A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce

strolled hand in hand down the deck.

      Amanda hesitated. Then she decided there was no way she was going to admit to the truth. “He was falsely accused and falsely hanged,” she lied. “He was a planter and a real gentleman. But,” she added, veering to some of the truth, “a long time ago he was an officer in the British navy.”

      Ariella was quiet and Amanda knew she was thinking intensely. What a strange girl! Then the child said, “Why aren’t you happy to be going to see your mama? Is it because your papa is dead?”

      Amanda stopped in her tracks. She was about to cut the child, but then she saw de Warenne watching them from the quarterdeck. She forced a smile. “I am very happy to be going to see my mother. I haven’t seen her since I was even younger than you.” But her insides curdled as she spoke. If only she could believe that Mama would be overjoyed to see her.

      “Really?” Ariella smiled, but then sobered. “My mama is dead. She was murdered when I was born.”

      Amanda couldn’t help being curious. “Was she a princess?”

      Ariella’s eyes widened and she laughed. “No. There are no Hebrew royals.”

      “She was a Jew?” Amanda asked, surprised. She’d met Jewish people before, of course—she’d been to Curaçao once and it was mostly a Jewish island. Papa had said the Jews had come long ago from Spain.

      “Papa fell in love with her and they had me. But it was forbidden and a Barbary prince ordered her death. Do you know where Barbary is?”

      Amanda stared. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the child but she was very dismayed to learn that de Warenne had been in love with her mother. She had been very beautiful, if Ariella took after her.

      “Do you?”

      “Yes.” Amanda tugged on her and they continued down the deck.

      “Papa likes you, too,” Ariella said abruptly.

      Amanda tripped. “What?”

      Ariella smiled at her. “He stares at you all the time and he turns red. He never blushes, except when you are in the room.”

      Amanda was disbelieving. “I doubt anyone or anything could make your father blush.”

      “You make him blush. I saw him, this morning when we left the house, and he was blushing on the cutter.”

      “It’s hot,” Amanda said irritably. She did not want to discuss Cliff de Warenne with his pampered daughter who had fancy airs and could read a grown-up’s history book. By now, they had taken an entire turn of the deck, coming up the port side, and they stood not far from the subject of their conversation.

      “I feel better. I want to lie down,” Ariella said with a yawn. She turned, releasing Amanda’s hand, and pushed open the door to the captain’s cabin.

      Amanda didn’t object, because she felt certain Ariella was allowed to come and go there as she pleased. She herself had never been permitted to enter Papa’s cabin without knocking, but he’d often had a trollop in there with him. She’d always assumed that all fathers were the same, but she was beginning to think that de Warenne treated his children very differently from the way Papa had treated her. Papa hadn’t cared that she couldn’t read and he’d never petted and coddled her, the way de Warenne did Ariella.

      Ariella rushed into the cabin. Amanda couldn’t help herself; she was faint with curiosity now. She took one step inside so she could peek at his private room, all the while pretending that she had to keep an eye on his daughter, as she had promised.

      The cabin was red.

      The walls were painted a dark Chinese red and three scarlet rugs were on the floor, one Tibetan, one Chinese, one a fine, thin Aubusson. Amanda knew the differences, because the rugs she and her father had plundered over the years were some of their most valuable booty. A huge ebony bed with four thick, carved posters was against one wall. The covers were red-and-gold damask, the sheets striped in red silk. Red-and-gold pillows leaned against the huge headboard with thick, fat tassels and fringe.

      A very fine English table, with curved legs and four chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet were in the room’s center. Beneath several portholes was a huge desk, covered with maps and charts. The entire room was filled with odd treasures—an Arabian brass chest with lock and key, African masks, intricately designed and colorful Moroccan vases, Waterford crystal, gold candlesticks. And there was a bookcase, crammed with hundreds of books. Amanda shivered.

      She had just stepped inside de Warenne’s private lair. It reeked of the man’s exotic tastes, his erotic nature, his intelligence, power and virility. She shouldn’t be there, she somehow thought.

      Someone seized her from behind. “What are you doing in here?”

      Amanda reacted on instinct but the moment she drew her blade and pressed it against his chest, she realized her mistake. De Warenne’s eyes went wide. She froze, her heart hammering madly, as she was in his arms.

      “What is that?” he asked very calmly.

      His thighs were thick, bulging muscle, she realized inanely as he held her body completely against his. “It’s a dagger,” she breathed. “I am sorry…I’ll put it down, but you must let me go.”

      Their gazes were locked. As he released her, she felt him stirring and she gasped, her gaze shooting back to his.

      He blushed. His daughter was right, she thought, stunned. Or was she now as mad as the child?

      He stepped back, grim. “No one enters this cabin without permission.” He half turned, striding to the porthole, where he breathed deeply.

      It was too late. Amanda could clearly see that he had been aroused. She slipped the dagger slowly into its sheath in her boot. He wanted her. She wasn’t really certain why. Was it the brief act of violence? Every sailor she knew enjoyed sex after a bloody battle.

      “Papa? It’s my fault. I wanted to come inside,” Ariella whispered from the bed.

      De Warenne turned and smiled at his daughter. The expression, however, was strained. “Even you must ask my permission to enter here.”

      The child nodded, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Amanda and her father.

      Amanda tried to breathe more naturally. “I’m sorry.” She took a careful glance at him and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he seemed to be in control of his amorous nature once more.

      His jaw flexed. He gestured for them both to precede him out of the door. When they had done so, he barked, “Miss Carre. A moment, please.”

      She did not like his tone but she nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to discipline her for her trespass. That was what Papa would do. He’d deliver a quick cuff to the head, at least. Her stomach churned with some fear. Papa had been a big man, but de Warenne was taller, more muscular and far younger. Well, if he hit her she wouldn’t flinch. He’d see that she was strong and brave—she’d make Papa proud.

      “Ariella, if you are feeling better, I am pleased. But going below is still not a good idea. I have summoned Anahid. The two of you can read together on that bench.”

      “Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

      “Go.” But he smiled now and stooped to kiss her cheek.

      Ariella beamed at him and rushed off to Anahid, who was waiting a discreet distance away.

      Amanda tensed in anticipation of her punishment, watching his shoulders stiffen before he turned. He gestured. “Would you care—”

      Amanda ducked.

      He froze, his hand in the air, poised between them. “What are you doing?”

      She flushed. She had broken his rules, and she should stand firm. “Nothing. I mean, I won’t dodge the blow.”

      His eyes popped. “What?”