Capture The Wind (40 page)

Instead, she said without looking at him, “I suppose I won’t see you again.”

He hesitated. A three-masted sloop rode at anchor on the starboard side of the
Sea Tiger,
waiting to take Angela and Emily aboard. Negotiations had already been made, and in a short time, the
Swallow
would dock at the Pool between London Bridge and the Tower. Angela would be safely home.

Promises were so easily made and so deuced difficult to keep. Why break her heart when he didn’t know what might happen? A brisk wind stirred pale tendrils of the hair that peeked from beneath her muslin bonnet, and he resisted the urge to tuck it back under the scooped brim.

“You do know,” he said, “that since the fracas on St. Thomas, every man-o’-war in the Atlantic is looking for us. I can’t promise that I’ll see you soon.”

“Of course.”

Damn.
Why couldn’t he say what he knew she was waiting to hear? Three little words that came so easily to some and so bloody hard to him. He’d said them to only one person, and the memory of that time in his life still scalded him. No. It wasn’t the right time. Later, when he saw her again, he would be free to tell her how he felt. By then, he would have resolved the unanswered questions in his life one way or the other.

“They’re waiting, Angela,” he said gruffly, and took her by the arm. The brief contact jolted him, even through the embroidered sleeves of the spencer she wore over her day dress. Dylan had added new garments to their limited wardrobe, filched only the week before from the trunks of a French aristocrat bound for the Indies. Needless to say, he had not informed Angela or Emily whence the new clothes had come. Kit had to admit that the style suited Angela perfectly, with the low, square-cut neckline trimmed in lace ruching and barely hiding the swell of her breasts. After seeing her clad in light, simple gowns for so long, it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. This Angela he could well visualize in an elegant drawing room.

“The ship is waiting, Angela,” he said again, and gestured toward the rail where Dylan and Turk waited. Emily stood with a tear-stained face next to Dylan, but thankfully, she was not hysterical.

Dylan gave a quick twist of his head that sent the long dark rope of his hair over one shoulder in a graceful motion. Sunlight picked out blue glints in his hair and made his cat-gold eyes glitter like Spanish coins. He took Emily’s hand in his and bent to give her a gentle kiss. They whispered softly to each other, oblivious of the glances they received.

Smothering a twinge of envy at their indifference to those around them, Kit fought the impulse to take Angela in his arms.

He gestured to the opening in the rail instead. “I’ll help you over the side and into the jolly boat.”

Shaking her head, Angela avoided his eyes. “No, Turk has already offered to see me safely aboard the
Swallow.
As my trunks have been loaded, they need only their passengers to make sail. The captain is beginning to look quite impatient, I fear.”

Kit glanced up and saw Captain Hastings signal to him from the
Swallow.
It was obvious he wanted to be on his way. Any more delay, and he was quite likely to change his mind. That would never do. Kit knew his duty, however unpleasant it might be.

“Take her, Turk,” he said stiffly, and pushed her ever so gently into the waiting giant’s hands. “I’ll be below if you should need me.”

Angela did not protest, but glanced at him with green eyes silvery with tears. There was a taut set to her chin, as if she dared not relax her guard. “Farewell, Kit,” she finally whispered, and he gave a terse nod, unable to force words past the tightness in his throat.

Pivoting on his heels before he lost the thread of reason that had compelled him to send her away, Kit crossed the deck. He never turned to glance back, afraid that, like Lot’s wife, he would be turned to a pillar of salt by the vision of Angela disappearing from his life. Ridiculous, really. He hardly knew her. How could one know a woman’s mind well in only a few weeks?

Ah, but he could recall the sweet slope of her shoulder and the tantalizing swell of her breast well enough, as well as other portions of her that were even more alluring. It didn’t help to recall the sound of her laughter, low and musical, like the light tinkle of silver bells. Nor was it easy to reflect upon her rather touching courage in the face of adversity, and her stiff-necked pride when any other woman would have dissolved into maudlin wails.
Damn.
How could he send away a woman who insisted upon saving the life of a stranded jellyfish, and a few hours later killed a man to save her friend’s life? It was beyond his comprehension, but he’d done it.

