Captain of My Heart (7 page)

“You snuck off, Matt, admit it!”

“I did not! Now open the goddamned door!”

“I will not!”

“You will, too!”

Brendan shut his eyes.
Dear God.
He
was trapped in here with a crazy female and no clothes.
No
clothes.
Better to be stuck between the broadsides of two ships
of the line than this. Females. After being at sea for most of his
life, he had to admit they unnerved him. Intimidated him. Confused
him. And this one, garbed in male clothing and shouting at the top
of her lungs, had taken him totally aback.

Ashton was kicking the door now. A dark line
split the fine paneling and left a gaping crack.

“Mira! Open up!”

Bang.
Brendan winced.
Bang.
BANG!

Clutching the sheet, he started to get up,
but at that moment the door finally gave and Ashton charged into
the room, red-faced and furious, spectacles fogged with steam and
halfway down his nose. In his wake was a bright flash that might’ve
been a dog, and a glowering old man with white hair growing out of
his ears, cheeks as red as cherries, and a voice that almost shook
the paint right off the wainscoting.

“
Tripes ’n guts, what the bloody
tarnation’s going on in here!”

Undaunted, the little hoyden put her hands on
her hips and looked at him with a mutinous set to her chin. “Why,
nothing, Father,” she said sweetly.

The orange cat, shrieking, tore out from
beneath the bed, the dog in hot pursuit, and bounced off the walls,
trying to find an escape. The resulting noise was loud enough to
shatter glass, but it was nothing beneath the old man’s
cannon-roar. “Mira, you get those critters outta this room and
outside
now!
”

She managed to snag the cat but it went wild,
clawing free and hurling itself to the bed, where it disappeared
beneath the covers as the dog sailed onto the sheets and tried to
grab it. The racket was earsplitting. Brendan shut his eyes and
swayed on his feet. And through it all, the girl, Ashton, and the
white-haired old man battled it out with a ferocity that rivaled,
then rose above, the banshee-like howling emanating from the
bed.

“That’s another damned cat, ain’t it?” the
old man roared. “How many times do I have to tell you, no more
animals in this house?”

“It’s just one little cat.”

“One little cat! One
more
cat! How
many cussed cats do I have to put up with before they start
stinkin’ up the place? I want it outta here and I want it out
now!”

“It’s not an
it,
it’s a
he!
”

“I don’t care what it is, if it ain’t outta
here by the time I count to three, it’s going out the gosh-danged
window!” The old man ripped a watch from his pocket and held it out
like an amulet blessed with the power of God. “One—”

“For Christ’s sake, Mira, go put on some
decent clothes! That’s no way to dress in front of our guest!”

“Shut up and stay out of this, Matt. I’m sick
of your advice!”

“Two!” the old man roared, brandishing the
watch.

“Mira, I’m telling you, go put on—”

“
Three!
”

Ashton slammed his fist against the wall,
sending a fine Chippendale mirror tumbling to the floor in a crash
of glass. “Damn it all, you two are an embarrassment to this town,
to this house, and to me!”

The girl whirled on him with equal heat.
“Shut up, Matt, and stop picking on me about my clothes. If they
were such a big issue, you’d get our guest something to wear so he
doesn’t have to stand there in a damned sheet!”

“
Guest?”
the old man roared. “He ain’t
no guest of mine! I’ll have no Briton in this house, is that
understood?”

“How many times do I have to tell you he
isn’t a Brit!”

“Don’t listen to him, Father, he is too a
Brit, and he walks like he’s got a pole stuck up his—”

“Damn you, damn both of you!” Spectacles
fogged with anger, Ashton tore off his hat and flung it so hard
that a picture tumbled off the wall, smashed against the floor, and
sent the cat streaking from the room, squalling at the top of its
lungs with the dog in hot pursuit. “I hope to
God
neither
one of you ever has reason to prevail upon
British
hospitality, ’cause you’ll find ours sorely lacking in
comparison!”

“There, you just admitted yourself he’s
British!”

“That bloody well doesn’t mean he’s fighting
for them. And if you weren’t such a brick-skulled old donkey, you’d
know that, dammit!”

“Brick-skulled? I’ll have no son of mine
taking that tone of voice with me!”

“I’m not your son if you insist on treating
your guest like rubbish.”

