The Price of Indiscretion (3 page)

Oliver, Jon, even Flat Nose and Vijay were caught by surprise by the force of that smile. Up and down the dock, men sighed in collective admiration.

“Her eyes are
blue
as the deepest sapphires,” Vijay said in a romantic burst Alex had not thought possible for him. “Blue as the depths of the Great Sea.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed sourly, thoroughly disgusted by the power Miranda wielded effortlessly over men. “Or as blue as the back of biting flies.”

His crew heard him. Their heads whipped around in shock. He met their gazes with an innocent one of his own. After enduring their stares for several seconds, he said, “What? It’s a poetic term.”

Jon scratched his chin. “Poets compare women’s eyes to flies?”

“Some do,” Alex answered and couldn’t help but add, “If they are wise.”

“Now we know why you are single,” Oliver muttered.

“Because I’m no poet? That isn’t the only reason,” Alex answered. The main one stood on the pier right down there in front of him.

He braced his hands against the railing. In the back of his mind, he realized he’d always known their paths would cross again someday. He just hadn’t expected it to be this one.

Nor had he anticipated the emotional impact of seeing her again. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Esteves holding the parasol looked for all the world like a silly old man. Miranda and her chaperone continued their promenade.

She’d not looked up. Had not seen Alex.

It was just as well. He had no desire to be part of the growing mob of men following her. He preferred to watch in disdain as grizzled old seamen, anxious to pay court, hurried from their ships dressed in their ruffles and lace. Some of their finery was a size too small, most of it out of fashion, and all of it was wrinkled from being packed away in sea trunks. They, like Esteves, were making bloody fools of themselves, and Alex felt immensely superior that he wasn’t one of their number.

A riot could have broken out when a local merchant elbowed another out of the way while trying to gain Miranda’s attention. However, at that moment, a dinghy from the warship hit the dock with a bump, and three officers clambered up to the pier, pushing on their bosun’s head for balance. They were young, vital men in full dress with gleaming gold braid on their lapels. They were following by a man moving at a more sedate pace. By the gold braid on his shoulders, he was no less a person than the captain of the ship—and his sights were set on Miranda.

Alex watched as the king’s men neatly elbowed Esteves and the others out of the way. Introductions were made. Miranda’s companion appeared ready to swoon over the honor of meeting the British commander. The pilot looked silly holding the lace parasol, and Alex couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.

Miranda said something, and the British commander laughed as if she were the cleverest of creatures, a sound echoed by his junior officers. Their laughter made the scars on Alex’s back prickle. He rarely thought of those scars, but at this moment, they felt as they had when the cuts were fresh and the pain alive.

There had been a time when he’d laughed at her jokes, too, and had confessed his secrets. A time he’d made a perfect ass of himself—

He turned away from the railing, shutting his mind to the memories. “What are we doing standing around here gawking?” he barked to his men. “We’re leaving on morning tide. You have stores to lay in, and that rigging on the top gallant begs to be repaired.”

Flat Nose immediately turned to go about his business, but the others were more reluctant to lose sight of Miranda. Even Oliver.

Well, Alex knew the duplicity of character hiding behind that pretty face. “Do you need an invitation to work?” he asked.

His crew came to their senses. They knew
that
tone in his voice. It was one not to be ignored.

They hopped to, and Alex meant to join them. Hard work was exactly what he needed to take his mind off Miranda.

But as he headed toward the quarterdeck, a new thought struck him, and he stopped.

Why should I be the one to run away?

Besides, he did have some questions. What had she been up to these past years? Would she remember him if he were to place himself directly in front of her?

More importantly—had she married? Was there someone else in her life? Children she’d borne to another man?

She certainly appeared prosperous now, and that had not been how he’d left Veral Cameron’s daughter.

Before he could reason it out, Alex turned and started down the gangway, heading for Miranda.

A
bead of sweat trickled down Miranda’s spine, brought on by the warmth of the noonday sun, several layers of clothes—including a miserable corset she’d been instructed to wear to give her bust that “extra” push—and the knowledge that Lady Overstreet watched her closely.

