the house opposite. Abigail was surprised she hadn't already heard all about the new visitors from her neighbour. During the Season Mrs
Chesney hired out the different floors of her house to visitors. Sometimes a family would even lease the entire house, with Mrs Chesney acting as their housekeeper. But Mrs Chesney had not had any visitors the last time she'd spoken to Abigail, nor had she mentioned the imminent arrival of any. But then, the last time they'd met, Mrs Chesney had been so full of her daughter's recent confinement and the arrival of her new grandchild she hadn't had a thought to spare for anything else.
It wasn't usual for bachelors to take lodgings, they normally stayed at one of the hotels. Perhaps the two men had brought their families with them? For some reason Abigail didn't care for that idea.
She knew all her speculations were utterly pointless. Within the next twenty-four hours she was bound to find out more about the men than she could possibly wish to know. But the brief scene she'd witnessed was certainly the most intriguing, exciting thing she'd ever seen in her hitherto exceptionally staid life.
When Gifford returned to his room he checked the window opposite. The curtains were firmly drawn. It was too much to hope his female eavesdropper would provide him with reciprocal entertainment.
He grinned briefly at the notion. But he wasn't comfortable with what she'd seen. A fool beset by nightmares who faced down invisible phantoms with a dirk. Hardly the actions of a true hero.
He closed his own curtains, the heat was unpleasant, but he'd capered enough for the entertainment of his neighbours.
'Ah, Miss Summers! The very person!'
Abigail was inspecting the Pump Room book when Admiral Pullen accosted her. She turned towards him with a smile. The admiral had retired to Bath eighteen months earlier and they'd quickly become friends. Abigail always enjoyed talking to him. He told her fascinating stories about worlds she'd never seen.
'Good morning, Ad...mir...al...' Her voice faded away as she realised he wasn't alone.
Two men stood beside him, watching her with polite interest.
Her heart skittered into a more rapid beat. One of the men was black. The other... Was dangerous.
He wore a patch over his left eye. A scar e
xtended down his left cheek and up across his forehead into his hairline. A streak of white hair marked the path of the healed wound across his scalp. The rest of his hair was jet black.
His face was tanned from long exposure to the sun. His good eye was a startlingly brilliant blue. His features were strongly defined and unquestionably aristocratic. His face would have been handsome before he was injured. His appearance was still commanding. But he also looked...lethal.
Even though he stood quite still an aura of raw power surrounded him. He was conventionally dressed
in a well-tailored blue coat and a neatly tied cravat, but those indicators of civilisation couldn't disguise the underlying wildness of his nature. His stance was relaxed yet alert, and his bearing supremely self-confident.
He was several inches taller than the admiral, and a whole head taller than Abigail. She felt dwarfed by his height and the breadth of his shoulders—and nervously excited by the cool challenge in his gaze.
She saw at once that he knew the impact he'd made upon her. No doubt he was accustomed to women swooning over him. She drew in a careful, shallow breath, aware he was watching her as closely as she watched him. She prayed he couldn't hear the frantic beating of her heart.
The first time she'd seen him he'd been entirely naked. Did he know that? She swallowed nervously. Had he recognised her as surely as she'd recognised him?
She had no doubt the admiral's companions were the same two men she'd seen last night. Two men: one black, one white, travelling to Bath as friends. A man who woke from a nightmare to snatch up a dagger...
She hadn't seen his face clearly enough to notice his scars, but she was certain this was the same man who'd saluted her at the window.
She felt a moment of sheer panic. Convinced he knew her secret as certainly as she knew his. No wonder he looked so arrogantly amused. Eavesdroppers traditionally fare badly when discovered.
'I know the poor devil looks rather piratical these days, but he was the best young officer I ever served with.'
Abigail belatedly realised the admiral had just fin-ished introducing her to his companions.
'I'm so sorry.' She struggled to compose herself. 'I was m-memorising the new arrivals for Miss Wyndham when you spoke to me. You took me by surprise. A little by surprise,' she amended hastily, not wanting the admiral to think he'd upset her. 'How do you do, gentlemen?'
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