More Than You Know (5 page)

Rand removed himself from the window seat and took up a casual perch against the back of the sofa. He folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs at the ankle. “I think I'd better hear the whole of it from you,” he said. “The duke's explanation, I'm finding, was not entirely factual."

Claire turned her head toward him. Her hands settled quietly in her lap again and she realized that taking a breath was easier now that the captain had placed some distance between them. “I believe his facts were in order but that he left some things unsaid,” she told him. “That would have been at my insistence, so I hope you won't think less of his grace."

"After today I hope to never think of him again,” Rand said. “And I don't suppose for a moment that he cares a whit for my good opinion."

Claire's folded hands tightened almost imperceptibly. The bones of her knuckles stood out whitely against the background of her dress. In every other way she ignored Rand's terse comments. “Strickland has had an interest in the Hamilton-Waterstone legend for as long as I can remember. I learned of it at his knee. He has a collection of artifacts at Abberly Hall from all over the world. Necklaces and armbands from Egypt. Mandarin ceremonial swords. Indian sculptures. Manuscripts. Tapestries. There are few pieces that are not encrusted with gems. Lapis lazuli. Rubies. Diamonds. Stickle is particularly fond of sapphires, no matter their color. He has arguably a finer representation of the variety of sapphires than the queen has in the Crown Jewels."

"Your godfather mentioned museums,” Rand drawled. “I didn't realize he was talking about his own."

"This is not public knowledge, and it's not meant to be. I'm telling you now so that you know the duke's interest in your exploration is genuine. He's been following your progress for years."

"Why am I only learning of it now?"

Claire simply stared in his direction, allowing him to work out what he could for himself.

"You?” he asked. “The duke's revealing his interest because of you?"

Claire was surprised and not a little disappointed that he had attached his thinking to the simplest explanation. He was proving Stickle right. Rand Hamilton deserved to know no more than he was capable of considering. “Yes. Because of me. Dr. Messier has hypothesized that if I return to Solonesia I may be able to recreate the events that led to my blindness. In confronting my fear—if indeed that's what it is—then I may be able to regain my sight."

"There is some precedence for this, I take it."

"Dr. Messier cited three cases of unexplained, spontaneous reversal of blindness."

"Did any of them mention Jesus Christ?"

Claire almost came to her feet again. At the last moment she recalled the promise she had made to herself not to take the bait he dangled. “I believe the doctor looked for examples outside of the New Testament,” she said coolly.

"This documentation,” he continued to probe, “has it all been in the last fifty years?"

"In the last five hundred years."

Now Rand invoked the Lord's name again, this time by cursing softly under his breath. “Three examples in five hundred years,” he said incredulously.
"This
is your best hope?"

"It's my
only
hope."

Rand fell silent for a time. “Tell me more about your father and brother."

"My father left Oxford in ‘68 to return to the South Pacific. He received a grant from the duke to research the flora around Tahiti and farther north to the Sun Islands. His earlier work in Polynesia, around the Cook Islands, had led him to some promising medicines for hemophilia. The queen, naturally, has been interested."

Rand understood Queen Victoria's interest. Her children all suffered with the disease that kept the blood from clotting and made even a bruise potentially life-threatening. “That's why he received his knighthood,” Rand said slowly, thinking back. “He wasn't Sir Griffin when I first encountered him at Oxford."

"The honor was conferred on him in ‘63. Her majesty was very grateful."

"Grateful to the duke as well, I'd imagine.” When Claire frowned, he added, “For his financial support of the research."

"Oh, yes. He's a favorite with her.” At the nape of her neck, just below the place where her hair was swept up into its smooth coil, Claire felt a band of heat touch her. She bent her head forward a fraction, exposing more of her skin to this hint of the sun's warmth. She could not know it, but the man watching her found the gesture sensual and vaguely erotic. “The sun's come out,” she said. The lift of the corners of her mouth was so slight that it could not properly be called a smile, yet Rand thought she was fairly thrumming with pleasure.

"Yes, it has,” he said.

