Tiger Eyes

by Kimberly Nee

  The wind wrought a bit of havoc on her hair, tugging and pulling to send strands blowing about her face. She caught a handful in a fruitless attempt to shove it out of her eyes. “Do you remember the story you were told, about my being accosted by a Spaniard named Santa Cruz?” She waited for him to nod, and then continued, “He does exist, and I was marooned with him. By Ryan Carmichael.”

  “Marooned!”

  She held up a hand at his furious gasp. “That is unimportant in the end, Greg. As you can see, I survived with no ill effects. And before you ask, you need know that I have known Captain Santa Cruz for many years. Almost six years ago, he and I were betrothed.”

  Gregory’s mouth went slack, then he snapped his lips together, only to have his jaw slacken again. “Betrothed?”

  “Yes. The night before our wedding I ran off.” She flinched at her words, as hot shame nibbled at her insides. “It was a stupid, foolish, unforgivable thing to do, but I was a child. My father had only died a few months earlier and I was terrified of losing my ship and my freedom, convinced Diego would force me to give up sailing and surrender my ship.”

  She ignored her hair as it blew wildly about her face, but sighed deeply as she leaned back against her railing. Loneliness rose up, swift and sharp. “He would never have done such things, but I simply didn’t trust him. I had no faith in him.”

  “So how did you find yourself marooned with him?”

  “I don’t know. Divine intervention, perhaps?” Her dry laugh sounded forced and hollow, even to her. “Carmichael accosted me in Port Royal and tossed me into the hold of his ship. That’s where I found Diego again. I can only surmise that it was coincidence, pure and simple. Or perhaps fate.”

  “And then you were marooned?”

  She smiled. “Isn’t it strange? I used to think marooning was a fate worse than death. And I suppose, for most, it is. But for me? It wasn’t. It wasn’t easy, as Diego was terribly injured from his battle with Carmichael, and very weak from it. But when he began to heal…” Her throat squeezed shut and sudden, unexpected, and irritating tears stung her eyes. “And he asked me to stay on St. Phillippe. After what I’d done, he still wanted me.”

  “But you don’t feel the same?”

  She blinked against the fat, hot tears blurring her vision. “But I did. I do, that is.”

  “So why—”

  “Because I am the greatest fool alive.” She stared out over the water, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white. “I have no other explanation for my idiocy. How is it possible I do not learn from my mistakes, but keep repeating them?”

  A low sigh rose between them and Gregory said, “For that, I have no answer, Gabby. Perhaps it is fate, as you suggested. Perhaps it was simply not meant to be between you.”

  That was exactly what she kept trying to tell herself as the distance between the Perseus and St. Phillippe grew. It didn’t work, though, as the dull ache inside grew instead of faded. Each night as she lay in her bed and listened to the slap of the water against the hull as the ship rose and fell with the waves, she wished she was back on the island. The bed was soft and warm, and far more comfortable than the earthen bed she and Diego shared, but she missed him with a fury. Missed knowing he was right there, missed the silent comfort of him so close. Even when he was sick with fever, there was such comfort in his presence. She missed it terribly, and to make it worse still, she knew it was most likely someone else found that same comfort now.

  That stung, and stung sharply. She winced. “I don’t suppose it was, much to my sorrow.” She glanced up at him. “I should have stayed on St. Phillippe. What purpose will confronting William serve? He will never admit to playing a role in Carmichael’s theft of my ship. And if he did play a part in my marooning, he’d never confess to that, either.”

  “Ah, but you might get your ship back.”

  Her laugh was brittle and stale. “There is always that chance, I suppose. I’d much rather sneak up on Carmichael in a dark alley and bury a blade nicely between his ribs. That’d more than make up for what he put me through.”

  “I’ll wager there are many who would be happy to help you,” Gregory remarked, pushing up from the railing. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a ship to run. Go get a bit of sleep, Gabby. You look as though you could use it.”

  “I thank you.” She didn’t try to keep the dryness from her words.

