Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 7

  He did stop, swinging back to her again. "Pirate? Eh? But then, that's right! You don't even know my name."

  "I didn't need to know your name!" she cried out. "I just needed to know..."

  "What?" he demanded.

  Her eyes fell for a moment. "You," she said softly.

  He sighed softly. "I was a better offering for a first experience than Flambert, is that it, my lady?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  His fingers curled around hers again. "Judith is sixty," he told her. "You'll like her very much, and she's a wonderful cook." He was silent for a moment. "And my name is Steven."

  He started walking again, her hand still in his. She followed him with no further comment. Billy Bowe was sitting on the little veranda to the captain's house, whittling. He offered her his gnome's smile. "Stew's on inside," he said in French. "Since the two of you have been gone some time, you must be starved." He rose, looking at Steven, then switching his words to a soft-spoken English, assuming that Tessa would not understand.

  "We've heard from Flambert already. He heard that you seized his bride's ship almost immediately, and he has written that he will pay any ransom and take his bride back—in any condition—and begs that you merely speed up the negotiations."

  Tessa froze, fighting to control her expression, determined that they not realize that she spoke fluent English. There was so much more that she could learn this way.

  Even if she hated what she learned.

  "What are we going to do?" Billy Bowe asked Steven.

  Steven scowled, glancing at Tessa. "We will make arrangements later," he said curtly. He urged Tessa into the house ahead of him. In the dim light, it took her a moment to see the woman standing by the hearth.

  Indeed, if this was Judith, she was an older woman, yet somehow a fascinating, very attractive one. She had slim, elegant features and was dressed from head to toe in a black, old-fashioned gown with slim skirts. Her hair was gray, swept into a chignon at the nape. Her eyes were gray as well, curious, appraising—and somewhat condemning as they fell upon Steven.

  "Ah, but it smells wonderful in here!" Steven said in English.

  "Aye, and I'll feed you now, my lord Steven, but we'll be having a good discussion before I do so again!" Judith said.

  "Now, what—" Steven began.

  "You're a pirate commissioned by the queen, preying upon the enemies of the crown, and that's well and fine. But you've yet to abduct a prisoner and bring her to your bed! My lord, I am stunned!"

  "You'd be much more stunned if you knew the half of it!" Steven told her wearily.

  Judith sniffed and walked on past him, taking Tessa's arm and leading her to the table. "She speaks no English, eh?" Judith said. "And my French is so poor... ah, well, let me think, Avez-vous faim?"

  "Oui, J'ai faim," Tessa assured her, taking the seat offered to her at the table. She was hungry. Starving. Judith quickly set a bowl of stew before her, and Tessa thanked her, listening carefully to what was said—and not said—between the two.

  "I shall take her to my house," Judith said firmly.

  "No, you won't," Steven argued. "Don't be deceived by that angel's face. She'll escape you."

  "And where will she go?"

  "Judith, may I have some stew as well, please?" he asked irritably.

  "I should make you get it yourself!" Judith murmured, but it seemed that Steven did have his authority on the island, or else Judith was more fond of him than she intended to let on under the circumstances, for she gave him a bowl of stew and a pint of ale, yet stayed there before him, pursuing her course.

  "Steven—"

  "She's not going with you, Judith."

  "But—"

  He sighed. "Judith, it would be locking the stables with the horse long gone."

  "Really, Steven—"

  "Don't worry! She'll not be on the island that long!" Steven said firmly.

  Judith pursed her lips together. "Hmph!" she sniffed. "Well, then, my French is too poor to talk to the girl, and I've no desire to talk to you!" She stalked to the door and departed. Steven sat back in his chair, watching her go, then looked at Tessa.

  She wouldn't be on the island long. Raoul had already promised to pay anything for her—no matter what. Steven was going to give her back...

  She bit her lip, determined that she would give nothing away. She had to find some means to escape—soon. Before she could be given to Raoul.

