The American brig did not appear on any horizon.
She did, indeed, seem to have vanished.
And in England, both the lords of Admiralty and the Duke of Blackheath waited.
Chapter 24
Morning broke bright and clear, and as the day progressed with no sign of the British frigate HMS Happenstance, the brisk easterly was happy to stay in their good graces by speeding them out into the Channel. By the time the shadows were growing long across the deck, Nerissa, her fair complexion protected by a straw hat as she sat in the shade of the mainsail, had found plenty of time to contemplate the enormity of what she had done.
Given the chance, would she have sacrificed all that she had ever known and been and was, to save Ruaidri’s life all over again?
Of course she would have.
A hundred times over. Even if he was unrelenting in his mission to bring Andrew or the formula back to the Americans. He had his duty, she supposed. And from what Andrew had told her over a shared lunch of stewed beef and hardtack, her brother had no intention of abandoning her anyhow.
At least, not until she and Ruaidri were married.
Eventually, the British prisoners in the hold would find their way back to England, carrying the news of her betrayal with them, and that weighed heavily on her.
I will never see Blackheath Castle ever again. I’ll never see De Montforte House in London again. Maybe not even my brothers and my sisters-in-law. I will be in disgrace, a hunted fugitive, and my actions will cost my family as much as they will cost me. Perhaps even more.
Her gaze went to the closed door to Ruaidri’s cabin.
But he is alive and once again in command of this ship. He is alive because of those very actions of mine, and I would not take them back for all the birthplaces and comfortable memories and family pride in the world.
The brig cut swiftly through the swells, the water rushing beneath her keel and falling away in great sheets of foam. She was a good sailor, Lieutenant Morgan told her, constantly searching the horizon with a telescope (and he had two more men aloft, also keeping watch for Hadley’s frigate), and she had outrun a powerful British warship before. Though Happenstance did not appear on the horizon the distant sails of a man o’ war’s did, but the leviathan was beating to the northeast and by the time she could come about, the American brig, had the other ship even seen her, would have shown a fleet pair of heels and been long gone.
Night approached, and the shadows began to fade. Nerissa’s anxious gaze went aft, toward Ruaidri’s cabin. He had not emerged all day, though she’d seen young Joey going in and out a few times as well as Mr. Jeffcote, the surgeon. How she longed to go to him herself, but Andrew had already made it quite clear that he would tolerate no impropriety until they were safely married. Seeing Captain O’ Devir in possible dishabille, he said, would not do.
The evening meal was served. Nerissa dined on deck with Andrew, Lieutenant Morgan, Midshipman Cranton, and the new sailing master, who regaled them with exaggerated stories of mermaids, sea monsters, and where he was convinced the lost city of Atlantis lay. His voice droned on while the sky went from purple to black, the brig’s long jib-boom just visible far, far ahead against the stars. Nerissa stole another worried glance toward the stern cabin. Why had Ruaidri not come out all day? She longed to go to him, to check on him, to ensure that he had everything he needed, that he was not growing feverish or uncomfortable. Most of all, she just ached to touch him—and to be touched by him.
The stern lantern was lit, and Tigershark continued westward through the Channel. Morgan called for the main topgallant to be set, and the ship picked up speed through falling darkness. Someone far forward began to sing, and a few drunken voices joined the lone crooner.
It was a happy ship, once more.
“I’m going to bed,” Nerissa announced, and Andrew saw her to the cabin he’d insisted on for her and bid her goodnight. She waited for his footsteps to fade. Before ten minutes had passed, she was silently making her way topside through the darkness, and easing open the door to Ruaidri’s quarters.
All was quiet. A lantern swung from a hook, throwing a soft, shifting glow over the small space that drew shadows with the motion of the brig. Slowly, Nerissa turned to look toward the cot, expecting to find her captain asleep, fearful she might find him dead.
He was neither, but sitting up in bed, a book lying across his lap—and he was watching her with a knowing smile.
“I thought ye’d never come.”
“You put a lot of faith in my ability to sneak around this vessel undetected. I waited until it was dark.”
He put the book down and began to swing his legs off the bed, his face going suddenly gray with pain. He offered a weak smile and fell back, the smile spreading as Nerissa marched up to him, picked up his legs, and gently swung them back up into the cot.
“You’re staying right there, Captain O’ Devir,” she said sharply, if only to take her mind off what it had just felt like to touch his long, well-muscled legs and feel their heavy weight in her hands. “Don’t you even try to get up, do you hear me?”
“Got no reason to go anywhere, now that ye’re here.”
“How are you feeling?”
“As sick as a small hospital.” He patted the space beside him, invitingly. “I’m too sore to get up. Come sit with me, Sunshine.”
He must have fallen into bed exhausted, not even taking off the clothes she’d last seen him in. Now, her gaze went to his breeches, the left one hacked off above the knee and soaked with blood so dark it looked almost purple. The stocking was long-gone, the leg itself ghastly to behold. Raw bruising, swelling, and just peeping out from above the back of his knee, stitches, ugly black things that would leave a scar; he must have ripped off the bandage sometime during sleep which, judging by the look of him, had been restless and tormented. She shouldn’t be thinking about how fine a leg he had, the calf well-defined and long. She shouldn’t be gaping at the sparse black hairs that ran the length of that leg and wondering what they would feel like beneath her fingers. The man was hurt, in pain. She felt suddenly guilty.
