Chapter Two
Sean McTavish awoke to find himself naked beneath his sheets except for a massive bandage wrapped around his entire midsection from his waist to his rib cage.
Not that he intended to voice any objection, for that white strip of cloth looked spotlessly clean and his mattress was soft and comfortable.
He also felt clean, and realized someone must have washed him from head to toe with sandalwood soap, for he no longer smelled like rotting kelp from the sea.
However, he was in pain. There was a spot on the left side just under his rib cage that he vowed was on fire. Hot, burning flames.
“He’s awake, my lady,” an older woman said, gently stirring someone who was curled up like a kitten in a plump chair beside the hearth.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Angel.”
He recognized Deandra’s sweet, sleepy voice, and it put him at ease.
“Would you fetch a bowl of broth for him?” Deandra asked with a yawn, shaking off her drowsiness. “I’ll feed him a little of it. Let’s see if he can hold anything down yet.”
“Right away, m’lady.” Keys dangling off the older woman’s apron clinked and jangled as she immediately scurried away to do Deandra’s bidding.
Sean surmised that the efficient woman was the Woodley Lodge housekeeper.
Deandra now took the vacated seat beside his bed and cast him a worried smile. Her eyes still held the droop of sleep, but her pale gray irises shimmered like silvery moons.
Truly, this girl was enchanting.
“How do you feel, Captain McTavish?”
Having her beside him felt like heaven.
He had no idea why. But he had looked into many female eyes and never encountered any that were as exquisite as Deandra’s.
What was it about the lass that struck deep in his soul and put his heart in spasms?
He did not like this feeling at all.
“Some horse’s arse ambushed me, shot me, and then tossed me into ten-foot waves thinking to drown me. How am I supposed to feel?” he grumbled.
“A simple ‘I am sore’ or ‘I am fine’ would have sufficed,” she replied, her lips twitching as though she wanted to smile in response to his curmudgeonly reply.
“Sorry, I am not at my best right now.” He wasn’t proud of his irreverent response to her well-intentioned question, and knew he had to do better, especially if he wished to gain her favor.
It wasn’t her fault that his heart raced every time he looked at her.
She wasn’t even trying to tempt him, for she wore a simple, pale gray gown that was buttoned to her throat and covered all of her splendid attributes.
She looked impossibly delectable.
Aye, he liked her.
He watched her absently brush back a stray auburn curl that had slipped from the loose braid of her hair. There was a lushness and vitality to her dark tresses.
The lass was perfection. Her lips had been heaven to taste and kiss.
No wonder Draco refused to ever let him near her. Sean wanted to devour this girl.
“Do you know who shot you, Captain McTavish?”
Sean managed a nod. “Aye.”
“Tell me his name and I’ll report him to Constable Angel. He’s very capable, and—”
“No, lass. That villain is mine and I’ll not give him to anyone else.”
“Oh, I see.” She shook her head and cast him a look of exasperation. “What is it with you pirates? Rid yourself of that idiotic ‘vengeance is mine’ attitude or you shall end up dead next time.”
“It is a possibility,” he admitted. “I doubt anyone would care.”
“I would,” she surprised him by saying, and she sounded quite heartfelt about it, too.
“Thank ye, Deandra. That is very kind of ye, but ye’d be the only one who would.”
He had never seriously considered marriage before, nor did he understand why it kept slipping into his mind every time he looked at her. However, it would be nice to have someone give a rat’s arse if he were to die.
Especially a real lady like Deandra.
Yet he had no illusions. Why would she ever care for a lad raised since birth to believe he was an illegitimate nobody, even if he was a nobleman’s bastard, and an English nobleman’s at that?
Could this bloodline be more offensive to a proud Irishman such as himself? He still had not reconciled himself to being half English by blood.
“Captain McTavish, do you really have no one in your life who cares for you? Parents? Brothers and sisters?”
“Nay, lass. Never had siblings that I’m aware of. My mother died a while ago and I never knew my father.”
She blushed, no doubt realizing his family situation was nothing like hers. “Surely you must have had a sweetheart who cared. Perhaps several, since you do not strike me as the sort to settle on just one young lady.”
Sean shook his head. “Perhaps if the right lady ever came along, I might chance opening up my heart. But I doubt I would ever find a sweetheart of quality in my low social circles. Not that I am all that worthy. I am well aware of my faults.”
