The Buccaneer

by Barbara Devlin

  “I wager Mr. Cavalier will be thrilled with whatever you gift him, as he adores his little princess.” Francie made a mental note to compose a protection spell over Madalene and the unborn child. “And I will bring you some dry toast, as you must eat.”

  “Thank you, dear friend.” Madalene clasped Francie’s hand. “What would I do without you?”

  “There is no need to ponder that question, as I will always be here. Now, let me fetch your refreshments.” Francie spun on a heel but drew to a halt. “By the by, have you any idea when Mr. Tyne will return from the docks, as I would hold dinner for him.”

  “If you wish to hold dinner for Cager, you will be doing so until the end of July or the first of August, I imagine.” Madalene giggled. “He cast off for Port Royal, this morning.”

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sun set on the horizon, filling the sky with nature’s watercolors, but the beauty was lost on Cager, as he leaned against the larboard rail of the Lady Madalene and counted another day without Francie, since he departed Boston. Was there any pain so merciless, so ruthless, or so relentless as that born of regret?

  Although he sailed numerous times since they met, more than a year ago, he never noticed just how much she altered his world—probably because he never bothered to look, until now. And he understood just how lost Jean Marc felt the day he surrendered Madalene to the English soldiers, when he delivered her to Port Royal.

  Then, Madalene had been gone a handful of minutes, before her absence brought Jean Marc to his knees, at the very spot Cager occupied aboard ship. For three days, Jean Marc searched the town, until fortune smiled upon him, and he won back his woman.

  There would be no happy reunion for Cager and Francie, as a month-long journey, depending on the weather gauge, separated them. Even if by some miracle he could reunite with the arresting housekeeper, he doubted she would welcome him, given how horribly he treated her.

  “I thought that was the Morass,” a familiar voice called. Leland Stryker, known through the pirate ranks as The Marooner, because he abandoned his victims on deserted islands, as opposed to killing them outright, waved a greeting from the docks. “Why are you not in the brothel, taking a flyer or having your nutmegs sucked?”

  “Because I am in no mood to scuttle a growler.” Oh, no. Not when Cager had Francie, waiting at home.

  “Then let me buy you a drink.” Stryker motioned with his head. “What have you to lose?”

  “With you, that is a dangerous question to consider.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Cager shook his head, pushed from the rail, and crossed the waist. At the mainsail hull, he shimmied down the Jacob’s ladder. “So what brings you to Port Royal?”

  “I transported an English lord and his family, after the wife became ill. The captain of the ship on which they booked passage to Brazil did not want to dock, and they flagged me, so I offered my assistance.” The Marooner frowned. “Cheap bastard gave me naught but a handshake. Where is the fun in that, when my men could have taken the vessel as a prize?”

  “You sound like Jean Marc, after he signed the pact.” Given the demise of piracy, the Crown offered pardons, in exchange for a year’s worth of good deeds, to prove the buccaneer was serious about redemption. Jean Marc accepted the concordat, as did the Iron Corsair, and now The Marooner faced the same challenge. “In the beginning, it was an adjustment, and most of those we aided expressed no appreciation, which tempted us, more than once, to resume the old ways.”

  “But you survived.” Stryker lit a cigar, as they walked to the brothel. “As did the Iron Corsair.”

  “To be honest, I did not expect us to fulfill the terms of the agreement.” Indeed, Cager lost a good sum of money, wagering against Jean Marc and the crew of the former Black Morass. “But everything changed when we rescued Madalene.”

  “And the same can be said of Barry, when he learned Lady Florence was in trouble.” Stryker chuckled. “In both instances, a pair of exquisite society ladies felled two of the most cunning mariners in our ranks.”

  “What are you suggesting?” For some reason, Cager shuddered in the evening heat. “Because I know you, and you are not just making conversation.”

  “Did you see how Jean Marc’s wife responded to him, when we were in London?” Stryker cast an expression of disbelief. “She looks like a porcelain doll, or a society debutante, but she sat in his lap and ate from his hands, as would any dockside doxy. And at night, bloody hell.” He snorted. “I had the room next to theirs, and I frigged my whore’s pipe as they went at it.”

