Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast) (36 page)

At the edge of the cliffs, nine cloaked figures stood in the morning mist.

Trevor did not need to see their faces to guess their identities.  Intrigued, he arched a brow and gazed at Caroline.  She merely smiled.  Disappointment shrouded him as a wet blanket, because he did not want to share his wife just now.  They reined in and dismounted, leaving their horses to graze with the others.  For a second, he considered swimming for safety, but Caroline took hold of his hand and led him to the Brethren.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said in a whisper.  “I am with you.”

“You are not the one that concerns me.”

“Morning, Lockwood.”  Damian appeared to stand as leader of the pack.  “Years ago, we pledged an oath in order to ensure that none of us would ever be alone.  It is the same vow that joined our five ancestors, after they fled France and certain death.”

Dirk chuckled and said, “To many, our pact may seem a childhood fancy.  But as we grew older, and sorrow randomly touched our lives, that youthful promise evolved into something much more.  It became an allegiance.”

“Douglas, Elliott, Prescott, Randolph, Seymour.”  Blake dipped his chin.  “Our ascendants, our five families, comprised the original Brethren of the Coast, and we have stood together for over six centuries.  In our generation, Caroline is the first to marry.”

“We had thought we welcomed you properly into our fold.”  Lance rocked on his heels.  “We have since discovered we were wrong.”

“In this family, no one is excluded.  No one is left behind.”  Dalton inclined his head and grinned.  “And although we did not abandon you, we did not exactly make you feel at home.  Allow us to rectify our mistake, brother.”

Caroline ushered him forward, and Trevor inhaled deeply.  The Brethren and their female support formed a semi-circle, and Damian held up a worn, leather-bound book.

“This log belonged to my ancestors.  My father carried it wherever he went, as did his father before him.  As I do now.  The oath that is written on these ancient pages is the vow we took on a dark night by candlelight.  And it is the same promise we make to you, if you will join us.”

In concert, the Brethren said, “Love, honor, and devotion was the beginning of our Order.  Bonds of kinship and friendship all-important.  We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all.  For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.”

Damian closed the tome and extended a hand.  “On my honor.”

The simple phrase was repeated, and an additional palm added to the pact, until only Caroline and Trevor remained.

Looking him straight in the eyes, his wife followed the example set by her friends.

He knew what they expected, was aware of his role to play, but he waited.  Gulls keened in the distance, and a gentle breeze blew in from the Channel.  And although he was not cold, Trevor shuddered.

The odd extended family, characters all, offered him something he had never believed existed, and he still did not quite understand them.  They pledged to stand with him, for him.  He had been alone for the better portion of his life and, in those solitary years, had always yearned to be part of something more than himself.

Trevor wanted to be a husband.

Wanted to be a father.

And he wanted this.

Placing his hand atop the stack, he winked at Caroline and said, “On my honor.”

A chorus of cheers erupted, and they shared heartfelt hugs.  After mounting their horses, they rode hell bent for leather along the cliffs.

Trevor cast a glance at his wife, and she blew him a kiss.  He laughed and realized that for the first time in his life, he belonged.  He was truly a member of their family.

Indeed, life was filled with promise.

The sun shimmered on the ocean, marking the dawn of a new day--and a new Nautionnier Knight.

Excerpt from
My Lady, The Spy

Book Two of the Brethren of the Coast Series

Coming in December 2013

France

April, 1811

Death came in a matter of seconds, and it chose a beautiful, star-filled night.  In the silver glow of moonlight, the blood staining the front of her peach silk gown, and oozing between her fingers, appeared black as soot from a chimney.

“Oh, Colin.  I am so sorry.”  Voices echoed in the distance. 
L’araignee
peered into the darkness.  “I should never have left you alone.”

Amid the blooming rose bushes heralding the advent of spring, the renewal of life, another life had ended.  The head cradled in her lap had once sported a boyish expression that melted many a female heart.  Now, with his face eerily devoid of emotion, she bent and kissed the only spot on Colin’s forehead not covered with blood.

