Captain Of My Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  Arching his neck, Rigel stamped and snorted, his nostrils flaring red. Brendan stepped forward and, sliding his fingers beneath the colt’s heavy mane, gripped Mira’s cold hand, stroking her fingers for a long moment. She closed her eyes, and some of the tension left her face. Looking up at his sister, he said gently, “Now, Eveleen. Miss Mira’s a very accomplished horsewoman and she’s just trying to help you. In fact, I’ll bet she’s taught many young ladies how to ride, haven’t you, Moyrrra?”

  “Er . . . yes.”

  “Young thin ladies,” Eveleen sobbed. “Not like me.”

  Mira ignited. “Well, if you’d stop eating so damned much, you wouldn’t have that problem!”

  “You continue with your apple pies and tarts and I won’t!”

  “And what the hell is wrong with my apple pies and tarts?”

  “Try using sugar instead of vinegar and maybe there’d be nothing wrong with them!”

  “I didn’t use vinegar, I used lemon juice! Now, get back on that horse, dammit, before I lose my bleeding temper! You can fight me till kingdom come, but I’ll see you take that mare around the field once by your own power if it damn well kills me!”

  “Good, I hope it does!”

  Deciding it was a timely moment to intervene, Brendan took the white mare’s sagging reins, looped them around his elbow, and bending down, cupped his hands for his sister to step into. “Here, Eveleen. I’ll help you up, all right? I’ll be right here if anything should happen.”

  “And what good are you? You can’t ride either!”

  “Come on, let’s go,” he said patiently, keenly aware that one of Mira’s dark brows had shot up in sudden interest.

  Eveleen glared at him as though he were a traitor, gave Mira a look of pure venom, and favoring her crippled hand, grasped the pommel and allowed Brendan to boost her up into the saddle. There she sat, mutinous and angry. “And furthermore,” she sniffed, “this is not a proper sidesaddle, it’s a man’s saddle. She’s insulting me by making me use it, and she knows it. She wants to ridicule me because I’m fat—”

  “By the bleeding Christ!” In one quick, fluid motion Mira was off Rigel and stamping through the snow. “I gave you that saddle because I thought you’d find it easier to use! Another blasted word out of your trap about being fat and I’ll yank the damned thing off and make you ride her bareback! But ride her you will, dammit, and I don’t care if you sit out here and freeze your butt off before you do! Now, close your legs against her sides and make her move!”

  “I won’t!”

  “You will!”

  “No! No, no, no—”

  Cursing, Mira slapped her crop hard against the mare’s white rump.

  Eveleen screeched, and Shaula’s head jerked up in surprise.

  “If you don’t make her move, Eveleen, I’m going to go get El Nath and put you on him instead! And while I’m at it, I’ll go get Matt so he can see how well you’re doing!”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I damn well would!”

  Brendan crossed his arms and nodded. “She would.”

  “Just shut up, Brendan! Whose side are you on, anyhow?” Eveleen howled.

  Her brother’s brows shot right up to his tricorne in surprise, and even Eveleen gasped at what she’d just said. Were some of Mira’s ways rubbing off on her? And Mira . . . She knew her hot-tempered instructor well enough by now to know that bluster and intimidation were her favorite weapons in her arsenal of persuasion. Still, Eveleen wouldn’t put it past her to drag Matt out here to witness her complete and total humiliation. “You really would, wouldn’t you, Mira?”

  Mira gave one of her cat grins. “You can bet on it.” She got back on Rigel and gestured with her crop. “Now, make her move.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Let it go, Mira,” Brendan suggested.

  Mira whirled on him. No wonder Eveleen was such a spoiled brat, with her own brother letting her get away with murder! “Look, one more word out of you, and you’re going to be next; is that clear?”

  His eyes widened and he backed up. “Oh, dear heavens—”

  Eveleen seized upon the opportunity. “Make him do it, Mira; he can’t ride, either.”

  “Eveleen!” Brendan warned, growing nervous.

  “Make him do it! Make him!” Eveleen cried, pitching forward over the mare’s neck in laughter at Brendan’s horror. “Make him—”

  “Careful, Eveleen!” Mira yelled.

