Authors: Danelle Harmon

Tags: #Romance, #England, #Historical, #Fiction

Wicked at Heart (45 page)

BOOK: Wicked at Heart

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"Bring her
right up there, to the main chains!"

As the boat crew
struggled to maneuver the unwieldy launch, Damon calmly looked up. High above
on the quarterdeck of the mighty '74, he could already see the smartly turned-out
captain, a portly, balding man surrounded by two lieutenants. Nearby, their
scarlet-and-white chests just visible as they moved about the deck, were the
Royal Marines; Damon wondered which of them would be in the lineup to execute
him. He found the sight vaguely disturbing, and as the launch closed toward
the huge hull he looked away, back toward the shore.

And saw that the
hoy, its sail raised, had broken loose from its mooring and was heading
straight toward them.

No one else saw
it, of course. The escort of armed marines and Lieutenant Wordsworth were
watching the boat crew, and the boat crew was busy trying to maneuver the
launch into position. The officers and marines on the deck high above were
engaged in conversation or running about preparing the deck for the grim scene
that was soon to come. Only the Marquess of Morninghall saw the hoy coming
straight on, slanting strangely, purposefully across the pull of tide and
current, and only he saw the lumpy figures crouched in its hull beneath a tarp.

And I thought
I didn't have friends . . .

With lordly calm
and a perfect absence of expression, he raised his head and gazed out to sea.

Just as one of
the officers on
Athena
's deck above saw the onrushing hazard.

"
Mind
the boat!
"

Too late.

Damon threw
himself out of the launch just as the hoy slammed into it with all the force of
a battering ram. He heard the grinding, splintering crash, the surprised
screams of marines and oarsmen alike as the launch capsized, spilling them all
into the sea. But that was all he heard, because in the next moment the sea
closed over his own head and he was swimming underwater with fierce, mighty
strokes toward the hoy's retreating stern as though his life depended on it.

And well it did.

He heard the
muffled pop of muskets from the warship, their bullets sprinkling the water all
around; he heard violent splashing as the occupants of the late launch, most of
whom could not swim, thrashed about in panic. Above was the oblong underside
of the hoy's hull, swirling with bubbles and confusion and wreckage, and then
it was moving swiftly away, its crew returning the fire of those aboard the
warship as it fled toward the open sea.

Still
underwater, Damon struck out after it.

A rope trailed
over the side, leaving a streaming V in the watery gray-white ceiling above his
head, and without breaking the surface he caught it, knotted it once around his
wrist, and let himself be carried along behind the hoy. Air had never been so
precious and he fought to stay conscious, his lungs beginning to constrict, the
blood beating in his ears, his brain —

Hold on, damn
it, hold on!

His vision went
speckly, and his teeth clenched against an involuntary inhalation.

No more.

The air burst
from his lungs, and with all his strength he hauled himself to the surface,
breaking it only long enough to catch a gulp of air before letting himself be
yanked back down beneath the slapping waves. But that brief moment had
provided him with a sure glimpse of his rescuers: Orla, a musket braced
against her shoulder as she returned the fire of
Athena
's men; Nathan
Ashton, trimming the sail with desperate speed; and Connor at the tiller,
maneuvering the boat so the sail could best catch the rising wind. Damon shut
his eyes and held tightly to the rope, arms outstretched before him, the cold
water streaming past and around his body like the current of a spring river.
The hoy was moving fast, dragging him along with it, and as he broke the
surface for air a second time, he looked over his shoulder and saw the flashes
of musket fire from
Athena
, the cutter dropping from her stern to begin
pursuit, and heard the enraged shouts of those who had been denied their bloody
spectacle.

No sooner had he
dropped below the slapping surface once more when his rescuers were hauling on
his rope with violent tugs. As they wrestled him up and into the hoy, his body
limp and dripping, the breath roaring through his starved lungs in great,
sucking gasps, he saw that a helpful God had already blown the mists back in
over the warship, and that their hoy was well on its way out into the Solent.

Orla, pretty,
daring, piratical Orla whom Peter so loved, turned to him with a grin on her
spritely face. "Please get down there beneath the tarp, my lord. We'd
like to keep you safe and hidden until we can get you back to
Kestrel
,
where Reverend Milford and your wife await you." Then, just before
throwing the tarp over Damon, she snatched up her musket and pointed it aft,
her wild, exultant laughter ringing over the waves.

"Would you
look at that!"

Everyone in the
little boat turned. The mists had parted behind them, but only long enough for
them to see the confusion in the water that surrounded the now-distant
Athena
.
Sailors were diving into the churning sea, men were shouting back and forth,
and the cutter was not in pursuit, but moving about, plucking people out of the
water.

