Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3)

by Lily Silver

  “Aye, sir.” Jinx was still chewing as he spoke.

  Jack was relieved Chloe was not here to see the first mate’s bad manners. To his credit, Jinx was badly hung over, and might be excused his raw manners by another man. Even so, Jack could not stop this annoying dialogue in his mind of late. It always started with, “what would Chloe think of this?”

  “We will remain for a time and make certain Mrs. O’Donovan is well before we head out to meet the crew.”

  *

  Chloe was bored. She wanted to be introduced in society, at balls and musicales. She wanted to be escorted to these events on her uncle, the Marquis del Amico’s arm. There were no invitations to said parties, as her uncle was not in Cadiz and no one knew of her existence. She could not be presented to society without a proper sponsor, so she must wait until her uncle returned. And as for her aunts–one died of influenza a few years back. The other died in childbirth many years ago.

  She did not understand her ennui now that she had reached her destination. The journey here had been exciting. It was an adventure. She liked sailing and seeing new places.

  The prospect of living here indefinitely, shut up in a mausoleum day after day, was hardly appealing. She would go mad here, alone, with only her silly maid to talk to. Chloe couldn’t stop comparing this tense and closed-up city with the one she had just left: London.

  In London, there were parks to ride about in–parks with lots of trees, dirt and earth. Never had she realized how much those things meant to her until she was deprived of them. Here, there were stone courtyards, and the only thing to do was attend the church across the square. Chloe did attend the mass once with the housekeeper. She wanted to see inside the church, and it was ostentatious, as architecture went. It was not for her, this great and powerful Catholic faith she had heard so much about. She was not willing to change her beliefs, and change them she must if she were to embrace her father’s ancestral religion.

  Desperate for female companionship, she took tea with Lucinda, the housekeeper, one afternoon. After the first time, they met daily at Chloe’s request in the small parlor that overlooked the narrow back street. It wasn’t as grand as the other rooms, but it was one the housekeeper felt comfortable meeting her in for afternoon tea and cakes—a tradition Chloe instituted without realizing how truly English it was. She embraced the custom, she explained, when the good woman questioned her on the practice, because she had lived with a great lady who was English for so many years. Chloe was determined to make friends with the housekeeper. The kindly woman tolerated her efforts to bridge the gap between them–-a gap that seemed to go much deeper than mere cultural differences, Chloe realized as she talked to the Spanish servant each day over English tea.

  One week after their arrival, four days of having afternoon tea with the indulgent middle -aged housekeeper, Chloe was given a tidbit of information regarding her uncle’s whereabouts. The housekeeper confided to her that the marquis had gone to his villa near Guaro, an almond orchard, and he would be there for the next month or better.

  It was a boon. Until this day, the woman avoided giving any clear indication of which home her master might be in. The Marquis del Amico had several homes, she informed Chloe once in a superior tone. A grandee such as his lordship would not limit himself to one residence year round. It had been a jab at Chloe’s naiveté and she recognized it as such, as the woman was pointing out that she knew nothing about how the Spanish nobility lived. Chloe let the mild insult pass. She was accustomed to slights. Her patience had paid off.

  “How far away is Villa Almendra?” Chloe asked as she poured the housekeeper more tea. “I should like to travel to the country and meet Uncle Miguel.”

  “Mrs. O’Donovan, that is most unusual,” Lucinda remarked. Her frail, thin hand, with ropy veins, rose to the silver crucifix dangling from her throat. Her pursed lips and tight lines bracketing those pencil-thin lips told Chloe her suggestion was most inappropriate.

  “Why?” Chloe asked, determined not to be brow beaten by a servant. She’d had enough of that with Elizabeth’s servants over the years. “Are women not allowed to travel to the country in Spain? You must have coaches and horses, Lucinda. I’ve sailed from the West Indies to meet him, a few more miles should not be a difficulty.”

