Miss Marleigh's Pirate Lord (Regency House Party: Havencrest Book 1)

by Mindy Burbidge Strunk

  Mr. Jennings smiled, although it appeared a bit tight. He leaned in so close she could see a bit of meat stuck between his front teeth. And his breath….

  Abigail blinked rapidly, trying not to gag.

  "It would seem you did not eat enough at dinner. Did you not find anything to your liking?"

  Abigail angled her body, hoping to provide a much needed distance between them. Was this man implying the food had been edible? Even tasty? She chose her words carefully. She could not afford to offend anyone, especially so early in the party. "I must still be feeling the effects of our trip. I was not very hungry." Her stomach growled again, and she put her hand across her middle.

  Her gaze flitted quickly around the room, but everyone seemed involved in their own conversations.

  He leaned in again, a puff of air pushing out, catching her squarely in the face. Abigail’s already disagreeable stomach lurched. She held her breath as she scooted back into the corner of the settee. Any space between them desirable.

  Abigail smiled because she did not know what to say.

  "Where do you hail from, Miss Marleigh?" A small string of spittle had formed in the corner of his mouth, stretching and contracting with every word he spoke.

  "Port Chapel, in Cornwall."

  His nose wrinkled. "Cornwall? One of the lesser counties, do you not think?"

  Abigail reared back, shocked at the man's rudeness. How was she to respond to such a comment?

  "You aren’t going to allow him to disparage you in such a manner, are you, Abigail?"

  The whispered voice tickled the hairs at the back of her neck. Abigail turned around but only the stranger who had entered with Sir Richard stood behind her.

  His body was straight and rigid, his eyes roaming around the room. Had he been the one speaking to her? Certainly not. For how would he know her name? And her Christian name, at that?

  She need not have worried after a response to Mr. Jennings’s question, for he continued on without giving her a chance to speak.

  "I am more partial to the northern counties. The Lake District cannot be matched in its beauty."

  Abigail nodded. "The Lake District is very lovely, indeed, but…"

  "My family's estate is in Cumberland."

  The spittle string danced in the corner of his lips, mesmerizing her.

  "Miss Marleigh, in the wilds of Cornwall, it may be deemed proper to stare at a gentleman's mouth, but I can assure, it is not seen as such elsewhere."

  Abigail jerked her eyes upward, her mouth dropping open. Did he think her interested in him? In his bad breath and equally bad conversation skills?

  Abigail stood, her hands clenched at her side. "I find I am in need of air, Mr. Jennings. If you will excuse me." She dipped her head, not waiting for a reply as she stood and scooted out from between the settee and the low table sitting in front of it.

  Glancing at the gentleman standing behind the settee, he seemed to be looking at everything but her.

  Abigail moved toward the terrace doors, finding she had not been lying about needing air.

  The gentleman stepped into her path, bringing Abigail up short. "Why did you let that gentleman speak to you in such a manner?" His voice was gruff and clipped.

  She looked up at him, her brow laced with confusion. There was a tone in his voice that triggered something—a fuzzy memory hovering in the shadows of her mind. Still, he did not look at her.

  "I don’t know who you are, sir, nor why you think you have leave to use my Christian name." His mouth opened, but she cut him off, whispering fiercely. "Besides, your interruption ruined the only opportunity I had to reply."

  He shrugged. "My apologies for stepping on your chance to defend Cornwall." He inhaled deeply through the nose. "As for your Christian name, it is the only name I know." He dropped his gaze and looked Abigail in the eye for the first time. "Imagine my surprise to find you here, instead of Leeds."

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted. Those eyes. She had seen them in her dreams of late. Her gaze raked over Captain Stringham, trying to reconcile her memories of him with the face before her. The scar she had seen above his beard now showed, running the length of his cheekbone. It did nothing to detract from his appearance. In fact, it was just as she suspected. Washed and cleanly shaven, Captain Stringham was the most handsome man Abigail had ever seen.

  His gaze locked with hers, his hand raising and his fingers tracing the scar as she looked at it.

