“Yes.” Cara grinned, averted her gaze, and fingered a mother-of-pearl button on his coat. “He caught me spying on you, one summer at Pembroke, while you were bathing in the pond.”
“Well are you not the naughty minx?” Of course, he would not divulge the fact that Thomas had discovered Lance, in similar circumstances—doing the same thing. Lance burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.
“Stop it.” She pouted. “I was a young girl, and you must admit our bodies are very different. It is only natural that I would be curious.”
“You have quite the wild streak, sugar kisses.” He bent his head but halted. “Wait a minute. When did this happen?”
“You mean the first time?” she asked, with an expression of cherubic innocence.
“I beg your pardon?” He opened his mouth and then closed it. “The first time? There were more than one instances?”
“I like watching you.” She shrugged. “I always have, and I expect that will never change.”
“You are the vixen.” He grinned and dropped his hands to the twin swells of her bottom. “Who would have thought it?”
“I will take that as a compliment.” She kissed his cheek. “You know, I secured his silence by not revealing his infatuation with my sister. He had composed an ode to her beauty.”
“Thomas was infatuated with Sabrina?” But Lance had believed Thomas loved Cara. “Are you sure?”
“Indeed.” She inclined her head and peered at the ceiling. “It was the summer Brie fell from that old oak tree, near the orangery at Sandgate, and broke her ankle. I discovered him reciting poetry, and poor Sabrina appeared on the verge of revisiting her lunch, but she was a captive audience, as Thomas had taken her crutches.”
“Why that sly dog.” It was the very same year Thomas had professed his undying devotion to Cara. His cousin had thought it comical they shared the same taste in the fairer sex, and he had ribbed Lance mercilessly, taunting him with the prospect of Cara wedding another. In hindsight, it was obvious Thomas meant to rile Lance with his declaration—nothing more.
“Bloody hell.” He emitted a self-deprecating snort and rolled his eyes. “I do not believe it.”
“But I speak the truth.” She snuggled close and gave him a squeeze.
“Oh, I do not doubt you, my lovely wife.” The weight of the world, so long inhabiting his shoulders, seemed to vanish in a flash. “Our dear Thomas has been gone these sixteen years, and yet again I find myself on the wrong end of one of his pranks. Somewhere, I know he is enjoying a good belly laugh.”
Cara furrowed her brow. “I do not follow.”
“It does not signify.” Lance studied the portrait of his cousin. Well played, my friend. “One day, when we have nothing more important to do, I will tell you the whole of it. Right now, I want to get you out of that dress and into our bed.”
#
Hours later, Cara slipped from the bed, walked to the washstand, poured water in the basin, wet a towel, and wiped the sticky wine residue from her breasts.
“Now tell me that was not fun.” Naked, Lance rolled the trolley, bearing an array of covered dishes, from the sitting room into his chamber. “And there is champagne for the encore, sugar kisses.”
“You, sir, are a barbarian.” She grabbed his silk robe from a peg and draped it over her shoulders.
“Complaining?” he asked, with a narrow stare, as he checked the condition of their meal. “How strange. I did not order cherry compote for dessert, but we have a large portion of it.”
“Never, as I rather prefer your particular brand of ravishment, my hero.” She came to stand behind him, wrapped her arms about his waist, and hugged him. “What I had not anticipated was all the noise. You make a startling ruckus in the throes of passion.”
“You are one to talk.” Lance scoffed. “And you snore.”
“I do not.” Retreating a step, she slapped his bare bottom. “What a horrid thing to say.”
“Reminds me of old Willie Boyle, from my years as a midshipman.” He chuckled and caught her in a devil of a clinch. “The man could rattle the timbers, and you could give him a run for his money.”
How amazed she was at Lance’s transformation since he signed the wedding contract, in her father’s study. If she had any second thoughts concerning their betrothal, his behavior leading up to their wedding ceremony erased them.
“That, sir, is unforgivable.” Cara humphed. “Perhaps I shall sleep in my chambers, tonight.”
