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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.
