A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce

sprang forward as he strode past the six Ionic columns that supported a pediment displaying the British coat of arms to the huge doors of the governor’s residence, the gold and ruby spurs he wore jangling. “Captain de Warenne, sir,” one said, relaxing. “Governor Woods said you are to go in immediately.”

      Cliff nodded at him and entered a vast foyer with a crystal chandelier. Standing on the waxed parquet floors of the circular entry, he could glimpse a formal salon done up in red velvets and brocades.

      Thomas Woods rose from behind a desk, smiling as he saw him. “Cliff! Come in, my good man, come in!”

      Cliff strode into the salon, shaking Woods’s hand. The governor was a lean, handsome man in his thirties, with a dark moustache. “Good day, Thomas. I see the hanging will happen as scheduled.” The words slipped out, unbidden.

      Woods nodded, pleased. “You have been gone for almost three months—you have no idea what this means.”

      “Of course I do,” Cliff said, that odd tension filling him again as he wondered at the pirate’s daughter’s future. It crossed his mind that maybe he would visit Carre at the garrison in Port Royal. “Does Carre remain at Fort Charles?”

      “He has been moved to the courthouse jail,” Woods responded. The newly constructed courthouse, completed the previous year, was directly across the square from King’s House. Woods went to the bar built into the huge Dutch sideboard on one wall and poured two glasses of wine. He handed Cliff a glass. “To the morrow’s hanging, Cliff.”

      Cliff did not join him in the toast. “Maybe you should attempt to capture the pirates flying the flag of José Artigas,” he said, referring to the gaucho general who was at war with both Portugal and Spain. “Rodney Carre has nothing in common with those murdering villains, my friend.”

      Woods smiled firmly. “Ah, I was hoping you could tackle Artigas’s men.”

      Cliff was interested, as the hunt was in his blood. Woods was offering him a dangerous commission, one he would not usually think twice about accepting. However, he remained on another tack. “Carre has never been foolish enough to attack British interests,” he commented, taking a sip of claret.

      Woods started. “So he is a decent pirate? A good pirate? And what is the point of your defense? He has been tried and found guilty, he hangs tomorrow at noon.”

      An image came to mind, one he could not chase away. Her hair as pale as a bright star, her shirt and breeches soaking wet, La Sauvage lifted her slim arms overhead and dived off the bow of her father’s sloop into the sea below. He had been coming home last year and standing on the quarterdeck of his favorite frigate, the Fair Lady, when he had spotted her through his spyglass. He had paused to watch her surface, laughing, and had almost wished he could dive into the calm turquoise sea with her.

      “What about the child?” he heard himself say. He had no idea of her age, but she was small and slender and he guessed she was somewhere between twelve and fourteen.

      Woods seemed startled. “Carre’s daughter—La Sauvage?”

      “I heard their farm was forfeit to the Crown. What will become of her?”

      “Good God, Cliff, I do not know. Rumor has it she has family in England. Maybe she will go there. Or I suppose she could go to the Sisters of St. Anne’s in Seville—they have an asylum for the orphaned.”

      Cliff was shocked. He just could not imagine a spirit like that imprisoned in such a manner. And this was the first he had heard of the child having family in Britain. But then, Carre had once been a British naval officer, so it was certainly possible.

      Woods stared. “You are behaving oddly, my friend. I asked you to come here today because I was hoping you would accept a commission from me.”

      Cliff shoved his thoughts of Carre’s daughter aside. He felt himself smile. “May I hope that you seek El Toreador?” he asked, referring to the most vicious of the rovers plaguing the area.

      Woods grinned. “You may.”

      “I am more than pleased to accept the commission,” Cliff said, meaning it. The hunt would surely erase his irascible mood and the restlessness gnawing at him. He had been at Windsong for precisely three weeks—usually he stayed a month or two—and his only regret would be leaving his children. He had both a son and a daughter at his island home, and when he was at sea or abroad, he missed them terribly.

      “Shall we go in to dine? I have asked my chef to make your favorite dishes,” Woods said happily, clasping Cliff’s arm. “We can discuss the details of the commission. I am also eager to ask for your opinions on the new venture in the East Indies. Surely you have heard of the Phelps company?”

      Cliff was about to affirm that he had, when he heard the soldiers at the governor’s front door shouting in alarm. Instantly he drew his saber. “Get back,” he ordered Woods.

      The governor paled, a small pistol appearing in his hand, but he obeyed, hurrying to the far end of the salon while Cliff strode into the foyer. He heard a soldier gasping in pain, and another fellow shout, “You cannot go inside!”

      The front door burst open and a small, slender woman with a mass of pale hair ran through it, waving a pistol.

      “Where is the governor?” she demanded wildly, pointing the gun at him.

      The most vivid green eyes he had ever beheld locked with his and he forgot that a pistol was pointed at his forehead. He stared, shocked. La Sauvage was not a child: she was a young woman and a very beautiful young woman, at that. Her face was triangular, her cheekbones high, her nose small and straight, her mouth lush and full. But it was her eyes that stunned him—he had never seen such intriguing eyes, as exotic as a jungle cat’s.

      His gaze swept down her figure. Her moon-colored hair was exactly as he had thought—a wild curly mane that reached her waist. She wore a huge man’s shirt, hanging to midthigh, but there was no mistaking the suggestion of a bosom beneath it. Her legs were encased in breeches and a lad’s boots, and were unmistakably long and feminine.

      How could he have assumed, even from a distance, that she was a child, he wondered inanely.

      “Are you a dimwit?” she shouted at him. “Where is Woods?”

      He drew a breath and somehow smiled, his composure returned. “Miss Carre, please do not point the pistol at me. Is it loaded?” he asked very calmly.

      She paled as if just recognizing him. “De Warenne.” She swallowed. The pistol wavered. “Woods. I must see Woods.”

      So she knew him, somewhat. Then she knew he was not to be toyed with. Did she know that anyone else would die for brandishing a weapon at him in such a manner? Was she that brave, or that foolish—and desperate? His smile intensified, but he was not feeling amused. He had to swiftly end the crisis, before she was hurt or arrested. “Give me the pistol, Miss Carre.”

      She shook her head. “Where is he?”

      He sighed—and moved. Before she knew it, he had her wrist in his hand, and an instant later, he had her pistol.

      Tears filled her eyes and he knew they were tears of rage. “Damn you!” She struck at him with both fists, pummeling his chest.

      He handed the pistol to one of the wary soldiers and caught her wrists again, more gently, not wanting to hurt her. He was surprised by her strength; she was so slender she appeared frail, but she was not. However, she had no power compared to him. “Please, cease. You will hurt yourself,” he said softly.

      She was writhing in his grasp like a wildcat, hissing and spitting like one, too, and even attempting to claw at his face.

      “Stop,” he ordered, becoming annoyed. “You cannot triumph over me.”

      Suddenly her eyes met his and she stilled, panting heavily. And as their gaze held, he felt a stirring of compassion for her. Even if she was eighteen, he sensed she was a child in many ways, due to her unorthodox upbringing.