by Mia Marlowe
The note warning of a new lord who would upset the natural order of things threatened all that.
Jacquelyn twisted around to look over her shoulder at Gabriel Drake. His gaze was fixed on the distant keep, his mouth drawn in a tight grim line. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might not be too bad a lord for the folk of the Caern.
Then he looked down at her. With his square-jaw, hawkish nose and dark eyes glinting with the feral gleam of the darker soul behind them, the rogue had no right to be so devilishly handsome. A wicked smile tugged at his mouth.
“You know of course, Miss Wren, woman of prudence or not, I do intend to meddle with you.”
“But the Code—”
“Only requires that I have your consent.” He traced his thumb across her lower lip. Jacquelyn froze like a coney caught in the gaze of an adder.
He lowered his face to hers and took her mouth, gently at first, then with more insistence. His lips were warm and they slanted over hers with assurance. She knew she should pull away, but his mouth beguiled her.
The man is a pirate, for pity’s sake.
Her heart pounded as if she’d just climbed to the top of the keep. Her mouth parted softly as his tongue invaded her, searching out her secrets and sending delight shivering over her. Everything inside her went soft and liquid. His warmth flooded her senses. She was drowning in this man.
And not caring one whit.
Then he stopped and pulled back to look down at her. A dark brow rose in satisfaction.
“I’ll take that as consent, Miss Wren.”
When he lowered his mouth to hers once more, she grasped a thin slice of sanity. Passion was her mother’s curse, not hers. She took his lower lip between her teeth and bit him as hard as she could.
“There’s my consent, Captain!”
“What the devil—” He loosed an oath that turned the air blue, but released his hold on her. She threw her leg over the horse’s neck and slid off. Fast as her feet could carry her, she made for the keep, his string of profanities fading behind her.
She’d angered her new lord, but she didn’t care. However much her body warmed to Gabriel Drake, she would not be taken for a trollop. He needed to know that Jacquelyn Wren was no man’s plaything.
And certainly no pirate’s.
She’d deal with his wrath later when they were on safer ground.
Her ground.
Dragon Caern Castle was her home, every bit as much as it was his. Surely, with the help of the folk of the keep, she could bring this new lord to heel.
She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see that he had not spurred his horse into a canter after her. But just before she sprinted across the drawbridge, she heard him laugh. Raw-timbred and deep, the sound floated down the hill after her.
It did not bring her comfort.
After all, what a pirate wants, a pirate takes.
Chapter 3
Jacquelyn didn’t slow her pace as she raced through the outer barbican and into the bailey. Like most castles, Dragon Caern had started as merely a stone tower on a naturally defensible spot. Subsequent lords added their own stamp to the fastness, some less than a shining success. Over the years, certain parts of Dragon Caern were left to go derelict as the needs of its inhabitants changed.
In the peace of recent times, she’d judged it more important to make certain the granary was always full than to keep the defensive portions of the castle at peak operation. Now Jacquelyn bitterly regretted that the murder holes had been filled in and hot oil could no longer rain down on the approaching new lord.
“Mistress Wren! Thank the saints and angels you’re here!” Mrs. Beadle said as Jacquelyn flew into the main hall. The housekeeper’s round face flushed crimson in agitation. When her gaze swept Jacquelyn’s bruised temple and boyish garb, Mrs. Beadle’s brows lowered. “You’re hurt. And what are you doing dressed in those rags, Mistress?”
“I suspect it looks worse than it feels.” Jacquelyn winced when she put a hand to the bruise. Then she waved it away. If another blow would send Gabriel Drake back to the sea, she’d accept it willingly. “I was trying to stop something from happening but it appears there is no help for it. Pray, don’t ask.”
Mrs. Beadle’s curiosity faded in the heat of her own news. “Well, while you were gallivanting about the countryside dressed as an urchin, something’s happened here right enough! You won’t credit it, but there’s a . . . a . . . a most unusual person demanding hospitality. I’ve never seen his like. I don’t even know what to call him—”
“He’s a pirate,” Jacquelyn said helpfully.
