A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce
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her father out of prison some time ago. Most of the crew had been killed in battle with the English officer who had captured the Amanda C, and the remaining crew was also in prison, awaiting their moments at the gallows.
If she couldn’t forcibly free him, should she go back inside to Woods?
She was ready to vomit again. She had impulsively meant to do what all women did in a crisis, but God, she was repulsed and sickened by what had almost happened. While she had witnessed just about every sexual act possible—or so she assumed—she had never been touched sexually. She had never even been kissed. Rodney Carre had made it clear that any man who dared to do so would have his throat slit and his manhood tossed to the sharks in the sea.
De Warenne had saved her.
Amanda hugged her knees to her chest, no longer able to avoid where her thoughts really wanted to go. She was stunned by his selfless behavior. Why had he intervened? Everyone she knew behaved sensibly and selfishly—it was the law of survival. Strangers did not help one another. Why would they? The world was too dangerous to dare to reach out. So why had he saved her from Governor Woods?
Her heart wouldn’t stay still. She swallowed, remembering. For he had looked at her, too, even more boldly and brightly than any sailor had ever done.
As upset as she was, her heart started to beat with frantic haste. Bewildered, she clasped her cheeks, which were hot. He had looked at her naked body, but he had also looked at her the moment she had come into King’s House, when all her clothes were still on. She couldn’t ever recall anyone, man or woman, looking at her with such intense and piercing eyes. It was a look which she was never going to forget and she wished she could understand it.
She knew him, of course. Who didn’t? He was instantly remarkable, standing upon the quarterdeck of her favorite ship, his thirty-eight gun frigate, the Fair Lady. A huge, towering man with that leonine head of hair, he was impossible to miss. And everyone knew he’d captured forty-two pirates in his short, ten-year career as a privateer. In the West Indies, no one had yet to surpass his record.
Amanda’s heart continued to beat erratically. She was uneasy and confused. Why had a man like that helped her? He was far more than a privateer. While she’d heard the fancy snooty ladies in town giggling that he was more pirate than gentleman, they couldn’t be more wrong. Pirates were foul, with stinking breath and missing teeth and unclean body parts. Pirates gave no quarter in combat, spilling blood and guts everywhere, although when sworn to loyalty, no better friend could be found. Pirates wore dirty clothes, never washing them, and frequented the ugliest hags and whores.
De Warenne smelled like the sea, mixed with spices from some Far Eastern shore and mango from the island. Although he wore a gold earring in one ear like some pirates did, and those huge gold and ruby spurs, his clothes were spotless. Everyone knew the mother of one of his bastards was a real princess. His reputation as a ladies’ man was vast, but his lovers weren’t whores and hags, oh no, just the opposite. And why not? He was an earl’s son. De Warenne was royalty.
And even she, who had never looked at a man in any kind of admiration—except for her father, of course—had to admit that he was achingly beautiful.
Amanda knew she blushed. Too well, she could recall being in de Warenne’s arms as he had carried her from the governor’s rooms. But why was she thinking about that—or him? She had to free her father before he was hanged.
Amanda realized she had no further options. If she couldn’t forcibly break her father out of prison and she couldn’t seduce Woods into a pardon, then what could she do?
She choked. What had de Warenne said, exactly?
Why not pardon Carre? If he doesn’t give up his pirating, I promise you I will be the one to bring him in.
Amanda leaped to her feet. He could help her—he had to!
WINDSONG LOOMED over Kingston Harbor, a huge and formal white stone mansion that Cliff had begun building five years earlier and had finally completed last year. Balustraded terraces jutted out over the harbor at the back of the house, while in the front a double staircase led to another terrace and the imposing white marble front entrance. Identical end pavilions were on the other side of the main house, which was a lofty three stories high. He could stand on the north parapet and look up the entire length of King Street, but he preferred to stand on the south terrace, sipping his best Irish whiskey and watching the incoming ships. He stood there now, having requested a drink from his majordomo, but his gaze was directed toward Port Royal, not out to sea. There he could make out the brick walls of Fort Charles. He raised his spyglasses.
The Amanda C was at anchor there, her rigging slashed, all masts broken, cannon holes in her deck. She was a small nine-gun sloop, once swift enough to outrun most naval vessels, now damaged beyond repair. She wasn’t flying the skull and bones of a pirate’s death flag, but the British tricolor.
Cliff lowered the spyglass. He did not want to brood over Carre’s fate or his daughter. Carre was in Spanishtown, awaiting his execution on the morrow. He wished he knew where La Sauvage was. She’d fled so quickly she might have been a vanishing ghost.
He could still recall the feel of her firm but soft body in his arms, even though he damned well wished to forget it.
“Papa! Papa!”
Upon hearing the happy cry of his beloved daughter, Cliff turned, beaming, all thoughts of the wild child-woman gone. Ariella was only six years old, with huge and brilliant blue eyes, an olive complexion and surprisingly golden hair. She was as beautiful as her coloring was exotic, and whenever Cliff looked at her he felt no small amount of awe that this stunning child was his. “Come, sweetheart.”
But she had already dashed across the terrace and into his arms. He laughed, lifting her high and then hugging her tightly. She was clad like a little English princess in the finest silk gown his money could buy, a strand of perfect pearls around her small throat. He put her down and she asked, “Did you go sailing today, Papa?” She was very grave. “Because you promised me that you would take me when you next set sail.”
He had to smile. She could pretend all she wanted, but he knew very well that she did not like sailing. “I haven’t forgotten, darling. And no, I did not take a sail. I had affairs in Spanishtown.”
“Good affairs?”
His smile faltered. “It was some nasty business, actually.” He tugged on a strand of her hair. “It was a good day for sailing. How many knots do we have?”
She hesitated, biting her lip. “Ten?”
He sighed. “Eight, darling, but you were close.” He knew she had blindly guessed.
“Do I have to be able to rate the breeze to sail with you?”
“No, you don’t, your brother can do that. Besides, I shouldn’t be trying to make a sailor out of you.” Ariella showed no particular fondness for the sea, although she tolerated it in order to spend time with Cliff. His son was just the opposite. But he wasn’t very disappointed, because she had the most inquisitive mind he had ever come across. In fact, she could spend an entire day with her nose buried in a book, and he didn’t know whether to be proud or worried about that. “Soon, sweetheart, you will travel the world with your father.”
“But only me, not Alexi. He is not coming with us.” She pouted.
He shook his head, amused by her jealousy. “He is your brother, darling, of course he will come. He is a natural born seaman. He will help me sail my ship and navigate for us.”
Ariella beamed. “I have memorized the four new constellations you taught me, Papa. It will be a good night to view the stars. Can I show you later?”
“Absolutely.” His daughter was brilliant. At only six years of age, she could add and subtract faster than he could, was proficient at multiplication and was beginning division. He had begun to teach her the constellations, and her ability to discern the different stars amazed him. In fact, in a matter of minutes, she could memorize just about anything she could