My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  She glanced over her shoulder, but the sea was blinding in the sunlight and she could see nothing, least of all some great devil ship. Her gaze flew back to the floundering merchantman, tears stinging her eyes.

  It was clearly doomed. Sinking.

  As Lindsay watched in horror, her heart went out to the frightened crew scrambling across the listing deck. She felt so useless, but something had to be done! No further explosions had sounded, so perhaps their phantom attacker had sailed away, the cannon aboard Jared's ship proving too fearsome, the skirmish won. Surely now he wouldn't hesitate to save those poor men from drowning.

  Lindsay clambered out of the galley so suddenly that she nearly careened into a young man with a powder-blackened face. The sailor dropped back to gape at her in surprise.

  "Where can I find Lord Giles? Please, you must tell me!"

  To her frustration, the man seemed to have lost his voice. He stared at her as if she were a phantom herself and not a flesh-and-blood woman.

  "Lord Giles—I must find him!" Her voice rising in desperation, she was almost tempted to slap the sailor to get an answer. "Can't you see that ship is sinking?"

  "Th-the quarterdeck, miss."

  He pointed and Lindsay followed his finger, suddenly aware that many eyes were upon her, the strangest silence settling over the lower deck. But she paid no heed to the startled faces and flew toward the stern; at the companionway, she grabbed the brass railings and climbed two steps at a time, her breath tearing at her throat.

  "Jared, please, we have to do something! Those men— Oh!"

  Lindsay was hauled from the companionway and swung with such suddenness to the quarterdeck that she reeled dizzily, but two strong hands clamped around her upper arms kept her from falling. Yet her knees nearly buckled when she glanced up, her thanks dying on her lips.

  "By God, woman, how in blazes did you—?"

  She could only stare at the man who held her, a mask covering the upper portion of his face.

  A bright gold mask that shone like flame in the sun, nearly blinding her.

  And she knew of only one man who wore such a guise, his name a curse upon the tongues of all those she'd heard utter it in London, a reward of ten thousand pounds announced only yesterday in The Morning Post to whoever captured him alive.

  The Phoenix.

  "Dag, take the wench below to my quarters. And see that she doesn't escape!"

  With that Lindsay was shoved so roughly away from him that she almost fell again, gasping when a chafed hand as huge and red as a ham reached out to catch her. She recoiled but in the next moment found herself thrown unceremoniously over a massive shoulder.

  She didn't try to fight against the fair-haired giant who now held her; her numbing shock was too great. Yet she started when she heard a familiar voice's ringing command, familiar except for the strange accent which was wholly foreign to her.

  "Prepare to bring prisoners aboard. There'll be no time to loot her, she's foundering too fast. But that doesn't mean we won't enjoy watching her burn."

  The traitorous words clamping like an iron fist around her heart, Lindsay squeezed her eyes tight against the tears suddenly threatening to spill.

  Lord, what a fool! What a bloody, bloody fool!

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Lindsay was still calling herself a fool, that and a dozen other unflattering names, as she watched transfixed in disbelief at the porthole.

  Nothing remained of the merchantman but burning debris upon the waves, her seared topmast having disappeared only a moment ago. The longboat filled with ship's officers was a dark speck against the pristine blue sky; Lindsay imagined they were rowing for England as they had never rowed before.

  If they had rowed before, she amended unhappily, recalling the outraged conversation she had heard at the Oglethorpe ball. But at least she could take some comfort that the crew had been plucked from the sea; prisoners now, but alive.

  The criminals who manned this ship had been quite efficient in their rescue. The ashen-faced captain and his bedraggled officers, stripped of their weapons, had been ordered into one longboat, while the rest of the merchantman's hands had been allowed to board. Lindsay had seen everything from the porthole, but now she turned away and sank to the floor, drawing her knees to her chin. She stared blindly at the Spartan quarters—a plain wooden bed, a desk and a sea chest the few furnishings in what had become her prison.

  Dear God, criminals.

  Traitors.

  Contemptible enemies of the Crown.

