A Lady at Last
Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my sister, Jamie, without whom this story would not have been possible. Her life inspired the life of Amanda. If only she’d had a hero to rescue her! But I know she’s laughing at me now, incredulous that her older sister is such a foolish romantic still. I guess it is silly…. Jamie, this one belongs to you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

King’s House; June 20, 1820

HE WAS renowned as the greatest gentleman privateer of his era, an accolade that amused him no end. Gentleman and privateer were two words that should never be uttered in the same sentence, even if he was an exception to that rule. Cliff de Warenne, third and youngest son of the earl of Adare, stared at the newly constructed hanging block, unsmiling. While it was true that he had yet to lose a battle or his quarry, he did not take death lightly. He estimated that he had already used up at least six lives, and hoped he had at least three left.

A hanging always brought out the biggest crowd. Every rogue and planter, every lady and whore, were flocking into the city to watch the pirate hang. Tomorrow they would be breathless with anticipation and excitement. There would be applause when the pirate’s neck was broken with a loud, jarring snap. There would be cheers.

A tall, towering man with tawny, too-long, sun-streaked hair and a bronze complexion, Cliff had the brilliant blue eyes the de Warenne men were famous for. He was clad casually in high boots, pale white doeskin breeches and a fine linen shirt, but he was heavily armed. Even in polite society he kept a dagger in his belt, a stiletto in his boot, for he had gained his fortune the hard way, and he had made his share of enemies. Besides, in the islands, he had no time for fashion.

Cliff realized that he was late for his appointment with the colonial governor. But several fashionably dressed ladies were just entering the square, one a gorgeous beauty. They glanced his way, whispering excitedly. He saw that they were on their way to the scaffolding to inspect the site of tomorrow’s hanging. Under usual circumstances, he would mark one for his bed, but he could scent their bloodlust and he was frankly disgusted by it.

The imposing entrance of King’s House was directly behind him as he watched the three women stroll to the hanging block. The incessant fascination of the elegant ladies of the ton and island society was convenient; like all the de Warenne men, he was very virile. He recognized the blond, the wife of a gentleman planter he knew well, but the dark beauty was undoubtedly new to the island. She smiled at him, clearly aware of who and what he was, and as clearly offering him her services, should he wish to accept them.

He did not. He nodded politely at her and she held his gaze before turning away. He was a nobleman and a legitimate merchantman, when he was not accepting letters of marque, but, the whispers of “rogue” and “rover” wafted after him anyway. He had even been called a pirate by one particularly passionate lover. The truth was, even having been raised a gentleman, he was more at home in Spanishtown than Dublin, in Kingston than London, and he made no secret of it. When he was on the deck of his ship in the midst of the hunt, no man could possibly be a gentleman. Gentility meant death.

But he had never cared about the whispers. He had made his life into exactly what he wished, without his father’s helping hand, and he had earned his reputation as one of the greatest masters of the sea. Although he always yearned for Ireland, the loveliest place in the world, it was on the main that he was free. Even at the earl’s estate, surrounded by the family he cherished, he was aware that he was not at all like his two brothers—the heir and the spare. Compared to his land-and-duty-bound brothers, he was very much a buccaneer. Society accused him of being different, an eccentric and an outsider, and they were right.

Just before Cliff turned to enter King’s House, two more ladies met with the trio, the crowd in the square growing. A gentleman whom he recognized as a successful Kingston merchant had joined the ladies, as had a few sailors.

“Hope he’s enjoyin’ his last meal,” one of the sailors laughed.

“Is it true he slit the throat of an English naval officer?” one of the women gasped. “And painted his cabin with the blood?”

“It’s an old pirate tradition,” the sailor replied, grinning.

Cliff rolled his eyes at the absurd accusation.

“Do they hang many pirates here?” the beauty asked breathlessly.

Cliff turned away. The hanging was going to be a circus, he thought grimly.

And the irony of it all was that Rodney Carre was one of the least menacing and most unsuccessful rovers at sea; he would hang because Governor Woods was determined to set an example any way that he could. Carre’s crimes were pitiful in comparison to those of the ruthless Cuban rovers now raging in the Caribbean, but Carre was the one inept enough to have been caught.

He knew the man, but not well. Carre was frequently in Kingston Harbor to careen his ship or unload his goods, and Cliff’s island home, Windsong, was on the northwest end of Harbor Street. They’d exchanged only a few dozen words in the past dozen years, and usually merely nodded at one another in passing. He had no real reason to be dismayed over Carre’s fate.

“And the pirate’s daughter?” one of the women asked excitedly. “Will they hang her, too?”

“La Sauvage?” The gentleman spoke. “She hasn’t been captured. And beside, I don’t think anyone on this island would accuse her of a crime.”

Cliff realized why he was so disturbed. Carre was leaving behind a daughter. She was too young to be charged with piracy, even if she had sailed with her father.

It was not really his affair, he thought grimly as he turned back to King’s House. Yet he recalled her vividly now, for he had glimpsed her from time to time, riding the waves like a porpoise in nothing but a chemise or standing boldly in the bow of her canoe, recklessly defying the wind and the sea. They had never met, but like everyone else on the island, he knew her instantly upon a single glimpse. She seemed to run wild about the island beaches and on the city streets and was impossible to miss with her long, tangled moon-colored hair. She was wild and free and he had admired her from a distance for years.

Uneasy, he shifted his thoughts. He would not even be in Spanishtown tomorrow when Carre was hanged. Instead, he wondered at Woods’s summons. They were friends—they had frequently worked together on island policy and even on legislation, and in Woods’s term of office, Cliff had accepted two commissions from him, successfully capturing the foreign brigands. Woods was a resolute politician and governor and Cliff respected him. On one or two occasions, they had caroused together, as well—Woods was fond of the ladies, too, when his wife was not in residence.

Two British soldiers sprang forward as he strode past the six Ionic columns that supported a pediment displaying the British coat of arms to the huge doors of the governor’s residence, the gold and ruby spurs he wore jangling. “Captain de Warenne, sir,” one said, relaxing. “Governor Woods said you are to go in immediately.”

Cliff nodded at him and entered a vast foyer with a crystal chandelier. Standing on the waxed parquet floors of the circular entry, he could glimpse a formal salon done up in red velvets and brocades.

Thomas Woods rose from behind a desk, smiling as he saw him. “Cliff! Come in, my good man, come in!”

Cliff strode into the salon, shaking Woods’s hand. The governor was a lean, handsome man in his thirties, with a dark moustache. “Good day, Thomas. I see the hanging will happen as scheduled.” The words slipped out, unbidden.

Woods nodded, pleased. “You have been gone for almost three months—you have no idea what this means.”

“Of course I do,” Cliff said, that odd tension filling him again as he wondered at the pirate’s daughter’s future. It crossed his mind that maybe he would visit Carre at the garrison in Port Royal. “Does Carre remain at Fort Charles?”

“He has been moved to the courthouse jail,” Woods responded. The newly constructed courthouse, completed the previous year, was directly across the square from King’s House. Woods went to the bar built into the huge Dutch sideboard on one wall and poured two glasses of wine. He handed Cliff a glass. “To the morrow’s hanging, Cliff.”

Cliff did not join him in the toast. “Maybe you should attempt to capture the pirates flying the flag of José Artigas,” he said, referring to the gaucho general who was at war with both Portugal and Spain. “Rodney Carre has nothing in common with those murdering villains, my friend.”

Woods smiled firmly. “Ah, I was hoping you could tackle Artigas’s men.”

Cliff was interested, as the hunt was in his blood. Woods was offering him a dangerous commission, one he would not usually think twice about accepting. However, he remained on another tack. “Carre has never been foolish enough to attack British interests,” he commented, taking a sip of claret.

Woods started. “So he is a decent pirate? A good pirate? And what is the point of your defense? He has been tried and found guilty, he hangs tomorrow at noon.”

An image came to mind, one he could not chase away. Her hair as pale as a bright star, her shirt and breeches soaking wet, La Sauvage lifted her slim arms overhead and dived off the bow of her father’s sloop into the sea below. He had been coming home last year and standing on the quarterdeck of his favorite frigate, the Fair Lady, when he had spotted her through his spyglass. He had paused to watch her surface, laughing, and had almost wished he could dive into the calm turquoise sea with her.

“What about the child?” he heard himself say. He had no idea of her age, but she was small and slender and he guessed she was somewhere between twelve and fourteen.

Woods seemed startled. “Carre’s daughter—La Sauvage?”

“I heard their farm was forfeit to the Crown. What will become of her?”

“Good God, Cliff, I do not know. Rumor has it she has family in England. Maybe she will go there. Or I suppose she could go to the Sisters of St. Anne’s in Seville—they have an asylum for the orphaned.”

Cliff was shocked. He just could not imagine a spirit like that imprisoned in such a manner. And this was the first he had heard of the child having family in Britain. But then, Carre had once been a British naval officer, so it was certainly possible.

Woods stared. “You are behaving oddly, my friend. I asked you to come here today because I was hoping you would accept a commission from me.”

Cliff shoved his thoughts of Carre’s daughter aside. He felt himself smile. “May I hope that you seek El Toreador?” he asked, referring to the most vicious of the rovers plaguing the area.

Woods grinned. “You may.”

“I am more than pleased to accept the commission,” Cliff said, meaning it. The hunt would surely erase his irascible mood and the restlessness gnawing at him. He had been at Windsong for precisely three weeks—usually he stayed a month or two—and his only regret would be leaving his children. He had both a son and a daughter at his island home, and when he was at sea or abroad, he missed them terribly.

“Shall we go in to dine? I have asked my chef to make your favorite dishes,” Woods said happily, clasping Cliff’s arm. “We can discuss the details of the commission. I am also eager to ask for your opinions on the new venture in the East Indies. Surely you have heard of the Phelps company?”

Cliff was about to affirm that he had, when he heard the soldiers at the governor’s front door shouting in alarm. Instantly he drew his saber. “Get back,” he ordered Woods.

The governor paled, a small pistol appearing in his hand, but he obeyed, hurrying to the far end of the salon while Cliff strode into the foyer. He heard a soldier gasping in pain, and another fellow shout, “You cannot go inside!”

The front door burst open and a small, slender woman with a mass of pale hair ran through it, waving a pistol.

“Where is the governor?” she demanded wildly, pointing the gun at him.

The most vivid green eyes he had ever beheld locked with his and he forgot that a pistol was pointed at his forehead. He stared, shocked. La Sauvage was not a child: she was a young woman and a very beautiful young woman, at that. Her face was triangular, her cheekbones high, her nose small and straight, her mouth lush and full. But it was her eyes that stunned him—he had never seen such intriguing eyes, as exotic as a jungle cat’s.

His gaze swept down her figure. Her moon-colored hair was exactly as he had thought—a wild curly mane that reached her waist. She wore a huge man’s shirt, hanging to midthigh, but there was no mistaking the suggestion of a bosom beneath it. Her legs were encased in breeches and a lad’s boots, and were unmistakably long and feminine.

How could he have assumed, even from a distance, that she was a child, he wondered inanely.

“Are you a dimwit?” she shouted at him. “Where is Woods?”

He drew a breath and somehow smiled, his composure returned. “Miss Carre, please do not point the pistol at me. Is it loaded?” he asked very calmly.

She paled as if just recognizing him. “De Warenne.” She swallowed. The pistol wavered. “Woods. I must see Woods.”

So she knew him, somewhat. Then she knew he was not to be toyed with. Did she know that anyone else would die for brandishing a weapon at him in such a manner? Was she that brave, or that foolish—and desperate? His smile intensified, but he was not feeling amused. He had to swiftly end the crisis, before she was hurt or arrested. “Give me the pistol, Miss Carre.”

She shook her head. “Where is he?”

He sighed—and moved. Before she knew it, he had her wrist in his hand, and an instant later, he had her pistol.

Tears filled her eyes and he knew they were tears of rage. “Damn you!” She struck at him with both fists, pummeling his chest.

He handed the pistol to one of the wary soldiers and caught her wrists again, more gently, not wanting to hurt her. He was surprised by her strength; she was so slender she appeared frail, but she was not. However, she had no power compared to him. “Please, cease. You will hurt yourself,” he said softly.

She was writhing in his grasp like a wildcat, hissing and spitting like one, too, and even attempting to claw at his face.

“Stop,” he ordered, becoming annoyed. “You cannot triumph over me.”

Suddenly her eyes met his and she stilled, panting heavily. And as their gaze held, he felt a stirring of compassion for her. Even if she was eighteen, he sensed she was a child in many ways, due to her unorthodox upbringing. And now he recognized more than desperation in her eyes; he saw her fear.

Tomorrow, her father would hang. Today, she thought to accost the governor. “Surely you do not think to murder my friend Woods?”

“I would if I could,” she spat at him. “But no, I will delay his murder for another day!” She began to struggle uselessly again. “I have come to beg him for mercy for my father.”

His heart seemed to break. “If I release you, will you be still? I can arrange an audience with the governor.”

Hope flared in her eyes. She nodded, wetting her lips. “Yes.”

He hesitated, confused by his odd emotions. It wasn’t appropriate, but he wondered how old she was. Of course, he was not interested in her, not that way. How could he be? She was too young, and she was a pirate’s daughter. His last mistress had been a Hapsburg princess, acclaimed to be the greatest beauty on the Continent. His daughter’s mother, who was deceased, had been an exotic and beautiful concubine, enslaved in the harem of a Barbary prince. Rachel had been a Jewess, highly educated and one of the most intelligent women he had ever met. He was very discriminating when it came to the ladies who shared his bed. He could not be interested in a wild-eyed waif brandishing a pistol the way other women carried parasols.

She was regarding him with a very neutral expression now. His instincts sharpened. “You will behave.” It wasn’t a question.

Her mouth formed a small, unenthusiastic smile.

Now he was alarmed. Was she hiding another weapon, perhaps beneath that voluminous shirt? While she was not a lady, he did not feel comfortable searching her. “Miss Carre, give me your word that you will behave in a courteous and respectful manner while in the governor’s house.”

She gave him a puzzled look, as if she did not understand a word he had said, but she nodded.

He briefly touched her arm, in the hopes of guiding her toward the salon, but she flinched and he did not attempt to touch her again. “Thomas? Would you mind stepping out? I should like to introduce you to Miss Carre.”

Woods strode forward to the threshold of the salon. He was grim, his color now high. “A mere waif got by my guards?” He was disbelieving.

Cliff recognized his rising temper. “She is worried about her father, and rightly so. I promised her you would allow her to speak.”

Woods seemed about to refuse. “She assaulted my men! Robards, are you harmed in any manner?”

