The Wayward One

by Danelle Harmon

  “You are going to cook me a fish.”

  “I could.”

  “And why are you smiling, Captain O’ Devir?”

  He hadn’t realized he was. Another thing she did to him. Charmed him right out of his melancholy, kicked out the darkness that was English hatred and Josiah’s death and Dolores Ann’s betrayal and filled it with sweet, warm sunshine, even when she was being prickly.

  “Am I?”

  “You were.”

  “Well, lass, I was just thinkin’ how nice it is to be standin’ here with a pretty girl and enjoyin’ a bit of life before her lauded brother catches up to and kills me in the most gruesome manner a body might imagine, before the Royal Navy finds a way to try and annihilate me, before I head back to America with her brother’s explosive.” He looked down at her. “Puttin’ it all in me memory bank, I am. Moments like this don’t last forever.”

  “And what makes you think you’ll be so successful?”

  “Eye on the prize, Lady Nerissa. Eye on the prize.”

  He realized he was looking at her lips, wondering what they would feel like beneath his own, what they would taste like.

  Maybe it’s not the explosive that’s the prize but you, Lady Nerissa, yourself.

  Now where the divil had that thought come from?

  “You shouldn’t be so blithe about my brother, you know. Any of them, actually. They are famously protective of me.”

  “Perhaps too much so, Lady Nerissa?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Ye’re beautiful, likely heavily dowered, from one of the oldest and most noble families in England. And yet, ye’re not married.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Why not? Those same overprotective brothers? Have they turned or frightened away all suitors, finding them unworthy of their little sister?”

  She was quiet for a long, long moment. “I was affianced, once.” She took a deep breath, raised her head and looked out towards the horizon where the moon, a giant glowing orb behind a few bars of cloud, was just climbing up out of the sea. “His name was Perry. He was the Earl of Brookhampton, our neighbor, and we knew each other from childhood.”

  “What happened?” He sensed the sudden withering of her spirit and it was all he could do not to take her hand. “Did he die?”

  “In a way, yes, he did.”

  Ruaidri waited, letting her take her time. He itched to reach out and tuck that errant strand of hair, now silver in the rising moonlight, behind her ear.

  “My brother, Lucien….”

  “The one that is going to slit open me belly and strangle me with me own bowels?”

  She gave a wan smile, responding to his attempt to lighten the moment. “Yes, that one.” She sighed. “Well, Lucien is—was—very manipulative. He found great sport and satisfaction in arranging circumstances such that each of my brothers were coerced into marriage. Happy marriages, yes, but his arrogance in believing that he knew best for them and for others, was maddening.”

  He said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Midshipman Cranton materialize from out of the darkness to go forward and ring the bell, signifying the end of the watch.

  “Lucien managed to get my three brothers married, and when Perry kept dragging his feet, unable to muster the courage to set an actual wedding date, he took matters into his own hands. He bought an estate in Spain. Arranged things through his solicitor so that it appeared Perry had inherited it from a distant relative. Told himself that absence would make the heart grow fonder, that if he were away from me, Perry would realize how much he missed me and would return all ready and eager to finally get married. But Perry never knew, of course, that Lucien was behind it all. Neither did I. Off he went to Spain, as Lucien intended. What Lucien did not intend was for the ship he was on to be attacked by an American privateer and the English prisoners sent to a French gaol.”

  “Yer brother sounds like he needs a good toe in the hole.”

  She smiled a little, obviously finding amusement in that. It was probably the first time anyone had ever dared speak the truth about the duke. Perhaps she found it refreshing.

