The Most Unlikely Lady

by Barbara Devlin

  High on a hill, eleven cloaked figures stood, wrapped ethereally, in the mist. Behind, the sun embarked on its usual journey, bathing them in gold brilliance.

  When Everett caught sight of the mysterious silhouettes, he shot her a quizzical glance.

  Sabrina winked and urged her mount faster.

  The Brethren of the Coast were not only her friends, but also they were her family.

  Long ago, on a moonlit night, they had taken an oath.

  Promised their love, honor, and devotion.

  In the distance, they waited to vow the same to their newest brother--her husband. Happiness filled her heart, lit her soul. Mentally, she replayed the words in her head. It was an ancient covenant first pledged by warriors long dead but not forgotten. Their spirit, their honor survived. It beat in the heart of every Nautionnier Knight.

  For love and comradeship we live.

  And how they lived.

  Excerpt from One-Knight Stand

  Book Four of the Brethren of the Coast Series

  Available in February 2014 Exclusively on Amazon.com

  The Descendants

  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, so he never knew her. In brief, he relived the sadness when his father had perished of a liver ailment after years of excessive drinking, although the man was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. He revisited the sense of vulnerability when, at the age of fourteen, he struggled in vain against frigid waters to save his cousin, Thomas.

  As an anchor about his neck, he considered his title, which he inherited once his guardian passed, because Thomas, the original heir, had preceded his sire in death. Lance had always looked on the burden of the peerage as penance for his inability to rescue his beloved relation.

  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 attained. There were so many experiences of which he had yet to partake and places to which he had never journeyed. He had 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 tight as the Demetrius righted herself. Frothing waves crashed over the sides, spilling onto the deck. A ravenous beast, the angry seas threatened to swallow the mighty frigate in a single gulp.

  Staccato bursts of lightning pierced the turbulent skies, flashing rapid-fire glimpses of the tempest raging in all directions. In the distance, four imposing vessels belonging to the knights of the Brethren of the Coast tossed about like wooden toys in a bath, and his was the fifth ship in the line.

  In his wake, he could barely make out a familiar silhouette. 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, engaged in fierce combat for control of the craft. Lashed to the wheel to keep from falling overboard, they waged war against the tempestuous ocean.

  Surrendering to a mighty gale, the Demetrius heeled hard a starboard. Clutching the rail, Lance peered down and surmised he could skim the surface of the swirling sea if he fully extended his arm. With a wicked shudder, he gulped and decided not to put it to test.

  “Hold her, boys!” the first mate screamed above the howling winds.

  With a death-grip on the wheel, Lance braced himself as the bow rose sharply. The ship crested, lightning speared the clouds, and thunder roared in an ominous specter of doom.

  In an instant, the fore topmast stay snapped, and the staysail unfurled. Lance noted the fluttering canvas and cursed, because he knew what would happen next. And it was the last thing he needed at the moment.

  “No.” Though he voiced the denial, it was muffled amid the bluster 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 blast.

  “Bloody hell.” He gritted his teeth. “Hold on!”

  The bow jerked forcibly to starboard, and the relentless zephyr threatened to bring down the rigging en masse.

  “Cap’n, we have to take in that sail before we founder.”

  “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 at the seasoned tar. The stern lamps had long ago been doused by the mountainous waves, and in the flickering light from the storm, he spied grim resolution etched in his crewman’s expression.

  “The Demetrius will swim without me, Cap’n. You’re responsible for the ship and her crew.” Scottie squeezed hard on his wrist. “Let me go, sir.”

  Despite instincts to the contrary, Lance nodded once.

  In mere minutes, Lance lost sight of his first mate in the driving rain. “Can you see him?” he shouted to the helmsman.

  “No, sir.” Mr. Hazard wiped his brow. “He might have gone in the drink, Cap’n.”

  With a hand, Lance shielded his eyes from the savage deluge that pummeled his flesh, stinging like a swarm of angry bees. He did not want to think it, did not want to consider the fact that he may have sent his first mate to his death. Craning his neck, he strained to focus through the torrent.

  Lightning blazed across the sky, and Lance caught sight of Scottie. A tremor of fear wrenched his gut.

  Off the bow, which rose as they rode the peak of the wave, the first mate dangled precariously from the larboard rail. Another thunderbolt momentarily blinded Lance.

  In an instant, he was no longer aboard his ship. Instead, he found himself 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 do not always 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, the fiery gadling kept Lance from being the proverbial stick in the mud.

  Finally, Lance smiled and shook his head. “We are going to get into trouble,” he hollered to his cousin who was already walking away. He frowned and checked to see no one was watching before following Thomas into 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, took turns running onto the ice. The air was crisp, and their expelled breath produced puffs of smoke, as they slid across the slippery surface on the smooth soles of their boots.

