by Susan Grant
Name tag, squadron patch, flag—she studied them, tracing the shape of her hard-won aviator wings with her fingertip. Then she smirked at the grinning skull and crossed bones on her squadron patch. VFA-60 Jolly Rogers. What if they’d been known as the Neanderthals, instead? Would she have ended up in a cave with club-wielding barbarians instead of on a ship full of pirates? She shuddered at the possibilities.
One by one, she released the patches. They fluttered in the breeze like lost butterflies before spiraling down to the sea.
She lifted her dogtags over her head. “An interesting bauble,” Andrew had called them when she’d tried using them to prove her identity. “Were these all the rage in Delhi?” he’d inquired blandly. Carly snorted with the memory.
The dogtags hit the waves without a splash.
She unfastened the gold chain she’d worn for years. The tear-shaped half-carat diamond was the first gift Rick had given her. She’d come close to throwing it away a million times after he left but never could.
Now she dangled it carelessly from her index finger.
Since childhood, she’d craved a stable family, and the love of a loyal man. That dream had escaped her mother, and Carly had sworn her life would be different.
With Rick, she’d thought it was. He was from a privileged background and had a bright future to look forward to after his stint in the navy. After graduating flight school, they’d shared a luxurious townhouse. He’d paid the expenses, bought her gifts, and taken her on vacation when their schedules allowed.
She’d been seduced by it all. Unlike Rick, she had not grown up surrounded by the trappings of wealth, so she’d mistaken what he gave her for love. That made it difficult to understand why he avoided talking about their future. She must not have tried hard enough to please him, she’d thought. So she’d redoubled her efforts—after all, hard work had earned her everything else in her life. She’d given him everything a woman could give—trust, loyalty, love . . . her body. But he’d turned out to be a boy who valued bloodlines above all else.
Wincing, she remembered meeting his parents for the first and only time. In his mother’s disdainful, aristocratic gaze, Carly wasn’t a twenty-seven-year-old fighter pilot respected and admired by her peers. She was that little girl again; the kid who lived in the broken-down, one-room shack and wore donated clothes, whose mother had to clean houses and use food stamps at the local market.
“I’m through with men like you!” Carly balled the necklace in her fist and hurled it over the railing. It swirled on the churning water, an innocent trinket atop impending doom. Then, without warning, it was sucked under. “Good riddance.”
She’d learned her lesson well, from Rick, from her father. Rich men were spoiled and couldn’t be trusted. They ran when times got tough. It had taken her awhile, but she’d finally figured it out.
Cinderella was a fairy tale.
As the sun settled below the horizon, so did her old life. This was her second chance. Tomorrow would be the first day of her new life. This time, she wasn’t going to screw it up.
Chapter Five
A vibration built above the thunder until the very air drummed with the beat. So hard to open her eyes.
“Come on, stay with me. Don’t sleep!”
A flash. Then the deep voice was no longer with her.
“Where are you?” she cried, groping blindly. The world fell out beneath her, a horrible scraping of metal, a chop, chop, chop of blades striking a rock-hard sea. Thrown free, she saw the mangled metal husk sink beneath the swells. Rain pelted her like a thousand merciless needles.
So cold . . .
The deep voice called to her, shouted something. But she couldn’t hear him above the roar of wind and thunder.
Lightning ignited the very air, transforming it into a tunnel with walls that glittered like ice and pulsed to the erratic beat of her heart. She floated inside, toward the far end, where a beautiful glow beckoned. Then doubt flooded her. What if she went in and couldn’t come out? She tried to stop, tried to resist the pull, but the walls darkened and closed in on her.
“No, no!” Carly heard herself yell.
“Hush. I’ve got you. ’Tis all right,” said a familiar voice.
The voice from her dream.
Strong arms came around her. Suffused with a sense of utter trust, she snuggled into the comforting warmth.
“Amanda. Wake up.”
