The absolute mess that she had brought about.
His wife Celsie back home at Rosebriar with little Laura and surely worried sick about him. Nerissa ruined, a traitor to England and now, God help them, in love with a rebel who was destined to die when his leg turned gangrenous, the Royal Navy returned, or Lucien caught up to him. Lucien. His brother wouldn’t give O’ Devir a chance to even explain himself before he executed him. Andrew raked a hand through his hair. A fortnight ago his life had been secure and orderly, full of hope and excitement as he’d planned for the explosive’s demonstration and finally, recognition for his achievements. Now the world was turned upside down.
And why?
The explosive, of course.
That damned explosive.
He tossed back another swallow of the whiskey. Had he ever come up with an invention that didn’t cause mischief, upend people’s lives and in general, prove to be a thoroughly useless addition to the society it sought to improve?
The explosive. He was beginning to rue its existence, just as he had rued that damned aphrodisiac he’d accidentally discovered. His inventions were supposed to better the world, not make it worse. The aphrodisiac though, had led him to Celsie. The explosive, on the other hand…it should never, ever have been invented. Whether it ended up with the Royal Navy or the Americans, its existence would lead to nothing but death, destruction and misery, and he’d sure seen enough of that today to last a lifetime.
Death, destruction and misery.
O’ Devir bleeding out on his own quarterdeck. English dead, American dead, severed limbs and battered corpses. Soon-to-be grieving widows, mothers, children and lovers. Lives wrecked, bodies broken, dreams shattered and futures destroyed. Such was war. There was nothing patriotic about it, nothing justified and certainly nothing noble, and sitting there contemplating the darkness beyond the windows, Andrew suddenly realized that he wanted no further part of any of it. That no invention, solution, substance or creation to ever spring forth from his brain and hands would ever contribute to the suffering or death of another human being.
The formula for that explosive…he would take it to the grave.
There is enough misery in this world. I will not add to it.
He sighed and looked at his pocket watch. Nerissa’s abductor wanted a meeting. Andrew just wanted to find some quiet place to be alone.
He thought back to that moment in London, when he’d briefly met the man. O’ Devir had struck him as a fool and a braggart, assured of his own effect on the fairer sex and spoiling for a fight. The kind of man that put a brother’s hackles up on behalf of his little sister, the kind of man that other men recognized as a danger, a heartbreaker, competition, and one they would want as far away from the women in their lives as it was possible to get him.
Another swallow of whiskey. Damn, damn, and triple damn.
From outside came the low murmur of voices. The door opened without even the courtesy of a knock, immediately offending Andrew’s lordly sensibilities—until he remembered that he was the guest in this man’s quarters, not the other way around.
O’ Devir stood there, Nerissa at his side and her lips tight with anger.
Trouble in paradise already?
For a long, assessing moment, Andrew locked gazes with the Irishman’s. The arrogant scoundrel who’d leaned against the wall in that London townhouse and perused his little sister with a predatory gleam in his eye was not the same person who stood before him now. This was a confident man, a worthy man, a warrior, still garbed in the uniform of battle, his blue and white coat stained and torn, one bandaged leg of his snowy breeches cut off at mid-thigh and heavily soaked with blood.
Lord Andrew put down his glass.
So this, then, was the man for whom Nerissa had betrayed her own country.
This was the man that his little sister loved.
Andrew got to his feet and went forward, warily extending a hand.
“Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir of the American Continental Navy,” the Irishman said, extending his own hand and getting straight to the point. The hand was ice-cold and clammy, but his grip was firm and hard. “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye under my real identity.”
“Lord Andrew de Montforte,” he said, his own grip equally firm.
The Irishman moved toward the table, picked up the bottle of whiskey and uncorked it, one black, arching brow raised.
“Care for a top up?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Potent amber liquid splashed into Andrew’s glass, and it was only then that he saw that O’ Devir’s hand, the fingers calloused and the knuckles criss-crossed with scars, was white and shaking.
The Irishman noted the direction of his gaze. “Ye’ll forgive me, m’ lord,” he said, pouring and half-raising his own glass as he sat down on the cot a few feet away. “I’ve had better days.”
“You have done much that demands forgiveness, Captain. I’m not sure I know where to start.” He took a sip of his own drink and glanced at his sister, who stood there uncertainly. “It would be best if you left us for a bit, Nerissa.”
“Why, so you two can beat the stuffing out of one another?”
O’ Devir sipped his drink. “Wouldn’t be a fair fight, now, would it?” he said, swirling the liquid in its glass.
“Indeed, I’d never take advantage of a fellow who’s just lost enough blood to float his own warship.”
What makes ye think I’d be the one at a disadvantage?”
Andrew raised a brow, but he caught the humor in the other man’s eyes and knew it was all in jest, perhaps only to set Nerissa, who was looking increasingly worried, at ease. “Pray God we never make each other angry enough to find out. Nerissa? If you please?”
She folded her arms. “And just where am I supposed to go?”
O’ Devir’s smile grew fond. “Go find Mr. Cranton, mo grá, and tell him I’d like him to bring ye round to the wounded. Seein’ a lady’s pretty face and hearin’ her gentle voice will be good medicine for them.”
