Lord Of The Sea

by Danelle Harmon

  He happened to look up, and caught her eye. And then he gave a barely perceptible jerk of his head toward the door, and moved toward it. A moment later Rhiannon, making her excuses, got up to follow him.

  “I shouldn’t be alone with you,” she murmured, looking back over her shoulder. “It’s not proper.”

  “You heard my Da,” he said, guiding her toward a window so the light illuminated her eyes and found the copper tints in her hair. “We don’t stand on formalities. Besides, I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you, too—”

  She never finished the sentence. He already had her up against the wall, bracketing her there with his hands on either side of her face, his head bent and his lips claiming hers. She couldn’t move, pinned as she was between his body, his arms, and the wall behind her. Didn’t want to move. She felt the raw, desperate hunger in him as the kiss deepened and his tongue sought hers. Her arms twined around the back of his neck, his hand came up to cup and fondle her breast, and sudden, delicious sensation stirred between her legs as he pressed himself against her pelvis, allowing her to feel the stabbing hardness of his arousal.

  A servant was approaching. He pushed back, leaving her dazed and wanting more, and her gaze flashed downwards. She saw the bulge in the front of his pantaloons, and her eyes widened.

  “See what I mean?” he murmured, scowling at the hapless servant. “I vow to keep you at arm’s length but no matter what my intentions, I can’t help myself when I’m around you.”

  He reached for her once more.

  Again, more footsteps coming down the hall as another servant, carrying a tray of punch and glasses, approached. Cursing under his breath, he stepped back once again.

  “You’re going to get us into trouble, Captain Merrick.”

  “My dear Miss Evans, we’re already in enough trouble. But never mind that. This just proves that my decision to leave for a bit is a good one. I wanted to tell you that I won’t be around tomorrow.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I don’t know. Anywhere. Sail handling, gun practice, information gathering, who knows. My men are restless and so am I. I’ll be back in time for the wedding.”

  He must have seen the way her face fell.

  “Have no fear, Miss Evans,” he said, with a trace of his wicked, roguish smile. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, letting his fingers linger along her jawline. “I made you a promise, and Merricks always honor their promises. You’ll have your groom at the altar. If, of course, you still want him.”

  “But what about your family? They’ll be hurt if you go off and leave when they only just arrived.”

  “My family knows me well. They’re not going anywhere, and I’ll be back soon enough.”

  He held out his arms in silent invitation and she moved willingly into his embrace, trying not to think about her dismay that he was leaving again, trying to tell herself that he’d only be gone for a little while this time, trying not to think about that swelling in his pantaloons that beckoned her curiosity in ways that were best saved until her wedding night. And then he pulled back, cradling her face in his hands and tilting it up to his own before capturing her lips in another long, searing kiss that left her breathless.

  “I’ll miss you, Captain.”

  “I’ll only be gone for a day.”

  “I wish I could go with you.”

  He grinned and touched her cheek. “A warship is no place for a young lady.”

  “You’re a privateer, not a naval officer. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” Her tone became mockingly stern. “And I’ll tell you right now, Connor Merrick, if you think to store me here on this island or some other ‘safe’ port while you’re off risking life and limb, you have another thing coming.”

  He raised a brow, and the humor in his eyes only intensified. “I hope, Miss Evans, that you are not going to be hard to handle.”

  “And I hope, Captain Merrick, that you aren’t going to be, either.”

  * * *

  By sunrise Connor was more than ready to leave, though his destination was one he hadn’t pursued with any real thought.

  He just knew that he needed to be on the move.

  The idea of his upcoming nuptials made him feel trapped and jittery. And his habitual restlessness had had him pacing the decks all night long, unable to sleep, his thoughts a whirling turmoil that flitted through his head and refused to be reined in to something he could make sense of. By the time morning came, he craved some outlet for his energies.

  Impatient to be off, he rowed ashore and strode boldly into Sir Graham’s open-aired library where his father, Liam Doherty, and the admiral himself were enjoying an early morning pot of coffee and complaining about their various aches and pains.

