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

by Tara Kingston

  “Mum told me all about it. She missed the city…she wanted to go back.”

  “Enough, Isla,” MacArron said, his voice gruff. “Yer mother made a fine home here.”

  “I hate it here. It’s damp and dull and there are no other children. Mum hated it too.” Isla’s lower lip trembled. “And now, she’s gone.”

  A muscle ticked in the captain’s jaw, as though he searched for the right words. Leana turned to the girl and reached out to her, covering her small hand with her own. “You’re missing your mum. It’s only natural. I do understand.”

  “No, you don’t.” A cold anger beyond the girl’s years infused Isla’s words. “You don’t know what’s here. This castle is haunted. Didn’t ye know?”

  “Haunted?” Leana replied gently. “Ghosts aren’t real, dear. It’s only a trick of the imagination.”

  “You dinna think so?” the girl challenged.

  “That’s enough, lass,” MacArron said. “Ye know how I feel about such nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Isla protested. “There is a ghost in this place.”

  Bridget gave a frightened little squeal and nestled closer to Leana. “Please, Da, make her stop.”

  “Enough, Isla.” MacArron’s voice held a firm edge. “Dinna fill Bridget’s head with foolish notions.”

  “Ye dinna believe me? It’s real, I tell ye. I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” the girl went on, her attention fixed on Leana. A note of fear marked her high-pitched young voice.

  Leana slowly shook her head. “Phantoms do not exist. When I was a girl about your age, I learned our thoughts can fool us at times. Old houses make peculiar noises. The floorboards creak and groan. There’s nothing to fear.”

  “Ye’re wrong.” A single tear streamed down the child’s face, and she swiped it away. “I have seen a ghost. One night…in my mum’s room. It killed her.”

  A cry of long-held grief wracked her small body. Isla shoved at the table and pushed her chair away. As the child rushed to the door, Leana leapt to her feet to go to her, but MacArron gently caught his daughter in his arms before she could bolt from the room.

  “I’ve got her,” he said calmly as the others looked on, stunned. “Watch over Bridget.”

  Tears streamed down the child’s face as her small fists pounded her father’s shoulders and chest.

  “It’ll be all right, lass.” MacArron’s voice had gone low, smooth tones meant to soothe and comfort. Ignoring the rain of blows, he enfolded her in his arms and held her close as she sobbed against him, wetting the linen fabric of his shirt.

  Leana drew Bridget nearer, holding the wee girl to her chest. Bridget sniffled, the distress in her eyes seeming to be the product of confusion rather than fright.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said, rushing back into the room. “Not again.”

  Isla continued to weep, even as her hands stilled. Easing his hold, MacArron took a step back and crouched low, a look of tenderness on his features. Transfixed by the sight of the powerful man nurturing the distraught young girl, Leana watched the captain brush away a few of his daughter’s tears with the pads of his fingers. Gently, she stroked Bridget’s hair, soothing the bairn’s distress.

  When he turned to Leana, the warm emotion she’d seen him display was gone. In its place, a hard resolve had set his jaw in a taut line.

  “She needs to take to her bed, Miss Fraser. I trust you’ll see to it.”

  The abrupt change in his demeanor startled her, but Leana made an effort to conceal her surprise. Still holding Bridget close to reassure her, she met his gaze.

  “Of course. I’ll see to it the girls are tucked in.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Fraser.”

  His measured steps tapping a rhythm against the polished wood planks, he marched to the door. His hand went to the latch, and slowly, he turned back to Leana.

  “This house is haunted. Isla is right about that. But the specters do not live within these walls. They live in our minds.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The girl’s willfulness is a worry, to be sure.” Mrs. Taylor approached Leana in the corridor beyond the library.

  “Isla is strong-willed, just as her father is. But I cannot say that is a problem.” Leana opened the door to the room, lit a lamp, and drew the drapes to keep out the evening chill. “She’s experienced a great loss. It’s evident the girl still mourns her mother.”

