One-Knight Stand

by Barbara Devlin

  Lance fell flat on his bottom and scowled at Thomas, who held a hand to his belly and laughed heartily. As he tried to stand, his foot skidded on the ice. Lance ended up as he started--back on his bum.

  “Is this not better than reciting a dead language no one uses anymore?” Thomas skipped on the ice, and then he splayed his arms wide for balance, as he veered in a graceful arc.

  As he struggled to right himself, Lance halted when a loud cracking sound snared his attention. Beneath his feet, in the pristine veneer, jagged lines suddenly snaked in every direction. He froze.

  “Thomas, do not move.”

  To his irritation, his disobedient cousin ignored the warning. In the process of gathering speed for another sail across the ice, Thomas tripped and disappeared below the surface. Only his arms, shoulders, and head remained visible.

  “Lance. Help. Help me!” Thomas fought to pull himself up, but every time he managed to inch out of the water, another piece of ice broke away. He fell, deeper and deeper.

  “Stay still, Thomas.” Crawling slowly, on his palms and knees, Lance scooted toward the middle of the pond and closer to his cousin. “I am coming for you.”

  But as Lance neared, the ice collapsed. He sucked in a breath as the painfully cold water penetrated his clothes. Because he had not made it to the center of the pond, it was still shallow enough for his feet to reach the bottom, and the water came only to his chin.

  Tilting his head back, he gasped for air.

  A flicker of movement caught his attention.

  Hands flailed helplessly.

  Lightning flashed, and water splashed over his face as he wrenched to the present. Lance sputtered and wiped his cheeks with his oilskin raingear. Determination welled within him. He was a man now, not a child. He might not have been able to save his cousin, but he would not let his first mate die.

  He untied his lifeline, and the helmsman did the same.

  “Go below and get help.”

  Mr. Hazard nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Using a section of rope, Lance tied the wheel in place, hoping the thick twine would withstand the forces of nature until he or the helmsman returned.

  The stern rose as the waves drove the ship, and then the bow crashed violently into the valley. In a burst of light, Lance spied Scottie. He had lost his grip with one hand and was swinging by the other.

  After making his way down the companion ladder, he crawled along the larboard rail. The ship bucked, as would an unbroken horse. When the bow rose, he held tight to the railing. When it leveled, he moved forward as fast as possible. While it took him mere minutes to reach his first mate, it seemed an eternity.

  The storm flared all around. The wind wailed, as the mournful cries of a grieving widow.

  Reaching out, Lance grasped the wrist of his first mate. Scottie stared at him, and a mixture of relief and gratitude washed over his face. With one powerful tug, using his bodyweight as a counterbalance, Lance fell backward on the deck as he hauled Scottie over the rail.

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, Cap’n.” With a balled fist, the first mate punched him in the arm. “I knew you would come for me.”

  Lance wiped the rain from his eyes. “Let us tuck in that sail and get back to the helm.”

  Moving in unison with the ship, they dragged in the slapping canvas. The laces had torn from the yardarm at one end, causing the sail to arc wildly.

  Scottie lunged for the wayward corner and managed to catch it. He landed on his rear in the middle of the deck.

  Lance laughed as they engaged in an awkward waltz, of sorts, gathering the unruly sheet. In a rush, he tucked the sail to the yardarm.

  A loud, unnatural crack snared his senses.

  An eerie premonition of deja vu nipped at his heels, gooseflesh covered him from top to toe, and he peered skyward. Hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, the foremast yardarm splintered in two, and it listed in the wind, back and forth, as a perilous pendulum, with one end threatening to drop on them at any moment.

  “Look out.” Lance waved his arms in warning. “Scottie, get out of the way.”

  “What?” the seaman replied.

  He pointed, but the first mate did not appear cognizant of the impending danger.

  And then it happened.

  The yardarm broke free and came crashing down.

  Without thought, he dove toward Scottie, shoving him out of the path of the large, jagged piece of wood. Lance landed, face first, on the unforgiving planks of the main deck. Pain ratcheted through his body, though it was not from his fall. It was from the crushing weight of the yardarm, as it snapped the bone of his sprawled leg.

