by Brenda Joyce
“I feel better. I want to lie down,” Ariella said with a yawn. She turned, releasing Amanda’s hand, and pushed open the door to the captain’s cabin.
Amanda didn’t object, because she felt certain Ariella was allowed to come and go there as she pleased. She herself had never been permitted to enter Papa’s cabin without knocking, but he’d often had a trollop in there with him. She’d always assumed that all fathers were the same, but she was beginning to think that de Warenne treated his children very differently from the way Papa had treated her. Papa hadn’t cared that she couldn’t read and he’d never petted and coddled her, the way de Warenne did Ariella.
Ariella rushed into the cabin. Amanda couldn’t help herself; she was faint with curiosity now. She took one step inside so she could peek at his private room, all the while pretending that she had to keep an eye on his daughter, as she had promised.
The cabin was red.
The walls were painted a dark Chinese red and three scarlet rugs were on the floor, one Tibetan, one Chinese, one a fine, thin Aubusson. Amanda knew the differences, because the rugs she and her father had plundered over the years were some of their most valuable booty. A huge ebony bed with four thick, carved posters was against one wall. The covers were red-and-gold damask, the sheets striped in red silk. Red-and-gold pillows leaned against the huge headboard with thick, fat tassels and fringe.
A very fine English table, with curved legs and four chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet were in the room’s center. Beneath several portholes was a huge desk, covered with maps and charts. The entire room was filled with odd treasures—an Arabian brass chest with lock and key, African masks, intricately designed and colorful Moroccan vases, Waterford crystal, gold candlesticks. And there was a bookcase, crammed with hundreds of books. Amanda shivered.
She had just stepped inside de Warenne’s private lair. It reeked of the man’s exotic tastes, his erotic nature, his intelligence, power and virility. She shouldn’t be there, she somehow thought.
Someone seized her from behind. “What are you doing in here?”
Amanda reacted on instinct but the moment she drew her blade and pressed it against his chest, she realized her mistake. De Warenne’s eyes went wide. She froze, her heart hammering madly, as she was in his arms.
“What is that?” he asked very calmly.
His thighs were thick, bulging muscle, she realized inanely as he held her body completely against his. “It’s a dagger,” she breathed. “I am sorry…I’ll put it down, but you must let me go.”
Their gazes were locked. As he released her, she felt him stirring and she gasped, her gaze shooting back to his.
He blushed. His daughter was right, she thought, stunned. Or was she now as mad as the child?
He stepped back, grim. “No one enters this cabin without permission.” He half turned, striding to the porthole, where he breathed deeply.
It was too late. Amanda could clearly see that he had been aroused. She slipped the dagger slowly into its sheath in her boot. He wanted her. She wasn’t really certain why. Was it the brief act of violence? Every sailor she knew enjoyed sex after a bloody battle.
“Papa? It’s my fault. I wanted to come inside,” Ariella whispered from the bed.
De Warenne turned and smiled at his daughter. The expression, however, was strained. “Even you must ask my permission to enter here.”
The child nodded, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Amanda and her father.
Amanda tried to breathe more naturally. “I’m sorry.” She took a careful glance at him and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he seemed to be in control of his amorous nature once more.
His jaw flexed. He gestured for them both to precede him out of the door. When they had done so, he barked, “Miss Carre. A moment, please.”
She did not like his tone but she nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to discipline her for her trespass. That was what Papa would do. He’d deliver a quick cuff to the head, at least. Her stomach churned with some fear. Papa had been a big man, but de Warenne was taller, more muscular and far younger. Well, if he hit her she wouldn’t flinch. He’d see that she was strong and brave—she’d make Papa proud.
“Ariella, if you are feeling better, I am pleased. But going below is still not a good idea. I have summoned Anahid. The two of you can read together on that bench.”
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.
“Go.” But he smiled now and stooped to kiss her cheek.
Ariella beamed at him and rushed off to Anahid, who was waiting a discreet distance away.
Amanda tensed in anticipation of her punishment, watching his shoulders stiffen before he turned. He gestured. “Would you care—”
Amanda ducked.
He froze, his hand in the air, poised between them. “What are you doing?”
She flushed. She had broken his rules, and she should stand firm. “Nothing. I mean, I won’t dodge the blow.”
His eyes popped. “What?”
“Go ahead, just do it. I disobeyed your orders.”
“You think I mean to strike you?” He dropped his hand.
She became wary. “That’s what a hand is for, isn’t it?”
He took a step toward her and she forgot her resolve, backing up. He halted, and so did she. “Miss Carre! I do not strike women,” he said, aghast. “I have never struck a woman in my life, and I never will.”
She wasn’t sure she should believe him. “Is this a trick?”
He was incredulous, so much so that it was a moment before he spoke. When he did, she saw pity in his eyes. “I am trying to invite you to dine with me tonight,” he said.
“You want to sup with me?” This had to be trickery, didn’t it?
He nodded. “I thought we might converse.”
Amanda was suspicious. Men had one use for women—and it wasn’t for conversation. Her heart slammed hard. He had changed his mind. He had decided to take her to his bed after all.
“Will you accept my invitation?”
