Andrew hurried out of the kitchen in time to see Captain Lord coming back in, his face grave. He met his wife and Andrew near the door.
“She’s not in the coach,” he said, and Andrew felt the prickle of fear in the base of his spine become downright terror.
* * *
Her arm hurt. Her shoulder hurt.
But above all, her head hurt.
It was the pain that finally prodded her awake.
Nerissa opened her eyes and lay there in the dimly lit darkness for a long moment, wondering where she was. Her confusion over her whereabouts only increased when her surroundings proved to be most unfamiliar. This was not her bedroom at De Montforte House in London. It was not the bedroom of the London townhouse where she and Andrew had gone to demonstrate his new explosive. In fact, it was not a room at all, though it was indeed a room—of sorts.
Most rooms did not move. This one did, slightly; she could feel her body swaying gently from side to side on the small bed-of-sorts on which she lay, and she remembered, then, the terrifying fall down the stairs.
I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating.
She moved her arm—the one that did not hurt—and pinched herself. Ouch.
This was no dream.
Gingerly, she pushed herself up on her good arm, pressed two fingers to her aching forehead and saw, by the glow of a lantern that made his features sharp and distinct, Mrs. Lord’s rude, odious, unmannerly, uncouth, and thoroughly awful Irish brother standing a few feet away, leaning a hip against a small table and watching her.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes,” he murmured, and a coiled tenseness went out of him, as though on a great breath of relief. He lifted a tin mug to his lips.
She was decently covered, still clad in her teal silk gown but even so, she snatched at a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and pulled it up over herself as she recoiled in horror and confusion. What had happened? Where was Andrew? Where was Captain Lord, Sir Elliott, everyone else? Where was she? And why was this man gazing at her from over the top of his mug with a gleam in his eye, a thoughtful watchfulness that prickled her skin and made her want to get up and flee?
As if reading her mind, he lowered the mug and said, “Ye fell down the stairs earlier this evenin’, lass. So I brought ye here.”
“Here?” She frowned. “Where is ‘here?’”
“About three miles east of Margate.” At her blank look he added, “We’re at sea.”
“What?” This made no sense at all, though it certainly explained the swaying of her surroundings, the sounds of wood creaking, easing and straining, and the heady scent of salt that filled the air. At sea. Which meant she was on a ship. A ship? “I don’t understand…my brother Andrew would never have allowed this… What have you done with him? Why am I here?”
He toasted her with the mug. “Ah, well, I’m an enterprisin’ sort. Saw a chance and took it, I did.”
“A chance for what?”
“A chance to obtain something I’ve come a long ways to get.”
“It didn’t occur to you that I might need a doctor?”
“Surgeon’s come and gone.”
“What?”
“Several times, in fact.”
She stared at him, wondering if she was in the middle of a dream. Or a novel in which she was a mere character, infused with thoughts and visuals written by someone else. This was not real. It couldn’t be. Confusion tangled with alarm, and then indignation.
She swung her legs out of bed—and he was suddenly beside her, one hand firmly gripping her arm.
His hand.
His strong, masculine, hand.
On her person.
How dare you.
She glared at him, then pointedly at his hand before meeting his calm, slightly amused gaze once more.
“Remove your hand from my person this instant.”
“Promise to stay put?”
“I’m not promising anything until you give me some answers.”
He removed the offending fingers from her arm but with a certain mocking reluctance, a faint brush of her sleeve that infuriated her, and pulled up a stout ladderbacked chair. “Answers, eh? Right. Well then, first things first. Ye’re on the Continental brig Tigershark out of Boston.”
“Continental brig?”
“American Navy.”
“America doesn’t have a navy.”
“Aye, it does, and I’m part of it. Ever hear of John Adams? Sent me here himself, he did. Oh, we have a navy all right.”
“What you have is men in ships who are pirates. Men who are committing treason against their king. You are British, and as such any ‘navy’ you think you belong to should be the Royal one.”
