Swept Away (42 page)

But he only urged her to change quickly out of the wet clothing and to make use of what few amenities there were among Landover’s personal possessions. He would have Diego heat water if she wanted to wash--he actually smiled when he commented that her face still bore residue of fairy dust--and he would see that a pot of hot tea was delivered as soon as the water boiled. He left, promising to return when the
Intrepid
was underway, and it was all Annaleah could do not to burst out in tears the instant the door closed behind him. Why, she was not exactly sure. Possibly because she was once again embroiled in an adventure she had never in her wildest imaginings believed could ever happen to her, because he had kissed her in front of all his men, because he had
not
kissed her before he went back on deck...

Moving with the wooden limbs of an old woman, she set the dry clothing on the bed and walked over to the gallery windows. There was not much to see beyond the wall of dirty gray fog but even as she had to adjust her balance she could see threads of mist starting to swirl and spin away like dervishes. The anchor was no longer dragging on the bottom and the ship was moving. Slowly, to be sure, but she was moving. And one more chance to return to the bosom of her family was creeping away.

Anna supposed she should sit down and compose a letter to her family that might be delivered by Captain Landover when he was set ashore--but what could she possibly say at this point to convince them she had not lost all grips on her sanity? She was not only loose, she was fallen. There was now a warrant out for her arrest and how did one explain that to a family who placed moral righteousness and the appearance of propriety above all else? She could barely justify her actions to herself, let alone others.

Sighing aloud, she leaned her head against the cool pane of glass. Falling in love was hardly an adequate defence, and Emory's declaration of having fetched her rosewater did not exactly ring with conviction. As much as she was loathe to admit it, Barrimore was right. She could not see Captain Emory Althorpe living the staid life of a country squire when there was still so much of the horizon to explore. Even less likely was the supposition of him settling down to a wife and children, content to sit before a blazing fire and read books about other men’s adventures. In truth, it was more than likely he would leave England again. Whether he proved himself innocent or not, he had no use for it and with the war ended, England had no use for him. Spies would be an embarrassment when there was no more spying to be done.

If she was being perfectly honest, she would have to admit that once he was out of the harbor and on the open sea, she would be of little use to him either. She couldn’t even swim, for pity’s sake. She would be a burden, a nuisance, possibly even a hindrance.

He had made her no promises, of course. Had avoided making any commitment whatsoever. The presumptions were all hers; she had simply assumed that after everything that had happened, everything they had been through together, he would take her with him regardless of where he went or what he did after he freed his crew and sailed out of Gravesend.

A faint glitter caught her eye and she stared at the diamond ring her aunt had given her. Had Florence seen ahead to a time when she might need to fend for herself? With the ring, she would not be destitute. She had a fine education, impeccable manners when she was not behaving like a hoyden. There was an inheritance from her grandmother that would come to her on her twenty-first birthday, nine long months away.

She bowed her head and started to twist the ring around her finger but stopped when she realized it was the same habit Barrimore had of toying with the great golden signet ring he wore. She closed her eyes instead and did not know how long she stood there, the windowpane cooling her brow, until she heard the door open behind her.

“I brought you some tea,” Emory said after a moment. “You haven’t changed yet?”

Remarking upon the obvious did not bolster her confidence any and she turned. “No. No, I...was watching the ship get underway, wondering how you could see through all this fog.”

Her voice trailed away when she looked at him, his face--even scratched and scabbed--was almost too breathtakingly handsome to contemplate against the contrasts of shadow and candlelight. He had taken off the scarlet tunic and wore only a white shirt and black breeches. His hair fell in loose, gleaming waves to his collar. His hands--strong enough to work the rigging lines of a storm-tossed frigate, gentle enough to make her weep with pleasure--were balancing a wooden tray with two cups, a small pot of tea, and a big bottle of rum.

“Actually, it is thicker on deck than it seems. The men high up in the crow’s nest can see fairly well and as long as we don’t steer toward a cliff, we should be fine. Seamus has his fine Irish blood up anyway and would resent having me on deck when he is trying to prove he hasn’t lost his touch.”

“Wrong? No, nothing is wrong.” She attempted a feeble smile. “It just...seems odd not to have had a dozen coaches chasing after us.”

“Well,” he set the tray down on the desk. “With any luck the fog in the harbor will hold and they will not notice we have slipped our mooring until the sun burns it off. By then we should be well into the Channel.” He studied her quietly for another moment, then turned and went back to close the door. He blew out most of the lamps that had been blazing such a bright beacon out the gallery windows, leaving only one meagre candle flickering in a brass wall sconce.

“We will be stopping before we reach open water to set Captain Landover and his men ashore. I was thinking...perhaps you might want to disembark with him.”

Her cheeks darkened with a violent flush. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, for one thing, we have just stolen a navy prize out of a British port and they will not take kindly to the insult. For another, I have no idea what manner of welcome might await us in Torbay. The
Bellerophon
is a warship, after all, and I’m sure her captain keeps her guns primed in anticipation of any trouble.”

“ So you are telling me I will be in the way?”

“No, you are not in the way at all. I am only thinking of your safety. And no, I have no intentions of arguing with you--I have learned the folly of even hoping to win such an engagement. If you want to stay, I will not mention it again.”

“I want to stay,” she said softly.

He smiled just long enough to darken the blush in her cheeks then looked for something to occupy his hands. He took up the pot of tea, poured some in the mugs, then added a healthy dollop of rum to both.

“Here, this will warm you.”

