Her Seafaring Scoundrel

by Sophie Barnes

Monty grinned. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  “Give her sheet,” he shouted, jolting the crew into motion. A flurry of activity followed as he continued issuing orders. “Away aloft. Drop the top sail. A-weather!” The bow sliced through the water, and Devlin allowed himself a satisfied smile. This, at least, was something he understood. Climbing up onto the quarterdeck, he planted his feet wide apart, assuming his position of command at Monty’s right shoulder. Work would preoccupy his mind and help clear his head. Most importantly, it would give him a reason to avoid Cass until he was ready to face her again.

  When Cassandra woke the next morning, she was alone. She’d been alone almost every morning since leaving England, but the solitude filling her cabin on this particular day was far more acute. After finally choosing to embrace a night of passion with her husband, a decision she’d not made lightly, she’d said the wrong thing, or the right thing just with the wrong words, and driven him away. He hadn’t returned. If he had, he would have remembered to take his tricorn with him.

  Unhappy with herself and with him and the awful feeling of being weighed down by the lead in her veins, she pulled on her robe and went to check on Penelope without so much as bothering to comb her hair. Barefoot, because she hadn’t the energy to shove her feet into her shoes, she walked to the next cabin and quietly knocked.

  “Yes?”

  She opened the door just as Trevor ran past, his eyes going wide at the sight of her. “Um. Good morning, Mrs. Crawford.”

  She smiled tightly and nodded, then went to check on her daughter. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than you, I should think.” Penelope sat, fully dressed with her back propped against a pillow and watched Cassandra approach. A notebook rested in her lap. “Do you suppose you’ve caught what I had?”

  “No. I’m just tired.” She spotted a discarded tray on Penelope’s desk. It contained an empty plate and a cup. “I see you already ate.”

  “Dev brought me one of Mr. Talbot’s excellent omelets.”

  “I see,” Cassandra murmured. She wanted to ask Penelope how Devlin had seemed, if he’d been in a good mood or not, but she didn’t know how.

  But then Penelope said, “He asked if I’d like to learn how to plot a course, which I think might be fun.” She shrugged. “You should join us.”

  “I, um…” Cassandra deliberately smiled. “I’m still rather tired. But we probably should try to resume your lessons at some point later today.”

  Penelope groaned. “Must we?”

  “Basic mathematics is imperative to all facets of life. Even to plotting courses, I’ll wager.” She yawned. “Do you think you’ll be all right if I go back to bed?”

  “Of course.” Penelope waved her journal. “I’ve two days’ worth of journal writing to catch up on before Dev returns.”

  “All right then.” Cassandra reached for the door.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you feel better later.”

  Cassandra could only press her lips together and nod. If she spoke just then, she rather feared she might burst into tears even though she didn’t quite understand why. She was the one who’d hurt Devlin, not the other way around. Right?

  Unsure of her feelings and quite convinced the last thing she wanted was company, she returned to her cabin and climbed back into bed. The half hour bell rang five times while she stared up at the wood planking above her head. And then, when she thought she could bear it no more, she finally fell back to sleep.

  Chapter 14

  Five days later, Devlin came to the startling, or perhaps, obvious, conclusion that he was being an ass. Initially, he’d kept himself too busy to think, which wasn’t difficult since there was always work to be done on a ship. But eventually, he’d had to pause. And once he did, he’d allowed himself to examine things more clearly than he’d been able to do immediately after his argument with Cassandra.

  He hadn’t seen her since he’d stormed out of their cabin, although he did apprise himself of her daily routine and check to make sure she was eating. Clearly, she was avoiding him. Then again, he’d been avoiding her too, perhaps more blatantly since he’d actually chosen to sleep in a hammock with the rest of his crew. His excuse, when one of his men had questioned him about it, was that he woke his wife each time he returned or departed for his shift. But, he mused as he stared out over the blue expanse ahead, his men weren’t fools, and he was certain they knew his marriage was not sailing along as smoothly as the ship.

  “Full for stays,” he shouted, turning the wheel the fraction required to put The Condor straight into the wind. Favorable weather had allowed them to make excellent progress. According to Devlin’s calculations, they would reach the Gulf of Guinea at least a day earlier than expected.

  Cassandra was to thank for that. Had she not managed to step in and help as efficiently as she had while Talbot was out of commission, they’d probably be three days behind instead. He sighed and muttered a curse. He shouldn’t have reacted as strongly as he had, especially not when she’d told him she’d stopped making her vow to Timothy after she and Devlin had kissed. Surely that meant something – she’d tried to convince him it had. But by then he’d wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him. So he’d lashed out with ugly words that he wished to God he could take back.

  He’d wronged her, that much was clear, and she deserved an apology. Plus, he desperately wanted to set things right between them. He didn’t like the glumness he’d been feeling since they’d argued. And truth be told, he really missed her. She was his friend and he hated having a wall between them.

  “Dev?”

  Devlin blinked. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts he’d not noticed Penelope’s approach. He gave her a cheerful smile. In spite of his falling out with Cassandra, he’d enjoyed spending time with Penelope during the last few days. They would simply chat or he would show her things like how to hoist a flag or use his sextant and sundial compass.

