Captain of My Heart (14 page)

And atop her blocks the schooner waited, her
rails draped with the flags of her new country, her slick black
hull glowing pink, then gold, in the strengthening sunlight. She
heard the people’s praise, felt their awe. She endured their
reverent hands upon her flanks. She was confident, smug,
self-assured, and utterly feminine.

And those who figured they knew better
predicted she’d sink before she even settled her sleek shoulders
into the water.

The sun rose higher, turning the morning
skies to fire. Standing atop an elevated platform, Reverend Edward
Bass, pastor of St. Paul’s Church, spoke solemn words of blessing
and prayer over her. Beside him Ephraim Ashton, whose business had
quadrupled over the past two months, stood gloating and swinging
his watch, every so often elbowing his son in the ribs. The crowds
milled and surged and grew impatient. They hadn’t come here to see
their pastor, nor their suddenly renowned shipbuilder, nor his
hotheaded son; they’d come to watch a launching—and see for
themselves the
real
mastermind behind that magnificent
schooner: the blithe, handsome young Irishman (
Englishman!
some insisted) who would command her.

But Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, who for
reasons known only to himself had spent the past two months up in
Portsmouth, kept to the back of the platform, allowing the reverend
to say his blessings, Ephraim to do his bragging, and the schooner
to speak for herself.

Finally the pastor shut his Bible and stepped
back.

Ephraim cleared his throat, consulted his
watch, cleared his throat once again. A final toast was made, a
bottle of champagne cracked across the svelte black bow. The
tension rose. A thousand spectators held their breaths, milling,
murmuring, and waiting.

She’s too sharp through the hull
, some
whispered.

Too singular in design.

They pressed closer.

She’ll go right to the bottom, just you
watch.

And closer.

A cannon boomed out. And then her handsome
young captain, impeccably dressed in a blue coat with red facings
and gold buttons streaming down his chest, stepped forward to send
her on her first journey to the sea. He looked at her long and
hard—some would later swear there was mist in his eyes—and then he
waved his hand, stood back, and watched as the hammers rose and
fell, rose and fell, smashing apart the blocks that bridled her and
severing the harnesses that kept her from the sea.

The schooner stirred to life.

The crowd gasped. They held their breaths;
and then they shoved forward with a roar. “There she goes!”

She trembled, lurched, began to move. Then
she gathered speed, whispering to herself as she slid down the
ways, faster and faster and faster, slipping into the river with
hardly a splash.

She dipped.

She righted herself.

She moved away, trembling a bit as she got
the feel of the water.

But she did not sink.

She did not sink!

The crowd roared and went wild. The air rang
with deafening cheers and music and the glorious thunder of
exultant cannon. And at that very moment something small and
hawklike darted out of the dawn with a keening cry, swooping on the
predatory wings of a raptor, touching briefly upon the schooner’s
rail before wheeling, swooping, and skimming back out over the
waters of the river.

A kestrel.

And so she’d been named.

###

Mira, patriotically garbed in a red and white
striped gown that matched the flags along the schooner’s rails,
watched the launching from Rigel’s back, where she had a perfect
vantage point above the great throngs who had come to witness the
event.

She was filled with delight as she saw, for
the first time, the name carved across the schooner’s counter, and
flushed with pleasure as she remembered the snippet of conversation
that night, that very late night, in Captain Merrick’s cabin that
surely must have inspired it.

“
She’s a fine ship, swift and sturdy, but
beside her, your schooner would look like—like a kestrel beside a
turkey vulture.”

“
Kestrel,” he had said softly, his eyes
thoughtful.

“
Huh?”

“
Oh, nothing. Do go on.”

She swallowed, hard. He had not forgotten,
then—and had named his ship, his beautiful, beloved, and precious
ship, at
her
unwitting suggestion.

Kestrel
. He had named her
Kestrel.

As though her poor heart wasn’t already
buffeted by myriad feelings. Pride as she watched the schooner
slide down the ways and heard the crowd’s roaring appreciation.
Excitement at the idea of seeing Captain Merrick again. And
nervousness.

