A True Lady

by Edith Layton

  “Married me at knifepoint to a stranger?” she hissed. “Aye. But listen, it were a fine English lord ye wanted, weren’t it? And where was I to find one, I ask ye?”

  “But I didn’t want one kidnapped, held for ransom, paying for his life by joining with me!” she cried.

  “How else were I to nab one?” he asked in exasperation. “How else did I find yer own departed mama, child? And she learned to love me proper,” he said with reverence, “afore she left us. I always got ye what ye wanted, since you was a sprat, din’t I, lass? That’s how ye got such notions in yer noggin in the first place, from all them fine English governesses I got ye, curse their cold hearts.”

  “Fine English governesses ye got me from the slave block, or the decks of burning ships,” she muttered darkly.

  “Howsomever, I got them for ye, and got ye an education, too, din’t I? And then got ye the notion to wed a fine Englishman, curse the day,” he said sadly. “And so when ye refused the finest fellow I knew, Black Jack Kelly, what do I do? Did I force ye to wed him, like a father should? No.”

  “You tried!” she shouted.

  “Aye, but I could have tried harder,” he said, holding a finger in the air, silencing her. “No, I didn’t,” he said virtuously. “Like a daft old fool, I go out and get ye the finest lord I ever heared of, and how do ye thank me? With a nose in the air and not a word of farewell.”

  “Aye, but I wouldn’t have needed no husband did ye not have a hankering to wed again and wanted no shrewish daughter underfoot to spoil yer fun, would I?” she asked venomously.

  He looked as sheepish as a large, dirty pirate king could.

  “Yer toothsome young Carmen hates me, don’t she?” she persisted. “Can’t stand the sight of me, wishes me ten fathoms deep, though she quakes and shakes her pretty little arse and pretends to be scared of me, don’t she? Ye had to be rid of me, Papa, don’t fancy it up none, because it won’t wash.”

  “Aye, there’s some truth in what yer saying. But think on, were it all true, I’d have made ye take Black Jack Kelly any which way, and ye know it,” he said. “I tried to give ye what ye wanted, give me that, love. And what ye wanted were a fine refined English lord, weren’t it?”

  “Aye…but…” she began.

  “And they ain’t exactly thick on the ground hereabouts, is they?”

  “No, but…”

  “Nor are we by way of meeting up with them anywheres but on the deck of a ship we’re keelhauling, is we?”

  “Aye, that’s so…”

  “And since no one I knew, nor one of the fine lads panting after you, was good enough for you—and Gawd above, girl, but you are one and twenty!” he bellowed.

  She fell still.

  “One and twenty and unwed,” he grieved. “’Twas unnatcheral.”

  She looked down to the toes of her red satin slippers.

  “But whenever I said anything, you’d be always going on about how no one was ‘refined and educated’ enough for you,” he said mockingly. “So here he be—a lad with more names to him than ye can embroider on his handkerchief, and with blood blue as a squid’s ink. You wanted an English lord, you got one. So what be ye kicking fer?”

  “Because I didn’t want this one!” she insisted.

  “What’s wrong with him?” her father roared. “Got all his teeth, young and sprightly, nice-looking feller too. S’truth,” he admitted, “his reputation be leagues ahead of his performance. The man’s made a stunning name for hisseif, though it be hard to credit. I heared he had wimmen swooning fer him from one end of England to t’other, and that he accommodated most of ’em too. I grant it don’t look possible. Nor be he grand and manly as they said, neither. But ye can’t hardly complain on that,” he said with more spirit. “Ye didn’t want a fine, hardy specimen of a man like Black Jack Kelly… Oh aye, don’t huff I’ll shut me mug on that.

  “There be nothing wrong with this lad,” he insisted. “And remember, there ain’t that many English lords, and ye know Englishwomen—with the exception of yer departed mama, of course—they don’t want much liveliness in their beds. I reckon that accounts for it. Still, who can tell? It’s early yet. I’ll admit he don’t show much fire in his wooing, but give him time. Ye only been spliced a few days, and none of them ones to show a man to his best advantage—unless he be a right old rogue like Black Jack K— Oh, aye—I’m mum.

