Till Dawn Tames the Night (9 page)

She froze. She wasn't going to let him grab her again. She had never been grabbed by a man in her life and she was not about to let him make a habit of it. "Yes?" she said warily.

"I heard what you said to the child.
About the Star of
Aran
."

She frowned.
The Star of
Aran
?
He was obviously referring to her nursery rhyme, but why he had called it that, she was not at all sure.

"That was just a rhyme my father taught me when I was a child," she said. "In fact, it's the only thing I remember about him. Why did you refer to the Star of
Aran
? Is there such a thing? Have you heard of it before?"

He studied her face. "It's of no account. I thought that might be the name of the rhyme."

"You have an astounding memory then, sir, to have surmised all of that after hearing the rhyme only once."

"I remember a lot of things, Miss Dayne."

There was a long silence as if they both were at a loss as to how to continue. The man was an ever increasing enigma to her, and she truly doubted she would ever understand him, most certainly not before she reached Jamaica.

She began to turn away.

"One more thing."

"Yes?" She looked up at him. For the briefest of seconds she thought he was going to touch her cheek, but if he was, he sufficiently quelled the notion.

"That child, Hester.
She's a browbeaten little waif and doesn't smile often. It was kind of you to tell her that rhyme."

"It was nothing," she answered self-consciously. "I like children. I like to see them smile."

His stare grew more intense. "If that's the case, then I would think a young woman like
yourself
would be spending her time starting a family rather than sailing across the Atlantic with a ship full of strangers."

Startled, she met his gaze. Her desire for a family went back as far as she could remember. Even as a child, her favorite time of the year had been Christmas because that was when the orphans went caroling at the town houses in Berkeley Square. And though Aurora, the youngest back then, shivered from the cold and the snow, she had never wanted Mrs. Bluefield to return them to White-chapel. Instead she had wanted to stay singing in front of those open doors, to remain peeking in at the cozy family life, long after the master of the household had lifted up one of his children to put a penny in the cup for the Home.

But her longing for a family was a subject she had rarely broached with anyone, let alone this very male stranger. She hadn't even told John Phipps, for she knew instinctively that her dream would have never worked with him. And when she was truthful with herself, she knew that was why she was on the
Seabravery
now. Though a part of her was certainly running away, a part of her seemed also to be running to something.
Or someone.
If he existed at all.

She gazed reproachfully at the ship's owner. The man was abrupt and inquisitive to the point of rudeness. The fact that she never knew what he would say next rattled her considerably. With a great deal of effort, she tried to put on an indifferent facade.

"I've always considered my young charges to be my family, sir. I've not seen the need for anything more."

"I see."

His eyes met hers. There was the trace of a smirk on his lips. It was as if he had seen right through to her vulnerability and, if it were possible, had even followed the path of her thoughts. Unwittingly she blushed.

"Until tonight then, Miss Dayne," he said, mercifully excusing her.

"Yes," she choked, appalled that on just her second meeting with this ungodly pirate, he had somehow found her Achilles heel.

An angel from heaven
came
tumbling down

And asked the way to
Aran
.

"I've come to find my long lost Star

Can you help me with my errand?"

Vashon studied the rhyme again and again. Painstakingly he had written it in his ship's log. His lips moved as he read it silently now for the hundredth time. A knock on the door made him close the log in frustration. With great impatient strides he crossed the cabin and flung open the door.

"You called for me?" Isaac stepped into Vashon's cabin.

"He gave her a nursery rhyme! A damned nursery
rhyme,
and it is so much gibberish!" Vashon handed him the log.

Isaac read the rhyme,
then
rubbed his chin with the remaining thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Finally he said, "Well, old Michael Dayne was no fool. He gave his daughter the clue to the Star, but just what that is . . . Do you think she knows it?"

"I sincerely doubt it. She's not much of an actress, and when I asked her about the Star, she looked absolutely stumped—as if I were speaking Greek." Vashon took the log back and shoved it into a built-in mahogany bookcase. Frustration etched the handsome planes of his face. "When I heard her recite the damned thing to that child, I thought I would almost laugh out loud with glee! I could hardly wait to get back here and decipher it. But it makes no sense! There's got to be another verse, that's all. And we'll just have to sit patiently until we can get it out of her."

Isaac chuckled, his tanned leathery face appearing almost youthful in his mirth. "Ah, and patience is your virtue, Vashon.
Especially with women.
Why, I'm surprised you're not beating her cabin door down demanding that she decipher it for you. I've seen mightier women than her crumple at your feet. Not that they didn't look happy about it afterward, mind you, but you do have a rather forceful way about you—why use the kid gloves now?"

Vashon scowled at him. "We've a ship full of passengers. How, pray, should I deal with them while Miss Dayne calls for help from her cabin—throw them all overboard?"

"You've done worse."

"To some, maybe, not innocent passengers."
Vashon tapped his fingers on his deck. "But don't worry. I've set up dinner for tonight and besides . . ." He stopped in thought.

"Besides what?"
Isaac prompted.

Vashon smiled darkly. "She'll be ours soon enough."

Aurora dug to the bottom of her willow basket and found the gown she wanted. She shook it out and ruefully examined the wrinkles.

The dress was made of
a simple
blue cotton, printed with tiny white dots. She herself had embroidered the tiny peach-colored rosebuds on the neckline and sleeves. It was her best gown, but she had packed it at the bottom thinking it would be a very long time before she'd find the chance to wear it. Now, looking at its crumpled state, she wished she'd packed it at the top.

