Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast)

by Devlin, Barbara

  “I am so c-cold.” He shuddered violently.

  “I know, and I am sorry. I wish there was something more I could do.”

  Instead of leading him to the table to eat, she steered him toward the bed and tucked blankets around him. Trevor accepted her fussing without a word, which heightened her worry. After fluffing the pillows, she brought him some food and was alarmed when he ignored her.

  “You have to eat, Captain.”

  “I am not hungry,” he said, pushing away the tray.

  As he turned on his side, she pulled the blanket to his chin and realized he was shivering. When she placed the back of her hand to his forehead, her concern grew in epic proportions.

  “Trevor, I think you have a fever.”

  “What of it?”

  “You’re ill.”

  “It does not signify.”

  “I beg to differ.” If a chill took hold, he could be in grave condition by morning. “Have you a doctor aboard?”

  “He quit on the last run to Jamaica. Got leg-shackled.”

  “Have you any medical supplies?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Then you will have to make do with me.”

  Perched at the edge of the mattress, she massaged his scalp, hoping a good rest would go far to allay a serious infection. Yes, it was only a hope, but hope was all she had without a physician or medicine. Hot liquids would help, but it was not yet safe to light the ovens.

  Once she was certain her captain had drifted off, his still quivering form chagrined Caroline. A thorough search of the cabin yielded one additional blanket and a Garrick coat, which she draped over him. And yet he shook.

  It was not enough. Somehow, she had to get him warm. Her mind raced. Suddenly, it came to her. Looking to the heavens, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  In a flash, Caroline undressed. For two seconds, she considered getting into his bed without benefit of clothing. Perhaps that might prompt Trevor to do the deed. Her cheeks burned as she envisioned her bare skin pressed to his. Just as fast, she quashed the image. If the man wanted her naked, he could do the job himself.

  She had her pride.

  After pulling on her silk robe, the same one she claimed the night Trevor had taken her from Dalton’s cabin, Caroline slid between the covers.

  Curling up to his back, she wrapped her arms around his sinewy mass, bending her knees and tucking her legs to his buttocks. Using her body heat, she comforted him. Yet what she offered exacted a high price, as the green-eyed dragon seduced her with no effort.

  That Trevor could lie innocent as a babe in her embrace and evoke such sensations seemed the height of unfairness. If only the blasted storm would end. With one last look at her captain, Caroline settled amid the pillows and soon surrendered to the realm of fantasy.

  And was brought awake in the early morning hours by a blustery gale of a different sort.

  “What in bloody hell are you doing?”

  “Ho-hum.” She yawned and rubbed her tired eyes. He could not be serious. “I would think it quite obvious. And if you recall, you brought me here, against my will, to be your mistress.”

  “Did you...did I...did we--” With an expression of sheer horror, Trevor shot from the mattress as if he had been scalded.

  “Did we--what?”

  “Did we do what you do in trade?”

  “I beg your pardon, no such thing occurred, as I am not in the habit of assaulting unconscious men.” Caroline folded her arms and snorted in disgust. “You were cold, and I sought to warm you. Nothing more happened.” And she was not happy about it, but she was not going to tell him.

  Tense seconds ticked past.

  “I must say I am perplexed by your reaction.” She swallowed her trepidation and pressed her suit. “We have a mutually agreed upon bargain, which you have promised, on more than one occasion, would lead to mutual pleasure.”

  “I-I said that, and I m-meant it.” He did not sound too convincing, and he looked uncharacteristically nervous. “But I am needed on deck.”

  “You are not leaving this room.”

  “Duty calls.”

  “But you had a fever.”

  “Perhaps, but I am fine now.”

  “Get back in your bunk. You need rest.”

  “I beg your pardon. You are neither my wife nor my mother, and I am not a child to be ordered about.”

  “Delighted to hear it, because only a child would take such unnecessary risks, when we need you healthy and at the helm. Now, shall I fetch your breakfast?”

  “I don’t want any damn breakfast.”

