Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1

by Stein, Andrea K.

  When Arnaud returned, his men had re-grouped at Howick House and were sharing the bits of information they’d each collected during the day. The street sweeps had revealed a large man, similar to the one described by both Teddy and Charles Lambert as the go-between, regularly disappeared inside a mansion on Piccadilly, the very one inhabited by Sophie’s uncle, the Duke of Wolford.

  Bourne and Neville’s earlier attempts to get an audience with the man had failed miserably. His servants insisted he was no longer in town, but his men doubted that story, since the large traveling carriage remained in the carriage house, and servant gossip Bourne had gleaned from encounters with maids on shopping errands revealed the man was still hiding inside his house.

  Cullen stood and stretched out his back, cartilage cracking. “Leave it to an Irishman to relieve a woman of all she knows and then some.”

  Bourne lifted a fist toward Cullen in a mocking threat. “I would have made the ultimate sacrifice if necessary, Captain.”

  Arnaud knew he was not joking. Many times in tight situations over the years, Lieutenant Bourne’s romantic bent had rewarded him with all kinds of vital wartime intelligence through flirtations in port cities. Nothing like an Irishman in uniform to loosen a woman’s tongue. He did not want to know what else his officer might have loosened in the pursuit of intelligence.

  Marine Captain Neville, however, worried him. He was being unusually stoic and quiet while everyone was sharing what they’d discovered. “What’s wrong, Neville?”

  “I may be seeing shadows where there are none, but something happened this afternoon that puzzled me.” Neville paused as if reluctant to continue.

  “Go on, man. What happened? Anything you think might be important. Let me decide how it fits.” Arnaud shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s probably nothing, but this afternoon after we got back here, Lydia begged me to take her and her maid to see the actress, Mrs. Winters, who has rooms up on Jermyn Street. She asked me to stay outside, said they’d only be a few minutes.”

  “So?” Arnaud asked. “She knows to ask for protection now that they’ve been through so much danger together.”

  “It just didn’t feel right.” Neville ran his hands through his hair.

  “How so?”

  “She was as quiet as a mouse, and she carried a bag full of something.”

  “And?”

  “When she came back out, she didn’t have the bag.”

  In that moment, Arnaud remembered the night in his room at the house party with everyone jammed inside. He remembered Sophie and Mrs. Winters with their beautiful heads bent toward each other. And he’d watched Mrs. Winters press something into Sophie’s hand.

  Bourne lifted his head toward Neville. “She was quiet? How did that happen? What did you do to quiet her?”

  Neville stood, a lethal smile on his face, and planted a smasher on Bourne’s face. “Bastard.”

  Arnaud stood suddenly, unnerved by his men’s unexpected explosion of violence. “What is wrong with you two?”

  Cullen, helpful as ever, filled him in. “Neville has a bad case of hopeless love for Lydia. Bourne has been making his life miserable over it, because he reckons Howick will have us all executed by a court-martial before this cursed shore duty is over. You haven’t been paying attention.”

  Arnaud looked around the table. Neville looked away, Bourne ignored the punch and maintained his stubborn Irish stance, chin out. Artemis simply shrugged. Arnaud was in total defeat. Not only had he failed Sophie, but apparently, he’d failed to notice what was going on among his own men.

  He shook his head hard. He knew he had to find her, and fast. He decided the most direct and dangerous route would be to face Howick. Whatever Mrs. Winters had given Sophie was a clue to where she hid. Howick would know, because Howick was closer to Mrs. Winters than anyone else. The look that passed between them that night in his room was unmistakable. They were in love.

  The dowager marchioness intercepted Arnaud just as he was about to pound on the door to Lord Howick’s study. She carried a small candelabra and motioned for him to follow her to the family sitting room. Once inside, she placed the candles on a low table and turned to face him.

  “Howick isn’t here. He’s gone to ah, see his friend. He sent word to let you know Sophie’s whereabouts. She is safe, for now, but he insists you and your men join her there.

