In a Pirate's Arms

by Kruger, Mary

  “Of course I’ll behave, I’m not a child. But, Papa, you’ve made me so curious.” She twined her arm through his and smiled up at him. “Proclaiming that you’ve found an eligible gentleman for me.”

  “I said no such thing,” Ezra huffed, but his face had softened. “He seems suitable, and at least he lives fairly close, in Baltimore.”

  “Unlike the viscount,” Amelia murmured, with just a trace of sadness. Rebecca frowned. The Viscount Blaine, to whom Amelia had been betrothed last year, had, as she’d feared, wanted a bride of spotless reputation, not someone who had spent time on a pirate ship. Rebecca wouldn’t forgive him that, even if she never met him.

  “I’ll not have you go so far away again. Not when—”

  “Not even to England, Father?” Rebecca said softly.

  Ezra glared at her. “Mind your tongue, miss,” he snapped. “I’ll not countenance any impertinences from you.”

  Rebecca’s eyes dropped. “No, Father.”

  “If I thought Amelia would be safe traveling to England I’d allow it, but you, of all people, know the danger.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Mind your manners today. I’ll not have people whispering about us because you do not know how to behave. You are lucky to be allowed in polite society at all, girl.”

  Rebecca’s eyes flashed, but she kept her voice demure. “Yes, Father.”

  “Oh, look!” Amelia’s voice broke in. “There is Mr. Collins. Papa, let us go say hello to him.”

  Ezra glared across the crowd. “So it is,” he said, shortly. “Very well. But only for a minute.”

  Amelia threw Rebecca a speaking look over her shoulder as Ezra escorted her through the crowd, and Rebecca bit back a smile. Amelia, recovering quickly from the viscount’s defection, had found solace in the admiration of other young men and had set her sights on James Collins, who worked under Mr. Monroe, the Secretary of State, and so far had found it heavy going. He was older than her usual beaux, for one thing, and for another treated her as he might a sister, with amused tolerance. As a result, Amelia was determined to bring him to heel, not quite aware that he didn’t look at her as a man did his sister. It wouldn’t be a bad match, Rebecca mused. Collins came from a good Maryland family, and his chances of advancement in the government were said to be excellent. Just now he was standing with a group of people, Mr. Monroe and Mr. Abbott, a noted scholar, among them. Not her father’s favorite people, and that was another reason Amelia gravitated to Collins. For things had changed in the past year. Among other things, Amelia had grown up.

  Inching her way behind Amelia and her father, occasionally clasping her fingers together to adjust the fit of her gloves, Rebecca let her mind wander. Not too far away; that was dangerous and must never be allowed. No, she kept her mind on things that were close at hand, mundane. Just now she wondered about this Mr. Brand Father wished Amelia to meet. He was a shipowner from Baltimore, a widower, come to Washington City to try to procure a license from the British to trade with the French. The odd thing was, he was English himself. Oh, he had become an American citizen, but Father brushed that off. Once an Englishman, always an Englishman, he said, and Rebecca suspected that that alone made Mr. Brand a suitable marital prospect. Never mind that he might be old for Amelia, as Rebecca suspected he was; quite likely portly, and possibly balding. He was English-born, and that was enough for Ezra.

  The crowd parted slightly, and Rebecca, who had been gazing ahead without really seeing anything, suddenly focused. Near the railing, his back to her, stood a man, broad-shouldered in a burgundy coat, a tall beaver hat upon his head. The shape of those shoulders and the way he stood were so achingly familiar that Rebecca’s breath caught painfully in her chest. Brendan. It wasn’t him, of course. Brendan was dead, and a year later, that still hurt. A year later, it still seemed unreal. For sometimes, as now, she saw someone who walked as he had, or who, as in this case, appeared to have the same color hair, the same shape. The same wide shoulders, that had loomed over her as he made her his own—

  No. Rebecca turned her head sharply away. Rarely did she allow herself to think about Brendan. Not when it hurt so much.

  Ezra managed at last to pull Amelia away from Mr. Collins, and to guide her over to where the members of the British legation stood. Sir Augustus and the others greeted them cordially enough, but, in spite of Ezra’s friendliness, kept a distance. Rebecca had noticed it before; that in spite of Father’s well-known regard for England and all things English, the British were disinclined to accept him as one of their own. “Father.” She leaned forward to speak in his ear. “Should we be here?”

