A Pirate's Wife for Me (25 page)

Zelle was wrong.

The house truly was grieving.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Cate saw heads popping out
of the many doorways; her staff had found her.

"Sit here," she told Taran, and helped him into a chair.

He sat, shoulders slumped, knees and ankles together, one hand in his lap, the other in the sling. He looked cowed, as if she regularly beat him. If only he realized how tempted she was…

She swept to the middle of the foyer and clapped her hands. "Come out, please! I wish to meet you all."

It took a moment, but sheepish servants filed into the foyer and lined up in order of rank.

Zelle joined the line at the very end.

Cate doubted Zelle was truly so humble; for all her grime and poverty, intelligence lit her eyes and the other servants treated her with wary respect.

The cook was Signor Marino, a massive Italian of impressive dignity. His staff seemed less cowed than the others; Cate thought she would get along with him.

Harkness did not put in an appearance; Cate heard the occasional snore issuing from the library. She hoped her bonnet had not become his pillow.

Cate did her duty, greeting each one of the servants, learning their names, then giving a lively speech designed to put them at ease and inspire them to work at her bidding. Judging from their shifting gazes and nervous shuffling, she had not succeeded.

She indicated Taran, and told them, "This is Mr. Tamson. He'll be spending most of his time in our bedchamber as he heals from the wounds he garnered fighting in Her Majesty's army."

"Her Majesty?" Gracia, a petite chambermaid of perhaps sixteen years, scratched her head. "Has Her Majesty started a war to save us at last?"

"Not
our
majesty, stupid." The lad next to her, obviously her brother, Gillies, pulled at her brown hair. "Mrs. Tamson is talking about Queen Victoria of England. She's a real queen. She takes care of her subjects."

"I'm sure better times are coming for Cenorina," Cate said crisply. The Cenorinian queen had obviously alienated her subjects and Cate thought it would be difficult for the royal family to regain its position. But that part of the mission would occur after Cate's departure. For now, she would concentrate on locating those papers. "It's late and we've journeyed far. I would like to see the housekeeper's bedchamber."

Gracia stumbled forward, propelled, Cate was sure, by her brother's hand. A fierce blush rose in her brown-freckled cheeks, as she curtsied. "Please, ma'am, allow me."

"Thank you, Gracia." Cate pointed to Gillies. "You may bring up my trunk and Mr. Tamson's bag." That would teach him to torment his sister.

Gracia's wide smile offered thanks. Like all the servants, she was dressed in proper, humble, black garb. But also like all the servants, her clothing was old and worn, her white apron permanently stained at the knees.

As she approached, Taran stood, and knocked the chair sideways with a teeth-jarring rattle.

Gracia seemed unfazed. She stopped beside him and touched his shoulder. "If you'll follow me, sir, we'll get you to your chamber and you can rest."

Taran hung his head and muttered thanks, then placed his hand on Gracia's arm and allowed her to lead him up the stairs.

Cate climbed after them, watching him and marveling that the arrogant, conceited Cap'n could, through his own acting, become the object of a young girl's compassion.

Below them, the servants dispersed, and the murmuring rose upward toward the gallery. They were anxious, Cate knew, to see if she would bring stability or more confusion to their already misaligned world. She would not, but if she succeeded in her mission, stability would eventually follow.

As they walked along the gallery, Gracia spoke to Taran. "The housekeeper's chamber is on the fourth floor where the maids' rooms are. Quiet up there it is these days since we've all started going home fer the evenings, so you'll have peace in which to recover."

"I'll like that," Taran said. "Since I was wounded, I don't like to leave my room."

"Ah, you wait and see. As soon as those bruises go down and you're feeling more like yerself, you'll want to sit on the veranda and soak in the sunshine. Me grandda was blind, and that was what he liked to do."

Taran turned toward Gracia with an expression of horror.

Cate smothered a laugh.

At the ripe old age of twenty-six, Taran had been compared to a grandfather.

They arrived at the back of the gallery, and started up the flight of stairs toward the third floor. Two walls enclosed the broad steps, carpet ran up the middle of the risers, and high-set windows let in the sunlight. "Used to be, there'd be so many guests they'd spill into the bedchambers up here." They reached the corridor lined with doors, and Gracia jerked her chin toward them. "Now the bedchambers are closed and dusty."

"We'll have to cure that, won't we?" Cate answered.

Gracia wore consternation plain on her face. "Gives me the spooks, ma'am, to be up here."

"When we clean, we'll use an army of workers." Cate intended to comfort her.

If anything, Gracia looked more dismayed. Opening the first door, she started up another staircase, this one narrow and dim. "Watch your step, sir. There's no rail here."

And no light, either, except what came from below and above. They made their way up to the top floor and turned down the corridor. Doors were shut here, too, and Gracia led them to the door opening into a corner room. "Here you go, sir. Tis the best room up here under the eaves. It's been aired and dusted every day, waiting for the new housekeeper."

"Did the previous housekeeper stay here?" Taran asked.

Gracia shifted uncomfortably. "Nay, she wanted to be down the stairs in the guests' quarters, and no one could tell her different. But we thought you'd be … safer up here."

Taran nodded. "That's a good thought. Thank you, Gracia."

The room was almost as big as Cate's bedchamber on Mull and faced east to catch the morning sun. The scarred wood floor was covered by a faded wool rug of indistinguishable origin and muddy colors. An odd assortment of furniture filled the room — a mahogany dressing table and mirror by Heppelwhite, a green-painted klismos chair, a scarred dark oak cupboard which would have been better suited for a medieval dining hall, and an end table in eighteenth century French style. The bed had a gilt headboard so hideously adorned with Egyptian sphinxes Cate would probably have nightmares, and was so narrow there was no question of Taran sharing it with her, even if they were in accord, which they were not.

