A Lady at Last (11 page)

He pushed the chair closer to the table, then he took a seat facing her, lifting the wine bottle. He hesitated, his smile fading. Then he put the bottle down. “I must ask. How old are you?”

She didn't hesitate. “Twenty-one.” She smiled, her heart continuing to beat wildly. She wanted him to think her more mature and worldly than she was. “How old are you?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Amanda, we both know you are not even close to twenty-one. I am twenty-eight.” He hesitated. “I mean, Miss Carre.”

She had thought he was in his late twenties and she had been right. She carefully debated what age to tell him, one he might believe. “I am almost twenty,” she lied. “And I told you, I am not a lady. You can call me Amanda.”

His regard was frankly assessing. He finally said, “Really.”

“Really. And I would like some wine,” she added.

He poured her a scant finger, then poured himself a large glass.

“And to think I thought you were so generous,” she grumbled, reaching for her glass. Had her ploy succeeded?

“My estimation is that you are sixteen, perhaps seventeen,” he said, watching her closely.

Amanda sighed. She was seventeen and she would be eighteen in August. Instead of responding, she cast her eyes down and took a draft of the wine. Immediately she gasped, forgetting all about her deception. The wine she drank with Papa had been thick and sour; she had always preferred grog. “What is this?” she managed, stunned.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly at her. “I take it that was a cry of approval?”

“This is delicious—like berries and velvet.”

“There is a strong note of blackberry,” he agreed, “and just enough tannin to coat the tongue. It's from Rioja.”

Amanda was too busy taking another sip to reply. The wine was heaven.

“You'll get tipsy if you don't slow down,” he said, but his tone was light. He hadn't touched his glass; he simply kept staring at her.

She wished she knew what he was really thinking. She smiled widely at him. “I never knew wine could be so delicious. Why are you looking at me so closely?”

He flushed and glanced aside. “I apologize.”

“Is it my shirt? Should I have braided my hair?”

“Your shirt is fine.” His smile was forced. “I was rude. It won't happen again.”

Amanda hesitated. She twisted her hair into a knot, then smiled grimly at him. “I don't have any other clothes, except for that nightgown.”

He seemed alarmed. “It's not your hair—your hair is beautiful—and it's not your clothes. I would like you to enjoy this meal. My chef is a good one.”

She went still. He liked her hair? Every summer she would chop a foot off with her dagger, but it always grew back by the next season. This summer, she hadn't bothered—as her hair had not been on her mind, not with her father's capture. “It's too long,” she managed.

His color heightened. “Never cut it,” he said tersely.

“Do you really think my hair is beautiful?” she demanded.

His fingers drummed at the tablecloth, long and strong. Finally, slowly looking up, he said, “Yes, I do.”

She stared into his eyes, filled with joy, smiling at him.

He glanced away. “How old did you say you were?”

She was not going to tell him the truth. “I am almost twenty, de Warenne.”

He lifted his gaze, which was impenetrable now. “That is impossible. You are clearly at that awkward stage, at once half child, half woman.”

“You are babbling nonsense,” she said, instantly annoyed. “No one is half woman and half child! This morning you clearly thought me a full-grown woman, not
half
of one.”

He sat up straighter in his chair, his gaze locking with hers. Amanda stared challengingly at him, waiting for him to respond.

His lips slowly stretched into an odd smile. “You were raised among rowdy sailors. You know the nature of men. I have tried to be a gentleman with you, but I will admit my shortcomings. My nature is a manly one. It doesn't mean anything, so do not read anything into it.”

Amanda stared at him. She could not decipher his meaning.

He sent her a very direct and sensual smile, one which could melt hearts and instantly melted hers. She forgot about decoding his odd words. Her pulse rioted and her thoughts jumbled, all at once.

He took the wine bottle and filled her glass. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

She could barely comprehend him.

“Amanda? When did you and your father come to live on Jamaica Island?”

She inhaled, unable to forget the way he had just looked at and smiled at her. She was still breathless. “I was four,” she exhaled.

“Where did you live prior to that?” he asked, his glass now in hand. From time to time he took a sip, clearly enjoying the red wine.

“St. Mawes. It's in Cornwall. I was born there,” she said, her scattered wits finally returning.

“St. Mawes…I believe that's on the eastern coast.”

She nodded. “That is where my mother was born.”

