A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce

      To test her theories, Amanda sat up, stretching. Her legs did not protest, her stomach growled and the room remained surprisingly level.

      She flung the bedcover aside and paused. Dear Lord, she had been sleeping in a bed fit for a queen. The covers were silk, the comforter down. The draperies matched the wall fabric; in fact, everything matched and was either silk, satin, velvet or brocade.

      She had known de Warenne was rich, of course, but she hadn’t imagined him living like this. Then, she hadn’t ever been in a rich royal person’s home before, either.

      She got up, aware of how pleasant the fine cotton was on her body. As she went to the draperies, she passed a huge mirror, the guilded frame carved in swirls and rosettes. She glimpsed her reflection and paused.

      It was like looking at a stranger.

      A pretty and terribly feminine woman stood there in the glass, beautifully dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown, her pale hair spilling past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The woman’s face had bright, wide green eyes with long, thick lashes, strangely dark, like her eyebrows. She was slightly flushed, her skin sun-kissed, and she had full, pink lips. Her shoulders and arms were entirely bare. If there was any criticism, it might be that her shoulders were a bit broad, hinting at unfeminine strength. But that was hard to notice, because of the way the cotton nightgown draped over her breasts. Small lace straps held the bodice up, but it was low-cut, with tiny gathers just below the straps. Amanda realized she was blushing as she regarded herself.

      She didn’t look like a pirate’s daughter; she looked like a well-born woman.

      Shaken, she turned away, quickly opening up the draperies. It was well past midday—the sun was high and bright, but moving into the west. Her bedroom overlooked the harbor and the second thing she saw was her favorite ship, the Fair Lady. Her hull was painted black and red. Although she was only fifth rate, her standing rigging was a sight to behold and Amanda thrilled at the complexity of it. How many times had she watched de Warenne on his quarterdeck, his men hoisting sail as the frigate began to leave her berth? How many times had she watched the beautiful Fair Lady begin to increase her speed, making sail, her canvas filling? Sometimes she had watched the ship from one of the gun towers ringing the harbor, as it streaked away from shore, heading out to sea, until finally she became a dot, vanishing as if into eternity. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to sail on such a ship, running before the freshest wind?

      And then Amanda saw her namesake.

      Fort Charles was across the harbor and set upon the small peninsula that jutted southeast into the Caribbean Sea. Even flying the British colors, even with her masts broken in half, even from such a distance, Amanda recognized their sloop instantly. The grief rolled over her, heavy and hateful—hurtful.

      Promise me you will go to England, to your mother.

      Rodney’s voice was so loud and clear he could have been speaking to her from the very room. She whirled, but he did not stand behind her. For one moment, she stared toward the bedroom’s closed door, willing him to appear. He did not.

      She swallowed. “I did promise, Papa. Don’t you remember?” Suddenly it was hard to speak.

      I remember, girl.

      She could see him now; she really could, even if it was with her imagination. She brushed at the seeping tears. “I promised you at the hanging. I did. You know I always keep my word. I’ll go.” Fear began, real and raw. She was going to have to leave everything familiar behind. What if Mama didn’t love her the way Papa claimed she did?

      I know, girl. I’m so proud of you…. He smiled at her.

      Amanda shuddered. “I’m not sure Mama will be pleased with me.”

      She loves you, girl.

      Amanda was about to remind him that she was a pirate’s daughter, but her papa’s image had vanished. Lord, what was she doing? Talking to herself—or to a dead man? Had she just seen Papa’s ghost? She was shaking. It didn’t matter. She had made that promise and she was going to keep it, no matter what she had to do to get to England. Surely she wasn’t really afraid of a place. Surely her mother would welcome her with a warm embrace and tears of joy!

      So she had to focus on the voyage. Amanda bit her lip. Rodney had told her to sail with de Warenne. Could she somehow convince him to allow her to travel on one of his ships? She thought of how kind he had been—or at least, how kind he had appeared. Papa had wanted her to sail with de Warenne because he was a gentleman and Amanda could agree with that. But how would she pay for the fare?

      She had very few possessions. She had her dagger, her pistol, her sword, a change of clothes and the gold cross and chain that had been her father’s. She had no intention of parting with any of those possessions, and de Warenne would have little need for them anyway. There was only one possible way to pay for her passage. She was going to have to offer him her body.

      Amanda tensed. She was more than apprehensive; she was afraid. Every sexual act she had inadvertently witnessed had been ghastly and revolting. Governor Woods had been disgusting. She had never been able to understand why the lovers she had seen had been so lusty. She had never understood what was so exciting about sex that it made men and women lose their ability to reason.

      Amanda had never been more nervous as she left the bedroom. De Warenne had stated that his intentions were honorable, and oddly, she had believed him. But surely he would accept the use of her body in exchange for her passage. Every man she knew would accept that kind of offer. She could even sweeten the pot by telling him she was a virgin.

      She found herself in a long corridor with white walls; fine, fancy oil paintings; gleaming wood floors and scattered Eastern rugs. At both ends were stairwells with gold brass banisters, each leading to the great hall below. Amanda went to the closest one and started down the stairs.

      Her steps slowed. The front hall was the size of their entire house at Belle Mer. For the first time, she looked up at the high ceiling, which held the largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen. Rich tapestries and more oil paintings were on the walls. The furniture—chairs, benches and tables—was all polished mahogany, with claw feet, velvet or damask upholstery and intricate carving. In the middle of one wall was a pair of doors, and Amanda recognized the front entrance of the house. Open arches led to other rooms.

      She hesitated, uncertain, and then she saw the butler.

      He was entering the hall, an empty silver tray held flat in one hand, as if it still contained refreshments. He saw her at that moment and went pale, halting in his tracks. The tray fell to the floor with a loud clang.

      Amanda marched toward him. “Hey. Where is de Warenne?”

      He gave her a furious look and picked up the tray. “His lordship is entertaining and is not to be disturbed.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t put on airs with me,” she said flatly. “You’re only a servant.”

      He straightened. “I am the butler, miss, and the most important servant in his lordship’s employ.”

      She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. The most important one he’s got working for him is the ship’s carpenter. You want to make a bet?”

      Fitzwilliam huffed. “Might I suggest that you retire to your room and properly clothe yourself?”

      Amanda glanced down at her new favorite possession. “I don’t think his lordship will care how I’m dressed,” she said. The nightgown was certainly as decent as any dress.

      Fitzwilliam flushed. “If you go to your room, I will inform his lordship that you wish to see him.”

      Amanda snorted at him. “You need to take a cruise, my man. That might get that stick out of your arse.” She started toward one of the arches, where she could just barely detect soft conversation. That was where the old fart had come from, too.

      “He will not be pleased,” Fitzwilliam said softly to her back.

      Amanda