My Runaway Heart (30 page)

"
Cooky
, do you think
there's a chance we might find a place that has women's clothes? I don't have
any money—"

"But I do, plenty to go around. And
Cap'n
said to buy you something pretty first thing."

Startled, Lindsay hurried to keep up with him, his pace
quite sprightly for an aging sailor. "Jared said . . . truly?"

"Do you think I would have dared to bring you
ashore if he didn't know about it? He'd have my hide and then some, miss! I may
be old, but I'm not blind. He's never looked at any woman as he does you."

Flushing to her toes, Lindsay could do nothing but
catch up again,
Cooky
frowning and shaking his head
as if he'd said too much, while she felt like she'd just been given the
greatest gift in the world.

***

It was past sunset by the time they returned to the
wharf, a brilliant moon full and heavy above the water, making Lindsay smile.
She loved full moons.

And she loved her new gown, a simple creation of pale
lemon-yellow muslin with a matching satin ribbon tied beneath her breasts. The
kindly dressmaker, who'd reminded her of Mrs. Tully, except that she spoke
little English, had brought forth slippers to match, and a delicate white satin
chemise and drawers—and then had not allowed Lindsay to don a bit of the
feminine finery until she had enjoyed a warm bath in the back room, prepared by
the motherly woman herself.

Lindsay had sensed the dressmaker was appalled by her
appearance the moment she'd entered the small shop;
Cooky
and the others had been shooed back into the street at once, where they had
waited for over an hour. But their awestruck expressions upon Lindsay's
emergence from the shop had pleased her more than she could say, and she was
hardly able to contain her impatience for Jared to see her, too.

If he had left Cowan's cabin, she thought hopefully.
She felt a bit guilty that she carried nothing back to the galley except a
package neatly tied with string that held her borrowed clothes, while
Cooky
and the others were laden with sacks and bags
bursting with fresh stores. But
Cooky
wouldn't hear
of it, not wanting her to muss her gown.

Some of the men had already made a few trips from the
market to the galley, which Lindsay feared might now be so full that she'd have
to wait for it to be emptied at the ship first before it could come back to
fetch her and whoever else was left behind. Her impatience mounting, she was
surprised to see another galley from the Vengeance moored next to the one that
was indeed loaded to the gills, several sailors she recognized coming forward
to help them with their burdens.

"What's this?"
Cooky
asked, relinquishing a sack of potatoes to one of the men. "
Cap'n
sent you?"

"We're waiting for him. He went into that tavern
there," the sailor explained. Lindsay followed his nod toward a two-story
building right off the wharf. "About a half hour ago. Said he wouldn't be
long."

So he had left Cowan's cabin at last! Wild elation
filling her, she glanced back at
Cooky
, who had a
speculative frown between his eyes. "I'll wait here for him if I might—the
galley's too full anyway. Actually, the tavern's so close, I could even meet
him there—"

She tossed her package into the nearest boat and set
off along the wharf before anyone could say a word, and she didn't see
Cooky
grab the arm of one of the men who made to go after
her. Her mind consumed with thoughts of Jared, she imagined he might not be
pleased that she had followed him, but she so wanted to see him . . . for him
to see her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that
Cooky
and the others were intently watching her progress, which made her feel safe
and certain that if anyone might trouble her, help would be soon to follow.

Her heart was beating furiously by the time she reached
the tavern, several men looking up from their mugs to eye her with surprise as
she rushed inside. So, too, did the portly gentleman who she imagined was the
proprietor from the apron around his vast middle. Lindsay hurried over to him
when she didn't spy Jared among the few patrons.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for a tall gentleman,
an
American—
oh, dear, do you speak English?"

"
Sí
,
señorita
,
a little," the fellow said to her relief, still appearing as astonished by
her presence in his establishment as she was anxious to find Jared. "Upstairs,
second room, but—but,
señorita
,
wait!"

Lindsay paid him no heed, hiking her gown and dashing
up the creaky steps two at a time. But she took a brief moment to compose
herself outside the second door, although she could do nothing to slow her
heart or cool the warmth in her cheeks. She lifted her hand to knock.

