The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 4

  At the table, she savored the weak tea, which she had stolen from Dalton’s ship. While she preferred a stronger brew, she could enjoy the simple drink, which had become an indulgence, for several weeks, if she used less leaves in the pot. And although she was quite famished, nerves had rendered her belly unstable, and Daphne could not clean her plate, to her dismay.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Daphne.” Hicks loomed in the doorway. “Sir Dalton Randolph is just arrived and awaits your presence, in the foyer.”

  “Oh, dear.” She jumped from her chair, gulped the last of her tea, wiped her mouth on a napkin, and ran into the hall. Just as she rounded the corner, she slowed her pace and rolled her shoulders. But when she caught sight of the handsome sea captain, her heart raced. Searching for something witty to say, her mind blanked, and she opted for the obvious. “Hello.”

  “And how are you this fine morning, Miss Daphne?” Sporting a navy coat, a chocolate brown waistcoat, a fine lawn shirt, a snowy cravat, with a diamond twinkling at center, and buckskin breeches, which disappeared into polished top boots, again her dashing escort rendered her a pauper by comparison. Yet his dimpled smile and precise bow disarmed her. “I trust you slept well, after I brought you home?”

  “I did, indeed.” She lied, as she half curtseyed. Even as she donned her pelisse, she thought of the intriguing gold coin, with its salacious image, tossing in the air. After collecting her reticule, she met her companion’s gaze. “I have composed a list of necessary items, which should sustain our most vulnerable citizens, until I can identify a long-term solution.”

  “You mean—until your father returns.” He held open the heavy portal, and she crossed the threshold. “And when will that be?”

  “I know not, as the governor does not see fit to apprise me of all his business.” Oh, she had walked right into that one. “But I expect him, any day now.”

  “Why do I not believe you?” He snickered, as he handed her into his equipage. “As I am beginning to think Governor Harcourt persists only as a myth.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sinking into the squabs, she cautioned herself not to take offense to his jab, as righteous indignation was a luxury she could ill afford, and she could not risk alienating her newfound benefactor. “I am sure my father—”

  “Please, do not insult me with further excuses, recriminations, and denials, as one so lovely should never spin falsehoods.” The devilish charmer had the audacity to wink. “The truth is your father has not been in residence for an estimated two to three weeks, given his last recorded appearance, according to the locals. Is there a family difficulty, which you would not divulge to the general public, but you could entrust to my confidence? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  “Did we not travel this road, last night?” The passing landscape provided fortuitous distraction, and the coach bobbled along the lane. Beyond the verge, frothy waves crashed into the craggy shoreline, and she followed the winding, arbitrary path of a gull, which seemed to symbolize her life’s uncertainty. “And I answered your query.”

  “Not to my satisfaction.” Despite the suspect content of their discussion, his playful tone belied the seriousness of the exchange. And then he grasped the edge of his bench, leaned forward, and arched a brow. “Do you know that when you are stressed, you have a slight tic over your left eye?”

  “Posh.” She sniffed and stared out the window, as they entered the village. “You hardly know me.”

  “People can share space and time, for years, and remain nothing more than casual acquaintances, while others can read each other, as a favorite book, in a matter of minutes.” The scamp chuckled. “And from the moment we met, sweet lady, I figured us for the latter.”

  “Did you?” Daphne snapped to attention, just as the coach halted. “You assume too much, Sir—”

  “It is Dalton. Just Dalton.” He exited the rig and then turned to hand her to the sidewalk. “So we are to begin with the butcher?”

  “Yes, as I would have select cuts delivered, posthaste.” She entered the meat market.

  “I shall be with you shortly.” Old Mr. Wilkes glanced at her and smiled. “Miss Daphne, what a pleasure it is to see you. Have you come to settle your father’s account?”

  Standing stock-still, she could have swallowed her tongue, even as Dalton stumbled into her. It had never occurred to her that the meager payments she had made would not suffice or forestall embarrassing queries. What could she do to avoid further shame at future stops, as her father owed money to just about every merchant in Portsea?

