The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (33 page)

He was still gazing intently at her, his grip becoming a little more intense. “Are ye ready for my next question, Nerissa?”

Mindful of his leg and the pain he was in, she carefully, gently, eased herself down until she lay close alongside him, her head nestled against his shoulder and her eyes looking up into his.

“Ask me, then.”

He moved his head slightly and let his lips rest against her forehead, where they lingered a long, tender moment before he pulled back and, with a finger beneath her jaw, gently tilted her head up to his so that she was forced to stare into his eyes.

“Will ye marry me, Lady Nerissa de Montforte?”

“Yes.” Her gaze was unflinching. “Yes, I will marry you, Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir.”

He made a sound of gratitude and contentment and the arm against which she lay curved around her back, drawing her close up against him, dwarfing her with its size and power.

“Soon?”

“As soon as you’re ready.” She blushed a bit. “And able.”

“France then, after we drop off our prisoners.”

“And Andrew…he has given his consent?”

“Andrew’s a fine lad. Even if he’d just as soon run me through for stealin’ ye from that London townhouse, I’d still say he’s a fine lad. Aye, he’s consented, even encouraged our union, but has made no demands on whether it’s to be in a Protestant church or one of my faith. I’m a Papist, Nerissa. That won’t change.”

“It doesn’t need to change. We both pray to the same God. And that same God will bless and recognize our union no matter what church we take our vows in.”

“Kiss me, Nerissa.”

She inched up closer to him, leaned over his chest, and boldly cupping his face in her hands, enjoying the feel of his cheekbones and the roughness of his jaw, she lowered her mouth to his.

Injury and loss of blood might have rendered him weak but the strength of his kiss, the urgency with which his tongue came out to plunder her mouth, and the feel of his hand sliding beneath the lapels of Midshipman Cranton’s coat to gently knead her nipple were enough to set her blood on fire.

Unexpectedly, he drew back. “I’d take ye now, if I could.” His lips brushed her forehead, and she felt the weight of his cheek against the top of her head as he rested it there. “But I made a promise to yer brother that I’d respect and honor ye, and I’m a man who always keeps his word.”

“Andrew would never know.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t wait until we find a priest, Ruaidri.”

“I can’t either. But we’ll have to.”

“Why?”

He dropped his fingers from her breast, smoothed her jacket and claimed her hand once more, his eyes resolute. “There’s nothin’ I’d like more than to make love to ye right now, Lady Nerissa de Montforte, even though it would likely kill me. But yer to be my wife and ye deserve my love and respect. I will wait.” He touched her cheek and smiled. “And so,
mo grá
, will you.”

She sighed and gently settled back against his chest. He curled an arm around her to hold her close. She watched the lantern swinging back and forth, back and forth, hypnotic in its timeless motion. Her eyes grew heavy and with the sound of her captain’s heart beating steadily beneath her ear, she finally fell asleep.

Chapter 25

They were married the following day.

Early that morning,
Tigershark
discharged her prisoners at the privateer-friendly French port of Saint-Malo and sent a boat ashore containing Lieutenant Morgan and Midshipman Cranton, both looking very official in their dress uniforms. They returned with a priest named Coutanche, a nervous little man who spoke rapid French and went wide-eyed when he learned the bride was none other than Lady Nerissa de Montforte, sister of the English Duke of Blackheath.

He was chattering like a squirrel as he was hoisted aboard the ship, growing more and more panicky by the moment. “Oh, I don’t know if I can perform such a wedding, this duke will not be happy, oh,
non
, I cannot—”

“
I
am representing my family in my brother’s absence,” said the well-dressed auburn-haired fellow who came forward to greet him. “The bride is my sister, and you will perform this marriage or you will answer to
me
.”

“And-and-and…you sir, are?”

“I am Lord Andrew de Montforte.” His expression firm, he turned and headed aft. “Come with me. The groom is in his cabin.”

