A Lady at Last (10 page)

“Will you accept my invitation?”

She didn't know what to think. Was he now going to allow her to pay for her passage in his bed? Her mind filled with hazy but heated images of her golden dream lover, and suddenly, that lover wasn't faceless anymore. Instead it was de Warenne stroking her body, causing her skin to tingle and throb. Maybe she wouldn't mind being in his bed. Everyone said he was a superb lover. She'd heard the island ladies talking about him more times than she could remember. Some of them, the ones who'd shared his bed, had bragged about it to their friends. Somehow, she knew the rumors were true.

Her skin was tingling now, as if she was in one of her secret dreams, but this time, the aching was more intense. She breathed and nodded. “We can sup…and converse.”

His gaze narrowed. “My intentions are honorable.”

She didn't believe him, not for a moment.

A
MANDA STAYED
by the railing at the ship's stern, standing tall and proud, trying to remain utterly composed. It was very hard to do. Six seamen had carried the teakwood coffin with her father's corpse to the deck, where it now sat, gleaming in the Caribbean sun. The
Fair Lady
had a crew of close to three hundred men, and every available sailor stood on deck, respectfully silent. DeWarenne was speaking. He held a Bible in his hands and she knew he was reading from it, but Amanda couldn't comprehend a word he was saying.

The grief had risen out of nowhere, paralyzing her. A few hours ago, when they had made sail, she had been filled with joy. She had forgotten Papa's terrible fate. Now she fought to hold the pain of his loss at bay. It seemed a monumental, impossible task. She was overcome by wave after wave of grief.

She did not want to lose her composure in front of de Warenne, his family and his crew.

I can't do this
, she thought, the tears finally spilling down her cheeks.
I can't live without Papa. It hurts too much.

He had been her life. Her mother was a complete stranger and she was never going to take her papa's place.

Her knees were weak, her body was trembling, and the tears kept crawling down her face.

Please make this dream end
, she thought in anguish.
Please!

Then she realized that the ship was silent. All that could be heard was the groaning of the masts, the flap of sails, the lapping of water, the sea spray. De Warenne had stopped speaking.

She didn't dare look at him. If she did, she'd start shrieking in pain and rage.

He appeared before her. Speaking low, his tone unbearably kind, he said, “Do you wish to say a few words?”

How could she say anything when she couldn't breathe, much less speak? The silence on the ship was simply awful.

“Do you wish to say goodbye, at least?” he asked softly, clasping her shoulder.

She had to look up. She felt herself drown in both the grief and the compassion in his blue eyes. She nodded, choking on a huge sob.

He put his arm around her and led her toward the gleaming coffin.

Amanda fell to her knees. She hugged the waxed wood, laying her cheek on the cold surface.
Papa
, she thought,
I love you. I always have, I always will.

Be strong, girl. Always be strong. You're in good hands now.

Amanda stiffened, because once again it was as if Rodney was right there, speaking to her. “I'm not strong,” she whispered. “It's a lie. I can't go on alone.”

You're not alone, girl, and you are strong. Strong and brave and don't you be forgetting it.

“No, I'm not,” she wept.

Someone clasped her shoulder.

I got to be going, girl. Let me go.

Panic consumed her. “Don't leave me!” she cried. “Papa!”

Strong hands pulled her to her feet; a strong arm held her to a powerful body. “Let him go, Amanda.” De Warenne nodded at his men.

Amanda started to weep as the six seamen lifted the coffin and carried it to the stern. “Don't leave me,” she gasped.

“God bless,” de Warenne said.

“Amen,” two hundred men murmured.

The coffin was heaved into the sea.

Amanda screamed.

“You need to lie down,” de Warenne said, pulling her firmly away from the stern.

She turned and struck at him with both fists, repeatedly, in a frenzy, as hard as she could, as if
he
had murdered her father.

He lifted her into his arms and started down the deck, but she kept hitting him and hitting him, hating him and Woods and all the British and the whole world until the anger vanished and there was only exhaustion.

 

A
MANDA AWOKE
a few hours later. She stared up at the ceiling of the captain's cabin, grimly aware that she was in de Warenne's four-poster, which was where he had placed her after the burial. He'd also given her a drink, but she couldn't recall what liquor it had been. She had sobbed herself to sleep.

The cabin was absolutely dark. She glanced toward the portholes, which were open, a pleasant breeze wafting into the room. Outside, the night was black velvet studded with winking stars.

She sat up on top of the red-and-gold damask covers. She fingered a sensuous leopard skin pillow. Papa was gone. He wasn't coming back and she had to face that fact now.

She slid from the bed, barefoot. He had removed her boots or he'd ordered someone to do it for him. Amanda found them and sat down to tug them on. She was no longer in the throes of grief—she merely felt sad and resigned. But that was as it should be. Papa deserved to be mourned, and she'd had no right to have been happy earlier that day.

She wondered where the ship's captain was, and what he thought of her now. He certainly did not think her brave and strong. She had let Papa down.

“Don't worry,” she told her father, hoping he could hear her somehow. “There will be no more female hysteria. I'm sorry, Papa, for being such a dumb girl.”

This time, there was no answer.

Amanda sighed. She walked out of the cabin and instantly saw de Warenne.

His first officer, a big Scot named MacIver, was at the helm. De Warenne stood, lightly grasping the railing on the main deck, watching the starlight playing over the gleaming black water, sprinkling it with silver ribbons. The winds had eased and the frigate had dropped her speed. The night remained balmy and pleasant—a perfect night for a cruise.

He turned. Many feet separated them, and although his ship was far better lit than her father's sloop had ever been, it remained shadowy and dark. It didn't matter. Even in the dark, even with a good ten lengths between them, their gazes met and held.

Amanda almost felt hypnotized. She walked over to him.

