One-Knight Stand

by Barbara Devlin

  But--why?

  That was not to suggest Lance harbored ill will toward the estimable mariner, because he had nothing but admiration for the naval man’s acumen. Rather, he did not comprehend the need to increase the number of Brethren.

  As the knights assumed their usual formation, Captain Collingwood reclined on the sofa, and Admiral Douglas situated himself behind his formidable desk and steepled his hands on the leather blotter.

  “Gentlemen, as you know, the tide has turned in our war with France. Wellington enjoyed marked success with victories at Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Salamanca.” The admiral compressed his lips. “However, those campaigns exacted a high cost to His Majesty’s troops, so it is imperative we continue to feed reinforcements into Wellington’s army. That being said, the injury to one of our own could not have come at a more inopportune moment, thus the Lord High Admiral has decided that we are in dire need of an addition to our ranks.”

  A collective of agreement graced every face--save two.

  Lance swallowed the bitter pill of pride as he realized his was the weakest link in their heretofore-impenetrable chain of defense.

  And Captain Collingwood shifted, his visage invested with more than vague curiosity as he asked, “An addition to--what?”

  As Admiral Douglas launched into the history of the notorious but noble order, Lance drowned in a sea of apprehension and incompetence. How he wanted to refute the impression that he lacked the ability to command his ship, yet he recalled his conversation with Cara and his assertions to that effect. In his mind he revisited her counter-arguments and drew strength from her, even then.

  At that instant, Captain Collingwood accepted the seal of the order. The impressive badge, fashioned of gold, bore the familiar shape of an eight-point wind-star, the compass of ancient seafarers. A large, ocean-blue diamond twinkled at the center, and beneath was inscribed the Latin phrase Nulli Secundus, Second to None.

  With a large ceremonial sword in his grasp, the same magnificent weapon used to inaugurate Lance into the exclusive knighthood, Admiral Douglas rounded his desk. Collingwood knelt, and the admiral tapped the flat of the blade to either shoulder. In mere seconds, Sir Jason Collingwood was born. Uttering a silent rebuke for wallowing in self-pity, Lance mustered a smile and mentally sketched a hastily composed reception for his new brother mariner.

  “You do realize that your maiden undertaking is to gift us a case of your finest brandy?” Lance extended a hand in fraternal kinship.

  “Correction,” Blake interrupted. “That would be a case for each of us.”

  “And a box of your best cigars,” Damian added.

  “Bloody hell, am I to sell my rig to finance the order?” Jason asked with a chuckle.

  “Oh, nothing so grand.” Dalton tossed his lucky coin. “Heads. You are most fortunate, as your mistress will suffice or, perhaps, your heir.”

  “You should know they tried to abscond with my son.” Trevor grimaced. “They took him just after the christening.”

  “Given that you kidnapped my sister, be glad you retain the ability to sire children,” Blake chimed with a wink. “And it was only to conduct our own ceremony, of sorts, to herald the next generation of Brethren.”

  “Blister it, Rylan, are we sailing that route again?” Trevor elbowed Blake in the ribs. “And it was not so much the initiation with which I took issue but Caroline’s wrath upon our return, as you placed responsibility for the prank squarely on my shoulders.”

  “Is that not what marriage is all about?” Blake snorted. “One row after another?”

  “Heed my warning, Collingwood.” Dirk arched a brow. “If you take their lip now, there will be no end to your torment.”

  “Gentlemen, you do me great honor, and I can only hope to fulfill your expectations. But how can I help?” Collingwood inquired. “The Intrepid is dry-docked for refitting.”

  “Ah, yes. That is a problem.” Admiral Douglas caught Lance in his sights. “Given repairs to the Demetrius are almost complete, I had wondered if you would consent to let us borrow her--until you are able to resume command.”

  Once again, the world shifted beneath his feet, and Lance shuddered. Let another man captain his ship? Everything inside him screamed against it, because that was akin to surrendering his woman for a night. And, Brethren or not, he shared Cara with no man.

