There was tea and raisin cakes and papaya laid out in a pretty dish. Banana muffins. And some sort of fruit punch in a large glass pitcher.
Connor, carrying a tray of blackened cookies with young Ned trailing in his wake, joined them a moment later. He set the tray down on a little table near the railing and looked out over the bay, his fingers restlessly tapping a rhythm against the wrought ironwork. “Where is Da? And Sir Graham?”
Maeve was eying the tray with a dubious eye. “Gone to look at the new statue in town of Lord Nelson. Then off to talk ships, I’d imagine.”
“Come here, Ned. We have gulls to feed.”
The boy joined his uncle at the railing while Maeve poured tea for everyone. Rhiannon had just gotten comfortable when there was a small commotion outside the door and the admiral, accompanied by his flag captain, Liam Doherty, and Connor’s father—wearing a black, old-fashioned tricorne hat—came through the door.
“What’s all that smoke?” Captain Lord asked, frowning and looking around in alarm.
Maeve grinned. “Mother’s been baking.”
“Burnin’, more like,” said Liam, pulling out a chair.
“Oh, stow it, would you, Liam? What kind of grandmother would I be if I didn’t bake cookies with my grandchildren?”
“A merciful one.”
“Grandmothers are supposed to bake cookies!”
“Aye, bake ‘em, not burn ‘em.” Liam grinned as Mira’s eyes began to flash. “God almighty, ye’d be better off takin’ the lad out fishing. Or sailing. Or teaching him how t’ fire a gun. Anything but the kitchen.”
Mira pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, and Sir Graham, watching this exchange, wisely intervened by picking up a banana muffin from the blue-and-white plate that sat in the center of the table.
“Well, they look perfectly fine to me,” he said, and took a bite.
“Your cook made the muffins and cakes,” Mira said. “Ned and I made molasses cookies. But I’m afraid you missed them.”
Rhiannon noted Brendan’s swift expression of relief before he caught her eye and smiled. He knew, then, what they were all thinking. And he was silently laughing.
“Not all of them,” Ned said from the railing, where he and his uncle Connor were busily tossing blackened pellets up into the sky; as they did so, there was a sudden melee of sound and several gulls came swooping down, screaming and trying to pluck the bits out of the air.
“He missed,” Ned said, dejectedly, as the burnt bit of molasses cookie fell to the ground below.
“No he didn’t,” Connor whispered, with a sideways glance at his mother. “He just knows better.”
The newcomers seated themselves. Connor came to stand behind Rhiannon’s chair, his fingers resting atop her shoulder and gently stroking it through the thin muslin of her gown. She reached up and touched his hand, resisting the urge to lean her cheek into it.
Behind them, Ned pitched another blackened chunk of molasses cookie into the air.
The gulls screamed and flew away without touching it.
Across the table, Rhiannon saw that her father-in-law’s lips were twitching uncontrollably.
“I see you haven’t gotten rid of that silly hat, Da,” Connor said, leaning over Rhiannon to pluck a piece of fruit from the plate.
Brendan made an expression of mock hurt. “I like my old hat!”
“Old being the definitive word.”
“I think it makes him look quite young and handsome,” Mira put in, with a fond look at her husband.
Brendan laughed, and his amber eyes were warm as his grandson came over and taking the tricorne, put it on his own head. “Is this really the hat you wore during the American War of Independence, Grandpa?”
“Aye, laddie, it sure is. But it looks better on you, I think, than it does on me.”
Rhiannon watched the two, and the love that they had for each other, and felt her heart warm inside. It was good to be part of such a warm and loving family.
“And what do you think, Rhiannon?” Brendan asked. “Too old-fashioned? Or will Ned and I here set a new style?”
“I think we should find another one—” she glanced slyly at her husband, enjoying the good-natured banter— “just for Connor.”
Her husband guffawed, and everyone laughed.
“So what’s going on in town?” Connor asked, plucking a muffin from the dish on the table and biting into it. “Any news worth knowing about?”
