Saunders shrugged. “Told ye he could swim.”
“Praise the Lord,” Fergus said, without looking up from his Bible.
“Think that serving maid’s got any more beef and potatoes out in the kitchen?”
Yet Matt saw that they were all staring at him—Keefe, digging a finger against his front teeth to dislodge a string of meat; Saunders with a great gap where his own front teeth had been, and Reilly, with no teeth at all. “Well, what’re we waiting for?” Matt picked up the salt-stained hat he’d been vowing to replace for the past eight months, knowing it would probably be another eight before he got around to it. “While we’re sitting here drinking the place dry, the finest schooner this town—nay, this colony—has ever seen waits to be built.”
“But the drafts are gone.”
“Gone—but not forgotten.” Matt grinned, removed his spectacles, blew on them, and wiped them with a corner of his shirt. He put them back on, shoving them up the bridge of his nose. “Your captain tells me he kept detailed notes. Perhaps he can simply redraw those drafts.”
“Aye, that he could, if he had all those notes and calculations. ...”
Matt grinned in triumph. “Which are, I’m told, locked safely away in Annabel’s cabin.”
But the group went suddenly silent, remembering that last terrible broadside that had smashed through the stern. They’d be lucky to find part of the sea chest that Brendan had kept those notes in, let alone the notes themselves.
But Matt guessed their thoughts. “And what was it you were saying about your captain’s Irish luck, Mr. Doherty?”
They stared at him. And then, one by one, they grinned, and then they laughed, slapping one another across the back and drinking toasts to that same Irish luck until finally Matt jumped to his feet and pulled the strapping lieutenant with him, complete with fiddle, toward the door.
Outside, it was hot and muggy, and as a heavily guarded cart went past, the horses that drew it kicking up a cloud of dust, Matt never saw how Liam shuddered, paled, and made the sign of the cross. In that cart were the officers of the British frigate that Captain Merrick had tricked onto the sunken piers last night, and the red-rimmed eyes of its captain sought Liam out and remained on him long after the cart was just a speck in the distance.
Had his vision not been hindered by the cloud of fresh dust filming his lenses, Matt might have shuddered, too, at the pure hatred in the British commander’s eyes.
Coughing and waving the dust aside with his floppy hat, he poked his head back inside the tavern, managing to catch the attention of the seamen once more. “Gentlemen!” They looked up, their faces dim through the cloud of pipe smoke. “I forgot to tell you. If you’d like to visit your captain, please feel free to stop by our home on High Street. It’s the big white Georgian with green shutters, dormered windows on the second floor, and an anchor on the front lawn. Can’t miss it.”
“Why, thanks, Cap’n Ashton!”
“Any time after one o’clock’s fine.” He paused, biting his lip. “Uh, better make that one-fifteen, instead.”
“One-fifteen?”
“Aye, one-fifteen.” He touched his fingers to his temple. “See you then.”
And with that, he clapped his hat atop his red hair, yanked the floppy old brim down to shield his face from the blazing sun, and together with Liam, sauntered off down the street.
“Alive,” Dalby breathed, eyeing Fergus’s Bible with some reverence.
“Did any of us ever doubt it?”
“We have to go see him.”
“Aye. But you heard Ashton. After one-fifteen.”
Dalby stood up. “I’m not waiting for one-fifteen. I want to go now.”
“You heard him. One-fifteen. An odd time, if I do say so myself. Why not one o’clock? One-thirty? Or even two?”
Keefe belched. “Damned if I know.”
But they were soon to find out. For one o’clock was when Ephraim Ashton left that fine Georgian home, climbed into his carriage, and drove himself through town to the Ashton Shipyards on the waterfront, where he would remain until precisely six o’clock and not a moment later.
One-ten was when his daughter went riding down High Street.
And one-fifteen was when Matt estimated that street to be safe for unwary passersby.
Chapter 5
Unfortunately for Brendan, he was unaware of the Ashton schedule. By midmorning he was bored, frustrated, and impatient enough to be roaming about the house, wondering why he was having such a hard time thinking of the drafts he ought to be redrawing, and such an easy time thinking of Miss Mira Ashton.
