Taming Charlotte

by Linda Lael Miller

  When she’d recovered somewhat, a process that took considerable time, she took a pen, a bottle of ink, and some stationery from the desk in her room. Then she sat down at the table in the courtyard again, and wrote a second long letter to her family.

  Rashad had insisted that he’d mailed the first missive, composed while she was still a member of Khalif’s harem, but Charlotte was taking no chances. Her loved ones were probably frantic with worry as it was.

  She spent the afternoon laboring over her letter, only nibbling at the midday meal of fruit and cheese and dark bread a servant brought. During the hottest part of the day, while most citizens of Costa del Cielo enjoyed a leisurely siesta, Charlotte wrote pages, crumpled them, and composed others. It was important to make her father and Lydia understand that she loved Patrick and truly wanted to be with him, despite their strange courtship.

  Charlotte had fibbed in the first letter, for she’d been a captive then, without hope of escape, wanting to protect her loved ones from the pain the truth would have caused. Now, excluding only the most intimate details of her relationship with Patrick, she recounted the adventure incident for incident. In the end, she had such a thick sheaf of pages that her writings would have to be sent in a packet instead of an envelope.

  That night, wearing yet another borrowed dress, this one cream-colored, with touches of antique lace decorating the bodice and cuffs, Charlotte dined with the Querida family. It was a pleasant meal, although conversation was awkward, due to the differences in language. And there was no sign of Patrick.

  After the meal, there was music in what would have been the drawing room in England, or the parlor in America. Señora Querida played the harpsichord, while the señor offered a hand to his daughter, with teasing formality, and drew her into a dance.

  Charlotte watched in delight, but there was a bittersweet ache in the center of her heart. Often, while Lydia played piano, Millie and Charlotte had taken turns dancing with their father in much the same way. Again, still, she missed her dear ones with a painful poignancy.

  Just when she would have made a polite excuse and fled to her room, Patrick appeared. He had exchanged his usual garb of trousers, high boots, and a flowing shirt for a finely fitted evening suit, complete with a gray-and-charcoal-striped ascot and a stickpin.

  Charlotte had thought she’d grown used to his magnificence, for he was heart-stoppingly handsome even under ordinary conditions. On that magical night, however, the pirate was posing as a prince. When he took Charlotte in his arms and began to whirl her gracefully around the room, in time with Mrs. Querida’s sprightly assault on the harpsichord, she forgot everything that had troubled her before.

  During that single dance, it was as though Charlotte’s soul and Patrick’s touched and then fused into one. Not a word was said, and all the dictates of propriety were observed, and yet the experience was somehow more profound than their most intense lovemaking had been.

  Charlotte realized, with glorious despair, that her heart had gone to this man for sanction, to remain with him not only throughout their mortal lives, but throughout eternity as well.

  If Patrick had felt this fundamental shift in the course of things, he gave no sign of it. He danced with Charlotte twice more, and then with Pilar, who was obviously charmed. The señora beamed from her bench at the harpsichord, while her husband leaned against the mantel over the marble fireplace, watching fondly.

  Not even a whisper of envy moved against Charlotte’s heart, but she was overwhelmed by her emotions, and she needed time and solitude to sort them out. She’d been so certain, before that night, that it wasn’t possible to love Patrick more than she already did. Now she was reeling from the sudden expansion of her sentiment; the vast ocean had, without warning, taken on the dimensions of a universe.

  She slipped out of the richly furnished drawing room, hoping to go unnoticed, and hurried along the corridors to the suite.

  There, in the wash of moonlight flowing in through the windows, she paced, full of reckless, elemental energy. She could not accommodate these new feelings, she fretted silently, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. In those treacherous moments, Charlotte feared her very soul would burst.

  “Charlotte.”

  She whirled, saw Patrick standing in the doorway of the suite, cloaked in shadows. She couldn’t read his face, because of the darkness, but she heard concern in his voice, and quiet understanding.

  She began to cry, and snuffled out, “What’s happening to me?”

