The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (28 page)

She went back to the cot and sat heavily down. “Oh, out with it, Andrew. I’m too tired and too upset to play games.”

He came and sat beside her. Took a deep, bracing sigh and took her hand. “That villain who caused all this, Ruaidri O’ Devir—I have no wish to upset you even more, Nerissa, but…he’s alive.”

“
What?
”

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at him, blinking, her mouth agape. Then her lip began to tremble, her body to shake, and the tears flowed down her cheeks in fresh abandon.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “He looked to be dead….”

“Yes, well, rats, cockroaches and parasites are also hard to kill, aren’t they?”

She looked over at him, her eyes suddenly flashing. “How dare you say such an awful thing!”

“What?”

“You heard me!”

He stared at her, saw the anger in her eyes and suddenly it dawned on him why she’d been crying. The truth hit him like a punch to the stomach. “Oh, damn it all,” he muttered in disgust. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That you were in love with him. For God’s sake, Nerissa, what is the matter with you? You’ve always been a bit on the wayward side, but this really takes the cake.”

She rounded on him. “None of us get to choose whom we fall in love with, Andrew, and you of all people should know that. You might’ve married someone of your own station, but Charles and Gareth certainly did not, and that doesn’t make their love for their wives any less valid or our sisters-in-law any less worthy just because they’re not of blue blood!”

“
Marriage?!
Who said anything about marriage? Dear God, don’t tell me you’re going to marry him!”

“I would indeed if he were to ask me!”

“Has he?”

“No, but if he did—”

“Nerissa, he’s
Irish
.”

“I don’t care if he’s from the damned moon!”

“And he hit you. He—” Andrew made a noise of impotent rage and pain, his lips suddenly trembling—“
hit you.
How can you have such feelings for a man who’d abuse you?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know! Even Lucien’s found out about it. Everyone knows that he struck you down with a pistol and then buggered—” he flushed, swearing under his breath—“I mean, had his way with a young midshipman. I find that rather hard to believe, but enough of Hadley’s people saw it that they’re out for blood.”

“Struck me down? Buggered a midshipman?”

Andrew flushed again at her use of the word ‘buggered.’

Nerissa shoved a loose strand of hair off her forehead and turned to look askance at her brother. Is that what they’d all thought? That Ruaidri had actually harmed her? No wonder he was so angry. “Oh Andrew, you poor, deluded fool. Captain O’ Devir would never hurt me. What Hadley and his men saw was Midshipman Cranton dressed up in my clothes and pretending to be me on the deck. Ruaidri—”

“Oh, so it’s Ruaidri now, is it?”

“Yes,
Ruaidri
predicted that Hadley would never fire on us if he perceived me to be in danger, so Cranton took my place on the deck; he was never harmed, either. It was all an act.” As he stood staring at her, she tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm and said gently, “Ruaidri had actually sent me below and deep into the hold so that I’d be safe just in case Hadley did open fire.”

Andrew shook his head. “And the young midshipman he was bug—er, kissing?”

Nerissa shook her head in exasperation. “Honestly Andrew, for someone as intelligent as you are, I’d have thought the identity of that young midshipman would be quite obvious.”

He lowered his head to his hands and rubbed with infinite weariness at his forehead.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Bloody, thundering hell.”

Nerissa’s own mind was already changing course, racing along on a new and decisive tack. “Enough of that. What am I doing sitting here? He needs me.” She got to her feet. “Take me to him, Andrew. Please.”

“What are you, insane?” he asked, recovering. “You go and raise suspicions about your feelings toward him and there’s no telling what that young lieutenant up there will do, let alone Hadley, who clearly has his own cap set for you. Sit down while we think this through. In fact, I’m inclined to just leave this all for the time being and let Lucien sort it out when we get back to England.”

“Lucien will never, not in a million years, allow me to marry Ruaidri.”

“He will never, not in
two
million years, allow you to marry him—but he might at least endeavor to save his life just to make you happy.”

“And if he won’t?”

“For God’s sake, Nerissa, do you have to make this so complicated?”

She glared at him.

“Until we get home, I would advise you to pretend you have nothing but contempt for O’ Devir. I wouldn’t trust Hadley not to kill him if he thinks he’s a threat to his own plans for you.”

“So you won’t let me go to him.”

“Do what you want. But I’m telling you it’s unwise.”

Nerissa collapsed back to the cot, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. Ruaidri was hurt, in pain, maybe even dying and for his own safety she couldn’t even go to see him? Fresh tears began leaking from her eyes at the hopelessness of the situation.

Andrew let out a bone-weary sigh of resignation and put his arm around her back. “You care for him that much, then, do you?”

She nodded, unable to speak.”

“Well, he’s not the man I’d have chosen for you, Nerissa, but as you say…we don’t get to pick whom we fall in love with.”

She reached into his pocket, found a handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes.

“You say he’s alive… I saw him, Andrew. There was so much blood, I can’t even imag—” she raised a hand as though to stop the awful memory and the thoughts that logically followed it, in their tracks. Steadying herself, she tried again, her voice tight and controlled. “Is he all right?”

“He’s unconscious, but alive. One of Hadley’s marksmen got him just above the back of the knee. He’s lost a lot of blood. Too much, really. His own surgeon is working on him now with McPhee himself holding a gun on the poor doctor to make sure there are no escape attempts.” His eyes were grave. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Nerissa.”

“That Ruaidri won’t make an escape attempt?”

He smiled sadly, acknowledging her faith and hope in a fellow who was surely as mortal as the next, her inability to see what he felt was obvious. “No, Sis. That he’ll survive this night.”

