The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5)

by Danelle Harmon

  “Marriage?! Who said anything about marriage? Dear God, don’t tell me you’re going to marry him!”

  “I would indeed if he were to ask me!”

  “Has he?”

  “No, but if he did—”

  “Nerissa, he’s Irish.”

  “I don’t care if he’s from the damned moon!”

  “And he hit you. He—” Andrew made a noise of impotent rage and pain, his lips suddenly trembling—“hit you. How can you have such feelings for a man who’d abuse you?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know! Even Lucien’s found out about it. Everyone knows that he struck you down with a pistol and then buggered—” he flushed, swearing under his breath—“I mean, had his way with a young midshipman. I find that rather hard to believe, but enough of Hadley’s people saw it that they’re out for blood.”

  “Struck me down? Buggered a midshipman?”

  Andrew flushed again at her use of the word ‘buggered.’

  Nerissa shoved a loose strand of hair off her forehead and turned to look askance at her brother. Is that what they’d all thought? That Ruaidri had actually harmed her? No wonder he was so angry. “Oh Andrew, you poor, deluded fool. Captain O’ Devir would never hurt me. What Hadley and his men saw was Midshipman Cranton dressed up in my clothes and pretending to be me on the deck. Ruaidri—”

  “Oh, so it’s Ruaidri now, is it?”

  “Yes, Ruaidri predicted that Hadley would never fire on us if he perceived me to be in danger, so Cranton took my place on the deck; he was never harmed, either. It was all an act.” As he stood staring at her, she tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm and said gently, “Ruaidri had actually sent me below and deep into the hold so that I’d be safe just in case Hadley did open fire.”

  Andrew shook his head. “And the young midshipman he was bug—er, kissing?”

  Nerissa shook her head in exasperation. “Honestly Andrew, for someone as intelligent as you are, I’d have thought the identity of that young midshipman would be quite obvious.”

  He lowered his head to his hands and rubbed with infinite weariness at his forehead.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Bloody, thundering hell.”

  Nerissa’s own mind was already changing course, racing along on a new and decisive tack. “Enough of that. What am I doing sitting here? He needs me.” She got to her feet. “Take me to him, Andrew. Please.”

  “What are you, insane?” he asked, recovering. “You go and raise suspicions about your feelings toward him and there’s no telling what that young lieutenant up there will do, let alone Hadley, who clearly has his own cap set for you. Sit down while we think this through. In fact, I’m inclined to just leave this all for the time being and let Lucien sort it out when we get back to England.”

  “Lucien will never, not in a million years, allow me to marry Ruaidri.”

  “He will never, not in two million years, allow you to marry him—but he might at least endeavor to save his life just to make you happy.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  “For God’s sake, Nerissa, do you have to make this so complicated?”

  She glared at him.

  “Until we get home, I would advise you to pretend you have nothing but contempt for O’ Devir. I wouldn’t trust Hadley not to kill him if he thinks he’s a threat to his own plans for you.”

  “So you won’t let me go to him.”

  “Do what you want. But I’m telling you it’s unwise.”

  Nerissa collapsed back to the cot, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. Ruaidri was hurt, in pain, maybe even dying and for his own safety she couldn’t even go to see him? Fresh tears began leaking from her eyes at the hopelessness of the situation.

  Andrew let out a bone-weary sigh of resignation and put his arm around her back. “You care for him that much, then, do you?”

  She nodded, unable to speak.”

  “Well, he’s not the man I’d have chosen for you, Nerissa, but as you say…we don’t get to pick whom we fall in love with.”

  She reached into his pocket, found a handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes.

  “You say he’s alive… I saw him, Andrew. There was so much blood, I can’t even imag—” she raised a hand as though to stop the awful memory and the thoughts that logically followed it, in their tracks. Steadying herself, she tried again, her voice tight and controlled. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s unconscious, but alive. One of Hadley’s marksmen got him just above the back of the knee. He’s lost a lot of blood. Too much, really. His own surgeon is working on him now with McPhee himself holding a gun on the poor doctor to make sure there are no escape attempts.” His eyes were grave. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Nerissa.”

  “That Ruaidri won’t make an escape attempt?”

  He smiled sadly, acknowledging her faith and hope in a fellow who was surely as mortal as the next, her inability to see what he felt was obvious. “No, Sis. That he’ll survive this night.”

  There was a sudden fiendish howl of wind from outside, a flash and crack of thunder that shook the ship as heavily as the broadsides had done earlier in the day. Tigershark leaned hard to leeward, her great timbers groaning, and beyond the stern windows the sea, gray and angry now, appeared at an angle as rain began to pelt the heavy glass.

  Above, Midshipman Walters’s high-pitched adolescent voice yelled an order, yelled it again in a futile attempt to be heard over the wind.

  “Too young and too unsure a lad for such an important position,” Andrew mused. He braced himself against the roll of the ship. “I hope we’re all safe. I’d like to see Celsie and little Laura again before I leave this earth.”

