How To Please a Pirate (7 page)

Meri reached under the table and scratched
his own in sympathy.

“And the rest of him for dinner,” Gabriel
finished for him. “A cautionary tale for lonely mariners
everywhere.”

“Weren’t no tale. I got it straight from a
bloke what was there. Rum way to go, if you ask me,” Meri went on.
“‘Course that was long before your time. Back when the ocean
between the Caribbee and merry ol’ England was ever so much wider
than it is now. There ain’t no more islands left where the girls
swim out to the ship wearing nothing but a smile.” He sighed
wistfully. “The whole Spanish Main’s gone and got itself
civilized.”

“Given the old bill of fare, that’s probably
a good thing. Though I’m always in favor of smiling wenches with
nothing to hide,” Gabriel added with a wolfish grin.

Timothy, the stable lad, sidled into the
dining room with hunched shoulders and a long face. Meri squinted
at him.

“Looks like a hound that just peed in the
parlor, don’t he?” Meriwether said.

“Beg pardon, my lord.” The lad doffed his cap
and twisted it nervously.

“What is it, Tim?” Gabriel asked.

“Mistress Wren sends her compliments and asks
if Your Lordship be ready for your lessons?” Timothy tugged at his
collar. “She says to tell you . . .” The lad fidgeted with his top
button and gave the cap another twist.

“Out with it, man.”

“She says she’ll be waiting for you in the
garden when you’ve a mind to see to your duties.” Timothy bit his
lower lip. The message was saucy, just shy of insubordinate and
poor Tim knew it. Obviously, he was hoping his lord wouldn’t blame
the messenger.

Meri glanced over at Gabriel. As captain of
the
Revenge
, Gabriel Drake had never let a challenge go
unanswered. It wouldn’t be healthy to tolerate defiance. The least
disrespect merited swift and certain punishment. The crew liked it
that way. Made ‘em feel better to know the man who led them could
handle himself. And them.

“I see.” A muscle ticked along Gabriel’s jaw
line.

That didn’t bode well for Mistress Wren.

“I’ve already mastered the art of balancing a
teacup on my knee without spilling more than a drop or two and I’m
prepared to say any number of witty things about the blasted
weather. What more could there be to this business of courting?”
Gabriel demanded. “Did she tell you what my
duties
might
entail this day?”

“My lord, it seems you’re to learn the
language of the fan this morning.”

“The language of the fan? What kind of dandy
does she take me for? God’s Teeth! That woman will be the death of
me.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and crumpled his linen napkin at the
side of his barely touched plate. “Apparently, Meri, there are
still those who want a man’s balls for breakfast.”

He rose and left the room without a backward
glance.

“And yet, ye hop to at her first bidding. Ah,
Cap’n, I’m afeard for ye,” Meriwether muttered after Gabriel’s
retreating back. Then he pulled the captain’s plate in front of
him. He popped a link of sausage into his mouth and sighed in
pleasure, heedless of the lovely grease trickling into his beard.
“Any man who lets a good English sausage go to waste over a woman
is in a sorry state indeed.”

* * *

Gabriel stormed through the keep. In the past
week, Jacquelyn Wren had put him through more interminable sessions
with tea and finger sandwiches than a ship’s hull had
barnacles.

And never alone with him either.

All his lessons were carefully arranged to
include the brooding presence of Mrs. Beadle or the gawky Timothy.
There was never an opportunity for another attempt at
seduction.

At least this day he’d been able to order
Timothy to the stables to shoe his horse and he’d left Mrs. B.
scowling at Meriwether. He’d have Jacquelyn to himself for
once.

After all his lessons, Gabriel was certain of
one thing. Polite Society was vastly overrated.

Most of the rules seemed designed to make
sure a man made a fool of himself with the least amount of effort
on his part. Granted, things had changed since he put to sea, but
how had the system of manners been brought to such ridiculously
elaborate heights. Surely the whole of English manhood hadn’t lost
their minds during the spate of years in which he sailed the
Caribbean.

What in perdition was ‘the language of the
fan?’ It sounded like the worst sort of feminine silliness.

