“Hello, my darlings.”
Her voice sent their arms and legs flailing, and their eyes to focus directly on her. Her breasts thumped with the familiar ache, she reached for Garrett, adjusted her gown for access, and placed his mouth near her throbbing breast. He began sucking immediately, and a jolt of love and a slight pain assailed her.
She smoothed his hair with her free hand as he suckled. He was hungry, but began to close his eyes with contentment almost immediately.
Freddie cooed from the crib.
Dare she try to nurse them at the same time? Glancing behind her to the door, she made certain no one stood there. She also took a quick look at Eliza to see she still slept soundly. Not one to shy away from a challenge, Anne pushed down the top of her gown so both breasts were now freely accessible to the hungry babes.
Garrett still sucked vigorously from the right. With her free hand, she reached down and, scooped up Freddie in the crook of her arm. Turning, she spotted an empty chair near the open door.
Closing the door with one foot, she sat in the vacant chair, made sure Garrett was adjusted properly, and guided Frederica’s open mouth to her other exposed breast.
Anne smiled, sighed, and let her head fall back against the chair in relief and contentment. There was nothing like feeding her children. The amount of love she felt for them all could not be described in words.
The time she sat there, suckling her children, allowed her to calm down and think of a scheme to annoy her father’s choice of husband.
She’d have to think of many ways to scare him off, for she had witnessed, herself, the stubbornness of the Englishmen in Nassau. Besides, what had bloody-well led him to agree to marry her?
Her father mentioned he was in need of a wife. Someone to give orders to the household servants and organize soirees, no doubt. He would be sorely disappointed in the woman he’d taken on as wife.
After both babies had their fill, and both snoozed in her arms, she cradled them a little longer before placing them back in the crib. A good hour had passed since Lord Blackhurst had uttered his rude demand.
Re-adjusting her gown so her breasts fit snuggly inside, Anne realized she’d have to make her visit to Elizabeth Browning, the woman from her father’s letter. She’d promised an entire wardrobe, if those words could be believed. The proper attire for a woman of Charles Town would take some getting used to, she knew. But, she would also make sure she had a side wardrobe that would shock some sense into the Englishman. That would surely aid her in scaring him off.
The typical fare of her previous profession of long coat, breeches, vest, boots, and hat should do the trick nicely, and it was one, to which, she had become well-accustomed.
Who wanted a wife who dressed so brazenly?
A smile escaped.
Anne marched from the nursery and back around the landing, then found another set of stairs leading down to the level below. The servants’ stairs would lead her directly where her silent companion had been led for the duration of his stay.
She would find Raphael and have him accompany her to Miss Browning’s home, and then figure out how to go about purchasing the men’s attire she’d require for part of her scheme.
The second story remained quiet as she bypassed it upon the stairs. At the bottom, the room opened to the kitchens and a large pit stood directly across from her. The delicious smell of meat roasting above the fire caused her belly to growl. Although the heat poured from the flames, the entire lower level maintained a habitable temperature due to the fact the floor, ceiling, and walls were built entirely of a white-colored stone. Several open doorways led from the kitchen in all directions.
A few slaves busied themselves in the kitchen, all with chocolaty, brown skin. Many of them gazed in her direction with raised eyebrows, but kept at the duties they were performing.
Anne noticed they wore soft clothing, pastels or whites that were an airy, light fabric. The shirts had puffed sleeves, wide necklines, and the skirts were long, but did not include voluminous underskirts. They looked positively comfortable and cool.
Taking note of some of the items she wanted to purchase for herself, she ventured down the hallway to which Sarah had ordered Raphael earlier. She peered in many opened doors to see if Raphael were inside, quite impressed by the cleanliness and ample space of each room. The servants were certainly treated nicely and respectfully here at Cranford Hall.
Each servant’s room had a small window, comfortable bed, dresser, and a small side table with a chair. She wondered if the servants’ accommodations mirrored those in typical English manors.
Not having any success finding Raphael this direction, nor any sight of Sarah, she retraced her steps, heading down another hallway. Perhaps Sarah would be taking stock in the storeroom. She could inquire of her companion’s whereabouts.
She found Sarah and Raphael at a table, munching on bread and cheese. The older man chomped methodically, his eyes lighting on her for a moment before resuming his avid attention back to his plate.
Sarah’s eyes met hers. “What are you doing in the kitchen, Miss?” Her mouth turned down as she chewed.
Anne rolled her eyes and took a seat at the table on the opposite side of the pair. “You act as if I’ve never been in a kitchen before. I suppose I’m not allowed in here?”
Raphael continued to eat, hearing the conversation but paying them no heed. Of course, he had that same stoic expression on his scarred face as when he’d rescued her from her prison cell, even while devouring his bread.
Sarah grunted. “You’re allowed anywhere in this house, but your kind aren’t supposed to want to come in the kitchen.”
Anne chuckled.
“My kind? Why, whatever do you think I am? Certainly not a proper English lady. Do I sound English to you?”
She raised a brow at the older lady. Did she believe Anne some kind of aristocracy, or a pompous, titled person like Lord Blackhurst?
