Читать книгу A Lady at Last - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 8

“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 alive,” another child said.

Amanda sat up, her sore body protesting, staring at a small boy with dark hair and familiar blue eyes. He looked past the bed. “Of course she’s not dead. She’s been sleeping ever since Papa brought her home. I knew that! But I had you, didn’t I?”

“You did not!”

Amanda took in her surroundings. She was in a huge canopied bed, the ebony wood intricately carved, the bed hangings a misty blue. Terribly confused, she saw a fireplace with a white mantel carved with vines and leaves. She glanced down. The cover was a pale blue silk, the finest kind that came from plunder. Dazed, she took in a huge room with white-and-blue fabric covered walls. Dear God, all the furniture was matching, upholstered in ivory, blue or white, tufted with gold. And the ceilings were gilded. Then her gaze slammed to the wide-eyed little girl standing by her side.

The child smiled. “My name is Ariella. Papa says your name is Miss Carre. Are you his mistress?”

The boy reached over and jerked hard on her hair. Ariella punched him just as hard in the jaw.

Papa. And in that stunning moment, Amanda lost everything for the second time in her life. Grief crashed over and she was drowning in it—she could not breathe. The tears began, but she didn’t care. Gasping, she doubled over in pain.

Papa had been hanged. Papa was gone. Murdered by Woods and the British.

“She is ill. I’m getting Papa!” the boy said sharply, racing out.

Amanda vaguely heard. Cliff de Warenne had been there at the hanging, preventing her from watching him die. She must be at Windsong. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the loss, the pain?

A small hand stroked over her arm. “Miss Carre? Don’t cry. Whatever is making you so sad, my papa can fix it.” Pride filled her tone. “He can make you happy. He can do anything.”

Amanda blinked at the beautiful child through her streaming tears. She couldn’t recall much, just a terrible sound, the breaking of bones in her father’s neck. It was a sound she was never going to forget. “My papa’s dead,” she gasped to the child. And she hugged herself, doubling over again.

Rapid booted steps sounded. Amanda heard de Warenne. “Ariella!” He was stern.

“Papa, I didn’t make her cry!”

Slowly, Amanda somehow looked up, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around herself. And now she began to remember how Cliff de Warenne had kept his arms tightly around her at the hanging.

“I know you didn’t. Please join your brother in the nursery. Now.” De Warenne nodded at the door, his expression rigid.

Clearly knowing when to immediately obey, Ariella flung a worried look at Amanda and quickly left the room.

Amanda found herself staring into Cliff de Warenne’s searching blue eyes.

He had paused at the foot of the bed. “I will not be foolish enough to ask how you are feeling. I am sorry, Miss Carre, for your loss.”

Amanda broke into tears again. She turned onto her side and wept in grief. She was aware of him approaching, and felt him hovering over her, but the grief was just too much to bear. “Go away,” she wept, but she really didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to take her in his arms, the way he had a few hours ago, and to hold her until her wounds healed. Except she knew they never would.

His hand clasped her shoulder. Amanda suddenly realized her shoulders were bare. Her naked body was swimming in a very fine, lace-trimmed cotton nightgown. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her clothes or whose garment she was wearing.

“You are in the throes of grief. It is understandable,” de Warenne said softly. “I have sent for my ship’s surgeon. He’ll give you laudanum. It will help.”

The terrible flood had ceased. Amanda turned onto her back and stared up at him. He quickly removed his hand from her shoulder. “Laudanum,” she said dully. She knew what laudanum did. When she had broken her wrist as a child, she’d been given it and it instantly erased the pain. Would it also erase her grief?

De Warenne’s face was strained. His blue eyes, however, were filled with sympathy and compassion. “If it is any consolation, your father died a swift death.”

She started to weep again.

“It will get easier. The anguish will ease. I promise you that, Miss Carre.”

She shook her head; she didn’t know how that could be possible. “Is your father…. dead?” she stuttered.

“No. But my mother died when I was a very small child.”

She started, her tears drying. “She did?”

He nodded gravely. “She died giving birth to my younger sister, Eleanor.”

