Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2

by Barbara Devlin

  “It does not signify.” Daphne glanced toward the window, and Dalton feared, for an instant, she spied him. “Go back to the party, and I shall follow, soon after.”

  Without a word of protest, Robert abided her request. Alone, as far as she knew, his lady walked to the window, where he hid. Had she glanced to her right, she would have discovered him, but she gave her attention to the world beyond the glass. Then she broke.

  “How much more must I withstand?” As she wept, she stared toward the heavens. “Papa, what have you done to us?”

  As he observed her anguish, a cold and dull ache pervaded his chest. Each successive mournful sob struck a vicious blow to his heart and mind, and he longed to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. And just when he could tolerate no more, she wiped her eyes, turned on a heel, and strolled from the room.

  Shaken to his core, he had no idea what to make of recent developments. Yet a few things were certain. Daphne attempted to conceal her father’s gambling problem and cover his markers with a local ruffian. Courtenay Hall was in a state of utter disrepair, and her family, entrenched in poverty, bordered on starvation. But one question remained unanswered. Where was Governor Harcourt?

  Moving swift and sure, Dalton made for the door and set the oak panel ajar. The hall was empty, so he slipped into the passageway and headed straight for the ballroom. Just as he rejoined the gala, a commotion at the side entry lured the crowd, so no one noticed his abrupt reappearance, and a rush of whispers echoed in the cavernous chamber. Then the revelers parted to reveal a familiar face, and he smiled and nodded a greeting.

  Hicks stood tall and proud, and his chest expanded, as he inhaled. “Citizens of Portsea Island, it is my honor to announce his lordship, Dirk Randolph, Viscount Wainsbrough.”

  #

  The moon cast a silvery glow on the water, which sparkled as a sea of diamonds, as Daphne pushed the small rowboat from the shore. Trepidation danced a jig down her spine, as never had she ventured beyond the coastline on her own, but she had to return the brooch before Dalton moved the Siren to Portsmouth, and she refused to implicate her brothers, so she swallowed her apprehension.

  She had thought to present the family jewel to its owner, after the celebration, but the arrival of his brother, a viscount, no less, had forestalled her plans. It was past due to face facts. Regardless of her hopes and dreams, she had to accept that Sir Dalton, a member of the peerage, was far above her station and not an option. For the past month, she had lived a fantasy, conjuring various happily-ever-after scenarios, involving the amber-eyed Londoner.

  As she rowed toward the majestic ship, which listed gently to and fro with the tide, she scanned the deck for any sign of a watch. Although the dashing naval captain had explained the majority of the tars had journeyed via stage to Greenwich, a skeleton crew would sail the vessel to the navy docks.

  To her good fortune, the Siren’s jollyboats bobbed in a queue just off the mainsail hull. After securing her modest rowboat, she grasped the ship’s line and shimmied to the larboard rail. When she gained the deck, she trembled violently, though she knew not why. Hugging herself, she glanced left and then right and discerned no one lurked about the waist.

  For a few minutes, Daphne reconsidered her strategy. Perhaps she should have listened to Robert and confessed everything to Sir Dalton. But his unequivocal intent to apprise the constable of the theft had destroyed her fledgling trust in the gorgeous sea captain. She would grieve his departure, but now was not the time for tears, so she would cry tomorrow.

  The dark stern companionway encompassed her in palpable fear, as she tiptoed into the bowels of the impressive Siren. The vacant galley had her breathing a sigh of relief, so she continued into the commissioned officer quarters. In the wardroom, she toyed with the brooch, tucked safe and secure in the pocket of her breeches, as she sidled toward the captain’s cabin.

  At the large portal, she placed her hand on the knob, which was cool against her damp palm, and then she paused. Sir Dalton had assured her he would remain at the inn, with his brother, so what had she to worry?

  As she inched into the masculine domain, a hint of cigar smoke mixed with a spicy fragrance she could not quite identify. The large chamber, illuminated by the pale blue glow from moonlight filtering through the stern windows, boasted lush furnishings unlike anything she had expected.

