Captain Of Her Heart

by Barbara Devlin

  “Will you not listen?” Jason huffed a breath. “We are at war, Alex. And I am to cast off on an extended tour of duty, knowing not when or if I shall ever see you again. This is no time to wed, when the future is uncertain.”

  “But you claimed my virtue.” She swallowed hard. “No nobleman would treat me, the daughter of a duke, thus.”

  “Need I remind you that I am no nobleman?” He arched a brow.

  “Then are you bereft of honor?” How could she impress upon him the urgency of their predicament? “As without you, I am ruined.”

  “As you gave yourself to me, of your own free will, with no spoken vows.” He shifted his weight. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “How dare you.” She bared her teeth.

  “Why did you come here?” He folded his arms. “Was it to trap me into marriage?”

  “Trap?” Knife to the chest with lethal accuracy. “You are the worst sort of blackguard, sir. My brother could secure any number of men who would kill to have me. I favored you with my bride’s prize because—”

  “Because—what?” He lashed out with an arm.

  “Because I love you.” And then she anticipated his reply. White as a sheet, Jason retreated and then collapsed on the mattress. Alex had expected him to drop to his knee, not the bed. Excruciating minutes ticked past, and her dream died a slow, agonizing death, counted by the steady beat of her heart, as it broke. “Oh, I see. You do not share my devotion.”

  “Hell and the Reaper.” He cradled his head in his hands. “I know not what to say.”

  “I believe if the obvious does not strike you, then it may be best to hold your tongue.” Devastated by his rejection, she would die before she ever apprised him of her distress.

  “I wish you had never journeyed here.” Another brutal cut.

  “In that we agree, yet I cannot regret my actions, as it is better to know the truth, and I owe you an apology.” A spontaneous plan shot to the fore, and she marched into the closet, opened her trunk, and collected her travelling gown. “Had I known you did not return my affection, I never would have trespassed on your hospitality. And now I have only to be ashamed of my actions.”

  The horse in the stable provided fortuitous transportation, and she could take a room at the inn, until her coach arrived. After securing her garters and stockings, she stepped into her kid half boots. As Molly had taught Alex, she pulled her chemise over her head, followed by her heavy twill dress, and tied the laces, herself, which proved a tad tricky.

  “Alex, please do not be angry, as I do this for your own good. I refuse to make you a young widow, as you deserve better. My mother was destroyed when my father died in battle, and she passed shortly thereafter. I will not do that to you, as you have your whole life ahead of you. If the worst happens, you will survive, without me.”

  “Such endearing sentiment.” As she tugged on her gloves, she strolled into the chamber. “As I come from a family of mariners, with a proud tradition of service to His Majesty, I would have you know I am made of sterner stuff. You truly know me not, and you are a stranger to me.”

  “What are you doing?” His gaze swept her from head to foot. “Why are you dressed?”

  “Do you expect me to remain here, with you, given what has transpired between us?” She scoffed. “I hope that someday we renew our acquaintance as friends, but I shall require time before that comes to pass. I am sure you understand my position.”

  “Alex—”

  “Do not address me so informally, sir.” Fueled by high dudgeon, she lifted her chin and stiffened her spine. “I am Lady Alexandra Seymour, and you are nothing more than a lowborn sailor.”

  “Perhaps.” He narrowed his stare. “But I was man enough to satisfy you, this evening.”

  “You are vile—”

  “Please, sweetheart. I do not wish to fight with you.” He extended an arm and flicked his fingers. “Come let us talk things through. Perhaps we can broker an agreement?”

  “I beg your pardon? I gift you my heart, and you would make me your whore?” How could she have been so wrong about him? “You must think me despicable, that I would settle for such terms. Had I known you cared so little for me, I never would have offered you more than that first waltz.”

  “Be that as it may, you cannot intend to leave, now.” Jason lurked large in the doorway. “I will sleep on the sofa, and you can send for your coach, at first light.”

  “Do not worry about me, Captain Collingwood, as I can take care of myself.” With a quick sidestep, she stormed into the great room and fetched her coat. “And I shall send for my things, so you need not concern yourself with them.”