“He ain’t my guest!”

“Then he’s
my
guest, and I’ll not have
him cast out because of your damned mulishness!”

“This is
my
house!”

“And as long as
my
ship is bringing
money into it, I have as much damned say about who stays here as
you.”

“Like hell you do! I
built
that
bleeding ship for ye! Gimme any more lip and I’ll—”

Brendan had had enough. With all the dignity
he could muster, he turned on his bare heel, strode shakily from
the room, and found himself in a rectangular hall with several
doors, behind which countless numbers of cats and dogs undoubtedly
slept and fought and bred atop beautiful beds. The sheet dragged
behind him like a bridal train, but he didn’t stop, staring
straight ahead as he strode purposefully across a Turkish carpet
toward the wide staircase. His toes sank into the rug’s plush
depths, his hand found the carved banister and trembled on its
sleek wood. Down the stairs he went. Past portraits of proud and
forbidding Yankee sea captains. Around landings. Toward the square
of light from the front door that spread itself across the carpet .
. . Five more steps and he’d be there, through that door, and out
of this crazy, insane, nightmarish house.

Four more stairs now. Three.
Oh, legs,
don’t give out on me now
. . . .

Two.

Above and behind him, a door slammed and
voices exploded into the hall.

“Damn you, Matthew, I thought I raised you
with sense. I thought I raised you with respect. I thought you were
a
patriot!
”

Brendan hit the last step and made for the
door at a dead run.

“How dare you imply that—
Merrick!
Merrick, wait! Don’t touch—”

The door.

Too late. As Brendan’s hand hit the latch,
the dog, anticipating a walk, hurled itself down the stairs and hit
the door, and both he and Brendan went down in a helplessly tangled
heap.

“Luff!” the girl was shrieking. “Luff! Matt,
do
something!”

The dog’s thick wet tongue swiped Brendan’s
face—and then it was over. Shaking, Brendan got to his hands and
knees. Ashton, looking sheepish and humiliated in the awkward
silence, held the dog by its collar. He stretched out a freckled
hand and pulled Brendan to his feet, his eyes pleading for
forgiveness before he turned to glare at the white-haired old gent
behind him. Then he dug in his pocket, fished out a crumbling ball
of dried-out pulp, and placed it in Brendan’s hand.

“Here. Why don’t you tell Father who you
are.” His voice was very quiet, too quiet, as though the effort to
subdue his anger was costing him every bit of strength he had.
“Better yet, tell him why you’re here. It seems he’s having a
rather hard time believing me.”

This was worse than the nightmare. It was
worse than being shot down on the decks of that long-ago frigate.
It was worse than anything Brendan had ever imagined. But behind
the bristling old man, the dog, and a troop of cats now filing down
the stairs one by one, stood the girl. Grimy and dusty, her eyes
dancing, she was grinning at him in a way that could only be called
. . . impish.

Something fluttered in his chest.

“Yes,” she said sweetly, and put her fists on
her hips. “Why don’t you? We’re all waiting.”

That grin was infectious, perky, crinkling
the sides of her nose in an endearing way that made the flutter in
Brendan’s chest become a downright palpation. It was a challenging
grin, and Brendan, who’d been only five years old when Liam had
dared him up the highest tree in Connemara and he’d paid for his
courage with a fall and a broken wrist, had never been able to
resist a challenge.

“By all means,” he said as the girl’s blatant
gaze slid over his bare torso in an assessing way that pulled the
heat to his cheeks and made him uncomfortably aware of how
ridiculous he must look, standing here in a sheet and not much
else. He bowed deeply. “I am Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, master of
the privateer
Annabel
and an expected guest of the
shipbuilder Captain Ephraim Ashton of Newburyport.” He opened his
palm, where the drafts lay as crumbling bits of paper. “He was to
have built a schooner for me.”

The old man’s face went dark. Observing it,
the girl pushed her fist against her mouth as though to hold back
laughter.

Brendan swallowed and said, “Am I correct in
assuming, sir, that you’re the man I came here to see?”

Please God
, he thought,
don’t let
him be. Oh, please God, I’ll do anything ...