  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. Lance 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, and then
he splayed his arms wide for balance, as he veered in a graceful arc.

  As he struggled to right himself, Lance halted when a loud cracking sound snared his attention. Beneath his feet, in the pristine veneer, jagged lines suddenly snaked in every direction. He froze.

  “Thomas, do not move.”

  To his chagrin, his errant cousin ignored the warning. In the process of gathering speed for another sail across the ice, Thomas tripped and disappeared below the surface. Only his arms, shoulders, and head remained visible.

  “Lance. Help. 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.

  “Stay still, Thomas.” Crawling slowly, on his palms and knees, Lance scooted toward the middle of the pond and closer to his cousin. “I am coming for you.”

  But as Lance neared, the ice collapsed. 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 only to his chin.

  Tilting his head back, he gasped for air.

  A flicker of movement caught his attention.

  Hands flailed helplessly.

  Lightning flashed, and water splashed over his face as he wrenched to the present. 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 he would not let his first mate die.

  He untied his lifeline, and the helmsman did the same.

  “Go below and get help.”

  Mr. Hazard nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Using a section of rope, Lance tied the wheel in place, hoping the thick twine would withstand the forces of nature until he or the helmsman returned.

  The stern rose as the waves drove the ship. The bow crashed violently into the valley. In a burst of light, Lance spied Scottie. He had lost his grip with one hand and was swinging by the other.

  After making his way down the companion ladder, he 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. The wind wailed, as the mournful cries of a grieving widow.

  Reaching out, Lance grasped the wrist of his first mate. Scottie stared at him, and a mixture of relief and gratitude washed over his face. With one powerful tug, using his bodyweight as a counterbalance, Lance fell backward on the deck as he hauled Scottie over the rail.

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, 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 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 as they engaged in an awkward waltz, of sorts, gathering the unruly sheet. In a rush, he tucked the sail to the yardarm.

  A loud, unnatural crack snared his senses.

  An eerie premonition of deja vu nipped at his heels, gooseflesh covered him from top to toe, and he peered skyward. Hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, the foremast yardarm splintered in two, and it listed in the wind, back and forth, as a perilous pendulum. One end threatened to drop on them at any moment.

  “Look out.” Lance waved his arms in warning. “Scottie, get out of the way.”

  “What?” the seaman replied.

  He pointed, but the first mate did not appear cognizant of the impending danger.

  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 large, jagged piece of wood. Lance landed, face first, on the unforgiving planks of the main deck. Pain ratcheted through his body, though it was not from his fall. It was from the crushing weight of the yardarm, as it snapped the bone of his sprawled leg.

  “Captain.”

  Lance flinched at the shout of alarm and the panic in the voice of his first mate. It seemed as though a hundred fingers surveyed his body, and someone turned him over. He blinked his eyes and found himself in his room at Sandgate Manor, the Raynesford ancestral pile.

  A single candle sat on a bedside table, and thick quilts had been tucked to his chin. A physician explained his condition to his aunt and uncle, the Marquess and Marchioness of Raynesford, who had cared for him since his father had passed.

  He trained his ear as the marquess detailed how a schoolmaster spied Lance and Thomas running away from class. By the time the teacher trailed them, Thomas had drowned in the icy pond. The schoolmaster pulled a barely conscious Lance from the frigid water and carried him back to school.

  He shivered.

  Thomas was dead.

  Lance moaned and twisted beneath the mountain of bedcovers. The physician ushered his guardians into the hall so as not to disturb him. He fought sleep, because he feared if he surrendered he might never wake, and was still lucid when the door to his bedchamber creaked.

  A shadowy silhouette entered the room and tiptoed to his bed. In the soft light from the candle, he studied the familiar face, committing every subtle nuance to memory. He had known the young girl since she was born.

  Through half-open eyes, he gazed on her graceful form as she placed one of her wooden miniatures, a brightly painted green turtle, on the bedside table. She collected the quaint figurines, treasured them, so he was surprised she would part with one of her gems.

  She glanced over her shoulder and appeared to be checking to make sure no one was there, before leaning forward and setting her mouth to his.

  It was his first kiss.

  “Get well, Lance.” She pressed her palm, cool against his fevered skin, to his cheek. “You are my hero.”

  After that, he had slept.

  “Easy, lads!”

  The concern in Scottie’s words came to him through a fog of anguish and confusion.

  As Lance slipped beneath the comforting blanket of unconsciousness, a name passed his lips. A bare whisper, it was lost in the blustery gale of the storm, so no one heard. But he said it just the same.

  “Cara.”

  Table of Contents

  untitled

  The Most Unlikely Lady

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from One-Knight Stand

 

 

 
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