A Lady at Last (7 page)

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.