ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (288 page)

              Sarah knew that her family felt her interest in shipping was unhealthy and unladylike. It had never deterred her from these walks during her weekly visits. She lived for the sight and smell of the North Sea, and felt most at home when she spotted tall masts with white, billowing sails on the horizon. Though she’d never set foot off land, it had long been her fantasy that she would get to visit the distant ports of the world, places like Shanghai, Boston, or Bombay. Anywhere but the daily grind of the country would be a welcome change in her dull patterns of life.

              She was lost in thought as she passed beside a tavern when the door opened, nearly knocking her off her feet. Two young men stepped out and ribbed one another as they saw her stumble.

              “Easy there, my fine lass! Find your sea legs.” The tall blonde admonished her. Wearing rough, woolen clothing and a scarlet kerchief around his neck, he grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “You all right, then?”

              “Yes. Yes, thank you.” She tried to step around him, but his grip tightened.

              “Now then, where’s a pretty morsel of a lass like yourself bound for? Come in and share a cup with me and my mate. It’s only sociable.”

              “Sir, kindly allow me to pass. I ask for nothing further from the likes of you.” She had meant to be polite in hopes of shaming him from his aggressive hospitality, but found she couldn’t hide her contempt at the last minute. A flash of anger in his eyes warned Sarah she might have trouble getting out of the situation.

              He scoffed and his partner stepped next to him, helping block her towards a possible avenue of escape. “You’ve a saucy and sharp tongue, my girl. I think I may well teach you manners!” He drew back his hand to slap her and she cringed, covering her face with her hands.

Instead of feeling the sharp sting of his open palm, she heard the sailor cry out in pain. She peeked between her fingers in time to see a wild-looking white-haired man with a black stick viciously beating the two men about the head.

              “Back to the boat, you vile curs!” he shouted with all his strength, furiously wailing on each of them with his walking stick. A large-built man with a thick, unkempt white beard, he continued yelling and berating them as they ran away from him. “Treating a lady so contemptibly! I’ll see you flogged for it, mark my words Job McCracken!”

              Once they had hustled further out of view, the gentleman with the walking stick turned and bowed to Sarah. “Miss, do accept my humble apologies on behalf of the crew of
The Duke of Norcastle
. Such knavery will not go unpunished; believe you me. They’ll be given stripes across the back they’ll remember well; you may put your faith in it.”

              Sarah blanched at the prospect of the brutality. “I thank you for your kindness, sir. It would seem to me an un-Christian thing to do, to cause pain upon my behalf. I beg you reconsider this punishment.”

              “Begging your pardon, miss, but order must be kept amongst the crew of such a ship. They’re as likely to tear out their own throats if they think they can get away with it.”

              A fourth man was striding rapidly towards them from the direction of the docks, and as she caught his eye, she realized his intent must be of a serious nature. She quickly took in his demeanor. Young and muscular, the British officer had a deep gash across his closely-shaved, aquiline right cheek. Curls of dark black hair fell from under his hat and he brushed one away from his eyes. Though he wore the clothes of a British officer, there struck her to be Mediterranean features about him as well. A man with an equally young but far paler visage followed closely behind, each of them in blue frock coats and white waistcoats.

              “Simmons!” The older man stood rigidly upright and at attention when the officers arrived on the scene. The man who’d led the pair to the tavern continued. “Report, please.”

              “McCracken and Wolff, sir. They accosted this innocent woman in the street. I informed miss that they shall be flogged.”

              “I see.” The stern officer turned to face her directly. “This is a satisfactory resolution, I trust?”

              “It is not at all satisfactory,” she objected. “As I explained to Mr. Simmons, I would not wish any harm to come to them. Proper punishment, it seems to me, need not be meted out with simple brute force. I would rather they be spoken to about the proper manner of treating a woman. This should be sufficient.”

              “An interesting theory,” the officer mumbled in response.

              “I was explaining the nature of discipline aboard ship, Captain Hargrove, when you should-“

              “Thank you Simmons. That will be all. Good show, intervening in this matter. Report back to the boat.”

              “Sir.” The older man sharply saluted him and rolled down towards the docks.

              The officers looked at one another and, remembering their manners, swept off their hats. “We’ve not been formally introduced. I am Commander Harrison William Hargrove of
The Duke of Norcastle
. This is Lieutenant Montgomery Woods. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

              “I am Sarah Whitcastle of Waverly Manor. My father is Sir Charles Whitcastle, a farmer and gentleman of this county.” She curtsied as courtesy demanded and fixed her gaze on him. “Though they were beastly, I must beg of you not to do physical harm to those two men. I ask you upon your honor not to whip them.”

              He nodded gravely. “As you will. In this matter, I have little recourse but to see to a fit punishment. I am not convinced that a simple lesson in etiquette shall suffice for men of his majesty’s navy. But I assure you I will restrain my bosun from use of the whip, if it pleases you.”

The silent officer cleared his throat and spoke up. “Commander Hargrove,” he said, in a melodic, Irish tenor. “I have a rather unorthodox suggestion, if I may put it to you both.”

“I’m all ears, Woods. What is it?”

              “If she would be so kind as to grace us with her presence, would Miss Whitcastle consider being present for a discussion on courtesy with McCracken and Wolff? It occurs to me that a public demonstration on etiquette- as much for the men’s shame and for their education- might be a breath of fresh air with the assistance of a refined person such as Miss Whitcastle on hand. You would do very little, Miss Whitcastle, a trifle of an effort. You might merely be there as we demonstrate how to address a lady, how to behave in her company, that sort of thing. It could be done tomorrow, at the lady’s convenience, of course.”