  “Of course we should, girl.” Ezra glared at her. “Everyone is here.”

  “Yes, but Father, with the situation as it is—don’t you think we’re rather among the enemy here?”

  “Nonsense, girl. I have always been a friend to England and always will be. Now. You watch over your sister, and I will bring Mr. Brand to you.”

  Amelia took Rebecca’s arm, as they stood a little apart from the British. “That wasn’t very wise, Becky. You know how Father feels about England.”

  Rebecca sighed. “Yes, I know. But, look around us, Melia!” She gestured towards the British. “No one else is as friendly to them as Father. No American, that is. And with things as they are, with members of Congress yelling for war and all the trouble at sea, we can’t be too welcome here, either. I feel almost like a traitor.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Amelia flicked invisible lint off the fingers of her glove. “I refuse to talk of such things today. All I see,” a smile twinkled in her eyes, “are some uncommonly attractive men.”

  “Amelia,” Rebecca chided.

  “Really. Oh, I do wish you had a better gown, Becky. Something colorful and pretty.”

  “Nonsense. I am only here as your companion.”

  “Well, you should be looking for a husband yourself. Or are you going to spend the rest of your life catering to Papa’s every whim? He won’t thank you for it, you know.”

  “Amelia! Father is grateful for all I’ve done.”

  “If you keep wasting your time looking after him, you’ll never find someone for yourself. He doesn’t give a fig for you, Rebecca, and you know it.”

  “Amelia!” Rebecca gasped, and at that moment Amelia clutched her arm.

  “Shh. Papa is coming back, I can just see him—that must be Mr. Brand behind him.” She stood on tiptoe. “You’re taller than me, Becky, can you see?”

  “No.” Rebecca scowled. “I am appalled at what you just said. Father loves me.”

  “Hush, Becky, this isn’t the place to discuss it,” Amelia said. “Why, he’s younger than I expected, and I think possibly handsome, too.”

  Rebecca glanced away, and her heart lurched. With her father leading the way through the crowd, her view of Mr. Brand was blocked, but what she saw of him was sickeningly familiar. Dark hair, burgundy coat. The man who had reminded her of Brendan. “I feel distinctly unwell,” she said, and at that moment her father reached them.

  “Mr. Marcus Brand,” he said, his voice jovial. “May I present to you my daughters. Rebecca, Amelia.”

  Amelia had already dropped into a curtsey, and, belatedly remembering her manners, Rebecca joined her. Foolish to be in such a tizzy over a man who likely bore no real resemblance to Brendan; besides, he’d probably not take a second look at her, not with Amelia looking so charming. Strengthened by the thought, Rebecca rose from her curtsey—and looked directly into the bright blue eye of Brendan Fitzpatrick.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amelia recovered first. “Why, you look like someone we once knew!” she exclaimed. “Doesn’t he, Becky?”

  Marcus’s eyebrow lifted. “Indeed?” he said, and his cool drawl, so unlike Brendan’s musical lilt, brought Rebecca to earth with a thud. Of course he wasn’t Brendan. This man had two good eyes. And Brendan was dead, she reminded herself for the second time that day. That had never hurt so much as it did now.
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br />   “Yes, but...” Faced with Marcus’s coolness, Amelia glanced beseechingly at Rebecca. “Don’t you see it, Becky?”

  “I’m not certain Mr. Brand would appreciate the comparison, Amelia,” she said, giving her sister a warning look. The resemblance was strong, in his features and his build, and yet, now that she was close to this man, she could see differences. His hair was cropped, unlike Brendan’s, and though it was black it was liberally sprinkled with gray, especially at the temples. His eyes, neither one covered by an eyepatch, were blue, as well, but cold. He held himself differently, rather stiffly, arms close to his side, and his voice was clipped, almost brusque. Not at all like Brendan’s. “Perhaps you’ve been told, sir, that you resemble Brendan Fitzpatrick. He was known as the Raven.”

