The Iron Corsair

by Barbara Devlin

  “Mon ami, it is good to see you again.” Jean Marc Cavalier saluted. “Come in, and weigh your anchor.”

  “Is everyone gathered?” Barrington shook his friend’s hand and doffed his hat, as another friend stood to greet him. “I do not believe it.” He blinked. “Cager Tyne, in the garb one would expect of a noble. You clean up good.”

  “I could almost be respectable.” Tyne laughed. “And I believe you know The Marooner.”

  “Bloody hell.” If Tyne’s altered appearance shocked Barrington, he had no idea how to react to that of one of the most lethal buccaneers known to humanity. “Leland Stryker, is that you?”

  “In the flesh.” Clean-shaven, dressed in new buckskin breeches, polished Hessians, a crisp white shirt sans cravat, and a navy hacking jacket, with his brown hair trimmed and pulled back by a leather thong, Leland splayed wide his arms. “And I look respectable, for a thief and a liar.”

  “Trust me, you would be quite at home in Parliament, as it is full of such creatures.” Sitting in a high back chair, Barrington stretched his booted feet and cleared his throat. “Given we are—”

  “Is that Barry?” Gowned in green velvet, with her brown locks piled in curls atop her head, Lady Madalene emerged from the bedchamber. “It has been too long.”

  In that instant, Barrington glanced at Jean Marc. “You brought your wife with you?”

  “Well that is not the most civil greeting I have ever received.” She pouted.

  “I thought you said you married.” Jean Marc perched at the end of a chaise, spread his legs, and pulled his bride to his lap. “If that is the case, then you should know women have a mind and resolve of their own, which they can, will, and do express, despite our wishes and warnings of discipline.”

  “You believe you are telling me something I do not already know?” Rolling his eyes, Barrington snorted. “Why do you think I have not informed Florence of your presence?” Then he chuckled. “Ah, I get your meaning.”

  “Indeed.” Despite the fact that her husband cupped her bottom in full view of the guests, the petite, elegant, well-bred American heiress perched upright and folded her arms. “Had Jean Marc attempted to cast off without me, I would have hired a sea captain to bring me to London in pursuit of my man.”

  In silence, Jean Marc compressed his lips, bowed his head, and pointed to his bride, and Barrington burst into laughter. Then again, he fared no better, given Florence’s decidedly stubborn nature, and he made love to her three times so she would sleep, and he could depart without her. “I see you had your babe since last we met. What news of your heir?”

  “That is none of your affair.” Jean Marc scowled.

  “We have a beautiful baby girl, and she is home, safe and sound.” Madalene bounced on Jean Marc’s knee. “And she has his black hair and blue eyes, but she has my nose, and we are so proud of her.”

  “Wait just a minute.” Barrington barely stifled a snicker of incredulity. “Do you mean to say that Jean Marc Cavalier has a daughter?”

  “What of it.” Somehow, the long, jagged scar that traced from the former pirate’s left ear, across his clean-shaven cheek, and through the middle of his milky white eye did not seem so ominous, in light of the recent revelation.

  “What is her name?” Barrington smiled. “I should send you a gift for her. Perhaps a frilly bonnet?”

  “She needs nothing from you,” Jean Marc replied. “And that is none of your affair.”

  “Patience Forsythia Cavalier,” Lady Madalene stated with a dip of her chin.

  “Patience?” Leland clucked his tongue. “No doubt she will need plenty of that, given her father.”

  Again, Barrington, Leland, and Cager collapsed in a fit of hilarity.

  “Are we here to make sport of the innocent spawn of my loins, or are we going to strategize a means of capturing the bastard who murdered the maid and apparently tried to poison Lady Florence?” Jean Marc pounded his fist to his thigh. “And if anyone disparages my little angel, even in jest, he will stare down the wrong end of my sword, and I will slit his gullet.”

  “Oh, I do so adore your aggressive side, especially in defense of our family.” Madalene kissed her husband’s temple, and he actually blushed.

