“That don’t make him American!” Ephraim bawled.
“What about the missing client, huh? What about the drafts?”
“What drafts? I ain’t seen no bloody drafts!”
“That’s because they were destroyed by seawater, damn you!”
Father’s gale-force roar made the walls shake. “Don’t gimme any of yer lip, Matt! I know a damned Englishman when I see one! Ye come to me with some cockamamie story about this captain surviving a sea fight with that British frigate, and then a night alone on the open ocean? Whaddye take me fer, a damned idiot? That rascal upstairs ain’t my client! Why, I’ll bet ye my eyeteeth he’s a British deserter off that same bleedin’ frigate! Christ! Now, get him outta here, damn you! Cart him down to Davenport’s tavern, let them take care of him! I want no part of him, ye hear?”
“Damn you, he’s our responsibility, our client!”
“My client died a gallant death aboard that sloop!”
“Your client’ll die upstairs unless you show him some proper American compassion!”
“He ain’t my client, and I ain’t showin’ nothing to no goddamned Brit!”
“Damn you, get it through your thick skull he’s not—a—Brit!”
Mira ducked behind the staircase, flattening herself against the fine paneling of Santo Domingo mahogany. She held her breath as the two stormed into view, Matt with so much steam on his spectacles, she wondered how he could see. Behind them the housekeeper, Abigail, trailed like bubbles in a warship’s wake, flour breezing from her skirts.
“Christian charity, Ephraim!” she pleaded. “What if Matthew’s right and he is the captain of the American ship Annabel? And if not, what difference does it make? So what if he’s British? You can’t just abandon the poor fellow like so much garbage!”
“All Brits are garbage!”
“Dammit, Father!” Something else crashed against a wall.
“Ephraim, please listen to your son—”
“Abigail, you stay outta this! And, Matt, you throw one more thing and I’m gonna take a stick to yer hide! Don’t think I’m too old to do it! I’m still yer father, and what I say goes. Now, git that bloke outta here by the time I count to ten or you can damn well fergit ever making another cruise in that brig again, is that clear?”
“You can’t threaten me, damn you!”
“I’ll threaten all I like!”
“Over my dead body!”
Something else shattered.
They were storming into the dining room now, Father’s silver-buckled shoes just disappearing behind the doorway. Thanking God for the argument, for it was the perfect chance to get Number Thirty-One safely inside, Mira darted out from behind the staircase.
Matt turned—and saw her.
She leaped for the stairs.
“Mira! You stay out of the east bedroom, you hear me? Mira!”
He couldn’t have issued a better invitation. Taking the stairs three at a time, she careened around the landing, took the rest of the steps in two bounds, charged down the hall, and lunged for the closed, paneled door. Downstairs she heard Ephraim lighting into Matt once more.
Her hand hit the latch. Without a second thought, she burst into the room.
Chapter 2
Behind her, the door swung shut with a click she never heard.
A man lay asleep in the big four-poster tester bed—a handsome, nearly naked man with damp knee breeches pasted to his well-muscled thighs, long legs sprinkled with auburn hair, and bare feet that stuck out over the foot rail by a good ten inches. There was sensitivity in the shape of his face, elegance in the slant of his brows, artistry in the way his cheekbones stood above the faint hollows beneath them. It was a handsome face, even in sleep; the jaw firm, the lips sensual, the mouth and eyes framed by laugh lines that appeared to get much use. His hair, dark against the white pillowcase, tumbled rakishly over his brow and was the color of September chestnuts, rich and glossy and curling at the ends where it had begun to dry. He was by far the best-looking specimen of his gender Mira had ever seen.
And, looking at his hands lying atop the counterpane, she knew immediately that Matt had spoken the truth.
His weren’t the blunt, stubby, work-roughened fingers of a seafarer. They were the strong, graceful hands of an artist . . . a naval architect.
The client.
Good God. She stepped closer, staring. Beneath swollen lids rimmed with long lashes, his eyes were moving slowly, as though he was caught in the throes of a dream. She saw his fingers twitch, heard his soft intake of breath, watched his head move slightly on the pillow.
But he never knew she was there.
