The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  “It’s all right to love me and want the job.” Locryn put his arm around Jake’s waist as he snuggled into his embrace, Dorothy still safe in the crook of his other elbow. “Dorothy and I will wait for you. We love you, we’re so proud that they want you for the show.”

  “I can’t do it. I would’ve, before I met you. Before I came to Porthavel. I would’ve chewed their arms off to do it. But I’m not that person anymore. I don’t want to bellow in people’s faces. I want to—” Jake held Locryn and the cat. The sound of the waves, and their embrace, were calming him, and Jake said, “I want to be here, with you. I want to be happy, and I want to make you happy.”

  Locryn lifted his head and kissed Jake. “You do, darling. I love you. Whatever you decide, wherever you want to be, that’s not going to change.”

  “I want…” Jake glanced up at the rolling waves as they hit the shore and sent foam into the air. He pressed his lips to Locryn’s cheek, then he whispered, “Can I stay here?”

  “Oh, Jake,” Locryn whispered. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The galleon restaurant was festooned with flowers and bunting for the wedding. Jake had put on his crispest chef whites, and caught Locryn’s eye with a smile as the strains of the wedding march began to play. Dorothy, a large bow around her neck, batted a paper table decoration up the aisle and was scooped into the arms of one of the locals who’d helped to work on the ship. And the groom, waiting patiently with his best man, could only laugh.

  Locryn, resplendent in a deep-blue shirt with just the right number of buttons unfastened, squeezed Jake’s hand. Then he dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief and rested his head lightly on Jake’s shoulder for a moment, suddenly shy again.

  “She looks stunning,” he whispered as he sat straight and the bride swept past in a cloud of delicate perfume. “There were moments when I thought we’d never get here, but it’s been worth it.”

  Jake tightened his entwined fingers around Locryn’s. He’d had to improvise and was using a stiff napkin from the linen cupboard to dab at his eyes. “I’m not crying. I was chopping onions until five minutes ago.”

  “I know, darling, I just don’t believe you.” Locryn kissed Jake’s cheek as the bride finally reached the groom, safe on the arm of the only person who could have given her away. When Zoe turned to leave Merryn safe beside Petroc, she gave the congregation a thumbs-up and an affectionate murmur of laughter went through the ship. It had taken long enough, but they’d gotten here in the end.

  “First Zoe and David, now Petroc and Merryn.” Locryn dabbed at his eyes again. “I wonder who’ll be next.”

  Dorothy escaped her captor and wound herself around Jake’s and Locryn’s legs. With the slightest hint of a tremble, Jake brought their joined hands to his lips and said, “I think Dorothy’s dropping a hint, don’t you? What do you say, Mr. Trevorrow?”

  For a moment Locryn simply gazed at him. Then he whispered, “I say yes, Captain Jake. And, because I haven’t said it for five minutes, I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Jake murmured in reply. “My adorable, passionate baker.”

  Want to see more from these authors? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!

  The Captain’s Ghostly Gamble

  Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

  Excerpt

  John Rookwood peered through the grimy leaded windows and saw lights approaching along the driveway. It was the same every year—uninvited guests always arrived on their anniversary.

  “Captain, they’re nearly here! Stop preening, man!”

  “Guests!” Captain Cornelius Sheridan didn’t look away from the ornate mirror where he was admiring his own reflection. He beamed at himself before pouting, then placed one hand on his hip. As John watched, Sheridan turned a little to the left, a little to the right, admiring his own form, clad as he was in a suit of shimmering gold silk.

  He frowned and adjusted one of his lace-shrouded cuffs very slightly, then considered his reflection again, turning his shapely calf a little before he leaned down to brush an imaginary smut from his white stocking. “Does one need more powder, Rookwood? One doesn’t want to look gauche for one’s chums!”

  “You have natural pallor enough, Captain. Besides, they’re not our chums.”

  A large conveyance had drawn up to the front door. John turned up the collar of his greatcoat, watching as two passengers, a man and a woman, climbed out.

  “The damned impertinence of it, turning up uninvited every year. Wandering about my house, disturbing our peace. They’re lucky I haven’t taken a pistol to them.”

  “Natural? Lord preserve me from natural! More powder and a touch more rouge on the lips, I think.” Sheridan put his elegant hand to his silken cravat and slightly adjusted the diamond pin there. An even larger diamond was housed in the ring he wore, and it glittered as brightly as his eyes. “My home, Mr. Rookwood, lest we forget.”

