“Brendan,” he said tiredly.
“Sounds Irish to me. You Irish, then?”
“Well, partly—”
“You a bloody king’s officer?”
“What?”
“I said, you a king’s officer? Father thinks you are. That’s what all that damned hollering’s about out there. You talk like you’re Irish but I could be wrong. And Matt didn’t say anything about the client being a Brit, which is making me wonder if maybe you aren’t the client after all, but someone off that bleedin’ frigate, trying to spy on us so you can go back to your countrymen and tell ’em all you know. Like how to get past those barriers in the river. And don’t tell me you ain’t a Brit, ’cause I know a Brit when I see one, and I’ve seen plenty.”
“Look,” said Brendan, sitting up and trying in vain to untangle the sheets from his legs, “I don’t know where you get your ideas from, young man, but I’ll have you know I am a privateer in the service of America, and have been for the better part of three years!”
A pounding started on the door. “Mira! Mira, you in there? So help me God, you open this door this instant!”
The orange cat shot from the window seat and dove under the bed. The sea breeze fled back through the open window, taking the lower half of the curtains with it. And the lad drew himself up to his full, scanty height and shouted, “Bugger off, Matt! I’m having a conversation with this damned Brit you brought home, and I don’t care to be interrupted!”
“You open this door right now!”
“I will not!”
“Open it now!”
“I said go to hell, Matt! Your arse can fry there till the cows come home as far as I’m concerned!”
“Yours is going to fry when I get this damned door open!”
Bang. Bang. Bang. The door couldn’t take much more—and neither could Brendan. His damp breeches pasted to him like a second skin, he finally untangled himself from the sheets, swung his legs out of the bed, and clutching one of its tall, carved posts for support, rose above the bristling lad.
“I am not,” he said archly, “going to stand here and suffer the insults of a stablehand who stinks of horse dung and field mud! That’s Captain Ashton out there, and I demand to see him now!”
Uncowed, the boy turned on him and stabbed a finger into Brendan’s chest. “You’ll see him in good time, Brit, and not a moment before. Ye think ye can give orders around here just ’cause you’re a guest? Now sit down and cover yourself! I can see everything ye own through those breeches, and that ain’t no way to appear before the lady of the house!”
“When the lady of this house arrives, I’ll thank her to bring me the rest of my clothes so I can greet her with proper British courtesy!”
“You’ll greet her with proper courtesy now, ’cause I am the lady of the house, and I ain’t going to stand here and suffer your rudeness!”
“Like hell you are!”
“Like hell I am!”
And then, incredibly, the lad reached up and in one angry, fluid motion, swiped the hat from his head and flung it to the floor, releasing a glorious mane of rich, glossy brown hair that tumbled down and down and down in an impossibly thick fall all the way to that tiny, rope-cinched waist. Staggering back, Brendan grabbed the bedpost for support and sat down hard on the damp counterpane.
“Great God,” he murmured, taken aback. “Tá tú go hálainn....”
Yes, she was beautiful, but since he’d unconsciously reverted to his native tongue to say so, the strange words meant nothing to her and only made her more irate. She stood glaring at him, her pixie face all but obscured by that fall of hair through which her impudent nose poked and eyes as green as the underside of a winter wave now glittered. Hooking a finger beneath it, she shoved it behind her ear and revealed the curve of a pale, mud-stained cheek. Beneath the mud there were freckles and a spot of high color.
“Satisfied? The next time ye speak to me, Brit, ’twill be with the respect I deserve!”
Numbly he reached down and drew the sheet up over his lap, heat flooding his face. She was right. The damp breeches revealed every curve and ridge he owned. He swallowed hard and looked at the ticking clock. “Will you please go away?”
“I will not. This is my father’s house and I’m staying right here. And if you don’t like it, you can leave.”
“Mira!” The pounding began anew. “So help me God, if you don’t open this door now, I’m going—”
“To what?” the girl hollered. “Sneak off without me again? You’re a real louse, Matt, you know that? A real louse! You just wait! One of these days I’m going to best you at your own game, and we’ll see who comes out laughing!”
