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Excerpt
He took her captive.
She stole his heart.
"I came down here to
terrorize you into submission. I did not expect such easy capitulation.”
"How dismaying for you. Should I put up a defiant front to
assuage your disappointment?”
"You’re a cool one, Miss Angela. I’ll give you that much.”
"Are you what they say you are, Captain Saber?”
A slight smile tilted his mouth up at one corner. "And what
do they say I am, Miss Angela? Murderer? I’ve killed men, though I can’t say
I’ve derived any satisfaction from it. Pirate? Quite true. Though at times,
I’ve stolen things that belong to me, so I’m not quite certain what that does
to my redoubtable reputation as a thief and scourge of the seven seas.”
He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a husky timbre
that sent chills chasing down her spine. "That I am known as—let me see—a defiler
of damsels? As for that reputation, I gladly plead...”
His hand shifted, fingers tightening in her hair to draw her head back. "Guilty.”
Virginia Brown is the
bestselling author of more than sixty novels including the bestselling Dixie
Divas mystery series.
"Virginia Brown always gives me what I need!" --Elizabeth Wentworth, Netgalley
"Capture the Wind is laced with humor and mystery… the perfect escape for readers who yearn to curl up in a leather chair before a roaring fire on a wintry day!" -- Cindy Vallar, Pirates and Privateers
"…the characters were quite funny and a strong heroine is my cup of tea!" -- Maria Cristina Nardini, Libri Tudine
"The book is a historical romance that was fast paced and enjoyable
with the foul mouthed Lory (a parrot) and swashbuckling pirates topped off with
a damsel who is running away from arranged marriage." -- Beckey White, GoodReads
"…interesting premise, sexy hero,
feisty heroine!" -- Margay Roberge,
NetGalley
Prologue
London Docks, 1788
"Is
that the ship, Charles?”
Elaine
Davenport indicated a vessel docking at the Pool below London Bridge. Wind
thick with the smell of foul water and rotting wood dislodged strands of her
pale hair. Her gloved hand tucked the strays back into place, then pressed a
scented handkerchief of Belgian lace to her nose. Her words were muffled. "I
don’t see a dark-haired child among those along the ship’s rail.”
David
Charles Edward Sheridan, Fourth Duke of Tremayne and heir to the fortunes of
Sheridan Shipping, frowned at the ship nosing into its berth against the broad
stone quay. There was the sharp, sour smell of refuse and fish. A forest of
masts swayed in the river: huge East Indiamen, galliots, whalers, and tea
clippers. Raucous sea birds swooped and circled above quays teeming with
activity.
Charles
shrugged. "I don’t see him either. Frankly, it’s been so long, I might not
recognize him. Ten years, you know. I suppose he’s no longer a small child, as
in the miniatures I’ve shown you. Christian would be... oh,
he would be nearly seventeen now” Charles shook his head. "The time has passed
so swiftly. Plainly, we should be looking for a youth instead of a small boy.”
Elaine
glanced around the dock. Her fingers curled around Charles’s arm, and she
murmured disdainfully, "Such riffraff gather here on the docks. It would have
been much better to have waited for Filbert to bring him to the house, as I
tried to tell you...”
Charles
shot her a frown. "I was quite anxious to see him and did not wish to wait.
He’s been gone so long, and with pirates, for the love of God—I want to see for
myself that Christian is all right.”
"Yes,
so you said.” Elaine released his arm to smooth a hand over the folds of her
immaculate brocade skirt. "Well, I’m certain that once we are wed, I can help
you eradicate some of the taint that stains his character. Imagine. It took
four of Sir Ramsey’s men to coax him off that ship. Pirates. Dear Lord, and
he’s been living among them since...”
She
halted when Charles gave her a pained glance. It had taken him some time to
accept his wife’s death and his small son’s disappearance. Now that Christian
was finally coming home, his betrothed’s reminder of those painful years was a
sharp jab. Elaine leaned close.
"If
I’ve provoked uncomfortable memories, I apologize. It’s just that I am so
distressed for what you must have suffered.”
Charles’s
stare was level. "You should be more distressed for what poor Christian has
suffered. To be kept in the care of pirates sailing the Spanish Main cannot
have been pleasant. There is absolutely no way of knowing what he has been
through in that time. Sir Ramsey’s letter mentioned that Christian was rather
surly and distrustful.”
"Yes,
I can imagine.” Elaine patted an offending curl of blond hair back into place
and frowned daintily. "Still, it will take time and a great deal of discipline
to remove the stain of years of piracy from the boy. You will have your hands
full. Fortunately, my father has recommended an excellent school. It has only
the best tutors for his education, and is known for the severity of its
discipline when it comes to unruly, disobedient boys. I am certain it will do
Christian a great deal of good to have the discipline he has certainly lacked
in these past ten years.”
"Unruly?”
Charles shook his head. "Not Christian. He was always timid to the point of
annoyance. Scared of his own shadow. I cannot imagine how he survived all those
years with pirates.”
"Can’t
you? I should think...”
Charles
tensed. "Look. The ship is lowering its ramp.”
Elaine’s
reply faded into the rising hubbub around them as Charles strained to catch the
first sight of his son. Dray wagons rumbled by loudly, wheels clattering over
rough stones. Long brick warehouses stretched behind the quays, and stacks of
cargo waiting to be loaded rose like small buildings. Charles shifted
impatiently, staring past Elaine to the lowered ramp nudging the stone quay. He
frowned.
"Where
the devil could he be? I was certain Filbert would be right at the rail with
him, knowing how I’ve longed for this day.”
