The Pirate Captain (58 page)

Did she love Nathan, though? Did she feel for him as she had felt for Brian: the stirrings of the heart that came with an unexpected glimpse, or stirrings of the flesh at a smile or coffee-and-cinnamon-colored look…or the emptiness that came when he wasn’t about? Was she willing to do all the same things, take the same risks and instill the same trust, in hopes of the same in return?

“Yes, I love him.” The admission smacked of the desperate fantasies of a widow, probably past her prime.

“I thought so.” Sally brightened with fanciful speculation. “Is he dark? I’ve heard he’s dark, with eyes that can stop a woman’s heart and lead her to destruction.”

Cheeks heating, Cate bit her lip. “He is that.”

“I had me a man once,” Sally said after a protracted silence. She applied the brush with renewed industry. “I loved him so much it hurt. Then one day he up and turned pirate; left me with barely more than a by-your-leave.”

The heavy hair was brought up from the Cate’s neck and pulled a ribbon around her head. Sally gave a wistful sigh. “They’re a difficult lot to love. Heaven help the woman that falls in love with a pirate.”

Tying the ribbon off with a flourish, Sally bent enough to find Cate’s reflection once more. She smiled with a spark that rendered her years younger. “Ah, but they’re worth every bit of the pain, aren’t they?”

This time, Cate felt better prepared as she went down the stairs to take on Lady Bart and her guest-filled parlor. Sally’s prescriptive dose of brandy had stiffened her spine and dulled her senses sufficiently to render the prospect of the afternoon tolerable. After all, what could they do that hadn’t already been done? Embarrass? Stare? Ignore? Pity? Whisper behind their hands, or for that matter, behind her back?

In the foyer, Cate’s courage faltered—more like shattered—at seeing Roger Harte step out to intercept her path. It took every bit of resolve to keep from recoiling when he pressed her knuckles fiercely to his lips.

“I’m so pleased to see you have regained yourself,” he said. The green eyes burned with intensity. “I was so very concerned for your welfare and peace.”

In other words, you believed I had gone completely around the bend
.

It was a testimonial to her acting ability. Harte’s belief that she was a faint-hearted, quailing rabbit, ready to fall in prostration at so much as a coarse word was more than annoying.

Keeping her eyes averted, until her glittering hatred was mastered, Cate murmured a polite, non-committal something. She tried to retrieve her hand, but he clasped it firmly, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

“You have nothing to fear,” Harte said.

She cringed at his big-brother-watching-over-the-defenseless-woman tone.

“Every precaution has been taken: extra guards posted and two Marines at your chamber door. So you see, my dear, you have nothing to fear,” he went on.

Behind a frozen smile, Cate inwardly groaned. If no one could get in, neither would anyone be going out. A sword now hung at his side, a pistol—so laden with gold and ivory, it looked more ceremonial than practical—was tucked at his waist, presumably all for her protection.

Voices from the drawing room echoed down the hall. Roger cleared his throat loudly, either to warn of their approach, or as a chivalrous but ineffective attempt to cover what was being said.

“It is unfortunate when one must face the outcomes of a weak decision,” came a male voice.

“She should have done the honorable thing, to be sure,” said another.

Cate knew the remark for what it was: a thinly veiled reference to the common premise that a woman, caught in such a compromising circumstance as a pirate hostage, should kill herself. She looked up into Roger’s sympathy verging on pitying gaze; he was of the same mind. The rationale behind that conclusion always left her wondering: was the woman to do so to save herself from being subjected to the horrors, or to save those around her the social horror of having to face her?

This from people who wouldn’t have the courage to do as much themselves,
she thought bitterly.

Their entry brought an uncomfortable hush. All would be aware of all her earlier performance. Now, as the cowardly hostage, she was not only fallen, but deranged. A wave of unsteadiness swept her. Not as before, when struggling to regain her land legs; this was more like the condemned awaiting their fateful hour. Misinterpreting her unsureness as delicacy, Roger saw her seated, and then took up a shepherd-like position at her elbow.

