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To Happy Endings,
Christine Dorsey
Continue reading for an excerpt from The Rebel,
another wonderful 18th century romantic adventure by Christine Dorsey
The Rebel
One
June, 1747
Near the west coast of Ireland
She was still there.
As he gripped the spray-slicked rail, Capt. Padraic Rafferty’s eyes narrowed. Since the dogwatch lookout first caught sight of sails as they passed the Aaran Islands, The Rebel’s Pride had been unable to shake her. And Padraic had tried enough tricks to know that the schooner, English by her flag, was in pursuit.
Not only in pursuit, but gaining on them. Normally The Rebel’s Pride could hold her own. Sharp-hulled and swift-sailed, she cut smartly through the waves, leaving most larger vessels in her wake.
But they’d run into a bit of bad weather crossing the channel. A gale that churned the sea into giant peaks and valleys had all but the most cynical crew members searching their memories for snippets of prayers. They’d managed to keep afloat, mostly in one piece, but lost a section of aft foresail. Not a major problem... unless some English vessel decided to dog your path.
“What do ye make of it, Paddy?”
Padraic’s gaze darted toward his friend, The Rebel’s Pride’s co-owner, Coyle Burns. “What I make of it is that we’re going to have some major explaining to do if we let them board us.”
“And if we don’t?”
Padraic’s laugh was sharp. “If we don’t, chances are good we’ll be blown into tomorrow.”
Coyle blanched beneath his freckles, but his voice remained firm. “She’s that well armed then?”
“From what I can tell from here. But give it another quarter hour and I should be able to count not only her guns, but the buttons on her captain’s jacket.”
“Damnation.”
“Ye’ve the truth of it there, Coyle.” Padraic rubbed a hand over the day’s growth of dark whiskers covering his chin.
“’Tis there nothing that can be done then?”
“Not that I can think of, that is unless ye’ve got one of those miracles of yers lurking about.” Padraic caught a glimpse of Coyle’s expression and regretted his words. Who was he to scoff at another’s beliefs, especially this man’s? Padraic owed a lot to Coyle besides friendship. And the debt was long-standing, carried from their fathers to the sons.
Hell, if Coyle wanted to believe in miracles, let him. If he wanted to believe in fairies or goblins or green men, he could do that, too. As long as he didn’t try to convince Padraic of that malarkey.
Which was neither here nor there as things stood. Because soon it wouldn’t matter what either of them believed.
His mind made up, Padraic slapped the rail with both hands. “To yer battle stations now, mates,” he called to those crew members not busy with the sail. “And look smart about it.”
“So ye’re going to fight them?”
“What would ye have me do?” Padraic took a deep breath of salt-tinged air. “’Tis not a rash decision I’m making. Ye know what awaits us if we’re captured.”
“Aye.” Coyle pinched the bridge of his long nose. “’Tis just I’m thinking of Alison and... God, I’d give a lot to be like ye now. To feel no fear.”
Padraic didn’t bother to dispute Coyle’s statement. He knew his friend thought him too reckless, a man who loved adventure for adventure’s sake. It was a discussion they had had more than once, and one that grew more intense since Coyle fell in love and married the splendid Irish lass, Alison Regis.
Now, though Coyle’s zeal for their enterprises didn’t waver, it was most often tempered by caution. As for Padraic, caution was not a thought that often crept into his mind. He didn’t crave danger... exactly. Though he did allow, it held a certain appeal at times. This, however, was not one of them.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem as if the where and when of it were his choice to make.
“I’m thinking perhaps we can outmaneuver her,” Padraic said more to calm Coyle’s fears than because he believed it. The Rebel’s Pride had three four-pounders and little more. He’d counted double that on their pursuer, plus a few six-pounders. And they were nearly in range.
“Coyle? Are ye listening to me?” If he was doing his best to reassure his friend, the least Coyle could do was pay attention.
