The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (14 page)

And yet here she was, still standing here.

“Ye’re not gettin’ any younger,” he prompted.

“And you’re not getting any less arrogant.”

“Aye, don’t hold yer breath on that one.”

She stood there glaring at him.

Ruaidri O’ Devir was nothing if not decisive. He took her into his arms and kissed her.

Chapter 9

What on earth was she doing?

But as he pulled her close, as she felt the warmth of his strong, very manly hand graze her cheek, as he caught the annoying bit of hair that refused to stay in place and gently tucked it behind her ear, Nerissa knew she was doing exactly what she wanted to be doing.

Doing something because it pleased her. Intrigued her.

Excited her.

Kiss me, Captain. Because you are correct, you know, discerning my situation and my feelings in a way that is almost eerie. Can you read my mind, or are you just a cunning judge of circumstance and character? I don’t care that you’re the enemy. I don’t care that Lucien will indeed strangle you with your own entrails. I don’t even care that you’re Irish.

There was nothing chaste and polite about the kiss, though he discreetly turned her so that his own big, powerful body, all the bigger, all the more powerful now that it had moved so close to hers, blocked her from anyone watching on the deck. She felt herself go all liquid inside before he even reached out and took her hand, thumbing her knuckles and rubbing a little circle on the tender underside of her wrist before pulling her up against himself. She struggled to draw breath, her knees going shaky and weak as he drew her closer still, never letting go of her hand, pinning it between their bodies and alarmingly close to the front of his breeches. She felt trapped, somewhat panicked, but the moment was fleeting. In the next instant his other hand had come up to caress her jaw, to graze her cheekbone with the rough pad of his mariner’s thumb before pushing through her hair to cup the back of her head and hold her close.

Nerissa was unprepared for the jolt of raw electricity that coursed through her when his lips finally claimed hers. It was lightning forking out of the sky on a summer night, dangerous, intense, full of burn and energy and force. No polite kiss of propriety was this, as Perry’s had always been, oh, dear Lord, no; this was almost savage in its intensity, masterful in its authority, and warm and hard and delicious and completely overpowering. She heard a moan deep in her own throat and suddenly realized that her hand, still caught in his, was pinned up against something hard and that it was his…his….

Dear God above!

Shaken, she pulled back and hit him. Hard. Not the way a well-bred lady should hit a scoundrel who had taken just a little too much liberty with her, but a stout, well-aimed clout across the side of his jaw given with such force that her brothers, who had taught her how to land a punch, would have been cheering her to the skies. Hard enough that it hurt her knuckles, hard enough that he might even have a bruise in the morning, hard enough that she felt the pleasure of her own strength and indignation.

He didn’t crumple to the deck of course, something that would have brought her great satisfaction.

Instead, he laughed.

“Told ye I knew how to kiss a lass, right an’ proper,” he said simply and offering his elbow, gave her a charming smile that reached all the way to his intense, absurdly long-lashed eyes. “And now that we’ve settled the matter once and hopefully not for all, why don’t we go find you those eggs.”

“And you accuse my betrothed of being an…an arse,” she said.

“Former betrothed.” He began to walk, and she was forced to go with him.

* * *

Nerissa was hard-pressed to call on every aspect of her breeding, her upbringing, her training and her nerves to try and adopt a demeanor that said she had not been affected by Captain O’ Devir’s kiss, and as a de Montforte she had it in her to do just that.
Valour, Virtue, and Victory
was the family motto. And yet, this man—unfairly virile, maddening, brooding one moment, laughing the next—had done things to make the blood in her veins go up in steam and her heart to forget how to beat. The back of her neck was suddenly hot and again, she felt that coiled sensation deep in her belly and centering between her legs, a sensation she knew was reserved for a woman’s husband—not an arrogant Irishman who fought for a losing cause, who showed her none of the deference her class and gender demanded, who wasn’t afraid of Lucien.

Who wasn’t afraid of Lucien.

Imagine that.

“He’ll strangle you on your own entrails.”
She had said it only partly in jest. Lucien would, when he caught up to Ruaidri O’ Devir, find a way to make him pay for abducting his little sister, for ruining her reputation and chances of ever making a respectable marriage, but Lucien’s style wasn’t exactly vulgar; no, he would not strangle the captain with his own entrails, he would likely have him condemned on kidnapping charges and ensure that his best friend, the brilliant barrister Sir Roger Foxcote, got him a date with Tyburn and the public gallows. Lucien would not stay and watch the life being choked out of his sister’s abductor, though he might give the spectacle a passing glance from a gleaming coach; it would be beneath him to do anything more than that. He would not revel in it, but see it done and then ruthlessly set about marrying her off with a speed that would make her head spin.

It never occurred to Nerissa that Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir might be a match for the mighty duke who was her brother.

And it never would. Mere mortals were not on equal footing with gods.

The captain, still beside her, stopped at the cabin door, pushed it open, and led her inside.

“Wipe the scowl off yer face, Sunshine,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”

“You took a liberty with me.”

“You all but asked me to.”

“You were…vulgar.”

“What, by showing ye the effect ye have on me? By forcing ye to listen to yer own body?” He gave a little laugh. “’Twas only a kiss. Not like I stole yer virtue or anythin’.”

He deposited her in his cabin and left her stewing in her own confusion as he went off to find her the promised eggs.

It was only a kiss.

Oh, no, it wasn’t. Not to her it wasn’t. “Only a kiss” was the way she remembered Perry’s kisses—chaste, polite, lukewarm, dutiful. But
this
man’s kisses had set her blood on fire, had made heat singe her veins and dampen her skin; he knew what he was about, this aspiring, ambitious Irishman who fancied himself a real naval captain. How dare he.

