“How predictable you are. Yes, you are beautiful, as you well know. Do not be so vain, angel. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I am not vain, it is just that I have not seen him in so long, and I wish to appear at my best.” She smoothed the skirts of the gown Dylan had brought from her own trunk and took another deep breath. “I am ready.”
“Dear God, you sound as if you are preparing to be presented to the king instead of some downtrodden royalist with nothing to commend him but the acquaintance of other poverty-stricken, exiled aristocrats.”
Flashing him a dark look, Angela snapped, “I shall be most grateful not to have to listen to any more of your snide comments!”
Kit stepped to the door and pushed it open, holding it wide for her. She swept past him as he murmured, “I hope so, angel.”
The atmosphere inside the Café des Exilés was much different from that of the Café des Réfugiés. Though crowded as had been the other, these men spoke in fluent French and flawless English, with none of the crude laughter she’d heard earlier. Lantern light flickered softly, and the conversation was a low hum instead of raucous chaos.
“This way,” Kit said, and they followed a dark-clad servant down a hallway to the rear of the house and a steep staircase.
Turk stood outside a door on the second floor and nodded when he saw Kit. “Monsieur du Plessis resides within,” he said, and indicated the door. “But I do not believe now would be the most appropriate hour to engage him in polite conversation. He has guests.”
Angela stepped forward before she lost her nerve. “I disagree. He will not mind interrupting any conversation to see me, I am certain.”
Turk gave her a grave stare, then looked up and past her to Kit.
“Let her go,” Kit said with a shrug, and leaned a broad shoulder against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We will wait here if you like.”
“Do as you please. Philippe will take care of me now.”
Angela stepped to the door and knocked sharply. She could hear the muted murmur of voices inside and shifted impatiently when no one called to her to enter. She knocked again, and when there was still no reply, she grasped the knob. It turned easily, and she pushed open the door.
Candlelight flickered in glass globes on the walls and tables, but oddly, provided scant light. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was the fragrance of heavy perfume and brandy, and lumps of material were scattered on the carpet. A rustling like dry leaves caught her attention, and she turned toward the sound. A couch stretched against one wall, and several chairs and lounges were grouped about haphazardly.
Then she heard the unmistakable sound of feminine laughter. She stopped when a throaty male voice called out, “Entrez vous, chérie!”
“Philippe?” she managed to murmur, her voice trembling. The strangeness of the scene had not escaped her, and she noted the occupied couch across the room. She took a step forward, hands clenched into the folds of her cloak. “Philippe, is it you?”
There was an instant of silence, then a murmured curse in French. “Sacre bleu! Angela? It cannot be you.”
She froze, slowly perceiving the scene before her with disbelieving eyes. The tangled dark mass on the couch separated into distinct arms and legs and faces, and she recognized Philippe as he disentangled himself from the two women and stood.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly as he strode toward her. “Mon Dieu, did you not receive my letter?”
“Letter?” she repeated numbly. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean. I have all your letters. The letters we wrote to one another over the years—Philippe, what is the matter? Are you not glad to see me?”
She could not help the faint note of pleading in her voice, but there was too much to comprehend at the moment. He was moving toward her and taking her by one arm to push her across the room, and she saw dimly that she had left the door open. He shoved her toward it.
“Go back home, Angela. I wrote you immediately upon receiving your letter, telling you not to join me. C’est impossible.”
“But—we love one another. Papa will come ’round once we are wed. You know he will. And even if he does not, nothing matters but our love.”
Philippe stepped into a pool of light, dark eyes narrowed and cold. His frilled shirt was open to the waist, and the top two buttons of his trousers were undone. Angela looked away, cheeks hot with embarrassment. It was only too obvious what she had interrupted.
“Listen to me,” he said coldly. “Your papa will not capitulate. He made it quite clear to me that he would never sanction our union. And I have no intention of wedding a milk-faced girl without any money. Go back home. You have come all this way for nothing. C’est fini . . .”
Reeling with shock and disillusionment, Angela could not move for a moment. She stood staring up at him, at his aristocratic face and thin lips, the faint sneer curling them up at the corners.
“But our letters,” she whispered, still unable to conceive that she meant nothing to him. “The things you said to me—”
“Lies. I did not even write them, Angela. Père François wrote them for me. The old priest had a romantic soul, oui?”
One of the women still on the couch called out something in French and Philippe half turned with a laugh. When he glanced back at her, Angela slapped him across one cheek with her palm. The echo of her blow sounded loud in the room, and she heard an angry exclamation from the couch just before Philippe grasped her by the wrist.
She gasped as sharp pains shot up her arm, and she tried to jerk away. A scream from the direction of the couch was the only warning before Philippe was suddenly flung backward, and it took her a moment to realize what had happened. By then, Saber was standing over the fallen Frenchman, a boot on each side of his torso. Philippe stared up in shock.
“Do not even consider trying to rise, mon ami,” Kit said in an amicable tone that did nothing to hide his fury. “I would be forced to pin you to the floor with my sword, and the management frowns on carpet stains. Especially blood, as it is so hard to remove.”
