"Tonight we will read of how Anne Bonny turned to the pirate's life, Mattie," Lydia said, resuming their story. "'Her father expected a good match for her; but she spoilt it all, for without his consent she marries a young fellow who belonged to the sea, and was not worth a groat which provoked her father to such a degree, that he turned her out of doors...'"
Lydia continued reading with renewed appreciation for the pirate through to the end, and both ladies agreed it was better not knowing for certain what happened to Anne over time.
"Pirates take care of each other, don't they?"
"A good ship is crewed by good shipmates, Mattie, and good people watch out for one another. And on that, it's time for bed," Lydia added, listening to the child's prayers. Those took time because they included Mattie's mama in heaven, her papa here, Miss Burke, the entire crew of the Prodigal and Jolly, of course.
Lydia tucked the covers around the girl, who held her arms up for a hug, and she embraced Mattie, inhaling her fragrance of fresh air, soap and little girl.
"Good night, Miss Burke. I love you."
"I love you too, my dear."
The dog trotted out with her and the governess left the door slightly ajar. Jolly had the makings of a mouser and Mrs. Farmer was very much in favor of the pup roaming the kitchens at night to keep the rodents at bay, though the dog always ended the evening's rambles in Mattie's bed.
Despite her provocative words to Robert, Lydia wasn't interested in playing with her toys, not by herself. It had been much more enjoyable to use them with her naughty pirate. If it wasn't her bedroom behavior that made him change, could it be her fault in other ways? Hadn't she constantly sniped at him about his piratical ways, about reforming, about not being such a reprobate and setting a better example for Mattie? He was certainly doing all of that now, to her great frustration. She wanted to swing a cutlass at him herself, just to get a good reaction.
Swing a cutlass...
She of all people knew there was truth to the old saying that the pen was mightier than the sword. Now she had to prove it.
The house quiet, the dog off on his midnight rambles, Lydia sat at her desk, sharpened her quill, and began to write.
Chapter 28
Robert climbed down wearily from his horse, worn to a nub by his hurried trip south. He patted the gelding on his flank and handed him off to Henry, the lad working in the stable. Braxton informed him the ladies were in Ashwyn and expected back before dark. Robert changed his clothing and washed, ignoring Sails mumbled complaints, then went to his study to secure the items he'd purchased in London.
He paused as he was about to sit in the chair he now considered his chair, the master's chair. There was a package on it, brown paper tied with string. For Captain St. Armand was written on the front in a familiar hand.
Inside was his banknote for a governess's wages, torn in half. The two pieces fluttered to the desk, and he looked at them in dismay. His reputation for knowing what women wanted left him at sea with his Lydia. Figuring her out was like trying to decipher a treasure map, a map that promised reward for a lifetime, but also said, "Here be sea serpents!"
He shook his head and unwrapped the rest of the package. It was a sheaf of foolscap and on the top page was written The Impetuous Pirate--Memoirs of a Kidnapped Lady, by Randy Scribe. Intrigued, he sat and turned to the next page.
My tale, dear reader, risks offering salacious entertainment to low-minded persons, but it is not for that reason I take pen in hand. I do not write of my adventures in the brawny arms of the lusty pirate Valdez to titillate or arouse base passion. When I write of how his burning kisses inflamed me, how his ivory shaft with its vermillion head made me long to caress it, to feel its prodigious length pierce my tender, warm sheath, to feel those mighty thrusts of delight, over and over again until my journey to love's enchantment was fulfilled, it is not to inspire prurient interest, but rather to edify readers as to the risks inherent in being a young woman adrift in today's dangerous world...
When Braxton brought the post to the study he nearly ran into his lordship, on his way out.
"Braxton, I am not to be disturbed. If anyone asks for me I'll--I'll be in my bunk."
"Yes, my lord."
* * * *
"Good afternoon, Braxton. Lord Huntley has returned?"
"He was here, ma'am, then he left again just an hour or so ago. He did say he would see you ladies before Mattie goes to sleep, but not to wait supper for him. I must tell you though, he appeared"--Braxton sought the right word--"distracted."
