Brendan studied her as she drove. “Warm enough?”
She nodded, eyes straight ahead, face very pale against her hood and that absurdly thick fall of dark, snow-flecked hair that concealed most of her face. She looked scared. And, bundled up in wool and fur and quilts, like a little girl. He smiled wryly to himself. She thought merely to drive him down to the wharf so he could go out to Kestrel, pack a ditty bag, and return to the Ashton house, did she? Well, Ephraim could rant and rave and stew in his own juices as far as he was concerned. His daughter was no little girl. There was no way he’d spend another night in that house, where Mira’s not-so-innocent charms could further test his restraint. No, he would stay aboard Kestrel, Mira would stay safe in her own bed, and they’d all be better for it.
Faith, maybe he’d even get some sleep.
As it was, he wondered how the devil he was going to make it as far as the wharf. She was leaning against him, stoking the fire in his heart, his blood, his loins. Swallowing hard, he turned away, watching the houses filing swiftly past, most of them dark and silent at this late hour. Branches bowed beneath snow, and in places the road was indistinguishable. Rigel snorted and pranced. Clumps of snow flew from his hooves, and his tail, streaming in the wind, lashed Brendan’s cheeks.
Beside him, Mira slapped the reins against the colt’s back and sent him into a swifter trot. The night was cold enough to freeze the devil’s breath, but beneath her woolen cloak and the heavy draping of quilts, her skin was moist and hot—feverish, even. This was Brendan beside her, his rock-hard thigh pressed intimately against hers, his shoulder swaying against her with every movement of the sleigh. His nearness made her feel hot and flushed, and brought an ache to places she hadn’t known existed. Would he kiss her again? Oh, would he?
Don’t get your hopes up, she thought.
But he was the one who’d kissed her until her knees had given out.
He was the one who’d kissed her a second time.
And he was the one who now reached beneath the quilt to slide his arm around her waist, pulling her ever closer in a deliciously possessive way. Oh, Brendan, my gallant captain, my Captain from Connaught . . . I think I love you . . . I know I love you . . .
A few kisses, a handsome face, and some daring deeds in a fast sailing ship, and she was hopelessly smitten. Yet he was everything a woman might dream about, and more. Dashing and witty and full of fun. Humble, clever, and best of all, a sea captain. She’d vowed that when and if she ever got married, it would be to a sea captain. But a British one? She frowned. No, he was Irish. . . .
Who cared, as long as he fought for America!
They passed the Beacon Oak, the Liberty Tree, sleeping houses, and white, empty fields that rolled away into darkened woods. At Fish Street, she slowed Rigel so they could make the corner. The Dalton house swept by on the right, smoke pouring from both chimneys, and one upstairs window still glowing with light. Almost across the street, the Tracys’ big brick mansion stood like a leviathan; both Dalton and Tracy had entertained General Benedict Arnold when he’d brought his troops through en route to the Quebec wilderness back in ’75, the expedition to involve Canada in the patriot cause ending in disaster. Now even those memories seemed distant as the snow whispered against her face and the wind blew in off the frozen river, colder, wetter, and harsher now as they neared the ocean.
She slowed Rigel to a walk when they reached the waterfront. The Ashton Shipyards were quiet and dark. Snow covered the roofs of the little smithy, the mast house, even the long ropewalk. Giant masts of spruce and cedar lay locked in the frozen mast pond, and the air was sweet with the scent of cold sawdust. A ship’s skeleton, dark against the night sky, was taking shape on the ways, and a big three-master was snugged up to the wharf, its bowsprit looming high above their heads. Crates lay stacked neatly nearby, buried beneath snow and awaiting loading on the morrow. In the darkness, the wharf creaked with the push-pull of the river against the incoming tide, and ice floes groaned in agony as the current shoved them up against the frozen shore.
But out in the harbor the current ran strong, the water cold and black.
Out in the harbor, Kestrel rode silently at anchor.
Mira drew back on the reins. The moment had come far too soon, and not once had Brendan taken any liberties with her that propriety dictated he shouldn’t—and her hopes dictated he should. She felt strangely cheated, deprived, empty.
“Well, here we are!” she chirped, trying to mask her dismay. “I’ll wait while you go pack a ditty bag.”
He didn’t move, and she sensed that he was struggling with something deep inside.
“Brendan?”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” He looked steadily down into her eyes, then took her hands. “You’ll go back to your da’s house, Mira, and you’ll go alone.”
It was his captain’s voice, the one that gave orders and expected them to be obeyed.
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“But, Brendan . . . you heard Father—everything’s all ready for you.”
“Mira, I can’t. Please understand.”
“I don’t understand anything!” Coldness swept against her thigh as he stood, then leaped down from the sleigh with easy grace. She stared at him, unconsciously spreading her palm over the seat where he’d been and cherishing the warmth that lingered there beneath the heavy fur.
His warmth.
“Brendan.”
He was walking away from her!
“Brendan!”
He paused only long enough to touch his hat before striding determinedly toward the wharf. And she knew then that he was afraid, that he was putting as much distance between them as possible, probably trying to escape what must be the same temptations he’d spoken of back at the house. Mouth agape, she watched him walk away from her. Toward the river, toward his little boat, and toward the schooner, waiting silently, triumphantly, out in the river for her captain.