She didn’t know what to think. Was he now going to allow her to pay for her passage in his bed? Her mind filled with hazy but heated images of her golden dream lover, and suddenly, that lover wasn’t faceless anymore. Instead it was de Warenne stroking her body, causing her skin to tingle and throb. Maybe she wouldn’t mind being in his bed. Everyone said he was a superb lover. She’d heard the island ladies talking about him more times than she could remember. Some of them, the ones who’d shared his bed, had bragged about it to their friends. Somehow, she knew the rumors were true.
Her skin was tingling now, as if she was in one of her secret dreams, but this time, the aching was more intense. She breathed and nodded. “We can sup…and converse.”
His gaze narrowed. “My intentions are honorable.”
She didn’t believe him, not for a moment.
CHAPTER FIVE
AMANDA STAYED by the railing at the ship’s stern, standing tall and proud, trying to remain utterly composed. It was very hard to do. Six seamen had carried the teakwood coffin with her father’s corpse to the deck, where it now sat, gleaming in the Caribbean sun. The Fair Lady had a crew of close to three hundred men, and every available sailor stood on deck, respectfully silent. DeWarenne was speaking. He held a Bible in his hands and she knew he was reading from it, but Amanda couldn’t comprehend a word he was saying.
The grief had risen out of nowhere, paralyzing her. A few hours ago, when they had made sail, she had been filled with joy. She had forgotten Papa’s terrible fate. Now she fought to hold the pain of his loss at bay. It seemed a monumental, impossible task. She was overcome by wave after wave of grief.
She did not want to lose her composure in front of de Warenne, his family and his crew.
I can’t do this, she thought, the tears finally spilling down her cheeks. I can’t live without Papa. It hurts too much.
He had been her life. Her mother was a complete stranger and she was never going to take her pa
pa’s place.
Her knees were weak, her body was trembling, and the tears kept crawling down her face.
Please make this dream end, she thought in anguish. Please!
Then she realized that the ship was silent. All that could be heard was the groaning of the masts, the flap of sails, the lapping of water, the sea spray. De Warenne had stopped speaking.
She didn’t dare look at him. If she did, she’d start shrieking in pain and rage.
He appeared before her. Speaking low, his tone unbearably kind, he said, “Do you wish to say a few words?”
How could she say anything when she couldn’t breathe, much less speak? The silence on the ship was simply awful.
“Do you wish to say goodbye, at least?” he asked softly, clasping her shoulder.
She had to look up. She felt herself drown in both the grief and the compassion in his blue eyes. She nodded, choking on a huge sob.
He put his arm around her and led her toward the gleaming coffin.
Amanda fell to her knees. She hugged the waxed wood, laying her cheek on the cold surface. Papa, she thought, I love you. I always have, I always will.
Be strong, girl. Always be strong. You’re in good hands now.
Amanda stiffened, because once again it was as if Rodney was right there, speaking to her. “I’m not strong,” she whispered. “It’s a lie. I can’t go on alone.”
You’re not alone, girl, and you are strong. Strong and brave and don’t you be forgetting it.
“No, I’m not,” she wept.
Someone clasped her shoulder.
I got to be going, girl. Let me go.
Panic consumed her. “Don’t leave me!” she cried. “Papa!”
Strong hands pulled her to her feet; a strong arm held her to a powerful body. “Let him go, Amanda.” De Warenne nodded at his men.
Amanda started to weep as the six seamen lifted the coffin and carried it to the stern. “Don’t leave me,” she gasped.
“God bless,” de Warenne said.
“Amen,” two hundred men murmured.
The coffin was heaved into the sea.
Amanda screamed.
“You need to lie down,” de Warenne said, pulling her firmly away from the stern.
She turned and struck at him with both fists, repeatedly, in a frenzy, as hard as she could, as if he had murdered her father.
He lifted her into his arms and started down the deck, but she kept hitting him and hitting him, hating him and Woods and all the British and the whole world until the anger vanished and there was only exhaustion.
AMANDA AWOKE a few hours later. She stared up at the ceiling of the captain’s cabin, grimly aware that she was in de Warenne’s four-poster, which was where he had placed her after the burial. He’d also given her a drink, but she couldn’t recall what liquor it had been. She had sobbed herself to sleep.
The cabin was absolutely dark. She glanced toward the portholes, which were open, a pleasant breeze wafting into the room. Outside, the night was black velvet studded with winking stars.
She sat up on top of the red-and-gold damask covers. She fingered a sensuous leopard skin pillow. Papa was gone. He wasn’t coming back and she had to face that fact now.
She slid from the bed, barefoot. He had removed her boots or he’d ordered someone to do it for him. Amanda found them and sat down to tug them on. She was no longer in the throes of grief—she merely felt sad and resigned. But that was as it should be. Papa deserved to be mourned, and she’d had no right to have been happy earlier that day.
She wondered where the ship’s captain was, and what he thought of her now. He certainly did not think her brave and strong. She had let Papa down.
“Don’t worry,” she told her father, hoping he could hear her somehow. “There will be no more female hysteria. I’m sorry, Papa, for being such a dumb girl.”
This time, there was no answer.
