Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast)

by Devlin, Barbara

  “I find nothing innocuous about it.”

  “That is because you are emotionally invested, my friend.”

  Trevor vented a snort of disgust. “I do not--”

  “Please, no denials.” Everett waved him off. “Allow me to make a suggestion.”

  “I await your advice with baited breath.”

  “Well, if you’re going to get snippy--”

  “Christ, you are a chatty chit.” Trevor groaned and speared his fingers through his hair. “Just tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Meet with Darwith, and let him plead his cause.” Markham shrugged and with a grin said, “Then you may kill the blackguard with a clear conscience.”

  “I am so happy to provide fodder for your amusement.”

  “If I find sport in your predicament, it is because I do not believe the situation is as grave as you paint it.”

  The long-case clock in the hall signaled the noon hour.

  “The time for breakfast has passed.” Everett strolled toward the door. “Why do you not have a bath while I see to lunch?”

  “I shall be along in a moment.” Trevor retrieved a pen and a sheet of stationary from the desk. “Would you send in your man?”

  “As you wish.” Everett nodded once and exited the study.

  After composing a brief missive, Trevor folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope. On the front, he inscribed an address.

  “May I be of service, your lordship?” a stodgy butler inquired.

  With the correspondence in his grasp, Trevor crossed the room.

  “Have this delivered directly into Lord Darwith’s hands.”

  #

  Trevor’s date with destiny could not have come soon enough.

  The following morning, in another stately residence, in another gentleman’s study, he perused the selections on a large bookcase. Behind him, the door opened.

  “Ah, Lord Lockwood.” His nemesis entered with the innocence of a cherub. “Welcome to my home.”

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Lord Darwith.” Trevor swallowed the urge to punch the man in the nose.

  “Do not mention it. Please, have a seat.” Darwith indicated a small sofa. “May I offer you a refreshment?”

  “You are too kind, sir.” Exchanging pleasantries with his mortal enemy pricked his pride, and Trevor gritted his teeth. “But as I have already impinged on your hospitality, perhaps we should proceed with our business.”

  “Indeed.” With childlike enthusiasm, the rival rubbed his hands together. “You know, your wife has provided the penultimate victory of my greatest passion in life.”

  Incensed by the shameless disclosure, Trevor clenched his jaw. “She has?”

  “Oh, yes.” The blonde-haired, blue-eyed lord propped an elbow on an armrest and dipped his chin. “Lady Lockwood possesses a rare talent for spreading happiness wherever she goes.”

  Trevor dug his fingers into the sofa cushion. “And you have benefited from that talent?”

  “You have me there. I am her servant.” Darwith cast a half-smile. “It appears my bad luck was your good fortune.”

  “How so?”

  “Had I devoted more attention to the selection of a mate, I should have chosen better.” The fair-skinned nobleman averted his gaze. “I should have married Caroline.”

  Enduring the spontaneous confession proved more difficult than Trevor had anticipated. The curse of infidelity burned as salt in an open wound, and a riptide of rejection drowned his senses.

  “Well then, shall we get to the heart of the matter?” Darwith stood. “I must say I am not surprised Lady Lockwood found our secret hard to maintain.”

  The moment of truth arrived, and fear paralyzed Trevor as he braced for the final revelation. “Secrets have a way of outing themselves.” And he wondered how many members of the ton were aware of his disgrace.

  “Though I am thrilled with the results of our little enterprise, I must admit I am disappointed that the journey has ended.” From an armoire, Lord Darwith produced a large wooden box. “At last, I shall be relieved of this precious burden, and yet it does not seem fair for one man to claim two priceless treasures.”

  Through a haze of anger and confusion, Trevor rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your countess divulged part of the history, and at the risk of sounding insensitive, the tale was fascinating.” Darwith moved aside a stack of ledgers, an inkwell and pen, and positioned the elongated crate atop the desk. “When we embarked on our endeavor, Lady Lockwood demanded discretion.”

  Trevor neared. “She did?”