“You two won’t kill each other?”
“Not tonight.”
Biting her lip, Nerissa gave them each a last lingering look and left, closing the door behind her.
“Well,” said O’ Devir. “Tha’ ’twas easy.”
“It won’t always be. Better start planning now how you’re going to handle her.”
“I’d never presume to try and figure that out, Lord Andrew.”
“Andrew. Just Andrew. If you’re going to wed her, we might as well dispense with formalities.”
“What makes ye think I’m goin’ to wed her?”
“Refuse, and I won’t let you leave this cabin alive.”
“Ehm, right.” The other man, lips twitching, took a swallow of whiskey, then sat reflecting upon the contents of his glass. “And what about this eldest brother of yers? Will he give consent? I’m told I’d better keep my entrails in good condition as they’ll end up being his chosen instrument of my strangulation.”
Andrew guffawed, choking and nearly spilling his drink.
“I had a feeling she was only blaggardin’.”
“No, she was not. Though Lucien will see to your dispatch in a much less messy way than strangling you with your own entrails.”
“Pistols or swords?”
“Both, probably.”
O’ Devir sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to put up a fight for the sake of pride and appearances.”
“I wouldn’t bother, as it will only prolong the inevitable outcome. My brother is one of the most dangerous men in England.”
The Irishman lifted his glass and smiled. “Ah, but we are not in England, are we?”
Andrew returned the salute. “Indeed, sir, we are not.” He had deliberately goaded, perhaps even insulted the man, trying to gauge the depth of his self-restraint. He was both satisfied and relieved that O’ Devir had not risen to the bait. His sister would be safe with a husband who could control his temper. He would certainly need that abili
ty, married to one such as her.
“Of course, I should kill you anyhow,” Andrew murmured, contemplating his own drink. “You abducted my little sister. You’ve probably had your way with her, and most certainly, have ruined her. Her life will never be the same.”
“No, it will not.”
“Have you had your way with her?”
“I’m an officer in the Continental Navy, not a pirate.”
Andrew eyed him levelly. “So you haven’t.”
“The only reason I’m even goin’ to answer that question is because ye’re the lass’s brother and deserve one. But no, I haven’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, as black and wild a mane as Andrew had ever seen, and sighed. “Got too much respect for her, I do.”
The two men drank, quietly sharing the silence. The lantern swung to and fro with the motion of the ship. O’ Devir had gone silent and glancing over at him, Andrew saw that he was discreetly leaning against the ship’s inner hull, his eyes drifting shut. So the illusion of strength, then, was an act. His future brother-in-law was weaker, far weaker, than he was letting on and Andrew knew that if he wanted to get anything more out of this conversation he should probably try and bring it to a close sooner rather than later.
“Anything else I should know about you, O’ Devir?”
The Irishman’s eyes opened. “Lots.” He gave Andrew a level stare. Here, too, he did not back down or look away. “You interested in hearin’?”
Andrew rubbed his jaw and thought about that for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “No, I am not.”
Still that steady gaze. “I’ve done terrible things.”
“What you’ve done in the past does not concern me as much as what you’ll do in the future—and how you treat my little sister. I won’t plumb your secrets, especially as you seem quite willing to confess them.”
“I killed a man.”
O’ Devir was regarding him with flat challenge, daring him to take up this gauntlet.
“I know all about it.” And at the Irishman’s raised brow, he added, “Lucien had you investigated.”
“And he’d still see me wed to yer sister?”
“I consider myself a damned good judge of character, O’ Devir, and I can sense enough about yours that the particulars of Mr. Brown’s unfortunate death are of little interest to me.”
“I love your sister. And she might not be lovin’ me back if I were to tell her the particulars that ye’re not so eager to hear.”
“You haven’t told her?”
“Not yet. Things happened rather quicker than I expected, they did. I’ll tell her in good time.” He looked up at Andrew with eyes that were resolute. “I’d give my life for her, ye know, and consider it an honor doin’ it.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I won’t break her heart like that other ball of shite did.”
“If you do, my brothers and I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and kill you.”
Outside the stern windows, the sea sparkled in the moonlight. O’ Devir was leaning his head back against the inside of the hull again, watching the thin line of the ship’s wake through distant, half-shut eyes.
“For her own safety, you can never bring her back to England again, you know. Not after what she did today.”
It was a long time before the other spoke. “I’m not worth the sacrifice. She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, she obviously thinks you are, and she did do it. In releasing your men to retake the ship, she betrayed her country. That’s treason. A capital offense. Not even Lucien will be able to save her from the gallows once the truth comes out.”
“It doesn’t have to come out. The only witnesses to her action who are likely to talk are those locked below in the hold.”
“But you won’t kill them to keep them quiet.”
“Certainly not. I’ll set them ashore at some French port, and off we’ll go to America.”
Andrew stared down into his whiskey. “Well, we all make our own beds, carve our own paths in life, do we not? My sister knows her own mind and she is not, and has never been, rash. She knew there would be no going back to her country, her birthplace, her home…the family that she loves. And still, when faced with the choice, it was to save your life over everything she holds most dear.” Andrew looked at the other man gravely, growing increasingly concerned about his pallor. “You’d better not die on her, O’ Devir. Don’t let her sacrifice come to naught.”
