Captive Embraces (43 page)

He was nervous and jittery. The scenes with Camilla that afternoon and Sirena the night before had left him strained and an eerie foreboding haunted him. He must get his emotions under control if he were to pull off any tricks. If his hands shook, he would drop the cards and he would be finished.

He played listlessly for a while, his thoughts conflicting with his better judgment. Did he dare try the card in his sleeve? He looked furtively at Regan and Farrington. They knew. If he had any brains left to him, he should leave, but his sickness for a gamble overruled his better judgment.

Worms of fear crawled around Lord Farrington's belly as he concentrated on Stephan Langdon. Why did that fool have to pick tonight of all nights to try his tricks? These were professionals he was playing against They played with a vengeance and their eyes were as sharp as axes. Farrington knew the blade would fall within minutes.

Damn, didn't he have enough troubles with that scurve Blackheart breathing down his neck? The man was a monster. He must leave the gaming room to get back to his cabin to see what the swarthy seaman wanted this time. Deftly, he withdrew his round, gold timepiece and the sickening sensation moved to his throat. Almost an hour had gone by since he had taken Blackheart to his cabin with the promise he would return shortly. How long would the scurve wait? Would he come into the gaming parlor and make a scene? What was he to do? Caleb, where was Caleb? He lifted his long-fingered, aristocratic hand and tried to catch Caleb's attention.

The young man was greeting a new arrival, appreciating the deep cut of her neckline and smiling wickedly. Damn! Cal would be of no use to him. The young man had other thoughts on his mind at the moment. Regan then. It was time he did something to earn his share in the
Sea Siren.
Let him handle it. He didn't give a damn if the gamblers killed Langdon. “It's my own neck I'm worried about,” he whispered to himself. Blackheart wasn't going to wait much longer.

Carefully, he inched his way between a small cluster of murmuring women, unmindful of the gaiety at the other tables and the soft, sensual music in the background. And that was another thing; why in the name of God did Cal insist on music? Everything was bothering him. Now, the sounds of the gaming tables and the music hit him full force as he came abreast of van der Rhys. He would have to shout or signal Regan so he would move from his position beside Langdon.

Just as he was about to tap Regan on the shoulder, Stephan Langdon doubled over, his face a mask of pain. Play stopped while the dealer looked around for help. Regan, who was closest to Stephan, reached out to grasp his arm, fearing a seizure of some sort, when Stephan straightened, a grim look on his face. “It's nothing,” he said huskily. “Let's resume play.” He tossed his cards down and pandemonium broke loose.

“Asinine fool! That trick is as old as my grandmother,” one of the players growled.

Farrington hissed in Regan's ear, “I thought you were watching him!”

All play in the room ceased. The soft music came to a tinny halt as Caleb, a murderous look on his face, approached the card table.

“Cheat!”

“Liar!”

“Double-cheating scurve!”

“Unhand me, you lout,” Stephan shouted, fear in his eyes. “Unhand me this instant or I'll call you out,” he threatened.

Two of the gamblers grasped an arm and literally dragged him to the nearest exit. The taller of the two, his face sharp and hateful, shouted so that everyone could hear him. “Then call me out, in front of everyone.”

Fear snaked its way to Langdon's throat, making it impossible for him to speak. If he did as the gambler wanted, the gambler would have the choice of the dueling weapons. Christ, what if he chose pistols! He licked at dry lips and tried to squirm loose.

“Do it,” Regan said harshly. “You have no other choice. If you don't, by this time tomorrow, you'll be a dead man, and you know what I say is the truth. Not only is it your honor but it is also your life. Decide now, before some of these gentlemen take matters into their own hands.”

Stephan Langdon swallowed hard and nodded. The viselike hold on his arms loosened and the sharp-faced man smiled. “Pistols at dawn. Name your second.”

Stephan looked around the room and could sense hostility and animosity. Guilty of cheating at cards. He was ruined. He pointed a trembling finger at Regan who immediately backed off a step and felt murder rage in him. He, too, had no other choice. He nodded curtly at the circle of gamblers and made as if to leave. A gambler brought up a pistol from his belt and flourished it in the air. “One of my men will escort you home and watch your house. We wouldn't want you to lose your way.”

