The Pirate's Temptation (Pirates of Britannia World Book 12)

by Tara Kingston

  The bitter memory slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

  Rory didn’t know the truth—not all of it, at least. His brother was more than a decade younger than himself—their mum had dubbed him a surprise. Jamie had been gone most of Rory’s childhood, making his fortune as a privateer in a war an ocean away. Upon Jamie’s return to the Highlands, Rory had regarded him as a hero, his youthful eyes perceiving only the glory in what Jamie had done and none of the sins.

  Privateer was a far more civilized word than pirate, but that’s what he’d been.

  Rory didn’t know the ugly truth of Jamie’s life. He’d never witnessed the ruthlessness Jamie had employed like a weapon in plying his trade on the seas. As captain of the Highland Sorceress, Jamie had justified the violence, assuring himself his cause was on the side of what he believed was right. But the raids he’d led during the American war and afterwards had ruined fortunes. Ruined lives.

  In the process, he’d made powerful enemies.

  One of those enemies had taken his revenge.

  Damned shame Siobhan had paid the price for his sins.

  Turning away, he lifted his glass and took a drink. The whisky dulled the edge of the pain.

  But it could not heal the wound.

  Nothing would heal the damage Ellis Lachland had inflicted that night.

  He should’ve been there.

  Instead, he’d carry the regret in his heart to the end of his days.

  Chapter Six

  Weariness crept through Leana, permeating to the bone. She’d seen both girls settled in their beds, then slipped into her room. Thankfully, her quarters were near the chambers the girls occupied. She’d sleep better knowing she was close by in the event they suffered any distress.

  Isla had calmed quickly, but she bore a look of sadness no amount of cheerful talk could abate. The girl said little as she trudged off for bed, but Leana sensed a feeling of trust had taken seed. If a bond were to develop between the lass and herself, this was an important step.

  She entered her room and unpacked the few garments from her bag. Drat. In the rush to see her safely away from Lord Gilford’s estate, the housemaid who’d assisted her had not thought to pack a dress for nighttime. If Leana were not in a place with men running about, it might not have troubled her to sleep in her shift. But if she needed to leave her room for any reason, she wouldn’t be able to run about unclothed. Fortunately, Mrs. Davidson offered a flannelette wrap she might use in a pinch.

  With a yawn, she stretched her arms over her head, then proceeded to undress. Stripping down to her shift, she peeled back the quilt and slid between freshly laundered linens. Heavenly. She closed her eyes and drifted into a delicious, drowsy state until she eased into a dreamless sleep.

  The screaming started at midnight.

  Leana bolted upright in her bed, startled to full wakefulness. Had she been dreaming?

  No, she thought, bolting from the bed and pulling on the wrap. Heart pounding, she darted to the door.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Something was wrong with one of the children.

  She bolted from her room to Bridget’s chamber. As her fingers closed over the latch, MacArron’s large, warm hand stilled hers. A ripple of awareness rushed through her.

  His eyes radiated concern. “This isna the first time,” he said in a low voice.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  “The child has dreams…verra bad dreams.”

  As he opened the door, a chill rippled along Leana’s spine. They rushed inside the darkened chamber.

  Bridget sat upright on her bed, her spine stiff as a ramrod. Her eyes were open as Leana rushed to her side. The child reached out for her with a little cry.

  “The ghost…” Bridget murmured, burying her face against Leana’s chest as she held her close. “I saw it.”

  “Shhhhh,” she said, gently soothing the child.

  “Oh, dear,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway. Mrs. Davidson tiptoed into the room.

  “What in blazes—” MacArron’s harsh words did not mask his concern.

  “Da, I saw it,” the girl murmured. “It looked at me.”

  He crouched by her bedside. “What looked at ye?”

  Bridget clung to Leana like someone struggling against a raging current. Sniffling, she met her father’s eyes. “The ghost,” she said. “Isla told me about it. It spirits children away in the night.”

