A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella Page 6

  “I’d be happy to talk to him about my travels.”

  “He’d like that. When he finds a subject interesting, he’s a good conversationalist.” She paused. “There just aren’t many subjects he finds interesting.”

  Rory watched Bess’s father drift across the vicarage’s threshold and out of sight. So much became clear that had puzzled him. Dr. Simpson’s strange reaction when he’d asked about the vicar. Even more, Bess’s position of authority in the village. With the late earl an invalid and the vicar wandering among the ghosts of ancient empires, no wonder she’d found herself overseeing Penton Wyck’s welfare.

  “Daisy! Daisy!”

  Bess’s urgent shouts pierced his reflections. “Oh, hell.”

  The donkey had taken advantage of Rory’s distraction to stretch out her neck and attack the pretty Christmas frippery decorating the vicarage’s porch. What had once been an elaborate arrangement of holly and red and silver ribbons was now a ragged circlet fit for the bonfire.

  Chapter Five

  For Bess, the next four days rushed by in a flurry of activity—and a disappointing absence of kisses.

  Apart from the bailiff, the butler and the housekeeper, the Abbey was now staffed inside and out. Through all the bustle, Lord Channing proved himself a man of easy manners and quick humor. He’d even turned up at church on Sunday and managed to stay awake through her father’s deadly dull sermon about some abstruse point of translation from the Greek New Testament. The villagers already referred to the pirate lord of the manor with pride instead of suspicion.

  Bess was less pleased with the way the earl had so swiftly become vitally important to her. Her day only started when he welcomed her to Penton Abbey, and the glow dimmed when they parted in the evening. Even more frightening, she then spent each night longing to bask in his presence again.

  Nobody should become so…necessary so quickly. After all, what did she know of him?

  Except the hours working together taught her quite a lot about Lord Channing. Her early attraction soon warmed to respect and admiration, and something that might ripen into friendship.

  He wasn’t at all high in the instep. He was always ready to share a friendly word with the villagers. His brother had been a good man, but he’d lacked the earl’s ability to find common ground. Already Bess could tell that the new regime at Penton Abbey would be considerably more democratic than the previous one. If Channing carried his libertarian ideals down to London when he took his seat in the House of Lords, he’d horrify those reactionary old lizards in Parliament.

  Not that she approved of all the changes. His lordship might be prepared to listen to advice, but she soon learned that he possessed strong opinions. On some issues she couldn’t sway him, the way, curse him, he’d accused her of swaying his brother. Luckily, he had the charm and intelligence to achieve his ends without creating undue resentment in the villagers—or in her.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t be such a misfit maneuvering his way through Parliament after all.

  He must have been a remarkable captain, all steely will cloaked in velvet persuasion. It was a lesson in leadership, watching him turn once wary villagers into allies. She had a nasty suspicion that he managed her just as skillfully.

  He’d somehow made his interest in the vicar’s daughter generally known. Interest that apparently met the approval of everyone except, perhaps, the vicar’s daughter. Bess had soon noticed sidelong glances and sly smiles, not to mention the conspiracy to leave her alone with his lordship whenever possible.

  She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for her neighbors’ machinations, or resent them. She certainly didn’t mind being alone with Channing. If he kissed her again, she’d mind even less.

  She and the earl were alone now. They were in the stables and she was grooming a fidgety Daisy for tomorrow’s play. His lordship watched them both from the corridor, arms folded on top of the stall gate. The grooms were notably absent, although in the middle of the day, they should be hard at work.

  “Adeste, fidelis,” she sang when Daisy backed away from the bunch of bright ribbons she held.

  Lord Channing snickered. “She objects to the historical inaccuracy of your titivating. I doubt the real donkey was done out like a wee harlequin.”

  Bess cast him an unimpressed look. “You’re no help.”

  “What if I sing, too?” His teasing smile had her silly heart dancing a gavotte, skipping about like it was spring instead of deepest winter.

  “You could try.”

  “I’d rather watch the battle royal between you and this troublesome beast. It’s great entertainment. Daisy’s the only creature in Penton Wyck who doesn’t jump to your bidding.”

  Bess draped the ribbons over the edge of the manger and grabbed Daisy’s halter to hold her still. “She’s not the only troublesome beast I see.”

  He laughed softly. “Have I not leaped to your merest command, Miss Farrar? I’ve employed half the village, and now I can’t open a door in my own house without tripping over some gormless yokel dusting the china. I’ve emptied every victualler within a hundred miles to feed your friends and neighbors on Christmas Day. I’ve stayed up past midnight learning lines for your blasted play—you’d think I was a damned schoolboy sitting his Latin translation exam.”

  “Language,” she said, trying to make her fingers work with their usual deftness as she twined a red ribbon around the harness. She just couldn’t control her shivery reaction to Lord Channing. Never had she been so physically aware of anyone. Nor could she forget how wonderful she’d felt when he’d put his arms around her.

  Damn him—and his deleterious influence on her language—since then he’d acted the perfect gentleman. Even if a gentleman quick to take her arm or touch her shoulder or hold her hand to step onto a ladder. Or catch her waist to lift her onto Daisy’s back when she played Mary.

