The Pirate Duchess: Duchess Series, #2

By Rue Allyn

They met during a brawl.

 

Esmeralda Crobbin first encounters Brandon Gilroy during a brawl. Afterward, Esme admires the man's skill with his fists, his intelligence, and a number of other attributes until she learns that he is a British Naval Officer. He would be eager to see her hang, if he knew she was the American privateer, Irish Red.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rue Allyn
• Release date: Jan 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781734852332

Rue Allyn

Award winning romance author, Rue Allyn has a life long passion for happy ever after. She lives south of the border with her husband of more than forty years and their cat, Tonto. She has two sons and is a proud veteran of the US Navy. She writes heart melting romance in all sub-genres, but her favorite is historical romance, especially medieval. Subscribe to Rue’s News where you may learn more about Rue and receive a FREE download. https://www.rueallyn.com/subscriber-entered-from-online-profile/ FIND RUE ALLYN ON LINE Website~~https://RueAllyn.com Facebook~~https://www.facebook.com/RueAllynAuthor Amazon~~https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI/ Goodreads~~https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5031290.Rue_Allyn Pinterest~~https://www.pinterest.com/RueAllyn/

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The Pirate Duchess

By

Rue Allyn

COPYRIGHT 2017 BY SUSAN C. Charnley w/a Rue Allyn

All rights reserved.

Published by Prowl Publishing

[e-mail]

ISBN:  978-1-7335907-9-2

This copy of The Pirate Duchess is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons—living or dead—are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Cover Art by GetCovers © 2022

Dedication

To Caroline, Jude, Elodie, and Alina for saving my bacon.

Acknowledgements

I agree with the quote that It takes a village to raise a child. However, I also believe it takes a village to write a book. Seriously, the author may do the heavy lifting, but this author could not write anything worth reading without the help of a large supporting cast. So, thank you to my developmental editor, my small but excellent team of beta readers, and especially to Caroline, Jude, Elodie, and Alina. All of you have helped create a much better story for Esme and Brandon.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

August 1813

Chapter One

Late August, 1814. Port Royal, Jamaica

Lieutenant the honorable Sir Brandon Gilroy Beresford MacShennan and his shipmate, Doctor Lawrence Gimbal, ambled down the street—really more of a goat track—that ran between two rows of dockside taverns lining the seedier side of the harbor at Port Royal, Jamaica. They were out of uniform and returning to their lodgings after enjoying their last evening ashore. Their vessel, His Majesty’s Ship Hermione, would sail on the morning tide.

The men spent the evening delighting in the food, drink, and women of a local tavern. The friends had also commiserated over the sad news of a cousin’s death, which Brandon had received in his most recent letter from home. Due to that death, he was now Viscount Cairndow heir to the Duke of Cowal. The friend’s commiseration involved a fair amount of rum—used in toasting the loss of the cousin—, enough food to keep from passing out, and several loud (perhaps unwise) discussions about the pleasures of sailing the world over the duties, obligations, and, yes, privileges—such as they were—of being heir to a Duke of the Realm. The pleasures of the tavern palled after several hours, and the friends set out to find their beds.

I gather from things you’ve said that your cousin Randall—God rest his soul—was wild? Lawrence asked as he skirted a foul-smelling pile in the street.

Aye, Brandon enunciated. He was my uncle’s only son and without a mother for most of his life. Despite the duke’s best efforts, Randall would brook no discipline. His death is not occasion for happiness, but neither was his life. He caused my uncle no end of sorrow, and was indirectly responsible for the accident that resulted in the duke’s wasting illness.

As a doctor, I know the type of illness of which you speak. Life must be inordinately difficult for a man with the responsibilities of a duke.

Even moreso for a Scottish duke who must comply with the laws and demands of two countries. Despite the act of union, much of Scottish law differs significantly from English.

Right. You’re a Scot. Sometimes I forget. You don’t sound much like one unless you are well into your cups or very angry, and I’ve only seen you that angry once.

Brandon grinned. Aye, he replied, slipping purposely into the highland brogue that he usually kept under strict control. That priggish ensign deserved much more than the tongue lashing I gi’ ’im fer refusin’ t’ sign over the Hermione’s supplies afore we left Portsmouth.

