The Iron Corsair

by Barbara Devlin

  It was in the performance of what had been unknown, and what she later deemed illicit beyond words, that she found a new and enticing connection to her husband. His passion, unyielding in its sultry summons, surrounded and consumed her, and she threw herself into the ardent storm.

  While Barrington had remarked not on their relationship, she sensed he yearned for something more from her, and she knew not how to help him. In the not so quiet confines of their connubial bed, he searched for some elusive prize or perhaps validation, and it was evident by his actions, raw in their intensity, that he thought his objective could be found in the physical manifestation of their love.

  “We have a delicious selection of Bath buns, black butter, gooseberry cheese, dried fruit, boiled chicken, and white wine to satisfy my wife’s grumbling belly.” As he rolled in the trolley, he waggled his brows. “And you shall be my dessert, my fetching bride.”

  “Do you never tire?” Florence stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I expected you might have had your fill of me, by now.”

  “Not even close, darling.” How she ached to run her fingers through his thick blonde hair, as he poured two glasses of wine and heaped a plate with food. After handing her the fare, he eased to the bed, pulled the sheet to his waist, and proceeded to feed her satisfying morsels, interspersed with tender kisses.

  “In moments like these, you remind me of the young boy of six and ten years old who declared his love in the shadow of a large yew on Oker Hill.” With a napkin, she daubed the corners of her mouth, and then she drained her glass. “Yet something weighs heavy on your heart and mind, and I wish you would tell me what troubles you.”

  In silence, he collected the dishes and returned them to the trolley. Reclining amid the pillows, he gazed at the burgundy canopy and furrowed his brow, and she resisted the urge to press him.

  “I committed heinous acts during my tenure as a pirate,” Barrington replied, in a low voice, and he commanded her attention. “I stole money, I amassed a small fortune in pilfered goods, I cheated at cards, and I took the lives of several men, yet I killed in self-defense, as I never made the first strike. Still, it is an offense to humanity to live in fear, and there were times when I was tempted to surrender the fight. I am embarrassed to admit I once contemplated taking my own life. Does that shock you?”

  “No.” She squeezed his fingers, and her heart bled for him. “In regards to the violence, I supposed as much, given I have no illusions when it comes to buccaneers. As to the rest, I do not blame you, because I cannot fathom venturing into the vast world, alone, with no one to comfort you. So what stayed your hand?”

  “You.” Closing his eyes, Barrington bowed his head, and a tear slid down his chiseled cheek, as she snuggled near that she might offer succor. “Thoughts of you sustained me in the darkest times, and I lived for the hope that we might be reunited.”

  “And we are, my darling.” Cupping his chin, she pressed her lips to his.

  “So you still want me?” Ah, there it was—the vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal, and it hurt her to think of him so anguished and forlorn. “You are not ashamed of me, despite what I just admitted?”

  There were many condolences she could have extended. Instead, Florence leaned to the side and kissed him, in an attempt to allay his concerns, and then she rested on her back and pulled him to her, that she might show him just how much she loved him. “My lord, I believe I owe you dessert.”

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the first months since his wedding to Florence, Barrington adjusted to married life with unimpaired aplomb and marveled at how easy it had been to adapt to his new existence. Given his longstanding, felicitous relationship with his wife, their union fostered a single alteration in his world, which he welcomed, as he enjoyed her soft and feminine body in his bed, every night.

  It was a benefit he had long coveted, to find her warming his sheets at the end of a stressful day. To wake with her, to ride her in the predawn hours, or whenever and wherever he chose, to bathe her, to purchase her wardrobe, to bedeck her in precious jewels and declare for all the world that she was his lady.

  For his bride, the change in her status brought a multitude of responsibilities, and the winter months proved the perfect time to assume her new station as his marchioness. After their November wedding, they retired to Derbyshire for the holidays, which they spent as a family, including her father, Ernest, Percy, and Aunt Esther, and within that realm Florence was expected to function as matriarch, a service she performed brilliantly.

