“I am not sure if you are complimenting or insulting me, Lord Markham.” Sabrina lifted her chin and fixed her stare on the back of her sister’s head. “And I know of no such transformation. I merely made additions to my wardrobe during the summer.”
“And you have restyled your hair. Oh, my, are you wearing rouge?”
“I have done nothing of the sort.” She lied. “And my personal habits are none of your affair. If you do not cease your mindless prattle, I shall trounce your toes.”
“Relax, my dear. I merely took note of the changes in your appearance. I thought all young ladies lived in hope of such praise. And, if memory serves, you’ll trounce my toes regardless of intent.”
“Now you are insulting me.” In that instant, Sabrina quit the field. Her short-lived campaign to catch a husband at an end, she resolved to contract the plague at the first opportunity.
“Stating a fact, my dear. So you deny the renovations to your person?” The insufferable man had the nerve to wink. “If that is your story, Miss Douglas, you stay with it.”
They navigated the throng until they came to an arched opening. Couples whirled on the polished marble floor beneath elegant crystal chandeliers. Vases filled with a wild mix of hyacinths, tulips, and white roses stood on pedestals in every corner, and their subtle bouquet hung in the air. A musical ensemble occupied the center of the back wall of the luxurious mirrored ballroom.
Conscious of the multitude of stares in their direction, Sabrina inhaled deeply. She had not anticipated the attention her unconventional campaign would attract and, given her less than stellar social performances in the past, was unaccustomed to the limelight.
“Shall we dance?” he inquired, with a squeeze of her hand.
“Oh--I mean--yes. That is, it would be my honor, Lord Markham.” It was hell being a lady.
Biting her lip and swallowing an unladylike curse, she followed his lead to the dance floor, sucking in a breath as his arm encircled her waist, pulling her close to his sinewy frame. Her ears pealed with excitement, as the bells in a Wren steeple, and fire coursed her veins, every nerve charged.
What was happening to her?
As casual acquaintances, Sabrina had danced with Everett on many occasions and had often teased him, as would a distant relative. For his part, he always seemed disinterested, so this time could be no different.
But it was different.
Deep down inside, where she was always brutally honest with herself, she had to admit there was something drastically different in the way he held her. How his arm kept her near as they twirled to the soft beat of the music, and the way his thighs brushed her skirts. And whereas before he would stare at the crowd from over her head, searching for a new ladybird, no doubt, his amber eyes now captured hers. Sabrina stumbled and stepped hard on his foot.
“Ouch.” His brow creased.
“So sorry, Lord Markham.” She was supposed to be charming, alluring, and seductive. At least, that was the advice Cara had given. But, true to form, she was a poor excuse for her sex. Sabrina lowered her head in defeat.
“Tell me, my dear Miss Douglas, has anyone ever mistaken you for a lady?”
In an instant, she lifted her chin. “No more than have mistaken you for a gentleman.”
“Well said, my dear.” He laughed, and she realized he had deliberately baited her.
How many times had Everett taunted her with the same insult, and why could she not resist him?
Because she did not want to resist--a fact of which she suspected he was well aware.
“You, sir, are a devil.” She smiled and lost her footing once more.
Everett winced. “Tell me you are not doing that on purpose.”
“Certainly not.” She chucked his shoulder and did her best to focus on their dance. “I am clumsy by nature, as you well know.”
When the music ended, Everett escorted Sabrina to her group of friends.
“What are you so smug about?” Cara whispered in her ear, moments later. “Having some success?”
Sabrina clenched her fists as Everett circled the dance floor with yet another beauty in his embrace. The man must have Herculean vigor, and again she wondered if she could compete in his league. Although she hated to admit it, she wanted to be the one for him--not the one of many.
“Well, we have danced twice.” She frowned. “I suppose it would not be prudent to risk a third.” In silence, she counted the Brethren of the Coast, her lifelong friends, as they made the rotations with various partners. Then she realized she had not seen Everett go by. In a second, she scoured the room.
