Free Sparhawk's Angel by MIRANDA JARRETT Page A

successfully—to shock her with his profanity and the appalling catalog of her undergarments. No, if he wished to torment her further he wouldn't bother with anything as subtle as this prettily worded note. But why, then, would he bother with an apology, either?
    She read the invitation again. There was no time or date to the invitation, and she decided with a sniff that privateering captains must consider themselves above such niceties. Rose had seen how every man on board the
Angel Lily
jumped to carry out Captain Sparhawk's every order, and doubtless she was supposed to do the same. She wasn't one of his sailors, and he'd no right to expect her to obey his commands. Instead she should tear the invitation in two and send it back to him, and she smiled to herself as she pictured the look on his face when he received it.
    But both her smile and her defiance were short-lived. Except for a few moments' satisfaction, what would she gain by crossing him again? When she'd slapped him, he'd threatened to hang her, and she didn't doubt he'd do it if she provoked him too far. He'd already shown how little regard he had for laws and decency. She'd be nothing but a fool if she antagonized him again, and she'd never reach St. Lucia for her wedding.
    With a sigh she laid the invitation on the mattress and began to sort through the tumbled contents of her trunk. All of her new gowns, made for her life as Lady Graham, had been left behind in the hold of the
Commerce
. The three that had been unceremoniously stuffed into the trunk were black and severe, all in the same grim mourning she wore to honor Lily, and none any more attractive than the one she was wearing already.
    She propped her traveling mirror upright in the trunk's open lid, unpinned her dark hair and brushed it smooth before she twisted it once again onto the top of her head. She'd had to learn to dress her hair herself after Phoebe's death, and the most she aspired to was tidy rather than elegant. At last she pinned a tiny lace cap onto the crown and let the narrow ribbons curl down around her cheeks, her single, modest touch of frivolity.
    Not that it helped, not really. With dismay she noted how crying had made her eyes a perfect red-rimmed match for her sunburned cheeks and nose, and she wrinkled that same nose at her reflection. All the lace caps in the world weren't going to make much difference. Captain Sparhawk would simply have to accept her as she was.
    Finally she reached deep into the trunk, shifting aside her clothing as she felt for the carved indentation in one corner. She pressed it hard with her thumb until she heard the muffled
sprong
as the latch gave way and the trunk's false bottom lifted back. With relief she saw the privateers hadn't discovered it, for the leather pouch with the new banknotes and the hundred polished guineas that Papa had given her as wedding gifts were still untouched. Beside it were the two flat boxes that held her mother's jewelry, and another smaller, square box covered with black plush. This she set aside on the bunk, then closed the secret door and smoothed her belongings back over it.
    Sitting back on the mattress, she cradled the little box in her hands and opened the brass hook on the lid. Inside, nestled in a puff of white satin, lay a gold ring with a large oval aquamarine framed by pearls: her betrothal ring. She slipped it onto her finger, the cold blue stone sparkling in the dim light of the cabin. Swiftly she curled her hand into a fist, covering the ring with the palm of her other hand and burying them both in her skirts.
    She'd told herself she hadn't worn the ring on the journey because she didn't want to risk losing a piece of such value, but the plain truth was she hadn't wanted to. Hidden away in her trunk, the ring was meaningless, an expensive bauble. But with it on her finger she was forced to acknowledge everything it represented, everything she'd been trying so hard to ignore.
    God help her, she could barely