'I'm taking Abigail to stay with Cole and Honor,' Gifford announced.
'Is that what she wants?' Anthony enquired.
'She isn't experienced enough to know what she wants!' Gifford snapped. 'Until a few days ago she was surrounded by a gaggle of old women.'
'And Joshua,' said Anthony mildly.
'Who?' Gifford whirled round and pinned his cousin with a diamond hard stare.
'The dim-witted but loyal footman,' Anthony reminded him. 'He knocked Johnson down at the will-reading. If he'd still been in Bath to protect Miss Summers, she would probably never have needed rescuing.'
'Dammit!' Gifford slammed his fist into his open palm. 'You're right. We shouldn't have sent him away. She obviously needs a maid and a footman, and we just sent them both into Oxfordshire.'
'For God's sake!' Anthony snapped. 'Will you stop acting like you're meant to be some kind of omniscient, omnipotent saviour to the rest of creation! It's damned arrogant, and damned insulting to the rest of us to boot.'
Gifford's broad, muscular chest rose and fell with each fierce breath he took. His large body tensed with coiled, dangerous energy. Sunlight glinted on his white-streaked black hair. His scar and eye-patch seemed out of place in the quiet country orchard. He fought a battle with himself while Anthony watched and waited. At last he pressed his lips together and turned his head away. He ran his fingers through his hair until it stuck up from his scalp in black spikes.
'It wasn't your fault,' said Anthony quietly. 'Not what happened yesterday. And not what happened on the Unicorn. It was not your fault that you were
knocked unconscious by a piece of shrapnel. You're lucky—we're lucky—you're still alive. It was not your fault that when he thought you were dead, Captain Radner turned tail and left the Unicorn to face both enemy ships alone. And it was not your fault that Lieutenant Pemberton panicked and surrendered to the privateers.'
'Pemberton's loss of nerve was my fault,' said Gifford coldly. 'If I train my officers so badly that when I'm out of action they go to pieces—I am responsible.'
'But Pemberton was not your choice as first lieutenant, and you didn't train him,' Anthony countered. 'He was forced on to you at Kingston by Admiral Evans because he owed the man's father a huge tailor's bill, for God's sake! Giff—even you can't turn an admiral's lapdog into a fighting man in three weeks!'
'I shouldn't have let Evans foist him on to me after Winters was promoted,' Gifford muttered. 'Fenton was more than ready for the responsibility of being first lieutenant.'
'And Lieutenant Fenton helped you retake the Unicorn,' Anthony reminded him. 'And he did become your first lieutenant after Pemberton's death. And perhaps Pemberton wouldn't have lost his nerve if Captain Radner, for whom you had no responsibility at all—he was senior to you, on the captains' list, dammit!— hadn't fled from the battle. The man was court-martialled for cowardice!'
At some point during the argument Anthony had hauled himself to his feet and now he stood virtually nose-to-nose with Gifford.
'And I still think there was a good chance Pemberton might have rallied after the first shock of seeing you fall if Radner hadn't let us all down so catastrophi-cally,' Anthony continued, his voice quieter, but no less intense. 'It was like having the legs knocked from under us—the breath knocked out of our lungs—to see him sail away from us, Giff! Unbelievable. Just simply unbelievable.'
'Then I'm doing Pemberton an injustice,' Gifford said bleakly.
'Perhaps.' Anthony sighed. 'I don't know, Giff. I don't know the finer points of seamanship well enough to know whether another commander would have been able to claw his way out of the hole Radner had left us in. Fenton said once you could do things with the Unicorn he wouldn't have believed possible if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. So perhaps you're judging the whole affair—something you didn't see with your own eyes, let me remind you—according to standards which are just too impossibly high.'
Gifford looked at Anthony for silence for several intense moments. 'For God's sake, sit down before you fall down,' he said harshly, and turned away.
