The Pirate's Secret Baby

by Darlene Marshall

  Maybe it was simply because of who he was. She'd heard him quote Blackbeard once: "Damn them, if I did not now and then kill one of them, they would forget who I am!"

  Captain St. Armand had a reputation to maintain, after all.

  Lydia cleared her throat, pleased her voice emerged at all.

  "Where is Mathilde?" she asked without turning to face him.

  He came over to the desk, behind her, trapping her with his body. He righted the inkwell and moved the stained paper aside, putting his hands on the desk next to hers.

  "Do you care where Mathilde is? You are leaving her, after all. You say so, right here, 'Dear Mathilde, I am so very sorry I cannot say this to you in person...' and the rest has been blotted, but I think we both know what it would have said."

  Lydia looked down at the paper. "This is not proof that I am leaving her."

  "The ticket to New York you purchased on the Blackball packet is proof enough."

  He put his hand on her arm and pulled her out of her chair, turning her to face him. Not forcefully, but more in the nature of assistance. Perhaps he suspected her knees wouldn't support her. He'd be correct.

  She was not dead yet, though. "Remove your hands from my person."

  "Miss Burke, have you not realized over the past weeks you seldom get what you want, while I almost always get what I want? And what I want right now are answers," he finished in a pleasant tone. "I want to know what you are running from, or to. I want to know what it is you fear. Most of all, I want to know, to my complete satisfaction, that you are not a danger to me or my daughter."

  "How can you accuse me of plotting to endanger you or Mathilde? You kidnapped me off the Clementine!"

  "I do not know how you ended up with Nanette Lestrange. I only know what you told me. You could have been sent to find me, to connect with me through Mathilde."

  "You are insane!"

  "I am cautious and prudent, at least where the safety of my daughter is concerned. You may recall I let a valuable prize slip through my fingers because of you. I did not demand compensation then--much--but I am demanding answers now."

  He said all this in a gentle voice soft as lamb's wool, finishing on a smile showing too many teeth. He was a predator and if she ran he would chase her down and consume her, of that she had no doubt. She was his natural prey.

  She sagged in his grasp and his hand tightened on her arm.

  "I am so tired," she said, looking down at her worn shoes. "Just kill me, or ravish me, or throw me out the window onto the street below. I don't care anymore."

  He put his hand beneath her chin and tilted it up, studying her face in the lamplight. Then he sighed, releasing her.

  "Sit. Do not move until I return, otherwise I will do at least one of those things to you." He paused as he turned for the door. "Maybe two."

  She sat, numb, the sounds from the street below trickling in. She did wonder where Mattie was, but Mattie's father was responsible for her now, so it was no longer her concern.

  Saying it to herself and believing it were two different things.

  It was odd. Just sitting here, waiting for St. Armand's return, her mind feeling rather distant and detached from it all. Was this how condemned prisoners felt before an execution?

  "Here," her captor said, returning with a glass he pushed into her hand. "Drink. I cannot torture you or do anything else exciting with you looking as pasty as wet flour."

  She wrapped both of her hands around the glass, the odor of strong rum tickling her nose. She'd never especially cared for rum, but right now it seemed like the perfect solution to her life's problems. However, the glass was removed from her grasp before she could drain it.

  "Your passing out and drooling on the floor is not in my plans either, Miss Burke. Stay there."

  He left again, returning with another chair. He sat across from her, resting his elbows on the chair arms, steepling his fingers as he did so often when he was thinking.

  "Why are you running out on us?"

  Lydia took a deep breath and let it out, pulling together the frayed strands of her courage. Then she looked the pirate in the eye.

  "I have a life that has nothing to do with you. I wish to resume that life. I am not obligated to share my life with you. I am your employee and I wish to resign my position. Immediately."

  He said nothing to this, but watched her, two lines furrowing between his brows.

  "You must have seen something in town today, something or someone that makes you want to run. What is it? Tell me, and I will deal with it for you."

