The Pirate Takes A Bride (31 page)

It was almost a fortnight before he saw her again. She’d sent him several applicants for the position of nanny, and all of them had been so sweet and lovely, he’d hired three. And Ashley had been to see Rissa, always when he was away. He’d intended to settle this thing with his wife in a day or two at most, but one day dragged into a three, and another day dragged into a week. It wasn’t that he was afraid to confront her. It was…very well. He was afraid to confront her. He only had experience making women leave. How did one make them stay?

He knew he could be charming, but Ashley seemed increasingly immune to those charms. What if she would take nothing less than a declaration of love? The very thought made his chest constrict and his palms dampen. He didn’t react so when a first rate ship-of-the-line bore down on him. Why was he so reluctant to confront a mere woman? But he did have hope. He’d waited for word of her arrival to appear in the papers. He looked for her declaration that she wanted nothing to do with him, to accuse him of God knew what. But none came.

She was hiding. Just as he was. Perhaps he still had a chance to win her over.

Finally, after he’d acquired a new town house, moved Rissa and his staff, arranged for a ship to return to Isla de las Riquezas to bring anyone who wanted to leave to safety in England, answered all of his correspondence, alphabetized every book in his library, and Rissa napped under the watchful eyes of her nannies, Nick set out for Curzon Street and the Brittany home.

He’d never been to the town house before, but when he exited his carriage he was relieved to see it looked much as any other in London. It was a white terraced house with flowers in the box, a black door, and drapes drawn along the front windows. Perhaps all the stories he’d heard of her wild brothers were simply that—stories. Besides they’d certainly be away at school, wouldn’t they? At least some of them. He could only hope the oldest, Thomas, was away. Nick had no desire to fight him again.

Nick stepped from his carriage, adjusted his beaver hat, and started up the walk. He’d told his valet to outfit him like Brummel today, and his valet had almost fainted with excitement. The poor man so rarely had any occupation other than cleaning dirt or blood from Nick’s shirts. Nick knew he looked well as he started up the walk. His breeches were buff, his coat dark blue and brushed to perfection. His shirt was starched within an inch of his life, and he dared not look down for fear of wrinkling his perfect cravat. At the plain, unassuming black door, he knocked, removed his hat, and tucked it under his arm.

The door opened to a perfectly ordinary looking butler. The man was tall and thin with a balding pate and a few strings of hair combed over it. “May I help you?” he asked in that tried and true butler tone.

“Yes,” Nick said, giving him a disarming grin. “I’m here to see my wife.”

The butler merely blinked, not looking even the least bit amused. “And would that be Lady Brittany or Miss Brittany?”

“Miss Brittany—rather, Lady Nicholas, of course.” Had she not even told her family she was married? What did they think she’d been up to for the past several months? He handed the man his card—one he’d unearthed in his library desk—and the butler looked at it and nodded.

“Come in.” The butler ushered him inside a small, dark vestibule. The house was quiet but for the ticking of a clock on the wall. What had he been concerned about? This was a house like any other. Her wild brothers were probably not even at home. “Wait in the drawing room, if you will, and I will see if she is at home.”

The butler led Nick up the stairs and to a door at the top. The drawing room, of course. If he was being led to the drawing room, he was obviously welcome. An unwelcome guest might be asked to wait in the parlor downstairs. The butler reached the door to the drawing room first, opened it, and nodded inside. He made no announcement, and Nick assumed the room was empty.

That was his first mistake. He strode into the room, and the butler said, “Lord Nicholas Martingale!” He shut the door behind Nick, who immediately wished he could turn and run. It had been a trap—a bloody trap—and he’d walked right into it.

Six men rose to their feet, and all of them towered over Nick. He recognized one or two from nights about Town, and of course he knew Sir Gareth and the older two Brittanys.

The men advanced, and Nick held up his hands. “Good afternoon, gentleman. If I’m interrupting, I’d be happy to wait in the parlor.”

“You,” Sir Gareth said. He looked very much like Nick remembered him from their last meeting. He had a shock of white hair, a red complexion, and a shuffling gait. “I remember you.”

Nick could well believe it. The last time he’d seen Sir Gareth, he’d tackled the old man and wrested his pistol away. Well, the pistol had skidded away, which was almost the same thing. “Good to see you again, Sir Gareth.”

