A Lady's Wish

Dearest Readers,

In my Rogues of the Sea trilogy, three swashbuckling lords of Regency England and their adventuresome ladies dare everything for perfect love. The trilogy begins with
Swept Away By a Kiss
(nominated for
RT Book Reviews’
Best First Historical Romance) and continues with
Captured By a Rogue Lord
and
In the Arms of a Marquis
, each a sizzling stand-alone romance.

I am thrilled now to offer you a taste of the series as an exclusive e-novella,
A Lady’s Wish
, the love story of dashing war hero Captain Nikolas Acton of the Royal Navy and the girl he spent one glorious day with and could never forget. I hope you enjoy Nik and Patricia’s scandalously passionate reunion, including cameo appearances of the heroes of my trilogy.

Happy romance and adventure!

Warmest wishes,

Katharine

KATHARINE ASHE

A Lady’s Wish

Contents

Prologue

T
wo gentlemen stood upon the busy Portsmouth dock, the chill gray of February hanging over tall masts, broad decks and draft-drawn carts porting cargo to and fro. Pulled by a squat tug, a ship with furled sails moved slowly into berth along the quay, an elegant beauty, long as she was lovely, and powerful with fifty-six gunwales and a brace of iron pivots atop.

“A war hero, you say?” The younger gentleman, the Marquess of Doreé, dark of hair and eye, with bronzed skin and a quiet air, studied the vessel.

“They say,” the Viscount of Ashford drawled, a hint of the Continent in his tone and garments. The latter were as costly as his friend’s yet with the faintest suggestion of the dandy about them. His hair, short beneath a silk hat, glistened gold even in the gloom.

“Does he deserve the praise?”

“He does indeed.” Lord Ashford glanced at the marquess’s sober visage. “He is a good man. I believe he will accept our offer.”

“No wealth to amuse him? No title to bind him?”

“Comfortable wealth won upon the sea against Boney. Youngest son of a minor squire. Rather, too much time on his hands now that the war has ended.” The viscount’s amber gaze shifted to the officer at the vessel’s helm, the man they had come to see. “Too much time in which to remember, and not enough activity to distract from those remembrances.”

The marquess nodded, wise already despite his youth. “And if he accepts?”

“I will send him after Redstone, of course.”

Lord Doreé turned his head and assessed the viscount carefully. Slowly a crease appeared in his cheek.

“I daresay,” the viscount murmured.

“You will hire him to follow Redstone, but at a discreet distance, I trust?”

“Naturally. Don’t wish to send the fellow to his death, after all.”

The slight grin faded from Lord Doreé’s mouth and his black eyes remained watchful. “Redstone will not be swayed to our cause. He is another sort of man altogether.”

“I am not so certain of that.” The viscount lifted a brow. “He steals from the rich to give to the poor, Ben.”

“You may have played at being a pirate, Steven. But Redstone actually is one. He has killed more men than you and I have combined.”

The viscount’s eyes turned again to the man-of-war now slipping gracefully into her berth, the red, white and blue banner of empire snapping proudly atop the mizzenmast.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “I will wager my fortune that our brave naval captain here has outstripped you, me, and Redstone together in that particular category. Desire for acknowledgment can lead a man to extraordinary lengths.”

“Ah.” The marquess scanned the deck for its captain. Though not yet above thirty, their quarry carried himself with authority, confidence in the set of his shoulders and the cast of his jaw. “When will you meet with him?”

“No time like the present.” The viscount tapped his silver-tipped walking stick upon the planking in affected impatience. But they had waited four months already since the treaty that ended the war with France sent this sailor home to England after eight years upon the sea—this man they hoped to make an ally before he lost himself to the inevitable pleasures of society he had once left behind in favor of the theater of war.

Their work was noble, though unpopular. Yet here was a man who might be convinced to labor for them.

Upon deck the master of the 1500-ton warship called out orders to his men, his uniform of crisp blue and white favoring his broad frame.

“Welcome home, proud son of Britain,” the viscount murmured. “Welcome home, Nikolas Acton.”