  “So howsabout a lass giving her old father a hug, and a wish that the wind always be in his sails, and his enemies asleep in sharks’ bellies, eh?”

  “Oh, Papa!” she cried wretchedly, and fell into his outstretched arms. He hadn’t been much of a father and they both knew it, but he was the only father she had, and this island was the only home she’d ever known.

  “Well, what’s done’s done, and fer the best, so I do believe,” he said somewhat soupily when he finally released her. She was his only legitimate child, and he let her go with what might have been genuine reluctance. He ran his sleeve under his nose before he spoke again. “Ye be happy, lass, y’hear?” he demanded. “No use pleading,” he added when he saw her eyes. “I may only be a pirate, but I’m the captain because I be a man of me word, and so I raised ye to be. Ye be wed to that fine lord, and that be the end of it. Ye’ll be happy too, lass, see if ye ain’t.

  “Now,” he said with more spirit, “let’s see. Got yer steel? Good. And yer pocket pistol? Ah, good. Yer cutlass, I hope, been packed? Fine. And yer wee dagger, and yer bonny gutting knife, and them new cutties I got ye too? Fine, fine. Being a lady is yer concern, being safe is mine. A lass has got to be prepared, right? Now. Godspeed,” he said, giving her a little push toward the tall-masted merchant ship that awaited her.

  “I be seeing ye again?” she asked in a very small voice, looking back at him tearfully.

  “I hope not,” he said. “Ye be a true lady now, remember?”

  She left, but not without shedding a few tears.

  She would have shed many more had she not turned to catch a last glimpse of her father and seen him with a young woman whom he took into his arms as soon as he thought his daughter was out of sight.

  *

  They tried to ignore each other, but it wasn’t possible in a cabin on a great vessel in the middle of the ocean with the door locked behind them till dawn.

  He couldn’t have ignored her even if they weren’t locked together in a tiny room. Many staggering things had happened to him in the past few days, but this girl was by far the most astonishing. He was stunned by her. She looked like a barbarian princess right out of one of the adventure books of his boyhood. She was so brightly, fiercely beautiful and nothing like any lady he’d ever seen, nor even like the boldest whores in London town. With her sunset hair and bright apricot gown and stunningly yellow wrap, she made his eyes ache—as well as other parts he didn’t want to think about. It wasn’t only her vivid coloring that made her so exciting, there was a sensationally shapely body got up in bold splendor that swayed to her constant movement, as she paced the cabin like a caged tiger.

  It was a well-furnished cabin, and a comfortable one. It had a fine Indian carpet on the floor and room enough for a good-sized bed, a chest, a table, and two chairs. A fair-sized porthole gave them a glimpse of the wide sea they sailed over. In all, it could be a comfortable voyage, he thought—if he were on it with almost anyone else in the world and under any other circumstances. As it was, he felt sick to his stomach. He knew it wasn’t seasickness, because sailing never troubled him. But he felt decidedly bilious. And the reason for it was pacing back and forth in front of him.

  He sat on the bed and watched her uneasily. She was doing a very good job of ignoring him, and that was unsettling. He was an even-tempered fellow who made friends easily, but he didn’t know how to talk to this girl. The fact that there were many important things that he had to say to her agitated him, and the fact that he lacked the courage to even begin speaking bothered him even more.

  But he wasn’t a coward, and so he fin
ally got to his feet and approached her.

  It was like trying to start a conversation with a small whirlwind, because she walked right by him and then turned and paced back. Her pale, lovely face was cast in a mold of suppressed fury, and her hands were clenched in fists by her sides. The breeze from her silken gown swept around her and he caught a faintly pleasant scent. Cinnamon, he thought in surprise, breathing it in, and vanilla and sweet tropical blossoms. It was fascinating, like the aroma of baking flowers: seductive, exotic, delicious—edible. He swallowed hard.

  “Ah…” he began, and paused. “Mistress,” as he was going to say, was inappropriate, “madam” was definitely wrong, and he realized he didn’t even remember her name.

