Care and Feeding of Pirates (2 page)

No, that was wrong. That memory was Honoria
trying to place a romantic glow on what really happened.

What he'd done was hold the pamphlet over his
head, grin impudently, and tell her he'd give it back if she kissed
him. Honoria had grown annoyed at his presumption and told him so,
but his smile had outdone her. She'd risen on tiptoe, trembling all
over, and pursed her lips. He'd bent to her, eyes closing, and
kissed her.

In an instant, every bit of playfulness
between them had vanished. Christopher had kissed her again, and
again, dragging her closer. The pamphlet had fallen, unheeded, to
the floor.

Her heart pumping wildly, Honoria had twined
her arms around his neck and frantically kissed him back.

She'd let him lower her to the cool tiles,
let him twist his hand through her hair, let him do so many
things.

She thought he'd want her virtue, but he had
not asked for it. He'd touched her in every other way, but they'd
not joined. Not then.

Afterward, he'd returned her pamphlet, said
good-bye, and walked away. He'd glanced back at her once, his gray
eyes unreadable, studying her as though trying to understand
something. Then he'd turned, and was gone.

Honoria had not seen him again for nine
years.

In 1809, Captain Raine captured a fabulous
prize, a ship called the
Rosa Bonita
, which was filled to
the brim with gold from Mexico and bound for Napoleon. Newspapers
printed story after lurid story about the ship's capture and the
devastating loss for the French, who were struggling to fund their
ongoing war. The legend of Captain Raine grew.

By then James had turned pirate hunter. He'd
gone after his old friend Christopher, and caught him.

Christopher was brought in, tried, and
condemned to death. Of the Mexican gold there had been no sign.
Christopher refused to tell what had become of it, and typically,
James had not cared. Let the world speculate on the missing
gold--James wanted only one fewer pirate on the seas.

During the week that Christopher was
imprisoned, Charleston went mad for pirates. The newspapers printed
stories about legendary pirates of old, a pirate fair was held near
the docks, ladies hosted masked balls with pirate themes.

Women of dubious repute flocked to the
fortress where Christopher was being held. They begged to see him,
begged for a lock of his hair or a scrap of his clothing. Ladies in
fine carriages pretended they needed to pass the fort on their way
somewhere else, and sent footmen to make these same requests.

But the only lady admitted, shrouded and
veiled from curious eyes, was Honoria. To her surprise, the turnkey
had let her in, taken her to the filthy cell in which Christopher
received visitors, and locked her in with him. She'd unshrouded
herself and faced him with nothing to say.

Christopher was no longer an arrogant youth.
Sandpaper bristles covered his jaw, and his eyes and mouth bore
lines at the corners. He wore an old shirt, breeches, and scarred
boots that had seen better days. But his hair was just as
wheat-blond, his eyes as clear gray, his smile as sinful.

They'd studied each other for a time in
silence. Then he'd said he was glad she'd come. Honoria had touched
his cheek and asked him to kiss her.

No, no, that memory was another glossing over
of the past. In truth, Honoria had wordlessly clasped his arms, and
Christopher had gathered her to him and kissed her. She remembered
the rasp of his unshaved whiskers on her lips, the strength of his
arms on her back.

They were on the floor before they'd spoken
more than two sentences. Proper, sweet, genteel Honoria had let
Christopher take her to the floor of the cell and make love to her.
The memory brought heat to her face, a flush to her body. He'd
asked her permission . . .

No.
Again, her treacherous memories
were trying to make the encounter sweetly romantic.

It had not been romantic at all, but hot and
panicky, rough and aching. He'd said in a low voice, "I'm going to
die, Honoria. I want something to think about when they take me to
the gallows."

She'd touched his face, so rough and hard and
unlike those of the proper Charleston gentlemen who courted her.
Honoria thought about the throng of women outside, each of whom
would gladly give to Christopher what he wanted. "Why?" she asked.
"Why do you want
me
?"

"Because you came to me," he'd answered. "And
I love you."

He lied about the last part. She knew that.
It was what a gentleman said to a lady to seduce her. Women longed
to be cherished, not just wanted, and gentlemen used that fact to
their advantage.

