Captain of My Heart (12 page)

Oh, he was running all right. After Julia’s
betrayal, he knew better than to get tangled up with another pretty
girl. There was no way he was going to let another woman steal his
heart and cleverly manipulate him into a position where he’d have
to choose between her and his ship. A man could not serve two
passions. The next lass he gave his heart to would be made of sails
and wood and wind. Ships were safer, sweeter, and ever
faithful.

The schooner.

He returned to his desk, picked up his
pencil, and went back to work. Fatigue made the drawing blur before
his eyes, and he took a long swig of cold black coffee. He loved
this stage of design, when the drawings themselves seemed to come
alive beneath his hands. He envisioned the reality, the ship they
would be, and his heart beat a little faster with anticipation and
excitement. A side view, a turned-turtle view, a fore and an aft
view of the hull. The dimensions noted carefully in the corner of
the paper—beam molded and beam extreme, depth in hold and craft.
Particulars—of mast height and spar length, of cannon placement and
rigging details. He grinned. Old Ephraim had doubted his identity,
eh? Well,
these
drafts would prove it far better than a
dried-out ball of useless pulp.

A rap on the door startled him and he jerked
up, his gaze moving to the chipped sandglass. Two bells of the
midwatch, though
Annabel
’s was now somewhere beneath the
inky surface of the Merrimack River. In landsman’s terms, one
o’clock in the morning, almost twelve hours since his fateful
departure from Ashton’s house—

The rap came again, impatient this time. “For
heaven’s sake,
foighne ort!”
he called, tossing his pencil
aside and rubbing his tired eyes. It was Dalby, no doubt, coming to
complain about a fever, chest pains, indigestion, or whatever else
he imagined he was dying from this time. Rising carefully to avoid
hitting his head on the deck beams, Brendan made his way, stooping,
across the steeply tilted deck and flung open the door. “Faith,
Dalby, can’t it wait until morn—”

It wasn’t Dalby O’Hara standing there with a
hand held to his stomach, but Mira Ashton, dressed in a pretty
homespun gown of all things, with a hand held to her bosom.
Obviously the way he’d jerked the door open had caught her by
surprise—but it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt at
seeing her standing there.

“
D’ar m’anam,”
he managed, so startled
that he unconsciously reverted to Irish.

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain Merrick.”

“I’ll bet you are.” He tore his gaze from the
creamy flesh so tantalizingly displayed above the lace of her
decolletage. “What are you doing here? And how the devil did you
get by my watch?”

She fidgeted, picking at her sleeve as though
the gown was not something she was accustomed to wearing. In all
probability, it was not. “I didn’t. Your lieutenant stopped me as I
boarded, but I told him my father was building a ship for you, so
he let me through.”

And then she brushed past him, barging into
the cabin with as much force as the cannonball that had destroyed
it. Seating herself in his chair, she caught a handful of her
thick, board-straight hair and began twisting it around her fist,
back and forth and up and around in a way that caught the light
from the candle and did odd things to Brendan’s heart and the
temperature of his skin.

“Miss Ashton.” She let go of her hair and met
his gaze, one green eye disappearing behind a fall of hair that
tumbled down over her pixie face at that very moment. “I don’t know
if you’re aware of the time or not—somehow, I should think that you
are, given the fact that your household does not lack for
timepieces—but don’t you think it’s rather late to be calling on a
gentleman? And if, by some miracle of ignorance, you’re
not
aware of the time, then certainly you’re aware of the impropriety
of visiting me in the dead of night, and all by yourself, at that.
I would urge you to consider your reputation.”

“Captain Merrick, I’m fully aware of the
hour. But it was the only time I could sneak out. You see, Father
has his nightcap at eleven-thirty, and goes to bed at eleven
forty-five. He stays up and reads from the New Testament until
twelve-thirty. Right now he’s up to Romans, chapter two, I believe.
At exactly twelve thirty-three he snuffs his candle—”

“Miss Ashton—”

“And at twelve forty-five he falls asleep,
which I know because I can hear him snoring—”

“Miss Ashton!”

“And at four-thirty he gets up to use the
priv—”

“Miss Ashton,
please!”

