One-Knight Stand (Brethren of the Coast Book 4)

Praise for One-Knight Stand:

“Loved it!!!!! I just finished book 4 and I think it may be my favorite one!…Keep them coming. I love the brethren!!!”

“…Devlin puts a lot of humor and suspense in her series…a great read…I highly recommend…the whole series if you enjoy historical romances.”

an excerpt from

One-Knight Stand

by Barbara Devlin

Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Devlin and published here with her permission

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 wasn’t that simple.  “And it is not so bad as you might think, once you accustom yourself to the idea.”

“You say that now, but if memory serves, you 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 your part.”

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

“Wait a minute, brother.  You are no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and there was nothing 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 you rather none survived?”

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

“Now there I must take exception, as such comparison is as apples to oranges.”  Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees.  “Neither you nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as you are 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, you are not thinking clearly, as your 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.  His loss is my shame.”  Demetrius scowled.  “Perhaps it is fitting that I am required to marry.”

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

“You would 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 you ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send you to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”

“You find sport in my misery?”

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

“What would you 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.  Can you 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 you that.”  Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws.  “Why not call the poor lass by a term of affection–one known only to her?”

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

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

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

“Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of your 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 you fall flat on your face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry you.”

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

“Is it safe to assume you did not avail yourself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?”  Arucard grimaced, as he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde.  “It might have put your 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 you might beget your heir, as the King commands.”

“Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation.  “Are we nothing more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”

“You make procreation sound so romantic, brother.”  Arucard blanched.  “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it does 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 nothing 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 you 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.”

“You forget yourself.”  Arucard wiped a stray tear from his eye.  “As I explained last night, you 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.  “Did you not pay a visit to Matild, as I instructed?”

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

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

Demetrius snorted.  “You know, I am not entirely comfortable with your lustful embrace of English customs.”

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

“We are not in Rome.”

“And we are no longer Templars.”  Levity aside, Morgan said, “Are you still going on about Randulf?”

The room was as silent as a tomb.

Morgan glanced at Arucard, and he shrugged.

“Neither of you were there 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 your steadfast refusal to let him go does no credit to his memory.”

“Arucard is correct.”  Morgan cocked his head.  “But if you are truly unwilling to wed the lady, I shall be too happy to take your 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 nothing?”  Morgan rocked on his heels.

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

“Then what are you waiting for?” Arucard inquired.  “Do yourself 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 you must promise me something.”

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

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

                  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.

Nestled in a crescent of snow dusted oak trees, the little pond was almost perfectly round, and a thick, white layer of ice covered the small body of water.

Amid hoots and hollers, the young cousins, more like brothers, exactly the same age and lifelong mates, took turns running onto the ice.  The air was crisp, and their expelled breath produced puffs of smoke, as they slid across the slippery surface on the smooth soles of their boots.

Lance fell flat on his bottom and scowled at Thomas, who held a hand to his belly and laughed heartily.  As he tried to stand, his foot skidded on the ice.  Lance ended up as he started–back on his bum.

“Is this not better than reciting a dead language no one uses anymore?”  Thomas skipped on the ice, and then he splayed his arms wide for balance, as he veered in a graceful arc.

As he struggled to right himself, Lance halted when a loud cracking sound snared his attention.  Beneath his feet, in the pristine veneer, jagged lines suddenly snaked in every direction.  He froze.

“Thomas, do not move.”

To his irritation, his disobedient cousin ignored the warning.  In the process of gathering speed for another sail across the ice, Thomas tripped and disappeared below the surface.  Only his arms, shoulders, and head remained visible.

“Lance.  Help.  Help me!”  Thomas fought to pull himself up, but every time he managed to inch out of the water, another piece of ice broke away.  He fell, deeper and deeper.

“Stay still, Thomas.”  Crawling slowly, on his palms and knees, Lance scooted toward the middle of the pond and closer to his cousin.  “I am coming for you.”

But as Lance neared, the ice collapsed.  He sucked in a breath as the painfully cold water penetrated his clothes.  Because he had not made it to the center of the pond, it was still shallow enough for his feet to reach the bottom, and the water came only to his chin.

Tilting his head back, he gasped for air.

A flicker of movement caught his attention.

Hands flailed helplessly.

Lightning flashed, and water splashed over his face as he wrenched to the present.  Lance sputtered and wiped his cheeks with his oilskin raingear.  Determination welled within him.  He was a man now, not a child.  He might not have been able to save his cousin, but he would not let his first mate die.

