The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6)

by Barbara Devlin

  “Thank you, for conducting a complete and thorough investigation, Mr. Anderson.” Dalton escorted the constable to the sitting room door. “If you need anything else, we are at your service.”

  When her husband returned, he eased beside her, lifted her to his lap, and kissed her. “My angel, it is, at long last, over.”

  #

  A fortnight had passed, when Daphne fidgeted in her bedchamber, as Hicks unwrapped her most recent purchase. The previous week, a magistrate in Portsmouth conducted an inquest to review the facts surrounding Mr. Allen’s crimes and death. Dalton had attended the inquiry but had not been called upon to testify, and the entire matter had been closed.

  Yet an invisible but very real barrier loomed between Daphne and her erstwhile fervent husband, and she intended to breach his imaginary walls, after consulting with Rebecca. If not for the former spy, Daphne would have lamented the apparent loss of her once passionate knight. But Rebecca explained that Dirk had suffered the same unwelcome symptom, owing to the depth of his devotion, as she had recovered from Varringdale’s torture. In short, her husband refused to make love to her. And to Daphne’s frustration, Dalton suffered the same malady.

  “Should I leave it here, Mrs. Randolph?” Hicks stood upright and bundled the brown paper into a ball. “Or would you prefer I move it against the wall, as someone might trip and fall.”

  “Oh, no.” The orientation suited her purpose, so she shook her head. “Is dinner ready?”

  “It should be delivered, any second.” The butler bowed. “Shall I summon Mrs. Jones?”

  “No, you need not.” The housekeeper snorted. “As I am right here, you old hawk.”

  “Then I will leave you ladies.” With a smile, Hicks arched a brow. “Am I still to send Sir Dalton precisely at half past six?”

  “Yes.” Enclosed in her lair, Daphne kicked off her slippers and turned, so Mrs. Jones could untie the laces of her dress. Since Dr. Langdon had removed the stitches and the sling, she had only a bandage to draw attention to her wound. And while the injury still hurt, an ache of a different sort had become unbearable, and she decided to act. “Hurry, Mrs. Jones. Dalton will be here in ten minutes, and I want to take his breath away.”

  “I doubt that is seriously in question, Mrs. Randolph.” Mrs. Jones snickered. “I’d wager my bonnet, as I think it remains safe. Now which nightgown would you wear, though I wonder why you bother?”

  “The sapphire, as I wore it on my wedding night.” And she thought it past due to redeem it. “And I want to take down my hair.”

  “Oh, and I reassigned Daisy.” The housekeeper removed the pins and brushed Daphne’s locks. “When I explained that you were comfortable with me, as I have acted as your lady’s maid since you were a girl, Daisy understood. Daresay she is happy to have an occupation.”

  “Thank you.” Daphne stood and scrutinized her reflection in the long mirror. The diaphanous material hid nothing, and that was exactly what she wanted. “You are family to me, and I could not part with you.”

  “And I was loathe to relinquish my responsibilities.” Mrs. Jones picked up the slippers and the other garments and conveyed them to the closet. Then she checked the sitting room, discovered the trolley loaded with covered dishes, and rolled the cart into the bedchamber. “Now then, everything is in place, and I wish you a lovely evening with Sir Dalton.”

  Alone in the quiet solitude of her haven, Daphne twiddled her thumbs. As she surveyed her surroundings, she evaluated the efficacy of various poses and positions, which might show her figure at its best. In a last second change of plan, she unbuttoned the robe and dropped it to the floor and stood before the candelabra on the small table for two, which Hicks had situated, and hoped the candles provided fortuitous illumination—just as Dalton entered their quarters.

  “Daphne, is everything all right?” When his gaze settled on her, unmistakable stillness invested his large frame, and telltale sparks flickered in his amber eyes.

  “Hello.” She rotated, so he could look his fill. “Are you hungry?”

  To her surprise, Dalton stood stock-still and mute, and she sensed the indecision waging war in his brain, given his rigid posture. So she strolled to her reticent spouse, kissed his cheek, and unhooked his breeches. When she slipped her hand inside, she found him raring to go, just as she had anticipated.