  “What is the amount of the debt?” Dalton inquired.

  “Fifteen pounds, sir.” The butcher narrowed his stare. “And who might you be?”

  “Sir Dalton Randolph, of London.” Her antagonist dipped his chin. “And you may add the sum to our order, as we are here to purchase items for Miss Daphne’s community pantry.”

  Mr. Wilkes all but bounced. “Oh, well that is—”

  “—Completely out of the question.” Leashing her temper, she counted to five and sighed. “While I appreciate your most munificent gesture, it breaches untold social dictates, as we are not family, and you are not my…that is to say, we are not…what I mean is we have no understanding and neither do we intend to enter such arrangement.”

  “How do you know my aspirations?” With a flirty grin, the tempting sea captain rocked on his heels. “Do you presume to know my mind and possible aims?”

  For a scarce second, Daphne blinked and stuttered, as she pondered his proposal, if she could call it that. He could not have known it, but Dalton manifested the answer to her prayers, in more ways than one. In a low voice, she posited, “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  In a flash, his expression sobered. “Uh—no.”

  “Well, of course not.” And so her fledgling hopes deflated as quickly as they had bloomed. “I was joking, Sir Dalton.”

  “Ah, we are back to titles, so I think not.” He frowned. “Forgive me, dear lady, if I misled you. But, to be candid, if I may, I am not husband material.”

  “Now you sell yourself short, Sir Dalton.” She folded her arms and inclined her head, as she was not the only one suppressing secrets, which rendered him infinitely more interesting. “And I wonder at your reasons for concealing your true nature. What have you to hide?”

  “Do you speculate in regard to my character to deflect attention from yourself?” he stated, with a snort.

  “You answer a question with a question, which piques my suspicion.” At last, she found her footing. “I believe you are a better man than you admit.”

  “On the contrary, I hold much in common with the carefree wind, or a playful breeze, never landing too long in any one spot.” Dalton clucked his tongue and waggled his brows. “In fact, some might call me a rake, as my tastes are as variable as the weather.”

  “An imposter is more like it.” Oh, despite his best attempts, he could not fool her. “Or do you prefer charlatan, as that may better describe your pretend predilections?”

  “Easy, love.” He shuffled near, and she refused to retreat, but gooseflesh covered her arms. “You claim intimate knowledge of my character, given our brief association.”

  “And were you not the one who boasted the same of me?” She looked him in the eyes, daring him to profess otherwise. “Is it so surprising that I possess the ability to—how did you put it? Ah, yes, ‘to read you as a favorite book.’”

  “Touché, my dear.” With a huff, he ushered her to the counter. “Give the butcher your list, and do not argue with me, else I shall end this outing, this instant.”

  And so commenced the duel.

  #

  Inhaling the sea air, and tossing his ever-present lucky coin, which often calmed his agitated state, Dalton shifted in the saddle of his black stallion and gazed at the surrounding Portsea landscape. Uncharacteristic restlessness permeated every pore, as he had promised himself he would not seek the incomparable but unnerving Miss Harcourt’s company for a senn
ight. To his chagrin, his heretofore-vaunted self-discipline had endured a mere two days, as he steered for Courtenay Hall. And although he would deny it should anyone ask, he had survived that long only because he had been distracted by preparations for the Siren’s move to Portsmouth, for additional repairs.

  To his complete and utter befuddlement, the backwater governor’s daughter had seen through his well-composed rogue façade and seized upon and struck the chink in his armor, when he had fooled untold cosmopolitans for years. Then again, polite society had been all too ready to believe the worst of him, had even expanded upon his rumored rakish romps, so he had expended little effort to maintain the ruse.

  Of course, he had not bothered to correct the mistaken assumptions, given his ribald reputation afforded a few benefits, and the ladies often competed for his favors, when they ignored his titled but tedious elder brother. How would the ton have reacted, had they discovered Dalton was, in fact, a mirror copy of the stodgy Dirk?

