Читать книгу A Lady at Last - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 7

AMANDA RAN THROUGH A pair of terrace doors and across the patio. King’s House took up an entire city block and was built around two courtyards; she rushed down a set of white stone steps and into the gardens there. She stumbled, didn’t care and fell to her knees. She began retching. But she hadn’t been able to eat in days, she was so sick with fear for her father, and her heaves were dry. Then she lay on the thick, damp grass, allowing herself the luxury of tears.

Her terror overcame her. Papa was going to hang tomorrow at noon. Confronting the governor and begging him for a pardon had been their last chance. She hadn’t intended to offer him her body, but when he had started to look at her the way sailors and riffraff did, she had instinctively known what she must do. How often had she seen a woman coyly seduce her father in order to win a brooch or a bolt of silk? There was only one way a woman could ever gain anything from a man and Amanda knew what that way was. She had been raised amongst sailors and thieves and the only women she knew well had been camp followers and whores. The world she had been raised in was founded on violence and sex.

But she hadn’t given her body over to Woods, because Cliff de Warenne had stopped her from doing so.

She inhaled, her heart lurching. Why had he intervened? He was the greatest privateer of the day, as rich and powerful as a king. No one could outcommand him on the main—even Papa had said so. And he was reputed to be equally dangerous on land…

Papa. Her heart was already grieving and she reminded herself that Papa wasn’t dead yet. But the grief and the fear had combined, as potent as opium, a drug she had once been given before Papa had realized what was happening. She sat, tugging her robe more securely closed. Rodney had slit the throat of the buccaneer who had thought to drug her and seduce her, right before Amanda’s eyes. He had protected her from the men who had wanted her, when he had been present to do so, and he had taught her how to defend herself with a sword, pistol and dagger, so she could protect herself when he was not there. His cruises often lasted months on end, and he’d leave her with enough stores so she would not go hungry, at least not if he returned on time. He was a good father and now she had failed him, when he was the mainstay of her life. This one single time, a time of life or death, she had let her papa down.

Her mind scrambled and raced, looking for another way to save Rodney. She had dismissed the notion of trying to break 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 see. She was fluent in Latin and would soon be fluent in French. She was several levels ahead of her older brother in reading.

He finally glanced toward the house where her governess stood, a slender figure so heavily veiled that her face could not be seen, her body entirely wrapped in orange and blue silk. “Has Ariella completed all of her assignments today?” He looked at his daughter and winked. She was so clever she had undoubtedly done a week’s worth of studying in one day.

“Yes, my lord. She has done exceedingly well, as always.” Anahid spoke flawless English but with a heavy Armenian accent. She had been Ariella’s mother’s slave. The entire story was a tragic one, except for the miracle that was his daughter. Rachel had been a Jewess traveling with her father to the Promised Land. Corsairs had attacked the ship, killing everyone who had no value, including Rachel’s father. She had been enslaved, but a local prince had quickly been struck by her beauty, making her his concubine. Cliff had been struck by her beauty, too, when he had been negotiating the price of a gold cargo with her master, Prince Rohar. Even knowing that to dare such an affair could mean his death, he had done so. Their affair had been brief, but his Hebrew lover had touched him more deeply than any previous mistress with her dignity and grace. He’d had no idea that she had become pregnant with his child.

It was Anahid who had managed to get a letter to him, six months after Ariella’s birth. Rachel had been executed for having a blue-eyed child—for clearly, the child was not her master’s. Cliff had been prepared to directly assault Rohar’s citadel, but that hadn’t been necessary. Anahid had used his gold to bribe the guards and smuggle Ariella out of the harem and the palace. She had been in his household ever since. He knew Anahid would die for his daughter, and she had come to love Ariella’s half brother, Alexander, in much the same way. He had given her freedom within days of departing the Barbary coast.

He had never once glimpsed her face.

“And Alexi? How has he fared today?”

He felt Anahid smile. “He did not do quite as well as Ariella, my lord. He remains in the classroom, struggling to finish his letters.”

“Good.” Alexi was very sharp but was not the devout student his daughter was. His interests lay in fencing, equitation and, of course, his father’s ships. “Remind him we are fencing tomorrow at seven o’clock—if he finishes his lessons.”

Anahid bowed, gesturing for Ariella. The little girl pouted at her father, clearly not wanting to leave. “Papa?”

“Go, child,” he began, when he saw his butler appear in the doorway. Cliff could not imagine what had caused Fitzwilliam’s current expression, which he had always assumed to be set in stone. Was his heartless servant actually flustered? “Fitzwilliam?”

