For the Love of a Pirate (10 page)

He whistled as he bathed in the captain's truly luxurious marble bath, and then hummed as Atkins shaved him. It might all have been a tempest in a teapot. The night, and the odd sight of long-dead men who bore his face, had made him too anxious. They were gone, and probably forgotten by all but the daft old captain and his curious granddaughter.

She hadn't seem smitten with him; she'd said she wanted no part of their father's pact. In fact, he could distinctly sense her derision when she looked at him. That stung, but only because he'd never felt any female's censure before. And yet, and still, last night there'd been that strange, erotic moment. Maybe she wasn't as unlike her wild ancestors, after all. Still, whatever her problem with him, he was free of all obligations. He could go on with his life, moderately, as he had always done.

He dressed with care, in a well-cut blue jacket, dun breeches, white linen, a casually tied high neckcloth, ruby vest, and shining boots. He accepted a tall beaver hat that Atkins handed him, and after one last look at himself in the glass, left the room and took the long stairs down to the front hall as blithely as a boy.

T
he footman showed Constantine to a dining parlor he hadn't seen before. There were many chafing dishes out on a sideboard, and the scent of ham, eggs, and sweet rolls was incredibly appealing.

Constantine saw his hostess at a sideboard, filling a plate with victuals.

“Oh, good!” he said as he strode into the dining parlor. “You haven't left yet.”

Lisabeth turned and showed him a surprised and glowing face. And more. He stopped in his tracks and gaped at her.

“Oh, good!” she echoed, with a dimpling smile. “You're not a slugabed! Everyone said a London gent would sleep till noon, and only turn over when the sun got in his eyes. How nice that you keep country hours.”

What she looked like froze him and left him speechless. Her conversation wasn't proper, but he couldn't concentrate on it. Of course a lady never mentioned a gentleman's bed habits, in any context, unless she was in bed with him. And then, of course, she wasn't a lady.

But he couldn't think about that while he looked at her. He could only stare.

She was dressed outrageously. She looked nothing like a young woman of birth or fashion. But she didn't look like a milkmaid or a servant either. She didn't look proper but she wasn't precisely improper. A tart would wear something fashioned to catch a man's eye. A slut would be half dressed. Lisabeth was fully dressed. But not like any female he'd ever seen.

She wore a man's riding breeches. They were old, but they fit well, that was the problem. He hadn't realized she had such a shapely little bottom, and such shapely legs. Female gowns were currently worn high at the waist, and flowed down to the floor, leaving a man to guess at what was actually beneath, unless, of course, there was a high wind blowing. But even if there were, any proper woman would have on a pelisse, or a shawl to cover over all.

Lisabeth also wore a smock sort of a shirt, tucked in at the waistband of her trousers. It neither showed off nor hid her high, buoyant breasts, but looked almost like what a pirate of old might wear, Constantine thought uneasily. That was, if a pirate had run mad and decided to disguise himself as a luscious young woman.

He thought she'd cut her hair, but then realized that she'd drawn it up and let down curls that ringed her head. In all, she looked adorable. Impossible. Scandalous. In a weird sort of way, she looked like a deliciously attractive . . . young boy. The thought unsettled him. Although, looking closer, he could see she looked nothing like a boy. That didn't settle his nerves at all. She looked too damned tempting. And utterly unaware of it.

He supposed there was a reason it was amusing to see men in women's clothing, in pantomimes and at the theater. Because they looked foolish in them. Females, he realized, didn't look amusing in men's clothing. At least, this one didn't. She looked incredibly more like a woman, curved and supple, and for all her lack of height, perfectly proportioned. Constantine was shocked and titillated, and didn't know where to look. He knew where he
wanted
to look. But, of course, he couldn't.

“Now, wasn't I right?” Miss Lovelace's voice said, from where she sat at the table, spooning up her porridge. “You've gone and scandalized the gent, Lizzie, my love. Best hop upstairs and put on a gown. He's proper as can be, and it's clear he doesn't know what to make of you. Lord Wylde may keep country hours, but he clearly isn't used to country ways.”

