by Mia Marlowe
She met his direct gaze. Dragon Caern was the only home she could claim and her orphaned charges her only family. She’d dare nearly anything to protect them. After all, she wasn’t above leading a party of highwaymen in boy’s garb to do just that.
She shook her head.
“No, my lord, I’ll not deny it. But in this case, if you hope to wed soon, you must follow the rules. And you may as well start with how you address me.”
“I suppose you’re right.” His bold gaze wandered down her form, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Would it make any difference if I told you I’d be more pleased with the study of undressing than addressing?”
She drew a deep breath, preparing to deliver a scathing set-down, when suddenly she realized that was exactly what he was angling for. The beastly man enjoyed seeing her discomfited.
She’d spent precious little time with her mother in her formative years. Jacquelyn was boarded at a fine school and raised by gentlewomen with only occasional low passes from her flighty mother. But now, Isabella’s voice rang in her head, clear and true, for once.
The art of handling a man is knowing when not to give him what he wants.
Usually Jacquelyn tried to push her mother from her mind, but in this instance, perhaps a courtesan’s advice was exactly what she needed.
She allowed herself to smile at him.
“If you follow my lead, my lord, you’ll be undressing your new bride soon enough.”
A surprised chuckle rumbled deep in his belly. “Very well, Mistress Wren. I place myself in your capable hands.”
Jacquelyn resisted the urge to imagine what she’d do with him actually in her hands. She ducked under his arm and escaped to the table where tea was laid.
“In that case, let us begin. Allow me to pour your tea and we’ll practice conversation—civilized conversation—designed with procuring a wife in mind.”
He eyed her through narrowed lids, looking for some trick. Then he shrugged and followed her over to sit.
“You’re sure there’s no other way?”
“These lessons were your idea, my lord. However, if you like, I can make a selection for you from the available women in the region and you can meet your bride at the altar,” she said. “Contracted matches are just as valid as courted ones. It would certainly save time.”
“Given your aversion to me, I shudder to think what sort of woman you’d choose.” He waved the specter away. “No, thank you.”
Aversion wasn’t how she’d describe her feelings for him. Appalled fascination was more apt.
“How do you take your tea, my lord?”
“As I take most things, however and whenever I please,” he said, still obviously hoping to goad her.
She merely arched a brow at him.
“One lump,” he said with a sigh.
A thrill of power rushed through her. Her mother was right for once. The key to handling a man was surprise. All she need do was anticipate what he was expecting and do the opposite.
With little resistance, she led him through a conversation about the weather and the condition of local crops, all perfectly innocuous and very respectable.
“That was excellent, my lord. Now, we need to decide how we’ll handle the matter of your piracy,” she said as she tidied the tea tray.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you were believed dead. Your reappearance will be startling to some. Once you rejoin society, people will want to know where you’ve been. You can’t very well regale your guests with tales of your buccaneer friends and the delights of ‘keel hauling,’” she said. “What do you intend to say about your time at sea?”
“I don’t think anything but the truth will serve. A man is defined by his choices. My ship was overpowered and went down,” he said. “I chose to live.”
“But surely you don’t intend to admit to piracy—”
“Mistress Wren, whether we like it or not, we all have to admit to what we are,” Gabriel said. “If we don’t, we are only fooling ourselves.”
He leaned over and caught her hand in his. “For example, you can pretend to be outraged that I’m about to kiss your hand or you can be yourself and enjoy it.”
Jacquelyn’s arm went rigid. “What makes you think I’ll enjoy it?”
He fingered her wrist in light feathering strokes. “Right here, I can feel your heart beating. It’s taken a decided jump.”
He turned her hand palm down and drew a thumb over her knuckles. The tension drained out of her.
“Your skin is warm.”
He lifted her hand but didn’t brush her knuckles with his lips. Instead, he inhaled.
“And fragrant,” he said. “You use rosewater to bathe, don’t you?”
“It’s not seemly for a gentleman to comment on a lady’s toilette.”
“Lye soap works as well as a perfumed one. If you didn’t want me to notice, why go to the trouble?”
“You think I bathe just for your pleasure? Of all the conceited, puffed up—“
He pressed a finger to her lips.
“Remember who you’re fooling, Mistress. I assure you, it’s not me.” He turned his attention back to her hand. “Now, I can just buss my lips over your skin like so.”
He brushed the back of her hand with his mouth. It was a perfect kiss, expertly done with just the right amount of pressure and respectful deference.
“Or, I can take my time.”
He brought her hand back to his lips and peered at her over her knuckles, waiting for a reaction.
He wanted her to rebel. If she objected, he’d win.
Jacquelyn closed her eyes, willing him to get it over with.
His warm breath stole over her fingers and up her wrist. He brushed the back of her hand against his rough chin, then drew his slightly open mouth over her knuckles and across her fingers.
“Some people say that certain parts of the hand trigger sensation in other parts of the body,” he murmured. He nuzzled the crevice between her forefinger and middle finger. “Do you suppose it’s true?”
A downward spiral started in her belly. Jacquelyn’s eyes snapped open. Gabriel’s eyes were closed when he planted his lips over the spot. The tip of his tongue massaged the joint between her fingers.
