Mary Devlin Romance Author DEVON WAKEFIELD preview at The Romance Club http://www.theromancelcub.com

Devon Wakefield only wanted to escape the unwanted attentions of her lustful stepfather. Yet her hiding place proved to be a doorway to a new life. Having inadvertently stumbled onto a convict ship bound for New South Wales in 1787, no one would believe her when she said she didn't belong there. So, like it or not, she was on her way to a new home.

On the banks of Sydney Harbor, Devon found strange new animals and people who would become her friends. She learned that she had an extraordinary talent and love for farming. And above all, she discovered the love of her life: Lieutenant Jonathan Lake of His Majesty's Navy. The first few years in Australia brought nothing more pleasant than poverty and starvation. However, as the colony grew more prosperous, so did Devon.

Yet as successful as she was as a farmer, Devon's heart was broken. For Jonathan was gone, and she had been forced to marry another man. Sometimes it seemed as though Devon would never find love again-that all life promised her was work, work, and more work. Then, back in London, Jonathan makes a bizarre discovery that sets him and Devon back on the road to reunion and to true love.

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Devon Wakefield paused to catch her breath beside a dark, roughly finished warehouse. She had no idea how long she had been running, but it must have been several minutes. The smell of saltwater permeated the air around her; she could taste the sea air as she panted, so Devon knew she was close to the ocean. Heavy footsteps approached. In alarm Devon sought refuge behind some wooden crates piled against the warehouse.

"Come on, Devon! Come on out!" The all-too-familiar voice echoed through the empty docks, coming nearer along with the footsteps. Devon crouched down lower beside the crates, praying he would pass her by.

The footsteps had ceased-and she could actually hear Sir Angus's heavy breathing. Was he really that close to her? Devon shivered-and not totally with the cold. She held her breath, making a mental promise to herself that she would never, never return to Sir Angus.

His footsteps started up again. Thankfully they sounded as if he was moving away from her. But Devon didn't dare relax.

Devon started, shaking with fear. She could feel all the blood leaving her face. Against her will she looked up - then relaxed a little. It was not Sir Angus standing over her. The person was too straight, too strong; this was hardly the stooped silhouette of her stepfather.

"Don't you know that respectable young women don't come down to the docks at night?" hissed the stranger. He shifted his position a little, and Devon could see his face. He was young, tall and handsome, with arresting eyes-probably blue-and thick brass-colored hair clubbed in back. He wore the uniform of a naval officer.

She found her voice. "Please, sir, I'm hiding from my stepfather," she explained. "My mother died three months ago, and he's lonely, and I came with him to Portsmouth from London. He - " She stopped to catch her breath.

The stranger bent closer to her. "It's all right. My name is Jonathan Lake, I'm a lieutenant in His Majesty's Navy, and I won't hurt you. Go on."

"We were riding in the coach, and suddenly his hands were all over me, touching me." Devon shuddered at the memory. Sir Angus, in the carriage-one hand on her breast and the other creeping up her skirt...

Defiantly she pulled herself together and gazed into Jonathan Lake's eyes. "I'm not going back to him!"

Was it her imagination, or did his eyes flash with anger? "Well, you shouldn't. Do you have any other relatives you can go to?"

Devon didn't, but she didn't want to admit it for fear that this man would feel that Sir Angus was her only source of protection. Men were so irritating that way! She was barely eighteen years old, but she was old enough to provide for herself. If she could only find a job of some kind... But she didn't want to tell the stranger this.

"Yes," she lied. "My aunt lives right here in Portsmouth. I can get a cab to take me there. But I don't want my stepfather to find me!"

"Well, he won't if I can stop him," said Lieutenant Lake grimly. "I'll find you a cab, never fear."

Heavy footsteps once more approached them. Instinctively Devon crouched down beside the crates again. Jonathan Lake stepped away from her.

"Maybe. I'm looking for a young girl, brown hair streaked with yellow, green eyes, about so tall, wearing a yellow dress, rather pretty... “

"Sir, there are no refined young women on the docks at this time of night." Lake's voice replied. "There are no women here at all, as a matter of fact. Or any men for that matter. The docks are empty. The whores are all in the taverns. You won't find this girl here."

"I didn't say she was refined." said Sir Angus suspiciously. His footsteps grew closer, as if he were approaching the stranger.

"Assumed nothing! You've seen her! Now where is she?" His voice grew almost to a shout.

But the young mans assurances weren't enough to convince Devon. She shot out from behind the crates, ran down past the warehouse and disappeared from their sight, into the darkness.

Jonathan Lake turned to Sir Angus. "Now there! See what you've done?" he shouted. "Now God knows what will happen to her!"

Sir Angus reached out and grabbed him by the collar. Jonathan smelled whiskey on his breath. "You should have told me, you son of a bitch! I - "

"Sir, you're drunk." said Jonathan, expressing a calm he didn't feel. Deftly he removed Sir Angus's hands from his collar. "I'll find her and see that she gets back to you. Now what is your name, and where are you staying?"

Sir Angus backed off. "My name is Angus Henderson, and I'm staying at the Golden Horse Inn," he said.

"You go back there, clear your head and wait," Jonathan instructed. "As soon as I find her, I'll send her back to you."

Sir Angus backed away, staggering a little. The stench of whiskey receded with him. "Do I have your word on that?"