  As she said it, she grew more determined. Yes, she had come a great distance to see him, and it seemed ridiculous to sit here indefinitely and wait for him to return. If what Lucinda said was true about him living in several houses, he might go on to Madrid from his almond plantation and not return to Cadiz for several months. She could be here indefinitely waiting for him to arrive.

  The housekeeper gave a peculiar little laugh and added more sugar to the English beverage she was coming to favor. “You would not want to ride through the mountains, Mrs. O’Donovan. Not alone. It is fraught with dangers. A woman alone such as yourself could be set upon by bandits, robbed … or worse.”

  Chloe shook her head, refusing the woman’s caution. “It is fortunate I did not come alone, then, isn’t it? Captain Rawlings and his men are capable of escorting me to the villa. In fact, the captain has made it clear he will not be satisfied until he meets Uncle Miguel and is able to report back to his master, Count Rochembeau, that the marquis is worthy of my affections. The count and his lady are protective of me, you understand.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You can’t be serious!” Jack exclaimed.

  He was sitting in the opulent dining room with Chloe, enjoying an intimate dinner with her yet again this evening. He was starting to like this arrangement, just the two of them. The food, the wine, the candlelight—and of course the footmen flocking about them like black crows.

  Jinx and Morgan were pretending to be his servants. In the evenings, they went out on the town to ascertain the current situation. Cadiz was surrounded by the British Navy. He wanted to know the particulars of the British presence here. There was more going on than a mere blockade. The last naval battle between the British and the French had been at Trafalgar in 1805. The French held Portugal. It was rumored they might try to break the blockade and regain control of Cadiz. He wanted to find out if Chloe was in danger before he left her. Jack knew the best way to learn the truth was by meeting a drunk soldier in a tavern and buying him more drinks to aid him in spilling his guts without his remembering doing it the next day.

  “What you are proposing is dangerous, madame. This is not a casual jaunt into the country as if we were in pastoral England. This is a journey through treacherous land with French soldiers and Spanish militia hiding in the hills. You are safe in Cadiz. This is a comfortable home. Why would you want to leave?”

  His companion was silent. It was not a good sign.

  He could see the storm clouds gathering on her lovely brow. Her eyes, so dark and alluring, were starting to take on the ferocity of a Spanish conquistador about to go into battle.

  He sat back in his chair and fingered the silver knife handle, a habit he used frequently to calm himself when confronting an enemy over dinner. As his fingers caressed the cool, smooth metal, he found his thoughts cooled and he was better able to converse without giving in to his temper. A cool, crystal goblet stem worked just as well in these circumstances, but the knife was closer, and cooler by its very nature as a metal object.

  His dining companion was stunning. Breath-taking. There was no other word for it. She wore a deep red frock, claret red, like a rich, tantalizing wine. The fabric was velvet, a winter cloth, but it was early March, still winter in much of Europe. The sleeves were long, the waist high as was the current fashion, and the neckline low, allowing just a glimpse of snowy white cleavage. Marta was getting better at fashioning her hair. It was swept up in a fancy nest of curls on her head, with tantalizing ringlets draping down her long, elegant neck to her shoulders.

  “Your work here is finished,” she said after several moments, her voice frosty. “You’ve delivered the goods, Captain—myself—to the destination required. I a
m in my uncle’s home. You may leave at any time and not trouble yourself further with my care.”

  Oh, she was in a fine fury tonight. Jack reached for the wine goblet. He lifted it in the air, signifying to the footman he wished it filled again. The man stepped up quickly and filled the goblet. Jack took a lingering sip, attempting to form his response carefully in light of her wrath.

  “I am not satisfied,” he replied casually as he cradled the goblet between his fingers. “Until I am satisfied that you are delivered safely to the Marquis del Amico, I will remain here. I have yet to meet the man. He may be a tyrant. I would do you a disservice by not meeting him.”

  “Did the count specify you were to meet my uncle and determine if he is worthy of me?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” The count’s orders were open to interpretation and Jack had his own grasp of them. She didn’t need to know that. “His orders were to see you safely delivered into the bosom of your new family. I see no familial bosoms here to embrace you.”