“Sir.” Sweat appeared on the butler’s brow. The man never perspired, never mind that the air was always thick and humid, even on the most temperate of days.

“What is amiss?” Cliff left the edge of the terrace.

“There is a….” He coughed. “There is a…caller…sir, if you will…downstairs.”

Cliff was amused. “It must be the Grim Reaper,” he said. “Does he or she have a card?” Suddenly he recalled the beauty from the Spanishtown square. He was almost certain she had come to have her lust assuaged, and in that instant, he imagined La Sauvage in his bed.

What the hell was wrong with him? Never mind that the wild child-woman was far more beautiful than any woman he had thus far beheld. She was eighteen, if he were fortunate, sixteen if not.

“The caller—” Fitzwilliam swallowed, clearly finding something distasteful “—is in the red room, awaiting you, if you wish to see her.”

So it was the woman from the square. He was oddly disappointed and annoyed. “I am not receiving today,” he decided flatly. “Boot her.”

Fitzwilliam blinked, as he had never been so curt or so rude before. Cliff flushed. “I mean, please take her card and send her on her way.”

“She has no card, sir.”

An inkling began; he turned. All ladies had calling cards. “I beg your pardon?”

Fitzwilliam wet his lips. “She insists upon seeing you, sir, and she has a dagger—which she pointed at me!”

La Sauvage. Then he was striding into the house and across the gleaming oak floors, down the wide central staircase with its dark red runner and into the hall below. It was a huge room with high ceilings, a crystal chandelier the size of a grand piano, the floors gray-and-white marble imported from Spain. The red room was at the farthest end.

Carre’s daughter stood there, staring toward him.

His heart lurched, unsettling him. He quickly approached, noting that she was very pale, in spite of her golden coloring, and that her eyes were wild, like those of a warhorse in the midst of frenzied battle. He made a mental note to proceed with caution, as he hardly trusted her. He didn’t realize his tone was sharp and abrupt until after he had spoken. “Did you go back to King’s House?”

She shook her head. “No.”

God, he was relieved! He began to recover his composure. “Miss Carre, forgive me. Please, do sit down. Can I offer you refreshment? Tea? Biscuits?”

She was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I’m to forgive you?”

He was reminded of how he must appear—demented, actually, to be asking such a wild, untutored child for forgiveness. Did she even understand that his manners had been utterly lacking? He somehow smiled at her. “My greeting was sorely deficient. A gentleman always bows to a lady. He might say, good afternoon or good morning, or inquire after her welfare.”

She gaped. “I am not a lady. You are babbling.”

He drew up. “Would you like some tea?”

“A spot?” She mimicked the highborn, upper-class British accent perfectly. “I think not,” she continued her mime. “I’d take a grog,” she drawled like a sailor. “If you got it.”

He wondered if she drank, or merely hoped to provoke him. “Your mimicry is very well done,” he said idly. He wandered past her, eyeing her as he did so. She hadn’t moved or blinked since he entered the room. She stood defensively, yet also aggressively. That dagger was probably in the waistband of her breeches, beneath the tuniclike shirt. Why had she come? He thought he knew, and it wasn’t to jump into his bed.

She flushed. “You know I can’t read—you heard me say so. I don’t know big words, either.”

He felt his chest go soft. “I apologize. Mimicry means imitation. You have a very fine ear.”

She shrugged. “Like I care.”

He had been trying to put her at ease, but it was a ploy that was failing. He could easily assume that she was undone by his home, which was as grand as King’s House and far more majestically furnished, except that she had not taken her huge green gaze from his face, not once since he’d entered the great hall. “What may I do for you?”

She stiffened. “Free my father.”

He had been right. He tried to smile kindly at her. “Please, do sit down.”

She shook her head. “I’ll stand.”

“How can I possibly free your father?”

“Woods is your friend. Make him let him go.” Desperation flickered in her overly bright eyes.

He stared at her. “Woods and I are not feeling very friendly toward one another at the moment, and even if we were, this has gone too far. There are laws on this island. A jury has tried your father and found him guilty. I am sorry,” he added, meaning it.

Tears welled. “Then help me bust him out.”

He had misheard—hadn’t he?

“We can do it. You can do it—you’ve got a crew, cannon, guns!”

He was aghast. “You wish for me to assault the courthouse prison?”

She nodded, but even as she did, she started to back away, tears tracking down her cheeks. Clearly she knew her demands were wishful thinking at best.

