A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella

by Anna Campbell

  Published by Anna Campbell

  Copyright 2015 Anna Campbell

  Cover Design: © Hang Le

  ISBN: 978-0-9863160-8-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems - except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews - without permission in writing from the author, Anna Campbell. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Her Christmas Earl

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Penton Wyck, Northumberland, December 1822

  It all started with the donkey.

  In search of the star performer in the Christmas Eve play, Bess Farrar presented herself on Penton Abbey’s doorstep. A cutting wind whistled around her and the promise of snow tinged the air. She stamped her feet in their half-boots to restore some feeling to her toes.

  As she waited an unacceptably long time for someone to answer her knock, she huddled into her coat and cursed landlords who took up residence in a community, then proceeded to ignore their obligations. The nativity celebrations were a longstanding tradition in Penton Wyck. Just as longstanding was the tradition that the lord of the manor provided the donkey.

  The new earl wasn’t going to wriggle out of his duty just by playing hard to get. Not if she had anything to say about it. And she certainly did.

  Sighing, she stared up at the Abbey’s impressive Elizabethan façade, noting the signs of neglect on the golden stone. How sad to see the beautiful old house so unloved. Everyone in the village had hoped that the new Lord Channing might be more vigorous and engaged in local life than the last. So far, indications were that he’d prove even less effective than his late brother, whose good intentions had fallen victim to lifelong ill health.

  A pity that the new earl promised to be a disappointment. But what could one expect of a man reputed to be a pirate? And a Scottish one at that.

  Eventually the heavy door inched open and bespectacled eyes peered out from the shadows. “His lordship isn’t at home.”

  “Good afternoon.” She straightened her shoulders and fixed the man with the gimlet stare that always brought recalcitrant parishioners into line. “My name is Elizabeth Farrar. My father is the vicar of St. Martin’s.”

  As his lordship would know if he took the trouble to show his face in church.

  Strangely, her introduction appeared to puzzle the man, who wasn’t a butler. His lordship was yet to employ any indoor staff. Another bone she had to pick with him. Many village livelihoods relied on finding work at the Abbey, and there had been hardship since the previous earl had moved to Italy for the sake of his health.

  “You’re Miss Farrar?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her.

  “Yes.”

  “Um, good afternoon. And his lordship still isn’t home.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “He’s not expected back today.”

  Because young Will Potts worked in the stables and passed on any news about doings at the Abbey, she knew that was a lie. She glued a polite smile to her face, and kept her tone steady but determined. “I’d still like to wait.”

  The man, whoever he was, proved no more immune to that purposeful tone than the villagers. The heavy door gave a gothic creak as it eased fully open.

  “Then please come in.” His words were more welcoming than his tone.

  On this gloomy afternoon, the great hall was dark and comfortless, and almost as cold as the front step. Nobody setting foot in this frigid stone cavern, barren of all decoration, would guess that Christmas was only a week away. “Surely his lordship wants a fire. This place is like a tomb.”

  The tall man in glasses and shirtsleeves was reed thin and looked like he needed a good meal. That’s what came of failing to hire a cook, Bess wanted to tell him—and his absent master.

  He swallowed until his Adam’s apple bobbed. “His lordship isn’t here, I told you.”

  “I hope he returns before I freeze into a block of ice.” She subsided onto one of two carved oak chairs set against the wall. The hall was mostly devoid of furniture, and in the dull light, the tall windows with their stained glass panels appeared more funereal than heraldic.

  “If you leave a note, I promise to deliver it.”

  Her lips firmed as she shifted to find a comfortable spot on the unforgiving seat. The noble Earl of Channing didn’t want visitors settling in. Indications were that he didn’t want visitors at all.

  Too bad for the noble Earl of Channing.

  “So he can ignore it, the way he’s ignored my other correspondence?” she asked sweetly.

  The studious-looking man avoided her eyes. “His lordship has been busy since taking over, Miss Farrar.”

  Bess glanced around the dusty, empty room. “Not with domestic matters.”

  “His lordship—”

  His lordship stormed in.

  At least Bess assumed that the disheveled auburn-haired man who crashed through the door at the other end of the hall must be Penton Abbey’s elusive new master. He stalked past her, brandishing a sheaf of papers.

  “That blasted Farrar besom is hounding me again, Ned. I thought I asked you to put her off.” His Scottish brogue added an exotic edge to his heated remarks.

  He didn’t see her as his long stride ate up the tiled floor. It would be hard to make out an army in this gloom, especially with the sky darkening for snow.

  “Rory, for heaven’s sake,” the other man stammered, casting Bess an embarrassed glance.

  Bess stood and performed a perfunctory curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  He turned on her. He was as tall as his friend, but much more heavily muscled. A more formidable character altogether, she could already tell. “Just who the devil are you?”