  But no more kisses. And while she waited in breathless suspense for him to kiss her again, those teasing little touches were driving her mad.

  “It’s my house and I’m a sailor. You’d be disappointed if I didn’t let the occasional oath fly.”

  He might be right. A wicked part of her thrilled to think of the exciting life he’d led. She loved Penton Wyck. But she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t occasionally hanker after new horizons. Lord Channing brought those new horizons to her doorstep. “You haven’t got much to complain about. Joseph only has three speeches.”

  Another smile curled that fascinating mouth. A mouth that she couldn’t stop thinking about. Had one taste convinced him she wasn’t worth kissing? Had she been too eager? Too clumsy? Did he find her overbearing? This wasn’t the first time he’d referred to her ordering him about.

  Except she was sure that from the start, he’d followed his own inclinations. He played a deep game—on the surface he might be all cooperation, but in the end, Bess Farrar danced to his tune, not the other way round.

  What precisely was his tune? Clearly not kisses, plague take him.

  The horrible, shaming truth was that his kiss was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her. Revisiting those heated seconds kept her awake at night and jumpy all day. The fever found no relief. That kiss should have shocked her—after all, they’d only just met and she’d heard about his reputation—but when it was over, all she wanted was more.

  And no good vicar’s daughter should devote so much time to thinking about kisses.

  Clearly she wasn’t good.

  Not that Lord Channing did much to take advantage of her sinfulness.

  He was talking to her as if he had nothing more important on his mind than the nativity play. “Yes, but Joseph is in charge of Daisy. It’s the toughest role in the whole show. You merely need to sit there, looking beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. What the devil was she to make of it when he said such things? If he really thought she was beautiful, why on earth didn’t he do something about it?

  Like kiss her again.
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  “Do you want those for anything special?”

  “Pardon?”

  Channing gestured to where the donkey munched away at the ribbons meant for her adornment. “Oh, Daisy, you rotten thing.”

  Channing laughed again. “I told you that controlling Daisy was a major effort.”

  Not as much effort as controlling one pestilential earl. “Sing to her.”

  “O, my love is like a red, red rose

  That ’s newly sprung in June;

  O, my love is like the melody

  That ’s sweetly played in tune.

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in love am I:

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  Till a ’ the seas gang dry.”

  Lord Channing’s melodious baritone skimmed across Bess’s nerves like silk over glass. The breath jammed in her throat and she felt giddy and hot. Until she reminded herself that it was just a song, and his lordship didn’t mean anything by choosing it except that he knew the words.

  He had an annoying propensity to croon love songs to Daisy. They had the same effect on the donkey as on Bess. A strong urge to snuggle up to the singer. Daisy edged closer to the gate and stood transfixed, giving Bess a chance to rescue the mangled ribbons.

  Dismayed, she inspected each length of colored satin as that soft Scots voice sang about true love and always returning to her, though it were ten thousand miles. Right now, she wished Lord Channing ten thousand miles away. At least then she might find some peace.

  Except she already knew she’d miss him if he left. He drove her insane, he made her restless, he made her want. But seeing him set her world right. She had a sinking feeling that with every day she became more hopelessly infatuated with the roguish new lord of the manor.

  She stood motionless and entranced—as entranced as Daisy—while Channing reached the end. And regretted that he stopped.

  “I’m not sure I should let you ride Daisy tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” Excitement spiked and Bess glanced up from the ruined ribbons she had trouble seeing. That cursed sentimental song turned her vision misty.

  Did he mean to steal another kiss before letting Daisy join the play? Bess didn’t even care that he went back on his word, as long as he ended this intolerable waiting.

  But Lord Channing wasn’t looking at her. He studied Daisy, his impressive russet eyebrows lowered in displeasure. “She’s a law unto herself. What if she bolts?”

  Disappointment, as wicked as it was unjustified, overwhelmed Bess, and she replied on a subdued note. “She never has before.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “With everyone looking at her, she’s quite the prima donna.” Bess struggled to sound her usual sedate self, an exemplary woman who would never think to barter kisses. “You mightn’t believe it, but she always behaves perfectly when she’s in the nativity play. Well, apart from two years ago when she ate Mrs. Pickering’s new bonnet. And a couple of years before that when she butted the Bishop of Durham. But nobody likes him so that was almost a public service.”

  Channing laughed while Daisy’s long ears flickered as if she followed each word of the discussion. Perhaps she did. After riding her in ten processions, Bess had developed a healthy respect for the donkey’s intelligence, as well as will to mischief. Although as she’d told Channing, Daisy usually cooperated for the Christmas celebrations. She liked the music.

  “I could put you on Sparta, my horse.”

  Despite her confused and disturbing feelings, Bess gave a short laugh. “That black monster in the next stall? He’s three times Daisy’s size.”

  “And ten times better behaved.”

  “Mary didn’t ride into Bethlehem on a thoroughbred horse. If she had, I’m sure the innkeeper would have made room for her—even if he had to boot out a guest with less aristocratic transport.”

  Channing eyed her with curiosity. “I’m convinced you’re a revolutionary, Miss Farrar.”

