Page 41

Pitt gave more weight to the question than he normally might have done, partly because of the solemn expression on her face, partly because, in his twenty-nine years, he had not given it much thought before.

Surely, he had done his share of cheating, scheming, and lying; it was a necessary evil in order to avoid spending the rest of his life molding iron over a peat fire.

He had done his share of killing as well; it went hand in hand with the life he had chosen.

But he had never deliberately betrayed the trust of another man, never raised a hand against a woman or child, never kicked a dog or slit a man’s throat for the sheer sport of it.

“Not as bad as some,” he said finally. “Possibly worse than others. But I sleep well at night, and know many men who call me friend.”

“Including your Capitán Dante and Capitán Spence?” Her lashes fluttered down to shield her eyes. “They helped you tonight, did they not?”

Pitt cleared his throat. “Helped me?”

“Distract the senora.”

He had the good sense not to deny it, and the better sense not to say anything at all while she struggled through whatever dilemma was putting a small frown on her brow.

“You all seem so … kind. And far more honorable than I was told to expect in an Englishman. My … maid … warned us before we were taken from the San Pedro … that both the senora and I would probably be raped by every member of the crew before the first sun fell.”

“Your maid frightened you needlessly,” Pitt assured her. “You have nothing—and no one—to fear on board this ship.”

“She… she also said England is a pit of snakes and vipers; heretics who sacrifice children and drink the blood of their victims. She said it is a cold, dark place of pestilence and sickness where the sun never shines and terrible storms ravage the land all year round.”

“We have a fair share of rain, but—”

“She says the rain is God’s tears and that He despairs of ever saving England from the hands of heretics and devil-worshippers.

She also says there is no beauty in England, no beauty in the people who live there.

” Her lashes lifted and the stunningly clear blue eyes roved over the tawny gold waves of his hair, the handsome planes of his face, the solid breadth of his shoulders, before she continued.

“She says the people are small and twisted, that they stink of sin and corruption. That to touch one, to… to lie with one, can only breed more corruption in the womb and condemn the immortal soul to everlasting hellfire.”

“She said all that, did she? Words of comfort to cheer you on your journey?”

“I… had never seen an Englishman before,” she confessed shyly, her eyes finding his again. “Only the senora, who told me once she used to be the most beautiful woman in her village.”

“Had she been enjoying too much Madeira at the time?” Pitt asked with a frown.

The duchess tilted her face higher into the light and smiled in a way that sent Pitt’s heart into his throat. “I believe she must have been, for you are not the smallest part ugly. Or frightening. And you smell … quite wonderful.”

Pitt’s tongue suddenly felt as dry and matted as a skein of uncombed wool.

All of his wit and most of his senses deserted him, and he could think of nothing either charming or amusing to say in return.

He could only think of what he would forfeit at that particularly desperate moment—an arm, a leg, all his teeth, his ears, his toes—just to kiss her bow-shaped mouth one time.

The moment faded along with her smile. “What do you think will happen to me when we come to England? Will I be sent to prison?”

“Good God, no. You will be treated with all the courtesy and respect due a royal visitor. Judging by what your maid has told you about England, I can only imagine the stories you have heard about our Queen, but I promise you, none of them are true.”

“She is not thin and old and does not have hair the color of unripe cherries?”

“Her Majesty is slender, and mature, and her hair is … er, reddish, yes, but would pale to inconsequence beside Captain Spence’s beard.”

“She does not hang priests and burn those who follow the Catholic faith?”

“She discourages them from practicing openly, but the fires, I am afraid, belong to your own Court of Inquisition.”

A fine crease of a frown reappeared. “And she has not kept her only sister locked away in a prison cell for nineteen years?”

“Mary Stuart is her cousin and has plotted ceaselessly to assassinate Elizabeth and take the throne by force. She had the throne of Scotland and could not keep it through all her wild affairs and scheming. Our Queen has tried on numerous occasions to effect a reconciliation, only to uncover yet another plot, another attempt to steal the throne, another assassin lurking in the shadows. Would your King react any differently to someone who repeatedly committed outright acts of treason?”