Near the terrace doors, she spotted her connubial conquest as he reached into his waistcoat pocket and checked his timepiece. With a glance left and then right, he backed through the doors and slipped into the darkness beyond.
What was he about?
“It is dreadfully warm in here.” Sabrina fanned herself with her hand, exaggerating her movements. “I believe I will step outside for a bit of fresh air.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Cara asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “I will only be a moment.”
With a casual pace, though fighting the urge to charge forth, she strolled to the same exit through which Everett had disappeared. Sabrina stepped quietly onto the tiled floor, so as not to disturb the laconic rendezvous inhabiting the shadows. As she navigated the gardens, a wicked thought crossed her mind. Perhaps tonight she would kiss Everett. Or was the man supposed to initiate such behavior? Gooseflesh covered her from head to foot, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
A graveled path led to the opening of a meticulously groomed labyrinth. The lilting singsong of lovers mingled with the crunch of pebbles beneath her slippers.
Where could Everett have gone?
Was he not supposed to be chasing her? And then Sabrina homed in on his voice, smooth as well-churned butter, coming from the labyrinth. As she stood beneath the entrance to the maze, a pergola covered in pink climbing roses, she focused on his rich baritone, letting it guide her through the manicured hedges. Sabrina veered left, then right, and then left again.
To whom was he talking?
Another turn brought her to a small opening and what appeared to be a dead-end. A flirty feminine laugh brought her up short.
The silvery light of the moon cast the silhouettes of her prince charming and a mystery woman in a clearing. With arms entwined, there was no possibility theirs was a family reunion. And Everett had never hugged Sabrina like that.
“Darling, why so reticent?” The strange lady kissed Everett. “Surely you are not interested in that gawky Douglas girl?” A familiar giggle tickled Sabrina’s ears. “What you need is a real woman.”
She flinched at the inference and at once recognized the voice. The enemy was none other than Lady Moreton, a petite young widow, who was everything Sabrina was not, and she drew his head to her again.
No.
She wanted to cry out, to rush in, to part the lovers and halt their play, but she could not, because Everett was not hers to claim.
He never had been hers.
Her brief but ill-fated campaign had been a lark, because Everett was truly out of her league. With a heavy heart, Sabrina took one last look at the man for which she had set her cap and tiptoed away.
Excerpt from One Knight Stand
Book Four of the Brethren of the Coast Series
Coming in 2014
The English Channel
September, 1812
If one had to die, now was as good a time as any. Or so Lance Prescott, sixth Marquess of Raynesford, thought as his ship heeled hard a larboard. Of course, he did not want to die, but neither did he think that when his days were at an end he would seriously be consulted in the matter.
Memories, bits of the past flashed before his eyes.
His mother had died in childbirth, he never knew her. In brief, he relived the sadness when he was told his father had perished of a liver ailment aft
er years of excessive drinking. He revisited the sense of vulnerability when, at the age of fourteen, he struggled in vain against frigid waters to save his cousin, Thomas.
He considered his title, which he inherited once his guardian passed because Thomas, the original heir, had preceded his father in death. Lance had always looked on the burden of the peerage as a penance for his inability to rescue his beloved cousin.
Triumphs. Losses. Regrets.
Things he had said and done that he wished he could take back. Accomplishments he wished he had achieved but had not. There were so many experiences of which he had yet to partake. There were places to which he had never journeyed. He was not married, and he had no heir.
They were all there.
There was a woman he admired, always had. He had known her since she was born. But he did not deserve her, never would. Long ago, he had resigned himself to marrying another. Trouble was, in his mind, and his heart if truth were told, none compared with her.
Lance shook himself out of the morbid reverie that was his personal history and focused on the task at hand.
Grasping the carved quarterdeck rail, he held on as the Demetrus righted herself. Frothing waves crashed over the sides, spilling onto the deck. A ravenous beast, the angry seas threatened to swallow the mighty frigate whole.
