Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3)

by Shirlee Busbee

  Nicole leaped to her feet; her fists clenched tightly at her sides, she stated baldly, “Higgins told me about you and my mother. About how Robert and she tricked you and about how he sold you to the press-gang.”

  Christopher, more furious than she had ever seen him, swore long and with astonishing fluency. The gold eyes glittered dangerously, as he snarled, “Is that why you are being so understanding? So willing to have me kiss you? Because that old sad tale has aroused your sympathy? Well, spare me that!”

  He stood up and throwing Nicole a glance of utter dislike, he snarled, “You forget about what happened in the past. I have. I don’t need Annabelle’s daughter mewling over me like I’m some half-drowned kitten!”

  “Mewling!” Nicole spat. Any regret, any sorrow for her mother’s actions, even her own anguish over his departure vanished as her temper rose. Her face white, the great dark eyes sparkling, she stepped forward and before Christopher could guess her intent slapped him open-handed across one cheek. “Why you ass-eared whelp!” she cried furiously, tears glittering in her eyes.

  Furious himself, Christopher caught her shoulders, holding her prisoner in a powerful grip as she fought to free herself. “This, I believe,” he said tightly, “is where I came in. Since we seem to have said everything that need be, I’ll bid you good-bye. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to see each other before I leave. Rest assured I’ll damn well take care to stay out of your way.”

  Aware that she was hiding behind her anger, Nicole, her temper now in full blaze, sent Christopher a look of mingled despair and defiance. “You do that!” she choked. “By God, I’ll bless the day you sail away. It can’t be too soon to suit me!”

  With a queer flicker in his eyes he studied her stormy features for a moment, almost, she though, as if memorizing them; then his lips twisted into a mocking grin, and he said coolly, “Now that’s the Nick I remember. Here’s something else for you to remember me by.”

  Jerking her into his arms and catching her half-opened lips possessively, he pinioned her body against his. His lips seared hers like a flame, commanding, demanding that she respond to this blunt attack of her senses. Blindly, Nicole fought against the insidious languor, the blaze of desire that spread through her body. His mouth allowed no escape; his lips compelled her to yield, to give in to the physical craving that washed through her veins. She molded herself closer to him. Damn him! she thought furiously. Damn him, for making me want him. Damn him!

  Christopher was fighting his own battle; rigid with barely leashed desire, he wanted Nicole unbearably for one last time—just once more to lose himself in that flesh, to feel her shudder beneath him, to have the taste of that silken skin in his mouth, that perfume peculiarly hers in his nostrils. Ah, Jesus, he wondered with dull rage, why her of all women? Hadn’t he learned once that an Ashford woman was a beautiful witch of uncanny power, a creature of lust and lies, of passion and betrayal? Frantic to break the tenuous silken web around him, Christopher tore his mouth from Nicole’s and with a jerky movement set her away from him. He was breathing heavily, his eyes blurred with desire, but his voice was detached as he said, “I think we’ll each have something to remember of the other, Nick—whether we want to or not.” He spun on his heel but as if recalling something, stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t as yet made definite plans for leaving and I haven’t said anything to my grandfather. I would appreciate it if you would say nothing to anyone, until I have told him myself.”

  Nicole couldn’t bear to look at him, afraid of her own emotions. She nodded dumbly, concentrating on fighting back the foolish tears that shimmered in her eyes.

  Unable to help himself, Christopher gave her one long last look, sealing the achingly beautiful picture she made away in some buried part of his heart. Hungrily he stared at her, taking in the flawless features, the mass of dark flaming curls, the topaz eyes, the willful, passionately full mouth, and that tall, slender body that fitted his so exquisitely. Oh, God, he thought with a tearing pain in his gut, why does it have to end like this? He took one more look, and without another word he stalked to the door and left the room.

  With the sound of the slammed door ringing in her ears, Nicole sank down on the sofa. He’s gone, she thought dully. No, that’s not true, she argued, it’ll be a few days yet. A few days in which I’ll have to act normal, smile and laugh and pretend that I’m not dying inside. She closed her eyes in anguish, thinking of the bitter facade to come. I’ll do it. I can! And someday I’ll forget him. I will! I must.