###
For Brendan, time had rolled back to the night before, and he was once again commanding Annabel’s desperate flight from the sea, the rebel town of Newburyport approaching off their bows, HMS Dismal in hot pursuit, and the schooner’s drafts spread out over his knee and fluttering in the breeze.
“Brendan!”
Liam’s voice, desperate and wild.
“Bren-daaaaan!”
Faith, where was their confidence in him?
Sure enough, there was Liam, all two hundred strapping pounds of him, shoving his telescope into a seaman’s hand and hurtling toward him at breakneck speed. Blue eyes bulging, he slid into the deckhouse where Brendan was sitting, nearly tripping over a ringbolt as he grabbed desperately for his arm.
Brendan barely glanced up. “Honestly, Liam, as an officer, you really should try to set a better example. Racing across the deck like that—”
“God Almighty, Cap’n, it’s Crichton commandin’ that frigate!” Liam had his arm now, nearly ripping it from its socket; the drafts jumped in the wind, and Brendan grabbed them just in time. “D’ye hear me, Brendan? Crichton!”
Astern, the British frigate drew closer, determined to prevent them from reaching the Merrimack River and the safety of Newburyport. Water thundered and creamed from her bows. Drums rolled ominously upon the wind. Pipes shrilled. Gunports were yawning open. . . .
While forward in Annabel’s bows, Dalby O’Hara crouched miserably, a gnarled hand clamped over his belly, and his face the color of oatmeal as he remembered his own treatment at the hands of that frigate’s captain, three years earlier.
At his elbow, Fergus McDermott, an atheist who’d adopted religion thirty seconds earlier, recited the Twenty-third Psalm over and over in a mindless chant.
Brendan held up the schooner’s drafts so that Liam could see them better. “Y’know, Liam, I’ve been thinking . . . Maybe I ought to give the bowsprit a bit more steeve. Other than that, I think she’s going to be perfect. Sharp in the topsides around the bow, lean in the stern, and lots of rake in both. Not only will our new privateer be as swift as the wind, she’ll sit so low in the water that her profile will be all but invisible from a distance! And with this hull shape, she’ll be perfect for windward sailing, and we’ll be able to carry a greater press of sail, even flying topsails and topgallants if we’ve a mind to—”
“Brendan—”
“Too little beam and she’d be fast but unstable. Too much and she’d be a laggard. Too fine at bow and stern and we’d sacrifice weight-carrying ability fore and aft. That means guns, Liam! And in a privateer, that won’t do, now, will it?” Beyond Annabel’s desperate bowsprit the sunset smeared the sky in brilliant tones of red and purple, reflecting against the water as it changed from sea-chop to rippling cat’s paws of current. In the distance, Newburyport was coming into view. “Ah, Liam, if we had this schooner right now, we’d leave that beast back there lumbering in her own bow-wake. If we had the schooner—”
“Dammit, Brendan, we’re not goin’ t’ have a schooner if ye don’t put down those bloody drafts and listen t’ me! It’s Crichton!”
Brendan glanced up, his eyes alight with mirth, and his mouth set in that same quirky grin that was as reckless now as it had been when he and Liam had spent their childhoods exploring the rocky shores of Connaught. It was a g
rin that was sure to drive poor Liam mad. “So anyhow, I’ve decided that if I have this Ashton fellow build her exactly to my specifications, ninety feet on deck, with a beam of twenty-three feet—”
Dead astern, the frigate’s sails shook and boomed as she leaned over onto a new tack, the guns that stabbed from her forecastle glinting blood-red in the setting sun.
“—and with a draught of just under ten feet—Faith, Liam, will you please let go of my sleeve?”
“But it’s Crichton!”
“I know it’s Crichton, and I imagine I’ve known so for a sight longer than you have, given the fact you were boozing it up belowdecks for the better part of the afternoon. I also know there’s a squadron behind him and Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s flag on the seventy-four. Three years ago that was my ship, remember? And Sir Geoffrey my admiral?” He grinned, as though the memories brought him no pain, and glanced around Liam’s brawny shoulder. “A point more a-larboard, Mr. Keefe! Aim her right toward that big tree sticking up above the others.” Dropping his gaze to the drafts once more, he added conversationally, “They call that the Beacon Oak, Liam, because it’s a landmark to guide mariners in from the sea. In his letter, Ashton said to watch for it—”
“If ye don’t get yer head out o’ the clouds and stop thinkin’ of that bloody schooner, none of us’ll live long enough t’ see her built, let alone sail her!”
