Chapter One
November 1805
WIND WHIPPEDCAPTAINLord Cheverley’s improvised sail against his raft’s mast. Salted sea-spray stung his lips and gusts roared in his ears. Using his shoulder, he wiped rain from his eyes and then re-wedged the paddle between his left arm and leg. Thighs straining, he gripped the groaning rudder.
He hadn’t survived the unspeakable—seven years of war, a shipwreck, the loss of his right arm below the elbow, and six excruciating years of captivity—only to fail now.
Had he?
Wine-dark depths did not defer to long-serving officers of the Royal Navy. Frothy white waves were indifferent to sons of dukes. And life-hungry storms didn’t give a damn if they stripped wives of their husbands, or sons of their fathers.
Penelope. Thaddeus.Vast emptiness yawned. Instinctively, he beseeched the heavens.Please. I must survive.
No god answered, only darkness without direction, no land, no guiding stars. The blank, shifting water beneath promised death—the same, slow demise that had claimed the lives of Chev’s fellow seamen stationed with him on theHMS Defiance.
That gale, too, had materialized as if summoned by Poseidon’s trident, without warning and yet powerful enough to devour his sixty-four-gun ship. Rocks like rusted knives protruded from a deadly shoal. Waves thundered without reprieve, breaking theDefianceinto pieces unfit for kindling. And his ship’s end had been only the beginning of his nightmare.
Tu n’es rien.You are nothing.Je te possède maintenant en entier.I own every part of you, now.
His raft listed. He spit over the side.
How much adversity could a man face before he surrendered to annihilation’s mercy? How god-damned much?
The wind bellowed. Siren whispers sounded, sensing weakness—supplicate, surrender, submit.
What did he have to offer the world he’d left behind? He’d thought he’d return a hero. Instead, he was broken in body and soul. If he yielded to the storm, would it not be kinder to his family and a just restitution for his sins?
Memories feathered through his thoughts. His face buried in the softness of Penelope’s hair. Her fingers, drifting in soothing circles against the small of his back.
He inhaled deep, straining against invisible bonds and roaring back into the wind. He cursed fate. He cursed God. He cursed the pirate witch who’d kept him captive. Then, he cursed himself.
His anger crystalized in breath, clouding the chilled air. He’d escaped captivity, darkness, restraints. Zephyr’s winds and Poseidon’s waves demanded the final say, but he would not give up without a fight.
Not tonight.
The bundle strapped across his back held what little remained of hung beef and brandy. His cask of fresh water ran low, but he had enough to last another day.
He smothered his weakness, gritted his teeth, and held fast to the rudder.
He’d survive.
He’d survive on the pure need for vengeance.
~~~
For years, while Penelope labored to transform her husband’s estate, Pensteague House, into a haven, she’d done her best to ignore the specter of neighboring Ithwick Manor, her husband’s birthplace. At her worst, she’d wished the house and grounds would simply wither away. Then, however, the duke had been hale, his heir, Piers, alive, and she and her son superfluous to the duchy.
Now, everything had changed. Light filtering through the ducal library’s windows chastised her for those fancies—the carpets were worn, the centuries-old relics, dust-laden, and a must-heavy scent burned inside the bridge of her nose. Hour by listless hour, timehadbeen devouring what was left of her husband’s boyhood world. And Ithwick’s slow demise provided none of her hoped-for triumph.
Still, she had done her duty, called on the duke, and reported on Thaddeus’s education and care—not that His Grace had appeared to understand a word—and she itched to leave this place full of ghosts and greed, mother to the heir or not.
Mrs. Renton—the duke’s devoted housekeeper, and one of the few Ithwick residents Penelope trusted—wrung her liver-spotted hands.
“You must stay here at Ithwick,” Mrs. Renton said, her pale eyes wide. “The duchy is without a duchess. The duke has lost his sense. Master Thaddeus remains too young to assume an heir’s duties, and I am certain those...those...” Mrs. Renton gestured to the window, “...menmean to destroy everything that’s left!”
Moving to the window, Penelope’s gaze found the duke’s closest male relatives apart from her son. The elder was Mr. Robert Anthony, who, as a descendant of the last duke’s brother, was next in line to inherit after Penelope’s son. The younger was a more recent arrival.Son to the duke’s sister and her husband, the Duke of Warfield—Lord Thomas.
Absurd for those gentlemen and their friends to be littered about the lawn in winter, despite the unusually warm weather. Ridiculous, too, to be having a weighted disc throwing competition while attired in the latest, highly impractical fashion.
