How To Please a Pirate

by Mia Marlowe

  Now Gabriel was master of the most prosperous estate in the region and, if the tales were true, blessed with a hoard of gold as well.

  Fate was indeed cruel.

  Folk still counted Catherine Curtmantle a beauty. She wondered what Gabriel looked like now and if she’d enjoy his bedplay more than Hugh’s. Perhaps she should look into ways to refrain from conception, just in case.

  She sneaked a glance at her husband from beneath her lashes. He’d grown broader in the last few years, and sported a hint of a double chin, but Hugh was still considered a fine looking man. When he set himself to it, he could still charm anything in skirts.

  Except her, of course. She knew him too well.

  Which made the plan all the more despicable.

  “Are you sure about this, Hugh?” she asked. “You said Gabriel was looking fit.”

  “He is, but I could always best him with a blade,” Hugh said. “Don’t worry, Cat. Just make excuses if anyone misses me and before you know it, you won’t have to worry over worn velvet ever again. You’ll be able to buy a new coach if you like. Dragon Caern will be without its baron and Oddbody will hush up the scandal and see me named protector.”

  “And Gabriel’s niece? Poor despoiled child. What will become of her?”

  “That’s incidental.”

  “Try not to enjoy it too much,” she said. “Besides, you’d better save your strength. Gabriel Drake’s swordsmanship may have improved over the last fifteen years.”

  Hugh grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “And if it has, will you weep for me, Cat?”

  “Terribly,” she said, willing herself not to cringe. She hated Hugh when he manhandled her like that, but if she made a fuss, he only did it more often. She decided to make light of it. “I may have to let Lord Drake console your grieving widow.”

  She forced a laugh so he’d think she was joking and he joined her.

  Privately, she thought the idea had merit.

  * * *

  Torchlight blazed from the battlements. Banners snapped in the breeze overhead. Every bit of silver was polished, every stone scrubbed. Mrs. Beadle had moved heaven and earth to create as sumptuous a feast as might be found on King Geordie’s own table. All the folk of Dragon Caern were turned out in their best. The arriving nobility with their marriageable daughters in tow were warmly received by Father Eustace and ushered into the little used ballroom where a string quartet was tuning up.

  Everything was going exactly as planned. Jacquelyn had worked tirelessly to make Lord Gabriel Drake’s re-entry into society a brilliant success.

  Of course, it would help if she knew where he was.

  She’d successfully avoided being alone with him since ‘it’ happened. Even to herself, she wouldn’t give their encounter a name. She only knew that in order to keep ‘it’ from happening again, she must keep her distance from Gabriel Drake.

  She was fairly certain she needn’t worry about bringing a bastard into the world. There hadn’t been time to do that much damage.

  Just quite enough.

  Jacquelyn rarely allowed herself to think about ‘it,’ but when the memory rushed back unbidden, she was surprised that the loss of her maidenhead didn’t cause her more grief.

  Rather, she mourned the loss of that incredible connection when she held him inside her, when she and Gabriel Drake joined deeply. For that earth-shaking moment, when he re-christened her ‘Lyn,’ she’d felt anything was possible, that something entirely wonderful was taking place and her life would never be the same. Even if they’d taken a tumble from the battlements in their conjoined state, she had no doubt both ‘Lyn’ and Gabriel would have sprouted wings.

  But now she was just Mistress Jacquelyn again as if ‘it’ had never happened.

  Gabriel must not have given ‘it’ much thought since. He certainly hadn’t sought her out and his demeanor toward her before others was stiltedly polite. No furtive glances. No sly innuendo. He even allowed her to teach him the minuet without so much as a fingertip where it didn’t belong.

  The man was positively maddening.

  He was also nowhere to be found.

  Jacquelyn searched his chambers, the stables, the armory—she even took a candle down to the wine cellar, but only found Mr. Meriwether, sprawled mournfully amid the sad remains of the last empty bottles of the ’08.

  No one had seen Lord Drake.

