The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (26 page)

“Ruaidri,” she choked out, the tears overwhelming her such that she couldn’t catch her breath. “Where is he?”

Hadley, again. “Who?”

“
Ruaidri
!” she shouted in a voice that was anything but a lady’s, and burst into fresh tears.

Stunned silence from both men as they realized she had used her captor’s given name. Not “that rogue,” or “that scoundrel” or even “O’ Devir,” but Ruaidri, a strange and very Irish-sounding name that had rolled off her tongue with more ease and familiarity than either of the men, exchanging glances above her head, were comfortable with. Andrew got to his feet, pulling her with him. Hadley gave her an assessing, penetrating look, then stepped back to finally allow her a view of the deck behind him.

Nerissa’s heart stopped beating. She took a step forward, another, and stared, mute. At the blue-and-white clad body sprawled face-down on the quarterdeck some twenty feet away. At the wildly curling black hair lying in a reluctant queue between the broad, powerful shoulders, the cocked hat upside-down on the deck nearby. At the spreading stain of blood beneath him that turned the white breeches crimson and trickled first to starboard, then to larboard, then back to starboard in confusion as the brig rolled beneath them in shared agony.

Her world tilted and swayed and she knew, suddenly that she was going to be sick.

“That…
animal
will never harm you again,” the British captain was saying, unable to keep the triumph from his voice. “You are indeed safe now, Lady Nerissa.”

She wrenched free of her brother’s arm and made it to the rail just in time to spill a very unladylike spew of vomit into the merciless sea below.

Chapter 20

Fuck
, Hadley thought, in silent rage. He’d seen the look of stunned devastation on Lady Nerissa’s face. He’d seen her go white, then gray, before she’d run to the rail to puke her guts out. He’d heard of hostages falling in love with their captors or at least, taking their sides in things and defending them vehemently. Thank God he’d gotten to her in time. A hot bath and some decent food in her stomach, some skillful handling of both her and her brother, and he could hopefully undo the damage that O’ Devir (may his Irish carcass rot in hell) had wrought. Indeed, if he played his cards right, he could paint himself as both savior and hero and emerge from this debacle with Lady Nerissa’s affections transferred squarely to
him
in undying gratitude.

But he could not shake the thought that was foremost in his mind. Had O’ Devir compromised her? Had his way with her? Taken her innocence?

Tight-lipped, he looked at her standing there at the rail, her brother rubbing her back and offering a handkerchief so she could wipe her mouth. She had recovered somewhat, her shoulders set and stiff with pride, but she kept her back to him in silent, pointed rebuff as though
he
was the one who had done something wrong.

Or maybe, he told himself hopefully, she just didn’t want to look at O’ Devir’s corpse.

He
did, though, and turning, allowed himself that indulgence. It would not do to smile, of course, and he schooled his face into a look of sober respect as he drank in the delicious sight of his dead rival. He was good at masking his emotions. He always had been. But triumph swelled his heart, and that triumph would sustain him when he eventually went to the grateful Duke of Blackheath to ask for the lady’s hand.

“Squall coming in from the west, sir.”

It was McPhee. Roused from his thoughts, Hadley followed the lieutenant’s gaze. Sure enough, dark, angry-looking clouds were piling up atop the distant horizon—no surprise, given the day’s heat.

“Finish up here. I want to get Lady Nerissa back to England as soon as possible before this scandal can blow sky-high.” He clapped his first lieutenant on the shoulder and grinned, unable to keep his good mood under such tight wraps any longer. “Any promising young lieutenant craves the chance to command, eh, Mr. McPhee? You will sail this brig back to London. She’s so new the worms haven’t even found her bottom yet. The rebels, if nothing else, build fine ships—she’ll fetch a good price at auction for us.”

The young Scot’s gaze flashed around Hadley’s epauletted shoulder. “Er, heads up, sir.”

Turning, Hadley saw the lady, head high and eyes flashing, coming back toward them. He smiled and inclined his head. “Are you ready to depart, Lady Nerissa?”

