Too Great a Temptation (2 page)

New York
, 1821

D
amian needed money. Lots of it. Ironic, really, that he, a duke, with his coffers of gold back home in England, should find himself a virtual beggar on the streets of
New York
. But when had fate ever been kind to him?

Wending through the bustling city port, the duke passed jeering sailors and vulgar wenches alike, making his way to the nearest gaming hell. A few coins in his pocket, he intended to amass a small fortune. And he could do it, too. Years of debauchery had prepared him for just such an endeavor. But unlike his former besotted self, he was sober now. With all his wits intact, Damian hoped to recoup as much of his wealth as he could. His ship was in dire need of repairs, and the crew would not follow him in exchange for bread crumbs. He needed blunt.

Damian came to a halt.

Neptune’s Revenge.

It was aptly named, the shore house, for Damian, too, was seeking revenge at sea. And he was in desperate need of good luck. A shoddy hole christened after the wrathful sea king seemed the perfect place to find it.

But a nearby scuffle distracted the duke—and made the blood pound in his veins.

“Admit it, kid, you were cheatin’.”

The horde, five in total, circled the so-called kid, a strapping young buck sporting a cheeky grin, who quipped, “Me cheat?” He snorted. “Sorry, Yanks. ’Fraid we Brits are just unbeatable.”

Damian blinked.

The kid disappeared under a pummel of fists. Yet it was not the brutal thrashing that stirred the frantic rage in Damian’s gut. It was the kid. He recognized the kid. It was Adam!

With a roar, Damian launched right into the fray and did a little pounding of his own. He had to save Adam! One thug staggered off with a bleeding nose, another stumbled away with a broken arm. But Damian soon lost the chance to trounce any more ruffians.

Shots rang out.

The kid was hit in the arm with a bullet.

Whistles blowing, pistols flailing, the authorities rounded up the lot of them. And it was then Damian looked down at the kid, curled in a dusty heap, and realized the boy was not Adam. He only looked like Adam.

Stunned by his visceral response, Damian could not say a word when the authorities snapped the shackles over his wrists. What the devil had come over him?

Carted off to the nearest gaol, Damian was tossed inside the brig, the kid his cellmate, and for three days he suffered imprisonment. Three miserable, dull days. And all the while he sat chained in the corner, brooding.

Woeful thoughts interrupted, Damian glanced down at the kid—Quincy was his name—groaning and stirring on the clump of hay. And try as he might to ignore the chap’s distress, Damian could not.

Bloody hell. With each passing day, he grew more and more sentimental. A blubbering saphead, as his father would say. Teeth ground in disgust, Damian propped his manacled wrists under the lad’s chest and pushed.

Quincy rolled over, hacking, and brought his forearm to his eyes to block the shaft of moonlight resting on his face. He was like a ghost, so pale and sluggish, and Damian could feel that galling worry creeping into his chest again.

“Wake up!” he ordered, kicking the kid in the leg for good measure. “You’ll die if you sleep any more.”

“Bollocks,” came the weak but stubborn protest. “And I’ll draw your cork if you kick me again.”

Damian snorted. The lad didn’t have the strength to roll over, but he was going to break Damian’s nose? The duke had to admire the kid’s spirit, but still, it was not enough to save the chap. An infection had set into the bullet wound, and the boy’s breathing had changed to odd, raspy gasps.

“I’d like to see you try and draw my cork,” goaded the duke, hoping to stir some life back into the weary chap.

But Quincy wasn’t taking the bait. He merely grunted at the suggestion.

There was nothing more Damian could do for the kid. The gaol cell, with little food and water, no clean linens, and no surgical instruments, made for a very poor infirmary. Besides, Damian’s medical talent was lackluster at best. After abandoning his castle, leaving the land steward in charge of the estate, he’d spent the last two years learning to sail, rig a mast, fire a cannon with deadly accuracy. He’d improved upon his fencing, his aim with a pistol, even his use of a knife. But he had no real use for the healing art. His purpose in life was to destroy: to destroy the piratical fiends who had murdered his brother.