  "She's angry with me," he told Tessa.

  "Why?"

  "Because I've violated you."

  A blush touched her cheeks.

  "She wants to take you to her home."

  "Oh."

  "Do you want to go?" he asked her.

  She lowered her eyes. Then she met his again, her expression touched with all the innocence she could muster. "It would be closing the stall door with the horse gone, mais oui?"

  "Something like that," he said, his eyes narrowing. They remained on her face. "Not that it matters. I will not let you go there. Not now," he said very quietly.

  He ate another bite of his stew, then finished it hurriedly. He stood suddenly. "Billy Bowe is at the door, and I have told him, no more roaming the isle for you. I have to... discuss some matters with my men. I will return shortly."

  "Will you be discussing my return to Raoul?" she demanded.

  He shook his head. "Don't forget, he may no longer want you," he said.

  Liar! she almost cried out. She managed not to do so. She waited until he was gone, then she jumped up from the table and nervously began to pace the pleasant living room. She saw the crèche on the table in the center of the room, and she walked over to it. She sat down, studying the very beautiful little figures. She picked up the Christ child. "You were the miracle!" she whispered softly. "Faith and forgiveness, peace... Oh, dear Lord, I prayed for a miracle myself, and this is what you've given me! Please, dear Lord, send me a miracle, if it is Your will. And if it is not—"

  She broke off. Well, she had spent the day seducing a pirate, and the nuns back at school would hardly call that behavior worthy of a miracle—especially a Christmas miracle. But she wasn't sorry. She didn't know her pirate all that well—certainly much better now than she had before—and yet she wasn't sorry. She had told him the truth. Even if she had grown angry later, she felt that she had known him.

  And the day had been beautiful, and something she would remember all of her life.

  She leaped up. God, she had been told, helped those who helped themselves. And it was time for her to get started.

  She opened the door a crack and looked out to see Billy Bowe whittling on the veranda. She could slip around him, she was certain, and disappear up the cliff toward the waterfall and freshwater river. Then she could double back to the shore...

  And take one of the small boats out to sea.

  Then what? She could perish there...

  No! With God's mercy, a ship would find her. And with that same mercy, it would be an English ship.

  She waited at the door, watching Billy Bowe. He was very intensely working on his piece of wood, and she chose a moment when his back was completely to her to slip from behind him, and tiptoe against the wall until she reached the end of the house. She slipped beneath the wood rail then and held her breath while she tried to pass silently through the foliage to the trail.

  He did not see her. She ran.

  * * *

  She wasn't going to Flambert. Steven met with his officers and most of the crew in the tavern, and he told them frankly that he had learned their captive despised Flambert just as they did. "I cannot send her to him, for any price," he said simply. "I will, though, make up her ransom to you all with shares of other booty we have taken, and I will pay my due to the queen as well."

  There was silence in the room at first. Then Walt raised his ale pint and called out, "Yahoo, my lord captain! We're agreed here, to a man, I think!" Then he paused. "What will you do with her?"

  Steven shrugged. "I don't
know. Somehow, I'd like to give her her Christmas wish. Freedom. I can't send her home to her father; her father will merely send her back to Flambert."

  "You could make an honest woman of the girl and infuriate Flambert beyond all measure. Marry her," Walt suggested.

  Steven smiled. "She doesn't want marriage. She wants her freedom. I will have to figure out the best way to give it to her."

  He drank with his men, laughing, talking, yet inwardly trying to solve his problem of what to do with Tessa. Perhaps he could bring her to New York, or Virginia, and she would be safe there. But that held problems as well, for she was a noblewoman, the daughter of a comte, and she was accustomed to a life-style far different from that in the Colonies. So what did he do...

  Hold her here, he told himself. Hold her, love her, sleep with her, wake up to see those glorious aqua eyes, that delicate face, hear her whispers, touch her, make love to her. Spend Christmas in paradise...