But Coyle had turned away, facing west and staring out to sea. “Now what were ye saying earlier about a miracle?”
“I was saying...” Padraic paused to glance over his shoulder. A grin flashed across his sun-darkened face just as a bellowed command to, “Drop sail and prepare to he boarded,” came from the other vessel.
The British schooner’s bowsprit was near even with The Rebel’s Pride’s stern. But when Padraic looked back at his friend, his blue eyes sparkled. “Let’s put that lawyering tongue of yours to work. Make them think we’re going to surrender, but see if ye can’t negotiate some terms for us.”
“How long do ye need?” Coyle asked before calling for the speaking trumpet.
“As long as you can get.” Padraic raced toward the quarterdeck. “Just keep her from grappling onto us.”
“We givin’ up, Capt’n?” Ian Kelly asked as he handed over the wheel. His walnut brown face wrinkled into a frown.
“Now, have ye ever known The Rebel’s Pride to surrender?” Padraic said with a laugh. “Pass the order to trim the sails, but tell the men to stay aloft. They need to be ready when I say to lower them again. Fast. And raise the guns. I want grapeshot aimed at their rigging. When I give the word, we’ll shred their sails. Hopefully Mr. Burns can keep them occupied long enough so they won’t notice what we’re about till it’s too late.”
“They’ll fire back sure.”
“Aye, but we’ll be disappearing by then.” Padraic inclined his head toward the bank of fog rolling in from the west. Wispy fingers of mist already crept along the swells between the vessels. Still it seemed a long stretch of open sea before the veiling fog could be reached.
Padraic inched the wheel slowly, degree by minute degree, turning it till their course was set straight toward the mist. The English schooner had her sheets trimmed to keep abreast, but her pilot wasn’t adjusting to Padraic’s changes. Excellent
Below him, Padraic could hear the salvo of words between Coyle and the ship’s captain. Coyle played it cool and calm, but agitation colored the Englishman’s voice. Soon he’d grow tired of talking concessions when there were none he needed to make.
Squinting, Padraic searched the sails. All seemed ready. He swiped a lock of black, windswept hair from his face and counted the seconds by the wild pounding of his heart. Excitement strummed through his veins. Steady, he told himself as he watched the English captain. Padraic knew the moment the older man’s patience evaporated. Bristling with indignation, he turned to order the British tars standing at ready to toss the grappling hooks. But Padraic was quicker.
“Fire?” The word rang out, followed almost instantaneously by a thunderous roar as The Rebel’s Pride lurched from her gun’s recoil. Sails billowed down and caught the wind and The Rebel’s Pride surged forward, dancing across the waves toward the murky oblivion of oncoming mist.
Echoes of splintering wood filled the acrid, smoke-filled air as a portion of the English schooner’s rigging crashed to her deck. Then came the answering blast. Padraic held his breath, waiting to see where it would hit. Spume sprayed over the deck as cannonballs splashed harmlessly into the sea.
The English schooner tried again to punish the impudent sloop, but she’d lost her advantage and precious seconds floundering about. Meanwhile The Rebel’s Pride used all her energies to reach the shrouding sanctu
ary of fog.
Within minutes the mist enveloped them like a lover.
“Thank God for the weather,” Coyle said as he scurried up the stairs to the quarterdeck. “’Tis a blessing He’s given us.”
Appreciative as he was, Padraic doubted the Lord created the fog just for them. Unless He cared a great deal more for smugglers and brigands than was commonly thought.
Two
“The Bonnie Prince bothering ye, Paddy?”
Padraic laughed and shook his head. Instinctively his hand reached for the side of his right thigh, for the spot where he’d encountered a musketball on the moors near Culloden. “The damn thing won’t let loose its hold.”
“Give it time,” Coyle said as he trudged along the narrow path that led from the sheltered cove to the cliffs above. Padraic strode before him, setting a swift pace, but it was impossible not to notice, even in the moonlight filtering through the misty clouds, that he favored his right leg.