Mrs. Beadle’s mouth opened and shut wordlessly like a codfish. Her hands fluttered at her ample hips before she grasped the hem of her apron and clung to it like a talisman against evil.
“Well, whatever he is, he’s in the parlor demanding strong drink,” Mrs. Beadle said, her eyeballs bulging. “Loudly.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. B. For better or worse, he’s been invited here.” Jacquelyn gave the housekeeper what she hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “His name is Mr. Meriwether. Promise him a bottle of the ’08 if he agrees to take a bath. Where are the girls?”
“At their lessons, I expect.”
“Good, that’ll keep them out of sight for a while.” Jacquelyn worried her lower lip for a moment. “At least, until I puzzled out what’s to be done.”
“Very sensible, what with that . . .“ Mrs. Beadle gave herself a horrified shake, “that pirate lurking about the keep.”
“He’s rather an old pirate. I think he’s mostly harmless.”
Jacquelyn was nearly certain Mr. Meriwether hadn’t really intended to eat her liver and his strict adherence to the Pirate Code actually saved her from Gabriel Drake’s unwelcome advances.
She frowned. Even to herself, she couldn’t abide a lie. His advances weren’t all that unwelcome. Though her mind resented the liberties the new lord had taken, her body didn’t resist one bit. It was a frustrating truth and it would have to change.
“It’s not Meriwether I’m worried about,” Jacquelyn said, trying to banish the taste of Gabriel Drake from her lips. “Send Timothy to find Father and make sure he knows we need him right now, not next week. Any idea where he might be?”
In the parlor, Mr. Meriwether began croaking out a song of dubious artistic worth about something called ‘keel-hauling.’
Horrified, Mrs. Beadle put a hand to her mouth.
“Please Mrs. B, trust me. I’ve a feeling Mr. Meriwether isn’t as bad as he seems. At least compared to some.” Jacquelyn took Mrs. Beadle’s hand to steady her. “Now, where is Father Eustace?”
“Father will be praying in the chapel, as usual. Lot of good his newfound piety’s done us.” Mrs. Beadle rolled her eyes heavenward as if to plead for patience. “Pirates in the parlor! And old reprobates in the priesthood! Saints preserve us.”
Mrs. Beadle waddled away, muttering under her breath. “Fine house this is. What with the mistress wearin’ boy’s breeches and pirates drinking up all the best wine. Next thing you know there’ll be…”
Jacquelyn was grateful not to hear Mrs. Beadle’s dire prediction. Whatever it was, it was surely not as bad as the fact that the real pirate was about to enter the gate.
And there was absolutely nothing Jacquelyn could do about it.
* * *
Gabriel took his time descending through the well-tended fields to Dragon Caern Castle. As he rode through the corbelled gate, he was amazed at how little the keep had changed. The portcullis still seemed to be rusted in the up position. The gargoyle at the postern still spat water into a trough for weary mounts and an old dog still lay before the open stable door. The beast thumped its tail on the dirt in greeting but didn’t bother to rise at his approach.
Probably old Rowdy’s great-grandson, Gabriel mused. This dog was the spit of the deerhound he left behind when he went to sea all those years ago.
Lord, he’d been green as a beech in springtime.
He’d changed out of all knowing since then, but Dragon Caern Castle seemed frozen in time.
Then he remembered the two additional bodies interred in the chapel crypt—three, if he counted the sister-in-law he’d never even met. The changes at Dragon Caern went far deeper than mortar and stone.
This was all his now. To tend. To defend.
It was the last thing he expected.
The last thing he wanted.
Gabriel handed the reins of his mount to the nearest stable lad.
“A handful of oats for him,” he ordered as he uncinched the saddle’s girth and started to stride from the stable.
“Look here, sir. We’re not a livery, ye know,” a gangly, pimple-faced youth said. “Who are ye to order me about?”
Gabriel rounded on the lad and flashed him a glare. “Not someone with whom you wish to trifle, boy.”
“Uh, oats, ye said,” the young man stammered. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
His threatening glance, dubbed by his crew as ‘the Dragon’s glare,’ had averted more than a few brawls during his time in piracy and even as a landsman, it obviously had its uses. Once people of the keep knew who he was, there’d be no question that they’d obey him as thoroughly as his crew had.
