Give Me Thine Heart: A Novella

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “I’m coming too.” She trailed Sam so closely that she bumped into him when he halted.

  He turned. “Stay here and make sure Mrs. Golsby doesn’t send for the authorities. Distract her. Tell her of your father and his work.”

  She nodded.

  Good girl. Sam allowed himself a smirk. Miss Kingsley might make a good spy after all.

  It seemed like days since Mr. White had left her in the company of Mrs. Golsby and her French parents. Moira feared he’d escaped out the back door with her funds. Had this been a colossal prank, of which she’d been the target?

  Her stomach churned, threatening to spill its contents onto the Golsbys’ expensive oriental carpet, when she imagined herself trying to explain to Uncle Tyrus and tell him how she’d trusted a man she knew nothing about. He’d call her a little fool—and he would be correct!

  Except escape had tasted so sweet…

  “My dear, you look unwell.”

  Moira yanked herself from her musings and looked at Mrs. Golsby.

  “Are you feeling poorly?”

  She managed a smile. “Nay, I-I feel fine. Thank you.”

  To her parents, both quite elderly, Mrs. Golsby spoke in French. “She is a pathetic little sparrow, n'est-ce pas? But her husband is so handsome. She cannot expect him to remain faithful.”

  Moira understood every word and, as she’d been trained from a child on, answered the insult with Scripture. “Car c'est l'amour de Dieu, que nous gardions ses commandements.” For this is the love of God, that we keep his commandments. To Mrs. Golsby, she added, “God said, ‘Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.’ So you see, I don’t expect to keep him faithful. My trust is in the Lord, who shall do that particular work for me.”

  After the surprise of her use of the French language wore off, Mrs. Golsby gave a derisive-sounding snort.

  But the old Frenchman grinned. “A wise girl,” he muttered in his native tongue.

  The reply caused deep creases on Mrs. Golsby’s forehead. “I do hope our dinner is not getting cold.”

  Moira shifted. Another wave of nervous flutters caused her heart to trip over itself. If Sam didn’t return soon, her Bible recitation would ring hollow and all of England would label her a hypocrite. What’s more, they’d be poor. Uncle Tyrus would banish her to the workhouse in London, a dismal place, she’d heard. And worst of all, her father’s good name would be ruined.

  Why, oh why, had she not considered this sooner?

  She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes closed. Oh, Lord, forgive—

  “Come, darling, it’s time to go.”

  Hearing the smooth, low timbre of a man’s voice, Moira snapped to attention. She glanced up at Sam and dizzying relief filled her being.

  “Our business here is finished.”

  Moira took his proffered hand and stood. The room tilted at an odd angle. Sam’s eyes widened, his arm locked around her waist, and he whisked her outside.

  “Breathe deeply, Miss Kingsley,” he whispered close to her ear. “All went well.”

  Chapter Five

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  Safely within the confines of the carriage and now on their way to the wharf, Moira never felt better. “I’m fine, Mr. White. Thank you. I experienced a moment’s panic is all.”

  “Ah…” Mr. White leaned toward her so his shoulder pressed against hers. “Well I must admit, Mr. Golsby certainly took his sweet time delivering up your inheritance.” Reaching into his tailcoat, he produced a black velvet pouch and placed it into her gloved palm. “Allow me to present what’s left of your inheritance. I’m sure Golsby held out on us, although the funds he parted with ought to last long enough for you to find employment in the United States.”

  “Employment?”

  “Yes.” He nudged her playfully. “We spies do not earn a living, I’m afraid. We must hold regular positions like everyone else.”

  “Wh-what can I do?” She’d never had to consider obtaining employment.

  “A teacher? A governess? Do either of those appeal to you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Moira perked up. “I have experience with both.”

  “Perfect.”

  Moira smiled. The bag of coins weighed heavily in her hand. She had no pockets in the gown she wore and only a shawl graced her shoulders. “Will you keep this safe for me, Mr. White?”

  “Of course.” He tucked the velvet pouch in what surely was an inside pocket of his tailcoat. “You will need to sew pockets into your undergarments so you can safely carry your coins on your person.”