"Really?" Lydia purred. "Distracted? Thank you, Braxton."
It pleased her to know her writing could still distract men, even if she had no intention of taking up her pen as Randy Scribe for money again. However, when he came to the nursery later that evening Robert Huntley didn't look distracted at all. He was calm, pleasant, asked Mattie about her day, told the ladies about the interesting sights he'd seen in London--not many, as he'd been busy meeting with his man of business and others, but that was all. There was no talk of the future. No mention of what it meant that Lydia'd returned his money to him.
He played jackstraws with Mattie and Lydia tried to read a novel he'd brought from London for her. Mansfield Park was by an author she enjoyed, and this novel hadn't made it to St. Martin while she was residing there. She should have been immersed in the story of Fanny Price and the Bertrams, but she was distracted.
Braxton brought in the tea tray and warm milk for Mattie. This was the point in the evening when Captain St. Armand would have reached for the rum bottle to flavor his tea, but boring Lord Huntley only took milk--milk--and some of Mrs. Farmer's excellent jam tarts.
"Be careful you don't get overstimulated," she muttered under her breath as she poured.
"Did you say something, Miss Burke?"
"I said, 'More hot water, my lord?'"
The end of the evening was brightened by a new book for Mattie, illustrated stories for children, such as the tale of Dick Whittington and his cat.
"It will help you learn more about your new home, Mattie," her father said, and the child showed proper appreciation, no doubt grateful for a reprieve from the boring pap of her father's own childhood reading. It was no wonder he'd found a pirate's life attractive after that, Lydia mused to herself.
She did her own needlework as Robert read, pausing to watch the two heads so close together, so similar in expression. It wasn't her pirate reading to Mattie, but it was still a man she could love all her days. She could even put up with a touch of boredom in her life, if necessary.
When they exited Mattie's room Lydia fiddled with the bag that held her needlework.
"Did you have a chance to read what I left you, Robert?"
She looked up at him through her lashes, holding her breath.
"Oh, that. No, I am truly sorry, my dear, but I had so much to do after my journey I had to set your package aside until later. Was it important? I'm sure I'll have time in a few days to give it a glance."
He peered at her in the low light of the hallway, then held his candle high. "Are you well? You look--agitated."
"I'm fine," she snapped. "Good night, my lord."
"Good night, Miss Burke--oh, I have to go out this evening to speak with Mr. Fuller."
Lydia turned and frowned. "At this hour?"
"It cannot wait. I sent a note around to him earlier."
At least she no longer had to worry about whether he'd go off to the Knight's Head to drink and carouse and roll home at dawn smelling of spilled ale! That was behavior for Captain St. Armand, not Lord Huntley, damn it.
* * * *
Lydia wasn't sure what sound woke her, but she was ready when she saw the dark shape in the doorway to her bedroom.
"Neptune's bloody balls!" he yelped. "You could have hit me with that! Who taught you to throw a knife?"
"Mattie, and if I wanted to hit you, I would have. Get out."
The intruder yanked the knife from the doorjamb and put it i
n his boot. In his other hand he carried a candle, which he set on the table. She was disappointed his hand didn't shake, but he was probably used to people flinging sharp objects at him. She'd fantasized about it herself often enough since St. Martin.
He sat beside her atop the covers, looming over her in the candle's glow, and she could finally see him--really see him. He wore a greatcoat over his shirt of sapphire satin, the shirt unbuttoned down its front, drawing the eye along its gap down to where it was tucked into leather breeches banded with a gold sash and tucked into tall boots. A matching sapphire the size of an acorn dangled from his ear.
Her midnight visitor wasn't Lord Huntley, but the notorious Captain St. Armand.
"And did Marauding Mattie teach you that once you throw your knife it is no longer a weapon you can use?"
"I'll scream."
He tucked one finger under her chin and raised it, his kohl-rimmed eyes looking deep into hers and she almost--almost--forgot why she'd been upset with him.