"Fools!"
Connor cried, laughing. "They're obviously searching for the drowned body
of the Marquess of Morninghall!"

And then the fog
closed over the fading scene once more, and the little hoy was alone in the
mists, heading further and further into the Solent.

"There she
is," Connor said, his voice soft with emotion, and as Nathan pulled the
tarp off Damon so that he too could see, a reverent hush fell over them all.

Even the
Marquess of Morninghall's eyes filled with moisture.

For there, her
rail awash, her sails catching the first light of dawn, and her long, plunging
bowsprit trained on them like a compass, was the schooner
Kestrel
.

Epilogue

It hadn't
changed.

Just as it had
for centuries, Morninghall Abbey stood atop its emerald green throne,
commanding a sweeping, unbroken view of the magnificent Cotswolds that
surrounded it. When its lord and lady had left, the poppies had been strewn
everywhere in wild abandon; now they were long gone, apples lay on the ground
around the trees, and the wheat had been harvested, leaving the fields shorn
and bleached. Blackberries were fat on the vines that climbed the walls of
yellow stone, the wild grasses were heavy and bent, and there was a decided
crispness in the air, a tense expectancy.

For the lord of
Morninghall was finally coming home.

The schooner
Kestrel
had caught up to Sir Graham's mighty flagship
Orion
on her journey back
to the West Indies, and as brother and sister had fought over ownership of the
little ship, the admiral had calmly welcomed Lord and Lady Morninghall into his
cabin. Ignoring the fierce battle raging just outside, and treating his guests
to a bottle of his finest port, he'd read them the news a fast-sailing
messenger had brought him not seven hours before: the Prince Regent had
granted a reprieve to the Marquess of Morninghall, only to have the lord
snatched right out from under the guns of the warship on which he'd been
sentenced to die.

As darkness fell
an hour later, Connor — who'd won a blind eye from Sir Graham and grudging,
albeit temporary, ownership of the schooner from his sister — was heading
triumphantly off to the east, and the massive, hundred-gun warship
Orion
was coming about, setting a course back to England.

Now the end of
Lord Morninghall's long journey was nearing. As the coach, fresh from London
where the marquess had met with the Prince Regent, slowed going up that last,
noblest hill, the setting sun broke from the clouds and spread its orange glory
over the vast rolling hills. It was an omen of the finest sort, and inside the
coach the marchioness smiled and exchanged glances with her husband. She wore
an elegant gown of turquoise watered silk, and its high empire waist did much
to conceal the fact that her belly was already beginning to swell with child.
Not that she was trying to conceal it. Her husband's hand rested possessively
on her rounded belly, and as they turned up the road that led to the massive
gates of Morninghall, she saw that he too was smiling.

He had never
looked handsomer, she thought, studying his aristocratic profile. She thought
about their brief time with Sir Graham. The admiral had treated him with the
deferential respect due a marquess, and indeed, for the first time in many a
month, Damon had been at ease with a naval superior. But perhaps that was
because Sir Graham was no longer his superior, nor was anyone else in the Royal
Navy. Damon had wasted no time in officially handing in his resignation to the
unsurprised admiral, and as he'd done so, Gwyneth had seen his proud shoulders
going back, as though a great weight finally had been lifted from them.

It was the
right, the only decision, and she loved him for it.

Now he was
staring out the window, boyishly eager for his first view of the magnificent
house he thought he'd never see again, and as he sensed her gaze upon him, he
turned. His eyes were cool, but fire simmered in their depths, and she knew
that that fire was for her.

She thought of
that huge, curtained bed in the ancient chamber and smiled to herself.

"And what
amuses you so, my lovely wife?"

"Oh, I was
just thinking."

"About?"

"Making
love in our own bed tonight."

Damon chuckled
darkly and leaned over to graze her neck with his lips. "Great minds must
think alike, for I confess I was thinking the very same thing."

"Were
you?"

"I
was."

They both
laughed, staring lovingly into each other's eyes as the coach drew up to the
gates. The massive black wolves looked down on them, their marble eyes seeming
to gleam with approval; then the attendant swung those iron portals wide, and
the coach moved down the shadowy, stately drive.

Toward the
magnificent house that waited at its end.

Toward the
servants, already gathered on the great stairs in an exultant, cheering array.

And, for Lord
and Lady Morninghall, toward a lifetime of bright tomorrows.

###

--
the end --

About
the Author:

Bestselling,
multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten
books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages
worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is
married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England
with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including four dogs, an Egyptian
Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her
readers and can be reached at [email protected] or through any of the
means listed below: