Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) Page 10

  She turned, and seemed startled to see him standing in the portal with his men. Her lovely ebony arches fell as she frowned. “Yes, there is.” She pointed to the large windows to her left. “It’s that silly girl, shrieking as if to raise the dead over a rodent.”

  All attention moved from the delectable and vivacious Spanish beauty clad in a light muslin gown to the thin, pinch—faced adolescent girl, who was standing on the window seat clutching a blanket about her chest and looking as if she were being set upon by an entire crew of pirates.

  The maid blinked. Her lower lip quivered slightly. She looked at the men with terror. “There was a large rat in here.”

  “Marta, get down and help me,” Chloe scolded. “Your ridiculous shrieking has awakened the crew. The least you can do is help me catch the little blighter.”

  “A rat?” Jinx dropped his pistol arm so that the business end was pointing at the floor. “All right, mates, let’s not tarry. Let’s get the dreadful beastie out of here for the lady.” He gestured with his free hand for the men behind him to find the creature for Mrs. O’Donovan.

  “Oh, I have him,” Chloe replied without emotion. “At least, I think it is a he.” She set her weapon, a parasol she’d been holding by the pointed end so she could use the wooden handle as a cudgel, on the trunk beside her. Without flinching, the woman picked up the dead rat and held it by the tail for all to see, letting it dangle beneath her fingers as her face registered triumph. The rat’s head was split open. Dark ruby blood oozed from its nose and brow. The left eye appeared to be displaced, crushed by the blow of Chloe’s parasol handle. “If one of you wouldn’t mind burying him at sea, I’d be most grateful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jinx, Lt. Morgan, and Harris all pushed forward to assist her. The trio tripped over each other in their rush to aid the fair lady. It was Harris in the end that took the bloody little creature from her.

  Muted crying could be heard from the window.

  The maid. Jack felt little sympathy for the girl. He hoped this was not going to set a precedent. “Stop whining,” he admonished. “Get your mistress some water so she may wash the blood from her hands. And shame on you, for letting her do all the work.”

  “I can’t stand rats, sir.” The girl blathered through fractured sobs. “I despise ‘em, disgusting creatures. I’ve never had to catch one before…” Sniff, snuffle. “Me father, he always does, or one of me brothers.”

  “Water, Marta. Now,” Mrs. O’Donovan commanded. “And my shawl, thank you. I shouldn’t wish to put you out too much in your duties.”

  Jack couldn’t contain a chuckle. Chloe was well and truly angry. And she should be. Why didn’t the maid just knock on one of the cabin doors and ask an officer to help them capture the beastie if she was that upset? Instead, she climbed on the furniture, took to shrieking like a banshee while leaving her mistress to attend to the problem.

  The girl hopped down from her perch. She hurried to the washstand and fetched the bowl and a towel and brought them to her mistress. Mrs. O’Donovan pushed up the sleeves of her elegant nightgown and began washing her hands while the maid stood holding the bowl for her. Mrs. O’Donovan carefully dried her dainty white hands, and shooed Marta away with a silent mouthed word.

  “I wonder how the beastie came to be in here in the first place,” Lt. Morgan said to the room at large. “They don’t usually appear this far above deck. They stick to the cargo hold, and the darkness.”

  Jack and Jinx exchanged a hard look.

  “Oh, I have an inkling of how it might have occurred.” Jack thought of a particular cabin boy who was wont to play such pranks to liven up the tedium of a voyage.

  “Do you want the pleasure of kicking his bum, or shall I do it?” Jinx murmured, smashing his lips together with contempt. “Boy needs a lesson in manners, frightening a poor helpless female in the night, and a passenger, to boot.”

  “Helpless?” Jack nodded toward Chloe. “I believe you are mistaken, Mr. Jinx.”

  Jinx shot him a bold grin. “‘Twas speaking theoretically, Cap’n, to be sure. Shall I rouse the boy for you, then?”

