Every thunderous crash of the guns, every thud of the frigate’s iron striking their hull, every scream from above amidst the clang of steel as men fought hand-to-hand for their lives, had pierced her soul until she could do nothing but huddle in the dark, her head buried in her arms, trying to block out the sounds of carnage above. She heard Lieutenant Morgan shouting orders, Cranton repeating them, even as her heart had prayed and her ears had strained to hear a dear voice, an Irish voice, to no avail. Oh God, oh, God, why don’t I hear his voice? Musketfire, thuds, the screams of dying men. Nerissa shut her eyes and rocked back and forth, unable to make herself any smaller, unable to blot out the memory of the French frigate coming around the bend, betraying them in its captain’s eagerness to make a prize of his British counterpart…unable to blot out that last image of Ruaidri O’ Devir, desperately waving her back to keep her safe even as a shot had rang out from the British frigate and he’d gone down right in front of her a split-second before Cranton was tearing her away and toward the hatch.
It was a long moment before she realized that above, the fighting had stopped. She took a shaky breath and raised her head. Beneath the ringing in her ears, she could hear the mad pounding of her heart in the deafening, frightening silence.
Footsteps. Someone approaching from out of the gloom. It was Midshipman Cranton, his eyes downcast and blood oozing from his chin. Just behind him was a Royal Navy lieutenant with pistol trained on the boy to make sure he did exactly as he was told.
She should have been desperately relieved to see the familiar uniform of her countrymen.
Instead, she pushed a fist against her mouth to quell her rising panic. “Captain O’ Devir,” she managed, reaching for Cranton’s arm as if it were an anchor. “Please, tell me how he fares.”
The youngster would not meet her eyes, and only glanced resentfully at his British counterpart as the other jabbed his pistol against his ribs in a silent order to get moving.
Cranton wordlessly offered his arm. Nerissa gripped it hard, willing her feet to move. She felt the heavy, uncertain motion of the brig beneath her as it rolled in the swells, saw Royal Navy officers striding past as they searched the ship. She concentrated on each breath she drew into her lungs, each step that brought her nearer and nearer to a truth she could not bear to face. A truth that awaited her topside. They emerged on deck and into hot, blinding sunlight. Carnage and unspeakable destruction met her gaze, and she could do nothing but stand there blinking in shock, unable to process the reality of what she was seeing with what her imagination had thrown at her during the endless horror of waiting below.
The Royal Navy frigate, looming over Tigershark’s decks and locked to her in a tangle of spars and rigging. Upended guns, some spattered with blood. The jib, its stay severed, flapping in the wind like a piece of laundry. Jagged pieces of spar and hull scattered across the deck, stains of blood, a severed arm. Nausea rose in her throat as a sinking numbness fought horror. And the dead and wounded from both sides lying in twisted agony where they had fallen, a few still moving, groaning, most silent and still in grotesque attitudes of death. The similarity of the uniforms, both sides in blue and white, made it hard to tell who was who, and pressing clammy knuckles to her mouth to quell her rising hysteria, Nerissa’s gaze roved the deck, searching for the one man she knew she would not find standing.
Cranton, already being led away by a Royal Navy officer, gave her a look that spoke volumes, then turned away.
Ruaidri….
She felt his absence, his loss, immediately.
Knew that the vital force, the confident, larger-than-life energy that was Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir was no more.
A buzzing started in her ears and the numbness began to take over. A Royal Navy officer was talking to her but she never heard the words, only saw his mouth moving. Never in her life had she felt more suddenly alone, as if someone had reached into her chest, wrapped cold fingers around her heart, and ripped it, still beating, out of her chest. Bile rose in her throat and she began to shake. Ruaidri? Ruaidri, where are you? She didn’t want to look for him amongst the bodies; she could not not look for him. The English officer had moved to block her view as best he could. She tried to see around him. His mouth was still moving, his voice underwater, and he was saying something about keeping her gaze downcast so that she wouldn’t see things a lady should never have to see, something about being safe now that they were here, that they had come for her. A short distance away his captain was speaking with a grey-faced Lieutenant Morgan. His order to round up the rebels and start herding them below was the sound that finally penetrated Nerissa’s traumatized senses, and tears welled up in her eyes as the initial shock gave way to the sheer agony of reality.