Amanda struggled to sit up, and he slid his arm behind her to help her do so. Becoming dizzy, Amanda grasped his bulging forearms, but the wave intensified. She leaned toward him, her forehead finding his chest. The bed tilted wildly and she began to spin.

“You need to lie down with your legs elevated,” he said sharply.

Amanda couldn’t answer—she was trying to claw free of the spinning gray room. But suddenly she was on her back, all the pillows thrown to the floor, except for a large blue velvet neck roll, which was under her knees. The bed slowed, finally becoming level once again. Amanda opened her eyes, only to find de Warenne sitting by her hip, one arm under her knees along with the pillow, staring intently at her.

“You are exhausted,” he said flatly. “When was the last time you ate?”

She had no idea. “I’m fine. I never swoon. I don’t know why I got so dizzy.”

De Warenne jumped abruptly to his feet, tugging her nightgown down over her calves. He whirled. “Instead of hovering outside the door, Alexi, have a servant bring Miss Carre a bowl of soup and white bread.”

The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and raced off.

“I’m not hungry,” Amanda said, feeling very foolish now. She started to kick the pillow out from under her legs, unable to dismiss the fact that de Warenne had his hand under her nightgown.

He seized her knees, immobilizing her. “I suspect you haven’t eaten in days. Unless you wish to follow your father into his grave, you need to nourish your body, Miss Carre.”

His gaze was locked with hers. Amanda couldn’t look away—she was mesmerized. It was almost as if he had some genuine concern for her, but that was impossible. A flicker of interest began, piercing through the grief. “I don’t want to die,” she said slowly, and she realized that she meant it.

He smiled very slightly at her. “Good.”

WHEN AMANDA AWOKE the next time, bright sunlight was trying to filter through the closed blue-and-white draperies of the room. She blinked up at the ruched blue fabric of the canopy overhead, remembering everything. She was at Windsong; Papa was dead. She was unbearably saddened.

She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over her and helping her with her meal. She recalled the white-whiskered physician, probing her body and taking her pulse. She recalled drinking tea laced with laudanum, and she thought that perhaps she had done so several times.

Amanda glanced carefully around the room, now remembering two small children, a dark-haired boy and a golden-haired girl. But she was alone now. Had they been figments of her imagination or a part of a strange dream? Or had she really met de Warenne’s children? One of them was a prince or a princess, if the rumors were true.

De Warenne. He had been at the hanging, not allowing her to witness her father’s gruesome death. Had he really held her in his arms so protectively? Had that been a dream, too? Amanda was confused. Her memory was faded and torn and it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not.

But as sad as she was—whenever she thought about Papa, a wave of grief washed over her—she did feel slightly better. For one, she didn’t feel so bruised and battered. And she was having a hunger pang.

To test her theories, Amanda sat up, stretching. Her legs did not protest, her stomach growled and the room remained surprisingly level.

She flung the bedcover aside and paused. Dear Lord, she had been sleeping in a bed fit for a queen. The covers were silk, the comforter down. The draperies matched the wall fabric; in fact, everything matched and was either silk, satin, velvet or brocade.

She had known de Warenne was rich, of course, but she hadn’t imagined him living like this. Then, she hadn’t ever been in a rich royal person’s home before, either.

She got up, aware of how pleasant the fine cotton was on her body. As she went to the draperies, she passed a huge mirror, the guilded frame carved in swirls and rosettes. She glimpsed her reflection and paused.

It was like looking at a stranger.

A pretty and terribly feminine woman stood there in the glass, beautifully dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown, her pale hair spilling past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The woman’s face had bright, wide green eyes with long, thick lashes, strangely dark, like her eyebrows. She was slightly flushed, her skin sun-kissed, and she had full, pink lips. Her shoulders and arms were entirely bare. If there was any criticism, it might be that her shoulders were a bit broad, hinting at unfeminine strength. But that was hard to notice, because of the way the cotton nightgown draped over her breasts. Small lace straps held the bodice up, but it was low-cut, with tiny gathers just below the straps. Amanda realized she was blushing as she regarded herself.

She didn’t look like a pirate’s daughter; she looked like a well-born woman.