Staccato bursts of lightning flashed, providing glimpses of the tempest raging all around. They were the fifth ship in the line. Ahead, in the distance, four imposing vessels belonging to the other Knights of the Brethren of the Coast tossed about like wooden toys in a bath.
He turned and could just make out a familiar silhouette in his wake. Trevor Marshall, the most recent addition to the infamous knighthood descended of the famed Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, struggled to steer the Hera through violent waters and did not appear to be faring any better.
“Into the wind, Scottie,” Lance yelled.
“We’re tryin’, Cap’n.”
Scottie and the helmsman, Mr. Hazard, were locked in fierce combat. Lashed to the wheel to keep from falling overboard, they waged war against the turbulent ocean for control of the ship.
The Demetrus heeled hard a starboard. Lance clutched the rail, peered over, and thought he could skim the surface of the swirling sea if he extended his arm. He shuddered and decided not to put it to test.
“Hold her, boys!” the first mate screamed above the howling winds.
Lance and his crewmen kept a death-grip on the wheel as the bow rose sharply. The ship crested, lightning flashed, and thunder roared in an ominous specter of doom.
The fore topmast stay snapped, and the staysail unfurled.
Lance noted the fluttering canvas, and he knew what would happen next. It was the last thing they needed.
“No.” Though he voiced the denial, it was muffled amid the roar of the storm.
As if Mother Nature had read his thoughts, the wind caught the end, filled the sheet, and hauled the large sail into the gale.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Hold on!”
The bow pulled sharply a starboard. The brute force of the wind threatened to bring down the rigging en masse.
“Cap’n, we’ve got to take in that sail.”
“I know.” Lance tugged at his lifeline. It was time to dance with Death. The gnarled hand of his first mate halted him, and he glanced up. The stern lamps had long ago been doused by the mountainous waves, and in the burst of light from the storm, he spied the grim resolution etched on his crewman’s face.
“The Demetrus will swim without me, Cap’n. You’re responsible for the ship and her crew.” Scottie squeezed hard on his wrist. “I will go, sir.”
“All right,” Lance relented. “But have a care, else I’ll have a devil of a go replacing you.”
“Aye, sir.”
In mere minutes, Lance lost sight of his first mate in the driving rain. “Can you see him?” he shouted.
“No, sir,” the helmsman called out. “He might have gone in.”
Both he and Mr. Hazard held a hand over their eyes to shield them from the stinging drops. He did not want to think it, did not want to consider the fact that he may have sent his first mate to the Almighty. Craning his neck, he strained to see through the torrent.
Lightning blazed across the sky, and Lance caught a glimpse of Scottie. The cold hand of fear wrenched his gut.
Off the bow, the first mate dangled precariously from the larboard rail, and the Demetrus soared as the wave they rode peaked.
Another thunderbolt blinded him.
In a flash, he was no longer aboard his ship. He was at Eton. It was winter, and his cousin Thomas asked him to skip Latin and go skating on a frozen pond, nearby.
“Come on, Lance.” Thomas waved. “You don’t have to follow the rules.”
With clenched fists to his hips, he stopped short of reminding his errant relation that rules were put in place for a reason. And unlike his brash cousin, Lance always followed the straight and narrow path. He supposed it was that difference that made them such good friends. While he kept Thomas grounded, Thomas kept him from being the proverbial stick in the mud.
Finally, Lance smiled and shook his head. “We are going to get in trouble,” he hollered to his cousin who was already walking away. He frowned and checked to see no one was watching before following Thomas across the field.
Nestled in a crescent of snow dusted oak trees, the little pond was almost perfectly round, and a thick, white layer of ice covered the small body of water.
Amid hoots and hollers, the young cousins, more like brothers, exactly the same age and lifelong mates, ran onto the ice. The air was crisp and still, and their expelled breath produced puffs of smoke. The soles of their boots slid across the slippery surface with ease.
