For the Love of a Pirate

by Edith Layton

  “Oh, Lord Wylde,” Lisabeth said, with a mischievous pout. “Never say you want me to put on a gown this morning? I assure you no one will see us who hasn’t seen me this way many times before. Happens I have a fine riding habit, all amber velvet; it’s a treat to see and cost the earth. But where’s the sense in putting it on if we’re going to go down dusty roads, and maybe even get caught in a sudden squall, as happens so often hereabouts? The habit would be ruined. After our ride, I’d come home smelling of horse, and covered with mud. But that won’t matter if I’m wearing old clothes, made for rough use.

  “Unless,” she added, with a sly look under her lashes, “you actually are interested in honoring our fathers’ bargain? Then, of course, I could see that you’d want everyone in the village to notice we’re keeping company. After all, I suppose you want to see the village, the church, the inn, and such, don’t you? If you’re dressed as you are, and suddenly I’m all tarted up like a Christmas goose to go with you, everyone will suspect something’s in the wind … But this is so sudden.”

  She placed a hand on her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. She also looked as if she might burst out laughing.

  He was at a loss for words.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said. “So, what say you, sir? You look fine as fivepence, by the way. No one here dresses like that unless there’s a funeral … or a wedding.” She grinned at him.

  “I say,” he said carefully, “that you should wear whatever you wish. Are those fresh-baked biscuits I spy? They smell delicious.”

  She smiled. “Yes. Let’s eat, and then go delight the villagers.”

  He nodded, and hid his apprehension. He wanted to meet the locals, of course, and find out if any of them knew anything about him or his history. That was of paramount importance. This woman would keep her silence. He could tell she had pride as well as spirit. Still, even though she said she didn’t want him, there was that odd moment last night to consider. What had she wanted? But he believed her given word.

  Even so, no woman would be thrilled to let the world know he’d been offered her hand and turned it down. Although, he thought moodily, she might be thrilled to let them know she’d turned him down. What he had to do, he decided, as he put a hot biscuit on his plate, was try to turn her up sweet without making her like him too much, or too little.

  “And where’s the captain this morning?” Constantine asked a while later, after they’d had their breakfast and were walking to the stables.

  “Grandy’s out on his favorite boat,” she said.

  He strode along at her side. He tried to keep pace so he wouldn’t have to see her walking in front of him. It was a sight to see, but he didn’t want to be caught seeing it.

  “He loves to watch the sun come up over the horizon and spread across the water,” she explained. “He left the sea, but never completely. He says he’s got salt water in his blood, and I think he does. We can see the sea from the top of the house, and there’s a road that borders it that we’ll take down to the village, if that’s all right with you. It might be a bit windy though. Autumn’s here, and the wind blows fiercely sometimes. I find it refreshing. But if you think you’ll be too cold we can take the road through the wood, and then down to the village. Or maybe you want to go back and put on something warmer?”

  “I won’t be too cold,” he said stiffly. It was one thing to be thought a fop—what else could be expected of a woman who knew nothing of fashion? It was quite another to be thought a hothouse flower.

  Constantine asked a stable worker for his horse, and was cinching its saddle when he stopped short and stared. There, in the center aisle of the stable, stood his hostess. She’d thrown on a moth-eaten man’s jacket, stepped on a mounting block, and swung herself up on a pretty roan mare.

  “Something amiss?” she’d asked him, with a twinkle that told him she knew exactly what was.

  “I don’t often see ladies riding astride,” he said stiffly. “In fact, the only time I have, I’ve been at Astley’s Amphitheater to watch an equestrian performance.”

