How To Please a Pirate (4 page)

Mrs. Beadle’s curiosity faded in the heat of
her own news. “Well, while you were gallivanting about the
countryside dressed as an urchin, something’s happened here right
enough! You won’t credit it, but there’s a . . . a . . . a most
unusual person demanding hospitality. I’ve never seen his like. I
don’t even know what to call him—”

“He’s a pirate,” Jacquelyn said
helpfully.

Mrs. Beadle’s mouth opened and shut
wordlessly like a codfish. Her hands fluttered at her ample hips
before she grasped the hem of her apron and clung to it like a
talisman against evil.

“Well, whatever he is, he’s in the parlor
demanding strong drink,” Mrs. Beadle said, her eyeballs bulging.
“Loudly.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. B. For better or worse,
he’s been invited here.” Jacquelyn gave the housekeeper what she
hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “His name is Mr.
Meriwether. Promise him a bottle of the ’08 if he agrees to take a
bath. Where are the girls?”

“At their lessons, I expect.”

“Good, that’ll keep them out of sight for a
while.” Jacquelyn worried her lower lip for a moment. “At least,
until I puzzled out what’s to be done.”

“Very sensible, what with that . . .“ Mrs.
Beadle gave herself a horrified shake, “that pirate lurking about
the keep.”

“He’s rather an old pirate. I think he’s
mostly harmless.”

Jacquelyn was nearly certain Mr. Meriwether
hadn’t really intended to eat her liver and his strict adherence to
the Pirate Code actually saved her from Gabriel Drake’s unwelcome
advances.

She frowned. Even to herself, she couldn’t
abide a lie. His advances weren’t all that unwelcome. Though her
mind resented the liberties the new lord had taken, her body didn’t
resist one bit. It was a frustrating truth and it would have to
change.

“It’s not Meriwether I’m worried about,”
Jacquelyn said, trying to banish the taste of Gabriel Drake from
her lips. “Send Timothy to find Father and make sure he knows we
need him right now, not next week. Any idea where he might be?”

In the parlor, Mr. Meriwether began croaking
out a song of dubious artistic worth about something called
‘keel-hauling.’

Horrified, Mrs. Beadle put a hand to her
mouth.

“Please Mrs. B, trust me. I’ve a feeling Mr.
Meriwether isn’t as bad as he seems. At least compared to some.”
Jacquelyn took Mrs. Beadle’s hand to steady her. “Now, where is
Father Eustace?”

“Father will be praying in the chapel, as
usual. Lot of good his newfound piety’s done us.” Mrs. Beadle
rolled her eyes heavenward as if to plead for patience. “Pirates in
the parlor! And old reprobates in the priesthood! Saints preserve
us.”

Mrs. Beadle waddled away, muttering under her
breath. “Fine house this is. What with the mistress wearin’ boy’s
breeches and pirates drinking up all the best wine. Next thing you
know there’ll be…”

Jacquelyn was grateful not to hear Mrs.
Beadle’s dire prediction. Whatever it was, it was surely not as bad
as the fact that the real pirate was about to enter the gate.

And there was absolutely nothing Jacquelyn
could do about it.

* * *

Gabriel took his time descending through the
well-tended fields to Dragon Caern Castle. As he rode through the
corbelled gate, he was amazed at how little the keep had changed.
The portcullis still seemed to be rusted in the up position. The
gargoyle at the postern still spat water into a trough for weary
mounts and an old dog still lay before the open stable door. The
beast thumped its tail on the dirt in greeting but didn’t bother to
rise at his approach.

Probably old Rowdy’s great-grandson,
Gabriel mused. This dog was the spit of the deerhound he left
behind when he went to sea all those years ago.

Lord, he’d been green as a beech in
springtime.

He’d changed out of all knowing since then,
but Dragon Caern Castle seemed frozen in time.

Then he remembered the two additional bodies
interred in the chapel crypt—three, if he counted the sister-in-law
he’d never even met. The changes at Dragon Caern went far deeper
than mortar and stone.

This was all his now. To tend. To defend.

It was the last thing he expected.

The last thing he wanted.

Gabriel handed the reins of his mount to the
nearest stable lad.

“A handful of oats for him,” he ordered as he
uncinched the saddle’s girth and started to stride from the
stable.

“Look here, sir. We’re not a livery, ye
know,” a gangly, pimple-faced youth said. “Who are ye to order me
about?”

