The Pirate's Secret Baby (8 page)

Turnbull elbowed Nash and guffawed.

"You're going to need help if she shows you anything over..." his brow furrowed. "Eighteen. You ain't having enough fingers and toes to count higher!"

Lydia was about to correct Turnbull's addition when she realized he was right. Nash was missing two fingers on his left hand.

"Yes, ma'am, show us some more!"

Mattie's enthusiasm for arithmetic was ramped up by the pirates' interest. Anything that helped her charge study her lessons was a good thing, and the piratical approval seemed to help.

"Very well, Mattie, gentlemen. Let's look at the number three."

She worked over the slate, then showed it to her rapt audience. The men were now seated crosslegged on the deck alongside her pupil.

"Three is, as you know, a prime number and a factor of nine. But what also makes three interesting is the rule that anything divisible by three must have digits that add to a value divisible by three. For example, we know fifty-four is divisible by three because five plus four equals nine, which is divisible by three."

She wrote another number.

"This is larger than what you're working with now, Mattie, but just to show you... Five hundred and seventy-six must also be divisible by three, because five plus seven plus six equals eighteen, which is divisible by three."

"And eighteen is nine times two and one plus eight equals nine and three goes into nine three times!"

"Swive me sideways! The sprat is right!" Turnbull exclaimed.

Lydia winced, but the language aboard the
Prodigal Son
was fast becoming a lost cause for her. She would be earning all of that extraordinary salary Captain St. Armand promised her if she could keep Mattie from repeating too much of what she learned from the sailors.

"This is what we will work on now, Mattie. I want you to practice with your slate, and be sure to write your numbers with a clear hand."

"That's right, sprat," said Turnbull. "If you're dividing up the booty and your shipmates think you're cheating or holding back you could find yourself on the wrong end of a blade."

Mattie's eyes widened at the hidden dangers of multiplication, and Lydia hoped the twinge behind her own eye would not develop into a full blown headache. When she'd contemplated being a governess she'd never considered pirates and their economic systems as part of her teaching methodology.

Turnbull and Nash were looking at her expectantly.

"Gentlemen?"

Nash snickered at that, but Turnbull said, "Do you have extra slates we could use, Miss Burke? We could try our hands at the problems."

Lydia was about to beg off but she saw how Mattie's face glowed at the idea of the pirates joining in her lessons.

"To be honest," she started, then paused to think. "Mr. Nash, Mr. Turnbull--you must understand that I do not teach unless I am compensated for my labors."

Nash looked at Turnbull, who said, "She wants her share."

"Well, that's only right." Nash nodded. "So what do teachers get? Jewels? Gold? I've a good Spanish dagger I'd be willing to trade for lessons."

"And I have a mummified head from the Sandwich Islands. You could have that, ma'am," Turnbull said.

"Take the head! I've seen it and it's disgusting!" Mattie enthused.

"It
sounds
disgusting, but thank you, no. What I want, gentlemen, is for you to join us at a tea party to be held at a future date."

Nash looked at Turnbull, who said, "I reckon we'd have to drink tea."

"Thought so," Nash said gloomily. "But if that's what it takes, I'll do it."

He spat into his hand, then held it out to Lydia. "Shake on it, and it's a bargain, Miss Burke."

Lydia gamely took Nash's hand, promising herself she could scrub later. She glanced over at Mattie, who wore an awed expression, and Lydia allowed herself a satisfied smile.

"If you gentlemen will wait here with Mattie, I'll fetch some slates."

Lydia was about to push herself to her feet when a firm hand beneath her elbow effortlessly hoisted her up. Nash and Turnbull jumped to their own feet in the captain's presence, as did the youngest crewmember.

Captain St. Armand still had his hand wrapped about her arm, and she could feel the warmth of the contact through the thin fabric of her gown. She tried to subtly maneuver out of his grip, but he seemed content to keep her there. Standing so close to him she reflexively inhaled, and she was glad he steadied her. It had been ages since she'd wanted to lean in and get closer to a man because her nose told her it was a fine idea, and this was definitely the wrong man to set off olfactory responses and bring her skin and senses to life.