  Gregory patted her on the shoulder. “Go. Get some sleep.”

  She stood there long after Gregory took himself off. Even the thought of revenge against Carmichael, of getting her ship back, did little to lift the weight from her. If she was absolutely honest with herself, she didn’t care at all about going to London. Didn’t care at all about her ship or Carmichael or even if William was involved. Didn’t care one bit really. No, if she was completely honest with herself, the only thing she cared about was turning around and sailing back to St. Phillippe. Back to Diego.

  A long, low sigh rippled through her and she reached up to rub her eyes with both hands. She wasn’t sleeping well, hadn’t slept more than an hour or two each night. The exhaustion ate away at her, yet sleep evaded her. When she did sleep, her dreams were fragmented and troubled, and she awoke exhausted and spent.

  Still, she made her way below, to the small cabin she now called home. It wasn’t much—a bunk, a washstand and her sea chest—but it was quiet and it was hers.

  “And it’s lonely,” she murmured as she sank onto the narrow bed and then bent to tug off her boots. “Very lonely, indeed.”

  Day in and day out, it was the same. The weather remained calm and uneventful, and by the time they were heading up the Thames toward Wapping, where Markham’s warehouses were located, Gabby was itching to get back on dry land. A bit unsettling, as it wasn’t something she’d ever felt before.

  It had been nearly six years since she’d last seen London, and it had grown since then. For her, it was like stepping into a foreign world, despite it being the city of her birth. It felt closed in and crowded, and when she and Gregory parted ways at Rotherhithe, she couldn’t get to Hampton House quickly enough.

  The Markham ancestral home was a foreboding stone structure surrounded by leafy elms, and Gabby could almost see the oppressive atmosphere as she alit from her hired hack. Hampton House always made her uncomfortable. It was one of the reasons why she was so happy to take to the sea with her father.

  She was nearly thirteen when her mother died and her father arranged for her to come live with him and William. From that first moment she stepped over the threshold, she didn’t want to live there. The house gave her nightmares.

  It was difficult to recall why Richard swept her up into his life of excitement as a gentleman pirate. She just knew she loved life aboard ship, loved the sea and the excitement and everything to do with sailing. Those days were the happiest of her life, and they ended far too quickly.

  Gregory offered to come with her out to Hampton House, but she’d said no, preferring to confront William by herself. Now, as she stood facing the formidable front doors, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been too hasty. Her stomach rumbled long and low, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Her belly had rolled all night long, making the very notion of food nauseating.

  “There’s no sense in simply standing here, I suppose,” she muttered.

  The doors opened without a sound, but her boot heels echoed as they struck the gleaming black marble floor. The noise reverberated through the high-ceilinged front hall, and brought a stately butler hurrying toward her.

  “Miss Markham? Is that truly you?”

  She smiled, some of the knots in her belly untwisting. “It is, Garrison. I’ve come home.”

  To her surprise, Garrison’s blue-gray eyes shone with tears. “But… We thought you would never walk through those doors again. Lord Hampton has been in mourning for weeks, since Captain Carmichael returned with word you’d been killed at sea.”

  Capta
in Carmichael? Why would Garrison speak of the man with such respect when Carmichael spent years targeting Markham ships? “He said that, did he?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as even as possible, despite the anger bubbling up from the pit of her belly.

  Garrison nodded as he moved to the far corner, where a thick length of braided gold rope hung. He tugged, saying, “He said he found the Galatea adrift, with two of her long boats gone, and not a hint of you or your crew to be found. He assumed, as we did when he told us, that you ran into trouble and abandoned ship.”

  Somehow, this newest lie did not trouble or surprise her. How did Carmichael keep his stories straight? How did he remember to whom he told what lie?

  “Well, as you can see, I am alive and well and I did not abandon my ship. Do I dare hope the Galatea is anchored here?”

