The Pirate Captain (53 page)

“By all means, my dear,” Lady Bart cooed, rising.

Against a backdrop of mutterings of “Airs,” “Thin blood,” and “Burned feather,”

Her Ladyship took Cate from Harte’s grasp.

“You need your rest. You’re positively frayed. Now you shall be seen back to your chamber, where you can lie down…” Lady Bart droned as she took Cate away.

###

In the shuttered light of the bedchamber, Cate lay on the bed.

The house had long fallen quiet, Lady Bart and her guests having retired through the afternoon heat. The small clock on the mantel chimed six; supper would be rung soon.

Upon returning to the bedchamber, Sally and the nameless chambermaid had stripped her of her clothing and deposited her in bed. Tucked up under a coverlet, wet cloths laced with lavender were applied to her forehead and chamomile tea poured down her throat, all in the spirit of aiding her recovery from the arduous ordeal at the hands of pirates. Once satisfied that she rested comfortably, they left her to her peace…at last!

There would be no sleeping, however. By now, Nathan would be pacing, assuming he had ever stopped since her departure.

The dizziness she suffered was troublesome. It was a wonder how one could feel so landlubberish on land. Reclined even now, she was obliged to keep one foot on the floor to assuage the sensation of being pitched out of bed. She could have been well on her way, else. Instead, there she lay, stripped to her shift, feeling more a hostage of Commodore Harte and Lady Bart than ever she had on a pirate ship.

At first, Cate had thought the dizzy spell to be a blessing: an opportunity to escape not only the parlor, but the house. Instead, the house had been brought to full attention. In retrospect, the dizziness has been so severe, escape under her own power would have been nigh impossible. All she need do was fall and break a limb, and she would be imprisoned forever.

Feeling as if she was being watched, Cate looked around the room into a number of faces staring back. Miniatures, figurines, and cherubs peered from wallpaper, fabric, and frames, scrutinizing her with everything from demanding to outright accusation. The portrait of an old man, no doubt some revered, ancient ancestor judging by the position the mantel, bore the most penetrating glare.

“This wasn’t my plan,” she huffed defensively. “All you need do is hang there. We, the still-living, have it a bit rougher.”

Adding to Cate’s annoyance was an increasing racket coming from outside. Muttering one of Nathan’s better oaths, she rose to investigate, feeling carefully for the floor her first few steps. As she pushed open the balcony doors and went out, she recognized the sound just before seeing the brilliant hyacinth-colored flash of a parrot in the trees.

“Beatrice?”

“It certainly is!”

The gravelly voice came from behind. Startled, Cate yelped as she spun around. “Nathan!”

He swung a final leg over the balcony rail and stood before her, puffing from the climb.

“What on earth are you doing here? Come in here before you’re seen,” she hissed.

“I played bloody hell trying to find you.” Nathan shook an admonishing finger at her as she pulled him inside.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

The thought of him looking for her was touching…but…

“Didn’t fancy I would find you, did you? Looked all over!” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he struck a triumphant pose. “Thought you could give me the slip—get away clean—but I found you.”

Cate fanned a hand, backing away. “What’s that smell?” Even as she asked, she knew: there was no mistaking cheap perfume.

“I had me virtue threatened,” he said.

“You couldn’t have been in much of a hurry, if you had time sufficient to stop at a whorehouse.”

“I was attacked. An innocent, I was!”

Cate pressed a cautionary finger to her lips. She lowered her voice, which obligated her to move closer to both him and the smell. “How did you ever find me?”

“My impeccable instincts—” Her dubious stare brought Nathan’s boast to an abrupt halt. “And Beatrice,” he conceded, crestfallen.

A myriad of questions popped to mind, none of which Cate desired to pursue. Capture for him meant an appointment with the gallows.

“You have to go, before you’re discovered,” she said.

“I came to help you escape,” he said, resisting her attempts to urge him back to the balcony.

“Escape? I don’t need to escape.”

“Aren’t you under arrest?”

“No,” she said, puzzled by such a far-flung assumption.

Nathan prepared a reply, but then noticed she wore only a shift. The soot-colored eyes flicked toward the tousled bed and eyes she had always known to be warm went cold. He stalked to the bed to snatch up the bedclothes and shake them at her.