Elaine
tugged at the sleeve of his frock coat with a decisive note of censure in her
tone. "Do not appear overeager, Charles. It’s unseemly in public.”
He
turned, brows lifting. "Unseemly? To want to see my son after so long? You
overstep your boundaries, Elaine.”
His
reproof had the desired effect; she looked down, dark lashes lowering over
remarkable green eyes. The soft bottom lip that so many men had gazed at with
longing began to quiver slightly. Charles’s voice softened.
"I
appreciate your desire for proper etiquette, but I cannot think of a previous
example for a man’s son being returned to him after long years aboard a pirate
ship in the Caribbean. There are no proper rules in this instance, I believe.”
Her
voice was distant and cool. "I am certain you are right, but I do believe we
should maintain proprieties, even on so joyous an occasion.”
"For
God’s sake, Elaine—” he began in an irritable tone, but was interrupted by a
commotion on the deck of the ship.
They
both turned, just in time to see a uniformed seaman go tumbling over the rail
and into the narrow space between ship and quay. A loud splash sent up a geyser
of water, but did not drown out the lurid string of curses that accompanied the
man’s fall.
These
curses did not come from the sailor, however, but from the mouth of a youth
being wrestled along the deck of the ship by no less than five men. Charles and
Elaine watched in stunned horror. The knot of flailing arms and legs lurched
closer, then balanced at the edge of the ramp leading to the quay below.
Ship
passengers and those on the stones of the quay gave a concerted gasp. The
tangle of struggling combatants swayed precariously, threatening to tumble into
the narrow ribbon of water below in the same manner as the unfortunate sailor.
Above the grunts and curses that accompanied the tussle rose a shrieking
litany.
"Slash
’im! Stick ’im! Belay, mates! Ship to starboard! Awwk!”
A
flash of scarlet dipped above the heads of those involved in the conflict; the
beat of wings snapped against the wind. Charles and Elaine exchanged glances of
dawning horror. They moved forward to arrive at the bottom of the ramp leading
from the ship just as the combatants lurched onto the quay.
Flushed
faces were a blur, then a burst of curses and dark hair exploded from the
center of the men onto the flat stones and landed in a half-crouch. Snarling
with a ferocity that would have done a Bengal tiger proud, the panting youth
shoved a brown fist into the air and shook it.
"Bloody
buggers. If I ‘ad my saber, I’d cut you inta too many pieces ta feed ta th’
bloody sharks...”
A
flash of scarlet squawked again and settled in a whir of wings onto the boy’s
shoulder. "Bloody buggers!” came the shriek, and the bird tilted its head to
one side as if expecting confirmation. A brown hand stroked the wings, and then
the boy turned in a whirl, eyes raking over Charles and Elaine with a hot blue
gaze.
"Christian,”
Charles said in a strangled croak. "Are you Christian Sheridan?”
A
harsh laugh cut the air, and the boy’s lips curled in a sneer. "Not I, guv’nor.
They calls me Tiger.”
"How
appropriate,” Charles murmured in obvious relief. His gaze shifted to the
breathless man limping forward. "Filbert,” he said faintly. "You look—dreadful.”
"Aye,
Your Grace.” Filbert shot the youth a baleful glare. "Lord Christian seemed to
find it an inconvenient time to disembark. We tried to persuade him
differently, but he was rather... firm...
in his decision to remain aboard.”
Charles
slid a horrified gaze back to the boy. "This is Christian?”
As
Filbert nodded morosely, the boy snarled, "Bloody ’ell! My name ain’t
Christian. It’s Tiger. ’Ow many times do I have ta tell ya that,
ya...”
He
reeled off a list of colorful titles for the long-suffering Filbert, including
several comments about the doubtful legitimacy of his parentage, while Charles
listened in growing dismay and Elaine began to make gasping sounds of shock. As
if just noticing her, the boy shot Elaine a raking stare.
"
’Ello, love. Ain’t you a bit young ta be with this ole geezer? I can toss yer
skirts for ya if ya need decent diddlin’...”
Charles
stepped forward and clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Reaction was swift.
The youth turned in a savage whirl, a bare foot slamming into his father’s
middle as he jerked away. The Duke of Tremayne made a muffled sound and slipped
to his knees, while the men who had wrestled Christian from the ship to shore
grabbed him.
Above
the chaos, the scarlet bird circled gracefully in a screeching frenzy. "Bloody
hell! Bloody hell!”
With
a low sigh, Elaine Davenport, the daughter of the Earl of Southwild, slipped
into a dead faint on the soiled stones of the quay.
Christian
Sheridan stared at her with an expression of grim satisfaction, ignoring the
clutching hands that held him still. A brisk breeze lifted his dark hair,
stirring it against his bare shoulders and tugging at the bright red sash
around his waist. Below the ragged knee-length trousers he wore, his legs and
feet were bare. Sunlight glinted from the dark teak of tanned skin and immature
muscle, and made the diamond earring in his left lobe glitter.
But
it was his face that commanded the most attention, a caricature of youth with
deep blue eyes that looked older than time. A faint scar ran from his left
eyebrow to his cheek, and when he smiled, as he was now, he looked more like a
dangerous predator than a boy of sixteen.
"Tiger!
Tiger!” the bird screeched, and settled with a flap of its wings onto the torn
shoulder of Filbert’s once immaculate frock coat.
Filbert
shuddered, and looked at the boy staring back at him with hot, resentful eyes.
"Lord Christian, may I present your father to you, His Grace, the Duke of
Tremayne.”