  “Anyhow, everyone thought Perry was dead, that he’d gone down with the ship, but he wasn’t dead, just badly injured. By the time he came to his senses, the French gaolers did not believe him to be the English earl he claimed to be. He did not make for a compliant prisoner, so they beat him and put him into solitary confinement. It pretty much destroyed him, that prison. My brothers—and your brother-in-law, Captain Lord—got him out in a daring rescue and at first, he couldn’t wait to hurry up and set a date for our wedding. But his incarceration changed him. He suffered wounds to his soul that were far deeper than anything he sustained physically.” She looked down at her hands, her eyes tragic. “Of course, he learned that it was Lucien who manufactured the whole Spanish estate thing, and who could blame him if he could not forgive. I’m not sure I could, either. I’m not sure I have. Perry wanted nothing more to do with my family. He ended the engagement several months past, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  She spoke so matter-of-factly that Ruaidri had trouble believing that her feelings for this man had been as warm as she claimed them to have been. He was used to women who wore their hearts on their sleeves, their emotions, needs and desires on display for all to see. This cool, elegant woman beside him…did she lack that warmth, or had breeding and class choked off any expression of emotion she might otherwise have shown?

  “Ye think he broke yer heart, don’t ye, lass?”

  “Of course he did.”

  “Yer heart isn’t broken, Lady Nerissa.”

  She looked up then, frowning. “How dare you presume to know what is in my heart.”

  “Yer heart wasn’t broken, because ye never really loved him the way ye thought ye did, did you?”

  “What?”

  “Ye stand here beside me and relate this tale of woe t’ me with a dry eye and all the feelin’ ye might use to describe a bucket of sand. I think there’s more to ye than that, and I think that this man, Perry, would have made ye miserable. He wasn’t good enough for ye.”

  “How dare you, Captain O’ Devir!”

  “Well, I’m standin’ here, lookin’ at you. Ye’re made pretty enough to make a man weep, you are, and if this piece of shite couldn’t make up his mind and sweep you off to the altar, he sure wouldn’t have made ye a strong husband. Is that what ye’d have settled for? A wishy-washy nob who not only couldn’t make up his mind, but was also gullible enough to be taken in by yer brother’s schemin’?”

  She just looked at him, mouth agape. To deny his conclusions would have screamed of falseness; to her credit, she did not.

  “He was,” she finally admitted, looking back out over the sea, “…indecisive.”

  “And you wanted that in a husband?” He snorted. “Doesn’t seem he was worth a broken heart. Don’t tell me ye’re pining for this blatherin’ idiot. Why, did he ever even kiss ye?”

  “Captain!” she gasped, outraged.

  “Well, did he?”

  “Of course.”

  “With passion?”

  “He was a gentleman. He…he abided by the rules of propriety.”

  “Bollocks.”

  She gasped, her eyes widening.

  “He was an arse. When are ye goin’ to get good and angry about what he did to ye? If he loved ye as ye deserve to be loved, he wouldn’t have dragged his feet, he’d have had a ring on yer finger and you in his bed before ye even had time to consider the difference between a kiss of passion and a kiss of ‘propriety.’” He shook his head. “Ye don’t throw gold overboard. Ye don’t hold a diamond up to the light and wonder whether it’s the real thing when it’s blindin’ ye with its brilliance. Indecisive piece of shite.”

  “You did not know him!”

  “Why are you defendin’ him? He took, arguably, the best years of yer life with his wafflin’ like a one-footed duck.”

  “Lots of people are inde
cisive…unsure.”

  “Not in my line of work, they aren’t. Indecision will make a person dead, very dead. Oh no, I may be many things, Lady Nerissa, but I can assure you I’m not indecisive.”

  “And your point?”

  “My point is, the good Lord gave ye a face and form to bring a man to his knees. Yer earl was an idiot. I barely know ye, but I can tell ye right now that if I were to kiss ye, it would sure as hell not be a kiss of propriety.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t. No matter what you pretend, you are anything but a gentleman.”

  “Aye, ’tis true. But I could show ye what a kiss ought to feel like. Taste like. Make ye feel like.”

  Her head jerked up, her fingers went to her throat, and in the darkness, he could see the twin stains that suddenly bloomed on her cheeks. “Captain, what makes you think I want you to kiss me?”

  “Everythin’ about ye.” He unclasped his hands from behind his back and reaching out, finally tucked that errant strand of hair behind her ear, noting that she did not flinch or push his hand away. “The way yer eyes look suddenly intrigued despite the protests of yer tongue. The fact that ye haven’t slapped me. The fact that when I suggested it, ye swayed toward me just the slightest bit.” He cocked his head, letting a little smile touch the corner of his mouth. “Ye’d enjoy it, you know.”

