The fire crackled. The pencil lay on the floor. Eveleen choked back another sob, picked it up, and this time managed to hold it between the crook of her half thumb and the stub of her forefinger. It felt stiff . . . familiar . . . terrifying.
Could she do it? Oh, please God. . . .
She bit down on her lower lip in concentration and slowly, fearfully, touched the pencil to the paper. A line appeared, shaky, uneven, faint—
So intent was she that she never heard Mira’s soft knock.
Her brow, furrowed in concentration, became beaded with sweat. Her breathing quickened and she moved her hand, letting her arm do the work, hoping against hope that she could do it, oh please, God, just do it—
The pencil fell from her grasp and rolled away.
It was too much. Angrily Eveleen balled the paper and hurled it across the room, crying bitterly as it slammed against the wall and hit the floor. She never saw it lying there, crumpled. She never saw Mira, who’d come to try to make amends after their initial meeting, standing silently in the doorway with sympathy darkening her eyes.
Throwing herself down on the bed, Eveleen pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs and wished with all her heart she were dead.
Chapter 10
Eveleen wasn’t the only Merrick who had trouble sleeping that night. Three hours later, Brendan lay awake in his room in the Ashton home, watching moonlight glint off the brass telescope at the window and listening to the ticking of all sixteen—it was up to sixteen now; he’d actually counted—clocks that Ephraim had set in strategic places throughout the house. He listened to that ticking, that tocking, while his engineer’s mind calculated how many ticks there were in every hour, if one assumed the clocks—all sixteen of them, that is—ticked every second. Take sixty, multiply it by sixty again, then by sixteen—
Faith, no wonder he couldn’t sleep.
He looked again at the telescope and considered getting up. It had snowed a bit, earlier; now dark clouds were filing out to sea and leaving stars, glittering like chips of blue ice, in their place. His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, but moonlight would illuminate the distant river well enough that he should be able to see Kestrel waiting down there in the harbor.
Shivering, he got up and went to the window. The great constellation of Orion the Hunter lay high over distant Plum Island and the Atlantic, brandishing his shield at the starry zenith.
Ah, Orion. . . . In the crystalline night, the Hunter’s stars had never seemed brighter: the fiery Betelgeuse, glowing red at his right shoulder; Bellatrix at his left; Saiph and the bluish Rigel at his feet.
Rigel. Brendan grinned to himself. Based on what he knew of the colt, the animal was too much for Eveleen, and it was obvious his sister was terrified of him. Earlier, Mira had suggested that the riding lessons be given on Rigel’s dam, Shaula, whose temperament was quieter than that of either Rigel or the black stallion, El Nath. Brendan hoped she was right. That devil-horse was, at the moment, making one hell of a racket down in his stall, slamming his hooves against the door over and over again.
He wondered if there was a clock in the stable. ’Twould explain the steed’s bad temper.
He sighed, then, shivering, crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He was freezing, despite the crackling flames in the big fireplace, the sheet-wrapped brick snugged up against his toes, the coverlet, the wool blankets, and the three thick, heavy quilts.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Something jumped up on the bed. “M-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrrreow?”
“Oh, go away!”
“M-R-R-R-R-EEEE-O-O-O-O-OOOOW!”
Faith, what a screech! Cursing, he grabbed the animal and put it beneath the covers before it could wake up the whole household, where it promptly curled itself against his leg and set up a purring loud enough to drown out even the shelf clock that ruled the mantel.
At least it was warm.
But as he lay there thinking of tomorrow and counting off the moments—tick, tock, tick, tock—till morning, when he would be rowed out to his new command to take her on her first cruise, he knew why he couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t because of the clocks, though they certainly didn’t help.
It wasn’t because he was cold, though he certainly was.
And it wasn’t because of Kestrel, waiting for him down in the moonlit river, although his heart began to pound every time he thought of her.
It was because of Miss Mira Ashton.
She was in the next room over. Separated from him by naught but a plastered wall. Carefully, so as not to crush the cat, he turned over in bed and stared at the moonlit curtains and the night shadows playing across the floor. Just a plastered wall.
So close. And yet so far.
Shutting his eyes, he imagined her standing in the silver light coming through the window, her thick, unbound hair all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown swirling about her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of white.
He groaned, feeling himself growing hard.
The image sharpened. . . That nightgown would be sheer and ethereal and diaphanous, like the moonlight floating through the curtains. That dark, silken mane of hers would be streaming down her back, tangled with sleep and scented with roses, sweet hay, and the warmth of slumber. Her lips would be soft and parted and inviting . . . Her hands would slip up his torso, his chest, then down his hips and—
He couldn’t take it. Cursing, he got up, crossed the room and, after a brief struggle with the frozen sill, threw open the window. A blast of clean, frigid air drove against his face. Outside, the moon, so bright it hurt his eyes to look at it, threw shadows across the snow-dusted lawn and gleamed upon clusters of dead leaves, still clinging stubbornly to skeletal branches and shaking and rustling in the slight wind.
