Chance the Winds of Fortune (40 page)

Dante eyed the girl up and down, noting with distaste her limp hair and dirty clothes, and guessed she was eighteen or older. Probably older to have so arrogant a demeanor and the derring-do to beard the lion in his den. But one thing was for certain, she was old enough to be held accountable for her misdeeds. She needed to be taught a sobering lesson, one that she would not soon forget, Dante decided, for he was in no mood tonight to show leniency to anyone. Besides, odds were, if she'd had a pistol tucked away somewhere, he would be lying dead at her dainty, secondhand shoes right now.

“So, you wish to get to know me better,” Dante commented. “You have been rather inept at engaging anything more than my displeasure thus far. If your scheme is to succeed, then you will have to make a few concessions to me. You should have taken more care to learn my likes and dislikes. I am a very particular fellow about whom I let into my bed. And right now, you haven't a ghost of a chance to fulfill that wish of yours.” Dante was pleased to see an expression of concern passing across her grimy face.

“However, that can be remedied quite easily,” he continued. “I've never been one to stand in the way of another's ambition, as long as it does not interfere with mine.” He sounded almost friendly, but Rhea was not deceived, for his painful grip on her wrists had not lessened.

“Either you are hard of hearing or extremely obtuse,” Rhea declared furiously. “I despise the very sight of you and would find the burning fires of hell preferable to sharing a bed with you. I do not care if you have an arm's length of titles to your wretched name, whatever that might be. All I desire is to get off this ship, and away from you.”

“Ah, come now, no more protestations against sharing my bed, for we both know how hollow they are,” Dante responded easily. His smile was forced, though, for this insolent chit had a way with words that cut deeply into a man's self-esteem, and his had already been inflicted with a few jabs of late.

Dante's gaze clashed with the violet eyes that were glowing with hatred of him, and he resented the fact that such beauty should belong to a dirty little street urchin, who would spit in his face if she thought she could get away with it unscathed. Her contempt for him was visible in every quivering ounce of her, and yet she was the one who had set out to entrap and deceive him. He was the one with the grievances, although to look at her one would think she had been the victim of foul play.

Dante allowed his eyes to linger on the contours of her face for a moment longer, a moment which seemed endless to Rhea. Then he smiled, and it was a strangely beautiful smile in spite of its coldness. Abruptly, he released her wrists, picked up the map, and walked away from her.

“You just might be a beauty if we could scrub off some of that grime from the gutter,” he said over his shoulder as he sauntered across the cabin to the door. Then he called down the corridor to someone, his broad shoulders blocking the door and any escape Rhea might have contemplated.

“Bring me a tub of hot water, Kirby, and plenty of soap. I've got to scour through years of living within the sound of Bow bells,” he ordered his little steward.

“Ye be wantin' a bath this time of the evening?” Kirby demanded in disbelief, his face mirroring dismay and concern lest his captain had become deranged since he'd seen him last.

“Just do it, Kirby,” Dante enjoined him, closing the door firmly on the little man's next words.

“Well?” Dante demanded, turning back to his dumbfounded captive. “Do you want to be dumped into the tub wearing those rags? It will be far easier for both of us if you take them off yourself. And it will not do you any good to look like that, for you are going to have a bath if it is the last thing I ever do. It will give me a great deal of pleasure to wash one of you untamed guttersnipes clean. I have had my pockets picked too many times to be very charitable toward your kind,” he told her, moving steadily closer as he removed his coat and tossed it into the chair, then unbuttoned his vest and dropped it on top.

Rhea watched in fascination as he slowly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, baring powerful, tanned forearms. “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

“Oh, no, you cannot change your tune in mid-song, my dear, for 'twas you who came on board the
Sea Dragon
uninvited,” Dante reminded her. “You thought you would waltz aboard my ship and it would be mere child's play to cozen me. Did you think I would so easily fall prey to your brand of blackmail? My God, what a fool this town must think me, that a cinderwench feels emboldened enough to play a double game with me.

