A Heart's Masquerade (8 page)

"Whatever the man’s actions or motives, you had no business going back in there," he said, downing his drink in one swallow.

"But-"

"But you saved my life," he said, stiffly, looking down into the empty glass. "I’m indebted to you."

"No," Cat muttered, closing her eyes. "We’re even. And let’s leave it at that," she whispered bitterly, blaming her hero for falling short of her expectations. "Just... just take me to Barbados."

"Barbados?"

"I’ll have a little rest while my arm heals." The lie came all too easily to join with all her others. For it wasn’t the wound that forced her hand, but Ransom. His coldness had finally pushed her to break the ties binding her to the ship and her girlish infatuation with its captain.

If Cat had hoped for an extension or an argument, she was to be disappointed.

"Fine," Ransom said, his expression hard. "I’ll work up your final pay."

Without a backward glance, he left Cat to slump upon his bed, the pain in her heart joining the pain in her arm as the tears finally fell.

***

Shutting the door behind him, Ransom paused a moment to lean against it and recover himself. His cabin boy’s unexpected defection threatened to hurt him if he let it, the final blow in an evening of shocks that had tested his composure.

After he’d hear the lad’s shout inside the tavern, the next few moments had passed like a nightmare as he turned to find the boy at the mercy of someone with a knife. Ransom managed to plunge his blade into the cutthroat’s back, but as he knelt to push the body aside, he’d felt a pressure in his chest he’d not known in many years.

It tightened, threatening to constrict his throat, as he sought frantically to discover whether his cabin boy still lived. In that long moment, Ransom realized he cared too much about the lad, but it was too late. The emotion was already invested, and he cursed his own foolishness.

Then Cat’s eyes fluttered open, and Ransom breathed freely again, though he’d remained tense all the way back to the ship - until he’d seen the wound for himself. His subsequent relief was so intense it unnerved him, a feeling both foreign and unpleasant to the captain of the
Reckless
.

He struggled to regain the unruffled, chilly detachment he had cultivated for years, knowing he must distance himself from the lad. And just when he’d regained control, he’d been hit with this new blow. He shoved himself away from the door with a vengeance, heading for the only other place on the ship that might provide some privacy.

"Well, captain?" Bert asked, as he poured them both some whiskey.

"It’s just a scratch," Ransom said, moving restlessly around the first mate’s small cabin.

"Shall I have a look at it?" Bert asked, his concern obvious.

Ransom shrugged, affecting indifference.

"Well, I guess not, then," the first mate said softly, and Ransom turned away from his keen gaze.

"Apparently, some of Ben’s friends did not care for the questions I was asking," Ransom said, eager for a change of topic.

"Ah. You learned something, then?"

Ransom released a derisive snort of laughter. "Indeed, I discovered that Ben has been doing a little work lately for an old associate of ours."

Bert shook his head in disbelief as Ransom continued. "It seems he’s found a new partner in Devlin."

"No," Bert said. "Devlin may be a bad one, but he’s not one of Ben’s kind."

"You think not?" Ransom asked, lifting a brow. "You give him too much credit. Those two are cut from the same cloth. Only the design is different."

Bert grunted in disgust, then eyed him sharply. "And now?"

"And now," Ransom said, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. "We look for Devlin." He downed the rest of the whiskey in one swallow.

"It’s time we settled our score, once and for all."

Chapter Five

When the
Reckless
anchored in Carlisle Bay two days later, dawn was spreading over the neat shops and houses and wide, clean streets of Bridgetown. But Cat wasn’t so much taking in Barbados as taking her leave of her friends.

"You’ll miss these wooden walls when you land in prison," Harry said, slapping her on the back so hard that her wounded arm ached.

"You’ll be back when you tire of land life," Bull warned, and the other sailors hurled a few coarse jests her way. It was their idea of a fond farewell, Cat realized.

"Whatever you do, don’t get married," Tom warned, and Cat assured him she would not fall for any young lasses, pretty or otherwise. She was still smiling at the notion when Ransom appeared.

How he stood out among the rabble. He was half a head taller than most, yet it was not his height that set him apart, but an intangible air about him. Ignoring the sudden melancholy that enveloped her at the sight of him, Cat moved toward Bert, awkwardly shaking the first mate’s hand with her left.

