Redeeming the Rogue

by Donna MacMeans

  “How soon will we reach America, Captain?” Eva asked with a tense smile.

  “A lot depends on how much this storm blows us off course. You never know about a good storm at sea. However, I’d guess we should pull into port within two days.”

  Rafferty narrowed his eyes in Barings’s direction. “Remind me, sir, what is your business in America?”

  “I’ve some family there that I’ve never met. I thought I’d take time to see a bit of the countryside, possibly expand my business overseas.”

  “I, for one, will be happy to have Mr. Rafferty in America,” Mr. Skylar, the shy American, spoke, diffusing some of the tension at the table. He hadn’t been to many of the dinners this week and avoided conversation when he did. “That’s why I came to dinner this evening,” Skylar said, as if reading Rafferty’s thoughts. “I wanted to congratulate you. You really put on quite a show this morning.”

  “Are you a pugilist, Mr. Skylar?” Mrs. Summers asked.

  Rafferty thought the question silly, as one could easily see that the man fought little more than the occasional book.

  “Not really,” Skylar said, with a wince. He turned his gaze to Rafferty. “But I’d like to learn if you could show me some of your punches.”

  “Of course,” Rafferty replied. “The early morning is best. We can practice on the top deck.”

  Arianne wrinkled her brow as if confused. Surely, even she couldn’t object to his teaching the young man a few punches? The moment passed, and she turned toward his new admirer.

  “Mr. Skylar. As you’re from America, perhaps you can tell us your impressions of the new president.”

  “I don’t know much about him,” Skylar replied. “He was the dark horse compromise when the Republicans couldn’t get Grant nominated.”

  “But he is well accepted across the country?” Rafferty asked. Americans elected their leaders in a totally different fashion than England. He hadn’t a complete understanding of it.

  “I’m not sure politics is a fit conversation with ladies present,” Mrs. Summers said with a thin smile.

  “Why is that, Mrs. Summers?” Eva challenged. “Is it because women haven’t the right to vote? Does that make politics an unfit topic?”

  Rafferty had to hide his smile. Obviously, the etiquette lessons were wearing thin on Miss St. Claire as well as himself. The lesson on salutations of foreign dignitaries had him threatening to turn the ship around. While the material might have been important, he preferred Arianne’s instruction.

  “It could have gone either way when the votes were counted,” Mr. Skylar said, ignoring the women’s conversation. “But the Republicans carried the electoral college.” He grinned at Rafferty. “They said it was the Irish vote that got him New York.”

  “A large number of my countrymen have settled in New York,” Rafferty said while he pondered the concept of an electoral college.

  “Miss St. Claire and I were discussing that very subject,” Mr. Barings said, with a glance toward Rafferty. “It’s a sad state of affairs when a country’s major export is its own people.”

  Rafferty thought perhaps he’d loosened his fists on the wrong person. Mr. Barings seemed anxious to engage in some verbal fisticuffs of his own.

  “They say the Irish vote was one of the reasons Garfield chose an Irishman for his running mate,” Skylar added.

  “An Irishman?” Rafferty drew back surprised. He’d spent his research on the office of president, not the secondary positions. “An Irishman is the head of such a vast country as America?”

  “Chester Arthur is the vice president. If something should happen to President Garfield, then he would become the president,” Mr. Skylar explained. “Actually, it was his father who came from Ireland. Chester was born in America, otherwise he couldn’t be on the ticket.”

  Eva leaned forward. “But if someone were to deny leadership to their own—”

  “To Ireland,” Phineas interrupted, lifting his wineglass. “May her sons”—he nodded toward Eva—“and daughters someday rule their own country and not that of everyone else.”

  The men laughed and joined in the toast. Rafferty caught Phineas’s eye. It was the reaction they’d been waiting for.

  A roll of thunder interrupted the joviality. Captain Briggs stood to excuse himself. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner. Sound carries a great distance over water. Still, I should return to the wheelhouse. Ladies.” He nodded to each but lingered over his farewell to Mrs. Summers. Rafferty hid his smile. The old sea dog hadn’t forgotten all his tricks.

  Rafferty waited a bit longer, not wishing to alarm the others, especially Arianne, who had blanched upon hearing the thunder, before he excused himself to join the captain.

