Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2 Read online

  BRETHREN OF THE COAST

  VOLUME II

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 Barbara C. Noyes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Barbara Devlin

  The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

  Cover art by Lewellen Designs

  ISBN: 978-0-9962509-5-5

  TITLES BY

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES

  Enter the Brethren (Brethren of the Coast 1)

  My Lady, the Spy (Brethren of the Coast 2)

  The Most Unlikely Lady (Brethren of the Coast 3)

  One-Knight Stand (Brethren of the Coast 4)

  Captain of Her Heart (Brethren of the Coast 5)

  The Lucky One (Brethren of the Coast 6)

  Love with an Improper Stranger (Brethren of the Coast 7)

  Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella

  BRETHREN ORIGINS

  Arucard (Brethren Origins 1)

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK

  Lone Wolfe

  DEDICATION

  This boxed set is dedicated to readers, everywhere. It is an honor to share something so personal with you. But the beauty of writing fiction is, as an author, I can impart some incredibly intimate details of my life, and the reader has no idea what’s real and what’s make-believe. That you allow me that gift is quite humbling.

  ONE-KNIGHT STAND

  ONE-KNIGHT STAND

  PROLOGUE

  The Ascendants

  England

  The Year of Our Lord 1313

  “How did we come to this, brother?” Demetrius scratched his chin and frowned.

  “At the pointed end of a sword.” Arucard chuckled, though he knew it was not that simple. “And it is not so bad as thou mayest think, once thou dost accustom thyself to the idea.”

  “Thou dost say that now, but if memory serves, thou were none too pleased when faced with similar circumstances.” With a groan, Demetrius stood and paced the floor. “Eternal damnation seems an awfully high price. Surely it would have been preferable to die a warrior’s death.”

  “Well, let us not be too dramatic.” In silence, Arucard pondered his fellow knight’s predicament and smiled. Had he not felt the same on the eve of his nuptials? “It just requires a period of adjustment on thy part.”

  “Perchance this is punishment for Randulf.” Demetrius shook his head. “Never should I have left him in my wake.”

  “Wait a minute, brother. Thou art no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and thither was naught we could do to save him.” He pointed for emphasis. “As it is, we barely escaped with our lives, and only five of us remain. Would thou rather none survived?”

  “I would have him hither.” Demetrius gazed at the ceiling and sighed. “At the very least, I would trade places, as he was the better man.”

  “Now thither I must take exception, as such comparison is as blancmange to brewets.” Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees. “Neither thee nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as thou art two drastically different beasts.”

  “And yet I persist, and he is gone.” Demetrius speared his fingers through his hair, and then he fisted his hands. “So I am resolved to consider my situation a burden and my fate one of lifelong penance.”

  “My friend, thou art not thinking clearly, as thy judgment is clouded by misplaced guilt.” Of course, Arucard neglected to mention that he, too, carried their comrade’s death as a stain on his conscience and invisible wounds that had not quite healed.

  Of their set, Randulf had been the youngest and most good-natured Templar. Facing every day with a mischievous grin, a biting sense of humor, and a wild streak to match, Randulf was forever garnering additional weapons practice for himself and his brother knights for a wide variety of infractions. Still, the lighthearted gadling was a favored son.

  “My guilt is well-founded, and I do not deserve happiness. In my rush to stem the tide, I did not realize he had yet to cast off, and it was too late when I noted my error. I abandoned him to the king’s guard, and his loss is my shame.” Demetrius scowled. “Mayhap it is fitting that I am required to marry.”

  “Thou dost equate matrimony with hell?” Arucard’s ears rang with disbelief.

  “Wilt thou argue otherwise?” Demetrius mumbled.

  “Well, in truth, it can at times be an abyss of suffering unique unto itself.” Arucard laughed aloud and slapped his thigh. “But if thou dost ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send thee to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”

  “Dost thou find sport in my misery?”

  “I find sport in the absurdity of thy logic.” Arucard stood and walked to his friend. “Guilt is a powerful emotion, brother. It numbs thy senses and impairs thy vision, shrouding thy reality in a dense cloud of regret, which further impedes thy capacity to reap the rewards of life. Thou mayest as well be dead, as thou hast one foot in the grave, and Randulf, God rest him, would never wish that on thee.”

  “What would thou have of me? Am I to marry Athelyna and spend my days in connubial bliss?” With fists resting on hips, Demetrius inclined his head. “And what sort of name is that? Sounds like a rather nasty infection. Canst thou not hear the boys? ‘Poor bastard caught the Athelyna, and his most prized protuberance shriveled and fell off.’”

  “By God’s bones, I will grant thee that.” Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws. “Wherefore dost thou not call the poor lass by a term of affection—one known only to her?”

  Demetrius shifted his weight. “And wherefore would I do that?”

  “To foster a true and lasting bond with thy mate.”

  “And wherefore would I want to do that?” Demetrius shuffled his feet.