"
Señorita
, no, no! Wait!"

Glancing at the proprietor huffing up the stairs, Lindsay
didn't tarry any longer but threw open the door. "Jared—"

She stopped, her eyes widening as Jared hauled
himself
in astonishment from a huge wooden tub, water
splashing everywhere.

"Damnation, woman! What the devil?"

She stared; he stared; the proprietor stared, the
red-faced fellow rolling his eyes heavenward and clasping his hands together in
fervent apology as Jared grabbed a towel and threw it around his lean waist.

"I-
I
 
tried
to stop her,
señor
, but—but—"

"It's all right, man. I'll take care of it."

The proprietor appearing only too eager to return to
his patrons downstairs, he mopped his face with a handkerchief and left.
Lindsay almost felt like following him and she might have if her feet weren't
rooted to the floor. Her embarrassment at having burst in upon Jared during his
bath was nothing compared with the shock that overwhelmed her. Her stomach
still lurched because of the ugly ridged scars she had glimpsed on Jared's
powerful back and shoulders—a sickening diamond pattern she had seen only once
before.

One of Captain Oliver
Trelawny's
crew had served in the British navy, and had been flogged to within an inch of
his life when he'd been accused of stealing from another sailor. Within an inch
of his life . . .

Jarred by the memory of
Cooky
saying those very words that afternoon, Lindsay licked her dry lips, something
telling her by the way Jared was looking at her that he knew exactly what she
was thinking. He cursed and turned away from her, not even trying to hide what
drew her eyes again with sickening force as he reached for a glass of brandy
set near the tub and drained it.

"Why aren't you
back
on
the ship?"

His tone so harsh she faltered and said
nothing,
in the next instant she regained a measure of
composure as he threw her a dark glance.

"
Dammit
, Lindsay, why
aren't you
back
on the ship?"

"I-I would have been, but your men said you'd come
to this tavern, and I so wanted to see you—to show you . . ." Flushing,
she glanced down at her gown, spotted now from tiny droplets of water. "
Cooky
told me you'd wanted him to buy me something pretty.
I chose this." She lifted her eyes to his. "Thank you, Jared."

He didn't reply, but his gaze slowly raked her; then,
with another low curse, he poured himself more brandy. "Very well, I've
seen you, now go. Have my men take you back to the ship and tell them to return
for me—"

"No."

He went as still as stone, the glass freezing halfway
to his lips. Lindsay had never felt her heart beat so wildly, felt
herself
tremble so fiercely, but somehow she lifted her chin
and met his deepening scowl, scattered pieces suddenly falling together with
horrifying precision in her mind.

Dear God, could it be possible? That Jared, like that
sailor, might have served . . .

"I'm not going to ask you again, Lindsay. I said
go—"

"No, Jared, I'm not leaving. Not until you tell me
how you got those terrible scars . . . and about the
Trident
and—and— Oh!"

Chapter 27

Jared had stridden forward and grabbed her arm,
spinning her into the room so roughly and slamming the door behind her that she
could only gape at him, her jaw dropped in astonishment.

"Who told you about the
Trident
? Walker?"

"No, no,
Cooky
mentioned
the ship a few times, is all. How there was no justice that she'd been the one
to attack us—"

"That damn old fool."

Jared released her and strode back toward the tub just
as abruptly as he had come upon her, leaving Lindsay to massage the white
imprints he'd left on her arm. As he took a long draught of brandy, she tried
not to let her eyes stray over his magnificent body, but it was impossible, her
cheeks growing hot as flame. She tried not to think, too, of that arresting
part of him which she'd glimpsed for only an instant— Oh, Lord.

"I-I'm glad to see that you decided to leave Cowan's
cabin, Jared."

He gave a short laugh, but it held no humor, the sound
laced with bitterness.

"I stank. Decided I needed a bath." His eyes
met hers, the blue so deep and dark in the lamplight that Lindsay slowly sucked
in her breath. "But I didn't expect to see you."

