My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter 3

Never in Addison’s twenty-eight years had he imagined he would shackle himself with a wife for land. He’d agreed to a business deal.

He had to keep reminding himself it was a contract, only.

Not just a wife, sight-unseen, but a wife with a son.

His life as a rice farmer and merchant left no time for a wife. So, to his way of thinking, acquiring a wife should not have much consequence on his daily activities. Yes, the deal would work in his favor, he was sure.

William Cormac was the most successful merchant in Charles Town. He owned many of the plots to the east and west of Addison’s property. To expand his business, Addison needed that land. He’d tried to buy it from Cormac for the past six months, with no response. Then, out of the blue, the old man approached him one afternoon.

Cormac proposed his own deal: wed his widowed daughter, give her a proper life, and Cormac would give him the land and a small fortune for her dowry.

What kind of daughter was she that Cormac would essentially give up prime spots of land and a small fortune to get rid of her? Hideous, ugly, and tyrannical, no doubt. And, a son?

Cormac assured him she was a fine woman, loyal, brave, and honest. He said the boy, Holt, was two years old. Cormac had left the office and given Addison three days to respond.

Three days.

Each day he had drunk more and more.

How bad did he want the land? Without the land, he could not expand his business. He wanted to purchase a warehouse in London and be close to his brothers and father.

How could he not?

Cormac alluded that the woman needed protection from her past. How bad was her past?

He’d tried to rationalize it all in his mind.

He’d not need to bed her. She already had a child. He was a third son with no need to leave a title to a legitimate son, although he did have the title of Lord Penwilton, and a deteriorating castle in Scotland. The boy could inherit and that particular title would have an owner.

Addison thought of the bride. He could always buy the warehouse in London and live there. She need only the protection of his name and status.

Between his busy schedule, sometimes gone for months on end, and the running of the plantation and office, there would be no time to interact with a wife.

It was the perfect set-up. A marriage in name only. She could raise her son, and Addison would be free to continue with his business.

Surely, there were more positives than negatives.

After sobering up on the third day, he’d marched into Cormac’s office before he lost his nerve and accepted his offer. Addison assured the man his daughter would be in the best of hands, as well as her son.

Cormac had not smiled, but he did thank him with a somewhat dramatic sigh. Before leaving his office, he’d even made Addison swear he’d never tell a living soul that she was his daughter. Cormac said he'd need to refer to her as his niece to keep her identity a secret.

What was he getting himself into? From whom, or what, did she hide?

Addison had exited the office, sweat pouring into his eyes.

Near a year later, after sailing to various ports selling his rice, bargaining for future business, he had returned home. His tired body ready for the comfort of his own bed, he stood in the entryway of Cranford Hall.

A loud crash sounded above stairs, in the vicinity of his bedroom, and carried throughout the otherwise serene house.

Another crash sounded.

“What the bloody hell is that noise?” The deserted entryway ensured no one would answer as he climbed the steps.

Bypassing the sitting room door, he strode down the hallway to the bedroom door and threw it open as another shattering of porcelain echoed around him.

As the door banged against the wall, a scream shredded the air, followed by another crash of something he feared was quite valuable.

He inhaled sharply, his ears burning with rising anger.

Was this the lady who was to be his wife? If so, she’s quite mad, and, what is she doing in his bedroom?

The disheveled woman huffed and ranted unspeakable curses, even as her long, delicate hand reached for the vase on the mantle.

His entrance startled her. She turned in his direction and chucked the vase right at his head.

He ducked. The vase shattered against the wall, just left of its target.

Turning back to where she stood frozen, her chest heaving frantically, hair flying around her face, he became somewhat bereft of words.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

Her voice shook with fury, a slight lilting accent accompanied her words. Her back rigid and straight as if she were competing with a broomstick. She wasn’t frightened, not of his sudden entry, nor how he towered over her.

Brave, Cormac had said.

