Commanding His Heart (American Pirate Romances Book 2)

by C. K. Brooke

  She hadn’t been expecting three of the pirates to remove the very shirts from their backs and toss them her way. Even more surprising was the fact that she was quick enough to catch them in her shock. Three brawny, bare, and tattooed chests stared back at her, and Em lowered her startled eyes to the pile of laundry in her arms.

  She winced. It stank.

  She found a stool and dragged it to a corner. It was about as comfortable as she was going to get. As soon as someone brought her a needle and spool of thread, the young woman set to work. She sewed and tightened and mended throughout the morning, working the needle easily with a keen eye and practiced hands.

  “Don’ care how useful she is,” she heard someone muttering darkly to the others. It was the same stubbly man who’d complained about her the day before. “She’s still bad luck.”

  “Bad luck or not,” said the quartermaster, called Jones, who’d given her his shirt, “them tiny hands is dead useful for quick sewin’!”

  More garments came her way as word around spread, and Emeline was soon facing a pile half her height, which included Mr. McNichol’s breeches, several pairs of trousers, a waistcoat, and blouses so threadbare, Em worried they’d fall apart as soon as she touched them. But she wasn’t daunted. A challenge, and something productive to do—to earn her keep and prove her worth to those men—was just what she needed.

  She was an adept seamstress. She didn’t love it as much as soap-making, but it was a chore she didn’t mind. There was something meditative about it, after a while. And especially when the men began to sing in low, guttural voices, calling back and forth to one another in a responsorial chantey, she found herself pulling the needle to their rhythm.

  When the hour felt ripe for a break, Em stood from her stool, stretched, and set down her work. Without a word, she descended to her cabin and found her bar of soap. Returning up the companionway and back above decks, she requested, “Mr. Ginty, lend me your sickle.”

  The man clutched the small weapon sheathed at his belt. “What for?”

  “A favor. From me to you.”

  Not without a look of suspicion, the pirate unsheathed the blade and handed it to her. Em lay the bar of soap over her stool and sliced it down the middle. She began to chop one of the halves into small blocks.

  “I’ll say, what a fragrance,” remarked Mr. Jones as she handed him a block. He turned it between his fingers, and Em tried not to notice the enormous skull tattooed across his chest.

  She distributed the blocks to everyone who paid her any mind. “You may keep it if you promise to do us all a favor and use it. I won’t wish to mend many more of your garments if they stink like animal corpses.”

  Alexander, the cabin boy, held his block to his nose. “This is soap?”

  “Of course, it is.” Em frowned. “Have you never seen a proper bar of soap before?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a misshapen lump of lye and whale fat. It was so pitiful, Em could have laughed. Alas, she felt too sorry for the boy.

  “What’s in it?” said the superstitious fellow warily, examining Mr. McNichol’s block.

  “Lavender,” replied Em. “And some milk and honey. Dyed with sassafras.”

  “I told ye.” He tossed the block back at McNichol, as though it had burned his fingers. “It’s witchcraft. She’s a—!”

  “She ain’t a witch, you son of an arse.”

  Em stepped away from the bickering to observe how the others were receiving her charity. Some seemed grateful, especially the older crewmen. A few were already trying to barter theirs, or discussing how much they might get for it at port.

  “Making friends with the affable missus, are we?” a pleasant voice rose amidst the rabble.

  Em turned to see Commander Redding, who approached her with a cup of tea. He grinned as he offered it to her. She reached to accept it, their hands brushing in the exchange. Her skin tingled.

  “I see you’ve been finding means by which to occupy yourself,” Redding commented. His tone sounded approving.

  She nodded in the direction of the pile of clothing still awaiting her. “It appears I may not be such bad luck aboard The Black Rose after all.”

  “That remains to be seen,” he teased her. “What’s suffered the worst luck since you boarded is my sleep.”

  Before she could inquire what he meant by that, he turned and was gone, leaving her alone with her tea. She took a sip, watching the waves beyond the ship. Her stomach felt much the same way as those waves, rising and falling. What did he mean, his sleep had suffered? Was he not asleep the night before while she lay awake watching him? Was he trying to tell her he knew what she’d been doing…thinking?

