Saving The Lord’s Title (The Regency Renegades - Beauty and Titles) (A Regency Romance Story)

by Jasmine Ashford

  “You are a lieutenant, sir, and yet you behave like a rowdy powder monkey,” he said. “You are creative, I give you, in your excuses. A creative mind determines a creative punishment. Hmm,” he glanced to Doren, who appeared to have escorted him on deck. Doren went everywhere with the captain these days. “You are on continuous watch for the next 24 hours,” he said, a smile coming to his face. “And you know the punishment for sleeping on duty. What is it, sir?”

  Harold gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing. He was barely sleeping enough as it was, taking over for Aaron when he needed it.

  “I said, what is it, SIR?”

  “Death, sir,” Harold answered.

  “That's right, death,” Willcock smirked. “God help you, then, if you forget that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harold said. He was hoping that Willcock was just going to turn and leave. At least, if he did that, then it would be over. However, Willcock turned, and found Wesley at the wheel.

  “Ah, Earl Rippon,” he said. “You are involved in this scheme against me, are you?”

  “I---” Wesley looked shocked. “No, sir, I am not.”

  “So you acknowledge that there was a scheme against me?” Willcock raised an eyebrow.

  “I---” Wesley was lost for words. His mind couldn't catch up to what he was being accused of.

  “Sir,” Harold stepped in. “The decision was mine. I am the officer of the watch. Earl Rippon came on deck for a moment and I asked him to assist me, in the moment.”

  “That is kind of you, Mr. Harper, to stand up for your friend. But you do not know how dishonorable Earl Rippon can be,” Willcock said, his eyebrow raised. “Get below, sir. I will teach you about dishonor.”

  Wesley's face lost all color. Harold frantically tried to think of a way that he could speak without gaining another ounce of punishment. Nevertheless, nothing that he could think of would lead to this situation being reminded

  “Yes, sir,” Wesley said, clenching his hands at his sides.

  “Sir, I am Earl Rippon's commanding officer,” Harold said, at last. “By law, I have to be present for his punishment.”

  “So you do, Mr. Harper,” Captain Willcock said. “Mr. Doren, bring me the stick.”

  “Sir...” Wesley kept his voice very low as they headed down the stairs.

  “It's alright, Earl Rippon,” Harold said, although he knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. “It will be alright.”

  Wesley closed his eyes, as they walked to the cannon room, appearing to say a silent prayer for his soul. Harold knew that a second beating on fresh wounds would be twice as painful. The ship was rocking violently in the storm, and it was unlikely that the captain would have a steady hand. The chance of breaking Wesley's skull with the stick was high. However, he could say nothing, except for giving Wesley courage through looks.

  He had one last chance to speak, and he chose his words carefully.

  “Sir, he is Earl Rippon of Ireland,” Harold said. “This is not fitting...”

  “Mr. Harper!” Captain Willcock snapped. “That is enough out of you. Another twelve hours onto your watch, and you may leave us.”

  “But---” Harold nearly bit through his lip. Wesley's eyes were wide, begging him not to go. However, Harold had no choice. “Yes, sir.”

  “Along you go then,” Captain Willcock said, waving his hands. Doren raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, handing the captain the jeer.

  Harold turned on his heel, and left. He didn't know where the women went, but he thought it was best that they didn't know what was happening right now.

  Only when he was taking the stairs back up did it sink in. Thirty-six hours on watch, starting now, made him want to punch the side of the ship. He was so tired, and so cold. He didn't know how he was going to stand this.

  At least Annabelle was here, he thought. At the very least, her warm eyes would help him through.

  This trip was supposed to be a celebration, a time of happiness. Yet the captain carried on with the punishments as if they weren't in the face of nobles, as if they weren't celebrating the greatest ship ever built.

  There were five days left on this trip, but it was five days too long.

  Now, Wesley wasn't going to be in a position to help them. He certainly wasn't going to be able to move discreetly, and speak to his colleagues, when the captain was making him a laughing stock.