All but the troublesome Mistress Wren.
He ran his tongue over his lower lip. It was swelling like a puffer fish and he still tasted the coppery tang of his own blood.
Blow the wench to Bermuda.
He supposed he shouldn’t have kissed her like that, but the little minx was asking for it. Prancing around in breeches, displaying the shape of her legs and round bum for all the world to see. It reminded him of that doxy Meri was partial to back in Port Royal. The one who was always too drunk to remember to don her skirt.
And besides, there was a moment when he was certain Mistress Wren enjoyed their kiss as much as he did.
Right up until she bit him.
Women were off the edge of the map as far as Gabriel was concerned. Pleasurable company at times, to be sure, but they should come with a cartographer’s warning.
Here there be monsters.
Changeable as a Nor’easter, unpredictable as a maelstrom. A woman was a doldrums that could suck the life out of any man who was unwary enough to let one get too close.
Gabriel was determined to enjoy, even savor the fair sex, but on his own terms. That meant keeping a weather-eye out for squalls and being ever ready to up-anchor and make sail.
He stomped into the main hall, his lip still throbbing from the unwelcome love play of Miss Jack and her sharp little teeth. Where was a wayside tavern when a man needed one? A good brawl or a good tumble would cure his ills. At the moment, neither seemed likely to come his way.
“Is there no one here to greet their new lord?” he demanded in the voice that had carried from wheel to mains’le in a gale.
“It’s mid-morning, Your Lordship. Everyone is going about their work just now,” a familiar voice said from the top of the stairs. “However, if you wish me to call a halt to the operation of the keep solely in order to greet you as you seem to think you deserve, I shall, of course, oblige.”
He forced himself to think of her as Jack, but it was difficult when she appeared on the landing, dressed in a snug-bodiced sac dress. No longer pretending to be a callow lad, she stood ramrod straight with an assurance that bespoke royalty. The dirt of her boy’s disguise was gone, but the bruise at her temple marred the pale oval of her face. Still, her face wasn’t what captured his gaze.
Pressed tight by her corset, her lovely bosom curved above the low-neckline. His fingertips tingled as he remembered the satiny feel of her skin. Her tiny waist was emphasized by the broad panniers on either side of her hips. Beneath that contraption of horsehair and wire, he knew there was a bum as soft as a ripe peach. As she descended the stairs, he was treated to the fleeting sight of a well-turned ankle and her neatly-shod feet.
How had he ever thought her a boy, even for a moment?
“Welcome home, my lord,” she said with patent falseness. “No doubt come evening, the older servants who remember you will wish to pay their respects. But for now, I advise you to allow them to continue with their labors. Come December, we will all be glad we worked hard in July.”
“I can see you’ve changed your feathers, Jack, but I’m still unsure what labor is fitting for a bird of your . . . talents.” He let his gaze linger on the pearly flesh of her bosom before meeting her grey eyes. Her queue of auburn hair was tucked under a modest mobcap, but a few strands slipped out to tease her slender neck. He found himself wanting to yank off the cap and unbind the thick braid so he could run the silken tresses through his fingers. For a moment he imagined the reddish-brown cascade tumbled across his bare chest. Then he met her stony gaze. Miss Wren’s sour expression wiped that pleasing thought from his mind. “Just what is your position here at Dragon Caern?”
“She’s mistress of the castle, of course,” a masculine voice said from behind him. “Has been ever since the Lady Helen passed. Keeps everything humming, too.”
Gabriel turned to the newcomer. He wore the turned collar of a priest and the knees of his cassock were grimy with stains. Obviously a man of prayer. But his face was the face of Gabe’s dissolute, favorite relative.
“Uncle Eustace?”
The priest squinted at him and advanced uncertainly. “Aye. Eustace Drake was once my name and to my shame, that Eustace was not much of a man.”
“Here’s one who’d dispute that,” Gabriel said.
“No, no, it’s true. I wasted the strength of my best years in gaming hells with women of easy virtue and more drink than would fill an ocean,” the priest said with more than a trace of wistfulness in his tone. “But I’ve renounced that life. Once I was ‘Useless Eustace.’ Now I’m Father Eustace. Who are you, son?”