  “I packed a reticule.”

  “Reticules can easily be stolen. However, even if miscreants steal the gown off your back, your money will be safely hidden in your undergarments.”

  Moira gasped.

  “Forgive my bluntness.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Lesson two in my spy schooling, I imagine.”

  Mr. White chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that was not at all unpleasant. “Lesson two indeed.”

  The stench of rotting fish and human waste permeated the air and indicated they neared the wharf. She vaguely recalled it from her passage to England after her parents were killed. When she’d finally come to herself in Uncle Tyrus’s home, she was told she’d been in shock for weeks, which explained why she only recalled bits and pieces of the voyage.

  But this smell of the wharf…it brought back her intense dread of the wide, rolling, deep sea. The fear coiled around her insides like a deadly serpent. Papa called her feelings of panic “unfounded,” and Moira supposed that described it well enough.

  The carriage pulled to a halt and Mr. White climbed out. Moira took his proffered hand and alighted. He then paid the driver and the conveyance pulled away.

  Mr. White directed her attention to a ship bobbing out on the dark water. From this vantage point, it looked like a harmless child’s toy. “There she is. The Seahawk.”

  “Has it left without us?”

  “No. She’s merely moored a ways out, as she’s all loaded and ready to sail come morning. We must pray for a good gust of wind.” He glanced up and down the wharf. “In the meantime, we’ll have to find a rowboat to get us out there.”

  Moira’s stomach flipped. She detested rowboats. However, staying in England was not an option.

  Lord, help me. She’d had nightmares of drowning in the sea.

  “Miss Kingsley?”

  She shook herself. “Yes?”

  “Over here.” Mr. White led her to a scruffy-looking sailor who greeted him like he was an old friend.

  “Happy to oblige you, Sam. We’ll get you out to the Seahawk straightaway. Climb aboard.” The slender man’s gaze openly appraised Moira, bringing heat to her cheeks. “She comin’ too?”

  “She is.”

  “That’ll be double the price.”

  Sam retrieved several coins from a pocket in his waistcoat, counted them, then placed them in the man’s outstretched palm. Even in the glimmering moonlight, she could tell the man was unkempt—and he smelled as bad as the wharf itself.

  Sam stepped into the rowboat and reached for Moira. Lifting her gown slightly, she climbed aboard the jouncing vessel. She clung to Sam’s arm and he planted her on a plank bench. The sailor hopped in and shoved off.

  “You must no longer call me Mr. White.” He spoke softly near Moira’s right ear, sending tingles down her spine. “It’s my pseudonym, and I don’t wish to have it known on the ship.”

  “I see.” Moira frowned. “What shall I call you?”

  “Stryker. Mr. Sam Stryker.”

  “Another pseudonym?” Her frown deepened.

  “No, my real name.” As if sensing her confusion, her captor added, “The captain of the Seahawk knows me, knows of my…eh, business, and even supports my endeavors when possible.” He pointed toward the ship. “But see how she flies the Union Jack?”

  Moira nodded. “British vessels do.”

  “Th
at flag will be hauled down as soon as we’re on the high seas and the Stars and Stripes will wave in its place.”

  Moira leaned close. “A spy ship?”

  “More or less.” A smile lightened his tone.

  “Should I have a pretend identity, Mr. White—I mean…Mr. Stryker?”

  He paused, and she stared into his night-darkened features. “I would be honored if you would call me Sam,” he said just above a whisper. “We will be shipmates for at least six weeks.”

  “That long?”

  “That long.”

  Moira swallowed as the rowboat crested a wave and pitched forward. Mr. White—Sam—took hold of her waist and steadied her as water sloshed over the sides. A salty spray moistened her face, but she felt safe as Sam held her close to him.

  The sailor behind them grunted as he rowed, nearing them to the ship.

  “If I’m to call you by your given name, then you must call Moira.” She had to lean back in order to catch Sam’s expression.

  “As you wish…Moira.”