Would he remember their kiss? Would he want
to repeat it?

But he did not seek Mira out. Indeed, as the
minutes stretched into an hour, and she watched him talk with her
father, then allow himself to be drawn away by a group of other sea
captains and privateers without so much as looking for her, only to
disappear into the crowd, she felt stung.

Her temper rising, she tried to back Rigel
up, only to hear a howl of pain and a curse from behind her.

“Have a care where you’re riding, wench!” a
man shouted.

“Why don’t you have a care where you’re
standing?” she shot back.

The stranger grabbed Rigel’s bridle, cruelly
pulling his head by the bit. “Don’t you take that tone with me,
missy,” he snarled. “That damned animal just stepped on my
toe.”

“Let go of that bridle or it’ll be more than
your bleedin’ toe that’s hurting!”

The man gave the bit a vicious yank; Rigel
reared, a woman screamed, and Mira, furious, slashed the man across
the face with the crop. “I said, let go of my horse!”

He made a lunge for her, and at that moment,
Matt and Ephraim were suddenly there.

“What the tarnal hell’s going on here?”
Ephraim bellowed, taking in Mira’s angry face and the bright red
welt across the man’s cheek. “Can’t I leave ye alone for one moment
without you startin’ something? You and these damned hosses! Here
it is, the crowning moment of my shipbuildin’ career and you have
to go an’ spoil it with yer shenanigans! Cripes and guts, Mira,
what the bleedin’ hell is the matter with ye?”

“He was abusing Rigel!”

“She backed that damned beast right over my
foot!”

Ephraim was relentless. “And what d’ye think
Merrick’s gonna think of ye if he sees you acting like a damned
hoyden? Damn it, Mira, don’t you have any self-respect? Any pride
in yerself? Why can’t ye act like a lady?”

Matt’s eyes began to flash behind his
spectacles. “Father—”

“You stay out of it!”

Ephraim turned and stormed back through the
throng, the stranger gave her a mocking sneer, and unable to take
any more, Mira wheeled Rigel and sent him through Market Square and
down the length of High Street at a speed that tore the ribbons
from her hair. By the time she thundered up the drive and into the
stable, she was nearly in tears.

Was she that much of an embarrassment? And
was Father right? Had she left such a bad impression on Captain
Merrick that he wouldn’t even come over to say hello to her?

She tore off the saddle, removed the bridle,
and snatching up a brush, began grooming the colt. It had only been
a kiss. One little kiss, nothing more. She was a fool for thinking
he had actually cared about her. She was a fool for spending all
this time anticipating his return to Newburyport, thinking that
he’d want to court her, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’d want
to kiss her again. To her dismay, she felt tears starting to fall.
She swore, and sniffed them back. But they persisted, burning her
nose and glistening on her cheeks, running under her jaw, down her
neck, and beneath her bodice. With the back of her hand she angrily
swiped them away, but they kept coming, faster and faster, again
and again, no matter how many times she swiped—

“Hello?”

Her hand froze atop Rigel’s withers, the
brush with it.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

The captain.
The last thing she needed
was for him to see her crying. Swatting at the tears, she shouted,
“Go away!”

“That you, Miss
Moyrrra?”

“I said go away, you slimy bucket of bilge
water!”

That felt better. Immensely better. But it
didn’t stop the tears, flowing even harder now as she attacked
Rigel’s coat with an ardor that he, leaning into the brush, clearly
enjoyed.

And it didn’t stop the captain from entering
the barn. The patch of sunlight that streamed through the open
doorway was suddenly blotted out. Straw rustled behind her. Rigel
craned his neck around, pricking his ears forward. Hating herself
for the tears she was powerless to stop, Mira clenched her jaw, her
hand moving faster and faster as she hauled the curry brush across
Rigel’s flank. She could sense the captain’s nearness, could feel
him looming over her. Her blood began to tingle in response, in
memory, and she hated herself for it.

Without looking up, she hollered, “Did ye
hear me, you stinking pile of gull’s dung? I said go away!”

And then his hand closed over hers, warm and
strong and gentle, sending shock waves up her arm and stilling the
frantic movements of the brush.