Claire lifted her face and the band of sunlight slipped to her collar. She continued as if there had been no sybaritic pleasures to distract her. “I accompanied my father on both his voyages to Polynesia. I was very young yet when he was exploring Tahiti and the Cook Islands, but I have many vivid memories of that time. I had no hesitation about going back with him.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I have no hesitation now."

"No,” Rand said without inflection. “Apparently the hesitation is all on my part."

"Make no mistake, Captain Hamilton, if it isn't you, it will be someone. I've already explained why it should be you. My father is not of the revered stature of Dr. Livingston, and Solonesia is not the Dark Continent, but if you should be the one to find him alive, you can be certain fame and a considerable fortune would follow."

"Like Stanley? Rather a difficult task, I should think, since you've already made it clear that Sir Griffin is probably dead. I don't suppose I can expect fame or fortune for locating your bastard brother."

Claire sucked in her breath. “You have no—"

"No right? Perhaps not, but that doesn't make me wrong. You said his name was Tipu. That suggests to me that he has an islander mother. If he was on Solonesia when you left, then he was probably born there, and I make his age to be no more than a few months past six. I don't suppose he has Stickle for his godfather."

This time Claire did stand. Anger made it difficult to think clearly and that disoriented her. She had learned it was possible to be blind and still be blinded by rage.

"I've remained at a six o'clock position,” Rand said easily. “The door is at nine. Your reticule is on the sofa. Do you want it?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have to come here to get it, won't you?"

Claire's lips changed their shape around the word
bastard.
She took a step forward and was brought up short by Rand's light laughter.

"Careful, Miss Bancroft. That word is apparently the one that got me into trouble with you. What would be served by both of us being in a snit?"

Claire walked forward again, less confidently this time, afraid that Rand would place himself squarely in her path. She felt the edge of the sofa, sensed his nearness, and moved around. She forgot about the side table and bumped it hard with her leg. She bit her lip rather than cry out, and when she tasted blood on the inside of her mouth she had the satisfaction of knowing that at least she'd kept it from him.

Her bag was on the cushion exactly where she'd left it. Claire held it in both hands and walked toward the door at the nine o'clock position.

"I'm going to touch you."

His voice was very near her ear. She'd had no sense of how he came to be so close. She hadn't heard him move from his place at the back of the couch. Claire stopped so suddenly that inside her chest it was as if her heart was still moving forward. There was a hard, sustained beat, then a slow return to normal rhythm.

Rand slipped his hand around her upper arm. “Are you really going because I've offended you?” he asked. “Or is it something else?"

Claire raised her face. “I don't know what you mean."

He couldn't tell if that was the case or not. Yesterday he had been hard pressed to notice her; this morning he couldn't seem to help himself. There was an
awareness
here that he did not think he was mistaking. Certainly he felt it. Rand was only willing to lay so much of the blame on last night's rum and the lingering effects of Jeri-Ellen's stale perfume.

Rand changed the subject. “Where would you go on board
Cerberus?
If you walk away at every slight, then you'll be in the water before we make Charleston."

"I imagine I'd go to my cabin, Captain,” she said levelly. “Not walk the plank."

Rand eased his grip slightly. “Will you have a seat, Miss Bancroft?” He felt her agreement in the relaxation of her body. If not a complete surrender, it was at least some measure of progress. Rand helped her find the sofa again. She sat but did not let go of her reticule this time.

"I wasn't wrong about your brother, was I?” he asked.

Claire shook her head. “No, not wrong. But you made Tipu sound as if he were of no account. He's my brother and I care very much what's happened to him."

"Perhaps more than your father?"

She didn't answer immediately and when she did, she didn't deny it. “Differently than my father."

Rand waited, prepared for her to say more, certain she was on the verge of it. He watched her hold it in, almost as if she was absorbing the silence to withdraw into herself. She was paler than she had been a moment before, drained by the effort to contain what she felt.

"Solonesia is a chain of more than twenty islands and atolls,” Rand said. “How will you know if we come upon the right one?"

"Eight are inhabited. When I left, my father was working on one that was not. The one the natives call Pulotu, the spirit land."

Rand shook his head, wondering at Sir Griffin's folly in choosing to set foot on what was no doubt sacred ground. “Then it's guarded by tikis."

"Seven tiki women. I call them the sisters."