  But Nerissa was thinking that if Ruaidri was in command, neither Andrew or anyone else would have anything to worry about. She wondered how poor Midshipman Cranton, Lieutenant Morgan, and the rest of Tigershark’s crew were faring, locked down there in the pitch-black hold while the ship groaned and fought her way through increasingly heavy seas and this, after being wounded by Hadley’s frigate only hours before.

  Hours?

  It was getting darker and darker beyond the stern windows and dimly, it occurred to Nerissa that the loss of light wasn’t just due to the storm.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Getting late,” her brother replied. “Have you dined?”

  She shook her head. “I have no appetite.”

  “I wish I could claim the same. I’m famished.”

  “There’s good wine and spirits in that small cupboard,” she said, nodding toward the paneled bulkhead. “Maybe some cheese. We could feast. Get foxed.”

  “You need to pull yourself together, Nerissa.”

  “I am together.”

  “Just because you’ve stopped crying doesn’t mean you’re all right.”

  More desperate calls from above, and poor, out-of-his-depth Walters trying vainly to be heard over the wind. “Get McPhee!” he was shouting. “I need him up here, I’ve lost track of the frigate in the darkness!”

  “Heads will roll,” Andrew said, going to the cupboard and pulling out a round of cheese. He found a knife, cut off a wedge, and offered it to her. “Want some?”

  “What I want is to go to Ruaidri.”

  “We’ve already discussed that. You can’t.”

  “I must.”

  “He’s unconscious. He won’t know you’re there.”

  “How do you know he’s unconscious? Have you seen him?”

  Andrew broke off a chunk of the cheese and popped it into his mouth, chewing hungrily. “I confess I had a look at him to satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else.” He took another bite. “Please have some cheese, Nerissa. You need to eat.”

  But Nerissa just went to the stern windows and looked out over the darkening sea, and the last thing on her mind was food.

  Ruaidri O’ Devir might not survive this night.

  And
if he did, he would never survive what awaited him in England.

  There was only one way to save him. It was a daring plan and it would take more stomach than she’d ever had to demonstrate. Once she carried it out she would be a fugitive, with no going back.

  But Nerissa was a de Montforte…and she knew what she had to do.

  * * *

  “Hell of a place to die, down here in the darkness.”

  “I don’t like the feel of the ship. She’s laboring. Those Britons are having trouble keeping her on her feet in this squall.”

  “Aye, well, better to die here than at the end of an English noose.”

  The hold was hot and dark, already unpleasant with the scent of some forty nervous, beaten, and injured men all confined in such small space. Some were still bleeding from the short, brutal fight with the English frigate. Others were sweating profusely in fear and misery. The youngest of the lot, Joey, sat stroking his parrot, his mind filled with images no child should ever have to see or remember. Nobody had brought them food. Nobody had even brought them water.

  “So much for getting that explosive,” Lieutenant Morgan said, bracing himself against a bulkhead as the brig leaned hard over. “But we gave it our best shot.”

  “We might’ve done it, if that cowardly scrote Hadley hadn’t shot our captain in the back before the fight even started.”

  “Didn’t quite shoot him in the back, now.”

  “Shot him when his back was turned and he was trying to save the lady, and in my book that’s the same damned thing.”

  They could feel wind buffeting the ship and around them, the sound of water surging against the hull and finding its way in through the oakum that made the seams, working now in the heavy seas, watertight.

  “Damned cowards,” said one of the topmen, picking at a bandaged finger.

  “I don’t know who I’d like to have a go at first, that bloody Frenchie who betrayed us or Hadley.”

  “Don’t quite matter now, does it? We’re done for.”

  Nobody said anything, remembering the faces of friends and shipmates they’d never see again. Remembering their own actions and wondering what they could have done differently. Remembering their captain dying in his own blood as poor Tackett, shot through the chest as he’d torn off his neckerchief and tried to tie off the bleeding, fell dead beside him. Neither had even had the chance to fight.

  “Think he could’ve saved us?” young Cranton asked.

  The smell of ginger filled the close, hot space as Morgan tried to combat his seasickness with the contents of his pocket. “He was clever and tough. Ruthless, when he had to be. If anyone could have done so, it was him.”

  The moments ticked by, only the sound of their breathing marking the passage of time.

  At length, Cranton spoke. “He sure had his secrets, though. Carried them to the grave.”

  “Aye.”

  The ship rolled and yawed, tilting sickeningly.

  “He ever tell any of you what he did?” Morgan asked.

  “Not me.”

  “Me neither.”

  The voice of the helmsman’s mate was a murmur in the darkness. “On the way across the Atlantic, he used to stand with me deep into the night after I’d relieve Tackett at the helm. We had a good chin-wag about a lot of stuff. Women. Politics. Shipbuilding. Hopes and dreams.”

  “Did he tell you what horrible thing he supposedly did?”

  “Not in so many words. But I kind of guessed it.”

  The ship yawed again, and someone in the close space vomited.

  “Fuck you, Moore.”

  “Christ, if the stink down here was bad before, ye’ve just made it unbearable.”

  Moore puked again.

  “So what did he do?” Cranton drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, trying to filter his air through his sleeve. “What dark and awful secret did he take to the grave?”

  It was a long while before the helmsman spoke. “He murdered his best friend.” And then, in the stunned silence, he added, “and it was over a woman.”

