Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.
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HEART OF THE SEA WOLFE
By
Danelle Harmon
* * * * *
Discover other titles by Danelle Harmon at Amazon.com
19 April, 1775
Concord, Massachusetts
Chapter 1
He was dark-haired and handsome and appeared to be quite tall, and he was lying hurt outside in the road, clutching his ankle and trying in vain to get to his feet. People ran past him in every direction, shouting and screaming, cursing and crying. One of them knocked him back down in the mud and kept going. On they ran. Running to loved ones left injured or dead. Running after the fleeing Redcoats. Running for their homes.
But this fellow wasn’t running. He could barely stand.
And nobody was running to him.
Mercy Eleanor Payne stood frozen in the doorway of her family home, reeling as she took in the scene outside. They’d heard the musket-fire off in Concord, the rumors of butchery and murder and burning of good people’s homes, the shouts and screams as the battle between the King’s troops and the militia had raged closer and closer.
And then it had been upon them.
They’d slammed the door shut and locked it. Hastily shuttered the windows. Prayed to the Almighty to keep them safe. And then they’d huddled against the paneled wall in the keeping room, clutching each other in terror as the King’s troops, a thousand strong, so many that it had made the walls shake and the floorboards to tremble beneath their feet, had come charging around the bend on their way back to Boston. Minutemen by the hundreds had been firing on them from behind every wall, fence, hill and tree, houses and barns and outbuildings and wagons. They’d heard the carnage just outside. Shouts and screams and the sounds of men dying. A musket ball had shattered a window and blown out the bottom corner of the shutter and they’d all dropped to the floor, Mercy covering her little brother’s body with her own as he’d sobbed in terror. Horses galloping past with officers shouting orders. Curses and sounds of struggle on the road just outside, smoke drifting in through the broken window. Wagons rattling past, and a peek through the shutter showing them piled with dead and wounded soldiers clinging for their lives to the madly racing conveyances, even to the saddles and manes of the Regulars’ horses, all racing east back toward Boston. It had been madness to risk a look through the shutter, but the scene outside had defied reality.
“Imagine,” Mother had whispered. “They’ve fired on the King’s troops. Oh, this day will never be forgotten.”
“Neither will what the Regulars did in town,” Mercy had muttered darkly. “You heard the reports, Mother. Burning homes, firing on our neighbors. And that’s not even counting what they said happened this morning in Lexington. It was only a matter of time ‘til things came to a head. The surprising thing is that it took as long as it did.”
Still, it was unbelievable. Unthinkable. Their friends and neighbors had fired on the King’s troops.
Fired on the King’s troops.
It was beyond comprehension.
“Well, there’ll be hell to pay now, mark my words.”
“You’ll get no disagreement from me on that, Mother.”
Now, the two stood numbly looking at the carnage outside, Mercy’s little brother Elias trying to see around her shoulder. The relentless pop of gunfire was distant now, off in the direction of Bedford. A Regular, left behind, lay in the road, dragging himself by his elbows in a futile attempt to follow. Another lay dead against a stone wall, blood smearing the rock behind his blond head while a fine chestnut horse stood guard over him. Oh, yes, there will be hell to pay now. Hazy blue-gray smoke drifted over the fields and orchards, the stone walls, the bodies, not discriminating between Regulars and minutemen, injured and dead. The air itself seemed hushed and eerie, stunned into silence from what it had just witnessed as though it, too, could not believe what had just taken place.
And then the cries, the howls of agony, the screaming had started as neighbors emerged from their houses and ran to fallen loved ones, shattering the numbness.
And there was the dark-haired man, still trying to get to his feet, his coat sleeve dark with blood.
“Mother, I’m going to go see to that man out there. He has no one to help him.”
“He’s a stranger, Mercy. Stay here.”
“He is hurt. I don’t care if he’s a stranger.”
“You are far too strong-willed for my liking, young lady.”
“Someone has to be, Mother.”
“Go see to him, then. I’ll get a bed ready. Come, Elias. I’ll need your help.”
Picking up her skirts, Mercy hurried down the steps and to the stranger still out there in the road. He had sat up now and was trying to get to his feet, but by the look of things had turned his ankle badly enough that there was no putting weight on it. He looked up as Mercy approached and she found herself staring into piercing eyes that were not quite blue, not quite green, and not quite brown, but a mixture of all three, now narrowing in distrust as they focused on her.
“Sir, may I help you up?” she asked, reaching down.
“Much obliged,” he grated, and extended a bloodied hand.
She didn’t hesitate to take that hand and found his grip to be firm and strong, his fingers dwarfing her own. “Have you no musket?” she asked, allowing him to brace himself against her as he tried again to gain his feet. “Or are you one of those who grabbed a pitchfork, a shovel, a scythe, and charged unknowingly toward what could have been your death?”