He untied his lifeline, and the helmsman did the same.

“Go below and get help.”

Mr. Hazard nodded.  “Aye, sir.”

Using a section of rope, Lance tied the wheel in place, hoping the thick twine would withstand the forces of nature until he or the helmsman returned.

The stern rose as the waves drove the ship, and then the bow crashed violently into the valley.  In a burst of light, Lance spied Scottie.  He had lost his grip with one hand and was swinging by the other.

After making his way down the companion ladder, he crawled along the larboard rail.  The ship bucked, as would an unbroken horse.  When the bow rose, he held tight to the railing.  When it leveled, he moved forward as fast as possible.  While it took him mere minutes to reach his first mate, it seemed an eternity.

The storm flared all around.  The wind wailed, as the mournful cries of a grieving widow.

Reaching out, Lance grasped the wrist of his first mate.  Scottie stared at him, and a mixture of relief and gratitude washed over his face.  With one powerful tug, using his bodyweight as a counterbalance, Lance fell backward on the deck as he hauled Scottie over the rail.

“Are you injured?”

“No, Cap’n.”  With a balled fist, the first mate punched him in the arm.  “I knew you would come for me.”

Lance wiped the rain from his eyes.  “Let us tuck in that sail and get back to the helm.”

Moving in unison with the ship, they dragged in the slapping canvas.  The laces had torn from the yardarm at one end, causing the sail to arc wildly.

Scottie lunged for the wayward corner and managed to catch it.  He landed on his rear in the middle of the deck.

Lance laughed as they engaged in an awkward waltz, of sorts, gathering the unruly sheet.  In a rush, he tucked the sail to the yardarm.

A loud, unnatural crack snared his senses.

An eerie premonition of deja vu nipped at his heels, gooseflesh covered him from top to toe, and he peered skyward.  Hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, the foremast yardarm splintered in two, and it listed in the wind, back and forth, as a perilous pendulum, with one end threatening to drop on them at any moment.

“Look out.”  Lance waved his arms in warning. “Scottie, get out of the way.”

“What?” the seaman replied.

He pointed, but the first mate did not appear cognizant of the impending danger.

And then it happened.

The yardarm broke free and came crashing down.

Without thought, he dove toward Scottie, shoving him out of the path of the large, jagged piece of wood.  Lance landed, face first, on the unforgiving planks of the main deck.  Pain ratcheted through his body, though it was not from his fall.  It was from the crushing weight of the yardarm, as it snapped the bone of his sprawled leg.

“Captain.”

Lance flinched at the shout of alarm and the panic in the voice of his first mate.  It seemed as though a hundred fingers surveyed his body, and someone turned him over.  He blinked his eyes and found himself in his room at Sandgate Manor, the Raynesford ancestral pile.

A single candle sat on a bedside table, and thick quilts had been tucked to his chin.  A physician explained his condition to his aunt and uncle, the Marquess and Marchioness of Raynesford, who had cared for him since his father had passed.

He trained his ear as the marquess detailed how a schoolmaster spied Lance and Thomas running away from class.  By the time the teacher trailed them, Thomas had drowned in the icy pond.  The schoolmaster pulled a barely conscious Lance from the frigid water and carried him back to school.

He shivered.

Thomas had died.

Lance moaned and twisted beneath the mountain of bedcovers.  The physician ushered his guardians into the hall, so as not to disturb him.  He fought sleep, because he feared if he surrendered he might never wake, and was still lucid when the door to his bedchamber creaked.

A shadowy silhouette entered the room and tiptoed to his bed.  In the soft light from the candle, he studied the familiar face, committing every subtle nuance to memory.  He had known the young girl since she was born.

Through half-open eyes, he gazed on her graceful form as she placed one of her wooden miniatures, a brightly painted green turtle, on the bedside table.  She collected the quaint figurines, treasured them, so he was surprised she would part with one of her gems.

She glanced over her shoulder and appeared to be checking to make sure no one was there, before leaning forward and setting her mouth to his.

It was his first kiss.

“Get well, Lance.”  She pressed her palm, cool against his fevered skin, to his cheek.  “You are my hero.”

After that, he had slept.

“Easy, lads!”

The concern in Scottie’s words came to him through a fog of anguish and confusion.

As Lance slipped beneath the comforting blanket of unconsciousness, a name passed his lips.  A bare whisper, it was lost in the blustery gale of the storm, so no one heard, but he said it just the same.

