by Edith Layton
“You deserve a fee for fencing them,” she said, indicating the ones she’d left. “I couldn’t have done it, you see.”
Martin’s snicker turned into a cough at the look on Magnus’s face.
“My dear,” Magnus said, “I have enough money, I promise you. This was a favor done for friendship’s sake.” “Nobody does something for nothing,” she argued.
She was wearing a green gown tonight. Not a brilliant, parrot green like the dresses she’d worn at home, but a deep, magical, woodsy green that bordered on black. It made her skin glow and her eyes look tragic.
“A friend doesn’t take payment,” Magnus said.
“You’ve only known me for a day or two,” she replied. “How could I be a friend?”
“I’d hardly ask for more than friendship,” he said with the first hint of annoyance he’d shown. “You’re living with my brother, you know.”
Her eyes widened. “What difference does that make?” she demanded. “I could tell you tales of things that go on under people’s noses that you wouldn’t believe. Why, I’ve known mothers who would look the other way when… Be that as it may,” she said hastily, realizing that stories about some of the lower life-forms in the islands where she’d been raised would lower his opinion of her. “Anyway,” she added spitefully, “from the way Martin treats you, he wouldn’t say a word if you carried me off screaming.”
“Of course I would!” Martin said, stung.
“Do you think I would do such a thing?” Magnus asked, his thin brow raised high.
“Of course not,” she answered. “I know I’m giving myself airs. I’m probably not good enough for you.”
She didn’t know why she was fighting with him, all she knew was that she felt much safer keeping him at a distance. Sophia had taken dinner in her room, and Martin had sat at the table trying desperately to be casual about his wife’s absence. When Magnus had walked in from the night, glowing with the cold, big, tall, and vital, he’d transformed her evening. Now she found herself resenting that. From his silver-buckled shoes to his three-cornered hat, he was every inch a gentleman. Tonight Sophia’s rejection reminded Cristabel of just who and what she was. Magnus’s appearance made that harder to bear. She was keeping her head above water by fighting him and she knew it.
But she was a fair fighter, and she knew it was wrong to blame him for her reaction.
“Don’t take offense, my lord. Look ye,” she said, gazing down at the coins in her hand and not seeing his eyes soften. Her lapse of speech showed him how much she was concentrating on her words. “’Tis simple enough. ’Tisn’t you so much. I know ye be a gentleman. But I be needing much money, I think, and so I’ll be asking ye to do the same fer me again and again fer so long as I be here. But I can’t do it if I feel a burden to ye. So let me pay ye the usual fee for transforming loot into coin, and I be easy with it, ye see?… Oh, blast,” she sighed, hearing her words.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“Take my advice, my dear,” he said gently, “never gamble. You may be able to count any sum in your head and memorize every card in the deck, but if you were dealt a good hand, I’d bet you’d say, ‘No more cards, please.’ And if you had a bad one, it’s likely you’d say, ‘Thank ye, but nay, I be set.’”
When she stared up at him, her eyes slowly heating to molten gold, he grinned and went on, “It’s just like our cousin Thomas. Only he stammers whenever he gets so much as two kings in one hand. Remember, Martin? We always loved to play cards with him. He’s an earl, my dear,” he told Cristabel, “and the most honest fellow you could want to know. Now that I think of it, I believe it’s only the most honest folk whose speech betrays them. It’s as if part of them will always refuse to go along with the wicked notions of the other half. Truly wicked people never seem to have such trouble, do they?
“I think it’s charming,” he continued in a softer, deeper voice, “and if I smile, that’s why. I tell you this because I don’t like to smile when you’re fretting.”
She didn’t know how to react to this. She didn’t like him saying she had two parts—it was too near to how she thought of herself. But everything else he’d said was so kind and flattering, she didn’t know how to respond. She was used to men praising her face and form in outrageous ways. But few had ever told her she was good, or honest, or true. She liked it. She didn’t believe it, but she did like it.
“And I don’t take commissions for doing a simple favor,” he added, “so please take all the money or I’ll be forced to become a charitable gentleman, and if that word gets around, I’ll have so many beggars on my doorstep, I won’t be able to get out in the morning.”
