A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella

by Anna Campbell

  She couldn’t be further removed from the delicate beauties who had clustered around him when he’d dropped in on London, freshly in possession of his title. He’d been cynical enough to note that ladies who might flirt with a younger son had much more serious plans for a rich, unmarried earl. Not that he’d lacked for gold even before inheriting. He’d taken enough prizes on the high seas to set himself up very nicely indeed.

  “How I need your help.”

  “I can look into finding you a good housekeeper, too.”

  “You’re the only person I’ll trust the house to.” He drew in a lungful of winter air and caught her scent. Lavender and lemon. Slightly astringent. Like her. With a base note of sweet honey. Again like her.

  The path took them through wintry woods. Dead leaves crackled beneath their boots and bare trees stretched their branches to the pewter sky. When she turned to study him, the shadowy light turned her into a creature of beguiling mystery. “I’m not sure.”

  It was better than a no. Especially when he still touched her.

  He drew her to a stop. “Can I do something for you in return? A new roof for the church? Repairs to the vicarage?”

  “No, thank you. Your brother kept everything in good order.”

  Again his saintly brother. The laddie seemed never to have put a foot wrong. “Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to help me?”

  “Actually…”

  “Aye?”

  She sent him a quick smile. “You might be sorry you asked.”

  Rory had an inkling that she might be right. On the other hand, when she set up the house, she’d be under his feet and ripe for courting. She wasn’t quite as ahead of him as she imagined. “Try me.”

  “You can reinstate the village Christmas party.”

  He regarded her steadily. “That means getting the house into fit state in a hurry.”

  “Only the public rooms. Just the great hall really.”

  “Aye, very well. I agree.”

  His swift capitulation obviously surprised her. “I haven’t finished yet.”

  He’d had a feeling there might be more. Nothing he’d seen so far indicated that she was an easy mark. Although he still held her arm and that had proven simpler than he’d expected. “What else?”

  “Joseph from the play has broken his leg.”

  Hell’s bells. Theatricals had never been his forte. As a lad before he’d gone to sea, his stepsisters in Edinburgh had loved to dress up and playact. He’d preferred to be outside riding or playing a rough game of football. “Joseph?”

  ”Yes.” She shrugged. “If you feel it’s beneath your dignity—”

  He snorted. “Anyone who’s been a midshipman gets all notions of dignity knocked out of him quick smart.”

  Her brilliant smile made his foolish heart leap like a salmon up a Highland burn. “So you’ll do it?”

  “Aye, if you promise to bring my house up to scratch and run this Christmas party—and never send me another letter.”

  “Thank you!” For a moment, he thought she might hug him, but unfortunately, she thought better of it. She regarded him thoughtfully as they continued along the path. “I hope you’ll help me with the house.”

  “If I must,” he said, hiding his glee. Days in Miss Farrar’s company. Days to convince her he’d make a deuced fine husband. And all he had to do was put on Christmas dinner for a lot of rustics.

  “Excellent.”

  “Who’s playing Mary?”

  She met his eyes and at last noticed that they were arm in arm. With a fluster that hinted she was unused to the wiles of determined gentlemen, she pulled free. “I am.”

  Marvelous. “Then I’d better make sure I have the measure of this elusive donkey.”

  They emerged into a wide field with a burn running through it. A post and rail fence separated the wood from the meadow. In the distance, an open byre sheltered a wee black donkey.

  “Stay here,” Miss Farrar said, placing a hand on his arm. “Daisy can be skittish after she’s been left to her own devices.”

  He liked that she touched him so unselfconsciously. “Still giving orders, Miss Farrar?”

  She cast him an unimpressed glance. “It’s for your own good. She bites.”

  So do I. “I bow to your local knowledge.”

  He leaned on the gate and watched as Miss Farrar slowly crossed the grass in Daisy’s direction. With seeming docility, the donkey turned to observe her approach. Then when Miss Farrar was a matter of feet away, she trotted out of the byre.

