Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2

by Barbara Devlin

  Ride hard, my love. I need you.

  “Sir, we must go—now.” Hicks reined his horse. “We can take a trail through the pastureland, as it is much shorter. Please, I was born and raised on Portsea, I know it like the back of my hand, and we have not a minute to lose.”

  In obeisance of his wife’s request, Dalton spurred the flanks of his stallion and raced along the path, with Hicks navigating the narrow track. As they swerved to evade the haphazard loose stock, they kicked up a dust storm in their wake. His pulse pounded in his ears, in rhythm with the galloping hoofbeats, and a tidal wave of apprehension swamped him. Marking the passage of time with the setting sun, he prayed he was not too late.

  When they neared a dense thicket, Dalton cursed, as the brush impeded their advance. Then the trees thinned, and the butler extended his arm and slowed to a canter. It was then Dalton realized the barn sat in a clearing, on the other side of the grove.

  “We should dismount now, as I would not clue the villain to our presence.” Sir Ross passed the reins to Hicks. “Stay here.”

  Together, Dalton, Dirk, and Sir Ross moved toward the edge of the brake. At the corner of the dilapidated structure, a lone figure crouched behind the remains of the old ruined phaeton.

  “By all that is holy, I swear I am going to heat her posterior.” Dirk bared his teeth and then tiptoed to Rebecca. In seconds, he covered her mouth and lifted her from her feet. After carrying her into the coppice, he put her down. In a low voice, he said, “My God, woman, but you are with child. What in bloody hell do you think you are about?”

  “Shh.” The former spy placed a finger to her lips. “You know, very well, I could not let Daphne confront the villain, alone. But fortune smiles upon Dalton, as the scoundrels arrived late, and your bride has kept them talking, just as I advised. There are two assailants, both wearing hoods, and the larger one is armed. I watched them approach from the trail on the far side of the yard. They circled the barn before entering, and there is no sign of Richard.”

  “Solid intelligence, as always.” Sir Ross winked.

  “All right. You have done your duty.” Dirk yanked the pistol from her grasp. “Now remain with Hicks, and I will deal with you tonight.”

  “The path leads to the beach, and I would assert the villains are locals. So what is the plan?” Dalton pictured his wife, negotiating to save Richard, with her precious neck in the noose, and his spirits plunged to heretofore-inconceivable depths of agony. “As I would save Daphne.”

  “We must work fast, as a team, and I will brook no unplanned heroics, else we risk serious injury—or worse. Take the money, stroll into the barn with imperturbable sangfroid, and draw their attention from Daphne.” Sir Ross glanced at Dirk. “You and I will wait for a clear shot to fell the criminals, as I do not expect reason to suffice, and the blackguards must be stopped.”

  “I can enter via the side.” Dalton sifted through his memory and envisioned a detailed sketch of the interior, which he had gleaned from ribald romps with Daphne in the hayloft. “The large cottage doors have no latch to secure them, and you need only give the panels a good push to gain easy access.”

  And so they moved, as men on a mission, weaving through the trees, until they ventured into the clearing. As scripted, Dalton perched to the east and loitered, until Sir Ross and Dirk reached their prescribed spots. Inside, Daphne’s panicked voice leveled a mortal blow, and he ached for her.

  “Mr. Allen, I should have known you would be the source of this despicable offense, as you have shown, in your past dealings with me, that you have no conscience.” She scoffed. “And Richard, remove that ridiculous hood, this instant, as I would know you anywhere, and I would have an explanation for your involvement in this hideous plot.”

  “I was just trying to get enough money to free you from Sir Dalton,” Richard stated, and Dalton wanted to throttle the lad. “I warned you not to marry him. He made you sad, and I saw you crying.”

  “I wept because this abhorrent affair has hung as a black cloud over the man I love.” Peering between the worn boards, Dalton spied his wife, as she hugged a bundle he surmised contained the requested money. To the casual observer, she appeared none the worse for wear. But to him, the lines of strain about the corners of her eyes and mouth, and the rigidity of her stature, along with her white knuckles, belied her well-composed serenity. “In essence, you hurt me, not my husband.”

