How To Please a Pirate (6 page)

“Mistress Wren.” He acknowledged her with a
raised brow.

She rose to her feet and dropped a quick
curtsey, though it galled her to do so. This man had done nothing
to earn her respect except be blessed with the accident of his
birth. “My lord.”

“I was told you want me.”

He stressed ‘want’ just enough to let
innuendo sizzle in his sleep-roughened tone.

He probably wanted see if he could ruffle her
dignity. She refused to rise to the bait. “If by that you mean to
inquire whether I sent Timothy to see if you had roused for the
day, then the answer is yes.”

“If you want to know if I’m roused, Mistress,
you should come yourself. If not, you can rectify matters.” His
mouth twitched with a repressed smile. “Then we’ll see if your
answer is still yes.”

Heat crept up her neck. For a moment, she
imagined him sprawled in his bed, his sun-bronzed skin dark against
the linens. There was something so raw about the man, so primal;
Jacquelyn could no more stop her belly from cavorting in response
than she could stop the sunrise.

But he didn’t have to know about it. She
frowned at him.

“Perhaps that sort of remark is acceptable
among women who regularly consort with pirates, but no wellborn
lady will find it so.” She settled back into the chair and fiddled
with the tea service on the low table to avoid his probing gaze. “I
see a night’s rest hasn’t improved your manners.”

“Nor your shrewish tongue.” He strode forward
and sat in the chair opposite her. “By all means, let us be
mannerly. To that end, I wonder if you would satisfy my curiosity
on one point.”

She nodded cautiously.

“Granted, things may have changed in the
years I was at sea.” He leaned forward to balance his elbows on his
knees. “Correct me if I am mistaken, Mistress Wren, but is it
customary for one in your position to chastise the lord of the
manor?”

She bit her lower lip. “Not ordinarily.”

“So you didn’t berate my father?”

“No, my lord.” She would no more have spoken
out of turn to the old baron than take a flying leap from the
battlements.

“Then you must have taken my brother to task
for every breach of etiquette.”

“Lord Rupert committed no such breach.”

“Oh, yes, I keep forgetting he was always the
perfect one,” Gabriel said. “Then it seems I am unique in receiving
the favor of your frequent tongue-lashing.”

“So it would seem.”

“You know, Mistress . . .” He leaned back in
his chair, a sinful smile lifting his lips. “That is not the best
use of your tongue.”

Jacquelyn stood and paced, trying to put more
distance between them. “You have done it again, my lord.”

“Done what?”

Set her cheeks aflame. Filled her head with
forbidden images. Raised something dark to life. She wouldn’t
acknowledge the strange pull he exerted on her so she grasped for
the cover of indignation.

“Spoken to me in a manner that will do you no
credit in polite society,” Jacquelyn said icily.

He stood and moved toward her, like a wolf
stalking a doe. “Yes, but we’re not exactly polite society, you and
I, are we?”

She flinched as though he’d slapped her and
took a few steps back.

“I see someone has seen fit to speak to you
of my background.” She didn’t have to feign anger this time. “My
lord, we are not all blessed in the matter of our birth. I may not
know who my father is, but that does not mean I must wallow in
debasement.”

“Now hold a moment—“

“I have made every effort to rise above my
heritage.” He continued to advance toward her and she gave way till
her spine met cold stone. “You, however, have done just the
opposite.”

“Mistress Wren, I didn’t mean—“

“You were born a gentleman and yet you threw
it away,” she said as he trapped her against the wall with his long
arms, his hands braced near her shoulders. There was no place left
to retreat. “Do not, I beg you, deride me for aspiring to be a
lady.”

He leaned toward her, close but not touching.
His warm masculine scent crowded her, breaking down her will to
resist. His mouth, that devilishly tempting mouth, still curved in
a languid smile. If she so much as tilted her head, she was certain
those lips would be on hers again. It took every ounce of willpower
she possessed not to move.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

She clamped her lips shut.