“No, ma’m. I’m Irish.” The teasing light had gone out of his eyes and his voice hardened, aligning with the ruthless, dangerous part of him she had sensed but so far in her limited interactions with him, had not yet seen. He leaned close, close enough to see that his eyes, which she’d thought were blue, were actually a striking shade of amethyst beneath their heavy black fringe of lashes. “Don’t ever make the mistake of calling me British.”
She glared at him, hating him. The uncouth, ill-bred, savage lout. Oh, when my brothers catch up to you….
He pinned her with that cold stare. “Are we clear on that?”
“Trust me, I would never make that mistake.”
It was an insult, aristocratically delivered. It was an insult letting him know that no Irishman could ever measure up to an Englishman in class, quality, and manners, and he wasn’t so dull that he didn’t register it immediately. Getting to his feet, he planted his hands on either side of her body and leaned down and close, right up into her face. “You, Sunshine, are a hostage on my ship. Do as ye’re told and your stay here will be short, much to the benefit and relief of us both.”
That close, she could smell him. Salt water. Fresh wind. The lye soap that his shirt had been laundered in.
His point made, he straightened up, shot her a dark glare over his shoulder, and reached for a bottle with which to refill his mug.
Nerissa swung her legs out of the bed. “I am leaving.”
“And going where?” He nodded toward the windows behind him, one of which was open to admit a heady balm of salty night air. “There’s a whole ocean out there. Unless you can walk on water, Sunshine, you aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
“How dare you speak to me that way! I am Lady Nerissa de—”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn who you are. Now, get up and move around if ye’ve a mind to, but we’re at sea and unless you plan to throw yourself overboard with all the drama of a Shakespearean heroine, ye’re stuck here as a guest of America in general and myself in particular. Get used to it.”
Nerissa stared at him, mouth agape, too shocked, too flabbergasted, to even muster a response. Nobody had ever spoken to her in such a way or treated her—the daughter and sister of a duke—with such a staggering level of rudeness and disrespect. She felt as though he had slapped her across the face. Gone was the teasing, roguish, outrageously flirtatious and rather foolish drunk he’d been—or pretended to be—at the naval gathering back in London. This man had a sharp intelligence about him, an edge like a freshly-honed knife. That hard mouth was unsmiling, almost cruel. Those glittering eyes were cold beneath their thick black lashes. Those shoulders were wide and powerful, the legs long and well-shaped in their white breeches, and there was an almost untamed savagery about him that dwelt, she sensed, just beneath the surface.
Well of course there was. He was, after all, Irish.
And she was alone with him.
Fear gripped her heart and she forced herself to remain composed, telling herself that she had nothing to worry about, that Lucien, that all of her brothers would be turning the world upside down to get her back and punish this—this savage for his audacity.
There was a knock on the door.
“What is it?”
/>
“Wind’s backed a point, sir. First lieutenant sends his respects and wants to know if you want to change tack.”
“Aye, ’tis as good a time as any. I’ll be on deck shortly.”
The footsteps retreated and her tormenter stuck the mug, now empty, onto a hook that protruded from the painted planking that would pass, in any other space, for a wall. He picked up what looked to be a smart blue and white uniform coat from the back of a chair and began to shrug into it, already dismissing her.
“Sir?”
Blue uniform?
Answers. She wanted answers.
“You can’t just abduct me and hold me for hostage! And hostage for what? Who do you think you are? My brother is one of the most powerful men in England! When he catches up to you, he’ll slit your belly and strangle you with your own entrails! Do you know what you’ve done?”
The Irishman just shrugged, unconcerned, and shoved his other arm into his coat sleeve.
“Does your sister Mrs. Lord know that I’m here? Does your brother-in-law, Captain Lord? The admiral, Sir Elliott?”
“Don’t be stupid, of course not.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Not yet.”
“Who are you? In actuality?”