Christian
spat onto the stones. The Duke of Tremayne rose shakily to his feet and took a
step forward. His voice was slightly unsteady.
"Welcome
home, Christian.”
"Go
to hell,” the boy snarled, and Tremayne turned.
"Bring
him to our coach, Filbert. If that is possible. Oh, and someone bring Elaine
’round from her faint. It’s time to go home.”
Tension crackledin the wood-paneled library of Greystone Hall as if a towering blaze. The duke
eyed his son with a mixture of frustration and trepidation. He leaned forward,
knuckles gouging into the polished surface of his desk.
"What
do you hope to gain by this display of rebellion? There is no reason for it
that I can see.”
"Aye,
so ya keep saying,” the boy flung at him. He sprawled his lean frame in a chair
as if daring the duke to protest.
Charles
held his tongue, though Filbert would have been beside himself at the insult.
No one sat in the presence of a duke unless given express permission. And
certainly not a wild-haired boy with a foul-tongued bird perched on his
shoulder. The duke studied the bird, grimacing when the creature made a deposit
upon the Flemish carpet.
"I
would much prefer that you confine that nasty parrot to a cage,” he said
tautly.
Christian
stroked the bird’s feathers with a tender gesture. "He ain’t no parrot. He’s a
lory.”
"A
what?”
The
boy’s lip curled with superior contempt. "A bloody lory. Cain’t ya hear
good—yer lordship?”
Charles
stiffened. "Christian,” he began, but was cut off by a rude oath and defiant
glare.
"I
told ya—my name is Tiger.”
The
duke’s mouth tightened. "And I told you that I refuse to call you by that
abhorrent name. Christian is the name your mother and I chose to call you,
and—”
"Don’t
dare mention her to me!”
Lithe
as the tiger of his adopted namesake, the boy surged to his feet in a fluid
motion that made his father step back and the bird rise into the air with an
indignant squawk. Christian vibrated with a rage that left Charles floundering
for words.
"Whyever
not?” Charles asked after a moment of smoldering silence. "Why should I not
mention your mother?”
The
lory settled back on Christian’s shoulder, muttering several vile phrases that
Charles ignored with only a slight tightening of his mouth to indicate he’d
heard them.
Christian
jerked around and began to prowl the room. His tattered trousers flapped around
his knees. The only concession he’d yet made to conventional fashion was a
loose white shirt with flowing sleeves. A red sash still circled his waist, and
the diamond earring winked in gray light that streamed through tall windows
lining an entire library wall.
With
one hand clenched into a fist, Christian dragged it along a mahogany edge of
the gleaming desk, then turned to face his father.
"You’re
not fit to have kissed the hem of her skirts.”
Charles
lifted a brow. "How did you arrive at this conclusion? Not that I argue the
point, but I’m just curious.”
Christian
took a step toward him, eyes locked on his father’s face. His diction was
perfect, the ill-bred accent vanished.
"Do
you really think a child of six is too young to understand what he hears? That
he doesn’t notice if his mother weeps into her pillow at night?” He dug a fist
into his chest. "I noticed. And I noticed when you had those men follow us,
too. I may have been young, but I’m not as stupid as you would like me to be.”
Charles
took a deep breath. His face was set, and his gaze did not waver. "I never
thought you were stupid. Just too young to understand the implications behind
my actions.”
"Understand?
What was there to understand?” Christian gave a harsh laugh. "You hired men to
catch my mother when she left you. You didn’t think I could recognize the
difference between real pirates and men masquerading as pirates, did you? No, I
can see by the look on your face that you didn’t. But I did. Oh, not at first,
true. But later, after my mother had been tossed overboard by your hired thugs
and we sailed away on another ship, I discovered the deception. We were
attacked and overtaken by real pirates, and I knew the difference.” He looked
away and took a deep breath. "Oh aye, I knew the difference well then.”
"Christian—”
"No.”
Backing away, he shook his head. "You killed my mother as surely as if you had
been the one to toss her over the rail without a thought.”
"You’re
wrong.”
"Am
I? Can you stand there and look me in the eye and tell me that you did not send
men after us? That you did not give them orders to take me and get rid of her?”
"I
gave orders for her to be followed and you taken, yes, but I would never have
given orders to throw her overboard. She could have gone on to meet the man she
was fleeing to—or did you know that? Did you know she was leaving me for
another man?”
Something
froze in Christian’s face, and he took an involuntary step back. "You’re
lying,” he said in a hoarse whisper. "You’re—”
"Am
I?” Charles took a step forward. "I don’t have to lie. If you say you remember
so much, then try and recall the nights she left you alone in your cabin. Can
you?” He took another step while Christian retreated backward, pain and denial
on his youthful face. Charles continued grimly, "Do you remember her returning,
all flustered smiles and whispers? You should, my boy. Because you and she were
on her lover’s ship.”
"No.”
Christian halted at last, back to the bank of long windows. He stared up at his
father’s face where gray daylight picked out the bitter grooves on each side of
his mouth. Denial strangled his voice until it came out only a faint husk of
sound. "You’re lying.”
Charles’s
mouth twisted. "Oh no. Kill her? Why would I? She should have had to face her
shame—and me. But Vivian St. Genevieve would never have done that.” Charles put
back his head and laughed, but it rang into the study with a harshness thick
enough to be felt as well as heard. "She knew I would not give you up, and that
is why she took you from me. I would have followed her to the end of the earth
for you, and I damn near did. If you think to hear an apology for her loss,
you’re mistaken.”
"You
bastard...”
