A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (2 page)

“This is a small community, my lord. Of course I did. He was in poor health in recent years.”

“He let the house go to rack and ruin.”

“Before he left for Italy, he was a good landlord and very conscientious about caring for the villagers.”

“I’m guessing you made sure he was.”

She didn’t answer. Even if it was true. With her father lost in dreams of Byzantium and the earl an invalid, someone had to stand up for the locals. “My condolences on his death.”

Channing shrugged. “I didn’t know him. My mother took me away from Penton Wyck as a wee bairn, and after my father died, married a Scotsman with four daughters. She never set foot in England again. George was fifteen years older than me and a real Sassenach. He had little use for his barbarous northern relations.”

Bess frowned. Growing up, she’d heard about the runaway countess. But Lord Channing’s prosaic explanation brought home the bitterly unhappy family history behind the old scandal.

Perhaps this troubled background explained the earl’s wildness. It certainly explained why he sounded like he should wear a kilt, even if right now he was dressed plainly if untidily in breeches and a dark blue coat.

“I’m sure even in the Highlands, a man knows enough to hire a few servants when he moves into a house this size.”

“I’ve taken on the important ones.”

“The grooms, you mean?”

He shrugged again and gestured her toward a shabby leather sofa. “Aye. The horses take priority. Ned and I can rough it until we discover the lay of the land.”

Gingerly she sat, then sneezed at the cloud of dust that exploded around her. “Roughing it…” She added ironic weight to the words. “..hardly befits your dignity as Earl of Channing, though, does it? You need to set a standard.”

He propped one hip on the large mahogany desk covered in papers and regarded her unwaveringly. “You see? That’s why you surprised me, Miss Farrar.”

“Because I’m bold enough to point out your duty?” She made herself meet his eyes, while some silly feminine part of her wanted to giggle and blush and flutter her eyelashes.

She was too old for such nonsense. Sternly she told herself that sin always came disguised as beauty. That was how it lured you in. But in the stark gray light through the window at his back, Lord Channing was the most spectacular man she’d ever beheld in all her admittedly sheltered twenty-six years.

He shook his head and picked up a silver paperknife which he passed idly from one elegant hand to the other. “No, because from the tone of your letters, I expected a worthy spinster of fifty. Not the prettiest girl in the village.”

“The prettiest…” She shut her mouth with a snap. What on earth? Could he be flirting with her? Nobody flirted with her. Everyone was too busy awaiting her instructions. Between the late Lord Channing’s ill health and her father’s position of authority—a position he blithely disregarded—she’d become Penton’s guiding hand. “You’re trying to turn me up sweet, my lord. Shame on you.”

Another half-smile. The part of her that most assuredly wasn’t an old maid burned to see him smile properly. “A wee bit of sugar always sweetens relations, Miss Farrar. A lesson that wouldn’t go astray when you lay down the law to your betters.”

Her momentary softening after his compliment vanished. “You’re not my better.”

He laughed softly and stood. “In every sense except the most worldly, that is undoubtedly true. But a month of nagging was more likely to make me ignore you than do your bidding.”

Nagging? The hide of the man. She gritted her teeth and struggled to sound polite. “I thought you’d appreciate some advice about local matters.”

His eyes creased with wry amusement. Still no smile. And she’d dearly love to see him smile. “No, you thought you’d run me the way you ran my brother—and it’s not going to happen.”

“When you’re obviously doing so brilliantly on your own,” she responded tartly, gesturing around the disorderly room with eloquent derision.

“You are the damnedest lassie, Miss Farrar.”

His open admiration touched the same foolish patch of her heart that had warmed to hearing him call her pretty. “Language, my lord.”

“Why should I mind my manners? You’ve hardly been a model of decorum.”

She blushed—with mortification, not suppressed attraction. Curse him. He was right. Her father would be appalled to hear her. But then, her father’s soul was gentle and meek. Nobody had ever used either word to describe her. On the other hand, her father would dither and do nothing while the world collapsed about him.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said stiffly.