Someone should paint a picture of this scene, he thought tiredly as he entered his cabin and sank into his deep-cushioned chair. It could be entitled
Fool at Work.
Or any other appropriate title that utilized the word
fool.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he sat in his cabin long after he heard the unmistakable sounds of the
Sea Tiger
getting under way. Afternoon shadows lengthened and grew dim, and Rollo muttered a sleepy chorus and tucked his head under a wing. Kit couldn’t even remember the bird joining him, and wondered if he was growing balmy. He must be, or he would have already shrugged off the depression he felt at sending Angela on to England. There was too much to do to wallow in self-pity.

Rising from his chair, Kit made his way topside.

Gravesend was the first
town on the Thames as the
Swallow
sailed upriver. The Pool, where the center of the maritime world thrived, lay between the Tower and London Bridge. Rubbish floated on the surface of the river as the vessel slithered around the quays and lines of warehouses. Angela had forgotten the smell of rotting wood, dead sea life, and refuse, but it came back to her in a rush when she went to stand at the gunwale.

“Ugh,” Emily muttered through a handkerchief at her nose. “It doesn’t smell at all like the cove on St. Thomas.”

Angela didn’t reply. She didn’t want to think about St. Thomas. Or the
Sea Tiger.
Or Kit. Numb from sleepless nights and an aching heart, she could only stare miserably as the ship nudged against the dock. London’s familiar sights held no interest for her at this moment. All she wanted was to find a soft bed that didn’t rock and lie in it.

“Miss Angela,” Emily interrupted her misery excitedly, “look who is waiting for us!”

Fighting a sudden surge of hope, Angela turned to see her parents standing on the stone quay peering anxiously up at the rail of the ship. Her heart clutched. Her mother looked the same, her short, curly hair lightly dusted with strands of silver and her abundant figure impeccably gowned. But Papa—there were deeper lines carved into his face, and his dark hair was almost all silver. His eyes scanned the rail of the ship in a searching gaze, and she lifted a hand in greeting. Her mother, she saw, began to cry immediately, while her father patted her with his usual distracted motions, lifting his arm to return Angela’s wave.

Angela’s smile and pleasure were genuine when she met them on the dock. She was enveloped in a tight embrace by her mother, who wept copiously onto her neck and said over and over that she had thought she’d never see her daughter again, while her father hovered just behind like a bee over a flower, offering a word here and there.

“My poor girl, my poor girl,” Alicia Lindell kept saying, while John Lindell
harrumphed!
and said “Now Alicia” several times. The “poor girl” altered to a litany of “it’s over now.”

“Oh, I’m so very glad to see you again,” Angela said at last, and discovered that she truly meant it. If she could not be with Kit, she at least had her loving family around her. Gently disengaging herself from her mother’s clasp, she turned to include Emily in their circle. “We are both glad to be back,” she said pointedly, and Emily beamed when Mr. Lindell put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze and a gruff “Welcome home, Emily.”

A light rain began to fall, and Mrs. Lindell scurried toward the waiting carriage, calling to them to join her while their trunks were fetched. In a very short time, the elegant landau rolled away from the docks.

Angela gazed out the window, paying only the scantiest attention to her mother’s chatter about friends and acquaintances who would be thrilled to have her home again. Rain spattered against the windowpanes in trickling rivulets, diffusing the familiar landmarks. They passed the Mansion House, where the lord mayor of London resided, traveled down Cannon Street past St. Paul’s Cathedral, then crossed the intersection where Blackfriar’s Road changed to Farringdon. With St. James and Piccadilly soon behind them, they entered the fashionable district of Mayfair, where John Lindell had built a most comfortable residence ten years before.

As the carriage turned up their street, John Lindell said into the growing silence, “My circumstances have grown even better since you left us, Angela.”

