Chapter Three

October 1811, England

“I am sorry…care to repeat that?” Colin Faulkner swallowed the rest of his whisky and glared at the man who stood before him quaking in his boots.

“I…I…so sorry, Mr. Faulkner. It…it was hijacked and the two with it were killed. Sliced up.”

He released a round of curses which caused the man before him to blanch even more. Mr. Pickner worked for him and had for years. To look at him one would be hard pressed to tell. His gnarled hands clutched the worn wool cap at waist level and abundant fear overflowed in his eyes.

“Damn it!” He slammed a hand down on the desk, the precise moment thunder rocked the house. Struggling to calm himself he said, “You should get home before this weather gets any worse. We do not want Mrs. Pickner to worry.”

Relief crossed the older man’s face and he gave a slight bow and headed out. Alone in his study, Colin stared at the flames which danced in the fireplace sending flicks of gold throughout the room.

He was livid. This was the third shipment of his to have been stolen right out from under him. He poured another shot of whisky and took the glass with him to stare out the large window. Somehow, someone was ahead of him every step of the way. And now they had moved up to murder. He had to see to the family and make sure they were provided for. It was his fault the men had been on that trip.

It wasn’t long before the sky ripped open and released its fury in torrents. Rain thrashed the window with savage intent. Lightning slashed the sky with deadly promise. He was glad to be indoors.

Slowly he sipped the drink and mulled over what to do with this increasing problem. He was the third son who had since he’d acquired these estates built up more money than his estranged father, the Earl of Clifton. More than most members of peerage actually.

He’d purchased a commission for the Royal Navy as soon as he’d been old enough and when he’d sold it he’d come here and run his estate, which his capable butler had been doing while he served. He didn’t deal much with social differences. He worked hard and spent time around men of the same mind. That was important to him, not how far back one could trace their ‘supposed’ blue blood. Regardless of all the money he had, it was his and he despised being stolen from. So he stood there and watched as the rain came down harder and attempted to devise a way to stop the hijacking.

“Sir! Sir!” A feminine voice called out from behind him.

Turning in confusion of the noise and intrusion, he frowned. It was Molly, a maid. She looked near panicked and he slowly released the heavy drape he held in one hand. “What is it?” he demanded with a scowl.

Her breathing came faster and he watched her flinch from his tone. Lord, what a mouse.

“There be guests, sir. Abel sent me to get ye.”

He frowned and ignored the increased uncertainty in her expression. Who would be out on a night like this? It’s crazy out there. The thunder rolled as if to agree with him.

“Well, I cannot very well refuse them in this confounded weather. Make up some rooms,” he ordered, even though visitors were something he’d rather avoid.

Molly dipped a curtsey but didn’t leave.

He raised a brow.

“One of them’s been shot.”

That spurred him into action. He hurried to the door, leaving his drink on the desk as he went. Hastening to the entrance hall, he saw two women huddled together staring at a figure on the floor. Abel, his butler, seemed curiously rattled.

He noticed his housekeeper, Mrs. Hawkins, come up with towels for the women. There was another person bent over the pale man on the floor. He could see blood beginning to pool on his white floors.

“What is this?” He covered the remaining ground.

“Sir,” Abel said, seeming to compose himself. “Lord Adrys and his family were set upon by brigands.”

Viscount Hayworth Adrys. He knew the name. There had been some big talk about his returning after having been gone for about fifteen years. The man had been out of the country, mostly in Africa for those years and oddly enough had taken his family with him. He frowned, recalling only one child, a daughter. Although fifteen years would be more than enough for at least another child. Or a servant.

“Mrs. Hawkins, please see Lady Adrys and her daughter to rooms so they may dry off. We shall see to your husband, Lady Adrys.”

Two sets of blue eyes stared at him. He saw a mixture of fear and tears in them. Weak women didn’t sit well with him. The younger patted her mom’s hand and said, “You go on, Mama. I will stay with Papa.”

“You are soaked to the bone. You need to be dry.” Lady Adrys’ voice was taut with strain.

Ignoring the women, he crouched by the other soaked figure and frowned as a scent of something exotic teased his nose and stirred his loins. He was not attracted to men. “We need to get him to the morning room. See a fire is lit immediately,” he barked out the orders.

“What about Najja?”

He tore his gaze from the pasty pallor of the man to the daughter who paused at the foot of the stairs and issued the query.

“Who?” he asked as he ran the foreign name over in his mind.

“Go tend your mother,” a husky, sultry voice said from right beside him. “I will stay with your father until your return.”

His frown deepened. The voice was in no way belonged to a man. His shock increased when the girl followed her mother up the polished stairs pausing at the top to cast a glance back down. This woman gave orders, which they followed without question. Intriguing.

He touched her shoulder and stared at the gloved hand that held the bloodied cloth unflinchingly to the wound. In a second, he found himself staring into the face of a woman who, to be honest, he’d not been expecting to see. Her face was a stunning shade of brown, and her eyes were dark brown framed by doubly thick lashes. Was she a slave? The thought rankled, having worked some of his final years in the Royal Navy associated with the abolition of the slave trade.

She stared briefly at him before her attention returned to the man lying here. Colin gestured for them to move him; she stepped back and followed them. The moment Lord Adrys had been placed by the fire, she knelt back down.

“We got this,” he said. “You should change into something dry.” Another shudder went through him at the mental image of her naked body. What is wrong with me?

She backed away and he took over, ripping open the shirt. Abel, his butler, and his valet, Berry, joined him. Berry had been a medic in the Navy with him. Well aware of his ability, Colin focused on the woman again and felt that stirring deep within. She stood silent dripping on the floor before the fire. Protectiveness rose in him.

“You need to get dried off.” He issued the order expecting to be obeyed.

She barely looked at him. Her gaze stayed transfixed on Lord Adrys’ face. He wasn’t used to being ignored. Muttering a curse, he focused back on the task at hand, a curse which didn’t go unnoticed by either Berry or Abel for he noticed their shared look.

A while later the younger Adrys hurried in. He regarded her as she hurried to the side of the silent one.

“How is he?” she inquired.

Colin pushed to his feet and faced the women. One dry, peaches-n-cream complexion darkened by exposure to the sun. The other wet, dark-skinned, and aloof. Not to mention intriguing.

“Your father will be alright so long as he does not acquire a fever.” Her fearful expression made him regret his choice of wordage. “The wound will be fine, we will carry him upstairs to bed.” He glanced between them and saw the daughter grip the hand of the one called Najja. His gaze flicked back to Najja only to find her staring at him. Seeking, almost.

Seeking what though?

A low whisper moved between the women, a language he didn’t understand but the brown-haired miss did. Her eyes widened and she stepped forward, dropping into a slight curtsey.

“Forgive my manners. I am Josephine Adrys. We…we are grateful for your hospitality…” she trailed off obviously unaware of who he was.

“Mr. Faulkner, Miss Adrys,” he replied. “I am curious how this…incident came to pass.”

“Of course,” she said, before dismissing him and speaking with incredible ease to the woman beside her.

He glanced at the other woman and again realized she was soaked. What he didn’t need was another sick person.

“I can have a room readied for your servant and she can get dry.”

That head covered by brown hair snapped up and blue eyes blazed with fire and yet chilled him. How he’d ever assumed she was meek, he had no idea.

“Najja is not a servant, not mine nor anyone’s. She is part of our family. She can room with me if you do not have space for her.”

He’d just been dressed down by an impertinent chit. And all for a woman named Najja. Najja. It had a delightful exotic sound to it. Nawh-jah.