Lady Reluctant Read online

  Mouton’s oiled head appeared from the underbrush bordering the wooden planks and he silently took the paper from her ringers. He had not been idle during the years he sat behind Blu through her lessons with Monsieur. What she had learned, he had learned. He read the message then shook his head.

  “But why not?” Disappointment dropped her lips. The idea of supping in a ship’s cabin appealed to her.

  Mouton’s hands moved in eloquent gestures. Beau Billy would certainly object. The Duke might sail under cover of darkness with Blu on board. It was not yet time for her to depart.

  Her shoulders slumped as she watched him speak. It didn’t impress her as all that undesirable should the Duke wish to sail away with her. But she knew Beau Billy would not permit her aboard the Duke’s ship.

  “Very well,” she said, acquiescing with ill grace. A hut would have to do. She asked Mouton to assign one of the huts to the Duke. Though she didn’t understand why, Mouton’s expression indicated he didn’t approve what she was doing. “He’s the one I want,” she explained softly. “And the time is right. I’ll not go to my mother a virgin.” Mouton nodded shortly, disapproving, then turned off the planking, but she caught his arm. Her cheeks flamed bright and she coughed into her hand. “Mouton... I’d rather you didn’t sleep outside my door. Not tonight. Play chess with Monsieur or something, but...”

  A struggle erupted behind his eyes.

  “I’ll not be harmed.” Touching his arm lightly, she let him see the plea in her eyes. “The Duke won’t hurt me. Isabelle says so.”

  If the Duke harmed her, he wouldn’t live to toast another dawn. She knew that. Mouton touched her cheek, then vanished into the vines and oleander bushes fringing the path.

  “I think our Mouton will bash some heads tonight,” Isabelle observed cheerfully. “He has a good heart, that one.”

  “Isabelle, you’ve told me nothing. What will it feel like? How will I know what to do?” Blu resumed pacing. “Jesu. Will he mouse me? Will I like it? I haven’t kissed before, you know. Will he...?”

  Laughing, Isabelle threw up her hands. “Basta! You will find out soon enough.”

  But time passed more slowly than ever before. To fill the hours, Blu stopped by the cook hut for a time, listening to Black Bottom shout and the women laugh and talk about the coins they would take from the sailors tonight. As the talk turned bawdy, Blu’s cheeks flamed and her stomach tightened in knots.

  After a time she wandered to the kitchen garden and pulled weeds from between the rows for a while. Then she visited the animal pens and afterward stopped to watch two men fighting over the ownership of a Dutch overcoat which neither would wear in this heat.

  Eventually she wandered back to the beach and sat in the sand, her back braced against a palmetto tree. Hugging her knees to her chin, she leaned forward, hoping for a glimpse of the Duke. But he wasn’t visible from where she sat, and if she moved to where she might see him, Monsieur would notice her. Monsieur would disapprove, as he expected her to be at her lessons.

  To distract herself, she concentrated on the treasure flowing from the ship to the warehouse, trying to calculate its worth. She noted bolts of silk and satin, mounds of Turkey rugs and fine linens. Bars of gold and silver, chests of minted coins and gems. There were crates of Spanish majolica and a dozen pieces of furniture. Cannon and shot. Brass sculptures and ivory figurines. She hoped a few of the chests contained clothing and books. Monsieur did so love to discover the latest fashions. And he needed new books as many of his were molding, the pages crumbling as she turned them.

  When Blu next opened her eyes, the western sky had darkened to a deep indigo laced with pink and the warehouse doors were closed. Monsieur had dismantled the accounting stand and the sand was empty. Cedar fires blazed along the shore, and the savory scent of Black Bottom’s stew made her mouth water. Pushing hastily to her feet, Blu brushed the pink sand from her bottom and searched the empty beach. The Duke was not in sight, but she saw Beau Billy striding from the warehouses toward the great hall.

  When he spied her, he grinned widely. “‘Twas a fine and profitable day,” he announced.

