Chapter One

Off the coast of the Isle of Claddach, June 1819

T he storm came as a surprise to the crew of the good ship Flora Louise . They had confidently expected a smooth run across the Irish Sea and into Liverpool.

Alaric Redhaven, their passenger, was not surprised. Alaric had not predicted that a storm would blow up out of nowhere, but he had been waiting for something else to disrupt his journey home.

Nothing had gone right for him since he had allowed himself to be captivated by a lying jade. She had married his brother. He had been exiled to Brazil, to join the staff of the British envoy to the Portuguese court in exile.

Alaric was not cut out for a diplomatic career, a fact he had known from the first. He had tried to tell his father he wanted to be a land steward somewhere. On the lands that would one day be his brother’s, for preference. He had been caring for them without the title since he left university. Anywhere else in England if need be.

Instead, the Earl of Elsmouth had decreed a new career for his unsatisfactory second son, who was born too late to become a general in the recent wars, was as unlikely a potential bishop as anyone could imagine, and who refused to be an idle ornament of Society. Alaric was exiled to become a diplomat and reflect glory on the Redhaven family name from ambassadorial heights.

The ship he had taken from London in obedience to his father’s command had been blown off course by a storm, attacked by pirates, and saved in the nick of time by the United States Navy. Alaric arrived at his post three months late, after the United States authorities had eventually decided he presented no threat and was, besides, too young to have been involved in the 1812 war.

From his arrival in Rio de Janeiro, he had not distinguished himself in any desirable fashion, and the litany of his accidents and mistakes was far too depressing to think about. His brief eighteen months as a diplomat had been a disaster. When he had inadvertently insulted the Spanish Ambassador at a reception in Rio de Janeiro, it had been the last straw. He, his uncle and sponsor, and the British envoy to the Portuguese court in exile had all been in agreement for the first time since Alaric had arrived.

Alaric had been dismissed and found a berth on the first ship leaving Rio de Janeiro with England as its destination. Now that ship was stuck in a rising storm while the experienced crewmen ran around in a panic, arguing about which sails to reef and who was going to do it.

To make things worse, the captain was nowhere to be found—probably lying in a hidden corner in a drunken stupor. They were without the first mate, too. He came up on deck when the weather first turned foul, was struck by a flying belaying pin, and knocked out before he could take charge.

Which meant they were trying to stay afloat in an unexpected storm, with a minimal crew and the two most senior officers disabled.

Drowning in the Irish Sea was a more permanent disruption than the arrest of their captain in Fortaleza and the shortage of supplies that kept them for two extra weeks in Jamaica. Not to mention the desertion of a good third of their crew in Dublin.

Alaric felt he should do something, but what? He knew nothing about how to sail a ship. Telling the crew to stop bickering and do their jobs was likely to get him hurled over the side. And suddenly, it was too late. First one mast broke, then another, then the third.

And then it got worse.

“We’ve lost the rudder!” shouted the man on the wheel.

“Rocks!” screamed someone else.

Some of the sailors leapt into the sea. Others clung to the nearest solid object as the ship pitched and yawed with every wave and gust of wind. Alaric tossed a mental coin, shrugged out of his coat, and jumped overboard. He would take his chance with the sea.

*

From her bedroom in one of the castle’s towers, Lady Beatrice Collister had a grandstand view of the foundering ship, though only in glimpses, between curtains of clouds and rain.

She could hear the storm bell—the tolling of the treble bell that summoned all able-bodied people to the beach below the castle. All people, that is, other than the Earl of Claddach, his wife and daughter, and the guests at his house party.

Some of the guests trailed upstairs to see if they could see anything through the storm. None of them wanted to go out in the rain for a better view or, heavens forfend, to help.

Which meant that Bea, as the earl’s daughter, was going to have to be quick and sneaky if she was to be of any help at all. She dug through to the bottom of the trunk in her dressing room for the trousers, shirt, and jersey she wore for shipwreck rescues, and was soon dressed in wool that would stay warm no matter how wet it got. With luck, those who watched from a distance would take her for a boy.

She pulled a knitted hat over her hair, which was fortunately in a simple crown of plaits. The hat came low over her eyes and should further disguise her identity from the house party gawkers. She hurried down the tower stairs to the door into the top of the mansion that had been built around the bones of the ancient Cashtal Vaaish —Castle Death, the stone fort that had protected Claddach and its people from marauding Picts, raiding Irish, pillaging Vikings, and invading Normans.

