He wasn't unaware of his effect on those around him--for years it'd been this way. In fact, only a handful of people didn't back down from him. One of whom was Amanda Sutherland, his mother--which was unfortunate, he thought, as he recalled this latest meaningless evening at the Sutherland London town house.
He'd been about to leave for the night when she'd summoned him into her deliberately feminine sitting room. He didn't have to guess what course the conversation would take and only wondered that it had taken her this long to approach him yet again.
When he sauntered in, he'd forgone planting a kiss on her offered cheek, and ignored the brief flash of hurt in her eyes. He moved straight to the least-delicate chair facing her and settled uncomfortably in the small seat.
Crossing his long legs at the ankles, Derek drawled, "I can't imagine why you would want to see me, Mother."
She pursed her lips at that, but after painstakingly smoothing her crisp skirts, she spoke evenly. "Will you stop by your club tonight?"
He laughed at her ludicrous question, but the sound was foreign and grated. He grew silent and fought to rein in the formidable temper that had helped bring his life to the low point he currently enjoyed.
Before he answered, he leaned forward in his seat to glare a warning. "I'll be damned if we do this again. You know bloody well that I am not going to the club or to any of your balls or soirees or anywhere else I might have to see or hear of...of my situation," he snapped, his face tense with resentment.
Though she should have been accustomed to it by now, his mother had looked startled at his quickening fury. Nevertheless, she said, "You have a responsibility to your title, Derek. It's time, past time, you had an heir."
"Grant's my heir," he'd said, naming his brother.
"But a son--"
"Cannot and will not happen."
His baleful tone hadn't even slowed her. No, she took a fortifying breath and proceeded to drag them both through the same old argument. She never missed a chance--they had it every time he was in London.
For what had to be half the night, he'd listened to her rant and plead, changing tactics with expert precision. Finally, he'd grown so furious he'd shot out of his chair to leave, intending to stay away from his family until he sailed.
But she wouldn't let it go.
"So which route are you sailing this time? China? South America?" she questioned before he could escape to the hall.
Reluctantly he turned back toward her, making his face cold as dead ash. "London to Sydney."
"Sydney?" she replied with mock excitement. "Oh, yes, Queen Victoria's Great Circle Race. I read about it in the paper some time back. How patriotic of you." Her brittle smile belied the sentiment of her words. "And how utterly convenient to find yet another voyage that goes so far afield."
Derek couldn't disagree.
She studied his face. "There and back should take you how long?"
"Half a year." Then, seeing the disappointment in her flinty gray eyes, eyes so like his own, he'd once again turned toward the door.
As expected, nothing had been resolved. But her parting shot kept running through his mind: "I often wonder if you go to sea because you love it...or because you are a base coward."
Christ, he needed a drink.
What did that woman want him to do? And his brother Grant, who'd regarded him with awkward commiseration as Derek stormed past him and out the door? Everyone involved knew he could find no out, no possible redemption. He understood it, and damn it, he behaved accordingly.
He wondered vaguely what his mother and brother would say if they learned that something had finally pierced through the weary anger that clung to him. That a young dockside whore with soulful, dark eyes had provoked the earl to a pulse. A whore in boys' clothing working the Mermaid, of all places--
Several shrieks coming from ahead interrupted his thoughts. Curious to see what had unhinged the mob tonight, he made his way to a row of canvas-wrapped crates at the side of the walk and stepped up to get a better view. Under a canopy of large, cheaply milled hats and gathered heads, a small lad sped down the quay, running clumsily into several outraged women loitering about. With a quick lift of his chin, Derek made out two rough men beyond, plowing through the crowd after him.
Derek jumped down lightly and, with a brush of his hands, continued on his way. That boy had riled the wrong people, he mused indifferently. Those men were cutthroats--the kid didn't have a chance against one of them, let alone two. Even knowing this, he vowed to look the other way, as every other person on the docks would. He was no different from the worst sorts out here on this night.
He would just keep walking. Forget about interfering.
But when the boy barreled right past him, Derek spun around to see him get tangled in an old hempen rope coiled on the walk. The lad sailed forward, arms careening uselessly, before plunging to a stop on the slushy ground. Shaking his head, as if he couldn't quite believe he'd fallen, the boy raised himself on his arms but couldn't seem to manage his legs.
What was left of Derek's withered conscience demanded a rescue, but he easily quelled the thought. He wasn't the man he used to be. Besides, he could already see the sign of the tavern where he'd been heading. So close to a night of mind-numbing vice...
Judging by the sounds coming from ahead, the men were closing in.
"Watch yerself, ye bastard!" a flamboyantly dressed woman wailed as she swung her cloth bag against one of the men's heads. When he turned around to face her, she grew silent, frozen, then loped off into the night. Derek understood why--the man looked as if he were fresh from a nightmare.
Before he could stop himself, Derek turned to catch another look at the kid. Still valiantly trying to pull himself up, to get his little boots to catch a foothold on the grimy walk. Strangely, Derek had to fight the feeling of pity, a feeling increasingly unfamiliar to him.
He stalled for only a second more. The boy was probably a cutpurse and deserved whatever punishment those men handed out. Determined to turn away, he shook his head and walked on.
An affirmation, he knew, of just how big a bastard he had become.
Like a separate thing living in her, Nicole's fear grew, choking her throat. She strained to scramble up, but in her heart, she didn't know how much longer she could go on. Every movement shot pain through her exhausted limbs. Every choppy breath made her lungs burn as though she inhaled fire.
This wasn't how she wanted to go out--not sinking into the filth of a London street waiting to be pluck
ed up by Clive.
I want to go down swinging. She bit back tears of pain and frustration, but before she was even conscious of it, a sob arose and spilled forth on a breath.
"Bloody hell," a deep-voiced man grated from just behind her. A string of imaginative cursing followed; all at once she was lifted up and tucked into the side of some exasperated, angry giant. As he started toward a forgotten crack between two tea warehouses, shock rose up to claim her again; she couldn't even tell herself to fight because he wasn't one of those men.
Had she found a savior from the docks? Not likely, yet the man held her gently.
"Don't be afraid," he advised sharply. "I won't hurt you."
The man holding her had the clipped, precise speech of a gentleman, and her own instincts weren't screaming danger in his presence. She was strangely unafraid, especially considering that she'd just been shot at, and barely escaped with her life. Shot at. On her own ship, a bullet whizzing past her ear. Splinters exploding all around her head...
That memory crystallized her thoughts. She had little apprehension of this man, but didn't want to be a sitting duck. No time to explain to him why--she needed to keep herself safe. She twisted in his arm and began kicking, drumming her boots against the backs of his legs.
"I'm trying to help you. Son of a--will you stop?"
Her blows had no effect. Thinking her attack would enrage him, she hunched her head between her shoulders to prepare for a slap or worse.
Yet he calmly redoubled his efforts to restrain her. He was easily twice her weight, huge, with unbudgeable arms. He could subdue her with laughable effort. But even as she fought, she got the strange impression that he tried very hard not to hurt her.
"Calm down! Damn it, you're like a greased cat," he uttered in a low, aggravated voice.
As she twisted to get free, she managed a fleeting look at her would-be protector. Recognition hammered past her disbelief. Even as she clawed and squirmed, her foggy mind grasped that the man holding her was none other than Captain Derek Sutherland.
If she weren't sure she was about to be killed, she might have laughed. Out of the frying pan, and I dive for the fire.