likes you, too,” Ariella said abruptly.
Amanda tripped. “What?”
Ariella smiled at her. “He stares at you all the time and he turns red. He never blushes, except when you are in the room.”
Amanda was disbelieving. “I doubt anyone or anything could make your father blush.”
“You make him blush. I saw him, this morning when we left the house, and he was blushing on the cutter.”
“It’s hot,” Amanda said irritably. She did not want to discuss Cliff de Warenne with his pampered daughter who had fancy airs and could read a grown-up’s history book. By now, they had taken an entire turn of the deck, coming up the port side, and they stood not far from the subject of their conversation.
“I feel better. I want to lie down,” Ariella said with a yawn. She turned, releasing Amanda’s hand, and pushed open the door to the captain’s cabin.
Amanda didn’t object, because she felt certain Ariella was allowed to come and go there as she pleased. She herself had never been permitted to enter Papa’s cabin without knocking, but he’d often had a trollop in there with him. She’d always assumed that all fathers were the same, but she was beginning to think that de Warenne treated his children very differently from the way Papa had treated her. Papa hadn’t cared that she couldn’t read and he’d never petted and coddled her, the way de Warenne did Ariella.
Ariella rushed into the cabin. Amanda couldn’t help herself; she was faint with curiosity now. She took one step inside so she could peek at his private room, all the while pretending that she had to keep an eye on his daughter, as she had promised.
The cabin was red.
The walls were painted a dark Chinese red and three scarlet rugs were on the floor, one Tibetan, one Chinese, one a fine, thin Aubusson. Amanda knew the differences, because the rugs she and her father had plundered over the years were some of their most valuable booty. A huge ebony bed with four thick, carved posters was against one wall. The covers were red-and-gold damask, the sheets striped in red silk. Red-and-gold pillows leaned against the huge headboard with thick, fat tassels and fringe.
A very fine English table, with curved legs and four chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet were in the room’s center. Beneath several portholes was a huge desk, covered with maps and charts. The entire room was filled with odd treasures—an Arabian brass chest with lock and key, African masks, intricately designed and colorful Moroccan vases, Waterford crystal, gold candlesticks. And there was a bookcase, crammed with hundreds of books. Amanda shivered.
She had just stepped inside de Warenne’s private lair. It reeked of the man’s exotic tastes, his erotic nature, his intelligence, power and virility. She shouldn’t be there, she somehow thought.
Someone seized her from behind. “What are you doing in here?”
Amanda reacted on instinct but the moment she drew her blade and pressed it against his chest, she realized her mistake. De Warenne’s eyes went wide. She froze, her heart hammering madly, as she was in his arms.
“What is that?” he asked very calmly.
His thighs were thick, bulging muscle, she realized inanely as he held her body completely against his. “It’s a dagger,” she breathed. “I am sorry…I’ll put it down, but you must let me go.”
Their gazes were locked. As he released her, she felt him stirring and she gasped, her gaze shooting back to his.
He blushed. His daughter was right, she thought, stunned. Or was she now as mad as the child?
He stepped back, grim. “No one enters this cabin without permission.” He half turned, striding to the porthole, where he breathed deeply.
It was too late. Amanda could clearly see that he had been aroused. She slipped the dagger slowly into its sheath in her boot. He wanted her. She wasn’t really certain why. Was it the brief act of violence? Every sailor she knew enjoyed sex after a bloody battle.
“Papa? It’s my fault. I wanted to come inside,” Ariella whispered from the bed.
De Warenne turned and smiled at his daughter. The expression, however, was strained. “Even you must ask my permission to enter here.”
The child nodded, eyes wide, looking back and forth between Amanda and her father.
Amanda tried to breathe more naturally. “I’m sorry.” She took a careful glance at him and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he seemed to be in control of his amorous nature once more.
His jaw flexed. He gestured for them both to precede him out of the door. When they had done so, he barked, “Miss Carre. A moment, please.”
She did not like his tone but she nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to discipline her for her trespass. That was what Papa would do. He’d deliver a quick cuff to the head, at least. Her stomach churned with some fear. Papa had been a big man, but de Warenne was taller, more muscular and far younger. Well, if he hit her she wouldn’t flinch. He’d see that she was strong and brave—she’d make Papa proud.
“Ariella, if you are feeling better, I am pleased. But going below is still not a good idea. I have summoned Anahid. The two of you can read together on that bench.”
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.
“Go.” But he smiled now and stooped to kiss her cheek.
Ariella beamed at him and rushed off to Anahid, who was waiting a discreet distance away.
Amanda tensed in anticipation of her punishment, watching his shoulders stiffen before he turned. He gestured. “Would you care—”
Amanda ducked.
He froze, his hand in the air, poised between them. “What are you doing?”
She flushed. She had broken his rules, and she should stand firm. “Nothing. I mean, I won’t dodge the blow.”
His eyes popped. “What?”
“Go ahead, just do it. I disobeyed your orders.”
“You think I mean to strike you?” He dropped his hand.
She became wary. “That’s what a hand is for, isn’t it?”
He took a step toward her and she forgot her resolve, backing up. He halted, and so did she. “Miss Carre! I do not strike women,” he said, aghast. “I have never struck a woman in my life, and I never will.”
She wasn’t sure she should believe him. “Is this a trick?”
He was incredulous, so much so that it was a moment before he spoke. When he did, she saw pity in his eyes. “I am trying to invite you to dine with me tonight,” he said.
“You want to sup with me?” This had to be trickery, didn’t it?
He nodded. “I thought we might converse.”
Amanda was suspicious. Men had one use for women—and it wasn’t for conversation.
