Her Heart's Captain (15 page)

Tris Allenby's rage lasted only a few minutes. How could he maintain a feeling of anger against a girl whom he'd convinced himself he loved? During the six months of his last voyage—the only one in his life which had seemed unendurably long to him—he'd spent half his days dreaming of her, imagining their reunion, the whirlwind development of their mutual affection, his proposal of marriage, her acceptance, an almost-immediate wedding and a shipboard honeymoon. Now he felt a complete fool. How could he have fallen in love with a girl he hardly knew? How had he deluded himself into believing that she, too, had felt the attraction? What did he know about love anyway?

During all his adult years he'd known only a sailor's sort of intimacy with women—brief, unemotional alliances with the lightskirts and trulls one finds at seaports and anchorages the world round. But love itself was still very much a mystery to him. This ignorance in a man of thirty-five was probably a sign of serious emotional retardation, even though his mother would undoubtedly find excuses for him in the fact that, in the hectic activity of the wartime Navy, he'd never had an opportunity to develop long-standing relationships with the proper sort of women. But excuses notwithstanding, his ignorance was a real handicap to him now.

However, he was not so ignorant that he couldn't see that Jenny Garvin had no liking for him. She wanted nothing to do with him. She couldn't even bear to have him near. The realization was painful—more painful than he'd dreamed possible—but he'd not commanded warships in battle without learning how to face and deal with painful truths. She didn't want him; that was the beginning and the end of it. There was no point in prolonging his agony. He'd tell his mother, as soon as he returned to Clement Hall, that the time had come to take their departure.

He was so depressed at the disintegration of his dreams that it was several minutes before he became aware of the little pinpricks of ice which were stinging his face. Sleet was coming down heavily. Already the fields were pebbled with little white pellets. He shook himself out of his lethargy and clucked at the horses; the roads might well be covered with ice before he reached Wyndham.

But what about Jenny?
he asked himself with a start. She must still be standing back at the crossroad. He hadn't noticed a single carriage pass him by. No one had come for her. Good Lord, she must be half frozen by this time!

For a moment, injured pride kept him from turning the curricle, but even while he hesitated he knew he would go back for her. She'd repulsed him, true, but he couldn't let her stand unsheltered in the sleet. He turned the horses, whipped them up to the fastest pace possible on the rutted road and hurried back.

His first glimpse of her gave him a shock. She was standing in the middle of the road, her back to him. She was bareheaded and her braid, which had been twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck when he'd seen her earlier, was now loose, tousled and hanging down her back. She seemed not even to have heard his approach, so engrossed was she in staring down at the bundle of rags which lay at her feet. He halted the horses and jumped down, but only after he came up beside her was he able to recognize that the bundle of rags was a man—a large, ill-clad man with a great, gaping wound in his head.

“Jenny! What—?”

She turned to him. Her face was white, and the look in her eyes, dilated with terror, made his blood freeze. “I've
killed
him,” she whispered brokenly, blinking up at him without a sign of recognition in her eyes. “I've killed him … and I don't know w-what to
do
.”

He threw a quick glance at the man sprawled on the road, but he could see at once that there was something decidedly strange about the wound. The blood was too red, too thick, too mottled with lumps. He knelt down and examined the man closely. He pulled off one of his gloves, felt for the pulse, lifted an eyelid and put a finger to the red mass. “Good heavens, what's
this
?
Jam
?”

Jenny nodded dully. “Gooseberry jam. I h-hit him with it.”

He almost laughed aloud in relief. “Yes, now I see the pieces of the jar.” He stood up, took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Don't look like that, Jenny. He isn't dead.”

“He isn't—?”

“No. Only stunned.” He gave her a comforting grin. “It's not at all easy to turn a jar of gooseberry jam into a lethal weapon, you know.”

A light of hope sprang into her eyes. “Are you
sure
? Only stunned?”