  As December yielded to January, she often bemoaned the myriad decisions that fell to her position, until he kissed her silly and silent, but he never doubted her abilities, because she was born to the rank. Indeed, they formed what he deemed the perfect couple, as she was so serious, and he was anything but.

  “A shilling for your thoughts.” Standing in the doorway to his study, Florence canted her head and smiled.

  “A shilling?” In an instant, he pushed back his chair and slapped his thighs in invitation. “That is awfully generous, sweetheart. I should teach you to bargain better, else you will always be cheated at the market.”

  “You seemed so absorbed, I would not shortchange you or diminish the importance of whatever concerns you.” To his delight, she strode straight at him, stepped about his legs, and sat in his lap. Resting her head to his chest, she sighed and handed him an envelope, as he cupped her bottom through her green velvet gown. “A missive just arrived by messenger from London, and it looks important.”

  “Thank you, darling.” The franking provided no hint of the sender, and he set the letter on the blotter. “What are our dinner plans?”

  “Aunt Esther is visiting a friend, and Ernest and Percy are spending the night at the hunting cottage, so we are alone.” Shifting, she untied his cravat, unfastened the hook at his throat, opened his collar, and kissed his neck. “Mead shall direct the staff in setting up a small table in our suite, and I suppose we could enjoy each other’s company, unreservedly, given the snow keeps neighbors at bay.”

  “I like the way you think.” He gritted his teeth, as she trailed a series of playful nips to his ear. “Before you distract me, entirely, and I forget my duty, I should read the note.”

  “Go about your business, my dear husband.” As he reached for the parchment, she unclasped the placket of his breeches, slipped her fingers beneath the wool, gripped his erection, and whispered, “Do not let me bother you.”

  “I have created a monster.” As she worked him, hard and rough, just as he liked it, he groaned, opened the dispatch, and scanned the contents.

  Mon Ami,

  Your friends await your return to London. We have taken rooms at Grenier’s on Jermyn Street.

  JMC

  Bloody hell, the pirates resided at one of the most fashionable hotels in Mayfair, when he required secrecy.

  “Is it important?” To his disappointment, she ceased her wanton attention, stood, strolled to the day bed, collected a fluffy pillow, dropped the cushion on the floor at his feet, knelt, bent her head, and took him into her sweet mouth.

  “It will keep.” As she licked and suckled the old Jolly Roger, he closed his eyes and smiled. “And this is of paramount importance.”

  Grasping her elegant chignon, he held her in place, as he thrust, and she dug her fingernails into his thighs. Just as release beckoned, he hooked his hands beneath her arms and lifted her to his lap. With her legs straddling either side of him, he bunched her skirts at her waist, and she took him into her honey harbor.

  “I did not lock the door.” As he clutched her bottom, she dropped back her head. “What if someone discovers us?”

  “What does it matter, when we are married?” With a playful smack to her derriere, he chuckled. “And I submit the threat of discovery makes our coupling all the more delicious. Now ride me, sweetheart.”

  In that moment, the shot fired, and his fledgling seductress bolted like an unbroken m
are.

  The subtle web that surrounded their fiery tryst signaled the continued development of some new and enticing connection, which defied definition, and he craved that invisible yet oh-so-arresting bond with his bride. Although his childhood companion owned his heart long before they stood in St. George’s and spoke the vows that forever bound them together, what blossomed between them in the successive months startled even him, and he would do anything to nurture their relationship.

  Inhaling and exhaling in shivery breaths, she yanked his hair and bit his chin, just as she half-stifled the little gasps that heralded her rapidly approaching completion, and he followed her into the amorous spiral. Bucking beneath her, he fired his seed deep within her and collapsed in his chair.

  “That is not what I had in mind when I sought your company.”

  “I adore your naughty mouth.” Forehead to forehead, he nudged Florence with his nose, and she giggled. “And I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” She brushed her lips to his. “And I wondered if I might persuade you to wash my hair?”

