The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) (2 page)

After a French ship had landed one too many direct hits to the
Siren’s
boards, Dalton had anchored off Portsea Island for an emergency field refitting. Once the leaks had been sealed, he had permitted the greater portion of his crew to indulge in a bit of local entertainment, while he remained aboard ship.

As a Nautionnier Knight of the Brethren of the Coast, a daring band of experienced sea captains descended of the Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, he savored the quiet hours, with nothing but the wind thrumming in the rat lines and the waves lapping at the hull. And even at the age of one and thirty, stargazing reigned supreme as a particular favored hobby, so he often doused the stern lanterns and studied the night sky, which is why the three bandits had not noted his presence, or the first mate, when they scampered over the larboard rail.

Given the interloper’s small frame, Dalton guessed the criminal could not have been more than a lad. As the
Siren’s
stores contained plenty of supplies, and hunger persisted during times of war, he abided the bit of mischief, in the spirit of generosity.

The plunderer bent to pilfer a tin of tea, and his breeches stretched taut over his backside. To Dalton’s amazement, he realized the villain was a woman, as he would know the telltale shapely, feminine derriere from a distance of fifty paces. Judging from the silhouette, the mystery lady had been blessed with a prime figure, which he ached to know on a more intimate level.

“You know, there are easier ways to earn a bit of coin and food, my dear.” He emerged from his hiding place. “Take off your hood, and let me gaze upon the rest of you. If I like what I see, we may broker a deal.”

The infinitely interesting prey shrieked and cringed. Then she edged toward the companion ladder, but he beat her to it.

“Come now, dove. There is no need to fear me, as we might strike a bargain, which benefits us, both.” Now he noted her ample bosom, as his soon-to-be bunkmate faced him. Fascinated, he longed to assess her complexion, as he splayed wide his arms. “And if you apply yourself, in earnest, and please me, I shall bestow upon you a handsome reward, and you need never burgle passing ships, again, as it is dangerous business.”

When he moved in her direction, she emitted the softest whimper and retreated. Clutching the bag to her chest, she skittered to the left and sheltered behind a few crates of vegetables. His quarry was fast, but Dalton was faster. As he closed the distance between them, she leaped atop a heap of sacks containing rice and dried beans.

The thrill of the chase burned in his loins and piqued the pirate in his pants, which had suffered serious neglect, in recent months. Given the importuning antics of his latest paramour, the well-used Lady Moreton, whose harbor had seen more action than Deptford, he sported for a new conquest, and it appeared she had found him, to his credit.

In the soft lamplight, he discovered the purest blue eyes he had ever glimpsed, peeking from the mask, and a lush mouth with lips as red as a pomegranate, and he had to have her. But the captivating swindler remained mute and refused to cooperate, as she evaded his spontaneous lunge. While his grand maneuver granted him nothing more than a close inspection of the wood grain on the deck, she availed herself of the opportunity to sprint to the companion ladder, and he shot to his feet and pursued what he vowed would be his future courtesan.

At the waist, she collided with one of her cohorts, just as shouts of alarm signaled the first mate and the cook, who wielded a large frying pan, chased the third conspirator.

“Come back here, you rascal.” Mr. Shaw bounded onto the deck, with a pistol aimed at the tallest of the boarders. “You there, hold hard.”

“As you were, Mr. Shaw.” Dalton stayed the first mate. “There is no need for violence, given the lady and I have just entered negotiations. What say you, pretty britches? I shall let your friends go free, if you agree to spend the night with me.”

For a few seconds, the odd trio shuffled their feet and exchanged wary glances. Then the two heartier thieves drew the woman to the rear and shook their heads.

“More’s the pity.” Dalton chuckled. “As you leave me no option but to summon the watch and have you arrested.”

The female flinched, and he could smell her fear. Together, the clumsy band of vagabonds inched closer to the rail. When the woman peered over the side, he guessed her intent.

“Steady, love. Do not attempt something you might later regret, as we are all friends, here.” With palms upraised in implied surrender, Dalton glanced at the first mate. “Mr. Shaw, lower the weapon.”

The first mate vented a snort of disgust. “But, sir—”

“Lower the bloody weapon. That is an order.” Dalton took two tentative steps forward. “Easy, love. Remain calm, as I will not hurt you.”

