Czytaj książkę: «A Lady at Last»

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.”