  Blu gazed at him and wet her lips, suddenly unable to speak. It was time. She had made her choice. Inexplicably, her mouth dried even as her palms moistened. A tiny earthquake had begun in the pit of her stomach.

  “Pa?” She hadn’t called him that in years. There were a hundred things she wanted to say and wanted to ask. But no sound could find passage past the stone lodged in her throat. She looked up at him with an uncharacteristically helpless expression, wanting something from him that she couldn’t name.

  Her expression caused her father to stiffen and peer closely at her. Knots as hard as beach pebbles rose along his jawline and his hands curved into fists. Swearing softly, he shifted from one foot to another, then glanced at her and cleared his throat. He started to speak, clapped his mouth shut, scratched his head. He thumped the gold disk with his knuckles, then made an explosive sound.

  “God’s balls! I’ve never been to this side of it before!” He stared at her. “Are ye sure the. Duke’s the very one?”

  “Aye.” She bit her lip, twisted her hands.

  “If the bleedin’ bastard hurts ye, I’ll tear his bloody heart out with me bare hands!”

  “Aye.” It was what she had needed to hear. With a soft cry, Blu threw herself against his chest and felt his strength wrap around her, felt his fierceness.

  He embraced her so tightly she thought her bones would crack, then he eased her away from him and cast a quick furtive scowl over his shoulder. “Jesu, gel. Someone might see.” A flurry of shadows fled the direction of his gaze and he glared after them.

  Blu leaned her forehead against his shoulder and managed a tremulous smile. “Well then.” A rush of color stung her cheeks, embarrassing her. Silently, she cursed her caw-handed behavior. Beau Billy lifted a lock of her hair and watched the strand curl around his finger. “Till morning,” Blu said, half strangling.

  They looked at each other. “Till morning,” Beau Billy repeated, his voice rough.

  “Aye. I’ll be a real woman then.”

  They peered into each other’s dark eyes, then Beau Billy threw the lock of hair away from him. “Be off with ye then,” he growled.

  “Pa?”

  “‘Tis not an item a sire discusses with his daughter. ‘Tis a woman thing.”

  Turning abruptly, he stormed toward the thatched walls of the great hall, slapping aside any man jack unlucky enough to be in his way.

  Chewing her lip, Blu watched him mount the stone steps and hurl aside the curtain. When the curtain dropped behind him, she sucked in a breath and turned her feet toward the Duke’s assigned hut.

  She didn’t understand her odd sense of reluctance. Considering how badly she wanted to shed her burdensome virginity and considering how strongly she wished to wound Lady Katherine Paget, her feelings ran counter to reason.

  Regardless, a wave of nostalgia swept her. Tomorrow she would awaken a woman, her childhood days forever gone. She would be different in the morn in ways she couldn’t yet imagine. For such a momentous event it seemed important words should have been spoken, some sort of ritual performed.

  Head lowered, she walked into Mouton’s massive chest without having seen him on the walkway. She spread her hands and gave him the same humiliating look of helplessness she had given her father.

  “I’m frightened.” The blurted words shamed her. She must not allow fear. The Duke must not see it.

  Mouton touched her cheek, his large rough fingers gentle. Under his arm, Blu could see a glow of light illuminating the curtain that covered the doorway to the Duke’s hut. Her muscles twitched.

  What in bloody hell was wrong with her? She had more character than to quail before a contest. After all, she was not facing the mouth of a cannon, she was going to glory. This was what she had longed for. And the Duke was all she had hoped for but had despaired of finding. She had chosen this. She wanted
him. This was to be the most memorable evening of her life.

  “It must be now,” she said firmly, thinking of the voyage to England and Lady Katherine, speaking more to herself than to Mouton.

  He lifted her hand and curved her fingers around the stem of a scarlet hibiscus then arched a finger toward her hair. When she had secured the blossom behind her ear, Mouton pressed her fingers then slipped into the tropical growth. Instantly the leaves and the night swallowed him, and Blu was alone.

