14 CHARLOTTE FINDS MUCH TO ENTERTAIN HER—AN UNEXPECTED PROBLEM—FLYING LESSONS—FAMILY JEWELS—THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF AN UNTROUBLED CHILDHOOD—CLACTON-ON-SEA—ALEX IS IRRATIONAL—A LIVELY DISCUSSION—THE GHOST OF MISCHIEF PAST If Charlotte disapproved more of Captain O’Riley’s house, she might be able to talk about it less. But she knew what she was. Alex and Bixby would hear nothing but truth from her. For three hours as they flew east toward Clacton-on-Sea, she blamed them, and lectured them, and they bore it as no other men in England would have borne it: so badly, they considered locking her in the closet, until they remembered what happened last time that was attempted. She had much to occupy her. The dust. The spiderwebs. The sluggish rate of travel, second only to the sudden dangerous speed. The dust (again). Not enough tea. Bixby remedied the latter, along with a provision of fresh scones, after which there was the pleasure of discovering just what exactly gentlemen pirates considered adequate for a lavatory. Charlotte was able to entertain herself with expressions of horror about that one for quite some time. Eventually Bixby locked himself in the closet and Alex, forced to remain at the helm, decided to offer her a flying lesson. Charlotte was disappointed surprised to discover this was not a metaphor for something more interesting. She eyed him suspiciously as he demonstrated the various pieces of navigational equipment. “Are you just trying to distract me from suggesting improvements to your home?” “Not at all,” Alex responded tonelessly. “Because it is only my intention to be helpful.” “Of course.” “If you alphabetized your boxes of loot, you would feel so much—” “Charlotte?” He smiled at her. “Yes?” “Shut up.” She gasped. “Well I nev—” He caught her by the front of her shirt, pulled her close, and kissed her. And if he felt her triumphant little smirk against his lips, he was wise enough not to say so. The kiss was pleasant in its own way (i.e., the way of coffee-flavored chocolate melting in one’s mouth, its warmth spreading through one’s body until remaining upright becomes increasingly, but deliciously, difficult). But it failed to convince Charlotte of there being any charm in the pirate’s messiness. She had to admit, however, that she rather liked the messiness of his charm. After a lifetime of carefully crafted narratives, having someone show her just how delightful unexpectedness could be—sudden kisses, sensuous smiles—proved enlivening. But also rather frightening. How could one prepare a correct response to the unexpected? Charlotte knew that over the past two days she had behaved so unlike Elizabeth Bennet or Anne Elliot as to be almost authentically herself, and that was far too risky to be considered a good thing. She did not mind exposing her flaws to Alex O’Riley, for he was just a pirate, and as soon as she had her amulet she would undoubtedly never see him again. And oh dear, Bixby’s scones must have gone down the wrong way, for suddenly she felt an odd heartburn. The real trouble would come if she got into the bad habit of being herself when she returned to regular society. No one wanted to see a young woman dressed in trousers, or laughing with abandon, or feeling things. The kiss ended finally, and with a mutual sigh they returned their focus to the flight lesson. Alex guided her to stand at the great spoked wheel, and then positioning himself behind her, he set his hands on hers. “The wheel is a conduit for the magic,” he explained. “There are no mechanics involved. So long as it can be attached in some secure manner to the house, and then moved to provide direction, it does not even strictly speaking have to be a wheel. But convention helps, because the pirate’s state of mind is all-important, and it’s less easy to believe yourself piloting a house by means of a stick or hairbrush or something.” “If state of mind is all-important—considering most pirates seem to be utterly mad, how do they keep their houses aloft?” Charlotte asked. “Aren’t you going to add ‘present company excepted’?” “No.” He grinned. “Fair enough. To be honest, it depends on the madness. Delusions of grandeur are actually helpful in our trade.” “What’s this?” She put her hand on a lever protruding from the wheel shaft. Alex hastily pulled it away. “Careful. That’s my emergency vertical thrust accelerator.” Before she could make the kind of reply that would horrify even a penny-dreadful heroine, Alex began intoning the phrase to take them out of momentum automatica. The house creaked, shifting into his manual control. At once, Charlotte felt magic press her hands more firmly against the wheel. The sensation was uncomfortable, and not in the way her own magic recently had become, igniting nerves and stroking carnal instincts. Rather, it felt heavy, suffocating. This was indeed what she’d always imagined a bombastic pirate’s magic to be, or perhaps a man’s magic: forceful compared to the fine raveling of witchery. “Your accent is stronger when you incantate,” she noted. “Oh?” The word was like a shield. With spikes on it. Bloodstained spikes. But before Charlotte could question why, he went on incantating, low and lilting. He slipped his fingers between hers, back and forth, until her breath was moving in time with it. Gently