An Improper Proposal (29 page)

Payton wasn’t particularly surprised when she heard that the[* *]ship that appeared on the horizon the morning after her and Drake’s—well, tryst was really the only way to describe it—was a Tyler and Tyler ship. Having spotted it well before the man in the crow’s nest, she’d spent most of the morning harboring hopes that it might be a Dixon clipper, her brothers finally coming to rescue her.

But subsequent reports down to the galley revealed she’d have no such luck. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a Tyler ship. What’s more, it was expected. Sir Marcus Tyler had been scheduled to meet up with the
Rebecca
as soon as it entered Bahamian waters. While disappointed on one front—it would have made things considerably simpler if it had been a Dixon ship—Payton was pleased to learn that at least they were near land. Now she could start making preparations for her escape with Drake.

In the after cabin, she’d noticed while delivering the[* *]captain and his lady their breakfast that morning, preparations of a different kind were under way.

“I can’t stand it,” she had overheard Becky complain to the captain. “I’ve got to go back to bed.”

“Now, darling,” Lucien La Fond had replied. He had neglected to close the door to the sitting room all the way, and so their conversation was easily overheard by anyone in the outer room. “You know Jenkins said the fresh air would do you some good.”

“Oh, what does Jenkins know? The man’s useless. I can’t believe you’re making me get up to meet him. You know he’s only going to shout at you, when he learns Drake and I aren’t wed.”

“Shout at me, dearest?” The Frenchman still spoke tenderly. “But you know I’m not the one who spoiled everything.”

“No, but you’re the one who sent those stupid men to attack the
Constant
before the vows were spoken.”

“Well, how was I to know the wedding hadn’t taken place? You were supposed to be leaving for your honeymoon. Nobody leaves for their honeymoon without getting married first. It’s a rather important part of the process.”

“I’ve told you a million times. It wasn’t my fault. It was that damned Dixon bitch.”

Payton nearly burst out with an indignant exclamation at that point. She only managed to restrain herself by reflecting that she’d referred to Miss Whitby in much harsher terms, upon occasion.

“Yes, yes, I know.” La Fond spoke as if the subject had been discussed so many times, it now bored him. “The truth of the matter is, darling, it’s his fault.”

Becky’s sigh was audible even as far away as Payton stood. “I suppose you’re right. He oughtn’t to have risked coming to Daring Park himself. I don’t care if he didn’t trust anyone else to do it. That was pure idiocy on his part.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean if he would just learn to keep you out of his bloody schemes, I wouldn’t have cause to worry so about you. It was only because I couldn’t bear to think what might be happening on that damned ship that I sent the
Mary B
too soon.”

“But darling, you know me.” Becky’s tone was distinctly flirtatious, especially for a woman who’d so recently been complaining of illness. “You know I wouldn’t have allowed that man to touch me.”

“Do I?” The Frenchman sounded a bit aloof. “The same certainly couldn’t be said of his brother, now, could it?”

“But I had to with Richard, silly.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want you to have to with any man but me.”

“Well, you certainly made that perfectly clear.”

The Frenchman sounded indignant. “I made it look accidental, didn’t I? The way he asked.”

“Papa asked that it look accidental. He didn’t mention that it needed to be so bloody.”

Papa? Payton paused while filling a dish with jam. Who’s Papa?

“Now that,” La Fond said, “wasn’t my fault, either. He was already dead by the time those horses dragged him through that briar patch. The surgeon said so.”

Becky laughed. “Was that the same surgeon who said Sir Richard died from a blow to the head from a low-hanging bough while out riding? Oh, I certainly have a lot of faith in his medical abilities.”

“All I’m saying, Rebecca, is that if you didn’t let him use you the way he does—”

“But darling, you know Papa’s ideas always turn out all right in the end.”

“Well, this one certainly didn’t.”

“All the more reason for you to be the one to tell him—” This bickering went on until the very moment Sir Marcus’s ship, the
Nassau Queen
, pulled up alongside the
Rebecca
, and a plank was placed between the two boats. Payton wasn’t certain who the ‘he’ in their conversation connoted. Was it Sir Marcus? Or was it Miss Whitby’s father? And who was the Richard she’d referred to? Surely it couldn’t be anyone but Drake’s brother, whom Miss Whitby had fingered as the father of her unborn child. How had the Frenchman known so much about Richard Drake’s fatal riding accident?

