A Lady at Last (3 page)

“You heard the…lady,” Woods said softly. “She won't be hurt, Cliff. In fact, she might be pleased.”

He was blinded by a kind of rage he hadn't ever experienced. Images danced in his mind. Woods embracing La Sauvage, Woods ruthlessly availing himself of her slender, yet lush body. He fought to breathe, and when he could speak, he looked at the governor. “Don't do this.”

“Why? She's a beauty, even if her odor is offensive.”

She smelled of the sea and Cliff did not find it offensive at all. “She is expecting a pardon.”

“And you are her champion?” Woods was amused.

“I wish to champion no one,” he said sharply.

“Stop talking about me as if I am not here,” she cried to them both.

Cliff slowly faced her. “Come with me,” he said. “You do not need to do this.”

She stared at him, as white as a sheet. “I need to free my father.”

“Then get a written contract—your services for his pardon.” He was terse.

She seemed puzzled. “I can't read.”

He made a harsh sound and faced the governor. “Will you be able to live with yourself afterward?”

He shook his head. “Good God, Cliff, she's a pirate's daughter.”

Cliff turned back to her but she refused to look at him, her arms folded across her chest. He was furious with her, with Woods, and even with himself. He stalked out, leaving them to their lurid affair.

Outside, the clouds were gathering, a fresh breeze of almost twenty knots coming onshore. Spanishtown was a dozen miles from the coast, and he had come by coach, not the river, but he knew that the waves had swells and it would be a good day for sailing. In fact, just then he wished to race the wind, running full sail before it.

His temples throbbed. Now he wished to run away? He rubbed his forehead grimly. La Sauvage was not his concern.

But she hadn't understood, for she was naive in so many ways. She thought to buy her father's amnesty with her body, but Woods was going to use her and then hang her father anyway.

Jamaica was his home. And although he only spent a few months of the year there, he was one of the island's leading citizens and very little happened on the island without his consent. Had he been present during Carre's capture, he would have made sure his case never came to trial. But it had, and the news had been reported not just in the
Jamaican Royal Times
but on most of the other islands, too. Even the American newspapers had reported the pirate's conviction. It was too late now to stop the hanging.

And Woods was a strong governor. There had been a few better, there had been many worse. Cliff supported his new policy of attempting to quell the Cuban rovers. No matter what happened now, he needed to remain on good terms with him. They had too many interests in common.

I am begging you, sir, begging you not to take my father from me. He's a good man, a good father, and he's all I have in the world!

She was not going to save her father, and certainly not in Woods's bed. Cliff turned, staring at the imposing front doors beneath the white temple pediment of King's House. By damn, he had to act.

He strode back to the house. “I'm afraid I have need of the governor again.”

Robards was chagrined. “I'm sorry, Captain. The Governor is not to be disturbed this afternoon.”

Cliff was in disbelief, but only for a moment. “This cannot wait.” Unconsciously his tone had become soft and so very warning.

The young soldier flushed. “Sir, I am sorry…” he began.

Cliff put his hand on the hilt of his scabbard. He gave Robards a look and stepped past him, pushing open the front door. The silence of the house wrapped itself around him and he knew they were together. His heart raced. He knew all the principal rooms were on the ground floor, as was the governor's private suite. As Woods had decided not to allow La Sauvage an afternoon's respite, he doubted they were in a guest room. No, he had taken La Sauvage to his rooms. Cliff was certain.

Robards had followed him to the threshold of the foyer. “Sir! Please!”

Cliff smiled mirthlessly at him and kicked the door closed in his face. Then he locked it. He strode down the hall, the calm of that moment before a fierce battle settling over him. It was a feeling he relished. The lull before the explosion…

The house remained stunningly quiet. As he traversed its depths, he could imagine them naked, hot, entwined, Woods overcome with lust. His silent rage grew.

He had never been to the governor's private rooms, but King's House had been built fifty-odd years earlier and he assumed the suite was in the west wing, as it was in so many Georgian homes.

He tried four doors as he went down the west hall, all opening onto unoccupied guest rooms. And when he came to the door at the end, he heard soft male laughter.

His blood surged and thickened.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

Instantly, he saw them.

Woods stood in the center of the bedroom, a massive canopied bed behind him. He had shed his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, revealing a muscular torso. His trousers were open, revealing his manhood.

She stood by the bed, clad in a man's sapphire-blue silk dressing gown, but it was unbelted and open, revealing her lean golden thighs, soft belly and full breasts. Her expression was one of despair, but it was also fierce and determined. She would not stand down.

Cliff prayed he was not too late.

He strode to Woods, who was so preoccupied with his victim that he did not see him until Cliff raised his fist. Woods cried out but Cliff knocked him backward into the wall, the blow so stunning he slid down it into a heap, as if unconscious.

He stepped over him, reaching for his hair, yanking his head back. Dazed eyes met his. “Society would love this bit of gossip, don't you think?” he snarled. The threat was impulsive but ideal; Woods had a reputation to maintain, and his wife would be livid should she ever learn of his scandalous behavior.

“We are…friends!” Woods gasped.

“Not anymore.” Cliff had to fight himself not to hit him again. Then he heard her choke.

He whirled, hurrying to her. She was on all fours, fighting for composure. He knelt, sliding his arm around her, terribly aware of her exposed body and also aware that Woods had probably used her in the most despicable and disrespectful manner possible. Slowly she looked up at him, her green cat eyes huge and hurt and beseeching.

He hoped that what he thought had happened hadn't. “I'm taking you out of here,” he said softly.

She shook her head, shocking him. “Leave me…be,” she whispered brokenly.

He wanted to kill his onetime friend; he cradled her face in his hands. “Listen to me!” he said urgently. “He is not going to pardon your father no matter what you do, or how many times you do it! Do you comprehend me?”

“But it's the only chance I have to save him,” she gasped.

He realized her mouth was bruised. He lifted her into his arms and was surprised again, because she clung. Now there was no mistaking the fact that he wanted to protect her, but he was also aware of her open robe and her soft breasts, pressed to his chest. He had glimpsed the wet treasure between her thighs. “There was never a chance,” he said roughly, carrying her from the room.

In the hall he paused, suddenly realizing that soldiers were outside the front door, and he had just assaulted the royal governor. They'd have to make a hasty retreat through a window—and he would have quite a bit of political maneuvering to do in the days that followed. Woods might not be a friend anymore, but they needed to work together if he was to remain a viable and influential resident of the island. Suddenly he realized his burden was oddly still.

He looked at her.

She looked up at him, her hands remaining looped around his neck. She was blushing.

His gaze veered to her beautiful breasts, then lower to her slender torso, her rib cage faintly delineated, her small pink navel and the champagne-colored delta below. Buccaneer or not, he was a gentleman, and he jerked his gaze to her face, feeling his own cheeks warm. With one hand, awkwardly, he tugged the wrapper somewhat closed. “How badly did he hurt you?” he asked roughly.

“Can you put me down?” she asked instead of replying.

Instantly he complied.

She smiled at him, and kicked him very hard in the shin. And then she pushed at him and started to run.

Stunned, he reached for her, but she was agile, swift and determined. She ducked his grasp and raced down the hall, her wrapper flowing behind her nude body like a banner. He started after her more slowly, unhappily aware of a terrible turmoil in him. He almost wished he had not gotten involved, for he sensed this was just the beginning. And when he reached the entry, no one was there.

La Sauvage was gone.

A
MANDA 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!

 

W
INDSONG 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?”