Regan shrugged. The only thought he could cope with at the moment was if Stephan were dead, Sirena would be a free woman. Now, why in the name of God should that thought enter his head and why should it bother him? He watched as Langdon and the gambler left the ship amid catcalls and raucous shouts of “Cheat!”

For the first time in his life the urbane Aubrey Farrington was out of his depth as he looked to Caleb to bring order to the salon. Regan was no use; he was following Stephan and the gambler.

Caleb spoke soothingly as he made a motion with his hand for the music to resume. He winked roguishly at the ladies and grinned at the men as he shrugged helplessly. His attitude clearly said these minor upsets were bound to happen.

Within moments the room was as before with wine flowing freely, compliments of the house.

Caleb walked on deck, his hands clenched at his sides, the sweat pouring off his face. If he were a gambling man, he wouldn't give a farthing for Langdon's chances of living to see another sunset. What would Sirena say when she found out? How would she hold up her head as the wife of a man caught cheating at cards? Somebody must warn her. He couldn't leave the ship. Would Langdon himself tell her? Not likely. No man wants to be made a fool in front of his wife. Then who? Regan? No, that would be like pouring salt in an open wound. Sinclair. He was the one to tell Sirena. After all, he was her solicitor.

Caleb returned to his cabin and scrawled a brief message. He handed it to a cabin boy with instructions to deliver it to Sinclair's house with all speed. Poor Sirena. Why did she have to be beset by so many traumatic problems? Would she ever attain the normal life everyone else took for granted?

The water was choppy as it slapped against the sides of the
Sea Siren,
and the vessel rocked slightly as Caleb stood in the dark at the rail. Whispers reached him and he spun about. There seemed to be an urgent malevolence in the hushed words filtering to him. He strained to hear and, at the same time moved closer to the ladder where he surmised the voices were coming from. Lord Farrington and another man. The second voice was familiar; he had heard it somewhere before. He frowned but was unable to distinguish the words because of the rough slap of water against the hull.

Something teased at his memory but would not surface. He knew in his gut he had heard that harsh, evil whisper, but where? And why was Lord Farrington hiding in the dark like a criminal? What was the distinguished lord up to? It must be something not quite legal, he thought to himself, otherwise why did he need an out-of-the-way place to discuss his business. He had been jittery of late. Caleb had not failed to see how assiduously he counted the monies at the end of the night and the grim, tight line around his mouth when he pocketed his share. Always the look was in his eyes that it wasn't enough. Something was wrong. The hackles on the back of Caleb's neck rose as he heard the words, “kill ... suffered enough ... my right ... you have no other choice if you want to live.”

Caleb withdrew further into the shadows as the figures emerged from their hiding place. Damn, he could only see the other man's back. He limped and his arm seemed to hang lamely at his side. Caleb scowled and knew the set of the head and height, as well as the voice, were familiar. Who was he and where had he seen him? Why was he threatening Lord Farrington? This was his ship and he deserved to know what was going on. As soon as the man left, he would go to Aubrey and demand answers. If Aubrey were in trouble, perhaps he could help him.

On catlike feet Caleb walked to the hatchway and waited for the crippled man to descend the gangplank. He moved and grasped Farrington by the arm. “Who was that?” he demanded harshly. “I want to know what's going on and I want to know now.”

Lord Farrington turned, a look of fear on his face. “A small matter, Cal, and one that need not concern you,” he said, trying to force a light note into his voice.

“I've heard that voice and seen that man somewhere and, if I'm not mistaken, he can mean only trouble. Are you in some financial difficulty, Aubrey? Perhaps I can help. We have a good thing going here; we're both becoming prosperous and I wouldn't want anything to jeopardize our business venture. Let me help you.”

Aubrey clapped Caleb on the shoulder, his face all smiles. “Cal, my boy, it's a matter of personal ... let's just say it concerns a lady and her good name.”

“You're lying, Aubrey. I'm not going to ask you again. If you won't accept my help, the least you owe me for what we have going together is honesty.”

