Captain of My Heart (15 page)

She was going to kill him. Damn and thunder,
she would, she would, she
would!
Slamming her fist against
the stall door, she swore like a sailor and shouted, “Then why the
hell did you come here?”

He was looking at her hand, not grinning
quite so hard now. Mira jerked away, jamming the hand into the
pocket of her skirt to hide it—and keep herself from striking him
with it.

“Ah, yes. Why did I come here?” he mused,
bending his head down into his hand and pinching the bridge of his
nose, as though trying awfully hard to remember. And then he looked
up, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “To get a ship built. Your
father builds the finest ones this side—”

“Not Newburyport, here! To this barn!”

“Why, to see
you
, of course.”

Why, to see
you,
of course.

Instantly, Mira forgot her throbbing hand.
“To see . . . me?”

His eyes warmed. “I’ve been looking forward
to this moment for weeks.”

The earth shifted beneath Mira’s feet and,
flustered, she turned away, not quite knowing how to react. She
felt suddenly hot, despite the coldness of the day. “What about
your new schooner? I’d have thought you’d want to spend time
admiring her, not . . . coming here.”

“Ah, my schooner.” And then, grinning: “Do
you like her name? I asked your da not to tell you what I’d decided
to call her. I wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

Mira bent her head so her hair covered her
hot cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“But, to answer your question, Miss
Moyrrra
, I can’t wait to admire her. But it would be far
more fun if I had some company when I go aboard her for the first
time.” He moved into her line of vision and leaned against Rigel,
propping his elbow against the colt’s withers as he regarded her
with one brow raised.

“You’re happy with her, then?” Mira
asked.

“Delighted. In fact, I’ve given your da some,
uh, enticement to get her masts stepped and rigging strung in half
the time he’d originally planned.”

“You must be a terribly rich man,
Captain.”

“Brendan.”

“
Brendan.”
She glared at him. “Are
you, then?”

“Am I what?”

“Rich, dammit!”

“Oh no, not really. Not anymore. I gave the
bulk of my savings to your father so he could build the ship. Of
course, ’twas a pity he couldn’t get the copper hull sheathing I
wanted, but I suppose if I’d had to pay for that, I could never
have afforded her.”

“She’s prettier without it,” Mira
allowed.

“You think so?”

“Don’t you? You’re the naval architect.”

Still caressing her with his gentle, laughing
gaze, he moved away, plucking a halter from a nail and swinging it
by one of its metal rings. “Naval architect? How flattering. I
always fancied myself a simple sea captain.”

“You’re nothing like any sea captain I’ve
ever known.”

He looked a little hurt. “And why is
that?”

“You’re too . . . oh, I don’t know. Besides,
whoever heard of a sea captain who doesn’t swear, spit, or
drink?”

“How would you know I don’t drink?”

“I saw you take water that night in
Annabel’s
cabin!”

“Oh.”

“And you don’t spit or swear, either,” she
reminded him, trying not to think of the way his assessing,
admiring gaze was making her feel.

“Spitting’s a nasty habit, and I do, too,
swear.”

“Not very well.”

“That’s true. You’re far better at it.”

“Damn right I am!”

He quirked a brow, teasing her. And then he
grinned, and laughed. She flushed, feeling adrift as a rudderless
ship in a storm. “So what are you, some religious fanatic or
something? Is that why you don’t drink?”

“Oh, no, that’s not the reason a’tall.
Although I do hold a shipboard service every Sunday for those who
wish to partake of it.”

“Then what
is
the reason?”

“Why, to worship, of course.”

“That you don’t drink! “

“Oh, that.” He was gazing at her again, his
eyes warm. “Do you care?”

“Not really!”

“Then why must you know?”

“Because I—” Her mouth snapped shut and she
turned away, fingernails biting into her palms and leaving red
crescents in the damp skin as she willed herself not to hit him.
“You’re right,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t
need to know. It’s none of my business, is it?”

“No, it’s not, but if it really matters to
you—”

“It doesn’t really matter to me, all
right?”

