A Pirate's Wife for Me (32 page)

God, he loved her spirit. "You have a bit of a pirate in you." He stalked her. "As my wife, the jewels you recover are yours."

"Because if I find the jewels, I must want to steal them? I think not, sir! They are the queen's."

"The queen will be generous."

Cate's eyes stripped him to the bone. "You, sir, are a mixture of wicked pirate and noble prince. I can't decide which is real."

They were skating dangerously close to the truth.

Was that a bad thing? She might be — would be — furious to discover he was the prince, but it would explain much. Furthermore, she seemed unlikely to pull a pistol and shoot him again. Not here. Not now. "Why can't they both be real?"

She straightened her collar, her cuffs, her apron. "I have met the pirate. He slept in my bed last night, and was every bit as wicked as a woman might hope. But never have I truly met the prince." With a swish of her skirt, she was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Taran stared at the closed door.
With Cate's departure, a remnant of good sense returned to him.

What was he thinking?

He had convinced Cate to stay here, in this place where treachery lurked in every shadow, where old resentments shimmered like oil in a heated frying pan and a battle waited to be fought.

She had been ready to leave, and he had coerced, coaxed,
bribed
her until she agreed to stay. Here. In Cenorina. In deep and grave danger. What kind of man was he, who kept his wife by his side rather than sending her to …

Well. He could tell himself he had convinced her to stay because she wanted to go on another mission for Throckmorton. She would be in danger there, too. But it would take time for Throckmorton to find her another assignment, and by that time, Taran would have won his battle and fetched her back to Cenorina, or he would be dead and she would be a wealthy widow.

He couldn't lie to himself. He wanted her with him because every morning he wanted to wake in her bed, look into her eyes and know she loved him, no matter how unworthy he was of such devotion. Every night, he wanted to lie down with her and make love to her while lightning flashed in exultation of her pleasure, and of his.

She gave him strength.

He had meant what he said that morning — he trusted her competence … and he needed her at his side.

Yet he should have let her go.

What was he thinking?

What was she thinking?

Cate strode down the corridor toward the gallery, taking long strides, trying to work off her frustration without flinging herself on the floor, screaming and kicking.

But she had spent the night in ecstasy, with no sleep.

She had worked all day to establish her authority over a sometimes lazy and always wary staff.

She had discovered the very papers she had been sent here to find.

She should be triumphant. She should be preparing to go back to England and on to another mission.

Instead, she had somehow allowed Taran to persuade her to stay and search for the crown jewels.

She didn't care about the crown jewels.

She didn't care about Cenorina's poverty.

She didn't care whether these surly, standoffish servants were freed from their yoke of oppression.

So why had she agreed?

Because she did care — about Cenorina, its people, its queen, its struggle to overthrow Sir Davies, and most of all, about Taran.

About Taran! Her lousy, rotten, conveniently disappearing, tortured, broken, sometimes charming and always good-in-bed husband.

Why did she care? When had all her righteous anger turned to this maudlin puddle of love?

She wanted to think it was merely the pure physical passion.

But she knew better. This morning, his story of how he had survived those years on the pirate ship had changed forever her opinion of his character. He wasn't merely Taran, boyish betrayer of Caitlin and the wedding vows they had taken. He was a man, a leader: dishonorable, without pity or compassion. He didn't even love her.

She couldn't lie to herself. It was her fault she remained in this situation. Her fault. Her fault.
Her fault.

She descended the wide stairs in a froth of rage, but proud of her maturity. Why, she was hardly stomping at all.

What a fool she was to linger in this place. To imagine a life with Taran. To want to help him in his quest.

She looked around the entry: worn, dusty, musty, in need of more care than the current staff could or would give it.

Foolish? She wasn't foolish. She was an
idiot
.

She should leave now. Right now! Out that front door. That front door … that was wide open.

She walked toward it, intending to vent a little of her fury with a good kick. She was halfway across the entry when she heard a mouse-like squeak in the library, then a young woman's frightened voice pleading softly for … something.

Cate did not like the sound of that. She did not like it at all. She moved purposefully in that direction, looked into the library — and there was Gracia, struggling in the arms of a big, burly, unshaven beast of a soldier while another soldier wandered through the room, whisky glass in hand, examining the knick-knacks.

Gracia's brother, Gillies, was stretched unconscious on the floor.

Mercenaries. No doubt about it. Cate faced a situation, one that required immediate action.

She welcomed the challenge.

As Blowfish had taught her, she surveyed the room for weapons. A five-foot tall, sculpted iron candle stand stood beside one of the leather chairs.

Yes. That would do nicely.

She indulged her temper by slamming both library doors all the way open.

The soldiers looked up in surprise, then insolent as only big, brutal men could be, they looked her over.

Cate saw the tears in Gracia's eyes, and in a crisp and authoritarian tone, she said, "Unhand that young woman."

The one holding the whisky rudely laughed.

The one holding Gracia sneered. "Wait your turn, my pretty."

"I am not
your pretty."
Cate advanced into the room, intent on establishing her authority. She planted her feet beside the candle stand and said, "I am the housekeeper at Giraud, I'm responsible for the staff, and I do not allow thieves and rapists to roam where they will."

The one with the whisky examined a jeweled dagger on a stand, then slipped it in his pocket.