Rand felt his heart lurch. “Seven sisters,” he said quietly, as if he did not fairly resonate with the deep chord she struck. “That's
your
name for them?"

"Yes,” she said. “Like in the Mother Goose rhyme. It seemed an obvious name for seven goddesses. I'm certain I didn't hear it anywhere else. The natives of Solonesia don't willingly talk about the guardians or set foot on Pulotu. There is a very powerful tapu there."

"Sacred spell."

"Yes."

"But your father risked going there anyway."

"He didn't believe in the tapu. He said the tikis were there to warn navigators away from the shoals."

Rand was coming to the conclusion that Sir Griffin was a talented botanist but a poor historian and sailor. The sandbars that created the shallows around some of the islands would have posed no problem for the outrigger canoes used by the Polynesians. They would not have placed the sacred stone images to warn fellow explorers about the shallows.

He did not mention this to Claire. Instead he asked, with a trace of humor, “Shoals? I have to also worry about grounding my ship? Is there anything else that should concern me and my crew? An abnormally large population of sharks, for example. Or wild boars once we're ashore?"

Claire's voice contained hope she had not thought she could realize. “Do your questions mean that you'll take me? Am I to return to Solonesia with you?"

"I believe we can come to terms."

For the second time in two days Rand was a guest at the Duke of Strickland's London house. This occasion was dinner. The invitation to join Strickland and Claire had arrived that afternoon, not long after Claire would have returned home and informed her godfather of Rand's capitulation. To Rand's way of thinking, she hadn't let a moment pass between telling Strickland and arranging Rand's own presence at the house. Clearly she wanted to come to terms quickly.

He wondered if they believed he would change his mind.

Rand was seated to the right of his host at the dining table. Claire, he immediately noticed, had made a point of dressing for dinner and sat across from him. As each course was served, Claire unobtrusively ran her index finger along the rim of the plate, feeling for the placement of the meat, or fish, or vegetable. The only real concession that Rand could observe Claire making was in her contribution to the conversation. With her concentration fully engaged in managing the cold soup, the steamed trout, and the lemon sorbet, she was able to offer little.

Or perhaps it was simply that Strickland gave so few opportunities for her to slip in a word. The duke, Rand realized, might be willing to indulge his goddaughter by supporting the voyage, but he had a list of conditions of his own. All of them apparently leading up to the one he proposed over the port.

"I want someone to attend Claire,” Strickland said, leaning back in his chair. He swirled his glass, considering the port's deep color and bouquet. He glanced at his goddaughter. “I really wish you would leave us now, dear. You cannot enjoy this."

Claire smiled with genuine amusement. “And miss you haggling over what concerns me the most?” she asked. “I think I'll stay just where I am, thank you. Please don't let my presence keep you from enjoying one of your cigars.” To prove that she meant it, Claire rose from the table and went to the sideboard. It only took her a moment to find the duke's intricately carved cigar box. She carried it back, nudged open the lid, and held it out for Strickland's choosing. The duke took one and Claire came around the table to make the same offer to Rand.

"Captain? His grace informs me these are the finest cigars in London."

"That may be, but I don't smoke.” He turned back to the duke as Claire withdrew the box. “Miss Bancroft seems eminently capable of attending to her needs as well as everyone else's,” he said. “I'm not prepared to take another passenger."

The duke chuckled. “You're referring to Claire's little display of independence. I beg you not to be misled. Before you commit yourself to any position, you should know that she practiced just that action for a large part of the afternoon."

Rand saw Claire fumble with the box as her godfather gave her away. She placed it on the sideboard with enough force to make Rand wince; then she turned on both of them.

"I practice everything,” Claire said without apology. “I've had to learn how to walk again and how to feed myself. You would have me remain helpless, your grace, dependent on your staff for my most basic needs. I told you at the outset that I would not have it so. I am not so independent as I would like, but I have no need for someone to be my crumb catcher."

Claire pushed away from the sideboard and took up her chair at the table. “I won't have my place on board
Cerberus
jeopardized by your conditions, your grace. I told you Captain Hamilton would have terms of his own. I've yet to hear them."

