A Pirate's Wife for Me (12 page)

No. She would not believe that. She would not fear her past. She had learned never to look back, always to look forward. One day soon, she would be done with this, done with Taran, and she would go on to her second mission, and her third, and maybe after a dozen missions, she would feel she had her revenge.

In the meantime, she needed to view Taran, with his false concern and his studied trepidation, as a test, one would she would pass.

In a voice warm with concern, he said, "I wouldn't be a man if I didn't worry about your safety."

Ah. A new tack to dissuade her. "How did you show your concern these last nine years?" Finger against her cheek, she pretended to think. "Oh. By being invisible."

Sibeol watched them, her serious gaze so different from her son's. Yet they shared an intense bond, one of goals and intent, and in that they were obviously mother and son.

Leaning forward, he pressed his palms flat on the desk. "All right. I can't convince you of my apprehension, but what about your mother, Lady Bess? What of your brother, Kiernan? You know they would be terrified if they knew what you were doing. Abandon this mission and leave it to us."

But at Kiernan's name, Cate's fingers had clenched so tightly they tingled from lack of blood. "It's for Kiernan that I do this."

Taran pushed a careless hand through his hair. "What do you mean?"

With an intensity borne of grief, Cate told him, "Kiernan was murdered in the Crimea. Killed by a bomb, in a trap set by English traitors. I will hunt them down. I will not be satisfied until they are all dead … or I am."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Taran reached for Cate.

Cate held out a hand to ward him off. "No. It is far too late for any comfort you might offer me."

Cate curtsied to Sibeol, walked to the door, and closed it behind her.

Sibeol stared at her son, heart aching. Cate had lost a beloved brother, but Taran, too, must feel the loss of a friend, his mentor, the man who had taken him in when the world turned against him. She wanted to go to her boy, put her arms around him and tell him it was all right to cry.

But she already knew he would stare at her as if she spoke a garbled tongue.

Taran didn't cry. As far as she could tell, Taran didn't
feel
.

Taran lowered his arms, his face blank. He gave nothing away: not what he was thinking, not his lusts, his fears, his affections.

All the time of her imprisonment, Sibeol had prayed every night that her handsome, impetuous son had survived against all odds. She'd been afraid to pray for more; she had believed that life itself was the great gift.

Now that he was back, she realized she should have asked for more.

When he returned from his sojourn with the pirates, he had embraced her. He let her hold him. But she hadn't really touched him. She didn't dare think of the trials he'd been through to transform him from her impetuous, confident crown prince into this monolith of strength and cool deliberation.

His comrades, the pirates, treated her with the greatest of respect, but they were rough in manner and common in speech. And they held Taran in awe. Not because he was a prince, but because he had fought at their sides, led them through storms, found them prizes in ways she didn't want to contemplate. But no matter what he had done in the past, he
was
the crown prince of Cenorina. He had duties to fulfill. For those, he needed compassion. He needed statesmanship.

He needed a wife who would bring diplomatic ties and honor to the kingdom. He
knew
that.

Oh,
why
were men so difficult? She wanted a wife for Taran who would restore his soul and teach him to love again. At the same time, the one woman who showed promise was not royal, nor was she chaste and sheltered.

Picking up her yarn, Queen Sibeol automatically set to work, so used to knitting during the long years of imprisonment that she no longer had to think to make a sweater or turn a sock. "What are you going to do about Miss MacLean?" She meant,
Are you going to treat her with honor, then let her go?

Naturally, he heard — or pretended to hear — only the words, and not the intent. "I have no choice. I will send her to Cenorina. If what she said is true, if Kiernan is dead" — Taran's voice was steady and without a wisp of grief — "I could no more stop Cate from going than I could halt the tides."

But Sibeol would not allow him to prevaricate. "That's not what I meant. I wasn't in prison so long I don't recognize a young man stricken with desire."

Shuffling the stacks of papers that awaited his attention, he said, "You were held for more than nine years. That's a very long time. Perhaps you don't remember."

"I most certainly do. Your father used to look at me that way." She still missed her old prince. Their marriage had been arranged by their families, but their affection for each other had been the cause of gossip in the court. Whipping out her handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. "When we fought—"

"It was the clash of titans."

"If he hadn't died when he did —"

"But he did, and so this crisis is ours to solve." Just as Taran had always done when he was troubled, he pushed his hair off his forehead, but he didn't use his old impetuous gesture. This indicated thoughtfulness and a disconcerting deliberation. "If everything is going as planned, if Throckmorton managed to successfully send Davies scurrying back to Cenorina, he will be back there within the fortnight. He will be proud of his plan to hold you hostage as a way to ensure his escape. If he finds it's not you in that prison —"

Sibeol crumpled the handkerchief in her palm. She had viewed the spite that rotted in Sir Maddox Davies. He hated her. He hated Taran. And why? For no better reason than their noble birth. He imprisoned her in the fortress overlooking the sea in a damp cell, with mercenary jailors to watch her every move. He sent her son away to die.

No one could ever comprehend her own pain and guilt, for it was she who had chosen Maddox Davies as the most respectful, considerate, and intelligent of the recommended candidates. All her life, she had been vigilant about those she allowed close to her and her family. Then, because Davies was charming, and she hadn't taken enough care to look beneath the surface, she had plunged her kingdom into despair.

The argument might be made that her husband had grown ill not long before Davies's arrival, and that had occupied and distracted her. But she was the queen. She did not accept excuses for her own negligence, nor could she abandon her responsibilities now. "Davies will kill the young lady who took my place," Sibeol said.