“Damn you, Mira, I didn’t sneak off, and if you’d been on the ship instead of with those damned horses, I would’ve waited.”
“You snuck off, Matt, admit it!”
“I did not! Now open the goddamned door!”
“I will not!”
“You will, too!”
Brendan shut his eyes. Dear God. He was trapped in here with a crazy female and no clothes. No clothes. Better to be stuck between the broadsides of two ships of the line than this. Females. After being at sea for most of his life, he had to admit they unnerved him. Intimidated him. Confused him. And this one, garbed in male clothing and shouting at the top of her lungs, had taken him totally aback.
Ashton was kicking the door now. A dark line split the fine paneling and left a gaping crack.
“Mira! Open up!”
Bang. Brendan winced. Bang. BANG!
Clutching the sheet, he started to get up, but at that moment the door finally gave and Ashton charged into the room, red-faced and furious, spectacles fogged with steam and halfway down his nose. In his wake was a bright flash that might’ve been a dog, and a glowering old man with white hair growing out of his ears, cheeks as red as cherries, and a voice that almost shook the paint right off the wainscoting.
“Tripes ’n guts, what the bloody tarnation’s going on in here!”
Undaunted, the little hoyden put her hands on her hips and looked at him with a mutinous set to her chin. “Why, nothing, Father,” she said sweetly.
The orange cat, shrieking, tore out from beneath the bed, the dog in hot pursuit, and bounced off the walls, trying to find an escape. The resulting noise was loud enough to shatter glass, but it was nothing beneath the old man’s cannon-roar. “Mira, you get those critters outta this room and outside now!”
She managed to snag the cat but it went wild, clawing free and hurling itself to the bed, where it disappeared beneath the covers as the dog sailed onto the sheets and tried to grab it. The racket was earsplitting. Brendan shut his eyes and swayed on his feet. And through it all, the girl, Ashton, and the white-haired old man battled it out with a ferocity that rivaled, then rose above, the banshee-like howling emanating from the bed.
“That’s another damned cat, ain’t it?” the old man roared. “How many times do I have to tell you, no more animals in this house?”
“It’s just one little cat.”
“One little cat! One more cat! How many cussed cats do I have to put up with before they start stinkin’ up the place? I want it outta here and I want it out now!”
“It’s not an it, it’s a he!”
“I don’t care what it is, if it ain’t outta here by the time I count to three, it’s going out the gosh-danged window!” The old man ripped a watch from his pocket and held it out like an amulet blessed with the power of God. “One—”
“For Christ’s sake, Mira, go put on some decent clothes! That’s no way to dress in front of our guest!”
“Shut up and stay out of this, Matt. I’m sick of your advice!”
“Two!” the old man roared, brandishing the watch.
“Mira, I’m telling you, go put on—”
“Three!”
Ashton slammed his fist against the wall, sending a fine Chippendale mirror tumbling to the floor in a crash of glass. “Damn it all, you t
wo are an embarrassment to this town, to this house, and to me!”
The girl whirled on him with equal heat. “Shut up, Matt, and stop picking on me about my clothes. If they were such a big issue, you’d get our guest something to wear so he doesn’t have to stand there in a damned sheet!”
“Guest?” the old man roared. “He ain’t no guest of mine! I’ll have no Briton in this house, is that understood?”
“How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t a Brit!”
“Don’t listen to him, Father, he is too a Brit, and he walks like he’s got a pole stuck up his—”
“Damn you, damn both of you!” Spectacles fogged with anger, Ashton tore off his hat and flung it so hard that a picture tumbled off the wall, smashed against the floor, and sent the cat streaking from the room, squalling at the top of its lungs with the dog in hot pursuit. “I hope to God neither one of you ever has reason to prevail upon British hospitality, ’cause you’ll find ours sorely lacking in comparison!”
“There, you just admitted yourself he’s British!”
“That bloody well doesn’t mean he’s fighting for them. And if you weren’t such a brick-skulled old donkey, you’d know that, dammit!”
“Brick-skulled? I’ll have no son of mine taking that tone of voice with me!”