“I’m not in the habit of having to explain
myself, but for you, I’ll make an exception,” Gabriel Drake said.
“When I said we were not polite society, I intended no slur on your
parentage, Mistress. What I meant was that you and I both seem to
have a healthy disregard for the rules of society when it suits us
to flaunt them. Can you deny it?”

She met his direct gaze. Dragon Caern was the
only home she could claim and her orphaned charges her only family.
She’d dare nearly anything to protect them. After all, she wasn’t
above leading a party of highwaymen in boy’s garb to do just
that.

She shook her head.

“No, my lord, I’ll not deny it. But in this
case, if you hope to wed soon, you must follow the rules. And you
may as well start with how you address me.”

“I suppose you’re right.” His bold gaze
wandered down her form, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Would
it make any difference if I told you I’d be more pleased with the
study of undressing than addressing?”

She drew a deep breath, preparing to deliver
a scathing set-down, when suddenly she realized that was exactly
what he was angling for. The beastly man enjoyed seeing her
discomfited.

She’d spent precious little time with her
mother in her formative years. Jacquelyn was boarded at a fine
school and raised by gentlewomen with only occasional low passes
from her flighty mother. But now, Isabella’s voice rang in her
head, clear and true, for once.

The art of handling a man is knowing when
not to give him what he wants.

Usually Jacquelyn tried to push her mother
from her mind, but in this instance, perhaps a courtesan’s advice
was exactly what she needed.

She allowed herself to smile at him.

“If you follow my lead, my lord, you’ll be
undressing your new bride soon enough.”

A surprised chuckle rumbled deep in his
belly. “Very well, Mistress Wren. I place myself in your capable
hands.”

Jacquelyn resisted the urge to imagine what
she’d do with him actually in her hands. She ducked under his arm
and escaped to the table where tea was laid.

“In that case, let us begin. Allow me to pour
your tea and we’ll practice conversation—civilized
conversation—designed with procuring a wife in mind.”

He eyed her through narrowed lids, looking
for some trick. Then he shrugged and followed her over to sit.

“You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“These lessons were your idea, my lord.
However, if you like, I can make a selection for you from the
available women in the region and you can meet your bride at the
altar,” she said. “Contracted matches are just as valid as courted
ones. It would certainly save time.”

“Given your aversion to me, I shudder to
think what sort of woman you’d choose.” He waved the specter away.
“No, thank you.”

Aversion wasn’t how she’d describe her
feelings for him. Appalled fascination was more apt.

“How do you take your tea, my lord?”

“As I take most things, however and whenever
I please,” he said, still obviously hoping to goad her.

She merely arched a brow at him.

“One lump,” he said with a sigh.

A thrill of power rushed through her. Her
mother was right for once. The key to handling a man was surprise.
All she need do was anticipate what he was expecting and do the
opposite.

With little resistance, she led him through a
conversation about the weather and the condition of local crops,
all perfectly innocuous and very respectable.

“That was excellent, my lord. Now, we need to
decide how we’ll handle the matter of your piracy,” she said as she
tidied the tea tray.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were believed dead. Your
reappearance will be startling to some. Once you rejoin society,
people will want to know where you’ve been. You can’t very well
regale your guests with tales of your buccaneer friends and the
delights of ‘keel hauling,’” she said. “What do you intend to say
about your time at sea?”

“I don’t think anything but the truth will
serve. A man is defined by his choices. My ship was overpowered and
went down,” he said. “I chose to live.”

“But surely you don’t intend to admit to
piracy—”

“Mistress Wren, whether we like it or not, we
all have to admit to what we are,” Gabriel said. “If we don’t, we
are only fooling ourselves.”

He leaned over and caught her hand in his.
“For example, you can pretend to be outraged that I’m about to kiss
your hand or you can be yourself and enjoy it.”

Jacquelyn’s arm went rigid. “What makes you
think I’ll enjoy it?”

He fingered her wrist in light feathering
strokes. “Right here, I can feel your heart beating. It’s taken a
decided jump.”

He turned her hand palm down and drew a thumb
over her knuckles. The tension drained out of her.

“Your skin is warm.”

