The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (6 page)

He received the salute of Lieutenant Morgan, who had the deck.

“How is the lady, sir?”

“Quite recovered, and just like the rest of her kind, thinks I’m nothin’ but a bug under her damned shoe. We’ll be well rid of her once we get that explosive.” He looked at Morgan. The lines of strain around his mouth and the smell of ginger did not escape him. He knew all about his lieutenant’s queasy stomach. His voice gentled. “Go below and get some rest, John. I’ll take over from here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Morgan gave his salute and melted off into the darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Imagine. He, a captain in the Continental Navy now, enjoying a status that once, a long time ago, he would never have even dared to dream about. But that had been before his brother-in-law Christian, had outsmarted him back in ’75 and taught him a thing or two about humility.

Before the duel.

Before Josiah.

Before Dolores Ann.

The brig moved easily beneath him as though sharing his thoughts, his memories, and far off in the night he could imagine he saw the distant coast of Ireland.

“Delight.”

There. He’d said it. Her name.

And there was nothing but the sound of the waves to repeat it back to him.

He turned from the rail.

Some memories were better left alone.

Chapter 4

Blackheath Castle, Berkshire, England

Late the following morning…

Many miles away, in one of the most majestic and important homes in England, the sixth duke of Blackheath had just sat down to breakfast with his duchess, Eva, when a footman approached the table with a message for His Grace:

My dear brother,

I have urgent and distressing news. Tonight, while entertaining the Royal Navy with a display of my explosive (as you had advised), Nerissa went missing from Captain Lord’s townhouse. I am turning London upside down in my attempts to locate her and have enlisted the assistance of everyone I can find, but at this point I am at a loss as to what has happened to her or where she could be. Needless to say, I fear the worst. Please come to the City immediately.

— Andrew

Lucien felt the blood drain from his face.

Eva was instantly alert and on her feet, already coming to his side. “What is it, Lucien?”

He waved the footman away and passed the message to his duchess, already throwing his napkin down and pushing back his plate. “I must go to London. Immediately.”

Eva hastily scanned the short message, then hurried after him as he stalked purposely from the room, already calling for his valet.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, please. I would rather you stayed here with little Augustus. He’ll need his mother, and I won’t subject him to travel or the hot stinking pit that is London in the summertime any more than Andrew wished to subject Celsie or little Laura to it,” he said, referring to Andrew’s baby daughter. “I know you mean well, Eva, and at any other time I’d want you with me, but not this one.”

She followed him down the corridor. Phelps, his valet, was already there, not blinking an eye as his master ordered traveling clothes laid out, luggage packed and the ducal coach to be readied. “Please, Lucien, try not to worry. We both know she’s not been the same after…after Perry. She still grieves him. Maybe she ran off to try and call on him. Maybe she had a disagreement with Andrew. It could be any number of things. You’ll find her.”

Lucien said nothing. His wife was only trying to assuage his sudden fear, as all loved ones do when bad news hits. She was making excuses, offering rational explanations for Nerissa’s disappearance when really, there were none.

Was it possible that she had, indeed, taken it into her head to make a last gallant effort to win back the heart of the man she’d loved?

Had he missed something? Was his sister that desperate?

Lucien felt sick. It was his fault that Perry had broken off the engagement and his fault that his little sister’s heart had been broken. If he’d not sent Perry on that ill-fated trip to Spain—

No, he could not think of that, not now when regrets and recriminations would only cloud his thinking and get in the way of finding his little sister. Cold dread clawed at the base of his spine and as Phelps returned, Lucien knew he could not wait for his earlier orders to be carried out. There was no time to lose. The coach could catch up to him later.

He embraced his duchess, said a hurried goodbye to his nine-month-old son and heir and then strode purposely to the library, already calling for his fierce black stallion and yanking open the case where his deadliest, most accurate set of pistols waited.

My little sister. If she has met with foul play, I will
kill
the person responsible.

* * *

Nerissa opened her eyes. Beyond the brig’s stern windows, she saw thick banks of slate-colored cloud that seemed to press down upon a heavy gray sea streaked and laced with foam.

She must have slept, as she had no recollection of time having passed after that wretched Irishman had left. The day, however, was obviously well underway. Her stomach growled, and she put a hand over her belly, trying to ignore it as she took in her surroundings. The details that had been lost to the darkness when she’d woken earlier had now taken shape. A seat beneath the stern windows, covered with a canvas cushion. Two cannon, one on each side of the cabin, trussed down and poking their long muzzles out of open gun ports that let in a warm sea-breeze from outside. A chair pushed up to a small pine table bolted to the deck flooring, atop which stood an inkwell and a quill in a square tray, brass dividers holding down a water-stained chart, a battered tin coffeepot and a book that she supposed was the ship’s log. Near one gun, a washstand with a bowl and pitcher and a small mirror above it. Near the other, a sea chest with a lap-sized writing desk. An exquisite little model of a ship carved of bone or driftwood, strung with rigging and hung with miniature sails. There was a small, primitive painting of green hills, steep, rocky cliffs and a turquoise blue sea on one wall, and while Nerissa knew there were no walls on ships, she also knew she lacked nautical vernacular and decided that that was what the heavy, lateral planking that framed this cabin and held out the sea beyond, would be called during her—hopefully very short—stay here.

Even now, Lucien would be on his way to rescue her. No force in the world could stop her brother.

None.

