The Wayward One

by Danelle Harmon

  He cocked his head and looked down at her. “What’s this? Have ye come to care about me, lass?”

  “Certainly not.” She let go of his hand as though his skin had burned her.

  The moment lay between them, still pulsing with life and bare, raw honesty. His gaze was drawn once more to her hand. A hand whose fingers had just entwined with his in fondness, in friendship, or maybe just in worry.

  He thought of where he’d like that hand to be.

  “Ah. Just wonderin’, then.”

  “Stop wondering, then. I don’t care about you. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I could get blown to bits today, y’know. Won’t be anythin’ left of me for yer brothers to kill. Just think of it, Lady Nerissa! I could die this mornin’, perhaps in your arms…and ye’ll always lament the fact you didn’t tell me you cared about me.”

  “Would you stop it?”

  “’Twould be a lot to lay on yer conscience, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Stop!”

  He laughed, seeing the swift bit of color that washed across her cheeks, and glancing aloft, satisfied himself that the ship was getting as much as it could out of the set of the sails. But not enough, even with the topsail adjusted to take better use of the wind. Even with out the glass, he could see that the frigate was gaining on them.

  She followed his gaze, and by the sudden expression in her eyes, saw that she saw it, too.

  She looked up at him. The wind caught a tendril of her hair and sent it across his face, tickling his nose. “What do you want from me, then?”

  He raised a brow. “Want from ye?”

  “Well, since you seem quite convinced that you’ll be lying in pieces soon enough.”

  “Ah. Well, Lady Nerissa. Let me think about that.” He grinned down at her, but there was an earnest wish behind his words that his cavalier manner could not disguise. “If I were to die today, I couldn’t ask for more than the memory of yer lips against mine. A kiss from a pretty lass to send me into battle. Aye, that’s what I’d be wantin’ from ye.”

  “A kiss?”

  She stared at him. The color blossomed in her cheeks once more but before she could speak, the sound of thunder came rolling across the water from well astern.

  She turned, eyes widening. “What was that?”

  “Yer friends back there are demandin’ that I heave to.”

  “Will you?”

  The moment was lost. He would not get his kiss from a pretty lady to send him into battle, after all.

  “Hell, no.”

  She paled as she realized the impending gravity of the situation.

  Ruaidri pushed back from the rail, beckoning with a crooked finger for Midshipman Cranton and ordering him to take her below. “You think about what I’d like,” he said, inclining his head, and relinquishing her to the youth, headed for the helm. “In the meantime, I’ve got a battle to fight.”

  * * *

  “Come, your ladyship. They’ll be within range of us pretty soon and the captain wants you to be safe below.”

  Reluctantly, Nerissa allowed Midshipman Cranton to guide her toward the hatch that led below where presumably, she would spend a terrifying tenure wondering if she was going to die, if those she was beginning to know and like were going to die, if the British rescuers on the pursuing ship—which might, for all she knew, include her brothers—were going to die.

  Her thoughts were troubled as they descended into the darkness. Now she rather wished that she had given Ruaidri O’ Devir what he’d asked for. A kiss. It would cost her nothing but might mean everything to him. But she, in her stiff pride, had denied him that.

  So little that he had asked for.

  So very little.

  The gloom was thickening as they went deeper into the ship, the sounds above fading and a quiet stillness of creaking timbers and dank air that absorbed all sound, blanketing all. The midshipman paused. “I’m sorry to be leaving you, Lady Nerissa, and sorrier still that it’s in darkness without a lantern, but I promise that Joey will join you shortly and one of us will be back for you just as soon as we can be. I’m needed on deck.”

  “I will be fine, Mr. Cranton.”

  It was too dark down here to see him nod, but she sensed the brief movement in the darkness and a moment later, he was gone.

  So she was supposed to stay down here like a good little pet and keep out of trouble. She was supposed to stay down here and wonder what was going on above, wonder what would become of her, wonder if she would survive any more than anyone else, especially if one or more shots from that frigate found Tigershark’s hull and sent her straight to the bottom.

  Trapped in darkness on a sinking ship?

  No, it was not where Nerissa intended to be.