“Ruaidri O’ Devir, ma’m, just as ye thought.” He picked up a tricorne hat and headed for the door.
“I wish to know why I am here!”
He stopped then, his patience exhausted, and looked her straight in the eye. “Your brother developed an explosive which he’s about to sell to your country. My country needs it so we can win this miserable struggle with yours. Since I doubt England or your brother are going to just hand it over to us, ye’re my payment for it. A ransom, if ye will. Understand?”
“What do you mean your country? Ireland is not at war with England…you are mad.”
“No, Sunshine. I’m not mad. I’m a commissioned captain in America’s Continental Navy if ye must know, and because John Adams decided there’s nobody in the Navy as audacious, reckless or downright foolish as I am, he chose me to come and get that explosive. Ye’re my ransom. If yer family wants ye back, they’ll hand it over as well as the formula on how t’ create it. Now are ye finished? I’ve a ship to see to.”
She stared at him, aghast. “Your sister is married to a captain in the Royal Navy…her brother-in-law is a famous admiral…you would dare do this right under all their noses?”
He smiled then, his long lashes throwing shadow against his cheekbones in the dim orange glow of the lantern and in that moment, he looked almost handsome. Almost. “Indeed, I would.” The smile spread. “Indeed, I have.”
And with that he shoved open the door and without a backwards glance, left.
* * *
On deck, a cool breeze was blowing out of the south and a slice of moon glinted against the breaking crests of dark, nearby seas.
Ruaidri was glad to be out of his cabin. That woman back there—she stirred things in his bones, put unwelcome thoughts in his head, caused his cock to stiffen in his breeches in a way it had no business doing. She was a bloody Englishwoman, for the love of Christ. He’d told himself he’d only stayed with her to ensure she was fine after that terrible fall down the stairs several hours before—after all, what good was a hostage that one had taken for ransom if that hostage were dead?
He received the salute of Lieutenant Morgan, who had the deck.
“How is the lady, sir?”
“Quite recovered, and just like the rest of her kind, thinks I’m nothin’ but a bug under her damned shoe. We’ll be well rid of her once we get that explosive.” He looked at Morgan. The lines of strain around his mouth and the smell of ginger did not escape him. He knew all about his lieutenant’s queasy stomach. His voice gentled. “Go below and get some rest, John. I’ll take over from here.”
“Aye, sir.”
Morgan gave his salute and melted off into the darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Imagine. He, a captain in the Continental Navy now, enjoying a status that once, a long time ago, he would never have even dared to dream about. But that had been before his brother-in-law Christian, had outsmarted him back in ’75 and taught him a thing or two about humility.
Before the duel.
Before Josiah.
Before Dolores Ann.
The brig moved easily beneath him as though sharing his thoughts, his memories, and far off in the night he could imagine he saw the distant coast of Ireland.
“Delight.”
There. He’d said it. Her name.
And there was nothing but the sound of the waves to repeat it back to him.
He turned from the rail.
Some memories were better left alone.
Chapter 4
Blackheath Castle, Berkshire, England
Late the following morning…
Many miles away, in one of the most majestic and important homes in England, the sixth duke of Blackheath had just sat down to breakfast with his duchess, Eva, when a footman approached the table with a message for His Grace:
My dear brother,
I have urgent and distressing news. Tonight, while entertaining the Royal Navy with a display of my explosive (as you had advised), Nerissa went missing from Captain Lord’s townhouse. I am turning London upside down in my attempts to locate her and have enlisted the assistance of everyone I can find, but at this point I am at a loss as to what has happened to her or where she could be. Needless to say, I fear the worst. Please come to the City immediately.
— Andrew
Lucien felt the blood drain from his face.
Eva was instantly alert and on her feet, already coming to his side. “What is it, Lucien?”
He waved the footman away and passed the message to his duchess, already throwing his napkin down and pushing back his plate. “I must go to London. Immediately.”