  Miss Farrar paused to lift a halter from a hook before she went in pursuit. Again the donkey waited until Miss Farrar was near enough to catch her before she kicked out her hind legs and veered toward Rory. Rory was no expert on donkeys, but it looked to him like Daisy was having a good laugh at Miss Farrar’s expense.

  Miss Farrar followed with a dogged patience that indicated this game was nothing new. The donkey’s ears moved backward and forward, but only when she was almost upon him did he realize that he could hear singing.

  And it was a song he knew well.

  “Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves. Britons never, never, never will be slaves.”

  Rory burst into laughter. “Really?”

  Unfortunately his hilarity startled Daisy and she skipped away.

  “Head her off!” Miss Farrar shouted from behind her.

  He dived into Daisy’s path, but she easily avoided him. “She’s a slippery devil.”

  “Sing to her. She likes that.”

  He cast the madcap lassie a doubtful glance. “Not from what I can see.”

  “Try.”

  Miss Farrar looked enchanting. Cold air and exercise lent color to her cheeks and a shine to her eyes. No red-blooded male would miss how gracefully she moved after this she-demon disguised as a donkey.

  “Another order.”

  Miss Farrar forgot herself enough to growl. “Please.”

  He hid a smile and joined her in the patriotic song. Miss Farrar had a pretty voice, a true soprano with a husky edge that heated his blood in defiance of the frigid air. Their voices mingled in a way he hoped foretold another harmonious joining in the future.

  For several eventful minutes—Britannia became less robust by the second—they attempted to corner Daisy. But she was too clever to let them back her against the fence.

  Pausing to catch his breath, Rory regarded the donkey with dislike. “She’s playing with us.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “I’ll buy you another donkey.”

  “That’s silly.” Miss Farrar sent him the same impatient look he’d given the donkey. “It just takes persistence.”

  “And singing.”

  “And singing.”

  “She doesn’t approve of my performance.”

  “She’s just getting your measure.”

  “I’ve got hers. And I don’t think we should unleash this ruffian on my village.”

  He stopped, shocked. Well, what did you know? Every day since inheriting, he’d felt like an interloper. He’d never before referred to Penton Wyck as his. Perhaps, thanks to Miss Farrar, he became reconciled to this earl lark.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to let a mere domestic animal defeat you, my lord. Surely a pirate has more spirit.”

  He really had to set Miss Farrar straight on the whole pirate thing. But before he could speak, Daisy made a sudden dash for the other end of the field. By the time he’d caught up with her, he had no breath for anything but muffled curses. This last month of living as a landlubber had made him soft.

  “God rest ye merry, gentlemen,” Miss Farrar trilled, approaching Daisy with the halter hidden behind her back. Rory wasn’t convinced the singing had any effect on the evil beast, but while the song held her attention, he stealthily advanced from the other side. The donkey was closer to a corner than they’d yet managed. At the last minute, he spread his arms and gave a loud halloo. The donkey started and lost her bearings enough to
back away.

  “Well done, Lord Channing,” Miss Farrar said, then resumed singing as she closed in on the donkey crushed against the hedgerow. “Now sing.”

  “Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.”

  Daisy retreated.

  Rory edged closer.

  Daisy dodged, but he cut off her escape.

  “Watch out, she—”

  “Bites.” He jerked out of reach just in time to avoid those large teeth sinking into his arm. But there was a new rip in his greatcoat. “Are you sure she won’t run amok among law-abiding citizens?”

  “She likes the play. She knows she’s the favorite.” Miss Farrar took advantage of Daisy’s attack on Rory to slip the halter over her head.

  To Rory’s surprise, the donkey stood calmly as Miss Farrar caught the lead. “You exaggerate the complexity of her thought processes.”

  “You’ll learn.” Miss Farrar led Daisy toward the gate. “I’d advise you not to underestimate her. After all, Joseph is responsible for her on the day.”

  He rolled his eyes as he followed. “God save me.”

