Captain of My Heart (19 page)

It wasn’t because of the clocks, though they
certainly didn’t help.

It wasn’t because he was cold, though he
certainly was.

And it wasn’t because of
Kestrel,
waiting for him down in the moonlit river, although his heart began
to pound every time he thought of her.

It was because of Miss Mira Ashton.

She was in the next room over. Separated from
him by naught but a plastered wall. Carefully, so as not to crush
the cat, he turned over in bed and stared at the moonlit curtains
and the night shadows playing across the floor.
Just a plastered
wall.

So close. And yet so far.

Shutting his eyes, he imagined her standing
in the silver light coming through the window, her thick, unbound
hair all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown swirling about
her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of white.

He groaned, feeling himself growing hard.

The image sharpened. . . That nightgown would
be sheer and ethereal and diaphanous, like the moonlight floating
through the curtains. That dark, silken mane of hers would be
streaming down her back, tangled with sleep and scented with roses,
sweet hay, and the warmth of slumber. Her lips would be soft and
parted and inviting . . . Her hands would slip up his torso, his
chest, then down his hips and—

He couldn’t take it. Cursing, he got up,
crossed the room and, after a brief struggle with the frozen sill,
threw open the window. A blast of clean, frigid air drove against
his face. Outside, the moon, so bright it hurt his eyes to look at
it, threw shadows across the snow-dusted lawn and gleamed upon
clusters of dead leaves, still clinging stubbornly to skeletal
branches and shaking and rustling in the slight wind.

Teeth chattering, he leaned out, looking off
across the frosty rooftops toward the harbor. A few lights glowed
from one of the buildings in Market Square, and in the distance he
could just hear fading sounds of merriment coming from the
direction of Wolfe Tavern. Otherwise the night was quiet, the air
clear and cold and crisp. Overhead, clouds glowed with silver
light, drifting beneath the stars and leaving them twinkling in a
vast and lonely sky.

Stars. They were distant in contrast to the
sharp edges of the clouds, yet burned so brightly, he felt he could
reach out and touch them.

Distant, yet close. Like Mira in the next
room.

Ah, faith.

He heard a slow creak behind him.

“Captain Merrick?”

“Miss Mira!” He got up, horrified and
delighted, and fully intending to shoo her out. “This is most
inappropriate. Go back to your room.”

“Brendan, I want to talk to you about . . .
about your sister.”

“Now?”

“Why not? I heard the window go up, so I knew
you were awake.”

She padded into the room and into the
moonlight from the window and he groaned, because yes, her thick,
unbound hair was all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown
swirling about her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of
white.

She joined him on the window seat, leaning
her back against the left side of the embrasure and pushing her
bare toes toward him. Brendan shut the window and stared at her,
his thoughts in tumult. Oh, hell. Now what? He was already falling
in love with her. He needed no encouragement to fall even harder.
He shrank back against the opposite side, trying not to think about
how close her toes were to his thigh.

“What happened to her, Brendan?”

He’d known she would ask—and he’d had every
intention of explaining the reasons for the anger and bitterness
that lay behind Eveleen’s actions. But Mira’s nearness was making
mud of his thoughts. “I’m sorry she behaved so badly toward you.
Perhaps having her stay here isn’t such a good idea after all—”

“No. I want her to stay.” She pushed her toes
toward him. “Cripes, it’s cold in here.”

Pushed them under his thigh.

Oh, faith, lassie,
he thought,
desperately.
Don’t do this to me.

“She’s hurting, Brendan,” he heard her say
with some other part of his brain that wasn’t thinking about her
toes. “I didn’t realize it this afternoon, so I reacted to her
anger. But I shouldn’t have. Your sister’s miserable.”

“What?”

“It’s her hand, isn’t it? That’s why she’s so
unhappy. What happened, Brendan?”

“Mira, if your father finds you here—”

“My father’s asleep, and your sister needs
our help. She needs a friend. I’ll bet you’re the only person in
the world who cares about her, aren’t you?”

He thought about getting up, getting away
from the press of her toes, because now he was having trouble
controlling not just his thoughts, but his breathing.