  Caroline managed to muffle her giggle as he marched toward the door. What was she to make of his odd behavior? That aside, she had to admit the man had a superb backside. But she did not think the crew would share her opinion.

  “Captain?”

  “What?”

  “May I suggest you put on some clothes before you report for duty?”

  #

  Two days later, the wind in his hair, Trevor assumed his station and assessed the damage to the Hera. On occasion, the sun filtered through the clouds bathing the ship in warm, golden light. The tempest had passed.

  On the main deck, the boatswain was busy directing the crew in a thorough inspection of the canvas and rigging. Seated on a chair in the middle of the action was Caroline. Small tears in the main upper topsail required darning. Quick to volunteer, she all but danced a jig when, after a nod of approval from Trevor, the leader of the watch accepted her offer of help.

  Turning his attention to the charts laid before him, he plotted their current position. The storm had blown them off course, but was no cause for alarm; he would make the necessary adjustments and have them navigating the Channel in no time. After consulting his compass, he affixed small notations to the maps.

  “Hoist the topsail,” the boatswain bellowed.

  “Merciful heavens, Cap’n, will ya look at that?”

  With a hand at the small of his back, Trevor stretched. “What is it, George?”

  The forenoon watch had run up the repaired canvas and was positioning it on the mainmast. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, yet his first mate seemed transfixed, facing skyward, hands shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight.

  Mirroring his stance, Trevor followed his gaze. Jaw clenched, breath seized, chest tightened, gut wrenched, he couldn’t move. High atop the mast perched Mistress Caroline. Balanced on the footropes, she laced the sail to the yard.

  Did the damn fool woman not recognize the danger?

  She could be killed.

  Summoning every ounce of control within him, he descended the companion ladder and stomped toward the boatswain. It took a Herculean effort to suppress the urge to shout his displeasure, because he was afraid she might fall if he yelled.

  Unable to contain the fury in his voice, he barked, “Bo’sun.”

  “Cap’n, let me handle this.” Grabbing hold of his elbow, George halted him. “Mr. Boyle, bring the lady down--now.”

  The crewman peered at Trevor, flinched, and nodded once. “Ma’am, the men can finish from there.”

  “Are you sure?” the ladybird asked from above, as she pulled taut a stitch and then looped another.

  That did it.

  “Mistress Caroline, present yourself this instant.”

  A single misstep was all it would take. Did she expect to sprout wings and fly?

  “Aye, Captain.”

  On a final inspection of her work, she nodded, and then shimmied through the shrouds, clutching the ratlines for balance. As soon as her feet touched the deck, Trevor grasped her arm, giving her no warning of the tumult twisting his insides.

  “What--” She emitted a strangled cry.

  The knowledge that his courtesan was safe should have appeased him. It did not. The fear, the sheer terror coiling in the pit of his belly found a convenient outlet in his hand, which he let fly with a resounding smack on her bottom. The impact stung his palm and buc
kled her knees, and she would’ve fallen forward had he not still been holding her.

  Yanking her upright, fingers digging into her shoulders, Trevor shook her hard, and the emotions welling inside him roared at once. “What in bloody hell do you think you are about?”

  Shock and humiliation eclipsing her expression, Caroline reached for him. “I was only--”

  “Hie yourself below.” Trevor pushed her away with sufficient force that she tripped. “If I so much as see your face on deck, I will blister your hide.”

  With head held high, she walked to the steps leading to his quarters and descended.

  Her absence should have made him feel better.

  It did not.

  For a long while he stood there, second-guessing the weight of his actions and the implication of the emotions that held him captive in some invisible, but nonetheless real, prison.

  Trevor could not move.

  Until he surveyed the angry, almost mutinous, faces surrounding him. “Carry on,” was all he could say.

  At his station, he noticed for the first time the sweat on his brow. A vision of Caroline’s lifeless form, prostrate on the deck, flashed before him, and he shuddered. As if teetering on a precarious precipice, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the rail for support. Closing his eyes, he desperately tried to regain control and composure.