  It was tempting, so very, very tempting, to put herself and her problems in this man's bloodstained, but capable hands. That was not the answer though. She'd learned life's lessons about depending on a man to fix her problems and she would not travel down that road again.

  "I am your daughter's governess, Captain St. Armand. If my efforts are not satisfactory, discharge me from my duties."

  He sighed and tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, Lydia Burke--if that's your real name--you are so much more than my daughter's governess at this point. Why are you pretending otherwise?"

  "I am not pretending, Captain--"

  "You may call me Robert when it's just the two of us. Or 'my darling.'"

  "I am not pretending, Captain. I am resigning my position."

  "No, you are not. I will not accept your resignation. Not yet."

  "You cannot keep me prisoner here!"

  "I am not going to keep you prisoner, I am going to help you, but you have to tell me what your problem is. Is someone trying to hurt you? You know I can resolve that issue for you quickly, and ensure the body is never found."

  "Hiding inconvenient corpses is something you excel at, of that I am quite certain!" She wanted to tell him. She longed to unburden herself. Only Nanette had known of Lydia's past and she certainly was not going to condemn her. She looked down at her hands, twisting together in her lap.

  "I made a...mistake. When I was younger, I made a mistake. I was foolish and headstrong, and my mistake has been my burden to bear, and I need to leave England to avoid--to avoid complications in my life. That is all you need to know."

  "Did you kill someone?"

  She shook her head.

  "Did you bear a child and abandon it?"

  She looked up at that, then shook her head again. He was watching her, an open expression on his face. She suspected she could have committed almost any hanging or moral offense and he would not condemn her, but she still could not bring herself to discuss her life.

  "Then what is it? See here," he started, then paused. "Are you hungry?"

  "What? Hungry?"

  "I'm a bit peckish. Chasing you around this evening caused me to miss my meal, so I suggest we continue this conversation in the kitchen. I've decided not to kill you--for tonight, anyway--so you may as well eat a good meal."

  As soon as he said it, Lydia realized she was hungry, and stood. "My stomach was tied in knots and I have not eaten all day, Captain."

  He opened the door for her and she paused in the doorway, so close she could see the individual lashes on his eyes. He was looking at her with some amusement on his face, which grew when she said, "It's odd that suddenly I'm hungry after sitting here talking to you."

  "I am famous for stimulating all sorts of appetites in beautiful women."

  Whatever the reason was, her appetite had returned. Her life was still perched on the edge of disaster, and she had no caps, but she had Captain St. Armand on her side. There may be more morally upright knights out there prepared to defend a lady, but she'd take piratical cunning and skill over morality any day in a fight like this.

  The house was shabby, but the food was excellent and welcome after shipboard rations. The men had stocked the kitchen with lamb scouse and loaves of fresh bread and butter, apple tarts, rich cream, Cheshire cheese.

  "Some sailors come ashore and drink their way through their pay, but many come ashore and eat their way thro
ugh fresh victuals. If you ask a man what he misses most aboard ship, the answer may surprise you. Landlubbers think it's wine and women, but more often, it's a loaf of yeasty bread with fresh butter churned that morning."

  He paused from cutting a wedge of cheese. He was looking at her uncovered hair, and her hand reached up self-consciously.

  "The candlelight on your hair is one of those sights that could make a man long for life ashore," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he looked down at the knife in his hand, shook his head and said, "Would you fetch some apples from the pantry, please?"

  This polite request, rather than an order or command, made her pause, but she turned and fetched the apples, saliva pooling in her mouth at the idea of biting into something crisp and tart, not desiccated and wormy.

  They sat and did justice to the meal, and afterward she brewed tea for herself. He drank the rum, but it did not impair him. He talked about his dissolute ways, but when she thought about it objectively there were planters in the islands for whom she'd worked who had worried her more with their overindulgence in liquor. St. Armand always seemed prepared to fight, or scheme, or care for his daughter.

