Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast)

by Devlin, Barbara

“Bloody hell.” A chorus of snorts and snickers pricked his pride, and Trevor set down his charts. “You will watch over her while I am gone?”

  “As promised.” The estimable duke leaned on the railing and folded his arms. “I have already invited her to the theatre, and Weston will accompany her to a musicale.”

  “Weston? A musicale?” Whistling in monotone, Dirk slapped a thigh. “How much did that set you back?”

  “A case of my finest brandy.” Blake gazed at the sky and shook his head. “And the widow Tremaine.”

  “You have been chasing her skirts for a month.” Dirk wrinkled his nose. “That had to hurt.”

  “But Caroline is none the wiser?” Trevor inquired as he stared at the lady in question. Upon arrival in London, he had gathered the Brethren and relayed the full details--and his suspicions--of the incident involving the fallen casks. “Although Cavalier has not shown his face, I do not believe we can be too careful.”

  “I concur.” His brow furrowed, Blake sighed. “And I agree that we should not inform my sister of your concerns. Such revelations would, no doubt, incite brazen defiance of our safeguards.”

  “No doubt.” Trevor rolled his eyes and walked toward the companion ladder. “Gentlemen, on that note, I shall make my farewells.”

  Men scurried about as he crossed the main deck. “Check the foremost ropes,” Trevor said to the boatswain, who barked new orders to the crew. At the bottom of the gangplank, his wife stood. As he approached, she curtseyed.

  “My lord, the weather is fair. Surely that bodes well for your mission?”

  “It should.” He resisted the urge to toss Caroline over his shoulder and convey her to his cabin. “But the tide awaits no man, and I must cast off.” Expecting a river of tears, Trevor steeled himself for the deluge, but her expression bore no hint of distress.

  “Then I wish you safe journey.” She extended a gloved hand.

  Like an idiot, he accepted her gesture, as would a proper gentleman. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  He stared at her.

  She stared at him.

  “I have something--”

  “I wanted to give you--”

  Blast his clumsy hide, it was as though Trevor had returned to courtship hell. “Ladies first.”

  Caroline bit her lip. “After you, I insist.”

  “All right.” He retrieved a small parcel from his pocket. “This is not much, just a token of my esteem.”

  “Oh?” She took the gift and unfolded the brown paper. “Why, it is lovely.”

  And then his wife burst into laughter.

  “Would you care to tell me what about my painted image is cause for convulsive hilarity?”

  “My lord, you misunderstand my reaction to your surprise,” she said through a few lingering giggles. “You see, it appears we are on the same page.”

  He arched a brow. “I do not follow.”

  “Perhaps this will make things clearer.” Caroline produced a similar-sized package.

  When he unwrapped the framed miniature of his bride, Trevor chuckled. “Which artist did you use?”

  “Mr. Bainbridge.” With his portrait clutched to her bosom, she sidled near. “And yours?”

  “The same.” Tension eased from his shoulders, and he met her inquisitive stare. “But even a master could not do justice to the genuine article, love.”

  “Oh, Trevor.” The dam broke; Caroline trembled visibly and seemed fragile as a porcelain doll. “I miss you already.”

  And his current state mirrored her sentiment. Despite the inclination to hold her in his arms and offer a modicum of comfort, he did not move. Clinging to the reins of self-restraint, he turned toward the ship. “I shall see you soon, dearest.”

  “Wait.” She caught his wrist. “You will be careful? You will come back to me?”

  Sunlight flickered on the water, and he gave his attention to the silvery shimmer. He had made many journeys, why should this one be any different? “Depend upon it.”

  “Know that you carry my heart with you,” she said in a shaky voice.

  And he looked her straight in the eyes.

  With admirable strength, his wife lifted her chin. “I love you.”

  Hers was the sweetest confession he had ever heard.

  Although Caroline had uttered the words on their wedding night, never had she declared herself to his face before God and everyone present. The combination of her charming expression and statement embodied the solution to his quandary. This departure was unique because, prior to this day, no one had ever bothered to care whether or not he returned. The implications were overpowering.

