“Aren’t you judging the man too harshly?” Zeb asked in his deep, easy voice. “He was right kind about Captain MacKenzie.”
Dear Zeb. He had to be the kindest man in the world.
“You’re absolutely right, Zeb.” Deirdre stood. “I’ll call the guards.” She took a step toward the ladder.
Ross caught her hand and held her back. “Deirdre, no. Think about this. We can keep your identity secret until we get to whatever English port they’re taking us. Then you’ll be safe with the military authorities.”
Deirdre faced him.
“I’ll still be a prisoner.” She spoke softly, trying to think. “Noncombatant, true. I think they would put me under house arrest with a family. Remember last time we were on Guernsey? There were French women who’d escaped. They were treated kindly, but they were still prisoners waiting safe transport back to their homes.”
“They escaped.” Ross touched her cheek. “You could, too. You could get back to America.”
“How? I don’t have any money.”
None of them did. For fear of losing it while climbing ladders or rigging, they kept their specie in their sea chests.
Or hidden in her father’s cabin.
If she could get to that cache, she could smuggle money to the crew. They could bribe their way to freedom or at least have comfort in prison.
That made up her mind. Regardless of what Ashford or anyone else did to her, she needed to find a way to have access to her father’s cabin. She pulled free of Ross’s hold and strode to the ladder just as a guard drew back the grating and held a lantern into the hold. “Mr. Ashford wants you all up top for the funeral.”
Relief swept over her. This would make matters easier. She could announce her identity to Ashford and say good-bye to her father.
But could she put herself in the hands of the man whose actions had hastened her father’s death?
She hesitated with one foot on the ladder. Perhaps her crew was right. Perhaps she would be safer in the hands of British authorities at a port, naval authorities, than in the hands of a privateer who answered to no one.
Ross stepped in front of her, nudging her back from the ladder. “We’re not coming up.”
“What d’you mean by that?” the guard demanded. “The man’s your captain. Mr. Ashford wants you to pay your respects.”
“We respected him when he was alive,” Ross said. “We don’t need to do it now with the enemy reading the service.”
Deirdre hadn’t thought much about that, how painful hearing an English voice reading Scripture over her father’s canvas-wrapped body would be.
Apparently the others had. Approving murmurs rose from the Maid’s crew.
“You’re coming up,” the guard insisted. “Mr. Ashford wants it.”
“And does Mr. Ashford get everything he wants?” Ross asked in a deceptively gentle tone.
The guard’s laugh wasn’t pleasant. “He got this pretty ship, didn’t he? And back home, he’s got more. Land, you know.”
“Droit de seigneur,” Ross growled.
Right of the lord to take whatever he wanted. She knew Ross thought that would be Deirdre if he found out she was female. Remembering those sleepy, golden eyes, Deirdre shivered despite the heat of the hold, and realized he was probably right.
“Tell Mr. Ashford,” Ross said, “that we’ll say our prayers down here.”
Would they hear the splash as her father’s body went into the sea? She doubted it. That might be easier for her.
“I’ll tell him, Yankee.” The light vanished. The grating slammed down.
Deirdre returned to her bale and sat clasping her knees. She didn’t know if she was making the right decision or not. Well, she hadn’t really decided; she’d let Ross decide for her. She stood, noting the increased motion of the ship. The wind had kicked up too late to save the Maid from capture. But not the men.
She took a step toward the ladder.
“Where do you think you’re—?”
The grating opened again, interrupting Ross’s question. Two guards descended the ladder, one with a lantern, both with weapons drawn. They were big, hard-faced men who looked like they could kill their own mothers before breakfast and take a hearty meal.
Instinctively, Deirdre shrank away from them. Perhaps Ross was right, and she should remain anonymous among her crew. If these villainous-looking men got hold of her . . . To protect her and keep her from exploring on her own when they were in ports, her father had made sure she knew what evil men did to women.