She hesitated. Then she took the remaining coins and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. And then raised a roguishly grinning face to him and added, “I mean, thank ye, me lord. I be obliged.”
He felt as though the sun had come out at night.
*
He was still smiling when he left for his own house a few hours later. He’d stayed to keep Martin company, and was pleased that his presence, and accepting a challenge from Cristabel at cards, had lured Sophia downstairs. Sophia hovered around the edges of their impromptu party in the dimmest ring of candlelight, until their laughter had drawn her in. Shamefaced, she apologized to Cristabel. Sophia wasn’t the sort of woman Magnus could ever care for—he still saw her as the petulant child he’d always known. But so did Martin, and yet Martin loved her, and if they were happy together, that was fine with Magnus. He didn’t have to love his brother’s wife. He only hoped she might grow up someday so he could like her. But he wouldn’t have her hurting Cristabel in the meantime.
Cristabel had nearly beaten Magnus at cards, she’d made him laugh so much—using pirate accents when she had a terrible hand, to confuse him, speaking like a lady when she was winning—until he saw what she was doing. Then she reversed tactics completely. She was a terrible gambler, but so entertaining, it didn’t matter.
“I didn’t gamble much at home,” she finally admitted. “Gambling’s not a game there; pirates take the matter of winning and losing—at anything—much more seriously than most people, you see.”
Magnus understood, and didn’t like the sad look that came over her when she spoke of her home. “Rest easy, Mistress Cristabel,” he said as he took her hand to say good night. “It’s only a game with us.”
She knew it all too well.
When he left, she said good night to Martin, too, and went to her room. Sophia’s maid offered to help her get ready for bed, but she was still too unsure of herself to use a real lady’s maid. She thanked the girl but dismissed her, telling her she was used to doing for herself. She could only hope the girl would attribute her refusal to strange foreign customs, and not a lack of breeding.
Weary as she was, she found it hard to sleep.
She kept thinking of Magnus, and that both frightened and dismayed her. She’d promised herself she’d never be fool enough to get involved with any male. She’d seen servitude and despair too often for such folly. She’d seen the pattern again and again: courtship and courtesy in the spring, a full belly and curses by summer. A wise woman was a lone woman. A wise woman was a woman no man could brag over, or cheat on, neglect, or abuse. Men were exciting, handsome, and bold. There was no getting around that. She envied them just as much as she was in awe of them. All that power, grace, and strength astonished and excited her. She had eyes and ears, feelings and desires. She wasn’t dead, she reminded herself, only wise.
But Magnus was like no man she’d ever met. She couldn’t envision him slapping a woman, or reeling home drunk, or bragging to other men about how good a woman had been to lie with. But maybe he would, or did—how could she know? It was as though he spoke another language. She didn’t know enough about this new land yet to judge the men who lived here. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or fantasizing about what might have been.
If her mother had lived, she thought sleepily, tellin
g herself a happy tale to lull herself to sleep, she might have reformed her father. She would have reformed her father, Cristabel decided, because didn’t her father’s eyes always mist over when he spoke of his lost lady? Didn’t he always look strangely awed and gentle just thinking about her? Hadn’t he gone to great trouble to see that his daughter grew up into the image of what her mother had been? No, it was certain, if her mother had lived, she would have worked her gentle, civilizing influence upon him. There was no doubt of it. He would have given up piracy on the high seas.
He would have…Cristabel thought, as she sleepily put together her pretty story. He would have taken on a job as a proper sea captain. Yes. And he would have journeyed to England with his wife and child. They would have gotten a home somewhere in the countryside. He would have been very successful, because all his old pirate cronies would leave his ships alone, of course. Then her mother’s fine family, seeing how rich and respectable he was, would have acknowledged him. Actually been proud of him. As his wife and daughter would have been.
And she would have been raised as a lady. A true lady.