"No you won't scream, 'Tessa,' you will follow the script."
"What sc--oh no you don't!"
"It says right on page 22, 'And then Valdez tossed me over his wide shoulder, and I shuddered to think what depredations he might wreak upon my tender and innocent flesh if I were held prisoner in his den of iniquity."
"That's just a story, Ro--eeep!"
Her protests were muffled as he pulled the coverlet around her, wrapping her like a Egyptian mummy, then tossed her over his wide shoulder, humming to himself as he carried her out of the room and down the staircase to wreak depredations upon her.
"Let me go, you, you pirate! You cannot carry me off like baggage! Ouch!"
"'Silence, wench!' Valdez commanded, applying his hard hand to my'...my apologies, that doesn't happen until chapter five, does it? And I don't have a parrot. I couldn't procure one on short notice in the wilds of Lancashire."
"I mean it, Robert! Let me up or I'll spew supper down your back!"
He stopped, and she heard him sigh.
"You are no fun and this is my favorite greatcoat. Very well," he grumbled, putting her on her feet and spinning her around as he unwrapped her, but kept the coverlet over her shoulders for warmth and modesty, also keeping her freed arm firmly in his grip.
She blinked in the lamplight. They were in the front entranceway and Mr. Fuller stood there, shaking his head.
"Help! I'm being kidnapped!"
"Kidnapping women never ends well for you, Captain. Haven't you learned that yet?"
"Third time's the charm, Mr. Fuller," he said cheerfully. "Is everything ready?"
"No, really, I'm being kidnapped--"
Instead of rescuing her he held the door as St. Armand lifted her into his arms, carrying her outside and tossing her atop his gelding.
"Oof. I am sick to death of being tossed like a sack of beans! I demand you let me back into the house, this instant!"
The door to Huntley closed and St. Armand climbed behind her before she could scramble down. The horse, big dumb creature that it was, did nothing to aid her. It was likely thrilled at having some excitement in its life.
He grabbed the reins, then pulled the coverlet around her, wrapping her in his arms as they rode down the path.
"Why are we going to Mr. Fuller's cottage?"
"He won't need it for the next day or so. We will."
"I think not, you scoundrel! Release me at once."
He just snickered and had the effrontery to kiss the top of her head. He truly was the most annoying man in the world, but she relaxed against him as they rode. She'd been bemoaning the lack of exciting pirates in her life and it was being remedied, so other than scolding on general principle, she had to admit great curiosity as to what St. Armand's plans were. If he was using her book as a script, the evening could be quite exciting, with or without a parrot.
A lamp illuminated the cottage, and when they entered Lydia blinked in surprise. Fuller's cottage was rather drab and utilitarian, like his cabin aboard ship, but now it was transformed into a sybaritic den of delights. The bed was strewn with St. Armand's silk and fur pillows, along with more silk scarves and sashes. Food covered the plain small table, a feast of apples, Huntley's own hams, cheeses, savories and small cakes, and there were bottles of wine and rum on the shelf.
"I'll be back after I see to the horse. Do not try to escape my clutches or it will go badly for you, governess."
Escape my clutches? Lydia thought as she stepped closer to the fireplace, discarding her blanket from Huntley. Good thing the man was a pirate and not an author. The cottage was snug and comfortable from the fire, and as the door opened again she smiled to herself, because she knew the flames outlined her form, rendering her cotton nightrail nearly transparent.
There was some throat clearing and a rustle of papers behind her.
"'Coming then into his cabin and seeing me lying with my face turned away, without more ado just slipped off his breeches, and laying himself then gently down by me, he applied his belly and thighs close to me and put his member to work...'"
He came up behind her and slipped his hands around her waist, holding her against him. "I don't need a script," he purred in her ear. "I can satisfy your desires, all of them. Would you like to know what my cunning plan is?"
He began nibbling on her neck, moving his hands up to grasp her breasts and toy with her nipples when she attempted to squirm away.
"Oh, I suppose," she said, wishing it didn't come out in such a breathless tone.