"Am
I? Tell me, Christian—whatever makes you think your mother is dead?”
"I
saw—”
"You
saw what she meant you to see. Dead? Vivian?” The duke laughed harshly. "Oh no,
my lad, not by half. No, your precious mother is quite alive, more’s the pity.
She has just chosen to... absent herself from England, as
well as from her husband and son.”
"If
she’d been alive, she would have come for me,” Christian said tightly. "She
would never have allowed me to be taken away like that.”
Charles
gave him a mocking stare. "You are so young and naive, my boy. And much too
trusting in the gentle nature of women, it seems. Life has yet to teach you the
realities of the fair sex, I see. A pity. Until you learn better, I fear you
will suffer greatly.”
For
a long moment, Christian stood there. The bird on his shoulder muttered
something obscene, then lapsed into silence as if sensing disaster. Without
another word, the boy turned on his bare heel and stalked from the library.
Charles
stared after him long after he’d gone. Shadows melted into night, and a fine
drizzle coated the leaded glass panes of Greystone Hall before the Duke of
Tremayne left his library.
One
Atlantic Ocean, 1802
"Don’t
be a goose, Emily. Whyever would pirates attack our ship?”
Angela
Lindell gazed at her maid with fond amusement. Dear Emily, so addicted to
fantasy instead of fact, even when it terrified her. It was one of her most
endearing—and irritating—qualities, and Angela was frequently moved to tell her
so.
Emily
Carmichael glanced over her shoulder at the gray waves surrounding their ship,
then shuddered nervously. She turned back to her mistress. "Oh, Miss Angela,
it’s said that pirates attack ships in these waters with no rational thought at
all. Why, only last month, that horrible Captain Saber took three ships from
these very same waters. Killed the crew, stole the goods, and”—her voice
lowered dramatically—"and ravished the women.”
"Did
he. How energetic this Captain Saber must be.” Angela curled her gloved hands
over the side rail and leaned into the wind until it tugged her hair loose from
beneath her hat. She caught at the pale strands whipping against her cheeks and
murmured, "If I were to believe all the tales I hear about him from you and theLondon Times, the man is a veritable genius at being in two places at
once.” Tucking her hair back under the bands of her hat, she turned to smile at
Emily when she made her expected protest.
"Emily,
dear, you’ve been with me since I was twelve. I have considered you my boon
companion for these past dozen years. I must confess, however, that I have
noticed your tendency to ignore the disparate facts surrounding any romantic
myth you stumble upon. While most of the time I find it quite entertaining, I
admit that I am not very much entertained now. I am set on my course, and the Scrutinyhas sailed, so you may stop trying to dissuade me.”
Emily
gave a half-sob and pressed her clenched hand to her mouth. Her brown eyes were
wide and moist.
Angela
sighed. "Are you going to be ill again?” she asked, but Emily shook her head.
Shiny
brown curls whipped over Emily’s pale cheeks. She mumbled through her lace
handkerchief and fingers, "Whatever will your parents say when they discover
that you and I are gone?”
"I’m
well past the age for them to dictate my actions,” Angela said after a moment’s
pause. "I realize they love me and want what’s best for me, but we cannot seem
to agree on just what that is.” She managed a small smile of reassurance. "Once
Papa resigns himself to my determination to wed Philippe and not that
wretched Baron Von Gooseliver—”
"Gosden-Lear,”
Emily corrected faintly.
"I
find Gooseliver more appropriate. At any rate, once Papa and Mama have become
resigned to the realization that I will wed Philippe, they will come ’round.
They always do.”
"I
think,” Emily said in the same faint voice, "that you may have underestimated
Mr. Lindell’s determination to marry you into an excellent family. He seemed
quite set on it, Miss Angela.”
Angela
tried to hide her impatience. "Papa has it in his head that Philippe’s royal
lineage is not enough to make a good marriage. Normally, I would agree. But
Papa took an immediate dislike to Philippe, and never gave him a proper chance
to prove himself. It was all over a ridiculous misunderstanding, and quite
frustrating. If I deem Philippe a suitable husband, I do not see why my
family will not trust my judgment. It’s not as if I’m a chit barely out of the
schoolroom, you know.”
Emily
looked down at her clenched hands. "But you hardly know him, except for his
letters.”
"Nonsense.”
Angela stifled a twinge of irritation. "One can truly come to know a man by his
correspondence, and though Philippe and I may have been separated by miles, we
are very close in a spiritual sense. He has written me almost daily for the
past eight years, and I have come to know his soul.”
Emily
did not look up, her voice a low murmur. "Do you not think, Miss Angela, that
Mr. Lindell may have a point when he said that Philippe du Plessis cannot
support you properly?”
"I
think it frivolous of Papa to decide that Philippe only cares for his money and
my dowry. Though it is true that the du Plessis family was devastated by the
ghastly revolution in Paris, and most of them foully murdered by the rabble,
that does not mean that Philippe is bound to me only by necessity. We
corresponded, remember, even before those terrible times.”
Angela
jerked irritably at her gloves, dislodging a tiny pearl button from one cuff.
It pinged against the wooden deck and rolled through a scupper and into the sea
below.
Emily
bit her lower lip. "Yes, I remember your corresponding then. But you’ve seen
him so rarely, Miss Angela, that perhaps you don’t know him as well as you
should.”
"Nonsense.
You haven’t read his letters. The written sentiments of the heart can be more
revealing than physical closeness. Papa is being unnecessarily suspicious.
Though I do understand his concern, I do not share it. He seems more worried
about his plump pockets than my feelings.”