Gabriel rounded on the lad and flashed him a
glare. “Not someone with whom you wish to trifle, boy.”

“Uh, oats, ye said,” the young man stammered.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

His threatening glance, dubbed by his crew as
‘the Dragon’s glare,’ had averted more than a few brawls during his
time in piracy and even as a landsman, it obviously had its uses.
Once people of the keep knew who he was, there’d be no question
that they’d obey him as thoroughly as his crew had.

All but the troublesome Mistress Wren.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip. It was
swelling like a puffer fish and he still tasted the coppery tang of
his own blood.

Blow the wench to Bermuda.

He supposed he shouldn’t have kissed her like
that, but the little minx was asking for it. Prancing around in
breeches, displaying the shape of her legs and round bum for all
the world to see. It reminded him of that doxy Meri was partial to
back in Port Royal. The one who was always too drunk to remember to
don her skirt.

And besides, there was a moment when he was
certain Mistress Wren enjoyed their kiss as much as he did.

Right up until she bit him.

Women were off the edge of the map as far as
Gabriel was concerned. Pleasurable company at times, to be sure,
but they should come with a cartographer’s warning.

Here there be monsters.

Changeable as a Nor’easter, unpredictable as
a maelstrom. A woman was a doldrums that could suck the life out of
any man who was unwary enough to let one get too close.

Gabriel was determined to enjoy, even savor
the fair sex, but on his own terms. That meant keeping a
weather-eye out for squalls and being ever ready to up-anchor and
make sail.

He stomped into the main hall, his lip still
throbbing from the unwelcome love play of Miss Jack and her sharp
little teeth. Where was a wayside tavern when a man needed one? A
good brawl or a good tumble would cure his ills. At the moment,
neither seemed likely to come his way.

“Is there no one here to greet their new
lord?” he demanded in the voice that had carried from wheel to
mains’le in a gale.

“It’s mid-morning, Your Lordship. Everyone is
going about their work just now,” a familiar voice said from the
top of the stairs. “However, if you wish me to call a halt to the
operation of the keep solely in order to greet you as you seem to
think you deserve, I shall, of course, oblige.”

He forced himself to think of her as Jack,
but it was difficult when she appeared on the landing, dressed in a
snug-bodiced sac dress. No longer pretending to be a callow lad,
she stood ramrod straight with an assurance that bespoke royalty.
The dirt of her boy’s disguise was gone, but the bruise at her
temple marred the pale oval of her face. Still, her face wasn’t
what captured his gaze.

Pressed tight by her corset, her lovely bosom
curved above the low-neckline. His fingertips tingled as he
remembered the satiny feel of her skin. Her tiny waist was
emphasized by the broad panniers on either side of her hips.
Beneath that contraption of horsehair and wire, he knew there was a
bum as soft as a ripe peach. As she descended the stairs, he was
treated to the fleeting sight of a well-turned ankle and her
neatly-shod feet.

How had he ever thought her a boy, even for a
moment?

“Welcome home, my lord,” she said with patent
falseness. “No doubt come evening, the older servants who remember
you will wish to pay their respects. But for now, I advise you to
allow them to continue with their labors. Come December, we will
all be glad we worked hard in July.”

“I can see you’ve changed your feathers,
Jack, but I’m still unsure what labor is fitting for a bird of your
. . . talents.” He let his gaze linger on the pearly flesh of her
bosom before meeting her grey eyes. Her queue of auburn hair was
tucked under a modest mobcap, but a few strands slipped out to
tease her slender neck. He found himself wanting to yank off the
cap and unbind the thick braid so he could run the silken tresses
through his fingers. For a moment he imagined the reddish-brown
cascade tumbled across his bare chest. Then he met her stony gaze.
Miss Wren’s sour expression wiped that pleasing thought from his
mind. “Just what is your position here at Dragon Caern?”

“She’s mistress of the castle, of course,” a
masculine voice said from behind him. “Has been ever since the Lady
Helen passed. Keeps everything humming, too.”

Gabriel turned to the newcomer. He wore the
turned collar of a priest and the knees of his cassock were grimy
with stains. Obviously a man of prayer. But his face was the face
of Gabe’s dissolute, favorite relative.

“Uncle Eustace?”

The priest squinted at him and advanced
uncertainly. “Aye. Eustace Drake was once my name and to my shame,
that Eustace was not much of a man.”