  “Where? Where is she?” Arnaud’s thin thread of patience snapped.

  Lady Howick faced him, hands on hips. “She went to the only place she feels is her own. Howick’s friend, Mrs. Winters, purchased Paolo Brancelli’s old home for her, on Edwardes Square in Kensington. She’s safe for now,” she added, handing him a card with the address neatly printed on the face. “Howick has guards watching over her from the street and square.”

  “I’ll take my men to make sure no harm comes to her.”

  She placed a frail hand over his arm. “Please, stop before you race over there and think. Right now, she is in more danger from you than anyone else.”

  Arnaud stepped back as if she’d struck him.

  “I’m sure she believes she does not need to marry. Her father’s publisher agreed this week to purchase her latest collection of poems. She’s sent word to her uncle she will forfeit her grandmother’s inheritance if he abandons his campaign to destroy you, your men, and everyone she loves.

  “She gave up everything for you. She’s willing to struggle on her own to make sure you’re safe. If you intend to continue to insist you cannot marry her, then go back to your precious ship and leave her in peace.” Lady Howick sank onto a settee as if drained by her speech.

  “Milady, I am sorry, but I have to leave…” Arnaud bowed slightly, his face burning with embarrassment.

  She waved him out, and added, “Howick said to take his carriage. You have a lot to accomplish before tomorrow.”

  Arnaud strode the length of Howick House and out through the back gardens toward the mews before Lady Howick’s last words struck him. What did she mean by “tomorrow”?

  Sophie stepped out of her bath and wrapped a long drying cloth around her. She rubbed her skin until it glowed in an attempt to obliterate the memories of her time on the ship. She moved close to the white nightdress Lydia had sent over with the rest of her things.

  Now that the wrinkles had been steamed out by the heat of her bath, she took a long look at the fine, thin muslin. This was not the old nightdress she’d slept in at Howick House. Swaths of elaborate lace trim formed froths of ruffles along the neckline and down the sleeves. Where had Lydia found such a creation? She could not remember her friend ever venturing into bed in such luxury, either.

  She pulled her simple chemise over her head before gingerly working her way into the lacy white confection. Even with the chemise beneath, the mysterious night wear left nothing to one’s speculation. Thank the gods no one else would ever see her this way. After wrapping herself in her warm shawl, she made her way to the front parlor and cautiously opened the front window curtain a tiny sliver. Lord Howick’s men were still there all along the street.

  She worried about the poor staff stuck out in the night to protect her, but Sergeant Randall had been adamant. They would stay until the threat was over. She had no idea how that would be determined or when, since her uncle was nearly invincible. And besides, she was tired to the core of her aching bones. But, somehow, she doubted sleep would come easily this night.

  She spied a row of her father’s books on a low bookshelf and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Arnaud focused on the scenery change as they passed from the streets of Mayfair, further and further west. The roads passed more rural scenes now, and the regularly spaced street lights of town became more and more infrequent. Most of the illumination shone from the lanterns on the Howick carriage and the faint shine of the cloud-plagued moon.

  At his feet, Sophie’s naughty little dog woofed and gave sharp barks each time the carriage passed occasional
farm animals being herded back to the barns dotting the fields. His men had piled into the carriage with him so they could fill in for Howick’s men throughout the night. They would use the carriage for shelter as they worked their way through guard shifts.

  When Arnaud first realized Sophie had battered her way off the Jamaica-bound ship, he couldn’t decide whether to rage at her foolhardiness or acknowledge awe and pride in how she’d outwitted a ship full of tough sailors. Now he had no idea how he, a simple, battle-hardened sea captain, would manage to deal with this stubborn woman. When he hove into view on her front stoop, for all he knew she might attack him with kitchen crockery.

  His men had become unnaturally quiet. He looked back inside the carriage. “What?” They all stared.