“How did your parents meet?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.

He was really interested in her life, she thought, amazed. “Papa was in the navy. He was a midshipman on a ship of the line. He was on leave in Brighton and Mama was there with her mother and sisters on holiday. It was love at first sight,” she added with a smile.

She kept expecting him to evince boredom, but he was leaning toward her now. “I had heard some talk of Carre having been a naval officer. A ship of the line, that is impressive.”

Ships of the line were the greatest warships in the British navy, huge triple-deck affairs with more than a hundred guns and crews of up to eight hundred or more. She was proud. “Papa was very dashing then, I think.”

“And your mother was swept off her feet.” He smiled.

“Yes.” Her smile faltered. “And then Papa turned rogue.”

“After the marriage?”

She nodded. “And after I was born. Mama gave him the boot.”

“I wonder if I know your mother's family,” he mused. “My brother Rex has an estate in Cornwall, and I have been there, although infrequently.”

“She was a Straithferne,” Amanda said with renewed pride. “They are a very old family—Mama could trace her bloodlines back to Anglo-Saxon times.”

“So your mother is a very fine lady,” he remarked.

“She is a great lady. Papa told me that her airs are perfect and proper, no matter the moment, and that she is a great beauty, too.” She smiled, but some unease had arisen. It was so easy to forget that in six weeks she would be standing at her mother's door in London. She glanced at de Warenne and saw him watching her intently and she smiled more firmly, as she did not want him to ever guess that going to England scared her more than any sea battle ever could.

“Does the family still have holdings in St. Mawes?” he asked.

Amanda suddenly sat up. “You are asking a lot of questions about my mother.” Her mind sped. De Warenne was an infamous ladies' man and her mother was a great beauty. Was his interest in Dulcea Carre?

Her heart lurched with sickening force.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She couldn't smile.

“Amanda?”

“Do you know my mother?” she demanded.

“I'm afraid not, nor am I familiar with the Straithfernes.”

She slumped in her chair in abject relief.

“I am very surprised that your mother allowed you to move to the West Indies with your father,” he said casually.

Amanda remained so relieved that de Warenne wasn't interested in making her mother his lover that, while she noted his neutral tone, she didn't dwell on it. “She didn't. Papa stole me right out of her arms, breaking her heart.” When his brows raised in genuine surprise, she said defensively, “He had not been allowed to visit. If Mama had been kinder, he wouldn't have had to steal me away. But she refused any visitation. He missed me, so he took me.”

De Warenne was grim. “I am sorry. That is a terrible tale.”

She shrugged. “I don't remember any of it. I don't even remember Mama. I wish I did,” she added.

“Maybe it is best that you don't remember being torn from your mother's arms,” he remarked, his gaze searching.

She stared at him. “I love Papa. I am glad he took me.”

He studied her for a moment. “I know.”

But Amanda felt saddened. It was very different from the grief she felt over her father's death. She couldn't help wondering what her life might have been like if Papa hadn't come to take her from St. Mawes. The question had haunted her most of her life.

She looked up and spoke defensively. “Mama is a great lady, I'm not. I will never be a lady, but I don't care. I love the sea. If I could choose any fate, it would be to stay here like this, on a great ship, riding the waves, forever.”

His thick dark lashes lowered, hooding his eyes. He didn't speak, but he was toying with the flatware.

“You probably think me a fool,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Sometimes I think I am a fool,” she admitted.

He didn't look up. “No. I don't think you're foolish, Amanda.” His tone was like the stroke of silk. It flicked over her skin, making that humming begin all over again.

Amanda stared at his downturned face. His beauty made her breath catch, quite audibly. His high cheekbones were slightly tinged pink, undoubtedly from the wine. If, a few days ago, someone had suggested that she might be dining alone with Cliff de Warenne in the captain's cabin on his frigate, she would have laughed, outrageously amused. But she was here with him, very much alone, and he had asked her dozens of intimate questions, clearly genuinely interested in her life.

And he liked her
hair
. He had said it was beautiful.

The woman reflected in the mirror at Windsong, the one in the expensive white lace nightgown, had been strangely alluring. Even she could admit that.

But that wasn't her. She was just Amanda Carre, referred to by most islanders as either La Sauvage or the pirate's daughter, a skinny girl with long wild hair, clad in cast-off boy's clothes.

