by Regan Walker
Weary and emotionally spent, Tara crawled into the captain’s bed. Her body ached and her eyes burned from the salt and the tears. After hours of agony remembering Billy’s face as she’d last seen it, weariness claimed her and she succumbed to sleep.
* * *
Nick stepped onto the deck and back into the weather that was tearing apart his ship. God, he’d almost lost the girl. The thought terrified him, his anger at her the proof. Another moment and she would have joined Billy in the sea.
The loss of the young seaman had been a tragedy, one Nick deeply regretted. It was a somber few men who remained on deck to do what they could to keep the ship afloat. He’d told the boy his efforts to adjust the rigging could wait till the storm subsided. But Billy, eager to do his part, ventured into the rigging while the storm spewed its vengeance. Nick had seen the look of terror on the lad’s face as the lightning struck with a bright flash. Even in the rain, Nick could smell the singed wood from the severed mast as the lad and the rigging went over the side.
The storm was not over. Nick and his crew had fought it for most of the day and now would come the night, not that there would be much difference since the dark clouds pouring down rain left them mostly in darkness, save for the lightning and the white foam of the crashing waves. Wet and bedraggled, he encouraged himself with the thought they had come this far. His instincts told him the storm was lessening.
“Get some rest, Russ. You can relieve me at the next watch.”
“Probably wise or neither of us will be any good tomorrow. Are you sure you don’t want Nate to take command of the ship for a while? He just came up for his watch.”
“No, but you can send up some food. I’ll stay to fight the storm with the crew until you return. I’ll want to see Mr. Adams for the sails we’ll need, and you can tell our carpenter we’ll be getting a new mast and spars in Bermuda, but until then he’ll have to make do.”
In the hours that followed, the storm gradually ebbed and, as best they could, Nick and his weary crew cleaned up the mess left on deck by the broken fore topmast and torn rigging. The storm’s persistence meant much of the crew’s work would be left for the next day.
It was midnight, the end of the first watch, when Nick gratefully heard eight bells sound. The storm had dwindled to wind and light rain as Russ relieved him.
“You look terrible, Nick. I’ll take over. Get some sleep.”
“I’m overdue, I know, but I wanted to make sure we’d survived the storm and the ship was not taking on more water than Mr. Adams and the lads could handle.”
“I checked as I came up. They are doing well. The crew is relieved the worst is over, but they’re dispirited at losing young Uppington. Many have expressed their appreciation of your skills in seeing them through this one.”
Nick thanked God they’d weathered the edge of the hurricane, for he was convinced that’s what it was. “We were fortunate, indeed, though we’ll be limping into Bermuda. By my rough calculations, we should arrive late tomorrow.”
Exhausted, Nick descended the ladder to his cabin, the aft hatch now open again. He wondered what he’d find. Peter met him at his door, wanting to resume his duties, but Nick sent him to bed.
He lifted the bar, unlocked the door and stepped into darkness. He’d allowed no lanterns before, but since the storm was waning, he felt it safe enough to light one now. He shed his great coat and found the lantern on his desk. As the flame flickered to life, he looked for his passenger—and found her curled up in his bed, the cat nestled against her. Golden tendrils of hair spread across the pillow, having fallen out of her plait. Dutch Sam raised her head to briefly gaze at him, then closed her eyes and settled back to sleep.
Weary to the bone, Nick shed his cloak and damp clothes and donned a fresh shirt, which fell to his thighs. He normally slept naked, but he didn’t want to frighten Tara McConnell, though on second thought, he suspected little would frighten the girl. And he was not giving up his bed for what few hours of sleep would be his.
He slipped between the sheets and felt the softness of her warm body as he curled around her. Giving into a compulsion, he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her into the curve of his body. As infuriating as she had been, it felt right to hold her. He had been frightened for her safety and he wanted her close. He wanted more. But his complete exhaustion allowed him only to join her and the cat in sleep.