  “Ah, you are hungry.” In a replay of an earlier scene, she worked his length, and on the third tug, as usual, her chivalrous knight gritted his teeth, emitted a feral groan, and sprayed his seed in an impressive cannonade. In that moment, the irrational worry she had denied ever existed seemed to melt, and she sighed, as his response affirmed he still desired her. “Oh, thank heavens. I had thought, perhaps, you no longer wanted me.”

  “What?” Dalton flinched and grabbed her wrist. “You think me an indifferent husband?”

  “We share a bed.” She shrugged. “But you refuse to make love to me, and I am not happy about it.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. “I am angry with you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Daphne blinked, as she never would have fathomed the cause of his detachment. “What have I done to displease you?”

  “You have to ask?” He snorted. “You put yourself between me and a lunatic bent on evil and took a lead shot for me. I want to spank you for being so careless with your person, when I hold you so dear.”

  “All right.” With ruthless determination, she marched to the four-poster, lifted her nightgown to bare her bottom, and bent over the side of the mattress. “Do your worst.”

  Studying the delicate scrollwork sewn into the counterpane, she swallowed hard, when he settled his palm to her flesh. Bracing for impact, she bit her lip, until he massaged her derriere.

  “You are incredibly beautiful, my angel.” The sadness in his voice spoke volumes, and her heart yearned for him. “I love you so much it terrifies me, and I know not how to cope.”

  “Oh, Dalton.” She gasped, when he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the overstuffed chair by the windows, sat, and nestled her in his lap. Framing his face, she kissed him. “I love you, too. And I could not conceive of my life without you, especially here on Portsea, as this is where we met, and everything about my childhood home reminds me of you. That is why I could not let Mr. Allen hurt you. Without you, I am lost.”

  For a while, they simply touched each other, learning their respective peaks and curves anew, and saying with their hands what could not be conveyed in words. When Daphne lifted her chin, Dalton met her halfway, covering her lips with his, and they ignited.

  Desire blossomed, slow at first, but it gathered strength, as a zephyr wind, which carried them into the conflagration. Together, they shed the stress of the past months, finding comfort in mutual pleasure, until they parted. Dalton nipped her nose and chuckled, and she giggled, in response.

  Resting his forehead to hers, he said, “If you ever do anything like that again, I will—”

  “Nothing like that will ever happen, again, as I will not allow it.” She scored her fingernails to the nape of his neck. “Now may we enjoy our evening?”

  “It would be my honor.” Then he averted his gaze and frowned. “What is a two-seater bench doing in the middle of the room?”

  “Oh—that?” Daphne untied his cravat and tossed aside the yard-length of linen. “I bought it on Rebecca’s recommendation.”

  “What for?” Furrowing his brow, Dalton huffed a breath. “As we have no need of it.”

  “I beg to disagree.” Daphne whispered in his ear the primary function of the item in question, explaining Dirk’s preferred use.

  Choking violently, his eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am, and I demand you indulge me.” She unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and splayed her palms to his impressive chest. “Else I may conk you on the noggin with my hairbrush and have my wicked way with you, sir.”

  For a few minutes, he simply stared at her. Then his demeanor ch
anged, and her naughty knight emerged from his cocoon. “All right, my angel.” With Daphne in his grasp, Dalton stood. “Hold tight, as you are about to take a ride on the wild side.”

  EPILOGUE

  December roared onto Portsea Island with a blizzard, and Dalton had opted to forgo a return to the city, as he fretted for Daphne’s health, which had become downright tenuous. To his frustration, his wife showed no inclination to slow her busy schedule, which included her customary charitable visits and mediation of community issues for the newly appointed governor of Portsea Island, her cousin Harold.

  To further compound the situation, she had invited the entire family to spend Christmas at Courtenay Hall, and the Brethren of the Coast were set to arrive in a sennight. As he sat at his desk in the study, he audited her ledger entries and was nonplussed to discover no errors, given he had made two trips to the Continent to transport injured soldiers home and had not checked her numbers in three months.

