The Pirate's Secret Baby Read online

  THE PIRATE'S SECRET BABY

  by

  DARLENE MARSHALL

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  The Pirate's Secret Baby

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.AmberQuill.com

  http://www.AmberHeat.com

  http://www.AmberAllure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2014 by Eve D. Ackerman

  ISBN 978-1-61124-562-2

  Cover Art © 2014 Trace Edward Zaber

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Darlene Marshall

  The Bride And The Buccaneer

  Captain Sinister's Lady

  Castaway Dreams

  Pirate's Price

  Sea Change

  Smuggler's Bride

  Dedication, Notes & Thanks

  If anyone has ever wondered why my pirate captain is Robert St. Armand instead of the more correct Robert St. Amand, blame Canada.*

  Thanks go to Diana Gabaldon, who graciously gave me permission to use The Impetuous Pirate and her characters "Tessa" and "Valdez."

  My editor, Catherine Snodgrass. You help bring my words to life.

  Raphael T. Rosenblatt, math teacher extraordinaire, who allowed me to guest lecture to his economics class at Harvard using a passage from The Bride and the Buccaneer to illustrate how the barter system approximates commodity currency in a market economy. That is so going on my resumé! Reader, any math mistakes in this book are mine. He tried his best to assist me.

  Nathalie Fossé, PhD, LMT for help with French phrases and words.

  The Beaumonde (Regency) chapter of Romance Writers of America. They're always there for me when I need answers.

  The Alachua County (Florida) Library District, zooming through the 21st century.

  My beta readers, Janice, Connie and Amarilis. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  Captain Charles Johnson's A General History of the Robberies & Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates is still very much in print and enjoyed by pirates young and old.

  *There is a tiny hamlet in Quebec named St. Armand, but the correct English spelling of the saint's name is St. Amand. A municipality in New York repeated the mistake when their town was named after the Quebec town. Then it got worse--a lovely destination in Florida named St. Armand's Key continued the error. From Wikipedia: "A Frenchman named Charles St. Amand bought property on the island in 1893. His name was misspelled in land deeds, and this misspelled name is still used today."

  I happened to be sitting in a cafe on St. Armand's Key sipping wine** and working on Castaway Dreams when I exclaimed aloud, "What this book needs is pirates!" Since I was enjoying myself so much at St. Armand's Key, I decided to call my pirate "St. Armand." It's probably a good thing I wasn't in Yeehaw Junction or Sopchoppy when I had this brainstorm. It never occurred to me St. Armand's Key was a historic typo, so I merrily wrote along. I realized the error while doing research for this book, and bring it to your attention so readers (even--or especially--Canadian ones) wouldn't send me letters saying, "That is not a real name in French!"

  **I earned that wine. I walked over the bridge to St. Armand's Key from the mainland to see if I could overcome my fear of high bridges. It worked, and I've made that hike a number of times since.

  Chapter 1

  1820

  The room reeked of stale perfume, spilled liquor, hashish, the effluvia of multiple bodies and a hint of...donkey?

  Not possible.

  To be honest, it was possible, but not likely.

  Robert St. Armand scratched his balls and sighed contentedly, an arm thrown over his eyes to block the sliver of sunlight daring to insert itself through the shuttered windows. Had there ever been a better morning? He thought not. He recalled other visits to Madame Olifiers's establishment, evenings of bacchanalian delights contributing to his near-legendary reputation, not just on tiny St. Martin, but throughout the entire Caribbean. It was well-known in certain circles a man could get nearly anything he desired at the exclusive brothel, even things he did not know he desired until they were offered to him.

  Robert ceased his scratching. What had he desired last evening? For the life of him he could not remember who shared his bed (though the donkey was a slim possibility, at best). Was it Francine, that naughty minx whose round bottom was made for spanking? Raul, whose limpid eyes and soft curls reminded one of a most luscious faun? Francine and Raul?

  Now, there was a vision!

  He moved his hand up, resting it against the part of his anatomy risen like a bowsprit parting the waves. He felt a tad tender in that area. Even if he could not recall the details, he knew the evening's activities has been vigorous, prolonged, and one assumed, satisfying for all involved. He'd spent the last fortnight in the brothel as a favored customer and had a reputation to maintain.

  "I'm surprised there's life in you yet, m'boy, after the night you've had," he murmured.

  Still, his morning condition owed as much to nature's call as his desires. This required movement and eye-opening, two activities he'd hoped to avoid for a few hours more, but with a sigh he forced himself out of the bed and made use of the pot beneath.

  It was a lengthy process given the amount of liquor he'd consumed the previous night, so when the door burst open he only glanced over his shoulder and said, "Be with you in a moment, love."

  He'd registered that an unknown woman stood there, which was good because had it been an unknown man he would have gone for his sword. Considering his current activity, it would create a mess which Cornelia Olifiers would take out of his hide and his pocket.

