Angela smiled slightly. “Dear Emily—I am not questioning your right to do as you please on your own time. It would make no difference to me if you did no more than dust the parlor every morning and then went out for the remainder of the day. Heavens, after what we went through together . . .” She halted, then said more quietly, “I just want to know if you’re meeting Dylan.”
After another brief hesitation, Emily nodded. “Yes. Often as I can, anyway. He . . . he has his own things to do, you know.”
It was difficult to ask the next question, but Angela could not help herself. “Have you . . . seen Kit?”
“Only once. He was with Turk, and they were having a very loud discussion. When they saw me, they stopped. Turk gave me a potion for a rash I got from washing powder.” She looked down at her hands, and said softly, “And Captain Saber asked after you.”
“Did he.” Ignoring the sudden clutch of her heart, she had the bitter thought that Kit had been in London a month and not bothered to call upon her. Not a card or a note—nothing. On several of her walks along the winding banks of the Serpentine, she had seen him in an open carriage with various gentlemen, but he had not seen her.
Yet the duke had kept up a faithful correspondence with her—notes, flowers, small gifts delivered to her home—nothing overtly romantic, simply gestures of friendship. An invitation to a night at the opera had arrived from him just the day before. She had not yet responded, despite her mother’s urging to do so. It would be unbearable to attend a function and see Kit with another woman on his arm.
Oh yes, she’d heard those rumors, too. Despite the taint of piracy attached to his name—some were now calling it by the more polite but identical title of privateering—Christian Sheridan enjoyed an enormous popularity. Women flocked to his side at every social event, and his name had been linked with many other ladies besides the contessa. It was amazing that in such a short time, he should have become the darling of the ton. Of course, there was the matter of his title and wealth to consider. He would have commanded attention for that alone, even if he’d been cross-eyed, knock-kneed, and toothless.
Rubbing wearily at her eyes, Angela asked Emily if she had spoken to Kit about her.
“Not really. Except to say that you were quite well. I saw no need,” she said defensively when Angela looked up sharply, “to let him know you were at home pining about him. He would only get ideas.”
“Or discover the truth.” Angela smiled wryly. “Thank you, Emily. I appreciate your concern. Would you . . . would you do me a favor?”
Wanly, Emily nodded. “If possible.”
“Tell Dylan I would like to see him. If he feels uncomfortable coming here, I will meet him wherever he likes. I still consider him my friend, whether or not he knows it.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. He worries about you. I know he will want to see you.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see Turk as well?”
“Very much.”
“Then why don’t you go with me one evening?”
“Go with you? What a simple solution. Do you think Dylan would mind?”
“He’d be very happy.”
“Then I’ll go. Are they staying aboard the ship?”
Emily smiled. “They hate staying on land. Especially Dylan. He says he feels safer aboard the ship.”
“Then tomorrow night, I’ll go with you.”
A brisk wind blew the smell of rotting wood and refuse over the quay. There was none of the salt tang of the ocean in this brackish water; it moved sluggishly, wafting against stone and wood, diluted by river water and hundreds of ocean-going ships.
Wood shuddered beneath his feet as Kit strode up the brow and onto the deck of the Sea Tiger. A familiar feeling of belonging enveloped him when he once more stood amid the neatly hung spars and furled sails. Lines creaked gently with the rocking motion of the ship, and water slapped against the sides. A faint murmur could be heard from the direction of a burning lantern, and he directed his steps toward it.
Passing the watch, who nodded a greeting, Kit pushed open the door and stepped down into a companionway. Giving a sharp rap on the door left ajar to Dylan’s cabin, he swung it open. Then he came to an abrupt halt.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Wide-eyed, Angela turned to face him, her cheeks leaching color like a sun-faded flower. Though her lips trembled, she said nothing, and it was Dylan who answered that she had come to visit him.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t have any visitor I wanted,” he added with a trace of belligerence.