  “No. Let him sleep. In the morning, you may attend him as you see fit. Make certain he understands that passengers are strictly off limits for his mischief.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Good night, ma’am, and… er…pleasant dreams?” Jinx made a polite bow to Chloe.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly to our aid, Mr. Jinx.” Chloe gave the man a charming smile. “It is a comfort to know if we were under attack we would be well protected, sir.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Jinx was grinning like a fox.

  “Get back to your bunk,” Jack grumbled, adding a deep, warning growl to his words. “Out, now.” He pointed to the door with the tip of his sword, knowing his reaction to the exchange between Chloe and his first mate was irrational, but he was unable to contain his fury.

  Jinx slunk away, as did the other men. Jack stood in the doorway, his sword in hand, disappointed that he, too, must leave. Chloe was stunning in her plain white nightdress that offered no embellishment save the lace at her wrists and throat. Her ivory features were framed by waves of sleek ebony. Did he imagine the sultry smile curving her lush red lips?

  The maid hurried to her mistress’s side and made a great show of placing a silk paisley shawl about her shoulders, lifting her heavy locks and then resettling the jet waves once the shawl was arranged to modestly conceal Chloe’s bosom and shoulders. The spell was not broken by the maid’s intrusion. Jack lingered, wanting to just drink in the sight of this lovely, exotic creature sleeping just on the other side of the wall from his cabin.

  Embrace life …

  Oh, he wanted to embrace the vivacious woman before him, in the worst way.

  “Is there anything more I can do for you, Mrs. O’Donovan?” He sounded hoarse. His throat had gone bone dry as he stood rooted to the deck staring at her like a starving man might stare wistfully at a feast he was denied access to.

  “Yes, Captain. I could use a strong drink,” Chloe replied, smiling at him.

  God, she was breath-taking. She belonged in a fancy painting. The Goddess Awakened.

  “A drink?” He felt like a clumsy lad. “I’ve some claret in my cabin. Shall I bring you a glass?”

  Chloe was anxious for this humiliating episode to disappear. Her behavior was not delicate or lady like. It was practical. More importantly, it revealed her true nature. If she were to convince her family that she was a lady she must behave accordingly. Ladies did not kill rats in their rooms. They had servants to do it for them.

  “No, Captain. I’ll come with you. I need some fresh air. And you,” she turned to the little brat who was the cause of this embarrassment, “you will be finding quarters elsewhere if you disturb the captain and his officers again. Do you understand me, Marta?”

  Marta nodded and bowed her head. Her childish brown braids fell forward, making her seem even younger than her seventeen years. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chloe paced across the cabin to the door, determined to put some distance between herself and the girl until her fury waned. It was bad enough Marta awakened her with frantic shrieks. Awakening the crew was intolerable.

  Rodents, spiders, insects and reptiles were abundant in the West Indies. One learned to deal with them out of necessity. Rats were not her idea of a beloved pet either, but Chloe was not squeamish about dealing with them.

  She pulled her silk shawl tighter about her shoulders and moved into the hallway. As she passed the blond warrior clutching a sword at her open door, she grinned up at him. She would laugh later, not in front of Marta. The girl deserved to be ashamed for disturbing the crew.

  Captain Rawlings was gazing at her with an expression of astonishment.

  “Captain, I realize my suggestion may seem odd. My apologies, but given the situation, I need to leave my cabin for a little while.” Before I slap that girl silly. “Perhaps I should ask you to escort me on a walk about the deck; would th
at be more acceptable to you, sir?”

  “My cabin will do.” He gestured with his sword for her to proceed down the narrow hall.

  His door was ajar. The captain followed her inside and placed his sword on the table in the center of the room. Chloe was fascinated by the gleaming steel. She approached the table to admire the fine piece.

  Captain Rawlings turned away from the table to open a small cabinet on the wall. “What is my lady’s pleasure?” he asked in a low, rough growl that resonated within her like thunder on the horizon. “Claret or do you prefer something stronger?”

  “Stronger. A woman always prefers strength when asked.” Chloe braved the beast to confess. She had already given the man ample reason to question her behavior in sullying her hands with a dead rat and then asking to share a drink in his cabin. What did she have to lose? “Do you have brandy? Elizabeth and I indulge in an occasional glass. The count’s mother joins us when she visits, of course.” She added the last as a means of softening her request.