  She smiled. “Lucky you!” she said blithely, as though she hadn’t understood the barb in his comment. “Oh!” she cried with sudden mock surprise. “Does my riding astride offend you? I do have a sidesaddle, but what use is it here, with only my old friends and a stray fox or hound to see me? And you, of course. Our roads are steep and difficult. Riding the correct way for a lady might well be the most incorrect thing I could do—for my life and limb, that is. But if it bothers your sensibilities …” she said, raising her head and wearing a noble expression that made Constantine want to wring her neck. “I’ll throw on a sidesaddle. After all, if I do fall, you’ll be there to pick me up. If it doesn’t get your lovely clothes all dirty, that is. I shouldn’t want that. So if I’m lying in a muddy ditch, never fear. You can ride back and get someone to retrieve me.”

  She cocked her head to the side and waited. The stable workers hid their grins behind their hands.

  “It is your home, and your choice,” Constantine said coldly. Of course, it was also shocking; it just wasn’t done. But as she’d said, who was there to see her but him? And he’d soon be gone from here, or at least, as soon as he could go.

  Then she grinned, clapped a jockey cap over her curls, bent low, and gave her horse its freedom to run. But she knew the road. Constantine didn’t. He followed more slowly. He was an excellent rider, but in that as in all things, a cautious one, and he didn’t want to risk his horse or himself to an unexpected hole in the road. He felt a universe away from Rotten Row in London, and the tame and lovely byways of Kent, where his uncle’s house was.

  Fifteen minutes later, Constantine was gritting his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering. He’d lost his hat to the sea wind almost as soon as they’d come in sight of the beach. Now he could only hope he could keep his head on.

  Lisabeth was riding like a demon.

  He plowed on, head down, until he looked up to see that she’d stopped at the top of a hill, and was waiting there for him. Her cheeks were red, so was her little nose, her eyes sparkled, and she laughed out loud.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” she cried.

  He looked down to where she was pointing, and cold and winded though he was, he had to agree. A perfect little portrait of a country village lay at the foot of the hill beneath them. It was a glorious early-autumn day, and the few trees that could withstand the constant sea winds were bent into interesting shapes, their leaves already stripped from them, so he could see far and wide. From here, he could see the little village was close to the sea, and saw rough iron-gray waves beating against the strand. The colorful fishing boats he saw were safe, high on the strand and firmly secured to the sea wall. There was a village green, and the thatched cottages that hugged each side of the one street were neat and well kept. A classic Romanesque church, made of gray stone, one of dozens that the first Christians had erected all over Britain, stood at the end of the street and towered over the village. The graveyard behind it had lawns that rolled down to the sea.

  “It is indeed a charming place,” Constantine had to admit.

  “Would you like to warm up with a pint first, and then meet the parson?” she asked him. “What he doesn’t know about the village doesn’t count.”

  Then he, at least, Constantine thought, would know of his irregular ancestors. He’d face that when he had to. It was his experience that a generous contribution to the church fund could buy a man anything, except, for all they promised, a valid ticket to heaven.

  “A stop at the inn sounds fine,” he said. “Will any locals be there this morning?”

  “With this weather? Aye!” she said. “Our men don’t have to go to sea unless they want to. So on a day like this they’ll be at the inn, discussing the usual things: the weather, what the weather will be like tomorrow, and what the weather was like last year.” She flashed a smile at him. “They’ll be fascinated by you. We’re off the beaten track here. Why, I heard we’re not
even on some maps! So it’s not often we get visitors, especially from London.”

  Good, Constantine thought. The less that his world knew of the place, the easier it would be to hide what had happened here. In fact, he wondered if any but the oldest residents would remember his notorious family at all. Wasn’t everyone hereabouts said to traffic in smuggling and other illegalities? How much interest would a long-dead rogue, or two, still hold?

  “Come along,” Lisabeth said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s just down the hill; follow the road. If I get there first, don’t fret. I know the way. So does my Misty,” she said, smoothing her gloved hand over her horse’s neck. “She loves a good downhill run. See you there! You can’t miss it, there’s a sign hanging in front: THE GOOD CAPTAIN.”

