The Buccaneer (Pirates of the Coast)

by Barbara Devlin

  “You could never intrude, Mon Chou.” Jean Marc smiled a sly smile. “Is that a new frock?”

  “This tired thing?” She batted her lashes. It was no secret Madalene wanted another babe. “Why, I only favor it when I have no care for what I wear.”

  Without a word, Jean Marc wrapped an arm about her waist and hauled her into his lap, and she squealed. That was Cager’s clue to depart.

  “Close the door on your way out, mon ami.” Jean Marc growled, Madalene giggled, and Cager picked up the pace. “And tell the staff we are not to be disturbed.”

  As he crossed the threshold, he grasped the knob and pulled shut the oak panel, just as Madalene emitted another shriek, and Cager shook his head.

  He had that once—a relationship based on love, with all the usual, sentimental entanglements and vulnerabilities. In his early twenties, he met and fell for a beautiful woman, a cobbler’s daughter, in Paris. Only seven and ten when he married her, Adele baked and sold baguettes in the market along the Seine, while her father repaired shoes. At eight and ten she was dead, lost along with their babe during childbirth, and never again would he allow himself to commit his heart.

  On a warm and breezy afternoon, as the sun traveled its path in a clear blue sky, Cager’s life as he knew it ended. While he sat at a small table, drinking ale with his in-laws, an eerie audial tapestry of agonizing cries heralded the forthcoming misfortune. For a long time, he simply existed. He breathed. He woke. He slept. He occupied a space and nothing more, and he was happy.

  At least, he told himself he was happy.

  When he entered the kitchen, he found Francie on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, and he admired her round bottom, which always put him in a good mood. “Well, well. What have we here?”

  “Mr. Tyne, if you track dirt on my clean floor, I shall not be held responsible for my actions.” Sitting on her ankles, she wiped her brow. “Has Mrs. Cavalier come downstairs? I need to inquire after the menu.”

  “She is in the study.” When she dropped her brush in the bucket, and stood, he added, “But you would be wise not to bother her just now.”

  “Why not?” She cast an expression of confusion, until a telltale melody, composed of Jean Marc’s guttural grunts and Madalene’s gasps of pleasure, shattered the quiet. Slowly, Cager grinned, and her cheeks sported her characteristic blush. “Oh.”

  ~

  After an hour of physical labor, under the intense and ever frustrating scrutiny of Mr. Tyne, in rhythm to the awkward passion song composed by Mr. and Mrs. Cavalier, as Francie endeavored to remove a stain from the floor, she at last yielded the trivial battle.

  “Mr. Tyne, stop staring at me, and do you not have some work to be about?” Drying her hands on her apron, she snickered. “Is there not some poor, misguided, and gullible innocent to be deluded and seduced by a questionable character such as yourself?”

  “You tell me.” He winked, an annoying habit that made her want to scream. “How am I doing, so far?”

  “I am too wise to tangle with you, sir, but you know that.” After emptying the bucket, she stowed it in a cupboard. “Are there not countless other unsuspecting young ladies from which to choose, in Boston?”

  “There are, indeed.” To her chagrin, the shameless pirate grinned. “But you are the only one who refuses me, and I find you an irresistible challenge.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Then it occurred to her that he saw her as naught more than a provocation. “How dare you reduce me to some sort of hill to be climbed or a mare to be broken, as I am much more, sir.”

  “Then have dinner with me.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps, we might take an evening stroll along Newbury Street?”

  “No.”

  “I would endure a tea room for the pleasure of your company.”

  “No.”

  “Why will you not give me a chance, dear Francie?” The charming sea captain cast a mock pout. “What have you to lose?”

  “As I have repeatedly reminded you, it is Ms. Osborne to you. And in answer to your question, because I am not as ignorant as you look.” Adopting a posture that bespoke long-suffering forbearance, she sniffed. “And my self-respect, Mr. Tyne.”

  “Ah, I love your saucy tongue, and what I would do with it, delicate Francie.” Given his bold declaration, she gasped in shock and stomped a foot, and Cager laughed at her. “Forget the dinner, the walk, and the tea. Marry me, Francie.”

  Now she had him just where she wanted him.

