Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02] (10 page)

Again, his fingers were deft. There was no tenderness to his touch, but he was apt and able, and with little pain to her, the dreadful knots caused by the wind and tempest of the storms outside and inside the captain’s cabin were quickly untangled. Her hair fell about her back and shoulders in soft, shimmering waves.

“It is an unusual color,” he commented almost idly. “It is neither gold nor red.”

She turned around, smiling succinctly. “It is the color of thatch, so you said.”

“Ah, yes, thatch,” he agreed, and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she swung around again, waiting for the door to
open. He came around and opened it for her. He offered her his arm. She chose to ignore it, staring straight ahead.

“Skye, take my arm, else resign yourself to this cabin for the length of the voyage.”

He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She took his arm and he politely opened the door.

Sunset was coming. The very sight of the spectacular colors streaking across the heavens gave a curious thrill to her heart. The world had fallen apart. She had fallen prey to the true monsters that roamed the seas. Her own captain lay dead and surely floated in some watery grave. Crew had fought and died, and infamy had ensued. She had spent the night in the company of one of the four most notorious pirates about … and still, the sunset spoke of hope.

It was glorious. It was red and gold and all the shades in between. The sun itself was a glorious orb falling slowly into the cobalt and azure of the sea. The colors seemed to stretch into eternity.

“Now I know the color,” he murmured suddenly behind her.

“What?” she said, turning to him.

His eyes, smoke now, fell upon hers. “Your hair. It is the color of this sunset.” He was silent only a moment. “Come on. I am taking the helm. You may stay at my side for a while.”

He gave her no choice but to come, holding her tightly as they walked across the decking from his cabin past huge cleats and piles of rigging and canvas sail until they came to the carved steps that led to the wheel. Men saluted, doffing their caps to her, smiling their knowing smiles. She felt her cheeks grow warm and she did not respond, but she tried to raise her chin.

“Evening, Captain!” came a cry from the crow’s nest.

“Evening, Jacko. Is she clear?”

“Clear as the sound o’ my sweet mother’s voice, captain! It seems we’ve weathered the storms, and moved into clear weather.”

“That’s fine to hear, Jacko.”

“Milady, you’re looking well!” the man called.

Skye did not reply to him. The Hawk laughed and answered
in her stead. “Perhaps, Jacko, the lady, too, has weathered the storm of the previous night and seeks calm seas this eve!”

Jacko laughed. Skye was certain that she heard subtle sneering sounds from all about her, but then maybe she had imagined them. The Hawk’s men seemed more cheerful than licentious. They were a well-disciplined lot for scourges of the sea, she thought. And they were clean for pirates. And neatly garbed.

Hawk led her around to a carved wood seat that curved around the wheel, built into the superstructure of the ship. The man at the wheel saluted Hawk, nodded very properly to her, and gave over the helm. “The course is set south, southeasterly, sir!”

“Fine, Thompkins. We’ll keep her so. You are at leisure, Mr. Thompkins.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thompkins responded. He saluted again and left the helm. The Hawk took the huge wheel, legs spread firm and apart as he stood and surveyed the sea from behind it. They might have been alone in the world, Skye thought, for the sea and sky seemed so very vast. The sunset falling portside was still a sight of crystalline beauty and the wind was gentle and balmy.

She drew her bare toes up beneath her and leaned her head back, feeling the wind. She should be thinking of some new way to slay him, she thought. She should not let another night pass by. She desperately needed to find a way to salvage life and dignity and honor from this fiasco.

But she was weary and unarmed and the air was gentle and soft. She needed to regain her strength, to find the will and energy and way to defy him.

She opened her eyes, and discovered that he was no longer watching the sea. He was watching her.

“What!” she cried irritably. “What is it that you want out of me!”

He shrugged and glanced toward the sea once again. “I am curious, Lady Kinsdale, and that is all.”

“Curious, why?”

“That a woman raised as you have been—a God-fearing lass, born into the peerage—can take her vows so lightly.”

She stiffened. “I do not take promises lightly, sir. Not unless they are given to the rodents and snakes.”

“A promise, milady, is a promise.”

