“Were our positions the same, I would have done so without hesitation.” Blake bared his teeth. “To claim her, I would have fought the whole damned French army, I would have sailed the Horn a thousand times, and I would have dueled the devil, himself, because she is my match, and I am nothing without her.” He lifted his chin. “And if you would pull your head out of your arse, come down off that pedestal of yours, and reflect on the situation with your characteristic but inexplicably absent voice of reason, you would recognize that the alternative is unfathomable, because you will lose your woman.”
It was as though Blake had doused Damian in the icy waters of the Baltic.
Set on his heels, Damian swore under his breath and retreated. “You speak the truth.”
“Then go after Lucy.” Then Blake nodded and glanced at the docks. “Better yet, tell her, yourself.”
“She is here?” At the larboard rail, Damian craned his neck and discovered his lady, talking to Cara and Alex. “Why did she come?”
“Why do you think?” Blake snorted. “She wished to bid you farewell, if you would grant her an audience, and if you have any doubts as to the constancy of her heart, take a good look at her, as her countenance provides all the proof of equal attachment and disappointed hopes.”
With a leap, Damian descended the companion ladder, traversed the quarterdeck, jumped down to and then ran across the waist, and sprinted the gangplank. When she spied him, her animated response and frantic wave functioned as a balm to his heartbreak, until he did as Blake suggested.
As they came together, she favored him with a tremulous smile, but it was her pale complexion, red nose, and swollen eyes bordered by dark circles that drew him up short. With care, Damian cupped her cheek.
“Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry we quarreled.” Then, despite onlookers, he pulled her into his arms. “Can you ever forgive me?”
~
It had been too long since Lucy savored the warmth and reassurance of Damian’s embrace, but she had only herself to blame for the miserable state of their relationship. Inhaling his sandalwood scent, which harkened to fond memories, she hugged him about the waist and sighed.
“Oh, Damian, I apologize if I offended you, as that was never my intent.” Nuzzling his chest, she squeezed him. “And I ask the same of you.”
“But there is nothing to forgive, my girl.” He rocked, gently, to and fro. “If only duty did not beckon, I would stay here and negotiate a solution to satisfy you, and we would wed. But there is little time and much to say.”
“I wish you did not have to go away.” How she regretted delaying their reunion, as she wasted a precious opportunity. “Because I am certain we could strike an accord that suits us, both.”
“Will you wait for me?” He shuffled her in his hold and brought her hand to his lips. “Will you stay in England until I return, that we might abbreviate our separation?”
“Forever, if necessary.” Studying his beautiful mouth, she inched closer. “I want to kiss you.”
“Not here, as I would not share such cherished expressions with anyone but you.” Despite his dissent, the heat of his stare declared otherwise, and Lucy wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all.
“Perhaps a private tour of the Sagremor will accommodate you.” Blake stuck his tongue in his cheek, and how Lucy adored her brother-in-law. “Have you ever visited Damian’s ship?”
“I have not.” She could have bounced with joy. “Will you indulge me, Damian?”
“Of course.” In that instant, he clicked his heels and offered his escort. “Anything for my lady.”
It struck her, in that moment, that, if she were Damian’s wife, she could sail with him, as Alex and Cara joined their husbands. Indeed, as she walked the gangplank, on her dashing duke’s arm, with Blake in tow, she vowed to never let her man embark on a mission without her, once they wed. As his duchess, she would anchor at his side, come what may.
In a scene reminiscent of the first time she boarded the Tristan, when she journeyed from Brussels to London, the decks of the Sagremor were alive with activity, as sailors rushed in all directions, in preparation to cast off. The air bristled with excitement, the officers shouted various orders, and the crew danced in the ratlines.
“How thrilling.” Like Blake, Damian adhered to military practice, and the tars were clean-shaven and customarily garbed with precision. The boards boasted an impressive polish, and the brass glimmered in the sunshine, and Lucy admired everything. “May I see your cabin?”
