Capture The Wind (47 page)

When Kit moved into the light of a lantern, she felt a flutter of apprehension at his expression. Barely concealed savagery narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, and fine white lines cut deep grooves on each side of his mouth. The last time she had seen a similar expression on his face had been just after the battle on St. Thomas. Residue of stress from the fierce bloodshed had been understandable then; it was less so now.

Swallowing the impulse to proffer an apology for some unknown sin, Angela stood in silence while the ship rocked gently and the fog curled around them in light flutters like cats’ paws. The tension stretched, and she sensed Kit’s tightly controlled effort to keep his temper in check.

Finally he said, his voice a rough rasp, “Perhaps this is the time to talk, after all.”

Without waiting for her agreement, he cupped her elbow in his palm and turned her around, steering her toward his cabin. It didn’t seem like the appropriate time to offer a protest or an argument, not with his mood so unpredictable. Apparently, his brief meeting with the mysterious woman had left him with a raw temper.

A painful rush of emotion engulfed her when she once more stood in Kit’s cabin, with its familiar furnishings. Time flashed backward, and she saw herself arriving aboard the
Sea Tiger
for the first time, terrified and apprehensive, certain she and Emily were about to meet dire and dreadful fates. Kit had surprised her then, as he was surprising her now.

Releasing her arm, he closed the door and stalked to a cabinet to pull out a crystal decanter. She recognized brandy, and when he poured a small amount in a snifter and handed it to her, she took it gratefully. Liquid courage was better than none, and it might stop her legs from trembling so violently.

It was Rollo, however, that eased the worst of her tension.

“Bloody hell,” the bird croaked from a shadowed corner, sounding cross. “Batten the hatches!”

“Are we,” Angela couldn’t resist asking with a spurt of amusement, “expecting a storm?”

“Possibly.” Kit eyed her over the rim of his snifter. “I have heard it said that dumb creatures are best at predicting natural disasters.”

“Are they.” Feeling more confident with the brandy warming her stomach lining and throat, Angela crossed to a chair and seated herself in as graceful a motion as she could manage. “Odd, but I would never have classified Rollo as a dumb creature. Annoying, perhaps, but not inarticulate.”

“The term
dumb
should be translated as meaning unaware, I suppose.” Kit took another sip of brandy. “Whatever Rollo is, he is certainly vocal.”

Conversation about the bird was safe. But there was a vast territory beyond casual discussion that loomed like a lethal coral reef waiting to wreck the conversational ship, and Angela was well aware of that. She was not at all certain she wanted to leave these safe waters.

Kit, however, seemed to have no inhibitions about steering their discussion into dangerous regions. Twirling the stem of his brandy snifter between thumb and forefinger, he murmured, “I would be vitally interested to learn more about the depth of the relationship between you and my father.”

There. It was out. The gambit she had been dreading. If she denied any relationship, he would not believe her. If she told him exactly how she interpreted the duke’s attentions, it was very likely he would not believe that either. So what did she say? That she had no idea why Tremayne was showering her with gifts and attention? That perhaps he was just being cordial to the daughter of a business acquaintance? It all sounded pathetically contrived. Appalled by her ignorance, she sat in helpless contemplation.

Silence deepened, until finally Kit glanced up from the perusal of his brandy snifter and gazed at her for several long moments. “I see,” he said, his tone conveying the opposite message. He set the half-empty snifter on the desk with a deliberate motion, then perched on the edge, his hands curling over the top as he caught and held her gaze. “I cannot say I’m surprised by your refusal to explain. Perhaps I should just tell you how I view this
 . . .
situation.”

Hotly, she began, “You have no idea—” but he cut her off with a warning lift of one hand.

“Don’t. Denial is only one step away from admission. I should know. I’ve dealt with this same situation before.”