Carly’s eyes flew open. The terrifying beauty of the nightmare lingered for an instant longer, then evaporated.
Her arms were twined around Andrew’s warm neck, her cheek nestled in the hollow between his shoulder and throat. She breathed in his scent and the faint, sweet aroma of tobacco that clung to his brocade robe. “I’m dreaming,” she whispered fervently.
“You were,” he said in a low, husky murmur.
His intimate tone reverberated through her. She wanted to hear more and to hold him tighter, as she’d done all her life with moments of pure pleasure, enjoying them as long as possible, squeezing out every last ounce. Deprived as a child, she’d learned anything delicious was rare and fleeting.
In the barest whisper of a caress, his fingers brushed across her back, moving in a way that was both soothing and sensual. “Are you all right, then?”
His question dragged her back to reality. “I’m fine,” she stated, extricating herself from his embrace. His arms were slow in releasing her.
He leaned over her as she settled onto the pillow. A flickering candle softened the hard lines of his jaw and high cheekbones, and glinted on the prickles of his beard. For once, he was without his mask of aloofness. The tenderness and concern in his startling blue eyes snatched her breath away.
“A nightmare?” he asked carefully.
She pushed her bangs off her damp forehead. “Yes. I’ve never had a dream that vivid. There was a storm. I could hear it. And feel it.” She exhaled slowly. “Whatever I was riding in crashed into the sea.”
His eyes flashed with her last statement. He shifted position, causing the bed to swing and creak. His robe fell away from his chest, far enough for her to see the play of his stomach muscles beneath smooth, tanned skin.
Her body responded instantly. Unexpected and unwanted, a surge of desire kicked her pulse into high gear and made the cabin seem twenty degrees warmer.
Hastily she glanced up. Candlelight and unmistakable interest warmed Andrew’s sapphire eyes. It was more than a hot stare. His gaze drove deep into her soul, smashing every barrier, dismantling her defenses, leaving her open.
And vulnerable.
She broke eye contact first.
“I have had several odd dreams, myself,” he said after a long pause. “They began as yours did. With a tempest. Then I lost something . . . or perhaps someone was taken from me.” His lips thinned. “Whatever the case, the sensation was not pleasant.”
He stood, adjusting his robe. “I will speak to Willoughby. Perhaps the man’s been a wee bit generous with the curry.” Andrew smiled slowly, a genuine grin that reached his eyes.
She smiled back, twisting the blanket in her hands. The sound of distant thunder interrupted the almost companionable silence between them. She took advantage of the moment. “Tell me about Lady Amanda.”
Andrew walked to the curtains. He pushed aside one corner and peered outside. A burst of lightning turned the raindrops into shooting stars. “I was told she . . . or rather, you . . . were dark-haired. And fifteen. Which we both know is not the case.”
“See? I’m not her.”
He gave her a slanting glance and let the curtains fall.
“You don’t believe me yet,” she said. “But you will. Then you’ll help me get home.”
The ends of his mouth twitched. “To the future.”
Hope flared. “Yes.”
He combed the fingers of both hands through his wavy chestnut-colored hair. “Your stories are entertaining, to say the least. However, I suggest you save them for the duke.”
Sig
hing tiredly, he settled onto the chair by the bed. “You were raised in America, a proper upbringing befitting a young lady of your station, save the obvious failings of your governess. If the sound of your speech is any indication,’ twould appear you were raised by savages,” he declared with obvious amusement. “Your American ways baffle me. You mangle the King’s English with every word.”
“That’s because—”
His broad hand shot up. “You are the older of Lord Paxton’s two daughters. Your mother died years ago, before your family moved to Delhi. You have a sister, Lady Augusta. She is the one who is fifteen, I now believe. Since you are fair, she must have the dark hair.” His brows drew together as he massaged his temples.
“There are a lot of variables here,” Carly pointed out.
