Laughing, Brendan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Methinks ye’d bett’r wipe off y’r specs, Ashton!”
“And methinks you’re the one who needs ’em, not me!”
Brendan bent, grabbed more snow, and straightened up. “Then kindly lend me yours so that—”
Thwack! He staggered backward, landing in an undignified sprawl on his backside in a two-foot drift. Stunned, he looked down, gasping like a fish out of water and cringing at the pain of sucking in great lungfuls of brittle air. Part of a snowball caked his lapels and chest. The rest of it was already sliding down the front of his coat. He shut his eyes for a moment, dizzy beneath the reawakened agony of his old injury.
Matt’s howls of glee split the night and he slapped his thigh, the impact sounding like rifle shots in the frigid stillness. Coughing, Brendan pressed a hand to his chest and looked up. The front door was still open, but it was no longer empty.
Miss Mira Ashton stood there.
And she was making another snowball.
He lunged to his feet, hands outspread and raised in surrender. “Mercy, lass! Quarter! What’re you trying to do, kill me?”
She smiled sweetly, already drawing her arm back. In that demure gown, with her hair caught up beneath a lacy white mobcap, a cameo at her throat, and her slim body backlit by the chandelier, she looked too beautiful, too delicate, to do any damage.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. And as he gingerly brushed the snow from his chest and wondered if she’d cracked a rib, she proved it.
The snowball hit him like a charge of grape, exploding against his collarbone and sending a cold spray of powder into his eyes, his nose, and down his neck. She brought him down once more, to his knees this time, and as he gasped for breath, he heard her laughter pealing like bells in the crystal night air.
Her brother’s last snowball, casually thrown, sent his tricorne flying. “Serves you right, Merrick,” he complained good-naturedly. “Coming into port with eight prizes your first time out. What’re ye trying to do, show me up? Hell, I have a reputation to uphold, you know!”
Brendan forced a grin, his shoulder throbbing and the old gunshot wound a familiar, dull ache in his chest. He ran a finger inside his stock to dig the snow out and retrieved his tricorne. Knocking the snow from it, he set it atop his head, grimacing as a fresh sifting of cold powder found its way beneath his queue and slithered down his nape. “A reputation?”
“Hmph! He has a reputation, all right!” Mira stood in the doorway, beautiful in a sea-green gown shot through with silver. But unlike Eveleen, who’d appeared behind her, there was nothing regal about her; her knuckles rested saucily on her hips, her lips were twitching, and the sides of her nose were crinkled with laughter. That helplessly thick hair, shining and freshly washed, was gathered atop her head, a few dark strands of it tipping her shoulders and falling over her brow.
Brendan’s chest went tight. He stopped breathing and stared at her, transfixed. It was hard to believe that this was the same girl who’d run him down in the street, swore like a sailor, and went about town in her brother’s clothes when the urge struck her. He shook his head to clear it, no longer feeling the snow trickling down his throat, his neck.
And faith, she sure had one hell of an arm!
“Aye, a reputation with the ladies!” she called saucily. “He’s afraid that if you replace him as the local hero, they’ll all flock to you instead!” Seeming oblivious to the cold, she gathered up more snow, this time eyeing Matt, who had the good sense to back away. “Isn’t that right, dear Matthew?”
“Absolutely,” he said, gauging the distance between himself and the doorway and wondering if he could make it in time before she brought him down with that deadly missile.
Mira rounded out the snowball, her calculated, planned manner reminding Brendan of the way Mr. Starr had tested each ball before ramming it into his gun. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were red with cold, and behind her he could still see Eveleen, watching Matt with wistful eyes. “Did you see Mistress’s figurehead as you came into port, Captain?” Mira said.
Brendan eyed that deadly snowball, wondering if it was intended for him or her brother. “Her figurehead? Er, no.”
“You really should go and take a look at it. Matt’s painted it again, to resemble his latest lady friend. Currently it has red hair and green eyes, right, Matt?”
“Blue eyes, damn you.”