“That is were we begin.” Damian steadied her, as they ascended to the quarterdeck. A narrow passage led past two portals and to a tiny niche marked by a double-door entry. Holding open one oak panel, he bowed. “After my lady.”
Just as she crossed the threshold, Damian shut the door in Blake’s face, grabbed her about the waist, and kissed her, and she responded with everything she could muster. Digging her fingernails into his shoulders, she parted her lips and invited him to advance, and he did not disappoint her.
The tenderness, the incalculable intimacy of the exchange unfurled as a most delicate bloom, passion swirled and soared, and she sobbed when he ended the amorous interlude and rested his forehead to hers.
“Oh, love, I miss you, already.” Resting his palms to her hips, he rubbed his nose to hers. “Promise me that you will not return to America, as I would have you meet me at the docks when I come home.”
“I promise.” Again, she pressed her lips to his, and she noted he fogged her glasses. “Do you know when that happy date might be?”
“No, sweetheart.” Cradling her head, he held her so tight that she knew not where he ended and she began, but she would not complain. “And the separation may kill me.”
“I shall compose and dispatch a letter for every day we are apart.” She clung to the lapels of his elegant evergreen coat, and she swore her heart fractured beneath the weight of his impending departure. “Will you write to me?”
“Try and stop me.” Little by little, he massaged the small of her back and inched his hands lower, until he cupped her bottom and flexed his wrists.
It was not the first time she noted his arousal, the proof that he desired her, thus his passion did not shock her. Rather, he fed her hunger. As she gazed into his eyes, in silence she declared so many things and recognized like-minded adoration. Thus, when she lifted her chin, he seized what she offered, and the ensuing kiss transported her to another captivating realm—until someone pounded on the door.
“Cap’n, you are needed on deck.”
“Bloody hell.” Still, Damian held her. “Who is it?”
“It is Carsleigh, Cap’n.”
“I tried to stop him from interrupting your…discussion,” Blake replied. “But it appears Exmouth commands your presence on the docks.”
“All right.” Framing her face, Damian caressed her cheeks with his thumbs and claimed another searing kiss. “That will have to last until we meet again, my dear Lucy.”
With that, he set her apart from him, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and daubed his mouth. When he opened the door, Blake arched a brow, and she studied the wall.
“If you wish, I can continue Lucy’s tour of the ship.” And she ignored the amusement in Blake’s tone. “But for now, you had better run, because Pellew does not like to be kept waiting. Later, perhaps you can rejoin us.”
“One moment, Damian.” If she had to say goodbye to her man, she would leave him in no doubt of her regard. From his breast pocket she retrieved his handkerchief, pressed the folded square of cotton to her lips, and returned the gentleman’s accouterment to its place. “In the event circumstances prevent a proper farewell, know that I shall think of you, every day.”
“And I, you, dear Lucy.” Again, Damian kissed her gloved knuckles, and then he simply stared at her.
Blake shuffled his feet, and Carsleigh groaned.
“Right.” Her brother-in-law grinned. “What say we venture to the fo’c’sle?”
So she gave her a
ttention to the design and structure of the Sagremor, a graceful yet lethal three-masted man-of-war Damian inherited from his father. In addition to two massive, sixty-eight pound cannonades, or smashers, Damian’s ship carried twelve-pound cannons on the quarterdeck, thirty of the fifteen-pound cannons armed the upper gun deck, with another twenty-eight on the middle deck, and the lower deck boasted thirty of the thirty-two-pound guns.
“Never have I seen anything so imposing yet refined.” Venturing into the bowels of the vessel, she admired the organization of the cargo hold, which she had never explored during the voyage with Blake. “Upon my word, there is everything and more down here.”
“Indeed, Damian must maintain provisions for every possible need.” Blake led her further into the stalls and niches. “There is food and drink, canvas to repair the sails, extra rope, lumber, and then iron balls to charge the guns.”
“May I delve deeper, Blake?” Holding high a lantern, to the back right she discovered Damian’s stallion. “I will not dally, but I find it fascinating.”
“Of course, my dear.” He perched on a stack of crates. “Take your time, and I shall wait here.”
