Caution to the Wind (30 page)

“I have the one you gave to me yesterday.”

“Yes, and it didn’t fit you very well,” he said, unable to avoid casting a glance at the shadow of her breasts under the soft fabric of her shift.

He remembered the gentle curves straining against fine green silk. He could still feel the memory of her puckered nipple brushing the palm of his hand, see the desire shimmering in her green eyes. What a difference a few glasses of wine made. He eyed her puffy lids, wondering if she could see anything through the small slits above her freckled cheeks. Disheveled, stubborn, and cross—certainly not at her best—she still affected him. Fortunately, his long waistcoat hid much of his body’s reaction.

“I thought it fit fine,” she said with a small pout, crossing her arms in front of her.

“It barely covered you.”

A blush crept up her cheeks, and she averted her gaze.

Why didn’t she want to go into town? Most women loved shopping, didn’t they? Then again, Amanda had already proven herself to be unlike any other woman of his acquaintance.

Will watched her stumble out of his bed, wondering what it would take to make her happy. A few days ago, when he knew her as Adam, he thought he understood her. Now, he realized he didn’t know her at all. He would gladly spend the rest of his life learning what pleased her, but at this moment, she represented a mystery deeper than any sea he had sailed.

He pulled out his chair and motioned for her to take a seat.

Amanda drew the quilt about her shoulders, and, giving him a dubious look, padded across the room on bare feet.

She lowered herself to the chair, then her slender arm shot out from beneath the protective quilt and snatched the coffee cup. She took a tentative sip, grimaced, then drained half the cup before setting it down again. Next, she picked up the fork and stared at the eggs. Poking the yolk, she frowned at the bright yellow goo that oozed across her plate.

Perhaps he should have cooked them longer.

But whether she liked the way he prepared her eggs or not, she needed to eat something in order to have the energy to go shopping and to kick off the dreadful headache she was sure to have after last night. He was about to suggest she just eat the toast when she surprised him by taking a small bite of the eggs.

Will hunkered down to wait. Leaning against the wall, he crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and folded his arms across his chest. Amanda cast a frown that said she resented his being in the room, or possibly just resented him altogether. She probably thought he lingered to monitor her progress with breakfast. Partially true, his thoughts were also occupied with a review of his carefully laid plans for the day.

Even if she didn’t like shopping, he did want to buy her a new dress. Actually, he wanted to buy her whole wardrobe. If he never saw her again in sailor’s duds, that would suit him fine. But more than that, he wanted to set things right between them.

Last night, turning in his temporary hammock like a ship caught in a whirlpool, he had resolved to begin anew with his “options” proposal. Maybe an afternoon spent shopping would afford him an opportunity to speak more plainly. A leisurely afternoon ashore, browsing through—
women’s things
—whatever that included, might relax Amanda, make her more receptive to his proposal.

Lying awake in the long, quiet hours just before dawn, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the ship’s hull and trying to unravel exactly where he had gone wrong, it occurred to him that he had not included marriage, not to him at least, among her options.

When he said she could live comfortably for the rest of her life, he had been astonished at her assumptions. He thought she understood she need not rely on anyone, ever again—unless she wanted to, of course. That she would think him capable of offering to make her his mistress had pained him—no, insulted him, to the core.

However, replaying his proposal for the hundredth time, he realized that any woman might make the same mistake. That would be especially true of a woman in the process of being ravished. Well, not exactly ravished, he amended, since she had certainly been doing her part. But if she only knew how much effort he had put into maintaining his composure, she would never have accused him of wanting her for physical pleasures alone.

He gave up on sleep just as dawn filtered through the windows, bringing with it the calls of hungry gulls and eager merchants, and made plans to take her dress shopping. While he left her in the hands of a saleswoman with strict orders to dress her from head to toe, letting her choose whatever she wanted—so long as it didn’t include trousers or duck cloth, he would find a jeweler to craft a necklace. It would be a peace offering, and hopefully, a betrothal gift.

