A Stroke of Luck

by Andrea Pickens

  His face now wore a black scowl. "One would not guess your genteel origins from your execrable manners."

  "My manners!" Zara's burble of amusement changed to a squawk of indignation. "Why, you pompous prig! You have not deigned to utter so much as a peep of thanks! Not only that, you have slept soundly through the night, snug in our only blankets, while my brothers and I have battled gale force winds and raging seas to keep this craft afloat—"

  A jarring thunk and the ominous snap of splintering wood interrupted her harangue.

  "Zara!"

  As she steadied herself against one of the stanchions, Parthenon's head appeared in the small cabin hatchway. "Water is coming up through the floorboards! Quite a lot of it."

  "Bloody Hell!" Not wasting time with further recriminations, she grabbed up a nearby bucket and tossed it at the odious gentleman. "Rouse your friend and get him to lend you a hand with the bailing."

  Stump crawled out from behind the luffing mainsail. "I'm afraid a hand is all I've got, missy."

  "We are going to need every available one," she replied grimly while eyeing the distance to shore. "Perry, belay the jib and haul in on the starboard sheet. Then go below and help your brother pack up our belongings."

  Of all the cursed luck! She wrestled with the yawing tiller, trying to steer the listing vessel on a course for the narrow spit of beach she had spied among the rocks. The unknown gentleman, whatever his true name, had turned out to be a veritable Jonah! Now they were truly in the suds, and all because of him!

  Not one to give in to despair, Zara gripped the varnished wood more tightly and raised her chin, telling herself the wetness on her lashes was salt spray rather than tears.

  Somehow she managed to navigate the treacherous crosscurrents and avoid being smashed to smithereens upon the nearby cliffs. With a grinding shudder, the keel hit bottom in shallow water and the craft lurched on its side.

  "Abandon ship!"

  After shouting the warning, Zara grabbed both her brothers and shoved them into the breaking surf. Snatching up the last bag of their meager belongings, she dove in after them. Not that it was any concern of hers, but she did note out of the corner of her eye that the two gentlemen had heeded the cry and were scrambling to safety.

  As she waded ashore, she turned for one last look at the shattered hull, praying that all her carefully laid plans were not sinking along with it.

  Chapter 2

  The smell of the wood smoke wafting over the undulating dunes had a pungent peatiness to it. Odd, but not unpleasant, thought Prestwick. And the aroma of roasting meat added a decidedly welcome spice, seeing as he had not had a morsel to eat since the previous afternoon, when his chef had served up a stew redolent with succulent oysters and cream, along with tournedos of beef and...

  Swallowing an oath, the duke gathered up another piece of driftwood. The growling of his stomach gave loud enough voice to his own foul mood. Of all the cursed luck! Things could be worse, he admitted. But not much. He and his valet might be feeding the flounder at present if not for the intervention of Fate in the form of a feisty young lady. But in some ways, he felt as if he merely jumped out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire.

  After all, here he was, stuck with a hot-tempered harridan in the middle of nowhere. No decorated Adam ceiling over his head, no cosseting servants to fix a steaming bath, no plump eiderdown quilts warming his toes, no soft linen sheets drawn up to his chin.

  No wonder he felt like swearing!

  It was all her fault. He was, as a rule, much too much of a gentleman to resort to vulgar language, yet in the past few hours he had uttered more expletives than he had in the last decade. Hell and damnation! It was telling testimony to just how badly his usual placid temperament had been stirred. Talk about waves—

  "Are you all right, sir?" Stump paused in tucking a scrap of old planking under his arm to fix his employer with a look of concern. "That lump on your skull looks right nasty. Is it bringing on a headache?"

  "An incipient headache is the least of our troubles," he snapped.

  "I know, sir. And I'm heartily sorry." The valet ducked down to reach for another piece of flotsam, but not before Prestwick saw the look of remorse etched on the other man's face. "A fine kettle of fish it has come to, when a duke has to look after his servant, rather than the other way around. I should have been discharged long ago, seeing as I ain't fit to perform the simplest duties—"

  "Do stop apologizing, Stump," he said quietly. "I will be the one to decide when I no longer have need of your services. Unless, of course, you have grown weary of playing nursemaid to a quiet, cowardly fellow like me, who finds his pleasure in music, literature and the arts, rather any more manly pursuits."