  She hastily took another gulp of tea, warming her throat. But it was impossible for anyone to know what she’d been thinking. Maybe he was only referring to the rat in their cabin.

  When she’d finished the drink and the slice of bread the cabin boy, Alexander, had given her, Em returned to work. One of the blouses was so filthy, it looked as though it had been made of brown cloth instead of white. She refused to touch that one.

  “May I get you anything else, Mrs. Redding?” asked the cabin boy.

  Em took in the unkempt hair and sun-freckled cheeks. He didn’t appear much older than her brother, Jackey. Her heart softened. With the toe of her shoe, she tapped the deck floor. “Come,” she invited him. “Sit and keep me company.”

  He abided, looking pleased with himself.

  “How old are you, Alexander?”

  “Twelve, Missus.”

  She rested her needle. “Now, what brings a twelve-year-old boy aboard a ship like this?” she clucked sympathetically. What if it were her brother?

  “Well, my mam stole a great deal of money from a pirate what she bedded a few years back,” explained the boy matter-of-factly. “Rather than cut ’er throat, the first mate agreed to indenture me as cabin boy here until her debt’s repaid.” He seemed proud to tell her this.

  Em lifted her needle again, lost for words.

  “Anything else you’d like to know, Mrs. Redding?” He leaned forward eagerly.

  “Er…”

  “Alex, son of a whore,” came a growl. Em’s gaze climbed to find the menacing face of Mr. Pleats, the man who had tried to assault her when she’d first boarded. “Leave the commander’s wife alone,” said the surly man.

  “Some nerve you’ve got, telling him that,” snapped Em.

  Pleats closed his mouth.

  “And anyway, I requested Alexander’s company. I did not,” she sniffed pointedly, “request yours.”

  That took care of Pleats. He stomped away, leaving nothing in his wake but the faint odor of his foul breath. Young Alexander’s grin spread appreciatively.

  From then on, the cabin boy was at Emeline’s beck and call, gladly returning mended garments to the sailors, and bringing her more work to do. After serving her supper, the boy helped her carry a new pile of laundry down to her cabin, where she planned to work by lantern light until bedtime.

  “Shall you require anything else for the evenin’, Mrs. Redding?” he asked, almost looking as if he hoped she’d have more errands for him. He reminded her so much of Jackey that she was overcome with a sudden pang of homesickness.

  She shook her head. “Thank you, Alexander, but that will be all. Now, go and rest.”

  He saluted her. “Aye, ma’am.”

  She smiled to herself as the cabin door closed behind him, and she resumed her needle and thread at the bureau, aiming to finish her assignments that evening. She began to sing a song under her breath, the fragments she remembered of the pirates’ chantey. But the lyrics were evading her. She yawned, and accidently poked her thumb with the needle.

  Just a few more stitches, she told herself, though her eyes were beginning to burn with fatigue. “Ouch,” she hissed, when she poked herself again. She was growing clumsy.

  If the commander could see to his duties till midnight, then so could she. Determined,
Em carried on, even as her fingers fumbled and began to ache.

  ***

  Miers descended the dark companionway, not bothering with a lantern. Moonlight lit his path through the portholes, and he could feel where he was going, anyhow. When he came to his cabin, he noticed a rim of lantern light beneath the closed door.

  He pulled the handle and stepped in. The cot was made, with no one sleeping in it. Curious, he shifted his gaze to the bureau. He’d almost missed her. There, among a towering pile of men’s garments sat Miss Winthrop. Although, she wasn’t sitting upright. Rather, she was bent over the bureau, her head resting over her outspread arms. A tiny silver needle gleamed on the desktop, her fingers in a pinching position above it, as if still believing they held it.

  Miers bent over, examining her porcelain face. She looked like an angel resting there, strands of black hair streaming down her fair and lovely cheeks. Her eyelashes were fuller and darker than any he’d ever seen. Could it be natural for someone to have such long black lashes?

