Lord Of The Sea (15 page)

Rhiannon had nodded, her mind already trying to envision the picture that Mira had sketchily painted.

“So the book is wrong, then. . . . ”

Mira had laughed. “Trust me, Rhiannon, the last thing ye’ll be looking at or thinkin’ about are cracks on the ceiling. And now, I could tell ye more I suppose, but I think I’ll leave that to my son. It wouldn’t be right if I revealed all of the mysteries that it’s up to the two of you to discover together. But I will say this. He’ll treat ye with love and kindness, just like his father always treated me, and you won’t find a better man on this earth to take as your husband. . . .”

That had been hours before. Now, Rhiannon felt her heartbeat quickening as the carriage in which she was riding finally pulled up at the church and came to a halt. Beside her sat Alannah, and across from her was Maeve and Sir Graham, who looked splendid in full naval uniform. Rhiannon thought again about all that Mira had told her. About fists and mittens and this thing that would happen tonight that would be more wonderful than anything, Mira had promised, that she’d ever felt before. She thought about Captain Merrick, standing in there at the altar, and suddenly she couldn’t wait to see him.

A footman opened the door and the admiral handed her down.

Trembling a bit, she took his arm and they went inside.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the cool gloom of the church after the bright tropical sun and there, up at the altar, she caught her first glance of the man who would soon be her husband.

Rhiannon was used to seeing him garbed casually, informally, in straw hat and sandals and clothes meant for comfort in the hot sun. She had never seen him in formal attire, and to do so now took her breath away.

Her first glimpse of him was from the back. His chestnut curls had been carefully brushed forward in the current fashion, and he wore a short, cutaway blue tailcoat with a high, stand-up collar that was the height of fashion. Cream-colored pantaloons emphasized the length of his legs, and the buckles on his leather shoes shone. He was standing with the Reverend Milford and his cousin Nathan Ashton, and at first, it was only his broad back that Rhiannon saw and his hands clasped behind it; then, hearing the hush that fell over the small gathered crowd as Rhiannon entered the church, he turned around.

The look in his eyes was one that Rhiannon would never forget. It was one of admiration, gratitude, and sudden, speechless joy, and for a moment he could only stare at her; then, a slow, rakish smile of appreciation curved his lips, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as the smile widened to light up his entire face.

Around her people had stood up, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Captain Merrick’s crew, the rest of the Falconer and Merrick families, officers’ wives. Rhiannon, her hand tucked into the crook of Sir Graham’s elbow, felt their stares upon her, heard the twittering of the assembled guests:

“My goodness, what a beautiful bride!’

“Look at that gown, isn’t it just splendid!”

“What a gorgeous couple they’re going to make!”

She swallowed against the suddenly dry spot in her throat and willed her shaky legs to move her forward, grateful for Sir Graham’s strength and solid presence beside her because really, what was she doing, marrying this man she barely knew, this man whom her sister Gwyneth didn’t even know she was marrying, this man who would take her to his bed this evening in just a few hours’ time and have his way with her, this man, this man—

Oh, this man.

She reached his side and there, was guided to his left. She caught the scent of him—soap, clean clothes, bay rum. Nerves fluttered in her stomach and she worried that she would suddenly run from the church. And then Reverend Milford smiled his cherubic, comforting smile, and Connor Merrick was leaning down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear:

“Live a little, Rhiannon.”

Rhiannon blushed, and suddenly everything was all right.

“Are you ready?” the priest whispered.

Connor Merrick nodded once, Rhiannon took a deep and steadying breath, and the next phase of her life got underway. . . .

“Dearly beloved,” the priest began, smiling, and Rhiannon concentrated on a shaft of light coming down through the stained glass window behind the altar and tried to ignore the way the clasp of the pearl choker was scratchy against the back of her neck. “We are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony. . . .”

The reverend’s words seemed to fade, and Rhiannon was only aware of the tall, handsome god beside her, and again, thoughts of their upcoming wedding night.
Oh, dear Lord, am I doing the right thing?

Do I have a choice?

“Therefore if any man can shew just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

An expectant hush fell over the church, and Rhiannon heard her heartbeat in her ears. And then the moment was past, and Reverend Milford was looking soberly into Captain Merrick’s green eyes. “Connor, Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

A similar vow was asked of Rhiannon, and somewhat breathlessly, she answered, “I will.”