  “Good afternoon, darling.” He glanced up to discover her lingering in the doorway, holding a blanket, and he smiled.

  “Hello, my angel.” Dropping the pen to the blotter, he pushed back the chair and then stood. “Ready for your nap?”

  “Indeed.” As was her way, she marched to their usual spot—the overstuffed chair near the windows, which afforded a spectacular view of the harbor.

  After untying his cravat, he flung it to the daybed, unfastened the top button of his shirt, and sat. True to form, Daphne stepped about his legs, eased to his lap, unfolded the blanket, and draped it with care. As she snuggled close, he tucked the cover beneath her chin and kissed her forehead.

  “How do you feel?” Resting his cheek to her crown of curls, he sighed. “What did Dr. Langdon say? Could he prescribe a tonic?”

  “No.” Skimming her hand beneath the fine lawn, she pressed her palm to his chest. “But not to worry, as it will work itself out. And I had a letter from Blake.”

  “Is he returned from the voyage?” In light of Dalton’s reluctance to leave Daphne, given her fragile constitution, Blake had volunteered to assume the latest mission. “I owe him a debt.”

  “So it would seem.” She drew imaginary circles on his flesh. “He accepted our invitation and is bringing guests.”

  “Oh?” Sifting through the skirts of her blue gown, he finally located her bare calf and stroked her supple skin. “Who?”

  “Two young ladies, one of whom has caught his special attention.” Daphne snickered. “At least, that is what Caroline’s missive said.”

  “Bloody hell.” Dalton laughed. “Never thought I would see the day the great Blake Elliott fell victim to the fairer sex. Well I can’t wait to meet her, as she must be a paragon. And it will be no trouble, as we have plenty of rooms.”

  “Speaking of rooms, I would send a note to Mr. Benson, as I require a change to our home.” She parted his shirt and trailed feathery kisses between his nipples.

  “I beg your pardon?” He dropped his head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. “What more would you have, as we just renovated the entire house?”

  “But we have a very important person coming to stay with us, and I would have everything perfect.” She teased him with a playful nibble.

  “Who is this very important person, and why would they find none of our accommodations satisfactory?” He inched his hand higher and squeezed her supple thigh. “And when do they arrive?”

  “I know not, as we have yet to be introduced,” she replied in a flirty lilt. “And they will not arrive for another seven months, according to Dr. Langdon.”

  Whatever he had intended to say, words failed him, as the full import of her statement dawned, and Dalton peered at his wife. “My angel, you are with child?”

  “Happy Christmas, a tad early.” With an arm wound about his neck, she hugged him. “Are you as thrilled as I am?”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” So many emotions surged in his veins he could identify none of them. “I am beside myself with joy. I gather that is the source of your fatigue, of late?”

  “Yes.” Once again, she reclined and closed her eyes. “And I should take my nap, as Dr. Langdon prescribes it.”

  He tucked the blanket about her feet. “We should arrange a suitable ceremony, when the family gathers, so we might—”

  “Please, let us keep it to ourselves, as our secret, just for a little while.” Daphne nuzzled him and giggled. “For fun, we could toss your coin and guess the sex.”

  “But I no longer have it in my possession.” He recalled the starry November night, when he docked in Portsea after his last mission. Since his marriage, whenever his bride awaited his return at Courtenay Hall, he dropped anchor at the location nearest her. Compelled by a sensation he could neither comprehend nor explain, he had flung the gold brothel token into Portsmouth Harbor, before riding hell-bent for leather into her arms.

  “That is too bad.” Elegant in repose, she yawned, and soon her slow and steady breath signaled she slept.

  As always, Dalton guarded her slumber, but that afternoon he studied his wife with renewed fascination. Guinea-gold curls framed her face, blessed with classical features and accented with an internal glow that now made perfect sense, and he gave her a gentle squeeze. A new life grew inside her, the fruit of their love derived from their shared passion, and it was a humbling prospect.

