Capture The Wind (9 page)

Angela looked at him uncertainly. Her perception of him was undergoing a slight readjustment. Though Captain Saber certainly looked as if he could dismember her with a reasonable amount of skill and efficiency, there was none of the look of a rabid dog about him, as Emily’s pamphlets so faithfully reported. Still, the earlier scene of his impassivity while consigning Captain Turnower and his crew to the watery depths of the Atlantic remained fixed in her memory as a grim warning that Saber could not be trusted to behave as a gentleman.

She drew in another deep breath. “If you think Mr. Turk—”

“Turk. No Mr.”

“If Turk,” she continued, “could be of assistance to Emily, I would be most grateful.”

Captain Saber’s brow lifted. “Gratitude. How alarming. Next thing I know, you’ll be eating the meal I brought you without first checking for the dismembered portions of any previous captives.”

Angela flushed, though she could not stop a swift glance at the tray. Saber gave a bark of sardonic laughter.

“How absolutely predictable you are. I see that I’m going to have to contact the authors of those pamphlets that circulate London and insist upon some accuracy in reporting the details of my depredations. I assure you, the truth is diabolical enough without embellishment.”

Angela didn’t doubt that for a moment, but she refused to rise to his baiting comment this time. She
remained
silent while he studied her with a cool gaze. She took the opportunity to stare back at him, taking in his casual garb with an unsettling admiration. He did seem the very picture of a romantic rogue, with the flowing sleeves of his loose white shirt, and tight black breeches and knee-high boots. A scarlet sash circled his lean waist and held several weapons. She saw the butt of a pistol as well as the carved bone handle of a dagger, while a thin belt held a sword at his left side. He looked well armed and dangerous, an articulate corsair of startling good looks.

His brow lifted at her silent survey. “Do you approve of my haberdasher, madam?”

She couldn’t help smiling faintly. “I admit, your tailor does seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Ah, and you, of course, are addicted to all forms of drama, I note.”

“At times.” She cast a quick glance at Emily, still crouched over the washbowl in discomfort, then looked back at Captain Saber. “Do you suppose that Mist—that Turk would be so kind as to bring Emily something to ease her discomfort?”

“It has nothing to do with kindness, and everything to do with an extreme dislike of cleaning a soiled carpet.” Saber moved to the door again, then turned back to look at her. “Whatever is your name, by the way?”

She hesitated. The name
Lindell
was well known in some circles. It would not be unlikely to suppose that a man as obviously well read and diverse as Captain Saber would have heard of her wealthy father. Should she risk being held hostage, or was it preferable to an unknown fate?

Saber seemed to read her mind, for his lips twisted with wry humor. “Just your given name will suffice. Very few of us aboard the
Sea Tiger
even recall our true names, nor do we wish to be reminded of them.”

“I see. Well—Angela.”

His brow lifted, and his mouth curved into a smile so devastating that she caught her breath at his male beauty. His derisive comment quickly banished that appealing image.

“Angela—it means angelic one. How inappropriate. I should think Medusa much more suitable for you.”

Kit stood at the rail and stared at the night-dark sea. Faint lights from the ship bobbed erratically, casting glimmers on the choppy surface in gossamer shapes. He wondered once again just why he felt this peculiar attraction to Miss Angela Whomever. It went beyond physical interest, and that baffled him. Though he did, indeed, nurture a healthy physical response to her, there had been a nebulous tremor of something that went far deeper. Maybe it was a sort of admiration for her refusal to collapse into hysteria, as most women would have done, given the same circumstances. Her little maid had certainly seen no reason not to indulge in hysterics, which had, surprisingly, seemed to irritate her mistress rather than tempt her to the same.

It was intriguing. This Angela was the essence of all the women in his life that he despised, with her pretty manners and haughty demeanor. Didn’t he know well what happened when it came to women of her kind?

Oh yes, he’d learned early to avoid them, and stick to females of a less complicated nature, females eager to please with little expectation beyond a pretty bauble or two and some careless admiration. Yet there was something about this one that drew him and, at the same time, set to jangling every alarm bell in his defense system.

He had enough to do without being involved with a female hostage, he thought irritably, and turned sharply away from the rail. Boxy shadows clumped over the deck as the night watch answered the bosun’s bells. He leaned back against the rail again, regarding the smooth running of the ship as a thing of beauty to be appreciated. Orderliness was a virtue. He subscribed to it faithfully. His early years had been so chaotic, that his need for system and order had become a driving force in his life.

That, and his need for answers.

A brisk wind made the sails flap loudly and tugged at the ratlines as Kit curled his hands over the smooth, polished surface of the side rail. He had to find her. He had to
know.
Too much of his life had been spent searching, and now he was near—so near. He would not rest until he found the answers he sought, and he had no intention of being distracted. This time, he would succeed.

“What is that?”

Angela gazed suspiciously at the concoction in the huge quartermaster’s hands. Steam rose from the brew Turk had mixed in a bowl. He ignored her, and poured a liberal amount from the bowl into a cup.

“Drink this,” he ordered, holding the cup to Emily’s lips.

Emily drew in a deep breath of the aromatic steam, her eyes widening. “It smells like
 . . .
Mrs. Peach’s cookies.”

“I daresay.” Turk nudged the edge of the cup closer. “It is quite tasty, so you needn’t look at me as if I intend to poison you, child.”

Emily cast him a quick, frightened glance, then drummed up her courage and took a sip of the brew. For a moment, she waited, as if she expected to fall into writhing convulsions at any second, then she took another cautious sip.

“Good heavens, child,” Turk said, his rich voice rife with impatience. “Drink it all. It cannot cure you from the outside.”

“Ginger,” Angela said suddenly, and Turk looked in her direction. She indicated the mixture. “It smells just like ginger.”