Sir Graham leaned back in his chair and let Ned climb up into his lap. “Those pirates who’d set upon the merchantman that Alannah and Rhiannon were on have attacked a Dutch ship,” he said tersely. “Killed the master and most of the crew, and have stolen the ship for themselves.”
“They were a bloodthirsty lot,” Connor said, taking another bite.
“Easier to deal with than the damned French, but they move from island to island and are hard to pin down. And now they’ve armed the damned thing. I suppose I’ll have to send a frigate to subdue them.”
“What sort of ship did they steal?”
“A large brigantine. Nothing a frigate can’t handle but against anything smaller, she’ll be formidable.”
“It’s the second ship they’ve taken this week,” said Captain Lord, helping himself to a raisin cake. “I’d be happy to take Orion out and put an end to them, sir.”
“Thank you, Delmore, but I’ll send Captain Ponsonby in the Athena,” the admiral said. “She’s a frigate, with better maneuverability and inshore capabilities than a ship of the line.”
“As you wish, Sir Graham.”
Connor finished his muffin, went to the railing and looked out over the bay, his fingers restlessly tapping against the wrought ironwork. “Well, Kestrel’s more nimble and maneuverable than either of them, and I’m heading out tomorrow. I’m sure I can make short work of them in my . . . travels.”
“Where are you going?” Sir Graham asked, frowning.
Connor grinned. “Off on my honeymoon cruise.”
“Like hell you are.” Sir Graham reached for a raisin cake. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really planning?”
“Sorry, Admiral, but I don’t report to you.”
Brendan sighed. “Connor, lad, don’t be rude.”
“Rude? Who’s being rude?” Connor said hotly, and Rhiannon saw the hard glitter that had come into his eyes. “I don’t owe explanations to anyone. Where I’m going and what I’m doing is nobody’s business but mine and my crew’s.”
“And mine, as long as you’re sheltering in my harbor,” the admiral snapped.
“I won’t be sheltering in your harbor after tomorrow. I know enough to leave when my welcome’s worn out.”
“Connor, please—” Brendan said again.
“He knows damned well where I’m going. It’s no secret there’s a convoy gathering in St. Vincent and preparing to make sail for London. Do you want me to say it, Sir Graham? Oh, but wait. You don’t want me privateering in your waters. Well, you have your job to do, and I have mine, and it’s time for me to go back to work. Come, Rhiannon. I have no further business here.”
Rhiannon, confused, embarrassed, and uncomfortable, sat unmoving.
“Rhiannon?”
She was aware of everyone’s eyes upon her. “Actually, Connor . . . I would like to stay and have something to eat.” She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes for him to quiet down. “And so, I think, would you.”
In the sudden silence that followed her remark, one could have heard the waves slapping on the beach a half mile away.
Connor simply stared at her. A muscle twitched in the side of his jaw.
“You want to stay here.”
She quietly met his angry green glare. “I would.”
“Very well then,” he said coldly, and turning on his heel, stalked toward the door.
“What an arse,” Maeve muttered, watching her brother go. “Can’t sit still for a damned minute.”
But Rhiannon, torn
between loyalty to her husband and trying to smooth things between him and their hosts, felt a sudden desperation. She pushed her chair back. “I must go to him.”
“He’ll cool off,” Maeve said, offhandedly.
But her husband had his pride, and even though privately Rhiannon was inclined to agree with Brendan—that Connor was indeed being rude to their host—there was something to be said for the fact that Sir Graham, perhaps a little too accustomed to the position of authority he enjoyed, was patronizing her husband at best and treating him like a child at worst. It really was no business of Sir Graham’s, what Connor did, or where he went.
Could she really blame her husband for his reaction?
She caught up to him at the bottom of the stairs. “Connor, wait.”
He stopped, his back stiff with anger and his straw hat, still in his hand, crunched in his fist. “So now you know the truth about my family,” he said, turning around. “We fight. A lot. I’m sorry you had to find that out so soon into our newly wedded bliss.”