  The musicians were starting a shaky bit of Purcell to warm up their strings and still the host of the gala was absent.

  “Where the devil could he be?” Jacquelyn stepped out into the bailey, beside herself with worry. Since Meriwether was still in residence, she was reasonably certain Gabriel hadn’t absconded. She was ready to admit defeat and have Father Eustace make some sort of apologetic announcement to their guests, when she noticed a lone candle shining through the chapel windows.

  She didn’t suspect for a moment that Gabriel Drake was a praying man, but it did seem like a good spot to hide. Certainly the last place anyone might look for him. Jacquelyn lifted her skirt and sprinted across the courtyard.

  There was no one kneeling at the altar, but the door leading down to the crypt was ajar. She stopped on the third step from the bottom. Gabriel Drake was standing, head bowed before his father’s tomb.

  In the dimness of a single candle, he was still resplendent. Despite a number of loud disagreements over the subject, she’d been unable to convince him to don a wig for the festivities.

  “The blasted things are nothing but French foppery,” Gabriel had insisted. “I will dance like a dandy. I’ll be as charming as Lucifer himself. For the sake of Dragon Caern, I’ll even wed one of the insipid little twits you’ve arranged to come to this bloody ball, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wear a wig.”

  Now the way his own hair glinted blue-black in its neat queue made her realize he’d been right on this point.

  The cut of his new brocade jacket did justice to the width of his shoulders and the golden frogs and epaulettes winked in the candlelight. Old Lord Drake’s ring, a twisted convulsion of twin dragons swallowing each other’s tales, gleamed on Gabriel’s forefinger. His green velvet breeches displayed his muscular thighs and the bulge of his maleness made her mouth go dry. She jerked her gaze back to his troubled profile.

  Even without his darkly handsome face, he’d be dazzling in the ballroom. With it, Jacquelyn predicted a string of swooning maidens in short order, especially if, as promised, he set himself to be as charming as Lucifer. She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

  She almost spoke when he extended a finger and traced his father’s name engraved in the stone slab.

  An invisible hand squeezed her heart. She shoved the unwelcome emotion aside. She dared not allow herself to care for this man. There was no other option. He must wed a proper lady and do it quickly. Wasn’t Jacquelyn responsible for filling Dragon Caern’s keep with his potential wives? No matter what had passed between them, she must not succumb to the tenderness welling in her chest. It was the path to madness.

  She cleared her throat. “My lord.”

  His lips lifted in a fleeting smile when he looked over at her. “Trust you to find me, Mistress.”

  “You led me a merry chase,” she admitted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just basking in my state as the prize of the evening,” he said sardonically.

  “Prize? You’re thinking mighty highly of yourself.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “In my years at sea, occasionally I’ve seen more than one pirate crew go after the same prize ship at the same time. A Spanish galleon filled with gold or a heavy French frigate is a tempting morsel, after all. If there’s more than one buccaneer captain after her, you’d think she’d fall easily. But more often than not, the prize is accidentally put to the torch in the melee and goes down in flames.” He tossed her a weary glance. “I’m less than pleased about being the prize.”

  “I know this is difficult—“

  “No,
this is nigh impossible, but you’ll not let me out of it, will you?”

  “You act as though this were my doing,” she said. “It’s not my will that you wed.”

  He raised a brow at that. “Nor mine, but there seems no help for it.”

  He rested his hand on the cold stone again as if he would draw strength from his father’s bones interred within. “What did my father say when he was told I had been lost to the sea?”

  “I wasn’t here yet when the news came that your ship had gone down with all hands, but Mrs. Beadle told me about it once. Your father took it very badly. Old Lord Drake didn’t speak for a month—not even to your uncle. Everyone went about on tiptoe for fear of upsetting him further.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Aye, fear was always his strong suit. Rhys Drake was a hard man.”

  For the first time, Jacquelyn wondered if she might not be blessed in not knowing her father.