“Not plannin’ on it.”
“Yes, well, there are lots of things we never plan.”
“Aye. And speakin’ of plans, just so ye know, mine was to abduct you, not her.” O’ Devir pushed away from the inner hull against which he’d been leaning and seemed to come back to himself. “Things just sort of happened the way they did, and I took advantage of it. Never meant to cause yer family any pain, just carryin’ out the mission that Adams sent me to complete, which was to get that explosive.” He looked flatly, almost beseechingly at Andrew. “I wish ye’d give me that formula. I really don’t want to bring ye all the way back to Boston.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“She’ll find that hard to forgive, if I don’t set ye free somewhere safe.”
“Blame it on me, then. After all, I’m the one refusing to relinquish it. Not like you have a choice, if its procurement is your sole reason for being on this side of the Atlantic. Besides—” Andrew’s smile was wry—“I’d just as soon stay here and keep an eye on things, at least, until you two tie the knot. And the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”
“Ye want it done that quickly?”
“Yes. By her actions, she’s denied herself the big, formal ceremony in England she’d otherwise have received. No, O’ Devir…there is no reason to wait. Best to wed her quickly and quietly, and if you know of a place or a person who’ll do it, all the better.”
“Back to Saint-Malo, then. As good a place as any and better, probably, than most.”
The Irishman’s skin had gone waxen, tiny droplets of sweat gathering on his brow, and Andrew began to wonder if he’d even last the rest of the night. “You look like hell. You even up for a transatlantic crossing?”
O’ Devir snorted in amusement. “Never felt better.” And then, sobering. “Are you?”
“Never made one.”
“’Twill be rough, I expect. Storms this time of year comin’ out of the Caribbean.”
“It’s not like you’re giving me a choice, O’ Devir.”
“I gave ye a choice, but ye’re just as stubborn as I am.”
“Probably more so.”
“Guess we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other over the next few weeks, eh?”
“Indeed, and don’t think I won’t be watching you.” Andrew drained his whiskey and rose to his feet. It was time to go. “You seem to be a fellow of courage and strength, Captain O’ Devir. I may have given you consent to wed my sister but I can promise you that if you hurt her in any way, shape or form, you’re as good as dead. I’ll see to it myself.”
The Irishman got up and moved painfully to the door to see him out. “I can assure ye, Lord Andrew, that yer fears are unfounded.”
“They damn well better be.” Andrew paused with his hand on the latch. “I bid you good night, Captain. And I suggest you get some sleep. Blood takes time and rest to replenish, and you’ve vowed not to break my sister’s heart. Dying would be an immediate way to accomplish that, and I forbid it.”
O’ Devir smiled wearily. “Good night—and soon enough, good mornin’, Andrew. ’Tis been a pleasure.”
“Get some sleep.”
The door closed behind him.
Finally alone, Ruaidri stood there for a long moment leaning heavily against the door. He was so weak he felt sick to his stomach. The cabin was making a slow revolution both around and inside his head and he despaired of even making it back to his cot. I should have told him, he thought. Should have told him what happened w
ith Delight…and with Josiah Brown.
Should have told him….
But hadn’t he said he’d known? How much did he know?
Staying alert, staying on his feet, and staying focused during the arse-grilling he’d just been dealt had depleted him of what strength he’d had left. He opened his door to order Morgan to change course, staggered back toward the bunk, collapsed face-down across it…and knew no more.
* * *
“Ships don’t just vanish into thin air, Mr. Dewhurst,” said Captain Lawrence Hadley, scanning the southern horizon beyond Happenstance’s plunging jib-boom. He swung the glass starboard, desperately hoping for a bit of white above the horizon that would at least give him hope that his prize, Tigershark, had survived that brief, vicious squall.
“No sir, they don’t. But they do occasionally vanish beneath the surface of the sea, especially during storms like that one we just fought our way through.”
McPhee, whom he’d left in charge of the prize, was a competent seaman and a level-headed officer. It had blown hard all night and the American brig might’ve sprung a mast following the damage to her rigging, or simply got separated from them. He told himself that was all it was, and that her absence would be short-lived.
He could not contemplate the very real possibility that she’d gone down in the storm. Not with one, but two de Montforte siblings aboard. The blame would, of course, be laid on his doorstep for allowing the two aristocrats to stay aboard the brig when they’d have been so much safer on board a Royal Navy warship. But no fate that awaited him should that brig not turn up in London under McPhee’s command—and it very well might—would come close to what the Duke of Blackheath would do to him if he did not bring his brother and sister back safe and sound.
Cold sweat ran down his back.
They were alive and the ship was fine and would be waiting for them in London. He was worrying too much. Letting his imagination get the best of him.
“Even so, prepare to tack, Mr. Dewhurst. We’ll beat down to as close to the coast of France as we can get, do a few passes where we last saw Tigershark, and keep our eyes peeled for signs that she went down. Flotsam. Spars, canvas, and—and the like.”
The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) Page 23