“I think it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t have
asked. People ask questions because they wish to know the answers.
People answer questions because they’ve been asked them. A very
logical system, really. So therefore, I think that I should answer
your question, simply because you asked it, and must really want an
answer despite the fact your pride prevents you from admitting it.
Actually, the reason—”

“Damn you, you’re the most irritating,
vexing, exasperating—”

“—I don’t drink is because spirits don’t
agree with me.”

She came up short, her face as red as the
stripes of her gown. “Don’t agree with you? Hah, I’m not surprised!
I’m sure there are many things in this world that don’t agree with
you! Let’s just hope for your sake,
Captain,
that your
bleedin’ schooner isn’t one of ’em!”

“And why do you say that?”

“With all that sail you intend to pile on
her, one gust of wind’ll knock her flat on her side!”

“Well then, we’d better hope I’m as good a
captain as you suspect I’m not, and thank the good Lord that I
don’t drink, eh?”

She scrunched up one side of her face.
“What?”

“I said, we’d better hope—”

“Never mind, Captain, I heard you the first
time!”

“Brendan.”

“Brendan!”

Gripping the brush, she turned to Rigel once
more, her heavy hair swinging against the horse’s rump, her eyes
glittering with temper. The man was a lunatic! Insane! As
nonsensical and idiotic as—

“Actually, Miss
Moyrrra
,” he said
quietly, all serious now, “I was hoping I might call on you while
I’m here in Newburyport.”

The brush seemed to stop of its own accord.
“Call on
me
?”

“That is, if you don’t mind the blarney of a
half-Irishman who finds you hopelessly enchanting.”

She suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. “Me,
enchanting? Father said I’m an embarrassment. That you’d be ashamed
of me.”

“Ashamed? Nay, lass. Amused and bedeviled by
you, afraid and enamored of you. Never ashamed. What nonsense!
Faith, that wasn’t why you were crying, was it?”

“Might’ve been,”she said.

“Oh, lassie,”he murmured, shaking his
head.

“I grew up without a mother. All I had was
Matt and Father. Nobody ever taught me how to act like a lady,
Captain.”

“Brendan,” he said softly, reaching up to cup
her cheek.

“Brendan ...” She squeezed her eyes shut,
unresisting, as he drew her up against his chest and held her close
to his heart. She melted against him, no longer caring about the
tears that slid down her cheeks, betraying her. She felt only his
knuckles grazing her throat like the brush of a butterfly’s wings .
. . his thumbs against her cheeks . . . his warm breath against her
face. She lifted her face to his, and then there was only his
mouth, gentle and tender, warm and firm and sweet and wonderful. .
. .

With slow, languorous tenderness he ended the
kiss, leaving her numb and shaken. His finger came up to smooth her
lower lip, and dazed, she stared up into his warm, cider-colored
eyes, trying in vain to draw air into her lungs.

And then she found her voice.

“Holy sh—”

He laughed, and drove an unsteady hand
through his tousled curls. “’Pon my soul, you do funny things to a
man’s heart,” he murmured, laying his cheek atop her silky hair.
“Best, I think, not to linger here, lest we end up in a situation
we’ll both regret. I’d love to go tour my new schooner, and I’d
love her builder’s daughter to accompany me. What do you say, Miss
Moyrra
? Will you do me the honor?”

Chapter
8

“Get your bloody hands off me, you stinking
rebel filth!”

His white waistcoat, breeches, and stockings
were now gray with grime and his once fine uniform was torn in a
dozen places. But the pride and arrogance with which Captain
Richard Crichton had worn that uniform were intact—even after three
months of confinement in this hellhole of a prison ship anchored in
Boston Harbor.

That the British counterparts of this prison
ship were supposed to be even worse mattered not to Crichton. He’d
been mocked and taunted by his American jailors, fed putrid pork
and water so foul that he’d had to strain it through his teeth just
to get it down, and moldy biscuit crawling with weevils. But that
was nothing compared to the humiliation they’d made him suffer, and
in front of his own officers and men, too. They’d torn the buttons
from his coat that proclaimed his seniority as captain; they’d
ripped the epaulets from his shoulders and the buckles from his
shoes; they’d even taken his fine gold-laced hat and paraded up and
down the ship, laughing at his rage and damning the king and all
who served him.