“I did not undertake this on a whim, milady. You were aboard the Merryweather, were you not?” He steepled his hands, contemplating his fingers as he spoke. “Yet, there is the question of your odd attire, your mannerisms and speech.”
“Exactly—”
“Easily explainable as the affectations of a bored, petulant, and most likely deranged heiress.”
A quick laugh escaped her, despite her irritation.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I do have proof of your identity—however vehemently you deny it. The sapphire known as the Blue Star of Delhi was in the hold. It was part of your dowry, something Richard wants badly. I cannot fathom why your father would have sent the dowry with anyone other than the duke’s betrothed.”
Doubt crept over his features once again. “The only thing that surprises me is that Paxton would toss you into London society,” he said, as though thinking aloud. “However, in your lucid moments you are quite charming.”
She hurled the pillow at him.
Grinning, he rose to his feet and poured himself a brandy. “Since your mother’s death, your father has devoted himself to his business. His company is known for opening new trade routes into the Orient. He imports teas, spices, silks . . .”
Carly visualized majestic merchant ships laden with riches.
“Lord Paxton—your father—is but a baron’s younger son. Yet, he has amassed a fortune that rivals the throne’s. Which is why, I suppose, he was given his peerage.”
“Peerage?” Carly asked.
“Paxton was made an earl by the king for his service to the realm. But the title is such that it cannot be passed on to his progeny.”
“I understand why Lord Paxton would want his daughters to marry well,” she said thoughtfully. “But why would the duke of Westridge bother to import a merchant’s daughter from India when he has his pick of genuine aristocrats floating around London?”
Andrew crossed his legs at the ankle. The slippery material of his long robe parted to his knees, revealing solid calves and a pair of very nice feet. Carly did her best not to wonder whether the robe would part further.
“Richard’s assets are tied up in land, homes, and estates. He likes to spend freely and is quite desperate for cash. You are a cash-rich heiress. Thus the perfect mate.”
Carly scowled. “This marriage-as-a-business-arrangement turns my stomach. I wonder if Amanda had a say in the matter.”
He shifted his gaze to the sputtering candle. His shoulders were bowed, and he looked older, tired. “What good would that have done? You do not understand what Richard is.”
“You hate him, don’t you?” she asked gently.
The raw anguish in his eyes sliced through her heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered hastily, knowing she’d overstepped her bounds. “That was none of my business.”
His mouth twisted. “Richard destroyed everything I had. As if that was not enough, he saw to my complete ruin. He will pay. I will see that he does.” He rose. “And that, milady, is why I have captured you.”
The breeze from the closing door snuffed out the candle.
Carly rolled onto her side, staring unseeing into the darkness. The unmistakable grief shadowing Andrew’s face lingered within her, as though it were hers, too.
Now it made sense—why Andrew refused to believe her, why he ignored evidence most would consider overwhelming: the last name on her flight suit and dogtags, her speech and appearance.
Hatred blinded him.
Whatever the duke had done had wounded Andrew profoundly.
In one month, she would have to face the duke herself. If he was a violent man, which she now suspected, he might react in a dangerous, unpredictable way when she informed him that she was bowing out of the marriage.
Dread unfurled inside her, making sleep impossible.
Rain hissed against the windows. Wind clattered through the masts and riggings with eerie sounds ranging from low, miserable moans to ear-splitting shrieks. The timbers groaned and creaked as Andrew’s silverware and decanters quivered, adding their delicate accompaniment to the chaotic symphony.
At dawn the storm intensified. Except for the helmsmen, and the men needed to work the sails, no one went outside. The swells that washed over the deck could easily sweep a man overboard.
Trapped indoors over the next five days, Carly learned how excruciatingly confining a small ship could be. She read, and mended her uniform and socks. She exercised by doing crunches, stretches, and by dancing barefoot with an imaginary partner to the music in her head.
