Miss Minerva's Pirate Mishap

by Maggie Dallen

  * * *

  “I am not certain how to tell my sisters about this,” she admitted. That, more than anything, was the source of her confusion.

  She felt Marcus shake his head before placing a kiss against her temple. “I cannot believe I did not make the connection sooner.”

  As soon as they’d read the note that had sat atop the treasure chest, her new husband had put the pieces together. That is why you looked familiar, he’d said. He’d proceeded to tell her about a female he’d encountered on his journeys. A female pirate. He’d given his head a shake. I knew you reminded me of someone, but I could not place it.

  Now she patted his hands which were clasped together at her waist. “It was not your fault. But my father...” She glanced over her shoulder. “He needs to know. If he doesn’t already.”

  Marcus frowned. “I cannot imagine that your father knows his wife is behind a ring of pirates who were smuggling goods through his town, beneath his very nose.”

  She heaved a weary sigh. There were so many questions still left unanswered, but she believed her father knew more than he’d ever let on.

  But here in their new seaside town, so far from home... She sighed. “I will have to get a message to my sisters.”

  He gave a little grunt of acknowledgement as they both stared as though hypnotized by the gold before them. “Tell them they’re rich.”

  She laughed, though the sound was slightly sad. “It is stolen goods, Marcus.”

  He nodded. “Indeed it is. But there is no telling who it belonged to or where it came from.”

  She pursed her lips. “So you think I ought to keep it?”

  He squeezed her tight. “That is entirely up to you.”

  She smiled. There were so many reasons to adore her husband, but one of the traits she loved most was how he trusted her to make her own decisions. And in this case, she knew he was right. She’d have to decide on her own, and with the help of her sisters, how they would proceed.

  And her father? Her father had so many questions to answer. But for now? She glanced back over her shoulder—at her husband and the new home they were building in their own little corner of the world.

  For now, she had a future to start. With a deep breath and a nod, she made her decision. “I shall set aside equal portions for my sisters and I...” She glanced down at the obscene wealth before her. “Not all. That would only raise questions and I don’t even know how to spend it. But I will set aside enough so that you and I might build our home and our shipping endeavor, enough so that my sisters will never have to worry.”

  He kissed her shoulder. “And the rest?”

  She gave her head a little shake as a laugh bubbled up inside her. Thanks to Marcus, she was learning to find the humor in life. Even in moments such as these when her world was filled with mystery. “Perhaps we should bury the rest.” She grinned up at him. “For future generations who need it more than we do.” She dropped her head back against his shoulder. “We’ll rely on fate and fortune and God’s will to ensure that this treasure is put to good use.”

  “Future generations, eh?” His voice was laced with laughter as his hands roamed over her belly. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

  She bit her lip and tucked her chin. She wasn’t quite certain. Not just yet. But she still knew it in her heart. “It’s not certain...”

  She didn’t need to say more. He was already whirling her about in his arms and showering her with kisses, words of love tumbling out of him so fast and fierce that she could only smile and laugh and tilt her chin up so that his lips might find hers in a kiss that marked a new beginning.

  A new family.

  Thank you for reading! If you missed Marcus’s brother’s story, you can read it for free in the full-length, standalone romance A Lady’s Luck.

  Up next, Abigail falls for the not-so-obvious charms of the gruff and burly Caleb in Miss Abigail’s Beastly Beau. Turn the page for a free sample of Abigail’s story and be sure to join Maggie’s newsletter to snag a free, exclusive regency romance novella.

  * * *

  Miss Abigail has the heart of an angel and the patience of a saint. But what if what she wants is the love of a pirate?

  Of course Abigail is grateful. It's not every day a pirate saves her life and gets himself injured in the process. Why, it's only right that she takes care of him just as she would one of the children in their small seaside town.

  * * *

  Except, there's nothing innocent about the way Caleb looks at her. And though he might be pushing her away with his growls and his glares, she's beginning to think the big, burly brute isn't nearly as terrifying as he seems.

  * * *

  In fact, it's alarmingly clear that the only danger he poses...is to her heart.

  Miss Abigail’s Beastly Beau

  Caleb Calhoun wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Well, he wasn’t afraid of much.

  He glanced out the window of his new run-down seaside cottage and took in the sweeping sight of the unrelenting waves crashing to his right and the large expanse of green grass that lay to the left.

  After a childhood spent in poverty, then as an indentured servant, and finally as a pirate turned privateer—there was truly not much that the oversized warrior feared these days.

  But he was man enough to admit that he was terrified of her.

  Caleb’s new landlord, Arnold Laslow, moved behind him in the small confines of the cottage. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Calhoun?”

  He kept his gaze out the window. No sign of her. The blonde beauty with the minions of little ones who chased after her like she was some sort of beatific pied piper. “Fine, fine,” he muttered to the other man. “And it’s Caleb.”

