The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (17 page)

“Are we in danger?”

“Of course not.”

“Will we be?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She nodded, once, her lovely blue eyes troubled. Her knuckles looked very white as she gripped the tray, steadying herself against the motion of the brig and trying to keep her balance.

He took pity on her. “Go sit and eat, lass. Might be yer last meal here and it looks a damned sight better than the rest of the shite Cook’s been sendin’ up.”

She set it down on a nearby deckhouse, steadying it with one hand. Her eyes were wide as she noted the hurried preparations on the part of the seamen, the sense of quiet urgency around them. “I brought it for you.”

“Well, now, did ye?” He looked at her quizzically. “Why is that?”

“You didn’t get the chance to eat it earlier.”

He looked at her, one brow raised, then took the tray from her and escorted her away from listening ears.

“What’s the
real
reason?”

“I noted how quickly you left the cabin. I can see the trepidation in your men’s faces, I know you consider that ship out there to be an enemy. You are either going to be captured or killed, Captain O’ Devir, and if either comes to pass, I’d like you to at least go to prison or your just reward on a full stomach.”

He laughed and shaking his head, plucked the coffee mug from the tray, lifted it to his lips, and regarded her from over its rim. It was good and hot and black and bitter, just as he liked it. “Are those the only two outcomes you foresee, lass?”

“What other possible outcomes could there be?”

“Well, we could emerge victorious, for one.” He took another sip of the coffee. “Or I could elect to run.”

“You won’t run.”

“I won’t fight, either, if I don’t absolutely have to. Not with you aboard.”

“Am I worth that much to you, Captain?”

Yes. Yes you are.
“Ye’re worth that much to this brother of yours who wants to hang, disembowel, or behead me with a dull knife, which makes ye worth that much to the Royal Navy and England itself.”

Something in her face fell; what did he want her to say?

His first lieutenant was hustling past, a hint of ginger in his wake. Ruiadri hailed him. “Mr. Morgan! Brace up that main topsail a wee bit more, see if we can get some more speed out of her. Lively, now.”

“Aye, sir!”

He turned back to Nerissa. “Besides, ye’re a lady,” he added, his gaze sliding back to the distant frigate. “I’ve no wish to subject ye to the horrors of men injured, dyin’, pleadin’ for mercy as they’re hacked to pieces in front of ye.”

“I see.” And then: “Will you be safe, Captain?”

“No more or less so than anyone else aboard this ship.”

She nodded, and her eyes darkened with what looked like worry before she looked away.

“Here now, what’s this?” he said. “Ye’ll not come to any harm. Ye may despise me, Lady Nerissa, but I’d give me life before I let anythin’ happen to ye.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she walked to the rail and leaned against it, looking out over the sea toward the frigate that was surely coming for her. Quietly, she said, “It’s not my own safety that concerns me.”

He joined her, standing close enough that they could converse without their words being overheard. Softly, he asked, “Whose, then?”

She just looked pointedly at him, then looked away again, her mouth a tight line.

“Ah,” he said, and because her hand was only inches from his own, he reached out and covered it with his own.

She did not pull away.

Instead, her fingers—slender, soft and colored like the inside of a seashell—wound gently around his. She kept them that way for a long moment, gripping his hand with surprising strength and leaving him to wonder if hers would be the last female touch he ever encountered. One never knew, really, going into battle.

“I don’t despise you,” she said. “Despite the fact you abducted me, starved me with the worst food I’ve ever been exposed to, and provided me with no change of clothing, you have been nothing but a gentleman toward me and I would hate to see anything happen to you.”

He cocked his head and looked down at her. “What’s this? Have ye come to care about me, lass?”

“Certainly not.” She let go of his hand as though his skin had burned her.

The moment lay between them, still pulsing with life and bare, raw honesty. His gaze was drawn once more to her hand. A hand whose fingers had just entwined with his in fondness, in friendship, or maybe just in worry.

He thought of where he’d like that hand to be.

“Ah. Just wonderin’, then.”

“Stop wondering, then. I don’t care about you. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I could get blown to bits today, y’know. Won’t be anythin’ left of me for yer brothers to kill. Just think of it, Lady Nerissa! I could die this mornin’, perhaps in your arms…and ye’ll always lament the fact you didn’t tell me you cared about me.”

“Would you stop it?”

“’Twould be a lot to lay on yer conscience, now, wouldn’t it?”

“
Stop!
”

He laughed, seeing the swift bit of color that washed across her cheeks, and glancing aloft, satisfied himself that the ship was getting as much as it could out of the set of the sails. But not enough, even with the topsail adjusted to take better use of the wind. Even with out the glass, he could see that the frigate was gaining on them.

She followed his gaze, and by the sudden expression in her eyes, saw that she saw it, too.

She looked up at him. The wind caught a tendril of her hair and sent it across his face, tickling his nose. “What do you want from me, then?”

He raised a brow. “Want from ye?”

“Well, since you seem quite convinced that you’ll be lying in pieces soon enough.”

“Ah. Well, Lady Nerissa. Let me think about that.” He grinned down at her, but there was an earnest wish behind his words that his cavalier manner could not disguise. “If I were to die today, I couldn’t ask for more than the memory of yer lips against mine. A kiss from a pretty lass to send me into battle. Aye, that’s what I’d be wantin’ from ye.”

“A kiss?”

She stared at him. The color blossomed in her cheeks once more but before she could speak, the sound of thunder came rolling across the water from well astern.

She turned, eyes widening. “What was that?”

“Yer friends back there are demandin’ that I heave to.”

“Will you?”

The moment was lost. He would not get his kiss from a pretty lady to send him into battle, after all.