  Her heart skipped a beat as Garrison nodded. “Yes. Lord Hampton and Captain Carmichael are out riding at the moment, but I expect they will return soon.” He turned to the footmen who had joined them. “Go fetch Miss Markham’s trunk and have it brought to her chambers.”

  “Her chambers?” The first footman asked, his forehead creasing.

  Garrison let out an exasperated sigh. “The rose room, Maxwell. The rose room.”

  “Of course.”

  The second footman bobbed his head at her, the extent of his conversation as he went through the door to fetch her sea chest from the coach. Both men grunted loudly as they lugged the trunk over the threshold. It was almost amusing, as neither man was particularly muscled, and their struggle was evident by the dull thuds accompanying them up the gracefully curving staircase and out of sight.

  “Shall I prepare some tea?” Garrison asked as he gestured for her to follow him toward the staircase.

  Fortunately, she was behind him, so he couldn’t see the involuntary wrinkling of her nose. “I thank you, but no. But I would love some coffee.”

  “I’m afraid we have none. Lord Hampton prefers tea, so when the coffee ran out, I did not have Katherine replace it.”

  “Very well. I suppose tea will have to do.” Hopefully William wouldn’t have allowed the liquor to run dry as well.

  Garrison shook his head as he mounted the first step, his smile widening. “I cannot believe you are here, Miss Markham. I thought I would never lay eyes upon you again and it is so wonderful to be wrong about that.”

  “I thank you, Garrison. However, I would like to surprise my brother. Please, do not let him know I’ve arrived.”

  He bobbed his head. “Of course. I will tell Maxwell and Christopher as well.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  As they made their way down the wide corridor, her gaze automatically went to the life-sized portrait at the end. Imposing and impressive, Richard Markham watched over his family with quiet stoicism, his dark eyes never blinking, never missing a thing. In this portrait, he was dressed in his finery—black silk shirt, black breeches, arms folded over what had been a barrel chest. His hair, the same shade of chestnut brown as hers, was under control in the portrait. Instead of the usual jumble of windblown curls, it was sleek and smooth.

  Garrison stopped at the last door, but she didn’t. Staring up at her father’s handsome, lined face, she moved to stand just before the portrait. It was the first time in a long time she realized how greatly she resembled him, both in body and in spirit. William might be his son and his heir, but she was his favorite. Of that she had no doubt. He would have married her mother if his wife would have granted him the divorce he sought. Fate had been unkind to him as well, for his wife died but days after Gabby’s mother.

  “You may have known what Will was,” she murmured, a painful lump rising in her throat. She swallowed hard against it and shook her head. “But there was nothing you could do about it.”

  “Miss Markham?”

  She jumped and spun around. “Yes. Of course.”

  He paused at the threshold, but she crossed into her chambers and smiled. It was almost exactly as she’d left it, from the pink silk covering the walls to the rose-colored draperies and hangings on the narrow, high bed. A bit dustier, perhaps, but still the same. A few more knots untied and she sighed softly as Garrison said, “I shall return shortly with your tea.”

  “I thank you.”

  He left without a sound and she closed the door behind him before moving to the windows. Heavy, dark rose draperies blocked out the late afternoon sunlight, and she tugged them open to let the pale beams filter through the mullioned windows.

  Although the sunshine was much weaker than that of the Caribbean, it was still a rather pleasant afternoon. As she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass, she felt a pang of longing for the sapphire blue water and warm ocean breezes. England was no longer home. Of that she was certain. Though she dreaded the confrontation ahead of her, the sooner it was done, the sooner she could leave.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The pink silk moiré gown mocked her, even as it lay haphazardly upon her narrow bed.

  “No. If I am going to confront William, I most certainly will not do it dressed as some weak girl.”

  Gabby turned her back to the bed and crouched to retrieve her left boot. It would be far better to face him in togs that didn’t make her feel like the weaker sex. If only she had her steel, though. Without it, she was vulnerable.

