Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  “Rinse your mouth,” he instructed, passing her a glass of water. Amanda rinsed, spat, and drank the remainder thirstily. She had to admit that she did feel better.

  “Come, get dressed. What you need now is some fresh air. And, a little later, breakfast.”

  Amanda shuddered.

  “You’ll be hungry shortly,” Matt promised, and hauled her to her feet and over to the bunk, where he sat her down and proceeded to dress her as if she were a small child.

  Strangely, Amanda did not feel the least embarrassment at his ministrations. She supposed it had something to do with the last vestiges of the stuff she had drunk, but it seemed perfectly natural for him to see her naked, to pull her chemise over her head, to help her into a clean pair of breeches—these were smaller and a much better fit; Amanda surmised that they must belong to Timmy, the cabin boy. When she was in a clean shirt, he ran a comb through her hair, and before she could mutter a grudging thankyou, he had swept her up in his arms and was carrying her from the cabin.

  “Don’t think that this makes up for what you did,” Amanda told him resentfully as he crossed to the rail with her and sat her down on a coil of rope so that she could watch the play of sunlight on the smooth surface of the sea.

  “What did I do?” He was leaning on the rail less than a foot away, his eyes crinkled against the sun as he looked down at her. Clad in severe black pantaloons and boots, his white shirt unbuttoned to the waist, he looked infuriatingly handsome. Amanda glared at him.

  “You know what you did. You got me drunk deliberately so I would . . . beg you.” The last two words were a furious mutter, and her cheeks glowed bright scarlet in embarrassment and rage. She had not meant to refer to what had taken place between them the night before, but shame was eating at her like a worm in an apple, and she had to make it clear to him that only strong drink—and his trickery—had made her behave the way she had.

  “I did not get you drunk deliberately.” He looked serious as he met her eyes. “That wasn’t what I had in mind when I told you I’d make you beg. As for last night, you have nothing to be ashamed of, Amanda. That’s the way it’s meant to be between a man and a woman.”

  For a moment he looked so much like the earlier Matt, in the cave, that she stared at him wide-eyed. He was being kind to try to set her at ease, and that didn’t accord with the character of the man she had come to know aboard ship. This was the Matt she had grown to love . . . She was overwhelmed with an urge to heal the breach between them, to try once more to convince him of the truth . . .

  “Matt, I truly didn’t turn you over to the authorities. Won’t you believe me?” she said softly, rising and coming to stand beside him at the rail. The breeze blew her hair back from her face in a rippling mass of curls, and the sun caught it, bringing out glints of gold in the glorious deep red. Matt stared down at the small face turned up to his, at the perfectly modeled cheekbones and small, straight nose, at the decided chin and deep-rose mouth, at the amethyst eyes that looked up at him so pleadingly. His mouth tightened, and he turned to look out to sea.

  “I understand how it happened,” he said stiffly, as Amanda watched the dark profile silhouetted against the halcyon sky and deep blue sea. She felt a quick stirring of hope. “I said cruel things to you that night, and you were still shocked from finding out that lovemaking was not exactly what you’d been expecting. I know why you became angry, and, after having watched you in the throes of several temper tantrums, I understand what happened: you went to the constable and told him where to find me, but later you realized just what you’d done and came to warn me. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it, on the beach that morning?”

  Amanda felt the hope that had been soaring inside her flutter and die. He wasn’t going to believe her, not now, probably never.

  “I did come to the beach to warn you, but I hadn’t told anyone—not a living soul—that you were there. Matt, you’re letting your judgment be colored by things that have nothing to do with us. I’m not your mother, and I didn’t betray you.” This last was a calculated gamble, a last, desperate attempt to break through the shell he had set around his heart. Amanda felt him stiffen beside her, saw dark color wash high into his cheekbones. His knuckles were white against the wooden railing as he gripped it hard; then he turned to look at her, his eyes a gleaming silver as cold and remote as the moon.

  “Zeke has been telling tales out of school, has he?” His tone was grim. “I must compliment you, Amanda: you are remarkable. You managed to get around Zeke—who hated you before he ever laid eyes on you, by the way—in less than a week. And now? Will you take him to bed, too, so that you can watch while the two of us kill each other?”

