Rouge is a queen among the pirates, that her hair is like flame, that she has many lovers, that she wears men's clothes--and I wondered what she really looked like."
"Ah, she wears men's clothes," he agreed airily, feeling that was a safe admission.
"But she has no air, no style as you do, my lady."
Carolina, hard-pressed on this subject of her beauty, changed the subject, and Gilly, who had had her ear pressed to a crack of the pantry door, strolled back to the kitchen looking smug and insulted Cook, who warned her, cleaver raised, that if she didn't hold her tongue she'd chop it off.
Unaware of the altercation in the kitchen, Carolina called softly to the cat who, fed in the kitchen by Cook, who adored her, now strolled lazily into the dining room through the pantry door that Gilly had left carefully ajar.
"This is Moonbeam," she told her guest, reaching down affectionately to pet Moonbeam's pale shining fur. The cat mewed softly in answer and began to purr.
Ramon del Mundo looked politely down at the cat. He saw a striking white Persian cat with broad paws and an enormous plume like tail, who rubbed against Carolina's skirts and looked up at her adoringly with big green eyes.
"A handsome animal," he observed. "And well named."
Carolina smiled. "It was Kells who named her." She remembered the day Kells had brought the cat home to her, a half-grown kitten and most distrustful. A failed ship's cat was Moonbeam. She had detested the sea so much-meowing and clinging to anything that she could with desperate claws-that the crew had at first named her
"Landlubber," then got rid of her in disgust.
Carolina, who shared with the kitten a preference for keeping her feet dry, sympathized with Moonbeam's dislike ofslippery decks strewn with salt spray. "It must have been terrible for her, having to lick the sea salt from her long fur all the time," she had said, cuddling the kitten. "What shall we name her?" Kells's voice had softened and he had run a gentle hand across Carolina's hair. "I thought we'd name her Moonbeam for she has a pale shimmer--like your hair." Now, dining with this new-met stranger, Carolina's face grew dreamy as she remembered-and the glow that lit her eyes as she thought of how Kells had said that made her something to behold.
Across from her, the Spaniard-pretending-to-be-a-Frenchman caught his breath at the sight and from the depths of him he envied her lawless buccaneer lover.
Chapter 3
In the long dining room Carolina was studying Raymond du Monde's dark face, his mobile mouth, his expressive features. And especially his eyes, wicked and flaring golden in the candlelight. Eyes that commanded, mocked, eyes that could hold one pinned by their gleam. . . .
Outside, in the distance, the wild Port Royal night was just beginning. From somewhere came the homing cry of a bird and a snatch of raucous drunken song and laughter. In the eerie jungle of mangrove swamp that lay between sandspit Port Royal and mainland Jamaica, the stalking night had begun, and little creatures scurried through the dark to safety. In the jungles up the Cobre the parrots squawked sleepily and the planters sat on their porches and slapped at mosquitoes-and gave up and went inside.
But here in the elegance of her long dining room Carolina studied her dinner guest, and wondered about him, for she was inwardly sure he was not what he seemed.
About her white neck the fabulous necklace glimmered like blood against snow. They might have been anywhere in Europe and not in lawless Port Royal.
Moonbeam had sunk luxuriously down by Carolina's feet, purring. Absently Carolina rubbed the fur just behind Moonbeam's pointy ear with her toe, and Moonbeam's purr grew louder.
The man across from her was smiling.
"I am told you loosed a jaguar once," he observed, skillfully spearing a bit of lobster.
It was but one of the many stories he had heard about her, for he had been asking discreet questions about town all afternoon and had leamed
"Ah, she wears men's clothes," he agreed airily, feeling that was a safe admission.
"But she has no air, no style as you do, my lady."
Carolina, hard-pressed on this subject of her beauty, changed the subject, and Gilly, who had had her ear pressed to a crack of the pantry door, strolled back to the kitchen looking smug and insulted Cook, who warned her, cleaver raised, that if she didn't hold her tongue she'd chop it off.
Unaware of the altercation in the kitchen, Carolina called softly to the cat who, fed in the kitchen by Cook, who adored her, now strolled lazily into the dining room through the pantry door that Gilly had left carefully ajar.
"This is Moonbeam," she told her guest, reaching down affectionately to pet Moonbeam's pale shining fur. The cat mewed softly in answer and began to purr.
Ramon del Mundo looked politely down at the cat. He saw a striking white Persian cat with broad paws and an enormous plume like tail, who rubbed against Carolina's skirts and looked up at her adoringly with big green eyes.
"A handsome animal," he observed. "And well named."
Carolina smiled. "It was Kells who named her." She remembered the day Kells had brought the cat home to her, a half-grown kitten and most distrustful. A failed ship's cat was Moonbeam. She had detested the sea so much-meowing and clinging to anything that she could with desperate claws-that the crew had at first named her
"Landlubber," then got rid of her in disgust.
Carolina, who shared with the kitten a preference for keeping her feet dry, sympathized with Moonbeam's dislike ofslippery decks strewn with salt spray. "It must have been terrible for her, having to lick the sea salt from her long fur all the time," she had said, cuddling the kitten. "What shall we name her?" Kells's voice had softened and he had run a gentle hand across Carolina's hair. "I thought we'd name her Moonbeam for she has a pale shimmer--like your hair." Now, dining with this new-met stranger, Carolina's face grew dreamy as she remembered-and the glow that lit her eyes as she thought of how Kells had said that made her something to behold.
Across from her, the Spaniard-pretending-to-be-a-Frenchman caught his breath at the sight and from the depths of him he envied her lawless buccaneer lover.
Chapter 3
In the long dining room Carolina was studying Raymond du Monde's dark face, his mobile mouth, his expressive features. And especially his eyes, wicked and flaring golden in the candlelight. Eyes that commanded, mocked, eyes that could hold one pinned by their gleam. . . .
Outside, in the distance, the wild Port Royal night was just beginning. From somewhere came the homing cry of a bird and a snatch of raucous drunken song and laughter. In the eerie jungle of mangrove swamp that lay between sandspit Port Royal and mainland Jamaica, the stalking night had begun, and little creatures scurried through the dark to safety. In the jungles up the Cobre the parrots squawked sleepily and the planters sat on their porches and slapped at mosquitoes-and gave up and went inside.
But here in the elegance of her long dining room Carolina studied her dinner guest, and wondered about him, for she was inwardly sure he was not what he seemed.
About her white neck the fabulous necklace glimmered like blood against snow. They might have been anywhere in Europe and not in lawless Port Royal.
Moonbeam had sunk luxuriously down by Carolina's feet, purring. Absently Carolina rubbed the fur just behind Moonbeam's pointy ear with her toe, and Moonbeam's purr grew louder.
The man across from her was smiling.
"I am told you loosed a jaguar once," he observed, skillfully spearing a bit of lobster.
It was but one of the many stories he had heard about her, for he had been asking discreet questions about town all afternoon and had leamed
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