The Winds of Fate (33 page)

Inside, an elegant single staircase swept up to a beautiful wooden facade. As Claire walked across the gleaming mahogany floor her eyes caught a large crystal chandelier suspended from a wedge-wood ceiling, affecting scintillating rainbow patterns on the walls.

“Captain said for you to use whatever of his house you require,” Bloodsmythe said, breaking her out her trance.

His house. This mansion was a pirate’s house?

“When will Captain Blackmon return?” She desired to be forewarned.

Bloodsmythe shrugged. “He’s busy with careening and repairs. Until that’s done I doubt you’ll see him. The galley’s that way,” he jerked his head, “Up there,” he pointed, “is ye’re room.” He left before Claire could ask him anymore questions. She didn’t know which room he pointed, but saw her trunk placed in front of a door and assumed it was the one designated.

Claire called out, but no answer came. Exhausted, she wandered up to her bedchamber and cried out in glee, discovering a tub filled with water and a fresh cake of scented soap laid out for her use. She dragged her trunk inside the room, and closed the door. A key stuck out of the lock. On impulse, she turned the key, finding the barrier of a locked door satisfying. She rubbed the back of her neck. A locked door wouldn’t keep Devon out.

Deliriously smitten with the idea of immersing herself in a refreshing bath, Claire stripped off her clothes and stepped into the tub. She lathered her hair, rinsed it and wrapped it up in a towel then leaned back and soaked in gardenia scented water. She gazed about her room. There were pieces of artfully carved furniture enhanced with depth and detail, but the corner piece of the room spanned a massive fourposter bed with satin covers and a nest of downy soft pillows. Where had all the entrapments come from? Stolen, no doubt. Claire yawned, then rose, the heat and the nerves of the day, taking its toll. She dried off then retrieved a night-rail from her trunk, pulled back the covers and sank between soft linen sheets.

Claire awakened to the bright light of day, wondering how many hours she had slept. She dressed, eager to explore the rest of the house and grounds, but first she’d answer the rumblings in her stomach. She descended the stairs and walked into a huge room with a row of open windows. Drawn to the endless turquoise waters lost in a vast horizon of greater blue, Claire gazed, caught in wonder, the sea tumbling in white crescent curls over shallows and sandy flats before swelling over an outcrop, slamming at last, an arm of surf up into fingers of spray. So enamored with the power and beauty of the scenery, she omitted to see its sole occupant.

“Good morning, Madame Blackmon. We have pancakes this morn. Won’t you join me?” She moved to elude him, but Devon jumped from his chair and did not release his proprietary grasp on her arm until she was seated beside him. “Faith, a Captain’s invitation cannot be refused.”

“I suppose I have no choice,” Claire said warily. His sudden emergence and heavy-handedness gnawed at her confidence. So he decided to break his vow of silence. Claire made a study of the clean white table cloth and the heavy silver, doubtless seized as a prize.

“Especially when there is a sumptuous feast laid before us.”

Her stomach tumbled with hunger. Surreptitiously studying him, she nibbled on a piece of fruit. He was clean shaven and bathed and dressed with an elegance she had not seen since the night of the governor’s ball. Only better. His clothes were new, not cast-offs and tailored well to his lean frame. Yet it was with an elegance he wore them, owed to the man instead of the skills of the tailor. He caught her examination of him and he laughed. His amiability made her nervous. She favored their indisputable open conflict. He lifted his glass and leaned back with a careless grace that tugged at her senses. Her conclusion to leave as soon as possible hardened. If she stayed and let her unwilling attraction have its way, she’d be lost forever. He unfolded his napkin and smiled genteelly as if he were an aristocrat borne to wealth and privilege.

“Where have all the furnishings come from? This table, this silver fork,” she held up to him, “and the crystal goblet you hold in your hand?” She arched a knowing brow, her pointed remark meant to wound.

“Some inherited with the island, others commandeered and graciously given.”

“It’s a civilized way to say stolen,” she reprimanded him. Her sarcasm amused him. He merely smiled over the rim of his glass in a mock toast to her.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction. After all, I am responsible for your well-being.” Devon’s hand brushed hers. She snatched it away, his touch burning up her arm.

“You are being unduly solicitous, Captain Blackmon. Rest assured I’ll hold you responsible for nothing. What I do with my life is my own affair. Let us consider the issue closed. I believe that in my captivity, time will weigh heavily on my hands.”

He shrugged. “You are free to roam the island as you wish.”

Why was he charming her? Of course, he would change his mind about letting her go. Claire sought to find a chink in his armor. “Where else would I go? I am but a prisoner.”

“There is a jail for your uncle and Sir Teakle. I trust your accommodations are
more
suitable?”