Narrowed brown eyes stared pointedly at her. “I can’t say that I rightly know, Miss, but I do hear some Irish when you’re being surly.” She thought for a moment. “Only, I didn’t think an English lord would marry just anyone off the street.”
If Anne could smile any wider, it would have been a feat. “Oh, but I am just anyone off the street.”
English lords preferred titled ladies to wed, after all. This was just one more reason for him to excuse himself from the wedding.
Sarah’s brows rose for a mere second, then her tone lowered to a grouchy level. “Can’t say that surprises me, what with your brazenness, I guess.”
Anne gave her a nod. Now, if she was a proper lady, and Sarah truly thought her so, the older woman would never deign to speak to her in such a forthright way.
She tapped twice on the table with the palm of her hand. “So, I need a carriage.” How was that for brazen?
“Whatever for?”
Anne raised a brow. Her father must have thought her really in need of a firm hand. The woman was deadly for speaking her mind.
“Does it matter? I’m to be the woman of the house, aye?” She’d not survived on a pirate ship for so long not knowing how to use any means necessary to get what she wanted. Even fibbing about becoming the lofty lord’s wife.
“Aye.” Dark eyes narrowed.
“Well?” Anne found her temper slipping at the outright mulishness of the housekeeper. She’d name her next mule Sarah.
The lady sighed, a dramatic sound worthy of any theatre. “Very well.” She glanced to Raphael, who, of course, sat silently awaiting his next order. “You’ll find Lord Blackhurst’s carriage in the stable. I’m sure he’ll not begrudge his future bride the use of it.”
Anne tried not to bristle at being called a bride, even after referring to herself in such a manner just moments ago. Instead, she jump
ed up from her seat with a rush of energy.
Raphael rose after her, stalking out the side door of the kitchen.
“Thank you, Sarah. I shall return before dinner.”
The older lady’s head shook back and forth. “We eat at five, Miss. Do not be late.”
“Oh, I shall not.” Anne smiled as she followed Raphael through the door to the side yard, deciding to annoy her future husband, even more, by being late.
The barn doors were open, and the sunlight filtered in to rest near the bay horse that Anne assumed pulled the carriage. Raphael stepped forward and grabbed the reins from a hook on the wall. She grinned at him and he grunted, a typical response she was coming to know quite well from her bodyguard. From this point forward she would take the forced sound to mean aye, Anne, you’re always right. She smiled briefly at her cleverness.
They eyed one another as she assisted him tightening the reins on either side of the horse. He hefted the saddle from the side of the stall after she had placed the blanket upon the bay’s back. Not one extra breath or exerted reaction crossed his features, as if the saddle were but a feather to his hulking biceps.
She eyed him as he tightened the belt, and the gentle hand he placed upon the horse. If she blinked, she would have missed the kind gesture of his beefy hand.
A gentle giant he was, and quite frightening to look upon. Her bodyguard.
Her father had really outdone himself on his choice. Although Raphael was probably near her father’s age, he was fit and burly, bald and rough, and the best part . . . he could not complain or reprimand her for her behavior. Or, perhaps he’d been chosen just for the purpose of quietly observing her every move.
Whatever the case, the time she’d observed him while he’d been observing her, had been enough for him to become dear to her heart. Like the giant, scary uncle she’d never had.
And, he had knowledge that she did not. He’d been with her father for many years here in Charles Town, so he could escort her wherever she needed to go.
“Raphael, do you know where an Elizabeth Browning resides on Tradd Street?”
He ran his hand along the horse’s rump, concentrating on making sure the horse and her bindings were sound. She knew he heard her every word, as that was his job, even if he gave no outward indication he had done so. Finally, he nodded and shooed her toward the carriage in the far corner of the barn.
“Of course you’d know where she lives. I’d also love to know your conversations with my father.” She mumbled on her way to the carriage. The man had to know so many things, but with no way to tell her. Why Blackhurst? Why order her to marry at all?
Twenty minutes later, and an unsuccessful attempt to assist Raphael attaching the horse to the carriage—he refused to allow it—she sat inside the conveyance as it darted from the stable and out into the drive.
Anne relaxed back into the cushioned seat, and rested her hands behind her head, crossing her feet at the ankle. Not a ladylike pose, and the position aided in convincing herself she was indeed not adequate as a wife.
Amazing how the idea of being free for a little while gave her such a relaxed feeling. She sighed.
The carriage came to a shattering halt, and she was thrown forward, unceremoniously on the floor. She sputtered a string of curses.
They’d had no time to even go down the dirt drive. The bay horse whinnied, drowning out her mutterings. Quite put out, she pulled herself from the wooden floor.
Bristling, she gave the door a vicious shove. It slammed backward, making a loud bang as it smacked against the side of the carriage.
The single step creaked as she crammed her boot down upon it to land onto the dirt drive. The horse stamped a hoof to her right, neighing. No doubt cursing as she began to do as well.
Heat bloomed high on her cheeks as the swear words left her mouth. Directing her enmity to her bodyguard, she yelled up to where he perched atop the driver’s box. “What the bloody devil . . .?”