"Oh,
that cannot be true,” Emily protested. "Mr. Lindell sets great store by your
slightest wish, Miss Angela.”
"But
not as much store as he sets by his senior partnership in City Bank, or his
stock holdings in Sheridan Shipping, or all those sugar fields in the
Caribbean, and tobacco plantations in the Americas—”
Angela
halted abruptly. Emily’s soft brown eyes had lowered, and her teeth dug into
her bottom lip to still its quivering. Her voice was shaky when she said, "I do
not think that I shall care very much for this place called Louisiana, Miss
Angela. It is said to be filled with hostile savages, and lizards large enough
to devour entire villages.”
"More
information from the Times, Emily?” Angela felt a surge of guilt at her
maid’s dismay and put a comforting hand upon the girl’s shoulder. "I shan’t
allow anything bad to happen to you. Haven’t I always been able to see us
safe?”
"This
is quite different than stealing away from Miss Hartsell’s Academy and making a
day in Hyde Park, Miss Angela.” Emily drew in a deep breath. "Louisiana is far
away from London, and far from Mr. Lindell’s protection.”
"True.
But I’m quite capable in my own right.” Angela gave her a last pat, then turned
back to the rail to stare over the choppy waves that seemed to stretch forever.
It was nearing dusk. England’s shores had long since faded from the horizon,
and she felt a swell of anticipation that bordered on excitement. A new world,
a new life—and her beloved Philippe. What would he say when she arrived, and he
realized what she had braved to join him? He would be overwhelmed, she was
certain. This was, indeed, a drastic step for her to take, but it would be
worth it when she saw his relief and joy.
She
had several moments of pleasant reverie before Emily’s distress once more
penetrated her dreamy haze. She sighed at the girl’s inability to envision
their promising future and turned back to her.
"Emily,
even Papa has always said that I am very resourceful. I beg of you not to
distress yourself so. I have already written Philippe of our imminent arrival,
so he will be expecting us. Once I am with him, Papa will be forced to
recognize my determination and he will concede.”
When
Emily still did not seem convinced, Angela shook her head. "At any rate, once
Philippe and I are wed, you can return to London if you’re so very unhappy.”
"Are
you certain your Philippe is in Louisiana?”
"Quite
certain.” Angela’s hand dropped to the reticule dangling from her arm. She
could feel the folded sheaf of paper in the small velvet bag that held her last
communication from him. "He went to relatives in New Orleans after Papa’s
abrupt dismissal of his suit. He was quite upset, you know.”
"I
daresay,” Emily muttered.
Angela
frowned. "You never have cared for him.”
Emily
shook her head. "No, Miss Angela. I cannot say I have. But then, I do not care
very much for foreigners.”
"That’s
what comes of being born and bred in Yorkshire, I suspect. You should broaden
your horizons.”
"Louisiana
is broader than I should ever have wished to expand them,” Emily said so
wistfully that Angela felt another sharp twinge of guilt.
"Oh,
do not look so glum, Emily. All will be well. Let us not dwell on things too much.”
She paused, then said, "I have honeyed dates below in my trunk, if you like. I
know they are your favorite. Shall I fetch them?”
Even
the promise of honeyed dates did not brighten Emily’s round face, though she
finally nodded when Angela said she was going below to fetch the tin. "As you
will, Miss Angela. Though it won’t help very much.”
Along
with the guilt came a surge of exasperation. Angela dutifully tamped it down as
she turned away from the rail and made her way to the hatch leading below the main
deck. Emily had become more a friend than a servant over the years, but there
were times when her timidity was a great trial. If there had been a way for
Angela to travel without her, she would have done so, but she dared not flout
convention any more than she was already doing. Besides, it would not be long
before they were all back in London.
Of
course, Angela mused as she felt her way along the narrow, musty passageway
toward their cabin, she had never dared so much before. And there was the
nagging worry in the back of her mind that despite her assurances, Emily’s
fears might somehow prove true. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and
she was convinced she was doing the right thing.
A
thrust of pain at the memory of Philippe’s stalwart expression when Papa had
ordered him from their home in Mayfair made her flinch. Poor Philippe. He had
looked so despairing and heartsick at the betrayal. None of her protests had
swayed her father, who stood firm in his belief that Philippe du Plessis would
never be his son-in-law.
Why
was she the only one who could see behind Philippe’s circumstances to the
gentle, kind man he really was? She’d always considered her father more astute
in his judgments. That he refused to reconsider his rash conclusion was painful.
After
the scene in their parlor, Papa had arbitrarily announced his acceptance of
Baron Von Gosden-Lear’s proposal of marriage for her; it had fused her
burgeoning desire to flout convention, and she had immediately declared her
intention to wed Philippe without parental consent. It had, of course, been a
disaster.
Papa
had bellowed and blustered, and Mama had wept and implored Angela not to even
suggest such a thing. The dreadful interview had ended with Angela’s retreat to
her room and nothing being settled. It had occurred to her as she lay sleepless
in her bed, that her marriage to Philippe would be a very simple matter once it
was a fait accompli. Papa would be forced to acknowledge Philippe as her
husband, and Baron Gooseliver could slink off to propose marriage to some other
young lady. She was made of sterner stuff than to meekly submit to something as
important as marriage.
Angela
pushed open the door to the tiny cabin she shared with Emily and lurched
inside. Peeling off her gloves, she tried to keep her balance. The constant
roll and pitch of the Scrutiny made her stumble about most clumsily.