  When he met Daisy’s knowing brown glance, he wondered if Miss Farrar was right about the donkey being a criminal mastermind. Right now, she looked as sweet as sugar, and he almost believed it, until he remembered the chase she’d led them.

  His thoughts focused on chasing a prize much more interesting than a cantankerous donkey. His gaze settled on Miss Farrar.

  Elizabeth.

  Bess.

  No great chore. She was lovely in her odd assortment of clothing and her muddy boots. Running around the field, she’d lost her scarf. The exercise had loosened her hair and curling blond tendrils framed her vivid face.

  Rory opened the gate and stood back to let Bess and Daisy go through ahead of him. “Although I don’t believe we’ve settled terms for her use.”

  Bess fixed startled dark blue eyes on him. “What do you mean? We always use Daisy. It’s tradition.”

  A rascally smile stretched his lips as he shut the gate. “Aye, but now there’s a new hand on the tiller at Penton Abbey—or had you forgotten?”

  “But…you helped to catch her. And if you don’t let us have her, everyone will be so disappointed.” Her voice firmed. “It will make a bad impression.”

  “I wanted to see her to work out what she’s worth.”

  Bess brightened. “Are you offering to sell her? I’m sure we can set a price.”

  He propped his back against the fence and folded his arms. “Not sell, rent.”

  She frowned. “How much?”

  Without shifting his attention from Bess, he hooked the heel of his boot on the fence’s lowest rail. “Not how much, what.”

  She looked distinctly uneasy. Again he applauded her instincts. “You’re being cursed enigmatic, my lord.”

  “I’m merely negotiating fair hire for this magnificent animal, Miss Farrar.”

  Bess looked doubtfully at the small donkey, muddy and unkempt after living outside all summer. “And what might that be?”

  “Nothing too ruinous.” Wicked triumph flooded him as he stared unblinkingly at Bess. “One wee kiss, and Daisy is yours for the play.”

  Chapter Three

  “K-kiss me?” Bess stammered, staring aghast at the handsome, confident man slouched elegantly in front of her. She was so shocked that she forgot to hold on to Daisy, but luckily Lord Channing had his wits about him and caught her before she scarpered.

  “Aye, that’s what I said,” he told her calmly, as if he was a civilized man and not a wicked rake. Because surely only wicked rakes went around kissing ladies they hardly knew.

  “The gossip was right,” she muttered, too rattled to mind her tongue.

  “That I’m an opportunist?”

  “That you’re a…a libertine.”

  His low laugh sent seductive music rippling across her skin. “Good Lord, it seems I’ve provided the locals with plenty of entertainment even before I play Joseph.”

  “Which doesn’t mean this particular local has to provide entertainment for you, my lord.”

  Channing plastered a regretful expression on his face. “Of course you don’t. Please forgive me for asking.” He turned to open the gate and started to lead Daisy back the way they’d come.

  “Where are you going?” Bess asked, bewildered.

  “I’m putting Daisy back in her field. I’m sure you’ll find another donkey. At a pinch, a pony will fit the bill.”

  Bess caught a growl behind her teeth. She’d known Lord Channing an afternoon, and already he counted as the most provoking person she’d ever met. Her hands clenched in the greatcoat’s voluminous pockets as she stared after his retreating back.

  He’d taken another ten steps before she spoke. “I didn’t say no.”

  He pulled Daisy up and turned to face Bess. “You didn’t say yes.”

  “You startled me. I’m not used to rogues demanding my favors in return for agreeing to perfectly reasonable requests.”

  His smile was careless. “I’m so pleased that I’m broadening your horizons.”

  His insouciant air ruffled her temper. He was obviously used to kissing women at the drop of a hat. She couldn’t be nearly so casual about the idea, even if she’d wager he knew how to kiss a girl until he filled her dreams. “You’re proving yourself worthy of your reputation.”

  “As a Scot, a pirate, and a philanderer?”

  “When you lend us Daisy, you’re helping the community.”