Anthony sighed, and eased himself carefully back into his chair. This argument had been brewing ever since they'd been reunited after Gifford had recaptured the Unicorn. Anthony understood some of Gifford's mental anguish. He understood that, from the moment a captain read out his commission to his crew, he became responsible for every man, beast and inanimate object on the ship—and for every order that his junior officers gave. If, for example, one of Gifford's lieuten-
ants had ever made a mistake which allowed the Unicorn to run aground—it would have been Gifford who would have been court-martialled for the loss of his ship.
It made no difference to Gifford that he had been unconscious when his first lieutenant surrendered his ship and crew to the privateers. He still held himself ultimately responsible for what had happened.
But Anthony thought that perhaps, if Gifford's officers had surrendered to a more honourable enemy— and if the surrender hadn't been forced upon them by an act of gross cowardice by another British captain— Gifford might have felt less bitter about the whole affair.
Gifford turned his back on Anthony. His cousin's forthright comments had angered him. They'd also left him feeling shaken and painfully exposed. He knew his response to the Unicorn's capture wasn't entirely rational. Every time he tried to think about what had happened, he shied away from the memories. The nightmares were bad enough. Deliberately choosing to relive those days was profoundly disturbing. He'd never felt so helpless in his life. He'd never before comprehended the hellish torment of being utterly powerless—and he never wanted to experience it again.
Captain Radner's betrayal of the Unicorn was impossible for Gifford to understand or to forgive, an affront to everything Gifford believed in, and a blemish on the navy he had served half his life. Upon his return to England, Radner had been court-martialled under the Articles of War. The intervention of influential friends had enabled him to escape the severest penalty for his
actions, but he was a ruined man. His act of cowardice had also led to the destruction of Lieutenant Pemberton.
Anthony had exaggerated when he'd claimed Pemberton had owed his advancement to the debts Admiral Evans owed to the lieutenant's father, but it was certainly true that the lieutenant had been one of the admiral's proteges. He'd had limited experience on board a frigate before he'd been appointed Gifford's first lieutenant, and he'd had only three weeks in his new position before he'd been forced to make life-or-death decisions about the fate of the Unicorn and her crew.
Gifford's hands fisted at his sides. The game of 'what if was a useless waste of time. But what if Pemberton had had a little longer to gain confidence in handling the Unicorn? Could he have outmanoeuvred the two privateers and sailed to safety?
What if...? What if...?
Gifford was well aware that, to most observers, the Unicorn's capture represented no more than a minor, temporary reversal of fortune. He'd retaken his frigate, and ultimately captured both privateers as his prizes. A personal and professional triumph. To Gifford, it had been gained at too high a price.
He gazed unseeingly at the daisy-studded grass, listened distantly to the drone of a bumblebee, and tried to forget about the Unicorn. He had more pressing concerns. He was going to take Abigail to London and introduce her to fashionable society. Or, at least, he was going to arrange for her to be introduced to the
ton. He was under no illusions about how poorly he fitted into that world.
The damsel was no doubt delighted to see St George when she needed him to slay her dragon, but she wouldn't want to dance with him at the grand ball the following night. She'd favour a man with more address and fewer battle scars.
'Well, I'll be damned!' Anthony exclaimed suddenly, getting slowly to his feet. 'What have you done to upset Miss Summers? She looks as if she's about to start breathing fire.'
Gifford raised his head to discover Abigail was striding through the or
chard towards him. He blinked, and checked her attire more carefully.
'Good heavens!' he said in disbelief, when she came to a halt in front of him. 'The Romans have been trounced. Boadicea rules victorious.'
Abigail planted her hands on her hips and lifted her chin defiantly. She'd torn up the bedsheet and turned it into a flowing white tunic, fastened with knots over each shoulder. She'd braided additional strips of linen into a long chord, which was loosely tied around her trim waist. Her rich auburn hair fell all around her shoulders in shining waves. At some point she'd found the time to make use of the brush Gifford had put on the breakfast tray for her and forgotten to mention, but she'd made no effort to pin her hair up.
In her simple white tunic, with the morning sunlight shining on her cascading curls, she looked absolutely magnificent. She certainly managed to stun every coherent thought out of Gifford's dazed mind.
'Who the devil do you think you are, Gifford Raven?' she demanded fiercely. 'Telling me I'm not fit to make up my own mind?'