“Oh, Lord Wylde,” Lisabeth said, with a mischievous pout. “Never say you want me to put on a gown this morning? I assure you no one will see us who hasn't seen me this way many times before. Happens I have a fine riding habit, all amber velvet; it's a treat to see and cost the earth. But where's the sense in putting it on if we're going to go down dusty roads, and maybe even get caught in a sudden squall, as happens so often hereabouts? The habit would be ruined. After our ride, I'd come home smelling of horse, and covered with mud. But that won't matter if I'm wearing old clothes, made for rough use.

“Unless,” she added, with a sly look under her lashes, “you actually are interested in honoring our fathers' bargain? Then, of course, I could see that you'd want everyone in the village to notice we're keeping company. After all, I suppose you want to see the village, the church, the inn, and such, don't you? If you're dressed as you are, and suddenly I'm all tarted up like a Christmas goose to go with you, everyone will suspect something's in the wind . . . But this is so sudden.”

She placed a hand on her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. She also looked as if she might burst out laughing.

He was at a loss for words.

“I didn't think so,” she said. “So, what say you, sir? You look fine as fivepence, by the way. No one here dresses like that unless there's a funeral . . . or a wedding.” She grinned at him.

“I say,” he said carefully, “that you should wear whatever you wish. Are those fresh-baked biscuits I spy? They smell delicious.”

She smiled. “Yes. Let's eat, and then go delight the villagers.”

He nodded, and hid his apprehension. He wanted to meet the locals, of course, and find out if any of them knew anything about him or his history. That was of paramount importance. This woman would keep her silence. He could tell she had pride as well as spirit. Still, even though she said she didn't want him, there was that odd moment last night to consider. What had she wanted? But he believed her given word.

Even so, no woman would be thrilled to let the world know he'd been offered her hand and turned it down. Although, he thought moodily, she might be thrilled to let them know she'd turned him down. What he had to do, he decided, as he put a hot biscuit on his plate, was try to turn her up sweet without making her like him too much, or too little.

“And where's the captain this morning?” Constantine asked a while later, after they'd had their breakfast and were walking to the stables.

“Grandy's out on his favorite boat,” she said.

He strode along at her side. He tried to keep pace so he wouldn't have to see her walking in front of him. It was a sight to see, but he didn't want to be caught seeing it.

“He loves to watch the sun come up over the horizon and spread across the water,” she explained. “He left the sea, but never completely. He says he's got salt water in his blood, and I think he does. We can see the sea from the top of the house, and there's a road that borders it that we'll take down to the village, if that's all right with you. It might be a bit windy though. Autumn's here, and the wind blows fiercely sometimes. I find it refreshing. But if you think you'll be too cold we can take the road through the wood, and then down to the village. Or maybe you want to go back and put on something warmer?”

“I won't be too cold,” he said stiffly. It was one thing to be thought a fop—what else could be expected of a woman who knew nothing of fashion? It was quite another to be thought a hothouse flower.

Constantine asked a stable worker for his horse, and was cinching its saddle when he stopped short and stared. There, in the center aisle of the stable, stood his hostess. She'd thrown on a moth-eaten man's jacket, stepped on a mounting block, and swung herself up on a pretty roan mare.

“Something amiss?” she'd asked him, with a twinkle that told him she knew exactly what was.

“I don't often see ladies riding astride,” he said stiffly. “In fact, the only time I have, I've been at Astley's Amphitheater to watch an equestrian performance.”

She smiled. “Lucky you!” she said blithely, as though she hadn't understood the barb in his comment. “Oh!” she cried with sudden mock surprise. “Does my riding astride offend you? I do have a sidesaddle, but what use is it here, with only my old friends and a stray fox or hound to see me? And you, of course. Our roads are steep and difficult. Riding the correct way for a lady might well be the most incorrect thing I could do—for my life and limb, that is. But if it bothers your sensibilities . . .” she said, raising her head and wearing a noble expression that made Constantine want to wring her neck. “I'll throw on a sidesaddle. After all, if I do fall, you'll be there to pick me up. If it doesn't get your lovely clothes all dirty, that is. I shouldn't want that. So if I'm lying in a muddy ditch, never fear. You can ride back and get someone to retrieve me.”