  “Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of thy heirs.”

  With a look of sheer terror, Demetrius turned white as a sheet and splayed his arms as he teetered precariously.

  “Whoa, brother.” Arucard steadied his fellow Nautionnier Knight. “Have a seat before thou dost fall flat on thy face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry thee.”

  “Babes—I forgot about that.” Demetrius cradled his head in his hands. “Back up, else I will ruin the shine on thy boots, as I fear I am going to vomit.”

  “Is it safe to assume thou didst not avail thyself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?” Arucard grimaced, as he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde. “It might have put thy mind at ease for tonight.”

  “No, it would not. Call me a lunatic, but if I am to risk everlasting condemnation, then I would join my body only with whom I have spoken the vows, per the sacrament.” With an expression of unfailing determination, Demetrius compressed his lips. “I will have no other.”

  “Then let us be done with it.” With arms crossed, Arucard retreated a step. “So thou mayest beget thy heir, as the King commands.”

  “Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation. “Art we naught more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”

  “Thou dost make procreation sound so romantic, brother.” Arucard blanche
d. “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it doth require some effort to master from the start, but the work is good.”

  “That is precisely what it is to me—drudgery.” Demetrius thrust his chin. “And I suspect we have merely exchanged one hangman’s noose for another. In short, it is naught more than the trappings of duty owed to an oath ill-pledged that I shall endeavor to persevere.”

  “Oh, come now.” Since his brother would soon learn differently, Arucard succumbed to a full-blown belly laugh. “As I have seen Athelyna, she is nice duty, if one can get it.”

  “Then thou should take her to wife.”

  “Alas, I am in love with Isolde.”

  “Be that as it may, I am obliged not to enjoy the experience.”

  “Thou dost forget thyself.” Arucard wiped a stray tear from his eye. “As I explained last night, thou must enjoy it, to some degree, in order to conceive a child.”

  A knock at the door gave them pause.

  “Oh hell, it is time.” Demetrius paled in an instant and swallowed hard. “Come.”

  Morgan peered inside and cast a playful grin. “Ready to face the enemy?”

  Once again, Demetrius tottered, and Arucard all but carried him to the chair. To Morgan, Arucard said, “Brother, we have a problem.”

  “What is this?” Morgan closed the oak panel. “Didst thou not pay a visit to Matild, as I instructed?”

  “She hath a groat-sized wart on her nose.” Demetrius flinched. “And she is missing two front teeth.”

  “Indeed, she is, and that is what makes her proficient in her most popular service.” Morgan clucked his tongue. “And wherefore would I care for a wart? Matild’s reputation precedes her.”

  Demetrius snorted. “Thou must know I am not entirely comfortable with thy lustful embrace of English customs.”

  Morgan waggled his brows. “As they say, when in Rome—”

  “We art not in Rome.”

  “And we art no longer Templars.” Levity aside, Morgan said, “Art thou still going on about Randulf?”

  The room was as silent as a tomb.

  Morgan glanced at Arucard, and he shrugged.

  “Thither thou were not when he disappeared into the sea.” Demetrius closed his eyes. “Screaming for his mother, the lad went down with his ship.”

  “And, apart from the screaming, he would have it no other way,” Arucard stated softly. “Randulf was a fine mariner and man, albeit a young one, and thy steadfast refusal to let him go doth no credit to his memory.”

  “Arucard is correct.” Morgan cocked his head. “But if thou art truly unwilling to wed the lady, I shall be too happy to take thy place, as the woman is handsome and the title generous.”

  Demetrius snapped to attention. “She is my bride—already promised.”

  “And I suppose the earldom means naught?” Morgan rocked on his heels.

  “I would have her without it, but the King gives me no choice,” Demetrius asserted without hesitation. “His Majesty seems intent on corrupting us.”

  “Then for what art thou waiting?” Arucard inquired. “Do thyself a favor, brother, and leave the past to yesterday.”

  Demetrius opened and then closed his mouth. After a minute, he sighed heavily and mustered a smile. “All right. Bring on the archbishop, for I am to wed. But thou must promise me something.”

  “Whatever thou dost require, know ye shall have it.” Arucard slapped his longtime friend on the back. “Now, let us get thee to the altar.”

  “Wait.” Demetrius halted in his tracks. “At the first opportunity, thou must help me compose a pet name, as Athelyna is not something I imagine myself uttering in the throes of passion.”

  ONE-KNIGHT STAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Descendants

  The English Channel

  September, 1812

  If one had to die, now was as good a time as any, or so Lance Prescott, sixth Marquess of Raynesford, thought as his ship heeled hard a-larboard. Of course, he did not want to die, but neither did he think that, when his days were at an end, he would seriously be consulted in the matter.

  Memories, bits of the past, flashed before his eyes.

  His mother had died in childbirth, so he never knew her. In brief, he relived the sadness when his father had perished of a liver ailment after years of excessive drinking, although the man was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. He revisited the sense of vulnerability when, at the age of four and ten, he struggled in vain against frigid waters to save his cousin, Thomas.