  At the sound of their guests letting themselves in at the front door, John sighed. “Rookwood Manor has been in my family for generations, as well you know, you damned dandy interloper!”

  “Indeed, sir, Sheridan Manor was once home to your people, but one believes there was the small matter of a duel and now it is mine.” Sheridan glanced at John and beamed, his handsome face now fashionably pale. He bowed low, a cloud of rose perfume billowing from the decadent cuffs. “Let us go and say hello to our newest friends, Mr. Rookwood!”

  John bowed in return, doffing his tricorne hat. “That duel was unfair—therefore, in default, Rookwood Manor is still mine, I think you’ll find.”

  As John’s heavy boots thumped over the floorboards, a woman’s voice echoed up from the entrance hall.

  “Did you hear that? I swear I heard footsteps!”

  “Ooh, the young lady sounds so terribly nervous!” Sheridan hugged himself in amused excitement then clapped his hands together. His grin was positively wicked as he added, “What fun!”

  “Should be easy to get shot of them, then!” John looked over the bannister as the couple began to set up their equipment. He’d seen quite a lot of this caper over the years, gadgets galore ranged through his house with nary a by-your-leave. How terribly rude. “Well, then, Captain, as my footsteps have served to scare her witless, would you like to go next? I’d wager you shan’t terrify them in the least, but I’m happy to watch you try!”

  The two men peeped down into the baronial hall below, where the enormous studded oak door stood open on the autumn night. Leaves swirled in around the feet of the second visitor, a young man with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He threw it down and looked up at his splendid surroundings, his face set into a scowl.

  “Oh, now what a handsome gent!” Sheridan touched his hand to his breast and quirked one eyebrow. “If my heart had not already stopped, it would certainly have just skipped a beat. Who have we here?”

  He began to descend the staircase, polished shoes shining in the light of the chandelier, the diamond buckles on his toes twinkling. With a glance back at John, Sheridan hopped down the last two risers and landed neatly in front of the couple, who continued to unpack their infernal equipment. Then he blew a sharp blast of rose perfume into the young lady’s face.

  She stumbled back a step and nearly lost her footing on the uneven floorboards. “What—what was that? Dan, can you smell it? Roses. They say that the highwayman who haunts this place smells of roses. I’m not imagining it, am I? And it’s suddenly so cold in here!”

  “You do know that it’s all bollocks, don’t you?” Dan tutted and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve even talked me into this. The sooner it’s on the market, the sooner some big hotel chain buys it and the sooner I get to buy that Ferrari I’ve always wanted, so let’s get the night finished and lock the bloody door on this dusty old hole.”

  “Can you please not say bollocks when I’ve got the EVP recorder on, Dan?” The young woman crouched down to rummage about in a trunk. “I can’t believe you w
ant to sell this place—my family lived here too, you know. And anyway, a haunted house is much cooler than a Ferrari.”

  “Oh, he’s one of yours!” Sheridan called upstairs to John. “A Rookwood, which makes him suddenly far less attractive! A Rookwood who intends to sell my bally house!”

  “Balderdash—it’s Rookwood Manor, after all, and will you just look at that handsome face!” John followed Sheridan downstairs. Could the young lady hear him, or even see him? She had glanced in his direction and was gawping at the stairs.

  “Dan! I can hear footsteps again!”

  But Dan had turned his back, so John prodded him on the shoulder to get a better look. Was this impertinent young man worthy of the name Rookwood?

  “Stop pissing about, Jenny,” Dan huffed. “Funny isn’t it, really? Here we are, a Rookwood and a Sheridan, spending one last night in the place where our great-whatever-uncles however far removed supposedly rattle their chains and flap their sheets? And by tomorrow the For Sale board will be up!”

  Get your copy now

  Sign up for our newsletter and find out about all our romance book releases, eBook sales and promotions, sneak peeks and FREE romance eBooks!

  Check out our other imprints and bookstores dedicated to romance fiction:

  About the Authors

  Catherine Curzon

  Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.

  Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.

  She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.

  Eleanor Harkstead

  Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.

  Sign up to receive their newsletter at https://curzonharkstead.co.uk/newsletter/

  Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at https://www.pride-publishing.com.