The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6)

THE LUCKY ONE

Barbara Devlin

OTHER TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN

BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES

Enter the Brethren (Brethren of the Coast 1)

My Lady, the Spy (Brethren of the Coast 2)

The Most Unlikely Lady (Brethren of the Coast 3)

One-Knight Stand (Brethren of the Coast 4)

Captain of Her Heart (Brethren of the Coast 5)

Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella

COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 Barbara C. Noyes

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher. This book may be loaned only through the Amazon lending library program.

Published by Barbara Devlin

The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

ISBN-978-0-9962509-0-0

Cover art by Lewellen Designs, www.lyndseylewellen.wordpress.com

This book is dedicated to my amazing Lady Knights. Because behind every successful writer is a group of maniacal women readers bent on world domination, and I do love them for that.

Jodie Bivins

Bonnie Bracken

Barbara Burdette

Carla Chadwick

Risha Crider

Kathy Dinisi

Bambi Fogleman

Nicole Fogleman

Angela Gilliland

Barb Hicks

Dee Knope

Beth Ann Miller

Kristi O’Connor

Jessica Parsons

Danielle Petersen

Iris Pross

Dee Rowell

Patti Spell

Jennifer Wedmore

Karen White

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE LUCKY ONE

OTHER TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Excerpt from
LOVING LIEUTENANT DOUGLAS

The Ascendants

England

The Year of Our Lord 1315

“Waste not your
breath, brothers, as I have no need of your advice. And I am remarkably skilled in the sensuous arts.” Straightening the collar of his tunic, Morgan smirked. “Unlike the three of you, I harbor no fear of the weaker sex, given my prurient pedagogy. No doubt my bride will count herself most fortunate in the hands of a past master, and I foresee no trouble pleasing her, between the sheets.”

The married friends, including the newlywed Morgan, gathered in their favorite dank tavern to toast the day’s nuptials, and Arucard fretted for the cocky young knight. Regardless of the combined wealth of experience in spousal affairs, which Arucard, Demetrius, and Aristide sought to impart, with the best of intentions, the most junior member of the Brethren of the Coast refused to heed their sage counsel.

“Have you spoken with her?” With a huff of impatience, Aristide cast a wary glance at Arucard. “As it was only yesterday, when you apprised me that you had shared no conversation with your new mate.”

“Which does not bode well for nurturing affection.” Arucard stiffened his spine. “Trust me, you will need that.”

“And the loss of her maidenhead can be a very traumatic, not to mention dangerous, escapade for you, both.” Demetrius elbowed Aristide in the ribs. “Just ask our brother, here.”

“Very funny.” Aristide frowned. “I admit I had a rough start, but I found my way in the matrimonial bed, soon enough. Need I remind you of the recent birth of my son? And my Dion and I endeavor to produce another, every morning and night.”

“Ah, it is good to be a husband.” Demetrius snickered, as he and Aristide clinked their mugs. “And my Lily increases, with our second offspring, as we speak.”

“As does Isolde.” With a surge of pride, and sweet memories of his naughty maneuvers in the attainment of that much-cherished goal, Arucard waggled his brows. “And the begetting is half the fun, when you expend the effort to do it right.”

“Which is why you must not squander your concern on my behalf.” Morgan smoothed his hair and preened. “As I have never failed to rouse my whores.”

In the process of downing half of his last bit of ale, Arucard choked violently. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What?” The boastful gadling cast an arrogant smile. “One woman’s body is the same as the next, and I shall play my Hawisia’s anatomy as a finely tuned instrument, just wait and see.”

Aristide blanched. “Yes, but you have no—”

“Then we wish you merry, and we should not delay you.” Arucard raised his tankard in toast, and, with his foot, beneath the table he kicked Aristide in the shin. “To Morgan and Hawisia. May your wedding be every bit as blessed as the union I enjoy with Isolde, as Demetrius favors with Athelyna, and as Aristide delights with Dionysia.”

“I will drink to that.” The shameless scamp winked and drained his mug. “And now I bid you good rest, as I shall require all my strength for the night to come.”

As his fellow Nautionnier Knight exited the tavern, Arucard chuckled. “Poor bastard.”

“Why did you not apprise him of the obvious?” Demetrius frowned. “You do comprehend the significance of his statement, do you not? He confuses wives with doxies.”

“Indeed, I understand, and I leave it to him to discover the difference.” Arucard grinned. “As he is sporting for a much deserved, long overdue comeuppance, who am I to deny his mate such joy?”

“In that I will not argue, but what of the misfortunate, unsuspecting lady?” Aristide grimaced. “Are we not honor-bound to save her?”

“Think about it, brothers.” Arucard inclined his head. “Given what we know of the female temperament, particularly in regard to the portentous loss of maidenhood, and Morgan’s misplaced confidence, whose skull do you believe in greater peril—his or his bride’s?”

For a few seconds, Demetrius and Aristide pondered the situation. At last, they met Arucard’s stare and burst into unrestrained mirth.