  And Jared Giles, the Earl of Dovercourt, was among them—no, not just among them, but their leader. The Phoenix. And less than an hour ago she had thought him the most heroic of men . . . the man she wished to marry . . . a man she could love. . .

  A lump welling in her throat, Lindsay dropped her forehead onto her knees.

  Her dreams had become ashes. Her foolish, girlish dreams—Corisande had often said she was too romantic-minded for her own good. And Corisande was usually right. Ridiculously starry-eyed, seeing only what she wanted to see, believing only what she wanted to believe, Lindsay had made herself look an utter fool.

  But she wasn't going to cry, she thought stubbornly, swiping at the mutinous mist burning her eyes. She wasn't so much of a ninny to believe that useless tears could help her now— Oh, Lord . . .

  Inhaling sharply, Lindsay rose to her feet as footsteps outside the door grew louder, the forceful stride filling her with dread. She looked wildly around for a weapon, anything, barely having time to grab a brass candlestick from the desk and thrust it behind her back before the door burst open and slammed into the bulkhead.

  The fury burning in Jared's vivid blue eyes slammed into her with as much force, and Lindsay gulped. The gold mask was gone, his face so handsome that she felt her knees grow weak, but that made her grip the candlestick all the tighter.

  She didn't know this dangerous man at all, she told herself shakily as he took a step toward her. Not at all! Whatever she had concocted about him in her mind was a fanciful myth, a lie—

  "Talk, damn you! How in blazes did you get here?"

  She started, stunned, his raised voice so cold, so brutal, that she felt tears spring to her eyes. But that only made her lift her chin, her own voice surprisingly calm.

  "If you wish to talk, sir, we shall talk. But I simply won't answer if you plan to continue yelling at me like an enraged beast—"

  "Ah, so I'm an enraged beast now?" Jared had roared again, taking some perverse pleasure that Lindsay jumped. He wanted her to jump. He wanted her to know just how angry he was to find her aboard the Vengeance—blast and damnation, he could scarcely believe it himself!

  When he had seen her running along the lower deck, her long fair hair streaming behind her, the wind buffeting her flimsy clothing against her body, every man jack's eyes upon her . . .

  Jared wheeled around, a sixth sense telling him that they were not alone. True enough, Dag still stood guard just outside in the lighted passageway, his expression somber as a judge's, while Walker leaned casually against the bulkhead opposite him, a curious smile on the American's lips, his dark eyes filled with studied humor. With a low oath, Jared swung the door shut in their faces.

  "An enraged beast with a penchant for slamming doors and swearing, too," came a feminine mutter behind him.

  Jared turned back to find Lindsay had edged farther away from him, her face nearly as pale as her hair.

  Good, she was frightened of him, he thought grimly, taking a step toward her. That pleased him, too, if only that it would help keep the reckless chit in line, although he didn't like the hint of defiance in those lovely blue eyes, which was a far cry from the joy he'd last seen in London— Bloody hell, enough!

  "All right, we'll talk. Civilly. Now answer my question."

  "Very well. I sneaked aboard in the galley—"

  "That I was already able to surmise, as well as that it must have been your horse I heard. How did you know where to find m
e?"

  "That I discovered from Della at the Boar's Head tavern," Lindsay said as rudely, although it really wasn't her nature. But this whole strange situation was so far from what she had expected, had dreamed—ah, those accursed dreams again—that she felt quite unlike herself. "I went there to speak to you, or at least to leave a note, to tell you not to come to my aunt's house on Saturday—today . . ."

  She faltered, but swallowed a stab of pain and rushed on. "I feared it would be too difficult for Aunt Winnie to see you at her door, given how she felt about you, so I wanted to tell you we must devise another course." She gave a small, sad laugh. "It all seems so silly now, my even thinking that you wanted to marry—"

  "Silly and as reckless as ever. You went to the Boar's Head by yourself?"

  Stung that he obviously cared nothing for her feelings, and angry with herself for thinking that such a treacherous miscreant should, Lindsay hiked her chin up another notch, although she felt it trembling. "It was broad daylight and I had Aunt Winnie's chambermaid Gladys for a chaperone—so at least I didn't break my word. Not like you did to me."