Maybe she would strangle him herself, if not with his own entrails, than with a length of line. This was a boat. Or rather, a ship. Plenty of rope to be had.

* * *

The gleaming black coach, its door emblazoned with the Blackheath coat of arms, pulled up outside of the Admiralty early the next morning. Footmen in elegant livery moved quickly to open the door and let down the steps for His Grace. A buzz of importance surrounded his arrival. Moments later, Lucien De Montforte, looking thunderously grim, was stalking from the coach and heading straight for the building.

Lawrence Hadley the Third turned from the window, girding himself for the coming encounter. Moments later, the expected knock on the door came. It swung open to reveal a clerk who was visibly nervous.

“Admiral Hadley, His Grace the Duke of Blackheath…” the clerk trailed off and quickly retreated.

The duke stalked in, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and fixed Hadley with a black stare that promised a gruesome and painful death if information wasn’t immediately forthcoming.

“What is being done about my sister?” he demanded harshly, getting straight to the point.

Hadley poured a glass from a crystal decanter and offered it to the duke; it was ignored.

“The frigate
Happenstance
is weighing as we speak, Your Grace. I can assure you that we—”

“Why isn’t Captain Lord in charge of this affair?”

“The First Lord of the Admiralty did not feel it prudent to put Captain Lord in command of this operation, Your Grace.” Hadley downed his drink. “I know that he has served you well in the past, he is indeed one of our finest officers, but given his wife’s relationship to this rascal that abducted your sister, we has chosen another to see to her rescue instead.”

Blackheath pinned him with a glare that could have melted the ice off a winter lake. “And how long will it take for this frigate to reach Saint-Malo?”

“Barring any interference from the French and a favorable wind, I should hope some time tomorrow.”

“And yet the rendezvous is not until Saturday.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. But the Royal Navy does not, of course, deal with traitors, especially on their terms. It is our belief that the superior size and firepower of the frigate
Happenstance
will cow this rogue into relinquishing her ladyship and that all will end peacefully and with the least damage to both her reputation and person—”

“Your belief had better be correct, Hadley, or I’ll see to it that your naval career sinks faster than one of your ships, do you understand me?”

Hadley spread his hands in a gesture meant to placate. “Your Grace, the Navy is well used to dealing with threats and I am certain we have the situation well under control. In fact, my son himself is commanding the frigate
Happenstance
and will sail to France, under a flag of truce if need be, in advance of the exchange to try and resolve this with force and cunning. I can assure you, he’s a talented officer and, having been raised in America—I was posted there for a time, you know—he knows how these scoundrels think. I have complete faith that he will secure the release of Lady Nerissa and blow this rogue right out of the water. Now please, let the Navy do its job, and—”

“The damned Navy had better do its job or you’ll rue the day you ever met me, do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I can assure you—”

“Get to work,” snarled the duke and without another word, shoved the chair back and slammed out of the room.

Chapter 10

Ruaidri had brought her the eggs. Left her alone in his cabin. Thought about spending the night in the remaining boat, slung out on its davits over the stern, and instead decided to try and snatch what little rest would be afforded him in the same place he’d snatched it the previous night.

Outside the cabin door on the open deck, his head pillowed on his uniform coat, a sea cloak serving as a blanket.

He slept fitfully and woke up stiff and sore while the deck was still dark, but let no man say that Captain Ruadiri O’ Devir of the American Continental Navy was anything but an officer and a gentleman. He would not give his men anything to talk about by sharing a cabin with his captive.

Instead, his presence outside the door behind which she slept, ensured that both her safety and her honor were guarded by someone who held both in the highest of esteem:

Himself.

He was up and on his feet before dawn, walking the stiffness out of his legs, paying a visit to the recovering McGuire, and finding a drop-line so he could catch her the promised fish. As the sun’s golden glow began to peep above the eastern horizon, he ordered the ship hove to. He had spent his earliest years as a fisherman. It didn’t take him long to catch her a fish and true to his word, he quietly carried it down to the galley, filleted it, and throwing some butter into a cast iron frying pan, cooked it for her himself.

He didn’t know why he was going to such effort. He told himself that no gently bred woman would go hungry on an American ship, but he wondered if it was more than that. More than feeling a bit sorry for her. More than feeling guilty that his own actions had indeed ruined her life. Maybe it had nothing to do with any of that, and everything to do with his own damned pride.

He was still thinking about that kiss he’d claimed.

He’d been unable to
stop
thinking about it.

Truth be told, his reaction to it had rattled him a bit…and not much rattled Ruaidri O’ Devir.

She was English, Anglican, aristocracy, part of a hated race, and the fact that his body had responded to her with lust and longing confused the living hell out of him. No good could come of even allowing himself to think past that kiss. She was his hostage. His bargaining tool for the explosive he’d crossed the Atlantic to get, and he could not let himself be sidetracked by any thoughts of a romantic entanglement.

And he needed sleep. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he needed sleep.

Carrying a plate with the still-steaming fish, he opened the door to his cabin, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. Faint light came in through the stern windows, made shadows play on the decking, and he heard the timeless creaking and settling of the ship’s timbers all around him.

There. The girl was sitting at his table, her head pillowed on folded arms, her gown shimmering in the faint light and spilling down over her feet to the deck planking. She was fast asleep.

He moved as silently as a cat toward her and stood there for a moment in the early morning light, his eyes drinking in her beauty. When he had first met her, her pale ivory hair had been carefully pinned up and piled high, her face fashionably pale, her hands in gloves that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. Now, slumped over his desk with her hair spilling over her arms in wanton defeat, she looked like the innocent young woman she was. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Freed, somewhat, from her constraints.