Rules of an Engagement Read online

  Rules of an Engagement

  Suzanne Enoch

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  By Suzanne Enoch

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  For everyone who wanted Bradshaw Carroway

  to have his own story.

  Enjoy!

  Prologue

  Reload! Prepare to fire the deck guns! Take out that damned mainmast before she gets the wind behind her!”

  All fourteen of the eighteen-pound cannons on the starboard main deck let fly. A hard heartbeat later the entire ship shook as the larger guns directly below them added their roar into the melee, firing in near unison. In response the French frigate Revanche seemed to fly apart, sail and wood and metal exploding out in every direction.

  Fifty yards across the water from the privateer, on his own vessel the Nemesis, Captain Bradshaw Carroway stood on the upper deck and narrowed his eyes to see through the billowing smoke. For a moment, even with the sound of yelling and musket fire and barked orders spinning around him, everything went still. They wouldn’t have time for another volley. He’d have to circle into the wind, and they would lose position. And then the mainmast and foremast of the pirate ship swayed in drunken unison.

  “We’ve got her!” he bellowed. “Bring us in closer, Varley!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  “Prepare to board her, Mr. Gerard!”

  “Aye, aye!” The first lieutenant snapped a sharp salute and charged down the steps to the main deck.

  A musket ball whizzed by his ear, but Bradshaw barely noted it. His Nemesis was the smaller of the two ships by a fraction, but she was at least as heavily armed—and his men a damned sight more proficient with the cannons. “Mr. Abrams, I want our big guns aimed below the Revanche’s waterline. If I can’t take her, I’m bloody well going to sink her.”

  His third mate nodded and hurried below to deliver the order. At the same time Peter Potter ran up to Bradshaw to hand over his sword. “Here y’are, Captain,” the midshipman said, as Shaw buckled on the sword and stuffed two pistols into his belt. “Remind them damned Frenchies that Bonaparte’s already had his one escape, and he don’t get another.”

  “That is my intention,” Bradshaw replied with a grim smile, having to raise his voice to be heard over the shouts and weapons fire. He looked down at Gerard and signaled before turning his attention to his second mate. “Keep the Nemesis as close as you can, Mr. Newsome. Try to avoid blowing a hole through the Revanche’s guts unless she’s about to do the same to us.”

  Lieutenant Newsome tugged on the brim of his hat. “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  The grappling hooks were already flying through the air, snagging the French ship’s railing and collapsed rigging and dragging the two ships closer together. Working his way through the men and debris, Shaw stepped up onto the Nemesis’s railing. At the bellow from Gerard to board the Revanche, he jumped.

  Most captains would likely remain on their own ship and let others carry out their orders. He, however, wasn’t most captains. Pulling his sword, he sliced through a French sailor as the fellow charged at him, musket and bayonet in hand.

  Sailing a ship, commanding a ship, was well and good, and he loved the sea. A good fight, however, the roar of chaos and blood and glory, came around far too infrequently these days to be missed. Something burned through his upper left arm, but he ignored it. In fact, he realized that he was grinning as he shot and stabbed his way toward the tall fellow with the oversized hat who crouched behind the wheel on the upper deck. The Revanche’s captain didn’t seem to enjoy fighting as much as he did.

  A sailor came at him low, a saber in one hand. Bradshaw slammed down on the weapon with his own sword, at the same time sending a boot into the man’s face. The pirate dropped with a grunt. Scrambling over the fallen mast, Shaw yanked another man off Lieutenant Gerard. “Lead the jollies below decks,” he ordered. “I don’t want any surprises later.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. And thank you, Captain.”

  “I don’t want to have to go through the bother of training someone to replace you.”

  With a grin, Gerard motioned to the commander of the two dozen red-jacketed marines, and they all surged forward.

  Heaving another man over his shoulder, Bradshaw charged up the stairs. A saber nearly sliced off his left ear. He ducked the blow and feinted sideways, then with his left hand shoved the muzzle of his pistol beneath the chin of the Revanche’s captain. The man glared at him, and Bradshaw lifted an eyebrow. “Capitulez, Captain Molyneux,” he ordered.

  With an oath the captain threw down his saber. “Baissez les armes!” he bellowed.

  Below them muskets and swords and pistols clanked to the deck. Bradshaw tipped his hat. “Merci, Capitaine.”

  His own crew began shouting and cheering, then favored the French crew with a rendition of “God Save the King.” Bradshaw issued orders to have the prisoners locked up below, and then returned to the deck of his own ship.

  “Captain, ye’ve got a hole in ye,” Potter said, his expression concerned.

  “Do I?” Shaw finally looked down to see blood trailing from a hole in the left sleeve of his blue jacket. “It’ll keep. See that the wounded get down to Dr. Griffeth, and go assist him. And tell him he owes me five quid, because I didn’t get killed.”

  “Cap’n, the good doc got a hole blown through his head.”