And then Sir Graham was formally handing her over to her husband, his hand was firmly clasping her own, and he was promising himself to her, to have and to hold from this day forward . . . .

She heard herself promising herself to him, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. . . .

“To love, cherish, and to obey, til death do us part. . . .”

There, a band of gold resting upon the Bible, and then his strong, broad, calloused hand was taking her own and sliding the ring onto her fourth finger, and his deep voice was proudly ringing out for all to hear:

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow; In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

They both knelt, prayers were said, and the beautiful words of the liturgy bound them together in the eyes of God and before the assembled congregation. The metal clasp at the back of Rhiannon’s neck dug into the sensitive skin there, and she resisted the urge to reach up and rub at it.

“I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

There was sudden applause throughout the church, and then Captain and Rhiannon Merrick were turned to face the cheering congregation.

It was done.

Chapter 14

The rest of the day was a blur . . . an elaborate reception at Sir Graham’s home, dancing, food, music, lots of hugs from the Merricks, congratulations from well-wishers, Connor’s crew toasting her and elbowing their grinning captain, champagne, the lengthening of shadows, the giving of advice for a happy marriage from those who apparently enjoyed such unions, aching feet, blisters, and finally, the gradual dispersion of the assembled guests as the night began to close in.

“Dearest wife,” Connor said, taking her hand after she all but limped her way through one last dance, “I think it’s time we take our leave.”

They made their excuses amidst much cheering and many toasts. Rhiannon felt like she was in a daze, a dream, that she would wake up and find herself back at Morninghall Abbey with Gwyneth and Damon and her dog Mattie. Things had happened so fast . . . were still happening so fast . . . .

What will you be like, Connor
Merrick
, as a husband? As a lover? Will you be gentle with me tonight? Patient? Generous and loving?

She shuddered with nervousness.

Or will you rush this and make what should be beautiful, hurried and painful?

Painful.

Oh, dear heavens, Mira had admitted that it would hurt.

How could it not?

Her small hand clasped in his, he led her out of the house. Out into the balmy Caribbean night. There, off to the east over the hills, the moon was starting to come up.

“Where are we going, Captain Merrick?”

“Please, Rhiannon . . . we are man and wife now. Call me Connor.”

“Connor.”

The name sounded nice on her tongue.
Connor.

As did her new name: Rhiannon Evans Merrick.

Mrs. Merrick. She was a Missus now.

Rhiannon pinched her arm, but this strange daze-dream did not go away.

The breeze whispered against her skirts, lifted them to swirl around her ankles as they walked through the warm night. The coconut palms sighed in the light winds, and stars shone brightly above them. Her heart was beating hard in her chest. Would their wedding night be spent on the beach? In an inn? Back, God forbid, at Sir Graham’s home?

“Where are we going?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

He led her down to the beach. A small boat had been pulled up onto the sand, well beyond the breaking waves. Her new husband released her hand. Bending, he pushed the boat backwards and into the surf and then, turning, lifted Rhiannon up in his strong arms and gently set her down on the thwart.

Moments later he had taken up the oars and was rowing them across the nearly glass-smooth surface of the harbor.

“So,” Rhiannon ventured nervously, “is our wedding night to be spent aboard a boat?”

“Aye, but not this one.”

“Which one, then?”

“Why,
Kestrel
, of course. I’ve sent the crew ashore for the night. The ship is ours. All ours.”

“We’ll be . . . alone?”

He smiled at her in the darkness, putting his arms and shoulders into powerful strokes that made the small boat cut through the water.

“All alone.”

Through the darkness they moved, the rhythmic sound of the oars in the oarlocks, the steady splash and gurgle of the water, the whisper of the bow wake all soothing in this night of nights. And there was the schooner lying low and dark upon the water, a single lantern hung in the shrouds of her mainmast piercing the night and throwing a beam of light rippling across the water.

“Ahoy,
Kestrel
!”

“That you, Captain?”

“Aye, Mr. Bobbs.”

As Connor hooked the boat onto the schooner’s main chains and prepared to scale her side, Rhiannon hissed, “I thought you said we’d be alone tonight!”

“And so we shall be, dearest. But no ship is ever left without a watch, and Bobbs is it. I’ll relieve him as soon as we’re aboard, and then he’s free to go ashore to spend the night as he wishes.”