“Cara.”
***

Far away, in a fashionable London town home, all were abed, and the household slept.  The halls were silent, save the ticking of the long-case clock in the foyer at the foot of the grand staircase.

The candles were guttered, having long ago extinguished, and the hearths were cold.  No shadows played on the carpets, because no moonlight filtered through the windows.

Had anyone been awake to see, the sky beyond the glass was angry.

In the dark of night, Cara Douglas shifted and frowned, and a soft moan passed her lips as she struggled somewhere between consciousness and slumber.  Tucked, safe and sound, in her bedchamber, she rolled her head restlessly to one side and sighed as she pushed at the bedclothes.

The clock in the hall sounded the hour.  It was late.

A flash of light and a distant rumbling provided the first warnings of the violent storm approaching the city.

Cara kicked at the sheets, which had become tangled about her legs as she tossed and turned.  And she wiped the faint sheen of perspiration from her brow, as she fought imaginary wraiths in haunted repose.

“No,” she murmured, ensnared in a vivid dream.

An army of visions plagued her rest, and bits and pieces of her past flashed a staccato of unsettling imagery.  In a vaguely familiar surrounding, a single candle sat on a bedside table.  Beneath mountains of blankets, a motionless form reclined.  As she crossed the room, she stared down and realized she was a child, not the woman she was now.  The young Cara set a tiny wooden figurine on the table and then claimed a kiss in payment for her willingly relinquished treasure.

Suddenly, reflections of a wild sea rocked her world.  Mountainous waves of water caved in around her, burying her in an ocean grave.  In her sleep, she screamed and lashed at some invisible tormenter.

Beyond the walls of her home, the wind whipped and howled.  Trees swayed, rubbish and dust swirled in the air.  The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded on the windowpanes, a gentle drumbeat heralding the arrival of nature’s tempest.

Thunder roared through her bedchamber, and she sobbed.  Tears slipped from her still closed eyes, and though she dozed, it was neither peaceful nor comforting.

In her dreams, she pictured his face; the one she had known all her life.  He did not smile, and his black hair was wet.  His green eyes shimmered with determination–and uncharacteristic fear.  And she was with him, sharing his emotions as though they were one entity.

Drenched in sweat, her fine cambric nightgown clung to her body.  In despair, she kicked and thrashed in a snare of linens.  With desperation, she searched the gloom for an escape, some way to break free from the bonds of the terror holding her captive.

Through the misery, he called her name.

And she murmured softly and reached for him.

Rain pelted her windows, as would an eager suitor beckoning her in a midnight rendezvous.  Her pillow grew damp as tears streamed her temples, and she listed frantically from side to side.

Urgent.  Tortured.

Cara cried out.

But still she languished, trapped in a seemingly endless vortex of nocturnal desolation.

The storm intensified, and thunder shook the walls of her home.  The gentle shower escalated into a torrential downpour.  Finally, on a booming clap, she bolted upright.

Liberated from the nightmare that had arrested her, Cara took a few seconds to gather her wits and discern that she remained in her chamber, safely ensconced in her family residence on Upper Brooke Street.  Clutching the sheet to her chest, she shivered and rubbed the gooseflesh covering her arms.  A quick glance about the room told her no one presented a threat, and nothing was amiss.  But the cause of her concern remained quite tangible.

Eerily realistic.

After tossing the blankets aside, Cara swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and leapt from the bed.  She walked to the windows, pulled open the drapes, and gasped at the display of raw power as nature assailed the city.

With clasped hands pressed to her bosom, she choked on a sob.  An obscure but nonetheless compelling weight hung heavy in her heart.  She struggled to breathe, as if from overexertion.  Fear lapped at her senses and filled her with tension.  She rolled her shoulders in a valiant but failed attempt to relax.

He was out there.

Coming home–to her.

Uncertain as to how she knew, she simply knew.

A shiver of dread traipsed her spine, and a wraith of gloom danced a merry jig in the recesses of her mind.  Entombed in a melancholy prison, she wept.  But now was not the time to cry, so she wiped her tears.

Something had gone horribly wrong.

Her hero suffered.

How she longed to go to him, to hold him in her arms and ease his torment.  Operating on instinct, she sensed that he needed her, and she would have to be strong.

Pressing her brow against the cool surface of the glass, Cara closed her eyes and whispered, “Lance.”