The Duke's Accidental Wife (Dukes of War Book 7) (26 page)

The Pirate’s Tempting Stowaway

Captain Blackheart leads a simple life of roving the seas, wenching and treasure-hunting. He steers clear of romantic entanglements that could tie him to land. He shouldn't have any trouble keeping his hands off the gently-bred lady he's commissioned to abduct—except his cargo turns out to be feisty and passionate! She'd be a prize worth treasuring, if having her aboard didn't jeopardize everything...

Clara Halton thought the worst loss she could suffer was to be stripped of her family, stricken with consumption, and left to die alone. Then she meets Blackheart. Their attraction is ruinous...and irresistible. When he delivers her like so much plunder, his mission is over — but hers has just begun. She'll force him to acknowledge their connection, even if she must storm his ship to do it!

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Chapter One

February 1816

The Dark Crystal

Atlantic Ocean

The dread pirate Blackheart stood at the bow of his ship, smiling into the rush of salty air, as the first hint of America rose upon the horizon.

Despite the chill of winter, the skies were clear and blue, with both the wind and the sun to his back. ’Twas more than a good omen. It was a perfect day for any number of Captain Blackheart’s favorite activities. Sailing. Wenching. Drinking. Horse-racing. Sword-fighting. Boarding enemy vessels. Commandeering an ill-fortuned frigate.
 

Nothing was better than the freedom of the seas.

“Land ho!” came the familiar cry from the crow’s nest.

Blackheart’s good humor faded. He relinquished navigational oversight to the Quartermaster without a word.
 

There was no need to bark orders. Most of the crew had been part of his family long enough to recognize the storm clouds brewing in Blackheart’s eyes, and every hand on board already had their standing orders.

No unnecessary fighting. No drinking to excess. Wenching was always permissible, but only if the crew made haste. The
Dark Crystal
would only be docked at the Port of Philadelphia long enough for Blackheart to accomplish his mission, and then they’d sail down the Delaware River and back out to sea just as swiftly as they’d sailed in.

Payment would only be delivered upon receipt of the booty. In this case…a sickly old woman named Mrs. Halton.

Despite being a pirate for hire, Blackheart was not in the habit of kidnapping innocents. Prior to the end of the war eight short months ago, he had been a privateer for the Royal Navy. A government pirate. A
legal
pirate. Now that he was an independent contractor, he tried to uphold the spirit (if not the precise letter) of the law.

’Twas the surest way to steer clear of the gallows.

The soles of Blackheart’s boots tread silently against polished wood as he strode aft toward the gunroom skylight. He descended the ladder to the Captain’s cabin and slipped inside to gather his supplies.

Item the first: a freshly starched cravat. This mission would require charm. Item the second: a freshly cleaned pistol and extra ammunition. A pirate might not
expect
trouble, but he certainly intended to finish it. Item the third: a heavy coin purse. If everything else failed, gold was often more powerful than bullets. And he planned on using every weapon at his disposal.

By the time the schooner docked at the port, Blackheart was clean-shaven, dandified, and fresh as a daisy. Oh, certainly, his sun-bronzed skin was an unaristocratic brown—and was generously adorned with a truly ungentlemanly quantity of scars—but most of that was hidden away beneath his gleaming Hessians, soft buckskin breeches, muted chestnut waistcoat, blinding white cravat, and dark blue tailcoat with twin rows of gold buttons.
 

The hidden pistol in its fitted sling made barely a bulge beneath so many layers of foppery.

He forewent both sword and walking stick because he intended to make the rest of the journey on horseback, and debated leaving his hat behind as well. It was unlikely to stay on his head at a gallop, and would be crushed in the saddlebag…
 

With a sigh, Blackheart scooped up the beaver hat and shoved it on his head. He had no idea how easily manipulated Mrs. Halton might be, or whether she’d turn out to be one of those histrionic old matrons who refused to be seen in public alongside a gentleman with a bare head.
 

Plan B was to toss her over his shoulder and have done with the matter, but Blackheart had promised the Earl of Carlisle he’d at least
try
to coax the package into accompanying him voluntarily.
 

And although Blackheart would never admit it aloud, he had a rather high opinion of both his own charm
and
grandmotherly women. He would do everything within his power to make the journey to England a pleasant one for Mrs. Halton, and had already instructed his crew to treat her as if she were their own mother. With any luck, she’d be the sort to bake pies and biscuits. Or at least not to get seasick all over the
Dark Crystal
.

Carrying nothing more than a pair of gloves and a small satchel, he made his way down the gangplank in search of the fastest horse to rent—and nearly tripped over an underfed newspaper boy hawking today’s headlines for a penny.
 

Under normal circumstances, Blackheart would have flipped the boy a coin and let him keep the paper…but the black font stamped across the top stopped the captain in his tracks.

MOST DANGEROUS PIRATE:

THE CRIMSON CORSAIR

Blackheart snatched up the paper and tried to read over the grinding of his teeth. He wasn’t certain what he hated most about the Crimson Corsair: that the man was a dishonorable, coldblooded madman, or that he’d started to receive better press than Blackheart himself.

“You gonna pay for that, mister?” came a belligerent, high-pitched voice below his elbow.

He slapped the newspaper back onto the pile along with a shiny new coin, and stalked off the dock. Now was not the time to think about the Crimson Corsair. Once Mrs. Halton was safely delivered, Blackheart and his crew would be free to pursue any mission they wished—perhaps a quick seek-and-destroy of the corsair’s vessel—but for the moment, he needed to stay focused. Not only had he given Carlisle his word, this mission would be a doddle. Grab the woman, get the money. The easiest three hundred pounds of his life.
 

