The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (36 page)

“Are ye ready, Nerissa?”

“I’m ready,” she said in a little voice.

“’Twill get better again, I promise. Better than it’s ever been.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“And you, Ruaidri? How do you feel?”

“Faint. But I’ll be damned if that stops me,” he said with a grin, and then, still holding her hands, their fingers interlocked, he began thrusting his pelvis up, trying to get her to join him in the rhythm.

“Ohhhhhh,” she said on a deep and anguished shudder. She closed her eyes, and the deep, searing penetration suddenly moved from pain to pleasure, the slippery friction of it going deeper, withdrawing, deeper, withdrawing, beginning to build a climax within her once more.

It didn’t take her long to find the same rhythm. Her breathing quickened, her blood ignited as she rode him deeper and deeper toward his own release. Her head fell back, her hair swinging with every thrust, her fingers locked with his as the joyous agony rose within her yet again, rising, rising, now peaking as her senses exploded and the spasms convulsed her once more.

And still he thrust, once more, twice, until at last, with a guttural cry, his body went stiff beneath her and she felt the warmth of his seed pulsing into her womb. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he came, anchoring herself as her own convulsions shook her to the core.

It was a moment before she could breathe again.

“Ruaidri,” she said, and realized that he’d gone still, his hand lax within her own.

She pushed back and off of him.

“Ruaidri?” He lay motionless beneath her, his eyes rolled back in his head.

“
Ruaidri!
” she cried, feeling him still locked inside her, shrinking now, sliding out. She grabbed one limp, heavy wrist, chafing it with panicked desperation. “Ruaidri, oh my God!”

Oh dear God she’d killed him! Killed him!

She tried to get up, felt him slide out of her on a rush of moisture, and finally gained her feet, rushing madly to find clothes and run for help. She had just managed to get one leg into her breeches when there was a movement from the cot and her husband turned his head to look at her, an amused little smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Well, that was a first,” he murmured, his grin spreading. “But I quite enjoyed it. Took things to whole new heights, it did. Jay-zus. What are ye doin’ half-into yer breeches and lookin’ like the world’s just come to an end, Nerissa?”

“
What?
” she howled, frozen.

“I said, what the divil are ye doin’, lass?”

“I was going to get help!”

“For what?”

“For you!”

He roared with laughter. “I passed out. Felt good. Incredible, in fact. Never happened to me before…must be the loss of blood.”

“I thought I’d killed you!” she nearly screamed, sobbing with relief. “And you’re lying there laughing about it!”

“Best release I’ve ever had,” he said with a happy sigh. And then, noting her outrage and relief, he moved over on the cot and reached for her. “Get out of those damned breeches, Nerissa, and come join me.”

“Come join you? You just scared the living daylights out of me.”

“We’ll do it again soon,” he said. “And maybe you’ll get used to it. In the meantime, I’m knackered. And freezing-cold. Care to warm a body up, Sunshine?”

He grinned over at her. When he looked at her like that, it was impossible to stay angry with him. Besides, she thought grudgingly, it wasn’t his fault that he’d passed out. He’d lost a lot of blood. What was left had gone to his male organ instead of his brain, and had done him in.

She glared at him, but her anger was short-lived. She stepped out of the breeches and returned to the cot. He reached out to snag her around the waist. She climbed up beside him and nestled her back against his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. He molded himself to her, enclosing her protectively with his own body, and it felt good. Blissfully, blessedly,
good
.

She sighed with contentment. He wrapped a possessive arm over her upper body and pulled her up even closer, his chin buried in her hair, his breath warming the back of her head. Eventually that arm grew lax, and before his warm, heavy weight was sagging into hers, she, too, was asleep.

Chapter 26

Several days later….

Hadley had gone back and scoured the area where he’d put McPhee in command of
Tigershark
. He had studied the currents, sailed with them in search of flotsam and debris, circled the area once, twice, three times, and finally admitting defeat, had made sail for London. Surely, McPhee was waiting for him there. Now, he watched the banks of the Thames become more and more clogged with buildings, wharfs, and vessels unloading their wares, the refuse and dirt of the great city reaching out to encompass everything it touched. He was the picture of calm as he stood on his quarterdeck, barking orders to proceed under topsails and jib alone as he waited for a pilot to come meet him, but to his eye was a spyglass and only he could feel his heart pounding as he anxiously scanned the sea of vessels that clogged the Pool of London.

The American prize brig,
Tigershark
, was not amongst them.

Dewhurst tried to offer a bit of hope. “Maybe they got delayed by the storm,” he murmured, though a sideways glance at his face showed his own doubt and silenced him immediately.

“They’re not here. Damn it to hell,
they’re not here
.”

His lieutenant kicked at an imaginary deck seam. “Might’ve lost some rigging and got delayed,” he offered.

“Might’ve gone down,” Hadley snapped.

“Might’ve been retaken by the French. After all, that frigate was right there in the area.”

“Does it matter? That brig’s not here. She’s missing, and with her, Lady Nerissa and Lord Andrew de Montforte.” His eyes bleak, he slapped the glass shut with the palm of his hand. This could mean the end of his career. There would be an inquiry, of course—he had lost an American prize that would have brought a tidy amount at auction and he had made a bad decision, a very bad decision, in allowing Lady Nerissa—at her own insistence—to stay aboard the prize brig. And why? Because he was trying to win her favor? Her heart? How was he going to explain
that
to his superiors back at the Admiralty?

And God help him,
how was he going to explain it to the Duke of Blackheath?

His insides twisted and turned and he felt a sudden urge to defecate.

“See to our anchoring, Mr. Dewhurst, he muttered, and putting the glass back in its rack, stalked off.

