My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) (3 page)

She frowned.

Just as William Cormac was making that fortune, Anne remembered with a guilty twinge, she had married James Bonny. And, on their wedding night, James had spoken with a cruel sneer of his love of men. Then, he disclosed his plans of inheriting her father’s acquired fortune. Her father refused to help her out of the rash decision she’d already made. So, she’d done the only thing she could think of to get her father to disinherit her . . . she fell in love with a pirate and ran off with him.

Jack Rackham.

Love.

It was hard to believe the two had been synonymous with one another at one time.

Love was the beginning of a wild existence, and the cause of her predicament in Port Royal.

She focused on Sarah’s stern face before her temper began to simmer remembering the time she’d wasted for love.

But, she’d not trade places with anyone. There were three beautiful children that came out of her escapades. And, one she hadn’t hugged or comforted for three years.

“Well, go on, then. Go see your room. We’ll find a room for the babes.”

“My son?” Anne hoped he was close.

“The boy? He’s most likely playing upstairs with the nursemaid, Eliza. You’ll find the nursery across the house, opposite from your bedroom.”

“I’d like to see him now, please.” Anne took the basket and crossed the room to the staircase on the right, almost tripping over her feet as she moved with haste.

Holt was here, and safe, and hers.

Tears burned her eyes as she reached the top of the steps and heard voices, that of a woman and a young child. She rushed to the second door on her right and turned the knob.

“Horse!” A boy shouted enthusiastically as he looked at the miniature figure the small, older woman held in her hands. Her tanned face widened with the smile she gave him.

“Yes, my boy, that’s right! A horse.” The British accent was thick, and the older lady looked up into the doorway to see Anne standing there, her eyes questioning.

Holt turned to see who stood in the doorway. His tousled auburn hair framing a chubby, tanned face. Deep emerald eyes sparkled with happiness, and dimples dotted each cheek.

He was the most beautiful lad she’d ever set eyes on.

“Mummy?” His eyes were curious, but he knew her. How, she did not know.

Anne sobbed, placed the basket on the floor, and sank to her knees, arms outstretched. She nodded.

He ran into her arms, and the feel of him there, cuddled to her chest made her sob harder. The tears flowed without hindrance, happiness and wholeness filling her. “Yes. Yes. I’m your mother. I've missed you so.” The ache in her chest that she’d had upon leaving the child she birthed those years ago began to ease, just by holding him.

She leaned back enough to smooth his riotous auburn hair—hair so like her own.

He smiled up at her, touching the wetness on her cheek. “Mummy.”

Nodding again, she smiled. “Yes, forever.”

He turned from her and ran over and swiped the horse figurine from the nursemaid. The woman's kind smile transformed her wrinkled face. She was fleshy and soft looking, with brown hair streaked throughout with gray. Her eyes were a gentle brown, too, the opposite of Sarah’s. Anne found herself chuckling inside at the thought.

“He’s a good lad, Miss. Knows your face from portraits your uncle showed him.”

“Never would I have thought I would be grateful for those troublesome portraits. I had to sit for hours and hours, all those years ago.”

Anne swiped at the tears on her cheeks and walked over to the older lady, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Anne Morgan.” The lady stared at her hand a moment before realizing she needed to shake it. She put her hands in Anne’s. “Thank you for looking after him while he’s been here.”

The woman’s face lit up with a large smile; a smile that reached her generous eyes. “It’s my enjoyment, Miss. He’s a smart and sweet child.” She looked in Holt’s direction. “He says your name every day, and has for the past year.”

Anne blinked, shocked. Her father had found her son that long ago and kept him hidden away? She must find out how he came to know of Holt and his whereabouts. She'd worried for his safety every day. Upon her capture in Cuba, that worry consumed her.

“Extraordinary. Bless that man.” A shaky breath escaped her.

“Yes, Miss. He is a good man.” She walked back over to the chair in the corner and grabbed a box full of different figurines. “I’m Eliza Teach, been with this boy his entire stay here at Cranford Hall.”

Holt examined the horse. Anne raised her brows, curious. She’d known another Teach once, interesting and testy fellow some people called “Blackbeard”.

Luckily, Eliza's sweet countenance assured she wasn’t related to the most notorious of the sea pirates.

“Does my Uncle reside here?” She knew not to ask the household servants too many personal questions, so holding them back was becoming difficult.

Eliza shook her head, walking over and pulling the blanket away from Garrett’s basket. “No, but he visits from time to time. He lives in a nice manor house on the other side of Charles Town.”

The older woman’s warm smile went all the way to her eyes when she saw Garrett’s chubby face. “Another charmer, I see, with bright, green eyes like his mother. His name?”

Anne smiled down at her youngest son. “Garrett. I've another babe, Frederica. Sarah has taken charge of her downstairs. Her mother, Mary, died not long after giving birth to her. She was my friend and I promised to raise her daughter as my own.”

The older lady gave a nod as if acknowledging Anne had done the right thing. “Hard work, these young ones, but we’ll do the best we can for them.”

Anne gave Eliza’s hand a pat. “Thank you. Thank you for caring for my son.”

An adoring smile transformed Eliza’s face as she looked over to where Holt dug into the box of figurines. “It’s a pleasure, Anne. My own son left home long ago. But, I’m afraid he was a bad seed. It’s nice to look after one so sweet.” She stood.

At that moment, Holt raced up to Eliza and started to drag her over to the box. “Play!”

Eliza smiled down at him and nodded. “Yes darling, we shall play.”

Anne stood and grabbed the basket containing her youngest son. “Thank you, Eliza Teach. I’ll be back to play with my son as soon as I've had a proper bath.”

