Or I go back to London. Continue to play the fool so my little sister’s heart won’t be broken when she finds out what I’ve done. Far better to let her go on thinking I’m tending the cottage back in Connemara. And far safer to let her husband think it, too. Not one I want to tangle with in a sea fight ever again if he comes looking for us.
“Sounds rather dangerous, sir. These waters are crawling with Royal Navy ships.”
Ruaidri make a sound that was half scorn, half laughter. “Well then, instead of exercising the guns with no real target as we’ve been doing every day for the last month, maybe we’ll find something to actually shoot at—”
He halted in mid-sentence as a sudden tension fell over the ship. The entire company had turned their attention aft. Not toward him. But beyond him.
He followed their gazes and the breath caught in his throat.
It was her, of course. He’d known it would be, the moment every man in his crew had stopped what he was doing and turned. She looked strangely out of place here on a naval ship full of rough tars, her fine clothes and proud bearing reminding him that he had plucked her from a world he had never known, would never know, a world that was as different from anything he had ever inhabited—even when he was the Irish Pirate and celebrated, feted and entertained by some of the most influential leaders of patriot Boston—as ice was from flame.
She was English quality. High-born and haughty, her father and now her brother, only one step down from a prince.
Whereas he was just a poor Irishman trying to make a fresh start in a new and emerging country.
She was, in short, unreachable.
Untouchable.
Unobtainable.
No matter how heavily she invaded his thoughts, no matter how much he enjoyed needling her, no matter how hard his damned cock pushed against his breeches at the very sight of her.
Unreachable.
The memory of another blonde beauty rose up in his mind, buxom, common, bawdy and warm…his kind of lass, chalk and cheese from this aloof and elegant aristocrat whose veins ran with ice water.
Someone coughed, bringing him back to the present and his duties as a sea officer. He went up to her, bowed, and made as gallant a leg as he knew how to execute.
“Lady Nerissa,” he said, replacing his hat.
She looked flatly at him, one pale brow raised in slight disdain, cool and composed despite the fact that every officer and seaman on the deck had stopped what he was doing to stare at her.
“Get back to yer duties, ye pack of laggards,” Ruaidri snapped.
The men didn’t argue. One or two cast a last longing glance at the vision in their midst, then returned to their work.
“So,” she said, for his ears alone. “Is this the garb of your so-called Continental Navy?” Her haughty gaze swept the tars in their hats, neckerchiefs and red waistcoats, the officers in blue and white. “Looks remarkably similar to ours. Do you copy our English uniforms as well as our songs and the colors in our flag?”
Ruaidri moved toward her, offering both his elbow and most blinding smile. “I was hopin’ ye’d say we wear it better, but tha’ ’twould be stretching me expectations, eh?”
“I am delighted, Captain, that you do. Think, that is. Because so far I have seen little evidence of that claim.”
He grinned, because he was indeed thinking. Thinking of how soft and silky her skin looked and how he ached to run the back of his knuckles along the little hollow beneath her cheekbone. Thinking of what it would be like to push his fingers up through her hair and claim that disdainful mouth in a kiss. Thinking of how her lips would—
“I cannot eat that gruel,” she said.
“What’s wrong with it? Find a weevil?”
“The spoon is dirty.”
At this, young Cranton, standing several feet away near the helmsman, let out a guffaw.
“Quiet,” Ruaidri said, unwilling to let the lady suffer humiliation at the hands of his crew. Again, they were turning to stare at her, some of them grinning like love-struck schoolboys. “Get back to work, all of ye. And the first one of you slackers who casts more than a fleetin’ glance at our guest goes without his grog tonight.”
A few elbow-jabs to ribs, one or two veiled smirks, but the men did what they were told.
He turned back to his hostage, one brow raised in amusement. “So here you are again. Can’t get enough of me, eh?”
“Do you know, Captain, I think you take a great and perverse delight in irritating me.”
“Aye, I might indeed.”
“And so, because I have an equal desire to irritate you, I am not going to respond to your baiting.”
“’Tis a pity, that. I rather like it when ye’re irritated. The way yer eyes flash. The way yer mouth makes a tight line and the roses bloom in yer cheeks.”
“All the more reason not to let your odious presence affect me.”
“You accuse me of not thinkin’, Lady Nerissa. But I can’t help it. Thinkin’, that is. Thinkin’ that if ye found me so objectionable, ye’d have stayed in the cabin and not sought me out here on deck, eh?”
“Yes, well, I am bored.”
“’Tis a pity, that. I have no balls, soirees, fancy dinners or silken sheets to offer ye. Ye’ll have to make do until ye get back to yer fancy lifestyle.”
“And how am I supposed to ‘make do’? I have no maid. I have no change of clothing. I am a prisoner.”
“Life’s what ye make of it. Ever been on a ship before, Sunshine?”
She snorted in contempt. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“What reason would I have to be on a ship? I live out in the country. I do not go anywhere, except to London once in a while or for the Season. I have no need to go anywhere.”
“That’s yer life?”
“It is a very good life,” she said defensively.