"Good-bye, Bert, and thank you," Cat said, sincerely.

She grasped his fingers longer than necessary, but the old sailor did not seem to mind. "Good luck, lad," he said.

"I’ll take you ashore," Ransom offered.

Cat nodded silently, without even glancing his way.

He was quiet in the boat, and Cat did not say a word. Memories of the past months at sea moved in front of her eyes like a multicolored canvas, dipping and swaying with highs and lows. Each scene that came to mind in seemingly random recollection was a poignant reminder of the man she was leaving behind.

She remembered the night of the storm when she felt Ransom’s shoulders beneath her fingertips. Her thoughts ran shamelessly through every innocent contact between them, then drifted to the more exotic and less innocent activities described to her by Blossom. And there they remained, sparking a scandalous notion that, try as she might, Cat could not dismiss.

She eyed Ransom speculatively. The breeze tossed his dark locks and caught his open-throated shirt as he manned the oars, his wide shoulders moving rhythmically, and her whole body tingled in response.

Cat let her gaze travel over him one last time, from the tips of his long, lean fingers to his dusky hair, lingering on all those places that spurred her senses and finally coming to rest on the smooth firm lips that had fascinated her from the first. Her heart hammering in her chest, Cat knew she should not, could not, do what she most desired to do.

Ransom had been ignoring her scrutiny, but finally looked up, and Cat nervously glanced away. But his image remained. She knew his every feature like the back of her hand, and longing welled up in her chest, threatening to choke her.

When the boat came to rest, Cat leapt out and turned to face him.

"Well, lad, this is it," Ransom said, a little too coolly for her taste. "I wish you well," he added perfunctorily. And suddenly Cat knew she must follow through with her scheme.

Despite her nervousness, despite the risk, she reached for her captain, knowing that soon he would be gone from her life forever. She would never have this chance again. Her fingers grasped his shirt, pulling him toward her, and throwing an arm around his neck, she pressed her lips against his for one brief moment.

By the time the astonished man would recover, Cat had already disappeared into Bridgetown.

***

Hot, footsore, and irritable, Cat trudged along the road to her Aunt Amelia’s house, longing for the
Reckless
and questioning the wisdom of her departure.

Her quest had begun well when she received directions to her aunt’s residence from a shopkeeper, but since then she had been dusted by a cart that nearly ran her off the road. And away from the sea breezes, she had begun to feel the island heat in earnest.

With a sigh, Cat took off her hat and rolled up her sleeves, but she dared not remove the vest that helped hide her female curves. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and her skin began to itch under her bindings. What a sight she would present to her aunt. The woman would probably shriek in horror.

Kicking at a pebble, Cat followed its path and wondered just how much farther she would have to walk. But then she rounded a bend in the road and saw a cottage nearly engulfed by gardens.

It was made of stone, the differing shades creating a patchwork on the walls, and its windows were flanked by brightly painted shutters. A neat gravel path wound its way among the profusion of shrubbery and flowers to the stone steps and tall doors.

Was this the place? Cat looked down at the worn cap in her hands and her dirty bare feet. More than a little aware of her ragged appearance and uncertain of her reception, she hesitated to approach the entrance. Then she spied another path leading around the side of the house and followed it to the rear, where a large terrace was surrounded by even more flower beds, overflowing with roses, orchids, and exotic tropical blooms of every description.

Straightening her shoulders, Cat walked under a white trellis covered with trailing honeysuckle, ducking to avoid pots of plants perched here and there on railings and pillars. Her initial trepidation eased as she looked around her, for the house seemed a welcoming one.

She knocked once and waited, then knocked again. The wait seemed interminable, and she took the time to wipe her face with her sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt along her cheek. Just when she began to wonder whether the place was empty, a dusky young woman appeared at the door.

Although the servant tried to shoo her away, Cat insisted upon seeing Amelia Molesworth, and finally, after looking Cat up and down, the girl shrugged her shoulders and let her in. She led Cat down a narrow hall, past several doors, and into a parlor where a small birdlike woman sat writing at a secretary in the corner.