  “Well, I do not care a whit for you or your fancy man. I want my money.” Mr. Allen doffed his disguise. “And I would have you know your brother joined my band of thieves, in your absence, so you are no one, governor’s daughter. Your father was a gambler and a wencher, and young Richard is a swindler.” Then the bastard pointed a pistol in Daphne’s direction. “And you will get what’s coming to you.”

  “Hold hard.” Dalton leaped into action and launched into the barn. With palms splayed, and the rucksack thrown over his shoulder, he said, “I come in peace, and I am unarmed. Let my wife and her brother go free, and you may take the entire ransom. We have no quarrel with you.”

  “I will take what I want, along with the money.” The blackguard sneered with unequivocal intent. “Perhaps I will keep the lady, too, for my enjoyment. But I will not leave you or this sniveling runt to report me to the constable and raise the alarm.”

  “But that was not our agreement.” With a watery gaze, Richard’s mouth fell agape. “You said you would help me save my sister. You said I could have half to support my family, if I cooperated. And Daphne was not to be harmed.”

  With an expression of urgency, Dalton cast Daphne a side-glance, and she inched closer.

  “And in your greed, you believed me, bantling.” In a display of unchecked brutality, Mr. Allen struck Richard with the butt of the weapon, and Daphne availed herself of the opportunity to shift ever nearer. But Mr. Allen spotted her new position and took aim in her direction. “As you were, or I will kill you, now.”

  As his mind raced for a solution, Dalton said, “Allen, let us make a deal that suits us both—”

  “Shut up. No one cares about your connections, Londoner.” When the evildoer caught Dalton in his sights, Richard shoved hard on the bastard, Daphne screamed and flung herself at Dalton, and gunfire rent the air.

  Time suspended for a handful of minutes, as Allen collapsed, with two large wounds that had ripped open his chest. Dirk and Sir Ross charged the fray, and Richard stood upright, dusting himself off. As he hugged his wife, Dalton realized he was uninjured, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks—until he lifted Daphne’s chin, as she was uncharacteristically quiet, to claim a quick kiss and noted the terror in her blue gaze.

  “Angel, what is wrong?” Then her knees buckled, he adjusted his hold, and he discovered the bloodstain spreading at the shoulder of her gown. “Daphne. Oh, no. She is wounded.”

  THE LUCKY ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  With Daphne cradled in his arms, Dalton carried her to Courtenay Hall. Entering via the terrace, he cut through the morning room and met Rebecca and Mrs. Jones in the foyer. And all the while, he kept telling himself she would not die, because he would not allow it, and he was the lucky one. But did it stand to reason that such good fortune automatically extended to his wife?

  “Bring towels, hot water, brandy, and extra soap to the master suite.” Then he ascended the stairs, two at a time.

  “I should fetch a doctor.” Sir Ross flung open the double doors. “Is there a reputable medical professional in town?”

  “Ride to Portsmouth.” He eased his wife to the mattress. “Find the best military physician, and bring him here.”

  “Permit me to accompany Sir Ross.” Hicks glanced at Daphne and wiped a stray tear. “She is as a daughter to me, sir. Given my knowledge of the landscape, I can get us there and back, much faster.”

  “Thank you.” Then Dalton grabbed the butler’s wrist. “Please, I beg you, hurry.”

  “And I will summon the constable and manage the scene in the barn
.” With a scowl, Dirk leveled his stare on Richard. “Come with me, as we must align our stories to keep your miserable arse out of prison, as I assume your benevolent sister would prefer.”

  “But what about Daph?” The scamp rushed to the fore. “It is all my fault, but I wanted to make her happy.”

  Baring his teeth, Dalton lowered his chin. “Come near her again, and I will—”

  “You will do nothing, as he is my brother.” With her jaw clenched, Daphne shifted and winced. “Who among us is perfect? He is young and foolish, and he made a mistake, my love. And I forgive him, as he is not the one who shot me.”

  “But Richard conspired with Allen and placed you in peril.” Seething with unchecked anger, Dalton wanted blood in recompense for Daphne’s injury. “Even now, you have a lead ball in your shoulder, which must be removed.” To Richard, Dalton said, “Can you not fathom the magnitude of what your actions wrought upon her?”

  “Dalton, I need you.” In that single declarative sentence, his bride spiked his guns, but he suspected she knew that. “Let Richard go with Dirk, as I will hurt far worse than I do now, if my brother is tried and incarcerated.”