* * *
Warmth behind Tara interrupted her dream as she slowly opened her eyes to sunlight. A hand stroked her belly then slid up to her breast, where it cupped the warm flesh and sent a shiver of pleasure coursing through her and a delicious ache to her woman’s center. She had no memory of any such feelings before. It was disturbing and wonderful at the same time. Excitement flowed through her veins as her mind shed the dreamy state she’d been in.
With sudden awareness, she realized the hand moving over her was no dream.
She blinked against the sunlight streaming in through the windows—of the captain’s cabin. Him. It was the captain behind her, the captain who had been stroking her belly, the captain whose hand touched her breast!
A sudden knock on the door caused the man caressing her to moan as if he, too, was shaking off sleep’s stranglehold. Why, he doesn’t even realize it is me, the oaf! What had been a new and tender experience for Tara, one that had her body thrumming, had been merely a dream to him.
Tara flung herself from the large shelf bed, relieved the ship’s motion had returned to a gentle rocking. Her eyes darted around the cabin in search of her clothes. They were lying where she’d left them in a pile next to the captain’s sea chests. Reaching for them, she discovered they were still wet. She dropped them to the deck and grabbed a pair of breeches from the captain’s still-open chest.
“Cap’n?” said Peter’s familiar voice from the other side of the cabin door. “You awake yet?”
Tara hastily donned the breeches and tucked in the captain’s shirt she still wore, rolled the pants to her ankles and reached for a piece of rope she found lying next to the chest to secure the loose pants at her waist. She pulled on her boots, salt encrusted from the storm.
The captain’s voice, husky from sleep, spoke from the bed. “Yes, what is it?”
“’Tis Peter, sir. Did you want me to bring you a breakfast tray?”
“No, Peter, I’ll be up…shortly,” the captain replied, his voice growing stronger. Tara heard the cabin boy walk away, the sound of his footfalls fading in the passageway.
She considered the man whose hands, a moment before, had been touching her. His eyes were at half-mast, his face bore dark stubble and his black hair was in disarray as he slowly rose to a sitting position and dropped his bare legs over the side of the bed. His long fingers skimmed through his hair, the blue stone in his ring flashing in the morning light. He was more handsome than a man rising from bed had a right to be.
“Excuse me, Captain, but I’ll be leaving now,” she said and walked in determined fashion toward the cabin door.
“Miss McConnell!” His deep voice, like steel, cut through the air, bringing her to a sudden halt.
“Yes?” She turned to face him, and their eyes met. Tara thought she saw a glimmer of guilt in the golden eyes.
“Have you just awakened?”
She wouldn’t admit to being in his arms only moments before. “No, but it took me some time to find dry clothes and dress, given my choices. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed some of yours until I can change in my cabin.”
His eyes surveyed the shirt and baggy pants she’d made use of. “No, I don’t mind.”
“My own clothes are still wet.” Tara was anxious to be away from the man, his bed and his roving hands.
“All right,” he said, his eyes devouring her from where he sat on the bed. “I will see you on deck.”
* * *
Still a bit disoriented, Nick remained on the edge of his bed trying to remember. Wasn’t he just holding a warm willing woman in his arms? P
erhaps it had been a dream. But the scent of jasmine, though faint, was real enough. And the body of the woman he’d held through the hours of sleep was still vivid in his mind. Soft and warm with curves in all the places they should be. Tara McConnell and he had shared a bed—that much was certain. It was rare for him to spend even part of a night with a woman, but it felt right to have Tara McConnell lying next to him. And seeing her this morning in his clothes was temptation itself. He had to remind himself once again she was an innocent.
Bermuda could not come soon enough.
The gentle rocking of the ship told Nick the storm had indeed passed. Rising, he padded to the window and peered into a cloudless blue sky. Thank God it’s over. The memory of young Billy’s loss caused a tightening in his gut. He would have to deal with that this morning. Though the sea had claimed the lad’s body, a memorial service was in order to remember him and offer prayers for his soul.
