The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Read Free

instant, Dalton frowned. “Then the nameless scoundrels are not harmless, and their cause is not so noble, as I had thought, given they have taken something invaluable to my family, so we shall meet again.”
    “But how will we find them, sir?” The cook hugged his cast-iron skillet. “As they have disappeared around the bend.”
    “Fret not, old friend.” Dalton lowered his chin and flipped his familiar coin, which landed, however apropos, on tails. “They don’t call me the lucky one, for nothing.”
    #
    The beautiful spring morning dawned with nary a hint of the wicked tempest that had struck Portsea Island two days ago. Stretching her arms, Daphne Harcourt gazed out the window, which boasted a spectacular view of the Channel, and reminisced of the carefree existence of her youth, when she often ran through the grassy meadow that flanked Courtenay Hall. But that time had long since passed, which had been emphasized by recent harrowing events, the dark nature of which she had yet to untangle, so she drank the last of her tea and pushed from the dining room table.
    In the main corridor of her childhood home, which doubled as the governor’s official residence, as was her father’s post, she paused before the oval mirror and checked her appearance. At the age of three and twenty, she was, for all intents and purposes, a spinster. A bluestocking. On the shelf. Oh, there were endless names to describe the seemingly hopeless despair of maidenhood to which she had resigned herself, in the wake of unforeseen incidents that had left her scrambling to maintain her family and property, with no possibility of a future of her own or the fantasies she had coveted.
    With a sigh of lament for the misspent dreams of her early years, she adjourned to papa’s study, settled in the leather chair behind his desk, and opened the account ledger. After twice calculating the sum of the month’s expenditures, she collapsed in the seat and vented a plaintive cry. Growing ever more desperate with each successive week, she could discern no escape from her perilous predicament, despite many sleepless nights in search of a solution.
    “Excuse me, Miss Daphne.” Hicks, the butler, cleared his throat. “There is a gentleman just arrived to see your father.”
    “Oh?” Sifting through the various logs, she located the appointment book, flipped to the current date, and frowned. “There is no scheduled meeting.”
    “Shall I make your excuses?” the servant inquired, with an expression of sympathy.
    “No.” She stood and smoothed the skirt of her pale yellow morning dress. “To turn away our caller would rouse unwanted suspicion. Show him in, at once.”
    “Very good, ma’am.” Hicks dipped his chin.
    With a quick assessment of the surroundings, she nodded at no one and strolled to the window, which overlooked the rose garden. How many afternoons she had enjoyed, tending the plants her mother had pruned with love and care.
    “Miss Daphne, allow me to present Sir Dalton Randolph.” With very proper airs, which she found rather amusing, given his usual affable mannerisms, Hicks made the introductions. “Sir Dalton, this is Miss Daphne Harcourt, Governor Harcourt’s eldest child.”
    It was then she spared a glance at her visitor—and almost fainted.
    At well over six feet tall, the imposing figure of a man would have intimidated her under any circumstance. With sun-kissed brown hair, amber eyes that harked a comparison with papa’s brandy, chiseled cheekbones, and a patrician nose, his masculine aura bespoke raw power mingled with sinful beauty. And when he smiled, gooseflesh covered her from top to toe.
    Wearing an evergreen coat, a tan waistcoat, a crisp white cravat, fawn-colored breeches, and polished hessians, the tailored noble’s garb had done little to temper the enormity of his frame or dispel the danger he exuded. Even in the dim light from his cargo hold, and later, above deck, she had thought him quite stunning, as