by Edith Layton
But Magnus knew she felt something different towards himself. It was in her eyes, the way she looked away when he caught her staring at him. It was in the way she held herself in his presence. He wasn’t a callow young man. He knew women and could feel her response to him shiver along every nerve when they were together.
They’d only known each other for a week, but he’d seen her briefly each day in that time. He’d gone to Martin’s house on a dozen premises, and the feeling of attraction intensified each time he saw her. There was definitely something mutual there. But what did it mean? Did she want a brief liaison? Or to trap him as her father had tried to do for her? Or was she as helpless against the pull of attraction as he seemed to be? In truth he didn’t know her well enough to guess.
And what did he want of her? That depended. If she was a lady, he wouldn’t doubt she was as prim as she pretended to be. But she wasn’t a lady—not really. That made him wonder if she would be like the wild pirate women he’d sometimes met in his travels. The thought excited as much as it dismayed him, for those women were as open and free with their bodily desires as their men were. And as experienced.
Magnus wondered how he could find out the answer to these questions. It would be better for them both if he could learn who and what she really was before he sought to discover how she felt in his arms. He had to know soon, because a man’s reason flew out the window when he was in bed with an enticing woman. And Cristabel was very enticing,
“That’s a beautiful cloak; is it warm enough?” he asked her, hoping she’d look up at him again.
She did, and he almost didn’t hear her answer when he saw her smile.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, the small smile curving around her mouth, “and such a lovely color, isn’t it? You know,” she confided, “I thought that once I got to London, I’d have to dress in black and gray for the rest of my life. And I do so love colors. They remind me of home… I don’t want to ever go home again, mind. But I don’t want to forget it altogether either. Parts of it were very nice: the flowers, the birds, the warmth, the colors of the sea…Y ou can’t throw everything of your past away just because you don’t want it in your future, you know. Well, I suppose you don’t know,” she said sadly, “because you’re very proud of your past—all the way back to those Viking and Norman ancestors you mentioned.”
He was as moved that she’d remembered his words so well as he was by her sorrow.
“Anyway,” she said more comfortably, looking down at her long, fine woolen cloak, “what a pleasure to find out that ladies in London love colors too. Now I realize since my governesses always wore dark colors, I thought all ladies did so too. But just see! Sophia’s dressmaker came to me, and then she and Martin went over each design to be sure it was truly in good taste as well as fashionable before I ordered it.
“And just look at me now. A scarlet cloak! Over a cherry-colored gown,” she said with deep satisfaction, “with an embroidered panel, all yellow and gold in front, and three flounces on each sleeve, and petticoats and hoops—I confess, I was determined to be a lady. I’d have worn sackcloth and ashes if I had to. But how much easier it will be now that I know ladies love finery as much as any pirate does.
“Pirates do, you know,” she told him seriously, “men as well as the women. I suppose it’s the pirate in me that loves the show. I’m so relieved that I can be a lady and colorful too. But I have to get used to you sober fellows here in London.”
“Sober?” he laughed. “I’ll have you know my waistcoat is as colorful as your gown. My tricorne’s trimmed with gold, if you haven’t noticed. And please note that my shoes have buckles so shiny, you can comb your hair in their reflection. I refuse to wear a wig except for formal occasions, that’s true. That’s because I’m eccentric and feel I’m so big, not many people are likely to notice the top of my head anyway. Otherwise, I startle myself sometimes with my splendor,” he said with a tilted, self-mocking grin.
“Ah, but pirate men wear scarlet sashes and red breeches, tan boots and blue cloaks, black patches on their eyes and bright bandannas on their hair or round their necks,” she said. “They love lace and frills, flounces and jewelry, from earrings to pendants, and mostly in gold, the brighter the better. They like color and ornament and plenty of it on their figureheads, their women, and themselves. They look like rainbows. You look like a Tower raven next to them, I promise you.”
“And do you like men to look like that?” he asked quietly.