Amanda sighed. She walked out of the cabin and instantly saw de Warenne.
His first officer, a big Scot named MacIver, was at the helm. De Warenne stood, lightly grasping the railing on the main deck, watching the starlight playing over the gleaming black water, sprinkling it with silver ribbons. The winds had eased and the frigate had dropped her speed. The night remained balmy and pleasant—a perfect night for a cruise.
He turned. Many feet separated them, and although his ship was far better lit than her father’s sloop had ever been, it remained shadowy and dark. It didn’t matter. Even in the dark, even with a good ten lengths between them, their gazes met and held.
Amanda almost felt hypnotized. She walked over to him.
His gaze slid over her face. “Did you have a good rest?”
She nodded. “Yes, I did. Thank you for the use of your bed.”
His mouth softened. “Do not say that too loudly—you might be misunderstood.”
She had to smile. “I am not worried. I don’t think anyone would ever accuse you of trying to take me to bed.”
He glanced away.
Instantly she recalled his interest in her that morning and his invitation to dine—which had really been an invitation to tryst. Her cheeks became warm, and an odd hollow feeling began in her lower body. Amanda turned to face the sea, grasping the railing. Too late, she realized they stood mere inches apart.
She gave him a quick, sidelong glance, aware that for the first time in her life, she was having feelings of some kind for a man. Standing this close to him left her breathless and restless. Maybe he’d ask her to supper tomorrow night.
He didn’t speak, and she turned away. She watched the starlight dancing over the rippling swells. As far as the human eye could see, there was nothing but the shining blackness of the sea. It seemed infinite, powerful and mighty.
And it was comforting. He was comforting. She was terribly aware of his big masculine body and the tension in her own limbs, but far more significant was the feeling of being safe and sheltered just by being close to him.
She smiled just a little. She didn’t have to ask to know that he was enjoying the absolute beauty and serenity of the moment, and truth be told, so was she. But the real truth was, she was enjoying being near him, and with him.
More moments passed in a new and strangely companionable silence.
Amanda said, “The night is perfect, isn’t it?”
He glanced down at her. “I agree.”
She met his gaze, felt a fluttering in her chest, then turned her vision back to the endless stretch of shining water. Papa was really gone, but the night was perfect. She should feel like a traitor, but she knew he would want her to enjoy such a night.
Then her stomach growled.
De Warenne smiled at her.
Amanda blushed. “That isn’t ladylike, is it?”
“You have told me, once or twice, that being a lady doesn’t interest you.”
She thought of the ladylike nightgown in her sack. “It doesn’t,” she said, but she felt as if she wasn’t speaking the entire truth. In order to change the subject, she added quickly, “If you really wanted to have supper with me, I ruined it.”
A brow lifted. “Actually, you haven’t and actually, I really did.”
She faced him fully. “What do you mean?”
His gaze slid slowly over every feature of her face. “I haven’t eaten. I was hoping you might wake up and share my meal.”
He had changed his mind about her, she realized. He had decided to take her to bed, after all. She should be dismayed, but she wasn’t. She felt terribly nervous and excited. And now, she would be able to pay for her passage. She slowly lifted her gaze to his, thinking about what was to come and realizing that she wanted to join him in his bed after all. Now, she could only pray that she wouldn’t make a fool out of herself while there. But she was smart, so surely once he started up with her, she’d figure out what to do.
“I will have our meal laid out. Excuse me.” He strode away.
Amanda inhaled, gripping the rail, aware of he
r pulse escalating. And suddenly she understood desire, oh yes.
“Miss Carre.” He gestured from the threshold of his cabin with a brief smile.
Amanda came forward, biting her lip. Even though he remained informally dressed in his linen shirt, his pale breeches and high boots, she wished she was wearing a dress, not that she owned one.
Then she saw the table. The gold candlesticks had tall ivory candles and had been lit. A white tablecloth had been draped over the table and it was graced with linen napkins, gilded flatware, crystal wineglasses and beautifully enameled red, blue and gold plates with gilt edges. A wine bottle sat on a silver coaster next to steaming silver platters. She had never seen such a sight and she could not move.
“Please.” He walked past her, drawing a dark red velvet chair from the table.
“We are really going to eat?” she gasped, wondering if she was in a dream.
“Yes, I invited you to dine.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the elegant table. She had never seen such a table—a queen should be dining there, not Carre’s daughter!
“Miss Carre?”
She vaguely heard him, realizing she had been wrong. He would not set up the table this way if he merely wished to toss her on her backside. Stunned and bewildered, she glanced at him. He continued to hold the chair out.
Somehow she came cautiously forward. Once, her father had held out a chair for his mistress, but they had both been staggering and foxed, laughing wildly over a gesture they considered absurd, mocking the airs of the gentry. Papa had ruined the mockery anyway, by pulling the woman onto his lap instead of allowing her to sit down, while delving deeply into her bodice.
Amanda stared at de Warenne. How could he be so kind, so generous and so handsome? He had sworn he was a gentleman with no untoward intentions, and she was beginning to believe it. He didn’t need to stage a grand seduction for the likes of her.
“Please, do sit,” he said softly.