She took the mug, but did not drink. There was something else troubling him, she could see it in his eyes--or rather, in the way his eyes kept avoiding hers.

“You must be relieved to know that Lord Barrimore believes you.”

“It is a first step,” he agreed.

“And you have your ship back. It is very...” she cast around the cabin, searching for the right word, but how did one describe a vessel bristling with guns and swarthy men with no teeth? “Bold. A very bold ship, indeed. And I am glad your memories are coming back.”

He looked down at his cup a moment, then reached out and spilled the contents through the open gallery window. Walking back to the table, he refilled it with straight rum.

“I recall you telling me once you liked me better when I had no memory.”

“I was upset.”

“You were damned upset,” he corrected her, grinning weakly over a large mouthful of rum. “And accused me of treating you like a common trull.”

“We were on a public street and you flung me over your shoulder like a sack of grain.”

He looked down at his cup again. “My point is, I haven’t exactly been honing my manners these last few years. I haven’t done much of anything other than raise hell and play at war.”

“I hardly think--”

He held up a hand. “Let me finish. Please. I am trying like hell to do the right thing here, but if you keep interrupting me, I may never get it out. You see, I
am
remembering. I am remembering that I have done some things I am not too proud of, things I would rather not have to confess at all, and probably wouldn’t if it suddenly did not seem so damned important to do so. What I am trying to say, I guess, is that there seems to be more than just a little bit of truth behind some of the charges against me. Enough, in fact, that it gave Wessex something to hold over me, to make me agree to ‘volunteer’ my services to the crown.”

“A polite way of putting it. But then Barrimore is a polite fellow. I may even have to reassess my opinion of him, for he likely could have told you stories that would have made you run screaming back to your family.”

It was Annaleah’s turn to bow her head. “I am not sure why you are telling me this now.”

“Either am I,” he conceded in a murmur. “You liked it better when I had no memory...well, I liked it better when I had no conscience. When everything was just a big blank void and my prime concern was how to get you naked and into my bed.”

“And now? What concerns you now?”

“My freedom. My ship. My men. A family I have selfishly ignored these past few years, responsibilities I have neglected or simply refused to acknowledge.” He set his empty cup on the table. “Have you no desire to see your family again?”

She gave a little shrug and looked up again. “I was thinking I would like to see Anthony. Of all, he is most likely to hear me out and believe, possibly, that I did not set out to deliberately destroy my life.”

Her voice faded to a whisper as Emory came and stood in front of her.

For a full minute he did nothing but look at her. Mouth, eyes, the curve of her cheek, the fine reddish-brown wisps of hair at her temples that had coiled tightly in the dampness--all came under such intense scrutiny it was as if he did not trust the recent capriciousness of his memory to recall every detail. In the end, the terrible tautness in his jaw relented and he brushed the pad of his thumb across Anna’s lower lip.

“Whereas I have been thinking...when this is over, of course...I would like to visit your aunt Florence again in the hopes she might see me in a better light, to know I have not become quite the black-hearted scoundrel the naysayers have made of me--or at least see that there is some hope for redemption. I was also hoping...” his thumb stroked from her lip to her cheek, and she was surprised--shocked--to feel that his hand was trembling. “I was hoping if you were not otherwise engaged for the rest of your life, Miss Fairchilde, you might let me court you properly.”

Her eyes swam behind a silvery haze for a moment, then cleared. “Court me properly?”

“I am even prepared to promise there will be no touching this time. Not even a chaste kiss to the back of the hand; not until we are well and truly married.”

“Married?” The word was barely a whisper of breath, uttered through a wave of weakness that rippled all the way down to her toes.

“Yes,” he said with a hint of a bemused smile. “That is what two people in love usually do -- is it not?”

“Well, yes but--”

He sighed and his hand slipped down to cradle her neck. “You asked me once before and I was reluctant then to give you a proper answer. The timing is hardly better now, but...I want you to know that I do love you, Annaleah Fairchilde. Far more than is sensible for a man of my jaded reputation to admit. I don’t know when it happened , or how it happened; I just found myself wanting to be a better person because of you. Because you trusted me. Because you believed me. Because you kept looking at me with those big blue eyes and telling me nothing else mattered. Well...I have discovered it does matter. It matters very much.”

A small, bewildered gasp was all she could manage as his mouth pressed gently down over hers. It was hardly his best effort, for his lips remained closed and his eyes open. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

When she could speak again--and it was difficult with her heart lodged in her throat, pounding like a jungle drum--she did so with a fat tear sparkling in the corner of her eye.

“If that is what you want, I will certainly hold you to your promise to conduct a chaste and proper courtship. But in the meantime...”

“Yes? In the meantime?”

“Could you please,” she whispered, “Please just kiss me.”

His relief escaped on a sigh as he bent to oblige, his lips parted, his breath warm where it blended with hers. The kiss was slow and wet and deep, a vast improvement over the last. Vast enough she was not even aware he had unfastened the buttons on her jacket and shirt until she felt the heat of his fingers caressing bared flesh.

“I did say
after
we reached Widdicombe House,” he reminded her.

“You did,” she agreed with trembling eagerness. “Yes, you did. And until then I shall be most happy to lie in your bed, naked or otherwise.”

He kissed her again, the heat of his mouth rivalling the heat that was pouring through her body. She kept her arms by her side while he peeled her jacket and shirt away, then she was reaching up, pulling herself closer, gasping as his hands moved to her waist, her thighs. Her breeches were skinned down her hips, her shoes kicked across the floor and she could see no point in hiding behind any shy flutters of modesty when he found her wet and wanting.