Ephraim. At that moment, Mira heard hoofbeats—and saw her father’s horse and shay coming back up High Street.
She stared, eyes widening in horror, the blood draining from her face. And then she panicked and ducked back through the forest of hanging coattails, stockinged legs, and buckled shoes.
###
Brendan was awake. Painfully so. He may have been stunned and he’d certainly had the breath knocked out of him, but he’d never quite lost consciousness. Being run down, being slapped, being screamed at, and being hugged—he’d felt it all. He sat leaning heavily against Keefe, his elbows on his knees, his aching head cradled in his hands, and his ears ringing like a blacksmith’s anvil. People were yelling, screaming, crying all around him. A dog was barking. Dalby—that was Dalby’s voice, wasn’t it?—was wailing at the top of his lungs, and someone else was shouting. Quite loudly, in fact. He would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. Ephraim. And with sudden, awful clarity, he recalled the face of the young laddie who’d run him down and knew it had been no laddie at all.
Miss Mira Ashton.
And she’d hugged him.
Not just hugged him. Kissed him.
He panicked. Fighting off Liam, Keefe, and a crowd of concerned people he’d never seen before in his life, he lunged to his feet. Above the screening buffer of their heads, Ephraim’s bellowing was much louder.
“What are you doing out here dressed in those clothes? I told you I don’t ever want to see you in public in anything but skirts and gloves again!”
“I can’t help it, Rigel got away from me! And you can stop screaming, I can hear you just fine!”
“I’ll scream all I want!”
“Scream a little louder and maybe they’ll hear you clear over in Salisbury!”
“They’ll hear me clear down to Boston if I ever again catch you outside of the back pasture wearin’ breeches! What the hell kind of daughter have I raised? Whaddye think the client would say if he saw you like this?”
“Why the hell don’t you ask him? He’s sitting right there!”
But Brendan wasn’t sitting anywhere. He was off at a brisk, limping walk that was just shy of being a dead run. Away from the crowd. Away from the commotion. Away from those crazy Ashtons.
There were plenty of other shipbuilders in the world.
“Merrick!” Ephraim roared.
Brendan stepped up his pace, moving so fast that Liam had to break into a run to catch up.
“Merrick!” Ephraim’s voice would’ve cut through a mile of fog. “Merrick, for God’s sake, don’t go!”
Liam was there beside him. “Brendan, wait! Ye can’t go off, just like that.”
“I can and I will.”
“What about the ship?”
“Someone else can build it. I’m done with this town!”
“But Ashton’s the best!” Liam tried to keep up with Brendan’s long strides. “Ye said so yerself.”
Brendan whirled to face his friend. “I’m through with Ashton, too. And his daughter, and her cats, and her dog, and her pudding!”
“Pudding?”
“Stow it, Liam!”
“But I thought ye wanted to come to Newburyport to get the schooner built. I thought ye were determined that this Ashton fellow would do it. Besides, his daughter’s not the one buildin’ the ship!” Seeing his captain’s set, angry face—Brendan? Angry?—Liam tried a different tack, for Brendan was off again, faster than before. “What are ye, afraid of her? A lassie? Ye sit there cool as frost on a pumpkin when the ship’s gettin’ blown out from under us, yet ye run from a mere lassie, and a wee one at that.”
“I am not running!”
“Oh? Then what d’ye call it, eh?” Liam edged around in front of him, trotting backward to keep ahead. “I dare ye to go back there and confront her!”
“Forget it, Liam! Dare me all you bloody want, but this is one dare I will not take you up on! If I stay in this godforsaken town any longer, I’ll end up buried here! Already I’ve nearly been poisoned with pudding, knocked down by a dog, and now, run down by a horse! No, thank you. We sail on tonight’s tide!”
Crossing his great, meaty arms over his chest, Liam stopped. He planted himself like a well-rooted oak and with an infuriating grin, drawled, “In what, pray tell?”
Brendan pushed him aside. “A damned rowboat, for all I care! Find something!”