  “Pardon me,” he said, but she just ignored him.

  Frustrated, he stood watching her. But then when the sea beneath the polished oaken boards of their cabin suddenly swelled, rising and falling unexpectedly, he staggered. Being a gentleman born and bred, he put out his hands to steady her, too, and found himself facing shining steel, and the glare in her narrowed eyes, which was no less menacing.

  “Take yer grubby paws off me,” she snarled, holding the knife steady at his breastbone, “or be history, matey.”

  “I thought you were going to fall,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides.

  “Hoped is more like it,” she muttered, “but I’d no more fall from a sea swell than I would fer yer honied blandishments.”

  He blinked. “Ah, but I said nothing,” he replied cautiously, wondering about this savage pirate princess who not only knew but spoke such words.

  “Ye be thinking them,” she said, still glaring at him.

  It was so nearly true, he felt his face flush with guilt. “I have some things I must tell you,” he said instead.

  She paused, cocking her head to the side. Her face was beautiful, but her smile was not. It chilled him. “Do tell,” she purred.

  “I don’t know what you’re angry about. You got what you wanted; I wasn’t the one who asked for this,” he said defensively.

  Her smile disappeared. And his stomach grew even colder. He was an honest man and had to go on whether he wanted to or not. “No one would listen to me then. Listen?” he spat out bitterly. “They didn’t even let me talk. All they’d let me say is ‘I do’ and ‘I will.’ But there’s more, much more. Oh Lord,” he said.

  She watched him closely, her knife still poised and aimed at his chest. He was naturally fair, but now he was almost as white as the powder on his wig. He was dressed in all his finery, but when she’d first seen him, his pale hair had been uncovered and he’d been in his torn shirtsleeves. He was a handsome young man, clean-limbed and tall, with a guileless, even-featured face and candid blue eyes. His clothes didn’t exaggerate or flatter him; elegant and obviously expensive, they simply suited him. He wore a fitted coat of corded blue silk with falls of lace showing at the neck and cuffs, tight black breeches that ended at the knee with high white silk stockings, and neat silver-buckled shoes. The only touch of opulence was his long embroidered silk waistcoat of dark green and gold design.

  The men whom she was used to all swaggered about in the colorful clothes of their calling, extravagant finery from the high days of the Brotherhood: flowing shirts and wide, baggy breeches and doublets; long, bright waistcoats and high, soft-cuffed boots; and as many sashes and pendants and earrings and rings as they could muster. But this man was dressed like a modern man of fashion: subtle, subdued, but so elegant, she felt like a peacock compared to him—no, a peahen in peacock feathers, she thought unhappily.

  “I have something very important to say,” he went on. “You see,” he said with a sigh. “Oh Lord,” he said, sighing again, “the fact is—the truth of the matter is—that we are not married. No, really, we’re not. We cannot be married. Every word I say is the truth. I am not Magnus Titus, Lord Snow. I’m not even a lord. He is my brother. My real name is Martin Thomas Snow, and as if that isn’t enough,” he said in a rush, “the marriage would be invalid even if they’d got the name right, because I’m already married. And happily,” he added quickly, tensing for whatever reaction this news might elicit.

  She stared at him blankly. He saw exactly when the truth began to dawn in her widening amber eyes. They began to glow like warmed honey. He braced himself, wondering how far in the knife would go before he could pull away.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, thank heavens!” she cried in a clear, cultured voice, as she lowered the knife and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “Oh, thank you! I am so relieved—oh, my dear sir, you can’t possibly know how happy you’ve made me!”

  CHAPTER 2

  I don’t see why you should be so shocked at my reaction,” Cristabel said, hands on hips. “I didn’t want to marry you in the first place. Of course,” she admitted, “there was no way you could know that. But it was either you or a particularly undesirable crony of my father’s. You looked as unhappy as I felt, and that decided it for me. I thought there might be some way out of this mess once we left the island. I didn’t expect this! This is beyond wonderful! Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have set me free—freer than you can possibly imagine,” she said, as she sat down and looked at him with pure pleasure.

  He stood and gaped at her. It took him a while to frame his next words.

