Free For the Love of a Pirate by Edith Layton Page A

you.”
    â€œThat jest I made at dinner was too warm, I knew it,” she said, looking guilty. “I just wanted to see how he’d react. It was rude. I’m ashamed of myself. And I confess I did it to shake him up a bit, to see how much life there was in him. But see how he reacted? As though I’d waved a dead fish in his face. What I said wasn’t that crude. He could have concealed his distaste. And he should have, being such a gentleman. Fact is, he’s a prig, Grandy, and that’s that.”
    â€œEarly days,” her grandfather said. “How was he to know you wasn’t a prig yourself, just missaying something?”
    She ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her blush. Bringing her lips so close to Lord Wylde’s hadn’t been a jest or the work of a prig. It had been an overwhelming compulsion. Yet he’d reacted to the offer the same way he had to the jest.
    â€œHis father was a good man,” her grandfather said. “Even if he was a foolish lad. But he would have grown out of it, if he’d lived. And his mother was a fine woman. His uncle is a bag of wind, and more impressed with his godliness than God will ever be. Pounding a Bible, spouting it all the time, and acting all holy never got any man into heaven. It’s living right and doing good that turns the trick. An old pirate can get through the pearly gates easier than a parson, if he never done bad for the sake of it, and the parson only preached what he didn’t practice. Or so says I. And so says your Mr. Beecham, I’d wager.”
    She shook her head. “He’s not my Mr. Beecham. And he’s not a parson, only a schoolteacher, and a good one, I might add.”
    The captain held his tongue. No one knew better than he did that criticizing something set a young person to defending it, and then loving it. Half the crews on pirate ships were lads still defying their parents. Of course, the other half were out-and-out villains who never had parents to defy, because in all likelihood, they’d crawled out from under rocks.
    â€œYou’re considering him?” he asked humbly.
    â€œYou’d know it if I was. No. He’s just pleasant to talk with. But I can’t see him as a husband, at least not for me.”
    The captain concealed a great sigh of relief. Nothing wrong with young Beecham, except that he was a bore with no more money than spirit, which was to say, not any.
    â€œWell, if there ain’t nothing more troubling you, puss, I’m to bed,” he said. “Got to get up early and talk to Ames. The lawns look weedy. Highborn folk like their grounds neat as pins. What are you planning for tomorrow? Hoped you could take young Wylde for a tour of the land.”
    â€œOf course,” she said simply. “I may not like him, but I do know what a hostess is supposed to do.”
    â€œGood, good,” he said. “Go riding or walking, or whatever. Get to know him before you condemn him to the noose. You might be surprised. Now, are you off to bed too, or is there anything else I can do for you?”
    â€œYou’ve done exactly what I needed. I’ll go up presently,” she said absently. “You know how it is with me. Once I’m up and my mind’s racing, I have to cool down before I can rest. You go, though. And thank you, Grandy, for understanding.”
    â€œI always try,” he said gruffly. He rose, as did she. They hugged, and then she watched him make his way up the stair to his bedchamber.
    She waited until his footsteps had faded away before she walked up to the portrait near the window again. She cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing it. It had hung there for as long as she could remember, and she was fond of it, but she’d never studied it as she did now.
    The young man was posed with a spotted dog, and a fine white horse in the background. Lord Wylde’s father wore clothes fashionable in the last century.