'Is walking around in public like some kind of barbarian priestess supposed to convince me that you are of sound mind?' Gifford retaliated, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
The way she squared her shoulders to confront him pushed her breasts forward against the linen folds. She was modestly covered, but he had no difficulty remembering what lay beneath the draped cloth. He was standing right out in the open, but he felt as if his back was trapped against a wall.
'I am not a barbarian! I'm a practical Roman!' she declared. 'If the Romans had torn up their togas they might not have lost their empire!'
'You may have a valid point there,' Anthony observed, sounding interested. 'It is a fact that togas increased in size during the later centuries of the empire.'
Abigail's mouth dropped open in surprise. 'They did?' Then a triumphant smile lit up her face. 'You see!' she told Gifford with great satisfaction, before hurrying over to Anthony.
'Anthony...Mr Hill. Please sit down again,' she said anxiously.
'Please call me Anthony.' He subsided into his chair.
'Does it hurt?' Abigail asked, kneeling on the grass beside him. 'I'm so sorry you were wounded. May I do anything for you?'
Gifford clamped his jaw together to prevent himself uttering the instinctive protest that rose to his lips. He intended to take Abigail to London to introduce her to
decent, honourable men. He wanted her to learn to be more discriminating in her judgements of other people... other men. He knew better than anyone that his cousin was decent and honourable—and was therefore a good man for Abigail to spend time with—but Gifford hated it when she ignored him in favour of Anthony.
'No, no, there's no pain,' Anthony assured her. 'A little stiffness. Nothing to worry about. Giff was over-zealous when he tied me up in this sling. It really isn't necessary.'
'If he thinks your arm should be in a sling, I'm sure he's right,' Abigail said firmly.
Her unhesitating confidence in him gratified Gifford, but he was less happy about her subsequent words.
'He must know all about that kind of thing by now,' she continued. 'Gunshots and such things. But he doesn't know anything about what's best for me.'
She pushed herself back to her feet and turned to confront Gifford.
'You have no business ordering me what to do!' she said fiercely. 'You may have bought me, but you haven't paid for me—and you certainly don't own me.'
'I know damn well I don't own you!' Gifford glowered down at her.
'You're acting like it. Thinking you can keep me a prisoner in that horrible little room because I haven't got any clothes to wear!' Abigail took a couple of paces towards him and pointed an accusing finger at his bare chest. 'And why are you parading around half-naked like a common prizefighter? What happened to your shirt?'
'You threw tea at it! Besides, it was too small.'
'Your own shirt.' Abigail put her hands back on her hips and frowned at him impatiently.
'It wasn't fit to be worn after sleeping in it all night.'
'Well, wash it! In this heat it will dry in a trice. Go and get it!' Abigail pointed one hand imperiously towards the inn. 'I'll wash it. Good heavens! You're enough to try the patience of a saint!'
'You will not wash my shirt!' Gifford said categorically.
'I don't see how you can accuse me of being a barbarian when you're parading around like...like...'
'That's twice you've accused me of parading.' Gifford bent his head until his nose was almost touching hers, 'I never parade. And I did not accuse you of being a barbarian.'
'You said I looked like Boadicea!'
'You look like a damn witch!'
'Witches wear black!'
'Dressed in white—ready to be burnt at the stake for tempting innocent men to their doom.'
'Oh.' Abigail's lips parted in a soft exclamation of surprise.
Gifford's face was so close to hers he could see the gold rays that circled the pupils of her green eyes. Tiny sunflowers that expanded as her pupils dilated in response to her change of mood. If he lowered his head a few more inches he could kiss her. He saw her shifting awareness in her eyes, then she leant closer to him, lifting herself on her toes. He responded to the inexorable pull towards her—then jerked back as if he'd been burnt.
In an unguarded moment he saw her lips pout and her eyebrows draw together with disappointment. Then her expression cleared and she looked at him severely.
'You are evading the issue,' she said. 'You cannot hope to convince people we're respectable if you...walk...around half-naked. It's not Civilised. Put the landlord's shirt back on until Ned gets here.'