  “Isla told ye about it, did she?” he said, casting his older daughter a look as she hovered in the doorway.

  “Ah, Bridget, there’s no reason to fret. You must’ve seen a shadow,” Leana said softly. “Or perhaps, you were having a bad dream.”

  The girl gave a stubborn shake of her head. “It wasna a dream. Honest, it wasna.”

  “Then it was a trick of your sight, a shadow on the wall or in the corner.” Leana stroked the girl’s back to comfort her. “I know how frightening that can be.”

  “Ye do?” Bridget sounded surprised.

  “Yes, I do. When I was a girl, I had nightmares, especially after my naughty older cousin told all sorts of scary stories. She loved to see the fright in my eyes.”

  “What did ye do?” the child asked, wide-eyed.

  “I learned to tell myself it wasn’t real. And my mum made me a friend of sorts, a little rag doll to keep me company in the night.”

  “Will ye make me one?” Bridget’s voice was hopeful.

  “Of course. It would be my pleasure. I’ll have to find some fabric and some yarn.” As she ran her fingers through the girl’s long, silky strands, the child relaxed against her and sighed. Leana looked up, meeting the steady gaze of the bairn’s father.

  MacArron regarded her silently, his eyes darkened by an unreadable emotion. Behind him, Isla spoke up.

  “I’ll help ye make the doll. As long as I don’t have to do any fancy stitching and end up with my fingers poked and bleedin’.”

  “Thank you,” Leana said, meeting the girl’s hesitant smile with one of her own. “Shall we work on the doll in the morning?”

  “Yes,” the older girl said, turning to her father. “Da, I’d like to make a pretty dress for it.”

  Reaching out to Bridget, he patted her shoulder. “Would ye like that, my wee lass? A new doll, in all her finery?”

  The girl nibbled her lower lip. “Yes, Da. Very much.”

  He brushed the pad of his thumb over his youngest daughter’s cheek. The sternness he’d displayed earlier faded from his features, replaced by a gentle emotion, softening his expression and warming his eyes. “Sleep now, little one. And remember this—if there were a ghost, yer da would send it on its way…what was left of it, at least, after I was finished with it for frightening ye.” Rising to his full height, he ruffled her hair with his fingers. “Never fear, my girl. Ye know yer da will protect ye. Always.”

  The door to his bedchamber closed behind Jamie with a dull thud. By hellfire, what a day this had been. Was there to be no rest for his weary bones?

  He stripped off his clothing down to his drawers, extinguished the lamp, and sprawled over his bed. Allowing the cool night air to wash over him, he stared at the slivers of moonlight on the ceiling. Every cell, every nerve felt as if it were on high alert. Since Miss Fraser’s arrival, a peculiar tension had filled him.

  There was no denying the mere thought of her stirred his body’s hungry demands. He could explain that readily enough. Simple biology was the culprit there. After all, he was a man with a man’s needs and she was a comely lass, curved in all the right places. Her sweetly rounded face and dark eyes could enchant a man into forgetting all his reservations.

  But there was something else—a suspicion that nagged at his gut. Rory had regarded him as if he were daft when he questioned her all-too-glowing references, but Jamie knew damned well something was off. A governess with the credentials listed in the letter Miss Fraser possessed could obtain a position in the finest of homes, in a town where she
might meet an upstanding man of some means and start a family of her own. Why the hell did she want to be here, of all places? Why was she willing to prove herself to keep the position?

  She had spirit. He couldn’t deny that. The confounding woman had stood up to him, risking immediate dismissal because she’d been concerned about Isla’s ability to express her grief. And later, when Bridget had had another one of her night time frights, she’d been good with the bairn. Warm and reassuring, yet demonstrating a no-nonsense manner that didn’t coddle the child, Miss Fraser had been precisely what his daughter needed. Bridget, a girl who’d liked nothing more than to wage her own childish war against the matrons who tried to rein her in, was quickly growing attached to her governess.