Blast it! He should be out there right now, looking for the brigand swine, instead of playing nursemaid to a troubled buck. Curse the wretched storm that brought him here! But for the wild tempest that had thrashed his ship a few days ago, he would never have limped into port in desperate need of repairs. Repairs, of course, cost money, and since a good chunk of his coin had washed overboard during the squall, money was one thing he didn’t have in abundance.

At first it seemed a trifle bind. In a safe aboard his ship was a series of credentials, all proclaiming him the duke that he was. He had only to saunter into the nearest bank, present the papers to a pudgy-faced banker, and acquire a loan for as much blunt as he wanted…if only the safe had been watertight. Damian had opened the iron door to find his credentials washed clean away, the ink smeared all over the raggedy parchments.

And so, adrift in New York harbor with a badly leaking ship and torn sails and scant supplies, he’d headed into port to
win
his wealth, leaving behind his lieutenant with the order to sell the damaged rig for whatever he could get and divide the money among the crew, should Damian not return within two days. Of course, he’d never expected
not
to return. His instructions to the lieutenant had been a mere formality.

But it mattered little now. He was stranded. Chained, penniless, and shipless, too. For by now his lieutenant had surely sold what was left of the vessel and divvied up the profit. Damian didn’t even have a single coin. He’d been stripped clear of valuables before being shackled to the wall. Bloody hell.

Quincy coughed, a garbled, hacking sound that didn’t bode well. “Why did you save me, Damian?”

Thoughts of Adam quickly flooded the duke’s mind. At the sharp pain in his chest, he closed his eyes and fibbed, “I hate to see an American get the better of one of my own.”

The kid raised an invisible glass. “Here, here.”

Another round of hacking.

“Sit up, Quincy, you’ll breathe better.”

But the kid couldn’t move, so Damian gathered the hay and mashed it together, cramming it under Quincy’s head.

The coughing subsided, but it was a temporary respite, Damian knew. The chap wouldn’t last much longer.

An owl hooted in the distance. A sick owl by the sound of its croaking cry.

Quincy’s bleary gaze wandered over to the barred window. In a voice raw and faint, he wondered, “What time is it?”

“Near midnight, perhaps. Why?”

“Changing of the guards soon.”

“So?”

“Never mind.” Quincy looked away from the window. “So what brings a fellow sailor all the way to America?”

Damian had mentioned it before, his guise as a sailor. It offered him common ground with the kid, who claimed to be a tar aboard a merchant ship. Damian just couldn’t tell Quincy the truth, that he was a duke, that he was captain of his own ship—former captain, he should say—for if rumor ever spread about his pirate-hunting mission, those dastardly pirates might up and disappear on him for good.

“I have a duty to see to my brother,” said Damian instead. That much he was willing to admit.

A soft, choking laugh. “I have three brothers, all a bother, always interfering, claiming to do what’s best for me.”

The duke snorted. “Aye, I see how well you do on your own.”

“That was a lark. Those bloody Americans accused me of cheating. Sore losers, I tell you, the lot of ’em. All mortified to have lost their blunt to an English bloke.”

“A seventeen-year-old English bloke,” corrected Damian.

Quincy managed a proud but crooked smile. “That must have irked ’em a bit, too.”

Damian, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to scold the impetuous chap, bit his tongue. Was he mad? Not too long ago he had lived the life of a heathen. And while eleven years Quincy’s senior, he was hardly the appropriate figure to dictate on the value of responsibility. Besides, there was something inherent in his nature that went against the repugnant act of moralizing. Perhaps he could shake some sense into the chap instead.

“So this duty to your brother, what’s it about?”

Damian shifted. His arse was sore. He was bloody tired, too. And Quincy’s constant digging into his personal affairs was putting him in a more dour mood. “Why so many questions, kid?”

“Just curious.” He shrugged. After another round of hacking, Quincy prodded, “Braving the Atlantic waves to fulfill a brotherly duty? That’s some devotion.”

A wave of grief smacked the duke. “I wasn’t always so devoted.”

“Neither was I,” sighed Quincy. “I used to think I’d be better off without my meddlesome kin.”

Damian swallowed the burst of bitter emotion that had welled in his breast, to ask, “And now?”

“I suppose I’m better off with ’em…but I’ll never tell ’em so.”

Damian quirked a brow.