Kit supposed that his surprised demand had sounded more than a bit accusatory. He cleared his throat. “No. I didn’t. I just didn’t expect to see her here.”
“Well, she is. Shall we leave?”
“No. No, that’s all right. I can change my plans.” He turned to go, then paused. It had shaken him more than he had expected it to, seeing her like this, and he wondered why. Gesturing toward Angela, he said, “She can stay as long as she likes.”
“Angela,” Dylan said. “Her name is Angela. Remember?”
Something in his face must have betrayed his surge of savage anger, because Dylan stepped protectively in front of her. Kit shook his head. “Don’t bother. I would not lay a hand on her.” He paused, then said, damning the odd thickness in his throat, “Angela, I trust you will enjoy your visit.”
When the door had slammed solidly behind him, Kit drew in a breath that felt riddled with needles. His chest constricted, and though it had nothing to do with illness, he was suddenly reminded of the time he’d suffered a bronchitis attack and Angela had helped Turk tend him. Wet, dripping cloths, cool drinks, and infinite patience had eased the worst of it for him, and he could still recall her soothing voice and the soft, loving words she’d used.
God, he was a fool. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be fighting this pressing need to hold her again. He should just let her go. It would be the kindest thing for both of them. After all, even if he did tell her how he felt, it would do neither of them any good. Who would want their daughter to wed a man with the taint of piracy attached to his name? Not even his father’s wealth and reputation had really smoothed over that rumor, though few would dare repeat it to his face. Kit smiled wryly.
Leaning back against the door, he struggled against the growing desire to go back inside. It had been a cozy scene, as Angela’s face glowed with pleasure and Emily giggled, while Dylan laughed at both of them. Memories of other nights when he had joined them still haunted him at times. Only the lucid vision of Angela at his father’s side kept him from turning back. One could never revisit the past. It was foolish to want that which would never be. Didn’t he know that well enough?
The reason he had come here tonight was part of that hard-earned lesson. Now he would have to confront his long-awaited appointment elsewhere. If she showed at all . . .
Rattled by Kit’s unexpected appearance, Angela paced the floor of the cabin despite Dylan’s efforts to ease her. Finally he said resignedly, “You might as well admit that you still love him. If you didn’t, he wouldn’t have the power to affect you like this.”
Turning, Angela glared at him. “Did you know he was coming here tonight?”
“I told you, no,” he said patiently. “This is the first time he’s been here in over a week. He don’t have to make an appointment, you know. It’s his ship. He can do what he likes.”
“Don’t remind me.” She lapsed into gloomy silence, thinking of all the things Kit liked to do and did. It didn’t bear study for too long, and she swerved her attention back to Dylan’s glum expression. “I’m sorry. I suppose this wasn’t such a grand notion after all. It seemed so thrilling, sneaking out of the house in disguise and coming down here to meet you. Perhaps, next time, you should come visit me at the house.”
“Oh no.” Dylan shook his head. “I know how that would be. I’d be shown to the tradesman’s door—which would suit me well enough—but if your father saw you talking to the likes of m
e, he’d bundle you off to a convent or some such. Then Saber would really be mad at me. No, I won’t risk it.”
Her brow lifted. “Saber mad at you over me? I hardly think so. He hates me now.”
“No, he just hasn’t stopped to think things through yet. He will. When he does, he’ll see that he’s being ridiculous.”
Dylan stood and came over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t give up on him, Angela. There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about.”
“Well, would someone please tell me just what I need to know? It seems dreadfully unfair for everyone else to know things when I don’t.”
“It may be unfair, but I like my head where it is—attached to my neck.” Dylan lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I can’t, lovey. You must know I would if I could.”
Because she did know, Angela accepted his decision graciously. After a few more moments of idle chatter, Emily rose and helped Angela with her cloak, then reached for her own.
“We need to return. I dare not keep Miss Angela out too late.”
“I’ll see you back,” Dylan said, “since Turk is not here yet. I can’t imagine where he went. He’s always here.”