  Driven by different emotions than those that beset Nicole, Robert Saxon had been making inquiries all over London in search of the elusive Captain Saber. He had learned that indeed there was a Captain Saber, and yes, he was an American privateer, and yes, there was a price on his head. But beyond Jennings-Smythe’s startled remark, Robert had nothing to go on. He had no doubt that Christopher was Captain Saber, and he longed to throw that information in Simon’s face. He would see that everyone knew the truth, see that all of them learned what a scoundrel Christopher was.

  Robert called in the afternoon to speak to Nicole, hoping he could coax her into taking a short ride in the country. But he was disappointed. Nicole, he was informed, had gone walking in the park and wouldn’t return home for a half hour. Undeterred, Robert was on the point of leaving to seek out Nicole as she took her walk, determined to convince her to accompany him, when Simon spoke to him.

  “Robert, I’d like a word with you,” Simon said.

  Annoyed, Robert glanced at him. “Does it have to be this very moment? I was just leaving to find Nicole.”

  “She can wait,” Simon retorted. “I have something to say to you, and I want to say it now.”

  Robert shrugged and followed his father into the study. The small study was a pleasant room, paneled in oak. A Bouile cabinet in ebony inlaid with a tortoise-shell pattern gave an Oriental effect to the room, but the curled maple desk that Simon seated himself behind was English in design. Robert, clearly impatient to be off, stood aggressively in the center of the room, his York tan gloves and small chimney-pot hat held carelessly in one hand.

  “Well,” he asked irritably, “what is it? I haven’t much time.”

  “Sit down,” Simon said quietly, his eyes cool as he pointed to a nearby chair. Reluctantly Robert did so, alerted by his father’s odd manner that all was not well.

  Simon had spent the two days since Letitia had told him what had passed between his son and grandson in mental agony. He had loved his black sheep son, despite many disappointments throughout the years, but the infamous act against Christopher he could not forgive. When the first horror and repugnance had died away, he had thought he could bury it-—that while his affection for Robert would never be the same, he could, in a fashion, continue to view him with some fondness. But after two sleepless nights, tortured by what his own flesh and blood had done, he knew it was not true. Whatever love he had borne his son had died, and he felt it only fair and right to tell Robert precisely why he would no longer be welcome in his home. It was the hardest decision of his life. But he had finally in his heart acknowledged that Robert was a bad one, rotten throughout, and that he could never change that. Nor could he ignore it and thereby condone his son’s despicable actions. It had been a bitter, painful admission and now that the moment was upon him, he found he was curiously unmoved by it. He had dreaded this time, had feared he would not be able to do it. But it was not so.

  His face was stony as he said, “This will be the last time I shall have you in my home—any of my homes. I have put up with a great deal from you throughout the years—I have suffered scandal after scandal with you: I have paid off debts, intervened for you on countless occasions. But that is finished. You went too far, Robert, with what you did to Christopher. I cannot, may the Lord God forgive me, pardon you for it. It was bad enough that you and Annabelle Ashford used him to hide your adulterous liaison, but to sell him! To sell him into what was almost certain death! That I cannot
tolerate!” Simon’s formidable control broke, and almost pleadingly, he asked, “Why, Robert? Why in God’s name? He was so fine a youth, such a joy to me. He did you no harm. I will never understand how you could have done it.” Simon paused, his face sad. “You could have been the cause of his death. Doesn’t that engender some feeling of remorse?”

  Robert had blanched at his father’s first words, his worst fears at last realized. Christopher had turned his own father against him! A surge of bitterness swept through him, and sullenly he retorted, “It didn’t hurt him. You can see for yourself that he profited by what happened.”

  Simon stared at him. With a shudder of revulsion, he realized that Robert saw no wrong in what he had done. A sense of futility crept along his veins, and tiredly he admitted, “Yes, it appears he did profit by it. But that wasn’t what you had in mind, was it?” Knowing the answer, weary of the scene, Simon said harshly, “Good-bye, Robert. Thank God that despite what he has been through, Christopher has grown into a fine young man. At least I have a grandson I can be proud of, if not a son.”