  Constantine frowned. “ ‘Captain?’ ” Still, it was an innocuous enough name for a seaside inn. Wasn’t Lisabeth’s own grandfather a captain? There must have been dozens of captains here. He chuckled to himself. He was behaving like a thief who’d just taken a wallet and was afraid everyone was eyeing him.

  He watched Lisabeth put her heels to her horse and race down the hill toward the village. With a sigh, Constantine let his horse carefully pick his way down in her wake.

  She was gone from sight by the time he reached the village. He rode down the long street, looking curiously to the left and right. He saw curtains twitch back from windows as he rode along. Finally, he came upon a modest inn, with the sign THE GOOD CAPTAIN blowing in the wind. He checked. The name was inoffensive. But the picture on the sign showed a black-visaged pirate, legs apart, a mug of foaming ale in his hand. Though crudely drawn, he looked suspiciously familiar.

  A coincidence, Constantine thought as he slid down from his horse, and gave the reins to an eager lad waiting there. The resemblance was merely a chance one. He was bedeviled by the idea of pirates today. Many of them doubtless had dark flyaway brows. The detail was only to make the fellow look more sinister. After all, this coast was chockablock with villains.

  He straightened his jacket, regretted the loss of his hat, smoothed his hair with one gloved hand, and then, carefully sidestepping manure in the road, pushed open the door to the inn.

  He squinted because the place was so dim after the bright autumn daylight. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a veritable wall of eyes watching him. It looked like the half of the village that hadn’t been peering out their windows were assembled here, gaping at him silently. There was a hedge of men, and some women, of all sizes and shapes, their only commonality their rustic clothing, and the way they were staring at him.

  “God Almighty!” one masculine voice exclaimed. “Them at the house was right!”

  “Aye,” another voice said in awe. “Good thing it’s broad daylight, or I’d be thinking he come back by moonlight to join us for a pint!”

  “The spit and image,” a woman’s voice marveled.

  “What sort of welcome is this?” Constantine heard Lisabeth ask scornfully.

  “Aye!” came a roar from the back of the crowd. “Whatever he is, or whoever he be, he’s welcome!”

  “Good to have ye back, Captain!” another shouted, laughing.

  “Three cheers for our beloved Cap’n Cunning, hisownself, whether he be ghost or not!” someone bellowed.

  They cheered until Constantine’s ears rang. His head was spinning as it was.

  “And three more for his grandson, brave Jack, and may his killer rot in hell,” another man offered, when the cheering was done.

  And as Constantine’s heart sank, the whole motley crowd kept cheering for his long-dead but obviously not forgotten ancestors.

  Chapter Eight

  “Come in, come in, sir,” the innkeeper cried, beckoning to Constantine.

  The crowd drew back to make his way clear. The innkeeper plunked a mug of ale down on the tap in front of him, and then poured a generous shot of rum, and put it beside it.

  “The good captain’s favorite libation,” the innkeeper said. “Or so my dad told me his dad told him. So hoist your glass, my friend, and be you himself, or his son, or his great-grandson, drink a toast with us to our beloved captain, our benefactor and friend. To Captain Cunning!” he cried, turning and lifting his own mug in a salute to the wall behind the tap.

  The crowd behind Constantine did the same. With dread, Constantine lifted his gaze to the wall. The portrait hung there in a prominent place of honor. Not the exact portrait, of course. This one was obviously a copy of the one he’d seen last night. It didn’t have the same murky atmosphere; the colors were instead bright and cheerful. Obviously the painter who had done the sign outside the inn had done this copy. It was almost a caricature, done in bold primary colors. The captain on the shore looked younger, more devilish, and a sight more cheerful, but in the way a demon would look as he prodded a sinner into the fires of hell.

  Constantine sighed. It felt as though he were looking into some sort of distorted mirror. Because the features were his own, even though he doubted he’d ever worn such an expression.

  “To the captain,” he said hollowly, and tipped back the shot of rum. He never drank in the morning. This morning he needed it.

  “To the captain!” the crowd echoed.