Lawrence nodded. Between your size, your highland cursing, and the saber you rattled, the fool was properly cowed. Gave up any hope of re-selling our ship’s supplies and pocketing the profits for himself.

It’s almost too bad he gave in so easily. I would have liked to rearrange his pretty face, then listen to him try to explain his bruises to his commanding officer.

But we were in a hurry, and you would have had some explaining to do as well.

Aye. However, there’s no hurry now. Dawn’s a long way off. We’ve plenty of time left this night to get a good sleep.

They walked on through the dark. No street lamps lined this sort of pathway, and the buildings blocked any light from the waning moon. Waves slapped the shore in a peaceful rhythm. The scent of the harbor mixed with the less pleasant odors from the open gutter. Even the dusky voice rising from several yards in advance of their path seemed part and parcel of the Caribbean night.

How dare you!

Brandon raised his head to hear better. Sounds like a woman in trouble.

Ye’ll be wanting to apologize to me friend, a second voice ordered in an even lower register.

She seems to have at least one defender. Perhaps we should not interfere, Lawrence suggested.

A third voice replied. I’ll not apologize to such as....

A loud crack—like the sound of a fist meeting a jaw—ended the refusal.

Argh! Lads, let’s teach these two the lesson they need, another speaker urged.

Several growls of encouragement endorsed the idea, and the sounds of a right good donnybrook ensued.

Honor requires we investigate, Doctor, and confirm if the lady and her friend are outnumbered or not.

Agreed.

They set off at a run in the direction of the noise. In the space where two of the narrow streets crossed, a slice of pale moonlight illuminated the combatants.

Two people—one tall and hulking, the other nearly as tall but much slimmer—stood back-to-back, holding off eight opponents with their fists. The attackers bore three cudgels among them. And Brandon was certain he saw the gleam of at least one dirk.

Those aren’t fair odds, Lawrence remarked.

No, Brandon agreed. Though the two defenders seem handy enough with their fives.

The smaller defender’s fist dented an opponent’s belly, followed by the opposite fist connecting with his nose, felling him completely. He hit the ground hard, tripping one of his fellows on the way. But a third leapt over the two and grappled with the defender.

Shall we even the odds? queried the doctor.

Diving straight into the melee, Brandon tossed Absolutely!—over his shoulder.

Finally, seven of the eight attackers lay moaning and defeated. Lawrence ran after the one fleeing man. Brandon turned to the two people who had once been surrounded.

In the dim light neither one looked much like a woman. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

Thankee, began the larger fellow, but I be thinking one of ‘em got a slice o’ me. With that, he stumbled toward the nearest building and slid down the wall. His head lolled as if unconscious.

John! that dusky voice cried. His companion rushed to the man’s side. Slim took hold of John, slapped at his cheeks, and shook him by the shoulders. John, wake up. We cannot rest here. A change in pitch and a single sob confirmed Brandon’s initial conclusion.

That siren’s voice does belong to a woman. What in Poseidon’s name is a woman doing out at this time of night dressed as she is in the company of a single man? And how had the pair managed to attract the attention of eight thugs? Brandon determined to ask those questions and more very soon.

I doubt you’ll wake him. He’s wounded.

Kneeling beside Slim, Brandon could swear he scented oranges and lilies. The only females he knew of wandering streets at night were doxies who often wore heavy scents to cover less pleasant odors. But Slim’s floral and citrus perfume was light and came with an added aroma of cleanliness.

She might still be a doxy, but he didn’t think so.

Injured? A small shift of position had Slim looking straight at Brandon.

The face revealed in the faint light was as stunning as the look in the sea green eyes was guarded. She was not beautiful precisely, but arrestingly attractive.

His gaze rushed over her. Clothed in snug black leather britches and a less snug black doublet over an equally dark shirt, nothing could have stopped him from recognizing Slim’s womanly curves had they met under more peaceful circumstances. Yet she was as unlike the women he knew as his wild Scotland home was from England’s more tamed countryside.