  In those moments, he’d felt a reluctant fascination for the woman. Her eyes glimmered with a rare blend of spirit and compassion, even when she had to know she was not helping her own cause. And—her mouth. By Neptune’s trident, he’d wager her kiss held as much fire as her eyes—and as much tenderness.

  He gave his head a rough shake, as if to dispel the thoughts that did him no bluidy good. Miss Fraser was off limits. Whether she lasted the full ten days he’d agreed to or packed up and left before then, he couldn’t wager. But when that time was over and done, he’d send her on her way.

  In the meantime, the lass was off limits. To him. To his brother. And to any other male on his crew.

  She didn’t know it, but he’d be doing her a favor by sending her from this place. God knew Siobhan had regretted coming here. Just as she’d come to regret loving him.

  And in the end, he’d failed her beyond all redemption.

  By hellfire, ruminating on the past served no purpose. He laced his fingers behind his head, allowing the chilly air to nip at his skin, as if that could distract him from his brutal thoughts.

  If only he could keep his traitorous mind off the all-too-appealing woman who currently slept beneath his roof.

  She’d arrived without a trunk, with only a small carpetbag that could not have contained more than a dress or two. Where were the rest of her things? The previous governess had arrived with two steamer trunks—heavy as if she’d transported a load of cannon munitions—and a bulging hope chest. Rory had walked like an old man for days after hauling her blasted things to her room. Less than a fortnight later, after Isla had a joke at the old biddy’s expense by placing a very live, very energetic frog in her bed, his brother hobbled himself again carrying the governess’s cases to the carriage transporting her back to Inverness. Why would a young, fetching lass like Miss Fraser do without a proper wardrobe? Surely she’d acquired more than the clothes on her back and what was stowed in her meager bag.

  Something about her didn’t quite fit. Miss Leana Fraser was hiding something. He was certain of that, just as surely as he knew the sun would come up each morning. He could see hints of something amiss in those big, beautiful eyes of hers. Miss Fraser had a secret—an ugly one, if his suspicions panned out. And damned if he wasn’t going to find out what it was.

  Chapter Seven

  A rooster’s crow stirred Leana from a fitful slumber. She’d awakened several times during the night, her nerves on edge as she listened for any sign of Bridget’s cries. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted toward the window. Faint slivers of light filtered around the drapes, casting the room in a soft haze.

  Turning onto her side, she thumped her pillow to even out the lumps and closed her eyes. As she drifted back into the twilight of sleep, a sound in the room next to hers—Isla’s bedchamber—pulled her back to alertness.

  A sound like a chair being dragged over the floor made it through the barrier of the walls. A heavy thud followed. What in heaven’s name was the child doing at this early hour?

  Springing from the comfort of her bed, she tugged on her wrapper and tiptoed to the girl’s chamber. She called her name softly, and the girl opened the door.

  Clad in her nightdress, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a braid, Isla regarded her with curious eyes.

  “Why are ye here?” she asked bluntly.

  “I heard a noise—I wanted to be sure you were well.”

  The girl smiled. “Ye must’ve heard the chair. It squeaks a bit.”

  “What I heard was not a squeak. It sounded like something fell.”

  Isla pointed to the thick book on the floor. “It was on the high shelf and I dropped it. Ye’ve no need to worry. Not about me, at least.”

  Leana peeked past the girl. Everything looked in order. Still, why was the child up before the dawn?

  “Very well. Do try to get a little more rest.” Leana glanced at the tome, an illustrated guide to astronomy. “We’ll begin your lessons today. I was informed you’ve quite an aptitude for mathematics as well as languages.”

  Isla frowned. “I thought we’d make Bridget’s doll today.”

  “We’ll get to the doll after your lessons. We will focus on your studies after breakfast, and then I’ll work with Bridget on her letters.”

  “Whatever we do, it won’t matter. Ye should know that.”

  “Of course it matters. Your father wants you and your sister to have an excellent education.”

  “Ye will not be here long enough to teach me more than I already know.” Isla said matter-of-factly. “None of my tutors have lasted more than a week. Maybe two.”