  Damnation. Shaw slowed, the heady exhilaration of battle crumbling into surprisingly sharp-edged sorrow. God knew he’d lost friends before, but they’d been warriors, falling in battle. Simon Griffeth had been a gentle-hearted healer through and through. The two of them had sailed together for the past eight years, and the most pain Simon had ever caused had been with his knife-sharp wit. He drew a hard breath. Those who didn’t fight weren’t supposed to be killed, damn it all. “Then you’re our new surgeon, Potter,” he said aloud, keeping his expression cool. Other men had lost their lives today, and he would mourn his friend in private once he returned to his cabin. “Recruit whoever you need to aid you.”

  With a nod the sailor hurried off. His third mate, Lieutenant Merriwether Abrams, approached, the grin on his face fading as he took in Shaw’s red arm. “Captain, you—”

  “I know. What’s our damage?”

  “We’ll need a new forward mast and half the starboard railing replaced. No holes below the waterline.”

  “Good. Men?”

  “Nine dead, thirty-seven wounded. Only five seriously, though. Gerard’s inspecting the Revanche, but she looks seaworthy. I don’t know her crew count yet.”

  Bradshaw rolled his shoulders, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound in his arm. “Tell Gerard to take what crew and supplies he needs. He’ll be captaining the Revanche back to Southampton. You’re to be his second.”

  The wiry, blond-haired man grinned again. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, well, don’t get too comfortable. I want you back on the Nemesis when we get our orders.”

  “The East Indies this time, do you think?”

  “Considering that this is the only pirate we’ve come across in the last fo
ur months, I imagine we’ve about cleared the Mediterranean of privateers.” A week ago, an hour ago, the proposal of seeking more glory in battle anywhere would have had him grinning. At this moment, and for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to returning to England. Him. The man who could barely tolerate dry land. Realizing that Abrams was still eyeing him, Shaw forced a brief smile. “The East Indies would be interesting. So would anywhere, as long as it’s not surrounded by land.”

  Abrams drew himself up to a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Perhaps this was an abrupt and temporary onset of nostalgia. After all, he did miss his horde of brothers after better than a year away. And once he returned to land he imagined that the longing to be at sea would seep into him once more. Battle, though—the East Indies—he wasn’t so certain about. Not today. He could only hope that being back in London would remind him that generally he didn’t care where the Admiralty might send the Nemesis next, as long as they went somewhere.

  Five months later

  Captain Bradshaw Carroway looked from the missive in one hand to the sealed orders in the other.

  “Well?” his youngest brother, Edward, prompted, leaning across the breakfast table on his elbows.

  “I’m anticipating, Runt.”

  “You’ve been anticipating for five weeks, Shaw. And since you told me if you didn’t like your orders you were going to turn pirate, I want to know what they say.” The ten-year-old reached over and tapped the back of the orders with one forefinger. “Now. If we’re being pirates, I need to go purchase a parrot.”

  “You’re not being a pirate.” Their eldest brother Tristan, Lord Dare, strolled into the breakfast room. Wordlessly one of the footmen hurried over to pour a cup of tea and place it at the head of the table. “And you’re supposed to acquire a parrot during your adventures, not in advance of them.”

  “But Shaw’s been on several adventures, and he doesn’t have a parrot.”

  “He doesn’t have anything from his adventures, thankfully.” Tristan sent him a rueful glance before making his way over to the sideboard to select his breakfast. “Do you?”

  Bradshaw snorted. “No.” He waved the missive, the second surprise of the morning, in the viscount’s direction. “Why is the Duke of Sommerset inviting me to his home?”

  “How should I know? He doesn’t have a wife for you to have . . . danced with,” Tristan returned, glancing at their shortest brother.

  “I don’t care about dancing,” Edward broke in again. “Or Sommerset. Open your damned orders, Shaw.”

  “Edward, do not let my wife catch you using that language.” Tristan sent him a mock scowl.

  “I already know that foul language is only for men. Please, Shaw?”

  He preferred to open his orders in private. Especially when he remained so damned skittish over whether he wanted to sail away again or do something as abysmal as retiring. Hiding his sudden nerves behind a forced grin, he broke the seal and unfolded the thick set of pages.

  “Well?” the Runt repeated.

  “Apparently I’m to dine on coconuts and native breadfruit.”

  Edward jumped up from the table. “The Pacific! We’re going to be pirates in the Pacific!”

  Clearing his throat, Tristan reached out and grabbed the hopping boy by the jacket. “Go tell Georgiana the news,” he ordered. “Quietly. Arabella finally fell asleep an hour ago, and Georgie will string you up from a yardarm or some such thing if you awaken her.”

  “I’m Arabella’s uncle, you know. I look out for her.”

  Bradshaw waited until Edward was well out of hearing before he let out a sigh. “The Pacific Ocean. I’ve always wanted to captain a ship around Cape Horn.”

  “I’m pleased that you’re pleased,” his oldest brother said quietly. “Are you pleased?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Shaw bit back, too strenuously. “I’m a ship’s captain. I’m supposed to be at sea.”