* * *

Hadley had good reason to be nervous. At the very moment his bowels were emptying at the thought of facing the Duke of Blackheath and telling him of his siblings’ absence and possible—if not likely—loss, Lucien de Montforte himself was arriving at the Admiralty.

Footmen leaped down to steady the fretting horses, to open the door of his gleaming black coach and to put down the steps for His Grace. Wordlessly, the duke strode beneath the great portico and into the austere building itself where a clerk, recognizing him, raised his eyebrows and immediately began to look like a penned sheep circled by a wolf.

“Is Lord Sandwich in?” the duke asked.

“I’m sorry your Grace, but he stepped out for just a moment, and should return shortly. Would you care for some refreshment? Some—”

“Show me to his office. I will await him there.”

“Your Grace, I can’t just bring you into the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty, I could lose my position here and….”

His voice fell off as the duke’s cold black eyes settled on him, pinning him to his chair and sucking every ounce of courage from the blood that ran suddenly cold through his veins. Without raising his voice, without moving a muscle, the duke merely said, “If you value your position that much, then it would behoove you to grant my request because I can
assure
you that the strings of Admiralty are not controlled by those you
think
control it.” The hard mouth was unbending. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, your Grace, very clear indeed.” He rose to his feet, managed a clumsy bow, and led Lucien de Montforte to Lord Sandwich’s office. “Make yourself comfortable, Your Grace. Some coffee, perhaps? Tea? Refreshments?”

The noble profile turned to gaze out windows grimy with coal smoke. “I am quite comfortable. Send the earl to me when he arrives. That is all.”

That is all.

The young officer bolted. He had been grateful when his own connections had landed him this position at the Admiralty, away from seasickness and foundering warships and tyrannical captains who thought nothing of beating their junior officers over the breech of a gun. But at that moment, he would have traded hell and high water to be out on a ship…anywhere but within the reach of the mighty Duke of Blackheath.

He had just returned to his desk when the door opened and two well-dressed young men came in, their faces grave and bearing a similarity in profile to that devil he’d just left back in Lord Sandwich’s office. One, clad in the uniform of an Army officer, was tall and taciturn with blond hair tied back in a neat queue; the other’s hair was a tawny golden-brown and his blue eyes were dark with worry.

He drew himself up. “Can I help you?”

The same lordly attitude, the same expectance of being obeyed. It was there in the Army officer, just as it had been in Blackheath. “I am Major Lord Charles de Montforte, and this is my brother Lord Gareth. I understand our brother the duke is here?”

“Yes, he is. If you’ll but wait here, I’ll—”

“Take us to him immediately,” Lord Charles commanded. “This is a matter of grave importance to my family and possibly even the security of England herself.”

The clerk took a deep, bracing sigh. If it wasn’t one, it was three. He was going to lose his position over this, to be sure. Maybe he’d find a berth on a Royal Navy ship and there, serve out his days waiting to get his head blown off.

In the meantime, the pale blue eyes of the major were regarding him with growing impatience.

“Come with me,” he said, and led the two brothers to Lord Sandwich’s office.

* * *

John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich and currently serving his third stint as the First Lord of the Admiralty, returned from lunch in a bad mood. As he entered the Admiralty, he saw the young officer at the desk beckoning madly to him.

“What is it, Fleming?”

“The Duke of Blackheath and his brothers, sir. They’re here.”

Sandwich’s thin mouth, perpetually down-turned these days, tightened in a frown beneath his long, hooked nose. “Where?”

The young man grew visibly uncomfortable. “They demanded to be put in your office, my lord.” As Sandwich’s brow went dark, he began to stammer. “I-I told him that that was not possible, th-th-that I would lose my position over it, but he said that you and I both would lose our positions if I didn’t grant him his wishes and he’s in there now, sir, waiting for you—all of them are.”

His mood souring all the more, Lord Sandwich stalked down the hall toward his office, the heavy joint of beef he’d consumed over lunch beginning to sit rather uncomfortably in his stomach. He knew all about the abduction of Lady Nerissa, was doing everything he could think of to get her back. Damn the Americans, the most worthless race of men on earth. This was going to put him into his damned grave. What more could he possibly do to appease Blackheath that he hadn’t already done?

Better think of something. Life will surely get worse than it already is if you don’t.

He pushed open the door to his office and saw the three brothers there, the resemblance between them all quite unmistakable. Bows were exchanged, but Blackheath allowed no time for pleasantries. A muscle twitching in his cheek, he looked coldly at Sandwich and then, reaching into his pocket, produced a folded piece of vellum and slapped it down on his desk.

Lord Sandwich pulled out his chair and sat. He glanced up, once, at Blackheath through watery, pale blue eyes, thinned his mouth and unfolded the paper.

“This was delivered to me an hour ago,” the duke said icily. “Earlier this morning, Rear-Admiral Hadley informed me that my siblings were safe and on their way back to England aboard the American prize-brig
Tigershark.
” Blackheath’s eyes were blazing-cold. “
Is someone lying to me, Sandwich?
”

The earl rubbed wearily at the bridge of his nose. He was already dreading whatever words lay on that vellum. “We received dispatches from the cutter
Mosquito
, which spoke Captain Hadley’s frigate in the Channel following a brief squall. Captain Hadley informed
Mosquito
’s master that he’d taken the brig after a brief skirmish and left Lady Nerissa and Lord Andrew aboard, but that the storm had separated them. He was on his way back to find them. I can assure you, Blackheath, that no one is lying to you.”

Sandwich kept the rest of that thought to himself.
They wouldn’t dare.

“Then read the damned letter,” Blackheath said coldly, slamming the heel of his hand down on the vellum. “Read it and explain to me
what the bloody hell is going on here.
”