Philippe had paled to a pasty gray-white. He gave a short jerk of his head to indicate understanding, then grew very still and watchful. After a moment, Kit stepped back and motioned for Turk to come forward. Philippe’s eyes grew wide as the massive shadow moved toward him, and in a very short time, Turk had pulled him to his feet and seated him in a chair.
“Now,” Kit said pleasantly, “apologize to the young lady for not only your manners, but your fraud. Then we will take our departure.”
“No,” Angela whispered hoarsely. “I do not want an apology from him. There is nothing he can say or do that will excuse him.”
Shrugging, Kit looked at her. “No, but until you hear it, you cannot forget it.” He glanced back at Philippe.
“I apologize to you for my deception and my manners,” Philippe muttered ungraciously. “But you have brought it upon yourself with your foolish actions.” He gave Saber a defiant glance. “I do not apologize for anything else.”
“You should. You’re as miserable an excuse for a man as I have ever seen.” Kit reached out with one foot and kicked Philippe backward. He crashed to the floor in a splintering of wooden chair and brocade.
Angela realized she must have made some sound, because suddenly Dylan was there, one arm around her, drawing her to the door. “Come along,” he said softly in her ear. “Saber will take care of him now.”
“He is not worth it,” she said numbly. “I do not want to be responsible for anything. Just—just take me away, Dylan. Please. I want to see Emily. I want to leave here . . .”
Turning, she buried her face in Dylan’s shoulder, feeling the smooth linen of his shirt cool against her burning cheek. Pain clogged her throat and made her stumble, and Dylan’s arm tightened around her.
She barely remembered the return to the ship. It was only a blur of movement punctuated by sharper images. There was darkness and water, and then the blessed relief of s
eeing Emily again. Turk soothed her with his resonant reassurances and herbal tea, and Emily helped her into a cool lawn gown and tucked her into a wide bunk that she only vaguely recalled. Then she was left in silence, while the familiar rocking of the ship lulled her into a deep sleep.
Eleven
Angela stared over the rail at the distant speck of land on the horizon. Her eyes were shadowed by her lashes and sadness, and pale hair whipped against her cheeks. Kit shifted, leaning an elbow on the rail next to her. Feeling awkward and damnably uncertain of himself, he watched her for a long time before finding a neutral topic of conversation.
Fortunately, it presented itself in the form of a smudge on the horizon that grew steadily larger as the ship sliced through the iridescent blue-green Caribbean Sea. When the smudge grew into a land mass rising abruptly from the Atlantic on the north side, the Caribbean on the south, he gestured toward it.
“See that deep-water harbor? That’s St. Thomas. I know you’ve heard of Blackbeard. He favored the town of Charlotte Amalie on this harbor as his haunt. When we get closer, you’ll see a tall stone tower. It’s known as Blackbeard’s Castle. He used it as a lookout post for Spanish galleons.”
Turning to stare up at him, Angela shaded her eyes from the sun with her palm. A faint smile touched her lips. It was the closest he’d seen her come to any emotion other than apathy in the past week since leaving New Orleans.
Curiosity now sparked in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I suppose Dylan told you about my Blackbeard remark.”
“He did mention your comparison between us, yes.”
She sighed. “Well, I always thought Blackbeard was more myth than truth—rather like you. How do you know all about him?”
Shrugging, Kit resisted the urge to touch her. It took him much too long to curb the startling surge of tenderness that welled inside at her sad expression. Damndest thing, but ever since seeing her crushed by her betrothed’s callous rejection, he’d felt a compassion for her that he hadn’t suspected. Maybe it was more empathy than sympathy, but he could certainly understand how hurt she was. Hadn’t he had the same sort of experience himself?
Clearing his throat, he said, “Legend is sometimes based on fact. Blackbeard was real, all right. Maybe not larger than life, as some think, but just as villainous. Of course, legend mixes freely with fact, but there’s enough of both to satisfy even the most curious.”
“Emily would swoon with ecstasy at hearing this.”
Kit smiled. “Then you’ll have to tell her. If Dylan hasn’t already.”
Angela frowned slightly. “Emily and Dylan spend a great deal of time together, I’ve noticed.”
“And you disapprove?”
She looked startled. “Actually, I don’t approve or disapprove. I don’t know what to think.”
“I thought you liked Dylan.”
“Oh, I do. I do. He’s been wonderful to me and to Emily. I can’t think how I would have survived if not for him.”
Kit struggled against a surge of jealousy that astonished him as much as it annoyed him. Jealous? Of her affection for Dylan? He’d thought himself beyond such an emotion. Obviously, he gave himself too much credit for having any sense. He managed a careless shrug.
“Dylan should have been given a pet a long time ago. He’s adopted you two for now.”
Leaning back against the rail, Angela smiled. “Meaning that we are only temporary amusements, I take it.”
Kit scowled. “I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
She laughed, and he realized that it had been a long time since he’d heard her do so. He couldn’t help a grin.
When Angela said, “You’re very handsome when you aren’t wearing that terrible scowl, you know,” he felt his throat tighten. He kept his voice light with an effort.
“I always assumed you considered me in league with the devil.”
“Oh, certainly. I haven’t really changed that opinion. But I would have to be blind not to notice how handsome you are.”
