Her Favoured Captain Read online

  Her Favoured Captain

  Copyright © 2011 Francine Howarth

  Black Velvet Books

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any fictitious character resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental: whether alive or dead.

  Real towns and cities feature alongside real persons of note per era.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.

  Her Favoured Captain is a novella!

  A list of other books by Ms Howarth can be found at the end of this novella inclusive blurbs & 1st chapters.

  ~

  Chapter One

  ~

  How could his stable be empty?

  Her heart lurched and dread washed over her. She rushed across to a stable lad who had brush in hand and straw and dung already pitched to a wheelbarrow. “Where is Tobias?”

  His face flushed pink, and before she could question him further two shots echoed across the valley.

  “Noooo,” her wail, yet her voice seemed somehow distant, not hers at all.

  “I be so sorry yer ladyship, but his lordship said as how Tobias were finished. No good to any man.”

  “Where, where has he taken him?’

  “To the meadow.”

  She turned, fled, and on approach to the meadow her heart sank for her brother came striding through the gateway a triumphant air. “How could you do that?” she screamed, her heart utter wrenched at loss of Tobias.

  “It had to be done, Emerald,” replied her brother, pistol to hand. “Would you have him die a slow death?”

  “But he looked and sounded so much better this morning.” Tears flooded forth, and although it was extreme childish in action it felt so good to pummel her hateful brother’s chest. “We thought him quite well last evening. His breathing was sound.”

  Ned’s strength far greater than hers, and in spite of pistol in hand he managed to brush her aside and hold her at arm’s length. “We, who is we?”

  “Your head groom, who else. Jenkins felt sure Tobias had not broken his wind despite persistent cough, and if you walked him to the meadow did you not hear his steady breath?”

  “It is done, Emerald.’ He let slip his grip on her shoulder, and began striding away. “The horse is now out of its misery, and no more to be said about it.”

  “How dare you take that tone with me. Tobias was my horse.”

  He paused, turned, his hooded eagle-like eyes those of hardened soldier used to death and of killing. “Your horse, yes, and had you heeded my warning to ride in the manner befitting a lady, Tobias would be alive now, not dead.” She sensed him angered at her for reasons beyond compassion toward her horse: Tobias was a mere weapon in his arsenal of do as you are told or suffer the consequence. He wished to crush her defiance in refusing the Earl of Moorby’s hand in marriage: confirmed in venomous outburst. “With nothing to hold you here, now perhaps you will see your way to acceptance of the Earl’s offer of marriage.”

  “You beast, utter beast. You murdered Tobias, and I shall never forgive you, never.” She drew sob-choked breaths and ran to the meadow. “Poor, poor Tobias. I shall love you always.”

  She could not bear to stay there in bright sunshine, for his blood-streaked head and dappled grey lifeless body tore at her heartstrings. She turned and ran across the meadow, the woodland edge a tear-laden blur of green and shadowed gloom. Once inside beneath its comforting cool canopy she trod the path that led to the creek. She would not be wed to a man more than twice her age.

  The waters, the waters of the creek were so cold, so inviting: she and Tobias would gallop for eternity. There was no other solution. It would all be over with a few shocked breaths and drag of undercurrents on her skirts.

  In blind haste, not taking heed of the path beneath her feet, something soft and slimy caused her to slip and lose her balance. She tumbled sideways down a steep slope and bar for trees, there was nothing to grab hold of to prevent gradual descent from top to bottom. With a slight bump she landed on dry sand, her silk gown torn badly and hair decorated with array of woodland flora and fauna. “Uh. Creepy crawlies,” she said, brushing a spider from her face.

  About to get to her feet to walk into the waters of the creek and let its depths consume her, to her astonishment, there, in the creek, a ship lay at anchor. Never before had she seen such a huge hulk in creek waters. Small fishing boats on occasion, yes, but even then rare sightings of such. This one had to be a warship, with three masts and cannon portals. It had no identifiable flag, so why was it there and where had it come from?