Behind him, the argument between father and daughter had exploded into full-blown war. Liam set his jaw and pounded after his captain. Brendan had put too much time into choosing the right man to build his dream ship; he couldn’t just let him walk away from it all. But God Almighty, for someone who’d just spent a night on an open ocean and the last few minutes sprawled on a bed of hard dirt, he was being surprisingly difficult. No, not surprisingly, he corrected himself. Brendan was a scrappy lad, and when he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. Not his best friend’s reasoning. Not the combined might of the Ashtons. Not even dreams of the schooner—which would be a dead dream if he allowed him to leave Newburyport.
Down High Street they stormed, Liam stepping up his efforts to make his captain see reason, Brendan stepping up both his pace and his determination to ignore him. Past the giant Beacon Oak they went. Past the stately homes of seafarers, shipbuilders, and shipmasters. Past the windmill, Frog Pond, the powder house where they made saltpeter to aid the war effort, the long rope walk, and a flock of sheep that stared at them curiously. Down Fish Street, through Market Square, and to the riverfront. The others had caught up to them now, breathless with exhaustion. Dalby took up the rear, clutching his chest.
Everyone but Brendan came to an abrupt halt when they reached the harbor. Lying in the pungent muck of low tide was Annabel—or what was left of her. Without slowing his stride, Brendan sloshed through mud and marsh grass alike, hauled himself up and over her side by way of a severed line, and strode across her tilted decks as though she heeled in nothing more than a strong wind.
Peace. Solitude. And escape. He stormed down the companionway, found the door to his cabin, and slammed it behind him. Here, at least, there were no crew members, no cats—and no Ashtons.
###
Supper that night was a delicious meal of wild goose roasted on the clockjack till it was juicy and golden-brown; peaches stuffed with mincemeat; cornbread and sweet, creamy butter. Once again, Abigail had outdone herself—and once again, it was all for naught.
The client was absent.
Mira sat staring into her fish chowder while Ephraim glowered at her from the head of the table. Outside, a steady rain fell, pattering gloomily against the gutters and streaming down the many-paned windows. Only Matt, with one of his lady friends beside him, seemed to have any appetite. The chair the esteemed Captain Merrick should have occupied was empty.
It was most unfortunate, too, for Mira had made the chowder—as well as dessert.
“Heard Merrick’s heading back to Portsmouth tomorrow,” Ephraim muttered between mouthfuls of cornbread, to no one in particular. “All my dreams, right out the window. Just like that.”
Mira said nothing and stared down into her chowder, wondering why it was such an odd grayish color and not creamy and white as it was when Abigail made it. So much for trying to make amends.
Matt took pity on her. “Oh, lay off, would you? There’ll be other clients.” Turning to Miss Lucy Preble beside him, he smeared strawberry jam on a piece of cornbread before placing it on her plate. Matt, kind soul that he was, was treating her with sickening gallantry, but Mira knew it would only be a matter of time before Matt realized this woman was as selfish and unpleasant as the rest of them, and dumped her for someone else. As if to confirm her thoughts, Mira looked up and found the woman’s haughty stare raking her with unconcealed disdain.
Mira straightened in her chair and smoothed her skirts over her knees. What right did Her Bloody Highness have to look so damned lofty? Did she think that just because she’d powdered her hair, garbed herself in f
ine silks and velvet, and was attached to the arm of Newburyport’s most eligible bachelor, she could look down on someone else? Raising her chin, Mira shoved her hair behind her ear and returned the stare with a defiant one of her own. Miss Lucy Preble could be as lofty as she damn well pleased, but she’d never lifted one of those white fingers in the name of Liberty, never dirtied them making saltpeter down in the powder house, never pricked them sewing uniforms for the Continental army, or, heaven forbid, used them to defend the bloodstained decks of a privateer!
But then, she’d never frightened off an important client, nor run a person down on a horse, and there was no way in hell she’d be caught dead in breeches. Mira swallowed hard and looked down at her cold, gray chowder. Someone as perfect as Miss Lucy Preble didn’t do those things. Someone like Miss Preble didn’t bring disgrace upon her family name.
