don’t have the right,” he said, knowing his voice was tight.
“Did you father children?”
“No!” The word shot out, unexpectedly violent.
But she didn’t startle. Instead he saw a disconcerting level of sympathy in her eyes, and she leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. “I want you to know,” she said gently, “that your affliction is not unique. You must have realized that during your travels around the world.”
Her words were probably characteristic of her, Griffin thought. She was both kind and restrained, with admirable dignity.
Then he caught her meaning. She thought he was incapable. Not merely of fathering a child, but altogether.
“Is that why you had children of your own, Poppy?” Despite himself, the words came out through clenched teeth.
That earned him a steely-eyed glare. “What are you talking about?”
“The fact you have illegitimate children?” he shot back.
“No, no,” she said, her hand waving as if her children meant nothing. “Why do you persist in calling me Poppy?”
“Because it’s your—it’s not your name?”
“Of course it’s not my name.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it?” He was dumbfounded. He had named his ship after her, after the wife he left behind. The Flying Poppy and then the Poppy Two were dreaded by pirates all over the world.
“My given name,” she stated, chin high, eyes flashing, “is Phoebe.”
He cleared his throat. “Lovely.” He must have misheard during the wedding ceremony. Bloody hell.
“Exactly what are you doing here, Griffin?” The faintest hint of smugness told him that she was pleased that she knew his name.
“I’ve come home,” he stated simply. For all the complications—that Phoebe believed he was impotent, that she had given birth to three children in his absence, and that he hadn’t remembered the name of his own wife—there was something that felt right about her nonetheless. About being here, with her.
“This is my home,” she said.
“But you are my wife.” He gave her a smile, enjoying the way her luscious pink lips pursed. She was a bit stiff, this wife of his. He’d have to teach her to take life more easily.
“I’d rather not.” She said it as simply as if she were declining a cup of tea.
“Rather not what?”
“Rather not be married to you. I’m sure our marriage can easily be annulled on the grounds of non-consummation. Or we could petition Parliament for a divorce based on your profession.”
“Or on the grounds of your three children!”
She blinked. He’d touched a nerve, but how could she be surprised? Surely she was a pariah among the neighbors. “Yes,” she said, almost too quickly. “There are the children. If we divorce, you can have children of your own.”
“ ‘Children of my own’? Did you not just offer condolences for my incapability?”
After a moment she said, with dignity, “I gather from your evident amusement that your problem was due to youth rather than constitution.”
“Or,” he suggested, “the problem might crop up only in your presence.”
Her brows drew together. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re too beautiful,” he said, starting to enjoy himself. “It may well be that you’ll incapacitate me again. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Such an experiment would be most unwelcome,” she flashed back. “If you, sir, have such worries, it would be better not to put yourself in a difficult situation.”
He leaned forward, ignoring the pain that shot through his thigh. Up close, her skin was like silk, untouched by the sun, the soft color of new cream. “A man could never turn down a challenge of that sort, darling Phoebe.”
“I am not your darling Phoebe!”
“My darling, my wife?”
SEVEN
Phoebe stared at her husband, trying to think of an appropriately mature response, when Nanny McGillycuddy, Mr. Sharkton, and the children topped the little hill, Lyddie drifting behind them like a kite on a string.
Her mind was such a whirl that she said nothing even when they entered the courtyard. Her husband believed the children were illegitimate. He hadn’t known her name. He thought she was some sort of lightskirt, a jade who would . . . would . . .
She hated him.
“Please forgive me for not rising to meet you,” Griffin said to Alastair. “I’ve injured my leg. I have met Colin, but what’s your name?”
“Alastair.” Her three-year-old stood squarely on his spindly legs, gazing at the pirate as if he met men of his cut every day . . . which he did not. They scarcely had a male servant other than two young men who worked in the house when