  Look at him now, sitting across from her at table, dressed almost soberly. His navy blue kerseymere coat and buckskin breeches made him appear the same as most well set up men around town. He could have been wearing a monk's robes though and he'd look raffish to her eye. It wasn't just the diamond winking at his ear, it was how he carried himself. The man didn't have an ounce of humility, but that self-assurance gave him a strength that could pull others in his wake.

  "Aren't you tired of running from whatever it is that drove you from England?"

  She fiddled with her tea cup, organizing her thoughts. "Of course I'm tired of it. At least in America or the islands I have a chance to start fresh, make a future for myself."

  "I want to tell you something." He clasped his hands before him on the table and held her gaze. "It does not matter what you have done in the past. We all have pasts. Yours is no worse than other members of the ship's crew. We move on, and just like Anne and Mary, you have the opportunity to reinvent yourself."

  "I am not a member of your crew, Captain."

  "Are you not? You worked aboard the Prodigal, earned your pay and your victuals. Had we taken a prize, I'd be discussing your share with you. A small share. I believe a governess may rank somewhere above a ship's boy."

  His words should not warm her but she could not help feeling comforted. To belong somewhere after so long, even if it was amidst a crew of pirates and reprobates with a scoundrel captaining them--it was welcome. Her life had been so solitary since she'd left England, only Mattie and Nanette had offered true companionship. It was not the same as having a man interested in her, not at all the same as having this man interested in her.

  She had to be honest with herself. Not since her clandestine meetings with Edwin had she experienced this excitement at a man's attention. Robert St. Armand lured her into dangerous waters, but the thrill of it made her feel more alive than she'd felt in years.

  "You do have other options, if you want to stay in England. I can think of at least two."

  "Options?"

  He lounged back in his chair, looking at her. "Sign on as Mattie's governess. Our original agreement only applied aboard ship--"

  "If you recall, there was no agreement, only a kidnapping."

  He waved away this inconsequential detail. "All in the past. As I was saying, sign on to the crew, as Mattie's governess. She needs you, you need a position, a position with more security than throwing yourself at America in the hopes someone will hire you on and treat you with dignity. My men respect you as they do any shipmate--you earned your place aboard the Prodigal, and we don't abandon crew."

  "You're not alarmed at the idea of a woman such as myself, a woman with some dark secret in her background being responsible for Mathilde's moral education?"

  "Have you met the men crewing my ship? No, you are the perfect woman to teach Mattie. You understand my headstrong lass and let us be realistic--finding another governess who fits in with the crew would not be a simple task."

  She shouldn't feel warmed by his words, but how could she not? After being on the run for so long, tossed about like a piece of driftwood, she was ready to embrace the idea of belonging, of having a place.

  "I have misjudged you, Captain. You are not the complete scoundrel you make yourself out to be. You are only a partial scoundrel."

  "Do not make that mistake, Miss Burke. I would--and have--sliced a man's throat with a smile on my face, then sat down to eat a hearty supper celebrating an excellent and productive day. You realize I now know enough to cause my own complications in your life."

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "That sounds better if you don't phrase it as a question."

  "I know you now, Captain St. Armand. You wouldn't harm me or Mattie."

  "I would not harm Mattie."

  "And you would not harm me."

  Silence stretched between them as he considered that statement.

  "There are many types of harm a woman can experience."

  "Oh, I did not say you were not a scoundrel, I only said you are not a complete scoundrel."

  Consideration of his ridiculous offer tempted her, but she'd known scoundrels of all stripes, and had learned from her encounters with dangerous men. She shook her head.

  "I appreciate the offer, Captain, but I cannot accept. Much as I love Mattie, and want to stay with her, I have no future here. In America I have a chance at making myself more than a servant, someone dependent on her employers for her future and quite frankly, for keeping me alive. Thank you, but no."

  "What would you do in America if you weren't a governess?"