It was all very confusing. Payton longed to slip below and ask Drake if he could make anything out of it. Unfortunately, she was kept far too busy to find any opportunity to escape her duties. The mood on the
Rebecca
was one of revelry: the arrival of the
Nassau Queen
meant the arrival of fresh supplies, of food and bedding and most importantly of all, rum. The crew never obeyed their orders with more alacrity than on that day, when the
Nassau Queen
‘s flag was first spotted. Payton was going to have to wait, perhaps until darkness fell, and the rum was flowing freely, before she’d be able to slip away to see Drake.

It wasn’t until she and Jonesy, with whom she’d established the shakiest of alliances, had been banished below, with orders to mop up a spill from a cask of molasses that had been brought over from the
Nassau Queen
, that Payton got her first look at Sir Marcus. Payton was nearly ankle-deep in the sticky stuff when, suddenly, the hatch over their heads lifted. Thinking it was some sort of surprise inspection by Clarence, both Payton and Jonesy sprang to attention only to see that it was Sir Marcus, and not the cook at all.

But Sir Marcus as Payton had never seen him before. There was a murderous glint in his eye as he strode past them and headed straight for the place where Tito stood, guarding the door to Drake’s cell.

“Open it!” Sir Marcus bellowed at the hapless Tito, who, along with the rest of the crew, had been innocently gnawing on a chunk of salt pork, which had been handed out immediately in an attempt to placate the men’s rumbling bellies until Clarence could assemble a proper meal from the
Nassau Queen
‘s donations.

Tito rose hastily, and fumbled at his keys. He was clearly hung over from last night’s carouse, and had been feeling quite sorry for himself all day. What he needed, Payton had decided, was a little hair of the dog, and she’d already resolved to secure him another bottle, if only because tonight, she fully intended to liberate him of all his keys, and make her getaway with Drake.

As Tito hastened to unlock the door to the brig, more footsteps sounded above their heads, and soon Becky Whitby was tripping down the steps, her high heels clacking.

“Papa,” she was saying, in a wheedling sort of voice. “It wasn’t Lucien’s fault. You know how jealous he gets. Really, if anyone is to blame, it’s you. How could you have been so stupid as to show up at Daring Park that morning? Of course you were recognized!”

Payton, watching from the shadows, thought, Papa? But Sir Marcus doesn’t have any children. Sir Marcus, to her certain knowledge, had never even been married. She imagined he was going to have something to say about Becky Whitby claiming him as her kin. She’d once seen Sir Marcus wave a pistol in the face of a man simply because he refused to move out of his way. How was he going to react to this lunatic woman calling hi m papa?

Sir Marcus Tyler was not an old man, like Payton’s father. He was probably only in his late forties, and was still quite handsome, tail and well-built, with only the slightest bit of gray at his temples. The rest of his hair was very dark and thick, and curled over the edge of his high shirt collar with deceptively casual elegance. In his own way, he appeared to be as fashion-conscious as Lucien La Fond.

What he was not, however, was a very even-tempered man. He turned to bellow at Miss Whitby, “Don’t you dare accuse me of bungling this! If anyone here is a bungler, it’s that thick-headed fool you keep defending. ‘It’s not his fault.’” Sir Marcus imitated Miss Whitby cruelly. “‘It’s not his fault.’ Of course it’s his fault! If he’d only bided his time, and not attacked so soon, you’d be Lady Drake now!”

Good Lord! He hadn’t denied it! Becky Whitby was Marcus Tyler’s daughter!

No wonder Marcus Tyler had Lucien La Fond, the fiercest pirate in the South Seas, in his pocket: he was his daughter’s paramour!

“No, I wouldn’t.” Becky trotted down the steep steps, rather nimbly, Payton thought, for a woman in her condition. Her father’s rage, while it clearly frightened her, was not going to sway her from her purpose. “I was never going to be Lady Drake, Papa. I’m telling you, he sussed it out. I don’t know how, but he’d figured it out, even before the Dixon bitch said anything about seeing you—”

Sir Marcus was ignoring his daughter. “Open that door,” he bellowed at the unfortunate Tito.

“I’m tryin’, sir,” Tito whimpered, in a surprisingly small voice for so large a man. “I’m tryin’!”