Nick washed and shaved, then donned fresh clothes and boots. He could smell coffee calling to him as he strode to the galley.
“Morning, McGinnes. Is the galley restored to order?” Nick gazed around the warm galley, comforted by the smell of sausage cooking and the coals glowing in the stove as the cook pounded a large pile of dough.
“Sure an’ all is as she should be, Skipper. Here,” he said, shoving a mug of coffee and a plate of sausages at him, “put this in yer belly.”
“Looks most appealing after the cold fare of last eve.” Nick reached for the plate. The dried beef he’d chewed during the storm was long gone. It was good to feel his ship returning to normal.
The cook kneaded the lump of dough, scattering flour over the chopping board as his green eyes peered up at Nick from beneath thick copper brows. “Miss Tara was just here for her morning porridge.”
“Oh? Did our passenger weather the storm, do you think?”
“She’s takin’ young Billy’s death hard, but that one is as at home on the sea as ye are, Skipper. Half fairy, if ye’d be askin’ me. Sure an’ she might even be a leanan sídhe. Ye’d best beware.”
Nick had heard the cook’s Irish tales so many times this mention of one of his fairy creatures was not surprising. That McGinnes would recognize another Irish soul in their passenger was also to be expected. Amused but distracted by the morning’s tasks that lay ahead, Nick asked, “What do you mean, ‘beware’?”
“Now don’t be makin’ light of it. Truth is if a man can refuse the leanan sídhe, she will be his slave, but if he loves her instead, he will forever be hers. But he must pass through death to have her,” the cook said, plopping the lump of dough into a pan.
Nick barely recorded the words must pass through death to have her, still focused as he was on the tasks ahead.
Turning to go, he said, “We’ll be having a service for young Billy soon if you’d like to join us.” It wasn’t an order but McGinnes would come. All the men would be there for the lad.
* * *
Six bells sounded in the early hours of the morning. Tara stood on deck with most of the thirty crewmembers gathered under the clear sky in solemn assembly. Captain Powell stood on the quarterdeck, all eyes upon him, and opened the Bible he had carried above decks. It seemed to her his face had gained a line or two since the voyage began, though he stood tall and straight on the gently rolling deck as he began to read.
“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep. For He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves.”
Tara recognized the passage from the book of Psalms and the familiar verse he read next from Genesis.
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
He closed the book and his eyes. “Father, you have taken the lad Billy Uppington. We ask you to receive his soul.” Opening his eyes, the captain searched the faces of his crew. “The storm reminds us that we are in the Creator’s hands, and today we remember a young seaman who was with us for only a short while. He wanted to prove himself worthy and always tried to do his best.”
The men murmured their agreement. “Ja, he was a good lad,” said Jake.
“He often helped me oil the guns,” echoed Charlie Wilson, looking out at the dark blue sea.
“Sure an’ he loved the Oirish stories of the fairies,” said McGinnes wistfully.
“He helped me with my chores for the cap’n,” whispered Peter, his voice wobbling as he stood next to Tara. “He was my friend.” She reached her arm around his shoulder in comfort.
“The lad could be counted upon to help mend a sail,” Augie Adams said in an emotion-filled voice while twisting his hands. “Never turned away from my need for help.” His reddish-brown hair blew around his face and Tara thought she saw a tear roll down his cheek. “He was a good lad, that one.”
“Captain,” Tara interjected, “can we take up a collection for his family in Derbyshire? I’d like to contribute. Billy was very concerned about them as the times there have been hard.”
When the captain nodded, Nate offered, “I’ll see to it, Cap’n.”
“I’ll add what is collected to his pay,” said the captain, “along with my own help for his family.” Then, looking to his first mate, “The Raven can carry it back along with his gear.” To Tara, he said, “That was a fine idea, Miss McConnell.”
