Love's Guardian

by Dawn Ireland

  They took the ladder near the hold, leaving the man with the hat on deck. The rest of the crew must still be asleep below. He’d better get this over with. The sun already edged the horizon.

  Creeping along the railing, he approached the ladder. He could drop the short distance to the main deck, but the noise would alert his prey.

  The unwary sailor searched his pockets and brought out what appeared to be a piece of driftwood and a small knife. He turned, resting his elbows on the rail near the gangplank. Declan descended the ladder, watching for any sign the man might be aware of him.

  Once he reached the main deck, he hurried to close the distance between them. The man barely had time to turn before Declan landed a blow to his jaw.

  The force of the impact flung the sailor against the rail, his wood and knife skidding across the worn deck. He stirred once, then slumped with his chin on his chest.

  Declan dragged the unconscious man behind a crate and returned to the gangplank. He pulled a white square of cloth from his pocket and waved it high overhead.

  Without waiting to see if Morgan approached, he turned, tossed the cloth on the deck, and headed for the ladder. As he peered down into the opening, a ragged looking sailor loomed out of the darkness below. He ducked out of sight. Too late. The early morning light must have been enough to show the man he wasn’t part of the crew.

  A bellow reverberated through the ship. Declan fell back to join Morgan and his men at the entrance. Sailors in various forms of undress scampered up the ladders on each side of the hold. Most clutched swords, though he saw a scimitar or two among them. With grim relief, he realized none of the men looked familiar.

  Morgan covered his back as Declan fought to gain one of the ladders near the hold. If he could break through, he doubted there would be many men below to hinder him.

  As though guessing his intent, Luther’s men swarmed in front of him. He barely had time to run one man through before another took his place. His arm was beginning to ache, and he wiped the sweat from his eyes.

  Between adversaries, he stole glimpses of his surroundings, hoping Alex might find a way from below deck. Shafts of light cut through the clouds illuminating pools of blood staining the white wood beneath their feet. Moans from the injured, shouts, and the clanging of metal against metal filled the air.

  One man, no more than a boy, lay nearby with a knife protruding from his shoulder, the blade pinning him to the mast at his back. The lad’s glazed eyes stared up at him out of a cherub face.

  He turned away. Addington would pay, first for Alex, then for the poor he preyed on to do his bidding. Where was the coward?

  A glint of metal high above the confusion caught his attention. Addington hurried across the quarterdeck, dragging Alex, a knife at her throat.

  She was alive.

  He wanted to sink to his knees in relief, but his burly adversary made it impossible. With a desperate parry, he disarmed the man and sank his blade into a meaty forearm. The man squealed with pain and charged like an enraged bull. Declan sidestepped and shoved the man into a barrel. His opponent’s head shattered the wood. He twitched once, then lay still.

  Before another of Luther’s men could take his place, he turned to Morgan and gestured upward. His friend’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Addington and Alex on the deck above.

  Addington would undoubtedly try to take one of the small boats. He caught Morgan’s attention, and they moved away from the thick of the battle as he hurriedly explained his makeshift plan to his friend.

  The two fought in the direction of one of the ladders leading to the quarterdeck. Once they’d reached their destination, Morgan nodded to him, turned toward the starboard railing and melted into the mass of men and swords. He headed for the ladder and took the steps two at a time, thankful the main part of the battle still raged near the bow. At the top, he peered over the edge.

  Addington attempted to launch a boat with one hand, while trying to maintain his hold on Alex. She wasn’t making it easy for him, in spite of the knife at her throat. Even with her hands tied, she twisted like a sail caught in a crosswind. He swallowed. There wasn’t another woman who could compare to her, but her courageous attempts at escape seemed merely a distraction for Addington. His foppish appearance disguised a strength he had underestimated.