The British soldier remained alert and stiffly at attention in the foyer, his fellow officer inside the house by the front door. He was flushed. “No, sir. Governor, I apologize for the terrible intrusion.”

“How did she manage to get past you?” Woods was incredulous.

Robards’s high color increased. “Sir, I don’t know—”

“I asked them to help me find my little lost puppy dog,” La Sauvage said, her tone absurdly coy, and she batted her lashes at Governor Woods. Then she swung her hips from side to side and shed a tear. “They were soo concerned!”

Cliff stared, quickly reassessing La Sauvage. She had known how to use her considerable female allure to entrap the soldiers. She wasn’t as innocent, then, as she appeared.

Woods turned a cold regard on her. “Arrest her.”

She gasped, and whirled to gaze at Cliff with shock. The surprise became accusation as the soldiers stepped toward her. “You promised!”

He stepped in front of her, blocking the two soldiers and preventing them from seizing her. “Do not,” he warned very softly. His tone was one he only used when he intended to follow it up with a very dire consequence.

Both soldiers froze.

“Cliff! She assaulted my men!” Woods objected.

She turned to face the governor. “And you are hanging my father!” she shouted furiously.

Cliff took her arm, intending to restrain her if need be, but also aware of the urge to protect her. “Thomas, you owe me more than one favor, if I recall. I am collecting now. Hear her out.”

Woods stared, dismayed. “Damn it, de Warenne,” he said, very low. “Why are you doing this?”

“Hear her out,” Cliff said even more softly. It was a command.

Woods’s expression filled with distaste. He gestured for La Sauvage to precede him into the salon.

She shook her head, her beautiful green eyes narrowing shrewdly. “You first.” She smiled coldly. “I never walk ahead of my enemies.”

Silently, Cliff applauded her. He worried again, however, that she might be concealing more weapons.

Woods sighed. “Robards, you may wait where you are. Johns, please return to your post outside of the front door.” As both soldiers obeyed, he strode grimly into the salon.

La Sauvage was about to follow, but Cliff had seen her hide a smile and he seized her arm. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Very softly, so Woods could not hear, he murmured, “You are unarmed, are you not?”

She stared into his eyes. “Am I a fool? Of course I’m not armed.”

She did not blink, not once. Her cheeks did not color. Her gaze did not waver. Yet he knew, without a doubt, that she was lying.

His grip tightened. She began to protest, trying to pull back, but he restrained her. “I beg your pardon,” he said grimly, aware that he was flushing. With his free hand, over her shirt, he touched her waist, expecting to find another pistol strapped inside her shirt there. Instead, he was stunned at how narrow her waist was, with no flesh to spare. He could probably close both of his hands around her, if he tried.

“Get your paws off me,” she gasped, outraged.

He ignored her, sliding his hand to the small of her back and trying not to think about drifting it lower. She started to struggle. “Lecher!”

“Be still,” he growled, feeling the other side of her waist.

“Are you happy now?” she demanded, remaining scarlet but wriggling impossibly.

“You are making this difficult,” he said, and then he stopped. Something was strapped beneath her shirt on the left side of her waist.

She started to pull against him.

He gave her a look, slid his hand under her shirt and over the sharp edge of the dagger taped to her ribs.

“Damn you!” she hissed, attempting to twist away.

To his shock, the heavy underside of a full and bare breast bumped into his hand as he seized the knife.

She went still and so did he.

“Bastard!” She pulled free.

He tried to breathe, but he was aroused. Beneath that loose, oversize shirt was an intriguing body, one that belonged to a mature woman. He slid her dagger into his belt. It was a moment before he could speak. “You lied.”

She gave him a furious look and marched after Woods into the salon.

He hoped she did not have another dagger taped somewhere else, perhaps on her hip or her thigh. He could not understand his response to her body, so slim in some places and far too soft in others. He’d had hundreds of beautiful, alluring women. He allowed himself desire when the moment was appropriate or when it suited him. He was not a green boy and he could control his lust. He did not want to feel any stirrings, now or ever, for La Sauvage. But his body had betrayed him.

He was very displeased.

He strode into the salon, leaving the door open. The governor had chosen to sit in a huge armchair, so that he appeared more royalty than royally appointed. He indicated that she might speak, the gesture abrupt and somehow disrespectful.

Cliff didn’t care for his manner. Clearly, Woods had made up his mind and nothing La Sauvage could say or do would change it.

But she began to cry, tears running down her breathtaking face. He knew the tears were contrived, born of her fear and desperation.

“Give her a genuine opportunity to speak,” he said to Woods.

“I do not need this,” Woods groused. He was angry.

“Please,” she whispered, the sound soft and feminine, a plea, and she clasped her hands as if in prayer before her chest. The gesture drew her shirt tight, revealing the shape of her surprisingly lush bosom. Cliff stared, instantly distracted, and so did Woods, apparently not oblivious to her allure, either.

“My lord, my father is all I’ve got. He is a good man, sir, a good father. He’s not really a pirate, you know. He’s a planter, and you can go to Belle Mer to see for yourself. We have one of our best crops in years!”

“I think we both know he has committed numerous acts of piracy,” Woods said sternly.

Tears streaked her lovely face and she sank to her knees. Cliff tensed. Her face was level with the governor’s lap. Did she know how provocative her position was? “He has never been a pirate, you are wrong, sir! The jury was wrong! He has been a privateer. He has worked for Britain, hunting pirates—just like Captain de Warenne. If you will pardon him, he will never sail again, ever.”

“Miss Carre, please get up. We both know your father has nothing in common with Lord de Warenne.”

She didn’t move. Her full, lush mouth began to tremble. Even had she been standing, it was so provocative it would have been impossible to ignore. But she was on her knees, as if a skilled whore before a paying client. Woods was staring at her mouth. His face had become taut, his dark eyes turning black.

Cliff did not like what was happening.

“I can’t lose him,” she whispered throatily. “If you pardon him, he will obey the law like a saint. And I….” she stopped, licking her lips, “I will be so grateful, sir, forever grateful, no matter what…you ask me…to do.”

Wood’s eyes were wide, but he did not move.

She would prostitute herself for her father? Cliff seized her arm, hauling her to her feet. “I believe that’s enough.”

She turned a murderous glare on him. “No one wants you here! Leave me be! I am talking to the governor! Go mind your own affairs!”

“Propositioning him, is more like it,” Cliff said, feeling quite furious himself. He yanked her once. “Be quiet.” He faced Woods. “Thomas, why not pardon Carre? If his daughter is being truthful, he will give up his roving. If not, I promise you I will bring him in myself.”

Woods slowly stood. He briefly glanced at Cliff but then his gaze returned to La Sauvage. Although she stood straight and tall, she was trembling. “I am going to consider your proposal, Miss Carre.”

Her eyes widened. So did Cliff’s. “You are?”

“I intend to spend the night doing so.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in.

And Cliff was livid, for he understood.

But La Sauvage was not as experienced as either of the men, and it took her a moment. Then she drew herself up straighter. She was red-faced. “Can I wait here, then, for your decision?”

“Of course.” He finally smiled at her.

Cliff stepped in front of him. “And to think I have thought of you as a friend,” he said tersely.

Woods raised both brows. “I am certain you would avail yourself of such an opportunity, as well. Now you defend her virtue?” He was amused.

It seemed that was what he was doing. “May I assume Mrs. Woods remains in London?”

“She is actually in France.” He was not perturbed. “Come, Cliff, do calm down. We shall adjourn to our delayed luncheon, while Miss Carre rests and awaits my decision.”

“I’m sorry, I have lost my appetite.” He turned to La Sauvage. “Let’s go.”

She was standing there, appearing very young and very grim—and very resolute. She might have been on the way to the gallows. She shook her head. “I am staying.”

“Like hell,” he said softly and dangerously.

And the tears filled her eyes—real tears. “Go away, de Warenne. Leave me be.”

Cliff fought with himself. Why did he care? She seemed young, but she couldn’t possibly be innocent, not having lived the kind of life she had. He wasn’t her protector.

“You heard the…lady,” Woods said softly. “She won’t be hurt, Cliff. In fact, she might be pleased.”

He was blinded by a kind of rage he hadn’t ever experienced. Images danced in his mind. Woods embracing La Sauvage, Woods ruthlessly availing himself of her slender, yet lush body. He fought to breathe, and when he could speak, he looked at the governor. “Don’t do this.”

“Why? She’s a beauty, even if her odor is offensive.”

She smelled of the sea and Cliff did not find it offensive at all. “She is expecting a pardon.”

“And you are her champion?” Woods was amused.

“I wish to champion no one,” he said sharply.

“Stop talking about me as if I am not here,” she cried to them both.

Cliff slowly faced her. “Come with me,” he said. “You do not need to do this.”

She stared at him, as white as a sheet. “I need to free my father.”

“Then get a written contract—your services for his pardon.” He was terse.

She seemed puzzled. “I can’t read.”

He made a harsh sound and faced the governor. “Will you be able to live with yourself afterward?”

He shook his head. “Good God, Cliff, she’s a pirate’s daughter.”

Cliff turned back to her but she refused to look at him, her arms folded across her chest. He was furious with her, with Woods, and even with himself. He stalked out, leaving them to their lurid affair.

Outside, the clouds were gathering, a fresh breeze of almost twenty knots coming onshore. Spanishtown was a dozen miles from the coast, and he had come by coach, not the river, but he knew that the waves had swells and it would be a good day for sailing. In fact, just then he wished to race the wind, running full sail before it.

His temples throbbed. Now he wished to run away? He rubbed his forehead grimly. La Sauvage was not his concern.

But she hadn’t understood, for she was naive in so many ways. She thought to buy her father’s amnesty with her body, but Woods was going to use her and then hang her father anyway.

Jamaica was his home. And although he only spent a few months of the year there, he was one of the island’s leading citizens and very little happened on the island without his consent. Had he been present during Carre’s capture, he would have made sure his case never came to trial. But it had, and the news had been reported not just in the Jamaican Royal Times but on most of the other islands, too. Even the American newspapers had reported the pirate’s conviction. It was too late now to stop the hanging.

And Woods was a strong governor. There had been a few better, there had been many worse. Cliff supported his new policy of attempting to quell the Cuban rovers. No matter what happened now, he needed to remain on good terms with him. They had too many interests in common.

I am begging you, sir, begging you not to take my father from me. He’s a good man, a good father, and he’s all I have in the world!

She was not going to save her father, and certainly not in Woods’s bed. Cliff turned, staring at the imposing front doors beneath the white temple pediment of King’s House. By damn, he had to act.

He strode back to the house. “I’m afraid I have need of the governor again.”

Robards was chagrined. “I’m sorry, Captain. The Governor is not to be disturbed this afternoon.”

Cliff was in disbelief, but only for a moment. “This cannot wait.” Unconsciously his tone had become soft and so very warning.

The young soldier flushed. “Sir, I am sorry…” he began.

Cliff put his hand on the hilt of his scabbard. He gave Robards a look and stepped past him, pushing open the front door. The silence of the house wrapped itself around him and he knew they were together. His heart raced. He knew all the principal rooms were on the ground floor, as was the governor’s private suite. As Woods had decided not to allow La Sauvage an afternoon’s respite, he doubted they were in a guest room. No, he had taken La Sauvage to his rooms. Cliff was certain.

Robards had followed him to the threshold of the foyer. “Sir! Please!”

Cliff smiled mirthlessly at him and kicked the door closed in his face. Then he locked it. He strode down the hall, the calm of that moment before a fierce battle settling over him. It was a feeling he relished. The lull before the explosion…

The house remained stunningly quiet. As he traversed its depths, he could imagine them naked, hot, entwined, Woods overcome with lust. His silent rage grew.

He had never been to the governor’s private rooms, but King’s House had been built fifty-odd years earlier and he assumed the suite was in the west wing, as it was in so many Georgian homes.

He tried four doors as he went down the west hall, all opening onto unoccupied guest rooms. And when he came to the door at the end, he heard soft male laughter.

His blood surged and thickened.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

Instantly, he saw them.

Woods stood in the center of the bedroom, a massive canopied bed behind him. He had shed his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, revealing a muscular torso. His trousers were open, revealing his manhood.

She stood by the bed, clad in a man’s sapphire-blue silk dressing gown, but it was unbelted and open, revealing her lean golden thighs, soft belly and full breasts. Her expression was one of despair, but it was also fierce and determined. She would not stand down.

Cliff prayed he was not too late.

He strode to Woods, who was so preoccupied with his victim that he did not see him until Cliff raised his fist. Woods cried out but Cliff knocked him backward into the wall, the blow so stunning he slid down it into a heap, as if unconscious.

He stepped over him, reaching for his hair, yanking his head back. Dazed eyes met his. “Society would love this bit of gossip, don’t you think?” he snarled. The threat was impulsive but ideal; Woods had a reputation to maintain, and his wife would be livid should she ever learn of his scandalous behavior.

“We are…friends!” Woods gasped.

“Not anymore.” Cliff had to fight himself not to hit him again. Then he heard her choke.

He whirled, hurrying to her. She was on all fours, fighting for composure. He knelt, sliding his arm around her, terribly aware of her exposed body and also aware that Woods had probably used her in the most despicable and disrespectful manner possible. Slowly she looked up at him, her green cat eyes huge and hurt and beseeching.

He hoped that what he thought had happened hadn’t. “I’m taking you out of here,” he said softly.

She shook her head, shocking him. “Leave me…be,” she whispered brokenly.

He wanted to kill his onetime friend; he cradled her face in his hands. “Listen to me!” he said urgently. “He is not going to pardon your father no matter what you do, or how many times you do it! Do you comprehend me?”

“But it’s the only chance I have to save him,” she gasped.

He realized her mouth was bruised. He lifted her into his arms and was surprised again, because she clung. Now there was no mistaking the fact that he wanted to protect her, but he was also aware of her open robe and her soft breasts, pressed to his chest. He had glimpsed the wet treasure between her thighs. “There was never a chance,” he said roughly, carrying her from the room.

In the hall he paused, suddenly realizing that soldiers were outside the front door, and he had just assaulted the royal governor. They’d have to make a hasty retreat through a window—and he would have quite a bit of political maneuvering to do in the days that followed. Woods might not be a friend anymore, but they needed to work together if he was to remain a viable and influential resident of the island. Suddenly he realized his burden was oddly still.

He looked at her.

She looked up at him, her hands remaining looped around his neck. She was blushing.

His gaze veered to her beautiful breasts, then lower to her slender torso, her rib cage faintly delineated, her small pink navel and the champagne-colored delta below. Buccaneer or not, he was a gentleman, and he jerked his gaze to her face, feeling his own cheeks warm. With one hand, awkwardly, he tugged the wrapper somewhat closed. “How badly did he hurt you?” he asked roughly.