  She knew better than to bother the captain or appear on deck, but she sure as salt wasn’t staying here. Waiting until Midshipman Cranton’s footsteps faded back into the silence, she picked up her skirts and slowly feeling her way along a bulkhead, retraced her steps.

  A muffled roll of thunder told her that the pursuing frigate was closer now, and again, she thought of the Irish captain’s sharp, angular face with his bold black brows and ever-changing eyes, his intent focus, that deep despair that cloaked him in a way she could not quite fathom.

  I wish I’d given him that kiss.

  Too late, now.

  The next time she saw him, he might be dead.

  A dim glow of light shone ahead of her, fainter than the first breath of sunrise on a distant horizon, but it was enough to tell her where the companionway was. It wasn’t easy to ascend in the darkness but she managed, and soon found herself on the next deck. Here, the sounds of impending battle were unmistakable; heavy cannon being wheeled into place, men shouting orders, running feet on the deck above.

  She turned, and stifled a scream.

  “What are you doing, Lady Nerissa?”

  A man stood there, gaunt, sunken-cheeked, with the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen. He wore a bloodstained leather apron and his hair was a dingy shade of brown more than halfway on its journey to gray and receding from his brow like an outgoing tide. He looked familiar, and she suddenly realized who he was: the surgeon who had come up from below to accompany the sailor whom Captain O’ Devir had rescued after falling from the rigging.

  “You startled me,” she said, a hand on her bosom.

  “Likewise.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me I cannot be here. But I’ll tell you right now, Mr….”

  “Jeffcote.”

  “Mr. Jeffcote, that I will not suffer being hidden away in the darkness, wondering if I’m going to live or die, while the world comes apart all around me.”

  “Nobody’s forcing you to stay there. The sick bay’s safe enough, I reckon. And if we come to battle, I expect I could use some help comforting the men.”

  “Comforting the men?”

  Above, another ominous boom, this one louder, and a chorus of jeers from above as the American crew taunted their pursuer.

  “Aye, comforting them. Holding their hands, like, if they need a leg cut off or a splinter cut out. Giving ’em water or rum, fetching me bandages, making yourself useful. You up to that, my lady?”

  “I have no experience with such matters, but yes… I am willing to help you, Mr. Jeffcote.”

  “Come along, then,” he said, passing a weary hand over his balding pate. “You can start by making bandages. I’ve a feeling we’re gonna need ’em.”

  Chapter 13

  The young Scottish lieutenant of His Majesty’s frigate Happenstance saluted as he approached his captain. “We’ll be in range soon, sir.”

  “We’re in range now, Mr. McPhee. Fire a bow chaser. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll heave to.”

  Lawrence Hadley the Fourth stood on his quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked imperceptibly back and forth on his heels. He watched the great fore-and-aft mainsail of the fleeing American bri
g like a bull fixated on a giant white cloth. Faintly, his mouth turned up at one corner, defying its owner’s attempt to appear unflappable. He wanted that ship and the glory its capture would bring him with a desperateness he could taste, and when word got back to England, this would surely win him a knighthood, if not a peerage.

  The likelihood of American ships in these waters was low.

  The likelihood of this particular American ship being commanded by the audacious sod who’d dared abduct the fair Lady Nerissa was high.

  Either way, she was a fine brig and would make an even finer prize once her crew was either dead or in gaol and the vessel herself sent to the auction block. The money she would bring him, the glory—

  “What are the chances, sir, that he’s our man?”

  Hadley was roused from his reverie by the presence of his second lieutenant. “I’d say they’re damned good, Mr. Dewhurst. The only Yank I know of in these waters is that wretched scoundrel John Paul Jones, and that isn’t Jones.” He studied the fleeing vessel with a calculating eye, then glanced at the gun crew running out a larboard gun. “In fact, get the royals on her. I haven’t got all day to waste in a game of tag.”

  “Aye sir.” Dewhurst turned to bawl the order, and immediately, men began to scurry aloft.

  But even without the royals, they were gaining, the distance between the two ships closing.

  Closing….

