Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2

by Barbara Devlin

  “I am so sorry, brother.” Alex stepped into his embrace, and sighed. “But I made a horrible mistake, and I—”

  Flinching, she closed her eyes, scrunched her face, and gasped.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” Damian offered support. “Are you unwell? Is it the baby?”

  “Are you in pain?” Concern shot to the fore, as Jason rested a hand to the small of her back. “Are there complications?”

  “Do not touch me, sir.” She shoved him hard, and he retreated. “It is nothing.”

  “Are you certain you are all right?” he inquired.

  “Why do you ask?” she replied, with an acid tongue.

  “Because...well...you are rather rotund, even for an expectant mother.” The steely expression with which she impaled Jason bloody well scared him to death. “Of course, I could be mistaken.”

  “Not that it is any of your business, but Dr. Meade informed me at my last appointment that he detected two distinct heartbeats.” Her chin quivered, and he had a hunch that if she cried, Damian would kill Jason.

  “I do not follow.” He scratched his cheek. “Two heartbeats?”

  “The doctor deduced I carry twins, you ignorant ass.” Now she pouted. “My size is appropriate to my condition, and I will thank you not to make further comments, which I find quite inconsiderate.”

  “Twins?” The world shifted beneath his feet, and he swayed. Just as fast, Damian passed the decanter, and Jason gulped about a third of the contents, before wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. “As in more than one babe?”

  “What troubles you, Captain?” Alex asked, her query dripping sarcasm. “Wish me merry, as they concern you not, for I have no intention of standing as your blushing bride.”

  “I beg to disagree, Alex.” Jason consumed another generous swig of brandy and returned the bottle to Damian. “As those babes are mine, you belong to me. My claim is irrefutable.”

  “I rebuke your claim, on my children and I, Captain Collingwood.” It irritated him that she refused to address him informally, as if they had shared nothing more than polite conversation. “We have had no need of you these past six months, so I will not wed, and you cannot force me. There ends the matter.”

  With that, Alex turned and quit the room.

  Stung by her rejection, Jason searched for counterarguments, anything to alter her perspective—until a solid blow to the chin sent him to the floor. Rubbing his jaw, he glared at Damian. “What was that for?”

  “The honor punch.” Damian offered a hand, which Jason accepted with a prodigious dose of skepticism. “Now that we have dispensed with the noblemen’s justice, which you abided with commendable affability, we must plan your wedding.”

  “You can’t be serious.” As he dusted his coat and adjusted his cravat, Jason grimaced. “Did you not witness what I just witnessed? She refused me. You will have to hold a pistol to her back, else she will never consent.”

  “Do you or do you not wish to live to see the morn?” With indefatigable equanimity, which Jason found indefatigably exasperating, Damian drew a sheet of parchment from a drawer and snatched his pen from the inkstand. “And what my sister wishes is of no consequence, at this point.”

  “Damian, you know, very well, that I journeyed here with the expressed intent of proposing to Alex.” Resolved to correct the situation, and determined to make her his wife, Jason stretched to his full height and folded his arms. “We spoke of nothing else, during our drive.”

  “Indeed, that is the only reason you retain the ability to draw breath.” The duke sketched a missive without missing a beat. “By the by, how does tomorrow strike you, for a wedding day?”

  CAPTAIN OF HER HEART

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reclining on the chaise in her sitting room, Alex rubbed her belly and smiled. Pronounced movement, which increased with each passing day, portended rambunctious children—so like their father. That singular thought evoked images of her sea captain and awakened all the associated emotions she had tucked deep in her heart, where she was always honest with herself, the cold day in February when Dr. Handley had confirmed her pregnancy.

  Which of her friends had betrayed her confidence and apprised Jason of his impending, two-fold bundle of joy? After throwing her over in January, when she had all but begged him to marry her, the damn fool man had the audacity to believe he could make an offer that she would accept?

  “You have some nerve, Jason Collingwood.” The minute she uttered his name, she gave vent to a plaintive cry. “Oh, Jason. Why are you here? I gave myself to you, and you wanted me not. How can ever I trust you again?”