“Can you put me down?” she asked instead of replying.

Instantly he complied.

She smiled at him, and kicked him very hard in the shin. And then she pushed at him and started to run.

Stunned, he reached for her, but she was agile, swift and determined. She ducked his grasp and raced down the hall, her wrapper flowing behind her nude body like a banner. He started after her more slowly, unhappily aware of a terrible turmoil in him. He almost wished he had not gotten involved, for he sensed this was just the beginning. And when he reached the entry, no one was there.

La Sauvage was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

AMANDA RAN THROUGH A pair of terrace doors and across the patio. King’s House took up an entire city block and was built around two courtyards; she rushed down a set of white stone steps and into the gardens there. She stumbled, didn’t care and fell to her knees. She began retching. But she hadn’t been able to eat in days, she was so sick with fear for her father, and her heaves were dry. Then she lay on the thick, damp grass, allowing herself the luxury of tears.

Her terror overcame her. Papa was going to hang tomorrow at noon. Confronting the governor and begging him for a pardon had been their last chance. She hadn’t intended to offer him her body, but when he had started to look at her the way sailors and riffraff did, she had instinctively known what she must do. How often had she seen a woman coyly seduce her father in order to win a brooch or a bolt of silk? There was only one way a woman could ever gain anything from a man and Amanda knew what that way was. She had been raised amongst sailors and thieves and the only women she knew well had been camp followers and whores. The world she had been raised in was founded on violence and sex.

But she hadn’t given her body over to Woods, because Cliff de Warenne had stopped her from doing so.

She inhaled, her heart lurching. Why had he intervened? He was the greatest privateer of the day, as rich and powerful as a king. No one could outcommand him on the main—even Papa had said so. And he was reputed to be equally dangerous on land…

Papa. Her heart was already grieving and she reminded herself that Papa wasn’t dead yet. But the grief and the fear had combined, as potent as opium, a drug she had once been given before Papa had realized what was happening. She sat, tugging her robe more securely closed. Rodney had slit the throat of the buccaneer who had thought to drug her and seduce her, right before Amanda’s eyes. He had protected her from the men who had wanted her, when he had been present to do so, and he had taught her how to defend herself with a sword, pistol and dagger, so she could protect herself when he was not there. His cruises often lasted months on end, and he’d leave her with enough stores so she would not go hungry, at least not if he returned on time. He was a good father and now she had failed him, when he was the mainstay of her life. This one single time, a time of life or death, she had let her papa down.

Her mind scrambled and raced, looking for another way to save Rodney. She had dismissed the notion of trying to break her father out of prison some time ago. Most of the crew had been killed in battle with the English officer who had captured the Amanda C, and the remaining crew was also in prison, awaiting their moments at the gallows.

If she couldn’t forcibly free him, should she go back inside to Woods?

She was ready to vomit again. She had impulsively meant to do what all women did in a crisis, but God, she was repulsed and sickened by what had almost happened. While she had witnessed just about every sexual act possible—or so she assumed—she had never been touched sexually. She had never even been kissed. Rodney Carre had made it clear that any man who dared to do so would have his throat slit and his manhood tossed to the sharks in the sea.

De Warenne had saved her.

Amanda hugged her knees to her chest, no longer able to avoid where her thoughts really wanted to go. She was stunned by his selfless behavior. Why had he intervened? Everyone she knew behaved sensibly and selfishly—it was the law of survival. Strangers did not help one another. Why would they? The world was too dangerous to dare to reach out. So why had he saved her from Governor Woods?

Her heart wouldn’t stay still. She swallowed, remembering. For he had looked at her, too, even more boldly and brightly than any sailor had ever done.

As upset as she was, her heart started to beat with frantic haste. Bewildered, she clasped her cheeks, which were hot. He had looked at her naked body, but he had also looked at her the moment she had come into King’s House, when all her clothes were still on. She couldn’t ever recall anyone, man or woman, looking at her with such intense and piercing eyes. It was a look which she was never going to forget and she wished she could understand it.

She knew him, of course. Who didn’t? He was instantly remarkable, standing upon the quarterdeck of her favorite ship, his thirty-eight gun frigate, the Fair Lady. A huge, towering man with that leonine head of hair, he was impossible to miss. And everyone knew he’d captured forty-two pirates in his short, ten-year career as a privateer. In the West Indies, no one had yet to surpass his record.

Amanda’s heart continued to beat erratically. She was uneasy and confused. Why had a man like that helped her? He was far more than a privateer. While she’d heard the fancy snooty ladies in town giggling that he was more pirate than gentleman, they couldn’t be more wrong. Pirates were foul, with stinking breath and missing teeth and unclean body parts. Pirates gave no quarter in combat, spilling blood and guts everywhere, although when sworn to loyalty, no better friend could be found. Pirates wore dirty clothes, never washing them, and frequented the ugliest hags and whores.

De Warenne smelled like the sea, mixed with spices from some Far Eastern shore and mango from the island. Although he wore a gold earring in one ear like some pirates did, and those huge gold and ruby spurs, his clothes were spotless. Everyone knew the mother of one of his bastards was a real princess. His reputation as a ladies’ man was vast, but his lovers weren’t whores and hags, oh no, just the opposite. And why not? He was an earl’s son. De Warenne was royalty.

And even she, who had never looked at a man in any kind of admiration—except for her father, of course—had to admit that he was achingly beautiful.

Amanda knew she blushed. Too well, she could recall being in de Warenne’s arms as he had carried her from the governor’s rooms. But why was she thinking about that—or him? She had to free her father before he was hanged.

Amanda realized she had no further options. If she couldn’t forcibly break her father out of prison and she couldn’t seduce Woods into a pardon, then what could she do?

She choked. What had de Warenne said, exactly?

Why not pardon Carre? If he doesn’t give up his pirating, I promise you I will be the one to bring him in.

Amanda leaped to her feet. He could help her—he had to!

WINDSONG LOOMED over Kingston Harbor, a huge and formal white stone mansion that Cliff had begun building five years earlier and had finally completed last year. Balustraded terraces jutted out over the harbor at the back of the house, while in the front a double staircase led to another terrace and the imposing white marble front entrance. Identical end pavilions were on the other side of the main house, which was a lofty three stories high. He could stand on the north parapet and look up the entire length of King Street, but he preferred to stand on the south terrace, sipping his best Irish whiskey and watching the incoming ships. He stood there now, having requested a drink from his majordomo, but his gaze was directed toward Port Royal, not out to sea. There he could make out the brick walls of Fort Charles. He raised his spyglasses.

The Amanda C was at anchor there, her rigging slashed, all masts broken, cannon holes in her deck. She was a small nine-gun sloop, once swift enough to outrun most naval vessels, now damaged beyond repair. She wasn’t flying the skull and bones of a pirate’s death flag, but the British tricolor.

Cliff lowered the spyglass. He did not want to brood over Carre’s fate or his daughter. Carre was in Spanishtown, awaiting his execution on the morrow. He wished he knew where La Sauvage was. She’d fled so quickly she might have been a vanishing ghost.

He could still recall the feel of her firm but soft body in his arms, even though he damned well wished to forget it.

“Papa! Papa!”

Upon hearing the happy cry of his beloved daughter, Cliff turned, beaming, all thoughts of the wild child-woman gone. Ariella was only six years old, with huge and brilliant blue eyes, an olive complexion and surprisingly golden hair. She was as beautiful as her coloring was exotic, and whenever Cliff looked at her he felt no small amount of awe that this stunning child was his. “Come, sweetheart.”

But she had already dashed across the terrace and into his arms. He laughed, lifting her high and then hugging her tightly. She was clad like a little English princess in the finest silk gown his money could buy, a strand of perfect pearls around her small throat. He put her down and she asked, “Did you go sailing today, Papa?” She was very grave. “Because you promised me that you would take me when you next set sail.”

He had to smile. She could pretend all she wanted, but he knew very well that she did not like sailing. “I haven’t forgotten, darling. And no, I did not take a sail. I had affairs in Spanishtown.”

“Good affairs?”

His smile faltered. “It was some nasty business, actually.” He tugged on a strand of her hair. “It was a good day for sailing. How many knots do we have?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “Ten?”

He sighed. “Eight, darling, but you were close.” He knew she had blindly guessed.

“Do I have to be able to rate the breeze to sail with you?”

“No, you don’t, your brother can do that. Besides, I shouldn’t be trying to make a sailor out of you.” Ariella showed no particular fondness for the sea, although she tolerated it in order to spend time with Cliff. His son was just the opposite. But he wasn’t very disappointed, because she had the most inquisitive mind he had ever come across. In fact, she could spend an entire day with her nose buried in a book, and he didn’t know whether to be proud or worried about that. “Soon, sweetheart, you will travel the world with your father.”

“But only me, not Alexi. He is not coming with us.” She pouted.

He shook his head, amused by her jealousy. “He is your brother, darling, of course he will come. He is a natural born seaman. He will help me sail my ship and navigate for us.”

Ariella beamed. “I have memorized the four new constellations you taught me, Papa. It will be a good night to view the stars. Can I show you later?”

“Absolutely.” His daughter was brilliant. At only six years of age, she could add and subtract faster than he could, was proficient at multiplication and was beginning division. He had begun to teach her the constellations, and her ability to discern the different stars amazed him. In fact, in a matter of minutes, she could memorize just about anything she could see. She was fluent in Latin and would soon be fluent in French. She was several levels ahead of her older brother in reading.

He finally glanced toward the house where her governess stood, a slender figure so heavily veiled that her face could not be seen, her body entirely wrapped in orange and blue silk. “Has Ariella completed all of her assignments today?” He looked at his daughter and winked. She was so clever she had undoubtedly done a week’s worth of studying in one day.

“Yes, my lord. She has done exceedingly well, as always.” Anahid spoke flawless English but with a heavy Armenian accent. She had been Ariella’s mother’s slave. The entire story was a tragic one, except for the miracle that was his daughter. Rachel had been a Jewess traveling with her father to the Promised Land. Corsairs had attacked the ship, killing everyone who had no value, including Rachel’s father. She had been enslaved, but a local prince had quickly been struck by her beauty, making her his concubine. Cliff had been struck by her beauty, too, when he had been negotiating the price of a gold cargo with her master, Prince Rohar. Even knowing that to dare such an affair could mean his death, he had done so. Their affair had been brief, but his Hebrew lover had touched him more deeply than any previous mistress with her dignity and grace. He’d had no idea that she had become pregnant with his child.

It was Anahid who had managed to get a letter to him, six months after Ariella’s birth. Rachel had been executed for having a blue-eyed child—for clearly, the child was not her master’s. Cliff had been prepared to directly assault Rohar’s citadel, but that hadn’t been necessary. Anahid had used his gold to bribe the guards and smuggle Ariella out of the harem and the palace. She had been in his household ever since. He knew Anahid would die for his daughter, and she had come to love Ariella’s half brother, Alexander, in much the same way. He had given her freedom within days of departing the Barbary coast.

He had never once glimpsed her face.

“And Alexi? How has he fared today?”

He felt Anahid smile. “He did not do quite as well as Ariella, my lord. He remains in the classroom, struggling to finish his letters.”

“Good.” Alexi was very sharp but was not the devout student his daughter was. His interests lay in fencing, equitation and, of course, his father’s ships. “Remind him we are fencing tomorrow at seven o’clock—if he finishes his lessons.”

Anahid bowed, gesturing for Ariella. The little girl pouted at her father, clearly not wanting to leave. “Papa?”

“Go, child,” he began, when he saw his butler appear in the doorway. Cliff could not imagine what had caused Fitzwilliam’s current expression, which he had always assumed to be set in stone. Was his heartless servant actually flustered? “Fitzwilliam?”

“Sir.” Sweat appeared on the butler’s brow. The man never perspired, never mind that the air was always thick and humid, even on the most temperate of days.

“What is amiss?” Cliff left the edge of the terrace.

“There is a….” He coughed. “There is a…caller…sir, if you will…downstairs.”

Cliff was amused. “It must be the Grim Reaper,” he said. “Does he or she have a card?” Suddenly he recalled the beauty from the Spanishtown square. He was almost certain she had come to have her lust assuaged, and in that instant, he imagined La Sauvage in his bed.

What the hell was wrong with him? Never mind that the wild child-woman was far more beautiful than any woman he had thus far beheld. She was eighteen, if he were fortunate, sixteen if not.

“The caller—” Fitzwilliam swallowed, clearly finding something distasteful “—is in the red room, awaiting you, if you wish to see her.”

So it was the woman from the square. He was oddly disappointed and annoyed. “I am not receiving today,” he decided flatly. “Boot her.”

Fitzwilliam blinked, as he had never been so curt or so rude before. Cliff flushed. “I mean, please take her card and send her on her way.”

“She has no card, sir.”

An inkling began; he turned. All ladies had calling cards. “I beg your pardon?”

Fitzwilliam wet his lips. “She insists upon seeing you, sir, and she has a dagger—which she pointed at me!”

La Sauvage. Then he was striding into the house and across the gleaming oak floors, down the wide central staircase with its dark red runner and into the hall below. It was a huge room with high ceilings, a crystal chandelier the size of a grand piano, the floors gray-and-white marble imported from Spain. The red room was at the farthest end.

Carre’s daughter stood there, staring toward him.

His heart lurched, unsettling him. He quickly approached, noting that she was very pale, in spite of her golden coloring, and that her eyes were wild, like those of a warhorse in the midst of frenzied battle. He made a mental note to proceed with caution, as he hardly trusted her. He didn’t realize his tone was sharp and abrupt until after he had spoken. “Did you go back to King’s House?”

She shook her head. “No.”

God, he was relieved! He began to recover his composure. “Miss Carre, forgive me. Please, do sit down. Can I offer you refreshment? Tea? Biscuits?”

She was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I’m to forgive you?”

He was reminded of how he must appear—demented, actually, to be asking such a wild, untutored child for forgiveness. Did she even understand that his manners had been utterly lacking? He somehow smiled at her. “My greeting was sorely deficient. A gentleman always bows to a lady. He might say, good afternoon or good morning, or inquire after her welfare.”

She gaped. “I am not a lady. You are babbling.”

He drew up. “Would you like some tea?”

“A spot?” She mimicked the highborn, upper-class British accent perfectly. “I think not,” she continued her mime. “I’d take a grog,” she drawled like a sailor. “If you got it.”

He wondered if she drank, or merely hoped to provoke him. “Your mimicry is very well done,” he said idly. He wandered past her, eyeing her as he did so. She hadn’t moved or blinked since he entered the room. She stood defensively, yet also aggressively. That dagger was probably in the waistband of her breeches, beneath the tuniclike shirt. Why had she come? He thought he knew, and it wasn’t to jump into his bed.