"Truly?"

Her query soft as a whisper, Lindsay was almost as
stunned that she had asked such a thing as Jared appeared to be, though a
strange intensity now burned in his eyes. She sensed the shift as surely as he
had touched her, a shiver coursing down her spine. If he hadn't expected her .
. . perhaps at least he had hoped she might find him— Oh, Lord.

"We have a bargain to make, you and I."

His voice was so husky and low that Lindsay felt her
breath stop; somehow she nodded.

"I will tell you what you want to know and then
you will leave. Are we agreed?"

Again she nodded, his jaw suddenly so tight that she
felt his tension in her own body, her eyes unable to leave him as he drained
the last of his brandy. She jumped when he set the empty glass on the table
with a dull
thunk
, the sound strangely deafening to
her. She swore she could hear the fierce beating of Jared's heart.

"I won these scars aboard the
Trident
. Most of them. The rest came from prison."

"Prison?"

"In the West Indies. Four years of forced
servitude on a British man-of-war and three years spent in a rat-infested hole
no bigger than Cowan's cabin. With two other men for company. Walker and Dag."

Lindsay was so stunned that she didn't know what to
say, while Jared's voice grew only
more bitter
.

"I was seventeen, Elise only fifteen, when we
returned to England from Calcutta to live with my uncle, Alistair Giles. But I
was there only a few weeks when I was attacked on my way home from Seaford one
night, two hired thugs telling me how lucky I was not to be murdered as they'd
been paid to do, but that they intended to sell me to a press-gang looking for
recruits for the
Trident
."

"But who hired those men?" Lindsay blurted
out, horrified.

"Sylvia Potter, my uncle's mistress, because she
wanted me out of the way. Out of the way so her son, Ryland, would have no
impediments to one day marrying my sister. They had planned for me to die in
Calcutta with my parents, poisoned by one of our family's most trusted
servants—"

"Oh, Jared, no!"

"Something I learned from Elise just before she
died. They had boasted as much to her after the marriage, all the while making
her life a hell on earth—even told her the truth of what had happened to me, at
least as far as they knew it. They said I'd been murdered, making Elise believe
she was alone for all those years, with no one to help her . . ."

Lindsay's heart flew out to Jared as his voice caught,
but he wasn't looking at her any longer. He stared at nothing, his eyes
haunted, his face etched with such anguish she felt she could envision his
terrible memories as if they were her own.

"So you see, I didn't abandon Elise and my uncle
as everyone believed. That note I supposedly left behind about returning to
India was forged by Ryland, the bastard. He destroyed it after the wedding, not
needing it anymore because he had gained his vicious end. But more damage had
been done, everyone believing the worst of me—the ton, your aunt, everyone. And
I did nothing to change their minds when I finally came back to England three
years ago. By then I'd had my own purpose in mind."

His words grown so icy cold, Lindsay felt as if she
were staring into the farthest reaches of Jared's soul. And what she saw was so
desolate, so full of despair . . .

"I fitted out a ship and manned it with those who'd
suffered the same fate as I, men who'd been treated no better than prisoners
aboard the
Trident
—Walker, Dag and
the others—all of them taken against their will from their native ships and
impressed into service in the British navy. If not for
Cooky
,
I would have died that first
week,
I'd been beaten so
mercilessly. No one believed my uncle was the Earl of
Dovercourt
—that
foul play had brought me to that bloody warship. I never uttered a word about
it again."

"So for four years. . ." Lindsay fell silent
as Jared met her eyes, his expression as hard as stone.

"We finally managed to escape, almost fifty of us,
when we set fires on several lower decks. We lowered galleys,
then
made it to an island, only to be recaptured and thrown
into prison, since the Trident had already headed back to sea. And there we sat
for three years, left to rot—and some did. There were only forty of us when we
mutinied inside the prison, and nearly less when Dag was shot. He saw the guard
about to fire and stepped in front of me—
oh,
God!
"