Taming Charlotte (19 page)

“Hush,” she scolded, and then she took him into her mouth and began to work him over so thoroughly that before a minute had passed, he was out of his mind.

P
ATRICK HAUNTED THE BOATYARD FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS,
overseeing every aspect of the repairs to the
Enchantress.
Before Charlotte, the matter would have consumed his every waking thought, as well as commanding his physical presence; now his mind strayed often to the energetic little temptress he’d married in Riz.

Charlotte, he reflected, not once but a thousand times, was part lady of the manor and part lioness. Every day new gowns arrived from the dressmakers’ shops, and Charlotte was as cool and regal as a duchess as she modeled them for him. When Patrick joined her in their bed at night, always at a late hour, she showed him the wild side of her nature, giving and taking pleasure with the same degree of ferocious passion.

Standing at the stern of the
Enchantress,
Patrick stared at the sun-spangled waters of the blue-green sea and wondered if tender feelings were turning him into a nervous old woman. Things were going too damn well, by his reckoning, and he was profoundly uneasy, as well as restless.

Experience had taught him to expect challenges,
especially
when life seemed to settle into a pleasant routine.

A stir of voices and a clatter on the dry dock made him turn, and there was Charlotte, stepping down from one of the Queridas’ coaches, a pink and white striped parasol shading her from the bright glare of the sun. Her dress, full-sleeved and trimmed with lace, was rose-colored, a splash of femininity in starkly masculine surroundings.

Charlotte spotted Patrick, waved cheerfully, and proceeded along the plank-way and onto the main deck. He was not entirely pleased, for the wharves and the boatyard were rough places, yet he couldn’t help being glad to see his wife.

He greeted her with a frown, however, and a brisk “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how the work on the ship was progressing,” she replied, and by the way she lifted her chin and stood her ground, Patrick knew Charlotte was undaunted. As usual.

She gave the parasol a little twirl and treated Patrick to a smile that took the starch out of his knees. “Spain is lovely,” she went on sweetly, “and the hospitality of the Querida family cannot be faulted. However, I believe I’ve been infected with your wanderlust, Mr. Trevarren. I find that I’m eager to travel on from here, and see what lies over the horizon.”

Patrick was in a misery of lust, even though Charlotte had not done anything overt to tempt him. He wondered if the workmen and his crew would notice if he spirited her off to his cabin for an hour or so, then dismissed the idea. If he didn’t watch himself, his reputation as a scoundrel would be ruined, and word would spread throughout the seven seas that Patrick Trevarren had become a
husband.

“I’ve told you not to come here,” he scolded, taking Charlotte’s arm and hustling her to the railing. “The waterfront is no place for a decent woman!”

She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes in a way that could only be described as insubordinate. “What is there to fear,” she drawled, “when I have
you
to look after me, Captain Trevarren?”

He wanted to shake her. “After being kidnapped in the marketplace and ending up in a harem,” he whispered furiously, “I’m amazed you can ask a question like that!”

“You can’t protect me?” Charlotte simpered, still baiting
him. Her otherwise guileless golden eyes were filled with laughter. “Mercy, Patrick, are you confessing to a
weakness?”

Patrick clamped his jaw down tight for a moment. He had but one frailty—his fascination with this woman. He glared at her, offering no reply to her question, knowing she didn’t really expect one.

She smiled, enjoying her minor victory, and opened her beaded handbag. “As it happens, I do have legitimate business. This message was delivered this morning.” She extended an envelope of heavy, cream-colored vellum.

A premonition swelled in the pit of Patrick’s stomach as he took the envelope. The front bore only his name—anyone in Costa del Cielo would have known where he was staying. On the back, however, was Khalif’s distinctive seal, pressed in green wax.

He broke the seal, took out a single sheet of paper. The message was written in a plainly feminine hand, in perfect English.
Ahmed has taken the palace by treachery and imprisoned Khalif. He will kill the true sultan, and his heirs, and we have no means to fight him, as Khalif ‘s own men are away on a desert campaign. Please come quickly, if you truly are his friend.

Patrick read the letter a second time, crumpled it in his hand. Despite the differences between their two cultures, Khalif and Patrick were closer than most brothers, and he could not ignore such a summons, even though it might well be a trick of some sort.

“Cochran!” he yelled, startling Charlotte so badly that she flinched.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the wrinkled page from his hand and smoothing it on the polished oak railing. “Oh, no,” she breathed, when she’d read the message.

The first mate appeared instantly, more excited than alarmed. “Yes, sir?” His tone was eager.

“Get me a ship!” Patrick ordered. “Round up all our own men and any others you can find. We’re going back to Riz!”

Cochran had the good grace to look puzzled. “Where will we get a ship, sir?” he reasoned.

Patrick snatched the letter out of Charlotte’s hand and
thrust it at Cochran. “Damn it, I don’t care if you have to shanghai a fishing scow—just do as I told you!” He turned his attention back to his wife now, and firmly linked her arm with his own. “You will go back to the Querida compound,” he told her, “and you will stay there until I come to get you.”

Charlotte blinked, then stubborn color rose in her cheeks. “I want to go with you!” she protested.

He ushered her toward the boarding ramp. “At the moment, Mrs. Trevarren,” he replied, “your preferences are the least of my concerns. This time, if you value your lovely hide,
you will obey me!”

She began to sputter, but Patrick propelled her over the ramp and then thrust her into the waiting carriage. When he slammed the door shut and barked an order at the driver, in impatient Spanish, Charlotte put her head out the window and called furiously, “I won’t forget this, Captain Trevarren!”