Shaken, she turned away, quickly opening up the draperies. It was well past midday—the sun was high and bright, but moving into the west. Her bedroom overlooked the harbor and the second thing she saw was her favorite ship, the Fair Lady. Her hull was painted black and red. Although she was only fifth rate, her standing rigging was a sight to behold and Amanda thrilled at the complexity of it. How many times had she watched de Warenne on his quarterdeck, his men hoisting sail as the frigate began to leave her berth? How many times had she watched the beautiful Fair Lady begin to increase her speed, making sail, her canvas filling? Sometimes she had watched the ship from one of the gun towers ringing the harbor, as it streaked away from shore, heading out to sea, until finally she became a dot, vanishing as if into eternity. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to sail on such a ship, running before the freshest wind?

And then Amanda saw her namesake.

Fort Charles was across the harbor and set upon the small peninsula that jutted southeast into the Caribbean Sea. Even flying the British colors, even with her masts broken in half, even from such a distance, Amanda recognized their sloop instantly. The grief rolled over her, heavy and hateful—hurtful.

Promise me you will go to England, to your mother.

Rodney’s voice was so loud and clear he could have been speaking to her from the very room. She whirled, but he did not stand behind her. For one moment, she stared toward the bedroom’s closed door, willing him to appear. He did not.

She swallowed. “I did promise, Papa. Don’t you remember?” Suddenly it was hard to speak.

I remember, girl.

She could see him now; she really could, even if it was with her imagination. She brushed at the seeping tears. “I promised you at the hanging. I did. You know I always keep my word. I’ll go.” Fear began, real and raw. She was going to have to leave everything familiar behind. What if Mama didn’t love her the way Papa claimed she did?

I know, girl. I’m so proud of you…. He smiled at her.

Amanda shuddered. “I’m not sure Mama will be pleased with me.”

She loves you, girl.

Amanda was about to remind him that she was a pirate’s daughter, but her papa’s image had vanished. Lord, what was she doing? Talking to herself—or to a dead man? Had she just seen Papa’s ghost? She was shaking. It didn’t matter. She had made that promise and she was going to keep it, no matter what she had to do to get to England. Surely she wasn’t really afraid of a place. Surely her mother would welcome her with a warm embrace and tears of joy!

So she had to focus on the voyage. Amanda bit her lip. Rodney had told her to sail with de Warenne. Could she somehow convince him to allow her to travel on one of his ships? She thought of how kind he had been—or at least, how kind he had appeared. Papa had wanted her to sail with de Warenne because he was a gentleman and Amanda could agree with that. But how would she pay for the fare?

She had very few possessions. She had her dagger, her pistol, her sword, a change of clothes and the gold cross and chain that had been her father’s. She had no intention of parting with any of those possessions, and de Warenne would have little need for them anyway. There was only one possible way to pay for her passage. She was going to have to offer him her body.

Amanda tensed. She was more than apprehensive; she was afraid. Every sexual act she had inadvertently witnessed had been ghastly and revolting. Governor Woods had been disgusting. She had never been able to understand why the lovers she had seen had been so lusty. She had never understood what was so exciting about sex that it made men and women lose their ability to reason.

Amanda had never been more nervous as she left the bedroom. De Warenne had stated that his intentions were honorable, and oddly, she had believed him. But surely he would accept the use of her body in exchange for her passage. Every man she knew would accept that kind of offer. She could even sweeten the pot by telling him she was a virgin.

She found herself in a long corridor with white walls; fine, fancy oil paintings; gleaming wood floors and scattered Eastern rugs. At both ends were stairwells with gold brass banisters, each leading to the great hall below. Amanda went to the closest one and started down the stairs.

Her steps slowed. The front hall was the size of their entire house at Belle Mer. For the first time, she looked up at the high ceiling, which held the largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen. Rich tapestries and more oil paintings were on the walls. The furniture—chairs, benches and tables—was all polished mahogany, with claw feet, velvet or damask upholstery and intricate carving. In the middle of one wall was a pair of doors, and Amanda recognized the front entrance of the house. Open arches led to other rooms.

She hesitated, uncertain, and then she saw the butler.

He was entering the hall, an empty silver tray held flat in one hand, as if it still contained refreshments. He saw her at that moment and went pale, halting in his tracks. The tray fell to the floor with a loud clang.