Chapter One

“A
true hero!” The matron fluttered her lacy kerchief beneath Nik’s nose. Or perhaps beneath her own. It was a very large nose, like the nose of her daughter beside her. “My darling Tansy and I read of your commendation in the paper, Captain Acton,” the mouth hidden beneath the cliff of the nose gushed. “I said to her, my dear Tansy, if a true hero is to attend the ball tonight, and such a handsome one, we must make his acquaintance if we should be so fortunate. And now we are so fortunate!”

“It is my honor, ma’am.” Nik bowed and turned his attention upon the lady’s daughter. The girl had a sweet smile and bright eyes. Appreciation for the nose could be learned.

But apparently the persistent sense within him that something was missing in the lady—
in all ladies
—could not be unlearned. Despite his efforts. For nearly a decade it had been the same. From smiling misses to stunning widows, he found himself searching for something he recognized. Something he had lost.

“Oh, no, Captain. It is our honor entirely!” The matron nudged her dear darling Tansy forward.

Nikolas set a gentle look upon the girl. “Would you care to dance, Miss Chapel?”

She nodded. They danced and he studied her smile. Chandeliers sparkled, violins trilled, flutes piped, guests laughed over glittering champagne, and his partner was a perfectly amiable young lady. His mother and sisters would be in alt. Home barely a month, and already he was seeking a wife.

“A wife,” his mother had urged, “will help you establish yourself in society,” as though Nik wished for none other than that.

“A wife,” his sisters had giggled, “will spend all that gold you won at war,” as though otherwise he might spend it all on carriages and cards.

“A wife,” his father and elder brothers had glowered, “will finally thrash the fool boy out of you,” as though eight years at war had not already seen to that.

A wife, Nik hoped, would force him to cease searching for that which he had not found in nine years.

“Captain Acton, you are staring at my mouth.”

Not staring, precisely, merely lingering there in distraction.

“I beg your pardon. I am charmed. You have a lovely smile.” A sweet, natural smile, in truth. But not the same. Never the same. He had only ever found remnants. The curve of a lower lip upon one lady. The glimmer of laughter in the eyes of another. The tilt of chin affected by a third. Hair, eyes, hands, shoulders, even the fabric of her gown. Everywhere he went, in every woman he encountered he saw memories of the girl he had known for a day, and lost just as swiftly.

“Oh.” Miss Chapel dimpled. “I imagined a crumb stuck to my chin.”

Nikolas chuckled then lowered his brow. “Absolutely not, madam. You appear pristine.”

“Tiresomely so,” she sighed, “although my mother would scream to hear me say it. But that spark lurking in your green eyes suggests you would rather that I appear other than I do.”

“Never. And may I say, your
blue
eyes are quite as fine as your smile.” But not cornflower blue.

“La, Captain. You will put me to the blush,” she said disingenuously, but her dimples deepened, lessening the effect of the nose between them. “I am a painter, you see. I notice such things.”

“Aha. Such things as?”

“The color of a person’s eyes and the expression within them.”

He smiled again. Yet nothing stirred within him but mild appreciation. It never did. Only that once.

He had been searching for that feeling—for that
woman
—ever since. Eight years ago the madness of searching in vain had driven him to war, escaping into the exclusive world of men to make himself halt his insanity. But now it was beginning again. A fortnight back in London and he looked for her everywhere, upon the street, in drawing rooms, in the lips and eyes and hair and hands of ladies he danced with in crowded ballrooms.

It was no way for a man to live. For a sailor, the master of a ship trained to hold his attention upon present concerns, it was lunacy. He’d thought his time at sea had broken him of the habit.

Apparently not.

“You are sad,” his partner said. “And perhaps frustrated to be here tonight.”

He released a short breath. “Miss Chapel, I fear my social graces have suffered in my absence from society. I beg your pardon for my poor behavior, for so it must be.”

“Not at all, sir. I am simply overly observant. It is my curse.”

The dance ended. He returned her to her mother but found he could bear no more of the lady’s rhapsodic compliments or her daughter’s perspicacious regard. He excused himself and walked to his club. No females could be found there to draw him into idiocy, or in the case of Miss Chapel, incivility. Nothing but gentlemen happy to eschew distracting feminine company for drink, game and conversation.