              Hargrove gave a wry smile. “Ever the keen wit, Woods. It would serve to discomfort the men, no doubt. But I also fear it would put Miss Whitcastle in an uncomfortable position to be on display in such a manner.”

              Sarah shook her head. “Thank you for the notion. I would not be as embarrassed as you suggest. However, I am only in Wyecombe for the day.”

              The men looked towards the sky and Hargrove shook his head to the negative. “Unless I am in the wrong, as is always possible, I fear you’ll be in need of shelter today. Please, forget this mad suggestion and once more, I am at your service.” He and Woods bowed to say goodbye and Sarah curtsied.

              As she walked back to her Aunt’s, she found herself gazing up at the sky. She hoped the men were wrong about the weather. If not, she’d be stuck for an entire evening with Aunt Mary’s cool judgements weighing her down on top of Beth’s incessant private whining. She longed to be at home, curled up in a rocking chair beside the fireplace, with a book in one hand and warm milk within easy reach.

              The swirling snow formed new drifts along the road when she reached Summerly Court let her know this was merely a pipedream.

Chapter 2: The Honourable Edgar Jackson

Summerly Court, Suffolk

August 21, 1816

“It is clearly providence that you should be here on today of all days, sir!” Aunt Mary purred from her commanding view of the sitting room. Beth and Sarah were seated on the couch both doing their best to appear comfortable and at ease, while the curly-haired gentleman caller occupied a chair opposite of them. Sarah noticed that the chair had been slightly repositioned from the day before to afford the man a better view of, specifically, her.

              “It is certainly my good fortune to meet your lovely nieces and to share this day in such lovely company. I had quite resigned myself to another dull day spent in the counting house with no good thing to look forward to in the evening hours. My brother Robert is, I fear, in London with his new bride and this leaves me rather on my own with the exception of the company of Beowulf.”

              “Beowulf, sir?” Aunt Mary asked.

              “My hunting dog, madame.”

              “My,” she replied, slightly gritting her teeth. “I do wish people would say what they mean in relation to dogs. But I quite take your point, of course. More cakes?”

              He’d come to call during tea, just as the sun had come up and the bracing snows of the previous night were melting away. “I couldn’t possibly, thank you. Forgive my not being entirely clear…”

              “It is nothing,” Aunt insisted.

              “But I will confess I have named this new beast after a rather exhilarating Latin translation of the old English saga. Have you heard of it, Miss Whitcastle?”

              Sarah set her tea aside and studied him. Despite a small, roundish bulge at the belly, he appeared to be in robust health and, if a touch short in stature, he had a barrel-chest and broad shoulders that indicated he wasn’t a stranger to hard labor. It seemed that the Honorable Edgar Jackson, youngest son of a northern baron, had spent some time in the service of his country fighting Napoleon prior to a Frenchman’s rifle rendering his left arm useless. Edgar had returned to partner with another lesser brother in founding a mill on the outskirts of Wyecombe.

              Edgar was a little older than she was, possibly in his mid-twenties, and had an eager, boyish attitude as one who was all nerves and divided attentions. His manner was as polite as one would expect in a formal social visit such as this, but he seemed throughout the conversation to have his thoughts on any number of topics at any given time.

              That hadn’t stopped him from stealing glances in her direction. She was still making up her mind about how she felt about those glances.

              “I have indeed heard of this translation. I fear my Latin is not advanced enough to enjoy the translation you mention.”

              He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m pleased you’re familiar with it. On the occasions I’ve done business with your late uncle, God rest his soul, he mentioned to me you were a prolific reader.”

              Sarah considered how to respond. “I suppose I do enjoy a well-woven tale. It is a pleasing way to pass the hours.”

              “For my part, I have found it trying to exchange letters or share one’s company with an unlettered companion, male or female for that matter, Miss Whitcastle. Beth,” he said, suddenly switching gears. “Have you had occasion to learn to spell your name, or are we still working on mastering the alphabet?”

              The girl squirmed and Sarah could see she was straining at the bit to stay polite. “I have long been able to read, Mr. Jackson,” she hissed, speaking each word with a degree of annoyance that was easily conveyed regardless of her efforts.

              “She was ever a precocious child,” Sarah quickly explained. “As the youngest of four, she has benefited from we three elder sisters, and mother and father have insisted upon a fine education for us all. Though I could read at five, I believe Beth was reading at an even younger age.”

              “Four, in fact,” Beth sullenly announced, holding up four fingers to make her point.

              “Four! My word, I do most sincerely apologize,” Edgar exclaimed with wide eyes. “At four years of age, I dare say I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell my last name. The Whitcastles are clearly as gifted in intellect as they are in beauty.”

              Sarah shrugged this compliment off with a nervous laugh. “It’s nothing really. Mother and father deserve all credit. But I would ask you if you are familiar with Byron, Mr. Jackson?”

              “I’m certain Mr. Jackson doesn’t wish to be bored with poetry, Sarah, particularly with the work of such a scandalous and low character. Good riddance to the cad!” Aunt Mary interrupted, but Jackson held up a hand to stay her.

              “Actually, I’m quite enamored with his work. You will pardon me, Madame Barbour,” he said, using Aunt Mary’s married name. “If I say that I am quite willing to separate the, shall we say, devious nature of the poet from the quality of his work. I am of a mind to say that the most creative creatures tend to be those most besieged by troubled minds. A simple merchant such as myself is left to wonder at their output and, praise be to God, give thanks for a more temperate life.”