Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2 Page 3

  “Oh, Cara.” Adopting a similar stance, Alex shook her head. “What do you suppose happened?”

  Before them, the magnificent vessels belonging to the Brethren stood as mere shadows of their former selves. Splintered wood from broken yardarms jutted viciously in all directions. Dangling ropes swung in the gentle breeze and torn canvas fluttered. The once intricate, mighty rigging listed in tatters.

  It was a wonder they made it home.

  “Alex?” a familiar voice called. “Cara?”

  “Damian?” Cara blinked. “Is that you?”

  Descending the gangplank, Damian waved a welcome. Alex ran to him, threw up her arms, and affectionately hugged her brother. Cara followed on her heels.

  “Oh, Damian.” Alex cast a mournful glance over his shoulder. “Your lovely lady is ravaged.”

  “Do not worry about the Sagremor, sister.” He cupped her cheek. “We will have her shipshape and good as new. You should see the Intrepid. She limped into Great Dock just behind us. Collingwood will probably be land-bound while his craft is refitted.”

  “Oh, dear.” Alex gasped. “You do not suppose he has been injured?”

  Cara understood the younger Seymour’s concern and sympathized with her friend. It was common knowledge Alex harbored a wicked crush on the handsome naval captain of the Intrepid, Jason Collingwood.

  “Do not fret, little one. Since I spied him on the quarterdeck at dawn, I am sure he is fine.” Damian patted her shoulders in what appeared to be an attempt to calm his sister. “And fortunately for us, we had already delivered our cargo of munitions and supplies to the troops and were carrying nothing but ballast. It could have been much worse were we caught in the storm while still bearing explosives.”

  “Are you all right?” Alex pulled back and eyed him from top to foot. “Were you hurt?”

  “I am fine.” He placed a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “We are quite well, with the exception of Lance.”

  “What about Lance?” Cara flinched and swallowed hard. She prayed her dream had not foretold a grim reality beyond the damaged vessels. “What is the extent of his injuries? Is it severe?”

  “I do not think so.” He offered his escort to each lady and steered them toward the Demetrius. “By the by, where is Dr. Handley?”

  Alex blinked at her brother. “Dr. Handley?”

  “Yes.” He nodded once. “I requested you summon him to care for Lance.”

  “Er, I received no such missive.” With brows quirked in question, Alex peered at Cara.

  “I beg your pardon?” Damian halted mid-stride. He gazed at Alex, then Cara, and then Alex again. “If you did not get my message, how did you learn of our return?”

  Cara grasped at the barest threads of convincing rationale. Would anyone believe her actions had been prompted by a tortuous dream the previous night? Or perhaps a wee bird told her? After a few tense seconds, she seized on a reasonable explanation.

  “Gossip,” she stated, with fixed purpose. “You know how the ton is—nothing escapes their notice. There was rumor of several ships in the Thames estuary, from the North Forelands lighthouse.” She shrugged and rocked on her heels. “We thought we would chance it, in the event you had made it home, else we were going shopping.”

  “I see.” Damian scratched his temple. “Perhaps Conrad will send for the doctor,” he said, referring to the butler at Seymour House.

  “I am sure he will.” Alex smiled and patted his arm. “And Dr. Handley shall be right behind us.”

  “Do tell.” Cara fought to calm herself and disguise the apprehension roiling within her. “What exactly is wrong with Lance? Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Well, I am not entirely certain, but I suppose time and the good doctor will put him right.” As Cara tugged at his elbow, Damian stared at her. For a brief moment, he searched her gaze, but if he suspected her concern extended beyond mere friendship, he remained silent. Finally, he inclined his head. “It is only a broken leg. Once the bone is set and healed, no doubt he will be the same old Lance.”

  Relief showered her as a gentle mist, and Cara sighed, as it appeared she had woven unsustainable conclusions from whole cloth. When next she suffered a tempest-driven bad dream, she would chastise herself with the memory of her uncharacteristic overreaction and breach of deportment.

  At the foot of the gangplank of the Demetrius, Lance’s frigate, they lingered. On deck, Trevor, Blake, and Dirk waved an acknowledgement.

