A Pirate's Wife for Me
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Authors: Christina Dodd
A PIRATE'S WIFE FOR ME
The Governess Brides
By
Christina Dodd
A PIRATE'S WIFE FOR ME
KOBO Edition
Copyright 2015 by Christina Dodd
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written consent of the copyright holder.
A Pirate's Wife for Me is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.
CHAPTER ONE
Poole, Dorset, England, 1843
In all his degenerate life,
he had seen only one woman who walked like that — like a great cat, pacing along, stretching out her legs in a slow, pantherish stride that made a man turn and look, and wonder with fascination how it would be to part those legs and ride.
Would she scratch? Or would she purr?
Like all the other sailors in the pub, he turned to watch her stroll past, a flowered carpetbag clasped in her narrow fingers. He saw the auburn hair, tucked tightly into a chignon, the tall, lithe figure with its tiny waist and high breasts, and the green, lucid eyes which wavered neither right nor left, but gazed directly at Cleary, the pub owner.
And he knew she would scratch. And purr.
What in the hell was Miss Caitlin MacLean doing at night in the roughest dive on the Poole docks?
Silence assaulted Cate as she
made her way across the uneven wooden floor. She ignored the aggressive masculine stares. She was used to attention. One didn't get to be twenty-five, six feet tall, and blessed with red hair without knowing that when one stepped into a room of strangers, a hush would fall, followed by a flurry of whispers.
She never took notice. Nor did she now.
She kept her gaze fixed on the large, battered, middle-aged man behind the bar. He stood polishing a glass with a grimy towel, staring at her with his mouth hanging open. The stench of body odor, ale and cigars assailed her. Cheap candles smoked in their sconces set on ash-darkened walls. Placing her hands on the battered plank that was the bar, she leaned forward, and in a low tone, asked, "Are you Mr. Cleary?"
His piggy eyes narrowed. He examined her from top to toe. "Aye, that I am." He bent toward her until his bulbous, red-veined nose almost met hers. "Who the hell are ye?"
She'd found him. She adjusted the heavy traveling bag in her grip. "I am Miss Cate MacLean, and I am to rent a room for the night."
He rocked back on his heels. "No."
Startled, she blinked at him. "No?"
"Get out of here. I don't keep doxies in me pub."
She couldn't help it. She laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, my good man. I am most certainly not a doxy! Unless doxies have taken to dressing in black bombazine." Black bombazine that buttoned all the way up to her throat, she might add. "You're expecting me. I'm –" She glanced around. Every eye was fixed on her. In a voice pitched to reach Mr. Cleary's ears alone, she said, "Mr. Throckmorton sent me."
He froze. He darted a glance over her shoulder. As if receiving a command, he nodded. She wanted to look behind, to see who directed him, but he returned his attention to her. "Up the stairs, last chamber on yer left. Lock the door, don't open until the Cap'n comes up."
"The cabriolet driver needs help getting my trunk down and into the pub. Please send a man out to assist him."
"A trunk?" If possible, Mr. Cleary looked even more stunned than when she identified her sponsor. "Ye brought a trunk?"
"Yes, and it's heavy."
"A
trunk?"
"Yes! And I'd appreciate your assistance in taking it to my chamber." What kind of man questioned a lady about her luggage? She looked Mr. Cleary over, seeing the round belly beneath the stained apron, the broad, stumpy arms, the gray stubbled chin. The man was a town-dwelling provincial with no manners and less class. She always found this sort interesting, usually possessed of a variety of knowledge, and at any other time, she would have insisted on a chat. As it was now, she had more important beasts to smoke out.
Turning, she sought the man who had commanded Mr. Cleary. The man who would command her. She looked through the pall of smoke at the gauntlet of sailors and drunkards, thieves and fools, seeing each one, but allowing her gaze to linger on none. In the eight years since she'd lost her reputation, she'd perfected the trick. Only the most degenerate of men could imagine that cold, impersonal appraisal indicated interest. Unfortunately, as she'd discovered, a great many degenerate men inhabited the world.
Even now, in her peripheral vision, she could see about six of them grinning at her. Perhaps a dozen tried to hide their fangs and claws by bowing in her direction.
A thin-faced, hook-nosed fellow with a Scottish accent called out, "If ye need a man for any reason, lass, me name's Maccus."