  The unexpected ferocity of his attack shook Amanda. She blanched, staring up at him disbelievingly while her eyes slowly darkened to huge purple pools. Then, as the full sense of his words penetrated, her mouth tightened and her eyes shot sparks at him. Without a word, she slowly drew back her hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.

  “I feel sorry for you,” she said contemptuously as he stared at her, one hand automatically coming up to touch the reddened cheek. Then, turning her back on him, she walked with quiet dignity across the deck to their cabin. She was so angry she was not even aware of the shocked stares of Zeke and the crew as their eyes swung between Matt’s still figure and her own retreating back.

  chapter twenty

  Six weeks later the Clorimunda sailed into the Mississippi River port of New Orleans. Amanda stood at the rail of the quarterdeck, dressed in Timmy’s breeches and shirt, the color high in her cheeks and her unbound hair streaming behind her like a crimson banner. Her eyes sparkled like jewels as she looked from the crowded harbor scene to Zeke, who stood beside her at the rail, a grin splitting his thin face as he answered her many eager questions. It was Zeke who had told her about Belle Terre, Matt’s plantation on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, where they would go after spending a few days in New Orleans. It was Zeke who laughed at her excitement as her eyes darted everywhere in an effort to take in the colorful port as the Clorimunda eased in expertly at the dock between two other tall ships. Matt was at the wheel, directing the crew, but even if he hadn’t been needed there, Amanda would have preferred Zeke’s company. Zeke had come to seem like a brother to her over the past few weeks, and she felt at ease with him as she no longer did with Matt, who had become a cold, distant stranger.

  He had not touched her since she had slapped his face that day on deck. In fact, he had barely spoken to her. She was allowed the sole occupancy of the captain’s cabin, and Matt bunked with Zeke in the first mate’s. Where the first mate now slept, Amanda had no idea and had never asked.

  Zeke, who had witnessed the confrontation, tried to serve as peacemaker and had earned the lash of his brother’s tongue as a reward. Amanda, although grateful for Zeke’s concern, was equally unresponsive to his efforts. If Matt’s coldness hurt, she vowed he would never know. And she didn’t think he was capable of feeling a thing.

  The Clorimunda’s sails were lowered and furled, and the small boats that had towed her in had released their lines when Matt finally gave the order to drop anchor and lower the gangplank.

  “Can we go ashore now?” Amanda demanded excitedly of Zeke. He smiled down at her, his expression indulgent. He had grown as fond of Amanda as she had of him, and strongly disapproved of his brother’s treatment of her.

  “I don’t see—” he began, only to be interrupted as Matt appeared beside them.

  “Not today,” he said in answer to Amanda’s question, and as she turned a disappointed, sulky face to him he added, “Zeke and I have business to attend to today. Tomorrow we’ll take you ashore. You wouldn’t be safe alone, and I don’t trust any of the men enough to send them with you. You’d twist them around your little finger inside an hour.”

  Amanda glowered at him. He was just being contrary, she knew. If he had thought she didn’t want to go ashore, he would have forced her to, if necessa
ry. But now that he knew that such an excursion would give her pleasure, he had denied her out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Zeke asked his brother uneasily. Since he and Amanda had quarreled, Matt had grown moodier by the day. His once even-tempered, even jovial brother was now as likely as not to bite his head off at a wrong word. Indeed, the entire crew of the Clorimunda had felt the heat of his ill temper.

  “No, it cannot,” Matt replied brusquely, and turned away. Zeke stared after him, frowning. Then he looked down at Amanda.

  “Sorry,” he said with a grimace. “But I promise I’ll take you ashore myself tomorrow, no matter what. I don’t know what’s got into Matt, but he’s like a bear with a sore head. I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Please don’t,” Amanda said swiftly, and Zeke’s mouth twisted as he looked at her.

  “You’re probably right.” He shrugged, looking after Matt as he disappeared down the stairs to the main deck. “I’ve tried four times now, and the last time he damned near throttled me. Why don’t you try, Amanda? Perhaps if you tried to make him see reason, he’d listen.”

