Captain of My Heart (17 page)

“Suffer?” Mira railed. “You tell me who’s
doing the damned suffering!”

“Brendan . . . Brendan, can we
please
go now?”

But he was ignoring them both, staring past
the brigs, sloops, and ketches and out toward the middle of the
river, where
Kestrel,
at anchor, stood proudly atop her
shadow and rocked impatiently with the pull of the river as it
merged with the incoming tide.

“Lovely,” he repeated, his eyes soft and
dreamy.
“Thar cinn. Go hálainn.
All, and more than I’d hoped
for . . . My God, she’ll fly. . .”

His comment was overheard by a grizzled old
seaman who stood biting a hangnail nearby. “Aye, she’ll fly, all
right—if she don’t overset herself with the first puff o’
wind.”

“Brendan, please . . . What’s more important,
that ship or me?”

“Huh?”

“Brendan, I’ve had it with your fascination
with that stupid ship. I’m beginning to think you care more for it
than you do for me. And here I am, forced to stand here and suffer
this creature’s insults, the cold, and a growling stomach, when you
could be taking me to this Wolfe Tavern and buying me a piece of
apple pie and a glass of buttermilk to wash it down with, but no,
all you want to do is stand here and go all sap-eyed over some
silly hunk of wood and cloth.”

Reluctantly he tore his gaze from
Kestrel,
who beckoned to him with the sweet seduction of a
woman who is more than sure of herself. He wanted nothing more than
to take her helm and feel her leaping through wind and wave, to
just
be
with her.

But Brendan considered himself a patient man;
he’d developed a fair share of it where Eveleen was concerned,
following that horrible day on
Dismal
’s decks when Crichton
had drawn his pistol, shot him in the chest—and left his sister
with a hand that would be crippled for life. It saddened him that
she didn’t share his excitement over the schooner, but he alone
knew why she was the way she was. Drawing and painting had been her
passion—and Crichton had robbed her of that precious gift.

“Now, Eveleen.” Stepping forward, he slipped
his palm beneath Rigel’s warm and heavy mane and gently stroked the
animal’s neck. He felt Mira’s gaze upon him and didn’t trust
himself to look at her for fear she’d see the desire burning in his
eyes. Rigel, however, had no inhibitions. In happy affection, the
colt promptly knocked his head against Brendan’s chest and rubbed
up and down, leaving little gray hairs all over his impeccable
frock coat and tearing one of the enameled buttons off. “I can
understand your not caring about
Kestrel,
but don’t you like
the horse?” He grinned hopefully. “This is the one that you’ll be
learning on, isn’t it, Miss Mira?”

Mira nodded reluctantly, realizing in dawning
horror just what this venture was going to mean.

“Oh, he’ll do, I suppose . . . A little
small, but sort of pretty, I guess. Brendan, the pie? You
promised.”

“He’s an Arabian,” Mira said tightly.

“A what?”

“An Arabian. They’re supposed to be small. I
can see you don’t know a darned thing about horses!”

“I didn’t know what an Arabian was either,”
Brendan confessed, but Mira took it as defense of his whining
sister and felt a stab of indignation. She opened her mouth to
retort, then closed it with a snap that was almost audible. Thank
God she had such a wonderful sibling in Matt. She didn’t envy
Brendan one bit for having to put up with this spoiled witch! And
then she realized that Brendan, once he took
Kestrel
out to
sea, wouldn’t have to put up with this spoiled witch any
longer.

She
would.

“What difference does it make what he is? I
really don’t care. I never wanted to learn how to ride anyhow,
Brendan. Horses smell. They bite. And this one has his tail up. Oh
heavens, if he makes a pile, I’m going to swoon.”

“He’s an Arabian!” Mira yelled.

“Does that mean his droppings don’t smell,
then?” Brendan asked innocently.

“It means he has a shorter back than other
horses! It means his tail is set naturally high! It means that I’m
not going to stand here and listen to some spoiled bitch who cares
more about apple pie than her brother’s happiness, and a horse
that’s the result of centuries of planned and careful breeding!”
Tearing free of Brendan’s grip, Mira scooped up the cat, faced
Eveleen, and hollered, “And furthermore, if he does leave a pile, I
hope it’s smack-dab in the middle of your blasted shoe!”