  Mrs. Taylor’s mouth puckered into a pinched bow. “My own mother died when I was a wee girl. I missed her. But I did not go about concocting grim stories of ghouls and specters.”

  Leana took in the cook’s words. Was no one in the house able to see what seemed so obvious—the girl was in pain, grieving a profound loss she’d been far too young to fully accept?

  Still, the child’s belief that a ghost had killed her mother was troubling. What had happened to create such an image in her young mind?

  “You mentioned the girls’ mother died after a fall. Do you know the circumstances?”

  Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I wasna in the house that awful night. My sister had taken ill. She lives in a village near Loch Ness, and I’d gone to stay with her through her convalescence.”

  “Do you know if Isla was present when her mother died?”

  “She was in the house. But the accident—if that’s what it was—occurred late at night. After midnight, or so I’m told. Captain MacArron arrived home not long after.”

  “Who else was in the house?”

  “Of course, Bridget was sleeping in her nursery. Mrs. Davidson and the chambermaid were asleep in their quarters. They claimed not to have heard a sound until afterward. And Rory was here. He found her. But it was too late.”

  “Pity no one knows exactly what happened. Isla may have seen something…such a terrible memory to carry with her.”

  Mrs. Taylor made a little scoffing sound. “For years, the girl has been coddled by her da. If it weren’t for that, she’d be a far more manageable lass.”

  Leana took a step back as her gaze lit on the cook’s pinched mouth. “Manageable? The girl has a strong spirit, a strength to be nurtured.”

  “She’s a defiant one, nothing like her mother. She’s her father’s daughter, through and through. He sees it. That’s why he won’t lay a hand on her. My da—he would’ve taken a switch to me if I’d have carried on in such a way.”

  A wave of anger rippled through her, but Leana bit back her tart words. “Isla’s spirit should be encouraged. The girl is troubled, and I need to find out why.”

  The cook’s brows hiked. “Ye know what the Good Book says about sparing the rod. If ye ask me, the girl would be all the better for it if her da made good use of a birch switch.”

  “As I recall, I did not ask your opinion. The girl needs understanding, not punishment.”

  Mrs. Taylor heaved a sigh. “Ah, ye’re just like the others. She’ll have ye running out the door within the week.”

  “Not a week. Did you forget—I have eight more days?”

  “If ye last that long.” The cook turned on her heel. “Good night, Miss Fraser.”

  “Sleep well, Mrs. Taylor.”

  The cook stormed off, the tap of her heels against the polished wood floor echoing against the walls of the narrow passage. Leana sighed. She’d hoped to find an ally in the matron, another female in the house who might help with Isla’s guidance. She’d been so encouraging of Isla’s efforts in the kitchen. Hopefully, Mrs. Taylor would not take out her disagreement with Leana on the girl.

  With another sigh, Leana sank into a chair. The quiet of the room washed over her, and she drank in the momentary peace. The pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner swished in a steady rhythm, calming her thoughts.

  It wouldn’t do to doze off quite this early in the evening. She needed to stay awake at least a while longer. When she was sure the girls were sleeping peacefully, she could take her own rest.

  Forcing herself to leave the comfort of the chair, s
he wandered to the bookshelves. Hundreds of tomes filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves. A novel boasting a lurid title fit for a penny dreadful caught her eye. Standing on her tiptoes, she strained to reach the thick volume. Her fingers brushed the spine, but she could not quite grasp it.

  Drat the luck. She looked about the room, spying a ladder on the opposite wall.

  The muffled sound of footsteps neared the room. Leana looked up as James MacArron entered.

  His hair was mussed, as if he’d plowed his fingers through it, and dark stubble edged the contours of his face and jaw, emphasizing his precisely carved features. If a sculptor had sought to bring a fallen angel to life with chisel and granite, he might’ve chosen MacArron as his model.

  “I thought ye might be in here,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  Leana did not attempt to conceal her surprise. “You were looking for me?”

  He pulled the door closed behind him. “I wanted a word with ye. Alone.”

  Her pulse sped. Was he attempting to scandalize her—to drive her away with fear for her reputation…or worse?