  But just as quick, he reminded himself that he would not so much as blink were it Blake, Damian, Dirk, Dalton, or Trevor posing the request to borrow his vessel. How could he balk? The answer was simple. He could not refuse the newest entrant of the order.

  “Do me a favor.” Lance shifted his weight and turned to Jason. “Take care of her.”

  “Lord Raynesford, you have my word as a gentleman, I shall sail her as if she were my own,” Collingwood responded.

  “There are no titles here, brother.” Lance compressed his lips and rued the stress investing his frame. After all, it was not as if the blonde giant had asked to court Cara. “When we gather as family--and the badge marks you as such, it is Lance.”

  “Lance, it is.” Jason smiled and nodded once.

  After a rousing bit of ribald toasts, the knights joined the ladies in the drawing room, and it could not have happened soon enough for Lance, because that always meant the same thing. He alone enjoyed the undivided attention of one Miss Douglas. As he limped into the elegantly appointed chamber, he held his breath until he found the object of his quest. And as usual, his heart skipped a beat at the first sight of Cara.

  Gowned in rich navy satin, with her hair piled in countless curls atop her head, she cut the perfect picture of feminine sensuality, and familiar heat pooled in his loins. But in that moment he seemed powerless to move, as he knew well what sumptuous treasure hid beneath the polite façade and polished veneer.

  At the far end of an emerald damask sofa she sat in graceful repose, and he paused in anticipation of her acknowledgement. Painful seconds ticked past as he awaited the ebullient greeting she never failed to bestow upon him, but none came.

  Instead, to his exasperation, she leaped into the arms of Collingwood, after her father announced, “Distinguished guests, we have a new knight in our midst.”

  Just what was she about? Lance frowned, as a green-eyed monster of an unfamiliar and altogether unpleasant sort reared its ugly head, and then he muttered a silent curse at the blasted cane in his left hand.

  “I beg your pardon.” The butler loomed in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

  At last, things would return to normal. Lance stepped forward and opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut, when the dark blue of a navy uniform passed before him in a flash, cutting short his approach.

  “May I have the honor of escorting you, Miss Douglas?”

  The words came to him as though from afar, which seemed quite odd, as Lance had uttered them on occasions too numerous to count. The only problem was he was not the one who had spoken.

  With the effervescence Cara typically reserved for Lance, she proclaimed, “I assure you, Captain Collingwood, the honor is mine.”

  Paralyzed by a lethal combination of anger, uncertainty and, dare he think it, fear, Lance clenched his jaw as Jason availed himself of Cara’s company. The man had taken Lance’s position among the Brethren, command of his ship, and worst of all, his lady.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lost in a seemingly endless chasm of self-pity, Lance was the last to enter the elegant dining room. Without thought, he hobbled to his customary place at Cara’s side. But to his infinite irritation, he discovered his seat already occupied.

  “Hope you do not mind.” Jason grinned. “We switched name cards and put you down there.” He pointed to the far end of the table. “You are beside Dalton.”

  Wonderful. Lance forced a smile, limped to his chair, and spent the better part of the meal enduring the explicit tales of Dalton’s latest conquest. As the gadling launched into his most recent escapade, which stretched the limits of believability, Lance a
fforded the younger Randolph the occasional nod and chuckled in concert to maintain the illusion that he listened to every bawdy detail, because every fiber of Lance’s being focused on Cara.

  The soft lilt of her voice, and her rich, unfeigned laughter called to him as a sultry summons impossible to deny. With furtive glances he sought her regard, yearning for some indication or affirmation, however slight, that he remained her hero. But it was as if he no longer existed, and that hurt.

  Sadness and despair shrouded his world in cold darkness, as he realized how making love to Cara had impacted their relationship, but never could he have predicted utter indifference. It was like losing Thomas, all over again. Only now he would have to reconstruct his life without Cara if he could not induce her to accept his proposal. Had what occurred between them meant nothing to her?

  As the elders withdrew to the drawing room, which was their custom, the Brethren reshuffled themselves at the center of the large table. Spying a vacant seat at Cara’s left, Lance made a beeline for it.

