by Barbara Dan
"Please, ma'am, prison ships are not fit places for rats, much less human beings—"
"I can't keep you here indefinitely, since I'm only the housekeeper," Lydia explained. "If anyone should discover you here, I would be hard pressed to explain your presence."
"We'll be glad to do chores, if you'll let us stay," the towhead offered.
"Just as long as we don't have to go back to our ship," put in the boy with lash marks on his back.
Lydia smiled, wanting to reassure them. "There's always kindling that needs to be chopped, harness to mend, chickens and livestock to feed, and if I don't misread that sky, snow to shovel before nightfall. Make yourselves useful, boys, and I'll see what can be done."
Chapter Seven
December 1813 - Long Island Sound
Out of the dark, a cannonball screamed across the port side. The Angelic Lady hit a sudden trough amidst wildly cresting seas, her prow plummeting into a nosedive.
"Missed, you sons of bitches!" Bad enough that they'd been heading into a near blinding snow storm for the past two hours. Now the British had them in their sights!
Above the howling wind, Bruce belted out a command that sent the Angelic Lady bucking. Her timbers groaned, resisting, vibrating under the sharp turn. The prow dipped and rose crazily, then righted itself, cutting through the erratic pitch of heavy seas, rolling in a cauldron of grey-green sea spray, sleet, and spume.
Setting his teeth into the storm, Bruce decided on a last desperate course, yawing back and forth. They hadn't come this far to give up now. Visibility almost nil, Bruce didn't bother to return fire. He could only hope the storm kept the British busy during his final approach. Half his men hung like frozen monkeys in the rigging, fighting wind, water and whistling musket fire, as it erratically peppered the shrouds.
"Hang on, lads!" he called into the topsheets. "We'll be home in a twinkle of God's eye!"
Ahead, through the swirling snow, his eyes picked up the sketchy silhouette they all prized most—home port. The snow on the deck had turned slushy, as dirty grey as the putty-streaked sky overhead. As the Angelic Lady made for the west bank of the Thames, seamen jacketed in navy wool, their cheeks and lashes frosted beneath woolen-knit caps, scrambled to make the necessary tie-downs, securing sails, and battening down hatches.
"Prepare to lower anchor." The most welcome command of all brought forth his men's jubilant "Aye!" So cold that their teeth ached, they ground out a chanty as they dropped anchor. Too late for business, too tired for pleasure, captain and crew had but two thoughts: to fill their bellies with warm food and fall into the nearest bed.
New London was a far cry from the Caribbean's crystal blue waters in mid-December, but to a man, the merits of this cheerless waterfront town far outweighed every other port. It was home. For a few days, his men would take their ease in the bosom of family and friends. They needed that. The last month had put them in the midst of action that was hotter than any Equatorial jungle.
Leaving his duffel bag and sea chest on board, and posting a watch to guard the cargo, Bruce rowed ashore with his crew, glad to join his fellow mariners at Old Paddy's for a late supper. Famished after a grueling day up at sea, he polished off two bowls of mutton stew, along with two pints of ale with whiskey chasers.
Warm for the first time that day, and with food and grog soothing his innards, Bruce tilted back and stretched his legs with a contented sigh.
Adam Fenton, slightly in his cups, careened against the table and refocused his eyes.
"Well, if it isn't the invincible Cap'n Bruce!" he slurred.
"Adam Fenton. Well, blow me down! Buy you a drink?"
That proved all the invitation Adam needed. Hooking his foot around a chair leg, he sat down and ordered a whiskey.
"Anything exciting going on?" Bruce asked out of curiosity.
"Not much." Adam leaned forward on his elbows. "A couple of fellows in Stonington caught the British coming ashore to steal cattle. Chased 'em right back out to sea."
"Kicked out those rascals, did they?" Bruce smiled wryly.
"Sure did. Except for minor pilfering, it's been pretty quiet around town. I guess all the fun and glory belongs to you lucky sea dogs."
"'Fun and glory'?" Bruce winced at Adam's choice of words. "Let me tell you, the British are tough opponents. We've lost lot of men and ships, but eventually the British will call a halt. It's too costly not to." Bruce grinned amiably. "They can't fight on an empty stomach."