“Why so angry, Miss
Moyrrra
?”

She burst into tears, covering her face with
her hands. Rigel’s horsey scent clung to her fingers. “Go away,
would you? Just go away
.
”But he didn’t go away. He moved
closer, his fingers dry and warm against her cold, wet ones as he
gently tried to pry her hands from her face, and failing, let his
palms slide down her wrists, her lower arms, finally grasping her
by the shoulders and drawing her stiffly up against his smartly
buttoned coat. She caught the clean scents of wool and sea-wind,
felt buttons pressing against her lips, her brow, her cheek.

How bloody embarrassing. She wanted to hate
his guts—the English ones, the Irish ones, and even the American
ones, if he had any. But he was solid and warm and comforting, and
she clung to him like a child, her face buried against his chest
while he stared down at her with a helpless expression robbing his
handsome face of its usual good humor.

Gently, he asked, “Tears, Miss
Moyrrra?
Might I ask why?”

“It’s none of your bloody business!”

“I see.” Nodding thoughtfully, he set her
away from himself and turned away, hands clasped above his
coattails, chestnut queue lying between his perfectly straight,
perfectly
British
shoulders. Like many of the other
privateer captains, he wore a blue uniform with red facings,
fashioned after those of the American Continental navy—but he wore
his with the dash and aplomb of a king’s officer.

For some reason, that made her all the more
angry.

She eyed him as he leaned against a stall
door and poked at the straw with his toe. “But I should think it is
my business,” he said logically. “After all, ’twas the launching of
my ship that seems to have distressed you so. I might wonder
why.”

“I have my own troubles, all right? If I
wanted to share ’em with you, I would!”

“You’re a confusing lass, Miss Ashton.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about them!”

“Yes, I heard you. You may think me
stupid—er, what was it you called me? A bucket of gull’s
droppings?” He grinned, and a teasing light came into his eyes.
“But I can assure you I’m not deaf. Besides, gull’s droppings smell
quite foul. I don’t smell, do I?”

“
What?”

“Buckets of bilge water are quite malodorous,
too. Though I admit it’s been a while since I’ve actually bent down
and stuck my nose in one. Actually, I prefer to wash with soap and
clean water, like most people do. That’s why I’m puzzled.”

“Puzzled?” She stared at him. “Puzzled about
what
?”

“Why you seem to think I smell, of
course.”

“I never said you smelled!”

“But don’t gull’s droppings? And bilge
water?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She was about to
turn and storm away from him when she saw that one corner of his
mouth was twitching, and laughter danced in his gold-flecked
eyes.

“You’re teasing me, Captain Merrick, and I
don’t like it one bit!”

“Am I? Faith and troth, why would I do
that?”

“Because you’re . . . you’re trying to make
me feel better!”

“I am?” He cocked his head, eyes bright and
deceptively innocent beneath the shadow of his tricorne. “And why
would I do that?”

“Blast it all, I don’t know!”

“Hmm. Neither do I. Therefore, I suppose
that’s not what I’m trying to do, is it?”

“Then what
are
you trying to do?”

He looked at her blankly. “Why, I don’t
know.”

“You and your damned Irish blarney! You’re
toying with me! You’re making me look and feel like a bleeding
fool! You came all the way over here just so you could do that,
didn’t you? Just so you could—”

“Good God, Miss Ashton, that’s not the reason
I came over here at all. Oh, no. I would never do that. Not to a
lady. I mean, make you feel like a fool. And if you do feel like a
fool, then I’m profusely sorry—”

“Captain Merrick, would you please stop!”

Again he flashed that damned Irishman’s grin
that was so at odds with his proper English bearing. “Only,” he
said jauntily, “if you will stop addressing me like that. I really
prefer to be called
Brendán.
Or Brendan, if you like. ’Tis
me name, ye know,” he said, piling on his brogue, “given t’ me by
me ma aft’r th’ patron saint o’ sailors.”

“As long as there’s this—this
friction
between us, I’ll call you Captain Merrick.”

“Friction? Faith, is there friction between
us?”