  Her gut twisted as she sank into the stiff leather armchair to draw on said boot. The man responsible for relieving her of any weapon was one floor below. Soon enough, Gabby. Soon enough.

  Both boots on, she slapped her hands against her thighs and rose from her chair. She was ready.

  A looking glass, set in cherry, stood in the corner by the door. Gabby paused to peer at her reflection. “I am still too bloody thin,” she muttered, pinching at the hollows beneath her cheekbones. The angles of her cheeks, her jaw, seemed so much more prominent these days. At least the shadows beneath her eyes finally faded. She no longer looked quite so worn down.

  “Enough of this. You’ve already wasted too much time. Don’t be a bloody coward. Go and confront him.”

  A deep breath, and she left her room. She had to remind herself to breathe as she descended to the first floor and made her way to the dining room. The doors were closed. Her stomach did a particularly nasty flip as raucous male laughter rumbled into the corridor.

  Gripping the door handles in tight fists, she took a deep breath, then threw open the doors to be greeted by two very surprised men.

  No. Surprised was not the right word. Two very stunned men stared up at her.

  “What the devil—” William sloshed whatever liquid was in his tankard down the front of his ruby red velvet coat, his cheeks glowing almost the same shade until he glared up at her. Then, his eyes widened and he breathed, “Gabriella?”

  Carmichael simply stared up at her with a mixture of shock and horror. The silver goblet he held simply slipped from his fingers to hit the floor with a loud thunk. Red wine flowed from the bowl, stretching out like red fingers across the polished floor.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” A forced smile on her lips, she stepped across the threshold and into the room.

  “You are alive? But that’s imposs—” William’s pale blue eyes were almost perfectly round, then narrowed as he shot a glare at Carmichael. “I mean to say, thank the Lord! This is a miracle!”

  He jumped from his chair, and the wide skirt of his coat swept his tankard off the table to join the goblet on the floor. It went ignored, ale and wine mingling as he hurried along the length of the mahogany table to embrace her in a crushing hug.

  Gabby stood completely still, a brackish taste rising in her throat. Her nose wrinkled on its own. He apparently had developed quite the taste for pungent colognes, and she almost choked on the heavy cloud that enveloped her. The urge to flinch swept through her as his arms tightened. “When Carmichael told me what happened to you, I was nearly prostrate with grief.”

  “As you can see, brother dear, I am alive and well,” s
he choked out as he squeezed tighter still. “Please… I beg you release me… I cannot breathe.”

  He did so at once, and stepped back, hands clapping on her shoulders. “And it is with great joy that my eyes behold you once again, even if you do choose to be seen in such masculine togs. How did you survive on the open seas in only a long boat?”

  “By my wits and God’s good graces,” she replied, glancing at Carmichael, who still stared in abject horror at her. She let William’s smug assessment of her wardrobe slide for now. “And it seems my wits came quite in handy.”

  “Praise be to God for that,” William replied with a booming laugh. “Come, join us.”

  His boisterousness would have fooled most people, but she knew him well enough to see the fire in his eyes for what it was—anger. His mouth was tight at the corners, and his laughter was more a sharp bark than a joyous peal. Fury simmered just below his surface, and she wished she could find a way to be present when he blew at Carmichael.

  That in mind, she moved to the chair at the foot of the table. “I must admit, I am quite surprised to see Captain Carmichael here, considering his history with Markham Enterprises.”

  Another thunderous laugh and William said, “Oh, but we’ve buried the hatchet. Restitution has been made and, seeing as how we’re both businessmen, we forged a bit of a partnership instead.”

  That brought the knots twisting in her belly once more as she gripped the back of her chair. “A partnership?”

  “Oh, yes.” William’s coat skirts swung wildly as he almost skipped back to his chair. He paused only to glance down at the mess on the floor, then bellowed, “Anne!”

  A tiny, slim girl wearing a tight lace cap and somber black linen gown bustled into the room. Her face pale and her eyes wide, as if expecting a scolding, she said, “Yes, m’lord?”