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Authors: Catherine Coulter
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me, Cassandra, to be taken by French privateers or the French navy would not result in your return to England. In any case, it will not happen. Did you not notice the gun mounts? They are not toys, I assure you.”
Cassie slumped forward in her chair, her thoughts upon Edward and Eliott and the grief they would feel when they found her wrecked sailboat. Even at this moment, Eliott was probably growing concerned that she had not returned. “You are an evil, ruthless man, my lord,” she said, her voice as dead as her heart.
“Perhaps. Ruthless, at least, for I would have gone to any lengths to secure you as my wife.” He saw the glazed look in her eyes, and said no more. He glanced at the clock atop his desk and rose.
“It grows late, Cassandra. I must go on deck for a while to see to our course. If you wish to bathe, you will find fresh water on the commode. Gowns, underthings, stockings, hairbrushes are in the dresser and armoire. We will dine when I return.”
Cassie merely stared at him, mute. Vaguely, as if from a great distance, she heard a key turn in the lock.
“The wee lass, she is all right?”
“She will be,” the earl said as he released the helm to Angelo and turned to Scargill, a plucky, straight-spoken Scotsman, his valet for some ten years.
“It was like ye killed a part of her when ye sent her boat toward the rocks.”
“Yes, but she shall have another, once we are home again.”
Anthony Welles gazed starboard for a long moment over the choppy water, toward the English shoreline. “She is very young, Scargill.”
Scargill’s coarse red hair flapped up and down on his forehead in the sea wind, and out of habit, he raised his forefinger to smooth it down. He studied his master’s strong, proud profile, outlined in the orange glow of the setting sun, and shook his head. “It’s a ruthless thing ye’ve done, my lord.”
“Precisely Cassandra’s words, Scargill, but there is little point in repining now. She is mine, and that is the end to the matter.”
“As I’ve told ye afore, my lord, I’ve never known a man to raise his own wife. I thought ye’d forgotten her when that spitfire, Giovanna, got her hooks into ye.”
“The Contessa accomplished part of her desire, my friend.”
“She was hot for ye, I’ll grant ye that, my lord. But besides warming yer bed, she has an eye to yer title and fortune. She’ll not prove kind to yer English lass.”
The earl turned slowly and an amused smile lit his dark eyes. “In the unlikely event that Giovanna shows her claws to Cassandra, rest assured that Cassandra will dish her up without any assistance from me. She is like quicksilver, I think, arrogant and proud. She has a core of strength that her mother never possessed. Be kind to her, Scargill, but I caution you to be watchful. She very nearly unmanned me with her knee.”
Scargill guffawed. “She did, did she, my lord. So the wee madonna is not taking well to yer kidnaping her.”
“Not at the moment. You call her madonna now, Scargill?”
“Yer Genoese sailors have called her nothing else, my lord. It’s yer mixed blood, they say, that makes ye one minute the cold imperious lord, and the next, the unpredictable man bent on his own passions. They believe it’s yer Italian blood that makes ye go to such lengths for a woman.”
The earl stood rigidly straight, his features impassive. It was always so when his lordship was angered, Scargill thought, particularly when someone referred to his fiery Italian blood.
“Have I a rebellion brewing with my men?”
“Nay, ye know as well as I do that they’d follow ye to hell, if ye asked it of them.”
“Never would I demand anything so final. See that they get an extra ration of grog, Scargill, but not more, mind you. I will be much occupied this evening and have no wish for The Cassandra to run aground.”
Scargill grunted. “The men will come to accept her, my lord. Even Angelo, as superstitious as any man with a woman
Cassie slumped forward in her chair, her thoughts upon Edward and Eliott and the grief they would feel when they found her wrecked sailboat. Even at this moment, Eliott was probably growing concerned that she had not returned. “You are an evil, ruthless man, my lord,” she said, her voice as dead as her heart.
“Perhaps. Ruthless, at least, for I would have gone to any lengths to secure you as my wife.” He saw the glazed look in her eyes, and said no more. He glanced at the clock atop his desk and rose.
“It grows late, Cassandra. I must go on deck for a while to see to our course. If you wish to bathe, you will find fresh water on the commode. Gowns, underthings, stockings, hairbrushes are in the dresser and armoire. We will dine when I return.”
Cassie merely stared at him, mute. Vaguely, as if from a great distance, she heard a key turn in the lock.
“The wee lass, she is all right?”
“She will be,” the earl said as he released the helm to Angelo and turned to Scargill, a plucky, straight-spoken Scotsman, his valet for some ten years.
“It was like ye killed a part of her when ye sent her boat toward the rocks.”
“Yes, but she shall have another, once we are home again.”
Anthony Welles gazed starboard for a long moment over the choppy water, toward the English shoreline. “She is very young, Scargill.”
Scargill’s coarse red hair flapped up and down on his forehead in the sea wind, and out of habit, he raised his forefinger to smooth it down. He studied his master’s strong, proud profile, outlined in the orange glow of the setting sun, and shook his head. “It’s a ruthless thing ye’ve done, my lord.”
“Precisely Cassandra’s words, Scargill, but there is little point in repining now. She is mine, and that is the end to the matter.”
“As I’ve told ye afore, my lord, I’ve never known a man to raise his own wife. I thought ye’d forgotten her when that spitfire, Giovanna, got her hooks into ye.”
“The Contessa accomplished part of her desire, my friend.”
“She was hot for ye, I’ll grant ye that, my lord. But besides warming yer bed, she has an eye to yer title and fortune. She’ll not prove kind to yer English lass.”
The earl turned slowly and an amused smile lit his dark eyes. “In the unlikely event that Giovanna shows her claws to Cassandra, rest assured that Cassandra will dish her up without any assistance from me. She is like quicksilver, I think, arrogant and proud. She has a core of strength that her mother never possessed. Be kind to her, Scargill, but I caution you to be watchful. She very nearly unmanned me with her knee.”
Scargill guffawed. “She did, did she, my lord. So the wee madonna is not taking well to yer kidnaping her.”
“Not at the moment. You call her madonna now, Scargill?”
“Yer Genoese sailors have called her nothing else, my lord. It’s yer mixed blood, they say, that makes ye one minute the cold imperious lord, and the next, the unpredictable man bent on his own passions. They believe it’s yer Italian blood that makes ye go to such lengths for a woman.”
The earl stood rigidly straight, his features impassive. It was always so when his lordship was angered, Scargill thought, particularly when someone referred to his fiery Italian blood.
“Have I a rebellion brewing with my men?”
“Nay, ye know as well as I do that they’d follow ye to hell, if ye asked it of them.”
“Never would I demand anything so final. See that they get an extra ration of grog, Scargill, but not more, mind you. I will be much occupied this evening and have no wish for The Cassandra to run aground.”
Scargill grunted. “The men will come to accept her, my lord. Even Angelo, as superstitious as any man with a woman
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