"This boy says he must see you, ma’am."

"What? What’s this, Marie?" The little creature turned, and Cat could see pink cheeks, flyaway white curls, and dismayingly sharp attention focused on her. "Well, young man, what can I do for you?" the woman asked, still holding her pen.

Cat looked pointedly at Marie, hoping her aunt with dismiss the servant. But would a frail gentlewoman care to be left alone with an urchin like her? Cat could only eye her hopefully.

"That’s fine, Marie," Amelia said, rising from her desk and waving away the maid. She walked to where Cat stood, nervously clutching her hat in her hands, and smiled.

"Yes, boy, what is it? Speak up now."

Cat, who towered over the woman, felt big, awkward, and uncertain. "Aunt Amelia, it’s me... Catherine Amberly," she said.

The woman took this pronouncement with equanimity, as if scruffy lads frequently announced themselves to be female relatives, and stepped closer.

"Catherine?" She put a hand to Cat’s face, wiping away a smudge of dirt. Cat looked into warm blue eyes and suddenly found herself weeping in her aunt’s arms.

"There, there, my child. Everything’s all right now," Amelia murmured, gently patting her back until the tears turned to sporadic hiccups. "Little Catherine! I don’t believe it," she said softly, holding Cat back to study her. "How you’ve grown! How old are you now?"

"Sixteen."

"No! I don’t believe it,” she said again. "How the years have flown. Oh, but my poor girl, you look so thin. Let’s get you something to eat."

Relieved that she had not been turned away, Cat sniffed. It was only when she lifted up her arm to automatically wipe her nose with her sleeve that she was reminded of her guise. "Oh, aunt, perhaps a bath would be better first."

Amelia smiled, and in a very short time, Cat was luxuriating in a brass tub filled with piping hot water and trying to choose among a variety of scented soaps. She lathered her entire body with a bar that smelled deliciously of lavender and washed her hair until it squeaked. The water had long since cooled when she finally stepped out to dry herself with beautiful linens.

Marie had laid out one of Amelia’s dressing gowns, which Cat gamely donned, although the sleeves stopped short of her wrists and the hem showed a long stretch of calf. Accustomed as she was to rough seaman’s garb, Cat thought the robe was heavenly. She reveled in the feel of the silky material against her skin and the lemon fragrance that clung to the fabric.

Cat was brushing her hair when Amelia herself brought a tray and placed it on a table flooded with sunshine from the arched window. Taking a seat across from her aunt, Cat was dazzled by the array of fresh food: cheese, cold ham, slices of melon, and huge, soft rolls. She tried not to gobble the meal, but after the ship’s biscuits, the warm rolls, topped with great globs of honeyed butter, tasted like ambrosia.

"You poor dear, you must be starving," Amelia murmured. With a start, Cat looked up, pausing mid-bite as she realized she’d been oblivious to her aunt’s presence. Where had her manners gone? Chagrined, she put down her fork and fidgeted with her napkin.

"Go ahead, dear, eat," Amelia said with a smile of encouragement. "Now, about your clothes... I’ve sent Isaac off to Bridgetown for my dressmaker, Madame Roussard. She does very nice work, and her charges are reasonable."

Amelia’s hands moved restlessly as she spoke. "Perhaps later we shall try Mistress Shaw, who is quite popular with the young ladies and more stylish I suppose. That is, if you are not too tired."

Cat swallowed hard, her brows drawing together.

"Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself, but we simply must get you dressed properly," Amelia said.

Cat eyed her aunt closely, but detected no censure, only pleasure and concern. "I’m not tired, and I don’t mind you calling for the dressmaker," she said. "Of course, I must have some new clothes, but I don’t expect you to pay for them. I have some money of my own."

Amelia waved away the offer. "My Horace left me quite comfortable, and I can certainly take care of my niece. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about such matters."

With that admonishment, she reached over to squeeze Cat’s hand. "I’m just glad you are here," she said. "Now, you finish eating and tell me everything."

Truly comfortable, well-fed, and clean for the first time in a long while, Cat sat back to tell her tale to the astonished Amelia, who was soon pale with shock as Cat related her harrowing experience at the hands of Edward and her sudden flight from Wellshire.