As they walked aft, the young nobleman discreetly pressed a piece of folded paper into Coutanche’s hand indicating that he should immediately pocket and post it. The priest did so, overwhelmed by the presence of nobility even if they were English. Wondering what he was being drawn into, Coutanche was shocked and not a little horrified to be brought into the captain’s cabin and there, introduced to a gaunt, pale fellow in the uniform of the Continental Navy who proved himself to be Irish the moment he opened his mouth.

“Pleased to make yer acquaintance,” the captain said with a briskness that belied his sunken, exhausted eyes. He was in a blue and white uniform with gold epaulets, his waistcoat and breeches as white as sea foam, but he made no move to get out of the cot in which he lay. “We’re ready to begin.”

As for the lady, she was shockingly garbed in the uniform of an American midshipman and appeared to be quite comfortable in it.

Coutanche stood there staring, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He hoped this English duke wouldn’t find his way to France and make him suffer for this sacrament he was being asked to perform. An aristocratic lady, marrying a John Paul Jones? And one who looked to have a foot in death’s door, at that?

“Well, get on with it,” Captain O’ Devir said impatiently. He swung from the cot and stood, the threat of his height and powerful build tempered, somewhat, by the fact that he swayed on his feet and gripped the back of a chair with a shaking hand. “The day’s wastin’ and we have places to be.”

The priest withdrew a well-worn Bible from a leather satchel and there, in the small cabin of an American warship and witnessed by Lord Andrew de Montforte and Lieutenant John Morgan, he nervously performed the sacred rite that would bind these two together forever. As he left, he wondered if the Irish captain of this trim vessel would survive the rest of the day, let alone his marriage night. He’d seen butcher shop carcasses with more color and life in them than the pale, waxen-skinned master of the American brig.

Not my business
, he thought.
Not my concern.

The whole affair took less than an hour. Coutanche was rowed back to shore,
Tigershark
quickly weighed anchor, and filling her sails with a stiff wind out of the northeast howling down-Channel, the American brig stood northwest and turned her prow toward home.

It was only then that Coutanche remembered the folded note that Lord Andrew had silently passed him.

* * *

Lady Nerissa de Montforte might have been garbed in Cranton’s best rig, but Ruaidri had done all he could to give her the best wedding day he could. His bride’s gown had been hopelessly ruined and the petticoats and jacket he’d asked the sailmaker to make were not yet finished, but even so, she deserved all he could give her. As they’d sailed south toward Saint-Malo, he’d ordered his own copper tub brought up from below so she could savor a bit of pampering on her special day. No hot, scented bath had the Lady Nerissa enjoyed. No perfumed rosewater or finely-milled soap, no soft towels or any touch of the luxury to which she was accustomed. No, her bath had been seawater warmed by the galley fire and a rough bar of soap, and her towel had been rougher still.

And she had not complained.

And now they were finally on their way, the wide open Atlantic opening up before them as Brest and the coastline of France fell away off their starboard quarter.

Ruaidri, who’d also enjoyed a well-needed bath, lay now in his cot, cursing the weakness of his body and thanking the One who walked on water once for sparing him what he’d thought would be an inevitable fever.

He had much on his mind.

“Go to England and bring me back that explosive,”
John Adams had said.
“Your country is dependent on you. Godspeed.”

Yes, he’d crossed an ocean to bring an explosive rumored to be more fantastic than anything anyone had ever invented, back to America. He had risked his life and lost his heart. He’d carried out his mission, but he’d never dreamed that his bounty would include not just the explosive, but a wife.

A wife he had yet to tell his deepest secret and darkest shame to.

A wife who knew nothing about Josiah.

Or Delight.

Maybe there was no need to tell her. It was all in his past, anyhow. His past as Roddy, not Ruaidri. He would leave it there.

No harm done.