Had he not been so angry at her destruction of his property, he could have appreciated the delicate, yet wild beauty of her face. Her hands fisted at her sides, breasts straining against the top edge of the dress.

He shook himself, mentally, and narrowed his eyes on her. “I am the owner of this house, madam. The property you are destroying is mine.” He kept his voice low, firm, commanding, with an extra measure of menacing. It had, after all, cowed even the largest of men. She did not flinch nor blink; her chest continued to heave, breasts squeezing at the seams.

Her light-colored eyes narrowed back on him. “Don’t. You. Knock?”

He would not allow his mouth to drop open, nor a stutter erupt from his lips. But, he did have to take a moment to compose himself.

Aye, too brave by half.

Inhaling a deep breath, he counted to five. “Madam. This being my home, and my personal rooms, I do not need knock upon my own door.” He pronounced each word clearly, resisting the urge to stride over and shake the brazen look from her face.

She had the audacity to look offended.

He saw her inhale as if many unpleasant words were to tumble out.

He held up a hand, making sure she refrained from whatever was to come spewing forth. Her full lips pressed together, and her eyes condemned him to all the fiery agonies of Hell.

“Acquire a broom from one of the housemaids and clean up this mess, immediately. Then, you will make your way to the study, where we will speak in a civilized manner.”

Keeping his eyes steady on hers, they stared one another down.

He turned and pulled the door shut behind him with a satisfying thud.

Another crash reverberated off the door.

The lady had thrown another vase directly where he’d been standing. Brazen vixen!

He resisted the urge, just barely, of bursting through the door and taking the lady over his knee. A proper spanking is exactly what that one needed.

Jerking a hand through his hair, he strode to the stairs, but stopped short. A small shadow on the floor caught his attention, and the owner of the darkened silhouette, a lad, stared him down from across the hall.

Addison turned to see a head of shaggy, dark, chestnut curls disappear through the nursery door.

A sigh escaped him.

What madness had he consented to?

Most people of his acquaintance found his presence quite pleasing, especially the female variety. But, of course not
her
. She’d taken one look at him and thrown a bloody vase at his head.

His bride-to-be was quite literally tearing his room to shreds. And, he’d not observed one whit of fear.

Now, he must deal with a tiny lad who needed a father.

He prayed the boy had not inherited his mother’s temper.

Not used to being around small children, Addison stood in the open nursery door to see the boy standing near a box of figurines. A nursemaid slept peacefully in a chair near the window, her head resting against its back.

The lad wore typical children’s attire for his age. He was small of stature and chubby, with a mess of dark curls sticking out about his small head. Tiny hands dug around in the box before him. He noticed Addison standing in the doorway.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the hard concentration on the boy’s face, his tongue sticking out for added measure.

The boy found what he sought, shoving his fist in the air, a handcrafted, wooden toy grasped tightly in his fingers. His green eyes stared intently into Addison’s. “Ship!”

Addison gave the boy a smile and nodded, walking into the room and taking the small figurine from the boy’s hand.

“Yes, and a fine one too. I’ve just returned from sailing one of these fine vessels.” He turned the ship over, back and forth, looking it over, the boy’s large, emerald eyes wide with curiosity. He tousled the lad’s mop of hair and handed him the ship. “You’ll come visit my ships soon, I promise.”

The boy hugged his leg tight, a smile brightening his face. “Yes! Yes!”

Addison put a hand on the boy’s shoulders, patting his back. “Let me guess, your name is Holt, correct?” Cormac had mentioned his grandson’s name with great pride.

“Yes, sir. My name is Holt. I’m a pirate.” Holt stepped back, proud as a peacock, and smiled up at him.

Huge, green eyes melted Addison’s heart in that instant.

He crouched down and chucked the boy under the chin. “I’m Addison. You’re going to live here at Cranford Hall with me. We are going to be great friends, you and I.” Dimples in each cheek, deep pits, appeared along with his wide smile. “A pirate you say? You are going to need that ship.”

