The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) by Danelle Harmon Read Free Book Online Page A

were none.
    Was it possible that she had, indeed, taken it into her head to make a last gallant effort to win back the heart of the man she’d loved?
    Had he missed something? Was his sister that desperate?
    Lucien felt sick. It was his fault that Perry had broken off the engagement and his fault that his little sister’s heart had been broken. If he’d not sent Perry on that ill-fated trip to Spain—
    No, he could not think of that, not now when regrets and recriminations would only cloud his thinking and get in the way of finding his little sister. Cold dread clawed at the base of his spine and as Phelps returned, Lucien knew he could not wait for his earlier orders to be carried out. There was no time to lose. The coach could catch up to him later.
    He embraced his duchess, said a hurried goodbye to his nine-month-old son and heir and then strode purposely to the library, already calling for his fierce black stallion and yanking open the case where his deadliest, most accurate set of pistols waited.
    My little sister. If she has met with foul play, I will kill the person responsible.
    * * *
    Nerissa opened her eyes. Beyond the brig’s stern windows, she saw thick banks of slate-colored cloud that seemed to press down upon a heavy gray sea streaked and laced with foam.
    She must have slept, as she had no recollection of time having passed after that wretched Irishman had left. The day, however, was obviously well underway. Her stomach growled, and she put a hand over her belly, trying to ignore it as she took in her surroundings. The details that had been lost to the darkness when she’d woken earlier had now taken shape. A seat beneath the stern windows, covered with a canvas cushion. Two cannon, one on each side of the cabin, trussed down and poking their long muzzles out of open gun ports that let in a warm sea-breeze from outside. A chair pushed up to a small pine table bolted to the deck flooring, atop which stood an inkwell and a quill in a square tray, brass dividers holding down a water-stained chart, a battered tin coffeepot and a book that she supposed was the ship’s log. Near one gun, a washstand with a bowl and pitcher and a small mirror above it. Near the other, a sea chest with a lap-sized writing desk. An exquisite little model of a ship carved of bone or driftwood, strung with rigging and hung with miniature sails. There was a small, primitive painting of green hills, steep, rocky cliffs and a turquoise blue sea on one wall, and while Nerissa knew there were no walls on ships, she also knew she lacked nautical vernacular and decided that that was what the heavy, lateral planking that framed this cabin and held out the sea beyond, would be called during her—hopefully very short—stay here.
    Even now, Lucien would be on his way to rescue her. No force in the world could stop her brother.
    None.
    The certainty brought her comfort. A sense of constancy when, for the first time in her life, there was nothing expected, predictable, or usual about the time or place in which she currently found herself. Being abducted and held for ransom was a far cry from the usual pattern of her life—an endless round of teas, visits, balls, soirees, Seasons, hunts, and being managed by her brothers. Or at least, fiercely guarded by them. Sheltered, even. No, this situation was altogether different, and there was nobody to guard her. Shelter her. Protect her, even, unless she reached down deep inside and did it herself.
    Nobody.
    A shiver of fear went through her and she took a deep and steadying breath. If he’s holding me for ransom, surely he doesn’t mean to harm me. That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?
    I am safe.
    I am. Another deep, calming breath. Safe.
    But there were no guarantees, were there? She was quite alone. Alarmingly so, really. She glanced around the cabin, wondering what she might use as a weapon should the need arise. Not a pistol in sight. Not even a dress sword. Nothing but the dividers