  And yet, when she closed her eyes, he magically materialized, as a captivating illusion. From his guinea-gold locks spilling wildly over his shoulders, to his polished Hessians, his attire bespoke a well-heeled English gentleman. In Damian’s study, her new nemesis had sported an ivory cravat, a navy waistcoat, and a brown coat. Fawn-colored breeches encased his muscular thighs and lean hips, which she recalled with frightening detail, given it had been six months since she had shared his bed.

  In a licentious fusillade, memories of the time she had spent in his rented cottage assailed her, as had his rejection.

  I will not marry you, Alex.

  “Blast.” The tears fell, much to her chagrin. Energetic kicks roused her from the momentary pity party, and she hugged her belly. “Sweet angels, he is not worth my devotion, but you merit mine.”

  Propped on her elbows, Alex shimmied to the edge of the chaise, in what had become an embarrassingly frequent exercise in lunacy to escape reclining positions, and stood. Resting palms to hips, she stretched her back and moaned. The bellpull seemed miles away, though it required mere steps to reach it, and she yanked with all her might to summon her meal. What troubled her was that her once graceful walk had devolved to an awkward waddle, beneath her temporary but precious cargo.

  In her bedchamber, she studied her reflection in the long mirror and practiced a carefree stroll. When her first endeavor produced something more akin to a cow with its hooves stuck in the mud, she completed three additional rotations about her quarters.

  “Sabrina is right. Pregnancy is grossly unfair, as women must suffer the morning malaise, the weight gain, the swollen feet, and the birthing process, while men get their jollies and an heir.” Studying the intricate lace situated at what had been her waistline, the thin strip of Alençon only emphasized her girth. Rotund, indeed. A knock at the door snared her attention. “Who goes there?”

  “It is Conrad, your ladyship.”

  “I am not receiving, Conrad.”

  “Yes, my lady, I am aware of that.” Then why had the butler disturbed her? “However, if I may, I beg an audience with your ladyship, as it is a matter of utmost importance, else I never would have disregarded your orders and intruded on your privacy.”

  “Is my brother with you?” Suspicion nipped at her heels, as she shuffled to the door. “I warn you, I shall brook no tricks.”

  “No, my lady.” The doorknob rattled, and she retreated a step. “But I am here on His Grace’s behalf, though he does not know it, because his behavior is cause for great concern.”

  “What is wrong with Damian?” She hugged the oak panel and bit her lip. “Is he ill?”

  “Please, my lady.” Palpable anxiety invested Conrad’s tone, and Alex fretted for Damian. Had her ruin pushed him beyond the brink of despair? Had he taken desperate action and harmed himself? “Grant me an interview.”

  Despite her reservations, Alex unlocked the door. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, my lady.” The silver-haired butler nodded.

  As a peculiar defensive tactic, she surveyed the hall, and then she retreated to permit him entry. “Hurry.”

  “I am reluctant to disturb you, my lady.” The stodgy manservant stood at attention. “But I do so under the gravest of circumstances.”

  After securing the bolt, she exhaled in relief. “What is this about Damian?”

&nbs
p; “His Grace is distraught, my lady.” With a pained expression, Conrad gazed at the floor. “The staff have tried everything to reach him, with no success.”

  “I do not understand.” The weight of the world settled on her shoulders, as never had she intended Damian to suffer her shame. “What has my brother done to warrant your interest or consternation?”

  “His Grace has barricaded himself in the drawing room, and he refuses to take sustenance. As far as I know, His Grace has had no sleep, since his arrival.” And then Conrad leaned close, cupped his hand to his mouth, and whispered, “I believe His Grace has overindulged in spirits, your ladyship.”

  “Damian—foxed?” Alex gasped in horror, as never, to her knowledge, had he drank to excess, because he refused to cede control to that extent. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Would that I were, your ladyship.” A tic above Conrad’s right eye underscored his discomfit and heightened the tension investing her frame.