She flushed. “You know I can’t read—you heard me say so. I don’t know big words, either.”

He felt his chest go soft. “I apologize. Mimicry means imitation. You have a very fine ear.”

She shrugged. “Like I care.”

He had been trying to put her at ease, but it was a ploy that was failing. He could easily assume that she was undone by his home, which was as grand as King’s House and far more majestically furnished, except that she had not taken her huge green gaze from his face, not once since he’d entered the great hall. “What may I do for you?”

She stiffened. “Free my father.”

He had been right. He tried to smile kindly at her. “Please, do sit down.”

She shook her head. “I’ll stand.”

“How can I possibly free your father?”

“Woods is your friend. Make him let him go.” Desperation flickered in her overly bright eyes.

He stared at her. “Woods and I are not feeling very friendly toward one another at the moment, and even if we were, this has gone too far. There are laws on this island. A jury has tried your father and found him guilty. I am sorry,” he added, meaning it.

Tears welled. “Then help me bust him out.”

He had misheard—hadn’t he?

“We can do it. You can do it—you’ve got a crew, cannon, guns!”

He was aghast. “You wish for me to assault the courthouse prison?”

She nodded, but even as she did, she started to back away, tears tracking down her cheeks. Clearly she knew her demands were wishful thinking at best.

“Miss Carre, I am sorry your father was convicted. I wish that were not the case. But I am not a pirate. I am not a brigand. Every commission I have accepted has been given by the British authorities—I do not work against them. I only persecute Britain’s enemies.”

“You are my only hope,” she whispered.

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to help her. But he could not assault the British prison and seize the convicted pirate.

Her shoulders slumped. “Then he will die.”

“Miss Carre,” he began, wanting to comfort her but having no idea how to go about it. Had she been a lady of any sort, he would have taken her to the couch and kissed her senseless, until she forgot her terrible dilemma. He would have pleasured her time and again, holding reality at bay. But she was not a lady of any kind, much less one of experience. In that moment, she seemed pitifully young.

She shook her head and ran out of the room.

This time, he was prepared. He caught her in two strides, preventing her from entering the hall. “Wait! Where will you go? What will you do?”

She met his gaze. “Then I’ll do it alone,” she said. The tears fell but she swatted at them, leaving bright red marks on her own cheeks.

He clasped her by both shoulders. “Miss Carre, do you wish to have criminal charges brought against you? Do you wish to hang?”

She was belligerent. “They won’t hang me—not if I say I’m carrying.”

He froze. “Are you with child?”

She glared. “I don’t think it concerns you! Now let me go. Please.”

He somehow knew she rarely used that word. He released one of her shoulders. “I have many guest rooms,” he began, intending to offer her a suite so she would at least have a roof over her head. He had to somehow navigate her through the horror of the next day, he decided, and afterward, either to the orphanage at St. Anne’s or to Britain, if she really had family there. “Why don’t you spend the night? As my guest, of course,” he added hastily.

She simply gaped, eyes huge, not uttering a word.

She thought he wished to use her as Woods had tried to do, he realized grimly. “You mistake my meaning.” He was stiff. “I am offering you a suite of private rooms for your use, solely.”

She wet her lips. “You want…to share my bed…too?”

He flushed. “I am trying to explain that I have no such intention!”

“If you help bust my father out, you can toss me anytime you like, anywhere. I don’t care.” She had turned pink.

He was disbelieving. “You have my word—the word of a de Warenne—I have only the most honorable intentions!”

“I can’t understand half of your fancy talk,” she cried, “but I get it. If you don’t want to fornicate with me, then I don’t need your charity.” She marched across the hall.

This time, he let her go. Later, when sleep refused to come, he could think of little else.

IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the night, but the moon was almost full and a thousand stars glittered, hot and bright. The air remained thick and heavy, a sweaty caress. Amanda gripped the iron bars of her father’s window, standing outside the building, having dug her way beneath the stockade fence—not for the first time. “Papa.”

A rustling sounded from within the interior of the night-darkened cell.

“Papa,” she begged, choking on her fear. All hope had died that day and she was violently aware of it.

“Amanda, girl!” Rodney Carre appeared at the window, a bear of a man with shaggy, brownish-blond hair and a darker beard.

Amanda began to weep.

“Damn it, girl, don’t you cry for me,” Rodney cried. On the bars, his fists clenched, the knuckles turning white.

She loved him so. He was her entire world. But he was angry now and she knew it. He hated tears. Still, he couldn’t hit her, not with the bars there between them. “I tried, Papa, I tried,” she whimpered. “I tried to get Woods to pardon you but he won’t do it.”

Rodney’s face fell.

“I can’t do this, Papa. I can’t manage if you’re gone!”

“Stop it,” he roared, undoubtedly waking the other prisoners up. Amanda stopped crying in that instant. “You listen to me, girl. You tried and done your best. I’m proud of you, I am. No father could ask for such a good, loyal girl.”

Amanda trembled. Rodney’s praise was rare. She knew he loved her fiercely, for she was his entire world, after the ship and his crew, but they never spoke of any feelings whatsoever, much less love. “You’re proud of me,” she echoed, stunned.

“Of course I am. You’re strong, and brave. You never flinched in a battle. You never shed a tear when you got beat. Girl—I’m sorry for those times. I’m sorry you had to live with such a rough temper. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a fancy home and an English rose garden.”

Amanda knew then that this was their final moment, otherwise he’d never be talking in such a way. “I don’t care that you hit me. How else was I to learn wrong from right? Besides, you missed more often than not, because I’m so quick.” She felt more tears sliding down her cheeks. “I never wanted a rose garden,” she half lied.

In the dark, his eyes seemed to shine. “All women want roses, girl. Your mama had a garden filled with them when I met her. She may live in London now, but she has a garden there, too. That’s how the noble people live.”

So now they would speak of her mother? She’d been born in St. Mawes, near Cornwall, and raised there by her mother, Dulcea Straithferne Carre, until she was four years old. Mama had married Rodney when he was a dashing young lieutenant in the royal navy, before he’d ever gone pirating. But after he’d turned rogue, he’d come to Cornwall, begging Mama for her. Her mother had refused, loving her far too much to ever relinquish her. Rodney had stolen her, tearing her from her sobbing mother’s arms and taking her to the islands, and she had never gone back.

Her life with Papa was all she knew. He had been afraid to take her to visit Mama, worried that the authorities might imprison him for what he had done. “You understand, girl, don’t you? Why I had to do it?”

Of course Amanda had understood. She loved Papa, and couldn’t imagine being raised in Cornwall. But she wished she could recall Mama. Papa told her she was elegant and gracious, a true lady, and so beautiful she stole the breath from her gentleman callers. Rodney was usually in his cups when he began talking about the past and Mama, and he always ended up in tears. He never stopped loving his wife, not for a moment, and he wanted Amanda to adore her, too, even if from a distance. He wanted Amanda to know how special Mama was.

Amanda often wondered what her mother was thinking after so many years. Mama did not know where Rodney had taken her and there had been no contact, not even a letter, although Papa had somehow unearthed the information that she now lived in London in a beautiful home called Belford House.

Amanda wondered why Rodney was talking about roses and Mama, all in the same breath. “Roses don’t matter to me, Papa. Surely you know that.”

He gave her a long look. “You need to go to her, girl. Dulcea will take you in when I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Amanda cried, shocked. “It’s not tomorrow yet and it’s not noon.”

“It is tomorrow, by damn, it’ll be dawn soon. She will be overjoyed to see you again. Amanda, girl, you will finally have that fancy home. You can be a real lady, not the spawn of someone like me.”

Amanda stared, torn between terror and dismay. She’d had wild fantasies, of course, of one day seeing her mother and being embraced by the most beautiful, ladylike woman imaginable, of being safe and warm and loved. In those fantasies, she had become a lady just like her mother, and they had sipped exotic tea in a fragrant rose garden. But she was a sensible girl. Her home was the island, her life was her father’s. Although they had the farm, it was a life of plunder, and their prize possessions were stolen goods. Although they had one dairy cow and Amanda milked her, she was a pirate’s daughter. She was never going to England and she was never going to meet her mother. And it had certainly never crossed her mind to attempt to appear to be a lady, much less become one, except in a foolish flight of fancy.

Was her father mad?

“I’m not a lady—I couldn’t ever be one. I love the island. This is my home! I love sailing—I love the sea,” she protested with real panic.

“In that, you’re my own true daughter,” Rodney said, proudly and sadly at once. “God, girl, I don’t know what I was thinking, to teach you how to sail my sloop and fire the cannon, to fence better than a master, to shoot a pistol and mend sails. You climb the masts better than my best topmen. You’re a woman, not a lad! You should have stayed with your mother. I know that now.”

“No!” She seized his hand through the bars. “Papa, I love you.”

He drew his hand away from hers and was silent.

Amanda fought not to cry again, but it was a losing battle.

“Promise me,” he finally said, “that when I’m gone, you will go to her. You got no one here. You need to go to Dulcea, Amanda.”

Amanda was terrified. How could she make such a promise? Mama was a great lady. She was a pirate’s daughter. While she believed her mother had loved her once, that had been long ago. She was very afraid her mother would not care much for her now.

“I’m your father and a dying man,” he cried, furious. “Damn it, you’re to obey me!”

She knew that if the bars didn’t separate them, he’d whack her one. “You’re not dead yet. Maybe a miracle will happen!”

He snorted. “There’s no such thing.”

“There was a miracle today,” Amanda cried. “Cliff de Warenne saved me from—” She stopped abruptly.

Rodney stared, the whites of his eyes showing. “He what?”

“He saved me…I tried to seduce the governor,” she whispered.

Through the bars, he hit her on the side of her head, hard. “You’re no whore, damn it! If there’s one thing I did right, it was to keep you innocent. You’re to give that maidenhead to a good man—to your husband!” he shouted, enraged.

She held on tightly to the bars, until the stars spinning in her head dimmed and vanished. Then she inhaled, shaky from the blow. “I was trying to save you, Papa.”

But her father didn’t seem to hear. “De Warenne’s a gentleman, never mind his command. You make him take you to England. He’s one you can trust.”

Amanda was in despair. Her father was about to hang and if this was his dying wish, she would have to obey it. “He’s odd,” she heard herself say slowly, musing aloud. “Why would he help me, a stranger? Why would he fight with his own friend to do so?”

“’Cause that’s what them blue bloods do—they get all high and mighty and offer charity to poor sots like us. It makes them nobles feel even higher and mightier when they do so. He gives you charity, you take it, girl,” Rodney said. “And never mind your damnable pride!” He hesitated, then said strangely, “Did he notice that you’re a beauty?”

Amanda was taken aback. In her entire seventeen years, her father had never once mentioned that he thought her beautiful. But now he was talking about her as if she were truly beautiful, like her mother. “Papa? I’m no beauty. I’m skinny with ratty hair. I wear boy’s clothes. And I have very odd eyes. Everyone says so.”

Rodney was serious. “”Did he look at you like that fucking Turk did in Sicily?”

Amanda hesitated. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Rodney exhaled. After a long, grim pause, he said seriously, “He’s the one to take you to your mother. I mean it, Amanda, I trust him. He’s a gentleman.” He stopped.

She knew he wanted to say something more. “He is a gentleman, but what is it, Papa? What aren’t you saying?”

Rodney stared. “I wouldn’t mind if he decided to keep you for a time.”

Amanda gaped. “What? You mean, as his mistress?”

“He’s rich as sin and he’s an earl’s son!” Carre cried, slamming his fist against the wall. “I always wanted to see you properly wed, but with me gone, I don’t know how that is possible. That will be up to your mother, and you haven’t seen her in years.”

Amanda began to tremble. De Warenne’s strong, bronzed face came to mind, his gaze so peculiarly intense, so strangely piercing, as if he could look into her mind, her soul. She recalled his carrying her from Woods’s rooms. She tensed, confused. She might not mind giving him her maidenhead, or not very much, anyway. And he had seemed kind.

She must be mistaken, she thought, shaken now. While the Queen Street baker’s wife gave her stale bread for free, and the boy who swept the apothecary shop was pleasant, no one else in her world was that way. Maybe de Warenne had rescued her in order to seduce her, never mind that she wasn’t the kind of noble lady he preferred. After all, hadn’t he tried to get her to stay in his Kingston home?

“Papa, he would never want me as a mistress. He has lovers, all prettier than me.”

“You just make sure he’s the one to sail you to your mother,” Rodney said grimly. “I meant to leave you with something, Amanda, and there’s nothing, damn it, not a single pound. I am sorry.”

She was more ill inside now than ever, because Papa never apologized for anything and this was the second time he was telling her how sorry he was. “Don’t apologize,” she said fiercely. “You’re the best father a girl could have!” She meant it, and unbidden, tears began again.

“I tried, I really tried,” he gasped, crying now, too. “Girl, you got to go.”

Amanda realized that the sky was turning boldly orange above the rooftop of the courthouse. The sun was rising—it was dawn. “No,” she cried.

In a few more moments, she would have to leave. And the next time she saw her father, he would be on the hangman’s block.

“You better go, girl, before they catch you here and find out about the tunnel you dug under the fence.” Carre was hoarse.

This could not be happening. She had never been quite sure if she believed in God, but now, wildly, she prayed. “Papa, let me stay. I don’t care if they find me.” She reached through the bars, desperate.

He hesitated, then clasped her hand.

Oh, God. His hand was warm, strong, calloused and scarred. Years ago, a Scot had severed one of his fingers in a brawl, the blade catching the flesh of his palm. But Amanda held on for her life—and his.

Because once she let go, she was never going to be able to take his hand again.

AT THE LAST POSSIBLE moment, he’d leaped onto his finest Thoroughbred and galloped every mile to Spanishtown. Now Cliff scanned the crowd that had gathered beneath the hot midday sun in the square between King’s House and the courthouse. Beautifully garbed ladies with white parasols and well-dressed gentlemen with walking sticks ambled about the hanging block beneath the shade of towering palm trees, chatting casually while they waited for the festivities to begin. Roughly dressed sailors sipped grog and pinched their whores; a few sailors were dancing with their trollops to the heady island tune a Negro fiddler was playing. A group of young boys were throwing stones at the scaffolding as if it were a bull’s eye target. They were laughing and becoming vicious. He turned away, scanning the other side of the square. A regiment of soldiers stood at attention outside of the courthouse, and more soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the park, in case the prisoner decided to escape. His heart beat hard, fueled by adrenaline. Where was she?

In a matter of minutes, Carre would be escorted from the prison to his fate. Cliff was certain La Sauvage was present.