  After a quick glance to make sure no one else accompanied Addington, he grabbed the railing and hauled himself onto the deck, then proceeded toward the struggling couple with care. As he drew near, he could see a thin line of dried blood cutting a path down Alex’s neck. Her swollen right cheek already showed purple and red against her pale skin. The ties for her shirt dangled, exposing a red welt between the tops of her breasts. He fought to control his rage.

  “Addington.” He roared the name. His shout hung in the air, easily heard over the waning battle.

  For a moment his adversary held still, surprise and uncertainty in his eyes, then he yanked Alex in front of him and pressed the knife deeper into the skin below her chin. “Stay away.”

  He stopped.

  Addington smirked and put his other arm around Alex, resting his hand several inches below her shoulder. “I’d be very careful if I were you.” He gazed at Declan, then moved his hand downward, encompassing her breast. “It would give me great pleasure to kill her.” He saw Addington’s fingers tighten around the mound of flesh.

  Alex’s expression didn’t change, but her chest moved rapidly under Addington’s hand. He fought the urge to lunge at him. If he did, he knew she’d be dead before he could cover the ten-foot gap. He needed to stall for time.

  “You’re making a mistake.” Declan lowered his rapier, and assumed a non-threatening stance. “If you kill her, King George may wonder about the circumstances of her death. He might even refuse to grant your petition.”

  Addington gave a slight shrug. “I would tell the king we were attacked. My poor future wife was a casualty of battle.”

  Sweat broke out on Declan’s palms. Alex held perfectly still, her gaze locked on him. He could see the trust in her eyes. She thought he would save her. He looked away, dreading what he had to do. “There’s no need to kill her. The king would grant your petition if I backed you, as her guardian, of course.”

  “Why would you do that?” Addington’s eyes narrowed, and the knife against Alex’s throat relaxed a little.

  “I have no need of her title or estates.” He prayed he sounded reasonable. “If I marry her, I acquire the wife I need to provide my heir, and I satisfy an old debt to her grandfather.” He kept his gaze focused on Addington, afraid to see the look in Alex’s eyes. He forced a smile. “Besides, it goes against the nature of things for a woman to hold a title. Don’t you agree?”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of dark blue near some crates to his left. Thank God, Morgan had made it.

  Addington appeared thoughtful. He brought Alex closer and spoke in a loud whisper. “I’d always intended to make you pay for the way you’ve treated me.”

  Declan gave a slight shrug and schooled his features to feign indifference. “If you do, other members of the Ton may not be willing to give you their daughters. With your title and wealth, you could look higher than an earl’s granddaughter.” The comment hit its mark.

  A calculating gleam appeared in Addington’s eyes, then his mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m not a fool. Once you have the girl, you’d never back me. You’re saying this because you’re in love with her and would try anything to get her back.”

  What was keeping Morgan? He should be in place by now. Addington wasn’t going to stand here forever.

  Declan forced a smile to his lips. “I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation with the ladies.” His condescending voice would have made Catrina proud. “They consider me a cold fish. I’ve yet to succumb to their charms.” He smoothed the folds of his cravat as if he hadn’t a care in the world, then raised an eyebrow at his adversary. “Do you really think I’d be enamored of a woman who dres
ses like a man and has a tongue as sharp as her blade?”

  To his relief, Morgan straightened up from behind the capstan, then ducked under the bars used to wind the cables onto the giant barrel. He crept forward to within eight feet of Addington’s back.

  “What assurances would—?”

  Morgan yelled behind him. Addington’s eyes widened in surprise at the sound. “What?” He twisted and jerked his captive with him. The movement threw the two of them off balance. In his struggle to remain upright, Addington dropped the knife from Alex’s throat.

  Declan’s voice split the air.

  “Alex, run.”

  It was the moment Alex had been waiting for. With a strength born of fury, she brought her heel back and connected squarely with Luther’s shin. Startled, he doubled over, and released her.

  Morgan grabbed her arm and yanked her sideways. He gave a small grunt as she connected with his chest. They swayed for an instant before he got his feet under him.

