The Pirate's Temptation (Pirates of Britannia World Book 12)

by Tara Kingston

  “In any case, Captain, might we set a time for a meeting?” she persisted.

  “A private meeting?” His husky voice gave the word undue emphasis. Had he done so deliberately? Was he trying to intimidate her into leaving?

  Well, he would not succeed. She’d dealt with far worse. If need be, she’d leave this one in an unconscious heap as well, take a horse from his stable, and be on her way.

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Away from Mrs. Taylor’s and Mrs. Davidson’s ears. And mouths.”

  MacArron’s expression became unreadable. “I take yer point. I’ll meet with ye after supper. After ye’ve had a full day to teach my daughters.”

  At night. Here. Alone.

  Oh, dear.

  The very thought was rather scandalous. The housekeeper and the cook would lead the staff in tongue-wagging about their meeting. But there was little choice. She had to do whatever it took to gain insight into the girls and what troubled them.

  “Very well, Captain.” She held her voice even and steady. “Will you be dining with us tonight?”

  “I’ll make a point of it. I intend to assess yer daily progress with my bairns. Until the tenth day, when I’ll see ye on yer way out the door.”

  The door closed behind Miss Fraser with a crisp thwack, louder than necessary, but not quite a slam. Jamie smiled, then quickly caught himself in the act and resumed an appropriate scowl. He couldn’t afford to allow his men to see any sign of softness in him, let alone for a doe-eyed governess who dared to intrude into his private study.

  If she’d come seeking something for herself—funds for a wardrobe to replace a dismal gray dress too modest for a vicar’s wife came to mind—he’d have reacted far differently to her intrusion. But as it stood, she’d come after him out of concern for his daughters.

  Her regard for the girls stood in stark contrast to the others who’d shown up here intending to be governesses. Those women had been either spineless mice who’d allowed Isla and Bridget to run roughshod over them or harridans who neither needed nor wanted his input where his bairns were concerned—so very unlike Miss Fraser.

  She’d known exactly what to do to comfort Bridget through her nightmare. The woman had enfolded the wee lass with tenderness, calming her and offering her a solution which might ease her fears for days and weeks to come. Unlike the shrewish Mrs. Humphries, Miss Fraser didn’t urge the girl to have a stiff upper lip and dismiss her fears. She’d welcomed his efforts to soothe his child, to be a father to the girl and not merely the master of the house.

  “Someone’s here.” Rory moved to the window. “Finch?”

  Howell joined him in peering down to the cobblestone road beyond the castle. “The coach is fine enough. It could be him.”

  “Go see what the bastard wants,” Jamie said.

  Rory gave a mocking salute. “Aye, Captain.”

  A few minutes passed before the steady thud of Rory’s boots signaled his return. A man followed, a single step behind his brother. With his graying, neatly trimmed hair and his well-pressed suit, the visitor resembled every solicitor Jamie had ever encountered. Jamie met the man at the door, blocking his entrance to the study.

  “Captain MacArron,” the visitor began, a slight hesitation in his voice. “My name is Harold Finch. I represent an investor who would like to remain anonymous.”

  “I’ve no use for cowards who hide behind solicitors,” Jamie said.

  “My client is no coward. But he does not wish to draw attention to his endeavors. I have come to discuss a proposition with you.” His attention darted to the others. “Alone.”

  “Howell. McKown. Give us a few minutes. It willna take longer than that.”

  “Aye, Captain,” they replied in unison, brushing past the man in the suit as they made their exit.

  The visitor slanted Rory a glance. “I said alone.”

  Jamie shook his head. “Ye dinna dictate terms under my roof. Whatever ye’ve got to say, ye can say it in front of my brother.”

  The man pulled his lips tight as he nodded in reluctant agreement. “As you wish. I presume he can be trusted to keep his mouth closed.”

  Jamie rocked back on his heels. This bastard was too damned bold. Keep his mouth closed. Much more talk, and the fellow would be speaking without benefit of his teeth.

  “Come in. Make this fast,” he said coolly.