Was Kestrel’s call more powerful than her own?
Jealousy, insane and ridiculous, swept through her. Desert her for a ship, would he?! She jumped down from the sleigh, scooped up a handful of snow, and with all her strength, sent it howling through the brittle air. It caught him between those elegant British shoulders with a dull thud.
“Ouch!”
“Where are you going?”
“To get my boat. And then out to my ship, and then to bed for the night.”
“You can’t do that.” She raised her voice. “Father’ll be furious!”
He stopped, his form hazy through the falling snow. “No. I think his daughter will be furious. Now, get back in that sleigh and drive yourself home.”
“I’m not going alone!”
“Well, you’re not going with me, either. Good night, lassie.”
“Brendan!”
He turned, expecting another snowball to come slamming into his back at any moment. She was still standing there, bewildered, hurt, and lost. Faith. Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she realize the inner turmoil she was causing him? He didn’t trust himself around her! Ten minutes pressed against her in that damned sleigh and the agony in his loins was unbearable. Ten more minutes and he’d find himself acting upon it.
But she’d sure managed to get his attention, hadn’t she? And now that she had, she used it to her best advantage. “Fraidy-cat,” she called softly through the falling snow.
“Temptress.”
“Chicken.”
“Waif.”
“I’m going with you, Brendan.”
“Oh no, you’re not.”
“Oh yes, I am!”
She suddenly turned and unhitched the horse from the sleigh, her movements swift and sure. She removed the bridle and tossed it into the sleigh, and before he realized what she was up to and could run forward to stop her, she’d slapped the flat of her hand against Rigel’s backside and sent him galloping away in a cloud of snow, leaving the sleigh standing there, immobile in the drifts.
/> “You little fool!” he cried, horrified.
Her laughter rang out in the night.
“Guess you have no choice now but to take me out to the ship.” She smiled coyly, folded her arms, and leaned back against the sleigh. He wanted to strangle her. “Unless you want me to walk home alone. Or perhaps you’d like to escort me, hmm?”
He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how your da puts up with you.”
“He doesn’t. He’d like to see me married off and out of his hair.”
“You’d better not have me in your sights, Mira.”
“Come now, Brendan. You said yourself that you don’t know how Father can put up with me. If he can’t, how could anyone else? Certainly not you. You’re quite safe.” She smiled, the sides of her nose crinkling endearingly. “So take me out to your ship.”
“If I do that, neither one of us’ll be safe.”
“If you do that, neither one of us’ll be cold.”
“If I do that, both of us’ll be sorry.”
“If you don’t do that, I’m going to take your head off with this snowball!”
They stood there in the falling snow, shivering in the sharp wind, neither willing to give an inch. Finally Mira tossed her head. She dropped the snowball and clasped her arms about her. “All right. So I’ll stand here and f-f-freeze to death.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m testing your qualities as a gentleman.”
“You’re testing my restraint as a gentleman!”
“Maybe we’ll both be lucky and it’ll break soon.”
He made a frustrated sound and clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re impossible, d’you know that?”
“No. Just very good at getting what I want. It comes from long years of practice, Brendan. Sorry.”
“And what do you want, Moyrrra?”
She touched her cold lips. “For you to kiss me again. And then for you to take me out to Kestrel for the grand tour you’ve never given me. As her builder’s daughter, I deserve one, don’t I?” He began to fidget, and she knew he was wavering. And then she played her ace. “She’s awfully pretty sitting out there in the snow, isn’t she?”
She hid a secret smile as his expression softened at the mention of his beloved ship. It was easy to find the holes in Brendan’s defenses.
“Faith,” he began.
“And then I want you to walk home with me, sleep in the room next to mine, and have breakfast with us. Just like Father asked you to.”
“He didn’t ask, he ordered.”
“Orders are meant to be followed.”
“I follow no one’s orders but my own, and half the time not even then. I owe your da nothing!”
“But you owe me. After all, I’m the one who’ll be standing here freezing to death if you don’t —”
“Damn you, Mira Ashton!”
“And damn you, Captain Merrick! You take one step toward that ship without me and I’ll lay you so low with this here snowball, you won’t get up for a week!”
Their eyes met, spunky challenge in hers, frustration in his that was helpless against her impish charm. As he’d said, he didn’t always follow orders, even his own. Impulse and desire won out over control and wisdom.
There’d be time for regrets later.
He jammed his hat down over his brow. Then he strode back to her as purposefully as he’d left her, yanking her into his arms and stilling her triumphant laughter. Wet hair clung to her cheeks. Snow melted on her face, running between their lips as his mouth slammed down on hers, relentless, driving, almost punishing. She tasted of fresh air and melted snow, smelled of roses, sweet hay, and the promise of springtime. He dragged her hood off, plunged his hands into her thick, warm hair, and kissed her hard. And still the snow fell, frosting their shoulders, her hair, his hat.
Out in the river, Kestrel watched, and waited.