“Ah, so it would appear the fly didn’t mind being caught by the spider after all. A roll at the tavern wasn’t enough, eh? Decided to give the sheets a wearing here, as well?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked in clipped precision.

Growling in disgust, Nathan pitched the sheets aside. “I know you went to his room. You’re a faster worker than I’d credited,” he said with grudging admiration.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Coy does not suit you, Missy. I had the inseparable duo follow you—”

“You had me followed!” Cate flinched at her own volume, and hissed lower, “How dare you. You didn’t trust me…”

Nathan stalked back, glaring. “I trusted you,
then
. I sent them to assure you were safe. I see now I was grossly misguided in me concerns.”

She flushed at his accusation. “We don’t have time for your childish arguments—”

“Childish!”

Cate waved away Nathan’s indignant sputtering. “So far, I know Creswicke’s fiancée is definitely en route. She should be here within the week, more or less, but she’s not to go to Bridgetown directly. She's to stop off somewhere, but I haven't been able to learn where.”

“Did Harte tell you all that during the first shining of the sheets or the second?” Nathan shot back with a cutting edge. He tilted his head to critically survey her. “Did your hair up for him, too, I see. Sweet-smelling soap; fancied up for him, too,” he added, leaning nearer to sniff. “Prettying yourself up, employed all your tricks; bloody fast work for less time than a watch.”

“What do you care?”

No longer of a mind to deal with this senseless sparring, Cate drew a deep breath, and said in measured calmness, “Supper will be rang directly. I hope to know more by the time it’s finished. Shall I try to make my way back, or would you prefer I just keep going?”

Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ll be in that garden,
tonight
.” He pointed toward the balcony, and then stabbed a finger at her. “
You
be there!”

A baring of teeth punctuated his demand. With a low grumble, he turned on his heel and headed for the balcony.

“How are you to get away?” Cate asked from close on his heels.

“That would be me own problem, wouldn't it?” Nathan snapped over his shoulder. Checking the grounds below, he threw a leg over the banister, pausing to glare once more. “
You
be there!”

And then he was gone.

Cate watched Nathan disappear into the woods at the garden’s edge with a sinking sensation. The look on his face had been quite damning. She was beginning to think this entire venture had been a bad idea. Worse yet, he acted as though it had all been her idea.

She had barely turned when the bell in the hall sounded, announcing it was time to dress for supper, Sally entering on cue. Behind her trailed a small legion of assistants, bearing a dress and all the necessities to render Cate presentable.

By most standards, the gown that was laid out on the bed was a simple one, but it was the noblest Cate had worn in a very long time: striped dimity, cream and azure, over a floral petticoat. She stood in the middle of the maids as they buzzed about like skirted bees, tugging, tying, and pinning, often with conflicting instructions: “Stand straight,” “Bend over,” “Put your foot here,” or “Don’t move.” A stomacher pinned, filet lace apron tied, a few plucks at her hair, a black ribbon at her throat, and she was declared ready.

Cate turned to the mirror and a complete stranger stared back. It only added to the sense of disorientation suffered since Harte had whisked her out of the tavern. She glanced over her shoulder toward the balcony and the long shadows of the garden beyond. Somewhere out there, Nathan was waiting. She wondered if he would approve of what he saw, or if the accusation and mistrust exhibited as he went over the rail would only deepen.

Any further thoughts were cut short by Sally’s urging her out the door.

Once again in the downstairs foyer, Cate stalled at hearing voices echo from the drawing room. Gathering her nerve, chanting, “Only be a little longer,” she made her entrance.

Supper at Lady Bart’s was apparently the social height of the region and her guests dressed accordingly. The sight brought Cate instant flashes of being at Court. Not near so grand, the opulence was shocking against anything she had experienced in nigh a decade. Nothing so trivial as a tropical evening had dampened the guests’ verve for style. Swirling hooped skirts, ruffles and flounces, flaring coattails and deep cuffs, it was a riot of vibrant colors of satin and silk, brocade, moiré, and taffeta. As they craned their necks to see who had entered, their rice-powdered faces looked like a covey of ghosts. Seeing it was only her, they returned to their conversation. Harte materialized at her side to seize her hand.

