Care and Feeding of Pirates

by Jennifer Ashley

  Christopher's father had taken the survivors on board. Emile had liked the look of the young Englishwoman, snatched her away to his cabin, and likely raped her. He'd fallen in love with her in his own fashion, and kept her with him. Christopher had no idea if they'd ever officially married, but his mother always behaved as though she were his father's legal wife.

  Christopher's mother had tried to raise Christopher to be a good Englishman and Anglican, with poor results. His father pretended to fear God, but in truth, Emile Raine feared nothing.

  When Christopher was ten years old, their ship was attacked by yet another band of pirates and their hold stripped of its contents. Christopher's father had planned to sell that cargo to get them through the winter.

  Emile, brave and stupid, had told the pirate captain where he could shove himself. The pirate captain had shot him dead. The pirate captain then tried to rape Christopher's mother. Christopher had grabbed one of the pirates' pistols and shot the pirate captain through the head.

  The other pirates had said good riddance, thrown the bodies overboard, and elected a new captain. That captain divided the spoils and set the Raine ship alight, because it was not worth saving. The new captain told Christopher's mother to bring her little son and stepdaughter and come with him, and Christopher's mother had obeyed, not having much choice.

  A few months later, Christopher's mother escaped ashore to the Carolinas without taking Christopher or Manda. Christopher never saw her again.

  He and Manda had found a home among those pirates who'd burned their father's ship. Emile and crew had been petty criminals--these men were tough, fearless, and smart. They taught Christopher how to track a ship, how to tell if it were loaded or running empty, how to assess cargo for the best yield, how to sell it safely for the best price. By the time Christopher reached the age of fourteen, he'd become as much a pirate as any of them, as ruthless and cruel as only the young can be.

  Now he was twenty years older, and different things mattered.

  "Discover anything more?" he asked Finley.

  Finley nodded, blue eyes quiet. "Alexandra had the right of it. I knew she would. Earl Switton lives in Surrey, near Epsom. I don't know him myself, but Henderson does."

  That explained Henderson's presence. "Where do I find him?" Christopher asked. "Let us go have a conversation with this earl."

  Henderson shook his head. "A commoner does not pay an impromptu call on a lord. He makes an appointment, which might or might not be granted."

  "Sorry, I forgot to bring my etiquette book. But I have a lord sitting right here. Finley can pay an impromptu call on him."

  "No, I can't," Finley said. "We haven't been introduced. He's an earl, and I'm only a viscount." He grinned. "A hanging offense."

  "You may laugh," Henderson broke in. "But you ignore the rules at your peril. If you don't follow them, you'll never get near Lord Switton."

  "True," Christopher said. "All right, we'll play your game. What do I do to gain an appointment with this great man?"

  "You can't," Henderson said. "But I can. He and my father went to school together. I've already written to him."

  "Kind of you," Christopher said. "But why should you? You looked ready to shoot me last night."

  Henderson said nothing, sipping his port in silence. Finley answered, "Because my wife asked him to help. Henderson will do anything for my wife."

  Finley spoke lightly but his look was slightly irritated. Christopher sensed an old annoyance between the two that went beyond the banter at this table.

  Christopher was not interested. He drained his ale. "Whatever his reason," he said, "we'll go to Surrey tomorrow. Thank you, Henderson. I'm obliged."

  *** *** ***

  By the time Christopher reached Greenwich again, the night was inky black and well advanced. Honoria would be tucked under whatever bedding she'd bought, asleep, her flushed face pillowed on her arm.

  Christopher's heartbeat quickened as he made his way through the dark and quiet docks. He knew he'd upset Honoria with his abrupt resurrection, but she'd soon settle down and see his way of things. He had this entire voyage in which to teach her, and he'd use every minute of it.

  Honoria had nearly come to climax under his hand last night with very little petting. That pleased him. His wife could pretend to be confused about her feelings toward Christopher, but her body knew better. He thought about how she'd put her hand on his arm when he'd tried to leave her alone in Alexandra's bedchamber. She'd said, Stay, with the sweet catch in her voice.

