Captain Of My Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  “Don’t you talk like that to yer father, ye hear me?!”

  “You just want to impress everyone with that schooner! You want everyone to know you built her! You don’t care about kicking the British out of Maine, you don’t care about Brendan—”

  “I do, too, and it don’t matter to me who takes her, long’s she’s a part of that Expedition!”

  “Which you see as nothing more than a damned showground for your masterpiece!”

  “Kestrel speaks for herself; she don’t need me to brag about ’er!”

  “She’s not asking you to! And I’ll tell you this, neither Liam Doherty nor me nor God himself are going to take that schooner anywhere! She’s Brendan’s, do you hear me? Brendan’s! He is her captain! And no one, I repeat, no one, is going to take her anywhere!”

  “She oughtta take her rightful place in that Expedition!”

  “She will when her captain is well enough to command her!”

  “She’ll take it if I have to go and command her myself!”

  “That’ll be the bloody day!” Mira leapt from the chair, let loose a string of curses, and stormed from the room, trailed by Rescue Effort Number Twenty-Eight and Ephraim’s loud bellowing. No wonder Brendan felt obliged to go to Maine! Damn Father and his stiff-necked pride! She was sick of it! Furious, she raced up the stairs, tore down the hall, and flung open the door to Brendan’s room.

  She came up short, her mouth hanging open. The bed was made as neatly as a seaman’s berth, and the room was empty.

  She clenched her fists at her sides. No. . . .

  And then she saw that Kestrel’s huge red-and-white-striped flag was gone.

  Damn him! She was too late! Mira raced from the room. If she wanted to be aboard Kestrel before she sailed, there was no time to lose.

  Chapter 29

  “Oh, there was a proud schooner, her name was Kestrel, and no Brit could catch her when she spread her tops’ls! Sharp-hulled and lovely, a lady she be, she’s sweet and she’s pretty, she’s queen of the sea! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  Drifting along under shortened sail, Kestrel left a long, lazy wake of foam winding back among pine-studded islands and coves. She had left Newburyport several hours before, in the dead of night; now morning light burst over the ocean, touched upon streaming pennants some ninety feet above deck, raced out along topsail yards, and dragged brilliant orange fingers down the length of her masts to flood the decks below. It glinted on sleepy guns, turned varnished woodwork to gold, sharpened stays and ratlines against the bright blue sky, and painted the deck in myriad variations of color, light, and shadow.

  “Oh, her decks are of white oak, her masts of Maine spruce, for the might of the Brits, oh, we don’t give a deuce! Be it gale or dead calm, the sweet Kestrel will fly! For freedom from tyranny we’re willin’ to die! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  The smell of fresh coffee and frying fat drifted on the air. Galley smoke crept from the foredeck area and was snatched away by the wind. Men, throwing long shadows across the deck, were coming topside now, carrying their breakfasts. Some took one look at the barefoot figure standing atop Freedom’s homely old barrel and dropped their plates of biscuit and fried pork; others shot apprehensive glances toward the hatch—where any moment now, the captain would be coming topside.

  Mr. Starr wasn’t wearing his tarpaulin hat. He wasn’t wearing his odd little “sun” glasses. And he wasn’t wearing trousers.

  He was wearing skirts.

  And these were tucked up into his waistband over a short pair of breeches and showing a very fine, very pretty pair of curvy, well-shaped legs.

  The guise was over, then. The day of reckoning had come.

  “Well, her captain’s a man bred from old Cornwall way, but the luck of the Irish goes with him this day! Not afraid of the Brits, oh, he’s brave and he’s bold! And under his hand, Kestrel’s wings’ll not fold! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  And now a black tricorne was coming up through the hatch.

  Liam put down his fiddle.

  Fergus produced a crystal.

  And Dalby clutched his stomach.

  As immaculate as ever, the captain, walking with the assistance of a cane, made a fine sight as he emerged on deck. He wore a red waistcoat over a bright white shirt, and his breeches, trimmed with gold embroidery, were molded to his long, handsome thighs. Sunlight glinted from his sword hilt and shoe buckles, and his tricorne sat jauntily atop his rich chestnut hair, boyishly tousled from sleep and caught in a loose queue. Spying Liam, who stood at the helm with a very pale-looking Dalby, he snapped off a brisk salute. “Dia dhuit ar maidin, Liam!”