In an even sharper tone, she snapped, "Put that back!"

He jumped.

The one who groped Gracia pushed the girl aside.

Gracia stumbled and tugged her bodice together.

That
bastard
. Cate flushed with an even sharper jab of rage.

Gracia fled toward her brother. She knelt beside him and leaned her head on his chest, gave a sob, and grabbed him under his arms. Grunting with the effort, she began dragging him toward the wall, away from the confrontation.

The bully of a mercenary headed toward Cate, head down, scowl in place.

She pulled the candle free from the point that held it in place. Taking the candle stand in both hands, she pointed it like a lance at the advancing soldier. She narrowed her eyes, gave vent to her rage with a deep-throated roar, and charged.

Blowfish had instructed her that surprise was the best attack.

The soldier
was
surprised. At the sight of the incensed Valkyrie, he backpedaled, his arms flailing.

She shouted again, and chased him in a straight line toward the broad window. She hit him. The point stuck in his leather jerkin. His shoulders hit the glass. He fell backward. Dozens of diamond shaped panes of glass exploded out behind him.

He shrieked.

He flailed.

He fell ten feet to the ground.

He landed with a satisfying thump that forcibly drove the air from his body. He gasped. And moaned.

She mused, "I feel better already. " She faced the thief of a solder. She pointed her makeshift spear at him.

He looked into her furious eyes. He pulled the pilfered jeweled dagger out of his pocket, flung it aside, sprinted out of the room and the open front door.

She paced after him, absolutely livid that one man thought he could take advantage of her serving girl, and that the other thought he could steal from
her,
from the place where she was
in charge
. When she got to the outer door, she lifted her foot and kicked it shut. She stood, breathing hard, wanting to do more, cause more mayhem, fight more battles… Then she heard the soft, sobbing intake of a frightened girl's breath. Cate turned and saw Gracia crouched over her brother's prone body.

Abruptly, Cate banished temper with the brisk efficiency she had learned in a hard and lonely school. Placing the candle stand in its place, she went to Gracia's side. She knelt beside the girl and her brother, pressed her fingers to Gillies's neck, and felt the strong heartbeat. She nodded. "He's alive."

"Thank God." Gracia buried her face in her hands and cried.

He stirred, opened his eyes, looked around in alarm, tried to raise himself onto his elbow.

Cate pressed her hand to his shoulder. "Stay down." Lifting her voice, she called, "I need help!"

At once, a dozen servants surrounded her.

"Take him to a bed," she said.

Two footmen helped him to his feet, and with his arms around their shoulders, walked him toward the stairs.

Cate embraced Gracia. "How are you? Did that beast hurt you?"

The girl was trembling, but she shook her head
no
. "He tried… he wanted to… but you stopped him." Gracia pressed her face into Cate's shoulder.

"I promise you, while I am in charge, such an outrage will never occur again." She hugged Gracia tighter and rose to her feet, lifting the girl with her. She swept her gaze over the assembled staff. "Who were these men? What were they doing here?"

The men and women glanced at each other, then Harkness stepped forward. "Volker and Stein. The mercenaries who man the fortress protecting the harbor come once a week to collect their meals. Cook provides them, but each time, they grow more bold. We knew something like this would happen. That's why we work in groups. But we didn't realize … we didn't know … they weren't supposed to come until tomorrow."

"Were you going to do nothing?" Cate demanded in outrage.

Zelle straightened her shoulders. "I was making a plan to distract them, but you … you came and—"

Harkness said, "We were going to save the two young people, but not impetuously!"

Cate's ire calmed. "I see."

The huge iron knocker hit the front door with a boom that shook the frame.

Everyone jumped.

Cate put Gracia away from her. "They have returned. And this time, they will be angry."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Cate strode toward the door.
Belated caution was overtaking her rage. But she'd started this. She had to finish it.

Behind her, Signor Marino said, "Wait!" He stood at the end of the corridor leading to the kitchen, holding a large wooden box. The scullery maid and the rotisserie boy stood behind him, holding smaller boxes. "I have their meals." He walked toward her. "And I have your back."

She looked around.

The staff — her staff — was gathering close to her, unified by her actions.

She nodded at them, acknowledging their support, and indicated to the footmen that they should open both doors.

They did.

With blood streaming from the cuts on his face and hands, his left arm twisted at an awkward angle, and his eyes red-rimmed and ferocious, Volker was a fearsome sight. He waved his well-honed dagger around at the assembled servants, then extended his right arm and pointed at her. "Bitch. I'm going to kill you." His voice sounded deeper than before, and with his hairy, hulking shoulders and his small black eyes, he resembled a rabid bear.

Stein held his sword and his pistol at the ready, and he grinned nastily, brave enough with his friend at his side.

"No, you will not." She looked him in the eyes and spoke with the full, firm strength of her authority. "We have the food for you to take back to the fortress." She stepped back to allow Signor Marino to walk out and place the box on the porch.

"You're not going to pretend this" — Volker gestured at his arm — "didn't happen. You're not going to get away with this."

"Indeed not," Cate said crisply. "This outrage on your part most definitely did happen, and because of your actions, you are banned from the house. In the future, you will come to the kitchen door and wait outside while Cook assembles your meals."