My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1)

by Synclair Stafford

  Between his busy schedule, sometimes gone for months on end, and the running of the plantation and office, there would be no time to interact with a wife.

  It was the perfect set-up. A marriage in name only. She could raise her son, and Addison would be free to continue with his business.

  Surely, there were more positives than negatives.

  After sobering up on the third day, he’d marched into Cormac’s office before he lost his nerve and accepted his offer. Addison assured the man his daughter would be in the best of hands, as well as her son.

  Cormac had not smiled, but he did thank him with a somewhat dramatic sigh. Before leaving his office, he’d even made Addison swear he’d never tell a living soul that she was his daughter. Cormac said he'd need to refer to her as his niece to keep her identity a secret.

  What was he getting himself into? From whom, or what, did she hide?

  Addison had exited the office, sweat pouring into his eyes.

  Near a year later, after sailing to various ports selling his rice, bargaining for future business, he had returned home. His tired body ready for the comfort of his own bed, he stood in the entryway of Cranford Hall.

  A loud crash sounded above stairs, in the vicinity of his bedroom, and carried throughout the otherwise serene house.

  Another crash sounded.

  “What the bloody hell is that noise?” The deserted entryway ensured no one would answer as he climbed the steps.

  Bypassing the sitting room door, he strode down the hallway to the bedroom door and threw it open as another shattering of porcelain echoed around him.

  As the door banged against the wall, a scream shredded the air, followed by another crash of something he feared was quite valuable.

  He inhaled sharply, his ears burning with rising anger.

  Was this the lady who was to be his wife? If so, she’s quite mad, and, what is she doing in his bedroom?

  The disheveled woman huffed and ranted unspeakable curses, even as her long, delicate hand reached for the vase on the mantle.

  His entrance startled her. She turned in his direction and chucked the vase right at his head.

  He ducked. The vase shattered against the wall, just left of its target.

  Turning back to where she stood frozen, her chest heaving frantically, hair flying around her face, he became somewhat bereft of words.

  “Who are you?” She demanded.

  Her voice shook with fury, a slight lilting accent accompanied her words. Her back rigid and straight as if she were competing with a broomstick. She wasn’t frightened, not of his sudden entry, nor how he towered over her.

  Brave, Cormac had said.

  Had he not been so angry at her destruction of his property, he could have appreciated the delicate, yet wild beauty of her face. Her hands fisted at her sides, breasts straining against the top edge of the dress.

  He shook himself, mentally, and narrowed his eyes on her. “I am the owner of this house, madam. The property you are destroying is mine.” He kept his voice low, firm, commanding, with an extra measure of menacing. It had, after all, cowed even the largest of men. She did not flinch nor blink; her chest continued to heave, breasts squeezing at the seams.

  Her light-colored eyes narrowed back on him. “Don’t. You. Knock?”

  He would not allow his mouth to drop open, nor a stutter erupt from his lips. But, he did have to take a moment to compose himself.

  Aye, too brave by half.

  Inhaling a deep breath, he counted to five. “Madam. This being my home, and my personal rooms, I do not need knock upon my own door.” He pronounced each word clearly, resisting the urge to stride over and shake the brazen look from her face.

  She had the audacity to look offended.

  He saw her inhale as if many unpleasant words were to tumble out.

  He held up a hand, making sure she refrained from whatever was to come spewing forth. Her full lips pressed together, and her eyes condemned him to all the fiery agonies of Hell.

  “Acquire a broom from one of the housemaids and clean up this mess, immediately. Then, you will make your way to the study, where we will speak in a civilized manner.”

  Keeping his eyes steady on hers, they stared one another down.

  He turned and pulled the door shut behind him with a satisfying thud.

  Another crash reverberated off the door.

  The lady had thrown another vase directly where he’d been standing. Brazen vixen!

  He resisted the urge, just barely, of bursting through the door and taking the lady over his knee. A proper spanking is exactly what that one needed.

  Jerking a hand through his hair, he strode to the stairs, but stopped short. A small shadow on the floor caught his attention, and the owner of the darkened silhouette, a lad, stared him down from across the hall.

  Addison turned to see a head of shaggy, dark, chestnut curls disappear through the nursery door.

  A sigh escaped him.

  What madness had he consented to?

  Most people of his acquaintance found his presence quite pleasing, especially the female variety. But, of course not her. She’d taken one look at him and thrown a bloody vase at his head.

  His bride-to-be was quite literally tearing his room to shreds. And, he’d not observed one whit of fear.

  Now, he must deal with a tiny lad who needed a father.

  He prayed the boy had not inherited his mother’s temper.

  Not used to being around small children, Addison stood in the open nursery door to see the boy standing near a box of figurines. A nursemaid slept peacefully in a chair near the window, her head resting against its back.

  The lad wore typical children’s attire for his age. He was small of stature and chubby, with a mess of dark curls sticking out about his small head. Tiny hands dug around in the box before him. He noticed Addison standing in the doorway.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the hard concentration on the boy’s face, his tongue sticking out for added measure.