  Bereft of speech, and his pulse racing, Trevor struggled to breathe. Operating on instinct, he enveloped Caroline; as would a drowning man grasp a lifeline. And just as fast, he set her at arm’s length. Not until he gained the quarterdeck did he chance a glance at his bride. The emotions ravaging his senses would not abate, and he waged war against himself. Trevor could not be more adrift were he in the middle of the open ocean without a ship.

  Caroline truly loved him.

  “She does not look happy,” Dirk whispered as the first mate bellowed the order to make sail. “You should have provided some reassurance.”

  “I am not a man of maudlin romanticism.” On the dock, she blew him a kiss, and he waved. “I would rather be keel-hauled.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  #

  The drawing room at Marlborough House was warm and inviting, and ladies filed in after a lavish six-course meal. Caroline pressed her palm to her very full belly and peered at her brother, who was whispering in a young conquest’s ear. No doubt the blushing woman was the current prize in his passionate pursuits and the reason he kept stealing Caroline’s opera glasses during their earlier outing.

  To his credit, Blake called on her every morning, making breakfast at Elliott House a regular walk down memory lane. Together, along with Damian, and sometimes Lance and Dalton, they rode through Hyde Park and raced along Rotten Row. True to his word, her elder sibling escorted her to the Adelphi on Drury Lane on Wednesday. And tonight, he had obtained a box for the production of Don Giovanni. But despite the companionship from her friends and family, she was lonely. And worse, a mere sennight had passed since Trevor sailed.

  Due to the end of the Season, most of fashionable society, including her mother, resided in the country. So when the invitation to the Marlborough’s dinner party arrived, she posted her acceptance in a flurry of anticipation and excitement. Had she known the Viscount and Viscountess Darwith were also on the list of attendees, she might have reconsidered.

  At that moment, the butler rolled in the tea trolley, and Lady Marlborough neared with Caroline’s sworn enemy in tow. “Lady Lockwood, I believe you are acquainted with Lady Darwith?”

  With a smile, Caroline lifted her chin and waited.

  Slowly, very slowly, her nemesis curtseyed. “Countess.”

  A surge of triumph roared through her veins, newfound confidence strengthened every muscle, and Caroline wanted to shout for joy. How satisfying it was to be recognized as the hag’s noble better. Averting her stare, she said, “But of course. Lady Darwith and I are old friends.”

  “Excellent.” The hostess poured two cups of tea. “Then I shall leave you to enjoy your refreshments and conversation.”

  “So unfortunate that Lord Lockwood could not join us.” The serpent slithered close. “What did you say has kept him from our gathering?”

  Sensing an attack, Caroline raised her defenses but held her ground. “I did not say, but if you must know, he is at sea.”

  “Really? So soon after your wedding?” With a smug expression, the shrew compressed her lips. “One might assume marriage does not agree with his lordship.”

  “Such is the price for the wife of a sea captain.” The witch may have thought herself the victor, but Caroline had yet to fire her guns. Taking careful aim, she let fly her answering salvo. “Oh, I fo
rgot. You did not wed such a man, so you would not understand.”

  “Well.” Eyes as wide as the saucer in her hand, the termagant retreated two steps. “I beg your pardon, Lady Lockwood.”

  “No pardon necessary, Lady Darwith.” The sweet taste of success danced on her tongue, and Caroline moved in for the kill. “You are dismissed.”

  As the de-fanged and defeated she-wolf stormed toward the sofa, a group of women engaged in gossip nearby exchanged what appeared to be looks of approval and dipped their chins in unison. And across the room, Blake raised his glass and winked.

  Indeed, love was an invincible shield.

  Yes, Caroline considered Trevor the source of her mettle and vigor. Even now, from far away in some unknown location, his presence reached out and warmed her heart, touched her soul. An unfailing support, an invisible fortification protected her from every conceivable danger. Should fear beckon, a single glance at his miniature could banish the chill of trepidation. And although her husband had yet to voice his declaration, something on which she refused to dwell, she had not lost faith. Hope burned bright as the sun in the match and the man.

