Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  Chapter 1

  New Orleans

  June 1720

  No! Please, God, no…

  Elisabeth paused, her hand poised upon the doorknob. She considered knocking, thought better of it. Instead, she waited, in silence, listening.

  The sounds reached her again. A giggle, hastily suppressed. Gasps, moans, a shout of ecstasy. That shout was a sound she had heard infrequently, but she could not be mistaken. It was the near animalistic roar of pleasure her husband always emitted at the point of his climax.

  Elisabeth gazed at the closed door, her lips pressed tight closed to choke back her sobs. Or her own shriek of bitter anger and resentment. Married less than a year, and her husband insisted upon tumbling one of their household staff, for it could be no other. And in her own house, the mansion she had grown up in, the home she had shared with her parents until their sudden and unexpected death in a carriage accident not eighteen months ago.

  How had it come to this?

  Which of the maids? Elisabeth wondered. Which of her servants had betrayed her with her own husband?

  She was not blessed with much time to ponder that question. Elisabeth was stung into action by the sound of footsteps from within, coming towards where she stood, frozen to the spot. Elisabeth bolted back from the door to her husband’s bedchamber and ran along the upper hallway until she reached an alcove and slipped into it. Scant seconds later, the door opened, and Giles Chirac, her husband, emerged. He was still fastening his breeches.

  Elisabeth watched in silence, then ducked right back into the shadows when she saw that he meant to walk in the direction of her hiding place. Mercifully, he was too immersed in his own thoughts, or perhaps too arrogant to care if he was observed or not. In any case, he passed where she hid with not a glance to either side and disappeared down the main staircase leading to the front vestibule.

  Shocked, still shaking with anger, crushed, humiliated, hurt beyond bearing, Elisabeth remained where she was. She had known, well, suspected, her husband’s infidelity but preferred to disregard the evidence, the truth staring her in the face. She pretended not to notice the knowing expressions of those who poured out her tea or helped her into her clothes each morning. She chose not to take issue with her husband over his apparent lack of interest in sharing her bed. She would not need to go to the trouble of removing her second glove in order to count the number of times Giles had joined her in her bedchamber since the day they had been wed.

  She harboured her suspicions in private, maintained the façade of dutiful, devoted wife. She sat opposite her husband at the dinner table, exchanged pleasantries and snippets of gossip or household information. Every morning she kept a respectful silence when he spread out his newspaper at the breakfast table and ignored her polite enquiries as to how he had slept or his plans for the day.

  Giles had important duties, she knew that. He was the mayor of New Orleans, as had been her father until his death. It was a respected office, he had many weighty matters with which to concern himself, and it was her role to support him and ensure that his home was comfortable and well-managed. Her mother had performed the same duties with skill and aplomb, and Elisabeth longed for nothing more than to emulate her.

  She had done her best. The mayoral mansion, her own inheritance from her parents, ran like a well-oiled machine. She, herself, had never denied her husband access to her bed, though she did not find his company there especially uplifting. It was his right, though. Men had needs, she was well aware of this and of her duties as a wife.

  She deserved better than this. If not his fidelity, she was at least entitled to respect. Must he flaunt his philandering under her nose? Involve her servants? Make use of her house for his indiscriminate rutting?

  Minutes passed. Elisabeth sought within the pockets of her gown and found her handkerchief. She dabbed at her tears, mopped up the wetness, drew in several fortifying breaths. Giles had gone too far this time. Or maybe something had changed within her. Either way, she would not let this matter pass unremarked. Not any longer. She would confront her husband, demand that he mend his ways. Their marriage was young, still, there was time to repair it, to find some manner of happiness together. She could, and would, forgive Giles’ indiscretions as long as he swore that he would not repeat them. It would be a difficult conversation, but in Elisabeth’s mind there could be but one outcome.

  She was in the right. Giles must be persuaded to see that. Thus resolved, she stepped from the alcove.

