Capture The Wind (21 page)

“So, you’ve managed to irritate the normally placid Mr. Buttons,” he said. “I see he has you restrained for your own safety.”

“Not exactly,” she began, glaring up at him. His grip tightened and she smothered a gasp of pain.

“Now, sweetheart,” he said, “you know that Papa will worry if I don’t keep you safe.” Half turning on the balls of his feet, he looked back at the officers still standing in the open door. “My sister,” he explained. “She has run away so often that we’re forced to resort to extreme measures. Papa has despaired of her ever being wed, as no man wants a harpy, so I am to take her to a convent until she learns temperance.”

“Ah.” Lieutenant Garcia smiled slightly. “I have six sisters. They are all high-strung, and we have had to offer a huge dowry for each of them. It is very expensive.”

Angela had begun to sputter furiously, and Kit looked back down at her. “Quiet, little one, or I shall gag you,” he warned in a solicitous tone that made her eyes narrow.

“Yes, brother dear,” she said so sweetly that he looked at her more sharply. “I should hate to make matters worse. Especially as it’s been so difficult for you lately, with half the English Navy chasing you—”

His thumb dug viciously into the tendons of her wrist, and he tucked a hand under her chin, his gaze boring into hers. “No, no, I’ve told you several times—those were French ships.”

“Flying English flags?” she chirped. Her soot-streaked mouth curved into a smile when his hand tightened, and she whispered, “We need to talk privately, or I shall be forced to confess all I know to our inquisitive visitor.”

“It’s hard to talk with a slit throat,” he muttered, but heard Garcia cough politely and knew that he would have to silence her. He turned, forcing a smile. “She feels a bit light-headed. Allow me to see her to her cabin, and—”

“My cabin is on fire,” Angela said sweetly. “And I feel fine.”

“Capítan,” Garcia interrupted, “perhaps we should discuss this a bit more. There seems to be a contradiction here.”

Kit met Angela’s triumphant gaze with a flash of grudging admiration. She had cleverly managed to maneuver him into a difficult position. If he was to avoid detainment at the best, and at the worst—arrest—he would have to bargain with her. As much as it went against his grain to agree, he heard himself murmur, “I understand we are to go to New Orleans.”

She smiled. “How considerate of you. I trust we’ll have a most amicable voyage.”

Turning, Kit said to Lieutenant Garcia, “Please be seated, and my sister and I will endeavor to straighten out any misconceptions you may have.”

“All in all,” Turk said thoughtfully, “it was a rather creative effort. In my opinion.”

Kit ignored him, which was not easily done. He continued scratching notes in his log, trying to focus on what should be said and what he would like to say about the previous day’s events.

“Left Ponta Delgada with cargo intact. Was allowed to take on water and necessary supplies after paying what was required by the commissioner as fees.”
Pause. He chewed on the end of his pen for a moment, then dipped it back into the inkwell.
“After unfortunate explosion aboard ship, decision was made to sell cargo in Caribbean.”
He scratched out the last word and penned in
New Orleans
, then used a blotter on the page.

“What do you propose to do with the young ladies?” Turk asked into the silence, and Kit looked up.

“I find myself torn between sewing them up in burlap bags with heavy rocks and throwing them into the sea, or just tossing them overboard. I lean toward the former myself, as the latter leaves too much to chance.” He closed the log book. “And with a woman like Angela, nothing should be left to chance.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Kit rose from behind his desk. “I’m glad, because I certainly don’t. What the hell did she expect to gain from that little performance?”

“Isn’t it evident? She gained what she desired, which is passage to New Orleans. It is entirely coincidental that we just happen to be sailing to that particular destination. Ah, the vagaries of Fate
 . . .
”

“Damn Fate,” Kit said shortly. “If I had my way, the little vixen would be sailing back to England in a paper boat at this very moment.”

“Indeed.” Turk settled his large frame into a Moroccan leather chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “Why is it that my analysis of the situation is so disparate from yours?”

“Because you’re too eager to jump to conclusions. Enough, Turk. I’m not in the mood.”

“No, I presume you are not. In the mood for a correct evaluation, at any rate.”

Kit reached for the decanter of brandy. His temper was short, and he found Turk’s attitude aggravating. He poured a large amount in a glass and swallowed it, then poured another liberal portion, aware of Turk’s somber gaze on him.

“Alcohol will not help.”

“I’ll remember that,” Kit said nastily. “Alcohol won’t help. A handy little slogan to recall in the heat of battle, or when some damned female has again managed to bungle up my life.”

“You’re blaming Angela for what others have done. I hardly deem that just, Kit.”

Turk’s quiet reproof was jarring. Kit slammed down his empty glass on the desktop. “No? Then what do you deem fair? Some of the crew opted for ten strokes with the cat, but others think it might kill her too quickly to suit them. Dylan, of course, thinks we should just keep her cozily in a cabin and out of sight until she gets where she wants. That,” he growled, “would kill me. So—what do you suggest?”

“Members of the crew are still perturbed that they were denied shore leave. Anger is a natural reaction. They will recover in time. It is you who concerns me, however.”

“Me?” Kit gave a harsh laugh and poured more brandy. “How am I a concern? I didn’t kill her, though God help me, I was sorely tempted. Once Garcia left, it was all I could do not to curl my hands around her pretty white throat and squeeze until she turned blue. Jesus. I can still envision it.” He closed his eyes and smiled.

“Kit.”