  “Why is that, Isla?”

  The girl met her question with an unconvincing look of innocence. “They dinna like it here.”

  “Did you want them to leave?”

  “Yes.” Isla didn’t hesitate.

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t belong here.” The girl dropped her gaze to her toes. “I made sure they didna stay.”

  “So I’ve heard. But I’m made of sterner stuff than that.”

  Isla folded her arms at the waist as she lifted her gaze. “Even if I dinna want ye to leave, ye will. I liked Miss Thompson. She could make me laugh, and she was patient with Bridget. And then, one day, she got a letter. Her ma was sick, she told us. She left Bridgie and me. And she never came back.”

  “I’m not going to leave the two of you, Isla. You have my word.”

  The girl’s chin trembled, but she hardened her gaze. “Ye’ll leave. They all do.”

  Leana spotted MacArron through the open door to his study. Standing at his desk with his back to her, his long fingers splayed wide as he pressed his hands down upon a map, he conferred with the men who’d arrived the night before.

  Rory shook his head in warning as she marched up to the desk.

  “Captain MacArron, I require a few moments of your time.”

  He slowly turned. At his full height, he stood more than a head taller than herself. Leana swallowed against a sudden flutter of nerves. Perhaps she’d been too bold. Too abrupt. But she hadn’t laid eyes on him since the night before—if he’d eaten a morning meal, he had not taken it with his children, and she’d seemed to miss him at every turn as she sought him out to discuss her observations of his daughters. This was, after all, a matter of considerable importance.

  He’d donned dark trousers, and his white shirt was opened at the collar again, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Golden brown hair feathered over his muscular forearms. His eyes narrowed as his attention swept over her from head to toe, taking in her plain, dove gray dress and prim white collar. Fighting a wave of nervous tension, she toyed with the black braid at her cuffs, even as she met his gaze.

  “Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Davidson can see to whatever you need.” Though civil, his dismissive tone irked Leana like a pebble in her shoe.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do. I must speak with you about your daughters. In private.”

  He cocked a brow and shifted his attention to Rory. “See to it Miss Fraser has whatever it is she requires.”

  “Your brother will not be of much help in this matter,” she said, bracing herself. “What I require is your time. Actually, your daughters are the ones who truly need that evidently rare c
ommodity.”

  Something resembling a smile played on his mouth. “Rare commodity, eh?” He shot Rory a glance. “If I were at sea, I’d say I have a mutiny on my hands.”

  She expected him to add something or other about sending her packin’ to the blasted agency to underscore his displeasure, but he spared her the threat.

  “Ye didna want a mealy-mouthed spinster like the last one. What was her name—Whitman? Whitson?” Rory replied. “Damned if I can even remember the whey-faced woman’s name.”

  “Aye, I got more than I bargained for with this governess, didn’t I?”

  She planted her hands on her hips, a gesture which carried far more authority with her young charges than with pirates who towered over her.

  “If I’ve come at an inopportune time, I’m willing to wait,” she said, feeling quite reasonable.

  “Well, lass, I’ve no idea why ye’d think this would be a good time. Can’t ye see I’m in here with my crew, planning where we might go raiding and pillaging and generally raising hell?”

  She cocked her chin. He was teasing her. At least, she hoped he was. “I’d been told you were no longer a pirate…um…privateer.”

  “Ye were right the first time.” Rory made no attempt to hide his amusement.

  MacArron leaned back against his desk and stretched out his long legs. Light glimmered off his polished brown boots.

  “So, that’s what they’re telling lasses at the agency now, is it?”

  She shook her head. “I’d seen it…in the papers some time ago.”

  His eyes flashed, darkened with curiosity. “Am I to take it ye read all about the Devil of the Highlands and felt ye’d test yer luck with a scoundrel?”

  “Not at all. I came here to care for yer girls. The fact you were here did not signify.”

  “A noble calling, if ever I heard one,” Rory said, drawing a glare from his brother.