  >Forever and ever, my wife. The taste of her honey had almost undone him. For four long years the remembered taste of her had kept Christopher alive. He looked forward to tasting her again.

  But the Starcross, when he arrived, was in an uproar.

  A dog barked incessantly in the bow. Christopher heard voices raised in argument--one of Colby, his man in charge of the crew. Christopher's third-in-command, a tall Frenchman called Jean St. Cyr, stood by, arms folded, coolly silent as usual. The rest of the crew hung about with attitudes of delighted curiosity.

  Colby was exchanging irritated shouts with men below him on a longboat. The boat was laden with boxes, crates, and unidentifiable dark bulks under blankets.

  Christopher climbed the steep ladder-stair up into the ship. "All right, Colby, what is it?"

  Colby, a huge bear of a man, swung around just as Honoria emerged from below decks. Instead of being snuggled up in bed, Christopher's wife was wide awake, looking quietly efficient in a plain lawn dress and white cap. A matron's garb, probably borrowed from Mrs. Ardmore or Lady Stoke. She'd decided to embrace the married state all the way.

  With her was Colby's wife, a former barmaid. Mrs. Colby wore a look of vast amusement as she surveyed the scene.

  "Colby," Christopher repeated.

  Colby growled. "This bloke here says he's putting all this junk on board. And he wants money for it."

  The bloke in question turned a belligerent gaze up to Christopher. "It's been ordered. I'm not leaving without my coin."

  "Well, I didn't order it," Colby snapped. "Neither did St. Cyr."

  "I did," came the quiet reply.

  *****

  Chapter Eight

  As Christopher had expected she would, Honoria stepped forward and gave Colby a cool look. "It is all right, Mr. Colby. I made the order and told him to bring it here. Mr. Raine is paying for it." She looked over the rail at the man in the boat. "Bring it this way, please. Down to the main cabin. Do hurry--it is growing chilly."

  Colby threw up his hands and walked away. Honoria waited serenely while an odd assortment of things began finding their way to the deck. There was a lady's armchair upholstered in petit point with a footstool to match. A pile of quilts, bedding, and pillows followed.

  Honoria had certainly been busy. She'd bought towels, boxes of soap, swaths of linen, pewter mugs, jars of tooth powder, and a basin for hand washing. She'd bought odd things too--a crystal candle holder, silk cushions, framed paintings, and an Egyptian-style statuette that would fall over during high seas and hurt someone.

  Some of the things were practical, like the rattan cabinet for clothes and the square trunk designed to slide under a bunk. Others were . . .

  "What is that?" Christopher demanded as a brass oval basin was hoisted over the side.

  "A bath," Honoria said.

  "Honoria."

  The tapes of her cap floated in the breeze, and few curls escaped to wisp about her forehead. "Yes?"

  "At sea, there's not enough clean water to spare for a full bath."

  "No?"

  Honoria knew that, having lived in a seafaring family all her life. Christopher raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Very well. Put it below."

  Honoria kept her gaze deliberately neutral, but he could see that she was waiting for him to rail at her, to tell her what an idiot she was for buying all these things. She was spoiling for a fight.

  Christopher smiled at her. Challenge me all yo
u want, my wife. I'm always up for a challenge.

  He signaled the men to keep it coming, and looked over everything without a word. He spoke up only when he spied a crate containing an entire service of porcelain plates and a large set of silver cutlery.

  "Are you planning a dinner party, my wife?"

  "Those are for you," Honoria said. "A ship's captain must be distinguished from his crew. These are for you and those officers you invite to dine with you."

  "We're pirates," Christopher said tersely.

  A pirate crew trusted their captain to make decisions, guide the ship, and lead them in a fight. Any captain who started strutting about like a bloody English admiral got thrown overboard. But Honoria knew that as well.

  He gave her a level look. "Have it all taken below. I'll speak to you there."