The guard with one hand holding a pistol, the other a cutlass, reached the bottom of the ladder. He pointed the cutlass at Ross. “Go topside,” he directed in a voice like a caged bear’s growl. “Now.”
Ross didn’t move.
“I’ll tell you and the rest once more,” the guard rumbled. “Up the ladder.”
No one moved except for Deirdre. She took a step forward.
“No!” Ross, Blaze, and Wat cried together—too late.
With lightning speed, the guard sprang. One arm encircled Deirdre’s waist, the other held his cutlass to her throat. “Go.”
Deirdre swallowed. The feel of cold steel against her windpipe nauseated her.
So did the impact of what power these men had over her crew and her.
No matter what choices she made, they seemed to be the wrong ones. How could she hope to defeat even one of these men when they could slit her throat, toss her body overboard with her father’s, and claim she tried to escape or attacked one of them or . . . They did not need an excuse.
One by one, the crew ascended the ladder. The murmur of voices told her that guards met them at the top. Footfalls on the berth deck indicated them moving away to the main hatch and deck.
When the last man reached the top of the ladder, the guard holding Deirdre released her and nudged her forward. “Get up there, pretty boy.”
Deirdre went, silent, head bowed to avoid the beams. The air grew a bit sweeter with every step she climbed. The main deck air felt positively fresh despite the day’s heat still clinging to planking and tarred lines. She inhaled deeply and caught the scent of rain on the rising wind. The sky was still cloudless, but she’d been able to smell rain hours away since she was a child. This time of year, rain could mean a storm as severe as a hurricane. With the Maid in the hands of men inexperienced with handling a Baltimore clipper, the situation could be deadly.
Her crew stood in a semicircle on the main deck, an armed man behind each one of them. In the middle of the crescent, her father’s body, shrouded in a piece of ragged sail into which would have been sewn two cannonballs, lay atop a mess table.
Deirdre schooled her face to show no emotion as her guard pushed her between Ross and Wat. Perhaps she shouldn’t look at him. Perhaps she shouldn’t think of him as her father or even her captain. She should think of him as a stranger. No, an enemy. She wouldn’t show grief if that were an enemy at her feet.
She raised her head and looked at the real enemies. The Phoebe’s captain and . . . Ashford. They looked suitably solemn. She thought Ashford looked a bit uncomfortable, but figured he was a landsman not knowing how to brace his legs against the increased roll of the deck.
The deck lay silent, with everyone facing the open starboard entry port. Above them, the sails were furled. The schooner was ready for a funeral for the first time since Deirdre’s mother and the twin brothers, who had never breathed, had been sent to their eternal rest in the sea.
A strangled sob rose in her throat without bidding. The snap of a loose sheet drowned the sound from bystanders. Deirdre tensed with anxiety. She felt someone’s eyes upon her and looked up at Ashford. His face was expressionless, and he didn’t meet her gaze, but she knew he had been the one staring at her.
She braced herself to give nothing away until she chose to.
The captain opened the book in his hands. “I am the resurrection and the life . . .”
Deirdre closed her ears to the readings fr
om the King James Bible and other words from the traditional sailor’s funeral writings. She knew them—John, Job, Psalms, Lamentations. They were beautiful and painful. She concentrated on the creak of timbers, hiss of surf, and the snap of that annoyingly loose sheet. She stared toward the horizon, darkening on one side, brilliant with sunset on the other. She stared until movement drew her attention back to her father’s body. Two burly sailors grasped hold of the mess table and tilted it until the body slipped with a quiet splash into the sea he loved.
“In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ,” the captain read, “we commend to Almighty God our captain, Daniel MacKenzie, and we commit his body to the depths . . .”
Deirdre’s eyes glazed with tears. She blinked rapidly, sending one tear down her cheek. Only one, but enough.
Ashford’s gaze flew to her face. His golden-brown eyes met hers before she could duck her head, and he smiled.
