Capture The Wind (19 page)

“I am well aware of the motivation for your ill humor. As are you.”

“Bloody hell, Turk, leave it be,” Kit said savagely. “They’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“I fervently hope that you do not swerve in that enterprise, Kit. The consequences could be disastrous.”

“What makes you think I’ll change my mind? The girl gets on my nerves. I’m eager to be rid of the both of them.”

“As you say. Nevertheless, I wish to reiterate the importance of them being returned to their homes. It could initiate an incident that would be extremely detrimental to us if we were so foolish as to allow them to linger aboard the
Sea Tiger
much longer.”

Amazed, Kit said, “Do I look like I’m enjoying this? I’d rather eat a live toad than take her another league.”

A faint smile curved Turk’s mouth. “Live toads are not very appetizing. Nor are they healthy. If you insist upon meat in your diet, I suggest white fish or perhaps shellfish.”

Kit had learned long before not to take seriously every baiting comment Turk made, but it still rankled. “Thank you for another commentary on my diet when we’re discussing a completely different topic.”

“Not quite so dissimilar, if you consider all the aspects. You are remarkably intractable about recognizing facts whose existence you do not care to acknowledge. It can be both advantageous and calamitous.”

Kit ignored this. “While you are meeting with Commissioner LaRosa, I shall be making the arrangements for our
 . . .
guests to embark on a return journey to England. With a generous payment for our services, of course.”

“Excellent. I have the suspicion that Miss Angela would generate industrious investigation if her whereabouts are not divulged in a reasonable length of time.”

“If one cares to believe her maid, she is extremely valuable as a hostage. Although I have my doubts that anyone would bother paying for her, the crew thinks otherwise.” Kit rose from behind his desk. “Although if I were to be fair, I suppose I would have to admit to a certain astonishment at the young lady’s choice of reading material. Despite all appearances to the contrary, it seems she at least possesses a brain.”

“If you would actually commence a discourse with her instead of an argument,” said Turk, “you would already know that.”

Kit shrugged. He was beginning to find the conversation tedious, which was rare when he was with Turk. No other man had ever been able to converse at length with him, matching wit and temper so neatly that it was almost as if he argued with his mirror image. Lately, his mirror image had begun to chafe.

“At any rate,” he said, “by this time tomorrow, the ladies will be someone else’s problem.”

“I certainly hope so.” Turk paused in the doorway. “I shall be glad when matters are back to normal.”

“Whatever that is.”

Turk nodded. “Yes. Whatever that is.”

After Turk had gone, Kit moved to stare through the gallery porthole at the water outside. A blur on the horizon grew sharper as he watched. The volcanic rock of Pico Island thrust up from the sea in elephantine folds, barren and desolate. Ponta Delgada on the south side of São Miguel had a decent harbor, and they would be putting into it before dark. It would be a relief to rid himself of the responsibility of Angela Whoever.

He just wished he could erase from his mind the image of her in his bunk, still damp from her bath, and the silk dressing robe barely clinging to her luscious curves, her eyes closed in ecstasy. He tamped down the surge of raw frustration that still gnawed at him. Bloody hell. He’d get rid of her at the first opportunity. He had to, or he’d find himself at her feet like some puling adolescent boy besotted with his first woman.

Kit looked down at his knotted hands, and realized that he’d broken in two a Chinese figurine from the fifth dynasty. He couldn’t recall picking it up, but there it was in his hands, snapped as cleanly as a dry twig. Gently, he placed the ruined figurine on a table and reached for the decanter of brandy. He’d best dull the edges, or there would be hell to pay.

Rollo, flapped in through the opened door, perched on the edge of the brass tub and looked at him brightly. “Bloody hell,” he chirped cheerily, and Kit held up his brandy.

“A toast, Rollo. To women—if only we could fall into their arms, and not into their hands. Damn all women.”

Tilting back his head, he drained his brandy in a single swallow, while Rollo merrily crowed, “Damn all women. Damn all women
 . . .
”

“Now?” Angela tried to hide the sudden tremor of her hands. “I had no idea that we were even near land.”

Dylan turned her around and began to button her dress with a brisk efficiency that would do any lady’s maid proud. “Well, we are. How d’ya think I was able to persuade Saber to let you bathe? Be still. I can’t fasten these tiny hooks and eyes if you keep turning around to look at me.”

She stood stiffly while Dylan fussed with the fastenings of her gown. She had not seen Saber since the episode in his cabin earlier, and prayed earnestly that she would not have to face him again. She couldn’t. Not with the memory of what had transpired between them still so raw and vivid in her mind. It made her burn with shame to recall it, and she quickly thrust it from her thoughts.

But like a cork, images bobbed to the surface despite her most vigorous efforts to drown them. Flashes of Kit’s face above her on the bunk, his arms around her, his hands moving so wickedly and wantonly, provoking reactions she’d never dreamed existed
 . . .
she wondered what he thought of her now. That she was morally deficient, probably. She couldn’t argue with that, either. Why had she yielded so easily?

Maybe it was as he’d said—magic.
Surrender to the magic,
he’d told her, and she had not known then what he meant. Now she did. Oh yes. Now she did. She had never imagined anything would feel like that.

Thrusting it from her mind with a firmness born of desperation, she said as calmly as possible to Dylan, “What is to be done with us?”

