The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (37 page)

All three de Montforte men were waiting. Lord Sandwich pulled the paper toward him, smoothed it flat and began to read:

My dearest Lucien,

I don’t have time to go into details as we will be shortly underway, and it is only by virtue of the fact that he is currently quite incapacitated and his crew lacking his own canny suspicions that I am able to slip this note off to you. Whatever you may or may not have heard, Ruaidri O’ Devir, captain of the American brig
Tigershark
and abductor of our beloved sister, is alive. Not well, but alive and back in command of this brig, and given the sheer stubbornness of his will, I expect him to make a full recovery. By the time you receive this, he will have been united in marriage to our sister and
Tigershark
on her way back to Boston with the prize she came here to get—that is, me. Rest assured that we are safe, and so are the secrets of my invention which I will never disclose, not even under threat of death. As for O’ Devir, I have given my consent to this union and am confident that he will be a good husband to our sister. There is so much to convey, and so little time to do so… I must go, but wanted to spare you further worry as to our safety and well-being. Please give my love to Celsie and know that I’ll be home just as soon as I can manage it.

Yours,

—Andrew, Saint-Malo, France

Lord Sandwich rubbed at an itch beneath his starched, rolled and powdered bagwig and pushed the vellum back toward Blackheath. So
Tigershark
was once again in the hands of the Americans and on her way to Boston, carrying not only two de Montforte siblings but the most important military discovery to come along in the last two centuries…a military discovery that
had
to stay here with England at all costs.

“What are you going to do about this, John?” the duke demanded, his mouth taut with fury.

Not, “Are you going to do anything about this.” It was already assumed that he was going to do something about this, and that he would do it yesterday instead of tomorrow. Given Blackheath’s famously protective stance toward his family, Sandwich knew it was less about England’s military security and more about the fate of his two siblings that was the force behind Blackheath’s cold, deadly anger.

’Struth, what a colossal mess. Things surely couldn’t get any worse.

But in the next moment, the clerk knocked on the door to tell him Captain Hadley of the frigate HMS
Happenstance
was waiting outside, and Sandwich suddenly knew that yes, they could indeed get a whole lot worse.

And did.

Hat under his arm, the naval captain entered, his face paling beneath its tan as he saw the three de Montforte brothers already waiting in Sandwich’s office. The First Lord of the Admiralty rounded on him.

“Your father assured me you were the man for the job, the man he most trusted to bring Lady Nerissa safely home,” Sandwich thundered, taking out his own stress on the hapless captain. “Where is she?”

Hadley opened his mouth, his elbow now crushing the hat to his side. “My lord, I—” he glanced nervously at the duke and his equally intimidating brothers. “Her ladyship insisted on staying aboard the prize after we captured her. I put my first lieutenant, a good man, sir, a fine sailor, in charge of her to sail her back to London. Lord Andrew stayed with her.”

“What about O’ Devir?”

“Cut down on his own quarterdeck, my lord.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I saw his corpse with my own eyes. One of my own marines delivered the fatal shot.”

“And where is that damned brig now, Hadley?”

What color remained in the captain’s face swiftly dissolved, leaving his cheeks the color of tallow. His gaze flickered to the window, down to his feet. “I don’t know, my lord.”

“
What?!
”

“She was with us as we headed back to England. A storm came up. Night fell. We became separated. I went back to look for them, but…but they were gone.” He met Sandwich’s furious gaze, but could not muster the courage to look at Blackheath.

Sandwich let him squirm for a few moments, then picked up the vellum and held it out. “Read this.”

Steeling himself, Hadley did. Twice. He looked up, frowning. “I don’t understand…the Americans must have found a way to retake the brig.” He straightened up, the color returning to his face. “With your consent, my lord, I will head right back out in pursuit, surely they can’t be more than a couple days ahead of us, and I—”

It was the Duke of Blackheath whose cold voice cut through Hadley’s words.

“No, you’ve already cocked this up well and good, you incompetent ninny,” he snarled. “You’re done.
Done
.” He rounded on Sandwich. “Maybe if
you
had sent more of our fleet to North America instead of concentrating them here for fear of an invasion by the damned French, vermin like this damned O’ Devir rascal would’ve been blown to bits long before he could have even
thought
about crossing the damned Atlantic and threatening us in our own waters.”

“We will find him, Your Grace.”

“Yes, you will. In fact, you’ll assign the fastest warship in the damned
Fleet
to finding him, you’ll put a commander on board who knows what the bloody hell he’s doing, and you’ll have her outfitted and ready to chase down this—this
parasite
, immediately. I expect you to set about doing this the moment I leave this office, and
you
can expect to accommodate a passenger.
Me.
Do I make myself understood?”

Lord Sandwich kneaded a weary brow. He understood.

Chapter 27

The crossing took nearly six weeks.

For Nerissa, it was a time of getting to know the enigmatic man she had married. Of learning that he had an aversion to salted fish, that he was a stern but fair captain who never, no matter what the crime, resorted to the lash, that he was a tough, stubborn, and respected commander whose single-minded drive to get them back across the Atlantic as quickly as possible had the miles falling away behind him.

She learned that he enjoyed making things, and she watched another exquisite, perfectly scaled ship model come to life beneath his big, scarred hands in the rare moments when he’d find time to relax in their cabin. He learned that she was happier when she had something to do, and he began to teach her the rudiments of navigation. She learned that he despised tea, harbored a private guilt about how his most recent actions would affect his sister, and that most of the swear-words in the vocabulary of Joey’s parrot had come from him. Late at night, they lay in the narrow cot, talking about the differences in their childhoods, their countries, their shared hopes and dreams after a session of gentle lovemaking, and fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

And he grew stronger.

