Care and Feeding of Pirates (9 page)

Honoria toyed with the pouch's drawstrings.
"Will you come with me?"

"To feather the marriage nest? No, love, that
is your preserve. I have pirate things to do."

"What?" she asked, suddenly worried. "What
did you need to speak with Grayson about last night? He was the
true reason you came to Alexandra's ball, wasn't he? It had nothing
to do with me."

"You're right," he said, with painful
bluntness. "I've been reduced to begging help from Grayson
Finley."

"Help with what?"

"Help finding the last of my crew. Rescuing
her if necessary."

Honoria's brows went up. "Her?"

Christopher nodded. "Manda Raine. My
sister."

*** *** ***

Christopher made his way back upriver and met
Grayson and the ubiquitous Mr. Henderson in a tavern near Covent
Garden. Smells of ale, cabbage, horses, humans, and warm river
wafted through the open door and settled inside the close room.

Henderson wore a fine cashmere suit,
dandified cravat, and boots so shiny he must have to polish them
every time he crossed a street. Christopher wondered how the man
managed to survive on board ship where baths were scarce and dirt
was a way of life.

Finley, on the other hand, looked comfortable
in a loose coat and shirt, worn breeches and boots. The viscount's
Mayfair house was lavish, his wealth vast, his wife respected, his
position in society assured, yet he still looked more at home in a
working-class tavern.

"You miss it," Christopher said.

Finley knew exactly what he was talking
about. "I do sometimes."

"You could always go back to sea."

Finley shrugged, wrapping his hands around
his glass of ale. "Alexandra has her social calendar. The ladies,
as you'll come to know, live by their social calendars."

Honoria could do all the socializing she
wanted, during the day. At night, however . . . "What about you,
Henderson?" Christopher asked. "Why aren't you out with your
captain scouring the Barbary Coast?"

Henderson took a fastidious sip of port and
wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. "I needed to visit my
tailor."

"You braved interrogation by the Admiralty to
buy a suit?"

Henderson looked surprised. "My tailor's Bond
Street shop has been making clothing for the Hendersons for
generations. There is none better in the world."

Finley shot Christopher a
don't ask
look and drank his ale.

Christopher knew that men from all walks of
life ended up on the sea for various reasons. Ships, especially
pirates, became a melting pot of many cultures and social strata.
Christopher was half French and half English, though he'd been born
and raised a pirate. He'd learned to tie lines and climb rigging at
the same time he learned to walk.

Christopher's father, Emile Raine, had been a
smalltime pirate of French birth who ran between Barbados and the
Carolinas. His mother was an English captain's daughter who'd been
sailing with her father on a merchantman bound for the West Indies.
Her world and that of Emile Raine had collided after a larger band
of pirates had raided the merchantman, murdered the captain and
most of the crew, stolen the ship, and condemned the captain's
daughter and the few men left alive to a longboat.

Christopher's father had taken the survivors
on board. Emile had liked the look of the young Englishwoman,
snatched her away to his cabin, and likely raped her. He'd fallen
in love with her in his own fashion, and kept her with him.
Christopher had no idea if they'd ever officially married, but his
mother always behaved as though she were his father's legal
wife.

Christopher's mother had tried to raise
Christopher to be a good Englishman and Anglican, with poor
results. His father pretended to fear God, but in truth, Emile
Raine feared nothing.

When Christopher was ten years old, their
ship was attacked by yet another band of pirates and their hold
stripped of its contents. Christopher's father had planned to sell
that cargo to get them through the winter.

Emile, brave and stupid, had told the pirate
captain where he could shove himself. The pirate captain had shot
him dead. The pirate captain then tried to rape Christopher's
mother. Christopher had grabbed one of the pirates' pistols and
shot the pirate captain through the head.

The other pirates had said
good
riddance,
thrown the bodies overboard, and elected a new
captain. That captain divided the spoils and set the Raine ship
alight, because it was not worth saving. The new captain told
Christopher's mother to bring her little son and stepdaughter and
come with him, and Christopher's mother had obeyed, not having much
choice.

