by Edith Layton
“Then what do you want?” she asked angrily. “To marry me? Don’t pity me. I wouldn’t have you on a platter, with an apple in yer mouth!”
Martin was astonished. No one ever spoke to Magnus like that. But Magnus seemed to be highly entertained. At least, he was smiling.
“A horrible thought, I agree,” Magnus said. “I suggest nothing so drastic as matrimony. We have to find a way to settle you. In the meantime we can give you a home and protection. I say ‘we,’ although I can’t. I have the room but I am a bachelor. Martin has a good-sized house in town. What do you think, lad? You can offer her what I can’t because you’ve got a wife. Will you give the lady houseroom?”
“Oh aye, and I’m sure his wife will love that,” Cristabel laughed. “Stow it. Here, I’ll write the note to my father, and we’ll be done with the matter.”
“But Sophia would be pleased to have you!” Martin said with a wide smile, as he thought about it. “As a matter of fact, she’d be delighted.”
“Well, if she’s daft enough to take in a stranger, and a pirate’s daughter at that, well, I’m sorry for her. But it doesn’t matter what she will or won’t do, because I know my own mind. And I won’t go with you. Here I am, and here I stay.”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Martin. He couldn’t sway her; she knew how to wrap him around her finger, and had done it often already. But that was Martin without his brother.
She peeked at Magnus, and then quickly looked away. Living with Martin and his young wife would be uncomfortable, but safe. That was true. But she didn’t fool herself. It would also mean living in this big, elegant man’s care and under his watchful eyes. She was more worried about that than she was of being alone. She’d been a prisoner for too many years, she told herself, and tried to resist the strange lure of this trap by remembering that the tightest traps always had the strongest lures.
“I could make you come, but I won’t,” Magnus said, “nor will I camp on this doorstep until you agree. You’re right. You know the right thing to do, but I can’t make you do it, can I?”
Cristabel bit her lip and shook her head, stubbornly keeping her arms folded across her chest.
“So be it,” Magnus sighed, picking up his hat from the chair where he’d left it. “I’m considered to be good with a dirk, too, as well as sword and saber. So when your father’s men come after me next time…and they will, of course, since you’ll be somewhere in hiding and I’ll be continuing to go out on the town without you. You don’t expect me to stay home because of you? No, of course not. But when they come after me next time, I should be able to take care of myself too. I’m sure I can manage. Good night, Mistress Cristabel, and good-bye.”
“I’ll send a letter,” she blurted.
“Yes,” he said softly, “so you said. That should do it, shouldn’t it? You, disappeared somewhere in England without a trace, except for that letter. And me out every night, enjoying myself as usual. I’m sure your father will understand. Oh, absolutely. Thank you.”
He stood and marveled at her creative use of language as she answered him, at length. He didn’t know sailors could curse like that—much less lovely young women. The most interesting part of it, he thought as he saw Martin listening slack-jawed, was that it was as if she didn’t understand what she was saying. It wasn’t profane so much as amazing, like listening to a parrot’s recital. When she was finally done, she glared at Magnus.
“Blast ye,” she snarled, “I’ll come with ye. What can I do? Don’t want your bloody big head on my conscience, do I?”
“Don’t you?” he asked with great interest.
He was astonished and delighted when she blushed.
“Bugger it,” she muttered, and turned away to hide her flaming face. Which was just as well, because if she’d seen the tender look in his gray eyes, she might have changed her mind, courageous as she was.
*
Cristabel hated to admit it, even to herself, but she’d never been so comfortable in her life.
She was warm and snug. She’d never really understood what that meant. She’d been hot, or merely warm at home in the Islands. Sometimes she’d been cool, once in a while even chilly. But in the week she’d been in England, the land of her dreams, she’d been cold, colder, and icy cold. Truth to tell, the weather had disappointed her. She’d read about English winters and thought of them as invigorating, imagining herself frisking through fields of fluffy snow. She hadn’t envisioned the misery of icy water dripping down her neck and into her shoes.