  “All right.” In the blink of an eye, she altered her attitude, that she might upend the cocky swashbuckler, once and for all. “Have you a ring, because I have the perfect gown, which my mother wore when she wed my father? And what date do you prefer? For myself, I have always favored an October wedding.” She stuck her tongue in her cheek, because never would she consider Cager husband material, but he knew it not, as he blanched. “Are you unwell, Mr. Tyne, as you are quite pale? Should I summon a doctor, after I inform Mr. and Mrs. Cavalier of our impending nuptials?”

  “Uh—I was not serious, Miss Osborne.” At last, he addressed her formally, and she set the bawdy buccaneer on his heels, as he opened and then closed his mouth. “However, as I have said before, we could have fun, you and I.”

  “Poor Mr. Tyne. I marvel that you ever survived infancy.” Shaking her head, she tsked. “I had thought that, since you fancy yourself a gambling man, you knew the first rule of speculation. Has no one ever taught you that you should never wager that which you are not prepared to surrender?” Drawing herself up with unfettered confidence, she lifted her chin. “And I suppose I could agree with you, about us, but then we would both be mistaken, and where is the logic in that?”

  “Bloody hell, but you are a fiery chit.” In that instant, he slapped his thigh and roared with unhinged mirth. “Come on, Francie. Insult me, again.”

  “Oh.” Resting fists on hips, she humphed. “You, sir, are incorrigible, and I am truly envious of those who have yet to make your acquaintance.”

  With that, she ran into the entry hall, just as Mr. and Mrs. Cavalier emerged from the study. Wearing Jean Marc’s coat, for some inexplicable reason, given it was a warm day; Madalene glanced at Francie and waved a summons.

  “Francie, I require your assistance in my chambers, as I had a small accident with my gown.” Jean Marc snorted, and Madalene kissed him. “You owe me a new dress, my savage husband.”

  “I shall buy you twenty to replace that one, Mon Chou. But I submit I am not to blame, as I could never resist you, especially when you entice me.” As was his ribald way, he smacked her on the bottom, in full view of Francie. “Now let me finish my business with Cager, that I might resume the begetting of our second babe, this evening.”

  Trailing in Madalene’s wake, Francie noted the torn hem, the tattered lace, and the ripped skirt of Mrs. Cavalier’s attire, as they climbed the stairs, and she vowed to cast a protection spell, to prevent Jean Marc from inflicting injury on the kind-hearted lady.

  As a child of nature, just like her father and a long line of Osbornes, Francie drew power from the worldly elements. While many would call her by a word that invoked naught but fear and violence, she refused to color her history or her magick with such a dark legacy that included ignorant mobs, mass hysteria, and innocent women burned at the stake.

  In the confines of the master suite, Mrs. Cavalier shed her husband’s coat, and Francie gasped in horror.

  “Oh, gentle lady, what did that brute do to you?” Just as quick, she checked her tone. “My apologies, ma’am. It is not my place to cast aspersions on Mr. Cavalier, but I fret for your safety when I see you like this.”

  “Upon my word, Francie, but you make something of nothing, because my husband would never hurt me.” Assessing her disheveled appearance, in the long mirror, Madalene toyed with a destroyed sleeve and giggled. “Indeed, I intentionally provoked Jean Marc, and he did not disappoint me.” She shimmied, and the remnants of the frock dr
opped to the floor, revealing a similarly ruined chemise. “If I have my way, and all goes according to plan, I should be with child before the end of the summer, and I will give him the son he so desperately desires.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Francie collected the spoiled bits of material, as Madalene drew a fresh gown from the armoire. “Do you mean to say you want to be ravished?”

  “By my husband?” Madalene pulled a new slip over her shoulders, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Oh, yes.”

  “But—I do not understand.” When the mistress sat at her vanity, Francie assumed a position at the rear and set her palms to Madalene’s shoulders. To Francie’s surprise, she sensed naught but contentment and love, and she blurted, “You are happy.”