He scanned the General Chamber, tilting his hat to a pair of men he knew well—Braverton and Halloway, both white-haired officers at least twenty years his seniors upon the sea. But he was in no humor to talk with sailors tonight, especially not the happily married sort like these two. He required the company of men for whom women were merely momentary diversions, not lifetime commitments. Or obsessions.

He moved into the parlor and his shoulders relaxed. The answer to his prayer sat alone, perusing the paper. Wealthy, urbane, and as carelessly roguish as could be with the fairer sex, Alex Savege was precisely the man with whom Nik needed to spend time now.

He crossed the chamber, settled into the chair opposite his old school mate, and waved to a footman for a drink. The Earl of Savege lifted his attention from the paper in his perfectly manicured hand and a slow grin crossed his mouth.

“Ah. The hero returns to set himself down amongst mortal men. To what do I owe the honor of your much sought after company, Acton?”

“Enough of that at the ball I just escaped, Savege.” Nik accepted a drink from the footman and tilted it to his mouth.

“Daresay,” the earl murmured. “The very reason I tend to avoid balls.”

Nik relaxed back into the soft leather chair. “How is your brother, Savege?”

“The same.” Not even a flicker of interest showed upon the earl’s handsome face. Three years earlier Nik had ferried Alex’s twin to England as a favor. Coming off the battlefield in Spain, Aaron Savege had been half-dead. But perhaps Alex was simply better at hiding his thoughts than Nik. In school, Alex and Aaron had been close as brothers could be.

“And your family?” the earl asked. “I understand your sisters are taking society by storm.”

“You do? Spending more time at balls than you care to admit?”

Savege grinned. “My mother and sister reside in my house here, of course. It is sometimes difficult to avoid hearing about that in which one has little interest.”

“Do they—” He halted. Why had he come here and sought out this friend’s company if he would broach such topics? The earl lifted a single brow in studied languor, just as he had when they used to drink themselves under the table in Cambridge. Now, however, rather more sobriety shadowed his gray eyes. That sobriety bade Nik continue despite his better judgment.

“Do they press you to find a wife, Alex?”

“What man’s mother and sisters do not, Nik?”

“Point.” Nik took a sip of his brandy, the same restlessness he had felt for two weeks unsettling him again. “Do you ever consider obliging them?”

“Why on earth should I?” This said with no inflection whatsoever. The rake was a rake, Nik understood well enough, because he did not in fact care.

Nik passed a hand across his face, surprised to find his jaw tight as well.

“Are you considering it?” The earl’s tone remained perfectly smooth.

“Perhaps.” Perhaps a wife would end the insanity of searching for her once and for all, searching for a girl who had left him waiting. A girl he had never deserved anyway. “Actually, I’ve had an offer from quite another direction that I am considering.” He surprised himself in saying it aloud. He’d barely given it a thought since that day he stepped off his ship in Portsmouth and was met with a remarkable proposition from a gentleman he did not know.

He did not know Ashford, true. But amongst his fellow naval officers he’d heard rumors, odd rumors given the gentleman’s foppish style and Continental drawl. Rumors that Lord Steven Ashford was not what he appeared to society. The tiny lines about his amber eyes and sun-touched hue of his skin suggested those rumors might be true—that Viscount Ashford occasionally captained his own ship, a ship dedicated to an intriguing purpose. Ashford’s words to him that day proved it.

“An offer from a more appealing direction?” A wolfish gleam lit Alex’s eyes.

Nik chuckled. “Quite another direction than that as well.” He rubbed his jaw. “I had thought to purchase a house and settle upon land now that I have the wherewithal.” Wherewithal he had lacked years ago when he met a girl to whom he would have given it all, a girl whose dress and air proclaimed her a lady of the highest breeding, no matter her sweetly candid manner with him.

“But?”

“But after a fortnight of balls, this offer tempts me more than I had imagined anything would tempt me to return to sea so soon.”

His friend’s eyes hooded.