  “Old knees, they aren’t what they used to be,” his father was saying. “Faith, the way things are going, I’m going to need a cane.”

  “Eh, ye think that’s bad, do ye?” Liam piped up. “I’ve got the rheumatism so bad I can hardly get meself out o’ bed in the mornin’. And they say these are supposed t’ be the golden years!”

  “Golden my arse,” said the admiral, reaching for more coffee.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Graham, but ye’re what, six years shy o’ fifty?” Liam scoffed. “Wait ‘til ye get our age.”

  “Aye, Liam’s right,” said Connor’s father, ruefully. He reached over to top up his coffee. “Used to be I could run up the shrouds like the nimblest midshipman. Now, what isn’t hurting is creaking, and what isn’t creaking is falling apart.”

  “Well, at least yer hair isn’t all grey like mine is,” said Liam. “Ye might feel old, Brendan, but ye still look twenty years younger than the calendar says ye are.”

  “My knees would dispute that, Liam.”

  Connor had heard enough. “Honestly, Da, your knees probably only hurt because of the cold New England weather,” he said impatiently. “Stay down here in the tropics for a while and I’m sure the pain will go away.”

  The admiral let out a snort of disdain. “I doubt it. I’ve been noticing a stiffness in my shoulder, myself, when I get up in the morning. Ever have that, Merrick?”

  “Aye, but mine’s from an old injury. Just gets worse with each passing year. I hear that if you take tincture of—”

  “That’s it, I’m leaving,” Connor said in exasperation. “You three sound like a trio of old men with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. You should hear yourselves!”

  “Where are you going?” asked Sir Graham, frowning.

  “What are you, my keeper? I have a wedding to prepare for, and that requires collecting our priest.” He plucked a muffin from the plate near the coffee pot and took a bite. “Does Peter still live on the northwestern side of the island?

  “Yes, and he and Orla are expecting their first child. I’m sure he’s quite capable of getting here himself.”

  “I’m bored. I need to be doing something.”

  “Sit and have some coffee,” his father said, indicating an empty chair.

  “I don’t want coffee, I need to be moving. I was going to take the crew out to do some gun practice but instead, I’m off to fetch Peter.”

  “’Twould be easier if you sail there rather than take the overland route.”

  “That is my intention, Admiral.”

  Connor turned to leave, but his father had set down his coffee mug. “Wait. I’ll go with you, Con.” He smiled. “It’s been years since I stepped foot on my beloved schooner. I miss her, and it would do my soul a world of good to take her tiller again. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Connor smiled. “I’d love to have you along, Da.”

  Chapter 13

  Hello, lassie, Brendan thought as, ignoring the pain in his left knee, he clambered over Kestrel’s rail and found himself standing on the deck of the ship that had brought him such fame during the Revolution.

  So many memories. Of how he’d met Mira because he’d gone t
o Newburyport with the drafts to have a schooner built, one that would be unique, unprecedented, and ahead of her time. Of the emotion he’d felt when they’d launched her into the Merrimack that cold autumn day back in ’78, and how all of Newburyport had turned out to see her and the crowds had come from as far away as Boston. Of her incredible speed, of battles fought and won, of his terrible fall from the rigging after his encounter with the sadistic Captain Crichton had weakened him such that his injuries had left him in a coma for over a week. The rail, gleaming with new varnish in the hot sun, blurred beneath the sudden mist in his eyes and he reached out and touched it as though he could turn back time. Memories, of this gallant little ship that had been the second love of his life, catalyst to his love for Mira, teacher to his three children, memory-maker, protector, and friend.

  Connor, in his restlessness and drive to succeed, was not caring for her as he should. With some part of himself that sensed rather than saw, Brendan knew that the schooner was feeling every one of her thirty-five years, just as he was feeling every one of his sixty-five. Her decks were spotless and gleamed in the sun, her lines neatly coiled, her standing rigging taut and her sails in good order, but Brendan knew, intuitively, that beneath the tidy decks and well-maintained planking of her hull, this ship that he had designed, this ship with whom he had made so many memories, needed maintenance that the eye could not see.

