For the Love of a Pirate

by Edith Layton

  Lisabeth sighed. “What a delicious meal! Do you mind if we wait to have the berries and cream? I’m stuffed.”

  She should have said, “I’ve had quite enough,” he thought, and said, “So am I. It was a feast!”

  “What fun,” she said, yawning and then stretching her arms to the side, and then above her head.

  His eyes arrowed to how that movement raised her breasts.

  “We have had such a good time this past month, haven’t we?” she asked languidly.

  “Month?” he asked, the amount of time she’d mentioned diverting him from lecherous thoughts.

  “Yes, a month and three days,” she answered, sitting back again, her arms in back of her as she leaned on her hands. “Though I’ll admit it does seem like less, doesn’t it?”

  He was staggered. He felt like Ulysses stranded among the lotus-eaters. He’d passed a month here?

  He was appalled, until she smiled at him. He noticed her lips were still unnaturally crimson. They looked fuller too. Her eyes were on his as she leaned forward. He held his tongue and his breath. He could see that the bodice of her gown gaped as she came closer. The skin at her breast was blemish free, white as Devonshire cream, and softly rounded. Her gown was fitted so that as she bent toward him he could glimpse the whole of one sweetly curved breast, even the rosy tip of it. And she smelled of flowers.

  One last kiss, he thought, as she came to him and he bent his head to meet hers. It would only be one, and it would be the last.

  But she reached past him to collect his empty plate and then drew back in order to put it in the picnic basket. He blinked, suddenly feeling cheated, angry, and desperate for her touch. And then he reached for her, caught her in his arms, and kissed her.

  She drew in her breath, opened her lips, and clung to him.

  Her mouth was hot and tasted of sweet fresh fruit, her skin was soft, and her breast, in his hand, tempted him to taste it too. But first he had to slake himself at her mouth, and it seemed to him that he couldn’t. One kiss led to another, he breathed her scent in and held her close to his own body, and found that though her thin gown was as nothing beneath his touch, still he needed it off her.

  He drew it off her, as she gazed into his eyes. Then he laid her down on the blanket and held her head in both hands as they kissed, and for a wonder and a delight, she kissed him back with equally frantic desire. She only paused to pull up his shirt so that her heart could beat against his naked chest. He reared back for a moment and flung off his shirt before he bent to her again. Now the tips of her breasts were hard, puckered and felt white hot against his skin, and his lips.

  All the while he knew he had to stop. But it seemed he could not, and that she would not let him go.

  His hands learned her body, his touch made her gasp; he dared raise her gown and feel her warm smooth thighs, her rounded bottom, and then the very core of her, hot and damp as she writhed against his hand. He was surprised and shocked, but all his wariness had fled. He was overwhelmed by her responsiveness.

  He knew enough of women to know she was as ready for him as he was for her. And so he rose again, cast off his breeches, and came back to her, pausing only for a moment to ask her what he must.

  “Are you sure?” he managed to say.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, as she dragged him back.

  He parted her legs, and came to her, entered her, and then stopped. She was so tight, and he’d heard her gasp.

  “Please,” she said.

  And so he pushed forward into the depths of her, and then, it was too late to stop, although in some still sane part of his mind he knew he should. Because now she didn’t writhe with him, she didn’t rise to him, her eyes were shut, her face tight, but not with passion anymore. But he couldn’t stop. He was schooled in control, but there was only so much control in the world, and this was beyond that.

  It didn’t take long. His emotions and desires were too tangled. He would have been embarrassed, but was too horrified to feel anything but confusion and regret. He’d been in ecstasy, but that still sane voice inside his head had called him back to reality. He pulled away and fell to her side.

  “Oh,” she said, stroking his face, his hair, his chest. “Constantine. I do so love you.”

  He caught his breath. He rose up on one elbow and looked down at her, and then at himself. The stain on her thighs and his member was redder than the berries he’d picked.

  And then it seemed to him that his heart stopped.

