More Than You Know (4 page)

Claire Bancroft's smile held a touch of irony. “You're the one with a pair of good eyes, Captain. It wasn't something I was trying to hide. I thought you could see for yourself."

He could, now that he knew what to look for. On brief acquaintance she was clever at disguising what set her apart from others. When she had never quite met his gaze fully, he had considered it a measure of her shyness. At the moment she seemed to be intuitively aware of his scrutiny, but she didn't flinch from it. Instead her chin came up a notch, almost defiantly, inviting him to take his fill.

Rand did not think she had been blind from birth. Her almond-shaped eyes were as deeply brown as bittersweet chocolate, the irises and pupils clear of any obvious imperfection. He imagined that her blindness had come upon her gradually, over the course of years. He guessed she was not yet twenty-five. When was the last time she had seen anything clearly? he wondered, and what was the last thing she saw? “How long?” he asked.

"Eighteen months,” she said. “I suspect that surprises you. It does most people who aren't afraid to pose the question."

Was this the ordeal Strickland had spoken of? Rand wondered. “Was there something you wanted this morning? Besides to return Strickland's cheque.” There was no point in mentioning what he had done with it. The duke would suspect a problem when it was never presented to his bank for cashing. Claire Bancroft did not have to know.

She hesitated. She had carefully considered what she would say on the carriage ride to his townhouse. She'd had further time to refine her plea while she waited for him. Now, given this opportunity, she found that her mouth was dry and the words were a tangle in her head. Sightlessness had not made her especially courageous when facing someone down. She found that her imagination still worked too well, and what she encountered in her mind's eye was far more intimidating than anything her healthy eyes would have confronted. Or at least she hoped that was the case. There was cause to wonder when she'd made the acquaintance of the one called Cutch. The giant had called a great obsidian obelisk to her mind, and she could not remove the image.

It was not so very different with Captain Hamilton. She had witnessed how his quietly confident manner could border on arrogance, and he had already proved he could be uncompromising. She had immediately envisioned the stone sentinels she had seen on Easter Island and throughout Polynesia. Claire embellished this tiki to be larger than its companions, with a face more aggressively carved but every bit as implacable.

"I came to ask you to reconsider,” she said. “You're a man of science as well as adventure. I hope you will be a man of reason."

"Thus far your attempt at flattery is falling short of the mark. I am
always
a man of reason."

Beneath his words the tone was as dry as bleached bones. Claire could almost imagine there was a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth. Perhaps the captain was not as obdurate as stone after all. If she was wrong, he could always crush her to prove himself. “Stickle told me you recognized my father's name."

"I didn't remain long enough to identify the relationship between you and Sir Griffin, but yes, I recognized the name and the fact there was a connection. The duke says your father's in the South Pacific."

"Yes, that's right.” Claire paused. “The last I knew that was true."

Rand frowned and realized the expression was lost on her. “Miss Bancroft, if what you're looking for is to mount an expedition to locate your father, then why not just do that? Why do you need me?"

"Because I can think of no one with so great a chance of being successful."

"Your flattery improves."

"I have no wish to flatter you, Captain. I state what I have because I believe it to be the truth. I also cannot allow you to consider my request under any pretenses. It's unlikely that my father is still alive, and while I find I cannot give up my last hope, I have made some peace with it. My desire to return to Solonesia is not so those fears can be confirmed or relieved."

"Then why?"

"My brother's there. Or at least I hope he is. While I don't think my father is alive, I believe that Tipu is."

"Was there some accident? Illness?"

Claire shook her head. She touched her temple and said faintly, “I'm not certain.” This was met with silence. “Are you glowering, Captain Hamilton? Or is your expression merely confused?"

Rand was fairly certain he was glowering. “Confused, I'm afraid."

"Then you have some idea what I feel. I have no clear memory of the events of my last days in Solonesia. It may be that I am missing only a few hours or as much as a week. What I can recall clearly begins as I was being lifted from an outrigger by islanders at Raiatea."

"Raiatea? But that's almost six hundred nautical miles from the Sun Islands."

"Closer to seven. Stickle plotted it out for me on a map."

"You did this alone?"

Claire didn't fault Rand for his disbelief. She found it difficult to credit herself and she had been the one to do it. “Apparently so,” she said. “I say that because I can't be certain. I'm told there was an empty skin in the boat which probably held water. There were crumbs on the floor that I hadn't found. One paddle was missing. There was no one with me at Raiatea. My exposed skin was burned and I was dehydrated. I weighed quite a bit less than I do now."

That would have made her very nearly insubstantial, Rand thought. For a moment he pictured her at the taffrail of
Cerberus.
A gentle Pacific breeze would lift her hair—and the rest of her—right into the water. He quickly revised the image. She would never survive the cold Atlantic crossing to meet up with those breezes again. Certainly she would never encounter them on the
Cerberus.
“How long ago was that?"

"A year and a half."

Rand made the connection to the onset of her blindness. “Was it the sun?” he asked.

"Most of the doctors say that. Stickle has taken me to more than a dozen. Almost to a man they say the same thing: the sun's glare off the water, the steady exposure to the bright light, burned the retinas. These same physicians hold out no hope. The condition cannot be reversed."

He almost said he was sorry. Those words, coming from a person of no account in her life, such as himself, would give little comfort and might even be construed as pity. Besides, he had heard something else, something that made him believe Claire Bancroft might hold out some hope. “You said almost all,” he told her. “What do the others say about your condition?"

"Not others,” she said. “Only one. A physician in Paris, Dr. Anton Messier, believes there may be another explanation. He says the one offered by others is too facile. The condition of my eyes is not consistent with what I report to have suffered. He thinks my blindness is here, in my head.” She tapped her temple lightly. “In my thinking,” she went on. “Not in my eyes."