  She turned away from Morgan’s waistcoat at the hiss of two rapiers being drawn from their scabbards. The sound had always given her a sense of anticipation; now it filled her with dread.

  Her gaze sought Declan. How much of what he’d said was the truth? She’d been hurt and angry, but those emotions seemed to fade as she realized he stood, dark and proud, with his rapier held at the ready. His face wore an expression she’d never seen. It seemed to have lost its humanity. Even the muscle in his jaw stood still.

  She felt Morgan run a blade between her hands and cut the ropes that bound her. Rubbing her wrists, she stepped forward. She had to stop this. Morgan stepped around her.

  Declan held out his hand, palm facing them. “He’s mine.”

  It wasn’t so much the action, but his tone of voice that made them stand their ground. She turned to locate her cousin.

  Luther stood, fair hair shining in the sunlight and hatred glowing in his eyes. In one hand he clutched the dagger she knew only too well and in the other his rapier. With a show of arrogance, he stuck the knife in his boot, then nodded to Declan.

  As a young girl, she’d watched Luther practice his fencing skills. He excelled, but even then she recognized it was not the love of the sport but the love of the kill that gave him an edge.

  There were no niceties exchanged. Her cousin came at Declan with purpose. In spite of the aggressive attack, Luther’s moves were calculated, his parries clean and precise.

  Both men seemed to be trying to contain their movements. The ship’s cluttered deck, full of an assortment of ropes, eyebolts, and buckets, could cause the duel to be lost by distraction, rather than skill.

  Their blades danced in the sunlight. Luther was smaller in stature and quick, but his extension couldn’t compete with Declan’s. Her cousin would attack, retreat, attack and retreat. Like a cat that toyed with its prey, staying just beyond his opponent’s lethal blade.

  They’d pinked each other several times. Blood didn’t show on Declan’s shirt, and she had no idea how badly he’d been injured. Unlike Luther, his expression didn’t change when his opponent’s sword cut through the material on his chest.

  Her cousin danced around Declan, vivid red ribbons etched across his white waistcoat like the claw marks of a wild animal. None of the wounds appeared to be very deep, but his movements started to show hesitation.

  The sounds of sporadic fighting below, and the screech of the gulls above blended with the pounding of her heart. There was nothing she could do as the lethal battle continued. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been able to step into the fray. Morgan’s hand rested on her arm for more than support.

  The opponents twisted and flexed as each tried to gain an advantage. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry in endless succession.

  Luther began to take more risks. He must be tiring. She understood his strategy. The incredible bursts of speed were his attempt at ending the duel before he grew too tired to defend himself. It’s what she would have done.

  The urgency of Luther’s attack put Declan on the offensive. Again and again, he beat back Luther’s desperate lunges. Declan’s parry fell short at an unusually quick thrust, and Luther’s blade passed through his sword arm. Luther pulled it free, a smile on his face.

  The wound barely slowed Declan, but she knew he couldn’t keep up this pace. She wasn’t aware that she’d started forward until she felt Morgan tugging on her arm. Sweat broke out on her palms.

  Declan was running out of time, and she suspected he knew it. He began to press his advantage. Keeping his blade at full extension, he forced her cousin backward. They battled past the companionway to the wheel. Luther’s smile faltered.

  Blood dripped from Declan’s arm as he backed his opponent up as far as the fife rail around the mizzenmast. Luther thrust high. Declan caught the point in the material between his left arm and chest. The tip tangled in the fabric. Her cousin desperately tried to extract it, but Declan’s blade slid through his chest, between the rails, and into the mast. Luther’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  Declan yanked his blade free and kicked Luther’s fallen rapier away from his body. He twisted, his gaze searching the ship until he saw her.

  She couldn’t read his expression. What was he thinking? Relief and uncertainty fought for dominance. Her foolish actions had caused this. He had every right to be angry.

