The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines)

by C. B. Halverson

  “Ye better be careful, then. The Captain won’t abide a clumsy cabin boy, and the cook will have yer hide.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered in my lowest register and slid through the door.

  The smell of smoke and brandy flooded my nostrils as soon as I entered the Captain’s chambers. The officers circled around a wooden table, a cloud of haze hanging below the low ceiling, all of them with heads thrown back and exploding with heavy masculine laughter.

  All except Captain Grant.

  His head swiveled, and he met my gaze, his vibrant eyes boring straight into my skull. Warmth crept up my neck, and my hands trembled beneath the staggering weight of the tray. He couldn’t know it was me. How could he? But his stare seemed to pierce right through the tight bindings around my breasts, and my skin prickled with heat as I hunched down, setting the tray on a side table.

  “Ah! Supper!” someone cried.

  I jumped, and the tray rocked to the right, almost slipping off the buffet. I balanced it with my knee, my shaking hand keeping it upright. The whole time, Captain Grant’s gaze penetrated me from across the room. And sure enough, as soon as I turned around, his eyes were still locked on me, staring at me from beneath hooded lids.

  “At last!” a booming voice rang out.

  My eyes darted across the table. Lieutenant Andrews leaned back in his chair, his hand stuffed in his coat while he flicked lazily at a cigar. Swallowing the rising panic in my throat, I kept my head down and passed out the plates as the men continued to talk in a frenzy of nautical terms, the conversation wandering to how they planned to intercept Willaumez’s fleet.

  As I set the plate before the Captain, he placed a pitcher in my hands. “More wine,” he commanded.

  His hand brushed against my thumb, and a spark of pure terror ran up my arm. I scurried back to the buffet and poured more wine into the container. My chest tightened, my fingers numb, the sound of the shouting officers flooding my ears as they boasted and talked over each other.

  Picking up the carafe, I watched Captain Grant out of the corner of my eye. He remained still, not even touching his plate, and in that moment he reminded me of a large predator lying in wait for his prey, muscles tight, mind alert, never missing even the slightest movement. With his broad shoulders and dark stare, he absorbed all the masculine energy in the room, the officers around the table waiting for his cues, their eager stares seeking out his approval. Power radiated off him, and the lure of it drew me into his sphere, sending small flutters from my belly to my core. He met my gaze, and I looked away, the skin on the back of my neck tingling as I busied myself with the wine.

  I refilled Captain Grant’s glass, my breath caught in my throat, exhaling only when I safely poured it without spilling a drop. Blanching, I approached Lieutenant Andrews, willing my hands to stop shaking. At the same moment I grabbed his glass, the ship pitched and rolled beneath my feet. The carafe slipped from my fingertips, and I grabbed it reflexively, but not before half of it spilled on Andrews’s immaculate white trousers.

  I felt the slap before I saw it, hard knuckles backhanding me, sending me slamming to the wall and down to the floor. The room tilted and bright white flecks poked through the edge of my vision. I gasped, trying to catch my breath, the pitcher clutched tight against my chest. The metallic sting of blood trickled down my lip, and I swallowed it, nausea settling into my stomach.

  Andrews towered over me, lifting me by my collar. “You little shit!”

  The alcohol on his breath made my insides churn, and I turned away, bracing for another blow as he raised his hand.

  “Enough, Lieutenant,” Captain Grant’s voice boomed through the cabin. “I will discipline the boy later.”

  The Captain’s words stopped my heart, and I glanced over to him. He had stood up, and his face was a mask of stone, his knuckles grinding against the table.

  Andrews paused and then released me, straightening the lapels of his coat. “Yes, sir.” He plopped back down at the table and rapped his glass against the table. “More wine, boy! And get me a towel.”

  Limping and shaking, I resumed serving the officers. The entire time, Captain Grant’s steady gaze studied my every move. I kept my eyes averted, but inwardly my stomach clenched with panic. He couldn’t know. We spoke for nothing but a second, and I looked much different with my shorn hair and trousers. But every time I looked over to him, I caught him staring, forcing me to turn away and hide my face from him. I had hoped I could just blend in the background like any other servant, but as the night went on it became clear Captain Grant was the quiet, watchful sort. He barely said three words the entire dinner.

  After several hours of conversation and carrying on, the officers stumbled from the cabin, and a dense shroud of quiet settled over the chamber. Several of the candles had sputtered out, and only a dim light illuminated the round table. I stacked the plates, the clinking of porcelain the only sound to pierce the silence between us. Bunching a towel in my hands, I approached the cleared table, brushing loose crumbs in my palm and soaking up the spilled wine.

  He did not move the whole time, and when he finally spoke, I jumped.

  “What is your name, boy?”

  I stood still, staring at the ground. “Michael, sir.”

  “Michael what?”

  “Michael O’Brien, sir.”

  “Michael O’Brien.” My assumed name rolled off his tongue. “When I address you, you will look at me. You will not cower.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  With my knees still shaking, I flung back my shoulders and stood up straight, leveling my eyes on the Captain’s hard-lined face. The sun and wind had weathered his skin, but he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his brown hair swept from his face and tied at the nape of his neck.