Only for Charlotte and Constance, waiting behind patiently in New York, would she go through all this trouble.

This was her first test to see if, after weeks at sea being drilled on deportment, diction, and flirtation, she would prove to be a prize pupil or a dunce.

Lady Overstreet had coolly informed her that capturing the hearts of every sailor on the
Venture
, the merchantman they had sailed on, didn’t count. “Sailors are a rough lot that will follow anything in skirts,” she’d declared. “What matters here is if you can attract other sorts of men. We shall test your skills in Ponta Delgada, when our ship stops for supplies. We shall make note of any shortcomings and refine your abilities before we arrive in London.”

And so they had set out for a walk along the wharf, accompanied by the
Venture
’s commander, Captain Lewis, who had taken a liking to Lady Overstreet, and Senhor Esteves, the pilot and harbormaster. Senhor Esteves was a pompous man, old enough to be her grandfather, very wealthy according to Azorean standards, and embarrassingly smitten by her.

On the trip over, she’d repeatedly told herself it didn’t matter whom she married. She was doing this for her sisters, whose chances at good marriages she had destroyed years ago. However, now she found herself praying,
Please, God, don’t let me be married to a man as boring as Senhor Esteves.

Fortunately, within minutes of starting their promenade, men came from everywhere to pay their addresses, and Miranda quickly encouraged them, using her new skills to great advantage. They crowded around her, begging introductions and wanting to monopolize her attention. She felt like an actor playing a part, and it was fun, especially after the boring hours at sea.

Lady Overstreet had assured her that the secret to conversing with men was to let them talk about themselves. “It’s the only thing that truly interests them,” she had told Miranda. “No one values a woman’s opinion.”

Sadly, Miranda realized her mentor’s advice was true. All she had to do was smile, hardly hearing half of what was said to her, and the gentlemen practically fell to their knees in front of her.

The gentlemen didn’t seem to mind that she didn’t have a thought in her head. They didn’t appear to expect anything from her. She was like a lovely bauble, a description Lady Overstreet had used repeatedly during her tutoring, brought out for their enjoyment. Qualities such as kindness, intelligence, and a gentle nature were insignificant when compared to the advantages of an ample cleavage and a pretty face.

Senhor Esteves refused to remove himself from Miranda’s side. He clutched her parasol with possessive authority, and in recognition of the power the harbormaster held in this island society, no one had challenged him for the spot beside her—until the British navy arrived.

Captain Sir William Jeffords, commander of the British warship out in the harbor, was a very handsome man. His blond hair was styled in dashing ringlets, and he was trim and muscular, cutting a fine figure in his gold braid and dress uniform. Lady Overstreet fell all over herself at the mention of his family name and slid a pointed look to Miranda that informed her louder than words that here was someone suitable to test her new skills on.

But Miranda’s American soul was not impressed. She’d met officers like him in New York—men who had taken one look at her dress and thought her beneath them. Nor did she like the way Sir William and his officers shoved aside Senhor Esteves and his countrymen as if they were lackeys. The pilot had been a touch too possessive, but Sir William’s conceit was irritating.

She turned all her attention to Senhor Esteves. “You have great responsibilities, senhor. I would be quite apprehensive to carry out your duties.”

It was the opening the harbormaster needed to talk about himself again. However, as he opened his mouth, Sir William smoothly interrupted him, even going so far as to step in between the pilot and Miranda. “Yes, those who stay in port have roles to fill, but the true excitement, Miss Cameron, is on the sea. It’s one of only two places a man can prove he is a man.” His gaze dropped to her expanse of exposed bosom.

If he thought she was going to ask where the other place was, he was wrong.

It was up to Lady Overstreet to respond in the expected manner. “And where is the other place?” she asked Sir William.

He grinned slyly, knowing the obvious choice, but answered smoothly, “Why, in any service possible to his country.”

“
Any
service?” Lady Overstreet asked archly.