Teeth chattering, he leaned out, looking off across the frosty rooftops toward the harbor. A few lights glowed from one of the buildings in Market Square, and in the distance he could just hear fading sounds of merriment coming from the direction of Wolfe Tavern. Otherwise the night was quiet, the air clear and cold and crisp. Overhead, clouds glowed with silver light, drifting beneath the stars and leaving them twinkling in a vast and lonely sky.
Stars. They were distant in contrast to the sharp edges of the clouds, yet burned so brightly, he felt he could reach out and touch them.
Distant, yet close. Like Mira in the next room.
Ah, faith.
He heard a slow creak behind him.
“Captain Merrick?”
“Miss Mira!” He got up, horrified and delighted, and fully intending to shoo her out. “This is most inappropriate. Go back to your room.”
“Brendan, I want to talk to you about . . . about your sister.”
“Now?”
“Why not? I heard the window go up, so I knew you were awake.”
She padded into the room and into the moonlight from the window and he groaned, because yes, her thick, unbound hair was all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown swirling about her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of white.
She joined him on the window seat, leaning her back against the left side of the embrasure and pushing her bare toes toward him. Brendan shut the window and stared at her, his thoughts in tumult. Oh, hell. Now what? He was already falling in love with her. He needed no encouragement to fall even harder. He shrank back against the opposite side, trying not to think about how close her toes were to his thigh.
“What happened to her, Brendan?”
He’d known she would ask—and he’d had every intention of explaining the reasons for the anger and bitterness that lay behind Eveleen’s actions. But Mira’s nearness was making mud of his thoughts. “I’m sorry she behaved so badly toward you. Perhaps having her stay here isn’t such a good idea after all—”
“No. I want her to stay.” She pushed her toes toward him. “Cripes, it’s cold in here.”
Pushed them under his thigh.
Oh, fa
ith, lassie, he thought, desperately. Don’t do this to me.
“She’s hurting, Brendan,” he heard her say with some other part of his brain that wasn’t thinking about her toes. “I didn’t realize it this afternoon, so I reacted to her anger. But I shouldn’t have. Your sister’s miserable.”
“What?”
“It’s her hand, isn’t it? That’s why she’s so unhappy. What happened, Brendan?”
“Mira, if your father finds you here—”
“My father’s asleep, and your sister needs our help. She needs a friend. I’ll bet you’re the only person in the world who cares about her, aren’t you?”
He thought about getting up, getting away from the press of her toes, because now he was having trouble controlling not just his thoughts, but his breathing.
“Dammit, Brendan, I’m trying to help. For heaven’s sake, trust me, would you?”
He sighed and leaned his head against his own side of the sill. “You are very persistent, lass.”
She only looked at him and pushed her feet even further beneath his thighs. “Well?”
He took a deep, bracing breath, and looked out the window, away from those searching eyes. “It happened almost four years ago,” he said quietly. “I was in the Royal Navy, and had just been promoted to flag captain for Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd. We were in Boston, and my admiral sent me to investigate a complaint aboard a frigate I’d once commanded. I boarded. There was a commotion . . . an, uh . . . accident. Someone fired a pistol, and the ball caught Eveleen in the hand.” He paused, wondering if he should elaborate, then decided that nothing would come of spreading more bitterness. “She . . . lost most of her thumb and a good part of two fingers.”
“My God, Brendan.”
He stared out into the cold, starlit night. “My sister was a gifted artist,” he said. “Our mother used to say she was born with a paintbrush in her hand. In fact, Eveleen was doing our portraits before she was five years old, those of the London nobility by the time she was fifteen. What a sensation she was. . . They used to pay handsomely just for the chance to sit for her.” He smiled, remembering. “She used to dream of studying with the great masters, of seeing her work hanging in the museums alongside theirs. But Crichton’s shot changed all that.”
“Crichton?” Mira frowned. “Who’s he, the one who accidentally shot her?”
“He was the frigate’s new captain, and yes, he was the one who shot her. But he had not intended to hit her.” Very quietly, he added, “His target was me.”
“You?” Her eyes were wide.
“Aye, Mira. Me.”
“But—”
“What’s done is done. There is no going back.” He turned his head and looked at her. “And now you need to leave. Go back to your own bed.”
“Why?”
“Are you that innocent in the ways of men and women, lass?”
“Not really,” she said, grinning. “But I’m cold. Wait here.” Pulling her toes out from under his thigh, she got up, padded to his bed, and pulled off the top quilt. She returned with it and sat back down on the window seat, this time not against the opposite sill, but right in the middle, close to him.
Too close.
“Here,” she said, offering him half of the quilt.
He took it, and they sat together, the quilt draped over their shoulders.
“Why did you leave the Royal Navy, Brendan? If you were newly promoted, you must’ve been a rising star. Why throw it all away?”
It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, pain darkened his eyes, robbing them of the good humor she’d come to know and love.
“Crichton did not miss his target. I ended up in Boston Harbor more dead than alive, and while I lay fighting for my life, Crichton reported that I’d incited a mutiny, and then deserted. Politics being what they are at that level, he was believed, especially as I never showed up to defend myself. By the time I’d recovered enough to do just that, the damage was done, and I was so disgusted I no longer cared.”
She frowned, a memory tugging at her. “Crichton—that name’s familiar. I know I’ve heard it before.”