“Sir Graham was wrong to say what he did.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re on my side, after all. But I’m still leaving.”
“And you were wrong to bait him.”
He began to stalk toward the door.
“Connor, I’m your wife. You can’t just walk out on me.”
He paused again, and she saw his shoulders rise on a long, steadying breath before he turned around. She expected to see anger in his eyes, hardness in the set of his jaw, and she wasn’t disappointed. He walked back to her, standing there with as much stubborn purpose as he himself was showing.
“I knew you were going to give me trouble,” he said, but the heat had left his voice and the words were said with a certain fondness.
“And I knew you wouldn’t be able to sit still for one moment.”
“You’re right. I can’t. There’s a convoy to catch.”
“Don’t go.”
“I must.”
“Then let me get my trunk.”
“No.” He caught her hand. “You’ll stay here, Rhiannon.”
“Where are you going?”
He set his jaw and began to turn away. “Now you sound like my brother-in-law.”
“Connor, I know I angered you back there and I’m sorry for that, but—”
“You don’t understand. I am going to work, Rhiannon, like all good husbands must do in order to support their families. And my work requires chasing, capturing, and burning British shipping as a private individual in service to and under the written permission of my country. That is my work. And where I conduct my work, on the gun deck of a well-armed warship, is no place for a gently-bred young woman.”
“Your mother used to go aboard Kestrel when she was your father’s ship!”
“My mother was a crack gunner, a fearless sailor, and as much a man as anyone in my father’s crew. She could shoot and swear with the best of them.” He reached out and tenderly smoothed a lock of hair from Rhiannon’s forehead, the anger going out of him as swiftly as it had appeared. “But you, Rhiannon . . . you don’t know how to shoot a cannon, you can’t go aloft, there is no place for you on a warship. You’d be a distraction at best and in danger of being hurt at worst. No, you are far safer, here.”
“You would just go off and leave me? Dump me here on your family like so much refuse?”
He turned and began to walk away. “It is for your own good.”
“Connor!”
“And, mine.”
He opened the door, walked out into the dazzling sunshine, and was gone.
Chapter 19
Mira found her sobbing in her room an hour later.
“Rhiannon! What the blazes are you wailin’ about?” she asked half jokingly, but the very fact that she came into the room and sat down on the bed beside her daughter-in-law showed the depth of her compassion.
“Connor . . . he’s angry with me. I was so embarrassed by the exchange at the table that I didn’t know what to say or do, and both he and Sir Graham have been sniping at each other for the past three weeks. I only wanted them to stop.”
“Sir Graham’s short-tempered because he’s worried about Maeve and the coming baby, Maeve’s short-tempered because she doesn’t feel well and is worried about Connor, and Connor’s worried about proving to himself and to the rest of us that he’s his father’s equal. It’s one hell of a mess, ain’t it?”
“Proving that he’s father’s equal? But why? He has nothing to prove, he’s wonderful just the way he is!”
Mira let out a heavy sigh. “Connor was raised on tales of Brendan’s heroism and derring-do during the last war,” she said. “When other children wanted to hear fairy tales at bedtime, Connor wanted to hear about his Dadaí’s exploits as Kestrel’s captain. If you hear enough stories about a person, I suppose that eventually that person becomes larger than life. People like Connor’s father cast a tall shadow and are a tough act to follow.”
“So Connor idolizes his father?”
“Aye, always has, and I suppose I should never have told him all those stories because now he’ll do anything to prove that he’s his Da’s equal and Maeve’s afraid he’s gonna die trying.”
“But why tell him such stories if they weren’t true?”
“Who ever said they weren’t?” Mira said, grinning. “They were true enough. Every single one of ‘em. And I was there to vouch for that fact!”
Rhiannon just drew her feet up to her chest and wrapped a blanket around them, resting her chin on her knees and staring morosely out the window.