She vaulted atop Rigel’s back and, with the
newly christened Rescue Effort Number Thirty-Seven tucked safely
beneath her arm, tore off down the wharf, Rigel’s shod hooves
booming against the planking and sending up clods of snow as he hit
the street.

Damn it to hell and back! She wasn’t going to
sit around town and put up with that spoiled hussy! When
Kestrel
sailed, she’d be on her!

Chapter
9

“Father won’t allow it,” Matt predicted,
shaking his head. He took off his spectacles and swiped at them
with a corner of his shirt. “It’s one thing to sneak aboard
Proud Mistress,
but he’ll not hear of you going aboard
Kestrel.
”

Mira leaned against the doorframe and stared
in disgust at the mess that was Matt’s bedroom. Clothes were thrown
here, books there, and the bed was unmade. “You’re absolutely
right, he won’t hear of it—
right
, Matt?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course.” She flashed him her sauciest
grin.

“You won’t get away with it.”

“Oh? Just you watch.
Kestrel
makes her
maiden voyage tomorrow, and I intend to be on her.”

Matt crossed his arms and shot her a sly
glance. “And just why are you so eager to be aboard that schooner,
Mira?”

She glared at him. “For the hell of it.”

“Right.” He grinned at her. “I think you’ve
got your eye on its captain.”

“Maybe I do.”

“I pity the poor man.”

“Yeah? Well, I pity all those women you keep
courting and dumping.”

Matt scowled. Steam appeared in the bottom
third of his lenses, and his lips thinned out in a straight line.
“Look, Mira, I told you how I
really
feel about those
women—”

“Well, don’t get mad at me, ’cause
you’re
the one who keeps putting up with ’em! You’re too
nice
, you know that? Too bloody gallant! You told me you’re
looking for a good girl, but you’re sure as hell looking in the
wrong place to find the kind of woman you’re after! Yet you keep on
buying ’em things, treating ’em like gold . . . When’re you ever
gonna realize they’re all the same—nothing but a pack of hussies
who only want your money and the prestige of having been your
latest lover? No, I don’t pity them, not one bit. I pity you for
suffering such nonsense!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m lonely, all
right?”

“So you settle for something you don’t
want?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Hell, no! I go for exactly what I want, and
you know it.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and willed
herself to calm down. Matt didn’t need to be reminded of his
weakness for love and affection.

“So what
do
you want, then?” he
asked.

“Captain Merrick.”

“Cripes, Mira!”

“Why not? He’s handsome, he’s dashing, and I
can’t stop thinking about him. Maybe I’m in love with him. Hell,
maybe I’ll even marry him. You know I’ve always vowed that when—I
mean, if
—
I ever marry, it would be to a sea captain. Well,
Captain Merrick may do, but first he has to pass my Test. That’s
why I have to go aboard his schooner—to make sure he’s a competent
sailor. We know he can design a ship, but he has yet to prove to me
that he can sail one, and most importantly, command one, as
well.”

“Jeez, Mira ...”

But she was already pacing the room,
scheming, as usual. “The only way for me to find that out is to go
aboard
Kestrel
and see the captain in action. And as for
Father, he’ll never know, ’cause he’ll have his eyes peeled looking
for me to go aboard
Proud Mistress,
just like I’ve always
done.”

“And I suppose you think Captain Merrick’s
going to allow it, no questions asked?”

“Of course not, you pillock. If he did, he’d
fail part one of the Test. No captain in his right mind—except you,
of course—” She laughed at his infuriated expression. “—is going to
allow a woman aboard his ship, especially as a gunner. But getting
away with it will be half the fun. In fact, I’ll have just as much
fun pulling the wool over Captain Merrick’s eyes as I will over
Father’s!”

Matt grinned, getting caught up in the idea.
His eyes began to gleam. “I assume you have a disguise all figured
out?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I wish you luck, but you’ll never get
away with it. Father’ll catch you at it, guaranteed.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Aye, I’ll bet! What do you want if you
win?”

She looked around the room. “Let’s see ...”
Her gaze fell upon the musket on the wall. “How ’bout that Brown
Bess?”

“Cripes, Mira, that’s my favorite gun!”

“Chicken.”