  “It’s a big one, Rafe, and heading straight for us.” Briggs stood on the bridge peering east through a pair of binoculars. Rafferty didn’t need the optical aid to see the sky flash with lightning. “The barometer is sinking fast.”

  “Will she hold?” Rafferty asked, referring to the Rose.

  “Well enough,” the captain replied. He handed the binoculars over to Rafferty, who peered at the growing swells. “She’s been through worse in her time. I’ll turn into the storm when it’s time so the waves won’t hit us broadside. But it’s going to be rough.”

  “How long?” Rafferty asked. The wind had already picked up in force, slapping his face and neck with a warning of what was to come.

  The captain shrugged and looked at his pocket watch. “It’s moving fast. I’ll guess we have about ninety minutes, maybe less. Where will you be?”

  “You’ll need pressure. I’ll help the boys in the boiler room.”

  A CRACK OF THUNDER STARTLED ARIANNE AWAKE AND sent her bones resonating like a plucked string upon a fiddle. Light flashed through the small porthole, and another crack sounded as if to split the sky overhead. She thought to leap from the bed, but then she realized the bed, indeed the entire cabin, was in motion. The Irish Rose was battling a storm and being tossed mercilessly upon the waves. Could the nautical antique survive such brutal force? Could they?

  Arianne struggled to remember what the captain had said about life jackets . . . They were in the lifeboats. But how were they to actually get to the lifeboats when the ship lurched right and left so unpredictably?

  “Arianne,” Mrs. Summers called. “Are you awake?”

  “I wish I weren’t,” she replied, feeling her stomach protest the violent shifts in motion.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to perish at sea,” Mrs. Summers said, pausing for another volley of thunder to fade. “I’ve lived a full life, but you . . .”

  “We’re not going to die,” Arianne replied with a certainty that she didn’t believe. Stay calm. Stay aloof.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Mrs. Summers moaned. “Please, a basin . . .”

  Arianne pushed herself upright, ignoring her own complaining stomach. Using the walls and archways for support, she stumbled her way to the basin, lifting the bowl from the wooden base. Holding the basin with one hand, she fought her way back to the berths and Mrs. Summers. Her brother had mentioned various remedies for the vile mal de mer he’d suffered on the crossing. Of course, she couldn’t remember a one of them now.

  “Keep this.” Arianne placed the basin near Mrs. Summers. “I’ll find help.”

  Her thin wrapper had fallen to the floor by the foot of the bed. It took an effort to retrieve it with the movement of the ship, but she managed. Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, she made her way to the door, then to the door opposite.

  “Kathleen.” She banged on the wood. “Are you and Miss Eva all right?”

  She thought she heard a gurgled, “Yes, mum,” but she wasn’t certain. “Are you ill?”

  This resulted in a definitive, “Yes.”

  “I’m getting help,” Arianne called. “Stay calm.”

  But where was help to be found? She glanced down the corridor; the hanging oil lamps swayed violently with the ship’s motion. Raffe
rty. He would know what to do. It was his ship after all. His room was removed from those of the ladies. She’d need to make her way to the stairs and down to the next level. Bracing both hands on the walls of the corridor, she inched down the passageway—until a wind gust extinguished the lamps. The corridor was plunged in darkness.

  Lightning flashed, exposing the stairway at the end. She’d taken a step toward that goal when the ship heaved, knocking her to the canvas floor. The moans of the vessel fighting the elements could have been her own. Her teeth rattled from the vibrations of the powerful steam engine, but she crawled forward on hands and knees, finally reaching the circular metal stairs that wound through the many levels of the Irish Rose. With a particularly loud clap of thunder, the door at the top of the stairs blew open. Seawater rushed in claiming victory, splashing in every direction, and soaking her in the process.

  Like a fragile shell tossed by the waves, the ship rose, then fell with a slap, before lurching sideways. They were all going to drown! Braced by the corner of the stairwell, Arianne cringed in terror, huddling in her sodden linen. If she stood, she would likely pitch headfirst down the stairway into the bowels of the ship. She could crawl back down the passageway, but for what purpose? To die in the tiny cabin when the ocean claimed the Irish Rose? Why did she ever agree to this perilous voyage? Was a watery grave better than the scorn of society? She sobbed, letting her tears mix with the cold rain driven by shrieking winds through the unlatched door.