  “You will find this interesting. I guarantee it.” As the door closed behind them, Finch removed a map from his leather case. “My client offers a proposition—you will add to your wealth and settle your debt.”

  Jamie nodded. “Debt? What in hell are ye talkin’ about?”

  “My client was engaged as a merchant during the American war. One of his shipments—arms Jefferson Davis was willing to pay a premium to obtain for the Army of Richmond—came under attack by a crew of mercenaries. Am I to understand you were a privateer for hire during that unfortunate conflict?”

  “Ye know damned well I was, or ye wouldn’t be here today.”

  Finch nodded slowly. “Privateer—quite a civilized word for piracy.”

  “What I did a decade ago is none of yer bluidy business. Nor yer blasted client’s for that matter.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. MacArron. My client considers it very much his business. In his eyes, you are a thief. You profited from the theft of his property and cost my client a great deal of money in the process.”

  “Whoever the bastard is, he’s a fool.”

  “Bastard?” Finch cocked a brow. “I assure you, that is far from the case. When you commandeered my client’s cargo, you robbed him of a fortune. During another of your raids, you seized a priceless relic—the Bloodhead Sword.”

  The man’s softly spoken words plowed into Jamie, a blow he hadn’t seen coming. In his mind’s eye, he saw the centuries-old sword with its ruby-tipped hilt and long, lethal blade. He’d recognized the piece on sight—the weapon was the stuff of legends, said to have been carried in battle by Robert the Bruce.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Jamie growled through his teeth.

  “Not yet, Captain MacArron. Believe me, you need to hear what I have to say. A great deal depends on your understanding—and your cooperation.”

  “I do not bargain with cowards who hide their faces behind a well-spoken solicitor.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Finch tapped the map with his forefinger. “My client is most generous in offering you an opportunity to settle your debt.”

  “I owe no claim to any man.”

  “Captain, if you do not heed my words, your arrogance will cost you dearly. My client seeks an arrangement, a bargain which will clear your debt and further enrich you in the process. After you seized the Bloodhead Sword, you claimed it for Scotland and delivered it to the Highland authorities. Locked away under heavy guard, it was beyond reach. Only a fool would have attempted to get to it. For years, my client has waited patiently—the opportunity is now here.”

  “What the bluidy hell are ye talkin’ about?” Rory asked.

  “The Bloodhead Sword and a cache of antiquities are to be transported to the British Museum on a ship sailing out of Aberdeen. You are to intercept the vessel and take possession of the sword on behalf of my client.”

  “Ye’re as daft as yer client if ye think I’m goin’ after a transport ship with such a cargo. It would be a suicide mission.”

  “I will not tell you how to do it. But I must remind you it’s in your best interests to accept this generous offer.”

  “Bugger off,” Jamie gritted between his teeth.

  “The Bloodhead Sword must not make it to London,” Finch said, his voice rising. “If you do not retrieve it, you will live to regret your refusal.”

  Summoning every ounce of discipline he possessed, Jamie resisted the urge to smash his fist into the cur’s smug face. He eyed his collar, deciding upon the precise spot he’d grab to hoist him up if the man uttered one more civilized threat.

  Finch fold
ed the map into a neat rectangle. “I’ll leave this with you,” he went on. “The details of the shipment are noted on this document. Don’t be a fool, Captain. You will not like the consequences.”

  Jamie’s restraint frayed. He lunged forward, seizing the solicitor at the throat and pinning him to the wall behind him. His fingers splayed over his throat, making it clear he was more than capable of silencing him permanently.

  “Ye dare to come under my roof and utter threats. If ye try that again, I’ll wring yer scrawny neck.” His fingers twitched, emphasizing his point. Reining in the impulse, he shot Rory a glance. “Get this bugger out of here. Now, before he says somethin’ to make me forget I’m a patient man.”

  “Aye, it’ll be my pleasure.”

  Jamie released his hold. Finch grabbed at his throat, gasping for air. Crumpling over his knees, the solicitor looked up. His eyes blazed with icy contempt. “You will regret that, Captain.”