She studied him a long moment, frowning lightly.
“What troubles ye, lass?”
“You seem intelligent…and you carry yourself with surprising elegance.”
“Despite my swagger and arrogance?”
She cast him another of her soft smiles that filled his heart with warmth and tenderness. “Yes, although I cannot explain why you leave this impression on me.”
He understood why.
Perhaps there was some truth to the letter he had received from Crawley & Sons, solicitors to the Duke of Dearborne, one that had turned his ignominious existence upside down. He had no idea if the information disclosed in the letter was true or simply a trap being set to lure him to London.
He did not think it was possible for his mother to be the daughter of the Marquess of Dunnymede, even though he’d always felt she had lied to him about her parentage.
But never like this.
Was Colleen McTavish the estranged, stubborn, and willful daughter of an Irish marquess? Thus making him the grandson of a marquess by blood?
“Perhaps there is more to me than ye realize, Deandra,” he said, for the first time hoping there might be some truth to the solicitor’s letter that related even more explosive information about his heritage.
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “More to you? Such as?”
He wasn’t certain how to respond because he had yet to believe all that was contained in that letter.
The solicitor had gone on to report that his mother had been legitimately married to the recently deceased Duke of Dearborne, an English duke, although he must have been no more than a younger son at the time and never expected to inherit.
And now the duke was dead and those solicitors were insisting he was the recognized heir because some bright-eyed solicitor’s clerk had found a marriage license between Sean’s mother and said duke, no doubt upending the next heir in line’s expectations.
No wonder the man wanted him dead.
Still, how could any of this be real? It had to be a trap. Only a fool would ever believe an Irish privateer whose adventures sometimes bordered on piracy was the one to carry on an English title dating back centuries.
Blessed saints.
He could almost understand Lord John Martingale’s anger, for the man had grown up believing himself to be the duke’s heir. To have a dukedom within one’s grasp only to have it snatched away by a reprobate such as Sean had to be a shattering experience.
But it still did not mean Martingale could kill the rightful heir, namely him.
“Captain McTavish, is there something you are not telling me?”
“Aye, lass.”
What he could not puzzle out was why his parents had kept their marriage a secret. Perhaps they had been star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet, who had fallen in love, wed, and then feared to tell their feuding families.
But what was the point of their marrying if they would then go on to lead separate lives even once Sean’s supposed father had inherited the dukedom?
Were Deandra his wife, he could not imagine ever forsaking her.
In truth, he would fight heaven and earth to keep her by his side, to give her respectability and proclaim her as his wife.
Why had his parents abandoned each other?
More shocking to him was that the solicitor’s letter indicated the Crown had already acknowledged the validity of their marriage. Which made him, Sean McTavish, scurrilous knave and man of questionable morals, the new Duke of Dearborne.
It had to be a trick. A trap fashioned by one of his many enemies.
The housekeeper, a kindly looking woman, returned with a bowl of broth and handed it to Deandra with an affectionate smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Angel. Send one of the maids up to chaperone us, for I mean to sit with Captain McTavish for a while. But summon me if my father needs me.”
“Aye, m’lady. I’ll send up Gladys, one of the new maids. She seems to be of little use for anything else,” the housekeeper remarked with a roll of her eyes. “As for your father, never you worry about him. He seems comfortably tucked away in the library, as usual.”
There was an expression on Deandra’s face that Sean could not quite make out. Affection mingled with sadness about her father was the best he could make sense of it.
He waited until the housekeeper had walked out before addressing Deandra. “Is he in ill health?”
She nodded. “My father is getting frailer by the day. His mind is not what it used to be. This is another reason why I stayed behind while Draco and Imogen went to London. The journey alone takes a week there, and another week back by mail coach. Longer if one uses one’s own coach, as Draco did.
I dare not leave my papa alone even for the length of an afternoon. ”
“I’m sorry, lass. But it worked out well for me, it seems.” He pointed to his bandages. “Who stitched me up? Was it ye?”
She let out a heavy breath. “Yes. You see, I have been assisting at the army hospital in Moonstone Landing for years now and learned how to sew up wounds. The shot went clear through you, so there was nothing to dig out, although I did thoroughly cleanse the area of the torn flesh and made certain no fragments were left inside you. I would have summoned Dr. Hewitt if it were something more serious.”
“But ye respected my wishes and did not alert anyone?”