“I will avenge you, my sweet angel.”  Despair was a bitter pill, and
L’araignee
clenched a fist and swallowed a sob.  “I swear it on the graves of my parents.”

A search party neared, and she had to depart or risk a similar fate.

Yet it was so hard to let go.

Her partner would be buried in an unmarked grave.  There would be no ceremony, prayer, or eulogy offered.  And no mourner would shed a tear.

Because no one grieved the death of a spy.

“Over here. 
There is someone over here
!”

“I will cry for you, and I shall carry your memory forever,” she said in a whisper.  For the last time, she caressed his cheek and eased his head from her lap.  She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then touched his cold flesh.  “Be at peace, my darling.”

Rustling in the bushes brought her up short.

“You there, stand fast,” an unknown male ordered.

“I think not,”
L’araignee
stated softly below the interloper’s earshot.

In a flash, she ran behind a tall hedge to a hailstorm of protestations.  Ah, a garden was an excellent hiding place.  After eluding her pursuers and gaining a measure of safety among the topiaries, she doffed her gown, slippers, and undergarments and rolled everything into a tight ball.

Quickly, she dropped to her knees and crawled beneath the thick canopy of a thorny shrub, which opened countless tiny cuts in her flesh.  Ignoring the burning sensation, she smeared handfuls of damp earth on herself to camouflage her skin.  When footsteps approached, she covered her mouth, because the slightest gasp could betray her location.  Through the foliage, she counted five rows of buttons on a hussar-style waistcoat and bit her lip.  The man was a member of General Bonaparte’s
la Garde imperiale.

And
L’araignee
was in trouble.

If Bony wanted her, she had been well and truly compromised.

Fear shivered down her spine.  She saluted the disconcerting reaction and set it aside, because now was not the time for hysterics.  She had to get to a safe house.  Had to make a run for the Belgian coast.  If her communiqué had reached London, Colin’s friend, a trusted ally, should be anchored offshore.

Dirk Randolph would take her home.

Information of utmost importance had to be delivered to the Ministry of Defense and the Counterintelligence Corps.  What she possessed was vital to national security, and she could not fail in her duty.

Colin had died for what she knew.

There was a traitor to the Crown in their ranks.

The situation was urgent, and she had to move.  With the stealth and skill of a seasoned agent, she slipped between row upon row of ornamental trees and bushes in the elegant garden.  Conversation ahead halted her flight.  With nary a sound,
L’araignee
shimmied on all fours and took shelter in the underside of a large holly.  The pointed leaves snagged her hair and the bundled clothing.

“I thought I saw someone come this way.”

From her vantage, several pairs of hussar boots appeared on the path.

“Well, there is no one here now.”  The guard kicked a small stone.  “Get some privates from the infantry, and have them dig a hole for the body.  I am returning to the ball.”

L’araignee
sat still for several minutes.  Despite inclinations to the contrary, she remained calm and patient.  An ambitious military man could be lurking nearby in hopes of making a name for himself at her expense.  It was an old trick; one she knew well.

“You are so very sly,” she whispered to herself.  “But so am I.”

She waited a tad longer.

Muffled footsteps caught her trained ear, and she shook her head and smiled.

They would not catch
L’araignee
that night.

Excerpt from
The Most Unlikely Lady

Book Three of the Brethren of the Coast Series

Available now on Amazon.com

London

April, 1812

For most young women, attracting a man was as simple as breathing.  Inhale.  Exhale.  A reflex action executed with little or no effort.

Simple.

But Sabrina Douglas considered courting something more akin to having a tooth extracted.  Necessary, if she wished to marry, but painful--downright agonizing.

Standing in the entranceway of Hawthorn Hall, she craned her neck and surveyed the crush.  Her intended target, Lord Everett Markham, stood amid a crowd of rakes; dark, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome.  He glanced up, and she was certain he saw her.

“Sabrina, your wrap,” her father prompted.

As she gave her cloak to the footman, she kept her eyes averted.  Everett was fast approaching their group, and she fought the urge to assess his reaction when he saw her--the new Sabrina--for the first time.

Yes, this was the moment for which she had been waiting.