A jolt of longing, an empty ache, streaked to her womb. She gasped.
Gabriel opened his eyes and released her hand. She folded them on her lap to keep them from trembling.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mistress Wren, for satisfying my curiosity on that point.”
Speechless, she watched as he strode to the door. He turned at the portal and looked back over his shoulder.
“I believe our lesson is concluded for the day,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “Unless you have further need of me.”
Need, yes by heaven, she had need, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He’d already pulled back the carefully constructed lie she presented to the world and showed her for a sham. Priests always talked about the sins of the fathers being visited on their children. As it turned out, her mother’s sins were her own as well.
Jacquelyn didn’t trust her voice. She shook her head and averted her gaze.
As his footsteps retreated down the corridor, she realized her mother’s advice was worthless. Even a courtesan wouldn’t be able to handle a pirate.
There was no dealing with a man who took whatever he wanted.
And made her like it.
Chapter 5
Meriwether pushed back from breaking his fast, loosened his belt and let flee a satisfied belch.
“Hot mince pie and goat cheese whenever I like. A wine-cellar handier than mother’s milk. And comely serving wenches to boot.”
He ogled the little parlor maid as she swept his empty plate from the long table and headed back to the galley with it. The formidable Mrs. Beadle waddled toward him to shield the girl from his gaze, frowning like a Kraken.
Meriwether shivered and turned his a
ttention back to his host.
“Aye, tis a most agreeable berth ye’ve secured for us, Cap’n.”
He sneaked a glance at Mrs. Beadle who was still regarding him with lowered brows.
“Mostly agreeable, that is.”
“Maybe for you, Meri.” Gabriel speared a plump sausage with his knife and bit off a hunk. “You’re not the one who’s about to be fed to the wolves.”
Mistress Wren had sent out invitations to a ball to be held at Dragon Caern a fortnight hence. The stack of acceptance notes on the sideboard grew daily. The Cornish nobility was a buzzing hive of curiosity and more than ready to satisfy themselves about Gabriel Drake’s return from the dead. And if in the process they might marry off one of their daughters to the new baron of Dragon Caern, so much the better.
“Ah, well, there’s worse ends than a marriage bed,” Meri said. “Back in ’85, there was this poor piker in Kingsport who was caught meddling with the governor’s wife. And she weren’t screaming all that loudly till her husband bursts in, if you take my meaning. I heard tell the governor turned the fellow over to a band of wild Caribs still running free in the mountains. Word was they had the fellow’s balls for breakfast.”
Meri reached under the table and scratched his own in sympathy.
“And the rest of him for dinner,” Gabriel finished for him. “A cautionary tale for lonely mariners everywhere.”
“Weren’t no tale. I got it straight from a bloke what was there. Rum way to go, if you ask me,” Meri went on. “‘Course that was long before your time. Back when the ocean between the Caribbee and merry ol’ England was ever so much wider than it is now. There ain’t no more islands left where the girls swim out to the ship wearing nothing but a smile.” He sighed wistfully. “The whole Spanish Main’s gone and got itself civilized.”
“Given the old bill of fare, that’s probably a good thing. Though I’m always in favor of smiling wenches with nothing to hide,” Gabriel added with a wolfish grin.
Timothy, the stable lad, sidled into the dining room with hunched shoulders and a long face. Meri squinted at him.
“Looks like a hound that just peed in the parlor, don’t he?” Meriwether said.
“Beg pardon, my lord.” The lad doffed his cap and twisted it nervously.
“What is it, Tim?” Gabriel asked.
“Mistress Wren sends her compliments and asks if Your Lordship be ready for your lessons?” Timothy tugged at his collar. “She says to tell you . . .” The lad fidgeted with his top button and gave the cap another twist.
“Out with it, man.”
“She says she’ll be waiting for you in the garden when you’ve a mind to see to your duties.” Timothy bit his lower lip. The message was saucy, just shy of insubordinate and poor Tim knew it. Obviously, he was hoping his lord wouldn’t blame the messenger.
Meri glanced over at Gabriel. As captain of the Revenge, Gabriel Drake had never let a challenge go unanswered. It wouldn’t be healthy to tolerate defiance. The least disrespect merited swift and certain punishment. The crew liked it that way. Made ‘em feel better to know the man who led them could handle himself. And them.
“I see.” A muscle ticked along Gabriel’s jaw line.
That didn’t bode well for Mistress Wren.
“I’ve already mastered the art of balancing a teacup on my knee without spilling more than a drop or two and I’m prepared to say any number of witty things about the blasted weather. What more could there be to this business of courting?” Gabriel demanded. “Did she tell you what my duties might entail this day?”
“My lord, it seems you’re to learn the language of the fan this morning.”
“The language of the fan? What kind of dandy does she take me for? God’s Teeth! That woman will be the death of me.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and crumpled his linen napkin at the side of his barely touched plate. “Apparently, Meri, there are still those who want a man’s balls for breakfast.”
He rose and left the room without a backward glance.