He got up, limped to the stern windows, and scanned the horizon. No Hadley, no sails, nobody in pursuit. Just sunlight on clear blue swells, the ship’s wake trailing back toward a Europe he was desperate to see the arse end of.

The effort of just moving this far exhausted him, and he cursed what little blood still remained in his veins. His head swimming, he took off his uniform jacket and lay back down on the cot. His gaze fell on the ship model he’d made as they’d crossed the Atlantic to get here. Maybe it was time to start another, perhaps of
Tigershark
herself. But no. Even the idea of carving a model hull made him feel tired. How long would it take for him to get his energy back?

The door to the cabin opened and Nerissa came in, her cheeks pink and fresh from the stiff wind that drove them steadily westward. She paused, looking at him lying there in the cot.

They were alone, the two of them, for the first time as man and wife.

“You should sleep, Ruaidri,” she murmured, her eyes darkening with concern.

“I’m tired of sleeping.”

“You want to heal, don’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

She raised a brow and turned, going to check her reflection in the tiny mirror above his washstand. His gaze traveled down her proud shoulders and back, her tiny waist, her rounded bottom in Cranton’s breeches. He didn’t care what she was wearing. She looked delicious, and he felt himself beginning to harden as he watched her try to comb her pale, windblown hair into some sort of semblance, tidying herself for her man as women had done since time began. He wondered if she was nervous. If the idea of consummating their marriage filled her with as much unease as it did him. Would his body be able to perform the task to which it would soon be called? He grinned wryly.
The head and heart are willing
, he thought…
but oh, do I have the strength to pleasure her as she deserves?

Time would tell.

Or he’d die trying.

There was a knock on the door. Andrew came in, frowning as he saw Ruaidri lying weakly in his cot. “You look like hell,” he said flatly.

“I’m fine.”

Nerissa turned from the mirror. “Andrew, don’t you have some place to be? Something else to do?”

He actually had the good grace to blush. “I suppose you’d like some…privacy.”

“I suppose we might,” she said, a touch of impatience in her voice. “You have protected me long enough, dear brother. But you have given me to Ruaidri here and that is now his task, not yours.”

“At the moment, he’s not fit to protect a fly from a spider, let alone—”

“I’m fine,” Ruaidri insisted, yet again.

Nerissa sighed and crossed her arms. “And just what do I need protecting from, Andrew?”

Andrew’s color deepened. “Right. I understand. I’ll…leave you two to it, then.” He moved to the door and there, paused to look one last time at Ruaidri. “Remember my warning, O’ Devir. Be gentle with her.”

Ruaidri raised a brow. He supposed he ought to take offense at such a remark and a few short years ago when he’d been younger, his temper hotter and his moods more volatile, perhaps he would have. But Andrew was her brother, a family member who loved her very much, and having been in a similar situation with his own sister not so very long ago, Ruaidri knew just how hard it was to turn and walk away, leaving your little sister in the care of a man who was anything but a brother and who had every intention of making her a woman.

Yes, he understood.

He smiled. “Ye have my word on it, Andrew,” he said reassuringly.

With a last warning glance at
Tigershark
’s captain, Lord Andrew left the cabin.

And Nerissa and Ruaidri were alone.

* * *

“Well,” she said, not quite so confident now that her brother had gone. “I suppose I should ask, ‘now what,’ but I think I know what comes next.” Her voice wasn’t quite as strong as it had been moments ago. “You…you
will
be gentle, won’t you, Ruaidri?”

He sat up, wishing he had the strength to go to her, to lift her in his once-strong arms and carry her to the cot, to the stern cushions, even down to the deck flooring. But the effort of standing for his nuptials for even a few moments had taxed his strength and even sitting up was exhausting. “Are ye frightened, lass?”

She shrugged and looked away. “A little.”

“Come sit beside me, Nerissa.”

She licked her suddenly-dry lips and moved hesitantly across the cabin, eyed the empty space beside him and at his urging sat down, as stiff as a canary frozen on its perch.