  “More than I ever thought possible.” Madalene averted her gaze and cast a wistful expression. “It is strange how a seemingly minute decision can alter your destiny, is it not? When I look back on my life, I never imagined I would marry a pirate. But I never expected my father would hire someone to kill me, to claim the Crawford fortune.” She half-turned in the chair and clasped Francie’s hand. “When Jean Marc plucked me from that burning ship, he saved me, in more ways than one. When we arrived in Port Royal, he let me go, in the misguided belief that he did not deserve me and that I was better off without him. When he discovered my father’s vile plot, Jean Marc conspired to rescue me. When he could have sailed the ocean blue, free and clear, he remained by my side, gave testimony on my behalf, and defeated my father, but in the process Jean Marc was imprisoned. He had so many opportunities to abandon me, but he stayed, so I shall labor to give him everything I own, if only to keep the mischievous smile on his scarred but beautiful face.”

  “I have misjudged him, ma’am, and I am more sorry than I can say.” Ashamed, Francie bowed her head. “But I am a novice when it comes to the relationship between a man and a woman.”

  “So I gather.” Madalene arched a brow. “Are you as interested in Cager as he is in you?”

  “You know about that?” If Mr. Tyne made false claims against Francie, she might be moved to barbarity. “Let me assure you, I would never bring shame upon this family, by enacting a casual relationship I would, no doubt, live to regret, as Mr. Tyne is not serious in his attachments.”

  “I know he pursues you.” Madalene stood and pulled on a modest yellow frock, which Francie laced. “Whatever Cager wants you to believe, he is a good man with a tragic past, but it is not for me to share it.”

  “Worry not about me, ma’am.” Francie fetched a matching pair of slippers. “I have no time to waste on easy friendships.”

  A knock at the door brought Francie alert.

  “Come.” Madalene collected a pair of coordinating ear bobs and peered at the entry.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Hazel, the grey-haired nanny curtseyed. “I would not disturb you, but I fear Miss Patience may be ill.”

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER THREE

  The somber cries of a sick baby echoed through the house, as Cager stood in the hallway. The door to the nursery sat ajar, and he peered inside, as the doctor examined the child. Pacing near the window, Jean Marc resembled a caged animal, and his unrest struck too close to home for Cager, because he understood too well the torment his friend endured.

  Of course, Cager’s babe never made a sound. Never called to its mother. Never had a chance to know the world.

  Little Patience wailed, and he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Tyne?” To his left, Francie lingered. In an astonishing act of familiarity, given her usual reticence, she grasped his wrist and squeezed, as she held his gaze. Lost in her clear baby blues, he did not resist her, and a strange sense of calm soothed his raw nerves. “Why, you are in pain.” She furrowed her brow and twined her fingers in his. “So much pain. What is it? What happened?”

  “How could you possibly know?” While he admired her attempts to offer comfort, he needed his pain. He thrived on it. The dull ache, ever present in his chest, functioned as a haunting and cautionary reminder to maintain his distance. To guard his heart.

  “Do not try to decipher my wounds, fair Francie.” With a deep breath, he summoned the rake persona that served his purpose. “I have no use for your pity, as there is only one thing I want from you.”

  “You are afraid of me.” Her pronouncement, stark in its simplicity, shook him to his core, given her accuracy, and he wrenched free. “Why do you withdraw? I know we have not enjoyed an amicable acquaintance, but I wish you no harm. Indeed, ours is but playful bantering between two stubborn souls, naught more.”

  Just then, Dr. Gideon emerged from the nursery and checked his timepiece. “Mrs. Cavalier, Patience appears to have contracted an infectious fever, and I would limit her visitors until she is fully recovered, as the illness could prove fatal.”

  “Jean Marc.” Madalene sobbed and collapsed against her husband. “What can we do?”

  “Tell us what you require, and we will do it.” Jean Marc bared his teeth. “I will do anything to save my princess.”

  “Replace the sheets, every day, with fresh linens.” Dr. Gideon rubbed his forehead. “I prescribed a tonic, which I gave to the nanny. Nurse Patience, as necessary, but do not force her. And wake her, every two hours, to ensure she remains conscious. If her condition worsens, summon me, posthaste.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Jean Marc shook hands with the physician. “We appreciate you coming so quickly. Permit me to show you to the door.”