“Oh.”

“Shall I board first and rig a bosun’s chair for you? Or since you’re the captain’s wife now, do you want to give it a go as an able seaman?”

“You mean, climb up the ship’s side . . . by myself?”

“Might as well start sometime.” His grin flashed in the darkness. “Live a little, Rhiannon.”

“What if I fall backwards and into the sea?”

She could feel his warm, laughing gaze upon her. “My dear Mrs. Merrick. Do you honestly think I would let that happen?”

“No, Captain Merrick. I don’t believe that you would.”

“Right, then. Let’s see you show Bobbs how it’s done. Take off your shoes and hand them to me.”

Frowning but intrigued, she did. He tossed them lightly up onto the deck, where they landed with two dull thuds.

“And your stockings.”

“My stockings?”

“Aye, Rhiannon. Your stockings. Bare feet will give you more purchase than silk.”

“I can’t possibly take off my stockings!”

He leaned close to her and said, somewhat wickedly, “Before the night is out, you’ll be taking off much more than your stockings, my dear.”

She gasped, and he laughed, and a moment later Rhiannon was discreetly lifting her skirts, hooking her thumb around her garters and peeling the stockings down her legs while hoping that Bobbs, on the deck above, couldn’t see.

“Do you know, my own mother used to be a crewmember aboard this very ship,” Connor said fondly. “She spent her time here dressed in the clothes of a common seaman, and was the best gunner
Kestrel
ever had. Had my father fooled the whole time.” He put out a hand, silently asking her to relinquish the stockings. “You won’t be the first young lady to be running
Kestrel
’s decks barefoot, Rhiannon.”

She was mortified as she handed the balled-up stockings, still warm from her body heat, to her new husband. And even more so when he brought them to his nose and then gently rubbed them on his cheek, smiling.

His eyes met hers in the darkness, and his grin became downright wicked.

Rhiannon’s throat went dry.

“Bobbs, throw down a line, would you?”

“Aye, Captain.”

A rope snaked down from above. Connor bade her to raise her arms and gently passed the rope beneath them, quickly tying a knot to secure it. He turned her to face the thin strips of wood set into the schooner’s curved hull.

“In time, Rhiannon, you won’t need the rope around you, but tonight, it’s there for extra security. You are not going to fall, but if you do, Bobbs has the other end, and I’m right behind you. Now, hold the rope in your hands, set your toes into these little slats that are built into the tumblehome, and climb.”

“I think the job of being captain’s wife is going to prove to be more physically demanding than I’d anticipated.”

His grin was positively wolfish. “Ah, dearest . . . if only you knew,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t talking about climbing the schooner’s sides.

She did as he bade, and as her toes found purchase and she pulled herself slowly up the side of the ship, secure in the knowledge that her husband was right there behind her, she realized that he was correct about bare feet being an asset here. Soon enough she had reached the rail by her own power and there, Bobbs reached out a hand to help her over it and onto the deck.

He grinned, and saluted. Saluted!
Her?

“Welcome aboard, Mrs. Merrick.”

She had no idea what to say. “Thank you, Mr. Bobbs.”

“All right, Bobbs, you can get the hell out of here now,” Connor said, coming easily up behind her. “And make it fast. The rest of the crew are raising hell down in Bridgetown . . . you can probably find them at the Rusty Anchor.”

“Much obliged, sir,” the seaman said, and moments later he was gone—leaving Rhiannon alone, quite alone, on the gently rocking deck of the Yankee privateer schooner
Kestrel
with her new and impossibly handsome husband.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

“Wait here,” he said, and leaving her there next to the shrouds that pinnacled up into the night sky, padded across the deck and down the hatch.

Rhiannon hugged her arms to herself and looked out over the water to the lights of Bridgetown. Oh, what was she supposed to do? Say? Think?

From the time she’d first seen him she had been fantasizing over this man, trying to find ways to be with him, dreaming about what it would be like to be kissed by him. To be held in his strong arms. And here she was married to him—and about to find out.

And she was afraid.

Mira’s reassurances came back to her.
It’s more wonderful than anything you’ll have ever felt in your whole entire life.

“Beautiful night out there, isn’t it?”

He was back, with several blankets, two pillows and a bottle of wine.

