Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast) (30 page)

“And you, Lord Darwith.”  The nervousness that marked their previous encounters remained curiously absent, and Caroline gave vent to a sigh of relief.  “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Indeed, I am.  And allow me to belatedly congratulate you on your wedding.”  Her gloved hand in his grasp, he brought her fingers to his lips, then met her gaze.  “Lord Lockwood is a fortunate man.”

The once notorious rake could still melt butter with his stare, and she clucked her tongue.  “I hope he shares your view.”

“No doubt he does.”  Although Lord Darwith smiled, a hint of sadness seeped through his suave facade.  “The duchess, she is in good health?”

“Yes, my mother is quite well, thank you.”  No bitterness, no hurt feelings loomed as a black cloud over her heart.  “And your family?”

“The same, thank you.”  Lord Darwith shifted his weight, tugged on his coat sleeves, pulled a kerchief from his pocket, and wiped his brow.  Suddenly, the calm confidence dissipated, and his demeanor changed.  “Lady Lockwood--Caroline, if I may be so bold.  Please accept a long overdue apology in regard to our failed courtship.  Were I half a man, I should have offered some expression of regret months ago.”

He could have knocked her over with a feather.

On occasions too numerous to count, Caroline had dreamed of this moment.  In her fantasies, she acted aloof, even cut Lord Darwith in full view of the
ton
.  Glorious vindication and smug satisfaction would at last be hers.

Instead, she felt only sympathy.

Because she had married Trevor, and basked in the glow of true love every day of her life, she could summon nothing beyond pity for the melancholy viscount.  At the very least, he had earned everlasting mercy for willingly shackling himself to the cold-hearted wretch he called wife.

The irons of the past loosened, and her heart broke free of the pain, humiliation, and distrust.  Gone was the bone-gnawing sorrow and self-disgust.  In its place remained blissful relief and a spirit of forgiveness unlike any she had known since childhood.

And in that second, Caroline realized she had never loved this man.  “My lord, an apology is not necessary.  What happened between us has been forgotten.”

“Dearest lady.”  He shook his head and chuckled.  “The ignorance of my youth blinded me to the qualities most important in a mate.”

“You must not say such things.”  She checked to make sure no one near could hear their discussion.  “And I am a happily wedded woman.”

“Have no fear on my account.”  The charismatic viscount snared a brandy from a passing maid.  “I should sooner sever my right arm than hurt you again.”

“My, but you sound gloomy.”  Caroline grinned, which he returned, measure for measure.  “Let us leave behind such depressing matters.  Tell me what you have been doing with yourself.”

“Well, I have just procured a rare Egyptian artifact,” he stated with boyish enthusiasm.  “It is from the eighteenth dynasty.”

“Really?”  A marvelous idea occurred to her.  “You are still collecting?”

“Indubitably.”  He quirked a corner of his mouth.  “Hunting antiquities is my sole passion in life.”

“Lord Darwith.”  Bubbling with excitement, Caroline could barely contain herself.  “I wonder if you might help me with a personal enterprise?”

“Countess, I am your servant to command.”

“Excellent, but you must promise to keep our secret from my husband.”

#

The bunk pitched, Trevor rolled to one side and came awake.  When a flash of light spilled through the stern windows, he tossed his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood.  An ominous rumble shattered the quiet of his cabin, and the ship heeled hard a starboard.  He ended up back in bed.

“Bloody hell.”

Using his hands, feeling his way inch by inch, Trevor located his breeches, boots, and shirt.  In a strange waltz across the boards, he stumbled in the direction of his locker and pulled on his wool coat and oilskin raingear.  The
Hera
bucked, and he lunged for the door.

“Christ Jesus!”

Metal was cold to his palm as he twisted the knob, held tight to the frame, and sidled into the hall.

In similar fashion, hugging the wall, Dirk exited his quarters.  “I would say we have encountered a nasty storm.”

“What was your first clue?” Trevor asked as they crawled on deck.

Chaos blew a violent welcome of wind and rain, and the men of the middle watch struggled to secure a sail.  Through the downpour, he located the boatswain clinging to the mainmast.

“Mr. Boyle, get the crew below at once.”

“Aye, sir.  The tempest caught us off guard, and we barely managed to take in the canvas.”  The old salt pointed skyward.  “And I have one ensnared high in the rigging, Cap’n.”