“I’m not your son if you insist on treating your guest like rubbish.”
“He ain’t my guest!”
“Then he’s my guest, and I’ll not have him cast out because of your damned mulishness!”
“This is my house!”
“And as long as my ship is bringing money into it, I have as much damned say about who stays here as you.”
“Like hell you do! I built that bleeding ship for ye! Gimme any more lip and I’ll—”
Brendan had had enough. With all the dignity he could muster, he turned on his bare heel, strode shakily from the room, and found himself in a rectangular hall with several doors, behind which countless numbers of cats and dogs undoubtedly slept and fought and bred atop beautiful beds. The sheet dragged behind him like a bridal train, but he didn’t stop, staring straight ahead as he strode purposefully across a Turkish carpet toward the wide staircase. His toes sank into the rug’s plush depths, his hand found the carved banister and trembled on its sleek wood. Down the stairs he went. Past portraits of proud and forbidding Yankee sea captains. Around landings. Toward the square of light from the front door that spread itself across the carpet . . . Five more steps and he’d be there, through that door, and out of this crazy, insane, nightmarish house.
Four more stairs now. Three. Oh, legs, don’t give out on me now. . . .
Two.
Above and behind him, a door slammed and voices exploded into the hall.
“Damn you, Matthew, I thought I raised you with sense. I thought I raised you with respect. I thought you were a patriot!”
Brendan hit the last step and made for the door at a dead run.
“How dare you imply that—Merrick! Merrick, wait! Don’t touch—”
The door.
Too late. As Brendan’s hand hit the latch, the dog, anticipating a walk, hurled itself down the stairs and hit the door, and both he and Brendan went down in a helplessly tangled heap.
“Luff!” the girl was shrieking. “Luff! Matt, do something!”
The dog’s thick wet tongue swiped Brendan’s face—and then it was over. Shaking, Brendan got to his hands and knees. Ashton, looking sheepish and humiliated in the awkward silence, held the dog by its collar. He stretched out a freckled hand and pulled Brendan to his feet, his eyes pleading for forgiveness before he turned to glare at the white-haired old gent behind him. Then he dug in his pocket, fished out a crumbling ball of dried-out pulp, and placed it in Brendan’s hand.
“Here. Why don’t you tell Father who you are.” His voice was very quiet, too quiet, as though the effort to subdue his anger was costing him every bit of strength he had. “Better yet, tell him why you’re here. It seems he’s having a rather hard time believing me.”
This was worse than the nightmare. It was worse than being shot down on the decks of that long-ago frigate. It was worse than anything Brendan had ever imagined. But behind the bristling old man, the dog, and a troop of cats now filing down the stairs one by one, stood the girl. Grimy and dusty, her eyes dancing, she was grinning at him in a way that could only be called . . . impish.
Something fluttered in his chest.
“Yes,” she said sweetly, and put her fists on her hips. “Why don’t you? We’re all waiting.”
That grin was infectious, perky, crinkling the sides of her nose in an endearing way that made the flutter in Brendan’s chest become a downright palpation. It was a challenging grin, and Brendan, who’d been only five years old when Liam had dared him up the highest tree in Connemara and he’d paid for his courage with a fall and a broken wrist, had never been able to resist a challenge.
“By all means,” he said as the girl’s blatant gaze slid over his bare torso in an assessing way that pulled the heat to his cheeks and made him uncomfortably aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing here in a sheet and not much else. He bowed deeply. “I am Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, master of the privateer Annabel and an expected guest of the shipbuilder Captain Ephraim Ashton of Newburyport.” He opened his palm, where the drafts lay as crumbling bits of paper. “He was to have built a schooner for me.”
The old man’s face went dark. Observing it, the girl pushed her fist against her mouth as though to hold back laughter.
Brendan swallowed and said, “Am I correct in assuming, sir, that you’re the man I came here to see?”
Please God, he thought, don’t let him be. Oh, please God, I’ll do anything ...
