She gazed at the library door, idly playing with a lock of hair that had tumbled loose from her coif and winding it absently around her finger. She’d caught him watching her at supper. Seen the way his eyes had warmed when he looked at her. She might be innocent where men were concerned, but given a roving brother, a seaman’s upbringing, and a town full of male friends in whose eyes she could do no wrong, she was far less so than most women of her age and marital status. She recognized desire in a man when she saw it, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Maybe she ought to stop wearing Matt’s clothes altogether and go around dressed in pretty gowns more often.
And, maybe, she thought with a frown, it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to cook, either.
Sighing, she plucked a limp chunk of fish out of her chowder and tossed it to the floor, where no fewer than twelve prowling felines fell upon it like there was no tomorrow.
The library was close enough that she could hear the musical lilt of his voice and his decidedly Irish laughter, if she sat very still and strained her ears. Oh, to be in that room right now, smelling the old books and leather, the beeswax and fine cherry rum that Father would be serving . . . She could picture the flames crackling in the hearth, and Brendan sprawled carelessly in one of the big, overstuffed wing chairs, the firelight gleaming off the gold buttons of his waistcoat, finding the depths of his eyes, bringing out the honey-colored highlights of his rich chestnut hair. . . .
The chowder went cold. The fire in the hearth began to die, taking its light with it. The candles burned low, and shadows danced along the wainscoted walls. Father’s great Willard clock banged out the hour, and the library door blasted open and crashed against the wall.
“Nonsense, Merrick! East room’s all made up fer ye. Fire’s already laid in the hearth, bed’s all turned down, and there’s a brick heatin’ in the flames to warm yer toes. Ain’t no need fer ye to go back to that damned ship; she’ll be there a-waitin’ fer ye in the mornin’.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but honestly, sir, I’d feel far more comfortable back on the schooner,” Brendan protested, remembering the last sleepless night he’d spent in this house. Cats, clocks—and Mira Ashton.
Especially Mira Ashton.
“You young captains and yer blasted ships! Ye think I don’t remember how it is? I told ye, she’ll be there in the mornin’. Now don’t be a-snubbin’ my hos-pit-ality, ye hear?”
Muttering, he stormed into the dining room, grabbed a plate off the table, and seeing his daughter still sitting there, gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Any more lip outta this young Adonis here and I’ll sic Luff after him. Tripes, where the hell is that blasted dog, anyhow? Luff? Luff!” He gave a piercing whistle that almost shattered the window glass and rapped his fork against the plate hard enough to crack it. “Luff? Here, boy! He-e-e-e-e-re, boy!”
A suspicious thump sounded against the ceiling, and it occurred to Brendan that a brick was not the only thing that had been warming his bed.
“C’mon, Luff! Here, boy! Daddy’s got some goodies for ye!”
An avalanche of sound thundered down the stairs, claws skittered madly on hardwood floors, and the setter came skidding into the dining room on his haunches. Cackling with glee, Ephraim set the plate on the floor after a wary glance to ensure Abigail’s absence, and watched as the dog bolted the leftovers.
“Abby’ll have a damned fit if she sees him eatin’ off the plates. Ye don’t mind, do ye, Merrick? They git washed real good. Oh, Matt! Come back here, boy, I almost fergot! Annie Pillsbury dropped by this morn, a-wonderin’ if yer gonna take her to the dance tomorrow night at the Daltons’ house.”
Matt, his cheeks flushed with drink and his red hair rumpled, stared at him, uncomprehending. He pushed his spectacles up with a freckled finger. “Annie?”
“Aye, Annie! Ye know, that pretty little blonde—”
Matt made a dismissing motion with his hand and continued down the hall.
“You git back here! I’m askin’ ye a question, dammit! Are ye takin’ her or aren’t ye?”
Matt was almost to the stairway. “I’m taking Leah Rutherford.”
“That where ye were when Annie came a-callin’? With Leah?”
“None of your damned business!”
“Is, too, my business! Ye were with Leah, weren’t ye. Weren’t ye?”