The dead, needlessly cut down all because of her—and that wretched explosive that Andrew should never have invented. Men, good men, on both sides, men who were young and full of promise, men who should have lived to see tomorrow, men whose mothers would be grieving their losses for the rest of their lives.
Ruaidri…oh, Ruaidri….
She stood frozen, the vomit rising in her throat as she determined to be brave, to be strong, to be a de Montforte in the face of the carnage all around her…and there was the British captain, the business of surrender completed and now in the hands of his subordinates, striding with the confidence of the victor across the bloodied, littered decks toward her. She could see it was all he could do to contain his triumph. Was she supposed to be grateful?
He stopped and bowed before her. “Lady Nerissa?”
She stared at him, her mouth trying to find and form words, anything—
“Lady Nerissa, I am Captain Lawrence Hadley…are you all right?”
Coming up behind him and wearing civilian clothes was a beloved and familiar figure.
“Andrew,” Nerissa choked out on a broken sob, and as her brother sprinted the last few steps toward her, finally succumbed to the horror. She fell to her knees, weeping. She felt his arms go protectively around her, shielding her from the carnage, his dear voice close as he held her in his arms and the tears streamed down her cheeks in great, gulping sobs.
“She’s in shock,” she heard the British captain say above her head as though she wasn’t even there, and in that moment she hated him—for imposing himself into her world, for doing this to the dead and wounded lying all around her, for his air of self importance, for the barely-concealed triumph in his eyes, for the way he was acting so genteel and chivalrous when he had been the instrument of such unspeakable horror. She cried bitter tears into Andrew’s sleeve, her nose running helplessly, and then Hadley himself was kneeling down and filling her view, his gaze searching her form with too much familiarity.
“Lady Nerissa,” he said, more intently this time, “have you been harmed?”
She cried harder, burying her face against the inside of Andrew’s shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look at that hated face.
“Not now,” her brother said from above, his voice tight with authority. “You can see she’s been harmed, in spirit if not in body. No one of the fairer sex should have to see what she’s seen, heard what she’s heard, suffer what she’s suffered.” He held her close, his hand stroking the back of her head. “You’re safe now, Nerissa,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re with me now, and no one will ever harm you again.”
I was safe with him, too…safer than I’d ever felt in my life.
“Ruaidri,” she choked out, the tears overwhelming her such that she couldn’t catch her breath. “Where is he?”
Hadley, again. “Who?”
“Ruaidri!” she shouted in a voice that was anything but a lady’s, and burst into fresh tears.
Stunned silence from both men as they realized she had used her captor’s given name. Not “that rogue,” or “that scoundrel” or even “O’ Devir,” but Ruaidri, a strange and very Irish-sounding name that had rolled off her tongue with more ease and familiarity than either of the men, excha
nging glances above her head, were comfortable with. Andrew got to his feet, pulling her with him. Hadley gave her an assessing, penetrating look, then stepped back to finally allow her a view of the deck behind him.
Nerissa’s heart stopped beating. She took a step forward, another, and stared, mute. At the blue-and-white clad body sprawled face-down on the quarterdeck some twenty feet away. At the wildly curling black hair lying in a reluctant queue between the broad, powerful shoulders, the cocked hat upside-down on the deck nearby. At the spreading stain of blood beneath him that turned the white breeches crimson and trickled first to starboard, then to larboard, then back to starboard in confusion as the brig rolled beneath them in shared agony.
Her world tilted and swayed and she knew, suddenly that she was going to be sick.
“That…animal will never harm you again,” the British captain was saying, unable to keep the triumph from his voice. “You are indeed safe now, Lady Nerissa.”
