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  THE BUCCANEER

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 Barbara Devlin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Barbara Devlin

  The Pirates of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

  Cover art by Lewellen Designs

  Interior art by Dar Albert

  ISBN: 978-1-945576-80-5

  DEDICATION

  For Mike, because he loves and accepts me.

  THE POESY RING CHARM

  The poesy ring doth devotion signify,

  On a sparkling emerald the faithful can rely.

  All others the bauble spurns,

  If murky the stone turns.

  As the heart is true, and gold is pure,

  Let a green stone endure, and your love is sure.

  ~Barbara Devlin

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston

  May, 1818

  The love of a good woman could destroy a man’s peace of mind, because she often forced him to confront the less-than-noble aspects of his character, in order to win her heart, and he rarely recovered his sanity after the battle. It was for that reason Cager Tyne, former bosun of the pirate ship Black Morass turned captain of the renamed, respectable merchant vessel Lady Madalene, never sought more than free and easy access to a light skirt. Give him a three-penny upright or a disgruntled and dissatisfied wife, any day of the week, and he was happy.

  Yet, as he admired the shapely arse of Francie Osborne, the young and pretty housekeeper and self-described Jane of all trades in the Cavalier home, as she bent to set a bucket on the floor and her cotton frock stretched taut across her hips, he was tempted to take up the fight, if only to savor a taste of her flesh.

  “Will you fetch me another cup of coffee, pretty lady?” Sitting at the servant’s table in the kitchen, he held out his empty mug and smiled, which he knew from experience would ruffle her feathers, a pastime he rather enjoyed. “As I am quite thirsty this morning.”

  “Get it yourself, Mr. Tyne.” Ah, there was the governessy tone that never failed to set his blood on fire. “I do not work for you.”

  “Aw, now do not get your cute little nose in a snit.” As Cager imagined running his fingers through her thick blond hair, he licked his lips and relished the red flush of her cheeks. “I only want to be friends. Why do you always frown at me, Francie?”

  “Because I know who you are, what you are, and what you want, and I am not interested. And it is Miss Osborne to you, sir.” When he stood and blocked her path, Francie bared her teeth. Bloody hell, he could have proposed to her, then and there. “Now get out of my way, as there is work to be done, and I have no time for the likes of you.”

  “But I have time for you.” In a flash, he snatched the bucket and mop from her grasp. “Now why do you flee, when I just want to become better acquainted, beautiful Francie? Would that not be nice?”

  “Mr. Tyne—”

  “Cager.”

  In that instant, she gave vent to a snort of frustration, and he could have kissed her silly. All that spirit wrapped in a dainty package he could not wait to unwrap, if she would simply cooperate.

  “Mr. Tyne, give me back my things, and let me pass.” With her foot, she tapped an impatient rhythm, and he could not stifle his amusement. “Fine. I will dust the back parlor, first, and you can stand here, all day, and hold my mop and bucket.”

  “My, but you are a stubborn bit o’ fluff.” Given her uncompromising demeanor, he shrugged, as he followed in her wake. “We could have fun, you and I. Why will you not take a chance on me?”

  “Because fun is all you want, I am a good girl, and my father raised no fool.” She smoothed her crisp white apron. “What is your excuse?”

  “You are a saucy wench, but I like that in my women.” He wagged a finger. “Mark my words, I will have you.”

  “Would you care to wager on that, Mr. Tyne?” At last, he snared her attention, as she turned, faced him, and squared her shoulders, and her ample bosom distracted him. “Tell me, what can you afford to lose?”

  “Are you that sure of yourself?” Surprised by her new tack, he rocked on his heels, because he was not only a betting man but also a winner. “Or would you prefer I think that, when in truth you are curious about me?”

  “You are too bold by half, sir.” She snickered, as she returned to the kitchen, marched into the pantry, collected a couple of rags, and stomped to the back parlor, with Cager in tow. “And you mistake annoyance for curiosity, because I know your type.”