“Now, Liam.” Brendan elevated one eyebrow and gave his friend a patient look. “My head is not in the clouds, but set properly atop my shoulders, just where it should be and just where I intend it to remain. Faith and troth, I do wish you would all stop pestering me so.”
“But yer leadin’ him straight into the river!”
“Precisely.” He grinned. “Now, stop worrying, would you? Do you see me worrying? Faith! Newburyport’s a rebel town, Liam; they simply despise the British. Not only did they stage their own tea party four years ago, they’ve even sunk a pier and some old hulks across the mouth of this river just to keep them out. Hidden, of course, but combined with the currents and shifting sandbars just beneath this placid-looking surface, I do believe one of them will stop Crichton.”
“One o’ them’ll stop us! Ye haven’t the foggiest idea where yer goin’! Ye’ve never been up this damned river in yer life!”
“First time for everything, eh?” Still grinning, Brendan returned his attention to the drafts.
The frigate was so close now, they were almost riding her bow-wake. Carriages squealed as her mighty guns were rolled into position. Musket fire cracked from her tops, and a ball whizzed past Liam’s ear, parting a stay. Another holed the speaking trumpet beside Brendan’s hip and flung it to the deck. Forward, Annabel’s men began to shout an alarm, while Fergus’s chanting rose to a desperate pitch: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—”
Shots pinged against a nearby cannon, tore another chunk from the deckhouse, drove into the mast.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters—”
Another shot ripped the tricorne from Brendan’s head.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”
Brendan looked up, his expression puzzled. “How odd, all this time and I never knew Fergus to be a religious man . . . Oh, Liam, would you fetch my hat, please? I seem to have lost it. Faith, what would Ashton think if I showed up for dinner half dressed?”
“—for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me—”
“I do hope I can find this place, Liam. Ashton says I’m supposed to look for a big, handsome Georgian house when I get into town, white with green shutters and an anchor out front. Newburyport’s a sea town. I’ll bet everyone has white Georgian houses with green shutters and anchors out front. Think I’ll have any trouble finding it?”
Pop. Crack. More musket fire. Pieces of wood exploded from the boom above their heads. Liam buried his face in his huge hands.
“And do you think Ashton’ll have the table all set?”
Liam’s head jerked up. “What?!”
Brendan folded the drafts with precise care, slipped them into his pocket, and grinned. “Why, I could just kill for a nice, savory neck of mutton, a wedge of fine cheese, hot boiled potatoes, and Indian pudding, drenched in maple syrup. ...”
“Dammit, Brendan, how can ye even think o’ supper at a time like this?!”
“And why not? ’Tis seven o’clock, precisely the time I should be thinking about supper, as it is when I usually dine. Oh, Mr. Keefe! You might let her fall off another point; we don’t want that broadside staring us in the face . . . Liam? Liam, are you listening to me?”
“Jay-sus, Brendan, Jay-sus—”
“Well, please do, because if I should fall today—which I’ve no intention of doing, of course—you will remember your promise to get these drafts to Ashton, won’t you? Have him build the schooner and use her as the privateer I’ve designed her to be. And as for the steeve in the bowsprit, I’ve decided that more is better, after all . . .”
But Liam wasn’t listening; he was staring, transfixed, at Dismal, his mouth opening and shutting like a gasping fish as he caught sight of the haughty, triumphant figure on her quarterdeck. “B-Brendan,” he choked out.
“And if Crichton should take us—again, I vow he shall not—then, and only then, rip the drafts up. Toss the pieces over the side. Destroy them, burn them, swallow them if you have to, but do not, I repeat, do not allow them to fall into British hands. If the Admiralty manages to get hold of them, ’twill be a terrible thing indeed. . . . Why, Dalby!” Brendan glanced up to find the terrified little sailmaker standing before him, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down amid the cords of his birdlike neck. “’Tis kind of you to join us, but I really would like a good eye up in the bows—”
“Those sunken piers are beneath us, sir, I just know it! And I can’t see a thing with all this glare on the water. We’re going to hit one of them, and it’ll be my fault!”
