“That was thy first mistake, as women rarely confess what they mean, and we are left to interpret their true substance.” Arucard chuckled. “So what didst thou say to her?”
“Well, she delved into my reasons for entering the matrimonial state.” Aristide scratched his cheek. “Given her professed proclivity for candor, I detailed the King’s precepts, including the bequeathed earldom, which necessitated our engagement.”
“Art thou out of thy mind?” Demetrius spewed ale. “Never dost thou acknowledge to thy wife that the Crown forced ye to wed her. Have we taught ye naught?”
“Thou art lucky she did not kill thee.” Arucard rolled his eyes, as he suspected his friend had committed a fatal error, from which he might never rally. “Isolde would have skinned me alive, had I ever apprised her of such verity in our honeymoon period.”
“Dost thou mean, in the years since ye married her, thou hast never enlightened thy bride to the truth surrounding thy nuptials?” Blinking, Aristide choked and sputtered, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “But how could ye avoid it? Hath she never inquired?”
“Actually, Isolde is an intelligent woman, and she brought no illusions of romance to the altar, as she was fully aware of our arranged status, much to my regret. But the word ‘force’ never entered our bedchamber, and therein lies the difference.” Arucard frowned, as he recalled his wedding night. “Brothers, thou dost know her history, so thou must understand my reluctance to cause her additional pain. We did not discuss the events preceding our vows, until she broached the subject. By the time she ventured to mention it, I had already professed my undying love and devotion, so the preface to our married life mattered not, in the grand scheme.”
“Damn nasty affairs.” Aristide glowered and gazed at the tabletop. “Thou art blessed, as she is a far better warrior than most men of my acquaintance.”
“Given my impending fatherhood, I cannot fathom the level of violence to which her sire subjected his own daughter.” Demetrius shook his head. “This land and its customs remain quite foreign to me.”
“Thither is violence in every corner of the world, brother.” A shiver of dread traipsed his spine, as Arucard revisited the tragic circumstances that marked the early months of his marriage. “Yet the hardships we endured strengthened our union and helped me realize how deeply I care for her, as I would give my life to save hers.”
“And art thou likewise afflicted?” Aristide asked Demetrius.
“Aye.” Demetrius cast a ghost of a smile. “Lily holds my heart, above all else. And, much as Arucard, the path to that discovery was paved with treachery, as the matrimonial state is filled with vicious traps, none of which are marked.”
“For the sake of curiosity, not that I am seriously intrigued, just how long did it take to experience said emotion?” Aristide leaned forward and cleared his throat. “And how didst thou know ye were in love?”
“Oh, I shudder to consider it.” Demetrius pressed a clenched fist to his chest. “Love is, by far, the most confusing, excruciating, gut-wrenching, agonizing terror ye wilt ever endure. I would equate it with Prometheus chained to the rock and the eagle’s daily liver feast.”
“How charming.” Aristide blanched.
“Indeed, he is correct in his assertion, as it is worse than anything thee might confront in battle.” Arucard winced, as memories of the first pangs of love still horrified him. “And yet, once thou dost surrender the fight and accept it, naught compares to the unutterable contentment that accompanies thy wife’s declaration, freely bestowed, as it is a priceless treasure.”
“In that, I agree.” Demetrius dragged his knuckles along his jawline. “Naught makes a husband feel more a man than his bride’s requited affection, such that I cannot describe it, as thither art no adequate words, and love is worth the cost it exacts. In short, it is a boon sans pareil.”
“And if one were interested in fostering a similar commitment with his spouse, how might he attempt such lunacy?” Aristide swallowed hard and shifted his weight. “Given he has admitted, however well intended, the King forced the bridegroom to the altar?”
“Now that is a question for which I have no answer.” Demetrius furrowed his brow and massaged his temple. “As even I knew better than to attempt such madness, and thy transgression vastly exceeds the propitious potential of favored flowers.”
“Art thou not the witty knight?” Aristide moped and slumped his shoulders. “Brothers, how am I to survive the mess I have made?”
