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Authors: Eloisa James
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he repeated.
He shifted his stance, and for once it wasn’t a response to pain. He was hard as rock, for no good reason other than that his wife was looking at him as if she were worried about him.
“Must we do that tonight ?” she asked, swallowing again.
Griffin’s mind was filled with images of himself tumbling her onto the bed and tearing off floaty layers of clothing. But even as his mind offered a dozen reasons why he should take her with dispatch, like any self-respecting pirate, her eyes stopped him.
They were dark with strain. Of course she didn’t want to fall into bed with a burly stranger who strode into her house and declared himself her husband.
He could wait. They had a lifetime ahead of them.
He wanted to earn a place here, in this warm, happy house, full of illegitimate children, nursemaids, and one beautiful woman with a stubborn chin. Not to steal it, or force it.
He wanted that— her —more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
N INE
B iddulph Barry, Viscount Moncrieff, lived in Walford Court, an hour or so from Phoebe’s house. It had been the country seat of the Barrys for generations, the place where Griffin grew up.
Sitting decorously in a carriage—because the very idea of slinging a leg over a horse made him feel faint—Griffin kept thinking about the fact that Phoebe didn’t know his father well. It sounded as if the viscount had not embraced his son’s wife.
He was unsurprised. His father was obsessed by the rituals and traditions of the nobility. It had undoubtedly nearly killed him to realize that he would either have to sell his son to a merchant’s daughter or lose the ancestral estate.
Unfortunately Griffin had lusted after a life in which titles had no meaning, where a man earned honor from use of his own strength and wit.
He and his father had spent his childhood at loggerheads. Consequently, he wasn’t all that bothered when he woke to find himself at sea, under the command of a disreputable scoundrel named Captain Dirk.
Piracy was a perfect revenge . . . an antidote to his father’s vainglorious love of the aristocracy.
In fact, he hadn’t even bothered to write to his father for years after he left England, not until James’s father, the old duke, died. That death had been a shock for both of them, but especially for James, who knew damn well that his father had died wondering whether his only son was dead or alive.
It gave a man to think. Griffin’s father knew he was alive because he had instructed his agent to reassure his family on a regular basis. And he had sent home gold as well. His father had been compelled to sell his son to a merchant; Griffin’s money ensured that his younger sisters did not have to suffer the same fate.
But when James ascended to the duchy in absentia, Griffin realized that perhaps he should be in closer touch with his father. So he had written him a letter, telling him bluntly that he had become a pirate, even though by then Griffin and James were de facto privateers. He didn’t see any reason to sugarcoat the truth.
His reception at Walford Court could not have been more different from his arrival at Arbor House.
His father had always aspired to a dukedom. Apparently he’d used Phoebe’s dowry to good effect; the estate now looked as if aping a dukedom was as good as owning one. No less than six footmen bowed as Griffin entered, not to mention the butler, who’d had another fourteen years to perfect his starched, sour look.
“Good afternoon, Mears,” Griffin said, handing over his greatcoat. “You’re holding up well.”
Mears was far too dignified to respond to a personal comment. Instead, he bent his head a glacial inch, giving Griffin a good look at the powdered top of his wig.
He must have heard about the piracy. Or he didn’t like the tattoo. Or he was just a wizened old bastard with a stick where none ought to be.
“Welcome to England, Sir Griffin,” Mears intoned. “On behalf of the
He shifted his stance, and for once it wasn’t a response to pain. He was hard as rock, for no good reason other than that his wife was looking at him as if she were worried about him.
“Must we do that tonight ?” she asked, swallowing again.
Griffin’s mind was filled with images of himself tumbling her onto the bed and tearing off floaty layers of clothing. But even as his mind offered a dozen reasons why he should take her with dispatch, like any self-respecting pirate, her eyes stopped him.
They were dark with strain. Of course she didn’t want to fall into bed with a burly stranger who strode into her house and declared himself her husband.
He could wait. They had a lifetime ahead of them.
He wanted to earn a place here, in this warm, happy house, full of illegitimate children, nursemaids, and one beautiful woman with a stubborn chin. Not to steal it, or force it.
He wanted that— her —more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
N INE
B iddulph Barry, Viscount Moncrieff, lived in Walford Court, an hour or so from Phoebe’s house. It had been the country seat of the Barrys for generations, the place where Griffin grew up.
Sitting decorously in a carriage—because the very idea of slinging a leg over a horse made him feel faint—Griffin kept thinking about the fact that Phoebe didn’t know his father well. It sounded as if the viscount had not embraced his son’s wife.
He was unsurprised. His father was obsessed by the rituals and traditions of the nobility. It had undoubtedly nearly killed him to realize that he would either have to sell his son to a merchant’s daughter or lose the ancestral estate.
Unfortunately Griffin had lusted after a life in which titles had no meaning, where a man earned honor from use of his own strength and wit.
He and his father had spent his childhood at loggerheads. Consequently, he wasn’t all that bothered when he woke to find himself at sea, under the command of a disreputable scoundrel named Captain Dirk.
Piracy was a perfect revenge . . . an antidote to his father’s vainglorious love of the aristocracy.
In fact, he hadn’t even bothered to write to his father for years after he left England, not until James’s father, the old duke, died. That death had been a shock for both of them, but especially for James, who knew damn well that his father had died wondering whether his only son was dead or alive.
It gave a man to think. Griffin’s father knew he was alive because he had instructed his agent to reassure his family on a regular basis. And he had sent home gold as well. His father had been compelled to sell his son to a merchant; Griffin’s money ensured that his younger sisters did not have to suffer the same fate.
But when James ascended to the duchy in absentia, Griffin realized that perhaps he should be in closer touch with his father. So he had written him a letter, telling him bluntly that he had become a pirate, even though by then Griffin and James were de facto privateers. He didn’t see any reason to sugarcoat the truth.
His reception at Walford Court could not have been more different from his arrival at Arbor House.
His father had always aspired to a dukedom. Apparently he’d used Phoebe’s dowry to good effect; the estate now looked as if aping a dukedom was as good as owning one. No less than six footmen bowed as Griffin entered, not to mention the butler, who’d had another fourteen years to perfect his starched, sour look.
“Good afternoon, Mears,” Griffin said, handing over his greatcoat. “You’re holding up well.”
Mears was far too dignified to respond to a personal comment. Instead, he bent his head a glacial inch, giving Griffin a good look at the powdered top of his wig.
He must have heard about the piracy. Or he didn’t like the tattoo. Or he was just a wizened old bastard with a stick where none ought to be.
“Welcome to England, Sir Griffin,” Mears intoned. “On behalf of the
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