Taking her youngest charge with her, she walked back down the stairs to find Sarah, and discovered her cooing at Frederica in her basket. Hearing Anne’s footsteps, Sarah ceased her chortles and coos, and adapted the expression only a true curmudgeon would display.

Anne had a mind to smile, but she kept her face as stoic as she could.

“Sorry, Sarah, I had to see my son. Now, may we?” She tilted her head in the direction of the bedrooms.

Sarah harrumphed and began to ascend the stairs, Anne on her heels.

Once Sarah opened the door to the sitting room, Anne was again struck by the luxury of the furniture placed within. The décor was a bit masculine, but she tended to favor the darker colors. The drapes opened wide to allow the southern light to pour in, illuminating the settees and chairs that circled a central fireplace.

It was delightful. She tried not to allow the shock to show on her features.

Sarah, the old bird, had the grace to ignore her awe, and proceeded through another door on the interior wall. The pleasing smell of fresh spices assailed her nostrils.

Anne then followed Sarah into an even larger room. It too shimmered with the sun's rays through the open windows. A large four-poster bed, so high, she would need a footstool to get into it, set opposite an exquisite fireplace. How strange her father would put her in the room with such a large bed.

“I’ll take your son and daughter to the nursery, Miss. A crib already sits in the corner, and it is big enough for the both of em’, for now. I’ll send your Raphael to buy another one.” She walked over and grabbed up Garrett’s basket without a backward glance. “I’ll send up the boys with hot water.”

Anne beamed, “That is excellent. Thank you, Sarah.”

“Bah!” Her expression grew grouchier with Anne’s gratitude. Her lips thinned and her brows came together. She walked out of the room as if insulted. Anne cracked a laugh, then plopped herself onto one of the over-sized chairs by the unlit fireplace. Still in awe of her surroundings and her sudden freedom, she tilted her head back to relax.

Her mind raced for all the things she would teach her children. She was free of any shackles, literally and figuratively. She would miss the open sea, aye, but someday, she’d sail again.

For now, she would find her father’s instructions and get to know the people here. Try her hand at farming, maybe help out in the fields. Lord knew, being idle in the past had dire consequences.

Sitting up, Anne unpinned her hair and let it fall down her back. She knew it was an awful, red, fiery nest, but hoped she didn't scare the boys away who brought the water.

It was then she noticed the folded parchment on the small dining table in the corner near the window. With a quaking in her stomach, she pushed off the chair and ran over to where it lay—the familiar mark pressed into the wax seal.

She ripped the seal, a squeal of excitement escaping her.

Anne,

I hope you find your surroundings pleasing, and find your son safe and happy. He is a sweet child with your energy. I ask you to remember your son as you read this letter.

To secure your future as a woman with a new identity, I have been able to procure this home and security by way of Lord Addison Blackhurst. He is truly your savior. He has agreed to a marriage to secure a proper future for a widow and her son. He also finds himself in need of a wife.

I expect you shall be a proper wife, mother, and respectable citizen of Charles Town. For, if you do not marry Lord Blackhurst and remain loyal and decent, you will be sent off and your son will be raised by a family deserving of him. I know you shall do what is right. This is more than I might have wished for you and your future.

You may visit Elizabeth Browning, Tradd Street, for gowns and female items you might need. She has offered to provide you an appropriate wardrobe as befitting your status as wife, by way of her daughter.

Regards,

William Cormac

After perusing the letter, word-by-word, for a second time, her temper simmered. Her cheeks and the tops of her ears began to burn. A third reading, and she could feel every nerve in her body pulse with the thudding of her heart. Her skin tingled with heat. The fourth time, the roots of her hair threatened to burst into flames, and her clenched teeth rendered a deep ache in her jaw.

She crumpled the letter, willing the words to disappear and disintegrate. With each satisfying crunch, her righteous indignation settled as the parchment diminished in size.

Standing abruptly, she threw it across the room, panting.

Marry?

And, to someone she did not know.

Why would a lord marry an ex-pirate? Wait. Her father had failed to mention she’d been a pirate, in gaol, or anything else.

But, she had to marry him, wear proper clothes, act a decent citizen, be a proper wife to someone she’d never met. Or, her son would live with someone deserving of him.

How highhanded of her father.

He would dare, dare, force her to marry again?

The lord finds himself in need of a wife, does he?

Blowing air through her teeth, panting hard, she stalked back and forth in the room. Trying to find something, anything, to do besides scream so loud the windows would shatter.

On the side table by the large bed, two small vases called to her. She strode over to them.

Upon passing by the wide and masculine bed, she huffed. “A man’s bed, indeed.”

The whole decor of the wing screamed masculine because a man lived here.

A lord.

That explained the luxury and largeness of the house under construction. The beauty of it all did not come from a typical farmer, or a rich merchant.

She grabbed up the vases, one in each hand . . . and tossed one as hard as she could at the wall. With a satisfying crash, it shattered to pieces and littered the floor. Panting harder, she flashed a smile and threw the other. As it crashed and fell to the floor, her eyes searched for any other items to throw to release her temper.

Her father held her future, and that of her children in his hands. How dare her father do this to her?

She was a widow. She didn't need a husband. For all she knew he was old, withered, smelled like old cheese, and a tyrant who beat his servants.

Frightened and angry, she spied more vases and plates along the mantle of the fireplace. She ran over and grabbed a plate. A scream erupted from her this time as she launched the plate toward the opposing wall. It exploded with a loud, satisfying crash.

Gasping hard, she reached for another vase.

“What the devil are you doing?” A deep, and pompous to her ears, British-accented, male voice demanded.

Before questioning who intruded upon her and the hint given in his authoritative voice, she turned and threw the vase in his direction . . . aiming straight for his head.