  Patrick lifted her easily into his arms. “I couldn’t tell you, goddess,” he confessed, in a raspy whisper. “I’m feeling pretty dazed myself.” He kissed her, and Charlotte felt the universe begin to unfold again, doubling and redoubling at a dizzying speed. He broke away finally, and carried her to the bed, and Charlotte couldn’t separate his trembling from her own. “I want you so much,” he said, taking down her hair with awkward fingers, “that I’m afraid of what will happen when I have you.”

  She peeled away his tailored coat, pulled the stickpin from his ascot, clawed at his shirt buttons. Just as frantic, Patrick stripped her to the skin, in a matter of moments. There were no sweet preliminaries that night, no tentative caresses, for their yearning for each other had melded into a single, primitive desire, as unstoppable as an earthquake.

  Patrick laid Charlotte on the bed and thrust himself into her, and she welcomed him with a passion older than the stars.

  Their loving had been like some kind of joyful battle that night, Patrick thought as he lay staring up at the ceiling, a sleeping Charlotte curled against his side. From their first encounter, she had been like a spirited jungle cat, responding with ferocious abandon to the things he taught her. Still, something new had happened between them tonight, even before they had tumbled into bed. While they were dancing, so innocently and circumspectly, something within him, long disjointed, had been wrenched back into place.

  Patrick was glad of the darkness and Charlotte’s deep slumber, because suddenly there were tears in his eyes, tears of the most profound, poetic wonder. After the wonder came fear of the purest sort, for he loved this woman—for the moment, at least, he couldn’t deny that—and by loving her, he had opened himself up not only to happiness, but to incomprehensible pain.

  Even as he drew Charlotte closer, her body warm and supple against his, he wished he’d never seen her, wished she’d never left Quade’s Harbor, never ventured into the marketplace and gotten herself kidnapped. His old life had been a lonely one in some ways, but he hadn’t been unhappy. Despite his many and varied adventures, during which his body had been in indisputable danger, his soul was always safe.

  No more, he thought grimly. If he lost Charlotte, whether to death or indifference or the love of another, he would never be whole again. He would have to live out his days with a crippled and twisted spirit.

  She stirred beside him, this woman who was both his rescuing angel and his conqueror, and spread her fingers over his bare belly. Patrick moaned when those same fingers clasped his manhood and brought it to instant and rather painful attention.

  “Come here,” she purred sleepily. “I’m not through with you.”

  Helpless to resist, Patrick rolled onto her, resting the weight of his upper body on his forearms, and positioned himself between her warm thighs. “You might show me a little mercy,” he pointed out, only half in jest.

  “Not tonight,” Charlotte teased, lifting her hips and taking him inside her easily, drawing him deep. “Perhaps, if you’re very good, I’ll let you sleep tomorrow.”

  Ever since he’d had his first woman, at the age of thirteen, Patrick had always done the taking. Now, incredibly, he was being taken, and he couldn’t begin to comprehend the emotions the fact stirred in him. He moved in rhythm with Charlotte, following her lead, unable to stop himself. The response was instinctive, the needs behind it as unfathomable as the sea itself.

  She crooned senseless words of encouragement, and he was frantic to obey h
er. When she bucked beneath him, then stiffened and cried out in triumph, Patrick misplaced his soul. He flexed wildly against her, reaching deep, and the walls of her feminine channel clenched around his shaft.

  He cried out as he spilled his seed, the pleasure almost beyond bearing, and Charlotte spread her hands over the taut muscles of his buttocks, urging him, comforting him, commanding him. Finally she allowed him to collapse—he no longer had a will of his own, he knew—but as soon as his breathing had evened out, she wanted him again.

  She got a basin of water and a cloth from somewhere and slowly, gently washed him. “Sit up,” she said, and somehow he obeyed her, even though he had no strength.

  “Charlotte,” he pleaded raggedly, tilting his head back, knowing he could not escape. Nor could he rebel, because as she kissed and fondled him, he grew hard again, his staff resting against his belly like an oak.

  “Hush,” she scolded, and then she took him into her mouth and began to work him over so thoroughly that before a minute had passed, he was out of his mind.

