A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce
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father and her part in the terrible drama. He suspected she would not resign herself to being a spectator that day, but what could she possibly think to do? He knew one thing: he was not going to let her throw her own life away after her father’s. If she thought to attempt to save Carre’s life, he intended to stop her before the soldiers did.
Suddenly he felt eyes upon his back. He turned, glancing west at King’s House. On the upper floor, a huge window was open. Woods stood there, staring at the scene below.
Cliff turned away grimly. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the boys slam a rock at the base of the hanging block, his laughter cruel. And he thought he heard a soft choked sound—a feminine sob.
His gaze slammed to the legs of the scaffolding. He saw a small, curled-up ball of rags and a mass of moon-colored hair. Furious, Cliff strode through the crowd, rudely pushing past several gentlemen. The crowd parted, the revelers realizing he was determined and enraged. The boys stopped throwing rocks at her as he approached, becoming silent, turning pale. He caught one of the ruffians by his shirt and flung him aside. “You will answer to me before this day is done,” he said.
The boy whispered, ashen, “She’s just the pirate’s daughter.”
Cliff whacked him on the shoulder, hard enough to send him flying. The other boys fled; this culprit crawled through the crowd, coward that he was, then found his land legs and ran away, as well.
He turned, kneeling. “Miss Carre?”
She was wedged beneath the deck where her father would stand in the noose, behind one of the deck’s thick wood legs, her knees to her chest, her eyes unnaturally bright and wide, as if with fever. She appeared very small and frightened, a tiny creature hiding from the dangerous world. His heart melted.
“Come out.” He spoke in a soft whisper, hoping to reassure her, and extended his hand.
She shook her head. A tear fell.
God, maybe it was better that she stay there, beneath the block, because if she did, she would not be able to see her father hang. But on the other hand, he wanted to get her far away from the square and the hanging, because he was afraid that if he did not, at the last moment she would come out of hiding and view a sight no woman should ever have to endure. “Please, come out. I will take you far away from this,” he tried, his tone now cajoling.
She stared, unblinking. Another tear fell.
His heart broke. “There is nothing to be gained by remaining here. Let me take you away.” An idea occurred to him. “I’ll take you to my ship. I have a cruise to make to St. Kitt, and the day is perfect for it.”
Her eyes flickered, brightening.
“A good, moderate breeze, the sea is so sweet,” he coaxed.
She wet her lips, hesitating.
“I’ll let you—” He stopped. His quarterdeck was sacred. “I’ll let you come onto my deck. Come, sweetheart.”
More tears fell. She suddenly nodded, extending her hand, and he reached for her. Just as their fingertips touched, the crowd roared, an explosion of sound, and then the jeers began. She cried out, jerking backward, away from his grasp. He glanced up and saw the soldiers bringing Carre out of the courthouse.
The jeers grew, accompanied by cruel and vicious taunts.
“The pirate’s had his fun—now we can have ours!”
“Let’s bleed him when he’s dead and paint our decks with his blood!”
“Think he’ll beg for mercy? Like the coward he’s got to be?”
“Let’s make him beg—let’s use the cat before he hangs!”
Cliff was ill, a rare feeling. He turned his gaze on Carre’s daughter. Urgently, he said, “We need to go now.”
As if she had heard him, she scrambled on all fours toward him. Cliff reached for her, but she was so goddamned agile she dropped down and rolled under his arm. He whirled to seize her again but she had shot to her feet and was running towards Carre, fighting the crowd to do so. “Papa!”
Carre had entered the square with his escort and he stiffened. “Get out of here, Amanda!” he roared.
Cliff seized her from behind, wrapping both of his arms around her. She didn’t even seem to notice. “Papa!” she screamed again.
Carre met his gaze and a silent agreement was reached. “Get her out of here, de Warenne.”
Cliff nodded, still holding her from behind as she struggled frantically to get to her father. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder,” he said tersely.
She didn’t seem to hear. “Papa, I love you!”
Carre paused, about to step up to the deck. “I love you, too, girl.”
Amanda went limp in Cliff’s arms. The soldiers prodded Carre with their carbines, forcing him to go up the five steps to the deck. Looking down at her face, he saw Amanda following his every movement, sobbing soundlessly now. Cliff was about to throw her over his shoulder when Carre said, “Girl! Promise me you go to England to your mother.”
Amanda nodded. “I promise,” she cried. “I promise,” she whispered again, choking.
Carre was thrust before the noose and abruptly blindfolded.
Amanda whimpered.
Cliff didn’t think; he reacted. He turned her to face him, holding her tightly against his big body, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Don’t move,” he warned, trying to envelop her small body with his while cradling the back of her head. He felt her tears soaking his shirt and chest.
He looked up. The noose was around Carre’s neck. The crowd cheered and roared and the stones began to fly, raining down on the condemned man.
Cliff looked away, sickened. He buried his own cheek against her curly hair, unthinkingly moving his mouth there. She began to shake like a leaf. He started to back away, taking her with him, and the crowd roared.
Amanda shoved at him, trying to twist around to see.
He held her hard, not letting her turn, not even an inch, determined to prevent her from watching her father gasping for his last breaths. Some hangings were swift and merciful; others were not, the victim dangling for endless minutes until the neck broke. He heard the loud snap, and he thanked the Lord that Carre’s death had been almost instantaneous.
In his arms, Amanda Carre fainted.
CHAPTER THREE
“SHE’S DEAD.”
The speaker seemed to be a man. What was he talking about? Amanda struggled to make sense of his words. A tall, golden-haired man appeared, his expression strained, his blue eyes frightening in their intensity. She knew him but could not place him. Shocked, she realized he was talking about her.
“She’s dead.”
“She’s not dead—she’s sleeping.”
“She’s not moving. She’s dead.”
Amanda began to panic. Was she dead? And who were these people arguing about her? She began to awaken, realizing that she was in the throes of a strange dream. She wasn’t dead, she was sleeping. She stretched but her body was weak and it felt battered, yet the pallet she was lying on gave deliciously and then sprang back, like the most heavenly cocoon. No pallet was so soft and firm, at once.
Where was she?
“No one sleeps for a whole day. She’s dead, Ariella, dead. See?”
Amanda jerked as someone roughly seized her foot through a soft, fluffy cover. Bewildered, she opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the room. Then she met a pair of blazing blue eyes and a wicked grin. She cried out.
“I told you she’s