  Cullen was the first to speak. “What are you going to do, Captain?”

  Arnaud wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “What do you mean? We’re going to help Howick’s men protect the impossible, prickly Miss Brancelli.”

  “No,” Cullen said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to go to the house, knock on the door, make sure she’s all right, return her fidgety dog, and then we’ll parley with Sergeant Randall.”

  “Right,” his men said as one, and turned away from him, nodding their heads in feigned sleep.

  Sophie rocked in the old chair still in the shabby front parlor and read from her father’s poetry in the fluttering light of a fat candle. She’d picked the volume he’d written during their time in Venice and could almost see his exuberant grin and hear his impassioned tales of his life there as a young man.

  At a brisk tap at the door, her heart jumped up nearly to her throat. She rose and opened the front curtain again to make sure the visitor was one of Sergeant Randall’s men.

  Arnaud. Drat. The very person her silly heart had hoped for and the very last one the remaining practical scrap of her mind wanted to see. She stood, indecisive, for a hiccup of time and then told her pragmatic side that of course he would want to see for himself she was safe, so that he could go away and never have to deal with her again. Her crazy little dog, though, apparently suffered no doubts. He raced around the man’s ankles, yipping for attention.

  When she finally opened the door, Howick’s guards were still positioned along the street, and now Arnaud’s men were taking up vantage points in front of and behind the row of townhouses. More importantly, the most stubborn man she’d ever known stood in front of her, shifting from one boot to the other, clearing his throat, and refusing to step inside.

  “Here,” he said, releasing Lancelot, now grubby again. The frantic pup raced around her feet and bounced up and down, trying to get her to pick him up. As soon as she did, he quieted and laid his cold nose against her neck.

  No sooner had she put him back down on the floor, than he ran into the parlor and found the old padded chair her father had favored on days when the writing was upon him. Lancelot climbed onto the aged seat, made three to four circles, and settled down with a sigh into a nap.

  Sophie shook her head and turned back to Arnaud. “None of what has happened is your fault. Lord Howick told me about my uncle. He’s the one who tried to have you killed.”

  When Arnaud finally spoke, she was caught off guard. “I’m sorry about your uncle’s betrayal, but if you ever decide to abandon the writing life, Miss Brancelli, Captain Neville could use another fine, fighting marine on our ship. I’ve never seen the like of how you continue to foil every attempt to take you down.”

  Sophie had spent weeks lamenting the lack of choices for women. And now she had a choice. His unexpected speech niggled at both sides of her heart, and so she grasped Arnaud by his uniform jacket lapels, pulled him inside the house, and toed the door shut behind him.

  Arnaud nearly fell over when she pulled him to her. In that off-balance moment, he leaned against Sophie and the scent and feel of warm woman surrounded him.

  Without a word, he grasped both of her shoulders with his hands. The feel of her through the fine wool and muslin made him want to spend the rest of the night, no, actually, the rest of his life holding on to what she’d become to him.

  He should worry about what the men outside would think, but the only thing filling his senses was Sophie. Here, now, with him. Her naughty dog had skewed the shawl she’d wrapped tightly around her so that the shift beneath the fine nightdress did little to cover what he’d wanted to touch ever since that day he’d found her on the milliner’s steps.

  He moved his thumbs down from her shoulders to brush across the tight nipples straining beneath her thin night clothes. Her little sigh and whimper spoke of lavender scented sheets and a lifetime of nights to come.

  He covered her mouth with his for a long, deep kiss and fit his hands to either side of her jaw. His tongue brushed her lips and dipped into her mouth for a taste of the nectar that was wholly Sophie. There was a spot just beneath her ear he’d wanted to nibble on for so long, he did, taking his time to claim kisses all the way along her jaw.

  “Where?” was all he could manage to say. He could give commands in the thick of a sea battle without thinking, but now, words deserted him.