  She permitted herself a cool smile. “I believe I’m the blasted Farrar besom.”

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, staring at her thunderstruck. He looked as shocked as if one of these iron-hard oak chairs had stood up, bowed and asked him to dance.

  She paused to take stock of the new lord of the manor. The previous earl, his brother, had died six months ago, and had been abroad for two years before that. Since his demise, tattle had run rife about Rory Beaton, the heir. Confused stories about a licentious rapscallion who had led a lawless life sailing the world’s oceans.

  Surveying him now, Bess was inclined to trust to rumor. From his ruffled red hair to his large booted feet, he was every inch a man who commanded the stage. Even more buccaneerish were the brilliant green eyes with their spark of devilry.

&n
bsp; Never had she encountered anyone who so precisely fitted her image of a pirate, a wicked seducer, and a reckless adventurer.

  She’d spent her life in peaceful Penton Wyck. It was perfectly natural that her heart should skip a beat in the presence of a notorious rascal.

  Or so she told herself as she raised her chin and stared his lordship down. Which, to her annoyance, was more difficult than usual. She was a tall woman, but the new earl towered over her in a most disconcerting fashion.

  Also disconcerting was his casual arrogance. Not to mention those flashing good looks.

  “Manners must be at a premium north of the border,” she said softly, even as she reminded herself it would be more politic to butter him up.

  Her starchy remark made his long, expressive mouth twitch. “If you inveigle yourself into my house uninvited, lassie, you must put up with what you get.”

  “Rory…” the other man bleated.

  Channing arched one sardonic red-brown brow in his direction. “Don’t you have some letters to write?”

  The man flushed, but to his credit stood his ground. “I would hate nasty gossip to spoil your arrival at Penton.”

  Too late for that, Bess could have told them. The villagers weren’t far off locking up their daughters and calling in the militia.

  Another twitch of the earl’s intriguing mouth. Despite everything, that hint of laughter fascinated Bess. Even if she knew quite well that he was laughing at her.

  “No need to beat around the bush, Ned. You fear for this lady’s safety once you’re out of sight.”

  “Should he?” she asked, suppressing the urge to inform his lordship that she was more than a match for any scurvy Scot, pirate or not.

  When those deep-set eyes settled on her, she shivered. With nervousness that made a mockery of her brave words. And with something else she couldn’t quite identify.

  “I could eat you up in one bite and nobody could stop me.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. “I’d stick in your neck.”

  To her surprise, he laughed with unfettered appreciation. The joyous sound echoed off the bare stone walls as he flung the papers onto an ancient chest against the wall. A glance revealed that they were the letters she’d written since he’d arrived a month ago. “Aye, you might, at that.”

  “Rory, I must protest,” Ned said stalwartly.

  Channing ran his hand through his thick russet hair and regarded his lanky offsider with impatience. “Och, be off with you, laddie. The lady’s safe and she knows it. And so is her reputation. This is the country. We can talk a wee while without setting every tongue in the village wagging.” He paused. “Anyway, who’s to know?”

  “His lordship can be difficult,” the man said, turning to her apologetically. “Perhaps it would be better if you called another time.”

  Bess, who, despite everything, was enjoying this unconventional encounter, smiled. It was much more fun doing battle with his lordship in person than via reams of disregarded letters. “Why would I want to do that, Mr.—”

  “White, Miss Farrar. Edward White.” He bowed with a politeness so far lacking in the earl. “I’m his lordship‘s secretary.”

  “And butler and cook and bailiff. And shipmate of twenty years. It’s a good thing you’re so deuced indispensable, or I mightn’t take kindly to you hovering like an old woman.”

  “It’s taken me four weeks to lay eyes on Lord Channing,” she said calmly. “Now I’ve got him at my mercy, wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  “Bravo, Miss Farrar,” Channing said drily. “Perhaps you’ll join me in the library.” He gestured with one long-fingered hand toward the door he’d burst through. “You clearly have plenty to say. I’d prefer to avoid freezing to death while you harangue me.”

  “How impressively cooperative, my lord.” She matched his tone as she preceded him through the corridor and into the library. The room was bereft of books, but at least contained a desk, some seating, and a fire.

  She looked at the cobwebbed shelves in dismay. “I had no idea the house was so neglected. Although given that any remaining staff were dismissed six months ago, I should have guessed.”

  Channing crossed to pour a brandy from the decanter on the desk. He raised the decanter in her direction. “You?”

  She muffled a huff of laughter. If he thought his unorthodox behavior would deter her, he was due for disappointment. “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll have to get some good whisky down from Speyside.” He took his drink and wandered across to the fire with a restlessness that stirred the air. There was something breathtakingly compelling about the new earl. A crackle of energy that Bess only now realized had been missing from her life. “Did you know my brother?”