  "And what was I supposed to tell you, woman? The truth? That I had no intention of coming back for you in three days' time, even though my saying so was the only way I could think of to keep you from traipsing around the city like a hoyden?"

  "A hoyden!"

  "Yes, a hoyden and a naïve chit to boot for imagining that I would take you to wife, which clearly was your misguided scheme from the very start! You would have been wiser to listen to your aunt and stay the hell away from me!"

  He had yelled again, but that wasn't what made Lindsay feel as if she were reeling.

  A hoyden. Naïve chit. Misguided. The words echoed in her mind and she winced to herself, knowing that they were true. Yet if she had been all those things, he had encouraged her!

  "Why . . . why did you agree to meet me, then?" she demanded in a strained voice, fearing she already knew his answer. "The night after the Oglethorpes' ball—"

  "I was planning to seduce you, if you want the truth of it. Your aunt was closer to the mark than you think."

  "But you didn't" —her cheeks aflame, Lindsay glanced down uncomfortably at her soiled slippers— "take unfair advantage—"

  "No, because I realized, after you'd joined me in the coach, that you weren't the shrewd wanton I had thought, but a foolhardy miss entirely out of her realm and experience. So I decided it best to teach you a lesson."

  "A lesson?"

  "Not to entrust yourself so completely to someone you knew nothing about—"

  "And obviously I shouldn't have trusted a notorious brigand like you!" Astonished at her indignant outburst, which reminded her of Corisande so much more than herself, Lindsay nonetheless held her ground, feeling more a fool than ever before. She swept her gaze over him, noting a pistol jammed boldly in his belt, a wicked-looking cutlass lying against his lean hip. "You're no military spy at all, but a pirate—"

  "I prefer privateer."

  "It's the same thing!"

  "On the contrary, I hold American letters of marque, which makes me quite respectable."

  "You call preying upon your own country's ships respectable? Ruthlessly looting them? Burning them? I must differ, sir. You're no privateer, but a despicable pirate and—and a traitor to boot—Oh!"

  Lindsay backed up as Jared advanced upon her, but he stopped when she brandished the candlestick defensively in front of her. His face had grown so dark that she knew a moment's fear, his eyes as turbulently blue as she had seen them.

  "Call me a pirate if you will, woman, but a traitor is only for God, or the devil, to judge." They stared at each other, the long silence so charged that Lindsay felt as if a wall of intense heat had been thrown between them. She blinked when a knock finally came at the door.

  "Cap'n, forgive me, but have you decided upon our course? We've the prisoners . . ."

  "We'll drop them at Start Point."

  "Good enough, Cap'n."

  Start Point, Lindsay considered, her heart sinking. Already they were so far from London? Yet she squared her shoulders. That was as good a place as any to free herself of Jared and his treacherous crew.

  "I know Start Point," she said stiffly, not daring to lower the candlestick an inch. "It shouldn't take me more than a day's coach ride to reach my father's estate in Porthleven, if I could trouble you for the fare. I'll pay you back—quite discreetly, of course."

  "That won't be necessary."

  "No, no, I insist—"

  "And I said it won't be necessary. You're not leaving this ship."

  Chapter 14

  "Not . . . ?" Lindsay laughed nervously, thinking she had misheard, although her pounding heart told her otherwise. "Truly, my lord, as you've made most clear to me, I've caused you enough trouble already."

  "So you have, and I'd like nothing better than to be rid of you, but that won't be possible. I can't risk you revealing my identity—"

  "But I wouldn't, I swear!" Lindsay blurted out, the firm set of Jared's jaw filling her with sudden desperation. "I'm very good at keeping secrets—you could ask my friend Corie, we have a secret pact ourselves . . . oh, dear, but you can't ask her, she's on her way to Lisbon—but she'll be back within a few weeks and she could tell you then—I mean, send you a letter—"

  "This will be your cabin. And don't try to escape, for it's no use. Dag will be posted outside the door."

