Surrender the Stars (51 page)

Ryan glanced at him and exclaimed, "Why, Harry, how fortuitous! I've been looking everywhere for you. Father will be so pleased. He's been worried sick about you!"

"You've beaten us, young Raveneau," Chadwick was muttering. "I don't know how you knew where to find us, how you knew your way along this treacherous coastline, or how you won this battle, but you did."

Ryan feigned solemnity. "One of life's great mysteries, hmm?" Glancing over to two solidly built gunners, he said, "For some reason, I don't trust these two. Stay close to them while Drew gets some handcuffs."

Harry stared at his erstwhile brother-in-law, noting the hard edge to his voice, the masculine way he stood and moved, the simplicity of his garb, and the keen intelligence in his eyes. "You don't act like the same Nathan I knew in London!" he accused.

Francis was leaning forward, peering more closely at Ryan. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear—"

Laughing in a way that sent chills down Harry's spine, Coleraine said, "You two would seem to be at odds on this score. Harry doesn't recognize me and Francis does!"

"It can't be," Chadwick muttered. "Coleraine?"

"Oh, yes, it can," he shot back caustically. "And it is. Just ask your wife, Francis. You thought you'd gotten rid of me for good ten years ago, didn't you? I'm afraid that you made your own luck today, my lord, and all of it bad."

"You mean you're not Raveneau?" Harry demanded. "Coleraine?" He nudged Francis. "Isn't that the name of that marquess you told me about near here?"

Chadwick paled as he considered his current situation. "Look, Coleraine, why don't you just kill me and have done with it?"

"I'm not that charitable."

Drew had arrived with the handcuffs, but when Ryan reached for them, Francis struck out at the gunner at his side and made a mad dash for the
Lady Hester's
larboard rail. Ryan was just inches from gripping the earl's sleeve when Chadwick hurtled over the side. He struck his head against
La Mouette's
hull on the way down and appeared to be already dead when he hit the ocean far below.

Ryan stared down at the body that floated for a few moments before being swallowed by the swelling waves. He turned back just in time to see Harry Brandreth grab a sword from the deck.

"Come on, Raveneau or Coleraine or whatever your name is! Why don't we just settle this score right now!" Without waiting for a reply, he charged with the sword.

Incredulous, Ryan drew his own sword and fended Harry off. He was tired, angry, and out of patience. Blades struck and flashed in the sunlight as Ryan fought with aggressive expertise. In minutes, after an ill-timed lunge by Harry, Ryan had knocked the weapon from his hand and pinned him to the deck with the sharpened point of his sword.

"I've been waiting to do this ever since I found Andre Raveneau alone, wounded, and bleeding in his cabin," he uttered in deadly tones. "You deserve to die—slowly—for what you did to him, and to Mouette, and to the country I love."

Harry was gasping for breath, sweat pouring down his face, as Coleraine increased the sword's pressure. Then, abruptly, it was removed. Ryan stepped away, while the two gunners rushed forward to handcuff the prisoner.

As they hauled him to his feet and led him off, Harry searched Coleraine's face, whimpering, "I don't know why you spared me, but—"

"Don't flatter yourself," Ryan broke in with cold contempt. "I wouldn't dirty my sword with your blood. Now get out of my sight."

When he stepped back onto
La Mouette's
gun deck, Lindsay rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. Ryan held her securely and closed his eyes. Exhausted, drained, and relieved, he silently gave thanks to God that they had all emerged unscathed.

"Oh, Ryan"—Lindsay gulped through her tears—"I was so afraid that I would lose you!"

Over her head, he gave Andre Raveneau a tired wink. "I don't think that's a possibility, angel. I'm yours for life."

Chapter 36

July 2, 1814

The next day at noon, Ryan and Lindsay rode through the village of Clifden, not taking the time to stop. Gray stone cottages with thatched roofs lined the winding cobbled street that rose over the brow of a hill and seemed to disappear into the distant Atlantic Ocean. Lindsay was intrigued by the small Catholic church and its graveyard studded with ringed, ornamented high crosses. When she asked about them, Ryan told her that many were more than a thousand years old.