  “And yet, I miss him. Oh, not just because I’m in this kettle of brine, though Lord knows I’d give anything to be someplace else this night. It’s just . . .” He sank down onto the cold stone floor, heedless of his fine garments. “On my way home, I had it all planned out. What I would say. What he would say . . . ” Gabriel’s eyebrows tented on his forehead. “And somehow, I thought everything I’d done, what I’d become . . . well, it wouldn’t matter so much anymore.”

  “Laying aside the past is not always possible.” She knew she’d never be able to put away the heat and the ache and bliss of holding him. If she lived to be a hundred, the memory of his mouth on her would still make her belly clench. But she forcefully thrust aside the remembrance now.

  “Perhaps, simply coming home is enough,” she said.

  Jacquelyn crouched beside him and rested her palm on his forearm. His heat radiated through the brocade to her hand. She was seized by the desire to feel his bare skin beneath the fine fabric, but she reined herself in and drew her hand back. She should be helping him face his duty, not make things more difficult. If peace with the old lord would ease his heart, she’d share what little she remembered of his father.

  “I know your father was hard on you, but he was proud of you, too,” she said. “I heard it in his voice every time he spoke of you.”

  “Proud? Of me?” The corner of Gabriel’s mouth twitched. “Was he?”

  “Oh, yes. He was. Quite proud,” she assured him.

  Gabriel studied the stone between his feet for a moment, looking very much younger than his years. Then he glanced back up at her. “Well, that’s something then, isn’t it?”

  He gave himself a small shake and Jacquelyn realized her brief glimpse behind his self-assured façade was over. Gabriel stood and offered his arm to her.

  “Enough of this, now. Thanks to your hard work, I believe we have a ball to attend and somehow, I have to pick out a wife from among our guests.” When she slipped her hand under his elbow, he closed his other hand over it. “Lyn, I wish—”

  “Mistress Wren,” she corrected, then against her better judgement she added, “or Jacquelyn, if you like. I can’t see the harm when it’s just the two of us.”

  His smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Well, then Jacquelyn, perhaps as the night progresses, you’ll do me the honor of a minuet or two.”

  She knew it was the worst sort of foolishness. He needed to dance with his prospective brides. But when he smiled at her, she couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Perhaps, my lord, if you promise not to tread on my toes.”

  * * *

  “Hyacinth, you’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

  Daisy flopped belly-first on her bed and rested her pointed chin on her knuckles. Hyacinth had been preening in the room they shared all afternoon. It was enough feminine folderol to make Daisy want to invade the twins’ adjoining chamber. Or even the little room Lily shared with Molly, the sweet-natured, simple girl who’d been engaged to nurse the motherless Lily and stayed on to dote upon the littlest Drake girl as if she were her own. Daisy had been the picture of forbearance over Hyacinth’s silliness, but wearing their mother’s jewelry was over the line.

  “You put those back,” she warned, “Or—”

  “Or what?”

  Hyacinth fingered the earbobs she’d pilfered from their mother’s jewel box. She wasn’t supposed to know where Mrs. Beadle had stashed it for safe-keeping, but there wasn’t much that went on in Dragon Caern Castle that she and Daisy didn’t know. She turned her head from side to side to admire the effect of the bobs in the silvered glass.

  Daisy reluctantly decided they really did make her look older, but she wasn’t about to give Hy the satisfaction of telling her so.

  “Mistress Jacquelyn gave me permission to dance till the supper is called,” Hyacinth said with a gloating grin. “You’re jealous because you’re stuck here with the children this evening while I’m down there dancing with the rest of the adults.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Hy.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Act your age. Just because you’re all gussied up, don’t forget you’re only thirteen.”