  Jack chuckled. “The notorious Alicia St. Vincent is never without her brandy and her cheroots.”

  Chloe gazed up from her admiration of his fine weapon to regard the man himself. The captain was a mystery to her. He was congenial and friendly when he dined at Ravencrest. On his ship, his natural habitat, she was finding him gruffer and sharper around the edges than when he visited her former home.

  She studied his back as the sound of liquid splashing into goblets echoed in the room. Captain Rawlings was a veritable rock. The outline of his shoulders arched and bunched, seeming to wish to push through the confines of his cotton shirt. His hair was free from the restraining queue he wore out on deck. She wished she could touch it, run her fingers through the pale golden abundance. It fanned out like a regal lion’s mane, flowing past his shoulders.

  Gold. Sunshine; warmth and hugs. And love.

  Wasn’t that what Angelica Rose predicted was awaiting her in Spain?

  Yes, in Spain. They were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, so she’d best restrain her errant fantasies about petting this fierce lion of a man and stroking his golden mane.

  He turned about and advanced to the table on silent feet. Unable to meet the captain’s steady blue gaze, Chloe looked down at the floor. She understood why she did not hear his approach earlier when he entered her cabin; Captain Jack Rawlings was barefoot.

  Oh, goodness! She was sunk. Even his feet were attractive. Sculpted, muscular and yet elegant. He had well turned calves with a light dusting of pale gold. And they weren’t pale white, as she would expect. His feet and calves were bronzed by the sun, as if he spent some of his time aboard his ship in glorious unshod freedom.

  Chloe used to go barefoot all the time. That was before she went into service as a maid to a grand lady, before she became a married woman. She was given to understand by her patroness that genteel women didn’t go about barefoot, so she gave up the habit. She missed feeling the earth beneath her bare feet. To find a kindred spirit such as this, a man who did not disdain the habit of walking without shoes and hose, was delightful.

  Goodness—what was wrong with her? She was standing in her nightgown in the middle of the night in a man’s cabin, admiring his bare feet.

  She felt a light flush and was surprised by it. Chloe hadn’t thought she was capable of girlish blushing any longer, not when she’d shared a man’s bed for close to a decade.

  Captain Rawlings had been in bed—asleep—when Marta had begun wailing in earnest.

  The idea of Jack Rawlings lying on a bed wearing nothing but a thin sheet to cover his manly parts was enough to suffuse her cheeks with another attack of full blooming color. She took the drink from his hand and turned away lest he see wanton desire in her eyes. Desire for him. Desire she’d assumed she’d never feel again after the darkness that filled her existence.

  “I see you admire my weapon, ma’am.”

  “I do,” she said, almost choking on the first sip of her drink. “May I touch it?”

  “As it pleases you.” His answer was unconcerned and warm, as warm as the brandy kissing her lips with liquid fire.

  “My father had a fine sword. Toledo steel.” She continued, anxious to keep the conversation flowing lest her wayward thoughts and desires betray her.

  Chloe took another sip of brandy. Imagine, desiring a man again. She thought she would never feel desire after Gareth’s passing. How fickle she must be.

  “Toledo steel. That is the best steel for sword making. What became of your father’s sword? Was it buried with him? I’ve heard many men continue the ancient practice.” His eyes met hers. Chloe saw kindness in their immutable depths. He must know her father died when she was young. He must know more about her than she wished. He was the count’s closest friend and confidante, after all. Did he know she had been a slave for a time?

  Please, not that one. He must not know that secret. The shame would kill her if he knew.

  She took another sip of brandy, for courage and strength. The count was a kind man, a discrete man. Surely he would not betray her unfortunate past to those about him.

  “Did I offend you?” Rawlings asked, watching her with concern. “I was asking about your father’s sword. Does it upset you to talk of your father’s passing?”

  “Oh, no—no sir.” Chloe began fanning her face with her hand, a nervous habit. This was not her best moment. She was feeling the brandy a little, and feeling more emotional in response to the potent drink. “I am not certain what became of Papa’s sword.” she replied and moved around the table to put a little distance between them.