  He raked long fingers through his hair. Rays of gaslight danced over the silky tones of gold and brown.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The words came out soft and calm, even as her heart raced.

  His eyes gleamed in the dim light. The corners of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Ah, ye think the devil has come to have his wicked way with the beauty?”

  “Wicked way? My, how very dramatic.”

  He hiked a brow. “What good is a name like Devil of the Highlands if ye cannot frighten a lass or two with it, eh?”

  The trace of humor in his tone lightened the weight on her chest, and she let out a little breath in relief.

  “It will take far more than that,” she said. Her words were not a lie. Not really. Despite his height and restrained power, she felt no fear of him. Far from it. Rather, a primitive awareness rushed through her veins, a rush of excitement at his nearness.

  And that truth alarmed her all the more.

  He studied her, his eyes darkened to the deep, rich hues of a forest canopy. “How is it a lass like ye has had cause to be acquainted with fear?”

  The raspy notes of his voice rippled a fresh wave of awareness through her, like an electric current speeding to every nerve ending, to every cell. Drawing in a calming breath, she glanced away, if only to stop herself from looking at his full mouth, to distract herself from the mad, scandalous notion he might kiss her and she would like it all too much.

  “If you must know, I’m concerned we might set tongues to wagging.” She sounded quite reasonable to her own ears, and she’d spoken the truth, though certainly not all of it.

  “That is not what ye fear.” Somehow, his words seemed a challenge.

  “I’ve no taste for scandal,” she replied. “A mar to one’s good name cannot be erased.”

  With a slow shake of his head, he took a step closer. Then another. “I believe ye, but there’s more. I can see it in yer eyes.”

  “Why, Captain MacArron, you certainly do not lack for imagination.”

  This close, he might’ve touched her, but he folded his arms casually and leaned back against the settee.

  “Ye canna deceive me, lass.”

  In her mind’s eye, Leana pictured her purloined reference. Perhaps you overestimate your abilities at ferreting out untruths, Captain MacArron. If only she were bold enough to speak those words to the all-too-confident pirate.

  “We all have our secrets now, don’t we?” Her voice sounded as prim as a schoolmarm.

  Intrigue flashed in his eyes. “Why is it ye make no attempt to draw my favor? I’d think a lass looking to stay on as a governess under my roof, with the care of my bairns in her hands, might make an effort to appeal to my better nature with a bit of compliance to my wishes. Instead, ye challenge me at every turn.”

  “I do not challenge you. I only set out to do what’s right for your daughters.”

  “Do you, now?”

  “Of course. How else am I to prove myself to you?” She hiked her chin and firmed her mouth, determined to hold his gaze. “I prefer to believe a man like you is not interested in idle flattery or fawning obedience.”

  “I take yer meaning. But I have to admit—fawning obedience with some flattery thrown in for good measure would be a pleasant surprise.”

  She smiled to herself. Damn the man, making her like him. Wasn’t it bad enough she couldn’t look at him without wondering about the taste of his mouth and the feel of his touch? Wasn’t a pirate supposed to be a growling beast of a man? Somehow, that would be far easier.

  “I don’t believe I’m capable of mustering obedience…not to any man, Captain.”

  “I suspected as much,” he said, nodding his understanding. “Very well, Miss Fraser. I have seen the way ye care for my daughters. The girls are takin’ to ye quickly, which is in itself a miracle.”

  “The girls need guidance from a teacher who genuinely likes them, not from some tight-laced paragon of virtue determined to extinguish their spirit.”

  His expression grew solemn. “Well, Miss Fraser, that presents a problem—ye see, I’d intended my daughters to receive instruction from a paragon of somethin’ or other.”

  “Well, then, you may consider me a paragon of polite defiance.”

  “I’d be lyin’ if I said it doesna seem that way.” He chuckled under his breath. “What did ye do to get Mrs. Taylor in a stir? She was mutterin’ to herself in the kitchen—high-and-mighty spinster was one of the kinder things she said.”