He looked at her for a moment as though confused, glanced at the dead officer lying against the stone wall and shook his head as though to clear it. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re out here without a gun. Have you nothing with which to fight the lobsterbacks?”
“I’ve my sword.”
“A pitiful weapon in the face of a thousand of the King’s troops.”
“So I’ve learned.”
“Can you stand?”
“I can try.”
With her help he managed to get to his feet, proving he was indeed as tall as she’d thought, maybe taller, and towered over her such that she felt diminutive and dwarfed. His blood was warm and slippery between their palms, soaking the fine lace of his shirt cuff and the sleeve of his fine gray coat. Movement caught her eye and Mercy looked up to see two men go running past, muskets in hand and faces grim and determined as they headed off to join the battle to the east. More bloodshed. More death. She blocked out the sounds of cries and weeping all around and directed her attention back to the injured man, noticing the musket-hole in hi
s sleeve.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“My arm? Don’t know. Probably just a scratch.”
He straightened up, his weight on one foot and the toe of the other balancing himself while he leaned against her. Again she was struck by his sheer size, and couldn’t help but notice his broad, powerful shoulders and long legs. He had a look of raw masculinity about him and unbidden, she found herself responding to it.
Stop it, Mercy. What on earth is the matter with you?
“What is your name, sir?”
“Dorian.”
“And your surname?”
“Just Dorian.”
“Well then, Mr. Just Dorian,” she said, trying for a bit of humor to both cover her girlish response to him as well as to lighten the situation, “let me get you inside. Can you walk?”
He just looked at her and raised a brow, the very manner in which he did it managing to make her feel small and rather foolish all at the same time. “Do I look as though I can walk?”
“No, and you don’t look entirely grateful for my help, either. If you’d rather I leave you out here in the road for your own people to come and collect, I’m happy to do so.”
Again, he just looked at her, coolly assessing her with those penetrating, beautiful eyes that shifted with an array of color. “My own people are long gone, up ahead in the fighting. It seems I’ve been forgotten and left behind. So, madam, I am much obliged to you for your assistance.” He took a step and cursed beneath his breath. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“My name is Mercy Payne.”
“I am in your debt.”
“What militia are you from, sir?”
“I was traveling. Staying in Concord. Got caught up in the fighting when a rider ran through in the middle of the night saying the Regulars were out. And that, madam, should answer your question about both my lack of a suitable weapon as well as my company.”
Lord, he was terse. Though if she were in his position—lamed, bleeding, and left behind—she would probably be in an ill-temper, too.
“It does indeed,” she said, and positioned her shoulder under his armpit, her arm around his waist as she guided him off the street and toward the front door, where her mother had reappeared and was watching with anxious eyes. Through her short-jacket and stays, Mercy felt his weight and the warmth of his body, and again had an overwhelming impression of hard, virile strength.
“Come in, young man, do come in,” Mother said, and held the door unnecessarily wide as the pair hobbled up the steps and over the threshold, Elias peering fearfully from just behind her. Her graying hair swept up beneath a plain cap of muslin, she led them to the parlor, where a fire crackled in the hearth.
“Mother, this is Mr. Dorian. He’s been injured. Sit yourself down on the sofa, sir, so we can have a look at that wound,” Mercy instructed. “No sense trying to get you upstairs to a bedroom on that ankle.”
He inclined his head and allowed them to strip off his fine gray coat, then his waistcoat and finally his shirt. If he expected gasps of feminine shock, even fainting at the ragged hole in the flesh of his forearm, he was to be sadly disappointed, Mercy thought. She was made of stronger stuff than that. She pulled off his boots and bade him to lie prone. Mother found a pillow for his head and spread a blanket over him while Mercy, keenly aware of that hard-muscled male chest and powerful shoulders and trying not to let herself be distracted by such a splendid physique, directed her attention to his arm. It was big and brawny, strapped with muscle, but it was the wound that she focused on.
Or tried to, in the face of such masculine perfection.
“May I examine it?” she asked.
“It’s just a scratch. What I’d like is a horse so I can rejoin the fighting. I saw one outside. Will you fetch it for me, madam, so that I can be on my way?”
“When I’m through here. Now lie still so I can take a look at that scratch. You do know you’ve a musket ball buried in the flesh, don’t you?”
His gaze flickered to the wound, then quickly away and toward the window, like a caged animal seeking its freedom. Mercy bent to examine his arm. He turned his proud, handsome face toward her then and his mouth kicked up, ever so faintly, in a smile. Apparently, he liked her attentions.
He didn’t like it so much when her fingers found the musket-ball just beneath the surface of his skin.
“Ahh,” he said, jerking back.
“I’m sorry.” She lifted her gaze to his. “That has to come out.”
“It will keep until I get back to Boston.”