  “May I suggest you two wait here?” Damian led them to a safe spot, while the crew continued to scurry about, disembarking with various items in transit. “We have Lance secured to a cot. He cannot walk, and we will have to carry him down.”

  “Oh, dear,” Alex cried. “Poor Lance.”

  “We shall remain here.” Cara wrapped a protective arm about Alex’s shoulders. Comforting Damian’s sister provided fortuitous distraction from Cara’s own nagging fears.

  A few minutes had passed when Dr. Handley shuffled in their direction, his physician’s bag in tow. When he caught sight of them, he doffed his hat and bowed.

  “Lady Seymour. Miss Douglas.” With a wrinkle of his nose, he narrowed his stare and peered at the gangplank. “Conrad forwarded a directive from His Grace. I understand Lord Raynesford is injured?”

  “He is, indeed.” Cara nodded. “They are expecting you to join them on deck, posthaste.” How she longed to rush to her hero’s side, to see for herself that Lance was alive and well, hale and hearty. She swallowed her frustration as the grey-haired, bespectacled doctor strolled aboard ship.

  After what seemed hours, but was in reality only several minutes, the men appeared at the rail, holding a well-worn cot bearing a blanketed, motionless form. With Dr. Handley in the lead, the Brethren descended at a leisurely pace.

  “Careful, gentlemen,” the physician cautioned. “Do not jostle my patient.”

  Telling herself that her worried thoughts would cease their torment once she glimpsed Lance, Cara stepped forward with Alex at her side. But his deathly pale visage left her senses reeling and her knees buckling.

  “Oh, my.” Clinging to her wits by a hairsbreadth, Cara managed not to swoon. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “My equipage can convey his lordship to Raynesford House.” Dr. Handley removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief pulled from his coat pocket, before resettling the wire frames atop his nose. “But I shall require assistance in caring for him.”

  “We have my coach.” Cursing her moment of weakness, and bolstered by renewed purpose, Cara lowered her chin. “I am at your service.”

  #

  Raynesford House occupied a venerable position in Grosvenor Square. Built in the Palladian style, with urn-topped rails and a Corinthian columned portico, it presented a grand gem among London’s more fashionable residences.

  As Cara and Alex entered the foyer, Elaine skipped down the main staircase and held her arms wide in welcome.

  “Oh, Cara, did you see him?” The younger Prescott’s lower lip trembled, and she cast a tear-filled gaze. “It is too dreadful to contemplate.”

  Though Elaine and Lance were cousins, they were, in actuality, more akin to brother and sister. Since their parents had passed, as had Thomas, Elaine’s only sibling, Elaine and Lance were alone save the Brethren. And of the close-knit group of friends, Elaine was the most timid and delicate.

  “There, there, dearest. You mustn’t cry.” Cara hugged Elaine and winked at Alex, as it became readily apparent that caring for Lance would be a two-fold operation. Someone would have to support Elaine, in Lance’s absence. “Why do you not offer Alex a spot of tea, while I assist Dr. Handley?”

  “As usual, you are right, Cara. I must be strong for Lance.” Elaine withdrew and wiped her damp cheeks. As the hostess one would expect of the stately abode, she turned to the butler. “Banks, please show Miss Douglas to his lordship’s chambers, and I shall see to the refreshments.”

  “Very good, my lady.” B
anks bowed, righted his coat, and faced Cara. “This way, Miss Douglas.”

  As she climbed the grand staircase, with her hand trailing the polished oak balustrade, Cara realized with heightened anticipation that in mere minutes she would enjoy her first glimpse of Lance’s bedchamber. In an instant, she thought of the square kerchief her hero had gifted her so long ago, which rested, folded and tucked inside her bodice, near her heart.

  Though it would, no doubt, be considered highly improper, even scandalous in most circles, for an unmarried woman to enter his private apartments, no one in his household would give her presence a second thought. Because they were lifelong friends, no one would ever conceive of anything untoward occurring between them. Therefore, it would not be mentioned beyond the walls of Raynesford House.

  Banks approached a large, oak-paneled door, and set it wide. With an elegant sweep of his arm, he retreated a step. “After you, Miss Douglas.”