  Tristan continued to eye him. “I’m not an idiot, despite what my wife says. You’ve been . . . solemn since you returned from the Mediterranean.”

  If he owed anyone an explanation, it was his oldest brother. “I told you that I lost a friend during that last battle. I’ve lost friends before, but for some reason it’s made me think. And don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. Think about what?”

  “About what I want, I suppose. About whether going about firing cannons at things is enough for a life.” He shrugged. “Though I do like firing at things.” It was firing at people that abruptly had him uneasy. And that was not something a naval captain should be troubled about, for God’s sake.

  “I know you do.” Tristan shifted. “When do you sail?”

  Taking a breath, Bradshaw read through the highlights of the first page again. “Four weeks. I’m to take the Nemesis to Port Jackson in Australia, where I will be receiving further orders.”

  “So you’re going on a voyage for what, a year and a half, to . . . what?”

  Bradshaw frowned. The East Indies certainly seemed likely, but they were sending him on a rather roundabout route if that was the case. “Don’t have the faintest idea.”

  “That would be enough to make me question my orders,” his brother commented.

  “As long as I’m a captain, the wheres and whys aren’t supposed to be of any importance to me. Admiral Dolenz is in command out there, so I imagine I’ll find out when I arrive.”

  “Admiral Dolenz, the father of Miss Louisa Dolenz?” Tristan asked skeptically. “The young lady you t—”

  “I’m sure she never mentioned that to her father,” Bradshaw broke in, scowling. Good God, he could end up stranded permanently in Australia. Perhaps a strategic retirement would be for the best, after all, considering the nonsense they were likely to task him with. “And she said she forgave me. We even danced, last week.”

  “You’d best hope she has.” The viscount paused. “Shaw, you know you don’t need to do th—”

  “I’m restless, Tristan.” That part of him never seemed to fade, whatever his other reservations. It was just that he didn’t know any longer what he was restless for.

  “Then take up estate management. I could use the assistance.”

  “Scribbling in a ledger isn’t my idea of useful. Particularly not when you have clerks to do that for you. Likewise with me serving as the designated minder of the Runt and your menagerie. It’s useless.”

  “One daughter is not a menagerie. And you’re not useless.”

  “I feel useless. I’m one-and-thirty, still living at my brother’s home. Even damned Robert’s married and moved out, and he spent three years unable to leave the house. And then there’s Andrew, who will be finished with Cambridge this year. It’s about to be just Edward and me hanging on to your coattails. You don’t need me here.”

  “You’re part of this family.”

  “Which is a lovely thing.”

  “And if you’re unhapp—”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m contemplating.” He folded his orders and pocketed them for a more detailed perusal later. “So who knows? In the next four weeks I may decide you have the better idea, after all.” He leaned back to pull his watch from his pocket and flip it open. “And I seem to have an appointment with the Duke of Sommerset in twenty minutes.” Standing, he clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t you be pleased if I decided I’m becoming too old for adventuring?”

  Viscount Dare frowned. “You’re not too old for it. But I’d like to think you’re becoming too wise for it.”

  “And how likely is that?”

  He and his black Arabian, Zeus, arrived at Ainsley House on Grosvenor Square just before ten o’clock. Whatever it was that the Duke of Sommerset wanted, the man had enough influence that no one in his right mind would ignore an invitation. And despite what his family occasionally claimed, Bradshaw was generally in his right mind.

  The square-shouldered butler, smartly liveried in red and black, o
pened the front door as Bradshaw topped the shallow granite steps. “Captain Carroway,” he said. “You’re expected. This way, if you please.”

  Hm. More curious by the minute, Bradshaw followed the man into a comfortable-looking sitting room just off the foyer. The walls and shelves were covered with artifacts and decorations from—well, from everywhere, as far as he could tell.

  “His Grace will be with you in a moment,” the butler said, and backed out the door, shutting Bradshaw inside.

  Shaw strolled over to the window. Many people found a ship to be terribly confining, but he wasn’t one of them. On the best of days a ship, his ship, opened the world up before him. Very few people had the ability to sleep in their own bed each night and still see something new out their front door each day. Until the battle with the Revanche he hadn’t thought he would ever tire of gazing at the horizon. Only since then had he noticed that the view was . . . empty.

  The door opened. “Captain, thank you for coming.” Nicholas Ainsley, the Duke of Sommerset, stepped into the room and shut the door again. Tall and black-haired, steel gray eyes steady and speculative, he leaned back against the near wall.

  “You made me curious,” Bradshaw returned.

  “You were wounded on your last voyage, as I recall. How is your arm?”

  Shaw flexed it. “Good as new. Ball missed the bone.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And you’re shipping out soon. What, four weeks from now?”

  While his specific orders likely hadn’t been made public, the fact that he was to sail would be no secret to anyone, much less a man of Sommerset’s resources. “Approximately. Are you intending to travel again? I don’t shuttle civilians, but in your case I imagine the Admiralty would make an exception.”