He told himself he couldn’t work on the drafts until Ashton got back with his notes, but he knew, of course, that that wasn’t quite true. His memory was excellent when it came to the notes.
He peered out the window. The heat of the day was building. Outside, milky haze clung to thick, grassy fields that smelled sweetly of summer hay and wildflowers, and great, purple-stained clouds were stacked like shelves in a cornflower-blue sky. His gaze followed the haphazard trail of a stone wall, choked with weeds and wildflowers of every color. The fence led off into a stand of trees, and the bent grasses along its border suggested that a horse had recently passed. Miss Mira’s, perhaps?
Faith, why was he still thinking about the shipbuilder’s daughter? She was one puzzle he wasn’t even going to try to figure out. Better to concern himself with the drafts, and the familiar challenges of a naval architect—challenges involving length, beam, speed, stability, and living and storing space; sail suits and mast heights, bow rake and stern design. Not hoydens with smart mouths and impish grins and endearing little cat-wrinkles fanning out from the sides of her nose when she grinned.
Faith, laddie, get to work.
He wandered back upstairs, hoping the nautical décor of his room might stimulate him. He pushed the door open. Someone had thoughtfully laid out some clean, dry clothes on the bed for him. There was a cat curled up in them. It was not asleep, but staring haughtily at him over the top of its tail, as though annoyed that he dared interrupt its slumber. The tail twitched as Brendan let the door sigh shut behind him and strode across the room to the desk.
It was obvious his mind was not in the mood to be productive this morning. Sighing, Brendan went to the window and swung the telescope toward him, bending at the waist so that he could peer through its long tube. Over the tops of the foreground trees he could see the cluster of shops and brick houses in Market Square, and a forest of masts stabbing skyward just beyond them. A cutter was just filling her sails and coasting out with the tide, the people on her decks scurrying to and fro like ants.
There was no sign of Annabel.
The shelf clock on the mantel ticked softly: twenty minutes to one.
At a quarter to one he coaxed his tousled chestnut curls into a queue and tied them with a piece of black ribbon at the nape. At ten to one he dressed, earning a look of irritation as he removed the cat from the pile of clothes and brushed its hairs from the formerly clean shirt.
He was just pulling on his shoes when every timepiece in the house, led by the huge Willard case clock in the entrance hall, struck one o’clock. Downstairs, the front door slammed. Brendan moved to the window in time to see Ephraim striding down the driveway, consulting his watch and growing so engrossed in resetting it that he almost plowed into the waiting groomsman and the horse that stood sweating beneath its harness in the sun. And then Ephraim drove away, still fighting with the watch and cursing loud enough to be clearly heard from two stories up as he nearly sent the horse into what Matt had proudly pointed out as the town’s “Liberty Tree” before gaining control of both animal and carriage—and hopefully, watch—and disappearing from sight.
At five past one Brendan decided he’d had enough of being housebound, especially in this strange mansion where cats, clocks, and procrastination were about to drive him mad. He might as well go down to the waterfront and inspect the damage to Annabel.
U
nseen eyes weighed heavily on him as he left the room and made his way back down the huge, angled staircase. Not just the Yankee sea captains staring from their portraits, nor the dour gazes of their prim and proper wives, but cats. Hiding beneath the mahogany washstand in his room. Curled in the pewter bowl that sat atop it. Sitting on window seats in the parlor, draped along the fireplace mantel, and lying behind a model of Matthew’s Proud Mistress, which held a special place between two candlesticks on the gleaming surface of a fine pianoforte.
In the entrance hall he looked warily over his shoulder for the dog, and assuming it was probably off harassing one of the cats, opened the door and went out.
He stood for a moment in the hot, blistering sunlight, wondering why he felt like a prisoner escaping a gaol. The urge to peek over his shoulder was strong; his determination that he would not stoop to such foolishness was stronger. Taking a deep breath and listening to a locust humming in the nearby field, he filled his lungs with the sweet scent of late summer grasses.