  “Good mornin’ y’rself, Cap’n!”

  “Fine day to be at sea, eh? If the wind kicks up, we’ll raise Penobscot Bay by sundown, I should think.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” There was a suspicious twinkle in Liam’s eye, but Brendan, preoccupied, missed it. Crossing the deck, he wandered to the rail and gazed out over the sparkling sea, watching Kestrel’s frothy wake as though he could follow it all the way back to Newburyport.

  “He doesn’t see her,” John Keefe whispered.

  “Give ’im a moment,” Liam predicted.

  Dalby clutched his stomach, his voice full of doom. “Well, if he doesn’t see her, he’ll certainly hear her. . . .”

  “Well, a Brit boxed us in b’tween island and shore, and our bold Captain Merrick said, ‘Fear ye no more! Hoist out those old oars even though it is deep, we’ll fool that old Briton and Kestrel we’ll keep!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  But Brendan, deep in thought, was oblivious to the singing. Propping his elbows on the rail, he sipped his coffee and watched a gull wheeling high above. The sea roiled before him. Spray hissed at Kestrel’s bows, cooled his cheeks, made his coffee mug sticky and damp in his hands. He felt pretty good this morning. A bit weak, but at least he could see straight. Think straight.

  Mira.

  What had her reaction been when she’d arisen this morn and discovered him gone?

  Maybe when he reached Penobscot he could convince Commodore Saltonstall to lift the siege and make the long overdue attack on the British; maybe in doing so, he could give Kestrel back her glory; and maybe, just maybe, he could return to Newburyport and finally make Mira his wife.

  Make her his wife.

  He smiled and shut his eyes, envisioning it. . . .

  The wind began to freshen, whipping up froth on the azure sea, driving over Kestrel’s stern and sending wave-chop slapping against her hull. Thousands of little pockmarks dotted the ocean’s surface. Above, blocks and tackle swung, wind hummed through taut shrouds, and masts creaked as the schooner rolled on the long swells.

  Forward, the wind caught the end of Mr. Starr’s braid and made it dance.

  “Well, the Briton was fooled by our captain’s bold plan, figured it was too shallow, so off they did stand! No sooner had they borne off and away, Kestrel spread her great wings and we laugh till this day! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. Odd, that voice . . . strange, but familiar. Shrugging, he fished his sketchbook and a pencil out of his pocket and studied the gull hovering just beyond the tip of the fore topsail yard. But he couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. Kept remembering soft, rose-scented hair tumbling down around him. Green eyes alight with joy, salty tears washing his face. . . .

  “Well, the Kestrel, she’s huntin’ those Britishers down, she’s a thorn in the side of His Majesty’s crown! But our captain’s a sly one, a bold one he be! Sails Kestrel on a course marked Li-i-ber-ty! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  He leaned the sketchpad against the rail and kneaded his temples. The sunlight hurt his eyes. The sea reflected against the ship's boat, vibrated against shimmering waves, and hurt his eyes even more. Faith, maybe he ought to get some of those—what were they called?—ah yes, “sun” glasses that Mr. Starr had. Irritated, but
not knowing why, he turned from the rail.

  And saw his men staring at him as though he’d grown a third arm.

  “For heaven’s sake, string up that mainsail and let’s make some time!” he snapped. Faith, what the devil was wrong with everyone this morning?

  Seamen ran to the sheets. Up went the gaff on its bridle, like a sacrifice to the blinding sun above. Inch by inch it climbed, the proud mainsail rising with it, and finally the boom, swinging gently in the wind. Canvas shook itself out, fluttered, and hardened in a tight curve of brightness against the sky. Brendan’s momentary irritation dissipated instantly, and a thrill went through him at the sheer majesty of the moment. Laughing out loud, he wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and called, “Maith go leor, laddies! Good enough! Now look lively and get the topsails on her!”

  Kestrel kicked up her heels like a spring filly, and the water beneath her began to sing. Eyes watering in the intense sunlight, Brendan gazed up at the giant mainsail, watching its reef points dancing in the wind. And then, blinking away the sunspots, he turned his head, suddenly realizing what was making him feel so devilishly irritated.

