Care and Feeding of Pirates Page 2

  She paused. Her fingers shook, and she quieted them. I believed the actors fools. Or am I the fool? I thought I saw . . .

  She stopped. She could not write his name, even now. I believe I am becoming senile. According to London's very low opinion of spinsters, I should be off my head by now. Thank heavens for Mr. Templeton's proposal or I should be quite unsavable.

  Honoria lowered the pen, her fingers aching. Her head hurt, and she could no longer think of bright, amusing things to write.

  She heard Diana's muffled footsteps on the stairs as her sister-in-law ascended to the third floor. Just above Honoria's room lay the nursery, where Isabeau and Diana's baby son slept. James and Diana had named the baby Paul. Honoria thought this a little unfair to the child, because anyone called Paul Ardmore would have very big shoes to fill.

  Honoria lifted the pen and wrote in the book, My entire life is a lie.

  She underlined lie. She heard Diana crooning upstairs, "Who's mama's ickle lad, then?"

  Honoria wiped her pen and placed it in the pen tray, then rose from her writing desk and turned toward the bed.

  Christopher Raine was standing next to it.

  *****

  Chapter Two

  Honoria stepped back and upset the chair, which fell against the desk, dislodging her journal and pen tray. The pen tray crashed to the floor with a loud clatter, the pens rolling across the carpet.

  Diana's footsteps creaked to the stairs above. "Honoria? Are you all right?"

  Honoria dashed to the door and flung it open. "Yes, indeed," she called up. "I dropped my pens, that is all."

  Diana peered down the half-dark staircase, little Paul hoisted on one arm. After a long moment, she said, "All right then. Good night," and retreated up the stairs.

  Honoria shut the door but resisted turning the key. If Diana heard the click of the lock, she might be down again, demanding to know what was the matter.

  Honoria turned around again. Christopher was gone.

  "Oh, no you don't," she said. "I saw you this time."

  Christopher stepped out from behind the bed, where he'd moved so the hangings would hide him in case Diana came all the way downstairs. He approached Honoria as she stood, motionless, by the writing table.

  He certainly looked alive. His quiet footfalls and the creak of his leather boots made him sound alive.

  Christopher had been hard-muscled and fine of body four years ago, and he was even more so now. The shirt that clung to broad shoulders showed his solidity, and black breeches, shiny with wear, stretched over large thighs. His boots, worn and black, rose past his knees and tracked mud and tar onto Diana's lovely carpet. Candlelight burnished golden bristles on his jaw and the finer curls at the opening of his shirt.

  "Why are you alive?" Honoria blurted.

  "That happy to see me, are you?"

  Something had happened to Christopher's voice. It had always been deep, with a faintly French accent, but now it had an edge to it, as though it had been broken and imperfectly repaired. Gravel on a dry road had a sound like that.

  Christopher cupped her shoulders, heat of them burning through her dressing gown as though the silk didn't exist. "The last time we met, you threw yourself into my arms," he said.

  "The last time." Honoria gulped air. "Why is there a this time?"

  "Because there is. Stop talking and let me kiss you."

  Christopher bent to her, his breath on her lips, his eyes cool, clear, and gray. Honoria silenced every screaming question in her mind, twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

  For a moment Christopher stopped, as though he hadn't believed she'd kiss him back. Then he touched his thumbs to the corners of her mouth, parting her lips for him, licking behind them, opening her, as demanding as ever.

  Their mouths met and parted, breath tangling, Christopher drawing her up to him as though the time between their last kiss and this had been seconds, not years.

  Honoria couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was here, in her arms. Alive.

  Christopher eased out of the kiss and looked down at her, thumb brushing moisture from her lips.

  For a ghost he was certainly solid. And hot. She'd never felt anything like it short of sticking her hand into a fire. But then, they said Christopher had gone straight to hell and been turned away. Even Beelzebub had not wanted him.

  Honoria ran her hands across his shoulders, down his back, up under his warm hair. No man could be more alive than this. His pulse beat strong in his throat, and his hardness pressed her thin dressing gown.