She rose and moved across the cabin, her
petticoat hem sweeping up dust and glass and wood splinters, her
finger trailing across his desk and leaving a line through the dust
left by damage from Crichton’s guns.

“Sorry for running you down in the street
today,” she murmured. “It was an accident.”

“I accept your apology, Miss Mira.”

“I . . . I hope you weren’t hurt too
badly.”

“I am quite recovered, thank you.”

“And I hope you’ll reconsider having Father
build your schooner. You’ll break his heart if you have someone
else do it.”

Brendan just stood looking at her, trying to
reconcile this vision standing before him with the smart-mouthed
hoyden who’d been pummeling Liam with her bare fists not twelve
hours before.

“May I see them?” she asked, looking up.

“See what?”

She nodded toward the drawings on the table.
“The drafts.”

He picked them up and handed them to her.

He saw the exact moment she realized just
what she was looking at. When casual interest became sudden,
wide-eyed shock. Her jaw fell open and she just stood there,
speechless, staring down at the drafts with her thick hair tumbling
down over one shoulder and brushing the vellum. She blinked. Once.
Twice. And then she looked up, and their gazes met.

“You drew this?” she whispered, her eyes
filling with awe. “Designed it?”

He glanced away, looking at his desk, the
moonlit river outside, the glass-strewn floor—anywhere but into
those translucent green eyes. Spying a pitcher, he grabbed a mug
and began to pour. “Would you care for some water, Miss
Moyrrra?”

She ignored his question, and the mug. “Did
you?”

He gave a little shrug, and grinned.

“Captain Merrick, I . . . this . . . this is
amazing.” She was studying him with unnerving intensity. “I’ve
never seen anything like these drafts in my life.”

He began to fidget like a six-year-old at an
all-day sermon.

“Do you always have such a hard time handling
compliments, Captain Merrick?”

He gave her a fleeting grin. “Do you always
have such a hard time stating your purpose in visiting gentlemen in
the wee hours of the morn?”

“I don’t usually visit gentlemen in the wee
hours of the morn. But if I did, I should think my purpose would be
quite clear.”

He almost choked on his water. “Then what is
your purpose now, Miss Mira?”

She gave one of her cat-smiles. “To try to
get your business back from Tracy.”

“Tracy?” He set the mug down and looked at
her, puzzled. “Who’s Tracy?”

“Patrick and Nathaniel Tracy? The
shipbuilders?”

“Sorry, I don’t know them.”

“I heard you’re giving them your
business.”

“Well, you heard wrong.”

“Then you’re going to place it with
Father?”

“I didn’t say that either,” he said, although
that was precisely his intent. He’d play her along for a wee bit
and see what she was up to. As for this Tracy thing, it was no
doubt a rumor fabricated by Liam designed to come back to haunt
him.

“You’ve got to let Father build this schooner
for you,” she said, vehemently. “You have to. If you don’t, he’s
going to be furious!”

“So? It seems to me that he spends the better
part of his life in that state. He should find it quite comfortable
by now.”

“But you don’t understand!”

“Understand what?”

She stood there looking very small and
helpless—Mira Ashton, helpless?
—
with the gown clinging to
her curves, nipping a waist that needed no nipping and showing a
full and lovely bosom that invited his stare, held it, and wouldn’t
let it go. After seeing her garbed in shirt and trousers, the gown,
which would’ve looked quite benign on anyone else, enhanced her
fine figure in a way that made his mouth go dry and his thoughts
turn toward other things.

Such as the usual reason a woman might seek
out a man in the middle of the night.

He took another gulp of water and wondered if
steam was rising from his pores.

“Understand why I came here,” she said
softly, finally putting the drafts down. She looked him straight in
the eye and said, “I came here to bargain with you.”

He quirked a brow. And then Mira saw
amusement beginning to dance in his eyes. They were warm,
honey-colored eyes that knew how to caress a woman without
stripping her, to flatter her without insulting her, and he was
doing that now. Mira felt her cheeks grow warm, not out of maidenly
embarrassment, but in direct response to the assessing admiration
and invitation in their laughing depths.