“Dammit, Brendan, I’m trying to help. For
heaven’s sake, trust me, would you?”

He sighed and leaned his head against his own
side of the sill. “You are very persistent, lass.”

She only looked at him and pushed her feet
even further beneath his thighs. “Well?”

He took a deep, bracing breath, and looked
out the window, away from those searching eyes. “It happened almost
four years ago,” he said quietly. “I was in the Royal Navy, and had
just been promoted to flag captain for Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd.
We were in Boston, and my admiral sent me to investigate a
complaint aboard a frigate I’d once commanded. I boarded. There was
a commotion . . . an, uh . . . accident. Someone fired a pistol,
and the ball caught Eveleen in the hand.” He paused, wondering if
he should elaborate, then decided that nothing would come of
spreading more bitterness. “She . . . lost most of her thumb and a
good part of two fingers.”

“My God, Brendan.”

He stared out into the cold, starlit night.
“My sister was a gifted artist,” he said. “Our mother used to say
she was born with a paintbrush in her hand. In fact, Eveleen was
doing our portraits before she was five years old, those of the
London nobility by the time she was fifteen. What a sensation she
was. . . They used to pay handsomely just for the chance to sit for
her.” He smiled, remembering. “She used to dream of studying with
the great masters, of seeing her work hanging in the museums
alongside theirs. But Crichton’s shot changed all that.”

“Crichton?” Mira frowned. “Who’s he, the one
who accidentally shot her?”

“He was the frigate’s new captain, and yes,
he was the one who shot her. But he had not intended to hit her.”
Very quietly, he added, “His target was me.”

“
You?”
Her eyes were wide.

“Aye, Mira. Me.”

“But—”

“What’s done is done. There is no going
back.” He turned his head and looked at her. “And now you need to
leave. Go back to your own bed.”

“Why?”

“Are you that innocent in the ways of men and
women, lass?”

“Not really,” she said, grinning. “But I’m
cold. Wait here.” Pulling her toes out from under his thigh, she
got up, padded to his bed, and pulled off the top quilt. She
returned with it and sat back down on the window seat, this time
not against the opposite sill, but right in the middle, close to
him.

Too close.

“Here,” she said, offering him half of the
quilt.

He took it, and they sat together, the quilt
draped over their shoulders.

“Why did you leave the Royal Navy, Brendan?
If you were newly promoted, you must’ve been a rising star. Why
throw it all away?”

It was a long time before he spoke, and when
he did, pain darkened his eyes, robbing them of the good humor
she’d come to know and love.

“Crichton did not miss his target. I ended up
in Boston Harbor more dead than alive, and while I lay fighting for
my life, Crichton reported that I’d incited a mutiny, and then
deserted. Politics being what they are at that level, he was
believed, especially as I never showed up to defend myself. By the
time I’d recovered enough to do just that, the damage was done, and
I was so disgusted I no longer cared.”

She frowned, a memory tugging at her.
“Crichton—that name’s familiar. I know I’ve heard it before.”

“Yes, you have. It was Crichton whom I led
into the river and onto the submerged pier that evening I brought
Annabel
into Newburyport. We will meet again, I’m sure. He
won’t stop until one of us is dead.”

“I don’t want to think of you being dead. And
if I’d known that Crichton had done all that, I’d have made sure he
was wearing a coat of tar and feathers when we shipped him off to
Boston after he and his crew were captured here. Damned Brits!”

“They’re no worse than anyone else. I’ve met
my share of evil people across all nationalities, lass.”

“Aye, you’re right, I suppose. I used to have
a friend here in town named Amy . . . she fell in love with a Brit
who was brought here, near to dyin’, after the battle of Concord. I
was prepared to hate him but Lord Charles was a decent man. Treated
my friend right and worshipped the ground she walked on. In the
end, he took her off to England, married her, and made her a fine
lady. We still write to each other. She was one of the few people
who accepted me as I am, warts and all.”

“Warts?”

“Aye. It ain’t easy, growing up without a
mother. I never had anyone to teach me how to behave like a lady,
how to be . . . anythin’ but what I am. The only friends I have,
now, are boys. The women in town want nothin’ to do with me.”