  “Where will you go?” Garbed only in his robe, he drew up short. “You lied to your friends.”

  At the front door, Alex freed the bolt and then peered over her shoulder. “But I am for London, and you may go to the devil.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  It had been six months since Jason had seen Lady Alexandra Seymour. Six months since he had held her in his arms. Six months since he had made love to her. Six months since that fateful evening in Plymouth, when she had stormed from his rented cottage. Six months to change his mind where the delectable, brown-haired hellion was concerned.

  As he manned the helm on the quarterdeck, a chill of dread coursed his spine. The warm July wind rustled through his hair, as the Intrepid sailed into the docks at Deptford, and the familiar scent of musky river water and brine weighed heavy in the air. The crew sang dirty little shanties and scrambled into the ratlines and across the decks, in a flurry of activity expected of a ship returning to port.

  How many tormented nights he had spent at sea, reliving that horrid ending with his lady, and she was his lady—though she knew it not. He had all but torn apart Plymouth in search of his errant debutante, prior to his departure, but Alex had vanished without a trace. Then again, preparation for his journey had consumed much of his time and forestalled his efforts to locate his future wife.

  The innkeeper had explained that no woman of quality had patronized his humble establishment, and neither had anyone fitting Lady Seymour’s description taken the stage to London, thus he had cast off without discerning her whereabouts, which had left him imagining all manner of tragic possibilities.

  “Drop anchor.” Jason checked their position at berth and gathered his charts. “Mr. Hemmings, have my trunks delivered to the docks.”

  “Aye, sir.” The second in command dipped his chin.

  As Jason descended the gangplank, he braced for the impending confrontation with Alex. However he dressed it, he had treated her abominably in January, and if he had to crawl on his knees to secure her forgiveness, he had prepared for such prospects. Now if only he could persuade her to marry him.

  How odd it was that their positions had reversed. Then again, the sheer brutality of war had a peculiar way of defining life in the simplest terms. In short, he had realized, however late, that his Alex was an uncommonly strong and fiercely independent woman—so unlike his mother, God rest her. In the event of his untimely demise, his society miss would survive, manage the household, and rear their children, come what may. With Alex as his bride, he could sail into battle with an easy conscience. Indeed, she fit every single rational item on his rather long list of matrimonial requirements, including some irrational ones he refused to examine.

  “Step lively, brother.” Dirk Randolph, a fellow knight of the Brethren, elbowed Jason and then charged the field. “My Becca awaits.”

  “My love.” Rebecca took a flying leap into Dirk’s outstretched arms and bestowed upon her husband an amazingly thorough kiss.

  “Out of the way, Collingwood.” Trevor Marshall, the other recent entrant into the famed order descended of the Templars, almost trampled Jason. “I see my sweet Caroline.”

  As Trevor and his countess enacted a similar scene, with a heated clinch that invoked the burn of a blush in Jason’s cheeks, he chuckled.

  “Ahoy, Collingwood.” Lance Presc
ott, with his new bride Cara at his side, waved a greeting. “That was a devil of a maneuver on the Channel. Thought that French corvette had caught you unaware.”

  “Stop ribbing him.” Cara smiled. “How are you, Jason?”

  “I am quite well, thank you. And I am never unaware, at sea.” Jason narrowed his stare and stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Because I have no distraction below decks.”

  “Scandalous, Captain Collingwood.” Cara cast a pout, but it lasted all of two seconds before she giggled and gazed at Lance. “I do so love sailing with my husband. Perhaps, someday, you might take Alex on a mission.”

  At the mere mention of his lady’s name, he sought her face among the small crowd that had gathered to welcome home the Brethren of the Coast. There were ten in the original group of close-knit friends, but their number had grown as each had charted their course for love.

  The first to wed, Caroline had been mistaken for a courtesan and kidnapped by Trevor. Then fate brought Dirk a wife, when he was tasked with the beautiful former spy for the Counterintelligence Corps, in a plot to catch a traitor. Sabrina, Cara’s brash younger sister, landed next in the parson’s noose, when Lord Everett Markham decided she was the bride for him.