Honoria had quietly said he could have her if
he liked.

No, if she made herself face the truth, she'd
begged, "Please, Christopher," and clung to him like a wanton. He'd
laughed, kissed her, brought her to heated readiness, and thrust
himself inside her.

When they were finished, Christopher had
kissed her gently and helped her to dress. He'd made a last request
of his jailors, and to her amazement, they'd granted it.

The next day, they'd dragged Christopher to
the gallows. The newspapers had printed a flamboyant account of the
hanging, which most of Charleston flocked to see. Honoria stayed
firmly at home, shut herself in her room, and told everyone she was
ill. She'd tied a black ribbon around her box of keepsakes and
pushed it to the back of her drawer.

That day had been the worst of her life.
Today was becoming a fast contender.

The droplet of ink fell from her pen and
became an ugly blob on the paper. One transparent tear followed
it.

Honoria quickly tore the paper from the book,
crumpled it, and pushed it aside. Setting her lips, she touched the
pen to the paper again and scribbled,
Attended a performance
of
Love's Labor's Lost
, which I've always thought a silly
play. The actors, I don't believe, had ever been in love before.
The
Labor
part of the title was the only truth.

She paused. Her fingers shook, and she
quieted them.
I believed the actors fools. Or am I the fool? I
thought I saw . . .

She stopped. She could not write his name,
even now.
I believe I am becoming senile. According to London's
very low opinion of spinsters, I should be off my head by now.
Thank heavens for Mr. Templeton's proposal or I should be quite
unsavable.

Honoria lowered the pen, her fingers aching.
Her head hurt, and she could no longer think of bright, amusing
things to write.

She heard Diana's muffled footsteps on the
stairs as her sister-in-law ascended to the third floor. Just above
Honoria's room lay the nursery, where Isabeau and Diana's baby son
slept. James and Diana had named the baby Paul. Honoria thought
this a little unfair to the child, because anyone called Paul
Ardmore would have very big shoes to fill.

Honoria lifted the pen and wrote in the book,
My entire life is a lie.

She underlined
lie
. She heard Diana
crooning upstairs, "Who's mama's ickle lad, then?"

Honoria wiped her pen and placed it in the
pen tray, then rose from her writing desk and turned toward the
bed.

Christopher Raine was standing next to
it.

*****

Chapter Two

Honoria stepped back and upset the chair,
which fell against the desk, dislodging her journal and pen tray.
The pen tray crashed to the floor with a loud clatter, the pens
rolling across the carpet.

Diana's footsteps creaked to the stairs
above. "Honoria? Are you all right?"

Honoria dashed to the door and flung it open.
"Yes, indeed," she called up. "I dropped my pens, that is all."

Diana peered down the half-dark staircase,
little Paul hoisted on one arm. After a long moment, she said, "All
right then. Good night," and retreated up the stairs.

Honoria shut the door but resisted turning
the key. If Diana heard the click of the lock, she might be down
again, demanding to know what was the matter.

Honoria turned around again. Christopher was
gone.

"Oh, no you don't," she said. "I saw you this
time."

Christopher stepped out from behind the bed,
where he'd moved so the hangings would hide him in case Diana came
all the way downstairs. He approached Honoria as she stood,
motionless, by the writing table.

He certainly looked alive. His quiet
footfalls and the creak of his leather boots made him sound
alive.

Christopher had been hard-muscled and fine of
body four years ago, and he was even more so now. The shirt that
clung to broad shoulders showed his solidity, and black breeches,
shiny with wear, stretched over large thighs. His boots, worn and
black, rose past his knees and tracked mud and tar onto Diana's
lovely carpet. Candlelight burnished golden bristles on his jaw and
the finer curls at the opening of his shirt.

"Why are you alive?" Honoria blurted.

"That happy to see me, are you?"

Something had happened to Christopher's
voice. It had always been deep, with a faintly French accent, but
now it had an edge to it, as though it had been broken and
imperfectly repaired. Gravel on a dry road had a sound like
that.

