Captain of My Heart (51 page)

Tired and sad, he’d forced a grin as he
gently shook her awake early this morning.

“
Moyrrra,
lassie! Wake up,
grá mo
chroí!
I’ve a task to occupy you while we suffer another day of
waiting.”

He, of course, knew that today there’d be no
waiting. Today they would attack, and he wanted her off the ship
and safe. Stretching like one of her Rescue Efforts, Mira opened
her eyes. She looked up at Brendan through a tangled curtain of
thick, silky hair, smiling as he reached down and cleared it from
her cheek.

“
Dia dhuit ar maidin,”
he said,
grinning to cover his own sadness, his apprehension.

“Good morning to you, too, Captain,” she
said, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her shirt gaping
enticingly open, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his
cheeks, his nose, his lips, until hot desire flared in his loins.
“And what is this task that’s so urgent you can’t let me
sleep?”

He smiled down at her, hiding his hands
behind his back so she wouldn’t see them shaking. “The commodore
was quite impressed with your blueberry pie,” he said, hating
himself for lying. “I think it would please him if you baked him
another. Would you like to go ashore and gather some more
blueberries,
mo stóirín?”

Her eyes lit up like a little girl’s. “You
mean the commodore liked my pie? He actually
liked
it?”

“Oh, he was just, er,
raving
about
it!”

She was out of bed in a flash. He caught her
up in his arms and managed to swing her around without collapsing,
his heart lurching painfully in his chest. Her feet hit the table
and spilled a bottle of ink all over the drafts he’d been working
on of Matt’s new ship. Her hair swirled around her shoulders and
scented the air with the sweetness of roses. But by midmorning, she
was safely off the ship and accompanied by two well-armed
backwoodsmen who served as
Kestrel
’s marines, and her
ever-protective friend, Abadiah Bobbs.

With a heavy heart, Brendan watched her
go.

And then he joined Liam on deck and
waited.

###

It was afternoon when the first warning shots
thundered up the bay.

Liam, munching a handful of wild
strawberries, wiped the back of his juice-stained hand across his
mouth and stared to the south. “What the bloody divil was
that?”

Brendan, squinting in the bright sunlight,
had been making notes in the log. Now he calmly put his pencil in
his pocket, shut the book, and handed it to Zachary Wilbur. He
allowed none of the trepidation he felt to show in his eyes as he
clasped his hands behind his back and gazed nonchalantly past their
prize schooner, anchored nearby, out across miles of shimmering
water, to southward.

“God Almighty, Brendan, that sounded
like—”

“Shh!”

He cocked his head, listening. A strange
silence had settled over the bay, and he pictured the other
captains grabbing their spyglasses, training them in the direction
of the distant gunfire, fighting back these same butterflies of
sudden dread.

There, it came again. A far-off noise like
thunder.

Except he knew in his heart that it
wasn’t.

“Gunfire, Liam,” he finished. He forced a
grin, hoping to bolster the men’s confidence. They’d need every bit
of it, and then some. “I believe the enemy has finally
arrived.”

Liam passed a huge, shaky hand through his
spice-colored curls, leaving them stained with strawberry juice.
And then he glanced at the commodore’s flagship. Moments ago,
signals had risen to her mast, telling them that Lovell was in
place at the rear of the British fort and the attack could begin;
now flags streamed aloft once more.

“Message from
Warren,
sir,” said John
Keefe quietly. “He has
Diligent
in sight. She reports eight
strange sail coming up the bay.”

“Go
hálainn,”
Brendan said, already
reaching for his sketchpad. “Lovely.”

“Think it’s really the British relief
forces?” Liam asked.

“Oh, no doubt about that. Certainly not
American relief forces, my friend.”

Liam looked at his captain, and the two gazed
at each other in silent communication, one thick and brawny and
solid, the other tall and elegant and left leaner than he’d ever
been by all that he’d recently been through. They had shared many
trials together. They had come through many a storm. And they both
knew that this would be the worst one yet.

The gunfire came again, closer this time.

“Are ye up to it, Cap’n?” Liam eyed his
friend’s pale, drawn features, the arms that had yet to regain all
of their sinewy strength.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Liam.”

“Is
she
up to it, d’ye think?”

“
Kestrel
?”

“No, the wee lassie. Miss Mira.”

