The Very Daring Duchess Part 14

The stucco walls curved into a crude arch overhead, so low that Edward had to bend his shoulders to keep from striking his head, and so narrow that Francesca had to pull her skirts close to keep the fabric from snagging on the rough, dirty plaster. Although they pa.s.sed several padlocked doors, there was nothing else to light their way beyond the lantern that the footman carried, the bouncing, uneven light making every cobweb and crack in the wall seem full of potential menace.

"I don't like this, Edward," she whispered uneasily, clinging to his arm. "Why are we here, anyway? I thought we were going to your ship."

"We are," he said evenly, giving her hand a slight, awkward pat. "We're simply bound on another course, that's all."

She looked up at him in the flickering light, understanding more from what he wasn't saying than what he was. "You won't tell me anything beyond that?"

He shrugged, clearly hedging, and quickened his steps. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."

"Because I am Neapolitan," she said moodily, as much to herself as to him. "You'll marry me, but you won't trust me enough to tell me where we are going."

He stopped abruptly, blocking the tunnel as he turned to face her, the lantern's light's fanning reducing him to a tall, black silhouette looming before her.

"What devil makes you say such things, Francesca?" he demanded, his anger as palpable as it was unexpected. "That's not true, not a word of it, and I won't listen to you say it. I don't care if your mother was born in Naples or on the blasted moon."

"Because you were born the son of an English duke!"

"Oh, aye, and a fat lot of good that's done me, hasn't it?" he said bitterly. "Listen to me, Francesca. What or where I was born doesn't signify, not to me and not to you, any more than who or what your parents were does to me. None of it's worth a tinker's dam, mind? What matters is what we are, what we've made of ourselves and our lives."

"Then why won't you tell me where exactly we're going?" she demanded unhappily. "Aren't you afraid I'll run off and tell someone?"

"Not willingly, no," he said sharply, pulling her along after him. "But if by some h.e.l.l-bent misfortune we're captured or separated before we reach the Centaur, the less you know, the less value you'll have to our enemies, and the better the chance will be that they'll let you go without killing you. Now come."

He didn't give her time to apologize, and Francesca didn't try. She felt like a great enough fool already without giving him the satisfaction of having her admit it. He'd promised to look after her, and he was doing exactly that, after a fashion, though she still didn't understand why he stubbornly hadn't explained his reasons for secrecy from the beginning.

But it could hardly be her fault for a.s.suming what she had. Every other English man and woman seemed to believe that being English was next to being immortal, or at least a good deal better than being a lowly, insignificant Neapolitan, and being an English aristocrat was like an extra layer of gold leaf. How was she to know that Edward so obviously prided himself on believing otherwise?

The footman set the lantern down on the dirt floor, unlocked the last door, and shoved it open with his shoulder. A rush of chilly, damp air swept in, smelling heavily of the sea.

"Take care, signor," he warned as he held back a curtain of overhanging vines for them. "The harbor is home to many vagrants and footpads."

"And at least half of them are English, eh?" said Edward dryly, pressing a coin into the man's waiting palm. "Well, no matter. Here, a happy Christmas to you and your family, and promise me you'll drink a dram for old King Ferdinando instead of Napoleon. There's the Centaur's boat, Francesca, in the middle of the others, exactly where it should be."

Francesca stepped forward, her shoes sinking slightly into the sand. Happy Christmas, indeed: With everything else, she'd completely forgotten that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. The wind was sharp, colder on the water than in town, stinging at her cheeks and tugging at her cloak. Because of the clouds, there was no moon, but when she looked to where Edward was pointing, she could just make out the dark outline of four waiting longboats pulled up onto the sand beside a jetty of large stones. The boats had no lanterns, but she still could see the heads and shoulders of the men crouched low over their oars.

"You said you hadn't planned this," she said slowly, "and Admiral Nelson has only just excused you from going to the emba.s.sy with the others. So why are they here waiting for us now?"

"Because we're not the only ones they'll meet tonight," he said evenly, and this time Francesca didn't question his vagueness. "Here now, draw up your hood so your face is hidden if anyone's spying from above."

She did as he'd asked, then automatically turned to look back over her shoulder, up the steep hillside overlooking the bay. The amba.s.sador's villa was as brilliantly lit as if he, too, were hosting another grand reception of his own, candlelight streaming from the tall windows into the gloomy evening. No one would guess that soon Sir William, Lady Hamilton, and G.o.d knew how many others would be hurrying through the same tunnel that she and Edward had just traveled, and just as eager to flee Naples.

"Ahoy, Centaur!" called Edward softly.

"Ahoy, Cap'n Ramsden," came the muted reply. The men in the middle boat shifted with eagerness, and two clambered over the side to run across the beach toward them.

"This should be Lieutenant Pye," said Edward. "You'll recall him from-"

"You have a gun," she said, suddenly noticing the pistol that had appeared in his hand. Gentlemen wore swords, both for defense and for show, and she was accustomed to that. But pistols were only for highwaymen, duelists, and soldiers, and the sight of this one now resting so familiarly in his hand, the long barrel gleaming dully, chilled her blood more than the wind. Belatedly she realized he must have been carrying it with him all evening, hidden beneath the long tails of his coat.