together they turned the wheel, and the house veered, moving into a pale haze of clouds. “Can you feel the magic?” he asked between phrases. “I hope you are talking about the incantation,” she said. “Otherwise, that is a ridiculously lewd question.” He chuckled. “Don’t laugh. Magic is not fun.” “Really?” He shifted her hair aside, murmured aereo against her neck, then cooled the warmth of it with his tongue. The house began to climb, even as Charlotte felt her stomach sink. “It’s hard to breathe,” she whispered. Immediately he moved back. “Sorry. I suppose a house would be rather burdensome after a lifetime of lifting teacups and powder puffs.” He incantated the momentum automatica, and magic eased into the wheel. “Powder puffs?” Charlotte turned to present him with an affronted glare, but he only grinned down at her, undaunted. “I’ll have you know, sir, that witches do important work. We effect real social and political change—” “And steal lots of lovely jewels?” “Well, yes, but it’s not fun.” “Then you’ve been doing it all wrong, darling.” “Tsk.” She tried to move away, but he stepped closer, his thighs pressing hers to the wheel behind them. The house swooped, or perhaps it was her stomach. Alex slid a finger down the line of her shirt buttons. “Is the flight magic bothering you now?” She considered this. The air around them had become almost cozy, as if they were swathed in eiderdowns. It throbbed slightly with self-perpetuating enchantment but no longer dragged on her senses, making her feel like she was turning into stone, wood, glass. “I’m fine,” she said. His hand was at her trouser buttons now. The throbbing of the air became stronger, and in the back of her mind Elizabeth Bennet was surprisingly, and rather enthusiastically, nodding. That Charlotte’s behavior over the past two days had so corrupted a literary figment of her imagination would have troubled her were she not focusing instead on committing such behavior once again. Besides, she was merely being practical. It had become apparent the tension between them needed releasing on a regular basis, for the sake of their health—no, wait, for the sake of obtaining the amulet! Charlotte could not focus on that goal if constantly arguing with a pirate. It was her League duty to have sex with him. “Absolutely fine,” she reiterated (although it must be said she could no longer recall what the question had been). “Grand.” Alex smiled. “Let’s have a different kind of fun then.” Ah, excellent, things were going to get metaphorical after all.
Alex lay it down as a general rule that if he doubted whether he liked a woman, he certainly ought to keep his hand out of her underwear while she leaned forward with her brow pressed against his shoulder, whimpering every now and again. But he did like Charlotte Pettifer—would like her even if she wasn’t doing interesting things with her own hand inside his underwear. And since he could not tell her so (of course not! he was a pirate and a rake; he did not talk about emotions), he could at least make her feel very good. That she made him feel just as good was a bonus. “I’ve always wondered something,” he said afterward, his fingers tangling with her bracelet as he tried lazily to distract her from tidying herself. “Why bees?” Charlotte slapped his hand. He smiled and reached past her instead to take hold of a wheel spoke, casually navigating the house away from a flock of geese. “Bees represent industry and community,” she explained, continuing to button up her trousers. “Therefore they are well suited to witches, as we work for the sake of England.” He laughed. “You’re joking.” “I most certainly am not.” But she paused, biting her lip, for witches are not only industrious but unfailingly truthful. (Except when stealing, swindling, evading taxes, providing details to law enforcement officers, and assuring their mother-in-law that a knitted yellow tea cozy in the shape of a chicken was exactly what they’d always wanted for their birthday. All for the sake of England, of course.) “Also, bees feature on the Wicken League founder’s ancestral coat of arms.” Alex frowned, recollecting Black Beryl’s heraldic design. “No, it’s ravens.” “Yes, er, I meant the deputy founder, Andromeda Plim. Beryl Black was, of course, our first leader and in no way whatsoever betrayed or murdered. Since we are making bold inquiries, Captain, why do you have a ring containing a portrait of Cecilia Bassingthwaite?” Taken by surprise, Alex blushed. The realization she had found his ring’s secret compartment and looked therein threw him back into old memories—nuns searching his laundry for sins, Deirdre finding the money he’d secretly saved to run away from home. But his brain had long been a minefield of buried misery, and he was used to its sudden explosions. That they became more frequent when he allowed himself emotional intimacy with another person was why he generally did not do so. Hands in underwear—fine. Hearts involved—not. But damn if Charlotte Pettifer and her spiky, fearless, witchy gorgeousness didn’t keep drawing out his heart. He scowled at the sky as if he could fly away from her, even though she was in his house—standing between him and his wheel—smelling so enticingly of soap and softness that he wanted to lick her. And now he was blushing again, like a callow boy.
