“Brendan, what’s the matter?”
He opened the door, deposited her on her feet in the hall, and shut the door.
Mira was left standing on the cold floor, confused, thwarted, and more than a little angry. She stared at the door, her blood throbbing, her heart pounding, her body needful of something she didn’t understand. Damn him! What the hell was wrong with him? Didn’t most men welcome a woman’s attention?
Did he find her wanting?
Cursing, she stalked back to her own room, her eyes narrowed. Whatever the handsome Captain Merrick was running from, she’d find out what it was. He couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later, he’d kiss her again.
She’d make sure of it.
And in the meantime, she’d make damn sure she was on that schooner’s maiden voyage.
Chapter 11
A strong easterly wind kept Kestrel bottled up in harbor the next day. Mira watched from her window as Brendan, Father, and Matt drove down to the waterfront to inspect the ship, then wasted no time in setting to work on Eveleen Merrick.
If she wanted to sneak aboard Kestrel when she made her maiden cruise—without Brendan’s or Father’s knowledge—she had to win Eveleen’s friendship, and subsequently her promise to keep her presence aboard the schooner a secret. That was, of course, a lot to ask—but Mira had a very attractive bargaining tool in mind.
Matthew.
She’d have to be blind not to realize that Eveleen was totally smitten with her brother.
She laughed to herself, picked up Rescue Effort Number One, and buried her cheek against his soft fur. Of course, winning Eveleen’s friendship had other advantages, too. Mira had been truthful in wanting to help the girl find meaning in her life once more, but she also realized something else—that Eveleen could be quite valuable when it came to securing the interest—and attentions—of her brother, the captain.
Mira stood by the window for a long time, scheming. She’d have to find a way to keep Eveleen occupied while she was out on Kestrel. The girl would be left in the house with just Father, the staff, and sometimes Matt. There was always Abigail, of course, who could take her under her wing when Mira wasn’t there—but Mira was looking for something that would start Eveleen on the path to liking herself, something that would build her confidence, something that would help turn her into a woman they all could live with.
Especially Matt.
Which is where the horses would come in.
Eveleen was terrified of them. But if she taught her the basics, such as feeding and grooming, and Eveleen practiced working around them while she was gone, then she’d be well on her way to gaining self-confidence just by getting over that terror.
Of course, that would mean starting as soon as possible—for Brendan planned to take Kestrel on her maiden voyage tomorrow.
Steeling herself for a fight, she picked up her riding crop, went to Eveleen’s room, and knocked loudly. “Eveleen?”
The girl was still in her nightgown, sitting up in bed with a tray balanced on her legs. On it were two muffins, the remains of several more, and a huge glass of milk. She looked up, saw Mira, and instantly her features took on a sour look.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Mira said. “But I ain’t gonna dwell on it and neither are you. You and I are starting over. Now, get into your old clothes, and make it snappy.” She was going to have to use force and not pamper the girl. “It’s already late and we’ve work to do if you expect to be riding that mare anytime soon.”
Eveleen glared at her from the bed and said haughtily, “I don’t have any old clothes.”
“Fine, then. You can wear what you had on yesterday. That pink dress, without the jewelry.”
“But—”
“First, you’re going to learn how to feed and water a horse. Then you’re going to learn how to groom and take care of her. That includes mucking out stalls and picking manure out of her hooves—”
“Picking manure!” Eveleen gasped, going white with horror.
“Aye, picking manure. Now, hurry up.”
“But I can’t wear my pink dress.”
“Then don’t. But find something, ’cause I’m not waiting all day.”
Eveleen glared at her.
Mira grinned.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Eveleen snarled.
“’Cause your brother asked me to.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” Eveleen said smugly, her smile growing malicious.
“Well, it oughtta be,” Mira snapped, unwilling to back down, “because I happen to know that you fancy my brother.” She smiled as Eveleen paled. “So there.”
Eveleen’s eyes were full of hatred. She said nothing, only slid her maimed hand beneath the covers.
“Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of saying anything to Matthew,” Mira said. “In fact, I would love nothing more than to see him and you together. I think you would be wonderful for him. But he won’t even look at you unless you take charge of your life and stop bein’ so miserable. You can be happy, Eveleen, with a little work. That’s what I’m here for. To make you work.”
“Work?”
“Aye, work. To that end, I have a bargain for you.” She turned and crossed her arms. “You help me net your brother, and I’ll help you net mine.”
“What?”
“Your brother’s a real test of my patience. He’s terrified of me, though God only knows why. But I think I want to marry him . . . provided, of course, he passes the Test.”
“Marry? Test?”
“Aye. I have to see him in action aboard the schooner so I can judge his competence as a mariner . . . and that is where I need your help.”
Eveleen stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Then Mira began to walk the room again, slapping the riding crop against her palm as she outlined her scheme to go aboard Kestrel, and stressing the need for secrecy and cooperation on Eveleen’s part. When she’d finished, distrust warred with wary interest in the other woman’s eyes. “So, what is in this for me?”
“Why, Matthew, of course.”
“I fail to see how.”
“You leave matters up to me, and I promise you my brother’ll be yours before summer’s end.” Mira crossed her arms and gave Eveleen a level look. “But that requires doing everything and anything that I ask of you, no matter how unpleasant you find it.”
It was a challenge, and Eveleen knew it.
Mira watched the suspicion in Eveleen’s eyes become the barest glimmer of hope. The other woman then glanced away, and picked up a muffin.
Mira stepped forward and took it away. “You can have your breakfast later,” she said, ignoring Eveleen’s suddenly mutinous look. “In this house, we take care of the horses first.”
“You take care of them. I can’t hold a bucket or a brush, anyhow.”
“You can, too.”
“I cannot. My hand’s useless. I’m a cripple.”
“You only need one hand to hold a bucket or a brush, or, for that matter, a halter or the reins.”
“I said, I’m a cripple!” Eveleen shouted.
Mira sat down on the bed. She reached out, took the tray, and set it on the table behind her, out of Eveleen’s reach. Tears glittered in the girl’s eyes, bitter tears that she tried to hide by turning away. Gently Mira reached out and touched her arm.
“Eveleen . . . you don’t have to hide your hand from me.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It is not.”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen it!”
“I have, too,” Mira said, softly. “Last night.”
Anger, hatred, and betrayal glittered in Eveleen’s eyes. “You’re a bitch,” she whispered, trying not to cry.
“I’ll tell you something, Eveleen.” Unflinchingly, Mira met the other woman’s accusing stare. “You know how I said I’m doing this for Brendan?”
Eveleen set her jaw, and
tears of hatred stood poised on the tips of her lashes.
“Well, I lied.” Mira stood up. “I’m doing it for you.” With that, she strode from the room. She felt Eveleen’s gaze boring into her back. She heard her quick sniffle and the catch of her breath.
Don’t disappoint me, Eveleen. Show me what you’re made of.
She’d reached the door when Eveleen’s tremulous voice stopped her. “Mira?”
She paused, and turned.
Eveleen looked down, biting her lip. “Do you think you might have some . . . old clothes for me to borrow?”
“Well now, I believe I just might.” Mira said, grinning, and slapped her crop a final time against her hand. “Come with me, and let’s see what we can find.”
Chapter 12
The following morning, Newburyport awoke to a pink and pewter horizon hiding beneath gray clouds that promised bad weather. The morning grew slowly darker as the clouds piled in. By the time Brendan had shaved, dressed, and bolted down a plate of fried hasty pudding smothered in molasses, it was snowing hard.
Pulling his tricorne low, he stood outside in the falling snow, waiting for Ephraim and glancing up at Mira’s darkened window. She had not appeared at the breakfast table, nor had she come down to see him off, and her absence made him feel strangely empty inside, hollow-hearted and sad. Doubtless she was not only bewildered by his flighty behavior of the other night, but also hurt and downright angry. But faith, didn’t she realize what she was doing to him? How close she’d driven him to succumbing to the sweet temptations of her delightful little body? What was he to do, stay there and make love to her in her father’s own house?
