by Barbara Dan
Lydia stole a furtive peep. She caught the mute accusation in his eyes, that she was shutting him out. "Please don't look at me like that, Bruce," she whispered.
"Why are women so difficult to understand?" he said, shaking his head.
And before she could speak, he strode away.
* * *
Later that day, tired of getting frozen out, Bruce sought out Andrew Graham. "Maybe you can explain it to me," he said, as they took a turn around the deck. "Why would a refined woman get mixed up in such a perilous enterprise?"
"I think she showed rare courage," Andrew said noncommittally. "If I'm not mistaken, Bruce, many of our Scottish ancestors were proud to have their women at their side in battle."
"I'll not have you makin' light of this, Andrew," Bruce growled. "I'm concerned about my wife's headstrong tendencies. Women have no business exposin' themselves to the rigors of war."
Andrew leaned his elbows on the railing and gazed afar off. "A wife should stick to her knittin' till her husband comes home, is that it?"
"Aye! Where else would a proper wife be?" he said, looking like a thundercloud. "And you helpin' her, Andrew! I am frankly shocked."
Andrew chuckled. "Your wife was determined to go after you, with or without my help."
"You should have talked her out of it. I'm glad enough to be free, mind you, but I'll not be havin' my wife risk her life!"
"She has her reasons, Bruce," his friend said, "but it's best if she tells you herself."
Bruce sighed. "She won't talk to me." He cast a pleading look in Graham's direction.
Graham shook his head, grinning. "You underestimate your wife, Bruce. And no matter how upset you are right now, you'll see the truth of it soon enough."
* * *
Seth Burton was even more difficult to approach, but Bruce, mystified by Lydia's steadfast refusal to discuss her behavior with him, swallowed his pride the next morning.
Seth had done his best to avoid Lydia's husband, especially when he could see how unhappy she was. But neither was he foolish enough to tangle with MacGregor's fists again.
"I appreciate you helping my wife, Burton," Bruce said, stalking him around the deck. "I know how you must hate my guts. How'd she talk you into this hare-brained scheme?"
Seth shrugged. "It was either cooperate, or she'd have found someone else. When Lydia wants something—” he glanced nervously at his brother-in-law, "—or someone, there's no stoppin' her."
"So she's prone to impulsive action?" Bruce asked, catching a glimpse of Lydia behind the mainmast, trying to eavesdrop.
"No, just pigheaded." Grinning, Seth ordered his men to unfurl more canvas so they could make faster time and stay ahead of the approaching storm.
Bruce searched above and below decks and finally spotted his wife perched some forty feet up the mainmast. "Lydia, come down here," he called aloft.
Stubborn little spitfire! She adamantly refused. Bruce knew he could easily climb the rigging and bring her down, but not without creating a scene. Couldn't let the men think he couldn't handle his wife! Since he'd just come off early watch, he took the easy way out.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged, "I'm going to catch a few winks." With a casual wave, he disappeared into the cabin. There'd be plenty of time to deal with her when they reached home port, he told himself.
Lydia waited until Bruce was gone. As a young girl, she had climbed taller masts on occasion, but in her current condition, she found the crow's nest an uncomfortable perch.
"Seth," she called softly. "I need help getting down."
Seth grinned up at her. "You got yourself up there, sis. Surely you don't need any help climbing down."
"Just get me down," she pleaded, "or so help me, Seth, when I do get down, I'll whack your noggin with a belaying pin."
"Only joking." Seth grabbed the rescue basket, a stout coil of rope, and a pulley. Hand over hand, he made his way to where his slightly nauseated sister sat, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around the mast.
"I feel sick, Seth," she confessed. "I can't look down."
"You're not as agile with that baby jumpin' around inside, are you?" he teased. He looped his ropes through the basket handles and rigged the pulley. "Sit still! Now, close your eyes and hold on tight."
A lump in her throat, Lydia released her grip on the swaying mast and held her breath. Lowered rapidly to the deck, she spilled out of the basket. Scrambling to her feet, she found herself gazing up into Bruce's dancing brown eyes.
"Enough adventures, tomboy," he announced, grasping her arm firmly. "Thanks, Burton," he called and unceremoniously escorted her by the scruff of her shirt into their cabin.