  The topic of conversation centered on the new addition to the Brethren. Acting completely out of character, Lance participated with profuse enthusiasm in the animated discourse. To his inexpressible frustration, Cara managed to keep her back to him, as she favored Jason with her face and attention.

  Unable to bear her apathy any longer, Lance searched for some excuse to initiate a conversation. He supposed he could tickle her, but that would garner an audience of all present. And then he noted her clasped hands resting in her lap, which the tablecloth partially shielded. Assuming an air of nonchalance, he skimmed her clothed thigh and then set his palm to her gloved knuckles.

  Cara didn’t so much as flinch.

  So next he squeezed her fingers, and at length she turned to him. For a fleeting moment, he spied pain in her blue gaze, but she masked it in polite gentility.

  At long last, she smiled. “How are you?”

  Once again, Lance was taken aback. The warmth, the unabashed fervor noticeably absent in her voice and demeanor, it was as though she conversed with a stranger. Shocked by the emptiness of her response, he could muster only a one-word reply. “Fine.”

  “Delighted to hear it,” she stated with a blank stare.

  “So...” He fumbled for something to say--anything to hold her interest. “H-how are you?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” She maintained the same unremarkable expression.

  “Cara, please, talk to me.” He wiped his suddenly damp palms on his napkin and reminded himself he was no dandy fop or shy schoolboy. He had bedded enough sophisticated women in his life that no barely ex-virgin debutante should bring him to his knees. “We must settle our situation.”

  “There is nothing to discuss,” she whispered. Then, in a brilliant flanking maneuver, she nudged Jason. “I am so looking forward to the events of the Little Season, Captain Collingwood.”

  “Please, call me Jason.” The fledgling Nautionnier Knight canted his head. “And may I be so bold as to address you as Cara?”

  No, you most certainly may not, Lance thought.

  “Of course.” She giggled, and Lance wanted to puke.

  Again relegated to the position of spectator, he fought to remain calm and at least appear to enjoy the evening. But inside, he wanted to kill someone.

  Specifically, Captain Jason Collingwood.

  So he sat, without ceremony, simmering and seething in silence, until the Brethren gathered with the elders in the drawing room. But if he thought the situation in the dining room had been an exercise in futility, what awaited Lance brought him to the brink of insanity.

  Engaging Cara in an awkward game of cat and mouse, he literally chased her in circles about the sofa. Of course, due to his injury, he rarely neared her skirts before she skittered beyond reach. And in the singular instance he caught his prey, Alex and Sabrina loomed at either side, as though rooted to the bloody floor. Gnashing his teeth and leashing his temper, he joined the ladies, suffering such titillating topics as stain removal and teething remedies.

  “You know, I am honor bound to save you from yourself,” Everett stated in a low voice and then chuckled. “If for no other reason than to spare myself the painful performance of your prurient pursuit.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lance sniffed and ignored the inference. “I know of no such prurient pursuit.”

  “And you deny it.” Markham had the nerve to wink. “A sure sign that another man has been felled by perfume and petticoats.”

  “Blister it, Everett--”

  “Oh, give over.” Sabrina’s husband rocked on his heels and smirked. “Come. You need a drink.”

  “In that I will not argue.” In Everett’s wake, Lance devised a rebuttal and hobbled to the back wall. “Brother, I believe you have woven unsupported conclusions from whole cloth.”

  “Of course, I have.” Everett offered a brandy.

  “No, I mean it.” He gulped a healthy portion of liquid courage. “You have mistaken lifelong friendship for something of greater importance.”

  “My apologies.” Everett arched a brow. “So tell me, how long have you harbored undying devotion for the elder Miss Douglas?”

  Lance opened and then closed his mouth.

  Everett burst into laughter.

  “You are sworn to secrecy, else you will never gaze on your firstborn.”

  “Now I resent that, Lance. Really, I do.”

  “And you may not divulge my confidence to Sabrina.”

  “Do I look like a brainless nincompoop?”

