Captain of My Heart (40 page)

Something twisted in his gut, and he
recognized it for what it was. Fear.

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips to
hide his strained grin. “Ahoy, Captain Crichton! Fine day to be at
sea, isn’t it? I’m surprised that you’re not!”

The Englishman looked up. And then he saw
Kestrel
perched in her reflection, her great sails luffing
in the wind, her gunports all open, and every one of her larboard
guns run out and trained on him. His jaw hardened and his eyes went
flinty.

“Please forgive me for being so early for our
meeting, Crichton, but I do believe you denied me the opportunity
to agree to a time that was convenient for
me!”

“Damn you, Merrick!” Whirling, Crichton
grabbed young Jake and drove his pistol into the youngster’s
ribs.

The boy managed to scream, “Captain Merrick!
You gotta help us! He’s got Cap—” before Crichton cuffed him
sharply across the face.

“Shear off, Merrick! You’ll not make a
mockery of me again!”

“God Almighty,” said Liam, standing
faithfully beside his captain and gripping the rail. “Now what,
Brendan?”

Brendan stared at the drama unfolding on the
beach. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke, his
voice was very quiet. “Liam, please call Mr. Starr down and put him
on the swivel gun at the after rail.”

He felt his chest knotting, as though the old
gunshot wound itself were aching, and unconsciously pressed his
fingers to the scar hidden beneath his clothing. There was
Crichton, angry, desperate, and yes,
afraid.
One blast from
Kestrel
’s guns and the nightmares would end. One blast and
the evil in those translucent, milky eyes would be no more. He had
Crichton right where he wanted him, right where he’d wanted him for
the past four years, and his men were as eager as
Kestrel
herself to avenge Matthew Ashton, his crew, and the brig he’d been
so proud of.

But Brendan could not fire. Not only would
that one blast kill Crichton, it would kill the Yankees, too—and
Crichton knew it as well as he did. Yanking Jake’s head back,
Crichton jabbed his pistol into the underside of the boy’s jaw and
faced Brendan across the short gulf of breaking waves. “Bring that
ship in any closer and this brat’s a dead one, Merrick! Shear off
now or I’ll shoot him where he stands!”

“He won’t do it.” Liam’s huge hands gripped
the rail, his knuckles showing white. “He’s bluffin’, Brendan! The
lad’s his insurance against us!”

But Brendan wasn’t so sure. “Faith,” he
muttered, all but slamming the speaking trumpet against his lips.
He felt the eyes of his crew weighing heavily on him, the restless
surge of
Kestrel
beneath his feet. “Crichton!” he called
genially. “Come aboard my schooner and let us discuss this like
gentlemen! You’d like to see her up close, wouldn’t you?” He walked
to the rail and stood there, shoulders thrown back and the wind
lifting his coattails, his queue, the lace at his wrist. “Well,
here’s your chance!”

High above him, Mira, already descending the
shrouds, shut her eyes and took a deep and steadying breath. Wind
sang in her ears, but her heart was hammering so loudly, she was
aware of nothing else. She wondered if she was going to faint. If
she did, they’d be scraping her off the deck with a shovel.

But the controlled rage in the British
captain’s face steadied her. This was the man who’d commanded the
frigate that Brendan had tricked onto the bars at the river’s mouth
last summer. This was the man who seemed determined to avenge that
humiliation. This was the man who, Liam had told her, had crippled
Eveleen and tried to kill Brendan—and
this was the man who had
murdered her brother
.

Yet Brendan was determined to face Crichton
with nothing but his wits, his men, and the little
Kestrel.

In that moment, Mira knew for sure that she
had misjudged him.

The knowledge, raw and awful, robbed her of
breath, and she had to pause in her descent as the horror of it
nearly overcame her. She leaned her forehead against the tarry
ropes, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. Had her faith in
Brendan been so shallow that she’d actually believed what the rest
of Newburyport had? That the schooner had come out of her
engagement with Crichton’s ship unscathed because Brendan didn’t
want her to get marked up by an enemy’s guns?

A sob caught in her throat and she gripped
the shroud to keep from falling.

Oh, dear God, Brendan . . . forgive me. . .
.

“I’ll not bargain with the likes of you,
Merrick!” Crichton was shouting. “Nor will I come aboard that
schooner till
my
flag streams from her gaff! Do you hear me,
Merrick? Now, haul off or so help me God, this boy’s death will be
on your conscience!”