“Art thou fond of Dionysia?” Arucard braced to pose the most important query, as the response would determine Aristide’s future. “Dost thou find her attractive?”
“Her carriage is first rate, her teeth are in excellent condition, and she has a fine figure.” Aristide downed his ale and signaled for a refill. “And she possesses a sense of humor and cleverness, which I find rather appealing.”
“And what about the scar?” Demetrius asked. “I have heard countless jokes—”
“It bothers me not, and if thou dost ever disparage her in my presence, I will tie ye to my rudder and drag ye back to France.” Aristide yanked the collar of his tunic. “In all honesty, I scarcely notice the damn thing, as my Dion’s beauty stems from an innate purity of the heart, and I delight in her company, tonight excepted.”
“Dion?” Demetrius glanced at Arucard and smirked. “So thou hast gifted her a pet name?”
“I beg thy pardon?” Clearing his throat, Aristide speared his fingers through his hair. “It is naught. Make no assumptions, which would embarrass us, brother.”
“And what does the lady call thee?” Arucard queried in a low voice, as he muffled his chuckle.
“That is none of thy concern.” Aristide opened his mouth and then closed it. “Not that she summons me with such sentimental nonsense.”
Arucard and Demetrius burst into laughter, and Aristide shoved away from the table and stood.
“Hold hard, brother.” After one last guffaw, Demetrius jerked Aristide to the bench. “Why run away, when we might aid thy virtuous cause?”
“Thou hast done enough.” Aristide wrenched free. “I had gained precious ground with my bride, and then I listened to ye and struck breakers.”
“Now that is not fair.” Arucard pointed for emphasis. “Never did I encourage thee to apprise thy lady of the conditions compelling ye to wed, as I know well the consequences of such ignorance.”
“Then wherefore didst ye not warn me?” Aristide spat.
Arucard thrust his chin. “Perchance because I thought ye smarter than that.”
“Brothers, we fight each other,” Demetrius stated, with a grin. “And we art not the enemy.”
“He is right.” Arucard nodded once. “When it comes to the sexes, we art of like minds.”
“I concur, brother.” After an audible exhale, Aristide examined the injury to his knuckles. “So how am I to correct the situation?”
“Mass quantities of compensatory groveling, preferably delivered on thy knees,” Arucard suggested.
“And bundles of flowers, in every conceivable bloom,” Demetrius urged.
“Ply her with wine.” Arucard chortled. “But be careful, as too much will put her to sleep.”
“And if that doth not suffice?” Aristide asked.
“How is her aim?” Arucard replied.
“How dost thou think?” Aristide whisked the hair from his forehead and then displayed his wounded hand. “Lethal.”
Demetrius grimaced. “Then thou should pray—often.”
“Should all else fail, it may simply be a matter of time, which requires the patience of a saint, before ye and Dionysia grow as a couple.” Arucard remembered the weeks, a seemingly bottomless pit of frustration, despair, and stout salutes from his mainmast, which preceded his own loss of virginity. “But if thither is one glimmer of hope, ye might take heart in the fact that only a husband is equipped to withstand such abuse.”
CAPTAIN OF HER HEART
CHAPTER ONE
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br /> The Descendants
Plymouth, England
January, 1813
It was a well-known fact that men loved a good chase.
Whether the thrill of victory, or the possibility of defeat, lured them, the male species could always be counted on to rise to the occasion when properly baited. As far as Lady Alexandra Seymour, Alex to her friends and family, was concerned, the same could be said of the fairer sex.
Because she pursued her man.
A fortnight had passed since she had last seen her connubial conquest, Captain Jason Collingwood, and his unmistakable indifference had left her reeling. Despite hopes to the contrary, he had not attended the family holiday gathering, although she had posted a personal invitation, and had neglected to send her a present, after she had dispatched a sumptuous new coat of Bath superfine, custom-made for the captain of her heart—she would take that up with him when next they met. As the hastily hired traveling coach rocked along the road and entered Plymouth proper, she sank into the squabs and gazed out the window.
By all accounts, Jason should have tracked her, but the damn fool refused to adhere to her expectations, which she thought quite reasonable and sound. Regardless of her good intentions, gift, and profuse expressions of remorse, she surmised he remained angry, in relation to a trivial matter of no consequence, which had occurred during the previous Little Season.
But I am for Plymouth. And you may go to the devil.
All right, perhaps the situation signified more than she had realized. She cautioned herself that the words her captain had chosen to bid her farewell on the docks at Deptford were born of injured pride, nothing more. Was it not past due for him to move beyond her minor error in judgment?
“Ho-hum.” With a sigh, she shook her head and frowned.
Last fall, she had enlisted Jason’s aid in a scheme of the heart. Cara Douglas, one of Alex’s oldest and dearest chums, had longed to capture the attention of Lance Prescott, another of Alex’s lifelong friends. Consistent with most men in similar circumstances, Lance had resisted Cara’s romantic endeavors, so Alex had recruited Jason to enact a mock-courtship, in an attempt to incite Lance and inspire him to admit his love.
But Alex had omitted a few key details when she secured Jason’s cooperation, such as the true identity of the suitor, in question, and the fact that Cara had rejected Lance’s initial offer of marriage. In Alex’s defense, there had been no nefarious motives involved, other than to bring a mulish male to his senses, as she honored Cara’s request for discretion. And although Cara had deviated from their original plan, in the end, love found a way, and Lance and Cara had married in December.
Now Alex could only pray her quest to help two friends to the altar had not cost her the captain of her heart. With a violent shudder, she recalled the first time she had set eyes on the handsome naval man. In the middle of a crowded ballroom at Richmond House, she had been summoned by Lady Rebecca Wentworth, as was.
“Lady Alexandra Seymour, may I present Captain Jason Collingwood of the Royal Navy.”
Standing over six feet, with guinea-gold hair and impossibly blue eyes, the man epitomized the blonde Adonis of her dreams. Festooned with braided epaulets, which marked his rank, only the exceedingly handsome male specimen surpassed the impressive regimentals. And an unfamiliar quiver blossomed in the pit of her belly, as the world pitched and rolled beneath her feet, when they locked gazes.
“My heavens, you are a captain?” Alex noted the gooseflesh shivering over her arms and extended her gloved hand. “And what ship do you command?”
“The Intrepid, and call me Jason, if I may be so bold.” He bowed with a flourish, which drew several audible sighs from nearby young ladies, before squeezing her fingers and brushing a chaste kiss to her covered knuckles. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Seymour. May I say that never have I seen anything so lovely as you in your red gown? Please know that both I and my vessel are at your service.”
Scandalous.
Alex inhaled a sharp breath, as pulse points ignited, and she feared she might swoon.
She should have been offended.
She should have been outraged.
Instead, she found him...intriguing, a point in fact of which she suspected he was well aware, given Jason surveyed her from top to toe, as if he knew how she looked in her chemise. Slowly, very slowly, he smiled a wicked smile—matched by hers, no doubt.
“Shall we dance?”
How Alex lamented the bittersweet memory, because what had followed his elementary request had been a full-scale assault on her faculties. When Jason had slipped his arm about her waist, and he held her close, Alex had been giddy with unfamiliar but enticing excitement. Imaginary bells had sounded a carillon in her ears, delicious fire had simmered beneath her skin, and she had trembled with each successive turn about the room. To her embarrassment, she had tripped more than once, as no man had ever affected her thus.
In that moment, Alex set her cap for Jason Collingwood.
“My dear Captain, we could have such a wonderful life, if only you would do your part,” she said to no one. “Must I do everything to further our relationship?”
The situation, as it stood, remained intolerable, as she had to make Jason understand they were destined for each other. And while his foul disposition, directed at her, of late, might prove useful when commanding his crew, he sometimes gave her a headache. So nagging uncertainty rested on her shoulders, as the weight of the world.
“I must be strong.” In that instant, she studied her quavering fingers and emitted a plaintive cry. “Oh, Jason. I would fight Napoleon, himself, to win your love.”
Determined to stay her course, Alex gave her attention to the snow-dusted landscape of the bustling seaport. Located in the county of Devon, and facing the western end of the Channel, Plymouth hosted a prominent naval base from which many expeditions launched against France, which seemed an appropriate place for her to wage a war of hearts.
And it was just around the corner, at Devonport, the main dockyard and shipbuilding facility of the British Navy, where Jason’s ship, the Intrepid, berthed for refitting and duty under letters of marque from the Lord High Admiral. The new commission completed the well-played ruse as Jason embarked on his first solo mission for the Brethren of the Coast, a mysterious band of mariners who served the Crown in secret.
It was Jason’s recent accomplishment that entrenched her belief that the hesitant captain was fated to be hers, because as a young girl Alex had often fantasized she was the wife of a knight from the famed order descended of the Templars, the warriors of the Crusades. Her father, God rest him, had once been counted among their esteemed ranks, but unlike Cara, Alex could never fathom marrying a member of the much-fabled nautionniers, because she considered them brothers. As a newcomer initiated into the order, Jason manifested the answer to her prayers.
If only he shared her perspective.
The coach came to an abrupt halt, which sent her tumbling to the floor, and she realized she had arrived at her destination. Before her breach in feminine deportment was discovered, she regained the bench and smoothed her skirts, just as the footman opened the door.
As Alex stepped to the unpaved drive, she scrutinized the little thatched cottage, which nestled amid a copse of formidable oaks. A pebbled walkway led to the entry, which had been painted a vivid green and contrasted with whitewashed walls. At either side of the entrance loomed the thorny skeletons of rosebushes, which stood dormant in winter, and bare flowerbeds.
“Where should we leave your trunk, Miss Seymour?” The coachman addressed her informally, as she had not apprised him of her true identity.
“A moment, please, and I shall inquire.” Without fear or hesitation, Alex marched straight up the path, grabbed the knocker, and pounded hard on the door. And then nagging doubt nipped her heels.
Painful seconds ticked past, as she considered the tenor of her welcome. Would Jason express unbridled elation or toss her on her bac
kside? Biting her lip, she spared a quick glance at her escort, just as the latch turned with a mighty creak, and the oak panel opened to reveal a very attractive young woman.
Even as Alex sank into a dark vortex of shock and misery, she splayed her arms for balance. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I must have the wrong address.”
“It is no trouble, ma’am.” Dressed in a worn gown of faded print muslin, with a disheveled braid draped over her shoulder, the fair-haired beauty blinked. “Are you looking for Captain Collingwood?”
“Yes.” As the world seemed to spin beyond her control, Alex thought she might revisit her breakfast. “Is this not his lodging?”
“Oh, the captain resides here, but he is at the yard.” The girl wiped her hands on a threadbare apron and nodded once. “I am Molly, the cook-maid. And how may I help you?”
“I am Miss Seymour—the captain’s sister.” The charwoman presented a snag Alex had not foreseen, and she had to think on her feet. “Has Jason not spoken of my visit?”
“Cap’n never mentioned a sister, ma’am. But then we do not converse much.” Molly sketched a half-curtsey. “So pleased to meet you.”
“I am certain my brother has more pressing matters, including the refitting of the Intrepid, or some such.” With renewed confidence, Alex waved to the footman, who hauled her trunk toward the cottage. “Daresay it slipped his mind.”
“Indeed, ma’am. I rarely see Cap’n Collingwood, as he is usually gone when I arrive, and I leave his dinner on the range before he returns. Not much time for talk.” And then Molly retreated. “Will you come inside?”
Tugging at her kidskin gloves, Alex crossed the threshold and surveyed the meager surroundings. “Why, it is charming.”
The main room was huge, with a high ceiling and exposed roof supports. The spartan furnishings consisted of an unmatched overstuffed chair and sofa, which were clean but frayed about the edges. Twin side tables perched at either side of the sofa, the well-worn wood floor had nary a speck of dust or dirt, and two tattered wool rugs distinguished the living area from the kitchen.
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