Gracia eyed it doubtfully. "Do you want me to have the footmen bring in a bigger bed?"

There was an old, overstuffed chair and ottoman that would be too short for Taran. Cate smiled. "Not at all. This is ideal." Let him pay for coming up with this brilliant plan.

With uncanny accuracy, Taran caught her wrist and kept a tight hold. "Aye, if the bed is small, we can snuggle close and stay warm."

Gracia grinned. "Me folks like to snuggle like that, too."

Cate hoped the chair was lumpy as well as short.

Gracia rubbed her hands on her skirt. "If you don't need anything else, I'll go back to me scrubbin'."

"Have Gillies bring extra blankets," Taran said, "in case the snuggling is not enough."

Gracia giggled. "There're extra linens in the cupboard — and sir, you're a wicked one, you are."

"Thank you, Gracia," he said gravely.

She giggled again, and left.

Cate snatched her hand free. "Do you have to embarrass me at every turn?"

He pulled the bandage off his face and removed his hand — as well as a long, thin, sharp dagger — from the sling. He placed everything on the dressing table. "A small payment considering you intend to make me sleep" — his gaze swept the room — "there." With disgust, he indicated the dingy chair.

"Exactly." She smiled as he pressed his hand on the cushion. "Is it dreadful?"

"More dreadful than even you could have hoped."

She braced herself for an argument, but without another word he returned to the dressing table. He pulled a short knife from one boot, a cutlass from the other, and a pistol from his belt.

"You came prepared," she said.

"Sir Davies is an accomplished swordsman and a dangerous man. I intend to defeat him, but like a badger, when cornered, he will come out fighting." Going to one of the windows, he threw open the casement, and gazed out as if the view captivated him — and as if she did not.

She wanted to knock him out of that window. Instead she made her way to the bed. The ropes squeaked as she leaned on it, but the mattress was goose feathers and the green and gold eiderdown thick and soft. She, at least, would be comfortable.

She glanced again at Taran. He had thrust his hands in his pockets as he gazed his fill, and his profile filled her with inappropriate dismay. The marks of his barroom brawl were still with him; his lips were puffy, his chin cut, and one eye was almost swollen shut — but he was still handsome.

The trouble was, she couldn't imagine him settling down on Cenorina or anywhere at all. They were alike in some ways, and one of those ways was a wildness that couldn't be contained by four walls.

But he was not her kindred spirit … he was
not
.

Going to the other window, she opened it. Fresh, cool air flowed over her hot face, and she took a deep breath. Directly below her was the stone-paved courtyard. Beyond that she saw the road they'd traveled from the village, and above it all soared the mountains in a vista that made her forget her disgruntlement and confusion. The sun kissed each blushing peak goodnight, and she was moved to whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It is. As beautiful as I remember." With abrupt briskness, he turned from the window and clapped his hands together. "If I have to sleep on that chair, I'd best make it."

To Cate's surprise, he did just that, taking linens from the cupboard and tucking them in around the chair cushions. Then he removed his boots, his coat, unbuttoned his trousers …

Covering her eyes, she cried, "Wait! What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep. I'm tired."

To her disgust, he tossed a blanket over himself and did exactly that.

She stood there, waiting, expecting some trick. But he was really asleep, instantly, as if he'd learned to snatch sleep when he could.

Her trunk and his bag arrived, hauled by the puffing Gillies and one of the footmen. They glanced at Taran; his face looked battered enough to satisfy their curiosity.

She had them place the trunk beside the cupboard, saw them to the door with a courteous thanks, then set to work unpacking her gowns and undergarments.

Still Taran slept, so she left him to it, returned downstairs, and began the long process of organizing the duties and labors of her servants.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

That night, when Cate entered the room,
Taran woke and listened as she undressed and washed, then put on her nightgown and slid into her comfortable bed. As if she had too much on her mind, she tossed and turned, then finally stilled and slept.

He rose and hobbled across the chamber, trying to work out the kinks formed by that instrument of torture where she'd forced him to sleep.

He was getting soft. When he first joined the pirates, he'd slept in worse places. But when he first joined the pirates, he had only dreamed of Cate. Now she was within reach … and he was banished to the chair.

The moon illuminated the countryside; pale light leaked through the open window. Taran stood over his wife and stared at her features, relaxed in slumber. He wanted so badly to slip between the sheets with her and remind her of the vows she'd taken with him.

But he had other duties tonight.

At midnight, dressed in a dark brown shirt, a pair of black trousers, and his comfortable black boots, Taran walked the gallery. He descended the stairs and saw no one; no one at all. In a house that, day and night, used to bustle with life, there was no sound except for … the single clink of glass against glass.

At the foot of the stairs, he froze.

"Who's there?" a man's bleary voice questioned.

Taran recognized the voice — Harkness, drunk again. Drunk still. Taran stared into the shadowy recesses of the library.

A hulking form emerged from the darkness, swaying, his head thrust forward. He waved a glass, and the cut facets glinted in the moonlight. "Who is there?" His voice rose. "Come forth, you villain, and make yourself known."

In a hushed tone, Taran commanded, "Be quiet, Harkness, and go to your bed."

Harkness gasped. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the marble, the sound loud and sharp in the stillness. "Your Majesty? Have you returned?"

Taran's heart sank. He might not look like his father, but apparently he sounded like him. "I am not His Majesty."