  “Ah, but that is a treat not to be missed.” Of course, that would lead to another sumptuous round of coitus, so who was he to refuse his woman? Given the fervent fog cleared, he reflected on the communication sitting atop his desk and lifted her from his lap, with care, because he could not rouse suspicion. “By the by, I had thought we might journey to London, in a sennight, because I need to peruse the various bills for consideration, prior to Parliament’s opening session.”

  “All right.” Brushing out her skirts, Florence cast a shy smile. “But we should pack an extra blanket, if you insist on stripping me naked in the coach, because I almost caught my death on the way here.”

  “Shame on me for failing to keep you warm, but you know I prefer you sans clothing.” Barrington winked. “I promise to do better on the drive to the city.”

  “Be that as it may, I will pack accordingly, and I shall notify the staff of our plans.” How he cherished the contrast between the proper chatelaine and the lethal coquette, as she lifted her chin and walked to the door, despite the fact that she took him to blissful oblivion mere minutes ago. Admiring the gentle sway of her hips, he leaned on the armrest of his chair and plotted the various methods he would employ to make her sing, later. “And then I shall expect your presence in our suite. Do not make me wait too long.”

  “By your command, Lady Ravenwood.” Now he laughed at her haughty demands. As she exited the study, he sobered, pulled a crisp sheet of parchment from the top drawer, drew the pen from the inkstand, and composed a response to Jean Marc Cavalier’s letter.

  ~

  An ill-timed snowstorm brought London to a halt and kept society near their hearths, when the ton should have been preparing for the start of the season. In the back parlor of Howe House, Florence flipped through a stack of envelopes, shivered, and drew her shawl about her shoulders, just as the door opened.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” The very formal butler, Ashby paused and bowed. “I did not realize you were in here, or I would not have disturbed you, but I should check the fire.”

  “But you are no bother, Ashby.” As the manservant stoked the blaze, she studied the tufts of grey hair at his temples. “Indeed, I was just about to ring for tea, as it is quite cold today.”

  “I shall see to it, at once, my lady.” The butler placed another log in the fireplace, stood, and tugged the bell pull.

  “How long have you served Lord Ravenwood, Ashby?” Despite her supervision of the household, she had yet to develop a rapport with the head of her staff. “Because I only recall the previous gentleman who held the position. His name was Hobbes, I believe.”

  “I did not know him, my lady.” Ashby tidied the pillows on the chaise. “And I have served His Lordship for seven years.”

  A maid entered and curtseyed. “You rang, my lady?”

  “Her Ladyship will take tea and biscuits.” Ashby stretched tall and clasped his hands behind his back. “And have Mrs. Dawson include some of the marzipan she made this morning.” The butler peered at Florence. “Would you care for a more substantial repast, my lady?”

  “No, thank you, Ashby.” Surprised by his thoughtful request, given he had little to do with her since she became the marchioness of Ravenwood, and he kept their dealings formal and limited to his station as butler, she smiled. Perhaps she had, at last, broken through his unwelcoming exterior. “And I look forward to the marzipan.”

  “It is the best in England, in my opinion.” With that, he bowed. “Does Your Ladyship require anything else?”

  Outside, the snow blanketed the landscape, and she rubbed her hands together. “Do you know if His Lordship dines at home, tonight?”

  “Indeed, he does, given the weather and much more alluring companionship to be savored within these walls.” Barrington sauntered into the room. “And I was thinking of something casual, in our private apartment.”

  “If I may be excused, I should check on Her Ladyship’s tea.” Ashby made his obedience and backed into the hall.

  “Something casual?” She arched a brow. “Should I bother dressing for dinner?”

  “Absolutely not.” To her delight, her exceedingly handsome husband planted a hand at either side of her and claimed an amazingly thorough kiss. “You were particularly saucy this morning.”

  “Is that an observation or a complaint?” Of course, she knew the answer to that question.

  “Neither.” He stole another soul-stirring kiss. “It is praise, sweetheart.”