  Her eyes returned to his. "What are you doing here? Does Sir Richard know what you really are?" Her whisper sounded frantic.

  His hand dropped, grasping at air when it came off his chin. His brow furrowed and he took a step back. It was as if his beard had given him his confidence; now that it was gone, she could see uncertainty in his eyes.

  He straightened and stepped toward her again, leaning in when he spoke. "I must beg for your discretion, Abigail. You must tell no one what you know of me.”

  Abigail smirked. “It’s Miss Marleigh, Captain Stringham.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am sure my story could cause you quite an inconvenience. Pray, why should I not tell Sir Richard who you really are?”

  Captain Stringham removed a watch from his pocket, absently rubbing his finger over the etched metal. “As I told you in the carriage, things are not as they seem.”

  Abigail opened her mouth, but Captain Stringham placed a hand on her arm. Even through her long gloves she could feel the tingle his touch brought.

  “If you should talk to others about who I am, it could prove dangerous to more than just myself.”

  Abigail drew back several steps, unable to clearly think when his hand was upon her arm. “How do you know Sir Richard?”

  “I was introduced to him and his lovely wife in town. We were at the cordwainers." He moved toward her several steps. It was the first time Abigail noticed his pronounced limp.

  Her head tilted to the side and her eyes dropped to his leg. Biting her lower lip she gave a slight nod. "Is that because of Clara?" She trailed off and glanced around them.

  Captain Stringham shrugged. “It’s nothing to worry about.” The way he leaned heavily on the walking stick at his side, seemed to contradict the notion. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Forgive me for not saying this sooner but thank you. I am certain you saved my life."

  Abigail looked down at her slippers, guilt washing over her. It was the wound from Clara’s shot which surely put his life in the most danger. "You need not thank me. I did nothing so extraordinary. Afterall, it was my cousin who…."

  He snorted softly, drawing several eyes in their direction. "I believe your companion and your driver would have had no qualms about tossing me out on the side of the road, without so much as slowing the horses." He looked at her and she swallowed hard. Were all women so affected by his eyes? “But it was not just the doctor. Had you not helped me leave Portsmouth, I would surely be dead now.”

  Abigail heard the slight theatrics of his words, but still they warmed her. She had not felt of any real use of late—had not even been able to save Bernard from the dangers he would surely face.

  "Ah, Abigail, I was not aware you were acquainted with Lord Grayson. We only just met him in Brighton this afternoon." Sir Richard stepped up next to her, his wife at his side. He kissed Abigail on the forehead, in much the same way her father had once done.

  Lord Grayson? That was the last thing she expected to hear. She looked over at Captain Stringham, or rather Lord Grayson, one brow arched. Her sternness melted when she noticed the crease in his brow, vulnerability evident in his eyes.

  Abigail stared at him, giving him a slight nod. The silent agreement between them seemed to satisfy him for the time.

  "Lord Grayson and I are not well acquainted. We met briefly on my way here, from Portsmouth."

  "Why were you in Portsmouth, my dear?" Lady Cartwright asked.

  "I was seeing Bernard to his ship." Abigail's voice trembled.

  Sir Richard smiled, but it quickly dro
pped from his face. "Oooohhhh." He looked back and forth between Lord Grayson and Abigail, a confused expression on his face.

  Lady Cartwright stepped forward and grasped Abigail's hand. "What is this about Bernard going to sea?" She led Abigail to a pair of chairs in the corner. "This sounds like your uncle's doing."

  Tears gathered in Abigail's eyes as her head nodded. "Uncle Rupert arranged for Bernard to be a cabin boy on a merchant ship. I can barely think on it without becoming a watering pot." She looked Lady Cartwright in the eyes. The tender squeeze she gave Abigail’s hands helped calm her growing emotions. "He is so young. I still do not see why he could not attend Harrow, if my uncle wished only to be rid of him. I believe he has done this to hurt me."