“Oh, there’ll be other clients, all right,” Ephraim growled, glaring at his uncharacteristically silent daughter from beneath his bushy white brows. Just because she was all dolled up in her pretty gown and petticoats didn’t change the fact that he’d raised a damned hoyden. “But none like Merrick.”
“I thought you hated him. After all, he was an Englishman,” Matt drawled with biting sarcasm.
“Irishman,” Ephraim snapped. “Besides, it don’t matter where he was born an’ raised. He was privateerin’ fer our side, and that’s all that matters.” He stared at his precious Willard clock for a long moment, then slammed his spoon down so hard that flecks of chowder leapt from his bowl and spattered his white stock. “Cripes, did ye see those figures, those calculations? That man ain’t just a naval architect, he’s a blasted engineer! That schooner he wanted me to build would’ve been the finest ship ever to slide down our ways. By God, Tracy, Greenleaf, Cross, and even Hackett would’ve all been drooling with envy, ’cause there ain’t no way in hell any of ’em could’ve ever dreamed up something like that. Not even Hancock would’ve compared, and you know what the damned Brits said about her when Greenleaf and Cross turned her out back in seventy-seven. Finest and fastest frigate in the world! But she weren’t nothin’ compared to what that schooner would’ve been! And now—” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a peach and shoved it into his mouth. “—Merrick’ll go and give his business to someone else. And someone else’ll get the glory for building that ship, not me!”
Lucy appeared unfazed by Ephraim’s tirade, but then, everyone in Newburyport was well used to his ways. She eyed Mira with cool disdain and said airily, “From what I’ve heard, that man will be Tracy.”
“What?” Ephraim’s fork came down so hard, his plate cracked.
She shrugged her shoulders and swayed slightly toward Matt, who was beginning to look disgusted with her. “Oh, yes. Nathaniel tells Papa that Merrick’s lieutenant came to him just this evening with a proposal.”
“Of all the goddamned luck!” Ephraim’s fist crashed down on the table, rattling china, upsetting the chowder bowls, and making crumbs of cornbread jump like fleas on a cat. “This is the first I’ve heard!”
“Oh, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, Captain Ashton,” Lucy said sweetly, heedless of Matt’s growing annoyance with her. “Why, it’s all over town.”
Mira shoved her hands between her clamped knees before she could give in to the urge to haul off and give Miss Lucy Preble a bloody nose. Act like a lady, she told herself. Just this once. She smoothed her skirts—native homespun skirts, not that frippery Lucy was wearing—and turned to face her father, determined, for once, to please him. “I am sorry, Father.”
“Sorry? You think being sorry’s gonna bring Merrick back?”
“I said, I’m sorry.”
“Well, ye sure weren’t sorry after you ran him down in the street! Why didn’t you think of saying ‘sorry’ then, huh? Cripes, maybe if you had, he’d be sitting there in that cussed chair and I’d have an agreement right here—” He raised his hand and shook an angry fist. “—to build that schooner. But no! Thanks to you and yer damned shenanigans, Tracy’s gonna build it! Why can’t ye be a daughter I can be proud of? Why can’t ye act like a lady for once instead of a damned hoyden—”
“I said I’m sorry!”
“—and why can’t ye be like Matt? Thank God I have one offspring I can be proud of!”
Matt choked on his cornbread, and Mira stood up so fast, her chair nearly went over backward. Tears blurred her vision and she had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from either losing her temper or crying in front of the other woman. “I—” She swallowed, gulping. “I—”
“Father, I suggest you take this discussion into the library,” Matt said firmly.
Ephraim threw down his fork. He sat there for a long moment, his eyes hard, his lower lip quivering. “All my life, I dreamed of gittin’ the chance to build a ship like that one would’ve been,” he finally said, the bluster gone from his voice. He looked at Mira, and she saw depths of pain in his eyes that shook her to her soul. “I’m an old man, Mira. It ain’t much I asked for. Just a little glory. Something that people would’ve remembered me by when I’m gone.”
He put down his napkin, got to his feet, and quietly left the room, leaving an awful silence in his wake.
Swallowing hard, Mira looked down at her plate.