Holt nodded, dimples still firmly in place.

“Great. Then I supposed we have some sailing to do soon.” He gave the lad a squeeze before setting him away, a sudden rush of protective emotion swirling in the area of his chest. “I’ll come to check on you in a little while. Maybe we’ll go visit some of the horses. Some of them even like to be ridden.”

Holt dug once again into the figurine box, a determined look upon his face, and showed Addison a wooden horse. He acknowledged the find with a smile, his tempestuous mother clouding his thoughts—and how to deal with the feisty wench.

He left the room and headed to his study below stairs, catching the new housekeeper, Sarah, on her way into the parlor.

“Sarah, may I have a word?” It had taken some getting used to having her around. Unafraid to speak her mind, she displayed an unusual trait for a servant. Being gone for near a year, he’d forgotten how different was her temperament than the housekeepers of his acquaintance.

She grimaced, giving him a cool glance, as she turned from the parlor door. “Aye.”

Stopping before him, she folded her arms. He thought she might even tap her foot to show impatience at the interruption of her duties. She did not.

“What is it, my lord?” She sighed.

Two obstinate females under one roof? It was unheard of in his realm. He could blame William Cormac for both of them.

Looking down to address her, he could see the top of her frizzy, gray head. “Why is Mrs. Morgan in my rooms?”

“I’d not expected you back for another fortnight or more, My Lord,” she answered bluntly “The east rooms are noisy with the workers and would disturb even the stoutest of sleepers early in the morn.”

Addison’s lips twitched with a smile at the challenge in her eyes—as if he would dare oppose her decision. If he’d not been so perplexed by the woman in his room, or accustomed to this woman’s manner, the insolence she displayed would have her fired by any other employer.

“Right. Right. Of course, I’d not thought of that.” He nodded to her. “That was proper thinking, Sarah. I’ll talk to John and have him instruct his crew to begin their work a little later in the morning so Mrs. Morgan can properly use her own rooms.”

Sarah made a “harrumph” sound and marched away and through the parlor doors.

Shaking his head, he strode down the hallway and into his domain, his study. The first order of tonight’s business . . . pouring himself a sizable shot of brandy.

He threw the liquid down his throat, the satisfying burn following the alcohol. His thoughts turned to the widow with the voluptuous curves—definitely not hideous or ugly. He found himself quite relieved at that observation.

Crazy, perhaps, but quite extraordinary in her appearance.

She could not have been more than twenty, judging by the pureness and smoothness of her skin. It had been pale and yet glowing, freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and her shoulders. The startling, tilted, green eyes and the pout of her lips burned an image in his mind. The messy, fiery-colored hair complimented her eyes . . . but, her figure, that image remained rooted more prominently in his head.

In her fury, her breasts had been all but spilling from the top of her gown. She’d had a small waist and ample hips. Certainly attractive in the physical sense, he was unsure of her intelligence. Her personality left him wondering. As of now, she was too brave and too obstinate by far . . . definitely a noticeable temper.

What had angered her so? Had he been so mesmerized by her porcelain skin, her full breasts straining against the top of her gown, to inquire as to her pique?

Sighing, he spied the brandy decanter. Eying the size of his current glass, he set it down and grabbed the larger version next to it. Satisfied with its ability to hold more liquid, and deciding it not prudent to drink directly from the decanter, he filled the glass to the rim.

He’d been in Charles Town for nigh on three years now, and had been invited to many local plantations and parties. Many ladies had placed themselves in his way on any number of occasions, some more boldly than others . . . but, never bucking propriety in the manner in which they approached him. Various mothers introduced their daughters at social affairs—both mother and daughter with stars in their eyes.

Addison’s intuition had him running as fast he could in the other direction. He’d dealt with this in England before leaving. He had no need for a wife then. He had no need for a wife now, except, he’d made a gentlemen’s deal.