The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway (3 page)

Mrs. Halton shook her head. “If I’d told her, she would never have left. And I couldn’t have her death on my conscience.”

“How did you get her to leave? Triple-barrel turnover pistol, I presume?”

She smiled sadly. “I lied. Oldest trick there is. I told her there was a miracle cure we didn’t have enough money for, and that if she went to England to find her grandparents, perhaps they would give the money to her. If not outright, then as a dowry.”

“And you’ve been wasting away ever since? How are you managing, with no servants and no food?”

“I have a patch of vegetables behind the cottage, between the fruit trees. It takes me all day to tend what a farmer might in a mere hour, but I’ve nothing else to do with my time, other than wait to die. And count the raindrops every time the roof leaks.”

A vegetable garden. Steele tilted his head to consider her. She was clearly exhausted, clearly
ill
—those wet, wracking coughs could not be faked—and yet, to his eye, she didn’t remotely look like she was dying. Pneumonia, he could perhaps believe. On the other hand, she’d been sick for half a year already. And a surgeon had made the diagnosis.

A traveling surgeon, Steele reminded himself. A traveling surgeon who had examined his patient from a safe distance across the room. Which likely meant he hadn’t examined her at all.

“When did the blood start?”

She crossed her legs. “The what?”

“Coughing up blood.” Steele’s parents’ eyes had gone bloodshot and puffy around the same time the blood began, and had never recovered. Once they’d become bedridden, they hadn’t left their sickroom again. “Have you been coughing up blood since November?”

Her forehead creased. “No.”

“When did it start?”

“It hasn’t. Yet. I’ve all the other symptoms—fatigue, cough, chest pain, chills, weight loss. It’s just a matter of time.”

Steele stared at her, then leapt out of the chair. He did his best thinking on his feet and he needed to come up with something. Perhaps it wasn’t just a matter of time. Perhaps there was hope.

Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Reconnaissance.” He tossed the letters into her lap and began to pace the small cottage. Was it possible? Might she not have consumption after all? Or was it wishful thinking from a man who couldn’t bear to watch anyone else die from such a disease?

He was no doctor. Prior to turning to a life at sea, Steele had been a barrister. But success in both law and piracy required an observant eye, an infallible memory, and an analytical mind. One did not present one’s case unless one could predict every word and every reaction from both the judge and the witnesses. Likewise, one did not board an enemy ship without knowing exactly who was on board and what, precisely, awaited them.

This, however, was a special case.

First evidence: no blood. Granted, this was usually a later sign—once all hope truly was gone—but six months had gone by and Mrs. Halton’s cough was no worse than someone with pneumonia or lesser illnesses.

Second evidence: Mrs. Halton was still alive. If the servants had abandoned Steele’s parents as they lay upon their sickbed, they would have died from lack of food and water. In contrast, Mrs. Halton tended a garden. Slowly, perhaps. A tiny one, yes. But she withstood the sun and she cooked her own meals and she tidied after herself. None of which was typical behavior for an invalid dying of consumption.

Third evidence: Her symptoms. Weight loss? See: tiny garden, and forced to cook her own meals. Night chills? It was February. She had no fire. Fatigue, cough, chest pain? Pneumonia. Influenza. Asthma. Whooping cough. Any number of diseases that were uncomfortable or even dangerous, yet not life-threatening. But how could he be certain?

He couldn’t.

His fingers curled into fists. He hated to leave her behind. What if she worsened? She couldn’t count on any of her neighbors dropping by with milk or broth.

On the other hand, what if the surgeon was right? What if he brought her aboard the ship only for her to start spitting up blood and infecting his entire crew while they floated in the middle of the ocean?

Lightning flashed outside the south windows.

Mrs. Halton dragged herself up off her chair and to the kitchen, where she gathered a collection of pots and pans and began to position them strategically throughout the cottage.

Steele blinked. “What the devil are you doing, woman?”

She pointed overhead. “Rotted ceiling, remember?”

He tilted his gaze upward and took an involuntary step back. So much for his infallible memory. She was right—the ceiling leaked. What she had failed to mention was that the rotting roof was coated in slimy mold. Flecks of the dark fungus dripped down with the rain to splat in the thick iron pans. The rest clung to the ceiling, growing outward from the wet areas until fingers of furry mold brushed against the tops of the walls like a living black carpet.

The back of Steele’s throat tickled just from looking at all that mold. They were
breathing
it right now.
 

“Pack a bag,” he barked as he ducked into her bedchamber to start throwing open drawers.

She glanced up from arranging the pots, startled. “What? Why?”

“You’re coming with me.”

“But I have—”

“I don’t think you do.” He threw a large cloth bag onto the bed. “Pack it.”

“You may be used to getting your way due to your looks and your arrogance, but I’m not willing to risk other people’s lives based on what you think.”

“You won’t be risking everyone’s lives. Just mine.” He tossed a pair of stockings into the open bag. “You’ll be quarantined with me.”

Chapter 2

When Clara Halton had woken up coughing in her lonely bed that morning, she’d never imagined that later that afternoon she would be flying across dirt roads on the back of a horse…with her arms wrapped around the hard, muscled stomach of an arrogant stranger.

What was she doing? Recklessness was for the young.
Adventure
was for the young.
 