“Not—”

“Yes, milady, a promise, even given to me, is a promise.”

“You are a rake and a rogue and a—”

“Pirate! It is a most noble profession, milady! Why that dear great lady, Queen Elizabeth herself, encouraged the profession. Sir Francis Drake was a pirate, you know. Anytime that England has been at war with the Spanish or French, pirating has been called noble!”

“Drake was a privateer—”

“Pirate!” he claimed, laughing. “Or, to be a thief is fine—as long as we steal from other nations!”

Skye turned away, looking westward toward the sunset. “You would compare One-Eyed Jack with Sir Francis Drake.”

“No, I would compare One-Eyed Jack with Attila the Hun, for both were cold-blooded murderers.”

“Oh? Are there good pirates and bad?”

“Of course. There are the good and the bad in all peoples.”

“You are scum,” she said sweetly.

“And you are changing the subject. Consider then that we have established that I am scum. Let’s return to you.”

“Let’s not.”

He ignored her words. “To promises.”

“I have already told you—”

“That you are not beholden to keep a promise to me. Because I am scum. But what of your fiancé?”

“What?”

“You intend to breech your promise to him.”

“I never voiced any such promise!” Skye declared. Then, furious that she had replied to him, she turned again. “It is none of your business, you—”

“Cease. I tire of the barbs in your tongue.”

“I tire of your presence.”

“That can easily be rectified. Come, I will return you to your prison.”

“Can’t you please let me be! Have you no mercy within you?”

“I am afraid, milady, that you cannot expect ‘scum’ to come equipped with mercy.”

“Oh!” she cried, frustrated. “What is all this to you anyway?”

“I am curious.”

“Why?”

“Pure and simple, milady. I wonder if the dear fellow will or will not be willing to pay for your return.”

Skye drew her knees up beneath her, folded her hands upon them, and rested her chin there. “It matters not if he pays or not. My father will ransom me.”

“But what if your father has had a bad year? Most of his fortune comes from his holdings on the islands. It’s been a bad year for the sugar plantations.”

“Lord Cameron will pay!” she snapped.

“He will pay for you, even tarnished as you are?”

“I am not tarnished!” she snapped. Then she lowered her eyes slightly, for it was by a curious mercy on his part that she was not, and she did not wish to test that mercy. Then she remembered his touch and his eyes, and the fact that sitting was still difficult because of a certain placement of his hand upon her bare anatomy. “I am only slightly tarnished,” she amended, and he laughed softly.

“I think you are right,” he said. “I think that Cameron will pay for you, no matter how tarnished you should become. You see, he is a man who knows how to keep a promise. He was pledged as a child, but from respect for his deceased father’s wishes, I am sure that he will pay.”

She glanced at him sharply. He was watching the sea once again. She cried softly, “You know him! You know the man to whom I am engaged.”

He did not reply for a moment.

“You know him!” Skye cried once again.

“Aye, I know him.”

“How!” She hadn’t realized that she had stood, or that she had moved, until she saw that her hand rested upon his where it lay against the mighty wheel. She flushed and quickly drew away her touch. “How do you know him?”

He shrugged. “He intercedes sometimes when I return hostages. We meet on Bone Cay. I have—holdings—there.”

“Then—then I will not be a prisoner long?” she whispered.

A lazy smile touched his lips and one of his dark brows arched. “Long enough, milady.”

She drew away from him and turned about. “What is he like?”

“Petroc Cameron?”

“Yes.”

“He is like me.”

“What!” she stormed, whirling around with great indignation.

His laughter was deep and husky and seemed to fill the night, and his eyes sparkled a fascinating silver. “At least you are quick to leap to his defense!”

“He is a gentleman. You are—”

“Un-uh. Watch it, lady. I am weary.”

“You are a—pirate,” she said. She meant “scurvy rodent,” and they both knew it. His jaw twisted, but he was still amused. She was, after all, she admitted ruefully, broken down to a certain control.

“He is like me,” the Hawk said, “because he is my cousin.”