He tore away, breathing hard, before falling back against the sleigh and throwing a hand over his eyes.
She ran her tongue over her lips. There was an unspoken invitation in her eyes, a challenge.
And Brendan had never been able to resist a challenge. Nor, when one threw herself at him, a wee bonny lass. Faith, why was she doing this to him? So innocent, and yet, so totally, utterly woman—
She came forward and, catlike, rubbed herself against his chest, causing white-hot flame to explode in his loins.
“Show me your ship, Brendan.”
“Mira—”
“I’ll even help you row out to her.”
“D’anam don diabhal!” he swore. Faith. Faith and damnation. Faith and hell and damnation.
He turned and slammed off down the wharf, defeated.
And Mira, who had to run to keep up with him, stared up at his proud back, saw the grim, desperate set of his jaw—
And smiled.
Chapter 17
Kestrel lay like a nesting hawk, her sides as black as the river. Her gunwales were lost beneath a mantle of snow, her sharply raked masts spiraled with the tide, and her blocks and rigging creaked and knocked. The sounds were loud in the frozen stillness of the night, and louder still as Brendan rowed their boat closer and closer.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
His tone was no longer frustrated but reverent. Again Mira felt that quick stab of jealousy. “Aye,” she agreed.
“You ought to see her under full sail. She’d take your breath away.”
I have seen her under full sail, she thought. Plunging through trough and crest alike, wreathed in the smoke of her own guns, and skimming the sea with fore and main set wing and wing.
Instead she said, “I’ll bet she’s gorgeous.”
“More than gorgeous. Sometime I’ll take you out for a short cruise. You don’t get seasick, do you?”
“Once in a while,” she lied.
“Well, we’ll go out on a calm day. Maybe I’ll even let you take the helm for a bit.”
He looked quite pleased with himself, as though taking the tiller of a fine and dancing ship would be a new experience for her. If he only knew. She’d taken Proud Mistress’s helm more times than she could remember—in battle, in calm, in stormy seas and in gentle ones. She’d brought prizes into harbor, guiding them through the tricky bars, sunken piers, shifting winds, and dangerous currents at the Merrimack’s mouth. She’d learned to sail before she could walk, tie knots before she could talk, and had been in and out of boats her entire life.
But what Brendan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Especially if it might later be used to her own advantage.
“That would be nice,” she agreed. “Maybe in the springtime when the seas are calmer.”
As they passed beneath the schooner’s bow, she saw him gaze up at the little hawk that was her figurehead. Snow capped his shoulders like twin epaulets, and a gust of wind tugged at his queue, dark beneath his tricorne. Mira thought of him in command of this fine ship, calm, carefree, and dashing, and again flushed with sudden heat. Newburyport’s newest hero, the townspeople had proclaimed. The Captain from Connaught, the Irishmen aboard Kestrel called him. She sighed happily. Is this what love felt like? This feeling that the world could crumble to dust and it wouldn’t matter one bit as long as she was with him?
Fighting the pull of the tide, Brendan maneuvered the boat close to the schooner and secured it to her chains. Mira could have easily made the climb up Kestrel’s icy sides with no assistance, but she dared not reveal her seagoing skills. Besides, it was much more fun to tuck her hand in Brendan’s and allow him to help her.
Up the side they went, Brendan carrying the quilts and furs, still warm with their body heat, over his arm. The schooner’s decks were bare, her hatches, ringbolts, and guns looking distorted beneath the thick blanket of snow. There were no footprints. Kestrel was deserted.
They stood there for a moment, neither saying a word as the wind blew snow into their hair and faces. A tense expectancy built between them. “Well, you wanted to see her, and so
you shall,” Brendan said. “Watch your step. I wouldn’t want you to trip and fall over anything.”
“Maybe you’d better take my hand so I don’t slip,” she suggested, though she had no need of such assistance.
He complied, and Mira grinned to herself.
They shuffled through six inches of snow, heading aft and leaving dark trails across the deck. Beneath their feet, Kestrel rocked easily; above their heads, shrouds whined and blocks banged, as though the schooner were begging her captain to take her back to sea. Mira watched him lay a fond hand atop her gunwale and gently brush the snow aside, heard him murmur something beneath his breath; and then he cleared the snow from the hatch, tugged it open, and led her down into the cold, dark depths of the ship.
Onshore, he’d been reluctant to have anything to do with her. Now, the decision made to bring her aboard, he was determined, almost resolute. Or maybe he’d just given up trying to resist her. Either way, Mira marveled at the way a ship could change a man, and felt a twinge of resentment.
Around her, Kestrel seemed to laugh softly to herself.
It was drier below deck without the wind, but the cold hung about them like a block of ice, still and heavy and silent. Their footsteps echoed on varnished planking. Their breathing sounded unnaturally loud. And surrounding them, Mira felt Kestrel’s own presence; watching her, assessing her, sizing her up as a rival for the attentions of her captain. It was an unnerving feeling, one that a landsman would never have recognized. But Mira was no landsman. She was well aware of the almost mystical affection that ships and captains had for each other—and knew that if she wanted to win this handsome sea officer from his lady love, she’d have her work cut out for her.
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