Just then, one of the bandits untied and kicked over an empty rain barrel, which had been lashed to the side, and sent it tumbling in Dalton’s direction. In a panic, the first mate discharged the pistol, and the female screamed.

“Stand down, Mr. Shaw.” Dalton cursed under his breath, as two of the thieves jumped the railing. After unleashing a second barrel, the last of the criminals escaped.

“Hell and the Reaper.” The cook blanched and scratched his chin. “I presumed you were joking, but they had a woman in their midst.”

“Sorry, Cap’n.” The first mate tucked the firearm in his waistband. “Had I known of the lady, I would not have fired.”

“No worries, as their theft consisted of nothing more than food from our stores, and I do not believe you hit anyone.” Standing a-larboard, Dalton smiled, as the brazen crooks eluded capture via a small rowboat. Then a scrap of red caught his attention. The velvet pouch, which he bent to retrieve, had protected a valuable artifact, but now it sat empty. “Did our uninvited guests invade my cabin?”

“Aye, sir.” Mr. Shaw nodded. “That is when I roused the villains.”

In that instant, Dalton frowned. “Then the nameless scoundrels are not harmless, and their cause is not so noble, as I had thought, given they have taken something invaluable to my family, so we shall meet again.”

“But how will we find them, sir?” The cook hugged his cast-iron skillet. “As they have disappeared around the bend.”

“Fret not, old friend.” Dalton lowered his chin and flipped his familiar coin, which landed, however apropos, on tails. “They don’t call me the lucky one, for nothing.”

#

The beautiful spring morning dawned with nary a hint of the wicked tempest that had struck Portsea Island two days ago. Stretching her arms, Daphne Harcourt gazed out the window, which boasted a spectacular view of the Channel, and reminisced of the carefree existence of her youth, when she often ran through the grassy meadow that flanked Courtenay Hall. But that time had long since passed, which had been emphasized by recent harrowing events, the dark nature of which she had yet to untangle, so she drank the last of her tea and pushed from the dining room table.

In the main corridor of her childhood home, which doubled as the governor’s official residence, as was her father’s post, she paused before the oval mirror and checked her appearance. At the age of three and twenty, she was, for all intents and purposes, a spinster. A bluestocking. On the shelf. Oh, there were endless names to describe the seemingly hopeless despair of maidenhood to which she had resigned herself, in the wake of unforeseen incidents that had left her scrambling to maintain her family and property, with no possibility of a future of her own or the fantasies she had coveted.

With a sigh of lament for the misspent dreams of her early years, she adjourned to papa’s study, settled in the leather chair behind his desk, and opened the account ledger. After twice calculating the sum of the month’s expenditures, she collapsed in the seat and vented a plaintive cry. Growing ever more desperate with each successive week, she could discern no escape from her perilous predicament, despite many sleepless nights in search of a solution.

“Excuse me, Miss Daphne.” Hicks, the butler, cleared his throat. “There is a gentleman just arrived to see your father.”

“Oh?” Sifting through the various logs, she located the appointment book, flipped to the current date, and frowned. “There is no scheduled meeting.”

“Shall I make your excuses?” the servant inquired, with an expression of sympathy.

“No.” She stood and smoothed the skirt of her pale yellow morning dress. “To turn away our caller would rouse unwanted suspicion. Show him in, at once.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Hicks dipped his chin.

With a quick assessment of the surroundings, she nodded at no one and strolled to the window, which overlooked the rose garden. How many afternoons she had enjoyed, tending the plants her mother had pruned with love and care.

“Miss Daphne, allow me to present Sir Dalton Randolph.” With very proper airs, which she found rather amusing, given his usual affable mannerisms, Hicks made the introductions. “Sir Dalton, this is Miss Daphne Harcourt, Governor Harcourt’s eldest child.”

It was then she spared a glance at her visitor—and almost fainted.

At well over six feet tall, the imposing figure of a man would have intimidated her under any circumstance. With sun-kissed brown hair, amber eyes that harked a comparison with papa’s brandy, chiseled cheekbones, and a patrician nose, his masculine aura bespoke raw power mingled with sinful beauty. And when he smiled, gooseflesh covered her from top to toe.