"Take your hands off me!" she demanded, once they were alone.
"You're really angry with me," he observed, clearly puzzled.
"Why shouldn't I be?" Taking refuge in her bunk, Lydia pulled the blanket over her head and clapped her hands over her ears. She had risked her life! It still scared her to think about the close shave she'd had. Unless he apologized for being overbearing, she wasn't going to listen.
Bumping his head on the low ceiling, Bruce ground his teeth. "Dammit! Lydia, take that thing off your head and talk to me."
But Lydia couldn't hear with her fingers plugging her ears.
"Damn, Lydia—I love you!" Bruce blurted out impatiently. "What I object to is you putting yourself in danger."
"I'm not listening," Lydia said, adjusting her fingers. Could she have heard correctly? Had he mentioned "love"? Recalling his long questioning of her brother, she thought it unlikely.
Exasperated, Bruce wrenched the blanket from his wife's small huddled body. As she sprang up to grapple for the covers, he captured her in his arms. "Listen to me!" he ordered. "You are never to expose yourself to such danger again, do you hear me?"
Lydia held her breath, as he lowered his gaze to lock scowls with her. His brown eyes smoldered with such intensity that she went all warm and fluttery inside.
"I-I won't, Bruce," she whispered, distracted by the sensuous curve of his lips. The memory of his kisses made her anger disappear like vapor. "At least I’ll try not to," she amended, hoping it never became necessary to embark on such a perilous journey again.
Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do I have your word?"
Lydia wanted to have him make love to her until her toes curled. He could scold later, if he still felt the need. She fixed him with an earnest stare. "I only did what I had to."
"Aye, well, let's not argue, love." Bruce swooped down, his mouth hot upon hers, tasting her surrender. As he felt her tongue move against his, he deepened the kiss, speaking the language they both understood best. Lydia, with desire blooming inside like a desert rose rejoicing in the spring rain, went on a pleasure-seeking foray of her own. Purring like a cat, she rubbed herself against his throbbing arousal, gripped by delicious shivers of anticipation. Instantly she felt a corresponding ache at the apex of her thighs—her "amen" to his "hallelujah!"
Beneath her shirt, his palms rubbed the sensitive nubs, making them hard and swollen. Her senses ablaze, Lydia pressed eagerly against his taut chest muscles, kissing him and nipping at his lips impatiently. Her trembling fingers struggling with buttons, she freed her breasts and offered herself to his mesmerizing touch.
"Take me, Bruce!" she whispered, writhing beneath his feverish touch. She arched in mute surrender, her hair tumbling in a profusion of shimmering gold over her breasts.
Spreading her golden tresses wide, Bruce took a rose-tipped bud gently between his teeth. His own body raging with desire, he suckled, drawing her nipple deeper into his wet, hot mouth. Lydia moaned in exquisite pleasure, her legs too weak to hold her. The warm rush of sea air whispered on her flesh, as he carried her to his bunk.
Trembling, he held her against his wildly beating heart. "Ah, Lydia, how often I've dreamed of making love to you!" His breathing accelerated; the rush of his words grew urgent and compelling. To Lydia, nothing else mattered.
Their quarrel forgotten, she skimmed his jaw with the tip of her tongue, tickling and tasting salt from the sea on his skin. He rose above her, his strong features etched in bold, almost savage anticipation. Like butterflies gathering honey from a sunlit meadow, Lydia's hands skimmed over his warm body. Her fingers slid down his iron-hard flanks, and feeling his engorged phallus flex against her, she ground her hips softly, encouraging his male aggression.
With a groan, Bruce plundered her softly inviting mouth, his tongue imitating the powerful thrusts of his hips. Stroking. Penetrating. Promising what he alone could give to her: Ecstasy!
Somewhere in the midst of their frenzied foreplay, Lydia's fingers moved to the front of his breeches. She had just freed him when they heard the rapid tramp of feet out on deck, followed by frantic pounding on the cabin door.
They bolted upright, breathing hard. Still not fully aware of anything but each other.
