A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (6 page)

Ned stood beside him. “Do you mean to leave them to it?”

“Don’t be a fool, lad.” Rory sent him a devil-may-care grin. “I’ve got a vicar’s daughter to catch. I’m not letting the comely Miss Farrar out of my sight.”

Ned smiled back. “She hasn’t got a chance.”

Rory remained preternaturally aware of Bess’s location. Right now she stood under one of the windows, speaking to an elderly gentleman in black who seemed to hold some authority. “I hope to God you’re right.”

Ned regarded him in shock. “Well, that takes the biscuit.”

“What does?” Rory asked, without shifting his attention from Bess.

“You must be in love with her.”

Unfamiliar heat pricked his cheeks. Damn it, Rory hadn’t blushed since his first voyage. A boy grew up fast belowdecks.

“I only met the lassie yesterday.” Gossip was right about one thing at least—he had more experience with the fair sex than was good for him. But love? That was uncharted territory.

Ned looked smug. “I never thought to see the day.”

“She’s a lovely creature.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And clever and capable.”

“Inarguably.”

“A man of property needs a wife. He can’t stay the same reckless, self-centered bastard he was in his youth.”

“Especially when he falls in love. In all our years together, I’ve never seen you less than confident of your chances with a woman. It’s been deuced irritating. If you’re unsure about this lady, it’s because she’s not just a woman, she’s
the
woman.”

“White, you try my patience,” he snapped. “Come and put that vivid imagination to work moving furniture.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Ned had the temerity to salute before he ran lightly downstairs to join a party heading out of the hall.

Rory didn’t immediately follow. Ned White knew him better than any other soul on earth. Better than the family in Edinburgh he’d left at eleven and had rarely seen since. So while he’d dearly love to dismiss the fellow’s ramblings as sentimental claptrap, somewhere deep in his soul, they struck true.

Instead of joining his tenants, he stood staring broodingly at Bess who continued to pass out instructions. Her blithe disregard for his presence rankled. And the fact that it rankled rankled even worse.

The day sped by in a welter of physical activity that reminded Rory of his days in the lower ranks, toiling like a slave on a warship. Of course, he could retreat to his library and let them get on with it, but where was the fun in that?

He only snatched rare seconds alone with Bess, but he had the privilege of observing her in action. By heaven, she was a fascinating creature. He could happily watch her all day.

If the wind set fair, he’d watch her for the rest of his life.

He didn’t realize other people had remarked his interest in the vicar’s bonnie daughter until he found himself in the library with the black-clad cove he’d noticed earlier. However the house ended up, Rory appreciated this chance to get to know his tenants. Obadiah Simpson was a retired doctor who had traveled the length of the country. A man of unusual sophistication for this backwater.

“She’s a fine lass, Miss Bess,” the old man said, stacking leather-bound volumes on the newly dusted shelves. Rory had just brought in another box of books from the barns.

“She is,” he said, curious where Simpson went with this. Casually he brushed cobwebs and dust off his sleeves. He’d thought the house was dirty until he started grubbing around in the outbuildings.

“She’s very well liked in the village.”

Rory had seen that for himself. “Are you trying to warn me off, Dr. Simpson?”

The old man turned, a book clutched in his veined hand. “Not at all. I’m merely making conversation.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Well, perhaps not entirely.” He fastened piercing gray eyes on Rory. “Are you of a mind to woo the jewel of our small community?”

“That would be a rash decision when I only met the lassie yesterday.”

Simpson eyed him steadily. “You strike me as a fellow who makes up his mind without dilly dallying.”

Simpson had that right. “I don’t even know if Miss Farrar likes me.”

“She does.”

The gratification that flooded Rory made him feel like a schoolboy mooning after a pretty girl. “Are you matchmaking?”

Simpson’s smile was knowing. “I doubt I need to exert myself much to put you two together.”

“We’ve hardly spoken all day,” Rory protested. It was regrettably true. He’d imagined that with Bess under his roof, opportunities for dalliance would abound. He hadn’t counted on the crowds swarming through the house or Bess’s diligent attention to duty. She was too busy organizing cleaning and repairs and the placement of furniture to flirt.

“But you’ve looked.” Simpson paused. “So has she.”

“That’s good news.”

Simpson frowned. “Now, don’t go thinking she’s one of your London light skirts. Unless your intentions are honorable, you can set your sights elsewhere.”

Rory laughed again, unsure whether to be annoyed or touched at the old man’s interference. “Does it occur to you that you’re trespassing beyond your rights?”

Simpson gave a dismissive grunt and returned to shelving books. “I’ve known Bess all her life. Only a fool would mistake her forthright manner for boldness. If that fool did mistake her, she has people who will fight to protect her.”

“Including a father,” Rory said mildly. “Who surely should be saying these things to me if anyone must.”

“Ah, the vicar.” Simpson bent to lift another armful of books from the box at his feet.

After a while, Rory realized Simpson intended to say no more about the Reverend John Farrar. He was suddenly curious about the man he hoped would become his father-in-law. Perhaps he might attend church on Sunday after all. “Mr. Simpson, my intentions regarding Miss Farrar are none of your business.”

“That’s a pity,” Simpson said placidly, continuing with his work.

“Why?”

“Because getting Bess to yourself might go more smoothly if you had some help.”

Rory’s eyes narrowed on the man. “You don’t know anything about me—apart from the wild talk I’ve got wind of in the last few days.”

“You’re the most exciting thing to happen in Penton Wyck since Daisy broke loose at the Christmas play five years ago and ate the Bishop of Durham’s hat.”

Despite himself, Rory laughed. “Well, that puts me in my place.”

“We tend to take people as we find them here, my lord.” He kept placidly arranging the shelves. “Bess would make you a fine wife.”

“Undoubtedly. But would I make her a fine husband?”