  “Oh, dear. I must go to Damian, now.” Alex tottered to the door and twisted the key. “Where is Captain Collingwood?”

  “Captain Collingwood departed an hour ago, to fetch Mr. Catchpole, at my request.” Conrad followed her into the hall.

  “Do you think it necessary to summon the vicar?” She swallowed hard, as never could she live with herself had Damian taken drastic measures to cope with her shame.

  “Unfortunately, I think it imperative, your ladyship.”

  In the gallery, Alex glanced at her sire’s portrait and dipped her chin in blithe salute. At the landing, she veered right and descended the grand staircase. In the foyer, she turned left and halted before the double doors that led to the drawing room. With her hand on the knob, she pressed her ear to the oak panel and prayed for the slightest signal that Damian remained hale and whole, and Conrad had worried for naught.

  “His Grace has locked the door, my lady.” The butler frowned.

  “Damian will never refuse to receive me.” In that instant, she rapped her knuckles to the wood.

  “Who goes there?” At Damian’s terse reply, she jumped.

  “I do not know, your ladyship.” Conrad compressed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back. “His Grace does not sound too welcoming.”

  “It is Alex, my dear brother.” She tried the knob, but it yielded not. “Open the door, Damian, as I must speak with you.”

  Silence spoke volumes.

  “My lady, if I may.” Conrad produced a key from his coat pocket. “I thought it best to wait for your intervention before revealing our advantage.”

  “Marvelous.” Her heart pounded a rapid salvo in her chest, and she prepared to confront the single most reliable source of support and comfort during her formative years. Now, it was her turn to comfort Damian, and she resolved to succeed. “I want you to unlock the door. When I step inside, secure the bolt behind me.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” Conrad furrowed his brow.

  A soft click pierced the solemnity, and she sidled into the drawing room. She turned and winked at the butler. “Wish me luck.”

  “My lady.” Conrad drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and patted his temples. “I hope that, some day, you might forgive me.”

  And then he slammed shut the door and reset the bolt.

  Confused by Conrad’s curious statement, Alex peered into the darkness. Well-appointed, the drawing room at Penhurst Castle boasted a massive stone fireplace, emerald velvet draperies, and Italian embroideries. Of all the chambers in the imposing seat of the Weston dukedom, the drawing room was her favorite.

  “Damian, are you there?” She took two tentative steps.

  “Aye.” The morose timbre tugged at her heartstrings. “Come in, my dear.”

  “Will you pull the drapes, brother?” Although she could navigate her home with her eyes blindfolded, she would not risk injuring her babes in an unexpected tumble. “I can have Cook prepare your favorite breakfast, and we can enjoy our morning meal, together. Will that not be lovely?”

  All of a sudden, the drapes parted, and shimmering light flooded the room. With a hand, she shielded her gaze from the glare, until her sight adjusted, and then she spied three silhouettes.

  Gooseflesh covered her arms, a wicked shiver traipsed her spine, and overpowering dread licked at her nerves. Alex struggled to catch her breath, but terror clawed at her throat, and a vicious cramp ravaged her gut.

  The trio of men gathered before the mullioned windows made no attempt to disguise the fact that they waited for her. At left, Damian loomed as the specter of doom. At right, her downfall, Jason boasted the meticulous coat of gray Bath superfine she had gifted him for Christmas. But it was the imposing figure at center, Mr. Catchpole—the vicar—who captured her attention to the detriment of all else.

  “No.” Quick as a flash, Alex rotated and scurried for the exit. The cool metal knob chilled her fevered palm, as she searched for the key, which should have rested in the lock. Then the meaning of the butler’s parting remark dawned, and she resorted to pounding the oak panel. “Conrad, let me out!”

  “Stop your nonsense, Alex.” Damian caught her by the waist and steered her toward her fate. “Do not make this difficult.”

  “Brother, no.” She dug her heels into the thick Aubusson carpet, to no avail. Regardless of her protests, he ushered her to the makeshift altar. “Please, do not do this to me. Our parents will roll over in their graves, if you force me to wed.”