  “As he did the last time?” Amanda’s voice was bitter. “I’m not likely to try that again. Besides, I no longer care what he thinks. He’s stubborn and pig-headed, and I don’t give a snap of my fingers for his opinion of me.”

  “Really,” Zeke said dryly. Amanda scowled at him, knowing very well that he had a shrewd idea of the state of her feelings toward Matt. Well, she’d be damned if she’d wear her heart on her sleeve. Matt clearly didn’t want to know, and she wasn’t about to tell him.

  “Yes, really,” she said, defying him to say anything further. Zeke eyed her, clearly thinking about calling her bluff, and Amanda turned an impatient shoulder on him to stare out at the town.

  “Oh, go with Matt, Zeke, before I quarrel with you, too. Then I really would be miserable.”

  “Would you?” He smiled down at her. “So would I. But I think I’d better go anyway. Big brother definitely does not like to be kept waiting.”

  Amanda hunched her shoulders as he left her, miserably aware of the excitement in the air. New Orleans appeared a thrilling place, and she wasn’t going to see it—at least not today and, considering Matt’s bloody-mindedness, perhaps never. Moodily she sniffed at the air, enjoying the tangy scent of citrus fruits and spices mingled with salt from the sea. How she wished she was on the dock to discover the source of the tantalizing aromas for herself. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the sun glinting off a familiar blue-black head, and turned to watch moodily as Matt and Zeke strode side by side down the gangplank and disappeared into the milling crowd on the wharf. She glowered at their retreating backs and felt a little better.

  For a moment she toyed with the idea of going ashore herself, on her own. It shouldn’t be too hard to sneak away and she would not stay long. She would be back before Matt, and he need never know she had disobeyed him. But then she studied some of the men on the quay and thought better of it. Swarthy men with bright scarves around their necks and gold rings glinting in their ears pushed carts full of oranges and other, less readily identifiable fruits through the mob, calling out in a language unknown to her to advertise their wares; ragged children darted in and out among the sea of long legs; sailors, some alone, some in pairs or groups, and some with women on their arms who looked no better than they should be, overflowed the nearby saloons to swill whiskey on the dock itself. Though she hated to admit it, Matt had been right when he said it would be dangerous for her to go ashore alone. As much as she relished the idea of defying him, she was not foolish enough to put herself at risk to do it.

  Some hours later, after Amanda had retired disconsolately to her cabin, she heard a commotion on deck. Matt had left a skeleton crew aboard, with orders to keep an eye on everything, including, Amanda suspected, herself. Before she could leave the cabin to question one of the men, she was surprised to hear a brisk rap on the door. Opening it, Amanda blinked in astonishment at the figure who stared imperiously at her.

  It was a lady—a very elegant lady. From the top of her plumed bonnet to the fashionable walking dress to the soles of her high-heeled buttoned shoes, she was the epitome of fashion. For a moment Amanda stared without speaking, too bemused to do more than blink while she wondered what possible business this woman could have on the Clorimunda. Then it came to her that the lady had knocked on the door of Matt’s cabin, which meant that, more than likely, she was a friend of Matt’s. Amanda’s eyes narrowed and moved over the woman critically. Quite attractive, she thought, if one didn’t mind that the lady was a trifle long in the tooth—and Matt apparently didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, but Captain Grayson is not here at the moment,” Amanda said coldly, and made as if to close the door.

  “Pooh, what has that to say to anything?” The woman shook her head, clearly scornful of such stupidity. “You are Lady Amanda?” She looked at Amanda with some suspicion, as if a lady could not possibly be found in a man’s ill-fitting breeches and shirt, with her hair tousled and tumbling over her shoulders.

  “Yes,” Amanda admitted, eyeing the woman curiously. Who on earth was she, and how did she know her name?

  “Then it is you I wish to see,” the woman announced, and swept by Amanda with a haughty grace that would not have been out of place in a duchess. Surprised, Amanda turned to look at her, only to be even more astonished when two other, younger women, each dressed in a severe black gown and carrying a large valise, followed the first woman inside. She had been so bemused by her visitor’s finery that she hadn’t noticed her retinue.

  Seeing nothing for it, Amanda turned to face her uninvited guests, cautiously leaving the door open. “How may I help you?”

