“Are you squeamish, Mr. Dorian? Because the hard part is over.”
He looked much affronted. “I am not squeamish.”
“No need to take offense, as none was meant.” She cleaned the fresh blood away with the towel. “Are you ready?”
He had picked up the tankard and was drinking it down rather quickly. “Yes, of course.”
She exchanged a dubious glance with her mother, pinched the edges of the wound shut, and deftly pushed the needle through the skin as confidently as if she were working a piece of embroidery. He cursed under his breath and tensed, and she made another stitch. Another. He sipped from the mug. She took yet another stitch. Eventually the wound was neatly sewn up. Her patient exhaled a pent-up sigh of relief, and picking up the musket ball that had caused such mischief, she handed it to him.
“Here,” she said. “A souvenir for your courage against the King’s troops. I’ve a feeling that what happened here today is going to go down in history, and you’ll certainly want to keep this memento of your part in it.”
Chapter 2
Dorian sighed, closed his hand around the musket ball, and studied the girl’s face as she wrapped a clean linen bandage around his wound.
God help him, but she was a pretty young thing.
Thank God he hadn’t fainted. He could stand the sight of blood, but when it was your own blood, and a stranger was stitching your skin together with a needle from her sewing basket, and that stranger had no idea who you really were and would likely stab the needle into your eyeball if she knew ... well, that rather changed things.
I need to leave.
She tied off the bandage, her fingers deft, the dressing snug. Watching her as she worked distracted him from his predicament, and he took the opportunity to study her. She was a slim brunette dressed in calico, confident and pretty, with a determined mouth and dark, sparkling eyes beneath a starched white mobcap. She smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg and apples, and maybe a touch of vanilla—he knew because he’d closed his eyes and leaned in close to her as she’d worked and breathed deeply of her scent, if only to keep his mind off what she’d been doing. The delicate column of her neck, the shell of her ear, and the wisps of dark hair at her nape had distracted him as she’d cut into his flesh, and he’d found himself relaxing under her ministrations, his trust in her competence growing by the moment.
Now, she straightened up, wiping her hands on the towel. Her hair was pinned up under her muslin cap and he wondered how long it was, brushed out and falling down her back. What it might feel like in his hands. Perhaps such imaginings were not quite appropriate but imagine them he did, and those thoughts were all that kept him from disgracing himself with a faint when he thought about the idea of the needle stitching his flesh like a torn sail.
I need to leave here. Now.
The events of this wretched day defied belief. He should have left this godforsaken hellhole last night when his search had come up empty. But Dorian had come out here on a mission, and he was not one to return empty-handed.
And this morning, when rumors of a bloody skirmish at Lexington between the King’s troops and the local militia had come with the dawn, followed by fighting and carnage at the North Bridge which he’d seen with his very own eyes ... by then, there’d been no time left.
Nobody back in Boston had warned him of General Gage’s planned raid on Concord. He’d been caught in it like everyone else. The troops hadn’t found what they’d been looking for in Concord, and withdrawing after the skirmish at the bridge they’d turned back for Boston, hounded by colonial militia firing at them from behind trees, barns, walls and houses. Discipline had eroded under such a savage attack. Their retreat had quickly become a rout, then full-blown flight for their very lives. Dorian, racing on foot after the Regulars for reasons of his own, had seen Lord Charles de Montforte—a captain in the Fourth Foot—go galloping past on his fine chestnut horse and a half mile further down the road there was Lord Charles lying dead against the stone wall, that same fine horse standing guard over him while smoke and gunfire and shouts and screams had raged around him and the very ground itself had run red with blood.
Dorian shut his eyes so the girl would not see his pain. His shock. His disbelief.
Imagine. They had actually fired on us.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Dorian?”
“I would be obliged if you’d go and see if that horse is still outside near the dead soldier.”
She wiped her palms on the towel and with a sound and gesture meant to convey the futility of even looking, went to the door and exited. A few moments later she was back.