With a jaunty step and newly found purpose, Brendan paused to get his bearings, and without a backward glance, headed down the driveway and toward High Street beyond.
It was a quarter past one.
###
Beside the small paddock attached to the stables, Mira stood holding Rigel’s reins and eyeing the empty saddle atop his back.
She wasn’t one to believe in premonitions; if so, she might have heeded the little voice that warned her that riding Rigel for the first time today was not a good idea. The colt’s dark eyes were rolling, he was lathered in sweat, and he was dancing circles around her.
Rigel was smarter than most dogs she’d known. No doubt he knew her intentions.
She glanced quickly up at the house, at the open windows of the east bedroom, where the chintz curtains that Mama had made so long ago—before the birth of a third child had claimed both her and the babe—were blowing in, blowing out. Was the handsome captain watching her? She imagined him leaning out the window, his hands gripping the sill as he might a quarterdeck rail, that one fine brow that was set a little higher than the other raised as he smiled down at her and admired her flawless horsemanship. . . . Inexplicably, her heart gave a little flutter. But the window was empty, and her only spectator was Rescue Effort Number Thirty-One, sitting in the shade of a rosebush and licking his orange coat.
Some audience. But it was better than nothing.
Nevertheless, she glanced up at the empty window a final time and berated herself for letting her attention wander. Impressing that haughty Brit was not important.
Was it?
No!
She turned away so she couldn’t see the window. Above, clouds lolled in a silver-hazed sky, and barn swallows wheeled in and out of the stable’s loft. “Now, Rigel,” she said, stroking his sweaty neck in an attempt to calm him. “It’s not going to be that bad. Do you think I’d let anything happen to you? Do you think I’d do this if I thought you were going to get hurt? Hell, do you think I’d do this if I thought I was going to get hurt?”
The colt stepped up his fidgeting, blowing hot breath through red-flaring nostrils and eyeing her warily. Despite herself, Mira glanced up at the window a final time. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a fistful of reins and mane in her left hand, put her foot in the stirrup iron—and vaulted lightly into the saddle.
She was on. On!
And almost off as Rigel exploded sideways—then bolted.
“Whoa!” Clinging like a thistle, she hung on for dear life as he tore blindly around the side of the house and rocketed toward the street. Powerful muscles rippled beneath her. His whipping mane stung her cheeks. Shortening the reins to no avail, she managed to get her seat under her and her feet back in the flying irons. “Rigel, whoa! Easy! Whoa!”
The side of the house and the front door passed in a blur. Shod hooves thundered across the lawn, struck sparks off the cobblestoned drive, and hit the street. Desperately she drew on the reins. “Whoa, Rigel, easy!”
Houses flashed by. Passersby screamed and dove out of the way. An oncoming shay careened to the right, then to the left, and overturned against a tree. Rigel shied and found more speed. He had the bit in his teeth now, the wind in his mane, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do but hang on and enjoy the ride.
Too late, she saw the Jacksons’ tricolored hound sitting on his lawn with tongue lolling, waiting, as he did every afternoon at exactly a quarter past one, for the black stallion El Nath to come thundering down High Street in much the same manner as his colt was doing now. Mira glimpsed him through the strands of Rigel’s whipping mane, tried desperately to turn him—and saw the dog hurl himself across the lawn straight into their path.
Rigel never slowed, shying sideways and across the street, flank and shoulder first. A woman screamed. Someone shouted. Mira saw a white shirt, a startled face, and then the colt’s shoulder hit something hard and her seat went out from under her. She felt space where the saddle should have been . . . air whistling through her clothes—
Bang! She landed in a very undignified heap on a manicured front lawn, in plain and humiliating sight of everyone: Jonathan Jackson, clad in his banyan and a red velvet hat and hanging out of his second-story window; Nathaniel Tracy, rival shipbuilder and privateer, leaning from a carriage and touching his cocked hat to her in an amused salute; three women who’d been taking the air on the far side of the road, now standing in speechless horror as they watched Rigel’s riderless flight back down High Street—and a man, lying crumpled in the road. Mira felt the blood draining from her face, and a flood of prickly horror.