  “I’ll be fourteen in two months.” Hyacinth patted her neatly coiffed hair. She’d worked on it for over an hour to pile it up on her head like that. “It’s a pity Mistress Jacquelyn won’t let me wear a powdered wig, but my own tresses are pale enough I suppose. Maybe in the ballroom with the swirl of lovely dresses and shining crystal, no one will notice the difference.” Hyacinth picked up her fan and flirted with her reflection, batting her lashes and trying to look as haughty as possible. “And besides, nearly fourteen isn’t that young. There was that girl in Dover who married at fourteen.”

  “And everyone whispered about her, too.” Daisy sighed deeply. “Don’t act like some simpering ninny.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hyacinth stood and smoothed the front of her gown.

  It really was quite fetching, Daisy decided, but Hy didn’t need to hear it. She was already so full of herself it was a wonder she didn’t burst at the seams. Her sister twirled, dipped in a deep curtsey and made a moue at her reflection.

  “Like that, for instance,” Daisy said. “No one really smiles like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a cat with milk on its whiskers.” Daisy folded her arms across her flat chest. Just because Hyacinth had sprouted a pair of bumps, she thought she was some high and mighty grand lady now.

  “Well, the look on your face would sour the milk,” Hyacinth said with another pursing of her lips. “Don’t be such a pickle, Daisy, and I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “You promise?” Daisy extended her pinky.

  “And hope to die.” Hyacinth locked little fingers with her.

  “Stick a needle in my eye,” they recited together. Then the sisters turned aside in unison and spat on the floor.

  “Did you get some on my skirt?” Hyacinth demanded.

  “Only a little,” Daisy admitted. “No one will notice. Here, let me wipe it with my hanky.”

  “Not that one. You never have a clean hanky. Go get one from Posey—” Hyacinth froze when the strains of a violin wobbling over a particularly difficult passage of triplets wafted into the room. “Oh no! The ball has started without me!”

  In a flurry of satin, Hyacinth rustled out the door and down the long staircase with haste worthy of a blooded colt, anxious for its first race. Daisy followed and watched her descent from the landing. Near the bottom step, Hy threw a slipper and had to stop to cram her foot back into the shoe Daisy had told her was too small. Hy’s feet had grown along with the rest of her in the last month or so, but she wouldn’t give up the intricately beaded pair.

  “Her feet will be so covered with blisters she won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” Daisy predicted grimly.

  Even though Hyacinth had pinky-sworn to tell all, she probably wouldn’t feel like talking either. It would be like her to h
ave a grand adventure and then keep all the juicy details to herself. Well, there was a remedy for that right enough.

  Daisy slipped off her own shoes and tailed her sister down the stairs, silent as a cat. She was quick as a blink and she knew all the good hiding places. As long as Mistress Jacquelyn didn’t spot her, this plan would work. Daisy would go to the ball along with Hyacinth.

  She’d simply have to hide under a few tables to do it.

  Chapter 13

  When Gabriel and Jacquelyn reached the ballroom, parallel lines of ladies and gentlemen were forming up. She noticed Hyacinth already on the dance floor, her painted cheeks flushed even brighter with excitement. The gangly youth from Essex with whom she was paired looked as if he was being led to the pillory instead of the dance floor. Fearful of treading on her toes, no doubt.

  “What’s Hyacinth doing here?” Gabriel asked.

  “The quadrille, I believe.”

  “You know what I meant. How could you allow my niece to attend?” Gabriel asked. “She’s just a child.”

  “A child who will soon be a young lady. Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” Jacquelyn admitted, “but I couldn’t dash her hopes. Hyacinth pleaded so eloquently to enjoy her first taste of merriment. Heaven knows there’s been little enough of it here in recent years.”

  Now the castle itself seemed to shake off the old gloom as the fresh sounds of laughter and music rattled the ancient stones.

  “You spoil those girls,” he said.

  “Mrs. Beadle says the same.” Gabriel and Mrs. B. were probably right. Jacquelyn suspected she coddled her motherless charges because there’d never been anyone to spoil her when she was a child. Her earliest memory of her mother was of a sumptuously dressed, sweet-smelling stranger who didn’t want Jacquelyn to soil her gown with sticky fingers.