“Ye know,” Mira said, crossing her arms over her chest, “if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t just sit here and let him go.”
“He already told me he doesn’t want me aboard Kestrel.”
“That’s bullsh— I mean, that’s ridiculous. Brendan didn’t want me aboard her either, but that didn’t stop me from going.” Mira’s eyes began to sparkle with mischief. “Come on. Let’s go find Toby before the tide turns and that stubborn son of mine takes Kestrel to sea with it.”
“Toby?”
“Aye. If he had one set of clothes that fit you, he’ll have another. When that ship sails, you’ll be on her.”
“Connor will forbid it.”
“Connor ain’t gonna know.”
* * *
Tarnal hell, Connor thought. The wind was out of the west, the tide was going in, and Kestrel wouldn’t be going anywhere until one, the other, or both changed.
Jacques met him as he stalked moodily toward the hatch. “Where’s madam?”
“On land. Where she belongs.”
Jacques couldn’t prevent a smirk. “Trouble in paradise already, eh, Capitaine?”
Connor bit back his reply and strode past Nathan, who was standing nearby coiling a line.
His cousin raised an eyebrow in silent question.
“We’re weighing as soon as the wind changes,” Connor snapped by way of explanation. “I’m fed up with Sir Graham’s dictates. Does he think I’m one of his bloody captains? I’m an American for God’s sake. He may be my brother-in-law, but we’re on different sides of this war and I don’t answer to him or anyone else in his Majesty’s Royal bloody Navy!”
Nathan and Jacques exchanged glances.
“Can’t sail without a full crew,” Nathan said, spitting over the side.
“Aye, Captain,” added Boggs, standing nearby. “Half the company’s still ashore in Bridgetown.”
“Then you can take one of the boats and go fetch everyone back,” Connor snapped irritably. “There’s a convoy leaving St. Vincent as we speak and as soon as that tide turns we’re weighing anchor and going after it.”
He stalked off toward the aft hatch.
“What about Madame?” Jacques asked. “Shouldn’t we bring her back, too?”
“There’s no place on a warship for a woman. I have trouble enough with distractions, I don’t need another one.”
“But Capitaine, you only just tied the kn
ot—”
Connor turned around, his volatile temper close to blowing.
“Women need to feel treasured,” Jacques said, making an expansive gesture with his hands. “How is Madame going to know how much you love her if you sail off and leave her?”
“Aye, Jacques has a point,” Nathan grunted.
“You need to woo her, say the things that make her feel beautiful inside,” Jacques continued, ignoring his captain’s hardening gaze. “I know women, and I know what they like. Have you told Madame how lovely her lips are? How beautiful her mouth?”
Connor, his fists clenched, began to stalk back toward Jacques when suddenly Bobbs's voice cut through the buzzing sound in his head.
“Sir! Boat approaching from starboard. It’s your mother.”
Connor paused and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a boat heading toward them and in it were his mother, Toby, and several of Kestrel’s missing sailors.
“Well, how provident,” he muttered, pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of his mother. “That’s five, six, seven crewmembers you won’t have to chase up when you head into town.”
“Your mother’s coming with us?” Jacques asked, stupidly.
“Hmph,” Connor said. “I wish.”
“You just said a warship’s no place for a woman, Capitaine.”
“Go to hell and rot, Jacques.”
Moments later Mira Merrick, a basket in hand, was scrambling agilely up over the rail with Toby right behind her. In the boat were several other seamen who were already beginning to follow them up and aboard.
“Connor, dearest, I couldn’t let you go sailing off without proper sustenance,” his mother said, sliding her arm around his waist and steering him forward. “There was a second tray of molasses cookies that I’d forgotten to put into the oven. I brought them for you.”
Inwardly, Connor groaned, wondering how many fishes would be poisoned when the cookies were pitched over the side—as they inevitably would be. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Oh, don’t thank me. It was Rhiannon’s idea.”
“Sweet revenge,” he muttered.
Lord Of The Sea Page 20