  Just as she thought she would die alone in a cold metal stairwell, footsteps thudded on the stair rungs, rising toward her. She curled tighter into her wet corner, pulling her saturated robe snug around her.

  DAMN HIS EYES FOR INSISTING THEY TAKE THE IRISH Rose, Rafferty chastised himself. He’d kept the vessel in service out of respect for his father’s legacy and to keep Captain Briggs and the crew employed and solvent in a cruel world. Briggs had assured him the Rose still had the wherewithal to make the Atlantic crossing, but Rafferty had his doubts. One of the pipes conducting steam sprung a leak in the boiler room, scalding the arm of a stoker. Rafferty had wound his shirt around the pipe to contain the pressure. Once they were out of the storm, a repair could be made, but for now the material offered sufficient blockage. He hadn’t realized until he traveled the underbelly of the ship how much of the mechanics were held together by makeshift, hurried patches, piecemeal fixes that were never meant to be permanent. Damn Briggs’s estimation. He must have let stubborn pride and nostalgia cloud his judgment.

  Rafferty shook his head. Hadn’t he done the same thing? Let pride and something else cloud his judgment? If he hadn’t wanted to impress Lady Arianne with his father’s legacy, perhaps he would have waited to make a safer crossing on one of the larger, swifter liners. While it was true that the Irish Rose would deliver them to their destination before the luxury liners, he hadn’t intended to place anyone’s life at risk in the process.

  Phineas tended to Kelly, the wounded man, while Rafferty finished Kelly’s shift. The captain sent a message that they were through the worst of the storm. The Rose still battled the swells, but the wind had decreased and the hard rain lessened. Rafferty thought to check on the passengers, doubting that they had managed to sleep through the turmoil. He bounded up the winding stairs; the higher he climbed, the more the pitch of the ship tried to shake him from the rails.

  He saw her just as he rounded the turn for her floor. Huddled in the corner like a wet kitten, she was. His heart caught in his throat.

  “Arianne!” He tried to stoop beside her, but the ship tossed him on his bum. “What’re you doing out here?”

  She just trembled. He wasn’t sure she even heard his voice, enmeshed as she was in some personal hell. Water, he remembered. She had said she was afraid of drowning. Why then in blue blazes had she left her cabin?

  Rafferty wrapped his arms around her, resettling her into his lap. Two circles of dusky rose pressed against her thin, damp chemise, drawing his gaze. He cursed softly. Now was not the time to be thinking about her soft woman flesh curled against his chest. But his John Henry took note, aroused by her scent and touch.

  Tear tracks glistened on her fine porcelain skin. Her hair, loose and wet, covered his arm. Fear-filled eyes gazed up at him. Her lips quivered. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

  “No, lass. No.” He remembered her hesitancy to board the ship, her fear of the water. No wonder she was as pale as the foamy caps on the sea. “It would take more blusterin’ than that to sink the Rose.” But not much more, he thought, remembering how his shirt was responsible for holding the pressure until a patch could be applied. The ship was well past her prime. Aren’t we all? Phineas’s words echoed in his head. Time hadn’t stopped when that Fenian bomb took his family. For the last ten years he had chased Toomey without thought of the passing years. Now with a fine, decent woman huddled next to him, he wondered if chasing Toomey had been the best way to honor his family. “Ssh, my darlin’, I promised I’d keep you safe.”

  His earlier guilt at risking so much for a week’s head start in chasing Toomey loomed large in his mind as he held the trembling woman in his arms. Her gown was thin, not meant for roaming the passageways of a ship manned predominately by men. He squeezed her tight. Though the danger had passed, he wasn’t willing to let her go just yet.

  He kissed the top of her head, though she didn’t seem to notice. It was just as well. As soon as she’d dried out and realized the sun would shine again, she’d want no more of him, common oaf that he was.

  Phineas bounded up the stairwell, stopping when he saw the two of them. “Is she all right?”

  “Frightened out of her wits,” Rafferty replied. He jutted his head toward the door to the top deck. “Can you close that tight? She’s soaking wet. It must have opened in the storm.”