  Forward, he could see McPhee supervising the gun crew…saw them run the muzzle of the great black beast out through its port and heard the accompanying rumble of wooden wheels against the deck. A moment later a crack of thunder echoed back to him as the gun barked out its demand, and he waited impatiently for the enemy brig to heave to in response.

  But she did not.

  Indignation caused him to clench his fists. He could, and would, blow that ship to smithereens.

  They were beginning to overtake her now, their head-rig starting to obliterate his view of the brig’s stern. Two hundred feet separated them. His Royal Marines were waiting with muskets high above in the tops. Dewhurst was waiting for him to give the signal to load up the larboard battery.

  McPhee was back.

  “She’s not heaving to, sir.”

  “I can see that, Mr. McPhee.” Outrage that the rebels would openly defy a king’s ship made him unusually curt. He had left England in haste, confident that if he could find the American ship on board which Lady Nerissa was imprisoned, his presence alone would cow the damned rebels into surrender. After all, he mastered a Royal Navy frigate—a ship that had more muscle than three of those brigs combined would ever hope to have—and sailors who belonged to the finest navy in the world. He had expected to range up on the American ship and effect an immediate lowering of her colors. Not this. Not sheer, open defiance. He set his teeth, furious. “Load up the larboard battery with chain and run out. If she won’t heave to, we’ll bring down her rigging and force her to.”

  “Do ye think she’s the same ship that’s got the Lady Nerissa sir?”

  “Well, it’s obvious by her build and flag that she’s American, she’s fleeing toward the safety of a French port, and my intuition in such matters is usually correct. In fact— What the devil?”

  A collective gasp went up as a sudden flash of blue-green, its wearer struggling in the grip of two sailors, suddenly appeared on the brig’s quarterdeck.

  “Is that—”

  “Oh, my God….”

  “By Jove, sir, it’s a woman!”

  The Yankee brig had slowed as she began to turn toward the wind, her topsails luffing. Hadley barked an order for his own ship to do the same and to range up beside them.

  “Ready on the larboard guns in case this is a trick,” he snapped to McPhee. Fury burned through his veins at the sight of the struggling figure in teal. “I want Featherston’s marines ready to fire down on that bastard the minute I give the word. In the meantime, prepare to board.”

  He seized a speaking trumpet, strode to the rail, and all but slammed the instrument to his lips. “I am Captain Lawrence Hadley of the Royal Navy frigate Happenstance and I demand that you heave to and prepare to receive boarders!”

  The other vessel was as close to the wind as she could get without heaving to and showed no signs of heeding Hadley’s demands. He was just considering whether to fire into her when he saw movement on her quarterdeck, and a lean but powerful figure dressed in a blue and white uniform stepped forward wearing a tricorne and a belt that bristled with weapons. His brows were black and bold, and he was taller than any of his nearby officers or men. Just behind him, Hadley glimpsed the bright blue-green gown that marked the lady’s form, her hair covered by a large round hat as she struggled in the grip of two pigtailed seamen. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of what the rebels had done to her. At how they were treating her. The two seamen shoved the girl forward and she fell heavily against the tall officer, who immediately snared her and crushed her face to his chest to restrain her; in the next instant, he plucked a pistol from his belt and drove it into the rounded felt crown of her hat.

  “Saints alive,” breathed McPhee. “He’d kill her right in front of us.”

  “He won’t kill her,” Hadley shot back. “She’s his insurance, the only thing standing between himself and my guns.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “Greetin’s right back at ye, ye poxy shiteballs!” came the voice of the tall officer across the water. “This is the American Continental brig Tigershark, and I’m her captain, Ruaidri O’ Devir. Ye got somethin’ to say to me, or should we let our guns do the talkin’?”

  “He’s a bloody Irishman,” snarled Hadley, under his breath.

  His second lieutenant, Dewhurst, pressed close. “And a goddamned rebel. He’ll hang for this.”

  “Permission, sir, to go rig a noose from the foreyard, myself!” said Tuttle, the youngest of the midshipmen.

