How To Please a Pirate (10 page)

Hyacinth ended the debate with a clap of her
thin hands.

“That’s it. It’s not Mr. Meriwether we need
to fix. It’s Uncle Gabriel. Since he got here, Mistress Jacquelyn
is in a state and Mrs. Beadle is after us constantly to behave and
not mess the house because of the ball that we aren’t allowed to
attend,” Hyacinth said. “If we bedevil Uncle Gabriel back to the
sea, he’ll take old Mr. Meriwether with him and everything will go
back to the way it was. Then all we’ll have to manage is how to rid
ourselves of the next tutor.”

Daisy shook her head, mutinous for the first
time. “No, Hy, whatever you’re planning, I won’t be part of it. I
like Uncle Gabriel and I want him to stay.”

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes at Daisy. “Fine. I
will manage without you. Come, girls.”

The twins consulted each other briefly, then
sidled over to stand by Daisy. Lily sniffed, torn between her older
siblings.

“I like Unca Gabrul,” she finally said. “He
smell good and he give good hugs and he play pony.”

Hyacinth rose from her crouch with a regal
shake of her head. “So be it. I will do it myself.” She glared at
them. “Don’t think for a moment, I won’t.”

Daisy folded her arms over her chest. “You’ve
no clue how to proceed. Admit it, Hyacinth. You never had an
original idea in your life.”

“Well, I’ve got one now,” she lied. “And it’s
brilliant. And when it works and there are no more pirates in
Dragon Caern, you’ll all thank me. See if you don’t.” She pursed
her lips in an expression she was sure made her appear wise beyond
her years. “And I’ll have no more of your sauce, Miss Daisy.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “I’ll not be holding
my breath.”

Dragon Caern’s armory was on the upper floor
of one of the many round towers within the castle’s curtain walls.
Shields emblazoned with the barony’s coat of arms hung at intervals
and several ancient suits of armor stood as silent sentinels.
Abundant light from countless arrow loops flooded the space and the
ancient oak floor was polished with age to a glassy sheen. Through
the centuries, countless squires and knights had exercised and
honed their skill in the space, but this day only four feet trod
the smooth planks.

“You will find this small-sword very much
more suited to your hand than what you’ve been using, my dear,”
Father Eustace explained to Jacquelyn as he presented the new
weapon to her hilt first. “Shorter than the rapier, light enough to
wield one-handed with ease, it should answer any defensive need a
lady might encounter.”

Surely Father Eustace knew that a sword
wouldn’t cure all defensive needs. Not if the woman wasn’t so sure
she wanted to defend herself. Jacquelyn shook off that weak-minded
thought and tested the blade with a few thrusts.

“The balance is perfect.”

“It pleases me to hear you say so, Mistress,”
he said. “But in these times of peace, I should be counseling you
to turning to plowshares instead of swords.”

“You know I value your counsel, but I value
your sword arm as well. Dragon Caern couldn’t ask for a better
master-at-arms. Thank you for teaching me.” She flexed her knees
and adopted a classic pose. “After all, before you turned to God,
you were the best swordsman in Cornwall.”

“Only because my brother had hung up his
spurs and Gabriel was at sea,” he said with modesty. Father Eustace
turned a sheepish eye on her. “I fear I honed my skill fighting my
way out of more married ladies’ bedchambers than I can count.
Husbands
will
come home when one least expects them.”

Jacquelyn looked askance at him. “Surely, you
exaggerate.”

“Surely, I understate.” He shook his head
ruefully. “You didn’t know me in the old days. Second sons tend to
grow up without many expectations, you see. I certainly had none
beyond the next pint or the next skirt. You have my apology if my
candor shocks you.”

“Remember who you’re talking to, Father,”
Jacquelyn said, still trying to imagine Eustace as the rakehell he
claimed. “The fatherless daughter of a courtesan can’t afford to be
easily shocked.”

“In a perfect world, the accident of your
birth would not be held against you.” He sighed deeply.

“Alas for the Fall,” she said with a wry
smile before she struck the pose of challenge. “
En
garde
.”