Opening his eyes, Kit met Turk’s dark gaze. Must the man be so knowing? Must he realize exactly what Kit was feeling? His hands curled around the brandy glass and he set it down slowly.

“I know, Turk. She’s not Vivian, and she’s not Elaine, or even Susan. But she’s just like them. She’s careless. She’s egocentric. She doesn’t care about anyone else when her own plans are in jeopardy. And all those wonderful attributes are wrapped tidily in a very appealing package, which only makes it more difficult to understand. Or see through.” He picked up his glass again. “And you’re wrong. Alcohol does help.”

Sighing, Turk shook his head. “No, it only dulls the edges. I don’t suppose her declaration of love for this Philippe du Plessis has anything to do with your pique?”

“No. Only a faint stirring of sympathy for Monsieur du Plessis.”

“Ah. Then I don’t suppose you would care to discuss your plans for her in the interim.”

“You suppose correctly.” Kit gazed at Turk over the rim of his glass. “Truth be told, I have no idea what I intend to do. All my instincts are screaming that I should drown her, but what little common decency I have left urges me toward caution. She’s like a bomb. Or a bottle of rum with a lit rag stuffed into the mouth. My God, she could have blown up the entire ship. Poor Buttons. He was beside himself, wasn’t he? I thought he was going to faint at one point.”

“Yes, when Garcia left and you dragged Miss Angela from your cabin and to the rail, there were many faint hearts and light heads.”

Kit snorted. “The hell there was. Only two—Buttons and Dylan.” He sat on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging back and forth. “What is it, do you think, that has generated such compassion from Dylan? For five years I’ve been trying to find something that would matter to him. Now, these strays come straggling along, and he’s a man with a mission.”

“Perhaps you should have purchased him a pet.” Turk stood up. “Or taken into account that it would be in his best interests to be put in a responsible position for someone weaker than he. It’s a rather novel notion for a youth reared to have responsibility for no one but himself.”

“I daresay.” Kit frowned. “A puppy would have been better. Soiled carpets are minor compared to the damage these two have done in such a short time.”

“The cabin is not damaged beyond repair. But I divine that is not what you are making reference to—am I correct?”

“As always.” Kit drained the last of his brandy and set down his glass. “And now, I shall brave Miss Angela in her den—or what’s left of it—and do my best not to kill her. It should be a most illuminating interview.”

“Slavery? Dear God.
Your melodramatics are almost more than I can stand.” Saber lifted a mocking brow, and Angela felt her face grow warm.

“Well,” she said defensively, “you did intend to ransom us to a man who would show little courtesy toward the paying customer. I thought we were to be sold as slaves. Can you deny it?”

Kit sat forward in his chair with an unfriendly light in his eyes. “It would serve you right. Nuñez is not foolish enough to allow any harm to come to his hostages. They are worth far less if they have been abused.”

His mocking assurance did little to lessen her righteous indignation, and Angela’s chin lifted slightly as she met his astringent blue eyes. They seemed overly sharp, cold nearly to the point of frigidity. She looked away after a moment, and said, “I apologize for the damage to our cabin.”

She felt his amusement when he drawled, “Your apology should be given to Mr. Buttons. It is his cabin.” He paused, then said, “Where did you learn to make bombs with bottles of rum, pray tell?”

Angela had no intention of telling him that she’d led a rather carefree childhood in the company of her rowdy cousin Tommy, who had gotten her into all manner of scrapes. She said merely, “I am well aware of the volatile tendencies of alcohol when ignited.”

“Apparently. Good thing Mr. Buttons’ cabin is located close to the fire buckets or the entire ship might have gone up in flame. Did you stop to think what might have happened?”

“I was confident that Mr. Buttons was watching closely, though I admit I was rather startled at how quickly feather pillows burn. And so much smoke—I probably didn’t even need those last few.”

Saber stood up. “No more fires, please. We are far from shore now, and it would be a long swim.” He started for the door, paused, and turned back to her. “You may thank your good fortune that Lieutenant Garcia did not have the imagination to see the truth behind your ridiculous story. If he had tried to arrest us, yours would have been the first throat I cut.”

Angela stared at him. He was so matter-of-fact that she didn’t doubt him for a moment. She felt a wave of nausea. There were times she tended to forget that she was dealing with a pirate, a man accustomed to all forms of murder and depravity. Saber’s gentlemanly facade lured her into false security at times, and she realized rather shakily that her actions could have led to a very different kind of ending. She swallowed the impulse to babble an apology.

For a long moment, Saber stared at her. A muscle flickered at one corner of his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed. Then he reached out to grasp her chin in his palm, his long fingers cradling her face in a hold that was not quite gentle, not quite harsh.

“There are times,” he said softly, “when I forget myself with you. Do not make the mistake of thinking me docile, however.”

Bewildered by the contrast of savage expression and inexplicable comment, Angela could only stare at him silently. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her jaw muscles with almost painful intensity. Her breath caught in the back of her throat when his head lowered, and she instinctively closed her eyes.

“Afraid at last, angel?” he purred. “You should be. I’m feeling quite lethal at the moment.”

Not quite daring to move or speak, Angela waited wretchedly for his next move or comment. Whatever it was she was certain it would be devastating. Nothing with this man was ever easy, and yet she found herself thinking of him more often than was necessary. Or prudent. Why couldn’t she just relegate him to some dim recess of her mind and focus on escape? Why
must
he invade her every waking moment with some form of mental anguish?