“I—I remember men looking like that,” she answered, dropping her gaze, refusing to continue to look into his deep gray one.
“Ah,” he said, resisting the urge he felt to draw her closer into the shelter of his arm, “I see. A politic answer. But I’m content. I really didn’t feel like buying myself a patch and red britches.”
She laughed. And then she thought of his words and stopped laughing, remembering her fantasy of him as a pirate. She looked up at him, and couldn’t look away immediately.
“My lord Snow!” a voice hailed them. “Too well met! And young Martin. And the lovely Sophia. And a fair, fair unknown. I am in luck.”
Now, here was a gentleman who had pirate tastes, Cristabel thought, seeing who had called to them. She couldn’t help glancing up at Magnus to see if he agreed. A bright look from him showed her he’d thought the same thing. She could barely keep herself from giggling aloud.
He was a short man who looked a little taller because of his shoes, which had high red heels and gold buckles. He wore his cape open in spite of the cold day, so everyone could see his splendor. It was considerable. He wore a scarlet long coat with huge cuffs and a stiffened skirt that flared in front. His long vest could be seen beneath, and it was ablaze with silk peonies and poppies laced with gold. There was a fall of old lace at his throat and a white wig on his head so high he had to carry his tricorne instead of wearing it. The wig ended in a long white ringlet at the base of his neck. The sword at his hip had a hilt so heavily encrusted with filigree, Cristabel was sure he couldn’t use it to fence with anything but the side of a barn. And, she realized with appalled fascination, he wore paint on his wrinkled face.
“My lord Hastings,” Magnus greeted him, “good morning.”
“Give you good day, Hastings,” Martin said cheerily, as Sophia curtsied.
“Good morning, my lords, Lady Sophia, and…?” the gentleman said, as he swept into a dazzlingly deep bow, so complex that Cristabel wondered if he’d ever be able to get his legs and knees straightened out of it.
There was an awkward silence.
The truth was that for once, even Magnus didn’t know what to say, or how to introduce Cristabel to one of the worst gossips in London. Whatever he might have thought to say died on his lips, because he suddenly realized he didn’t know Cristabel’s last name. It wasn’t “Whiskey,” that was certain. But he couldn’t remember the famous pirate’s real name.
Martin remembered. But he was afraid to say a word with Cristabel there to possibly take exception if he said the wrong one. And Sophia was afraid that if she said what she wanted to, which was something amusing, Magnus would kill her. If Cristabel didn’t get her first.
“Ah,” the gentleman said, his small eyes sparkling with mischief as he rose from his bow, “Lady No Name. A Lady Incognito in our midst. How diverting!”
“I’m no Lady Incognito,” Cristabel said. “I be…I am Mistress Cristabel Stew, late of the Indies. It is where I was raised. My father sent me to England to be the guest of the Baron Snow and his good lady. My father is intensely interested in shipping, as are the Snows. He also wished me to visit the home of my late mother. And you, sir?” she asked so haughtily that Lord Hastings’s grin slipped off his face.
“Oh. I am Hastings,” he said. “Forgive me, it is Lord Harry Hastings at your service, my lady.” He bowed again, even lower this time, because if there was anything Hastings appreciated and responded to, it was a good set-down, if only because he gave so many and knew their power.
When he straightened, Lord Hastings was very careful to be polite. He exchanged simple pleasantries, and wished them all a good morning again. But his eyes kept slewing to Cristabel.
“Did you ever?” Martin said excitedly when Lord Hastings left them and was gone out of sight. “Little sneak. He was hunting good gossip.”
“And he would have had it,” Sophia said, fanning herself in spite of the cold. “A good recovery, Cristabel. But what are we going to do in the future?” she whined, looking at Magnus imploringly. “Do you know what this will do to my reputation if the truth gets out?”
“She said nothing but the truth, and very cleverly too,” Martin said, “Your father is ‘interested in shipping.’ So he is, so he is! I almost cried, I was trying so hard not to laugh. Well done, Cristabel.”