Brendan took off his tricorne and stared down
at its gold braid. “I don’t know, Liam. Nor shall I find out.”

“What?”

“I sent her ashore—to pick blueberries.”

“
Blue—”
Liam’s mouth dropped open. And
suddenly he understood. They didn’t need blueberries. They didn’t
need another pie that no one dared to touch. Brendan had sent the
lassie ashore for her own protection, knowing intuitively that
today something huge and significant would happen. Liam shook his
head. “Ye’re a clever one, y’know. Always said it and always
will.”

“Not so clever, Liam. Would that I could
protect all of you like I can my Mira.” He eyed the forlorn and
empty
Freedom.
“I may well regret my decision to send away
my best gunner.”

“And ye may well regret yer refusal to tell
ol’ Sir Geoffrey the
real
reason ye switched loyalties.
About what Crichton did to ye so long ago—”

“Enough of that, Liam. Let bygones be
bygones. And let Sir Geoffrey enjoy his retirement in Kent without
the blemishes of the past to haunt him. He’s earned it. Besides,
there are other matters that demand my attention right now.”

Liam knew he was still worrying about
Mira—and what her absence might cost them. “At least ye have yer
other fine lassie,” he said, stroking
Kestrel
’s sleek
rail.

“Aye. Would that I could protect her,
too.”

The distant ship’s guns thundered again,
followed by others that weren’t her own.

“Well, Liam, shall we ready our lassie for
whatever fate holds in store for us?”

“Aye, Brendan. I’ll take care of it. You go
down and have yerself a bit o’ refreshment.” He eyed his captain’s
pale features, worrying about the glazed look in his eyes that
seemed to come and go like a foggy mist. Their leader was not well,
and every man on the ship knew it. “And put on that fine coat of
yers, too. If she’s a-watchin’ from shore, she’ll think ye look
right dashin’ in it.”

Brendan nodded. Oh, he’d put on the coat, all
right. If not for Mira’s benefit, then for his crew’s. They’d need
a strong, inspiring leader to follow today. They’d need a capable
commander at the helm.

Dizziness washed over him, and he pinched his
arm, hard, to quell it. But was he strong? Was he capable?

Liam was staring at him, his eyes dark with
worry. Fergus and Rama were hauling out those foolish crystals and
chanting about past lives. Dalby, holding his gut, was frowning.
And some of the men were eyeing him uncertainly.

He couldn’t have that.

“Good heavens, laddies, what are you all
staring at, eh? Faith, I’ve never seen such a hesitant bunch of
do-nothings! You’d think we were waiting for a funeral. Now look
lively, lads, we’ve got company coming for dinner!”

He grinned, playfully punched Liam’s
shoulder, and without a further look southward where the formidable
British squadron, as yet unseen, was advancing, went below. No one
noticed that he’d stuffed his hands beneath his coattails to hide
their weakness. No one noticed how he leaned heavily against the
bulkhead at the bottom of the hatch until his vision righted
itself. No one saw him wipe the sweat from his brow with the back
of an unsteady wrist.

But everyone saw him glance a final time
toward the deep, choking woods where somewhere, a pretty little
lassie was out picking blueberries for a pie that would never be
made.

###

He donned a clean new shirt, a red waistcoat,
and his tailored blue coat with its red facings. His knees were
weak and he was sweating heavily, a cold, ugly sweat that had
nothing to do with his apprehension about the growing battle and
everything to do with his body’s infirmity. Coming up through the
hatch, he straightened his stock and pulled out the ruffled lace at
his wrists.

Liam met him as he came up through the
coaming, his face grave.

“Today’s the day, Liam,” Brendan said, with
more cheerfulness than he felt.

“Aye, Brendan.” He handed Brendan his sword
and pistol. “Don’t push yerself too hard, eh?”

“No harder than ever, Liam. But as hard as I
must to see us out of this.”

“Well, just don’t ye be thinkin’ about that
lassie. She’ll be just fine, right where ye put her.”

He nodded, and mustered a grin. “Yes . . .
Why, she’ll have the best seat in the house, won’t she?”

As he emerged on deck, over fifty worried
faces turned toward him, and some of the men began to cheer. More
and more joined in, inspired by the sight of their dauntless young
captain, until the whole ship rang with the wild thunder of their
voices.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

“Three cheers for the Captain from
Connaught!”