“Well, Miss Mira, I think you are perfect,
just the way you are.”

“Thank you, Brendan. I think you’re quite
perfect, too.”

And with that, she put her hand on his
thigh.

He grabbed it, removed it. “Faith,
Moyrrra,
has anyone ever told you that you’re far too bold
for your own good?”

She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Many
times.”

He stared down at her—but she could see his
defenses crumbling like a poorly built fort. He shook his head, as
though he didn’t know quite what to do with her, but she saw that
his eyes were beginning to warm, drawing her into their laughing
depths, then buoying her up like bubbles in a glass of champagne.
Her nipples tightened in response, and her stomach gave a little
quiver, as though she’d swallowed a dozen fluttery moths; she felt
flushed and more than a little breathless.

He was still gazing at her.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you,
Brendan?”

“Aye, lass, I do. But I’m not going to. Not
here. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“This is your father’s house. You’re an
innocent. And I have no wish to become involved with . . . with a
woman right now.”

“Why not?”

“Mira, it is time for you to leave.”

“Oh, Brendan, let me stay.” Unconsciously her
tongue slipped out to wet her lips, and she saw his eyes darken.
“We can . . . watch stars.”

“Faith, how is it that one moment we’re
talking about my sister and the Royal Navy, and the next you’ve got
me so befuddled, I can’t think straight?”

“I know you’re scared of me, but I won’t hurt
you, I promise.”

“Faith,
Moyrrra,
I’m not scared of
you.”

“
Moyrrra,”
she repeated, reaching for
his hand, instead. “I love how you say my name.”

“There’s no other way to say your name . . .
stóirín.”

“Stor—?”

“
Stóirín,”
he repeated. “’Tis Irish
for darling. Little treasure.”

“Oh.” Her eyes were impish. “Do you think I’m
a little treasure, Brendan?”

“Aye, you’re a treasure, all right. What
surprises me is that no one has stolen you yet.”

“No one would dare.” She snuggled closer to
him, feeling him stiffen. “You see, Father is . . . uh, rather
intimidating. And Matt is very protective. Those that get past Matt
are frightened off by Father. And those that Father approves of are
sent packing by Matt—sometimes with his musket.” She lifted her
head and gave him one of her cat-smiles. “Of course, I really don’t
need Father and Matt to discourage unwanted attention. Sometimes I
think men are more afraid of me than they are of Matt and Father
combined, though I certainly don’t know why.”

Brendan said nothing, clenching his teeth in
sweet agony, for now her hand was on his thigh again, he had no
wish to remove it, and he was growing painfully hard.

“Anyhow, the reality is that I’ve never had a
sweetheart, and all the men I know are just friends.”

“Beware, lassie, of men who call themselves
friends,” he managed, his voice sounding ragged even to his own
ears. “They’re usually the most dangerous of sorts.”

“And what are you, Brendan? Are you a . . .
friend?”

“A friend?” Her hand was still on his thigh,
only inches from his ever-hardening arousal. He tensed, groaned,
set his teeth. “Faith, I can’t take this.”He caught her hand and
leaped to his feet, every nerve in his body throbbing. “If you
won’t leave, then I will—”

“You
are
afraid of me, aren’t
you?”

“Afraid of
you?
A wee lassie?” He
laughed nervously and took another step back before he could do
what his body was screaming for him to do: take her in his arms and
kiss her senseless. “Of course I’m not afraid of you—at least, not
in the way that you think—”

“So you
are
afraid of me, just a
little bit.”

“No! I mean yes—” Images of Julia flashed
through his mind, and panicking, he grabbed her hand and pulled
her, resisting, off the window seat. “I think, lassie, ’twas a
mistake for me to stay here in this house with you and your
family—”

“
Mistake?”

“Shh, you’ll wake your da!”

“I ain’t gonna wake my
da!
Besides, I
can’t leave; we . . . we have to look at stars!”

“You look at stars from your room, I’ll look
at them from mine, and tomorrow we’ll compare notes over
breakfast!”

“But—”