The longing to explore this fascinating creature was strong. His gaze returned to her pale oval face. A multi-hued bandana restrained and covered her hair, and he wondered idly at its color.

Show me where John’s hurt, she insisted in a tone he used himself with insubordinate sailors.

Command, not worry, for the care of her friend. At least no obvious worry. This was a woman who did not allow sentiment to overwhelm her—if she had such sentiments.

He could empathize with practicality in the face of concern. And her friend’s condition was worrisome. Brandon gently lifted aside the rip in the fellow’s shirt to reveal a long, nasty gash just below his ribs that oozed a steady drizzle of blood.

Slim ripped the bandana from her head. Forming a pad, she applied it to the wound. I need something to bind this with. Give me your shirt, she ordered.

Brandon did not hesitate. He removed his superfine coat and lawn shirt then ripped the thin cotton material into strips, tying them together before giving them to the woman to create a binding for the makeshift bandage.

The injured man groaned and began to come around.

Hush, John, we’ll get you somewhere safe then have a doctor for you, said she of the dark voice and strange beauty. Slim looked at Brandon You are...?

Brandon Gilroy, at your service. He donned his coat as he spoke. Now that her hair was uncovered, he saw it had been scraped back into a tight braid that hung over her shoulder. The color was a burnished red.

She gave a brief nod not her name. Help me get John on his feet, Mr. Gilroy

She didn’t say ‘please.’ Another clue. Most people used to command did not bother with niceties, especially in circumstances like these.

Nor did Brandon bother to correct her form of address. When ashore, especially in the Caribbean, not using his rank or title was often best. People felt more at ease around a simple mister. And when they felt at ease, he often learned a great deal more than they thought was said.

Together, he and Slim managed to get the big man standing. However, John was incapable of staying on his feet unassisted.

They each took an arm and draped it over a shoulder.

We should take him to.....

To my lodgings. My friend is a doctor and will look for me there when he does not find us here.

She was silent, almost long enough for Brandon to wonder if she’d heard him. Yes, that would be best.

They set off, leaving the unconscious attackers to fend for themselves.

Where are these lodgings?

At the Blind Pig in High Street.

Excellent, I know a shortcut.

I don’t think...

But before he could protest, she’d turned them down an even narrower alley than the earlier goat track. Not wanting John to become the prize in a tug of war, Brandon could only follow.

His curiosity grew. A few of his female relatives and friends were nearly as decisive and commanding as Slim. But those women were of a privileged class for whom deference was not necessary to survive. And even then, the traits were unusual in women trained from birth not to put themselves forward. Slim’s decisive, commanding ways had him wondering if she hid her identity for some reason.

Don’t worry, she offered. I li—know Port Royal very well.

Within moments, they entered the Blind Pig by a side door. Brandon recognized the drawings of porcine animals that decorated the walls and gave the inn its name.

Where is your room?

Third floor, end of the corridor.

They arrived at the second to last door. Brandon juggled his key from his coat pocket while supporting what he could of John’s weight.

With the door open, they hauled the big man into the room. Brandon looked around. Where to put their patient? Both table and settee were much too short.

Let’s put him on the floor, Slim said. It’s the only place big enough for him. Unless you want him in your bed? You look to be close to as tall as he.

Brandon shook his head. I may be as tall, but rented lodgings rarely have beds long enough. The bed here is no better than the settee.

The floor it is, then.

They eased John down.

Slim bent to competently examine her companion’s wound and bandage.

Brandon felt oddly useless and a smidgen uncomfortable as she stripped off her friend’s shirt and loosened his trousers, to better see the wound.

I’ll send for water and fresh bandages, he said.

Good idea. Ask for some rum as well. How long do you think before your friend returns?

I’ve no idea, since I don’t know how long he’ll keep up the chase before he gives up or catches his quarry.

She gave a single nod and set about making her friend as comfortable as possible.

Brandon watched, helping only when asked as she appeared to know what she was doing. He found himself caught by the color of her hair. Red, yes, but not simply red. Her tresses were far from flaming, orangish, or even russet red. They were a unique combination of hues that brought to mind the limning of clouds when slivers of evening sunlight pierced through. It was a color of mystery, much like the puzzling woman tending to her friend.