“Not a chance.” He cast a lopsided grin and rubbed his back. “I am still smarting from the confines of your bed.”
Ah, the previous night had been a singular success, when her erstwhile reluctant knight climbed the trellis outside the window of her former quarters at her family’s townhouse and shared her final eve as a spinster, in her old room. With Lance beside her, she had enjoyed the first restful slumber since he returned, injured, from his voyage. She had drifted off cataloguing all the hopes she had for their future.
“Poor darling.” She shimmied and dropped the robe to the floor. “Come back to bed, and I shall soothe your aches. And bring the cherry compote, as you are not the only one with fantasies.”
Lance burst into laughter.
How she had dreamed of the love that shimmered in his eyes, as he gazed upon her now.
She dreamed of the children they would bring into their world, of the family they would endeavor to create.
As she drew him near and set her lips to his, one sweet refrain sang in her head.
It was time to live the dream.
ONE-KNIGHT STAND
EPILOGUE
Since the disastrous invasion of Russia, the past June, rumors circulated throughout the Continent that Napoleon, and the bulk of the French army in Eastern Europe, would soon retreat. Hoping to seize the opportunity to attack, Wellington summoned his officers to Cadiz, reorganized the war effort, and called for supplies and troop reinforcements.
To his displeasure, Lance studied the embossed parchment, which signaled his reinstatement to full duty, and read it for the third time. It was the only thing that could instigate his premature return to London from Sandgate Manor, his ancestral pile in Southampton, shortly after the holidays.
“Your trunks are loaded, darling.” Wearing a tan merino pelisse trimmed in ermine, Cara stood, pretty as a picture, in the doorway of his study. “We await your presence.”
Prior to their marriage, he had always admired her understated elegance, in secret. Now that she was his, and he was hers, he could ogle her to his heart’s content, which he did at every opportunity. The mere sight of her brought a smile to his face. “I will be right there, sugar kisses.”
Rolling his maps, charts, and orders into a tight bundle, he checked and rechecked his Letters of Marque. After another cursory survey to ensure he had overlooked nothing, he crossed the room and claimed a quick kiss before following his bride down the hall.
“Elaine has a cold and has decided to remain at home.” Cara peered over her shoulder and winked. “So it will be just the two of us in the coach.”
“Alone in a confined space, with only my charming Cara for company?” Lance clucked his tongue. “There is a god.”
“Shameless.” She giggled.
“I am in love.” As he contemplated the gentle sway of her hips, he considered the logistics and calculated how many ways he could take his wife before they arrived at Deptford. “And as Dirk remarked, quite accurately, I might add, at your birthday celebration, men in love know no shame.”
“And are you so afflicted?” she inquired, with a flirty lilt in her voice, which scored a direct hit to his loins.
“Do you doubt me?” He hastened his step, as they crossed the threshold.
“Never.” She licked her lips, as he handed her into the equipage and then settled into the squabs beside her. “And more’s the pity, for I share your burden.”
No sooner had they passed the gates of Raynesford House than she pulled down the shad
e, and he followed suit. And then he turned—right into her kiss. Several heated, desperate, achingly sweet minutes later, and they arrived in Deptford.
As Cara situated her skirts and adjusted her pelisse, he re-hooked his breeches, fastened his coat, and speared his fingers through his hair. “Another fantasy realized, my lady wife.”
“Oh?” She smoothed a wayward curl. “You never mentioned a particular fondness for coach travel.”
“I only just discovered it.” And then he noted the hem of her dress caught on her garter. “You missed something.”
With their clothes righted, Lance and Cara descended the coach and walked to the berth where the Demetrius anchored.
The decks were alive with the activity one would expect of a ship preparing for a long journey. Sailors danced in the ratlines, loaded cargo, and sang ribald shanties as they worked. To his surprise, his lady remained in his wake, as he ascended the gangplank.
“Careful with the Captain’s trunks, as I packed them beautifully.” She directed his men as though her position of chatelaine extended to his rig. “And I must speak with the cook about the Captain’s favorite dishes.”