  That godawful singing.

  He lowered his pencil, looking for its source. And then he saw a figure standing atop Freedom, head thrown back, bare feet braced on the cannon’s long breech, rooster perched on his scrawny shoulder.

  It was Mr. Starr.

  Brendan dropped his coffee cup.

  “And so we head seaward with a stiff wind a-beam, hanging fores’l and main and our heels kicking clean! With Doodle as music and guns as our sting, as we headed to sea all the bells they did ring! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  “Up staysails and jibs . . .” Brendan heard himself say. And then—faith, what the devil was Mr. Starr wearing?

  “With a gale blowin’ hard through our shrouds and our stays, Cap’n Merrick he said, ‘Lads, now don’t ye belay! There’s a Brit lurkin’ well off our starboard bow—and we’ll ne-e-ver catch him if we stay here and row!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  Skirts.

  His mouth opened and closed.

  Skirts!

  And beneath them, long, curvy legs and bare, pretty feet. A doll-sized waist, and a shirt that did nothing to conceal the sweet valley between her even sweeter breasts. He stared into her eyes. She stared back. And then she saluted, smiled, and a fan of lines crinkled the sides of her impudent little nose like cat whiskers.

  “Well, the Kestrel, being such a right fine la-dy, she opened her wings and she took to the sea! With the spray in her teeth and her guns aim-ed low, our captain he shouted, ‘Fire on the uproll!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  He dropped his pencil. The sketchbook slid from his fingers and fell to the deck.

  “Liam!”

  He reeled and caught the rail for support.

  “Liam!”

  And then she threw back her head, laughed, and in a loud, ringing voice, belted out, “Well, a broadside like that you just ne’er did see, on the Britisher’s decks there was death and melee! Our Cap’n he nodded and then he did grin, ‘Now let’s see ye load up, lads, and do it again!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

  Liam appeared, his mouth twitching with laughter.

  “Aye, Cap’n?”

  They were all staring at him, even the rooster. They’d known all along, every last one of them! Brendan took a deep, steadying breath, and pulling out his speaking trumpet, rapped it against his thigh in agitation. He never took his eyes off his little gunner. “Tell me, Mr. Doherty, just who was at Kestrel’s helm the day you rescued me from Crichton?”

  Liam stared at him blankly, pretending ignorance. “The helm, sir?”

  “Yes, Liam, the helm! H-E-L-M, helm! Tá ainm diobhal, what are you, deaf?! It wasn’t Mr. Keefe, it wasn’t Mr. Reilly, and it most certainly wasn’t you! What I want to know is, who the devil almost overset my ship?!”

  “Er . . . uh, why, th’ gunner, sir, but he ’ad th’ ship well under control—”

  “The gunner!” He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. It could’ve been a controlled grin. It could’ve been anger. It was neither. “You mean Mr. Starr?!”

  “Aye. Ye see, Brendan, there was really no one else t’ do it. Keefe, well, he ’ad three sheets t’ th’ wind, ’n’ Dalby was complainin’ about his stomach—Mr. Starr made supper that night, ye see—’n’ poor Reilly, er . . .”

  “Mr. Reilly what, Liam?!”

  “Got his eye blackened by Mr. Starr, sir . . .” Liam said, lamely.

  “And why, pray tell, did Mr. Starr blacken his eye, Liam?!”

  “Well, uh, he was threatenin’ t’ ’ave his rooster fer supper, sir.”

  “I see.” Brendan shut his eyes. And then he grinned, a hard, exasperated grin mixed with grudging admiration. He almost wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and strangle her! “Sun” glasses, eh? Albino?

  “Where ye goin’, Brendan?”

  “Below.” He removed his tricorne, raked an unsteady hand through his hair, and set the hat back on his head. “I think I need to . . . to lie down for a spell.”

  “You all right, Cap’n?”

  He kept walking, his back stiff and straight, his shoulders thrown back. But no one saw that those shoulders were shaking with mirth.

  She had followed him. Followed him! And, by the looks of it, forgiven him.

  “Cap’n?”