"Miss Burke?"

"Miss Burke was teaching us number tricks, Papa."

"I was addressing the lady," he said mildly, which brought a "Sorry, sir," from Mattie and silence from the rest of the crew standing there.

"We were having lessons, Captain," Lydia said.

"These two weren't a distraction?"

"On the contrary, it is a pleasure to teach eager pupils of any age."

"I would let you teach me a thing or two, Miss Burke," he murmured close to her ear. She ignored this and continued.

"The men asked if they could sit in on the lessons, their schedules permitting. Mattie approves of the idea as well, and I've found that sometimes a pupil's learning is stimulated by the presence of other students."

She looked up at the captain, whose eyebrows arched at the idea of Nash and Turnbull as classroom compatriots, but he said, "If Mr. Fuller agrees, then I have no objection."

The two men thanked their captain and hurried off, arguing over how to check sums. This discussion involved allusions to Turnbull's parentage and to Nash's hygiene, so Lydia was relieved when they took themselves off.

Somewhat relieved. She still had Captain St. Armand standing too close to her, crowding her and intruding in her breathing space. She wanted to step back away from him, but at the same time, she did not want to. Regardless, retreat displayed cowardice and it was not the best response with him, no matter the provocation.

He smiled down at her as if he could parse all these thoughts, then stepped back himself, his slender fingers gliding down her upper arm as he released her, a shiver lingering along that too sensitive flesh in their wake.

"I came to alert you ladies it is time for luncheon. May I escort you below?"

He cocked an arm, but offered it to Mattie, rather than Lydia. The girl giggled and took her father's hand.

"You are too tall for me to hold your arm, Papa. This is a better fit."

"As you say, Marauding Mattie. And this way your knife hand is free."

They both turned at the garbled noise that worked its way out of Lydia's throat.

"Never mind," she muttered, following behind as father and daughter went below.

Her remaining caps were missing, and she knew positively she'd put them in her trunk. Their absence could only mean the mysterious cap thief had visited while she slept.

Her blood ran cold at the thought of one of the men stealing into her cabin, then her brain began working properly and her blood heated up. There was only one suspect, the only one daring enough to enter the cabin where the captain's daughter slept, never mind her governess!

She braided her hair because her remaining hairpins also were not to be found. Really, it was the outside of enough! She tied off the thick braid and tossed it back over her shoulder. She might not be able to pin her hair properly atop her head, but she would not wear two braids like a schoolgirl.

Lydia fumed through breakfast, responding in short words to Captain St. Armand and Mr. Fuller, even though she bore the mate no ill-will. Fortunately, Mattie did not seem to notice that her governess was glowering, and chatted with Mr. Fuller about the change in weather and her new pink jacket.

"Now I am rigged out for foul weather, Mr. Fuller. It is important to have the proper gear during a blow," Mattie told him solemnly.

"I have heard that said, Miss Mattie," Fuller responded, passing the biscuits around. Lydia rapped hers on the table to encourage any wildlife inside to leave. Weevils in her food were one of the harsh realities of sea life she'd come to grips with on her first voyage, and now she ignored them even as she longed for more wholesome fare. At least there were still oranges from the islands. A luxury in England, she intended to enjoy them while she could.

After breakfast Lydia said, "Mattie, would you gather your books and wait for me? I need to speak to your father."

Mr. Fuller took one last biscuit with him, stuffing it into his coat, and said, "I'll help you with your books, Mattie."

"I can climb without help, Mr. Fuller!"

He ushered her out of the cabin, closing the door firmly behind them.

"I too have to get to my work, Miss Bur--"

"This will not take long, Captain," Lydia interrupted, and to emphasize her point she took a stance in front of the door, blocking his passage. His lips quirked up at the corners, but he leaned against the table and threw his arms wide.

"I am all yours."

In his dreams. She sniffed at his insouciant manner, but his pose brought his well- muscled arms to her attention, which was, of course, his goal. Today he was wearing one of his knit shirts, similar to that worn by the sailors aboard the
Prodigal Son
. The difference was his shirt was of a much finer weave and shaped itself to his muscled shoulders and arms. His forearms were left bare, browned from the sun and corded with strength. She remembered his backside as being a lighter shade, also muscled, sleek muscles that flexed with his movement, not like the muscles that bulged across his shoul--

He snapped his fingers.

