Care and Feeding of Pirates Read Free

readiness, and thrust
himself inside her.
    When they were finished, Christopher had
kissed her gently and helped her to dress. He'd made a last request
of his jailors, and to her amazement, they'd granted it.
    The next day, they'd dragged Christopher to
the gallows. The newspapers had printed a flamboyant account of the
hanging, which most of Charleston flocked to see. Honoria stayed
firmly at home, shut herself in her room, and told everyone she was
ill. She'd tied a black ribbon around her box of keepsakes and
pushed it to the back of her drawer.
    That day had been the worst of her life.
Today was becoming a fast contender.
    The droplet of ink fell from her pen and
became an ugly blob on the paper. One transparent tear followed
it.
    Honoria quickly tore the paper from the book,
crumpled it, and pushed it aside. Setting her lips, she touched the
pen to the paper again and scribbled, Attended a performance
of Love's Labor's Lost , which I've always thought a silly
play. The actors, I don't believe, had ever been in love before.
The Labor part of the title was the only truth.
    She paused. Her fingers shook, and she
quieted them. I believed the actors fools. Or am I the fool? I
thought I saw . . .
    She stopped. She could not write his name,
even now. I believe I am becoming senile. According to London's
very low opinion of spinsters, I should be off my head by now.
Thank heavens for Mr. Templeton's proposal or I should be quite
unsavable.
    Honoria lowered the pen, her fingers aching.
Her head hurt, and she could no longer think of bright, amusing
things to write.
    She heard Diana's muffled footsteps on the
stairs as her sister-in-law ascended to the third floor. Just above
Honoria's room lay the nursery, where Isabeau and Diana's baby son
slept. James and Diana had named the baby Paul. Honoria thought
this a little unfair to the child, because anyone called Paul
Ardmore would have very big shoes to fill.
    Honoria lifted the pen and wrote in the book, My entire life is a lie.
    She underlined lie . She heard Diana
crooning upstairs, "Who's mama's ickle lad, then?"
    Honoria wiped her pen and placed it in the
pen tray, then rose from her writing desk and turned toward the
bed.
    Christopher Raine was standing next to
it.
     
    *****

Chapter Two
     
    Honoria stepped back and upset the chair,
which fell against the desk, dislodging her journal and pen tray.
The pen tray crashed to the floor with a loud clatter, the pens
rolling across the carpet.
    Diana's footsteps creaked to the stairs
above. "Honoria? Are you all right?"
    Honoria dashed to the door and flung it open.
"Yes, indeed," she called up. "I dropped my pens, that is all."
    Diana peered down the half-dark staircase,
little Paul hoisted on one arm. After a long moment, she said, "All
right then. Good night," and retreated up the stairs.
    Honoria shut the door but resisted turning
the key. If Diana heard the click of the lock, she might be down
again, demanding to know what was the matter.
    Honoria turned around again. Christopher was
gone.
    "Oh, no you don't," she said. "I saw you this
time."
    Christopher stepped out from behind the bed,
where he'd moved so the hangings would hide him in case Diana came
all the way downstairs. He approached Honoria as she stood,
motionless, by the writing table.
    He certainly looked alive. His quiet
footfalls and the creak of his leather boots made him sound
alive.
    Christopher had been hard-muscled and fine of
body four years ago, and he was even more so now. The shirt that
clung to broad shoulders showed his solidity, and black breeches,
shiny with wear, stretched over large thighs. His boots, worn and
black, rose past his knees and tracked mud and tar onto Diana's
lovely carpet. Candlelight burnished golden bristles on his jaw and
the finer curls at the opening of his shirt.
    "Why are you alive?" Honoria blurted.
    "That happy to see me, are you?"
    Something had happened to Christopher's
voice. It had always been deep, with a faintly French