  Automatically, he felt in his pocket for the salamander hairclip he’d won the night before. He should give it to her soon.

  …Or should he? He frowned. The young lady had a fiancé waiting for her at home, after all. To give her gifts, as though he would court her, was hardly appropriate. Perhaps, thought Miers, he should save it for Eliza. And yet, admittedly, it had been only Miss Winthrop’s raven mane, and not Eliza’s plain brown bun, into which he had envisioned fastening the clip.

  He would give it to the maiden above decks, while the others were present, he decided, as part of their charade. His hand slipped out of his pocket, and rested instead upon the girl’s shoulder. “Miss Winthrop?” he whispered.

  No answer. She was out.

  He sighed, stepping out of his boots. He unsheathed his sword, rested the weighty metal against the wall, and removed his belt. When his activity failed to disturb her, he pushed the mound of laundry aside and scooped the girl out of the wooden desk chair.

  She emitted a short little breath as he lifted her in his arms, but was soundly asleep again the moment he laid her on the cot. Miers tried not to let his eyes linger on the shape of her as he pulled the blanket over her, bringing it snugly to her chin. Though slight, she was womanly in every way.

  He moved around to the other side of the cot and lowered himself to sit beside her. Her head tilted to the side, her creamy neck exposed to him. He longed to trace it with his fingers, see if her skin could truly be as soft as it looked. Mayhap he might find some excuse to do so, when the others were watching, so that he might pretend it was only to convince them.

  He tugged at his collar and unbuttoned it, inwardly scolding himself for the devious thought. He had no right to touch another man’s betrothed.

  He lay back, listening to her gentle breaths. “Dear girl, where are you going?” he murmured. “Whatever shall you do?” His last question, he didn’t speak aloud. And of all places you could have wound up, why here, at my side?

  Was Crawley’s crew right? Was she nothing but bad luck? Or had Providence brought them together for a purpose?

  Chapter 9

  Em awoke to the thudding of activity on the deck overhead. Disoriented, she propped herself up on her elbows. She wondered how she’d gotten into the cot and under the blanket. As a matter of fact, she didn’t remember drifting off to sleep at all.

  She glanced around. Commander Redding wasn’t there, but the blanket was mussed beside her. Against the wall leaned his sword. The pile of clothes she’d been mending remained on the bureau, along with her needle and waning spool of thread resting neatly atop it. She didn’t recall doing that, either.

  She looked down at her dress, the same she’d worn the day before. She must have fallen asleep while still at the bureau, she realized. Why—had the commander carried her to bed?

  She paused at the idea of the man holding her, like how a groom conveyed his bride across the threshold. If only she had been awake to know what it had felt like, if that was indeed how she’d gotten there.

  Em slid out of the cot. She freshened her hands and face with the half-bar of lavender soap and water in the bamboo basin, and took up the pile of clothing. The cabin was too dingy; she wanted to work under the sunlight. Perchance Alexander would bring her breakfast if he saw her.

  Despite trouser legs flapping over her shoulder and shirttails dangling between her feet, the young woman found her way above deck. Misters Jones and McNichol greeted her cheerily, and a few others bobbed their heads in salutation. Em straightened her lips, pressing back a smile. Not such a harbinger of misfortune after all, was she? Not once she’d figured out how to make an honest use of herself.

  Under the waxing sun, she sewed—needle and thread, needle and thread—until her eyes began to blur and her stomach whined with hunger. The cabin boy was apparently busy, as she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him. And so, on she pressed without breakfast. She could handle a meal-less morning. It wouldn’t be the first time since after the war.

  Noon was approaching when she heard Commander Redding’s melodious voice conversing with another sailor. Much as she wanted to lift her gaze and beckon him over, she kept her head down. She wouldn’t appear so desperate for his attention. Because she wasn’t.

  Really, she tried to assure herself. Even if he strolled right by me, I wouldn’t give him a second—

  “Mrs. Redding?”

  Her head shot up. Heavens, how quickly she had taken to that name.

  “Look at you, toiling all the livelong day,” remarked Redding lightly, hands tucked behind his back.