Great white flakes of snow tingled upon his cheeks, caked on his eyelashes, melted in clean, cold rivulets that ran down his face and drove the achy tiredness from his still foggy brain. He tore his gaze from that empty window and dug his boot into the fresh snow. Maybe it was good he was going away for a few days. Maybe it was best that he put some distance between himself and the feisty little hoyden—
“Ye ready there, boy?” Ephraim came out of the barn, leading a fractious, prancing El Nath, who didn’t look happy about being hitched to the smart red sleigh.
Brendan shot a last glance at that darkened window, eyed the unruly black stallion with no small degree of trepidation, and with a fleeting, nervous grin, climbed up into the sleigh beside the old shipbuilder. Fumes of rum hit him in the face. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Well then, let’s be off before we miss the tide. It’s already—” Ephraim tore his mitten off with his teeth, yanked out a watch, and studied it with a scrunched-up scowl. “—half past six, and the crowds’ll be gatherin’ down at the wharf to watch. Don’t wanna be late, eh? Cripes, they’d never let me forgit it down at Davenport’s!” He cracked the air over El Nath’s head with a whip. “Gee-dup there, ye ornery ole nag!”
The sleigh’s runners whispered through fresh snow as they swept down the driveway and into the street. Plumes of steam rose from El Nath’s flared nostrils, snow crusted his flying black mane, and the patriotic red and white ribbons on his harness streamed back in the wind.
Brendan felt a thrill go through him. Today was the day! Down at the waterfront, Kestrel was waiting. He sat a little straighter on the cold, hard seat and drew his cloak around his fine new uniform, fidgeting with excitement.
“Hee, hee, hee, would ye look at the old devil!” Ephraim, his cheeks red with cold, flashed him a yellowish grin. “Acting just like he knows the day’s a special one, eh, Merrick?”
But Brendan wasn’t looking at the stallion. As they passed darkened houses sleeping beneath snowy roofs, the people, already out of their warm beds and stoking up dying fires, came running out on their doorsteps to wave and shout and cheer, some still holding candles and clad in their nightgowns and banyans. He swallowed hard, dreading the reception that no doubt awaited him at the waterfront.
He was not disappointed. The people were there, all right, bundled up in thick woolen coats and scarves, milling about and obviously waiting for him. At sight of the sleigh, they gave a wild, roaring cheer and rushed forward, hauling him out of it, clapping him on the back, and toasting him with mugs of hot buttered rum and steaming black coffee. A group of young lads, their noses red with cold, struck up “Free America” on fife and drum, a cannon banged from somewhere nearby, and then he looked out to the river.
The crowd’s roar dimmed. The music faded away. He heard nothing but the ice floes that drove up against the shore and creaked and groaned like a square rigger in a gale. Felt nothing but the snow melting on his cheeks.
And saw nothing but her.
She stood out in the river, proud, lovely, and impatient, shifting her weight from beam to beam as though she had no use for the land and was quite eager to be free of it. The current was so strong, it made a little wake against her bow, and high up, almost lost in the clouds, pennants fluttered from her masthead with joyous abandon. Her deck was crowded with seamen, officers, and the rifle-toting backwoodsmen who would serve as her marines. Someone must have seen him standing there, for there was suddenly a flurry of activity as his crew prepared to receive him.
He was dimly aware of Matthew detaching himself from the arm of a young woman nearby, and hauling him through the parting crowd and down to the wharf, where Kestrel’s boat waited. A small group of seamen, handpicked by Liam himself, rowed him out to her, their oars rising and falling in perfect unison through the ice-clogged water. Their discipline would have done a king’s ship proud. They passed beneath the sharp-eyed little hawk that was the schooner’s figurehead—and then the boat was alongside.