  But it was too late. Mira cringed as the girl lost her balance and, making a wild grab for the mare’s mane, landed on her rump in the snow.

  Mira leaped off Rigel’s back and ran to her, fully expecting to find the tears rolling down Eveleen’s cheeks. She wasn’t disappointed. Raising her head, Mira yelled, “Dammit, Brendan, do you know how much work you’ve just shot to hell? It’s taken me a long time to get to this point—”

  But Eveleen’s hand was on her arm, and as Mira looked down, she saw that the girl’s tears were not from hurt and humiliation—but laughter.

  “Mira?” she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the snow from her skirts. “We really did make progress today. I fell off for the first time, and it wasn’t anything to be afraid of, after all.” Still laughing, she looked at her astonished brother. “Now I think it’s time for Brendan to have his turn . . . don’t you?”

  Two pairs of conniving female eyes fastened on him, and Brendan felt the blood rushing from his face. “Now, wait just a moment—”

  Mira caught him before he’d gained ten steps. He protested. He fought. But in the end, both she and Eveleen succeeded in dragging him to the white mare, and Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship saw its second, unwilling student.

  Chapter 19

  “All right, ye can go.”

  Ephraim Ashton stood planted on the wharf, swinging his watch and scrutinizing each and every lad who passed beneath his nose. The present one gulped and bolted, flying down the wharf toward the boat that would take him out to Matthew’s Proud Mistress.

  “Next,” Ephraim grunted. Scowling, he ripped the cap off the next boy, scowled some more when he saw it wasn’t his daughter, and gruffly waved the boy through.

  “Next ....”

  With each hapless soul who wasn’t Mira, Ephraim’s impatience and annoyance grew. If she’d found a way to sneak aboard Matt’s ship again, he was gonna strangle her.

  He never thought to look behind him at the line of men filing past him and into Kestrel’s boats.

  If he had, he would have found the lad he sought, smirking and jostling with her crewmates, thumbing her nose at him—and cradling the Brown Bess musket that had once been her brother’s.

  ###

  That had been two days ago; now Kestrel had got her wish and was at sea again, this time prowling the waters off Sandy Hook in company with Proud Mistress.

  Her captain stood at the helm, casually balancing a sketchpad against his forearm and working on a drawing of Matt’s ship, which ghosted along a cable’s length to windward. The tiller bar lay alongside his leg, seemingly forgotten; every so often he nudged it with his thigh, and the schooner would turn her nose a half point into the wind, floating gently on a beam reach on the starboard tack.

  The wind was little more than a breeze. Gulls drifted quietly on the gray sea, and Kestrel’s wake was a lazy, meandering ruffle that trailed far behind her. Nevertheless, there was a lookout aloft, another sitting out on the bowsprit, and both were scanning the horizon for a prize. So far, they’d turned up nothing but a few skittish fishing boats that had fled inshore at sight of the tall, majestic schooner and the battle-scarred brig that accompanied her.

  Brendan wasn’t worried, though. Rumor had it that a storm had blown the New York–bound convoy off course, and he was more than certain that royals and topsails would show above the horizon before too long. And when they did? He grinned to himself as he sketched in the intricate network of shrouds that supported Proud Mistress’s masts. He had an
experienced crew, an eager ship, and Mr. Starr on his favorite gun, a trusty old four-pounder inscribed with a biblical verse and affectionately dubbed Freedom. Except now Mr. Starr happened to be some forty or fifty feet above the deck, clinging like a squirrel to the weather shrouds, a telescope to his eye, and his clothing—loose linen trousers, baggy shirt, and a tarpaulin coat that all but swallowed up his small body—fluttering in the breeze like a poorly set jib.

  “Deck there!”

  Brendan lowered his drawing and stared up into the misty pyramid of shrouds that pinnacled high, high above his head. How the lad could see anything through the fog was beyond him. “Report, Mr. Starr!”

  “Make three sail off the larboard quarter, sir! Hull up and bearing away to the north’ard!”

  “Flying any colors, Mr. Starr?”

  At the rail the crew gathered, excitedly passing telescopes and straining to see off into the choking mists. In these waters, the ships were probably Tories, or better yet, British—either fat merchantmen or strays from the overdue London convoy. A prize either way, and ones that would bring a hefty sum once auctioned off back in Newburyport.