  “Mon Chou, you make it very difficult to threaten someone, with any semblance of credibility.” As Maddie whispered in his ear, he grinned. “I should spank you.”

  “Is that a promise?” She bit her lip.

  “You know, I had control when I took her to wife.” Jean Marc scratched his cheek. “But, somewhere between Port Royal and Boston, I lost it, and I am left to the realization that I am no longer the master of my domain.”

  “Is that so bad?” Madalene asked, in a small voice.

  “It is when I need to concentrate on the task, at hand, Mon Chou.” To Barrington’s surprise, Jean Marc pressed his lips to her forehead. “But I love you, and we are stronger when we work together, so let us focus our efforts to help our friend and his woman.”

  “You are kind, as well as wise, my cherished husband.” Madalene wrapped her arms about Jean Marc’s shoulders.

  While the two love birds shared another kiss, Tyne averted his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck, while Leland shifted in his chair, and pretended to find the rug infinitely fascinating Barrington exhaled.

  “Are they always like this?” he asked Tyne.

  “Worse.” A knock at the door brought Cager to his feet. “I will get it.”

  The final guest strolled into the sitting room, and Barrington stood. “Sir Ross, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Well, the purpose of my visit is two-fold, as I bring another pact for Stryker to sign, at Cavalier’s request.” Sir Ross faced the happy couple. “Good afternoon, Jean Marc and Lady Madalene.”

  “We meet again, Ross.” Jean Marc saluted.

  “It is just Madalene, as I do not recognize the title, because I am an American.” Madalene smiled. “If you must address me formally, I prefer Mrs. Cavalier, and it is a pleasure, Sir Ross.”

  “I stand corrected, Madalene.” Then the veteran agent handed Barrington a rolled parchment. “You never affixed your signature to your pardon, when the term ended last November.”

  “Do I need it, given I am cleared in the murder of my maid?” Then it dawned on him. “Never mind, as I believe I understand this will clear my name, in reference to the crimes I committed as the Iron Corsair, but I never expected The Marooner to seek a reprieve.”

  “We all have our reasons.” Leland shrugged. “But I see what you and Jean Marc enjoy, not to mention the fair London landscape, and what have I to lose? What good is all that booty, when I have no one to share it?”

  “It is a smart course, mon ami.” Jean Marc draped an arm about Madalene’s waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “While I was not too happy about it, at first, I soon realized it was the best decision I ever made, and I have never regretted it.”

  “Then make your mark,” Sir Ross said to Leland. “And let us discuss the plan of action for Lord Ravenwood.”

  In the quiet confines of the lavish suite, The Marooner scribbled his name, while Barrington did the same. In unison, they rolled their respective parchments.

  “You understand the commitment you have just made with His Majesty?” Sir Ross gathered his papers. “For one year, you must perform good deeds.”

  “Yes, yes.” Leland chuckled. “If Jean Marc and the Iron Corsair managed it, so can I.”

  “Now can we turn our attention to my situation, before I run amok?” Frustrated, Barrington wanted to punch someone. “And I want every assurance that Florence is protected. Wherever she goes, she is to be guarded.”

  “What happened with the poison?” Leaning forward, Cager rested elbows to knees. “And have you any suspects?”

  “There were three people who handled the tea and the teapot, including the cook, a maid, and the butler.” Sir Ross narrowed his stare. “But we had Ernest’s unanticipated visit, which
strikes me as too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.”

  “If he had nothing to hide, why did he not notify me of his plans?” Although Barrington hated to consider the possibility his brother was a murderer, given the risk to Florence, he had to contemplate every prospective villain. “That is what bothers me. Ernest has never been a secretive sort, yet he has been uncharacteristically reserved, of late.”

  “Have you not had him followed?” Jean Marc shuffled Madalene in his hold and crossed his booted feet. “Have your men learned anything of significance?”

  “They have, and Lord Ravenwood is not going to like it.” Sir Ross smiled a sly smile. “And I have several suggestions to bring our miscreant to justice, but I need your help.”

  “We are at your disposal,” Cager replied. “What would you ask of us?”