Stronger by the day.

In the early days of his recovery, a member of the crew would bring a chair up on the quarterdeck for him. There he would sit when standing became too exhausting, calling for endless sail drills, gun drills and musket practice, until the men under his command were as fine a fighting unit as any captain in any navy could hope for. During those times Nerissa stood quietly nearby, admiring the sheer, pig-headed determination he showed in denying his injury mastery over him, denying anyone to pity him or think any less of his capabilities as a commander for it. He might have collapsed the moment he returned to the privacy of their cabin but on deck, no man would have perceived any weakness. He led with a quiet, firm resolve, and the men trusted him. Respected him. Perhaps even liked him.

Even Lord Andrew.

He was not the man the youngest de Montforte brother would have chosen for his baby sister, but even he could not deny the glow to her cheeks and the warmth in her eyes when she was with her new husband. He noted the way her gaze followed him as he went about the business of commanding the ship, the way she tenderly saw to his comfort as he slowly regained his strength. And he saw the way he treated her, with free and easy abandon instead of the status-conscious, fawning deference to which she was accustomed…and that in itself gave her a certain liberty to be the person she had never really had the chance to be:

Herself.

And she was blossoming. Thriving. Looking more beautiful and more fulfilled than he had ever seen her.

Andrew, despite missing his own wife and daughter with a desperate ache, was happy.

Now the vast Northern Atlantic was behind them. Boston lay only two or three days ahead of
Tigershark
’s plunging jib-boom and somewhere off to starboard was the distant coast of Canada. On this chilly morning, the October sun was just dragging itself up out of the east with grudging weariness, wanting like everyone else to stay asleep under the warm blanket of the horizon as the days got shorter and colder. The morning filled with thin light, revealing Nova Scotia far, far off the starboard beam—and something else off the larboard one. Above, the voice of the maintop lookout suddenly pierced the early-morning quiet.

“Deck there! Sail off the larboard quarter…looks to be a cutter!”

Ruaidri rubbed cold hands together, cupped them around his mouth and tilted his head back. “Colors, Mr. McGuire?”

“She’s British, sir!”

Every man on deck immediately stopped what he was doing and looked out to sea. Nerissa had just come out with a mug of hot coffee, and now she too watched in apprehension as her husband moved to the rail and carefully selecting a spyglass, raised it to his eye.

Andrew, seeing her go still, took her hand. “Well, this might get interesting,” he said, and Nerissa could not tell if he was happy about the appearance of the British cutter or wishing it would disappear. She knew her own feelings. There was nothing to be gained for either her or Ruaidri by the presence of a British warship. Nothing.

She remembered their tangle with Hadley’s frigate back in the Channel, the blood and death and destruction. The blood went cold in her veins and she drew the heavy boat cloak that Ruaidri had given her closer around herself, trying to take comfort from his lingering scent. “We’re off the Canadian coast,” she murmured. “Ruaidri says there are plenty of Royal Navy ships and Loyalist privateers based in Halifax. Oh, Andrew… I do hope there isn’t a sea fight. I can’t take another.”

Andrew squeezed her hand. “I don’t think he’ll fight unless he has to. His mission is to get me to Adams.”

“He’ll fight if they challenge him.”

“Let’s hope they don’t, then.” He took her coffee mug, stole a sip, and handed it back to her. “Because I’ve had quite enough of sea battles, myself.”

The minutes ticked by. The wind played with the black, frizzy tuft of the Irish captain’s queue as he studied the distant ship for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he swung the instrument to sweep the horizon, smiled, and shut the glass. A brisk westerly was blowing over the starboard beam, chopping up the water like firewood and sending spray high over the jib-boom to spatter the jibs, staysails and forecourse. He said something to Midshipman Cranton. The midshipman saluted and hurried off. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Ruaidri strode casually over to the two de Montforte siblings, the limp that had been such a part of him several weeks back, now gone.

“Cold day, eh?” he asked, as if that warship out there that was even now coming about to point her prow on them, was of no concern to him whatsoever.

Nerissa could not conceal her anxiety. “I’m hoping it’s not going to get a whole lot warmer.”

“What, no faith in me, Mrs. O’ Devir?”

How could she answer that? If that British ship out there caught up to and captured them, Ruaidri was as good as dead and so, after her unspeakable act of treason, was she. Maybe Andrew would have some clout, but enough to save all their lives? Maybe hers. Certainly not her husband’s.

“Very well then,” she admitted. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because that ship out there is a lot bigger, faster and stronger than we are.”

“So it is. But that ship is alone. And we, my dear—” he slid an arm around her waist and walked her a few steps away, where the mainmast no longer obscured her view—“are not.”

His strong arm steadying her, he pointed far out to sea. The deck seemed to drop out beneath her feet as
Tigershark
cut through a succession of heavy swells, and Nerissa was grateful for her husband’s solid strength. Salt lay thick in the air, making her skin moist and clammy and the deck sticky beneath her feet. But what was he looking at? The sea was restless and undulating, the wind pushing up lofty peaks that broke and spilled over into trails of lacy foam. The brig rose and fell, rose and fell, and with each swell that forced her high, Nerissa finally saw them—two ships, several miles out off their larboard bows, appearing and disappearing near the horizon.

“I see two ships,” she said.

“You see two
American
ships,” he said triumphantly. “A schooner and a brig. I’m guessing our British friend will decide the odds are against him and run like the divil himself is on his tail.”

“He won’t want to take them as prizes?”

“If they were merchantmen, aye. But those aren’t merchantmen.” He grinned. “They’re privateers, armed to the teeth and more than a match for him. He’ll turn tail and run for it, unless he’s an utter fool.”