“I was so distressed that you might be too indisposed to join us,” he murmured fervently over her knuckles.

Cate felt a surge of compassion for Harte’s valet; the poor man must have been exhausted. The Commodore’s linens were fresh, his jacket brushed and uncreased, and the bow at the back of his head as crisp as ever a ribbon could hope.

Cate forced a smile, while attempting to graciously extricate her hand. Taking no notice of her intent, Harte tucked it into his elbow. She made her curtsey before Her Ladyship on his hand.

The furniture had been cleared in order to make room for the grandeur, and so the guests milled about in small clusters while waiting for the dining room doors to open. Even in her new finery, Cate felt like a brown wren among the peacocks. She shifted first on one foot then the other at Harte’s side. As uncomfortable as she found him on a personal level, she was grateful for his presence. For the first time in her life she felt protected by the Royal Navy. Erect and square-shouldered, in his navy and buff, bullioned epaulets and ornaments of commendations gleaming under the chandeliers, his resplendency deflected the stares.

The crystal cup thrust in Cate’s hand contained a punch of some sort, with rum. Ah, well. There seemed to be no way of avoiding it in the West Indies. It was both fruity and spicy, and most particularly, cool. It was delectable. Her tension drained with each sip, the twirling sensation she suffered earlier being replaced by a pleasant lightheadedness.

Her uneasiness abated somewhat. It wasn’t as though she was without social skills. Although she was rusty, it wasn’t difficult: a smile, a nod, murmur some inconsequential something on the rare occasion when addressed. The problem lay in the fact that such parlor skills were not her nature. Standing next to Roger, the cold disapproval from the women was easily managed. Jealousy was rarely a good color on anyone. While she observed the women, however, she looked up several times into an emerald haze of him watching her. She smiled faintly and buried her nose into her drink.

The way the men regarded her was another matter. Distracted by laughter at the far end of the room, she looked back into an expression of raw hunger on the part of young Fordshaw. The same came from Lord Something-or-Another, earlier in blue, now in peach moiré. Another mentally undressed her where she stood. Emboldened by her sullied status, their assumption was if she had played the whore to the pirates—Blackthorne specifically, his appetites well-known—she would now do the same for them. She longed for one of the fans the women brandished in grand style, so that she might send a few messages of her own, namely a good bash across the face, or somewhere lower and more efficacious.

Cate shifted closer, more grateful still for Harte’s presence.

It was the third—no fourth—glass of punch which brought Cate to see Roger in a much more pleasant light. He wasn’t without his charms. Once relaxed, he was witty and quite knowledgeable on many subjects. Clean-profiled, tall and regal, under different circumstances she may have found him attractive, in an aloof, thin-blooded sort of way.

She worked her fingers together, feeling the metal cool of her wedding ring. It was a constant reminder of a past life. After losing Brian, another man in her life was never a consideration. Nathan had been a complete surprise.

Nathan. She shied at recalling his look as he slid off the balcony: betrayal, heavily laced with the satisfaction of suspicions rewarded. He had expected the worst from her and, to his mind, she had fulfilled the prophecy. The warm flush of the punch dissolved under the chill of that reality.

She felt Roger looking attentively down at her. “Have no cares,” he said in quiet earnestness. “I’ll assure that you are at my side.”

It took Cate a moment to fathom what the devil he was about. Seating arrangements? Good Lord!

Supper was called, a matched pair of footmen opening the doors. Lady Bart took the head of the table, the Commodore opposite. His position of honor spoke loudly to Lady Bart’s regard. Cate was whisked into the seat to Harte’s right, much to the displeasure of those scrambling for that same spot. The lush-eyed Fordshaw, a heart-shaped
mouche
at the corner of his mouth—declaring himself both kissable and a lover—was to Cate’s side, Mrs. Big Wig across. As the toasts were given, her stomach rumbled.

The bounty at Lady Bart’s table, however, struck Cate almost ill. For the months, she had lived on ship’s fare, and before that on what could be begged or scrounged. Now she was faced with over a dozen dishes. More than once, she looked down to find the cold, startled looks of her food staring back: fish, doves, crabs, and a suckling pig from its silver-platter repose in the middle of the table.