But Providence isn’t always kind, even to an
absurdly lucky half-Irishman. Something clouded the old man’s face.
His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat several times, passed a
hand over his bushy white brows, and turned a brilliant, fiery
shade of red. Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his hat. “Aye,
I’m Ephraim,” he said gruffly, glaring at his son in a promise of
just retribution. “And aye, we was expectin’ ye. But hell, ain’t
nobody told us ye was English!”

“Irish,” Matt corrected.

“Irish, English—why the hell didn’t ye
tell
us, Matthew?”

“Because I know how you two feel about Brits,
that’s why.”

“Please!” Brendan held up a hand before the
fighting could start once more. “You’re both right. My father was
Cornish, my mother Irish. But despite my heritage, I can assure you
my loyalties lie in the same place yours do. My first commission
was penned in Washington’s own hand, my sloop built in a Yankee
yard. If she still floats, you’ll find her papers in a locked chest
beneath the window seat in her cabin. I invite you to inspect them
for yourself so that you may believe I am who I claim to be.”

Brendan’s attempts at playing mediator did
little good. Ephraim turned on Matt with the ferocity of an angry
bear. “Why in tarnation didn’t
you
tell me that? Blood and
wounds, ye think this is any way to treat a guest? And one I’ve
been expecting for clear over a month? What the hell’re ye trying
to do, make me look like a bleedin’ idiot?”

Matt’s glasses steamed up. “Damn you, I tried
to tell you—”

“Don’t gimme any of yer blithering excuses,
you hear me? Tripes and guts, the two of ye are nothin’ but a
damned embarrassment to me, ye know that? A damned embarrassment!
You with yer wenching and she with her damned cats!” He shoved a
hand toward Brendan. “Merrick, ye have my heartfelt apologies. Here
I thought I brought the boy up with manners as fine as my own, but
I can see now I was mistaken!” He clapped his hat to his wide and
barreled chest and gave Brendan a yellow-toothed grimace that tried
to pass as a smile. Bowing, he came up slowly, indicating the grand
hall and whatever lay beyond it with a sweep of his arm. “My home
is yers, Cap’n. Stay as long as ye like. A shame about those
drafts, but we can work something out, eh? Here, let’s find ye some
decent clothes and put some good home cooking in yer gut. Ye look a
little pale around the gills. Thin, too. I’ll wager Abigail’s got
some leftovers saved from last night. If ye don’t mind eating ’em
cold, I’m sure you’ll find ’em to yer liking. . . .”

Before he could protest, Ephraim was dragging
him down the hall, hollering at the top of his lungs and making
Brendan long for a kerchief to tie around his ears. He’d be
fortunate to leave this house with his hearing intact, let alone
his sanity.

“Abigail?” The walls shook. “
Abigail?
Find some of that stuff we had for sup last night and lay it out on
the sideboard fer Cap’n Merrick! And some of Mira’s pudding, too.
And be quick about it, will ye?”

“God, Father, not the pudding!” Matt
cried.

Impatiently waving his son away, Ephraim led
Brendan to an elegant, wainscoted dining room hung with French
paper, more portraits, and a chandelier that glittered like
diamonds in the hot sunlight. A magnificent Willard clock dominated
one corner of the room, and a shelf clock sat on the carved mantel.
Someone in this house must have an obsession with timepieces,
Brendan thought, for there was another one of equal size back in
the entrance hall, one on the stairway landing, and of course, the
one in his room; but he was too conscious of his half-nakedness to
consider it further, a fact of which he was painfully reminded as
he took a seat and looked down at a table that smelled of fresh
beeswax and tossed his bare-chested reflection back at him like a
mirror.

Stuffing his watch back in his pocket and
still hollering for Abigail, Ephraim stormed out of the room.
Good God,
Brendan thought, his ears ringing. He’d never felt
so embarrassed in his life. And now something cold and wet was
touching his bare ankle, and he knew, without looking, that it was
the nose of the dog.

And then he forgot his state of undress, his
humiliation, and even the dog as a plate was shoved beneath his
nose and a fork thrust between his fingers. There was his
longed-for leg of mutton, stuffed with oysters and accompanied by
thick wedges of cheese, sauce, and pickles.

And beside it, dwarfing it with enormity and
ugliness, was a shapeless, lumpy mass of quivering yellow slime
that looked like the remains of a dead jellyfish.