  “Captain.”

  Lance flinched at the shout of alarm and the panic in the voice of his first mate. It seemed as though a hundred fingers surveyed his body, and someone turned him over. He blinked his eyes and found himself in his room at Sandgate Manor, the Raynesford ancestral pile.

  A single candle sat on a bedside table, and thick quilts had been tucked to his chin. A physician explained his condition to his aunt and uncle, the Marquess and Marchioness of Raynesford, who had cared for him since his father had passed.

  He trained his ear as the marquess detailed how a schoolmaster spied Lance and Thomas running away from class. By the time the teacher trailed them, Thomas had drowned in the icy pond. The schoolmaster pulled a barely conscious Lance from the frigid water and carried him back to school.

  He shivered.

  Thomas had died.

  Lance moaned and twisted beneath the mountain of bedcovers. The physician ushered his guardians into the hall, so as not to disturb him. He fought sleep, because he feared if he surrendered he might never wake, and was still lucid when the door to his bedchamber creaked.

  A shadowy silhouette entered the room and tiptoed to his bed. In the soft light from the candle, he studied the familiar face, committing every subtle nuance to memory. He had known the young girl since she was born.

  Through half-open eyes, he gazed on her graceful form as she placed one of her wooden miniatures, a brightly painted green turtle, on the bedside table. She collected the quaint figurines, treasured them, so he was surprised she would part with one of her gems.

  She glanced over her shoulder and appeared to be checking to make sure no one was there, before leaning forward and setting her mouth to his.

  It was his first kiss.

  “Get well, Lance.” She pressed her palm, cool against his fevered skin, to his cheek. “You are my hero.”

  After that, he had slept.

  “Easy, lads!”

  The concern in Scottie’s words came to him through a fog of anguish and confusion.

  As Lance slipped beneath the comforting blanket of unconsciousness, a name passed his lips. A bare whisper, it was lost in the blustery gale of the storm, so no one heard, but he said it just the same.

  “Cara.”

  #

  Far away, in a fashionable London town home, all were abed, and the household slept. The halls were silent, save the ticking of the long-case clock in the foyer at the foot of the grand staircase.

  The candles were guttered, having long ago extinguished, and the hearths were cold. No shadows played on the carpets, because no moonlight filtered through the windows.

  Had anyone been awake to see, the sky beyond the glass was angry.

  In the dark of night, Cara Douglas shifted and frowned, and a soft moan passed her lips as she struggled somewhere between consciousness and slumber. Tucked, safe and sound, in her bedchamber, she rolled her head restlessly to one side and sighed as she pushed at the bedclothes.

  The clock in the hall sounded the hour. It was late.

  A flash of light and a distant rumbling provided the first warnings of the violent storm approaching the city.

  Cara kicked at the sheets, which had become tangled about her legs as she tossed and turned. And she wiped the faint sheen of perspiration from her brow, as she fought imaginary wraiths
in haunted repose.

  “No,” she murmured, ensnared in a vivid dream.

  An army of visions plagued her rest, and bits and pieces of her past flashed a staccato of unsettling imagery. In a vaguely familiar surrounding, a single candle sat on a bedside table. Beneath mountains of blankets, a motionless form reclined. As she crossed the room, she stared down and realized she was a child, not the woman she was now. The young Cara set a tiny wooden figurine on the table and then claimed a kiss in payment for her willingly relinquished treasure.

  Suddenly, reflections of a wild sea rocked her world. Mountainous waves of water caved in around her, burying her in an ocean grave. In her sleep, she screamed and lashed at some invisible tormenter.

  Beyond the walls of her home, the wind whipped and howled. Trees swayed, rubbish and dust swirled in the air. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded on the windowpanes, a gentle drumbeat heralding the arrival of nature’s tempest.

  Thunder roared through her bedchamber, and she sobbed. Tears slipped from her still closed eyes, and though she dozed, it was neither peaceful nor comforting.