  Yet, had she chosen a different ship to board, all those months ago, his existence would have been something else, entirely. The center of his universe, she was his saving grace, his world, and he owed her everything. With care, so as not to disturb her slumber, he bent his head and kissed her, and she gifted him a feminine smile. He would gladly spend the rest of his days endeavoring to keep that smile on her lips. And then it dawned on him—Daphne was his talisman. If he was her one true knight, she was the source of his good fortune. Indeed, he was the lucky one.

  Excerpt from Loving Lieutenant Douglas

  A Brethren of the Coast Novella

  Available now on Amazon.com

  London

  November, 1785

  I think dancing with a military man quite unworthy of you,” commented an anonymous disparager.

  “Oh, I could not agree more.” An unknown female snickered. “Why on earth would any woman consider a soldier or a sailor, when there are so many eligible, titled targets in our midst?”

  Given the unforgivable slight by the unseen snobs, Royal Navy Lieutenant Mark Douglas of the HMS Boreas stiffened his back, leashed his temper, and seethed in silence. He peered over his shoulder, spied a wealth of distinctive auburn curls, partially shielded by a large floral arrangement sitting atop a pedestal, but could gain no unobstructed sight, in light of the crush of society misses in his vicinity. In an effort to identify the mean-spirited harridans, and ensure he wasted no time on such flighty fools, he navigated the chasmal ballroom to secure a better vantage, as he could not confront them.

  How dare the witless society chits, regardless of pedigree, cast such unfavorable insults on the brave souls responsible for safeguarding their liberty, so they might spend their night circling the Northcote’s polished floor in their frivolous endeavors? He’d wager his last boon they would sing another tune were they privy to his bank balance. Nodding acknowledgments to various notable members of the ton, he bade his time to avoid rousing suspicion, because he could not simply demand satisfaction, until the offending debutantes came into full view.

  Three young ladies, though he would argue otherwise, based on their slur against his chosen, honorable occupation, sheltered in the shadow of the large pedestal, which supported a crystal vase filled with a fall mix of hothouse roses. What a compelling contradiction. Of the debutantes, including the telltale redhead, he found two unremarkable, but their friend he thought inexpressibly striking.

  With locks as black as a crow’s feather, the face of an angel, and shimmering eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, the beauty commanded countless admirers, evidenced by the unfortunate pups circli
ng her skirts. An indigo velvet gown encased her siren silhouette, which contrasted with her skin of pure alabaster. How sad it was that such flawless perfection masked an unattractive heart.

  In that instant, she met his stare, and a shiver of awareness traipsed his spine. Summoning years of well-honed polite civility, and refusing to stoop to her level, he dipped his chin. And then she smiled. An imaginary but nonetheless powerful bolt of lightning seared his gut, the walls collapsed, the crowd vanished into thin air, the candlelight dimmed, the music faded into the background, and the world rocked beneath his feet.

  To his relief, she appeared unaffected and lost interest, when she bent her head and addressed her cohorts. But to his unmitigated horror, she departed her accomplices in nefarious enterprises and steered in his direction. Myriad introductions fogged his brain, as he searched for a suitable rejoinder, one that would spare him the humiliation of begging a waltz, which he knew she would refuse.

  When a lobster, and a mere second lieutenant, at that, executed a brilliant flanking maneuver, Mark sighed and rolled his shoulders, in an effort to alleviate the tension investing his frame. Poor bastard had no idea of the barracuda lurking in inhospitable waters. To his infinite surprise, the raven-haired goddess acquiesced. Just what was she about?

  Loitering on the edge of the dance floor, he studied the fascinating creature for the better part of an hour, as she indulged a veritable legion of uniformed admirers, regardless of rank. With a cherubic countenance, she shared conversation and seemed genuinely attentive to her litany of partners, and he could not tolerate it.

  “She is lovely, is she not?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mark started and then stood tall. “Captain Randolph, sir. And how are you this fine evening?”

  “My arse smarts, my knees ache, and my belly hurts.” The legendary seaman Brent Randolph chuckled. “But my wife is happy, and that is all that matters.”

  “Oh, I say.” He winced. “Is that the way the wind blows in the marital state?”