“I was never going to be Lady Drake,” Miss Whitby insisted, striding up to her father. Payton, used to the meek, easily frightened Miss Whitby who’d once come to her bedroom and begged her to kill a spider she’d found in her chamber pot, could hardly believe the two were one and the same. This Miss Whitby seemed quite fearless. “Do you hear? Drake knew, I don’t know how, but he knew there was something … not right about me and Richard. Don’t blame Lucien. It was your fault, not his.”

To Payton’s great astonishment, Sir Marcus wheeled around and backhanded his daughter across the face. Becky let out a cry and fell to the floor, her thick red curls tumbling over her face. Without thinking, Payton stepped forward, intending to come to the older girl’s aid. A hand on her arm stopped her. Looking back, she saw Jonesy’s quick head shake. Apparently, he’d witnessed these father-daughter scuffles before. Even a blockhead like Jonesy knew enough to know it was a bad idea to get involved.

A second later, Becky was on her feet again. Except for the bright rod spot on her cheek, one would never have known she’d just been struck with enough force to set her teeth rattling. Could this blazing-eyed beauty be the same girl whom Payton’s brothers had stumbled over themselves in an effort to rescue a few months earlier? She looked as if she needed rescuing about as much as … well, as Payton did.

“I tell you,” Becky shouted, “it isn’t Lucien’s fault!”

Tito had Drake’s cell door open by that time. Sir Marcus, with one last disgusted look at his daughter, turned and disappeared into the brig. Becky, after glaring at his back for a few seconds, whirled around and stormed up the steep steps to the deck, shouting “Lucien!” at the top of her lungs. As she passed over their heads, Payton noticed Jonesy had craned his neck[*
]to look up at the furious girl. Following his gaze, she saw that it was possible to see straight up the[
]woman’s skirts through the open spaces between the steps. Jonesy was staring, open[
-*]mouthed, at the tantalizing glimpses of thigh Becky revealed[* *]with each angry footfall.

A second later, the boy was hopping up and down, clutching[* *]his arm in pain from Payton’s pinch. “Ow!” he cried. “What’ud ye go an’ do that fer?”

Payton narrowed her eyes at him. “It isn’t polite to stare,” she said.

Jonesy glared at her. “I swear, ’Ill,” he declared. “Sometimes I fink you’re nofink but a bloody girl
.”

She glared right back. “Really? Then I don’t suppose you’ll mind cleaning up this lot by yourself, and let me enjoy my leisure, like a lady.”

She thrust her mop at him and stalked away, leaving Jonesy to mutter darkly behind her. She didn’t pay him any mind. All of her concentration was centered on what was going on inside the brig, beyond that half-open door.

And she wasn’t the only one interested, either. Tito, who in[*
]spite of his hangover was still grateful to her for the bottle she’d given him the day before, moved some of his bulk in order to allow her nearer the crack in the door, through which he[
*]was peering with almost as much interest as she was.

Only she rather doubted that, as he peered, Tito was utter
ing[* *]the same silent prayer that she was.

Please, God, she prayed. Don’t let Drake die today. Please. I’m begging you. If you have to take someone, take me, instead.

Then she had a better idea.

Or better yet, take Miss Whitby!

When Sir Marcus Tyler, ducking his head in order to avoid striking it on the low door frame, came striding into Drake’s cell, the prisoner greeted him with a laconic, “Ah, Sir Marcus, at last. How nice. I’ve been expecting you, you know.”

If Sir Marcus was taken aback by this genial greeting, he was further astounded by the prisoner’s casual comment. “I’d offer you a chair, sir, but as you can see, there isn’t one. I have found that this floor, however, is not as uncomfortable as it looks. Feel free to join me upon it, if you like.”

Sir Marcus had been grinning when he’d entered the cell. That grin had faded somewhat upon Drake’s nonchalant greeting. How a man chained to a wail—particularly a man like Connor Drake, who had spent so much of his life in the open air—could be so calm, Sir Marcus couldn’t fathom. It angered him, Drake’s calm, as much as his daughter and her lover’s foolishness had angered him. He brought back a foot and kicked one of the legs sprawled out before him, and none too gently, either.

“Get up,” Sir Marcus hissed. “Stand up, Drake. You might think this nothing but a great joke, but I assure you, it is serious. Deadly serious.”

Drake did not, at first, look inclined to stand. But then, after a moment’s consideration, he climbed to his bare feet. And it was then that Sir Marcus realized his error. He ought to have let the prisoner lounge upon the floor. Because that was the only position in which he would have the advantage. Connor Drake, even without his boots, stood taller than the older man by a good inch or two.