Matt whirled, his freckles fading into a pre-temper flush, and thin crescents of fog nestling in the bottoms of his lenses. “As a matter of fact, I was not with Leah, nor Annie. I was with Penny Morrill, all right? Now, shear off! Who I see, who I don’t see, who I bed, who I don’t bed, and who I take to the goddamned dance is none of your stinking affair!”
“Penny Morrill?”
“Aye, Penny Morrill!”
“You mean to tell me ye have the likes of Annie Pillsbury and Leah Rutherford a-yappin’ at yer heels and ye prefer some blowsy tart who ain’t nothing but a she-bitch in heat?”
Matt went crimson and slammed his fist into the wall. “Goddammit, just stay out of my life, you cantankerous old goat!”
“Cantankerous old goat? Who you callin’ a cantankerous old goat? Why, I’ll have no cussed son of mine takin’ that tone of voice with me, you hear me? I raised ye to show respect, and I’m damned sick and tired of not gittin’ it! And furthermore—”
Seeing Brendan standing there in helpless confusion, Mira grabbed his arm and hauled him down the hall at a speed that would have done Rigel proud. Behind them, the argument exploded, permeating the walls, sending cats streaming out of the room in every direction, and bringing candlelight to the windows of the previously darkened house across the street. Reaching the relative safety of the kitchen, they skidded to a stop, clutching their sides with laughter.
When he could speak, Brendan gasped, “You display an amazing ability to extricate yourself from these, er, situations, Miss Moyrrra!”
“It comes from many years of practice, Captain!”
Laughter stilled, and he found himself looking down at her, his smile warming as he studied her mischievous eyes, the impish tilt of her nose, the creamy perfection of her skin. It was a striking foil to her dark hair, carelessly upswept and now coming loose from its pins after their headlong flight. How simple it would be to plunge his fingers through that thick mane and free the rest of it. He swallowed, suddenly feeling all tight inside.
“Are you all right, Brendan?”
“All right?”
“Well, you’re breathing hard . . . I didn’t hurt you with that snowball, did I?”
He’d totally forgotten about the snowball. Any more of her innocent flirting and he’d be lost. “No, no, of course not.”
“I wish you’d stay here tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . well—” He gave a little laugh, glanced away, and said hastily, “Because you’re a bonny lass, Moyrrra, that’s why.”
Moyrrra. She loved how his tongue seemed to roll over the r, his lilting voice rising up and down like the notes on a musical scale. He looked down at her, a lost expression in his eyes that was totally at odds with the actions of Kestrel’s blithe and gallant commander. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, grasping her elbows, with the weird premonition that he was going to kiss her.
And wishing with all her heart that he would.
“What does my being . . . bonny have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it! Now, please, I must go. Now.”
She touched his arm. “Brendan, I think you’re running from me.”
“I’m not running, I’m fleeing.”
“Why? And from what?”
“From . . . from . . . doing something I’ll regret.”
His blue coat with the red facings had been drying beside the hearth; now he tore it from its peg, shoved his arms into the sleeves, and yanked his shirt cuffs down with quick, jerky motions. It was the same coat he’d worn into battle on Ke
strel, and in it, he looked perfectly dashing, perfectly handsome, and every inch the gallant captain he was. Mira watched him with hungry eyes. His wool stockings and breeches defined the hard musculature of his legs, the lean, masculine beauty of his thighs. His neckcloth was loose, his sleeve lace spilling over his hands. He snatched up his sword and buckled it on. She’d seen him wield that sword on Kestrel’s decks with a fencer’s expertise, yet still, those hands—sensitive, fine, and skillful—belonged to an artist.
She wondered what they’d feel like against her skin. Caressing her body.
And if she didn’t stop him now, she might never know. He was running away again. Acting like a damned fish out of water, like so many sea officers who spent too much time aboard ships and not enough in sleazy dockside taverns. Where was that Irish lightheartedness? That weightless grin? That blithe, carefree spirit? Hell, if she wanted him to kiss her, it was clear she’d have to initiate it herself.
She planted herself between him and the door, crossed her arms, and announced, “So, Brendan, are you going to kiss me or not?”