“Alas, indeed.” Father Eustace saluted her
with his sword and adopted a defensive posture. “Yet, even the
imperfect world is filled with wondrous surprises. Who would have
thought a reprobate like me would live to such an advanced age, let
alone spend the pleasant hours of my dotage training a young lady
in swordplay?”

“You’re no dotard.” She lunged forward. “And
I’m no lady.”

Father Eustace parried her stroke with an
approving nod. “In all the ways that count to the folk of Dragon
Caern, you are.”

“And in all the ways that matter to the
world, I am not,” she murmured.

If a well-born second son had few
expectations, a bastard girl had none. Her mother paid handsomely
for Jacquelyn to be educated in an exclusive school. To her fellow
students, the head-mistress passed Jacquelyn Wren off as a noble
orphan with a secret benefactor and kept Isabella’s visits to a
strict minimum. Jacquelyn acquired all the polish and
accomplishments of a lady, but without the necessary pedigree she
was unable to take her place among the nobility when she came of
age.

She might as well have been reared to be an
illiterate milkmaid.

The position of governess for the Drake girls
brought her to Dragon Caern. It was as high a perch as she dared
reach. When the Lady Helen died and Jacquelyn took over the duties
of chatelaine in such an effortless manner, it seemed not to matter
to the grieving residents of the castle that she couldn’t name her
sire.

But since she couldn’t, Gabriel Drake wasn’t
allowed to even consider her for his baroness. He would marry and
another would take her place as Mistress of the Caern. For a fuzzy
moment, she couldn’t decide which bothered her more. That her
position as chatelaine would be forfeit to another.

Or that the new lord would take another lady
to wife.

“Concentrate, Mistress.” Father Eustace’s
voice called her back to the moment. “Your guard is spotty.”

It certainly was. Whatever had possessed her
to return Gabriel’s kiss with such abandon in the garden? The taste
of his mouth rushed back into her unbidden and she was shamed to
find her lips tingling.

Father Eustace’s small-sword tip slipped
under her guard, pressing against her padded shoulder.
“
Touché.
If your purpose for study is self-defense, you are
sadly in want of attention this day.”

“Perhaps it’s because she feels no real
threat from you, Uncle,” Gabriel’s voice interrupted them.

Why had she allowed herself to think on him
at all?
Call up the devil and he will come.

When Jacquelyn turned to face him, he was
already drawing his blade.

“Well, Jack, once again we meet where swords
are crossed,” he said, running a thumb along the cutting edge of
his foil to test its sharpness. “You’ve been schooling me right
enough these past few weeks. Pinky out, napkin tucked, and let us
not forget, the rarified language of the fan. Time for turn and
turn about. What say you to another chance to gut me?”

“It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

“No, no, none of that, children.” Eustace
hastened between them, corking the tip of both blades. “If you’re
to practice, you’ll do it safely.”

“I’m not sure Miss Jack likes to play
safely,” Gabriel said, his dark eyes snapping. He raised his sword
and she lifted hers in answer. “In fact, even if I withdraw, I
suspect she’s likely to rush in.”

He spread his arms to the side, baring his
breast to her in an attempt to provoke an attack.

She suspected he was making a bald reference
to that blasted kiss she’d pressed upon him. And the deuce of it
was, he was right. He had pulled away from her lips in almost a
gentlemanly manner, but something dark flared to life in her belly
and come wrack or ruin, she had to kiss him again.

It was convenient to blame her mother for her
loose behavior.

Unfortunately, it was not just. Even if
Jacquelyn’s lustiness was an echo of her dame’s, it was not
Isabella Wren who forced herself on Gabriel Drake. Isabella would
have been too cunning for such a blatantly wanton display.

“The trick, darling,” her mother would always
say, “is to lead the man to believe that he is taking the
lead.”

Gabriel seemed to be leading right now, but
it was none of Jacquelyn’s doing. He lifted a dark brow in
question, daring her to engage him.

“Defend yourself, my lord,” she said in a
silken tone laced with spurs.

“No, nephew. Not without proper padding,”
Eustace said. “I’ll not have it.”

