Thread: Au-delà du Temps: Beyond Time (LeatrixSage x SacrlettRose)

Superstition and old wives tales or the feeling running down his spine. They thought he was mad. Thought he was the very Devil Himself. Never had William Draker the fifth Duke of Dynevor allowed the opinions of others to influence his mind or motives. It was with this steel mindset that he had set out for Calais on board the fishing boat of his vassals. With the war at an uneasy peace, the fisher men of the Welsh coasts found it difficult to make a living doing what they do. Fortunately for them, their Lord and Master the Devil Duke William Draker turned a blind eye to their . . . illegal activities. Though the man did not so much as make a peep about their smuggling operation onto the coasts of the continent as long as he received his fealty and at times like this the assistance he required in William's own misadventures, he was more than happy to let the men continue and keep the preventative boat service off their backs. Night had been a dark cloud of cover that was finally lifting. Unlike his colleague and friend Wessex, Draker was not a great fan of the continent or the French in general. He liked to keep to his lands. No doubt it was in his blood being the descendant of Welsh Marcher Lord's that could be tracked beyond William the Conqueror. However, in his line of work . . . anything could be expected. Thus he stood on the bow of the medium sized boat awaiting the arrival of Wessex. Dynevor was not meant to be there but on the day his men were to depart for Calais and unease had crept through his bones and had taken a hold of his wits. And his feels were always right. Ergo he had joined the ragtag sailors in their run for whiskey and the extra cargo and passengers they were picking up on this run. The Duke straightened, his ginormous hand instinctively going to gun on the inside of his coat in a secret pocket near his breast. Peering across the docks as two large horses came to a noise stop just before the wooden planks. His apprehension dwindled slightly as he recognised their livery belonging to the Wessex household. Where is your Master? The giant beast of a man demanded in his usual gruff accent. The weathered planks of wood screeching painfully under his weight as he stomped forward. The Marquess of Wessex was a tall man at six foot one, yet, compared to him The Duke of Dynevor was an absolute monster! Standing at just over six foot six, it was quite clearly why the muscular nobleman struck fear in the hearts of almost every man and woman he came across. Nor did the permanent frown upon his shaggy and unkempt features help or the scar that cut diagonally down from between his right eyebrow all the way down his cheek, though most of the long healed wound was covered by his unfashionable beard. And as unfashionable as his beard was his sense of fashion was even worse. It was unambiguous how little the Duke cared for fashion or society, wearing a style that had been out of fashion for over a decade. It was all these attributes that made the Dynevor look far older than his thirty and five years. The Footman quickly explained what had passed on their passage to Calais causing the Duke to swear in the filthiest manor the French language allowed. If the situation was not so serious, there was no doubt the Footman would be holding back their laughter as it reminded them much of their Master's companion. Mon Seigneur Wessex's party will be arriving shortly. The Footmen continued to explain. My Lord has instructed that his departure should be imminent as soon as they arrive Your Grace. Very well. Dynevor grumbled his ever present frown deepening. He did not like this. Did not like it at all. And yet, the fact that Wessex was not already dead was an unexpected turn of events. For death was a certainty for men in their line of work, especially in such dangerous circumstances as Wessex was working under. Draker drafted the Footmen to feed and water the steeds before they were boarded onto the boat. The men bowed and continued to their task while William shouted in a coarse language that happened to be Welsh to the crew man to be ready to unload the carriage that was to arrive and have the vessel ready for departure. Calais was heavily under guard these days, naturally it was expected and it was with that they were anchored to a small abandoned dock on the far side. Away from all the hustle and bustle of the thriving port as it awoke to life as day broke over the dawn. It was not long before the clattering wheels of a carriage could be heard in the not too far distance. The horses boarded the footmen and fishermen went straight about the business they were instructed by the Devil Duke. The urgency was palpable with the dashing and scuttling of men and the quick shouts of men in two foreign languages, one native and one not. William stomped up to the carriage just as one of the footmen opened the carriage doors and for a moment, Dynevor had to do a double take when he saw a woman of all people alight first from the fine vehicle. There was no time for questions at this very moment. Coming to her side, his colossal form loomed over her, taking her in with a quick frown before lowering his head to peer inside the carriage where he saw his friend looking deathly wallow. The driver came around and both men as gently as possible removed Wessex's weak form from inside. The man hissed and blanched, no doubt from the wound that was seeping through his make shift bandages. They fucked you real good mate. Dynevor said as Roarke wobbled on his feet. William took the man's weight on his side, slowly moving him to the ship. Wessex laughed at his friend's comment. It was clear from his dilated pupils, pale complexion and the sweat that the Marquess was drenched in that he was losing his grip on reality. He had seen Wessex in this state once before and it had been a miracle then that the man had survived and recovered to full health. However, this was much worse. Not the way I like to be fucked I assure you. Wessex managed to stammer out with a grin that didn't quite make it to his eyes as they began to droop close. I'm well aware. The Duke replied drily to his friend, shaking Wessex's form to keep him conscious as he managed to get him onto the boat and down belong onto a make shift bed that was there. Come on now, stay awake. The Duke slapped him, startling the bewildered man to wakefulness. Ahem! Roarke cleared his throat at the sharp contact, clinging onto to reality as hard as he could. Get-get the cargo and beneath the seats. The papers and . . . and