“The horse is gone,” she said. “As I knew it would be. One of our neighbors must have grabbed it, and I wouldn’t blame them a bit after what the Regulars did to us this morning.”
What they did to you?
He tightened his mouth and looked away so she wouldn’t see his anger. What about what you did to us? Firing on us like cowards? Bashing in the skull of one of our own with an axe back at the North Bridge until his brains were showing, while the poor fellow was trying to get up? Scalping him like an Indian would, for God’s sake? Oh, girl, you don’t know the half of it, do you?
He rubbed at his bandage, his frustration rising. “I need a horse. You say you have a farm. Surely there must be a horse on it.”
“Yes, but she’s the only one we have and if I lend her to you there’s no saying we’ll ever see her again.” She picked up his bloodied, discarded shirt with two fingers and eyed it critically. “This needs washing, and if I get the chance, I’ll go ahead and mend it for you, too. In the meantime, toss another log on the fire if you get cold. I’m going out to get the latest on what happened. Mother’s in the keeping room should you need anything.”
She gathered up her things and admonishing him to rest, left the room. He shut his eyes in relief that he was alone with his thoughts, if only for a short time, with no pretense to uphold. He was in a predicament, to be sure, but things could be worse. His injuries wouldn’t keep him here for long. He could be lying dead out there like poor Lord Charles. He could be recognized and, given the fury the countryside was in, shot in cold blood. For the moment though, he was safe enough.
But for how long?
He stared dully into the flames of the hearth. Had it been only forty-eight hours since he’d sat in the aft cabin of HMS Halcyon with his friend and peer?
“Dorian. This won’t take but a moment.”
He’d found it odd to be summoned to the frigate but its commander, Captain Brendan Merrick, was a favorite of the admiral and everyone knew it. Not that most of them begrudged such favoritism, for it was impossible not to like the tall, lanky half-Irishman with the chestnut hair and mirthful grin. He was young and affable, a talented mariner, and a fair and just sea officer with a sense of humor not often found in those of such rank, and there wasn’t a man aboard his command who didn’t count himself damned lucky to serve under him, as Dorian had himself before being posted captain of his own ship, the sloop-of-war HMS Thames. Now, his former captain poured coffee into two mugs, set them down on the table, and gestured to a chair.
“Have a seat, Dorian.”
Dorian sat. Merrick pulled out a chair across from him, wrapped his hands around the mug, and regarded him with a rather pained grin. “So.” He cleared his throat and tried to adopt an air of seriousness. “You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”
“I’ve a feeling it’s not to discuss fleet strategies, armament, or the weather.”
“I wish it were, but ... let me get straight to the point, Dorian. It’s about young George Lloyd.”
Dorian had groaned. “Again?”
“Yes, again. Faith, the lad’s a trial, is he not? This time, he’s become involved in a most, em... delicate situation, and the admiral has sought my recommendations as to who might be sent out to quietly and quickly retrieve him. As you might imagine, it must be someone clever and discreet, someone who can get him sa
fely back to Boston before word gets out about this latest scandal and casts a shadow upon his family’s name.”
“And further embarrassment upon his Navy, I should imagine.”
“Well, that, too. Of course.”
“Of course.”
The admiral’s privileged young grand-nephew needed to be taken in hand, and Dorian said as much.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Merrick had agreed. “Are you up for a clandestine mission?”
“I’d rather be patrolling the coast.”
“I know, and Sir Geoffrey is thrilled with the reputation you’ve carved out for yourself, even if the rebels despise you. But the admiral did ask for my recommendation, and....”
He’d deliberately trailed off, lifting an auburn brow and trying to control his grin.
“And so you thought of me.”
“Immediately.” Merrick’s abandoned his attempt to contain his mirth. “After all, you are the Sea Wolfe, and if Sir Geoffrey can’t trust you to get the job done, who can he trust?”
Dorian had put his head in his hands, silently cursing to himself. God, how he hated that nickname. And so much for glory on the quarterdeck of his own ship. Instead, he was being asked to be a nanny for the admiral’s foolish kin.
