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Authors: Heart of the Storm

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It was the only explanation that made any sense, for innocent virgins were not normally to his taste.
But Eliza Thoroughgood certainly was.
Whatever it took, he meant to have her. But though she might hope eventually to win the boy’s freedom, Cyprian knew that was one promise he could never give her. He would do or say anything else in order to gain access to the passionate depths of her, but he would not give up Haberton’s son.
He forced himself to take stock of the slant of the wind and the position of the moon. He meant to seduce Eliza no matter what it took, for in the end he knew it would be worth it. The waiting would only heighten the pleasure. Both his and hers.
He consoled himself with the thought that if he pleased her as thoroughly as he intended to, she would probably forgive him. Even if she didn’t, he would simply put her ashore. Once he’d had his fill of her he would set her free. She was, after all, only a diversion, nothing more.
For a moment a twinge of conscience prodded him. His mother had been just that for Lloyd Haberton, a diversion swiftly abandoned and completely forgotten. What he intended now for Eliza Thoroughgood was no better, and that made him just as heartless as his bastard father.
But Cyprian buried that unpleasant thought beneath
the vow that he would at least acknowledge a child, should there be one. He would claim it as his and, indeed, be the sort of father he’d never had.
He frowned at the thought of becoming a father and began to pace. It wasn’t what he wanted, but if it came to that he wouldn’t shirk his responsibilities. He never had, not to his friends, his crew, or his mother. Especially not to his mother.
And this plan he’d set into motion—this revenge against Lloyd Haberton—was just a part of that responsibility. He paused and stared down at the deck, at the thin layer of wooden planks that separated him from the young woman who so consumed his thoughts. Eliza Thoroughgood was part of Lloyd Haberton’s world. She should thank her lucky stars that he didn’t intend to wreak punishment against her as well. Instead he meant to introduce her to a different world, a world of pleasure such as she’d never imagined could exist. He had no reason to feel guilty about Miss Eliza Thoroughgood, he told himself as he turned his face into the cold wind. No reason at all.
“
W
hy do I have to have breakfast with
him?”
Eliza parted Aubrey’s hair and tried to smooth down the unruly curls with the comb Xavier had brought her. “I should think you’d want to meet the captain of the
Chameleon.”
“Well, I don’t.” His brow creased and he began rotating his ankles in tandem, first one way and then the other.
Eliza studied his bowed head, his sturdy arms and shoulders covered by his plain nightshirt, and his thin legs in their cuffed and belted breeches, several sizes too large for him. Who would ever guess this urchin were the son of Sir Lloyd Haberton? How little separated the privileged upper classes from their more common neighbors. The quality of their garments. The phrasing of their words. Money and education could make of any child an Aubrey Haberton. Or an Eliza Thoroughgood. And the lack of it could make of them an Oliver—or a Cyprian Dare.
“And why don’t you?” she pressed Aubrey, not wanting to wonder why Cyprian Dare had become the man he now was.
The boy turned a worried face up to her. “He’s the one who had Oliver and Xavier kidnap us. He’s the one
that stole into my cabin that other time, isn’t he?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Oliver and Xavier—and all the rest of the crew—they just do his bidding. But he … he’s the one who hates me.”
“Oh, no, Aubrey. He doesn’t hate you. He—” She broke off, not sure how wise it was to tell him. But the doubt and confusion on his young face convinced her. “He … he’s had a dispute with your father, it seems. It has nothing to do with you, though. With you or me.”
Aubrey’s face screwed up in a frown. “With my father? He knows my father?”
Eliza sighed and sat down on his bed beside him. “Yes, though I don’t know how. But whatever the reason that he holds a grudge against your father, I’m afraid you have now become like a bone between two dogs, Aubrey. Two large, jealous, and angry dogs,” she added glumly.
“In a fight between them, I’m afraid my father cannot hope to win. Though they’re much the same height, the captain is younger, and no doubt stronger.”
“I don’t think it shall come to a physical fight,” Eliza hastened to say. In truth, however, she was not at all so certain. She held out no hope at all that her father and Uncle Lloyd could find them on their own. The sea was simply too vast. Though she hadn’t any idea what Cyprian’s final goal was, logic nevertheless deemed that a ransom must eventually be demanded. If Sir Lloyd supplied the necessary funds, surely Cyprian would release Aubrey. And her.
Still, logic had not aided her yet in her dealings with the enigmatic Cyprian Dare. Who knew what his demands might be?
“I want you to be pleasant and friendly at breakfast,” she told Aubrey, trying to shake off her worries. “Be on your very best manners, all right? Though he can appear very fierce, he is not always as menacing as he appears.”
“Like Xavier?”