The Pennsylvania countryside flew past, the sky darkening as he rode. Blackheart kept to the mail roads in order to trade for fresh horses at posting-houses…and also to keep from losing his way. He was used to England and to the open sea, not these sparsely populated American trails winding endlessly between bigger cities. He never felt comfortable when he was out of sight from the water, and he was heading further from the ocean with every step.

Despite the impressive number of small towns intersecting the long dusty roads, he felt more isolated with each passing mile. The hurried meals he took in country taverns were nothing like the rowdy camaraderie aboard his ship. He could scarcely wait to complete this mission.

Fortunately, he had to spend the night at an inn only once before finally reaching the town where his target resided.
 

The shabby little cottage was right where his instructions said it would be, but the state of disrepair gave Blackheart pause. The garden was so overgrown as to be nearly wild. The exterior was dirty and covered in spider webs. No smoke rose from the chimney. No candlelight shone in the windows.
 

Had someone already abducted his quarry? Had she simply moved? Or, God forbid, died of old age during his journey from England?

Rather than blindly march into unknown territory, he turned his horse in search of the local postmaster, in order to determine whether his target was still in his sights—or whether the rules of the game had changed.

“Mrs. Halton?” repeated the pale-faced postmaster when Blackheart interrupted his nuncheon. “Mrs. Clara Halton?”

“Yes,” Blackheart replied calmly, as he towered over the dining table. “I’ve come to pay her a visit.”

“But you mustn’t, sir.” The postmaster forged on despite the captain’s raised brow. “You cannot. She’s ill—”

“I’m aware that Mrs. Halton has been sickly.”

“—with consumption,” the postmaster finished, his eyes wide with foreboding.

Although Blackheart’s smile didn’t falter, his blood ran cold.
Consumption
. The game had indeed changed.

“How long has she been afflicted?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t rightly know—”

“How long does the doctor think she has?”

“I don’t…He hasn’t seen her since the diagnosis.”

“Hasn’t
seen
her?” Blackheart frowned. “She won’t allow him in?”

“He hasn’t gone.” The postmaster’s cheeks flushed. “It’s the contagion, sir, can’t you understand? He’s the sole medical practitioner for miles, and if
he
catches the illness…”

The spider webs and overgrown garden now made perfect sense. Blackheart’s jaw tightened. They’d left her to die. “If the sole medical practitioner does not visit his patient, I presume neither do the dairy maids or local farmers.”

“No, sir. I can’t even deliver her letters anymore. Too dangerous. We could die if we caught—”

“Without food or medicine, how is Mrs. Halton expected to live?”

“She
ain’t
expected to live, sir. That’s the point you keep missing. Most folks with consumption don’t last longer than—”

“You said you possess post you’ve failed to deliver? Hand it over.”

“You can’t possibly intend to—”

“Now.”

The postmaster scrambled up from the table and hurried over to a cubicle, from which he drew two folded missives. “I wouldn’t normally hand post to a stranger—”

“—but since you’ve no intention to deliver it anyway…” Blackheart finished dryly as he shoved the letters into his coat pocket. He turned toward the door, but then paused to pin the postmaster in his stare one final time. “Keep in mind, not everyone dies of consumption—but we all die of starvation.”

He stalked back outside without waiting for a reply. There was nothing the postmaster could say that would be worth the time it took to listen. Perhaps Mrs. Halton’s consumption was in fact fatal. Most afflicted parties did not survive more than a year or two after diagnosis.

But not all.
 

Blackheart should know.

He’d been eight years old when consumption had attacked his father. Then his mother. He’d still been young Gregory Steele in those days, and no lock in the house could keep him from his parents’ sickbed for long.
 

What they’d thought was pneumonia had proven otherwise the moment they’d started coughing up blood. Then one of the nurses became infected. Another—just like little Gregory—developed a few of the symptoms, but eventually overcame the illness.

He was in perfect health the day they’d buried his parents in the ground.

His fingers clenched. Depending on Mrs. Halton’s condition, he might not be able to complete this mission. But the least he could do was deliver the lady’s mail.

He tied his horse to the rusting iron post at the edge of Mrs. Halton’s overgrown front walk and rolled back his shoulders. For the next few minutes at least, he would not be Captain Blackheart, second-most feared pirate upon the high seas. Instead, he would be Mr. Gregory Steele. Again.

It had been so long since he’d last removed his mask, he’d nearly forgotten what being plain Mr. Steele felt like. It was so easy to forget that “Blackheart” was a persona and Gregory Steele was the real man. Especially when he liked being a pirate so much better.

He rapped his fingers against the door.

No one answered.

He glanced around for a knocker. There was none. He rapped harder. Thunder rumbled overhead.

No one answered.

His stomach twisted. He couldn’t help but note the very Steele dismay at the idea of arriving too late to save a total stranger. A pirate like Blackheart would only care that he and his men had been effectively swindled by the earl who’d set them upon this impossible mission.

Gregory Steele, however, would deal with Carlisle and the crew later. First, he needed to determine whether his quarry was still alive—and figure out what to do next.

“Mrs. Halton?” he called, tramping across overgrown grass to squint through a grimy window. “Are you in there?”

“Go away!” returned a muffled female voice from the other side of the wall.
 

Steele’s shoulders loosened. Relief rushed through him even though he well knew Mrs. Halton’s non-dead state didn’t mean any of their lives were about to get easier. One step at a time.

“Mrs. Halton, my name is Mr. Gregory Steele, and I have come all the way from London, England to—”

“Go
away
,” the stubborn voice repeated. “I’m armed.”

A grin played at the edges of Steele’s lips. Pirate or not, he did love a good gunfight. Any old woman cantankerous enough to suggest one was well on her way to being a kindred spirit.