Capture The Wind (25 page)

He reached out and lifted her to her feet with one hand under her elbow. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. Turk found your—betrothed. Come and see him. I think he’ll be most surprised to see you.”

“I should think so,” she began, but Kit wasn’t listening. He pulled her through the room, nodding at acquaintances but not pausing. Once outside, Angela breathed deeply of the fresh air. Her head was swimming and she felt faint. It must have something to do with the rum, though she had been fairly prudent and sipped only a little.

“This way, angel,” Kit said, and tucked her hand into the crook of his ann. “You are about to be reunited with your true love, so don’t dally. I think I shall enjoy this meeting much more than you.”

“I’m certain you’re delighted to be rid of me,” she said tartly, but Kit only laughed.

It was Dylan who said, “Life won’t be the same aboard the
Sea Tiger
without you and Emily.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Kit said. “I rather look forward to peace upon the waters again.”

Nervous, Angela bit her lower lip to keep from giving Saber a reply that would only start another argument. Lately, it seemed that every exchange she had with Dylan ended that way, and Kit was even more adept at provoking a quarrel.

After walking a few blocks, Kit stopped her at the corner of Royal and St. Anne.

“This is it,” he said, and cupped her chin in his palm to lift her head. The hood to her cloak fell back and she stared up at him. There was something in his eyes that she could not read, some elusive emotion that made her shift nervously. Was he regretting the fact that she would be going off with another man? Did he care that he would never see her again after tonight?

The questions trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she could not force herself to ask them. Especially not with Dylan standing silently by, watching and waiting.

“Angela,” Saber said, his tone curiously soft, “remember that it has been a long time since you have seen your Philippe. Circumstances change.”

“Yes, but love does not. Not true love, which is what we have between us.” She took a deep breath. “He is here, then? In this establishment?”

Kit’s hand fell away. “Yes. Turk is already inside.”

She glanced at the tall building doubtfully. “Is this another place like the last?”

“Similar.” He gestured toward the front door. “It is a new house and acts as the gathering place for Royalist émigrés who have escaped execution in France, a logical meeting spot for your deposed friend.”

“Yes, Philippe would gravitate here, I am certain,” she murmured. She reached up to smooth her hair. “Do I look presentable?” she couldn’t help asking, flushing slightly when Kit gave a bark of laughter.

“How predictable you are. Yes, you are beautiful, as you well know. Do not be so vain, angel. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I am not vain, it is just that I have not seen him in so long, and I wish to appear at my best.” She smoothed the skirts of the gown Dylan had brought from her own trunk and took another deep breath. “I am ready.”

“Dear God, you sound as if you are preparing to be presented to the king instead of some downtrodden royalist with nothing to commend him but the acquaintance of other poverty-stricken, exiled aristocrats.”

Flashing him a dark look, Angela snapped, “I shall be most grateful not to have to listen to any more of your snide comments!”

Kit stepped to the door and pushed it open, holding it wide for her. She swept past him as he murmured, “I hope so, angel.”

The atmosphere inside the Café des Exilés was much different from that of the Café des Réfugiés. Though crowded as had been the other, these men spoke in fluent French and flawless English, with none of the crude laughter she’d heard earlier. Lantern light flickered softly, and the conversation was a low hum instead of raucous chaos.

“This way,” Kit said, and they followed a dark-clad servant down a hallway to the rear of the house and a steep staircase.

Turk stood outside a door on the second floor and nodded when he saw Kit. “Monsieur du Plessis resides within,” he said, and indicated the door. “But I do not believe now would be the most appropriate hour to engage him in polite conversation. He has guests.”

Angela stepped forward before she lost her nerve. “I disagree. He will not mind interrupting any conversation to see me, I am certain.”

Turk gave her a grave stare, then looked up and past her to Kit.

“Let her go,” Kit said with a shrug, and leaned a broad shoulder against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We will wait here if you like.”

“Do as you please. Philippe will take care of me now.”

Angela stepped to the door and knocked sharply. She could hear the muted murmur of voices inside and shifted impatiently when no one called to her to enter. She knocked again, and when there was still no reply, she grasped the knob. It turned easily, and she pushed open the door.

Candlelight flickered in glass globes on the walls and tables, but oddly, provided scant light. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was the fragrance of heavy perfume and brandy, and lumps of material were scattered on the carpet. A rustling like dry leaves caught her attention, and she turned toward the sound. A couch stretched against one wall, and several chairs and lounges were grouped about haphazardly.

Then she heard the unmistakable sound of feminine laughter. She stopped when a throaty male voice called out,
“Entrez vous, chérie!”

“Philippe?” she managed to murmur, her voice trembling. The strangeness of the scene had not escaped her, and she noted the occupied couch across the room. She took a step forward, hands clenched into the folds of her cloak. “Philippe, is it you?”

There was an instant of silence, then a murmured curse in French.
“Sacre bleu!
Angela? It cannot be you.”

She froze, slowly perceiving the scene before her with disbelieving eyes. The tangled dark mass on the couch separated into distinct arms and legs and faces, and she recognized Philippe as he disentangled himself from the two women and stood.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly as he strode toward her.
“Mon Dieu,
did you not receive my letter?”

“Letter?” she repeated numbly. “I
 . . .
I don’t know what you mean. I have all your letters. The letters we wrote to one another over the years—Philippe, what is the matter? Are you not glad to see me?”

She could not help the faint note of pleading in her voice, but there was too much to comprehend at the moment. He was moving toward her and taking her by one arm to push her across the room, and she saw dimly that she had left the door open. He shoved her toward it.

“Go back home, Angela. I wrote you immediately upon receiving your letter, telling you not to join me.
C’est
impossible.”