  “Is this your first time aboard a ship?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I will have to train you. I like things done a certain way, O’Brien. I am a good master, but cross me and you will suffer, do I make myself clear?”

  I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. “Yes, sir.”

  “After you clear away these things, you will help me undress. You will see that my uniform is properly pressed and ready each morning. McKellan will provide you with what you need.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His brilliant eyes traveled up from my big boots to my oversize coat. “You will keep this cabin clean. Spotless.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I cannot abide a dirty ship. One shred of dust, and you will be punished, do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “I also expect you to prepare my bath in the evening before supper, shine my shoes, do the mending, and any other manner of things I may ask of you.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Finish tidying up and then come to my dressing room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Captain marched into a side cabin and closed the door.

  I let out a huge exhale and flattened myself against the wall. Blood pounded in my ears, the inside of my palms clammy and soaking through the coarse material of my trousers. Safe for now. I could do the man’s damn dishes and ironing for a hundred years if it meant I would have my family’s castle back. I figured it would just be a few weeks at sea, nothing more. I would rescue Johnny, get married, and then one day, with his little blond babies at my knee, we would all have a good laugh about the one time I dressed up as a cabin boy to find him. Sailing across the ocean in search of my true love. My everything. Just like a heroine in a novel.

  I practically danced across the room as I swept the floor, a relieved smile plastered over my face. For the first time in God knew how long, I felt like everything might work out for me, and as I dried the pewter plates and put them back, I laughed at the boyish face in my reflection. With my curly hair around my ears, I looked like one of those mad French revolutionaries, a devilish gleam in my eye and a red flag in my back pocket. Playing the soldier wasn’t so hard. Like hou
sework, more than anything.

  My chest tightened, my thoughts retreating back to Dunraven and our little cottage. No one was there to bring Da tea, iron his shirts. I would have given anything to send a note in Gibraltar, but I didn’t want to risk his safety in case the magistrate thought he was somehow responsible. No doubt they would question him about the death of Lord Brighton, and tears stung my eyes at the thought of Da having to try to explain everything to them. But all I could do now was look at the ceiling and offer up a silent prayer for him. As lady of Dunraven, I knew I could make everything right again. And I would.

  I packaged my feelings and stored them on the shelf along with the rest of the dinner things. After rubbing my dusty hands on a towel, I squared my shoulders and knocked on the door of the Captain’s bedchamber. Helping him disrobe couldn’t be so complicated. Sure I had helped Johnny enough.

  “Come in,” he barked.

  I hesitated, opening the door just a crack. The Captain snatched it open and pulled me inside, thrusting me against the wall. His bright eyes pegged me, and my throat tightened as his hand gripped hard around my wrist.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” he growled.

  Chapter Seven

  His hot breath burned against my cheek, and I paled, my knees shaking.

  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean?” I stammered, forcing my voice to remain low. A cold frost crept down my spine, the room closing in around me.

  “Do not play dumb.” He caged me against the wall, his shoulders shaking with barely repressed rage.

  “I don’t understand!” I cried.

  “Take off your trousers.”

  “No!”

  He let out a snarl and grabbed me by the shoulder. “Then, I ask you again.” His voice was so quiet, dangerous. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  With my heart pounding, I wrenched his hand away. “I take you for a bloody pervert!” My voice sounded high and hysterical in my ears, and I ducked beneath his arms and scrambled across the room. Unable to reach the door, I shrank into the corner. Trapped.

  “You may have fooled the others, but you do not fool me.” He folded his arms across his chest, his jacket already unbuttoned. A wisp of brown hair peeked from the opening of his linen shirt, his muscles near bursting the seams on his shoulders. “What are you doing aboard my ship?”

  I swallowed hard, my lip trembling as I fumbled for the words. I didn’t even know where to start, and my face burned as I tried to gather my thoughts. No matter how I told the story, it all seemed so ridiculous.

  “Tell me!” he commanded.

  “I’m searching for my fiancé.”

  He took a step forward, his boots thudding hard on the floor. “Your fiancé.” He took another step, and I flinched. The ship rolled and tumbled beneath my feet, and I grasped onto the panels, my fingers digging into the polished oak planks.

  “Are you mad?” His fists clenched at his sides, powerful and trembling.

  “It would look that way, sir.” My eyes drilled into a tiny knot on the floor, willing myself to shrink in size so I could dive into it and scurry away like a little mouse. But his boots thundered forward, the small buckles making a sound like clinking chains.

  “Are you in some sort of trouble? Is that it? Are you with child?” His voice softened, and I looked up, startled at the sudden change in his tone.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, then?” he boomed.

  I jumped, folding myself deeper into the corner of the room. What could I have possibly said to him in that moment? Telling Captain Grant that Johnny’s father had accused me of stealing, so I had to run away to consummate our marriage in order to clear my name and win back my homeland was perhaps not the best way to endear myself to him.

  “There’s been…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “There’s been trouble at home.”