There would have been no blood on her father’s hands or her fortune. No sad, despairing governesses to pity and frighten her, no succession of mistresses to confuse her, no neighbor women and girlfriends to see mistreated. No slaves, no whores, nothing to be ashamed of. Her life would have been refined and civilized and sweet as a dream.
And one day she would have met Magnus. At a party or a dinner or through her many charming friends. And because she wouldn’t have known how men forced women, or beat them, or cursed them, or deceived them, or sold them, or gambled them away at cards, when she met Magnus there would be nothing to make her afraid of him. And there would have been no reason for him to disapprove of her. She would have curtsied and laughed, he would have been enchanted, and they would have danced and danced the night away, together.
Cristabel frowned. She was half-drunk with sleep, but she realized there was something wrong with her pleasant fantasy. She really didn’t know how English gentlepersons lived or behaved. Or at least not enough with which to build a satisfyingly realistic fantasy. She wasn’t even sure of how English noblemen and ladies danced. Not the way she’d seen dancing, she was positive of that. Not with the women screeching to the music, wagging their breasts and hips before their men, throwing up their skirts and frolicking barefoot to the pounding beat. Nor would the men be likely to dance with their shirts half-open, sweat running down their tanned chests as they threw back their heads and howled to the music.
But wouldn’t Magnus look just lovely if he did? It was an on-the-brink-of-sleep thought, a sudden traitorous, forbidden image, but it came to her clear and strong.
If Magnus were a pirate. Someone her father had brought home. A pirate captain in a billowing white shirt, with his hair flying about his face and shoulders, his broad chest naked to the light, a wide sash around his trim waist, and soft, cuffed boots to his knees. A smiling, gentle pirate. A man she could talk with and not feel inferior to and yet not be afraid of, a gentleman Magnus and a gentleman pirate, all in one. The best-looking, most clever, virile, and exciting pirate in all the Caribbean, in the Indian Ocean, on all the vast deeps of all the world. Magnus the Terrible. The terribly wonderful Magnus, she grinned to herself, as she succumbed to the oncoming sleep that pulled at her like an insistent tide.
And so she fell asleep with visions of this Magnus the terribly wonderful. The man who never was—who would never be. And so, the only man she could ever allow herself to love. Because he didn’t exist.
CHAPTER 7
“If it was only summer,” Sophia complained, “we’d have so many delightful choices. We could ride on a barge down the Thames, strewing flowers and dancing and drinking and eating the most delicious things you can imagine. There are boats everywhere; you can see everyone because everyone is out during the summertime.”
“Yes. If it was summer, you’d really see how beautiful the Thames is,” Martin said eagerly. “All the ships from every port of call docked there—it’s fascinating. Half the men in London are out fishing along its banks. The river teems with fish: salmon, trout, perch, bream, and more. Even I have luck then. They’re delicious and good sport too.”
“Or if we didn’t feel like going on the river, we could go to Vauxhall or some other pleasure gardens,” Sophia went on dreamily, “There are so many you can visit—a different one each night. We could dress up in our finest and hear music and dine out of doors, and dance by torchlight…”
“If it was summer,” Martin said, “we could go to Southwark Fair, or some other one; there are so many when it warms up. Everyone celebrates in London when the weather changes, from maids to chimney sweeps. You should see the processions in the streets—contests and music too. Such fun! Everyone goes. There are games of chance and skill, acrobats and freaks of nature, the best foods cooked on the spot, and music and dancing. There are bearbaitings and cockfights too, but I don’t suppose that would interest you. Still, it’s fine sport, and I—”
“If it were summer, dear brother,” Magnus reminded him, gently cutting him off, “you wouldn’t be here in London. At least I hope not. Because you have to see to your estates now that you’re a married man, don’t you?”
Sophia made a face. “Well, we’ll see that when it happens,” she snapped. “As for now—this place offends my nose and my eyes. Can’t we go? She’s seen the jewels. And the wretched animals. Let’s have a look at the Block and then go.”
“Cristabel?” Magnus asked softly, “Cristabel?”
She’d been half-listening to their conversation until Magnus called her name again. Then she tore her gaze from the lion she’d been staring at. It continued to pace the limits of its dank and filthy cage. Her eyes were misty when she looked up at Magnus.