  “Do ya want to tell me what that was about?” George chucked his shoulder. “Trevor, for God sake, what’s the matter with ya?”

  “There is nothing wrong.” He bit back the bile rising in his throat. “Everything is fine.”

  “And who the hell do ya think yer foolin’ with that, old friend? Ya ought to look at yerself. Yer as white as a sheet, not to mention the death grip ya got on that rail.”

  Opening his eyes, Trevor cursed his white knuckles. “Mr. Todd, I will take the wheel. You are relieved.”

  The helmsman abandoned the quarterdeck quicker than normal.

  “Cap’n, what’s goin’ on with the chit?” The first mate inclined his head. “I’ve never seen ya lose yer mind over a woman. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Let it go, George, and make yourself scarce.” Compressing his lips, he focused on the horizon. “I will take the watch until dinner.”

  Although the sun blazed a wide arc in the sky, time stood still as Trevor reran the earlier scene through his mind, over and over again. In each instance, his chest pounded, his throat tightened, and he labored to breathe. Gazing at nothing, he wondered what was happening to him. But he would rather face a court martial than explore the possibilities.

  Fate had to be laughing.

  When he plotted to kidnap Dalton’s mistress, his only consideration had been the punishment exacted in recompense for young Randolph’s prior slight. The scamp had levied the first shot, and honor demanded Trevor respond, in kind. But he was no greenhorn in the games men play. He should have recognized the threat the minute he actually saw Caroline. What in the hell had possessed him to take her? And how fast could he get rid of her? One thing was certain; he wasn’t ready to face her. Not yet. Not after his uncharacteristic outburst.

  So Trevor ate lunch with the crew, thinking it best to give the dangerous doxy time to calm down before he returned to his cabin. He was in no mood to dice with a weepy female, but it was his unpredictable reaction to her tears that truly frightened him. When he joined her for dinner, he would have himself in hand, and she would be ready to accept his explanation, whatever that was, for what had transpired on deck.

  Not that he felt the need to explain himself.

  Despite her recklessness in the rigging, Caroline was blessed with uncommonly good sense. Her desire to help with chores was commendable. She did not fuss over herself and never complained. Neither was she given to histrionics, a trait he found offensive in so many of her sex. As captain of the ship, it was his duty to dispense discipline when needed. The courtesan had taken an unnecessary risk and had been punished, as would any member of the crew. It sounded plausible.

  She would understand.

  And so it was with that rationale he descended the steps leading to his quarters. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he relaxed. As he passed the galley, Trevor’s cabin boy gave him pause.

  “A word, Cap’n?”

  “Aye?” As he looked forward to settling matters with his charming captive, he swallowed his impatience at the delay. “What is it, Billy?”

  “It’s the lady, sir.” Staring at the tips of his boots, the lad shuffled his feet in obvious discomfort. “She didn’t eat any lunch.”

  “I am sure everything will be fine now.” At least he hoped it would be. What on earth would he do if the woman were still sobbing, offer her a handkerchief? Trevor frowned. “Serve dinner at eight. We will be ready.”

  Surely half an hour was sufficient time to wash, explain his position to Caroline, and partake of a pleasant meal. And he had a few persuasive weapons at his disposal. Perhaps they would share a few conciliatory kisses. He smiled at the thought.

  Reaching the entrance to his chamber, Trevor twisted the knob and entered. Closing the door, he turned around--and ducked.

  The object on a collision course with his head connected instead with the wood panel.

  Whack

  Before he could say anything, he caught a glimpse of another item and barely avoided it.

  Moving into the room, Trevor crouched again.

  “Caroline, stop it.” He raised his arms in defense even as he sidestepped her bombardment.

  “Go to the devil!” She launched another volley.

  “I demand that you cease this childish behavior and talk to me.”