“I do not know how our King would react, I am only—” She stopped and bit her lip, consigning her face to the shadows again. “I am not privy to Court discussions.”

It was not the first time Dona Maria had taken refuge behind the innocence and ignorance of her position.

Many times, in fact, when the discussions over the meal table became heated—which they often did with Spence, Dante, and Beau expressing their opinions as freely as flowing water—the duchess would grow visibly pale and cringe in apprehension of any attempt to draw her into the conversation.

Pitt supposed it was because she had been raised in a convent and groomed to do nothing more than marry into a rich alliance.

Nonetheless, she was a sharp contrast to someone like Beau Spence, who spoke her mind with a frankness and authority that brought to mind a not too distant parallel with England’s own queen.

But then everything about Dona Maria Piacenza was a sharp contrast to Beau Spence.

And while Pitt had come to admire the captain’s daughter for her intelligence and wit—not to mention her skill at the helm of a ship—he was not about to discount the appeal of a woman whose unfounded fears and vulnerability struck at the very soul of chivalry .

It was true she had been taken as a hostage to ensure safe passage home, but political hostages were taken frequently, on both sides of the Channel, and exchanged on a regular, almost amicable basis. The more valuable the hostage, the quicker the exchange.

Pitt looked down at the duchess’s hands again, which were now worrying the elaborate lacing on the cuff of her sleeve.

They were slender, delicate hands, devoid of the sort of gaudy jewelry most nobles liked to wear to flaunt their wealth.

Her only adornment was a plain gold circlet, molded at one end to the shape of a tiny hand, the other an equally tiny heart, the two twined together to close the circlet.

Was she married? Was the ring worn to signify her heart belonged to another?

“Maria,” he murmured, easing closer and placing his hands on her shoulders, “Maria, I don’t want to squander what little time we have together debating politics or—”

The duchess reacted as much to the familiar use of her name as she did to the warmth of his hands and body pressing against hers. She recoiled sideways and spun fully into the light, her hands flying up to rest against the base of her white throat.

Pitt acknowledged both infractions at once. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dona Maria, I did not mean any disrespect—”

“We can have no time together, senor. I should not have come out here alone with you tonight; I must not be alone with you again.” She turned and ran along the deck and was swallowed into the shadows of the hatchway before Geoffrey Pitt could uproot his feet to follow.

He caught the merest glimpse of the hem of her cloak as she dashed into her cabin, but he was too late to earn more than the sound of the door slamming in his face.

He leaned his hands on the rough surface of the wood, fisting them against the urge to open it and force his way inside.

Behind him the door to Spence’s cabin was open, spilling a wide shaft of bright light into the companionway.

The slamming of the duchess’s door had caused a noticeable break in the conversation, and he heard the scraping of a chair as Agnes Frosthip hurriedly excused herself.

Pitt stared at the closed door a moment longer, then pushed himself away.

He crossed paths with the duenna but ignored her glowering expression with the same tense indifference he ignored the eyebrow Dante raised askance.

He returned to his seat and snatched up the bottle of wine, splashing a healthy draft in his cup before glaring at Dante, Beau, and Spence to resume whatever discussion they had been having before he interrupted.

In actual fact, with the duenna present, they had not been discussing anything remotely interesting to either Beau or Simon Dante and while both had been trying to find some excuse to end the evening, both had been wary of the look in Spence’s eye warning them against leaving him alone with Agnes Frosthip.

But now Pitt was back and Frosthip was gone, although there appeared to be no significant increase in pleasure at the exchange of one surly face for another.

Spence thumped his goblet on the table. “Damned if I haven’t dried out my mouth tryin’ to keep that codface from going on an’ on about herself an’ her fine life in Spain. If we were any closer to the coast, I’d gladly mount a sail on her arse an’ let her swim for it.”

“I think she has warmed to you, Father,” Beau suggested. “Perhaps she was trying to impress you.”