  Eventually he was drained and tottered back into bed, leaning up against the carved headboard to face his visitor.

  "If you're here for my morning fuck, sweetheart, you'll have to come back later. I don't think I'm up to it right now," he said in French, glancing down. "Then again, like Lazarus I could be persuaded to rise from the dead for a pretty face and a skilled mouth."

  "Are you Captain St. Armand?" she demanded in English.

  He looked up, eyeing his visitor more closely. He wouldn't call her face pretty, but it was certainly colorful, that bright crimson in her cheeks, the white lines around her mouth, the narrowed gaze with a flash of green. The rest of her was neither colorful nor pretty. The woman wore a gray dress of uncertain styling, baggy where it should be fitted, resembling a sack. A white cap without a touch of lace to soften it covered her hair. Clearly she was not in the usual style of Cornelia's girls. Must be one of the specialty doxies, and he could guess what that specialty was.

  "I did not request a mistress of discipline last night, did I?"

  His brow furrowed as he thought, a painful process given the state of his head.

  She advanced two steps closer, fists clenched by her sides.

  "Get up, you...you reprobate!"

  "No, seriously, sweetheart, you will have to find another customer." He looked at her critically. "Some men like the stern English governess act, but I think you would do better in a leather corset."

  "I am an English governess, you disgusting piece of offal, your daughter's governess!"

  The combination of liquor and
hashish and sex had left his brain like tapioca, but even so, a small part of what she said penetrated his consciousness.

  "You are not here for my morning fuck?"

  She grabbed the nearest object containing liquid and dumped it over his head. Fortunately for him, it was the dregs of the wine and not the chamber pot. Robert was too stunned to do anything but sit there, dripping, as the unknown woman turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.

  * * * *

  Lydia Burke leaned against the papered wall, her hand at her throat as she tried to catch her breath.

  When Nanette told her of her darling captain, she had somehow formed an image of a grizzled sea-scoundrel, every bit of his dissolute life visible in his face. The reality was nothing like she'd envisioned.

  Robert St. Armand was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. He had a face and form made for sculpting in marble, the artist's hands lovingly carving out the long lines of his lithe frame, sleek muscles and shoulders broad enough to swing a cutlass or a dance partner with ease.

  His face would have been too perfect, with those cheekbones sharp enough to reflect sunlight and a cleft chin, had his nose not been broken at some point. That small flaw did not detract, but rather made him look more human, more approachable, and therefore more dangerous to any woman with breath in her body.

  Nonetheless, he was a disgusting piece of offal. Poor Mathilde! What kind of life could she have with a pirate who fornicated his way through the brothels of St. Martin, and possibly the brothels of every island in the Caribbean?

  As if to punctuate her thoughts, one of the whores strolled by at that moment. When she saw at whose door Lydia stood, she winked.

  "The captain is a mighty lover, is he not? No wonder you look pale! You should eat some oysters to restore your strength, cherie."

  The woman's words restored color to Lydia's face. She smoothed down her faded muslin skirt.

  "I am only a visitor here, mademoiselle. I have no knowledge of Captain St. Armand's activities."

  She snapped her jaws shut as the woman critically assessed her total appearance in a manner unique to Frenchwomen of any station. She wore a deep pink cotton wrapper, lovely against skin the color of rich caramels, her bare feet poking out beneath. She was abundantly curved and had a dimpled smile.

  "You have good bones," she said. "With a bit of color in your face and a proper hair styling you might do well for yourself, if you decide to stay."

  "Thank you, Miss--"

  "I am Francine Dubois." The girl dropped a pert curtsey, holding her robe shut to keep herself covered.

  "Thank you, Miss Dubois. I am Lydia Burke and I already have employment," Lydia said dryly. She pushed herself off of the wall as Francine gave her a Gallic shrug.

  "This is a good house," she said. "Madame takes care of the girls, so if you find yourself not liking your house you should reconsider."

  Lydia opened her mouth to correct the girl, then closed it. She was, after all, only trying to be helpful.

  "Thank you for your advice. Can you direct me to Madame Olifiers?"

  "She is in the parlor downstairs, the one with the windows that get morning light."

  Lydia nodded and turned to leave. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Francine enter Captain St. Armand's room, exclaiming in French, "Captain Robby! You look so unhappy! And wet!"

  A slight smile turned up the corner of Lydia's lips as she went to search out Madame.

  Chapter 2

  Robert paused in the doorway of the morning room, plastering on a smile for the two women seated there. It never hurt to make a good entrance. Robert had sent Francine to get him hot water to wash off the wine and the remnants of their busy night and he took his time dressing. If he was going to face that harpy again he wanted to have all his weapons available to him, his wardrobe and good looks being every bit as useful in certain encounters as sword and pistols. He knew he looked more than adequate. He paid his tailor well to ensure he would, and his looking glass reassured him daily. The message he sent was that he was master of the notorious Prodigal Son, a captain whose reputation preceded him. His white linen shirt was unfastened at the neck, his coat of rich cobalt silk was his own design, the polished brass buttons drawing the eye to his shoulders and trim waist, while the diamond weighing down the lobe of his ear carried its own message of status and wealth. He seated himself at the breakfast table and poured a cup of coffee, remarking mildly, "My nurse used to warn me if I scowled like that my face would freeze in that position."