Wearing an evergreen coat, a tan waistcoat, a crisp white cravat, fawn-colored breeches, and polished hessians, the tailored noble’s garb had done little to temper the enormity of his frame or dispel the danger he exuded. Even in the dim light from his cargo hold, and later, above deck, she had thought him quite stunning, as he had chased her. But looming as the specter of doom in her midst, he well nigh took her breath away, for more reasons than one.

“Sir Dalton—”

“Oh, let us dispense with the formalities.” With brazen immodesty, he surveyed her, and she swallowed hard. “It is just Dalton. And may I be so bold as to address you informally?”

“Of course.” With a casual wave, she dismissed Hicks and then extended her hand. “What can I do for you, Dalton?”

“You may begin by telling me why I have never had the pleasure of your charming company in the
ton’s
ballrooms.” Then he grasped her fingers, bent, and pressed his lips to her bare knuckles, lingering a tad too long by her estimation, and she shuddered. Although she had uttered a silent prayer he had not noted her reaction to his otherwise innocuous kiss, his arched brow and devilish grin belied her hope. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

“Why do you ask?” Panic wreaked havoc on her senses, when she attempted to withdraw, and he held firm. She had heard of his sort, the kind of superficial seducer that was more than happy to avail himself of her attributes but had no interest in her heart, and she girded herself with that knowledge. “And I have never journeyed to London.”

“How exceedingly cruel, as you deny us one of England’s brightest flowers.” The rake had the audacity to wink. “And now might I have a word with Governor Harcourt?”

“You pay me a great compliment.” Still, he would not relinquish her hand. “And I am sorry to disappoint you, but my father is not in residence.”

“What time do you expect him?” Dalton drew imaginary circles in her palm.

“He is away.” She inhaled a shaky breath.

“When will he return?” His voice poured over her, like honey on a hot scone.

Clinging to her wits by a thread, Daphne struggled to relax. “I cannot say.”

“Where has he gone?” Why could she not tear herself from his clutch?

“He is on the mainland.” Because she had not wanted to incite any alarm, she acquiesced.

“You are curiously vague.” He shifted his weight.

“And I might charge you are quite intrusive.” She shuffled her feet.

“I beg your pardon, my dear.” He pressed her palm to the crook of his arm. “And who has the Crown appointed to serve in Governor Harcourt’s stead?”

She blinked. “I do not follow.”

“No doubt your father notified the King of the temporary absence, as required by his station?” Bereft of compunction and any semblance of polite conduct, he gazed upon her as if he knew how she looked in her chemise, and she cursed the burn of a blush. “As someone of singular authority must supervise the territory and safeguard the governor’s fascinating daughter.”

“Portsea is a small community. We are, in every respect, an extended family.” Goodness, the dimpled man was lethal, and she ignored his last statement. How many bloody questions would he ask, as she had to get rid of him? “And I often assume my father’s duties, sir. Daresay he saw no reason to concern the King.”

“Given we are at war, and the advantageous location, Portsea Island is of vital importance to the Crown’s military interests.” Dalton led her to a Hepplewhite chair, and then he occupied the mate. “Never would His Majesty abandon the superior landscape to a mere wisp of a girl.”

“You insult me, sir.” Daphne folded her arms and found safe harbor in his effrontery. “I would have you know I have had no need of a governess for some four years.”

“
Four
years?” He whistled in monotone. “You are a regular Hester Stanhope.”

“And now you make sport of me.” It was too late, when she realized she had taken his bait, and she averted her stare. “Let me assure you, Sir Dalton, that I am quite capable of managing the daily functions of my father’s office, as I have often helped him, with his tutelage, encouragement, and blessing. So how may I serve you?”

“What a provocative proposal, and I vow to weigh your offer with due consideration.” He chuckled, a rich throaty rumble that had her curling her toes in her slippers. “But, for now, I wonder if the governor has mentioned a rogue band of vagabonds stealing from docked ships, in the area?”

“Why—yes.” Daphne almost swallowed her tongue. “But they are, to my knowledge, harmless, as they seek nothing more than food. Would you raise such a ruckus over a few missing potatoes?”