“Yes, you have. It was Crichton whom I led into the river and onto the submerged pier that evening I brought Annabel into Newburyport. We will meet again, I’m sure. He won’t stop until one of us is dead.”
“I don’t want to think of you being dead. And if I’d known that Crichton had done all that, I’d have made sure he was wearing a coat of tar and feathers when we shipped him off to Boston after he and his crew were captured here. Damned Brits!”
“They’re no worse than anyone else. I’ve met my share of evil people across all nationalities, lass.”
“Aye, you’re right, I suppose. I used to have a friend here in town named Amy . . . she fell in love with a Brit who was brought here, near to dyin’, after the battle of Concord. I was prepared to hate him but Lord Charles was a decent man. Treated my friend right and worshipped the ground she walked on. In the end, he took her off to England, married her, and made her a fine lady. We still write to each other. She was one of the few people who accepted me as I am, warts and all.”
“Warts?”
“Aye. It ain’t easy, growing up without a mother. I never had anyone to teach me how to behave like a lady, how to be . . . anythin’ but what I am. The only friends I have, now, are boys. The women in town want nothin’ to do with me.”
“Well, Miss Mira, I think you are perfect, just the way you are.”
“Thank you, Brendan. I think you’re quite perfect, too.”
And with that, she put her hand on his thigh.
He grabbed it, removed it. “Faith, Moyrrra, has anyone ever told you that you’re far too bold for your own good?”
She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Many times.”
He stared down at her—but she could see his defenses crumbling like a poorly built fort. He shook his head, as though he didn’t know quite what to do with her, but she saw that his eyes were beginning to warm, drawing her into their laughing depths, then buoying her up like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Her nipples tightened in response, and her stomach gave a little quiver, as though she’d swallowed a dozen fluttery moths; she felt flushed and more than a little breathless.
He was still gazing at her.
“You want to kiss me, don’t you, Brendan?”
“Aye, lass, I do. But I’m not going to. Not here. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“This is your father’s house. You’re an innocent. And I have no wish to become involved with . . . with a woman right now.”
“Why not?”
“Mira, it is time for you to leave.”
“Oh, Brendan, let me stay.” Unconsciously her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, and she saw his eyes darken. “We can . . . watch stars.”
“Faith, how is it that one moment we’re talking about my sister and the Royal Navy, and the next you’ve got me so befuddled, I can’t think straight?”
“I know you’re scared of me, but I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“Faith, Moyrrra, I’m not scared of you.”
“Moyrrra,” she repeated, reaching for his hand, instead. “I love how you say my name.”
“There’s no other way to say your name . . . stóirín.”
“Stor—?”
“Stóirín,” he repeated. “’Tis Irish for darling. Little treasure.”
“Oh.” Her eyes were impish. “Do you think I’m a little treasure, Brendan?”
“Aye, you’re a treasure, all right. What surprises me is that no one has stolen you yet.”
“No one would dare.” She snuggled closer to him, feeling him stiffen. “You see, Father is . . . uh, rather intimidating. And Matt is very protective. Those that get past Matt are frightened off by Father. And those that Father approves of are sent packing by Matt—sometimes with his musket.” She lifted her head and gave him one of her cat-smiles. “Of course, I really don’t need Father and Matt
to discourage unwanted attention. Sometimes I think men are more afraid of me than they are of Matt and Father combined, though I certainly don’t know why.”
Brendan said nothing, clenching his teeth in sweet agony, for now her hand was on his thigh again, he had no wish to remove it, and he was growing painfully hard.
“Anyhow, the reality is that I’ve never had a sweetheart, and all the men I know are just friends.”
“Beware, lassie, of men who call themselves friends,” he managed, his voice sounding ragged even to his own ears. “They’re usually the most dangerous of sorts.”
“And what are you, Brendan? Are you a . . . friend?”
“A friend?” Her hand was still on his thigh, only inches from his ever-hardening arousal. He tensed, groaned, set his teeth. “Faith, I can’t take this.”He caught her hand and leaped to his feet, every nerve in his body throbbing. “If you won’t leave, then I will—”
“You are afraid of me, aren’t you?”
“Afraid of you? A wee lassie?” He laughed nervously and took another step back before he could do what his body was screaming for him to do: take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Of course I’m not afraid of you—at least, not in the way that you think—”
“So you are afraid of me, just a little bit.”
“No! I mean yes—” Images of Julia flashed through his mind, and panicking, he grabbed her hand and pulled her, resisting, off the window seat. “I think, lassie, ’twas a mistake for me to stay here in this house with you and your family—”
“Mistake?”
“Shh, you’ll wake your da!”
“I ain’t gonna wake my da! Besides, I can’t leave; we . . . we have to look at stars!”
“You look at stars from your room, I’ll look at them from mine, and tomorrow we’ll compare notes over breakfast!”
“But—”
“You’re going back to your room. We’ll both be safer that way!”
“Safer from what?”
He tried to pull her—she planted her feet—and in one swift movement, he slid his arms beneath her legs and hoisted her, easily, up into his arms. Her feet swung as he carried her to the door.
Captain Of My Heart Page 14