“You won't leave it alone, will you?” Aubrey said coldly. “I told you it's a personal matter. I wonder how quick you would be to confess to me of your affair with your father's wife if I were to press for details? Ah, I see that my statement has hit home. I have no wish to discuss your affairs nor mine with you. The matter is ended.”

Aubrey Farrington watched Caleb walk away, his face stony and hard. His own face wore a hate-filled look at the position he was in. He felt like fiddle strings were being stretched throughout his whole gut.

 

When Regan shook the fair-haired Camilla awake, she rolled over and murmured sleepily, “Not to—”

“—night, I have a raging headache,” Regan finished for her. “It isn't your body I desire but I must tell you something. Wake up, you must listen to me. Your father was caught cheating tonight on the
Sea Siren
and one of the gamblers called him out. There's to be a duel at dawn. Are you listening to me, Camilla? Dawn is just a few hours away. I'm going to be your father's second. The weapons are pistols and we both know that rapiers are your father's strong point.”

Camilla sat up in bed, her hair tousled as though she were having a restless night. The eyes she turned to Regan were deep violet and there was something he had never seen in them before. If he had been forced to put a name to it, he would have to call it maturity. He had expected a tearful scene full of recriminations. Not this quiet, pensive girl.

Camilla waited for Regan's words to sink in to her consciousness. She waited to feel the guilt of Stephan's and her last parting. Her father could be killed and yet the grief and concern would not come.

“Stephan is a fool,” Regan said as kindly as he could. “This isn't the first time he was caught cheating on the
Sea Siren.
He was given a warning and this time it was professional gamblers who caught him at it. Now, every man in London who ever lost a farthing to your father will be certain he was cheated. Even if somehow Stephan manages to come through this duel, which is unlikely, he's a ruined man.”

“He has nobody to blame save himself,” Camilla said quietly. “I've warned him time and again. When you do something that hurts others, eventually you have to pay for it. Father is just beginning to pay.”

Was this Camilla speaking? Regan asked himself. Before his eyes she had changed; for the first time Regan found himself liking his bride.

“I'm only sorry you became involved in this, Regan. I wouldn't like to see anything happen to you. You're a good man.” Tears welled up in her large eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Regan traced the path of one salty drop with his fingertip. Yes, Camilla had definitely changed. Before tonight her tears had always been for herself and had taken the form of childish tantrums. These were the tears of a woman. The tears of regret.

“I'll have to be leaving, Camilla,” he said softly.

“Take care of yourself, Regan. Father isn't worth one drop of your blood.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him. “I'll be damned!” he swore lightly, finding his way to the stairs.

 

Sirena stirred fitfully in her sleep, dreaming she heard Mikel calling for her. Even in her dreams she knew it couldn't be Mikel. Her son was dead, his tiny bones rotting in Javanese soil.

She moved again and curled herself into a tight ball for warmth. It was no use; she was awake so she might as well get up and get another light cover. The moment her bare feet touched the floor, she clearly heard the soft mewing sound. She hadn't been dreaming! It must be the cook's cat. She would have to find him and return him to the kitchen before he woke the whole house.

Quickly picking up a dressing gown and slipping her feet into her mules, she grasped the lamp firmly and entered the hallway. The lamp cast flickering shadows on the high walls and ceiling. “Here kitty, here kitty,” she called, peering into dark corners. At the top of the stairway she stopped and listened. Cats didn't hiccough!

The light held high, the front of her robe clutched in her hand, she raced down the stairs and into the library. She was shocked by the sight that met her eyes. Wren stood with her back to the cold hearth, clutching her nightgown close to her, while Stephan was trying to forcibly strip it from her.

A bellow of rage burst out of Sirena as she threw the smoking lantern at Stephan and watched it roll into the depths of the fireplace. “Run, Wren!” she screamed as Stephan retreated into a corner near the desk, shock on his face at having been caught in the act. He was stunned by the force of the blow from the lamp as it glanced the side of his head, and he rocked precariously on the balls of his feet as he brought Sirena into his line of vision. Sirena emitted a bloodcurdling call for Frau Holtz, never taking her eyes from the most loathsome creature on the face of the earth.