“I will be right back.” With a squeal of delight, which she could not contain, she veered left, right, and then left again, until she neared Gunnar. “Hello, my beauty.”
As usual, the stout grey beast from Andalusia greeted her with a snort and arched his thick neck, before presenting himself for a good scratch. Across the way, she spotted a few bags of sugar, and she collected a fistful, which Gunnar consumed from her palm. Just as she dusted her hands on her skirts, the ship swayed beneath her feet, and she stumbled backwards.
“Blake, I think Damian prepares to cast off, and we should leave.” When she regained her balance, she clutched the tiny iron lantern and, retracing her steps, navigated the maze of supplies. “Blake, are you there?” As she returned to the entranced to the main hold, she discovered the door shut. Pulling on the knob, she found the lock secured. “Oh, no.” Pounding on the oak panel, Lucy hollered, “Hello! Is anyone there? I am trapped and cannot break free.”
THE DUKE WEARS NADA
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the distance, as he peered through his spyglass, Damian spotted the North Forelands, which guarded the entrance to the Thames Estuary. For him, the landmarks signaled a final farewell to England and only aggravated his yearning for Lucy.
After the brief meeting with Admiral Pellew, during which the naval legend detailed his intent to keep the Brethren at the rear, in order to avoid provoking unnecessary conflict with a heavy show of British military prowess, Damian rushed back to the Sagremor, with the expressed desire of sharing another sweet interlude with Lucy. To his monumental disappointment, he discovered Blake departed prior to Damian’s return, and he had yet to check his displeasure.
“Cap’n, we are well-found and away.” Carsleigh, the second in command, stood at attention. “And Mr. Greer informs me the supplies are stowed. Shall I set course, sir?”
“Aye.” At the maps table, Damian pointed to their first destination. “We journey to Tunis, and I would have the helmsman sail as far west as possible, to avoid the treacherous waters of the Bay of Biscay, and be sure we clear Ushant.”
“Aye, sir.” Carsleigh nodded once. “And Greer has a missive for you, Cap’n.”
“Oh?” At once, Damian wondered if Lucy wrote him a letter. “Then I shall repair to my cabin, and the deck is yours, Carsleigh.”
With a spring in his step, Damian descended the companion ladder, scrutinized the polished boards and brass, examined the flemished falls, and acknowledged his crewmen, as they made their obedience. At the waist, he located the boatswain.
“Do you have correspondence for me, Greer?” With baited breath, Damian tamped his excitement.
“Aye, sir.” From beneath his vest, the boatswain pulled an envelope. “Cap’n His Grace asked me to give it to you, at precisely an hour from the time we cast off and departed Deptford, but I got busy, and it slipped my mind.”
“I am sure it is all right.” Disappointment settled deep in Damian’s chest, and he tucked the note in his waistcoat. “Why do you always refer to Blake as such?”
“Because it annoys him.” The battle-tested and scarred tar chuckled. “And it is one of my few joys in life.”
“But you do not address me in that manner.” When Greer stowed a stack of rope, Damian picked up the mate. “Or do you do so, behind my back?”
“No, Cap’n.” Greer frowned and snatched the rope from Damian’s grasp. “This is why I do not rib you, sir. Even as a midshipman, you always understood that the sea knows no rank, especially that of the aristocracy. But Cap’n His Grace did not comprehend the significance of military position, as opposed to the noble class, when on duty and in uniform, until he reached the station of second lieutenant, and I will never let him forget that.”
“But even you must admit Blake is a devil of a sea captain.” Damian laughed. “Or do you disagree?”
“Actually, there is no reason for me to recognize that fact, as it is doubtful Cap’n His Grace is unaware of it.” Greer shook his head and barked an order to a passing mate, before returning his attention to Damian. “And I stowed your extra trunk in your cabin, sir.”
“What extra trunk?” It was in that very instant Damian struggled with a strange sensation, the reason for which he could not quite comprehend, yet he felt it, all the same.