“I'm certain. He may have a cut or two under that covering of preserves, but nothing more serious. I'll wake him up in a moment and prove it to you. But first, tell me what the wretch did to drive you to so unladylike an assault.”

“He … He …” Jenny shut her eyes and shivered as the memory of the man's leer—those reddened, lustful eyes, the blackened teeth—flashed through her mind. She put a hand up to her mouth as if to wipe away the recollection of the pressure of that drunken mouth on hers. “I …
can't
—!” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

But he'd seen enough. The repulsive lout on the ground had molested her—had laid hands on this, the sweetest, most gentle girl he'd ever known. He looked at the ruffian's huge hands—their thick, red fingers with their black-edged fingernails protruding from the fingerless knit gloves—and felt ill with revulsion. A murderous fury swept through him, a feeling so strong that it dilated his pupils and stopped his breath. It was a fury that demanded immediate release. He dropped his hold on Jenny's shoulders, whirled around and knelt beside the fallen miscreant. He slapped the fellow sharply, twice, across the face. “Get up, you piece of scum!” he hissed savagely. “Get up so that I can smash you properly!”

“
Captain
!” Jenny objected, appalled by his rough handling of the unconscious man.

But Tris barely heard her. He slapped the man again across both cheeks. “Get
up
, I say!”

The man whimpered and opened his eyes. He stared up at the captain stupidly but was soon able to read the menace in the face glowering down at him. “Wut …? Who …?” His eyes flickered to Jenny, and a look of recognition came into them. “Oh,” he muttered, licking his lips in fright, “yer brother …”

Tris grabbed the muffler wound round the ruffian's neck. “So you're awake, eh? Get to your feet!”

“I din't mean nuthin',” the terrified fellow muttered, trying to edge himself away from the threat looming over him. “Nothin' real bad …” He lifted himself on his elbows to push himself out of reach.

Tris snorted, stood erect and hauled the man to his feet. “I'll show you what it means to molest an innocent female,” he said, his voice icy with fury. And, still gripping the fellow by his muffler with his left hand, he drew back his right fist to swing.

To Jenny's perception, the scene now being enacted before her was worse than anything that had happened so far. Her attacker, now white-faced and helpless, gooseberry jam dripping from his head down the side of his face and onto his shoulders, was nothing more than a poor, pathetic creature, while Captain Allenby, with that murderous look in his eyes, was
fearsome
. She was horrified.
This
was the Tristram Allenby that Robbie had spoken of—cold, vengeful and terrifyingly brutal. His raised fist seemed to her like a sledgehammer, about to smash the poor beggar's skull to bits. “
Don't
!” she screamed.

The shrill cry made Tris freeze in mid-motion. Holding the wretch by the neck with one hand, and his other raised to strike, he looked over at the open-mouthed girl. The horror in her eyes was unmistakable. But it was directed
not at the miscreant he held by the throat but at himself
!

He stared at her in utter bafflement. Why was the girl looking at him as if he were a savage beast?
He
hadn't assaulted her—he was only defending her from someone who
had
. Yet she was looking at him as if he were a worse criminal than the blackguard he held. “What
is
it, Jenny?” he asked, stupified.

“Don't …
kill
him …” Her pleading voice was shaking.

He had a flash of recollection. They were standing together on the dock at Portsmouth. He'd just told her that the thieves—the child and the woman who'd plotted to steal her baggage—had probably escaped.
Good
, she'd said.
I wouldn't wish to
have them languishing in prison because of me
. He'd answered that criminals deserved punishment, but she'd not agreed. Had this anything to do with her dislike of him? Had she found him then—and did she find him now—too vindictive? Was that it?

He lowered his fist and looked at the poor wretch sagging in his hold. “The lady doesn't want you killed,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “so I'm going to let you go. Go home, and when you get there, go down on your knees and thank the Lord that the lady is so much more merciful than I would have been.”