Really, you’d think that a shipping line as well known as Sheridan would offer
better accommodations, though the purser at the main office had assured her that
this was one of the best compartments available on a ship that did not normally
carry passengers. Tucked into a corner of the ’tween-deck quarters occupied by
the crew, the cabin had very little space, but did afford some privacy.
Angela
eyed the narrow bunks with distaste and bent to fumble at the catch of her
trunk. It had been stashed in a small space between bunk and wall; a tiny
cupboard that held a washbowl and chamber pot was just above it. She tugged at
the trunk, and succeeded in pulling it out enough to open the lid.
A
sudden lurch of the ship slammed the lid shut, and she narrowly escaped having
her fingers smashed. Without warning, the door to the cupboard slung open, and
the washbowl and chamber pot tumbled out to roll across the dipping floor with
a metallic clatter.
Mumbling
to herself about the bleak comforts of a ship, Angela finally had them caught
and stowed away again before she returned to her trunk. It took her a minute to
find the tin of honeyed dates that she’d included at the last moment. A jumble
of hastily packed clothes contended with gilt-framed miniatures of her family,
hairbrushes, bottles of scent, and an assortment of odds and ends that seemed
faintly ridiculous in retrospect. She smiled when she saw the porcelain music box
she’d brought. Lifting it from the trunk, she turned the key to wind it. Light,
tinkling tones were almost drowned out by the creaking and groaning of the
ship, and she put the box to her ear and closed her eyes. Papa had given it to
her for her tenth birthday. Scenes on the porcelain cover depicted unicorns and
a maiden with long blond hair. Papa had said that he’d thought of her at once
when he’d seen it, and had bought it for his own fair-haired maiden to enjoy.
A
hot press of tears behind her closed lids made her sigh, and she opened her
eyes and replaced the music box in the trunk. She could only hope Papa would
understand and forgive her for worrying him. It had seemed like the only way to
ensure her happiness with Philippe.
As
she rose to her feet with the tin of comfits, the Scrutiny gave another
heavy lurch to one side, then rolled so that she had to cling to the edge of a
bunk to keep from falling to the floor. The rumble of pounding feet against the
deck made her look up with a frown. She could hear the incessant piping of a
whistle cut through the noise with annoying regularity. Why had she ever
thought a ship would be relatively peaceful? It had seemed an idyllic interlude
that would end with a joyous reunion with Philippe in New Orleans. She had
quickly discovered that the ship was anything but quiet and idyllic, with
piping whistles, the slap of canvas, humming lines, and roughly shouted orders.
Muttering
to herself about shattered illusions, Angela made her way to the cabin door and
threw it open. A shrill shriek gave her only an instant’s warning before Emily
barreled into the cabin. Her face was contorted with terror and her words were
an incomprehensible babble.
"Emily.”
Angela gave her a slight shake by one arm that had no effect whatsoever.
"Emily!”
"Oh...
oh... oh Miss...”
Impatient
with Emily’s hiccoughing hysteria, Angela gave her arm a sharp pinch that
brought the girl to a gasping halt.
"Tell
me what has you so distraught,” Angela demanded when Emily drew in a deep
breath and seemed calmer. "Are you ill again? Why are you so hysterical?”
"P-p-pirates,”
Emily stuttered, brown eyes as wide as saucers and her face as pale as milk.
She clutched Angela’s arm. "Oh miss! We’re being chased by pirates!”
"Nonsense.”
Angela’s tart denial was more to convince herself than Emily. "We’re barely two
days out of England. Why would any self-respecting pirate be lurking
practically in the English Channel?”
Emily
moaned and closed her eyes. "I dunno, miss, I swear I dunno. I only knows that
the c-cap’n told me to git below and s-s-stay here, as p-p-pirates are after
us.”
It
was evident by Emily’s descent into her broad Yorkshire dialect that she was
beyond fear and bordering on mindless terror. Angela took pity on her, and gave
her a gentle shove toward one of the bunks.
"Lie
down, Emily. I shall go above deck and find out what is really going on.”
As
she sank down onto the hard comfort of a bunk and put the back of a hand over
her eyes, Emily said in a pitiful moan, "Don’t go up there, miss. Just the
sight o’ that pirate’s black flag will give ye a fright. A saber. That’s what
their flag has on it—a saber drippin’ with blood.”
"You’ve
gone too far, Emily.” Angela tossed the tin of dates to the bunk and grabbed at
the wall to support herself as the ship gave another lurch. "A dripping saber?
It’s too melodramatic.”
Emily
lifted her hand to peer at her with one eye. "Not this time. The Cap’n said
it’s Captain Saber, the most dreadful pirate to ever sail the open seas. Oh
miss, when I think of all those articles about him and what he does to the
captives he takes...”
Having
heard enough, Angela fumbled her way out the door and into the dank, musty
companionway. It was evident that something untoward was happening, as even
from below she could hear the thunder of feet and male voices lifted in
excitement.
Still,
the scene that met her eyes when she pulled herself up the ladder and through
the hatch was a shock. Men in various stages of panic scurried over the decks,
hauling lines, loosing sails, and jettisoning heavy cargo. It was the last that
shook her most, the confirmation that something bad was definitely about to
happen.
She
made her way to the captain, ignoring his irate glance and brusque demand to
know why she was above deck.
"Captain
Turnower, what is happening?”
He
grasped her by the arm, shocking her as he whirled her around and gave her a
shove toward the hatch. "I don’t have time to stand here and explain anything
to you. Get back below and stay there until you’re told to come out.”