  Phineas continued up the steps. The click of the latch echoed down the stairway. When he came back down, he peeled off his oilcloth and handed it to Rafe. “You need this more than me.”

  Rafferty nodded toward the passageway. “Check on the others.” His gaze slipped over the woman shivering in his arms. “I’ll take care of her.”

  RAFFERTY WASN’T SURE IF IT WAS THE GENTLE ROCKING in his arms or the lulling sound of his voice, but Arianne eventually relaxed. The violent pitch of the ship evened out, and though rain still beat on the roof of the stairway, the roof no longer rattled with the rain’s battering force.

  “Why did you venture out here?” Rafferty asked. “I thought to find you in your room.”

  “Mrs. Summers . . . Kathleen,” she tried to explain.

  “I’ve sent Phineas to check on them,” Rafferty said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Stay with me, Rafferty.” She clung to him as if he were the life jacket she needed to survive. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  If this were any other woman, he’d take her back to his room, strip off her wet clothes, and bundle her warm and dry in his bed. But this was Lady Arianne. He doubted she would appreciate the ruin to her reputation, and strangely, her opinion of him mattered. Her upturned face filled his vision. He knew what he had to do. “I won’t leave.”

  And he didn’t. He held her until she fell asleep. He thought to take her back to her room, but by then he was too exhausted himself to stand. So he held her.

  Phineas came back to say Mrs. Summers and Kathleen were doing better, now that the sea had calmed. He moved them to the same room so neither would be alone.

  “Wasn’t Eva with Kathleen?” Rafferty asked in a whisper.

  Phineas shrugged. “Not tonight.” He nodded toward the woman in Rafferty’s arms. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “Hold her.” He smiled down on her tousled head. Her ladyship had turned to him when she was scared. Him. A common Irish bloke with a bad haircut. Such an opportunity to hold her in his arms was unlikely to present itself again. So for now he’d take pleasure in this. “I’m going to just hold her. It’s what she wants.”

&nbs
p; Phineas nodded and quietly disappeared down the stairway. Rafferty planted a soft kiss on Arianne’s head, taking care not to wake her, then whispered into her dreams, “It’s what I want too.”

  Twelve

  SORE AND DAMP, ARIANNE OPENED HER EYES IN the dim light of the stairwell. She wasn’t dead. She took a tentative breath to test that theory. A soft snore accompanied by a warm, moist breath sailed by her ear. Rafferty. She smiled. Such a delicious feeling to be in his arms. Hearing the rhythm of his breath in sleep felt more intimate than anything she had shared with the Baron.

  Thoughts of intimacy and the Baron reminded her that Mrs. Summers would be expecting her in the cabin. Arianne had best find her way back before the woman began to point fingers and make unjust accusations.

  A soft light slipped through the window on the door above them. The powerful engine sent tremors through the walls, pushing the ship through the sea. The Irish Rose had survived the storm, just as Rafferty had said it would. Now it was time for her to survive as well.

  She tried to slip unnoticed from Rafferty’s arms, but the oilcloth covering them pulled on his skin. He woke and blinked like an owl before wincing painfully as he shifted his position. “Good morning.” He yawned. “Is it morning?”

  “It’s early,” Arianne murmured. “I should go back.”

  His arms tightened around her. “You don’t like sleeping on the floor here with me?” he asked in jest, his lips slipping into a silly half smile she loved.

  “I like it too much,” she answered. “But Mrs. Summers will be worried about my welfare.”

  He loosened his arms, allowing her to stand. “Best keep the oilcloth, love. It’s less revealing than the robe.”

  She stopped and looked at him. Did he say what she thought she heard?

  “What?” His eyebrows raised in question.

  She shook her head lightly, then pulled the cloth across her chest. Rafferty slowly gained his feet, his stiff motions suggesting his back was not appreciative of the time spent sitting in the corner. It was difficult not to stare at all that lovely male flesh unfolding for her benefit. Making a conscious effort to look him in the eye, she tried not to be distracted by his bare chest, or the number of scars that marked his skin, a vivid reminder that Rafferty was a most unusual diplomat. “Thank you,” she said tenderly. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”