“Miss Carre, I am sorry your father was convicted. I wish that were not the case. But I am not a pirate. I am not a brigand. Every commission I have accepted has been given by the British authorities—I do not work against them. I only persecute Britain’s enemies.”

“You are my only hope,” she whispered.

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to help her. But he could not assault the British prison and seize the convicted pirate.

Her shoulders slumped. “Then he will die.”

“Miss Carre,” he began, wanting to comfort her but having no idea how to go about it. Had she been a lady of any sort, he would have taken her to the couch and kissed her senseless, until she forgot her terrible dilemma. He would have pleasured her time and again, holding reality at bay. But she was not a lady of any kind, much less one of experience. In that moment, she seemed pitifully young.

She shook her head and ran out of the room.

This time, he was prepared. He caught her in two strides, preventing her from entering the hall. “Wait! Where will you go? What will you do?”

She met his gaze. “Then I’ll do it alone,” she said. The tears fell but she swatted at them, leaving bright red marks on her own cheeks.

He clasped her by both shoulders. “Miss Carre, do you wish to have criminal charges brought against you? Do you wish to hang?”

She was belligerent. “They won’t hang me—not if I say I’m carrying.”

He froze. “Are you with child?”

She glared. “I don’t think it concerns you! Now let me go. Please.”

He somehow knew she rarely used that word. He released one of her shoulders. “I have many guest rooms,” he began, intending to offer her a suite so she would at least have a roof over her head. He had to somehow navigate her through the horror of the next day, he decided, and afterward, either to the orphanage at St. Anne’s or to Britain, if she really had family there. “Why don’t you spend the night? As my guest, of course,” he added hastily.

She simply gaped, eyes huge, not uttering a word.

She thought he wished to use her as Woods had tried to do, he realized grimly. “You mistake my meaning.” He was stiff. “I am offering you a suite of private rooms for your use, solely.”

She wet her lips. “You want…to share my bed…too?”

He flushed. “I am trying to explain that I have no such intention!”

“If you help bust my father out, you can toss me anytime you like, anywhere. I don’t care.” She had turned pink.

He was disbelieving. “You have my word—the word of a de Warenne—I have only the most honorable intentions!”

“I can’t understand half of your fancy talk,” she cried, “but I get it. If you don’t want to fornicate with me, then I don’t need your charity.” She marched across the hall.

This time, he let her go. Later, when sleep refused to come, he could think of little else.

IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the night, but the moon was almost full and a thousand stars glittered, hot and bright. The air remained thick and heavy, a sweaty caress. Amanda gripped the iron bars of her father’s window, standing outside the building, having dug her way beneath the stockade fence—not for the first time. “Papa.”

A rustling sounded from within the interior of the night-darkened cell.

“Papa,” she begged, choking on her fear. All hope had died that day and she was violently aware of it.

“Amanda, girl!” Rodney Carre appeared at the window, a bear of a man with shaggy, brownish-blond hair and a darker beard.

Amanda began to weep.

“Damn it, girl, don’t you cry for me,” Rodney cried. On the bars, his fists clenched, the knuckles turning white.

She loved him so. He was her entire world. But he was angry now and she knew it. He hated tears. Still, he couldn’t hit her, not with the bars there between them. “I tried, Papa, I tried,” she whimpered. “I tried to get Woods to pardon you but he won’t do it.”

Rodney’s face fell.

“I can’t do this, Papa. I can’t manage if you’re gone!”

“Stop it,” he roared, undoubtedly waking the other prisoners up. Amanda stopped crying in that instant. “You listen to me, girl. You tried and done your best. I’m proud of you, I am. No father could ask for such a good, loyal girl.”

Amanda trembled. Rodney’s praise was rare. She knew he loved her fiercely, for she was his entire world, after the ship and his crew, but they never spoke of any feelings whatsoever, much less love. “You’re proud of me,” she echoed, stunned.

“Of course I am. You’re strong, and brave. You never flinched in a battle. You never shed a tear when you got beat. Girl—I’m sorry for those times. I’m sorry you had to live with such a rough temper. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a fancy home and an English rose garden.”

Amanda knew then that this was their final moment, otherwise he’d never be talking in such a way. “I don’t care that you hit me. How else was I to learn wrong from right? Besides, you missed more often than not, because I’m so quick.” She felt more tears sliding down her cheeks. “I never wanted a rose garden,” she half lied.

In the dark, his eyes seemed to shine. “All women want roses, girl. Your mama had a garden filled with them when I met her. She may live in London now, but she has a garden there, too. That’s how the noble people live.”