Eva hastily scanned the short message, then hurried after him as he stalked purposely from the room, already calling for his valet.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, please. I would rather you stayed here with little Augustus. He’ll need his mother, and I won’t subject him to travel or the hot stinking pit that is London in the summertime any more than Andrew wished to subject Celsie or little Laura to it,” he said, referring to Andrew’s baby daughter. “I know you mean well, Eva, and at any other time I’d want you with me, but not this one.”
She followed him down the corridor. Phelps, his valet, was already there, not blinking an eye as his master ordered traveling clothes laid out, luggage packed and the ducal coach to be readied. “Please, Lucien, try not to worry. We both know she’s not been the same after…after Perry. She still grieves him. Maybe she ran off to try and call on him. Maybe she had a disagreement with Andrew. It could be any number of things. You’ll find her.”
Lucien said nothing. His wife was only trying to assuage his sudden fear, as all loved ones do when bad news hits. She was making excuses, offering rational explanations for Nerissa’s disappearance when really, there were none.
Was it possible that she had, indeed, taken it into her head to make a last gallant effort to win back the heart of the man she’d loved?
Had he missed something? Was his sister that desperate?
Lucien felt sick. It was his fault that Perry had broken off the engagement and his fault that his little sister’s heart had been broken. If he’d not sent Perry on that ill-fated trip to Spain—
No, he could not think of that, not now when regrets and recriminations would only cloud his thinking and get in the way of finding his little sister. Cold dread clawed at the base of his spine and as Phelps returned, Lucien knew he could not wait for his earlier orders to be carried out. There was no time to lose. The coach could catch up to him later.
He embraced his duchess, said a hurried goodbye to his nine-month-old son and heir and then strode purposely to the library, already calling for his fierce black stallion and yanking open th
e case where his deadliest, most accurate set of pistols waited.
My little sister. If she has met with foul play, I will kill the person responsible.
* * *
Nerissa opened her eyes. Beyond the brig’s stern windows, she saw thick banks of slate-colored cloud that seemed to press down upon a heavy gray sea streaked and laced with foam.
She must have slept, as she had no recollection of time having passed after that wretched Irishman had left. The day, however, was obviously well underway. Her stomach growled, and she put a hand over her belly, trying to ignore it as she took in her surroundings. The details that had been lost to the darkness when she’d woken earlier had now taken shape. A seat beneath the stern windows, covered with a canvas cushion. Two cannon, one on each side of the cabin, trussed down and poking their long muzzles out of open gun ports that let in a warm sea-breeze from outside. A chair pushed up to a small pine table bolted to the deck flooring, atop which stood an inkwell and a quill in a square tray, brass dividers holding down a water-stained chart, a battered tin coffeepot and a book that she supposed was the ship’s log. Near one gun, a washstand with a bowl and pitcher and a small mirror above it. Near the other, a sea chest with a lap-sized writing desk. An exquisite little model of a ship carved of bone or driftwood, strung with rigging and hung with miniature sails. There was a small, primitive painting of green hills, steep, rocky cliffs and a turquoise blue sea on one wall, and while Nerissa knew there were no walls on ships, she also knew she lacked nautical vernacular and decided that that was what the heavy, lateral planking that framed this cabin and held out the sea beyond, would be called during her—hopefully very short—stay here.
Even now, Lucien would be on his way to rescue her. No force in the world could stop her brother.
None.
The certainty brought her comfort. A sense of constancy when, for the first time in her life, there was nothing expected, predictable, or usual about the time or place in which she currently found herself. Being abducted and held for ransom was a far cry from the usual pattern of her life—an endless round of teas, visits, balls, soirees, Seasons, hunts, and being managed by her brothers. Or at least, fiercely guarded by them. Sheltered, even. No, this situation was altogether different, and there was nobody to guard her. Shelter her. Protect her, even, unless she reached down deep inside and did it herself.
The Wayward One Page 4