Jamming his tricorne firmly down, Brendan tilted his head back and gazed up through the falling snow. His eyes grew moist and a strange lump filled the back of his throat. It was all the same, poignant and familiar, stirring and bittersweet. The barked orders . . . the bosun’s whistles . . . the marines, presenting arms and snapping to attention, the seamen lined up behind them in perfect rows in readiness to receive him. It was the same glorious salute of a ship welcoming her commander—and it brought back memories of other days, other ships, and of the first time the mighty Dauntless had welcomed him as Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s flag captain. . . .
He shook his head, willing the memories away. And then a fife pierced the air, and drums, too, and to the rousing tune of “Yankee Doodle,” Brendan hauled himself up Kestrel’s sleek sides and stepped onto her deck. He saw the raised swords and shrilling pipes, the officers who saluted him smartly, the crew lining the rails and clinging to tarry shrouds, the little lad who stood with a possessive hand upon an old four-pounder, head thrown back, eyes bright with life, and leading the rest of them in a lusty, full-throated version of “Yankee Doodle” that carried from stem to stern:
“A Band of Brothers let us be, while Adams guides the na-tion, and still our dear bought Freedom guard, in ev’ry situa-tion!”
He grinned.
“Yankee Doodle, guard your coast! Yankee Doodle Dan-dy! Fear not then or threat or boast, Yankee Doodle Dan-dy!”
Saluting smartly and pretending not to notice his captain’s misty eyes, Liam stepped forward. “Welcome aboard, sir!”
Brendan returned the salute, doffed his hat to what would’ve been the quarterdeck if the schooner had one, and surveyed his command.
Forward, her long bowsprit angled up toward the gray sky. Guns, lashed down and waiting, sat upon brilliant red trucks dappled with snow. Lines lay neatly coiled upon tidy decks, and sails were furled upon booms and yards. The scents of fresh paint and tar, sweet hemp and varnish, filled the air, mixing with that of clean, newly fallen snow and the heady, wild hint of winter seas.
Liam was trying his best to contain his great, beamy grin. “Well?”
“Go hálainn ...” Brendan said simply, for there was nothing else to say. He glanced skyward, blinking, as the snow sifted down out of the heavens and melted upon his cheeks. She was lovely, all right. Tall, raked-back masts, their p
ennants obscured by snow and mist, traced gently spiraling circles against the heavy clouds. Shrouds were black crosshatches against the pale sky. Snow capped her guns and swivels, pinrails and deck planking, rigging, spars, and booms like frosting on a cake. A fine westerly sang through the rigging, and the tide was going out. He couldn’t have asked for a finer day to put to sea.
And Kestrel was ready. Brendan felt her restlessness beneath his booted feet, the tension thrumming through her stays, her shrouds, even the tiller bar, as he strode aft and gripped it for the first time. Snow melted beneath his palm and his fingers grew numb, but he kept his hand there until the wood grew warm and wet, feeling as if he were touching the schooner’s very heart. It was a long moment before he finally loosened the tiller and mainsheet and turned to face his waiting crew.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the people of Newburyport clogging the wharfs, the decks of other, nearby ships, the little boats bobbing among the ice floes that hovered near shore, all here to see him off with fanfare and glory. Somewhere out there was Mira Ashton. She hadn’t been at breakfast, but he knew she was here, could almost feel those impish green eyes upon him. He swallowed hard and turned his face into the stinging wind to cool his suddenly hot cheeks. Mira Ashton, who thought he could sketch—but not sail—a ship. She would be watching with a very critical eye indeed. . . .
With a sudden grin, he turned to Zachary Wilbur. The boatswain’s protruding potbelly was dusted with snow, his bowed legs spread as though the ship were already plunging through fifteen-foot seas. “Well, laddies, what’re we waiting for? Haul in that anchor, Mr. Wilbur, and let’s be about our business!”
The crew sent up a rousing cheer that rippled from bow to stern and back again on a thunderous wave of sound.
“Get the boat in and signal our pilot, Mr. Wilbur. We’ll head out on jib and rudder alone.” Brendan couldn’t control his excited grin. “And be lively about it, Zach! We have an audience today!”
“Aye, sir!”
Captain Of My Heart Page 15