  Weary, he returned to his house, determined that he would decide on a ship for her, one with a strong captain he trusted, and send her to Williamsburg for the time being. He had many good friends there, friends who would help her, at his behest.

  He stepped by Billy Bowe, and by the gamin's smile, he could tell that the man had heard they would not be turning their captive over to Flambert.

  "She's here, Billy, I assume?" he asked.

  "Aye, Captain, that she is!" Billy assured him.

  Steven stepped by him. He threw open the door, startled by the silence within. Was she sleeping? Weeping somewhere? "Tessa?" he called. He strode across the hall to his bedroom, and discovered that she wasn't there.

  Angry, he hurried out to Billy. "She's gone!"

  Billy's startled look assured him that the little man knew nothing of the hostage's departure.

  "She must be there—"

  "She's not! Dear God, it is all but dark, and this island can be dangerous in the night. Get Walter and the others; tell them she has to be found before something happens to her!"

  With that said, he tore from the house himself, desperate to find her.

  * * *

  Escape had been incredibly easy. She had taken the path to the cliff, crossed the river where it was nothing more than a trickle, made her way back down toward the beach, and there paused, staring at the small boats pulled up on the sand. Sailors were there, talking, chatting, some pulling in fish, some scrubbing barnacles from their small crafts. Yet, as darkness began to fall, they left their tasks, pulled in their cleaned catches, and headed up cliffside.

  There were men on guard always, Tessa thought. She could see the figure of a man silhouetted on one of the high rocks that overlooked the harbor entrance.

  But he would be looking for large enemy ships. He might not see a small boat just drifting out into the sea lanes. Still she waited. She waited so long she wondered if she didn't want to be caught. It was true enough that she didn't want to leave him. She loved the isle with its beaches and beautiful freshwater stream, the waterfall, the foliage. A hostage here, she had still been happier than she had been since...

  Since her father had come to England for her. Then she had truly been a prisoner. Now...

  Now she was a captive still. And she could dream about going back to all that she wanted, about sleeping in his arms again, and it would mean nothing because he was busy, even now, making arrangements for her to go back to Raoul.

  She stiffened her spine. And when the last of the men had been gone a good while, she slipped from her cover of shrubs and swiftly made for one of the small boats.

  It took far more effort than she had imagined to push it from the sand. And once she was seated within it, she found that rowing was not all that easy either. Yet she persisted, pulling hard, pulling until her arms ached and she was ready to cry out.

  She was just moving into the center of the harbor when the first bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The tiny boat began to heave and toss.

  Seconds later, the rain began. Then the wind rose, whipping the water and her boat wildly and cruelly. She cried out as her left oar was all but ripped out of her hand and the small boat suddenly began to spin. She could no longer control it. The rain pelted her, the wind bit into her. It seemed that the entire world was black, except when those lightning slashes lit the sky.

  She dragged in the oars, screaming and ducking when the wind plucked up the tiny boat again, careening it in a wild circle, all but capsizing her. So this was to be her miracle! A watery death!

  She screamed again as the boat began to tip and tilt, the bow almost buckling into the sea. Then she gasped, too terrified to scream, for it seemed that something was rising out of the sea.

  Not something, someone...

  "Where are the oars!" he roared over the rip of the waves and the cry of the wind. "Little fool, where are the damned oars! We'll smash on the reef any second!"

  She fumbled for the oars with frozen fingers as he climbed into the boat and took the oars from her hands. His hair looked ink-black, sodden against his flesh. His clothing clung to his body. He was barefoot, and she vaguely realized that he had shed his boots to swim after her. In this. In this awful storm.

  "What in God's name made you come out in this?" he demanded. "Was I so wretched to you?" he asked, deep emotion in his voice.

  "No," she choked out.

  "Then—"

  "You intended to get me off the island and to Raoul as quickly as possible. I told you—I hate him! I will not marry him, I—"

  "What made you think that I was sending you to Raoul?"

