Capture The Wind (23 page)

“My reticule! With the letters from Philippe
 . . .
”

“Quiet, will you? Do you want Saber down here? I don’t. He’s mean as a tiger with a toothache lately. And he don’t need to know about this. He wouldn’t understand, and I’m not too sure he’d like it. If he sees them, tell the truth, but if he doesn’t ask, don’t tell. All right?”

“Oh Dylan—of course. Yes, of course I won’t bring up the subject. But you needn’t worry about him seeing them. He hasn’t been here in a week.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come.”

Angela looked up and saw the distress in Dylan’s eyes. It was obvious he was struggling with his loyalties, and she felt a spurt of gratitude.

“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Tell me—how is Emily?”

“Bored, same as you. She’s taken to reading everything I can bring her. If you want the truth, it was her suggestion that I get you these letters. She’s been worried about you.”

“Tell her that I appreciate it. And tell her—that I miss her. And I’m sorry. For everything. I should have listened to her.”

Dylan grinned, a flash of white in a sun-dark face. “I’ll tell her. That ought to make her smile. She likes being right.”

When he had gone, Angela settled back against the wall with her letters. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled them out and saw Philippe’s familiar scrawl. It was as if he were there with her, his dark eyes studying her with somber regard, his handsome face in regal repose.

Closing her eyes, she tried to envision him as she had last seen him, before Papa had come, into the parlor and ordered him away.

But only a fragment of blurred image would come to mind. Instead of Philippe, she saw sun-bright blue eyes and a crescent scar, white teeth flashing in Kit Saber’s dark face. Slowly, she opened her eyes. How had it happened? How, in such a short time, had Philippe been supplanted by a pirate? It must have been because of that kiss with Saber. That memory had been burned into her mind with a scorching heat.

Damn Kit Saber!

Now, not even her most precious memories were untarnished. All she had left were the letters in her hand, the vows of undying love that she had thought she’d shared, but now knew were no more.

New Orleans. Angela leaned forward, gazing eagerly out the porthole to catch her first glimpse of the city. To her disappointment, all she saw were thick trees and knobby roots jutting up from murky water lapping at the edges of what looked like a swamp. She turned.

“Where is the city? All I see are trees and a few boats.”

Dylan lifted a brow. “You don’t think we intend to just sail right up to the docks, do you? That would be suicide.”

“Then what—”

“Patience,” he soothed her with a faint smile. “First we stop to see some old friends. Then we will take a pirogue up the backwaters to the city.”

“A pea what?”

“Pirogue. It’s a flat-bottomed boat. Don’t worry. The bayou is close to town.”

Angela glanced impatiently out the porthole again. “But I thought we were already there. Turk said—”

“That we’d reached New Orleans. And we have. Close enough, anyway. Look, Angela, New Orleans belongs to the French again, and we’re English. Even with letters of marque, we could run into problems. Besides, Kit has other fish to fry while we’re here, and he don’t want it known that we’re around yet.”

She stared at him. “What other fish?”

Dylan looked away with a shrug. “It ain’t my business to be too nosy. And if you want my advice, you’ll swallow your own curiosity. It’s not healthy.”

“For who?”

“You.” Dylan turned to look at her. He held her gaze and said softly, “There are some things you don’t need to know.”

Piqued, she managed a careless shrug. “I don’t care at all what he does or why he’s here. Only that he takes me to Philippe as soon as possible.” After an anxious pause, she added, “He will, won’t he? Take me to Philippe?”

“That, you will have to ask Saber. Now listen. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had enough of female vapors today. Emily has given me fits about being kept away from you, and I can tell you, I don’t like being in the middle of it.”

“I daresay.” Angela turned back to gaze blindly out the port, the landscape blurring in a mist of unshed tears. Would she never reach safety? Must she be continuously on edge, wondering what would happen in the next moment? Dear God, the past weeks had been so horrible, and she was so weary of worrying.

“Angela,” Dylan said softly, “it will be all right.”

“Will it?” she asked without turning. “I don’t think so. Nothing is the same. Everything’s changed, and I’m frightened. I don’t like to admit it, but there are moments when I feel—doomed.”

Dylan laughed, and when she turned angrily, he put up a hand as if to ward off a blow. “No, no, I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It’s just that you sound so—resigned. And that is one thing I’d never expect from you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Only that you’re a fighter. You’ll never just allow things to happen without fighting back.”

“That’s what your captain said,” she replied bitterly. “He seemed to think it a meritable notion except for when it applied to him. Doesn’t Saber realize that
he
is what I’m fighting against?
He
is the cause of all my problems, so what am I supposed to do?”

“Angela, as I’ve said before, you can pleasure him or placate him. Either one would work. All you’ve done so far is insult him, try to blow up his ship, and get him entangled with LaRosa’s revenue cutters so that he had to pay a huge fine. Maybe it’s time for a little tact.”

“I won’t need tact if I’m to be freed,” she pointed out. “Unless you have an unpleasant surprise for me?”

Dylan groaned. “All right. Have it your way. I can’t help you.”

“You mean
won’t
help me.”