  Declan stood looking at her. It was then she noticed Luther looming up behind him like a bloody ghoul. Rage distorted his features. Her cousin’s unsteady gait brought him within striking distance of Declan’s back. She could see the glint of her dagger in his hand.

  In one motion, she swept her blade from its neck sheath. Please. The word echoed in her mind as the hilt flew from her fingertips.

  Declan jumped to the left, his eyebrows raised, as her weapon sped past his right shoulder and landed in Luther’s throat.

  Her cousin fell forward, the dagger still clenched in his hand.

  Nobody moved.

  Declan was the first to recover. He glanced back at Luther’s body, then strode over to her and gently touched her injured cheek. She heard the air leave his body for one long moment, as if he’d been holding his breath till then.

  “Alex, I want to break our agreement.”

  She backed away from him. All the old hurt and anger resurfaced. It was foolish of her to think this would change anything. With Luther gone, he was free to marry Catrina and force her into marriage with someone else. Pain shot through her. “Does killing Luther wipe away your debt to my grandfather? I thought you needed me to produce your heir.”

  He grabbed her upper arms, his grip surprisingly strong in spite of the blood she could see soaking his shirt. He waited until she looked up, then stared into her eyes, desperation and something else in his gaze. It was the “something else” that made her heart beat faster. “What I need is to have you never leave me again. If you so much as go riding, I intend to be at your side.”

  “But I thought—”

  He gave her a slight shake, as though admonishing a child. “I’m in love with you, and I’ll not risk losing you again. I’ll marry you tonight if I have to.”

  Hope filled her like a sail unfurled to catch the wind, but then she remembered his comments about her unladylike conduct. “I want to help with my estates, and don’t expect me to give up fencing and daggers. It’s who I am.”

  The tension went out of his body, and he smiled that secret smile that warmed her insides. He lightly grasped her chin. “Why would I want a predictable society lady when my hoyden is so entertaining? Besides, how can I argue with a skill which saved my life?”

  He gathered her to him, melding their bodies and lips as one.

  Morgan’s smug voice reminded them they weren’t alone. “I’m thinking she’s been thanked enough. We need to see to the men.”

  Startled, they both glanced over at Morgan. His brown eyes twinkling, he executed a small bow. “After all, we’ve a wedding to plan.”

  Epilogue

&
nbsp; My dearest Alex,

  If you are reading this, perhaps you have forgiven me. I couldn’t tell you about Declan. You would have fought me if I had. I love you both, and I knew you belonged together. Try not to be too much of a trial for him, my dear, but perhaps a little spirit is not such a bad thing. You brought joy to my life, Alex, as I’m sure you will bring joy to Declan. Take care of each other.

  Alex lowered the letter her grandfather’s solicitor had given her at the wedding feast. He’d been instructed to present it upon her marriage to Declan Devereaux, the Earl of Worthington. The poor solicitor had raised his bushy brows and asked if she and Declan had been betrothed a long time before their wedding. At her negative reply, he’d shaken his head, shrugged, and handed her an envelope.

  She smiled. Her grandfather had known them well. Left on their own, they would never have given love a chance. She sighed, dropped the letter to her lap, and leaned back in the bedroom chair, listening for sounds from the crib where her six-month-old son slept.

  Her husband had challenged Luther with more calm than he’d shown when faced with her pregnancy. He’d refused to leave her side during the long months and insisted on the best doctors, not being satisfied with one man’s opinion. It had been difficult, but she’d endured it because she understood what he feared.

  Declan entered the room, his steps a whisper of sound on the plush carpet. He wore his traditional black, which was even more of a trial for Richards now that he was often covered with white cat hair.

  Last Christmas, he’d given her a longhaired white kitten with the collar she had thought lost around its neck. Since that time, Guardian had not been far from Declan’s side. She could usually find him wrapped around the back of her husband’s neck. Alex understood the attraction. She liked wrapping her arms around his neck as well.