  “Bloody hell. How did you know?” Lance scratched his temple. “What gave me away?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Indubitably.”

  “Hell and the Reaper.” His head spun, and Lance swayed.

  “Whoa, friend.” Everett provided much needed support and kept Lance upright. “May I impart a bit of sage advice? Mind you, I speak as the veteran of three wicked tours of duty.”

  “Three?”

  “The Battles of Caroline, Rebecca, and my own darling Sabrina.” Everett shuffled his feet. “Brother, I could tell you stories that would turn your hair white. Instead, I would share the secret guaranteed to solve all your problems.”

  “And that would be--what?”

  “Tell her you love her,” Trevor inserted into the conversation.

  Lance choked on his brandy. “Does everyone suspect me?”

  “Sorry Raynesford.” Trevor chortled. “Did not intend to startle you, but I could not help but overhear your exchange, and as I am only too familiar with that delicate but nonetheless volatile brand of warfare genteel society has the unmitigated audacity to refer to as courtship, I know the signs, which you manifest in spades.”

  “Oh, I say.” Again, Lance teetered. “Beware, I fear I am going to vomit.”

  “None of that, now.” Trevor peered over his shoulder. “You would never live down the embarrassment, and I would prefer you not grant our women such ammunition. By the by, Everett is correct in his assertion.”

  “Ooh, I like that.” Everett snorted and said to Trevor, “Would you mind repeating it?”

  “Will you shut up?” Trevor grumbled. “We are here to save another man from a fate worse than death.”

  “Brothers, if that is an attempt to inspire confidence, you failed miserably.” Lance sighed and repositioned his cane. “And is there not an easier way?”

  “You would think so.” Everett compressed his lips. “But--no.”

  “Then it appears I am sailing into rough seas.”

  “And committing a dire err in judgment for which I suspect you shall pay dearly, friend.” Trevor paused and then added, “You know, I almost lost my wife when I refused to declare myself, because I actually thought I could avoid it.”

  “And my similar exercise in lunacy resulted in an overnight horseback ride to London, from which my arse still smarts on occasion, in hot pursuit of my wayward bride, because she inacc
urately presumed I sought another.” At that moment, Everett cast Sabrina a heated stare to which Lance would have taken exception were they not married. “Gentlemen, I believe I am neglecting my lady, an aberration I would correct, posthaste. Whatever you decide, happy hunting, Raynesford.”

  Everett’s salutation struck Lance as the icy waters of the Baltic.

  Of course.

  The solution to his quandary, when it dawned, seemed so elementary. Cara viewed Lance as nothing more than a friend because he had never behaved otherwise, with the exception of that glorious afternoon spent in his bed. And while that, alone, should have sufficed, it was evident she demanded something else, entirely.

  “Uh-oh.” Trevor snickered. “I know that look.”

  “To what do you refer?” Lance admired the gentle curve of Cara’s neck, the creamy velvet flesh of her bosom, and invoked the memory of her lusty cries in the throes of passion.

  “Brother, you are sporting for incalculable grief.” Trevor adjusted his cravat and appeared to snare his wife’s regard. “I, for one, cannot bear to watch, so I shall borrow a page from Everett’s log and seek delectable divertissement in the arms of my Caroline. But I would have you note, before I depart your company, that the beauty of a declaration lies in its ability to soothe the most heinous infraction upon mere utterance. And, indeed, its efficacy never wanes. In short, as a whole, they are the three most powerful words ever spoken, and you would do well to make use of them--the sooner the better.”

  With that, Trevor sketched a bow, all but ran to his wife, and steered her toward a dark corner. Lance stifled a hearty guffaw when his friend extinguished a nearby candle and eased his bride to a chaise. And then Lance gave his attention to his intended target. Slowly, he smiled.

  Oh, yes.

  Thus far, Cara had successfully evaded Lance--her old pal--because he hadn’t deviated from the tried and true. To his detriment, he remained a comfortable, predictable childhood chum. But things were different now, because they had made love, a point of fact in his strategy he had woefully discounted.