Prologue
Angel Isle, off the coast of Nova Scotia, spring, 1804
M ajor Lord Wensley lay dying.
Tiny lines etched deep as crevasses held his humor ‘till the last breath. Slight wisps of silver hair swayed over eyes of twinkling black. He could no longer relate the stories of his ribald youth responsible for each crook of his red veined nose. The corners of his narrow lips quirked upwards when his sixteen-year-old niece fell on her knees beside the bed, her wild hair tumbling in disarray around narrow young shoulders.
“Desarae,” he breathed, reaching to her. Her strong hands gripped his.
“Yes, Uncle?” she whispered, tears standing in her soft brown eyes and spilling forth upon her golden cheeks.
“Do not forget…all that I…have taught you,” he ordered, his voice gravelly and halting. “Remember…you are…a lady.”
“I will remember everything,” she swore. “Do not fear.”
“Be certain to…practice.” He waited for her nod. “I promised your mother not to let her father raise you. If he should hear that…I am gone—?”
“We shan’t tell him!”
“I love you, my dear,” he whispered and then his dark eyes unfocused and his sunken chest rose as the breath filled his lungs for one last time. A ragged sigh escaped.
Desarae cuddled his slack hand to her cheek and sobbed.
Behind her, Jim crossed the carpet to stand at her side. His wide shoulders shook as tears streamed down his dark brown cheeks. Desarae remained oblivious to his presence until he touched her shoulder and turned her away from the bed to take her in his massive arms. Tears that had since dried up flowed anew.
“Miss Desarae, don’t be sad,” Jim murmured, patting her hair. He rested his head on hers. “We will be happy again until your grandfather comes for you.”
“I shall never leave you.” Desarae’s young voice cried out desperately, clinging to her uncle’s former batman who was more like another uncle to her than a servant. “Never!”
“When miss’s grandfather comes, you will go,” he whispered, and then allowed her to cling to him for a moment before putting her away. “I will take Sir to the box,” he murmured, then pushed her into a chair facing away from the bed. Jim lifted the major’s frail body into his embrace and carried him from the chamber.
Desarae stared for many long moments at the empty fireplace. “I shan’t go. I shan’t! ”
But her determination proved unnecessary. The days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the months into years and still her grandfather did not come for her. As time passed, Desarae’s young heart healed and the small isle rang with the joyful laughter of youth running free and wild.
They told none of Baron Wensley’s death. But rumors began, as rumors always will, and eventually the news of his possible death reached the Earl of Kristnor. He hired the fastest ship he could find—one of the new square-rigged, ‘sharp’ schooners—and set forth to bring his granddaughter back to England. His eldest son had died in the autumn making Desarae the only heir to the Earl’s vast holdings. He would have control of her or marry her off to someone he could control and he had in mind the weakest man-milliner of the ton .
Chapter One
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite
in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!
-Hamlet Act 2, scene 2
Spring, 1811, near the east coast of Nova Scotia
“ T ie down…!”
The raging wind flung Trystan’s words from his mouth before his men heard his commands. The driving rain made the deck slick and treacherous. Trystan struggled against the pitching deck, striving to reach the helm where his navigator hung tied to the wheel, unconscious or dead. His frozen fingers closed around the railing as another pounding wave dashed over the ship. He opened his mouth to shout another order,
Angel Isle, off the coast of Nova Scotia, spring, 1804
M ajor Lord Wensley lay dying.
Tiny lines etched deep as crevasses held his humor ‘till the last breath. Slight wisps of silver hair swayed over eyes of twinkling black. He could no longer relate the stories of his ribald youth responsible for each crook of his red veined nose. The corners of his narrow lips quirked upwards when his sixteen-year-old niece fell on her knees beside the bed, her wild hair tumbling in disarray around narrow young shoulders.
“Desarae,” he breathed, reaching to her. Her strong hands gripped his.
“Yes, Uncle?” she whispered, tears standing in her soft brown eyes and spilling forth upon her golden cheeks.
“Do not forget…all that I…have taught you,” he ordered, his voice gravelly and halting. “Remember…you are…a lady.”
“I will remember everything,” she swore. “Do not fear.”
“Be certain to…practice.” He waited for her nod. “I promised your mother not to let her father raise you. If he should hear that…I am gone—?”
“We shan’t tell him!”
“I love you, my dear,” he whispered and then his dark eyes unfocused and his sunken chest rose as the breath filled his lungs for one last time. A ragged sigh escaped.
Desarae cuddled his slack hand to her cheek and sobbed.
Behind her, Jim crossed the carpet to stand at her side. His wide shoulders shook as tears streamed down his dark brown cheeks. Desarae remained oblivious to his presence until he touched her shoulder and turned her away from the bed to take her in his massive arms. Tears that had since dried up flowed anew.
“Miss Desarae, don’t be sad,” Jim murmured, patting her hair. He rested his head on hers. “We will be happy again until your grandfather comes for you.”
“I shall never leave you.” Desarae’s young voice cried out desperately, clinging to her uncle’s former batman who was more like another uncle to her than a servant. “Never!”
“When miss’s grandfather comes, you will go,” he whispered, and then allowed her to cling to him for a moment before putting her away. “I will take Sir to the box,” he murmured, then pushed her into a chair facing away from the bed. Jim lifted the major’s frail body into his embrace and carried him from the chamber.
Desarae stared for many long moments at the empty fireplace. “I shan’t go. I shan’t! ”
But her determination proved unnecessary. The days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the months into years and still her grandfather did not come for her. As time passed, Desarae’s young heart healed and the small isle rang with the joyful laughter of youth running free and wild.
They told none of Baron Wensley’s death. But rumors began, as rumors always will, and eventually the news of his possible death reached the Earl of Kristnor. He hired the fastest ship he could find—one of the new square-rigged, ‘sharp’ schooners—and set forth to bring his granddaughter back to England. His eldest son had died in the autumn making Desarae the only heir to the Earl’s vast holdings. He would have control of her or marry her off to someone he could control and he had in mind the weakest man-milliner of the ton .
Chapter One
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite
in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!
-Hamlet Act 2, scene 2
Spring, 1811, near the east coast of Nova Scotia
“ T ie down…!”
The raging wind flung Trystan’s words from his mouth before his men heard his commands. The driving rain made the deck slick and treacherous. Trystan struggled against the pitching deck, striving to reach the helm where his navigator hung tied to the wheel, unconscious or dead. His frozen fingers closed around the railing as another pounding wave dashed over the ship. He opened his mouth to shout another order,
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