She gasped so awfully that she choked. He patted her firmly upon the back and quickly apologized. “Milady, please do not have apoplexy upon me! You needn’t fear the future so intensely upon my account. He is a second cousin of sorts. And I, of course, poor slime, am from the wrong side of the sheets several generations back. The Camerons do not like to speak of it, of course, and they admit nothing. But when you meet your dear betrothed, you will see that there can be no real denial, for the Lord Cameron and I do bear a certain resemblance to one another.”

Skye sank back into her seat, staring at him dismally. “And you would tarnish your own cousin’s fiancée?” she demanded.

“There is no love lost between us.”

“But—”

“And remember, milady, as of this moment, you are only ‘slightly’ tarnished. And if rumor stands correct, you intend to dishonor your bethrothal anyway.”

“That is mere speculation.”

“To many. You forget. I know you.”

“You do not know me at all!”

“I am learning more about you with each passing hour, Lady Kinsdale.”

“Again, you show your conceit.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. “Governor Spotswood hates pirates! He will catch you one day and he will hang you high, and I will make you one promise now that I will keep. The day that they hang you I will be there with bells on. I will watch with the greatest glee.”

“Bloodthirsty wench,” he said.

“In your case, Sir Rogue!”

He laughed, letting go the wheel, turning to her. She wished to escape his nearness but it was too late. He caught her hands and bowed low so that their faces nearly touched and he all but whispered into her lips. “Milady, one day I promise—a promise that will be kept!—you will call me ‘lord’ and you will bow to my command!”

“Never!” she promised, but the cry was but a whisper, too, and that against his lips. He so nearly brushed her flesh! So nearly met his mouth to hers. A hammering came to her, and it was the sound of her heart. She heard the rush of the ocean, then realized that it was her blood, cascading and steaming within her. Surely, he saw how she trembled. He would know …

Know what? she demanded desperately of herself.

She did not find the answer for someone nearby cleared his throat and the Hawk straightened. Robert Arrowsmith stood with one foot upon the first step to the helm.

“I’ve laid the lady’s supper out in your cabin, Captain.”

The Hawk reached for her hand, drawing her to her feet, his eyes deep and hard upon hers. “Mr. Arrowsmith will escort you to the cabin.” His voice lowered. “You needn’t fear. The lanterns are already lit.”

He did not wait for a reply but handed her over to Robert. Robert escorted her past the rigging and to the cabin door. “Good night, milady,” he said to her.

And the doors were closed and bolted. But as the Hawk had
promised, two lanterns burned brightly, illuminating the water left for her to wash and the meal left for her upon the Hawk’s desk. She would never eat, she thought. But it had been endless hours since she had last eaten and she quickly realized that she was famished and that the stew left for her smelled wonderful.

She sat down. It was a fresh fish stew, she quickly realized, thick with potatoes and carrots. The bread at her side was fresh, too, and vermin free. With less than ladylike manners she set into it, and when she paused at last, she realized that she had consumed it all.

She hadn’t even bothered to pour herself some of the burgundy left for her. She did so then, reflecting on the night.

He would not hurt her. He had told her so. If she took care, she would be rescued soon enough.

If her father had the ransom, she thought dully.

Or if Lord Cameron was still willing to come to her aid.

She was only slightly tarnished.…

Restlessly, she stood. The food had been wonderful. It had left her with a sense of well-being. The wine was good, too. It went down well, and it eased away the fear and the pain. She was still so very tired.

She looked from the washbowl and French soap and sponge to the door, wondering when he would burst back in upon her. Nervously she dug into her trunk for a substantial nightdress, and even more nervously she set to the endless task of trying to undo her buttons. She let her dress fall to her waist and scrubbed her upper torso.

No one came to the door.

She slipped her nightdress over her shoulders and soaped and sponged her lower half, finishing with her feet. Then she breathed a sigh of relief, for no one had come.

She sat down and finished the wine. Still, no one disturbed her. The lanterns burned brightly, and she was at ease. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

Later, she tried to move, and she struck wood. Panic seized her. She was surrounded by darkness. She was locked into a small wooden space, and darkness surrounded her.

She could hear the screams.…

Stay! She had to stay!

But she could not. She could not remain in her prison and listen to the horrible screams!