  “My angel, what can I do for you?” In that instant, he bent his head and pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh behind her ear. “Be strong for me, sweetheart. As I need you, too.”

  With towels stacked beneath her shoulder, Daphne rested on her belly, with her face turned aside, and Dalton perched at the edge of the bed and pressed a cloth to her wound, to staunch the bleeding. After about an hour, the seepage abated, and he sighed in relief, when he lifted the rag and discovered no pulsating crimson spray. That was their first break. They would need several more for Daphne to survive.

  And so commenced the long wait.

  It was just before midnight, when the whinny of horses brought him alert, and he discovered Daphne dozing.

  “Rebecca, would you see if it is Hicks?” Dalton asked, even as he assured himself that help had arrived.

  Minutes later, Hicks and a bespectacled gentleman, wielding a telltale black bag, rushed into the chamber.

  “This is Dr. Langdon, of the HMS Temeraire.” The manservant stood at attention. “And I present Sir Dalton Randolph, of London.”

  “Sir Dalton, it is good to make your acquaintance, present circumstances excepted.” The grey-haired doctor smiled. “And how fares the patient? Hicks related the details surrounding the wound, and I would like to remove the ball, posthaste. But I would prepare your wife and my instruments, before we begin.”

  “Tell me what you require, and I and my household are at your service, sir.” As the physician retrieved and arranged the tools of his trade, Dalton monitored Daphne’s condition. “It appears the bleeding has stopped, and my wife sleeps comfortably.”

  “Bring me an additional basin and pour the entire bottle of alcohol therein. And I need plenty of light, so I would avail myself of your candelabra from the hall.” Dr. Langdon doffed his hat, coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “If you remain to assist me, you must submerge your hands in the antiseptic, else you risk transferring infection to Mrs. Randolph, which could kill her.”

  “Right away, sir.” Mrs. Jones half-curtseyed.

  “Wake her.” Dr. Langdon thrust a bottle into Dalton’s grasp. “Dispense about a quarter of the contents, now. And I need hot water, as what is in this ewer is tepid. Also, we will need two extra persons to hold down Mrs. Randolph, while I probe for the shot, as it will be unpleasant, to say the least.”

  “You may rely on me.” At the footboard, Sir Ross nodded once.

  “And I will assist you.” Hicks gulped. “As must needs.”

  “Darling, wake up.” With infinite care, Dalton shook her. “Drink this, sweetheart.”

  “No.” Wrinkling her nose, Daphne came alert. “If that is laudanum, I will not take it.”

  “It is for the pain and to aid her recovery, as she will need uninterrupted rest.” As he wiped various instruments, Dr. Langdon frowned. “If she will not consume it willingly, then you must force it down her throat. Believe me, you will be doing her a kindness, Sir Dalton.”

  Regardless of the situation, and her grievous condition, Dalton could not manhandle his wife. But then he recalled the governor’s demise and understood her fears, and he opted for a different tack.

  Dropping low, he met her, face to face. “Angel, do you love me?”

  “You know I do.” She bit her lip. “I would give my life for you.”

  And she almost had, which was not lost on him. “Then do this, for me.”

  Her answering whimper tore at his heart. “But papa—”

  “You are not your father, and I will be here with you.” Caressing her cheek, he kissed her. “Please, my angel.”

  “All right.” Then she sipped from the bottle, which he held for her, and she squinted and choked. “Oh, it tastes dreadful.”

  “Is that enough?” Dalton held up the container, and Dr. Langdon narrowed his stare.

  “Give her another good swallow.” The physician adjusted his glasses. “Mark the time as half past midnight, and we shall commence the procedure at the top of the hour.” Then he passed a stubby wood dowel to Dalton and said, “Put this between her teeth, when we begin, as she will need it.”

  As the mantel clock signaled the approach of an ominous deadline, Dalton monitored Daphne’s state, as she rambled incoherent nonsense interspersed with the occasional giggle and the mention of his name. When the resonant tone sounded, the doctor dipped his chin, and everyone sprang into action.