“Why do they keep him here?” she asked. “He’s so sick and old. Look at his ribs and coat. He’s used to heat and jungles and grass and sunshine,” she said urgently, “and they keep him locked in a dirty cage in the cold and dark. He’ll die here, certainly. Why do they do such a cruel thing?”
“They’ve kept strange animals at the Tower for generations,” he explained gently, “because kings and emperors from other lands give them to our kings and queens as gifts. The lion won’t die soon. Not it, or the elephant, or the leopards and apes, or any of the other exotic creatures. They adjust to their conditions. They all live a long time because they’re fed and cared for, and there’re no natural enemies to kill them here.”
“Better they be killed!” Cristabel said fervently, watching the mangy lion wearily walk its endless circuit of its little cage.
“But it’s educational,” Martin protested. “If this lion wasn’t here, the children of England wouldn’t know what a lion looked like.”
“Let them draw pictures and set him free,” Cristabel said, looking up at Magnus with eyes as angry and tawny as the lion’s own.
“I don’t care what they do with the thing, so long as I don’t have to smell it anymore,” Sophia said. “Let’s see the Block and then go. I heard there are still bloodstains from the last execution there.” She shivered deliciously. “Some Jacobite or other.”
“The Block?” Cristabel asked, pausing to draw up her hood before they left the menagerie at Tower Hill.
“Execution block,” Martin explained eagerly. “Very historic, actually. It’s where they took off Charles the First’s head, and Mary Queen of Scots’s, and Perkin Warbeck’s, Margaret Pole’s when she was old, and Lady Jane Grey’s when she was young, and Raleigh’s, of course, and most recently, just last—ah!” He stopped raving about the wonderful beheadings that had been done at the Tower when Magnus’s elbow dug deep into his ribs. He was about to protest when he saw Cristabel’s face. The last time she had looked at him like that, she’d held a sharp knife pointed at his heart.
She was white-faced.
“We are supposed to be the barbarians,” Cristabel said through tight li
ps. “We pirates are supposed to be the ones with bloodlust. But all I hear you praise here in London is the fine sport of hanging and beheading and cockfighting and bearbaiting. But what do we poor pirate folk know? We’re like that wretched old lion there—not half so sophisticated as those who caught and caged it. But we only kill for our food—not for the fun of it.”
“But we don’t profit from such things,” Sophia said haughtily. “Occasionally these things are done for sport, as with animals. Animals, after all, have no souls. I don’t see why you’re making a fuss. If you eat them, you can certainly wager on their deaths before you do so, can’t you? As for people—hangings and beheadings and such—if you went to church here, you’d know we must do such things as punishments, to deter crime. Or as a moral lesson. We only learn from such public exhibitions.”
“All you seem to learn is how to do them more often,” Cristabel said as she marched away.
“I suppose this means we’re not going to see the Block,” Martin said with a sigh, taking his wife’s arm and following Cristabel and Magnus out of the menagerie.
Cristabel calmed down as they stepped out of the shadow of the Tower. Magnus could feel her relax. She walked beside him with her hand on his arm, as was proper, and he saw her hand unclench and felt the rigidity leave her body the farther they got from the Tower. It was curious, he thought with a pang, how violently this pirate’s daughter reacted to cruelty. It was a paradox, like everything else about her. She came from a violent and vicious people, and yet the only thing he’d seen nearly move her to physical violence was the thought of other people or creatures being hurt.
This behavior was as much a puzzle as were her looks. To see that beautiful face and body, those glowing eyes and that glorious mane of hair—she looked like a siren, and yet…
And yet, he realized with quickening interest, he really didn’t know how she felt about men. He knew what she said. But in his experience, what a woman said to a man and what she felt were two different things. He didn’t know how Cristabel would act if she was alone with a man whom she fancied, or how she had acted in the past. She’d lived with Martin for weeks at sea and lived like a nun, but it was clear that she wasn’t attracted to Martin. She treated him with the amused patience she’d show to a younger brother.