"Huh! I dare say we have enough British sympathizers in these parts to feed 'em, even if you sank every supply ship in the Atlantic. In fact," Adam sneered, "I know one that's practically sitting under your nose."
"Adam, now I know you're drunk." MacGregor, already tired, wouldn't need much encouragement to deck Fenton.
"What if I'm right? Yesterday I seen your snooty little housekeeper entertainin' a couple of swabbies. There was no mistaking that British accent for a Yank's, neither."
"My housekeeper—a Tory, you say?" Bruce shook his head in disbelief. "Sure now, an' you're feedin' me a mess of slumgullion stew!"
"Might prove embarrassing to a big hero like you, MacGregor," Adam said, "were the news to get around."
"Hell, why don't you report it to Colonel Rathbun, instead of jawing?" Bruce yawned.
"That's just what I plan to do." Fenton rose unsteadily and leaned over the table. "Unless you'd rather I keep my mouth shut?" Grinning, he rubbed his fingers together to suggest his silence could be bought.
"Sorry, but I don't even know who my housekeeper is." Disgusted, Bruce signaled the barmaid for his bill. "But thanks for the warning. Maybe I'll look into it, come morning."
Bruce paid for his meal and hired a horse at the livery stable down the street. He turned the horse toward Mrs. Rafferty's. The only thing he wanted right now was a good night's sleep.
Tomorrow, after he unloaded the ship, he planned to put the Angelic Lady into dry dock for repairs. The topsails had received so much grapeshot that they hung in tatters. Several ship masters of his acquaintance had gone through two or three vessels since the war began, but he valued his ship for her agile handling. It paid to keep her fit.
As always, Mrs. Rafferty had left a candle in the front parlor window. Taking his horse around to the barn, he bounded up the boarding room steps, rubbing his hands to warm them. Tonight he looked forward to the old lady fussing over him before he turned in. 'Twould dispel the unpleasant aftertaste of meeting up with Fenton.
"Captain MacGregor!" She greeted him with evident surprise. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Sorry I'm late gettin' back. We ran into a bit more excitement than expected. May I come in?"
"Certainly." She opened the door wide, her glance sweeping his tall muscular frame. Poor lad looked tired, and he had at least two days' growth of beard. She nearly relented of the deed she was about to commit. "Let me get you a bite to eat," she offered.
"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Rafferty," Bruce said quickly. "I've already eaten, so just point me in the right direction. I'm so tired I could sleep anywhere."
"You poor man." She sighed sympathetically. "I fear all my beds are taken this evening."
"That's all right. I'll settle for a hard floor for the night." He grinned cheerfully, assuming that she would rustle up a spare tick, once she saw he wasn't hard to please.
She steeled her motherly heart. "I really hate to do this," —and in a way she did!— "bein’ as you're such a good boarder and all. I won't have a room for at least a week."
"Oh, damn! This is no time for jokes." He tried smiling his way into her good graces. "Where am I going to find a place at this hour? Come on, Mrs. Rafferty," he wheedled. "Let me curl up in front of the parlor fire, since everyone's gone up to bed."
She gave him a look of uncompromising firmness. "I'll not be turning my home into a flophouse for homeless mariners, Captain! You know I always have more sailors to accommodate during the winter. Especially now, with the blockade."
&nbs
p; "Have a heart, woman. Surely you wouldn't turn a man out into the snow." His warm smile nearly broke her heart.
"I'm sorry, but there's just no room."
"Well, I'll just have to go back to my ship." Regarding her with sad brown eyes, Bruce hunched his shoulders in his damp peajacket. "Though I don't look forward to ridin' back into town and rowin' out into the middle of that freezin' river on a night like this."
Mrs. Rafferty hadn't considered that possibility. "Is that where the Angelic Lady is moored?" she asked cautiously.
"Afraid so." He looked at her with his sad brown eyes.
"Don't be so hasty, Captain." She patted his arm, her plump fingers lingering on the hard bulge of muscles beneath his jacket. Just the look and feel of him made her wish she could turn back the clock thirty years, say, to Lydia Masters' age. Well, no use letting a man of such sterling character and rugged good looks go to waste. Mrs. Rafferty decided to unleash all the persuasive abilities at her command.