She eyed the pillows dubiously, swallowed hard, and looked up into the night sky, where a thousand pinpricks of light marked heavens that looked so different from what she was used to back in England.

“I don’t remember seeing stars like this back home. Look how low that Cassiopeia and the Little Bear sit in the sky.”

“That’s because we’re in much more southern latitudes.”

He headed aft, looking back over his shoulder at her in invitation.

“Capt— I mean, Connor,” she said, hesitantly. “I . . . I don’t know quite how to say this, but . . . well, I’m . . . I’m a little afraid.”

He stopped, gave one slow, understanding nod, and smiled. “There’s no need to be afraid, Rhiannon. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I told you that before.”

“And that . . . that applies to . . .
this
, too?”

“This?”

“Well . . . you know.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yes,
that
.”

“Tell you what. We don’t have to do this. Or that. Or whatever it is you want to call it. How about we just sit back here in the stern together, our backs up against the transom, and share some wine while we look at the stars?”

“That sounds very romantic, Connor.”

“The moon is up. It’s a beautiful night.”

“Our wedding night.”

She looped her hand through his bent elbow and he led her aft, past the silent guns sleeping in their trucks, an open hatch, and finally, to the tiller.
Kestrel
moved gently up and down beneath them, and Rhiannon adjusted her balance to the motion. She could hear the soft wash of the sea against the rudder and a warm, sultry breeze whispering through the shrouds.

Did she want to do this? Or that? Or whatever
it
was called? Oh, dear God. She trembled in nervous anticipation.

You know he won’t force you. You know he’s a good man, bold and reckless, yes, but kind-hearted and honorable.

She watched as he spread a blanket on the deck and sat down, his back against the gunwale, his long legs stretched before him toward the tiller. He motioned for Rhiannon to join him.

She did, keeping a few inches between them while carefully arranging her skirts over her bare legs. Her nerves were tight, her skin prickling with anticipation.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so nervous.”

“Do you have any idea what happens in the marriage bed, Rhiannon?”

“A little.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“The man puts his fist in the woman’s mitten and a baby is made.”

“
What?
”

She laughed. “Well, that’s what your mother told me.”

“My mother.” He shook his head, amused. “Leave it to her to come up with something like that.”

“Oh, I know they’re just euphemisms, Connor. But I adore your mother, and she was trying her best to be reassuring.”

“My family thinks the world of you,” he said at length. “And I can’t tell you how proud I was when you walked into that church this afternoon, Rhiannon. My heart was swelling so large that I thought it would burst the confines of my chest. You were beautiful. You
are
beautiful. You took my breath away.”

“Is this how husbands seduce their new brides? By endless flattery and compliments?”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind. I was in jest.”

“Were you? Because I was not.” He gave her a sidelong glance, then uncorked the bottle of wine. He held it slightly aloft, and looked her in the eye. “To my beautiful wife. May God bless our marriage.”

He drank from the bottle, wiped his lips with the back of one broad hand, and handed it to her.

She looked at it, smiled, and raised it to her own mouth. And then: “To my dashing husband. And, our marriage.”

Madeira. She took a long swig of it and handed it back to him.

They sat there together,
Kestrel
’s gentle rocking going far to soothe Rhiannon’s nerves. Connor took another drink, and handed her the bottle. She did the same.

Another.

“I feel as though we know so little about each other,” she said, as the wine gently warmed her blood. “We’ve only known each other for three weeks, and for most of that time you were away.”

“What would you like to know about me?”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, since I know as little about you as you do me, how about I start?”

“All right.”

He took another drink and set the bottle down between them, leaving his hand lingering on it, his knuckles just brushing her outer thighs through the thin muslin of her gown. “Where were you born?”

“Wales.”

“I already know you have an older sister, of course. Gwyneth. And another sister, Morganna, yes? Tell me about your parents.”

“They died a long time ago. I don’t remember them well . . . Gwyneth raised Morganna and me.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

She thought of his eyes. “Green.”

“What do you like to do for enjoyment?”

“Read. And imagine myself to be the heroine in the novels that I most enjoy.”

“What’s the one thing you want to do before you die?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“So it is. I’m sorry. I say whatever comes into my head, and half the time what comes into it surprises even me.”

“Well . . . I guess I would like to finish learning how to swim.”