As if reading his mind, Angela leaned forward and said softly, “Emily was right—she would have been terrified to come here.”
“And you’re not?”
Her delicate brow lifted. “Should I be?”
“Probably.” Kit ignored Turk’s muffled comment and pulled the cork from the wine bottle. “I would not recommend the glassware here as particularly clean, but there should be no harm in drinking from the bottle.”
Angela looked faintly scandalized, but intrigued. “You mean, do as I have seen the crew do when they drink rum?”
“Think you can handle it?”
In reply, she tilted the bottle to her lips and took a sip. The red wine dribbled onto her chin, and she lowered the bottle and wiped it away with her fingers, laughing.
“I didn’t do very well at that.”
“It takes practice.”
“Yes,” Turk said, “if one desires to be an expert at that sort of thing.”
Kit gave him a long stare. “Are you going to sit there and radiate disapproval all night? I have little desire to be in your company if you are.”
“How vexing for you, as I intend to linger near for the remainder of the evening.”
Though he knew well enough what was behind Turk’s disapproval, Kit could not shake off his irritation. It didn’t help any to know that he didn’t trust himself to remain aboard the Sea Tiger with Angela and stay away from her, yet he did not want to leave her behind. The only alternative had been to bring her along with him.
Shrugging, Kit accepted Turk’s impassive announcement without further comment. If his conscience wasn’t already overloaded, he mused, he supposed he would feel guilty about bringing Angela to a raucous tavern. But as he had noted, it was already brimming over with other more important matters. This would hardly ripple the surface.
“Shall I get you a napkin?” he asked pleasantly when Angela dripped more wine down her chin, and she smiled at him.
“Your handkerchief will do nicely, thank you. I believe I’m getting better at this.”
Before he could say that he did not carry a handkerchief, Turk had produced a spotless square of linen from the breast pocket of the leather vest he wore. He held it out with solemn attention and watched silently as Angela cleaned droplets of ruby wine from her chin and lips.
“You may keep it,” Turk said when she started to hand it back. “I should have no need of it tonight, and it seems that you will.”
Kit lifted the bottle of rum and pulled out the cork, then took a long swallow. It burned down his throat like liquid fire, wet and potent. Damn Turk. Weren’t matters difficult enough without any dissension between them? He took another swallow, aware of Turk’s dark gaze resting on him. The sting of his disapproval was like the lash of a whip, irritating him more by the moment.
Laughter rose from a far corner, and Kit turned to see a dark-haired woman stumbling drunkenly in the steps of a dance. Men cheered her on, laughing uproariously at the spectacle she was making of herself as she flitted from one to the other in search of a partner. His eyes narrowed when the woman turned, and he swore silently when she started toward him.
“Kit!” she cried, pushing at a tangled mat of curls hanging in her eyes. “You’re back.”
He half rose from his chair, intending to head her off before she could reach the table. His effort was unsuccessful, however, as she managed to reach them before he could avoid her. With a drunken crow of delight, she flung herself at him, arms going around his waist as her lips sought his mouth. He barely managed to turn his head in time, so that she only grazed his jaw in a wet, sloppy kiss.
Well aware of Angela’s wide-eyed stare, Kit tried to push the woman away. “You’re drunk, Kate,” he muttered, holding her at arm’s length.
She laughed. “Aren’t I always? What of it? I’ve seen you suck out the bottom of a rum bottle a time or two yourself.” Her puffy brown eyes crinkled, thin lips stretching into a grin. Though she would never have been considered pretty, any claim she might have once had to being attractive had long ago evaporated. A hard life had toughened her features, and her complexion was muddy and faintly scarred. She reeked of cheap perfume. A lank mop of brown curls hid her face, and she pushed at her hair with one hand, reaching out for him with the other.
Kit groaned silently. This could get him in trouble if he wasn’t careful. He could feel Angela’s intent gaze resting on them, and wondered what she was thinking. He didn’t even want to imagine what Turk was probably thinking.