  “Childish, indeed.” Her blue eyes glittered with fire and ice. “I should think you would expect it, as you spanked me in front of everyone.” Her arm flung wide, catapulting an additional attempt to de-brain him.

  As he evaded another attack, Trevor lowered his hands. “So help me, if you throw one more thing, I will do it again.”

  With high dudgeon, she stomped her foot. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Snorting in surprise, he couldn’t stifle a chuckle. No woman had ever defied his authority, and at that precise moment, ill timed as it was, he decided he liked it.

  “I would dare,” he said in jest, because, devil take it, Trevor couldn’t resist her.

  “Who do you think you are?” Drawing herself up, looking every inch a blueblood, though he knew she was not, the demirep pinned him with a narrow stare. “You do not own me, and I am not a member of your crew to be ordered about or subjected to your abuse.”

  “Come now, we both know I did not hurt you.”

  “That may be, but I am not to be disciplined as one of your men.”

  “I’ll grant you that, but you are aboard my ship.”

  “We both know how I came to be here.”

  In that he could not argue. Gazing on the beautiful ladybird poised with a book in her grasp, no doubt considering another shot at his head, Trevor could not be mad at her. And he was trying, with every ounce of strength, to summon anger, indignation, ire--anything to keep the mistress at a safe distance.

  She stood before him, breasts heaving, thick hair jutting wildly, her cheeks flushed in fury, and all he wanted to do was kiss her silly.

  Every inch of her.

  But that would violate his promise. Revenge had been won at the expense of young Randolph. There would be no seduction tonight, because he had sworn a personal oath that he would not take Caroline to his bed.

  “We will continue our conversation when you are ready to discuss this as an adult.” He crossed to the washstand, peering out the corner of his eye on guard for another barrage. “Dinner will be served soon, so I suggest you settle yourself.”

  “Rot you, Trevor.” Her chin rose to impressive heights. “And don’t ever touch me again.”

  He reached for a towel as she marched to the bunk. “Are you not going to eat? The ovens are lit, and we’ll have warm fare tonight.”r />
  “I shall do as I please,” Caroline snapped.

  “Suit yourself, madam.”

  Movement on the floor caught his attention, and he retrieved a brass candlestick holder. A brief search yielded the mate where it had come to rest. Then he found the hairbrush they had been sharing. The next discovery was a bar of soap and, at last, a leather-bound tome.

  Pursing his lips, he forestalled the laughter dancing on the tip of his tongue. It did not take a genius to know his little hellion would not appreciate his good humor, and he was no glutton for punishment.

  Someday, when the seas no longer entertained his roaming spirit, and he decided to fulfill the duties of his title, Trevor resolved to find a mate with a more docile temperament. An agreeable spouse, one who would give him heirs and content herself with being seen--not heard, was just the woman for him.

  At present, however, there was work to be finished. Respite from the evening’s drama was found amid a stack of logs requiring entries. Rolling up his sleeves, Trevor served himself a healthy portion of stew, sat at his desk, and opened the first ledger.

  Hours later, he consulted his timepiece and closed the last journal. Plagued by a lack of concentration, it had taken him twice the usual effort to complete his tasks, and his distraction remained where she had been before, during, and after dinner, curled on her side, facing the wall, in his bunk. Why had he not given her alternate accommodations?

  Caroline had not made a sound, had not moved an inch. What was he supposed to do with her? Well, if the ladybird expected an apology; that was not in his vocabulary. Convinced tomorrow would see her set right, he turned out the lamps, undressed, and slid into bed.

  In the solitude of night, Trevor wondered what had possessed him to strike her? She was correct in her assertion that he had no right to punish her, because she was a guest, albeit, one taken by force, aboard his ship. Yet he had acted before he’d realized what he had done. Why had he lost control? Why had her jaunt among the ratlines sent him spiraling in panic? It was a puzzle begging to be solved.

  But he would rather walk the plank.

  #

  A new day dawned, and Trevor found, much to his everlasting frustration, that Mistress Caroline could be every bit as stubborn as a man.