  “It is I who will help you,” her visitor sniffed, withdrawing a lethal-looking pin from her hat before removing the feathered concoction and placing it on the table. She eyed Amanda critically as she drew off her gloves. “I am Madame Duvalier, the most fashionable modiste in all of New Orleans. I was told that you need a complete wardrobe tout de suite.” She favored Amanda’s breeches with a disdainful glance. “And I can see that it is true. We will begin.”

  Amanda gaped as the two young women in black descended on her and began removing her clothes, making scornful noises at her unconventional attire all the while.

  “These are my assistants, Rose”—the pretty brown-haired girl, who was helping Amanda off with her breeches, smiled shyly up at her—“and Marie.” Marie had removed Amanda’s shirt and was now opening one of the valises. She was not so pretty as Rose, Amanda saw, but her coloring—black hair and eyes and vivid red lips—was more striking. Madame Duvalier herself was a redhead, but Amanda suspected that the brassy tint owed more to artifice than to nature.

  “But who sent you?” Amanda’s voice was faint. She was standing in the center of the room, clad only in her much-laundered chemise, while Marie ran a tape measure around different parts of her anatomy, calling out the measurements in a businesslike tone to Rose, who jotted them down in a small notebook. Madame Duvalier herself had commandeered a chair and from it supervised the proceedings.

  “Captain Grayson,” Madame replied patiently, as if she were addressing a slightly backward child. Amanda would have taken exception to her tone if she hadn’t been mulling over that most interesting bit of information. Matt . . . Matt had ordered a dressmaker for her? He must not be so indifferent to her as she had supposed. At least he was concerned about her creature comforts. Then the sudden animation faded from her features as she considered the alternate possibility that Zeke was responsible for the modiste’s presence. That seemed far more likely. Zeke would have known she needed clothes if she was to go ashore. Matt wouldn’t have given the matter a single thought. Still, she would ask.

  “Which Captain Grayson?” she asked carefully. Marie was putting away the tape measure while Rose extracted a book of fashions from the valise and carried it to Madame Duvalier.
Madame accepted it without so much as a word of thanks and began to leaf through it, alternately looking at Amanda critically as she did so.

  “That will do. Number three, Rose, in figured white muslin, I think. Very jeune fille. And number seven, in blue silk—”

  “Madame,” Amanda interrupted impatiently. Marie was pulling a garment over her head, so her words were briefly muffled.

  “You do not know?” Madame looked surprised. “I would have thought only a very particular friend . . . But perhaps they both are that, as they are of mine. I have known both since they were boys. Matt is très beau, is he not? And Zeke is very attractive too, in his own way.”

  “But which one sent you to me?” Amanda had to know.

  “I do not know,” Madame answered, sending her hopes plummeting. “I received a note: ‘Lady Amanda on Clorimunda needs complete new wardrobe. Bill to Captain Grayson.’ Matt or Zeke, no matter. Either will pay.”

  “I see.” Marie was pushing her this way and that as Rose pinned the garment. Looking down rather abstractedly, Amanda saw that it was a lovely dress of deep cream muslin, figured with tiny green flowers. The neckline, which bared her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, was edged with exquisite handmade lace in the same deep cream as the dress. The hem of the full, fashionably short skirt—it just covered her ankles—was edged with more lace. The narrow waist was bound with a wide green satin sash that tied in the back in a ravishing bow. Looking down at herself, Amanda could not suppress a little thrill of pleasure. Except for the yellow silk dress that Matt had torn to shreds, she had never owned a garment so beautiful. She would be less than human if she did not relish the idea of wearing it in Matt’s presence.

  “A little tighter in the waist, Rose,” Madame instructed as she eyed Amanda, her head cocked to one side like that of an inquisitive bird. “And just a tiny bit shorter in the skirt. There—ravissante. Is it not fortunate, Lady Amanda, that the family of one of my best customers was visited by a tragic loss? She had ordered this dress for her daughter, but with the family in mourning for six months, of course she had to cancel the order. I understood perfectly. C’est la vie. Besides,” she added with a sudden smile and without her French accent, “she wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else supply her and her daughter’s mourning clothes. Her unpaid bill is too big.”