“Dammit, Kate,” he growled when she rubbed up against him despite the arm he put between them. “Stop it.”
“Why?” she purred. “You never minded before, did you? C’mon, Kit, let’s—”
Desperate, he dug his fingers into her arm and swung her around. “Kate, this is a friend of mind, Angela. Angela, this is Kate. She works here at times.”
“And drinks here often,” Turk murmured, not flinching when Kit flung him a dark stare.
Kate gave Angela a raking glance, then laughed as she leaned back against Kit’s chest. “Nice to make yer acquaintance, Angela. Kit is a special friend of mine. I’ve known him for years—our names are alike, so we—”
“Speak whenever we see one another,” Kit finished for her. He had no intention of allowing Kate to imply something that had never happened. While it was true he was guilty of dallying with women, Kate had never been one of them. In truth, he felt rather sorry for her most of the time, an emotion she misinterpreted as interest. Until now, it had seemed pointless to correct that impression. But with Angela pale-faced and staring at the woman, it was suddenly imperative she not be misled.
Kate, however, had different ideas. Pushing away from Kit and avoiding his restraining hand, she pulled a stool to the table and perched on it, dingy skirts flowing around her bare legs. “Mind if I join you?” she chirped, and not waiting for an answer, reached out for the rum bottle. She tilted it back with an expert motion, not spilling a drop as she drank deeply. Then she set it back on the table, eyeing Angela for a moment before leaning close, her words slurred.
“So,” she said, “are you his latest ride-under? Not that I mind. He’s man enough to handle both of us, don’t you think?”
Angela cast Turk an uncertain glance, and Kit recognized his friend’s growing anger. Kit tucked a hand under Kate’s arm and lifted her from the stool, turning her around and propelling her toward the bar.
“Let me buy you your own bottle,” he said when Kate began to protest, half stumbling against him. “And you can damn well drink it elsewhere.”
By the time Kit was able to get Monroe’s attention and purchase Kate a bottle of rum, she was draped over him and busying her hands on any part of his body that interested her. He resisted the temptation to slap her, and focused on getting rid of her. When he saw one of his crew lounging nearby, he steered Kate toward him.
“Dane, I think I’ve got you some company for the night,” he said, shoving Kate toward the surprised crewman. “She comes equipped with a full bottle of rum as well as a very willing nature. Are you interested?”
Dane surveyed Kate for a moment, obviously weighing the attraction of the rum, then nodded. “Sure. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman, and all cats are gray in the dark.”
“Excellent.” Kit pushed Kate toward him, and she laughed and slung an arm around Dane’s neck, draping over the big blond crewman as easily as she had done Kit.
But when Kit made his way back to the table in the corner, it was empty. A wine-stained white linen handkerchief lay wadded on the table, along with his bottle of rum. Turk and Angela were gone.
Swearing, he grabbed his rum and headed for the door. By the time he reached the path leading to the beach, he saw Turk pushing the skiff out into the harbor. White sails dipped and swayed, and in the moonlight, he could see the pale glow of Angela’s hair in the prow of the tiny craft.
Turk had been right after all. It had been a very bad idea to take Angela to
Bloody Bob’s Tavern.
Shivering, Angela held her arms around her chest as if she were cold, though it was a very warm night. The sea breeze lifted back her hair and cooled her face as she stared over the water to the torch-lit building on the beach. She clung to the sides of the skiff when it hit the edge of a wave and bucked wildly, still gazing at the beach as they drew farther out into the harbor.
“If it is any consolation to you,” Turk said as he maneuvered the craft into the wind, “Kit would never lower his standards enough to actually have intimate dealings with a woman of Kate’s appearance and moral stature, not to mention her lack of intelligence.”
She didn’t look at him. “I am certain it is no concern of mine who he wishes to be with.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean by that?” she snapped.
“Exactly what I said.”
