was at Windsong; Papa was dead. She was unbearably saddened.
She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over her and helping her with her meal. She recalled the white-whiskered physician, probing her body and taking her pulse. She recalled drinking tea laced with laudanum, and she thought that perhaps she had done so several times.
Amanda glanced carefully around the room, now remembering two small children, a dark-haired boy and a golden-haired girl. But she was alone now. Had they been figments of her imagination or a part of a strange dream? Or had she really met de Warenneâs children? One of them was a prince or a princess, if the rumors were true.
De Warenne . He had been at the hanging, not allowing her to witness her fatherâs gruesome death. Had he really held her in his arms so protectively? Had that been a dream, too? Amanda was confused. Her memory was faded and torn and it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not.
But as sad as she wasâwhenever she thought about Papa, a wave of grief washed over herâshe did feel slightly better. For one, she didnât feel so bruised and battered. And she was having a hunger pang.
To test her theories, Amanda sat up, stretching. Her legs did not protest, her stomach growled and the room remained surprisingly level.
She flung the bedcover aside and paused. Dear Lord, she had been sleeping in a bed fit for a queen. The covers were silk, the comforter down. The draperies matched the wall fabric; in fact, everything matched and was either silk, satin, velvet or brocade.
She had known de Warenne was rich, of course, but she hadnât imagined him living like this. Then, she hadnât ever been in a rich royal personâs home before, either.
She got up, aware of how pleasant the fine cotton was on her body. As she went to the draperies, she passed a huge mirror, the guilded frame carved in swirls and rosettes. She glimpsed her reflection and paused.
It was like looking at a stranger.
A pretty and terribly feminine woman stood there in the glass, beautifully dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown, her pale hair spilling past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The womanâs face had bright, wide green eyes with long, thick lashes, strangely dark, like her eyebrows. She was slightly flushed, her skin sun-kissed, and she had full, pink lips. Her shoulders and arms were entirely bare. If there was any criticism, it might be that her shoulders were a bit broad, hinting at unfeminine strength. But that was hard to notice, because of the way the cotton nightgown draped over her breasts. Small lace straps held the bodice up, but it was low-cut, with tiny gathers just below the straps. Amanda realized she was blushing as she regarded herself.
She didnât look like a pirateâs daughter; she looked like a well-born woman.
Shaken, she turned away, quickly opening up the draperies. It was well past middayâthe sun was high and bright, but moving into the west. Her bedroom overlooked the harbor and the second thing she saw was her favorite ship, the Fair Lady . Her hull was painted black and red. Although she was only fifth rate, her standing rigging was a sight to behold and Amanda thrilled at the complexity of it. How many times had she watched de Warenne on his quarterdeck, his men hoisting sail as the frigate began to leave her berth? How many times had she watched the beautiful Fair Lady begin to increase her speed, making sail, her canvas filling? Sometimes she had watched the ship from one of the gun towers ringing the harbor, as it streaked away from shore, heading out to sea, until finally she became a dot, vanishing as if into eternity. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to sail on such a ship, running before the freshest wind?
And then Amanda saw her namesake.
Fort Charles was
She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over her and helping her with her meal. She recalled the white-whiskered physician, probing her body and taking her pulse. She recalled drinking tea laced with laudanum, and she thought that perhaps she had done so several times.
Amanda glanced carefully around the room, now remembering two small children, a dark-haired boy and a golden-haired girl. But she was alone now. Had they been figments of her imagination or a part of a strange dream? Or had she really met de Warenneâs children? One of them was a prince or a princess, if the rumors were true.
De Warenne . He had been at the hanging, not allowing her to witness her fatherâs gruesome death. Had he really held her in his arms so protectively? Had that been a dream, too? Amanda was confused. Her memory was faded and torn and it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not.
But as sad as she wasâwhenever she thought about Papa, a wave of grief washed over herâshe did feel slightly better. For one, she didnât feel so bruised and battered. And she was having a hunger pang.
To test her theories, Amanda sat up, stretching. Her legs did not protest, her stomach growled and the room remained surprisingly level.
She flung the bedcover aside and paused. Dear Lord, she had been sleeping in a bed fit for a queen. The covers were silk, the comforter down. The draperies matched the wall fabric; in fact, everything matched and was either silk, satin, velvet or brocade.
She had known de Warenne was rich, of course, but she hadnât imagined him living like this. Then, she hadnât ever been in a rich royal personâs home before, either.
She got up, aware of how pleasant the fine cotton was on her body. As she went to the draperies, she passed a huge mirror, the guilded frame carved in swirls and rosettes. She glimpsed her reflection and paused.
It was like looking at a stranger.
A pretty and terribly feminine woman stood there in the glass, beautifully dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown, her pale hair spilling past her shoulders, almost to her waist. The womanâs face had bright, wide green eyes with long, thick lashes, strangely dark, like her eyebrows. She was slightly flushed, her skin sun-kissed, and she had full, pink lips. Her shoulders and arms were entirely bare. If there was any criticism, it might be that her shoulders were a bit broad, hinting at unfeminine strength. But that was hard to notice, because of the way the cotton nightgown draped over her breasts. Small lace straps held the bodice up, but it was low-cut, with tiny gathers just below the straps. Amanda realized she was blushing as she regarded herself.
She didnât look like a pirateâs daughter; she looked like a well-born woman.
Shaken, she turned away, quickly opening up the draperies. It was well past middayâthe sun was high and bright, but moving into the west. Her bedroom overlooked the harbor and the second thing she saw was her favorite ship, the Fair Lady . Her hull was painted black and red. Although she was only fifth rate, her standing rigging was a sight to behold and Amanda thrilled at the complexity of it. How many times had she watched de Warenne on his quarterdeck, his men hoisting sail as the frigate began to leave her berth? How many times had she watched the beautiful Fair Lady begin to increase her speed, making sail, her canvas filling? Sometimes she had watched the ship from one of the gun towers ringing the harbor, as it streaked away from shore, heading out to sea, until finally she became a dot, vanishing as if into eternity. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to sail on such a ship, running before the freshest wind?
And then Amanda saw her namesake.
Fort Charles was
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