  “You have left me no choice.” He shoved her forward.

  Jason fast approached, and she had to act, so she cast the only lifeline that remained at her disposal. “If you do this, I will never speak to you again.”

  Damian halted.

  Alex sighed in relief.

  “Do you mean that?” He toyed with a thick lock of her hair and grimaced. “You would punish me for doing my duty by you?”

  “Damian, I have no quarrel with you, and I would rather die than hurt you, but I am no disinterested spectator here.” She clutched his hand and squeezed his fingers, as she had to make him understand her position. “This scene has a predictable ending, so I must object.”

  “Am I to suffer your transgressions gladly?” How she ached for her brother, as he bore the stress of her mistakes as a morbid mask. “You would ask me to ignore the repercussions of your decision? And what of your babes? Would you make them bastards, for society to ridicule and scorn?”

  “I have thought of that, and it matters not, as I shall protect them.” In truth, her dreams for her children’s future involved fanciful birthday celebrations, play dates with the next Brethren generation, and joyous holidays. “But I would have you do nothing, as Jason does not want me.”

  “What he wants is irrelevant, and I have done nothing, as I merely hold you to the bargain you made with Collingwood, when you went to his bed.” Damian tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. “For good or ill, you made your choice, which I am compelled to honor. Were it possible, were there some measure of recompense or legal remedy, know that I would employ it, but you have left me no quarter. He is your only option, Alex. Given the babes you carry are his, Collingwood maintains all rights. You belong to him, now.”

  “So I am to be forced?” Grasping at the scarcest scrap of hope, she played her last card. “I am to be shackled in the drawing room with you and the vicar as witnesses, with no family, friends, well-wishers, or church? Is this the wedding you want for me?”

  “No. The ceremony I had envisioned for you was the stuff of fairy tales, the realm of make-believe. I pictured you gowned as befits a queen, with a tiara of diamonds crowning your head, and ensconced in our town carriage, pulled by my best team.” It was then she spied tears in her brother’s eyes. “I dreamed of the day I would escort you down the aisle at St. George’s and stand with pride as you spoke your vows. At your wedding breakfast, I would have toasted to your eternal happiness and prosperity. To know that will never happen, I am more sorry than I can say.”

  “But it does not
have to be this way.” Alex glanced at Jason and rued the moment they had met. “Damian, I need never return to London. I can remain here, for the rest of my life.”

  “That is not possible, sister.” Damian shook his head.

  “Why not?” Control of her destiny stretched beyond her grasp, and she sobbed without restraint. “Please, I can serve as chatelaine, as I have acted as such for years. Why should that change?”

  “Because you were not meant to live alone.” Damian produced a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dried her cheeks. “That is a fate worse than death, and I will not allow it.”

  “But I will never be alone, as I have you and my babes,” she replied, with a whisper of optimism.

  “My darling girl, I will take a wife, when I find a suitable candidate, given I have long desired a family.” Once again, he nudged her into the breach. “My future duchess will serve as chatelaine for my properties, thus relegating you to the shadows.”

  “Perhaps you could secure a cottage.” If Alex had squandered her brother’s support, then she was truly lost. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty, she clung to the last vestiges of hope. “I would be happy—”

  “You have made your decision.” Damian paused and cupped her cheek. “Now you will uphold it.”

  “But Captain Collingwood and I have no understanding.” She covered his hand with her own. “I have given him nothing.”

  “You gave him your body.” With a countenance of unutterable gloom, he compressed his lips. “Now you will give him your oath.”

  “This is a travesty.” As Damian positioned her beside Jason, Alex folded her arms. “I am dead to you, brother.”

  “As you wish.” At his terse reply, she almost swooned.

  “Lady Alexandra, it is a pleasure to see you again.” Mr. Catchpole offered a somewhat unsteady smile. “Despite the inauspicious occasion.”

  “Good day, Mr. Catchpole.” She dipped her chin. “I have no wish to wed, as there is no cause.”