“But—we love one another. Papa will come ’round once we are wed. You know he will. And even if he does not, nothing matters but our love.”

Philippe stepped into a pool of light, dark eyes narrowed and cold. His frilled shirt was open to the waist, and the top two buttons of his trousers were undone. Angela looked away, cheeks hot with embarrassment. It was only too obvious what she had interrupted.

“Listen to me,” he said coldly. “Your papa will not capitulate. He made it quite clear to me that he would never sanction our union. And I have no intention of wedding a milk-faced girl without any money. Go back home. You have come all this way for nothing.
C’est fini
 . . .
”

Reeling with shock and disillusionment, Angela could not move for a moment. She stood staring up at him, at his aristocratic face and thin lips, the faint sneer curling them up at the corners.

“But our letters,” she whispered, still unable to conceive that she meant nothing to him. “The things you said to me—”

“Lies. I did not even write them, Angela. Père François wrote them for me. The old priest had a romantic soul,
oui?”

One of the women still on the couch called out something in French and Philippe half turned with a laugh. When he glanced back at her, Angela slapped him across one cheek with her palm. The echo of her blow sounded loud in the room, and she heard an angry exclamation from the couch just before Philippe grasped her by the wrist.

She gasped as sharp pains shot up her arm, and she tried to jerk away. A scream from the direction of the couch was the only warning before Philippe was suddenly flung backward, and it took her a moment to realize what had happened. By then, Saber was standing over the fallen Frenchman, a boot on each side of his torso. Philippe stared up in shock.

“Do not even consider trying to rise,
mon ami,”
Kit said in an amicable tone that did nothing to hide his fury. “I would be forced to pin you to the floor with my sword, and the management frowns on carpet stains. Especially blood, as it is so hard to remove.”

Philippe had paled to a pasty gray-white. He gave a short jerk of his head to indicate understanding, then grew very still and watchful. After a moment, Kit stepped back and motioned for Turk to come forward. Philippe’s eyes grew wide as the massive shadow moved toward him, and in a very short time, Turk had pulled him to his feet and seated him in a chair.

“Now,” Kit said pleasantly, “apologize to the young lady for not only your manners, but your fraud. Then we will take our departure.”

“No,”
Angela whispered hoarsely. “I do not want an apology from him. There is nothing he can say or do that will excuse him.”

Shrugging, Kit looked at her. “No, but until you hear it, you cannot forget it.” He glanced back at Philippe.

“I apologize to you for my deception and my manners,” Philippe muttered ungraciously. “But you have brought it upon yourself with your foolish actions.” He gave Saber a defiant glance. “I do not apologize for anything else.”

“You should. You’re as miserable an excuse for a man as I have ever seen.” Kit reached out with one foot and kicked Philippe backward. He crashed to the floor in a splintering of wooden chair and brocade.

Angela realized she must have made some sound, because suddenly Dylan was there, one arm around her, drawing her to the door. “Come along,” he said softly in her ear. “Saber will take care of him now.”

“He is not worth it,” she said numbly. “I do not want to be responsible for anything. Just—just take me away, Dylan. Please. I want to see Emily. I want to leave here
 . . .
”

Turning, she buried her face in Dylan’s shoulder, feeling the smooth linen of his shirt cool against her burning cheek. Pain clogged her throat and made her stumble, and Dylan’s arm tightened around her.

She barely remembered the return to the ship. It was only a blur of movement punctuated by sharper images. There was darkness and water, and then the blessed relief of seeing Emily again. Turk soothed her with his resonant reassurances and herbal tea, and Emily helped her into a cool lawn gown and tucked her into a wide bunk that she only vaguely recalled. Then she was left in silence, while the familiar rocking of the ship lulled her into a deep sleep.

Angela stared over the rail at the distant speck of land on the horizon. Her eyes were shadowed by her lashes and sadness, and pale hair whipped against her cheeks. Kit shifted, leaning an elbow on the rail next to her. Feeling awkward and damnably uncertain of himself, he watched her for a long time before finding a neutral topic of conversation.

Fortunately, it presented itself in the form of a smudge on the horizon that grew steadily larger as the ship sliced through the iridescent blue-green Caribbean Sea. When the smudge grew into a land mass rising abruptly from the Atlantic on the north side, the Caribbean on the south, he gestured toward it.

“See that deep-water harbor? That’s St. Thomas. I know you’ve heard of Blackbeard. He favored the town of Charlotte Amalie on this harbor as his haunt. When we get closer, you’ll see a tall stone tower. It’s known as Blackbeard’s Castle. He used it as a lookout post for Spanish galleons.”

Turning to stare up at him, Angela shaded her eyes from the sun with her palm. A faint smile touched her lips. It was the closest he’d seen her come to any emotion other than apathy in the past week since leaving New Orleans.

Curiosity now sparked in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I suppose Dylan told you about my Blackbeard remark.”

“He did mention your comparison between us, yes.”

She sighed. “Well, I always thought Blackbeard was more myth than truth—rather like you. How do you know all about him?”

Shrugging, Kit resisted the urge to touch her. It took him much too long to curb the startling surge of tenderness that welled inside at her sad expression. Damndest thing, but ever since seeing her crushed by her betrothed’s callous rejection, he’d felt a compassion for her that he hadn’t suspected. Maybe it was more empathy than sympathy, but he could certainly understand how hurt she was. Hadn’t he had the same sort of experience himself?

Clearing his throat, he said, “Legend is sometimes based on fact. Blackbeard was real, all right. Maybe not larger than life, as some think, but just as villainous. Of course, legend mixes freely with fact, but there’s enough of both to satisfy even the most curious.”