The Pirate's Daughter. Helen Dickson
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her to lean casually against the wooden balustrade and looked to where she stood, her profile etched against the star-strewn sky, her face gleaming like alabaster in the white glow of the moon that bathed the garden in an incandescent light. Neither seemed in a hurry to speak, the silence stretching between them broken only by the creatures of the night.
In the dim light Stuart savoured the soft ivory tones of Cassandra’s flesh exposed on her arms and neck. The long gracious lines of her lithe young body were evident beneath her gown. His experiences had taught him to be no admirer of the standards or social graces of English society ladies—although his mother, with her gracious, single-minded devotion and dedication to her family, he did not class as one of them. He despised their indolence, their perpetual preoccupation with matters of fashion, and their endless, meaningless gossip.
But Cassandra Everson was so unlike them. In fact, she was unlike anyone he had ever known—for he could think of no other woman of his acquaintance who would have the courage to sail across an ocean to visit her cousin on a fancy. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he gazed at her as though his eyes could not get their fill of her, as though he were looking on beauty for the first time in his life.
He wanted more than anything to take her hand and raise it to his lips, to kiss it reverently, to treat her like a delicate, precious work of art, to tenderly cherish her, but at the same time he felt the urge, the need, to place his hands on her arms and draw her towards him, to press her to his body where the increasing heat of his manhood stirred.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked at length.
‘Oh…’ she sighed ‘…of how beautiful the night is—and how soon I shall have to leave. I shall regret that.’
‘Does it upset you having to return to England? Or perhaps you have an aversion to travelling with me on my ship?’
Cassandra turned and looked at him. ‘An aversion? No. Why on earth should I? It’s no fault of yours if my cousin has no desire for me to remain here with him.’
‘I understand that you were brought up by your cousin.’
‘I was brought up by my aunt and uncle—John’s parents. They both died when I was a child. Since that time John has been my lawful guardian.’
‘And were you close to your aunt and uncle?’
A look of desolation entered Cassandra’s eyes as she reluctantly retreated back into her past. ‘No. Quite the opposite, in fact. My uncle was a hard man and paid me scant attention—but my aunt…I hated her,’ she said quietly, her voice quivering with deep emotion. ‘Her dislike of me was intense and she made my life intolerable. During the years of the Civil War our families were divided in their loyalties to King and country, which did not help my case.
‘However, without my parents, there was no one else to take care of me. My cousins John and Meredith were the two people who sustained me. My determination to survive my aunt’s oppression during the early years of my life taught me to be my own person—which has always been my greatest strength. And, as you see, Captain Marston,’ she said with a cynical smile, ‘my spirit remains uncrushed.’
Her simple, toneless voice, giving him without emphasis a brief insight into her past, of how she must have suffered pain and humiliation at the hands of her aunt and uncle, wrung Stuart’s heart with pity, and the look in her eyes told him much more than any words she could have uttered.
‘Your cousin tells me your father was killed at Worcester fighting for the King—and that your mother died when you were born. It cannot have been easy growing up without knowing either of your parents.’
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed warily as she gave him a level stare. So, she thought, that was what John had told him, what he wanted him to think, for, apart from a few gossiping, speculative neighbours in Chelsea, himself and Meredith, Rosa and the crew of the Dolphin, no one knew she was the daughter of the infamous pirate Captain Nathaniel Wylde.
John was deeply ashamed that he bore any connection to such a man and was constantly reminding her that, for her own sake, on no account must she reveal the identity of her father. Her heart twisted with pain, for much as she would like to speak of him, she knew it was in her best interests that the part of her life she had shared so briefly with him must remain locked in her heart for ever.
‘No—no, it wasn’t,’ she replied in answer to Stuart’s question. She smiled suddenly when a soft breeze blew the folds of her skirt. ‘My aunt and uncle were Puritans and fanatically dedicated to God. Their religion dominated every waking moment of our lives. If they knew what I had done—coming to Barbados without telling anyone, to live on a Caribbean island and surrounded by slaves—without doubt my sin would be great indeed and I would be severely chastised.’ She grinned wryly. ‘I think she might have a few choice words to say to John, too, concerning his relationship with Elmina.’
Stuart frowned curiously. ‘Elmina?’
‘The mulatto woman who served us at dinner. She is my cousin’s housekeeper—and I strongly suspect she is also his mistress and the reason why he is so reluctant to return to England. The looks that have passed between them all evening cannot have escaped you. You must have noticed.’ She smiled.
‘I have to confess I did not,’ he murmured softly, his voice suddenly grown deep and husky and his eyes focusing on her lips. Her revelation dispelled his suspicion that she might be in love with her cousin, and he with her. ‘My eyes were more favourably employed.’
Cassandra felt the impact of his gaze and caught her breath, flushing softly, understanding the meaning of his words and flattered by them. ‘John has not admitted their relationship as such. I’m sure he would consider it too delicate a matter to discuss with me.’
‘Nevertheless, you do not appear to be unduly disturbed by the closeness that exists between your cousin and his servant, which I consider strange. Most young ladies of my acquaintance would be scandalised by such a relationship.’
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and she glanced at him sharply, her cheeks flaming suddenly, for she was stung by the irony and what she considered to be an underlying note of reproof in his voice. For the first time a constraint had come between them. ‘Then the young ladies you speak of must be exceedingly dull company, Captain Marston, who no doubt spend their time talking of tedious matters like the state of their health and the clothes they wear. I am not like that.’
‘It wasn’t a reproach, but I am beginning to realise you are quite uninhibited.’
‘That is a natural characteristic of mine. Perhaps I should not have silenced my cousin when he was giving such a vivid account of my character, for then I think you would know me a little better.’
‘So there is some truth in his description of you,’ Stuart remarked, stifling a grin at the complete absence of contrition on her lovely, upturned face and jutting chin. ‘You are a stubborn and disobedient woman, whose whims must be humoured at all cost.’
Her unabashed gaze locked on his. ‘Yes—all of it. And if I had allowed him to continue you would have learnt that some of my pastimes are considered by our neighbours in Chelsea to be quite shocking.’
‘I would?’
‘Yes. John is forever rescuing me from one escapade or another. I hunt, I fish, I wear breeches like a man and ride about the countryside at home like a gypsy—which drives my cousin Meredith to distraction. I also speak my mind, for since my aunt and uncle died I no longer feel I have to curb my tongue. I do not feel the need to apologise and nor am I ashamed of what I am or what I do, so if this does not meet with your approval, then it is just too bad.’
Stuart cocked a sleek black brow, a merry twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘I do believe you are trying to shock me, Cassandra,’ he said calmly. ‘But there is nothing about your character that I do not already know.’
‘You can read my mind?’
‘You might say that. I am beginning to feel heartily sorry for your cousin.