  Rory seized the solicitor by the arm. “Come along now. And be quiet about it, while ye still have all yer—”

  “That will not be necessary.” Finch shook himself free. “I’ve said all I needed to say. For now. My employer will expect your answer within forty-eight hours. Think carefully before you make a mistake you will regret until the end of your days.”

  Sipping whisky from a tumbler in his hand, Jamie stared into the flames crackling in the fireplace. Behind him, Rory hurled barbs at the dartboard, as if doing so would release his angry tension.

  “The solicitor traveled in a fine conveyance. His employer has no shortage of funds,” Rory remarked between throws.

  “I dinna give a damn if the bluidy prime minister sent him. He’s not to be allowed on the property again. Make sure the crew knows to be on the alert. God only knows what the blackguard has in mind.”

  You will not like the consequences—

  Finch, if that was indeed his name, didn’t know how lucky he was to have departed with all his teeth intact.

  “Ye think he’s connected with the Lachlands?” Rory tossed another barb, hitting the target dead center.

  “It’s possible.”

  “One thing is certain—whoever sent him here knows the part ye played in reclaiming the Bloodhead Sword for Scotland.”

  Jamie shrugged. “That means little. The press covered the return of the sword to the museum. This could all be an elaborate lie.”

  “Ye think Finch is tryin’ to dupe ye into doing his bidding?”

  “At this point, there’s no way to know. But if the cur dares to threaten my family again, Finch and his cowardly employer will regret ever crossing this threshold.”

  Tossing the last dart in his hand far off the mark, Rory muttered an epithet under his breath. He went to the door. “Mrs. Taylor’s made a stew. Come get somethin’ to eat before Howell and McKown eat their fill. God knows they willna leave much in the pot.”

  “I’ll join ye shortly.”

  “Aye,” his brother responded, closing the door behind him.

  Jamie stretched out his legs, some of the tension easing from his body. Taking another drink, he allowed his thoughts to wander. Truth be told, there were times when the sea in all its wildness called to him. He still sailed with a crew, a respectable merchant seaman now—a life worlds removed from his years as a privateer. He’d left the violence behind. Or so he’d thought.

  Had his past come back to haunt the present?

  Trouble was brewing. By hellfire, he felt it in his bones.

  In his life as a raider, he’d fought. And he’d killed.

  But he hadn’t been able to protect Siobhan.

  The memory dug into him like jagged talons. Gazing into the fire, he made a silent vow.

  He would protect his bairns.

  At any cost.

  Chapter Eight

  Leana joined the girls and their uncle in the dining hall for supper. Captain MacArron was nowhere in sight. Standing by the table with her hands on her hips, Mrs. Taylor tut-tutted over their lateness as Isla helped her serve the meal.

  “Wait for Da,” Bridget said, hugging the cloth doll Leana and Isla had sewn for her. Their creation wasn’t quite complete. Its embroidered face needed a bit more detail, while its muslin head bore not so much as a wisp of yarn hair, and its butter-yellow calico dress remained entirely unadorned. The child had not wanted to wait, preferring to hold the doll now, even in its imperfect state. Very soon, Leana would stitch some eyebrows and a proper mouth onto the doll’s bland little face, Isla would thread yarn hair through its bare head, and together, they would set about making miniature clothes. Leana glanced down at the frayed cuffs on her gray dress—the gown had seen far better days, and she only possessed one more in her traveling case. In all likelihood, the homemade doll would soon have a better wardrobe than she did.

  “If Captain MacArron does not care to join us, he can eat his supper cold,” Mrs. Taylor said without any trace of humor.

  “Is that so?” MacArron strolled into the chamber, his eyes narrowing as they met his cook’s dour gaze.

  “It seems you got here in the nick of time,” she snipped.

  “Ye’ve made venison stew. How thoughtful of ye to cook my favorite dish.” MacArron’s smile appeared to melt the cook’s frosty demeanor.

  “Aye, heaven’s angels couldna conjure such a savory aroma. Are ye trying to tempt me?” Mr. Howell offered a craggy-faced smile as he sauntered in with Mr. McKown at his side.

  Mrs. Taylor gave him a not-quite-sincere scowl. “Might I tempt ye to leave? I’d cook ye whatever ye want in exchange for yer promise to go.”