  “Oh.” Em giggled. She immediately winced at the ridiculous sound. “Er, I wouldn’t call it toiling, dear.” She drew out the last word to satisfy Mr. Ginty, who strode past just then. “I rather enjoy sewing. As you know.”

  “Right,” the commander amended, eyes fixed on the back of Ginty’s neck until the pirate disappeared from view. Small lines forged on either side of Commander Redding’s mouth, betraying his grin. “Would you care to pause in your efforts, and take a noontime meal with me?”

  Em got to her feet so quickly, she dropped her needle. She bent over to pluck it up. “That sounds delightful.”

  He held out the crook of his arm, and Em carefully took it. Her heart gave a pert tap-tap in her chest as she walked beside him, their arms interlinked. She kept up with his brisk pace, feeling so easy and natural alongside him…and somehow elated. Careful, Em, she warned herself, lest your feet leave the ground entirely.

  He led her below into a cabin with a round wooden table and chairs, where Cook served them fresh catch with steamed carrots and potatoes. It was difficult for Em to believe it was only a few days ago when the commander had sat at her family’s table, a stranger, learning the news as Em did about her impending marriage.

  But that was leagues away now. Em consumed her dish, all the while observing the commander, the way he tucked his napkin into his collar, the contemplative expression he wore when he took a sip of tea. The more she watched him, the less she could think of anything to dislike about him.

  She suddenly burned to know who he was. Not just that he was a naval commander, and her brother-in-law’s friend, but who he truly was. “Where are you from, Mr. Redding?” she finally asked him, breaking the long-held silence of their meal.

  “Join me for a walk above?” he offered in response. “We’ll talk. I have questions for you as well.”

  “What sorts of questions?” asked Em cautiously, but set down her napkin.

  The commander pulled out her chair for her. She accompanied him upstairs, arms interlinked once more. The couple set into a leisurely stroll. “I’ll admit, I might’ve fancied you to be a bit of a spoilt belle,” chuckled the commander. “Where did you learn to be so industrious?”

  “Spoilt? I’m surprised.” Em gave his arm a squeeze. “Whatever gave you such a notion of me?”

  He shrugged. “I know not. Maybe because we seaward chaps aren’t around women much,
and you strike me as quite a lady.”

  Em bowed her head to hide the blush that crept up her cheeks. “My mother would be thrilled to hear you say that. Please be sure to mention it to her, when next you see her.”

  They shared a small smile, but Em’s soon faded. “Truth be told, we Winthrops used to do well. That was before the war. While fighting in the Revolution, my father hurt his leg, and we lost…” Her voice hitched, but she powered bravely on. “We lost my eldest brother. With Papa no longer able to work as rigorously as he once could, and with my brother’s loss…well, it’s been difficult to manage the dairy. We had to sell many of our slaves, and my sister Pru and I began making and selling our own cheeses and soaps to supplement the family income.”

  “What was his name?” asked Redding gently. Em hardly realized it, but they had since stopped walking, and were now standing together at the prow.

  She looked into his face. The color of his eyes blended with the sea and sky beyond them. She didn’t have to ask to know whom he meant. “Danny,” she said. She cleared her throat, unable to bear the sympathy in his gaze. “I miss him every day.” She placed her hands on the rail, leaning forward to catch the breeze and let it dry her moist eyes. “But I suppose I gained a new brother in your friend, Edwin Bonworthe, when he married my sister.”

  She was determined to speak of happier things and place Danny’s sparkling grin aside in her memory. “So, what of you and your family?” she asked, deflecting the subject.

  “We hail from New England.” Commander Redding stepped up beside her, examining her as though she were a riddle he was trying to solve. “Connecticut.”

  “I can hear it in your accent,” remarked Em.

  This seemed to surprise him. “Can you?”

  She nodded.

  “And what do you think of it?”

  “Of what, sir?”

  “Of my so-called accent.” He grinned.

  Her tongue fumbled. She couldn’t very well tell the truth, that she thought it sounded sophisticated and hypnotic. “Er, it’s…very, er…”