  “Thank you, Banks.” Excitement charged every nerve, pulsed in every vein, and Cara inhaled deeply before crossing the threshold.

  Wall coverings of evergreen damask sporting stamped leather inserts lent a decidedly masculine feel to the chamber, and the current occupant’s signature sandalwood scent teased her nose, evoking fonder times. Cara took little note of various accouterments, other than the massive, four-poster bed at the center of the back wall. For some reason she could not fathom, that single piece of seemingly innocuous furniture captured her attention to the detriment of all else.

  Sitting high atop a platform, the magnificent structure boasted a hand-carved mahogany headboard, with a canopy that kissed the ceiling, and floor-length, evergreen velvet drapery cascaded from each crowned corner. A matching counterpane of sumptuous velvet and silk sheets blanketed the mattress, and a mountain of fluffy pillows completed the tempting ensemble. Oh, what an adventure it would be to take her ease in such opulence with the man of her fantasies.

  “Ahem.” Cara did not realize she was staring until Dr. Handley cleared his throat. “Are you, or are you not, going to assist me, Miss Douglas?”

  Masking her embarrassment, Cara closed her mouth and slowly walked to the footboard. As she ascended the impressive platform, she caught sight of the man she had often referred to as her hero since childhood.

  With hair as black as her own, they might have been confused for siblings by a casual observer. Whereas she gazed on the world with vivid blue eyes, her knight looked on her with the most potent emerald stare, which often saw more than she wished to reveal, framed by thickly lashed lids she had studied for the better part of a year. An aquiline nose sat between chiseled cheekbones, and his patrician chin was strong and proud.

  As was the rest of Lance.

  At just over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and a long, lithe frame. Unlike most men of his stature, Lance had an air of understated elegance about him, and he moved with the grace and ease of a gazelle mixed with the power of a jungle cat. Indeed, his was an irresistible combination. Something she knew well, as she had spent many a night in his arms, circling the dance floors of some of London’s most fashionable ballrooms.

  Yet, they remained nothing more than friends—much to her dissatisfaction.

  “I have given his lordship another dose of laudanum. It will keep the pain at bay.”

  “Oh?” She blinked. “Is there anything you require?”

  “I have set the bone, and the leg is splinted. See to it he remains in bed.” Dr. Handley checked his timepiece. “Keep his lordship comfortable. When he wakes, make sure he eats.”

  Determined to do her part and aid Lance in his recovery, she composed a mental list. “Anything in particular?”

  “Whatever he prefers.” The physician collected the typical utensils of his trade and retrieved his bag, before stepping from the platform. “I shall stop by in the morning to check his progress.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Cara dipped her chin and half-curtseyed.

  With a smile and patience, which should qualify her for sainthood, she stood as sentry until the door closed behind the physician. In a flash, she whirled about and examined her hero.

  Unnaturally pale, and with a small scrape that showed the slightest hint of bruising above his left eye, Lance remained motionless. Sitting at the edge of the bed, she tucked the covers beneath his chin, tried not to notice his bare shoulders, and pressed a palm to his forehead. Thankfully, his flesh was cool.

  “My poor darling.”

  Just then, he shifted, pushed away the covers, and revealed a magnificent chest. Though propriety demanded she avert her stare, she could not tear herself from the temptation he presented for her delectation, but her cheeks burned with embarrassment. With his arm, he reached as though he searched for a lifeline, and she was there for him. Clasping his hand in hers, she started when he clung to her. His brow furrowed, and the corners of his mouth curved downward.

  “Lance, I am here.” She did her best to reassure him. “It is I—Cara.”

  To her relief, his grip tightened, and his frown faded.

  With their fingers still twined, she inched even closer. Leaning forward, she loomed near. For several minutes, she studied the face she knew so well, the face she always sought in a crowd.

  The face that haunted her dreams.

  Without thought, Cara stretched long and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. To her delight, the furrows magically vanished at her touch. Retreating ever so slightly, she hovered, her nose mere inches from his.