Brendan’s resolute stance never wavered,
though he was swinging the speaking trumpet around his wrist a bit
faster. Again he brought the instrument up. “Now, Crichton—”

“I said I won’t bargain! Shear off,
now,
Merrick!”

Brendan took a deep and steadying breath, his
mouth so dry he could barely speak. Gravely he turned to Liam. “Do
as he says.”

“By the count of three!” Crichton
shouted.

Young Jake began to sob.

“
Now,
Liam,” Brendan said tensely.

“But, Cap’n, ’twill take more’n three seconds
just to—”

“
I said do it!”

Too late. A shot rang out in the tense
stillness. Birds rose shrieking from the trees, and a great cry of
horror went up from
Kestrel
’s deck as the boy collapsed at
Crichton’s feet, his body twitching once, twice, before going
still.

Silence. Someone breathed a curse. Brendan
shut his eyes, and Liam saw his lips moving, as though in
prayer.

“Brendan—”

“Go ahead, Merrick!” Crichton grabbed
Hezekiah, drew another pistol, and shoved it against the seaman’s
temple. Tears streamed down the old man’s leathery cheeks as he
stared at the dead boy, and in his eyes was the quiet acceptance of
a man with no hope. “Stay here as long as you like! This one’s
next, and then it’ll be Ashton!”

No one except Abadiah Bobbs, standing near
Freedom
, heard Mr. Starr’s cry from high above.

Brendan raised the speaking trumpet, slowly,
as though it were of great weight. He was no longer swinging it.
His eyes were hard, his shoulders rigid with fury. “I don’t believe
you have Ashton any more than you believe I’ll be content to let
the matter rest here! I’ll haul off, but only to spare the life of
Mr. Simmons. Yours, Crichton, I
will not spare
when next we
meet!” Only Liam, standing beside him, saw his captain’s hand
trembling as he brought his speaking trumpet down, the savage anger
with which he thrust it into his pocket to hide its shaking from
his crew.

“Mr. Wilbur!” he called loudly, so that
Crichton could hear him. “Let her fall off, then trim for close
haul on the larboard tack!”

“I’ll kill him, Brendan,” Liam swore,
slamming his meaty fist into his palm. “By God an’ the devil, I’ll
see him in the hell where he belongs—”

But Brendan had already turned away.

Onshore, a triumphant Crichton breathed a
sigh of relief, watching with awed fascination as sails blossomed
on the schooner’s nose and her great mainsail began to fill. She
turned gracefully away, her sleek underside showing and her guns
pointing toward the clouds as she heeled. She was beautiful.
Magnificent. Crichton’s hands grew sweaty on the pistol and his
heart hammered in his chest. Sweat broke out beneath his arms and
he stared at her as a starving man would a wedding feast. And then
he remembered Sir Geoffrey’s promise of flag rank, and saw that
promise fading to dust as the schooner drew away. . . .

“Merrick!”

Another few moments and the breeze would push
her around the headland, send her out of reach—

“
Merrick!”

Her captain turned, every inch the capable
commander he’d been four years ago, except now the stamp of
experience had replaced the recklessness of youth. No longer mirth
in those Irish eyes; now nothing but the steely determination and
hard anger of a man who’d been pushed too far.

Crichton yelled into his speaking trumpet.
“I’ve changed my mind! I’ll make a deal with you, Merrick, on
my
terms! You don’t believe I have Ashton? Let me show you
aboard my ship and I’ll prove to you that I do!”

Brendan raised a hand, as though to control
the schooner’s moves, and her crew, in the midst of hauling the jib
sheet over, paused.

“Don’t listen to him, Brendan!” Liam warned,
desperately gripping his captain’s sleeve.

Challenge burned in Crichton’s milky eyes.
Triumph. “Come aboard
Viper
and speak with Ashton yourself!
He’s been asking about you! And after you’ve seen that he still
lives, I’ll return him in exchange for one of your own. A prisoner
of war for a prisoner of war, Merrick!”

“Brendan,
don’t!”
Liam cried, for he
knew whom Crichton wanted.