“No, I am not ready to depart. In fact, I am staying here,” she said flatly, and he sensed that beneath her veneer of strength she was about to shatter and doing her best to hide it, as her breeding and the expectations that accompanied it, demanded. “Being the gentleman you are, I’m sure you intend to offer me the use of your own quarters, Captain Hadley, and I have no wish to put you out on my account. My things are here. I am comfortable here and to be honest, I’ve had quite enough for one day. More than enough. I don’t fancy a move to your frigate or anywhere else.”

Hadley raised a brow, his mouth twitching in irritation.
Of course she wanted to stay here. It was where her memories with O’ Devir were.

He bowed deeply. “My dear Lady Nerissa, I can assure you it is no trouble at all to give up my cabin. It is, indeed, what any gentleman would do, and without complaint.”

She was unrelenting. “I am staying here.”

Hadley looked to Lord Andrew for support. The younger man shrugged as if to say that women were women, and there was no use arguing with them.

Especially
this
one.

Hadley tried another tack. “I hope, Lady Nerissa, that your ‘things’ here aboard this brig include…er, more suitable clothing for a young lady of your station, than what you are currently wearing?”

Wrong move.

Oh, so wrong….

Her pale blue eyes hardened but she still managed to freeze him with an icy smile. “I have my gown, Captain. Salt spray and tar have ruined it. One of Captain O’ Devir’s men was to make me some petticoats out of sailcloth so that my wearing of his midshipman’s garb would not be so offensive to easily-bruised sensitivities such as yours. In fact—”

“Nerissa, please,” said Lord Andrew, his hand on her arm. “He’s only trying to help. And I concur with him. I want you off this ship. What happened to you here, and what you’ve seen today is something I’d like to separate you from sooner rather than later.”

“I’d say sooner,” Hadley said, with a baleful look at the swelling storm clouds.

The beautiful china-blue eyes pinned him with contempt. “I will stay here.”

He could not force her, as much as he’d like to. It would only make her resent him all the more, and alienate the brother who might be instrumental in making his case to the Duke of Blackheath for the lady’s hand in marriage. A bit of scandal—not too much, but just enough to make her undesirable to the more eligible bluebloods who’d be his competition…he, painting himself as the hero who had saved her in order to win over the duke…oh, he could deal with her resentment toward him. It wouldn’t take much to win her, and he could start by letting her have her way, at least, for now.

Once they were married, things would, of course, be different….

He bowed solicitously. “Very well, Lady Nerissa. You have, indeed, been through enough. I have given command of this vessel to my first lieutenant here, and he will see to your comfort and well-being on the short trip back to England.” He turned to the officer. “Keep us in sight, Mr. McPhee. Any trouble, signal to us.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Lord Andrew?”

“I will remain here with my sister. I’m sure I can find a cabin somewhere now that what remains of this ship’s crew and officers have been either killed or imprisoned in the hold, below.”

Hadley had had enough of treating these rebels as though they actually deserved the respect of a sovereign nation’s navy. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but you give these traitors to our king and country far too much honor. They have no navy, despite their silly uniforms and customs copied, I must say, from our own Navy, and they most certainly have no ‘officers.’ They are a nothing but a bunch of pirates and will be dealt with severely upon our return to England.”

Lord Andrew said nothing, though Hadley saw a flat hardness come into his eyes that wasn’t much different from what he’d seen in his sister’s.

“Both of you, go back to the frigate,” Nerissa said. “I wish to be alone.”

“You can’t be left here unchaperoned.”

“At this point, does it even matter?” she retorted and again, Hadley sensed the brittleness beneath the facade of steel. “I’m ruined. At least give me the dignity and space in which to heal without doting, overly concerned men interfering in that process.”

Lord Andrew looked wounded, but he exchanged a helpless look with Hadley. “Nerissa, this goes against everything I—”

“Please, Andrew. I’ll lock the door. I’ll be safe, and neither of us have to tell Lucien about any of this.” She glanced at the lieutenant. “I’m sure Lieutenant McPhee can post a guard outside if it makes either of you feel any better.”