He hadn’t slept a wink all night, obsessed by the fate of her father and her part in the terrible drama. He suspected she would not resign herself to being a spectator that day, but what could she possibly think to do? He knew one thing: he was not going to let her throw her own life away after her father’s. If she thought to attempt to save Carre’s life, he intended to stop her before the soldiers did.

Suddenly he felt eyes upon his back. He turned, glancing west at King’s House. On the upper floor, a huge window was open. Woods stood there, staring at the scene below.

Cliff turned away grimly. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the boys slam a rock at the base of the hanging block, his laughter cruel. And he thought he heard a soft choked sound—a feminine sob.

His gaze slammed to the legs of the scaffolding. He saw a small, curled-up ball of rags and a mass of moon-colored hair. Furious, Cliff strode through the crowd, rudely pushing past several gentlemen. The crowd parted, the revelers realizing he was determined and enraged. The boys stopped throwing rocks at her as he approached, becoming silent, turning pale. He caught one of the ruffians by his shirt and flung him aside. “You will answer to me before this day is done,” he said.

The boy whispered, ashen, “She’s just the pirate’s daughter.”

Cliff whacked him on the shoulder, hard enough to send him flying. The other boys fled; this culprit crawled through the crowd, coward that he was, then found his land legs and ran away, as well.

He turned, kneeling. “Miss Carre?”

She was wedged beneath the deck where her father would stand in the noose, behind one of the deck’s thick wood legs, her knees to her chest, her eyes unnaturally bright and wide, as if with fever. She appeared very small and frightened, a tiny creature hiding from the dangerous world. His heart melted.

“Come out.” He spoke in a soft whisper, hoping to reassure her, and extended his hand.

She shook her head. A tear fell.

God, maybe it was better that she stay there, beneath the block, because if she did, she would not be able to see her father hang. But on the other hand, he wanted to get her far away from the square and the hanging, because he was afraid that if he did not, at the last moment she would come out of hiding and view a sight no woman should ever have to endure. “Please, come out. I will take you far away from this,” he tried, his tone now cajoling.

She stared, unblinking. Another tear fell.

His heart broke. “There is nothing to be gained by remaining here. Let me take you away.” An idea occurred to him. “I’ll take you to my ship. I have a cruise to make to St. Kitt, and the day is perfect for it.”

Her eyes flickered, brightening.

“A good, moderate breeze, the sea is so sweet,” he coaxed.

She wet her lips, hesitating.

“I’ll let you—” He stopped. His quarterdeck was sacred. “I’ll let you come onto my deck. Come, sweetheart.”

More tears fell. She suddenly nodded, extending her hand, and he reached for her. Just as their fingertips touched, the crowd roared, an explosion of sound, and then the jeers began. She cried out, jerking backward, away from his grasp. He glanced up and saw the soldiers bringing Carre out of the courthouse.

The jeers grew, accompanied by cruel and vicious taunts.

“The pirate’s had his fun—now we can have ours!”

“Let’s bleed him when he’s dead and paint our decks with his blood!”

“Think he’ll beg for mercy? Like the coward he’s got to be?”

“Let’s make him beg—let’s use the cat before he hangs!”

Cliff was ill, a rare feeling. He turned his gaze on Carre’s daughter. Urgently, he said, “We need to go now.”

As if she had heard him, she scrambled on all fours toward him. Cliff reached for her, but she was so goddamned agile she dropped down and rolled under his arm. He whirled to seize her again but she had shot to her feet and was running towards Carre, fighting the crowd to do so. “Papa!”

Carre had entered the square with his escort and he stiffened. “Get out of here, Amanda!” he roared.

Cliff seized her from behind, wrapping both of his arms around her. She didn’t even seem to notice. “Papa!” she screamed again.

Carre met his gaze and a silent agreement was reached. “Get her out of here, de Warenne.”

Cliff nodded, still holding her from behind as she struggled frantically to get to her father. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder,” he said tersely.

She didn’t seem to hear. “Papa, I love you!”

Carre paused, about to step up to the deck. “I love you, too, girl.”

Amanda went limp in Cliff’s arms. The soldiers prodded Carre with their carbines, forcing him to go up the five steps to the deck. Looking down at her face, he saw Amanda following his every movement, sobbing soundlessly now. Cliff was about to throw her over his shoulder when Carre said, “Girl! Promise me you go to England to your mother.”

Amanda nodded. “I promise,” she cried. “I promise,” she whispered again, choking.

Carre was thrust before the noose and abruptly blindfolded.

Amanda whimpered.

Cliff didn’t think; he reacted. He turned her to face him, holding her tightly against his big body, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Don’t move,” he warned, trying to envelop her small body with his while cradling the back of her head. He felt her tears soaking his shirt and chest.

He looked up. The noose was around Carre’s neck. The crowd cheered and roared and the stones began to fly, raining down on the condemned man.

Cliff looked away, sickened. He buried his own cheek against her curly hair, unthinkingly moving his mouth there. She began to shake like a leaf. He started to back away, taking her with him, and the crowd roared.

Amanda shoved at him, trying to twist around to see.

He held her hard, not letting her turn, not even an inch, determined to prevent her from watching her father gasping for his last breaths. Some hangings were swift and merciful; others were not, the victim dangling for endless minutes until the neck broke. He heard the loud snap, and he thanked the Lord that Carre’s death had been almost instantaneous.

In his arms, Amanda Carre fainted.

CHAPTER THREE

“SHE’S DEAD.”

The speaker seemed to be a man. What was he talking about? Amanda struggled to make sense of his words. A tall, golden-haired man appeared, his expression strained, his blue eyes frightening in their intensity. She knew him but could not place him. Shocked, she realized he was talking about her.

“She’s dead.”

“She’s not dead—she’s sleeping.”

“She’s not moving. She’s dead.”

Amanda began to panic. Was she dead? And who were these people arguing about her? She began to awaken, realizing that she was in the throes of a strange dream. She wasn’t dead, she was sleeping. She stretched but her body was weak and it felt battered, yet the pallet she was lying on gave deliciously and then sprang back, like the most heavenly cocoon. No pallet was so soft and firm, at once.

Where was she?

“No one sleeps for a whole day. She’s dead, Ariella, dead. See?”

Amanda jerked as someone roughly seized her foot through a soft, fluffy cover. Bewildered, she opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the room. Then she met a pair of blazing blue eyes and a wicked grin. She cried out.

“I told you she’s alive,” another child said.

Amanda sat up, her sore body protesting, staring at a small boy with dark hair and familiar blue eyes. He looked past the bed. “Of course she’s not dead. She’s been sleeping ever since Papa brought her home. I knew that! But I had you, didn’t I?”

“You did not!”

Amanda took in her surroundings. She was in a huge canopied bed, the ebony wood intricately carved, the bed hangings a misty blue. Terribly confused, she saw a fireplace with a white mantel carved with vines and leaves. She glanced down. The cover was a pale blue silk, the finest kind that came from plunder. Dazed, she took in a huge room with white-and-blue fabric covered walls. Dear God, all the furniture was matching, upholstered in ivory, blue or white, tufted with gold. And the ceilings were gilded. Then her gaze slammed to the wide-eyed little girl standing by her side.

The child smiled. “My name is Ariella. Papa says your name is Miss Carre. Are you his mistress?”

The boy reached over and jerked hard on her hair. Ariella punched him just as hard in the jaw.

Papa. And in that stunning moment, Amanda lost everything for the second time in her life. Grief crashed over and she was drowning in it—she could not breathe. The tears began, but she didn’t care. Gasping, she doubled over in pain.

Papa had been hanged. Papa was gone. Murdered by Woods and the British.

“She is ill. I’m getting Papa!” the boy said sharply, racing out.

Amanda vaguely heard. Cliff de Warenne had been there at the hanging, preventing her from watching him die. She must be at Windsong. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the loss, the pain?

A small hand stroked over her arm. “Miss Carre? Don’t cry. Whatever is making you so sad, my papa can fix it.” Pride filled her tone. “He can make you happy. He can do anything.”

Amanda blinked at the beautiful child through her streaming tears. She couldn’t recall much, just a terrible sound, the breaking of bones in her father’s neck. It was a sound she was never going to forget. “My papa’s dead,” she gasped to the child. And she hugged herself, doubling over again.

Rapid booted steps sounded. Amanda heard de Warenne. “Ariella!” He was stern.

“Papa, I didn’t make her cry!”

Slowly, Amanda somehow looked up, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around herself. And now she began to remember how Cliff de Warenne had kept his arms tightly around her at the hanging.

“I know you didn’t. Please join your brother in the nursery. Now.” De Warenne nodded at the door, his expression rigid.

Clearly knowing when to immediately obey, Ariella flung a worried look at Amanda and quickly left the room.

Amanda found herself staring into Cliff de Warenne’s searching blue eyes.

He had paused at the foot of the bed. “I will not be foolish enough to ask how you are feeling. I am sorry, Miss Carre, for your loss.”

Amanda broke into tears again. She turned onto her side and wept in grief. She was aware of him approaching, and felt him hovering over her, but the grief was just too much to bear. “Go away,” she wept, but she really didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to take her in his arms, the way he had a few hours ago, and to hold her until her wounds healed. Except she knew they never would.

His hand clasped her shoulder. Amanda suddenly realized her shoulders were bare. Her naked body was swimming in a very fine, lace-trimmed cotton nightgown. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her clothes or whose garment she was wearing.

“You are in the throes of grief. It is understandable,” de Warenne said softly. “I have sent for my ship’s surgeon. He’ll give you laudanum. It will help.”

The terrible flood had ceased. Amanda turned onto her back and stared up at him. He quickly removed his hand from her shoulder. “Laudanum,” she said dully. She knew what laudanum did. When she had broken her wrist as a child, she’d been given it and it instantly erased the pain. Would it also erase her grief?

De Warenne’s face was strained. His blue eyes, however, were filled with sympathy and compassion. “If it is any consolation, your father died a swift death.”

She started to weep again.

“It will get easier. The anguish will ease. I promise you that, Miss Carre.”

She shook her head; she didn’t know how that could be possible. “Is your father…. dead?” she stuttered.

“No. But my mother died when I was a very small child.”

She started, her tears drying. “She did?”

He nodded gravely. “She died giving birth to my younger sister, Eleanor.”

Amanda struggled to sit up, and he slid his arm behind her to help her do so. Becoming dizzy, Amanda grasped his bulging forearms, but the wave intensified. She leaned toward him, her forehead finding his chest. The bed tilted wildly and she began to spin.

“You need to lie down with your legs elevated,” he said sharply.

Amanda couldn’t answer—she was trying to claw free of the spinning gray room. But suddenly she was on her back, all the pillows thrown to the floor, except for a large blue velvet neck roll, which was under her knees. The bed slowed, finally becoming level once again. Amanda opened her eyes, only to find de Warenne sitting by her hip, one arm under her knees along with the pillow, staring intently at her.

“You are exhausted,” he said flatly. “When was the last time you ate?”

She had no idea. “I’m fine. I never swoon. I don’t know why I got so dizzy.”

De Warenne jumped abruptly to his feet, tugging her nightgown down over her calves. He whirled. “Instead of hovering outside the door, Alexi, have a servant bring Miss Carre a bowl of soup and white bread.”

The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and raced off.

“I’m not hungry,” Amanda said, feeling very foolish now. She started to kick the pillow out from under her legs, unable to dismiss the fact that de Warenne had his hand under her nightgown.

He seized her knees, immobilizing her. “I suspect you haven’t eaten in days. Unless you wish to follow your father into his grave, you need to nourish your body, Miss Carre.”

His gaze was locked with hers. Amanda couldn’t look away—she was mesmerized. It was almost as if he had some genuine concern for her, but that was impossible. A flicker of interest began, piercing through the grief. “I don’t want to die,” she said slowly, and she realized that she meant it.

He smiled very slightly at her. “Good.”

WHEN AMANDA AWOKE the next time, bright sunlight was trying to filter through the closed blue-and-white draperies of the room. She blinked up at the ruched blue fabric of the canopy overhead, remembering everything. She was at Windsong; Papa was dead. She was unbearably saddened.

She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over her and helping her with her meal. She recalled the white-whiskered physician, probing her body and taking her pulse. She recalled drinking tea laced with laudanum, and she thought that perhaps she had done so several times.

Amanda glanced carefully around the room, now remembering two small children, a dark-haired boy and a golden-haired girl. But she was alone now. Had they been figments of her imagination or a part of a strange dream? Or had she really met de Warenne’s children? One of them was a prince or a princess, if the rumors were true.

De Warenne. He had been at the hanging, not allowing her to witness her father’s gruesome death. Had he really held her in his arms so protectively? Had that been a dream, too? Amanda was confused. Her memory was faded and torn and it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not.

But as sad as she was—whenever she thought about Papa, a wave of grief washed over her—she did feel slightly better. For one, she didn’t feel so bruised and battered. And she was having a hunger pang.

To test her theories, Amanda sat up, stretching. Her legs did not protest, her stomach growled and the room remained surprisingly level.

She flung the bedcover aside and paused. Dear Lord, she had been sleeping in a bed fit for a queen. The covers were silk, the comforter down. The draperies matched the wall fabric; in fact, everything matched and was either silk, satin, velvet or brocade.

She had known de Warenne was rich, of course, but she hadn’t imagined him living like this. Then, she hadn’t ever been in a rich royal person’s home before, either.

She got up, aware of how pleasant the fine cotton was on her body. As she went to the draperies, she passed a huge mirror, the guilded frame carved in swirls and rosettes. She glimpsed her reflection and paused.

It was like looking at a stranger.

A pretty and terribly feminine woman stood there in the glass, beautifully dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown, her pale hair spilling past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The woman’s face had bright, wide green eyes with long, thick lashes, strangely dark, like her eyebrows. She was slightly flushed, her skin sun-kissed, and she had full, pink lips. Her shoulders and arms were entirely bare. If there was any criticism, it might be that her shoulders were a bit broad, hinting at unfeminine strength. But that was hard to notice, because of the way the cotton nightgown draped over her breasts. Small lace straps held the bodice up, but it was low-cut, with tiny gathers just below the straps. Amanda realized she was blushing as she regarded herself.

She didn’t look like a pirate’s daughter; she looked like a well-born woman.

Shaken, she turned away, quickly opening up the draperies. It was well past midday—the sun was high and bright, but moving into the west. Her bedroom overlooked the harbor and the second thing she saw was her favorite ship, the Fair Lady. Her hull was painted black and red. Although she was only fifth rate, her standing rigging was a sight to behold and Amanda thrilled at the complexity of it. How many times had she watched de Warenne on his quarterdeck, his men hoisting sail as the frigate began to leave her berth? How many times had she watched the beautiful Fair Lady begin to increase her speed, making sail, her canvas filling? Sometimes she had watched the ship from one of the gun towers ringing the harbor, as it streaked away from shore, heading out to sea, until finally she became a dot, vanishing as if into eternity. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to sail on such a ship, running before the freshest wind?

