This captain might ravish her, stick swords into her, and throw her overboard, but she knew that as long as she could reach Haven, with Isabeau, she’d be all right.
The shore receded astonishingly quickly. The dinghy rounded a headland, and there, hidden from shore by chalk-white cliffs characteristic of this part of England, a ship rocked.
As the daughter of an admiral and the wife of a naval captain, Diana knew ships. This one was sleek and light, narrow-bodied and two-masted, with a triangular jib sail. It was a frigate, a small, fast fighting ship. Diana eyed the gun ports in the ship’s side, plenty with which to fire on any naval vessel that pursued it. As the dinghy neared the ship, she saw its name boldly on the bow — the Argonaut.
A rope ladder came down for them over the ship’s side. Henderson climbed it easily, showing that, though he might act like a London dandy, he knew his way around vessels. Kinnaird was a little slower but as surefooted.
A knife blade touched Diana’s wrists. Ardmore crowded behind her while he cut away the cloth tying her hands. “Up,” he said, shoving her at the ladder.
Diana put a hesitant foot on the first rung. She’d climbed this way onto ships before, but on those occasions she’s first donned leather breeches and boots under her loose skirt. This creation by her London dressmaker was of lightweight muslin, perfect for ladies who wanted a stroll about a gardens in little more than a light breeze. Not at all conducive to climbing rope ladders in a stiff wind.
She heard a growl of impatience behind her, then a large hand on her backside pushing her upward. Diana started scrambling up the ladder, the rough rope making short work of her gloves. Any time she faltered or stumbled, Ardmore’s hand steadied her — on her waist, her hip, her backside again.
Never had the side of a ship seemed so steep or long. At the top, a large man with an ugly face pulled her up and onto the deck.
Ardmore followed her. As soon as the captain set foot on his own ship . . . Nothing happened. No piping him aboard, no standing to attention. The sailors, instead of dropping everything and snapping bodies ramrod straight, went on winding lines, raising sails, and making the ship ready to leave. Either Americans were much more lax at discipline, or Ardmore’s ship was not a typical naval vessel.
But shore loomed tantalizingly close. Though the cliffs were sheer, the Argonaut had anchored somewhat close to them, so as to be hidden from above. The ship’s draw must not be great, or else they’d found a nice deep part of the channel.
Diana was a strong swimmer. To the left, the cliffs began to soften, and she knew that little beaches lay among them where fishermen worked and highborn ladies and gentlemen came down to take the waters.
Ardmore paused to say something to the Irishman, and Diana stepped to the rail, gazing at the shore as though taking one last look at England.
All she had to do was dive into the waiting depths and swim away. Ardmore had come for Kinnaird — they wouldn’t bother to chase a woman who might drown anyway. It would take a long time Diana her to reach shore and make her way back to the admiral’s, but no matter. She would take it in stages, and the Argonaut could be long gone.
Diana set her hands on the rail, drew a long, practiced breath . . . And found her waist locked in Ardmore’s steely grip.
Ardmore jerked Diana from her feet and half carried, half dragged, her to the stern, through the door under the quarterdeck to the cabins.
He took her through a fine captain’s room lit with windows across the stern before he opened a second door, shoved her through, and slammed it behind her, locking her inside.
Chapter Two
“Any trouble, Forsythe?” James asked his pilot. Forsythe stood at the wheel, competently turning the ship away from the cliffs.
“No, sir. We’re away, smooth as a baby’s bum.”
“Good.” James had no need to tell Forsythe where they were going — the entire crew knew they were heading to Charleston to deliver Kinnaird. Kinnaird was from Virginia, but he could make his way there after they landed. Charleston was one of the few ports that welcomed James without anyone immediately trying to arrest him.
“Sir.” Alden Henderson was on the quarterdeck as well, spectacles glinting as he peered through a spyglass behind them. “No pursuit.”
“Not yet,” James said.
“Sure you should have brought her, sir? I’ve met Sir Edward, and he’s as ruthless as you are. When his wife doesn’t turn up this evening, he’ll be combing the area, and if anyone saw us rowing out . . .”
Ardmore leaned on the rail and watched his ship’s sails picked up the wind. He loved the feel of the ship getting underway, the calm vessel coming to life on the water. He liked the deck moving beneath his feet, the wind in his face, the snap of sails, the sounds men shouting to each other as they worked.
“We might have longer,” he said to Henderson. “I know some things about Worthing, hero of the English navy. He’s convinced his wife is a lightskirt. He might not start looking for her until morning.”
Henderson looked surprised. “Is she?”
“I’ve no idea.” And James didn’t care. Lady Worthing was an intriguing woman, and if she wanted to put one over on her priggish husband, it was no business of James’s.
“What did you do with her?”
“Locked her in my cabin,” James said. “She might or might not be a whore, but she’s devious. Saw that in her already.”
Henderson frowned. “When all’s said and done, Ardmore, she’s a lady. Her father is Admiral Lockwood, a decent man. I met him in my brief career as a naval officer, and he’s a good chap. I have to ask what you plan to do with her.”
James shrugged. “Keep her a while, take her all the way to Charleston if I have to. She can arrange for transport back there.”
“In your cabin?”
“Yes, Henderson.” James’s irritation rose. Henderson was a damn good lieutenant, and a good third-in-command but he was a stickler for the English propriety Henderson claimed he’d tried to get away from. “In my cabin. You want her in a hammock in the hold with everyone else?”
“I take your point.” Henderson raised the glass again, his stance rigid. Ardmore and Henderson had fallen out over Ardmore’s treatment of a lady last year. Henderson was still cool about it, but Ardmore didn’t care. He’d done what he’d had to do.
Capturing Diana Worthing hadn’t been part of James’s plans when the word had come that Kinnaird needed to be extracted. But James believed in using whatever opportunity dropped into his lap, and the fine-faced Diana Worthing was an opportunity.
He skimmed down the ladder from the quarterdeck and entered his main cabin. The shore was receding, the line of cliffs moving up and down through the lights of the stern. Good. James always liked to see England dropping behind him.
James spent a moment watching the land grow smaller, then he unbolted starboard side door, and walked into his inner cabin.
And ducked.
A candlestick came flying across the small room, narrowing missing his head and clattering against the wall. James shut the door quickly as Lady Worthing hefted a large book.
She’d tipped the meager contents of the shelves above his bunk to the mattress, and now she was rifling through them, choosing her weapons. James sidestepped as she threw the book, got across the tiny cabin before she could reach for her next missile, and grabbed her.
He shoved her up against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head. He was breathing hard by the time he got her to quiet, and found himself looking into very angry blue eyes.
Gray-blue eyes, like the sea at dawn. Tiny ruby earrings trembled in the dim light, and her carefully dressed red curls were now mussed from the strong wind.
The bones of her face were clean and strong, but she wasn’t thin. Her cheeks were round and soft, chin and forehead completing the almost perfect oval. No pert nose, childlike face, or dimpled chin. She was a beautiful woman — not of fashionable beauty, but primal, fierce beauty, one that st
irred mating desires in man.
Her quick breath brushed James’s lips as he leaned to her, and the red curl that dangled down her neck beckoned his mouth. She had fire in her eyes, no fear and submission there. Taking a woman like this would be passionate, and unforgettable.
Her husband was a horse’s ass, by Kinnaird’s accounts. This woman might love Worthing dearly, or she might be in need of a little care, hence her reputation as a lightskirt. Ship’s captains tended to spend many months away from home.
“Does the ravishment commence now?” she asked. Her voice had a slight tremor in it, though she tried to mask it with hauteur.
James tightened his grip on her wrists. “Do you want it to?”
“Do I have a choice?” Her eyes flickered. “I suppose I will be passed to your crew once you’ve finished.”
James caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb. Her skin was silken, incredibly so. He let his thumb move under the edge of her torn glove. “You’re confusing this with a pirate ship, Lady Worthing. We’re pirate hunters. I kill the bastards who do that to women.”
A swallow moved down her throat. “Does that mean I am safe with you? Forgive me, but our present situation hardly reassures me.”
Like hell he was letting her go to start throwing things at him again. “Doesn’t matter.” James leaned closer still, breathing in her scent of perfume mixed with salt air. “But if you prefer a ravishment, I don’t mind providing one.” He roved his gaze to her scooped bodice and the breasts pushed against the décolletage by her stays.
“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked, that tremor still in her voice.
“That depends. If you mean the ravishment, I’ll undo your bodice one hook at a time and enjoy the view inside. Then I’ll taste, only a little at first, until I take down your stays and cup your whole breast in my hand. I’ll tease you until your nipples are tightening for me, then maybe I’ll continue taking off the rest of the dress. Or I’ll leave it at that, maybe savor you later.”
Lady Worthing’s eyes had gone wide, but her pupils spread, shock mixed with . . . desire? Maybe. She wasn’t used to men saying such things to her — the idiots chasing her at Admiral Burgess’s probably treated her like a goddess on a pedestal, not a flesh and blood woman.
She wet her lips, the moisture behind them enticing. “I meant, do you intend to let me off this ship or will you carry me to whatever is your destination?”
“That depends on you.” James released one of her hands to skim his fingers down her throat. “If you behave yourself, we’ll let you off before we leave the south coast. If you keep tossing candlesticks at me, I’ll tie you up until we reach Charleston.”
“Charleston? That’s where you’re going?”
“It is. Won’t matter who you tell once we let you go. I’m not a wanted man there.”
Though he’d released her wrist, Lady Worthing still rested it against the wall, as though she hadn’t noticed that the tether of his fingers had gone.
This situation was getting him hard. It had been a while since James had sated himself — he found he had less time for meaningless satisfaction these days.
But he sensed that an affair with this woman would be different. She had fire in her, and a storm, and she’d ignite a man’s bed with passion beyond measure. Wanting burned in her, which kicked James’s wanting to life.
During the passage to Charleston, they could enjoy sultry nights in James’s bunk, and during the day, she could tell him all about the English navy and their ship movements and the island her admiral father owned, called Haven.
He’d make her surrender sweet. Worth it.
James leaned closer, his face an inch from hers, her warmth caressing him. “We’ll clear England by morning. Let me know your answer by then.”
“What answer?”
“Whether you want to be tied up and locked away or stay in here as my guest.”
She swallowed. “Not really a choice, is it?”
“It is, Lady Worthing. I leave it up to you.” James leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers. “You want to know what I find most interesting about you? That you’re not weeping and begging me to return you to your husband. Or the safety of Admiral Burgess’s home at once.”
“Would it do any good?” The right side of her mouth quirked into a half smile. “Besides, the house party was quite dreadful.”
James drew a sharp breath. Yes, a week in his bunk, with her. Henderson and O’Malley could sail the bloody ship by themselves while he got to know every nuance of this woman.
“I believe you,” James said. “I’ve met Admiral Burgess.”
The smile died. “If you decide to leave me off before England is out of sight, would you take me to my father’s house instead?”
“Your father’s house,” James repeated, seeing the worry return to her eyes. “Not your husband’s?”
“My daughter is there.”
Daughter. Intelligence hadn’t told him about a daughter. He kept his tone nonchalant. “Your father’s house where?”
“Near Southampton.”
He waited but Lady Worthing closed her mouth, finished. No discussion of her father’s island where she spent her summers.