“Most certainly my lady, I would be happy to do that,” piped up the young lieutenant.

Lord Andrew debated with himself for another moment or two but in the end, the distant squall decided him.

“I won’t leave you,” he said. “But I will give you your space. I’ll take one of O’ Devir’s men’s cabins, you can have the main one, and the matter is settled.”

* * *

Lieutenant McPhee might have been young but he had three sisters who fancied themselves constantly in and out of love, and he prided himself on being a quietly observant man.

He knew women, better, he suspected, than either Hadley or Lord Andrew did. It did not escape his notice that Lady Nerissa carefully avoided looking at O’ Devir lying dead on his quarterdeck while Hadley and her brother were watching her, but she didn’t fool him. He saw the way her stricken gaze went straight to the scoundrel when Hadley and Lord Andrew weren’t watching her, saw the way her eyes filled up with fresh tears as they all walked past the body as though it wasn’t even there, saw the way her steps faltered, so imperceptible that her own brother, chatting with Hadley at his side, had not even noticed. McPhee felt for her. He saw his captain piped over the side and back to the frigate, quickly got her ladyship settled in the brig’s main cabin and her brother in one of the officer’s ones, and returned to the pressing business of ensuring the brig was seaworthy.

It was his first real command. He would make it count.

Forward, a complement of the frigate’s men, wielding axes and working against time and nature, had finished cutting her jib-boom free of the brig’s rigging and the two ships began to ease apart. Midshipman Walters was overseeing the hasty splicing and replacement of standing rigging and nearby, a carpenter was hard at work patching a hole above the waterline. Hadley had spared him only a dozen men, but it would have to be enough.

He paused next to Walters. “You were brave today in battle, Philip. I will make note of it to Captain Hadley when we return to the frigate.”

“Thank you, sir.” His voice dropped and he glanced around to ensure others were out of earshot. “I was terrified.”

“A normal and healthy response when it comes to self-preservation, laddie,” said McPhee, wryly. “You’ve done a good job clearing the decks of debris, but I’m afraid we’ll have to deal with the dead bodies sooner rather than later. The men, they’re a superstitious lot, especially with a storm off to windward.”

The midshipman nodded.

“Prisoners all secured below, Mr. Walters?”

Of course they were, but McPhee, relishing his first command, was leaving nothing left to chance. The rebel crew, sullen and defeated, had been rounded up and herded below where they would be imprisoned in the dark hold until they got back to England. There, they would be sent to Mill Prison or some other hell hole where they’d spend what was left of their lives wishing they’d met their end here today instead. The brig would be auctioned off to fetch a hefty sum that would line all their pockets, and if the discreet, wolfish gleam in Hadley’s eyes had been anything to go by, the courtship of Lady Nerissa would begin as soon as the captain managed to break through her resentment.

McPhee shook his head. The lady had been through enough, and Hadley hadn’t even had the decency to give her time to sort herself out before trying to impress her. Opportunistic sod, he thought, then put the thought out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to criticize, even in the privacy of his own mind, his commanding officer.

“I need to oversee that new jib before that storm hits,” he said. “In the meantime, Mr. Walters, I’m afraid you’ll have to play undertaker. The men are already uneasy about the dead rolling around in their own blood, and the sooner they’re disposed of, the better. I want their attention on sailing the ship, not imaginary ghosts.”

“Aye, sir.”

Three of those men were nearby, tightening deadeyes on the jury-rigged main shrouds and glancing nervously over their shoulders as if expecting the dead to rise up and murder them. “You, there!” said Walters importantly, aware of McPhee beside him. “Smith, Bates and Dobson! Come with us. We need to dispose of the dead.”

The three men knuckled their forelocks to this youngster who was half their age but better bred than they could ever hope to be, and went to the nearest corpse, a pigtailed rebel with receding blond hair whose considerable girth was stuffed into a tightly buttoned waistcoat. His eyes were open and staring, and they remained so as Walters ordered the seamen to pick him up, walk him to the side, and throw him over into the embrace of Davy Jones.