The nightgown, however, was in her sack on her berth belowdecks. And her hair could be brushed and tamed…

Suddenly she imagined herself walking into his cabin with a ribbon in her hair, wearing the nightgown. And she imagined him looking at her the way he'd looked at her that morning in the great hall of Windsong. Amanda flushed, her heart thumping heavily in her breast.

He slowly looked up.

Their gazes locked.

Suddenly every sound in the cabin vanished. The soft flapping of sail, the softer lapping of water against the hull, the gentle creak of rope, the rap of chain, all disappeared. There was only the magnetic and powerful man seated across from her and her own wild heartbeat.

Amanda wanted to be kissed. There was simply no more denying it. She could think of nothing else now.

He cleared his throat. “We should eat, before the food gets cold.”

Amanda couldn't find her voice. She had never wanted any man to touch her before, but she wanted de Warenne to kiss her and touch her, and she even wanted to kiss and touch him back. But he had said his intentions were honorable.

He lifted the cover off the first silver platter and steam hissed, escaping, along with the succulent aroma of roasted guinea hen. As he served her, Amanda barely managed a smile. Should she somehow encourage him now?

“De Warenne?” she said. Her tone sounded odd, husky and deep.

He slowly looked at her, not pleased. He seemed grim. “Let's enjoy our meal, Amanda.”

“I'm not hungry.” She looked at the bed. Why didn't he simply take her over to it?

Suddenly he lunged to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said. “I hear Ariella—she must be having a nightmare. Do not wait for me. Enjoy your supper.”

He strode from the cabin.

T
HE BREEZE HAD NOT
picked up and he'd ordered most sail reefed. The great ship had slowed to a few knots and now the sun was rising and staining the sky over the ocean crimson and pink. One of his officers was at the helm as Cliff ripped off his shirt at the railing. In light winds or a lull, it was not unusual for him to take a predawn swim. His men thought him insane, and maybe he was, because he found the brief plunge into the frigid Atlantic waters exhilarating.

He was preoccupied as he swiftly stripped down. Inviting Amanda to dine with him last night had clearly been a mistake. Her every innocent look, smile and word enticed him. He had never met a woman like her before. Perhaps it was the combination of innocence and courage, naiveté and boldness, ignorance and wisdom that was so powerfully alluring. She was a stunning portrait of beauty and contradictions. Or maybe it was the compassion she aroused in him that was so effective. He wanted to protect her and to make love to her, all at once. Last night he had been afraid that he might throw all propriety to the wind and take her to his bed, as she so clearly wished for him to do. He had not heard his daughter crying; that had been an excuse to leave her company and find some composure—and common sense.

But there wasn't any composure and nothing made any sense. In a few short days, somehow, she had become the focus of his life.

Of course, she needed his protection. That had been clear from the moment they had first met at King's House, when she had come inside, waving a loaded pistol and demanding to see the governor. He had quickly seen that she was her own worst enemy—that had been obvious when she had thought to seduce Woods. Leaving her to her own devices was something he could not do. She was entirely alone in the world and grieving the loss of her father. She had no one to turn to but him. He had enough strength to add her to the roster of his responsibilities and duties; therefore, he would.

Last night he had invited her to dine not because he wished her company, although he had enjoyed it immensely until his own lusty nature interfered, but because he was determined to discover some facts about her life. She had been painfully easy to manipulate and she had revealed all that he needed to know, at least for the moment. The mother she was traveling to meet was well-bred, apparently a gentlewoman. She might even be nobility. He wanted Amanda to have a financially secure family, but he was dismayed.

Mother and daughter had been apart for at least ten years. Common sense and every instinct that he had told him that this reunion was not going to be easy or pleasant. Worse, her story was not quite right. He knew she believed it, but his instincts clamored that there was more to the tale than she had been told. And his instincts were usually right.

But even if her story was as she had told it, Amanda was in for more hurt and even humiliation, he was certain. He hoped, very much, that her mother would be thrilled to be reunited with her, but he had no reason to believe that she would be happy to have her pirate's daughter appear in her life. And even if she was thrilled, her friends and family were going to regard Amanda with far less tolerance. The ladies he knew, while beautiful and elegant and excellent in bed, were all rabid snobs. There was no room for eccentricity. How in God's name would Amanda ever fit into her mother's life?