“Do you think I’m jealous? Do you think that is why I wanted to leave?” she demanded. “It’s not. I decided that I did not want to be there anymore. That is all.”
“I see. A wise decision, if a bit tardy.”
Angela turned to glare at him. “I do not care if Kit Saber has a hundred women clinging to him. If he prefers a hideous creature like that Kate to—to—”
“To you?” Turk supplied helpfully when she jerked to a halt. “That is what you were going to say, isn’t it? Ah, Miss Angela, I can only offer you the assurance that women like Kate are pathetic enough in their own right. Few men wish to burden themselves with such creatures except for the shortest length of time and the most obvious of purposes. Perhaps you did not notice, but Kit was doing his best to rid us of her undesirable presence.”
“You’re right. I did not notice that. What I noticed was the way he put his arm around her and walked her to the bar.” Angela swallowed the knot in her throat with an effort, damning the tears that stung her eyes. Why should it bother her if Kit was with the woman? Indeed, Angela had only been fooling herself that she cared about him. It was a natural reaction to being jilted, and she had deceived herself into thinking her emotions were real and sincere.
For several moments Turk did not reply. His strong back bent to the task of working the sail and bracing the tiller. A brisk wind punched the sails, pushing the skiff around the wooded inlets toward the hidden cove where the Sea Tiger waited to be careened.
Miserable, Angela watched silently. Moonlight glittered in the water in silvery ribbons, and reflected from Turk’s smooth, dark skin. There was sympathy in his face and eyes, and that only made it harder. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the ship loomed before her in a huge, bulky shadow that blotted out the night.
Turk called a halloo to the watch, then made fast the lines and lifted Angela to the dangling rope ladder that swung against the side of the ship. She felt that she was becoming quite adept at scaling rope ladders as she made her way up to the rail and reached for the hand held out to her.
“Back so soon?” Dylan asked, and her head jerked up to meet his amber gaze.
“It would seem so.” She stepped onto the deck and adjusted her skirts, hoping he would not press for answers to the questions she saw in his face.
No such luck.
“Where’s Kit?”
“Captain Saber has remained ashore at the tavern,” she replied coolly, and swept past him with a finality that even he could not ignore.
By the time she reached her cabin, hoping somehow that Emily would be there, Dylan had caught up with her. She heard his footsteps, light and agile, in the companionway behind her before she could open the cabin door. He caught her by one arm.
“Turk said you were upset because Kit ran into an old acquaintance.”
“You have been misinformed.” She grasped the latch and shoved, and the door swung open. “If you will release me, I can go to bed. I’m tired and have a headache.”
“No, you’re jealous because Kit was dumb enough to let some ugly tavern wench come between you two. Stop it. She’s not worth a misunderstanding.”
Angela leaned wearily against the door. “Dylan, that’s not it at all. Don’t you think I know how I feel? I don’t care if Kit Saber has a dozen tavern wenches stowed all over the Caribbean. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I am still grieving for my betrothed, and—”
Dylan swore crudely, startling her into silence. He grasped her by both arms and gave her a slight shake. “Now look, I don’t care if you’re in love with Kit or not, but I do care if you’re happy. You didn’t give a damn for your precious betrothed. He was just an illusion, and you knew that even before we got to New Orleans. Do you think everyone is as blind as Saber? He chooses to be blind, but I’m not him. Try being truthful with me, dammit. I thought you were my friend.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I am your friend. It just seems that I’m not a very good friend. Look what I did to Emily.”
“Emily? She seems happy enough now, though I admit it’s taken a while for her to adjust.” His voice softened. “Angela, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve made mistakes, but they were honest ones. Don’t ruin everything because of another one.”
“Ruin everything?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Kit’s the closest thing to a big brother that I’ve ever had. He cared about me and took me in when no one else was willing to, and he’s tried to teach me a few things along the way.”
“Such as piracy? What kind of thing is that to teach a friend?”