  Maintenance that his Irish heart and soul could only sense.

  Her frames are rotting. She needs to go home to Newburyport. To the shipyard. For a complete rehaul and rebuild.

  Yes.

  Or retirement.

  “What do you think, Da?” asked his son, and in Connor’s tall, lanky form and easy grin, Brendan saw himself at that age—restless, eternally optimistic and daring, the world at his feet. But Connor had an edge that Brendan had never had, a hot-headedness that must have come down from Mira’s father Ephraim and Mira herself, and he was quicker to anger than Brendan had ever been.

  “When’s the last time you inspected her frames, lad?”

  “I haven’t. Maeve took care of all that when she had her. Told me Sir Graham made sure she got plenty of attention, just like the other ships in his fleet. She’s held up well, hasn’t she, Da?”

  Brendan frowned.

  “I think you should have a closer look at her beneath the waterline, Connor.”

  “She’s fine, Da. Since when did you become such a worry-wart?”

  “Just a gut feeling.” He grinned faintly but he was troubled, and he sensed an unspoken plea from the little ship, perhaps even gratitude that he was here, that he would take care of her.

  Except that he couldn’t. He might be her creator, had even been her master once, but she belonged to his children now. They knew that. He knew that, even if Kestrel herself did not. In her soul, if ships had them—and Brendan firmly believed that they did—she would always be loyal to him, and him alone.

  “Nathan!” he heard Connor shout to his nephew. “We’re heading out to fetch Peter Milford from the other side of the island. Good day for a sail, don’t you think?”

  “Sure is, Connor. Are you going to let Uncle Brendan take the helm?”

  Brendan, his hand still resting on the schooner’s rail, smiled. “She is no longer my command. But I would love to take a tour of her for old time’s sake.”

  “Nathan, can you assume the deck? We’ve got a fine wind coming out of the northeast and I’d like to take advantage of it.”

  “Aye, Con.”

  Brendan followed his son as they headed for the hatch. He was aware of the reverent gazes of Connor’s crew, and the way they were looking at him made him realize that they knew who he was, that they’d heard the stories about his Revolutionary war exploits, no doubt embellished more and more with each retelling.

  It made him uncomfortable.

  The schooner was little changed from her earlier days. There, her stubby nose poking out her open port, was Freedom, the gun once manned by Mira and inscribed with the biblical verse “it is better to give than to receive.” There, the spot where they said he’d hit the deck following that awful fall from the rigging. There, a memory of Dalby clutching his stomach with some imaginary illness. There, where he’d stood sketching battle scenes as the guns had boomed and musket balls had whined around him. He glanced aft at the tiller. Saw again little Maeve and Connor, even younger, both of them fighting for their turn at the helm while baby Kieran looked on in wide-eyed curiosity.

  Where had all the years gone?

  “Da, are you all right?”

  “Aye, Con. Just reminiscing, that’s all.” He nodded to his nephew Toby, who favored his father Matthew in looks. “Let’s go below. I want to see my old cabin.”

  Down the hatch they went. Brendan’s knee began to complain even louder, and he lamented the loss of his youth and the way that he, as did all young people, had taken those years for granted.

  Funny how you expected youth to last forever. And how one day you woke up and it was gone, and the person who looked back at you from the mirror was someone you no longer quite recognized while around you, almost everyone you met seemed to be younger. . . .

  “Da?”

  “Right behind you, lad.”

  It was somewhat cooler belowdecks after the baking heat topside. Brendan felt a knot of emotion welling up in his throat as his son pushed open the cabin door and they stepped into the small space that had once been his domain as captain.

  The same little wood stove was still there, but Abigail’s old quilt was long gone from the bed and the cabin was not the neatly ordered place it had been all those years ago.

  “Faith, lad, you’re as much of a mess maker as your uncle Matt,” Brendan teased, nodding toward the scattered papers on the desk and the open sea chest from which clothes spilled.