Bloody bastards.

And it was all the fault of Brendan Jay
Merrick.

Today Crichton was being exchanged for
American prisoners of war, but he wasn’t one to let bygones be
bygones. Oh, he’d get even with Merrick. He’d go back to Sir
Geoffrey, get command of another ship, and make Merrick pay for the
poor treatment and humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of the
Americans.

Angrily he flung off his jailors’ hands as
they herded him abovedecks, vowing to get revenge.

Captain Richard Crichton always made good his
vows.

###

If Britannia thought she already had enough
troubles with her rebellious colonies—1778 had marked the official
French entry into the conflict—she was soon to find that those
troubles had only just begun. Forced by the French involvement into
what some called a world war, Britain was hard pressed to protect
her coasts from a possible invasion by her old enemy; keep up her
strength in the West Indies, where both she and France held
possessions; and subdue the insubordinate Americans with a fleet
that was already spread far too thin to be completely
effective.

While the few ships that made up the American
Continental navy surpassed those turned out in British yards in
both quality and design, they were poorly officered, and the
caliber of most of their commanders fell short of that of the ships
themselves. Such was not the case, however, with the American
privateers. Like clouds of hornets, they swarmed out of their
nests—Salem, Beverly, Newburyport, and Portsmouth—hiding in coves
and inlets, hunting in “wolf packs,” and preying upon British
shipping whenever the opportunity arose. They stole supplies and
munitions destined for British troops and rerouted them to
Washington’s forces. They armed everything from whaleboats to
fishing schooners to fine frigates. They harried and harassed
England, created panic around her coasts, and drove insurance on
her merchant ships out of control.

Their names were anathema to British shipping
and Admiralty alike: the plucky John Paul Jones in his
Ranger
out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire; Silas Talbot,
sailing from Providence, Rhode Island; Hardy in the
General
Hancock;
Haraden in the
General Pickering;
Nathaniel
Tracy and Matthew Ashton from Newburyport. They were men with grit
and guts and valor, and their tough little ships were their equal
in every way.

And now, swinging proudly at her cable in the
ice-choked waters of the Merrimack was a sharp new schooner, with
topsails furled on gleaming yards, black hull reflecting on the
rippling river, sharply raked masts reaching into a sky that blazed
with winter sun.

Kestrel
.

On the day her windlass was fitted and the
last of her rigging strung, a jubilant Ephraim Ashton sent word to
her commander, still up in Portsmouth, that she was ready for sea,
and issued an invitation for him and his sister to stay at his home
in Newburyport for as long as it pleased them. Mira, trying to be
hospitable, issued her own invitation for Brendan’s sister to learn
how to ride at Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship.
Perhaps, they both added, the good captain would consider making
Newburyport his home port?

Exactly one week later, Captain Brendan Jay
Merrick, vacating the house he and his sister had rented in
Portsmouth, arrived in town, trunk snugged under his arm, ditty bag
slung over his shoulder, and a jaunty smile lighting his handsome
face.

When the word came that the captain was back,
Mira would have been hard pressed to know whether it was Father’s
order that she meet the stage, or her own admitted eagerness to see
Brendan again—and his expression when he laid eyes on the
schooner—that sent her barreling down the frozen High Street on
Rigel at a speed that surpassed dangerous. Her intentions were
good, really they were.

It was not her fault that she never did get
to meet the stagecoach as it came over the ferry. As Rigel
thundered down High Street, lopped off the corner of Fish Street,
and charged toward the waterfront at breakneck speed, she saw the
ferry just coming across the river.

And that wasn’t all she saw.

Merchant ships and privateers tied up at the
wharves, their bowsprits stabbing far out over weathered dock
planking that was patchy with ice.

A boy crouched in their long shadows, hunched
down on his heels cleaning fish and tossing the scraps into the
half-frozen river.