"Bruce," Andrew shouted. "There's a British ship on the horizon, coming up on the port bow."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fastening his breeches, Bruce stood quickly, struck his head on an overhead beam, and cursed. "The British have kept us apart as long as we've known each other." His own frustration mirrored in her eyes, he gave Lydia a quick buss. "We'll continue this later, my love."
Sitting up, she reached for her discarded shirt. "Bruce, we only have two small cannon on board," she reminded him worriedly.
"I know. Any muskets?"
"Yes. Mr. Harris provided us with two dozen muskets and pistols."
"I hope he remembered to include ball and powder," Bruce said, wondering what their chances were.
"It's below decks. And, Bruce—" She hesitated.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing." She smiled sheepishly, realizing this would be the worst of all possible times to tell him she was pregnant. "I just want . . . to wish you luck."
"Thanks, we'll need it." He was gone before she remembered the case of scrap metal stowed beneath her bunk. Quickly she buttoned her shirt. She stuck a pistol in the rope that held up her brother's baggy pants and followed Bruce out on deck.
The crews of both the Angelic Lady and the Isobella were colliding in uncoordinated confusion. Bruce let out an ear-splitting whistle that stopped his crew dead in their tracks. "Listen up, men," he said sternly. "You'll be gettin' your orders in a second." Then he turned to Seth. "I'll take charge of the fighting. You see to the sailing."
Seth nodded. "Agreed."
His next question was for Andrew. "Where are the munitions?"
"Below deck. We have only enough powder to fire twice."
"Hardly enough for a decent fight." Frankly disappointed, Bruce surveyed the approaching vessel through a spyglass. A supply ship, judging by the way it sat in the water.
"We had to disguise our mission," Andrew explained. "If a fishing vessel had sailed into Halifax, armed to the teeth, how far do you think we'd have gotten?"
"Point well taken," Bruce conceded. "We've got to act fast, or we'll be right back where we started—in prison."
"Any ideas?" asked Seth.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted Lydia sneaking around behind his men, her hair tucked under a knitted cap.
"Back in the cabin Mrs. MacGregor!" he roared. "And don't show your face again."
Lydia's eyes flashed cool defiance before his men. "I just wanted to remind my brother about the scrap metal hidden under my bunk," she let drop casually.
Bruce's eyes lit up. "Scrap? How much?"
"At least two barrels." She shrugged nonchalantly, as if she hadn't a clue what purpose it might serve.
Seth nodded. "She's right."
"Have some of your men fetch it, Burton. We'll need everything we can lay our hands on when that ship comes into range."
"Shouldn't we try to outrun her?" Andrew asked, worried about how few arms they had on board.
"They're bigger and faster." Bruce turned to consult with Seth. "There's no way in hell we can outrun her. With your permission, Captain, I believe we may be able to out-bluff her."
"What do you suggest?" Seth asked. Two cannon were no match against what the British ships usually carried.
"She's a supply ship, not a fighting ship. She has a few cannon, but we just might be able to chew her up a bit with that scrap. If we rake her hard in our first bold sweep, they may decide not to engage us in battle."
"It's worth a try," Seth agreed half-heartedly.
"Arm the men with pistols, cutlasses, whatever you have," Bruce ordered brusquely. "Meanwhile I'll get those two cannon primed and ready. Hurry, men! There's no time to lose!"
While Lydia showed the men where the scrap metal was hidden, Bruce had his men roll the small cannons into position on the port side. He had the ship's carpenter and an assistant open gun ports on that side to accommodate the guns.
Then another idea hit him. There was only an outside chance it would work, but it was a damn sight better than being taken prisoner again!
"Got any spare masts on board?" he asked Burton, as he strode past, delegating tasks.
"Aye. Two."
"Have them sawn into four or five foot lengths and painted with black tar," he ordered the carpenter. "On the double!"
Seeing the British ship yet a long way off, Bruce's mind clicked into high gear, as he set about rallying the men's enthusiasm and imagination.
"You men, punch out more holes in the sides. We need this to look convincing."
Seth immediately grasped what Bruce had in mind. Issuing orders excitedly, he set his men in motion. In no time, the stench of hot pitch filled their nostrils, and they had what appeared to be twelve cannon trained on the enemy, sailing at about ten knots, her starboard side exposed.