What would it be like to let him touch her?
Hold her? Kiss—

Picking up a quadrant from his desk, he
asked, “And why are you so desperate for my business, Miss Ashton?
Do mishaps such as those that have befallen me since I’ve made your
family’s acquaintance happen to all of your potential clients? Is
that why you’ve come a-begging, lassie?” The grin deepened.
“Business a bit slow lately?”

She colored, for his teasing speculation had
found the truth. “Yes, but . . . no one’s been
really
hurt.
Just little things, like Caesar spilling the gravy in Mr. Whigham’s
lap—”

“Caesar? Mr. Whigham?”

“Caesar’s a cat that I rescued. Rescue Effort
Number Twenty-Nine, I think. Mr. Whigham was a client. Or would’ve
been, anyway, if Caesar hadn’t jumped up on the supper table the
night he was supposed to sign the contract and spilled hot gravy
all down the front of his breeches.”

“And Caesar? What was his fate that he needed
your, er, rescuing?”

“Caesar’s a she. She was ship’s cat on
Captain Greenleaf’s brig when I found one of his gunners abusing
her.”

“Am I correct in assuming that this gunner
met with a fate that was far less, er, pleasant than, uh,
Caesar’s?”

Mira matched his grin, her face innocently
impish. “Aye. I caught up to him that night and blackened his eye.
Father was furious.”

“For blackening his eye?”

“No, for bringing the cat home. She was
pregnant.”

“Oh.”

“And he was even more furious when she had
her kittens.”

She looked very serious, and Brendan tugged
at his mouth to hide his amusement. “And why was that, Miss Ashton?
Doesn’t he like kittens?”

“Oh, he likes them, all right. He just
doesn’t like seeing them born on the dining room table. You see, we
were entertaining another client that night ...”

“Who no doubt decided to take his business to
this Tracy fellow instead?”

She smirked. “Something like that.”

“I see. Well, Miss Ashton, as you’ve come
here without cat, dog, or horse, I assume that I’m safe for the
time being. Therefore, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re
here.”

She swallowed hard. The drafts lay atop the
table, and she picked them up again, her heartbeat quickening as
she took in the schooner’s rapine hull, the sharp rake of her
masts, and her lean, predatory lines once more. Matt hadn’t been
exaggerating when he’d predicted this ship would see the Ashton
yards out of their slump. He hadn’t been talking through his hat
when he predicted she’d be the pride of Newburyport. Hell, she’d
not only be the pride of Newburyport, she’d be the pride of
Massachusetts.

Wild despair filled her. She
had
to
get Captain Merrick’s business back.

“Captain Merrick, I’m sure you realize that
your schooner’s design and, uh, differences from what is considered
standard will make her quite costly to build
.”
If Father
caught her at this, he’d be furious. “According to these plans, you
want her hull sheathed in copper. Where do you think we’re going to
find copper with a war going on? You want tops’ls and t’gallants,
and studding sails, too. On a schooner? I’ve never seen the like!
And you want hatches that face aft instead of forward, differences
in rigging, and all sorts of unconventional modifications to deck
features, let alone deviations from a standard hull shape—” She
pointed toward the sleek bows. “—like this forward-raked stem, for
instance. These things cost money.”

He was at the window again, sipping his water
and staring off into the silvery, moonlit night. “Drier,” he said
simply.

“What?”

“Facing the hatches aft, instead of forward.
’Twill keep her much drier belowdecks. Never could see the sense of
having them open toward the fore.”

“Captain, with studding sails on her, I
really don’t think you’ll have to worry about how
dry
she’ll
be. I guarantee that’ll be the last thing you’ll be thinking about
when a gust of wind hits her and knocks her over!”

He turned then and smiled, patiently, the way
he might have done with an uncomprehending child. “Miss Ashton,” he
said, coming forward and standing so close, she could feel the heat
of his body and smell the pleasant aroma of his shaving soap.
Gently, he took the drafts from her, his fingers accidentally
brushing hers, causing her heart to jump madly beneath this
foolish, constricting, silly gown she’d worn to try and impress him
here tonight. But he, without even trying, was sure making an
impression on her, and now her mouth was going dry as she stared at
his hand, its long fingers now tracing, no,
caressing
the
curve of the pencil-drawn hull. She trembled, wondering how those
hands would feel on her, what it would be like to have him looking
at her with as much fond admiration as he did those drafts.