Even a beautiful gown was not going to disguise her speech, her manners and the deprived background she had come from. While he might find her manner charming at times, she had actually shocked him badly once or twice. And he was not easily shocked.

Society was not going to accept La Sauvage and he was certain of it.

He could not understand or accept his desire for her. The lusting had to cease. Nor could he understand the overwhelming urge to protect her from any more hurt, but that was an inclination he could accept. It was, after all, honorable. He was violently aware, however, that protecting Amanda Carre might enmesh him very deeply in her life. He could only hope that her mother was truly gracious, but not immersed in society. If she was a kind and welcoming woman, he would be able to deposit Amanda at her mother's door and walk away, secure in the knowledge that her future would be a good one. He did not want to dwell on the far more likely possibility that Dulcea Carre might be shocked by her daughter's sudden reappearance into her life and unfavorably disposed toward her.

He suddenly recalled the look on Miss Delington's face when she had thought he was Amanda's lover and winced. The reaction of that “sow” was typical of the prejudice and bigotry rampant in high society and he couldn't help fearing the worst for Amanda. Yes, she was a pirate's daughter and she could be uncouth and crude, but she was clever, witty and resolute. She was also one of the most vulnerable human beings he had ever met. He recalled how he had found her last night, curled up on one of the rugs on the floor of his cabin, soundly asleep and impossibly beautiful, but so desperately lacking an anchor in her life. In that moment, he understood why he needed to protect her. Every ship was adrift without an anchor.

“Cap? You sick or something?”

Cliff jerked. He was standing in the buff at the rail, staring at the horizon, so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn't even been aware of where he was. He didn't bother to respond to the seaman. Instead, he stepped onto the rail and dived into the ocean.

The waters were ice-cold and shock briefly paralyzed him. The ice water closed over him, around him, and he began to sink. His mind came to life first, understanding that he must swim in order to live, and then his heart began to beat again, hard and too fast, fueled by adrenaline. He began to swim. It took every ounce of strength he had to powerfully propel himself through the freezing water. For one moment, he thought he might fail. His muscles screamed at him, as did his mind—why? Then he burst through the ceiling of water to the warmer air above and exhaled loudly, and a line was tossed down. He seized it, laughing.

Cliff quickly climbed up the line, invigorated and exultant, and two men helped him easily over the railing. He shook the water from his hair with more laughter, his heart still racing madly from the fight to beat an icy death.

“Cold enough for you, Cap?” MacIver said from the quarterdeck, his tone sly.

Still grinning, Cliff straightened, allowing the early-morning sun to wash over him. He upturned his face for a moment and spread his arms, feeling powerful and pagan, at one with the sun and the sea. Finally, his heart slowed, his shivering ceased, the euphoria dulled. He glanced towards his mate. “You should try it some time,” he said, turning for a cotton towel.

He froze. Amanda stood not far from his cabin. He had no idea how long she had been on deck, but there was no mistaking how she was looking at him. She was staring at him as if she had never seen a naked man before.

No, she was staring at him as if she wished to see more of him, now.

His loins filled, instantly rising to her wish.

It was a moment before he could turn away. In that moment, time ceased and there was no thought, no reason, just desire. Her lips moved. His heart thundered and he turned away, aware of one of his men snickering. He seized the towel, intending to wrap it around his waist, but he remained painfully thick, a reminder of what he really wanted. Instead, he used the cloth to dry his hair. He took his time. Then he tossed it aside and casually stepped into his breeches, as if she weren't there. But he could feel her heat and smell her desire.

She was quivering, too.

As he pulled on each stocking, he reminded himself that she was forbidden. His body protested: why? In that instant, he couldn't remember why he had decided that this particular woman was not allowed to him.

And then, before he'd had a chance to tug on his boots, he knew she was gone. Still bare-chested, he turned and glimpsed her hurrying inside his cabin, where she'd spent the night alone. One seaman said, “Guess we know what she's sniffing for.” He snickered again.

Cliff reached for his boot and put the dagger he kept there against the sailor's throat. “You don't know anything,” he said, and he sliced through his flesh.

The sailor choked in horror, but the wound was only a scratch. “Lock him up,” Cliff said through his teeth.