He let hang the difference in hospitality and the power he had over her. “The island, the town, this house,” she waved a hand, wanting to hear from his own lips. “How did you−”

“I won it in a turn of cards, since then I’ve made additions, and the island has prospered under my direction. I’ve a predilection for slave ships coming from England. I assure you, those unfortunate souls on board happily traded freedom on this remote isle instead of the living death afforded to them by colonial plantation owners. I have carpenters, blacksmiths, everything to make us self-sufficient. Fields cleared for farmers to grow sugarcane, mills built for lumber and sugar, making us independent for trade. A free man works ten times harder than a slave when it is for his own esteem and profit.”

Claire sat tongue-tied. Everything he had done, everything he had accomplished was the vision he had described to her in Jamaica. How could she even remotely find fault with that? He raised her hand and kissed it. “Claire−”

She licked her lips. How had she ever thought she could keep away from him? At a touch, at a look, she longed to lean to him, to touch, to taste, to kiss.

Devon laughed when she pulled her hand free. She was adept at keeping an impersonal level to the conversation. “I will show you the house.”

“Pardon me if I disagree.”

He rose and pulled her chair out for her. She could disagree till the sea dried up. Did he not see the unmistakable yearning in her eyes? Granted it had been brief. All the same it was definitely there. He had ordered everyone away and steered her to the other rooms, wanting to impress her with the size and grace of his holdings. He had lived to see her reaction. He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her, and was rewarded with the widening of her eyes and the slow, disbelieving shake of her head, pleased she momentarily forgot everything else, enabling them to slip into their old camaraderie. He wanted to court her.

She moved to inspect a piece of furniture. “You fit here, a castle for a pirate’s kingdom.” Her fingers ran along silky brocade. Damn, what
he wouldn’t do to have those fingers run along his back.
She’s going to London
. He grunted at the thought.

She whirled and faced him, disconcerted to find him a half a pace behind her. He liked the pink that came to her cheeks. “There’s no need to go further,” she protested. “I’m sure, I can find my way around since you’re needed at your ship.”

He forced her to retreat until she was pressed against the armoire. Devon lifted a hand and placed it on the armoire, his arm grazed her hair. Gardenia. She used the fragrant soap from a Spanish vessel he’d taken. “I am not going to my ship just now.”

She looked up and he held her in his gaze. “There must be a multitude of repairs to attend−”

He placed his other hand on the opposite side, caging her within his arms. She licked her lips and he smiled. “I believe there are a number of things to attend, but right now, there is only one that I can think of.”

She inhaled. “You must remember yourself, Devon. Your promise to release me.”

“It’s hard to remember promises when I’m near you, Claire. I remember a promise made to me in a gaol, still unfulfilled.”

Could her cheeks flush any pinker? “That part of the bargain was fulfilled.”

“Then you are misinformed on certain elements of biology, my dear
wife
.”

“You cannot expect me to−”

His gaze rested on her mouth for the longest time before he abruptly straightened and dropped his arms. “I do.”

“I can’t accept−” she ducked beneath his arms and fled.

“Him,” he finished for her.

From the dock, Devon looked over his harbor. The bobbing anchor-lights of his fleet resembled a myriad of fluttering fireflies. What he
hadn’t won in a card game, he’d won through hard work, albeit on the edge of civilization. The rest he built and he was proud of that fact.

He was not in a good mood.

That, of course, owed to his conversation with Claire in the early morning.

She could be yours
.

But she had a better life ahead in England. A far cry from what he could offer.

If she stayed, what then? What had he to offer her save a pirate’s life−the shame of his sorry past and the uncertainty of his future? His men needed him. His honor and responsibility to those men were at stake. There stood no answer for his dilemma.

Bloodsmythe broke in on his musings. Devon braced for a lava flow of words. “I’ve been thinking−”

“That’s a bad habit you have, Bloodsmythe. You ought to give it up,” Devon said, knowing where the conversation was headed.

“Why don’t you go up to the house and give the lass the pleasure of ye’r company instead of charming us with your sour mood?”

“I’m busy, neither do I have the inclination.”

Bloodsmythe scoffed. “Oh, aye. I forgot. Ye’r not mortal, like the rest of us.”

“And I’ll be reminding you of minding your own business unless you want the feel of the cat’ on your back.”

“It’s that bad is it? You remind me of a wolf turned into a lapdog looking for crumbs.” Bloodsmythe studied him a long while in silence. “She’s altered your outlook, hasn’t she?”

“Let’s say she’s clarified it.”

“Clarified be damned. Ye’r sick with desire,” said Bloodsmythe.

“Dammit, Bloodsmythe. You attract drama like flies to a dog’s corpse.”

The point is−what are you going to do about her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must do better than that if you do not want her to know how she affects you,” his friend warned, unsuccessful in hiding his amusement. “You are wound so tight−”

“Go to hell, Bloodsmythe.”

“Well for heaven’s sakes, make up your mind. You’ve always been mooning over the girl. I saw it that first day on the docks in Jamaica. Get it over with.”

“Your memory is superior to your ethics,” Devon growled.

“No doubt.” Bloodsmythe chuckled. “Nevertheless, it’s better than seein’ ye stomp around here like a bear with a thorn in its paw.”