  Honoria nodded and turned away, but he caught her small smile of satisfaction.

  Christopher moved to St. Cyr. The Frenchman had a chiseled face and very light blond hair that went with his light blue eyes. St. Cyr always reminded Christopher of a quiet iceberg. Defying the stereotypes of Frenchmen, he rarely drank anything stronger than water and believed abstinence to be the key to good health.

  "I'm beginning to see your way of thinking," Christopher told him now.

  St. Cyr remained unsmiling. "A glass of port mixed with water once a week is all that is needed to keep the humors in balance." So he'd said many times before.

  "When I'm not with Mrs. Raine," Christopher said, "make certain she stays out of the way of the crew. But any disciplinary measures involving her or because of her will be handled by me, not Colby."

  Colby usually kept order among the men, and he was good at it. He was evenhanded and meted out the specified punishment when the rules were broken, no more, no less.

  "Understood, sir," St. Cyr said.

  Christopher couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in the iceberg's eye.

  "Make sure all this junk gets stowed, then shut down for the night."

  "Aye, captain."

  Christopher turned away. He did not tell St. Cyr about the lead on Manda, not wanting to spread false hope. He had a name and a county. This Lord Switton might have nothing to do with Manda, know nothing about her. Christopher might have misheard the name, or it might be a completely different man called Switton. No knowing until he and Henderson visited this earl.

  Christopher made his way below to find Honoria and Mrs. Colby in the sleeping cabin. Honoria was sorting linens, and Mrs. Colby was making up the bed. She beamed her barmaid smile at Christopher as she plumped the pillows.

  Mary Colby was forty years old, round of body, and good humored. Barmaids learned early how to turn men up sweet, whether in bed or during a rousing chorus of pub songs. Mrs. Colby had the knack for bringing that ease to the entire ship and for keeping the volatile Colby pacified. She had a refreshingly earthy view of the relationships between men and women, and spoke calmly of ribald matters in a way that made even pirates blush.

  She gave Christopher a knowing wink and his pillow a pat. "Enjoy yourselves, my dears. You have much time to make up for. Now I need to get Colby into his bed before he tears down the ship."

  "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Colby," Honoria said.

  "Never you mind, my dear. This is going to be a real pleasure." She winked at Christopher again as she went past, and closed the door of the outer cabin with an audible click.

  Christopher folded his arms, leaned on the doorframe, and studied the bed piled high with a featherbed and quilts, the upholstered lady's chair strewn with cushions, and the bronze Egyptian statue in the corner. Honoria stood in the middle of the crowded cabin, her eyes glorious.

  One lantern hung from the low beam, the candle in it spreading a soft yellow glow. Through the open window at the stern came the faint swishing sound of river water. The ship was quiet, but it had a waiting feel to it, as though impatient to get underway.

  Honoria was waiting too. The halo of curls at her forehead moved in the quiet breeze, and her green eyes sparkled defiance as she waited for him to shout at her for her frivolity.

  Unfortunately for her, Christopher had more patience that she did. No, patience was not the right word. He'd learned to wait, like a stalking leopard, for a prey to come near enough before he pounced.

  "I enjoyed my shopping," Honoria said into the silence. "I could not find everything I needed, however, so I will have to make another trip to London before we go."

  "Not tomorrow. We're going to Surrey."

  That surprised her. "To Surrey? Why?"

  "To speak to an earl who might know where my sister is. I'll need a wife with me to make me look respectable."

  Honoria lifted one brow. "You will never look respectable, Christopher. Especially not to an earl."

  "Henderson is coming along to guide me." Christopher paused. "Tell me, what is the real reason Henderson is in London?"

  "James sent him with Diana and me, and he said he'd take the opportunity to order more suits. Why are we talking about Mr. Henderson?"

  "Because you want me to talk about your shopping expedition." He shrugged. "But I'm not interested. Buy whatever you like."

  She'd braced herself for a torrent of anger, had wanted it for some reason. Honoria gave Christopher a perplexed look but tried to rally. "Well, I am pleased with your approbation."