  Marcus’s lips pursed in distaste, in a way Brendan’s never would have. “Nasty fellow. The world is well rid of him.”

  “Exactly what I say,” Ezra put in, his voice booming, and clapped Marcus on the shoulder. Marcus winced, and with exquisite delicacy edged away from Ezra’s hand. “A thorough villain if ever I met one. I apologize if my daughters have offended you. It will not happen again.”

  “I trust not. How did two such refined ladies come to make the acquaintance of such a villain?”

  Amelia smiled up at him. “My sister and I were guests of his for a time.”

  Marcus glanced briefly towards Rebecca, and in his eyes she could read nothing. “Indeed? How unfortunate for you. I trust he didn’t harm you.”

  “Oh, no, in fact he treated us rather well. Though it was, of course, unpleasant being captive.”

  His face softened at last. “I would imagine so. It is very warm. Shall we see if we can procure something to drink, Miss Talbot?”

  Amelia smiled up at him through her lashes and placed her hand on his arm. “I would enjoy that, sir. You are from Baltimore?” she asked, as they moved away.

  “Strange.” Ezra stared at them with narrowed eyes. “I never noticed the resemblance before, but, now you mention it, there’s something. Shape of the face, perhaps.”

  “He doesn’t walk like the Raven,” Rebecca blurted.

  Ezra shot her a look. “We will not talk of him, girl.”

  “I wasn’t. Believe me, Father, I’m as surprised as you are.” She watched as Marcus procured a cup of lemonade from a vendor for Amelia and stood talking with her, his lips tucked back in what might be a smile. Nothing at all like Brendan, who had been open and honest in his expressions and movements. Funny, for a moment, she’d thought he’d been asking her to walk with him, rather than Amelia. “I wonder if he’s related in some way.”

  Ezra snorted. “If he is, I shall discover it. I don’t want Amelia allied with such a family.”

  “Who is he, Father?”

  “I know only what I told you. He’s from Baltimore, owns ships, same as me. Born in England, but came here some years back. His wife died a few years ago, yellow fever, I believe. He’s said to be prosperous.” His eyes narrowed. “He looks it.”

  “He does,” Rebecca agreed, taking in at last the cut and quality of his clothing, from the coat of burgundy superfine, to the intricately tied cravat, to the pristine buff pantaloons. His legs in the tight trousers were finely shaped, well-muscled, she thought, and then quickly dragged her mind to more suitable subjects. “Baltimore isn’t so very far.”

  “No. Though even that is a distance to send Amelia.”

  “If she’s happy, Father.”

  “True. If she’s happy. And you’ll not do anything to ruin that.”

  “I?” She looked up in surprise. “What would I do?”

  “I know you, girl, and your ways. I only hope he doesn’t take a disgust of us when he hears of your reputation.”

  That hurt. Rebecca bit her lip and looked away from him, regretting the rare moments of companionship, now lost, and her gaze encountered Marcus’s. His was still unreadable, and yet for a moment she thought something flickered there. Then, inclining his head to her, he returned his attention to Amelia.

  “Who is that fellow with Miss Amelia?” a voice said behind her, and she turned to see a man in the scarlet uniform of a British soldier.

  “Lieutenant Dee,” she said, trying to force some warmth into her voice. “What a surprise to see you. Shouldn’t you be on duty at the legation?”

  “Not today. Servant, Talbot.” Dee bowed to each in turn. He was in charge of a contingent of soldiers protecting the British legation, where the Talbots had met him. “He looks familiar.”

  “A Mr. Marcus Brand from Baltimore. We were just introduced.”

  “Marcus Brand. I will be da- excuse me, Miss Talbot.” A frown appeared between Dee’s brows. “What is he doing here?”

  “Rebecca’s looking particularly fine today, isn’t she?” Ezra’s voice boomed, and she winced, both at her father’s crudity and at the look Dee bent upon her. Though her gown was cut full, with long sleeves and high neck, she felt as if it were transparent, so closely did he look at her. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  “Miss Talbot could never be anything but lovely,” he said.

  Rebecca put up her chin. “Thank you, sir. You are too kind.”

  “My Rebecca is a fine woman,” Ezra said, making Rebecca look at him in surprise. “She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt it, sir. A man would count himself lucky to have her.”