  As a whispery summons, his warm breath wafted over her skin. So she obeyed the come-hither caress and skimmed the tip of his nose with hers, as she wondered how Lance would react had he woke just then?

  Would he be happy?

  Would he be mad?

  Cara chuckled. As the oldest among the Brethren women, she had been expected to marry long ago. Certainly before Caroline and Sabrina. But no one had ever turned her head, at least beyond their clique, and she was determined to wed for love.

  Unlike her friends, she had never done anything to further her goal. Had never taken any aggressive action to capture the attention of the one man she had ever considered a suitable candidate.

  Caroline had resorted to stowing away aboard Dalton’s ship in an attempt to avoid the Season. Inadvertently, she was mistaken for a courtesan, kidnapped by Trevor, and forced into a union, which resulted in a love match. Sabrina, on the other hand, set her cap for Everett and spent a summer preparing for the chase. She, too, enjoyed a marriage based on love.

  But Cara had always been known as the levelheaded one, the personification of a true English lady. A legion of admirers, none of which had captured her heart, lauded her beauty and refinement. She could always be counted on to do the right thing. The epitome of feminine deportment, her outlandish younger sister teasingly called her Miss Perfect. Though it was all in good fun, she was beginning to wonder if it was not time for a change, time to break free of her prim and proper shell.

  And if she intended to follow in her sister’s footsteps, however awkward, Cara needed to rethink her strategy. How many years had she waited for Lance to make his declaration, or give her some inclination he shared her devotion?

  Too many to suit her.

  At any rate, it was clear that if she remained a disinterested spectator in regard to her future, she would be an old maid before he ever offered for her—if at all.

  Of course, she had to consider the fact that her hero might not feel for her what she felt for him. Though they had often partnered at social functions, he had never done anything more than act the perfect gentleman—it was most insulting. But what if he only looked on her as a good friend? Did that mean he would never see her as something more? And if so, what was she prepared to do to alter his position?

  A hint of derring-do traversed her spine.

  Cara gazed on Lance and smiled. Her quarry rested peacefully, with no hint of the sultry offer that lay before him. Summoning every ounce of courage within her, she took her first s
mall step toward her goal.

  Slowly, deliberately, she bent her head and pressed her lips to his in an inexpressibly sweet caress, sashaying back and forth against his mouth.

  In his sleep, he hummed his appreciation; a deep, husky sound she felt all the way to her toes. Instinctively, she retreated, but he freed her hand, speared his fingers through her hair, and drew her impossibly closer.

  When Lance slipped his tongue between her parted lips, Cara gasped in shock, but curiosity won the day, so she did not resist. While she had pushed at his chest, in an attempt to break loose, she changed her tack. Relaxing, she splayed her fingers and sank into their kiss. As she acquiesced, he delved further, licking and suckling her flesh in a delicate invasion, and she drank him in as she would a fine wine, savoring each nuance that was uniquely his.

  Fire sang in her veins, and it was a new and enticing sensation. Her heart beat a rapid salvo in her chest, and her ears rang like the bells in a Wren steeple. Virgin desire blossomed in the pit of her belly, and she moaned. Responding to the pressure of his palm at the back of her neck, she met him, measure for measure, with all she had and for all she was worth.

  And then everything screeched to a halt.

  Their first intimate exchange ended as quickly as it began, as Lance sighed, reclined on his pillow, and his arms fell limp. Rolling his head to the side, he shifted beneath the covers, and an elementally male smile played on his lips.

  “My God,” she whispered.

  Cara sat upright and clutched a fist to her chest as remnants of their passion showered her in a gentle yet nonetheless potent heat. Trembling uncontrollably, she struggled to breathe. At last, she closed her eyes and rode the wave of pleasure simmering in her blood and lingering in every charged nerve, leaving no part of her unscathed. Never could she have imagined the power of such a heretofore-simple act.

  And Cara wanted more.

  After resettling the blanket, she descended the platform and almost shrieked when she spied her reflection in the long mirror. Wearing a pale yellow sprig muslin dress, and matching slippers, with her hair piled in artful curls atop her head, she cut the perfect picture of a proper English lady. Yet, her kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks contradicted the image she attempted to portray.