“You have some nerve showing up here, after you eloped with my daughter to Gretna Green.”

So she had told them she was married. “It was actually my brother who eloped. I was a victim of circumstance.”

“You tackled me,” the man said coming closer.

Nick shrugged. “You had a pistol aimed at my brother, and as I recall, you managed to get in a punch or two.” His jaw had ached for two days.

Sir Gareth’s face broke into a wide grin that reminded Nick of Ashley’s. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Laid you flat.”

Nick smiled. It was all going to be fine. “My jaw still hurts,” he said, exaggerating slightly.

The men all laughed again. Nick laughed too. Where the devil was Ashley? Suddenly, the laughter stopped and Sir Gareth poked Nick in the chest. “That’s not all that’s going to hurt. You made my little girl cry.”

“Me?” Nick put a hand over his heart. “No, sir.”

“Yes, you did,” one of the brothers said. Nick thought it was Thomas, but who could tell with all of them speaking at once. Not to mention, they all looked the same—of a similar gigantic height, blond hair, and blue or green eyes. If it had been Thomas who’d spoken, the last time they’d met, Nick had bloodied his nose and broken his finger.

“I assure you, Mr. Brittany, it was quite unintentional. I did not come looking for another fight.”

“You better have come to make it right, Lord Nicholas,” another brother said.

“That is precisely why I’m here,” Nick said. “And call me Nick. We’re brothers now, right, Charles?”

“I’m Thomas,” he said. “That’s Charles.”

Ah, right. So many Brittanys all in one place had confused him. But he’d never been adept at telling them apart. Now he noted Charles was the second eldest, and he wore a brown coat while Thomas wore a green.

“You will never be my brother,” another of them said. He wore a blue coat.

“That’s William,” Charles said. “Not that it matters because he’s right. You aren’t fit to be our brother. No one makes Ashley cry. No one.”

“Very true,” Nick said. “Are you certain it was not merely something in her eye?”

“I’ll give you something in
your
eye!” one of the younger brothers said. He was not wearing a coat at all.

“Now, Devlin,” Sir Gareth said. “You cannot hit him.”

“Thank you,” Nick said with a sigh of relief. Where the devil was Ashley?

“George won first crack at him. He drew the short straw fair and square.”

“What?” Nick said, but he barely spoke the word before stars exploded. Sir Gareth’s fist had connected with his jaw. Nick stumbled back, caught himself on a table by the door, and shook his head. He held up a hand. “Fine. Perhaps I deserved that.”

“That and more!” Devlin said. “It’s George’s turn next and then mine.”

“George?” Who the bloody hell was George? But George must have been the brother in the gray coat because he was advancing, fists held high. Nick had not seen the first punch coming, but he was not going to be taken off guard a second time. He feinted left and just as Thomas and Charles tried to grab him, he went right, ducking under Devlin’s arm and stumbling into the middle of the drawing room.

George was still coming for him. Nick could have won a fight against George or any of the men alone. But six of them in their own house? The odds were definitely not in his favor. Nick held up a hand, hoping he could talk his way out of this one. “Now, let’s be reasonable, George. I’ve come to apologize to your sister.”

“Apology
not
accepted!” Devlin said. Nick was beginning to dislike the youngest Brittany.

“I really don’t think that’s your decision to make, lad,” Nick said genially. He was quickly backing himself into a corner, though. The Brittany men were blocking the exit. “I’d like to speak with Ashley.”

“Ashley?” Sir Gareth bellowed. “She’s Miss Brittany to you!”

“Actually, she’s Lady Nicholas. I told you, we’re married.” The punch came from nowhere. He’d been watching George and Devlin and hadn’t seen William creep up from the side. William, the middle brother, had a wicked right hook. Nick swayed and caught a pedestal to keep his balance. The bust on it went toppling to the floor, crashing into a thousand pieces, and Nick thrust the pedestal between himself and the mob.

“Hey!” George protested. “I had the first crack at him.”

“You were too slow,” William said, shaking his hand. Good, Nick thought, working his jaw. Perhaps he’d broken his hand. Nick knew his jaw was going to be bruised from the hit.