  “Want to steer for a bit?” he asked her jovially. Her cheerful demeanor and overall interest in all things served as a lovely distraction.

  But rather than step toward him with a nod and prepare to take over, she placed her hands on her hips and scowled up at him. “Have you and Mama had a row?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  Devlin’s throat tightened and for a second he was forced to look away simply to compose himself. “Why do you ask?” He knew he was being a coward, stalling for time and hoping to find a way out of a direct answer.

  “She’s not getting dressed in the mornings or setting her hair, so I know she’s keeping to either her cabin or mine.” Penelope frowned. “Also, she doesn’t look happy anymore. And neither do you, come to think of it.”

  “Are you sure?” He flashed what he hoped was a cheeky grin.

  She did not look impressed.

  Devlin sighed. “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “When?”

  “What?”

  “When will you fix it?” She’d crossed her arms and was now staring up at him with an expectant glare.

  This was her mother they were talking about, the person who came first in Penelope’s affections. It stood to good reason she’d want to ensure her happiness. And of course, Devlin just loved her all the more for it, he…

  He stared down into her serious eyes and drew a sharp breath. He loved Penelope as if she were his own. And Cassandra…

  Swallowing hard, he gripped the wheel until he was sure his knuckles turned white. It was almost as if the ship was tilting and he was sliding and oh dear God! He loved her too. And he realized this was why he’d reacted the way he had, because he wanted her love in return and feared he might never have it – feared she would always love somebody else.

  “Dev?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Huh?”

  Penelope scrutinized him with inquisitive eyes. “You look a bit sick. I hope you’re not—”


  “I’m fine,” he more or less gasped as if he were being strangled.

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “Trust me, I…” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it today. Fix it, I mean. I promise.”

  Penelope’s entire demeanor changed from stern to soft. “Good.” She moved closer to him and he shifted, letting her take the wheel for a while.

  “Penelope,” he said after several minutes of silence had passed. “Tell me about your father.” He hadn’t meant to broach the subject with her, but he’d realized as he stood there thinking of facing Cassandra again that he really didn’t want to ask her. She’d only get defensive and he would only get jealous and then they’d probably argue again. But it occurred to him that he really didn’t know much about the man she’d hoped to marry and that maybe he ought to. Maybe knowing more about him would make Cassandra’s position easier to understand or maybe it wouldn’t, but now that Devlin had posed the question, he realized he had to know everything there was to know. For his own peace of mind.

  She shrugged, the sort of shrug that conveyed detachment. “I never knew him. He died before I was born.”

  “Of course. But surely your mother must have mentioned him, described him or…something.” Penelope tilted her head up at him, her expression startlingly blank. Devlin crossed his arms and considered, then thought of something. “What was his name for instance? I mean his full name?”

  It was peculiar to think he would not know at least that much, but Cassandra had only ever referred to him as Timothy or Penelope’s father. She’d known him since childhood, for Christ sake, so the informality would have made sense to her, but it also meant that Devlin had nothing on which to form an opinion, no clue as to where the man came from, who his family had been…nothing. To him he’d never been more than a name, and maybe that made it worse. He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to figure it out.

  “Bertrand Olivier Timothy Dawson,” Penelope said with a flourish. “According to Mama, he hated his first two names so those closest to him always called him Timothy.”

  Devlin felt his brow crease with recognition. There was something awfully familiar about that name. As if he’d heard it once, a long time ago. “Was he titled?”

  Considering Cassandra’s heritage as the Earl of Vernon’s daughter, it stood to reason that she would have gotten engaged to a lord. And although Devlin wasn’t as familiar with the British peerage as he ought to be as the son of a duke, seeing as he’d left the country at the age of eighteen and had made no effort to mingle with the ton on the few occasions when he’d returned, he was curious.

  Penelope nodded. “It’s funny how things turned out. If he hadn’t died, I’d be a proper lady and Mama would be—” She stopped herself and glanced at him apologetically. “I’m glad she married you.”

  Devlin’s chest tightened. “Me too.”

  “And I’m glad you don’t care about my illegitimacy.”

  “It’s of no consequence. Character is far more important and you have a fine one, Penny. One of the best, in fact.”

  She grinned and then told him with an impressive amount of pride, “None of my grandparents thought so, you know.”

  Devlin clenched his jaw and curled his hands into hard fists. It wasn’t right and they didn’t know what they’d been missing by turning their back on this wonderful girl. “Who are your paternal grandparents?” he asked, realizing she’d not answered his previous question about her father’s title.

  She tipped her nose up and told him haughtily, “The Marquess and Marchioness of Weatherly.” Blowing out a breath, she added, “My father was the Earl of Ludlow.”

  And while Devlin’s heart did not exactly stop beating, he did feel as if the deck opened beneath his feet and dropped him into the ocean.

  One hour later, he wasn’t exactly foxed, but he wasn’t exactly sober either.

  He’d needed at least three glasses of brandy in order to think straight. Or perhaps not to think at all, he decided while trying to figure out what he should do.

  No.

  Strike that.

