Nobody's Saint (3 page)

“And honest?” she asked.

He felt his face flush again. “Mostly,” he replied. There was that time when he had misled a woman about the fate of her lover and his own role in that man’s fate. But his judgement had been clouded by love, and he had set it all to rights, in the end.

“And for momentary lapses, there is redemption,” Magdalene prompted, lifting a lock of his hair from his shoulder and twining it about her fingers.

“Y-yes. Redemption.” He closed his eyes and mentally began tying a series of complicated sailing knots, trying to deny his body’s powerful draw to this woman.

She stood back up. “Look again, Diego. Do you like what you see?”

Now, how was he to answer that? Only the most depraved man would lust after the vision of a saint. But did he say no? It would be a great offense. Worse still, it would be a lie. He had been evasive with the truth from time to time, but he could not lie to a saint.

Before he could decide how to respond, she laughed again, that husky, seductive sound. “I never give gifts that are easy to accept,” she said, a smile playing upon her tempting lips, “but they can be harder to refuse. The next time you see me, I will give you the one thing I have promised but have yet to deliver. When that day comes, remember all that I have told you this evening. Bear in mind that a desperate woman has few enough weapons with which to fight for her future. Now, wake up, Captain. Wake up!”

“Wake up, Captain, or your food will get cold!”

Diego opened his eyes. The ship’s cook had set a tray laden with paella and a decanter of wine on the table, and the room was filled with a delicious aroma. It was nearly dark, and Diego quickly got up and lit the lanterns, thanking the cook for the meal.

The one thing that Magdalena had promised that she had yet to deliver. He had to smile, despite the fact that he was still mortified by the nature of this vision and his own response to it. It had been three years ago, when Diego had given over the woman he loved to another, that Magdalena had consoled him with the promise of a soul mate. She had told him that he would know this woman the moment he saw her. It had been so long, he had almost allowed himself to forget.

He was ravenous now and ate heartily. When his plate was empty and he had poured the last goblet of wine from the decanter, he reflected back upon the time when Magdalena had first come to him. He had been recovering from a fever that had killed his captain and left him in command of the ship named for that very saint. Then
Magdalena
, the ship, had fallen into the hands of the notorious English privateer, Geoffrey Hampton. Little had Diego known at that time, his and Hampton’s lives would become even further entangled. His search for Hampton, in order to bring him to justice, had taken Diego to his uncle’s home in Jamaica. There, he had met and fallen in love with his beautiful English cousin-by-marriage, Faith Cooper.

He had seen Faith again, less than a year ago, when fate, and perhaps Magdalena, had placed him in the position of helping to rescue Faith’ s friend from being sold into prostitution. Of course, she was now Faith Hampton rather than Cooper. It had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, delivering Geoffrey Hampton from the executioner and reuniting him with Faith. But when Diego had made that sacrifice and chosen Faith’s happiness above his own, Magdalena had made him a promise—a woman meant for him alone.

Since then, he had poured most of his energy into sailing and saving his money so that he could one day buy
Magdalena
from his employer, a merchant in Cartagena. He had a few casual lovers, but he had not made much effort to seek anything more permanent.

Now, Diego grinned broadly. This voyage and another like it should fulfill the task. He would have the amount of money that Don Luis wanted for
Magdalena
, the ship, and then Magdalena, the saint, would deliver to him a love as pure and perfect as she. At last, his life was falling into place, and soon, he would have everything he had ever wanted.

Somehow, he had forgotten everything else she had told him.

*

Mary Kate pulled her fur-lined cloak more snugly around her shoulders. Outside the carriage window it was drizzling. Again. Of course, it was nearly December. It was just as likely to be raining in Londonderry as it was here in Bristol. Still, what was dreary and bone chilling in England was fresh and invigorating in Ireland. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her; it was just one of life’s great and mysterious Truths.

Home at last. After four long and trying years away from her father and sister, Mary Kate was going home. Leaning against the side of the carriage, she closed her eyes and thought of all her grandfather’s pompous, English suitors fleeing at the sight of her, and she permitted herself a self-satisfied grin.