“Oh. Sorry, I haven’t been as close to Miss Greenleaf as you’ve been, dear brother! So how should I know, hmmm?” Pat, pat. The snowball looked cold, hard—and deadly.
“So help me, Mira, you throw that snowball and I’ll—”
She never gave him the chance to finish. Laughing, she drew back and threw it hard, clapping her hands as it caught him dead center in the chest with an exaggerated thump. Shaking with mirth, she fell against the doorway as Matt let out an enraged howl and violated the crisp, white night with a string of curses so loud that across the street, a window shot open and a stockinged head poked out.
“What the tarnal hell’s goin’ on out there?!”
Laughter greeted his angry query. The man slammed the window down with a sharp crack. “What the tarnal hell’s goin’ on out there?!” Mira mimicked. She looked at Brendan across the snowy lawn, he looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes, hungry and wanting. Her laughter trailed off. She smiled her cat-smile. And Brendan, stuffing his painful thawing hands into his pockets, watched the snow swirling around her lovely face and swallowed hard.
Suddenly the night didn’t seem so cold.
Matt charged onto the steps and grabbed her before she could fashion another snowball. Rubbing his elbow, he hauled her past Eveleen and over the threshold. “You’re going inside,” he muttered, “before you end up killing one of us. Christ, Father’ll have both our hides if you end up taking poor Merrick’s head off with one of your damned snowballs.” He turned, wiping his wet hand on his breeches before extending it in greeting. “Come on in, Merrick! ’Gads, ’tis good to have you back!”
Brendan returned the greeting and together they entered the hall, red-cheeked, dripping, stomping snow from their feet and breathing hard. Inside, it felt steamy and hot after being out in the cold. A brilliant array of candles sputtered and hissed from a chandelier overhead, filling the air with the scent of tallow. As Brendan stood blinking, his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden brightness, a servant took his dripping coat, hat, and sword, and Eveleen thrust a mug of mulled cider into his raw hands. He was barely aware of the attention. His gaze was on Mira, just disappearing into the dining room with a tiger-striped tomcat yowling in her wake.
His chest ached, but it had nothing to do with the snowball. His neck was cold, his stock wet and itchy against his skin, and his breeches were soaked—but he was heedless of these discomforts. And then he heard the sounds of dishes clinking against one another, the pop of a cork, Ephraim’s cursing. He saw the cat come bolting out of the dining room with Luff hot on its heels. He smelled hot turkey, fresh gingerbread, cinnamon, and baking apples—and fleetingly wondered if Mira had done any of the cooking.
He suddenly realized that he didn’t give a damn if she had or hadn’t.
Grinning wolfishly, he followed her into the great dining room.
###
There was hot turkey and squash baked in maple syrup. Com pudding, codfish cakes, and skillet cranberries, frosty with sugar. Chestnut flummery with sweet sauce, Abigail’s chewy molasses cookies, gingerbread and eggnog and whipped syllabub. Hot buttered rum and plates of glazed almonds, raisins, cheese. As usual, Abigail had put on a feast, this time using Kestrel’s success as an excuse to engage in her favorite pastime—cooking up a storm for her very appreciative menfolk.
Unlike Eveleen, Mira didn’t do the meal much justice. She was too aware of the man who sat beside her. Brendan. His arm was near enough to lean against, his long thigh was heating up the space next to hers, and he was so close, she could smell his clean, ma
sculine scent: spicy shaving soap, wet wool and damp cotton, fresh air and melted snow. He grinned a lot, complimented Abigail on the meal, caused the housekeeper to blush, and talked with his hands. His laughter was pure as the sea wind and as Irish as that whiskey Liam had nearly poisoned her with last night. He seemed unaware of the fact she sat beside him, never turning her way, never talking to her, and being very, very careful not to let his arm or thigh accidentally brush hers. But his skittish attitude didn’t deter her. Every time she looked at him, she saw him again as he’d been on Kestrel’s decks, laughing and gallant and quite full of himself as he’d put the schooner through her paces.
“You’re in love with him,” Matt had taunted, grinning devilishly as earlier she’d paced the house, eagerly peering out the windows and glancing at the nearest clock as she’d waited for him to arrive.