Dazed,
and fighting the rising fear that threatened to choke her, Angela fumbled for a
steadying grip on the iron rail that edged the hatch. She looked up and past
the decks. Her eyes fastened on the ship bearing down on them. Above the sails,
fluttering in the wind, was the banner that Emily had seen. White against a
black field, a curved saber dripped with a few scarlet drops of blood. The
insignia amply identified the ship.
Captain
Kit Saber. His name prompted a shudder, and she recalled news articles about
him that she had always regarded as pure fantasy. Rumors about him abounded,
from the ludicrous tale that he was the son of a duke, to the much more
credible story that he was the illegitimate offspring of a wandering Englishman
and a West Indian whore. As a pirate, Kit Saber struck terror into the hearts
of seafaring men everywhere. He’d been said to take as many as six ships in a
single day—though that was deemed improbable by most—and left behind no
survivors to tell the tale of his depredations. Only a lucky few had escaped to
whisper of his crimes against them, of his fierce, ruthless crew rumored to
drink the blood of their victims before shoving them overboard at the points of
their swords. Among his crew was a giant, with ebony skin and a tattooed face,
and he and the captain were said to be in league with the devil.
Another
shudder made her ache, and Angela stumbled back down the hatch to her cabin.
Emily still lay moaning with terror on the bunk, and Angela ignored her as she
moved to her trunk again. Somewhere... she had seen it in
here just a few minutes before... ah, there it was.
Triumphant,
she held up Papa’s small pistol, which she’d tossed into her trunk. It held
only two balls, but would at least be sufficient threat to hold a savage pirate
at bay long enough to barter for their lives and freedom.
She
looked up to see Emily watching her. Her grip tightened on the pistol. "Do what
I tell you, Emily, and do not argue with me. There may be no time.”
"Captain Saber.”
Kit
turned, sheathing his sword as he glanced down at his sailing master. "What is
it, Mr. Buttons?”
Fading
sunlight glinted in his pale hair as Mr. Buttons pointed toward a hatch that
led below the Scrutiny’s top deck. "Trouble below, cap’n. Turk is
there.”
"Turk?
If he’s below, he’s capable of handling any trouble himself. Captain Turnower
and I have some negotiations to conduct concerning the surrender of his ship’s
cargo.”
"But
Captain...”
Kit
had turned back to the white-faced Captain Turnower. Smoke hazed the air,
burning his eyes and lungs, and Kit felt a wave of impatience to have this done
with. The Scrutiny had yielded with the firing of only a few token
shots, but some idiot aboard her had managed to set fire to a pile of tarred
ropes. Normally, the transferal of ship’s stores and cargo from one vessel to
the other was quite satisfying, but the stench of smoldering rope was making
his lungs ache.
Mr.
Buttons loudly cleared his throat. Kit gave the sailing master a fierce glare
that made him swallow hard, but he did not retreat.
"Captain,
it was Turk who sent me to fetch you. He said it was ‘most imperative’ that you
come at once.”
A
faint smile tugged at Kit’s mouth at the awkward mimicry of Turk’s speech. He
nodded. "Very well, Mr. Buttons. Let me assure the captain that I have not
forgotten him.”
He
slid his gaze back to Captain Turnower, who met it without flinching. No
pleading or whining here, but a man’s acceptance of defeat. It not only made
matters go more smoothly, but always saved lives when the prey surrendered.
With
a slight bow, Kit said, "Do be seated, Captain. My sailing master will see to
your comfort until my return.”
Turnower
gave a short jerk of his head to acknowledge his agreement, though he could
have done little else. His heavy-bottomed merchantman was too slow to outrun a
ship much lighter in tonnage and built for speed. The Scrutiny was
outmanned, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. Turnower had recognized that fact
early enough to save the lives of his crew.
Grasping
the edge of the hatch with one hand, Kit swung below in a single leap, landing
on his feet in the dark passageway below. The lamps had gone out and it was
gloomy. The air smelled of damp wood and lingering traces of spices from
forgotten cargo. He walked down the passageway in long strides, moving toward a
lantern outside an open door. He could see Turk’s huge frame barring the
doorway, and he stopped.
"What
have you found that you cannot handle, Turk?”
Despite
Kit’s obvious amusement, Turk did not seem to share it. He barely turned his
head; lantern light made the black skin of his bald crown gleam dully.
"This
young lady desires to have a word with you, Captain. I exhorted her to defer it
until later, but she seems a rather precipitate person, and insisted upon
conversing with you immediately.”
Turk’s
mellifluous tones rolled loudly in the dark, silent passageway, and Kit lifted
his brow.
"A
young lady? Aboard a Sheridan merchantman?”
"So
it seems, Captain.”
Kit
eyed Turk’s unusual rigidity and the way he stood in the doorway; and suddenly
understood his stiffness. He stepped to the side to peer over Turk’s shoulder.
A
young woman stood in desperate determination, a pistol trained on Turk with
fierce concentration. Kit stifled a laugh. How incongruous for the massive Turk
to be held at bay by a slip of a girl with a tiny firearm no bigger than Turk’s
palm.
"Very
well, Turk,” he said after a brief assessment, "I will speak with her. Do move
aside.”
"Oh,
no,” came a voice from inside. "He doesn’t move. If you would be so good,
Captain, as to converse with me over his shoulder, I won’t get so nervous that
I accidentally pull the trigger of this pistol.”
Kit
saw a muscle in Turk’s dark jaw clench, and he held his laughter. He didn’t
know why he found it so amusing, given that most females didn’t know one end of
a pistol from the other, hence being more of a danger in that respect than any
other threat. And the glimpse he’d had of the feral little creature holding the
weapon had been anything but reassuring.