Charlotte stared in wonder at the pirate. The sight of his reddened skin was made all the more endearing by how he tried to hide it, lifting a hand to push back his hair. The ring in question, circling his thumb, glinted as if it knew it was being discussed. Charlotte recollected the feel of its hard, smooth ruby between her breasts, pressing firmly into the soft flesh, and then she was blushing too. “Are you in love with Cecilia?” she asked. The words did not feel like grit in her throat, nor did her pulse shudder as she awaited his reply. Any suggestion that she cared about whom Captain O’Riley fancied was utter nonsense. “Well?” she prompted, having given him one and a half seconds to respond. “No.” Flicking his gaze to her, he allowed her to see the truth in his eyes. There was indeed no love in the dark blue depths, only an old, weary cynicism Charlotte recognized all too well. “The portrait isn’t of Cecilia but her mother, Cilla, a famous pirate who was murdered many years ago. And before you ask, I didn’t love her either. I never knew her. The ring used to belong to Ned Lightbourne. It was all he had of Cecilia for years before he finally met her. I grew tired of him mooning over it, muttering promises, dreaming of a girl he didn’t even know. So I took it for safekeeping.” This sounded too much like an interesting romantic tale for Charlotte’s liking. Of course Cecilia would have a murdered mother and pining adorer. No doubt her father too had been remarkable—a great poet, perhaps. Charlotte did not wish for her own mother to die horribly, but that Mrs. Pettifer suffered nothing more fascinating than lumbago, and that Mr. Pettifer was a—a—um, whatever it was he did when he left the house each morning—did not furnish her with a particularly exciting history. She scowled at Alex as if Cecilia’s wondrousness was his personal fault. “How is stealing someone’s ring and wearing it yourself ‘safekeeping’?” “Not the ring,” Alex corrected. “Safekeeping his heart. But it’s a long story and it has a boringly happy ending. Ned and Cecilia are married now. I offered to give the ring back to them, but they’ve had enough of ghosts. I wear it for—” He stopped, shrugging, as if the explanation did not matter as much as the shadows in his eyes suggested. “For friendship,” Charlotte guessed. He shrugged again. “Pirates don’t have friends. Not really.” Charlotte leaned back against the wheel and regarded him for a long, quiet moment. His expression as he returned her gaze was wry and unblinking. Dangerous, it reminded her. Lawless. But what she saw was a mess. And being a witch, she wanted to fix it. Alex O’Riley might be a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but this was everything since Charlotte really liked him. She leaned forward abruptly to kiss his cheek. The cottage shook with surprise. “Stop trying to crash my house, Charlotte,” he muttered. They shared a sardonic smile. And if it trembled a little at the edges with wishing, aching—well, they both looked away before they noticed.
