Come the Dawn (30 page)

She couldn’t let that happen.

Her chin rose. “So you’ve noted the likeness. It’s been the curse of my life, for I’m no Delamere, not in the way it counts. They’ve only given me reason to hate the lot of them.”

“I think I do not understand.”

“I’m one of the duke’s by-blows, blast it! I was fathered on a servant girl!”

The Frenchman turned away and refilled the glasses. India thought she heard him cough hard. “A by-blow, you say. By that you mean a natural child?”

“Just so.” India warmed to her tale. “For years I’ve been snubbed and mocked. Everyone knows I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I hate the whole lot of them!”

“Now it is all of the most clear. And of course you stole that beautiful animal from their stables for revenge.”

“I didn’t steal him,” India snapped. “That is, I didn’t steal him right away. I worked there for several years first.”

“Years?
Pardieu,
and here I was thinking how young you look.”

“Well, it
seemed
like years,” India said firmly. “And in a manner of speaking the horse is mine, because of the bond between us. Besides the duke’s daughter, only I can ride the great animal. So he might as well be mine.”

“I daresay the magistrate might not see it in the same light,” her captor said dryly.

“What would a ruffian like you know about magistrates or King’s Officers?”

“Only that they make my life troublesome.” The Frenchman made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “But you present me a dilemma. I can hardly permit you to leave without retribution. My crew will expect it, you understand, for I am most bloodthirsty.” He studied her thoughtfully. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Don’t look at me for suggestions,” India said crossly. “You’ll have to devise your horrible torments without my help.”

“Horrible torments. Yes, I rather think you’ve hit the hammer on the head. Or is it nail? Your English tongue is
fort ennuyeux, enfin.”

“Not as
ennuyeux
as you are, villain!” India snapped. “Let me go. We will both feel much better, I assure you.”

For a moment something played over that shadowed face. “I cannot oblige you,
ma mie.
It is the men, you understand. They would turn most unpleasant at the loss of such a fine catch.”

“The devil fly away with your men!”

“Me, I’ve thought the same words myself. It is of a most surprising thing how your thoughts run like mine. Are you sure we have never met before?”

“Are you implying that I think like a vile cutthroat and thief! I’ll have your tongue for that.”

“But you have neither pistol nor knife. You must learn your lesson about making threats you cannot deliver.”

India caught up one of the empty glasses. “No, it’s you who’ll learn about making threats, Frenchman!”

“Oh? Do you mean to drown me in my own wine?” he said lazily.

“No, I’m going to leave. Right now.”

The dark brow arched. “And how will you do that?”

“
You’re
going to open the door for me.”

He laughed softly. “There you’re quite wrong.”

“Am I?” India cracked the goblet against the wall, leaving a razor-like edge of glass exposed. With this held stiffly before her, she began to drive her captor backward. “I’m not afraid to cut your throat, I warn you.” He was at the wall now and India’s glass shard was at his chest. “Well?”

“I have a great curiosity to see you slice through my throat,” he said coolly, as if he were discussing the merits of a new kind of rigging knot.

“Damn you, I’m
not
afraid. I’ll do it, I swear.”

“
I
am all at your convenience,
anglaise.”

Muttering, India closed her eyes and lunged. She felt the brush of skin and then his hand at her wrist. She heard the quick check of his breath as the glass was pulled from her fingers.

She opened her eyes and gasped. A two-inch gash ran across his shirt, where blood now oozed. “See what you made me do! Why did you have to move?”

“A thousand apologies,” the pirate said dryly. “But it is a mere prick of a pin.”

“Prick? You’re bleeding like a pig!”

“Bah, me, I once faced down a dozen Barbary vessels that hove up like a great tropical wind. I fought twenty men at once without a single weapon until every inch of my body flowed with blood.”

“Off the Barbary coast?” India stopped, intrigued in spite of herself. “My father and I sailed there once, while we looked for the lost city of Dido in the
Aeneid
. Carthage, you know.” She frowned. “Probably you don’t know. On the way, we were trailed for three days by a pirate sloop.”

“Then you are lucky to be alive,” the Frenchman said grimly.

“But it turned out to be an English frigate sent to protect us. I had met the captain in Cadiz, you see, and he fancied—” Abruptly, India blushed and looked away.

The Frenchman lifted her face, scanning her crimson cheeks. “Yes,
sauvage?
He fancied what?” His voice was dangerously soft.

“He — had conceived a tendre for me. It was most foolish of him, for I was barely thirteen at the time.”

“And what became of this crude captain with the foolish tendre?”

“Oh, he wasn’t crude. He was quite handsome, and his manners were very elegant. His family, too, was most respectable. From Berkshire, I believe.”

“Yes, yes,” the Frenchman interrupted coldly, “but what of his pursuit of you?”

“Oh, there was no pursuit. My father told him I could not wed until I was at least thirty, since I was far too useful to him in his research. The captain was regretful, but made his leave. I understand he has five sons now.”

The Frenchman’s fingers relaxed on her chin. “Me, I think this tendre of the most paltry kind. A true man of sentiment would never have been so easily turned away. He would have swept you onto his schooner, carried you off, and then had his way with you. After that you would have been his forever.”

“Life doesn’t happen like that,” India said quietly. She looked away. “Emotions never last. “ There was sadness in her voice. “Only in poetry or books. No, life is—” She sighed. “Very different.”

“Is it,
ma mie?”
The voice grew rough. “I think you are wrong.” The callused edge of one finger traced India’s cheeks and then gently crossed the high arch of her mouth.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

“Wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“Why your captain gave up so easily. Me, I would not have given you up. Not even for a whole fleet of English frigates snapping at my bow.”

“N-No?” India tried to make out his expression in the shadows cast by the cabin’s single candle. “What would
you
have done?”

“Something very dangerous, I think.” The Frenchman’s thumb feathered the center of her mouth. “First I would have touched her,
comme ça.”
He brushed a fringe of hair from her cheek. “Here and here, I think.” His head bent.

India swayed for a moment, then stiffened. What was she doing? Could she actually be accepting the advances of a river pirate? “Stand away, snake! You’ll not trick me!”

But somehow she found herself gathered tightly against her captor’s chest. “B-Besides,” she sputtered, “you’re
bleeding!”

“Perhaps I am,” he said roughly. “In places you cannot see,” he muttered. “From wounds that are very old.” He looked down and sniffed. “This, she is nothing.”

Even as he spoke blood inched down his chest over the slit shirt.

“You enjoy making sport of me. It is very low of you.” India’s voice was tight. “A plague on you and all men!” Angry at her mortifying moment of weakness, she twisted free and grabbed the last goblets, hurling them against the wall, where they exploded with a satisfying crack. Then she saw her knife, within easy reach now, balanced on the edge of the bed where the pirate had tossed it.

India ran to seize it, and in her haste, she stumbled on the scattered glass shards.

Pain bit through her hip as she landed hard on a jagged piece of glass. Squeezing her eyes, she fought back tears.

“Farouche,”
the Frenchman said, but the word was a caress. “Wild, just like that hair of yours. You seem not at all English to me,
enfin.”

“I
am
English. And I am
not
wild. Oh, just go away.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed as she cupped her hip. “You have hurt yourself?” Quickly, he pulled her to her feet and carried her to the bed. “You are every bit as wild as that horse you claim is not yours.”