Rescued by a Sea Nymph: London Mythos, #1

Dedication

For my sisters, Tiffany and Carrie Ann.

We spent endless hours watching and reading fairytales together.

I wouldn't have had it any other way.

"Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough.

You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it."

–J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Chapter One

Summerfield, 1817

A muffled yell jolted Captain James Harlow awake. As he shot upright, he tumbled right out of his chair. He cursed as his head connected with solid wood and pain ricocheted down his spine. He'd fallen asleep at his desk in the study, the map he'd had spread out before him now hung precariously over the side. The lantern he favored, taken from his ship, sent shadows scurrying in all directions as the tiny flame flickered and danced like a trapped pixie behind glass. Had he heard a shout, or had that been in his dreams?

Pulling himself to his feet, he listened but only heard the wind whipping through the trees. His whole body hurt, but he wouldn't be at ease until he checked the status of his father's manor. Perhaps a servant couldn't sleep and had dropped a tray or spotted a rat. Not that that happened frequently. His nerves were tense, and not because he'd woken in such a fashion. Something was off, but he couldn't tell what. He'd developed a kind of sixth sense for impending danger during his expeditions at sea, and something lingered in the area that posed a threat.

A floorboard creaked nearby. He stared at the door, expecting his valet, Rollins, to walk through despite it being such an odd hour for the man to be about. The normalcy would alleviate his tension. Yet nobody knocked or entered. With a deep breath, James returned to his desk and reached beneath it to where he'd secreted away a pistol in a secret hollow, then, with the weapon in hand, he approached the door to investigate. As he slowly opened the door and stepped into the corridor, his loose, untucked, white shirt billowed in a draft. A door or window must have been left open—or forced open.

If only he'd spotted the shadow so close to his before another groaning floorboard gave away the intruder's position. As it was, he noticed both at exactly the same time. James spun around, aiming his weapon, but it was too late. Perhaps he could have prevented the blow to the temple from the butt of the intruder's pistol, then again, perhaps not. His last thought before he blacked out was that he'd wished he'd done more with his life. Had been a better man.

He'd leave nothing behind as his legacy.

***

Frigid water hit him in the face some time later and he gasped, swallowing liquid and choking. He tried to flail his arms to swim, but he was bound and tied to a...tree? James sputtered, coughed, blinked and tried to regain awareness of his surroundings. He wasn't drowning in the sea, but in the woods, probably those on his own property, and being roused to consciousness before his assailant who was—a young lad. Well, not a boy, but definitely green around the edges in age. No older than ten and seven, if a day.

Who the devil are you? With his bewilderment fading, irritation quickly filled the void. James scowled at the lad with the uncanny notion he'd seen him somewhere before. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall where.

The imp wearing dark, unkempt clothing crossed his arms and smirked. In the moonlight, his sandy hair was a riot of shoulder-length, unbound waves. A street urchin, perchance, but definitely their leader. Behind him, about a dozen men stood, equally young and disheveled. The one in charge held an empty bucket, which made sense as the water it had previously contained soaked James through to the bone.

Your servants are bound and gagged in their chambers, the imp said, tossing the bucket aside. You'd think a pirate such as yourself would have better precautions in his own home, old man.

Old man? Old? He was only thirty. In his prime! "I beg your pardon, boy, he all but growled in response. He struggled with the bonds holding him but there was no give to them. Why are a band of toddlers breaking into houses in the middle of the night, harassing hapless servants? Isn't it past your bed time?"

His assailant laughed. I'm seven and ten, he said, confirming James' assumption. Hardly a toddler. You truly don't recognize me? He stepped closer and peered at James. Shrugging, he began pacing in front of him as an irritated animal might. "I recognized you. After I clocked you, of course, and you went down like a limp codfish. Imagine my shock that a reputable member of the ton could have a hand in smuggling brandy from the Continent."

James sighed. The jig was up. He'd been found out. Now he'd either be blackmailed or turned in. His crew didn't indulge in outright piracy, but smuggling was still illegal and would definitely cause a scandal his family couldn't avoid. As the third son of Viscount Summerfield, he might lack a title of his own, but that didn't make him less of a member of the peerage, unfortunately. It would send the tongues wagging when he was turned in—by an uncouth youth of all people.