Amanda marched toward him. “Hey. Where is de Warenne?”

He gave her a furious look and picked up the tray. “His lordship is entertaining and is not to be disturbed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t put on airs with me,” she said flatly. “You’re only a servant.”

He straightened. “I am the butler, miss, and the most important servant in his lordship’s employ.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. The most important one he’s got working for him is the ship’s carpenter. You want to make a bet?”

Fitzwilliam huffed. “Might I suggest that you retire to your room and properly clothe yourself?”

Amanda glanced down at her new favorite possession. “I don’t think his lordship will care how I’m dressed,” she said. The nightgown was certainly as decent as any dress.

Fitzwilliam flushed. “If you go to your room, I will inform his lordship that you wish to see him.”

Amanda snorted at him. “You need to take a cruise, my man. That might get that stick out of your arse.” She started toward one of the arches, where she could just barely detect soft conversation. That was where the old fart had come from, too.

“He will not be pleased,” Fitzwilliam said softly to her back.

Amanda thought he sounded smugly pleased himself, but she didn’t care. Now she could make out de Warenne’s drawl—and the soft, coy laughter of a woman.

She paused on the threshold of a large salon with golden walls and more furniture than any one person could possibly use in two lifetimes. Standing at the far end was her host, clad in his usual white linen shirt and a pair of equally white breeches, his high black boots gleaming in shocking contrast. He often wore a heavily embroidered Moorish vest but not that day, and his dagger wasn’t strapped to his belt. He had, however, forgotten to remove his huge gold and ruby spurs.

Looking at him, her mouth became dry.

And then she saw de Warrene’s caller and understood why he would not wish to be disturbed. She could not believe her eyes.

A beautiful, perfectly plump, blond lady was patting his arm and giggling at him. She was elegantly dressed, beribboned and bejeweled. No, she was fat, Amanda decided, but of course, most sailors preferred a meaty woman. And her skin wasn’t porcelain, it was pasty. Her hair was clearly yellow, like straw that had been urinated on.

Amanda’s fists clenched. Dismay immobilized her.

The woman was laughing at whatever de Warenne had just said. He was smiling, his expression noncommittal. His gaze did dip when she moved, for her pale green gown exposed huge cowlike breasts, which were in danger of falling out every time she laughed—something she did all the time. She had a glass of wine or sherry in her other hand. She spoke, tossing her blond, tonged curls. “I am so pleased to find you at home, Captain. It is a long, hot carriage ride from Spanishtown. I was so hoping not to be denied.”

“Yes, it is a very long drive—all eleven miles of it. Do you not care for our Jamaican weather?” he remarked, his tone idle. The gold earring he wore glinted.

She pressed closer to him. “It is so hard to keep one’s gown stiff in such soggy weather. And my hair! It has to be done at least twice a day.”

“I imagine it is difficult for the ladies, living in such a clime,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I am enjoying my visit to the island, Captain. But I should enjoy it so much more if you were to take me aboard your boat.”

Amanda strode forward. “It’s a ship, not a boat, my fine lady—a frigate, in fact. Fifth rate, with thirty-eight guns, not counting any cannonade.”

The lady’s jaw dropped, unattractively.

De Warenne’s eyes widened, their gazes meeting. Amanda wriggled her hips and thrust out her bosom. “Ohh, do take me on your boat, Captain, sir!”

His face broke into a smile and he choked on a laugh. Then he scowled very fiercely at her. “Miss Carre. You are in your nightgown.”

Amanda blinked. He had been amused by her. She softened, smiling back. “It’s not my nightgown. I don’t know whose it is. In fact, I can’t even remember how it got on me.” Her gaze narrowed and she looked right at him. “Did you undress me?”

He turned red.

The woman gasped. “I can see I have made a terrible mistake! You and…the pirate’s daughter?” She was incredulous.

De Warenne gave Amanda an odd, private look. It was filled with warning, but amusement tinged his features, too. Amanda could not comprehend what he was thinking. Then his expression became stern and he faced the woman. “I was just about to introduce you to Miss Carre, Miss Delington. She is my houseguest.”