Unperturbed by her hostility, Dylan nodded. “Precisely. I’ve grown accustomed to my head where it is, which is safely on my neck. And I rather like the fact that it’s relatively unscarred.”

Whirling around, Angela fought a wave of resentment that rose hotly in her throat. “I should never have expected decency from you,” she said without turning to look at him. “Please leave.”

After a pause, Dylan said, “Well, at least eat what I brought you. Turk sent it. Said it’s healthy, which probably means it tastes like it came from—” He stopped short, then finished, “The pantry. Eat. I’ll be back later to get the tray.”

When the door had shut behind him, Angela leaned against the cabin wall and yielded to the tears that had been lurking behind her eyes. Would she ever be free? Not only of this hateful ship, but the hateful memories any mention of Kit Saber provoked? Dear God, when she thought of how shamefully she’d behaved—and she thought of it even when she tried hardest not to—she felt waves of remorse at her behavior. She’d been wanton. It would not surprise her in the least to find herself sold as a woman of the streets. Not that she’d put anything past Saber. He seemed to do just what he wanted. Damn him for a tarred villain of a pirate. Damn him for having such brilliant blue eyes and a lopsided grin—of which she saw very little—and damn him for making her think of him when she didn’t want to.

Yet, it seemed that even when she closed her eyes to shut out the images of him, they seeped through her closed eyelids and burned into her brain with a tenacity she found amazing.

Doomed.
Dylan had not understood at all. It was the only word that perfectly described her situation.

Kit swiped at a thick tuft
of grass with the flat edge of his sword and said impatiently, “There’s time enough for that later. You know why I’m here. I can’t take the time to go on wild chases, even if Miss Angela dictates it. She’ll have to wait.”

Turk smiled slightly. “As usual, you are in a foul humor. This is becoming all too frequent lately, but I understand the reason.”

“Do you?” Kit snarled. “How jolly. Pray, don’t share the knowledge with me, because I don’t give a damn.

“Ah, but you do. No, do not glare at me so balefully, if you please. I find myself rather vexed as well. It is not a pleasant emotion to entertain. If we do not succeed in our search this time, will you abandon it?”

Turk’s sudden change in conversation gave Kit pause. After a moment he said slowly, “You know I cannot do that.”

Settling a huge hand on Kit’s shoulder, Turk gazed down at him for a moment without speaking. Both knew what the other was thinking, for it had been a topic of conversation too many times to count. Should he continue a search that had so far been frustrating? Or should he accept what had happened so long ago and put it behind him? Neither option was tempting, and he was damned if he knew why. He wished that he knew what drove him to find the answers to all his questions, to find the one woman who could provide him with those answers. Yet he knew he had to, that he could not rest until he did.

Kit shrugged away Turk’s hand and took a step closer to the grassy edges of the riverbank. Brown water sloshed rhythmically against the mud and weeds, and a strong breeze rippled the tall grasses. A mile upriver lay New Orleans and maybe the end to years of searching. He had to move swiftly or he might lose her again.

Without turning, he said, “Have Dylan get the two women ready to move at dark. With any luck at all, I can solve all my problems before dawn. Pray that fortune is with me.”

“Good fortune or bad?” Turk inquired. “Ofttimes, finding what you seek leads to disappointment.”

“No more learned philosophy, please. This isn’t the time for it.”

“I would think there was no more appropriate time than now, but I shall bow to your wishes.”

An unwilling smile tugged at his mouth as Kit turned to look at Turk. “There’s a first. Bowing to my wishes? What an innovative idea.”

“I did not finish my statement. I should have qualified it with the addendum—
but
with reservations.
I am on your side, remember.”

“There are moments when I wonder about that.”

“You are not that foolish.”

Kit nodded. “You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I like hearing what you have to say at times.”

“Honesty. A refreshing quality, and also a rare one.” Turk’s tattooed face creased into a smile, his dark eyes glimmering with humor. “Do try and remember that one should also be honest with oneself. ‘To thine own self be true,’ it is said.”

“Are you hinting that I am not?”

“I do not hint. I say precisely what I mean. And now, I shall ensconce myself in that distasteful little craft that these swamp people and river rats refer to as a
pirogue and journey through the swamps to begin my investigations. We will meet as planned.”

“Café des Exilés at midnight.”

“A most appropriate spot. Do you think to find Miss Angela’s betrothed there as well?”

“It seems likely. Where else would a Royalist émigré go?”

“True.”

Turk turned to go, then paused and looked back. “Kit—be careful.”

Lifting a brow in surprise, he said, “I always am.”

“Ah, so you say.”

Kit watched his massive friend walk down the grassy banks to the flat-bottomed boat waiting in the shallows. Delicate streamers of gray moss grazed Turk’s head as he passed beneath huge, gnarled oaks, and tall grasses rose almost to his waist. Around the bend in the river lay New Orleans, a teeming city of thousands, while only a few miles away lay swampland and uncharted bayous. The bayous, however, were anything but uninhabited. The swampy backwaters were home to pirates, smugglers, and settlers. Not even the militia dared venture into the area, for the few who had were rarely seen again.