He watched Amanda polish off the two eggs and half the toast. She was made of strong stuff. He just hoped she kept it down all the while they were in town.

“That’s my girl.” He removed the plate in front of her. He reached to pick up her cup, but she snatched it away.

“You can have more of that once you’re dressed,” he said, prying it from her reluctant fingers.

Amanda stood and looked about. “Where are my clothes?”

Her dress lay over the chair behind her, her undergarments piled on the floor beside it.

“In the gut of a whale by now if we’re lucky,” he replied, knowing to which clothes she referred. “Wear the dress again.”

The dress would be a little formal for Baltimore, but if anyone noticed her, they might easily assume Amanda to be a wealthy foreigner. Her short blonde curls were of a style that a libertine French woman might favor. Certainly the green satin gown, with its lace trimmed bodice that covered her breasts only enough to avoid indecency looked worthy of a French woman.

Will scowled at the gown that lay draped so decadently across the back of his chair. With any luck, the first shop they visited would have a shawl she fancied.

****

“I don’t need anything except my old clothes,” Amanda protested.

They left the cool confines of Miss Francine’s dress shop, an establishment that catered to the more prudish among the well-to-do matrons of Baltimore, and stepped onto the narrow wooden walkway. In many ways a provincial town, Baltimore couldn’t boast of many fashionable dress shops, and even fewer with readymade clothing that wasn’t second hand or tawdry. It would take some extra coin to ensure Amanda’s wardrobe would be delivered by the time they weighed anchor the day after tomorrow. If only she would agree to be reasonable and allow herself to be fitted.

The saleswoman at Miss Francine’s had seemed relieved when they left, even though they departed empty handed. Perhaps she hadn’t relished the thought of trying to take the measurements of a woman whose crossed arms appeared glued to her chest.

“I threw your old clothes overboard, remember?” Will said.

Amanda took the arm he offered. Instead of strolling sedately down the street, looking in shop windows, he pinned her hand to his sleeve and strode so she had to walk double time to keep up. He cringed when she cursed her tangled skirts in words she could only have learned aboard his ship.

“Well, then, buy me some new ones if you must, but buy me something that doesn’t compel me to fear for my life.” She yanked on his arm, obliging him to stop so she could tug her skirt free from her ankles.

“On the other hand, I suppose there is a benefit to all these layers,” she said, in a saccharine voice. “If we should have to abandon ship, I will be mercifully saved from a slow death by pounds of petticoats dragging me to the bottom of the Atlantic.”

Will ignored her sarcastic remarks and looked over his shoulder for the tenth time in as many minutes. More than just his eagerness to clothe her in something more modest than the gown she currently wore had him dragging her alongside him at such a brisk pace. Some blocks back, he had noticed a man trailing them at a discreet distance.

Will tested his theory by extending the gap between them, rounding a few corners and then slowing to a more moderate pace. After traversing a few steps, he turned to see the man standing less than a block away, perusing loaves of bread through the window of a bakery. He glanced up, caught Will’s eye, then let his gaze drop.

Amanda grew more vociferous, extolling the merits of a pair of duck cloth trousers, oblivious to Will’s inattentiveness or the old man following them.

Who could he be?

The man appeared elderly, bordering on old, yet he had no difficulty keeping up with them. Despite Amanda’s trouble with her skirts, they set a pace that would have left any man unused to physical exertion gasping for breath.

Aside from the uncomfortable feeling of being followed, Will didn’t sense any malice from the man. Nothing of the criminal sort anyway. A man intent on doing them harm would lie in wait in one of the many dark alleys between buildings. Even that wouldn’t be sufficient since Will could easily overpower the old man. He glanced over his shoulder at the man’s bent back and shuffling feet. Hell, Amanda could overpower him.

Then why were they being followed?

Lawyer perhaps? The news had come that morning that the admiralty court had certified his latest prize. Now it was simply a matter of public auction. Could one of the ship’s owners be fighting the court’s decision?

Amanda stumbled when Will stopped abruptly in front of a small coffee shop, “How about some refreshments?”

“Oh, thank heavens!” she said between dramatic gasps for air.