“Very well, I shall not disappoint you,” he continued. “I am curious to see how strong-willed, or perchance gullible, I really am. So, let us have a look at you, and see how well you would have played the seductress.

“What? No glib retort?” he taunted her when she remained silent. “I said to take off your clothes, or am I going to have to peel them off of you?”

Rhea still said nothing, only because she could not believe what she was hearing. The man was mad. What an incredible irony it was, she thought, that she should manage to escape the clutches of Daniel Lewis, only to fall into the hands of the demented captain of the
Sea Dragon
.

Discarding all thoughts of caution, she knew she had to convince this man that she was not what he thought her to be. “If you lay a hand upon me, Captain, you will live to rue the day,” she warned him, taking a step backward. But he continued toward her, undeterred by her warning.

“I told you never to threaten me,” Dante reminded her.

“You never asked me my name, Captain,” Rhea said, trying to sound reasonable.

“Indeed? Please forgive me my momentary lack of good manners,” Dante replied politely. “I am Dante Leighton, as if you did not know, and you—you are?”

Rhea took a deep breath, for in revealing her true identity to the man she might well be placing herself in far graver danger. Obviously, this man was an opportunist, an adventurer, and might use the information she gave him to further his own cause. But then, Rhea thought on a note of rising hope, if he was indeed a marquis, then surely his hostility toward her would lessen, and perhaps he would even feel some kinship.

“I am Lady Rhea Claire Dominick, eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh. If you are indeed who you claim to be, then you will have heard of my father. And unless you are completely crazed, you will know that if you hurt me, you will have him as your sworn enemy. Think on that, my fine captain, before you accost me further.”

A flicker of something flashed in Dante's eyes, then was gone. “I have been absent from England for many years, but I have heard of the Duke of Camareigh. Indeed, in my misspent youth I even had the misfortune to sit across a gaming table from him. And if my recollection serves me well, I lost a considerable sum of money to him, money that I could ill afford to lose at the time. But he was a very hard man to beat, rather notorious in fact. However, I did take the chance that I might just win.” Dante shrugged. “I also remember that he was a bachelor, and not likely to give up his freedom, which makes your claim of being Lucien Dominick's daughter rather doubtful,” he said pityingly, taking a step that brought him too close.

“I don't care if you believe me or not. I am Rhea Claire Dominick. I am!” Rhea cried to his disbelieving face. “Turn me over to the authorities. They will believe me.”

“Looking as you do, I think not. The mere fact that you are here in Charles Town, apparently unattended and dressed like a scullery maid, does little for your cause.”

“I was kidnapped from my home. I was drugged, put on board a ship which very nearly sunk; I was starved and threatened and—”

“A fine tale, indeed,” Dante commented, and to Rhea's dismay, she saw him silently laughing at her. He had not believed anything she said.

“Damn you!” she said in a choked voice as she tried to escape his hands. But he had reached out so suddenly and purposefully that she hadn't had time to take so much as a step in retreat.

“I warned you,” Dante said quietly as his not-to-be-denied hands quickly dispatched her jacket and waistcoat, then easily pulled off her loose-fitting skirt.

As he was struggling with her chemise, Kirby knocked. When he was given a curt order to enter, the steward trudged in with a tub and a bucket of water. As he glanced over at the captain, his eyes widened incredulously to see him wrestling with a girl he hadn't even known was on board. And from the look of things, he could tell she didn't want to be. The eyes of the two antagonists were locked as they struggled in what was fast becoming a battle of arrogantly stubborn wills. Neither spared a glance for the gaping, unusually silent little steward as he scurried from the cabin, only to return moments later with two more buckets of hot water, which he poured into the tub.

“Cap'n, I—” Kirby began awkwardly as he stood watching the extraordinary actions of his captain. “Cap'n, what are you—” he tried again, but was silenced by the captain's violent curse as the girl bit him on the wrist, then kicked him viciously on the shin.

“Get out, Kirby,” Dante said between gritted teeth as he swung the struggling, naked girl into his arms, then dropped her with little ceremony into the tub of warm water. Her squeal of surprised fright as she lost her footing gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Then he nursed the angry teeth marks imprinted in the back of his hand.