  “Well Father, I wasn’t quite expecting company, otherwise I’d have tided up.”

  Father, not Da. As usual, his son was reverting to formality when he felt the need to defend himself.

  Brendan decided to let it go. He looked at the lantern swinging gently from the beam above, the sea reflected on the inner curve of the hull, and there, the sparkling patterns from the water making a mosaic of light and shadow on an old black tricorne that someone had nailed to the bulkhead.

  “Well, well,” he said fondly. “My old hat. May I?”

  Connor just shrugged and watched him with an uncertain smile.

  Brendan reached out and wrestled the old black tricorne down. For a moment he stood holding it in his hands, smiling. Remembering.

  He put it on, adjusting the fit.

  Connor looked at him dubiously, and with the long-suffering amused embarrassment that most offspring had for their parents.

  “Uh, Da . . . that style went out of fashion years ago.”

  “So it did.” Brendan went to the small looking glass hanging above the pitcher and wash basin and lifted his chin. He turned his head, gauging his reflection. “I seem to have changed a bit since I last saw this old hat. Where did you find it, lad?”

  “Tucked up inside one of the drawers. Honestly, Da, you look ridiculous. And old. I’m sure I can find you a nice beaver or round hat, either of which is far more fashionable than that old thing!”

  Brendan grinned. “Perhaps I should grow my hair out a bit so I can have my old queue back to go with it.”

  Connor groaned. “Nobody wears their hair long anymore.”

  Brendan grinned, enjoying this bit of banter with his son. “I could always resurrect the fashion.”

  “Don’t embarrass me. What will Mother think if you return wearing that outdated old thing?”

  “Perhaps she’ll see the man she fell in love with and married all those years ago.” Brendan adjusted the hat to a more rakish angle and smiled into the looking glass. “In fact, I can’t wait to show her. Now, shall we? You have a priest to collect, and I yearn to feel the old lady’s decks beneath my feet once more.”

  Connor sh
ot him another dubious look, shook his head, and led the way topside.

  * * *

  Rhiannon couldn’t sleep.

  That night she lay there in the darkness, thinking about Captain Merrick’s restlessness and roguish grin and feeling the slightest niggling of doubt beginning to creep into her mind about this wedding, now just a few days away.

  There was no denying that the American privateer was the stuff from which any woman’s dreams were made: he was handsome, dashing, charismatic, and a strong and natural leader. He had a good sense of humor and a kind, warm-hearted family. But the repeated comments of those who knew him well were beginning to chip away at Rhiannon’s initial excitement over the upcoming nuptials, and as she lay there in her bed watching the shadows from the palm trees outside moving across her high ceiling, she couldn’t help but wonder—and worry—just what she was getting into by marrying this man.

  This man whom everyone said was too restless—and too reckless—for his own good.

  True, he was never dull, whether he was diving from Kestrel’s rigging, boldly tweaking his brother-in-law’s nose, or rescuing prisoners from the hulks back in Portsmouth as the elusive Black Wolf, always only a step away from the hangman’s noose.

  But what would it be like to be married to such a man?

  Would the infatuation she had for him turn to something else? Constant worry about what he might do next? Impatience with his actions? Even resentment?

  And what had Maeve meant when she’d said that her brother needed someone to anchor him?

  Rhiannon turned over in bed, and lay looking out the open windows and into the night beyond.

  Connor Merrick couldn’t sit still. That much was obvious, perhaps even painfully so. He’d just been gone for two weeks doing God only knew what (though Rhiannon had a feeling she knew exactly what he’d been doing even if God didn’t), and the tension of having him around was beginning to show in Sir Graham’s increasing impatience with him. The arrival of Captain Merrick’s parents must only complicate things for the admiral, who was already caught between a rock and a hard place when it came to his wife’s brother; to take action against him would not only upset Maeve but his in-laws as well, people with whom Sir Graham obviously enjoyed a warm relationship and who were about the nicest people Rhiannon could ever remember meeting.