  “All right, everyone.” Madalene clapped her hands. “Francie, fetch fresh linens. Nanny Hazel, if you will, help me remove the bedding.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” The bespectacled, grey-hair woman dipped her chin and turned to Cager. “Here, Mr. Tyne. Hold our princess.”

  And into his care she thrust the baby.

  The world seemed to tilt on edge, and the floor shifted and swayed, as never had he held the child, but it was not because he disliked Patience. Rather, it was because he adored her, and she reminded him of what might have been, had his babe survived. She evoked all that he lost.

  His ears rang, his pulse raced, and he feared he might faint dead away. Backing into the wall, he gasped for breath, and just as he thought he might drop Patience, Francie came to the rescue.”

  “Let me take her, Mr. Tyne.” With no time to spare, she seized the child, and he dropped his arms to his sides. “Why do you not go downstairs, as I made a pitcher of lemonade, and it is quite refreshing, sir.” Then she caught him by the wrist. “I will join you, shortly.”

  Puzzled by her cryptic comment, given she never willingly, much less purposely, associated with him, he simply turned on a heel and headed downstairs. In the entry hall, he met Jean Marc.

  “Mon ami, are you ill?” Cavalier frowned and steadied Cager. “What is it? Is my princess worse?”

  “Do not worry, as she is the same.” Then Cager stumbled backwards, as the twisted cries of a babe echoed all about him. “But I cannot help, old friend. This hits too close to home, and I cannot be a part of her recovery.”

  “I understand.” Jean Marc clutched Cager by the forearm.

  “No, you do not.” As tears welled in his eyes, Cager retreated. “But I would not wish that pain on you, for anything in the world. Now go take care of your wife and child, because they need you.”

  As Jean Marc ascended the stairs, two at a time, Cager made for the study and brandy. At a side table, he lifted the elegant crystal decanter, removed the stopper, poured himself a healthy portion, drained the glass, and repeated the maneuver twice more. When the liquid consolation yielded no respite from the agony twisting his guts, he marched to the kitchen, bent forward, pounded his fists on the tabletop, and focused on the arduous task of inhaling and exhaling.

  “Mr. Tyne, may I be of service?” Francie inquired, in a small voice.

  Oh, yes.

  Without warning, he leveled his gaze on his unsuspecting
prey. With shoulders squared, he charged, and she had no time to deflect his approach. Pushing her against the wall, he set his lips to hers and sought a measure of solace in uncontained lust. After all, it was his remedy, of choice.

  That was why he pursued short-heeled lasses. Not because he preferred easy attachments and meaningless gratification. In truth, passion offered a brief respite, however cursory, from the misery that surrounded his every moment. Rooted in fear, that agony imprisoned him in a hell of his own making, and never again would he wager on love.

  Yet, as he plunged his tongue into the sweet and warm enclave of Francie’s mouth, something sparked between them. Something elusive but substantial in intensity. The subtle veil, delicate but iron-like in its grip, enveloped them, as he wrapped his arms about her waist and softened their kiss.

  Francie was the sweetest morsel Cager had ever tasted.

  Unrelenting passion swirled and soared, fanning the flames of unquenchable desire, and carrying him on a tempting journey, with the promise of untold pleasures as his reward. It was the power of their exchange that beckoned a warning, in the quiet confines of his brain, and he drew up short.

  An expression of shock marked Francie’s face, as she touched a finger to her swollen lips, and he expected her to slap him, as it was nothing less than he deserved, given his unforgivable behavior. Instead, she did nothing.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he shuffled his feet. “I apologize, Francie.”

  Still, she said naught.

  At last, she pushed past him, hiked her skirts, and ran into the garden. Concerned for her emotional state, he followed at a discreet distance.

  While she navigated the pebbled path, he stayed on the grassy verge. At one of the large oaks, she paused and hugged the tree trunk, which puzzled him. Fascinated, he trailed in her wake, as she continued to the huge willow.

  As he hunkered behind a thick holly, she pulled the pale pink ribbon from her blond hair and tied it to one of the branches. Then she stepped back, turned her palms to the sky, and said, “Oh, Great Mother, my heart is protected. I will not be tempted by Cager Tyne.”