Captain of My Heart (4 page)

“Damn you, he’s
our
responsibility,
our
client!”

“
My
client died a gallant death aboard
that sloop!”

“
Your
client’ll die upstairs unless
you show him some proper American compassion!”

“He ain’t my client, and I ain’t showin’
nothing to no goddamned Brit!”

“Damn you, get it through your thick skull
he’s
not—a—Brit!”

Mira ducked behind the staircase, flattening
herself against the fine paneling of Santo Domingo mahogany. She
held her breath as the two stormed into view, Matt with so much
steam on his spectacles, she wondered how he could see. Behind them
the housekeeper, Abigail, trailed like bubbles in a warship’s wake,
flour breezing from her skirts.

“Christian charity, Ephraim!” she pleaded.
“What if Matthew’s right and he
is
the captain of the
American ship
Annabel?
And if not, what difference does it
make? So what if he’s British? You can’t just abandon the poor
fellow like so much garbage!”

“All Brits are garbage!”

“Dammit, Father!” Something else crashed
against a wall.

“Ephraim,
please
listen to your
son—”

“Abigail, you stay outta this! And, Matt, you
throw one more thing and I’m gonna take a stick to yer hide! Don’t
think I’m too old to do it! I’m still yer father, and what I say
goes. Now, git that bloke outta here by the time I count to ten or
you can damn well fergit ever making another cruise in that brig
again, is that clear?”

“You can’t threaten me, damn you!”

“I’ll threaten all I like!”

“Over my dead body!”

Something else shattered.

They were storming into the dining room now,
Father’s silver-buckled shoes just disappearing behind the doorway.
Thanking God for the argument, for it was the perfect chance to get
Number Thirty-One safely inside, Mira darted out from behind the
staircase.

Matt turned—and saw her.

She leaped for the stairs.

“Mira! You stay out of the east bedroom, you
hear me?
Mira!”

He couldn’t have issued a better invitation.
Taking the stairs three at a time, she careened around the landing,
took the rest of the steps in two bounds, charged down the hall,
and lunged for the closed, paneled door. Downstairs she heard
Ephraim lighting into Matt once more.

Her hand hit the latch. Without a second
thought, she burst into the room.

Chapter 2

Behind her, the door swung shut with a click
she never heard.

A man lay asleep in the big four-poster
tester bed—a handsome, nearly naked man with damp knee breeches
pasted to his well-muscled thighs, long legs sprinkled with auburn
hair, and bare feet that stuck out over the foot rail by a good ten
inches. There was sensitivity in the shape of his face, elegance in
the slant of his brows, artistry in the way his cheekbones stood
above the faint hollows beneath them. It was a handsome face, even
in sleep; the jaw firm, the lips sensual, the mouth and eyes framed
by laugh lines that appeared to get much use. His hair, dark
against the white pillowcase, tumbled rakishly over his brow and
was the color of September chestnuts, rich and glossy and curling
at the ends where it had begun to dry. He was by far the
best-looking specimen of his gender Mira had ever seen.

And, looking at his hands lying atop the
counterpane, she knew immediately that Matt had spoken the
truth.

His weren’t the blunt, stubby, work-roughened
fingers of a seafarer. They were the strong, graceful hands of an
artist . . . a naval architect.

The client.

Good God. She stepped closer, staring.
Beneath swollen lids rimmed with long lashes, his eyes were moving
slowly, as though he was caught in the throes of a dream. She saw
his fingers twitch, heard his soft intake of breath, watched his
head move slightly on the pillow.

But he never knew she was there.

###

For Brendan, time had rolled back to the
night before, and he was once again commanding
Annabel’s
desperate flight from the sea, the rebel town of Newburyport
approaching off their bows, HMS
Dismal
in hot pursuit, and
the schooner’s drafts spread out over his knee and fluttering in
the breeze.

“Brendan!”

Liam’s voice, desperate and wild.

“Bren-
daaaaan
!”

Faith, where was their confidence in him?

Sure enough, there was Liam, all two hundred
strapping pounds of him, shoving his telescope into a seaman’s hand
and hurtling toward him at breakneck speed. Blue eyes bulging, he
slid into the deckhouse where Brendan was sitting, nearly tripping
over a ringbolt as he grabbed desperately for his arm.