  Sophie’s awareness of the nearness of the window was acute. “Upstairs, but should we…?” She trailed off and pointed toward the view onto the street.

  Damn. He gathered her up in his arms and took to the stairs, spanning multiple steps at a time. At the top, he put her back onto her feet, and she turned with a shy smile. She clasped his hand in hers and led him to her bed. When she made as if to climb beneath the quilts in her night dress, he held onto her hand.

  “No, please. I want to see you, all of you. Wait. Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.” He raced back down the darkened stairs to retrieve the candle she’d left in the front parlor, mentally chastising himself. He’d been ten times a dolt. Why hadn’t he thought through this madness? He answered his own question. Every time he was near Sophie, he couldn’t think, let alone marshal his senses. What did he expect? He wondered if he would ever move beyond acting a complete idiot in her presence.

  Sophie sat as still as icy water on a winter pond. What must he think of her, encouraging him to assist in her own ruination? When she saw the light of her candle flickering and advancing quickly up the narrow stairway, she knew for a certainty how this night would end. She could never deny this man anything.

  Still, she stood and made an attempt to explain the wild contradictions whirling through her mind.

  “I’ve decided I no longer need to marry to inherit my grandmother’s estate. I believe I can sustain myself with my writing as long as I remain frugal. You do not have to make me your wife, but I still want this night with you before you have to return to your ship. Can you forgive me for being such a wanton and thinking only of myself?” She spilled out everything in her heart and prayed he would understand. She bowed her head and closed her eyes waiting for his condemnation.

  Arnaud wisely said nothing, but instead twined his arms around her and lowered her to the bed which was barely wide enough for Sophie, let alone the two of them, but he was sure he could manage. He lay on his side, still fully clothed, and smoothed back her long, dark hair, spreading her curls over the pillow beneath her head. That was something else he’d wanted to do forever. He feathered kisses across her forehead and then worked his way down her nose to her full lips and the softness beneath her chin.

  He slowed a bit to make careful work of untying each ribbon holding the ruffled confection of a nightdress together before giving special attention to her breasts. He slid aside her chemise and reverently drew his thumb down the bone separating the two warm globes. He swirled his tongue over each soft mound topped by a small, taut raspberry-like bud. Only then did he pause to divest himself of his jacket and pull off his linen shirt.

  Bare-chested in the light of the candle and fireplace, Arnaud rose and worked at loosening his falls. Sophie stopped him with a smile and said, “Show me, please.” She joined him in the firelight b
y the bed. He helped her rid him of his trousers and small-clothes.

  Arnaud nudged the neckline of delicate lace topping her diaphanous nightdress until it fell into a white, frothy puddle at her feet.

  She sucked in a breath. “I want…may I?”

  All he could manage was a nod, keeping his eyes on her face. He could not bear further study of the rest of her after his first glance had taken in a slender waist flaring into hips flowing into a juncture of dark curls atop perfectly formed long legs. A man could take only so much. He was already rigid and throbbed in her hand when she feathered gentle fingers in a tentative grasp. He covered her hand and guided her soft exploration.

  When she made as if to linger, he groaned and stayed her hand. “I haven’t been with a woman in a while. Much more of your touches, and our coming together will end before it’s begun.”

  At her puzzled look, he took her hand and led her back to the narrow bed. He set the candle holder on the chest next to the bed before joining her. Sophie rolled as far to the side near the wall as she could, leaving as much room as possible for Arnaud. They both just fit if they stayed to their sides facing each other.

  He pulled her to his chest and drew a finger across each of her brows, down her nose and around her lips. She burst into laughter. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m burning you into my memory for all the nights to come, when I’m at sea, you’re here in England, and we have only the touch and feel of our bodies for remembrance across the seas.”

  She wound her arms around him and pulled herself close to his chest, imprinting her breasts with the wiry textures of the swirls of black hair there. When his erection throbbed between her legs at her wetness, she pushed harder against him, wanting more.