  A massive desk occupied the premier position along the back wall, and an equally impressive bunk sported the softest sheets, a mountain of fluffy pillows, and a sapphire damask counterpane. A small side room revealed a washstand and a wardrobe, and she stopped to caress a fine lawn shirt.

  “Oh, Dalton.” To her frustration, tears beckoned. “How I wish the brooch had revealed something—anything of you, as my one true knight. Alas, it is not to be, so I must bid you farewell, yet I would never let go of you, were it my choice.”

  Wrenching herself to reality, Daphne returned to the desk, given that was where Richard had stolen the artifact. But how should she stage the item, so Dalton would find it before notifying the constable? When she opened the top drawer, she discovered a unique gold seal, fashioned in a wind-star design, engraved with the Latin phrase Nulli Secundus, and featuring a grand jewel at the center. Next she located a leather-bound log, and she flipped through the pages, smiling as she recognized his dramatic script. Maps and charts had been tossed inside the compartment, in a haphazard fashion, so she considered it the logical place to restore the heirloom.

  “Perfect.” With a final assessment of the precious gem, she sighed and placed the antique between stacks of papers. “There. He should have no trouble locating it.”

  Then she strolled to the bed, picked up a cushion, and buried her face in it. Dalton’s scent filled her senses, as she closed her eyes and envisioned him, as he had danced with her. Little by little, she shed the whimsical aspirations that had sustained her since his arrival, as trees drop their leaves in autumn, until nothing remained, except loneliness and defeatism.

  As a cold chill nestled in her chest, she resituated the pillow, turned on a heel—and shrieked in horror.

  “Well, now.” A surly tar rested hands on hips, as he kicked the door shut behind him. “What ‘ave we here?”

  “I am here to see Captain Randolph.” Myriad excuses rendered her dizzy, as she sought a valid defense. “But I seem to have missed him.”

  “Cap’n has taken a room in town, missy.” The stodgy sailor pulled a length of rope from his pocket. “And even without your mask, you look like one of those vagabonds who stole from us, when we first dropped anchor. They had a woman with them. Where are your partners in crime?”

  “Wait.” In that instant, she recognized the man as the gun-toting mariner, and she seized on the details from the ill-fated invasion. “You are mistaken, Mr. Shaw. I am a friend of Sir Dalton’s, and I was to meet him.”

  “You are not Cap’n’s usual fare, and I would know, as I have served him in some capacity for more than ten years.” He narrowed his stare. “And how do you know my name?”

  “Because I am telling you the truth.” She splayed her hands. “I am sorry if I startled you. Perhaps I misunderstood Sir Dalton, and I should contact him at the inn.”

  “You are going nowhere.” Mr. Shaw neared, and she sprinted to the desk. “Come now, dove. Do not make me chase you.”

  “Keep your distance, sir.” When he lunged across the blotter, strewing various items, she leaped beyond reach and sheltered behind a small dining table. An eerie sensation of déjà vu shivered over her flesh, and she shuffled free, just as he toppled a chair. “Please, let me go, and I will say nothing.”

  “Not a chance, as Cap’n bade me guard the Siren with my life.” Mr. Shaw swerved and blocked her path. “You are my prisoner.”

  “No.” Daphne gulped and ran in the opposite direction. As he pursued her, she knocked over another chair, and Mr. Shaw tripped and fell to the floor. And that was her chance to flee, so she made for the exit, threw open the oak pa
nel, and struck another sailor square in the chest.

  “Not so fast, lovey.” The cook dropped his now familiar cast-iron skillet and caught her in a bear hug. “What are you doing on the boards, Mr. Shaw?”

  “The chit is a fast one.” From behind, Mr. Shaw grabbed her wrists. “Hold her, while I bind her for Cap’n.”

  “I beg you, this is wrong.” She squirmed and kicked the cook in the shins. “Unhand me, you brute.”

  “Ouch. And you look like such a nice lady.” When she screamed, he winced. “Hurry up, Mr. Shaw. Before she takes out something important, tie her ankles, too. And use one of Cap’n’s cravats to gag her, as I will not listen to her screeching until dawn.”

