My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  She pulled open her door and on silent feet, moved down the hall to the room that Polly had told her was Captain Lord’s own.

  She had only hours to stop this.

  And she would.

  * * *

  Del did not share Grace’s worry.

  At the same moment that she hovered outside his door, lower lip sucked between her teeth and her skin prickling with anxiety as she gathered the courage to gently knock, to enter if need be, and put a stop to what she saw as madness, he lay sound asleep in his bed.

  He slept the rest of a man who had no cares, but in the dark nothingness of his slumber he sighed, turned over, pushed the sheet off his shoulder and began to dream.

  It had been decades since Gráinne had visited him, and in those years he had quite forgotten that she had ever even come to him through the door of his sleeping mind. His adult self would discount that long ago visit as a childhood fantasy, of nonsense born of too many stories and a little boy’s overactive imagination.

  But the fierce, dark-haired woman who visited him tonight was no product of a childhood fantasy or a little boy’s overactive imagination, for that little boy was no longer a child.

  “Hello, Captain,” she said fondly, her voice rough, husky and strong. All those years ago, she had stood on the deck of a primitive ship, the wind in her hair, the salt spray on her cheeks. Tonight, she sat on the far end of his bed, her legs off to the side. There was nothing diminutive about her. Nothing feminine in the traditional sense, for while she wore some sort of woolen gown that laced across the bodice, a wide leather sword-belt hung from her waist and her fingertips were stained with gunpowder. She might be sitting on the edge of his bed instead of commanding a galley but she was still vibrant, wild and alive, and around her neck was the ancient cross that had so enchanted them all as children.

  “Hello... Grandmother,” he said, greeting her in Irish.

  She laughed. “All these years in the Royal Navy and you still run true to your blood.”

  “My blood is as much English as it is Irish,” he said, this time in English.

  She made a dismissive motion with her hand and leaned toward him. “Bah! I don’t recognize that part and neither should you, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?

  “”Don’t you know?”

  “All I know is that this is an odd dream for me to be having on the eve of a duel that might end in my death.”

  She laughed again. “That worries me as much as it worries you, that is, not at all. And you don’t think I’m just a dream, do you?”

  “You have to be. Our branch of the family didn’t inherit the Sight, like my cousin Maeve’s did.”

  “They have the Sight. You, dear son, have me. And I’m tired of seeing you suffer the pain of a broken heart while those around you find love. Enough of that! You’ll hear a knocking at your door soon, and you’re to answer it.”

  “A knocking on my door?”

  She got up. “That’s what I said.”

  Her image was fading into the sound of wind and waves, of crashing surf, and Del sat up in bed, looking toward the open window for a sea that was not there. But he did hear a faint knocking.

  I’m losing my mind.

  It’s just a dream, brought on by concern about tomorrow.

  But he wasn’t concerned about tomorrow. Indignant about the way Lady Grace had been treated, but not concerned. Angry that a good night’s sleep was being interrupted by this nonsense, but not concerned. Impatient to get the matter over with— but not concerned.

  At all.

  The faint knocking was surely part of the dream as well. Ignoring it, Del pulled the light blanket back up over his shoulder, nestled down into the pillow, sighed and tried to go back to sleep.

  Couldn’t.

  Because the knocking wasn’t stopping. It was getting louder.

  “Captain Lord?”

  He cracked open an eye and stared into the darkness, tensing, every sense on sudden alert. This voice was not his ancestor. Oh, no.

  “Captain Lord!”

  He bolted upright in bed, alarmed, for if she were seen out there and word got back to his brother and his sister-in-law, surely they’d think ill of her. He didn’t want anyone thinking ill of her. No one. He’d been lucky he’d managed to get her safely from the barn back to the house via Jimmy Thorne and Polly after that... that exchange, with no one the wiser. An exchange that should never have occurred.

  What had he been thinking?

  “Captain Lord?”

  What the blue devil was she doing out there?

  He lunged from the bed. On bare feet, he grabbed his trousers, stepped into them as he padded across the room, stuffed his shirt into the waistband and yanked open the door.

  And let out an expletive as a body fell into his room.

  “Oh!”

  “Lady Grace!”

  She got to her feet. “Captain Lord, I must speak with you—”

  He shot a glance down the hall, grabbed her wrist and instinctively yanked her inside, kicking the door shut behind her. Her face was a pale moon just inches from his, her head pressed against the wall, her dark hair flowing over white shoulders and her eyes huge in the heavy gloom. He loomed over her, furious.

  “What are you doing here? Are you mad?”

  “I came here to stop you from fighting that duel!” She drew herself up, bravely tilting her head back so she could meet his gaze. “And yes, every person in this house is aware of it, so don’t look surprised that I know what you’re intending to do. I’ve never had anyone fight a duel over me and I’m not going to allow you to be the first, especially over something so stupid.”

  “You regard the defense of your honor as stupid?”

  “I regard your life far more than I do my honor!”

  “If anyone finds you here—”

  “Nobody’s going to find me here, and stop acting so, so priggish—”

  “For God’s sake, lower your voice!”