  On the thought, Caroline mingled among the guests.

  “Countess.” After executing a stiff curtsey, Lady Trowbridge backed Caroline into a corner. “What is this nonsense I hear? Your husband has gone to sea?”

  “He has.” She nodded once. “But it was a business matter of much importance.”

  “Humph.” The old widow adjusted the fuchsia turban on her head. “There is nothing so important as providing an heir to the earldom.”

  Embarrassment burned in her cheeks, and Caroline cleared her throat. “You have my solemn vow that I shall endeavor to address the deficiency upon his lordship’s return.”

  “See that you do.” Lady Trowbridge peered at the empty cup in her hands and frowned. “I need more tea. If you will excuse me, Lady Lockwood.”

  “Of course.” As the quirky character headed in the direction of the trolley, Caroline laughed and started toward the windows.

  And walked straight into Lord Darwith.

  Blue eyes, with a few more wrinkles at the corners but no less animated, twinkled. With guinea-gold hair and austere, deadly handsome features, her onetime love had changed little since their ill-fated courtship. But now, a man with chestnut locks kissed with more shades of brown than she ever knew existed stirred her blood. And she preferred green eyes that shimmered like precious emeralds.

  “Good heavens.” Somehow, she managed not to spill her tea. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  “But it is I who am to blame.” Clutching her forearms, her former suitor kept them from falling to the carpeted floor. “A thousand pardons, Lady Lockwood.”

  “The fault is entirely mine.” She noticed her brother, a stern look on his face, approaching and waved him off. “I did not watch where I was going.”

  “My lady, you are too kind.” After righting his coat, Lord Darwith bowed with an elegant flair she remembered well. “Countess, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Lord Darwith.” The nervousness that marked their previous encounters remained curiously absent, and Caroline gave vent to a sigh of relief. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

  “Indeed, I am. And allow me to belatedly congratulate you on your wedding.” Her gloved hand in his grasp, he brought her fingers to his lips, then met her gaze. “Lord Lockwood is a fortunate man.”

  The once notorious rake could still melt butter with his stare, and she clucked her tongue. “I hope he shares your view.”

  “No doubt he does.” Although Lord Darwith smiled, a hint of sadness seeped through his suave facade. “The duchess, she is in good health?”

  “Yes, my mother is quite well, thank you.” No bitterness, no hurt feelings loomed as a black cloud over her heart. “And your family?”

  “The same, thank you.” Lord Darwith shifted his weight, tugged on his coat sleeves, pulled a kerchief from his pocket, and wiped his brow. Suddenly, the calm confidence dissipated, and his demeanor changed. “Lady Lockwood--Caroline, if I may be so bold. Please accept a long overdue apology in regard to our failed courtship. Were I half a man, I should have offered some expression of regret months ago.”

  He could have knocked her over with a feather.

  On occasions too numerous to count, Caroline had dreamed of this moment. In her fantasies, she acted aloof, even cut Lord Darwith in full view of the ton. Glorious vindication and smug satisfaction would at last be hers.

  Instead, she felt only sympathy.

  Because she had married Trevor, and basked in the glow of true love every day of her life, she could summon nothing beyond pity for the melancholy viscount. At the very least, he had earned everlasting mercy for willingly shackling himself to the cold-hearted wretch he called wife.

  The irons of the past loosened, and her heart broke free of the pain, humiliation, and distrust. Gone was the bone-gnawing sorrow and self-disgust. In its place remained blissful relief and a spirit of forgiveness unlike any she had known since childhood.

  And in that second, Caroline realized she had never loved this man. “My lord, an apology is not necessary. What happened between us has been forgotten.”

  “Dearest lady.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The ignorance of my youth blinded me to the qualities most important in a mate.”

  “You must not say such things.” She checked to make sure no one near could hear their discussion. “And I am a happily wedded woman.”

  “Have no fear on my account.” The charismatic viscount snared a brandy from a passing maid. “I should sooner sever my right arm than hurt you again.”