  Harold had to find another way, that didn't involve such secrecy. He had an idea of what midshipmen would be on his side, but without Wesley's expertise, he would have to guess. That was taking a risk that could end them all.

  “Sir,” Matheson came to him. “Young Wesley...”

  “I could do nothing, Matheson,” Harold said, softly. “There was nothing I could say or do that would prevent it.”

  “I know that, sir,” Matheson said, kindly. “Would you like me to inform his young lady?”

  “Yes,” Harold replied. He didn't think he could face Lola right now. “Wait a moment, until she cannot interrupt, and then inform her.”

  “How many lashes was it?” Matheson asked.

  “Captain Willcock didn't say,” Harold looked up at the sky. “If he keeps going like this he is going to kill us all.”

  Matheson said nothing for a long moment. He would live and die a lowly sailor, never rising up the ranks. However, that didn't mean he was at a loss for the right thing to say.

  “Never have you more looked forward to becoming Lord Bamber, have you?” he asked Harold, who managed a smile.

  “Aaron is Lord Bamber,” he said. “I will be a Lord, but the title belongs to him and his descendants.”

  “A pretty wife, a title, and a promotion, are not the worst things in the world,” Matheson pointed out and Harold shrugged.

  “Indeed,” he said. “But with Captain Willcock in power...”

  “How would you like him out of power, sir?” Matheson asked, as if it was simple. He had served under Harold loyally for many years, without question. Even when Harold was promoted at seventeen, Matheson had done nothing but smile, glad that the young powder monkey he had once taken under his wing was rising.

  “Matheson,” Harold snapped, but Matheson shrugged.

  “All you do is say the word, sir,” Matheson said. “Corrigan and the lads and I will carry out your orders.”

  “I---” Harold sighed. “Thank you, Matheson.”

  “You're welcome, sir,” Matheson said. “I'll go tell the young Miss, sir.”

  “Matheson...” Harold called him back. “If I gave orders...of that nature...you understand that it may not be...a temporary solution.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matheson replied. “I understand.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and then Matheson went down the stairs. Harold turned back to the sea, his mind a million miles away.

  Could he give those orders? Could he ask the men this?

  CHAPTER TEN

  DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN

  DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN

  The storm died down within an hour. However, even though the skies were clear, Harold knew that the storm was just starting on the ship. He stood in the center of the deck, supervising the change of the watch, when Annabelle came abroad. Her eyes were cloudy, and he could only imagine what she had been doing.

  “How is Wesley?” Harold asked. Annabelle shook her head.

  “The captain beat him senseless with ten lashes. He got taken to the med bay, and Lola is with him.”

  “Oh, God,” Harold closed his eyes his momentarily “He did nothing. This is my fault.”

  “It's not your fault,” Annabelle put a hand gently on his arm. “You were doing everything right.”

  “I know---”Harold said. He had so much to say. Normally, he was quiet, thinking more than he spoke. However, Annabelle brought out the words in him. When they were alone, they spoke for hours. She was his equal, his soulmate. He could have poured out his heart to her then and there. However, movement from behind her head caught his at
tention. “What the---”

  He didn't mean to push her aside, but he checked her to the side. He squinted into the distance, and Annabelle was left confused.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I---Look, Oh, God,” he turned around, and found Corrigan on deck. “Corrigan, GLASS, NOW!”

  It took Corrigan a few moments to find the spy glass, but he brought it over. Harold put it to his eye and winced.

  He had seen a ship on the horizon. He was hoping that it was one of theirs. After all, they weren't that far out to sea. He could see the port, if he put the spy glass to his eye, still. However, in the glass now, was not the British Flag. It was a French one, and it was flying proud.

  The Swift Sunrise was a huge ship. It could take down any French frigate in a morning, without much trouble. However, as Harold looked into the distance, he saw one sail, and then two, and then three. It wasn't just one French frigate. It was three, a small fleet, and they were, if Harold looked closer, clearing for action.