Rand did not believe there was anyone in all of the British Empire who could speak to the Duke of Strickland as Claire just had. He made allowances for her that he would grant no one else and Rand suspected this was not a recent turn of events. Rand hoped she did not expect the same license from him. On board
Cerberus
his word was the last word and there was rarely a time when he entertained discussion.

Rand set his glass on the table. Candlelight flickered across his hand. “I think I should tell you, Miss Bancroft, that my first term is that you never speak to me the way you just did to your godfather. To do so privately will get you confined to your quarters. In front of others will get you keelhauled."

Claire's cheeks pinkened as Rand began speaking. When he was finished, they were ablaze with high color. Still she spoke evenly, one dark brow lifted in cool inquiry, “Do they still do that? Keelhaul, I mean."

"I
do."

Claire was quiet a moment. “Is his grace smiling?” she asked finally.

Rand glanced at the duke, then back at Claire. “Yes, he appears to be amused."

Her mouth flattened disapprovingly. “Traitor,” she whispered.

Still smiling indulgently, the duke shrugged and held up his cigar. One of the dining room's attendants peeled himself away from the wainscoting and came forward to strike a match. Strickland drew deeply on the cigar and released a puff of smoke that immediately sought out the room's four corners with its heady aroma. “Well, Captain?” he asked. “Do you still disagree that she needs a companion?"

What Rand thought Claire Bancroft needed was a keeper. He imagined that saying so would only raise her hackles. “I didn't say that I disagreed with your suggestion, merely that I was unprepared to grant it. Did you already have someone in mind to accompany her? What accommodations would be required?
Cerberus
has limited space."

"Soon after Claire arrived in London I hired Mrs. Webster from the Academy for the Blind to privately tutor her. She is a widow and was able to accompany us when we met with physicians on the Continent. Claire's complete recovery has always been foremost in my mind. I admit, however, to having some reservations about her ability to see again and it was with this in mind that I retained Mrs. Webster's services.” Strickland looked over at Claire, taking in her stoic expression. “Are you certain you won't leave us, my dear? This can't help but be painful for you."

"This is nothing you and I haven't discussed before,” she said. “I know what you think of the chances to reverse my condition. I told Captain Hamilton this morning that you didn't hold out much hope. I can bear to hear you say it again."

Rand realized she had spoken to relieve the duke of just that onerous task. Claire may have been at odds with her godfather's wishes, but she was sensitive to the awkwardness of his position: wanting only that she should see, while acknowledging that his prayers, his power, and his great wealth might be insufficient to make it so.

"Then it's Mrs. Webster that you'll want to join us?” Rand asked.

Strickland shook his head. “I do not believe she would be willing to make such a journey even for what I would be prepared to pay her."

"Mrs. Webster has grandchildren she would not want to leave,” Claire explained. “The trips to Paris and Rome were exciting for her, but she always grew homesick after a few weeks."

"That's understandable. Who is your candidate, then?"

It was Strickland who answered. “I will be interviewing companions up until the time you're prepared to sail. Mrs. Webster will be certain to supply a list of qualified teachers from the Academy. I will be looking elsewhere as well. I think Mrs. Webster can be persuaded to assist me with the interviews. She will have certain expectations about Claire's new tutor. I will have others."

"And what about Miss Bancroft's participation?” asked Rand.

Claire sighed. “Limited, I'm afraid, to accepting whomever Stickle approves."

"I think you can appreciate, Captain,” Strickland said, “that Claire's presence at the interviews would not be helpful."

Rand was forced to agree. “The person would strictly be Miss Bancroft's companion. Is that correct?"

"She would be my teacher,” Claire interjected. “I can admit there is still a great deal for me to learn. What I cannot accept is that this person should feel bound to provide conversation and diversions. The former will only tire me and the latter will place me at wit's end."

Rand could not help himself. He offered dryly, “Perhaps she will permit you to twiddle your thumbs and talk to yourself."

"I assure you, I would prefer it. At least I would not be stupifyingly bored."

The duke cleared his throat and drew Rand's attention. “Mrs. Webster was a fine instructress, but her conversation was limited to her own health and her grandchildren. I believe her health remained forever fair to middling and her grandchildren were singularly unremarkable in their accomplishments."