“Tell you what,” said Quincy. “When we get out of here, I’ll help you see that duty to your brother to an end. I owe you that much.”

When
they got out? Damian had the sinking suspicion both he and Quincy would be left inside the rank dungeon cell to perish. That meant either the kid was a foolish optimist or the fever was making him incoherent. Damian wasn’t sure which.

Moreover, the kind of help Damian needed wasn’t something a chap still wet behind the ears could offer, even if they did manage to escape somehow. Stranded as he was, Damian had to sail home, commission another ship and crew, then hightail it back to America. Quincy wasn’t the likely candidate to make any of that happen.

Just thinking about his plight had Damian’s palms fisting. He had come so close to catching the miserable buccaneers. After years of fruitless searching, a tale had reached his ears of a marauding rogue, harassing English ships near the coast of
New York
. It was a frail lead, but one Damian was determined to follow. And he would have followed it, too, had it not been for the cursed storm…and Quincy.

“Thanks for the offer, kid, but I have to get home to England, and unless you have a ship, I doubt you can help me.”

The thud was soft, but not so faint as to go unheard. Another thud followed, then another.

Damian scrunched his brow.

Keys jingled, and the prison door swung wide open to reveal three titans filling the doorway. Hulking figures, every last one of them, with jet black hair and the same delft blue eyes Quincy bore.

“’Bout bloody time,” muttered Quincy.

Two of the titans entered the dungeon and knelt beside the kid. The third, and biggest of the lot, remained stationed under the doorway. A lookout, Damian supposed.

“Don’t gripe,” said the first titan. “It wasn’t easy to find you in this maze of a city. We searched through brothels and gaming hells before finally coming to the gaols.” Then, examining Quincy’s arm: “Anything broken?”

“Only his pride,” said the second.

“Sod off!” Quincy hissed. “Your owl cry still sounds like a parakeet, Eddie.”

“Knock it off, all of you,” from the third.

Definitely brothers. And not a single one of them paid Damian any heed.

Quincy was yanked to his feet, coughing. Stricken as he was, the guards hadn’t bothered to shackle him to the wall. But before his brethren could drag him out of the prison cell, Quincy demanded: “Unlock his chains, James.”

The third and most sinister titan deigned Damian a glance. “No.”

“But James, he saved my life. We can’t just leave him here.”

“No.”

“Damn it, James! I swore I would help him when I got out of here. You’re not going to make a liar out of me, are you?”

“Oh, bloody hell.” James tossed one sibling the keys. “Get him out, Will. Quick!”

Propping Quincy against his remaining kin, the one called Will hunched down to unlock Damian’s chains.

The first key didn’t fit, neither did the second. There were at least a dozen more on the ring, and the sound of distant movement in the courtyard, by a possible prison guard, was making everyone uneasy.

“Hurry up, Will!”

“I’m trying,” Will shot back, inserting the third—and lucky—key.

The manacles sprang open.

Damian shot to his feet. Free but still stranded. One predicament was better than two, though.

The duke was about to express his gratitude when Quincy intervened, “He’s coming with us, James.”

“Are you ordering
me
around, little brother?”

“Come on, James, he’s a sailor. And we need one more—”

“We don’t need another sailor.”

“Blister it, James, the man saved my life!” the kid croaked. “We can’t just leave him stranded.”

That gave the mulish brother pause—but not incentive. “No. Now let’s go.”

Quincy, hauled toward the door, reiterated all the way, “But James, we need another sailor.”

“We don’t need another bloody sailor! What we need is a navigator.”

“I can navigate.”

All four brothers paused to look Damian’s way.

“You can?” said James, eyeing him closely.

“You can?” echoed Quincy, surprised.

“I can,” Damian confirmed—somewhat. But he kept that part to himself. He had acquired many nautical skills over the course of his self-training. Navigation was one, only he wasn’t proficient. He just didn’t have a knack for calculations. Downright hated them, in fact, often trusting his own navigator to plot each course. But to get back home to England he’d bloody well dream of numbers and stars if he had to.

“Perfect,” said Quincy. “Damian will be our new navigator.”

James only growled. “We’re not going to argue about this in here. Let’s move!”