Capture The Wind (2 page)

Her voice was distant and cool. “I am certain you are right, but I do believe we should maintain proprieties, even on so joyous an occasion.”

“For God’s sake, Elaine—” he began in an irritable tone, but was interrupted by a commotion on the deck of the ship.

They both turned, just in time to see a uniformed seaman go tumbling over the rail and into the narrow space between ship and quay. A loud splash sent up a geyser of water, but did not drown out the lurid string of curses that accompanied the man’s fall.

These curses did not come from the sailor, however, but from the mouth of a youth being wrestled along the deck of the ship by no less than five men. Charles and Elaine watched in stunned horror. The knot of flailing arms and legs lurched closer, then balanced at the edge of the ramp leading to the quay below.

Ship passengers and those on the stones of the quay gave a concerted gasp. The tangle of struggling combatants swayed precariously, threatening to tumble into the narrow ribbon of water below in the same manner as the unfortunate sailor. Above the grunts and curses that accompanied the tussle rose a shrieking litany.

“Slash ’im! Stick ’im! Belay, mates! Ship to starboard! Awwk!”

A flash of scarlet dipped above the heads of those involved in the conflict; the beat of wings snapped against the wind. Charles and Elaine exchanged glances of dawning horror. They moved forward to arrive at the bottom of the ramp leading from the ship just as the combatants lurched onto the quay.

Flushed faces were a blur, then a burst of curses and dark hair exploded from the center of the men onto the flat stones and landed in a half-crouch. Snarling with a ferocity that would have done a Bengal tiger proud, the panting youth shoved a brown fist into the air and shook it.

“Bloody buggers. If I ‘ad my saber, I’d cut you inta too many pieces ta feed ta th’ bloody sharks
 . . .
”

A flash of scarlet squawked again and settled in a whir of wings onto the boy’s shoulder. “Bloody buggers!” came the shriek, and the bird tilted its head to one side as if expecting confirmation. A brown hand stroked the wings, and then the boy turned in a whirl, eyes raking over Charles and Elaine with a hot blue gaze.

“Christian,” Charles said in a strangled croak. “Are you Christian Sheridan?”

A harsh laugh cut the air, and the boy’s lips curled in a sneer. “Not I, guv’nor. They calls me Tiger.”

“How appropriate,” Charles murmured in obvious relief. His gaze shifted to the breathless man limping forward. “Filbert,” he said faintly. “You look—dreadful.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Filbert shot the youth a baleful glare. “Lord Christian seemed to find it an inconvenient time to disembark. We tried to persuade him differently, but he was rather
 . . .
firm
 . . .
in his decision to remain aboard.”

Charles slid a horrified gaze back to the boy. “This is Christian?”

As Filbert nodded morosely, the boy snarled, “Bloody ’ell! My name ain’t Christian. It’s Tiger. ’Ow many times do I have ta tell ya that, ya
 . . .
”

He reeled off a list of colorful titles for the long-suffering Filbert, including several comments about the doubtful legitimacy of his parentage, while Charles listened in growing dismay and Elaine began to make gasping sounds of shock. As if just noticing her, the boy shot Elaine a raking stare.

“ ’Ello, love. Ain’t you a bit young ta be with this ole geezer? I can toss yer skirts for ya if ya need decent diddlin’
 . . .
”

Charles stepped forward and clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Reaction was swift. The youth turned in a savage whirl, a bare foot slamming into his father’s middle as he jerked away. The Duke of Tremayne made a muffled sound and slipped to his knees, while the men who had wrestled Christian from the ship to shore grabbed him.

Above the chaos, the scarlet bird circled gracefully in a screeching frenzy. “Bloody hell! Bloody hell!”

With a low sigh, Elaine Davenport, the daughter of the Earl of Southwild, slipped into a dead faint on the soiled stones of the quay.

Christian Sheridan stared at her with an expression of grim satisfaction, ignoring the clutching hands that held him still. A brisk breeze lifted his dark hair, stirring it against his bare shoulders and tugging at the bright red sash around his waist. Below the ragged knee-length trousers he wore, his legs and feet were bare. Sunlight glinted from the dark teak of tanned skin and immature muscle, and made the diamond earring in his left lobe glitter.

But it was his face that commanded the most attention, a caricature of youth with deep blue eyes that looked older than time. A faint scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek, and when he smiled, as he was now, he looked more like a dangerous predator than a boy of sixteen.

“Tiger! Tiger!” the bird screeched, and settled with a flap of its wings onto the torn shoulder of Filbert’s once immaculate frock coat.

Filbert shuddered, and looked at the boy staring back at him with hot, resentful eyes. “Lord Christian, may I present your father to you, His Grace, the Duke of Tremayne.”

Christian spat onto the stones. The Duke of Tremayne rose shakily to his feet and took a step forward. His voice was slightly unsteady.

“Welcome home, Christian.”

“Go to hell,” the boy snarled, and Tremayne turned.

“Bring him to our coach, Filbert. If that is possible. Oh, and someone bring Elaine ’round from her faint. It’s time to go home.”

Tension crackled
in the wood-paneled library of Greystone Hall as if a towering blaze. The duke eyed his son with a mixture of frustration and trepidation. He leaned forward, knuckles gouging into the polished surface of his desk.

“What do you hope to gain by this display of rebellion? There is no reason for it that I can see.”

“Aye, so ya keep saying,” the boy flung at him. He sprawled his lean frame in a chair as if daring the duke to protest.

Charles held his tongue, though Filbert would have been beside himself at the insult. No one sat in the presence of a duke unless given express permission. And certainly not a wild-haired boy with a foul-tongued bird perched on his shoulder. The duke studied the bird, grimacing when the creature made a deposit upon the Flemish carpet.

“I would much prefer that you confine that nasty parrot to a cage,” he said tautly.

Christian stroked the bird’s feathers with a tender gesture. “He ain’t no parrot. He’s a lory.”

“A what?”

The boy’s lip curled with superior contempt. “A bloody lory. Cain’t ya hear good—yer lordship?”

Charles stiffened. “Christian,” he began, but was cut off by a rude oath and defiant glare.

“I told ya—my name is Tiger.”

The duke’s mouth tightened. “And I told you that I refuse to call you by that abhorrent name. Christian is the name your mother and I chose to call you, and—”

“Don’t dare mention her to me!”

Lithe as the tiger of his adopted namesake, the boy surged to his feet in a fluid motion that made his father step back and the bird rise into the air with an indignant squawk. Christian vibrated with a rage that left Charles floundering for words.

“Whyever not?” Charles asked after a moment of smoldering silence. “Why should I not mention your mother?”

The lory settled back on Christian’s shoulder, muttering several vile phrases that Charles ignored with only a slight tightening of his mouth to indicate he’d heard them.

Christian jerked around and began to prowl the room. His tattered trousers flapped around his knees. The only concession he’d yet made to conventional fashion was a loose white shirt with flowing sleeves. A red sash still circled his waist, and the diamond earring winked in gray light that streamed through tall windows lining an entire library wall.

With one hand clenched into a fist, Christian dragged it along a mahogany edge of the gleaming desk, then turned to face his father.

“You’re not fit to have kissed the hem of her skirts.”

Charles lifted a brow. “How did you arrive at this conclusion? Not that I argue the point, but I’m just curious.”

Christian took a step toward him, eyes locked on his father’s face. His diction was perfect, the ill-bred accent vanished.

“Do you really think a child of six is too young to understand what he hears? That he doesn’t notice if his mother weeps into her pillow at night?” He dug a fist into his chest. “I noticed. And I noticed when you had those men follow us, too. I may have been young, but I’m not as stupid as you would like me to be.”

Charles took a deep breath. His face was set, and his gaze did not waver. “I never thought you were stupid. Just too young to understand the implications behind my actions.”

“Understand? What was there to understand?” Christian gave a harsh laugh. “You hired men to catch my mother when she left you. You didn’t think I could recognize the difference between real pirates and men masquerading as pirates, did you? No, I can see by the look on your face that you didn’t. But I did. Oh, not at first, true. But later, after my mother had been tossed overboard by your hired thugs and we sailed away on another ship, I discovered the deception. We were attacked and overtaken by real pirates, and I knew the difference.” He looked away and took a deep breath. “Oh aye, I knew the difference well then.”

“Christian—”

“No.” Backing away, he shook his head. “You killed my mother as surely as if you had been the one to toss her over the rail without a thought.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Can you stand there and look me in the eye and tell me that you did not send men after us? That you did not give them orders to take me and get rid of her?”

“I gave orders for her to be followed and you taken, yes, but I would never have given orders to throw her overboard. She could have gone on to meet the man she was fleeing to—or did you know that? Did you know she was leaving me for another man?”

Something froze in Christian’s face, and he took an involuntary step back. “You’re lying,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re—”

“Am I?” Charles took a step forward. “I don’t have to lie. If you say you remember so much, then try and recall the nights she left you alone in your cabin. Can you?” He took another step while Christian retreated backward, pain and denial on his youthful face. Charles continued grimly, “Do you remember her returning, all flustered smiles and whispers? You should, my boy. Because you and she were on her lover’s ship.”

“No.” Christian halted at last, back to the bank of long windows. He stared up at his father’s face where gray daylight picked out the bitter grooves on each side of his mouth. Denial strangled his voice until it came out only a faint husk of sound. “You’re lying.”

Charles’s mouth twisted. “Oh no. Kill her? Why would I? She should have had to face her shame—and me. But Vivian St. Genevieve would never have done that.” Charles put back his head and laughed, but it rang into the study with a harshness thick enough to be felt as well as heard. “She knew I would not give you up, and that is why she took you from me. I would have followed her to the end of the earth for you, and I damn near did. If you think to hear an apology for her loss, you’re mistaken.”

“You bastard
 . . .
”

“Am I? Tell me, Christian—whatever makes you think your mother is dead?”

“I saw—”

“You saw what she meant you to see. Dead? Vivian?” The duke laughed harshly. “Oh no, my lad, not by half. No, your precious mother is quite alive, more’s the pity. She has just chosen to
 . . .
absent herself from England, as well as from her husband and son.”

“If she’d been alive, she would have come for me,” Christian said tightly. “She would never have allowed me to be taken away like that.”

Charles gave him a mocking stare. “You are so young and naive, my boy. And much too trusting in the gentle nature of women, it seems. Life has yet to teach you the realities of the fair sex, I see. A pity. Until you learn better, I fear you will suffer greatly.”

For a long moment, Christian stood there. The bird on his shoulder muttered something obscene, then lapsed into silence as if sensing disaster. Without another word, the boy turned on his bare heel and stalked from the library.

Charles stared after him long after he’d gone. Shadows melted into night, and a fine drizzle coated the leaded glass panes of Greystone Hall before the Duke of Tremayne left his library.