His hand, just reaching for his tricorne, froze. That one higher-than-the-other brow shot high and he stared at her, speechless. Mira was hard-pressed to conceal her grin. After Matt’s philandering ways, Brendan’s reaction was almost comical.
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, are you?”
He looked very flustered. “Am I what?”
“Going to kiss me.” Saucily she tilted her chin and gazed up at him with mischievous eyes. “I loved it when you kissed me before. I promise I’ll like it even more now.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, looked at the wall, looked at her, and began to fidget. “Well, to be truthful, I was considering it, but given the fact that your arsenal ranges from wild horses to snowballs, I think it might be a folly, and therefore—”
“Captain Merrick, please, none of your blarney!”
“Brendan,” he reminded her, slamming his hat down on his head and diving toward the door.
She caught his arm. “If you think you’re going back to that damned ship without giving me a kiss, you will be sorry!”
He let out his breath and stared hopelessly down at her. Then, the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and finally, he grinned . . . and Mira felt as though someone were pouring sweet, hot syrup over her heart and dribbling it right down into the nether regions of her stomach. Softly he said, “I suppose if you don’t do me any bodily damage, I might beg a kiss from you before I leave . . .”
“There’s no need to beg, Brendan.” She smiled up at him, and touched his arm. “You see, before you, I’d never been kissed. Not really kissed. And I’ve decided that I like being kissed by you very, very much, and therefore I want to be kissed again. You don’t mind, do you? My breath’s clean and I know how to kiss back. As for what should follow, I’m uneducated, but I know you can teach me. Honestly, Brendan, don’t look so shocked. You’re on your way to becoming the town’s newest hero, and I want first claim on you.”
“Faith, lass, what has brought all this on?”
Seeing you in action on your ship, she wanted to say. Seeing the man you really are beneath all that badinage.
“I missed you.” She glanced coyly down at the floor and poked at it with her toe. “A lot.”
He was paling beneath his seaman’s tan.
“Of course, if you don’t really want to kiss me, I’ll understand. Maybe you already have a girl in some far-off port. Maybe you have one here. Maybe you don’t like me. After all, the encounters you’ve had with me have been far from, uh, pleasant.”
“Oh no, Miss Mira. Even the most painful ones have been pleasant.”
He said it with such innocent sincerity that she almost burst out laughing. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her and grinned, and something stirred deep within her heart. He stepped closer, so close that she could see the little tawny sunbursts in the darker, amber-colored irises of his eyes. Again she caught the scent of shaving soap and wet wool, fresh air and melted snow.
And the sea. Always the sea. He looked down at her, tall, impossibly handsome—and bending his head down to hers, their foreheads touching, he cradled her jaw in his hands.
Those hands that she wanted all over her.
She felt herself melting like snow in July.
She closed her eyes. His lips grazed her forehead, and she felt his breath fanning her brow and stirring a wisp of loose hair. Anticipation quickened her heartbeat. It became hard to breathe.
Gently, he tipped her jaw up, lifting her face to his like a flower to the morning sun. She felt his thumbs stroking her cheeks, clearing away loose, damp strands of hair; and then his lips were against hers.
As before, she was rocked to her very core. Sensation slammed through her; dizziness and heat, honey and syrup, all whirling through her blood and centering in a bundle of nerve endings somewhere at the junction of her thighs. She clamped her legs together, the strange but wonderful ache intensifying as she reached up to wind her arms around his neck and press herself against him. His lips ground against hers, sweet and demanding, hungry and hot, and she felt his fingers slide into her hair, freeing the last of the pins and sending the thick tresses tumbling down her back. Strength left her body and she clung to his neck by her arms alone. Where her knees had been, there was only water.
The world was swimming by the time he tore his mouth from hers. Dazed and shaken, Mira reached up and placed a trembling hand to her lips. They were still there. Throbbing, tingling, singing. She stared up at him, her eyes huge in her suddenly pale face.
“Now,” he said softly, “I think you realize what I am running from.”
She could not speak. She could not think. And she could not trust her legs to hold her up. She took a step back, her spine coming up against the wall. She was grateful for the support.
“Are you happy now, Moyrrra?”