Now Rand realized he could feel pity for her. She was quite literally groping in the dark, accepting one irresponsible physician's opinion against the prevailing wisdom of all the others.

Claire knew how to interpret this silence. “Your skepticism is understandable. His grace thinks no differently, but he
is
my godfather and he believes it's his duty to indulge me."

"Forgive me, Miss Bancroft, but I can't help but point out—"

She held up her hand. “When you begin a sentence with
forgive me,
it's a sure sign that the rest should be left unsaid. Do I seem spoiled to you, Captain? Have I given you the impression that I must have my own way? I have yet to throw a tantrum because you've turned me down. If you were the sightless one in this room, can you honestly say you would not reach for the carrot Dr. Messier has offered?"

As Claire warmed to her subject and as her agitation increased, she moved closer to the edge of the sofa. “I know what I am risking by holding out this hope, but I am accepting a life of darkness if I risk nothing."

Rand watched her come to her feet. A year or more ago, he thought, she would have paced the floor, perhaps gone to the window and turned her back on him while she spoke. Her short, impassioned speech had given rise to a certain restlessness that she could not properly express in an unfamiliar room. She stood in front of the sofa, her hands at her side, the fingers alone betraying something of what she was feeling by curling and uncurling against the dark fabric of her gown.

"I am at six o'clock,” he said quietly. “There is a window bench twelve paces behind you at twelve o'clock. You must only skirt the sofa and side table."

Surprise stilled her fingers. Her head lowered and her eyes narrowed in Rand's direction, as if she could peer through the black curtain of her vision and see him clearly. She smiled faintly as she realized what she was trying to do. “Thank you,” Claire said. “I never oriented myself to this room. I was afraid I would break something."

He considered how difficult it must have been for her to sit in one corner of the sofa while she waited for him, when what she wanted to do was explore. “There's nothing in it that can't be replaced,” he said. “Of course, since I'm renting the house, none of it's mine.” He watched her feel her way carefully around the side table. The cup and saucer she had placed there rattled momentarily as her fingers brushed them.

"Twelve paces?” she asked, rounding the table.

"I think so. Unless you have a mannish stride, Miss Bancroft. Then I make it to be ten."

Several strands of Claire's dark hair had fallen forward across her cheek. She brushed them back impatiently, tucking them behind her ear until she could repair the knot that held the rest in place. “I shall endeavor to comport myself as a lady,” she said wryly.

Rand found himself grinning. It was odd, he thought, watching her. He had not yet revised his first impression of Claire Bancroft, but he was open to the possibility that he might have to. As on the occasion of their first meeting yesterday, she had taken no pains to draw his attention to her appearance. He considered that it might be related to her blindness, but he dismissed that idea almost at once. He doubted she ever gave her appearance more than an afterthought. Someone might have chosen the plain navy-blue day dress for her to wear today, but he suspected her wardrobe was filled with gowns of an equally nondescript nature. She would have had a hand in selecting her new gowns when she returned to England, and apparently practicality ruled the day.

Perhaps it was the gown's very simplicity that drew Rand's eye to the figure in it, but for whatever reason, he found himself looking at the slender line of her back and shoulders, the curve of a high waist that his hands could span, and the suggestion of legs that went on just about forever. There was nothing remotely mannish about her stride. Claire Bancroft carried herself with casual gracefulness, the slight hesitation in her step her only concession to blindness.

She found the window bench with the toe of her shoe, then found the window with her hand. She laid a palm flat against one of the panes and felt the coolness of the glass. “Is there still fog outside?"

Rand rose from his chair and walked over to the narrow rectangular window. “Yes. It looks to be a gray morning and afternoon. How did you know about the fog?"

"My driver mentioned it when he was helping me into the carriage. He said he didn't think he'd be able to see a thing.” She shrugged lightly. “I offered to drive..."

Rand laughed. “You have a rather droll sense of humor,” he said.

"Do I?” She considered the observation seriously for a moment, her wide mouth flattening. A small vertical crease appeared between her dark brows. “I suppose I may be acquiring one,” she said at last.

Rand was not entirely certain that she wasn't pulling his leg again. Her tone was so arid, it was difficult to tell. “Would you like to sit or continue pacing?"

Color touched her cheeks. “I believe I will sit,” she said. “I do not intend that you should always rile me so easily."

"I didn't try to do it earlier.” Rand felt her stiffen as he touched her elbow to guide her onto the bench, but he didn't release her. “I can't promise that I won't do it again."

Claire removed her arm from his light grasp. She hoped it had not been too obvious that the contact had distressed her. People were never quite certain how to be helpful.

"I should have asked if my assistance was desired or even needed,” Rand said.

Claire felt along one edge of the window bench and scooted herself backward a few inches. The direction of his voice told her that Rand Hamilton was no longer standing above her, but was sharing the bench with her. She looked away, toward the window she couldn't see, finding the space suddenly confining. “Yes, thank you. That would be appreciated. I find it disconcerting to be...” She paused, searching for the right word. “To be
handled."

Rand's eyes skimmed her three-quarter profile thoughtfully. Her eyes were so dark a brown that they could almost be black, and the almond shape gave them a faintly exotic look. As if she could feel his appraisal, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Then I'll tell you the next time I'm going to touch you,” he said.

It was the way he said it, Claire thought, that raised sensations at the back of her neck and sent the parade marching down her spine. For a moment she was afraid she was actually going to shiver. She clamped down on her teeth, tightening her jaw, to contain the reaction. She recalled to her mind the aggressive countenance of the great stone tiki and found she could substitute one kind of fear for another.