  “You are arrogant and audacious.”

  “And I could kiss ye senseless.”

  “You think far too highly of yourself.”

  “I think I can make ye forget that idiot ye almost married.”

  “I shall never feel again, what I felt for Perry. And if I did, it would never, not in a million years, be with you.”

  He grinned down at her. “I’d like to challenge that.”

  She turned from the rail to face him, her eyes flashing. She had been jilted by this complete arse of an earl, had been manipulated by the even bigger arse that was her brother but she was no simpering miss, and if the idea of kissing him completely repulsed her, she would have fled.

  And yet here she was, still standing here.

  “Ye’re not gettin’ any younger,” he prompted.

  “And you’re not getting any less arrogant.”

  “Aye, don’t hold yer breath on that one.”

  She stood there glaring at him.

  Ruaidri O’ Devir was nothing if not decisive. He took her into his arms and kissed her.

  Chapter 9

  What on earth was she doing?

  But as he pulled her close, as she felt the warmth of his strong, very manly hand graze her cheek, as he caught the annoying bit of hair that refused to stay in place and gently tucked it behind her ear, Nerissa knew she was doing exactly what she wanted to be doing.

  Doing something because it pleased her. Intrigued her.

  Excited her.

  Kiss me, Captain. Because you are correct, you know, discerning my situation and my feelings in a way that is almost eerie. Can you read my mind, or are you just a cunning judge of circumstance and character? I don’t care that you’re the enemy. I don’t care that Lucien will indeed strangle you with your own entrails. I don’t even care that you’re Irish.

  There was nothing chaste and polite about the kiss, though he discreetly turned her so that his own big, powerful body, all the bigger, all the more powerful now that it had moved so close to hers, blocked her from anyone watching on the deck. She felt herself go all liquid inside before he even reached out and took her hand, thumbing her knuckles and rubbing a little circle on the tender underside of her wrist before pulling her up against himself. She struggled to draw breath, her knees going shaky and weak as he drew her closer still, never letting go of her hand, pinning it between their bodies and alarmingly close to the front of his breeches. She felt trapped, somewhat panicked, but the moment was fleeting. In the next instant his other hand had come up to caress her jaw, to graze her cheekbone with the rough pad of his mariner’s thumb before pushing through her hair to cup the back of her head and hold her close.

  Nerissa was unprepared for the jolt of raw electricity that coursed through her when his lips finally claimed hers. It was lightning forking out of the sky on a summer night, dangerous, intense, full of burn and energy and force. No polite kiss of propriety was this, as Perry’s had always been, oh, dear Lord, no; this was almost savage in its intensity, masterful in its authority, and warm and hard and delicious and completely overpowering. She heard a moan deep in her own throat and suddenly realized that her hand, still caught in his, was pinned up against something hard and that it was his…his….

  Dear God above!

  Shaken, she pulled back and hit him. Hard. Not the way a well-bred lady should hit a scoundrel who had taken just a little too much liberty with her, but a stout, well-aimed clout across the side of his jaw given with such force that her brothers, who had taught her how to land a punch, would have been cheering her to the skies. Hard enough that it hurt her knuckles, hard enough that he might even have a bruise in the morning, hard enough that she felt the pleasure of her own strength and indignation.

  He didn’t crumple to the deck of course, something that would have brought her great satisfaction.

  Instead, he laughed.

  “Told ye I knew how to kiss a lass, right an’ proper,” he said simply and offering his elbow, gave her a charming smile that reached all the way to his intense, absurdly long-lashed eyes. “And now that we’ve settled the matter once and hopefully not for all, why don’t we go find you those eggs.”

  “And you accuse my betrothed of being an…an arse,” she said.

  “Former betrothed.” He began to walk, and she was forced to go with him.