  “And what is that, if I dare inquire?” Of course, it did not matter what she thought of him, because he wanted her. It was that simple.

  “Mrs. Cavalier confides in me, as my family has served hers since before she was born.” After clearing a side table, Francie wiped clean the wood surface. “You were a buccaneer, as was Mr. Cavalier.”

  “And you do not approve.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “It is not my place to approve or disapprove of the master’s former occupation, though I cannot fathom whatever possessed Mrs. Cavalier to take him as her husband, but I do not have to tolerate it in you, Mr. Tyne.” Riding a wave of high dudgeon, which he found adorable, she tidied a stack of newspapers, and he studied her lush red lips, which he could suckle for hours. “And I certainly would never associate with you beyond the confines of my position in this household.”

  Locking his legs, he folded his arms. “But you will.”

  “Will—what?” She blinked.

  “Associate with me, in my bed.” To increase the stakes, and rile her even more, because he could not resist her, he winked. “And it will make your eventual surrender all the more sweet.”

  “Indeed.” The fascinating housekeeper scoffed. Then she smiled the sort of smile that gave him collywobbles. “Will you do me one favor, Mr. Tyne?”

  “Anything you ask shall be granted, dear Francie.” He braced for the blow that he knew was forthcoming.

  As she leaned near, he noted a subtle lavender scent, and it drew him as a bee to honey. “Hold your breath until that comes to pass.”

  Then she rushed to the door, flung open the oak panel, and stormed from the parlor.

  “You are a witch, Francie Osborne.” Now Cager chuckled, as she hiked her skirts and broke into a sprint, and he admired her shapely calves. “You cast a spell, and I am your most devout servant.”

  ~

  As the housekeeper, lady’s maid, and sometimes cook for the Cavalier family, an odd pairing between the master, Jean Marc, and the genteel lady of the house, Madalene, Francie Clementine Osborne ruled the small staff of the unorthodox residence, with an iron fist. Given her family had served five generations of Crawfords, Mrs. Cavalier’s ancestors, Francie took her position seriously, and she labored with the expressed intent of bringing honor to her profession.

  Thus she had no time to waste on Mr. Tyne or his bold propositions.

  Still, the handsome sea captain blessed with broad shoulders, dark brown hair, shimmering blue eyes, and a naughty smile, as if he knew how she looked in her chemise, called to her on some magickal level she could not quite decipher despite her well-honed skills. Indeed, the first time she met him, he kissed her hand, and she detected nothing but unimpeachable strength and calculating ruthlessness. Yet, the
re was something about him—some hidden secret, an invisible yet nonetheless potent pain that she sensed, whenever she was in his company.

  Although she was more than willing to help him, because that was her nature, she could not fall prey to his ample charms, like so many unsuspecting women in Boston, because she was not meant for that sort of happiness.

  After cleaning and tidying the drawing room, she stowed her feather duster, broom, mop, and bucket, and ran into the garden. In the far right corner, holding pride of place near a pretty little gazebo, sat a beautiful willow.

  Glancing left and then right, she slipped beneath the delightful canopy, tied a knot in a supple branch, and closed her eyes. “My heart is protected, and I will not yield to his seduction.”

  “Hello. Is someone there?”

  At the greeting, Francie started and whirled about, just as Mrs. Cavalier navigated the pebbled path.

  “Mrs. Cavalier.” Francie curtseyed in deference to the kind woman, a charitable soul she considered her own kin. “May I be of service?”

  “I thought I saw you, from the window.” The petite brunette manifested the epitome of the elegant society lady. Why she married that crude and scarred man remained a mystery. “Can you fetch a vase? Jean Marc brought me some gorgeous red roses, and I cannot find a container.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Cavalier.” Francie tapped a finger to her chin, as she led the mistress of the house back to the kitchen. “I used the last vase, yesterday, when Mr. Cavalier gifted the daisies. Perhaps, we can use a milk pitcher?”