Matt’s lips tightened. “All right, fine. If
you get away with this and win the bet, you can have the gun. But
if Father catches you and I win, then I get—”

“—a black eye.”

“
What
?”

She smirked at his blank look. “Let’s face
it, Matt, the only way he’s gonna find out is if you tell him.”

“Forget it! I can’t win either way!”

“Oh? You’ve been bellyaching for ages about
me sneaking aboard
Proud Mistress
and getting in your hair.
Well, now that Father’s wise to me, there’s no way that can
continue. So you’ve already won . . . You’ll be rid of me, and I’ll
be Captain Merrick’s problem instead.”

“I think you already are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ain’t it obvious? The man’s in love with
you.”

“Well, half of Newburyport’s in love with
you,” Mira flung back. “When are you going to bring home this good
girl you keep promising to find, huh, Matthew?”

“Look, just lay off and stay the hell out of
my love life, would you?”

“Then stay the hell out of mine.”

“You don’t have one.”

“But I will.”

They stood glaring at each other, neither
willing to give any ground. But then they thought of Mira’s scheme,
and the outrageous implications of it. Mira’s lips began to twitch,
and Matt threw back his head in laughter. They were all in for some
rough sailing ahead.

Mira. Ephraim. And especially the
unsuspecting Captain Merrick.

###

Many hours later, when darkness was old,
supper had been eaten, and Mira’s apple pie fed to the dog, Eveleen
stood in the room that would be hers during her stay in
Newburyport—which, if today was any indication, was going to be a
miserable one. The shutters were closed against the night; thick
gingham curtains with a stenciled pineapple design were further
protection against the cold drafts. Wind rattled the windows in
their casements, and she could hear snow whispering against the
frosty panes.

Shivering, she dug her toes into the hooked
rug that covered the wide-boarded floor. Her trunk lay half
unpacked at the foot of an elegant Hepplewhite four-poster, and a
candle, safe within a hurricane globe, cast a soft and flickering
glow over the pillows heaped against the carved headboard. A
linsey-woolsey counterpane topped the bed, and a thick cotton
patchwork quilt was folded neatly at the foot. But despite the
bed’s inviting look, Eveleen was not ready to retire for the
night.

She felt bad about being so hateful to Mira
Ashton, but she just couldn’t help herself. Now, pale and naked,
she stood before a big cheval mirror. The candle’s soft glow was
not kind, only emphasizing the weight that she had gained steadily
over the past three years. She glared at her reflection, hating
it.

Downstairs, she heard hearty male laughter
coming from the study, where Brendan and old Captain Ashton and his
handsome son with the wild red hair had gone. If only she had
something to laugh about. She couldn’t remember a time she’d been
happy since the day Richard Crichton had nearly killed her beloved
brother and taken away the one thing she’d ever been good at.

Good at? She’d been gifted . . . But Eveleen
would never paint again. And now she held her right hand behind her
back so she wouldn’t have to see it reflected in the mirror, for it
was even more difficult to look at than her thick rolls of fat.

Her heart ached, making her stomach feel
hungry and empty. Now she wished she’d grabbed one—or better yet,
two—of those chewy molasses cookies left over from supper. They’d
certainly make her feel better, as only food could. Not even
Brendan, whom she loved more than anyone or anything else in the
world, could fill up that emptiness the same way one of those
cookies would.

Poor Brendan. He tried so hard to please
her—renting that fine house in Portsmouth, buying her all kinds of
jewels with his privateering profits that she really didn’t want,
and now this silly idea of riding lessons. She curled her lip in
despair. What on earth was she supposed to do with a horse? She’d
never ridden one in her life, and with only one functional hand,
how could she? Obviously Brendan believed this Mira Ashton capable
of working miracles.

But then, that was typical of people in love.
They thought that the object of their devotion was infallible,
incapable of failure, perfect. And the way her brother had been
staring at Mira all during supper, barely commenting on the
delicious mushroom pasty with its golden, latticed crust, the
spit-roasted partridge, the peaches stuffed with spicy mincemeat,
even the hot brick-oven bread with the thick slabs of butter and
cheese . . . oh, he was obviously smitten with this girl—a girl who
went from young boy to fine lady with the same ease with which she
vaulted on and off that gray colt’s back.