The Captain of Her Heart

by Anita Stansfield

  Chapter Ten

  CAPTIVE HEARTS

   

  Kyrah lost all sense of time, drifting in and out of consciousness. At times it felt as if she had been home only moments ago. At others it seemed forever since she had been with Ritcherd. Ritcherd! She cried his name out over and over, as if he might hear her and come flying over the ocean to save her from this nightmare. She was vaguely aware of being repeatedly forced to drink more of the bitter liquid that lured her back into oblivion, where her dreams merged with her memories until nothing seemed real anymore.

  When Kyrah finally became wholly conscious, she felt disoriented and afraid. The total absence of light through the little porthole told her it was dark out. Instinctively she wanted nothing more than to resume her shouting and banging on the door, even though she felt certain it would only bring on another visit from the smelly sailors with another dose of obscurity. But she felt so completely weak that she had to wonder how many days she’d been drugged. How long had she gone without food? A deep ache in her stomach suggested it had been far too long.

  Hours passed with only silence surrounding her, and the mooring of the ship reminding her continually that she was far from home—and getting farther. Soon after some measure of light appeared through the mottled glass of the porthole, a key turned in the lock and she looked up to see a scruffy boy, not more than twelve, she guessed.

  “’Ello,” he said. “The cap’n thought ye might o’ finally come around. I brought ye somethin’ t’ eat. But ye’d do well t’ take it slow. Tis been a while.”

  Kyrah sat up slowly, fighting to keep her equilibrium. The tray of food he set on the bed beside her smelled good and her stomach growled in response. But she turned her attention to the boy first. “How long . . . have we been at sea?”

  “A week t’morrow,” he said. He looked hesitant and nervous as he added, “The cap’n said t’ tell ye that ye’d best stay quiet, and if ye do, ’e’ll see no need to be givin’ ye any more o’ that stuff. I’d be doin’ what ’e says.”

  Kyrah nodded, not willing to protest. After nearly a week with nothing to eat, they’d made certain she was too weak to cause any trouble. The boy left the cabin, promising to check on her later and bring some water for her to wash up. Kyrah stared at the door long after he left, feeling hopelessness and despair settle around her. There was no way out of this. There was no way back. She was being torn away from her home and the people she loved—perhaps forever.

  The smell of the food brought her back to her senses. She forced herself to eat slowly, not wanting to make herself ill. But she was so hungry that she devoured every morsel and wondered how long it would be until they brought her some lunch.

  With her hunger eased, the despair settled in more fully. She cried helplessly against the bunk, wondering if she would ever be able to return home. Would she ever see her mother again? And Ritcherd? The very idea provoked tangible pain, and she curled around her arms and sobbed without restraint. When she became too exhausted to cry, she stared toward the little porthole, wondering what Ritcherd might be feeling now. What was he doing? Would he be able to find her? She didn’t know herself where she was going. Would he even try to find her? Perhaps his mother had somehow convinced him by now that things were better this way. No, she couldn’t think that way. She knew he loved her. She knew his heart would be broken by this, just as hers was. But perhaps no matter how much he loved her, he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Realizing that without hope she would never get through this, Kyrah squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on an image of Ritcherd in her mind. Just as when he’d been at war, she focused on the memories they had shared, and the strength of the love between them. She prayed that wherever this ship might take her, she would be able to find her way back home.

  Days passed while Kyrah drifted in and out of a dazed shock. Her only diversion was the boy bringing her meals and seeing to her needs, with hardly a word spoken between them. In an effort to maintain her sanity, she began playing a game in her mind, where she would repeatedly go over every detail of her home, going through each room. And she did the same with the church ruins. Then she returned again to detailed memories of her childhood, and all of the things she and Ritcherd had done together. Rather than going over the bad times, she would stop when Ritcherd had left for the colonies and start over again with the day they met. She often contemplated the few days they had shared before this horror had begun. Recalling the intimacy that had taken place between them, she could hardly believe it had really happened. It had been so brief and unexpected that it now seemed hazy and dreamlike. The corresponding regret made her force that memory out of her mind. Instead, she concentrated on Ritcherd’s declarations of love, his proposal of marriage. He had promised that they would never be apart again, that she would never go without. Tears leaked into her hairline as she wondered if his inability to keep those promises was causing him as much grief as it was her. She thought of her mother and wondered what Sarah would do without her there.