The sea rolled the ship with a heavy swell as though protesting the addition of Daniel MacKenzie to its depths. Deidre had never been seasick in a lifetime spent at sea, but in that moment, seeing that smile, she feared that this would be the first time for her to disgrace herself in front of her crew.
“You are dismissed,” the captain announced, closing his book. “Crew to duties, prisoners to—”
Ashford held up a hand before the captain, staying his words. “No one move.”
Ross swore beneath his breath. Wat sighed and bowed his head. Deirdre stood still and quiet with every muscle in her body taut as stay lines.
Ashford stalked toward her, his gaze never leaving her face. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He mesmerized her with his grace and power and purpose. That intent brought him close enough for her to smell the lemony tang of vetiver and see the shadow of a day’s whisker growth. She needed all her will to remain motionless beneath the onslaught of his steady, golden gaze.
“So, MacKenzie.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “What does the D stand for? Diana, Daphne, Deborah?”
Chapter 3
Deirdre.” She pronounced her name in a clear, smooth contralto. Standing tall and straight, she met his gaze without a flinch.
She had beautiful eyes, a pale, silvery green like new leaves, framed in long, thick lashes with gold tips that glinted in the setting sun. Her entire face was lovely, with clear, smooth skin sun-kissed golden with a charming sprinkle of freckles across her slim nose and sharp cheekbones. Her full-lipped mouth was so kissable, and her rounded chin was so smooth, Kieran wondered how anyone thought she could pass as a boy for even a moment. He had suspected her gender the instant he saw her, but from the startled looks on the faces of the Phoebe’s crew, they had been fooled by her height and clothes.
“I am Deirdre Elizabeth MacKenzie.” Her eyes grew hard. “You just buried my father.”
He flinched. “I am sorry, Miss MacKenzie.” He raised one hand, tempted to caress her smooth cheek, wanting to offer her some sort of comfort.
A hand clamped on his wrist like an iron shackle. “Don’t you dare touch her.”
“Ross, no.” Deirdre shoved the first mate with a palm to his chest.
Trenerry did not let go. The African man gripped the mate’s arm and tried to haul him back.
Kieran ignored the byplay, though his arm didn’t much appreciate the tug-of-war, and turned to the Phoebe’s captain.
“Heron,” Kieran said, “return the prisoners to the hold. Except for Miss MacKenzie, of course. She will go to the quarters.”
Beside Kieran, Deirdre muttered something to Trenerry, and he released his grip so quickly Kieran staggered with the roll of the ship. One of the merchantman’s men laughed. Deirdre shot him a glare that stopped his mirth.
Kieran was intrigued. Apparently the captain’s daughter held a great deal of control over the crew. He stored that observation for future use and turned to the three men from the Phoebe striding forward, cudgels ready.
Their size and weapons gave them the illusion of toughness, but most of the privateer’s crew were fishermen and farmers seeking adventure and financial gain in difficult economic times. They edged between Deirdre and her father’s crew and began to shepherd them toward the main hatchway.
Deirdre took a step after them, as though she intended to follow or say something more to the first mate, but Kieran curved his hand around her arm and held her back.
“Miss MacKenzie, we will drink a toast to your father’s memory.” He drew her closer to his side and farther from the prisoners, marveling at the tensile strength of her arm beneath a fine cotton shirt. “Is that not what one does after a funeral?”
She didn’t look at him. “I’d prefer to go to my cabin.”
“And I would prefer to talk to you.” They reached the companionway leading to the cabins. Kieran stepped back, allowing Deirdre to descend ahead of him.
She did so with ease, then paused beside a door to the right. “This is my cabin. I wish to be alone.”
“I have no doubt you would.” Kieran tried to infuse his tone with all the sympathy he felt for her. “But I need some information from you straightaway.”
She curled her fingers around the handle of the cabin door. “What information could you possibly need from me straightaway?”
“The ship’s manifest.”