the box-where is she? William bestowed upon him a stern look, recalling the woman that had been with Wessex, whom he had forgotten altogether. Thinking her unimportant. A thick brow arched as he nodded at this friend, commanding him to stay awake on pain of death and that he would be back shortly. It was unlike his friend to keep a woman. The whole of the ton were well aware for Roarke Rochester's harem of women across the globe however, never had bought a woman home before. The Duke shouted orders to his men to begin to pull the anchor in mystical sounded Welsh he was accustomed to, jumping from the ship to the dock. His large strides heading towards the carriage when he saw the mystery woman walking away and then stopping and turning to head back. You. Dynevor demanded boorishly of her. With me. The Devil Duke never had to man handle anyone. His beastly form and brutish demeanour usually scared people into doing as they were told by him. He was not certain if she was planning on leaving with the way she was headed but then turned back. It mattered not. He's asking for. Draker continued, trampling up into the carriage, his weight making the well sprung vehicle jostle. Slamming the lid open, he shoved the ribbon laced box into her arms, taking the parchments for himself, not trusting them to anyone and ruffled through the rest of the content before deciding there was nothing of import that was needed. Just as he was about to alight, the silvery twinkle of a gun on the opposite bench caught his eye and he grabbed it, examining the weapon. Bastard Ffrengig. The Duke muttered pocketing the firearm gesturing her to follow him to the boat. His long strides eating up ground, waiting for a moment for her to catch up as he reached the boat and lifted her like a small puppy into the boat. He had to give no instructions as the boat began to move and he took the fetching creature down to his where his friend lay. Oi. Deffro! Mae eich merch ffansi yma. Gweler. Draker shook Wessex's face between his large palm as the Marquess appeared to be close to losing consciousness once more. It was not an option for the time being. Once Wessex's hazed eyes were once more open, Draker went about putting the box and parchment into safe keeping before coming to his friend and mystery woman's side. Which one of my fancy women? Wessex slurred, his murky eyes trying to concentrate of Addie's face. He didn't speak welsh but knew a few words here and there to piece together what Draker was referring to. A stupid smile spreading across his pallid face when Roarke recognised her. Mademoiselle Addie. He laughed and groaned at the same time. Not my fan-fancy woman. Draker paid little heed to his delirious colleague's words, going about cutting the bandages and examining the wound. It was far from good. The fever was rampant. The man's skin was burning up something fierce and the wound was ugly. Draker was not an emotional man. Emotions was something one could not have with the lives they lived and what they did. Comrades fell in battle all the time. It was the price they paid for the greater good. William shouted up for some boiled water and it wasn't long before a bucket was bought down to him. My sharp tongued harpy. My wife to be. Wessex grinned, the little strength he had the Marquess grabbed for her hand. The grin turning into a cry of pain when the Duke cleaned the wounded with the boiled water and a clean compress. His dark brow arching again at Wessex's words, looking across at the dark haired woman for a long moment. Draker said nothing for a while. His steady gaze taking her in. He had no idea who she was. She looked refined enough but hardly looked like a woman of rank. There was an arrogance he found about her air and manor but also a clear concern for the Marquess. It was more than possible she was one of his mistresses but . . . she didn't exactly act like a mistress either . . . Il va mourir. William hold her in a low tone. He had no doubt about it, though it would not stop him from trying to save the man. . . . Keep cleaning the wound like this. He continued in french assuming that was what she was. Rising he shuffled about the small, dank cabin that was lit by a few lamps and the two small windows on the left side. Wessex happened to be one of Dynevor's closest friends. The sadness would not be lost on him at Wessex's passing. The world would only know him as a philandering wastrel and not for the life he gave so that others may continue to live freely. Of course, in the end that was the truth for all of the members of the Hades Club. Take care of her . . . Wessex shivered, his head lolling to the side like a rag doll, almost life less when Drake came to remove his coat and shirt that were stuck to the man. T-take care of my girls. The same depiction that covered Draker's left inner forearm could be seen tattooed on Wessex's left upper arm. It was at odd's with at least Wessex's noble features but maybe not so much as with the man titled the Devil Duke by many. It was an indication of belonging to a secret order set up by their ancestors from time unknown. Draker simply nodded at his friend, leaning the agent's body in his lap for a moment as he fed the man a spoonful of a dark bitter concoction that glowered yellow around the edge of the liquid. The elixir ran down the Marquess's parched throat. He was quite literally in God's hands now. The deadly nightshade William had just administered to Wessex was often used as a means of poison. One spoonful, like the one he had just given to Roarke, could either kill a grown man of his size or neutralise the infection spreading through his blood. Only time would tell now which one it was to be. Of course, he felt no need to explain that to Adelaide. Draker gestured for the woman to come take his place, handing Wessex's form ever so gently into her lap and instructing her to keep replacing a cool flannel to his skin. Disappearing for a moment he was back at their sides with two pieces of excessively mouldy bread that the Duke methodically placed on both entry and exit points of the bullet and bandaged up again snugly. It was a medieval method of drawing out an infection. It was good for minor infections of the skin. Nothing this big, however, the Duke had nothing else at his disposal. Is it true? He questioned the woman, not looking up, continuing to fix the bandages in place. What he says? You are the marry Wessex? He felt rather stupid asking the question. Knowing his friend it was damned unlikely. He was clearly putting far too much into the words of a delirious man on his deathbed.