  “I won’t let you fight a duel over me, Captain Lord, I just w—”

  His mouth silenced her and it happened, just like that. Just like it had been intended to happen since Del had first set eyes on his admiral’s niece and it happened without thought, without intent, without planning and totally without remorse. He kissed her. His lips came down hard against hers and every bit of restraint he owned went out the window with the warm air that still lingered from the day, and her arms came up to wind around his neck, her body pressing itself to his with reckless abandon, and he was lost. Utterly lost. He slid a hand behind her head and drew her closer, deepening the kiss. He felt her hair tumbling over his knuckles. The shy touch of her tongue, the sweet taste of her lips invading his senses. She made a little noise of assent, and everything from his waist down caught fire as though someone had thrown a bomb into the powder keg that was his loins.

  Damn.

  Damn!

  What on earth was he thinking?

  He drew back, utterly shocked at his loss of restraint, his heart hammering in his ears.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  She looked up at him, speechless and blinking. She looked stunned. Confused. He took a step backward, away from her, before he could lose control of himself and kiss her again.

  Still, she said nothing. Her fingers came up to touch her mouth. She slowly let her hand drop. Passed her tongue over her lips and took a deep and steadying breath before looking up at him.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

  “You were saving that for Ponsonby,” he said rather more harshly than he intended.

  “I... I don’t know as if I were.”

  He swallowed hard. “You need to leave. Now.”

  She remained where she was for a long moment.

  “Now.”

  She nodded. Her eyes were huge in her pale face. Her hand went to the door. He could see it shaking. She looked dazed, as if someone had struck her a mortal bl
ow, and then she pushed it open, turned to look back at him for a long moment, and slipped out into the darkness.

  * * *

  Clutching her robe to herself, Grace let the door shut behind her and stood there in the darkness, her heart pounding. She could barely breathe. Her blood was humming through her veins. Her lips were on fire, the back of her head still ached for the cradle of his palm, and parts of herself that weren’t mentionable in polite company were letting her know, very loudly, that they existed.

  She leaned back against his door and stared into the gloom.

  What had happened back there?

  What, she thought, putting two fingers to her heart as though she could plumb its depths, was happening in here?

  She remained unmoving for a long moment, shaken, not trusting her feet to carry her back to her own bed. The empty hallway stretched out in the darkness. Her aunt and uncle were somewhere nearby and if Aunt Maeve happened to be up feeding the baby, she might have heard their low voices and be on her way to investigate. Grace had caused enough scenes in the past few days. She would not add another disgrace to her growing list of embarrassments, or get Captain Lord into more trouble for having to defend her from something else.

  Oh, what is happening to me?

  It’s Sheldon Ponsonby I love!

  But Captain Lord had just kissed her. He had kissed her with the passion of a strong and virile man. He had kissed her until her head swam and her body went up in flames and her very toes had tingled. That had been no sweet kiss between two mere friends. It had been no shy exploration, no hesitant coming-together, but a kiss that had meant business.

  And Grace wasn’t quite sure what she felt about it.

  What she even ought to feel about it.

  Go to bed, her mind told her. There’s plenty of time to think about this in the morning. It was probably just a one-off, an accident, the result of a long and exhaustive day where both of you forgot yourselves. Captain Lord was caught in the moment and so were you. Go to bed. Get some sleep. Because if you intend to do anything about this duel, you’ll need to be awake in time to stop it.

  Yes. Good idea, all of it.

  She opened her door, slipped inside, and crept back to her bed.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked away the hours `til dawn. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and lay staring up into the darkness.

  But sleep, after what had just occurred on the other side of the hall, was out of the question.

  28

  She was not insomnia’s only victim.

  On the other side of the door, Del had stalked back to bed, slid beneath the sheets, and also lay awake. He cursed himself for his boorish behavior. For losing control of himself.

  If she hated him, he would not blame her.

  I should not have kissed her. I should not have claimed what’s not mine, should not have behaved like an unbridled stallion, but damn it, I’m glad that I did because that’s probably the one and only time I’ll ever get to claim such a prize.

  A kiss. No damned crime.

  There was only so much a man could take.

  He turned over and stared at the wall. At the darkened window, open to the night outside. He tossed. He turned. He sighed and punched the pillow and flung himself back on his opposite side. Eventually his eyes drifted shut and his torments ceased. He slept. His Irish ancestress did not return to trouble him. His brain, exhausted by constant thinking of, and exposure to a woman he could not have, fell quiet. He did not dream, did not stir, and awoke an hour before dawn.

  He lay there in the heavy gloom, his eyeballs aching with fatigue. There was no need to reach for his pocket watch to confirm the time. He did not have the Sight, but he did have an uncanny ability to sense the hour, even down to the minute give or take ten of them, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes and feeling heavy and dull and unrested.

  Grace O’Malley.

  Had he dreamed the whole damned thing? His formidable ancestress? The knocking on the door? The events that had followed?

  Lady Grace Fairchild.

  No. He hadn’t dreamt it. He hadn’t dreamt any of it.