She cocked her head to the side and waited. The stable workers hid their grins behind their hands.

“It is your home, and your choice,” Constantine said coldly. Of course, it was also shocking; it just wasn't done. But as she'd said, who was there to see her but him? And he'd soon be gone from here, or at least, as soon as he could go.

Then she grinned, clapped a jockey cap over her curls, bent low, and gave her horse its freedom to run. But she knew the road. Constantine didn't. He followed more slowly. He was an excellent rider, but in that as in all things, a cautious one, and he didn't want to risk his horse or himself to an unexpected hole in the road. He felt a universe away from Rotten Row in London, and the tame and lovely byways of Kent, where his uncle's house was.

Fifteen minutes later, Constantine was gritting his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering. He'd lost his hat to the sea wind almost as soon as they'd come in sight of the beach. Now he could only hope he could keep his head on.

Lisabeth was riding like a demon.

He plowed on, head down, until he looked up to see that she'd stopped at the top of a hill, and was waiting there for him. Her cheeks were red, so was her little nose, her eyes sparkled, and she laughed out loud.

“Lovely, isn't it?” she cried.

He looked down to where she was pointing, and cold and winded though he was, he had to agree. A perfect little portrait of a country village lay at the foot of the hill beneath them. It was a glorious early-autumn day, and the few trees that could withstand the constant sea winds were bent into interesting shapes, their leaves already stripped from them, so he could see far and wide. From here, he could see the little village was close to the sea, and saw rough iron-gray waves beating against the strand. The colorful fishing boats he saw were safe, high on the strand and firmly secured to the sea wall. There was a village green, and the thatched cottages that hugged each side of the one street were neat and well kept. A classic Romanesque church, made of gray stone, one of dozens that the first Christians had erected all over Britain, stood at the end of the street and towered over the village. The graveyard behind it had lawns that rolled down to the sea.

“It is indeed a charming place,” Constantine had to admit.

“Would you like to warm up with a pint first, and then meet the parson?” she asked him. “What he doesn't know about the village doesn't count.”

Then he, at least, Constantine thought, would know of his irregular ancestors. He'd face that when he had to. It was his experience that a generous contribution to the church fund could buy a man anything, except, for all they promised, a valid ticket to heaven.

“A stop at the inn sounds fine,” he said. “Will any locals be there this morning?”

“With this weather? Aye!” she said. “Our men don't have to go to sea unless they want to. So on a day like this they'll be at the inn, discussing the usual things: the weather, what the weather will be like tomorrow, and what the weather was like last year.” She flashed a smile at him. “They'll be fascinated by you. We're off the beaten track here. Why, I heard we're not even on some maps! So it's not often we get visitors, especially from London.”

Good, Constantine thought. The less that his world knew of the place, the easier it would be to hide what had happened here. In fact, he wondered if any but the oldest residents would remember his notorious family at all. Wasn't everyone hereabouts said to traffic in smuggling and other illegalities? How much interest would a long-dead rogue, or two, still hold?

“Come along,” Lisabeth said, interrupting his thoughts. “It's just down the hill; follow the road. If I get there first, don't fret. I know the way. So does my Misty,” she said, smoothing her gloved hand over her horse's neck. “She loves a good downhill run. See you there! You can't miss it, there's a sign hanging in front:
THE GOOD CAPTAIN.
”

Constantine frowned. “‘Captain?'” Still, it was an innocuous enough name for a seaside inn. Wasn't Lisabeth's own grandfather a captain? There must have been dozens of captains here. He chuckled to himself. He was behaving like a thief who'd just taken a wallet and was afraid everyone was eyeing him.

He watched Lisabeth put her heels to her horse and race down the hill toward the village. With a sigh, Constantine let his horse carefully pick his way down in her wake.