The certainty brought her comfort. A sense of constancy when, for the first time in her life, there was nothing expected, predictable, or usual about the time or place in which she currently found herself. Being abducted and held for ransom was a far cry from the usual pattern of her life—an endless round of teas, visits, balls, soirees, Seasons, hunts, and being managed by her brothers. Or at least, fiercely guarded by them. Sheltered, even. No, this situation was altogether different, and there was nobody to guard her. Shelter her. Protect her, even, unless she reached down deep inside and did it herself.

Nobody.

A shiver of fear went through her and she took a deep and steadying breath.
If he’s holding me for ransom, surely he doesn’t mean to harm me. That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?

I am safe.

I am.
Another deep, calming breath.
Safe.

But there were no guarantees, were there? She was quite alone. Alarmingly so, really. She glanced around the cabin, wondering what she might use as a weapon should the need arise. Not a pistol in sight. Not even a dress sword. Nothing but the dividers with their needle-nosed points which, she supposed, were better than nothing. Probably ineffective against a large, strong man like her captor, but they would give her confidence, if nothing else. Show him that she wouldn’t go down without a fight if he decided to try and compromise her. She had her pride, after all, and she was no shrinking ninny. Until Lucien or the full force of the Royal Navy arrived to pluck her from danger back to safety, she had a choice. She could allow herself to become a victim, or she could do something about it.

She was a de Montforte.

She would do something about it.

She sat up and found her feet. The deck beneath her rolled with a life of its own, and she grabbed the table to keep her balance as she crossed the small cabin. As expected, the door to the world outside was shut, enforcing her status as both prisoner and hostage. She picked up the dividers, testing their weight. What would one of her brothers do in this situation?

She pushed a hand through her disheveled hair, trying to think, and found what felt like a goose egg just above her ear. It was sore to the touch, though it wasn’t the only part of her that hurt—she could feel bruising in her elbow, and her ribs protested when she moved a certain way. However, if there were small blessings for which to be thankful, it was that she appeared not to be prone to seasickness.

Her stomach growled, and still holding the dividers, she considered what to do.

That…that ill-bred Irish lout out there. Did he intend to starve her while he awaited the ransom money? At the thought of him, her head began to hurt and she despised him all over again. Oh, how dare he put his hands upon her, take her away from her family, make demands of them that were just the other side of outrageous.

Resolve.

I am a de Montforte and I will not let him rattle me.

Footsteps sounded just outside. The latch bumped upward and the door swung open.

It was him, the scoundrel. He paused for a moment, silhouetted by bright morning light flooding the deck behind him before he stalked into the cabin. If she’d had any lingering hopes that their conversation last night had been a dream, his sudden appearance was a bucket of ice water. No, she had not imagined the proud bearing, the air of command. She had not even imagined the uniform. In fact, the tatty coat he’d worn in London and the careless, slouching laissez-faire he’d adopted then seemed to be the dream, for this man, virile and strong, bore little resemblance to that drunken, bumbling fool at all.

Hiding the dividers in a fold of her skirts, she let her gaze rake contemptuously over the white waistcoat buttoned over a fine lawn shirt, the open blue coat that emphasized the width of his powerful shoulders, the snug white breeches. The hilt of a sword peeked above a scabbard at his side, and his shoes were hazed with dried salt.

This was not the down-on-his-luck poor relation he’d pretended to be back in London.

No, this was a man of business. Of intent.

Of danger.

He doffed his tricorne and tossed it to the window seat.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sunshine,” he said, piling on that awful Irish accent in a manner that felt intentional. Mocking. As though he wanted her to know that he’d turned the tables, Irish over English, for once. “Or rather, afternoon.”

“My name,” she retorted coldly, drawing herself up and fixing him with what she hoped was her iciest, most haughty glare, “is not Sunshine.”

“Ehm, well, probably an ill-chosen moniker at that, as I’ve yet to see ye smile.”

“You, sir, have not exactly given me anything to smile about.”

“Come now, lass.” He picked up the dented coffee pot, retrieved his mug, and splashed a pitiful trickle of black liquid into it with a casual, careless flip of his wrist. “How have I harmed ye?”

“You took me from my family and brought me to this ship. You’ve caused them what has to be unbearable worry and grief. The scandal will be beyond imagining and my reputation will be ruined because of this. Because of
you
.” She glared at him. “And you ask how you’ve harmed me? When my brother Lucien catches up to you, you will wish you had never,
ever
laid eyes on me.”

His lips twitched. “Oooh, ’tis frightened, I am.”

“Stop smirking, you ought to be!”

He laughed. “I’m not afraid of some pompous, mincing, English tosser bloated by his own sense of importance. And I’ll
never
be sorry for layin’ eyes on you. I like women. I like pretty women. I like spirited women, and you, Sunshine—”

“Stop calling me that!”

“—happen to be all three. Aye, a fine bit of stuff, you are. ’Tis a pity, though, that ye’re English.”

Anger blazed in her cheeks. “You are the most insufferable man I have ever met.”

“Aye, well, ye’re not exactly sugar and sweets, yerself. Ye’ve got the demeanor of a shrew and ye’re a damned snob, as well. But never mind that. Breakfast’ll be here soon. Hungry?”

“No.”

But at that moment her stomach growled like a caged lion. Mortified, she clamped a hand over her belly as though to hold in the sound, her face flaming red.

He laughed again, and pushed the door shut behind him so they were both alone.

Nerissa’s hand, damp now with sweat, tightened around the hidden dividers.

“I do not find this amusing at all,” she snapped, moving away and putting the table between them.

“Aye, by the look of ye, I doubt ye find much at all that’s amusing. You should try smilin’ once in a while, Sunshine. ’Tis good for the spirit as well as the face.”