“Get him now!” Devlin yelled. Nick really did not like that boy. Thomas made a grab for him, but Nick spun around and shoved the pedestal at Thomas. He tore past Devlin and the injured William, but Charles caught him and shoved him against the wall. Nick landed against a picture, and he heard the canvas rip when his head collided with it. At least, he hoped it was the canvas. It might have been his head.

“Got him!” Charles yelled, and George threw a punch. Nick ducked, which was not easy with Charles still holding him, but he managed to evade George’s fist, which went into the wall, creating a fist-sized hole.

But Charles was ready for his maneuvers the second time, and when George hit him next, Nick couldn’t get away. Fireworks exploded, and Nick swore. That was it. He was tired of being the gentleman. If he was going down, they were all going with him.

He kicked out, lodging a foot in Charles’s breadbasket. Charles doubled over, and Nick shoved him out of the way. He ran for the drawing room doors, jumping a settee and leaping over a small table. Devlin caught him by the back of the coat, and Nick whirled about and slammed his fist into the upstart puppy’s eye.

Devlin went down, and Nick felt a surge of triumph. That would show him.

The triumph was short-lived as Devlin caught Nick’s ankle on the way down, and Nick went toppling over. He landed on Devlin, who rolled him over and threw a glancing punch across his nose. Nick heard the crunch and felt the spray of blood, and then he was on top. He grabbed the lad’s head, slammed it into the carpet—damn carpet!—and jumped off. But three of the brothers were blocking his exit.

He was trapped.

Nick glanced about for a weapon, spotted a vase and reached for it. He lifted it, and every single one of the brothers gasped. Nick blinked, looked at the vase, then blinked again. The brothers were holding up their hands as if in surrender. Nick looked at the vase again. Just an ordinary vase, not even Sevres.

“Very well, Lord Nicholas, you made your point,” Sir Gareth said. “Put the vase down, and we’ll discuss the situation like gentlemen.”

Nick looked at the brothers, whose gazes were riveted on the vase, and then back at the vase. “I don’t think so.” The vase was the only leverage he had. He was going to strap it across his chest and sleep with it at night. “I’m not putting this vase down until I speak with my wife.”

“Fine!” Thomas said, waving his hands nervously. “Just don’t drop it.”

“Bloody hell,” George moaned. “If he breaks that vase we’re all done for.”

“Go fetch my wife,” Nick said, punctuating each word with a shake of the vase. Thomas and Devlin held out restraining hands while Charles and George shrank back, cringing. William just shook his head as though he knew the executioner was on the way.

“I’ll get her,” Sir Gareth said. “Don’t move.”

Nick nodded, watching the brothers and holding the vase aloft. He rubbed his aching nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of blood on the superfine. Bloody hell, but his valet was going to have something to say about this, and Nick didn’t even have a ship to escape on any more.

Sir Gareth started for the door, but before he reached it, it swung open all on its own. The men turned, except Nick who was facing the door, facing his wife.

She stepped inside the drawing room, her brows winging upward in bemusement. Under those brows, her sea-green eyes were the same impossibly beautiful color he remembered. Her upswept hair was simple yet elegant with blond curls falling about the shoulders of her white gown. Such a gown might have made other women with pale hair and skin look like death, but Ashley glowed. Her cheeks were pink, her hair shiny, her lips red, her body…best he not look at her body with all of her brothers in the room and thirsting for his blood.

He knew the precise moment her gaze found him because her smile faded, as did the color in her cheeks. How it pained him to be the one who took the smile from her lips. That had never been his goal. He would have done anything at that moment to bring it back. Seeing her now, he did not know how he had lived a single day without her. He hadn’t lived. He’d merely existed, and he could go on merely existing, but God help him, he did not want that fate. He wanted her.

She took a breath. “Lord Nicholas,” she said, her tone formal and icy. How he longed for the sound of her voice when she first woke, low and husky and so incredibly warm.

“Lady Nicholas. I hoped we might speak for a few minutes.” He looked at the Brittany men. “Privately.”

“No!” Charles protested.

“Absolutely not!” This from Sir Gareth.

“Over my dead body!” Devlin said.

Nick turned on him. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Out,” Ashley said simply, pointing to the drawing room doors behind her.

“But Ashley,” Thomas protested.