Lance fell flat on his bottom and scowled at Thomas, who held a hand to his belly and laughed heartily. As he tried to stand, his foot skidded on the ice. He ended up as he started; back on his bum.
“Is this not better than reciting a dead language no one uses anymore?” Thomas skipped on the ice; his arms splayed wide for balance, and he glided in a smooth arc.
Lance struggled to get up but stopped when he heard a loud crack. In the pristine veneer below him, white lines appeared, jagged, snaking in every direction. He froze.
“Thomas.”
His cousin ignored the call. In the process of gathering speed for another sail across the ice, Thomas tripped and disappeared beneath the surface. Only his arms, shoulders, and head were visible.
“Lance. Help me! Help me!” Thomas fought to pull himself up, but every time he managed to inch himself out of the water, another piece of ice broke away. He fell, deeper and deeper.
Crawling slowly, on his palms and knees, Lance scooted toward the middle of the pond. Closer to his cousin.
But as he neared, the ice gave way. He sucked in a breath as the painfully cold water penetrated his clothes. Because he had not made it to the center of the pond, it was still shallow enough for his feet to reach the bottom, and the water came to his chin.
Tilting his head back, he gasped for air.
A flicker of movement caught his attention.
They were hands.
Flailing. Helpless.
Lightning flashed, water splashed over his face. Lance sputtered and wiped his cheeks with his oilskin raingear. Determination welled within him. He was a man now, not a child. He might not have been able to save his cousin, but hell would freeze before he let his first mate die.
He untied his lifeline. The helmsman did the same.
“Go below and get help.”
Mr. Hazard nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Using the section of rope, Lance tied the wheel in place, hoping the thick twine would withstand the mighty forces of nature until he or the helmsman returned.
The stern rose as the waves drove the ship, and then the bow crashed violently into the valley. In a burst of light, Lance saw Scottie. He had lost his grip with one hand and was swinging by
the other.
Making his way down the companion ladder, Lance crawled along the larboard rail. The ship bucked, as would an unbroken horse. When the bow rose, he held on to the railing. When it leveled, he moved forward as fast as possible. While it took him mere minutes to reach his first mate, it seemed an eternity.
The storm flared all around, and the waves tugged and pulled in a ferocious contest to sink the ship. The wind wailed and moaned, as mournful cries of a grieving widow.
Reaching out, Lance grasped the wrist of his first mate. Scottie stared at him, with an expression of relief and gratitude. With one powerful yank, using his bodyweight as a counterbalance, Lance fell backward on the deck as he hauled Scottie over the rail.
“Are you all right?”
“Aye, Cap’n.” With a balled fist, the first mate punched him in the arm. “I knew you would come for me.”
Lance wiped the rain from his eyes. “Let us tuck in that sail and get back to the helm.”
Moving in unison with the ship, they dragged in the slapping canvas. The laces had torn away from the yardarm at one end, causing the sail to arc wildly.
Scottie lunged for the wayward corner and managed to catch hold of it. He landed on his rear in the middle of the deck.
Lance laughed when he realized the first mate was uninjured. In a rush, he went about tucking the sail to the yardarm. A loud, unnatural crack snared his senses. An eerie premonition of deja vu nipped at his heels, and he peered up. Hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, the foremast yardarm had splintered in two, and it listed in the wind, back and forth, one end threatening to drop on them at any moment.
Lance waved his arms in warning. “Scottie, get out of the way.”
“What?” the seaman replied.
He pointed, but the first mate could not see past the stray sail.
And then it happened.
The yardarm broke free and came crashing down.
Without thought, he dove toward Scottie, shoving him out of the path of the splintered wood. Lance landed, face first, on the unforgiving planks of the main deck. The pain ratcheting through his body was not from his fall. It was from the crushing weight of the yardarm as it snapped the bone of his sprawled leg.
Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast) Page 29