  His window was open to the night. A light rain was falling, and even the birds had not yet begun to chirp. Del lit a candle from the tinderbox, set it down near the washstand, and by the faint flicker of light, scrubbed the sand from his tired eyes and the skin from his face in an attempt to wake up. Aboard ship, Jimmy Thorne would be coming in to shave him. His coxswain was likely still asleep somewhere and no doubt dreaming of Polly, and Del was not of a mind to lament his absence. He could shave his own damned jaw.

  He found the razor, lathered, and with bleary eyes, proceeded to neaten himself up for the coming contest of honor. The razor scraped over the night’s bristle. He rhythmically wiped the blade with a towel, scraped some more. It was hard to see in the dim light, and passing his fingers over his jaw, he was finally satisfied that he’d done a passable job under the circumstances. He toweled his face and ran a comb through his hair. It caught on a thick spiral curl, which snarled and refused to budge. Cursing his hair — as he did every morning — Del put the comb down and used his fingers to tease out the tangle. One spiraling kink stood all but straight up from his head. He tried to smooth it down. It resisted and sprang up yet again. Sighing, he picked up his hat and slammed it down on the unruly lock, ending the battle.

  His stomach growled.

  I kissed her. I can’t believe I did that.

  He began to gather up his clothes.

  I bloody kissed her.

  He dressed quickly and in silence. It would be pistols, and he chose a black silk shirt so as to lessen his profile... and to hide any blood he might be unlucky enough to shed. His fingers did not shake as he did up the buttons of his waistcoat, nor should they — he was an admiral’s flag captain, for heaven’s sake. He had faced worse than the likely poor aim and trembling hand of a nervous lieutenant who was probably even now emptying his runny bowels into a chamber pot.

  On the eastern horizon, pale gray light began to glow atop the pastures. Outside, a blackbird began to call.

  I kissed her.

  Del buckled on his sword belt, blew out the candle and stalked to the door.

  And so he had. He might die today, so he might as well stop regretting it.

  * * *

  Across the hall, Grace was also up.

  She had not slept well. Perhaps, she mused, she might not have even slept at all. In the growing light of day, the kiss she’d shared with Captain Lord seemed distant. Unreal. As though it hadn’t actually even happened. And yet the scent of his cologne still lingered in her nostrils. The feel of his mouth was branded against her own. She recounted the way her nipples had ached and her private places had warmed and how she’d felt so very small against his powerful body as she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him and knew, with a mixture of delight and confusion, excitement and despair, that she hadn’t dreamed any of it.

  He kissed me!

  She got up and pulled the blanket from her bed. Clutching it around her shoulders, she curled up on the damask-covered chair near the window and tried to think.

  It was still dark beyond the thick glass pane, but she could see details emerging ever so faintly outside... the long, broad Norfolk pastures, all but indistinguishable against the sky. Horse fencing just becoming visible. Another degree of light... trees beginning to take shape.

  Was today the day that a man would lose his life because of her?

  A gallant, upstanding man who had noticed her, who cared about her, who zealously guarded her dignity and her life when the man she wanted— or thought she wanted— was nowhere to be found?

  There was a slight knock on her door, and Grace jumped.

  It opened and there was Polly, holding a candle. It glowed softly against her young face.

  “Good morning, milady,” she said. “I thought you’d be up.”

  “I can’t sleep knowing what’s about to happen
.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Men duel all the time, they do.”

  “Men die in duels all the time, too.”

  “Best not to think that way, milady. Thinking it might make it happen.”

  “I have to stop this.”

  The maid set the candlestick down and went to the wardrobe. “There’s nothing you can do about it. ’Tis unwise to interfere in the business of men. Let them go fire a shot or two each, satisfy their honor, and Captain Lord’ll be home for breakfast.”

  “Is that what Mr. Thorne thinks?”

  Polly had the good grace to blush.

  Grace pulled off the blanket and got to her feet. She began to pace. “I could go to the duel and pretend to swoon. If Captain Lord cares about me, he’ll be more attentive to my supposed plight than he would be to the duel itself and that would stop it.”

  “Might also get him killed, distracting him so.”

  “Then I’m going to my Aunt Maeve. She can get my uncle to stop it.”

  “They’re gentlemen. They can’t stop it. Not once a man’s honor’s been challenged.”

  “I don’t understand men!”

  “Well, they don’t understand us either, and as long as the good Lord has a few mysteries left in the world for humans to solve, I figure that can’t be all bad.” She opened the wardrobe and turning, held up a pretty cream gown with little cap sleeves tied with blue ribbons.

  “Not that, Polly. My riding habit, I think. I need something more... more functional.”

  “This one?”

  Somewhere out in the corridor, a door opened and thumped shut. Another. Masculine voices in low conversation as someone moved past their door, another door opening and closing.

  The voices were receding.

  Dear God. It was happening.

  Now.

  Panicking, Grace burst into action and grabbed the habit from her maid.

  “Lady Grace?”

  “Oh, do help me, Polly! There’s no time to lose, they’re already on their way! She glanced with mounting despair out the window, where morning’s gray light was bringing definition to the world outside, and all but plunged herself into her clothes before seizing the maid’s arm and racing with her toward the door. “Come, hurry! Captain Lord’s life may well depend upon it!”