"It's so cold, down by the water, and more snow on the way. Why not ride out to your house on Old Point Road? Just for the night, mind you." She gave him a calculating look.
Bruce hesitated, pondering the idea. What better way to check out Fenton's story? Still, he would have preferred to go during daylight hours. What if he walked into a trap? If British sailors really were on the premises, he might need a little help. Of course, he didn't mention any of this to Mrs. Rafferty. No point in starting wild rumors. And that was probably all it was, a malicious rumor that Fenton hoped to spread.
"Is anyone living out there?" He needed to know what he might be walking into.
Her eyes gleamed. "Just the housekeeper. I hear she's done wonders with the place."
He yawned into his fist. "A real dust-chaser, is she?"
Mrs. Rafferty clasped her hands beneath her double chin; her face glowed like a heavenly messenger. "Singlehandedly she has transformed it into a lovely home."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Perhaps it would be less complicated than going back aboard ship."
"You'll be more comfortable than you would be, sleeping at my hearth, Captain." She gave him an encouraging wink.
"Thank you, Mrs. Rafferty. I'll check back with you tomorrow."
Stepping out onto the porch, Bruce turned up his collar against the wind. Flurries of fresh falling snow settled on his lashes. Getting back on his horse, he wearily set off down Ocean Avenue. What a hell of a night to get thrown out of a nice old lady's warm parlor.
* * *
Hell and damnation, Bruce thought, disgusted. This breaking into his own house was almost as bad as being a thief. The only difference being that he had a key.
The house was dark when he arrived, though it couldn't be much past ten. Rather than risk rousing anyone, including the unsuspecting housekeeper, he decided to let himself in quietly and check out the house for himself. That way, if any British renegades were holed up in his house, he could get the drop on them first. By God, he would carve old Robbie's liver, if he hadn't checked out the woman's references!
Drawing his pistol, he slipped noiselessly through the front door and felt his way toward the broad staircase. He made it to the upstairs landing without one squeak from the floor boards. He let out a breath, relieved that the house was solidly built. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet—so far. Now all he had to do was check the bedrooms, one at a time.
He opened the first bedroom to his left, and after groping around, realized it was not only empty but unfurnished. He proceeded down the hall, checking each room and finding them all in a similar condition. About to conclude that Fenton had lied, Bruce spotted a faint crack of light beneath the master bedroom door. Since a housekeeper normally was quartered on the third floor, that could only mean one thing: The British were holed up in his master bedroom.
Bruce braced his shoulder against the door and listened. All quiet. But before he could storm the room, he felt a wet nudge against his left hand and the long soft ruff of a dog. Surprised and wondering why the dog didn't sound the alarm, he stuck his pistol into his trouser waistband and grasped the dog's face between his hands.
Instantly the big dog's tongue lapped his cheek. He knew that touch anywhere. "Brun! What are you doing here, old friend?" he whispered, startled when the collie he'd raised from a pup hurled himself at his master. In the dark, he heard the faithful brute's tail beat out a greeting.
On the other side of the door, Lydia also heard the dog's tail thump the wall and his low crooning whine.
Worse, she heard a man's husky whisper.
Her heart fluttering with alarm, she sat up in her bed, clad only in her peach colored nightgown. Who was lurking in the hallway? Of a certainty, she had secured all doors and windows before retiring. The three boys in the carriage house showed her only respect and gratitude; she felt no threat from that quarter.
So why hadn't Brun sounded a warning?
Someone was in the house. Had some workman broken in? Mr. Fenton, perhaps? The very notion made her scalp prickle. A surge of anger replacing most of her fear, Lydia reached for the loaded pistol she kept in the top drawer of her night table. Creeping stealthily out of bed, she glided along the wall, her shadow elongated in the flickering firelight.
As she reached the door, the brass knob turned slowly.
A long arm clothed in dark wool reached inside.
She held her breath, swallowing tensely, and gripped her weapon.
Silent, sinister, skulking . . . a man opened the door.
