A Lady at Last (4 page)

“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.

 

I
T 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.