“Well, maybe,” Sophia snapped, “but it was a narrow escape. We can’t let who she really is get out. Od’s mercy, if it were known that we have a pirate’s daughter in our house! Her father would be hanged if he was here, and I don’t know if they wouldn’t want to clap her in jail too. Well, even so, we’d be ruined if word got out. I didn’t think of it until now, but now that I do…”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Cristabel said, cutting across whatever other complaints Sophia had. “Word won’t get out. ’Cause I will. I stayed too long as ’tis. I don’t know what I were thinking of. Get me a suitable companion and point me to a good house in a quiet part of town and I be gone. If you don’t, I’ll go anyway, y’know. For I don’t like the idea of sneaking round, lying and posing, no more’n you do, Lady Sophia.”
She wished she could have said it in proper English, but Cristabel was so glad she’d said it without tears that she was proud of herself.
“And do you like the idea of dancing on my grave?” Magnus asked Cristabel with a mildness he didn’t feel. When she stared at him he said, “Because that’s where your father, with all his ‘shipping interests,’ or more to the point, where all his good friends with shipping interests, would try to send me if you left to live by yourself before we settled this thing.
“And she wouldn’t go to jail, sweet, dear Sophia,” Magnus went on, with a look that made his sister-in-law pull her hood up over her head like a turtle snapping back into its shell. “She’d probably go to Court instead. The only danger she risks is becoming the toast of society. Cristabel is beautiful and wealthy and new to Town. She’s pretty enough to desire, rich enough to envy, and good for hours of gossip—and that’s all Society cares about. It would boost your esteem if it was known she was your guest, my dear. I forbid you to mention it unless Cristabel says otherwise. Is that understood?”
Sophia, now very pale, nodded.
“Are you going to forbid me to mention it too?” Cristabel demanded, drawing Magnus’s attention away from Sophia. She didn’t like the lady, but she felt sorry for her. Instead of growing white and silent, she herself would have flared up like a candle if anyone dared speak to her that way.
“Forbid you anything? What? And lose my ears? Hardly,” he said with a little smile.
She found the tenderness in his smile as devastating as the thought of his anger had been. “Well, that’s good,” she muttered, before she asked, “Can we go home now?”
“You don’t want to see anything else today?”
“No, thank you,” she murmured. And so the two gentlemen walked two silent ladies home. One brooding, and the other remembering that he had said she was beautiful.
They had dinner, and afterwards, Sophia played the pianoforte for them. But they all were too thoughtful for much gaiety. It wasn’t long before Magnus left. He asked for a word alone with Cristabel before he went.
They stood in the dim hall together. The footman there discreetly left them alone. She didn’t know what Magnus was going to say, and hoped and feared it would be that he agreed it was time for her to go off on her own. Today’s encounter had frightened her; she didn’t know if she was more afraid of what might happen to her if people knew who her father was, the gossipy Lord Hastings, Sophia’s spite, or Magnus’s opinion of her. She had planned to leave, and live anonymously. It seemed the safest way for all concerned. But it now also seemed to be the hardest thing to do.
“Society would accept you, you know,” he said immediately. “You should aim as high as you like. You don’t have to live in seclusion. What I said was true. There’s nothing for you to worry about, Cristabel,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Sophia’s used to being the center of attention. That, more than your father, is what galls her about you. And your beauty and your fortune, of course.”
“Oh. I can hold my head high?” she asked bitterly, ignoring the compliment. “Knowing how many ships my father sent to the bottom of the sea? How many men and women he has killed, enslaved, and despoiled?”
“Sophia’s father owns slave ships and invests heavily in that trade—or did, until I had a word with him,” he said grimly. “Her grandfather was known as the most money-grubbing, close-fisted land holder in the North. And her grandmother played him false a dozen times that I know of. Do you see Sophia shrinking from public sight? Do you think I’d let harm come to you? We can tell the truth or spin a dozen stories and let them take their pick. You’re not your father; you have nothing to be afraid of, I promise you.”