  Rebecca opened her mouth to protest, stunned by her father’s sudden praise, appalled by Dee’s interest, but the return of her sister with Marcus saved her. “Have you met Mr. Brand, sir?” she asked, her voice just a bit shaky.

  “As it happens.” Dee bowed punctiliously. “Well met, cousin.”

  “Indeed. I did not know you were here.” Marcus, sounding bored, raised a quizzing glass and stared at the other man through it. The action drew Rebecca’s attention to his hands. Square, brown, work-hardened hands that didn’t belong to a man as indolent as Mr. Brand appeared to be. Hands that were so familiar that the sight made her dizzy.

  “You are cousins?” Amelia put in, brightly.

  “Distant,” Lieutenant Dee said. “We haven’t seen each other in years. Although...”

  “Indeed,” Marcus drawled. “Not since I left England. Are you feeling unwell, Miss Talbot?”

  Pulling herself out of her reverie, Rebecca looked up into his eyes, seeing there an expression she didn’t understand, but which held her. So like Brendan... “Miss Talbot?”

  “I—I’m sorry. ‘Tis a trifle warm. That is all.”

  “Becky, you do look pale,” Amelia put in, her face creased with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Perhaps a cold drink would restore you, Miss Talbot,” Dee put in. “I will get you some lemonade.”

  “No, don’t,” Rebecca protested, but in vain, as Dee set off. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Well, you don’t look it,” Amelia said, in the suddenly mature tones she’d adopted more and more this past year. “Papa, I think we should go home.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “Go home? When the races haven’t even begun?” Ezra said. “When I haven’t spoken to Sir Augustus about my license?”

  “Trust me, sir, he’ll not have much to say to you on that,” Marcus said. “I’ve spoken with him myself.”

  Ezra turned his attention to Marcus, to Rebecca’s relief. “Have you, sir?”

  “Indeed. There is not a chance the British will grant us licenses to trade freely, or lift the orders-in-council. The Royal Navy will continue to harass neutral shipping.”

  Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re British, sir.”

  “No, sir. American.” He flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “If I may say so, Miss Talbot does look pale. I wouldn’t keep her standing, sir.”

  Ezra opened his mouth, and then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Rebecca, there are trees over there. Best you go sit in the shade.”

  “I’ll escort you,” Marcus said, as
Rebecca turned.

  “Oh, no, you needn’t do that,” she protested. If she had to spend another moment in his company she thought she might scream.

  “It will be my pleasure. Madam?”

  He held his arm out to her. There was nothing she could do but place her fingers on it and let him lead her through the crowd. She kept her touch as light as possible, but she was aware of the hard-muscled strength of his arm, unexpected in a man so stylishly dressed, and who held himself so rigidly. Uncomfortably aware, and uncomfortably warm. She was greatly relieved when they cleared the crowd and reached the shade of a beech tree, on a slight rise overlooking the race track.

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned to him, wanting him only to go. Wanting him to be another man. “I appreciate your courtesy. I will be fine.”

  “I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone.” Grimacing at the dirt beneath the tree, he took out a spotless handkerchief and spread it on the ground. “Here, sit down, Miss Talbot.”

  “But—”

  “It will make you feel better,” he said, with such a note of command in his voice that, much to her surprise, she did so. A moment later he joined her, grimacing again and sitting stiffly. So unlike Brendan, who would have simply sprawled.

  For a moment there was silence, while Rebecca cast around for something to say. This man was daunting in more ways than one. “So you are in Washington City for business, sir?” she said, finally.

  “I came because I couldn’t stay away.”

  Rebecca blinked, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Like your father, I need a license from the British to trade where I will,” he said, his voice clipped again. She had imagined it, then, the intensity in his tone, the lilt. “Though I doubt they’ll grant it.”

  “Oh, of course. You did say that,” she babbled. “And how do you find the city, sir?”

  “The city of magnificent morasses?” he said, and she looked up to see a twinkle in his eyes. Slight, but a twinkle, nonetheless, and the corner of his mouth was tucked back. “Is that not what L’Enfant called it when he planned it?”

  “I believe he said ‘magnificent vistas,’ sir.”