  Wood smoke. She sniffed the air; her nose lured toward a rocky outcrop. From behind it smoke drifted on a barely noticeable breeze. Male voices, too, carried her way. A rowboat lay near to the outcrop, its bow on sand and stern in water. Fearful of many seafarers the other side of the outcrop, in a state of extreme panic she scrambled to her feet and headed in the opposite direction.

  It seemed prudent to glance over her shoulder from time to time to be sure no one had spied her nor thinking of coming after her. On a third glance backward it proved fatal, for she collided with solid muscle of man. He too came from between trees and underbrush in a speedy uncontrolled manner much like she had moments beforehand. Luckily for her, he maintained good balance and she, too, did not disgrace herself by falling flat on her rump.

  “Well this is a delight to be sure,” he said, a broad smile.

  Nonetheless, startled, terrified, she stepped back, and although his voice boded that of a gentleman of good breeding, a well-worn smock implied otherwise and she feared him less than honourable in display of noted interest in her state of dress. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she asked, his blue-grey eyes intently focused on hers. It was disconcerting to be scrutinised by one so tall and a stranger to boot, his black hair tied back with black ribbon. “This is private land.”

  He chuckled, his tanned face shrouded by goatee and creased in amusement. She thought him quite young and rather handsome, but his unlaced smock revealed manly status of hair upon chest so perhaps older than he looked. His breeches and boots were also decorated with woodland moss and ferns in like to her gown. “Private land, eh? Well, happen you better tell me your name,’ he said, maintaining intense eye-to-eye contact, “and apology for my trespass shall be yours.”

  Damn the man. How dare he toy with her in that manner? It was unbefitting of a true gentleman? “I live near here, and you clearly do not.”

  He bowed and heartily laughed. “I am of mind to think you are recent tumbled in the hay.” His eyes mocked in laughter, too. “A lady, methinks. Not a wayward harlot. Am I right?”

  His expression implied him intrigued by her, if a little unsure of her status and certain no knowledge of her rank. “A tumble indeed, and unlucky to be alive.” She wished she had kept her mouth shut, and to allay his seeming suspicious nature, said, “I fell down the bank a little ways back.”

  “Unlucky, did you say unlucky? How so, if alive and unscathed.” A caring manly thumb to her cheek cast a tear aside. “Tears, why tears?”

  No man had done such a thing before and she sensed pink flush to both cheeks. “It’s a long story. Now, may I pass on my way?”

  “I have the time if you feel need to unburden what ever it is that has upset you so. You are clearly grieving and, in much distress.”

  How could this happen, one magical touch from a complete stranger and her in wont to reveal her unhappy state? “I cannot, cannot, it is all too painful, and . . .” Tears flooded forth, his chest somehow comforting. His warm
embrace was caring rather than suggestive of villainous intent, and words spilled forth so easy in torrent of hate and dread of Ned’s intentions for her. “He shot my horse, the brute shot my horse, and all because I refused to agree to his bidding.”

  He eased her away from his chest, his eyes entreating absolute truth. “Who shot him?”

  She wished nothing more than to drown in the creek yet the depths of his eyes so honest in compassion, his embrace quelled desire for death.

  “My brother, my hateful brother.”

  “Who is?”

  “Lord Penhavean.”

  “Ned?”

  Astonished at his knowing her brother on first-name terms, he was suddenly the enemy. She extricated herself from his clutches, sidestepped his bulk and fled. He was far too quick for her, and arm grabbed he spun her round to face him. “Ned Penhavean is no friend of mine . . . if that is behind your reason for flight.”

  “Then what . . . and who are you?”

  He chuckled. “Captain, and buccaneer extraordinaire, at your service.”

  “A pirate?” came out as screech, and most unladylike.

  “Shush,” he said, finger to her lips. “Could you keep a secret if your life depended on it remaining a secret?”

