A Pirate's Wife for Me (36 page)

"I asked the servants."

A simple answer. Too simple? Or was she being overly suspicious?

"If we can wait for five days after the delivery of the letters, England will send a ship to enforce my power. Without them, I cannot guarantee we will win." Taran paced away to the cupboard and pulled out the stack of clothing he wore as a disguise. "So — until we can defeat Sir Davies, we must convince him we are what we say we are — a subservient woman who earns the living for her unfortunate husband."

"As you wish." She gathered her undergarments, her largest petticoat and her most severe black dress. "We will face Sir Maddox Davies as a couple."

"We will defeat him as a couple."

Startled, she faced Taran and saw his purposeful stance, and for the first time she realized rehearsal was over.

The curtain had gone up.

The final act had begun.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Cate and Taran moved down
the wide sweep of stairs. He walked with his cane hung on his elbow, his short sword at his side and his hand on her arm, and she knew them to be perfectly garbed for their parts. To anyone who studied them, she was the austere, yet brave housekeeper who cared assiduously for her husband, a man broken in battle and left without vision and with a withered arm.

While she had dressed, Taran used clay to perform some magic on his face. She hadn't viewed the finished product, she only knew he had tied his blindfold with great care, covering more of his upper face than usual. He had hidden his knife deep beneath several layers of clothing and he had slid his pistol into a leather fold in his boot.

Now, as they reached the entry, she saw that the servants were nowhere to be seen. Except for Zelle, who stood half-hidden in the drapes, observing Taran as if she found him as distasteful as a beetle baked into the bread.

What had occurred to make the woman watch him with such abhorrence? And why was her dislike mixed with such avid satisfaction?

Cate gaze met Zelle's; Zelle silently slid into the shadows of the library.

Cate recognized a troublemaker when she saw one; she would have to keep an eye on Zelle. As if she didn't have an ample amount of work and worry already!

"What's happening?" Taran murmured.

In a low voice, she said, "The young mercenary is armed with a thick oak club, and he…"

"And he's stationed before the closed door of the king's study, guarding Davies's privacy." Taran's voice was equally low and quite calm.

She stopped and faced Taran. "You can see through the blindfold!"

"No."

"Then
how
did you know where Sir Maddox Davies would be?"

"I asked the servants."

"More and more I doubt you."

"Your mistrust breaks my heart."

Obviously, Taran was lying, at least about his heartbreak, but if he could remain calm in this crisis, so could she. With Taran on her arm, she walked to the tall, brawny young man. Ruthlessly and deliberately, she fixed him with her sternest gaze. "You are?"

He had been trained to respond to authority, and he snapped to attention. "Sergeant Fortunato Gouveia."

"Well, Fortunato" — she ignored his title quite purposefully — "
I
am Mrs. Tamson, the housekeeper hired by Sir Maddox Davies, and I wish to meet him."

Fortunato's brown eyes got wide. He swallowed. "I recognize you from Volker's description."

No wonder he looked frightened.

Fortunato continued, "But I cannot let you in. Sir Davies does not wish to be disturbed."

"I have waited several weeks to report to Sir Davies. I will do so now." She lifted her fist, prepared to rap on the door.

Fortunato reached to stop her.

She stared him down.

He stepped back. "Knock if you dare, but be warned — Sir Davies is respected and feared among all who meet him."

Ah. A warning. One she would not heed.

To Taran, she said, "Come, husband." Once again, she fixed Fortunato with her gaze. "Announce me," she said.

He straightened his shoulders, lifted his beardless chin, opened the door and marched inside. "Sir Maddox Davies, the new housekeeper requests to see you."

"Does she? Then show her in."

The cool, flat tones sent a shiver down Cate's spine.

Taran’s hand tightened on her elbow, and he murmured, "You're doing well. Keep it up."

Almost at once, her nerves subsided. Taran had complimented her, and she couldn't help it — she felt flattered. No wonder he was the pirate cap'n, when a single assurance from him could give her confidence.

She led him in, and told him, "Sit in this chair and rest until I've spoken with Sir Davies."

To her surprise, Taran played to her. Sounding as meek as any shrew-bit husband, he said, "Thank you. The pain is bad this day, and I am exhausted." He groped for a chair and seated himself, head bent, ankles and knees together like a schoolboy in a dunce cap.

Once again Cate marveled at his ability to don a disguise. He not only wore the clothing, he assumed the attitude.

She patted his shoulder, turned and strode toward the desk.

Behind her, she heard Fortunato softly shut the door.

As always, the size and opulence of the study dazzled her. Once upon a time, the painted walls had been marbled in shades of amber; the drapes had been swirls of blue. Her feet sank into the depths of a plush oriental rug, and an antique vase and two Chinese figurines still decorated the alcoves, proving that once this room had a showcase of exceptional beauty.

Yet more impressive were the spaces where works of art had once stood and stood no more, where royal portraits hung in shreds and tiles had been knocked from the fireplace mosaic. The chamber smelled of excrement, of cloying tobacco and burnt wood, and a smoking cigar overhung the surface of the imposing desk, its glowing tip backing toward the polished surface. All around the desk's rosewood edges, burned spots glared like blackened eyes. A marble ashtray sat atop the jumble of letters, ignored and used as a paperweight by the handsome and elegant Sir Maddox Davies.

Cate came to a halt before his desk.

Davies ignored her as steadfastly as he ignored the progress of his burning cigar.