“Time?” The words shot forth in disgust. “’Tis been over a year.”
“And you’ve given it no more than a fortnight’s rest since it happened, and that only when ye were flat on yer back with the fever it caused.”
Padraic laughed again. “Has Alison turned ye into a nursemaid, now?”
“I’m speaking only the truth and ye know it. A rest is what ye need, Paddy. What we all need.”
“A rest, eh?” Padraic turned, taking a few steps backwards so he could see his friend. “But then who’d excite the countryside?”
“No one will forget the Rebel just because he disappears for a bit.”
“I’ve no concern for that.”
“Then what? We’ve a hold full of supplies and such. Tomorrow I’ll see about distributing what can be used and selling the rest.”
“And what am I to do? Twiddle my thumbs and play the dandy?”
“Do what ye like. Read or stay abed—”
“Like a vapid female?”
“With a vapid female, for all I care. Hell, Paddy, I don’t know. ’Twas just a suggestion to help yer leg, but I’m thinking ye’re so stubborn, I might as well have saved my breath for the climb.”
Coyle was indeed winded by the time he’d finished his harangue. He paused to bend over, hands clasping knees to gain his breath, and both men started laughing.
“With a female...” Padraic said rubbing his chin. “Now ye might have something there.”
“Don’t give me that. No woman will keep ye to her bed for long. The Rebel will be riding about the countryside before the moon wanes.”
“Now don’t be so hasty.” They’d reached the top of the incline. From here the path leveled off, curving through a narrow ravine. “Ye called me stubborn. Mayhap I’ll prove ye wrong. Lord knows, I’d like to get rid of this pain.”
He’d jokingly named the wound the Bonnie Prince, for the Stuart Prince Charles who’d united many of the Scottish clans, and some adventurous Irishmen as well, behind his plan to claim the English throne for his father. But the injury itself he considered no laughing matter. It was constantly tiresome. And Padraic wasn’t used to being bothered by too much.
But despite what he said to Coyle, Padraic knew he wouldn’t spend time abed.
He enjoyed playing the dashing Rebel too much.
Even now he itched to don his mask and midnight black clothes and pay some wealthy English landlord a nocturnal visit. It wasn’t enough to him that the legend of the Rebel was known far and wide, or that the coin he confiscated found its way into the pockets of the poor. Padraic wanted the English out of Ireland.
“Have a care, Paddy,” Coyle said as they emerged onto the grounds surrounding Dunlanoe. “If anyone sees ye out and about this night, they’d find it hard to believe ye were the right honorable Sir Padraic Rafferty, twelfth baron of Dunlanoe.”
“Oh, do ye think so?” Padraic said with a laugh. He was dirty and unshaven and too tired to strut about like a proper dandy. “Give me a good night’s rest, a bit of powder and silk, and good old Lord Dunlanoe will sip tea with the best of them.”
“Of that I’ve no doubt. But at the moment ye look far too much like the Rebel.”
“Then ’tis good we’ve come home under cover of darkness.”
“Aye. Well, I’ll be on my way. Give my best to your Da. I’ll stop by to pay my respects in a day or two.”
They’d parted then, Coyle to walk the extra five miles to the village of Kilroyne and the waiting arms of Alison. Padraic to slip into Dunlanoe. He stood a moment admiring the castle, ghostly quiet in the mist that swirled about its strong, stone walls. It seemed to rise from the cliffs, a mighty fortress with Norman towers that had belonged to his family for centuries.
His home.
Padraic combed fingers back through raven hair. It all belonged to him. All his. At least in the eyes of British law.
For the Penal Laws ruled the land. And it didn’t pay to be Irish in Ireland, especially if that meant you clung to the Catholic religion as his father and his fathers before him had. Men lost their land, their fortunes... everything, while clinging to their beliefs.
But Padraic viewed the Church in a far more cynical and pragmatic light. As far as he could see, religion was the hammer the British used to knock the Irish to their knees. And it was poverty and ignorance that kept them there.