When the gale finally subsided, the men set to work cleaning and repairing the ship while Andrew and Cuddy checked their charts and took readings on the sextant to determine their position. The sun burned off the remaining moisture in the air, and the Phoenix coasted over waves soaked in joyous summerlike weather.
Gulping fresh sea air, Carly reveled in the beauty around her, something she could not recall taking the time to do before. Drugged by spring fever, she used her pocketknife to cut off her sleeves. On the main deck she luxuriated in the simple pleasure of afternoon sunshine on her bare arms, wishing she’d cut her pants into shorts. But when she noticed the sailors gaping at her exposed arms, she nixed the idea.
The men watched her walk past, their eyes bugging half out of their heads. Even Jonesy, the grizzled helmsman, whistled. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. Her petite bone structure and A-cup bra size had never earned her any second glances, let alone downright wolfish stares.
Now she felt like Mae West. And liked it, too.
“What have you done?”
Carly whirled toward the fury-filled voice. Andrew was storming across the deck. Apparently, the rumors of her state of undress had reached him.
“Return to my quarters,” he bellowed. “I will not allow you to run around half-dressed!”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
He reared back in obvious and thoroughly entertaining shock.
“You’re too late,” she said breezily, folding her bare arms over her chest. “I threw the sleeves overboard. I’m cutting off my pants, next.”
“You would not dare.”
“Try me.”
They exchanged frowns.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Captain,” she said. “If you let me stay like this, I’ll leave my pants intact.”
He struggled with his outrage, pointedly keeping his gaze from her arms. “Do I have your word?” he growled finally.
She raised one hand. “Scout’s honor.”
He stared blankly at her crossed fingers. Then he gave her a curt nod and marched back to the helm.
Smiling, she watched him go. The man was a downright sore loser.
Carly stole away to the quiet stern. Lying on her back, she inhaled the tangy scent of the sea and savored the mellow sunshine warming her skin in contrast to the rough planks beneath her head. It felt good to be alive. Particularly after all that had happened during the past few weeks.
Look.
She lifted her arm to study the tiny silver hairs dusted with salt. Beneath, faint blue veins carried her blood.
Listen.
She heard her own soft, steady breathing, the
wind whistling through the rigging, the swells hammering the sides of the ship.
Taste.
She drew her tongue across the hint of sweetness left on her lips from the sugared coffee she’d sipped earlier.
She closed her eyes in bliss, drifting between wakefulness and sleep until something solid bumped into her thigh, jolting her back to consciousness. She prayed it wasn’t one of the resident rats.
Whatever it was poked her leg again, more insistent this time. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she found a tall figure looming over her.
“Why, Captain, are you the rude individual kicking me?” she asked in a sleep-thickened voice.
Andrew’s eyes sparked with humor. “I am not kicking you. I merely nudged you with my boot to assure myself that you are alive.”
“Ah,” she said. “Looking after the cargo.”
“Aye. It disturbs me to see it lying upon the deck.”
She gave a soft laugh.
“And what, may I ask, are you doing?”
“I was napping until you kick—er, nudged me. Before that I was taking each of my five senses and concentrating on them one at a time. It was lovely. Want to try?”
“No.”
She patted the planks next to her. “Come on. You’ll like it.”
Andrew clasped his hands behind his back and intentionally ignored her invitation. He allowed himself a slow perusal of her long, slender thighs, outlined rather nicely by her ridiculous trousers. Lying in the sunshine, her silvered hair tumbling over her neck and shoulders, Amanda was all mischief and sweetness. Her full lips curved in a smile, and the sun had left behind a hint of pink on her cheeks.
In the deepest reaches of his soul, he knew the way she would feel in his arms.
He remembered.
Yearning swept through him. Not merely arousal, but something else, something more. A basic need that had always eluded him. Had he been another man, perhaps he could have traded his heavy heart for the lightness she seemed to possess. To laugh and talk of whimsical things such as senses, sunshine, and silly tales, to lie next to her and breathe in her scent. To touch her, taste her—