  As an anchor about his neck, he considered his title, which he inherited once his guardian passed, because Thomas, the original heir, had preceded his sire in death. Lance had always looked on the burden of the peerage as penance for his inability to rescue his beloved relation.

  Triumphs. Losses. Regrets.

  Things he had said and done that he wished he could take back. Accomplishments he wished he had achieved but had not attained. There were so many experiences of which he had yet to partake and places to which he had never journeyed. He had not married, and he had no heir.

  They were all there.

  There was a woman he admired—always had. He had known her since she was born, but he did not deserve her, never would. Long ago, he had resigned himself to marrying another. Trouble was, in his mind and his heart if truth were told, none compared with her.

  Lance shook himself out of the morbid reverie that was his personal history and focused on the task at hand. Grasping the carved quarterdeck rail, he held on tight as the Demetrius righted herself. Frothing waves crashed over the sides, spilling onto the deck. A ravenous beast, the angry seas threatened to swallow the mighty frigate in a single gulp.

  Staccato bursts of lightning pierced the turbulent skies, flashing rapid-fire glimpses of the tempest raging in all directions. In the distance, four imposing vessels belonging to the knights of the Brethren of the Coast tossed about like wooden toys in a bath, and his was the fifth ship in the line.

  In his wake, he could barely make out a familiar silhouette. Trevor Marshall, the most recent addition to the infamous knighthood descended of the famed Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, struggled to steer the Hera through violent waters and did not appear to fare any better.

  “Into the wind, Scottie,” Lance yelled.

  “We’re tryin’, Cap’n.”

  Scottie and the helmsman, Mr. Hazard, engaged in fierce combat for control of the craft. Lashed to the wheel to keep from falling overboard, they waged war against the tempestuous ocean.

  Surrendering to a mighty gale, the Demetrius heeled hard a-starboard. Clutching the rail, Lance peered down and surmised he could skim the surface of the swirling sea if he fully extended his arm. With a wicked shudder, he gulped and decided not to put it to test.

  “Hold her, boys!” The first mate screamed above the howling winds.

  With a death-grip on the wheel, Lance braced himself as the bow rose sharply. The ship crested, lightning speared the clouds, and thunder roared in an ominous specter of doom.

  In an instant, the fore topmast stay snapped, and the staysail unfurled. Lance noted the fluttering canvas and cursed, because he knew what would happen next, and it was the last thing he needed at the moment.

  “No.” Though he voiced the denial, it was muffled amid the bluster of the storm.

  As if Mother Nature had read his thoughts, the wind caught the end, filled the sheet, and hauled the large sail into the blast.

  “Bloody hell.” He gritted his teeth. “Hold on!”

  The bow jerked forcibly to starboard, and the relentless zephyr threatened to bring down the rigging en masse.

  “Cap’n, we have to take in that sail before we founder.”

  “I know.” Lance tugged at his lifeline.

  It was time to dance with Death. The gnarled hand of his first mate halted him, and he glanced at the seasoned tar. The stern lamps had long ago been doused by the mountainous waves, and in the flickering light from the
storm, he spied grim resolution etched in his crewman’s expression.

  “The Demetrius will swim without me, Cap’n. You’re responsible for the ship and her crew.” Scottie squeezed hard on his wrist. “Let me go, sir.”

  Despite instincts to the contrary, Lance nodded once.

  In mere minutes, Lance lost sight of his first mate in the driving rain. “Can you see him?” he shouted to the helmsman.

  “No, sir.” Mr. Hazard wiped his brow. “He might have gone in the drink, Cap’n.”

  With a hand, Lance shielded his eyes from the savage deluge that pummeled his flesh, stinging like a swarm of angry bees. He did not want to think it, did not want to consider the fact that he may have sent his first mate to his death. Craning his neck, he strained to focus through the torrent. Lightning blazed across the sky, and Lance caught sight of Scottie. A tremor of fear wrenched his gut.

  Off the bow, which rose as they rode the peak of the wave, the first mate dangled precariously from the larboard rail. Another thunderbolt momentarily blinded Lance.

  In an instant, he was no longer aboard his ship. Instead, he found himself at Eton. It was winter, and his cousin Thomas asked him to skip Latin and go skating on a nearby frozen pond.

  “Come on, Lance.” Thomas waved. “You do not always have to follow the rules.”

  With clenched fists to his hips, he stopped short of reminding his errant relation that rules were put in place for a reason. And unlike his brash cousin, Lance always followed the straight and narrow path. He supposed it was that difference that made them such good friends. While he kept Thomas grounded, the fiery gadling kept Lance from being the proverbial stick in the mud.

  Finally, Lance smiled and shook his head. “We are going to get into trouble,” he hollered to his cousin, who was already walking away. He frowned and checked to see no one was watching before following Thomas into the field.