  He knew what he should do. The problem was finding the courage required to do it.

  His mind whirled. He could scarcely recall what he’d said or done since Penelope mentioned her father’s title. Except Monty had shown up at some point to relieve him of his duties, and now Devlin was here, in the hull of all places. Sitting on a crate with both forearms resting on his thighs, he stared down into the half empty glass between his hands.

  This was it. He’d never be happy again. And neither would Cass.

  Not once she learned what he knew.

  And damn it all, he had to tell her, because living with the guilt of not doing so would most likely kill him. “Hell and damnation.” He set his glass to his lips once more and drank.

  How the devil was he going to let her know what he’d done? Where would he find the words? I’m sorry, darling, but it seems I may have killed the man you initially wanted to marry. Or. My apologies, but it looks like Timothy’s dead because of me.

  He groaned. She’d never forgive him. Never. How could she when she’d loved Timothy so dearly and Devlin had been the one to destroy her life? He’d ruined everything for her and, he reminded himself, for Penelope too. He’d caused the death of her father.

  “Christ!”

  Without even thinking he smashed his fist into the side of a barrel. There was something immensely satisfying about the sting it brought to his knuckles. He stood. Lifted the barrel onto the crate on which he’d been sitting, and punched it again and again and again. And then, when his flesh was raw and his blood stained the deck, he allowed himself to expel the pain and the anger he harbored inside in a primitive roar.

  If anyone heard him, they stayed away. Which was just as well considering his current state of self-loathing. The very devil himself would probably find his mood unsettling. Dear God. For thirteen years he’d lived with the guilt of Ludlow’s death but this…Good God…this was a thousand times worse. Because now he was able to point to concrete examples of what the consequences had been – the lives he’d ruined. And the pain was only exacerbated by his love for Cassandra and Penelope. He wanted to protect them, not hurt them. And yet he had. He’d hurt them before he’d even met them. He’d…he’d…

  Another ferocious growl tore its way out of his throat as he snatched up his glass and flung it straight at the hull. It shattered, the sound too weak, too lacking. Breathing raggedly, he stared at the mess he’d made. He’d clean it up. No one else should have to do it. Not to mention he’d rather not leave his anguish on public display.

  Crouching, he began to gather the pieces. Useless, his father had said years earlier before Devlin left home. A disgrace to this family.

  Devlin grunted. The duke had had no idea. None whatsoever. The worst had been yet to come. He winced as a shard broke his skin, then smiled because heaven knew he deserved it. The bell sounded, signaling that his next shift would begin in only two hours. Once again he wouldn’t sleep. Not with the weight of the world bearing down on his chest.

  Straightening himself, he swayed a little, waited for his eyes to focus and his head to clear. And then he grabbed the bottle he’d brought along with him and made his way up through the ship, each step a dull thud that would bring him closer to hell.

  Because he had to tell her. And he had to do it now.

  Before he decided to do something awful like hide it from her forever.

  She had a right to know what had happened.

  It was the only honorable path forward. And he had no choice but to take it.

  For the tenth time that day, Cassandra considered taking the risk of facing Devlin. She was sick to death of hiding away in her cabin and in desperate need of fresh air. She was also weary of the rift between them and wished they could go back to how things had been before they argued. It occurred to her that she missed him. In a way, he was more than her husband. He was, first and foremost, her best
friend, and she realized she longed for his company.

  Deciding to act, Cassandra dressed. It had become quite clear that Devlin would not be the one extending an olive branch, so it would have to be her. It wasn’t ideal, but it was past time. Five days past, she acknowledged with a sharp nod at herself in the mirror. Grabbing a shawl, she strode to the door. And was forced to jump back when it swung toward her.

  As if summoned by her sense of purpose, Devlin appeared. He did not look his best, she noted, and although it occurred to her that she ought to take some small pleasure in knowing she had not been the only one to suffer, she did not. Because on closer inspection, he looked far worse than she felt. He seemed tortured in a soul crushing way that instantly put her on edge.

  “Cass.” His voice was tired and…resigned?

  She attempted a smile in spite of the worry creeping up through her limbs. “I was on my way to find you.” His eyes seemed to stare straight through her. “I’d like to apologize for—”

  A derisive snort cut her off, then he pushed his way forward, entering the cabin and shutting the door. “Apologize,” he murmured, then snorted again. He shook his head while she stared at him, unsure how to handle this strange mood of his.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Cass.” He swept past her and sat, even though she still stood. And then he dropped his head heavily into his hands and let out a tortured sigh. “I, on the other hand, have everything to be sorry for.”

  Well. That seemed rather dramatic. She twisted her lips in thought, drew a deep breath and prepared to say something, though she wasn’t sure what. Except…

  With a gasp she rushed forward and fell to her knees before him. “What on earth happened to your knuckles, Dev?”

  Lowering his hands, he turned them over and studied the bloodied flesh. “Self-flagellation.” His voice contained a terrifying lack of emotion.

  “Why?” She could barely get the question past her lips. How could her confession have made him angry enough to do this to himself? How could she have driven him to such violence? It seemed impossible. Frightening.