More Than You Know (6 page)

Beneath her hand Claire felt Strickland's shoulder stiffen. He was not accustomed to this sort of high-handedness from anyone save her. She felt a moment's sorrow for him, but it did not make her smile any less genuine.

Strickland did not look up at Claire. He asked Rand, “Is she smiling?"

Rand glanced at her. “I believe she's amused, yes."

The duke sighed. “You have me then. I may as well demonstrate to my goddaughter that there is no shame in giving in gracefully. Of course, you may have the final approval. I don't believe you will have any concerns with my selection."

Rand nodded. “Very well. That brings us to the funding for this expedition. I have considered all of the requirements, and I can accept no less than six thousand pounds."

Strickland gave Rand Hamilton full marks for naming his price with a straight face. “I mentioned that four thousand was my limit."

"I'm agreeing to accept Miss Bancroft and her nursemaid, undertake the search for her father and brother, all the while trying to extend my research into Solonesia."

"And the Hamilton-Waterstone treasure,” the duke said after a moment.

"I hadn't forgotten. I wondered if you had. I'm firm at six thousand."

"Bah,” Strickland snorted, grinding out his cigar in a cut-glass ashtray. “The money is not the issue. Being dictated to, is. You're arrogant and ill-mannered, and I question how well you will serve me on this expedition. But Claire wants you, and I am of no mind to refuse her."

"Claire wants me,” Rand said softly, testing the sound of it on his own lips.

"An unfortunate turn of phrase,” Claire said. Her voice snapped as her eyes could not. “His grace meant—"

"I know what he meant,” Rand interrupted. “I know I am more your choice than his.” At least in some things, he told himself. “If we're agreed on the figure, then it only remains—"

Strickland held up his hand. “It only remains for you to show me some proof that you are in possession of the Hamilton riddle. That
is
what you were going to say, is it not? I need to be certain you are as you represent yourself. Claire cannot convince me to put her in your care otherwise."

"I don't carry the riddle with me,” Rand said. “After three centuries the paper is in no condition to be placed in my pocket. But I've committed it to memory."

"I've committed fourteen of the bard's sonnets to memory,” said Strickland. “It doesn't make any of them the Hamilton riddle."

"Then we are at an impasse because I certainly won't allow you to view the riddle in its entirety."

"Why not? What good can it possibly do me?” The duke paused, thoughtful. “It's because you don't have the Waterstone half, isn't it? You're afraid I may."

Rand said nothing and gave nothing away.

Strickland pressed. “How can you be certain you're searching anywhere close to the treasure without having both riddles?"

"I can't."

"My God,” the duke said. “Do you even know what you're looking for?"

In answer, Rand quoted from the poem:

Blood will run

Flames will come

Blazing sun, blinding some

Blades lifted high across the plain

Flood waters rising, months of rain

A plague will ink clouded skies

Grieving, shadows beneath thy eyes

Strickland looked at him blankly. “A curse?” he asked at last. “Your riddle is a curse?"

"It may be. Others before me certainly thought so. The few attempts made at finding the treasure ended in tragedy. But there may be an alternative explanation. Curses are often put in place to serve as warnings."

"Tapu,” Claire said softly. “Sacred spells."

"Yes, like tapu and tiki. I believe the curses may reveal another meaning. They represent precious stones. That's what I'm looking for.” Rand let the duke consider that, watching him try to recall the exact words of the riddle.

"These are the gems King Philip II of Spain intended for Pope Gregory. They were offered as tribute for the Pope's continued support in uniting Catholics across Europe against England and keeping the New World under Spain's domain. The gems nearly bankrupted the Spanish war chest, but there is no evidence that they made it to Rome or the Pope's private collection. In fact, they may not have existed at all. They could simply be another legend concocted to explain those empty state coffers. Philip would not admit that any ship carrying this treasure was captured by the English. The loss was too demoralizing, and it made him seem a fool for entrusting that fortune to a water route."