“Morning, Cap’n.” On the quarterdeck, Scotty saluted. “That is a live cannon you married.”
“Tell me about it.” Lance arranged his maps, reached into his pocket to retrieve his watch, and found a folded piece of parchment, bearing an instantly recognizable script, and he unfolded the letter.
To My Most Cherished Husband,
By the time you read this missive, I will be at Raynesford House, and you will be somewhere on the deep blue sea. I have returned the little turtle to your personal belongings and claimed a handkerchief, in kind, which I shall tuck in my bodice, over my heart, until you are home, and your lips take its place. Please know that I am so proud of you and your service to the Crown, even though it takes you from me, and I miss you, already.
All my love,
Your Cara
When his knees buckled, Lance grasped the rail for support. A stark emptiness spread in his chest, at the prospect of spending the next few weeks without what he considered his exceedingly better half. With Cara at his side, he felt invincible.
What was it Everett said?
Love makes you feel you can conquer the world, if only to deliver the spoils to the lady who holds your heart and have her share your devotion.
For Lance, truer words were never spoken.
All too soon, the mighty ships of the Brethren of the Coast cast off, one at a time, forming an impressive line of British military prowess. And yet, for him, the sight held no joy, because he could not bear to part from his wife.
And then it hit him. A marvel of brilliance dawned in his brain, which would solve his quandary and ease his torment. He could take Cara with him. But the logistics of such madness presented a whole new host of problems, and by the time he located his bride on the docks, anticipating his farewell, he had reversed course.
“Well, my dear, the tide awaits no man.” He drew her into his arms. “I suppose this is goodbye.”
“You will be careful, my hero.” Cara lowered her gaze and smoothed the folds of his many-caped greatcoat. And although she was clearly trying to be brave, her quivering chin bespoke her tremulous state. “If you do not return, safe and sound, hale and whole, I will never forgive you.”
“Oh, love, I shall miss you every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day we are apart.” Lance cupped her cheek and bent his head, in preparation for a kiss, but Cara stayed him.
“You could take me with you.” She pressed her hands to his chest. “I packed a trunk—it is very small and will take little space, such that you will scarcely notice my presence.”
His bride spoke so fast; he could not get a word in edgewise.
Lance burst into laughter.
“Please, I cannot be without you.” Cara all but bounced in his embrace. “I thought I could do it, but I cannot. I promise, I shall obey your every command and will be as quiet as a mouse.”
“Snoring, aside.” He rested his forehead to hers. “Will you not be afraid?”
“What have I to fear when we are together?” She rubbed her nose to his. “I beg you, do not leave me alone.”
He pretended to give the matter due consideration. “Tell me, darling, are you familiar with Botticelli’s Birth of Venus?”
“Yes.” Confusion invested his bride’s features. “I know the painting quite well.”
“Then I should like, very much, to see your impersonation.” Lance kissed the crest of her ear and whispered, “In my bunk.”
And then he swooped, flung his lady over his shoulder, and shouted at a sailor, “You there, fetch my wife’s trunk, and be quick about it.” Amid a chorus of bawdy hoots and hollers, Lance carried Cara aboard the Demetrius.
#
Perched on the docks, Lady Alexandra Seymour waved at Lance and Cara, as they set sail with the Brethren fleet—save one. The Intrepid, Jason’s powerful vessel, had been moved to Plymouth for a final refitting, and she had overheard Admiral Douglas ordering her captain to prepare to join his crew. If she were going to catch the husband of her dreams, she would have to work fast.
To her infinite frustration, her intended showed no inclination to cooperate. Since Cara’s birthday celebration, when Alex’s part in the plot to bring Lance to the altar was revealed, Jason had not spoken to her.
Swallowing her pride, because she valued Jason more, she had apologized to her erstwhile fervent suitor, but he remained unmoved, which left her befuddled and teetering on the brink of heartbreak. She had expected him to accept her sincere expression of regret, to declare his undying devotion, and to propose.
That had not happened.