The location of the island was a secret — or at least a secret to Americans or French frigates looking for it. James had heard only one mention of it, and had since discovered it to be in the possession of one Admiral John Lockwood, retired naval hero. His daughter, Diana, was married to Sir Edward Worthing, neatly available at the house party to which the spy Kinnaird had finagled an invitation. Kinnaird had been there for other reasons so had not asked her about it, and she’d never mentioned it to him, no matter how congenial they’d become.
The island could be key to James’s goal, or it could be one more step on the road — or it could be of no importance whatsoever. Didn’t matter. James needed to know.
“I’ll consider it.” He traced her cheek again, wanting to take his hand all the way down her neck to her enticing bosom.
He backed away instead, releasing her completely. Interesting that she still kept her hands up for a second, before realizing she was free and quickly lowering her arms.
“Someone will bring you food,” James said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
James turned and left before she could pick up something else to throw at him. He saw her reaching, but he managed to close and lock the door behind him, before whatever it was crashed against the wall.
*** *** ***
Make yourself comfortable. Diana did so by seating herself on the edge of his bunk, opening his sea chest, and going through its contents.
The best way to defeat an enemy is to know him, her father had told her. Know everything about them, their strengths and their weaknesses. That was the key to knowing when and how to strike.
Admiral Lockwood had meant enemy ships and their movements, but Diana saw no reason not to apply the idea to Captain Ardmore. Locked inside his cabin, she couldn’t explore the ship, but she could discover everything she could about the man himself.
From what was in his sea chest, Diana learned that Captain Ardmore was from Charleston, South Carolina, lived in a house on the Battery, and had a sister, Honoria, who wrote to him. The letters were succinct and businesslike — what Honoria had spent on the household, the state of health of everyone on the staff, and tidbits of information about the Ardmore investments and how they were doing.
The letters contained nothing personal about Honoria, nor did they ask personal questions about James. She might have been his man of business rather than a member of the family. Honoria had addressed them to various ports in the world — To be held for Captain Ardmore — none of them English ports, Diana noted.
Captain Ardmore didn’t have much in the way of personal possessions either. His books were about flora and fauna of the world, or histories of various countries, things a ship’s captain might want to know before he visited said countries. Ardmore seemed to lik
e histories in general, having a volume Gibbon nestled next to Herodotus and Tacitus in Greek and Latin. He’d underlined passages in the books, mostly about battle tactics and outcomes, and made notes in the margins.
The only personal item Diana found was the small, oval portrait of a young lady with dark hair, a determined chin, and green eyes. The eyes were the same light ice-green as Captain Ardmore’s and possessed the same penetrating stare.
“The sister, Honoria, I presume,” Diana said.
She found two more oval pictures, one of a green-eyed young man — a smiling, less brutish version of Captain Ardmore. A younger brother perhaps. Another of a young woman and two black-haired little girls. The little girls had the Ardmore green eyes.
Diana slipped the pictures back into the protective bags in which she found them and returned them to their places.
At the bottom of the trunk, she found the diary. Curious, she opened it then stopped in shock at the first words she saw.
My children died today.
Diana drew a breath, a sickening feeling in her stomach, but the next words pulled her on. Or was it yesterday? Or the day before? They told me this morning. My wife and my little girls. Gone forever. When did it happen? It doesn’t matter. The world ended for me today.
Diana turned the page, realizing that Captain Ardmore had not written this diary. The hand was different from that which had scribbled notes in his histories, and the voice was completely different as well.
She’d seen an emptiness in Ardmore’s eyes when he’d stood so close to her, but he’d not borne the grief of a parent losing his children. Diana knew what she’d feel like if anything happened to Isabeau, and knew Captain Ardmore had not experienced that.
Another page mentioned “my brother James,” and also that the writer had purchased a refitted frigate, called the Argonaut, for his purpose.
Honoria doesn’t like it, and James won’t either, but he wasn’t there, was he? Where was he? Why was he not there to save them from the cruelty? He has abandoned us.
The Pirate Hunter's Lady Page 2