  If it were two ships, they might stand a chance. Three, however, was out of the question.

  He quickly looked up, but the wind had died down. They would not be able to make it back to the bay in time for backup. They had come a little farther than he intended, and it was going to be his undoing.

  “Sir...” Corrigan said, and Harold struggled for words.

  “Corrigan, clear for action,” he said. “I want every officer who is able to join me right away, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Corrigan said.

  Harold turned to Annabelle then, his eyes frantic.

  “Annabelle, listen to me. Take Lola and the other ladies, and barricade yourselves into my wardroom. Do not come out until you are told. If we are boarded, you will be taken to the nearest British port.”

  “What?” Annabelle asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Annabelle, please,” he took her hands.

  “This is a celebration trip. We aren't supposed to be...”

  “I know,” Harold said. “I know. But go now, do it.”

  “I love you,” she said, and he nodded.

  “I know. We will be alright, Love, I promise. But right now, I need you to do this for me, alright?”

  “Be careful, my love,” she said, pulling him close. He kissed her on the cheek and then pushed her gently towards the stairs.

  With any luck, they would be boarded and the guests would be taken ashore safely.

  The flagship had never been tested for battle. It was never meant for battle. It was meant to fly beautifully in the bay, and be the envy of visiting commanders, nothing more. Although it was large, it was not built for speed or safety.

  “Harold,” Aaron was at his side in a second. He wasn't even dressed, his white shirt untucked, and his eyes frantic.

  “Aaron,” Harold said, giving him the glass. “The situation.”

  “Oh my,” Aaron said. “Are we cleared for action?”

  “I'm doing it now,” Harold said. “Wesley is indisposed, so it's up to us.”

  “A bad time for the strategy and tactics expert to be down,” Aaron growled. “I'm on about an hour of sleep, Harold, so it'd be best if you take command.”

  “Yes,” Harold said, watching the men run about. They needed four minutes to fully clear for action, perhaps more with a skeleton crew. “The ladies are in our wardroom. It's the safest place. There's the hatch that Lola now knows about.”

  “It won't come to that,” Aaron said, but he was grim. “We need to command the guns, if Wesley is down.”

  “Yes,” Harold said, and saw Matheson return to the deck. “Matheson, you have command. Lord Bamber and I will command the guns. Come get me if there is any change.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Matheson said. The two young Lieutenants ran down the stairs, their heart rates high.

  Downstairs, the guns were already loaded. Harold had a momentary flashback as he remembered how he was here just half an hour ago. Wesley's blood was likely still on the floor, the lashings still ricocheting in his brain.

  He swallowed, taking the port side guns while Aaron turned to the starboard side. He was just bending down to see through one of the low windows when he felt the first shot ricochet.

  His head shot up as the men grunted.

  “Were we hit?” he turned to Aaron who shook his head.

  “No, there was not enough bounce. It was close though. They are almost upon us.”

  “Alright, men, AIM,” Harold screamed.

  “AIM!” Aaron screamed, echoing him.

  “Ready?” Harold asked, and Aaron grunted.

  “FIRE!” They screamed at once. The cannons were lit and exploded into the water.

  “Nothing, sir,” Doren said, at the far cannon. As a gunner, he was supposed to be ready at all times for action. Harold found it surprising that he was not with the captain at the moment, inflicting punishment somewhere. “About ten degrees to the left.”

  “RELOAD!” Both lieutenants cried at once. Harold’s heart was thudding through his chest. On a normal attack, he was concerned with the ship, his reputation, his own life, and the life of his colleagues. The fact that Annabelle was on board now raised the stakes so much more. He could die now if it meant that that she lived. He would trade his life for hers in a moment.

  He had to protect her at all costs.

  “Sir!” He turned suddenly, to see Wesley skidding into the room.

  “Wesley,” Aaron grabbed him by the waist as the ship rocked. “Can you be here?”

  “Yes,” Wesley said, although he didn't look like he could.