And then Amanda saw her namesake.

Fort Charles was across the harbor and set upon the small peninsula that jutted southeast into the Caribbean Sea. Even flying the British colors, even with her masts broken in half, even from such a distance, Amanda recognized their sloop instantly. The grief rolled over her, heavy and hateful—hurtful.

Promise me you will go to England, to your mother.

Rodney’s voice was so loud and clear he could have been speaking to her from the very room. She whirled, but he did not stand behind her. For one moment, she stared toward the bedroom’s closed door, willing him to appear. He did not.

She swallowed. “I did promise, Papa. Don’t you remember?” Suddenly it was hard to speak.

I remember, girl.

She could see him now; she really could, even if it was with her imagination. She brushed at the seeping tears. “I promised you at the hanging. I did. You know I always keep my word. I’ll go.” Fear began, real and raw. She was going to have to leave everything familiar behind. What if Mama didn’t love her the way Papa claimed she did?

I know, girl. I’m so proud of you…. He smiled at her.

Amanda shuddered. “I’m not sure Mama will be pleased with me.”

She loves you, girl.

Amanda was about to remind him that she was a pirate’s daughter, but her papa’s image had vanished. Lord, what was she doing? Talking to herself—or to a dead man? Had she just seen Papa’s ghost? She was shaking. It didn’t matter. She had made that promise and she was going to keep it, no matter what she had to do to get to England. Surely she wasn’t really afraid of a place. Surely her mother would welcome her with a warm embrace and tears of joy!

So she had to focus on the voyage. Amanda bit her lip. Rodney had told her to sail with de Warenne. Could she somehow convince him to allow her to travel on one of his ships? She thought of how kind he had been—or at least, how kind he had appeared. Papa had wanted her to sail with de Warenne because he was a gentleman and Amanda could agree with that. But how would she pay for the fare?

She had very few possessions. She had her dagger, her pistol, her sword, a change of clothes and the gold cross and chain that had been her father’s. She had no intention of parting with any of those possessions, and de Warenne would have little need for them anyway. There was only one possible way to pay for her passage. She was going to have to offer him her body.

Amanda tensed. She was more than apprehensive; she was afraid. Every sexual act she had inadvertently witnessed had been ghastly and revolting. Governor Woods had been disgusting. She had never been able to understand why the lovers she had seen had been so lusty. She had never understood what was so exciting about sex that it made men and women lose their ability to reason.

Amanda had never been more nervous as she left the bedroom. De Warenne had stated that his intentions were honorable, and oddly, she had believed him. But surely he would accept the use of her body in exchange for her passage. Every man she knew would accept that kind of offer. She could even sweeten the pot by telling him she was a virgin.

She found herself in a long corridor with white walls; fine, fancy oil paintings; gleaming wood floors and scattered Eastern rugs. At both ends were stairwells with gold brass banisters, each leading to the great hall below. Amanda went to the closest one and started down the stairs.

Her steps slowed. The front hall was the size of their entire house at Belle Mer. For the first time, she looked up at the high ceiling, which held the largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen. Rich tapestries and more oil paintings were on the walls. The furniture—chairs, benches and tables—was all polished mahogany, with claw feet, velvet or damask upholstery and intricate carving. In the middle of one wall was a pair of doors, and Amanda recognized the front entrance of the house. Open arches led to other rooms.

She hesitated, uncertain, and then she saw the butler.

He was entering the hall, an empty silver tray held flat in one hand, as if it still contained refreshments. He saw her at that moment and went pale, halting in his tracks. The tray fell to the floor with a loud clang.

Amanda marched toward him. “Hey. Where is de Warenne?”

He gave her a furious look and picked up the tray. “His lordship is entertaining and is not to be disturbed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t put on airs with me,” she said flatly. “You’re only a servant.”

He straightened. “I am the butler, miss, and the most important servant in his lordship’s employ.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. The most important one he’s got working for him is the ship’s carpenter. You want to make a bet?”

Fitzwilliam huffed. “Might I suggest that you retire to your room and properly clothe yourself?”

Amanda glanced down at her new favorite possession. “I don’t think his lordship will care how I’m dressed,” she said. The nightgown was certainly as decent as any dress.

Fitzwilliam flushed. “If you go to your room, I will inform his lordship that you wish to see him.”

Amanda snorted at him. “You need to take a cruise, my man. That might get that stick out of your arse.” She started toward one of the arches, where she could just barely detect soft conversation. That was where the old fart had come from, too.

“He will not be pleased,” Fitzwilliam said softly to her back.

Amanda thought he sounded smugly pleased himself, but she didn’t care. Now she could make out de Warenne’s drawl—and the soft, coy laughter of a woman.

She paused on the threshold of a large salon with golden walls and more furniture than any one person could possibly use in two lifetimes. Standing at the far end was her host, clad in his usual white linen shirt and a pair of equally white breeches, his high black boots gleaming in shocking contrast. He often wore a heavily embroidered Moorish vest but not that day, and his dagger wasn’t strapped to his belt. He had, however, forgotten to remove his huge gold and ruby spurs.

Looking at him, her mouth became dry.

And then she saw de Warrene’s caller and understood why he would not wish to be disturbed. She could not believe her eyes.

A beautiful, perfectly plump, blond lady was patting his arm and giggling at him. She was elegantly dressed, beribboned and bejeweled. No, she was fat, Amanda decided, but of course, most sailors preferred a meaty woman. And her skin wasn’t porcelain, it was pasty. Her hair was clearly yellow, like straw that had been urinated on.

Amanda’s fists clenched. Dismay immobilized her.

The woman was laughing at whatever de Warenne had just said. He was smiling, his expression noncommittal. His gaze did dip when she moved, for her pale green gown exposed huge cowlike breasts, which were in danger of falling out every time she laughed—something she did all the time. She had a glass of wine or sherry in her other hand. She spoke, tossing her blond, tonged curls. “I am so pleased to find you at home, Captain. It is a long, hot carriage ride from Spanishtown. I was so hoping not to be denied.”

“Yes, it is a very long drive—all eleven miles of it. Do you not care for our Jamaican weather?” he remarked, his tone idle. The gold earring he wore glinted.

She pressed closer to him. “It is so hard to keep one’s gown stiff in such soggy weather. And my hair! It has to be done at least twice a day.”

“I imagine it is difficult for the ladies, living in such a clime,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I am enjoying my visit to the island, Captain. But I should enjoy it so much more if you were to take me aboard your boat.”

Amanda strode forward. “It’s a ship, not a boat, my fine lady—a frigate, in fact. Fifth rate, with thirty-eight guns, not counting any cannonade.”

The lady’s jaw dropped, unattractively.

De Warenne’s eyes widened, their gazes meeting. Amanda wriggled her hips and thrust out her bosom. “Ohh, do take me on your boat, Captain, sir!”

His face broke into a smile and he choked on a laugh. Then he scowled very fiercely at her. “Miss Carre. You are in your nightgown.”

Amanda blinked. He had been amused by her. She softened, smiling back. “It’s not my nightgown. I don’t know whose it is. In fact, I can’t even remember how it got on me.” Her gaze narrowed and she looked right at him. “Did you undress me?”

He turned red.

The woman gasped. “I can see I have made a terrible mistake! You and…the pirate’s daughter?” She was incredulous.

De Warenne gave Amanda an odd, private look. It was filled with warning, but amusement tinged his features, too. Amanda could not comprehend what he was thinking. Then his expression became stern and he faced the woman. “I was just about to introduce you to Miss Carre, Miss Delington. She is my houseguest.”

The woman had turned beet-red. She was no longer very pretty. “I see. I see very well.” She glanced at de Warenne, nodded. “Good day, then.” She left the salon in great haste.

Amanda watched her go, feeling very satisfied.

He said from behind, softly, “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

She whirled and almost jumped into his arms. Instead, she leaped back, strangely nervous now that they were alone. “She’s a fat, pasty sow looking to fuck you,” she defended herself.

He blanched.

Amanda knew she had made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t know just what that mistake was. “I mean, you didn’t really want her, did you? She was a fool! She called the Fair Lady a boat.”

He inhaled, long and deep. Looking shaken, he walked away from her, sliding his large hands into the flat pockets at his narrow hips.

Amanda was very worried. “Are you angry with me?”

It was another moment before he turned to face her. He smiled a little at her. “No, I’m not. I am glad to see you up and about, and apparently feeling better.”

Now she felt even better, she realized, because she had been afraid he was angry with her and that he would boot her from his house. “If you want her,” she said, very reluctantly, “I could go and drag her back here. I’m not stupid. I know she thinks I’m your lover or some such nonsense. I could tell her the truth.”

He stared.

Amanda tensed. Suddenly she was aware of being alone with a huge, powerful and undoubtedly virile man, while clad in a nightgown. She was aware of being absolutely naked behind the single fine layer of cotton.

“I am not interested in Miss Delington.”

Amanda smiled in relief.

“Miss Carre,” he said carefully.

Amanda hurried toward him, interrupting. “No, wait. We both know I’m not a lady. My name is Amanda. Or girl. Papa used to call me girl. Or Amanda Girl.” She stopped, unbearably sad.

Briefly, she had forgotten that he was dead. It all came rushing back to her now.

“He called you ‘girl.’”

She sat down in a huge, lush chair with all kinds of odd tufts. “Yes.”

He pulled a green-and-gold-striped ottoman forward and sat down next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not dizzy anymore.”

He smiled slightly. “We made sure you ate before every dose of laudanum.”

She tried to remember. “Have I been sleeping for long?”

“On and off for three days. I had been wondering when you would wake up.” He smiled again, encouragingly.

She found herself smiling back. His eyes met hers and somehow, their gazes locked.

In that moment, something changed. Amanda stared, filled with confusion. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen and he actually seemed kind, genuinely so. He was one of the greatest masters of the sea, and for her, that was better than being a king. When he accepted her offer, she was going to share his bed.

She had never desired a man. But sometimes at night, in her dreams, a faceless golden lover came to her, kissing her with heat, and when she awoke, she was filled with a tension she barely understood. Sometimes she woke up on the verge of discovering great pleasure, only to realize she had been dreaming and she was alone.

She wondered if she would start dreaming about Cliff de Warenne. Because he was exactly like her dream lover, wasn’t he? Big, powerful, golden…

His eyes widened and he leaped to his feet. He paced away from her, pouring himself a drink. His hand trembled.

Amanda didn’t move. How could she be thinking of those very private dreams now? They had business to discuss! But why was he trembling? “Why are you shaking?”

He made a harsh sound, not answering.

She sighed, kicking her feet out. “Maybe you are catching the flu. Some of the sailors have it.”

“It’s not the flu,” he said grimly.

She smiled at him. “That’s good.” She hesitated, because in spite of what she had to do, she was afraid to begin this particular negotiation. Besides, she was enjoying the chair, the room and such noble company. She hedged. “Why do you have so much furniture? And if you didn’t want to fornicate with that woman, why was she here?”

He approached, appearing aghast. “I know you have been through a terrible time, and that we come from different worlds. Amanda, I—someone needs to teach you a few things.”

She became wary. “Like what? Reading?”

“A tutor can do that. You cannot use certain language in polite company. In fact, you can’t speak of…fornication, ever!”

“Why the hell not?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s all men do, most of the time.”

He looked at her and finally, he started to smile. “All right,” he said, holding up his hand. “We are victims of our male bodies, I grant you that. Let’s start over. You cannot wander this house in such attire.”

She looked down at the lovely nightgown. He was going to take it back, she realized glumly. She fingered the lace edge of one strap. Then she looked up. She shrugged, so he wouldn’t know that she would care if he took it back.

He regarded her closely. “Amanda.” He sat once more on the ottoman, although he’d moved it a bit farther away. “We do need to discuss something else.”

He was very serious. Was he going to give her an overdue boot after all?

“I hope I was not presumptuous, but I thought you would prefer a burial at sea.”

Amanda stiffened. “I hadn’t thought about it! Where is Papa?” she cried in alarm.

“He is in the Kingston funeral parlor. We can bury him at sea. I have arranged it.”

Amanda nodded, incapable of speech.

“I was thinking tomorrow,” he said, his eyes soft with sympathy. “Can you manage? I can say a few words as ship’s captain, or I can summon a minister, or even a naval chaplain.”

Papa wasn’t buried yet, she managed to think. She would be able to attend his funeral. She met his searching gaze. “I’d like you to bless him.”

“Then it is as good as done,” he said softly.

He was being so kind again, and he was so impossibly handsome that her heart turned over as hard as a dory being flipped in high seas. She looked up into his brilliantly blue eyes and felt impossibly reassured, impossibly safe, as if she had just crept into harbor with all sails shortened after a raging storm. Maybe she didn’t have to be afraid of this man, she thought.

He stood up. “Did you wish to see me for a reason? If not, it’s my children’s bedtime and I need to go upstairs.”

She took a breath for courage, refusing to think about what would happen after he accepted her deal. Instead, she saw herself standing on the deck of the Fair Lady in heavy seas filled with white horses. She’d be at the bow; he’d be on the quarterdeck with his officers. They’d press on with a mass of canvas that no sensible seaman would ever attempt in such foul weather. He wouldn’t care; he’d be laughing, and so would she. She smiled.

“Amanda?”

She came back to her senses, her smile vanishing. She bit her lip, hesitating.

His gaze veered to her mouth and then back to her eyes. “What is it that you wish to ask me?”

There was no choice now but to plunge forward. Amanda stood up. “I’ll do anything—anything—if you will take me to England.”

He simply stared.

Amanda had no idea what that fixed gaze meant. He was very smart, so he had to catch her meaning. Didn’t he? She smiled brightly at him. “I can’t pay for a passage, not with coin, anyway. But there are other ways I could pay.” And she waited.

He began to shake his head. The odd motion seemed to be a “no,” and his expression seemed to be tinged with disbelief. “I see.”

Amanda stood, starting to panic. She had to get to England! She had promised. “I said I’d do anything. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Now he had that flush on his high cheekbones as he sometimes did, the color of anger. But why would he be mad? Didn’t he understand what she was saying? “De Warenne, I am offering you my body. It’s the only way I can pay for—”

“Cease!” His tone was a command.

She cringed in disbelief. “I know I’m not fancy enough for you—” she began, about to tell him that she was a virgin.