But now she wasn’t cold anymore even though the world outside her window was turning to ice. A fire crackled in her hearth; the wind whining outside made her glad to be inside. This, then, was snug. It was warm, with alternatives that made her feel lucky to be warm. She liked it.
She’d never been in such a beautiful room before, either. Or in such a grand house. It had ornate ceilings and fireplaces with carved mantels, thick glass windows, and carpets good enough to grace a captain’s cabin on every polished floor. On every floor she’d seen, she corrected herself. She’d only had a hasty look at the house by candlelight as she’d been greeted and taken to her room. But what she had seen impressed her so much that she dallied now before her mirror, pretending her hair wasn’t right, when she was really just worried that she wasn’t right for this fine house.
Not that she wasn’t as well-bred as the lady of the house, she reminded herself proudly. Not that she didn’t have enough money to buy a string of houses like this if she chose to. And certainly not because there was anything she couldn’t face up to, even if she was afraid. Admitting fear was the first step to conquering it—any green cabin boy could tell you that. And conquering her fear was exactly what she was trying to do.
What scared her now was the lady of this house, though Sophia looked innocent as an angel, and she’d never said more than “Good evening” to her uninvited guest. She was small and delicate, beautifully dressed, with a pretty, smiling face. A lady all rosebuds and cream. She made Cristabel feel like a cockatoo next to a white dove. Cristabel herself had been born a lady, or at least half one, but she knew too well that she’d only been raised as half a lady too. The other half felt very out of place here.
Cristabel was determined to stand on her own two feet and walk out of this house as soon as she could. This wasn’t her home and she wouldn’t rely on the charity of strangers or the goodwill of any man, much less a strange and domineering one. Magnus didn’t even live here, and probably wouldn’t be downstairs now. That thought made her feel relief as well as a vague disappointment. But it wasn’t Magnus she worried about seeing just now.
She found herself more afraid of her hostess’s disapproval than she was of the whole new world outside her door. Martin’s beautiful wife was everything Cristabel’s own mother had been, she was sure of that. And Cristabel wasn’t sure if she measured up to that kind of excellence.
“You’re awake!” a voice exclaimed, intruding on her thoughts. Cristabel spun her head around to see the lady she was worrying about in the doorway. She wore a long, frilled white morning gown, and her pretty little face was smiling.
“Good,” she said, “I was afraid you’d be one of those girls who sleep the morning away so I wouldn’t be able to talk to you until this afternoon. But Martin said you were always up at dawn, and so I came to peek. Here you are, up and dressed, even without a maid. I’d have sent you my own maid. But how I go on. It’s my besetting sin. Martin said you weren’t very tolerant of fools—please be patient with me, but your being here is so exciting.”
“Exciting?” Cristabel asked in confusion. She’d expected the lady to be hostile or, at the very least, suspicious. She wouldn’t have blamed Martin’s wife for being jealous of a woman who had traveled across the sea in a cabin with her husband, pretending to be his wife, no matter what she looked like. No doubt she’d been told the truth and many another pretty tale besides. If their roles had been reversed, Cristabel herself would ha
ve had the wretched female up against the wall with a knife to her throat, and the whole truth out of her before she could blink an eye. This pretty creature’s lack of concern, her sweet acceptance of the awful situation, made Cristabel feel coarse and mean, and even more unworthy. Obviously there was much more to being a lady than being born one. She sighed.
“Of course it’s exciting,” the lady said eagerly as she came into the room, “I’ve never met a pirate’s daughter before. I mean a real buccaneer’s daughter. Martin said you grew up among pirates and savages, and can shoot pistols and throw knives, and curse like a sailor yourself. I’ve seen the wicked females who are hanged at Newgate, but they’re mostly low and ugly creatures who kill when they squabble over a man, or bread, or some other trifling matters. They’re vulgar and amusing, nothing more. I did once see a woman who was being hanged for forging a pound note, and I must say she looked most respectable. But here you are, a brigand’s daughter, and looking like a foreign princess. It’s wonderful.”