  Her cheeks bloomed pink. She looked at the footmen gathered about them. She had unknowingly draped her gloved hand over that delicate bit of female flesh that men longed to caress, the exposed cleavage. “You speak as one too familiar, Captain Rawlings.”

  His gaze lingered on that hand draped gracefully on the soft mound. He wished it were his own hand resting there. Damn, it wouldn’t remain at rest long. Jack lifted his eyes to her lovely face. She was glaring daggers at him. He realized she had caught him gaping at her breasts, as she must have been staring at him for more than a few seconds.

  “I am familiar, my dear,” he said loudly, so the footmen could hear and anyone else lingering beyond the arched door leading to this fancy, over decorated room. It was like dining in a royal palace, gilt everywhere there wasn’t an ancient tapestry or marble colonnade. “If you recall, we have been acquainted with one another for these past ten years. You resided at Ravencrest Plantation with your husband, and I was a frequent guest at your table. We are old friends, are we not, Mrs. O’Donovan?” He stared at Chloe, daring her to argue with him. Since coming to Cadiz, she’d become unnaturally stiff and formal in her manner with him.

  She was not amused. His words seemed to incite her further. “Are we?”

  “In my opinion we are old friends. We have a decade of dinners between us.”

  The woman seemed to have no flaming retort to his assertion. She gave a little huff, and her gloved hands went to rest primly on her lap. What was going on between those lovely ears? She seemed to be plotting something. Did she wish to be rid of him? Perhaps the attraction he believed lay between them was imaginary—his own concoction.

  “And so you will understand, my friend, if I choose not to sit idly by and wait for my uncle to make an appearance.” Again, she maintained the frigid tone of a haughty countess interviewing a chimney sweep. “I have had enough of waiting for someone else to come to my rescue. I am a free woman. I intend to go to my uncle, not wait for him to return to Cadiz.”

  He sighed and started to roll his eyes, but caught himself halfway through the gesture. Why was she continually going on about being free? Did she have such a terrible marriage that she considered her widowhood a release from some sort of prison? He’d thought the couple were happy, at least during his visits they appeared to suit well.

  “Well, then, you’ll have to put up with my company for a little longer, madame. I’m not about to stand by and watch as you mount a donkey and go off into the wilderness. A true friend would either prevent you going or follow you into your folly, if only to keep you from danger.”

  It was not well said of him. He could have deliberated over his speech, and made it seem more dignified and educated. Jack was running out of patience with the little minx. She was hell bent on running off into the mountains in search of her uncle, and if he left Spain, he’d damn himself forever if something dreadful became of her. The report of his fiancée’s foul death at the hands of her captors years ago had shaped his conscience irreparably. He could not allow Chloe to go off into danger without his sword arm and his pistols to defend her.

  “And I am not riding a donkey.” Chloe’s tone was indignant, drawing him from his dark thoughts. He glanced at her. She was smiling, or was that impish gleam he saw triumph?

  “Duly noted. No donkeys for Mrs. O’Donovan,” Jack agreed, defeated. The last thing he wanted to do was linger in this country that seemed to be on the brink of insurrection. There was one remaining hurdle to her plan, one way to stop her from rushing into folly. “Pray, madame, do you happen to have sufficient coin to hire a carriage or horses for our retinue?”

  That made her smug smile fade. Reality, yes, a good dose of reality might help the woman come to her senses and see that this was no easy trick. They weren’t under the count’s generous keeping here in Spain. It was wrong to expect her uncle’s servants to simply hand over to her the use of his carriage and horses.

  If he had any. Jack had noted the empty stable, and no carriage. The man must have taken it with him when he fled. That was another worry. This uncle was conveniently absent from Cadiz, whilst it was surrounded and occupied by British forces. It could only mean the man was not pleased by the situation and had run off to hide in the interior of Spain.

  “The count made sure I had enough to cover expenses and see me through a year here.”

