For the Love of a Pirate

by Edith Layton

  He was humming to himself as he came down the stairs. He smiled at a footman, and went out to the stables.

  “Fella’s making a fool of himself for her,” a young footman whispered to the butler as he closed the door behind Constantine.

  “As he should,” an old footman said, as the housekeeper passed by.

  “I don’t know about him,” she said, as she went on her way to the kitchen. “I do know she deserves the best. He’s a gent all right, but not all of them are good men.”

  “There’s truth,” Cook spoke up from a corner of the kitchen. “And her taking him untried? Not my idea of a good thing, is that.”

  “And pray what do you mean by that?” the housekeeper asked, nose high.

  “Don’t ‘pray’ me, Flossie, my girl,” the cook said. “I knowed you when you was earning yourself a fine improper living in the islands. You know just what I mean! My first husband was a dear, but a sad fumbler when it came to pleasure. My second was just the opposite. What a lover the man was! But he couldn’t earn a penny or keep one in his pockets, no more’n he could keep his breeches on when a likely female came along. Don’t turn up your nose at me. You remember him. Didn’t I blacken your eye over him, that time in Tobago?”

  “A lucky punch,” the housekeeper said with a sniff.

  “Now,” Cook said, “I’ve no man at all, but all my memories. And you know the man I think about? A fellow like my first in the day, and like my other in my bed. If Miss Lisabeth thinks she’s found the two in one, more credit to her! But so far’s I can see, and I watch, they haven’t done the deed yet. I’d see it in their eyes.”

  “No wonder,” a housemaid said sighing. “He’s so high-toned, never a pinch for another girl, nor a wink, nor even an invitation, here or in town. True noblemen are a different breed, just like the fairy stories say. And so she’s got to offer, and he’s got to take. But he’s such a gent, and she’s so picky! Who knows if it will ever happen?”

  “We’ll see,” the butler said as he peered in the door. “Now, enough gossiping. The captain wouldn’t have let them go alone if he didn’t trust one, or the other.”

  “Alone? Again?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Aye,” a scullerymaid said. “Miss Lovelace took to her bed, all headachy this mornin’, she swears.”

  “Ha! She’s no fool,” the housekeeper said.

  “Captain’s no fool,” Cook said wisely.

  They laughed, and scurried back to their chores.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What a glorious day!” Lisabeth said. Constantine, sitting beside her in the one-horse cart, wanted to answer with a witty compliment comparing the beautiful day to her. But he couldn’t. She wore a wretched old overlong coat, boots, and a battered floppy felt hat to shade her face from the sun. The most he could see of her in profile was her nose. She looked like a beggar woman of indeterminate age. So he settled for a random compliment instead.

  “Yes,” he said. “The air is fresh and mild, just as you predicted.”

  He was mildly disappointed. She’d looked very fetching last night, in a fine close-fitting gown the color of apricots. She’d flirted with him outrageously, but subtly. It had been amusing, and enticing. So this morning, after he’d heard that Miss Lovelace was ill, and that no one else had been selected to come with them, he’d had random thoughts of what Lisabeth and he might accomplish, alone, in the fields. Those would be things one couldn’t do in her grandfather’s house, or on a ship filled with fish guts and lusty sailors, or even in a fine sailing ship manned by her friends and acquaintances.

  Of course, he couldn’t and wouldn’t act on his erotic daydreams; he was an engaged man, and a gentleman. Still, he’d considered it. That shocked him enough.

  But when he’d seen her this morning, all thought of exotica and erotica had fled. He’d been relieved and disappointed.

  She shook the reins and the horse that was pulling their wagon quickened his pace. “We can pick the berries first, stow them in the wagon, with a cloth over them to protect them, and then have a lovely picnic,” she said. “Did you ever think you’d be wearing donated rags in order to go berrying again?”

  “Again?” Constantine asked. “No. Because I never have.”

  She shot him a look of sympathy from under her ridiculous hat. “Really? Poor fellow. What did you do on a beautiful late summer’s day when you were a boy?”