Kirby had not obeyed his captain, but not out of insolence, for he was so amazed by what was happening that all he could do was stand by the open doorway and watch as his captain grabbed hold of the girl's head and dunked it beneath the water. At that point, her muttered imprecations were cut off abruptly. Then he lathered a handful of soap and began to scrub her face and neck. At first, his rough treatment of her tender skin caused tears to fall freely from the girl's eyes, but as Dante felt the frail bones of her shoulders, he was suddenly stirred by pity and his hands became gentle, less inhuman, as he rubbed her skin clean of the grime and sickness of a sea voyage spent in a filthy hold.

“Ah, the poor, wee thing,” the little steward muttered. Something in the pathetic drooping of her head on her slender neck touched Houston Kirby near his heart—not that he would ever admit that to anyone, and hardly even to himself. He continued to hover uncertainly near the door, not quite knowing what to do, but if the captain got too rough with the wee thing, well…he just hoped he wouldn't.

Rhea was numb with shock, and she wondered if this nightmare would ever come to an end. She had thought he was going to drown her—and it was possible that the thought had crossed his mind once or twice when she had splashed soap in his eyes—but suddenly all violence had disappeared. Now his hands were soothing, and he was almost caressing her. She jerked slightly when she felt his hands on her head, but his fingers only threaded through the thick braid, freeing the strands of hair as he washed them clean. He rinsed her hair with water from a pail, pouring it over the top of her head, careful to keep the soap out of her eyes.

Rhea sucked in her breath as she felt his palm slide over her breasts, then along her thighs, as he soaped her skin with a rough piece of cloth. He pulled her gently, yet firmly, to her feet as he poured another pail of warm, clear water over her shaking body. Then she was lifted from the tub and wrapped in the concealing warmth of a large towel.

As Rhea's teeth chattered uncontrollably, this strangely quiet man began to rub her dry, leaving her skin pink and tingling. Sitting down on the bunk, Dante pulled the compliant girl between his legs and started to squeeze the moisture out of her hair, his hands patient as he took several long strands at a time until he had wrung most of the water out.

Dante took her chin in his hands and stared thoughtfully into Rhea's face, worried about the vacant stare in her violet eyes. He glanced up in surprise as he heard Kirby moving about.

“Thought the little one could use something warm inside her. A mite thin, she is,” Kirby said, his face flushing with embarrassment as he stepped forward with a bowl of steaming broth.

When he noticed that the damp towel kept slipping from her shoulders, Kirby glanced around for her clothes; however, upon spotting the offending pile, he took it upon himself to procure fresh linen for her. Setting down his tray, he hurried over to the captain's sea chest, and digging down inside, reappeared with one of the captain's shirts. He handed it to Dante, then turned away discreetly as the captain slipped it around the shivering girl and lifted her onto the bunk. Dante sat down beside her, accepted the broth from his steward, then slid his arm behind the girl's shoulders. With renewed determination, she drew away from him, and Dante's lips tightened ominously as he ignored her instinctive movement. Instead, he held her against his chest as he brought the spoonful of hot broth close to her lips.

“Eat,” he ordered, relieved when she acquiesced without a fight and swallowed a mouthful of one of Kirby's finest concoctions. Dante glared down at the girl's pale face, for he was experiencing an unaccustomed feeling of compassion for this maltreated creature, and part of it was guilt for his own actions. When his hands had touched that frail body, he had realized the greatness of his own strength. It would have been too easy to crush the life out of her, and it bothered him that anyone should be so vulnerable, so much at the mercy of another.

This pitiful ragamuffin, who had fallen asleep in his arms, had humbled him, which was not something Dante was familiar with, nor likely to forget—or to forgive.

“She found the map,” Dante said softly, shocking Kirby out of his perusal of the young girl.

“B-but how?” he stuttered, for once almost at a loss for words. His eyes widened as he glanced around and noticed for the first time the map on the table.