“You’ve nothing to say about it, uncle. This
is between Mistress Wren and me. I may not be able to defend myself
from those little hellions everyone assures me are my nieces, but
if the day comes when I can’t face down an armed woman intent on
doing me harm, I’ll slice my own throat.”

“Gabriel, caution is always wise,” Father
Eustace began in a conciliatory tone. “As the Good Book says,
‘Pride goeth—“

“And so do you, uncle. Right now.” Gabriel
cast him a black frown.

Eustace tossed an apologetic shrug to
Jacquelyn, signed a benediction in the air between them and
shuffled to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

“If the pair of you force me to administer
last rites this day, I’ll see that you both spend a hundred years
in purgatory—at the least!” The door slammed behind him.

“Father Eustace is right,” Jacquelyn said.
“Suit up or I’ll concede and you’ll never know if you could have
bested me.”

“I’ll take my chances. Besides, Mistress,
give me credit for knowing you a little bit. It’s not in your
nature to concede. Let’s make this interesting, shall we?” Gabriel
said as he drew nearer. “A wager?”

“And what might I have that you care to win?”
She circled slowly, looking for a weakness. “Last time you disarmed
me, you seemed to think you had the right to carve up my clothing
and unbutton my shirt. I suppose this time you expect I’ll forfeit
my maidenhead.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she
wished she could pluck them from the air and unsay them.

His brows shot upward. “An interesting idea,
but no. The rare gift of a maidenhead is something that can’t be
forfeit. Such treasure must be given or there’ll be no pleasure at
all in the exchange for either of us.” His mouth spread in a slow,
wicked smile as he mirrored her circular steps. “However, it
pleases me no end that your thoughts are running in that direction,
Jacquelyn.”

She growled low in the back of her throat and
lunged. He parried her thrust and danced back a step.

“Tsk, Mistress. You’re rushing your fences
again. Much as there is to commend unbridled passion, there’s more
to be said for control.” He loosed a string of light blows that had
her giving ground, though she turned his blade each time.

She drew a deep breath and returned his
assault in a more measured and effective way.

“Much better,” he said with a smug grin. “I’m
delighted to find you so apt a pupil.”

“Perhaps it is you who will be schooled, my
lord,” she said with a deft flick of her blade that he barely
managed to meet. “What is your wager?”

“First touch on the torso wins. If I manage
to penetrate your defenses, all I demand is the truthful answer to
one question,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Something about
the way he said ‘penetrate your defenses’ made all sorts of
unsuitable images spring to her mind. The kind of images that made
her nipples tingle. “And what might that question be?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” His sinful smile
would have tempted a saint. “Not knowing is part of the wager. Do
you accept?”

She nodded warily. “And if I win?”

“What do you want most?” his silky baritone
rumbled through her.

You
, a dark part of her clamored. His
black eyes sent forbidden thoughts rushing through her brain and
heat flared in her belly. An image burned across her vision . . .
of the unpredictable, utterly male Lord Drake pressing her against
the ancient stone walls . . . with her skirt hiked to her waist.
She shook off her inner wanton and forced a scowl. Of the all men
in the world for her to lose her battle with lust over, why must it
be this bloody pirate?

“If I win,” she said, schooling her voice
into bland evenness, “I want you never to seek private speech with
me again.”

“An acceptable wager. Besides, speech is
highly over-rated,” Gabriel said. “There are plenty of things we
can do with each other that don’t involve talking at all.”

“You are purposely misunderstanding me,” she
accused.

“No, I understand you far better than you
think, Mistress.”

That’s what she feared most.

“In earnest, then.” Gabriel Drake brought his
sword before his face in salute. “Defend yourself, Miss Wren, for
this is a contest I don’t intend to lose.”

In the flurry of steel that followed,
Jacquelyn barely held her own. Through monumental concentration,
she managed to turn his foil tip at the last possible moment
whenever it chanced to slip beneath her guard.

“Bravely done,” he conceded after a
particularly well-executed feint and riposte.

“Not yet,” she murmured through clenched
teeth. “Your gut is still intact.”

He laughed. “Good thing I like bloody-minded
little minxes, Jack.”

She clamped her lips tight. He was trying to
rattle her with conversation when all her attention needed to be on
his naked blade.