“Here’s one who’d dispute that,” Gabriel
said.

“No, no, it’s true. I wasted the strength of
my best years in gaming hells with women of easy virtue and more
drink than would fill an ocean,” the priest said with more than a
trace of wistfulness in his tone. “But I’ve renounced that life.
Once I was ‘Useless Eustace.’ Now I’m Father Eustace. Who are you,
son?”

“Father,” Jacquelyn said. “This rogue claims
to be your nephew Gabriel. Word of his death came years ago, but if
this man’s story is true, it seems he left the Royal Navy under
slightly different circumstances than we were led to believe.” She
let the threat to denounce him as a pirate hang in the air for a
few moments. Then surprisingly, she allowed the opportunity to slip
by. “However, if you don’t know him, I’ll turn the hounds on the
miscreant and send him running.”

She smiled at him. Like a tabby at a barn
rat.

“Gabriel?” Father Eustace took another step
toward him. “Is it possible?”

“Aye, Uncle, it’s me.”

“Same eyes,” the priest said. “My nephew
always had eyes black as the pit of . . . but it’s been so long.
And Gabriel was but a stripling when he left us for the sea. I
cannot be sure.”

“Perhaps I can make it easier for you,”
Gabriel said. “Do you remember the night when I sneaked out of the
keep to visit the gypsy camp that was set up on the River
Twyw?”

Father Eustace nodded slowly.

“I was surprised to find you already in the
fortune teller’s wagon,” Gabe said. “A sloe-eyed beauty was . . .
telling your fortune with vigor.“

He cleared his throat in deference to
Mistress Wren’s presence and waggled his brows for his uncle’s
benefit. Gabriel had only been ten years old at the time, but the
image of the gypsy girl’s brown hips merrily bouncing on his
uncle’s groin was burned in his brain. He remembered her
berry-colored nipples disappearing into his uncle’s hungry mouth
and the way she tossed her mane of dark curly hair as she moaned in
pleasure. It left quite an impression on young Gabe. His small
willy had risen in lust for the first time and he half-imagined
himself in love with the brazen, exotic girl polishing his Uncle
Eustace’s cock.

Father Eustace swallowed hard and turned to
Miss Wren. “My boyhood and youth were woefully misspent.”

“Along with a good bit of your manhood as
well,” Gabriel said. “In any case, when you caught me peeping
through a hole in the canvas, I ran off. I fell and gashed my
knee.” He turned back the hem of his breeches to expose a jagged
scar. “You knew my father would beat me for sneaking out of the
keep. So you patched up my knee and told me you’d keep my secret,
if I kept yours.”

“And it appears you did, until this day.”
Eustace’s face split in a wide smile. His uncle folded him into a
gigantic hug and thumped his back enthusiastically. “Welcome home,
lad. This is indeed the answer to my prayers. A gift from Heaven to
be sure.”

“I’ve been called many things, Uncle, but
never a gift from Heaven.”

From the corner of his vision, Gabriel caught
Miss Wren eyeing him with suspicion. No doubt she thought him a
gift from Old Patch instead.

“Rejoice with me, Jacquelyn,” Father Eustace
said. “Gabriel’s homecoming will be the salvation of Dragon
Caern.”

“The Caern is doing quite well without the
likes of a pi—”

Jacquelyn stopped herself and Gabriel
suspected she was sparing his uncle the truth of Gabe’s piracy. In
his day, Uncle Eustace had been enough of a bounder for ten
pirates, but perhaps Miss Wren didn’t know that.

A priest’s robe does wonders for a man’s
reputation,
Gabriel thought with a grin.

“Forgive me, Mistress Jacquelyn,” his uncle
was saying. “Of course, you don’t understand what I mean because I
hadn’t told you. I didn’t wish to upset you since I could see no
way to solve the problem but by prayer. You see, I received a
missive with a royal seal shortly after Lord Rupert passed. Since
it was assumed my brother Rhys’s line had died, his title was
declared in abeyance. In that case, the title goes back to the
closest male relative. Me, as it turns out.” His lips turned up in
a quirky smile. “However, I am without a legitimate heir.”

Gabe suspected his wayward uncle had sired
several illegitimate ones over the years. Bastards stamped with his
bulbous nose and freckles sprouted like weeds over several Cornish
shires.