  “Of course.” His adversary lifted the lid. “But, true to her sex, she is incapable of keeping a confidence. Perhaps her inability stems from an innate purity of the heart.”

  The sentimental drivel struck him as cold water in the face. With renewed resolve, he trudged forth. His tormentor parted the brown paper, and Trevor peered inside the box.

  For the second time in a mere week, the world tilted beneath his feet.

  “It is a remarkable weapon.” Lord Darwith trailed a finger along the edge of the blade. “Stunning workmanship.”

  The bronze hilt and incised motifs depicting the original inhabitants of the Garden of Eden mirrored those of the ancient sword that hung on the wall in his cabin aboard the Hera. At the base of the hilt, a decidedly female image distinguished one from the other.

  “Eve.” Trevor shuddered. “You found Eve.”

  “Nay, my lord. Your wife found Eve.” The man he no longer considered an enemy drew the long lost heirloom from a bed of hay. “She suggested that your mother may have sold the artifact in order to purchase passage to France. I believe your man searched the Continent. Fate smiled upon us, because my contact located the item in the Highlands. And her written plea compelled the laird to surrender the old armament.”

  “It was on the isle?”

  “Amazing, is it not? You should have seen your wife’s reaction when I delivered the news of our success.” Darwith chuckled. “She practically danced a jig.”

  But Trevor had seen Caroline’s reaction, had witnessed her excitement from the shadows and had woven unsustainable conclusions from whole cloth. She had conspired only to mend his family legacy; she had restored the sword to its rightful owner.

  And he had turned it against her.

  Had used her gift to cut her where she was most vulnerable.

  “Lord Darwith, I am in your debt.”

  “Nonsense.” The aristocrat passed him the heavy weapon. “Completion of this task discharges my debt to your charming bride.”

  “How were you obligated to my wife?” Trevor asked as he studied the flat of the blade.

  “She has not told you of our history?”

  “If you are referring to the disingenuous courtship, I know the whole of it.” He set the heirloom in the nest of hay and secured the lid.

  “In exchange for forgiveness, I consented to act as solicitor on her behalf, but Caroline had already absolved me of my sin.” Darwith stared Trevor in the eye. “It seems your countess has found consolation and sweet vindication in the match she has made.”

  “Indeed.” Trevor picked up the box. “I know just how she feels.”

  “Take care, Lord Lockwood.” The viscount extended a hand, which he took in friendship. “Perhaps some day soon you will show me the mate?”

  “Count on it.” He started toward the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an important appointment.”

  “Give my regards to Caroline.”

  “You may depend upon it,” he called over his shoulder.

  And in that he was not lying.

  Because Trevor was going home.

  #

  As he entered the foyer of the townhouse he shared with Caroline, Trevor paused in expectation of the pitter-patter that usually heralded the arrival of his wife. Of course, in light of the manner of his departure, and the controversial statements he had made, she might welcome him with a pot
ted plant over the head. Seconds ticked past in silence, and it occurred to him that she might have left him. Swallowing his pride and fear, he turned to Roberts.

  “Where is her ladyship?”

  “At the park, my lord.” The butler bowed, and then accepted the large box. “Shall I convey this to your study, my lord?”

  “Please, do so.” He caught a glimpse of his haggard appearance in the wall mirror and decided a bath and fresh attire might be just the thing to prepare him for a round of compensatory groveling.

  Yes, he had jumped to conclusions.

  Yes, he was an ignorant ass.

  And, yes, he would get her back.

  Taking the stairs, double-time, he veered left at the landing and all but ran down the hall. Ensconced in his chambers, he spied a swath of silk at the foot of his bed. Even before he held the sumptuous garment in his grasp, Trevor knew to whom it belonged. Since their wedding, his countess had appropriated the four-poster in the earl’s suite.

  “What is to become of us?” he asked as he inhaled the subtle scent of her perfume. “Is the damage I have done to our marriage irreparable?”

  He had been afraid, yet now he was fearless.

  He had been distrustful, yet now he trusted.