  "I realize you find little value in respectability, but I would like to lead a quiet, normal life. Perhaps I'll marry. I could keep books for a shopkeeper, be an asset in a marriage."

  "You could do far better than that."

  "Could I?"

  "Yes. You could marry me."

  The silence in the kitchen was so enveloping that she heard crickets outside.

  "Did you just ask me to marry you?"

  "I would not phrase it quite that way, but I did mention marriage, and you, and I was included in that sentence also."

  "An hour ago you were threatening to throw me out the window! Or ravish me!"

  "Must you dwell in the past so much? Let us focus on the issue at hand, please."

  "For the love of heaven, why would I want to marry you?"

  He looked startled. Startled, and perhaps hurt? It was difficult to read his face as she reeled from his announcement.

  "Shouldn't you be asking yourself why I'd want to marry you?"

  "Certainly not! Where else are you going to get someone to care for your child for no wages! Not to mention the other benefits you'd get from marrying me."

  He blinked his eyes as if what she said made no sense to him at all. Typical man. If he married he gained a bed partner, cook, nursemaid...and what did she get from the bargain? A pirate who sometimes evidenced all the self-control and maturity of a five-year-old. Not a fair bargain at all.

  Bollocks, said a small evil voice in her head. You would get Robert St. Armand. In your bed, between your legs, in all the ways you've only imagined over the dry, dry years.

  She shut down that voice and continued, "I just said I want a quiet, respectable life. If I decide to remarry, I don't want a dashing pirate, I want a husband! A husband who will be home at night, who will help me raise children with proper values, who will show his love not by robbing ships, but by fixing the roof when it leaks. Someone who won't mind, or at least will say he doesn't mind, if I put cold feet on him at night to warm them up."

  "Is that what husbands are good for? No wonder so many married women sought my company."

  "You see? That is exactly the sort of thing to which I refer!"

  He looked ready to argue his suitability with he
r, but instead shrugged his wide shoulders.

  "Then take the other option. Sign on as crew aboard the Prodigal. I will double your salary--"

  "The salary I've yet to see appear."

  "The new position is double what I offered you before, and you would be crew, and have a share in any future action."

  "Are you shipping back out to sea? With Mattie?"

  "Did I not mention that part of the offer? No, your salary would be doubled as Mattie's governess because you would be accompanying us on our most dangerous journey yet. I am going home."

  Chapter 16

  "You have a home?"

  "Everyone comes from somewhere, Miss Burke."

  "I understand, but--" she stopped speaking and looked down at her teacup, puzzled. Robert let her mull over his offer. He would find a way to keep her with him--for Mattie, of course--of that he had no doubt. He had certainly surprised her when he offered her marriage.

  He'd surprised himself. He was sure he hadn't meant to say those words, but they still spilled out of his mouth, almost of their own volition. It was a sensible offer on his part. Mattie needed a mother, and much as he didn't want to dwell on it, he needed a wife. If he was serious about returning home, having a lady beside him would help. Miss Burke--Lydia--was still every inch a lady, no matter what secrets she tucked away in the busy brain beneath her hideous caps.

  He'd set his sights on his prize and he intended to have it--her--even if it involved standing before witnesses and a vicar. Lydia had crawled into his consciousness even if she hadn't climbed into his bed yet.

  If he was asked what she brought that made her the one, he'd be hard pressed to say. He'd been with women more beautiful, and younger, and richer, but there was something about Lydia that kept him engaged when others would have bored him by now, sending him off to seek the next shiny bauble. He was not sure why it was her he wanted, but he wanted her, of that he was sure. He'd spent a lifetime gratifying his desires and knew he could not rest until he had her where he wanted her.

  Regardless, if he was going to succeed with his plans, he needed a wife and she'd do quite nicely. Most other women would have run screaming into the night at the thought of marriage to him, but Lydia sneered at his offer and reminded him she was a prize, and oddly enough, he liked that about her. She knew her own worth.