Will ignored her exaggerated attempts to needle him and directed her ahead of him into the shop.

He settled her at a small table and ordered coffee for her, a small beer for himself, and a plate of sandwiches, all the while keeping an eye out for the stranger.

He didn’t see the old man pass by the front of the shop, but Will sensed his presence. It was like knowing a ship sailed just beyond the horizon, but not being near enough to know whether it was friend or foe.

In all likelihood, their pursuer—if you could call him that—lurked in one of the dark alleys across the street, watching the coffee shop and waiting for them to exit the public place. Will would need to abandon Amanda in the relative safety of the shop while he confronted the man in the street.

He opened his mouth to give Amanda an excuse for leaving her by herself, when the bell over the door tinkled softly. The stranger stepped inside, his intent gaze on Amanda but ignoring Will.

The chatter in the coffee shop dimmed, and the background faded, until Will saw naught but the old man staring at Amanda. Beneath his coat, the muscles in Will’s shoulders clenched from his instinct to protect her.

Amanda looked up from her coffee and turned her head to see what had captured Will’s attention.

“Father!” she gasped.

In a flurry of satin skirts, she flew from her chair and into the old man’s arms, oblivious to the gawking of the establishment’s other patrons. Amanda embraced the older man with a familiarity that spoke volumes about her relationship with the stranger, and her affection for him.

Father
.

But how could that be? Amanda and Neil had both told him, with utmost surety, that their father had died in the war more than two years ago. He hadn’t pressed for details, not wanting to open painful memories for either of them. Now, he wished he had. Perhaps they only assumed their father had died.

With a poorly funded Continental Army and harsh conditions, deserters were legion. But unless someone actually saw a man run during battle, it could be difficult to separate the deserters from the dead. Amanda might even have received word from his regiment. Will had heard of several cases where the military declared a man dead only for him to resurface some years later, often when he ran out of money. Had Amanda’s father somehow heard about her service aboard his ship and the small fortune she had amassed?

Amanda grasped her father’s gnarled hands and gazed into his weathered face, a face that featured eyes as watery his daughter’s.

Will cleared his throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Father,” said Amanda. “May I introduce you to Captain Stoakes. Captain, this is my father, Joseph Blakely.” She whispered his name as if saying it louder would jinx her good fortune, making her father disappear in a puff of smoke.

Mr. Blakely tore his gaze from his daughter. “Continental Navy, sir?”

“No, sir. Privateer.”

“Well, that is splendid.” Blakely grasped Will’s hand and pumped it with more enthusiasm than could be expected from the elderly. “I understand we owe a great debt to those who ply the seas and harass the damned English supply ships.” He turned to Amanda. “My apologies for my vulgar language, my dear. I’m afraid I have been with the army so long that my manners have become a bit rough.”

Amanda accepted her father’s apology with a demure smile, and Will coughed to cover his amusement. If her father could have heard her swearing at her skirts just a moment ago, he would have blushed!

Will invited Mr. Blakely to join them for coffee. He wasn’t ready to trust the man yet, and it wouldn’t hurt to question him while they took their refreshment. Besides, Amanda still held her father’s hand in an anchoring grip, and it didn’t look like she would be casting off anytime soon.

Over the next several minutes, Mr. Blakely wove a plausible tale of how he had been injured in battle. In the fit of a fever that lasted for days, he had been separated from his regiment. The fever had left him somewhat addled in the brain and unsure of which memories were real and which were a result of his illness.

He spent the next couple of years in an army convalescent home, of little use to anyone. He couldn’t go back to the army. They had no need for a soldier who didn’t quite have his wits about him. He couldn’t go home because he couldn’t recall where home was. It had been a stressful two years, seemingly forgotten by both the army and the family he wasn’t even sure he had.

Eventually, small flashes of memory became hazy recollections. Through murky images of events past, he recalled having a daughter and a son waiting for him. It took him several more weeks to recall the location of his farm, but once he did, neither Hell’s hounds nor the British could prevent him from returning.