  “It is simple, really. Our criminal will eventually seek assistance to achieve his nefarious goals, and that is where you will prove most useful.” Sir Ross leveled his stare. “In short, I need a few good pirates.”

  ~

  On a sunny but brisk afternoon, beneath a cloudless azure sky, Florence held tight to her lace-trimmed poke bonnet and sat atop the box seat of Barrington’s new High Perch phaeton, as he sped through the lush, expansive green spaces of Hampstead Heath. When they entered a vast clearing, he flicked the reins, gave the beautifully matched pair of bays their heads, and they soared through the fields.

  “Oh, my lord.” She squealed with delight. “This is such fun.”

  “Is it not?” Leaning to the side, he kissed her forehead and then slowed the horses to a trot. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.” Pressing a palm to her belly, she tittered. “But I am enjoying myself so much that I almost hate to stop for lunch.”

  “Then what say we make this a weekly jaunt, as I dearly love spending time alone with my marchioness?” When she responded with an exuberant nod, he winked. In the shadow of a massive oak, he drew rein, jumped from the rig, turned, and handed her to the ground, stealing a quick kiss in the process. “Let me untie the basket and the blanket, and we can have our picnic.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Given the relative privacy of their little spot, which was shielded by a natural rise in the earth, she doffed her bonnet as he spread the blanket. Then she sat on the thick wool cover, situated her skirts, and unpacked their meal of fresh bread, cheese, grapes, dried beef, Shrewsbury cakes, and white wine. “Shall I feed you, my lord?”

  “Sweetheart, you may do whatever you wish, as I am your most devoted servant.” Waggling his brows, Barrington grasped her by the hips and dragged her to sit between his legs. “You were magnificent this morning, but you looked a tad peaked. Are you feeling better?”

  “Daresay all I needed was some clean air and a little attention from my man.” Despite his charming façade, Florence suspected he kept secrets from her, so she hoped to lure him into a state of complacency, before she enacted an impromptu interrogation. “May I tempt you with a plump and juicy grape?”

  “A grape is a grape.” He snatched the fruit from her fingers and placed it in her mouth. “But when you offer it with your plump and juicy lips, I cannot resist.”

  In a flash, he bent his head and kissed her. The tart taste snared her senses, capturing her, as they twined their tongues. Groaning, Barrington parted from her for only a second, as he shifted and draped her across his lap. With an arm at her back, he supported her, as he intensified their tryst, captivating, enthralling, and commanding her. With gentle sashays, he nipped and suckled her tender flesh, and then he hugged her so tight she could scarcely draw breath.

  “What is wrong?” The subtle tensing of his muscles declared his unrest, and Florence ached to ease his worry. “Has Sir Ross discovered anything new, regarding the murderer and the attempted poisoning, because you have not mentioned it in days?”

  “No.” To her regret, he appeared crestfallen. “And that is what troubles me. In light of the attempt on your life, I expected additional nefarious endeavors, yet that has not happened. Our villain is as unpredictable and patient as he is elusive, and I wish there was some way to anticipate his next strike. Instead, we wait like ducks on a pond, while the bastard takes aim, and I will do anything to protect you.”

  “And that is why you cannot sleep?” Cupping his chin, she caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Because you wake me, at all hours, to make love, and the tenor of your passion has changed.”

  “How so?” He arched a brow.

  “There is a sense of desperation in your embrace, as if you fear losing me.” Just as Florence feared losing him, but she would not admit that. “Often you wake with a start, and your first move is to reach for me, as though you expect that I will not be there.”

  “Darling, we were four years apart.” Barrington fed her a bite of cheese and held the glass of wine so she could take a sip. “Every morning I was away, I sought your face, with the sunrise, and the disappointment lives with me, still.”

  “Do you think it was any different for me?” She met him halfway, as he moved in for another sweet kiss. “So many nights I cried for you, and it will take time to adjust, but I will never willingly leave you.”

  “Do not talk like that, as I cannot bear it.” Without warning, he pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. “I lost you once, and I will not lose you again—not without a fight.”