By midafternoon they arrived at Clacton-on-Sea. With no other pirates in sight, they decided to land the cottage on a pier, and Alex immediately suggested a walk along the beach. Certainly, Lady Armitage must be found and the amulet retrieved (and Tom rescued), but there was no particular hurry. It was not as if the amulet had an expiry date (best not to think about Tom). A little fresh air and sunlight would invigorate them all for the search. Charlotte and Bixby disagreed. “I should like beaches infinitely better,” Charlotte replied, “if they were paved in a different manner. It would surely be much more rational if cobblestones instead of sand made the order of the day.” Bixby nodded in agreement, but Alex sighed and rolled his eyes. “More rational, my dear Miss Pettifer,” he said, “but it would not be near so much like a beach.” However, the lady could not be convinced. Her boots’ bomb compartments would get clogged with sand. Her hair would be tossed about abominably. She would risk suntan. Furthermore, she must find Beryl’s amulet. Enough time had been wasted already on shenanigans! Even now Lady Armitage might be learning the amulet’s magic. That she would use it for diabolical ends was beyond question. England’s safety could well be at risk if Charlotte did not succeed! Worse—Miss Plim would be displeased. Did Alex want that on his conscience? Did he? Well? “We should plan for a methodical search,” she concluded. “I recommend a grid pattern,” Bixby said. Alex exhaled a sigh. “You are both being too fastidious.” “Too fastidious?” Charlotte frowned, clearly struggling to connect those words. “This is a town of some size. The woman might be anywhere.” “Except the beach?” he added facetiously, just to watch her eyes flare. “Stop worrying so much, darling. A little stroll first—” “You may stroll if you wish, but I intend to search. Bixby will accompany me.” Bixby raised a disapproving eyebrow at this proclamation. Alex, for his part, raised two. “I beg your pardon, madam, but Bixby is in my employ, and—” “And I am a young, innocent lady,” Charlotte interjected, smiling and batting her lashes (and then needing to stop, wincing as she strained an eyelid). She did indeed look young and innocent, having changed back into her preposterously frilled white dress, and with her long, rich hair unbound. She looked like a pure English rose, delicate and easily bruised. Alex’s heart softened as he gazed at her. His brain, however, laughed sardonically. Charlotte must have sensed it, for she tightened her smile until it resembled nothing so much as a thorn. Producing lace gloves from a pocket, she yanked them onto her hands with such violence Alex was surprised she didn’t break a finger. He and Bixby exchanged a wary glance. “Gentlemen,” she said stridently, “I require escort. I am certain you agree no lady is safe walking alone through a strange town.” She lifted her skirts a little to check the gun tucked in her weaponized boots. “I do agree,” Alex said. “You are indeed not safe walking through this town. God only knows who you might hurt.” “Well!” Charlotte flung down her skirts with a huff. Then producing her little red besom from a pocket, she flicked out a tiny item that she fanned with brisk energy before her face. Alex carefully maintained an unaffected expression as he watched her. The fact the fan was actually a shuriken, or small, star-shaped weapon, had apparently escaped her attention, and he felt no inclination to point this out, lest she throw it at him. From the corner of his eye he saw Bixby bite his lip in an effort to repress a laugh. Bloody hell! It was bad enough the woman had got under his skin—that she’d driven Daniel Bixby to the verge of human reactions was the final straw! “I shall accompany you through the town, madam,” he said. “We shall find Lady Armitage, recover the amulet, and have you back home in London by tomorrow. Bixby can remain here and—and—sweep a floor or something.” “I beg your pardon,” Bixby said reprovingly. “Nonsense!” Charlotte replied. “God damn it,” Alex grumbled. All at the same time. The house shuddered. Its doors began to slam. “Stop doing that!” Alex shouted at the confounded little witch. She propped her fists against her hips. “Do you hear me saying the incantation?” “You don’t need to, woman! You are magic on legs!” Silence clanged down. Bixby blushed. Charlotte stood with her mouth ajar. And Alex sighed, rubbing a thumbnail so hard against his brow it left a red mark. Then the shouting began again. Outside, a dozen or so people who had been perambulating along Clacton pier until a great ugly stone cottage landed on it, and who were at that very moment about to knock on the door and ask if the pirate might please move his premises just a little aside so they could get past, paused to glance nervously at each other. “I would not risk it, if I were you,” advised an elderly lady at the edge of the group. She looked rather like an electrified ghost in a stiff black dress, her gray hair standing erect beneath a black lace parasol and her face stretched over thin, sharp bones. Her smile, however, seemed to crackle with life. “I am a daughter of the Fairley clan, and as such I recognize trouble when I see it. That’s an Irish pirate house, you mark my words.” The group gasped, mostly because her tone seemed to demand it. “And we all know what that means,” she added significantly. “Yes, yes, hmm, of course,” muttered the crowd—which might be translated as, “Actually no, wouldn’t have a clue, surely pirates are generically bad, whatever their nationality?” Suddenly, from inside the house came an exclamation: “Fiend!” The building clattered against the wooden planks of the pier. “I suggest you swim for it,” said the elderly lady. The group hesitated, for they all were dressed in rich and heavy clothing, not to mention shoes that, if stolen by a Wicken League member, would have fed several orphans for a month. “Virago!” The building leaped two feet before smacking down again. Splash. The elderly lady watched the dozen or so gentlewomen and men paddle desperately for the shore. She chuckled a little to herself. Then, with a contentedly wicked smile, she edged past the pirate’s house and ambled away toward her own, stopping only to purchase an ice cream from a vendor on the beach as she went.