  Rory laughed, and his gaze settled on Bridget and her new doll. “Why, we’ve got another guest. I hope ye made enough to feed the new addition, Mrs. Taylor?”

  Bridget proudly displayed their creation. “Her name is Daisy. She’s going to have pretty dresses with ribbons and bows. Isla promised she’d make them.”

  Rory cocked a brow. “I’d say the poor wee thing needs some hair…or at least a bonnet…before ye worry about new clothes.”

  In reply, the child pulled a face and stuck out her tongue, drawing a hearty laugh from her father.

  “Bridget, that is not how a young lady behaves,” Leana admonished in a firm, gentle voice. She shot MacArron a glare. “Such conduct is not to be rewarded.”

  He plastered on a look of misunderstanding. Captain James MacArron might have been a masterful pirate, but he was not a convincing actor. Not at all. He held out his hands. “I dinna see a bauble or toy for the lass… no suitable reward.”

  “Captain MacArron, I’m confident you take my meaning. If the girls are to be raised as fine young ladies, they must be held to expectations of acceptable behavior.”

  “Fine young ladies?” He arched his brows. “Dinna tell me ye’ve got a stick up yer…skirts like the others.”

  “A stick. Up my…” She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should be grateful you censored your language in front of your daughters.”

  “That sounds funny, Da.” Bridget said, meeting his eyes. “That’s not what ye said about Miss Crump. Ye said she had a stick up her—”

  “Bridget…you should not say such things.” With an effort, Leana kept her tone very even and her expression stern, even as Rory and the others made no attempt to hold back their laughter.

  She sighed to herself. She was going to have her work cut out for her as long as these land-bound pirates felt free to speak like men at sea around the girls.

  Bridget jutted out her jaw. “But Da said it.”

  “That doesna matter,” MacArron said, his voice gentle. “Miss Fraser is right. Ye should not speak of such things. And in truth, neither should I when a lady is present.”

  Leana blinked. Then she blinked again. Surely, she had not heard correctly.

  She met his still-arrogant gaze. The earth seemed to tilt just a bit, as if it had slipped ever so slightly askew on its axis.

  Had the Devil of the Highlands actually admitted he’d been wrong?
>
  And to her, no less?

  He seemed to read her thoughts. “Yes, Miss Fraser, I stand corrected. You may mark this as the first—and the last time—you will hear those words.”

  She smiled. “Well, I must say, this is a momentous occasion. I shall have to make a recollection of it in my diary.”

  Nodding his acknowledgement, he settled into the chair at the head of the table. His brother and the others took their seats, and within a matter of minutes, they were involved in eating their meal. MacArron engaged his daughters in what seemed a pleasant conversation.

  Until the moment when Isla inquired about the visitor who’d arrived in a shiny ebony carriage bearing a most impressive crest.

  MacArron stared down at his fork, seeming at a loss for words. When he lifted his gaze, his expression had gone dark, as if she’d poked an unseen wound.

  “He represents a man who wished to do business with me. I’ve no interest in his offer,” he said finally.

  Isla’s eyes glimmered with what looked like excitement. “I hoped he might want ye to go to London.”

  The captain frowned. “Why would ye think such a thing?”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I was walking down the corridor…past yer study.”

  MacArron’s frown turned hard. “Ye know better than to be listenin’ to other people’s conversations.”

  “I wasn’t, Da. Honest, I wasn’t tryin’. I couldn’t help but hear him. He was loud, and then quiet again.”

  Holding her gaze, he gave his head a stern shake. “Dinna trouble yerself with what he wanted. I’ve no wish to speak of it.”

  Isla’s shoulders lifted and fell in a little shrug. She speared a bite of potato and popped it into her mouth.

  “When will ye take me to London, Da?” she said. “I want to go so very badly.”

  His brows drew together as he met her hopeful face. “When ye’re old enough.”

  “And when will I be old enough?” Isla persisted.

  Rory cocked his head. “What does a lass as young as ye know about such a place? ’Tis a place where the sky is so clouded from the factories, ye can scarcely catch yer breath.”