The man was Captain Merrick.
As one, the three women picked up their skirts and rushed to his side. Tracy’s carriage slowed, stopped, turned around in a cloud of dust. And coming up the street was a group of seamen who pointed, yelled, and broke into a dead run toward them. But Mira, forgetting her humiliation, saw only the captain, lying very still on the hard-packed dirt, and as the people surged forward, nothing but a wall of breeches, coattails, and skirts. “Let me through!” she cried, leaping to her feet and trying to shove them aside. “Let me through!”
Tracy, adjusting his powdered wig, was stepping down from his carriage. “You really ought to be more careful on those horses, Miss Mira. Racing down the street like that, ’tis a wonder you haven’t hurt someone sooner.”
“Hurt him?” A woman turned, her hand to her mouth and her eyes horrified above it. “I think she’s killed him!”
“No!” With a cry, Mira ducked between a seaman’s bowed legs and fell on her knees before the captain. He was as still as death, and just as white. “Captain!” She seized his hand, rubbing it, patting it, slapping it in frenzied terror. “Captain Merrick, oh God—”
Father was going to murder her.
“Captain, wake up!”
“You killed the poor fellow, Miss Ashton,” Tracy said quietly, and took off his hat.
One of the women began screaming, another swooned, and the third, gasping like a dying cod, clung to Tracy’s arm, her wrist flung across her forehead. The hound raced to and fro, barking in mindless frenzy. And then the group of seamen thrust through the crowd, tossing people aside, their yelling—and the hideous wailings of the oldest, smallest one—bringing the clamor to din pitch. Horrified, Mira fell forward, blocking out the screaming, the bellowing, the barking. She put her arms around the captain’s shoulders, a hand behind his head, and pulled him up against herself, where she hugged him for all she was worth as though to hold the life in him.
He was warm and heavy and smelled faintly of seawater. His chestnut queue was silky beneath her fingers, the back of his head warm against her palm. And as she held him, pressing her lips to his forehead, his arm moved and his hand came up to push blindly against her breast.
A shock wave tore through her at his touch, but she had no time to ponder it, nor savor the relief that she hadn’t killed him after all. “Make way there, make way!” s
omeone shouted, and then she was seized by a pair of brawny hands, yanked to her feet, and flung rudely aside, landing hard on her shoulder just beyond the throng of people.
One of the seamen—the big one with bare arms showing through slit sleeves—had done it. And now he was bent over the captain, slapping his cheeks hard enough to dislodge a tooth and yelling in an Irish brogue so thick, she could barely understand him.
“Brrrrendan, wake up, me laddie, wake up! Fer God’s sake, wake up!”
Mira sprang to her feet. She was a child of the docks, of the sea—and of Ephraim Ashton. Cursing, she pounced on the big seaman’s unsuspecting back like a hellborn sprite, fists beating against his beefy shoulders, and feet kicking at his stout legs. His ear was conveniently close. “Damn you for a bloody idiot! How dare you toss me aside, you big, stinking oaf! Now, get away from him, you heap of bilge rot, before I—”
The seaman was turning, an incredulous grin splitting his broad face, his bear paw of a hand already removing his tricorne. “God Almighty,” he said slowly. “’Tis—”
“—a woman, Liam!” another shrieked, grabbing the big one’s arm. “By the blood of Christ, a woman!”
She glared at them through a wall of hair. “Damn right I am! You think because I’m in breeches and shirt, you can treat me like a bleedin’ barnacle? Try it again and I’ll send your nose right through the back of your bleedin’ skull. Wretch! Brute! Bastard! Now, let me through, you blithering barrel of sea slime, so I can tend to the captain!”
The one named Liam threw back his head and split the air with laughter. The toothless seaman was guffawing, the little one was clutching his belly and looking quite ill, and the others were all bending over Captain Merrick. But the townspeople were staring at her; not in disbelief, for they were well used to her ways, but in a manner that spoke all too well of their sympathy for poor Ephraim at having to take such a wild one in tow.
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