The woman had turned beet-red. She was no longer very pretty. “I see. I see very well.” She glanced at de Warenne, nodded. “Good day, then.” She left the salon in great haste.

Amanda watched her go, feeling very satisfied.

He said from behind, softly, “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

She whirled and almost jumped into his arms. Instead, she leaped back, strangely nervous now that they were alone. “She’s a fat, pasty sow looking to fuck you,” she defended herself.

He blanched.

Amanda knew she had made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t know just what that mistake was. “I mean, you didn’t really want her, did you? She was a fool! She called the Fair Lady a boat.”

He inhaled, long and deep. Looking shaken, he walked away from her, sliding his large hands into the flat pockets at his narrow hips.

Amanda was very worried. “Are you angry with me?”

It was another moment before he turned to face her. He smiled a little at her. “No, I’m not. I am glad to see you up and about, and apparently feeling better.”

Now she felt even better, she realized, because she had been afraid he was angry with her and that he would boot her from his house. “If you want her,” she said, very reluctantly, “I could go and drag her back here. I’m not stupid. I know she thinks I’m your lover or some such nonsense. I could tell her the truth.”

He stared.

Amanda tensed. Suddenly she was aware of being alone with a huge, powerful and undoubtedly virile man, while clad in a nightgown. She was aware of being absolutely naked behind the single fine layer of cotton.

“I am not interested in Miss Delington.”

Amanda smiled in relief.

“Miss Carre,” he said carefully.

Amanda hurried toward him, interrupting. “No, wait. We both know I’m not a lady. My name is Amanda. Or girl. Papa used to call me girl. Or Amanda Girl.” She stopped, unbearably sad.

Briefly, she had forgotten that he was dead. It all came rushing back to her now.

“He called you ‘girl.’”

She sat down in a huge, lush chair with all kinds of odd tufts. “Yes.”

He pulled a green-and-gold-striped ottoman forward and sat down next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not dizzy anymore.”

He smiled slightly. “We made sure you ate before every dose of laudanum.”

She tried to remember. “Have I been sleeping for long?”

“On and off for three days. I had been wondering when you would wake up.” He smiled again, encouragingly.

She found herself smiling back. His eyes met hers and somehow, their gazes locked.

In that moment, something changed. Amanda stared, filled with confusion. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen and he actually seemed kind, genuinely so. He was one of the greatest masters of the sea, and for her, that was better than being a king. When he accepted her offer, she was going to share his bed.

She had never desired a man. But sometimes at night, in her dreams, a faceless golden lover came to her, kissing her with heat, and when she awoke, she was filled with a tension she barely understood. Sometimes she woke up on the verge of discovering great pleasure, only to realize she had been dreaming and she was alone.

She wondered if she would start dreaming about Cliff de Warenne. Because he was exactly like her dream lover, wasn’t he? Big, powerful, golden…

His eyes widened and he leaped to his feet. He paced away from her, pouring himself a drink. His hand trembled.

Amanda didn’t move. How could she be thinking of those very private dreams now? They had business to discuss! But why was he trembling? “Why are you shaking?”

He made a harsh sound, not answering.

She sighed, kicking her feet out. “Maybe you are catching the flu. Some of the sailors have it.”

“It’s not the flu,” he said grimly.

She smiled at him. “That’s good.” She hesitated, because in spite of what she had to do, she was afraid to begin this particular negotiation. Besides, she was enjoying the chair, the room and such noble company. She hedged. “Why do you have so much furniture? And if you didn’t want to fornicate with that woman, why was she here?”

He approached, appearing aghast. “I know you have been through a terrible time, and that we come from different worlds. Amanda, I—someone needs to teach you a few things.”

She became wary. “Like what? Reading?”

“A tutor can do that. You cannot use certain language in polite company. In fact, you can’t speak of…fornication, ever!”

“Why the hell not?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s all men do, most of the time.”

He looked at her and finally, he started to smile. “All right,” he said, holding up his hand. “We are victims of our male bodies, I grant you that. Let’s start over. You cannot wander this house in such attire.”

She looked down at the lovely nightgown. He was going to take it back, she realized glumly. She fingered the lace edge of one strap. Then she looked up. She shrugged, so he wouldn’t know that she would care if he took it back.

