The Notorious Lady Anne: A Loveswept Historical Romance (37 page)

She touched the scar again. “No pirate should ever battle His Majesty’s Royal Navy. No good will come of it.”

He pulled her hand away. “No good will come of attacking any ship.” The words were out before he was able to stop them. Her fingers froze in his hand. “Emmaline, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, sliding her hand from his. “No need to apologize. I know how you feel about pirating, and I daresay you are correct. Which is why you shouldn’t sail with us today.”

He looked out the window, surprised to see the sky lightening with the coming of a new day. The storm had left its mark. Tree limbs had been flung haphazardly around the lawn surrounding Emmaline’s home. Leaves lay scattered, torn from branches. A tree leaned against another.

“I go for you and for no one else. I have no quarrel with Blackwell other than how he treated you and your mother.”

“But you still believe he shouldn’t be punished.”

Blackwell deserved to be punished, and so far he’d eluded all punishment, but Nicholas wasn’t convinced this was the way. “I fear we will never agree on this.”

She moved away from him, taking the warmth of her body with her. In this they were doomed never to agree, never to come to terms. Yet, he refused to let her sail without him.

“We have a long day ahead of us, and a long night of sailing.” She attempted to roll out of bed, but Nicholas caught her, not yet willing to start the day, especially on this note.

“I’m sorry we don’t agree, Emmaline.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, her long hair allowing glimpses of her small waist and the flare of her hips. She was golden brown all over, his Gypsy wife. His pirate wife.

A sense of doom permeated him. He’d married her knowing what she was, disregarding her profession, but it loomed between them. He would do it all over again, if it saved her from Peter Lansing’s suspicions. But he couldn’t fool himself any longer. He also married her because he wanted her. Because he couldn’t bear the thought of her sailing out of his life forever. Because, he feared, he loved her.

Love.

The word shot through him, paining him as much as the lead ball that nearly shattered his knee. He’d fallen in love with a pirate. He closed his eyes against the enormity of what he’d done last night, and the enormity of what he and Emmaline would face in the future. If they even had a future.

Yet, allowing her to leave, to sail away on her ships, never to see her again, only to hear about her exploits through the gossips, would pain him more than anything ever had.

She slid out of bed and pulled on her breeches, her back to him, her silence deafening.

Nicholas touched the spot where she’d lain, the bedsheets once warmed by her body now cool.

Emmaline stood port side and stared out at the dark ocean. The storm the night before left a brisk breeze in its wake, making for easy sailing. The island of Barbados was out of sight, the inky blackness of night swallowing it up.

Nicholas, Cook, Clarence and Shamus, along with a crew more than ready for another sailing, had prepared the ships the best they were able with what little time they were given. And after dusk, when the last rays of the sun disappeared on the horizon, they weighed anchor and set off for the American colonies on this final voyage.

When this was over, Daniel Blackwell would be ruined, or she would be dead.

Long ago she’d accepted that her father would be the death of her. She termed it a fair price to pay to ruin the man who’d ruined her life and her mother’s life. But now she wasn’t able to accept her death as easily as she had before.

Automatically her gaze shifted, searching the deck for Nicholas. Her husband. Who would have thought when she set foot on the
Pride
she would marry Captain Nicholas Addison? The notorious Lady Anne and the most honorable Captain Addison. Two more unsuited people had never been known. At least to her.

And yet, when she was with him, it all seemed right. So perfect. A touch of heaven. Early this morning, while they’d made love, she’d wanted to cry. There was something different about Nicholas’s lovemaking. He was always gentle and kind, sometimes rough, but never harsh. This morning he’d been all that and more. There’d been reverence in his touch. Awe in his movements.

Love in his eyes.

Her mind quickly veered from that direction. All day, that thought had been sneaking up on her at the most inappropriate times, when she should be focused on this voyage, and escaping Peter Lansing and his deadly suspicions.

But she was quickly learning that her life and her thoughts were out of control. Nicholas was never far from her mind, and more often than not she found herself looking for him, as she was doing now.

