A Pirate's Wife for Me (20 page)

But the swine had thwarted her. With this disguise, he would always be close to her, holding her arm, pretending affection, filling her nostrils with the scent of clean male and passionate memories.

Too many memories, too recently evoked. Recalling that brief time of their loving had been a mistake. She should have left those memories sealed in her brain forever. She
would
forget … if she could…

"Weigh anchor!" the captain called.

The sailors pulled the gangplank back. The anchor chain rattled.

Taran pressed himself against her side, leaned down as if kissing her cheek. He bumped into her bonnet.

Triumphantly, she adjusted it. "It appears you'll have to behave yourself."

"I wouldn't know how." His heat warmed her unwilling body as he drew close again, this time with more care, and murmured in her ear, "Didn't Blowfish tell you? I'm good with disguises. It's one of my many … talents."

Something about the way Taran spoke made her draw back suspiciously. "Do you disguise yourself frequently?"

He followed her movement, but slowly, clumsily. "It's easy to discover a ship's cargo if I don't ask as the Cap'n — most sailors are reluctant to disclose information, especially to a pirate."

"I can understand that." She walked toward the forward railing, the deck swaying beneath her feet.

Taran trailed behind her, hanging on her arm, his cane bumping on his shin, his sword's scabbard striking his thigh.

She thought he appeared to be a one-man percussion band, with too many instruments and not enough talent. Without a doubt, that was the real disguise, for she knew if needed he could use both the sword and the cane as weapons.

He said, "When I'm in camouflage, I discover gossip about who ships out with who, where the ships are bound, whether they contain any secret treasures or extra passengers. Useful in this business of spying."

"You find out whose ship you want to attack?"

"Exactly. Most of all, I've found disguise a useful tool to discover whether my crew will be able to perform their duties as I require."

Memories of the past few days paraded across her mind. A tall, dark man on a Poole street corner. A staggering, drunken sailor at a pub. A withered old man eating soup at an outdoor table. All of them with beards. Black beards, gray beards … "You've been watching me!"

"My love, keep your voice down. The sailors will hear." Amusement vibrated in his voice.

She grasped the railing hard and in a furious whisper, she said, "As Blowfish dragged me through the streets, I kept thinking I saw you, then thinking I made a mistake, but I didn't, did I? You
were
watching me."

"I wanted to find out how your lessons were progressing. I couldn't ask Blowfish; he likes you. I knew he would cover for you if your performance was abysmal. So I tagged along a few times." He frowned. "Although I'm disappointed that you identified me. What was it? My walk? My height?"

"Your
stench
." Folding her arms over her chest, she tried to catch a calm breath. If she didn't, she would box Taran's ears, and she could only imagine how that would scandalize the sailors who worked aloft.

Waves slapped at the ship as it rose and fell with the freedom from its anchor. The breeze picked up as they nosed their way through the harbor toward its mouth.

At the inn, Queen Sibeol
finished dressing and prepared to go out and bid her son farewell and Godspeed, to gaze on him and know… know it might be the last time she saw him alive…

She wiped the blur of tears from her eyes. She was the queen. She would not cry. Not now. Not when at last her son had returned, determined to win at all costs.

As the queen, she approved. As his mother … she feared, and prayed, and —

What was that by the door?

A paper, folded carefully, sealed in red wax, and had been slipped into her room while she slept.

Foreboding embraced her as she walked across the floor and picked up the letter. She broke the seal and read the lines:

Dear Mother and Majestic Queen Sibeol of Cenorina, Before I sail, knowing the peril I face, I must tell you a secret of most importance and request your understanding, your Christian kindness and royal forbearance for both me and Cate, my bride of nine years…

The paper fluttered from Sibeol's nerveless fingers. She stood immobile, shocked to her core. Snatching up her shawl, she opened the door, ran into the corridor and down the stairs.

As a man, Taran's pirates looked up, and stood up.

"Is he gone?" she asked. "Are they gone?"

The somber-faced one, the one they called Dead Bob, said, "Yes, ma'am. Gone this hour."

"Will the ship have sailed?" she demanded.

With the unerring instincts for the tides that all good sailors possessed, he said, "Another few minutes."

"Take me to the docks. I must … I must tell him…" What could she tell him? The damage was done, the marriage performed and consummated years ago. What could she do? Nothing. So before the young couple sailed into danger, she needed to offer reconciliation and her blessing. "Take me to the ship!"

"As you wish, ma'am." Dead Bob offered his arm.

Maccus called a cab.

The pirates went out on the street to block Sibeol from the common run of rough, rude pedestrians.

Mr. Cleary stood behind the bar, wiping the scarred wood, and when he believed he was alone in the taproom, he put down his rag. He moved quietly for a big man, up the stairs and to the threshold of Taran's door. He tried the handle, and when he couldn't open it, he pulled out his keys and fitted one into the lock. An ugly expression crossed his face when he realized Taran had thwarted him; the lock had been changed.

But in the open door of Sibeol's room, opportunity beckoned. He walked in and stepped on the discarded letter. The crinkle of paper made him look down. Leaning down, he examined the seal and the handwriting, then as he read, he frowned and moved his lips. As the information percolated through to his brain, a smile blossomed and grew — until a cudgel smacked the back of his skull and sent him sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

The lone pirate leaned over and plucked the paper from Mr. Cleary's lax fingers. He read the letter. Read it again. Laughed softly, let the letter drift to the floor once more, and nudged Mr. Cleary with his toe. "Sorry, old man, but
I'm
going to use this, not you." Going to the window, he opened it. Grabbing Mr. Cleary under the armpits, he dragged the unconscious man over and with a grunt, hefted him up onto the sill. While Mr. Cleary hung there by his belly, arms dangling outside, legs dragging the floor inside, the pirated pulled his dagger from his belt, leaned out, and cut Mr. Cleary's throat. He cleaned his blade on Mr. Cleary's shirt, then shoved him out face-first into the deserted alley.