  He thought. “By late summer I was usually preparing to go back to school. When I had the time I walked, usually down to the river. If I had extra time, I fished, or rowed out a few miles. I wasn’t encouraged to do anything strenuous or dangerous. But don’t pity me. I made up for it when I went to university. I played at cricket, rode, raced, and boxed. I sailed, swam, and was an oarsman too. I think I was trying to use up all the energy I wasn’t allowed to express when I lived with my uncle.”

  “Was he a tyrant?” she asked sympathetically.

  “No. Yes. I suppose he was. I hated living under his thumb, but obeyed so I wouldn’t be banished from the only family I knew. I didn’t know then that he was likely only doing it to keep the wild side of my nature suppressed. He knew the family secrets. I didn’t.”

  “Well, I don’t think he should have bothered,” she said. “You haven’t a wild bone in your body, my lord. You’re a temperate and cautious fellow, nothing like your ancestors.”

  Again, he felt vaguely insulted.

  She saw his expression and laughed. “Lud! But that’s what you want to be, isn’t it? I know I’m wild to a fault, but I don’t care. You care very much. Is that because of what we were born to be, or trained to be? It’s certainly a mystery to me. I don’t know if family traits come from blood or upbringing, but I was brought up to be a lady, and never quite attained it, and you were brought up to be a gentleman and you’ve achieved it, body and soul.”

  “Well, but your upbringing was hardly conventional,” he commented.

  “Oh. You mean Miss Lovelace.”

  “And others in your household,” he said.

  “I see,” she said. “You’ve heard stories. But you probably didn’t hear that Miss Lovelace’s mother was a very pious woman, and though our butler has a violent past, his father was a deacon. I could name many others in our household who revolted against what they were taught. I didn’t. I just am. And I’m sorry if that shocks or offends you.”

  “It does neither,” he said truthfully. “Not anymore. There’s nothing wrong with high spirits. In fact, joy in life is a wonderful thing to see. The ladies of London are schooled to be cool and blasé. I think they could benefit from taking some lessons from you,” he said, as a sudden vision of his correct and cool fiancée popped into his head.

  “Then what’s got you frowning?” she asked, as she saw his expression. “Is it something I said or did?”

  “Something I did,” he said cryptically. “So where are these wonderful brambleberries?”

  “They’re down the road, but still on our property,” she said. “They grow wild. I think someone, sometime, planted a berry patch there. Now, no one but me and the birds know about them. We’ll leave plenty for them. Aha! We’re almost there.”

  She pulled the horse up to the side of a long path she’d taken off the main road to Sea Mews. Then she leaped down without waiting for Constantine to help her, and tied the horse to a low wooden fence at the side of what looked like a field of ripening barley to Constantine’s untrained eye.

  “Come, take a basket,” she said, as she hauled two old wicker baskets from the back of the cart. “Now see?” she asked, pointing down the thin ragged lanes that ran through wild bushes. “We walk down there, pick and plop them into the basket, the ripest only please, let the green ones be. You go that way, I’ll go straight down this path, and when our baskets are full, we can meet back at the wagon.”

  He gazed at her. The last chance of fulfilling his forbidden daydreams, or even resisting them, as he should, shattered.

  “Well, we’d was
te time if we both went down the same lane, wouldn’t we?” she asked.

  He agreed, took his basket, and began to walk down another lane.

  “Oh,” she shouted after him. “Remember, you can eat all you want, but don’t eat too many.”

  “I know,” he mumbled. “The birds.”

  “No.” She laughed. “You don’t want to ruin your appetite for luncheon. And anyway, too many berries will give you the squitters, ah—I mean the summer complaint, you know, loose … blast! That’s how sailors talk, and how we say it here in the country. How does a lady say that?”

  “Ah,” he said, “she doesn’t.”

  There was a silence.

  “Pardon me,” he heard her say meekly after a moment. “I didn’t mean to be vulgar.”

  “You weren’t. An understandable mistake,” he said. “And after all, if no one who lives here minds, you weren’t exactly saying anything untoward, were you?”