  But Cupid’s arrow had spared Blake Elliott, duke of Rylan, his partner in all conquests of the fairer sex, Damian Seymour, duke of Weston and Alex’s elder brother, and Dalton Randolph, nicknamed the Lucky One for his way with the ladies and familiar habit of tossing a coin. Lady Elaine Prescott, Lance’s young cousin, presented the only unattached Brethren woman.

  And that brought Jason to his curiously absent Alex.

  “Welcome home, Captain Collingwood.” Admiral Mark Douglas, the legendary naval man and head of the Nautionnier Knights, slapped Jason on the back. “How was your journey?”

  “Long, sir.” He scanned the immediate vicinity. “I was wondering—”

  “Where is Alex?” Damian inquired.

  “At Penhurst Castle.” Although Admiral Douglas spoke to Damian, he stared at Jason and frowned. “She removed to the country in April, where she has remained.”

  “How unusual.” Damian scratched his temple. “Is she ill?”

  The Brethren women gathered near, and they favored Jason with a discomposing array of harsh expressions, which left him tugging at his cravat.

  “No, she is not ill, per se.” Admiral Douglas shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “But you should depart for East Sussex, at once. Given the urgency of her situation, I have taken the liberty of summoning your traveling coach, and you may forgo tonight’s debriefing.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Damian groaned. “Please, don’t tell me her accounts are in arrears again.”

  “You could say something is in arrears.” Sabrina scowled, and Jason gulped.

  “Hush, my lady wife. Not another word.” Everett wagged a finger at his bride and then leaned close to whisper to Jason, “Brother, were I you, I should sail for the East Indies, as you will never escape the mess you have made.”

  For some unknown reason, Jason shuddered. “I beg your pardon—”

  “But I am for the country.” Damian bowed.

  “Weston, wait.” Jason glanced at the admiral. “Sir, if I may eschew our meeting, I should prefer to journey with Damian, as we have business to discuss.”

  Admiral Douglas nodded once. “Of course—”

  “As well you should.” Caroline humphed.

  “Darling, why so angry?” Trevor bent, as his wife cupped her hand to his ear. Then his eyes grew wide, and his mouth fell agape. “Bloody hell.”

  In that instant, Jason surmised Alex had shared the details of her ill-fated trip to Plymouth and his subsequent rejection. But had she taken drastic measures in the wake of his refusal to marry her? The second such nonsense formed in his brain, he quashed the idea. “Are you amenable to such proposition, Weston?”

  “I should be glad of the company.” Damian smiled and arched a brow. “I gather our business involves my sister?”

  “It does, indeed.” To his men, he said, “Deliver my trunks to the Duke of Weston’s coach.”

  And thus Jason’s course was set.

  #

  The following evening, as they passed the little village of Penhurst, and neared the Weston ancestral pile, Jason assessed his appearance and then glanced out the window. The coach veered from the main road and traversed a route along the English coast. Soon the escarpment yielded spectacular vistas of the Channel.

  “Nervous, Collingwood?” Damian grinned.

  “Would you expect otherwise, were you in my position?” In reality, Jason had no idea what waited at Penhurst Castle, given his last disastrous meeting with Alex. At least, he had secured her brother’s permission to wed.

  “To be honest, I cannot even fathom what you must suffer, as of this moment.” Truer words were never spoken. All of a sudden, Damian burst into laughter. “Upon my word, but I must send Blake a message.”

  “Why?” Confused, Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “What has he to do with my situation?”

  “Nothing, really.” Damian slapped his thighs. “But I gave him a ration of angst when he forced Caroline and Trevor to the altar, and he wished me similar difficulty with Alex. Just wait until I deliver the news that I have managed my willful sister’s nuptials with nary a headache. And I have you to thank for such happy developments.”

  “Well, let us not place the cart before the horse.” Jason shifted in the squabs and recalled Alex’s parting words, last January: But I am for London, and you may go to the devil. “She has yet to accept me.”