She wrenched free of her brother’s arm and made it to the rail just in time to spill a very unladylike spew of vomit into the merciless sea below.
Chapter 20
Fuck, Hadley thought, in silent rage. He’d seen the look of stunned devastation on Lady Nerissa’s face. He’d seen her go white, then gray, before she’d run to the rail to puke her guts out. He’d heard of hostages falling in love with their captors or at least, taking their sides in things and defending them vehemently. Thank God he’d gotten to her in time. A hot bath and some decent food in her stomach, some skillful handling of both her and her brother, and he could hopefully undo the damage that O’ Devir (may his Irish carcass rot in hell) had wrought. Indeed, if he played his cards right, he could paint himself as both savior and hero and emerge from this debacle with Lady Nerissa’s affections transferred squarely to him in undying gratitude.
But he could not shake the thought that was foremost in his mind. Had O’ Devir compromised her? Had his way with her? Taken her innocence?
Tight-lipped, he looked at her standing there at the rail, her brother rubbing her back and offering a handkerchief so she could wipe her mouth. She had recovered somewhat, her shoulders set and stiff with pride, but she kept her back to him in silent, pointed rebuff as though he was the one who had done something wrong.
Or maybe, he told himself hopefully, she just didn’t want to look at O’ Devir’s corpse.
He did, though, and turning, allowed himself that indulgence. It would not do to smile, of course, and he schooled his face into a look of sober respect as he drank in the delicious sight of his dead rival. He was good at masking his emotions. He always had been. But triumph swelled his heart, and that triumph would sustain him when he eventually went to the grateful Duke of Blackheath to ask for the lady’s hand.
“Squall coming in from the west, sir.”
It was McPhee. Roused from his thoughts, Hadley followed the lieutenant’s gaze. Sure enough, dark, angry-looking clouds were piling up atop the distant horizon—no surprise, given the day’s heat.
“Finish up here. I want to get Lady Nerissa back to England as soon as possible before this scandal can blow sky-high.” He clapped his first lieutenant on the shoulder and grinned, unable to keep his good mood under such tight wraps any longer. “Any promising young lieutenant craves the chance to command, eh, Mr. McPhee? You will sail this brig back to London. She’s so new the worms haven’t even found her bottom yet. The rebels, if nothing else, build fine ships—she’ll fetch a good price at auction for us.”
The young Scot’s gaze flashed around Hadley’s epauletted shoulder. “Er, heads up, sir.”
Turning, Hadley saw the lady, head high and eyes flashing, coming back toward them. He smiled and inclined his head. “Are you ready to depart, Lady Nerissa?”
“No, I am not ready to depart. In fact, I am staying here,” she said flatly, and he sensed that beneath her veneer of strength she was about to shatter and doing her best to hide it, as her breeding and the expectations that accompanied it, demanded. “Being the gentleman you are, I’m sure you intend to offer me the use of your own quarters, Captain Hadley, and I have no wish to put you out on my account. My things are here. I am comfortable here and to be honest, I’ve had quite enough for one day. More than enough. I don’t fancy a move to your frigate or anywhere else.”
Hadley raised a brow, his mouth twitching in irritation. Of course she wanted to stay here. It was where her memories with O’ Devir were.
He bowed deeply. “My dear Lady Nerissa, I can assure you it is no trouble at all to give up my cabin. It is, indeed, what any gentleman would do, and without complaint.”
She was unrelenting. “I am staying here.”
Hadley looked to Lord Andrew for support. The younger man shrugged as if to say that women were women, and there was no use arguing with them.
Especially this one.
Hadley tried another tack. “I hope, Lady Nerissa, that your ‘things’ here aboard this brig include…er, more suitable clothing for a young lady of your station, than what you are currently wearing?”
Wrong move.
Oh, so wrong….