  “Very kind of you,” she said.

  Then he heard her muttering as she walked down her lane. He shook his head, and chuckled.

  No delightful kissing games for him today, he thought, and thanked God for it. But still, he enjoyed her company. He mightn’t be able to embrace her, but she certainly tickled him.

  Constantine’s basket was filled with berries, he was hot, itchy, and sticky, the sun had risen high, all the bending and stooping he’d done had made his back ache, and he was eager to put down his basket and sit in the shade. He marched back to where they’d left the horse and cart, marveling at how little distance he’d gone.

  He left the berry patch and stopped in his tracks. Lisabeth was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he saw a lovely young lady in a light yellow gown, parasol on her shoulder to protect her from the glare of the sun, standing by the farm cart. She was looking into the back of the cart. Constantine suddenly hoped that Lisabeth had been right, and they hadn’t trespassed. He wondered what the fine for pilfering berries would be.

  The young lady turned. She smiled. “Oh, there you are,” Lisabeth said. “I was hoping you’d turn up. Otherwise, I’d have to change back into my other clothes and go looking for you.”

  “You changed clothes?” he asked, feeling as though the sun had made him slow and stupid. “Was I supposed to bring something decent to wear as well?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “It’s just that I wore this under those.” She picked up the old coat and boots from the back of the cart. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It’s just you and me. But I wanted something light and airy to wear for our picnic, since it bids to be a warm afternoon.”

  Constantine never wore the wrong garb to any occasion. Now he felt not only slow and stupid, but out of place.

  She laughed. “I just threw the old coat over my gown and pulled on boots. But I knew a man couldn’t wear two changes of clothes, breeches over breeches and so on, so I had your valet send along some comfortable clothing for you too. There’s a spot I know near a lake, and there’s a place you can change there. Do get back into the cart. We’ll go there, and I’ll spread out our feast in the shade of the trees while you change. If you want to, that is.”

  “I want to,” he said fervently.

  She smiled.

  He noticed her mouth was vividly red.

  She laughed, and put a hand to her lips. “Oh. I must have scarlet smears on my face. Too many berries, and I was greedy. But weren’t they delicious?”

  “They were,” he said. “I’ve never tasted the like. They were warm from the sun, and incredibly sweet. Have I any red on my face?”

  “No,” she said simply, as she took his basket and lifted it into the back of the cart. “You’re a gentleman.”

  She untied the horse and, with Constantine beside her, drove the cart out of the field. “Sea Mews used to have many sheep,” she said as they went down another narrow lane, “but now Grandy just keeps a few for clipping the far pastures to make them neat. So there’s an abandoned hut the shepherds used to shelter in. You can change there. Poor fellow,” she said, glancing at him. “You haven’t any berry juice on your face, but you look very warm. We’ll be there in a moment. You can even take a dip in the water, if you like, before you change clothes. I won’t look.” She crossed her heart and then kissed her little finger. “I promise.” There was mischief in her eyes.

  He was silent. Take off his clothes and bathe so close to her, when they were alone? Then change into other clothing, so near to her? And they’d be alone? Was this seduction? Or childlike innocence? She was no innocent, not from her conversation or upbringing. She obviously either trusted him or wanted him. There was little question anymore that he wanted her. It was astonishing how quickly attraction to her had become so urgent. He’d only known her a little while and his attraction to her had grown since the first moment he’d realized she was lovely. Yet he couldn’t forget he was promised to another. He’d have to leave this place soon. And today, he’d have to watch his step—and not her.

  The lake was clear and blue, decorated by a pair of swans and a few geese, surrounded by lacy-leafed willows, and farther away, larch and towering oaks.

  “The hut’s just down that path,” Lisabeth said, as she hopped out of the cart and tethered the horse by a grassy verge. She handed him a neat bundle. “Just follow the stream that feeds the lake. Go up to the top of the rise. Bathe, wash your face, or just dip your toes. I’ll lay out our luncheon. There’s eggs and ham, bread and cheese, and Cook always adds surprises. And there’s a crock of clotted cream for our berries. Go along. Take your time. I’ll see you when I see you.”

