“I appreciate your efforts,” she told him, catching herself—and him—by surprise.
He looked at her a moment, then turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like that the committee will meet so soon.”
“What could it mean?”
“Anything.”
Please keep trying, she almost said. But Captain Warre had seen enough of her vulnerability. He would not see more. “But this nonsense can still be stopped before a third reading,” she said.
“I’d hoped to stop it before it got this far.”
“Perhaps the quickest way is to accept the duke’s invitation, after all, if he is to chair the committee,” she scoffed, to hide her fear.
He spun on his heel, leaned across the desk and grabbed her chin in his fingers before she had time to think. “You’ll not whore yourself for Dunscore,” he bit out. “I won’t allow it.”
“A joke, Captain.”
His fingers burned into her skin. His eyes burned into her, too—hot and hungry, dropping to her mouth. Her breath turned shallow.
“Some topics don’t lend themselves to jest,” he said.
A movement in the doorway caught her eye. It was Miss Bunsby, retreating into the corridor. Captain Warre released her chin suddenly and backed away.
Katherine left him standing there and went to see what was wrong.
“One of the upstairs maids let slip that his lordship was here,” Miss Bunsby said in a hushed tone, “and now Lady Anne refuses to do anything until she sees him. I’ve tried to distract her with her doll, her beads, even a game of draughts, but she won’t be swayed. She’s raising a terrible fuss.”
Dearest Anne. Katherine cursed under her breath.
“I tried telling her his lordship was likely in a great hurry, but she is adamant that he will see her.”
“Tell her Captain Warre has gone,” Katherine whispered. Guilt clawed at her, but nurturing Anne’s attachment to Captain Warre would only break her heart in the long run. “By the time you return upstairs it will likely be true.”
Miss Bunsby’s gaze suddenly shifted past Katherine’s shoulder. Captain Warre stood in the doorway.
“Who are you telling I’ve gone?”
A small voice drifted from the upstairs balcony. “Captain Warre? Captain Warre, are you here?”
“Anne!” Katherine rushed to the entrance hall just in time to see Anne’s groping hands find the rail at the top of the stairs. Panic exploded in her chest. “Anne, stop!” She flew up the stairs with Miss Bunsby on her heels.
“Lady Anne, you mustn’t leave your rooms alone,” Miss Bunsby told her firmly. “It isn’t safe.”
“But I heard his voice!” Anne cried as Katherine pried her away from the railings. “He will see me, Mama. I know he will! Captain Warre!”
“Hush, now,” Katherine scolded, watching Captain Warre take the stairs with a grim mouth and measured precision. “Do you remember our rule about you going on deck? You must always be with someone. Always.”
“But I heard his voice!” Anne’s lip began to tremble, and Katherine’s heart squeezed hard.
“I’m here, Anne,” Captain Warre said, reaching the top of the stairs.
“Captain Warre!” Dearest Anne—heart of her heart and soul of her soul, with her olive skin, black hair and exotic Barbary eyes—threw her arms toward him with delight. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!”
He lifted her away from Katherine with a hundred questions in his eyes, daring her to object. “What’s all this fuss?”
“I’ve missed you,” Anne said, patting his shoulders and winding her arms around his neck.
His arms tightened around her. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“And I miss the ship. Mama says we can’t go back, but I want to. I want to so much! I hate London. Millie went away, and my dresses are stiff and tight, and it smells bad all the time.” Her pouting lip trembled, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.
A familiar, strangling helplessness closed around Katherine’s throat.
“Well, I won’t deny the smell,” Captain Warre said. “But your dress is lovely. You look like a little princess.”
“Mr. Bogles is locked in Mama’s dressing room because he climbed the drapes in my bedchamber and they tore,” came Anne’s muffled voice. “He’s been very bad.”
“I don’t suppose he’s used to being inside a house. But surely something good has happened since you’ve been in London.”
“No. Nothing.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that,” he said doubtfully, and began to question Anne in detail as he started toward Anne’s rooms. By the time he set her on her bed they’d come up with four good things that had happened in London.
Katherine watched him brush Anne’s hair from her face with the same hands that had directed men to fire at the Merry Sea, and a deep yearning curled around her heart and squeezed.
* * *
HE WAS SINKING.
James stretched out on his bed, fully clothed, and stared up at the brown drapery while his valet fidgeted nearby.
“Your lordship, shall I—”
“Leave me. I shall take care of it.”
“Your shoes—”
“Will be fine. That will be all until I’m ready to dress for the evening, Polk. Thank you.”
A few more fidgets, a long hesitation and Polk left him in blessed solitude. The canopy’s fringe hung lifelessly, more beige than gold in the muted afternoon light.
James breathed in as much air as his lungs would hold and held it. Held it. Held it. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled again. Exhaled.
And wished, to his shame, that he had informed Katherine about the committee in a note. He could still feel Anne’s small arms winding a strangling sense of responsibility around his neck, even as his mind raced to think of something—anything—he might send her to add to her list of good things about London.
Katherine had been prepared to lie to keep him from Anne. That fact rankled more than anything. He pushed her from his mind, only to have her reappear, trickling inside him the way water seeped through a hull that needed fresh tar.
He’d lost control last night at Lady Carroll’s. It was inevitable that he would. A devil inside him had driven him to follow her into that arbor, knowing damned well what would happen. Wanting it to happen. He was no better than any of those whoremongers Honoria had dredged up.
Worse, in fact. Because he could see the smoke and the flames, the listing Merry Sea, the bloodthirsty corsairs wreaking terror on board. He could hear the screams. Smell the gunpowder. He knew what she’d gone through, how terrified she must have been. And still it didn’t stop the fire in his blood every time he saw her.
He needed to forget about the captain who studied the horizon with a practiced eye and knew when a line should be snubbed or cast loose and threatened disembowelment without batting an eye. He needed to forget about the woman who turned her face to the sun while the breeze molded shimmering Ottoman textiles to her body and toyed with the ends of her hair.
He didn’t want to see any of them. Not the frightened girl, not the shrewd captain and definitely—very definitely—not the woman. He didn’t want to care whether she married. Whom she married.