  Grant let out an exasperated sound, shaking his head and turning away with a curse. “You do understand you are aboard a ship with over seven hundred male sailors, correct? A woman has no place on a ship of the line bound for battle. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “And due to the nature of our mission, I am in no position to turn us around.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He shook his head, pacing the room. “You have endangered yourself and my men with your presence. I know officers who would hang you for treason against England for what you have done.”

  “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not English, then.” The words popped out before I could stop them, my latent nationalism waving a pitiful green flag in the dim light of the Captain’s chambers.

  A muscle flickered in his jaw, and when he turned to me again, I nearly gasped at the rage in his bright eyes. All the blood drained from my face, and I bit my lip, willing my saucy tongue to hold still.

  “You think this is some sort of game?” His eyes narrowed, and he pressed closer to me.

  My courage fired back, and I straightened, raising my shoulders in a challenge.

  His eyes flitted over me from head to toe, and he made a low sound in the back of his throat. “I should throw you overboard and let the fish eat at your rebel heart.”

  “Better to die a rebel than live as a slave.”

  Och, Mary, there you go again.

  The Captain’s eyes turned to two slits, his mouth straightening in a tight line. “If you want to find your Lieutenant Brighton, you will eat those words, or I swear you will never see land again.”

  The turrets of Dunraven flashed in my mind, and I averted my eyes, my body sinking back against the wall in silent submission.

  Grant turned away and paced the room, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. My eyes followed him, my stomach clenched in knots. He turned, his shoulders set in a rigid line.

  “You have two choices. I can either lock you in the brig where you will half starve and most likely be attacked by the crew—” He cut himself off, turning his face to the tiny window facing the sea. Taking a deep breath, he faced me again, his teeth grinding. “Or you can continue this ruse. Serve me.”

  I let out a long exhale, nodding and folding my sweaty hands together. “Yes. I will. I will do anything to get to Johnny.”

  He flashed me a withering stare, and my chest caved in, my insides frosting over from the anger in his eyes.

  “But you must stay out of sight as much as possible,” he said. “You can sleep in the pantry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His mouth opened and shut, and he waved his arm across the room with a sharp sigh. “As a gentleman, I would prefer to give you my bed, but it is vital we maintain appearances in all things. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Very clear, sir.”

  He appraised me, his gaze lingering at my close-cropped hair. “What is your name?”

  “Jill,” I blurted out, thinking of some cow back at Dunraven.

  He took two steps toward me. “Your real name.”

  I exhaled. “Margaret, sir.”

  My mother’s name.

  He snorted, sensing the lie in my wavering voice. “Margaret, what?”

  “O’Brien, sir. Margaret O’Brien.”

  “As soon as we port in Jamaica for supplies, I will personally place you aboard a ship returning home. I do not know what romantic notion put it into your head that the sea was any place for a lady, but I can assure you, it is not. I must impress upon you the danger you are now in, Miss O’Brien.”

  With my feet rooted to the floor, I lifted my chin to meet his gaze. I wouldn’t be spirited back home from Jamaica. Not until I became Johnny’s wife.

  “Sir, I would not have done this if my situation were not grave. I have found myself in desperate times, and only my fiancé can make it right.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “If he still lives.”

  “I must have faith, sir.”

  “Faith,” he spat. “You do understand we are fighting a war, Miss O’Brien.”<
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  I puffed out my bound chest, trying to make myself larger than I appeared. But the top of my head barely reached the Captain’s collarbone, and he stared down at me with his intense glare.

  “I’m not afraid,” I said.

  “You will be,” he snarled, turning away and facing the small window. The waves below threw blue shadows across his profile, and minutes passed, his gaze unfaltering as the ship creaked and groaned around us. For a moment, I thought he might have forgotten about me, and I cleared my throat, taking a tentative step forward.

  “Am I dismissed, sir?”

  “You will know when you are dismissed,” he barked over his shoulder. He turned to face me, the lines of his face sharp and unflinching. “Undress me now.”

  “Sir?” I balked, backing away.

  “I said, ‘undress me.’” He stilled, the muscles in his shoulders tensing, his body exuding a blaze of heat. Yet, his blue eyes glittered with mischief, and the grim line of his mouth turned up in a ghost of a smile. That nasty fecker was testing me.

  He turned around, his hands slack at his sides. “You want to play at cabin boy, Miss O’Brien, then you will do as I say. I want no suspicion. So, if you will. Undress me.”

  Bowing my head, I stepped toward him, the sweet smell of brandy lingering with the acrid cigar smoke on his clothes. And there was something beneath that, the salt of the ocean, of sawdust, cedar, and something inexplicably strong and male. My fingers hesitated inches from his shoulders, and I felt as though I were about to touch a sleeping tiger. Standing on tiptoes, I pulled his coat away from his body, folding it carefully so I could iron it later.

  I slid in front of him, moving softly, fearful of making any sudden movements.

  “Have you undressed a man before?”

  His voice made me jump, and I stepped back, chewing on my lip. How the bloody hell was I supposed to answer that question? In lieu of a response, I cleared my throat, staring down at the floor.

  “I told you not to cower.” He stepped forward until he towered over me. “Have you undressed a man before?”

  I lifted my chin. “Yes.”