  The door to her husband’s room opened for a second time. Elisabeth stepped back to conceal herself once more. She leaned out, just enough to see who emerged, and was not surprised when the slender figure of her upstairs maid emerged. The girl scurried along the hallway, in the opposite direction, obviously making for the narrow servants’ staircase which would take her to the attic accommodation occupied by the household staff.

  Paulette Vêrtine.

  The girl was still straightening her apron as she made her way from her lover’s room, her thick, black hair askew under her cap.

  Elisabeth had suspected as much but was sorry even so. She liked the girl, in a peculiar, half-envious way. Paulette was vivacious, cheerful, full of lively chatter when she assisted Elisabeth at her toilette. The girl had a deft touch with a hairbrush, too, and her fluency in both French and English made her an asset to the house when they entertained distinguished guests from other states. Olive-skinned, with a lush figure and a manner of holding herself which Elisabeth could only describe as sensual, she could well comprehend her husband’s choice. The girl was lovely, that much was certain.

  She was also a slut. Worse, she had played the trollop under Elisabeth’s nose, with her husband. It had to stop.

  Again, Elisabeth emerged from the alcove. She turned in the direction of the main stairs. Giles would no doubt be in his study, and the coming confrontation would not improve for being delayed. Thus resolved, she strode across the marble-tiled vestibule and rapped smartly on the door of the room in which her father used to work or receive his visitors.

  The study had been taken over by Giles when he’d determined that the mansion, occupied by his predecessor and now the property of his betrothed, would serve as their marital home. The grand house at the top of la Rue Bourbon was well-known in the city and associated with the office of mayor. Giles’ own properties, whilst perfectly adequate, he insisted, did not benefit from the same historical links.

  Elisabeth waited for a few moments, then knocked again. At last, the summons came from within. She opened the door and entered.

  The study was largely unchanged since the day her father left for the last time. His huge oak desk still dominated the room. His solid bookshelves, laden with the volumes he had collected throughout his lifetime, still lined the walls. His imposing carver chair, upholstered in green velvet, still occupied the spot just beside the window overlooking the front lawn and driveway, though now it was occupied by Giles Chirac, his feet propped on the corner of the desk. He regarded her with disinterest and reached for a cigar.

  “Monsieur Chirac,” Elisabeth began, her tone cold but polite, her form of address distinctly formal as befitted the occasion. She spoke in their native French. “I find there is a matter I must raise with you.”

  He narrowed his eyes and used her father’s tinderbox to light the cigar. “Really? Then please make it quick, madame. I do not have all day.”

  It occurred to Elisabeth that he looked for all the world as though he actually did, but she was not to be diverted. She opted to come straight to the point.

  “I observed one of the servants leaving your private bedchamber a few minutes ago.”

  He tapped the cigar on the edge of his ashtray. “And you disturbed me for that? I trust the wench performed her tasks with the bed linens adequately.”

  “She was not there to attend to your dirty linens, sir, as you well know since you left the room a few minutes before she did.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did I?�
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  “You did, sir, and…and you were still fastening your breeches.” She snorted, her disgust mounting. “Could you not have been even slightly more discreet?”

  “You are rambling, my dear. I do not have time for this.” He swung his feet to the floor and seated himself more fully at the desk. His attention was now on the piles of papers scattered about. He pointedly ignored her.

  Elisabeth was having none of it. She had embarked upon this course and was not about to stop now. She marched forward to plant her fists upon the polished oak and leaned down in order to look him in the eye. “This must stop, sir. It ends, here and now. Do I make myself clear?”

  Giles leaned back in his chair. His sneer was cruel, almost vicious. He raked her with his gaze, his features twisted in distaste. “No, madame, let me make myself clear. I will do as I see fit in my own home. You should think yourself fortunate that I took pity on you and gave you the benefit of my name, allowed you to remain in this rambling ruin. I am not about to be dictated to by my bloody wife. Now, get out.”

  “Your home? May I remind you whose house this is, sir.” Elisabeth’s temper was rising, testimony to her vivid red hair. “I will not be disrespected so.”