"Of course I have a gun, Francesca," he said with unexpected patience, holding it out for her to see. "In fact I have two of them. The other's still hooked on my belt. This is Naples, la.s.s, and as even Sir William's footman noted, the town is filled with vagrants and thieves. Wise to be careful."

"Papa lived in Naples for thirty years, and he never kept a gun," she protested. "He said pistols were only good for taking another man's life."

"And so they are," agreed Edward deliberately. "We're in the middle of a war, la.s.s, and my duty is to help win that war however I can. Like it or not, pistols and long guns and swords and a great deal else are part of my life. Surely you've realized by now that you're not marrying a shepherd."

"Naturalmente," she said faintly, and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. "I should never make a mistake like that, should I?"

But she could hear the excitement in his voice, the antic.i.p.ation of whatever action might lie before them, and she wondered if he even heard her reply. They were already in his world, that was clear enough, and hers had ceased to matter or even exist. As soon as they'd left the tunnel and come outdoors, Edward had seemed to radiate confidence and a.s.surance, his gestures growing bolder and more forceful, his gold-laced coat swinging around him and his hair tossing in the breeze. Now he was indisputably the captain, the master in charge of this completely masculine world, a man that all others would obey without question.

All others, that is, excluding her. But she would find her place among all those weapons and obedient men; she always had before.

"Good evening, sir," said the lieutenant, puffing a bit as he touched the front of his hat, and Francesca recognized him as the round-faced recipient of the carved stone Cupid. "We weren't expecting you quite so soon."

"I-we-had a change of plans, Mr. Pye," announced Edward. "Instead of attending the ball at the Turkish Emba.s.sy, I'll take the Centaur's boat back to the ship directly."

"Aye, aye, captain," said the lieutenant, trying very hard not to peer at Francesca for a glimpse of her face, hidden inside her hood. "Directly it is, sir. And, ah, is this the first of our, ah, royal pa.s.sengers?"

"Oh, pah, but I am far, far more important than mere royalty, Mr. Pye," said Francesca with as winning a smile as she could muster, shaking her hood back from her face and thrusting out her gloved hand to the startled lieutenant. "Per favore, you do remember me, I'm sure. I am Francesca Robin, and I have agreed to marry your captain this very night."

Like any man who had spent nearly twenty years sailing about the world wherever his country sent him, Edward had learned to express his displeasure with great fluency, and in numerous colorful languages as well. But as he listened to Francesca blithely turn his delicate military maneuver into an extension of her own studio, he found himself completely-completely-without words.

"I expect we shall be seeing a great deal of one another, Lieutenant," she was saying now to the equally dumbstruck Henry Pye. "Considering how a sailing ship is like a little island to itself, I should rather think it next to impossible to avoid seeing you once we are properly on our way. And once we have rescued the poor king and queen from-"

"d.a.m.nation, Francesca, enough!" sputtered Edward. "You cannot go about saying whatever you please like this!"

She spun to face him, her eyes genuinely mystified. "And why not, pray? I was only-"

"Come." He thrust the pistol back into his belt and took her by the arm, leading her a half-dozen steps farther down the beach and out of Henry's hearing. "Listen to me, Francesca. This isn't your own little house any longer, where you could do whatever you pleased. You have to behave differently now, and with more decorum. You must be more, ah, reticent and considerate in what you say."

"Non capisco," she muttered darkly, though he suspected she understood perfectly well enough. "Because you expect your wife to be reticent and decorous? Because Mrs. Edward Ramsden is permitted no thoughts or words of her own?"

"Because by marrying me, you will become another of the Centaur's people," he explained, striving to keep his temper even as she was losing hers. "As the Centaur's captain, I expect you to behave in a fashion that is neither dishonorable nor hazardous to the ship."

She didn't answer at first, which he took for a good sign.

He was, alas, sadly mistaken.

"Bene, bene," she said tartly. "This is rather like your infamous waistcoat all over again, isn't it? The waistcoat that determined whether your entire fleet would prosper, or sink? Ah, ah! Everything English is so very fraught with meaning and significance!"

"There are most excellent reasons for what I ask of you, Francesca. I am not saying you are wrong, but rather that you are merely, ah, ignorant of the ways we do things in the navy."

"But you are saying that I must have no opinions other than your own in a fashion that is completely counter to my nature," she said sharply, but with a little squeaking tremor that hinted perilously at imminent tears. "O maledizione! Non me ne importante!"

"In English, Francesca, in English," he snapped. "If you are going to curse at me, pray, at least have the decency to use words I can understand."

"So now I am not only forbidden to speak without your permission, or to whomever I please, about whatever I please, but I cannot even choose my own words!" The tears were there now, no mistake, her voice breaking like a wave. "In short, my fine Captain Lord Ramsden, I am to have no pleasing of my own whatsoever, am I?"

Edward frowned, his mood black as the sky overhead. What had become of her witty, teasing nature, or the gentleness he'd glimpsed in her drawings, or even the vulnerability that had drawn him into his gallant, impulsive, and thoroughly insane offer in the first place?