But Providence isn’t always kind, even to an absurdly lucky half-Irishman. Something clouded the old man’s face. His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat several times, passed a hand over his bushy white brows, and turned a brilliant, fiery shade of red. Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his hat. “Aye, I’m Ephraim,” he said gruffly, glaring at his son in a promise of just retribution. “And aye, we was expectin’ ye. But hell, ain’t nobody told us ye was English!”
“Irish,” Matt corrected.
“Irish, English—why the hell didn’t ye tell us, Matthew?”
“Because I know how you two feel about Brits, that’s why.”
“Please!” Brendan held up a hand before the fighting could start once more. “You’re both right. My father was Cornish, my mother Irish. But despite my heritage, I can assure you my loyalties lie in the same place yours do. My first commission was penned in Washington’s own hand, my sloop built in a Yankee yard. If she still floats, you’ll find her papers in a locked chest beneath the window seat in her cabin. I invite you to inspect them for yourself so that you may believe I am who I claim to be.”
Brendan’s attempts at playing mediator did little good. Ephraim turned on Matt with the ferocity of an angry bear. “Why in tarnation didn’t you tell me that? Blood and wounds, ye think this is any way to treat a guest? And one I’ve been expecting for clear over a month? What the hell’re ye trying to do, make me look like a bleedin’ idiot?”
Matt’s glasses steamed up. “Damn you, I tried to tell you—”
“Don’t gimme any of yer blithering excuses, you hear me? Tripes and guts, the two of ye are nothin’ but a damned embarrassment to me, ye know that? A damned embarrassment! You with yer wenching and she with her damned cats!” He shoved a hand toward Brendan. “Merrick, ye have my heartfelt apologies. Here I thought I brought the boy up with manners as fine as my own, but I can see now I was mistaken!” He clapped his hat to his wide and barreled chest and gave Brendan a yellow-toothed grimace that tried to pass as a smile. Bowing, he came up slowly, indicating the grand hall and whatever lay beyond it with a sweep of his arm. “My home is yers, Cap’n. Stay as long as ye like. A shame about those drafts, but we can work something out, eh? Here, let’s find ye some decent clothes and
put some good home cooking in yer gut. Ye look a little pale around the gills. Thin, too. I’ll wager Abigail’s got some leftovers saved from last night. If ye don’t mind eating ’em cold, I’m sure you’ll find ’em to yer liking. . . .”
Before he could protest, Ephraim was dragging him down the hall, hollering at the top of his lungs and making Brendan long for a kerchief to tie around his ears. He’d be fortunate to leave this house with his hearing intact, let alone his sanity.
“Abigail?” The walls shook. “Abigail? Find some of that stuff we had for sup last night and lay it out on the sideboard fer Cap’n Merrick! And some of Mira’s pudding, too. And be quick about it, will ye?”
“God, Father, not the pudding!” Matt cried.
Impatiently waving his son away, Ephraim led Brendan to an elegant, wainscoted dining room hung with French paper, more portraits, and a chandelier that glittered like diamonds in the hot sunlight. A magnificent Willard clock dominated one corner of the room, and a shelf clock sat on the carved mantel. Someone in this house must have an obsession with timepieces, Brendan thought, for there was another one of equal size back in the entrance hall, one on the stairway landing, and of course, the one in his room; but he was too conscious of his half-nakedness to consider it further, a fact of which he was painfully reminded as he took a seat and looked down at a table that smelled of fresh beeswax and tossed his bare-chested reflection back at him like a mirror.
Stuffing his watch back in his pocket and still hollering for Abigail, Ephraim stormed out of the room. Good God, Brendan thought, his ears ringing. He’d never felt so embarrassed in his life. And now something cold and wet was touching his bare ankle, and he knew, without looking, that it was the nose of the dog.
And then he forgot his state of undress, his humiliation, and even the dog as a plate was shoved beneath his nose and a fork thrust between his fingers. There was his longed-for leg of mutton, stuffed with oysters and accompanied by thick wedges of cheese, sauce, and pickles.
And beside it, dwarfing it with enormity and ugliness, was a shapeless, lumpy mass of quivering yellow slime that looked like the remains of a dead jellyfish.
Captain Of My Heart Page 5