The reason she had allowed herself to be poked and prodded while she was fitted for new gowns.  The reason she had passed the morning with a gooey beauty potion slathered over her cheeks.  The reason she had bit her tongue while that fussy Frenchman cut her hair.  Did the tight curls framing her face seem as ridiculous as she thought they appeared?  Cara, her older sister and Miss Perfect, assured Sabrina that she had never looked lovelier.

This singular fragment of time was why she had spent the better part of winter walking up and down the stairs of their country manor, while balancing a book on her head.  And with all that practice she still could not descend a flight of stairs without dropping the blasted old tome.  As a soldier heading into battle, she had prepared herself for the start of the Season.

Everett shook hands with her father, Admiral Mark Douglas.  He bowed before her mother, Lady Amanda, and Cara.

Sabrina was next.

What had Cara said?  Stare at your feet, and pretend not to notice him.  Just stand there, looking like you don’t care.

That advice was a mistake.

It reminded her of the daring, low-cut bodice of her gown, and telltale warmth flooded her cheeks.  The dressmaker assured her the emerald green silk contrasted nicely with her raven hair and cerulean eyes.  She hoped the bloody woman was right.

“Miss Douglas.”  Everett swept her an elegant bow.

With feigned surprise, Sabrina smiled.  “Lord Markham.”  Was her voice too high pitched?  “How wonderful it is to see you again.”  He quirked his brows at her greeting, and she suppressed a shiver as he took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips.

“May I compliment your sense of fashion?”  His gaze scrutinized her from head to foot.  “I daresay I almost did not recognize you.”

Anticipation licked at her nerves, and she peered into the crowd, attempting to appear disinterested.  “Perhaps I am not the woman you thought I was.”

“Perhaps not.”  His voice was as thick as the beauty muck she had smeared on her face as he held out his arm.  “Would you allow me the honor of escorting you?”

“I suppose you will do.”  Her heart beat wildly in her chest when he chuckled at her response, and she reconsidered her plan.

“You know, I expected no less than a saucy reply, and you did not disappoint me.”  Everett shot her a boyish grin.  “I wondered if your outward transformation had an impact on your charming personality.  But to my relief, you seem to be in fine form.”

“I am not sure if you are complimenting or insulting me, Lord Markham.”  Sabrina lifted her chin and fixed her stare on the back of her sister’s head.  “And I know of no such transformation.  I merely made additions to my wardrobe during the summer.”

“And you have restyled your hair.  Oh, my, are you wearing rouge?”

“I have done nothing of the sort.”  She lied.  “And my personal habits are none of your affair.  If you do not cease your mindless prattle, I shall trounce your toes.”

“Relax, my dear.  I merely took note of the changes in your appearance.  I thought all young ladies lived in hope of such praise.  And, if memory serves, you’ll trounce my toes regardless of intent.”

“Now you are insulting me.”  In that instant, Sabrina quit the field.  Her short-lived campaign to catch a husband at an end, she resolved to contract the plague at the first opportunity.

“Stating a fact, my dear.  So you deny the renovations to your person?”  The insufferable man had the nerve to wink.  “If that is your story, Miss Douglas, you stay with it.”

They navigated the throng until they came to an arched opening.  Couples whirled on the polished marble floor beneath elegant crystal chandeliers.  Vases filled with a wild mix of hyacinths, tulips, and white roses stood on pedestals in every corner, and their subtle bouquet hung in the air.  A musical ensemble occupied the center of the back wall of the luxurious mirrored ballroom.

Conscious of the multitude of stares in their direction, Sabrina inhaled deeply.  She had not anticipated the attention her unconventional campaign would attract and, given her less than stellar social performances in the past, was unaccustomed to the limelight.

“Shall we dance?” he inquired, with a squeeze of her hand.

“Oh--I mean--yes.  That is, it would be my honor, Lord Markham.”  It was hell being a lady.

Biting her lip and swallowing an unladylike curse, she followed his lead to the dance floor, sucking in a breath as his arm encircled her waist, pulling her close to his sinewy frame.  Her ears pealed with excitement, as the bells in a Wren steeple, and fire coursed her veins, every nerve charged.