Sir Angus didn't seem to put much stock in this, but nonetheless he turned away. "My carriage is over here waiting for me," he said distrustfully. "I'm going to go back to the inn. But if you don't find Devon and send her back to me, I'll find you and have your head!"

I doubt that, thought Jonathan ruefully. Not unless you're willing to travel ten thousand miles to get it. Aloud he said, "I'll find her. Now go on home!"

Sir Angus turned his back to Jonathan and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. Jonathan turned and looked in the direction in which Devon had run. There was no one in sight.

Devon... The name conjured up memories of a journey he had once made to Exeter in the spring, through beautiful country, dotted with trees and ponds and sheep and cows... What a beautiful name for a girl. But where was she?

At that point Devon was leaning against another building, trying to catch her breath. She hadn't known she could run that fast, or that long. Now she could hear the lapping of the waves against wood; she must be right on the docks. Be careful, she warned herself. You could step off the pier and into the water. Cautiously she walked a few steps away from the building and gasped. Before her loomed a big, beautiful ship, the likes of which she had never hoped to see, even from a distance.

Devon tripped; she then noticed that she had stepped down onto a pier. Regaining her balance, she slowly ventured closer to the ship. In the moonlight, she could see its name painted on the side: Friendship. What a wonderful name.

There was a gangplank leaning up against the side; Devon could see no one on board. Trying to be as light on her feet as possible, she streaked up the gangplank and slipped under the rope separating the plank from the ship.

The deck was covered with ropes, kegs, and other such paraphernalia; Devon had to tread lightly to step through them. Finally she reached an empty area, near what appeared to be a trapdoor. A bar stretched across the top of the trapdoor, but Devon couldn't tell if it was locked or not. Was this what Sir Angus and his friends had called the cargo hold? Perhaps the hold would prove a good hiding place until morning.

Devon whirled. A huge, rough-looking guard in a red coat stood over her, wielding a musket.

"Well, I don't know how ye could o' gotten out o' there, but ye're goin' back in, as sure as mornin's comin'!"

"No, m’dear, you have, if y'think ye could get by Will Miller! Not a word!" he snapped, as Devon opened her mouth to speak. She froze; she had never been threatened with a musket before, and it frightened her. She didn't move as the man took a key, opened a padlock and raised the trapdoor. "Now down ye go, honey-back in wi' all yer friends! Down the ladder, like a good girl."

Mindlessly Devon obeyed. A short ladder led into a dark area, which was cold and musty and filled with noxious odors. Devon could sense the presence of unwashed bodies. Horrified, she watched as the guard with the musket descended behind her.

Devon lifted her chin high. "No. I am a respectable gentlewoman and I'm not staying. Good night to you, sir." Imperiously Devon turned and walked back towards the ladder.

The next few moments were a blur. Something hard struck Devon on the side of the head. Unbearable pain suddenly permeated her entire body as her arm was jerked practically out of its socket. She stumbled and lost her footing, then cried out as the man dragged her back through the bilgewater.

Devon was shoved onto a hard bunk, covered with a straw mattress bound in worn muslin, with pieces of straw sticking through holes in the fabric. Her aching right arm was jerked back; a moment later a frigid iron manacle was snapped onto her wrist.

The guard climbed the ladder and vanished through the trapdoor. Devon's spirits plummeted as the door closed over her. A moment later she heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

"Where'd ye come from, dearie?" said a creaky voice beside Devon. "Old Bridget Haney died this morning, but I had no idea they'd fill her bunk so soon. Did they move ye from one o' the other ships?"

"Ah, well, don't ye worry yer little head, luv. I'm Dorothy. Dorothy Handland. I'll look out for you. They've done enough to us poor convict women, shutting us up in these hulks and sending us off to live with savages. If we don't look out for each other, who will?"

The woman stretched a skeletal hand over and ran it down the side of Devon's face. "Ay, that's quite a blow old Will struck you. Ye're going to have a dreadful bruise there. What a shame - you're lovely, but don't you worry. 0l' Dorothy's got just what it takes to fix you up.”

The old woman bent over; Devon couldn't see what she was doing. A moment later Dorothy raised a bottle to Devon's lips. "It's juice of the poppy, luv. Mixed in cheap whiskey, I'm afraid. No one here knows I've got it. It'll take a lot for the likes of Will Miller to learn all the tricks ol' Dorothy's got up her sleeve."

Greedily Devon swallowed the warm, bitter liquid dribbling into her mouth. A warm feeling of euphoria spread through her; the pain in her head and arm really were going away. Desperately she swallowed some more, then Dorothy pulled the bottle away.

"Don't take too much, dearie. Too much can kill you. Besides, we're going to need it. You just relax and go to sleep now. We'll get to know each other in the morning."

Dorothy squeezed Devon's hand reassuringly; Devon squeezed back. Weariness was beginning to take over her young body; the drug was working all too well. Her green eyes began to close in spite of herself.

I'm on a convict ship, she reflected. No one knows where I am. By morning, Sir Angus would be long since on his way to London. They'll never find me.

But Devon was too exhausted and drug-ridden to even care. Perhaps things could be straightened out in the morning. But for now, all she wanted to do was sink into the blissful release of sleep. Suddenly she felt warmer; a rough fabric was tucked around her chin. Dorothy had covered her with a blanket. A moment later Devon was fast asleep.

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