“Ah, well, then. I can see why ye’re bored, I can.”
She did not deign to answer him, merely turning away to gaze with unwilling curiosity at her surroundings. Her nose was small and pert, her skin as white as milk, and her blue eyes were fringed with long, pale lashes and down-turned at the outer corners. A proper English rose, she was, ripe for the plucking but guarded by the thorns of class, culture and breeding. He wished he had a hat for her—five minutes of the sun, when it came out, would burn her like toast. So caught up was he in simply gazing at the perfection of her profile, wondering where he could find one, that it was a moment before he realized she had spoken.
“I said, Captain O’ Devir, what does that sail do?”
She was standing there, her head tilted back as she looked up at the huge mainsail and the topsail above it, a bulging rectangle against the clouds.
“What all sails do, Lady Nerissa. Powers the ship. That one just happens to be the biggest one.”
“What is it called?”
“Lucy.”
Her proud head turned to look at him. “That is absurd.”
“I name them all in me mind. Lucy… Megan… Little Susan. But if ye wish to know its proper name, that’s the mainsail. Or main course.”
“And where is dessert?”
“What?”
“If that is the main course, which one is the dessert?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The sound was out of his mouth before he could stop it—not that he would have, even if he could.
“Are you quite mad, Captain O’ Devir?”
“Enchanted,” he admitted. And then, before her brows drew close in confusion and the brief moment of sparkling civility between them began to fade, he impulsively offered his elbow.
“What are you doing?” she asked, staring at it the way she might the tail of a scorpion.
“Offerin’ me arm. Would ye like a tour o’ the deck before ye go back to that boring life ye lead?”
She stared at his elbow for a long moment as though debating whether she could tolerate the idea of touching him. Then her mouth curved the
tiniest bit at one corner, a reluctant smile that was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Only if you promise not to irritate me.”
“Oh, lass, ’tis beyond me to make a promise like that,” he returned with mock seriousness. “On the other hand, while I rather like to irritate ye, I’d rather save my real fighting for the Royal Navy if and when the occasion arises.”
She was still staring at his offered elbow. Perhaps she was thinking the same thing he was: That she would not be here long. That soon enough, he would have the explosive and be on his way back to Boston and he would be a distant memory for her, as she would be for him.
“Might be the only chance ye ever get to tour the deck of a warship,” he prompted.
She nodded, once. Then, raising her chin and refusing to look at him, she reached out her small gloved hand and slid it into the crook of his elbow.
Chapter 6
At about the same time his sister consented to a tour of the American Continental brig Tigershark, the Duke of Blackheath arrived at De Montforte House.
He was in a mood of sheer violence.
He had traveled hard throughout the day, and his temper was foul as he strode swiftly up the steps of the townhouse, handed his hat and gloves to the silent footman, and stalked menacingly toward the parlor where he found his brother Andrew, pale and gaunt, his russet eyes haunted as he stared down into a cup of steaming brew.
“What the devil are you doing here drinking coffee when you should be out looking for her?” he roared.
“Good afternoon to you too, brother.”
“Has she been found? Where was she last seen? Why are you sitting here doing nothing?”
“I’ve been out looking for her since she went missing early last night,” Andrew said hollowly. “So has Captain Lord and the admiral and every authority I can think to contact. She’s disappeared into thin air.”
“Not even dust just disappears into thin air. She has to be somewhere.” Lucien’s black eyes were savage in his harsh and commanding face, and the very walls seemed to shrink from his anger. “Has anyone been to inquire of Brookhampton?”
“Twice. He denies knowledge of her and told me to leave in no uncertain terms.”
“So where the hell is she?”
Andrew raised tormented eyes that were red from lack of sleep. The suffering on his face mirrored that of his eldest brother’s. “If I knew where she was, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Lucien took a deep and controlled breath. Panic clawed at his heart and he forced himself to take control of his temper, his emotions, his fear. He turned away so that Andrew would not see how close he was to losing his composure.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Andrew tipped the back of his head against the sofa and looked up at the ornately plastered ceiling. “It was a fine evening,” he began, telling Lucien about their arrival at Captain Lord’s townhouse, Nerissa’s supportive words and her moment of missing Perry, the planned exhibition out in the garden for which he’d asked her to watch from the safety of the house. “She went back inside. I demonstrated the explosive, came back into the house, and she was gone.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Was she angry with you? About anything?”
“A bit peeved that I was trying to protect her by sending her back inside, but not enough to desert me and run away.”
“And this moment of missing Perry. You don’t think she went to him to try and win him back, to change his mind about her?”
“Lucien, I’ve been there twice. He said he hasn’t seen her.”
“Did he even offer to help find her?”
Andrew looked down, his face tragic. “No. He did not.”
The duke began to pace back and forth on the heavy Aubusson carpet. “Nothing happened to upset her, then. No reason for her to leave the house. There has got to be more to this than what is on the face of it.”
Andrew, exhausted, just shook his head in defeat.
Lucien was persistent. “Who else was there at this demonstration? I presume it was a gathering of naval officers.”
“Yes.”