  Dear Lord, no, he wasn't listening to her! Lindsay thought wildly as Jared turned to go. His jaw tensed all the more when she reached out and caught his arm.

  "But you can't keep me aboard this ship, Jared. I'll miss the London Season! I waited so long to go—"

  "Obviously you were willing to forgo it, thinking I was a spy."

  "Yes, but that was different! I thought you wished to marry me—and when Della told me she'd overheard that you'd gone to Sussex, and Aunt Winnie had already said your family home was near Seaford, I thought you'd been sent on a mission and I didn't want to be left behind without you. But you're not at all the man I believed you were—"

  Lindsay gasped in alarm, Jared grabbing her so suddenly by the shoulders that the candlestick clattered to the floor. She thought he might shake her; instead he pulled her so close that his breath mingled with hers, his voice low and harsh.

  "That's what I tried to tell you, woman, but now we're bloody well stuck with each other . . . at least until I decide what's to be done with you."

  He released her as abruptly and strode to the door, while Lindsay sank to her knees in shock, staring down blindly at her hands. Yet Jared's muttered oath made her look up to see a squat red-haired fellow, appearing more a leprechaun than a sailor, jump to his feet from where he'd fallen when the door was yanked open.

  "Damnation, Cowan . . ."

  "Forgive me, Cap'n, I—I thought I lost a button from my shirt. Ah, me, there it is! Right where it belonged all along!"

  The Irishman cast a sympathetic glance in Lindsay's direction and then he was gone, his short legs pumping fast as he disappeared down the passageway. Meantime, the silent giant named Dag, the top of his blond head scraping the ceiling, seemed to be frowning at Jared. Another man, with striking good looks that reminded her of Corisande's Lord Donovan and hair as raven-black, hadn't budged from his casual stance against the bulkhead.

  A slow, easy smile stirred the man's lips, his midnight eyes flickering from her to Jared. "Well, well, friend, this is certainly interesting—"

  "And none of your concern, Walker. Dag, no one enters or leaves this cabin but you or Cooky with her meals."

  Still frowning, the big man nodded and pulled the door shut behind Jared, but not before giving Lindsay a look she could only describe as troubled.

  Dag's size might have frightened her on the quarterdeck, but he had been nothing if not gentle with her after throwing her over his shoulder, although he hadn't said a word when he'd deposited her in the cabin. Yet suddenly she didn't feel quite so alone; perhaps som
e men of reason aboard this ship might consider pleading her cause to Jared.

  Either that or they might even agree to help her, Lindsay thought hopefully, Dag's and Cowan's kind reactions to her plight having cheered her more than she would have imagined.

  As for the man called Walker, who could say? He had at least seemed curious, and she hadn't sensed any ill will on his part toward her. And he possessed the same strange accent Jared had used on deck. She suddenly recalled that the Phoenix was thought to be American, and now she knew why, although she doubted that Walker's manner of speech was a ruse.

  Irishmen. Americans. A mute blond giant who looked as if he'd just stepped from a Norse saga. Jared's crew certainly was a motley one, and perhaps therein lay some advantage. She could see already that a few aboard perceived her as a damsel in distress.

  "So get yourself up off the floor," Lindsay chided herself aloud, rising to shake out her skirt. Her gaze fell on the brass candlestick and she picked it up, her face burning at how roughly Jared had grabbed her and how cruelly he had spoken.

  Her sense of hurt was immediate and acute, her spirits flagging, but this served to bring to mind, like a gentle rebuke, Corisande's words to her the night before she had left: "That's not the indomitable Lindsay Somerset I know."

  No, it wasn't. If she was a damsel in distress, then she would simply have to effect her own rescue with or without help.

  So Jared Giles wasn't the man of her dreams. That didn't have to mean her dreams were ashes or that she must give up her search for the valiant adventurer she hoped to marry. And she certainly wasn't going to allow a ruthless pirate, a traitor to his own King and country, to stop her!

  Much heartened, Lindsay actually was smiling as she returned the candlestick to the desk and went to the porthole. Yet she still felt a poignant pang of regret when she looked out onto the sunlit sea.