Men clustered outside the public house, chatting as if they had nothing better to do. Children and dogs scrambled over the cobbled street for a ball while their mothers gossiped. Everyone seemed to be dressed in shades of gray, except for an occasional bright blouse or waistcoat. The villagers almost blended with the stone houses and the stone street, Lindsay thought, but for their animated faces and voices. She only wished she could understand what they were saying! It fascinated her to think that this village was a part of Ryan.

Turning north, they followed the jagged cliffs that bordered the sea. The wind was invigorating and overhead seagulls cried and dipped against a vividly blue sky. Ryan was in his element. The sight of waves crashing against golden beaches and the choppy, sapphire Atlantic stretching to an impossibly distant horizon filled him with both nostalgia and longing. Somewhere inside of Ryan was the boy who had stood on these very cliffs and dreamed of other worlds. He'd had a great deal right here that had gone largely unappreciated, and now that he was a man and had seen so much, Ryan intended to concentrate on learning to enjoy all that he'd gained, not the least of which was the love of an extraordinary woman.

At length, Lindsay called over to him, "I must say I'm surprised that you agreed to let me come with you without an argument!"

He laughed, his shining black hair blowing in the wind. "I may need you! If Blake comes at me with a weapon, I'm counting on you to rush to my defense. I'm far too fatigued after yesterday's exertions to fight again today!"

As they approached the crest of a hill, Ryan reined in his horse, knowing that Clifden Castle would come into view on the other side. How many times during childhood had he walked home this way with Donal, his wolfhound, trotting by his side? Now he paused at the top of the hill, gazing down at the gray stone castle that had been ravaged by the elements for more than two hundred years but remained unbeaten. Hugh Coleraine had built Clifden Castle in 1572, after the style of the older castles he'd admired in England. It was dramatic and imposing, with its crenellated towers and walls, yet was modified enough in size to possess some of the charm of a real home.

"Oh, my." Lindsay sighed admiringly. She looked at Ryan's thoughtful profile and left him to his reverie.

They rode in silence down the grassy hillside and into the courtyard of the castle. When Ryan lifted Lindsay down from her horse, she gazed at him with with emotion.

"It will be all right, darling. I'm sure of it."

He managed a smile. "Well, we'll see."

The iron door knocker fell with an echoing thud, and they waited until at last the door was opened by a butler Ryan didn't recognize.

"We're here to see his lordship," he said.

"Lord Clifden is not taking visitors. He's very ill," the old man intoned.

"I'm afraid he'll have to see us. I am his brother, and I've come a long way."

"Well, I'll inquire. What names shall I give?"

Ryan told him, and they waited in the courtyard for several minutes while the butler disappeared on his errand. Ryan was too tense to talk. He paced back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck with one lean hand, while Lindsay watched him helplessly.

"His lordship will see you," came the voice from within.

They followed the butler through a labyrinth of vaulted stone corridors. The castle was eerily silent, apparently empty except for this solitary servant and his master. Finally, upon reaching a tower door, the butler knocked once and opened it, announcing, "Captain Ryan Coleraine and Miss Lindsay Raveneau, my lord."

They entered a tower room that appeared to be a library, its curved walls lined with rows of dusty books. Rays of sunlight pierced narrow windows, falling on a thin man who lay on a couch in the center of the room. He was covered by two quilts in spite of the warm weather, and the face he turned to Ryan and Lindsay was pinched with sadness.

Ryan didn't move or speak, but his keen gaze searched for the truth in his brother's eyes.

Blake extended a frail-looking hand. "My brother," he whispered.

Tears filled Lindsay's eyes as she watched Ryan walk to the side of the couch, then bend to embrace Blake. The older man began to weep.