“Hell, no.”

She paled as she realized the impending gravity of the situation.

Ruaidri pushed back from the rail, beckoning with a crooked finger for Midshipman Cranton and ordering him to take her below. “You think about what I’d like,” he said, inclining his head, and relinquishing her to the youth, headed for the helm. “In the meantime, I’ve got a battle to fight.”

* * *

“Come, your ladyship. They’ll be within range of us pretty soon and the captain wants you to be safe below.”

Reluctantly, Nerissa allowed Midshipman Cranton to guide her toward the hatch that led below where presumably, she would spend a terrifying tenure wondering if she was going to die, if those she was beginning to know and like were going to die, if the British rescuers on the pursuing ship—which might, for all she knew, include her brothers—were going to die.

Her thoughts were troubled as they descended into the darkness. Now she rather wished that she had given Ruaidri O’ Devir what he’d asked for. A kiss. It would cost her nothing but might mean everything to him. But she, in her stiff pride, had denied him that.

So little that he had asked for.

So very little.

The gloom was thickening as they went deeper into the ship, the sounds above fading and a quiet stillness of creaking timbers and dank air that absorbed all sound, blanketing all. The midshipman paused. “I’m sorry to be leaving you, Lady Nerissa, and sorrier still that it’s in darkness without a lantern, but I promise that Joey will join you shortly and one of us will be back for you just as soon as we can be. I’m needed on deck.”

“I will be fine, Mr. Cranton.”

It was too dark down here to see him nod, but she sensed the brief movement in the darkness and a moment later, he was gone.

So she was supposed to stay down here like a good little pet and keep out of trouble. She was supposed to stay down here and wonder what was going on above, wonder what would become of her, wonder if she would survive any more than anyone else, especially if one or more shots from that frigate found
Tigershark
’s hull and sent her straight to the bottom.

Trapped in darkness on a sinking ship?

No, it was not where Nerissa intended to be.

She knew better than to bother the captain or appear on deck, but she sure as salt wasn’t staying here. Waiting until Midshipman Cranton’s footsteps faded back into the silence, she picked up her skirts and slowly feeling her way along a bulkhead, retraced her steps.

A muffled roll of thunder told her that the pursuing frigate was closer now, and again, she thought of the Irish captain’s sharp, angular face with his bold black brows and ever-changing eyes, his intent focus, that deep despair that cloaked him in a way she could not quite fathom.

I wish I’d given him that kiss.

Too late, now.

The next time she saw him, he might be dead.

A dim glow of light shone ahead of her, fainter than the first breath of sunrise on a distant horizon, but it was enough to tell her where the companionway was. It wasn’t easy to ascend in the darkness but she managed, and soon found herself on the next deck. Here, the sounds of impending battle were unmistakable; heavy cannon being wheeled into place, men shouting orders, running feet on the deck above.

She turned, and stifled a scream.

“What are you doing, Lady Nerissa?”

A man stood there, gaunt, sunken-cheeked, with the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen. He wore a bloodstained leather apron and his hair was a dingy shade of brown more than halfway on its journey to gray and receding from his brow like an outgoing tide. He looked familiar, and she suddenly realized who he was: the surgeon who had come up from below to accompany the sailor whom Captain O’ Devir had rescued after falling from the rigging.

“You startled me,” she said, a hand on her bosom.

“Likewise.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me I cannot be here. But I’ll tell you right now, Mr….”

“Jeffcote.”

“Mr. Jeffcote, that I will not suffer being hidden away in the darkness, wondering if I’m going to live or die, while the world comes apart all around me.”

“Nobody’s forcing you to stay there. The sick bay’s safe enough, I reckon. And if we come to battle, I expect I could use some help comforting the men.”

“Comforting the men?”

Above, another ominous boom, this one louder, and a chorus of jeers from above as the American crew taunted their pursuer.

“Aye, comforting them. Holding their hands, like, if they need a leg cut off or a splinter cut out. Giving ’em water or rum, fetching me bandages, making yourself useful. You up to that, my lady?”

“I have no experience with such matters, but yes… I am willing to help you, Mr. Jeffcote.”

“Come along, then,” he said, passing a weary hand over his balding pate. “You can start by making bandages. I’ve a feeling we’re gonna need ’em.”

Chapter 13

The young Scottish lieutenant of His Majesty’s frigate
Happenstance
saluted as he approached his captain. “We’ll be in range soon, sir.”

“We’re in range now, Mr. McPhee. Fire a bow chaser. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll heave to.”

Lawrence Hadley the Fourth stood on his quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked imperceptibly back and forth on his heels. He watched the great fore-and-aft mainsail of the fleeing American brig like a bull fixated on a giant white cloth. Faintly, his mouth turned up at one corner, defying its owner’s attempt to appear unflappable. He wanted that ship and the glory its capture would bring him with a desperateness he could taste, and when word got back to England, this would surely win him a knighthood, if not a peerage.

The likelihood of American ships in these waters was low.

The likelihood of this particular American ship being commanded by the audacious sod who’d dared abduct the fair Lady Nerissa was high.

Either way, she was a fine brig and would make an even finer prize once her crew was either dead or in gaol and the vessel herself sent to the auction block. The money she would bring him, the glory—

“What are the chances, sir, that he’s our man?”

Hadley was roused from his reverie by the presence of his second lieutenant. “I’d say they’re damned good, Mr. Dewhurst. The only Yank I know of in these waters is that wretched scoundrel John Paul Jones, and that isn’t Jones.” He studied the fleeing vessel with a calculating eye, then glanced at the gun crew running out a larboard gun. “In fact, get the royals on her. I haven’t got all day to waste in a game of tag.”