  “My, but you sound gloomy.” Caroline grinned, which he returned, measure for measure. “Let us leave behind such depressing matters. Tell me what you have been doing with yourself.”

  “Well, I have just procured a rare Egyptian artifact,” he stated with boyish enthusiasm. “It is from the eighteenth dynasty.”

  “Really?” A marvelous idea occurred to her. “You are still collecting?”

  “Indubitably.” He quirked a corner of his mouth. “Hunting antiquities is my sole passion in life.”

  “Lord Darwith.” Bubbling with excitement, Caroline could barely contain herself. “I wonder if you might help me with a personal enterprise?”

  “Countess, I am your servant to command.”

  “Excellent, but you must promise to keep our secret from my husband.”

  #

  The bunk pitched, Trevor rolled to one side and came awake. When a flash of light spilled through the stern windows, he tossed his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood. An ominous rumble shattered the quiet of his cabin, and the ship heeled hard a starboard. He ended up back in bed.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Using his hands, feeling his way inch by inch, Trevor located his breeches, boots, and shirt. In a strange waltz across the boards, he stumbled in the direction of his locker and pulled on his wool coat and oilskin raingear. The Hera bucked, and he lunged for the door.

  “Christ Jesus!”

  Metal was cold to his palm as he twisted the knob, held tight to the frame, and sidled into the hall.

  In similar fashion, hugging the wall, Dirk exited his quarters. “I would say we have encountered a nasty storm.”

  “What was your first clue?” Trevor asked as they crawled on deck.

  Chaos blew a violent welcome of wind and rain, and the men of the middle watch struggled to secure a sail. Through the downpour, he located the boatswain clinging to the mainmast.

  “Mr. Boyle, get the crew below at once.”

  “Aye, sir. The tempest caught us off guard, and we barely managed to take in the canvas.” The old salt pointed skyward. “And I have one ensnared high in the rigging, Cap’n.”

  A wave crashed over the bow, dousing Trevor in bone chilling seawater. Bursts of lightning illuminated the hectic scene, and he spied the outline of a body dangling in the ropes. Could t
he situation get any worse?

  “Bloody everlasting hell.”

  “Make for the quarterdeck,” Dirk shouted. “I will get your man down.”

  “This is my ship and crew, you head for the helm.” Trevor grabbed a fistful of Dirk’s gear. “Steer into the wind, or we will be sleeping with sharks.”

  “Do I look like a virgin?” The viscount wrenched free. “Save your sailor, I know what to do.”

  The motion of the ocean sent Trevor flying into the shrouds. With a death grip on the ratlines, he began his ascent. Raindrops rode the mighty gale, and his face and eyes burned beneath nature’s assault. Higher and higher, he climbed as the world around him erupted in an awesome display of raw power. When he slipped, he sucked in a breath and uttered a silent prayer.

  “Caroline.”

  As soon as he said her name, Trevor questioned his sanity. Hell and the Reaper nipped at his heels, and all he could think of was his wife. The taste of her sweet tongue lingered on his lips, the velvety softness of her hair played on his fingertips, and the sumptuous warmth of her body comforted him even now.

  From somewhere deep inside him, he found the courage to climb.

  Time seemed to stand still as he navigated the ropes. At the platform where the topmast capped the lower masthead, he regrouped. With a leg tangled in the line, the crewman listed upside down in the wind.

  “Can you hear me?” Trevor caught his attention.

  “Cap’n, you should not be here,” the sailor hollered in response.

  At least the poor soul was conscious. “Have you any broken bones?”

  “No, sir. Just a rope burn.”

  Thank heaven for small favors. But the real trick would be freeing the tar without sending both of them tumbling into the sea. A possible solution dawned, and he shimmied to the topmast stay. From his precarious perch, he leaned forward, caught hold of the mariner’s coat, and pulled hard.

  The ship lurched, and Trevor lost his footing.

  With one hand, he clutched the stay. All of a sudden, the captain was in greater peril than the subordinate, who remained trapped in the rigging. Gusts of air buffeted his body, and the mast mutated into a cruel whipping post. On the howling gale, a familiar voice delivered a plea.