“And yet, ye hop to at her first bidding. Ah, Cap’n, I’m afeard for ye,” Meriwether muttered after Gabriel’s retreating back. Then he pulled the captain’s plate in front of him. He popped a link of sausage into his mouth and sighed in pleasure, heedless of the lovely grease trickling into his beard. “Any man who lets a good English sausage go to waste over a woman is in a sorry state indeed.”
* * *
Gabriel stormed through the keep. In the past week, Jacquelyn Wren had put him through more interminable sessions with tea and finger sandwiches than a ship’s hull had barnacles.
And never alone with him either.
All his lessons were carefully arranged to include the brooding presence of Mrs. Beadle or the gawky Timothy. There was never an opportunity for another attempt at seduction.
At least this day he’d been able to order Timothy to the stables to shoe his horse and he’d left Mrs. B. scowling at Meriwether. He’d have Jacquelyn to himself for once.
After all his lessons, Gabriel was certain of one thing. Polite Society was vastly overrated.
Most of the rules seemed designed to make sure a man made a fool of himself with the least amount of effort on his part. Granted, things had changed since he put to sea, but how had the system of manners been brought to such ridiculously elaborate heights. Surely the whole of English manhood hadn’t lost their minds during the spate of years in which he sailed the Caribbean.
What in perdition was ‘the language of the fan?’ It sounded like the worst sort of feminine silliness.
He stopped short at the open doorway and looked out on the garden. It was a little triangle of green festooned with blooms around a central fountain. An herbarium rioted in one corner. The space was designed as a refuge, sheltered on all sides by the grey stone of the castle.
Jacquelyn was seated on a stone settee, looking as cool and inviting as a shady cove. She was wearing a fetching sac dress, not too ostentatious in ornamentation, but of fine brocade and with an open panel that displayed a be-ribboned petticoat. Her pointy-toed slippers peeped demurely beneath her hem.
No stolen glimpse of an ankle this day, Gabriel thought with regret.
The costume bespoke her position as chatelaine. Her erect posture proclaimed her every inch a lady. A shining russet curl escaped her cap and coiled over her shoulder. She drummed the tip of her fan on her other hand.
She thought to teach him the language of the fan? No need for interpretation of that gesture. She was already agitated.
Then she flicked the fan open and it tremored before her breasts. The motion drew his eye to the sweet hollow between them even quicker than usual.
Maybe that’s why Englishmen put up with such fripperies. A grin tugged at his lips as he stepped into the garden.
“Mistress Wren.” He made an elegant leg to her, turning his toe out to best show the musculature in his calf as she’d instructed.
“My lord.” She hopped up and dropped a curtsey. Her gaze darted behind him. “Where is Timothy?”
“He has duties elsewhere. I can’t imagine he has much to offer on the subject at hand,” he said. “Now what have you to teach me about fans besides how enticing your bosom looks behind one?”
She flicked the fan closed.
“My lord, you may wish to make light of—“
“Mistress Wren, I would never make light of your bosom.”
Flame kissed her cheeks.
Good. He liked her all the better when she was enraged or embarrassed. He’d settle for either.
“Indeed, I hold your bosom in the highest possible esteem,” he assured her. “That is to say, I would like to hold—“
She punched his stomach with the butt of her fan. Air exploded from his lungs.
“. . . them in the highest possible esteem,” he finished, rubbing his flat belly gingerly. “At a guess, that fan signal means you wish to gut me.”
“It does, but I was improvising,” she said between clenched teeth. “Th
at’s not an acknowledged fan gesture and I doubt you’ll receive it from another woman unless you continue in boorish behavior.”
She settled back on the settee and arranged her skirts artfully on either side of her hips, hips that he knew were nowhere near as broad as her panniers made them seem.
“I fear you are not taking your responsibilities seriously, my lord.”
“Since when is knowledge of fans such a serious responsibility?”
“Your goal is to wed,” she reminded him. “When your female guests arrive for the ball, your future wife may well be among them. Wouldn’t you like to be able to correctly read the subtle signs she sends you?”
“As opposed to your not-so-subtle ones?” When she glared at him, he threw up his hands in mock surrender and settled beside her. “I am clay in your capable hands. Mold me into the fashion most suitable for feminine approval.”
“Very well.” She nodded, mollified for the moment. “We’ll start with the basics. A wealth of information can be conveyed with a few simple movements. Now if a woman touches the tip of her fan to her right cheek, it means ‘yes.’” She brought the fan up to demonstrate.
“And the left cheek means ‘no,’ I suppose.”
“Exactly.” Her lips curved in a fleeting smile. He suddenly wished he knew how to coax one to stay.
“My left or your left?” he asked.
“It’s always the woman’s left.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He leaned toward her. Even in the midst of a wildly blooming garden, he caught a whiff of her rosewater scent. It swirled around his brain and nudged his groin to aching life. “But why go to so much trouble? How hard is it just to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“This may be difficult for a pirate to grasp, but sometimes a situation calls for delicacy. In a crowded drawing room, wouldn’t a subtle ‘no’ be preferable to a bald-faced one?” She hitched herself away from him on the settee.
“Actually, a ‘yes’ would be preferable.”
Her lips were mere inches away, softly parted. Sweet and moist, he could nearly taste them. The pulse point at the base of her throat fluttered faster than her fan.