His hands were pale, his fingers long. He lolled in his fine leather chair and scribbled on a sheet before him. He wore a black velvet smoking jacket with a white, shiny, starched shirt and a black cravat held in place with a jeweled stick pin. His countenance was not displeasing; a little bony, perhaps, and his ears stuck out, but most women would call him comely. Looking at him here, surrounded by the broken shards of royal ceremony, he seemed a lesser man, ineffectual, easily overcome. She knew that was nothing more than a guise he donned, for both Taran and Throckmorton had warned her he was vicious.

But he might also underestimate her because of her gender. In fact, she knew he would. Too bad for him that she was more than she seemed.

Folding her hands before her, she examined the painting behind him; a stylized portrait of Sir Maddox Davies, posed like a monarch among his hounds and his horses, with a glistening and beautiful Giraud as a backdrop. At one time, he must have intended to become Cenorina's monarch; she wondered what had changed his mind. Probably he had imagined only the pleasures of reigning and none of the work.

Davies dipped his pen repeatedly into the ink well. He frowned fiercely, and once even glared out the window before continuing to write in large, looped handwriting.

The cigar's fire inched closer to the wood.

The sideboard behind him did not match the desk; yet it was a fine modern piece with drawers on one side and a long cabinet door on the other. Before Sir Davies had arrived, she had searched inside; he kept slippers, handkerchiefs and a blanket in the cabinet as well as some revolting personal items in the drawers.

Before he arrived, the surface of the sideboard had been dusty, but pristine. Now papers littered the top; her fingertips itched to examine them, to see what correspondence he had carried back with him. She wondered if he would be careless with his information, or if he left those papers out deliberately, hoping to lure in a spy. If he was so artful, he would use the information therein to disseminate duplicity and half-truths.

She was a straightforward woman; all these possible layers of deception made her head spin. Perhaps Taran was right; perhaps the game of espionage was an ill-fit for her. Yet she had no other way to avenge the death of her brother, and no other future that she could see. And so she would learn…

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

At last Sir Davies finished his letter,
shook sand over the paper, folded it and sealed it with wax. Only then did he stick his hand out to Cate. Yet he did not look at her, and he offered the hand not in friendship, but in demand. "What have you brought me?"

With her best imitation of naïveté, she took his ink-stained hand and shook it firmly. When he looked up to glare, she smiled. "I am the new housekeeper, Mrs. Tamson."

He jerked his hand away. He looked her up and down. Apparently nothing he observed in her lean figure gave him pleasure, for he looked away without interest.

As Taran had told her, men who were intimidated by her height would pretend disinterest when it was their own masculinity at fault.

He said, "A letter, Tamson. You must have brought a letter, and I wish to have it — now."

She didn't allow her smile to diminish as she reached into her reticule for her letter of recommendation, and passed it to him. "This is from Lady Bucknell, the director of The Distinguished Academy of Governesses."

He weighed the letter in his hand. "What does it say?"

"Do you wish me to read it to you?" He was not illiterate, she knew.

"I assumed you had already read the letter." The cigar began its slow burn of the rosewood, and the stink of tobacco, bee's wax and finish curled into the air. "Don't women always know clever ways to open mail that is not theirs?"

At first Cate didn't understand.

Then she did.

He had insinuated — no, he had
said
that because of her gender, she was untrustworthy and inclined to open mail that was not addressed to her.

The ill-mannered
bastard
.

She wanted to blast him with the full wrath of her formidable rage, yet here, in this land, she was not the sister of a Scottish laird. Instead, she was a stern, hard-working woman who supported a blind husband. A single, indrawn breath gave her control over her temper. With deliberate artlessness, she said, "I don't read other people's correspondence, but if you have trouble deciphering the writing, I'm sure I can assist you."

His chin snapped up. "You're insolent."

She managed to look amazed. "No, Davies."

"You will call me Sir Davies!"

"When you call me Mrs. Tamson!" Before he could draw breath, she continued, "You're foreign, and everyone knows foreigners are ignorant."

Color rose in blotches on his forehead. "I am not ignorant, nor am I foreign. I am English, born and raised in England."

"That's different." He was a traitor to his own country.
Every day, every hour, she cursed these people who hated everything and everyone in the British Isles, who envied the Empire, who sought to harm her and hers.
The black rage that had brought her so far from home writhed in her belly, but she presented a knowledgeable façade. "So perhaps you do read."

"Exceptionally well. However, you,
Mrs. Tamson
, are not English."

"No,
Sir Davies
. I am Scottish."
He leaned back in his leather chair, picked up his cigar, took a puff and smiled for the first time. "Scottish … I am the son of a British lord."

"I am the
legitimate
daughter of a Scottish laird."

Sir Davies's smile disappeared. "You brought a husband, Mrs. Tamson."

"That's right, Sir Davies."

"Housekeepers don't have husbands, Mrs. Tamson, especially not husbands who are blind and require care."

"This housekeeper does, Sir Davies."

"I do not take in charity cases."

She placed her fists on the desk, leaned forward, looked him in the eyes, and took a terrible gamble. "If Mr. Tamson is a problem, please say so, and we will swiftly pack and catch the ferry to England before it leaves. As you know, housekeepers trained at The Distinguished Academy of Governesses are in great demand, and I can secure another position in England, and for a better salary."

He leaned forward and glared back at her. "If you are displeased with the salary, Mrs. Tamson, why did you take this position so far from home?"

She straightened. "My husband's wounds will benefit from sunshine and warm air, and those are not readily available in the British Isles. They are here."