  She drew a long breath. She twisted her fingers together and pressed them down hard until her knuckles popped. Pursing her lips, she reminded herself firmly of her earlier determination. She wished to show Lady Katherine that unlike her, Blu was not afraid to face England as a woman. She had suffered virginity long enough. The Duke met her most stringent standards. She had chosen him. The decision was made; she would see it through.

  Feeling her courage rise, she wet her lips and thought about the Duke’s naked mouth and his beautiful gray eyes. She recalled his well-shaped buttocks and his tight flat belly. Her own stomach did a slow roll and heat spread through her body.

  What under heaven was she worrying about? She couldn’t wait to jump on him. Throwing back the curtain, she stepped boldly inside the hut.

  3

  For an instant Blu didn’t know where she was. If she hadn’t focused on the thatch walls to get her bearings, she might have believed herself magically transported to a place unlike anything she had seen outside Monsieur’s books.

  Instead of the straw pallet she had expected, the Duke had ordered in a bed as grand as Beau Billy’s. Only the headboard of this bed was taller and more ornately carved than Beau Billy’s and the ticking was covered by a throw of maroon velvet. Equally astonishing, the hut’s dirt floor had vanished beneath a heavy Turkey carpet woven in patterns of crimson and blue.

  She would have liked to examine these items more closely, but a candlelit table commanded her attention. For reasons Blu could not guess, the Duke had covered the boards with a cloth made of lace and damask. This was surely a dangerous error. The candle could tip and set the cloth afire. Stepping closer to the table, she inspected the china plate and heavy silver and crystal goblets. Platters of food steaming on a side table, she noticed, were also covered by a cloth. The Duke’s ship cook must have prepared the meal, as none of the platters contained Black Bottom’s infamous gumbo.

  None of the dishes appealed; her appetite had dwindled. She was too anxious, too excited to think of swallowing. She wanted to proceed directly to the supping, as she was eager to learn if she would enjoy it and be good at it. How could one be expected to think of food when being soured forever hung in the balance?

  “May I offer you a glass of wine?”

  Blu jumped as the Duke stepped out of the shadows near the bed. God’s blood, but he was handsome. She could hardly believe her eyes and her good fortune. Candlelight raised gleaming red highlights in his black hair, and she noticed he had changed his clothing. Tonight he wore a crimson velvet coat over a silver waistcoat. A lace ruffled stock similar to those Monsieur wore foamed over his chest. And the silk ribbon holding back his hair was tied into a bow.

  “I can recommend the burgundy. It came from a French captain’s personal stock.”

  His smile turned her knees to water. It was nearly enough to keep her from wondering how hot he must be in all those layers of clothing. Though she thought he cut a wonderfully elegant figure, Blu also thought he must be bloody uncomfortable and sweating like a plow horse. It was a hot, humid night, not made for layers of silver and velvet.

  “Miss Morgan?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, staring at him, fascinated by the way his lips moved as he formed words. She had forgotten whatever it was he asked her. And the bad pork feeling had returned full force at the sight of him. Her limbs felt weak and shaky, her stomach flew around inside her body. She wondered if this was how it always was and, if so, how people survived the experience. She must remember to ask Isabelle.

  He lifted an eyebrow and drew a breath heavy with patience. “Wine, Miss Morgan, we are speaking of wine. Would you care for a glass?”

  Blu did not want to waste time drinking wine.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” she said politely, “I’d prefer to sup immediately.” Most likely he would be grateful to shed those layers of hot clothing. She was enormously eager to learn if he was as beautiful naked as he was dressed. The image sent a shiver racing down her spine.

  “As you wish.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t so much as glance toward the bed. Instead, the Duke stepped to the table and pulled back a chair, then looked at her as if she were expected to do something. Sit there? That didn’t seem right. If he wanted to eat first, why had he agreed to sup? Perhaps he had misunderstood.

  Frowning, she tipped her head toward the bed. “Sup,” she said, pronouncing the word clearly. “I am eager to sup.” She couldn’t state it more precisely. Nonetheless the Duke did not appear to comprehend.