  Sighing, she gave up any attempt to save the ribbons. “Me?”

  “Aye. You have devilish little respect for rank. I’ve even seen you push an earl around.”

  Oh, no. She was right to worry. He really did think she was too managing. No wonder he hadn’t kissed her again. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  He looked startled. “I’m only teasing. No need to poker up.”

  Channing spoke lightly, but that didn’t mean his criticism wasn’t sincere. She lowered her head and answered with uncharacteristic meekness. “How you must curse me. I’ve done nothing but lay down the law. I mean well, but I’m so used to being in charge that I forget other people might have plans of their own.”

  “I do.”

  “Forget other people have their own ideas?”

  He smiled and opened the gate. “No, I have plans. Lots of them. Now come and have something to eat. Overwork is turning you maudlin.”

  Bess dredged up an answering smile, although his kindness only reminded her how much she liked him. She didn’t want Lord Channing deciding she was unpleasantly bumptious. She wanted him still to think she was the prettiest girl in the village, silly and shallow as that made her. “At least you must appreciate the cook I found you. Mrs. Hallam is a treasure.”

  He regarded her searchingly as he stood back to let her out. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. You and the villagers have made Penton Abbey into a home a man can be proud of. And you’ve all worked yourselves to the bone to achieve it.”

  After latching the gate, he patted Daisy in farewell. The donkey’s eyes closed in bliss. For Channing, she almost behaved like a civilized creature. Everybody liked the new earl.

  Including Bess.

  “You’re paying them.”

  He shrugged. “They’ve done this for more than wages. They’ve done it for love. And so have you.”

  Heat stung Bess’s cheeks. Oh, Lord. Was she so transparent? How vilely humiliating. Was that why he hadn’t kissed her? Because he saw how utterly gooey-eyed she was over him? “We want you to feel welcome,” she said awkwardly.

  “I do. I’m even starting to love the old place the way you obviously do.”

  Such powerful relief flooded her that her head swam. He was talking about her love for the house, not her barely controlled penchant for him. “I’m glad.”

  Channing took her arm the way he usually did. At first she’d wondered if this was a sign of special favor. But as he never went beyond a polite escort, she’d since realized it meant nothing more than a friendly gesture. But that didn’t stop her foolish heart turning somersaults at the touch of his hand.

  “I’ve never really had a home before.”

  Deliberately Bess slowed to a stop. She was agonizingly curious about his life before he arrived at Penton Wyck. “Not even as a boy?”

  “My mother could never settle in England—or to her marriage to my father. She returned to Scotland once she’d delivered the heir and the spare as required. With her duty done, she felt free to follow her inclinations. By all reports, my father was pleased to be rid of her. It wasn’t a happy union. You must know some of this. The village is a hotbed of gossip.”

  “Naturally, there were stories. But nobody knew what happened to your mother after she left, and your father certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. It was all such a long time ago.”

  “That makes me feel old,” he said with that flashing amusement that was so much a part of him. To her regret, he released her arm and faced her, shaking his head. “For shame, Miss Farrar.”

  “You’re not old. You’re…you’re just right,” she said, and blushed even hotter than she had when she feared he’d guessed her tendre for him.

  “Why, thank you,” he said, and she knew he was trying not to laugh.

  With great effort, she put aside her discomfort. If he was in the mood to confide, nothing would drag her away. “But surely you had a home in Scotland?”

  “My mother remarried when I was nine. A rich lawyer
from Edinburgh. We lived with him and his four daughters for a couple of years, although Mamma was soon restless and unhappy again. She wasn’t cut out for marriage.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I liked my stepfather and it was fun having sisters, when they weren’t driving me mad with their giggling. But I was only there for two years. I went to sea when I was eleven.”

  The quiet stables fostered intimacy. The pleasant fug of horses and leather and hay lulled Bess into a feeling of warmth and comfort and safety. “What happened to your mother?”

  “Ten years ago, she fell from a horse taking a fence that nobody in their right mind would attempt. She broke her neck.”

  Poignant emotion tightened her throat. He seemed to have nobody. She could hardly believe he’d lived a life so devoid of affection. For a man of his generous spirit, that was a tragic waste. The same lunatic heart that danced at the sight of him urged her to fold him tight in her arms and promise he’d never be alone again.

  She resisted the impulse. He was a proud man and her pity would appall him. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. For all her faults, I loved her, and I think I was the only person in the world who came near to understanding her.”

  She placed her hand on his arm and tried to ignore how the contact made her pulse skip. “Did you see your father after leaving Penton Wyck?”

  She caught a fleeting glimpse of long-held and well-hidden sadness. “We met three times, twice when I was a lad, and once when I was in London as a young officer. We were too unfamiliar with each other to form any real bond, despite our blood ties. Did you know him?”

  “When I was a child. He was very like your brother. Quiet. Conscientious. Kind. But I was too young to know him well.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  “It helps. I feel like I’m drifting in fog. There’s so much I don’t know—and everything here is so settled and longstanding. I’ve mostly lived aboard ship. Occasionally a vessel would feel like home, my first command in particular. She was a darling. But—”