Tara admired the way the English captain had handled the sad event. His dignified manner conveyed his respect for the lives of his men, and it was clear they appreciated it, knowing he would have done the same for any one of them.
For all of the morning, the crew remained in a serious mood. She thought perhaps they were thinking of their own short days upon the earth. She had seen it before, the death of one causing the many to consider their mortality.
About noon, the repairs began in earnest, at least the ones they could make before they docked in Bermuda, now less than a day’s voyage away, according to what Mr. Ainsworth had told her. Tara watched as the ship’s carpenter and a few of the crew cut away what was left of the broken spars and the dangling rigging. Working together, they created a temporary masthead for the broken foremast by tying a spar to the stump of the old mast. Mr. Adams, together with Jake and several other seamen, rigged temporary sails that would allow them to make port.
As she watched the men working, the first mate came to stand by her side. “There’s fine cedar to be found in Bermuda. We’ll get the new mast there,” he encouraged. “They’ll have the sheer hulk fitted with poles and pulleys to lift the new mast into position.”
“My brothers told me Bermuda cedar is used for the sloops and schooners they build, which are supposed to be especially good for sailing upwind.”
“They are right,” said the first mate, his sun-bleached blond hair blowing across his forehead, “Bermuda’s ships are famous for being swift; their privateers have taken many prizes. The captain has often admired them, though it is the American ships he covets most.”
Tara was aware from the tales her brothers told around the fire when they’d returned from battle that the privateers of Bermuda, sailing their fast sloops, had captured more than two hundred American ships. She was glad the captain had not sought to have one.
* * *
In the afternoon when she went below to her cabin, Tara noticed the captain’s door ajar. She knocked, and hearing him say, “Come,” gingerly stepped over the threshold.
“I wanted to tell you how grateful I was for this morning’s service for Billy, Captain.”
He looked up from his charts and for a moment said nothing, his golden eyes fixing her with an intense stare that brought back the memory of his warm hands moving over her body only hours before. She wondered if he, too, was remembering. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable when he finally returned his gaze to his charts.
“It is the least we can do for a man lost at s
ea,” he said. “He isn’t the first who has gone down in a storm, and unfortunately, he will not be the last.”
There was something comforting about his presence as he sat with his sleeves rolled up and the gray cat lounging on the corner of his desk. It all seemed so normal, as if the storm had never happened, as if Billy were still up on deck. But when the golden eyes once again looked her way, they were hard. She wondered if he’d forgotten how to smile. The cares of the ship and his men, she knew, weighed heavily. Behind those eyes she sensed roiling emotions and wondered at their source.
Reminding herself of her other reason for coming to his cabin, she asked, “Captain, might I borrow a book? I’ve exhausted my own supply.”
“Certainly. There are some on the shelf,” he said, gesturing to the bulkhead, “and more in the chest over there.” He pointed to the other side of his cabin.
She went first to the shelf, feeling his eyes follow her. There she found some volumes she would expect to see in any captain’s collection: almanacs and tables for figuring the ship’s position, his Bible from the morning’s service, Pilgrim's Progress and two medical books by Richard Reece, M.D., including a Medical Guide for Tropical Climates Particularly the British Settlements. At the end of the row of books was a small polished wooden box that she knew held a ship’s chronometer. Her brother George had one just like it.
On a second shelf she found books that surprised her. Among them were works by the social philosophers Hume, Descartes and Adam Smith, and Joseph Priestley’s Experiments and Observations Relating to Various Branches of Natural Philosophie, as well as the writings of Lavoisier. Tara knew of Priestley because her tutor told her the philosopher and theologian had moved to America as a result of his support for the French Revolution. As for Descartes and Lavoisier, if, as Nate had told her, the captain’s mother was French, perhaps he also read French. It seemed he was, like her father, a well-read man. For a moment her thoughts wandered to the man who had been the guiding light in her life, and she again felt fear for his health. Was he still living? She prayed she would find him well when she arrived in Baltimore.