  “I would not tell Jean Marc that, if I were you.” Still, Cager knew what Stryker meant, because Jean Marc made no secret of the fact that he desired his bride and enjoyed the connubial benefits. “And he loves Madalene, so I am not surprised.”

  “But that is the point.” Stryker pushed open the double doors of the brothel. “He found his mate, and I have decided to follow his example.”

  “You cannot be serious.” A bar wench, sporting her dairy, plopped into The Marooner’s lap, and Cager said to her, “A bottle of rum and two glasses.”

  “Well, hello, Cager Tyne.” A particularly rough whore known as Bodacious Backside Betty draped her arm about his shoulders. “It has been too long. Can I interest you in a St. George ride, or would you prefer to sail the windward passage?”

  “Not now, Betty.” In the spirit of generosity, as Betty gave as good as she got, he tossed her a few farthings. “But I thank you for the offer.”

  “Well are you not sweet.” Betty batted her lashes. “I can yank your plug tail, if you change your mind.”

  The bar wench delivered the rum and the glasses, and Cager poured ample portions. “So, let us get back to the conversation. Are you really thinking about taking a wife?”

  “I am.” Grinning, as though he was quite proud of himself, Stryker lifted his chin. “But not just any woman. I want one of those pretty little things like Jean Marc and Barry married, and I will thoroughly and completely debauch her, just as they did with their brides.”

  “Uh—I do not believe it is that simple.” Cager choked on his rum. “Because Jean Marc planned a similar fate for Madalene, and that is not what happened. Trust me, if anyone was conquered, it was Jean Marc. And the same can be said of Barry.”

  Of course, Cager neglected to mention his own downfall at Francie’s dainty hands, much to his surprise, and it struck him as an abomination to even utter her name amid such motley company.

  Surrounded by some of the worst of humanity, with a dirty pair fucking to his right, and another privateer getting his whore’s pipe blown, to the left, it surprised him that he could close his eyes and invoke Francie’s image.

  He could taste her lips on his.

  He could feel her gentle caresses on his face.

  He could hear the achingly sweet cries that heralded her release.

  He could envision the love evident in her gaze, as he took her, and knew the same emotion was visible in his eyes.

  And then he wrenched to the present.

  It was a cold and cruel thing he did to Francie, and he would beg on bended knee to get her back. So why was he wasting precious time?

  Standing, Cager drained his glass and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Stryker, I thank you for the drink and the company, but I must gather my men, as I cast off at first light.”

  ~

  It was a particularly hot July afternoon, as Francie scrubbed the floor in the entry hall, and she sat on her heels and wiped her damp brow. Assessing her handiwork, she dipped her chin in approval. After returning the brush to the bucket, she dried her hands on her apron, leaned on the side table for balance, and stood.

  The floor seemed to pitch and roll beneath her feet, the house spun out of control, and her ears rang a soupçon of alarm. Stumbling backwards, she fought to remain upright but lost the battle and knocked over a vase filled with Mr. Cavalier’s latest offering to his wife’s beauty. Just as Madalene descende
d the main staircase, Francie swayed and fell.

  “Francie?” Madalene broke into a run. “My dear, are you all right?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cavalier.” Propped on elbows, Francie blinked, as the stupor intensified, and she could not regain her faculties. “It is nothing. Please, do not worry about me.”

  “Posh.” Madalene knelt at Francie’s side. “I have told you, time and again, that this household is too much for one person to manage, and this settles it. Starting tomorrow, we will post for domestic positions, which you and I will fill, together.”

  “But, Mrs. Cavalier, I am quite well, really.” Slowly, Francie sat upright, and a wave of nausea left her swallowing hard. “Perhaps I should lie down for a bit.”

  “Wait, as I cannot permit you to risk another tumble.” Madalene peered over her shoulder. “Jean Marc, I need you.”

  A veritable stampede hammered on the floor, as Mr. Cavalier sprinted into the foyer. When he spotted Madalene on her knees, his eyes grew wide, as he appeared to panic. “Mon Chou, what is wrong? Is it the babe? Should I summon the doctor?”