  Chapter 22

  It seemed as though Andrew would never leave.

  Eventually, though, her deliberate yawns got through to him and bidding her a good night he opened the door, exchanged a few words with the sentry that McPhee had posted just outside, and found his own cabin.

  Nerissa wasted no time.

  She wolfed down what was left of the cheese to replenish her energy, waited for five, ten, twenty minutes until she was sure her brother was safely back in his own cabin, and set to work rooting around in Ruaidri’s desk. Her stomach clenched at the thought of what she was about to do, what she intended to do, though she saw no way out of it. Oh, God give me strength!

  There. A glass paperweight, smooth and green, tiny bubbles inside it frozen in space and time. A shamrock dominated its center.

  A shamrock. She hoped that it, along with her own determination, would be the instrument to save an Irishman from the gallows.

  She hefted it in her hand, getting the feel of its weight. The glass molded itself to her palm, lent strength to her fingers and her own resolve, and grew warm.

  I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  She found a knife, hacked at her gown, pocketed the strips. Then she went to the door and quietly pulled it open, one hand on her stomach, the other discreetly behind her back.

  “Good evening, my lady,” said the sailor who stood there. “What can I do for you?”

  “This storm… It is making me unwell. I need some fresh air.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, no, I’m quite all right. I fear that I may be sick, and I would be dreadfully embarrassed to cast up my accounts in front of you or anyone else.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen much worse.”

  “I’m sure you have, but I do have my sensibilities, sir, and I am asking you to respect them.” She gave a moan to add emphasis to her nonexistent mal de mer. “Is the storm waning?”

  “It is, but we’ve become separated from the frigate. I’m sure well find them at first light.”

  “We’re all alone out here on the sea?” she squeaked, pretending a frightened gasp.

  “You are under the protection of the Royal Navy, milady. There is nothing to fear.”

  “And was that awful—” she gave a sudden, quivering sob, wondering if she had a career on Drury Lane—“Irishman, properly disposed of? I would dread to have him rising up from the dead and ravishing me.”

  The seaman eyed her askance. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “He’s not dead. Wish he was, though, for what he did to you. No gentleman should ever strike a lady.”

  And no lady should ever strike a gentleman, but this one is prepared to if you don’t let me pass.

  “He’s not dead?” She widened her eyes and clutched at her chest in feigned terror. “Oh, dear God in heaven help me!”

  The sailor drew himself up. “There is no cause for alarm, milady. The rogue is barely breathing and his own surgeon just spent an hour trying to patch him up. Not worth the bother if you ask me.”

  Nerissa pretended to shudder. “And where is he now? Am I safe up here on deck?”

  “McPhee put him below about twenty minutes ago with the rest of his scurvy bunch of pirates. He won’t harm you, milady. The lieutenant himself is guarding the hold.”

  “The lieutenant himself? Why, I do feel much safer, sir…but since he’s the one now commanding this ship, I would have thought he’d have assigned such a task to one of the midshipman. Is that awful Captain O’ Devir so very dangerous?”

  “Not so very dangerous at the moment, but very, very important.”

  She appeared to consider that. “What about that young man with the cherubic curls? Walters, I believe?”

  “Walters has the deck. If you turn and look in that direction, you can see him in the darkness. Again, you are quite safe, my lady.”

  She no
dded, remembering she was supposed to feel seasick, and passed a hand over her brow. “I need to get some air,” she said and began to move past him, but she knew he was going to be difficult; his eyes were on her, and he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. Certainly not long enough for her to slip below. The minute she disappeared, he would raise the alarm, thinking she’d fallen overboard in the still-heavy seas.

  She felt the heavy, reassuring weight of the paperweight with its little shamrock in her palm. You can do this.

  I can’t!

  You can, because you’re doing it to save his life.

  The guard was right behind her. She pretended to trip, and pulling off a nonexistent necklace, let it fall to the deck.

  “My choker!”

  “Eh?”

  “My choker! It was a gift from my brother for my twentieth birthday. Oh, do help me, sir, I fear I’ve lost it in the darkness!”

  She began to sob and sure enough, the sentry put down his pistol, dropped to his knees, and began to search with his palms on the wet, salt-sticky deck, eager to be the one to save the damsel in distress.

  The damsel, though, raised her hand, uttered a silent prayer for strength and forgiveness, and gave a little cry as she brought the paperweight down hard on the back of his head.

  The feel of the impact in her palm and up her arm was awful, and the nausea that suddenly flared in her stomach was not feigned. She allowed herself a moment of horror as she looked down at the man’s prostrate form, both awed and sick at heart that she had actually struck someone down. She sucked her lips between her teeth, pulled from her pocket one of the strips that she had cut from her ruined gown, and hastily tied it around the fallen man’s wrists. A second piece secured his mouth in a gag, and bending down to make sure he was still breathing, she picked up his pistol and left him there on the deck in the darkness, hoping that squeaky-voiced Midshipman Walters would not come back here to check on him.

  Walters himself was at the tiller, conversing with the helmsman. Neither had heard a thing over the roar of the sea as it creamed past the ship in the darkness.