  Freshly consumed with despair, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with all her heart and soul . . . for peace, for strength, for hope. After praying the better part of one day and into the next, she was overcome with the feeling that Ritcherd would do everything in his power to keep his promises. She knew he would see that her mother was cared for. And he would move heaven and earth to find her. She couldn’t explain how she knew. She just knew. She thought of Ritcherd telling her that he knew her father had wanted him to take care of her and her mother. Recalling how she’d felt then, the warmth inside her increased. She knew they would be together again. And with her knowledge came tangible hope.

  Her hope increased on the rare occasion when she took the diamond jewelry from its hiding place. It was tangible evidence of Ritcherd’s love, and having it now gave her the security of knowing that wherever she ended up, she would not be destitute. Even in Ritcherd’s absence, the security he offered was still with her. The necklace and earrings were worth a great deal of money—perhaps even enough to get her passage back home. She never dared keep them out for long, fearing she might get unexpected visitors, or she might fall asleep without having them properly concealed.

  She was glad that she’d packed her book on birds. But she quickly became tired of it when there were no real birds to look at. Setting it aside, she turned to look at the wall next to her bunk where she had scratched a mark for each meal she had eaten. Kyrah multiplied three meals a day and added the days she had been unconscious before that. Realizing she’d been at sea for more than three weeks, she was surprised to think that she hadn’t gone insane. But then if she had, would she know?

  Kyrah sat up abruptly when she heard the key in the door. It hadn’t been so long since she’d eaten, and no one had ever come in except to bring meals. Her eyes widened in horror when Peter Westman entered the cabin, closing the door behind him. While she had expected to be threatened by smelly sailors, she thought she might have preferred their company. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing here, but she felt certain he had something to do with her being in this mess. His alliance with Jeanette Buchanan suddenly made perfect sense.

  “Don’t look so frightened, my dear,” he said with a warm smile that actually seemed genuine. “You should be amazed, as I was, to discover that we ended up on the same ship. Why, I only just discovered this morning that you were aboard. Imagine them keeping you a secret like this.”

  He stepped toward her and she backed away. “Take this,” he said, holding out his hand. Kyrah only stared at his closed fist apprehensively. “Come on, take it,” he insisted, then took her hand and pressed a key into it.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s your freedom, my dear.” He smiled again. “It wasn’t easy, but when I found out you were here . . . and why, well I—”

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  He looked truly surprised. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “No one’s to
ld me anything.”

  “Well, my dear, it appears there was a misunderstanding concerning your being accused of a theft at Buckley Manor. I spoke with Mrs. Buchanan that night and coerced her into dropping the charges. I couldn’t bear to see you involved in such a scandal—whether you’d done it or not.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” he said with a trace of compassion. “The charges were dropped, but apparently someone got their information wrong.”

  “You mean I was torn away from my home because of a stupid mistake?”

  “That’s right. But it’s all straightened out now. It took a lot of talking, but I’ve convinced the captain that you are no criminal, and he’s allowing you to go free—provided you don’t cause any trouble. And you’d best not do that. It could look bad for me after I worked so hard on your behalf.”

  Kyrah didn’t know what to think. There was no reason on earth why she should trust Peter. He had done so much to discredit himself. Yet if what he said was true, she couldn’t help being grateful. After being alone for three weeks, even Peter Westman was welcome company—as kind as he was being.

  “Would you like some fresh air?” he asked in response to her silence.

  “Yes,” she said quickly, “I would.”

  “It’s a beautiful day,” he smiled and offered her his arm. “Shall we?"

  There was a surge of hesitance in Kyrah as she reached out to take Peter’s arm. But her desperate need for what he was offering at the moment overruled all other emotions. It felt strange to move outside of the cabin. She had lost all comprehension that a world existed past the realms of that tiny room. When fresh air struck her face, she almost laughed out loud. She noticed that Peter smiled, as if her happiness touched him.

  They walked the decks of the ship while Peter told her what little he knew about it, and she found it difficult to believe he was the same man she had worked for. Kyrah told herself it was because she’d gone insane in the past three weeks. It was her desperation that made her enjoy his company.

  She couldn’t help noticing the glances she received from members of the crew as they passed by. They all reminded her of the men who had drugged her. And there was no denying the suggestive implications in their eyes as they took notice of her. She wondered if there were any other women on board.

  “Why are you aboard this ship?” she asked Peter, keeping her focus on him.

