A Lady at Last (6 page)

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.

“S
HE
'
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.”

 

W
HEN
A
MANDA 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?