  He had been unloved, yet now he loved.

  So how could Trevor make Caroline understand his position when he could make no sense of it himself?

  After a soak in the bath that soothed the ache in his lower back from two nights spent on Markham’s sofa, he donned what he deemed gentlemen’s garb and tied his cravat in a precise mathematical. With one final check of his hair, he retraced his earlier steps.

  The sidewalks were alive with activity, and the promenade was in full swing. Amid the throng in the park, he spied his brother-in-law sitting atop an imposing white stallion. A survey of the immediate surroundings revealed the rest of the odd extended family in attendance, and he wondered at the reception he would receive.

  Had Caroline apprised her friends of their brief separation?

  As if on cue, Blake looked up and waved a greeting, which was mimicked by the group. At that instant, the lady in question faced him, and the force of her stare pinned him on the spot. In a smile and a nod, he offered an olive branch and awaited her response.

  Poised and unhurried, she strolled to the curb on the opposite side. Inclining her head, the corners of her mouth lifted, and she stepped into the road. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Traffic kept Trevor at bay, but he moved onto the street edge and called out, “The same to you, love.”

  Thunderous hoof beats shook the ground, and he glanced right. At least seventeen hands, the black stallion had a commanding presence, but it was the rider who captured Trevor’s attention. Cloaked in black, with a mask shielding his identity, the curious stranger spurred his mount despite the tangle of equipages on Park Lane, and Trevor questioned the man’s sanity.

  Until the horse drew nigh and, in one swift swoop, the mysterious rider stole Caroline from the thoroughfare.

  “You there, stand fast!” Trevor charged into the road and was almost trounced by another set of hooves. “That is my wife!”

  “Hurry, Lockwood.” Blake reined in. “Climb aboard.”

  The villain continued down Park Lane, pursued by Blake, Trevor, and the other Brethren on horseback. At Curzon Street, the stallion galloped in the direction of Berkley Square, increasing the lead.

  “Faster, Rylan.” Trevor clutched the nobleman’s lapels. “They are getting away.”

  “I could go faster without your added weight,” the duke replied. “Would you care to shove off?”

  “Trevor, help me!” Ahead, Caroline struggled with the unknown abductor. But her cries were muffled when the blackguard blanketed her in the merino pelisse she wore.

  “Bloody hell.” Trevor heeled the flanks of his brother-in-law’s steed. “The bastard will suffocate her.”

  Through a wild series of turns, they raced the streets of Mayfair, sending innocent passersby fleeing for their lives. The party sped around Grosvenor Square, up Duke Street, along Oxford Street, retraced Park Lane, continued down the middle of Green Park, and onto St. James’s. And somewhere during the chase, a cavalryman and three Bow Street Runners joined the collective of would-be rescuers.

  A carriage pulled in front of the villain on the Strand, and Blake and Trevor gained ground. “Stop that man!” they shouted in unison.

  But the scoundrel recovered and steered his mount into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Ladies shrieked as they scrambled for safety, and gentlemen hurled a slew of curses. Despite the people in his path, the kidnapper did not slow his pace as he navigated Fleet Street and veered south on Blackfriars Road.

  In the distance, Blackfriars Bridge loomed as the specter of doom. “Blake, if he crosses the Thames--”

  “I know.”

  Until that moment, Trevor had not let himself ponder the identity of the individual who had snatched his wife from Hyde Park. But as the waters of the river came into view, he had to wonder if his worst enemy had made good on his threat.

  At the bridge, Caroline freed herself from the pelisse and screamed.

  “We are here,” he cried in an attempt to reassure her that she was not alone. Her fists flew as she fought her attacker, and he prayed she would survive the ordeal. “Careful, darling,” he said under his breath.

  Once the masked rider reached the other shore, he gave the horse his head. In similar fashion, Blake let go the reins, and familiar structures passed in a blur. Trevor was certain of the abductor’s destination before he entered the docks at Deptford.