  “It will be all right.” It dawned on Florence then just how much danger they confronted, given his palpable terror, and she clung to him. “I know we will persevere.”

  For a long while, he simply held her, and she noted his ragged rush of breath. So she smoothed his wavy blonde locks, massaged the base of his scalp, and instigated a series of deep, intimate kisses that spawned a hunger of another sort.

  Then her belly grumbled, and Barrington laughed aloud.

  “I neglect your basic needs, love.” Easing back, he reclined against the trunk of the impressive oak and handed her a strip of dried beef. “Eat, because you will need your strength upon our return home, as I intend to take you until dinner.”

  “Only until then?” She offered him a chunk of bread. “My pirate can do better.”

  Although he chuckled at her bold statement, he did not reply, and in silence they at lunch. Yet a noticeable tension weighed heavy, investing her shoulders, and filling his normally animated blue eyes, and she scarcely tasted the fare.

  Soon, they gathered their belongings, repacked the basket, and folded the blanket, which Barrington secured with a piece of rope. With his hands at her waist, he lifted her to the box seat, before climbing onto the rig. When he plopped to the bench, an eerie crack brought him up short, and he peered at her.

  “What was that?” Retracing his movements, he descended the smart equipage and handed her down. Then he squatted and assessed the phaeton. “Bloody everlasting hell.”

  “What is it?” Florence cautioned herself not to panic or leap to unsupported conclusions, but her mind ran amok. “Did you find something?”

  “The axle is nearly severed, and it holds together by a mere splinter.” He narrowed his stare as he inspected the wooden shaft that connected the wheels. “But it is not a flaw or some sort of rare accident, because it is clean cut, just enough to snap at some unfortunate moment, but we were lucky. Had it gone while I drove the horses at a gallop—”

  “—We could have been killed.” To her chagrin, the tears flowed, as raw terror gripped her throat. “Just like my mother.”

  “But that did not happen.” At once, Barrington stood upright and pulled her into his arms. “We are fine.”

  “So someone still targets us.” And it was her worst realization, although they had never been free of danger, but who would do such a thing? “What can we do?”

  “For now, I need to unhitch one of the horses, and we will ride home, together.” Cradling her head, he nudged her with his nose. “It is all right. We are safe, and when we return home, I will contact Sir Ross and have the stablemaster collect
the other bay, while you prepare for your bath. Then I will wash your hair.”

  She knew what that meant.

  “Does it sound unreasonable that I would prefer nothing more than to lock us in our suite, until the villain is caught?” As her thoughts raced in myriad directions, Florence could seize upon no vital clue as to the identity of the killer. Still, she refused to abandon her husband during such a tumultuous time, just so she could soak in the tub. “When Sir Ross arrives, I will join you in the study.”

  “My dear, there is nothing you can do to influence the investigation.” With a huff of unveiled frustration, he set her free and grasped the bridle of one of the bays. “And I will not have my marchioness hunting criminals.”

  “Be that as it may, I am your wife, and I will not permit you to exclude me, given the unknown scoundrel attacks me, too. So I will attend your meeting with Sir Ross.” Folding her arms, she lifted her chin. “And then you may make love to me until dinner.”

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was late in the evening when Barrington met with Sir Ross and Lord Raynesford in the study, but the hour offered a brief respite, as Florence bathed. Given the sabotage of his phaeton, Barrington plotted a new tack, one that could cost him everything he held dear, but he was desperate, and there was nothing he would not do to protect his wife.

  A knock at the door intruded on his thoughts, and he sat back in his chair. “Come.”

  “My lord, Wilkins is just returned from Hampstead Heath, with the bay and the rig.” Ashby stepped aside, and the stablemaster trudged into the room.

  “Your Lordship.” Carrying what appeared to be the ruined shaft, Wilkins bowed. “I replaced the damaged part, and the bay and the rig are in the mews.” He set the splintered pieces of wood on the desk and retreated. “As you said, the cut is clean, more than halfway through the axle, my lord. This was no accident.”