“The one Cap’n His Grace said you required for the journey.” Greer snapped his fingers and frowned. “You there, that cask goes to the galley, double quick.” Then Greer said, “And the renovation to your stateroom should be completed shortly. When last I checked, the carpenter’s mates had removed the outer door and closed up the hole, so all they had to do was frame a new opening, inside your chamber, to the adjoining one.”
Again, a disconcerting chill traipsed Damian’s spine, and he shuddered. “Who told you to make the adjustments to my lodging?”
“Cap’n His Grace.” Greer shrugged. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“I am not sure.” In that instant, Damian drew the letter from his waistcoat pocket and wondered just what his lifelong friend hoped to achieve with such odd developments. “Carry on, Greer.”
“Aye, sir.” The boatswain saluted.
In a matter of hasty strides, Damian ascended to the quarterdeck and strolled to the side corridor, which led to his cabin. In the hall, a seaman swept the floor. When Damian entered his stateroom, he discovered a team of carpenters, who halted. “Carry on, men.”
As they resumed their task, the purpose of which Damian still did not understand, he discovered a rather large trunk sitting near his desk. After unfastening the drawbolts, he lifted the lid and found an array of ladies garments. Then he gazed at the dispatch, broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and his hands shook as he read the contents.
Brother,
While I would rather you find your own way in the sometimes maddening, always unpredictable arena known as courtship, I must admit you struck breakers I did not anticipate. Indeed, no one could have imagined the tragic events that unfolded during the trial, and that sorrowful development necessitates desperate measures to correct. How fortunate was it that you were commissioned to aid Exmouth’s campaign? Given my duchess and I found love aboard ship, we hope you and Lucy enjoy similar favor, living in such close quarters. Thus it is after much consideration and discussion with my wife that Lenore and I decided to take matters into our own hands, and know that I act with her blessing. Even now, as you sail for your mission, Lucy is locked in the cargo hold and, no doubt, awaiting your arrival. In the trunk are ample items intended to ensure your lady a comfortable trip, and we would appreciate it if you were married before you return to England’s shores.
Happy Sailing.
Blake and Lenore
“Bloody hell.” Damian glanced at his timepiece. “She has been down there almost six hours.”
Dropping everything, he rus
hed to the quarterdeck and descended the companion ladder. Two able seamen cleared a path, as Damian climbed down into the lower decks, until he reached the cargo hold.
At the door, he unlatched the bolt and pushed open the heavy oak panel. “Lucy? Are you there?”
When she failed to respond, he snatched a lantern from one of the tars and delved deeper into the stores. A dim glow functioned as a beacon, and he stumbled over a mislaid crate of apples as he neared. Reclining upon a mound of sacks filled with rice and flour rested his lady.
On the boards, he noted an open bottle of wine and a half-eaten apple, and he smiled. His future wife was nothing if not resourceful. At her side, he knelt, and with the backs of his knuckles he brushed her cheek. Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered, and she sniffled before she came alert.
“Damian.” With a sob, she lurched upright, wrapped her arms about his neck, and clung to him. “I feared you might never find me, and I called out, but no one heard me.”
“It is all right, sweetheart.” For a few minutes, he whispered reassurances intended to comfort and soothe, until she relaxed in his embrace. “Are you injured?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But I am confused, because I suspect Blake locked me inside the hold, yet that makes no sense.”
“Actually, it makes complete sense, when you read the letter he left behind, to explain his motives.” Damian stood and took her with him. “Let us return to the upper decks, and you can peruse it in the light of day.”
“And I would take some fresh air.” Her stomach growled, and she giggled. “Perhaps something to eat, too.”
“Carsleigh will soon pipe the evening meal, which we can take in my cabin.” He followed in Lucy’s wake, as they ascended to the waist, and his thoughts raced in all directions, because possibilities abounded. At the larboard rail, he studied her profile and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Then he retrieved Blake’s correspondence, which he passed to her. “My dear, it appears we have been manipulated by a machinating couple with good intentions.”
The Duke Wears Nada Page 7