Two of his officers rushed down from the quarterdeck, seizing the seaman, who started blubbering in protest. Cliff turned his back on him, as nothing could make him change his mind. There was no quarter given to insolence, not on his ship, and the sailor had insulted Amanda. He'd maroon the man off Spain, where there were some rocky islands that no one could survive on for long. The sailor was fortunate he'd be marooned instead of keelhauled. If he was truly fortunate, another ship would rescue him.

He sat down to put on his boots, incapable of calming the savage in him.

 

A
MANDA LEANED AGAINST
the wall, trying to breathe naturally. She wasn't ever going to forget the sight of Cliff de Warenne stripping off his clothes in the dawn light, revealing hard planes, taut angles and bulging muscles. She wasn't ever going to forget him climbing to the railing and diving into the ocean. She'd had to clasp her mouth to stop from crying out in fear. She knew he couldn't have been in the freezing water for more than sixty seconds, but an eternity had passed before she'd seen him break through the surface. He had been laughing, dear Lord, as he'd climbed back up to the deck, and then he'd stood there with his arms held high, his face turned to the sun, reveling in his courage, his power, his manhood.

And when he'd looked at her, he'd grown huge instantly.

Amanda gasped, choking on desire. She had thought she understood desire last night, but she hadn't—she understood it now. He was the most beautiful, virile, heroic man she had ever laid eyes upon and she was so hollow and faint she could not breathe. She could not stand the terrible ache and she hugged herself, hard. A long moment passed, and eventually, the shocking tension in her body eased.

Amanda walked away from the wall and opened the cabin door. De Warenne was on the quarterdeck with his officers, his back to her. An image flashed, pagan and godlike, of de Warenne standing naked, worshipping the sun. Then he'd turned and put his dagger to the sailor's throat, in retribution for his insult to her. Amanda inhaled. She had never met a man like this one before.

“Miss Carre?” Ariella smiled up at her, the Armenian woman standing beside her.

Amanda hadn't seen the child approach. She smiled. Ariella, of course, was clutching a book. “Hello,” she said, wondering what de Warenne would have done if his children had seen him swimming in the nude at dawn.

“I am having my lessons now and Papa said we are to study in his cabin.”

Amanda stepped aside so the child and her servant could pass. Curiously, she said, “And your brother? Isn't he going to study, too?”

“He's with the sailmaker, below.” Ariella screwed up her face. “Papa said he could learn how to mend sails.” She shook her head, as if the idea was absurd. She added, “His Latin is terrible—almost as bad as his French.”

Amanda followed the child back inside. “If your brother will one day captain this ship, he'll have to know everything there is about sailing, and that includes mending sails.”

“If he can't speak French, he won't be able to negotiate with traders in France and Morocco.” Ariella shrugged, sitting down at the dining table and opening up her book, instantly engrossed.

Amanda flushed. The child was so intelligent. And de Warenne clearly admired that. “What are you reading?”

Ariella never looked up. “I am reading a guidebook to London.”

“Really?” Curious, Amanda went to look over her shoulder. There was a beautiful sketch of a bridge. “Is that the London Bridge?”

“Yes.” Ariella smiled at her. “Do you want to read my book? I can get another one.”

Amanda flushed.

Ariella waited innocently.

“I can't read,” Amanda said, her cheeks on fire.

Ariella started to laugh.

“Ariella!” Anahid chastised.

Instantly Ariella was contrite. “I thought she was in jest, Anahid. Why can't you read?”

Amanda shrugged. “My papa was a pirate, remember?” Too late, she realized she had lied about that yesterday. “He never taught me. He didn't think it was important.” She stared longingly at the guidebook.

“Do you want to learn to read? I can teach you—or maybe Monsieur Michelle can.”

Amanda met the child's blue eyes, her heart racing with excitement. “I really want to learn to read,” she whispered unsteadily. “But I am sure your papa won't allow it. He wants you to learn and your teacher is here to teach you, not me.”

Ariella merely grinned, gazing past Amanda.

De Warenne murmured, “You are wrong.”

Amanda whirled to see him on the cabin's threshold. Instantly, that potent image assailed her and she saw him standing naked and powerful on the deck, glorying in his body and his life. She flushed. His lashes lowered and he thrust himself off of the door.

“I have no problem with lending you Monsieur Michelle or my daughter, for that matter. Reading is a blessing. I am glad you wish to learn.” He finally lifted his lashes and looked directly at her.