He regarded her closely. “Amanda.” He sat once more on the ottoman, although he’d moved it a bit farther away. “We do need to discuss something else.”

He was very serious. Was he going to give her an overdue boot after all?

“I hope I was not presumptuous, but I thought you would prefer a burial at sea.”

Amanda stiffened. “I hadn’t thought about it! Where is Papa?” she cried in alarm.

“He is in the Kingston funeral parlor. We can bury him at sea. I have arranged it.”

Amanda nodded, incapable of speech.

“I was thinking tomorrow,” he said, his eyes soft with sympathy. “Can you manage? I can say a few words as ship’s captain, or I can summon a minister, or even a naval chaplain.”

Papa wasn’t buried yet, she managed to think. She would be able to attend his funeral. She met his searching gaze. “I’d like you to bless him.”

“Then it is as good as done,” he said softly.

He was being so kind again, and he was so impossibly handsome that her heart turned over as hard as a dory being flipped in high seas. She looked up into his brilliantly blue eyes and felt impossibly reassured, impossibly safe, as if she had just crept into harbor with all sails shortened after a raging storm. Maybe she didn’t have to be afraid of this man, she thought.

He stood up. “Did you wish to see me for a reason? If not, it’s my children’s bedtime and I need to go upstairs.”

She took a breath for courage, refusing to think about what would happen after he accepted her deal. Instead, she saw herself standing on the deck of the Fair Lady in heavy seas filled with white horses. She’d be at the bow; he’d be on the quarterdeck with his officers. They’d press on with a mass of canvas that no sensible seaman would ever attempt in such foul weather. He wouldn’t care; he’d be laughing, and so would she. She smiled.

“Amanda?”

She came back to her senses, her smile vanishing. She bit her lip, hesitating.

His gaze veered to her mouth and then back to her eyes. “What is it that you wish to ask me?”

There was no choice now but to plunge forward. Amanda stood up. “I’ll do anything—anything—if you will take me to England.”

He simply stared.

Amanda had no idea what that fixed gaze meant. He was very smart, so he had to catch her meaning. Didn’t he? She smiled brightly at him. “I can’t pay for a passage, not with coin, anyway. But there are other ways I could pay.” And she waited.

He began to shake his head. The odd motion seemed to be a “no,” and his expression seemed to be tinged with disbelief. “I see.”

Amanda stood, starting to panic. She had to get to England! She had promised. “I said I’d do anything. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Now he had that flush on his high cheekbones as he sometimes did, the color of anger. But why would he be mad? Didn’t he understand what she was saying? “De Warenne, I am offering you my body. It’s the only way I can pay for—”

“Cease!” His tone was a command.

She cringed in disbelief. “I know I’m not fancy enough for you—” she began, about to tell him that she was a virgin.

He grasped her arm and their bodies collided. “Is this what you do when you need something? Offer your body in exchange for some goods or service?” he demanded. Instantly he released her, stepping away from her. “I may chase pirates, but I am a gentleman, and a de Warenne,” he ground out, his eyes blazing.

She was trembling and her heart raced with fear. She couldn’t understand his anger. “I have to get to England. Papa said I should go with you. I just want to pay you!”

He held up both hands. “Enough! Is your mother there?”

Amanda nodded, incapable of looking away. Was he refusing her because she wasn’t a fancy, fat beauty? And why wasn’t she relieved?

He inhaled. “I had already planned to take you to London, assuming you did have family there.”

He had? She was stunned. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you need to go to family,” he said harshly.

“But how will I pay for my fare? I am not a beggar, to be tossed a crumb!”

“You won’t pay!” He was abrupt. “And I have never once indicated that I think you a beggar. The truth is, I was leaving at the end of the month, but considering all that has happened, we’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She started backing up. All dismay was gone—there was only gut-curdling fear. “That’s too soon! And what about Papa’s burial?” How could they leave tomorrow? “The end of the month is better.” She had just lost Papa, she wasn’t ready to meet her mother.

“We will bury your father at sea after we set sail. We leave tomorrow,” de Warenne snapped. He pointed at her. “And you will not be dressed like that. I prefer you in a boy’s clothing.”