Leaving Dylan and Emily in the cabin for a few moments of privacy, Angela made her way topside. Lantern light sprayed over her in shifting patches. A wind had sprung up, noisily snapping loose lines and tugging at furled sails. The ship rolled gently from side to side, and Angela grasped the rail to keep her footing. Odd, how quickly she had forgotten how to keep her balance aboard a ship. It had been a hard-earned lesson much too easily neglected.
The rough scrabble of carriage wheels on cobbled stone made a scrunching sound, and she looked up, peering into the misty gloom of the quay. Fitful light from carriage lanterns stabbed the darkness in quivering globes, and for an instant, she thought it was a carriage come to take her and Emily home. Then she realized as she reached the wooden brow leading from ship to quay, that the closed carriage was already occupied.
One hand still lifted to hail the driver, she froze when she recognized Kit Saber’s deep voice in the shadows beyond the light. There was the rusty squeak of a door opening, and silhouetted against the running lights, she saw a woman perched on the carriage seats. A low, feminine laugh purled lightly, and Angela’s heart lurched. Kit had reached the side of the vehicle and was speaking to her, leaning against the side in a leisurely posture that didn’t fool Angela at all. She recognized the tension in his tautly held shoulders and heard it in the tone of his voice though she could not quite hear his words.
Holding her breath, uncertain if she should risk exposure by fleeing back up the gangplank to the deck, she clung tightly to the railing and stood in the shadows with trembling legs. A capricious gust of wind carried scraps of their conversation to her ears.
“. . . you said no one would be here,” a pouting feminine voice complained in a vaguely familiar accent.
Kit’s reply was partially obscured by the muted clang of ship’s bells, fragments of it drifting to Angela. “. . . did not know. Impossible to . . . perhaps we could meet elsewhere . . .”
Cutting across his explanation was the cold, “Non! I will make another appointment . . .”
Kit must have protested, for Angela could see the woman’s dark head shake firmly. Additional words were obscured by more bells, then as Kit shifted position, lantern light illuminated his mysterious visitor. Angela’s heart skipped a beat. The woman was exotically beautiful: raven hair, milk-white skin, and aristocratic features of a perfection few could match. Then a shadow eclipsed her again and thickening mist curled in drifts.
The sound of a slamming door jerked Angela from her trance, and she turned to flee back up the tilted wooden walkway as carriage wheels rumbled in the fog. In her haste, she caught a foot in the hem of her cloak and stumbled. Falling to one knee with a painful jar, she swallowed a gasp of pain as she tried to regain her balance. One hand flailed for the support of a rail and missed, and she grew even more hopelessly tangled in the treachery of her voluminous cloak.
“Here,” came the voice she least wanted to hear at that moment, “give me your hand before you tumble into the water.”
Scalding heat flushed her cheeks as Kit grasped her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, his grip not especially gentle. “Did you come out to spy on me?” he demanded when she was standing in front of him.
Angela jerked her arm from his grasp. “You overrate your attraction, my lord. I have no desire to spy on you for any reason.”
“Is that so.” His cynical reply was accompanied by a lift of his brow that was infuriating. “For a young woman who has no interest in my activities, you seem to be in my vicinity a great deal at times. Do you always take long walks along the Serpentine during the afternoon?”
So. He had noticed her when she had thought him oblivious to her presence. If there was any gratification in that, she failed to see it. Apparently, he had not felt sufficiently interested to acknowledge her existence. She looked up at his shadowed face.
“Pardon me, but I was unaware that you now owned the park. Pray, forgive me for trespassing.”
“Must you always overreact, Angela?” he inquired tautly. “I find it curious that you are so sensitive about certain subjects. Could it be a guilty conscience, perhaps?”
“My lord, whatever I might have a guilty conscience about, it would certainly not involve you. Do not flatter yourself.”