  He moved the chair backward another inch. “Whenever you wish,” he said, staring at her.

  “I wish now.” Raising an eyebrow, she tilted her head toward the bed in a gesture so obvious, even the greenest cank, the most beef-witted buffle in the islands, could not have failed to catch her meaning.

  “Miss Morgan—you are telling me you wish to sup and you wish to sup immediately. Is that correct?”

  “Aye,” she said, relieved he was finally getting the thrust.

  “Then for God’s sake, sit down.”

  She didn’t like the sound of this. Isabelle hadn’t mentioned anything about people supping while they were sitting down. For one thing there were no chairs in the huts. For another, she didn’t immediately see how it could be done. Uneasily, she wondered if Isabelle had told her everything she needed to know.

  “You’re certain this is how we do it?” she asked, giving him a questioning look.

  For a moment, he regarded the smoky rafters above them, then lowered his head and looked at her. “You said, did you not, that you wished to sup.”

  “Aye, that I do.”

  ‘I see.” He waited behind the chair, then threw out his hands and shook his head before he walked to the far side of the table. “Well? Are you or are you not going to sit?” he asked as he seated himself.

  Since he seemed determined to delay, Blu approached the table and reluctantly perched on the edge of the chair. “You might have said you wanted to eat first.” If she sounded petulant, it was because her disappointment was great.

  “Miss Morgan.” He drew a breath, then spoke with the strained patience one used when addressing a very small, very stupid child. “As this evening is being conducted at sword point, I am willing to proceed however you wish. It was you who insisted on supping immediately.” His gray eyes regarded her from an inner distance. “Supping is eating,” he said after a moment. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  A rush of hot color flamed across her cheeks. “Of course I know that.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Now—shall you serve or shall I?”

  A lump of disappointment lay like an anchor in her stomach. She could not have swallowed a berry if the fate of the world depended upon it. After casting a glance toward the bed, Blu released a sigh and resigned herself to further delay. Why hadn’t Monsieur explained supping? Perhaps he had and that had been one of the days she had daydreamed through her lessons.

  “Miss Morgan?” She couldn’t tell if his expression signaled amusement, irritation, or exasperation.

  “You do it.” His eyes were like silver coins in the light of the candle flame. “What should I call you?”

  Standing with his back to her, he ladled food onto their platters. The hesitation before he answered stretched so long that she wondered if he had heard her question.

  “You may call me Thomas if you wish,” he said finally. Bending over her shoulder, he placed the platter before her. The smell of sunlight, rice starch,
and wine rose from him and Blu’s head swam.

  “Is that your true name?”

  “Yes.’’

  The answer astonished her. The men who sailed the Caribbean seldom revealed their true names. Wildly flattered, she smiled. “My name is Blusette. I’m called Blu.”

  After that there seemed nothing more to say, nothing to do but wait. She poked at the food on her platter and struggled against a rising sense of anxiety. The way he looked, the way he used his knife and spoon, the way he ate without catching so much as a speck of food in his mustache, everything about him seemed so perfect that she felt inadequate by comparison. This was not a feeling she was accustomed to, nor did she like it.

  Gay music from a mouth harp drifted from the direction of the beach and Blu could hear the rising noise of revelry and loud laughter. The beach noise made the silence in the hut seem deeper and more uncomfortable. She could imagine the sailors bolting their stew and leering at the women. Soon Isabelle and the others would run laughing toward the huts.

  The contrast between what was occurring on the beach and what was happening here impressed Blu as profound. Thomas ate silently, without looking at her. For all the attention he paid her, she might have been a yellow dog waiting for scraps. Dropping her hands, Blu clasped them in her lap and frowned, her anger mounting.

  “You said you were doing this at sword point,” she said abruptly. “Don’t you like me?”

  A dark eyebrow arched as he looked up at her. “I neither like nor dislike you, Miss Morgan.”

  “Blu.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “And you’re bloody well not going to if you continue to ignore me.” Plucking the blossom from behind her ear, she flung it to the carpet.