  * * *

  Nerissa was hard-pressed to call on every aspect of her breeding, her upbringing, her training and her nerves to try and adopt a demeanor that said she had not been affected by Captain O’ Devir’s kiss, and as a de Montforte she had it in her to do just that. Valour, Virtue, and Victory was the family motto. And yet, this man—unfairly virile, maddening, brooding one moment, laughing the next—had done things to make the blood in her veins go up in steam and her heart to forget how to beat. The back of her neck was suddenly hot and again, she felt that coiled sensation deep in her belly and centering between her legs, a sensation she knew was reserved for a woman’s husband—not an arrogant Irishman who fought for a losing cause, who showed her none of the deference her class and gender demanded, who wasn’t afraid of Lucien.

  Who wasn’t afraid of Lucien.

  Imagine that.

  “He’ll strangle you on your own entrails.” She had said it only partly in jest. Lucien would, when he caught up to Ruaidri O’ Devir, find a way to make him pay for abducting his little sister, for ruining her reputation and chances of ever making a respectable marriage, but Lucien’s style wasn’t exactly vulgar; no, he would not strangle the captain with his own entrails, he would likely have him condemned on kidnapping charges and ensure that his best friend, the brilliant barrister Sir Roger Foxcote, got him a date with Tyburn and the public gallows. Lucien would not stay and watch the life being choked out of his sister’s abductor, though he might give the spectacle a passing glance from a gleaming coach; it would be beneath him to do anything more than that. He would not revel in it, but see it done and then ruthlessly set about marrying her off with a speed that would make her head spin.

  It never occurred to Nerissa that Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir might be a match for the mighty duke who was her brother.

  And it never would. Mere mortals were not on equal footing with gods.

  The captain, still beside her, stopped at the cabin door, pushed it open, and led her inside.

  “Wipe the scowl off yer face, Sunshine,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”

  “You took a liberty with me.”

  “You all but asked me to.”

  “You were…vulgar.”

  “What, by showing ye the effect ye have on me? By forcing ye to listen to yer own body?” He gave a
little laugh. “’Twas only a kiss. Not like I stole yer virtue or anythin’.”

  He deposited her in his cabin and left her stewing in her own confusion as he went off to find her the promised eggs.

  It was only a kiss.

  Oh, no, it wasn’t. Not to her it wasn’t. “Only a kiss” was the way she remembered Perry’s kisses—chaste, polite, lukewarm, dutiful. But this man’s kisses had set her blood on fire, had made heat singe her veins and dampen her skin; he knew what he was about, this aspiring, ambitious Irishman who fancied himself a real naval captain. How dare he.

  Maybe she would strangle him herself, if not with his own entrails, than with a length of line. This was a boat. Or rather, a ship. Plenty of rope to be had.

  * * *

  The gleaming black coach, its door emblazoned with the Blackheath coat of arms, pulled up outside of the Admiralty early the next morning. Footmen in elegant livery moved quickly to open the door and let down the steps for His Grace. A buzz of importance surrounded his arrival. Moments later, Lucien De Montforte, looking thunderously grim, was stalking from the coach and heading straight for the building.

  Lawrence Hadley the Third turned from the window, girding himself for the coming encounter. Moments later, the expected knock on the door came. It swung open to reveal a clerk who was visibly nervous.

  “Admiral Hadley, His Grace the Duke of Blackheath…” the clerk trailed off and quickly retreated.

  The duke stalked in, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and fixed Hadley with a black stare that promised a gruesome and painful death if information wasn’t immediately forthcoming.

  “What is being done about my sister?” he demanded harshly, getting straight to the point.

  Hadley poured a glass from a crystal decanter and offered it to the duke; it was ignored.

  “The frigate Happenstance is weighing as we speak, Your Grace. I can assure you that we—”

  “Why isn’t Captain Lord in charge of this affair?”

  “The First Lord of the Admiralty did not feel it prudent to put Captain Lord in command of this operation, Your Grace.” Hadley downed his drink. “I know that he has served you well in the past, he is indeed one of our finest officers, but given his wife’s relationship to this rascal that abducted your sister, we has chosen another to see to her rescue instead.”