Eliza smiled and stroked Aubrey’s recently tanned cheek. “Yes, like Xavier.” How healthy her cousin appeared lately, she thought, studying him closely. How robust. In spite of their trials, he grew stronger everyday. When they finally returned home to England, his parents would be amazed at his progress.
A smart rap on the door drew her attention before she could succumb to homesickness. “All right. We’re coming.”
As if that were an invitation to enter, Oliver came right in. “Ahoy, mate. Ah, and a bonny good morning to the bonniest lass alive,” he added, bowing like some court dandy might.
Eliza dismissed him with a roll of her eyes. “Your attempts at gallantry are noble, Oliver. But they’re quite wasted upon me.”
She expected some flippant rejoinder, or at the least, a bold wink and wicked grin. To her surprise, however, the young man stared at her in the most serious fashion. “I suppose you are accustomed to blokes far more gallant than I know how to be.”
Eliza paused, scrutinizing him. Oh dear, was there something more to his flirtations than she’d thought? Could it be that he did “fancy” her as Aubrey had said? In confusion she turned toward her cousin. “Could you carry Aubrey, please? We’re to take breakfast with the captain,” she explained, steering the conversation in a more neutral direction.
But Aubrey had other plans. When Oliver approached him he grinned at his friend. “Eliza’s used to being around all sorts of highfalutin blokes. All the honorables and milords. She’s supposed to marry one of them,” he continued. “But she doesn’t really like him. Or any of them. Even at her own birthday party she didn’t want to be around them—”
“Aubrey!”
“—and that’s why she came up with the idea for us to
go to Madeira. To escape. That’s very likely why she kept on pretending she was ill, even though she’s never acted ill around me.”
“Aubrey Haberton, just you mind your tongue. You don’t know what you’re talking about. And anyway, Oliver doesn’t want to hear any of this.”
“Oh, but I do, Eliza.” Oliver left Aubrey where he sat upon the bed and snatched up both of Eliza’s hands. “I want to know all about you. I … I think you’re quite the loveliest woman I’ve ever known. And the purest.” He stared imploringly at her and his brown eyes were more earnest than she would have credited. “You’re far too good for the likes of me,” he added.
A footstep in the hall put an end to Oliver’s sincere avowal, much to Eliza’s relief. But when Cyprian appeared, then stared pointedly at their joined hands, her relief immediately turned to chagrin.
“Yes, she’s quite too good for the likes of you, Oliver,” Cyprian agreed, his voice like ice.
Eliza yanked free of Oliver’s warm hold at once, but she feared the damage was done, for animosity fairly bristled between the two men. They were jealous of each other and all on account of her!
Given her reputation as the shy and retiring sort, and the fact that they were pirates—or at least smugglers—the situation was so farfetched as to be ludicrous.
Ludicrous or not, however, she still could not allow it to continue.
“I am quite able to make my own decision as to who is ‘good enough’ for me, without any assistance or advice from either of you. That is why I plan to marry Lord Michael Johnstone. He is as fine and good a gentleman as can be found anywhere in the empire,” she stated with as much hauteur as she could muster. “Now, if we are finished discussing my tastes in men, I, for one, would like to have my breakfast.”
She wasn’t certain she had pulled it off. Oliver still
glared at his captain, while Cyprian regarded the younger man with an expression that somehow managed to convey both a cold anger and a dismissive nonchalance, as if the boy’s interest in Eliza was more an amusement than anything else. The very arrogance of it angered Eliza as nothing else could. Where did he come by that superior attitude of his? That insufferable self-assurance?
Oliver turned stiffly to Eliza. “Shall I carry Aubrey to—”
“I’ll do it,” Cyprian cut him off.
“No!” Eliza practically shouted. “No,” she repeated in a calmer voice, though her heart raced.
Please don’t let them come to blows
. “Oliver can help Aubrey.” She hooked her arm in Cyprian’s, tugging him toward the door almost desperately. “Come along. I’m starving.”
When Cyprian pivoted on his heel she could have cried with relief. Though the arm beneath her hand was rigid with tension, he was doing as she bade. They made the short sojourn down the narrow companionway side by side, bumping shoulders and hips in a manner altogether too familiar. But it was small enough concession in order to avoid a full-fledged battle between the two men.
That they should get their hackles up over her was hard to fathom. Eliza Thoroughgood was not the sort men fought over. Her fortune, yes. But for herself? Hardly. Yet here she was, barely keeping peace between them. Truly she did not understand the male of the species at all.
“Put him down here,” she murmured when Oliver followed them into Cyprian’s cabin. His lair, she’d privately begun to label the chamber. She gave Cyprian a little shove in order to get her arm free of his possessive hold, then turned to Oliver. “Thank you, Oliver. That will be all for now,” she added, pleading with her eyes for him to just go quietly.