He grasped her arm and their bodies collided. “Is this what you do when you need something? Offer your body in exchange for some goods or service?” he demanded. Instantly he released her, stepping away from her. “I may chase pirates, but I am a gentleman, and a de Warenne,” he ground out, his eyes blazing.

She was trembling and her heart raced with fear. She couldn’t understand his anger. “I have to get to England. Papa said I should go with you. I just want to pay you!”

He held up both hands. “Enough! Is your mother there?”

Amanda nodded, incapable of looking away. Was he refusing her because she wasn’t a fancy, fat beauty? And why wasn’t she relieved?

He inhaled. “I had already planned to take you to London, assuming you did have family there.”

He had? She was stunned. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you need to go to family,” he said harshly.

“But how will I pay for my fare? I am not a beggar, to be tossed a crumb!”

“You won’t pay!” He was abrupt. “And I have never once indicated that I think you a beggar. The truth is, I was leaving at the end of the month, but considering all that has happened, we’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She started backing up. All dismay was gone—there was only gut-curdling fear. “That’s too soon! And what about Papa’s burial?” How could they leave tomorrow? “The end of the month is better.” She had just lost Papa, she wasn’t ready to meet her mother.

“We will bury your father at sea after we set sail. We leave tomorrow,” de Warenne snapped. He pointed at her. “And you will not be dressed like that. I prefer you in a boy’s clothing.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SLEEP ELUDED HIM.

Huge, almond-shaped green eyes held his. Masses of pale, almost silvery hair framed an equally exotic and beautiful face. Long wild strands twirled past her full breasts, clearly visible beneath the fine cotton nightgown. How could she have appeared in the public rooms of his house, clad in such intimate and revealing attire?

He jerked at his loins, which were full. He debated behaving like a schoolboy, but he hadn’t done so since the age of twelve, and felt ashamed to even contemplate the act of masturbation. How could he be this attracted to, and this worried about, the pirate’s daughter? Even though he knew her name now, he refused to think of her as Amanda. It must be La Sauvage or the pirate’s daughter or even Miss Carre, just as he must fight such an insane attraction.

He turned onto his belly, trying to ignore the raging blood in his loins. He must never forget that she was very young, absurdly young…too young. And she wasn’t his type of woman! By the time he had run away from home at the age of fourteen, he had been seducing the daughters of his father’s friends. He had always looked older than he actually was and there were many beautiful, elegant older noblewomen to choose from. When the choice was between a wildflower or a hothouse rose, he had always turned toward the latter.

But she was entirely different from them all. He had only to think of her barging into King’s House with a loaded pistol or riding her canoe in frothing seas to know that. Then his smile vanished and he cringed, recalling her language in the gold salon. But a moment later he almost chuckled, thinking of how she had deliberately chased Miss Delington out of his house. Aruptly his thoughts veered. Cliff lunged from the bed for a drink.

Was she even innocent? She certainly knew what she was offering. Considering the culture she had been raised in, it was unlikely she was inexperienced. Why else would she so readily bargain with her body? Of course, it was an ancient ploy for women without power or means. She had nothing else to barter with. That dismayed him and saddened him immensely.

He was beginning to have a distinct sense of dread about taking her to England.

He knew he could control and hide his lust. It would be unpleasant and difficult, but he was a disciplined man. And she was too young! He need only recollect that. Because he had shortened his time at home, he would bring his children with him. Alexi had already sailed the islands with him and had been demanding a “real” cruise for some time now. Ariella had been dropping hints and he knew she wished to travel abroad and see the sights she had been reading about. He was acutely aware that his children would provide a distraction for him. They would be a buffer zone.

But there was more. Cliff sat down with a cognac in the dark. Rumor had it that Rodney Carre had once been in the Royal navy. Was it true? Because if so, Amanda’s mother might be from a genteel background.

And that worried him terribly.

La Sauvage had no sense of modesty, no sense of shame and no manners whatsoever. If her mother was well-bred, their reunion would be a disaster.

Yet he didn’t want her to discover that her mother was a whore or a pockmarked hag, either. The pirate’s daughter had had a difficult life, he didn’t need to know the details to be certain of that. She deserved some of life’s luxuries and that would require a fine family from her mother’s side.

In six weeks, she might be able to acquire some airs and a sense of propriety, just enough not to be so shocking. Anahid could teach her. But he wasn’t confident. He wasn’t even certain La Sauvage wished any instruction in decorum, and he had only agreed to transport her, not to transform her into a young lady. Besides, it wasn’t his affair.

Cliff gave up thinking of sleep. It was almost dawn and he had a voyage to make. His children’s baggage had been readied last night, and he had decided to bring their language tutor, as well. That decision had been made with Miss Carre in the back of his mind.

He almost felt as if he had acquired another child, but he had only to recall her in her nightgown to know he had not.

Cliff drained the cognac and dressed. The sky was stained fuchsia over indigo seas when he left his suite. He went directly to the children’s wing. Alexi’s door was open and he was already dressed and standing at the washbasin, brushing his teeth. He turned and grinned at his father, his mouth full of water.

Cliff’s heart softened. He tossed a cloth at him. “Is your sister ready, too?”

“I heard her complaining about the hour to Anahid. Papa, we have good winds today.”

Cliff winked. “I know. Do not rush. Miss Carre is undoubtedly still asleep.”

He left his son spitting out his rinse water and paused at his daughter’s door. “Ariella? Anahid?”

A moment passed and the Armenian opened the door. He felt her smile. “My lord?”

He glanced past her and saw that Ariella remained in her nightshirt, bleary eyed. She was clutching a book to her chest. He had to smile. “Good morning. Don’t worry, Anahid packed dozens of books for you. And if you manage to get through all of that, there is always my Bible.”

She yawned.

“We will be downstairs in ten minutes, my lord,” Anahid said quietly.

He left. Cliff hurried downstairs and strode into the great hall, an age-old excitement upon him now. He was happiest when making sail. All the demons he had been wrestling with in the course of the night were gone. Within two hours, he would have the wind at his back, the open sea ahead of him, and his children would be with him. Life could not be better, he thought.

Wall sconces had been lit by the servants and the hall was partially illuminated, some early-morning shadows playing across the marble floors. Cliff suddenly spied his houseguest sitting in a studded Spanish chair not far from the front doors. He had certainly not expected her to be up. She saw him, too, and leaped to her feet, her eyes wide.

His steps slowed as he approached her. He refused to recall his brooding of just an hour ago. “Good morning. It is barely dawn. Could you not sleep?” Although he had passed by her door once last night and had overheard her weeping, there was no sign on her face of having spent a terrible night. He had ordered her clothing laundered while she grieved, and she was wearing the loose shirt and breeches now, but she had added a thick gold cord as a belt. It looked suspiciously as if it had come from a drapery tieback.

“We set sail this morning,” she said, smiling. “Why would I want to stay abed?”

He felt his world still. Surely her excitement had to do with being reunited with her mother. Surely she did not feel the powerful lure of the sea as he did. “It is a six-week voyage. It will be some time before you can renew your relationship with your mother.”

“What are you talking about? I know how long the voyage is.” She began to fidget. “The winds are fresh. Do we set sail now?”

Was it possible that she was as excited as he was to be embarking?

“You are staring at me as if I am a loon!” she exclaimed. “It’s been so long!” She started to hop from foot to foot. “Is there any reason to delay? I saw your men hoisting sail from my window. De Warenne—I mean, Captain—I need to have a rolling deck under my feet and a good wind in my hair.”

And staring at her, impossibly surprised, he felt himself stiffen. Shaken, he quickly turned aside so she wouldn’t see how he had physically reacted to her excitement. He wasn’t sure he had ever been so aroused.

“De Warenne? I mean, Captain, we are ready to go, aren’t we?”

He didn’t answer. A six-week voyage loomed. His response was simply unacceptable. As ship’s captain, his duty was to protect her and see her safely to her destination, not to ravage her in a moment of madness.

Thank God, he had decided to bring his family with him on this voyage, he thought.

“Are you ill?” she demanded, tugging on his vest from behind.

He made sure he was completely composed before turning. Slowly, he faced her. “I am bringing my children on this voyage and they are on their way downstairs. As soon as they are ready, we will depart.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I started sailing with Papa from the time I was six,” she said. “Isn’t that about your daughter’s age?”

“Yes.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “You are behaving so oddly! Is something wrong?”

He folded his arms across his chest, keeping his eyes trained on her face. “When was the last time you were at sea? And I do not mean paddling your canoe.”

“There was a short cruise to Barbados—Papa had affairs there, legitimate ones. That was last spring.”

He would die, he thought, to be denied a real cruise for such an interminable length of time. “You seem to be in very good spirits today, Miss Carre.”

“You mean Amanda.” She sobered a bit. “I haven’t forgotten about Papa, if that is what you mean. I spent most of last night thinking about him. I don’t have any tears left.” Then she brightened. “The Fair Lady is my favorite ship. There’s just something haunting about her. Everyone knows she’s the fastest fifth rate on the high seas—but that’s because of you, of course. And you’ve never lost a battle! I can help with her guns. Your sailmaker is Portuguese, isn’t he? Papa said he’s one of the greatest in the world.”

Cliff’s heart thundered in his chest, preventing speech.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked with a grin, blushing. “I’ve dreamed of riding her decks and racing the wind. This is just like one of my dreams!” She laughed, tossing her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to tie back.

He had to turn away again, his breeches painfully constricting. She’d dreamed of his ship. Had she dreamed of him, too?

“I can’t wait,” she said.

He thought about giving in to insanity; he thought about turning, crushing her to his chest, opening her mouth with his teeth and kissing her. He thought about thrusting his tongue as far as he could.

He heard his children’s footsteps on the stairs and their happy, animated chatter. There was vast relief and bitter disappointment.

He inhaled, smiled in a more genuine manner, and turned away from her. “I see we are all here. To the cutter, then.”

AMANDA GRIPPED the railing and closed her eyes, her face turned up high to the sun and the wind. They’d left Kingston far behind and only a faint pale strip of white sand, framed by jungle-green mountains set against the turquoise water, indicated the island behind them. Ahead, the seas swelled gently. De Warenne was using almost all of his canvas, so the great frigate was rating fifteen knots, racing as fast as she could in such a kind breeze. Amanda opened her eyes and laughed in sheer joy.

She’d known it would be like this, hadn’t she? She felt a fist in her gut and half turned so she could view her captain on the quarterdeck. He stood at the helm with his son, whom she had learned was eight years old, helping the boy steer the ship. He seemed taller, his shoulders wider, his hair more golden, as they raced the wind. Just looking at him made it hard for her to breathe.

She didn’t care. Six weeks lay ahead—the best six weeks of her life.

She wasn’t going to think about arriving at her mother’s, not yet.

De Warenne glanced over his shoulder at her. He had been smiling, clearly filled with the same exhilaration as she, but his smile vanished when their gazes met. He looked back over the prow, his expression terribly serious.

He’d been behaving strangely ever since yesterday, Amanda thought, when she’d interfered in his amorous plans. Oh well. It didn’t matter now. The sun was high, soft cumulous clouds scudded in the sky, and a pair of dolphins were racing the frigate at its larboard side. But unable to stop herself, as if a puppet on someone’s string, she turned to stare at him again.

Neither he nor his son was exchanging words, but the boy was clearly engrossed in steering the ship. He seemed so little in the shadow of his father’s powerful body. She grew sad reminded of how Papa had helped her at the helm when she was so small she’d had to be in his arms in order to grasp the wheel. Then her gaze veered to his daughter, who was seated not far from them, appearing every inch the princess that she probably was in her fine, lacy white dress, a book open on her lap. Her father had given her a velvet pillow to sit on, so she wouldn’t dirty her frilly drawers. She was pretty and pampered and clearly didn’t give a hoot about sailing, for she hadn’t looked up once.

Amanda couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be that rich little girl. But the child could read—and she was only six.

Amanda felt her cheeks warm. She wished she hadn’t admitted to de Warenne that she was illiterate. Did he think her stupid? It had taken her one instant to realize that he adored his fairy princess daughter and was absolutely proud of her. They’d all taken a cutter from the docks below Windsong out to the ship. Ariella had sat in her father’s lap, clutching a book as they were rowed out to the frigate. Her brother had argued with her, telling her the book should have been packed in her bags. Ariella had shot right back at him that he was an idiot, as he could barely read Latin. De Warenne had ended the argument, telling his son that Ariella could bring as many books as she wished and he had better be reading Latin by the time the voyage was done. Through it all, the Armenian servant had been silent.

De Warenne had looked at Amanda, smiling. “My daughter reads better than many grown men.” He’d turned to the child. “What are you reading now, darling?”

“The history of the Pharoahs, Papa.”

Amanda didn’t even know what a fa-ro was.

She was jealous of his daughter, when she owed de Warenne nothing but gratitude. She also wished she had been invited onto the quarterdeck, as his children had, but she had not. She had no reason to speak with de Warenne, so she had no excuse to go over and ask for permission to go up on the deck considered sacred by every sailor and ship’s officer. Maybe he’d invite her to join him there before the voyage was out.

Probably not.

Oddly, she thought of the beautiful cotton-and-lace nightgown. He hadn’t taken it back. It was in her small sack with her father’s cross and chain and her pistol. Her dagger was in her left boot on the inside of her calf and her sword was beneath the pillow on her berth.

“Papa? I don’t feel well,” Ariella said suddenly.

Amanda turned to see the little girl standing, holding her history book. She had that peculiar look which Amanda instantly recognized. The child was sea sick.

“Can I go below and lie down with Anahid?” she asked.

“That is the worst thing you can do.” De Warenne glanced behind him. His gaze slid over Amanda and he seemed to hesitate.

She thought she knew what he wanted, and because she so wanted to repay him for her passage, she jumped forward. Why couldn’t she help with the children? She didn’t know anything about children, but she owed de Warenne and how hard could it be? “De Warenne? I’ll walk her about the deck.”

His gaze softened. “Would you mind, Miss Carre? I believe Anahid is belowdecks arranging the children’s cabins.”

Amanda smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t let her fall overboard.”

He started.

She laughed. “That was a jest, de Warenne!”

“It wasn’t amusing,” he said, unsmiling.

She bit her lip. He was so serious when it came to his daughter! The little princess probably wept buckets when he hit her. She sighed and held out her hand. “Come with me.”

Ariella smiled at her, extending her free hand while clutching the book with her other one. Amanda helped her down the three steps to the main deck. “You’ll feel better in a few days, once you get your sea legs,” she told her.

“Really?” Ariella smiled, then turned green.

Amanda dragged her over to the railing just in time, for the child threw up. She sat with her until she was through, then realized Ariella was very close to crying. She was disgusted. The child was a milksop.

De Warenne lifted her into his arms, having materialized behind them. “You will feel better in a few days,” he said. “That is a promise.”