  Just as he had pocketed his talisman, he spied the source of his uneasy reflection, with her head bowed, wearing her tattered pelisse, a démodé bonnet, and carrying a basket, as she walked in the lane. Without warning, a ripple of awareness coursed his spine and pooled in his gut, as she worked on him in ways he could neither explain nor evade. “Good afternoon, Miss Daphne.”

  “Sir Dalton.” Peering at him, she favored him with a brilliant smile, and he caught his breath. “This is a treat, as I had thought, perhaps, you had departed our humble isle. And what is your destination, if I might inquire?”

  “Why, to see you, my dear.” Salacious skills honed in the embraces of some of London’s most notorious courtesans and widows charged the fore, but he reminded himself that he required her cooperation, if he had any hope of recovering the brooch. “And what, may I ask, is your port of call?”

  “Oh, I must check on Mrs. Oldman, as the twins are teething, and she gets little sleep. And Mr. Tolly had a cold last week, so I should make sure he is on the mend and deliver the chicken soup Mrs. Jones prepared.” She counted on her fingers. “Then I need to convey a parcel of ham, cheese, and bread to the widow Cartwright.”

  “And you intend to do so, on foot?” Dalton stretched upright. “Where is your coach? Or why do you not take a horse?”

  “It is a lovely day, and I am rather fond of long walks.” She set her chin firm, as if to convince him of her claim, yet he suspected otherwise. “And I might have missed you, had I done as you suggest.”

  “And now you flatter me, in an effort to spike my guns.” In that instant, he dismounted. When he charged Miss Daphne, she retreated, but he caught her about the waist. “Hold tight to your basket, sweet lady.”

  “What are you doing?” Shock invested her charming features, as she stammered and sputtered, when he lifted her to the saddle. “Sir Dalton, I protest.”

  “My mother raised a gentleman, and I could not leave you to roam the countryside, alone, as it is not done. Now, scoot forward.” After she had done as he bade, he lunged and perched behind her. “Hand me the reins, love.”

  “This is not a good idea.” When she shifted, her soft bottom teased his crotch, and his loins erupted in flames. “And please do not call me that, as it makes you sound disingenuous.”

  “On the contrary, it is an excellent idea.” Even as he uttered the words, he doubted his sanity, as the old one-eyed marauder came to life. “And you object to a term of endearment?”

  “Not all terms—just that one.” She wiggled, and he gritted his teeth. “As I know you love me not.”

  “Would you care to explain yourself, as you could not think me serious?” Perhaps it would have been better to walk alongside his horse, as his current position challenged the limits of his self-control and his breeches. “Sit still, before you send us both toppling to the ground.”

  “Do not rip at me, as I never asked for a ride.” She fixed her stare on the road. “And my father called my mother by such pet names, yet his expressions were insincere.”

  “So my actions evoke unpleasant memories.” Without thinking, he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “My apologies, as I never meant to upset you.”

  “Turn left, please.” Gooseflesh covered her arms. “Continue straight until we reach the pond. Then veer right.”

  “Are you chilled?” He studied the elegant curve of her neck and her fleshy earlobe, which manifested a wicked enticement. Then a gentle breeze carried a subtle lilac scent from her blonde locks to his nose, and he bit back a groan. In search of diversion, he shrugged from his coat, one arm at a time, and draped it over her. “Better?”

  “Yes.” She stiffened her spine. “Although my shawl sufficed for a stroll, which I would much prefer, if only you would put me down.”

  “That is not going to happen.” He followed her directions and steered his stallion to the west. “So, have you had any luck tracking my pilfered heirloom?”

  “Some.” A subtle flinch belied her calm demeanor and all but highlighted her internal unrest. “I wager you will celebrate the return of the brooch, soon.”