  "Miss Burke was explaining to me that she spoke with you this morning, Captain," Cornelia Olifiers said. Madame looked her usual competent and attractive self, her silvered chestnut hair neatly arranged in a bun at her neck, and her smoke-blue eyes twinkled at him over the steam rising from the cup she raised to her lips. Her cap was a confection of Brussels lace, enhancing her appearance, not like the rag atop the head of the woman next to her.

  "I confess I was not at my best this morning and may have given Miss...Burke?...a less than coherent response," Robert said, fixing a look that had charmed him out of many difficult situations.

  Gray, faded and bland Miss Burke only stared at him, unmoved, but he was not willing to concede defeat or change tactics just yet.

  Cornelia rose, and Robert did as well.

  "I will leave the two of you to talk in private," she said, taking her cup with her as she left the room.

  Robert helped himself to the shirred eggs and airy pastries on the table, as well as a slice or two of ham. Cornelia kept an excellent kitchen and he was not about to let some scowling spinster ruin his appetite.

  He expected her to start haranguing him while he ate, but she stayed silent. To his dismay he began to feel nervous, wondering what was going through her head. Finally, when the thick atmosphere became more than he could stand, he set down his knife and fork and watched her calmly drinking her coffee.

  "I thought you had a tirade you wished to share with me, Miss Burke. Was that all resolved earlier?"

  She dabbed at her lips and pushed her plate away, fixing her eyes on him. They were the same shade as a malachite carving in his cabin, a fierce little goddess of Aztec origin who'd been in the possession of a Spanish merchant. The Spanish brig had an encounter with The Prodigal Son west of Cuba and Robert kept the smooth stone figurine as a memento of a profitable day.

  "I realize you were befuddled by alcohol and your wretched excesses of the previous night, but do you recall anything I said, Captain? Anything at all?"

  He sipped his own coffee, trying to think. She'd called him names, dumped a pitcher over his head, refused to fuck him...

  "Daughter. You said my daughter. A ridiculous statement, since I have no children. I am quite careful in such matters."

  "Not careful enough," the woman snapped. "Nanette Lestrange bore your child and before you protest, once you see Mathilde you will see for yourself she is yours."

  Robert set down his cup, his fingers gone nerveless.

  "Impossible. Nanette would inform me if such a thing happened. I would have made arrangements for a child."

  The governess raised her eyebrows. She appeared surprised that he'd assume financial responsibility for any by-blows.

  "Nanette said you left her well able to take care of herself," she grudgingly admitted. "She took the money you gave her and opened a dress shop that was popular and profitable in Philipsburg."

  "Where is Nanette now?"

  Miss Burke swallowed, and when she looked up at him there was a shadow in her eyes.

  "Nanette is dead?"

  She nodded, and Robert found his appetite gone.

  "Nanette Lestrange," he said. "She was good to me when I first arrived in the islands."

  He remembered the Frenchwoman who was soft and welcoming, patient with a youngster who did not know nearly as much as he thought he did, but knew a great deal more about life, and pleasing women, and pleasing himself by the time Nanette finished instructing him. A few rich str
ikes at sea and he'd returned to buy out Nanette's contract with Madame and set her up in her own quarters until they parted on friendly terms.

  "An illness carried Nanette off last summer. Now I have a new position awaiting me and I can no longer care for Mathilde," the governess said.

  "I would pay you," he said quickly. "You could continue to care for the child."

  Miss Burke's look at this statement came close to freezing Robert's guts.

  "You have not even met your daughter and already you wish to be rid of her? I am not Mathilde's mother, nor am I her father. She is your responsibility, Captain St. Armand. Loathe as I am to leave her with a pirate wastrel, she is still your daughter."

  "I am not a wastrel," Robert muttered, his mind awhirl at the thought of a child in his care. He knew himself well enough that he could think of few people less suited to raise offspring.

  She rose from the table and Robert jumped up.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I am saying farewell to Mathilde, and then I am leaving this establishment," she said, her tight mouth puckering at the idea of spending a minute longer in a bawdy house than absolutely necessary.

  "Wait! No, you cannot leave! Who will take care of the child?"

  Miss Burke sighed.

  "Mathilde is eight years old, Captain, in case you are unable to do the arithmetic. She is quite capable of dressing herself and if you provide her with food, she can feed herself as well. She is an intelligent child and will grow up to be a warm and caring individual, despite her paternity. Nanette was an excellent mother," she finished softly.