“Father,” Jacquelyn said. “This rogue claims to be your nephew Gabriel. Word of his death came years ago, but if this man’s story is true, it seems he left the Royal Navy under slightly different circumstances than we were led to believe.” She let the threat to denounce him as a pirate hang in the air for a few moments. Then surprisingly, she allowed the opportunity to slip by. “However, if you don’t know him, I’ll turn the hounds on the miscreant and send him running.”
She smiled at him. Like a tabby at a barn rat.
“Gabriel?” Father Eustace took another step toward him. “Is it possible?”
“Aye, Uncle, it’s me.”
“Same eyes,” the priest said. “My nephew always had eyes black as the pit of . . . but it’s been so long. And Gabriel was but a stripling when he left us for the sea. I cannot be sure.”
“Perhaps I can make it easier for you,” Gabriel said. “Do you remember the night when I sneaked out of the keep to visit the gypsy camp that was set up on the River Twyw?”
Father Eustace nodded slowly.
“I was surprised to find you already in the fortune teller’s wagon,” Gabe said. “A sloe-eyed beauty was . . . telling your fortune with vigor.“
He cleared his throat in deference to Mistress Wren’s presence and waggled his brows for his uncle’s benefit. Gabriel had only been ten years old at the time, but the image of the gypsy girl’s brown hips merrily bouncing on his uncle’s groin was burned in his brain. He remembered her berry-colored nipples disappearing into his uncle’s hungry mouth and the way she tossed her mane of dark curly hair as she moaned in pleasure. It left quite an impression on young Gabe. His small willy had risen in lust for the first time and he half-imagined himself in love with the brazen, exotic girl polishing his Uncle Eustace’s cock.
Father Eustace swallowed hard and turned to Miss Wren. “My boyhood and youth were woefully misspent.”
“Along with a good bit of your manhood as well,” Gabriel said. “In any case, when you caught me peeping through a hole in the canvas, I ran off. I fell and gashed my knee.” He turned back the hem of his breeches to expose a jagged scar. “You kne
w my father would beat me for sneaking out of the keep. So you patched up my knee and told me you’d keep my secret, if I kept yours.”
“And it appears you did, until this day.” Eustace’s face split in a wide smile. His uncle folded him into a gigantic hug and thumped his back enthusiastically. “Welcome home, lad. This is indeed the answer to my prayers. A gift from Heaven to be sure.”
“I’ve been called many things, Uncle, but never a gift from Heaven.”
From the corner of his vision, Gabriel caught Miss Wren eyeing him with suspicion. No doubt she thought him a gift from Old Patch instead.
“Rejoice with me, Jacquelyn,” Father Eustace said. “Gabriel’s homecoming will be the salvation of Dragon Caern.”
“The Caern is doing quite well without the likes of a pi—”
Jacquelyn stopped herself and Gabriel suspected she was sparing his uncle the truth of Gabe’s piracy. In his day, Uncle Eustace had been enough of a bounder for ten pirates, but perhaps Miss Wren didn’t know that.
A priest’s robe does wonders for a man’s reputation, Gabriel thought with a grin.
“Forgive me, Mistress Jacquelyn,” his uncle was saying. “Of course, you don’t understand what I mean because I hadn’t told you. I didn’t wish to upset you since I could see no way to solve the problem but by prayer. You see, I received a missive with a royal seal shortly after Lord Rupert passed. Since it was assumed my brother Rhys’s line had died, his title was declared in abeyance. In that case, the title goes back to the closest male relative. Me, as it turns out.” His lips turned up in a quirky smile. “However, I am without a legitimate heir.”
Gabe suspected his wayward uncle had sired several illegitimate ones over the years. Bastards stamped with his bulbous nose and freckles sprouted like weeds over several Cornish shires.
“And since I’m bound by my vow of celibacy, I’m not likely to produce one now, am I?” his uncle said with a rueful expression. “The Crown is counting on that and is planning to let the Drake barony become extinct. Our Protestant king and his cronies will do all they can to make sure Catholic nobility declines.”