  Christopher nudged his bent knee between hers, pulling her against his body. She found her dressing gown parting, his thigh resting between her legs, right against her opening through her nightrail. Honoria wanted more than anything to slide along that thigh, to savor the sweet friction.

  "That's the Honoria I remember," he said.

  Each time they met had been like this. They'd spoken a few phrases then came together frantically with lips, hands, and bodies.

  Christopher dragged her closer while he opened her mouth under his again. His lips were strong, masterful, bruising. He knew what he wanted and took it.

  Honoria tried to push him away, but it was like pushing a brick wall. The bristles on his jaw burned her skin as he deepened the kiss.

  Honoria's body melted to his, his hand running down the placket of her dressing down, fingers dipping inside to her bare skin.

  "Christopher," she tried to whisper against his mouth. "We must talk."

  Christopher's eyes were like smoke in the sunshine. "I don't want to talk just yet."

  "But you're supposed to be dead."

  "You keep saying that. Inconvenient for you, is it?"

  The ties on his shirt were frayed. He smelled of soap and tar and the faint musk Honoria would remember until the day she died. "No, I want you to be alive." She traced the muscles of his chest through his shirt. "But I don't understand . . ."

  He cupped her face in his hands, his fingertips warm on her cheeks. "For once we have a convenient bed. But I think I prefer the floor, with you."

  They had carpet this time, at least. But if Honoria allowed him to take her there, she would surrender to him again, and that would be the end of her. She'd burn to a crisp and be nothing but a pile of ash.

  Christopher's absence hadn't diminished his strength. He tilted Honoria's head back, threaded his hands through her loosened hair, and kissed her again, not giving her any choice.

  He was right--explanations could come later. Honoria parted her lips, letting him explore her mouth in slow, familiar, intimate, breathtaking strokes.

  The door clicked open, and a cold draft poured into the room. From the doorway, Diana said clearly, "Take your hands off her, or I will shoot you."

  Christopher stopped. In tense silence, he eased his mouth from Honoria's and took one step away from her. Looking neither alarmed nor angry, he steadied Honoria on her feet and turned to face the intruder.

  Diana stood on the threshold in a green silk dressing gown, her red hair hanging over her shoulder in a long braid. She held a pistol in one firm hand was pointing it straight at Christopher.

  Honoria stepped in front of him, her legs barely supporting her, her throat aching and tight.

  "It is all right, Diana," she said clearly. "He is my husband."

  *** *** ***

  "I still do not understand," the red-haired woman called Diana Ardmore said. She touched the creased piece of paper that Honoria had given her, which proclaimed that Christopher Raine and Honoria Ardmore had been married in Charleston, South Carolina, on the Eighth of November, 1809.

  Christopher drained his whiskey and carefully set the glass on the dining room table. He'd always heard that when ladies had something to discuss, they brought out the tea. The woman who'd married James Ardmore had gone straight for the whiskey. She'd made Honoria drink a slosh as well.

  Honoria had taken one sip, set the glass down, then held on to the arms of the slender-leg
ged Hepplewhite chair on which she sat as though she were on a ship about to go down.

  She refused to look at Christopher. Or Diana, or the license. But here was a fact. Honoria had kept the license. She even carried it about with her.

  Honoria's black hair tumbled loose, a curl snagging on the clasp of her dressing gown. Half dressed and mussed, she looked good enough to eat.

  Christopher had been following her all evening. When he'd seen her emerge from the theatre, he'd wanted nothing more than to sprint across the cobbles, snatch her up, put her over his shoulder, and carry her off. She was his wife. They could find some cozy inn where they could settle down and become reacquainted.

  He'd discovered this morning the whereabouts of the house in which she stayed on Mount Street in Mayfair. The house belonged to one Admiral Lockwood, whose daughter, Diana, had actually married James Ardmore. Unbelievable.