  Christopher's gaze fell again on the faux Egyptian statue. It was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen. The bronze, poorly cast, had a greenish tint, and the face was lopsided. The man who'd cast it had obviously never seen a real Egyptian statue, nor had this statue ever touched the sands of Egypt.

  Christopher stepped past the chair, lifted the statue, moved to the open window.

  "What are you doing?" Honoria cried.

  "Throwing it overboard. Remember, I said I would with anything you bought I didn't like? Well, I don't like this."

  He rested the statue on the sill and toppled it to the water below. A faint splash told him the river had swallowed it whole.

  Honoria watched him, openmouthed, but she didn't seem distressed. She'd known the thing was hideous. She'd only bought it to see what he would do.

  Christopher lifted a pillow from the bed.

  She yelped and reached to stop him. "No, not the pillows. I need the pillows."

  Christopher held the pillow for a moment longer, just out of reach of her seeking fingers. Then he plumped it slowly and dropped it back on the bed. "Come here, Honoria."

  She let her hand fall, her eyes filling with suspicion. "Why?"

  Christopher pulled the window closed on the cooling night air and latched it. "You've had your turn trying to convince me you'd make a terrible captain's wife and that I should leave you behind. Now it's my turn to convince you to stay."

  "But I have more unpacking to do."

  "You can unpack tomorrow. It's time for bed."

  Honoria tried to remain defiant, but her eyes darkened and her lips parted, the red, moist space between them betraying her longing.

  Their passion had been interrupted twice, once by Diana and her pistol, once by Honoria's friends rushing into the bedchamber where they'd lain. This time, Christopher had St. Cyr standing by to ensure no interruptions.

  "Turn around," he said.

  Her pulse beat hard in her throat. "Why?"

  "Are you going to question every order I give?"

  "Very likely, yes."

  "Some orders you don't question. When we're at sea, and I tell you to get out of the way, you do it. It might be your life or someone else's if you don't."

  A spark returned. "I know that. I have been to sea before."

  "But you've never taken orders from your husband before. Some wives love to answer back, even at the worst of times."

  "Well, some husbands ought to be questioned."

  "Not when I give you a command as a captain."

  Honoria looked around the room with exaggerated care. "I see no immediate danger. I cert
ainly have no need to turn my back simply because you ask it."

  "You don't?"

  "No, I don't."

  Christopher gave her a level look. "The window behind me is plenty large enough for your lovely body. And you would never get out of this cabin before I caught you."

  The pulse in her throat quickened. "You would not throw me overboard."

  "I will if you continue to disobey my orders. Now, turn around."

  Honoria hesitated for one moment, then she pivoted swiftly and dove for the door.

  She made it two steps before Christopher closed his arms about her waist and pulled her back to him. She struggled for a few seconds, then stilled as his hand moved up her bodice to the hook at the top.

  Honoria leaned back against him, her round bottom fitting nicely between his thighs. Fine wisps of hair trickled from her cap at the nape of her neck, the tendrils silken beneath his lips.

  The clasp of her bodice yielded to Christopher's tug, and he dipped his finger inside to trace the warm hollow of her throat.

  "I like fastenings," he said. "They give way, little by little, to reveal the woman inside."

  He moved his hand down her bodice, flicking open each catch as he went. Her breasts rose and fell against his touch, and she made a soft sound in her throat. A chemise separated her from him, but the thin lawn was like mist against her breasts, her nipples rising for him, tight against the fabric.

  Christopher's arousal tightened in response. He'd been hard since he'd walked in and seen her standing like a cool goddess in the middle of the cabin.

  He'd tried to distract himself with the argument and the damn statue, because he wanted to take his wife slowly, not in a clumsy wash of passion. Honoria would only be unhappy if he rushed her, and he wanted her smiling and pliant.

  Then again, Christopher might not mind her angry. Let her pin him on the bed and pour enraged kisses all over his body, he wouldn't mind.