“Calm yourself, Dalby. I have things well under control.”
“But, Captain, I’m going to be sick, sick—”
“Please don’t get sick now, Dalby; wait till we reach port.”
“But, Capt—”
“Liam!” Brendan grasped his lieutenant’s arm, jerking him from his terrified reverie. Newburyport was approaching fast; Brendan could hear the church bells ringing now, guns firing, dogs barking as the alarm was raised. “Please take Dalby forward and watch for those piers, would you?”
“Aye, Cap’n!” he shouted. “’Bout time ye got serious!”
Liam was already hauling Dalby forward at a dead run, his shirttails billowing behind him. Brendan grinned, and in his best quarterdeck voice, called, “And glazed almonds and mince pie, and pear tarts smothered in sweet, fresh cream. ...”
He heard Dalby’s wheedling voice: “Liam? Liam, why’s the captain talking about food at a time like this?”
But Liam only ran faster, hauling Dalby over debris and deck furnishings alike.
“Haven’t had fresh cream in ages! Faith, must be at least three, four years now! How ’bout you, Liam? Getting sick of pork souse and hardtack?”
Over his shoulder Liam shouted, “If I ever get t’ see pork souse and hardtack again, I swear, I’ll get down on me knees an’ kiss yer goddamned feet!”
Brendan, grinning, glanced over his shoulder at Dismal’s bloated spritsail. “And custards and jellies, apple cider, cold glasses of milk—run out the starboard guns now, would you, Mr. Saunders?—sauces and gravies and piping hot bread, fresh from the oven and just oozing butter. ...”
“And your bloody toes, too!” Liam bawled.
Brendan laughed. “Double-shotted, Mr. Saunders!”
“In the bread, sir?”
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Saunders, in the guns. What in God’s name d’you think I’m talking about, eh?”
“Aye, sir! Right away!”
“And lively, Mr. Sa
unders!”
They were well into the mouth of the river now. Close abeam, marshlands and riverbanks slid past. Ahead, Newburyport was growing larger; fine homes of brick and white-painted wood looking out over the riverfront, their windows glinting with orange sunset. Wharves stretched into the harbor, and a church thrust a spire toward the sky.
Dismal, just beginning to overtake them, maneuvered her mighty broadside into position.
“Stuffed mutton and Indian pudding. ...” Retrieving his speaking trumpet, Brendan dusted it off with his elbow, heedless of the fresh musket hole like an eyeless socket in the metal. “Though I could pass on the green beans, if Ashton’s serving them!”
He peered over the side, staring down into the swirling depths, not thinking at all about the supper he was determined not to miss, but about those sunken piers that Dalby and Liam would probably never see, the sunken piers that were probably approaching just . . . about . . . now—
“Hard alee, Mr. Keefe!”
The helmsman shoved the tiller over so violently that men lost their footing, shot spilled across the deck, and the topsail yard stabbed down like a harpoon. Striated bars of sand swept beneath them, broken here and there by the fuzzy, ominous hulk of the sunken pier just beneath the river’s surface. As one, the crew held their breaths, cringing. But their captain knew what he was about. A sigh, a whisper, and they were safely through the channel. Another sigh and they looked up to see brigs and sloops, schooners and cutters, some anchored, some docked, and some already moving toward them.
Brendan leapt onto the deckhouse, waving his speaking trumpet and jumping up and down in excitement. “Steady, Mr. Keefe, steady, steady, steady!”
Crichton wasn’t as clever. With an agonized shriek of grinding timbers, Dismal struck the sunken pier, her broadside lighting up her entire side in fiery tongues of orange against black. Thunder split the air with an unholy, deafening roar. Iron slammed against Annabel’s sides and whined overhead. There was an awesome crack, like a lightning bolt hitting too close, and the mast teetered wildly. Men screamed, stays and shrouds split with a noise like gunfire, and the deckhouse fell out from beneath Brendan’s feet.
Captain Of My Heart Page 3