“And were they all accounted for? Did any of them remain in the house when you all went outside?”
“No, not a one.”
“All servants and staff accounted for?”
“Yes.”
Lucien swore under his breath and continued to pace.
“Wait,” Andrew said, frowning. He looked up at his brother. “There was a fellow there who was a guest of Captain Lord and his wife. An Irishman. Mrs. Lord’s brother, if I remember correctly. Captain Lord wasn’t happy when he turned up, probably because I was demonstrating something that was supposed to be quite secret. There seemed to be a bit of a history between them. But he was a drunken idiot, a fool, and he left before the demonstration began. I can’t imagine that—”
“Did he return?” Lucien asked sharply.
“No, but we were all frantic and out searching by then. Maybe he did come back while we were all out combing the streets and knocking on doors. I don’t know. Honestly, Lucien, I don’t think he’s anyone to be concerned about. Didn’t seem very bright, to be honest.”
But Lucien’s face had hardened like that of a marble bust. “I’ll be the judge of that. Stay here in case anyone delivers any news. I’m going to Captain Lord’s to pay him and his wife a visit.”
* * *
“And this,” Captain O’ Devir said, as genial a host as any officer in their own navy might be, “is a gun.”
“It looks like a cannon to me.”
“And so it is, lass. On land. But aboard ship, we call it a gun.”
Nerissa, despite her resentment toward this man who had plucked her from her safe if not altogether happy life and brought her here, was quite glad of the support of his strong, unyielding arm beneath her hand though it would be a sunny day in December before she’d ever admit it. As they moved about the quarterdeck—well, that’s what he said this part of the ship was called—she could feel the immense power of the sea beneath them, and every so often the brig rose on a particularly large swell rolling in from the west and she’d sink her fingers into that arm to keep her balance.
She felt less fearful of him, out here in the open. He had introduced her to his officers. He was polite and smiling, and surely he wouldn’t dare accost her in front of his crew. The sunlight that filtered down through the clouds gave her a sense of security. Broad daylight. He was behaving like a gentleman. But oh, dear God, what would the night bring?
Hopefully a Royal Navy ship to rescue me before I have to find out.
The ship smashed through another deep swell. Nerissa clutched at Captain O’ Devir’s arm, but he seemed to suffer no such trouble keeping his footing. Neither did the many men she saw on deck, all going about tasks that were, for the most part, alien to her. Seamen, their hair long and caught in oiled pigtails, were busy scrubbing the deck with buckets of seawater, mops, and what looked like large round stones on the ends of poles; others were coiling lines, a young midshipman was supervising a small work crew around one of the guns, and tilting her head back she saw a few men high aloft, clinging like monkeys a hundred or so feet above her head as they stood on footropes and brought in a sail that seemed to scrape the clouds above. The sight made her dizzy, and her fingers tightened on her escort’s arm. She wondered if her balance would become natural in such an unsteady setting should she remain here at length; but of course, she would not be here at length. Even now, she took comfort—and satisfaction—in the knowledge that Lucien would be turning the world upside down to rescue her.
Lucien.
But not Perry, who wouldn’t care. Who probably wouldn’t give a second thought to her disappearance.
“Are ye well, lass?”
She snapped herself back to the moment. “Well enough, considering I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs, been abducted by a madman, and find mysel
f in primitive conditions while my reputation goes the way of a heavy rock thrown into a particularly shallow pond.”
“Ah. Ye looked faraway there, for a moment.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bollocks.”
She set her jaw and looked out over the endless waves parading toward them from off to her right. Starboard, her captor called it. “You have no respect for the fact that you’re in the presence of a lady, do you?”
“Given I’ve got no practice in being in a lady’s presence, no.” He shrugged. “Got plenty of practice being in the presence of other kinds of females, though. But I’m sure ye don’t care to hear about that.”
“You’re entirely correct. I do not.”
“So why the sad look in those pretty blue eyes?”
“I just told you.”
“And I don’t believe ye.”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. My business is my own and I don’t care to share it with you.”
He shrugged again and let it go. Dropped it the way he might discard a dirty plate and with no visible evidence that her rebuff bothered him in the least. But Nerissa wanted him to care. She wanted him to persist if only for the chance to deny him and withhold from him something he wanted. It was the only power she felt she had left.
She let go of his arm and moved to the side. He moved dutifully beside her, either because he figured it was the gentlemanly thing to do or because he was afraid she’d fling herself overboard. What did it matter? She wrapped her gloved hands around the rail. It was wet with spray that quickly soaked through the gloves, and looking ruefully down at them she realized that they were ruined. That they served no further purpose.
And that she really wanted to feel the cold seawater against her fingertips, the feel of the wind and sun against the bare skin of her hands, the smooth, varnished wood of the rail beneath her palms. She stripped off the gloves and threw them into the sea, and immediately felt less burdened.
Free.
The wind tore at her hair and the sea flung cold, hissing spray in her face. And in that moment Nerissa realized she felt more alive than she had in months, and certainly since well before Perry had broken off their engagement and told her he never wanted to see her or anyone in her family ever again.
The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) Page 6