  “No, silly. I am fine.” Madalene draped an arm about Francie’s shoulders. “But I need your help getting Francie to bed, as she is ill.”

  “What happened?” Jean Marc hauled Madalene to her feet, turned, and picked up Francie. “Lead the way, sweetheart, and I will follow with the housekeeper.”

  “Be careful with her.” In the corridor, Madalene waved to Nanny Hazel. “Send for Dr. Gideon, at once.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Hazel curtseyed.

  “Please, there is no need to raise a fuss, as I was overtaken by the heat, naught more.” Even as Francie protested, another daze enveloped her, and she dropped back her head. “Oh—I fear I may swoon.”

  “Hurry, my love.” Madalene set wide the door to Francie’s room. “I will wet a cloth.”

  “Do not fear, Francie.” Jean Marc eased her to the mattress. “We will ensure you receive the best care, and Dr. Gideon is an excellent physician.”

  “But I do not need a doctor.” She hummed her appreciation, as Madalene set a cool compress on Francie’s forehead. “My, but that feels delightful.”

  “Rest, dear friend.” To Jean Marc, Madalene said, “My love, will you wait for Dr. Gideon, in the foyer, and bring him down as soon as he arrives?”

  “Your every wish is my command, Mon Chou.” Jean Marc kissed Madalene’s temple.

  “Mrs. Cavalier, I am grateful for your concern, but it is not necessary.” Again, Francie thought she might cast up her accounts, and she pressed a hand to her unstable belly. “I overtaxed myself, trying to restore the shine to the wood floor in the entry hall, and it is terribly hot, today. I promise, I shall take care not to repeat my mistake in the future, and there is no reason to hire additional servants, as I can manage.”

  “But I will not have you fainting over a minor task.” Madalene wagged a finger. “You do too much, already, and I am remiss in my duties as chatelaine. You have my solemn vow not to hire anyone you do not personally interview and approve. For now, you will remain in bed, and I shall direct Mabel, for the evening.”

  “Mrs. Cavalier, I am in your debt.” Francie fluffed her pillow and reclined. “I am feeling better, so you need not act as my nanny. And you are with child and due for your nap. I beg you, take your ease, as Dr. Gideon prescribed, else I could never forgive myself if something went wrong.”

  “My dear friend, everyone in this house guards me. If I so much as sneeze, Jean Marc lights a fire in the hearth and swaddles me in blankets.” Madalene tucked a wayward curl behind Francie’s ear. “Let me dote on you, for a change.”

  “In truth, I cannot rest when I worry about you.” Francie twined her fingers in Madalene’s. “Go upstairs, and get some sleep. Dr. Gideon will tend me, and I will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Madalene furrowed her brow and frowned. “You gave me such a fright.”

  “Serves me right for expending such effort on a stain that has been there for more than two years.” Francie chuckled. “You can bet on your second born that I will not repeat that error.”

  “If you insist, I will leave you to relax.” Madalene settled fists on hips. “But I warn you that I shall be more than a little vexed if you need something and do not send for me. Have I your solemn promise you will speak up, if you require anything, no matter how small?”

  “You have my word, Mrs. Cavalier.” Mustering a smile, Francie nodded.

  Once Madalene exited the chamber, Francie collapsed on her side. Exhausted and aching, she struggled to remove her slippers, as her feet and ankles were horribly swollen. With the cloth, she wiped the back of her neck and patted her chest. As she sat upright, she winced, given her breasts were unusually tender.

  Then it hit her.

  Cataloguing the symptoms, Francie recalled a conversation she had with Madalene, the day she announced she expected her second babe.

  After scooting to the edge of the mattress, Francie dropped her legs over the side of the bed, splayed her arms, as the world tilted, and then trod to the long mirror. Pressing her palm to her belly, she gazed at her reflection. “Oh, no.”

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Under a blistering August sun, Cager directed his men, as the Lady Madalene sailed into the port of Boston. The decks were alive with the activity one would expect of a ship coming home after a long voyage, as the mates took in the sheets, and he gathered his belongings and rushed to the mainsail hull.