  “I thought,” he said slowly, “I mean, I heard, that is to say—good Lord, what’s happening? Why are you speaking differently now?” he blurted out.

  “Oh,” she said, and a delicate peach color suffused her pale cheeks, “well, you see, I speak one way for my father and the people I live with, and another with people of some education. Well, it wouldn’t do fer me to yammer at ye like this, would it?” she asked sharply. “Naw, din’t think so. Just think,” she said, changing her voice from strident tones to a softer, calmer accent, “how it would sound to the islanders if I spoke to them like this. They’d be as startled and uncomfortable with me as you just were. Two completely different worlds,” she said sadly, “and I live in both of them. You see, my mother was a lady, a true English gentlewoman, or so my father always says. And so I grew up with governesses who taught me how to speak and act should I ever get the chance to live in her world. Now you’ve given me that chance!”

  “Yes, I suppose I have. By being a coward,” Martin said dully, sinking back onto the bed again. “I should have resisted more—I ought to have sacrificed myself. Death before dishonor, and lying is a dishonor even if it was to save myself. Magnus would never, never, have done it. He would have died rather than submit. But not me. I discovered that I wanted to live and so I went through with it. Please, don’t thank me. If you’d skewered me, the way I thought you were going to just now, it would have been what I deserved. Going through that charade of a marriage was wrong. I’ve no excuse but a failure of courage. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “You’re also alive,” Cristabel said tartly, “which you wouldn’t have been if you had refused to marry me. Please don’t have any regrets. I don’t. Oh,” she sighed, as though a great weight had been lifted off her heart, “you can’t know how wonderful this is. I can hardly take it all in. I’m free. Really free. Away from the island, away from my father, away from that horrible life—free to live my own life at last.

  “When we get to London,” she said, sitting up on the edge of her seat, her amber eyes sparkling, “we’ll part—never to meet again—unless you want, of course, to raise a glass in fond remembrance. Or not,” she said generously, when she saw his startled expression. “Just help me find rooms in a good part of town, and a servant or two—and then farewell to thee, Lord Snow, or Mr. Snow, or whoever you are. I’ll be free. Under a new name of my own choice,” she said triumphantly.

  “Your father…” he began.

  “Will never find me,” she chortled.

  “But I am a Snow,” he said with some pride, “and therefore not hard to find.”

  “I doubt he’ll look,” she said airily. Seeing Martin’s ne
rvousness, she went on, “You see, I think Papa knows his glory days are almost done. That’s why he set out to find me a husband. To get me off his hands, so he could get on with his life. Off with the old, on with the new; it’s been on his mind a lot lately. I think it’s because he lost so many cronies over the last years, or seen them come to grief. It’s been hard times for his sort lately. All his old associates, let’s see, there was Captain Vane, hanged; and there was Deadeye John Jarvis, hanged too; Jolly Calico Jack, hanged; and his lady, Anne Bonny—vanished. Captain Kidd, hanged; Captain England, beggared… Oh, I could go on and on. So many gone one way or the other. Aye, even the great Blackbeard himself ended with his head hanging from the bow and his body fed to the fishes.

  “So many,” she sighed, “either blown to bits or hanged by the neck—or other parts—until dead. The golden age of piracy is done, I think. Well, at least for him it is. He’s very old for a pirate captain, you know. And since pirate captains are always elected free and fairly—oh yes, ’tis so—I think a younger man will get the nod soon. And so, I believe, thinks he.

  “Now that he thinks he’s got me settled, he’ll close the book and be off under some new name to some other island paradise with his booty. Off to a new life with a new woman—who may well be the first since my mother to actually become his wife. I think he’s got a hankering for some legitimate male heirs,” she mused, grinning at the shocked young man.

  He stared at this girl in all her pirate splendor, sitting primly amidst the shining silks and clashing colors. She spoke like a lady—her voice was modulated, her accents pure and well bred—but what she was saying…

  “I can’t just leave you when we get to London,” he said.

  “I may have done the wrong thing in pretending to marry you, but I can’t compound it. I’m responsible for you.”