  He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Lisabeth standing at his side. She had a smudge of foam from her mug of ale above her upper lip. She wiped her sleeve across it, and grinned at him. “May I tell them who you are?”

  He shrugged, defeated for the moment. “I’d rather not, but doubtless they already know. I suppose everything that happens in your house is soon known everywhere here?”

  “In about an hour,” she agreed. “Gentlemen, ladies,” she said to the crowd, “allow me to introduce my grandfather’s guest, Lord Wylde!”

  The room went wild with “huzzahs!” and yelps of joy.

  Constantine felt dread. They obviously knew his name, which meant they must know who he was related to.

  “Why dint you tell us you were here?” one old party shouted into Constantine’s ear.

  “Why, because I didn’t know you were,” Constantine said.

  “Then let me tell you about your dad,” the old party said. He paused, and then cocked his gray head to the side. “Here!” he shouted to the crowd. “Where’s a toast to the lad’s father? We should raise a cheer for that fine lad. He was a treasure, he was,” he told Constantine mistily.

  That toast was raised and many more, until Constantine’s head hurt. It wasn’t the shouting so much as the stories he heard. His father had been a highwayman, successful, it seemed, until his last robbery. He was still held in great affection. He’d been charming and witty, a good fellow all round, as they were eager to tell him. As for his great-grandfather, he was considered something of a demigod. Constantine had seldom felt worse. The only way to keep this secret would be to burn the village to the ground. Doubtless, he thought moodily, he had some ancestor or other who used to do just that.

  They cheered him, they toasted him, they began to tell stories he couldn’t understand because they kept interrupting each other trying to correct the stories. They were stories of hard-won battles at sea and clever, successful land robberies. One thing came clear enough. They worshiped his old pirate great-grandfather, had adored his father, and were thrilled because Constantine looked so much like them.

  “It’s like havin’ them back, all in one go,” an old woman vowed, a hand on her heart, the other holding tight to her mug of ale.

  Constantine tried to smile. But he was at an impasse. If any of these people had relatives and friends in London, and mentioned his presence, it might slip out and become gossip in the places he would most wish it never be known. He stifled a groan as the thought occurred to him.

  “You’re not happy, are you?” Lisabeth whispered to him a half hour later.

  “Only a bit overwhelmed,” he lied.

  “Ladies and gents!” Lisabeth bawled, loud enough to make Constantine start, and the crowd become still. “His lordship’
s tickled to see you, but he’s drowning in your praise. Throw him a lifeline! He never expected such an ado. I didn’t warn him, see? Let me take him down to meet the vicar now. He’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day. Give the poor fellow time to get used to us.”

  There was a chorus of “ayes!” and enough back-slapping to cause bruises as Lisabeth led an insincerely smiling Constantine out the door and into the sunlight again.

  “They meant no harm,” she assured him, looking up at him worriedly. “They just meant to pay tribute. Come, I’ll take you to meet the vicar; he’s something of an historian. He’ll be thrilled to meet you too, but not so noisy about it. No sense in us riding, he’s just up the street. No sense in riding most places here,” she said as she strolled at his side. “Everything’s all that close.”

  “Why do they love my great-grandfather so much?” he asked in wonderment as they walked.

  “Well, he was a generous fellow. He gave employment to the village, and money to those too weak or old to follow him.”

  “Or too burdened with conscience?” he muttered.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” she said. “If a man didn’t approve of the captain’s doings, though most did, most of the people here were fed up with Puritanism and stupid laws. They’d had a bellyful of them. Still, some people were religious enough to have problems with the captain’s profession. If they did, why then he saw to it that they didn’t starve either. Grandy said that was because he was smart enough to know that a village full of people who loved him would be the best place to hide his doings. But I think it was because he also had such a big heart.”

  She stopped, and looked at him, studying his face, a slight frown marring her own as she did. “But though you’re his image, you’re really nothing like him, are you?”