'I am not civilised. And whatever plans you may have for the future you are not—and never will be— my governess. Don't imagine you can rule me.'
Gifford held her gaze for several unnerving seconds, before spinning on his heel and striding away through the apple trees.
'Well, goodness,' said Abigail, glancing at Anthony with some embarrassment. 'He is very temperamental, isn't he?'
Anthony laughed. It seemed to Abigail that he had been greatly amused by the whole interlude. 'You're more than a match for him, Miss Summers,' he assured her.
'Please call me Abigail,' she said. Then she gasped with indignant realisation. 'He just marched off without even discussing my plans. He thinks he can tell me what to do without a by-your-leave. And insult me into the bargain!'
'I think it might be more accurate to say that he ran away,' said Anthony, grinning. 'As opposed to marching off,' he explained, when she looked at him askance. 'Which would erroneously imply that he had some kind of clear objective in mind when he left.'
Abigail blinked. 'I thought he was going to put on a shirt,' she said, surprised.
Anthony threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter Eleven
Gifford scowled as he wrung out his shirt. He'd commandeered a bucket from a servant, and washed his own shirt in water from the pump.
His peculiar actions had naturally attracted another audience. This time it was augmented by several of the inn's regular customers. They'd turned up to quench their midday thirst after a hot morning's labour—and discovered a rake-hellish pirate doing his own laundry at the yard pump.
Gifford twisted his wet shirt viciously, wishing it was Charles Johnson's neck between his big hands, and cast a forbidding look at the curious bystanders. All the men took several hasty steps backwards. The children didn't budge.
'Are you goin' to hunt the highwayman now?' one of them asked.
'What highwayman?' Gifford untwisted his tortured shirt.
'The one who shot yer friend,' said the child. 'And stole yer lady's clothes.'
'Stole...?' Gifford held his shirt by its shoulders and snapped it briskly downwards. It made a sound like a
cracking whip. The most nervous of the men took another step backwards. 'Who told you he stole her clothes?'
'She did,' said the child. 'I asked why she
was wearin' a sheet. Are you going to kill him when you catch him?'
'Yes,' said Gifford.
Abigail sat with Anthony in the orchard. She could feel the grass beneath her bare feet. It was an unfamiliar but very pleasant sensation. Now she was no longer fired up by the first flush of outraged indignation, she was rather shocked at her temerity in leaving her room so unconventionally dressed. She wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, but now she'd braved the wider world, she wasn't ready to scurry back into her hidey-hole just yet.
Anthony was a pleasant and unalarming companion. He didn't talk about her ordeal. Instead he entertained her with funny stories from his and Gifford's boyhood.
'You're as bad as each other!' Abigail exclaimed at one point. 'The poor gamekeeper! The pair of you must have sent him grey!'
'Don't forget Cole,' said Anthony lazily. 'Gifford's younger brother. He got into his share of scrapes too.'
'I don't know anything about him,' said Abigail. 'Gifford...Captain Raven said I should stay with his brother and his wife. But...I don't even know them!' Her voice lifted a little, revealing her discomfort at being forced to stay with unknown and possibly unwilling hosts. 'I c-can't just inflict myself on them.'
'Strictly speaking, they're inflicting themselves on Giff,' Anthony said calmly. 'Or they would be if he hadn't insisted they stay in London so Honor can be close to her mother. The house in Berkeley Square belongs to Giff. If you go there, you'll be his guest, not Cole's—-but Honor's presence will make things more comfortable for you.'
'Respectable,' said Abigail, her voice a little hollow.
'Yes. Abigail...' Anthony paused, choosing his words carefully. 'No one wants you to do anything you're not comfortable with,' he said at last. 'Least of all Giff, no matter how much he might rant and rave. But you have a lot of friends—more, perhaps, than you realise. Old friends like Admiral Pullen, Mrs Chesney—all of Mrs Chesney's formidable family. Even Mr Tidewell arrived at the double when he heard you were in trouble.'
Gifford's Lady Page 15