He shoved him away with such force that the fellow toppled over backward and fell on his rear. Using his hands and his seat, he pushed himself back along the road (keeping a wary eye on the gentleman who'd mauled him) until he judged it safe to get up. Then he got clumsily to his feet and scampered off with remarkable haste.

But neither Tris nor Jenny watched him go. They stood unmoving, staring at each other with breathless, puzzled intensity while the sleet pelted down, all unheeded, on their heads.
She thinks I'm some sort of beast
, Tris thought with despair.
There's nothing I can do, it seems, to win her good opinion
.

He didn't strike the poor man
, Jenny was thinking, eyeing him in relieved gratitude.
He restrained himself … and all for my sake. Can it be that he's not such a brute as I thought?

Tris, taking note of the ice forming on her uncovered hair, forced himself into action. He whipped off his greatcoat, threw it over her, lifted her into his arms without a word and carried her to the curricle. “No, please,” she murmured as he placed her gently on the seat and pulled the coat snugly about her, “you'll catch your death. Please put your coat on again.”

“I don't need it,” he assured her, “and you're shivering.”

He walked carefully round the carriage (for the thin glaze of ice forming over the ruts of the road was treacherous), spied his glove lying forgotten on the ground, picked it up and climbed up beside her. Holding the reins tightly to keep the horses from moving too quickly, he guided the animals into a turn and set off up the road. The girl beside him was still trembling, and he himself was too shaken to think clearly. “Are you all right? That blackguard didn't
harm
you, did he?”

“N-No,” she said shakily. “He only … k-kissed me.”

“Damned lout,” Tris muttered under his breath.

She shivered again and held the greatcoat tightly at her neck. “I don't s-suppose it was important, since I did escape from him. One shouldn't r-refine on such matters in one's mind, should one?”

“No, I don't think one should,” Tris said, throwing her a comforting smile. “A kiss is not an act of very great significance.”

She didn't even notice his smile but stared out ahead of her, considering his statement with intent seriousness. “No, I don't suppose it is,” she said, her tone distinctly relieved.

“Then you
are
feeling better?”

“Yes, I'm quite all right … now.”

They rode along in silence. Tris would have liked to ask her why she'd stopped him from striking her attacker, for it seemed to him a completely justified punishment. Was the girl so foolishly tenderhearted that she'd instantly forgive even so vile a man as that? Did she have some sort of religious conviction on the subject? And did it have anything to do with her obvious aversion to
him
? He would have liked to ask her all of those questions and more. But they were both too shaken to deal with these matters sensibly now. It would be best to discuss only trivialities. “I wonder what's become of your carriage,” he remarked, keeping his voice calm and impersonal.

“I don't know.” There was a long pause. “I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't come back for me,” she said quietly. “I … I must—”

“No, you must
not
,” he cut in coldly. He was revolted at the prospect of receiving a token of reluctant gratitude from someone who abhored him.

She looked up at him in confusion. “What?”

“You must not bother to tell me how grateful you are. That's what you were trying to say, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was. Why may I not say it?”

“I don't want to hear it, Miss Garvin.” He could almost
feel
her eyes on his face, wide with surprise, but he kept his fixed on his horses.

“You called me Jenny back at the crossroad,” she murmured. “Twice.”

“Did I?” He couldn't resist stealing a quick look at her before turning his attention back to the horses. “I shouldn't have thought you'd noticed. You were in quite a state.”

“Yes, I was. But I
did
notice. It would seem an excess of formality to return to calling me Miss Garvin after all that's passed.”

“I thought you
liked
an excess of formality.”

“
I
?” The surprise in her tone clearly indicated that she'd become aware of a tinge of hostility in his manner. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it seems to me that you've been treating me with an excess of formality ever since I arrived here a week ago. I hadn't noticed that trait in you during our first meeting, I admit.”

There was another pause. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she offended by his coldness? It gave him a touch of bitter satisfaction to think she might be. He'd been offended by hers often enough.