  Oh, dear. Leana smoothed her palms against her skirts, then stilled. Surely by now he’d noticed she was nervous. She’d no intention of showing more weakness.

  “Perhaps she was not speaking of me.”

  “Nay, lass, she was definitely talkin’ about ye.”

  “I am not a spinster.”

  “Ye are unmarried, are ye not?”

  “Yes. But I am certainly not on the shelf. I’ll take a husband…when I’m ready.”

  One brow lifted. “When ye’re ready, is it?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that the way it should be? Isn’t that what you wish for your daughters?”

  To her surprise, the amusement faded from his expression. “Aye. ’Tis my prayer.”

  “As it should be,” she said. “Is it hard for a man like you…raising daughters?”

  The smile touched his mouth again. “Aye, I’ve commandeered ships with less trouble than it takes to get Bridget to eat her bluidy vegetables.”

  She smiled. “Those girls have your spirit.”

  “Ye believe so?”

  “Indeed.”

  His forehead furrowed. “I thought ye did not trade in idle flattery, Miss Fraser.”

  “I assure you, I do not. I meant every word. Isla is so very much like you. I can see it in her eyes. She has your expressions, your smile. And your scowl.”

  The furrows deepened. “You’ve observed that so quickly?”

  “It doesn’t take long to see the truth.”

  He seemed uneasy, and his gaze darted to the hearth. “Would ye like me to build ye a fire?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be retiring to my chamber in a few minutes. I wanted to take time to be sure Bridget and Isla were settled in for the night.”

  “Aye.” He closed the distance between them until they stood nearly toe to toe. The crisp notes of his soap drifted to her nostrils, filling her senses with the aroma of bergamot and a male in his prime.

  She lifted her gaze expectantly—though she didn’t know precisely what it was she wanted to see. Their eyes met. Held.

  He lowered his head, his lips tantalizingly, scandalously close.

  I should not allow him to kiss me.

  If he dares to be so bold, I will push him away. Or will I?

  As his mouth nearly brushed hers. Leana’s breath hung in her throat. Her heart stuttered.

  And then he spoke, his voice a deliciously hu
sky rasp. “Well, Miss Fraser, I’d advise ye to steer clear of Mrs. Taylor. I’ve no intention of breakin’ up a brawl between a cook and a governess, of all people.”

  Leana stood very still, unsure whether she was more stunned by his words or her own all-too-hopeful reaction to the prospect of his kiss.

  With another deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She would not betray the twinge of disappointment. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d have allowed him to take such a liberty. She would’ve rebuffed him. Absolutely. Positively.

  Maybe.

  His low laugh revealed the truth—he’d seen through her response to his nearness.

  The scoundrel had been teasing her. He’d known full well what she’d been thinking. s

  What she’d been hoping.

  Dratted pirate.

  Pity he doesn’t look anything like some pirate of old. A black-toothed, black-hearted buccaneer with a peg leg and foul, stale-whisky breath would certainly not present a temptation.

  Meeting his eyes, she settled on her retaliation. If he thought to toy with her and emerge unscathed…well, he’d have another think coming!

  “Good night, Miss Fraser.” His words were edged with gravel. Despite his hint of a grin, he’d been affected by his sly little game. Turning away, he opened the door.

  “Good night, Captain,” she murmured, summoning a throaty voice. “Before you go…there’s just one thing.”

  He pivoted on his heel to face her. “And what might that be?”

  She crooked a finger, motioning him to come closer. Her boldness surprising even herself, she fashioned a teasing smile. “There’s something I would ask of you. You see, I am in need of your…services.”

  Goodness, her attempt at playing the coquette was wretched. To her own ears, she sounded more daft than seductive. His eyes narrowed as intrigue flashed in their depths. Perhaps she hadn’t been as unconvincing as she’d thought.

  He returned to her, near enough to touch. Near enough to drink in the tempting essence of clean, healthy male and shaving soap. The subtle aroma filled her senses, but she steadied herself. Summoning more brashness than she’d ever dreamt she possessed, she allowed her gaze to rake over him. Slowly. Deliberately.