Imbecile. Focus
.

She should have never told him he gave her hope. He’d stored the knowledge away, no doubt to use against her at a time when she was unsuspecting. She’d revealed too much, and that wasn’t like her. Or, it hadn’t been like her, until she’d met him.

But the words she spoke had been true enough. He made her hope she could have a life after this. Hope for something better than what she’d always thought awaited her.

Hope that she would live through this to celebrate a life with him.

But the hope had been extinguished when he admitted he would never approve of what she was doing. And yet he still insisted on accompanying them.

He was never far from her side, yet never intruded on her duties. He left her to do what she needed to do.

She finally spied him on the starboard side, hands behind his back, feet spread wide, looking up at the stars and riding the waves like a man born to the water.

As if he sensed her perusal, he lowered his head, his gaze unerringly finding hers. They stood like that for some time, staring at each other. For the first time, she didn’t feel alone in the world. For the first time she knew that if she died, someone other than Phin would mourn her. There was comfort in the thought.

She made her way toward him, stepping around coiled ropes and the detritus of a ship’s deck.

“Studying the stars?” she asked, hungry for conversation with him.

“Thinking.”

“About?” She asked although she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want another conversation concerning his thoughts on this voyage, because she was beginning to think he might be right. Was revenge worth such a high price?

A few weeks ago—yesterday—she would have said yes, but now she had someone else to think of. A higher reason for living. Nicholas believed they could make a life together, that his name alone could mask her past deeds. And she found herself wondering if maybe he was right.

“The gold bothers me.”

“Gold?” Yanked from her thoughts, she had to scramble to understand what he was saying.

“The gold Blackwell’s shipping. I don’t know where it’s heading and it concerns me.”

The wind ruffled his longish hair. When she’d met him at Dorothy’s ball, both he and his brother had forsaken the stylish fashion of wearing a wig. The rebelliousness of it caught her attention. His hair had been shorter than most, but now it was long enough that he could tie it back if he chose, which he didn’t. Instead he let the wind rush through it, the silky black strands gently blowing this way and that. She ached to run her hands through it, to feel it slip through her fingers and rest in her palm. She shook her head and concentrated on the conversation.

“What do you think he’s going to do with it?”

“I’m unsure. Something doesn’t sit right, though. It’s as if I’m missing something.”

“Do you think he’s headed to France?”

“That’s a possibility.”

Deep in thought, Nicholas stared at the stars, absently running his fingers up her arm, sending shivers down her spine. He didn’t seem to be aware he was touching her, the act so natural.

They were enemies. She’d kidnapped him. They weren’t supposed to marry or fall—

She quickly pushed the thought away. He’d never once said he loved her, and she had no reason to believe he did. Except, why would he marry her, protect and make her his viscountess if he didn’t?

Don’t go there, Emmaline. In that direction lies heartache. You’re asking for more than you deserve. Be happy with what you have
. Because what she had was more than she dared hope, and should be enough. “Where do you think he’s heading?” Emmaline asked.

Nicholas shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

Blackwell’s ship, the
Illusion
, was riding at a good clip, and had been for the three days they’d been trailing him. Southwest. Not toward London, or even France. Interesting.

They’d picked the ship up ten days after leaving Barbados, and they’d been watching it ever since, keeping it in their sights but not advancing.

She was close. So damn close to finishing her mission. Eleven years in the planning and she stood at the precipice, ready to step forward, ready to see all her hard work come to fruition.

And yet the satisfaction she thought she’d feel wasn’t as sharp as she’d hoped. Not with Nicholas beside her.

Their time on the ship had been wonderful, beautiful. A honeymoon of sorts, if you could call sailing on a pirate ship with other pirates a honeymoon. But they were both where they loved to be, and for several days they didn’t mention why they were sailing or where they were going or what was going to happen once they got to their destination.

They worked during the day and made love during the night.