His gaze slid over her face. “Did you have a good rest?”

She nodded. “Yes, I did. Thank you for the use of your bed.”

His mouth softened. “Do not say that too loudly—you might be misunderstood.”

She had to smile. “I am not worried. I don't think anyone would ever accuse you of trying to take
me
to bed.”

He glanced away.

Instantly she recalled his interest in her that morning and his invitation to dine—which had really been an invitation to tryst. Her cheeks became warm, and an odd hollow feeling began in her lower body. Amanda turned to face the sea, grasping the railing. Too late, she realized they stood mere inches apart.

She gave him a quick, sidelong glance, aware that for the first time in her life, she was having feelings of some kind for a man. Standing this close to him left her breathless and restless. Maybe he'd ask her to supper tomorrow night.

He didn't speak, and she turned away. She watched the starlight dancing over the rippling swells. As far as the human eye could see, there was nothing but the shining blackness of the sea. It seemed infinite, powerful and mighty.

And it was comforting.
He
was comforting. She was terribly aware of his big masculine body and the tension in her own limbs, but far more significant was the feeling of being safe and sheltered just by being close to him.

She smiled just a little. She didn't have to ask to know that he was enjoying the absolute beauty and serenity of the moment, and truth be told, so was she. But the real truth was, she was enjoying being near him, and with him.

More moments passed in a new and strangely companionable silence.

Amanda said, “The night is perfect, isn't it?”

He glanced down at her. “I agree.”

She met his gaze, felt a fluttering in her chest, then turned her vision back to the endless stretch of shining water. Papa was really gone, but the night
was
perfect. She should feel like a traitor, but she knew he would want her to enjoy such a night.

Then her stomach growled.

De Warenne smiled at her.

Amanda blushed. “That isn't ladylike, is it?”

“You have told me, once or twice, that being a lady doesn't interest you.”

She thought of the ladylike nightgown in her sack. “It doesn't,” she said, but she felt as if she wasn't speaking the entire truth. In order to change the subject, she added quickly, “If you really wanted to have supper with me, I ruined it.”

A brow lifted. “Actually, you haven't and actually, I really did.”

She faced him fully. “What do you mean?”

His gaze slid slowly over every feature of her face. “I haven't eaten. I was hoping you might wake up and share my meal.”

He had changed his mind about her, she realized. He had decided to take her to bed, after all. She should be dismayed, but she wasn't. She felt terribly nervous and excited. And now, she would be able to pay for her passage. She slowly lifted her gaze to his, thinking about what was to come and realizing that she wanted to join him in his bed after all. Now, she could only pray that she wouldn't make a fool out of herself while there. But she was smart, so surely once he started up with her, she'd figure out what to do.

“I will have our meal laid out. Excuse me.” He strode away.

Amanda inhaled, gripping the rail, aware of her pulse escalating. And suddenly she understood desire, oh yes.

“Miss Carre.” He gestured from the threshold of his cabin with a brief smile.

Amanda came forward, biting her lip. Even though he remained informally dressed in his linen shirt, his pale breeches and high boots, she wished she was wearing a dress, not that she owned one.

Then she saw the table. The gold candlesticks had tall ivory candles and had been lit. A white tablecloth had been draped over the table and it was graced with linen napkins, gilded flatware, crystal wineglasses and beautifully enameled red, blue and gold plates with gilt edges. A wine bottle sat on a silver coaster next to steaming silver platters. She had never seen such a sight and she could not move.

“Please.” He walked past her, drawing a dark red velvet chair from the table.

“We are really going to eat?” she gasped, wondering if she was in a dream.

“Yes, I invited you to dine.”

She couldn't tear her gaze away from the elegant table. She had never seen such a table—a queen should be dining there, not Carre's daughter!

“Miss Carre?”

She vaguely heard him, realizing she had been wrong. He would not set up the table this way if he merely wished to toss her on her backside. Stunned and bewildered, she glanced at him. He continued to hold the chair out.

Somehow she came cautiously forward. Once, her father had held out a chair for his mistress, but they had both been staggering and foxed, laughing wildly over a gesture they considered absurd, mocking the airs of the gentry. Papa had ruined the mockery anyway, by pulling the woman onto his lap instead of allowing her to sit down, while delving deeply into her bodice.

Amanda stared at de Warenne. How could he be so kind, so generous and so handsome? He had sworn he was a gentleman with no untoward intentions, and she was beginning to believe it. He didn't need to stage a grand seduction for the likes of her.

“Please, do sit,” he said softly.

“This isn't a seduction?”

“No, it's not.” His gaze held hers.

“Why?”

Even in the dim candlelight, she saw him flush. “Why isn't this a seduction?”

She shook her head. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to sup with me? I'm not a duke or an admiral. I'm not beautiful or elegant. Why?”

He was still, their gazes holding. It was a moment before he spoke. “It's more pleasant to dine in company than alone. I'd also like to hear about your life.”

She blinked. “
My
life?” Her life had no significance and no one had ever been interested in any details of it before.

“It's not every day that I rescue a pirate's daughter,” he said, his tone suddenly teasing.

Amanda had to smile. Such a statement could have been offensive, coming from someone else. “My life will bore you,” she warned. Then, upon impulse, “But I should like to hear about yours!”

He started. “My life will surely bore you!”

She laughed. “You are royalty!”

He chuckled. “Darling, I am hardly royalty.” He gestured at the chair.

Amanda was breathless and light-headed. She finally sat down. No one had ever called her “darling” before. Of course, he hadn't meant it. He called his daughter “darling.” She wasn't his daughter and she certainly didn't want to be thought of as a child. But he had uttered the endearment so seductively, and she had a powerful, deep yearning to have him call her darling again—and this time, to mean it.