Instead, he resisted her every attempt to make amends, and how she ached for him. Casting a side-glance at her wayward captain, Alex began to rethink her strategy.
Lingering in the wake of her odd extended family, she dallied until Admiral Douglas departed and then approached her connubial conquest.
Skimming her tongue across her lips, something that never failed to catch his attention—or any man, for that matter, Alex inclined her head and smiled. “Good morning, Jason.”
He nodded once. “Lady Seymour.”
His formal address sent a chill of dread down her spine, and she flinched. When his heated gaze dropped to her mouth, her confidence soared.
“So, Captain of my heart, may I offer you a seat in my coach, as we return to London?” With victory in reach, she took a step in his direction, closing the distance between them. “There is plenty of room, as I journey, alone, and would be most grateful for your company.”
“But I am for Plymouth.” With features like granite, and his arms folded imperiously in front of him, Jason impaled her with his stare. “And you may go to the devil.”
CAPTAIN OF HER HEART
CAPTAIN OF HER HEART
PROLOGUE
The Ascendants
England
The Year of Our Lord 1314
“To Aristide and Dionysia.” Arucard and Demetrius sat in a dank tavern and toasted the latest nuptials to grace the Nautionnier Knights of the Brethren of the Coast. “May they enjoy the blessings of their union, as do Isolde and I.”
“And as I am favored with my Lily.” Demetrius winked. “Along with the little one, which grows in her belly with each new day.”
“Thou hast my sincere congratulations. And Lily is the pet name thee chose in place of Athelyna?” Arucard grinned, as he recalled the drama that preceded his brother’s ceremony. “The lady finds it amenable?”
“Indeed, she does.” Demetrius waggled his brows. “That was the best piece of advice ye ever—what in God’s bones is he doing hither?”
“Who?” Arucard peered over his shoulder and started. “Aristide?”
“Good eventide, brothers.” The bridegroom frowned and straddled the bench. “May I join ye?”
“Of course.” Demetrius scooted to the
side. “Art thou all right?”
“Wherefore dost thou ask?” Aristide propped his elbow on the table, rested his chin in his palm, and cast a mighty scowl.
“Thy forehead bleeds, as doth thy hand.” Arucard tossed him a napkin. “Hast thou had an accident?”
“Is Dionysia injured?” Demetrius inquired.
“My delicate wife is most assuredly well.” Aristide snorted. “And she is a red-haired hellion in hiding, which I would not wish on my worst enemy.”
“What happened?” Arucard fidgeted when his fellow knight swept aside his hair, revealing a nasty, oozing gash. “Didst thou not heed my guidance?”
“I most certainly did, and I blame ye for this.” Aristide flinched as he pressed the cloth to his flesh to staunch the crimson flow. “Everything progressed nicely, until I engaged her in conversation. Really, thither should be a codebook to decipher such confounding behavior.”
“What didst thou tell her?” Searching his memory, Arucard inventoried his sage advice intended to smooth the shark-infested waters known as virgin territory. “Did I not counsel thee to keep fledgling chatter elementary, before breaching her maidenhead, as it can be very traumatic?”
“For her or for me?” Aristide pounded the tabletop. “As I may never recover from this night.”
“Give us the whole of it, brother.” And then Demetrius ordered an additional tankard of ale from a passing bar wench. “Start from the beginning.”
“For what it is worth, as the damage is done.” Aristide pinned Arucard with a lethal glare. “As thou suggested, I endeavored to discern the history of my blushing bride with a few well composed queries, which I took the liberty of contriving on the eve of our union, as a prelude to the consummation of our vows.”
“How romantic thou dost make it sound, brother.” Demetrius clucked his tongue. “Did I not counsel thee that women require the stuff of poets to set the proper mood?”
“Yes, but in our brief meetings prior to the ceremony, Dionysia struck me as a woman of uncommonly good sense, so I saw no need to dress my language in perfume and flowers.” He sneered. “She prefers honesty and forthrightness, or so she claimed, and I foolishly accommodated her request.”
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