  It was then she realized her grave error in judgment. Never should she have ventured to Dalton’s ship. Trussed as a Christmas goose, and dying of shame, Daphne wept when the men threw her atop the bunk. But the worst was yet to come, and she struggled against her tethers, as Mr. Shaw laughed.

  “That will teach you a lesson, nasty thief.” Mr. Shaw snickered and then addressed the cook. “Send Tommy to fetch Cap’n at first light.”

  THE LUCKY ONE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As was their custom since they were in shortcoats, and before his elder brother married Rebecca, Dalton and Dirk broke their fast before dawn and set off for an early morning ride. Competitive even in adulthood, they charged along the beach, racing, laughing, and jumping dunes. When the sun peeked over the horizon, Dalton drew reign and pondered his parting words to Miss Daphne.

  “The governor’s daughter is quite beautiful.” Well that comment had come sooner than anticipated. Dirk chucked Dalton’s shoulder. “Admit it, you are fond of her.”

  “What do you know of anything?” He peered at Dirk, who smirked. Dalton rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. While your ability to read my thoughts remains the bane of my existence, I must confess she is altogether fascinating. And you never told me what brought you to Portsea.”

  “Can you not guess? I will give you one word.” Dirk arched a brow. “Rebecca.”

  “What—why?” Dalton huffed a breath and shifted in his saddle. “She is not my mother, I am not a child, and I have no need of a nursemaid.”

  “She was concerned, and you know how my wife worries.” Dirk shrugged. “And she is pregnant, so her emotions are on alert for the slightest sign of trouble. You remember what happened when she carried Angeline, so I was reluctant to leave her, but she insisted I check on you.”

  “Have the nightmares returned?” Dalton glanced at his sibling and frowned. “You do not have to answer that question.”

  “It began just after we found out she increases with what she insists is my heir. She wakes in the middle of the night, screaming in terror. Dr. Handley supposes her condition stimulates vivid recollections of her imprisonment, as she lost our first child, in captivity.” Dirk lowered his chin and shook his head. “If I could kill Varringdale again, I would do so, if only to give her peace.”

  “I am so sorry, brother. As this should be a happy occasion.” At one time, Rebecca had served the Counterintelligence Corps as the spy, L’araignee, the spider. Dirk met her, when he was tasked with her safe passage to England, after her partner in espionage was murdered. After a surprise attack rendered Dirk wounded and incapacitated, Rebecca led their assailants on a merry chase, before she was apprehended, tortured, and left for dead. “But to be honest, I still suffer the odd hideous dream of Varringdale’s sadistic chamber of horrors and how we located her.”

  “So do I.” Dirk rubbed the back of his neck. “Yet I would have no other, as I love my Becca, to distraction. But I suspect she hides something from me, some hellish detail of her ordeal she does not want me to know.”

  “To what purpose?” Dalton considered the possibility and shuddered, as what he knew of her misery was bad enough. “What could she hope to achieve?”

  “Who can say, for certain, how the female mind works?” Dirk scratched his temple. “But I think she withholds information in the misguided but well-meaning attempt to spare me additional distress, regarding her trauma. In short, she does not wish to cause me pain, yet I believe her refusal to reveal the full extent of her experience festers as an open wound and fosters renewed torment.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?” He swallowed hard, as he remembered discovering Rebecca’s torn and bloody riding habit. “She may confess everything, if you confront her.”

  “Would you treat my wife thus, given your knowledge of what she endured?” Dirk cast a menacing expression. “She will tell me when she is ready. Until then, I will indulge her every desire, as I owe her my life, and I am nothing without her.”

  “My apologies, brother.” Dalton gazed at the clouds, as he had on the cliff that terrible day. “Dr. Handley confirmed, based on her injuries, the beating and the starvation. And we found her chained to a pike, on the shore, almost drowned. That she may have survived even worse—I cannot fathom it. I do not want to fathom it.”

  “Neither do I.” A gull keened in the distance, and Dirk pointed at the bird. For a long while, they simply sat in companionable silence. “I have never shared with you what flashed before me, what ravaged my innards, as I stood on the precipice, overlooking the ocean, having just realized Rebecca was, for all intents and purposes, dead. In those few excruciating minutes, I thought my world at an end, as I could see no future without her in it. The loss, the indescribable agony was more than I could bear. When I crawled to the edge of the escarpment, I had planned to—”

  “No.” He wanted to cover his ears against the harsh truth his sibling, the lone person Dalton had always admired and emulated, had imparted. “You are the strongest and best man of my acquaintance, and you will never convince me otherwise.”