She nodded, swallowed, and ran her tongue over her lower lip. It felt swollen, and tasted of him.
“Brendan?”
“Yes?”
“Have you . . . kissed many women?”
He grinned. “Enough.”
“Do you ever kiss the same one twice?”
“On occasion.”
“Wh-what occasion?”
“If she’s pretty enough. If I happen to like her. If I think her da won’t come after me with a loaded musket.”
“Am I . . . pretty enough?”
“Aye, mo stóirín, you’re a right bonny lass.”
“And . . . and do you like me?”
“Aye.” He hesitated, then added, “More than I should.”
“And does my father—my da—make you nervous?”
“Nervous?”
“Aye.” She swallowed, and kicked at an imaginary spot on the floor. “He’s scared off plenty of other would-be suitors.”
“Your da doesn’t scare me, Moyrrra.”
“Are you sure?”
He laughed, a rich, melodious sound that brought the heat back to her insides. “I’m positive, lass.”
“Then, Brendan?”
He gazed down at her, thoroughly enchanted.
“Would you please kiss me again?”
“Good God.”
And with that, he pulled her against him once more.
Chapter 16
He insisted upon returning to his ship for the night.
She insisted upon keeping him at her father’s.
And so they argued, until Ephraim caught them at it and threw his considerable volume to Mira’s side, and Brendan, outnumbered, outshouted, but certainly not outwitted, finally said that she could drive him down to the waterfront to pick up his things. Although he’d agreed that he would return to the Ashton house, it was his secret intention to bid her good-bye and spend the night safely aboard Kestrel.
In the stable it was cold and dark. He felt Mira’s lips against his once more, as she reached up and put her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against
him for a long moment, and he laid his cheek atop her rose-scented hair and held her tightly. Then she slipped away, laughing, and he heard a horse whickering softly as a stall door opened. He stood there in the chill gloom, his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath sounding hoarse in the darkness. He felt as though he were caught in a sudden squall before he could get his sails reefed.
Helpless.
And at the mercy of elements beyond his control.
Outside, snow fell on bushes and frozen branches with a soft hiss. Above, a mouse scurried in the hayloft, sending a few wisps of straw down atop Brendan’s nose. He sneezed and flicked them away with a cold-numbed finger. His nose was even colder, and he cupped his hand over it and blew into his palm to warm it. He wished the rest of him was as cold. Faith, but he was uncomfortably hard.
Mira was coming out of the stall now, leading Rigel.
“Here, hold him.”
She thrust the lead shank into his hand, her fingers brushing his. Wind drove a swirl of cold snowflakes through the open doorway. She was harnessing the colt now, performing the task with businesslike purpose. Watching her, he wondered if she could see in the dark like one of her cats, so well did she know every buckle, strap, and fastening.
She warmed Rigel’s cold bit in her hand, slipped the bridle over his head, and prying open his jaws with her thumb, gently eased the bit into his mouth. He stood chomping it for a moment, his breath white in the gloom, then she backed the colt into the traces of the sleigh, guiding him with soft words of encouragement and a hand on his chest.
Brendan sensed her nervousness. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I walked over here, I can certainly walk back.”
She tossed a bundle of quilts and furs into the sleigh. “Are you playing scaredy-cat again?”
“No . . . but I think you are.”
“I am not!”
He spread his hands in a gesture of truce, for there was an edge to her voice, tenseness in her stance. “All right, all right. Faith, you’re just like your fathurrr!”
She laughed and led the colt out of the barn and into the wintry night. After the shelter of the stable, the cold struck like an Arctic blast, pasting his nostrils shut and making his eyelids ache. He hauled the big door shut, tugged his tricorne down low, and, briskly rubbing his hands together to restore their warmth, handed her up into the sleigh. Rigel was already fretting, tossing his head and stamping his foot in his eagerness to be off. Brendan vaulted lightly up beside her and, shaking out the heavy quilts and furs, tucked them carefully around her shoulders and spread them over her lap. He felt her shudder as he joined her beneath them, their thighs pressing against each other. With a cluck of her tongue, she sent Rigel down the drive and into the snowy night, the runners of the sleigh whispering silently through the drifts.
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