“My dear lady, yes,” he answered, his tone warm and assured.

Lady Overstreet giggled and gave him a pat on the arm for his impertinence. “Cheeky, Sir William, you are cheeky.”

Miranda suppressed a yawn. She would have called him obvious.

One of the ship’s officers, a young lieutenant, informed her, “In spite of his family obligations, Captain Sir William is one of the most daring officers in the fleet. He never flinches in the face of the enemy.”

“Hightower,” Sir William chastised without heat, “I’m certain Miss Cameron is not interested in war or my family connections.” And Miranda was equally certain he couldn’t wait to tell her what they were.

For that reason, she didn’t ask.

She would have turned her attention back to Senhor Esteves, except Lady Overstreet was not going to let such a comment escape unexplored.

“Your family, sir? Pray tell. Perhaps I have made acquaintance with one of them. Miss Cameron is the granddaughter of the late Earl of Bagsley.”

“Ah, an earl,” Sir William said, and Miranda sensed that she had come up in his esteem. He shook his head. “I don’t trade on my family. I wish to be honored for my own abilities. But, since you insisted,” he continued, giving no one time to say anything, “my cousin is Colster.”

“The
Duke
of Colster,” Mr. Hightower whispered in an aside to Lady Overstreet. “He’s his heir.”

Lady Overstreet placed her hand over her heart, genuinely aflutter with excitement. “How fortunate for you, Sir William, to be so well-connected. Why, His Grace is considered one of the leading bachelors of the realm.”

“Quite so,” Sir William answered, “although I doubt if he’ll ever remarry. My cousin was and is devoted to his first wife, who passed away at a regrettably young age. Meanwhile, I am ready for a wife and in search of a woman who would enjoy the life of a simple seaman, albeit one with a sizable portion to his name. The bark of our family tree is made of money.”

Miranda struggled not to roll her eyes. Her smile felt pasted to her face. Did he believe her stupid?

As Sir William’s “humble” gaze strayed back to her breasts, she thought,
Yes, yes he did
.

And she wished now she’d never come out of her tiny cabin. She wished she was back on the ship reading the book she’d started that morning and not parading her breasts around. Her purpose could just as well be served if she had a bag over her head.

A tingling went up her spine, an awareness of something other than herself.

A breeze seemed to sweep along the wharf, its air fresh and uncomplicated by dueling colognes and pomades of her present companions. Something momentous was about to happen.

Sir William was answering Lady Overstreet’s prying questions about his family in a loud voice intended to include everyone, while Mr. Hightower echoed everything he said. Senhor Esteves and the other gentlemen hovered near, daring to add their own credentials and connections in an effort to top a duke.

No one else had this sense of anticipation, or had even noticed her attention had been directed elsewhere.

And then she saw
him
.

A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with lean good looks walked toward her with the confidence of one who made his own rules. He didn’t wear a jacket, and his shirt was open at the collar. His rolled sleeves revealed tanned forearms, a sign he was practical and unafraid of work, a bold contrast to those puffed-up gentlemen hovering around her. His long legs were encased in black breeches, and his tall boots had not seen a blacking in over a month, but his austere dress did not detract from his authority.

Here was a
warrior
of a man. She recognized the trait immediately, and her attraction to him was instantaneous.

He had walked down the gangplank of the sleek ship not far from where she stood. With the grace of confidence, he moved straight for her. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Somewhere deep inside, she had a vague sense of recollection. She’d seen that straight nose before and those dark brows that gave his expression character. His hair was overlong, reaching down his back. Long, thick hair. Black as a raven’s wing, with just the slightest hint of curl…

Sir William realized she was staring. He turned in the direction she looked. At his movement, everyone in the party brought his attention around, too.

The gentleman stopped. He was half a head taller than any man standing before him. And then he did an amazing thing. He glanced at Miranda, his gray eyes piercing and hard—and that was when recognition struck full force. It was the eyes that gave his identity away. Quicksilver eyes that saw everything.
Wasegobah
. The Shawnee name for Gray Eyes…Alex Haddon.