  “What is this—do you anticipate complications?” That was putting it mildly. Damian compressed his lips and averted his gaze. “As I, for one, doubt not her fondness for you.”

  Jason came alert. “Has she spoken of me?”

  “On occasions too numerous to count.” Damian rolled his eyes. “And I have witnessed, firsthand, evidence of her regard.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jason crossed and then uncrossed his legs. “I know not—”

  “Give me some credit, brother.” Damian folded his arms. “I know a well-ravished woman when I see one, but fear not, as I have no plans to schedule a dawn appointment at Paddington Green. But had my sister objected to your...compliments, and had I any indication your rendezvous had progressed beyond a few illicit kisses, you would, even now, stare down the unfriendly end of my best flintlock pistol.”

  Facing the man known by his friends as the voice of reason, Jason gulped, as the coach passed between two massive stone gateposts, bearing the eight-pointed wind-star insignia of the Brethren of the Coast. After traveling a trail that hugged the cliff tops, a huge silhouette rose in the distance.

  Penhurst Castle manifested the ancestral seat of the Weston dukedom, and Jason knew well its history, as Alex had often spoken of the grand estate. Gifted to the first duke of Weston, along with the title, in the fourteenth century for services rendered to the Crown, his lady had described it as a monumental structure of mystical qualities, which often provoked visions of medieval knights in armor. As the sun sat well below the yardarm, he could note nothing more than a few stone turrets and frieze carved parapets.

  When the coach entered the forecourt, Jason glimpsed the impressive residence in which Alex had been reared. Lanterns cast a saffron glow over the front access, and double doors of polished mahogany had been set wide, as the driver drew the horses to a halt.

  Standing in the foyer, just visible, with her back to him, Alex directed the staff, and comforting warmth pervaded his chest as he gazed upon her. Every adroit entreaty failed him, and the well-honed diplomacy of a lifetime abandoned him when he needed it most, as he pondered a greeting.

  “Ready to meet your doom?” Damian chuckled and descended the coach.

  “Welcome home, Your Grace.” A very proper butler bowed.

  While Damian conversed with the servants gathered at the steps, Jason studied his lady. When she whirled about, a radiant sm
ile lit her expression.

  Their eyes met and held.

  Her countenance of joy faded, in a flash.

  Jason teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, when he fixed his gaze on her belly, which had grown fat with what he had every reason to suspect was his heir. And his goose was well and truly cooked.

  #

  “What is he doing here?” Nestled in a high back chair, Alex folded her arms and made a point to avoid his stare.

  Jason perched on a daybed and attempted to blend into the background. To say that he was shocked by recent revelations was too pale a description.

  “You are not to ask questions.” Damian grabbed a crystal decanter of brandy and drank directly from the container. “You are to answer questions—specifically, what manner of blackguard got you with child before wedding you?”

  Alex thrust her nose high and sniffed. “That is none of your affair.”

  “I beg to differ, my dear sister.” Damian slammed the cut glass bottle on the blotter. “As head of this family, you bloody well are my affair.”

  Now Jason understood the chilly receptions with which the Brethren wives had welcomed him at Deptford. And Everett’s warning made perfect sense, as well as Trevor’s reaction to Caroline’s whispered comments. But what puzzled him were Alex’s actions.

  To what purpose would she hide the truth of parentage?

  Had she not pushed for their union? Had she not followed him to Plymouth in said endeavor? Their impending delivery aided her campaign and left him no quarter. For good or ill, he had to marry her.

  So why had she not played her advantage?

  “Alex, I insist you reveal the identity of the scoundrel that fathered your babe and abandoned his commitment.” Damian pounded his fist to the desktop. “You will tell me, now.”

  In the line of fire, and given the consequences of his bad behavior, Jason withered, as he was the scoundrel Damian sought.

  “I will not.” His lady remained steadfast, and then and there she gained newfound respect.

  She could have handed Jason to her furious elder sibling and loomed large at dawn, as he fell to Damian’s shot. Instead, she protected Jason. And as Alex guarded their secret, he availed himself of the opportunity to appraise her profile.