All the men, the flirts and the stallions, snapped their fingers and made clicking noises with their tongue as if she were a bird to be coaxed into the net. She could have sworn they believed a woman found such insolence seductive.
Only one, a broad-shouldered creature with black hair to his shoulders, stood with his back to her, talking in a low tone to a shorter fellow. Was he the man she'd been sent to seek?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. In this underworld of criminals and spies, she dared not make assumptions.
Mr. Cleary thrust a lit candle and a large, iron key at her. "Take this and go upstairs right quick, Miss. Ye'll cause a fight if ye don't."
She clasped the iron ring and strode across the taproom to the stairwell.
The cacophony of laughter and drunken revelry rose in a wave and carried her up the stairs to the second floor; she squirmed at the words she chose not to acknowledge and the speculation she couldn't avoid.
The corridor was silent and dark, with four doors on either side. She heard no sound from any of the rooms, but light shone around the casement on the first door.
Don't call unnecessary attention to yourself,
Mr. Throckmorton had instructed,
yet always maintain an imposing demeanor.
His gaze had flicked over her.
But you already know that.
She did know it. She had learned much in the long, lonely years while all her playmates met and married. A single woman could go all the places that a married woman went, but she had to move with confidence, as if she owned the very earth.
Going to the last door on the left, she opened it cautiously. Surprisingly, it smelled of nothing more virulent than lavender and wood smoke. Her raised candle illuminated a small, well-maintained bedchamber with a fireplace, a narrow bed, a straight-backed wooden chair and a bed table with basin and pitcher. Shutting the door behind her, she fit the key in the lock, and turned it. She made her way to the bed and pressed hard on the thin mattress. The ropes squeaked, but the thick blankets would protect against the chill off the ocean, and when she peeked at the sheets, they looked relatively clean and vermin-free.
She deposited her traveling bag and her candle on the table and removed her black leather gloves. Walking to the window, she looked out over a bleak alley at the back of the tavern. Here and there, light spilled from the windows of other taverns, and every place rocked with the laughter and shouts of sailors. Across the way, the back door opened and a pail of slops were flung into the mud.
She tried to open the casement. Damp made it swell and stick, and she first pushed with her hands, then put her shoulder into it. It wouldn't budge. Finally she backed up and took a run at it. The window gave all at once, and she barely caught herself before she toppled out into the alley. Going to her bag, she removed the rope ladder and placed it beside the open window.
There. She dusted her fingers. So far everything about her assignment had gone flawlessly. Of course, that included nothing more than traveling from London to Poole on the train, finding the tavern, and getting a room, but each success built her confidence. She could do this. She had to do this. She owed it to her brother. To Kiernan.
The docks of Poole were rough and lawless, and Mr. Throckmorton had impressed upon her the perils of her mission. He'd given her instruction before she rode the train up from London, but the most important directive, he'd insisted, was that she should always have an escape route planned.
A knock sounded on the door. She jumped.
The Cap'n. Or perhaps … someone less benevolent.
Going to her bag, she pulled out her derringer – loaded, for she hadn't dared to come to the docks unprotected – and slid it under the pillow. Accessible, but not obvious.
Gliding to the door, she leaned against it and asked, "Who is it?"
A deep voice answered. "The Cap'n."
She turned the key, opened the door, and stepped back. In the darkness of the corridor, she could see nothing but a tall, broad outline of a man in a collarless white shirt and black, form-fitting trousers. He was taller than she was – a rarity. His shoulders spanned almost the entire doorway.
Then he strode into the room, and the pale light of the candle illuminated his countenance. Gray eyes, chilly as sea fog. Black hair, straight, grown too long, and tied at the back of his neck. Features sculpted by noble heredity and harsh experience. A trimmed black beard. Wide, plush lips that looked as if they knew how to kiss a woman to ecstasy … as she knew very well they did.
She had hoped never to see his face again.
Taran. Taran Tamson. Her friend. Her enemy.
Her first and only lover.
And the man who had broken her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
Cate didn't think.
Her fist shot out toward his stomach.
Taran tightened his muscles and took the strike, and if he felt pain, he didn't show it. Then, as she used the flat of her palm to try and break that aristocratic blade of a nose, he caught her wrist and coiled her toward him. She landed, her back to his chest, with a thump that knocked the breath out of her. With her free hand, she reached up to grab his hair. He caught that wrist, too, and pulled it around her. Now he held her against him, trapped with her arms wrapped around her waist.