The doctor sauntered into the room not long after the water, rum, and bandages arrived.

Did you catch him? asked Brandon.

No. His friend took in the scene. But I did encounter one of the night watchmen. I told him where the fight occurred and recommended he round up as many of the miscreants as possible. I promised to leave a letter giving evidence against the men so the magistrate can serve justice for them.

You need to tend this man’s wound. I’ll write the letter. Then we’ll both sign. A naval officer’s signature will add weight.

Certainly. I didn’t really want to write that letter anyway. Now, Lawrence said to Slim, let me get a look at our patient.

The doctor knelt to examine John, then left the room briefly to return with a case. Opening it, he removed several implements.

Hand me that rum, please, he asked Slim.

She complied, smiling as she did so.

Lawrence’s hand closed on the bottle, but he froze for a moment as his gaze fell on the woman’s Lorelei smile.

Brandon swallowed as well. She smiled with her entire face, yet it was not an innocent expression. Rather the smile was filled with a thorough knowledge of the bitter, the sweet, and the ironies of life, with a healthy dose of humor at her own foibles thrown in.

A man might do murder or worse just to catch a glimpse of that smile and consider himself well paid, even if he were hanged. It was a feeling he’d never had about a woman’s smile and thanked heaven that his training since birth, combined with discipline learned at sea prevented him from acting on the impulses the smile inspired.

He retreated to find pen and paper and replace his shirt. He wasn’t running away precisely. The letter had to be written. He returned to settle at the parlor table, In-between composing sentences and choosing words, he watched the three people on the floor.

It wasn’t easy to concentrate on writing with the leather clad woman perched beside the doctor. Her trousers were pulled tight enough to reveal a splendid bum and thighs that were clearly strong and sleek from some sort of work or exercise. Her vest of the same black leather covered rather than emphasized the shape of her breasts. Removing that piece of clothing would be a tantalizing pleasure.

He smiled at the thought. What would the vest reveal? He could imagine, but he wanted ....

Stop slavering like a dog, and get your mind back on the letter!

He did as he commanded himself, too well trained not to obey. He’d concentrate on the letter until his friend indicated nothing more could be done for the patient. Eventually Brandon knew he’d have to find the mental strength to question Slim without accosting her like he might a doxy who’d invited that kind of attention.

ESME WATCHED AS THE doctor poured rum over the implements one by one, holding them slightly above John’s wound so the liquid washed not only the tools but the wound itself. It was a trick she’d learned herself from her adoptive father, the first Irish Red.

Privateers did not often have qualified doctors shipboard. Medical treatment was based on what one learned from watching others. Reassured that John was in capable hands, she retreated to the settee, observing the doctor as he worked. She released some of her worry about her first mate and relaxed a mite.

Her mind and her gaze wandered to the man at the table. His quill pen poised above the inkwell, he smiled. His teeth were pleasantly white and straight, save for one snaggled lower tooth that protruded over its upper partner The protrusion was slight, causing no distortion of his lips. What would it feel like....

Aware that she’d been staring, Esme gave herself a mental shake. She refocused on the doctor who was now busy stitching John’s wound. However, Gilroy stuck in her mind like a small stone in a boot.

What has he to smile about?

He’s been in a fight, and by writing to the authorities, the disturbance would be reported to his superior officer. His Majesty’s Navy officially frowned on officers who indulged in fisticuffs. Did he routinely indulge in fighting, or had he simply been helping where he thought help was needed? Certainly, his gentleness with John and the empathy his actions demonstrated argued he was a helpful and caring man.

His bearing fit a ship’s officer—broad shoulders, ramrod posture, and a firm steady step. She’d much appreciated that steadiness as they’d hauled John to safety.

Gilroy’s height might make shipboard living uncomfortable, but the lack of scars on his forehead from failing to duck through hatchways indicated good flexibility. His chin had an unexpected roundness, and his cheekbones, while high, were not a prominent feature. Two deep blue eyes flanked his straight nose. Anyone who ignored the sharply observant gaze in those eyes, and the firm set of the wide, generous mouth, might mistake that chin as a sign of weakness.