Patrick might have laughed if he hadn’t been so worried about Khalif. Ahmed, the sultan’s half brother, was ruthless, and his taste for power was no secret. There was every chance that Khalif was already dead, and his execution would have been a brutal one, not necessarily swift. Worse, the princes, Khalif’s young sons, all too young to leave their mothers, would be murdered too, just as the letter writer had said.

The crew of the
Enchantress
rallied within minutes, and listened in eager fury as Patrick related his plans.

They would not approach the palace by sea, because Ahmed and his band of thieving rebels would be expecting that, and any approaching ship would surely be sunk by cannon fire before shore could be gained. After they’d crossed to the island kingdom of Riz, and made port in the city of the same name, they would buy horses and other provisions in the marketplace and attack Ahmed from the desert side.

The outcome would, of course, be in the hands of God.

Reaching the guest suite in the Querida mansion, Charlotte flung her pink and white parasol across the room in a
fury. She was not given to tantrums as a general rule, but in this case she could not be gracious. Patrick was her husband, and her place was by his side, no matter where he might go.

Now he was off to Riz, imperious as some Greek hero, bent on rescuing his friend, and he planned to leave her right there in dull Costa del Cielo for the duration. As far as Charlotte was concerned, there was only one thing worse than being in mortal danger, and that was for
Patrick
to be in mortal danger without her! Suppose he got himself killed, and she never saw him again?

Charlotte bit down hard on her lower lip and paced faster. Patrick hadn’t listened when she’d practically begged him not to leave her in Khalif’s harem, and he had grown no more tractable since. There was absolutely no sense in trying to reason with her hardheaded mate, even if she did encounter him before he left on his crusade, which was unlikely.

Her thoughts took a wild turn. She’d read about a woman once who had dressed up in men’s clothes and gone off to fight in the American Civil War, just to be near her husband. Perhaps she could disguise herself, and stow away on whatever ship Patrick had managed to purloin for the journey…

“No,” she said aloud, with a sigh. No one would be fooled by such a gambit, for there was nothing boyish about Charlotte’s figure. Following her abduction from the
souk,
when she’d been delivered to Patrick with only a burlap sack to provide cover, she’d worn one of his shirts and a pair of his trousers. She’d simply looked like exactly what she was—a woman wearing a man’s clothes.

For all of that, Charlotte had no intention of giving up and staying meekly behind while Patrick sailed grandly into the sunset. She had friends in Khalif’s palace, too—Alev and Rashad. And there were Alev’s little sons to think about, and the other princes who stood between Ahmed and the throne of Riz.

Deliberately Charlotte calmed herself. She sat on the edge of the bed she’d shared so happily with Patrick and tried to think. Only a single idea came to her, though she racked her
brain, and it was a desperate one, hardly better than stowing away. Still, since it was the only plan she’d been able to come up with, Charlotte decided to follow through.

She waited until the household had settled down for siesta, then sneaked out, carrying a pouch of gold coins Patrick had given her one day, for incidentals. The sun was mercilessly hot as she walked down dusty, stone-paved streets toward the waterfront.

There were plenty of boats moored in the harbor; surely she would be able to hire someone to take her across the water to Riz.

Charlotte paused outside the first in a row of shoddy-looking taverns, working up her courage. She hadn’t thought to bring her parasol, and the skin on her nose was starting to tickle with the beginnings of a sunburn.

She was just about to climb three stone steps and enter the place when a barmaid came out and hurled a bucket of slops into the street, barely missing Charlotte’s pretty skirts. “You might look where you’re throwing things!” she protested.

To her amazement, the barmaid replied in English. “I might,” the dark-haired woman said pertly, “and then again, I might not.”

Charlotte placed her hands on her hips and stared at the woman resolutely, but her tone was moderate when she spoke again. After all, she was there seeking a favor. “I need passage to Riz,” she announced, “and I can pay. Is there anyone in this…establishment who can take me across?”

The servant turned, addressed the interior of the tavern in strident Spanish. Her words brought seedy-looking sailors of all sizes, shapes, and nationalities to leer at Charlotte from the filthy windows and crowd the doorway.

“You choosy about the sort of people you sail with?”

Charlotte swallowed. “Well, I wouldn’t want a criminal,” she replied.

The raggedly dressed woman shrugged. “Then there’s nobody here—or anywhere on the waterfront, probably—who can help you.” She started to close the door, though the grizzled faces remained at the windows.

“Wait!” Charlotte cried. She couldn’t bear the thought of staying in Spain, watching and waiting, full of fear that
Patrick might never return. “I’ll hire anyone who’s never raped or committed murder.”

The barmaid translated, and subsequently the crowd thinned. There were murmurs. One man stepped forward, however.

Charlotte retreated a step herself, and tried to smile. “Hello,” she said, as cheerfully as she could.

“Hello,” the sailor answered, smirking a little, and Charlotte recognized his accent as American. He was of medium height and indeterminate age, with a wiry build and short brown hair that bristled around his head like the quills of a porcupine. “What business do you have in Riz, miss?” he asked.

Charlotte was scared, but she was also eager to be on her way. After all, the sooner she set out, the sooner she would be able to catch up with Patrick. “It’s quite personal,” she said. “All you need to know is that I want to go there and that I can pay for my passage. What is your name, please?”

He looked surprised—evidently he had assumed he was the one in control of the situation. Charlotte would waste no time in disabusing him of that notion. “Mabrey. Jack Mabrey.”

“My name is Mrs. Patrick Trevarren,” Charlotte replied, with a cordial smile. She enjoyed watching the color drain from Mabrey’s pockmarked face. “You may call me Mrs. Trevarren, if you have cause to address me, though I imagine you’ll be too busy steering your ship to chat.”

The feral gleam had faded from Mabrey’s small eyes, and his throat worked visibly. “Why are you tryin’ to hire a boat, if you’ve got a rich sea captain for a husband?”