He didn’t smile, but he did as she asked. “Call for me if you need anything,” he said. Then without even glancing at Cyprian, he turned and left.
Thank a merciful God for that, Eliza thought. Then bracing herself to deal with Cyprian’s formidable temper, she faced him. “Was that entirely necessary?”
His jaw flexed once while his eyes appraised her with cool detachment. “I’m captain here. If the boy cannot remember that, he can seek a position on another ship.”
“He’s not a boy,” she countered. “And he is as entitled to his feelings as you or I.”
“No, he’s not a boy,” Cyprian replied slowly, still standing on the other side of the table from her. “That’s why I told you to avoid him. But instead it seems you have been encouraging him.”
“Encouraging him! I am not encouraging him. Or you either—” She came to an abrupt halt when she realized that from his seat on a chair between them, Aubrey was following their conversation much as he might follow a tennis match, his head swinging back and forth between the two adversaries.
She took a slow steadying breath, though in truth, it did no good. “Let’s just dine, shall we?”
It was one of the most unpleasant meals she could recall having. Even the night before, after he’d terrified her with his passions, then demanded that she serve the meal as if nothing whatsoever had happened, she’d not been this completely uncomfortable. Then they’d conversed awkwardly, about subjects she’d hardly recalled. The
Chameleon
’s tonnage. Her speed under full sail. Her draft. But at least it passed for conversation. But at this meal—this horrible breakfast—there was no conversation at all. The metal utensils clinked against the pewter plates. From outside the occasional voices of the crew wafted to them. The steady rushing sound of the wind, and the water breaking against the bow were a
constant background. But inside there was a cold and difficult silence.
She felt a nudge against her ankle. “May I have another biscuit?” Aubrey whispered.
She smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner and patted his hand. There was no need to whisper. Yet considering the tension seething in the small room, she certainly understood why he did. “Of course you may.” Then she turned a much cooler expression on Cyprian. “Would you please pass the biscuits to Aubrey?”
He did, and for a moment his eyes swept over the boy. But they swiftly turned away and returned to her. He was still angry, she realized. And all because of Oliver’s misplaced affections. Well, if he was already angry, what harm in antagonizing him further?
“You know, Captain Dare, I thought you might relate to Aubrey those same fascinating facts you entertained me with yesterday evening. He is very taken with sailing, in case you hadn’t noticed. What was it you told me about the
Chameleon
’s draft?”
“She has a draft of twelve feet,” he replied after a pause that nearly unnerved her. But aside from the briefest of glances at Aubrey, he kept his attention on her.
“Ah, yes. Twelve feet,” she repeated, growing angrier with him by the second. Why wouldn’t he speak directly to Aubrey? He hadn’t even looked at the boy, not really, only those sidelong peeks, as if he didn’t want to look at him at all, but couldn’t help himself. Was Aubrey some oddity to him, then? If he thought to keep his distance from his captive, why had he agreed to share a meal with him?
She stared down at her half-eaten meal. He’d probably agreed only as a way to get into her good graces. He’d brought her the clothes last night and he’d been quite disarming in his manner, even raising her hopes
that she might be able to convince him to abandon this cruel plot of his. Could this silly argument with Oliver have affected his humor so adversely? She decided to try a new tack.
“I was wondering. I would like to continue giving Aubrey his lessons, and since we’re … we’re confined here,” she said, trying hard to keep any hint of accusation out of her voice, “I thought we’d work on world geography. Have you any maps or charts we could borrow?” It was her turn to nudge Aubrey with her foot, though she smiled directly at Cyprian.
“Um, yes,” Aubrey mumbled. “I … I should very much like to learn about charts and navigation. Sir,” he added, though he sounded less enthusiastic than Eliza would have liked.
Once again Cyprian’s gaze flickered briefly to Aubrey, then returned to Eliza. He acted as if the boy weren’t there. Or as if he wished he weren’t. Was it because he wished for the two of them to be alone, without the watching eyes of her youthful chaperone, Eliza speculated? A wave of heat rose in her cheeks at the very thought. Yet there was something more restraining Cyprian. She was sure of it.
“Just tell Xavier what you need. He’ll provide it.”
“I thought they’d be in here,” Eliza persisted. “Can’t you show them to us?”
Cyprian’s jaw flexed. Twice. So, she
was
irritating him, she realized. Good. But she wasn’t sure
why
he was irritated. Again his eyes glanced briefly at Aubrey before returning to her, and in that almost furtive movement, Eliza suddenly found her answer. Cyprian ignored Aubrey; he practically pretended the child was nonexistent, and she realized why. Because he didn’t want to know the boy. He didn’t want to know him or like him—or feel guilty for what he was doing to an innocent child.

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