  The valet gave an aggrieved snort. "Ha! You have plenty of pluck and backbone to go along with your cultivated learning, sir, though you seek to keep it hidden under all them fancy togs."

  Prestwick's jaw tightened, but Stump chose to ignore the subtle warning and continued on.

  "I suppose it was cowardly instinct that prompted you to plunge into a raging sea to haul out a clumsy old fool."

  "No, it was pure self-interest. I told you, I enjoy my morning coffee much too much to risk the loss of its recipe."

  A grudging bark of laugh sounded, then quickly faded into a sigh. "In all seriousness sir, maybe it is time for me to step aside and let a real valet take my place. One who can tie a proper cravat and manage the buttons of a waistcoat."

  "I am not quite so helpless that I cannot dress myself." The duke paused to give a shake of his sodden boot, trying to dislodge a pebble from between his toes. "However, the idea that I have been sent off by some flaming female to forage for firewood... "The rest of his words trailed off in an inarticulate grumble.

  "An unusual young lady. Got a bit of spark to her, unlike them London lasses."

  "Spark? The chit could light up the skies over Vauxhall Gardens with her display of pyrotechnics!"

  "Nothing wrong with a little show of spirit," murmured Stump. "Rather than appear no more animated than a marble statue."

  In his present state of mind, Prestwick found the words rubbed as raw against his skin as the chip of granite. "If that thinly veiled show of sarcasm was in reference to the Marquess of Ellesmore's daughter, kindly keep such snide opinions to yourself. Lady Catherine is considered by the ton to be a paragon of perfection. Not only is she a Diamond of the First Water, but her manners are impeccable and her behavior is beyond reproach."

  "Aye, she is polished so perfectly all you can see is your own reflection. Trouble is, in having any rough edges buffed off, she's lost any bit o' real character. Might as well be carved from a block of stone."

  "Stump—"

  "Well, it's true!" exclaimed his valet. "Has the lady ever expressed an opinion of her own, or disagreed with a word you have said, or laughed as if she truly meant it?"

  "Hmmph. I should certainly hope not!" retorted Prestwick. "A well-bred female does not give rein to unbridled thoughts or serendipitous feelings. She defers to a gentleman's judgment, as is proper."

  The duke was aware that he was beginning to sound rather shrill, which only irritated him further. How dare his companion imply that the lady in question possessed the slightest flaw? The accusation, however oblique, was confoundedly unfair, and a righteous indignation ratcheted his tone up another notch.

  "Lady Ellesmore is all that is amiable and adorable. In contrast to our Admiral of the Amazons, who is a hot-tempered shrew." After a moment's pause, he frowned and added, "Not only that, there is something decidedly smoky about her. No proper young lady should be sailing about the high seas with naught but two lads for company."

  "Well, smoky or not, she certainly pulled our irons out of the fire last night. Not to speak of getting us all ashore safely."

  Unintimidated by his employer's obvious ire, Stump showed no sign of retreating as he limped over to another bit of wood that lying upon the sand. "She may have a fiery temper, bu
t she sure as blazes kept a cool head when faced with disaster. I imagine it was no easy feat maneuvering a sinking ship through those shoals. And if I am not mistaken, amid all the confusion, she has somehow managed to salvage the supplies and get breakfast cooking. So let us do our part by gathering up the last bits of this driftwood and making our way back without delay."

  "Hmmph." The duke added one more stick to his load. "Yes, I guess we had best hurry. I haven't informed her that I prefer my eggs shirred and not scrambled."

  The valet's shaggy brows lifted slightly but he refrained from comment.

  "Let us hope also she can brew a decent cup of coffee," continued Prestwick. "I don't suppose there will be Seville marmalade for my toast, but perhaps a bit of quince preserves wouldn't be too much to ask."