"Miss Burke? I have a ship to command, if you recall."

She shook herself and remembered why she was there. The anger helped her focus.

"Captain St. Armand,
someone
came into our cabin and stole my caps!"

"I'm shocked, Miss Burke, shocked, that anyone would steal something as hideous as your silly caps! I give my crew credit for having better taste than that."

He had the audacity to smile like it was all a joke to him.

"I have heard rumors that Sails likes to wear women's undergarments. Perhaps you should ask him if he took your caps?"

She dismissed this nonsense with a sneer.

"My hairpins are missing as well."

"I find your new coiffure quite charming, Miss Burke. Very feminine and
de jeune fille.
I approve."

"I do not want your approval," she said through her teeth. "I want my hairpins and caps returned to me!"

"Ridiculous," he said, pushing himself off the table and coming closer. Lydia wasn't aware she'd moved until her back was against the door, and then she couldn't move any farther. He kept coming, until he could reach out and tug her braid forward, across her shoulder, his hand gliding down the length like it was a string of pearls.

"So silken," he murmured. "And the color is glorious, a rich sienna that frames your face and makes your eyes glow. I cannot imagine why you would wear those caps, hiding this glory unless...are you in disguise, Miss Burke? Why would a governess hide from prying eyes? Did you steal the family silver? Murder a former employer?"

"You are the only person who would say that like it's praiseworthy."

"I confess, as interesting as I already find you, your being a murderess would make you even more fascinating to me on this tedious voyage."

"May I remind you that I am responsible for teaching your daughter, Captain St. Armand?"

"If what I'm conjecturing is correct, I hope you will teach her effective ways to hide the bodies of your victims," he finished with a boyish grin, stepping back, finally, and allowing her to pull air into cramped lungs.

"No, I did not kill any--why am I defending myself to a scoundrel like you? I want my belongings returned to me! I want to know I can sleep unmolested at night aboard your vessel!"

"Miss Burke, I can assure you none of the crew will molest you, asleep or awake."

He said nothing about the captain and she was about to accuse him, but he was still talking, "As far as your ugly caps and pins are concerned, I will mention it to Mr. Fuller and if anything resembling them turns up, I will be certain you are told. Now, don't you have lessons with Mattie?"

He reached around her and opened the door, helping her into the passageway before she could protest.

* * * *

Robert could almost see steam seeping under his door from where the little hedgehog bristled on the other side. She had a temper, Lydia Burke did. Needling people into losing their tempers purely for the entertainment value of it had ever been one of Robert's besetting sins.

He was still smiling as he opened his box and gazed upon his new collection of hairpins, secreted from her cabin in the dark. He'd indulged himself last night, admiring the sleeping woman's form. She'd kicked off the covers and her night rail was tangled up around her legs, not far enough to satisfy Robert, but far enough to assure him his suspicions were correct. She had neat ankles and shapely calves. His imagination was good enough for him to assume the rest of her form would be equally shapely. While he was a connoisseur of all things lovely, he found most women beautiful in their own way. A good eye, a winning smile, a long neck, all had something to commend them. Whether they were rounded and buxom or sleek and slender, all had attractions. Miss Burke--Lydia--had more than average looks if she'd let herself properly display it. Those snapping eyes like the green flash of a tropical sunset, the rich chestnut hair, the shapely parts, oh yes, the lady was hiding herself away.

But hiding from what? Murder? Theft? Robert believed with the right provocation she would shoot him, and heaven knew he could be provoking, but she did not strike him as the sort to plot out a premeditated murder. She also did not seem a probable thief. So what--or who--was she hiding from? A former employer? A jealous husband?

This last thought made him frown, but only for a moment. Disposing of people who were in his way was nothing new. If Miss Burke left a husband behind in England, she no doubt had good reasons. If he needed to be done away with so she could live her own life, then Robert was the man for the job. No false modesty, he was good at what he did and he considered how utterly appreciative a young widow might be for his assistance.