"My plan, little hedgehog, is to kidnap you, hold you here against your will, ravish you until you swoon with passion, and compromise you within an inch of your life so you will be forced to marry me."
She couldn't help it. She giggled. "That is your dastardly plan?"
"I am an impetuous pirate, after all. Isn't that what you expect? Or would you prefer sober, responsible Lord Huntley?"
She turned in his arms. He'd discarded his coat and her fingers glided over the rich material of his shirt as she put her hands around his waist.
"I tried to be the man I thought you wanted, Lydia. You'd had enough upheaval in your life from bad men, men who didn't value you, who only cared for themselves. I was one of those men. But later, when I removed Wilson from your life, I was glad I was that bad man, the man who could do those things for you."
"Would you have killed Wilson?"
"I would burn the world for you."
He said it so quietly, in such a grave tone, that Lydia wasn't sure she'd understood him. She looked up into his serious eyes, all the laughter gone from them.
"You still do not understand how I feel about you, do you, Lydia Burke? You were threatened and I could not allow that. You are everything to me."
He stepped back from her and began to pace, his words pouring out of him. "I never expected this. I never expected a daughter, or inheriting Huntley. I never questioned whether my life had meaning, whether I was a good man before all of this happened.
"I never expected you. I kept telling myself that wasn't who I was, the man a good woman could love and want for her husband. But if you know nothing else about me, know this--I love you, Lydia, with all the breath in my body, all the passion in my soul. There are days I feel as if I'm caught in an undertow dragging me out to sea, but when I fear drowning beneath all of this, there you are. You are my anchor."
"You want a mother for Mattie."
"I want you. Yes, you are an excellent mother for Mattie, but I am still selfish enough to know the real reason I want you is for myself. I want you in my bed. I want you in my arms. When I have to put on spectacles to admire your bosom, I will still be there, admiring your bosom. I want to sit in front of a cozy fire thirty years from now next to someone who snickers at my bad behavior and outrageous statements."
Robert appeared startled by his words, as if they'd burst out of him of their own accord. He came forward, taking her hands in his, gazing down into her eyes, his grip tight on her. He smelled of citrus a
nd male, and she thought she could hear his heart in the quiet room. It may have been her own heart she heard, for it was surely pounding.
"It's hard for me to imagine life decades from now. I never expected to grow old, my dear. I thought I would be like Bartholomew Roberts in the pirate book, living 'A merry life and a short one,' ending on a rope, or a knife. Now I want my motto to be 'a merry life and a long one,' with you, and Mattie, and more children to fill Huntley's old walls with noise and laughter. You are the best wife for me, and you know I always believe I deserve the best. Not that I deserve you--I don't, but you are the best I can ever hope to have."
"Oh, so you deserve the best, but what do I get from this?"
"You get me. I hope that will be enough. And if you need added inducement, there are still five--no, seven secret Oriental tricks I have not yet shown you. I know I'm not perfect..."
A sound emerged from her that from a less refined person would be termed a snort.
"To continue, I know I'm not perfect, but dammit, neither are you! You're managing and you sneer at me and I suspect you laugh at me when I'm not looking. But I still love you and want to marry you. If it's Lord Huntley you want and not the pirate St. Armand, I can be him, for you."
Lydia stepped closer to him, and put her arms around his neck, that strong neck and the shoulders as wide as those of her impetuous, imaginary pirate.
"The governess hiding in the islands may have been willing to take less than a full measure, but I want it all. Lord Huntley is a good man indeed. One can always count on him to do the right thing, to behave properly in the parlor and in church," she said with a look of her own she knew could match any pirate's for wickedness. "But in my bed I want, no, I demand the pirate. He is the one who makes me feel like Anne Bonny and Mary Read and even Lydia Burke--the real Lydia. Although..." She mused, running her finger down his exposed flesh, following the line of hair as it trailed toward what she wanted. "I can also see an attraction in having Huntley in my bed. He has proven himself most capable. He would put a great deal of effort into making sure all is done properly so that all obligations and expectations are met."
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