  "Harrow would cost money which I am sure your uncle does not wish to spend. A ship accomplishes both of his goals." She gave Abigail's hands one last squeeze and then dropped them, leaning back into her own seat. "How did you say you were acquainted with Lord Grayson?"

  Abigail's gaze flicked over to Captain Stringham standing against the wall, speaking to Sir Richard. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a story which was not actually a bouncer, but still did not reveal Lord Grayson's true identity. She didn't know what he was about, but she also didn't want to expose him. At least not yet.

  Chapter 7

  Alex entered the entry hall along with a great number of other guests. It seemed everyone had accepted the invitation for a tour of Havencrest. While the home was grand, Alex found himself hard pressed to think it even compared to Shelbourne.

  He tugged at his cravat. Sir Richard’s valet was very fond of exotic knots and tied them much too tight. Although, Sir Richard seemed completely taken with them.

  Alex hoped he would have his own valet by nightfall. Sir Richard's valet had indicated he may know of someone who was experienced and seeking employment.

  Alex ran a hand over his non-existent beard. There were not many things he missed about pirate life, but he did miss his beard. He had developed a reputation for being decisive and forceful. It was silly to believe, but Alex felt it was his beard that gave him those qualities. Without it, he felt exposed and vulnerable, weak. He hated feeling weak.

  The tour began to move through the rooms. Alex looked around but found he could not seem to focus on the information being shared. There were too many other things invading his thoughts.

  "Here we have the west sitting room, often called the Scarlet Sitting Room." The housekeeper’s sing-song voice tightened Alex’s shoulders with every word she spoke.

  A puff of breath escaped from his lips. What was he doing here? What was his purpose? For six years he had focused solely on finding a way to bring down Dennison and his crews. Now he was hiding out, whiling away his hours on a house tour? He huffed again, a growl pushing out with it. A lady turned and scowled at him.

  Alex returned her glare, his lip slightly curling.

  Her head snapped back toward the front. Alex did not miss her small shuffled steps into the crowd. She was frightened of him. Alex scoffed. In his current appearance, he could see no reason for such a reaction. The lady had no tenacity, it seemed.

  Looking around the group, he realized he didn't know a single person in the room. Where was Abigail? Miss Marleigh, he thought, scolding himself. He needed to remember where he was and what was expected.

  As the housekeeper prattled on, Alex limped over to the window, staring out at the grounds below him. It was too bad the weather was so windy. A tour of the gardens would surely be more entertaining, or at least more relaxing. A movement from the side of his vision forced his attention away from the gardens and to the churchyard.

  A smile hovered on Alex's lips. As if summoned by the spirits, the lady herself appeared. He looked back at the room full of people and his decision was made. Turning in the opposite direction from the horde of people, Alex made his way back to the entryway to retrieve his hat and greatcoat.

  As he hobbled down the last few stairs to the gravel drive, Alex pushed his beaver firmly down on his head. The wind was blowing harder than he had guessed. He rounded the corner of the house and the church came into view. Alex quickened his pace, now a shuffle and a hop rather than a limp. He went straight to the yard, hoping she had stayed there to look for a time, but was disappointed when only stones covered in lichens and moss greeted him. He worked his way through the headstones dotting the ground, looking for a clue as to the direction she had gone.

  A door opened and Alex jerked his head up. The vicar exited the church, grabbing his hat as the wind tried to carry it away.

  "Excuse me, sir. Is a young lady inside? I thought I saw her coming this way, but I can't seem to locate her."

  The clergyman shook his head, his jowls shaking with the movement, reminding Alex of the hound he had had as a boy. "No one is inside at the moment, sir."

  Alex frowned. Where could she have gone? "Thank you. I will continue my search."

  "I wouldn't guess she will stay out of doors long—not in this wind, anyhow. It’s not fit for man nor beast out here."

  An especially strong gust whipped past Alex, nearly taking his beaver off his head. Alex put his hand atop his head, holding his hat in place. "Thank you for your time." Alex turned back toward the house. The man was bound to be correct. What woman would wish to be blown about if she need not be? Alex stopped in his tracks. Would he not have passed her had she gone inside?