Cristabel’s amber eyes narrowed. She’d been expecting disdain, and had been prepared to humbly accept it. But she never expected this. Being thought of as low is one thing, but being thought so low that it doesn’t matter what someone says about you is completely another.
“I’m pleased, of course, to please you,” Cristabel said in the voice she’d learned from her coldest governess. She stood and turned to face her hostess, holding her head high so she could look down her small nose at her. “How unfortunate it would have been if I disappointed you,” she said in a bored, deadened voice that belied the way her eyes flared. “I suppose you’d have me out on the streets if I did. I refuse to put my head in a noose to brighten your day, but let me see, what else can I do to entertain you? Would you like me to run someone through? Or would it be enough to simply tie you to the bedpost and carve off your nose?”
Terror came into the lady’s wide blue eyes. She backed up a step. “You don’t have to do anything,” she said quickly.
Cristabel glowered. This pretty little lady was suddenly no lady in her eyes. Ladies were compassionate and just, so she’d always been told. A pirate’s woman—wife, mistress, or child—knew the hard and dark side of life. They never found death amusing; no kin of a pirate could and few pirates did either. Too many of them ended doing the gallows trot to find sport in watching another man die that way. Although they labored under a dead man’s flag, it was pure boastfulness, and good for frightening their prey into making foolish mistakes. They considered death to be an occupational hazard and a necessary evil. Putting someone to death could be profitable, and sometimes necessary. Abusing women and tormenting prisoners was one thing, but no pirate ever actually killed for mere amusement, no matter what their enemies said.
“Maybe I won’t do that, after all,” Cristabel said, as if she was considering it. “Maybe I will…I tell you what,” she said suddenly, eyeing her hostess, who was cringing back against the door now. “Maybe I’ll do nothing at all. Maybe I’ll just leave here. Look, lady, I want to be shed of you as much as you want to be rid of me. Help me to find a place to stay—a long way from here—and hire on a decent maid. I’m saying good-bye to the sour wench I have this very day. I’ll also need a footman and a companion, and keep your mouth closed about it. You’ll never see hide nor hair of me again.”
“Oh no!” the lady said, appalled. “I couldn’t. Magnus would murder me if he found out! Besides, I’d never be able to keep a secret from him for a minute.”
“What about Martin?” Cristabel asked, puzzled.
“He’ll feel the same way, too, I assure you.”
“No, I know that; what I’m getting at is—you’re married to Martin, aren’t you? So why are you worried about Magnus?”
“Oh,” the lady said breathlessly, “You don’t know Magnus.”
“Well, I know lily-livered cowards when I see them,” Cristabel said in disgust. “You and Martin have the backbones of sea slugs! Why, my father is feared throughout the Caribbean, and I dared to defy him! And you’re afraid of a foppish Englishman who can’t even keelhaul you. Magnus is nothing but a big blowfish, all prickle and air inside. He blusters and roars, and you tremble in your boots. It’s no wonder he thinks he’s all-powerful; he’s got you all convinced.”
“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you? And you didn’t want to be, did you? So there,” her hostess retorted, stung by Cristabel’s criticism.
“It’s just that he had a convincing argument…” Cristabel replied.
The two women eyed each other. Cristabel felt a foolish smile tug at her mouth, and saw her hostess bite her own rosy lips, trying not to giggle. Cristabel grinned.
“Well,” she said generously, “he’s persuasive, that’s a fact. Come, lady, I cry peace. Truth to tell, I don’t want to fight. I grant I was quick to take insult at whatever you said. I’m edgy with you. I thought you’d be armed and dangerous when you heard my father kidnapped your husband, and even meaner when you realized I sailed all the way here locked in a cabin with him.”
“Oh, call me ‘Sophia,’ please do,” the lady said, “But why should I be angry at you for what your father did? So far as the journey went—Martin told me everything. You’re as blameless as he.”
“And you believed him? I mean, that is to say, of course, it’s true,” Cristabel said, color rising in her cheeks. “Your Martin is a pretty lad but not my sort at all. Even if he was—and I promise you he isn’t—I’m a virtuous girl, for all that my father’s a blackhearted villain. My mother was a lady, you see. I suppose the fact that my father is their leader helped keep men away from me—and me away from men. But in my experience…the plain truth is, Sophia, that I don’t know one woman who would believe her husband on such a matter.”