The cool reception absolved Cate from the necessity of idle chat. She was avoided as if she was a refugee from Bedlam, apt to launch into hysteria at the least provocation. It was an effective shield and she augmented the impression with an occasional eye roll or twitch. The men regarded her with more reserve; Fordshaw must have related her threat. At the same time, they were intrigued, challenged as to whom among them possessed the manly fortitude to tame the wildcat, the prospect of losing said manhood if they failed their restraint.

She wasn’t without experience in drawing rooms and the higher life; quite the contrary. It wouldn’t be an empty boast to announce that she—this pitiable wretch—had been at both the French and Spanish Court. To declare that Brian’s clan had been well connected with both royal houses through business, political, and religious avenues would surely be met with cold disbelief. And if she were to let it slip, not overtly, but in a quiet, by-the-by manner, that her maternal grandmother was a Hapsburg, the royal house currently sitting the Spanish throne, she would be thought to be completely around the bend.

To see their shock was a grand temptation, but she kept her counsel.

As Cate scanned the room, there was the chance Sally’s brandy dosage might have been a bit of overmedication, for determination was giving way to stubbornness. Lady Bart’s hospitality wouldn’t be without limits; there were ways of getting oneself literally shown to the door. Her lowly stature was being tolerated only in deference to the good Commodore, but that umbrella would stretch just so far. Given the matron’s long-suffering inclination toward charity, however, it would have to be something grandly stunning, an offense of the highest degree to provoke ousting.

So what was it to be: aspersions at 10 paces? Spitting? A belch? One of Nathan’s colorful curses? A cry of “Long live Prince Charlie?”

No, that could get you arrested.

A woman sat in the chair opposite the tea table and arranged herself. It took a moment to recognize her as Mrs. Big Wig—Mrs. Devaynes, that was it!—now wearing a semi-normal sized wig, a pink bird perched ridiculously at the crown. She allowed Cate a hollow smile, and then pointedly diverted her attention to a woman opposite. Cate continued to sip her tea, wishing it were something stronger.

Conversation droned. Roger the intransigent sphinx at her side, Cate sat transfixed on the corner of a rug several feet away. A floral, its green leaves recalled the churned ground where Nathan had fallen, its red flowers his blood. Hatred surged. Unwittingly or not, every person in that room was a pawn in Harte’s insidious game, including Lady Bart.

At one point, Roger was drawn away—Lady Bart, with some household detail—and Cate heard a polite clearing of a throat from Devaynes’ direction.

“Tell me dear, if you don’t mind—?”

Cate stirred, startled at being addressed. “Excuse me? I beg pardon?”

Mildly flustered, Devaynes hesitated, and then leaned over the table to say under the conversation, “I pray you don’t think me forward, if I were to inquire…?”

Cate nodded, cautious of where on earth this line of questioning might lead.

“Well, I was wondering…? Can you tell me, my dear, what was it like…to be with that pirate…you know, when he…?”

Thinking surely she had misconstrued, Cate leant nearer. “When he…what?”

“Well, all night…” Devaynes said, dismayed at being obliged to expand. “
All
that time, for that matter. What was he like? I saw him once, you know, in Port Royal. He looked so deliciously barbaric. Was he…different? Did he, well…you know…?”

Cate gaped. The woman looked like a cat being offered a dead mouse.

“I don’t believe it’s a matter which bears discussion,” Cate said coldly. The woman’s boldness deserved the embarrassment of a blunt denial.

Devaynes stiffened, the bird in her hair impudently peering down. “Oh, come, come, my dear—”

“Harper. My name is Catherine Harper.” Her voice rose as her patience faded.

“Yes, of course…Mrs. Harper. It will be just between us.” A wrinkling of the nose was given in affirmation. “Just tell me if—?”

Cate looked to Mrs. Green-Dress-Now-Wearing-Yellow-With-the-Ridiculous-Child’s-Voice—Killingsworth—and another woman, heads canted in avid interest. It was too ironic, and not a little repugnant: they thought she should have killed herself, but since she hadn’t, the vicarious vultures wished to be entertained, brutal rape to become parlor chat.

“I hate to disappoint, but he didn’t do anything,” Cate insisted.

Mrs. Killingsworth sniffed, her disapproval mitigated by her childish tenor. “Oh, come now.
Everyone
knows the pirate character.”