  “Can’t tell yet, sir!”

  Grinning, Brendan looked back down at his drawing, already envisioning his fiancee’s reaction when he and Matt brought three fat prizes back to Newburyport. She’d come galloping down to the waterfront on that wee gray colt, fight her way through the crowds, and fling herself into his arms. She’d be all soft and warm, her kisses sweet and eager, her hair silky against his hands. . . .

  His pencil moved over the paper, but he wasn’t really thinking about the drawing, not really thinking about Kestrel even, which he guided by simple, unconscious movements of his leg against the tiller. Liam, however, noted how he played the schooner on the faint breeze as he might his own fiddle, making her sing, making her dance . . . except that Brendan sailed his ship without even looking up from his sketch. Liam folded his huge arms across his chest and watched his captain with fond admiration in his twinkling blue eyes. He’d known Brendan for some twenty-five-odd years—yet still his friend never failed to amaze him.

  Despite appearances to the contrary, however, Brendan was keenly aware of Liam’s presence. He tossed his sketchbook onto the deckhouse and grinned. “Faith, Liam, what’re you just standing there for? Signal Captain Ashton before he tries to claim the honor of seeing those ships first! D’ar m’anam, I have a bet riding on this, you know.”

  They laughed like a couple of conspirators, and seconds later, balled flags rose to Kestrel’s sharply raked mast and broke to the whispering wind.

  Mr. Starr’s voice caught his attention again, fainter now with height and distance. Brendan clapped a hand over his tricorne, tilted his head back, and looked up. High above, where the gaff and its tackle angled out from the mast, the lad had climbed, balancing fearlessly with one foot on the big spar, the other on a block, his arm laced around a line. It was a precarious position; had there been a strong wind, Brendan would have forbidden it.

  “Looks like one’s a cutter, sir, with two ship-rigged tubs in her lee!”

  “Probably a Brit with her prizes,” Liam commented, eagerly rubbing his hands together.

  Brendan grinned and pulled out his spyglass. “Or a Tory shepherd guarding his flock from wolves like us.” He strode to the weather shrouds, the glass under his arm. “Either way, they’re ours, and so is she!”

  The shrouds were stiff with ice and frozen spray, but he climbed dauntlessly, his boots slipping here and there, his hands numb and red with cold before he’d even reached the level of the foresail’s throat. There, he paused and looked up. The fore topmast drove skyward above him, its sail fading into the gray mist. Mr. Starr was nowhere to be seen. Looping an elbow through the shrouds, Brendan briskly rubbed his hands together to restore their warmth, blew on them, and continued his climb.

  He found the lad near the topgallant yard, felt hat clamped down over his eyes, and face turned toward the distant ships. His hair, dull with mist, was braided in a seaman’s queue, the tip of it wafting in the breeze. Brendan tried not to think of the eighty some-odd feet between the end of that braid and the deck below.

  “Brits, sir,” the boy mumbled, yanking the hat even lower until Brendan wondered how he could see at all.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, seeing the ships quite clearly up here above the mist and fog. He decided to test the lad. “But tell me how you know that, Mr. Starr. They’re not flying any colors.”

  “That cutter’s lighter built than a Frenchie or one of our’n.”

  “Very good, Mr. Starr.” He steadied himself against the slick topgallant yard, the dizzying sway of the mast below him. “Also, an American would have more deadrise, more rounded curves, more rake to her bow, and a bit less depth and freeboard than that one yonder.”

  “Ayuh.”

  As usual, Mr. Starr was not a man of many words. Brendan grinned and said, “I feel the wind starting to freshen. What d’you say to shaking out the topsail and going after them, laddie?”

  The boy, wearing strange little spectacles with bottle-green lenses, kept his face averted, although his captain’s mood was as light, his grin as infectious, as ever. But no matter how friendly Brendan tried to be, Mr. Starr never met his gaze and avoided him as much as possible. Obviously he was terrified of his captain, and probably had a complex about his sensitive skin as well—yet Brendan didn’t press him about it. No doubt the lad got harassed enough about it below deck, despite the popularity he seemed to enjoy with his shipmates.