“As usual with such matters involving Mr. George Lloyd,” Merrick had continued, “this one involves a woman. Seems he met the young lady in Boston, pledged her his heart and went out to find her on nothing more than her telling him she lived in Concord, some ten miles west of here. Sir Geoffrey is beside himself. Not only could young George be in danger should things blow sky-high with the rebels, it’ll be quite the scandal if word gets out, as you can imagine.”
“I can also imagine that if General Gage learns of this, our admiral will never live it down.”
“Yes, this unfriendly rivalry between the two is another reason why it must be discreetly handled, and by one of our own. Someone Sir Geoffrey trusts, implicitly.”
“So the admiral wants me to go to Concord to find the young fool and bring him home.”
“Yes, and I’d advise you do it quickly. Rumor has it that Gage is planning something big, so best to get in, find the lad, and get out.”
But Dorian had come all the way out here and hadn’t found him. He’d taken a room at Wright Tavern last night, made discreet inquiries, and come up empty. He’d planned to poke around a bit more and return to Boston this morning, but the frenzied clanging of church bells out in the night had woken him and he’d gone downstairs only to find the place in an uproar. The Regulars were out, the Regulars were on their way to search Concord for arms and ammunition, to capture leaders Hancock and Adams, to burn and pillage and destroy, and everyone was in a rush, dumping pewter plate and valuables into the well, grabbing up muskets, the men vowing to give the lobsterbacks what-for and the women running to provide them with shot, powder and blessings. He should have left then, while there’d still been time. He should have left, whether or not he had young George in tow. And now here he was, trapped in a rebel parlor in front of a rebel fire pretending to be a rebel himself if only to save his own skin, when all it would take is one error, one person recognizing him, and he would likely be as good as dead.
Damnation.
He glared at his sore ankle, silently cursing it for its role in his current predicament. And this is why a Navy man should be at sea, not trapped in a rebel town ten miles from the safety of his own guns. Oh, why did I agree to this mission?
Indeed. Why had he?
“You carry the name of the Sea Wolfe,” Merrick had said, grinning helplessly as Dorian, scowling, had departed the great cabin of HMS Halcyon. His former captain had slapped him good-naturedly on the back. “Faith, you might as well live up to it.”
And that was why.
His bloodline was illustrious, save for one individual whose infamous moniker Dorian now bore. Having learned that the pirate Rhoan de Wolfe was a distant ancestor while they were all in their cups one night, the other captains in the fleet had resurrected the nickname that long-ago de Wolfe had carried and bestowed it upon Dorian, much to Dorian’s embarrassment and their own hilarity at his mortification.
At the moment though, all joking from his colleagues aside, it was an epithet he needed as much distance from as possible. He’d seen what had happened here today at the North Bridge. He’d seen that there was no turning back.
For if the people of Concord found out he, Lord Dorian Albert Philip de Wolfe was the infamous Sea Wolfe who had blockaded Boston, Salem, and the entire North Shore, all but cutting off trade single-handedly, he was as good as dead.
Chapter 3
Mercy quickly washed Mr. Dorian’s shirt, hung it near the hearth to dry, stirred the chicken stew bubbling in its pot and asking Elias to keep an eye on it, went outside looking for news.
There was plenty of it flying about. The Regulars hadn’t actually burned anyone’s houses as originally thought, but they’d exchanged fire at the North Bridge all the same. There were casualties. Friends and loved ones missing. Young boys strutting around, crowing with pride that they’d driven the King’s troops off with their tails between their legs. People hustled about carrying off the dead and wounded, and the air buzzed with excitement and sorrow, calls for vengeance and pleas for calm, and nervous speculation about the fate of those who had chased the Regulars off to Boston.
Mercy’s gaze went to the stone wall where the dead officer had lain. He was gone, only a dark smear of blood on the granite marking where he had fallen. Someone must have dragged him off for burial.
“Mercy! Mercy, did you hear?”
She turned to see gossipy old Doris Hart bustling toward her, nose bulbous and red from drink, her ankles swollen beneath her petticoats.