  10

  PATRICK HAUNTED THE BOATYARD FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, overseeing every aspect of the repairs to the Enchantress. Before Charlotte, the matter would have consumed his every waking thought, as well as commanding his physical presence; now his mind strayed often to the energetic little temptress he’d married in Riz.

  Charlotte, he reflected, not once but a thousand times, was part lady of the manor and part lioness. Every day new gowns arrived from the dressmakers’ shops, and Charlotte was as cool and regal as a duchess as she modeled them for him. When Patrick joined her in their bed at night, always at a late hour, she showed him the wild side of her nature, giving and taking pleasure with the same degree of ferocious passion.

  Standing at the stern of the Enchantress, Patrick stared at the sun-spangled waters of the blue-green sea and wondered if tender feelings were turning him into a nervous old woman. Things were going too damn well, by his reckoning, and he was profoundly uneasy, as well as restless.

  Experience had taught him to expect challenges, especially when life seemed to settle into a pleasant routine.

  A stir of voices and a clatter on the dry dock made him turn, and there was Charlotte, stepping down from one of the Queridas’ coaches, a pink and white striped parasol shading her from the bright glare of the sun. Her dress, full-sleeved and trimmed with lace, was rose-colored, a splash of femininity in starkly masculine surroundings.

  Charlotte spotted Patrick, waved cheerfully, and proceeded along the plank-way and onto the main deck. He was not entirely pleased, for the wharves and the boatyard were rough places, yet he couldn’t help being glad to see his wife.

  He greeted her with a frown, however, and a brisk “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see how the work on the ship was progressing,” she replied, and by the way she lifted her chin and stood her ground, Patrick knew Charlotte was undaunted. As usual.

  She gave the parasol a little twirl and treated Patrick to a smile that took the starch out of his knees. “Spain is lovely,” she went on sweetly, “and the hospitality of the Querida family cannot be faulted. However, I believe I’ve been infected with your wanderlust, Mr. Trevarren. I find that I’m eager to travel on from here, and see what lies over the horizon.”

  Patrick was in a misery of lust, even though Charlotte had not done anything overt to tempt him. He wondered if the workmen and his crew would notice if he spirited her off to his cabin for an hour or so, then dismissed the idea. If he didn’t watch himself, his reputation as a scoundrel would be ruined, and word would spread throughout the seven seas that Patrick Trevarren had become a husband.

  “I’ve told you not to come here,” he scolded, taking Charlotte’s arm and hustling her to the railing. “The waterfront is no place for a decent woman!”

  She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes in a way that could only be described as insubordinate. “What is there to fear,” she drawled, “when I have you to look after me, Captain Trevarren?”

  He wanted to shake her. “After being kidnapped in the marketplace and ending up in a harem,” he whispered furiously, “I’m amazed you can ask a question like that!”

  “You can’t protect me?” Charlotte simpered, still baiting him. Her otherwise guileless golden eyes were filled with laughter. “Mercy, Patrick, are you confessing to a weakness?”

  Patrick clamped his jaw down tight for a moment. He had but one frailty—his fascination with this woman. He glared at her, offering no reply to her question, knowing she didn’t really expect one.

  She smiled, enjoying her minor victory, and opened her beaded handbag. “As it happens, I do have legitimate business. This message was delivered this morning.” She extended an envelope of heavy, cream-colored vellum.

  A premonition swelled in the pit of Patrick’s stomach as he took the envelope. The front bore only his name—anyone in Costa del Cielo would have known where he was staying. On the back, however, was Khalif’s distinctive seal, pressed in green wax.

  He broke the seal, took out a single sheet of paper. The message was written in a plainly feminine hand, in perfect English. Ahmed has taken the palace by treachery and imprisoned Khalif. He will kill the true sultan, and his heirs, and we have no means to fight him, as Khalif ‘s own men are away on a desert campaign. Please come quickly, if you truly are his friend.

  Patrick read the letter a second time, crumpled it in his hand. Despite the differences between their two cultures, Khalif and Patrick were closer than most brothers, and he could not ignore such a summons, even though it might well be a trick of some sort.