It was impossible to fight England openly and win. For if he did, everything would be taken from him. The estate. The title. Padraic had long ago decided it was much better to play along.
But only if he could play the game his way.
Everything was dark and quiet as he made his way into the kitchen. From there he entered a passageway that led upstairs and opened into his private rooms in the east wing. He moved past the small anteroom where his man, Shamus, snored savagely, then carefully shut the door. No reason to wake him. He could hear all the complaining he wished on the morn.
The sitting room was cool and damp, no fire burning in the hearth, and Padraic stretched, deciding the best way to warm himself was a glass of brandy. His own supply appeared woefully depleted, a situation that would require a word or two with Shamus. The man knew of the masquerade his master played, was loyal to the core, but enjoyed a touch of brandy himself before retiring for the night.
Being of a charitable bent, Padraic overlooked this minor flaw, pretending not to notice. That is as long as Shamus kept the bottles full. Padraic reached for the bell to wake his manservant and send him off to fetch more brandy, then paused. Hell, he’d go himself.
It was well past midnight, the bewitching hour, when Padraic, candle in hand, made his way toward the main hallway, heading for the staircase and library below. This part of the castle dated back over two hundred years and had yet to be modernized. Unlike the downstairs and east wing, the windows were small, mullioned affairs, if not simple arrow slits.
His father said the castle was haunted, but Padraic didn’t believe it for a minute. He’d lived here most of his childhood and had never seen a ghost or spirit. And Padraic believed only what he could see.
Still, he thought of his father’s words as he passed the heavy oak portal that led to the older man’s rooms and almost knocked. He’d been away a fortnight, and though he was tired, would have liked his father’s company. Which was all the more reason for him to smile when he heard the squeak of hinges after he’d passed by the door.
He turned, words of welcome on his lips, expecting his father. But it was something different altogether that he saw.
Padraic took a step backward... he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t a coward, but by God on first glance he’d sworn he saw a... Padraic didn’t even want to think about it. But now as he lifted the candle he could see that before him stood a young woman in a long white nightrail. Coming from his father’s rooms.
“Who in the hell are ye?”
Her expression was wary, but she held her ground, her chin notching up. “I might ask the same question.”
Not as fragile as she look
ed with her pale hair and large eyes. Padraic took a deep breath and grinned. “Ye might.” He couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed finding a woman leaving his father’s room. It didn’t seem like his Da. Not that he thought the older man as celibate as a priest... actually he hadn’t thought on it at all. And wasn’t certain he wanted to know. If Da could find happiness in this woman’s arms, more power to him.
But she seemed very young, and though he couldn’t fault his father’s taste... well, the less said the better.
“I’ll be going back to my rooms now. Tell Da—” Padraic shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll see him in the morning.”
He’d taken a few steps back toward the east wing, the brandy forgotten, when she called out to him.
“Wait. Please.”
Padraic turned, again struck by how ethereal she looked. As she stood in shadows, it was only the white nightrail and long blond hair that caught any light.
“Are you... could you be Oliver’s son?”
For a doxy she was rather bold. “Aye.”
“I’m Lilianne.”
Lilianne? He didn’t care how beautiful she was, he wasn’t interested in sharing a woman with his father. “My pleasure, Madam,” he said with a slight bow. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
“No, please.” She stepped toward him, her hand out. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. There was something about her pale beauty, and her eyes. So full of empathy and compassion.
“I don’t know how to say this. I’m so sorry.”
“What in the hell’s going on?” Padraic pushed past her, opening the door to his father’s rooms and striding in. If he disturbed his father, he’d apologize. But this was better than standing out in the hall conversing with a woman he’d never seen before. “Da.” Padraic called through the open door leading to the bedchamber.
“He isn’t here.”
She followed him and Padraic turned to face her, spiking fingers through his unruly hair. “Where is he?”
The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue) Page 24