She knew what he meant, but she had no intention of allowing him to compare her to the Susan who had so heartlessly betrayed him. Surging to her feet, Angela snapped, “I know all about it, but I am not the same woman. No, you listen to me for a change. Nothing is the same, except your warped perception of the—situation. From all I have heard, your father was only trying to demonstrate the
 . . .
the lack of loyalty of your betrothed. I think he did that successfully, however poorly he went about it. Has it escaped your notice that he did not marry her?”

“Foolish child,” Kit chided gently when she paused for an angry breath, “he did not wed Susan because he was still married to my stepmother. I never thought he offered honorable marriage to her, only a position. It was, perhaps, the only time in my life I felt the tiniest bit of sympathy for Elaine. Not that she would ever have appreciated that. Barracudas have little time in their busy, destructive lives to appreciate anything they have not personally engineered.”

“Elaine,” Angela repeated blankly. “Who is Elaine?”

“Was. Haven’t you been listening? My stepmother. In lieu of my mother, who has also contrived to make my life hell. It seems that I am destined to be beset by women convinced that their duty is to plague me with whatever torment seems most expedient at the moment.”

Memory returned, of that afternoon on the beach when Turk had revealed tidbits of Kit’s life. Elaine had been his stepmother. Even Turk had considered her evil. But that only partially explained Kit’s willingness to lump her with the rest of the deceitful women in his life, and Angela resented it.

Fixing him with a contemptuous gaze, she said distinctly, “Isn’t it time you stopped whining about the past? Must you behave as a thwarted child? I should think you would be more willing to accept loyalty where you find it, instead of being so suspicious of anyone who attempts to love you.”

She hadn’t quite meant to make that oblique confession, but it was out and there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, Kit was staring at her with an expression she was afraid to interpret. It hovered somewhere between amazement at her audacity, and fury at her assessment.

“I find myself,” he said in a much calmer tone than she expected, “floundering for words. One of us has completely missed the boat, but I’m damned if I can figure out which one.”

“Then maybe,” she said, striving to keep her metaphors in the same realm as his, “we should book passage on another ship.”

To her surprise, Kit laughed softly. “You always have been a fighter, Angela. I knew that the first moment I met you aboard the
Scrutiny.
As I recall, it was a rather
 . . .
painful
 . . .
introduction to your stubbornness.”

Not wishing to dwell upon the fact that she had jabbed her knee into the most vulnerable portion of his anatomy, Angela said hurriedly, “Would you have me just lie down and meekly submit to any fate?”

“Ah no, sweetheart. Never that.”

It was the first hint at a lessening of his temper, and she took a deep breath. “Then Kit, please—give us both the chance to learn from the past instead of repeat it.”

There was a subtle change in the deep blue shadows of his eyes, so subtle she almost missed it. If not for the chance roll of the ship that sent a splash of lamplight across his face, Angela might not have noticed. But she caught a glimpse of his pain, and the brief flare of hope that sputtered before he squelched it. She wanted to weep with frustration when he looked away from her, long lashes veiling his eyes in a sulky drift that was as revealing as it was crushing.

Unable to stop herself, she rose and went to him, putting a hand on his arm. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, and he gave her a swift, impatient glance before removing her hand.

“It’s no use, Angela. Go home. Forget about the past. I certainly should have.”

“But
 . . .
but I can’t.” She sucked in a deep breath when he looked away from her again, his face set in a cold mask. God, how could she reach him when he put a wall between them? She tried again. “Kit, please. I don’t want to give up if there’s a chance for us.”

“Dammit,” he snarled, turning to her and grasping her arms, “haven’t you been listening to me? You were right. Nothing has changed. I haven’t changed. You haven’t changed. My father hasn’t changed. London hasn’t changed. The same set of people inhabiting the same circles, doing the same things year after year—God. I’d go crazy if I stayed in London. And you would never leave. This is your world, Angela, not mine. Not anymore. If it ever was. I came here seeking answers, and maybe they weren’t the ones I wanted, but I have most of them. Others
 . . .
” He looked up and past her, his grip easing slightly. “Others,” he continued softly, “I will never get, just as Turk warned me. Damn him.”