She turned and glanced at the man who occupied the carriage with her. He still kept his gray hair pulled sharply away from his thin, hawkish face. One corner of his mouth was pulled up in what might seem a perpetual sneer, except that it disappeared whenever she was not around or he had found something else to occupy his thoughts. At the moment, it seemed, he was thinking of her.

Sir Calder swiveled his head and peered at Mary Kate from beneath his brows. “Oh, you’re a smug one today. You’ll celebrate your twenty-first birthday a proud, Irish virgin. If it leaves me with no English heir to carry on my title, what means that to a heartless wench like you?”

“Had you any love for me save my use as breeding stock, it might mean something, that’s sure. As for your paltry title, it seems a baronetcy’s nothing so grand, after all. Not grand enough to entice one of your weak-kneed countrymen to wed me.”

“You are a pitiful excuse for a grandchild. Were your mother not already dead I’d kill her again with my own hands,” Sir Calder snapped. “Ridiculous little strumpet!”

“Well, she was a damn sight finer than you! That I know.”

Sir Calder’s sneer became more pronounced. “Thank goodness where you’re going, your vile language will no longer be an issue,” he said. “Swear all you will.”

She lifted her chin in response. “I’ll have no need of it, once I’m back among my own.”

The thought of going home cooled her temper slightly. What cared she for her grandfather’s opinions of her family and her country? She had won. Every time her grandfather had brought some new, arrogant peacock of an Englishman to court her, she had been the epitome of the Celtic barbarism that they had all seemed to expect. She had refused to bathe or wear perfume, and she’d made sure that her bodice never matched her skirt. Her sleeves, chosen from a third and yet a fourth gown, had made her look a very clown. She’d sworn like a sailor and eaten like a pig, wiping her grimy fingers on the fine fabrics of the clothes her grandfather had purchased to snare her a proper husband. Her quick temper was real enough, but she had given it full head, flying into rages and temper tantrums over trifles. One by one, her simpering English suitors had fled in terror.

Four years ago, Sir Calder had sworn that if he failed to find an Englishman willing to marry her by her twenty-first birthday, she would be allowed to return to Ireland and marry as she would. Now, a full two weeks before the appointed day, they were in a carriage bound for the harbor.

She was the last to care what Sir Calder might say about her mother or herself. Ha! She pulled aside the window shade and peered outside in a gesture of complete dismissal. She heard her grandfather snort again, but she ignored him.

The port was bustling, despite the cold rain. Crates were loaded and unloaded from tall ships with masts that seemed to scrape the very clouds that showered them. The air was heavy with the smells of sea, rain, and fish. Mary Kate’s eyes eagerly scanned the side of each vessel until she spied the one she sought.
Fortune
!

“There!” she cried out, but the sound was lost in the clip clopping of the horses’ hooves and the laughter and shouts from the crowded streets through which the conveyance slowly progressed. Shutting the window shade, she turned back to Sir Calder. “Does he know which ship?” she asked.

“I thought you had stopped speaking to me,” Sir Calder said dryly. “More’s the pity. Still, I’ll be quit of that shrill voice of yours soon enough. Yes, the driver knows which ship.”

Unable to sit still, Mary Kate bounced lightly in her seat, pleased to see her grandfather frown in annoyance. With a smile, she broke into one of her father’s much-loved drinking songs. It was her favorite, and one that had helped her put to route more than one would-be husband. She was still humming it softly under her breath after she had boarded the ship and two burly sailors, reeking of whiskey and sweat, had dropped her two trunks onto the floor of her cabin.

“I’ve no need of your fancy finery,” she said to Sir Calder, who had accompanied her to her quarters. Actually, she was rather shocked that he was sending her off with the expensive clothes he had purchased for her.

“Well, you’ll take it with you anyway. Consider this your trousseau.”

Mary Kate cast him a look of begrudging respect. “You’re not too sore a loser, I’ll give you that. A trousseau to marry me a fine, strapping Irish lad?”

The corner of Sir Calder’s mouth lifted, and his eyes nearly smiled. “I’m sending a dowry, too. ‘Twill be kept in the hold, though.”

An uneasy feeling slithered down Mary Kate’s spine. As the two men who had brought her trunks took their leave, she nodded to them. Sir Calder turned to follow.

