The Pirate's Tale. Grace D'Otare

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      “Hello?” Maeve dropped her bags in the hall. Peering across the foyer, she could just make out her husband’s shape slumped in his favorite old leather chair. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it. It landed over the banister. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

       “Why are you so far away?”

      Her heels clicked on the parquet. “Bad day, darling?”

      Devlin watched her cross the room, swirling his drink.

       “You’re wearing those boots again,” he said.

       “I am.”

      He turned away to concentrate on a long swallow from his glass. “Not all bad, then.”

      She smiled at that, and brushed a hand over his hair, feeling his forehead as a nurse might check for fever. He twitched, meaning don’t fuss, and patted his knee.

      Maeve arranged herself in his lap, her knees swinging over the rolled arm of the chair, and wondered what to do.

      They both had bad days now and then, with all they’d been through. Dev usually went off alone and came back when he’d healed himself. Or close enough to healed himself. Rarely did he let her see the suffering, much less offer what small comfort she could.

      He set his glass on the floor. His palm skimmed beneath the hem of her skirt. The skirt was a favorite of Maeve’s, a great sweep of charcoal silk velvet. Despite the steady rise of his hand, the skirt veiled boots, legs and his intent. Beginning at her ankle, he traced the fit of her boot as it climbed her leg.

       “Jesus. Where does it stop?”

      The smoke of old-oaked whiskey on his breath and leather in the air whetted Maeve’s appetite. Dark and chilly as Dev’s spirits ran tonight, Maeve felt the tingle of warmth they made between them spark, and begin to burn.

      “Ahhh, there’s a good man.” She wiggled deliberately, settling more comfortably in his lap, and he pinched the tender skin above the boot’s cuff. “I knew you’d find your way.”

      “What’s this you’re barely wearing?” Blunt fingertips tickled the edge of her lacy thong.

      “Layers are the secret to a well-dressed woman,” Maeve replied with an invitational tip of her hips.

       “Thinly spread layer.”

      “Mille Cake,” she teased, hoping for another pinch.

       “Naughty girl.”

       “Think of it as a visual aid.”

      “A visual aid? When you’re hip-high in these…” He whispered across her ear. “…pirate boots,” making her shiver, another little retaliation.

      “Pirates. Now, that reminds me of a story.” She shifted her butt in his lap more deliberately, achieving precisely the result she’d hoped for.

      “Do tell,” her husband answered, with enough growl in his voice to really make it worth her while.

       The Pirate’s Tale

      The only life that Gertrude had ever known was the convent.

      “The convent? I thought this was a lusty pirate tale?”

       “Fine. Skip the convent. Straight to the bedroom.”

       “That’s more like it.”

      It was a cold, dark bedroom.

      Gertrude wrapped the coverlet tighter around her and poked the fire. Two months at sea, two days in port and two hours in a carriage traveling streets that were worse than those on the island of Santa Ava, only to be deposited at the door of a respectable house and deserted.

      She eyed the bed suspiciously. It was huge; big enough to sleep six orphans. Who else would be sleeping in there tonight?

      The door banged open and in clomped a pair of dirty boys, a large brass tub and the housekeeper, Mrs. Allworthy.

      “Right here,” the woman pointed to the space in front of the fire. “Carefully! Don’t slosh all over the Captain’s India rug,”

      The water in the tub was so hot that steam rose into the air.

      “Mrs. Allworthy?”

      “A moment,” she answered with a glance at Gertrude. “Back downstairs, you two, quick step! Bring up the other pails of boiling water from the kitchen. Run!” From her apron pocket she pulled a glass bottle and dumped the contents into the water. The room bloomed with the scent of rose and rosemary. “You had a question, missus?”

      Gertrude tried to sound merely inquisitive. “Who is planning on bathing in my room?”

      “You, dear.”

      “I’ve already washed,” she said. “Thank you.”

      “The Captain ordered you a bath.”

      “He hasn’t seen me since we made port. How would he know I need a bath?” she grumbled. “Please don’t go to any more trouble. I prefer to bathe…standing. Thank you.”

      “Standing? You mean a spit bath? With your clothes on?” An odd expression flickered over the older woman’s face. She arched her back and rubbed her distended belly. From where Gertrude stood, it appeared the baby might come before Mrs. Allworthy left the room. “Ever sat in a bathtub, my dear?”

      “Why does that matter?”

      “You haven’t! Ha! I’ll be a ripe tomato.” She barked a laugh that colored her face as red as the fruit, then she started to hiccup. “Pardon me. Where does he find ’em? Uuurp, there I go again!”

      “Find who?”

      “Well now, the Captain’s been married before, I’m sure you’ve heard?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “Don’t believe one word of the rumors. Captain wouldn’t harm a fly, much less his wives.”

      “That’s a…relief,” Gertrude said. Wives?