She wanted to believe him, she yearned to. She also wanted to put her head on his shoulder and feel the strength and warmth of his support. When she looked up at him, she was startled because she almost believed he knew what she was thinking.
He started to speak and then saw her distress. He muttered something, low. And then lowered his head, and brushed his lips across hers. Only that. But it was like a brush with lightning. Her eyes flew wide. As did his. She didn’t know which of them was the most surprised when he stepped back.
He stared down at her. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Good night,” he said abruptly, and left her standing there, staring after him.
Martin had gone upstairs, but Sophia was waiting for Cristabel when she came back into the parlor. Cristabel was distracted, thinking about the kiss, and trying not to.
“I’m sorry,” Sophia said abruptly. “I didn’t behave well at all to you today.”
“Is that what Magnus asked you to say?” Cristabel asked absently, “Never mind. I understand.”
“Martin asked me to say it. Magnus would have told me,” Sophia said. She twisted her fan in her hands.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cristabel said wearily. “Don’t worry. I meant what I said. I’ll go as soon as I can. I never meant to impose on you. You must hate having me here; I’m sorry for it. But even so, I won’t stand for being mocked because I’m a pirate’s daughter.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Sophia blurted. “That has nothing to do with it. Or maybe it does. Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know how you can be the one who’s so low-bred and so shocking, and has done such dreadful things, and still they all admire you. You have them under your thumb. Even Magnus. While I—I have everything, and I’m so careful to do everything right, and still I’m nothing compared to you.”
“What?” Cristabel asked in surprise.
But by then Sophia had fled from the room, and up the stairs. Since Cristabel could hardly follow her and knock on her bedchamber door for fear of encountering Martin in his nightshirt, she had to let it go until morning. Not that she minded, for all she really wanted to do was be alone and think about what Magnus had talked about.
But she couldn’t remember. Not after that kiss.
* * *
Magnus was brooding about that kiss, too, as he walked toward his own house. Not the feeling of it; that would be like regretting the touch of sunlight in a dark place. But the meaning of it bothered him, the loss of control it signified. It should have been nothing. An airy little salute, the merest touch, the lightest, gentlest good night he could manage after looking down at her in that dim hall, feeling her hu
rt, confusion, and longing. God knew he’d wanted to do more. But he hadn’t wanted to frighten her or commit himself to her. All he’d wanted to give her was one sweet, brief kiss to reassure her. To comfort her. And it had turned out to be like none he’d ever known. Fresh and sweet and electric. It had given much more than comfort and it had taken all his control to force himself away from her, and out the door.
Now he walked home without looking; as usual, he was without torch boy to light his way or footman to guard his side. He was still reliving the kiss when he suddenly found his passage blocked. He was surprised because, although deep in thought, he’d been unconsciously minding his back as he walked—the way any sane man walking alone in London at night did, and the way he’d been doing since Cristabel’s father’s men had attacked him. He hadn’t sensed anyone dogging his steps.
The man appeared in front of him, stepping out of the shadows to stand with his hands on his hips before him. When he was sure Magnus saw him, he flung off his cloak. He wore a flowing shirt beneath a sleeveless long vest, and bloused pantaloons tied at the waist with a wide sash. The scant moonlight made a golden medallion glint on his tanned chest, and a diamond winked as it dangled from the lobe of one ear. He wore a tricorne with a proud feather in it on his dark head, and high, cuffed gauntlets on his hands. He held a sword in one of those gloved hands.
“Avast!” the man snarled, raising his weapon. “If you be m’lord Magnus Titus Snow, then draw your sword, man. Because I am your enemy!”
“’Od’s teeth,” Magnus sighed, reaching for his own sword, “haven’t you fellows got the word yet? I am not her husband. Her idiot father married her to the wrong man. I have merely taken her under my protection.”