With a good deal more bravado than she felt, Lydia leapt out to confront the intruder, her pistol raised to chest level. In the same instant, the massive form of her caller threw down on her.
For a long heart-stopping moment, they stared down each other's gun barrel.
It was hard to say who was more surprised, but Bruce recovered first. Encountering this slender woman, enveloped in a swirl of sheer silk, presented a far more welcome sight than what he had expected. Lowering his pistol slowly, he peered into the dimly lit room, making sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
"Mrs. Masters?" he said softly.
"Keep your distance!" she ordered, quite overcome by shock at having this huge, handsome man walk boldly into her bedroom.
"Put the gun down, Mrs. Masters," Bruce urged. "You are in no danger that I'm aware of." His dark eyes fastened on the base of her throat.
Trembling before his bold gaze, she lowered her gun. "Wh-what are you doing here?"
"This is my house. But I'm sure you know that." Bruce shouldered past her to the fire.
"You—? But Mr Harris said the house belonged to a . . . an out of town widower."
"Usually I am out of town, and I've never lived here, so I suppose the old rascal wasn't telling such a bald-faced lie."
The widow seemed genuinely stunned by his revelation. So much so that she seemed not to notice the tempting picture she presented in her revealing silk negligee. The pistol hung harmless at her side now.
To keep his mind and his hands strictly on business, he added a log to the fire and stretched his hands toward the warmth. "Do you mind?" he asked conversationally. "I got caught in the storm and had nowhere else to go."
"You can't stay here!" she sputtered.
"How's that?" He frowned. "Surely you can put me up somewhere for the night."
"This is the only bed in the house, and it's mine, Captain MacGregor." She glanced furtively about the shadowy room, as if checking for ways to escape.
"I'm tired enough that a bedroll by the fire would do nicely," Bruce volunteered amiably. He drew a chair to the fire. "May I?" Before she could object, he shucked his peacoat and seated himself. "Relax, Mrs. Masters. I'm as surprised to find you here as you are to learn I'm the owner of this haunted house."
"It's not haunted, Captain!" Lydia snapped defensively, finding her tongue at last. "It's . . . it's a magnificent house! Why, any woman would be proud to be mistress here. Mr. Harris tells me you wish to sell, but perhaps yo
u'll change your mind, once you've seen it. In the morning, I shall be pleased to show you around, if you wish."
Her passionate outburst surprised him. "How is it you feel so strongly about a house you've lived in for—what?—a few weeks at most?"
She wet her lips nervously, like a guilty child who feared she'd done something he might not approve. "I've taken the liberty to make a few improvements," she revealed.
His curiosity piqued, Bruce watched the seductive firelight dance over her slender curves and the soft swell of her breasts, so tantalizing with their taut peaks. In her eagerness to defend his house, she'd forgotten her state of undress. The effect wasn't lost on Bruce, his defenses already worn down by a long day at sea.
"Mr. Harris provided the workmen and materials needed to make a few necessary changes," she continued. "I think you'll find the place much more attractive and efficient now."
"Adam Fenton wouldn't be one of those workmen, would he?" Bruce asked, the light starting to dawn.
She blushed, avoiding his gaze, and stared vacantly into the fire. "He came a few times to install some doors. I had to dismiss him."
"I thought so," Bruce drawled, unable to suppress a grin. "Fenton seems to have taken a strong dislike to you, Mrs. Masters."
"A despicable man!" she said with a shudder.
"No doubt you will hold him in even lower esteem when I tell you he's noising it about that you're harboring British sailors under this roof," Bruce said, testing her reaction.
Lydia couldn't very well deny what he already knew. "They are hapless victims of this unfortunate war. Deserters, Captain. Just because they wear the wrong uniform is no reason—"
"Madam, they've been fighting on the wrong side!" Bruce shouted, towering over her. After all the British had put him and his men through, her attempt to rationalize their presence and her own involvement aggravated him beyond belief.
"Don't raise your voice to me," Lydia snapped back. "I took them prisoner several days ago. They don't want to go to jail, and I shan't force them."
"You have no choice, madam," Bruce growled, his nose a scant two inches from hers.