Dragging her attention to her father, she murmured, “How nice for you, Papa.”

“Yes, yes, quite so. Only a month ago, I was approached by an important man—well, perhaps not the man himself, but one of his barristers—who made me a most lucrative business offer. Of all the men in London he could have chosen, he chose me.”

Angela managed an interested smile. “I’m certain he made the wisest choice.”

“I like to think so.” Mr. Lindell sat back with a satisfied smile. “Rubbing elbows with Charles Sheridan is not something one does every day, you know.”

Frowning, Angela tried to recall where she had heard that name. “Charles Sheridan? Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because,” Lindell leaned forward to say with an even wider smile, “he is the Duke of Tremayne. Imagine—we have been invited to a soirée at his home. We shall be in company with nobility, if you please.”

Alicia Lindell fanned herself briskly and said in a faintly breathless tone, “I cannot imagine what I shall say! Or wear. Oh my—it is so fortunate that you have returned from your perilous voyage in time to join us, Angela.” Her wide blue eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded her daughter. “That time shall, of course, be explained with a most prosaic article in the papers. Your father has already attended to it, so we shall not mention it again.”

Angela gazed at her mother. Alicia’s fan moved rapidly back and forth. So, her capture by pirates was to be explained with a
—prosaic—
article
.
Kit Saber’s name would never be coupled with hers in any fashion, because that would be too detrimental to her father’s career. And her mother’s social life. She swallowed a tart reply, and turned her attention to the rain-wet street outside the carriage window. It was as it had always been. Not that she minded, really, for she had expected little else from her parents. She was being unfair. They loved her and wanted to protect her. But she was expected to adhere to society’s rules with no volition of her own. At least she knew what was required of her. And she knew they wanted only to shield her from cruel gossip and snubs. It would never have occurred to either of them that she might want anything else.

But she couldn’t help wondering if her mother had any interest in knowing what had really happened these past two months. Would she care that her only daughter had fallen in love with a pirate? Or that she missed him horribly and wondered if he ever thought about her? Somehow, she didn’t think it would occur to her mother to ask those questions.

Morning sunlight streamed
through the windows of the breakfast room with a cheery glow when Angela entered the next morning. Her father looked up from his daily paper and smiled at her.

“You are radiant as always, dear,” he said as she took a chair at the table. “I cannot tell you how much you’ve been missed.”

Angela returned his smile. A good night’s rest had restored her pleasure at being with her family again. “Thank you, Papa.” She unfolded a snowy linen napkin over her lap while a servant offered her food from silver chafing dishes. John Lindell had gone back to reading his newspaper, but looked up again when she asked if there was anything of note in the news.

“The usual. Napoleon and his machinations are wreaking havoc over half of Europe. I cannot imagine why Parliament has signed a treaty with him when they must know he will break it as soon as is expedient.
Humph.
He has spies everywhere. Everyone knows they are spies and still entertain them blatantly. It’s foolish and ridiculous.”

Amused, Angela said, “If spies are being entertained, there must be a good reason for it, Papa.”

“Hah! Some men will allow a beautiful woman to get away with anything, even political treachery. Foolishness, I say, pure foolishness.”

“A beautiful spy, Papa? I’m fascinated. Whatever are you talking about?”

“This Frenchwoman, La Diabolique. Diabolical is an astute term for her, I admit. Rumor has it that she’s devastatingly beautiful. Raven hair, blue eyes, and skin like Devonshire cream—it’s pathetic. She must be forty if she’s a day, yet men fall at her feet like sparrows in a hailstorm.” He leaned forward, shaking his paper angrily. “It was even said that Pitt entertained her, and if that should happen, government secrets would never be safe!”

“But you know how rumors are. Few of them are true and are often so well embroidered with fantasy that they bear little resemblance to the truth. Perhaps this La Diabolique only requested an audience with the Prime Minister. Out of that could have come this fantastic tale of an alliance.”