  His sense of ill-usage breaking its frail bonds, Robert leaped to his feet. With a wild look in his eyes, he shouted, “You’re wrong! You think he is so wonderful. Ha! He is nothing but a common pirate. A sea rogue wanted by the Admiralty for his crimes against our own ships. Ask your precious Christopher about Captain Saber! Ask him! You’ll see. You’ll see that he is not the godlike being you think. He’s a bloody pirate!”

  “Silence!” Simon thundered, his face dark with rage. “You’re lying, casting aspersions on him, to exonerate yourself. I will not have it! Leave my house this instant! This instant, I say, or I shall wrench your lying tongue from your throat!”

  Beyond rational action, Robert placed both hands on the desk and, thrusting his face near Simon’s, ranted, “It’s not fair! He is the one you should treat so. He is a pirate! Lieutenant Jennings-Smythe recognized him.” Fabricating his story as he went on, Robert continued passionately, “It’s true! He told me! If you don’t believe it, ask him! You’ll see!”

  For a long minute Simon stared at him. Robert was so earnest that it gave him pause. With startling insight he acknowledged that Robert’s accusations didn’t disturb him. Christopher could very well be a pirate—it made little difference to Simon. Hadn’t Sir Francis Drake been labeled such? Yet he felt as one last concession to his son, he should face Christopher. Quietly he said, “Very well, I will. But whether he is or not, does not change the situation between us. Once I have spoken to him, you will leave this house and spare me the distasteful pleasure of ever seeing you again.” Rising from his seat, Simon strode from the study, intent upon finishing this painful affair.

  A satisfied smile curving his thin lips, Robert sank back into the chair. Now let Christopher wiggle out of this one, he thought. I may be shunned and banned, but Christopher will also share the same fate.

  Simon, refusing to have one of the servants find Christopher for him, ran him down in his room. When Simon burst into his room Christopher was perched on the corner of a mahogany table, watching Higgins put a shine on a pair of Hessians.

  At Simon’s entry Christopher straightened, a wary look crossing his face.

  Simon glared at Higgins. “You leave! I want a word with my grandson.”

  Higgins glanced at Christopher and at Christopher’s nod bowed and left the room.

  Idly, Christopher asked, “Was it necessary to speak so rudely to him? I value Higgins rather highly, you know.”

  “Bah! Don’t fob me off with trivial conversation. What I have to say is private and personal, and I don’t want anyone else to overhear us. If you wish, I’ll apologize to him later.”

  An eyebrow cocked, Christopher echoed, “Apologize to him? Now that I must see. You have never apologized to anyone.”

  “Damnit, quit trying to turn me away! Robert is down below in the study, and he had made a most damaging statement against you.” Eyeing Christopher from beneath scowling brows, Simon said bluntly, “He says you are a pirate. A Captain Saber and that there is a price on your head. Is it true?”

  Their eyes met, gold clashing against gold. “Well, are you really this—this Captain Saber?”

  His gaze never wavered as Christopher nodded curtly, “Yes, I am.” He stated the words flatly, offering no explanations, no excuses. What was he to do? Express hypocritical regret? Cry out it was not his fault, but circumstances? Not bloodly likely, he thought fiercely.

  The admission, despite his earlier emotion of indifference, was a shattering blow to Simon. He hadn’t really believed it—hadn’t wanted to believe it. The gold eyes dimmed a little, and like a worn-out old man, he sank down into a nearby chair. Heavily he said, “I feared it was so.”

  Knowing that some explanation would have to be offered, if not the entire turth, Christopher had dreaded this moment. He had hoped he could leave England without Simon’s ever learning of Captain Saber. He had never meant to tell him, had hoped that he would never be hurt by this knowledge. No matter how many times he had rehearsed this scene in his mind, the reality of Simon’s weary, broken manner was far worse than anything he could have imagined. His teeth clenched, a muscle jerked in the taut jaw; he stared at his grandfather, groping for words that would lessen the blow.