He stopped short at the open doorway and
looked out on the garden. It was a little triangle of green
festooned with blooms around a central fountain. An herbarium
rioted in one corner. The space was designed as a refuge, sheltered
on all sides by the grey stone of the castle.

Jacquelyn was seated on a stone settee,
looking as cool and inviting as a shady cove. She was wearing a
fetching sac dress, not too ostentatious in ornamentation, but of
fine brocade and with an open panel that displayed a be-ribboned
petticoat. Her pointy-toed slippers peeped demurely beneath her
hem.

No stolen glimpse of an ankle this
day,
Gabriel thought with regret.

The costume bespoke her position as
chatelaine. Her erect posture proclaimed her every inch a lady. A
shining russet curl escaped her cap and coiled over her shoulder.
She drummed the tip of her fan on her other hand.

She thought to teach him the language of the
fan? No need for interpretation of that gesture. She was already
agitated.

Then she flicked the fan open and it tremored
before her breasts. The motion drew his eye to the sweet hollow
between them even quicker than usual.

Maybe that’s why Englishmen put up with
such fripperies.
A grin tugged at his lips as he stepped into
the garden.

“Mistress Wren.” He made an elegant leg to
her, turning his toe out to best show the musculature in his calf
as she’d instructed.

“My lord.” She hopped up and dropped a
curtsey. Her gaze darted behind him. “Where is Timothy?”

“He has duties elsewhere. I can’t imagine he
has much to offer on the subject at hand,” he said. “Now what have
you to teach me about fans besides how enticing your bosom looks
behind one?”

She flicked the fan closed.

“My lord, you may wish to make light of—“

“Mistress Wren, I would never make light of
your bosom.”

Flame kissed her cheeks.

Good. He liked her all the better when she
was enraged or embarrassed. He’d settle for either.

“Indeed, I hold your bosom in the highest
possible esteem,” he assured her. “That is to say, I would like to
hold—“

She punched his stomach with the butt of her
fan. Air exploded from his lungs.

“. . . them in the highest possible esteem,”
he finished, rubbing his flat belly gingerly. “At a guess, that fan
signal means you wish to gut me.”

“It does, but I was improvising,” she said
between clenched teeth. “That’s not an acknowledged fan gesture and
I doubt you’ll receive it from another woman unless you continue in
boorish behavior.”

She settled back on the settee and arranged
her skirts artfully on either side of her hips, hips that he knew
were nowhere near as broad as her panniers made them seem.

“I fear you are not taking your
responsibilities seriously, my lord.”

“Since when is knowledge of fans such a
serious responsibility?”

“Your goal is to wed,” she reminded him.
“When your female guests arrive for the ball, your future wife may
well be among them. Wouldn’t you like to be able to correctly read
the subtle signs she sends you?”

“As opposed to your not-so-subtle ones?” When
she glared at him, he threw up his hands in mock surrender and
settled beside her. “I am clay in your capable hands. Mold me into
the fashion most suitable for feminine approval.”

“Very well.” She nodded, mollified for the
moment. “We’ll start with the basics. A wealth of information can
be conveyed with a few simple movements. Now if a woman touches the
tip of her fan to her right cheek, it means ‘yes.’” She brought the
fan up to demonstrate.

“And the left cheek means ‘no,’ I
suppose.”

“Exactly.” Her lips curved in a fleeting
smile. He suddenly wished he knew how to coax one to stay.

“My left or your left?” he asked.

“It’s always the woman’s left.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He leaned toward
her. Even in the midst of a wildly blooming garden, he caught a
whiff of her rosewater scent. It swirled around his brain and
nudged his groin to aching life. “But why go to so much trouble?
How hard is it just to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“This may be difficult for a pirate to grasp,
but sometimes a situation calls for delicacy. In a crowded drawing
room, wouldn’t a subtle ‘no’ be preferable to a bald-faced one?”
She hitched herself away from him on the settee.

“Actually, a ‘yes’ would be preferable.”

Her lips were mere inches away, softly
parted. Sweet and moist, he could nearly taste them. The pulse
point at the base of her throat fluttered faster than her fan.