  “You will be whatever I determine you will be, madame. Your property became mine on our wedding. This is my house and my bloody servants. I shall do as I please with what I own, and you would do well to remember your place.”

  “You disgust me. To dally with the hired help, is it not beneath you?”

  He let out a salacious chuckle. “That little half-breed whore is certainly beneath me and has been on more occasions than I can recall. She is a satisfying little piece, though, I grant you that, which is more than I could say for you with your virginal white skin and bony thighs. At least the wench has tits that a man can grab a handful of. Sleeping with you is akin to bedding a boy, and that, madame, is not my inclination.”

  Elisabeth recoiled, horrified. Had he really said such hateful things?

  “Giles! I—”

  “Fuck off, Elisabeth. Go away and concern yourself with your needlework or watercolours or whatever mind-numbing trivia you choose to occupy your time with. I am sick of the sight of you.”

  “I cannot believe you would speak to me this way. I—”

  “Believe it,” he snarled, rising from the chair. He lunged around the desk and grabbed her arm.

  Elisabeth struggled, but he tightened his grip and simply dragged her to the door, opened it, and flung her out into the vestibule.

  “I said, fuck off.”

  The door slammed in her face before she could utter another word.

  Stunned, Elisabeth sank onto the closest hall chair. She could not believe what had just transpired, the manner in which her husband had spoken to her. And in her father’s own study! Why had she never seen this before, this cruel disdain, Giles’ absolute contempt for her, for her feelings? And what was that he had said about her property becoming his on marriage? She had known that, in law, this was often the case, but that was merely a theoretical detail. In practice, surely he did not consider her ancestral home to belong to anyone but her. It had been in her family for generations. The very notion was laughable.

  “Madame, are you all right?”

  Elisabeth glanced up. The household butler, Monsieur Levant, bent over her, his features etched with concern. He had served her family for more years than Elisabeth could recall.

  She nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, thank you. I am quite fine. Merely a little overcome by the heat today, I fear. I wonder, would you fetch me a glass of water, please?”

  “Of course, madame. Shall I serve it you here?”

  Elisabeth got to her feet and smoothed any stray wrinkles from her gown. “No, thank you. I shall be in the drawing room.” Her knees still a little unsteady, she made her way as elegantly as she could across the vestibule to reach the room she considered her own domain.

  Her sanctuary.

  Calmer now, Elisabeth sipped her water and considered her next move. She had fully expected to be able to convince Giles of the need for discretion and had failed utterly. She must, therefore, consider other steps in order to ensure that her house, at the very least, remained a place where she was treated with the respect owed to her and to her family name. If Giles would not end this sordid affair, then Elisabeth would do it for him.

  The girl must go.

  She needed an excuse, some valid reason to dismiss the wench. Of course, bedding the master of the house would suffice, but Elisabeth’s pride was not yet so totally shredded that she was prepared to allow that information to become public. No one must know what had really happened; she could not, would not, bear the humiliation. However, Monsieur Levant, in his capacity as head of the household staff, would expect an explanation, so she must come up with something.

  The solution was reasonably obvious. Elisabeth set her glass aside and returned upstairs, this time to her own bedchamber. She trotted back down bearing several items and encountered Monsieur Levant again in the hallway.

  “Please find the upstairs maid, Paulette Vêrtine, and have her attend me in the drawing room.”

  “Paulette, madame?” The butler bowed his head. “Is there a problem?”

  “I am afraid there is. A very serious problem indeed.”

  The girl did not appear unduly concerned when she followed the butler into the drawing room several minutes later. Elisabeth had chosen not to sit to conduct this unpleasant business. It was her experience that difficult conversations were better had on one’s feet, so she stood before her chaise longue and regarded Paulette Vêrtine with undisguised distaste. The wench might be innocent of the offence of which she was about to be accused, but that did not mean she was blameless. She had brought this upon herself. Elisabeth steeled her resolve as the girl bobbed a careless curtsey.

