Captain of My Heart (25 page)

He kept walking, a little faster now. Snow
draped the Beacon Oak’s massive branches, swirled out of the black
sky, and whispered against his cold cheeks. From somewhere off in
the night, he heard sleigh bells and the distant whicker of a
horse.

Mira Ashton, out for a drive with her wee
gray colt?

He grinned, and, floundering in a drift,
moved a bit closer to the relative safety of the road’s edge. Just
in case.

By the time he spotted the anchor, shapeless
under a foot of snow, that marked Ephraim’s grand mansion,
Brendan’s breeches were damp, his wool stockings soaked, and his
coattails caked with snow. But the sight of the elegant Georgian
was enough to make him forget his discomfort. The chimney sent up a
curl of smoke that appeared silver against the black, low-hanging
sky. Snow lay like frosting on the roof, and giant icicles spanned
the distance between eaves and ground, sparkling and twinkling like
diamonds in the candlelight that shone from every window. It was a
breathtaking sight, for the house appeared to rise straight up from
a bed of light.

And inside that house was Mira Ashton.

Brendan’s heart began to race, and he
trembled with nervous excitement. She was the only one he hoped to
impress with
Kestrel
’s good fortune on her maiden cruise;
the devil take the rest of the town!

He hit a seemingly bottomless drift, sank all
the way to his hip, and laughing with boyish exuberance, scooped up
a handful of snow and tossed it playfully at a darting shadow. He
missed, of course. Faith, even if he’d been trying to hit the cat,
he would’ve missed. He’d never be as good a marksman as Mr.
Starr!

Still chuckling, he watched as the animal
fled, bounding through the snow until it reached the front steps,
where it reared up on its hind legs and scratched pitifully at the
door. It stopped in midclaw to twist its head around and stare at
him, tail twitching and ears pasted angrily to its skull.

Haughty creatures, cats! Perhaps a
snow-shower would bring this one down to its proper station in
life. Grinning, Brendan bent, scooped up another snowball, and
aiming for a harmless spot on the door several feet above the cat’s
head, drew back his arm and fired his missile hard.

The door opened, and the snowball caught
Matthew Ashton full in the face. His spectacles went flying.

“Son of a
bitch!”
Yelling in
Ephraim-like rage, Matt clawed the snow from his eyes, dropped to
his knees, and swept his palms over the frozen steps in a desperate
search for his spectacles. His fiery hair stood out from his head
like a conflagration, and behind him the door yawned wide. The cat
darted into the house. “Miserable young scamps! Good-for-nothing
brats! Show yourselves, damn you, or so help me God, I’ll give you
a licking you’ll never forget!”

“A lickin’?” Brendan folded his arms, threw
back his head, and let his laughter split the night. His Irish
brogue might be a bit mellowed by years in the Royal Navy, but when
he wanted to, he could still pile it on thicker than rocks on a
Connemara hillside. “Faith, I’d like t’ see ye try’t! Blind as a
bloody bat you are without yer specs, Ashton!”

“Why, you blasted bugger! That you,
Merrick?”

Brendan’s peal of mirth was confirmation
enough. “Nay, ’tis Saint Nick, come t’ bring ye a present f’r
Christmas! ’Ave ye been a good laddie,
Maitiú?”

“For what I’ve done or for what I’m about to
do?”

“Why, fer what ye’ve done, o’ course. What ye
intend t’ do is naught but th’ Lord’s business, an’ not Saint
Nick’s. Therefore, ye’d best make yer peace with ’im before ye do
anythin’ rash, laddie-o!”

“Oh, I’ll do something rash, all right!” Matt
found his spectacles, hastily wiped them clean with his shirttail,
and shoved them up the bridge of his nose. His eyes gleamed as he
scooped up a handful of snow and molded it into a hard white ball
the size of round shot. “And speaking of peace, you’d better make
yours, Irishman, ’cause it’s the last damned prayer ye’ll ever
pray!”

Brendan laughed, for Matt, eyeing him with a
promise of retribution from behind speckled lenses, looked quite
ridiculous. Behind him the door swung wide and revealed the house’s
brilliantly lit interior, but Matt, standing in the cold in nothing
but his vest, his shoes, and a shirt that was half-in, half-out of
his breeches, didn’t give a hoot about wasted heat from either the
house or himself. The fun of a good snowball fight was paramount.
He drew back his arm and slammed the ball into a tree three feet
beyond Brendan’s ear, cursing loudly when he saw he’d missed his
target.