  She traced her finger along the blade as she walked slowly about the round expanse. The metal was cool and smooth beneath her fingertip. “Papa displayed it above the mantle in the parlor. He would never allow me to touch it. After he died, no one lived at the cottage for years. It was boarded up until Mr. Duchamp took up residence there.” The former master, the count’s grandfather, had been in deep debt and never replaced her father as steward after he died. Instead, the count’s grandfather took care of the estate himself and sunk it into ruin.

  “If I were you, I would inquire about it. Duchamp might covet your father’s sword,” the captain cautioned. “I can’t see him relinquishing the piece if he discovers it at the cottage. He likes sharp, pointy things.”

  Chloe giggled.

  “My words amuse?” Golden brows arched above sapphire blue eyes.

  “Ambrose Duchamp is sharp and pointy.”

  “The man served on my ship. None of the crew wanted to sleep with him nearby. Duchamp the king’s assassin with his big knife.”

  “Duchamp is not well liked at Ravencrest. Lady Elizabeth pities him, though, so there must be some dark tragedy in his past.”

  Captain Rawlings shrugged. It was an impressive gesture. Those mountainous shoulders were magnificent, even when completely still. Moving, they brought new meaning to the word majestic as the skin and muscles rippled beneath his light shirt. “We all have our tragic pasts, do we not? Mistakes we wish to keep from others. Secrets better left unearthed. Sit, ma’am. Make yourself comfortable. Enjoy your brandy. I’ll even let you play with my sword, if you desire.”

  Chloe coughed and sprayed the fine brandy over her upraised hand. Did she hear him correctly? By the stars, how could such a simple comment become suggestive? She must be near her time of the month. She became more wanton when it was nearing, or so Gareth had told her.

  Chloe reached for the guard and wrapped her fingers around the cool steel handle.

  She lifted the sword with one hand. It was heavier than it looked.

  Heavy and impressive. Cool, strong and sharp, just like its owner.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chloe held the sword in both hands and watched as her host refilled her drink and set the glass on the table. It would be rude to leave without finishing the drink. It was good brandy. She set the sword on the table and started when Rawlings drew close to steady his weapon with a large ha
nd as the guard rolled slightly.

  She snatched up the brandy, walked to the window to peer out at the array of stars. They were like glittering beads on a cloth of velvet.

  The quiet between them stretched into a long, uncomfortable span.

  At Ravencrest her bold behavior might be ignored by her family. Perhaps they would be relieved after the long, hellish year she’d put them through. Her grief affected the household. They overlooked her outbursts of weeping, her morose behavior, and she loved them for it.

  In any other place she’d be looked upon with disdain for such forward behavior as taking a private drink with a man in his lodgings. In Spain, she’d be branded a whore.

  As she sipped her second drink, Chloe’s mind relaxed and the questions long subdued bubbled to the surface. Why was she heading to a country bound by rigid social rules, steeped in strict Christian beliefs? She was the grandchild of a voodoo priestess, the love child of a slave and an overseer. The Spanish would find her existence an insult to all they held dear. Her only hope for being embraced by the Ramirez family was by lying about who she was.

  “If I’m right—,” Captain Rawlings intruded upon her musings with his gruff voice as he stepped around the table to come to her side, “you’ll be sending that nuisance of a maid back to the island with me on the return trip to Ravencrest.”

  “Elizabeth secured her for me. She paid Marta’s first year of wages as a parting gift.” Chloe turned from the stars to glance her host. She sighed, and took another comforting sip of her brandy. “It seemed ungrateful to not accept Marta as my personal maid.”

  The captain nodded. “Ah, yes.” His hand made an elegant arc in the air to punctuate his words. “Who are we to question the gift of our great and noble patrons, the Count and Countess du Rochembeau? Our duty is but to accept their favor with proper humility and gratitude.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Chloe retorted. “They mean well. And they are generous with those they love.” She stepped away from the window, away from Jack and returned to the table.