  The boy found what he sought, shoving his fist in the air, a handcrafted, wooden toy grasped tightly in his fingers. His green eyes stared intently into Addison’s. “Ship!”

  Addison gave the boy a smile and nodded, walking into the room and taking the small figurine from the boy’s hand.

  “Yes, and a fine one too. I’ve just returned from sailing one of these fine vessels.” He turned the ship over, back and forth, looking it over, the boy’s large, emerald eyes wide with curiosity. He tousled the lad’s mop of hair and handed him the ship. “You’ll come visit my ships soon, I promise.”

  The boy hugged his leg tight, a smile brightening his face. “Yes! Yes!”

  Addison put a hand on the boy’s shoulders, patting his back. “Let me guess, your name is Holt, correct?” Cormac had mentioned his grandson’s name with great pride.

  “Yes, sir. My name is Holt. I’m a pirate.” Holt stepped back, proud as a peacock, and smiled up at him.

  Huge, green eyes melted Addison’s heart in that instant.

  He crouched down and chucked the boy under the chin. “I’m Addison. You’re going to live here at Cranford Hall with me. We are going to be great friends, you and I.” Dimples in each cheek, deep pits, appeared along with his wide smile. “A pirate you say? You are going to need that ship.”

  Holt nodded, dimples still firmly in place.

  “Great. Then I supposed we have some sailing to do soon.” He gave the lad a squeeze before setting him away, a sudden rush of protective emotion swirling in the area of his chest. “I’ll come to check on you in a little while. Maybe we’ll go visit some of the horses. Some of them even like to be ridden.”

  Holt dug once again into the figurine box, a determined look upon hi
s face, and showed Addison a wooden horse. He acknowledged the find with a smile, his tempestuous mother clouding his thoughts—and how to deal with the feisty wench.

  He left the room and headed to his study below stairs, catching the new housekeeper, Sarah, on her way into the parlor.

  “Sarah, may I have a word?” It had taken some getting used to having her around. Unafraid to speak her mind, she displayed an unusual trait for a servant. Being gone for near a year, he’d forgotten how different was her temperament than the housekeepers of his acquaintance.

  She grimaced, giving him a cool glance, as she turned from the parlor door. “Aye.”

  Stopping before him, she folded her arms. He thought she might even tap her foot to show impatience at the interruption of her duties. She did not.

  “What is it, my lord?” She sighed.

  Two obstinate females under one roof? It was unheard of in his realm. He could blame William Cormac for both of them.

  Looking down to address her, he could see the top of her frizzy, gray head. “Why is Mrs. Morgan in my rooms?”

  “I’d not expected you back for another fortnight or more, My Lord,” she answered bluntly “The east rooms are noisy with the workers and would disturb even the stoutest of sleepers early in the morn.”

  Addison’s lips twitched with a smile at the challenge in her eyes—as if he would dare oppose her decision. If he’d not been so perplexed by the woman in his room, or accustomed to this woman’s manner, the insolence she displayed would have her fired by any other employer.

  “Right. Right. Of course, I’d not thought of that.” He nodded to her. “That was proper thinking, Sarah. I’ll talk to John and have him instruct his crew to begin their work a little later in the morning so Mrs. Morgan can properly use her own rooms.”

  Sarah made a “harrumph” sound and marched away and through the parlor doors.

  Shaking his head, he strode down the hallway and into his domain, his study. The first order of tonight’s business . . . pouring himself a sizable shot of brandy.

  He threw the liquid down his throat, the satisfying burn following the alcohol. His thoughts turned to the widow with the voluptuous curves—definitely not hideous or ugly. He found himself quite relieved at that observation.

  Crazy, perhaps, but quite extraordinary in her appearance.

  She could not have been more than twenty, judging by the pureness and smoothness of her skin. It had been pale and yet glowing, freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and her shoulders. The startling, tilted, green eyes and the pout of her lips burned an image in his mind. The messy, fiery-colored hair complimented her eyes . . . but, her figure, that image remained rooted more prominently in his head.

  In her fury, her breasts had been all but spilling from the top of her gown. She’d had a small waist and ample hips. Certainly attractive in the physical sense, he was unsure of her intelligence. Her personality left him wondering. As of now, she was too brave and too obstinate by far . . . definitely a noticeable temper.

  What had angered her so? Had he been so mesmerized by her porcelain skin, her full breasts straining against the top of her gown, to inquire as to her pique?

  Sighing, he spied the brandy decanter. Eying the size of his current glass, he set it down and grabbed the larger version next to it. Satisfied with its ability to hold more liquid, and deciding it not prudent to drink directly from the decanter, he filled the glass to the rim.

  He’d been in Charles Town for nigh on three years now, and had been invited to many local plantations and parties. Many ladies had placed themselves in his way on any number of occasions, some more boldly than others . . . but, never bucking propriety in the manner in which they approached him. Various mothers introduced their daughters at social affairs—both mother and daughter with stars in their eyes.