  “Oh, dear.” As they entered the pantry, Madalene folded her arms. “Will you order some additional vases, because I cannot let the bouquets go to waste, given Jean Marc’s thoughtfulness.”

  “But we already have eleven, although they are currently employed, because Mr. Cavalier brings home flowers every time he returns from an errand.” And Francie could only guess at the reason for his grand gestures. However, she could just imagine the numerous and wicked offenses for which he made amends, in light of the strange noises that often emanated from the master suite and the study, and she made a mental note to petition The Great Mother on Madalene’s behalf. Then her gaze lit on a particular item. “What about this large jug?”

  “Perfect.” Bouncing with energy, Madalene clasped her hands to her bosom. “The roses are on the butcher block, and I would like the blooms placed on my vanity. Also, have Cager set up the small table for two in my sitting room, as Jean Marc and I will dine in our suite.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Well, let me check to be sure he will be home, tonight.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cavalier.” In the kitchen, Francie filled the jug with water and situated the blooms. After assessing her handiwork, she nodded once.

  Bearing the classic floral arrangement, she strode down the hall. In the front entry, Madalene and Jean Marc engaged in a thorough kiss that brought the burn of a blush to Francie’s cheeks, and she knew not what to make of the former pirate turned gentleman. In truth, she feared for the delicate Madalene.

  “Thank you for the flowers.” Madalene splayed her palms to his chest. “I wondered if you planned to take dinner here, or will you patronize a club?”

  “Mon Chou, when have I ever not joined you for a meal?” He snickered.

  “But I do not want you to feel as if you must always accommodate me.” Perched on tiptoes, Madalene wrapped her arms about his neck. “I promise, I will not be angry if you decide to accompany Cager for a night out, as I trust you.”

  “Maddie, I know you do, and that is not the issue.” With a smile that gave Francie gooseflesh, Jean Marc trailed his hand to Madalene’s bottom. “Why would I entertain other company, when I have Mon Chou at my disposal?”

  “Have I told you, today, how very much I love you?” Enthralled by the amorous exchange, Francie could not turn away, as Madalene again covered Jean Marc’s mouth with hers. “Then I shall instruct Francie to serve the evening meal in our private chamber, and later I shall don the blue bows you favor so much.”

  “Ah, Mon Chou, I love you, too.” To Francie’s surprise, Jean Marc picked up Madalene and twirled her about, in circles. Then he halted and pushed his wife against the wall. “You had better prepare yourself, as I am going to ride you until dawn.”

  “Promises, promises, my bawdy buccaneer.” Madalene giggled, and Francie retreated to the kitchen.

  In minutes, she ascended the back stairs, rushed along the second floor corridor, and flew into the master suite of the red-bricked mansion situated in Beacon Hill. The massive bedchamber manifested a strange mix of refined tapestries, expensive furnishings, bold wall coverings in burgundy flock, mahogany trim, and lewd paintings of Mrs. Cavalier, in the nude. Just as Francie placed the jug on Madalene’s vanity, the mistress swept into the room.

  “I am so glad you are here.” Madalene sat at her dressing table. “Will you take down my hair and loosen my laces?”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Standing at the rear, Francie retrieved the pins from Madalene’s coiffure and then picked up the silver-backed brush to smooth her long locks. “Are you well, Mrs. Cavalier?”

  “Quite well.” Madalene unscrewed her ear fobs and set them on a silver tray. “I would like to bathe in some of that lavender water, as Jean Marc adores the scent, and we will take dinner in two hours. Can you have the cook prepare some marzipan to be served with some of the cherry compote, as it is my husband’s favorite?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” For some reason Francie could not fathom, she pressed her palm to Mrs. Cavalier’s shoulder. To Francie’s amazement, she detected naught but serenity and fulfillment. “And I shall direct Mr. Tyne to deliver the table and chairs, as you requested.”

