A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce
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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 papa’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