The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

Nathan had seen her, thank God, for she had no idea whether to shout his name would make things better or worse. Almost sick with relief that he was alive, Clemence began to struggle as hard as she could manage, creating as much disturbance as she could. When it came to the reckoning, no one was ever going to say she had gone with the Naismiths willingly, but when she craned back over Lewis’s shoulder, no one had moved to help her.

They were all staring, guards and prisoners alike, and as the turban fell off her cropped head she saw the recognition on the men’s faces. Nathan, his eyes blazing, mouthed something. I’ll come for you—is that what he had said? But how could he? The very fact that he was there with the captives showed his gamble of turning informer had not paid off and her desperate hope that he was still a naval officer had been just wishful thinking.

The yard gate slammed behind them, the big carriage was standing waiting. Lewis flung her into the carriage and climbed in after her before she could reach the handle and get out the other side. ‘Sit still or I’ll tie your hands,’ he snapped.

‘You can’t get away with this.’

Her uncle settled himself comfortably opposite them, folded his hands across his belly and beamed at her. ‘You have behaved like a mad whore in front of the Governor, his confidential secretary and an assortment of naval officers. Really, Clemence, I could not have hoped for better. No one will now question your seclusion at Raven’s Hold and all will honour Lewis for his selfless sacrifice for the family name when he eventually weds you.

‘Of course,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘we’ll need to make certain you aren’t breeding a pirate brat first.’

Clemence opened her mouth in furious denial and then shut it again. If she did not tell them she was still a virgin, then that would keep Lewis from her bed for a few weeks, at least. It wouldn’t be much of a reprieve. Marie Luce, like all the female staff, would know her cycle as well as she did herself, but if she was not free within two weeks she could abandon hope.

No, never that. She would never give up, even if they hanged Nathan, even if Lewis forced himself on her; one day she was going to bring them to justice.

Clemence gave a little sigh and slumped into a feigned faint. She had to think, to shut their hateful faces out of her mind. But all that filled it was the image of Nathan, battered, bloody, chained. I love you, I love you. She reached out with her will, trying to touch his consciousness, but nothing came back to her, there was no feeling of connection. She had lost him.

To her surprise, the Naismiths took her to her own room. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, for Lewis strode across and turned the key in the doors to the balcony.

‘The trellis and the climbers will be gone by nightfall,’ he informed her, putting the key into his pocket. ‘Then you may take the air again.’

‘You aren’t worried that I might throw myself over in truth?’ Clemence enquired bitterly from the chair where the coachman had deposited her.

‘That would be a tragedy, of course. And we would be subject to society’s reproaches for not having understood just how demented you had become,’ her uncle agreed. ‘But our grief would be assuaged by our thankfulness that you had made a will in our favour, weeks before this madness came upon you.’

‘I made no will,’ Clemence said slowly, cold fingers running up and down her spine.

‘You sign so many papers, my dear.’ Joshua went to give the balcony doors a precautionary shake. ‘And you have such a nice, clear signature.’ He ran his eye over her, his mouth compressing in irritation. ‘Now, turn yourself into something resembling a gentlewoman.’ He turned to Marie Luce, who had slipped in behind them and was waiting silently, hands folded. ‘How long before we can be certain she’s not breeding?’

‘Best say four weeks, master, to be certain sure. She’ll look like a lady again by then.’

‘See to it.’ Joshua stalked out, Lewis at his heels, already discussing business matters, already dismissing her as yet another tiresome problem solved.

Ignoring Marie Luce, Clemence

got to her feet and walked to stand in front of the long pier glass. The woman that stared back at her looked as though she had escaped from Bedlam, filthy, tattered, sunburned, her hair a ragged thatch, her eyes wild. The bruises on her face had gone, only to be replaced by a fresh crop of scrapes, and there were scratches all over her hands and arms.

No one was going to take her seriously while she looked like this, Clemence realised. She had no idea how she was going to escape, but when she did, she was going to be Miss Ravenhurst, granddaughter of the Duke of Allington, and someone was going to have to take her very seriously indeed.

‘Fetch me hot water, creams, someone who can dress hair,’ she said to Marie Luce, who stood watching her with an expression of smug insolence on her face. ‘Or do you want me to tell Mr Lewis that you are jealous and do not want to help me look like a lady again?’

That at least wiped the smile off the woman’s face, but it was a petty victory. It did not give her the key to the door or news of Nathan, yet defiance made her feel stronger, kept the lethally sapping despair at bay.

Clemence made herself bathe, used every one of the aids to beauty a young lady was permitted, had her ragged hair transformed into a smart, if eccentric, crop and forced down a large supper while behind the shutters there was the noise of men tearing down the trellis and the climbers, her staircase to freedom.

Then, alone at last, she sat straightening hairpins and trying to recall everything she had ever read in sensation novels about picking locks, ready for the small hours when she could try to open the door. It shouldn’t be hard, she comforted herself. In such a hot climate internal doors and their locks were lightweight and the household relied for security on external watchmen and bars on the windows.

Raven’s Hold had fallen silent by degrees until all she could hear was the chirp of crickets, distant dogs barking and the sea below. Clemence knelt down, took her strongest hairpin and began to probe the lock.

The thud from the balcony was so sudden in the silence that the pin jerked in her hand, scoring a deep scratch into the polished wood. Clemence scrambled to her feet as, with a rending noise, something was forced into the lock and the double doors burst open to reveal a tall figure.

He stepped into the room, his eyes fixed on her, and for a blank moment she stared back. ‘Nathan?’

‘Clemence?’ He sounded even more stunned than she felt. ‘My God, you look—’ He broke off. ‘You look like a lady.’

‘And you look like a gentleman,’ she replied, finding her feet rooted to the ground with shock. A somewhat dishevelled one as a result of whatever acrobatics it had taken to arrive on her balcony, it was true, but a gentleman none the less with cropped hair, clean shaven, in fresh linen and well-cut breeches. ‘You’re free,’ she added, inanely. ‘I thought they were going to hang you.’

She still could not move, half-convinced he was an illusion, but he recovered from his shock sooner than she and came across the room to take her in his arms and she knew he was no phantom. She hugged him tightly, then remembered, as her hands felt the strapping beneath his shirt, that he was hurt.