So now they would speak of her mother? She’d been born in St. Mawes, near Cornwall, and raised there by her mother, Dulcea Straithferne Carre, until she was four years old. Mama had married Rodney when he was a dashing young lieutenant in the royal navy, before he’d ever gone pirating. But after he’d turned rogue, he’d come to Cornwall, begging Mama for her. Her mother had refused, loving her far too much to ever relinquish her. Rodney had stolen her, tearing her from her sobbing mother’s arms and taking her to the islands, and she had never gone back.

Her life with Papa was all she knew. He had been afraid to take her to visit Mama, worried that the authorities might imprison him for what he had done. “You understand, girl, don’t you? Why I had to do it?”

Of course Amanda had understood. She loved Papa, and couldn’t imagine being raised in Cornwall. But she wished she could recall Mama. Papa told her she was elegant and gracious, a true lady, and so beautiful she stole the breath from her gentleman callers. Rodney was usually in his cups when he began talking about the past and Mama, and he always ended up in tears. He never stopped loving his wife, not for a moment, and he wanted Amanda to adore her, too, even if from a distance. He wanted Amanda to know how special Mama was.

Amanda often wondered what her mother was thinking after so many years. Mama did not know where Rodney had taken her and there had been no contact, not even a letter, although Papa had somehow unearthed the information that she now lived in London in a beautiful home called Belford House.

Amanda wondered why Rodney was talking about roses and Mama, all in the same breath. “Roses don’t matter to me, Papa. Surely you know that.”

He gave her a long look. “You need to go to her, girl. Dulcea will take you in when I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Amanda cried, shocked. “It’s not tomorrow yet and it’s not noon.”

“It is tomorrow, by damn, it’ll be dawn soon. She will be overjoyed to see you again. Amanda, girl, you will finally have that fancy home. You can be a real lady, not the spawn of someone like me.”

Amanda stared, torn between terror and dismay. She’d had wild fantasies, of course, of one day seeing her mother and being embraced by the most beautiful, ladylike woman imaginable, of being safe and warm and loved. In those fantasies, she had become a lady just like her mother, and they had sipped exotic tea in a fragrant rose garden. But she was a sensible girl. Her home was the island, her life was her father’s. Although they had the farm, it was a life of plunder, and their prize possessions were stolen goods. Although they had one dairy cow and Amanda milked her, she was a pirate’s daughter. She was never going to England and she was never going to meet her mother. And it had certainly never crossed her mind to attempt to appear to be a lady, much less become one, except in a foolish flight of fancy.

Was her father mad?

“I’m not a lady—I couldn’t ever be one. I love the island. This is my home! I love sailing—I love the sea,” she protested with real panic.

“In that, you’re my own true daughter,” Rodney said, proudly and sadly at once. “God, girl, I don’t know what I was thinking, to teach you how to sail my sloop and fire the cannon, to fence better than a master, to shoot a pistol and mend sails. You climb the masts better than my best topmen. You’re a woman, not a lad! You should have stayed with your mother. I know that now.”

“No!” She seized his hand through the bars. “Papa, I love you.”

He drew his hand away from hers and was silent.

Amanda fought not to cry again, but it was a losing battle.

“Promise me,” he finally said, “that when I’m gone, you will go to her. You got no one here. You need to go to Dulcea, Amanda.”

Amanda was terrified. How could she make such a promise? Mama was a great lady. She was a pirate’s daughter. While she believed her mother had loved her once, that had been long ago. She was very afraid her mother would not care much for her now.

“I’m your father and a dying man,” he cried, furious. “Damn it, you’re to obey me!”

She knew that if the bars didn’t separate them, he’d whack her one. “You’re not dead yet. Maybe a miracle will happen!”

He snorted. “There’s no such thing.”

“There was a miracle today,” Amanda cried. “Cliff de Warenne saved me from—” She stopped abruptly.

Rodney stared, the whites of his eyes showing. “He what?”

“He saved me…I tried to seduce the governor,” she whispered.

Through the bars, he hit her on the side of her head, hard. “You’re no whore, damn it! If there’s one thing I did right, it was to keep you innocent. You’re to give that maidenhead to a good man—to your husband!” he shouted, enraged.

She held on tightly to the bars, until the stars spinning in her head dimmed and vanished. Then she inhaled, shaky from the blow. “I was trying to save you, Papa.”

But her father didn’t seem to hear. “De Warenne’s a gentleman, never mind his command. You make him take you to England. He’s one you can trust.”

Amanda was in despair. Her father was about to hang and if this was his dying wish, she would have to obey it. “He’s odd,” she heard herself say slowly, musing aloud. “Why would he help me, a stranger? Why would he fight with his own friend to do so?”