  “You mistake my aim in apprising you of these events, little brother.” Dirk sighed and then smiled. “I want you to understand that nothing compares to what I enjoy with my bride and our daughter. What I found with Rebecca—there are no words to adequately relate what we have, but I can only pray you find a woman of such estimable qualities, so you may know how it feels to exist as something more than yourself, to prevail as partners, as lovers, and as friends. I want that sort of deep, abiding devotion for you.”

  “Me, too.” Dalton compressed his lips and pictured Daphne. “And it will happen.”

  “When you least expect it.” Dirk chuckled. “And you will wonder what you ever did without her. Now, shall we journey to the inn, as you must move the Siren to Portsmouth, and I should like to depart for London, as I am anxious to return home.”

  “Of course, brother.” Dalton heeled the flanks of his stallion.

  “And what are your intentions, in regard to Miss Harcourt?” Dirk averted his gaze. “As you could have assigned the requisite duties to your first mate, so I gather you wish to remain here for other reasons.”

  “As I informed you during breakfast, she is in trouble.” And her predicament had kept him awake most of the night. “And I must discern the governor’s whereabouts. Given the Treaty of Fontainebleau, Napoleon’s exile to Elba, and our recent orders to stand down, I thought I could be of assistance.”

  “You could leave such business for the constable to investigate.” Dirk’s accompanying grin belied his seriousness, as they galloped down the lane. “There is no need to take personal involvement in their private matters.”

  “As I have nothing better to do, I disagree.” And he would never hear the end of it. Braced for all manner of ribbing, he had not long to wait.

  “I am sure you do, but can you explain your rationale?” Dirk inquired, with a snort. “As I am sure you are not the only one capable of aiding the damsel in distress, though you may be the most bumptious.”

  “No.” Dalton groaned. “But if I think of a reason, you will be the first to know it.”

  Dirk burst into laughter, just as they reigned in and stopped before the inn.

  “Cap’n, I have urgent news from Mr. Shaw.” Tommy
, the carpenter’s mate, made his obedience. “He asks you to return to the Siren, at once, sir. We caught a thief.”

  #

  Mad as a hornet’s nest, Dalton boarded his ship, with his brother in tow. Problem was he knew not who had angered him more, Daphne or Mr. Shaw. While he had his suspicions, regarding Miss Harcourt’s second assault on the Siren, he could not begin to comprehend the first mate’s decision to imprison her as a common criminal.

  “Cap’n.” Mr. Shaw saluted. “She is locked in your cabin, sir. And she is bound and gagged.”

  “What?” Dalton halted in his tracks, as seething ire poured through his veins. Without warning, he lunged and grabbed fistfuls of the first mate’s shirt. “I ought to keelhaul—”

  “Easy, brother.” Dirk intervened and separated Dalton from Mr. Shaw. “Let us check on the lady, and then you may kill your first mate.”

  “Right.” After flinging aside Mr. Shaw, Dalton charged down the companionway toward his quarters. Guarding the door, a young tar glanced at Dalton, jerked, saluted, turned the key, set the oak panel wide, and retreated a safe distance.

  He had expected a hailstorm of curses intermingled with feminine sobs of lament. Instead, the room was quiet. Lying in his bunk, a sight that should have summoned bawdy innuendos and salacious images, Daphne slept on her side, but he could muster nothing more than gut-wrenching remorse, as he assessed her condition.

  As he perched at the edge of the makeshift bed, he discovered her tear-stained cheeks, but it was the bloody, raw skin on her wrists and ankles that left him gritting his teeth, especially when he noted she wore the slippers he had gifted her, after Mrs. Jones apprised him that all of Daphne’s shoes were too small.

  “Fetch some fresh water and bandages.” Dalton pressed a clenched fist to his mouth. “And have cook prepare a pot of tea—she prefers the Indian blend, and a light repast.”