  He spoke her name almost intimately, and shivers of delight washed over her as powerful as any wave. She felt mesmerized, until she reminded herself that this man was an American spy, more of a stranger than a confidant.

  Except she felt like she’d known him her entire life.

  The Seahawk suddenly loomed high above them as they reached its mooring. The sailor called to other men on board and they looked over the side.

  “I’ve got two more here, requestin’ to come aboard. I believe you’ll be knowing ol’ Sam, here, and he’s got a woman with him.”

  A bit of banter ensued above them, followed by activity, and then a rope ladder fell over the side of the ship.

  “There ya be, Sam.”

  “Appreciate it. And take this…” Wearing a grin, Sam turned and chucked a coin to the boatman. “I’d also be grateful if you forget you saw me and the lady here tonight.”

  “Forgotten.” The older man’s raspy chuckle rivaled the wind, the splashing water, and the men’s voices high above them. “Me memory ain’t so good these days an’how.”

  Sam stood and made his way to the edge of the rowboat. He grabbed hold of the ladder with one hand and reached for Moira with the other. “You’ll need to remove your gloves lest you slip.”

  She pulled off one, then the other while gauging the challenge before her. It was a straight-up climb, while most ladders were at an angle to ease the effort. “You don’t expect me to go up that thing, do you?”

  “I do, yes.” Sam took her gloves and tucked them into his coat. “And you will.”

  Moira stared at his outstretched hand. “But—”

  Before she could utter another syllable he grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the unstable ladder.

  “My hems will not allow me a wide gait,” she whispered, although it came out as something of a hiss.

  “Pull them to your knees then.”

  “I beg your pardon!” She glanced at the sailor in the rowboat, who chuckled at her dilemma. “I will not have him”—she nodded toward the stern of the rowboat—“looking at my legs while I make a very undignified, if not impossible, climb.”

  “I will block the view,” Sam promised. “I will be right behind you.”

  “You will not!” She tried to keep her voice lowered despite the exclamation.

  “Well, I can’t go first. How will I catch you if you should slip and fall into the water?”

  A paralyzing fear crept down her spine.

  Sam reached for the ladder and pulled the rowboat right up to the tall ship.

  “I ain’t got all night here!”

  Sam looked at their rowboat captain. “Give us a few more moments, if you please.” He bent his head close to Moira. “He is losing his patience and soon the crew of the Seahawk will too.” After placing her slippered foot onto one of the wooden rungs, he forced her palms around the rough edges of another one. “Up you go, Moira.”

  Her knees weakened and suddenly she felt cool air on her legs. She felt Sam close behind her.

  “Freedom is merely a few rungs away.” Sam’s voice penetrated the fog of fear. “You can do this, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  “C’mon, missy,” a sailor shouted somewhere above her. “We’ll haul you over if you can climb high enough for us to reach you.”

  Determination overstepped her anxiety and Moira shot her left hand up to the next rung. Taking great care, she lifted her left leg. Then her right.

  “That’s a girl. You can do it.” It seemed the whole crew cheered her upward.

  Except the ladder seemed to stretch on for miles.

  Freedom is merely a few rungs away. Sam’s words propelled her onward. After all, getting rowed back to shore and returning to her life with Uncle Tyrus, Aunt Aggie, and Major Nettles was an impossibility now that she’d tasted liberty.

  And given the choice of that or drowning, she’d prefer the latter.

  She climbed higher, the muscles in her arms quivering from the unaccustomed overuse. She managed two more rungs before her strength vanished. She couldn’t climb another inch. But a hand on her bottom thrust her upward and many pairs of hands clamped onto her arms. Through no effort of her own, she was lifted over the side of the Seahawk.

  “Light as a feather, ye are.” a sailor said. “Take care ye don’t blow away on a gust o’ wind.”

  Her feet landed on the deck and she teetered like a drunken man before finding a nearby railing. She quickly pulled her petticoat and gown to their rightful places at her ankles.

  Within seconds, it seemed, Sam was aboard. Relief showered over her. They’d made it!

  A dark-haired man stepped forward and, by the look of his coat and accoutrements, Moira guessed he was the captain.