  With Mrs. Jones holding a single taper, Dr. Langdon cut away the top of Daphne’s dress. “It appears a piece of material from the gown and the chemise went in with the ball, so I must fish out everything, else the wound will fester, and she will die.” With his finger, the physician probed the injury, and Daphne moaned and then kicked. “Hold her still, as I have located the shot, and it is wedged near the joint and the blade. Hand me the spreaders, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Aye, sir.” Dalton noted the housekeeper’s tears, as she fetched the requested utensil.

  Blood pooled from the site, and Dalton winced, as the physician worked. But when Daphne screamed and wrenched hard, Hicks and Sir Ross bore down on her legs, while Dalton clutched her wrists behind her back.

  “Worry not, Sir Dalton. It is the laudanum talking. She will remember nothing, in the morning.” Then Dr. Langdon glanced at Mrs. Jones. “Locking forceps.”

  When the doctor dug deep into Daphne’s flesh, she spat out the dowel and shrieked in unveiled agony, and Dalton suffered with her. When he could stand no more of her wails, he shifted and spoke into her ear.

  “Can you hear me, angel? Focus on my voice, as I am with you.” When she quieted, he kissed her fleshy lobe and declared, for all to hear, “I love you, Daphne. I love you.” Again and again, he repeated the refrain, until she calmed.

  “I have the ball, as well as the textiles, Sir Dalton.” The physician rinsed the blood from his hands. “Your wife appears to have fainted, blissfully so, given I must remove some damaged tissue, in order to avoid possible necrosis, and then clean and stitch the wound. But she will heal nicely, I predict.”

  “Dr. Langdon, I am in your debt.” Likewise, Dalton owed his angel, an evermore-appropriate moniker in light of the day’s events, a sum he could never repay, given she had sacrificed herself in exchange for his life. Yet, at some point during her ordeal, he realized he did not want to be saved if it cost him his wife, as he could not fathom a world without her in it.

  #

  The mantel clock chimed the hour, and Daphne stirred and counted the tenor dongs. Resting on her belly, an unusual practice for her, she reached across the bed for her husband, as it was past due for him to wake her for his favorite activity. When she found him clothed and resting atop the counterpane, she frowned and squeezed his fingers.

  Dalton sniffed and then jerked awake. “Daphne, darling, you are with me still.”

  “Of course.”
She smiled, shifted to roll over, and searing pain had her moaning. “Oh, dear. I feel as if a runaway coach has struck me. Why am I so sore?”

  “Mrs. Randolph, I am Dr. Langdon.” A polished gentleman, vaguely familiar, bowed. “Do you think you can manage, if we sit you upright?”

  “I believe so.” With her husband’s unfailing support, she changed positions and gasped when her dress sagged. “What happened to my gown?”

  Glimpsing the dried blood that marred the material, Daphne clutched the bodice to her chest and sobbed, as a cascade of fragmented memories assailed her. The threatening note. Richard’s betrayal. Mr. Allen bearing down with a pistol pointed at Dalton. The echoing shots. The acrid stench of gunpowder. The intense ache from her injury. But it was the last reminiscence, a series of words, simple on their own, but taken together as a whole a promise of everlasting devotion, which quelled her fears.

  I love you, Daphne. I love you.

  “Oh, I am going to be unwell.” As she leaned against Dalton, the doctor brought her a basin.

  “Take deep breaths, Mrs. Randolph. You are safe and on the mend, but you suffer a severe case of nerves, which is understandable, so try to relax.” With a kind expression, Dr. Langdon pressed the back of his hand to her forehead and her cheeks. “No fever, which is an excellent sign.” To Dalton, the doctor said, “Fetch her a nightgown, and I will clean the stitches, apply a styptic, and dress her wound.”

  At his suggestion, Daphne gulped. Propped forward, she bit her tongue, as Dalton disappeared into her closet. A few minutes later, he emerged, only to repair to his dressing room. When he returned, holding one of his lawn shirts, he winked, and she grinned.

  “This might serve our purposes better, as you intend to put her arm in a sling, to allow her shoulder to heal.” As he draped the garment over her head, Dalton cast her a conspiratorial glance, conveying a wealth of meaning she comprehended too well.

  Given her husband’s predilections, her nightwear, if she could call it that, consisted of the sheerest materials, which functioned as more an afterthought than functional clothing. Although she felt poorly, she did not want to send the physician into an apoplectic fit.