When Kit moved into the light of a lantern, she felt a flutter of apprehension at his expression. Barely concealed savagery narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, and fine white lines cut deep grooves on each side of his mouth. The last time she had seen a similar expression on his face had been just after the battle on St. Thomas. Residue of stress from the fierce bloodshed had been understandable then; it was less so now.
Swallowing the impulse to proffer an apology for some unknown sin, Angela stood in silence while the ship rocked gently and the fog curled around them in light flutters like cats’ paws. The tension stretched, and she sensed Kit’s tightly controlled effort to keep his temper in check.
Finally he said, his voice a rough rasp, “Perhaps this is the time to talk, after all.”
Without waiting for her agreement, he cupped her elbow in his palm and turned her around, steering her toward his cabin. It didn’t seem like the appropriate time to offer a protest or an argument, not with his mood so unpredictable. Apparently, his brief meeting with the mysterious woman had left him with a raw temper.
A painful rush of emotion engulfed her when she once more stood in Kit’s cabin, with its familiar furnishings. Time flashed backward, and she saw herself arriving aboard the Sea Tiger for the first time, terrified and apprehensive, certain she and Emily were about to meet dire and dreadful fates. Kit had surprised her then, as he was surprising her now.
Releasing her arm, he closed the door and stalked to a cabinet to pull out a crystal decanter. She recognized brandy, and when he poured a small amount in a snifter and handed it to her, she took it gratefully. Liquid courage was better than none, and it might stop her legs from trembling so violently.
It was Rollo, however, that eased the worst of her tension.
“Bloody hell,” the bird croaked from a shadowed corner, sounding cross. “Batten the hatches!”
“Are we,” Angela couldn’t resist asking with a spurt of amusement, “expecting a storm?”
“Possibly.” Kit eyed her over the rim of his snifter. “I have heard it said that dumb creatures are best at predicting natural disasters.”
“Are they.” Feeling more confident with the brandy warming her stomach lining and throat, Angela crossed to a chair and seated herself in as graceful a motion as she could manage. “Odd, but I would never have classified Rollo as a dumb creature. Annoying, perhaps, but not inarticulate.”
“The term dumb should be translated as meaning unaware, I suppose.” Kit took another sip of brandy. “Whatever Rollo is, he is certainly vocal.”
Kit, however, seemed to have no inhibitions about steering their discussion into dangerous regions. Twirling the stem of his brandy snifter between thumb and forefinger, he murmured, “I would be vitally interested to learn more about the depth of the relationship between you and my father.”
There. It was out. The gambit she had been dreading. If she denied any relationship, he would not believe her. If she told him exactly how she interpreted the duke’s attentions, it was very likely he would not believe that either. So what did she say? That she had no idea why Tremayne was showering her with gifts and attention? That perhaps he was just being cordial to the daughter of a business acquaintance? It all sounded pathetically contrived. Appalled by her ignorance, she sat in helpless contemplation.
Silence deepened, until finally Kit glanced up from the perusal of his brandy snifter and gazed at her for several long moments. “I see,” he said, his tone conveying the opposite message. He set the half-empty snifter on the desk with a deliberate motion, then perched on the edge, his hands curling over the top as he caught and held her gaze. “I cannot say I’m surprised by your refusal to explain. Perhaps I should just tell you how I view this . . . situation.”
Hotly, she began, “You have no idea—” but he cut her off with a warning lift of one hand.
“Don’t. Denial is only one step away from admission. I should know. I’ve dealt with this same situation before.”
She knew what he meant, but she had no intention of allowing him to compare her to the Susan who had so heartlessly betrayed him. Surging to her feet, Angela snapped, “I know all about it, but I am not the same woman. No, you listen to me for a change. Nothing is the same, except your warped perception of the—situation. From all I have heard, your father was only trying to demonstrate the . . . the lack of loyalty of your betrothed. I think he did that successfully, however poorly he went about it. Has it escaped your notice that he did not marry her?”
Capture The Wind Page 33