  Mr. Calhoun wasn’t even his father’s name. It was a fictional name that his friend Marcus had given him when they’d first started sailing together on the Night Raider. Of course, that was a lifetime ago. Everything was different now. For one, he was no longer a pirate. Truth be told, he hadn’t officially been one ever since Marcus had received a letter of marque from the crown a couple years back. He’d become a privateer, along with the rest of the crew. But now he wasn’t that anymore either.

  So what was he then?

  He hardly knew.

  These days Caleb couldn’t even call himself a sailor. He’d sent Marcus off with the crew and his new bride, and now he was stuck here in this tiny seaside village. Alone for the first time in decades.

  As if the little witch could read his mind, she chose that moment to appear, rising up over the yonder hill as if she were some sea sprite come to earth.

  To plague him, no doubt.

  Perhaps she had been sent by the gods of the sea—his own personal form of penance for a life spent straddling the line between good and bad, lawful and treasonous.

  But he still had no regrets.

  He caught sight of her beaming smile, as if she knew he was staring at her. He jerked back from the window’s ledge.

  He had no regrets, that was, until she came around. Miss Abigail Jones was a living, breathing reminder of his stained and bloodied past. A white angel to his dark demons.

  With a growl he turned away from the window so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare.

  His snarl wasn’t intended toward Mr. Laslow, but the older gentleman backed away all the same, his eyes widening with alarm. It was with effort that Caleb forced his features to relax. He knew what sort of image he struck. A tall, dark beast of a man. Too dark-skinned to be mistaken for a proper Englishman, but not easily identifiable either. He was a mutt, as his first captain liked to remind him. It was the name he’d heard along with a whip’s whistle just before he was beaten for whatever infraction he’d been accused of last.

  A mutt and a beast. With too-long black hair, a flat nose that had been broken once too often, and the large, muscular build of a man who’d made a life at sea. The scar across his jaw was an additional reminder that his life had not been pretty.
Nothing about him was soft or kind or—heaven forbid—genteel.

  But if he meant to stay in this town for any length of time, he couldn’t very well frighten off his landlord, who also happened to run the tavern down on the main road running through Billingham.

  No. Caleb certainly could not survive this boring little town if he frightened off the man who put a roof over his head and supplied him with ale.

  He glanced toward the window. Besides, Mr. Laslow was not the one he wanted to frighten off, but the one he wished to drive away was either the bravest woman alive or had no sense in that pretty head of hers.

  He suspected it was the former.

  “I know this old cottage could use some work,” Mr. Laslow started haltingly. “But it’s sound enough—”

  “It’ll do.”

  Mr. Laslow’s brows arched and his expression brightened. “If you’re looking to stay in these parts, I’d be willing to sell the place.”

  He gave a grunt of acknowledgment. He had no plans to stay. But then, he had no plans to go anywhere else, either. In short, he had no idea what he was going to do next. He didn’t belong in a quaint, homey village like this one.

  There was no work here, for one, and for another, he didn’t belong.

  He would have been driven out of town with whispers and glares if it hadn’t been for Miss Abigail’s father stepping in and telling the town that he was a family friend. He and Marcus. Of course, no one believed it entirely, but after they ran off the smuggling traitor Roger and word spread that Caleb had saved Abigail’s life—he still hadn’t forgiven her for telling that tall tale to anyone who would listen—the town as a whole seemed to have accepted him.

  Even Mr. Laslow.

  Especially Mr. Laslow as he’d given him shelter at the inn above the tavern, up until Caleb had grown too restless in his small room with the constant surge of people in the hallways and down below.

  He’d grown used to his own men being around, of course. On a ship one couldn’t escape them. But normal folks. Townspeople. They were a whole other breed all together.

  And, as Abigail continuously reminded him—he wasn’t on a ship any longer. So, why not enjoy the open space and some slightly larger quarters?

  Mr. Laslow, with his windblown brown hair and his creased features, backed away toward the door, looking horrifyingly eager. “I’d only ask a fair price, of course.”

  Caleb grunted again, this time with amusement, though few seemed to know the difference. “A fair price for this place?”

  The older man’s laughter was rueful. “Like I said, it ain’t much. But all it needs is some care.” He glanced toward the window, and Caleb didn’t have to follow his gaze to know what he saw. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel, too sweet for her own good.

  And the children.

  Heaven forbid they forget the children.

  “Well, I see you’re busy, Mr. Calhoun—”

  “Caleb.” It came out as a growl and he just barely held back a sigh of exasperation as Mr. Laslow paled.

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Laslow sidled toward the door, reaching for the knob just as Abigail first knocked.

  Laslow and Abigail struck Caleb as those characters in the theater, always seeming to know the others’ timing. Between the two of them, he couldn’t escape their nosy kindness if he tried.

  And he did try. Often.

  “Oh, hello Mr. Laslow,” Abigail sang as she waltzed into Caleb’s home.

  To note, she did not literally sing but when Abigail spoke she might as well have been accompanied by a pianist. Her voice was that melodic. And when she walked, she might as well have been on a dance floor, gliding effortlessly.

  He didn’t realize his lips had curled up in distaste until her bright blue gaze collided with his and her smile broadened.