A wave crashed over the bow, dousing Trevor in bone chilling seawater.  Bursts of lightning illuminated the hectic scene, and he spied the outline of a body dangling in the ropes.  Could the situation get any worse?

“Bloody everlasting hell.”

“Make for the quarterdeck,” Dirk shouted.  “I will get your man down.”

“This is my ship and crew, you head for the helm.”  Trevor grabbed a fistful of Dirk’s gear.  “Steer into the wind, or we will be sleeping with sharks.”

“Do I look like a virgin?”  The viscount wrenched free.  “Save your sailor, I know what to do.”

The motion of the ocean sent Trevor flying into the shrouds.  With a death grip on the ratlines, he began his ascent.  Raindrops rode the mighty gale, and his face and eyes burned beneath nature’s assault.  Higher and higher, he climbed as the world around him erupted in an awesome display of raw power.  When he slipped, he sucked in a breath and uttered a silent prayer.

“Caroline.”

As soon as he said her name, Trevor questioned his sanity.  Hell and the Reaper nipped at his heels, and all he could think of was his wife.  The taste of her sweet tongue lingered on his lips, the velvety softness of her hair played on his fingertips, and the sumptuous warmth of her body comforted him even now.

From somewhere deep inside him, he found the courage to climb.

Time seemed to stand still as he navigated the ropes.  At the platform where the topmast capped the lower masthead, he regrouped.  With a leg tangled in the line, the crewman listed upside down in the wind.

“Can you hear me?”  Trevor caught his attention.

“Cap’n, you should not be here,” the sailor hollered in response.

At least the poor soul was conscious.  “Have you any broken bones?”

“No, sir.  Just a rope burn.”

Thank heaven for small favors.  But the real trick would be freeing the tar without sending both of them tumbling into the sea.  A possible solution dawned, and he shimmied to the topmast stay.  From his precarious perch, he leaned forward, caught hold of the mariner’s coat, and pulled hard.

The ship lurched, and Trevor lost his footing.

With one hand, he clutched the stay.  All of a sudden, the captain was in greater peril than the subordinate, who remained trapped in the rigging.  Gusts of air buffeted his body, and the mast mutated into a cruel whipping post.  On the howling gale, a familiar voice delivered a plea.

Come back to me
.

Trevor closed his eyes and envisioned his bride.  An image of her smiling face formed in his mind, and his memory supplied the rest of her curvaceous figure.  Unfailing honesty and unshakeable support shimmered in her gaze.  Caroline lifted her arms and reached for him.

I love you
.

The strength of a hundred men invested his fatigued frame, and Trevor opened his eyes and crawled to the platform.  The
Hera
sailed into the wind and sliced through the waves.  As the bow crested, he wedged a foot in the topmast shrouds and arced with the movement of the ship.  Grasping a fistful of the sailor’s coat, he jerked the sea dog upright as the stern lifted.  When the bow again crested, he released his charge, and the mariner dropped safely to the platform.

While the trip up the mast had seemed endless, the descent took only a few minutes.  After dispatching the injured tar, he plotted a course for the quarterdeck and relieved Dirk from the helm.

“That was some rescue,” said the viscount, clutching the rail.  “Had I not witnessed it for myself, I would not have believed your report.”

“I do not follow.”  Trevor made a futile attempt to dry his face.

“I am referring to your mission summary.”  A wave crashed over the larboard side, Dirk grabbed the wheel and helped maintain their heading.  “Admiral Douglas will be quite impressed with your performance.”

“I do not intend to mention it.”  Trevor groaned as the tempest delivered another saltwater bath.  “I was doing my duty.”

“Lockwood, you are a better man than you let on.”

“Can you steer with your mouth closed?”

The annoying nobleman laughed and said nothing more.

In the wee hours of the morning, the storm abated, and they anchored twenty miles off the coast of Lisbon to await further orders.  Trevor sent Dirk below decks but refused to be relieved by the first watch.  Although he was dead tired, he knew sleep would not come easy, if it came at all.

When a sliver of gold divided sea from sky, he relinquished the helm to the first mate and took a post at the stern rail.  Smooth as satin was the calm ocean, but inside him an emotional torrent raged.  His mind raced with denials, but the battle was lost.  Fear settled as a lead ball in his belly.  While he might lie to himself, no longer would his heart be ignored.