“There are some men who will not hear a ‘no’
even if it is shouted from the battlements,” she said.

Her pointed little tongue darted out and
swept her bottom lip.

“Maybe that’s because we’re not the dolts
women take us for.” He closed the distance between them, intent on
claiming her mouth. “A man can tell when a woman is saying ‘no’
with her fan and ‘yes’ with everything else.”

She shoved the fan between them right under
his nose. It was nine inches long and had ivory spines webbed with
stiff, itchy lace.

“Another improvisation?” he asked.

She arched a brow at him.

“You seem to have a gift for it.” He rubbed
his upper lip when she finally lowered her weapon.

“I fear you are not attending, my lord.” She
snapped the fan shut and pressed the tip to her left cheek. Her
grey eyes flared at him. “What does this mean again?”

He pulled away from her. Strategic retreat
was often the path to victory, the old sea dogs claimed.

He’d wager none of them had ever crossed fans
with Jacquelyn Wren.

“It means ‘no,’” he admitted.

“That’s right. Kindly remember it.”

She held the closed fan away from her body
and twirled it slowly, like a witch stirring her cauldron. He had
to admit the graceful motion was enchanting. His mouth fairly
watered to sample the thin skin at her wrist where the tiny veins
showed blue beneath the pale, smooth surface.

“Now if a woman twirls her fan in the left
hand,” she explained, “it means ‘we are being watched.’”

Gabriel frowned, wondering how such a signal
might come in handy.

“Ah!” He slapped his thigh. “As in, ‘Don’t
look now, but my husband is coming this way?’”

“No,” she said testily. “If a woman is
married, she will fan herself slowly.”

He cocked his head. “A languid movement like
that could be considered an invitation, I suppose.”

“It’s meant as a warning
not
to pursue
a liaison.” Her tone was straying upward, a sure sign she was
exasperated. She flapped the fan open and shut with a loud pop.

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“That you are cruel,” she accused.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” she affirmed.

“I’m not the one shoving ivory and lace up
someone else’s nose.” He folded his arms across his chest.

She unfurled the fan again and snapped it
shut, her lips a tight line across her face.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
spread knees. He’d surveyed the feminine battlements and determined
there was no way to breach the walls Jacquelyn had erected between
them. Maybe it was time to concede defeat.

“I don’t mean to be cruel, Jacquelyn. Not to
you.”

She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Then why do you insist on making everything so difficult?”

“Maybe because it is,” he said to the grass
sprouting between his feet. “My homecoming has been nothing like
what I expected. I never meant to be lord here, you know.”

Amazingly enough, he sensed her softening
beside him. He glanced at her without turning his head. She
unstiffened ever so slightly, her knuckles less white where she
gripped her fan.

Was that the secret to winning a woman’s
confidence? All a man need do was confess his doubts? It sounded
absurd, but what about women ever made sense?

He decided to test the idea.

“And I have no wish to marry, assuredly not
like this.” He waved a hand uncertainly. “Under duress, as it
were.”

“It is necessary,” she said with uncommon
gentleness.

“I know, but that doesn’t make it
easier.”

Did he imagine it or did she move toward him
on the stone settee just a bit?

“Why
did
you come home?” She was
definitely leaning toward him now. When he didn’t answer
immediately, she prodded. “I mean no disrespect. Please, my lord,
I’d like to know.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” Her tone was mere wisp.

But her question struck close to the bone.
Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“When I was captain of the
Revenge,
I
was dead to my old life.” He shrugged, in hopes the gesture would
render his words of less import. “The longer I was away, the more I
came to know a man can’t stay dead forever. At least, not if he
would remain himself. I hoped to be my father’s son once more.”

“And you returned to find him gone,” she
finished for him, her tone laced with sympathy.

Her slim white hand rested lightly on his
forearm. He didn’t move lest he scare her off.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

Slowly, he turned to her. Jacquelyn’s eyes
were moist beneath her russet brows. He realized his losses were
hers as well. Except she’d actually been here when his family died.
Perhaps it had been even harder for her.