  "Er, sir... "

  "Ouch!" With a pained grimace, Prestwick began hopping up and down on one foot. "I've a blasted pebble in my boot!" A glance down at the offending footwear turned his expression even blacker. "Or what used to be my boot. These were a pair of Hoby's finest and look at them now!"

  "Quite ruined," agreed his valet. "Shall I help you pull them off? We could always add them to the cooking pot. Considering that they are made of the softest calfskin known to man, I'm sure they would boil up quite nicely by suppertime."

  "That is not funny, Stump," muttered the duke as he started to hobble for the nearby dunes.

  "No, sir. I was not making light of the loss of your favorite Hessians. I was just trying to point out that as we are in the middle of nowhere, it is unlikely that your breakfast will be served up with quite the same amenities as it would be in Grosvenor Square."

  Prestwick paused to survey the deserted stretch of shoreline and the seemingly endless undulation of tall machrie grasses. His dignity in shreds, along with the sleeve of his expensive pleated-front linen shirt, he knew was acting worse than a sulky schoolboy with his querulous complaints, a fact that did nothing to chase the mulish expression from his face.

  "The deuce take it, there must be some outpost of civilization in this cursed place. It is not as if we have washed up upon the moon."

  "No, sir," repeated Stump. There followed a slight clearing of the throat. "But it may be a goodly hike to the nearest place of habitation."

  "I will crawl on my hands and knees if I have to," he answered through gritted teeth. "And then, no matter whether I must cough up a king's ransom in gold, I mean to procure a clean, dry set of clothes, a decent meal and comfortable conveyance so that the two of us may be on our way as soon as is humanly possible. The less time we must spend in the company of that harridan, the better."

  "As there appears to be a cloud of steam risin' up from your togs, they may be dry before you know it." His valet eyed him with a curious stare. "She really has you hot under the collar. Never seen you quite like this before, allowin' your emotions to boil over."

  "Forgive me for the ungentlemanly display of—"

  "No, no, it weren't meant as a criticism." An odd twitch played on Stump's lips. "On the contrary, it might do you a bit a good to let a bit of fire flare up once in a while."

  Prestwick blinked. "What the Devil do you mean?"

  "Well, since you are askin', I sometimes think you spend too much time locked away in that cozy study of yours, surrounded by all them deep books, fancy paintings and tasteful music."

  "You think there is something wrong with a gentleman who enjoys the arts?"

  "Oh hell, no. You know that's not what I meant. It's just that, well, perhaps once in a while you shouldn't be afraid to loosen your cravat and get your hands a bit dirty."

  The duke felt his spine go very rigid. "As I am accorded to be one of the arbiters of fashion in Town, it would hardly be appropriate," he drawled, trying to mask his shock with a posture of sardonic detachment.

  "Oh, aye. You are well deserving of being called the Distinguished Duke, what with being the very pinnacle of sartorial splendor in all your fancy finery. Imported silks, costly cashmeres, linens light as a whisper, leather soft as butter—you wrap yourself in naught but the best that money can buy. Yet I can't help thinking at times that you are hiding behind all that elegant tailoring."

  Had he been hit with one of Gentleman's Jackson's punishing right uppercuts, Prestwick could not have felt more stunned.

  Struggling to maintain his composure, even though his knees were feeling a trifle rubbery, he drew himself up to his full height. Yet despite an attempt at voicing a lordly sneer, his words came out as barely more than a whisper. "So, like my father, you too think me a coward?"

  "Oh, not in any way that you mean. Just that mayhap you tend to keep your feelings too much under wraps. As if you was afraid to show your real self."

  "What utter fustian!" It was absolute nonsense, he added to himself. As if he were uncomfortable in his own skin! After a moment, he mastered his sputtering indignation enough to go on without an audible snapping of his teeth. "You are entirely mistaken if you think—"

  "Avast there! Are the two of you going to spend all day lollygagging about in idle conversation when there is work to be done?" A mop of carroty curls appeared, just visible above the tops of the waving grasses, followed by a set of hazel eyes whose steely squint fixed the duke and his valet with a slightly accusatory look. "You had better get moving. Nonny has already snared two fat hares, and while I have brought Zara one load of firewood, we are going to need a good deal more to make a proper meal of it."