  It had been simple to slip into the house and quietly climb the stairs to Honoria's bedchamber while the ladies consumed coffee in the drawing room. Christopher had easily deduced which bedchamber was Honoria's--the painfully neat one with every book lined up on the shelves, her pens in an exact row in her pen tray.

  Christopher had truly meant only to speak to, to break it to her that he was still alive. But watching Honoria enter the room and undress with the help of a sharp-faced maid had sent his blood into high temperatures. He'd been surprised the curtains he'd stood behind hadn't bulged out with his sudden cockstand.

  After the maid departed, Honoria had sat at the desk, posture correct, primly writing in her journal. She'd scratched in it for a while before lifting her head and staring off into the distance.

  Her lips had parted, her cheeks coloring, and Christopher had hoped to God she'd not been thinking of Mr. Temple-Toes, or whatever his name was, whom she planned to marry.

  Talking had been suddenly out of the question. Christopher had emerged from the window embrasure, determined to go to her, pull her head back, and kiss her until all thoughts of Mr. Toodlewink had been erased from her mind.

  Honoria had risen, seen him, faced him, and demanded to know what he was doing alive. But her kisses were as sweet as Christopher remembered.

  He wondered if Mrs. Ardmore would have shot him if he hadn't let Honoria go. The look in that lady's gray-blue eyes said very probably.

  Christopher answered her, "It was a condemned man's wish. The chaplain who visited the prisoners was a romantic. When I told him I wanted to marry Honoria, he pulled strings to get the license, and he married us. The next day, I was taken out to be hanged."

  "Which, presumably, you weren't," Mrs. Ardmore said.

  "I was let off at the last minute. But the magistrates feared they'd cause a riot if they made my reprieve public, so they put a hood on the next man in line for the noose and told the crowd and the newspapers he was me. He went out in a blaze of glory. Poor bastard."

  Diana shifted the baby on her arm. He was asleep, as limp as only a baby safe in his mother's arms could be. Men slept like that after making love. There was something about cradling oneself on the bosom of a beautiful woman that gave a man over to peaceful slumber.

  "Then what happened to you?" Honoria asked, the first words she'd spoken since they'd come down here.

  Christopher turned his glass on the table, the facets throwing spangles of light onto the dark wood. "They tied my hands and slipped me out the back to a cart. I still thought I was on my way to be hanged, because I hadn't heard of the change in order. But things got quieter, and I realized we weren't anywhere near the gallows. When the cart finally stopped, I was made to get into a longboat. The jailor with me told me that my sentence had been commuted, but to keep it quiet. The boat took me to a ship, and the ship put to sea."

  The baby moved his fist, and Diana absently rocked him. "Where did you go?" she asked, quietly curious.

  "China." Christopher pulled the decanter of whiskey to him and poured more amber liquid into his glass. "The ship was a merchantman, and I worked as a sailor on it. I have no idea whether the captain knew who I was. I climbed yardarms and stood watches like one of the crew."

  Honoria managed a faint smile. "I'm surprised you didn't try to take over the ship."

  "Would have, but I didn't have my trusted crew, and the merchantman had a paltry haul. I didn't mind being a common sailor for a while."

  Honoria said in her quiet, Southern tones, "After the Rosa Bonita, I am certain every haul seemed paltry."

  Christopher laughed. "Ah, yes, the Rosa Bonita. The take of a lifetime."

  "I heard about that," Diana said. "The ship was taken, the pirates who stole it vanished, and the gold was never recovered. You were the pirate in question?"

  Christopher had suspected that the gold had not been found, but he liked that Mrs. Ardmore confirmed the fact. "Ardmore never found it?" he asked. "He's going soft."

  "James never looked for it, as far as I know," Honoria said. "He didn't seem to care about it."

  "Is that why you've returned?" Diana asked. "For the gold?"

  She was a woman who could keep to the point. Christopher took a sip of whiskey. "I returned to look for my wife." He let his gaze rest on Honoria.

  "Why were you let off?" Honoria asked, flustered. "Did the governor decide to be lenient?"

  Christopher looked at her in surprise. "It was your brother's doing. Ardmore got me released. He never told you?"