  Beside him, McPhee, trying to maintain a quiet professionalism in a moment that was growing increasingly tense, leaned close. “I believe Captain Featherston and his marines can get a clear shot at that bastard, sir. Do you want me to give the order to—”

  “You fire on him with his gun to the girl’s head and it will be the last damned move you ever make,” hissed Hadley in a voice that turned McPhee’s face white beneath his freckles. He raised his speaking trumpet. “Heave to, you rebel, and release her ladyship to me now.”

  “Eh, now, Captain! I’m not as dumb as ye likely think me,” called the Irishman, all but suffocating the girl as he drove his pistol hard against her hat. “I’m guessin’ ye’re the poor sod sent to negotiate with me, eh?”

  “I do not negotiate with rebels!”

  “I’m no rebel, Captain, but a commissioned officer in me country’s navy, just as you are.”

  Hadley saw red. “You don’t have a country, and when I am through with you, O’ Devir—”

  The Irishman’s challenging smirk was visible even without the aid of a glass. “Let’s cut with formality,” he called. “You want Lady Nerissa, and I want the explosive. Ye got that for me, Hadley?”

  “Send Lady Nerissa across on your boat and I’ll send the explosive.”

  “Well, now, I appreciate yer offer, Captain, but those aren’t me terms and if I send her across, I’ll have to trust yer word as a gentleman that ye’ll send the explosive in return. I was in yer Navy once, did ye know that? I know how ye do things.” He tightened his forearm over the girl’s back when her struggles began anew. “Ye’ll be forgivin’ me if I don’t place much trust in anyone in yer Navy.” His mocking smile faded and the eyes that met Hadley’s across the water were ruthless and hard. “Now, if ye’re done wasting me time, I’d like to be on my way.”

  “You send Lady Nerissa across right now or I shall be forced to fire on you!”

  “Unless ye have that explosive and are prepared to make a fair exchange, I’m afraid that’s not happenin’, Hadley. And you and I both know that if ye fire on me, the c
hances of Lady Nerissa being hurt by either yer guns—” he waved his pistol “—or mine, are pretty feckin’ good.”

  “How dare you threaten—”

  The Irish captain’s face went hard. “Ye were instructed to meet me under my terms, at Saint-Malo. Do so on Saturday mornin’, and we’ll talk then.” Just as quickly, the darkness in his face was gone as he grinned and touched his hat in a mocking salute. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Captain!”

  He turned away, the struggling figure in aqua fighting him all the way, and Hadley felt sick to his stomach as the rebel brute raised his hand and brought his pistol down hard on the girl’s oversize hat. She went limp, and was quickly dragged off by several seamen before disappearing from sight.

  His voice trembling, Hadley crooked a finger towards Captain Featherston of the Royal Marines.

  “Put a ball right in the center of that bastard’s back,” he ground out.

  The marine raised his musket but the moment was lost. Ruaidri O’ Devir had already walked away, swallowed up by his men, and the brig was falling back off the wind and beginning to gather way.

  Hadley felt impotent rage burning behind his eyeballs; he could do nothing, and that treasonous rogue out there knew it. Worse, his charging out here ahead of a tangible plan and backed by nothing but his own British arrogance that an inferior ship in an inferior “navy” from an inferior country would defy him, had left him humiliated.

  “Stay in pursuit,” he muttered, taking a deep and steadying breath.

  “He struck her,” McPhee was saying in horror, his voice hollow. “Captain, he hit a woman.”

  “So he did. And when I get hold of him, I’ll give the lady herself the honor of hanging him.”

  Chapter 14

  “Fine young lady you make, Cranton!”

  “Aye, he looks damned fetching in a dress, don’t you think, Captain?”

  “You can pull the stuffing out of your bodice now, Milady, hahaha!”

  The men, laughing, wolf-whistling at the red-faced Midshipman Cranton, and clapping their clever captain on the back as they went below, were met by the surgeon and Lady Nerissa de Montforte, garbed in the midshipman’s uniform, as they were coming up from a sick bay that had not seen one casualty of the sea battle that never happened. Lady Nerissa took one look at Midshipman Cranton, who went even redder as he pulled a wadded-up stocking out of his bosom, and her jaw dropped.