“And for
Kestrel,
too!”

But he merely nodded, grinned, and drawing
his spyglass, went to the rail. The prize schooner they’d taken
earlier rolled in the swells nearby, and Brendan regarded her
thoughtfully for a long moment. Then, bracing himself against the
shrouds, he trained the instrument off the starboard beam toward
the choking wilderness and held it there for a long time. Finally
the glass began to shake in his hands. Somewhere out there was a
little green-eyed lass with hair that wouldn’t stay out of her
eyes, and a skill with a cannon that he’d never need more. But she
would be safe.

And then he swung the glass forward.

There was
Diligent,
storming up the
bay with signal flags streaming from her mast. On the horizon he
could just make out tiny puffs of clouds, like a squall coming in
from the sea.

Except they weren’t clouds at all.

Dalby pressed close to his elbow, and in a
voice filled with doom, relayed the awful message. “The enemy’s in
sight, sir.”

Brendan lowered the glass. Unbidden, his gaze
went to
Freedom,
standing alone in her red-painted carriage.
High above, the raking masts rose into the sky, swaying and
creaking as
Kestrel
rolled uneasily at her mooring. Aft, the
proud American flag billowed in the wind.

He laid a comforting hand atop the schooner’s
gunwale.
Kestrel
was nervous. The men were nervous.
He
was nervous.

Again he eyed that empty gun, suddenly
wishing he’d have Mr. Starr by his side for their most desperate
fight yet.

Chapter
31

“If ye’d stop eatin’ them berries, Bobbs, the
lady’d be able to gather enough to make a pie out of! How the
hell’s she supposed to do that if ye keep stuffin’ yer face,
huh?”

Abadiah scratched at his mole. The captain
had told him to keep Mira out here as long as possible. He’d seen
the desperate look in those russet eyes, the tension that tightened
that laughing mouth. Oh, he’d keep her out here till hell froze
over if he had to. Their captain had never steered them wrong yet.
If he anticipated something bad, then Abadiah would trust his
judgment. “Why don’t ye just shut up, Stan? You’re eating more than
I am.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too!”

“Keep it up and the two of you’ll be out
behind the rocks with the shi—”

“Really, Miss Mira, if your father could hear
such language!”

“My father’s the one I learned it from,” she
announced, grinning saucily. Her hair fell down over one eye, and
impatiently she tossed it back over her shoulder. She was hot,
sticky, and growing tired. “Let’s go back now, Bobbs. I think we
have enough blueberries.”

“Not enough to make a pie with,” he said
hastily.

“So? I’ll fill up the space with something
else.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Hardtack? Raisins? Some of
that fish chowder—”

“Fish
chowder?”

“Well, there’s milk in fish chowder, and
you’re supposed to drizzle milk over the crust, aren’t you?” she
snapped defensively. “If you can put it over the crust, I don’t see
any reason why you can’t put it in the pie. And furthermore—”

Bobbs’s grizzled head suddenly jerked up.
“Jee-zus, what was that?”

“What was what?”

“That noise! It sounded like thunder!”

“Probably a storm coming in,” growled Stan,
leaning on his rifle.

Mira yanked her hair free of a pricker bush
and placed berry-stained hands on her hips, listening. And then she
heard it, too. Her face blanching, she clawed the hair out of her
eyes and stared at Abadiah Bobbs. “That’s not thunder,
Abadiah!”

He lowered his pail. “Nay, girl, I don’t
think it is.”

The other marine, clad in buckskin and a
beaver hat, slapped at a mosquito and popped a blueberry into his
mouth. “’Tis, too, thunder. I’ve been out in enough storms to know
thunder when I hear it.”

“That ain’t thunder; it’s gunfire, and you
know it!” Mira cried. “I’ll bet the British reinforcements have
arrived!”

“God help us,” Stan whispered, blanching.

Abadiah grabbed at her sleeve and caught only
a branch that slapped him across the face. “Mira,
wait!”
But
she was already tearing through the thick brush, stumbling over
roots and stumps, her hair catching in thick branches, her boots
sliding on boulders slick with moss. Grabbing his pail, Abadiah
tore after her, crashing through the woods with the two marines
close behind. “Mira!”