Trevor was in love with his wife.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Countess, I am honored by your presence at my little gathering.”  Lady Darrow smiled and ushered Caroline into the well-appointed townhouse.

“And I am equally honored by your gracious invitation.”  A butler accepted her wrap, and Caroline strolled through a double-door entrance that opened into the drawing room.

After enduring over a fortnight of curious outings with her brother and Damian, and their rakish shenanigans, she had sent a note informing Blake that she could not attend the Hogart’s musicale.  Pleading a severe case of megrims, Caroline had sought to stretch her independent wings and partake of an evening at the theatre on her own.

A chorus of whispers greeted her arrival at the stately residence, which seemed odd in light of the innocuous affair.  Did no one think her capable of contributing an educated opinion to the cultural review group?  Of course, the fact that she could claim only the slightest acquaintance with those present might have had something to do with the chilly reception.

“Lady Lockwood, Lord Sheldon has expressed an interest in your company,” the hostess said with a peculiar gleam in her eye.  “If you will allow me to make the introductions.”

A sinfully beautiful man sketched a dramatic bow and cast her a brazen glance as though he knew how she looked in her chemise.  “Countess, this is pleasure.”

“You are most kind, Lord Sheldon.”  She extended her hand and shivered with unease when his lips lingered scandalously at her wrist.  “S-so, you are a fan of the theatre, my lord?”

“Good God, no.”  Lord Sheldon escorted her to a green damask covered sofa.  “Must confess I cannot stomach such drivel.”

“Oh?”  Gooseflesh encompassed her from top to toe, though she could not comprehend the cause of her distress.  “Then why are you here?”

“The same reason as everyone else, for a bit of companionship to pass the time.”  The audacious lord hovered inappropriately near.  “May I call you Caroline?”

“You are too bold, sir.”  Panic traipsed her spine, and she inched to one end of the sofa.

“And you are a delight, my dear.”  In less than a second, he closed the distance.

“When will we get started?” she asked in a high-pitched voice, hoping to find refuge from the unwanted advances in intelligent discourse.

“Sweet lady, we can begin right now.”  The nobleman chuckled and stood.  “Come, I believe Lady Darrow has prepared my usual accommodations.”

“I do not follow.”  Caroline swallowed hard as he brought her to her feet.  “Why can we not do it here?”

“A woman after my own heart.”  Lord Sheldon tapped a finger to her nose.  “You are a naughty girl.”

“There must be...I am not sure...I don’t understand.”  Something in his expression drew her up short, and she dug her heels into the rich carpet.  But the insufferable man would brook no refusal.  With an arm at her waist, he led her into the foyer.

And a familiar face embodied the escape for which she had prayed.

“Lord Markham, what a wonderful surprise.”

“What on earth are
you
doing here?”  Everett blinked, as would an owl.

“Are you a member of Lady Darrow’s theatre group, too?”  Lord Sheldon’s grip on her elbow tightened, and Caroline inclined her head.  “Pray a moment, sir.  His lordship and I are old friends.”

“Theatre group?”  Everett’s brows almost reached his hairline.  He opened, and then closed his mouth.  “You can’t be serious.  Did the blackguard lure you here under false pretenses?  In the name of Lord Lockwood, I demand satisfaction.”

As it appeared the two men were planning to duel in the foyer, Caroline intervened.

“My lord, I came here of my own volition.”  She readily accepted Everett’s proffered escort.  “But I am confused.  What usually occurs at these cultural reviews?”

“Cultural reviews--”  Lord Markham choked.  “Is that what you thought?”

“Of course.”  She shrugged.  “Why else would I be here?”

“Walk with me.”  Everett steered her along the sidewall.  “You should not have ventured into this lair of wolves.  If Trevor finds out he will hang us both from the nearest yardarm.”

“Lord Markham, you are talking in riddles.”

“Look around,” he whispered into her ear.  “Do you not see the men and ladies pairing off?”

“But, they are wives of--”

“Marital vows matter not when one seeks divertissements of a carnal nature.”

The intimation of his words, the crude education, opened her eyes.  Only then did she recognize the loaded stares and illicit caresses of the mating dance.