“’Cause that’s what them blue bloods do—they get all high and mighty and offer charity to poor sots like us. It makes them nobles feel even higher and mightier when they do so. He gives you charity, you take it, girl,” Rodney said. “And never mind your damnable pride!” He hesitated, then said strangely, “Did he notice that you’re a beauty?”

Amanda was taken aback. In her entire seventeen years, her father had never once mentioned that he thought her beautiful. But now he was talking about her as if she were truly beautiful, like her mother. “Papa? I’m no beauty. I’m skinny with ratty hair. I wear boy’s clothes. And I have very odd eyes. Everyone says so.”

Rodney was serious. “”Did he look at you like that fucking Turk did in Sicily?”

Amanda hesitated. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Rodney exhaled. After a long, grim pause, he said seriously, “He’s the one to take you to your mother. I mean it, Amanda, I trust him. He’s a gentleman.” He stopped.

She knew he wanted to say something more. “He is a gentleman, but what is it, Papa? What aren’t you saying?”

Rodney stared. “I wouldn’t mind if he decided to keep you for a time.”

Amanda gaped. “What? You mean, as his mistress?”

“He’s rich as sin and he’s an earl’s son!” Carre cried, slamming his fist against the wall. “I always wanted to see you properly wed, but with me gone, I don’t know how that is possible. That will be up to your mother, and you haven’t seen her in years.”

Amanda began to tremble. De Warenne’s strong, bronzed face came to mind, his gaze so peculiarly intense, so strangely piercing, as if he could look into her mind, her soul. She recalled his carrying her from Woods’s rooms. She tensed, confused. She might not mind giving him her maidenhead, or not very much, anyway. And he had seemed kind.

She must be mistaken, she thought, shaken now. While the Queen Street baker’s wife gave her stale bread for free, and the boy who swept the apothecary shop was pleasant, no one else in her world was that way. Maybe de Warenne had rescued her in order to seduce her, never mind that she wasn’t the kind of noble lady he preferred. After all, hadn’t he tried to get her to stay in his Kingston home?

“Papa, he would never want me as a mistress. He has lovers, all prettier than me.”

“You just make sure he’s the one to sail you to your mother,” Rodney said grimly. “I meant to leave you with something, Amanda, and there’s nothing, damn it, not a single pound. I am sorry.”

She was more ill inside now than ever, because Papa never apologized for anything and this was the second time he was telling her how sorry he was. “Don’t apologize,” she said fiercely. “You’re the best father a girl could have!” She meant it, and unbidden, tears began again.

“I tried, I really tried,” he gasped, crying now, too. “Girl, you got to go.”

Amanda realized that the sky was turning boldly orange above the rooftop of the courthouse. The sun was rising—it was dawn. “No,” she cried.

In a few more moments, she would have to leave. And the next time she saw her father, he would be on the hangman’s block.

“You better go, girl, before they catch you here and find out about the tunnel you dug under the fence.” Carre was hoarse.

This could not be happening. She had never been quite sure if she believed in God, but now, wildly, she prayed. “Papa, let me stay. I don’t care if they find me.” She reached through the bars, desperate.

He hesitated, then clasped her hand.

Oh, God. His hand was warm, strong, calloused and scarred. Years ago, a Scot had severed one of his fingers in a brawl, the blade catching the flesh of his palm. But Amanda held on for her life—and his.

Because once she let go, she was never going to be able to take his hand again.

AT THE LAST POSSIBLE moment, he’d leaped onto his finest Thoroughbred and galloped every mile to Spanishtown. Now Cliff scanned the crowd that had gathered beneath the hot midday sun in the square between King’s House and the courthouse. Beautifully garbed ladies with white parasols and well-dressed gentlemen with walking sticks ambled about the hanging block beneath the shade of towering palm trees, chatting casually while they waited for the festivities to begin. Roughly dressed sailors sipped grog and pinched their whores; a few sailors were dancing with their trollops to the heady island tune a Negro fiddler was playing. A group of young boys were throwing stones at the scaffolding as if it were a bull’s eye target. They were laughing and becoming vicious. He turned away, scanning the other side of the square. A regiment of soldiers stood at attention outside of the courthouse, and more soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the park, in case the prisoner decided to escape. His heart beat hard, fueled by adrenaline. Where was she?

In a matter of minutes, Carre would be escorted from the prison to his fate. Cliff was certain La Sauvage was present.

He hadn’t slept a wink all night, obsessed by the fate of her 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.