“Am not.”
“Are, too.” He’d tweaked her nose, and she’d kicked him in the shin. “I know the signs.”
“I ain’t in love with him. The man’s a blasted lunatic. Any captain who stands on his deck and draws pictures of the enemy’s ship during battle’s gotta have rocks in his head!”
“Our Captain from Connaught hasn’t rocks in his head, dear sister, and you know it. But I do think he’s got something in his heart for you.”
“You’re full of crap, you know that, Matt? Full of crap!” To which Matt had responded with hearty laughter and a careless wave of his freckled hand.
Heck, she hoped Matt was right and Brendan did feel something for her. Yet why was he taking pains to avoid her? She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and picked at her food, too tense, too flustered, and far too excited to eat. Her stomach felt as though someone had tied a double reef in it. Her lips were dry and she had to keep wetting them; during one of these times Brendan happened to glance at her, and his eyes had darkened perceptibly, making her lips go drier and her stomach even more jumpy.
And of course, there was the very real danger that he’d find out just where she’d been these past several days . . .
Following Kestrel’s triumphant return to port, she’d darted through the throngs, scooted home, and managed to get halfway up the stairs before she was set upon by Ephraim, who’d spent a good ten minutes bawling at the very top of his lungs.
“I told ye I don’t want ye out on that damned ship of Matt’s! I told ye I want ye to start actin’ like a proper female! And here ye are, defyin’ me again! What’ll Merrick think when he finds out?! He don’t know, does he? Tripes ’n guts, that’s all I need is fer him t’ hear o’ this! You an’ yer unladylike behavior’s gonna be the bleedin’ death of me!”
Of course, it wouldn’t be long before he did know, Mira had flippantly predicted, for not only had the household staff heard every word—but so had every neighbor within a half-mile radius.
It was a good thing that Father didn’t know what ship she’d really been out on!
Brendan’s voice brought her back to the present. “So, Moyrrra, how did the riding lessons go, eh?”
“Riding lessons?”
Surprisingly, it was Eveleen who came to her rescue. “They’ve been going very well, Brendan.”
Mira shot the other woman a look of gratitude, but Eveleen was too busy staring at Matt from above a pile of gravy-soaked turkey some three inches high, averting her eyes only when Matt, who was launching into some plan to attack a convoy of merchant ships on its way to New York, swung his bespectacled face away from Brendan long enough to choke down a spoonful of Mira’s own fish chowder before going at it once more. Before the main dessert was even served—a rich bread pudding dripping maple syrup and brandy and topped with clouds of cream, which Brendan didn’t touch and Eveleen devoured like a starving child—Mira was determined that she would see the two of them together if it was the last thing she did.
Matt wasn’t helping the matter any. Mira cursed him under her breath. As usual, he tended toward exaggeration—sometimes wildly so—when he had an attentive audience. Brendan, who was familiar with the tavern boasts of fellow sea captains, merely raised a brow and reached for a piece of fruit, the little smile playing about his mouth indicating he believed only half of what Matt was saying. Eveleen was another story altogether. She listened with rapt attention, finally abandoning even her dessert and staring at Matt in fascination.
Mira frowned. She needed to get Eveleen’s attention on something other than food and her brother. Very aware of Brendan’s leg, which had drifted slightly toward hers, she dabbed her lips with her napkin and said brightly, “So, Eveleen. Are you looking forward to your riding lesson tomorrow?”
Eveleen’s head jerked up, as though she hadn’t heard Mira’s question. “I’m sorry?”
“Your riding lesson,” Mira chirped, flushing a bit when she felt Brendan’s gaze upon her. “Ten o’clock, remember?”
Eveleen gave her a sour look. “Oh . . . yes. I’d forgotten.” But she remembered her half-finished dessert, and attacked it with renewed vigor. “I do hope it’s after breakfast. I get positively faint if I exert myself before eating.”
“Breakfast’s at precisely eight o’clock,” Ephraim announced, as though it wasn’t already a well-known fact.