“Schooner.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This is a schooner, a Baltimore clipper to be precise, not a ship.”
Some vague memory of his father telling him something similar ran through his head, ignored like most things his father considered important and Kieran didn’t want to know.
“Schooner. Ship. Neither matters.” He held up a hand in protest. “I don’t need to know about the type of vessel this is. I need to know about what is in the hold.”
“Of course.” Her upper lip curled. “You need to count your spoils of war.”
“I need to account to the prize court back in England, and for that, I need the cargo manifest.”
She shrugged. “I have no idea about that. If it’s not in the log, my father didn’t have one.”
Although she looked him straight in the eye, she was lying. He was not the most savvy of seamen, but he knew a captain who took as good a care of his ship as had Daniel MacKenzie would have a detailed list of the cargo somewhere, probably with the specie, something else Kieran needed to account for to the prize court.
He took a half step closer to her, noticing now that they were alone how she smelled far sweeter than the average seaman. Nothing flowery, but spicy, tangy. The scent reminded him of afternoon callers in his mother’s drawing room. Sweet biscuits filled with cream. Gingersnaps. She smelled like ginger. Fascinating. Enticing. He steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe beside her and focused on the issue at hand. “You know I will find the manifest eventually, whatever you are trying to conceal.”
“I’m not trying to conceal anything.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “We have silk, tea, and jade aboard. All legal cargoes.” She lifted the door latch. “Zeb is a free man, not part of the cargo. His papers are in my father’s desk.” Her chin wobbled ever so slightly. “Now if I may—” She flung open the door to a small chamber bathed in light from the setting sun—light that glinted off the blades of two weapons hanging on the bulkhead.
Kieran wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her back before she crossed the threshold. “I think not. I need to search that cabin before you are in there alone.”
Once he knew the cabin belonged to the captain’s daughter, not the first mate, he should have realized what he sought could be in there.
“I will be as quick as possible.”
“Do as you like. I suppose I can expect nothing else.” She shoved his arm from her middle and faced the aft cabin. Her shoulders rose and fell on an exhalation with too many hitches in it to be a sigh, and too even to be a sob. Kieran guessed she wanted to cry. She would not weep in front of him. Keeping her back t
o him, she stepped over the coaming and onto the red Turkey carpet, then went straight to the log still lying open on the table. “I need to make note of this day.”
“You may.” He moved up behind her. “Will you also make a list of the crew’s Christian names?”
“Ask them yourself if you want them.” She traced her finger along the list of initials.
“I’ve never seen a list of crew without more information about the men noted.”
His father kept detailed notes on each of his crew in his desk at home and sent a copy with the vessel.
Kieran braced himself with one hand gripping the smooth wooden back of the desk chair beside her. “Did your father use initials to protect your identity?”
She nodded, keeping her head down. Light gleamed in her hair, a flame bright enough to shine in the dark.
Kieran tucked his free hand into his pocket so he didn’t touch those bright tresses. “Why did he not simply leave you ashore?”
“I’d have just signed aboard another vessel.”
“But the risk!” Kieran released the chair and began to prowl the cabin, seeking the brandy he had seen earlier. Thinking of how he would feel were his sisters in a similar situation, alone and vulnerable in the middle of the ocean, he was more inclined toward breaking the decanter against something than drinking its contents. Anger against a dead man was a ridiculous waste of energy, but he was angry with Daniel MacKenzie for risking the safety, the virtue, the life of his daughter.
Kieran yanked open a cupboard. “Did he not consider that you might get captured?”
“We didn’t know England would drive the United States to war.”
“That’s not good enough.” Kieran jerked out the brandy decanter and slammed the door. “England has been impressing American sailors for ten years.” The ship rolled. Kieran staggered, banging one shoulder painfully into a bulkhead. He clenched his teeth against an exclamation and continued as though nothing had happened. “What if they had done that to you?”
My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles) Page 3