  Elisabeth had no intention of beating about the bush. The sooner this was done, the better. “Do you recognise these items?” She gestured to the collection she had brought down from her bedchamber a few minutes before.

  “Of course, my lady.” The girl perused the silver-plated hairbrush, hairpins, and the pair of silver earrings studded with pearls.

  “And where do they belong?” Elisabeth continued.

  The girl answered readily enough. “In your bedroom, my lady. On your dressing table.”

  “Quite correct.” Elisabeth paused, squared her shoulders, and quashed any lingering misgivings. “In that case, Vêrtine, perhaps you can enlighten me as to how they came to be secreted under your mattress.”

  The girl’s face was a mask of pure incredulity, and Monsieur Levant appeared just as surprised. He gaped open-mouthed at his mistress, then at the unfortunate maidservant.

  “I…no! They cannot have been.” The maid shook her head, her expression becoming more desperate now as the implications of her employer’s accusation began to sink in.

  Elisabeth experienced a pang of guilt but quickly quelled it. The girl deserved all she got. And in any case, she was a thief of sorts, taking what was not hers. “Are you suggesting that I am lying, girl?”

  The wench shook her head. “Of course not. But it is impossible. They could not have been there.”

  “Nevertheless, that is where I discovered them myself, not more than an hour ago. I take it you have no satisfactory explanation to offer.” Elisabeth hardened her tone. There was no point in weakening now, as she went in for the kill.

  “My lady, I have no idea…”

  “Lies. You are a thief as well as a liar. I will not have you in my house.”

  “But—”

  Elisabeth quashed any further argument. She was not especially proud of her actions this day but had been left with few options. The girl had to go, and this was the best way of achieving that. “Enough. You will pack your belongings and be off these premises within the hour.”

  The girl’s expression was frantic now. She looked to Monsieur Levant, as though salvation might be found there, but t
he faithful retainer would surely believe Elisabeth’s version of events. Sure enough, his haughty, disapproving expression told its own story. Elisabeth remembered to instruct him regarding making up the girl’s wages, then sank onto her chaise longue.

  She had done it.

  “Go on, slut, get out. I never wish to set eyes upon you again.”

  Chapter 2

  “Madame Chirac…?”

  The butler’s tone was nervous, hesitant. It was most unlike Monsieur Levant to be so reticent. Elisabeth glanced up from her embroidery to regard the man who waited in the doorway of her drawing room. He shifted from one foot to the other and had the appearance of one who would rather be anywhere else in the world at this precise moment.

  “What on earth is the matter, Levant? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

  The man’s features were pallid, ashen, and if she was not very much mistaken, his hands appeared to be shaking.

  He cleared his throat. “Madame, you must come. A…a situation has arisen…”

  “A situation? What sort of situation?” Elisabeth set aside her needlework and got to her feet. “What has happened?”

  “Please, Madame Chirac, come with me.” He turned and hastened from the room.

  Elisabeth followed, lifting her skirts in order to keep up with him when the butler took the main stairs two at a time. Not in the first flush of youth, Monsieur Levant was panting when he arrived at the upstairs hallway, but he did not break his stride or slow down. Elisabeth had no choice but to trot along in his wake. He paused at the door to her husband’s bedroom and waited for her to catch up.

  “I…in there, my lady.” He gestured to the door, which, unusually, stood ajar.

  Frowning, Elisabeth stepped past the butler and shoved the door open. She stood, horrified, taking in the scene before her.

  One of the maids, Marie Claire, lay on the deep-pile carpet, her uniform ripped to expose her right shoulder and breast. Bruising stained the girl’s neck. Her skirts were hitched up around her waist, and the bloodstains on her thighs told their own story. The maid lay still, lifeless, her pale features contorted in fear. Her final moments had been harrowing and cruel, her death both violent and degrading. The other upstairs maid knelt beside the body, weeping quietly. Madame Fançeau, the cook, perched on the end of the bed, patting the sobbing girl on the shoulder and muttering prayers to herself.