Her appetite gone, she took a deep and steadying breath, aware of Matt’s sympathetic gaze upon her. As she left the dining room her gaze fell upon the beautiful Delft punch bowl that commemorated the launching of the ship Temper. Unless she found a way to get Captain Merrick’s business back, there would be no such memento to honor his fine schooner.
The fine schooner that Tracy would build.
Chapter 6
The full moon rode high above Newburyport Harbor, playing chase with lofty clouds that scudded across the vast and purple heavens on their way toward the sea. On this quiet night the river flowed like pale silk beneath it, and the shrouds and masts of anchored ships climbed skyward as though paying homage. Booms and yards were bathed in silver, sails glowed with its heavenly light, and a gentle wind whispered over all, stirring the marsh grass and filling the night with the rhythmic creak and ease of settling timbers and swaying rigging. The tang of the sea lay heavily in the air, ripe with salt and marshlands and the promise of fresher winds on the morrow.
Just beyond the tide-swell, the little sloop Annabel rested. The moon had found her, too, making pewter of her battered decks, throwing shadows across her forecastle, softening the ragged edges of spars and torn planking, and dragging ghostly fingers of light along the splintered boom of her mainsail. To all appearances she was deserted, but at her shattered stern windows a lantern shone, reflected upon the river’s shimmering surface as it rolled past on its way to the sea.
By the light of a tired candle, now spitting tallow and sending up a finger of smoke to tickle the deck beams above his head, her master worked. But it was past the candle’s bedtime as well as his, and now it shivered, faltered, flared once more, and started to die. Brendan put his pencil down, rubbed his eyes, and, digging through his splintered sea chest until he found another, lit the wick from the dying remains of the first and stuck it in the lantern.
His eyes ached with fatigue, but he’d spent the night redrawing the drafts, and he’d be damned if he sought his bed before he finished them. After his rash behavior this afternoon, he’d have to swallow his pride and go crawling back to Ephraim in the morn, hoping to God he didn’t get run down by a horse, carriage, or pack of cats along the way. What a fool he’d been for letting his humiliation over the accident dictate his behavior; he should have just got up, brushed away the dust, and laughed the whole thing off. At any other time he probably would have. But oh, Miss Mira … how she had unsettled him.
She hugged me.
Now, he’d have to swallow the pride that Liam insisted came from his stiff and proper English side. Well, damn his English side! Always getting him into trouble and leaving it to his Irish side’s luck to bail him out.
&nb
sp; But could even his Irish side rescue him from Miss Mira Ashton?
He bent his forehead into his hands and rubbed his temples. How differently things might have turned out if Crichton hadn’t stumbled upon Annabel twelve leagues east of Cape Ann. Or if his arrival at Ashton’s had been dignified, instead of one he didn’t even remember. Fine way to make an impression on a man—and his daughter.
His daughter.
Groaning, Brendan went to the stern and leaned his brow against the sill of the shattered windows. Why should it matter what Miss Mira thought? He was a seafarer, a privateer, with barely enough time for himself, let alone a pretty lass. And Mira Ashton . . . well, she sure didn’t fit any definition of “lass” he’d ever used. Lasses were supposed to be delicate, charming wee confections who dressed in ribbons, lace, and gowns. They were supposed to ride sidesaddle and spend their time pursuing genteel things like sewing and reading and spinning. They were not supposed to wear trousers. They were not supposed to curse like seasoned tars in a king’s ship. And they were not supposed to ride wild stallions and run innocent people down in the street.
Liam’s words came back to taunt him. What are ye, afraid of her? A lassie? Ye sit there cool as frost on a pumpkin when the ship’s gettin’ blown out from under us, yet ye run from a mere lassie, and a wee one at that!
Oh, he was running all right. After Julia’s betrayal, he knew better than to get tangled up with another pretty girl. There was no way he was going to let another woman steal his heart and cleverly manipulate him into a position where he’d have to choose between her and his ship. A man could not serve two passions. The next lass he gave his heart to would be made of sails and wood and wind. Ships were safer, sweeter, and ever faithful.
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