Becket's Last Stand. Кейси Майклс
them both. Hers delicious. His, probably more one of surprise, hopefully not disgust.
She let go of his cloak and flung her arms around his neck, holding him close, grinding her lips against his, goading him into reacting, daring him to remain his stoic, quiet, immovable self.
For a moment, she felt his mouth soften.
For a moment, she felt his arms raising up, as if longing to clasp her close, hold her against him.
For a moment.
And then he pushed her away and stood up, looking down at her in that stern, solemn way he had, that fruitless display of being So Grown-Up when she was Such A Child.
“Cassandra…” he began, and then sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I did do it,” she told him, getting to her feet. “And you liked it, I know you did.”
“No, sweetheart, I didn’t. I know we’re not brother and sister, we’re not bound by blood. But that still doesn’t make it right. You’re Ainsley’s daughter, a man I owe my respect, my admiration, and definitely my life. It would not be fair to him, or to you, to deny you the world that’s out there because of some wrongheaded idea you’ve got that you and I are destined to be together. And I’m too old for you, in any case. Years too old.”
“Papa was nearly as old as you are now when he married my mother. We have a life to live, Court, and you’re wasting it, being so stubborn.”
He smiled, seemed to relax somewhat in his skin. “Is that supposed to be in the way of a proposal, Cassandra? If so, I think the wrong person is speaking here. And this person is not speaking of proposals.”
“Only because that person is thick as a plank!” Cassandra said, losing her temper. “Just you wait, Courtland Becket. One day you will go down on both knees, begging for me to love you, and I will snap my fingers—like this!—and laugh in your aged face.”
She turned on her heel and lifted her skirts as she ran up the steps, chased by his voice. “And don’t put up your hair again!”
Tears were stinging at Cassandra’s eyes by the time she threw open the French doors to the drawing room and burst inside, intent on crossing the room and heading up to her bedchamber, to have herself a good cry, probably, or to curse Courtland in private.
“Callie? Where are rushing in from, sweetheart?”
Cassandra stopped, wiped at her eyes. “Nowhere, Papa,” she said. “It’s…it’s coming on to rain.”
He folded the newspaper he’d been holding in front of him and motioned for her to join him on the couch. “It’s difficult to find a moment not crowded by so many other people, isn’t it? Let’s take advantage of this one, shall we?”
She nodded, untying her cloak and folding it over the back of a chair, pretending not to notice when her father looked at her hair, that was as wild as the wind could make it. “Is there something you wanted to discuss with me, Papa?”
“Must there be something in particular to discuss?” he asked her as she sat down beside him, kissed her cheek.
Cassandra believed her father to be the most handsome man in creation, and had no doubt her mother had taken one look at him and fallen desperately, totally in love. Even now, with silver working its way into his coal-black hair, he had the look of a prince, perhaps even a king. Tall, slim, straight.
She looked at the portrait of her mother, life size, hanging above the large fireplace, and wished, not for the first time, that her father had posed with her, so that she could just once see them together as they were on the island, young, wonderfully in love, and so very, very happy.
“Mama was so beautiful,” she said, sighing. “Do you still miss her?”
“Every day,” he said, also looking at the portrait. “You’re so very like her, you know.”
Cassandra shook her head, having heard this before, but never believing it to be true. Posed in a gorgeous, full-skirted striped dress of vibrant hues, her ebony hair hanging in ringlets past her shoulders, eyes such a vibrant green, her mother had been glorious, so alive, Cassandra had often, as a child, felt certain she would jump down from the painting at any moment to give her daughter a hug. “I’m small, like she was, but she was so colorful and I’m so…so bland.”
Ainsley Becket laughed, rubbing at her curls. “I can think of many ways to describe you, pet, but bland would never be one of them. You’ve got your mother’s features and curls, but my mother’s more honeyed coloring. And she was also a beautiful woman. I look at you, Cassandra, and see the women I love. I thank God every day for you.”
Cassandra blinked furiously, fighting back tears once more as she leaned her cheek against Ainsley’s shoulder and he put his arm around her. “You never told me that, before, Papa. About your mother. Was it sad, leaving her to go to sea?”
Ainsley was quiet for some moments, and Cassandra believed he was thinking about what he would say to her next, how he would say it.
“Cassandra, I’m not proud of my past, and offer no excuses for what I’ve done, for there are none. But I know you’re old enough to hear this story now,” he said at last. “My family made its living smuggling from the shores near Deal, until my father was caught and hanged at Dover Castle and my older brother and I escaped on the first ship leaving port, a ship heading for Haiti, although we had no idea where we were going. Haiti? We’d never even heard the word. We could have been sailing to the moon, but we had no choice. It was either the ship or the hangman, or at the very least, transportation. I was thirteen, my brother four years older. We didn’t even have time to say goodbye to my mother, and by the time I was in a position to write to her—once I’d learned to write— it was to discover that she’d died mere weeks after we’d sailed.”
Cassandra sat up straight, amazed at one part of the story. “You have a brother? You never told me that, Papa.”
“Will and I sailed with some fairly unlovely men for several years, learning our craft, until he was killed during an assault on a Spanish ship. The captain gave me my share and Will’s, and I combined that with everything we’d saved over the years, bought my own small sloop, a true wreck of a ship,” he said, smiling at some private memory.
“How old were you then, Papa?”
“All of twenty. And rather full of myself, I suppose. I managed to hire a crew, and had some small successes as a pirate. Very small successes. A year later Jacko and I met over exchanged fists in a wharf-side pub, he explained Letters of Marque to me, and we became licensed privateers. I was, hopefully, on my way to respectability and, eventually, a return home, to England. From the very beginning, my objective was to return home.”
“Until Edmund Beales betrayed you, tricked you into attacking Eleanor’s ship and becoming a pirate again,” Cassandra said, sighing. “There isn’t a conversation that doesn’t lead back to Edmund Beales, is there? Not for so many years.” She looked up at the portrait once more, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “He took so much from you, Papa, from all of us. I hate him!”
Ainsley took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at her cheeks. “Don’t hate him, Cassandra. Be aware of him, be alert to danger, prepare yourself as we are all doing, but don’t waste your time hating the man.”
“Lisette says he’s a monster.”
“As his daughter, that’s quite a damning indictment of the man. But, yes, Edmund Beales is a monster. One of his own making. But he’s also brilliant, as I learned to my great sorrow when he engineered his betrayal of us so many years ago. We can’t underestimate him. Which brings me to something I’ve been considering for some weeks now. Until this is over, until Edmund strikes at us and is defeated, I want to send you, all of the women, to Chance’s Coventry estate.”
Cassandra shook her head, sending her curls falling into her face. “No! No, Papa,