A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (16 page)

He caught her hand and regarded her ruefully. “Gossip isn’t always as accurate as it was when it spread the news about my yen for you, bonnie lass.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means, despite all the colorful tattle, I’m not and never have been a pirate.”

She peered into his face, clearly seeking some sign of his familiar teasing. But on this occasion, he was deadly serious. “Not a pirate?”

He shook his head and admitted the shameful truth. “I went into the Royal Navy as a lad, and spent the next twenty-odd years fighting most respectably for king and country. In fact, since the end of the French wars, I’ve devoted the majority of my time at sea to catching pirates.”

A faint frown drew her brows together. “So you’re a law-abiding citizen?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m terrifically sorry, my darling.”

She still looked as though she didn’t believe him. “But how on earth did the story spread?”

He shrugged. “My guess is that a Scots sea captain was already such an exotic addition to this secret corner of England that stitching piracy onto his history meant only an inch more embroidery. In people’s imaginations, it’s a wee step from navy man to lawless buccaneer, I suppose. At least it is in landlocked Penton Wyck.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I tried a couple of times. But I must admit, on other occasions…”

“You couldn’t resist leading me on?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” He couldn’t interpret her reaction. She was back to avoiding his eyes. “Are you
very
disappointed? I’m sure I could launch a career as a pirate now that I’ve retired from the navy, but it would mean going back to sea. And I’d much rather stay here with you.”

She sighed as heavily as if she’d slept through Christmas and missed all the fun. “I thought I was being so adventurous when I fell in love with you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll just have to face the painful truth and struggle on.” She raised her chin and at last, he caught the laughter in her face. “It’s too late to reject you and find a real pirate.”

He should have realized before this that she’d learn to accept his vilely unblemished past. He wasn’t the only one who liked to tease.

His eyes narrowed. “My dear Lady Channing, let’s get one thing straight—you’ll seek no pirate lovers while you’re married to me.”

She tilted her head. “Or what?”

He dragged her under him. “I’ll put you in the brig.”

“You could.” To his delight, she linked her hands behind his head and arched up until her breasts brushed his chest. She’d clearly forgiven his lack of piratical history. “But I might get lonely there.”

“Well, that won’t do.” He dropped a kiss on the racing pulse at the base of her throat. It seemed he wasn’t the only one getting excited. “I could maroon you on a desert isle.”

She pouted and tugged at his hair. “Even lonelier than the brig.”

He trailed his lips up the silky length of her throat and felt her shiver in quick response. “Not if I shared the island, too.”

“I…don’t like coconuts,” she said unsteadily as he nipped at her earlobe.

“Then that won’t do either. That settles it.” He smiled down at this woman he adored. He knew he must look completely pudding-brained with love, but he didn’t give a tinker’s damn. “I’ll just have to make every day of our life together an adventure, my bonnie. Starting this very minute.”

Christmas Eve, 1823

B
ess, Countess of Channing, emerged from the doors of Penton Abbey to survey the crowd assembled for the nativity play. This year, Sally Potts was a much more confident angel. Dr. Simpson was, as always, the innkeeper. Daisy pretended to be a biddable beast, but Bess didn’t trust the way she eyed Melchior’s crown. Ned White made his debut as Caspar. Last autumn, old George Morrow, who had filled the part for fifty years, had passed away peacefully in his sleep.

She smiled as her gaze traveled over her friends and neighbors dressed as shepherds and angels. Some new faces. A few old ones missing.

The year had brought so many changes to Penton Wyck. Not least the wholesale acceptance of the new earl. Her smile widened as her attention focused on the tall, russet-haired gentleman playing Joseph—and also keeping a wary eye on Daisy.

When she’d married Rory, Bess had been sure she couldn’t love him more. But a year had deepened her understanding and respect for her brave, openhearted husband. Today she watched him doing his best to appear at ease in a striped woolen robe, and she felt like love filled her whole life from corner to corner.

Sensing her observation, he raised his head and sent her an answering smile. She loved this preternatural connection they shared.

The footmen, now augmented to six, moved through the throng, serving the hot toddies that had proven so popular last year. Then an expectant silence fell as Rory raised his cup.

“This is my second year as part of this splendid Christmas pageant. I’d like to thank you all for your hard work. We look forward to another grand success. I’d also like to express my gratitude to the woman who is the heart of this community, my beloved wife. Bess, thank you for making me part of your world. When I arrived in Penton Wyck last year, I had no idea I’d found my true home. But you—and everyone here—have made me feel like I belong. I doubt there’s a more contented man in England…”

“Or Scotland,” Ned said, just loudly enough to raise a scattered laugh.

“Aye, or Scotland today. I give you my wife, my countess, and the woman I love. Lady Channing.”

Three energetic cheers broke out, ringing through the cold air. It hadn’t snowed this year, but Ralph Thompson, the oldest man in the village, swore there would be a heavy fall tonight.

Snow had fallen the first time Rory had kissed her. Ever since, Bess had been sentimental about a white Christmas.

“To you, my bonnie lassie,” Rory said.

Bess blinked back tears. She was disgracefully emotional these days. The villagers’ cheers, not to mention Rory’s beautiful speech, left her wanting to bawl like a lost calf.