  Jack whistled. “Surely, you jest, my dear woman.” He could barely believe it. Then again, this was so like Donovan Beaumont that it was almost a joke. The man gave away money, fistfuls of it, and seemed to never suffer the lack. He seemed to be like King Midas of legend.

  “No, I do not. He gave me several hundred pound notes. Twenty of them. I counted.”

  Jack noted four footmen, all standing at attention, pretending not to hear their conversation, yet he knew better. They were not deaf statues, as many a wealthy lord assumed. Servants could be treacherous, a wrong word to anyone in a tavern or a right word to footpads or bandits, and none would be the wiser. “You will not repeat this news to anyone outside this room, Chloe.” In his rush to protect her, he’d used her first name, a faux pas in society if others heard the familiarity. “We will deposit said funds in the bank, tomorrow.”

  “But I …” She started to protest.

  “No!” Jack stood and held up his hand. “Do not argue, for once in your life. Trust me.”

  She looked about to speak and then seemed to think better of it as she followed his pointed glower as his gaze swept about the room. She understood his meaning.

  Jack didn’t waste an instant. He stalked up to the first stuffed cod in an old fashioned powdered wig and scowled into his worried face. “You will not repeat this conversation, do I make myself clear? You have met my men, and they are well trained in battle. All of you, reveal this at your peril. I will personally hunt you down and slit your throat if the lady is robbed of her inheritance from her dearly departed. She is a widow, seeking refuge here in Spain. She will not be relieved of her pension.”

  “Si, Captain.” The man in front of him faltered. ‘Twas obvious he was not a fighting man but a glorified lap dog in a fine velvet livery with gold buttons and braid. His comrades quickly agreed with him, their voices coming out in unison.

  “Now leave us, and close that damned door.” The quartet did as Jack bade, as if they expected his boot up their arse if they delayed. Fine bunch of strutting peacocks those fellows were. They should protect their master and those in his house, not flee in fear when presented with a threat.

  “Did you have too much wine, Captain?” Chloe asked him in a saucy tone. She was watching him with amusement, her elbows on the table and her hands crossed beneath her chin. “You trust no one here, do you? They are servants, not spies.”

  Jack walked around the table. He was agitated by her request, by the situation they found themselves in, by the idleness of the city he sensed before the gathering storm. He glanced toward the now closed door, and then at her. “You cannot speak open
ly about money, Chloe. People will rob you. This is not Ravencrest, my dear. The locals are not cowering in the shadow of our great and dreadful Count Rochembeau. Do not speak of how large your coffers are, unless you and I are alone. Do I make myself clear, madame?”

  The sudden scowl on her lovely features told of another argument on the horizon.

  “I understand your concern, Captain. We will go to the bank tomorrow and deposit the funds.”

  “No, we won’t.” Was she honestly this naive? “I said that for their benefit. You will put your money in your corset, wear it against your skin.”

  “I don’t have a corset. I quit wearing those years ago. They are not in fashion anymore.”

  “The hem of your undergarment, then. And you’ll give me some of the bills to stuff in my boot. That way, if one of us loses the funds, we’ll still have half. We’ll need it for the journey.”

  “Yes. I see your point. But captain, do not endeavor to dictate orders to me again? Do I make myself clear?”

  “I am a commander of men.” Jack held his ground. “I cannot make that promise to you.”

  She didn’t like his answer. He didn’t like her airs. This would not bring a truce.

  A truce was what they needed in order to survive in this strange land.

  “Madame, I cannot promise to never give you an order.” He came to stand next to her chair. He leaned down, so his vision was level with hers. “I can promise this: I will never give you a direct order again, unless it is a matter of life and death—yours! Can we agree on that?”

  Chloe found him infuriating. She frowned at the man, determined not to be drawn into another argument. It seemed they did nothing but argue since they arrived in Spain.

  “Well?” He continued to glare at her, his lips so close to hers that she could smell the wine on his breath. “Are we at least allies, my lady? If I’m to escort you further into this mess, I need you to agree to obey me if we’re put in danger. I can’t argue with you over every little thing, not when we’re pressed to the ground with guns at our heads.”