Bruce winked at his men as he walked across the deck. He held out a long match wick to Seth. "Light me, Captain," he said with a radical gleam in his eye.
Seth's hand shook as he struck the flint. "My God, MacGregor! Think we can pull this off?" he whispered, in awe of the man's steady calm.
"'Tis certainly worth a try." Bruce pulled a large stop watch from his pocket.
"Bruce—" Lydia ran toward him on the deck.
"Burton, confine your sister to quarters," Bruce ordered curtly.
"Take her, Bromby." Seth pushed Lydia, sputtering with outrage, into the sailor's arms. "Don't let her out on deck again till we've engaged the enemy."
"Get your men positioned by twos and threes around the guns," Bruce ordered, quietly fierce. "The rest of you men, line up with pistols and muskets. We only get one chance, and I want this done right."
The men responded eagerly, inspired by Bruce's commanding presence in their midst. They took heart, seeing his coolness and evident enjoyment in the approaching confrontation.
From the cabin portal, Lydia stared in fascination as Bruce strode across the Isobella's deck. He displayed the confidence of a man commanding a ship-of-the-line, not a wretched fishing vessel. She had never observed him in action at sea, and she found it a humbling, yet singularly exhilarating experience. Bruce looked capable of blowing up the entire British navy— singlehandedly! His concentration was absolute, his movements swift and feral, as he prepared to stand the test.
Lydia swallowed hard, and her cheeks grew flushed with excitement. An almost sexual thrill lashed through her. Just watching Bruce pace the gunwale, head and shoulders above his men, made her insides flutter. His proud bearing and granite features, framed by black hair bound in a queue, were those of a dauntless warrior. Clearly, Bruce was no stranger to battle.
She wondered excitedly how it would be when he came to her later, after he vanquished the enemy. Would he be tender, soothing her fears? Or would he come to her as a mighty conqueror? Either prospect left her breathless with anticipation.
My hero, she thought, spellbound. Bruce would protect her and the baby.
But then, unbidden, came a sobering thought: Could he win? With two small eight pounders and only enough shot for two volleys
, they were likely to end up in the drink! It didn't take an expert to guess the odds.
Licking her lips excitedly, Lydia clutched the rim of the porthole, and she watched the other ship sail straight at them, apparently intent upon ramming, or at least intimidating the Isobella by its bold approach.
Through his spyglass, Bruce made out the Bowden, a schooner originally out of Providence. He was somewhat familiar with the ship; he knew her maneuvering capabilities and basic design. She was a good transport ship, but her response time wasn't much quicker than the one upon whose deck he now stood.
Unfortunately the Bowden chose to take an aggressive stand. She was bigger and better armed. Evidently her captain intended to make a similar sweep alongside and deliver a crippling broadside. Aware that the Bowden intended to rake their port side, Seth gave orders to his crew to turn aside, the weather gage in their favor, should they need to make a run for it.
The Isobella easily evaded the other ship's first maneuver. She hove to, thus bringing the Isobella into position, before the Bowden could press its advantage.
"Good work, Burton!" Bruce exclaimed. "All right, men, this is it! Prepare to fire," he shouted. He was one of those rare men who didn't require a speaking horn to make himself heard above the din.
They sailed boldly, exposing as little as possible until the last minute. All the while, they trained their two cannons and counterfeit guns on the enemy.
"Ready!" Bruce called out. Legs spread, feet braced, he awaited the most advantageous moment.
"Aim!" he continued with a clarion roar of authority.
The men with side arms and muskets raised their weapons. The men at the cannons prepared to light their powder.
"FIRE!"
A volley of cannon fire, muskets and pistols went off, delivering wicked punishment to the British supply ship and shaking the Isobella's timbers. Both vessels shuddered as a combination of grapeshot and shrapnel, plus the combined firepower of forty fighting men, found its mark on the Bowden's crew, the ship itself and its equipage.
Caught off guard by the unorthodox nature of the attack—an assortment of tools, axe handles, hardware, and offcastings from a New London blacksmith’s shop—the Captain of the Bowden, who was among the wounded, picked up his horn.