“I’m not sure. And don’t think you can talk me into interfering. I heard you and Emily talking.” His hands straightened a fold of fabric, then he turned her back around. There was no malice or anger in his eyes, only a frank perception that made her slightly ashamed. “You shouldn’t talk so loud when you plan a mutiny. There are air vents in Saber’s cabin that lead topside, and I imagine if he hadn’t been so absorbed in what he was doing, he would have heard you as well. Good thing I made enough racket to drown you out. I don’t want to think about what
he
would have said about your plot.”

Emily removed her hands from her face and looked up from where she sat on the edge of a bunk. “Well,” she said with an unusual show of spirit, “what would you have us do? Just go meekly to our fates?”

“It would be easier. And safer. Look, Saber ain’t as bad as you’re thinking. I know I told you a bunch of stuff, but that was to keep you from doing anything too stupid. He wouldn’t really harm you. Scare you, maybe, but nothing fatal.”

“Then what does he plan to do with us today?” Emily asked.

Dylan looked away. Late afternoon light slanted hazily through the round ports and picked out coppery glints in his dark hair. “It was a council decision,” he said at last. “We all voted. Saber intends to arrange your passage back to England once we get to Ponta Delgada.”

Angela’s heart lurched. Kit intended to send her away after what had happened? Obviously, it had meant more to her than it did to him. Of course. Pirates would be well used to such interludes with women captives.

Lifting her chin, she snorted in a very unladylike manner. “But are we to go as passengers or as prisoners?”

“Does it matter? You’ve been well treated.” He thrust a hairbrush into Angela’s hand. “You might as well look presentable, whatever the plans.”

Emily made another sobbing sound, and Dylan’s expression softened when he turned to her. “Don’t fret, love. I can promise you that nothing too bad will happen. You’ll be traded for a hefty ransom first, but that’s all. No one will really harm you, I swear it.”

Moist brown eyes fastened on Dylan. “Ransom? Are you sure?” she whispered, and he grimaced.

“It’s the best thing for you. Common enough, you know. After all, it’s done all the time and certainly fattens up our purses. Pirates aren’t the only ones who do it,” he said defensively when Emily gave him a scathing glance. “France and England have been busily engaged in that sort of conduct for years. So has Spain, and every other
civilized
country, so you don’t need to look at me as if I’m in league with Attila the Hun.”

“How scholarly a comparison,” Angela said. “I’m delighted that you’ve heard of him, though I had in mind a more apt comparison—Blackbeard.”

Anger sparked the gold eyes. “Damme, but you don’t need to be so mean about it. Saber ain’t no Blackbeard.”

“Not enough wives?” Angela asked with a malice steeped in hurt. “Or is it the beard he lacks?”

Dylan turned abruptly to Emily. “Believe what you want, both of you, but I hope you’ve remorse enough to apologize when you’re safely on a ship back to England.”

Emily colored. “Oh, she didn’t mean it, Dylan, truly she didn’t!”

“Yes, I did,” Angela began, but Emily wasn’t listening. She had begun a stammering litany of reassurances that dealt with the sterling character of their “hosts,” and degenerated from there into an idealized itinerary of their exemplary treatment while aboard the Sea Tiger.

Disgusted, Angela muttered an uncomplimentary phrase that finally drew Dylan’s attention from Emily. His dark brow lifted.

“Say what you will, Saber ain’t like Blackbeard at all. He’s got a conscience, and he’s decent. He’s never willingly hurt a woman and has gone out of his way to treat both you and Miss Emily well, so I don’t know why you won’t believe me when I tell you that you won’t be harmed.”

“Forgive me,” Angela shot at him, “but it’s difficult to reconcile the Saber you describe with the man depicted in London as a monster. What do you suggest I believe—his well-known reputation or your glowing words?”

“Your own experience would be a good basis, I would think.” Dylan’s eyes softened slightly. “I understand why you’re worried, but there’s no need for it. If you’ll just give Saber the name of someone who would be willing to ransom you, you’ll be on a ship back to England quick as a cat.”

Angela turned away from his knowing gaze, coloring hotly as she wondered just how much Dylan knew. Dear God, she couldn’t let anyone see how painful this was for her—Kit’s rejection after what had happened was an obvious indication of what little value he placed on her. She suspected he must be right, or she would not have yielded so easily to him earlier.

“Oh, I see now,” she said with a careless shrug. “You’re simply the Trojan horse sent to ferret out our weakness. First you befriend us, then take gross advantage of our belief in you to coerce the names of those to be contacted for ransom. Well, I refuse to cooperate.”

“What a stupid notion. And aren’t you forgetting
your
little scheme?” Dylan asked with a lifted brow. “It’s remarkably close, if you ask me.”

“Perhaps. But I have no intention of telling you anything that will allow you to return us to England.”

Dylan stared at her as if not quite certain he’d heard correctly. “What?”

“I said, I have no intention of telling you anything.” Angela drew in a deep breath. “I wish to go on to America. I have business there and see no sense in going back to England.”

Emily moaned, and Angela dared not look at her. To return to England now would be the worst possible outcome of this whole affair. She would be wed immediately to the baron her father had chosen, and her life would be ruined. If she could get to America and Philippe, there may yet be hope for her future.

“You’re joking,” Dylan said, his voice flat as if he realized that she was not. “You must be.”

“I am not.” Angela met his gaze steadily. “If we are to be ransomed, it will be in America, not England.”