"If there was such a fortune,” the duke said.

Rand lifted his glass and sipped his port. “I could be wrong. The story of the Hamilton-Waterstone treasure makes no mention of the exact nature of the Spanish prize. Perhaps it is something as mundane as gold. I could be content with discovering a chest of gold.” His hooded glance took Strickland's full measure. The duke's own expression was guarded. “Could you?” Rand asked.

Strickland's austere features relaxed. “A third share of a chest of gold? Yes, that would satisfy me."

"A quarter share,” Rand said. “Plus the complete return of your investment, of course."

"Of course,” the duke said, his smile fading. “I find this bargaining is tiresome and better done by cits and Yankees. I will accept a quarter share, but only because of my goddaughter. You would not find me so amenable to your changing terms were it not for her."

Rand bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of the duke's statement. He came to his feet as Strickland stood.

"You will both excuse me,” the duke said. “I find I am weary of terms and conditions.” He bent his head and kissed Claire's cheek. “G'night, m'dear. You'll see the captain out, I trust."

Claire nodded, letting her hand drift delicately from the duke's shoulder. “I'll look in on you before I retire."

He smiled and patted her forearm. “Yes, you do that."

Claire waited until he was well beyond the room before she dismissed the servants and rounded on Rand. “A quarter share?” she demanded hotly. “He told me yesterday that he had proposed a third."

"He did. But I didn't accept,” Rand said. “Yesterday I hadn't agreed to any of this. Stickle could have proposed to take half and I wouldn't have protested.” Rand gently pushed out the chair that separated him from Claire with the toe of his boot. He took a step toward her, silent now, barely breathing. His gaze fell away from her eyes only to watch her mouth.

"Don't call him Stickle. That's
my
name for him and I don't give you leave to use it.” She drew in a sharp breath, aware of how priggish she sounded and quite unable to help herself. “You must know that he's agreed to these terms because of me. I'm sure you were more generous to others who have financed you. You know very well I'm not going to be a hardship for you or your crew. You won't have to entertain me or—"

Rand's mouth settled over hers, swallowing her words, then her thoughts.

Claire recoiled from the pressure against her mouth. Her step backward and her arching spine set her off balance. She reached for the chair to steady herself and found Rand's arms instead. She felt his hands on her waist, and each finger was like the separate bar of an iron cage. Claire brought her own arms up between them, then pushed against his chest with all the strength panic lent her.

It was enough for Rand to release her but not enough to move him away. She was the one forced back by her efforts. She stumbled again, this time catching her hip on the arm of the duke's displaced chair. Uncertain what had touched her, Claire struck at it with enough ferocity to tip it on its side. Rand couldn't stop it from thudding heavily to the floor.

Claire's small cry was something between surprise and pain. Instinctively she moved away from the fallen chair and bumped hard into the table. The hand that she put out to find purchase found Strickland's weighty glass ashtray. She picked it up and flung it hard in Rand's direction.

It was because Rand was in the process of bending over to pick up the chair that the ashtray sailed harmlessly over his head. It did, however, spell the end for a Sevres vase and a bouquet of fresh flowers. Water, pale pink blossoms, and shards of heavily decorated French porcelain spilled and scattered over the sideboard.

"What in the—” Rand looked over his shoulder as he straightened the chair and himself. It was the wrong direction in which to be interested. A dessert plate came spinning at him like a loosed circular saw blade. The impact on his chest was sufficient to make him suck in his breath. He made a grab for the plate, missed, and watched helplessly as it shattered on the floor.

Rand was only slightly better prepared for the second missile Claire threw at his head. His sideways dodge allowed him to avoid the wineglass if not the wine. Port stained the shoulder of his jacket and dripped onto the sleeve.