“God’s bones, but I will grant you that.” Aristide rubbed the back of his neck. “Yet I would not wish such misery on the worst enemy of my acquaintance. But Morgan can never claim we did not try to intervene, in a sincere desire to save his bumptious hide. Now I can only hope he survives, as I am left to wonder to what lengths he will resort, in his quest to capture her prize.”

“Can you not imagine it? My sweet Isolde damn near de-brained me with a candlestick when I did no more than remove my belt.” Slapping a thigh, Arucard collapsed in uncontrollable jollity. “The soul of patience, I attempted to allay her concerns, and she came at me with my old halberd. I spent the dark hours in the solar with one eye opened, for fear she might finish the deed. And I would argue she scared me more than I scared her.”

“You think that bad?” Demetrius arched a brow. “Lily barricaded the door to our chambers. When I tried to climb through the window, she bit my fingers. We did not consummate our vows for two months.”

“
Two months
?” Arucard whistled in monotone. “And I thought it took us forever.”

“Oh? Do tell.” Demetrius rubbed his chin. “How long was it for you?”

“Three weeks.” Arucard scowled, as he recalled the vicious suffering that denoted that time. “The most painful, gut-wrenching, frustrating, and exhaustive twenty-one days of my existence.”

“Ah, but I would presume the end of the delay more than compensated for your hardship.” Averting his gaze, Aristide sighed. “My Dion is a seraph.”

“And what of you, brother?” Arucard asked Aristide. “We know of your rocky start, aside from your bloody injuries.”

“Do not remind me.” Aristide winced. “After the assault, and retracing my steps, given my egregious exercise in monumental stupidity, when I apprised my wife that I had been forced to the altar, it took this mountain stag a month to stir her waters. But she was well worth the wait, as Dion holds my heart.”

The men shared sly smiles in companionable silence.

Arucard peered over his shoulder and then gazed at the husbands. “My money is on Hawisia.”

Demetrius groaned. “Mine, too.”

“Well I am not so foolish to side with Morgan, as I know better.” Aristide snorted. “So where does that leave me, as we cannot all favor the mare in this race?”

“Perhaps we should adapt our contest to the unique situation.” Arucard calculated the possibilities. “How long do you suppose the gadling will last, at her hands, in light of his haphazard and downright dangerous temerity?”

“I would say in the time it takes to drink two more tankards of ale.” Demetrius propped an elbow on the table. “But no more, as I would satisfy my wife, when I return to her. She is quite the demanding little thing, but I am not complaining.”

“I do not concur, given the boy’s questionable talents.” Aristide narrowed his stare. “Morgan possesses knowledge with which none of us were endowed, when faced with the same terrifying circumstances, so I believe he has the advantage. I give him three tankards, before he rejoins us.”

“And what of you?” Demetrius gave Arucard a gentle nudge. “Have you another guess?”

“Indeed, I do.” As Arucard examined the contents of his mug, he pondered Morgan’s pomposity and wondered how Isolde would have responded, had Arucard employed such stratagem. “Brothers, I stake my claim on the minutes it takes me to consume my current beverage.”

In unison, Demetrius and Aristide blinked.

“No.”

“You must be joking.”

“But I am quite earnest.” Laughing, Arucard flagged a passing bar wench and signaled for another round. “We will need four tankards, please.”

“You order Morgan’s drink?” Aristide slumped against the table. “How can you be so certain of the outcome and that you will prevail?”

Demetrius scratched his forehead. “What have you not told us?”

“Nothing.” Arucard shrugged. “But I know Morgan, as do you. In light of his misplaced confidence, and what we know of our respective wives, how do you suppose Hawisia will respond to his bawdy machinations and impudent inclinations?”

For a pregnant moment, his fellow knights sat, stock-still. Then, in concert, Demetrius and Aristide collapsed in convulsive hilarity.

“So what is the winner’s boon?” Wiping a tear from his eye, Demetrius sniffed. “Two groats?”

“A pound?” Aristide inquired.

“How about the losers pay the night’s debt?” Arucard assessed the minute amount of ale in his mug and realized he may have overstated his deduction. “After all, I am as much—”

“No.” Aristide chucked Demetrius on the shoulder. “Look, brother.”

“Damn.” Demetrius emptied his tankard and tossed a few coins into the mug. “I do not believe it.”

Then Aristide pulled a decent sum from his money pouch and added to the collection. Before Arucard could react to their retorts of surprise, and their generous offering, Morgan reappeared. Plopping to the bench, the newlywed groom grunted, glanced at the collective of drinks, and claimed a tankard.

“Are you all right, brother?” Arucard queried, in a low voice.

“Why do you ask?” Morgan scowled.

“Your nose bleeds.”

The Descendants

Portsea Island, England

March, 1814

The diminutive, hooded
thief, bearing a rucksack over his shoulder, skulked along the waist, hesitated for a scarce second, and then scampered below decks and into the cargo hold. Following in the scoundrel’s wake, Dalton Randolph hugged the shadows and grinned, as the unknown gadling lifted the lid on a barrel and retrieved several potatoes.