"His grace is saying that he suffered her presence because I required her services. He put himself away from us at every opportunity."

"Now, dear,” Strickland began to protest, waving his cigar. “I don't really think—"

"I, on the other hand, had no choice but to have her living in my pockets."

The image she placed in Rand's head brought his smile to the surface. “That must have been powerfully motivating."

Claire actually welcomed the humor she could find in the situation now. Her lips quivered slightly. “Precisely. I learned more quickly than anyone—even Mrs. Webster—could credit. My lessons are now limited to a few hours each day."

She had every reason to be proud of her accomplishments, Rand thought. He imagined that upon longer acquaintance she would prove herself to be extraordinarily capable. It caused him to wonder whether there could actually be a long acquaintance. Claire Bancroft's physical appearance could not be described by anyone as robust. The only color he had observed in her cheeks was when she was embarrassed or angry, and those emotional states were hardly conducive to her recovery. He wondered how often she had been permitted out of doors for her lessons. The Widow Webster might have believed her pupil was not ready for walks in the park and public display. Miss Bancroft herself may have been against it.

Her hair, as dark as burnt sugar, was not without some depth and highlight as he had first thought. Coiled at the back of her head, it reflected the candlelight's orange tones and absorbed the golden ones. The same strands that had come free of their anchoring combs that morning had freed themselves again. Claire brushed at them absently, her mouth puckering as she softly blew away the last stubborn one.

The question could not be avoided. “What about Miss Bancroft's physical health?” he asked Strickland. “Have her doctors really confirmed she can make this voyage?"

"You may put that question to them yourself. The two who have seen her most frequently since her return to London are immediately available in the city."

Claire added, “I also had the benefit of a physician on board
HMS Mansfield.
My recuperation began there. I returned to London by way of Australia, India, and Africa. There was a great deal of time to become accustomed to my condition, if not accept it."

Strickland shook his head. “She makes it sound as if she was all of a piece when she arrived. That voyage was not without its own hardships, though efforts were made to accommodate her. Her physicians will tell you she has had relapses. They suspect some recurring island malady."

"Like malaria."

"Yes, like that. But not malaria. That's been ruled out. Her first bout with the disease was the worst, but her survival then has given her something with which to fight subsequent bouts. At least that's what I'm told. I don't understand it. I'm not a scientist or a physician."

"Actually, I'm not sure they understand it."

"My thought exactly,” Strickland said, gesturing with his cigar again. “Claire may be able to fight these odd attacks, but not at some cost."

Claire tapped her tea cup with the bowl of her spoon, drawing the duke's attention. “Leave off, your grace, before Captain Hamilton reconsiders. You are not supporting the position that I am fit to travel.” She turned to Rand. “You must talk to my physicians yourself. They will tell you that this voyage poses no more danger to me than remaining here in London. Dr. Phillips will tell you further that the sea air will be an improvement on these close city quarters."

"We could always return to Abberly Hall,” Strickland pointed out.

Claire rendered him silent with a sour look. “Well, Captain? Has his grace succeeded in raising more doubts?"

"Let's say he hasn't laid any to rest.” But Rand also knew he wouldn't deny her passage, and that he would do everything in his power to make certain she lived long enough to lead him to Pulotu and the seven sisters.

Rand addressed Strickland. “I've personally chosen every man who sails with me on
Cerberus.
Miss Bancroft and her companion can be no different. I've already agreed to your goddaughter. I want final approval of her teacher."

The duke's pale blue eyes widened a fraction over his wineglass. He sputtered momentarily, making vague noises of protest until he actually choked on his last swallow of port.

Watching him, Rand merely raised one eyebrow. Claire left her chair and found the duke's shoulder. She patted him lightly on the back until he recovered his breath and his wits.

"I take it you have some objection,” Rand said.

Strickland patted the hand Claire rested on his shoulder, indicating that he was sufficiently recovered. She did not return to her seat, but remained at his side. “I don't believe his grace considers you qualified to make a judgment on the matter."

Rand shrugged, unconcerned. “That may be, but I'm going to exercise my right to do it anyway. If I'm unsatisfied with her performance on the first leg of the voyage, I'll find someone new in Charleston and send her back to London at my own expense."