“So there, you see?” Mira said cheerfully. “You’ll be full, but not too full to ride—”
“Of course . . . More pudding, please, Captain Ashton?”
Matt, still going on about the convoy, passed it without even glancing at her.
And so the evening went, with Eveleen staring at Matt, and he ignoring her, and Mira staring at Brendan, and he ignoring her, until Mira boldly reached beneath the tablecloth and placed her hand on Brendan’s thigh just as pretty as you please, at which point he shot out of his chair and knocked over the fine bottle of Madeira that Ephraim had just brought out. A red stain raced across the white linen, and Brendan colored with mortification.
“Nervous there, boy?” Ephraim asked, bushy white brows drawn close in a frown.
“Er, no . . . just—”
“Don’t fret, Merrick, happens to the best of us. Sometimes the fear and reya-ly-zay-shun of how close ye come t’ gittin’ yer head blown off in a sea battle don’t hit until yer safely back on land.” He glanced at his prized Willard clock and cleared his throat importantly. “I think it’s about time we go retire fer a swig or two, eh, boys? We don’t want to talk about killin’ and blood and guts in front of the womenfolk. Let’s go to the library and do it there.”
He cackled at his own joke and dragged Matthew up from his chair.
Brendan paused and glanced ruefully at the ruined tablecloth. His thigh seemed to throb where she’d touched it. Pins and needles danced up his leg. And he was tired, dead tired. If only he could get away, get back to Kestrel without offending the old man. They could all discuss this convoy tomorrow. But Ephraim was already headed down the hall, bellowing for a bottle of brandy and more of Abigail’s cookies. Brendan felt Mira’s green-eyed stare on his back, and resigned himself to joining the old sea captain. He’d stay just long enough to be polite, and then he’d leave. Get himself out of this house before Miss Mira’s charms did him in.
Yet despite himself, he happened to glance at her as he pushed in his chair. She was still sitting there, chewing her lip until it was delightfully red and swollen, her little hand stroking that gray dockyard cat, and her eyes glinting with a secretiveness that belied her apparent demureness. He wondered what mischief she was plotting now. And then she happened to glance up, and their eyes met. A current of electricity sizzled between them, one that had been crackling and sparking all night. Brendan’s chest tightened and his heart fluttered and jumped, the way it often did when he’d had too much coffee in the morning.
With a rigid elegance that did his English side proud, he nodded stiffly and followed his host into the library.
Mira, her eyes dreamy, watched him go. A little smile lifted the corner of her mouth, and she sat gazing at the closed door long after the servants arrive
d and began to clear the table.
Brendan.
Her Captain from Connaught.
She stuck her finger in her mouth and thoughtfully bit off a hangnail. He’d passed the Test with flying colors, proving himself more than competent as a seaman—and a commander.
Matt was right. She was in love with him.
Chapter 15
Mira was so deep in thought that she’d all but forgotten that she wasn’t alone at the table. Eveleen was still there, eating up the last of the bread pudding and maintaining a sulky silence. So quiet was she that Mira jumped when the girl heaved herself out of her chair and ambled off toward the stairs, her step heavy and her eyes, so like Brendan’s but lacking their carefree mirth, downcast and miserable.
Mira’s heart went out to her.
As usual, Eveleen had been wearing a pink silk gown, which did nothing whatsoever to flatter a figure that needed all the flattering it could get. Perhaps tomorrow—after her riding lesson—she’d haul the girl down to Patrick Tracy’s store in Market Square and coerce her into finding a more attractive—and patriotic—fabric from which to sew a new gown. Of course, as one who spent half her time in shirt and trousers, she probably wasn’t the best choice to make suggestions, but she did know that pink silk was the last thing that Eveleen Merrick ought to be wearing.
That resolution made, Mira returned to her scheming.
Aye, she was in love with Brendan. And she couldn’t deny it. She should never have sneaked aboard Kestrel and seen the schooner’s dashing captain in action. His courage, his wily cleverness, his competence . . . her heart hadn’t stood a chance. She was hopelessly smitten, and she was determined to do something about it.
Captain Of My Heart Page 19