Pale
wisps of blond hair scattered her brow beneath the brim of a lopsided hat.
Though she held the pistol with grim determination, he’d noticed the fine lines
of stress on each side of her mouth. Any sudden movement might, indeed, cause
her to squeeze the trigger. It would not ensure the accuracy of her aim,
however, as the barrel of the pistol seemed to waver halfway between the cabin
wall and the ceiling most of the time.
Kit
drew back and leaned his shoulder against the wall of the passageway. "I am at
your service, madam. Pray, make your wishes known, for I fear we are wasting
valuable time.”
There
were muffled whispers and scuffling feet, and he shot Turk a questioning
glance. "What is she doing?”
"Predators
of this nature seem to come in pairs, Captain,” the ebony giant observed. "We
have a full complement of them in the cabin.”
"I
see.” Suddenly wearying of the ridiculous delay in a play that had only one
ending that he could see, Kit let his voice take on the hard edge that had been
known to make men tremble. "Madam, if you value your life and health, put down
that pistol before I take the decision from your hands.”
Silence
fell. The ship creaked and groaned, and he could hear the thud of cargo bumping
against hatches as it was transferred to his ship. He waited impatiently, and
was about to repeat his demand in more explicit terms when he heard her
refusal.
"No,”
came the quavering reply. "If I relinquish the pistol, there will be nothing to
stop you from doing your worst.”
"Damnation,
there’s nothing to stop me now.” He levered his body away from the wall,
patience rapidly waning, his voice sharp. "If you are foolish enough to shoot
my quartermaster, you will very much dislike the results.”
"Not
as much as he will, I would wager.”
"Perhaps
not, but your fate will be more certain than his. If you shoot and miss, I will
be no less angry than if you actually strike Turk. If you should be so
unfortunate as to put a ball into him, however...”
He
let his voice trail into significant silence. The promise of untold retribution
would be much more effective than any wild threat he could concoct against an
English gentlewoman at such short notice.
During
the pregnant silence that fell, he noted the approaching ground swell from the
slight shift of the deck beneath his feet. He flicked a glance at Turk, and saw
that he had also detected the ship’s rising motion. It should provide a perfect
opportunity.
"What
will it be?” Kit demanded to distract the girl. "Do you surrender easily, or
must we resort to extremes?”
"I...
I only want mine and my maid’s safety guaranteed,” came the faintly breathless
reply. Her voice quivered, not a good sign as far as Kit was concerned.
As
the ship began a slow, stately rise, he moved forward a step, glimpsing the
girl’s frightened bravado before the ship suddenly dropped again. The brief
moment of abrupt weightlessness made the girl stagger, her pistol wavering. At
almost the same instant as he, Turk leaped forward. A stifled scream sliced the
air, and the booming report of a pistol deafened him as Kit lunged close behind
Turk.
The
sharp, acrid smell of sulphur filled the tiny cabin in a stinging wave. Turk
gave a slight grunt. Kit had a brief impression of petticoats and slender legs
in white stockings, then he had his hand around a fragile wrist.
With
a jerk, he pulled forward a limp, pale-faced girl with a mop of brown curls.
She promptly fainted with only a slight sigh, dropping to the floor by his
feet. He turned his attention to the daring assailant, and saw that Turk had
her pinned against the bunk with his massive bulk. The pistol lay on the cabin
floor, smoke still curling from the barrel.
Kit
scooped it up with one hand, tossing the unconscious girl to the bunk with his
other. He stuck the pistol into his belt, then turned.
Turk’s
muscled biceps were streaked with blood, and Kit muttered a curse.
"Bloody
hell, Turk. She shot you.”
"So
it would seem, Captain. I commend your acuity.”
Furious
now, Kit reached for the girl, jerking her to him. Her hat was askew, dipping
over one eye and half hiding her face. His hand tangled in a wealth of loose
blond hair that had tumbled over her shoulder. It felt as clean and fresh as
sunlight on a winter’s day; he dragged her close and tilted back her hat. When
her small, patrician nose was only a few inches from his and he could see terror
fill her grass green eyes, he said with deliberate cruelty, "I warned you that
you would not like your fate.”
Her
pupils expanded to darken her eyes with dramatic shadows. Fear shone in her
gaze, fear and something else he could not place. He felt her muscles tense,
saw the shadows in her eyes sharpen to purpose. Before he could react to this
unexpected threat, the delicate little creature cowering in his grip brought up
a swift, accurate knee.
Unprepared,
Kit was caught in his groin by a blow only slightly softened by petticoat and
skirts. He grunted in pain and released her to double over. There was a roaring
in his ears as if he’d been standing too long on the gundeck. His vision
blurred out of focus for a moment as he went to one knee and tried to hold the
nausea at bay.
By
the time he looked up again, his blond assailant was well in hand. Turk’s broad
fingers curled around her throat in a menacing grip. Kit rose slowly and took a
stumbling step, then another; he finally drew in a deep breath that felt
riddled with needles. He straightened to his full height with only a slight
wince.
"Take
her topside,” he said in a voice that sounded strange. He eyed the girl’s
flushed face for a long moment while Turk rearranged his hold on her. Turk
seemed absorbed in the task of using her pink satin dress sash as manacles, and
did not glance at him. Kit had the distinct impression that it was more because
of a desire to hide his laughter than the pain the shallow burn across his
biceps was giving him.
Kit
turned away and, with only a slight limp, made his way to the upper deck.