Bea walked swiftly along the hall and let herself into the servants’ stairwell. That was the risky part done. If her parents had come looking for her—unlikely, but possible—they would have stopped her. As it was, she made it to the ground floor and joined the others donning boots and oiled coats and hats.

They hurried down the path from the clifftop to the beach, most of the servants of the castle, joining a stream of people who had come over the hill road from the town. On an afternoon like this, they could not put out the boats, but they could go out into the surf, roped together, to bring in anything the spotters saw from the cliffs.

Not Bea. Her people would not hear of her putting herself in danger. She would stay on the beach, help build the fire, and wait to give aid to those recovered from the sea.

There should have been at least fifty crewmen on a ship of that size, but fewer than twenty were pulled alive from the water, and several of those would need careful nursing if they were to live. One the most alert men explained they’d been short-handed from the beginning and had lost fifteen men in Dublin. “Captain’s a drunk,” he said. “He shouldn’t have sailed without hiring more men. He shouldn’t have been drinking when the storm struck.” He bowed his head and looked solemn. “God rest his gin-soaked soul.”

The doctor had finished bandaging the man’s arm, where it had been ripped by something in the water. “You’ll do,” he said. “Who’s next?”

“You said you wanted to have another look at the man who wasn’t breathing,” Bea reminded him.

“That’s the passenger,” the chatty patient informed them. “A gentleman, that one. Name of Redhaven.”

He looked like a gentleman. Like the English gentlemen who were currently cluttering up her castle. A particularly nice specimen. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, if you liked the chisel-jawed, high-cheekboned, straight-nosed sort. Which Bea did, though her old nurse would say handsome is as handsome does .

At the moment, he was not doing anything. Except breathing, which was thanks to the doctor, and an improvement over when they had brought him ashore.

“He has a bump on his head,” the doctor discovered. “Probably explains why he has not yet come around. He’ll need someone with him at all times, at least until he recovers consciousness.”

The rector, who was arranging billets for the rescuees, said, “I wonder who would be best. Mrs. Stephen perhaps. No, she is on the other side of the island at her daughter’s place. Perhaps the Quayles?”

“The castle,” Bea said, firmly. “He is a gentleman, the sailor said. I will take him, and the responsibility for his care.”

It would at least give her some distraction from her parents’ despicable house party. Which she had agreed to, with a tiny amount of hope that shriveled as soon as she met the bachelors her mother and aunt had selected.

She was done here. A spotter would remain on the cliffs and a dozen people would keep the fire going and wait in case more people needed to be pulled from the water. There was nothing more for Bea—or most of the other townspeople—to do. Already, those who had been assigned sailors had left the beach.

Most of the servants from the castle had also gone, but enough were left to form a stretcher party for the gentleman. Mr. Redhaven. Bea escorted him up the path from the beach, considering which bed chambers were occupied and which were free.

The single gentlemen’s accommodation was fully occupied, and the single ladies’ section would be inappropriate. Not the family rooms, of course. Which left either the area normally used by married visitors and widows, when they came to stay, or the smaller and less desirable rooms allocated to companions and poor relations, who could not be put to stay with the servants but who did not merit a finer chamber.

One of those, she thought, as she escorted the stretcher up to the front door, which was the quickest way to the main staircase. She could not in all conscience expect the stretcher carriers to carry Mr. Redhaven up one of the steeper secondary staircases. She would just have to risk being caught, but with luck, everyone would still be preparing for dinner.

The butler emerged from his room as she opened the two big doors and ushered the stretcher bearers inside. “Lady Beatrice! Was it a bad one?” Skelly was a Claddachman, born and bred, and understood the obligation to those cast up on its shores.

“Close to twenty men saved, and I understand there were fewer than thirty aboard. This gentleman was a passenger. I’ve said the castle will look after him. Can you assign footmen to sit with him tonight? He will need watching until he recovers consciousness, the doctor said.” She grimaced. “I am sorry to put a further burden on you when you are already dealing with the suitors.”

“I will need to speak with Mrs. Johnson about a room,” Skelly began, but was interrupted by the housekeeper herself.

“A room for whom? This man?” Mrs. Johnson sent a jaundiced glance at the stretcher. “You can take him somewhere else,” she scolded the stretcher bearers. “Lady Beatrice, come along and get out of those dreadful clothes. You will be late for dinner.”