  He and Sam shook hands and then Sam indicated Moira.

  “I’ve only one cabin left,” the captain said before introductions could even be made. He sent Moira what seemed a rueful look. Back to Sam, he added, “I’m loaded deep and took on other passengers. There’s no room for one more person. I wish you’d have contacted me before bringing your lady friend aboard.”

  “No need for an extra room, Captain.” Sam’s gaze locked on Moira. He cleared his throat. “This is my wife…Mrs. Samuel Stryker.”

  While the captain and crew clapped Sam on the back and called their congratulations, dread poured over Moira. It was one thing to fib about marriage in order to obtain her inheritance but quite another to share a cabin with a man outside of wedlock.

  Sam made his way over to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come, darling. I’ll show you to our cabin.”

  Chapter Six

  Lamp in hand, Sam led Miss Kingsley—Moira—below deck. He was usually fortunate enough to acquire a cabin, although he wasn’t above sleeping in the steerage with the crew. But that was no place for a lady.

  Sam reached for Moira’s hand as they made their way quietly through the deserted passageway. Entering their tiny cabin, he saw her lips move as if she wanted to protest, but he closed the cabin door before nary a word could be uttered and hung the lamp on a long spike in the wall. He then took in their cramped quarters. Nothing had changed since he’d sailed nearly a year ago.

  “Welcome to our home for the next six weeks or so.” He glimpsed her horrified expression and grinned. In truth, Sam couldn’t imagine how this would work, but they’d have to attempt it—and succeed.

  “I…I…” Evidently she’d been rendered speechless.

  “You may sleep in the bunk,” Sam whispered, recalling the thin plank walls dividing the cabins. “I’ll make a pallet on the floor.”

  “Six weeks…together?”

  “Could be more like eight without a tailwind.”

  “Oh, my, this will never do!”

  “Shh…you must keep your voice low, lest crewmen overhear.”

  “That’s two months.” She whispered the words this time.

  Sam chuckled at her inability to keep up wit
h the conversation. “We’ll make the best of it, hmm?” He tipped his head. “Unless you’d prefer to return to the mainland before we set sail. I’m sure I could commission one of the crew to take you back.”

  “No!” She lifted her chin with obvious determination and ran her palms down the skirt of her gown as if doing so manufactured more dignity than their situation dictated. “I will adapt.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” He didn’t either—which was why he’d so easily lied to Harney and his crew.

  “This will serve as lesson three in my spy schooling, no doubt.”

  Sam grinned.

  She cocked her head, studying him. “Your last name is Stryker. Like the explorer?”

  “A relation, I’m told.” Sam smiled at her confused expression.

  “So how did you come to possess the surname White? A flip of a coin, perhaps?”

  “No, actually, my father was English.” Sam supposed she didn’t need to hear of his heritage, but thought it worthy enough to share nonetheless. “My mother is Catawba Indian. Her people call me ‘Whitefeather’ because of a streak of white in my otherwise brown hair.”

  “Ah, so you shortened it to White.”

  Sam nodded, placed his hands on his hips, and glanced around. His sea chest and Moira’s valise had arrived and now sat in the corner of the tiny cabin.

  “Please…” Moira stepped forward. “If we are to spend so much time together, will you tell me something of yourself?”

  “I just did.”

  Moira leaned against the makeshift desk. “Do you have siblings?”

  “One brother, Asher, who returned to the Catawba people along with my mother.”

  Moira’s brow puckered. “What about your father?”

  “Dead.” Sam tasted bitterness on his tongue and a renewed sense of purpose. “My father, a good man, was a blacksmith in a remote village outside of Charleston, South Carolina. One afternoon in broad daylight, two men, both British, shot him dead after he refused to shoe their horses on the spot.” Sam pulled in a long breath. “My father sensed the men were up to no good. He was right.” Sam clenched his fist, remembering. “As it happened, the two were spying for the Crown. They spent a few nights in jail for killing my father, but were released by a judge partial to King George.” With a wag of his head, he added, “They walked free.”