Restlessly she threw it on her bedstead. She pressed the wrinkles out with her palms,
then
went to fetch her comb. She'd procrastinated long enough and now didn't have much time to be ready. Still, she was determined to look her best.

All afternoon she'd paced her cabin, thinking about
him.
She'd been so close to canceling the owner's offer of dinner that she had even penned a note. But then she had torn it to little bits, unwilling to be labeled a coward. He did terrify her in a strange and inexplicable way. In their few meetings the ship's owner had been able to discover things in her that she had always held close. As if he could see what she held in her deepest heart. Sometimes she had the unsettling feeling that he knew more about her than she knew herself.

Yet as much as she wanted to avoid him, she still couldn't hide the fact that he fascinated her. His hard features and his even harder stance should have put her off. Yet somehow they didn't. She felt pulled to him. As if something in her spirit yearned for his company.

In disgust, she shook her head and grabbed her little mirror. Slowly she unpinned her hair and began combing it. It wouldn't do to dwell on the mysterious Vashon. She was still chagrined over their last encounter. That, she reassured herself, was really why she was going to his little dinner. She was determined to look as cool and unperturbed as she could, so that he would see her
untouched
by his abrupt behavior.

A soft knock on her door snapped her out of her dreary thoughts. Quickly she plaited her hair and thrust the braid over one shoulder. She opened the door and found her young steward there.

"Good evening, Benny," she said demurely.

"Good evening, miss," the boy said, placing the copper hip bath in the corner.

She watched as he went back and forth from the passage bringing in her water. She was already quite fond of Benny. He was a blond lad, hardly bigger than she was, but where his movements should have been quick and full of uncontained youthful energy, they were not. One of his legs was missing, and normally the boy used a crutch, but today he went about on his peg, an elaborate piece of whalebone carved with scrimshaw. Yet the most striking thing about him wasn't his sadly absent leg, nor his handsome English face, but the tiny monkey in gold-and-scarlet livery that tenaciously clung to his shoulder, no matter how rough the ride.

"And how is
Koonga
this evening?" she asked, holding a finger for the little creature to grab.

"She's got Cook in a fine temper," he replied. "She broke into the pantry and stole the last drop of cream just as Cook was preparing coffee for Mrs. Lindstrom."

"Oh, dear."

The monkey wrapped her prehensile tail around her wrist then started to chatter as if rapaciously defending her character.

Benny turned his head to his little passenger and scowled. "She's going to be monkey soup, if she
don't
watch herself."

"Oh, not that!"
Aurora laughed when
Koonga
gave him the most astonished expression.

"Will there be anything else, miss?" he asked when her bath was ready.

"No, no, of course not.
I've already inconvenienced you enough." With a nervous glance she watched him hobble to the cabin door. She was still uncomfortable being waited on, and though Benny was hardly more than sixteen, she was sure she'd never think it proper to have a male in her cabin.

"The captain says he'll knock on your door precisely at seven, miss," the boy said after he'd handed her a stack of fresh linen towels.

"Thank you so much," she said and watched him make his way down the passage. Discreetly her gaze slid again to his peg leg. She'd been rather curious as to how the boy had lost a leg. She'd certainly had the manners to refrain from asking, but she still found it odd that so many of the crew members were maimed. The captain had his fingers missing, and even the cook sported a black silk patch over his eye. She had no complaints, of course. All the crew
were
clean, well-dressed, and scrupulously polite. But take away their veneer of civility and it had dawned on her that they were a rather motley bunch.

When Benny was gone, she quickly bathed. She pulled on her stockings and chemise,
then
lifted the blue gown over her head. The gown tied beneath her breasts and sported an inner bodice of plain drab linen that was precariously low. Her modesty was kept intact by the attached apron front, which she carefully pinned over her bosom so that the embroidery pattern would meet at the shoulders. Next she pulled on her slippers, or "straights," as she knew the fashionable world called them. Since each heelless shoe was made exactly alike, she'd had to break them in herself, and it wasn't until she walked to her dresser that she realized she had them on the wrong feet.

After draping her large gray woolen shawl across her shoulders, she pinned the mass of her hair into a large bun, then brazenly loosened a few curls at her temple. She was almost going to pin them back when another knock banged at her door. Her stomach tightened and she felt her nerves jump. It was seven.

"Good evening, Captain," she said calmly when she answered the door. Captain Corbeil was looking most handsome in a dark blue coat with gold braiding that matched his cap. Unlike his sailors who wore only gun-mouthed trousers, the captain sported white breeches and boots. He held out his arm in a most chivalrous manner and she took it, glad to have something to hang on to even for the few steps to the owner's cabin.

When they made their entrance, Mrs. Lindstrom was seated majestically on the dolphin-legged couch and sipping a sherry. In the far corner of the cabin Benny was scuttling about, setting up a gateleg table for their meal. For a moment Aurora thought they were the only two in the large cabin until she glanced over her shoulder and saw Vashon at the bookcases pouring from a set of decanters.

He looked magnificent. He was as plainly dressed as any man she had ever seen—he wore only black pantaloons, a double-breasted waistcoat in bottle green merino, and a white muslin cravat—but the severity of his costume suited him as none other would. His attire only accentuated his startling handsomeness and, too, that particular facet of his character that straddled the razor's edge of civilization.

She hardly realized she was staring at him until their eyes met. Then vivid emerald clashed with soft aqua, and a strange, foreboding tingle went down her spine. She wanted to look away, but she found she couldn't. His gaze held her captive almost as well as his arms could have. And as he gazed at her, she found something in his eyes she had never seen before.
A look of total, incontestable possession.
He looked at her as a pirate might his captured booty . . . or, perhaps, one of his female prisoners.