  That was how this dreadful woman greeted his snarls and sneers.

  With a smile.

  Heaven help him, the girl was clearly mad.

  “Miss Abigail.” Mr. Laslow gave a smile and a small bow as he slipped out the door, turning back for one last parting word to Caleb. “Think about what I said, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Caleb.” His growl went unheeded as Miss Abigail’s voracious little army stormed inside right behind her. Her army of waifs, that was what her father, the captain of this naval stone frigate encampment, called the children who followed her about.

  “It’s awfully cold out there,” she said by way of explanation. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  He made a noise and not even he knew what it meant. Did he mind that his home was now overrun with dirty, mangy little urchins with wet noses and loud voices?

  Of course he did.

  But could he say as much to the woman who’d taken it upon herself to nurse him back to health?

  Of course he couldn’t.

  One of the children picked up his hat and twirled it in her hands.

  “Put that down,” he snapped at the little girl whose name he unfortunately knew to be Polly. Polly. It was a name fit for a bird, not this tiny little creature with the too-big eyes and the toothless smiles. Polly flashed him that toothless smile now, no hint of remorse.

  He didn’t scare this little waif any more than he frightened her teacher. And that was what Abigail was, he’d come to realize these past weeks. With no schools nearby and likely not nearly enough money for a governess between all the families combined, it seemed Abigail had taken it upon herself to teach the little ones in her spare time and theirs.

  Nicholas, the largest of the lads and the most talkative, was making himself at home at Caleb’s makeshift kitchen table where he’d strewn some of his tools that he’d no doubt need to get this shack into some sort of habitable state.

  “Oy.” He jabbed a finger at the boy. “Those aren’t toys.”

  Nicholas was alarmingly unfazed.

  Caleb glowered.

  Nothing.

  Unbelievable. Nicholas was just as unfazed by his glares as the other little ones. Just as immune as their fearless leader.

  Her sister Minerva had warned him about this. She’d told him the first time they’d met that these little critters followed her sister with the utmost loyalty and faith. If she deemed him to be harmless, then they would follow suit.

  He swung his glare to the beautiful blonde who was setting down a basket and taking in the new abode with a keen eye. “You did not tell me you were moving to your own spot.”

  “Hmph.” By that he meant, with good reason.

  Truth be told, he’d hoped this change of location would buy him a day of respite. That was all he needed. One day to get his head on straight. One day without this little enchantress messing with his mind and making him feel all twisted around. Without her making him want things he couldn’t have, and wishing for a life that wasn’t his.

  She might have thought she was nursing him back to health, but at this rate, she would be the death of him.

  Her lips hitched to the side as her gaze narrowed. “Why, if I had not run into Mr. Laslow yesterday afternoon, I would not have known where to find you.”

  He grunted.

  That was the point. Did she not see that?

  She gestured to the basket. “How would I have delivered your biscuits?”

  His gaze fell on the basket as he let out another growl, but this one lacked heat entirely because...biscuits.

  Dratted girl. She knew these were his weakness. Sure enough, when his gaze lifted to meet hers, there was an unmistakable flare of triumph in those pretty blue eyes.

  And also...

  His brows drew down as he moved closer to see what was different about her today. There was something off. Something unsettling.

  She looked away before he could say, her hands efficiently unwrapping the treats she’d brought, as though he were some small child who could be won over with a—

  “Biscuit?” She held it out to him on a napkin and he wished he could say his mouth did not salivate.

  With a huff of resignati
on, he reached for the treat with a mumbled thanks. He might not have been gently raised, but he was no ingrate either. He had some manners...when he chose to remember them.

  Over the years, Marcus had taught him about the rules of society. The etiquette. The games by which the gentry lived and breathed. He knew of them, he’d just never had occasion to use them.

  Until Abigail. Now she was forever in his space and on his mind, and it made him permanently aware of how little experience he had interacting with ladies. Well, with ladies like her. And she knew it. She must. There was no way she couldn’t see how brutish he was next to her easy elegance and charm.

  There was no way she didn’t spot the darkness in his soul when she stood there so brilliant and...and good.

  No, he’d been right all along. But she wasn’t a sprite sent from the gods of the sea, she was an angel sent from above. An angel sent to show him all the ways he did not measure up.

  This was torture, he decided.

  He shoved the biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling as he inwardly cursed. She wasn’t just his penance. She was his own personal torment.

  “There now.” She smiled beatifically. “Feeling better?”

  He glowered at her. “I am not some irritable child who merely needs to be fed.”

  Even as he said it, he realized that he did indeed feel better. He had been rather hungry, come to think of it.

  As if she could read his mind rather than hear the words falling from his lips, her smile widened. “I thought so.”

  He changed his mind once again. She wasn’t an angel. She was a devil.

  “Now, shall we have a look at your injury?” Her eyes were wide with innocence and he froze with the last bite of biscuit hovering in front of his mouth.

  “I told you. I don’t need a nursemaid.” And he certainly did not need her. Staring at his thigh. His bare thigh.