  Although not entirely upset at the interruption, Prestwick still slanted the young lad a glowering look as he shuffled by. It was bad enough being badgered by a headstrong hellion. He was damned if he was going to start taking orders from a sprat who looked to be barely out of leading strings!

  In his experience, children did not speak to their elders unless spoken to—and certainly not in such disrespectful terms. However, dignity prevented him from answering with any more than a muttered "Hmmph."

  As his back was turned, he could not quite tell whether the sound coming from Stump was a chuckle. Too irritated for words, he contented himself with taking a number of measured kicks at the loose stones in his path.

  By the time he had trudged back to the small encampment, he was nursing some very sore toes to go along with his bruised feelings.

  * * *

  Good Lord.

  Zara raised her eyes from the fire just long enough to catch a glimpse of the smoldering scowl on the gentleman's face. By the looks of it, he was hotter than the bits of kindling she had been coaxing into flame. Without a word, he dumped the load of gnarled driftwood by her side and stomped off to take a seat upon one of the rocks jutting up from the sand.

  And the ungrateful wretch had the audacity to criticize her manners!

  She frowned as she snapped a branch in two and fed it into the now crackling blaze. Though clearly a gentleman of rank, he was behaving like a beastly boor. Indeed, as he wrestled off what had no doubt been a very expensive boot and began to inspect a rent in his stocking, she could swear that he uttered a word that should not have been said in front of any female, lady or not.

  It was, of course, no surprise. Her recent experiences had only confirmed her opinion that privileged peers were naught but a bunch of worthless wastrels. And this specimen whom she had had the misfortune to fish out of the deep looked to be particularly odious. Vain, arrogant, selfish, spoiled—the dratted fellow could not even lower himself to gathering up a few twigs without kicking up a frightful dust, despite all she had done for him.

  Like saving his elegant neck.

  Giving a slight turn to the makeshift spit, Zara slanted another quick glance at him. The rumpled garments might be still slightly damp and the ruined footwear squishy but there was no denying that he oozed Quality from every refined pore. It was not that he was an overly imposing figure. His shoulders, though broad, lacked a muscled bulk, his chest was lean and his face a shade delicate to be considered a paragon of masculine perfection. Yet there was a certain lithe grace to h
is movements—despite the pained hobble—that gave him an unmistakable presence.

  She found herself studying the downcast features a tad longer than she intended. His nose was a pinch too long, the mouth a touch too arrogant for her taste. But try as she might, it was difficult to find fault with his eyes. They hinted at a surprising depth of character, given the shallowness that she expected. And the color was an unusual shade of blue—a rich aquamarine swirled with sea green highlights. She would have to remember the exact nuance of hue when she had a moment for her paintbrushes and pigment—

  "Ouch!"

  Her lip curled at the sound of the stifled yelp. It served him right, she thought, forcing away any more musings of a positive note on the odious man. Indeed, as she gave a small jab to the roasting meat, she found herself hoping his pampered flesh had been rubbed raw!

  "Here you go, ma'am." The gentleman's grizzled companion let the small gathering of sticks tucked beneath his arm slip to the ground. "Ain't awful handy at this sort of chore, but it may help keep the coals going a tad longer."

  Zara smiled. "I thank you for your effort, Mr...."

  "Oh, forget adding any mister to my moniker." He gave a leathery grin. "Everyone calls me Stump. I have become so used to it I probably wouldn't recognize me own proper name." His words trailed off in an appreciative sniff. "Looks as though you managed to get a right nice meal going here, despite the tad of trouble we had earlier, Miss... "

  A "tad of trouble" might be a slight understatement, she sighed, seeing as the loss of the sailboat had sunk the only hope of refilling her near empty purse. Still, as he could not know into what dire straits she had been plunged, she tried to match his own undampened spirits.

  "Greeley," she replied, with rather more cheer than she felt at the moment. "I am Zara Greeley. And these are my brothers."

  The two lads had just rounded the sheltering ledge of rock, Perry manfully balancing a stack of wood that reached past the tip of his chin while Nonny was carrying a tangle of twine and another freshly skinned rabbit.