Simpson fixed a critical eye on him. “That’s up to you. Don’t think you’ll sway her with your title and riches. It didn’t work for your brother. It won’t work for you.”

Rory frowned, surprised and not altogether pleased, although it made sense. Had his brother kissed her? If he had, he’d taught her deuced little. “My brother wanted to marry Bess?”

“He did. But she wouldn’t have him.”

Now, that was interesting. “Most women would leap at a countess’s title.”

Simpson shook his head in disappointment. “There you go, thinking her one of your flighty misses. Our Bess will only marry where her affections lie. And don’t imagine your brother was her only chance either.”

“There were others?” Of course there were. Rory wasn’t the only man in England with eyes in his head.

“Sir Gavin Spiers in the next valley, for one. And Henry Browne, your brother’s lawyer, wasn’t blind to what a grand wife she’d make either. And that’s only in the last year.”

“Yet she’s unmarried.”

“The vicar has a respectable fortune, although you wouldn’t know it to look at the poor muddleheaded loon. And Bess’s grandmother left her a goodly portion when she passed on three years ago. Our girl can afford to be choosy.”

Rory wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. Damn it, Ned was right. He’d always trusted to his way with the ladies. Now when it mattered, he couldn’t help wondering what he had that Bess’s other suitors lacked.

Still, faint heart never won fair lady. If he could sail into an ice storm in the Bering Strait, surely he could woo this redoubtable lassie. “So let me get this straight. You’re willing to promote my courtship as long as I behave myself?”

The spark in Simpson’s eyes made him look younger—and mischievous. “You only need to behave yourself up to a point. A chap who’s been a pirate must know what lines to cross.”

“I wasn’t—”

“This is where you two are hiding,” Bess said, bustling into the library with a broom clutched in one hand.

Rory’s heart lurched at the sight of her. A strange sensation, not altogether welcome.

“You’re halfway there already, my lord,” Simpson muttered for Rory’s ears alone.

Halfway there? Rory had a sinking feeling that the wind had blown him way beyond his destination and now pushed him toward the next port. “We were afraid you meant to give us another job,” he said, ignoring the smug old man who thought he knew everything.

“We need to go and work on the play.” Her gray dress was creased and grubby, and a streak of dirt adorned one high cheekbone. His breath hitched at how earthy and real she was. She was so alive that she made the air rustle. He wanted to catch her up against him and never let her go.

He managed a theatrical sigh. She didn’t need to know how fatally she undermined his defenses. Or at least not yet. “Work seems to be your favorite word, Miss Farrar.”

“You’ll be glad it is when the house is fit for you to live in.”

He hoped he went through all this chaos so the house was fit for
her
to live in. He glanced out the window to see a trail of villagers, many of whom he now knew by name, heading down the drive. “Are they all in the play?”

“Some of them. But you’re not abandoned altogether—you’ve now got two footmen and four maids to look after you. And a cook. Mrs. Hallam has taken over the kitchens—for which you’ll be mightily grateful, I’m sure.”

“That’s a devil of a horde to serve one man.”

“You’ll also need a butler and housekeeper, but those have to come from Newcastle or London.”

“More blasted strangers tramping around my house?” He leaned one hip on the desk and folded his arms. This was the longest conversation they’d managed all day. Even knowing that Simpson weighed every word, Rory was in no hurry to end it.

He really was in a bad way. If anyone had told him yesterday that he’d discuss servants just for the delight of a pretty lassie’s company, he’d have called them a blockhead.

He had a nasty suspicion the biggest blockhead of all was the new Earl of Channing.

The pretty lassie regarded him with disapproval. “Do you really have no care for your domestic arrangements, my lord?”

As long as they included Bess Farrar, he cared greatly for his domestic arrangements.

“Not much.” He stood to take the broom from her and prop it against the wall. “Good afternoon, Dr. Simpson. I’ve enjoyed making your acquaintance.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Simpson. Thank you for helping,” Bess said.

Simpson didn’t look up from the books, but from where he stood, Rory caught the man’s smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, my dear.”

Rory as a rule didn’t appreciate people sticking their oar into his affairs, but the old man had been damned informative. And if local approval of his courtship meant assistance, he’d accept a certain amount of intervention.

When he took Bess’s arm, physical awareness crackled through him. Did she share this volatile reaction? She’d given a tiny start at the contact.

“They like you,” Bess said softly as he escorted her toward the great hall.

A hint of clean sweat warmed her scent. The idea of her working to achieve his comfort aroused a primitive pleasure. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Her laugh was wry. “I wasn’t sure they would. Or not so quickly.”

His grip tightened as he halted. “What in Hades does that mean?”

“After all the talk.”

He really had to address the rumors of his nefarious past, but right now he had more important things to discover. “As long as you like me, I can live with a bit of unfriendliness from the neighbors.”

The astonishment in her eyes soothed his brief uncertainty. He didn’t lack self-confidence, but events in the last twenty-four hours left him reeling. He’d known he’d marry—an unhappy, nomadic childhood and all those years at sea convinced him of the value of a stable family. But he’d always dismissed the idea of love at first sight as romantic fantasy.

Was Ned right? Did he love Bess Farrar? Devil if he knew. What he did know was that he’d seen her and known in his bones that she was the one for him.

She frowned. “You can’t imagine I go around kissing men I don’t like.”

“Even if there’s a donkey in the balance?”

Her blush charmed him. “Even for Daisy.”

He ran his hand down her arm and squeezed her fingers. To his surprise, she returned the pressure. Briefly he considered kissing her again, but the house was infested with domestics.

What he’d give for some privacy, but right now it wasn’t to be.

Regretfully he released her when they stepped into the hall. Two young women were polishing the newly replaced furniture, while another poked some holly into a vase on the mantel above a blazing fire.