  “Oh?” Bloody hell. Prying secrets from her was like peeling a turtle. “Do you know the perpetrators of the dastardly deed, as you sound very certain?”

  “I told you before, Portsea is a small community. Everyone knows everyone, here.” She hugged her basket to her chest. “And the guilty party meant no harm.”

  “Do you not reference the thief?” A violent shudder rocked her frame and declared he had scored a direct hit. If he had any doubts to the identity of the bandit, her response had erased them. One of her brother’s had stolen the trinket. “Perhaps you are familiar with the villain? Do you intend to protect the scoundrel?”

  “He is no scoundrel—and I know not his identity. I spoke in the general sense.” She shifted to meet Dalton’s stare. “Hunger is rampant, and our townspeople have been forced into desperate circumstances, with most of our able-bodied men at war. But I pled your cause, and the individual will surrender the item in question.”

  “So you know the criminal, and you are acquainted.” It was a statement, not a query. “And you have seen the brooch?”

  “Yes—no.” Daphne bowed her head. “That is to say, I know of him, of his existence, and I do not doubt his word. What happened is out of character and will not occur again.”

  “And what of justice?” At her offhand rejoinder, he tamped his temper; else he might frighten the artless girl into silence. “What of the rule of law? I would have the villain arrested.”

  “You will have your precious keepsake.” She swallowed hard. “Is that not enough?”

  “So it would seem, for now.” He counted to three. “And what news of your father?”

  “I have had none.” She sighed. “Draw rein, here.”

  “Where?” Aside from a rudimentary shack in which he would not stable his horse, as it appeared on the verge of collapse, there remained only an open field. “Are we to walk the rest of the way, to the house?”

  “Quiet, Sir Dalton.” She handed him the basket, after he disembarked. “This is their home, and they might hear you.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He lowered her from the saddle, even as he scrutinized the dilapidated structure. “Are you telling me someone lives here?”

  “Yes.” She snatched the basket from his grasp. “And I would thank you not to make disparaging comments about our neighbors or their unfortunate accommodations. Not everyone can afford a Mayfair mansion, and if you cannot hold your tongue, then you may wait outside.”

  Duly chastised, Dalton followed the beautiful governor’s daughter on her charitable sojourn, and his respect for her grew by leaps and bounds with each passing hour. At one stop, she washed dishes and swept floors, while he chopped firewood. At another destination, she cleaned and bandaged a wound, as he cleared refuse. But what struck him was Daphne’s genuine care and concern for those she considered her responsibility.

  No petition seemed too unreasonable, to her. Wh
atever the townsfolk asked of her, the charming young woman either fulfilled their request or promised to do so, as soon as possible. And the citizens adored the incomparable Miss Harcourt. By the time he steered his mount for Courtenay Hall, with the source of his quandary nestled between his thighs and humming a flirty little ditty, he knew not what to do next.

  “It was awfully kind of you to indulge the widow Cartwright’s boys.” She grinned, as he handed her to the graveled drive. “And I am so sorry little Amy Oldman puked on your beautiful coat, but you were a good sport.”

  “No worries, as my young niece has done the same thing, on occasions too numerous to count.” Without thought or consideration of the consequences, he toyed with a wayward curl and then caressed the crest of her ear. “And I quite enjoyed our day, Miss Daphne.”

  “As did I.” At her brilliant smile, his breath caught in his chest. “Must confess I have never found my chores so entertaining, as I did in your company. Never would I have guessed you were so handy with an axe, though I feared you might sacrifice a few fingers while you toiled, as you cannot be accustomed to hard labor.”

  “Very funny.” In play, he tapped the tip of her nose. “I would have you know that commanding a ship is no easy task, and I am often required to soil my hands.”

  “Is that so?” He found her answering giggle far more intoxicating than the most skilled doxy, as he realized, in that instant, he wanted Daphne Harcourt. “Then I suppose you are not interested in joining my family for dinner, tomorrow night, in appreciation of your efforts.”