  Addison’s intuition had him running as fast he could in the other direction. He’d dealt with this in England before leaving. He had no need for a wife then. He had no need for a wife now, except, he’d made a gentlemen’s deal.

  He’d signed a contract to acquire William Cormac’s daughter, the avenue he’d taken to add the land he coveted for expanding his rice plots.

  Gulping down glass number two burned a trail down to his belly.

  She’d just stood there and stared at him like he’d been rude to interrupt her during her pique, her chest heaving and as she panted, she blew wisps of hair away from her lips. Her shoulders lay bare, squared, and a creamy shade of ivory.

  He downed another gulp as each image grew more vivid than the last.

  He’d memorized the seductive curves of her body, and his own temper began to flare.

  He’d given her a strict order to attend him in the study.

  Where the bloody hell was she?

  Chapter 4

  With no intention of obeying Lord Blackhurst’s high-handed demand, Anne combed her fingers through the mess of her hair. She sectioned off three pieces, by feel only, and jerked it into a braid down one side, and then threw the long plait over one shoulder. Her eyes scanned the green gown, the color of sprigs of mint, as she smoothed down the unrelenting wrinkles. Three slow intakes of breath through her nostrils and exhales through her mouth helped to calm her temper to a dull simmer.

  A difficult feat, to say the least, to tamp down her anger, and it had taken her many years to achieve. She knew she must find something else to calm her nerves.

  There would be no speaking to his lordship in her current state.

  How dare the man order her about before even introducing his high and mighty self? And, he’d just barged into the room. Sure, she’d been destroying items in his room, and she’d feel guilty about it later. But, for now, he’d been quite rude to give her instructions in such a haughty tone.

  The real truth of the matter was, her last few years were full of people with no respect. Crass, cruel people with no manners, and she’d survived in less than savory living conditions. But, damned if she'd permit the proper, English lord who thought to become her husband to forget his manners.

  Anne paced the room, clenching and unclenching her hands. Wearing a path into the rug helped, right?

  Her father must be mad to force this upon her. Why would she need a husband? He’d given her the perfect avenue to start over with the whole widow façade, but did she have to marry? Another marriage, or any entanglement with another man, was repugnant. Especially with a man she knew nothing about.

  Wait, she knew something about him. In the few minutes she’d been in his company, she’d learned the man had all the character of a pompous, English donkey, and exhibited an arrogance that came with his aristocratic upbringing.

  Anne stopped pacing long enough to agree he was handsome, however.

  Recalling him standing there, through her previous haze of rage, he had been tall, almost as tall as the doorframe, itself. She’d not seen the color of his eyes, angry as she was, but she was able to recall the strong, chiseled jaw, hawk-like nose, dark brows, and a dark shade of unruly, reddish-brown hair tousled around his head as if the wind had blown the locks right before he barged into the room.

  But, he was insufferable, and that trumped his obvious pleasing appearance—at least that’s what she told herself.

  Aye, she would ignore Lord Blackhurst’s demand to meet him in the study or to immediately clean up her mess.

  She strode through the bedroom door and around the perimeter landing to the nursery where she knew her children waited. They were just the medicine she needed to assuage her fury.

  She smiled as she entered the room to find Eliza slumbering in a nearby chair, an exhausted Holt curled up in her lap.

  The man had been informed of her son through his dealings with her father, she was sure. But, did he know about the other two? Likely, he did not. She had to smil
e at the thought. Hopefully that would scare him off, discourage him from marrying her.

  Nodding her head, Anne decided she would make the man refuse to marry her. Just like she’d forced her father to disown her, she’d force this man to jilt her. Then, her father would have to allow her to live out her life as a widow. Certainly, no other man would have her afterward.

  How hard could it be to follow through with the plan?

  The man already found her atrocious, as his furious eyes and condescending tone had said earlier. Just wait until he learned she had not one child, but three. And, Blackbeard’s ghost, what a disagreeable wife she’d make.

  She didn’t have the first inkling of how to be a domesticated woman. Sure, she’d been trained at a young age to run a household, but all of that had been forgotten—and had bored her to tears—after she’d sailed off with Rackham. She didn’t sew, knit, darn, or had even the faintest idea what to do with a needle, other than to stitch up a wound.

  Her skills at the proper cleaning of the household or cooking were sorely lacking. She’d always gotten her food from the galley on the ships she’d sailed or the disreputable taverns she’d visited. Keeping her body clean, and the ability to take care of herself . . . now, those were skills to which she excelled. Shooting a pistol, cleaning a sword, and protecting her body were skills she’d been able to hone and become quite an expert.

  She patted her ankle for the small dagger she kept on the inside of her boot.

  Some habits were hard to kick.

  No, she’d never make a suitable wife for a proper English lord.

  Nor, did she wish to become one.

  With her new course of action, Anne strode over to the crib near the window. A peek inside showed the two infants kicking their chubby legs about, both having a fist in their rose-colored mouths.