  “Looked at that way, so are you when you kiss me.”

  The impudent devil. She wanted to call his bluff. And if it wasn’t a bluff, tell him he could keep Daisy, and go away and rot in his shabby, empty mausoleum of a house.

  But since he’d mentioned kissing, she couldn’t help staring at that mobile mouth. There was something so sensual about the shape of his lips. The precisely carved upper lip, the fuller lower one. The creases at the corners hinting at laughter.

  Of course he was laughing at her. He believed he held a winning hand, while she was about to throw in her cards and declare herself defeated.

  Unfortunately, he was right.

  “One kiss?”

  He looked surprised. Then pleased.

  Then predatory.

  Nerves knotting her stomach, she faltered back a step. Not just because she’d kiss him, but because of how she’d kiss him. She very much doubted she was up to his usual standard of partner. This man had seen the world, while she’d never been past Newcastle. And she’d bet that he’d left the girls in all those exotic ports kissed to the point of dizziness.

  Thinking about kissing him certainly made her dizzy.

  He arched one russet eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

  “You’re a naughty man, Lord Channing,” she said, unsure if the remark was compliment or insult.

  “I promise you’ll like it.”

  She made a dismissive sound, even as the excitement pounding in her blood promised that indeed, she would like it. “For the greater good, I can endure a little kiss.”

  He snickered softly and walked toward her, towing Daisy. “No need to cower, my wee village maiden. I’ll see that your first kiss is memorable.”

  Cower? She’d show him cower. “It’s not my first kiss,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

  Dear heaven, could she sound any more gauche? Mortified heat flooded her face, making a mockery of the cold day.

  “Oh?” Now, plague take him, he looked more interested than ever. “The vicar’s daughter has a shady past. How intriguing. Perhaps you can teach me a thing or two.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said shakily, curling her hands into fists until her fingernails dug into her palms. Daisy started to nibble at the dry winter grass.

  “Who was the lucky laddie?” Channing’s eyes glinted with devilry. “Or was there more than one?”

  “You’re not acting like a gentleman, my lord,” she said stiffly.

  “But I am acting like
a Scot, a pirate, and a libertine.”

  “There’s no need to sound so proud of yourself.” Mustering every ounce of courage, she stepped up in front of him. “Very well. I’m ready.”

  He caught her arm. “I wish I had another donkey that I could barter for some enthusiasm.”

  Interrupting Daisy’s foraging, he shortened her rein and pulled her toward the woods. He marched across the open grass with a determined step, and because he held Bess’s arm, she went, too, more confused than ever. Not least because while she resented Channing cornering her into this disgraceful bargain, she didn’t at all resent the idea of kissing him.

  She must be losing her mind.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” She cringed that the question emerged more like a complaint than a protest. He’d touched her earlier but now, with kisses in the offing, she was vitally aware of that strong hand curled around her arm.

  “For shame, Miss Farrar. Have you no care for your reputation?”

  “My reputation?”

  He lowered his voice, although there was nobody except Bess and Daisy to hear him. “If I kiss you in the open, someone might see us.”

  Curse him, he was right. Even on a cold, miserable afternoon like this, one of his estate workers might pass by and glimpse them embracing on the edge of an empty field.

  Trepidation kept Bess uncharacteristically silent as Lord Channing escorted her into the shelter of the trees. How had she reached a point where the new earl was about to kiss her? How had she reached a point where she wanted him to kiss her?

  For once, she wished Daisy would act up. But true to her contrary nature, she ambled along behind them as quiet as a lamb. Perhaps, like Bess, the donkey recognized Lord Channing as unstoppable, and she’d decided cooperation was the best strategy.

  “Stop thinking,” Channing murmured, drawing her off the path into a secluded glade. Even in the middle of winter, the leafless trees crowding around them offered privacy. “I can hear your mind churning like a millwheel. It’s putting me off my stride.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said unsteadily.

  “It won’t be as bad as you imagine.”