  He bowed, and went up a slight hill by the side of the rushing stream. The water gurgled and leaped as it dashed down the stones toward the lake. And there, at the top of the rise, under the trees, was a neat thatched hut, looking no more abandoned than any other edifice at Sea Mews. The interior was swept clean; there was a straw-filled tick in an alcove on one wall, a table, a chair, a cupboard, even a neat hearth stacked with wood.

  Constantine looked around, every bit of cleanliness and convenience making him feel uneasier. This didn’t look like an abandoned site. And Lisabeth had joked about spying on him. Or had she? There was no way on earth he wanted to be trapped in this place with her. He decided to go right back, tell her he had a headache and had to go to Sea Mews, to his own bed, to lie down.

  He shook his head to clear it. He was reacting like a virgin finding herself snared in a roué’s silken lair. He was a man, for God’s sake! And an experienced one. Why should he fear a slip of a girl? Well, maybe he should, or at least fear his secret desires for her, and so maybe he’d better leave Sea Mews tomorrow. But as for today? He could take care of himself.

  He went back to the stream. There, behind a clump of fern, in spite of his determination not to let her joke bother him, he quickly undressed, and washed, blessing the icy chill of the water. Then, using his discarded shirt as a shield, he went back to the cabin, dried himself, and put on a clean white shirt, a neat pair of breeches, and his own boots. He didn’t look like a gentleman now, he supposed, because he lacked a neckcloth and jacket. But he was cool, completely covered, and hungry. He resolved to enjoy this last day in Lisabeth’s company.

  When he returned to Lisabeth, she’d spread a blanket and laid out the contents of her basket. There were crocks and dishes, napery and glasses, and plates bearing loaves of bread and great wedges of cheese.

  “There are some bottles cooling in the stream,” she said, without looking up as he came near. “Right where it feeds into the lake, the shallow pool over there. Please go get them. We have good wine, but they have no tax stamps on the bottles, so don’t tell Officer Nichols.” She looked up, her eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, everyone round here drinks the best wines; half of them take casks and bottles regularly right from across the water, and no one looks for stamps but poor Mr. Nichols. His is a thankless task, because even if he succeeds, he fails. At least with us.”

  “You think I’d refuse b
ecause it’s illegal? Do you think me so very proper then?” he asked, hands on hips, looking down at her.

  She gazed up at him. “I think you want to be,” she said.

  He walked away to get the wine. She’d said truth. There was nothing he could say.

  They dined on simple foods, flavored by dappled sunlight and fresh air. They drank fizzy wine, and got a little high on laughter. It was a beautiful place; Constantine was with a beautiful, witty woman. He was totally at ease as he sat on the blanket, though he was aware that some part of him was still wary, and he still felt threatened.

  Even so, he thought, gazing at Lisabeth, she couldn’t help it. She was so candid and free. Her face was charming, her figure delicious, she had such shining sweet-scented masses of hair. He was the one who had to keep his hands and his thoughts to himself.

  He resolved that today before they left this sylvan glade, he’d tell her he was leaving tomorrow and why he was doing it. Somehow he had to find the fortitude to tell her that he was, after all, engaged to be wed. It was the honorable thing to do. He must leave her immediately—as friends, but platonic ones.

  He knew he’d committed more sins of deception and lust in the past weeks than during his whole life. He’d tell her so. But he could right those wrongs. He’d confess. He must. She was bright and sweet and lovely, but never for him. If he weren’t promised … No, he thought, he was what he was, and his life had been shaped to one end: marriage to a well-bred, mannerly, proper young woman. He might wish he’d known his wild father, but he himself was nothing like him.

  And he had, after all, discovered all he could about his place and his father and great-grandfather. What was known here would remain here. He just had to be sure to never let his wife, her family, or his own eventual children come to this part of the country. And too, he had to be sure to leave everyone here with good feelings toward him, so no one would ever seek revenge—or, for that matter, ever seek him again.