There was such pain in his bleak tone that Angela leaned forward and laid her head against his chest. She heard the sharp intake of his breath, then his arms went around her and he was pulling back her head to kiss her, his mouth harsh on hers. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that he hold her again, that he kiss her and touch her as he once had.

Sliding her hand behind his neck, she held him, her fingers tangling in the damp, dark hair that curled in fine waves on his nape. He smelled of wind and sea; it was a familiar, haunting fragrance, making her think of soft tropical nights and sandy beaches and the sensual rhythm of the waves breaking around them.

“Kit,” she whispered against his mouth, “hold me.”

He went still, then lifted his head, his shadowed eyes studying her face for a long moment. Outside, the distant, muted clang of a bell rang in the night. The ship rolled gently from side to side, and the lantern flashed a pool of light over them. Rollo gave a sleepy squawk and flutter of feathers as he tucked his head beneath a wing.

Drawing in a deep breath, Kit lifted her in his arms and crossed to his bunk. He laid her down gently. The bunk dipped beneath his weight, and he bent to kiss her, this time soft and easy, his mouth moving on her parted lips with sweet tenderness. Angela slid one hand over the familiar contours of his face, the sharp angles and planes, her fingers caressing the crescent-shaped scar from his eyebrow to cheek. Her fingers moved lightly over the chiseled outline of his mouth, his thumb sliding over his lower lip in a silky glide. He caught her hand in his and bit her thumb gently.

“Oh, Kit,” she whispered, and he gave her a faint smile. She slid her free hand into the open collar of his loose shirt, and flicked open the buttons one by one. The cool linen of his shirt was still damp from the night air, but the bare skin beneath heated the backs of her fingers.

When her hand reached the last button at his waist, Kit drew in another deep breath and straightened. He gave her a crooked, sardonic smile that made her breath catch and her throat ache.

“Does this,” he asked lightly, “come under the heading of love, or desire? Perhaps I should know the proper definition, just in case I’m taken to task for it later.”

Angela sat up quickly, as if a bucket of cold seawater had been poured over her head. Kit lifted a brow and caught her chin in his palm.

“Well,” he purred, “which is it, love?”

She knocked his hand away and lurched to her feet, her face flaming with embarrassment and anger. It was just like him to throw her own words back in her face, and only what she deserved, she supposed, for trying to seduce him with his own methods. Why had she ever thought anything she could say or do would make a difference to Kit Saber? Or Christian Sheridan, or whoever he chose to be—they were all the same man, locked up in a prison of his own making.

She drew in a deep, calming breath and managed a careless shrug. “Does it matter? You’ve spoiled the moment now, anyway. I don’t see how you’ve acquired such a tantalizing reputation as a lover. Perhaps other rumors have some basis in fact, but not that particular one.”

“I’m devastated.”

His cynical comment jerked her head up. “No doubt. Well, since you seem determined to repeat the past, I can see that I’m wasting my time.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “I have learned,” he said in the cold tones that had once sent chills down her spine. “And I do not intend to repeat my mistake, whatever you may think.” He stood up and came to her, grasping her chin in his rough palm in an oddly tender gesture. “Once, perhaps, I thought I could escape my past. But I can’t, angel. None of us can. It can’t be escaped or changed. Only the most reckless would dare to ignore that.”

Releasing her chin, he stepped back, and she tried to hold in the bitter tears burning her eyes. “Very well,” she managed to say. “Off with the old, on with the new. I suppose now you will race off to chase the very lovely contessa. That should do the trick. No contessas in your past, Kit? Is this some novel and unusual sport, perhaps?”

She had thought to sound worldly and cynical, matching his jaded views. But to her shock, Kit gave a harsh bark of laughter that sounded anything but amused or impressed with her panache.

“So you have heard about Contessa Villiers, have you? I should have guessed. Gossip is the number one sport of the idle in London.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic curl. “Do not be fooled, little one. The contessa is not new. She and I go a long way back. Longer than any other woman in my life.”