Sighing, Dylan shook his head. “You don’t know half of what you think you do. There’s a lot more than appearances at stake here, but that’s another story. Right now, what I’m trying to tell you is that Kit truly cares about you. I can see it in his eyes whether he wants to admit it or not, and I don’t want to see him hurt.”
“Hurt? I couldn’t hurt him. On the contrary, it is I who am much more likely to be hurt.” She wrenched away, pulling back to stare at Dylan in the dim light of a lantern. It hissed above her head, sputtering and throwing a feeble glow. “Don’t you care about my feelings?”
“Why do you think I’m wasting my time standing here?” Dylan raked a hand through his dark hair, exasperation marking his face. “I could be snuggling up to Emily instead of trying to convince you of a truth you don’t want to hear.”
“Then go snuggle up to her and leave me alone. I’m going to sleep.”
Dylan thrust a bottle at her. “If you really want to sleep, drink your wine. There’s not much gone, and you can always blame your headache on too much to drink instead of the truth.”
She snatched the bottle from his hand, glaring at him. “I think I will, thank you. You’ve given me a wonderful idea.”
Ignoring his frustration, Angela stepped back and firmly shut the door on Dylan, then leaned against it. In a moment, she heard his steps echoing down the corridor. Still distressed, she looked down at the bottle in her hand. Why not? Wine might ease the worst of her mood, though it would still be there to contend with on the morrow. But tonight—tonight she needed a respite from the black despair that seemed to grip her whenever she dwelled on Kit Saber for too long.
Only a few swallows of wine were enough to convince her that it would not offer any lasting solution, however, and she set the bottle into a bucket in disgust. She crossed to the bunk and threw herself across it. Her moods swung from anger to anxiety to despair, then back to anger as she lay there staring at the low ceiling of her cabin. The only light was a small lamp on the wall and the bright press of moonlight through the port window. It gave the tiny cubicle a hazy unreality that made her think she must be going mad.
How else could she explain her confusion? She should despise Kit, yet she didn’t. Deep inside, there was a part of her that could not deny her feelings no matter how much she tried to ignore them.
Time passed as she lay there in numb misery, listening to the ship’s noises that were somehow muted as they lay at anchor in the secluded bay. Instead of the familiar
heavy flapping of sails filled with wind, there was the steady creaking of the ship against the mooring lines. The lilting cries of seagulls drifted on the night wind. Voices still sounded—the night watch, no doubt—and in the distance, she could hear the twang of a fiddle and singing. Mercifully, they were too far away for her to make out the words. There had been times when she had pulled a pillow over her head to stifle the lyrics to certain songs the crew was fond of singing, her face flaming as she wondered if it was all fantasy or there was any feasibility to the antics mentioned in the song.
Finally, with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling her, she drifted into sleep.
Thirteen
Kit swung below deck, landing on his feet in the dimly lit corridor leading to Angela’s cabin. He paused, his eyes adjusting slowly to the change in light, the familiar smells of the ship washing over him. Warm wood and fragrant reminders of a previous cargo of cinnamon and ginger they had taken from one of Sheridan Shipping’s merchantmen out of India made him smile. He loved this ship in a way he had never loved any home; not even a sprawling estate of gray stone and turrets could give him this kind of feeling.
Of course, he had not considered England home since he was a boy barely out of leading strings. The land of his birth held more painful memories than joyous ones, and on the few occasions that he returned, he was always reminded of why he had left. Oddly enough, though, he felt a fierce loyalty to England and never passed up an opportunity to aid her in the struggle against Napoleon.
Napoleon. Though at the moment there was a treaty that had been signed at Amiens between England and France, Kit did not expect it to last. Napoleon was too greedy, too power-hungry and autocratic to allow England and her wealth to slip from his grasp without a struggle. With his armies divided, some in Santo Domingo to put down the revolt begun by Toussant L’Ouverture, the little Corsican was only biding his time, Kit was certain. War would come again. And when it did, he intended to pit his money and energies against the French.
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