“I see. A man could never grow too vain with you around, I perceive.”
“My nanny used to tell me that beauty is as beauty does. One’s acts can make them more beautiful or turn beauty into ugliness. I believe that must be true.” She turned to stare back over the water that shimmered bluegreen in the sunlight, her gaze focused on the shore line growing steadily larger.
“Angela.”
She turned back to look at him, and he reached out to pull her close. She looked startled, her eyes widening to huge green pools and her lips parting. He smoothed her wind-blown hair with one hand and gently stroked her cheek with the other, as he would a frightened kitten.
“You’ll get over all this,” he heard himself say, and knew that he was stepping out on a ledge that may have no retreat. He wanted to stop, to keep the distance between them, but found it impossible not to offer some sort of comfort, however clumsy. When she shook her head in obvious distress, he said softly, “Yes, you will. A woman as beautiful as you will have many men at her feet.”
Her lashes lowered to hide her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled. “Even if that were true, only one man would be enough.”
He ignored the implications, teasing, “You can’t be that blind. Are there no mirrors in the world you live in?”
“Of course. But different people see different things when they look into a mirror.” She looked back up at him. “You say you see beauty when you look at me. When I look into my mirror, I see a credulous fool.”
“Maybe you’re looking into the wrong mirror. Listen, angel,” he said, grasping her hands when she started to turn away from him, “your only mistake was believing in someone who wasn’t worthy of you. People do it all the time. Do you think you’re the first to trust someone who didn’t deserve it? You’re not. And you won’t be the last. God knows, I’ve been a fool often enough.”
“And you have no intention of being one again,” she said, startling him. He shrugged.
“True. But I don’t put the blame on myself for trusting people I shouldn’t have. I place the blame where it belongs—on their shoulders.”
“That’s a very nice solution, but unfortunately it doesn’t work for everyone,” she said bitterly. “I think of the years I wasted, the qualities I thought Philippe had when he didn’t, and then I recall Papa trying to tell me the truth. I wouldn’t listen to him. And I didn’t listen to Emily when she tried to tell me, either. And bless her, she has not once said ‘I told you so,’ when she certainly could. And should.”
“Angela, you’re not being fair to yourself. Didn’t Dylan tell you that? If you won’t believe me—believe him.”
“It has nothing to do with believing one person over another.” She hesitated, then said, “But maybe that’s wrong. I did believe in one person, one person I thought was very special. And he wasn’t.”
Kit fought the urge to shake her. Why did she have to look so damn miserable? She shouldn’t waste an instant of regret for du Plessis. But Kit knew better than to tell her that. Few women would welcome the suggestion that the man they had loved was anything but worthy of it, even when he wasn’t. Unless, of course, it was their idea. He had seen enough to know that, and knew that listening was the wisest course.
Taking a deep breath, he said merely, “We’ll slip into a cove under cover of dusk. Of course, we can’t sail right up to town for obvious reasons, but if you like, once we’re ashore, I’ll take you into Charlotte Amalie. The governor doesn’t particularly like pirates in town, but the merchants certainly don’t mind doing business with us, I’ve noticed. Their full warehouses attest to that.”
Her eyes widened. “They trade with pirates? Willingly?”
“Most willingly. And would also be the first to see us hung or thrown into the deepest cell of Fort Christian once they’d made a tidy profit, I might add.”
“Do I detect a note of bitterness in your voice?”
“Probably. I find it rather amusing in one way, but hypocrisy has always annoyed me. I usually avoid St. Thomas. But the ship has to be careened—I don’t know if you know what that means, but—”
“Yes. I do. Turk told me. The barnacles must be scraped from the ship’s hull so it will move more swiftly through the water. That way you can attack innocent ships much more efficiently.”
He grinned. “Right. At any rate, with the ship beached, we’ll be here for a while. The crew works hard during the day, but at night we seek other amusements.”
“I shudder to think what those might be.”
“Oh, more harmless than you might imagine. In fact, I’ll take you to a place that might interest you.”
She looked uncertain, and the shadows in her eyes deepened until he was determined to banish them.
“What kind of place is it?” she asked.
“Horrible. Laughter. Entertainment. Dancing. I’m certain you’ll hate it.”
Some of the shadows in her eyes faded, and the suggestion of a smile worked the corners of her mouth. “I probably will. You must realize that I detest all forms of amusement.”
“Do you? Then what I have planned should be sheer torture.” He caught both her hands and held them. “Stop wallowing in self-pity, and forget everything for a while. There will be time enough later to face what must be faced.”
“Self-pity!”
“Yes. That’s what you’re doing. No, don’t try to pull away again. Think about it. I’m right, and you know it. You may have plenty of reason to feel sorry for yourself, but that won’t get you a damn thing.”
She looked away, but did not try to step back from him. He watched her, noting the play of emotions that shimmered like tiny stars beneath the creamy surface of her skin. Circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes, looking like faint bruises in the sharp, clear sunlight, and he fought another wave of anger toward du Plessis. He felt no regret at having beaten the Frenchman before leaving New Orleans, though he knew that if Angela learned of it, she would never understand why he had done so.
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