  “Cochran!” he yelled, startling Charlotte so badly that she flinched.

  “What is it?” she asked, taking the wrinkled page from his hand and smoothing it on the polished oak railing. “Oh, no,” she breathed, when she’d read the message.

  The first mate appeared instantly, more excited than alarmed. “Yes, sir?” His tone was eager.

  “Get me a ship!” Patrick ordered. “Round up all our own men and any others you can find. We’re going back to Riz!”

  Cochran had the good grace to look puzzled. “Where will we get a ship, sir?” he reasoned.

  Patrick snatched the letter out of Charlotte’s hand and thrust it at Cochran. “Damn it, I don’t care if you have to shanghai a fishing scow—just do as I told you!” He turned his attention back to his wife now, and firmly linked her arm with his own. “You will go back to the Querida compound,” he told her, “and you will stay there until I come to get you.”

  Charlotte blinked, then stubborn color rose in her cheeks. “I want to go with you!” she protested.

  He ushered her toward the boarding ramp. “At the moment, Mrs. Trevarren,” he replied, “your preferences are the least of my concerns. This time, if you value your lovely hide, you will obey me!”

  She began to sputter, but Patrick propelled her over the ramp and then thrust her into the waiting carriage. When he slammed the door shut and barked an order at the driver, in impatient Spanish, Charlotte put her head out the window and called furiously, “I won’t forget this, Captain Trevarren!”

  Patrick might have laughed if he hadn’t been so worried about Khalif. Ahmed, the sultan’s half brother, was ruthless, and his taste for power was no secret. There was every chance that Khalif was already dead, and his execution would have been a brutal one, not necessarily swift. Worse, the princes, Khalif’s young sons, all too young to leave their mothers, would be murdered too, just as the letter writer had said.

  The crew of the Enchantress rallied within minutes, and listened in eager fury as Patrick related his plans.

  They would not approach the palace by sea, because Ahmed and his band of thieving rebels would be expecting that, and any approaching ship would surely be sunk by cannon fire before shore could be gained. After they’d crossed to the island kingdom of Riz, and made port in the city of the same name, they would buy horses and other provisions in the mark
etplace and attack Ahmed from the desert side.

  The outcome would, of course, be in the hands of God.

  Reaching the guest suite in the Querida mansion, Charlotte flung her pink and white parasol across the room in a fury. She was not given to tantrums as a general rule, but in this case she could not be gracious. Patrick was her husband, and her place was by his side, no matter where he might go.

  Now he was off to Riz, imperious as some Greek hero, bent on rescuing his friend, and he planned to leave her right there in dull Costa del Cielo for the duration. As far as Charlotte was concerned, there was only one thing worse than being in mortal danger, and that was for Patrick to be in mortal danger without her! Suppose he got himself killed, and she never saw him again?

  Charlotte bit down hard on her lower lip and paced faster. Patrick hadn’t listened when she’d practically begged him not to leave her in Khalif’s harem, and he had grown no more tractable since. There was absolutely no sense in trying to reason with her hardheaded mate, even if she did encounter him before he left on his crusade, which was unlikely.

  Her thoughts took a wild turn. She’d read about a woman once who had dressed up in men’s clothes and gone off to fight in the American Civil War, just to be near her husband. Perhaps she could disguise herself, and stow away on whatever ship Patrick had managed to purloin for the journey…

  “No,” she said aloud, with a sigh. No one would be fooled by such a gambit, for there was nothing boyish about Charlotte’s figure. Following her abduction from the souk, when she’d been delivered to Patrick with only a burlap sack to provide cover, she’d worn one of his shirts and a pair of his trousers. She’d simply looked like exactly what she was—a woman wearing a man’s clothes.

  For all of that, Charlotte had no intention of giving up and staying meekly behind while Patrick sailed grandly into the sunset. She had friends in Khalif’s palace, too—Alev and Rashad. And there were Alev’s little sons to think about, and the other princes who stood between Ahmed and the throne of Riz.