“I thought you were visiting someone in Concord?”
“Yes, and they have chased the Regulars to Boston.”
“I see.” She eyed him speculatively, not quite sure why something felt off about this whole situation. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
She turned and saw her brother, who had come into the room and now stood just behind her, staring wide-eyed at the ugly hole in the stranger’s arm.
Mother tried to guide the boy out. “Elias, go fetch the doctor.”
“No, don’t.” Mercy shook her head. “There are dead and wounded out there, men whose lives are in far more danger than our Mr. Just Dorian.” She ignored the tightening of his lips at her unsuccessful attempt to bring that tiny smile back to his mouth. “I’m sure we can take care of his injuries ourselves.”
“I told you, this is unnecessary,” their patient said curtly.
“You cannot walk and you have a musket ball in your arm. I’d say it’s very necessary indeed.”
“I may not be able to walk, but I can certainly ride.”
“You’re in no condition to resume fighting.”
“And you are no doctor.”
“And you, sir, are most difficult.” Mercy turned back to her brother. “Elias, fetch me some hot water, a clean towel, and my sewing bag. And a knife, if you will. Mother? I’ll need some hot water.”
Both exited the room.
The man attempted to get up. “I’ll not have you put yourself out over me. I am quite able to—”
She pushed him back down. His chest was broad and powerful beneath her hand, his shoulders massive, and she had to ignore her thoughts, which were blaring on about how handsome he was, how magnificent, as if she didn’t already know that, as if she weren’t trying to ignore the constant reminders. Such thoughts were inappropriate, both in scope and timing.
“Mr. Dorian,” she said firmly, “I understand your unwillingness to let a stranger attend to your wounds, but I can assure you I am quite competent. We have a farm, and when you have a farm you learn all manner of animal husbandry. You are quite safe—”
“I am not an animal.”
“—in my hands. Perhaps something to drink will relax you. Elias?” she called over her shoulder. “Elias, please bring our guest a mug of hard cider as well. I daresay he’ll need it.”
She saw by the stranger’s face that he was not accustomed to being the recipient of another’s directive. He had an air of authority about him and was well-dressed, and she suspected he was used to giving orders and not taking them. She wondered, idly, about his calling. Perhaps he was a merchant who had fallen upon hard times after General Gage had closed the port of Boston. Perhaps he was a scholar, or an artisan, or some sort of minor official.
“Where is your husband?” he asked, looking about the small room. “Is he off fighting the Regulars as well?”
“I have no husband. And my father is with the Lord. Ah, thank you, Elias,” she said as her brother returned, her mother, carrying a small knife, lurching painfully along behind him. “Here you go, sir. Hard cider. Drink it up, as it’ll dull the pain of what I’m about to do. There’s more where that came from, should you need it.”
He took the mug from her and eyed it as if she’d poisoned it. A sniff of the brew seemed to satisfy him that it was exactly what it appeared to be and he took a sip, watching her from over the rim while she picked up the towel that E
lias had brought, dipped it in the hot water, and cleaned the blood from around the wound. She tried to be gentle. She tried to detach herself from the fact that his very splendid chest and hard, corded arms were bared to her gaze and that her hands were on his skin.
God help her, she tried.
He lowered the mug, resting it against his hip.
“Drink some more,” Mercy said.
“I’ve had enough.”
She wasn’t going to argue with him. “Very well then. Would you like something to bite on?”
“Surely it’s not going to cause me that much pain.”
“You’re probably right,” she said doubtfully. “But it’ll keep your mind off what I’m doing.”
“Just get on with it so I can be on my way.”
Mercy shrugged, palpated the wound until she located the lead ball, and took the knife from her mother. She felt the involuntary tensing of the man’s arm and looking up, saw that his face was impatient, uncertain and tight, his mouth grim. She found another pillow and placed it under his injured arm, raising her working surface.
And then she touched the knife to the telltale bulge beneath the skin.
He said nothing as she worked, though her instructions to remain still were followed. She was deft with the blade, splitting the skin over the small lump of lead and causing a fresh dribble of blood to come pouring out of the wound. Mercy caught it with the towel, maneuvered the musket ball to the cut she had made, and gently extracted it.
“There,” she said, smiling. She cleaned the small sphere of lead with the towel and held it up, examining it. “That was in deep.”
“A mere flesh wound. It is no reason to delay me here.”
“No, but your ankle is.”
“I can ride. And that fine chestnut stallion standing next to the dead soldier outside will do most nicely.”
“If he’s that fine a horse, I’m sure someone has already claimed him and he’s long gone. Besides, I’m not finished.”
“There’s nothing you can do for my ankle except advise me to stay off it, which I already have the sense to do.”
World of de Wolfe Pack: Heart Of The Sea Wolfe (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Heroes Of The Sea Book 8) Page 1