  “It was your first time,” he said dully. “Or is it,” he asked with sudden hope, “your time of the month?”

  “No,” she said, still smiling sweetly.

  “Oh,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Some,” she said. “But I knew that would be inevitable, of course. It won’t be so bad next time, I know. That’s what I’ve been told.”

  His blood felt cold in his veins.

  “But why?” he asked. “If it was your first time, why did you allow me … ?”

  “Because I love you, of course, silly man,” she said, reaching up to touch his face, her eyes glowing with happiness. “I waited and waited for the right man, all this time. And then you came to me, and I knew. At first, I didn’t. You were so cold and distant. But you warmed up soon enough.”

  Her smile was tender. She brushed back a stray lock of his hair from his forehead. “Why should I simper and tease?” she asked. “Is that what fine London ladies do? I don’t. I wouldn’t. That wasn’t how I was brought up. I was taught to find the man I wanted, and when I was sure he wanted me, to play no games. I didn’t want to mislead you. After all, you didn’t mislead me. You were only going to stay a week, yet after you found out about your ancestors, you lingered here, with me. I knew what I wanted soon enough, and when I saw you did too, there was no reason to pretend anymore. It was because I love you. Why else in the world would you think I’d make love to you?”

  He sank to her side again, without words. He drew her close, held her, and closed his eyes. His future had been remade in the last moments. His heart felt like lead in his breast. If he could have, he would have wept the tears he thought all virgins did after their first experience: tears she hadn’t wept. He’d been the experienced one. But she’d seduced him.

  No, he thought in all honesty. He’d accepted what she offered, without thinking. But she was obviously telling the truth, and with all he was, he was, after all, a gentleman. He knew what he must do.

  The life he’d thought to live, the plans he’d made, the safe, secure life he’d envisioned for himself had vanished. He could not in good conscience lie with a wellborn virgin and then desert her. Whether or not she’d tempted him on purpose didn’t matter. Not marrying her now wasn’t an option; it wasn’t a moral thing to do. At least he wouldn’t do it. It was a surprise; he would be talked about. He dreaded that. It would also be a complete change in his life’s carefully chosen pattern. And if in some part of his soul he rejoiced for it, in another he deeply regretted it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “And so,” Constantine said, “I wish to ask for your granddaughter’s hand in marriage.”

  The captain sat back in his chair and studied Constantine. “Aye. Because you find her intelligent, you say, and beautiful.” He leaned forward, his grizzled eyebrows lowering. “That ain’t the half of it, laddie, and don’t think I don’t know it. Did you have your way with her?”

  “I wish to marry her,” Constantine said firmly. “There is no more you need to know.”

  “As if I didn’t,” the captain mumbled. “She comes home blushing and singing like a bird. You look as though someone dropped a brick on your head.” Then he peered up from under his brows. “And what of your fine fiancée, my lord? Thinking of polygamy, are you? That might be all the go in some parts of the world, but not this one, I’m thinking.”

  “I see that my marriage to Miss Winchester would have been a mistake for me and for her,” Constantine said stiffly. “I’ll go to London
and speak with her, end the connection, and then return to marry your granddaughter. Unless you don’t trust me, and in that case I’ll marry her before I go to London.”

  “And have a lawsuit brought against you?” the captain asked. “Because engagement is no small thing and you have to free yourself from one female before you pledge to another. I won’t have Lisabeth’s name smeared, that I will not. I thought one day I’d host a party to end all parties when she got engaged to marry. But now, I’ll not even talk about it at the inn until I’m sure of the way the wind’s blowing.”

  The captain scowled, then fixed Constantine with a hard stare. “Listen, my lord, I’m not happy about this and don’t think I am. If you’d gone back to London, broken off with your fine lady, and then come back claiming love for Lisabeth, I’d be throwing rice and buying a drink for every soul in the village, I would. But you come to me with a face like grim death and ask for her hand like you was asking the hangman to get it over with quick and clean, and what am I supposed to think? I don’t have to,” he said, waving a hand at Constantine before he could reply. “I know. Some things are too tempting to resist. But I’m disappointed in you, my lord, that I am.