"I have to tell you—" He choked.

"I know," Ryan murmured. "Hester has told me all of it. And Chadwick is dead. He won't bother you again."

"I can't ask for your forgiveness. I've been repenting my sins for years, but I'll never find peace in this lifetime. If I'd known how to find you, I'd have put it right long ago."

"Blake, how ill are you?"

"I'm dying." He paused to cough. "I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am for all I've done to you. When I first learned the truth of my parentage, I couldn't bear the thought of giving up my home, of doing that to my family—"

"Never mind," Ryan said gently, patting his hand. "It doesn't matter. I forgive you, if that's what you want to hear. More than that, I'm glad that events transpired as they did. You were much better suited to being a lord of the land here in Ireland than I would have been, especially at that age. I was always restless, you know that, Blake, and I would have rebelled if you had suddenly forced the title on me. You did the right thing and I not only don't blame you, I'm grateful to you."

Blake Coleraine, Marquess of Clifden, gazed through his tears at the strong dark hand that clasped his own thin fingers. The last time he'd seen Ryan, Blake had been only a few years older than his brother was now; vital, handsome, and determined. Yet deception and an unhappy marriage had taken their toll. As the years wore on and his wife and children spent more and more time abroad, he'd shut himself up in this study for days at a time, drinking from breakfast until bedtime. Now, seeing the spark of love in Ryan's eyes, he felt a pang for the life he'd thrown away out of guilt and despair.

"I wish I had talked to you then, brother. If I'd known how you felt—"

"It's all right. We can't reshape the past, only come to terms with it."

"I can, however, set the future to rights!" Blake bent his gray head for a long minute of coughing, then resumed. "You should have been marquess since the instant of Father's death. That injustice must be corrected."

Ryan patted his hand again. "Look, Blake, I appreciate your sincerity, but why don't we leave matters as they stand for the time being? Let's just agree to right them if there's a question of your son inheriting the title."

"We may not have long to wait."

"I don't want to hear any more of that. What exactly is your ailment?"

Blake shrugged hopelessly. "It's difficult to say. This and that..."

"It sounds to me like an acute case of a broken will," Ryan said with a smile. "I think that's curable!" He looked over his shoulder at Lindsay, who nodded in agreement. "And I know just the place to start. We'll give you a healthy dose of Lindsay Raveneau. She can bring anyone out of the doldrums!"

* * *

"Mmph! The food here is excellent! Can't think why I didn't sample it sooner!" Chewing the last bite of salmon, Blake looked around the crowded taproom of Clifden's public house and beamed. He felt transformed. The day's excitement, coupled with this excursion out into the real world, had infused him with the kind of energy he hadn't experienced for a long, long time.

"Probably because you thought a marquess shouldn't mingle with the masses," Ryan suggested gently. "Let's toast to the abolishment of that myth!"

All three of them raised their tankards, then drank thirstily. Lindsay glowed as she watched the two brothers laugh together and noticed the way Blake turned back to finish his boiled cabbage and bacon, then took another piece of soda bread. In spite of his white hair and thin, craggy face, his cheeks were pink with happiness.

"Where did you find this little charmer?" Blake demanded, winking at Lindsay. "What a tonic she's been for me!"

Ryan laughed. "Yes, like all effective medicine, Lindsay's an acquired taste! And we met in Connecticut."

"I thought your brother was the rudest, most conceited man I'd ever laid eyes on!" she added.

Blake looked at the vibrant pair across from him and smiled rather wistfully. "I can't tell you how pleased I am for both of you. I suppose you'll be married the moment you return to London?"

"Just as soon as we can make the proper arrangements." Lindsay nodded. "I'd love to be married at Oxford."

Ryan's brows went up. "You
would?"

She nodded dreamily. "Indeed. Have you ever been to Oxford, Blake?"

"I'm afraid not. I was educated at Trinity College in Dublin. I've scarcely left Ireland my whole life."