The only man she had ever loved.

Miranda feared her knees would give out from under her. Who would have thought their paths would cross on this bit of land in the middle of a wide ocean? She’d not seen him in close to a decade, and if not for the eyes, she might not have recognized him. The years had changed him. Fierce independence still burned bright in his eyes, but the boy’s eagerness had been replaced by a man’s ruthlessness, a man’s body, a man’s sense of place in the world.

Her heart was so glad to see him, she would have rushed up to him—except he gave no sign that he recognized her.

Could she have changed so much? Lady Overstreet had done her best to erase any sign of the girl Miranda once was.

Suddenly shy, Miranda held back, and that was when she noticed the tight muscle working in Alex’s jaw. This part of Alex had not changed at all. She’d once teased him that no matter how stoic he wanted to believe he was, she could read everything he was thinking, just by watching the tightening of his jaw.

He was furious. And he knew she was here. He chose to ignore her.

“Esteves, I wished a word with you,” he said. “Did your nephew not tell you?”

A young man, barely more than a youth, stepped forward to stammer out, “I was going to give him your message, Captain Haddon. Just this moment.”

Alex commanded his own ship?
She looked immediately to the vessel he’d come from and noticed the lettering on the masthead.
Warrior
. How fitting.

Senhor Esteves was unintimidated by Alex’s anger. “I will talk to you later, Captain,” he said dismissively. “Can you not see I am occupied?”

“Yes, with Miss Cameron,” Alex replied. “However, you and I have business to discuss. Now.”

Senhor Esteves’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You know Miss Cameron?”

Alex’s flicked in her direction. “We’ve met.”

He was so cold. So distant. He held her to blame for everything that had happened between them. He still didn’t understand that none of it had been her fault. She’d been forced to make the choices she had. Perhaps now she would have acted differently, but back then she’d been too young, naïve, and foolish to understand the consequences.

Nor would she take all the blame on herself. They’d
both
been wildly gullible to think a love like theirs could last. Everyone knew that a white woman couldn’t exist in an Indian world and maintain any shred of dignity or keep close what she held dear.

Of course, ten years ago Alex had turned away from his white heritage. He would entertain none of her suggestions that he live in her world.

Obviously, based on his dress and his presence in the Azores, he had changed his mind. He had embraced what he’d once rejected, and she wondered if some other woman had been the one to convince him. The flash of jealousy she felt was staggering.

Sir William decided to interject himself into the discussion. “Go on, Esteves. Jump to the man’s tune.”

A dull red stole up Senhor Esteves’s neck at being publicly ridiculed. However, he, like everyone else, knew better than to answer in kind to the commander of a navy warship.

Everyone, that is, save Alex. “This isn’t your beef, mate,” he said to Sir William.

“I beg your pardon?” Sir William said, his eyes widening at being so callously dismissed.

“You heard me.”

Sir William reacted as if Alex had slapped him. His back straightened, and his hand went to his sword. His junior officers followed suit, and Miranda knew if she didn’t do something quickly, Alex would get his name carved in his chest.

She placed herself between the men. “Please, Sir William, Mr. Haddon—”

“Captain,” Alex interrupted.

“What?” she said, confused.

“He has a title. I have a title. I’m a captain.”

“Yes, but I’ve been knighted,” Sir William corrected heavily.

Alex looked him right in the eye and said, “Mistakes happen.”

It was an outrageous thing to say. One most Englishmen wouldn’t say to a “sir,” especially an armed one. It caught everyone off guard and it
did
lighten the moment. Miranda choked on her laughter, while gentlemen all around her had to duck their heads to hide their smiles. Only Lady Overstreet’s gasp of shock brought her to her senses.

Alex was making a mockery of what was her first foray into polite society. She must handle herself correctly or she would not be able to help Charlotte and Constance.

“Ignore him, sir,” she petitioned Sir William. “He’s American—”

“I’m British,” Alex amended.