“Did I hear what, Mrs. Hart?”
“A rider just came from the east saying General Gage has more troops heading out to support the lobsterbacks who came through earlier. The ones we drove off! Oh, there’ll be no end to the bloodshed, mark my words!”
“What else have you heard?”
“Our hero, The Irish Pirate, was captured, but he escaped the Royal Navy captain who nabbed him and is now at large. They’re saying that Admiral Lloyd will be recalling none other than the Sea Wolfe from his patrols to try and recapture him. Ohhh, my heart breaks for the poor people of Boston, because without the Irish Pirate and what he smuggles in, they’ll surely starve to death! Boston needs food, and we’ll need guns and ammunition to defeat the lobsterbacks, and if the Sea Wolfe recaptures the Irish Pirate nothing will get through!”
Mercy had a feeling it was fine lace, fine linen, and fine spirits that Mrs. Hart was more concerned about, but wisely held her tongue.
“Hard enough for good decent folks to get proper victuals, let alone the necessities of life without the Royal Navy harassing the very men we depend upon to live. They’re strangling us, they are! Bunch of scoundrels, the lot of them! But we gave ’em all a good poke in the eye today, didn’t we, Mercy? They have their spies, aye, but we have ours, and thank God we got word early that Gage was sending his troops out here to Concord. It would’ve been a disaster if they’d found our munitions supplies. Our boys’ll be needing them!”
“Indeed, Mrs. Hart.”
“And what of you? Heard you took in a wounded man? God bless him for taking up arms against those knaves, we need more just like him!”
“Only doing my Christian duty, Mrs. Hart.”
“As we all must do. I myself was just on my way to help Sophie Lawless get her cow back. Would you believe the redcoats broke down her fence and it ran off?”
“I can’t say as if I blame it. Poor animal must’ve been terrified.”
How’s your ma faring? Knee bothering her much after that rain we had?”
At this rate, Mercy knew she’d be stuck here all day. “Mother is keeping well,” she said. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Hart, I must go. Let me know if you hear of any more news.”
She
returned to the house, gave the bubbling stew another stirring, and went to see how Mr. Dorian was faring.
She found him reposing on the sofa, seemingly preoccupied. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, highlighting the profile of his bold nose and firm, sensual mouth. Again, she was struck by his sheer size; his feet hung over the arm of the sofa and the span of his shoulders was such that the sofa itself was too narrow to contain them. He turned as she entered the room and his mouth turned up in a smile, as though he were actually happy to see her.
The thought warmed her, and she smiled in return.
“I see you’re in better spirits,” she said. “How’s your arm?”
“The cider helped, I daresay.” He swung to a sitting position, tested his ankle and frowned. “Though it’s done nothing for my ankle. I enjoy your hospitality, Miss Payne, and will be forever grateful to you and your family for your kindness, but I really must get back to Boston. Can you take me?”
Just as quickly her spirits fell. She had hoped ... thought, that maybe— No, that was foolish. Her attraction to him was a physical thing, and that was all. There was nothing to be made of it, nothing that would come of it, and she was silly for even entertaining the notion.
She moved to the chair nearest the fire and sat down. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I have friends in Boston, and they’ll be worried for me when I don’t return, especially after the events of this morning. Besides, there’s no reason for me to remain here. The injury to my arm is a minor one”
“When things calm down a bit I’ll take you to Boston myself. Or as far as they’ll allow.”
He inclined his head. “I would be much obliged.”
He had a lovely voice, she thought. A deep and cultured tenor that was pleasant on the ear, pleasing in its delivery. She liked the sound of it. Just as quickly, she berated herself. People had died this morning, for heaven’s sake. She hadn’t the faintest idea who Mr. Dorian was, and yet she was panting over him like a bitch in heat. What was wrong with her? She got up, went to the window and opened it, letting the fresh April breeze into the room in an attempt to cool both her thoughts and her flesh.
Heart Of The Sea Wolfe Page 2