Brendan barely glanced up. “Honestly, Liam,
as an officer, you really
should
try to set a better
example. Racing across the deck like that—”

“God Almighty, Cap’n, it’s
Crichton
commandin’ that frigate!” Liam had his arm now, nearly ripping it
from its socket; the drafts jumped in the wind, and Brendan grabbed
them just in time. “D’ye hear me, Brendan?
Crichton!”

Astern, the British frigate drew closer,
determined to prevent them from reaching the Merrimack River and
the safety of Newburyport. Water thundered and creamed from her
bows. Drums rolled ominously upon the wind. Pipes shrilled.
Gunports were yawning open. . . .

While forward in
Annabel’s
bows, Dalby
O’Hara crouched miserably, a gnarled hand clamped over his belly,
and his face the color of oatmeal as he remembered his own
treatment at the hands of that frigate’s captain, three years
earlier.

At his elbow, Fergus McDermott, an atheist
who’d adopted religion thirty seconds earlier, recited the
Twenty-third Psalm over and over in a mindless chant.

Brendan held up the schooner’s drafts so that
Liam could see them better. “Y’know, Liam, I’ve been thinking . . .
Maybe I ought to give the bowsprit a bit more steeve. Other than
that, I think she’s going to be perfect. Sharp in the topsides
around the bow, lean in the stern, and lots of rake in both. Not
only will our new privateer be as swift as the wind, she’ll sit so
low in the water that her profile will be all but invisible from a
distance! And with this hull shape, she’ll be
perfect
for
windward sailing, and we’ll be able to carry a greater press of
sail, even flying topsails and topgallants if we’ve a mind to—”

“Brendan—”

“Too little beam and she’d be fast but
unstable. Too much and she’d be a laggard. Too fine at bow and
stern and we’d sacrifice weight-carrying ability fore and aft. That
means
guns,
Liam! And in a privateer, that won’t do, now,
will it?” Beyond
Annabel’s
desperate bowsprit the sunset
smeared the sky in brilliant tones of red and purple, reflecting
against the water as it changed from sea-chop to rippling cat’s
paws of current. In the distance, Newburyport was coming into view.
“Ah, Liam, if we had this schooner right now, we’d leave that beast
back there lumbering in her own bow-wake. If we had the
schooner—”

“Dammit, Brendan, we’re not goin’ t’ have a
schooner if ye don’t
put down those bloody drafts and listen t’
me!
It’s
Crichton!”

Brendan glanced up, his eyes alight with
mirth, and his mouth set in that same quirky grin that was as
reckless now as it had been when he and Liam had spent their
childhoods exploring the rocky shores of Connaught. It was a grin
that was sure to drive poor Liam mad. “So anyhow, I’ve decided that
if I have this Ashton fellow build her exactly to my
specifications, ninety feet on deck, with a beam of twenty-three
feet—”

Dead astern, the frigate’s sails shook and
boomed as she leaned over onto a new tack, the guns that stabbed
from her forecastle glinting blood-red in the setting sun.

“—and with a draught of just under ten
feet—Faith, Liam, will you
please
let go of my sleeve?”

“But it’s
Crichton!”

“I
know
it’s Crichton, and I imagine
I’ve known so for a sight longer than you have, given the fact you
were boozing it up belowdecks for the better part of the afternoon.
I also know there’s a squadron behind him and Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s
flag on the seventy-four. Three years ago that was
my
ship,
remember? And Sir Geoffrey
my
admiral?” He grinned, as
though the memories brought him no pain, and glanced around Liam’s
brawny shoulder. “A point more a-larboard, Mr. Keefe! Aim her right
toward that big tree sticking up above the others.” Dropping his
gaze to the drafts once more, he added conversationally, “They call
that the Beacon Oak, Liam, because it’s a landmark to guide
mariners in from the sea. In his letter, Ashton said to watch for
it—”

“If ye don’t get yer head out o’ the clouds
and stop thinkin’ of that bloody schooner, none of us’ll live long
enough t’ see her built, let alone sail her!”

“Now, Liam.” Brendan elevated one eyebrow and
gave his friend a patient look. “My head is
not
in the
clouds, but set properly atop my shoulders, just where it should be
and just where I intend it to remain. Faith and troth, I do wish
you would all stop pestering me so.”