  The mighty stallion charged the boards, and officers of the Marine Police signaled the alarm. The rogue charted a course toward a schooner, and as the horse dashed up the gangplank, a slew of filthy sailors navigated the ratlines.

  “She is going to cast off.”

  “Not without us,” Blake replied.

  There was something peculiar about the ship, and Trevor took a second look at the canvas and rails. And then it hit him. Despite of the fresh paint and new name, she was none other than the Black Morass.

  And he would wager his first-born that Caroline’s abductor was the captain. The same man who had vowed to kill every Elliott in existence. The brother of the lad Trevor’s wife had slain.

  A thief.

  A rapist.

  A murderer.

  The most ruthless pirate to sail the seas.

  Jean Marc Cavalier.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun sat on the western horizon, and the London fog crawled into the docks at Deptford. At the stern rail, guarded by two filthy pirates, Caroline shrieked in horror as Trevor lunged at Cavalier. A blast of cannon fire heralded the arrival of the Marine Police, and the shot rippled through the air. A spray of water blanketed the starboard bow, and the ship trembled beneath her feet. A naval vessel crept near, and she spied a platoon of lobsters preparing to board the Black Morass.

  On the main deck, Blake, Lance, and Dirk commandeered weapons from three unfortunate villains. Her brother charged the companion ladder, and her friends provided flanking support. Just then, her husband and Cavalier locked blades. The pirate captain produced a small dagger and thrust the pointed end into Trevor’s forearm.

  “Blake, help Trevor,” Caroline screamed.

  “I am fine,” her husband responded angrily as he danced a deadly waltz with his enemy. “Get my wife out of here.”

  At that moment, Cavalier shot a glance at her and shouted, “Kill the wench! A king’s treasure to the man that slits her gullet.”

  The action came to a grinding halt.

  An unnatural quiet settled over the ship as all eyes leveled on Caroline.

  The focus of unwanted attention, she retreated until the backs of her knees connected with the stern rail. Her breath came in a rush of pants, and her heart pounded in her ears. “Oh, dear.”

  Another barrage sounded, and everyone moved at once. This time, t
he shot tore through the rigging, showering the combatants in canvas, rope, and splintered wood. The mizenmast creaked, then toppled toward her. The towering structure knocked one of her pirate keepers into the Thames, and the other dropped his sword and jumped for safety. Quick as a flash, she retrieved the discarded weapon and attempted to launch a defense against a rapidly nearing assailant.

  “Come now, lovey.” A toothless blackguard smiled and inched closer. “You might hurt yourself.”

  “Mind your distance.” With a flick of her wrist, she caught the scoundrel across the cheek when he lunged for her. “Heed my warning.”

  “Bitch.” The villain sneered as he pressed a hand to his skin. He licked the blood from his fingers and said, “You’re going to pay for that.”

  Her adversary let fly a vicious offensive and, although she tried to protect herself, Caroline’s attire hindered her efforts. To put it simply, her dress was made for walking, not fighting. Step by step, she lost precious ground and again found herself pressed to the rail. With nowhere to go, she clutched the stern lantern and climbed atop the rail.

  “Blake, hurry!” She waved the weapon to repel another attack. “Else I shall founder.”

  “Hold on.” Her brother dispatched two pirates and gained the quarterdeck. “I am almost there.”

  Dirk and Lance navigated the companion ladder and, with Blake, finished off three additional enemy combatants. Her adversary turned, formed a line with his remaining allies, and issued a bold challenge to the trio of highly skilled swordsmen. Blake shared a silent exchange with his brothers in arms, assuming a familiar stance, and she almost felt sorry for her captors. As the battle ensued, she exhaled her relief and searched for a way down from her precarious perch. As she bent to reach for the rail, a cannon shot rippled overhead.

  And scored a direct hit.

  The Black Morass shuddered violently. Caroline teetered, dropped her weapon, and tried to maintain her balance, but her slippered feet tangled in her skirts. In a hairsbreadth of a second, she wobbled backwards. A single word passed her lips when she realized what was happening.