Still smiling, the pirate left Sibeol's bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When Cate once more
had her temper under control, she looked at Taran, the low, conniving dungworm who played the part of her long-suffering husband so well. "How dare you spy on me?"

He shed amusement as he would a cloak, and she caught a glimpse of the duty-driven Cap'n. "Make no mistake," he said. "This is my operation, and if you had proved unable to learn what Blowfish had to teach you, I would have found
someone
to replace you. Too much is at stake. We will not fail."

His low-voiced intensity silenced her complaints. She had family honor and a desperate need for retaliation against her brother's killers. Taran had … "What is it to you besides a pardon from the British government? What
do
you have at stake?"

"Cenorina is my home. I left when I was fourteen years old, and I've missed it — its mountains, its forests, its stubborn, stiff-necked, proud people — every day since I've been gone. I want to go home, and when I vanquish Sir Maddox Davies" — the name was a sneer on Taran's lips — "I will go home. I'll live there for the rest of my days and I'll never again take for granted my freedoms or my duties."

As they cleared the harbor, the sails unfurled with a crack as loud as a gunshot. The wind, laden with the tang of salt and sea, filled them, and the ship lifted like a bird about to fly. Taran groped for the railing, found it, and turned his face into the wind as if trying to catch the scent of Cenorina.

Home. He wanted to go home.

While she … she never wanted to go home.

Oh, she was homesick for her mother, a forthright woman of uncommon good sense, and she was still welcome at her family home on Mull. But when she visited neighbors or went to a party, she could be sure the whispers would start. Some intoxicated jackass would call her a whore, and someone in the Clan MacLean would be forced to jump to her defense — and none believed she deserved such a defense. Except for Kiernan, of course. He had forgiven and forgotten her trespasses.

She sighed.

How she missed him.

How she mourned him.

"Are there seats?" Taran asked.

She glanced about. Here and there, a plain wooden pew was screwed to the deck facing outward. "A few."

He gestured in toward the center of the ship. "Shall we sit?"

She wished she could tell him to go away, but he had outflanked her so magnificently with his helpless disguise, she almost wanted to laugh. She
would
have laughed, except she seemed to have lost her sense of humor — and like everything else, that was his fault. She led him to the forward bench, the one protected from the worst of the chill wind. He fumbled for the back of the pew, and with a hiss of disgust she helped him lower himself onto the seat.

He caught her hand before she could move away. "Sit with me."

"I don't want to."

Like a supplicant, he kissed the back of her fingers, looked up with apparent wistfulness in the direction of her face, and in a tone of quiet command, said, "Sit down or I'll make you sit down."

She knew how it looked to the sailors — the callous wife disdaining her blind and crippled husband. She knew, too, that for all Taran's placid tone, he meant what he said. To lose a wrestling match with a blind man who had his arm in a sling would be humiliating and demeaning. Taking a frustrated breath, she demanded, "Why do you insist when I so blatantly don't want to be with you?"

"You haven't told me what happened to Kiernan." He sounded implacable.

Her knees weakened, and she sank down beside Taran. "No. I don't like to talk about it."

"Because you don't want me to see you cry, I ken."

If he only knew!

"But I can't see you, so tell me."

Sorrow gathered thick in her chest. "Why should you care?"

"He was my friend."

She snorted. "Some friend you were."

Taran wrapped his arm around her stiff shoulders. "Tell me."

She shrugged, trying to dislodge him.

He slid closer and held her tighter.

He had isolated her on a ship with no one around them except for sailors. She had nowhere to go even if she managed to get away from him.

After all, what difference did it make? Kiernan was well and truly dead, and it wasn't as if she would break down in front of Taran. She hadn't cried for her loss even yet. The Clan MacLean had held a memorial service, and while all about her women had sobbed, Cate had stood dry eyed, staring at the flowers that surrounded her brother's portrait, and wanted nothing so much as revenge. The women had whispered that she was unnatural, and maybe she was. She only knew hatred burned in her, and the tears would not come.

So she yielded, and told Taran, "Our cousin Stephen managed to disappear at last."

Taran knew Stephen, knew well that her cousin was a wastrel and a coward. "Stephen's gone? That's no surprise. Unless he had changed, he was always off on some exploit or another."

"This time he sent no word, not even to beg his mother for money."

"A bad sign." Taran's hand moved up and down her arm, rubbing warmth into her flesh.

She ignored his unwelcome comfort. "Indeed. At last Aunt Catriona begged Kiernan to go and seek her worthless son. Kiernan agreed, and went off to England. We got a letter from Kiernan in Suffolk, telling us Stephen had gone abroad and Kiernan was going after him. Then — nothing." Cate could scarcely breath at the memory. Kiernan had been so alive, so vital, the man against whom she measured all other men. "Nothing for months. At first we thought …
he's abroad, he's busy
. Next we said —
perhaps there's been a storm, some interference with the post. It happens."

"Frequently," Taran assured her.

"We worried, Mama and I. We worried and worried … then we got word from a Mr. Throckmorton. Kiernan had traced Stephen to the Crimea, a bit of a strip of land in the Black Sea. He'd gone after him. There was an explosion. A bomb. Set by the wretched Russians to kill the spy who lied to them and lied to us. To kill Stephen. But Stephen survived." Her voice grew thick with rage. "Stephen, as useless a bit of flesh as ever walked this earth, is alive and at this moment is being nursed to health in Suffolk, while my brother rots in a grave far away from the land he loved so much… We didn't even get his body to bury." She shook with rancor.