And he didn’t wear a heavy scent; she’d noted only one whiff of lemon mixed with the aroma of healthy male animal. Enough of this nonsense, she told herself. He’s a man like any other.

Don’t dwell on the sensual draw you feel. It will pass, if ignored. Focus on John and the doctor!

However, ignoring the man writing at the table was more difficult than she wanted.

Though she and John could have managed on their own, she appreciated the assistance of the two strangers in defeating the attackers. That appreciation grew after she learned of John’s wound, and Gilroy had offered help. Not until after the doctor had arrived, did she feel the slightest unease with accepting that offer.

The two men had been speaking softly, but Esme had excellent hearing. A naval officer’s signature, Gilroy had said in clipped British tones.

She and John now had a much more serious problem than being out-numbered by thugs who wanted to rob a pair of privateers with reputations more dangerous than most.

What would the naval officer do if he learned he had given aid to Irish Red, Captain of the Erie Mist, and her first mate?

He’d arrest us and clap us in irons before seeing us tried and hanged for piracy.

She wasn’t actually a pirate, but that hardly mattered to the British ships and sailors who encountered her. Her letters of marque originated from the fledgling United States, and, as of June 1812, her adopted country and Britain were at war. However, the documents had gone missing some time ago, and replacements had yet to arrive. Hence, she was very careful not to risk situations where she would be forced to produce them.

To the British, she and her crew were criminals whose only worth was as a weight at the business end of a noose.

She had to get John out of here, but she could not act until the doctor finished stitching up her first mate’s side and John could stand on his own. Until then, she would just have to be more cautious than normal.

The process seemed to take hours. How bad is the wound? she asked, just to keep her mind from circling constantly on the predicament she and John shared.

Not too bad, said the doctor. If he shows no signs of fever, I expect he’ll be up and about in a day or two.

Alarms clanged in her head, and she struggled to maintain an indifferent expression. We don’t have a day or two. They had three or four hours at best before they met with their contact from the Royal Navy’s dockyard in Port Royal to receive the scheduled sailing times and routes for the British vessels in the area.

She must get word to her crew to remain at anchor in the small coastal cove that made up part of the Crobbin plantation. In addition, she needed to arrange a new meeting time with her dockyard contact. However, she couldn’t simply walk away. Especially with a British naval officer watching her comings and goings.

Putting down his pen, then tying his cravat in a loose knot, the officer rose and came to stand before her. It appears that my friend the doctor will be spending more time with your companion. Perhaps you would join me in the public room for a late meal?

I, ah, I couldn’t. John...

Nonsense. He took her hand and placed her palm atop his arm. Neither of them wore gloves, and the warmth of his touch suffused her with a matching heat. Fighting is thirsty work, and you’ve done more than your share. Both of us need sustenance.

Was that a note of disapproval she heard as he referred to her part in the street fight? What of it? She needed no one’s approval, least of all that of a stuffed shirt British naval officer, no matter how nice the stuffing. He and his friend had been a great help. She was grateful. But he was still British, still the enemy. Her conscience twisted uncomfortably at accepting more of this man’s aid.

He escorted her down the stairs to a table in a corner of the nearly empty public room, then left her to wake a serving wench dozing near the hearth. He spoke softly to the girl then something, probably a coin or two, passed from him to her, and the wench nearly ran from the room.

When he returned to sit opposite Esme he explained. She’ll wake the cook and return as quickly as possible with bread, stew, and two tankards of ale. I made assumptions about your preferences. However, we can easily exchange an ale for water or some other beverage, if you wish.

No, no. She shook her head. Ale will be fine, Mr. ....? She’d forgotten his name. That was completely unlike her. She usually had an excellent memory.

Gilroy. Lieutenant Brandon Gilroy at your service, Miss . . .?

She’d deliberately avoided giving her name. First, she disliked lies despite the occasional need for deception. More importantly, he could not ask awkward questions about her later if he did not know her name. What to do?

You cannot be surprised that I ask your name. You aren’t exactly an ordinary type of woman. He made a very pointed glance at her attire.

True, she agreed. Her unique situation in life was a source of pride, and she’d no wish to hide it. No average woman could succeed at the