“How astute of you. That is precisely what it is.” He turned his attention back to Emily, who took the cup and drained the remainder in a single gulp. Turk nodded his approval. “Marvelous.”

Angela scooted to the edge of the deep chair behind the captain’s desk and folded her hands primly in her lap. “What benefit does the ginger have?”

“It eases motion sickness, which is what your companion suffers from at present.”

Intrigued, Angela said, “I suppose sailors must have all sorts of remedies available of that nature, given that you are always at sea.”

“Not necessarily.” Turk poured another small amount into a cup for Emily and gave it to her, then stood, his full height intimidating in the cabin. “I know of few men at sea who become seasick. Though there are, I suppose, a fair number who might begin their career with that affliction. As we do not generally invite passengers aboard, I have never had to use ginger for this particular ailment.”

“No?” Angela glanced at him. His dark face gleamed with a polished luster in the light of the lantern. Some of her distrust of the quartermaster dissolved. Despite the ferocity of his appearance, he spoke like a cultured gentleman. She looked away from his piercing gaze and decided to stay with a safe topic of conversation. “Have you made a study of herbs?”

“Among other things. Eight years ago, I discovered quite by accident that certain foods produced adverse effects. And other foods, if ingested daily, could cure certain maladies.”

“And you’ve investigated this further?”

Turk smiled slightly. “Yes. A member of my family had grown quite ill, and I chanced upon a book,
Macrobiotics, or The Art to Prolong One’s Life,
by a man named Hufeland. His studies concluded what I had already learned through studying the Chinese philosophies. It’s quite fascinating.”

Angela smiled. “And Hufeland’s book taught you to use ginger to cure Emily’s seasickness.”

“Indirectly. Though Chinese practitioners discovered its use as a healing spice over two thousand years ago, it is a versatile little root. Tibetans use it to help convalescents recuperate from illness, and in Japan, a ginger-oil massage is considered quite beneficial in alleviating spinal and joint problems. It is even,” he continued as he replaced Emily’s empty cup on the tray he’d brought, “useful for the treatment of mild burns. Said to bring almost instantaneous relief.”

“Must Emily drink it often?”

“As often as the symptoms occur, I should think.” Turk stood with his massive legs braced apart. Angela studied him with open candor as he fussed with the tray and pots.

Clad in a loose white shirt and trousers and a pair of leather sandals, he should have looked unrefined. The opposite was true, however. Perhaps it was his instinctive dignity, or his regal bearing. He was completely bald, and wore a huge gold hoop in his left earlobe. Small bluish lines were tattooed on each of his cheeks. His nose was large and flat, and his mouth was well chiseled and of surprising delicacy for the rest of his features. It would have been easy to envision him clad in the raiment of a king of his native country.

“Captain Saber said that you were not Moorish,” she remarked.

Turk smiled. “As customary, he speaks the truth.”

Ignoring Emily’s appalled gaze at her temerity, Angela pressed, “But if you are not Moorish, what is your nationality?”

“Are you truly interested, madam, or just satisfying a rather morbid curiosity?”

Turk was looking at her now, his dark eyes somber and riveting. She quelled the impulse to mumble that it didn’t matter, and steadied her voice.

“I am truly interested. I have never seen a blackamoor this closely.”

“Ah. You are mistaken. I am not, as I have noted, a Moor. Therefore, blackamoor is blatantly erroneous terminology.”

Angela gazed at him for a moment. A faint smile of admiration curved her mouth. “Marvelous. Do you speak so fluently in your native country?”

“In my own language, which is much more lyrical and flowing than English.”

“What is your language and your country?”

“I was born in the Sudan, into the Monyjang, which is also referred to as the Dinka tribe.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “Men in my tribe were also called ‘ghostly giants’ by some Europeans, referring, of course, to our height and predilection for coating our bodies with ash. Quite an effective sight, I assure you.”

“The Sudan is in Africa, is that correct?” Angela asked, and Turk nodded.

“It is, indeed. Just below Egypt. An ancient and beautiful land, inhabited by man and beast since time first began.” Turk paused, then added softly, “Though not always equitably, I’m afraid. Man is by far the most dangerous predator in any land, I’ve discovered.”

Emily made a faint sound, and Angela looked at her. The color was coming back to her cheeks, though she still looked a bit wobbly.

“I think I want to lie down,” Emily said faintly, and Angela went to her immediately.

“Where can she lie down, sir?”

Turk moved forward, and swept Emily into his huge arms. She made another soft sound that closely resembled the frightened squeak of a rabbit as he carried her across the cabin to a recess. Angela saw it was a bed of sorts, built into the wall and set on gimbaled casters to stay level against the sway of the ship.

“This would be best for her,” Turk said smoothly, and placed Emily onto the embroidered cotton quilt. She sank into the mattress with a sigh of contentment, fear temporarily replaced by the delight of a thick feather mattress beneath her.

“O-oh, it’s so comfortable,” Emily murmured, and rested her dark head into the billowing softness of a pillow.

Angela followed Turk back to the table, watching while he retrieved the tray and the remains of their light repast. Dried fruit and pieces of hard, flat biscuit had been enough to take the edge off her appetite, though Emily had not been able to eat much. The wooden tray rattled with a faint clink of fine china cups as Turk lifted it and looked down at her.

“We shall recommence our discourse at another, more convenient time, miss. Now, it would be best if you were to seek a respite from the day’s vigorous activities. If you are truly interested, I shall tell you of the beauties of my native land another time.”

“I would be quite interested in hearing of your home,” Angela said, suddenly realizing how tired she was. A wave of weariness made her sway. She barely managed a smile when he asked if she would care for some chamomile tea to help her sleep.