“Now, don’t go all missish on me. Our frank exchange of views is a refreshing change from the usual English mealy-mouthed rot.” To her alarm, he came and sat beside her. The sofa had plenty of room for two. But Channing’s robust personality made Bess feel as though he encroached too close. Nervously, she edged away.

She prepared to remind him that he had obligations, but that wasn’t what emerged. “How do you know?”

“Know what?”

Her cheeks were on fire. “That I’m the…prettiest girl in the village. You haven’t set foot in Penton Wyck.”

“I’ve clearly been remiss, if you’re an example of the views I’d take in from the high street. I’m sure people must come from miles around to catch a glimpse of the lovely local scenery.”

Her lips tightened at his teasing. Just as nobody flirted with her, nobody teased her either. She wasn’t sure she should encourage it. This playful discussion made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. She was a self-willed woman past first youth. She was unused to men treating her as an object of desire. But surely she wasn’t mistaken about Lord Channing’s interest.

Unless after a month penned up at the Abbey, he was bored enough to flirt with anything in skirts. That lowering thought crushed her stirring excitement. This man had been around the world. Even someone as inexperienced as Bess saw that the girls would be mad for him wherever he went. A staid village maiden wasn’t likely to get him in a stew.

She regarded him without favor. “My lord, I’m beginning to think I should have asked Mr. White to stay.”

He ignored her remark. Her history with him indicated that he had a great capacity to ignore what he didn’t want to hear.

“Miss Farrar, you must be the prettiest lassie in the village, because you’re the prettiest lassie I’ve ever seen,” he said softly, and for a resonant moment, teasing receded and something more profound hovered between them.

He smiled fully, just for her. And her heart turned a triple somersault in her chest. It was the oddest sensation. The breath jammed in Bess’s throat as she stared into his eyes, drowning in rich green velvet. Somewhere at the back of her mind, a voice warned her that bearding this particular lion in his den was a foolhardy act. The pirate earl was a danger to more than ships of the line.

Suddenly she no longer felt like the wise ruler of her own little kingdom. Instead she felt like an untried girl confronting the eternal mystery of potent masculinity. She surged to her feet, smoothing uncreased skirts in an attempt to hide her disquiet. “I…I must go.”

She expected him to laugh at her again. A man as worldly as this would have no difficulty divining her purely female reaction to him.

He stared up at her from the sofa. Unsmiling. Then the predatory expression drained from his face and he looked almost harmless. Or at least as harmless as a man of his attractions could manage. “Don’t rush off. You must have come with a specific purpose, something a letter won’t accomplish.”

“My letters didn’t accomplish anything,” she responded shakily.

“Well, perhaps a request in person will achieve what they didn’t,” he said easily, slouching against the back of the couch. “Come, Miss Farrar…” He broke off. “You signed all your letters E. Farrar. What does the E stand for?”

She didn’t even think of refusing to answer. “Elizabeth. But everyone calls me Bess.”

She caught a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I like it.”

Standing up and away from him did wonders for her confidence. Her usual spirit revived. “I can’t imagine an occasion where you’ll use it.”

When his lids lowered, he once more became all sensual threat. “I certainly can.”

“Lord Channing—”

“Why did you come here, my charming Miss E. Farrar?”

“Not to be mocked,” she retorted. “I came here for the Christmas donkey.”

R
ory studied the bonnie lass standing in front of him, the woman who strangely seemed to imagine she could push him around. Damn her, she had more effrontery than any arrogant officer ordering a humble midshipman to jump to his duties.

By rights, her presumption should be annoying. Instead he was charmed. And intrigued. And attracted in a way he couldn’t remember feeling before.

Through his turbulent life, he’d seen more beautiful women than he deserved. He’d desired and conquered, and called himself a lucky dog for the privilege. But he’d never felt so lucky as when he’d barged in on Ned struggling to bring this headstrong female into line.

Poor Ned. Bess Farrar was too heady a brew for his palate. But for a captain who’d sailed the seven seas and lived to tell the tale, she was the perfect fit. That demure gray dress with its high neck and narrow lace collar would fool the rest of the world, but never him. She might see herself as a tame household cat, but he’d immediately read her tiger soul.