  In her dreams, she pictured his face; the one she had known all her life. He did not smile, and his black hair was wet. His green eyes shimmered with determination--and uncharacteristic fear. And she was with him, sharing his emotions as though they were one entity.

  Drenched in sweat, her fine cambric nightgown clung to her body. In despair, she kicked and thrashed in a snare of linens. With desperation, she searched the gloom for an escape, some way to break free from the bonds of the terror holding her captive.

  Through the misery, he called her name.

  And she murmured softly and reached for him.

  Rain pelted her windows, as would an eager suitor beckoning her in a midnight rendezvous. Her pillow grew damp as tears streamed her temples, and she listed frantically from side to side.

  Urgent. Tortured.

  Cara cried out.

  But still she languished, trapped in a seemingly endless vortex of nocturnal desolation.

  The storm intensified, and thunder shook the walls of her home. The gentle shower escalated into a torrential downpour. Finally, on a booming clap, she bolted upright.

  Liberated from the nightmare that had arrested her, Cara took a few seconds to gather her wits and discern that she remained in her chamber, safely ensconced in her family residence on Upper Brooke Street. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she shivered and rubbed the gooseflesh covering her arms. A quick glance about the room told her no one presented a threat, and nothing was amiss. But the cause of her concern remained quite tangible.

  Eerily realistic.

  After tossing the blankets aside, Cara swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and leapt from the bed. She walked to the windows, pulled open the drapes, and gasped at the display of raw power as nature assailed the city.

  With clasped hands pressed to her bosom, she choked on a sob. An obscure but nonetheless compelling weight hung heavy in her heart. She struggled to breathe, as if from overexertion. Fear lapped at her senses and filled her with tension. She rolled her shoulders in a valiant but failed attempt to relax.

  He was out there.

  Coming home--to her.

  Uncertain as to how she knew, she simply knew.

  A shiver of dread traipsed her spine, and a wraith of gloom danced a merry jig in the recesses of her mind. Entombed in a melancholy prison, she wept. But now was not the time to cry, so she wiped her tears.

  Something had gone horribly wrong.

  Her hero suffered.

  How she longed to go to him, to hold him in her arms and ease his torment. Operating on instinct, she sensed that he needed her, and she would have to be strong.

  Pressing her brow against the cool surface of the glass, Cara closed her eyes and whispered, “Lance.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hurry, Alex.” Cara waved to the elegantly dressed young woman, who descended the stairs of her home with a not so convincing air of refined serenity she had tried but failed to project. Cara gave vent to a giggle. “Else we will be late.”

  Lady Alexandra Seymour, known to her family as Alex, was one of Cara’s lifelong friends. Originally, there were ten in the group known only to a privileged few as the Brethren of the Coast. Lady Elaine Prescott, Caroline Marshall, Countess of Lockwood, and Sabrina Markham, Countess of Woverton and Cara’s younger sister, rounded out the female half.

  “What is your hurry?” Alex asked, as a footman handed her into the carriage. She glanced at the empty seat opposite Cara and looked her question. “And where is Brie?”

  “With her head over a basin.” Cara grimaced.

  “Poor dear.” Alex wrinkled her nose and settled into the squabs as the coach lurched forward. “Still no relief from the morning sickness?”

  “No. And you should see Everett.” Cara rolled her eyes. “The man is completely undone, and I do not know what is worse--her wrenching heaves or his reaction.”

  “Well, I suppose we can take comfort in the knowledge that he loves her. And we would not have it otherwise.” Alex laughed and gazed out the window. “Devil of a storm we had last night. I hope the boys are all right. What did their missive say?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She winced and shifted her weight. “What missive?”

  “You know.” Alex checked her skirts. “The one calling us to the docks.”

  As nervous anticipation waltzed in her belly, Cara bit her lip and tried to form a suitable excuse for her behavior. Just as quick, she reminded herself that biting her lip was not only unladylike but also a clear violation of the edicts governing feminine deportment. And Cara was nothing if not a lady.