Ariella fought tears. “I’m fine, Papa. Put me down.”

“Are you certain?” he asked.

She nodded. “I want to walk with Miss Carre. I’m better now, really.” She managed a small smile.

He slid her to the deck and Ariella took Amanda’s hand. Amanda felt like an outsider, her jealousy of the little girl escalating until de Warenne turned his gaze upon her. “Thank you for being so kind to my daughter,’ he said, his blue eyes sweeping over her face.

It felt like a silken caress. Amanda couldn’t smile back and she couldn’t move but she knew that if she wanted him to like her, all she had to do was be good to his children. And she wanted him to like her, very badly in fact.

She wet her lips and tried to smile. “She’ll get her sea legs soon. After all, she’s your daughter.”

He gave her a look that said he didn’t quite think Ariella would adjust well to the sea and then he returned to the quarterdeck. Amanda stared after him. How did he keep his clothes so clean, she wondered. He smelled more strongly of the sea than ever, but he still smelled of mango and Far Eastern spices.

“You like Papa.”

Amanda jerked. She tugged the girl down the deck and out of earshot. “De Warenne has been good to me and he is taking me to my mother.”

“I know. He told us. She’s in England.” Ariella’s eyes were searching, and far too curious for a child of six.

“She’s a great lady,” Amanda bragged. “Terribly beautiful and she lives in a big fancy house with a rose garden.”

“Really?” Ariella thought about that. “Was your papa really a pirate?” she asked seriously as they strolled hand in hand down the deck.

Amanda hesitated. Then she decided there was no way she was going to admit to the truth. “He was falsely accused and falsely hanged,” she lied. “He was a planter and a real gentleman. But,” she added, veering to some of the truth, “a long time ago he was an officer in the British navy.”

Ariella was quiet and Amanda knew she was thinking intensely. What a strange girl! Then the child said, “Why aren’t you happy to be going to see your mama? Is it because your papa is dead?”

Amanda stopped in her tracks. She was about to cut the child, but then she saw de Warenne watching them from the quarterdeck. She forced a smile. “I am very happy to be going to see my mother. I haven’t seen her since I was even younger than you.” But her insides curdled as she spoke. If only she could believe that Mama would be overjoyed to see her.

“Really?” Ariella smiled, but then sobered. “My mama is dead. She was murdered when I was born.”

Amanda couldn’t help being curious. “Was she a princess?”

Ariella’s eyes widened and she laughed. “No. There are no Hebrew royals.”

“She was a Jew?” Amanda asked, surprised. She’d met Jewish people before, of course—she’d been to Curaçao once and it was mostly a Jewish island. Papa had said the Jews had come long ago from Spain.

“Papa fell in love with her and they had me. But it was forbidden and a Barbary prince ordered her death. Do you know where Barbary is?”

Amanda stared. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the child but she was very dismayed to learn that de Warenne had been in love with her mother. She had been very beautiful, if Ariella took after her.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Amanda tugged on her and they continued down the deck.

“Papa likes you, too,” Ariella said abruptly.

Amanda tripped. “What?”

Ariella smiled at her. “He stares at you all the time and he turns red. He never blushes, except when you are in the room.”

Amanda was disbelieving. “I doubt anyone or anything could make your father blush.”

“You make him blush. I saw him, this morning when we left the house, and he was blushing on the cutter.”

“It’s hot,” Amanda said irritably. She did not want to discuss Cliff de Warenne with his pampered daughter who had fancy airs and could read a grown-up’s history book. By now, they had taken an entire turn of the deck, coming up the port side, and they stood not far from the subject of their conversation.

“I feel better. I want to lie down,” Ariella said with a yawn. She turned, releasing Amanda’s hand, and pushed open the door to the captain’s cabin.

Amanda didn’t object, because she felt certain Ariella was allowed to come and go there as she pleased. She herself had never been permitted to enter Papa’s cabin without knocking, but he’d often had a trollop in there with him. She’d always assumed that all fathers were the same, but she was beginning to think that de Warenne treated his children very differently from the way Papa had treated her. Papa hadn’t cared that she couldn’t read and he’d never petted and coddled her, the way de Warenne did Ariella.

Ariella rushed into the cabin. Amanda couldn’t help herself; she was faint with curiosity now. She took one step inside so she could peek at his private room, all the while pretending that she had to keep an eye on his daughter, as she had promised.

The cabin was red.

The walls were painted a dark Chinese red and three scarlet rugs were on the floor, one Tibetan, one Chinese, one a fine, thin Aubusson. Amanda knew the differences, because the rugs she and her father had plundered over the years were some of their most valuable booty. A huge ebony bed with four thick, carved posters was against one wall. The covers were red-and-gold damask, the sheets striped in red silk. Red-and-gold pillows leaned against the huge headboard with thick, fat tassels and fringe.

A very fine English table, with curved legs and four chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet were in the room’s center. Beneath several portholes was a huge desk, covered with maps and charts. The entire room was filled with odd treasures—an Arabian brass chest with lock and key, African masks, intricately designed and colorful Moroccan vases, Waterford crystal, gold candlesticks. And there was a bookcase, crammed with hundreds of books. Amanda shivered.

She had just stepped inside de Warenne’s private lair. It reeked of the man’s exotic tastes, his erotic nature, his intelligence, power and virility. She shouldn’t be there, she somehow thought.

Someone seized her from behind. “What are you doing in here?”

Amanda reacted on instinct but the moment she drew her blade and pressed it against his chest, she realized her mistake. De Warenne’s eyes went wide. She froze, her heart hammering madly, as she was in his arms.

“What is that?” he asked very calmly.

His thighs were thick, bulging muscle, she realized inanely as he held her body completely against his. “It’s a dagger,” she breathed. “I am sorry…I’ll put it down, but you must let me go.”

Their gazes were locked. As he released her, she felt him stirring and she gasped, her gaze shooting back to his.

He blushed. His daughter was right, she thought, stunned. Or was she now as mad as the child?

He stepped back, grim. “No one enters this cabin without permission.” He half turned, striding to the porthole, where he breathed deeply.

It was too late. Amanda could clearly see that he had been aroused. She slipped the dagger slowly into its sheath in her boot. He wanted her. She wasn’t really certain why. Was it the brief act of violence? Every sailor she knew enjoyed sex after a bloody battle.

“Papa? It’s my fault. I wanted to come inside,” Ariella whispered from the bed.

De Warenne turned and smiled at his daughter. The expression, however, was strained. “Even you must ask my permission to enter here.”

The child nodded, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Amanda and her father.

Amanda tried to breathe more naturally. “I’m sorry.” She took a careful glance at him and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he seemed to be in control of his amorous nature once more.

His jaw flexed. He gestured for them both to precede him out of the door. When they had done so, he barked, “Miss Carre. A moment, please.”

She did not like his tone but she nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to discipline her for her trespass. That was what Papa would do. He’d deliver a quick cuff to the head, at least. Her stomach churned with some fear. Papa had been a big man, but de Warenne was taller, more muscular and far younger. Well, if he hit her she wouldn’t flinch. He’d see that she was strong and brave—she’d make Papa proud.

“Ariella, if you are feeling better, I am pleased. But going below is still not a good idea. I have summoned Anahid. The two of you can read together on that bench.”

“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

“Go.” But he smiled now and stooped to kiss her cheek.

Ariella beamed at him and rushed off to Anahid, who was waiting a discreet distance away.

Amanda tensed in anticipation of her punishment, watching his shoulders stiffen before he turned. He gestured. “Would you care—”

Amanda ducked.

He froze, his hand in the air, poised between them. “What are you doing?”

She flushed. She had broken his rules, and she should stand firm. “Nothing. I mean, I won’t dodge the blow.”

His eyes popped. “What?”

“Go ahead, just do it. I disobeyed your orders.”

“You think I mean to strike you?” He dropped his hand.

She became wary. “That’s what a hand is for, isn’t it?”

He took a step toward her and she forgot her resolve, backing up. He halted, and so did she. “Miss Carre! I do not strike women,” he said, aghast. “I have never struck a woman in my life, and I never will.”

She wasn’t sure she should believe him. “Is this a trick?”

He was incredulous, so much so that it was a moment before he spoke. When he did, she saw pity in his eyes. “I am trying to invite you to dine with me tonight,” he said.

“You want to sup with me?” This had to be trickery, didn’t it?

He nodded. “I thought we might converse.”

Amanda was suspicious. Men had one use for women—and it wasn’t for conversation. Her heart slammed hard. He had changed his mind. He had decided to take her to his bed after all.

“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.

CHAPTER FIVE

AMANDA 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.

AMANDA 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.

He pushed the chair closer to the table, then he took a seat facing her, lifting the wine bottle. He hesitated, his smile fading. Then he put the bottle down. “I must ask. How old are you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Twenty-one.” She smiled, her heart continuing to beat wildly. She wanted him to think her more mature and worldly than she was. “How old are you?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Amanda, we both know you are not even close to twenty-one. I am twenty-eight.” He hesitated. “I mean, Miss Carre.”

She had thought he was in his late twenties and she had been right. She carefully debated what age to tell him, one he might believe. “I am almost twenty,” she lied. “And I told you, I am not a lady. You can call me Amanda.”

His regard was frankly assessing. He finally said, “Really.”

“Really. And I would like some wine,” she added.

He poured her a scant finger, then poured himself a large glass.

“And to think I thought you were so generous,” she grumbled, reaching for her glass. Had her ploy succeeded?

“My estimation is that you are sixteen, perhaps seventeen,” he said, watching her closely.

Amanda sighed. She was seventeen and she would be eighteen in August. Instead of responding, she cast her eyes down and took a draft of the wine. Immediately she gasped, forgetting all about her deception. The wine she drank with Papa had been thick and sour; she had always preferred grog. “What is this?” she managed, stunned.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly at her. “I take it that was a cry of approval?”

“This is delicious—like berries and velvet.”

“There is a strong note of blackberry,” he agreed, “and just enough tannin to coat the tongue. It’s from Rioja.”

Amanda was too busy taking another sip to reply. The wine was heaven.

“You’ll get tipsy if you don’t slow down,” he said, but his tone was light. He hadn’t touched his glass; he simply kept staring at her.

She wished she knew what he was really thinking. She smiled widely at him. “I never knew wine could be so delicious. Why are you looking at me so closely?”

He flushed and glanced aside. “I apologize.”

“Is it my shirt? Should I have braided my hair?”

“Your shirt is fine.” His smile was forced. “I was rude. It won’t happen again.”

Amanda hesitated. She twisted her hair into a knot, then smiled grimly at him. “I don’t have any other clothes, except for that nightgown.”

He seemed alarmed. “It’s not your hair—your hair is beautiful—and it’s not your clothes. I would like you to enjoy this meal. My chef is a good one.”

She went still. He liked her hair? Every summer she would chop a foot off with her dagger, but it always grew back by the next season. This summer, she hadn’t bothered—as her hair had not been on her mind, not with her father’s capture. “It’s too long,” she managed.

His color heightened. “Never cut it,” he said tersely.

“Do you really think my hair is beautiful?” she demanded.

His fingers drummed at the tablecloth, long and strong. Finally, slowly looking up, he said, “Yes, I do.”

She stared into his eyes, filled with joy, smiling at him.

He glanced away. “How old did you say you were?”

She was not going to tell him the truth. “I am almost twenty, de Warenne.”

He lifted his gaze, which was impenetrable now. “That is impossible. You are clearly at that awkward stage, at once half child, half woman.”

“You are babbling nonsense,” she said, instantly annoyed. “No one is half woman and half child! This morning you clearly thought me a full-grown woman, not half of one.”

He sat up straighter in his chair, his gaze locking with hers. Amanda stared challengingly at him, waiting for him to respond.

His lips slowly stretched into an odd smile. “You were raised among rowdy sailors. You know the nature of men. I have tried to be a gentleman with you, but I will admit my shortcomings. My nature is a manly one. It doesn’t mean anything, so do not read anything into it.”

Amanda stared at him. She could not decipher his meaning.

He sent her a very direct and sensual smile, one which could melt hearts and instantly melted hers. She forgot about decoding his odd words. Her pulse rioted and her thoughts jumbled, all at once.

He took the wine bottle and filled her glass. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

She could barely comprehend him.

“Amanda? When did you and your father come to live on Jamaica Island?”

She inhaled, unable to forget the way he had just looked at and smiled at her. She was still breathless. “I was four,” she exhaled.

“Where did you live prior to that?” he asked, his glass now in hand. From time to time he took a sip, clearly enjoying the red wine.

“St. Mawes. It’s in Cornwall. I was born there,” she said, her scattered wits finally returning.

“St. Mawes…I believe that’s on the eastern coast.”

She nodded. “That is where my mother was born.”

“How did your parents meet?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.

He was really interested in her life, she thought, amazed. “Papa was in the navy. He was a midshipman on a ship of the line. He was on leave in Brighton and Mama was there with her mother and sisters on holiday. It was love at first sight,” she added with a smile.

She kept expecting him to evince boredom, but he was leaning toward her now. “I had heard some talk of Carre having been a naval officer. A ship of the line, that is impressive.”

Ships of the line were the greatest warships in the British navy, huge triple-deck affairs with more than a hundred guns and crews of up to eight hundred or more. She was proud. “Papa was very dashing then, I think.”

“And your mother was swept off her feet.” He smiled.

“Yes.” Her smile faltered. “And then Papa turned rogue.”

“After the marriage?”

She nodded. “And after I was born. Mama gave him the boot.”

“I wonder if I know your mother’s family,” he mused. “My brother Rex has an estate in Cornwall, and I have been there, although infrequently.”

“She was a Straithferne,” Amanda said with renewed pride. “They are a very old family—Mama could trace her bloodlines back to Anglo-Saxon times.”

“So your mother is a very fine lady,” he remarked.

“She is a great lady. Papa told me that her airs are perfect and proper, no matter the moment, and that she is a great beauty, too.” She smiled, but some unease had arisen. It was so easy to forget that in six weeks she would be standing at her mother’s door in London. She glanced at de Warenne and saw him watching her intently and she smiled more firmly, as she did not want him to ever guess that going to England scared her more than any sea battle ever could.

“Does the family still have holdings in St. Mawes?” he asked.

Amanda suddenly sat up. “You are asking a lot of questions about my mother.” Her mind sped. De Warenne was an infamous ladies’ man and her mother was a great beauty. Was his interest in Dulcea Carre?

Her heart lurched with sickening force.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She couldn’t smile.

“Amanda?”

“Do you know my mother?” she demanded.

“I’m afraid not, nor am I familiar with the Straithfernes.”

She slumped in her chair in abject relief.

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