  Brendan paused, turned, and met his lieutenant’s questioning gaze. “Liam—” He grinned and swung his speaking trumpet once around his wrist. “—I’ve never felt better. Please see that Kestrel doesn’t get into any mischief, would you? And then send Mr. Starr down to me so that I can put an end to his!”

  Liam’s eyes lit up. Slyly he said, “But, Cap’n, I thought ye were goin’ t’ be lyin’ down. ...”

  Brendan shoved his tricorne back. His eyes glowed like honey in the morning light, and his smile was dazzling, bright, and completely roguish.

  “I intend to be, Liam,” he said.

  Still grinning, he turned, and went below.

  ###

  He did not expect her to appear looking sheepish, worried, or contrite, and indeed, she didn’t disappoint him. The door banged open and she swaggered in, the rooster perched insolently on her shoulder with its iridescent feathers shining. Still humming that awful tune, she shoved her fist beneath the bird’s breast until it climbed up on it. Then she walked to one of the chairs around the table and deposited it on the top rung.

  The rooster stood there, looking discomfited.

  It cocked its head, looking at the shiny buttons of Brendan’s waistcoat.

  And then it tensed, shuddered, and squirted out a wet dropping that splattered the varnished deck.

  The gunner snapped off a crisp salute. “Mr. Starr, sir, reporting for duty!”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Starr.”

  She shrugged, sauntered to the window seat, and draped herself atop the cushion, idly lying back and playing with the end of her long braid while she let her bold gaze rake appreciatively over his face, his chest, and the front of his breeches. He felt the fabric begin to tighten across his loins. Carefully sidestepping the rooster’s mess, he pulled out a chair and tried to regard her thoughtfully. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, threatening to wreck his composure. The little imp!

  His lips twitched. “Mr. Starr,” he said calmly, “please tell me what you know of our role in this so-called Penobscot Expedition.”

  “Aye, sir. To lend our assistance to Commodore Saltonstall’s fleet and kick the damned Brits out of the Penobscot.”

  He gazed at the tantalizing display of flesh blatantly revealed by her loose shirt. “Very good, Mr. Starr.”

  “But it’s all a big secret, because we don’t want the British to find out and send for reinforcements.”

  “That’s right, it is a big secret. You’re very good at keeping secrets, aren’t you, Mr. Starr?”

  “Oh, aye, Cap’n.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Very good.”

  “Have you one you’d like to share with me, Mr. Starr?”

  She twisted her glossy braid around her wrist, never taking her eyes off him. “Only if ye’d like to hear it.”

  His gaze traveled over her body, her gently flaring hips, her skirts, and the shapely calves beneath them. “I think I should very much like to hear it.”

  “Ye sure?”

  He smiled, leaned back, and crossed his arms behind his head, waiting. “Very sure, Mr. Starr.”

  She jerked her thumb toward her pet. “See that there rooster? He always shits in threes.”

  Slumping forward, Brendan leaned his brow into the heel of his hand to hide his laughter.

  “Sir, you all right? I can come back another time when you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m feeling just fine—Mr. Starr.”

  “Are you sure, now? We wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself after that injury and all.”

  He looked up, his eyes mirthful, his lips twitching. “Mr. Starr, please get up off that window seat, come over here, and take your shirt off.”

  “Sir?”

  “And your breeches, too.”

  “I’d rather not, sir.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Starr?”

  “I find the window seat quite comfortable. Why don’t you come over here and let me take your shirt off?”

  His brows shot up.

  “And your breeches, too,” she mimicked.

  They stared at each other. Her nose wrinkled with humor; he grinned and got to his feet. Then they both burst into helpless laughter.

  “I ought to have you keelhauled for your deceit, Mr. Starr! To think, all this time that I’ve been missing my wee Newburyport lassie, here she is, manning a gun right under my very nose!”

  Laughing, she folded her arms behind her head, feeling the thrum of tiller and rudder vibrating against her spine. He moved toward her. She reached up, undid her braid, pulled her fingers through her long dark hair, spreading it over her shoulders, and let her gaze travel down the handsome length of him until it rested on the telltale bulge at the front of his breeches. “Missing me, huh? You mean you’re not going to run this time, Cap’n?”