  “I own a share of the Libertatia,” he said proudly, “and I occasionally sail with her—for lack of anything better to do. I’d been planning for quite some time on taking this voyage.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked timidly, afraid of the answer.

  “The colonies,” he stated.

  “But isn’t there a war?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t sounded so frightened.

  “There is indeed,” he told her with a sober expression. “This ship is loaded with supplies to aid the colonists.”

  Kyrah didn’t care why the ship was going there—only that it was. And the prospect frightened her. She understood nothing about wars or being deported for crimes. She only knew, as she looked in every direction and saw nothing but the sea, that she was going to a place completely foreign to her and had no idea how she would ever get home.

  “Will this ship be returning to England?” she asked with a hopeful note in her voice.

  Peter’s inquisitive glance made it evident that he sensed her purpose. He turned away and cleared his throat. “Eventually,” he said, “but I believe it will be going to Jamaica and on to South America first.”

  Kyrah looked out to sea and sighed, knowing that she would have to find another way. Standing against the rail, she thought it strange that she felt a surge of nausea. After weeks of being at sea, she would have thought the fresh air would make her feel better rather than worse. This was the first sign of seasickness she’d had yet.

  “Is something wrong?” Peter asked when her hand went to her stomach.

  “Just feeling a little queasy,” she replied.

  “The sea will do it to you,” he said with an easy smile.

  “Perhaps I should go lie down,” she told him and he graciously escorted her back to her cabin, telling her she could come and go as she liked. But he suggested that she keep the cabin locked from the inside—since she was the only woman on board. Peter kissed her hand gallantly, saying, “I’ll check on you, my dear. If there’s anything you need, I’ll do what I can to get it.”

  “Thank you,” she said and watched him leave. After locking the door behind him, she almost wanted to call him back. She had lost her mind.

  The days passed more quickly with the new diversion that had freed her from her cabin cell. Kyrah was dismayed that the nausea became almost constant, and beyond brief walks to the deck, she spent the majority of her time in bed. She saw Peter two or three times each day. He would occasionally escort her around the deck, or share a meal with her. He was compassionate to her illness, seeming eager to do anything he could to make her comfortable. Kyrah’s misery didn’t allow her to think too hard on why he was being so kind. She simply had to be grateful that he was. Her humble position left her needing his companionship and assistance greatly. And for the time being, she wasn’t going to question it.

  Kyrah stopped scratching marks in the wall. Now that she could go on deck each day, there was no need. Lying on her bunk to rest one afternoon, she noticed the marks there and realized it had been more than two weeks since she’d stopped putting them there. Over five weeks at sea, she thought. It seemed like forever. Then it struck her—like a splash of cold water against her face. She asked herself the obvious questions, and came up with one very real answer.

  “Ritcherd,” she whispered aloud in the privacy of her cabin. She pressed her hand over her belly that was already beginning to swell slightly. “Oh, Ritcherd, my love,” she took a sharp breath, “I’m going to have your baby.”

  While this connection to Ritcherd provoked a surge of joy, the memory of its conception seemed dreamlike and unreal. The timing and circumstances had been all wrong. And now the results would make her situation doubly difficult. If the circumstances were different, if they had been married, nothing could have made her happier than the prospect of having Ritcherd’s baby. But as it was, she could only feel afraid.

  What would she do? How would she manage alone in a strange country—unmarried and pregnant? In her entire life, she had only known of one woman who gave birth to an illegitimate child. She recalled hearing her parents talking about her, and the tragedy that had befallen her when she’d ended up selling herself on the streets to keep the child fed because her family had disowned her and society had shunned her completely. She had eventually died from some horrible disease, and the child had gone to an orphanage.

  Kyrah became preoccupied with the possibilities of horrible things that might happen to her as a result of this. Fear consumed her until she could hardly breathe without feeling the strain. Knowing she would never make it through this if she didn’t get hold of herself, she turned her mind to prayer. She had to believe that in spite of the sin she’d committed in the conception of this child, God would be merciful and guide her back into Ritcherd’s life. He would see her and the baby cared for, no matter the circumstances. Of that she was certain.