  “Now listen, there’s something you better know,” he went on, shaking a finger as though Constantine were a naughty boy he was lecturing. “My Lisabeth is clear as water and constant as the tide. She wouldn’t have the time of day for you if she hadn’t decided to give her heart to you, and for all time. Aye, she was brought up irregular. Mistress Lovelace taught her languages and letters better than any other did. But she also taught her about life as she knew it, as did the rest of my crew that was here while Lisabeth was growing up. And I admit, that’s my fault. But so long as she was happy—and she was—I never thought to change things. Maybe I ought to have, but now it’s too late. So my Lisabeth doesn’t play coy or cute. She doesn’t know how. But never think that makes her easy or sluttish, for it don’t.”

  Constantine had blamed himself for his bad behavior through half the night before this interview. He was tired of feeling guilty. “You invited me here knowing I was an engaged man,” he said, putting his hands on the desk and leaning forward. “You didn’t tell Lisabeth that.”

  “Did you?” the captain countered.

  Constantine moved back.

  “Thought not,” the captain said with a scowl. “I invited you here because I hoped you’d get to know her and see for yourself what a fine lass she is. You did. And I thought you were a gentleman. Had you gone back to London and freed yourself and then come back, all would be well. But you went about it arse backward. Now, in ordinary times, I’d refuse you, because I don’t believe you’re doing this with your whole heart. But it’s clear you’ve ruined her. And I won’t have that. Still, remember, I’ll be guarding her wherever she goes, and I won’t see her mistreated.”

  “I would never mistreat her,” Constantine said.

  “Marrying her without loving her would be mistreatment. Tell you what, my lord. You go to London. You talk to your fine lady. And now I’m telling you the truth with nothing fancy about it. If my Lisabeth has her normal courses come next month, I’m not at all sure I’ll let you marry her. Unless you can convince me it’s really what you want to do, and not just what you have to do. If she don’t …” He shrugged. “Then it’s the parson for you two, my lord, but I won’t pretend to be happy about it.”

  “What about Lisabeth?” Constantine asked.

  “She’ll grieve if she don’t marry you. She never gave her heart or her body, and it isn’t a small thing for her. I know that. But in the long run, she’ll be happier. Because if you’re like the rest of your family, the wild side of it, she’d be better off without you.”

  There was nothing Constantine could say to that. He no longer knew what he was like. He turned to go.

  “One more thing, my lord,” the captain said. “I think it would be better if you tell Lisabeth about your fiancée before you leave. It’ll be hard, but you’ve got the words, and she’s inclined to believe everything you say. I’m not. But let there be some truth between you at last.”

  “I’d rather you had asked me for that from the very beginning,” Constantine said, pausing, his hand on the door. “Then things may not have turned out as they have done.” The captain’s eyes blazed. Constantine didn’t see. “But then,” he murmured, as though to himself, “they may have done. She really is unique, I never lied to you about that.”

  “Aye, but had I told her she’d not have thrown herself at you, that I grant,” the captain said, deflated. “I trusted you to be a gentleman. But she is what she is, and you’re only human. Be that as it may—we all sail the course the winds allow.”

  “I’ll tell her the truth,” Constantine said, turning to face his host again. “And I’ll do it so she never blames herself. The truth is, mine was not a love match. Surely you know that. Now she will too. And then I’ll leave as soon as I may, go back to London and put things right.” He bowed, and left the captain’s study.

  The captain was still frowning. Lord Wylde had said that his first engagement wasn’t a love match. But neither did he say that his proposed match to Lisabeth was.

  She twirled around her room, dancing with the dust motes she kicked up as they rose to float in the sunbeams coming through her window. Lisabeth had never felt so happy, so content, and so excited, all at once. He loved her! She loved him. The dream that had begun years ago in a musty old portrait had come to exquisite life. Her friends were all already married. She’d turned down local lads, and friends of friends, honest men and scoundrels, waiting for the man of her dreams to come along. He had.