“A dowry?” she asked, stopping him at the threshold of the cabin door. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “You’re far more generous than I gave you credit for.”

Sir Calder’s sneer finally broke into a full grin. “It took a sizable sum to convince your fiancé to take you, sight unseen, all your faults honestly laid upon the table.”

“My what?”

“Of course, my title was an incentive. A baronetcy may seem a trifling to you, Mary Katherine, but for the youngest son of a nobleman, one used to the privilege of nobility but with no hope of inheriting, it seems it will do.”

Mary Kate advanced upon the old man. “What are you saying? What are you talking about?”

“The youngest son of an acquaintance owns a ship building company in Port Royal. ‘Tis a fair piece more work than he’s inclined to do. We have come to an agreement. He will marry you and keep you out of my sight until the two of you produce a couple of males—an heir and a spare, as it were. At that point, he and the boys will return to England, with or without you and any daughters. Suit yourself in the matter.”

“P-Port Royal?” Mary Kate sputtered, unable to grasp all that he had told her.

“Jamaica,” Sir Calder clarified. “I’m sure you’ll accustom yourself to it. I hear the climes are warm and the water fair. Have a pleasant journey, Mary Katherine.”

Before she could react, he left, slamming the door behind him. She threw herself against the portal just in time to hear a bolt slide into place on the other side.

“May you fall and never rise, you whoreson coward!” she screamed through the oaken barrier. “You loathsome, disgusting, filthy”— she couldn’t think of anything bad enough; finally, she had to settle for “—bastard!” Hardly satisfying.

Sir Calder’s victorious cackle sounded faintly beyond the door. Mary Kate drummed her fists until she had to stop for the pain. On the morrow, purple bruises would mark the outer heels of her hands.

Pausing to catch her breath, she made a sudden decision to change tactics. Sir Calder was doubtless well off the ship by now. She would have to seek an ally, and quickly.

“Captain!” she cried out. “Where is the captain of this vessel? I am being detained illegally, and I demand to see the captain!” She paused again, panting, her cheeks bright red. She reached up and wiped at the sweat that dotted her brow. “Damn it! Fetch the captain at once, ere you make the grave mistake of abducting an innocent woman against her will!”

At last, a voice answered. It was deep and despicably English. Too much to hope this was an Irish ship.

“Settle down in there, miss. I’ve instructions not to let you out until we’re well away from the dock.”

“Are you the captain?” she called out, trying to make her voice sound weak and distressed and yet loud enough to carry. “Please, I need help. There’s been a terrible mistake.”

“Aye, I am, and whatever your family dispute may be, it is none of my business,” the voice replied.

“It most certainly is!” she snapped, helpless maiden ruse forgotten. “This is your ship, and I shall hold you personally responsible for anything that befalls me. I was told that I was journeying to Londonderry, and that is just where I intend to go! Now, if you cannot take me there, then find me safe passage and wash your hands of this dark business! D’you hear me?”

Silence.

“Oooh!” Mary Kate screamed. She threw herself to the floor and pounded her heels, her skirt of emerald velvet riding up to her thighs and her fur-lined cloak in an uncomfortable wad under her back. Her string of curses sounded oddly musical in her lilting accent. For pure satisfaction, she repeated every one of them in the Irish tongue.

In time, she spent her ire and lay in a heaving heap on the cabin floor. Damn! This sort of thing only worked when there was an audience. With no one to appreciate her efforts, she hauled herself back up to standing, removed her cloak and smoothed her skirts. Half of her black hair had escaped its neat coiffure, so she pulled all of the pins out and let it tumble in a rumpled mess to her waist. She would have cried, but it was an affront to her dignity. Temper was a sign of strength and passion. Tears were a sign of weakness. Still, now that she was outside of her grandfather’s household, it occurred to her that she should drop her recently acquired propensity for kicking and screaming on the floor.

What had begun as a mild rocking motion when she’d boarded the ship was steadily becoming a proper roll. For lack of anything else to do, she ran a brush through her hair and tried to think of some way to convince the captain to alter his course and drop her in Ireland. Anywhere in Ireland would be fine; she’d make her own way home.