  Honoria's eyes widened in shock. She hadn't known. "No."

  "Interesting." Very interesting. "I'd have sent word to you, but I couldn't." For many, many reasons. "Did you ever tell Ardmore you married me?"

  The placket of Honoria's dressing gown had parted slightly. She hadn't refastened it quite right, and the silk gaped to show a curve of her bosom. "That is not exactly the sort of information I could impart to James," she said.

  "He's your brother."

  "It's difficult to explain. We were never close."

  No, but Honoria now lived with James's wife in London. Christopher did not know the lay of the land here, and he didn't like that. He had to tread carefully, and that wasn't easy with Honoria staring at him while her pretty bosom rose with her every breath.

  If he could have finished making love to her upstairs, he could have sated himself and turned his mind quietly to other matters. Instead, he was randy as a sailor who hadn't had shore leave in six months. He was in a room with a beautiful woman in dishabille, who happened to be his wife, and he had to sit on the other side of a wide table and keep his thoughts at bay.

  He took another long drink of whiskey.

  "Why on earth would James save your life anyway?" Honoria asked. "He arrested you in the first place. He took the reward for your capture."

  "He owed me a debt."

  In truth, Christopher had been surprised at Ardmore's generosity. Christopher had possessed information that Ardmore had very much wanted to know. He hadn't realized the information worth his life.

  "So you have been in China all this time?" Mrs. Ardmore interrupted.

  "I worked my way from port to port," Christopher said, glossing over disease and hardship, the many nights he believed he'd never reach home again. "I also spent time searching the world for my crew. I had a small fleet before my flagship was destroyed, and my crew had scattered. I wanted to find out what happened to them." He shrugged. "They're my family."

  That was true in the deepest sense, but he had no wish to become sentimental in front of Ardmore's wife.

  "Why did you come to London then?" Diana asked, rocking her son again. "You had no reason to believe Honoria would be here."

  She might be making small talk at a dinner party, but Christopher knew she'd report anything he said to her husband, and he had to answer carefully.

  "I'm still looking for the rest of my crew. My second-in-command is rumored to be in England. My ultimate destination was Charleston, but now I don't have to bother." Christopher moved his gaze to the soft flesh he could see of Honoria's breast, rememberin
g the way her nipples had grown firm under his touch not a half hour ago. If he saw well enough, the kissable tips were tightening even now. "Lucky for me, I opened a London newspaper and saw Honoria's name in it. Announcing her engagement to another man."

  Honoria didn't flinch, though her cheeks reddened. "I thought we would come to that."

  Christopher looked at her fully. "I decided I'd pay you a call and ask you about it."

  "When I accepted Mr. Templeton, I believed you dead."

  "I hope so. Or else you could be arrested for bigamy."

  "You were officially dead and hanged in Charleston," she said, her voice cracking. "Years ago."

  "I was officially transported. There was never a record of my hanging and death. Didn't it occur to you to check that before you rushed into another marriage?"

  Honoria sat back, anger making her eyes glitter. Christopher liked that anger--he preferred it to her weeping or fainting, or telling Mrs. Ardmore to go ahead and shoot him. "Hardly rushed," she said. "It has been four years. And you gave me no reason to believe you were alive. I knew only the newspaper stories. I thought you had been hanged." Her voice grew more agitated with each sentence.

  "But I've turned up again," Christopher said. "And I claim the marriage."

  *****

  Chapter Three

  Honoria continued to stare at him. Her loose hair hung down her back in a black wave, a riot of curls haloing her face.

  She had the beauty of a deer--quick, lovely, graceful. Christopher would give anything to see her run. Along one of the sun-drenched beaches of a Caribbean island perhaps, and she'd have left her dress behind. He'd be pursuing her, of course, and she would not be trying very hard to get away . . .

  "I didn't marry you in jest, Honoria," he said quietly. "I married you because I wanted you. So tell Mr. Tuppenny that you have a previous contract and are no longer free to wed him."