A few months later, Christopher's mother
escaped ashore to the Carolinas without taking Christopher or
Manda. Christopher never saw her again.

He and Manda had found a home among those
pirates who'd burned their father's ship. Emile and crew had been
petty criminals--these men were tough, fearless, and smart. They
taught Christopher how to track a ship, how to tell if it were
loaded or running empty, how to assess cargo for the best yield,
how to sell it safely for the best price. By the time Christopher
reached the age of fourteen, he'd become as much a pirate as any of
them, as ruthless and cruel as only the young can be.

Now he was twenty years older, and different
things mattered.

"Discover anything more?" he asked
Finley.

Finley nodded, blue eyes quiet. "Alexandra
had the right of it. I knew she would. Earl Switton lives in
Surrey, near Epsom. I don't know him myself, but Henderson
does."

That explained Henderson's presence. "Where
do I find him?" Christopher asked. "Let us go have a conversation
with this earl."

Henderson shook his head. "A commoner does
not pay an impromptu call on a lord. He makes an appointment, which
might or might not be granted."

"Sorry, I forgot to bring my etiquette book.
But I have a lord sitting right here. Finley can pay an impromptu
call on him."

"No, I can't," Finley said. "We haven't been
introduced. He's an earl, and I'm only a viscount." He grinned. "A
hanging offense."

"You may laugh," Henderson broke in. "But you
ignore the rules at your peril. If you don't follow them, you'll
never get near Lord Switton."

"True," Christopher said. "All right, we'll
play your game. What do I do to gain an appointment with this great
man?"

"You can't," Henderson said. "But I can. He
and my father went to school together. I've already written to
him."

"Kind of you," Christopher said. "But why
should you? You looked ready to shoot me last night."

Henderson said nothing, sipping his port in
silence. Finley answered, "Because my wife asked him to help.
Henderson will do anything for my wife."

Finley spoke lightly but his look was
slightly irritated. Christopher sensed an old annoyance between the
two that went beyond the banter at this table.

Christopher was not interested. He drained
his ale. "Whatever his reason," he said, "we'll go to Surrey
tomorrow. Thank you, Henderson. I'm obliged."

*** *** ***

By the time Christopher reached Greenwich
again, the night was inky black and well advanced. Honoria would be
tucked under whatever bedding she'd bought, asleep, her flushed
face pillowed on her arm.

Christopher's heartbeat quickened as he made
his way through the dark and quiet docks. He knew he'd upset
Honoria with his abrupt resurrection, but she'd soon settle down
and see his way of things. He had this entire voyage in which to
teach her, and he'd use every minute of it.

Honoria had nearly come to climax under his
hand last night with very little petting. That pleased him. His
wife could pretend to be confused about her feelings toward
Christopher, but her body knew better. He thought about how she'd
put her hand on his arm when he'd tried to leave her alone in
Alexandra's bedchamber. She'd said,
Stay,
with the sweet
catch in her voice.

>
Forever and ever, my wife.
The
taste of her honey had almost undone him. For four long years the
remembered taste of her had kept Christopher alive. He looked
forward to tasting her again.

But the
Starcross,
when he arrived,
was in an uproar.

A dog barked incessantly in the bow.
Christopher heard voices raised in argument--one of Colby, his man
in charge of the crew. Christopher's third-in-command, a tall
Frenchman called Jean St. Cyr, stood by, arms folded, coolly silent
as usual. The rest of the crew hung about with attitudes of
delighted curiosity.

Colby was exchanging irritated shouts with
men below him on a longboat. The boat was laden with boxes, crates,
and unidentifiable dark bulks under blankets.

Christopher climbed the steep ladder-stair up
into the ship. "All right, Colby, what is it?"

Colby, a huge bear of a man, swung around
just as Honoria emerged from below decks. Instead of being snuggled
up in bed, Christopher's wife was wide awake, looking quietly
efficient in a plain lawn dress and white cap. A matron's garb,
probably borrowed from Mrs. Ardmore or Lady Stoke. She'd decided to
embrace the married state all the way.