“But I know Martin,” Sophia said simply, “We grew up together. His estate bordered mine. We married as soon as we were able. He couldn’t lie to me, I don’t think. He wouldn’t. He’s a gentleman.”
Cristabel sensed a rebuke in Sophia’s response and didn’t answer. She wouldn’t trust any man she knew. It would be foolish. But Sophia was saying that a lady would trust a man—if he were a gentleman. Martin was the first gentleman Cristabel had ever met, and it was true that he’d sailed across two seas with her without touching her. Still, she’d been on her guard throughout the voyage, sleeping with one ear and eye open. But he’d given her not so much as a pinch or a tweak or a wink. Only a peek from time to time, for he was a healthy young man. Now it turned out that his wife had expected no less. This England, Cristabel thought dazedly, with its moral, reasonable men and confident, trusting ladies, was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of. She felt humbled.
“And Magnus, even with all his ‘bluster,’ as you call it,” Sophia went on, “is a gentleman, too, I assure you.”
Cristabel’s head shot up. Her eyes narrowed as she studied her hostess. Of course, she thought, it could also be that the girl was simple.
CHAPTER 6
“She can’t spend that!” Sophia exclaimed. “It would be the talk of the town. She’d attract thieves like flies if she showed it in a shop, wouldn’t she? ’Od’s mercy! Pure Spanish gold. I’ve never seen anything like it, have you, Martin? Why, it’s not even really gold-colored, it’s so deep and rich, it’s almost rosy pink, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and look, it’s soft,” Martin marveled as he took the big, flat coin in his hand and ran his fingertips over it. “It gives to the touch too.”
“Oh, let me feel!” Sophia cried.
They sat at the table, their breakfast forgotten, examining Cristabel’s coin.
“Well then,” Cristabel said, flustered, “if it’s so startling, give it back. Here’s another,” she said, fishing another coin out of her purse. “What about this one?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Sophia crooned. “It’s smaller and darker gold, but look, Martin, there’s a lion on it. Isn’t it cunning? And a sunburst too!”
“Indian!” he cried. “It’s f
rom India. I’ve heard of such. Lord, it’s heavy for such a small thing.”
“Let me feel,” his wife said, snatching at it.
“Not yet, let me take another look,” he said, holding it up away from her, to the light.
“Gold fever,” said a new voice, rich in amusement. “Take care, Martin, men have sold out their countries, much less their wives, for just ‘another look’ at such coins.”
“Magnus!” Martin said guiltily, giving the coin back to Cristabel as soon as he saw the big man smiling down at him, “Good morning, brother. I was just looking at Cristabel’s coins. She wants to go shopping, but I swear I don’t have enough men to protect her if she tries to spend these.”
Magnus held out one broad hand, palm up. Cristabel dropped the coin into it without a word. He nodded, and looked at her. She saw the unspoken question in his gray eyes. When she saw the amusement in them too, she flushed, bent her head, and picked out another Spanish coin, a Dutch one, a Danish one, two French pieces, and three coins she couldn’t identify, and put them in his hand as well. He stood still, waiting patiently. Finally she put her whole purse in his hand and looked away.
“The English silver and maybe some of the gold might possibly be used,” he finally said as he poured the coins back in the purse and handed it back to her, “but I agree with Martin, the rest should never be seen inside a London shop. You’ve some treasures here, worth their weight in gold and antiquity. But not worth the conjecture they would cause.”
“Right,” Cristabel said. “I don’t want my father finding me.”
“He doesn’t need these to find you, he knows where you are by now,” Magnus said gently. “Nor is it the thieves that worry me. It’s the gossip. You want to say you’re a lady, from abroad? Fine. But few foreign ladies carry such treasure.”
“I am a lady from abroad,” Cristabel said defiantly.
“So you are,” he answered calmly before he turned to Martin. “Aren’t you going to ask me to breakfast, brother?”