There was a sudden fiendish howl of wind from outside, a flash and crack of thunder that shook the ship as heavily as the broadsides had done earlier in the day.
Tigershark
leaned hard to leeward, her great timbers groaning, and beyond the stern windows the sea, gray and angry now, appeared at an angle as rain began to pelt the heavy glass.

Above, Midshipman Walters’s high-pitched adolescent voice yelled an order, yelled it again in a futile attempt to be heard over the wind.

“Too young and too unsure a lad for such an important position,” Andrew mused. He braced himself against the roll of the ship. “I hope we’re all safe. I’d like to see Celsie and little Laura again before I leave this earth.”

But Nerissa was thinking that if Ruaidri was in command, neither Andrew or anyone else would have anything to worry about. She wondered how poor Midshipman Cranton, Lieutenant Morgan, and the rest of
Tigershark
’s crew were faring, locked down there in the pitch-black hold while the ship groaned and fought her way through increasingly heavy seas and this, after being wounded by Hadley’s frigate only hours before.

Hours?

It was getting darker and darker beyond the stern windows and dimly, it occurred to Nerissa that the loss of light wasn’t just due to the storm.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Getting late,” her brother replied. “Have you dined?”

She shook her head. “I have no appetite.”

“I wish I could claim the same. I’m famished.”

“There’s good wine and spirits in that small cupboard,” she said, nodding toward the paneled bulkhead. “Maybe some cheese. We could feast. Get foxed.”

“You need to pull yourself together, Nerissa.”

“I am together.”

“Just because you’ve stopped crying doesn’t mean you’re all right.”

More desperate calls from above, and poor, out-of-his-depth Walters trying vainly to be heard over the wind. “Get McPhee!” he was shouting. “I need him up here, I’ve lost track of the frigate in the darkness!”

“Heads will roll,” Andrew said, going to the cupboard and pulling out a round of cheese. He found a knife, cut off a wedge, and offered it to her. “Want some?”

“What I want is to go to Ruaidri.”

“We’ve already discussed that. You can’t.”

“I must.”

“He’s unconscious. He won’t know you’re there.”

“How do you know he’s unconscious? Have you seen him?”

Andrew broke off a chunk of the cheese and popped it into his mouth, chewing hungrily. “I confess I had a look at him to satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else.” He took another bite. “Please have some cheese, Nerissa. You need to eat.”

But Nerissa just went to the stern windows and looked out over the darkening sea, and the last thing on her mind was food.

Ruaidri O’ Devir might not survive this night.

And if he did, he would never survive what awaited him in England.

There was only one way to save him. It was a daring plan and it would take more stomach than she’d ever had to demonstrate. Once she carried it out she would be a fugitive, with no going back.

But Nerissa was a de Montforte…and she knew what she had to do.

* * *

“Hell of a place to die, down here in the darkness.”

“I don’t like the feel of the ship. She’s laboring. Those Britons are having trouble keeping her on her feet in this squall.”

“Aye, well, better to die here than at the end of an English noose.”

The hold was hot and dark, already unpleasant with the scent of some forty nervous, beaten, and injured men all confined in such small space. Some were still bleeding from the short, brutal fight with the English frigate. Others were sweating profusely in fear and misery. The youngest of the lot, Joey, sat stroking his parrot, his mind filled with images no child should ever have to see or remember. Nobody had brought them food. Nobody had even brought them water.

“So much for getting that explosive,” Lieutenant Morgan said, bracing himself against a bulkhead as the brig leaned hard over. “But we gave it our best shot.”

“We might’ve done it, if that cowardly scrote Hadley hadn’t shot our captain in the back before the fight even started.”

“Didn’t quite shoot him in the back, now.”

“Shot him when his back was turned and he was trying to save the lady, and in my book that’s the same damned thing.”

They could feel wind buffeting the ship and around them, the sound of water surging against the hull and finding its way in through the oakum that made the seams, working now in the heavy seas, watertight.

“Damned cowards,” said one of the topmen, picking at a bandaged finger.

“I don’t know who I’d like to have a go at first, that bloody Frenchie who betrayed us or Hadley.”

“Don’t quite matter now, does it? We’re done for.”

Nobody said anything, remembering the faces of friends and shipmates they’d never see again. Remembering their own actions and wondering what they could have done differently. Remembering their captain dying in his own blood as poor Tackett, shot through the chest as he’d torn off his neckerchief and tried to tie off the bleeding, fell dead beside him. Neither had even had the chance to fight.

“Think he could’ve saved us?” young Cranton asked.

The smell of ginger filled the close, hot space as Morgan tried to combat his seasickness with the contents of his pocket. “He was clever and tough. Ruthless, when he had to be. If anyone could have done so, it was him.”

The moments ticked by, only the sound of their breathing marking the passage of time.

At length, Cranton spoke. “He sure had his secrets, though. Carried them to the grave.”

“Aye.”

The ship rolled and yawed, tilting sickeningly.

“He ever tell any of you what he did?” Morgan asked.

“Not me.”

“Me neither.”

The voice of the helmsman’s mate was a murmur in the darkness. “On the way across the Atlantic, he used to stand with me deep into the night after I’d relieve Tackett at the helm. We had a good chin-wag about a lot of stuff. Women. Politics. Shipbuilding. Hopes and dreams.”

“Did he tell you what horrible thing he supposedly did?”

“Not in so many words. But I kind of guessed it.”

The ship yawed again, and someone in the close space vomited.

“Fuck you, Moore.”

“Christ, if the stink down here was bad before, ye’ve just made it unbearable.”