“Rumor has it that
Kestrel
tangled
with a frigate mounting three times her guns, left her chewing her
own bow wake, and made port with some seven prizes. That right,
Irishman?”

“Oh no, that isn’t right a’tall.”

“Damned rumors, never can believe ’em!”

“’Twas eight prizes, laddie!”

“
Eight prizes!”
Matt scooped up
another handful of snow.

“Aye, eight prizes. A lad’s got t’ make a
livin’, y’ know!” The snowball came singing out of the darkness.
Brendan dodged it, clenching his teeth as cold powder sifted down
his neck, and came up with one of his own. He hurled it hard. With
an Indian-like war whoop, Matt dove into the bushes beside the
front door. The snowball missed him by a mile, exploding against
the side of the house with a slapping
thunk.

A head poked up above the scruff of the
bushes. “Bah, I don’t know how you managed to take one prize, let
alone eight! Why, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, let
alone a ship!”

“Y’r absolutely right,
Maitiú,
I
couldn’t! But I’ve a fine wee gunner who can take out a ship’s
mizzen on the first shot!” A snowball exploded out of the bushes
and burst against the tree behind him. “Faith, Yankee, ye talk
about
my
aim?”

“I’m just warming up!”

“Like bloody hell y’ are; y’r aim’s no better
than mine!” Matt’s shadowy form darted out into the open, and a
snowball whined harmlessly past Brendan’s ear. His fingers were
numb and throbbing, but he managed to scoop up more snow and shape
it into a good ball. He flung it hard, cringing as it headed toward
one of Ephraim’s windows, relaxing as it thwacked harmlessly
against the sill. Matt’s next came singing out of the darkness,
passing his ear with a silent
whoosh
and trailing powder
like the tail of a comet.

Laughing, Brendan cupped his hands around his
mouth. “Methinks ye’d bett’r wipe off y’r specs, Ashton!”

“And
methinks
you’re the one who needs
’em, not me!”

Brendan bent, grabbed more snow, and
straightened up. “Then kindly lend me yours so that—”

Thwack!
He staggered backward, landing
in an undignified sprawl on his backside in a two-foot drift.
Stunned, he looked down, gasping like a fish out of water and
cringing at the pain of sucking in great lungfuls of brittle air.
Part of a snowball caked his lapels and chest. The rest of it was
already sliding down the front of his coat. He shut his eyes for a
moment, dizzy beneath the reawakened agony of his old injury.

Matt’s howls of glee split the night and he
slapped his thigh, the impact sounding like rifle shots in the
frigid stillness. Coughing, Brendan pressed a hand to his chest and
looked up. The front door was still open, but it was no longer
empty.

Miss Mira Ashton stood there.

And she was making another snowball.

He lunged to his feet, hands outspread and
raised in surrender. “Mercy, lass!
Quarter!
What’re you
trying to do, kill me?”

She smiled sweetly, already drawing her arm
back. In that demure gown, with her hair caught up beneath a lacy
white mobcap, a cameo at her throat, and her slim body backlit by
the chandelier, she looked too beautiful, too delicate, to do any
damage.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. And as he
gingerly brushed the snow from his chest and wondered if she’d
cracked a rib, she proved it.

The snowball hit him like a charge of grape,
exploding against his collarbone and sending a cold spray of powder
into his eyes, his nose, and down his neck. She brought him down
once more, to his knees this time, and as he gasped for breath, he
heard her laughter pealing like bells in the crystal night air.

Her brother’s last snowball, casually thrown,
sent his tricorne flying. “Serves you right, Merrick,” he
complained good-naturedly. “Coming into port with eight prizes your
first time out. What’re ye trying to do, show me up? Hell, I have a
reputation to uphold, you know!”

Brendan forced a grin, his shoulder throbbing
and the old gunshot wound a familiar, dull ache in his chest. He
ran a finger inside his stock to dig the snow out and retrieved his
tricorne. Knocking the snow from it, he set it atop his head,
grimacing as a fresh sifting of cold powder found its way beneath
his queue and slithered down his nape. “A reputation?”