  So he wasn’t a daring pirate bold, or a highwayman on the high Toby, courageously and dangerously trying to win enough money to rescue back his beloved wife. Constantine was actually a bit prim and very proper, but his lovemaking had been as wild and wonderful as she’d ever dreamed. Once she’d been in his arms, his composure had vanished. He’d been ardent, gentle, thorough, oh, most deliciously thorough.

  She sank to a chair and grinned to herself. She was the one who’d been courageous and bold. He hadn’t known how frightened she’d been, how unsure and anxious. It was a wild and desperate thing she’d done, but she’d come to realize he was too much of a gentleman to ever make the first move. So she’d steeled herself, and done it. It wasn’t as though he weren’t interested. He’d signaled his desire a thousand ways. He’d said he was staying for only a brief visit, and had remained at her side for over a month. He gazed at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, he watched her every move. She knew he wanted her as much as she’d wanted him.

  So, although terrified of making a fool of herself, she’d finally decided to tempt him to the limit. She’d forgotten her fears the moment he’d caught her up in his arms. She’d known what to expect, after all. Hadn’t Lovey told her about it a thousand times?

  But she’d never guessed how much more wonderful it really was. To be so close to him as to be part of him. To feel his pleasure and know she was the one who provided it for him. To experience all those new sensations, to stroke his naked skin, to hear his breath in her ear, to hold him and wonder at his utter loss of control, because of her. She couldn’t wait to do more with him, try more, feel more.

  Now, she’d have the rest of her life for that. Would they live in London? Here? He had an estate. Would they go there? She wanted to stay here, and be there, but above all, to be with him always.

  Now her only problem lay in what to do next. She hadn’t told Lovey yet, only because her old governess was taking an afternoon nap. She giggled, just thinking of Lovey’s reaction when she found out. For once, she’d acted on her own. Now, what would Lovey think of that?

  She was tired of waiting and too keyed up to sit down. She stood. Should she go downstairs and wait for him? He’d said he was going to speak to Grandy. She sat. Should she wait for a summons? She rose again. She couldn’t sit still and she couldn’t go anywhere yet. How did o
ne greet a man one had just made love with? Surely not with simpers or uneasiness. And yet surely not with cries of love, or by clinging to him either. He was, with all they’d done, still a reserved man, a gentleman, a fellow who observed the proprieties. She wished she knew what they were in this instance.

  She’d cleaned herself up and changed her clothing once again. Her smile grew tender as she remembered how he’d helped her wash in the brook before they’d come home. Now, she’d washed again, dressed in a fine long-sleeved coffee-colored gown, and arranged her hair. She couldn’t look better, so now she’d wait. At least another five minutes.

  “Miss Lisabeth?” her maid said, appearing at her door. “Lord Wylde’s waiting downstairs. He wants to see you.”

  Lisabeth stood, walked to her door, and with the greatest restraint, resisted the urge to slide down the long banister, and instead, only flew down the stairs to meet Constantine.

  He was waiting in the hall. He looked ill at ease, but so very handsome, she thought. He’d dressed in correct afternoon wear. Not correct for a warm afternoon in the countryside, but for a gentleman paying a call on a lady in London town. He bowed when he saw her. She thought that was quaint, and absurd. Surely they were beyond that by now? Shouldn’t he have literally greeted her with open arms, picking her up arid twirling around with her in exultation? Saying something like: “You’re mine, at last!”?

  But that was the stuff of her old daydreams. This was the real Constantine, Lord Wylde, after all. And she supposed he’d put his best foot forward for Grandy.

  She bowed to him and then raised her head, and an eyebrow, in inquiry.

  “I spoke with the captain,” he said. “He gave me permission to marry you … with some reservations.” He saw her frown, and added quickly, “But these are things we can resolve here and now.” He offered her his arm. “Will you come for a walk in the gardens with me?”