He grinned knowingly. “When I’m stronger, ye’ll find yourself in more trouble than ye can handle, lass.”
She laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if you can read minds.”
“Not minds, just faces. And yers is an open book.”
He reached a hand out toward her. She moved close to the cot and took it in her own. For a long moment neither said a word, content to just be in each other’s presence.
“Still angry with me?”
“Of course I am.”
“We had a good talk, yer brother and I.”
“I was afraid of that. But since you’re both still alive, I’m assuming you emerged as something more than enemies.”
“Well, ye should know that I’ve made my intentions clear to him.”
“Intentions?”
“That I intend to take you as my wife.”
Her heart leapt within her breast and she moved away, suddenly flustered. “Was he holding a gun to your head, loaded with his new explosive?
Ruaidri smiled. “I’m sure he would have, had I not asked for ye.”
“Why did you ask for me?”
He pretended to look wounded. “Come now, lass. Why do you think?”
“Because you were grateful that I pretty much threw my life away in order to save yours?
His eyes grew sad, and this time, there was no pretense. “I wish ye wouldn’t have done that, Nerissa. I’m not worth it, though those who serve this ship certainly are. ’Twas a rash move on yer part and there’s no goin’ back.”
She sat down on the edge of the cot, her hips snugged comfortably against the outside of his thigh. “It was not a rash move. I thought long and hard about what I intended to do, and I did it knowing full well what the consequences would be.”
“Tell me why ye did it.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
�
�No!”
“Did ye do it because ye felt sorry for me?”
“No.”
“Did ye do it because ye wanted to thwart Hadley?”
“No.”
“Did ye do it because ye didn’t want to see young Cranton and the rest, die in a British jail or at the end of a British rope?”
“No.”
“Ye’ve said the word ‘no’ five times now, Nerissa. For yer next response, the answer had damn well better be ‘yes.’”
He looked steadily over at her, the lantern throwing the shadow of his long lashes across his irises. In the gloom, he was pale and waxen beneath his mariner’s tan, his face and the pillow against which he lay, a stark contrast to the darkness of his hair. He reached out and took her hand once more.
“Did ye do it because ye love me?”
Outside, the sea washed softly away as the brig cut through the long ocean swells. A warm breeze drifted through the open stern windows. Here in this small, private space, the world ceased to exist and there was only them.
She looked steadily into his waiting gaze.
“Yes.”
He shut his eyes and sank back into the pillow, and she realized that despite his teasing demands he had, at least figuratively speaking, been holding his breath as he’d awaited her answer. An answer, it seemed, that was very important to him.
His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Say it, then. Say it so there’s no confusion and no doubt in either of our minds why ye did what ye did, and say it because there’s nothin’ on earth I’d rather hear, nothin’ on earth that would make me happier than yer response to the next question I’m goin’ to put to ye—and the response to that one had damn well better be yes, too, Nerissa.”
She knew what the question would be. Her blood firing with want, with need for this man, she twisted around and, pulling her hand from his own, gently laid her fingers and palm against the bristly black shadow that had come up to cloak his jaw.
“I love you, Ruaidri O’ Devir.”
He just looked at her, his eyes as deep as the sea beneath them.
“I love you,” she repeated, when he said nothing. “You are entirely wrong for me, not the man my brothers would have chosen for me, but you are my world and if I had to betray my country and those who serve it all over again to save your wretched Irish hide, Ruaidri O’ Devir, I would. Again and again and again.”
He was still gazing intently at her, his grip becoming a little more intense. “Are ye ready for my next question, Nerissa?”
Mindful of his leg and the pain he was in, she carefully, gently, eased herself down until she lay close alongside him, her head nestled against his shoulder and her eyes looking up into his.
“Ask me, then.”
He moved his head slightly and let his lips rest against her forehead, where they lingered a long, tender moment before he pulled back and, with a finger beneath her jaw, gently tilted her head up to his so that she was forced to stare into his eyes.
“Will ye marry me, Lady Nerissa de Montforte?”
“Yes.” Her gaze was unflinching. “Yes, I will marry you, Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir.”
He made a sound of gratitude and contentment and the arm against which she lay curved around her back, drawing her close up against him, dwarfing her with its size and power.
“Soon?”
“As soon as you’re ready.” She blushed a bit. “And able.”
“France then, after we drop off our prisoners.”
“And Andrew…he has given his consent?”
“Andrew’s a fine lad. Even if he’d just as soon run me through for stealin’ ye from that London townhouse, I’d still say he’s a fine lad. Aye, he’s consented, even encouraged our union, but has made no demands on whether it’s to be in a Protestant church or one of my faith. I’m a Papist, Nerissa. That won’t change.”
“It doesn’t need to change. We both pray to the same God. And that same God will bless and recognize our union no matter what church we take our vows in.”
“Kiss me, Nerissa.”
She inched up closer to him, leaned over his chest, and boldly cupping his face in her hands, enjoying the feel of his cheekbones and the roughness of his jaw, she lowered her mouth to his.