Thirty feet away, Mr. Starr jumped to the
deck and was caught by Abadiah Bobbs who fought to keep the little
gunner from racing to the captain. But Brendan was oblivious to the
struggle. He thought of his friend and fellow captain, helpless in
the hands of this evil monster. He thought of the woman he loved
back in Newburyport, the woman who believed the worst of him, the
woman who had turned her heart against him. He looked at Crichton,
standing there on the beach with a pistol against a Yankee’s head
and a dead boy at his feet, and saw the only way to save that
friend . . . and win back that woman’s heart.

What did he have to lose, besides his life? A
life that would be meaningless without Mira Ashton.

He turned back to the rail. Even
Kestrel
seemed to have guessed his intent; now, she
protested violently, trying to take the wind in her teeth and run
with it before he could respond to Crichton’s invitation.

“Your decision, Merrick!”

Kestrel
was moving farther away, as
though on her own. Brendan stared hard into those translucent eyes.
Then he grinned and turned jauntily to his lieutenant, his hands
steady now as he unbuckled his sword belt, removed his pistols, and
handed them to his horrified friend. “You always wanted a ship of
your own, Liam,” he joked. “Well, here you go. Take good care of
her for me.”

“Brendan, I beg o’ ye,
don’t do
it!”

“She’s a bit spirited with the wind across
the beam. Mind you don’t set the topgallant when it shifts or
she’ll give you a devil of a time—”

“
Brendan, don’t!
”

“Jesus,” someone muttered.

“What is he, insane?!”

Forward, Dalby collapsed in a dead faint.

But
Kestrel
’s captain was already
striding past the helm, past his horrified crew, past the guns that
could have sent Crichton to the hell where he belonged. Beneath the
shadow of the schooner’s great mainsail, he paused. “Ready the boat
and dress it out with full ceremony. I’m going across to the
frigate.”

A silence like the tomb fell over the
ship.

Woodenly the men did as they were asked. Not
because they wanted to, but because their captain commanded it.

Mira, desperate to free herself and stop
Brendan from sacrificing himself to such madness, struggled against
Abadiah’s grip. “Let him go, Mira!” he said hoarsely. “The man has
his pride! You go and reveal yourself, you’ll strip him of the last
shreds of it!”

They watched as the boat was swung over the
rail, lowered to the skipping waves.

Sickened, Liam slammed below and, in the
privacy of his cabin, buried his face in his great, hamlike hands
while the tears leaked between his fingers. Mira, standing
helplessly beside Abadiah, cried bitter tears of agony.

In the depths of her keel, in the song the
wind made as it whined mournfully through her shrouds, the
beautiful
Kestrel
wept.

And many miles away, the great Willard clock
in the Ashtons’ front hall stood silent.

Chapter 25

What
Kestrel
’s anguished crew saw as
their captain left the schooner’s deck was a tall and handsome man,
laughing and confident and unafraid, who made a joke or two as he
walked to the gunwales, and stopped there, briefly, to doff his hat
to them, the ship, and her second-in-command for what all of them
knew to be the last time. By trading himself for Captain Ashton, he
was going to his death, and every man aboard the schooner knew it.
Dalby, huddled in the bows and clutching his chest, was retching
uncontrollably;
Kestrel
’s marines grouped around the rail as
though determined not to let him pass; and
Kestrel
herself
bucked and writhed on the choppy seas, fighting John Keefe’s steady
hand as he forced her closer and closer to where
Viper
stood
anchored a scant mile away.

Mira, standing miserably on deck with a
chicken that had been destined for the soup pot in her arms,
stroked the rooster’s sleek, iridescent feathers and choked back
the tears as Brendan turned his back on them and resigned himself
to his fate.
Stop him!
her mind screamed.
To hell with
his damned pride! Stop him now, before it’s too late!
She
started to run forward—and was snared once again by Abadiah’s firm
hand. Her friend shook his head. The captain had his pride. If she
stopped him, she’d not only make him look like a coward in front of
Crichton, she’d deny him the chance to redeem
Kestrel
’s name
in Newburyport’s eyes.

It never occurred to her that he was doing
this to redeem himself in
her
eyes.

And so she pushed her fist against her mouth
and watched him climb down the Jacob’s ladder, her heart breaking
into a thousand pieces. Pain made it hard to breathe, and nausea
filled her stomach. Yet she also knew that no one was more capable
of rescuing Matt, if indeed her brother still lived, than this
gallant captain with the winsome Irish grin. No one knew Crichton
as he did. He was the only chance Matt had.