  Oh God, how his touch fired the senses, his voice as though drifting on a magical breeze. “I might have before today,’ her reply, heart blatant in disturbed flutters of something indefinable from within, “though my future at Ned’s hands is somewhat uninviting.”

  “In that case, Lady Emerald, consider yourself my prisoner.”

  “Prisoner?” Was he jesting or being serious?

  “That or trust in me, and keep the presence of my ship, here, in the creek, a secret.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “When a Royal Marine officer Ned served aboard the same ship as I, and although we were once great friends things went awry, but he oft talked of you most fond.”

  A tentative smile creased his face and again something stirred within her, as it never had before. Out of her depth, floundering in his honesty, her words flowed from the heart. “Fondness has been far from Ned’s thoughts for a long while.” Her eyes drifted to the ship at anchor. “And you, back then, a soldier too?”

  “Lieutenant, in his majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  Her eyes again levelled on his face, and some-thing about his eyes implied him genuine. “Then why are you now a buccaneer?”

  “There are things, your ladyship, that I cannot reveal.”

  “Emerald, call me Emerald, for if we are to share a secret, then I would like to think we can be friends on equal terms. So tell me, what name shall you go by, Captain?”

  “A pretty name is Emerald, and beautiful emerald eyes you have, too.”

  She laughed, the man before her most infuriating and utterly desirable. “Give me a name. I cannot leave here thinking of you as merely my buccaneer.”

  “Your buccaneer, eh? I should be so lucky.”

  His smile implied to be her buccaneer was a wholly delightful prospect to him, and that alone caused palpitations of heart. “You know very well what I meant.’

  “Indeed, but a man has the right, surely, to think that even a lady of rank might well look fondly upon his attributes and consider him a potential suitor, or lover at best.”

  She let slip a sigh indicating displeasure at his presumptuous inference she was utter smitten. “Must you be as tiresome as other men, in taking it upon yourself to think me enamoured by your charming manner?”

  “You are,” he said, his movement slight yet the distance between them instantly bridged; his arm about her waist and hand cupping her chin tortuous in extreme. “Tell me I cannot kiss you, and I will step away.”

  She could not speak, even if she had wanted him to desist his awful tease, but it was no tease. His lips embraced hers, and she in turn succumbed to pleasure, to sense of safeness as opposed to danger. How was this possible, with a man met only moments beforehand? She gave sway to pressure of his mouth forcing her lips to part, and plundered by his tongue sensations never experienced before washed over her.

  His sudden withdrawal was sweet agony, and voice husky with desire caused her heart to blip. “Ah, that you were mine, sweet Emerald. Alas, that is not so and I apologise for my ungallant behaviour.”

  He stepped back, and she said, “I shall not hold it against you.” She drew breath, voice choked, mixed emotions erupting along with welled tears. “I shall keep secret the knowledge of your ship at anchor. For here, surrounded by my brother’s estate, it is unlikely anyone will happen upon you from the land. But beware, fishing boats do sometimes enter the creek.”

  “Tears Emerald, more tears? Have I now upset you, too?”

  “No, and strange as it may seem, I felt . . .” How to express what she had actually felt upon meeting him was now of little consequence, and present feelings far more difficult to quantify in words. “I, I feel safe in your company.”

  He cast a glance at the woodland, unforgiving steep as it rose upward from the creek floor. “To get you back up to the path in that gown of yours is pretty much impossible, unless you care to hoist it up to your waist at the front. I climbed up no trouble, but did return faster than expected. Hence our bumping into each other.”

  “No, no, it is far too steep.” She nodded to a bend in the creek, her intended path before their collision occurred. “I shall follow the creek until I reach a bridge, where steps are located.”

  “Then I shall escort you to be sure your beautiful self safe and back on a footpath.”

  “The steps actually lead to the main ride from highway to the house, so you had best not escort me that far,” she said, setting off with her buccaneer alongside.

