A Lady at Last

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.