“Hmph! He has a reputation, all right!” Mira
stood in the doorway, beautiful in a sea-green gown shot through
with silver. But unlike Eveleen, who’d appeared behind her, there
was nothing regal about her; her knuckles rested saucily on her
hips, her lips were twitching, and the sides of her nose were
crinkled with laughter. That helplessly thick hair, shining and
freshly washed, was gathered atop her head, a few dark strands of
it tipping her shoulders and falling over her brow.

Brendan’s chest went tight. He stopped
breathing and stared at her, transfixed. It was hard to believe
that this was the same girl who’d run him down in the street, swore
like a sailor, and went about town in her brother’s clothes when
the urge struck her. He shook his head to clear it, no longer
feeling the snow trickling down his throat, his neck.

And faith, she sure had one hell of an
arm!

“Aye, a reputation with the ladies!” she
called saucily. “He’s afraid that if you replace him as the local
hero, they’ll all flock to you instead!” Seeming oblivious to the
cold, she gathered up more snow, this time eyeing Matt, who had the
good sense to back away. “Isn’t that right, dear Matthew?”

“Absolutely,” he said, gauging the distance
between himself and the doorway and wondering if he could make it
in time before she brought him down with that deadly missile.

Mira rounded out the snowball, her
calculated, planned manner reminding Brendan of the way Mr. Starr
had tested each ball before ramming it into his gun. Her eyes were
sparkling, her cheeks were red with cold, and behind her he could
still see Eveleen, watching Matt with wistful eyes. “Did you see
Mistress
’s figurehead as you came into port, Captain?” Mira
said.

Brendan eyed that deadly snowball, wondering
if it was intended for him or her brother. “Her figurehead? Er,
no.”

“You really should go and take a look at it.
Matt’s painted it again, to resemble his latest lady friend.
Currently it has red hair and green eyes, right, Matt?”

“Blue eyes, damn you.”

“Oh. Sorry, I haven’t been as close to Miss
Greenleaf as you’ve been, dear brother! So how should I know,
hmmm?”
Pat, pat.
The snowball looked cold, hard—and
deadly.

“So help me, Mira, you throw that snowball
and I’ll—”

She never gave him the chance to finish.
Laughing, she drew back and threw it hard, clapping her hands as it
caught him dead center in the chest with an exaggerated
thump
. Shaking with mirth, she fell against the doorway as
Matt let out an enraged howl and violated the crisp, white night
with a string of curses so loud that across the street, a window
shot open and a stockinged head poked out.

“What the tarnal hell’s goin’ on out
there?!”

Laughter greeted his angry query. The man
slammed the window down with a sharp crack.
“What the tarnal
hell’s goin’ on out there?!”
Mira mimicked. She looked at
Brendan across the snowy lawn, he looked at her, and she saw
something in his eyes, hungry and wanting. Her laughter trailed
off. She smiled her cat-smile. And Brendan, stuffing his painful
thawing hands into his pockets, watched the snow swirling around
her lovely face and swallowed hard.

Suddenly the night didn’t seem so cold.

Matt charged onto the steps and grabbed her
before she could fashion another snowball. Rubbing his elbow, he
hauled her past Eveleen and over the threshold. “You’re going
inside,” he muttered, “before you end up killing one of us. Christ,
Father’ll have both our hides if you end up taking poor Merrick’s
head off with one of your damned snowballs.” He turned, wiping his
wet hand on his breeches before extending it in greeting. “Come on
in, Merrick! ’Gads, ’tis good to have you back!”

Brendan returned the greeting and together
they entered the hall, red-cheeked, dripping, stomping snow from
their feet and breathing hard. Inside, it felt steamy and hot after
being out in the cold. A brilliant array of candles sputtered and
hissed from a chandelier overhead, filling the air with the scent
of tallow. As Brendan stood blinking, his eyes unaccustomed to the
sudden brightness, a servant took his dripping coat, hat, and
sword, and Eveleen thrust a mug of mulled cider into his raw hands.
He was barely aware of the attention. His gaze was on Mira, just
disappearing into the dining room with a tiger-striped tomcat
yowling in her wake.

His chest ached, but it had nothing to do
with the snowball. His neck was cold, his stock wet and itchy
against his skin, and his breeches were soaked—but he was heedless
of these discomforts. And then he heard the sounds of dishes
clinking against one another, the pop of a cork, Ephraim’s cursing.
He saw the cat come bolting out of the dining room with Luff hot on
its heels. He smelled hot turkey, fresh gingerbread, cinnamon, and
baking apples—and fleetingly wondered if Mira had done any of the
cooking.