Her pale blue eyes hardened but she still managed to freeze him with an icy smile. “I have my gown, Captain. Salt spray and tar have ruined it. One of Captain O’ Devir’s men was to make me some petticoats out of sailcloth so that my wearing of his midshipman’s garb would not be so offensive to easily-bruised sensitivities such as yours. In fact—”
“Nerissa, please,” said Lord Andrew, his hand on her arm. “He’s only trying to help. And I concur with him. I want you off this ship. What happened to you here, and what you’ve seen today is something I’d like to separate you from sooner rather than later.”
“I’d say sooner,” Hadley said, with a baleful look at the swelling storm clouds.
The beautiful china-blue eyes pinned him with contempt. “I will stay here.”
He could not force her, as much as he’d like to. It would only make her resent him all the more, and alienate the brother who might be instrumental in making his case to the Duke of Blackheath for the lady’s hand in marriage. A bit of scandal—not too much, but just enough to make her undesirable to the more eligible bluebloods who’d be his competition…he, painting himself as the hero who had saved her in order to win over the duke…oh, he could deal with her resentment toward him. It wouldn’t take much to win her, and he could start by letting her have her way, at least, for now.
Once they were married, things would, of course, be different….
He bowed solicitously. “Very well, Lady Nerissa. You have, indeed, been through enough. I have given command of this vessel to my first lieutenant here, and he will see to your comfort and well-being on the short trip back to England.” He turned to the officer. “Keep us in sight, Mr. McPhee. Any trouble, signal to us.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Lord Andrew?”
“I will remain here with my sister. I’m sure I can find a cabin somewhere now that what remains of this ship’s crew and officers have been either killed or imprisoned in the hold, below.”
Hadley had had enough of treating these rebels as though they actually deserved the respect of a sovereign nation’s navy. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but you give these traitors to our king and country far too much honor. They have no navy, despite their silly uniforms and customs copied, I must say, from our own Navy, and they most certainly have no ‘officers.’ They are a nothing but a bunch of pirates and will be dealt with severely upon our return to England.”
Lord Andrew said nothing, though Hadley saw a flat hardness come into his eyes that wasn’t much different from what he’d seen in his sister’s.
“Both of you, go back to the frigate,” Nerissa said. “I wish to be alone.”
“You can’t be left here unchaperoned.”
“At this point, does it even matter?” she retorted and again, Hadley sensed the brittleness beneath the facade of steel. “I’m ruined. At least give me the dignity a
nd space in which to heal without doting, overly concerned men interfering in that process.”
Lord Andrew looked wounded, but he exchanged a helpless look with Hadley. “Nerissa, this goes against everything I—”
“Please, Andrew. I’ll lock the door. I’ll be safe, and neither of us have to tell Lucien about any of this.” She glanced at the lieutenant. “I’m sure Lieutenant McPhee can post a guard outside if it makes either of you feel any better.”
“Most certainly my lady, I would be happy to do that,” piped up the young lieutenant.
Lord Andrew debated with himself for another moment or two but in the end, the distant squall decided him.
“I won’t leave you,” he said. “But I will give you your space. I’ll take one of O’ Devir’s men’s cabins, you can have the main one, and the matter is settled.”
* * *
Lieutenant McPhee might have been young but he had three sisters who fancied themselves constantly in and out of love, and he prided himself on being a quietly observant man.
He knew women, better, he suspected, than either Hadley or Lord Andrew did. It did not escape his notice that Lady Nerissa carefully avoided looking at O’ Devir lying dead on his quarterdeck while Hadley and her brother were watching her, but she didn’t fool him. He saw the way her stricken gaze went straight to the scoundrel when Hadley and Lord Andrew weren’t watching her, saw the way her eyes filled up with fresh tears as they all walked past the body as though it wasn’t even there, saw the way her steps faltered, so imperceptible that her own brother, chatting with Hadley at his side, had not even noticed. McPhee felt for her. He saw his captain piped over the side and back to the frigate, quickly got her ladyship settled in the brig’s main cabin and her brother in one of the officer’s ones, and returned to the pressing business of ensuring the brig was seaworthy.
The Wayward One Page 19