Injury and loss of blood might have rendered him weak but the strength of his kiss, the urgency with which his tongue came out to plunder her mouth, and the feel of his hand sliding beneath the lapels of Midshipman Cranton’s coat to gently knead her nipple were enough to set her blood on fire.
Unexpectedly, he drew back. “I’d take ye now, if I could.” His lips brushed her forehead, and she felt the weight of his cheek against the top of her head as he rested it there. “But I made a promise to yer brother that I’d respect and honor ye, and I’m a man who always keeps his word.”
“Andrew would never know.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t wait until we find a priest, Ruaidri.”
“I can’t either. But we’ll have to.”
“Why?”
He dropped his fingers from her breast, smoothed her jacket and claimed her hand once more, his eyes resolute. “There’s nothin’ I’d like more than to make love to ye right now, Lady Nerissa de Montforte, even though it would likely kill me. But yer to be my wife and ye deserve my love and respect. I will wait.” He touched her cheek and smiled. “And so, mo grá, will you.”
She sighed and gently settled back against his chest. He curled an arm around her to hold her close. She watched the lantern swinging back and forth, back and forth, hypnotic in its timeless motion. Her eyes grew heavy and with the sound of her captain’s heart beating steadily beneath her ear, she finally fell asleep.
Chapter 25
They were married the following day.
Early that morning, Tigershark discharged her prisoners at the privateer-friendly French port of Saint-Malo and sent a boat ashore containing Lieutenant Morgan and Midshipman Cranton, both looking very official in their dress uniforms. They returned with a priest named Coutanche, a nervous little man who spoke rapid French and went wide-eyed when he learned the bride was none other than Lady Nerissa de Montforte, sister of the English Duke of Blackheath.
He was chattering like a squirrel as he was hoisted aboard the ship, growing more and more panicky by the moment. “Oh, I don’t know if I can perform such a wedding, this duke will not be happy, oh, non, I cannot—”
“I am representing my family in my brother’s absence,” said the well-dressed auburn-haired fellow who came forward to greet him. “The bride is my sister, and you will perform this marriage or you will answer to me.”
“And-and-and…you sir, are?”
“I am Lord Andrew de Montforte.” His expression firm, he turned and headed aft. “Come with me. The groom is in his cabin.”
As they walked aft, the young nobleman discreetly pressed a piece of folded paper into Coutanche’s hand indicating that he should immediately pocket and post it. The priest did so, overwhelmed by the presence of nobility even if they were English. Wondering what he was being drawn into, Coutanche was shocked and not a little horrified to be brought into the captain’s cabin and there, introduced to a gaunt, pale fellow in the uniform of the Continental Navy who proved himself to be Irish the moment he opened his mouth.
“Pleased to make yer acquaintance,” the captain said with a briskness that belied his sunken, exhausted eyes. He was in a blue and white uniform with gold epaulets, his waistcoat and breeches as white as sea foam, but he made no move to get out of the cot in which he lay. “We’re ready to begin.”
As for the lady, she was shockingly garbed in the uniform of an American midshipman and appeared to be quite comfortable in it.
Coutanche stood there staring, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He hoped this English duke wouldn’t find his way to France and make him suffer for this sacrament he was being asked to perform. An aristocratic lady, marrying a John Paul Jones? And one who looked to have a foot in death’s door, a
t that?
“Well, get on with it,” Captain O’ Devir said impatiently. He swung from the cot and stood, the threat of his height and powerful build tempered, somewhat, by the fact that he swayed on his feet and gripped the back of a chair with a shaking hand. “The day’s wastin’ and we have places to be.”
The priest withdrew a well-worn Bible from a leather satchel and there, in the small cabin of an American warship and witnessed by Lord Andrew de Montforte and Lieutenant John Morgan, he nervously performed the sacred rite that would bind these two together forever. As he left, he wondered if the Irish captain of this trim vessel would survive the rest of the day, let alone his marriage night. He’d seen butcher shop carcasses with more color and life in them than the pale, waxen-skinned master of the American brig.
Not my business, he thought. Not my concern.
The whole affair took less than an hour. Coutanche was rowed back to shore, Tigershark quickly weighed anchor, and filling her sails with a stiff wind out of the northeast howling down-Channel, the American brig stood northwest and turned her prow toward home.
It was only then that Coutanche remembered the folded note that Lord Andrew had silently passed him.
* * *
Lady Nerissa de Montforte might have been garbed in Cranton’s best rig, but Ruaidri had done all he could to give her the best wedding day he could. His bride’s gown had been hopelessly ruined and the petticoats and jacket he’d asked the sailmaker to make were not yet finished, but even so, she deserved all he could give her. As they’d sailed south toward Saint-Malo, he’d ordered his own copper tub brought up from below so she could savor a bit of pampering on her special day. No hot, scented bath had the Lady Nerissa enjoyed. No perfumed rosewater or finely-milled soap, no soft towels or any touch of the luxury to which she was accustomed. No, her bath had been seawater warmed by the galley fire and a rough bar of soap, and her towel had been rougher still.
The Wayward One Page 24