Mrs. Johnson, while not Claddach-born, had known Bea for most of her life and unfortunately often forgot that Bea was now an adult, and no longer to be instructed like a child. Now, Bea decided, was a good time to remind the woman who was in charge of whom.

“Mrs. Johnson, this is Mr. Redhaven, who was a passenger on the wrecked ship. He will be staying here, at least until he regains consciousness, and longer if he needs our hospitality. I think the tapestry room will be suitable to begin with. Close enough to the servants’ stairs for those who are watching over him while he is still unconscious. The men will carry him up the main stairs, however, as the servants’ stairs are too narrow and too steep.

Wringing her hands, and wailing, “What will the countess say?” Mrs. Johnson nonetheless stepped out of the way.

*

Alaric woke to the sound of rain beating on a window. Of course. The storm. But no. He was not still on the ship. The room was not rocking. Nor could he hear ropes rubbing, or the bangs, clatters, and shouts of a busy crew.

He opened his eyes. Sure enough, he must be ashore, for he was in a room with stone walls softened by tapestries. A comfortable room kept warm by a fire, the tapestries, and heavy drapes over, he supposed, the window. The room was softly lit by the fire, a lamp, and a scattering of candles.

The young woman standing beside the bed captured most of his attention. The young lady, rather. She was dressed for the evening in a gown of figured silk, with pearls at her neck and scattered and twined in her dark hair. A pretty young lady, with large lustrous dark eyes and a warm smile.

“You are awake, Mr. Redhaven. How are you feeling?”

Alaric thought about that. Bruised. Sore everywhere . “As if I have been nailed into a barrel and rolled downhill,” he admitted. “What of the ship? The captain? The crew?”

“As far as we could see before sunset, the ship is in bad shape,” she replied. “It was lodged on the rocks. Probably, it will be broken apart before daybreak. I have no word of the captain. We recovered nineteen people, including you. There may be more by now. We have left watchers on the cliff and on the beach and will keep a fire burning all night.”

“We” was in interesting pronoun from a lady who looked as if she belonged in a Society ballroom rather than a beach in a storm. Perhaps she meant her servants, but clearly, she was more involved in the recovery , as she called it, than her appearance suggested.

“Where are we?” he asked. “On the coast of England? Ireland?”

“Neither,” she informed him. “You were shipwrecked off the coast of the Isle of Claddach, south of Mann and perhaps halfway between Ireland and Wales. You are in Cashtal Vaaich , the home of the Earl of Claddach.”

Claddach . He had never heard of it. But she had heard of him, he realized. “You know who I am.”

“I know you are Mr. Redhaven,” she corrected. “One of the sailors said you were their passenger. You are a gentleman, then?”

“I try to be.” A confused gentleman, and one that was as weak as a kitten. “May I be permitted to know your name, my lady?”

She chuckled. “How rude of me. I am Beatrice Collister, daughter of the Earl of Claddach.”

“And I am Alaric Redhaven, second son of the Earl of Elsmouth. I am pleased to meet you, Lady Beatrice. I apologize for not standing, but I think I would fall over if I did.” His head was pounding. He must have hit it, though he remembered nothing after the decision to leap from the sinking ship.

Lady Beatrice smiled. “Stay where you are, Mr. Redhaven.” She stood. “I just popped in to see you on my way to retire. I am so pleased you have recovered consciousness, but I recommend you go back to sleep. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to try to get up.” She gestured to someone behind her, and a footman stepped into Alaric’s field of vision. “If you need anything, ask Colyn here, or Gilno, who will be replacing him at midnight.”

“Thank you. And please thank your father for his hospitality,” Alaric said.

That fetched him another bewitching smile. “ Vaaich is pleased to offer you refuge. Goodnight, Mr. Redhaven.” She left the room in a rustle of silk; it seemed emptier and far less hospitable in her absence, somehow.

“His lordship’d be surprised to be thanked, and so he would,” Colyn ventured, after Lady Beatrice had left. “I’d wager our lady hasna mentioned ye yet, sir. An earl’s son, is it? Well, perhaps our earl’ll be pleased to have ye here, at that. Now, sir, is there anything ye need for yer comfort afore ye sleep?” The accent had a lilt something like Irish. Or perhaps Scots. Halfway between would fit the geography Lady Beatrice had described.

Alaric tried to make sense of the footman’s words about his host, but all his attention was required to stay upright, with Colyn’s help, to—as the man put it—deal with his comfort. As soon as his head was back on the pillow, he sank back into sleep.