  Concentrating on an eventual reunion with Ritcherd, Kyrah tried to remain positive. But an extreme sadness enveloped her as she went to the deck and stood at the stern, looking in the direction where Ritcherd had been left, with many weeks of sea between them. Her heart ached for him: the man she loved, the father of her child. They should have been together. They should have been married by now. It could be months before he found her—if he ever found her. She had no idea how long it would take to arrive in the colonies, and then to return to England—if she could return at all. There was a war going on. As fear overtook her, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with everything inside of her that Ritcherd would find her before it was too
late. Hope gradually trickled into her mind as she felt the fear relent. Perhaps God was with her after all.

  “You look sad, my dear,” Peter said as he stood beside her. Kyrah made no reply. “Are you homesick?” he asked.

  “I’ve been homesick since I came aboard,” she stated.

  “Then it must be something else.”

  Again Kyrah was silent, biting her lip to avoid becoming emotional. When that didn’t work, she pressed a hand over her mouth and turned away. She was startled to feel Peter’s hands at her shoulders, but she didn’t feel the repulsion that she might have expected. She had to wonder if she had somehow misjudged him as she found herself crying in his arms.

  “There, there, my dear. Everything will be fine. I’ll not let anything happen to you.”

  She wondered what he would think if he knew the truth. She was certain he’d not be so compassionate. He lifted her chin and smiled pleasantly at her, leaving her bewildered by the different sides she had seen of him.

  “Come, my dear,” he said kindly, “let’s take a little walk. I’m certain you’ll feel better.”

  Kyrah put her hand over his arm, wondering where the Libertatia would take her life—and the life of Ritcherd’s child.

  Days continued to pass while Kyrah spent more time on deck, finding that the fresh air eased her symptoms. Preoccupied with her dilemma, Kyrah had learned to ignore the men on board. Their brash conversations and lewd glances disgusted her, but she did her best to avoid them, and she never went out of her cabin alone after dark.

  One particular evening she went below deck just as the sun was going down, so tired that she only wanted to crawl into bed and sleep through the remainder of the journey. Moving slowly down the narrow hallway to her cabin, she was distracted by her thoughts until she came face to face with a despicable-looking man with foul breath, greasy hair, and a huge gold ring in his ear.

  “Excuse me,” she said and pushed her way past him, repulsed by the way she was forced to brush against him because the hall was so narrow. Without looking back, she went quickly to her cabin and turned the key in the door to open it. She cried out when a large hand, connected to the man she’d just passed, came beside her and pushed it open. Kyrah tried to scream, but the same hand abruptly clamped over her mouth and the door was kicked shut.

  “Ye’re a pretty one,” he rasped, and she could feel his foul breath against her face. “But then, I don’t care much whether ye are or not.”

  He laughed deep in his throat and Kyrah squirmed helplessly, almost wishing that she were dead. Her fighting seemed futile and she almost gave up. Squeezing her eyes shut, Ritcherd’s image came clearly to her mind, and her thoughts went to the child she carried. Praying for strength, she moved enough to bite the hand over her mouth, then she screamed and took advantage of the distraction to send her knee into his groin. He moaned and began cursing, but he didn’t give her time to get away. Kyrah began praying for the strength to endure this and survive—for the sake of the baby. She screamed again in startled relief when the door flew open. A gunshot rang out, and the filthy sailor landed face down on the floor of her cabin.

  Peter entered the room and threw the gun on the bed. He murmured something under his breath as he rolled the dead man over with a hefty kick, and Kyrah’s stomach lurched.

  “Are you all right?” Peter asked, moving quickly to her side.

  Kyrah nodded adamantly but closed her eyes, trying to shut out the horrifying image of the dead man in front of her. Peter’s arm came comfortingly around her shoulders and he whispered with reassurance, “It’s all over now. I can assure you it won’t happen again. There’s nothing like a dead man to set an example for these brutes. Did he hurt you?”

  Kyrah shook her head. Without opening her eyes, she uncovered her mouth enough to say, “I’m fine. Just get him out of here. I want to be alone.”

  When the body had been removed and the blood mopped off the floor, Kyrah found herself alone with frightening images that accompanied her into sleep. She awoke in the night, cold and frightened, calling out Ritcherd’s name, certain that her life couldn’t possibly get any worse. She was convinced she would go mad before she ever found the opportunity to put all of this behind her. But thoughts of her child made her determined to remain sane and healthy.

  She would survive this. She just had to! She only prayed that if she couldn’t find her way back to Ritcherd, he would somehow be able to find her. Without him, she couldn’t even fathom how horrible her life could be.