  “Very good.” Madalene inclined her head and studied her reflection. “Will you air the night rail with the mother of pearl button?”

  “As you wish.” Even as Francie drew the diaphanous gown, more an afterthought than a functional garment, from the armoire, she wondered what possessed her mistress to bare herself in such risqué fashion, as her chosen clothing left nothing to the imagination. While she draped the garb at the foot of the bed, Madalene collected lace-topped hosiery festooned with tiny blue bows centered at the back, and Francie’s thoughts ran amok. “Will that be all, Mrs. Cavalier?”

  “One more thing.” Madalene inched her gown to her waist. “Ensure that Jean Marc and I are not disturbed, tonight. The dishes and the trolley can be collected in the morning.”

  “Aye, Mrs. Cavalier.” Despite Francie’s instincts to the contrary, as she would prefer to remain and defend her mistress, she curtseyed. “I bid you a pleasant evening, ma’am.”

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gentlemen’s attire had a way of catching a woman’s eye and disarming her defenses. If history held true, Francie should be Cager’s by nightfall. In the long mirror, he tied his cravat, a talent he had yet to master, brushed off the sleeves of his dark blue wool coat, tugged on the waistband of his buckskin breeches, and scrutinized the shine of his polished Hessians.

  “Deny me now, Miss Osborne.” He winked at himself and swaggered upstairs.

  In the entry hall, Jean Marc bade farewell to a business associate, checked his timepiece, and flagged Cager. “Mon ami, you are just in time, and we have much to discuss. Come into the study.”

  “So what is the news?” Cager sat in one of the high back chairs before the massive, ornate desk. “I gather negotiations went well.”

  “In June, I will double our import of sugar from Maddie’s plantation in Port Royal, because we will be refining rum, as well as molasses, for export to Europe.” With a fancy pen, the former pirate captain turned respectable merchant made several notations in a journal. “With the additional business, I require more ships to transport our products. I was thinking about extending an offer to The Marooner, since he will need to make an honest living, now that he has signed the pact with the English, but I would like your opinion on the matter, first.”

  �
��Well, Leland is a hell of a mariner.” But he had a temper to match, and that concerned Cager, because the pardon covered only those crimes committed prior to signing the document. “He brings a weatherly and fast vessel with him, and he has a dedicated crew.”

  “Yet, I detect a note of hesitation.” Reclining in his leather seat, Jean Marc propped an elbow on the armrest and rested his chin in his hand. “What troubles you?”

  “It is not for me to judge him, but he can be ruthless when angered.” Cager studied the hand-tooled scrollwork on the edge of the desk. “You would need his assurances that he will act accordingly while in your employ, as his behavior will reflect on your company and, thereby, Madalene.”

  “I understand.” Furrowing his brow, Jean Marc frowned. “What say I write a letter, explaining the position and the requirements?”

  “That may suffice.” Cager shrugged. “Then again, we are discussing Leland. You know him as well as I do, and the decision is yours.”

  “In light of his assistance in London, I would like to give him a chance.” Jean Marc rubbed his chin. “You and I both know society is anything but kind to reformed rogues, and it can be difficult for an ex-pirate to find work.” A lilting singsong intruded on their meeting, and he paused, peered toward the hall, and his features softened. “Perhaps I should find him a wife, as nothing changes a man quicker than the love of a good woman.”

  Just then, Madalene appeared in the doorway. When she spotted Jean Marc, she inclined her head. With her long brown hair arranged in a cascade of curls that fell artfully down her back, she flounced into the study. Jean Marc took a casual glance at his bride, met Cager’s stare, and then came alert. Cager knew exactly what would happen next.

  “A pleasant afternoon, my cherished husband.” Gowned in pale pink sprigged muslin, her dress manifested the perfect combination of innocence and wantonness, given its plunging neckline, and Cager averted his gaze, as she plopped atop the edge of the desk. “Am I intruding?”