  A knock at the door brought them apart, and Barrington sat to her right. “Come.”

  “Here is your tea, my lady.” Ashby balanced a tray, which he set on the table. “Shall I pour you a cup?”

  “Please, do so.” She nodded.

  “Allow me, darling.” Her husband scooted to the edge of the sofa and lifted the pot. “That will be all, Ashby.”

  “Oh, Ashby.” She snapped her fingers. “Will you inform Mrs. Dawson that His Lordship dines in residence, and we will take our meal in our sitting room?”

  “Very good, my lady.” The butler dipped his chin, retreated a step, turned on his heel, and departed.

  “Has he always been so stiff?” she inquired, as Barrington filled a cup with the steaming brew, twisted a lemon rind, and stirred the tea.

  “Actually, I consider that friendly, as he was a vast deal more formal when he first joined my household.” He lifted the saucer, held the cup for her to take a sip, and mirrored her movements, bringing their heads together. Then he frowned, sniffed, and drew back. Holding the delicate porcelain just beneath his nose, he inhaled again. “What sort of blend is this?”

  “It should be my usual preference, bergamot orange from Howell’s.” Puzzled by his behavior, she blinked. “Why?”

  “Does it usually come with a side of bitter almonds?” After depositing the cup to the tray, he inspected the teapot’s contents. “Whatever you do, stay calm, say nothing, and do not touch this.”

  A shudder of dread slithered down her spine, as he stood, strode to the bell pull, and yanked hard. While they had not discussed the as-yet unknown villain since their union, she remained aware of the ever-present danger, which heightened with their return to London.

  “Yes, my lord?” Ashby loomed in the entrance.

  “Send for Sir Ross Logan, posthaste.” As Barrington retraced his steps, he pulled up short when his brother appeared in the hall. “Ernest? What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, to you, too.” Ernest scowled. “And to answer your question, I came to collect the last of my personal belongings, if it is any of your business.”

  “When did you arrive?” Barrington inclined his head and narrowed his stare. “And why did you not apprise me of your presence?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ernest bared his teeth. “Since when am I required to inform you of my schedule?”

  “Barrington, Ernest, stop it.” It occurred to her, in that moment, that nothing ne
farious happened while Ernest was hunting. Indeed, it was only upon his surprise reappearance that her tea was poisoned, and she grew dizzy at the implication. “This constant bickering between you must cease, at once, as it achieves nothing.”

  “Tell him, as he seems intent on punishing me for reasonable actions I took in defense of our family legacy.” Folding his arms, Ernest squared his shoulders. “And I apologized for dealings in regard to Florence, but I reassert that my only motive was to ensure her safety, and I believe I have exhausted the topic. If you wish to believe the worst of me, so be it.”

  “Adequate to the occasion.” At that point, she stood and inserted herself at an advantageous position to block the siblings.

  “Careful, brother.” Ernest fisted his hands at his sides. “Even I have my limits.”

  “Enough.” Before they came to blows, she turned and grabbed Barrington by the lapels of his coat. “You will not do this. You will not fight your own kin.”

  “My lord, Sir Ross is just arrived.” Glancing at Ernest and then Barrington, Ashby started. “Forgive the interruption.”

  “Sir Ross Logan of the Counterintelligence Corps?” When the butler nodded the affirmative, Ernest snapped to attention. “What is wrong? What has happened?”

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER NINE

  Located on Jermyn Street, in the St. James’s vicinity of Westminster, the Grenier Hotel offered extravagant accommodations near the fashionable gentlemen’s shops and clubs. For the individual seeking to maintain a measure of privacy, it was the last place to take a room, which is why Barrington kept his head low as he strolled through the posh lobby of the estimable establishment and made straight for the stairs.

  From his pocket, he drew the slip of paper upon which he scrawled, 211. On the second floor, he checked the brass numbers on the doors until he found the correct room and knocked on the oak panel. A familiar face welcomed him.