Only, her words were cut off, and quite rudely, by a deep, pompous, British voice.
Chapter 5
The gall of the woman, to disobey him so blatantly, when he’d agreed to marry her, give her a home, and provide for her child.
“I say! Where do you think you’re speeding off to in my carriage, sir?” Addison shouted. The horse’s excited noises drowning out his voice.
The man atop the carriage gave him a querying glance, his dark brows drawn together, but said nothing.
A burly man quite threatening in his appearance, the gent was certainly no one Addison had ever met before. He was bald, tanned, muscular, and a determined frown marred his features. Place a patch and an earring in his lobe, and he’d resemble a pirate more than any coachman he’d ever seen.
The man shook his head then flicked his gaze to the carriage below, indicating he direct his question to the inhabitant of said carriage.
Addison strode determinedly towards the vehicle to find the door springing open with a loud crack. A woman exited uttering many foul words to no one in particular. He halted, waiting for her to step down to the gravel.
Addison’s eyelid twitched, and the blame for the neurotic condition lay solely at the minx’s feet. He’d waited nearly an hour for her to appear before realizing she was already disobeying him.
“What the bloody devil . . .?” An Irish lilt accentuated her words as she stared up at her driver. She placed her hands with a furious grip upon both hips after the step down to the ground, her cheeks pink with indignation. A long braid hung over her shoulder with frizzy, red strands escaping like flames reaching for much-needed oxygen. Her breasts heaved with each breath, nearly popping forth from the top of the same confounded gown she’d been in earlier.
Her pique intent upon her driver, she hadn’t noticed him watching her.
The reasons her father—or uncle as he’d been demanded to call her—had traded her hand for the generous sum of money and prime land were now obvious to his mind . . . Anne Morgan was quite mad. The man had mentioned her widowed state. She’d obviously killed her previous husband with her disobedience and foul temper. Or, perhaps the poor gent suffered from a dent to the head by a flying teakettle.
“I’d say the devil was me, Madam. Although, you will inform me why you’ve decided to steal my carriage.”
Some of the steam flew out of him as her green eyes narrowed on him, grabbing up the sides of her skirts in both hands, and marched up to stand before him.
The pit of his stomach lurched and felt as if it had plummeted into the bottom of his boots.
He admitted, if only to himself, that she was magnificent in her fury—magnificent in the same way as lightning destroying the main mast during a ferocious storm—beautiful and fiery. By the stubborn set of her jaw, he knew he was about to witness more of her spitfire disposition. A thunderous temper.
And, a temper that led to her deliberate refusal to attend him in his study, the destruction of his property, and stealing away in his carriage without permission.
He set his jaw as she poked one finger into his chest, an angry twist to her plump lips, and deep green eyes sparkling.
“I’ve not stolen it, you blasted man. Sarah said you’d not mind your future bride the use of it. I would have returned.”
He gave her a glare. “I would not mind putting my future bride over my knee, either.” His voice rang husky even to his own ears.
Words, or those more closely resembling fragmented mutterings, sputtered from her lips and her eyes squinted. “You would not dare.”
He lifted a brow. Suddenly, and to his utter surprise, he found himself all too serious about throwing her over his knee—right there in the drive. “Wouldn’t I? Thieving is a punishable offense, you know.”
“But, I did not steal it. I would have returned prior to dinner.” Recogniti
on registered, if the slightly widened eyes were any indication. Then, she started to back away.
“You did not ask permission, Madam. The definition of that is stealing.”
The wild uncertainty in her widened eyes made him feel as if he were about to subdue the fiercest animal in the wild. He took a step toward her, an excited, electric pulse pushing him to devilry.
She must have seen the fury in his eye, for she turned on her heel, grabbed up her skirts once more, and ran. An unexpected display of shapely calves appeared above the tops of her dark boots, spurring him further.
He ran after her with a grin, a strange devil urging him on. Making quick work of catching up to her, he grabbed the back of her gown. The rending of fabric shredded the air just as she kicked her feet in a sudden turn and pounded on him with her fists.
“Blasted woman! Stay still!” He deflected a fist.
“No! I will not!” A series of unintelligible curses followed.
Anticipating a swift kick to his shin, he bent down, scooped her up, and deposited her unceremoniously over his shoulder. An ‘oomph’ whooshed from her as she landed.
“Put me down, you . . . you . . . you . . . horse’s arse!” She struggled, but one squeeze from the arm around her legs, and a sharp smack to her bottom, and she stilled as if frozen.
“More of the same will accompany that, and your nether region will be quite red if you continue to fight me, Madam.”
“Oh!” Exasperation and fury were mixed in her husky voice.
Addison gave no mind to the driver or what the brute might think of his handling of his mistress, as if she were a common street doxie, nor did he care. He strode back to the house, up the front steps, and down the hall to his study. Opening the door with one hand, he dropped her into the nearest chair, the soft thud of her bottom hitting the cushion. She emitted a low growl, her hands balled into fists.
My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) Page 5