  “Lower the jolly boat, as I am going ashore.” He dusted off his coat and speared his fingers through his hair, as he addressed his first mate. “Have the cargo unloaded, have my trunk delivered to Beacon Hill, and get the crew paid and off the ship.”

  “Aye, sir.” The second in command saluted.

  As a tar rowed toward the docks, Cager peered down and checked his appearance. Then he folded and unfolded his arms. From his coat pocket, he drew a poesy ring, taken from the treasure he amassed with Jean Marc, which he intended to give Francie, when he proposed.

  Fashioned of old silver, with a Latin inscription inside the band, which read ‘Ego dilecto meo et dilectus meus mihi,’ ‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,’ the bauble featured a large oval-shaped emerald, which sparkled as he toyed with it. By the time he flagged a hired hack, his heart hammered in his chest, and his pulse raced.

  “Twenty-two Beacon Street, and hurry.” Cager settled into the squabs and studied the passing landscape. Soon, he would savor the welcoming embrace of his beloved Francie.

  Although it seemed like it took forever to reach the home he shared with his somewhat odd extended family, it took only minutes. As the rig slowed, he leaped from the still moving equipage and skipped up the entrance stairs.

  All was quiet as he stepped into the foyer, and peered down the hall and at the second floor landing, but no one welcomed him. Given his status in the household, he owed no one a greeting, so he ran along the narrow corridor and rushed into the kitchen, but it was unoccupied. Glancing out the window, he sought some sign of Francie, but he spied nothing.

  Then he formed a brilliant plan and descended the back stairs. Passing his quarters, he walked straight to Francie’s room, pushed open the door, and came to an abrupt halt.

  The now empty chamber once sported enchanting dried flower arrangements on every conceivable perch, the tiny vanity sat vacant, bereft of the wood-handle brush and comb, and the patchwork quilt no longer covered the bed. Instead, pillows had been piled at the head of the bare mattress, and no trace of the former occupant remained.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Retracing his steps, he crossed the foyer and strolled to the study. Without knocking, he yanked on the knob and set wide the oak panel—and discovered Jean Marc, with Madalene nestled in his lap, engaged in a thorough kiss.

  Cager cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “Sorry.”

  “Merde.” Jean Marc lurched upright. “Merde, merde.”
/>
  “I apologize for the interruption, but I am just returned from Port Royal, and I cannot find Francie.” Cager shuffled his feet, and Madalene eased from her husband’s grasp, stood, and brushed out the skirts of her blue gown. “And her quarters appear abandoned. Have you seen her, because—”

  “I knew it.” Madalene pointed accusingly. “You had something to do with Francie’s peculiar behavior.” She rested fists on hips. “She quit her position as housekeeper, with no explanation, after a lifetime of faithful service, and moved out a sennight ago.”

  “Easy, Mon Chou.” Jean Marc pulled her to his side. “I will not have you upsetting yourself, as you might put yourself or our babe at risk.”

  “I am not upset.” She stomped a foot. “I am bloody well furious, and I will have a full accounting, sir.” Narrowing her stare, she lowered her chin. “Francie has not been the same since you departed. What did you do to her?”

  The more apropos question was what did Cager not do to Francie, and he could have kicked himself in the arse, as it was nothing less than he deserved. “Where is she?”

  “Why should I tell you?” Madalene humphed. “What are your intentions?”

  “I would make amends, offer for her, and bring her home.” For the first time in a long time, Cager knew exactly what he wanted, and he proclaimed it without hesitation. “I would make a life with her.”

  “Pretty words for a barely ex-pirate.” Madalene sniffed and brushed off Jean Marc. “For what do you atone?”

  “I seduced her.” And it damn near killed him to admit it. “And then I left her.”

  Swaying, Madalene gave vent to a sob, and her woeful eyes welled.

  “Maddie, go upstairs.” Jean Marc’s expression told Cager he was in serious trouble on two fronts. “Cager and I need to talk.”

  “No.” She scowled and shook her fist, and Cager tugged at his cravat. “Mr. Tyne will go to Francie’s home on Frog Lane, apologize, and bring her home, or…or…you will kill him for me.”