"Enough, Claire! Have off ! I'm not going to—” Rand broke off when he saw Claire's head cock in his direction and unerringly make his location from the sound of his voice. She groped along the edge of the table for abandoned plates, bowls, and silver, and came up with a very fine fork. She let it fly. Her aim was off, but so were Rand's reflexes. He stepped right into the tines of the miniature pitchfork. “Bloody hell, Claire!"

She had an arsenal of silver at her disposal now. She held up a handful of utensils to show what she could do. “Stay precisely where you are, Captain."

He was four feet away and his hands were slowly coming up. “I'm surrendering,” he told her. Rand saw her hesitate. He was encouraged that she didn't toss her fistful of ammunition at him. “Really, Claire. My hands are up."

Claire was taken by the notion, but she was also wary. “I don't believe you,” she said. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “And I haven't given you leave to call me Claire."

Both of them turned toward the entrance as the sliding panel doors were pushed open. It was Strickland's butler who stood on the threshold, taking in the scene with virtually no expression. “Shall I be informing his grace of this row on the premises?"

Claire lowered her fistful of weapons slowly. “No, Emmereth. That won't be necessary."

"Very good, Miss Bancroft. I thought it might not be."

She nodded, a glimmer of a smile touching her mouth. “Thank you.” She heard the doors start their slide shut and stopped the butler suddenly. “Emmereth?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Does Captain Hamilton have his hands in the air?"

"And a napkin,” Emmereth said dryly as Rand waved his white linen flag. “You have him, Miss Bancroft. Like Wellington at Waterloo, I should think."

"Thank you,” she said cheerfully.

Emmereth nodded and backed out of the room, closing the doors as he went.

Claire found the edge of the table and replaced the utensils. “Emmereth may not inform his grace, but we're certain to be all the servants talk about this evening."

"And the next evening,” Rand said. “Unless I mistook the gleam in Emmereth's eye."

"Gleam? Was there truly? I remember him as being so dour. He frightened me when I was a child."

"I think it was a gleam. Or a tear.” Rand glanced at the broken vase. “For the Sevres, perhaps."

"Oh, God. Is that what I broke?"

"Afraid so. The ashtray appears to be in one piece."

Claire sighed. “I think Stickle cares more for the Sevres."

Rand suspected that was so. “May I lower my hands now?"

"You still have them up?"

"I certainly do."

"And your flag of truce?"

"I'm waving it."

"Well, you may stop that nonsense, but leave your hands just where they are."

Rand let the napkin flutter to the floor. “As you wish,” he said, then he lowered his arms.

Claire turned and leaned back against the table, her fingers holding the edge on either side of her. “I should like to hear why you kissed me,” she said evenly.

"Tried to,” he corrected. “Tried to kiss you. What happened cannot properly be called a kiss."

"No, it can't."

So she
did
know something about it. Rand had wondered. What was disconcerting, however, was that Claire seemed to read his thoughts.

"Did you think I'd never been kissed, Captain? I assure you, I am not without the usual experiences for a woman my age. I'm twenty-four, you know. I've quite literally been around the world, and in some cultures I'm considered tolerably pretty. I admit, yours is the first kiss I've had since I've been without sight. I don't think Stickle's peck on the cheek counts, do you?"

"No,” Rand said quietly. “It wouldn't count."

"So.” There was a certain finality in her tone, as if she'd drawn a conclusion and only needed him to confirm it. “I have no illusions that you find me particularly desirable, Captain Hamilton. I have every reason to believe that yesterday you failed to notice me. Did you mean to warn me off by taking me unawares? Can I expect more of the same sort of groping on board
Cerberus?"

Rand's complexion had taken on a ruddy hue. The last time he had been set down so firmly, he was still a great green youth, stealing kisses in the stable loft and behind the slave quarters. He was thirteen when Mammy Komati caught him trying to expand his experience. She sent Jennie Ann flying out of the fruit cellar and walloped his backside good with a wooden spoon. The spoon hurt a lot less than the lecture she delivered.
Some folks is born to privilege,
she'd told him.
That makes dem more responsible to look out fo’ others, not less. There ain't no achievement in taking what can't be refused, and there ain't no pleasure in winning what can't protect itself. You know what's right, boy. You been raised better than that. I surely know it.

