Brenda Joyce - A Lady at Last

Robards had followed him to the threshold of the foyer. “Sir! Please!”

Cliff smiled mirthlessly at him and kicked the door closed in his face. Then he locked it. He strode down the hall, the calm of that moment before a fierce battle settling over him. It was a feeling he relished. The lull before the explosion…

The house remained stunningly quiet. As he traversed its depths, he could imagine them naked, hot, entwined, Woods overcome with lust. His silent rage grew.

He had never been to the governor’s private rooms, but King’s House had been built fifty-odd years earlier and he assumed the suite was in the west wing, as it was in so many Georgian homes.

He tried four doors as he went down the west hall, all opening onto unoccupied guest rooms. And when he came to the door at the end, he heard soft male laughter.

His blood surged and thickened.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

Instantly, he saw them.

Woods stood in the center of the bedroom, a massive canopied bed behind him. He had shed his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, revealing a muscular torso. His trousers were open, revealing his manhood.

She stood by the bed, clad in a man’s sapphire-blue silk dressing gown, but it was unbelted and open, revealing her lean golden thighs, soft belly and full breasts. Her expression was one of despair, but it was also fierce and determined. She would not stand down.

Cliff prayed he was not too late.

He strode to Woods, who was so preoccupied with his victim that he did not see him until Cliff raised his fist. Woods cried out but Cliff knocked him backward into the wall, the blow so stunning he slid down it into a heap, as if unconscious.

He stepped over him, reaching for his hair, yanking his head back. Dazed eyes met his. “Society would love this bit of gossip, don’t you think?” he snarled. The threat was impulsive but ideal; Woods had a reputation to maintain, and his wife would be livid should she ever learn of his scandalous behavior.

“We are…friends!” Woods gasped.

“Not anymore.” Cliff had to fight himself not to hit him again. Then he heard her choke.

He whirled, hurrying to her. She was on all fours, fighting for composure. He knelt, sliding his arm around her, terribly aware of her exposed body and also aware that Woods had probably used her in the most despicable and disrespectful manner possible. Slowly she looked up at him, her green cat eyes huge and hurt and beseeching.

He hoped that what he thought had happened hadn’t. “I’m taking you out of here,” he said softly.

She shook her head, shocking him. “Leave me…be,” she whispered brokenly.

He wanted to kill his onetime friend; he cradled her face in his hands. “Listen to me!” he said urgently. “He is not going to pardon your father no matter what you do, or how many times you do it! Do you comprehend me?”

“But it’s the only chance I have to save him,” she gasped.

He realized her mouth was bruised. He lifted her into his arms and was surprised again, because she clung. Now there was no mistaking the fact that he wanted to protect her, but he was also aware of her open robe and her soft breasts, pressed to his chest. He had glimpsed the wet treasure between her thighs. “There was never a chance,” he said roughly, carrying her from the room.

In the hall he paused, suddenly realizing that soldiers were outside the front door, and he had just assaulted the royal governor. They’d have to make a hasty retreat through a window—and he would have quite a bit of political maneuvering to do in the days that followed. Woods might not be a friend anymore, but they needed to work together if he was to remain a viable and influential resident of the island. Suddenly he realized his burden was oddly still.

He looked at her.

She looked up at him, her hands remaining looped around his neck. She was blushing.

His gaze veered to her beautiful breasts, then lower to her slender torso, her rib cage faintly delineated, her small pink navel and the champagne-colored delta below. Buccaneer or not, he was a gentleman, and he jerked his gaze to her face, feeling his own cheeks warm. With one hand, awkwardly, he tugged the wrapper somewhat closed. “How badly did he hurt you?” he asked roughly.

“Can you put me down?” she asked instead of replying.

Instantly he complied.

She smiled at him, and kicked him very hard in the shin. And then she pushed at him and started to run.

Stunned, he reached for her, but she was agile, swift and determined. She ducked his grasp and raced down the hall, her wrapper flowing behind her nude body like a banner. He started after her more slowly, unhappily aware of a terrible turmoil in him. He almost wished he had not gotten involved, for he sensed this was just the beginning. And when he reached the entry, no one was there.

La Sauvage was gone.

AMANDA RAN THROUGH A pair of terrace doors and across the patio. King’s House took up an entire city block and was built around two courtyards; she rushed down a set of white stone steps and into the gardens there. She stumbled, didn’t care and fell to her knees. She began retching. But she hadn’t been able to eat in days, she was so sick with fear for her father, and her heaves were dry. Then she lay on the thick, damp grass, allowing herself the luxury of tears.

Her terror overcame her. Papa was going to hang tomorrow at noon. Confronting the governor and begging him for a pardon had been their last chance. She hadn’t intended to offer him her body, but when he had started to look at her the way sailors and riffraff did, she had instinctively known what she must do. How often had she seen a woman coyly seduce her father in order to win a brooch or a bolt of silk? There was only one way a woman could ever gain anything from a man and Amanda knew what that way was. She had been raised amongst sailors and thieves and the only women she knew well had been camp followers and whores. The world she had been raised in was founded on violence and sex.

But she hadn’t given her body over to Woods, because Cliff de Warenne had stopped her from doing so.

She inhaled, her heart lurching. Why had he intervened? He was the greatest privateer of the day, as rich and powerful as a king. No one could outcommand him on the main—even Papa had said so. And he was reputed to be equally dangerous on land…

Papa. Her heart was already grieving and she reminded herself that Papa wasn’t dead yet. But the grief and the fear had combined, as potent as opium, a drug she had once been given before Papa had realized what was happening. She sat, tugging her robe more securely closed. Rodney had slit the throat of the buccaneer who had thought to drug her and seduce her, right before Amanda’s eyes. He had protected her from the men who had wanted her, when he had been present to do so, and he had taught her how to defend herself with a sword, pistol and dagger, so she could protect herself when he was not there. His cruises often lasted months on end, and he’d leave her with enough stores so she would not go hungry, at least not if he returned on time. He was a good father and now she had failed him, when he was the mainstay of her life. This one single time, a time of life or death, she had let her papa down.

Her mind scrambled and raced, looking for another way to save Rodney. She had dismissed the notion of trying to break her father out of prison some time ago. Most of the crew had been killed in battle with the English officer who had captured the Amanda C, and the remaining crew was also in prison, awaiting their moments at the gallows.

If she couldn’t forcibly free him, should she go back inside to Woods?

She was ready to vomit again. She had impulsively meant to do what all women did in a crisis, but God, she was repulsed and sickened by what had almost happened. While she had witnessed just about every sexual act possible—or so she assumed—she had never been touched sexually. She had never even been kissed. Rodney Carre had made it clear that any man who dared to do so would have his throat slit and his manhood tossed to the sharks in the sea.