"Miss Bennett knew the risks when she volunteered for duty."

"That doesn't absolve me of responsibility. Miss Jeannette Bennett is the daughter of one of my loyal ladies who was forced to flee Cenorina to the safety of England. The child would not be there if I hadn't ignored the oncoming danger."

Taran did Sibeol the honor of neither arguing nor agreeing. He understood the consequences of neglecting duty, of not preparing oneself for every eventuality. "I'll make sure Miss Bennett is rescued."

Queen Sibeol had despaired under the restrictions of her arrest. Decrees were made in her name. She left the fortress only when Davies wanted her to be seen. Then he placed her in an open carriage and drove her around the countryside to assure the people of Cenorina she still lived and was in charge. An elaborate charade, one that ground her pride into the dust, and always she feared she would be smothered in her sleep and buried without rites or justice or any mark that she had ever passed this way.

She'd seen her son, the crown prince, one time. Nine years ago, in his youthful bravado Taran had returned and been captured. Davies had allowed one brief reunion marked by happiness and marred by hopelessness, before he had sent Taran away to be murdered.

Three years ago she'd received word through the network of spies still loyal to the royal family. Taran was alive. He was the captain of a ship. And he was working on a plan to free her and take Cenorina back, to restore the family and his country's prosperity. She was to be patient. So when, a fortnight ago, a woman of about Sibeol's height had been smuggled in to replace her, Sibeol had escaped without a protest. But the memory of that girl's face intruded on her sleep. One did not live as princess of a principality for thirty years without developing a sense of obligation. It was her sense of obligation that made her speak to Taran when she would rather have not.

"I like Miss MacLean. She's brave. She's intelligent. Her family is good, not noble, but good, and one of our ancient allies." Sibeol recognized the mask Taran wore. It was the same one his father had always donned when he planned to ignore good sense and do what he pleased. Yet she had to speak. "If you are to maintain your grip on the throne, you need a female of impeccable virtue. Miss MacLean's virtue is lost, and everyone knows it."

"That's my fault."

Her exasperation broke through. "Yes, of course it's your fault! I'm not excusing your behavior which was ungrateful and abused every law of hospitality and if your father were here he would take you by the ears and shake you until your teeth rattled!"

Taran considered his mother as if uncertain how to take her outburst. "I am sorry to have caused you distress."

"But you're not sorry you did it." Before he could speak, Sibeol made a gesture to cut him off. "But what can be forgiven in a man and a prince cannot be forgiven in a woman and a princess. In addition, she
steals
."

"I believe you should say — she has stolen. She no longer steals."

"We don't know that. She might take what we seek and hold it for ransom."

He folded his hands on the desk before him and considered her steadily. "Mother, I'm a pirate. I also have stolen."

She dismissed that. "That's different. It was not a lark. You had to steal to survive." But she was uneasily aware that Taran and Miss MacLean had more in common than a shared background. They both had been thieves, and that Taran had stooped to such a foul crime and even now expressed no remorse — his only explanation had been,
Mother, we weren't stealing from the poor
— showed her how truly Taran had changed.

She hurried into speech. "We have already discussed that you need a bride with ties to the powers of France or Spain or Portugal, countries who desire to thwart Britain in any plans she has to occupy Cenorina."

"Mother, I respect you and your opinion completely, but my wife will want me to fight for my kingdom."

"Yes." Sibeol nibbled on her lip. "But you heard Miss MacLean. She believes the English plan is to depose the royal family."

"That was speculation on Cate's part."

"That is what I fear."

Taran folded his hands. "Prince Albert seems a level-headed chap. He's not interested in invading and keeping Cenorina as an English province."

"Queen Victoria is his wife. She is ambitious, and England is always greedy."

"Always greedy for the great, rich lands like India. Cenorina is prosperous, but not wealthy, and has proved time and time again that a nation of small, mountainous islands is difficult to conquer. We have to trust that once England has what they want – the knowledge the islands will not be used as a base to attack Britain – they'll once again ignore us as if we don't exist."

"But the risk!"

"Mother, I had no choice." He was patient, and calm — and emotionless. He had weighed the risks and he gambled without the doubts that plagued her. "I couldn't get my country back with a single ship under my command. I had to ally myself with Britain."

She took a breath. "I know. But I remember all the times they've tried to conquer us, and we're inviting them in to help in the final fight!"

"They can't win against us. We know the terrain, we're defending our homes, and we don't fight by the rules."

He meant
he
didn't fight by the rules. That worried her, too. That streak of ruthlessness which ran through him like a vein of hard, solid gold. "You're right. I know you are, I just … I don't sleep well, and I worry."

"There's no use worrying, Mother. The plan has been set in motion. We'll succeed. One way or the other, we'll succeed."

"And Miss MacLean?" Sibeol held her breath.

He considered Sibeol for a long time.

She could almost see him weighing options and discarding them. She said, "You don't mean to take the daughter of our old ally as your mistress!"

Without changing expression or raising his voice, he laid his claim. "Cate will be mine until the day I die."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Here in the common room
in a corner tucked away from his men, Taran stood and concentrated as Cate untied the ribbon that held the battered brown leather workman's kit together and unrolled it on the table. Tucked in the pockets, two dozen metal instruments gleamed in the candlelight. Today she had sent Blowfish out, and he had returned with exactly what she asked: two locks set in wood as they would be in a door, and one that was stark and bare.