  Despite the fact that he had been through intense trauma, Harold was incredibly glad he was there. Wesley's entire career had been focused on battle tactics. He could see an entire chest board play out before he made the first move.

  “Good,” Aaron said, although he felt like he was holding him up. “Take over.”

  “Sir,” Wesley took a quick look through the holes for the cannons, and looked around the room. For a moment, his intelligence held him up, and his fingers drummed against his leg. “Alternate fire,” he said, after half a second. “Just enough intervals to reload. It will provide a constant stream of fire.”

  “You HEARD him,” Harold bellowed, as another shot rocked them. This one made contact on the deck, and he heard wood crack somewhere above him. “My men, first. Lord Bamber, reload!”

  It was a brilliant strategy, and one he may not have been able to think about. Wesley's mind was second to none, and he gripped a post, watching and calculating.

  “Faster,” he cried, and Harold urged his men onwards.

  As the French frigates came upon them, they were able to fall into a pattern, and a constant stream of fire. The three French frigates were smaller, and Harold calculated that they were outnumbered less than 2 to 1 in terms of guns.

  For a moment, it seemed like their steady stream of fire was working. They were plugging holes in the frigates, and couldn't seem to reload fast enough. The men were working like a well oiled machine, bobbing up and down as they moved in the opposite rhythm of the other side of the ship.

  The officers only had to call the shots, and they barely had to do that. For a full minute, Harold thought that they were winning. It seemed like Wesley's strategy may bring them to victory.

  Then he heard a crack from above him, and smelled burning wood.

  Harold spun around in shock.

  “Hot shot,” Aaron screamed. “They are using hot shot!”

  He heard a second crack, and then a third.

  The French were heating their cannon balls and firing them, having found the correct angle to hit their deck. The heated cannon balls were sparking small fires on the wooden deck, and pushing through. The small splinters from the other shots were the first to catch. Within seconds, there were blazing fires.

  “Oh God,” Harold moved forward. He needed to trust that the men could continue the rhythm. Every single one them had a job to do, and he c
ouldn't pull one of them to put out the fire. The only available hands were the officers. “CARRY ON, MEN. Lord Bamber, Earl Rippon, to me. Your jacket,” he pointed to Wesley's jacket as they rushed toward the fire.

  Wesley understood right away, and pulled it off his back so that Harold could beat the fire. It wasn't a blaze, not yet, but there were small fires everywhere that could sink them. In addition, the ship was rocked constantly by the shots that were being fired from the gun room. One slip and any of them could end up with burns.

  “The irony of being surrounded by water and not being able to put out a fire,” Aaron said, as they moved from fire to fire. They were doing absolutely everything they could. They were stamping it out, hitting it with the jacket, trying to drop things on it that would smother it.

  They got further and further into the under belly of the ship, where the storage was kept. Harold could barely hear the shouts from the gun room anymore. His only focus was on the growing heat of a spreading fire.

  They had just about got them all out when the ship lurched. They had been hit on the port side, and they were taking on water, he could feel it.

  He braced himself and didn't slide, but Wesley and Aaron did.

  Aaron put out his arms, to stop the injured Wesley from hitting his back. However, Wesley was bigger than Aaron, and Aaron slammed his head against the post. Harold could see his eyes roll back, and he knew what was coming.

  Just as he was about to shout, hands came from nowhere. Aaron began to seize as Captain Willcock grabbed him. To Harold’s horror, Captain Willcock had a knife.

  “So you thought you would conspire,” Captain Willcock managed. He took a step back, dragging Aaron, and then looked down at him. “Boy?”

  “Unhand him!” Harold roared, and lurched forward. Wesley reached out as well. There was another flash, a hot shot, and the ship rocked. Willcock stumbled, and Harold was blinded by the wooden splinters flying. He felt hands, he felt arms.

  He grabbed Aaron, in a second attempt.

  Willcock stumbled backwards, and fell into the hold with a thud.