  “This is a small community, my lord. Of course I did. He was in poor health in recent years.”

  “He let the house go to rack and ruin.”

  “Before he left for Italy, he was a good landlord and very conscientious about caring for the villagers.”

  “I’m guessing you made sure he was.”

  She didn’t answer. Even if it was true. With her father lost in dreams of Byzantium and the earl an invalid, someone had to stand up for the locals. “My condolences on his death.”

  Channing shrugged. “I didn’t know him. My mother took me away from Penton Wyck as a wee bairn, and after my father died, married a Scotsman with four daughters. She never set foot in England again. George was fifteen years older than me and a real Sassenach. He had little use for his barbarous northern relations.”

  Bess frowned. Growing up, she’d heard about the runaway countess. But Lord Channing’s prosaic explanation brought home the bitterly unhappy family history behind the old scandal.

  Perhaps this troubled background explained the earl’s wildness. It certainly explained why he sounded like he should wear a kilt, even if right now he was dressed plainly if untidily in breeches and a dark blue coat.

  “I’m sure even in the Highlands, a man knows enough to hire a few servants when he moves into a house this size.”

  “I’ve taken on the important ones.”

  “The grooms, you mean?”

  He shrugged again and gestured her toward a shabby leather sofa. “Aye. The horses take priority. Ned and I can rough it until we discover the lay of the land.”

  Gingerly she sat, then sneezed at the cloud of dust that exploded around her. “Roughing it…” She added ironic weight to the words. “..hardly befits your dignity as Earl of Channing, though, does it? You need to set a standard.”

  He propped one hip on the large mahogany desk covered in papers and regarded her unwaveringly. “You see? That’s why you surprised me, Miss Farrar.”

  “Because I’m bold enough to point out your duty?” She made herself meet his eyes, while some silly feminine part of her wanted to giggle and blush and flutter her eyelashes.

  She was too old for such nonsense. Sternly she told herself that sin always came disguised as beauty. That was how it lured you in. But in the stark gray light through the window at his back, Lord Channing was the most spectacular man she’d ever beheld in all her admittedly sheltered twenty-six years.

  He shook his head and picked up a silver paperknife which he passed idly from one elegant hand to the other. “No, because from the tone of your letters, I expected a worthy spinster of fifty. Not the prettiest girl in the village.”

  “The prettiest…” She shut her mouth with a snap. What on earth? Could he be flirting with her? Nobody flirted with her. Everyone was too busy awaiting her instructions. Between the late Lord Channing’s ill health and her father’s position of authority—a position he blithely disregarded—she’d become Penton’s guiding hand. “You’re trying to turn me up sweet, my lord. Shame on you.”

  Another half-smile. The part of her that most assuredly wasn’t an old maid burned to see him smile properly. “A wee bit of sugar always sweetens relations, Miss Farrar. A lesson that wouldn’t go astray when you lay dow
n the law to your betters.”

  Her momentary softening after his compliment vanished. “You’re not my better.”

  He laughed softly and stood. “In every sense except the most worldly, that is undoubtedly true. But a month of nagging was more likely to make me ignore you than do your bidding.”

  Nagging? The hide of the man. She gritted her teeth and struggled to sound polite. “I thought you’d appreciate some advice about local matters.”

  His eyes creased with wry amusement. Still no smile. And she’d dearly love to see him smile. “No, you thought you’d run me the way you ran my brother—and it’s not going to happen.”

  “When you’re obviously doing so brilliantly on your own,” she responded tartly, gesturing around the disorderly room with eloquent derision.

  “You are the damnedest lassie, Miss Farrar.”

  His open admiration touched the same foolish patch of her heart that had warmed to hearing him call her pretty. “Language, my lord.”

  “Why should I mind my manners? You’ve hardly been a model of decorum.”

  She blushed—with mortification, not suppressed attraction. Curse him. He was right. Her father would be appalled to hear her. But then, her father’s soul was gentle and meek. Nobody had ever used either word to describe her. On the other hand, her father would dither and do nothing while the world collapsed about him.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said stiffly.

  “Now, don’t go all missish on me. Our frank exchange of views is a refreshing change from the usual English mealy-mouthed rot.” To her alarm, he came and sat beside her. The sofa had plenty of room for two. But Channing’s robust personality made Bess feel as though he encroached too close. Nervously, she edged away.

  She prepared to remind him that he had obligations, but that wasn’t what emerged. “How do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  Her cheeks were on fire. “That I’m the…prettiest girl in the village. You haven’t set foot in Penton Wyck.”

  “I’ve clearly been remiss, if you’re an example of the views I’d take in from the high street. I’m sure people must come from miles around to catch a glimpse of the lovely local scenery.”