  "I heard what Billy told you; I heard what you told Judith—"

  "You understand English?" he said slowly.

  "Of course I understand it!" she gasped out in that language. The wind whipped up again. She was thrown heavily against him.

  "You're about to kill us both!" he cried, trying to catch her and hold the oars and the craft steady.

  "I didn't—"

  "You speak English?" he roared.

  "I am English!" she flared to him. "If you'd ever cared to find out—I grew up in England, my mother was English, and I lived under the care of my English grandfather most of my life. My father brought me to France right before the war broke out. He must have intended to give me to Flambert when he came for me, but he didn't tell me then."

  "You little witch!" he accused her. "You've heard everything that we've said, that I've said—"

  "And I knew what you meant to do!" she whispered.

  "Hop out!" he cried suddenly. "We've hit the beach."

  He leaped over the edge of the boat himself, shoving it onto the beach with far greater ease than she had managed to dislodge it. Tessa sprang out, staggering through the wind and water to the sand. She gasped for breath, shivering against the pelting rain. She staggered again when a gust seized hold of her, but as she sought her balance, she suddenly found herself swept up in his arms again.

  They were both soaked and freezing cold from head to toe. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding close to him. He started to walk, shouting that he had found her. Men hurried around him, calling out their relief in turn, and shouting to others in the wretched storm, letting them know that their hostage had been found.

  Alone, Steven continued to carry her up the path to his house. She felt his eyes on her and looked up into them.

  "You were wrong," he said very softly. "I would never have given you to Flambert once I knew you weren't longing to get to him. I had my hesitations even before that, but when I seized your ship... It's a long story. I didn't leave you to make any plans to return you for the ransom. I went to tell my men that I would make good for the money myself."

  "Oh!" she gasped.

  The door to his house burst open. Judith, in her black, was awaiting them.

  "Poor lass, and look what ye did to her, Steven Mallory! Bring her in; I've a steaming tub waiting. She'll catch her death of cold!"

  Steven grinned, stepping onto the veranda where the rain no l
onger pelted down upon them—they merely dripped all that which had already fallen.

  "Then she's going to want to take you home with her," Steven whispered in Tessa's ear.

  "But I'm your captive," Tessa protested loudly.

  "Why, she does speak English!" Judith exclaimed.

  "Quite perfectly," Steven said ruefully. "And you heard her, she's my captive. Bathe her and clothe her, Judith, but she stays here!"

  He set Tessa down and disappeared out into the rain once again, making sure that the word was out that she had been found.

  Indeed. His captive would-be Christmas bride was back.

  Chapter 7

  "It was always my favorite time of year," Tessa said two weeks later, curled into his arms in his room, clean and warm, and far more content than she should be with an English privateer in his island bed. But once she had realized that she was not going to be delivered to Flambert, she had allowed herself the luxury of caring about nothing more than the fact that she had received her one little miracle. And she had received it at Steven's hands.

  And she was falling very deeply and intimately in love with her pirate.

  It was so easy to be with him. Talking idly after they had made love, encircled by his arms, feeling so serene and secure with his strength about her. Tonight she had confessed to him that she had been praying for a Christmas miracle, and though perhaps it had taken her some time to realize it, he had, in truth, been that miracle.

  "Christmas is when magic can happen," she said softly. He was silent for a moment, and she continued, "I used to love my grandfather's mansion at Christmas. The hall was covered with leaves and boughs and there was always a tremendous Christmas feast. Snow lay on the ground, and we'd light many candles against the cold and dark. We always started the day in the chapel. My grandfather is a very good man, and he carried on tradition, so the poor people were all invited in and we washed their feet and gave them coins. Christmas music is so beautiful, and it's truly the season for brotherly love and—"

  "And?" he asked her, after she had suddenly broken off.

  "I could not believe that I was going to be Raoul Flambert's bride for Christmas!" she told him, shivering.