With her was Colby's wife, a former barmaid.
Mrs. Colby wore a look of vast amusement as she surveyed the
scene.

"Colby," Christopher repeated.

Colby growled. "This bloke here says he's
putting all this junk on board. And he wants money for it."

The bloke in question turned a belligerent
gaze up to Christopher. "It's been ordered. I'm not leaving without
my coin."

"Well, I didn't order it," Colby snapped.
"Neither did St. Cyr."

"
I
did," came the quiet reply.

*****

Chapter Eight

As Christopher had expected she would,
Honoria stepped forward and gave Colby a cool look. "It is all
right, Mr. Colby. I made the order and told him to bring it here.
Mr. Raine is paying for it." She looked over the rail at the man in
the boat. "Bring it this way, please. Down to the main cabin. Do
hurry--it is growing chilly."

Colby threw up his hands and walked away.
Honoria waited serenely while an odd assortment of things began
finding their way to the deck. There was a lady's armchair
upholstered in petit point with a footstool to match. A pile of
quilts, bedding, and pillows followed.

Honoria had certainly been busy. She'd bought
towels, boxes of soap, swaths of linen, pewter mugs, jars of tooth
powder, and a basin for hand washing. She'd bought odd things
too--a crystal candle holder, silk cushions, framed paintings, and
an Egyptian-style statuette that would fall over during high seas
and hurt someone.

Some of the things were practical, like the
rattan cabinet for clothes and the square trunk designed to slide
under a bunk. Others were . . .

"What is that?" Christopher demanded as a
brass oval basin was hoisted over the side.

"A bath," Honoria said.

"Honoria."

The tapes of her cap floated in the breeze,
and few curls escaped to wisp about her forehead. "Yes?"

"At sea, there's not enough clean water to
spare for a full bath."

"No?"

Honoria knew that, having lived in a
seafaring family all her life. Christopher raised his hands in a
gesture of surrender. "Very well. Put it below."

Honoria kept her gaze deliberately neutral,
but he could see that she was waiting for him to rail at her, to
tell her what an idiot she was for buying all these things. She was
spoiling for a fight.

Christopher smiled at her.
Challenge me
all you want, my wife
.
I'm always up for a
challenge.

He signaled the men to keep it coming, and
looked over everything without a word. He spoke up only when he
spied a crate containing an entire service of porcelain plates and
a large set of silver cutlery.

"Are you planning a dinner party, my
wife?"

"Those are for you," Honoria said. "A ship's
captain must be distinguished from his crew. These are for you and
those officers you invite to dine with you."

"We're pirates," Christopher said
tersely.

A pirate crew trusted their captain to make
decisions, guide the ship, and lead them in a fight. Any captain
who started strutting about like a bloody English admiral got
thrown overboard. But Honoria knew that as well.

He gave her a level look. "Have it all taken
below. I'll speak to you there."

Honoria nodded and turned away, but he caught
her small smile of satisfaction.

Christopher moved to St. Cyr. The Frenchman
had a chiseled face and very light blond hair that went with his
light blue eyes. St. Cyr always reminded Christopher of a quiet
iceberg. Defying the stereotypes of Frenchmen, he rarely drank
anything stronger than water and believed abstinence to be the key
to good health.

"I'm beginning to see your way of thinking,"
Christopher told him now.

St. Cyr remained unsmiling. "A glass of port
mixed with water once a week is all that is needed to keep the
humors in balance." So he'd said many times before.

"When I'm not with Mrs. Raine," Christopher
said, "make certain she stays out of the way of the crew. But any
disciplinary measures involving her or because of her will be
handled by me, not Colby."

Colby usually kept order among the men, and
he was good at it. He was evenhanded and meted out the specified
punishment when the rules were broken, no more, no less.

"Understood, sir," St. Cyr said.

Christopher couldn't be sure, but he thought
he saw a twinkle of amusement in the iceberg's eye.

"Make sure all this junk gets stowed, then
shut down for the night."