  “Wise thinking, dear lady, if my presence is to remain a secret. I have no wish to incite attention from estate hands nor from that brother of yours.”

  ~

  Who would have thought it could happen. Of all the people to bump into while on a secret mission it had to be Penhavean’s sister. Ned Penhavean, dis-reputable bounder, a rake, gambler, drinker and a decidedly enchanting beautiful sister?

  With the tide incoming fast he glanced at his companion hurrying beside him, her burnished brown hair tumbling over delightful feminine shoulders: torn dishevelled gown leaving little to the imagination. All of which had caused him to break the rules of social etiquette, but how could a man not have tended to her tearful grieving?

  The bridge she had mentioned suddenly came within view. She stopped, semi breathless in a somewhat concerned manner. “Pray, do not come further, for I shall soon reach the steps. You need to go back, now, if you are to reach the outcrop of rock and your boat, before the tide washes over them.”

  Eyes locked, was it wishful thinking on his part that she lingered as though awaiting a kiss before taking her leave? To draw her close and snatch a kiss was unbelievably tempting but to err caution was the greater part of gentlemanly spirit. “I would much rather see you safe, out of harms way.”

  “I will be, if I go now. Thank you, thank you for being so kind, and I shall have you know you saved my life.”

  “I did?”

  “I quite came here with intention of throwing myself in the creek.”

  Already aware his ship had forestalled her reason for coming to the creek, it was gratifying to think it and he had prevented a grief stricken tragedy. “For love of a horse?” Something in her eyes declared a deeper reason, and with luck she might reveal what had driven Emerald Lady Penhavean to consider death preferable to life.

  “Not entirely, but Tobias was and always will be my greatest love,” her reply.

  “Hmm. To be second best to a horse might well be termed affront by a potential suitor ”

  “I do have a suitor, and have tried my best to escape his hand in marriage but my brother insists it will happen, either with my permission or without it.”

  It always astonished him how women on occasion of much distress were prone to
smiles and tears in tandem, and he had not expected her to reach up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. What torture, what agony to let her slip his grasp. But it had to be, for she was not his. “Come down to the creek again, tomorrow, same time.” Short of immediate kidnap as instant solution to her dilemma, happen a few facts about her brother might enlighten a more sensible path in alleviating her dilemma. “Perhaps, between us, we can hatch a plot to scupper this betrothal you so despise”

  “I would like that even if mere dream, and I shall come by way of the bridge. It is a little safer that way, unless I go further along the path where it runs level with the creek.”

  “If I say, I will be at this very spot, will that please you?”

  “It will, and I shall think of you as my buccaneer. I do not wish to know your name, for I know what ever you choose will be a mere teasing nom de plume.”

  He could not help but wince at her shrewdness, and her emerald eyes were all a glitter with mischief and caused such pain in the groin it truly stirred the very devil within.

  “I must go,” she said. “So must you, or you will drown, and I should be terribly distraught if my buccaneer is not here on the morrow.”

  With that she turned and ran, skirts hitched up in the manner of a serving wench at a bawdy tavern. His heart thumped a tattoo. Dare he hope for more than kisses on the morrow? Nay, to indulge in lustful engagement with Lady Emerald Penhavean, utter folly. He would be gone soon enough, and might never return to England full-bodied man if not already dead and food for sharks.

  Chapter Two

  ~

  She ran as though the very was Devil at her heels, and the man behind her the handsomest ever seen. On reaching the bridge she glanced back to be sure he was equal in haste to be safe from the fast-rising waters of the creek, but he had not moved one inch. She waved, and knew him safe for she spied the rowboat and men paddling upstream toward him.

  If her buccaneer had happened to be Lord Moorby, she would have no hesitation in accepting his offer of marriage. Sadly he was not, but had nonetheless stirred a kind of rebellion within her. No matter what, she would never cave to Ned’s insistence she marry a pompous, be-wigged, fat old man.”