“What would you like to know?” Cate demanded, now of a volume to end all other conversation. “Would you care to hear how I was bound spread-eagle and he screwed me, again and again, until I begged for more? Or would you be more interested in the size of his cock, or his prodigious appetite that required feeding, over and over…”

Cate’s voice quavered as she began to recite: “
…
a maypole of so enormous a standard
, that had proportions been observ’d, it must have belong’d to a young giant.”

There was no shame in having read Cleland’s outlawed novel. Judging by the scandalized gasps, several present had read it, as well, to the point of recognizing the passage.

“Its prodigious size made me shrink again; yet I could not, without pleasure, behold, and even ventur’d to feel, such a length, such a breadth of animated ivory…”

Somewhere to Cate’s left there was a intake of air, Lady Bart on the verge of fainting. Looking from face to face, she saw everything from Roger’s shocked rigidity to round-eyed horror, pity, and finally bemusement. Amid nervous throat-clearing, two or three women sat eager for more. Now on her feet, but not sure how she had come to be there, Cate glared.

“I hate to disappoint any of you, but nothing happened, not last night, or last week—not
ever
!”

She gripped the folds of her skirt lest they see her hands shake. “You can think anything you want. But just for the record: I was treated with more civility by a gang of pirates than the likes of you.”

Cate raced out, determined none would have the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Once in the hall, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She felt being stared at and looked over her shoulder into a blue-eyed cherub on the wallpaper.

“Well, after all, I did mean to be excused.”

The painted gaze grew more accusing.

She thumped the wall with her fist. “I don’t know what I’m to do next”

Overcome by the need for fresh air, she ran down the hall and out the garden doors. She followed the path, until she came upon an arbor. Bracing against its post, she deeply inhaled the night air, heavy with the smell of greenery and damp earth, hoping to quell the tears brimming so very near the surface.

Dammit! Get hold of yourself!

Cate straightened at hearing the crunch of approaching footsteps on the gravel pathway. She turned to find Roger coming toward her, wearing a look of severe consternation.

“Catherine,” he murmured huskily, clasping her hand. “I’m so sorry. How you must—”

“Please, don’t!” She pushed him away, choked by his nearness. “I don’t wish to be touched just now.”

It was more excuse than lie. Harte inched away, nonetheless, with hideous understanding. “Yes, just so. Of course, my dear—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Catherine—”

“Don’t call me that either,” she cried, clutching her fists until her nails gouged her palms.

“Yes…yes…Of course…how thoughtless. I beg your leave; I should have allowed how you would be feeling.”

“How am I feeling?” she flared. “You think Nathan banged me too, don’t you?

Harte stiffened at her vulgarity. Unable to meet her gaze, he looked to the ground and nodded.

“We all know what corrupt creatures they are, and there is no reason to conclude Blackthorne would behave differently.” He kicked at the stones, then looked up. “It’s common knowledge what happens when a woman is taken by…” He clamped his eyes shut at the thought.

“He didn’t do anything!”

“My heart swells to think of the bravery and courage you’ve shown,” he said over her protests. “You’re a widow. I can provide for you, protect you. I’ll see Blackthorne hanged for what—”

“He didn’t do anything!” she shrieked. A little while ago, he thought she should have killed herself. Now, he was professing his affection, whatever the hell that meant.

Disbelief flickered, but he was too much the gentleman to call her a liar. “You only did what Blackthorne forced upon you. You’d never play the whore.”

“A desperate person can do desperate things. You know nothing of me.” Cate swiped at the wetness on her cheeks, anguish giving way to anger. She wanted nothing more than to throw in his face all the times Nathan had bested him. To do so, however, might well be to her own detriment. Harte wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

His demeanor hardened; the engaging graciousness dissolved. The menace, suspected to have existed just beneath the surface when first they met rose, to the surface like oil on water. “You need not protect him.”

“You only want me because I was his. You only seek an excuse to kill him.”

Harte flinched at her insight. The reptilian gaze fixed on her and his mouth took on a cruel curve. “What difference is it, so long as he is dead? He’s a vile pestilence which should be swiped away.”

“Then do it on your own cause, not mine.”