  He remembered seeing an obelisk of sorts a short distance from the church. Perhaps she was seeking shelter there, waiting for the wind to lessen.

  Pushing ahead, Alex felt the chill blow through his coat and his trousers, the cold stiffening the muscles in his shoulder and thigh. A small stand of trees stood in front of him. If he remembered correctly, the obelisk and cascade were in a clearing somewhere within those trees.

  Following a small path, Alex worked his way through the dense foliage. He could hear the trickle of a stream somewhere close by. Pushing through a clump of bushes, the copse opened up into a grassland, with a small pond in the middle. On the opposite side of the clearing sat the monument Alex had seen from the house. Large openings were in the center of each of two sides, while doorways occupied the others.

  A pond fell over a small stone wall, creating a beautiful cascade into the stream below.

  Alex hobbled over the foot bridge, each step increasing the aching in his muscles. He paused when his foot landed on the grass on the other side.

  Miss Marleigh stood, just inside the obelisk, with her back to him.

  Her head tilted back as she examined whatever was above her. Even with the large bow of her bonnet tied beneath her chin, Alex could see the delicate line of her neck. He took another step closer and a twig snapped beneath his boot. Miss Marleigh whirled around, her eyes narrowing in on him.

  She backed farther into the room—away from him. Was she frightened of him or just suspicious? She had not seemed to be frightened last night, but then they had been surrounded by people. Here, they were alone.

  Alex rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. She had many reasons to be cautious.

  "Miss Marleigh? Is that you?" Stupid question, he grumbled to himself. He was close enough to know it was her and she surely realized it also.

  "Do you not recognize me without a pistol in your hands?"

  Tarnation! Alex thought they had come to an agreement the previous night, but now he was questioning if he had misinterpreted her nod. He did not know which thought disturbed him more—that she might reveal what she knew of him, or that she might find him distasteful.

  "I believed we already came to an agreement not to mention what you know of me, nor the time we spent together previously, Miss Marleigh." Alex moved closer to the building, hoping to block some of the wind. “Besides, we both know the pistol was necessary in convincing you to take me away from Portsmouth.”

  She took a step forward. Was she warming to him? He placed his arms up on the window opening, his face contorting as the wou
nd in his shoulder tugged. "I would not have hurt you."

  She tilted her head to the side, her gaze never breaking from his. Alex felt as if she were looking into his soul and discovering every secret he kept there.

  "I know." She did not exactly smile, but the corners of her mouth did turn up slightly. "I knew almost immediately you meant us no harm. But the pistol was a very good idea. For without it, Clara would surely have thrown you from the carriage immediately."

  He held up his cane. "If she had no qualms about shooting me, I can imagine tossing me from the carriage would not have given her pause."

  Miss Marleigh smirked. "That was an accident."

  Alex lifted his stick. “I’m not sure I believe you, Miss Marleigh.”

  A gust swept past, taking Alex's hat and depositing it in the lake.

  "Blo…." Alex bit off the curse, but not before Miss Marleigh’s eyes widened and she laughed. Muttering the rest of the curses under his breath, he walked over to the pond and gingerly knelt down. His beaver was floating toward the middle. In a very short time, he would be unable to retrieve it. Holding his cane out, he was able to just touch the brim but unable to get hold of the hat.

  "Here. This looks as if it will be long enough."

  A branch, with a small curve at the end, appeared at his side. Alex grabbed hold and held it out over the pond, using it to bring the hat closer. Just as he leaned over to grasp the beaver in his hand, another strong gust blew past, taking the hat in the opposite direction. Unable to support himself on his injured leg, Alex wobbled.

  A hand clutched at the neck of his coat. "Careful now. You don't want to fall in." The warmth of her hand heated his neck through the fabric of his cravat, but her voice was what warmed him down to the tips of his toes.

  He scooted back, grabbing his cane to help him stand.

  "What now?” He threw his hand toward the pond with a growl, his hat swirling about in the middle. “Do I just leave it in the pond for ornamentation?"