  A brow arched, Alex inclined her head. “Cara, what are you not telling me?”

  She shrugged in what she prayed was a haphazard manner, because try as she might, she could not relax. “I did not receive a notice.”

  “What?” Alex stared, mouth agape. “If you did not receive a summons, then why on earth do we journey to Deptford?”

  “Oh, I do not know.” Cara made a show of settling her cloak as she sought acceptable justification for her behavior. But what could she say? How could she explain that which she could not explain? Her actions were born of a dream and a connection that defied rhyme and reason. In the end, she opted for varnished truth. “Something is wrong--I can feel it. Call it intuition, but they will be there. Of that I am sure.”

  “Are you all right?” With a countenance of suspicion mixed with care, Alex studied her. “You look tired, sister.”

  “I did not sleep well.” Hoping to avoid further examination, she flicked an imaginary speck of lint from her sleeve and then searched for the familiar lucky kerchief in her pocket. Given to her years ago by her hero, the square boasted the embroidered initials LPF, for its owner Lance Fortescue Prescott. “The storm kept me awake.”

  “Well, if they have not yet arrived, I suppose we could go shopping.” Alex extended her kidskin-covered hands. “I need a new pair of gloves.”

  “That sounds lovely.” She mustered a half-grin. Despite her light-hearted friend’s carefree demeanor, Cara could not shake the foreboding unease that declared they would not make it to Bond Street that day.

  #

  The Honourable East India Company had built an extensive dockyard in Deptford. The East Indiamen, as the mighty ships of the fleet were known, sailed from the impressive, privately owned yard. The best and the largest merchant vessels, they were also armed as warships to guard against pirates and the French, with whom England currently waged war.

  Buccaneer Trading existed not only as a lucrative business incorporated into the East India Company, but also as a well played ruse for the Brethren of the Coast, a secret order of Nautionnier Knights in service to the Crown.

  Under the guise of mercantile commerce, the Brethren sailed on various missions for the national defense effort. Serving in silence, their assignments were always of utmost importance and unimaginable da
nger, and there were never any public acknowledgments of their achievements.

  The five original Brethren comprised the membership of the much-fabled order. Blake Elliott, Duke of Rylan, and Caroline’s older brother, Damian Seymour, Duke of Weston, and Alex’s elder sibling, and Dirk Randolph, Viscount Wainsbrough, were the most senior at one and thirty. Lance Prescott, Marquess of Raynesford, and Elaine’s cousin and guardian, was next oldest at thirty. Sir Dalton Randolph was, at nine and twenty, the youngest.

  Recently, their group welcomed new additions. Trevor Marshall, Earl of Lockwood, had married Caroline and immediately accepted a knighthood in the order. A year later, Dirk had married Lady Rebecca Wentworth, as was. Then, she served as an agent of the elusive Counterintelligence Corps and had been paired with Dirk to catch a traitor. In the process, the spy and the knight fell in love.

  And that spring, Sabrina married Lord Everett Markham, who later became Earl of Woverton when his elder brother perished in an accident. With a natural inclination for financial matters, Everett assumed control of the family business, with the blessing of Admiral Douglas. But that was not the only significant development.

  Already, the married Brethren were busily providing for the next generation. The birth of Welton Henry Marshall, Viscount Denbury, was heralded with much fanfare. But the joy was quickly compounded with the news that all three Brethren wives were expecting.

  Cara smiled as she and Alex traversed the wooden planks of Deptford Yard. As they neared the slips belonging to Buccaneer Trading, they halted in their tracks.

  Images from the previous night flashed in her brain in horrid detail. With a hand pressed to her throat, and her heart pounding in her chest, Cara whispered, “My God.”

  “Oh, Cara.” Adopting a similar stance, Alex shook her head. “What do you suppose happened?”

  Before them, the magnificent vessels belonging to the Brethren stood as mere shadows of their former selves. Splintered wood from broken yardarms jutted viciously in all directions. Dangling ropes swung in the gentle breeze and torn canvas fluttered. The once intricate, mighty rigging listed in tatters.