  Unable to bear the sight of him so devastated, without the usual thunder and fire spilling from him, Christopher muttered thickly, “Grandfather, I would have spared you this, if I could have. I cannot change what I am or what I have been.” Dropping to one knee his strong brown hand covering the blue-veined one that clutched the ever-present ebony cane, Christopher said, “I cannot ask forgiveness for what I have done. But I did not do it to hurt you or to bring shame on you.” With a note of pleading in the deep voice, he went on, “Each of us must live as he sees fit. I do not expect you to approve of what I have done, but don’t condemn me for being myself, for being what I am—a privateer, an American first by circumstance and then by choice.”

  Simon’s head snapped up at the words, the faded gold eyes boring into the deeper, brighter golden ones fixed on his.

  “An American?” he barked.

  Christopher nodded. His gaze locked on Simon’s face, he declared, “New Orleans is my home now. My land, my fortune my future is in the United States. Yes, I have been a privateer, the Captain Saber that Robert claims. Yes, I have attacked British ships, I have even sunk them. But whatever I have done, I did not do it to cause you pain or distress.” Bleakly he finished, “There was a time I never thought to see you again, when I hated anything, everything British. I’ve lived my life by my own rules; I can’t claim that I’m sorry for it.”

  “Admirable,” Simon remarked. Christopher stiffened and stood up. Curtly he said, “I did not mean to bore you.”

  “Ha! Never said I was bored, did I?” Simon snapped. “Now you listen to me, coxcomb! American you may be, privateer you may have been, but you’re my grandson before all else and my heir, too, for that matter.”

  Christopher eyed him, encouraged by the irate note in his voice, but still uncertain as to how deeply the confession had cut into him. Simon appeared to be recovering, even though what he had just learned must have been a terrible wound. Simon did not, however, give him the chance to say more. Sitting bolt upright on the chair, his cane held firmly in one hand, he scowled ferociously at his grandson. “Now then,” Simon began, “I have a few things to say to you sapscull! First, you’re my grandson and don’t you ever forget it! Second, I don’t give a damn what you’ve done—” He stopped abruptly, remembering Robert and what he had said to him. Pursing his lips in concentration, he said slowly, “Provided you’ve not deliberately harmed innocent people—and I don’t mean those that might have come to grief in the course of your privateering. That is war and that I understand. Unless you have fought unfairly or been cowardly in your attacks.” He hesitated, shooting Christopher a gloomy glance. “I am not saying I wouldn’t rather you were not this Captain Saber, or I don’t wish th
at your first loyalty lay with England. But since it don’t I am not one to repine over what I can’t change. Point is, you are, as you said, what you are, and I’d be all kinds of a fool if I denied you because we disagree politically.”

  Christopher grinned at him ruefully. “Do you think Robert is going to take that enlightened view?”

  Simon snorted. “You leave him to me. That Canterbury tale of his is going no further. I’ll see to that!”

  “I don’t think it will be that easy, sir. There is,” he paused, then said carefully, “an enmity between us, and I don’t believe he will keep his mouth shut because you order him to.” Christopher hesitated, uncertain of his next move. He had not planned his denouement, but with the thought of time slipping by and the knowledge that in a matter of hours he would be meeting the American privateer, it seemed his only opportunity to tell Simon of his impending departure. But he could not baldly divulge his plans. Captain Saber Simon might be able to forgive, but a spy? Christopher thought not. Inspiration saved him; he could use Robert as his excuse for departure.

  “I think,” he said, “it would be best if I left for America. Tonight. Before Robert has any chance to cause trouble. Once this war is over,”—he threw Simon a mocking smile—“this war you pay little heed to, my privateering activities will cease to be a danger. Then I can return. Until then, I’m afraid, sir, I can’t risk staving.”

  At Simon’s balky look, Christopher said candidly, “Jennings-Smythe knows who I am. He recognized me and can point me out as Captain Saber.”

  “How will you leave? There are no ships sailing for America.”

  “I can leave tonight for France. From there I can catch a ship sailing for the West Indies. Or Cuba. Eventually I’ll manage to reach an American privateer sailing in those waters or a ship that is going to run the blockade of the Gulf. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to New Orleans. It’ll just take time.” Coolly he stifled any remorse at these lies—better his grandfather believed this than know of that American privateer.