Her voice came to him so clearly that Rand wouldn't have been surprised to feel the wooden spoon again.

"Well, Captain?” Claire asked when he didn't reply.

Rand realized the only way he could honor Mammy Komati's memory was by telling the truth. It was no easier now than it had been at thirteen. “It was a test,” he said.

"A test?"

"It occurred to me that perhaps you were only pretending to be blind."

Claire's lips parted as her jaw sagged slightly. This answer wasn't anything that had occurred to her. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn't simply stick a foot out. Tripping me would have served the same purpose."

"It was not my intention to hurt you."

Claire snorted indelicately. “Were you the sort of boy who pulled the wings off butterflies?"

"No,” Rand said. “That was my brother David. Before you ask, it was Shelby who bedeviled the cat."

"And your target?” She waited. “You'll have to speak up, Captain. It's a myth that blindness improves one's hearing. It only makes me sensitive to sounds; it doesn't make them louder."

Rand cleared his throat. “Girls,” he said with some effort at contriteness. “I liked to chase girls.” This confession was followed by a rather prolonged silence, then the unexpectedly fresh resonance of Claire's hearty laughter. Rand felt another wave of heat rush his cheeks even as he found himself grinning. “I liked to pull their pigtails."

"When you were six,” Claire said, catching her breath. “I suspect your interests changed."

"They did. But so did theirs."

"Yes,” she said slowly. “That seems to be the way of things.” Claire wondered if Rand Hamilton was a handsome man, and if she asked him, if he would tell her the truth. She had learned that handsome people generally knew themselves to be so. Her mother had been beautiful and required no mirrors to support that opinion. It was as if she had absorbed the appreciation of others from the time of her birth and needed no further confirmation. A mirror was no substitute for her reflection in the eyes of an admirer.

"Did you have to force your attentions often?” asked Claire.

Rand thought of Jennie Ann. He had not forced himself on her, but Mammy Komati had also seen the truth of it. Jennie Ann had not considered that she could properly refuse him. “No,” he said. “There was never any force."

"Droit du seigneur?
Right of the lord? Do they have a name for it in South Carolina?"

Perhaps they didn't always, Rand thought. Not when it was perpetrated on female slaves. It could be it was one of the things the war had actually changed that the South would be better for. “They call it rape,” he said.

"That's what they call it here,” Claire said. “I had a need to be clear on that."

"You have nothing to fear on
Cerberus.
At my hands or those of my crew. You won't come to any harm."

Claire believed him but she was compelled to point out that he had already lied to her. “You promised me this morning that you would warn me before you touched me. I expect that consideration from now on."

"You have it."

"As for any questions you have about my blindness, I hope they're answered now."

"Completely."

"Good.” She nodded once. “You may put your hands down, Captain, and you're free to go. I'm not taking prisoners."

Rand glanced down at his arms. They had been folded against his chest for some time. “Yes ... thank you. I was getting tired holding them up."

"I forgot about them."

"I thought as much."

"Would you be so kind as to mention to Emmereth that some attention is needed to this room? On your way out, I mean.” She sighed. “I suppose I shall have to apply myself to fabricating a story about the vase."

Rand watched Claire's face lift and brighten as though the explanation had just come upon her. He winced in anticipation of what he would hear.

"I know,” she said. “I'll tell Stickle I'm blind. That should serve me well enough. I can't be expected to know the position of every one of his valuables."

"Miss Bancroft,” Rand drawled softly,
"you
are a piece of work."

Claire was stunned into silence as the captain bade her good evening and left the dining room. She stood just where she was, leaning against the table more for support than protection. She stared sightlessly in the direction of the closed doors, a faint frown pulling at her features.

Claire Bancroft did not think she had mistaken admiration in his tone.