Nik released a short laugh. “What am I saying? You wouldn’t understand anything of the wish to be at sea or not, you libertine. No women to be found there.”

“Indeed.” The earl’s fingertip traced the rim of his glass.

Nik’s brow creased. “You’ve read about Redstone in the papers, I suspect. The pirate that likes to harry the ships of spoiled noblemen.”

“I believe I have heard of him, yes.”

“I’ve been offered the opportunity to go after him, but only to watch him.” Ashford had been quite clear on that point. “Deuced peculiar mission, don’t you think, to search out a pirate then sit like a duck on the water without apprehending him?”

“I’m afraid that I haven’t an opinion on the matter one way or the other.”

“Of course you haven’t.” Nik tried to shake off his discomfort with a laugh. But it clung. “But . . . I thought I might do it.”

“Then no house or wife after all,” Alex said smoothly. “This offer has not come from the Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty, I take it?”

“Private interest.”

“Ah. A paying interest.”

“A fellow would never agree to such a job otherwise.” He tried to grin. “Even a war hero with sacks of gold.” Gold his father and brothers seemed to think merely proved his weak character, as though he had charmed French ships out of their treasures. But he had been a different man before he went to war, as careless and carefree as they believed.

Except concerning one girl.

A footman appeared by the table. “A letter for you, Captain.”

Nik accepted the envelope from the silver tray. The hand was familiar. He and John Grace had corresponded since their school days. Throughout the war whenever Nik made land in Spain, Colonel “Jag” had found a way to meet him. Together they drank, chasing away with laughter the monotonies and horrors of the war they were fighting on sea and land.

“I shall leave you to your post.” Savege unfolded from his chair with absolute grace, elegantly unscarred by any life other than pure hedonistic amusements. He could have laughed at Nik’s ponderings. But he had not. Alex Savege might be a thorough rogue where women were concerned, but with gentlemen he was nothing but decent.

Nik stood and extended his hand. “It is good to see you again, Savege. Give my best to your brother, if you will.”

“I will.” His grip was firm and, oddly for a man of his indolent habits, slightly calloused. “Best of luck to you in coming to a decision. And if you should happen upon that nasty Redstone—” his eyes glittered “—beg him to have mercy upon my yacht, will you?”

Nik laughed. The earl released his hand and departed.

Nik settled back into his chair to open the envelope, and had to halt himself from reaching for the dirk in the sash he no longer wore. He did not miss the war, but he missed the weight of his rapier at his hip and pistol beneath his arm. An unarmed man was a man who could be wounded.

Are you capable of wounding a man?

I should hope not!

Excellent. Then I have nothing to fear.

He commanded a knife from a footman and slid the letter open. A single sheet of foolscap unfolded, another paper within it bound with brown string.

24 February 1816

Paris, France

Captain Nikolas Acton

c/o Farthings & Cholm Solicitors

Oxford Street

London, England

Dear Nik,

I trust you are well. I have been ordered by the general to set off at once for Calcutta and am pressed with last-minute preparations. I write in haste before departing with a commission for you. In truth, I trust only you to accomplish this task.

A close companion of my early years on the Peninsula—a gentleman I believe you met on one of your brief sojourns on land with us—discovered a treasure of great worth while there. He is no longer in a position to retrieve this treasure. Now, heading East, neither am I. Because of previous instructions left by my friend, however, the treasure will not remain long in its present location in England. In short, it could easily be lost.

I now put into your hands the map my friend fashioned. You must retrieve the treasure before 15 March of this year.

Yours &c.

Colonel John “Jag” Pressley Grace

Nik unbound the map. He nearly laughed in relief. No dotted line wended its way about the paper, no X marked the spot. The “map” was rather a list of inns, posting houses, villages, and rivers. All the places were familiar enough, running from London northwesterly toward Wales. He knew that countryside well, indeed. He had spent a year scouring it, searching for a girl. And he had begun his search in that very village at the end of the list where Jag’s friend had buried the treasure.

He sipped his brandy slowly. Jag was an honest man. Nik hadn’t any doubt the treasure was above board.