How had he found out though? If the imp planned on breaking into his home, wouldn't he have been aware who lived in it? Something did not quite add up. The most James could do was deny involvement with his activities and hope for the best.

You aren't going to guess?

Guess what, exactly? James gritted out, perplexed. It was like the kid lived in his own fantasy world and expected everyone to follow along. Oh, that's right. He was offended James didn't know who he was. Your name? I don't care.

The lad unsheathed a long, sharp dagger from his belt and pointed it at him. James was unimpressed, even as the kid said, Show a little more respect and you may live.

This...child...was going to outright murder him now? James had always considered himself a patient sort. If the heated rage replacing the chill from the wet clothing plastered to his body, that patience was quickly turning to ire. He gave up trying to feign ignorance of his role in smuggling. Glaring at the rest of the boys who did nothing but fidget and look away at the eye contact, he returned his focus on his main assailant. What do you want, boy? Riches? A percentage from the brandy take?

The lad grinned like a cat that had properly cornered a plump mouse. We're performing a mutiny. Your fortune is ours now. I own you.

James rolled his eyes. He can't be serious. A mutiny is when the crew rebels on its own ship to overthrow the captain. You aren't my crew, and we're not even on a blasted ship.

Semantics. The lad tapped his baby-smooth chin with the point of his blade. Allow me to introduce myself since you're slow on the uptake. Peter Paxton, Earl of Underwood. You really do need to pay attention to Society more, but I guess it's difficult when you're a seasoned criminal and all, hiding away in the country on his father's estate when he's acquired more than enough to live on his own through criminal means.

This kid had a real talent for getting on his nerves. Wait a second... Paxton...Underwood... His father was the Marquess of Huntington. James vaguely recalled the man, and he must have met Paxton when he was much younger, which was why he looked familiar. That didn't explain why he was supposed to remember him though. There was no reason to.

We've decided, my boys and I, he said while gesturing with his dagger, that we want to take over from you. We found intel on the location of a smuggler and it led to you. Now, you can sign over the documents for the ship and we'll free your servants and tell them how to find you, or I can kill you and take it anyway.

A muscle twitched under James' right eye. Someone had sold him out, but he'd deal with that later. The ropes were too expertly tied for his liking, and he needed to get loose. He didn't necessarily want to hit a kid, but if he kept swinging that blade in his direction, he'd do it—if he could only have use of his hands or a leg. He wasn't picky. You're willing to kill for a ship you could have simply stolen on your own rather than travelling all the way to Summerfield to make a grand show of it for the legalities...before heading back to London to take it anyway? He thumped his head back against the tree and laughed. I can't sign anything over if I am tied up. If you untie me, I'll return the welcome I was given tenfold. He met Underwood's gaze. That's a promise.

Underwood shrugged.

One thing niggled at him though. You really didn't know whose house you were breaking into, but managed to find the location of it well enough without seeking more information?

He shrugged. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

James made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. These children were playing games they didn't fully understand or care about. Are you really willing to blacken your soul with evil over...a ship and an idea that smuggling is a worthwhile way to spend your life?

It's good enough for you.

James opened his mouth to argue further and then slammed it shut. He was third in line for a title that held little weight and was worn by men in his family like women would wear their mothers' hand-me-down jewels. He had purchased a position in the Navy, the one time he'd ever used his family name and fortune to obtain something without earning it. However, the wars were winding down and he had never been sent into the line of duty, much to his annoyance. He'd wanted to matter, but the Royal Navy hadn't needed him any more than his father did when he was sired as a second spare. He'd had nothing else to do with his time, which was how he'd ended up dabbling with smuggling and building his own fortune. Unenthused by life, he'd wanted a bit of adventure and danger, but even that was losing its allure.

Nothing to say? Underwood drawled. Of course, should you go free, I'd own you. Now that I've discovered your identity, and I'll have your ship, I'd be willing to let bygones be bygones should you manipulate your father into seeing me as the worthiest of suitors for your sister.

At last, the real reason for this whole charade has come to light. James barked out a laugh, and Underwood scowled at him. You didn't even know what man you were going to harass this evening, and now you think I am going to pair my one and only sister with a child who longs to steal my ship and blackmail me? You are truly delusional. The bloody knots in his bonds refused to loosen. His skin was rubbed raw already.