The mistakes she’d made during the year of her London come-out were precisely the reason why she was nine-and-thirty years old…and had a twenty-two-year-old daughter. Running away from her disapproving parents, fleeing to America, falling in love with a young doctor whose big heart would lead him to an early grave in the blink of an eye… Reckless, all of it. Foolhardy. Witless.

She’d learned from those mistakes. She’d had no choice. At seventeen years old, she’d become self-sufficient overnight. She’d become
responsible
overnight. Grown up. Cautious. Over-protective. Safe.

Until now.

“Are you comfortable?” Mr. Steele called back to her. “The next posting-house is bound to have a carriage we can rent.”

Clara lifted her cheek from his coat. His warm back protected her face from the wind, and she enjoyed the masculine rumble of his voice more than she’d like to admit. “No.”

He pulled the horse up short. His muscles had tensed. “No, you’re not comfortable?”

“No, we oughtn’t waste time on a coach.” Not if they truly were going to England. Excitement lightened her chest. Now that seeing Grace again finally seemed possible, Clara couldn’t wait to begin. Particularly if she didn’t have much time left. “You said you could take me to my daughter. A carriage will take longer to reach the port. I don’t know how much time I—”

He twisted toward her, trying to meet her eyes. “You are
not
going to die. Not of consumption. Not of anything, whilst you’re under my protection. I
will
reunite you with your family.”

Doubt crept in. What if her health was worse than he believed? What if she never would see her daughter again? She should have stayed in her cottage. Hope was the cruelest jest of all. Why did he wish to save her? Why did he even think he could?
 

She should tell him to send his arrogance and high-handed ways to the devil. She should scoff at his claim that anyone in the world was truly more powerful than death.

Yet she couldn’t move. Something about the determination in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, the almost careless confidence he exuded with every word and every breath… Clara had no doubt that if anyone could cheat death, it was this man.

“Who
are
you?” she whispered, not bothering to hide her awe—or her hesitation.

“Mr. Steele.” His reply came easily, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Sometimes.”

She frowned. “What—”

He picked up the reins. “The moment you feel sick or tired or achy, you tell me. We’ll get a coach whether you like it or not. And come nightfall, we find an inn. Understood?”

Silent indignation flashed in her veins. Clara could despise his autocratic arrogance all she wished, but the truth remained: He was right. She was no longer physically capable of a nonstop breakneck pace for hours, days. They would have to stop at some point. Change horses. Eat. Sleep.

She nodded her acquiescence.

“Good.” He turned back to the horse. “Hold on tight.”

She lay her cheek against his coat, wrapped her arms about his abdomen, and tried not to think about how long it had been since her body had last pressed up against a man’s. Everything about that idea was as dangerous as Mr. Steele himself.
 

Whoever he was.

He spoke in the clipped accents of a wellborn English gentleman, but had the hard, muscled body of a farmer—or a fighter. He not only moved with the grace of a tiger, his eyes were never still, constantly scouring their surroundings for…what, precisely? He’d dropped her pistol into his satchel, but the bulge beneath his waistcoat indicated he had brought at least one weapon of his own. To the home of an invalid. What exactly had he expected to find?

Grace’s letter had made no mention of a Mr. Steele, but it did reference the Earl of Carlisle, whose seal had been pressed into the sealing wax. Grace insisted that although she had warm feelings toward the man, he was absolutely, positively, not the suitor for her. Which probably meant the opposite.

Clara closed her eyes. She’d sent Grace to England in the hopes of saving her life—and securing a future. If the girl had found love in the process, then things had worked out better than Clara could even have hoped.

In fact, she
knew
they had. The impossible had already occurred. The parents who had disowned her in her youth had actually written a letter, something Clara had given up on years ago. Not just a letter. A ticket for a passenger ship had been tucked inside, next to her father’s spidery script. Clara’s mother didn’t know about the letter. Or the passenger ticket.

Neither did Mr. Steele.

If he was right, and she wasn’t contagious… If passage with him seemed unsafe, or fell through completely… She still had a chance to see Grace.

An ache filled Clara’s heart. It had been nearly four months since she’d seen her daughter. She’d truly believed she would never see her face again. Mr. Steele’s arrival had interrupted her mourning and given her hope. If he hadn’t come…
 

She opened her eyes. Even if the post-master had delivered her correspondence, Clara would have had no way to get to the port to take advantage of it. She’d run out of money long before. Besides, the whole town treated her like a leper. She’d treated
herself
like a leper. Hadn’t broken her self-imposed quarantine since the diagnosis. Sent away the only living person she still loved. Would rather have died alone than risk hurting anyone else.
 

Yet Mr. Steele didn’t take the threat seriously. Perhaps he didn’t take much of anything seriously.

Her stomach clenched. This was madness. What if he was wrong, and had already contracted the illness? What if all that awaited Grace at the docks of London was the corpse of her dead mother?

She tightened her grip about Mr. Steele’s waist as a shudder wracked through her. He was a cocksure, overbearing stranger but she would never forgive herself if something happened to him because of her.

It was too late, though, wasn’t it? She was already on the back of a horse, cleaving herself to his body, drunk on the idea of seeing her daughter again. Of recovering some semblance of health. Of having a future.