“How long are you going to follow him?” Nicholas asked.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. Truth be told, she could attack the ship now. The winds were in their favor. The ship sat low in the water, which meant it would be slower than hers. Yet she didn’t give the orders. She rubbed her stomach, which had been off the last few days. Nerves normally never bothered her, but this time was different. This time she had Nicholas with her.

She had half a mind to dump him in a tender and send him off, away from her ship and the battle to come.

“Second thoughts?” he asked.

She lifted her chin. “No.”

Was her father on the ship? Was he smug in the knowledge that his ships hadn’t been attacked in several weeks?

Her mind flashed back to the moment that changed her life. The words would forever be etched in her memory, the scene forever branded on her soul.

Once she’d reached Boston all those years ago, she found her father’s office building and waited until the end of the day, then followed him from his office, not wanting to confront him in such a public place. He walked with the rolling gait of a sailor, and she’d been startled to discover she was almost as tall as he was. In her mind, he’d always been bigger than life. A giant of a man. He slowed at a large house, and she knew that if she didn’t speak now, she’d lose her opportunity.

“Pardon me,” she’d said, relying on the manners Aunt Dorothy had instilled in her, wanting him to see the girl she’d become.

He turned steel-gray eyes to her, hard and uncompromising. She looked for any sign of recognition, but didn’t find any. A child of about four ran up to him, yelling “Papa,” and launched his tiny body at the man’s legs. Shocked, Emmaline took a step back, her gaze locked on the black-haired boy with the gap-toothed smile.

“Can I help you?” he asked, ignoring the child.

Emmaline looked into those cold gray eyes, then glanced nervously at the boy.
Papa?
“Are you Daniel Blackwell?”

“Yes.”

“I’m, um, Emmaline. Your daughter.”

He went still. His hands flexed and Emmaline took another step back. She’d made a mistake. This man couldn’t be her father. He couldn’t be the same man her mother told her story after story about, weaving tales of daring and bravado, telling her of the words of love he spoke to his wife and newborn daughter. The man in front of her was a brute dressed as a gentleman, with no warmth in his eyes, not even for the child who so obviously adored him.

“You must have mistaken me for someone else,” he said. “I don’t know any Emmaline.” He shook the little boy off his leg. He landed on his butt and looked up at his “papa” with a fading smile. Daniel Blackwell turned and entered the house, leaving her alone, confused and hurt.

Emmaline spent the night in a barely reputable inn. Outside, men laughed drunkenly and Emmaline huddled in her bed, more afraid than she’d ever been. All her life, she’d had her mother
and her aunt to take care of her. She’d never been so alone, and had mistakenly, naïvely assumed the world wasn’t so bad. That she could easily sail to the American colonies, and from there her father would welcome her with open arms and take her in.

She’d believed a new life awaited her here. One where she fit in better, where she wasn’t an outcast because her blood wasn’t good enough.

She vowed to confront him one more time. She’d simply startled him earlier. He wasn’t prepared for her. Maybe after a night of thinking about it, he’d realize the mistake he made.

With steely resolve she barged through the doors of Blackwell Shipping Company the next morning. She stalked passed the men working at the desks, ignoring their startled stares. She shoved open the door that said Daniel Blackwell, and with a swirl of skirts stepped inside his office.

“Hello, Father.”

He stood slowly, carefully placing the papers he’d been reading on his desk with shaking hands. But he wasn’t shaking from relief that she’d returned. No, he was angry. Fury screamed from those cold gray eyes. Inside she quivered with her own fear.
What have you done now, Emmaline?

“I told you once, miss, I do not know any Emmaline.”

And suddenly her fear turned to anger. “I am Emmaline Blackwell, born to you and Elizabeth Blackwell. Born in London, England. Do you still deny my existence?”

He studied her for a long, tense moment, his gaze roving over her face. Did he see the resemblance? Did he remember?

“I know no Elizabeth Blackwell. My wife’s name is Millicent Blackwell. I have four sons, all born here in Boston. I certainly don’t have a daughter.” He sat down and picked up his papers, dismissing her. She stood there, shame building inside her, until he glanced up at her.