  Still squinting off toward the distant ships, Mr. Starr mumbled, “Maybe we oughta set the t’gallant and fly the studders, too. Might get a couple more knots outta her, at least, ’specially if we get the wind dead abaft.”

  Brendan stared. For Mr. Starr, that had been a speech. He lifted a brow. “Think so?” he asked, testing him once again.

  “Ayuh. Oughta be able t’ run ’em down before dusk.”

  “Very well then, Mr. Starr. Provided you can stand the cold, you may remain here until we come up on them, at which time I’d like you to come down and renew your acquaintance with Freedom.” He tucked his glass into his pocket. “Carry on, then.”

  Back on deck, Liam stood at the tiller, his brows knit in concentration as he peered at the compass. The fog was starting to lift, and watery sunlight managed to put enough glare on the water to throw a few diamonds back in his eyes. A seal bobbed just off the starboard bows, watched them for a while, then dived beneath the waves. The splash it made was loud, almost eerie in the heavy stillness. Brendan stamped his feet, trying to restore the circulation to his frozen toes.

  Dalby, bless his heart, had read his mind, and hustled toward him with coffee steaming in a dented pewter mug. Gratefully accepting it, Brendan wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat thaw his fingers and scald a path all the way to his stomach. “Ah, Dalby . . . you’re ever the thoughtful one, aren’t you?”

  “Just thought you might appreciate something hot and bracing, sir.” But Dalby himself was shivering.

  Brendan frowned. “And how are you feeling today, Dalby?”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, he could’ve shot himself.

  “Oh, not so good today, sir, not so good. I got up with a runny nose, and my head’s all stuffed up.” He pressed gnarled fingers to either side of his nose. “Right here, way down deep. Getting a cold, I think. Throat’s scratchy, too. And I suspect I’ve got a fever.” He held out one wizened hand. “See? I’ve got the shivers already—”

  “That’s ’cause it’s cold, ye bonehead,” Liam joked.

  “Cold? I’ve a knit shirt, a waistcoat, a greatcoat, and a cloak on! Don’t tell me I’m cold! I’m coming down with something, and that’s all there is to it!”

  From several feet away, Fergus McDermott, ex-atheist, ex-Christian, and now emphatic embracer of some Eastern religion Brendan had never heard of, nodded sagely. “I told ye, Dalb. It’s reincar
nation.”

  Liam snorted. “Reincarnation, me arse! Ye’ve been listenin’ to that bloody furriner too much!” He threw a sharp glance forward, where a cloaked figure stood in the bows with a lead line in his hand. They’d picked him up out of one of Kestrel’s first prizes, and Liam rued the day they had. The man was an Easterner, with crystals hanging from his neck, the moon in his eyes, and strange ideas of where people came from. Real strange. The British were probably well rid of him, Liam thought. Anyone who went around proclaiming that Brendan had been a fox in his past life—past life! he snorted—deserved to have his head examined. It had been bad enough when Fergus had seen the light. But this reincarnation stuff? God Almighty. . . .

  Brendan went back to his sketch, hiding a grin.

  “Well, he’s right,” Dalby sniffed. “Why else would I be sick all the time? Rama says it’s because I’m paying for my sins in a past life. That my poor health is the price for the bad things I’ve done before.”

  “God Almighty, we’re all a-payin’ the price, havin’ to listen to such bloody nonsense! Get up there an’ make sure that dingbat calls out the fathoms correctly!”

  Dalby looked crushed, but he went anyway.

  “Now, Liam, don’t you think that was rather harsh?” Brendan said reprovingly, but with a faint grin.

  “I’ve never heard such a crock o’ nonsense in me life! Next he’ll be a-sayin’ that Kestrel was a bird in her former life!”

  “Is that so?” Brendan allowed himself to look serious for once. “Why, I’d have thought she spent it as a pine in the forests of Maine.”

  They both laughed.

  “Deck there!”

  “Report, Mr. Starr!”

  “Another sail, fine on the larboard beam! A brig—nay, it's a snow, sir, with the Union Jack at her masthead!”

  “Faith, this is getting interesting!” Brendan said, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Four to two. Wonderrrful odds, eh, Liam?”