“Th…thank you,” she said unsteadily, meeting Rory’s bright green eyes. “And I’d like to say a special thank you to my wonderful husband. Penton Wyck couldn’t ask for a better master and I couldn’t call a better man my lord.”

They were usually playful with each other—passion and laughter made for a stimulating life. She rarely spoke with such unalloyed sincerity. In homage, she sank into a deep curtsy, struggling a little with the straight cut of Mary’s blue robe.

Rory understood. Of course he did. His tender expression warmed her to the bone. Over the last year, their bond had deepened and stabilized, until love was the very air she breathed.

“You do me too much honor, my lady,” he said, mounting the stairs to take her hand as she rose. He turned to the crowd. “Let’s make this the best play ever. Then the merriest Christmas in the history of Northumberland.”

He escorted her to where Daisy waited in line behind the Three Wise Men. After that glowing tribute, Bess could no longer contain the news she’d intended as a gift after the midnight service in St. Martin’s.

“Rory, wait a moment,” she whispered before he lifted her into the saddle.

“What is it?” he asked in quick concern. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

She’d been sick that morning, but she felt marvelous now. She stretched up on her toes to murmur into his ear, “Mary is with child.”

Rory caught Daisy’s bridle before she could do any damage and his attention was on the disgruntled donkey. “Of course she is. With the Baby Jesus.”

Bess laughed and placed a hand over her belly. “No, although perhaps with the next Earl of Channing.”

Rory abruptly dropped the bridle and whirled on her, his face pale with shock. “What did you say?”

She glanced around. Nobody was watching. The players were all too busy taking their places for the procession. “I’m going to have a baby.”

The brilliant happiness that lit Rory’s eyes threatened to split her heart with joy. “Truly?”

“Truly. Anne Coe says in June.” Bess had visited the village midwife yesterday to confirm her suspicions.

“My dear, dear love.” He caught her up against him and despite being in public, he kissed her soundly. When he raised his head, Bess was blinking back more tears. If she made it through the day without dissolving into floods, it would be a miracle of biblical proportions.

“Well, really!” Bess’s aunt exclaimed from the steps behind them. “Such behavior.”

“What else can you expect from a pirate?” Bess’s starchy cousin Priscilla sniffed in disapproval beside her mother.

“Bess told me he wasn’t a pirate, but a captain in the navy,” Bess’s slightly nicer cousin Phoebe said from the doorway behind them.

“Now he’s turned respectable, of course that’s what she’d say,” Aunt Henrietta retorted dismissively. “I know a renegade when I see one.”

Rory caught Bess’s arm before she could confront her relatives. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bess laughed wryly. He was right. Her relations’ nastiness didn’t matter. “It seems the legend of the pirate earl of Penton Abbey is indestructible.”

He tilted that sardonic auburn eyebrow. “Come on, admit it—you like the idea of being a buccaneer’s lady.”

She traced a finger along his jaw, ignoring her aunt’s gimlet stare. “If you’re the buccaneer in question, I’m proud to call a pirate my husband.”

He kissed her again and carefully placed her in the saddle. Bess fumbled for the reins, but she was too late. Daisy took advantage of Rory’s distraction to snatch Melchior’s crown.

“Oh, Daisy!” Bess said in frustration as Melchior shook his fist at the unrepentant beast munching the painted cardboard circle. “You are the absolute limit.”

Rory laughed. “Penton Wyck abounds with unruly women.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Ned said, offering Melchior his crown as a replacement.

This year, the Three Kings would present themselves to the Infant Jesus without one diadem. Drums and recorders burst into the introduction to “The Holly and the Ivy” and the parade set off at a jaunty pace for the village.

“Amen,” Rory said, taking Daisy’s rein and turning back to smile at Bess with such love in his eyes that she felt ready to fly up into the sky with happiness.

Her life brimmed with blessings. A home she loved. Dear friends. A husband she adored. And now a baby. How could a merely human heart contain this overflowing gratitude?

The 1823 Penton Wyck nativity play was memorable on a number of counts. A lovely performance from a very pretty Angel of the Lord. Some particularly fine singing from the heavenly host. A mere two kings graced with crowns. A Joseph losing control of the donkey at a crucial moment so the manger ended in a hundred splintered pieces and Baby Jesus had to make do with half a beer barrel for a cradle.

And a Mary who cried like a waterspout all the way to Bethlehem.

No good deed goes unpunished
…

To save her hen-witted sister from scandal, Philippa Sanders ventures into a rake’s bedroom – and into his power. Now her reputation hangs by a thread and only a hurried marriage can rescue her. Is the Earl of Erskine the heartless libertine the world believes? Or will Philippa discover unexpected honor in a man notorious for his wild ways?

Blair Hume, the dissolute Earl of Erskine, has had his eye on the intriguing Miss Sanders since he arrived at this deadly dull house party. Now a reckless act delivers this beguiling woman into his hands as a delightful Christmas gift. Does fate offer him a fleeting Yuletide diversion? Or will this Christmas Eve encounter spark a passion to last a lifetime?

Hartley Manor, Wiltshire, Christmas Eve, 1823

H
er heart racing, Philippa Sanders inched the massive oak door into the bedroom open. She prayed that nobody emerged into the lamplit corridor and caught her in a place where no lady of good reputation should be. Especially near midnight.