“But yer leadin’ him straight into the
river!”

“Precisely.” He grinned. “Now, stop worrying,
would you? Do you see me worrying? Faith! Newburyport’s a rebel
town, Liam; they simply despise the British. Not only did they
stage their own tea party four years ago, they’ve even sunk a pier
and some old hulks across the mouth of this river just to keep them
out. Hidden, of course, but combined with the currents and shifting
sandbars just beneath this placid-looking surface, I do believe one
of them will stop Crichton.”

“One o’ them’ll stop
us!
Ye haven’t
the foggiest idea where yer goin’! Ye’ve never been up this damned
river in yer life!”

“First time for everything, eh?” Still
grinning, Brendan returned his attention to the drafts.

The frigate was so close now, they were
almost riding her bow-wake. Carriages squealed as her mighty guns
were rolled into position. Musket fire cracked from her tops, and a
ball whizzed past Liam’s ear, parting a stay. Another holed the
speaking trumpet beside Brendan’s hip and flung it to the deck.
Forward,
Annabel’s
men began to shout an alarm, while
Fergus’s chanting rose to a desperate pitch:
“The Lord is my
shepherd, I shall not want—”

Shots pinged against a nearby cannon, tore
another chunk from the deckhouse, drove into the mast.

“
He maketh me to lie down in green
pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters—”

Another shot ripped the tricorne from
Brendan’s head.

“
Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”

Brendan looked up, his expression puzzled.
“How odd, all this time and I never knew Fergus to be a religious
man . . . Oh, Liam, would you fetch my hat, please? I seem to have
lost it. Faith, what would Ashton think if I showed up for dinner
half dressed?”

“—
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy
staff they comfort me—”

“I
do
hope I can find this place,
Liam. Ashton says I’m supposed to look for a big, handsome Georgian
house when I get into town, white with green shutters and an anchor
out front. Newburyport’s a sea town. I’ll bet everyone has white
Georgian houses with green shutters and anchors out front. Think
I’ll have any trouble finding it?”

Pop. Crack.
More musket fire. Pieces
of wood exploded from the boom above their heads. Liam buried his
face in his huge hands.

“And do you think Ashton’ll have the table
all set?”

Liam’s head jerked up. “What?!”

Brendan folded the drafts with precise care,
slipped them into his pocket, and grinned. “Why, I could just kill
for a nice, savory neck of mutton, a wedge of fine cheese, hot
boiled potatoes, and Indian pudding, drenched in maple syrup.
...”

“Dammit, Brendan, how can ye even think o’
supper at a time like this?!”

“And why not? ’Tis seven o’clock, precisely
the time I
should
be thinking about supper, as it is when I
usually dine. Oh, Mr. Keefe! You might let her fall off another
point; we don’t want that broadside staring us in the face . . .
Liam? Liam, are you listening to me?”

“Jay-sus, Brendan,
Jay-sus—”

“Well, please do, because if I should fall
today—which I’ve no intention of doing, of course—you will remember
your promise to get these drafts to Ashton, won’t you? Have him
build the schooner and use her as the privateer I’ve designed her
to be. And as for the steeve in the bowsprit, I’ve decided that
more is better, after all . . .”

But Liam wasn’t listening; he was staring,
transfixed, at
Dismal,
his mouth opening and shutting like a
gasping fish as he caught sight of the haughty, triumphant figure
on her quarterdeck. “B-Brendan,” he choked out.

“And if Crichton should take us—again, I vow
he shall not—then, and only then, rip the drafts up. Toss the
pieces over the side. Destroy them, burn them, swallow them if you
have to, but do not, I repeat,
do not
allow them to fall
into British hands. If the Admiralty manages to get hold of them,
’twill be a terrible thing indeed. . . . Why, Dalby!” Brendan
glanced up to find the terrified little sailmaker standing before
him, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down amid the cords of his
birdlike neck. “’Tis kind of you to join us, but I really would
like a good eye up in the bows—”

“Those sunken piers are beneath us, sir, I
just know it! And I can’t see a thing with all this glare on the
water. We’re going to hit one of them, and it’ll be my fault!”