He lifted her hand but didn’t brush her
knuckles with his lips. Instead, he inhaled.

“And fragrant,” he said. “You use rosewater
to bathe, don’t you?”

“It’s not seemly for a gentleman to comment
on a lady’s toilette.”

“Lye soap works as well as a perfumed one. If
you didn’t want me to notice, why go to the trouble?”

“You think I bathe just for your pleasure? Of
all the conceited, puffed up—“

He pressed a finger to her lips.

“Remember who you’re fooling, Mistress. I
assure you, it’s not me.” He turned his attention back to her hand.
“Now, I can just buss my lips over your skin like so.”

He brushed the back of her hand with his
mouth. It was a perfect kiss, expertly done with just the right
amount of pressure and respectful deference.

“Or, I can take my time.”

He brought her hand back to his lips and
peered at her over her knuckles, waiting for a reaction.

He wanted her to rebel. If she objected, he’d
win.

Jacquelyn closed her eyes, willing him to get
it over with.

His warm breath stole over her fingers and up
her wrist. He brushed the back of her hand against his rough chin,
then drew his slightly open mouth over her knuckles and across her
fingers.

“Some people say that certain parts of the
hand trigger sensation in other parts of the body,” he murmured. He
nuzzled the crevice between her forefinger and middle finger. “Do
you suppose it’s true?”

A downward spiral started in her belly.
Jacquelyn’s eyes snapped open. Gabriel’s eyes were closed when he
planted his lips over the spot. The tip of his tongue massaged the
joint between her fingers.

A jolt of longing, an empty ache, streaked to
her womb. She gasped.

Gabriel opened his eyes and released her
hand. She folded them on her lap to keep them from trembling.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mistress
Wren, for satisfying my curiosity on that point.”

Speechless, she watched as he strode to the
door. He turned at the portal and looked back over his
shoulder.

“I believe our lesson is concluded for the
day,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “Unless you have further
need of me.”

Need, yes by heaven, she had need, but she
wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He’d already
pulled back the carefully constructed lie she presented to the
world and showed her for a sham. Priests always talked about the
sins of the fathers being visited on their children. As it turned
out, her mother’s sins were her own as well.

Jacquelyn didn’t trust her voice. She shook
her head and averted her gaze.

As his footsteps retreated down the corridor,
she realized her mother’s advice was worthless. Even a courtesan
wouldn’t be able to handle a pirate.

There was no dealing with a man who took
whatever he wanted.

And made her like it.

Meriwether pushed back from breaking his
fast, loosened his belt and let flee a satisfied belch.

“Hot mince pie and goat cheese whenever I
like. A wine-cellar handier than mother’s milk. And comely serving
wenches to boot.”

He ogled the little parlor maid as she swept
his empty plate from the long table and headed back to the galley
with it. The formidable Mrs. Beadle waddled toward him to shield
the girl from his gaze, frowning like a Kraken.

Meriwether shivered and turned his attention
back to his host.

“Aye, tis a most agreeable berth ye’ve
secured for us, Cap’n.”

He sneaked a glance at Mrs. Beadle who was
still regarding him with lowered brows.

“Mostly agreeable, that is.”

“Maybe for you, Meri.” Gabriel speared a
plump sausage with his knife and bit off a hunk. “You’re not the
one who’s about to be fed to the wolves.”

Mistress Wren had sent out invitations to a
ball to be held at Dragon Caern a fortnight hence. The stack of
acceptance notes on the sideboard grew daily. The Cornish nobility
was a buzzing hive of curiosity and more than ready to satisfy
themselves about Gabriel Drake’s return from the dead. And if in
the process they might marry off one of their daughters to the new
baron of Dragon Caern, so much the better.

“Ah, well, there’s worse ends than a marriage
bed,” Meri said. “Back in ’85, there was this poor piker in
Kingsport who was caught meddling with the governor’s wife. And she
weren’t screaming all that loudly till her husband bursts in, if
you take my meaning. I heard tell the governor turned the fellow
over to a band of wild Caribs still running free in the mountains.
Word was they had the fellow’s balls for breakfast.”