“Are you calling me an ass, Miss Farrar?” he asked, and relished the shock in her deep blue eyes.

It was fun to keep her off balance. Every time he set her reeling, she lost that daunting air of determination and looked younger and sweeter. He hadn’t missed how flustered she’d been when he’d called her pretty.

Good God above. His compliment shouldn’t have surprised her. Every man in Penton Wyck must be in dire need of spectacles.

Because she was pretty. Hell, she was beautiful, with her strong-boned face and haughty nose and stubborn chin. On the ocean, circumstances changed in a second and peril arose from nothing. Dry land, apparently, offered the same challenges.

He immediately recognized that his destiny lay with those pure features under that severely restrained luxuriance of wheat blond hair. His future had marched into the great hall, bamboozled Ned, then turned her magic on Rory himself.

This woman was meant for him. He wasn’t sure yet what he felt about it, but the conclusion was inescapable.

“Pardon?”

If he hadn’t been so bedazzled himself, he’d almost pity the confusion in her spectacular eyes. “You said you’re looking for the Christmas donkey.”

His nonsense at last cracked her solemnity and she laughed, a low musical sound that he could listen to for the rest of his life. Miss Farrar delivered an impact mightier than any Atlantic storm. All a sailor could do was batten down the hatches, hold the helm steady, and pray that he reached safe harbor.

“Oh, I really have convinced you I’m the rudest creature in the world,” she said. “No, I mean a real donkey. Her name’s Daisy and she’s the centerpiece of the nativity play.”

“And I own this fabulous beast?”

“Yes. Your late brother let us use her at will. But I didn’t want to take your permission for granted.”

He spread his arms across the back of the sofa and stretched out his legs. “Hence cornering me in person on this issue, instead of bombarding me with letters as you have about everything else.”

She made a helpless gesture. “You probably think I’m exceeding my authority.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Probably?”

She blushed most delightfully. “Very well, then, definitely exceeded my authority. But time grows short and my intentions are good.”

His lips took on a wry twist. “Many a fine ship has foundered because of the captain’s good intentions. Good intentions never saved a man from drowning.”

“Unless that well-intentioned onlooker plucked that drowning sailor from the waves.”

He laughed in soft appreciation. He’d known immediately she wouldn’t be an easy prize to win. She was clever and used to having her own way. Which only made the game more interesting, by heaven. “I’ll give you that point.”

She looked surprised again. “Are we counting points?”

“We most certainly are.” When he stood, she faltered back across the worn Turkey carpet. She wasn’t afraid of him, but at some female level, she recognized the claim he placed upon her. Powerful currents of attraction and resistance eddied between them. He’d need all his skill as a navigator to plot a safe course through these hazardous straits. “You’d better show me this donkey.”

“There’s no need for us both to brave the cold, my lord. All I need is your permission, and I’ll take her into Penton for tomorrow’s rehearsal.”

Daft lass. As if, having found her, he meant to let Miss Farrar escape so easily. “I have a fancy to see Daisy.”

“But it’s about to snow.”

“Then there’s no time to waste.”

That lush mouth, a promise of passion if Rory had ever seen one, set in a mutinous line, and she regarded him from across the room as if he represented a strange and potentially dangerous new species. “You’re a very unusual man, Lord Channing.”

He smiled at this outspoken lassie. “You have no idea, Miss Farrar.”

“Is it because you’re a pirate?”

For a moment there, he’d felt in control of the situation. The feeling had unfortunately been fleeting. He slammed to a halt on his way to the door and stared at her in astonishment. “What on earth did you say?”

She looked shamefaced and made an apologetic gesture with one hand. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you don’t like people to mention your former occupation.”

“My former occupation,” he repeated very slowly. “As a pirate.”

“The story’s all over the village.”

“Aye?”

“You must have expected people to talk about you. And given you’ve been such a recluse since your arrival, it’s inevitable that rumors are flying.”

“Inevitable rumors.” Rory paused. “That I’m a pirate.”

Miss Farrar studied him and devil take her, understanding filled her lovely face. “Seeing you were free to take up the title, I imagine that you’ve reformed.”