Christopher cupped her shoulders, heat of
them burning through her dressing gown as though the silk didn't
exist. "The last time we met, you threw yourself into my arms," he
said.

"The last time." Honoria gulped air. "Why is
there a this time?"

"Because there is. Stop talking and let me
kiss you."

Christopher bent to her, his breath on her
lips, his eyes cool, clear, and gray. Honoria silenced every
screaming question in her mind, twined her arms about his neck, and
kissed him.

For a moment Christopher stopped, as though
he hadn't believed she'd kiss him back. Then he touched his thumbs
to the corners of her mouth, parting her lips for him, licking
behind them, opening her, as demanding as ever.

Their mouths met and parted, breath tangling,
Christopher drawing her up to him as though the time between their
last kiss and this had been seconds, not years.

Honoria couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He
was here, in her arms. Alive.

Christopher eased out of the kiss and looked
down at her, thumb brushing moisture from her lips.

For a ghost he was certainly solid. And hot.
She'd never felt anything like it short of sticking her hand into a
fire. But then, they said Christopher had gone straight to hell and
been turned away. Even Beelzebub had not wanted him.

Honoria ran her hands across his shoulders,
down his back, up under his warm hair. No man could be more alive
than this. His pulse beat strong in his throat, and his hardness
pressed her thin dressing gown.

Christopher nudged his bent knee between
hers, pulling her against his body. She found her dressing gown
parting, his thigh resting between her legs, right against her
opening through her nightrail. Honoria wanted more than anything to
slide along that thigh, to savor the sweet friction.

"That's the Honoria I remember," he said.

Each time they met had been like this. They'd
spoken a few phrases then came together frantically with lips,
hands, and bodies.

Christopher dragged her closer while he
opened her mouth under his again. His lips were strong, masterful,
bruising. He knew what he wanted and took it.

Honoria tried to push him away, but it was
like pushing a brick wall. The bristles on his jaw burned her skin
as he deepened the kiss.

Honoria's body melted to his, his hand
running down the placket of her dressing down, fingers dipping
inside to her bare skin.

"Christopher," she tried to whisper against
his mouth. "We must talk."

Christopher's eyes were like smoke in the
sunshine. "I don't want to talk just yet."

"But you're supposed to be dead."

"You keep saying that. Inconvenient for you,
is it?"

The ties on his shirt were frayed. He smelled
of soap and tar and the faint musk Honoria would remember until the
day she died. "No, I want you to be alive." She traced the muscles
of his chest through his shirt. "But I don't understand . . ."

He cupped her face in his hands, his
fingertips warm on her cheeks. "For once we have a convenient bed.
But I think I prefer the floor, with you."

They had carpet this time, at least. But if
Honoria allowed him to take her there, she would surrender to him
again, and that would be the end of her. She'd burn to a crisp and
be nothing but a pile of ash.

Christopher's absence hadn't diminished his
strength. He tilted Honoria's head back, threaded his hands through
her loosened hair, and kissed her again, not giving her any
choice.

He was right--explanations could come later.
Honoria parted her lips, letting him explore her mouth in slow,
familiar, intimate, breathtaking strokes.

The door clicked open, and a cold draft
poured into the room. From the doorway, Diana said clearly, "Take
your hands off her, or I will shoot you."

Christopher stopped. In tense silence, he
eased his mouth from Honoria's and took one step away from her.
Looking neither alarmed nor angry, he steadied Honoria on her feet
and turned to face the intruder.

Diana stood on the threshold in a green silk
dressing gown, her red hair hanging over her shoulder in a long
braid. She held a pistol in one firm hand was pointing it straight
at Christopher.

Honoria stepped in front of him, her legs
barely supporting her, her throat aching and tight.

"It is all right, Diana," she said clearly.
"He is my husband."

*** *** ***

"I still do not understand," the red-haired
woman called Diana Ardmore said. She touched the creased piece of
paper that Honoria had given her, which proclaimed that Christopher
Raine and Honoria Ardmore had been married in Charleston, South
Carolina, on the Eighth of November, 1809.